Date: Tue, 30 Dec 2003 16:26:28 +0100
From: cager_london@hotmail.com
Subject: Chain Gang 1

CHAIN GANG 1

By

CAGER


1. The court

'Ten years slavery with hard labour in a chain gang, no remission, take him
down.'

At first I thought I'd misheard the guy. He was old and kinda mumbled
through a dirty grey beard. And he looked so bored when he said it, like it
was no big deal or nothing. Then I thought it was some kind of joke, like a
local way of saying, ten years community work, part time, something like
that. Because slavery was abolished long ago, and chain gangs were too.
Apart from that, the duration of my imprisonment would be in no proportion
to the crime I was thought to have committed. Therefore, at that moment I
heard it, I was quite sure, it was either a mistake or just an
old-fashioned way of speaking in this remote provincial town, (which was
behind the times in juridical terms), and most likely both.

So I guess you can say that I was surprised when, as soon as I was off the
stand and down into the lower regions of the courthouse, a great fat pig of
a guard snapped two handcuffs, connected by a short chain, onto my wrists
and shoved me into a cell.

'Your transport'll be ready for you in about ten minutes, boy,' he said
breezily and stomped off, his boots echoing on the stone floor. I grabbed
the bars of the cell and yelled after him, 'Hey man, what's all this shit?
Come on, let me out! I ain't done nothing! I'm innocent!'

No doubt they'd heard all that before - it sounded corny even to my ears
but it was true. I'd been framed for a robbery I didn't commit. I was just
the wrong guy in the wrong place at the wrong time and presumably I was the
same height and build as the guy who had pointed the gun at the cashier and
made off with the money cos she had picked me out no trouble at the
parade. It was laughable really and a decent lawyer could have got me off
but I couldn't afford one and the whole case was so stupid I hadn't taken
it seriously.

I shook the bars of the cell and then took to kicking them, trying to make
as much noise as possible. But a quarter of an hour passed before the pig
returned, with two mean looking guys in prison warder uniform just behind
him.

'Here's the new one waiting for you', the pig said to the other guys.

'Ah good', one of them reacted, 'What's his crime?'

'It's a young street-robber. He's earned a stay in the correctional camp
for ten years'.

'Ah very well. That's plenty of time to make a docile slave out of
him. Some hard work in solid fetters will sure do him good. Seems that
little criminal doesn't quite agree with his destination. But I'm sure the
whip will teach him to agree'.

'You're getting off to a bad start, boy,' said the pig, turning to
me. 'That sort of behaviour don't go down too well with guys like these.'

'I don't know about that, Bob,' said the taller of the two warders. 'I
kinda like 'em frisky, makes it more fun to break 'em.'

The pig unlocked the cell and Bob, the heavier of the two warders, made a
grab for me, pulling me out of the cell by the collar of my shirt. Sticking
his face right into mine he snarled,

'Listen, you little punk and listen well. Any trouble outta you and I'll
whip your ass, you got that?'

'You can't do that,' I stammered but with little conviction, 'there's laws
against that kinda thing.' All three laughed.

'Where you're going, punk, there's only one kinda law and that's our
kind. There we make the rules and you fucking obey or you regret it. And
you can stake your fuckin' miserable life on it that we know how to teach
you to obey. Understood?'

'OK, OK!' I said, backing off a little. I thought it wiser to say nothing
more now, and to complain later to the prison-governor about the
heavy-handed behaviour of his staff when I'd get a chance to ask for
revision of the sentence.

I was grabbed again, slapped hard across the face as he shouted at me, 'The
correct response is "Sir, yes Sir,

understood, Sir."' I hesitated a second too long because he slapped me
again and shouted, 'Understood?'

'Sir, yes Sir, understood, Sir!' I replied, because I didn't want to be
slapped again, not because I agreed.

'That's better, boy. Sooner you learn how a slave behaves the easier it'll
be for you. Right, let's get going.' I decided to ignore their coarse
language for the moment, although I can't deny I got a bit worried by their
offhand way of talking about me as a 'slave'.

Anyhow, the two guys frog-marched me down the corridor and out of the
building while the pig called after them, 'Enjoy him, guys!'

2. The cage

Still handcuffed, I was bustled into the back of a huge prison van which
was waiting at the front of the courthouse. To my surprise, inside the back
there wasn't a bench or anything like that to sit on. Instead there only
were a number of low cages, a bit like dog kennels but with a row of thick
iron bars on the front. In a quick glance, I counted at least eight of
them, four building a first row, and four a second behind, but because of
the twilight it was difficult to oversee the whole cargo-space and to
distinguish if there were more rows in the darkness behind those I could
see.

I immediately realized that there was no mistake in putting me in this van,
which clearly wasn't one used by the local zoo, for these cages clearly
weren't meant to transport beasts but men. In each of the two furthermost
cages a young guy had been locked in, apparently forced by the lowness and
narrowness of his cage to crouch on his fours like a dog. Both were rather
tall boys, around my own age, wearing just a T-shirt and jeans as I
did. The guy to the left, whose face seemed totally expressionless, I
hadn't seen ever before. But the other I recognized, because he had been
into court and sentenced two hours before me. I had seen him coming out
after his case was finished this afternoon when I entered the courtroom -
mine was the last that day, as it was half past five now. The lad had
committed some shop-lifting, and apparently was to be sent to the same
prison as I. What I didn't know was how many years he had got.

The face of the guy was filled with fear, he was weeping a little. O God,
he must have sat in that helpless position for nearly the whole time I was
in the court. I must confess I was really shocked at that moment by the
whole sight. This was contrary to all modern human rights, which in this
district were surely to be held in the same esteem as in the rest of the
States. I had somehow to contact Amnesty after arriving at the prison,
because the government of course couldn't tolerate these kind of sadistic
abuses. Would the superiors of these two warders know this? These guards
surely wouldn't dare to throw me inside one of the other cages, would they?
Anyhow, in a reflex action, I receded a little.

Bob saw the fright in my eyes, and smiled.

'Yes, they're very fine, these slave-pens, aren't they? They're quite safe
to transport our boys. No one will come tumbling out of them by accident.
They're well made of the best stuff we have, and we've designed them so
that the user is forced to sit permanently in the position that best suits
his new status. So they'll give our newcomers a nice impression of their
new way of life'.

He laughed at his own words, and banged with his right hand against the
bars of the cage of the shoplifter, so that it rattled. The poor boy inside
was quite startled by it and shrunk back, fear in his eyes.

'And they sound very well too', he added.

I was rather embarrassed by his words and his performance, and when I
turned to him I must have looked a bit stupefied, but the warder apparently
didn't want to wait any longer. He opened one of the cages in front, next
to that of the second guy, and made a mock-polite gesture of invitation.

'OK, boy, you've have seen them long enough from the outside, so get in
now, backwards. It's a very fine pen, and I'm sure, you'll enjoy your stay
inside. See how nice we are to our fresh slaves, letting you look out of
your cage? See, how happy your neighbour feels in it? Well, what's the
delay? Come on, its safe in there. There's nobody else in yours. Might be a
bit narrow, but otherwise this place is just the place for novices like
you. And don't worry about breaking anything when confined behind these
bars. Those cages are rather new and the ironwork is very solid, so you'll
be quite secure for any attack of a kidnapper. The factory that made them
for us guarantees them for a couple of decades or so to come. And, for your
own safety, we'll lock your slave-cage real carefully, I promise you, boy,
and after having done that there's no danger that somebody will enter
without us knowing about it. We don't want to lose our property on the way
home, you can understand that. So get your butt down low enough for a slave
to enter'.

He pushed me down on my knees.

'That's it, boy, in you go!'

I resisted at first, but his hand pushing on my head showed I had no
alternative.

'Come on, boy, into your slave-pen. That's the kind of place where you
belong in the future', he said, his voice getting louder. 'That's the sort
of place that fits you best. Don't be so stubborn, otherwise we'll have to
use violence. So, get into your pen, you miserable slave, move it!'

His feigned fellow feeling had gone. The last words he really shouted, and
in his voice there was no doubt that he was prepared to get mad.

I had no choice. I was already forced on my knees by the warder, with my
face in his direction, and my ass in that of the cage. Hesitatingly I moved
backwards on all fours. I felt humiliated, being treated like this, being
shut up in a cage like an animal on my transport to prison, but I couldn't
find any way to resist. They were two against one and I was still
handcuffed, one shouldn't forget that. Nevertheless, apparently I moved
backwards too slowly, because the warder now gave me a kick with his right
boot on my shoulder.

'A little bit quicker, slave, we ain't got hours here. You still have a lot
to learn, you lazy bastard'.

He then gave me second kick, which really did hurt me, so I had some
difficulty holding back from crying out because of the pain.

I now moved, as quickly as I could with my hand-cuffs on, on my knees,
backwards into the cage. When I was totally in, the tall warder closed the
barred door of the slave-pen just some inches in front of my nose and
secured it with a heavy padlock.

'So that's fine, boy. OK boy, you can relax now, you're safe in here'.

I really felt myself a captured animal now. Inside I couldn't stand nor lie
down. It was even so narrow that I wouldn't be able to turn round or even
sit. While these thoughts flashed through my mind, the warder suddenly
stuck his hand through the bars, seized one of my handcuffs, loosened it,
took the connecting chain through the bars to the outside and then fixed
the opened cuff again to my wrist, so that both my hands were shackled
together - but this time with one of the bars of the cage in-between. So I
was forced like both other lads in the cages next door to stay in the same
kneeling position with which I had entered. I assumed the two other
prisoners were cuffed the same way as I was, although it hadn't struck me
as I entered the van a few minutes ago. I really must have looked like a
wild beast behind these bars, which even a lion wouldn't be able to break.

'You begin to understand, boy, that's the right position for you. You look
quite nice on your knees behind these bars. You better do that more often
in the future. Starts to look like a real slave, yeah! That's what we like
to see, yeah! We'll just leave you here for a while to make a short
journey, so you can start to get used to your new state of slavery'.

Then he locked the back of the van. Within a minute we were off.

It was an uncomfortable journey. They had saved as much space as possible
by customising these transport cages for their prisoners; even on my knees
it was a tight fit. The handcuffs, by which I was fastened to the bars of
my cage, were biting deep into my wrists, made all the worse by being
thrown from side to side as the van turned corners and even worse when it
pulled off the freeway onto some kind of dirt track with a lot of holes,
which went on and on for miles. I reckon there was over thirty miles of it
before we came to a halt. Wherever we were it was clearly the back of
beyond. But luckily, after some two hours or so, the van door was unlocked
and there were these two guys with great smirks on their faces.

'Well lads, this is your new home for the next few years. Hope you enjoy
your stay! It's hell and heaven at the same time. It'll be hell for you,
and for that reason heaven for us.'

3. The cut

Then, to my surprise, only my cage was unlocked; they both grabbed me,
unlocked the cuffs and dragged me out, cuffing my hands again behind my
back. The other boys were left where they were; apparently they had to stay
for a while, or perhaps still had to be transported to some other place. I
was stiff and could scarcely stand but they gave me no time to collect
myself but hauled me up and dragged me indoors. I had just time to see that
night had almost fallen, and that I had arrived in a kind of compound,
surrounded by high stone walls. This was no flimsy little structure but a
real, high security prison, from which there wouldn't any chance of
escape. Anybody entering against his will surely had to give up hope at
once that'd he'd ever come out unless released. I was shit-scared by now,
thinking that I was entering into a nightmare now, and that there was no
way out.

I was dragged down a corridor with bare brick walls, only occasionally
broken up by a metal door, until we came to a halt outside one of
these. The taller pig knocked on the door, and, not waiting for an answer,
I was marched inside. A uniformed governor, tall, greying, middle-aged but
good-looking, was talking to a few of his associates. He looked up briefly.

'One of the new slaves?'

The tall guard replied smartly, 'Yes, sir!'

'Did he give you any trouble?'

'A bit of insubordination but otherwise OK, Sir!'

'Right, standard irons to start then.' And he turned back to his
conversation. But before we could leave, he asked: 'Both other boys still
in the van?' and when the guard nodded, he added, 'I'll send some other
warders to look after them'.

I now began to lose all hope that the whole thing was some kind of mistake.
I really had ended up in some kind of severe correctional institute, where
the inmates were seen as a kind of sub-human slave that had to be fettered
immediately after arrival. I was afraid now that I hadn't misheard the old
man in the court, and that I would become part of a kind of chain-gang and
as such had to do hard physical work. But even at this moment I still
didn't doubt that the law set limits in respect of the treatment of their
convicts, and that also as a prisoner I still had basic rights.

However, after my presentation to the governor I was marched off again,
down another corridor, and into a large tiled room with showers along one
wall. Then, to my surprise, the handcuffs were removed. Immediately I
started to rub my wrists, which were red and sore.

'Strip!' ordered the heavier guard. I started to peel off my clothes,
instinctively turning way to hide my embarrassment. But this only made them
laugh. While I was doing this, another guard entered and waited till I was
naked then said in a bored voice, 'Sit here.'

I sat down and he plugged in a set of electric shears and began to crop my
hair on the left side. Shave would be closer to it as there was no attempt
at a cut; this was simply a way of removing as much of the hair on that
part of my head as he could. As soon as I became aware of this, I protested
softly, but the barber ignored my words, and moved on. Then he paused for a
while and said,

'You'll have to get used to that, boy. No slave has any right to more hair
than we allow him. And that's not very much, be sure about that! Still,
when I've finished your nice new cut, you'll probably beg me to remove the
bit I've left you. But we won't'.

Then he went back to his clippers. Although I hadn't a mirror in front of
me, it became clear to me that he was leaving no hair at the left side of
my head at all. So I wondered, what he meant. I got an idea of that after
he'd finished on the left and started to do the same on the right, because
he apparently passed over the central range of my head. And indeed, after
the right side was done, and shaven as bald as the other, he laid aside the
electric shears, and took a pair of scissors and began to shorten what was
left in-between. Apparently, he just shortened it till it was the length
usual for American marines, so just a little bit under an inch. But the
difference was that this strip of hair on a marine was confined to just the
centre of his head, whereas in my case a long black strip of short-cut hair
was left between both fully shorn white sides. It was perhaps not even
three inches wide and extended from my forehead to my neck. That meant it
divided my head symmetrically from front to rear in three parts - a covered
small one in the very middle between two totally bald broader ones.

His task completed, the barber gave me a mirror, and said, 'I hope you like
your new cut - it's yours for the rest of your life, slave. It was
specially designed for our inmates some fifteen years ago, and although
that's a rather long time for a hairstyle, we still think it's very up to
date. Anyhow, you have to accustom yourself to it. So you better start to
like it now'.

After that he took some very stinging ointment out of a jar, and started to
rub it in roughly all over my head. 'And this stuff will keep it as it is
now. It stops your hair ever growing again so this is how you'll look for
the rest of your life even if you are released from here. We can't shave
all our slaves each week, you see'.

Meanwhile I was looking in the mirror to see what he had done to me. The
guy had been right: it would have been better to have left no hair at
all. My head looked like a sandwich of two fat pieces of white bread and
one small piece of black bread in-between. No tough guy would ever choose
this ridiculous haircut for himself. But that was the point exactly, I
wasn't allowed a choice. My new cut would make clear my new state as a
prisoner to everybody at first sight. I felt humiliated by the idea, having
to walk about with it. What I didn't know was that this humiliation would
be nothing compared with the things which had yet to come.

The barber had just taken the mirror out of my hands, when the door opened,
and my fellow-cage-inmates entered, still handcuffed, with two other
warders each, who looked even more brutish than mine. Both boys caught
sight of me and my new slave haircut and I could see their dismay as they
realised that they were next.

But the barber hadn't finished with me yet. He suddenly grabbed my balls,
and started to shave my genitals with an electric razor. I was so started
by that, that I forgot the manners Bob had tried to teach me some two hours
before and shouted, 'Hey man, what the Hell...'. At that moment Bob hit me
right in the face with his right hand.

'Keep your mouth shut, you fucking animal, or we'll not only shave your
balls, but cut them off too, for a slave doesn't need them here anyhow'.

I was so flabbergasted by that, I couldn't get a word out, and resigned
myself to keeping my mouth shut. The barber, I must admit, did his work
expertly. Within a few minutes, no hair was left on my cock and balls at
all. They were as bald as those of a newborn baby. In a way they had
unmanned me by that, and I felt totally naked and vulnerable. Obviously
they were steadily taking away my identity to give me the uniform
appearance of all the other inmates. I was very upset by the idea, that I
was going to be reduced to a just a number.

Now the shaving was over, I was hauled out of the chair and one of the
waiting other lads - the one I had seen for the first time in the van - was
uncuffed to allow him to strip and sit down in the barber chair.

I didn't see him get the haircut I got, as Bob now started to measure me,
while the tall warder wrote down all the inches and feet Bob shouted across
the room. To my surprise, he didn't stop with just my total height but also
used the measuring tape to get the circumference of my neck, hips, ankles
and wrists, and even my genitals, and their distance to my ass and to my
navel as well. It was a puzzle for me what the Hell they wanted to know
that for.

Then the guard chucked me a bar of soap and said, 'Shower'. I stood trying
to get the water to run hot before I realised that it never would and,
shivering, I got under the cold jet. I turned away from them to hide my
bald, naked genitals but they kept up a running commentary all the same.

'Kinda tight ass that kid's got.'

'Tight little body all round.' and more of that sort of thing, some of
which made my stomach sink when I heard it. They couldn't mean what they
were saying, surely? There were laws, and surely even here....

I stepped out of the shower and they chucked a coarse towel at me. When I
had finished drying myself, I looked round for my clothes but they had
gone. I stood there foolishly for a moment before saying, as respectfully
as I could for I was

kinda scared by now, 'Sir, where are my clothes, Sir?'

'No kid, you won't wear any clothes in this place at all. As a slave for
the rest of your stay you'll have to serve naked, except for that special
sort of dress you won't want to wear anyhow!'

4. The cuffs

I looked baffled but once again I was grabbed and marched out of the room,
down the corridor and into a half darkened place that looked like a
blacksmith's forge. But to me, it appeared rather as the entrance to hell,
and within a few minutes it became obvious that it was indeed a place of
horror. It was very hot inside; the room was filled with damp and smoke. It
soon became clear to me that there was some reason for that. Along one of
the walls there was a huge iron oven with a lid open, revealing a white-hot
fire glowing. I saw something lying in it, but from the distance couldn't
make out what it was exactly.

But the whole furnishing of the room filled me with fear. Around the wall
hung all sorts of thick chains and iron contraptions that I couldn't guess
what they were supposed to be for. A dirty, fat guy in a leather apron
looked over his shoulder as we entered.

'Standard irons? Boy, you must have been good! Well, I hope yer startin' as
you mean to go on. You'll find life here'll be a lot easier if you toe the
line and give us no aggro. OK, boy, over here and we'll soon have you
kitted out as a real slave. You won't know yourself again, boy!'

I moved across to him, where he was standing beside a low anvil on the
ground. After I had arrived, the man started to search for something among
that dark muddle of iron contraptions lying behind him. I couldn't discern
in this half-light what these things were exactly but some appeared to me
to be some kind of strange torture devices. I saw the blacksmith taking up
one of them, and walking with it to the fireplace, and heard him searching
for some feature. I was really scared now. I was beginning to believe that
in this place they were capable of anything.

I must have been wide eyed with terror so I was sort of relieved when the
'blacksmith' returned after a while with only a heavy round iron cuff in
his hands, which then was fitted in an adept way by him around my left
ankle, as if he had done this already a hundred times before. And I didn't
doubt he had indeed. The anklet looked quite impressive to me, as I was
only used to small modern police-handcuffs yet. This one on the contrary
seemed rather medieval, massive and heavy as it was. It was about
two-and-a-half inches wide and half an inch thick, hinged and with a big
hole on each half where they met. The 'blacksmith' banged both halves
against each other, so that both holes were aligned. Within a few seconds
my ankle was no longer free, but encircled by a thick ring of inflexible
iron which couldn't be removed. It was moreover a rather narrow fit,
leaving only a tiny space between the cuff and my skin. The iron felt hard
and cold, and the weight pressed painfully on the bones of my ankle. I was
worried by the idea that I had to wear this stuff for some time and perhaps
even to work in it.

'Hold him steady, you guys, while I fix it.' The other two guards quickly
grabbed hold of my ankle, bent my leg in the required position and held it
at an angle on the anvil, so that I was forced to keep my balance on my
other foot. I had no choice other than to give in and wait for the
'blacksmith' to return with a padlock or something like that to put through
the holes of the cuff.

But the 'blacksmith' didn't search for such a lock. To my horror instead he
stuck a pair of long handled tongs into the fire of the oven along the wall
and pulled out a big glowing metal bolt. He walked with it to the anvil,
where my ankle rested in the hands of the guards waiting for him. Deftly,
he inserted the pointed rivet into the holes in the anklet which fettered
my feet. I could feel the intense heat from the bolt, which spread
throughout the cold cuff, and warmed it steadily to a degree that was in
the end nearly unbearable. I really feared the cuff would leave a burn on
my ankle, and waited, scared, for what would come.

I knew at once that it was in my own best interest that things should go as
quickly as possible, because the longer the process took, the hotter the
cuff on my ankle would become. Only now did I notice that both guards had
put insulating gloves on their hands. Apparently they knew the cuff might
get hot, and didn't want to burn their fingers. For the chain-gang-slave
they were apparently going to make out of me a bit of extra pain of course
didn't count to them.

So I willingly kept my ankle at the anvil, hoping the whole thing would
soon be over. I didn't dare to move as the 'blacksmith' reached for a heavy
iron mallet and banged it half a dozen times on the flat side of the
tapering bolt. Banging away, he forced it into the hole and out the other
side and just as quickly he switched to that side, pounding away until it
was flat and fixed. It had become so broad that it wasn't possible to
remove the rivet anymore, and thus the cuff was tightly closed. Then the
blacksmith chucked cold water over it. It hissed furiously as it cooled,
and so the rivet was now definitely impossible to remove.

'Well boy, you won't lose your new ornament easily now'.

I still couldn't believe it! This was barbaric, as if the Middle Ages had
never ended! From the moment I had entered that 'forge' of terror it was
clear to me that I was being put in some chains, incredible enough though
that seemed in this century. But to weld the fetters in place! This was a
permanent business, with no question of being released for a while now and
again. They really meant these things to stay on. I apparently had to wear
them day and night, to work in them, to sleep in them, to live in them. And
that, I had to fear, for the whole ten years I had to stay imprisoned in
this unholy place! It seemed unbearable to me. Just this one cuff already
had a weight of at least three pounds, I guessed. And I was sure it would
be followed by more. They really planned to make me their slave! I started
to cry. Not a macho thing to do but I was so tired, so disorientated and
rapidly going into shock with the events of the last few hours.

They ignored my tears and proceeded to the other ankle. Within a minute
that was done too, and an identical heavy cuff enclosed my right ankle with
the whole process finished with the cold water, which luckily cooled the
warmed up cuff. In a way it was a kind of relief to me when my right ankle
was fettered also, because the longer its semi-freedom within the unwelded
cuff, the hotter the iron would have become.

It came as no surprise to me that they then moved on to shackle my wrists
as well and I whimpered a little through that process also. It was the same
kind of cuffs, it was the same procedure, and it had the same final result.
Now both my ankles and wrists were confined in narrow bands of unbreakable
steel, which were designed to last for ever. I would have to wear them, all
four of them, as long as the guards liked, and I had reason to fear that
might be very long. I wouldn't ever be able to remove them without their
help myself. Although the bracelets were a little bit shorter than the
anklets, in total the whole stuff weighed some ten pounds or thereabouts. I
was in a daze and tried to adjust to my new, humiliating 'dress'. I must
have looked like the chained convict-slave I was condemned to be for the
future only just a few hours ago.

5.The collar

But when the 'blacksmith' suddenly produced out of his heap of irons a real
ancient metal slave-collar, and tried to put it round my neck I really
resisted. I assure you I was completely freaked out when I saw the big band
of heavy steel that they obviously meant me to wear from now on. It seemed
huge enough to keep an elephant in check. It was one-and-a-half times as
thick as my anklets and bracelets, and some three inches high. I saw that
it must have a weight of five or six pounds at least. I was horrified by
the idea that they would fasten it around my neck in the same way as they
had done with the cuffs around my ankles and wrists. Because I suddenly
sensed that I would have to wear that collar the whole time of my
imprisonment here too, I started to shout.

'Fuck you, you bastards, you can't do this to me. I'm not a fucking animal!
I'm a man! I got rights.'

I really struggled, trying to bite them and kick them as they pinioned my
arms but I was one against three and it was hopeless. When I had exhausted
myself, they dragged me across the room and two of them held me over a
bench while the third picked up a belt.

'This is against the law', I now cried in panic.

'To the hell with you, you asshole of a slave', the taller warder
said. 'The law! Apparently you still do not understand. The law you think
about doesn't count inside here. Here, we are the law. Because you're ours
from now on. And I'll tell you, you miserable slave, we'll teach you to
obey and you'll learn. Yes, you will. You will learn to obey. It might take
a short time perhaps, but in the end you will obey'.

He paused for a moment, seemingly half-amused by my feeble efforts to get
free and then continued, 'By the time we're through with training you, you
will grovel at our feet, begging for mercy if the lash is swishing through
the air over you, laying weals on your miserable back. For we've broken
much stronger ones than you before, boy, guys who thought they could endure
everything, would never submit to us as our slaves. And look at them now,
collared and chained in the heavy fetters we have riveted to their limbs;
driven with a bull's pizzle whip by our best slave-drivers in the pits to
chip and carry huge stones continuously, or rowing twelve hours a day on
our beautiful galley, chained up to their benches and lashed to the
oars. They now slave on our mere commands as if they have done so since
birth, and slaving they do! They don't need any lesson further, they know
that there's no alternative for them than to toil and to toil day after day
till the end of their life. Because they have been brought to understand
that in this place the choice is either to slave yourself voluntarily or to
be forced to slave by us with the whip. Listen to me, boy, we know how to
make a slave out of a man. No one who fell into our hands ever succeeded in
resisting our methods of training and disciplining. At the end they all
become miserable slaves, no one excepted, no one! So if you don't show the
appropriate submissiveness immediately, we'll wipe out of you all that
stubbornness with the sharpest lash we have. And we will, I can guarantee
that to you, boy, we will'.

I was filled with horror by his words. That, of course, must have been what
he intended by uttering them. I felt after what I had already seen that
they would stand by that. This was hell. So I was sobbing, 'Please, please
don't do this. You can't do that to a man...' but the other one of the two
holding me now hissed in my ear, 'Shut up you damned little punk. You're
not a man anymore, you have no rights of any kind. You're just a slave
now. Do you hear me? A slave! A fucking slave! Nothing but a slave!' He
raised his voice now. 'Come on, boy, say it! Let me hear you say it
yourself! Let me hear you say what you are'.

I couldn't get the words out.

"Well?' the guy shouted. 'I'm waiting. I want you to say it. I want to hear
it. And I want to hear it immediately. Say, that you're just a slave,
nothing more than a fucking slave. And say it loud and clear, so that
everybody here can hear you. You understand? Say it, so that there is no
doubt about you knowing your miserable slavish state for the future. Now
you know you are a slave so say it, shout it! And I'm listening now!"

He slashed me with his hand against my throat, so that I had to choke a
little. 'Well?', he repeated, insistently. There was no way out.

'Sir, I'm a slave, sir!' I said between sobs.

"Right! Now shout it! Mean it! Shout it out, you fucking slave!"

And suddenly I was shouting, "I'm a slave!" over and over so that I
couldn't stop because I knew it then, knew that I couldn't resist, that I
would indeed become the miserable low cur they already knew me to be. I
wass almost hysterical by now but a blow across my face soon shut me up
again and I collapsed, whimpering and moaning.

'Right you are. So behave as a slave. So listen to me, you young
idiot. You're not on holidays here. This isn't a recreational
summer-camp. You're a grubby street-robber that has to be disciplined by
being taught a lesson for life. You've committed a crime, for which you
have to be punished severely, and you've been sent to us to serve your
punishment through enslavement. You're here to fulfill that slavery. By
entering inside these fine walls the fulfillment of your duties started, so
you are our slave now, no more than our fucking slave, you just stated that
yourself. And with fucking slaves we do what we like to do. And if we like
to chain you, we chain you. And if we like to collar you, we collar
you. Because we think it's good for you. Because we think, as a slave
you'll need it. And that's the only thing that counts. Slaves have no
rights at all. Keep that in your mind, you bloody little bastard. Slaves
have no right to protest or resist. The laws for men are not for them. They
have no will of their own, no identity, they just have a number, and you'll
get yours stamped on your ass like a piece of cattle, just like all the
others. For slaves are no more than animals, to be treated by their masters
as they see fit. They just have to accept what their owners decide will
happen to them. If they have to be chained, they accept being chained. If
they are collared, they accept being collared. They have no own wishes, no
own thoughts, no own decisions. For slaves there's just one rule and one
thought: to obey, and to obey always and everywhere. You heard me? Always
and everywhere, without protest and without contesting the rightness of any
decision taken for them. And you now gotta be punished for not doing that,
so hold still.'

I couldn't move in any case but I braced myself for the blows. I heard the
belt swish before it landed on my ass. I yelled and again as another
fell. He swung as hard as he could, some hitting full in the centre of my
ass, some (and these were the worst) curling round the side and whipping
the more tender parts of my body. He gave me ten. By the end I was yelling
no more, just blubbing like a baby.

'I hope, you've learned your lesson, boy', the taller warder said,
breathing heavily from the exertion of the beating. 'And now we'll carry on
from where we left off. So we'll put on you that nice collar each
chain-slave is fitted with in this little world of ours. And we do that,
because it's good for you. We do that because we think it's good for you
having to wear day and night a high and tight heavy iron collar solidly
welded around your neck, slave, because it'll make you, stubborn as you
are, more obedient, especially now when you are still fresh. Yes, we do
that, because we know that each slave deserves a thick, close-fitting ring
of strong steel riveted firmly and permanently around his fucking throat to
keep his mind continually in the total state of submissiveness which is
necessary to keep things going on as they should. And you'll need that
collar too, boy, you'll need it firmly fastened and fixed in place for that
goal perhaps even more than many others, because you apparently still don't
believe that slavery is your destiny. You still somehow think we're just
playing games, that the whole scene will be over within a few hours. But it
won't be over then, and you're the type that has to feel that from the
beginning. You'll need the permanent pressure of that eight pounds of solid
iron on your miserable throat while drudging under the threat of the
lash. Not hesitating but behaving as a good slave every second. We know
that. We know that from experience'.

He paused again, still a little out of breath because he had spoken very
quickly.

'Seen this way, you in fact should even be grateful to us, for being
collared from the outset. Keeping you submissive by nature may save you
from a lot of lashes. So, it could even be seen as an act of humanity on
our part to donate you a real ancient slave-collar, to protect yourself
from your own stupid impulses towards disobedience when you're forced to
slave. And the more heavy that collar we put on you is, and the more severe
it is to wear, the more easily you will submit, boy. So a heavy collar in
fact is even more humane than a light one, and one of solid steel more
humane than one just made of soft leather, and to give you a heavy iron one
is certainly the best thing for you.'

He considered for a moment, seemingly pleased by his own arguments, and
then continued, 'And for that reason, you will not resist now, boy. Oh no!
You will not resist any longer, when we collar you. Oh no! You'll not
resist any longer, when we start to do to you what you deserve and need as
a slave. And we know, what you deserve, be sure about that. Huh! So you
will not resist, when we put your nice, fine slave-collar on you within a
few minutes, do you hear me! You will not resist while we fix it safely and
securely around your slave throat. You'll not resist any more, when the
mallet is fixing the rivet, that is already glowing red specially for you
in the oven, into the holes of your new nice collar safely and securely,
when it is welding both ends of it together in an irremovable way, with
your miserable slave-neck wholly secured inside it for the next ten
years. Oh no! You won't do that, do you hear me? You won't even try, yeah!
You'll keep your fucking head instead very, very docile on that anvil over
there till we've finished the job, you understand! And you'll feel fine
afterwards, yes. You'll feel very good, being collared by us so kindly,
very, very good, because you'll feel yourself in that iron neck ring to be
the fucking slave you have become and that we're going to reinforce in you
over the next days. And, I assure you, it really helps! It helps you to
behave as you should! Wearing your pretty slave-collar, you'll not be able
to resist that splendid feeling of slavishness and submissivness any
longer. It's inside you and we'll bring it out of you and end by making a
useful slave out of you. The pressure of inflexible iron on your neck,
those eight pounds, will do that for us. By its weight it'll force you to
bend your neck automatically, and through that help to bend your
mind. Besides that, your collar will be welded so close to your skin that
with each breath you'll feel it. As your throat expands with each breath
you'll feel it press against you, not allowing more than a fraction of an
inch for you to breathe. So by you'll be continually aware that you've lost
your freedom and from a free man with a will of his own you'll be
transformed into a chained and numbered, nameless slave without any. And as
you well know boy, you have to breathe to live so you will be reminded
every second of your slavery, every second!' He stopped again to observe
the effect all this wa shaving on me. I just couldn't move but my breath
got faster as if I was already choking on the collar constricting my
throat.

'Apart from all this', he continued, 'your slave-collar is made of the
finest steel, so be proud of it. It's not every place that slaves are
allowed to wear such a well-made ornament! In fact you should rather ask
for it, beg for it, because as the fucking slave you just stated you are,
you desire it, you long for it. Yes! I want you to beg for it, boy. I want
you to beg for your own slave-collar. I want to hear you saying "please
give this fucking slave the iron collar he needs to be reminded day and
night of his irrevocable state of total submission". Understood, boy? So
say it, and say it now'.

There was no alternative, so I said what he wanted, word for word, feeling
drained of all emotion.

The guy looked satisfied. 'You start to learn. Well boy, we'll do you that
pleasure. We'll fix it for you within a few minutes in a way you'll never
get rid of without our assistance. And you will enjoy wearing it, so you
will be grateful for us doing that'.

Then he changed the tone of his voice.

'So we're going soon very, very meekly to that anvil over there', he almost
whispered in a decent and reasonable voice, 'to claim your very, very nice
collar that will suit you as a slave very, very well. And at that anvil you
therefore will bow your head, meekly and submissively so that we don't have
to heave your heavy collar as high as your head is now. Because we
otherwise might strain ourselves in lifting, huh? And so we'll be able to
put that very, very nice collar around your neck without any trouble,
because you will continue to behave in a very, very tractable fashion. And
so the blacksmith will go to the fire and take the glowing rivet out, while
you're still very, very tractable and submissive and obedient and fucking
grateful. And then that collar will close thanks to that glowing rivet,
close for ever by welding its still open ends firmly together. And at that
very, very moment, your neck will already be inside it, boy, oh yes, and
from then onwards will continue to stay inside for the next ten years, to
be safely sealed by that collar, with your chin projecting to one side of
it and your shoulders on the other. And at that very, very moment as a good
slave you will feel we're doing justice to you because we do what you know
you really deserve - to become a useful tool in our hands. So you will
submit yourself obediently to the whole process and you won't make a move
till it's over and done. And from that very, very moment on, your neck will
be kept sealed that way for ever during your stay in this place. And while
your head is now starting to serve and your body is starting to slave, that
collar will always help to connect continually your psychic enslavement to
your physical enslavement, because it will always be in-between. So we're
now going to start. We'll do the whole thing slowly, so that you won't miss
anything and will have plenty of time to enjoy the fine feeling of having
your new iron slave-collar steadily welded around your neck. Imagine how
you will feel when the hot bolt is entering its holes, and each blow of the
mallet is flattening more and more on the other end, and so both halves of
your collar are hammered shut. And because of that glorious, happy feeling,
I want to hear you ask when the blacksmith returns with that glowing rivet
to the anvil, "Please Sir, please fix my new slave-collar around my
miserable neck so tight and firmly that it never will come off". Yes, you
will do that. Because as a slave it is your deepest wish. And after being
collared, you will show us your gratitude for this by saying: "Thank you
Sir, for being so kind as to collar me, because this heavy narrow neck band
of steel is exactly what this new slave wants and needs". Keep this in
mind, boy. I want you to say this, I want to hear you saying that
afterwards, word for word, because it's good for you'.

I then was dragged across the room again. Bob took up the collar, and held
it right under my nose.

'Have a good look at it', he said, 'because you'll not see it empty like
this again for the next ten years'.

I looked with abhorrence at the piece of heavy metal, but nevertheless I
now was able to have a closer inspection of the symbol of the state of
slavery I was condemned to wear. It was, I must admit, well made, and apart
from the big hinge by which both halves were connected, the collar seemed
to be forged from just one big piece of solid steel. At the open side of
the collar, both ends of the rounded halves were bent outward into flat
thick blades, which projected for some inches. Those blades were only half
as high as the collar-ring itself, the left one welded to the upper half of
the collar-ring, the right one to the lower half. Both blades halfway had
some strange big notch on one side - the lower on the left blade, the upper
on the right - I noticed on the outside of both blades a deep hole,
pointing down. It wasn't quite clear to me how it would function.

At that moment, Bob clashed both halves of the collar together.

'And thus it will close safely for ever around your neck', he said,
pointing at the holes of both blades, which now made up one single deep
hole, 'as the bolt will go in here'.

Thereupon he moved his forefinger in the direction of the ring of the
collar, and at the same time, I recognised that the strange notches now
together made up a big circular hole.

'And through this hole', the guard explained me kindly, 'will go the thick
shackle of a fine, huge padlock that will connect your slave-collar when we
restrain you. You'll get to know the heavy slave-chain by which your neck
will be fastened by us to the huge iron ring which is fixed into the
massive stone wall of your dungeon each night'.

Apparently he thought these words sufficient for the moment, because he
opened the iron collar in front of me, the straight blades pointing in my
direction. Then they forced my head to bow. Thereupon the collar went round
my neck, finally, relentlessly. It felt very cold, but it wasn't that which
made me shiver. It was the weight. My God, it was terrible. I'd never had
such a weight squeezing my shoulders before. It seemed to have been made of
lead. The bastards! Eight pounds of strong steel at least! And that they
called 'standard irons'! Apart from that, the collar was so high that it
nearly enclosed my whole throat, and so tight that I immediately started to
gasp a little after both halves of the thick ring had been closed at the
back with a bang and the heavy iron pushed against my Adam's apple in
front.

I felt, I couldn't stand it for very long and therefore I must get a wider
one. Although I was still frightened by the lecture given to me, I knew I
had to beg for it now, because once the bolt would be put in place and both
halves of the collar thus welded together, they wouldn't remove it from my
neck for ten whole years, and I surely wouldn't be able to remove it
myself.

So I begged Bob, who was handling the iron tool, 'Please Sir, please. I
can't stand this iron collar for long. I can't stand this collar for my
whole stay of ten years. It's too close fitting for me, I'll choke in
it. Please Sir, please, give me a wider one, I beg you, please!'

The warder turned his head slowly, looking a little bit amused by my
question.

'Oh no, slave', he replied light-heartedly, 'We won't give you
another. This slave-collar is pretty fine. It's exactly the right one for
you. It fits you very well. You'll look great in it and you'll feel
yourself great in it in the future even more. You won't need a looser
one. We know just what size of slave collar suits. We want you to live some
years for our pleasure, although you yourself might have other notions if
you knew what our pleasure is'.

He laughed shortly in a way I can only describe as satanic and
continued. 'For that reason we choose just this one. It makes you gasp at
the right moments, and so makes it easier for us to discipline you. This
pretty piece of iron has exactly the same width as that miserable
slave-neck of your, boy, we've measured that before, you remember, and we
don't expect your neck to have expanded suddenly in the last minutes, do
we, huh? So there ain't no problems in closing it safely for you. Might
altogether be a bit oppressive in the beginning, but we can't take the risk
that you'll just pull it off over your head one day, you understand. Of
course your throat will have to give a little from now on, sure, but as you
will have to do that in many fields during the next weeks, it's all in your
learning process. Get's you used to that, boy, yeah! And for that reason
you'll get used to the pressure and the weight of your collar too.'

'Perhaps one day you'll get used to it even a bit too much, and forget by
that that you're enslaved. If that should happen, don't panic. We'll always
be there to help you to recover the consciousness of being just a
slave. We'll then replace the collar you're going to wear now with a still
heavier one, and perhaps later again, when your new collar wouldn't suffice
any longer either. Anyhow, that won't be a problem for a long time to come,
because in case of emergency we've a stack of those slave-collars up to
twenty pounds. And if the worst comes to the worst we can always forge a
still heavier one here for you. So don't be afraid, because our blacksmith
here is always willing to serve you. In fact, one of our slaves already
wears one of over twenty pounds, specially made for him. While he's doing
his daily slave's work in the quarries, it makes of him a better manageable
sample than he had ever been before. So don't worry that today it may
perhaps feel a little narrow, you'll soon get accustomed to it - more or
less. Anyhow, you'd better do, because you've no choice. And now we've got
to move on, because there are two other fresh chainslaves waiting their
turn to get collared safely this evening too. So keep still now, as we want
to finish the job'.

I understood that my begging had been totally without result. They decided
what would happen to me, without considering my feelings about that at
all. I just had to wear what they had chosen for me anyhow. So I didn't
dare to fight back again, and got on my knees without having to be
forced. I'd learned my lesson for the time being, as my ass still hurt from
the blows. In the meantime the blacksmith had taken up his pair of
long-handed tongs to go to the fire to take out the bolt.

'You behave much better now, slave', the other guard said. 'Keep it like
this, because the blacksmith doesn't like to hear any sound coming out of
you while he's working. That's bad for his concentration, you know, and
therefore may be bad for you too. He might miss a blow, huh? So you now
just lay down on your back, keeping your slave-neck near to that anvil, and
don't move after that, for we'll start in a few seconds then to rivet your
collar in place. You just beg the blacksmith to fix it as firm as possible,
don't forget it, huh! Otherwise he might forget to do that, huh! And you
don't want that, huh! Because you don't want to have the risk that one day
you might lose your nice new collar unexpectedly, and neither do we.'

'After that it's very simple. You've nothing to do yourself, you'll be
totally served by us. You've only to wait patiently and silently, till
we've indeed fixed your fine new neck-ring. Just lie down on your back,
with your head in front of the anvil, with the backward-blades of the
collar resting on it. It might take a little more time than the other
cuffs, because we don't want the head of a nice new slave to be hit by that
hammer, and you will understand that at the same time your slave-collar has
to be fastened very, very solidly around your throat. You see, we wouldn't
like it if you lost it some day, somewhere, by accident'.

The guard apparently was very pleased by his own joke, judging from the
fact that he had repeated it.

So I was forced down to the anvil again, this time by my head, to get the
collar they had put on me welded close. I had to lie down almost totally on
my back to reach it, only bending the upper parts of my body upward. It's
the most humiliating position you can imagine, lying down this way, with
your neck soon going to be fettered by a huge ring of solid steel. I assure
you, it really makes you feel like you are becoming a slave. The guy was
right. There's nothing more that can make anybody aware of his hopeless
position, than to become collared this way, lying on the ground, with your
neck pressed to the side of an anvil and already enclosed by its
predestined heavy cuff, only waiting for the fatal blows which will close
it definitively around you. To be laid down on the plank of the guillotine
to wait for your execution can't be much worse. And in a way, I was
sentenced to death, as my civil life was ending now, although at that
moment I still hadn't the slightest idea what slavery in daily practice
really would mean. But there was no escape, so I waited with resignation in
my uncomfortable position till the 'blacksmith' would return from the fire
with the fatal rivet, that would fix securely the inevitable slave-collar I
had from now on to wear continuously for the next ten years.

Because the collar closed at the back, I wouldn't be able to see what
exactly they were going to do as in the case of the cuffs around my ankles
and wrists. But I would feel it and hear it - and that was perhaps more
frightening than seeing it, for by only hearing and feeling, without
seeing, the whole process would be more intense. For you don't know what
exactly is going on, and can only be sure there's something horrible
happening to you which you can't prevent, so you have to wait for the
'unknown', but 'sensed' result at the end. So I had no option but to lie
down, waiting in a passive state till the whole thing was over.

Within a minute, the blacksmith returned with the needed big bolt, which
was glowing in a frightening way. 'Now it's your turn, boy, you know what
you have to beg for', Bob at that moment hissed in my ear, 'or otherwise
we'll whip the words out of you'.

So I stammered, made wholly mellow by everything that had happened during
the last hours, 'Please Sir, please weld my new slave-collar as firmly as
possible around my humble neck, so that it never will come off'.

'We'll do that', Bob replied generously, 'We'll do that for you slave, we
promise you that. We'll fulfill your deepest wish'.

In the meantime the blacksmith had passed round and reached the anvil
behind me, while Bob bent my head forwards and kept it fixed with his hands
in that position during the whole process, so that it wouldn't be in the
way when the hammer would fall down to rivet the two open halves of the
ring together. Shortly after that I felt a light jerk at my neck, as the
blacksmith inserted the hot bolt in the holes. I experienced the heat
spreading steadily from the bolt throughout the collar.

Then I felt and heard the first blow. It was very near to my ears, and the
dull drone of the mallet at my collar made me shiver. It was much more
horrible than I'd ever imagined before. The shock of the blow went through
my throat, my chin, my head, through my whole body.

And then that sound! O God, that sound! I'll never forget that sound! It
was a terrible sound! To me it was the most terrible sound I'd ever heard
till then. The first blow of the hammer on the big rivet rumbled and roared
into my ears as never did any sound before. It entered my head from behind,
and went through and through and through. And I knew that a lot of blows
after that would follow! How to describe my feelings at that moment! O God,
there's nothing comparable to being forced to lie down as I was totally
defenceless and having to listen to the blows of a mallet behind you, while
knowing that with each new blow a hot bolt is driven more irreversably
inside the holes of a thick iron band slapped around your neck, and thus is
riveting both halves of the heavy collar more firmly together which makes a
chainslave out of you for ever. I assure you, there's nothing that can make
your sense of loosing your freedom, yes, even more intense than that, of
your masculinity.

Then the next blow followed, after a short interval, hard and
unavoidable. Each blow not only made that a horrible noise again, but was
attended with a brief but sharp tug on my neck, because the blacksmith
smashed his hammer so violently that my collar moved a little backwards
each time. But that little tug on my back was enough to have the inflexible
iron pressing each time, with each blow, against my Adam's apple in front
and get me nearly choking. O Lord, I thought I wouldn't stand it, it was
such a horrible experience, the more so as the clasping metal band was
becoming warmer and warmer. But I didn't dare to move, fearing that
otherwise the blacksmith might by accident strike my head instead of the
bolt, or the fixing would cost more time, and therefore the iron of my
collar would become hotter still.

I counted the blows. There were eleven in total, then the blacksmith
stopped. The band of steel around my neck had already become rather warm
now, but luckily soon after that a bucket of cold water was chucked over
me. I heard the iron hissing like hell, and felt that the collar was
cooling, as must the rivet which held it fixed. And I knew that the cooler
and thus more bearable the collar became, the cooler that bolt became too,
hardening and binding with the metal of the collar so that the two became
one. Then the hissing stopped, and the iron band around my neck was cold
again - and so too was the bolt, which nobody could remove now by any
means.

So that was it. The most humiliating part of my introduction to slavery was
over. Gasping for air, I tried to come to terms with the horrible state I
had ended up in. I was collared now, collared as a slave. It still seemed
incredible to me. For the rest of my stay here I had to wear this heavy and
high tight-fitting ring of inflexible iron around my neck permanently! I
had to wear it day and night, to work in it, to eat in it, to sleep in
it. I had to live in it twenty-four hours a day as the most visible and
most demanding mark of my enslavement. And above all: I had to wear it for
ten whole years. Ten whole years! O God, ten whole years! I wouldn't be
able to remove it, I knew it. I had to get used to it, I had no other
choice than that. I was not a man any more, I was reduced to the rank of a
dog, of a piece of cattle, of a tool, with which the prison-guards could do
what they wanted. I was a slave now, and everybody seeing me would be aware
of that at once.

'Well boy, that feels much better, wearing your new iron collar, doesn't
it?', the taller guard said with a sarcastic sneer.

'And you will feel even better still, when you're chained up by it soon as
a real slave. When you're not needed for slave duties, we'll attach it with
a heavy chain to an iron ring set in the wall of the cold dungeon that is
the slave-stables. You'll sleep safe and secure in the midst of your
fellow-slaves, and after some time you'll really begin to accept the fact
that that handsome slave-collar around your neck will never come off and
that therefore you'll have to wear it for ever. Yes, it's permanent all
right - I can set your mind at ease on that point: our blacksmith is an
expert. No one ever got out of the fetters he made. So, thanks to his fine
work, you don't need to fear that in an unguarded moment some punk will try
to steal your nice new collar, be sure of that. So what do you say, slave?
You will be grateful, I suppose?'

He looked intently at me, waiting for a reaction. At first, I couldn't get
the words out of my throat, and that wasn't because it was constricted by
the collar. But I had to, as he repeated his question with a more
threatening emphasis now.

'Yes, Sir', I croaked after a while, 'Thank you for your kindness in having
my slave-neck collared, Sir, I feel much better now'.

But the guy wasn't satisfied by that. 'Well boy', he said drawling, 'I'm
waiting for more'.

'Thank you, Sir, I feel much better now, because this heavy steel neckband
is exactly what this new slave has needed and desired for a long, long
time". The words brainwashed into me came out in one long toneless
breath. I couldn't do otherwise.

My enforced self-humiliation was complete: I had begged for a heavy iron
collar and got it; I had begged for it to be welded in an irremovable way
around my neck as the most obvious mark of my slavery, and they had done
it; and now I had thanked them for lowering me to the rank of an animal.

"That's fine, slave', the warder answered in a falsely pleasant
tone. 'You're starting to get the idea of how to behave. Its nice that you
like your collar already, and that you agree with us that we've chosen the
right one and the right width for you. Its nice to hear that it fits well
and that you now feel better thanks to that, because you feel more of a
slave than you did before. Because, you know, we like to have our trainees
happy here'.

He waited, as if to see how I would react - but I was too exhausted for any
reply - and then continued, 'So I'm quite sure you'll become a good
slave. Wearing your collar, you'll be aware permanently, that you're a
nameless chainslave, just a number out of our slave-stables, forced to toil
and moil continuously by your fear of the lash. Yes, I'm quite sure, you
will do all the heavy slaves' work that we consider good for you to do
without any hesitation. You're here to be punished and you'll serve your
time in our in our chain gangs during the next ten years from sunrise till
sunset day after day".

Then I was left for a while lying on the floor, fettered, giving me some
time to get accustomed to the heavy iron rings riveted to my hands, feet
and neck. But I didn't get accustomed to them at all. The weight of them
individually had been enough but together they made up a formidable weight
and the narrowness of the collar still made me gasp for fresh air. The
guards left me alone like that for a while, apparently without fear that I
might try to run away. With reason, for escape was impossible. There were
too many warders around the place for that. And even if I could have left
the room unattended and unobserved, the fetters fixed to my body would
betray me at sight as being a slave, a fugitive from a chain gang, and so
would my new haircut too. Apart from that, the total weight of it had
stripped me of any desire to try.

The warders now proceeded to the other studs, both also condemned to
slavery for many years because of some minimal youth-crimes. They had been
brought in together while I was resting with my head on the anvil, waiting
to become collared, so they must have seen the iron ring being riveted
around my neck. And, judging by the look in their faces, they must have
seen it with horror, knowing that it was their turn next to get cuffed and
collared like me.

They had already the same haircut as I had, and now indeed underwent the
same process as I did before, proceeding from ankles via wrists to the
throat. First their feet, then their hands were put on the anvil, and just
like me they were fitted with the same irremovable pounds of iron
shackles. Then the time came for fitting their neckrings. The collar went
on, their gasping throat was bent to the anvil, the glowing bolt went in,
the mallet fell a dozen times, and so they too were definitively
transformed from free men into collared slaves like me. The younger of the
two boys, the one I had seen already at the court, wept all the time when
the warders were busy with him, especially at the moment the collar was
welded together. The other lad just stared in front of him, impassively, as
he had already done in his cage in the van.

6. Cattle

But there was still more to come, even worse and more humiliating were such
a thing possible. At first, they apparently wanted to continue the
fettering procedure. Already the blacksmith was searching for some chains
to interconnect my fetters. But one of the guards intervened. 'No. Leave
it. We're better to ring him and mark him first and do that afterwards.
That's easier'. I didn't understand what he meant by that, but I soon
would, and I assure you, I was happier not knowing.

Still lying on the ground with my new heavy collar and cuffs, I now was
ordered to get up. It took a few seconds before I managed to stand up. Than
both warders roughly took an arm of mine and marched me across the room, in
the direction of the oven where the blacksmith already waited for me. Not
knowing what was going to come, I didn't resist for the time being, so I
was hauled before him again with little difficulty. There the blacksmith
stood next to a strange chair and a small table, on which were lying a lot
of round iron rings, all of the same size and form, half an inch thick and
with a total diameter of some two-and-a-half inches. As I could see in the
dim light all rings were not wholly circular, and so not wholly complete;
just a very small fragment was missing, so the rings were, so to say,
'open'.

As the taller guard saw me looking, he said to the blacksmith: 'Apparently
this slave is very interested in your collection, Brad. Show him his next
ornament, because he'll like to have a good view of it before we fix it'.

The blacksmith stuck his forefinger through one of the rings and held it
very close to my eyes.

'It's made of very solid steel', he said, as he spun the thick ring round
his finger, 'and it will be welded very solidly together'.

He paused for a moment, relishing my bewilderment.

'So it will be useless ever to try to remove your nose-ring'.

I recoiled from him in a reflex action. Nose-ring? Nose-ring? That ring
would have to go through my nose? Did they intend to pierce my nose with
that huge ring as if I was just a bull? What sort of cruel men had I fallen
into the hands of? I choked with sheer panic, and forgot the harsh lessons
the guards had taught me when I resisted them collaring me. I started to
shout.

'No! You can't do that! I'm not some piece of cattle! I...'

The taller guard slapped me in the face.

'You apparently still haven't learned your lesson, slave! Stop crying! All
our slaves wear a decent nose-ring here, so that we may recognize them
immediately as such. You're nothing better than all the others, so we'll
treat you the same way'.

But this time I didn't stop.

'No!", I shouted again, and I started to struggle. As the taller guard had
loosened his grip on my arm, I managed to free myself partly, and now
driven by horror at the idea of being nose-ringed by the blacksmith I tried
to get rid of the other warder.

But the taller guard seized my freed arm again, and shouted right into my
face:

'You still don't understand, huh? You still don't obey? We'll learn you,
slave, we'll learn you! We'll make a slave out of you as good as all the
others, and so we'll treat you like them. In this place all slaves are
equal, and therefore all have to look alike. So this nice big ring will go
through your fucking nose, if you like it or not - and I would rather
advise you to like it - and it will go straight through your nose now".

He turned to the blacksmith, and continued: 'Well, you can heat his
nose-ring in the oven, while we fasten him to the chair'.

Up till than I had been totally fixated on the horrifying ring, and had
paid no attention to the chair. It was a kind of gynecological chair, only
this one had special fixtures in which my arms and head could be strapped
rigid. I would be wholly incapable of movement and therefore totally
helpless once all bonds were put in place. As the two guards forced me
firmly in the chair, I saw no chance of escaping the ringing of my nose
anymore. I was laid on my back, my neck fastened by a leather strap to the
head-rest. My arms were placed beside my body and some other straps wrapped
around my wrists and elbows, holding them in place. Than my legs were
stretched high up on separate shelves with my knees near to my shoulders
and fixed in place so that I couldn't move my limbs anymore. I felt like a
trapped animal. In this position, with knees and shoulders pulled tight
together by some extra leather restraints, I could feel my most intimate
parts shamelessly put on full display to the warders.

The fatter of them grabbed my penis and balls and played with them in his
hands. 'They'll be fixed later', he muttered, 'and that cock will never
stretch itself for the next ten years without our permission again'.

I saw the blacksmith taking up the nose-ring with a pair of tongs and
putting it in the fire, before they put a complete leather blindfold on me,
which was fastened at the back of my head.

'We'd better gag him too, for this piece of crap is bound to cry when the
awl goes through his nose flesh', I heard the taller guard saying.

Two seconds later a brutal leather gag of huge size was wormed through my
teeth to smother any possible protest, which in any case would have been
quite futile. Than, after a pause, which seemed endless to me, the horrible
procedure started. Before I knew what was happening, I suddenly felt a
terrible pull on the bridge of my nose. It felt like someone was pinching
and pulling my bridge forward with a flat pair of pincers, which is
probably what was going on. My nostrils now were drawn open as far as
possible, and it really hurt. I tried to get rid of the painful grip by
trying to shake my head, but I was held securely and my efforts were
useless.

'Hold his head steady just in case he does manage to move', I heard the
blacksmith saying, 'for he'll sprawl and squirm as he's never done before'.

He was right. There was worse to come indeed. Desperately I waited for the
awl which would pierce my nose. Than it came. I felt the pressure of
something that suddenly burned intensely hot as it touched my nose flesh in
the left nostril. I felt the burning, sharp awl searching its way
relentlessly to the other nostril. It hissed as it was driven with much
force by the blacksmith through the bone of my nasal septum. I felt an
incredible pain, and only the gag muffled my howling as my nose was pierced
so brutally without any anesthetic. As the blacksmith had predicted, I
indeed sprawled and squirmed as I never did before, in a mad attempt at
escaping the burning awl, but the leather fetters gave me no room, and the
guards held my head in an iron grip. There was no possibility of getting
away from this cruel method of ringing my nose. Blindfolded, silenced and
unable to move, I simply had to endure the agony. It was indescribably
painful but my mind was in such a spin that I passed through the pain and
felt only exhausted. I recognized the warm blood coming out of my pierced
nose and streaming over my face. And it wasn't over mercifully in a few
seconds because the piercing-process itself took some time, as the
blacksmith had to widen the round hole in my septum further and further by
rotating his sharp awl, till it had a diameter that would accommodate the
big ring that was waiting. This meant the new hole had to be centimeter at
least. There wouldn't be much left of my septum when he had finished.

After a while the blacksmith had apparently completed the making of the
hole for the ring, and the grip on the bridge of my nose slackened for a
while. But now I really began to feel the burning pain as the temperature
cooled and my pain nerves recovered more and more. It was so intense I
could see red, black, and white waves and spots and all sorts of
kaleidoscopic images under my blindfold.

Than my nose bridge was stretched forward again. This time I felt a small
piece of cold iron put into my left nostril, and soon after a second piece
in the other. As I would learn afterwards, these pieces of flat metal had a
big hole in their centre and resembled some kind of elongated washers,
which were placed in each nostril with the big hole exactly over the hole
that had just been burned through my septum. They were fastened in this
position to the septum by small rivets to provide a strong grommet for the
heavy nose-ring which they would weld in place in an irremovable way
shortly afterwards. Of course, at that time, blindfolded and disorientated,
I had no idea what exactly they were doing inside my nostrils. I only felt
excruciating pain again when they started to rivet the washers in
place. They used I imagine some machine to shoot minuscule, pointed bolts
through the metal piece in my left nostril, then through my septum, and
finally through the metal piece in the other nostril. Then which they were
bent flat. I counted four drill sessions in total. The pain was intense and
searing and my nose started to bleed again.

Lastly there came the finishing touch: the fitting of the nose-ring
itself. Psychologically it was the worst stage of the whole
ringing-procedure, as this heavy piece of iron would dehumanize me to the
state of an animal-like chainslave more than anything else had done. I
waited trembling till it was put in place. After the last small rivet of
the grommet had been driven through my septum, there was a short pause. I
was aware only of the sound of tools being laid down, and others taken
up. Meanwhile the iron ring had become very hot, even more than the awl had
been, because after entering my nose and going through my septum both its
open ends had to be welded firmly together, and for that to be achieved the
iron had to be rather soft. I felt the hot ring entering my nose on one
side and then coming out on the other. It was impossible not to touch my
flesh because of its thickness compared to the limited space in my
nostrils. It was yet another terrible pain, and the guard who had a grip of
my head had to use some force to keep it fixed in position.

Now the ring was through my septum, hot, burning, and with a light jerk the
blacksmith was squeezing both glowing ends of the ring firmly together with
some pincers and thus welding it closed forever. After that somebody
chucked a bowl of cold water over my face to cool the iron. It hissed in
the same way as my cuffs and collar had done after being riveted to my
limbs. It was over. At last I could unbend myself. But I was totally aware
of the fact, and nearly panic-stricken by the idea, that I had received
what was to be only the first of a number of piercings, marking me as a
slave even more: a nose-ring!