Slavery conscription story
Chapter 1
Richard still felt half-asleep when his parents' car pulled up outside the
Intake Centre. The glowing numerals on his watch made it 7:48 a.m. - only just
in time, and the notice that had arrived at the house six months ago had made it
clear that there were harsh penalties for lateness. There were harsh penalties,
apparently, for quite a number of things.
"Here we are, son," his father said gently. His mother turned back to touch his
cheek.
"Be good, all right?" she said in a tender voice he remembered from childhood.
"Do everything they tell you, and try not to get into any trouble. I know it's
hard, but... well, they say it will do you good, in the end."
"I've got to go," said Richard with another glance at his watch. "Love you
mother, father. See you - see you in two years, I guess." He climbed out of the
car.
The Intake Centre was a large, very modern building that seemed to be all
concrete, steel and reinforced glass. Behind it was a parking lot with a few
long grey buses, surrounded by a high fence topped with barbed wire. He rubbed
the sleep out of his eyes, ran a nervous hand through his curly brown hair, and
finally pulled the glass door open and stepped inside.
The reception room was disappointingly conventional. A line of what had to be
forty or fifty young men, their expressions displaying various combinations of
fatigue, nervousness and irritation, snaked its way back and forth across the
room before ending up at a long desk where three prim-looking women sat at
computer terminals. The five or six other women in the room were all heavily
built, and wore grey outfits that looked vaguely like military uniforms. One of
them, carrying a clipboard, put a hand on Richard's shoulder as he came through
the door.
"ID, please." She didn't sound exactly hostile, just brisk and not in the mood
for any nonsense. He fumbled out his wallet and showed her his driver's license.
"Richard Tipper..." she consulted her clipboard. "There we are... 21 years old
of course... and you haven't applied for exemption, is that correct? It's not
too late."
"I would if I had grounds," he said sourly.
She gave him a weary, humourless smile. "Don't blame you, son, but the law's the
law. Put your palms up flat against the wall, please."
Out of the corner of his eye he saw another uniformed woman, younger with short
dark hair, step quickly forward. As he leaned against the wall she felt her way
impersonally over his body with firm, professional hands.
"Didn't bring any cigarettes or pocket knives or anything. Good lad. Get in
line, and keep your ID out for the ladies at the desk. No talking." She gave him
a gentle push in the right direction; the officer (was that the term?) with the
clipboard had already moved on to two new arrivals. Richard settled down to
wait, although the line seemed to be moving quite quickly. Each man stepped up
to the desk, spoke briefly to one of the women at the computers, had some sort
of metal bracelet put around his wrist, and was promptly herded by one of the
uniformed women (they apparently didn't want anyone having second thoughts about
compliance) toward a grey metal door off to one side. It opened for each young
man, revealing some sort of larger room where more women in uniform stood
waiting, and banged shut behind him with an air of finality. Richard sighed. He
wasn't sure he wanted to find out exactly what was back there, but struggling to
stay awake as he stood in the queue wasn't much fun either. He could almost
pretend he was waiting at the bank, or the check-in counter at an airport. Only
the guards and the neatly lettered sign above the desk ("CONSCRIPTS WILL REMAIN
SILENT AT ALL TIMES. CONSCRIPTS WILL FOLLOW ALL INSTRUCTIONS IMMEDIATELY AND TO
THE LETTER. CONSCRIPTS ARE REMINDED THAT THEY ARE WARDS OF THE STATE AND SUBJECT
TO SUMMARY PUNISHMENT FOR ANY AND ALL INFRACTIONS.") hinted that the Intake
Centre was something more ominous.
Finally his turn came. The East Indian woman behind the desk, looking so bright
and cheerful that he wanted to strangle her, glanced at his driver's license and
tapped rapidly on her keyboard. "Good morning, Mr. Tipper. No allergies or
medical difficulties, is that correct?" He nodded, not sure if he was supposed
to answer aloud. "All right." She pressed another key, with a slight flourish.
"You are now officially conscripted, due for release on October 1, 2007. Left
hand up here, please." She fished a solid-looking chain bracelet, bearing a
metal plate stamped with his name and an identification number, out of an
alphabetised file. It clicked shut around his wrist.
"That can't be removed, and you could be disciplined if you attempt to tamper
with it in any way, so please leave it alone." She handed back his driver's
license, which he slipped back into his wallet, and another metal tag with the
same information that was on his bracelet. "Don't lose this. It's for your
personals bag - you'll see when they take you inside. Welcome to slavery, Mr.
Tipper. Just step that way." There might have been a trace of sympathy in her
smile. Welcome to slavery. He wasn't sure he'd really believed it until he heard
her say those words.
"This way, please, sir." A big blond woman took his arm and ushered him to the
grey door, then gently pushed him through. On the other side was an enormous
room full of young men standing silently in rows. Female guards - that was a
good word for them - accosted him as the crash of metal at his back confirmed
his captivity. One of them pushed a canvas bag into his hands.
"Take this, and stand over there. Row J, number" - she craned her neck -
"fifteen. Stand still, no talking." He made his way over to what seemed to be
the appropriate place, a red line drawn across the room with numerals painted
along its length. Row J was about half-full, which meant there had to be close
to three hundred other men in there with him. And more still trickling in from
outside. Rows K through N were still empty; either a lot of local guys were
non-compliant, or the Centre had been built with population growth in mind. At
the front of the room was a platform where a short, stubby brunette with a
slightly more elaborate uniform than those of the other guards was standing
patiently with a megaphone. There were dozens of regular guards scattered around
the edges of the room, too, watching their charges closely. He could hardly
believe his eyes when he noticed that each of them had what was unmistakeably a
braided leather whip coiled at her belt, and a few were carrying guns of some
sort. No wonder none of the men were making a fuss, or even whispering to each
other as far as he could tell. When a thin, bespectacled man moved into place
beside him, dragging his bag on the floor and almost trembling with terror,
Richard greeted him with what he hoped was an encouraging smile. He didn't dare
do more. They were past the polite facade of the reception area: this was the
real thing.
"That's all, ma'am!" called the blond woman from outside, as she herded the last
arrival through the door. "A few latecomers out here, but we'll deal with them
separately."
The woman with the megaphone waited for the last man to settle into his place
before stepping forward to address them. She let her gaze sweep slowly over the
assembled men, smiled in what looked to Richard like smug satisfaction, and
raised the megaphone to her lips.
"Today Britain embarks on a grand experiment," she announced. "All over the
country young men your age are turning themselves in at Intake Centres for
conscription. Preliminary reports suggest a high-level of non-compliance, which
will of course be dealt with firmly and fairly, but we estimate that over two
hundred thousand men are nevertheless in custody at this moment, including
yourselves. In six months a similar number will follow.
"You all know what you are here for, and you all know why it is necessary. In a
society where men are becoming increasingly rude, increasingly indolent,
increasingly violent and increasingly disrespectful of others, particularly
women, strict measures must be taken to curb this undesirable behaviour. Your
Prime Minister, Carolyn Hayward, believes that the only satisfactory remedy is
to have all young men spend two years in service to the state - two years as
slaves, not to mince words. All your life you have been coddled, overindulged
and allowed to get away with everything short of murder, but all that stops
right now. You will be worked hard, you will be kept under the harshest
discipline we can devise without crossing the line into brutality, and you will
live a life essentially devoid of the comforts and privileges you have all grown
used to. You will be guarded, commanded and disciplined by highly trained female
professionals, the Conscription Officers, whose ranks include many of your
mothers, aunts, older sisters, and doubtless girlfriends. To be blunt once
again: your arse - all your arses - are ours for two years. Don't think you can
get away with flouting our authority or ignoring the rules we make for you. We
will come down on you very, very hard. If anyone would like to test our
strictness this morning, I'll be more than happy to make an example of you."
There was an awkward shuffling, but of course no one spoke.
"Most of you probably loathe me already. I don't mind, because there isn't a
damn thing you can do about it. You will loathe the officers who have authority
over you, you will loathe the tasks you are made to carry out, and you will
certainly loathe the living conditions we are going to impose on you. You may
find yourself loathing every single moment of your conscription, starting this
morning. I agree it won't be easy or pleasant - you spoiled boys need a good
strong dose of hard work and discipline, and we're going to provide it. But when
your two years are up and you're discharged, you'll be glad you experienced
conscription, and so will those around you. You'll be more industrious, more
courteous, and more respectful of others, especially the women in your lives.
You'll probably be fitter, and you may pick up some useful skills. You'll
certainly be tougher. Despite what you may feel during the first few weeks, it
is possible to survive conscription, and to benefit from it. Remember that you
are now an honest-to-goodness slave, and act accordingly, and you may find it
slightly easier."
She cleared her throat. "I have one or two more things to say, but first we'll
finish getting you processed. Officer Sherman will take over, and it goes
without saying that you'd damn well better do what she tells you."
Officer Sherman was a powerfully built woman with greying hair and an expression
that would have suited a Rottweiler. She waved aside the microphone and boomed
at them in her own rather deep voice.
"First - the officers in this room are equipped with whips and tranquiliser
guns. We will subdue you and beat the hell out of you if you attempt escape or
resistance. Don't test us." There was an uneasy murmur.
"Shut up! You will remain silent at all times except when responding to direct
questions. Is that clear?" More murmuring. "I said is that clear, you pieces of
shit?" This time the response was a ragged chorus of "Yes," "Yes, ma'am," and
"Yes, Officer Sherman."
"When speaking to any officer, you will address her as 'ma'am'. Failing to do so
is punishable. Clear?"
"Yes, ma'am!"
"Good. Each of you was issued a canvas bag and a metal tag with your name and
number. You will now attach your tag to the ring on your bag." There was a
rustling as the men obeyed. Richard reached first into the wrong pocket, and
suffered a horrible moment of panic - he was already feeling practically sick to
his stomach, after hearing that speech - but found his tag a moment later and
clipped it into place. He glanced apprehensively up and down the row, but nobody
seemed to be having a problem.
"You will now place all of your clothing and personal articles in your bag and
tie it shut," Officer Sherman bellowed. "When finished, stand quietly at
attention with your bag in front of you."
The men made disconcerted noises and looked at one another. Nobody seemed to be
actually undressing. Surely she didn't mean... But Richard thought she did. Most
of the guards seemed to be trying to hide little smiles.
"You want us to take our clothes off, ma'am?" called a voice from near the
front. Brave lad. Sherman whirled toward the sound.
"Who said that? Who? Step forward, or it's mass punishment!"
A big, truculent-looking fellow moved up a step, perhaps a bit reluctantly. Two
guards immediately darted forward and grasped him by the arms.
"Down on the floor. Strip him!"
He tried to pull free with a cry of protest, but it changed to a squeal of pain
as one of the guards - a black woman, even bigger than most of the other guards
- slammed her knee into his crotch. He fell to his knees, and was pushed forward
to lie face down on the floor. The black woman knelt on his back, pinning him,
while the other guard roughly began pulling his clothing from him. He struggled
and thrashed until he saw a third woman approaching with her whip uncoiled, then
lay unresisting. In no time at all they had him naked.
"It is forbidden to speak without permission," Officer Sherman rapped out. "It
is forbidden to resist the Conscription Officers. Give him six." The black woman
shifted position, pinning his wrists above his head, while the other took hold
of his ankles. The one with the whip, a well-groomed middle aged brunette who
would have looked like a well-to-do matronly housewife in ordinary clothes,
brought it slashing down across his buttocks as the other men watched in stunned
silence. He howled and writhed, but was helpless in the grip of the two guards.
The whip fell again and again.
"Right," said Officer Sherman briskly when it was finished and the man lay
sobbing. "Chain him and take him straight out. The rest of you, strip. Now!"
Richard was literally trembling, but managed to fumble the watch off his wrist
and drop it in the bag. No thought at all about the other men, or even all those
female eyes - the only thing that mattered was avoiding the whip. They were
bloody serious about the harshness, about the discipline, about everything. He
was a slave. He tore two buttons off his shirt in his haste, but didn't even
pause. Self-consciousness half-returned as he shed his pants, and finally his
briefs, but there was no question of disobeying for the sake of modesty. His bag
full, he pulled the drawstring tight and tied it off, then stood straight with
his hands cupped over his balls and limp penis. Then he remembered that she'd
said "at attention", and reluctantly moved his hands to his sides. He wasn't
going to take any chances.
Nearly everyone else was naked now as well, although here and there stern-faced
women were still cracking whips and shouting to ensure obedience. Others were
moving along the lines; they seemed to be searching their captives, poking and
prodding at their bodies, and then shackling them somehow and forcing them to
their knees. Richard trembled as the pair of women assigned to Row J moved
inexorably closer. A very pale blonde who couldn't have been more than a year or
two older than himself was doing the actual searching and restraining, while a
dark-skinned guard followed with an armload of restraints.
"Spectacles in the bag," said the blonde to the man beside Richard, her tone
civil but firm. "They're not allowed."
"But I need them to -" She promptly slapped him across the face.
"Sorry, love, but you're not allowed to argue," she said unconcernedly, and
plucked the glasses off his nose. "You won't need them the first little while,
and afterwards we'll issue you a pair if necessary. You're not allowed to hold
onto any personal possessions at all."
Richard turned away to give the poor man some privacy as he was searched and
chained, but his turn came all too soon. The blonde smiled and poked his bare
stomach.
"Bit soft around here, aren't we, love? Don't worry, we'll have you whipped into
shape in no time. Legs apart, please, and hands on the back of your neck,
there's a good lad."
She continued to direct him in that same bantering tone as she ran her fingers
through his hair, looked inside his mouth and even his ears, and had him display
the soles of his feet for her inspection.
"They had a prison officer teach us to do this searching bit," she confided.
"She said we wouldn't believe where some boys try to hide things." She grasped
his penis with a very assured hand and pulled back the foreskin - he winced in
sudden discomfort - and then lifted his penis and testicles to look underneath.
She seemed to be moving her fingers a little more than was slightly necessary,
and grinned as she felt his cock stiffen a little in her hand. "Are we getting
excited, love? You're going to like the next bit, then. Turn around and bend
over."
It was happening all over the room - if they could do it, so could he. He turned
his back to the girl and bent forward, blushing as he felt her cool, gloved
hands spread his buttocks apart.
"I don't think I've ever seen so many bare bottoms in one day before," the young
officer commented cheerily. "All right, turn back to me and we'll get you
properly trussed up." That meant an uncomfortably tight band of leather around
his waist, with an attached pair of handcuffs in the front. She secured his
wrists snugly ("Can't have you slipping out, you know, love!") before kneeling
to fetter his ankles in steel cuffs separated by a metre or so of heavy chain.
She pushed him to his knees, patted his cheek in almost the same way his mother
had earlier that morning, and moved on to the next conscript.
So there he was. Naked, chained, and on his knees, under the strict supervision
of hard women who had already demonstrated their ability to use the whips they
carried. A slave, one more among hundreds. He was absolutely terrified, and
wasn't the least bit surprised to see that more than one of the young men near
him were actually weeping with fear and humiliation. The guards, on the other
hand, seemed to be quite enjoying themselves. Many of them were eyeing the naked
bodies of their charges quite openly, and he saw two giggling over some private
joke as they forced yet another conscript to his knees. The most frightening
thing about them was that they seemed to be perfectly ordinary Englishwomen;
he'd been subconsciously picturing the Conscription Officers as statuesque
she-devils with foreign accents and years of paramilitary experience, but these
were just housewives and schoolteachers and things who had found that their
physical strength and ability to take on an air of authority had come into
demand with the implementation of conscription. Even his aunt Elsie in
Nottingham had joined up, apparently, and was probably putting chains on some
frightened young man at that very moment. Richard found it hard to picture. He
shifted and squirmed on the hardwood floor, trying to relieve the ache that was
already developing in his knees.
In a few minutes the last man was chained and kneeling, and the few who had
resisted had been unceremoniously beaten and hauled out through the big steel
doors at one side of the room. The short brunette with the megaphone took her
place on the platform again.
"Welcome to slavery, boys. I hope you are beginning to appreciate that we are
absolutely serious about this, and that there are very real consequences for
misbehaviour. By the way, you'll be kept naked for a little while, so you'd best
get used to it. It's time for you to feel like defenceless, vulnerable eye candy
for a change." There was a brief silence, punctuated by scattered sobs and
sniffling. "For now, there are buses waiting for you out in the parking lot.
During the ride we'll explain a little bit more about where you're going and
what we expect of you when you arrive there. Row A, stand and follow Officer
Powell outside." Chains clanked as they rose to their feet and marched toward
the doors, encouraged by the occasional whip-blow and the harsh shouts of the
nearby guards. The other rows followed in short order, and soon Richard found
himself being marched outside - being driven, he thought, as a whip stung his
left hip - into grey October rain. Perhaps it was the discomfort of the cold and
wet on his naked skin that broke him, or perhaps the stark reality of the
situation had finally hit home. As Richard stood in the fenced-in parking lot of
the Intake Centre, waiting to board the sinister grey bus that would take him
further into conscripted slavery, he bowed his head and began to cry.
