Date: Tue, 19 Apr 2005 13:59:41 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Labourer, Part 1

This is a new story of mine, which I hope you'll
publish in gay/male/authoritarian as you do my other
works.   This is NOT part of the "Spoils of War" saga,
but entirely separate.  I'm sending it to you now as I
don't want to lag in posting it fro mwhere I am in
writing it, by very much.  And if I wait for the last
four parts of Spoils Of War to getposted, I'll neve
catch up with this one!  Hope that's OK with you....
Pete

THE LABOURER  by Pete Brown.  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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


I was inspired  to write this story after I had
re-read the stories "Wiseman" and, in particular,
"Wiseman II" by Sam Black.


Part  1

In my nice comfortable small town, it was expected
that you'd go to college after High School, and my mom
and dad had always prudently saved into a college fund
for me. So when I told them that I didn't want to,
that I had no intention of sitting in an office all
day like dad, there were major rows.  Not only did mom
and dad fear that I'd end up destitute as
increasingly, dad told me, there would only be jobs
for the well educated.  But when they went out to
their friends for dinner, or at the church socials,
all their friends would be talking about how their
sons and daughters were doing a college, and they
would feel ashamed.

So why didn't I just do what all my buddies were
doing?  I was never going to go to one of the major
league places, for sure, but my grades would make it
easy for me to go to one of the State colleges.  And
as they all said, I'd have a lot of fun there - I was
a bit of a jock at High School, in the football team
and doing well at track and field, and there would be
lots of opportunities to carry on playing at college.
And the girls really go for guys on the college teams,
they pointed out - "you've pretty much fucked your way
around all the talent in the town, and there's a whole
lot of new pussy out there, just ready for the
taking...."

Well they were right, I suppose.  Ever since I lost my
virginity at fourteen I'd been screwing around.  I'd
never really had a serious girl friend, just a whole
lot of short, casual affairs - I won't say
relationships -  as a guy needs to get his rocks off,
doesn't he?  But I really wasn't interested in being
"friends" with these girls, or spending all the time
they seemed to need to chat them up, talk to them,
spend time with them:  my dick was usually raging, and
all  I wanted to do was fuck.  And if they didn't open
up their legs for me, or at the very least blow me,
then I just wasn't interested.

Mom and dad continued to rant at me as Graduation
approached and I carried on refusing to even think
about college admission, and in the end I decided to
quit home - even though I knew I'd then have to do all
my own laundry, and get all my own food, it was a
whole lot better than the incessant nag, nag, nag that
I was experiencing.  It was a pretty grungey sort of
place I found, on the "wrong side of town", but it was
cheap - and what does a guy really need?  Just one
room with a shower off it, with a bed, a  couch, a
sink and cooker in one corner, and room for my TV and
stereo!   But it was cheap, and I was my own man - if
I wanted to pick up some woman and bring her back and
screw the eyeballs out of her, I could - no fumbling
around in the living room, always wondering if mom or
dad might peek over the banisters to "see if
everything was all right", as they said.  And it
wasn't difficult to get a job, either:  sure it didn't
pay much, labouring doesn't, but there was enough to
pay the rent, make the payments on my bike, for enough
Mexican and pizza to feed me in the evenings and
breakfasts at fast food joints, and for beers with my
buddies.

I met a nice crowd of guys labouring for my employer,
a big landscape contractor in the area.  There was a
lot of new home building  going on, so there was
always more than enough work to do that needed sheer
brawn and muscle -  in those small suburban yards you
can't get in big mechanical diggers and stuff, it all
has to be done by hand.  Most of the guys were like me
- just looking for an undemanding job where we could
use our muscle, make enough to pay the rent so we had
no worries, and have plenty of free time for fun.
There were some bonuses, too - all those lonely bored
housewives in their nice neat little boxes were
panting for it - their husbands came home late and
exhausted, and so worried about work that they
couldn't get it up;  so when a good looking guy with a
toned body was working around the place they couldn't
help but watch and for their juices to begin to run.
Sooner or later they'd be out in the yard offering a
glass of lemonade or a cup of coffee, and it was easy
to play them along and take twenty minutes out for a
satisfying fuck.  I played the field to the full -
I've got those kind of rugged good looks that women
seem to like, and I always wore really tight Jeans
that emphasised my butt and thighs - I read in one of
those women's magazines in the dentist's waiting room
that the feature women really like in a man is a nice
firm, tight ass, so I always made sure that my Jeans
stretched tautly over mine.  And, of course, given the
slightest opportunity when the sun peaked through,
I'd strip off first my sweat shirt, so they could see
my torso straining through my T, and then as I worked
on and that got a lovely patch of sweat right down the
back and front, I'd pull it off too.   I always made
sure that they were watching me as I pulled the hem of
my T up and then over my head - a woman doesn't want
to be seen to be admiring a guy, but if you give them
the opportunity to take a close look at you when they
think they can't see you because your T is covering
your face, I can guarantee that they will take a long,
hard look!    And once they'd seen my nicely muscled
pecs with my big dark tits, the light dusting of black
hair on my chest and the treasure trail leading down
over my six pack to disappear into the waistband of my
jeans, then they were hooked!

Life was pretty good, I have to say.  I really had no
worries at all.  I didn't need all that much to live
on, and my wages more than adequately covered it.  And
if I was a bit short occasionally, say if I was saving
for a new bike, then it was always easy to pick up
jobs on the side - we'd be working on some yard, and
the husband might sidle up and ask if I was willing to
drop by at the weekend and do some extra work - lay a
bit more paving, dig over the flower border, that kind
of stuff.  Most of these guys just didn't like doing
anything physical, and they'd rather pay me to do it
than pay my employers, who'd add in their profit, and
would have to add in sales tax and stuff like that,
whereas I was "cash in the hand" and cheaper.   It was
good for me, too - it kept me working at weekends so
that I didn't have to spend money, it was another
opportunity to keep my body healthy and trim, and of
course the IRS knew nothing about it, so all the money
was mine.

I did sometimes wonder whether some of those husbands
really asked me to do stuff because they liked my body
as much as their wives did!  All these executive types
in their thirties and forties would be rushing around
offering me a beer, helping me carry my tools and all
that sort of stuff.  And sometimes, of course, they
just sat on the deck pretending to read the weekend
papers, but peeking over the top of them to observe me
as I worked away.  But no way was I going to get mixed
up in that sort of stuff - well, I mean, a dick is for
pussy, isn't it?  I wouldn't want it up some guy's
ass!  And my ass was tight and virgin, and it was
going to stay that way.  Mind you I did wonder
sometimes what it would be like to let some of these
guys blow me - how different could it be, after all,
to have a guy's mouth around your dick rather than
some woman's?  And I suppose fucking a guy's ass
wouldn't be all that much different from a woman's,
either:  I occasionally did that to some of the
bitches if they kept on and on at me to fuck them
again, when I wasn't in the mood.

Even though I had this great healthy job, I still
wanted more.  Somehow at the end of the day I wouldn't
be tired enough, no matter how hard I'd worked.  I had
a really good reputation with my employers for hard
work, and they knew that they could send me to a
client without the need for a foreman or anything  -
they'd tell me it was a couple of days' work or
something, and they knew I would really labour away at
it, without slacking, and would often finish earlier.
I enjoyed using my body, I liked that feeling of
complete exhaustion that can sweep over you when
you've been really stretching your abilities,   So if
I finished early on the last day, as I usually did as
my work rate was so high, I felt dissatisfied and
frustrated as I lay on the couch watching TV and just
jerking off.  Well, sure, of course I still jerked off
- I didn't get pussy more than three or four times a
week, and that isn't enough to keep a young guy sane,
is it?

The solution of course was to join a gym, but most of
those are designed for posers who just want to prance
around in their designer workout clothes  - there's
hardly a real man with a proper body amongst them.
Or, conversely, there are those dreadful over-muscled
gym bunnies, who spend hours and hours working away at
their abs, or pecs, or something, and end up like over
muscled pieces of beef.  My body was muscled, but lean
and trim, as you can only get from really working,
using the whole body, in all kinds of subtle ways, all
the time.  The other problem, of course, is that these
gyms are really expensive - most of the posers are
there on corporate memberships from their employers,
so they can jack up the fees as high as they like, and
I knew the real value of money:  I could directly
translate a monthly gym fee into the number of hours
I'd have to slog away working on some construction
project or other.  I'd basically decided I wasn't
going to spend the money, and worked out some of my
frustration by jogging - no, that gives you the wrong
idea of middle aged fat guys parading around the park
at not much more than a fast walk!  I didn't jog, I
ran, and ran hard, and fast, and for long distances.
I'd get back to my place absolutely soaked in sweat,
then as the endorphin high persisted, I'd loll there
on my couch and jerk off - it's good to do it like
that, isn't it?  You can afford to allow your cum to
spray all over your body and there's no need to catch
it in toilet tissue or anything, as you're going to
leap into the shower soon anyway.

I was a bit surprised one weekend when I had been
toiling away re-laying a paved area around a fancy
barbecue for some dude when he brought me out a beer,
then as I swallowed it down as I'd been sweating a lot
in the hot sun, he sat and talked to me about working
out.  I told him I didn't, as I couldn't afford the
gym fees, but that I'd like to occasionally - I mean,
it's OK to go running when it's dry, but it can be
pretty miserable when there's a storm, and in our neck
of the woods they can be really fierce!  And, of
course, when I couldn't run, I was often laid off from
work as well, making me really frustrated as my body
craved hard work.  And there's only so many press-ups,
trunk curls, jumping jacks, and all that other kind of
shit that you can do in a small apartment without any
equipment.  So I told him I was vaguely interested,
and he went on to say that there was a group of local
businessmen who would pay to subsidise gym memberships
for guys like me.

"Why?", I asked, not unnaturally.

"Oh, you know, we like to see the gym used properly.
And guys like you are easy on the eyes..."

"Hey, I'm no fag!"

"Oh, don't get me wrong  -  we just like to look!
There's something special about seeing fit young guys
like you working out really hard - it's no more 'fag'
than watching the athletes at the Olympic Games, or
something like that!  All those millions of viewers
tune in to see the gymnasts and the track and field,
all those fit, muscled bodies working away - the whole
audience cant be 'fag', can it?  Well, my colleagues
and I are like that:  we're tired of going down to the
gym and seeing a whole load of paunchy guys prancing
around - we want to see some real action, smell some
real sweat.....  Think of it like a scholarship to
College that someone pays for to get clever but poor
kids to be able to go:  we pay most of the gym fees of
nice fit guys who can't ante up all the money."

Well, I still wasn't sure.  But it sounded at least
plausible.  And I can take care of myself - if there
was any funny business, I'd soon be out of there,
leaving some busted heads behind.   But the next
Saturday, as I had no little "job on the side", I went
down to this swanky place to see what it was like.
Some of the members really looked at me as I roared in
to the parking on my bike - as they locked their BMW's
I wasn't sure whether  they were looking at me angrily
for coming there in my leathers, or whether they were
jealous of my youth, and the freedom I had to burn
along on my bike rather than being stuck inside an
air-conditioned car.  The receptionists gave me a nice
smile, though, and I marked them down as potential
dick fodder once I'd had time to make myself known.
They seemed to be expecting me, and in exchange for a
really small monthly fee, I was soon equipped with a
membership card and a locker key.

It was a kind of odd place, really - all those really
high-tech machines for working out on.  But the thing
that was a real joy for me was the fact that they had
a huge pool - I've always enjoyed swimming, and I'm
really good at it.  I'd kind of heard about it, and so
I'd come prepared, with my Speedos in my gym bag.  No,
it wasn't so much the facilities that were odd, but
some of the other guys: in the locker room they almost
hid themselves as they changed, and as they walked
from the lockers to the showers after exercising, they
wrapped towels around their bodies as if they were
ashamed of them - and the showers weren't the proper
communal ones, either, as I'd been used to at school,
but those stupid little individual cubicles that you
have at home.  I'd always thought that part of the fun
of working out was that you could talk to the other
guys in the showers, as you let the hot water cascade
over you, relaxing you after your hard work.

It was good, though, actually - I did some weights
work, noticing that I was the only guy there in an old
worn T and cheap shorts, whereas everyone else was in
fancy track suits and workout wear with big names on
it.  Then  I stripped off and pulled on my Speedos,
and spent an hour thrashing up and down the pool at
really high speed - it was really well organised, and
they had lanes earmarked for those who wanted to swim
slowly, the medium paced people, and the racers, like
me!  I was totally exhausted at the end of it, and
almost without thinking stripped off my Speedos,
flicked my dick to free it from my balls where it had
been stuck by the tight fabric, and strode off towards
the showers.  It's funny, isn't it - you feel your
dick bobbing up and down if you walk fast: I suppose
you don't really get a chance to walk very far when
you are in the privacy of your own home which is the
only other time you're really naked, and so it kind of
comes to your attention.  And three were lots of pairs
of eyes on me as I strode the length of the locker
room towards the showers.    I'd only bought a small
towel with me, too - so there didn't seem much point
in attempting to wrap it around me when I'd finished -
I just stood there and roughly towelled off (not very
hard to do, as I keep my hair really short as I hate
it flopping all over my eyes when I'm working,) then
went back to pull on my leathers and go home.

After I'd been there two or three times I realised
there were some other guys like me, and I got to talk
to them as we changed.  It became clear that these
"businessmen" paid for about ten of us to be members
at the really cheap rate, and we all laughed about it
as it seemed somehow vaguely erotic to know that we
were only there to be looked at!  I mean, you don't
really display yourself to other guys, do you?  I wore
tight jeans and skimpy Ts when  I was working as they
were cheap, easy to dump in  the washer, and attracted
the women. But the idea of pulling on gym clothes, and
Speedos, so that men could ogle my body seemed gross,
somehow.  Or was it?  I mean, it wasn't as if it was
harming us;  we didn't have to do anything for it,
just be "natural" (and the more "natural", the better,
I suppose). We all agreed though that it was a small
price to pay for the convenience of being able to use
the gym and pool, and so we laughed amongst ourselves
at the older guys who were desperately trying to keep
the flab  for completely taking over  their bodies.  I
did wonder, though, how prostitutes went about their
work, knowing their bodies were not only going to be
looked at, but actually fucked;  and the thought of a
guy paying to use my body actually made me feel
physically sick.

Exercise is a bit like a drug, though.  Them more of
it you do, the more of it you want to do, need to do,
almost. It didn't seem to matter how hard I drove my
body when I was working, how many extra jobs I did on
the weekends, and how many hours I went down to the
gym, it never seemed to be quite enough.  Somehow I
always wanted more, there seemed to be limits that I
could never quite reach as I didn't have the time -
or, rather, I didn't have the will.  Look, don't get
me wrong, I was perfectly capable of driving myself
really hard, and when I was at work, or in the pool,
no one worked harder than me.  But I was perhaps
vaguely conscious of not really "pushing the
envelope", of "going the extra mile", or whatever.  I
suppose that's why, conventionally, you have workout
buddies:  two guys working out together will always
compete, even if they're really close buddies.  You
just can't help it, can you?  That's what men do,
naturally, as millions of years of evolution have bred
into us.  And when you're competing with another guy,
you do give it that extra ten percent, you do push
just that bit harder, you do force yourself to do
things that you really thought you couldn't.  I didn't
have the option of a buddy like that, though:  with
working late, and on the weekends and whatever, I
never knew when  I was going to the gym, and anyway, I
most often went there in the middle of the day when
there was a storm or something, and most other guys
were in the office.  Even when there were some of the
other "special" guys there as well as me, we still
couldn't really buddy up, as I was by far the
strongest and most agile - sure, I've got in-built
advantages as my six-six frame gets me off to a good
start, but on top of that, my job and my workouts had
already made me the fittest of us all, so "competing"
was hard.

I suppose I'd had these vague feelings of
dissatisfaction for a long time, but life was anyway
OK.  I never had to worry about money really as my
needs were simple, it wasn't arduous living alone
(well, I guess some folk would think the dust around
the place was a bit gross, but  I always took out the
trash so there weren't piles of pizza cartons and beer
cans around the place), I just tossed my stuff into
the washer once a week and didn't bother with ironing
and stuff, and, as I've told you, there were lots of
opportunities for warm, fresh pussy.  Mom and dad had
almost become reconciled to my way of life, too - they
still fretted that I was "wasting my life", especially
as after a few years all their friends' kids returned
from college, got good jobs, and started to get
married and buy homes.  But we were kind of rubbing
along, with mom asking me to eat about once a week
(which I often turned down, as I'd rather work, or go
to the gym, or something).  Somehow the years slipped
by as I led my no stress, comfortable life, that
suited me like a comfortable old sweat shirt..

I'd never really been interested in politics and stuff
like that - just keep your head down, work hard, stay
afloat, and have a good time, that was my motto.  But
when we met, mom and dad were always going on about
this and that - the tighter border controls to stop
the Mexicans flooding in, the tightening of the social
security system so that illegals couldn't work, and
what they said was the threat to our liberties as it
became almost impossible to go anywhere or do anything
without a credit card and a driver's licence.  And
when the government said they were going to empty the
prisons and "really make the criminals pay" by
introducing indentured service, they were almost
apoplectic.  "It's just like slavery", my dad fumed,
shaking the paper where he'd just read another
editorial denouncing the new scheme. "You get
sentenced, and then you have to work for your
employer, with no choice - well, not after he's bought
your contract at the government auction, that is."

"But dad, surely it will deter criminals from breaking
the law - if you're going to become an indentured
servant, rather than just lolling around idly in jail,
don't you think some folks will get proper jobs and
not live as parasites on the rest of us?  And the
prisons do cost a lot to maintain and run, and they
say the indentured servant system will be completely
cost free to the taxpayer - the money that employers
have to pay the state for the contracts will actually
turn in a profit.  It sounds good to me..."

"Steve, think about it!  It's just like slavery!  When
the early settlers came here from Europe, there were
indentured servants, and they were treated just like
slaves - they couldn't move around, had to live on
their employers' places, couldn't marry without his
permission...."

"Oh come on, dad - an indentured servant couldn't be
whipped, not like some of those plantation owners did
to the slaves they imported from Africa."

"Yes they could, son!  And buried in the small print
of the indentured servants legislation there's much
the same thing - if an indentured servant doesn't work
properly these days, his contract owner can employ
'physical sanctions', as they put it.  I expect we'll
see public whipping posts appearing in the town square
any day now!", he snorted angrily, and screwed up the
paper and threw it on the ground.  Dad was always one
to over-exaggerate to make his point, and I thought it
was a bit of a joke.

Well, as I said, I wasn't all that interested in
politics and stuff, and this indentured servant thing
didn't affect me as I never broke the law anyway.  I
even thought it was a pretty good idea, as even on my
low wages as a labourer I found myself paying huge
amounts of federal and state tax, and social
security.... If those idle fucking prisoners started
to work and make money, it seemed to be a good thing,
to me.

I was twenty four when matters really came to a head.
I was still living the life  I chose, and mom and dad
had changed their badgering of me from "get a proper
job", to "find a nice girl and settle down as we'd
like grandchildren".  Well I hadn't done the first,
and I had no plans to do the second, as there was
enough pussy out there for the taking without needing
to tie myself down to have to earn money to pay for
some idle bitch and a band of whining kids!  My
feelings of general dissatisfaction with my body were
still high, even though by normal standards I was like
a Greek god.  One night, after I'd been working really
late and there wasn't really time to go to the gym, I
was nursing a beer in a bar around the corner form my
tiny apartment.  Also at the bar was a well set-up guy
who I judged to be in his early forties, who seemed to
be in reasonable shape, unlike so many guys of his
age.  He was casually, but not flamboyantly, dressed,
with clothes that seemed to be expensive but which
didn't scream out with designer labels.  Somehow he
made me feel a bit inadequate - I was in my tight
jeans and a T as usual, and I was conscious that the
smell of my dried sweat, from where I had been
working, was drifting towards him.

I sucked thirstily at my beer, and as you do in bars
late at night, we struck up a conversation.  "Been
working hard, then?", he enquired as an opening.

"Yes.... Sorry about the stink".  I smiled faintly at
him, indicating my sweaty pits.  "I was really late on
the site, and I stopped in for a drink on my way home
- I'm only on the next block.  It's not bothering you,
is it?"

"Hell, no.  I like a man to be like a man.  Can't
stand those guys drenched in fancy cologne and stuff.
A man should smell like a man.  So what are you
working at - it's late, isn't it?"

"Oh, construction.  I just labour.  And we wanted to
get clear of the site tonight, so we all stayed on to
finish up rather than having to go back tomorrow."

"Well, it seems to do you good - you don't see a lot
of young guys in good shape, like you...."

Oh shit, I thought.  This is another fag trying to
pick me up.  That's one of the problems of having
strong masculine features, and a big, hard body - guys
in bars seem to think that you smut be some sort of
male hooker or something if you just go in for a drink
by yourself.  I've never had a particular problem with
it, I'm not one of those guys who explodes in anger if
someone tries to proposition them.  Not that I've ever
wanted to go with a guy, of course, but somehow it's a
bit flattering to have another guy admire you to the
extent that they want to see even more of your body,
isn't it?   Still, it does get a bit boring, and I
often wished that I could just have a normal
conversation about football, or something.

"So, in construction...  It must be getting tough."

"Why?"

"Well, all the indentured servants... Aren't they
doing jobs like that?  Isn't it hard to find work like
that, when an employer can buy an indentured servant's
contract and use them for a lot less than they'll have
to pay you in wages?"

"I guess it's because they don't pay me very much
anyway!  I think they'd have a problem competing
against the pittance they  pay me.  But then, I knew
that when I decided not to go to college...."

"So why didn't you go to college, if you could have?"

Well, I told him a bit of my life, as you do sometimes
to complete strangers.  It can be easier to talk to a
guy in a bar, or on a plane, or something, than it can
be to talk to your buddies sometimes, can't it?  We
laughed about my parents' disappointment about my not
going to college, and he said that a lot of folk would
be pleased when the college fund was freed-up.  We had
a couple more beers, then as the alcohol warmed my
belly and I relaxed, as you do, I got to talking about
work, and the gym, and stuff, and I told him about my
almost unbearable urge to use my body, to test it, to
push the limits.  And then, after another beer, I told
him how frustrated I was that I couldn't make myself
go to the real limit, to break through the barrier.
"Still", I continued, "there aren't that many guys of
my age with a body like mine, so I suppose I shouldn't
grumble.  It feels good sometimes to know that it's
only me who can work that hard, only me who can turn
out as much solid work as I do."

He laughed, genially.  "Oh Steve, you are really
fooling your self.  I have lots of guys working for me
who probably turn out just as much work as you do."

"No, come on!  I know, from looking around on the
site, that there aren't any guys who work as hard as I
do."

"That's because you probably don't work alongside
indentured servants.  The ones whose contracts I own
would out perform you easily, I'll bet."

"You work indentured servants?"

"Sure.  Rooney's Contracts, that's me.  Mike Rooney,
sole proprietor. I used to be an ordinary contractor,
but when they brought in the indentured servants, I
decided I could make more money from buying their
contracts, and then really working them hard.  Look, I
don't want to belittle your attitude to work, but most
labourers don't work away solidly:  they stop for
breaks, rest on their shovels every few minutes, stand
around watch as a truck backs in that they've got to
unload, and all that kind of stuff.  My guys never
stop - from the moment they arrive in the morning
until they're taken away at night, they never stop.
Not ever.  My overseers see to that.  No rest breaks,
no leaning on the shovels, no watching deliveries...
Just pure, not-stop hard work."

"Aw, come on!  No one works like that.  And if you're
not paying them, your social servants will be even
less likely to drive themselves into the ground.  At
least I keep at it because I don't want to get
fired... And there's a small performance bonus, too."

He laughed again.  "You really don't understand, do
you?  It doesn't matter how willing you are, how much
you say you work hard, how worried you are about being
fired, how much you need that bonus - there's
something holding you back, always.  It's your brain,
and it's built in, and there's nothing you can do
about it by yourself - your brain is constantly
monitoring your body, and it's always concerned that
you will run out of energy totally.  So it always
keeps something back, holds something in reserve."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, Steve.  Think about it - back in primeval times
when it was you against the sabre-toothed tiger, or
whatever, you never knew when something might start to
hunt you, rather than you hunt it.  So you wouldn't
want to run your body's energy reserves right down,
would you?  As a hunter you'd be tempted to keep
going:  'I can get it if I just go on for five more
minutes.... And five more... And five more...'  But
then, after all that, if you were totally exhausted
and something leaped on you, you'd be dead.  So the
brain learned to keep a strategic reserve of energy
and strength.  A secret store, that you can't use
consciously.  You don't even know you've got it until
you find, one day, that you really desperately need
it.  Your body feels totally exhausted, completely
worked out, but somewhere lurking inside you there's
that extra reserve, the reserve that only your
unconscious brain knows about and controls."

He must have seen my jaw dropping open in amazement,
as he continued "But with my social servants, it's
different.  I unlock those stores of energy, those
reserves of strength.  So my guys all work to their
absolute limits - there's no holding back at all."

"So how do you do that...?  I thought you said it was
locked away, by the brain, outside conscious control."

"Sure, it is.  But the brain can be fooled into
thinking that the time has come when  those secret
stores are needed, that the body is in such desperate
need of the energy, that it must be released.  And
that's what my overseers do, every day."

"No!  Look, I can buy in to the stuff about the brain
locking away some of the body's power and stuff - it
seems to make sense.  We are all conditioned by all
those millions of years of evolution.  But I don't
believe you've got a whole crew of guys who can work
harder, or even as hard, as I do!  I've seen so many
guys at work, and it just isn't possible."

"Are you a betting man, Steve?"

"I never say no to easy money...."

"So ten bucks on it?  Ten bucks that says that I've
got a crew, at least five guys, who can work harder
than you?"

I thought about it for a moment.  Was I being suckered
into something?  But it was only ten bucks - this was
a bet for fun, a bet that showed we were serious about
it, but not so serious that it threatened our
livelihood.  It's the kind of bet you often make,
isn't it, just to "play the game"?  So I gladly went
along with it, and asked  "And how will we know?"

"Are you free Sunday?  Come and work alongside my
crew, and see who stops first.  I'll pay you your
normal wages for the day, minus the ten bucks, that
is, when you stop."

I smiled at him broadly.  It wasn't the ten bucks, but
the thought of a challenge.  "Sure!  But are your guys
all working Sundays?  No church, or anything?"

"You don't look like the kind of guy who's
superstitious, Steve!  Surly you don't waste time with
church!"

"No, of course not.  I haven't got time for all that
praying to the ju-ju in the sky.  But in a crew of
five, in this part of the country, I'd have thought
that some of them at least...."

"Steve, where have you been?  They're indentured
servants.  It doesn't matter what they do or do not
want to do - they do as I say, or they suffer the
consequences.  Don't you keep up with the news?
That's why the indentured servant programme is so
successful - in jail these guys would have been
pampered,  locked up most of the time, sprawling
around in their cells and never made to do a stroke of
work.  And even then a lot of them would have played
the system, and said they wanted to be educated, or
reformed, or that they were christians or muslims or
some other rubbish, and needed to go and pray....  We
don't have any of that crap with indentured servants -
they all work seven days a week, from sunrise to
sunset.  And if they don't they get punished."

"Well sometimes even I like a day off, even if it
means losing a day's wages.  It sounds to me like
these indentured servants would take a break
sometimes."

He just laughed!  "We don't pay them, Steve.  Where
did you get that idea?  I buy their contracts from the
State, and then I have use of them, exclusive use,
twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.  They
don't get days off - that's a real waste for me."

"So how do you punish them, Mike?  I mean, I guess
that as you don't pay them, losing a day's wages if
they've done something wrong  isn't a sanction...
But there must be some incentive...."

"Let me tell you about incentives, Steve!  All those
funny schemes where they say they're measuring your
productivity, or setting you targets, or something....
They're all rubbish!  We manage to incent our
indentured servants quickly and simply:  we just have
the maxim 'work, or be punished'."

"But that's what I mean - you have them twenty four by
seven, so how can you punish them?"

"Oh, lots of ways.  The cane, the tawse.... And if
they continue to under-perform, a good whipping
usually does the trick.  A man doesn't want the kiss
of the whip on his hide more than once, and that
usually fixes even the most idle worker."

"You mean you actually strike them?  Punish them
physically?  Whip them, with a whip, to make them
work?"

Mike must have heard the tone of sheer incredulity in
my voice, as he leaned over towards me, and said
calmly "Yes, Steve.  And that's how we unlock that
little secret store of power and work that your brain
is keeping from us.  I don't just have my workers
working at one hundred percent - they all work at a
hundred and ten percent, all the time.  And that's
why, Steve, next Sunday you're going to find yourself
losing out, losing out big time, to my guys.  That ten
dollars is as good as mine now!"

End Of Part One