Slavery 2020

Modern British History

The early 21st Century Part 3 - Return to Conscription

Paper written by Dr. David Richardson Imperial College London, 21 September 2020

A quarter of a century ago, the New Liberal Party swept to power in the United
Kingdom general elections. The New Liberals, formed in 1983, started out with a
large group of senior businessmen and woman as well as leading non-political
figures dissatisfied with the centuries old Government-opposition status quo.
Their plans, including the isolation of Britain from Europe, scrapping the
parliamentary system, imposing draconian punishments for crime and the
re-introduction of Conscription, were considered too radical in booming 1980's
Britain. At election after election, they failed to attract even a small
percentage of votes. Three events would soon change the fortunes of the New
Liberal Party, along with Britain and millions of its young men, more than any
of its well-off late 20th century citizens could have imagined.

In early 1990's Britain, an already huge recession became a depression overnight
following a botched Government European Monetary Project. Millions became
unemployed with little or no state support. Crime soared to previously unseen
levels. The resultant corruption forced foreign companies and investors to quit
Britain enhancing the misery and ever increasing poverty gripping this once
prosperous land. With the army patrolling the streets, the Government had to
admit defeat and dissolve parliament. Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher resigned
one week later.

Swallowing its pride, the United Kingdom resorted to a series of loans from the
International Monetary Fund. By 1993, Britain was on its feet again, albeit
without a Government or any industry and heavily in debt. Another recession at
that point would undoubtedly have sent Britain into Third World status. The hung
parliament finally agreed to hold elections in summer 1995. The Iron Lady
Margaret Thatcher stunned the world by coming out of retirement and announcing
her intention to stand for parliament as the leader of the New Liberal Party -
Working to keep Britain Great!

Dr Richardson's paper will be continued in next months' edition of The Worker.

*****************************************

Thursday 23rd February 2020

Conscript 38604E/2020 - unknown date 2020

Here she comes, that new girl. I don't know why she always looks so down. She
should try trading places with me for a day. By the time she strolls into this
factory at 9.30, I've already been standing at this damn machine for four hours.
At least she looks a bit happier going home in the afternoon. I wonder if she
ever spares a thought for me working through until 10pm. I guess not. Why should
she notice me out of five hundred or so naked men chained to machines? It's the
only highlight of my day, my life, watching the office girls walk past along the
gangway right next to my machine. I only know when it's a weekend because there
are no office girls to watch. Well, when I say watch, I mean look out of the
corner of one eye. Mrs Bates, our section chief, gets paid a commission for our
work so she is pretty handy with that damn whip. The 20 guys in my section, we
have our little tricks. My favourite is to drop one of the components on the
floor, bend over to pick it up and have a good long look at a passing
secretary's legs. In fact, that new girl is walking past right now. Whoops, I'd
better pick up this part. Wow! Those legs get better and longer every day. Great
tights, or maybe stockings, no doubt made by some conscript chained up at that
hell hole in Nottingham. I wonder who polishes her shoes. Some guys get all the
good jobs. She smells fantastic to. Now, when I straighten up, I usually swing
round to check Mrs Bates is reading her newspaper. That's strange, she's not in
her chair. WHACK! "Back to work slave!" Yes Ma'am I cry. Damn!. That whip caught
my back just as I was getting up. S**t, my back feels like it's on fire. How can
any man work in such pain? I turn to see Mrs Bates returning to her chair. I see
the slave 31008H/2019 next to me. 2019, he has been here maybe a year longer.
His back is red raw. Do I look the same? His testicles are blue and swollen from
the knee of Mrs Bates and those psycho HM overseers. Will I look like that?

I can't believe I've got another 12 hours left. I can't believe I've only been
here a month. At least 20 more months chained to this machine, being kneed and
whipped.

Daniella Peterson - Thursday 23rd February 2020

Bloody traffic. I've been late every day since I started. This new job is so
dull, I just had to get out clubbing last night. I sure regretted it this
morning though. Mum and Dad's new house slave isn't much better than the old
one. When I got home last night, he was asleep and I couldn't see any sign of my
clothes for the morning. I left a note for him to sort out my clothes. Mum and
Dad say I'm too soft but he has to wake up at 4am, do his regulation physical
training, wash the cars, prepare the bathrooms and then make breakfast for the
four of us. So, I let him sleep. Mum is very strict. Our last slave was sent
back to God only knows where. At least Mum has one saving grace, she lets our
slaves wear shorts. The slaves at work aren't so lucky. Yuk! The last thing I
need every morning is to look at those factory slaves' bruised testicles.

How I hate this place. A big ugly concrete building. Two miserable and cold
looking slaves open the outside door for me. What boring lives, standing to
attention at a door all day. I suppose I'd better smile at the Receptionist.
Those four slaves standing to attention at the "Spare Slaves" area are still
there today. Now the part I really hate - the main factory. Rows upon rows of
slaves chained by one ankle to noisy machines. I'm told they wash, eat, sleep
and go to the toilet at the machine. I've no idea how. My older brother did his
time in a hotel laundry and they were unchained at night, for obvious reasons.
My other brother, we are twins, has about 18 months left and isn't so lucky. I
think he works, no doubt permanently chained, as a ship building slave in
Scotland.

It never ceases to amaze me. When I stopped off for petrol today, I had no cash.
Ignoring the mumbling slave standing to attention chained to the pump, I went
inside to pay by VISA. The men in the forecourt and in the shop stopped
everything to stare at me. You'd think they'd never seen a woman in a short
skirt before, ha ha. Now, walking through this noisy factory, you'd think the
slaves, chained up for God knows how many years, would look too. Not at all.
Every single man has his eyes directly ahead concentrating on his work.

I've come to recognise a few of the slaves, the ones chained to machines by the
gangway. There is "fat boy" slave 31236A/2019 with thick glasses in the very
first row. One thing I noticed straight away was the skin on his flabby right
ankle sticking out either side of his shackle - disgusting. If these slaves also
have to do regulation PT every morning, I would think fat boy has a very hard
time indeed. Maybe it's my imagination but his back looks a little more scarred
and his balls a little darker and more swollen than the other slaves. Yesterday,
"Gorbachev" slave 30913A/2020, with the birthmark on his shaved head, stopped
work as I wandered by. He was reaching into his machine maybe trying to clear
some sort of blockage. His section chief stormed across screaming at him to
stand to attention. Seconds later I heard a squeal of pain and spun around to
see him sprawled on the floor in severe pain. Wow, these boys don't have much
fun.

So, on this Thursday morning, my hangover clearing I am half way along this
noisy gangway. A slave 38604E/2020 who I hadn't noticed before appears to throw
a piece of metal on to the gangway. With his ankle chain nearly at full
extension, he walks across, bending to pick his part up. His section chief is
already out of her chair, whip high in the air. WHACK! Ouch, even I felt that!

I've never even held a whip, I don't have a "Whip Certificate" but my company is
sending me on a course next month.

Vanessa Bates - Thursday 23rd February 2020

It's not a bad job, 9 to 4 Monday to Friday. I've been here for nearly three
years now. I'm responsible for Section 20/B at BMC alloys, a subsidiary of the
car giant AUTO. My section has 20 slaves working at pressing machines making
brackets and other smaller parts. I studied Manufacturing Engineering at Bristol
University majoring in Conscript Production so am also involved in planning the
workload and estimating the output of each slave team.

It's so hi-tech now that lights flash and alarms ring if even one of my slaves
falls behind schedule. Of course, I can't sit and watch them work for 16 hours a
day so an automatic system lets me know every morning what they get up to when
I'm not here.

A typical day starts with me printing out the output for the previous evening
and early morning. I don't usually expect any surprises. The real overseers from
HM Conscription Service patrol the factory in the evening and morning. After
checking the outputs, I call the slaves to attention and order each man to
report. "Report Slave!". "No problems to report Ma'am". Of course, some slaves
do something stupid and jam their machine causing a delay to production. I
already know about this of course but have to let them know such clumsiness is
not tolerated. I'll give an example from last week:

"Report slave 31726D/2019".
"Problem Ma'am at 5.47am. Had  to clear debris from upper die Ma'am"
"Why didn't you keep your upper die clean slave?"
"I umm Ma'am I think I cleaned it at....."
"Think!" I slammed my knee squarely into his groin.
"Straighten up slave! Stand to attention!"
"You caused a delay of 7 minutes slave"
"Yes Ma'am"
I nodded my head in disgust. "Get on with your work slave!"
"Yes Ma'am"

Of course, it was an everyday problem on any machine which was working so many
hours at high speed. The welts on his back told me that the HM overseer had
encouraged him to hurry up with his 7 minutes cleaning but I have to instil
discipline and respect into my slaves. Jane Sanderson in Section 18/A took home
a lot more money than me last month. I don't want to lose money because of a
slave's clumsiness.

So, this Thursday another boring morning. No problems to report Ma'am - music to
my ears. Whip on the table, make myself comfortable, time to order a coffee.
Even this is automatic. The slave sees it's my phone, I just say "Coffee slave"
and that's it. Coffee slaves are very well disciplined. In two minutes, white
coffee with one sugar is placed on my table by a smart slave. It's no wonder.
They know they are one mistake, one complaint away from spending their remaining
time chained to a machine.

From my armchair, I have a good view of all 20 slaves. Slave 31726D/2019 with
his back looking very sore is working very well. So, feet up, a quick check of
the newspaper....Thud! What on earth! That new slave at the end 38604E/2020 has
dropped a bracket on to the gangway. It could've hit that woman. I don't believe
this! He is crouching in her way, she has to walk around him. What a fool! I
won't tolerate such incompetence on my section. His output is already low,
especially between 9 and 930am. I almost run across, whip arm raised, catching
his upper back as he gets up, classic training manual stuff. His face turns in
shock, frozen in agony. He'd learnt his lesson but as always, follow up words
were needed.
"Back to work slave!"
"Yes Ma'am"
Ha ha. It makes me laugh. Slaves say those two pointless words "Yes Ma'am"
because it's part of their training. They're hardly likely to say "No Ma'am"
chained to a machine.

OK, back to coffee and news. Two hours to lunch...

Sarah Joyce
Training Manager
HM Conscription Training Centre South-West 2 (SW2)

Monday 6th February 2020 8.15am

I've been here for five years, this will be my twentieth intake. I'm not an
overseer, Good Lord, no. I'm a civilian, a Ministry of Labour officer,
responsible for the admin of new conscripts during their three months basic
training at SW2. I get them processed, compile all the training reports and
liaise with suitable employers. Finally, and most importantly, I chair the
interview panel making final selections for the conscripts' 21 month labour
assignments.

I was 17 when Britain introduced Conscription. Like most, I was horrified at the
prospect, fearing for my three brothers. They had a panic-stricken few months
before rejoicing at the announcement that the upper age limit would be 21 years
and 5 months. All males born after March 31st 1984 would be conscripted. Stephen
had missed it by weeks. Those were dreadful times in our country's history.
Something radical had to pull us out of that mire and as the years went on, it
seemed we'd found the solution. The public came to accept Conscription with the
not so helpful slogan; "The needs of the many outweigh the suffering of the
few". A tiny minority of Britain's population would have it tough for two years
to help maintain a strong economy and prosperity for the rest of us. The one
thing turning me was the famous quote; "We're not sending them to war. They'll
all come back". An off the cuff comment helping to persuade the mothers of a
generation that this was indeed the right way. Unfortunately, as we know now, it
was an unfortunate choice of words.

I don't wish to discuss that stupid war. My eldest brother didn't return.
Britain had to change overnight to Conscription of a very different sort. Fitter
men were diverted to military service, less-able men such as the short-sighted
skipped basic training to be sent directly to arms factories, joining the
"slave" conscripts already serving. Thankfully, it was a short war, but so
horrific. No one will ever forget the October 2009 Ordnance Works bomb in
Aylesbury. With the amount of explosives there, the fire brigade dared not enter
that burning factory. The screaming men inside didn't stand a chance. Later CCTV
footage of the naked conscripts, many on fire, frantically yet futilely yanking
and hacking at their ankle chains shocked the world.

Nearly eleven years on, I still detest the widespread use of riveted,
semi-permanent ankle shackles. Once a conscript is chained that's it. The
shackle must be cut, or rivets drilled out, when his service has finished. The
terrified 18-year-old Aylesbury conscript, ankle thick with blood and gouges,
vainly using a metal chair leg to try and lever his shackle open still haunts
me. Two fleeing overseers, hands in shreds from the blast, stopped to help,
desperately tugging at his chain but it was no use. The toxic smoke was already
too thick. Loud explosions nearby told them it was now or never and they ran.
The conscript's shattered face watching his only hope of escape leaving was the
last thing we ever saw on the tape. Many conscripts would've survived if they'd
been chained with re-usable key operated shackles. Even today, for cost reasons,
riveted versions are preferred. With our trainees only being here three months,
I'm happy to say we have the lockable type.

Returning to happier times, today about 25% of 18 to 21 year old men, some say
the lucky ones, are conscripted for military service. The remainder, of course,
head to a training centre like this. In 45 minutes time, 250 naked young men
will fill this room and I'll be passing along the lines of conscripts checking
details. Staff Sergeant Baxter's officers will no doubt be squeezing and
twisting testicles as the chains go on. With faces screwed up in agony, the
conscripts will look towards me, the only civilian woman, eyes begging for it to
stop. Much as I feel compassion for their plight, my two sons will go through
this in a decade, the first few days of training are the most important. These
slaves - conscripts - won't have a sympathetic mother figure when chained in
factories or businesses. The sooner they realise this, the better. One must be
cruel to be kind here.

Some new conscripts are arriving. I usually disappear for a coffee and let the
overseers welcome them.

Conscript 31909B/2020
Monday 6th February 2020 8.20am

Of course, I don't want to be here. I've thought of a million ways to get out of
it but what's the use? Even the army looked better but I failed the first stage
of testing. The ID card chip has stuff about Conscription - slavery - on it.
We've all seen the patrols checking IDs. I don't want to end up like that guy me
and Denise saw outside Sam's. He'd obviously not turned up for training in the
past. In full view of the amazed nightclub queue, they stripped and beat him
before dragging him away in chains. Men like him always get longer, three to
five years. Denise reckoned the guy looked about 24 too. Guys should just do the
two years and get on with life.

Families suffer if guys run away. Parents pay more tax, brothers and sisters
lose university grants. How would a guy get a job if he skipped slavery? Your
employment records and references are all on your ID chip. You'd have to stay at
home forever, never buy anything, never go abroad, never study again...I thought
about it. Denise's brothers all did slavery or are doing it. Her brother Dave's
a laundry man on a warship, cool. Me and some mates had a laugh about him in the
pub. His ship goes all over the world but he's chained up below. Denise, she'd
be most upset if I run off now. Anyway, I've got plans for my life, finish this
2 years, I'll only be 20, go to university and then travel for a year. Being
realistic about Denise, I can't see her waiting for me.

Mrs Wilson, my school Conscription Liaison Officer reckoned I'd end up in an
easy manual job which would look great on my resume, if I worked well. Then
again, she'd said that to all the boys in my class. I guess she'd keep quiet if
she thought we'd be chained in a hell factory like the one we'd visited with
her.

The worst school trip ever. We got the school coach to this factory which made
posh furniture. The first building we went to was great: All glass, flowers,
fountains, soft music, fantastic women and all those cool expensive leather
sofas. After loads of coffee and Finnish biscuits, we sat in chairs big enough
to sleep in as the stunning Scandinavian blonde presented FINN furniture. It was
a funny presentation, but I was in love, all the boys in my class were. She sat
back down onto one of FINN's sofas crossing those long silky nyloned legs.

"Any questions?" she beamed.

My chance to impress, "W-W-Why are your chairs so expensive?"

A few girls giggled.

"Actually", she laughed, "our Swedish competitor is far more expensive due to
their huge production costs. FINN moved here in 2013 because of the UK's cheaper
conscript labour".

No more questions.

"Right" she announced, "let's take a walk".

Following this Nordic Goddess, the boys all pushed to the front to watch those
long legs taking us on tour. With her heels clicking on the marble floor,
passing leather sofas and fresh flowers, I knew where I wanted to do my
conscription.

Noise. Lots of machinery noise and gluey smells. We were walking through a glass
corridor towards the grey windowless building I'd seen from the coach. Goddess
paused at a row of lockers, reaching into one to pull out her handbag and a
brown leather whip. Swiping her security card and entering a code, the metal
doors slid open, in front of her was a huge factory. There must've been 600
machines, a naked slave chained to each. A slave, pushing a trolley loaded with
leather sheets, stopped and stood motionless to let us past, his sad bloodshot
eyes fixed straight ahead.

"Now" she had to shout, "the production process".

As she approached the nearest machine, its slave snapped to attention standing
back from his machine, as far as his chain would allow. Goddess started to tell
us about the machine, how it kept working 18 hours a day, 126 hours a week......
I wasn't listening any more; I was stunned.

"Any questions?" that smile again. "No? Let's move on".

The smile faded, "Get on with your work slave!"

"Yes Ma'am".

Half the class, the boys, were shocked. Goddess didn't seem so nice anymore. For
the rest of the tour, I watched the defeated-looking slaves standing at those
machines, backs red and wealed, balls blue and swollen. Civilian women and
overseers, as well as a few men, were standing or sitting around the factory
chatting. Half an hour ago, our tongues were hanging out as we saw Goddess. Now,
with those long long legs and high heels gliding past, not one slave even
noticed her, they were solemnly working and doing it bloody fast too. That was
hell.

Anyway back to now, it was no big surprise when the Ministry of Labour letter
arrived just before Christmas. I had to report at 9am on the first Monday of
February. As well as the obvious warnings and advice, it recommended I shave my
own head before arrival. Most slaves I've seen around town and all those poor
FINN guys were shaved totally bald. I guess any slave arriving with hair would
get a very rough haircut, I certainly don't want to start on the wrong foot.

I'm so early. There's one overseer and another woman here and that's all. My
head sure is cold.

Staff Sergeant Ann Baxter
HM Conscription Service
Monday 6th February 2020 8.25am

Nine years, I've never had a man "fail". No, it's not an exam. I mean I've never
known a man who can beat the system. Sure, you get macho types, ha ha, trying to
look tough standing to attention, naked and in chains, on the parade ground. We
don't stand for it one bit. They soon learn it's best not to get noticed.

Using their profiles, we usually earmark one trainee slave as a troublemaker
before he even arrives at SW2. We use him as a tool. He gets the harshest
treatment and, like any new entrant would, protests with body language or even
just his eyes. His fellow slaves witness the ensuing severe punishments. Our
"psychologists" sometimes interview the others after. They hear things like,
"He's a dickhead, why doesn't he just shut up and do his 2 years". Ha ha.

We purely and simply train them to act and think like slaves. Politicians and
smiling PR ladies say "conscripts" - not me. The army gets conscripts, we get
slaves. I reckon three months is too long, better to put them to work sooner.
Here, they get fit, learn how to address people, the different standing
positions - some have trouble standing to attention for even an hour or two -
and general slave etiquette.

Look at any slave's body, it's evident that corporal punishment is allowed.
We're not given carte blanche however. Firstly, ha ha, slaves don't work well if
you break their bones. Secondly, we have to protect their little bodies because,
after all, they'll be free again in two or three years.

As you can see, I carry this standard issue whip. Whips are nasty and dangerous
so we've got to be trained. A whip is to encourage a slave to work, not to
injure him. We only strike the upper back or legs. The lower back or buttocks
are out of bounds to protect the kidneys. I can whip a fly's eyebrows off but
I've seen office women missing a slave's body completely.

Punching anywhere on the body's permitted. Studies show that a woman's punch,
even for a kick-boxer like me, should not cause damage. Kicking to the legs and
buttocks is permitted, although I know a few women accidentally on purpose
aiming a bit higher, ha ha. Which brings us onto a whole new ball game, ha ha,
the testicles.

Ask any kid what he fears most about slavery, he will say being kneed in the
balls. Kneeing's become the most encouraged form of punishment. Whipping's best
but hard to master. Many women are untrained or lack the co-ordination.
Overseers are trained to knee, but no one else. If some secretary does it wrong,
makes a balls up, ha ha, no one gets hurt - well, no innocent bystanders anyway,
ha ha. We aren't, in theory, allowed to kick the testicles - go figure.
Punching, squeezing and twisting 360? are also permitted but that's it. The
scrotum's a fleshy sac which bruises easily whilst the testicles inside might
swell up but shouldn't get damaged. A teenage boy, seeing a slave's bruised
scrotum, will of course worry about his own equipment, it's natural. In the
early days before the war, some slaves suffered damaged or lost testicles but
adherence to guidelines has almost totally stopped this.

Of course, justifiable corporal punishment's only half the game. The psychology
starts long before we get our hands on them. With the support of schools and
subliminal TV advertising, men've almost come to terms with slavery by the time
they get here. This effect's most noticeable with rich kids educated overseas,
guess who our pre-determined troublemaker is? I wouldn't even try using
psychology on a slave; we've got plenty of experts in the South Region for that.
I'll make no bones about this - basic training is brutal. Slaves here, mentally
and physically exhausted, are only too keen to pour their hearts out to a
sympathetic man or women. Any "advice" to ease their suffering is gratefully
received but they're of course sent away with heads full of slave-speak.

Right! I'm gonna get my officers ready. The first day's always the hardest.

"Morning Mrs Joyce. Good Weekend?"

Rebecca Jameson
Temporary Administration Assistant
HM Conscription Training Centre South-West 2 (SW2)

Monday 6th February 2020 9.25am

Slavery, not something I knew about before. Dad was too old, although he did go
to war later. Then there's Mum and my two sisters. We've always had house
slaves, except during the war of course. I never really asked what happens to
slaves or what it's like. It's not done, chatting with slaves, is it?

I finished college last July and wanted to travel, great idea but no money. I
needed an easy job. An ultranet search came up with HM Conscription Centre SW2.
I used to think that place was for political prisoners, with its high walls and
stun cameras. Driving to school one freezing winter morning, I overtook a line
of slaves running towards the "prison". In my rear view mirror, I saw frozen
penises swaying, mud on their chained legs and all over the overseers'
motorcycles. They'd been running on the moors. Oh interesting, it was a slave
training camp.

Last summer was dull. With most of the boys gone, I was stuck at home watching
TV, mostly politics and game shows. That reminds me, I got a D for this at
college:
++++++++++
Millionaire or Bust
By R Jameson
Final Year Political Thinking
Assignment 16: TV & Media

The coolest TV game show ever. Mum and Dad took us to see it live for Kylie's
birthday. Me, Kylie and Jodie have never laughed so much. We even had cokes
after with the host bimbo Pamela McElly, you know - dress half way down her
plastic implants and half way up to her armpits. Every show, the winning couple
take home $10m whilst the man on the losing team gets a seven-minute beating,
cool.

Bimbo kissed the winning man, shook hands with his girlfriend before grabbing
the other man's arm and announcing:

"Millionaires! Woooo! Millionaires Bob and Lisa. Will we have Bust?"

The winning team can pay $1m to save the losing man but would you? We were
shouting Bust Bust Bust you idiots!

"Woooo! Bust! Where are my Busters? Lady and gentlemen, get busting!"

The lights dimmed, the three massive men and one woman in black suits appeared
at the exits. We all stood up, nearly exploding. The atmosphere was electric.
The shit-scared coward screamed, not knowing where to run. Buster Ben, holding
loser with one hand, blew kisses at us while Buster Bill's BB knuckle-dusters
smashed loser's face right through until the commercials. After the adverts,
Buster Bob did his special "double arm break" so Ball Buster Bonny could gouge
loser's eyes and knee his balls. With Buster Bob picking loser up by his hair,
Bonny blew a kiss at the crowd shouting,

"Ten seconds left. Do we like losers? Do we?"

"No! Ten, nine, eight, seven..."

Bonny turned back to the crippled loser, still held up by Bob.

"...six, five, four..."

"Goodnight loser" she laughed kicking his balls, stamping on his feet with her
steel heels and finishing with a final head butt. As he fell, Bob twisted
loser's body ready for Bonny's Backbreaker. Squatting down, she raised her knee
into loser's spine letting loser's dead weight do the rest.

"...three, two, one"

The crowd erupted. Loser's face was split open, we could see his skull, blood
poured out of his eyes, teeth flew, bones shattered. The noise in the studio was
unreal. Dad had to stop Mum running down and joining in. In one inset on TV, you
see Bimbo and other ex-model bimbos sat with the winning couple sipping
champagne in a big chair cheering on Pam's Busters. The other inset shows the
losing girlfriend, it's in the contract, she has to watch too.

"Woooo! Thanks a million Bob and Lisa. Great busting from Pam's Busters! See you
next time on Millionaire or Bust!"

With loser's broken body on the studio floor, the audience wandered off to the
bar to meet Bimbo and her famous Busters. From the bar, we could see the camera
and sound crews packing up. No one even noticed loser boy, his tearful
girlfriend, make-up smudged all over ha ha, running into the bar to dial 999.

Only once in six years has anyone not "Busted". Some stupid old couple, more
money than sense, paid up. With no beating, the show ended ten minutes early,
Bimbo was devastated, the audience booed, switchboards jammed, sponsors
threatened to quit. Sitting at a friend's house, we went totally mad, the whole
street did. Fights were breaking out all over Bristol. Civil Defence had to use
rubber bullets and electric prods to calm things down. I had to laugh at the
winning bitch's reaction to her stupid husband's decision. It was nearly as good
as the beating ha ha. The couple went into hiding after death threats, ha ha.

The End by RAJ & her Busters...

OK, I was a bit stoned when I dictated it but bloody hell! Grade D!
++++++++++

For the first few weeks of my long summer holiday, I gave the house slave hell.
Sending him on long errands, telling him he bought the wrong stuff. "Run to that
shop and take it back slave", making him iron clothes, wash them, iron them
again, etc, ha ha. Mum would get home:

"Slave! Here, now!

"Ma'am"

"Where's my Civil Defence boots, slave?"

"Not finished polishing......Urrgghh"

Ha ha. He'll end up with three Adam's Apples if Mum keeps doing that.

After a few weeks, that bloody slave and his balls, like two gooseberries thanks
to Mum, ha ha, drove me mad. Why couldn't we get a good-looking one and send him
to some factory? Then, one hot day sunbathing in the garden, gooseberries handed
me the mail, in that weird semi-kneeling way I think he has to do. That boring
job at the "prison", they'd offered it to me. Of course, I had the right
qualifications: Female ha ha, able to use voice commanded software, no relatives
in training and a valid WCC, Whip Competence Certificate.

I did WCC when I was 14, just to get out of Civil Defence class. It was boring
at first, using old rope to hit plastic dummies. As we got better, we had real
whips with competitions and prizes too. For the last few classes, the overseers
brought five real slaves along. They were chained in the gym with their heads
and lower backs padded. We all queued up for a practice. It was great, the
deafening noise of whips in the echo-filled gym. The slaves' backs were starting
to bleed but we had to keep on to get our certificates. As I swung for my final
hit, the slave was twitching all over. His head rolled forward and flew up again
as my whip struck. With the guard over his head, I couldn't see his reaction.
Next week, last week, no head guard, cool. As we left for the next class, we
watched the overseer unchaining his wrists. With a thud, he collapsed onto the
gym floor. Had we killed him?

The overseer shrugged, "Don't worry girls. Just watch."

Her boot pushed him onto his back, she stepped back. With a dull thump, she
smashed her toecap into his balls. His covered head jerked up, his shoulders
lifting off the floor with the force, before he fell down again. Another kick.

"If you want more, stay down. Otherwise, on your feet, slave!"

The slave rolled over onto his side, no doubt expecting another blow, the gym
floor speckled with blood and sweat. He painfully rose to his feet. We left very
relieved.

"Slaves Forward!"

Chains clinked, dragging on the wooden floor. We heard even more whips.

"Nearly finished boys. Only three more schools today!"

Ha ha. Overseers have some sense of humour.

We all passed the test, Mrs Grogan, our school Conscription Liaison Officer,
presenting us with shiny new whips. The funniest part came next. Outside the
sports building, the final year boys were running back after their weekly 12Km
conscription-readiness run. Jenny Allen shouted, "Faster, or you'll feel this!"
The boys replied all macho, fingers stuck up but once Jenny uncoiled her whip,
they sure did move, ha ha.

I guess, being 19, I'd be enslaved now if I were a boy. In Political Thinking,
we heard about boys, before the war, saying how unfair conscription was. What
the f***? Did they want women chained up too? They must've been so dumb back
then. A man can work 16 hours a day, I think it is, every day for 2 years. Men
don't have our biological problems.

So, new start of term. I've been looking forward to this all weekend. Maybe I'll
know some of these boys from school, ha ha. This is my second lot. I was a bit
nervous last time but Mrs Joyce said I did OK. This time she'll let me process
them. She says it's an important stage in their development as I'll be the first
civilian woman they'll meet as slaves.

What a stink! 250 guys, hands on heads. Did they shower today? Ha ha ha. Some of
these boys are so white, I wish I'd brought my shades. There backs are so clean,
so white. And wow, balls are so small and so pink. Poor old gooseberries at home
ha ha..............

Let's get to work...

Sarah Joyce
Training Manager
HM Conscription Training Centre South-West 2 (SW2)

Wednesday 28th April 2020 2.30pm

It feels odd to be in this huge new factory alone. This time next week of course
it will be very different. 200 out of our 250 slaves will be sent here. The
other 500 or so will come from SW1, SW3 and long-term slave prisons. Whilst the
long-term slaves such as escapees and political prisoners deserve long sentences
in such places, I'm dreading next Thursday when I inform our innocent conscripts
where they're going. It's not easy when an 18-year old conscript standing to
attention before my desk learns he'll spend 21 months minimum chained to a
machine in an arms factory, every slave's fear.

This new arms factory is long overdue. During the skirmishes at our northern
oilfields last year, I visited the existing plant next door. Despite all slaves
working 20 hours a day, the factoy's output was way behind schedule. Extra
overseers and Civil Defence were brought in. Non-direct employees such as
secretaries, marketing and PR staff were diverted to overseeing slaves, being
paid a commission for their slaves' work. It was a dreadful sight. The slaves
were dropping like flies but there were no replacements. The overseers, working
impossibly long 10-hour shifts were under huge pressure and showed no mercy. As
I walked through that cacaphony of machines and cracking whips, I saw a slave
lying unconscious by his machine. Whilst the slaves nearby all stood to
attention, presumably their orders when production stops, a young Asian woman,
no doubt a PR lady who'd look more at home wooing customers at cocktail parties
with her curvy legs, stylish above the knee suit and heels, was yelling and
kicking his ribs repeatedly before stepping back to use her whip. As the blows
rained down on his red back, an overweight overseer, her thighs bulging out of
her black army shorts sat nearby, watching on, smiling and smoking. Uncrossing
her legs to stub out her cigarette, she came over to help. "On your feet", she
roared to the motionless slave. With her boot, she jerked the his ankle chain
sending him flying onto his back with his legs wide apart. The "PR lady" stepped
between his open legs, grinned at the overseer before driving her highly
polished toecap twice into his exposed testicles. He groaned in pain but hardly
moved. Finally the overseer's electric cattle prod soon had the poor slave back
on his feet, clearly in agony. With that section's production resuming, the
overseer and "PR lady" sat back down. I approached the young slave who promptly
turned and snapped to attention:

"How long are you in for, slave?" I demanded to satisfy the two women, still
sitting comfortably in their armchairs, the "PR lady" wiping her shoes with a
handkerchief.
"Three years, Ma'am." He was sobbing in pain and terror.
"When are you due for release, slave?"
"November 2022, Ma'am"
He'd only been there about three months!
"Where did you do basic, slave?"
"SW2 Ma'am, with you, Ma'am"
"I see. Get on with your work, slave!"
"Yes, Ma'am. Thank you, Ma'am"
He waited a second for the usual knee in the balls, which didn't come, before
restarting his machine. My God! I usually recognise our old slaves but that
place had changed him totally. As I stepped back, watching him painfully work, I
noticed what looked like cigarette burns on his lower back. The overseer was on
her feet again walking along the rows of slaves. Clutching a new cigarette in
one hand, whip in the other, her thighs rubbing together, calves sticking out
the top of her boots. It'd do her good to spend a few days as a slave.
Meanwhile, the PR woman sat, legs crossed, laughing into her mobile phone. A
slave knelt before her polishing her shoes.

Although things have calmed down a lot now, it's always nice to leave that arms
factory. Still, it's nice and peaceful in this new facility. I stop to stand in
front of a shiny new machine. The sound of my heels echo off the grey,
windowless walls. Looking down, I see the familiar ankle shackle which will
imprison one of our slaves for the best part of two years of his young life.
Well, I've always wondered what it's like. Now's my chance. Checking no one is
about and that the slave cameras are off, I squat down to place the shackle
around my own ankle. It's greasy and feels cold, even through my tights, which
get smeared with smelly oil. I have a spare set in the car. I stand up taking
one step towards the machine. The factory is suddenly filled with the sound of
the clinking chain. I never knew chains were so heavy. Standing, I look up at
the silent machine lifting up its safety guard, putting it down, lifting my
chained foot and stamping on the pedal. So this is what factory slaves do for 18
hours a day. On both sides of me are long rows of machines. I look back to see a
glassed off area with two easy chairs, a table and a computer. To think, a
progress controller or military overseer, armed with a leaded whip, will sit in
those chairs watching the slaves. I'd also have had my bare back whipped for
just turning round. I wouldn't last a day in here. What must these boys go
through? I lever open the shackle and run.

Composing myself back in the car, the two huge prisons in front of me. One
empty, the other full of boys going through living hell. Taking the box of
tights from my glove compartment, the card inside was in seven different
languages:

Congratulations on choosing Pretty Polly tights. These tights have been
hand-made in our Nottingham factory in England by British slave:

2019/26792AQ

Please use this number in any correspondence.

Below was a photograph of the slave. He was stood to attention, chained by his
ankles and wrists to a table. His testicles were badly swollen but oddly pink,
which suggests the picture was doctored. On his left was the smiling and very
leggy Rebecca van Arsten, Pretty Polly's model. A not so smiley Lady Jane
Hetherington, Pretty Polly's owner, was stood on his right, arms behind her back
failing to conceal her whip. She should be smiling, she's never done a day's
work in her life. She's become a millionaire through slavery. What a ghastly
picture to send around the world.

I only do this job as I thought I could get my own two sons an easy job when
their time comes. They're short-sighted, absolutely no chance of getting into
the army. Slave's jobs are getting harder every year. More factories are
opening. Foreign companies are coming here or buying British products. Our
economy is booming but at what cost? My sons are a year apart so both will be
away, and I won't even be told where. When I lie in bed at night, I run my hand
over my husband's back, so smooth and so very lucky to have missed slavery. Last
year, my brother-in-law John, Michael's younger brother stayed with us at our
Chalet in Provence. In that hot summer, I wore a bikini, Michael went topless
but John, being self-conscious about his scars, kept his t-shirt on, even twelve
year after slavery.

I'm just glad I have one daughter.

Anne
(Full name withheld)
Secondary School Teacher, London
March 21st 2020

I guess you could call me a bad teacher, fair enough. The thought of half my
English classes, the boys, soon to be naked and chained for years never fails to
turn me on. Like most women, I am 100% in favour of slavery. I mean, my brother
did his two years and it made him a much better person.

So, I'll tell my story, but will obviously have to stay anonimous. It's about a
boy, Mark, who left school last year and is now doing his two years.

It was the first day of the school year, and my first English lesson with class
G1. I was just introducing myself, taking the register when this fat kid with
glasses stumbled in late, panting for breath.

"Sorry I'm late, miss", he mumbled, "I went to the wrong classroom".

Everyone groaned, the girls giggled, he'd obviously spent the whole of that day
lost, but he soon sat down at the front on his own. I looked at him in utter
disgust. I'd seen some ugly eleven year olds in my job, but he had a face that
not even his Mother would love. As well as the thick glasses and buck teeth,
half of his face was covered by a strawberry birthmark. He must have weighed
nearly 200 pounds even back then. Along with his classmates, I took an instant
dislike to him.

I have to admit, he was a bright kid. From the staff room, I could see him
sitting on his own in the playground reading some novel, held inches from those
myopic goggly eyes. His homework was always by far the best and he seemed to
take a shine to me, hardly surprising as none of the kids could stand him.
Unfortunately for Mark, I couldn't stand him either, and he suffered for it
during his school years and, unbeknown to him, he still does now.

As soon as I laid eyes on him on that first day, I could see he'd be a target
for some severe bullying. I was right. As those first weeks of the school year
passed, he became more and more miserable. He'd come to me with sob stories: his
lunch stolen, his glasses smashed. I don't think he had a single shirt which
hadn't been ripped as another bully stripped him to beat him up. (Naked beatings
had just started to become fashionable in 2013). I'd seen him on the floor in
the playground so many times as a gang of boys ripped off his clothes. I loved
it. Then one day, I just had to laugh. He came to me one lunchtime in tears.

"Some boys gave me a wedgie, miss", he sobbed.

I wasn't sure what a wedgie was so he went on to explain the boys reached down
into his trousers and ripped off his underpants. I was nearly on the floor
laughing. I'd have paid to witness that!

From that day on, Mark became my toy. I'd pretend to be his friend whilst
leading him, tricking him into further misery.

So, one lunchtime. I was watching Mark's lunch being stolen and his books
scattered everywhere when, just before his shirt was taken off, I called him in
for a chat. I made sure all the kids saw this, of course. After a lot of
sobbing, he calmed down. I had a plan.

"Mark, you need to take a more active part in this school, that's your problem.
Can you play football?" I knew the answer.

"No, miss."

"Well, I've discussed this with Mr X (the games teacher). He'd be very keen to
have you in his cross-country squad. As well as keeping you fit", I had to
stifle a laugh, "you'd meet other boys. I've seen boys like you become popular
almost overnight by joining a sports team." A complete lie.

Well, he tried it. He came and told me the outcome of his first attempt. He
needn't have bothered as I'd deliberately watched his pathetic efforts from my
car. His fat pasty legs wobbled as the bigger boys glided past him effortlessly
as they ran round and round that field. After a mere two laps, he just collapsed
to the ground exhausted before limping back to get changed.

"You can't give up so easily, Mark." I shouted in mock anger the following day.
"I want you to go again next week and every week until you're fit enough to
finish that course."

Well, he continued to run, with me secretly watching. To be fair, he did get
fitter and with the cross-country season approaching, I had to convince Mr X to
put Mark in his team.

"You are surely joking! You might be a do-gooder English teacher, but I've got a
bloody trophy to win!"

Eventually, after I'd sweet-talked the Headmaster, Mr X backed down. Mark was in
the team. Great! I'd be there to "cheer" him on. As a final touch, I even bought
quite a decent pair of running shoes for him, one size too small.
"Hello, Miss. What are you doing here?", he said, embarrassed as he limped
towards me.
"I wouldn't miss this for the world, Mark. How are the shoes? They look nice". I
smiled, a laughing smile.
"Great, thanks Miss" he grinned..
What a polite boy. Let's see how much he'd be grinning after five miles I
thought.

He was easily the fattest boy there, kids from the other school teams looking on
in amazement. From the start of the race, he was out of breath, slipping on the
mud. The next time I saw him, he was way way behind anyone, limping terribly,
and covered in mud from a fall.
"Don't give up now, Mark", I shouted enthusiastically, and then under my breath,
"you fat shit", much to the amazement of a couple walking past with their dog.
Mr X was furious. Such a poor placing would cost his team dearly. Mr X was
easily the biggest bully of all. He'd make sure his team took their frustation
out on Mark. He did. His clothes were thrown out of the changing rooms and the
school bus left without him. He walked home alone in his muddy kit, barefoot. I
hoped he hadn't seen me drivng past.

The bullying intensified after that. Mr X rightly kicked him out of his
cross-country team. Mark was distraught. 1-0 to me.

Mark started missing school, no doubt feigning sickness and getting his mum to
write sick-notes. No, that wouldn't do at all, what about my fun? I asked to
meet his Mother at the school. Everyone found out, of course. His stupid mum was
a typical worrier who'd spoiled her ugly kid, an only child needless to say. The
meeting was a total waste of time. I just wanted to see the mum of the kid I was
going to make suffer.

I'm not in the least interested in the environment, but started a "Keep Britain
Green" Project with class G1. My plan was to urge the kids, well Mark actually,
to walk the two miles home rather than take the bus. A flimsy plan, so obvious.
It worked, though. In my other classes, we discussed harmful emissions from
motor-vehicles and I went on the praise Mark from G1 for being so
environmentally-friendly by walking home every day. Like I said, a flimsy plan,
butI later that day, I was driving home when I saw Phil Z's gang and their
girlfriends waiting about a mile from the school gates. Wow, that was quick,
they were waiting for Mark! I turned my car round to see fat boy wobbling
homeward, only tonight he'd be a bit late! Shit, there was a bloody Police road
check on the way back and, by the time I arrived, they'd started. Mark was
already naked (I wish they'd thought of something original for a change) and two
boys held his arms whilst Phil held a lighted cigarette on his chest. He took
his subsequent beating quite well, like a man almost, until Phil stepped back to
land a kick between Mark's legs. He was floored by the blow and Phil knew he'd
had his fun for the day. Phil's girlfriend gave him a new cigarette - I laughed
imagining Phil later demanding money from Mark for the cigarette he'd wasted -
and they all wandered home laughing, hand in hand. People being beaten up naked
wasn't  so common back then, the new craze of 2013. Yet, no one stopped to help
Mark lying naked in the gutter. If anyone had noticed me laughing from the
safety of my car as I drove off, they wouldn't have cared less.

The next two years were nothing special. The bullies left to be replaced by new
bullies. Mark's beatings continued. I stole his clothes a few times from the
changing rooms during sports, but that got boring after a while.

As soon as Mark started his third year though, the fun came back, with a
vengeance: CRP - The Conscription Readiness Program! For a terrifying moment, he
recorded a high blood pressure reading at his CRP medical. It was only
temporary, and he was soon declared fit for conscription. As now, from the age
of thirteen, boys had to do some community service one or two evenings a week.
Their "overseers" came from the University HM Overseers, basically students
getting some cash on the side being overseers for a few evenings and in their
holidays. Some teachers oversaw the boys too, and as soon as Mark turned
thirteen, I signed up. Ever since I'd visited the Nike factory with a fourth
year class the year before, I'd wanted nothing more than to see Mark's fat naked
body in chains.

At thirteen, it was all fairly innocuous. The boys had to stand to attention in
the playground for an hour whilst we walked up and down making sure they stood
still and in the correct position. After, they'd go out to clear litter, clean
graffiti, etc. We'd just keep an eye on them. There were no summary punishments,
the boys could later be caned for offences or laziness, but it was a rare thing,
unfortunately. Luckily, that winter it snowed heavily and Mark, along with all
the boys over thirteen, had to help clear snow from the surrounding roads. Now,
this was urgent work - Britain's economy, our number one priority, could be
affected by snow and summary corporal punishments could be administered to boys
over fourteen deemed not to be working hard enough "in the country's interests".
We brought our canes for this purpose. Mark was thirteen, but if anyone
complained, I'd point out it was hard to recognise a boy with his back to you,
even fat Mark.

Mark was soon sweating with his workload. He kept stopping to lean on his
shovel. A woman, a real overseer, with both whip and cane, sat nearby nodding
her head. I called Mark over to my chair.

"Look at those boys, Mark. They're sweating but they've taken off their blazers
and jumpers. You'll sweat less and working will keep you warm. Why not try it?"

He agreed, grinning to show his gratitude, and was about to speak.
"Back to work, Mark", I said coldly.
I went over to sit with the overseer.

"Hello", I smiled.

She didn't respond just looked at Mark.

"How old is he, the kid with that birthmark?"

I didn't hesitate, not believing my luck, "Fourteen, nearly fifteen".

She just sat watching, come on, what are you waiting for, he's bloody leaning on
his shovel! Use your whip, woman! Not the cane! The bloody whip!

She could watch no more, she sprung out of her seat.

Whack!

The long cane slashed across Mark's back leaving a long imprint in his shirt
from his right shoulder blade right down to his lower back. He turned in shock
to face the overseer, totally stunned. Mark was terrified, his face creased up
ready to cry, he started to speak.

"Shut your fat ugly mouth you useless wanker or I'll put my fist in it! Get back
to work!"

He didn't hesitate, spinning round to work, but this was a real overseer and
Mark was about to get, a few years early, a lesson in slave etiquette.

"What", she growled, "do you say?"

Mark stopped, confused.

"Do you know how to stand to attention?"

"Yes"

"Then do it, now!'

Mark stood to attention in the snow before an increasingly angry overseer.

"How do you address an overseer, boy?

"Ma'am"

"and if an overseer orders you back to work, what d'you say?"

He said nothing, either terrified or very stupid. Mark was about to get some
real pain.

"I'll ask again. If you don't speak this time, I'll knee you in the groin. What
do you say?"

"Ma'am?"

Crunch! Mark was on the floor, lying in the snow clutching his balls in agony.
The overseer leant over him bellowing.

"When ordered back to work, you say "yes Ma'am", clear?"

"Yes, Ma'am"

"Then", she helped him up, she was bloody strong, "Back to work".

"Yes, Ma'am"

How I envied that overseer. I realised there and then that I'd wanted to whack
Mark, or kick his balls, since that very first day. I'd soon get my chance.

Although Mark hated school, and I like to think I did my bit, it was heaven -
the best days of his life - compared to where he is now. One person did more
than anyone to put him in his current hell, me.

Part 6 - very soon

Anne
(Full name withheld)
Secondary School Teacher, London - continued from part 5

So, to cut a long story short, I had big plans for Mark. Two plans actually. I'd
never have dreamed either would work out so brilliantly.

For a few months, I'd felt ever more sorrier for Mrs A, our Conscription Liaison
Officer. Firstly, this is a very big school, so that's a lot of boys to process.
Secondly, we're quite near the city centre here, and the nearest slave training
camp is 30 miles away. She was always driving over to the area camps to see the
training staff. Then a whole bunch of new slave factories opened up outside of
town adding to her workload.

Because of her position, she was one of the lucky ones to actually get a
full-time house slave, who she often brought to school to help out. I'd often
admire him stood perfectly still to attention for hours outside Mrs A's office,
whilst she was out to lunch. He was a typical house slave - tall, slim and very
attractive - and it was almost a shame to see the female teachers, and students,
stopping to knee him squarely in the balls as they walked by. It's strange how
my mind works. I have no qualms whatsoever about using my knee on - how shall I
say - less attractive slaves chained up out of sight in a factory somewhere, ha
ha. But, I get a bit squeamish kneeing a handsome slave in the balls. Must be
some maternal instinct wanting to protect those handsome sperms. For ugly slaves
though, who cares?

Which brings us on to the subject of Mark. I'd taken over some of Mrs A's
responsibilities including counselling boys at Stage One, 4 years to
conscription. I'd ask about their interests just to get some initial ideas where
they'd end up. My first conversation with Mark was hilarious.

Me: Come in!
Mark: Sorry I'm late, Miss.
Me: Never mind. Stand on the mat in front of my desk.

I sat down and pretended to read his notes. He couldn't even stand still for a
second, fidgeting with his hands, shuffling his feet. Leaning back in my chair,
I looked up at his fat face.

Me: What plans do you have after leaving school, Mark?
Mark: Army, Miss. I want to apply.

Absurd! Let's recap here. Boys who are physically perfect and of above average
intelligence may, if they're lucky, be conscripted in to our army. Last year, of
the 207 boys who left, most had applied for the army conscription. 41 were
accepted, and half of them failed basic training and were sent straight to slave
camps.

Me: That's excellent news, Mark! I'm proud of you.

Standing up, I walked around my desk to pat Mark's arm before sitting on my desk
right in front of him. This would be fun. As I crossed my legs, Mark looked
down. How interesting to see that Mark was a legs man. It's well-known that
factory slaves who like ladies' legs suffer horribly, with the most horrific
scarring, at the hands of overseers. It's hardly surprising. Young men in their
prime, chained to machines for years on end with no sexual relief whatsoever,
will naturally gaze longingly at groups of short-skirted secretaries wandering
by chatting and joking, oblivious to the suffering of the slaves barely a few
feet away. More often than not, before those highly-desired, yet utterly
unattainable legs have walked out of sight, the slave screams in agony as a whip
slashes across his back or a toecap smashes into his testicles. As the long
factory evenings drag on and darkness falls, the slaves, still hard at work,
must imagine those legs now dancing in nearby nightclubs, which may as well be
ten thousand miles away. I doubt the dancing girls spare a second's thought to
the slaves' legs chained to machines as they're popping their happy pills.
Slaves never learn, and I made a mental note of Mark's fetish.

Me: But Mark, conscripts are killed every day in our deserts.
Mark: Yes, Miss, it's dangerous, but anything's better than slavery.
Me: Conscription, Mark! And what's so bad about serving your country for two
years? What's the alternative? I only wish I could've done it. Most ladies do.

A lie.

Mark: Yes, I agree Miss, but I'm terrified. I've seen the overseers who bring
the slaves in for the whip course, and what about that sportswear factory our
class visited last year? The men there worked from 6am to 10pm. You saw that one
man collapsing on the floor and what they did to him. What about their backs,
Miss, they were.....

Me: Now now, Mark. Most of the slaves we saw were life slaves, political
prisoners serving life sentences. I've never seen hard-working conscripts,
serving their country, being beaten like that.

Both lies.

Then, I had a great idea. Mark was quite right to be terrified. A bit of reverse
psychology was needed. On the school PA, I ordered Mrs A's house slave to report
to my office. Let's face it, house slaves have it easy. After a private
"briefing" with me, which left him in no doubt of the punishment he'd suffer if
he messed up, I gave him permission to talk to Mark about how rewarding life as
a house slave could be. Looking at his swollen testicles, scarred back and
bruised shins, it was clear that Mrs A gave him hell, but he obeyed my orders
well and made his job sound great!

Me: Get back to work, slave!
Slave: Yes Ma'am.
Me: So, Mark, don't be so glum. There's the army, and even if you're not picked,
you can see now that conscription isn't all about working in factories. I called
in that slave because I'm going to recommend you work as a house slave.
Mark: Wow! Thanks, Miss! Do you think I'm OK for that work?
Me: I certainly do! If I'm ever lucky enough to get a house slave, I'd certainly
consider you.
Mark: Wow! Thanks, Miss!

So, off he went on cloud nine. In his mind, his future was rosy: two years army
or two years as a house slave.

Without my even noticing, the next boy had come in to my office and was stood
before me. I tossed all of Mark's interview notes into the shredder. Taking out
a new form, I ticked one box:

Factory.

Mark's next conscription readiness counselling session was very brief. Mrs A and
I had agreed that Mark would help us with some of our admin tasks. Mrs A's idea
was that Mark wasn't in any sports team or club, so a bit of extra work would do
no harm. I told Mark that it'd look good on his record and help him reach his
goal: house slave, ha ha.

But could I do what I really wanted? How could I feasibly get Mark to work for
me at my house? He could do all the housework! My husband and I could chill out!
Surely his parents would object? My husband thought I was mad, but was in favour
of the idea! How could such a daft boy keep it a secret? In the end, it was my
husband's idea.

Mrs A was having a meeting at Mark's favourite place, the Nike factory from
hell. She'd taken her slave, so I'd asked Mark to stay late and help me. I'd
been very friendly to Mark all week, never failing to complement him on his
slight weight loss due to the weekly runs he now had to do. Now, with an
extremely short skirt which even Mrs A had noticed, it was now or never.

Me: Mark, would you like to go for a coffee?
Mark: Y-y-yes, Miss.
Me: The cafeteria is still open. Let's go there.
Mark: Y-y-yes, Miss.

We sat on a corner sofa. Mark's eyes didn't know where to look,

Me: Mark, take off your glasses. I want to see what your eyes look like.
Mark: Yes, Miss.

The huge glasses came off leaving deep ridges on the bridge of his nose.

Me: You've lovely eyes, Mark, why not have the laser operation?
Mark: Too expensive, Miss, and contact lenses hurt my eyes because of my hay
fever.

I might have known!

Me: That's a shame, but you can save up for the op. I often ask this question to
attractive men, Mark. What part of you body would you want to change?
Mark: You know that, Miss.
Me: Your birthmark?
Mark: Yes, Miss. It can't be operated on. It's too big.
Me: Mark, men are so superficial. That wouldn't bother women in the slightest.
Besides, you could wear make up over it?
Mark: People would laugh, Miss.

Mark, you fat shit, they'd laugh whatever you did, I mused to myself.

Me: Well, if I was asked the same question, I wouldn't know what to change, ha
ha, it'd be just about everything.
Mark: No, Miss. All the boys like you.
Me: Even you, Mark?
Mark: Y-y-yes, Miss.
Me: Wow, maybe I'll skip the operation. Pity because my thighs are quite fat.

Mark looked down at my exposed thigh. I'd been playing hockey since I was 8, so
my legs sure weren't fat.

Mark: No, Miss.

I leant over to squeeze of Mark's fat thighs.

Me: Now, that's muscle from all that running, whereas if you feel mine....

He did! He actually did! Slowly he reached out. Even through the nylon I could
feel his fat sweaty hand on my thigh. Then he stopped in horror realising what
he'd done. Whack! I slapped his face.

Me: What on earth! Sexual assault! You'll get seven years slavery for this!

I stormed off to a pair of overseers nearby watching the Stage Four boys stood
to attention. Mark was in tears, ha ha. They didn't enslave fourteen-year-old
boys, not yet anyway, but he wasn't to know that. He ran off home terrified.

It didn't surprise me in the least that Mark wasn't at school the next day, and
wouldn't answer his phone. This, however, gave me the perfect idea, but I just
had to check the gymnasium, oh yes! Oh yes! This was going to be a fun day. My
heart was racing! Telling everyone how worried I was, I offered to go to his
house to "see he was OK", only to return to the staff room a few minutes later
pretending my car hadn't started. So, it was back to the gym. The whip course
with five slaves was in full swing, so to speak. I approached the younger of the
two overseers sitting in a chair observing proceedings, and above the noise had
to shout.

Me: What school are you going to after this?
Overseer: Griffin 17. Why?
Me: I'm a bit under the weather. Could you drop me off home on your way?

They were, of course, only too pleased to help the overworked Deputy
Conscription Liaison officer. After the slaves were chained by their wrists to a
high bar at the back of the open truck, we were on our way...to Mark's house.
Sitting between the two overseers, I secretly texted for a taxi to take me back
to school after I'd had my fun.

Overseer: These new government blocks, Section 28/3A, Section 29/3B. Where
exactly is your place?

Shit!

Me: I'm new here, and I'm a bit disorientated, what with this fever...

Overseer: Well, here we are anyway. Section 42/3F. What a nice area.

This was a snide sarcastic comment in reference to this appalling neighbourhood.
Every window was barred and heavy metal doors fronted each house. Mark's front
garden was littered with rubbish.

Me: Yes, I hate it here. Now, my husband is asleep upstairs, he works nights.
Can you put my mind at rest and just check the windows for me?

Both overseers got out and circled the house, not really knowing why. I knew
exactly why - to scare the hell out of Mark hiding upstairs.

Me: Oh no! Now I've forgotten my keys. Can you shout up at my husband? His
name's Mark.

So, the overseers banged on windows and doors shouting. An elderly couple from
the neighbouring house came out to investigate the fuss as echoes of Mark Mark
filled the street. I stood on the front garden path feigning illness, but with a
warm feeling almost sexual about what Mark must have been going through. He was
in there, no doubt about it. He'd have looked out of the windows in sheer
terror. He'd have seen me standing there, the two whip-yielding overseers
knocking on doors and shouting his name. Finally, he'd have seen the five
slaves, hands chained above their heads in full view, and thought that he was
soon to join them. Sadly, all good things come to an end. The older overseer
started shouting Mark Mark, your wife's home, which was certainly not part of
the plan.

Me: Oh my phone! He's popped out to the supermarket, back in a few minutes.
Don't let me keep you from school.
Overseer: Well, if you feel safe....

She was only too pleased to leave that awful street, and it was just in time as
my taxi pulled up. I don't remember the journey back, I was trying not to wet
myself with laughter at my trick.

Back at school, there was no time to lose. I called his mother at work. Needless
to say, he hadn't discussed his "crime", and his mother said he'd been too sick
to attend school that day, but would be OK tomorrow. I would be waiting.

Me: Mark, where were you yesterday?
Mark: Sick, at home, Miss.
Me: Did you see us outside?
Mark: Yes, Miss, you and the overseers.
Me: And you didn't open up? Why?
Mark: I was terrified, Miss. I didn't do anything wrong. I just...
Me: Maybe I overreacted Mark. I've decided not to press charges. Not for the
time being, that is.
Mark: Miss?
Me: First, try that again and you'll be enslaved for a very long time indeed.
Second, I want you to do some work for me as a penance, to teach you some
discipline. Of course, you don't have to do it, but it's your choice: Work for
me or spend the rest of your teenage years in chains. Clear?
Mark: Yes, Miss.
Me: Furthermore, if your work isn't up to my high standards, I'll press charges.
Also, it's in your interests not to tell people about this, don't you think? If
word gets out about this work, people will then know you molested me, and
believe me you don't want that, do you?
Mark: No, Miss.
Me: Now, get to class.

He thought he'd got off likely. However, the very minor sexual assault was noted
in his records which, as we'll see later, doubled his length of service.

Meanwhile, I got my very own house slave, sort of: Mark, whose every weekend was
spent cleaning, gardening, and you name it he had to do it. 

Me: It's all good practice Mark, for when you're lucky enough to be a house
slave.

Mark: Yes, Miss.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Well, I'll tell the final part of Mark's sad story soon. If you thought he was
now a house slave, you're very wrong. Thanks to me, he was never considered for
anything except factory work. Also due to our little meeting in the cafeteria,
he was given three and a half years of slavery instead of the usual two.

So, where is he now? The Nike Factory of course. Mrs A now works at the Ministry
of Conscription (Labour) in the city, so I became the school's Conscription
Liaison Officer. Needless to say, I'm a regular visitor to the Nike Factory. I
made a point of going to watch him being chained to his machine. As he stood to
attention, a life slave hammered the permanent rivets into the shackle, the
tears rolled down his cheeks. He knew full well he'd be in that heavy chain for
three and a half years minimum. He'd never step further than a chains length
from that machine. The big sewing machine had graffiti on it, presumably written
by witty overseers:

Home Sweet Home

If you want sex, call 018 2398072, the phone's only a couple of chain lengths
away.

And my favourite:

If you read this, you're not working hard enough. WORK HARDER SLAVE!

Mark didn't adjust well to life in a birthday suit. The overseers and progress
controllers showed no mercy whatsoever for Mark's weak constitution. After being
severely beaten almost daily to begin with, Mark's now coping fairly well with
their brutal regime. He's been chained to the same sewing machine for the past
two years becoming quite a good little worker. He's lost so much weight that his
ankle chain had to be cut off and a smaller one fitted, ha ha. In fact, as Mark
stood to attention before me just yesterday, I had to smile. Everything about
him was smaller now, apart from of course his poor testicles which had swollen
to the size of two tennis balls.

Me: Are your balls sore, slave?
Mark: Yes, Ma'am.

Remember what I think about ugly slaves' balls?

Mark: Th-th-ank you, Ma'a-m.
Me: Back to work, slave.

Jenny Atherton

Office of Works
Birmingham
28 July 2020

It was just like being at college again - girls, girls and women everywhere.
Hardly a bloke in sight.

++++

It was the week before summer break. Bad timing for guys. That day five or six
years ago when we all crowded into the college canteen to watch the Government
broadcast has never left me. Because of certain war in our oilfields, all men
under 25 were ordered to return to conscription within three days - either army
or slavery. John, my boyfriend at the time, had already done two years in some
factory. He had never spoken about it, but at that announcement, John had burst
into tears at the news as did most of the guys there. A week later, they had all
gone and college life went on for the rest of us.

I promised John I would wait for him, but within days I was dating Sir Marcus
Bowen-Barnes from an Upper Family (people high up on our social scale who are
influential in government and own most of the newer businesses) who was, of
course, exempted from any form of conscription. What a great three years that
was. I lived in luxury, and John became ancient history. What was I supposed to
do? For all I knew, the war would last a long time and he would be in chains for
years doing his work.

I had made a good choice. Three years later, I was invited to a function at
British Aerospace 2 where Marcus had just been nominated to the Board of
Directors. Wow, Marcus's family were important. A procession of chauffer-driven
Jaguars took Marcus's parents and two sisters into the complex, we followed in
Marcus's Aston and pulled up next to red carpets leading in. All the office
staff lined up to greet the Bowen-Barnes. I felt like royalty strutting on that
plush carpet in my ball gown. So, this was an arms factory I'd heard so many
stories about at college - more like a palace. There was even a swimming pool
for the overseers!

The tour Marcus was taking me on was lasting an eternity. There was a museum of
missiles and stuff, a boardroom with paintings showing generations of
Bowen-Barnes, even luxury living quarters just for any Bowen-Barnes who may
visit at any time. "Marcus, this is boring. Can we look at some slaves? You do
have slaves here, don't you?" He grinned running a hand through his wavy blond
hair, "Yes, about 2,500. Patience, my dear. The factory is ready for us, but
Bowen-Barnes like to keep them waiting. After all, we are in charge".

"Some of us are." It was Lady Evelyn, Marcus's younger sister. She had an aura
about her all right, and it served her well when her family possessed Aristoc
last year and Evelyn took over as CEO. She had huge plans for that place.
Branding itself as a nicer environment for slaves, Aristoc traditionally
marketed itself as a caring sharing organisation. With 100% conscript labour and
no life slaves, the men were relatively happy to do their two years there. All
slaves wore shorts and t-shirts and after the first year, were allowed a stool
to sit on and work. There were no chains and no HM overseers, only civilians who
carried canes and not whips. Piped music even filled the air. After a hard day's
work, the men were locked in cells, which weren't exactly the Hilton, but were
OK. Well, that was then. Within an hour of Evelyn's first ever visit to Aristoc
with her mother, the slaves were stripped naked and leaded whips swung. Any
civilian who refused a whip was fired on the spot. The stool were burned. The
sound of piped music was soon replaced by clinking of permanent welded chains
and HM overseers' leaded whips. Sales of Aristoc's dresses increased and within
two months, profits soared by 50%. Lady Evelyn was nominated for several
Entrepreneur awards.

So, here I was in an elevator with Sir Marcus and Lady Evelyn, both clutching
whips. We were heading down, deep underground. As the elevator glided to a halt,
the doors opened. The noise of the factory hit me first followed by the smell of
grease and hard work, suffering. It was a huge different world, as big as four
football pitches. The air conditioned opulence, the carpets, flowers,
chandeliers and oil paintings of moments ago became grey concrete and girders.
Over a partition between us and the factory floor, I could see the high concrete
ceiling, its array of pipes and then thousands of steel chains, hanging down as
far as I could see, all moving like trees in the breeze - a beautiful sight
until I realised each pair of chains must contain one slave's wrists.

A siren blasted followed by an announcement from a prim sounding Scottish female
voice, it was the smiling receptionist upstairs.

"ALL SLAVES STOP WORK."
"ALL MACHINE SLAVES SWITCH OFF YOUR MACHINES."

The banging and whirring of machines stopped followed by the clinking of chains.
Then, silence.

"ALL SLAVES FACE THE CENTRE AISLE."

We walked round the partition. The factory before us was divided by a central
aisle 300 yards long. Each side was packed with machines and slaves, thousands
of them. The long chains I saw were indeed wrist chains, with another two floor
mounted ankle chains per slave. At sight of us, every slave became rigid.

"SIR MARCUS AND LADY EVELYN BOWEN-BARNES APPROACHING. STAND TO ATTENTION
SLAVES!"

Wow, the noise of chains was back as 2,500 naked slaves put hands on heads and
stood with their legs regulation 3 feet apart. The silence was shattered by an
overseer's shout, "Stand still", and a whip cracked next to us. Evelyn and
Marcus shared a joke as they strolled down the centre aisle. The slaves just
feet away either side of us were fully stood to attention, chins up, eyes fixed
ahead, legs spread. Whilst Marcus and Evelyn, clearly used to all this, had
noses in the air not looking at the slaves, I couldn't take my eyes off them,
their genitals so exposed and vulnerable. I remembered one of Marcus's many
stories about this factory. Apparently, Evelyn was staying at the British
Aerospace Bowen-Barnes residence one weekend after a premiere and took her
showbiz friends on a late-night factory tour. The slaves were called to
attention and the Lady Evelyn entourage strolled down the centre aisle. About
two-thirds down, one machine slave chained next to the aisle was sporting an
erection. He whimpered in terror as Lady Evelyn approached and smashed her knee
into his exposed balls. He was given five more years, probably stood before us
at that very moment going over that fateful evening in his mind. No wonder these
slaves today looked terrified, especially those chained next to the aisle in
full view of the passing Bowen-Barnes. Any Upper Family member can increase a
slave's sentence for any reason.

Reaching the end of the aisle, we entered a raised and very plush viewing
lounge. As we sat down in huge chairs, the receptionist's voice sounded again,
this time with more force.

"GET BACK TO WORK SLAVES!"

Those chains were giving me a headache. The huge machine noise restarted albeit
muffled by the glass. A very smart and handsome slave stood to attention nearby
as we watched over the factory.
"Whisky, slave"
"Yes, Sir"
"Martini, slave"
"Yes, Ma'am"
The slave hesitated, would I order? He wasn't allowed to speak first.
"Jenny?"
"Whisky for me"
"Yes Ma'am"

The well-trained slave passed the drinks over with a "Sir" and a "Ma'am". So,
this was the life of an Upper Family? Drinking and watching their slaves?

"Well, Jenny", Evelyn began, "Welcome to our viewing area for guests,
dignitaries, customers and, most of all, us. Not only do we get a good view of
our slaves, they can see us in our accustomed environment, and know who they are
working for."
"How the other half live, ha ha", Marcus finished.

I shifted in my seat. I'm very pro-slavery, but I respect hard-working slaves
serving their country. To flaunt one's superiority just to keep slaves in their
place seemed just an Upper Family sport to me. It didn't stop there. Not by a
long way.

"Shall we Double, Evelyn?"
"Thought you'd never ask, Marcus"

I was confused. Marcus shouted at the slave. "Five minutes to Double Speed, boy"
"Yes, sir" and the slave ran off. Seconds later, the receptionists voice again:

"LADIES, FIVE MINUTES TO DOUBLE SPEED PLEASE"

Secretaries and ladies from upstairs appeared at the factory floor, all holding
whips. Overseers, presumably on breaks, reappeared. Wow, there must have been
300 ladies out there now strategically and equally positioned amongst the rows
of machine slaves. Marcus, glanced at his watch and clinked glasses with Evelyn
as the voice came again.

"SLAVES, DOUBLE SPEED"

Instantly, lights flashed on each machine and the whips started.

Evelyn squealed, she had to shout now over the racket, "I saw Ben Hur when I was
seven, and it gave me an idea, ha ha. So, we had this system installed. Lights
flash if a slave's work falls behind a pre-programmed speed. This alerts his
overseer who takes umm action. When we Double Speed, at the press of a button
every slave's target speed is doubled. They will work faster, have to, some
fitter younger slaves even reach the Double Speed briefly, but all get a good
whipping. It impresses guests. Good fun for us too."

The slaves were working at an amazing speed it must be said. The noise was now
deafening. Evelyn, unable to contain herself, threw her Martini glass on the
carpet, and went back out with her whip. Marcus and I settled back with another
drink. Now, Marcus's parents and other sister, Lady Christina, were approaching
down the centre aisle. There was no calling the slaves to attention now. This
was Double Speed time. After fifteen minutes, I wasn't surprised to see many
slaves lying on the floor, beaten by Marcus and Evelyn's cruel system.

"For fuck sake, look at that stupid old slave. He's got 45 minutes yet"
"Language, Christina"

Christina was an up and coming tennis star and so wasn't a Director of the
Bowen-Barnes Empire, not yet. Nevertheless, she too ran out with a whip after 20
minutes making a beeline for her "stupid old slave", who was probably well into
his 50's. Marcus's parents followed and I could see all four of them joining in
the torment as more and more slaves doubled over in agony. The slave nearest to
our viewing lounge was working on his knees clinging to his machine to keep
upright. His neighbour, the "stupid old slave", was bent over his machine
semi-conscious as his overseer beat his back with a cattle prod. Christina was
livid, her patent boot working overtime on his scrotum. She sure was fit. On
fifty minutes, the slave on his knees was still working, an amazing effort. Why
place such a young strong teenage slave next to a man over thirty years older?
The rest of his production line was prostate or so slow to be noticeable. The
parts slid of his machine and piled up on his motionless neighbour's. Without
any encouragement, he was back on his feet. He looked up and caught my eye, just
as I took another sip from my glass. I gave him a nod of approval. Me sitting in
air-conditioned splendour. Him chained to a living hell. Were his sad eyes
pleading or wishing we could swap places? His whole face said, "What had he done
to deserve this? Why couldn't he have been born a girl like me or a member of an
Upper Family like Marcus?"

"SLAVES, BACK TO NORMAL SPEED"

"THANK YOU LADIES"

The bizarre show was over. Slaves were picked up, whipped, poked with cattle
prods and working again. The Bowen-Barnes, except Christina who was still
"dealing with" a slave rolled into a foetal position, were back in the viewing
lounge, more drinks, quite tired themselves after their own exertions. Now, it
was time for a family walkabout around the factory to which I was invited. This
is what I would absolutely hate about being a slave. Working away, naked and
chained, whipped back and bruised balls on display 24/7. Then this family with
unimaginable privileges and freedom, not to mention money from your suffering,
stroll past and you are utterly at their mercy. Most slaves are lucky, the
Bowen-Barnes pass by and get a good view of your back, scarred for life, thanks
to them. Some slaves get quizzed by usually Christina or Evelyn. One slave,
still exhausted from the Double Speed, stopped to steady himself just as
Christina walked past. Then, as he bent over to pick up a part, his bloated
bruised balls poked through his legs - two dark blue tennis balls! Christina's
boot met his balls with a splat. In a chilling testament to his training,
discipline and fear, he struggled back up and returned to work probably unaware
who had even kicked him. 

Marcus and I veered off for our own factory tour. The slaves, all with long
chains attached to their wrists and ankles, worked on obediently as we walked
past. Marcus's approach had them working with even more effort despite the
obvious pain they felt from the Double Speed beatings they had endured. So, it
was surprising, totally unbelievable in fact in the presence of a powerful Upper
Family member, to see one slave stop work and look towards us. It was John! Our
eyes met for a second before his face froze in agony - and I heard the whip
slash into his poor scarred back.  Poor John! I thought he'd surely have been
released by then. Three years chained in there! But, until the war was
definitely over, the slaves remained in factories. Like all of the slaves, he
was all skin and bone. He'd aged about ten years. His back was already scarred
when I met him but was now red raw with deep red gouges running diagonally from
his shoulders to his arse. I visibly winced upon noticing his testicles. They
were dark purple, his scrotum shinily stretching over testicles which were huge.
No wonder they worked so hard there - a kick in those balls would spell days of
sheer agony. I remember John played in the same football team as Marcus. They
were quite similar then. Now, as Marcus strutted past John, I saw a young strong
successful man and a slave beaten by the system. They were world's apart now. I
know slaves have to do their duty and it's the best system, but ouch, it must be
hell.

Later that evening, back at the Bowen-Barnes villa, they gave me quite a
grilling about the day. They questioned my views of the British Class system.
For the record, I think Upper Families do a good job maintaining our prosperity
and have respect for them. I am also not against showing some cruelty towards
life slaves and political prisoners. However, conscript slaves, men like John,
don't deserve the permanent disfigurements that many Bowen-Barnes' slaves will
suffer. Marcus showed me photos of Bowen-Barnes' conscripts slaves with lost
testicles, fingers missing in machinery, a man blinded in one eye by Marcus's
own leaded whip, young slaves who died in chains from heart attacks and five
18-year old conscripts who last year had committed suicide by hanging themselves
from their own wrist chains - lack of moral fibre added Marcus's mother. Sorry,
but I am a woman with female instincts and cannot help but feel appalled by
these boys' suffering. That was it for the Bowen-Barnes. I had no future with
their son. We never met again. 

++++

Wow, that was some daydream. I still miss Marcus. We had some great times and
with him I soon got accustomed to a life of leisure. Unfortunately, I never got
over that malaise which is why I am in this mess now. This morning, I've been
summoned to the Department of Works for being unemployed for over six months.
The reception area could only be described as functional with, as already
mentioned, rows of women waiting to speak to an official. There were one or two
men; the official statistics for June 2020 told why:

Unemployment: 453,954
Male percentage: 12.3%
Female percentage: 87.7%

It was hard to get a job. Britain's huge manufacturing economy didn't have room
for creative types like me. Even with a degree, I'd ended up in John Lewis, the
Department Store, before being made redundant towards the end of last year.

There's no social welfare in Britain, of course. The unemployed are known as
social parasites and I wasn't looking forward at all to my 10 o'clock
appointment with Mrs Catherine Bligh - Employment and Labour Officer. Her door
creaked opened and a chubby balding man in his fifties walked out holding some
leaflets. He dithered in the doorway staring at his leaflets before a smart
lady, half his age, in a blue dress suit appeared:

"Mr Parson, I said the New Slaves Officer is expecting you. Now, please report
to her. Now."

She placed her hand in the small of his back guiding the dazed man a few doors
along. With her heels, she was easily taller than him which only made him a more
pathetic sight.

"Miss Atherton?"

Wow, that was quick. Mrs Bligh's office was great with leather armchairs, a huge
oak desk and a great view over the city. She was obviously a high-flying sort
going places with her perfect grooming, above-the-knee dress suit,
flesh-coloured tights and black heels. It's well-known that women like this
receive huge bonuses from people like the Bowen-Barnes for sending unemployed
men into slavery for the minimum two years. Judging by Mr Parson's reaction,
she'd just earned some more. On the wall above her desk was a poster of a slave
in what looked like a clothing factory. Just like John, he was chained by all
fours but sewing stockings together. The position of an overseer behind him and
his expression left you in no doubt he'd just been whipped. The caption read:

Don't want a job? Neither did he.

Well, rich bitch, unless your rules have changed dramatically, I won't be sewing
any of your posh seamed tights. I sat down in a chair looking smug.

She was surprisingly friendly, interested in my past jobs and even my hobbies. I
decided a few mind games were in order. When asked why I wasn't married, I
mentioned John and his long spell as a slave. Of course, her husband had been an
officer in the army. I might've known. She noted that I'd done the whip course
at school and occasionally oversaw slaves working in John Lewis. I wasn't sure
where this was all going and almost laughed out loud when she suggested I become
an overseer.

I didn't have a choice. Conscription did exist for women as well although not in
the horrific conditions which men had to endure. Women could be conscripted into
admin or even factory jobs but they'd have normal lives outside of work.

"It's your choice, Miss Atherton. Do forty hours a week sitting at a sewing
machine or consider my offer to do two years as an overseer."

Now, it's not much of a choice is it? But I forgot to mention that I am the
laziest person I know. Sewing stockings from 8 to 6 five days a week! That
wouldn't do at all.

"Count yourself lucky, Miss Atherton. That social parasite who just left will be
doing it for 126 hours a week for two years, if he survives."

Wow. Poor man. I didn't fancy his chances against the likes of Lady Catharina
Bowen-Barnes.

"Where do I sign?"

So, that was it. Me, an overseer. A week later a formal letter arrived telling
me where to report. Wow, only a week of "freedom" left and I had to get 3
uniforms made first!

The uniform list was huge! Boots, shorts, shirts, pullovers, cap, gloves and the
long coat. It'd take ages to tailor it all I thought, but slavery has its uses
and I was kitted out the next day. Although I still had four days before
reporting to the camp, I thought I'd have some fun with my new uniform. The cap
made me look like an old Nazi with its peak pulled over my eyes. I looked mean
which I guess was the idea. The shirt and pullover padded out my shoulders and I
looked huge! The shorts! Oh boy the shorts! Overseers wear shorts, with the
black tights of course, for ease of movement (a euphemism for kicking and
kneeing). But I never knew they were so short! I am quite conscious of my thighs
and they were nearly on full display. Finally, I pulled on the black leather
boots and checked the mirror. I looked great.

Didn't someone once say absolute power corrupts, or something? Well, it happened
soon with me. I was soon out of the house and in the shopping mall. My heels
clicked so loudly on the marble floors and oh god I caught sight of my thighs in
a shop window..mm not so bad.

On the way home, two naked slaves were repairing a gas main. It was bitterly
cold and a long chain from a lamppost to their necks kept them from escaping
whilst their overseers sat in the car. The sound and sight of me approaching
with a whip had the desired effect. Both slaves carried on with their digging
with an added vigour.

"Work faster, slaves!"

"Yes Ma'am"

"Yes Ma'am"

I was going to enjoy this.

It was an early start. The train to camp EM3 left at 7am and a few other trainee
overseers joined me at the station. We were freezing in our shorts, but looked
great. Men stared but no wolf whistles. Force of habit I guess. On the train, we
were invited to First Class and the free coffee warmed us up. A man opposite was
reading the Financial Times. I could see a picture of a nice-looking guy in a
suit. It was Marcus! The headline read.

Expanded British Aerospace 2 opens next month

Camp EM3 to supply initial overseers

I was really going to enjoy this. 

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