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My First Job
Of course I knew about the slavery laws. We were taught them at school, and I knew the theory of how they had saved our society from slipping into chaos – when the drug pushers and petty criminals were enslaved instead of being locked up, and when the laws on evidence gathering and such like were changed so that the police could work properly, the crime rate fell dramatically. Like most decent folk, I suppose they thought they were a good thing. Not that it affected me much: where I grew up in the leafy suburbs of Hertford it just wasn’t the done thing to own slaves – my folks didn’t have them, and neither did any of my friends’ parents. You saw them cleaning the streets, building roads, that kind of thing, of course, but the slaves in our area were generally owned by the city or state and they seemed to have a decent enough life. The occasional guard didn’t use a whip (or, at least, not in public). The slaves were decently dressed in neat slave uniforms, and if it wasn’t for their slave collars they could almost have looked like normal working guys.
In our more stable society when there’s almost no economic growth, jobs can be hard to come by. Especially that vital first job after you’ve graduated college. The move to the warmer south and west that had been going on ever since the late twentieth century was continuing, and such jobs as there were tended not to be near Hertford. So, somewhat reluctantly, I made the decision to move south myself. It was different there, I knew – I’d roomed at college with a southerner, Billy-Joe Bradshaw, and he was always complaining that the college did not allow students to bring their personal slaves with them. We both played football, though, and in spite of our very different social backgrounds, we got to be firm friends.
Billy-Joe invited me down to stay at his place on several occasions and, it really made for a great vacation. His father, who was always known as “The Colonel” as he had been in the State guard, was a gentlemen of the old southern school and was a perfect host. Their lovingly restored and beautifully tended plantation house and grounds had a pool, tennis courts, a croquet lawn, stables with horses to ride, and guns and dogs were always available so that you could go hunting. Inside, the house was filled with antiques that were lovingly polished, the crystal chandeliers sparkled, the food was exquisite, the huge heaps of towels in the bathrooms were soft and fluffy, and the level of service and attention to your comfort was something that not even the finest and most expensive hotels could match. All of this was only possible by the lavish use of slaves, of course: the Colonel told me that around twenty were employed inside in the house, and some fifty tended the gardens and estate. “There’s no way we could maintain this proper standard of living if we had to pay wages”, he explained. “The slave system enables us to uphold those southern values that are such an important part of our heritage.”
You never saw a lot of slaves if you stayed with Billy-Joe, though – as perfect servants they were taught to keep out of sight and out of the way of the master and his family and guests. If you walked out of a room quickly, you might catch a glimpse of a slave who had been polishing the floor in the corridor disappearing around a corner; when you went down to breakfast, leaving the wet towels on the floor and stuff all over your bathroom, all was restored to pristine perfection by the time you got back, the towels replaced with fresh fluffy ones, the bathroom again gleaming and sparkling, and all your toothpaste and shaving things again properly aligned. Billy-Joe used his personal slave – a kind of valet, he called him – when he was at home, but I declined the use of a such a person and relied on the general house slaves to keep my room neat and tidy. Mind you, Billy-Joe wasn’t pleased at first. “Look, Steve”, he said, “Down here we expect a gentleman to be well groomed: his shoes freshly polished, his trousers neatly creased, his shirts to be properly pressed…. And you need labour to do all of that. It’s OK for you to slop around at college in sneakers and clothes that you take straight out of the dryer, but down here it just won’t do. We’ve got standards to maintain, and maintain them we do! If you won’t have a slave of your own, I’ll have to get mine to look after you – he can press all your stuff when he’s doing mine, and so on. He’s a bit of a lazy bugger, and it won’t hurt him to work hard for a change. Mind you, there’s some services he gives me that I don’t want to share….. I’m sure you’ll understand!”
Actually, I didn’t know what he was talking about, but he could be a bit dismissive sometimes as if everyone ought to know how things ran, and I let it pass.
You did see slaves in the grounds, and when you picked up a horse from the stables, and so on. They all looked happy enough, and all wore the same standard slave shorts with the Colonel’s logo neatly embroidered on the left leg. “The Colonel likes to see the slave’s muscles, so the outdoor slaves only wear shorts”, Billy-Joe explained (and he always referred to his father as “The Colonel”). “In the winter, before the sun’s warmed the place up they also get cloaks, but as soon as it’s above forty, off they come – it encourages them to put that bit of extra effort in, to get warm! And we don’t give them footwear – the bare feet somehow emphasise their slavehood, don’t you think?”
Well I thought there was a more obvious way that their slavehood was emphasised: they all wore the mandatory slave collars that the law requires, although, as Billy-Joe explained, this was an example of why the Colonel was such a benevolent owner: instead of the standard band of iron around the neck, the Colonel’s slaves all wore collars made of thick links of stainless steel, which were therefore flexible, fitted better, and did not give rise to chafing and sores as the iron bands did. None of the outdoor slaves was female, as The Colonel apparently believed that you needed proper muscle to maintain the estate and he wanted flexibility in his labour force, so that a slave might be weeding the gardens one day and cutting down trees the next. And they were of course all black: “The Colonel’s not made of money, you know”, Billy-Joe told me when I asked him about this. “There’s a general rule of thumb in these parts that if you buy a black you’d have to pay half as much again if you wanted the same age and physique in a Hispanic. And a white would be at least double. So we use blacks almost exclusively outdoors, as you’re really only buying muscle. Indoors it’s different – The Colonel and I both prefer Hispanics as valets, and he thinks that the waiters should be like that, too, as you’ll have seen.”
I had, actually – at breakfast, lunch and dinner our food was served by at least six waiters who moved around the room noiselessly and who strove to make their presence invisible. You couldn’t help noticing them, though: they were all more or less of a uniform height and appearance – all Hispanics, late twenties, about five seven or five eight, all nicely tanned, all with the usual “slave crop”. The Colonel had them wear tight white cycling shorts made of elastic fabric which hugged their neat asses and displayed their above-average dicks. There was no clinking from their collars as they padded around the room on their bare feet, as interlaced through their chains was a strip of white fabric that was then neatly tied in a perfect bow tie at the front. On the first day of my first visit, when my eyes had almost popped out in astonishment when these men brought the food in, Billy-Joe leaned over and whispered to me “Don’t worry… Look closer and you’ll see that the Colonel requires the waiters to be completely shaved smooth, except for the head where it’s very short – so there’s no possibility of any of their arm, chest or pit hair falling into the food! And he has their pubes done as well, as he doesn’t want the line of those shorts spoiled….”
Those vacations were fun, though – this air of complete luxury which I was just not used to, and the fantastic hospitality offered by the Colonel, and the friendship of Billy-Joe, all made them very special. Billy-Joe came to my folks place, too, of course, but I don’t think he really enjoyed it when mom insisted he help me with the dishes after dinner, and when dad and Billy-Joe and I all raked the leaves together one afternoon. “I just don’t get it, Steve”, he said as we lay in the twin beds in my old bedroom. “Your folks aren’t badly off, so why don’t they ease up, make life simpler, and get a slave or two? One to help around the house, and the other to do the garden? It wouldn’t cost much, I’m sure… It’s not as if they have to be young or anything, just good, plain, middle-aged general workers.”
Billy-Joe just couldn’t understand that it just wasn’t like that in Hertford, and my parents would have been almost ashamed to admit that they owned slaves if they had indeed done so. Almost the only time it was socially acceptable was for the elderly, or for those with disabilities: some reliable, older slave might then be bought to provide individual personal care, so avoiding the necessity of costly nursing home fees.
Anyway, my experiences in the south had not been bad, and so when I was offered a job by a relatively new company in a small town about 20 miles outside Richmond, I accepted. As I said, jobs were not all that easy to come by, and this one looked to have good prospects: the company was in consumer electronics and American companies were at last making a come back and were almost out-selling Chinese and Korean stuff: I’d be in on the ground floor if the company prospered, and I could see my job growing with the firm.
It was easy to rent a nice apartment, although the realtor was surprised when I showed no interest in the tiny slave quarters leading off the back of the kitchen. She suggested that if I didn’t want to own a slave to keep the place clean, to cook for me, to take care of my clothes, and to “provide those services that a single gentleman needs”, I might at least want to take one on contract hire from one of the big slave leasing outfits. And, as she pointed out, “If it’s late when you’ve finished with her – or him, or course, as many gentlemen prefer to use male slaves for their pleasure because there’s then no risk of pregnancies – the slave can always sleep in there. Most owners don’t want the slave in their beds all night long.”
I wasn’t used then to the casual way that southerners considered slaves as mere objects to be used as they wished, and I remember blushing deeply at the mere mention that I might use a slave -especially a male slave – for pleasure! At school and college I’d never had any problems in finding girls to satisfy me, and as one of the stars of the College football team, there were of course always the cheer leaders eager to support and encourage me.
The job was great – interesting and challenging, and I really enjoyed working there. I thought I was making excellent progress, and when I had my six-monthly appraisal my manager confirmed that they were very pleased with me, and I even got a raise! However at the end of the interview, when we had both documented our comments and signed the forms to go back to human resources, he lowered his voice slightly. “Look, Steve, this is rather difficult… I didn’t want to comment on it in your appraisal, as it’s not the kind of thing that you want permanently on your record… But some of us in the management team are a bit worried about your appearance. It lets the side down, Steve. Look at all your fellow workers – immaculate. You’ll get on much better here if you were more like them. Don’t get me wrong – it’s not the choice of clothes or anything… Just that, well…. Well, they’re not as immaculate as they should be. We take pride in our work here, and pride in our appearance – smarten up, Steve!”
I wanted to say something, but he stood up, reached out and shook my hand, lowered his voice even further and almost whispered “Enough said, eh? Just pay a little more attention to grooming, and the next time we have an appraisal, I wouldn’t be surprised if I was congratulating you on a promotion.”
Billy-Joe had of course gone back home to work in the family business, and he was only about fifty miles away and we’d kept up our friendship – I guess we got together for a beer, or to go to a game, about once every couple of weeks. The next time I met him I recounted this to him, and told him how hard I was finding it “I’ve even phoned my mom, Billy-Joe, to ask her about what sort of detergent she uses and so on… But it doesn’t seem to make a difference – my shirts just don’t look as… as sort of ‘crisp’… as the other guys’ do.”
Billy-Joe leaned back in his chair, took another chug of his beer, and said “You just don’t get it, do you, Steve. It’s like back when you came to stay at the Colonel’s: that kind of finish, those little extra final touches, only come when you have a slave looking after your clothes. Then you can change two or three times a day, and you’ll always be neatly turned out. A guy just can’t achieve that for himself. So my advice is go out and buy yourself a slave, one with experience in looking after a gentleman. They’re not expensive, and with that raise you could always buy one on extended payment terms if you haven’t got the capital.”
He emptied his glass, snapped his fingers for the slave waiter, who came scurrying over, and snapped “Two more beers, and be quick about it.”
“No, Billy-Joe – I mustn’t have another. I’ve got to drive home. And you…. Perhaps you shouldn’t have one, either…”
“There you go again! I’d never drive home like this – do you think I’m mad? If the cops stopped me, it would be enslavement for sure. That’s another advantage of buying a slave – he can sit outside in your car and drive you home, just as mine is sitting waiting for me.”
He was probably right, of course. But I’m not stupid, and I had a soda instead, and watched somewhat enviously as Billy-Joe enjoyed the match on the big-screen TV so much more than I did as he was so much less inhibited.
The next night as I lay in bed with my girl friend, I told her about my interview, and Billy-Joe’s advice. Oh, I haven’t mentioned Chantelle before, have I? Well, I met her shortly after I moved south, and we were soon fucking away like rabbits. She was everything a young stud like me needed – lithe, inventive, uninhibited: a great fuck. I mean, straight after college it can be difficult to find women, can’t it? And I reckoned I’d been really lucky to have Chantelle fall into my bed.
“Steve, he’s right – just buy a slave. You’ve got a slave room here, I’ve seen it.”
“But then we couldn’t fuck… It’s only a small apartment…. The noise….”
“Don’t be so stupid! I’m talking about a slave, not a servant. You can do what you like in front of a slave. I’ll come along and help you choose, though…. I don’t want you getting one of those big, handsome bucks… I want your dick all to myself, not shared with some slave’s ass.”
Another thing that excited me about Chantelle was that although she was normally the perfectly demure, southern “lady”, she could suddenly switch to talking dirty like this. I was instantly aroused, and her hand, that had been fondling my balls, started to slide gently up and down my dick.
I moaned gently with the sensation, and she put her head down and nipped gently at one my nipples – the sharp bite of her teeth and the tickling sensation as her long hair flowed all over my body almost caused me to shoot. “Hey, cut that out….”
Her efforts redoubled, and I moaned out again. “No, honey… Leave my dick alone…. If you want it properly…. Look, about this slave thing…..” I was desperately trying to think of things to keep my mind off what she was doing to me. “Look, I don’t believe in having slaves around. And I’m a guy, I wouldn’t want to fuck a buck….”
She took her head away from my chest and stopped fingering my cock. I took the opportunity to half roll on to her, get my leg in between hers, and positioned my dick ready to enter her. “Steve, when we’re married, you’ll have to change that silly idea… Of course we’ll have to have slaves. Mommy and daddy are looking around now, as they’re planning to give us six as a wedding present….”
I let my hand run over he breast, thinking how lucky I was to have someone so delightfully sexy and fuckable sharing my bed. It was the best sex I’d ever had, every time. But I wasn’t going to marry her. I’d never even given her that impression, I felt sure – we were just too different, and all we had in common was fucking.
“Hey, baby, slow down… Who said anything about marriage…?”
“Steve, we’ve been fucking for five months. Of course we’re going to get married.”
I felt a slight chill of worry go through me, but I was properly aroused and I needed to fuck . I moved myself slightly into her, and my dick sent tingling sensations to my brain as it knew it was about to dock in her.
“Come on, honey.. Forget all that… Let’s fuck….”
“No, Steve! Not until we get this sorted…”
“Oh, come on….”
Look, she’d played “hard to get” before, and we’d both found it a bit of a turn-on for her to pretend to resist me and for me to “force” her into sex. So I thought this time was no different, and I grabbed her wrists and pinioned them to the side of her head. I thrust my dick home, and then began fucking her in the way she liked – gently at first, then harder and harder, almost like an animal in heat.
It was over all too soon – I was covered in sweat, my heard was racing, my lungs were gasping for air, but instead of her normal shouts of enjoyment, that matched my own, Chantelle was silent.
“When are we going to get married, Steve?”
“Well… Look…. I don’t think I’m ready…. I’m going to work hard until I’m thirty, then settle down properly… I’m only twenty four and I want a bit of fun…”
“But you’ve been fucking me for five months!”
“So what? You’ve enjoyed it as much as I did.. I know you did!”
“That’s not the point, Steve! A gentlemen doesn’t fuck a lady unless he’s going to marry her. If you just want to fuck, buy a slave!”
“Well, I guess that’s one of the ways that’s different in the north. We aren’t ‘ladies’ and ‘gentlemen’, we’re just guys and women. There, two people that want to fuck do so. With no strings. And, as I said, I’m not thinking about marriage for at least six years…”
To my astonishment she got out of bed, pulled her clothes on, and stormed out, without saying another word. I was tired, I had that fantastic after-sex feeling, and so I lay there on my belly, my head resting on my crossed arms, and drifted off into sleep. I remember thinking what a silly cow she was, and that, actually, I was glad to be rid of her. I was looking forward to going down to the singles bar again.
It can only have been an hour later when there was a thunderous knocking at my door. I pulled on my boxers and a T, and opened it, to find two police officers there.
They pushed past me, went into the bedroom, and threw back the covers. One of the officers ran his finger along the wet cum stain on the bottom sheet.
“Have you just had sex, Mr Harris?”
“What dammed business is it of yours…?”
“Sir, I would advise you to co-operate with the police. Now, let’s try again. Have you just had sex?”
Both men grinned. It was that conspiratorial kind of smile that guys give each other when they’re about to talk about sex.
“A young guy like you – good looking, good body, good job – I bet you have lots of sex, right?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Did you fuck Chantelle Lebouget tonight? Here, in this bed?” They were smiling again.
I smiled back. “Yes. We often do. As you say, I’m fit, strong and healthy…. So I fuck a lot. Look, what’s the problem? Has something happened to Chantelle? She left here rather upset…”
“Miss Lebouget says you were having great sex tonight, then she told you to stop, but you continued. She likes to play games like that does she, Steve?” One of the cops winked conspiratorially at me now.
“Yes, she said ‘stop’, but, you know… It’s a game… We’ve been fucking for five months…”
“Was it exciting when she said ‘stop’? Did you enjoy fucking her after that?”
“Look, we always enjoyed fucking together. And yes, I did enjoy tonight, and yes, we were arguing, and yes, she did tell me to stop, but I thought she was telling me to stop so that we could carry on the discussion..”
The cops looked at each other. One pulled one of the new pocked recorders out of his pocket – we make them, actually – and said to the other “I think we’ve got enough. The suspect, Steve Masters, has admitted that he had intercourse with Chantelle Lebouget after she told him to stop. Their accounts of the incident match. An open and shut case, I would say.”
He pulled the secondary recording spool out of the little machine and handed it to me.
“Mr Harris, this is a proper, authentic copy of an earlier interview with Miss Lebouget, and with yourself just now. You will appear at the County Courthouse one week from today to answer a charge of unlawful intercourse. The second copy of this material will be produced for the court as evidence.”
His partner grinned at me, and said “Better get yourself a lawyer, boy! From what we’ve heard, you’re heading for enslavement. If I were you, I’d use the week to get my affairs in order, say goodbye to my folks, and generally enjoy myself – a handsome, strong man like you won’t be getting too many opportunities to fuck the ladies in future!”
“No….” The other cop was almost laughing now. “Looking at your body, Id say there was going to be a lot of fucking going on, but it’s going to be you that’s going to get fucked! Young, fit, white guys don’t come up for auction that often… And when they do, they get a premium price, as everyone wants to fuck an ass like yours.”
“You’ve got it all wrong… It wasn’t like that… We were just arguing… It wasn’t serious…”
“You northern boys think you can come down here and fuck our women…” The first cop blurted out. “Well, wait and see what happens next!”
They didn’t even say goodnight, just marched out, and I was left standing there, really worried, I’d heard about this “southern justice” before, and, anyway, the laws were so strong now, and the rules of evidence so relatively weak. My fingers were almost trembling as I punched Billy-Joe’s number in to the phone. As he answered, I could hear that he was fucking – he was breathing hard, and there was that “slap slap” noise of two bodies together.
“Billy-Joe… Stop that. We need to talk….”
Here was a kind of crashing noise, as if Billy-Joe had summarily kicked someone out of his bed onto the floor. And then he asked me what was going on. After a couple of minutes he said “You’re deep in it, Steve! Deep in the shit. Yes, you do need a lawyer. Get one, tomorrow. First thing. And then let’s you and I get together at lunch time – I’ll drive over to you.”
“But I’ve got appointments at the office…”
“Steve… This is serious. From what I’ve heard, you’re as good as enslaved already. You admitted it to the cops, for fuck’s sake – they asked you if she told you to stop, and if you went on, and you said yes! That’s all they need. I think your lawyer will tell you the same. And, if he does, we’ll have to go for the Jackson gambit.”
“What the fuck’s that?”
“Wait, and I’ll tell you tomorrow. But talk to a lawyer first. This is serious.”
He put the phone down. And, unusually for me, I didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning, acting in Billy-Joe’s advice, I phoned in to work to say I had a personal problem and needed the day off, then rushed downtown to find myself an advocate.
Kilkenny, Roberts and Fulman was right there on main street, and looked very prosperous and businesslike. I inwardly shuddered at how much of this month’s pay cheque would go to them for helping me! In reception I was asked to wait, and a beautifully dressed slave girl brought me coffee – no overt displays of sexuality here: it was only the girl’s slave collar that distinguished her from the other smartly dressed men and women who came and went across the busy area.
It was Mr Roberts who found time to see me, after only a short wait, and I was ushered in to his plush office – a big oak desk, law books neatly arranged in oak bookcases on one wall, thick carpet, lush plants in stylish plant holders in one corner. His desk was clear except for a telephone, and a writing pad. This place said “competence”, and “money”.
“So, what can I do for you, Mr Harris?” Roerts exuded confidence and professionalism, and, at the same time, I could sense that close to the surface there was a sharp mind and a strong streak of desire to win at all costs – just the kind of lawyer I needed.
As he listened to me, Roberts’ face remained impassive. He asked a few curt questions as I explained the situation. Then he told me it would be expensive. I agreed to pay – I was so impressed by his style to date, that it seemed the best thing to do as there was no way I wanted to end up as a slave. We chatted on whilst his secretary quickly produced a standard contract, and I signed it. His pen was poised to counter sign on behalf of his firm, when I innocently asked “And can secret recordings taken by the police really be used in evidence now? Surely what they did was entrapment?”
“There’s a recording, of the police interview with you?”
“Yes, they gave it to me, and suggested I saw a lawyer.”
When he heard I had it with me, he pulled out a recorder from his drawer – again, one of ours. My employer was doing well, and I felt pleased. He listened in silence, his face still impassive, and he jotted notes on his yellow legal pad.
When it clicked off, he looked at me, then picked up the contract I’d signed, and dropped it into his waste bin.
“Hey….”, I began.
“Get out, boy!” His manner had changed abruptly. I was no longer a potential new client, fees for his firm.
“Mr Roberts, what’s the problem…?”
“Get out, boy. You’re as good as enslaved already. They have you on tape, agreeing that she told you to stop, and you carried on.”
“No ‘buts’. An open and shut case. Guilty out of your own mouth. They’ll give you the standard sentence, even if her side doesn’t press for it.”
“The standard sentence… What’s that…?”
“Enslavement, of course. Any infringement of the law like that results in enslavement.”
“For how long?” I thought that perhaps it might not be too bad – I could get leave of absence from my employer for six months or so, I felt certain.
“Intercourse without permission…. That’s life. You’re going to be a slave for the rest of your natural life, boy. Now, get out of here, and stop wasting the time of a free man.”
“But Mr Roberts… You were going to act for me…. I agreed to pay… What can I do…?”
“We don’t act for slaves, as that’s what you’ll be. You’re as good as there already. And you can’t pay us – all your assets are automatically forfeit on enslavement. Now stop wasting my time, boy! Get out of here and put your affairs in order. Say goodbye to your friends and family…”
I leaned across the desk, and started shouting “You can’t abandon me like this… You agreed…”
Roberts’ manner changed yet again. He banged his fist down on the desk, and almost shouted “Stand up in the presence of a free man, boy! You’d better get used to it. Slaves don’t sit in the presence of free men. And keep a respectful tone in your voice…”
I was so shocked, that I got to my feet. Roberts went on “Look, I know it’s tough, but that’s the way of the world. Shit happens. You may be lucky and get a good master, and then it won’t be too bad. But, I have to warn you that your attitude’s going to have to change… If one of my slaves starts shouting at me, I reach for the whip, instantly. You’d better start practising, boy, or those first few weeks are going to be tough on you – and tough on your backside if your master has to instil too much discipline.”
“Now, as I said, get out! There’s no point in discussing it. It’s an open and shut case, and this time next week you’ll be on the auction block after you’ve been in court.”
He reached across to his phone, and spoke to his secretary. “Margaret – make a note to keep an eye on the upcoming slave auctions, will you? Alert me when Steve Harris’s details appear… Yes, the Harris that’s in with me now…. He’s just leaving. I’ll probably want to bid on him as I need something a little exotic to entertain important clients with, and a young, educated, tough white slave will just fit the bill.”
Then, looking at me, he said “Why don’t you just undress and let me take an advanced look at the merchandise…? Are you cut, or do you still have your foreskin?”
“Fuck you! I’m not a slave yet!”
“Very foolish, boy. As I said, you need to learn to think like a slave. And if I were to buy you, you would at least be treated well, as I need a slave to entertain clients who are in from out of town – there’s a lot worse jobs a slave can have than being an office worker here in the day, and a pleasure boy by night….”
“Fuck you! I’m not going to be used for sex….”
“Boy, you are in for a shock! Young, virile white guys like you… how many slaves are there like that? Most slaves around here are blacks or Hispanics… So you’ll be in real demand. But, no matter. As soon as you’ve been stripped and collared, they’ll post your pictures on the Internet and I can see you then. Look out for me at your auction!”
He looked at me finally, as if appraising my body, then snapped “Now, get out, boy! And, next time we meet, mind your manners.”
I was so shocked, that I just walked out. The secretary sitting outside the door smiled at me, and said “Hey, I’m looking forward to seeing more of you, boy! If Mr Roberts buys you, he sometimes lets his staff use the firm’s slaves after work, when there are no out of town clients to service… I’ looking forward to getting my hands on that body of yours….”
I rushed out, blushing with embarrassment. I suppose it hadn’t occurred to me before that slaves would be used for sex! I just thought they were there to work, and work at the kind of jobs free men didn’t want to do – labouring, that sort of stuff. I could probably put up with that as I liked to use my body and it would only really be like going to the gym, I thought (how wrong I could be, as I later found out!). But being used for sex…. Oh, fuck me, what was going to happen (and there, although I didn’t yet know it, I’d made a correct statement about slavery – “fuck me” would be true, too).
Billy-Joe and I had arranged to meet in the bar we usually frequented, and by the time he arrived I’d already had a couple of beers to try and calm myself. He was, as usual, immaculate in his pressed chinos, shiny brown shoes, and tweed jacket. A cravat was artfully knotted in the open neck of his crisply-starched shirt. He eased himself into the booth, and snapped his fingers for the slave waiter to come and take his order.
“Hey, Steve! You look dreadful, man. Been to see the lawyer? Has he frightened the life out of you by the size of his fees? If it’s any help, I could lend you a few thousand to tide you over…”
“No. He wouldn’t take my money. Said there was no point in even trying to get me cleared, as it’s an open and shut case.” I then explained to Billy-Joe about the recording and everything, and he just sat there, nodding.
“Well, Steve, it looks as if there’s no chance. I thought that last night, when you phoned. So now we have to plan how to get you out of it… The Jackson strategy, as it’s known.”
“What the fuck’s that?”
“It’s called after the guy who first did it. Look, Chantelle wants a meal ticket for life, right? She let you take her pussy whenever you wanted it as she thought you were an up and coming executive, who’d be her way to an easy life. Then when you said ‘no’ to all the marriage shit, she just put plan B into action – get you enslaved, then rent you out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, she’s the complainant, right? She’ll expect damages. You’ll be a slave, so all your assets, such as they are, are forfeit. Your only real worth is your value as a slave, so the court will award ownership of you to her. The last thing she wants to do is own you – she’s an airhead, and quite unable to control a virile, young untrained slave like you! She won’t want to fuck with you of course – you’ll be a slave, and however nice your dick was before, it’s slave dick now, and slave dick and free woman don’t mix. So the easiest way out for her is to sell you: she’ll put you straight up for auction, and you’ll be in the sale later in the week. Or, if she’s clever, she’ll lease you out, on a long-term lease, to one of the big specialist slave leasing companies. That way she gets you back to sell on in, say, ten years, by which time you’ll be a properly trained slave and absolutely no hassle, as you would be now., And in the interim she’ll get those regular monthly cheques, guaranteed, from the leasing company. Actually, from her point of view, it’s better than marrying you: she gets a guaranteed income, a valuable asset at some point down the line, and she avoids all the risk of marrying you in case your career doesn’t prosper and you stay as a low-paid grunt for your entire career….”
“Billy-Joe, please tell me this isn’t true! I’m dreaming it, aren’t I? I’m going to wake up in a minute and everything will be all right…”
“Steve, old buddy, I’m afraid not. Slavehood beckons, my man, and there’s only one way of lessening the problem…. As I said, the Jackson strategy.”
“So what is this.. Come on, spill the beans…”
“Well, Chantelle sees you as money on legs, right? So we remove the possibility of her deriving any value from you for a long time, then she’ll drop the case.”
“Because if she doesn’t see that you can make money from you almost immediately, she won’t want to go ahead through the courts and have her nice, prissy ‘southern belle’ reputation ruined, will she? She won’t be attractive to other potential beaus is the whole world knows she’s soiled goods!”
“But a woman like Chantelle – everyone knows she’d have had sex…”
“Sure, Steve. But ‘knowing’ it, and having it ‘proved’ in all the newspapers and on the local TV – that’s two different things.”
“I guess so. So how do we make sure she can get no value from me?”
“Simple. As Jackson did first, you enslave yourself voluntarily. Then, as a slave already, Chantelle will see it’s your owner who’s making the money, and she’s got no chance.”
“You’re mad! Make myself a slave? You’ve got to be joking…”
“Steve, think, man. If we do nothing, you’ll be a slave for life. They can do what they like with you. If you become a slave voluntarily, it can be for a fixed period, in known circumstances.”
“Well, that’s a potential problem. There used to be lots of voluntary enslavement orders from guys who wanted to ‘play’ for a couple of weeks, or a few months, as a kind of kick, or a vacation. So the courts got clogged up, and they said that voluntary enslavement now has to be for five years. In your case, though, I guess it’s OK, as it fits in with your requirements – Chantelle has to see that there’s no possibility of making money from you for a long time, so she’ll drop the case. And voluntary enslavement isn’t so bad – there’s a lot of things you can’t do to a short-term slave – no branding, mutilation, that kind of stuff….”
“But who owns me?”
“There’s the clever part that Jackson thought of – he assigned himself to a buddy so he was owned by his best friend…”
“So, for me…. Billy-Joe, are you saying you’d be my ‘owner’ if I did this voluntary thing?”
“Of course, Steve! We’re best buddies, aren’t we? “
Well, we talked on, and the more I thought about it, the more it seemed to be the only way out. Or perhaps it was the several beers I had as the day wore on.
When we left, Billy-Joe gave me a lift back to my apartment and I couldn’t help but admire the careful way his slave chauffeur threaded the big car through the evening traffic. As we drove along we discussed practical things, and it was agreed that I’d sell or give away my stuff in the next two days (I didn’t have a lot, as I’d brought almost nothing south with me, and I hadn’t bought much as the apartment was plainly but adequately furnished), and meet Billy-Joe at court on Friday morning.
“I’ll call Judge Anderson”, Billy-Joe told me. “He’s an old friend of the Colonel’s. He’ll agree to have the enslavement proceedings done in his chambers, so you won’t have to strip in open court with everyone looking at you.”
“Yes… Slaves have to appear in court naked. It shows that they’ve got nothing to hide. You’ll have to strip for Judge Anderson of course, but there will just be the three of us there and I’ve seen you naked lots of times! So it would be sensible to get to court wearing stuff you can slip on and off easily – Jeans, a loose T, sandals… No underwear, no pockets full of keys and change that can drop out… Not that you’ll have that kind of stuff by then, I suppose.”
“Are you going to collect me, then?”
“No. It wouldn’t look good. Just turn up and ask for Judge Anderson’s chambers, at 09:00, before regular business begins. Believe me, it will be OK – there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll get the Colonel’s lawyers to do all the paperwork: the enslavement order, that sort of stuff. I guess you’d better bring your social security card with you, and your driver’s licence, as ID, as these lawyers can be tricky about that kind of thing – they wouldn’t want to enslave the wrong guy. Oh… And one more thing…. Here…..”
Billy-Joe had a tape measure out, and went to put it around my neck.
“Billy-Joe, what the fuck are you doing…?”
“Measuring you, Steve. The court would fit a standard iron slave collar, but if I take the measurement of your neck we’ll provide one of the kind the Colonel always uses – the stainless steel links. It’s easier for you – iron ones can chafe, you know. I’m sure you remember that the Colonel treats slaves well, and if it’s right for them, it ought to be right for you.”
I think that having Billy-Joe put that tape measure around my neck was the first time that the idea that I was going to be a slave had really struck home – up until now it had all been discussion, all theoretical. Now… well, I felt as if a process had started, and I was powerless to fix it.
Perhaps the human brain is kind – when there’s some disaster looming in your life, you can largely ignore it if you’re busy. And busy I was in those two days – seeing my employer and explaining why I had to resign (who knows, I might want a job there after five years). They did say, though, that I should ask my new owner to contact them as they’d be interested in employing me as a slave worker – I couldn’t do my old job, of course, but they knew I worked hard and intelligently, and there were several lesser administrative posts in the company that I might be hired for.
I spoke to my mom and dad, who were at first horrified, then supportive when they heard all the circumstances. Mom even said she was going to write a nice letter to Billy-Joe, thanking him for helping me out of this terrible problem.
It was easy to dispose of my books and CDs and clothes- I just took them to a thrift shop – and it was good to know I was doing some good. A dealer bought my car, although once the balance on the loan paid off, I only had a hundred bucks or so.
I took myself out for one last good dinner, tipped the waitress outrageously with the last of my money, and walked back to my empty apartment and slept on the bare mattress.
Friday morning was one of those great southern mornings – the promise of heat later, a little mist through which the sun was shimmering, and that tang of ‘spring’ in the air. I threw away my underwear and socks, and dressed in my sandals, Jeans and a T, and pulled the apartment door closed behind me one more time. I thought of getting a bus downtown, but the morning was so good I decided to walk – then, as I realised how far it was, I had to break into a jog in order to be on time. Actually, it was no big deal – I exercise regularly, and I like to use my body.
At the court house I waited in a short line at the reception desk, and looked up at the great state seal on the wall “In justice and liberty we trust”, it said, and I felt vaguely cheered. But my mood soon changed to one of despair.
When I gave my name and asked for Judge Anderson’s chambers, the receptionist told me he had called in sick, and his morning case load had been transferred to Judge Wheeler. I asked for his chambers, and she consulted a list.
“Are you here for the Steve Harris enslavement proceedings?”
“Yes, I am, I’m Steve Harris”, I said, trying to smile.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’, then.” The receptionist replied icily. “Judge Wheeler never deals with enslavement cases in chambers – he’s a firm believer in the principles that justice must not only de done, but that it must be seen to be done. You’re scheduled in Court D at ten fifteen – that’s the biggest court, as Judge Wheeler always tend to attract a crowd.”
I felt sick in my stomach. Was I going to have to go through all of this in front of lots of people?
“Look, it’s OK, I think I’ll call it off…. Wait until Judge Anderson is back….”
The receptionist looked at me, and said “I wouldn’t recommend that, sir. You’re down on Judge Wheeler’s case list. He’s rearranged it once already, because of Judge Anderson’s illness. He’s pretty cross, and if you mess him around, he’s likely to sentence you for contempt of court anyway.”
“So what’s the sentence for that…?”
“Oh, probably, enslavement. Now, stop wasting my time. Go along to the waiting room outside courtroom D, and ask for officer Hughes – he deals with enslavements, and knows all the ropes. He’ll make it as easy as possible for you.”
I trudged along the corridor, my mind full of the horror of having to appear naked in front of a room full of people. Officer Hughes, though, was reassuring – he was in his mid forties, but in good shape. His tailored trousers were tight over his butt and showed a nice bulge at the front, not because he was fat or even overweight, but because he clearly liked his clothes to be form-fitting. Further evidence of this was the way his biceps bulged from his sleeves, which seemed to have been shortened beyond the standard cops’ uniform length.
“Officer Hughes, sir, I’m Steve Harris….”
He consulted a sheet on an impressive clipboard, and smiled at me encouragingly. “Yes, Mr Harris. You’re the voluntary enslavement, aren’t you?”
“Yes… And, look, is there any way of avoiding this stripping business…?”
worry, sir. I’ve done lots of these, and I’ve never lost a customer yet!”. He grinned again, and I began to feel better. “And I see you’ve been well advised – simple clothes…. No underwear?”
“Well, sir, it should all be over in a matter of moments then. I’ll escort you in. Just do exactly as the judge tells you, and if you’re in any doubt, I’ll be there to advise you, sir. Now, we’ve got about thirty minutes – you want a coffee?”
He took me to the coffee shop in the building, and as soon as he realised I’d got absolutely no money left, he bought me a coffee. We sat across the table from each other hugging our steaming mugs of coffee, and chatted about this and that. I liked this guy – not sexually, of course, but as another guy I could have a man to man talk with.
“So are there many voluntary enslavements?”, I asked.
“Oh, some, Mr Harris. Most of my work is with slaves who have escaped and been recaptured and who are being brought back for sentencing, or slaves where their masters want a very severe punishment that needs the court’s approval. The slaves are much harder to deal with then!”
“What sort of punishments?”
“Well, as you probably know, the automatic punishment for escaping is castration. No arguments – the slave is brought in front of the judge, and he just orders it. For the harsh punishment stuff – use of the bull whip for more than five strokes, for example – the judge usually questions why such a punishment is necessary.”
“And why is it, officer?”
“Well, sir, it depends. It can be something like a master finding a slave in bed with his wife. Or theft. Or sometimes just persistent, wilful disobedience and laziness. I’d advise you to steer clear of all those things, Mr Harris, as you really don’t want to even hear the whistle of the bullwhip coming close to your body! But you seem a sensible sort of person, sir, so I’m sure we won’t be seeing you back here again. My advice, sir, would be to settle in to being a slave, and to obey your master quickly, cheerfully and exactly. If you do that, you won’t have any problems, and your time of voluntary enslavement will soon be over.”
He looked at his watch, and went on “I don’t want to hurry you, Mr Harris, but we ought to be getting back…”
It all seemed so civilised, and he was such a nice guy and so courteous and respectful that I felt a whole lot better. We sat in the waiting room for a few minutes, then a speaker on the wall announced “Case 36-57843. Steven Hughes, Petition For Voluntary Enslavement”. We got to our feet, and officer Hughes opened the door for me and motioned me through. The previous case had only just finished, and the lawyers were packing away their papers. It was a standard sort of courtroom – the judge was on a dais, a recorder sat at a table tapping into a steno machine, there were two tables for lawyers, and, behind all this, seats for the public…. I began to feel uneasy as I saw there were about a hundred people present, men, and women.
Billy-Joe came in and sat at one of the tables usually intended for lawyers, and the clerk intoned again “Case 36-57843. Steven Hughes, Petition For Voluntary Enslavement.” The judge peered over the top of the dais at me and said “Are you Steven Hughes, petitioning to be granted a period of voluntary enslavement?”
“I am, your honour.” I’d learned that from watching cop shows!
“Are you represented by legal counsel?”
“No, your honour.”
“Do you want the court to appoint a public counsel to explain your rights to you, or are you happy to proceed with the enslavement order?”
“Please, your honour, I’m happy to go ahead.”
The judge picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and read out “The petitioner, Steven Hughes, twenty four years old, requests the state to grant him a period of voluntary enslavement not exceeding five years, subject to the state’s rules and regulations regarding such periods of enslavement. He further requests that during this period he become the property of Billy-Joe Martin, citizen of this state, and that at the end of the period of his enslavement said Billy-Joe Martin restores to him his freedom.”
He looked at me again, and said “Young man, do you understand what this means? For the next five years you are the property of Mr Martin, to do with as he pleases, subject only to the laws of this state… Laws that prohibit the permanent mutilation or disfigurement of temporary slaves, or their harsh punishment without the prior permission of this court. Otherwise you accept all the roles and responsibilities of a normal slave.”
“Yes, your honour.”
“Very well, Mr Harris. The court so approves your period of enslavement. I declare that for a period not exceeding five years you are the property of Mr Billy-Joe Martin. Mr Martin, do you accept the slave?”
Billy-Joe stood up, bowed slightly to the judge, and said “Yes, your honour.”
The judge’s tone seemed to change. He looked at officer Hughes and said “Officer, strip the slave. Slaves in this court appear naked.”
He looked at the audience and intoned “The law gives slaves few rights, and in order to emphasise both to them and to you, their former peers, that they are now no longer men but slaves, slaves appear here naked before you. The removal of the slave’s clothes symbolise his change in status from free man, with the right to choose, to slave, with no rights.”
I’d stood there listening to this, but I then hard Officer Hughes snap “Don’t stand there, boy, unless you want to be punished! Get those fucking clothes off. Now!”
I looked at him in amazement. All his politeness, his treatment of me as another regular guy, had gone. He looked threatening, and angry. And I didn’t like the way I was now “boy.” But what could I do? I kicked my sandals off, and pulled my T over my head.
There was an appreciative murmur from the crowd as my torso was revealed, and a couple of shouts of “Turn around and let’s see your pecs.”
“Silence!”, Judge Wheeler shouted. “I will not have these unseemly scenes in my court. If there is any further interruption from the crowd, I will have the court cleared.”
I’d stopped whilst all this was going on, and now Officer Hughes poked me in the middle of my naked back with his billy-stick. “Drop those Jeans, boy, unless you want your first punishment!”
I wasn’t used to being jabbed at like that, and I was going to protest, until I saw the expression on his face – an expression that said “Go on, try something, as I enjoy punishing slaves.” I undid the button at the waistband, pushed down the zip, turned around so that my back was to the audience, and let my Jeans fall to the floor – I’d worn loose-fitting ones, to make this easier.
I heard people in the audience saying “Nice butt” and “Great body”. I suppose I ought to have been pleased, as I work hard at keeping in shape, but instead I felt a great wave of embarrassment flooding through me, and I started to flush all over my chest and shoulders, and it quickly spread to my face. The judge looked down at me standing there naked in front of him, and snapped “Assume the ‘display’ position, slave, then rotate, slowly, so that all may see that you are a slave.”
I didn’t know what to do, until officer Hughes said “Hands behind your neck, boy! Then chest out, stomach in, and turn around, a full circle, slowly.” I did as he said, even though I hated it. With my hands behind my neck it was impossible to even attempt to shield my dick and balls from the public gaze, and as I turned around the volume of comments from the audience rose to a new high. There was even some clapping, until Judge Wheeler banged his gavel several times, and shouted for silence.
Look, I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been naked in public before – well, unless you count skinny dipping when I was a kid, and then there wasn’t a big audience watching me! Of course I’ve been naked in the locker room at the gym, but that’s different, isn’t it – for one thing, it’s all guys, and for another, most of them are at least half naked, too. In fact, I’ve always been faintly contemptuous of those guys who try to hide themselves in the locker rooms, who want private shower cubicle rather than the communal ones, who juggle a towel to cover themselves when changing, and who struggle to pull up their underwear under the towel. We’re all guys, after all – we’ve all got a dick and balls, and, sure, some guys have bigger and better ones, like me, but you can’t help what you’re born with, and if you’re undersized, there’s no point in trying to hide it. But this was different – now I was the only one naked. And there were men and women looking at me. And enjoying it, too! Oh, fuck me, I hated it. I wanted it all to be over. I wanted someone to come and drape a coat around me.
“Officer, prepare the slave for collaring”, the judge intoned.
“Arms behind your back, boy”, Hughes told me. Then the next instant his big, strong hand grasped the back of my neck – evidently, he was used to controlling slaves. He kind of pushed, kind of led me to the front of the court where there was a with a wooden block on it – I’d thought at first it was a modern sculpture to decorate the room, but now he pushed my head down so that my neck rested in a “U” shaped hole in the top of the block. I went to stand up, as I knew that bent over like this my butt was completely exposed to the crowd, but Hughes’ strong hand was controlling me. The crowd were enjoying it – in fact, they’d started to clap again as Hughes bent me over – and, the more I thought about it, the more I realised that as I shuffled around in the slightly uncomfortable position, they’d all be seeing my dick and balls through the gap between my thighs. The heat swept through me again, and I knew I must be bright red.
There was a “clank” as something dropped onto the table beside me, and I knew it must be the chain collar that Billy-Joe had talked about.
“Is the slave not having a standard collar?”, the judge asked.
“Sir”, Billy-Joe answered – I could hear his voice, but could not see him – the slave will mostly be living at the estate of my father, Colonel Martin, a distinguished retired soldier and servant of this country. The Colonel believes that it is more humane, and that it is therefore possible to work the slave harder, if he is not pained and injured by the chafing of a standard collar. These chain collars, your honour, are used on all the Colonel’s seventy or so slave, and they function exactly s the standard collar. As your honour will see, they are so chunky, and, when closed, they fit permanently: there’s therefore no danger that they might be mistaken for mere jewellery. Believe me, sir, these are proper, weighty slave collars, designed to constantly remind the slave of his status.”
Thank you, Mr Martin. You may proceed, officer.”
Officer Hughes fumbled for a moment, and then I felt the coldness of the large chain links as he manoeuvred them around my neck. Someone came over, and I heard Billy-Joe say “See the open link, officer – close the collar using it, then here’s the adhesive. Put a little on each open end of that link, then you’ll see the link is hinged… That’s right…. Push the ends together…. That adhesive is stronger than the steel itself, so now the link is closed, the collar’s locked around his neck permanently.”
When all was done, Officer Hughes released the pressure on me, and I stood up. The judge said “Slave, walk around the court room, and show the public your collar, the symbol of your enslavement!”
“Oh, please, sir, please don’t make me do that.. I can’t walk around naked…. Not here, not in front of all these people.”
The judge looked almost contemptuously at me, as he snapped “Slave, do as you’ve been commanded! I want a full circuit of the court, so that all can inspect the new slave in our society. And, slave, remember this – a slave is never naked, as he always has his slave collar on. A slave collar is all a slave needs to define himself to the world. A slave has no feelings of modesty, and has no need of concealment – a slave obeys free men, and if they command him to walk around unclothed, that is what he does. Now, move, before I order punishment for you. And assume the ‘display’ position again.”
I was terrified. I was embarrassed. I was scared. As I walked around, hands clasped around my neck, I saw that most eyes in the room were focussed on my dick. I hated it. I wanted it all to be over. The heavy chain around my neck caused me to want to stoop, but Hughes was behind me, and half whispered “Stand tall, boy. Let the good folks get a proper look at you.”
It was over soon enough, thank God, and I again stood in front of the judge. Just as he was about to say something, a voice broke out.
“Your honour, may I approach the bench?”
It was Mr Roberts, the lawyer I had consulted. He came into the well of the court, and addressed Judge Wheeler. “Your honour, I have reason to believe that there are matters I should, as an officer of the court, bring to this court’s attention.”
“Yes, Mr Roberts?”
“Your honour, you have agreed to the voluntary enslavement of the former Steve Harris” (what did he mean… The FORMER Steve Harris?). “And I have reason to believe, your honour, that this is a sham, a ploy to prevent the former Steve Harris receiving a more severe punishment, that of enslavement for life. The former Steve Harris is summoned to appear before another court, your honour, accused of forced intercourse, and, if I may say so, having heard the evidence myself, I feel certain he will be found guilty and enslaved for life. I believe, your honour, we have here a case of the ‘Jackson ploy’, to prevent the former Steve Harris receiving his proper punishment, full enslavement.”
A murmur of conversation came from the crowd, who were clearly thrilled at this unexpected turn of events. The judge banged his gavel again.
“Mr Roberts, why did you not mention this before I granted the period of temporary enslavement?”
“Attorney client privilege, your honour. The free man Steve Harris consulted me, so I could not properly disclose these matters to you. Once the enslavement had taken place, of course, there was no longer any impediment as a slave has no rights and thus attorney client privilege no longer applies.”
“Thank you, Mr Roberts. But we now have a problem. This slave is a slave for five years. But if he were free, he might face a lifetime enslavement from another court. I am unable to free him, as the whole basis of using enslavement in our society is that it should be irrevocable – once enslaved, a man is a slave until his sentence expires, or for life, if the enslavement is permanent. No remission, no appeal.”
“Your honour… You can’t free the slave, but you could give him a longer sentence.”
My blood ran cold! Was he going to increase my voluntary enslavement, to life?
Roberts leaned over the desk, and whispered something to the judge. The noise from the crowd grew, and Judge Wheel called for silence yet again. The judge and Mr Roberts were both smiling, as if they’d shared some clever, legal, joke
“Slave, I am going to increase your period of voluntary enslavement from five years, to five years and one day. This increase requires your approval, and that of your owner. Indicate to the court that you accept this increase in your period.”
Well, I could hardly object, could I. What difference would one day make? And, anyway, Billy-Joe was going to release me as soon as Chantelle got tired of the whole thing. So I said “Yes, your honour, I accept five years and one day.”
“Mr Martin… A one day increase?”
“Yes, your honour.”
“So be it. The slave, formerly known as Steven Harris, is hereby enslaved for five years and one day, starting today. Officer, take him down.” I saw him bend over the enslavement order, and make changes to it with his pen.
Officer Harris pushed me towards a flight of steps in the corner of the room. As we walked across the floor I did so cautiously, as it felt odd to my naked feet. Evidently I wasn’t going fast enough for officer Hughes, as he slapped my butt and said “Faster, boy!”.
I’d hated stripping in court and appearing naked. I didn’t like the collaring process, and hated wearing it. Those had made me feel that I was taking irrevocable steps into slavery. But the casual way that he’d slapped at my naked butt taught me something new about my future life – a free man clearly had the right to punish a slave; I shuddered.
To be continued …
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