Date: Fri, 17 Dec 2004 01:27:45 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Pleasure Slave, Part 4

PLEASURE SLAVE, By Pete Brown. petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories in
groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

Part 4

I flinched, perfectly reflexively as the needle
stabbed into my dick as it lay there on the white
cloth. The doctor saw my attempt at this involuntary
movement, and laughed "They all do that, Steve!
Somehow guys seem to think that their dick is solid,
with bone and stuff, and I suppose they're worried the
needle will snap if I stab it like that. But your
dick's all flesh, you know - just a lot of spongy
flesh that can fill with blood, just as yours now is.
Now, let's see if that anaesthetic is working..."

As he said this, he raked his finger nail across my
piss slit, and although I could see him do it, and it
would normally have caused me to squirm, I couldn't
feel a thing. I began to cheer up - he must not have
been bullshitting when he said that as a doctor he
didn't want to cause me unnecessary pain when he was
doing this partial circumcision on me. I didn't want
it done, and he'd forced me to sign the voluntary
release, but at least it wasn't going to hurt.

Look, I don't know much about circumcisions, but I
guess that when they do babies it's all over in a few
seconds. But this guy must have worked for about half
an hour at least on me - he was cutting and snipping
little bits here and there, then he used a needle and
surgical thread to sew the cut ends of my 'skin
together again in their new length, sprayed the whole
thing with antiseptic, and put a bit plaster all
around my dick head. I can't say I watched all of it,
as although it didn't hurt, I felt distinctly queasy
at seeing my body being cut like this, and just didn't
look.

He then took another syringe and advanced on me again,
and gave me an injection at the base of my dick. "This
will keep you quiet for a couple of days", he told me.
"Don't worry if you don't get an erection - that's
intentional, to give your foreskin time to heal. If we
stretch it too much, it might scar and that would
never do - they want you with a nice, sleek look. So
this stuff paralyses the small muscles that control
the blood flow out of your dick - they can't contract,
so the blood flows free, so you don't get an erection.
It will wear off after a couple of days, so don't
think that there's anything wrong with you. And I'll
give you another shot of painkiller in your dick, too,
when we're all finished up, so you wont feel a thing
from this little operation."

Hey, perhaps being a slave wasn't all that bad, if at
least they treated you properly when you were ill, I
thought, and I sat there quite relaxed as he brought
clamp things around from the back of the chair and
screwed them tightly to the sides of my head - all the
time asking me if it was OK, not too tight, no skin
caught, and so on.

Taking a pair of tweezers and some gauze soaked in a
solution in a small surgical dish, he swabbed up first
me left nostril and then my right. The heady fumes of
what I took to be a pungent antiseptic swirled around,
and made me want to sneeze. I kind of contorted my
face, and he snapped "Keep still, Steve! I don't want
to puncture the membranes of your nose with these
tweezers! It's only antiseptic, to stop infection."

He stood back a moment, picked something up from the
small table by my side, and pushed it up my nose.
"Now, hold tight.... Just a moment's discomfort...."

I screamed, I can tell you. My whole body tried to
jerk and kick out at him, but of course I was securely
bound to the chair, and I couldn't even move my head
as it was so tightly clamped. I got that salty taste
of blood, and something warm started to drip onto my
chest and run across my belly. The pain went on and
on, and the doctor stood back, almost brandishing a
pair of bloodstained pliers.

He picked up a piece of cotton gauze and rubbed it
quickly across my chest and belly, and as he tossed it
to one side I saw it was soaked in blood - my blood.

"There, almost done! Punching the hole through your
septum is the worst part. Now, let's just wait for the
bleeding to stop a bit - it soon does, in the nose..."

I shouted at him in anger "I thought you said that you
were a doctor, that the AMSPCS didn't allow doctors to
operate on slaves without proper anaesthesia...."

"Careful, Steve! You're a slave remember? A bit of
respect, please. Doctors are allowed to punish slaves,
remember? Keep a respectful tone in your voice when
you speak to me! But in answer to your question, of
course we use anaesthetics for operations - as I said,
we're not butchers; you live in a civilised society
here in the USA, not some kind of hell hole in the
third world when they simply don't bother about the
comfort of slaves at all!"

"But that hurt..." I saw him reaching idly for the
prod thing, and added "... Sir."

"Only for a moment, I'm sure. You're a big tough guy -
surely you can take a little pain? But before you ask,
that wasn't an operation. The ASPCS has agreed that
it's not at all cruel to carry out general marking
processes without anaesthesia - after all, the
majority of ringing - which is what I'm about to do to
you - and branding is all done at dealers where there
isn't a doctor in attendance. We have to be able to
mark property for the new owners, don't we? And the
ASPCS has agreed that it's better not to hold up the
process, as the anticipation of being, for example,
branded, might be more cruel to the slave than just
getting on and doing it."

"But..."

"No 'buts', Steve. That's the way it is. The American
Society For The Prevention Of Cruelty To Slaves does
good work, believe you me. There's many a slave who
has cause to be thankful for their efforts to ensure
that slaves are treated humanely, and they get that
co- operation from owners and the trade because they
know there are sensible limits beyond which it makes
no sense to go - a few minutes discomfort during a
ringing, or a branding.... It's a small enough price
to pay for the ready compliance with the rest of the
rules that make sure you are treated well."

"Anyway", he continued, "Like it or not, it doesn't
matter - you're a slave, at least for the next ten
years, and your opinion really doesn't matter. Now...
I think the blood's stopped... Let me get on and
finish."

The "ring" wasn't really a ring, except in the
mathematical sense. I mean, when we normally thing of
a ring, we think of a circle. But the nose rings they
fit into slaves are more like the links of a thick
chain, oval in shape, so that they can go quite high
up inside the nose without causing the nostrils to be
unpleasantly flared out, and can hang down properly
over the upper lip. A circle would be just too big to
fit.

The doctor fiddled around a lot - and it hurt, and
tickled and made me desperate to sneeze, as he
manoeuvred the open end through the hole he'd punched
in my septum, then a dab of some sort of epoxy
adhesive on the open ends, and a squeeze with pliers
to close the thing up, and he pronounced me done. All
this activity had cased the scabs in my nose to break,
and blood was again flowing freely - I could taste it
on my lips, and feel it again on my belly.

 "Feel OK, does it?"

"No, sir, it does not!", I muttered. I wanted to
sneeze all the time, the blood and mucus flowing over
my face was very unpleasant, and the weight of the
ring and the way it hung over my lip was horrible.

"Now, Steve, don't exaggerate! I've ringed a lot of
slaves, and this was a good one. For the next few days
keep teasing it gently, so that as the scar tissue
forms on your septum the ring continues to move freely
- believe me, it's not a good idea to get it moulded
into the scar issue, or the first guy that jerks on it
will cause you pain all over again. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

He undid the head clamp then, and the Velcro bindings,
and handed me a piece of cloth so that I could wipe my
blood away off my body, and try to clean my face.

"That's you done here, then", he told me. "I've
swabbed everything well, so there should be no
infection. Expect to fele some discomfort from your
nose, and from your dick once the anaesthetic wears
off, but it will only be for a few days. If it goes on
longer than that, or you get any sudden swelling or
severe discomfort, alert your owner and ask him to get
you some attention - otherwise there's a risk his
investment in you will be wasted!"

"Now, this room doubles as a tattoo parlour as well as
my little operating room, so go and lie over there on
that table and I'll call the tattooist so that he can
get started."

I know a lot of my readers have had tattoos, so I
don't really need to tell you, do I, about how it
hurts? I mean, it's not the sort of pain that you
can't bear, but it's not exactly comfortable. And I
guess that most of you knew that it was only going to
take half an hour or so, and that the discomfort would
be pretty localised.

The tattooist never spoke to me - he had an iPod
plugged in, and all the time he was working on me he
just listened to his music. It was as if I simply
didn't matter, and was just a piece of flesh lying
there that he could work on as he wanted. He started
on the giant "Steve" running right across the top of
my back and shoulders, and it seemed to go on and on -
I guess that having to block in those big letters
really took a long time, and it certainly was
uncomfortable as hell. Just as he was finishing a
guard came in and handed him a piece of paper - he
took his 'phones off for a moment, and said "Is this
his SIN?"

"Yup! His registration's just come through from the
slave registration bureau. And his owner wants his ID
number put at the base of his spine, right above where
his crack starts. But not in those giant letters that
you've done up there - he said something about
eighteen point - does that make sense?

The tattooist nodded, put his 'phones back in, and
then I felt his needle digging in again right above my
ass. I knew about SINs, of course, as they'd told me
that I would be properly registered, but I never
thought that it would be tattooed onto my body -
still, there didn't seem any point in even trying to
complain, as all that would happen would they punish
me until I signed a voluntary agreement. What asholes
our legislators were not to see such an obvious flaw
in their legislation. But then, perhaps that's what
they wanted - to be seen to have humane legislation,
so they could brag about it to the rest of the world,
but not to have to bother about implementing it
properly.

When he'd done my back, he didn't even bother to stop
listening to his fucking music - just slapped my naked
ass casually to attract my attention, then gestured to
me to turn over. It wasn't so bad when he did my name
again on my chest, but when he came to do the word
"slave" across my belly, it actually hurt even more
than I expected - I guess the muscles there are more
sensitive, or something. And, of course, he had to
shave a big strip across my belly hair before he could
begin: when I looked down afterwards, the swathe
across my body hair seemed to make the words stand out
even more!

When I looked at myself in the mirror on the wall I
saw something that was becoming less and less
recognisably "me", and more an more a "slave". Those
huge tattoos really changed me - there's no way I'd
ever have had that done, and I wondered even now if I
would be able to get rid of them after my indenture
period was over. The tattooist saw me looking, and
said, as if he was proud of what he'd done to me,
"Pretty neat, huh? You slave boys really are lucky
getting all this for free. That much work would cost
you a fortune normally."

They gave me a T and a pair of plain slave shorts
then, and it was really good to be covered up once
more - I started to feel a bit more human. But my
"processing" wasn't over yet - in another room in the
place there was a workshop with a big beefy slave
standing there - it was hot in the room, and he was
naked except for his leather apron to protect his
front - as he turned you could see all his bare back
and ass, and it was like some sort of weird erotic
photo that you usually sometimes see in those leather
magazines on the top shelf at the newsagent.

He smiled at me, and said "You're Steve?"

"Yes."

"Don't worry, this isn't going to hurt. It's only the
men around here who hurt you. I'm a slave, like you,
as hard work's involved, but us slaves stick
together."

He picked up a piece of paper, came around and lifted
my T, and said to me "Just checking that this work
order's really for you - there might be a couple of
Steve's coming in here today. But yes, your SIN
corresponds.... You're lucky, you've obviously got a
considerate owner, as he's letting you have a chain
collar."

"A collar?"

"Yes - he's asked you for to be collared and cuffed.
It's a bit unusual, as collaring is really dying out -
it was very popular when the Indentured Servant laws
came in a few years ago as owners wanted everyone to
see that they had the money to own a slave. But now I
think the fashion's swinging a bit the other way, as
rich guys like to kind of say that they own so many
slaves that it's nothing special, so they don't need
visible collars and stuff. Mind you, we do about half
of the slaves who come through here still, and I feel
sorry for the ones who have to solid collars, as how
ever carefully they're fitted, sooner or later they
chafe and you get sores and stuff. Your owner is
clearly enlightened - your collar and cuffs are to be
in chain: big, heavy links of course, as you're a
tough, masculine guy and the decoration needs to be in
keeping with your general body style. Now... Come over
here, and bend down in front of my anvil...."

Well, what was the point in resisting? It didn't sound
much, and there wasn't anything I could do, was there?
So I knelt on the floor, and the slave fussed around
trying out different lengths of chain around my neck.
He tugged and fiddled with it, always trying just to
get a finger between the links and my flesh, and
asking me if it was too tight, and if I could breathe
easily.

"I won't make it too tight", he said. "Even though
you're obviously fit and in shape, once you get really
working as a slave it's inevitable that all your
muscles will thicken up a bit, and having a collar
that's choking you stops you giving your owner the
best. Now, hold still - I've got to weld this thing
shut as it's steel - I'm putting this shield between
the collar and your neck, but it may get hot anyway.
But whatever you do, don't move - it will soon be
over."

It did get hot, and it was uncomfortable, too, as some
of the sparks showering off the work really stung my
back. But he was right - it didn't hurt, really. When
he told me I could get to my feet, I felt the weight
of the chain around me: it must have been a couple of
pounds, or, at least, it felt like that. Standing
there it almost weighed me down, and it was a new
reminder to me that I was no longer a man, but a
slave, wearing a collar at the command of my master.

"That's the worst out of the way... Now for the
cuffs...."

"What are they?"

"Just like your collar, but around your wrists, which
we do sometimes, and around your ankles, which is a
bit more unusual. I guess you're going to spend a lot
of time naked?"

"I don't know what my owner intends. What makes you
say that, though?"

"Well, think about it, Steve. You'd look really...
Well, 'exotic', I suppose you'd say, standing there
nude with just that nose ring, your collar, and the
cuffs all sparkling in steel. They kind of delineate
your body, and the contrast between the steel and the
skin is somehow 'erotic', even, I guess..."

Oh shit, I thought. I mean, although I'd got used to
being naked in the last few hours, I didn't want to
have to be like that all the time, did I?

Still, the welding of the ankle and wrist bracelets
was not quite as bad as the neck collar, and the slave
evidently knew what he was doing as, other than their
weight, which felt odd at first as I took a few steps,
they weren't too tight or anything.

They kept me at the auction centre that night, and as
I was now sold, and someone else's property, I got a
bit better treatment than I had when I was stock
awaiting auction - I was allowed to keep the shorts
and T, and I was in a reasonably sized cage that even
had a bed wide enough for me to lie in properly -
except, of course, that I couldn't sleep much as my
tattoos, my nose and my dick all sent constant
complaints to my brain if I so much as put any
pressure at all on the. You try sleeping when all
those parts of you are sensitive!

The next morning I was even allowed to shower
properly, fed a good meal of slave chow, and given a
clean T and shorts! How quickly I seemed to be
adapting to this new life, and finding pleasure and
gratitude for simple things: I mean, starting out the
day in clean clothes with a clean body isn't all that
special, is it? I used to do it every day in my "old"
life. But compared with what I'd been through n the
last two days, it was heaven.

I had to wait for a couple of hours, or thereabouts, I
think, just standing outside the door of the doctor's
office in the centre. No one seemed bothered, or
explained why I was waiting: inwardly I marked this
down as another facet of slave life: my time was
worthless, and it didn't matter if I just stood there
for ever. And, of course, I couldn't go and complain
as I would have if I was more than a few minutes late
normally. Still, it was quite interesting just
standing there in the corridor - I watched all the
newly-enslaved go by on their way to and from various
processings and the auction room, and I felt my dick
begin to stir when they led a lot of half-naked women
past - at least that drug he'd given me was wearing
off.

When the doctor did see me he told me to drop my
shorts, then as I stood in front of his chair, he just
took hold of my dick (no "now I'll just do something a
little intimate...." as you'd get from a doctor
normally - he just handled me as he liked) and pulled
the plaster off. I winced, and gave a little cry, but
he was now rolling my dick around in his hands.

"This looks OK - I don't think we need to plaster it
again. I used a good sharp scalpel, and neat
stitching.... The scabs will drop off in a day or two,
and until then, don't jerk off, or fuck. Just let
nature take its course. Now, just erect for me, will
you....."

Try as I might, I just couldn't get hard. I mean, a
doctor just doesn't normally ask you to do that, does
he?

"Listen, slave", he snapped, "When a man tells you to
get erect for him, you'd better do it. I'll make
allowances for the fact that there may be still some
of the drug in you.... Now, try again, or else I'll
get a slave in here to wank you until you're raw...."

I stood there, and the harder I tried, the worse it
got - my dick, that normally disgraces me by leaping
to attention at every possible moment, just hung
there."

"I'm warning you, slave...."

"Sir, can I.... Can I.... Can I stimulate myself?" I
forced the words our, flushing with embarrassment. I
mean, you don't ask another guy if you can jerk off,
do you? I didn't even really know how to ask the
question - should I say "jerk off", or was there some
medical term you used with a doctor?

"Do what you like, as long as that dick is hard in the
next two minutes - I don't have all day, and I need to
make sure that your 'skin still slides back properly:
if it's too tight, you'll be in pain every time you
get an erection!"

I started to stroke myself gently, and then harder and
harder. I closed my eyes, to try to shut out the
doctor's office, and the sight of the doctor looking
at me. I thought of all the sexiest things I could, I
tried to replay the last time I'd had sex, and most of
all, I just kept jacking.

Fortunately, it all worked, and I felt myself starting
to go hard, and, of course, once you're a bit hard,
you can always make yourself completely hard just by
jerking yourself, can't you? I hated having my dick
stuck out in front of me like that, but I suppose he
was a doctor and was used to seeing it (especially
here in the auction centre). But when he took the end
of it in his hand and started to gentle tease my 'skin
back, I instinctively tried to back away from him.

"Steady, boy!", he snapped. "You'd better get used to
having a man hold your dick, where you're going!"

"Sir? Please, what do you mean, 'where I'm going'?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter - you'll find out, soon enough!
Anyway, you look fine. I think I've done a good job on
you, really enhanced the look of your dick. Now, as I
said, no jerking off, no fucking. I don't need to
bandage you up again as the wound's scabbed over. And
the stitches will dissolve themselves in a couple of
days. So that's it.... You're out of here."

I suppose it's a mark of how relaxed the authorities
are about slavery now that they don't insist that
slaves are locked up all the time, or even cuffed. Not
even when they're in transit between one place and
another. I guess it's because in our society, as I've
said, without your driver's licence, credit cards and
all that stuff you just can't do anything: no job, no
use of transport, no place to stay, no way of buying
food... Once you're in the Indentured Servant
programme and they've allocated you your SID, that's
it - they know that you might be able to go on the run
for a few days, but sooner or later you'll be caught.
Nevertheless, I was expecting to be moved to my new
"home" in some kind of special slave transporter - I'd
obviously seen them on the highways, with the slaves'
faces peering out from the barred windows as they were
carried to unknown destinations, or, perhaps, put into
a transit cage and shipped by FedEx or UPS as I knew
they did a lot of that kind of business. So I was
surprised, when I was directed down to the loading
bay, and instead of being caged or anything, there was
the slave Gary sitting there, just in his pale blue
satin shorts as before, swinging his legs idly over
the edge of the dock and apparently just enjoying the
morning sunshine.

He saw me, and scrambled to his feet. "Hey, Steve....
You're looking good!"

"Gary... Is my owner here to collect me?"

"It's owners, in the plural, Steve - Master Brett and
Master Jed. They run the place together. But they
wouldn't bother to come down to collect you - they
just sent me to show you the way. But you're late -
and we'll have to get a move on, as I think Master
Brett wants to start your training this afternoon.
We'll have to jog back - you can run three miles,
can't you?"

Well of course I could - I worked out and exercised
regularly.

"Sure... But not in bare feet...."

"Oh, here...." He handed me a pair of trainers - the
sort I used myself. "We have to work out a lot to keep
in shape, so every new slave gets a new pair of
trainers, and they knew your size from the sale
statistics. Oh... And these....", he continued,
handing , me something very small and shiny. "...you
have to leave that T and the shorts here at the centre
as they belong to them, and the masters don't want to
be billed extra. So they sent these standard uniform
shorts for you... Hurry up and strip off and get
dressed, and we'll be off."

Well, this didn't all sound too bad. I always indulged
myself with expensive trainers, as I spent a lot of
time exercising and thought that cheap knockoffs just
weren't worth risking my muscles for. If they were
prepared to spend that much on a slave, for his
exercise, perhaps things would turn out all right.

Mind you, there were no socks - I had to put the
trainers on bare foot. And when I pulled on the
shorts, they were obscene! Look, I understand that
there's no harm in showing off a man's body,
especially when he's a slave. I mean, look at how guys
spend a fortune on swimming trunks and Speedos so that
they can cut a good figure at the beach or pool. But
in some ways it was worse wearing these shorts than it
was to be naked! They were just designed to titillate
and excite anyone looking at me, to make them salivate
at the thought of what was being concealed. They were
like that sexy underwear you see in the stores, that
is designed to make you come over all lustful if your
girl friend wears it... Yes, that's it: the shorts
were the male equivalent of that!

For a start, the fabric - a thin, shiny white
satin-like material. It clung to my body, and was
translucent, rather than opaque. So the dark patch of
my pubic hair could be seen quite clearly - that is if
you weren't looking at the outline of my dick that was
perfectly clear because of the cut of the things. They
were "tailored" so that when I pulled them on, as high
as I could so that they were almost cutting into that
sensitive area underneath my balls, the waistband was
still so low that the top of my clipped pubes sprayed
over the top of it, and at the back the start of my
ass crack was openly on display even just standing
upright, and not bending over. They clung to my ass
like glue, and had the back seam done so that it rode
down into my crack and my ass cheeks were individually
clearly delineated. But at the front they were looser,
except that they had a fly opening without a zip or
any other fastening - just a tiny overlap. At any
moment I felt that my dick and balls could easily fall
out.

I stood there, tugging at the waistband and at the
obscenely short legs (if my dick didn't fall out of
the fly, I felt it might poke out from the legs!),
trying futilely to get more coverage.

Gary grinned at me, and said "We all feel like that at
first, Steve... But don't worry! You won't often fall
out of them.... And it means that a lot of
time-wasters don't bother to have you strip - they can
see mostly what they're getting, and move on if it's
not suitable! Now, strip off that T, as it belongs
ere, and let's go..."

I pulled the T over my head, feeling little twinges of
discomfort as my belly, pecs and shoulder muscles
moved under their new tattoos, and looked at Gary. He
saw what I was after, and said "Oh no, we don't get Ts
or anything - just shorts. I'm always a bit ashamed,
personally, as I'm only slightly built - but you're OK
- a hunk like you, muscled like that - those tats
really suit you. And without a shirt your collar and
cuffs are much more prominent..."

"Hey, about that... Why do you only have a nose ring
and a collar and I've got this extra junk..."

"Oh come on, Steve, isn't it obvious? No one thinks I
could fight back or anything, so I don't need ankle
and wrist cuffs. But you.... Well, even if you are
gentle as a lamb, you look pretty tough and fierce
with all that manly hair over you, and those
muscles.... They'll almost always want you 'gently
restrained', as the brochure says..."

I went to ask him what all this shit was about, but he
just shouted "Come on, let's go fast, so as not to be
late... I don't want to be spanked again...", and ran
off, signalling for me to follow.

It wasn't that hard, actually - as I've said, I'm used
to exercising and working out, and I've got good long
legs, and a good lung capacity, so running is one of
my favourite pastimes. I could easily keep pace with
the slighter, shorter Gary as we ran along the
sidewalks towards the city centre. I could easily ask
him more questions, as I was well within my limits.
But he was obviously straining, to go as fast as he
could, and it didn't seem fair to make him use his
breath for talking: mind you, I did wonder what kind
of punishments there were, and how freely they were
handed out, to make him run quite as fast as this when
he was clearly outside his comfort zone.

I'm used to it now, of course, but that first time I
ran, almost naked, through downtown it felt so odd. In
spite of my embarrassment about the shorts we were
both perfectly "decent", I suppose, and I guess that
in the past I'd noticed that the summer uniform of the
municipal employees sweeping the streets and so on was
just shorts. But it was autumn now, and going colder,
so we were the only ones just in shorts now on the
streets, and the only ones running. And most slaves
were only discretely tattooed with their owners' names
and their SINs, whereas the words "Gary" and "Steve"
positively shrieked out at the passers by from our
bodies. Or, of course, it could just have been that
people enjoy seeing guys in good shape exercising.
Whatever the reason, though, I felt constantly
embarrassed - especially when a load of slaves working
on one of the construction sites whistled at us as we
ran past!

We went right down town, and fortunately there was one
of the special slaveways between the regular sidewalk
and the roadway, to facilitate the passage of slaves
on business for their owners, so we could keep going
without any fear of jostling pedestrians, or of
getting in the way of the traffic. Gary slowed in
front of one of the biggest and most prestigious
office towers right in the centre, and said,
haltingly, his breath coming in big pants "We're
here."

I went to go in through the doors, but he grabbed hold
of my arm and pulled me back. "Are you mad, Steve?
This is the public entrance - slaves have to use the
side door! That security guard would whip your ass as
soon as looking at you if you go into the normal lobby
when you're not accompanying a free man.

It had honestly never occurred to me before that
segregation like that might be practised, but Gary
went on "And be careful on the subway and the bus,
too, if you're told to take one - always get in the
slave area, however crowded it is and however empty
the 'free men' part is. A lot of freemen will complain
to the guard or driver instantly if they have to
mingle with slaves, and public transit employees can
punish slaves, you know."

Well, I didn't know! But the more I thought about it,
the more I realised that I hadn't really seen a lot of
slaves around as I went about my business - perhaps
that was why, they were all mostly segregated from us,
except when they were directly working in the same
area.

In contrast to the soaring ten-story atrium in
stainless steel and glass of the public entrance, the
slave entrance was just a small metal door in the side
alley. Inside, Gary told me we'd better run up the ten
flights to "our" floor, as there was only one slave
elevator and this could take for ever to journey up
and down the building. The staircase was just like
fire stairs - concrete, grey, and ill-lit, and even I
was out of breath a bit after ten flights. We emerged
into a reception area, with a young male slave sitting
behind an impressive reception desk. On the wall
behind him, the sign said "Slaves For Your Pleasure,
Inc.", and then, in smaller letters, "Serving the
needs of the traveller for over ten years."

 End Of Part Four