A Slaves Strength

A Slave's Strength:
Tom Arrives At The Center

by

mechgogo

Tom closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall behind him. He didn't bother looking around. The compartment he was in was a steel box designed for the shipping and containment of potentially dangerous live cargo. The only chance at a view was through the small square windows mounted in the back doors. Opaque shades currently covered them. What light there was came from an overhead dome lamp. The only other things to look at were Mistress Beth sitting beside him, her dipshit partner Mark French, and four plain steel walls. Yipee-ki-yi-yay. Better to just relax and get into the proper frame of mind for whatever came next.

They hadn't gone very far when Agent French felt the need to cock off again.

"Hey." Tom ignored him.

"Hey!" This one was punctuated with a nudge to Tom's shin that stopped just shy of being a kick. "I'm talkin' to you, boy!"

Tom opened one eye. "And?"

"You mind tellin' me what kind of sick fuck shacks up with two sisters, marries one and cheats on the one he's married to with the other one?"

Tom almost laughed. If he had a dollar for every time he'd heard some variant of French's latest bullshit they never would have met.

"Kind that doesn't need to go out and get a job where one of the perks is the legal right to rape sixteen year old kids in order to get laid." He closed his eye. If he wanted to look at a talking turd he'd put a Jeff Dunham CD under the toilet. "How's your eye by the way?"

French started to come out of his seat. "You mouthy little…"

Mistress Beth shoved him back down. "Mark, knock it off! Sooner or later those shackles are going to come off and when they do, I'd rather not have another incident. Tom, one more insubordinate word and you'll spend the rest of the ride with a bit gag in your mouth. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Mistress Beth."

"Yes, Mistress Beth, what?"

"Yes, Mistress Beth, I promise to be good."

She petted his hair. "Good boy. Now just relax. We'll be there soon. You've a busy day ahead of you."

The rest of the trip was uneventful. When the van pulled to a stop he was herded out into a garage filled with other vehicle, some of which were off-loading their human cargo. Tom looked around. The other new indents were a mix of old and young. Their apparent economic status ran the gamut as well. Everyone from the very clearly poor to the working class fucked by circumstances like him to the formerly affluent and now even more fucked by circumstances. Tom wondered how many of the shell-shocked looking, used-to-be rich pricks had owned indents themselves until recently. Every color of human skin was represented. Neither poverty nor the legislation that fed off it discriminated in that regard.

The next few minutes reminded Tom of the booking process at County. He was photographed, weighed, measured, printed and DNA-ID'd. That last part was different but it made sense. You can change your hair, your face, your clothes, even your height and weight to a degree. Your helix was written in rock.

His many scars and far less numerous tattoos were catalogued. The thick raised line of a blocked knife slash on the left bicep of his arm was only the most prominent souvenir of his younger, wilder days. Well, that and the cartoonish image of a beetle holding a lit match on his left bicep. He'd considered having the rather on-the-nose tribute to his street name - and tendency to solve interpersonal problems with a good firebombing - removed or covered up. He'd just never gotten around to it. The Celtic tribal phoenix climbing one leg, assorted other blade, bullet and burn scars - every torch had a couple - and image of Ireland in green, white and orange told the processors all had their own stories, most of which Tom would give ten years off his life to forget.

"This your voluntary, Beth?" the clerk who took his information asked. "Heard about that. He really pull a shotgun on you?" One thing never changed no matter where people worked, gossip traveled at warp speed.

"Not so much pulled as had it waiting with him when we arrived."

"Jesus Christ! Well, Mr. Donovan, welcome to Bureau of Indenturement Processing Center, Number 842. Follow the yellow line. Do as you're told and everything should run smoothly. Resist, disobey, or attempt to assault the staff in any way and you'll wish the transport van that brought you here had run you over instead. Have a nice day."

The new arrivals were herded into a central processing area and segregated by sex. People's reactions to their new circumstances were as varied as the specifics of how they got there. Some shuffled along in shock, others protested. A lot of the younger ones openly cried. So did a couple of men older than Tom. The ones who didn't move fast enough go shoved along. One or two tried to fight and got worked over with the guards' batons for their trouble. After that most of the crowd went along with the program.

The next couple hours were humiliating and dehumanizing but that was to be expected. The strip-searches, delousing and communal cold shower they were run through were all intended to break down the will, get the new indents into a properly submissive headspace. A couple of the younger kids, just barely over the sixteen-year-old legal limit started to struggle when they were bent over to be probed by latex-gloved guards. Before they nightsticks could come out, Tom got them under control.

"Just relax, little brother." He told them with a wink and a smile. "Hey, look at the bright side: this time next month you'll probably be nose-deep in some hot cougar's muff while these cac ar oineach are still pissin' it away here." The scumbags in question didn't speak Irish but they got the spirit of it. Tom got a shot across the thighs with a baton and a less than gentle touch from Dr. Jellyfinger, but it settled the kids down so it was worth it.

After that they were herded, still naked, through medical where they were given the most thorough and invasive physical Tom had ever received in his life. In addition to the usual round of tests, their teeth were checked, semen samples were drawn, and the males had their equipment measured while both flaccid and hard. The nurse didn't find Tom's request for a helping hand half as funny as he did. Everyone, male or female, had contraceptive implants installed in the outer thigh muscle. A tracking and control chip went in the back of the neck about a hands width beneath and behind the left ear. That was a little slice of Hell. The jolt they all took to demonstrate the chips effectiveness knocked a couple of them out and caused one poor bastard to shit himself.

They were photographed again too, this time from all angles both while soft and erect. Tom didn't understand the plastic smocks a couple of the medics donned during that part of the process until one or two of the other newbies had trouble rising under such public conditions. One of them, a teenager, unloaded in the course of getting himself "into a viewable state" as one of the staff put it. Their handlers gave him several good smacks and a verbal ass-chewing along with time on all fours cleaning up the mess for his trouble.

Psych tests, aptitude tests, placement interviews and a stack of forms the height of an Oompah-Loompah followed. The shrink he sat down with laughed when he answered the question about any history of mental illness with "What? You mean besides being crazy enough to volunteer for this shit?"

One of the more interesting sections involved being sat down in front of a screen with sensors attached to him and forced to look at a series of images from the mundane to the erotic to stuff straight out of the more extreme fringe aspects of the fetish scene. The test was intended to get an objective assessment of the new indents sexual orientation. ICL's didn't get a say in who they fucked or how once they were in the system but the official line was that it made things more humane as it helped ensure greater compatibility between "employer" and "employee." Unofficially, you didn't buy a car without looking under the hood. If the car didn't like the road it found itself driven down, too bad for the car.

It seemed to Tom that at every step in the process he found himself eyeballed and whispered about. Finally he asked one of the guards what all the fuss was about.

"You're that voluntary Comisky brought in right?" The guy asked. When Tom nodded he explained. "Part of it's how rare you are. You read comic books? Well you're the indent equivalent of a mint condition 1930s issue of Superman. The other part is how you set up the deal. Not a lot of people who bring a shotgun to the negotiating table get to walk away. Good news is, you can pretty much forget about a hard labor assignment. Word's probably already out about you. Some millionaire somewhere is gonna snatch you up as soon as you go public. That or one of the porn companies. Shit, I'd pay to watch you screw on-screen and I'm not even bi. You really jump French?" when Tom nodded he cautioned, "Watch your back. He's a vindictive little prick."

Eventually they were ushered into a common area and given a little speech about the rules of the center, the supreme inadvisability of breaking any of them and how, with a little luck and good behavior many of them might find themselves in better circumstances than they had enjoyed when they were free. Tom tuned out everything but the rules. Airy-fairy bullshit assurances didn't interest him. He'd heard similar noise before and knew it was nothing more than a head game intended to keep the population on their good behavior. It had about as much basis in reality as his cougar story to those kids did.

After the pep talk Tom and the others were sorted by probable assignment. General laborers followed the blue line. Skilled trades followed the white line. Domestic and entertainment - the category of Tom and almost all the youngest ICLs - followed the green.

The overseer in charge of Tom's group pointed him to a six by eight by ten-foot cell with a steel door painted to match the line. The only window in tiny room was the small viewing one at eye level in the cell door. Tom stepped in and tried not to flinch when it banged shut behind him.

The accommodations inside were spartan but nowhere near the worst he'd ever experienced. The walls were cinderblock, flat white. The furnishings were mostly stainless steel. The bunk, desk and "chair" (a solid concrete column in front of a desk not much bigger than a TV tray) were painted white. The mattress was clean but there was no pillow or bedding. A small shelf near the toilet was labeled "uniforms." Tom put the two spare sets of center-issue garb he'd been given on it and examined his new home.

The sink and commode were a single unit, plain silver stainless-steel in color. The sink occupied the space where the tank would be on a residential toilet. A polished metal mirror was built into the wall above the sink. It had a small shelf, just big enough for the bar of soap, plastic cup, toothpaste and soft plastic toothbrush they had all been issued. Calling the opening the water trickled out from a faucet was venturing into the realm of the grandiose. Tom hung up the washcloth and hand towel that, along with a roll of toilet paper constituted the rest of their hygiene kit on the two white plastic hooks attached to one edge of the shelf. One look was all he needed to know they were engineered to fold down if subjected to more than a few pounds of pressure. He wondered what the suicide rate had been in the early days of the program. For some reason that information hadn't been available. What a shock.

The desk and wall behind it doubled as a computer and keyboard. They used the same touch-screen tech as the better class of cell phones. A thick sheet of plexiglass protected the monitor. A prompt was waiting for him on the screen.

Before he could respond to it the feeding slot slid open, a voice said "Lunch!" and a tray slid through.

"Lunch" was a bologna sandwich on white bread, no cheese, apple, pint of milk and an oatmeal cookie. Tom set the tray on his bunk stripped to the waist and got down on the floor to do some pushups.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Donovan?" a voice asked from a speaker above the door.

"Nope." Tom said. "Just kinda a stressful day. Thought I'd get some exercise in before lunch. You guys get a lotta hunger strikes here?"

"You have 15 minutes to eat, Mr. Donovan. We suggest you make the most of it."

"Duly noted, Oh Great And Powerful Oz." Before the speaker clicked off Tom heard a snicker.

Tom burned off a fast fifty pushups, ate lunch and had the tray waiting with time to spare. He was already poking around the computer when they took it away. The first thing to come up was a ten-minute cac-fest about his wonderful new life as an indentured contract laborer. There were scenes of happy little slaves finding fulfillment and joy waiting hand and foot on their "employers."

Testimonials from real-live-we-swear-to-God indents and their contractors showed ICL's cuddled up to their so-called "betters." Arms were draped over shoulders, hands rested companionably on hips as frequently May/December couples stood side-by-side beaming at the camera. Tom took it with a shaker full of salt. He didn't doubt that some people found that kind of connection but reckoned the reality was usually more about folks making the best of a bad situation than finding a love match with some stranger who viewed them as property.

After the film, there was a rundown to the center's rules. They basically boiled down to "Do as you're told and you'll be treated well. Disobey and we'll beat or zap you into compliance. Lay one violent hand on any of the staff and you'll wish you'd never been born."

The laws covering Tom's new status required that all newcomers to the system be given two weeks for friends and family to raise the money for their contracts. The Bureau used this period to acclimate them to their new life. The first week would be orientation, getting used to an existence where refusal to obey any order, however personally repugnant or humiliating could get you flogged unconscious. Deportment, cooking and, of course "intimate service" tutorials were part of the program. A couple hours a day were assigned for fitness classes, which made sense. Not many people wanted to lay out the kind of money the average contract cost on somebody who was out of shape.

Week two was more of the same only with more fine-tuning. Additionally, inmates were confined to quarters for an hour before each meal. Clothing was prohibited during those periods as well as during any time spent in the prone position on one's bunk. They didn't say it outright but the reason why seemed obvious to Tom.

The biggest surprise was the food. He had expected their dining options to be what was put in front of them or hunger. Instead, every meal actually had three or four choices. Of course, all but one had a price tag attached to it. Not in dollars but in time. You could eat prime rib for dinner every night as long as you didn't mind an extra six months piled onto your contract. It made sense when you thought about it. Make the food good, keep the livestock happy and you've got something you can punish them by withholding if they got froggy.

Curious, Tom spoke up. "Excuse me, Oz? You there, Oh Great And Powerful One? Scarecrow's got a question if you got a sec."

"The scarecrow, Mr. Donovan? I would have had you pegged for the lion after your performance this morning."

Tom laughed at that. "I'm all kindsa brave, Oz. But let's face it, I had a lick of brains I wouldn't be here. Say, any chance of getting that dinner stir-fry for breakfast? Kinda got hooked on rice in the morning over the years. Leftovers are fine, no need to make it fresh."

"We'll look into it. Anything else?"

"Well, if you know any hot female contortionists looking for a houseboy and could put in a good word for me…"

E-mail was available to contact friends and family. A warning screen cautioned that all correspondence was monitored and censored for security reasons. Tom took the opportunity to fire off letters to the girls letting them know he'd arrived and was doing alright and reminding them to stick together. His contract would be up in due time and he'd be home before they got the stink of his farts out of the couch cushions. Letters also went off to a couple if his closer friends asking them to look out for his girls. He didn't waste time asking for money nobody had in the first place.

Not long after, a tone sounded from the speaker Oz had used to address him. A general announcement went out instructing all new arrivals to exit their quarters and follow the guards' instructions. Tom complied and the door closed behind him.

The group was still trying to figure out what they were supposed to do when Tom's best friend, Agent French came strutting down the tier, his asp baton spinning in a one-handed display of what Tom could only regard as douche'-fu.

"Off with those clothes, children!" he sang out. "No need to be bashful. We're going to get to know one another real well the next two weeks." There were a couple cries of pain as people who didn't strip fast enough got flicked across the thighs or butt with the collapsible steel weapon.

One member of the group tried to avoid getting naked at all. French solved that problem by calling for backup and having the kid's clothes ripped off his body. The guards made an example of the boy by pinning him spread eagle to the wall and making everyone watch while French gave him a half-dozen ringing cracks with a strap hanging off his belt.

"Next time I tell you to do something, you little shit, you fucking do it..." French growled into his ear, one hand taking a painful grip in the kid's hair. "...or I'll bend you over and take that ass of yours dry, you hear me?" He threw the kid to the floor. "Now, clean this shit up, and get back in line. And stop sniveling!" He slapped the boy across the back of the head "Wait till your contract gets bought and your new Daddy has you on all fours in front of him. Fuckin' little crybaby!" Oh yeah, Tom thought. A regular soop-er he-ro, triumphing over ev-vil, that was Frenchy alright. Ass.

Even though he was already nude by the time French reached him Tom still took a shot high across the outside of his right thigh. It stung but didn't do any real damage. Tom didn't give the prick the satisfaction of either crying out or mouthing off.

"Ok, kiddies!" French announced when everyone was stripped. "Line up and follow me."

The rest of the day was tiring, dehumanizing and humiliating. The novice slaves were kept in the buff until dinnertime. They were led around on all fours singly and in groups, sometimes directed by verbal commands sometimes lead on leashes. Anyone who resisted got the strap or shocked. One particularly stupid individual took a swing at one of the guards. After two solid minutes with his neck chip driving electric hellfire through his nerves the staff took turns working him over with their fists, batons and whatever else came to hand.

Just before dinner French zeroed in on Tom for a lesson in obedience. "Now, boys and girls, what you may not know is that we've got a celebrity among us. Mr. Donovan, front and center!" When Tom obediently crawled over, French started stalking around him.

"Mr. Donovan here is what we call a voluntary or proxy. Most of you are here against your will. In fact most of you indent scum system-wide are here against your will. Mr. Donovan, however, asked to join our little family. Isn't that right, Mr. Donovan?"

Tom resisted the urge to mouth off. "Sure is."

French smacked him across the face. Tom saw red but stopped himself from finishing what had been started back at his house. "Yes, Master French, I asked to come here. Try it again!"

"Yes, Master French, I asked to come here."

"I asked to come here because my degenerate gambling addict cunt of a sister-in-law conned me into taking her place."

"Is that how you got this job?" Tom asked. "And here I thought it was because you flunked outta Clown College." Even a couple of the other center staff laughed at that one.

French backhanded Tom for that. Two more open-palmed shots to the face followed. "You know, Tommy boy," he said when he stopped the beating. "I've got just the thing for that mouth of yours." He unzipped his pants and took out his cock. It was already hard. A few drops of pre-cum glistened at the tip.

"Now Tommy here is about as heterosexual as one man can be. In fact, he's so straight he was fucking two girls at the same time just last night."

"That reminds me, Master French, sir. Your sister and mom said to remind you, your grandma's birthday is next week."

Thirty seconds of shock therapy later, Tom was gasping on the floor on his side. "Any other funny jokes, Tommy?" French asked.

When Tom shook his head - fuck that hurt! - French pulled him back to his knees by his hair. "Now, like I was saying, our Tommy tested out as hetero like most of the rest of you. But the thing to remember is that it isn't what the indent likes that matters. It's what the contractor likes that matters. Tommy, I like blowjobs. Get to it."

Tom's gag reflex tripped at the idea of sucking French off. This was something he hadn't even done as a starving teenaged kid on the streets of Detroit. Still, he'd known this would be part of the deal when he made up his mind to stand in for Nick. Swallowing and closing his eyes he took the other man's shaft in his hand and bent his head to take the cock into his mouth.

"Open those eyes, Tommy-boy" French ordered.

Obedient, Tom forced his eyes open. He placed his lips on the head of French's organ and slid his mouth down towards the base. He barely made it halfway before he recoiled, reflexively pulling off. The slick, smooth texture of the skin triggered something in him and he couldn't bring himself to go any further.

French had been waiting for the reaction, hoping for it. One of the absolute worst things a domestic indent could do was resist their employer's sexual advances. The trainers were under orders to break their charges to the service and had significant leeway in what they could do to enforce compliance. He still had a hand in Tom's hair and locked down in a painful grip with it before Tom could retreat more than a few inches. He pulled Tom's head back, forcing him to look up.

"Dumb move, Tommy." French's other hand held a strap. He pushed Tom down on all fours and brought the belt down across his back. Half a dozen licks with the leather raised welts across Tom's back, ass and thighs before he stopped. When the beating finished French pulled him back into position.

"We're not going anywhere until you get me off, boy. And if that means the entire group has to miss dinner because of you, I'm ok with that. And, Tommy? You really don't want me to feel those teeth. We clear? Now, get on it!"

French forced Tom's face back into his crotch. It was easier this time but still disgusting. Tom gagged and coughed, got slapped for it. French bore down on his hair, forcing his head as far down onto his cock as he could without actually shoving it down his throat.

"Stroke the shaft, boy." French grunted, pumping his hips.

When Tom obeyed, he sped up. French's breathing got more rapid, shallower. His hips pumped faster and he dragged Tom's mouth up and down his organ in time to the thrusts. Inside Tom's mouth the cock was leaking more and more pre-cum. Unable to pull away, he had no choice but to swallow the sickening salty stuff.

"That's it, you little shit. That's right. Suck it, suck, unngghghg!" French came in Tom's mouth, filling it with the disgusting, thick fluid. He held the indent's head as far down onto his organ as he could, forcing him to swallow.

Tom gagged, choked, and tried not to vomit. Much of what French shot into his mouth ran down the length of his dick but enough got swallowed he was amazed he didn't hurl all over the bastard. Finally French pulled Tom back off his organ. He reached down, wiped up some of the spillage from along his length with a couple fingers and shoved them into Tom's mouth.

"Waste not want not, Tommy."

That did it. Tom blew breakfast, lunch and the recent contents of French's scrotum all over French's crotch and thighs. The other man recoiled, crying out in disgust. The small part of Tom's brain that wasn't occupied with vomiting onto the floor took a certain satisfaction from the sight of French, covered in puke standing paralyzed with a mix of rage and repulsion. His stomach was still spasming when two guards very carefully hoisted him to his feet and, at French's instruction bent him over a nearby table.

"You did that on purpose, you rotten little bastard!" French said before teeing off on Tom with the strap. Tom didn't struggle. It wouldn't have done any good. The jailers had him pinned, one on each arm and French had a death-grip on the back of his neck. The belt cracked and burned up and down the back of his lower half twice, covering it in burning red welts he'd feel for the rest of the day. When French finished, he threw Tom to the floor. A member of the maintenance staff had appeared with a bucket, mop and sawdust.

"Clean that shit up!" French snapped. "Sick little fucker! Lucky I can't kill you!" He stalked off to shower and change, leaving Tom to clean up the cooling mess on the floor.