Date: Mon, 7 Jun 2004 22:41:06 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: You Can't Be friends With A Slave, Parts 1 & 2

YOU CAN'T BE FRIENDS WITH A SLAVE, Part one

By Pete Brown  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com


My First Job


Of course I knew about the slavery laws.  We were
taught them at school, and I knew the theory of how
they had saved our society from slipping into chaos -
when the drug pushers and petty criminals were
enslaved instead of being locked up, and when the laws
on evidence gathering and such like were changed so
that the police could work properly, the crime rate
fell dramatically.  Like most decent folk, I suppose
they thought they were a good thing.  Not that it
affected me much: where I grew up in the leafy suburbs
of Hertford it just wasn't the done thing to own
slaves - my folks didn't have them, and neither did
any of my friends' parents. You saw them cleaning the
streets, building roads, that kind of thing, of
course, but the slaves in our area were generally
owned by the city or state and they seemed to have a
decent enough life.  The occasional guard didn't use a
whip (or, at least, not in public).  The slaves were
decently dressed in neat slave uniforms, and if it
wasn't for their slave collars they could almost have
looked like normal working guys.

In our more stable society when there's almost no
economic growth, jobs can be hard to come by.
Especially that vital first job after you've graduated
college.  The move to the warmer south and west that
had been going on ever since the late twentieth
century was continuing, and such jobs as there were
tended not to be near Hertford.  So, somewhat
reluctantly, I made the decision to move south myself.
 It was different there, I knew - I'd roomed at
college with a southerner, Billy-Joe Bradshaw, and he
was always complaining that the college did not allow
students to bring their personal slaves with them.  We
both played football, though, and in spite of our very
different social backgrounds, we got to be firm
friends.

Billy-Joe invited me down to stay at his place on
several occasions and, it really made for a great
vacation.  His father, who was always known as "The
Colonel" as he had been in the State guard, was a
gentlemen of the old southern school and was a perfect
host.  Their lovingly restored and beautifully tended
plantation house and grounds had a pool, tennis
courts, a croquet lawn, stables with horses to ride,
and guns and dogs were always available so that you
could go hunting.  Inside, the house was filled with
antiques that were lovingly polished, the crystal
chandeliers sparkled, the food was exquisite, the huge
heaps of towels in the bathrooms were soft and fluffy,
and the level of service and attention to your comfort
was something that not even the finest and most
expensive hotels could match.  All of this was only
possible by the lavish use of slaves, of course:  the
Colonel told me that around twenty were employed
inside in the house, and some fifty tended the gardens
and estate.  "There's no way we could maintain this
proper standard of living if we had to pay wages", he
explained.  "The slave system enables us to uphold
those southern values that are such an important part
of our heritage."

You never saw a lot of slaves if you stayed with
Billy-Joe, though - as perfect servants they were
taught to keep out of sight and out of the way of the
master and his family and guests.  If you walked out
of a room quickly, you might catch a glimpse of a
slave who had been polishing the floor in the corridor
disappearing around a corner;  when you went down to
breakfast, leaving the wet towels on the floor  and
stuff all over your bathroom, all was restored to
pristine perfection by the time you got back, the
towels replaced with fresh fluffy ones, the bathroom
again gleaming and sparkling, and all your toothpaste
and shaving things again properly aligned.  Billy-Joe
used his personal slave - a kind of valet, he called
him - when he was at home, but I declined the use of a
such a person and relied on the general house slaves
to keep my room neat and tidy.  Mind you, Billy-Joe
wasn't pleased at first.  "Look, Steve", he said,
"Down here we expect a gentleman to be well groomed:
his shoes freshly polished, his trousers neatly
creased, his shirts to be properly pressed.... And you
need labour to do all of that.  It's OK for you to
slop around at college in sneakers and clothes that
you take straight out of the dryer, but down here it
just won't do.  We've got standards to maintain, and
maintain them we do!  If you won't have a slave of
your own, I'll have to get mine to look after you - he
can press all your stuff when he's doing mine, and so
on.  He's a bit of a lazy bugger, and it won't hurt
him to work hard for a change.  Mind you, there's some
services he gives me that I don't want to share.....
I'm sure you'll understand!"

Actually, I didn't know what he was talking about, but
he could be a bit dismissive sometimes as if everyone
ought to know how things ran, and I let it pass.

You did see slaves in the grounds, and when you picked
up a horse from the stables, and so on.  They all
looked happy enough, and all wore the same standard
slave shorts with the Colonel's logo neatly
embroidered on the left leg.  "The Colonel likes to
see the slave's muscles, so the outdoor slaves only
wear shorts", Billy-Joe explained (and he always
referred to his father as "The Colonel").  "In the
winter, before the sun's warmed the place up they also
get cloaks, but as soon as it's above forty, off they
come - it encourages them to put that bit of extra
effort in, to get warm!  And we don't give them
footwear - the bare feet somehow emphasise their
slavehood, don't you think?"

Well I thought there was a more obvious way that their
slavehood was emphasised:  they all wore the mandatory
slave collars that the law requires, although, as
Billy-Joe explained, this was an example of why the
Colonel was such a benevolent owner:  instead of the
standard band of iron around the neck, the Colonel's
slaves all wore collars made of thick links of
stainless steel, which were therefore flexible, fitted
better, and did not give rise to chafing and sores as
the iron bands did.  None of the outdoor slaves was
female, as The Colonel apparently believed that you
needed proper muscle to maintain the estate and he
wanted flexibility in his labour force, so that a
slave might be weeding the gardens one day and cutting
down trees the next.  And they were of course all
black:  "The Colonel's not made of money, you know",
Billy-Joe told me when I asked him about this.
"There's a general rule of thumb in these parts that
if you buy a black you'd have to pay half as much
again if you wanted the same age and physique in a
Hispanic.  And a white would be at least double.  So
we use blacks almost exclusively outdoors, as you're
really only buying muscle.  Indoors it's different -
The Colonel and I both prefer Hispanics as valets, and
he thinks that the waiters should be like that, too,
as you'll have seen."

I had, actually - at breakfast, lunch and dinner our
food was served by at least six waiters who moved
around the room noiselessly and who strove to make
their presence invisible.  You couldn't help noticing
them, though:  they were all more or less of a uniform
height and appearance - all Hispanics, late twenties,
about five seven or five eight, all nicely tanned, all
with the usual "slave crop".  The Colonel had them
wear tight white cycling shorts made of elastic fabric
which hugged their neat asses and displayed their
above-average dicks.  There was no clinking from their
collars as they padded around the room on their bare
feet, as interlaced through their chains was a strip
of white fabric that was then neatly tied in a perfect
bow tie at the front.  On the first day of my first
visit, when my eyes had almost popped out in
astonishment when these men brought the food in,
Billy-Joe leaned over and whispered to me "Don't
worry... Look closer and you'll see that the Colonel
requires the waiters to be completely shaved smooth,
except for the head where it's very short - so there's
no possibility of any of their arm, chest or pit hair
falling into the food!   And he has their pubes done
as well, as he doesn't want the line of those shorts
spoiled...."

Those vacations were fun, though - this air of
complete luxury which I was just not used to, and the
fantastic hospitality offered by the Colonel, and the
friendship of Billy-Joe, all made them very special.
Billy-Joe came to my folks place, too, of course, but
I don't think he really enjoyed it when mom insisted
he help me with the dishes after dinner, and when dad
and Billy-Joe and I all raked the leaves together one
afternoon.  "I just don't get it, Steve", he said as
we lay in the twin beds in my old bedroom.  "Your
folks aren't badly off, so why don't they ease up,
make life simpler, and get a slave or two?  One to
help around the house, and the other to do the garden?
 It wouldn't cost much, I'm sure... It's not as if
they have to be young or anything, just good, plain,
middle-aged general workers."

Billy-Joe just couldn't understand that it just wasn't
like that in Hertford, and my parents would have been
almost ashamed to admit that they owned slaves if they
had indeed done so.  Almost the only time it was
socially acceptable was for the elderly, or for those
with disabilities:  some reliable, older slave might
then be bought to provide individual personal care, so
avoiding the necessity of costly nursing home fees.


Anyway, my experiences in the south had not been bad,
and so when I was offered a job by a relatively new
company in a small town about 20 miles outside
Richmond, I accepted.  As I said, jobs were not all
that easy to come by, and this one looked to have good
prospects:  the company was in consumer electronics
and American companies were at last making a come back
and were almost out-selling Chinese and Korean stuff:
I'd be in on the ground floor if the company
prospered, and I could see my job growing with the
firm.

It was easy to rent a nice apartment, although the
realtor was surprised when I showed no interest in the
tiny slave quarters leading off the back of the
kitchen.  She suggested that if I didn't want to own a
slave to keep the place clean, to cook for me, to take
care of my clothes, and to "provide those services
that a single gentleman needs", I might at least want
to take one on contract hire from one of the big slave
leasing outfits.  And, as she pointed out, "If it's
late when you've finished with her - or him, or
course, as many gentlemen prefer to use male slaves
for their pleasure because there's then no risk of
pregnancies - the slave can always sleep in there.
Most owners don't want the slave in their beds all
night long."

I wasn't used then to the casual way that southerners
considered slaves as mere objects to be used as they
wished, and I remember blushing deeply at the mere
mention that I might use a slave -especially a male
slave - for pleasure!  At school and college I'd never
had any problems in finding girls to satisfy me, and
as one of the stars of the College football team,
there were of course always the cheer leaders eager to
support and encourage me.

The job was great - interesting and challenging, and I
really enjoyed working there.  I thought I was making
excellent progress, and when I had my six-monthly
appraisal my manager confirmed that they were very
pleased with me, and I even got a raise!  However at
the end of the interview, when we had both documented
our comments and signed the forms to go back to human
resources, he lowered his voice slightly.  "Look,
Steve, this is rather difficult... I didn't want to
comment on it in your appraisal, as it's not the kind
of thing that you want permanently on your record...
But some of us in the management team are a bit
worried about your appearance.  It lets the side down,
Steve.  Look at all your fellow workers - immaculate.
You'll get on much better here if you were more like
them.  Don't get me wrong - it's not the choice of
clothes or anything... Just that, well.... Well,
they're not as immaculate as they should be.  We take
pride in our work here, and pride in our appearance -
smarten up, Steve!"

I wanted to say something, but he stood up, reached
out and shook my hand, lowered his voice even further
and almost whispered "Enough said, eh?  Just pay a
little more attention to grooming, and the next time
we have an appraisal, I wouldn't be surprised if I was
congratulating you on a promotion."

Billy-Joe had of course gone back home to work in the
family business, and he was only about fifty miles
away and we'd kept up our friendship - I guess we got
together for a beer, or to go to a game, about once
every couple of weeks.  The next time I met him I
recounted this to him, and told him how hard I was
finding it  "I've even phoned my mom, Billy-Joe, to
ask her about what sort of detergent she uses and so
on... But it doesn't seem to make a difference - my
shirts just don't look as... as sort of 'crisp'... as
the other guys' do."

Billy-Joe leaned back in his chair, took another chug
of his beer, and said "You just don't get it, do you,
Steve.  It's like back when you came to stay at the
Colonel's:  that kind of finish, those little extra
final touches, only come when you have a slave looking
after your clothes.  Then you can change two or three
times a day, and you'll always be neatly turned out.
A guy just can't achieve that for himself.  So my
advice is go out and buy yourself a slave, one with
experience in looking after a gentleman.  They're not
expensive, and with that raise you could always buy
one on extended payment terms if you haven't got the
capital."

He emptied his glass, snapped his fingers for the
slave waiter, who came scurrying over, and snapped
"Two more beers, and be quick about it."

"No, Billy-Joe - I mustn't have another.  I've got to
drive home.  And you.... Perhaps you shouldn't have
one, either..."

"There you go again!  I'd never drive home like this -
do you think I'm mad?  If the cops stopped me, it
would be enslavement for sure.  That's another
advantage of buying a slave - he can sit outside in
your car and drive you home, just as mine is sitting
waiting for me."

He was probably right, of course.  But I'm not stupid,
and I had a soda instead, and watched somewhat
enviously as Billy-Joe enjoyed the match on the
big-screen TV so much more than I did as he was so
much less inhibited.

The next night as I lay in bed with my girl friend, I
told her about my interview, and Billy-Joe's advice.
Oh, I haven't mentioned Chantelle before, have I?
Well, I met her shortly after I moved south, and we
were soon fucking away like rabbits.  She was
everything a young stud like me needed - lithe,
inventive, uninhibited: a great fuck.  I mean,
straight after college it can be difficult to find
women, can't it? And I reckoned I'd been really lucky
to have Chantelle fall into my bed.

"Steve, he's right - just buy a slave.  You've got a
slave room here, I've seen it."

"But then we couldn't fuck... It's only a small
apartment.... The noise...."

"Don't be so stupid!  I'm talking about a slave, not a
servant.  You can do what you like in front of a
slave.  I'll come along and help you choose,
though.... I don't want you getting one of those big,
handsome bucks... I want your dick all to myself, not
shared with some slave's ass."

Another thing that excited me about Chantelle was that
although she was normally the perfectly demure,
southern "lady", she could suddenly switch to talking
dirty like this.  I was instantly aroused, and her
hand, that had been fondling my balls, started to
slide gently up and down my dick.

I moaned gently with the sensation, and she put her
head down and nipped gently at one my nipples - the
sharp bite of her teeth and the tickling sensation as
her long hair flowed all over my body almost caused me
to shoot.  "Hey, cut that out...."

Her efforts redoubled, and I moaned out again.  "No,
honey... Leave my dick alone.... If you want it
properly....  Look, about this slave thing....."   I
was desperately trying to think of things to keep my
mind off what she was doing to me.  "Look, I don't
believe in having slaves around.  And I'm a guy, I
wouldn't want to fuck a buck...."

She took her head away from my chest and stopped
fingering my cock.  I took the opportunity to half
roll on to her, get my leg in between hers, and
positioned my dick ready to enter her.  "Steve, when
we're married, you'll have to change that silly
idea... Of course we'll have to have slaves.  Mommy
and daddy are looking around now, as they're planning
to give us six as a wedding present...."

I let my hand run over he breast, thinking how lucky I
was to have someone so delightfully sexy and fuckable
sharing my bed.  It was the best sex I'd ever had,
every time.  But I wasn't going to marry her.  I'd
never even given her that impression, I felt sure - we
were just too different, and all we had in common was
fucking.

"Hey, baby, slow down... Who said anything about
marriage...?"

"Steve, we've been fucking for five months.  Of course
we're going to get married."

I felt a slight chill of worry go through me, but I
was properly aroused and I needed to fuck .  I moved
myself slightly into her, and my dick sent tingling
sensations to my brain as it knew it was about to dock
in her.

"Come on, honey.. Forget all that... Let's fuck...."

"No, Steve!  Not until we get this sorted..."

"Oh, come on...."

"No, Steve...""

Look, she'd played "hard to get" before, and we'd both
found it a bit of a turn-on for her to pretend to
resist me and for me to "force" her into sex.  So I
thought this time was no different, and I grabbed her
wrists and pinioned them to the side of her head.  I
thrust my dick home, and then began fucking her in the
way she liked - gently at first, then harder and
harder, almost like an animal in heat.

It was over all too soon - I was covered in sweat, my
heard was racing, my lungs were gasping for air, but
instead of her normal shouts of enjoyment, that
matched my own, Chantelle was silent.

"When are we going to get married, Steve?"

"Well... Look.... I don't think I'm ready.... I'm
going to work hard until I'm thirty, then settle down
properly... I'm only twenty four and I want a bit of
fun..."

"But you've been fucking me for five months!"

"So what?  You've enjoyed it as much as I did.. I know
you did!"

"That's not the point, Steve!  A gentlemen doesn't
fuck a lady unless he's going to marry her.  If you
just want to fuck, buy a slave!"

"Well, I guess that's one of the ways that's different
in the north.  We aren't 'ladies' and 'gentlemen',
we're just guys and women.  There, two people that
want to fuck do so. With no strings.  And, as I said,
I'm not thinking about marriage for at least six
years..."

To my astonishment she got out of bed, pulled her
clothes on, and stormed out, without saying another
word.  I was tired, I had that fantastic after-sex
feeling, and so I lay there on my belly, my head
resting on my crossed arms, and drifted off into
sleep.  I remember thinking what a silly cow she was,
and that, actually, I was glad to be rid of her.  I
was looking forward to going down to the singles bar
again.

It can only have been an hour later when there was a
thunderous knocking at my door.  I pulled on my boxers
and a T, and opened it, to find two police officers
there.

"Steve Harris?"

"Yes.... What....?"

They pushed past me, went into the bedroom, and threw
back the covers.  One of the officers ran his finger
along the wet cum stain on the bottom sheet.

"Have you just had sex, Mr Harris?"

"What dammed business is it of yours...?"

"Sir, I would advise you to co-operate with the
police.  Now, let's try again.  Have you just had
sex?"

"Yes."

Both men grinned.  It was that conspiratorial kind of
smile that guys give each other when they're about to
talk about sex.

"A young guy like you - good looking, good body, good
job - I bet you have lots of sex, right?"

"Yes, I guess  so."

"Did you fuck Chantelle Lebouget tonight?  Here, in
this bed?" They were smiling again.

I smiled back.  "Yes.  We often do.  As you say, I'm
fit, strong and healthy.... So I fuck a lot.  Look,
what's the problem?  Has something happened to
Chantelle?  She left here rather upset..."

"Miss Lebouget says you were having great sex tonight,
then she told you to stop, but you continued.  She
likes to play games like that does she, Steve?"  One
of the cops winked conspiratorially at me now.

"Yes, she said 'stop', but, you know... It's a game...
We've been fucking for five months..."

"Was it exciting when she said 'stop'?  Did you enjoy
fucking her after that?"

"Look, we always enjoyed fucking together.  And yes, I
did enjoy tonight, and yes, we were arguing, and yes,
she did tell me to stop, but I thought she was telling
me to stop so that we could carry on the discussion.."

The cops looked at each other.  One pulled one of the
new pocked recorders out of his pocket - we make them,
actually - and said to the other "I think we've got
enough.  The suspect, Steve Masters, has admitted that
he had intercourse with Chantelle Lebouget after she
told him to stop.  Their accounts of the incident
match.  An open and shut case, I would say."

He pulled the secondary recording spool out of the
little machine and handed it to me.

"Mr Harris, this is a proper, authentic copy of an
earlier interview with Miss Lebouget, and with
yourself just now.  You will appear at the County
Courthouse one week from today to answer a charge of
unlawful intercourse.  The second copy of this
material will be produced for the court as evidence."

His partner grinned at me, and said "Better get
yourself a lawyer, boy!  From what we've heard, you're
heading for enslavement.  If I were you, I'd use the
week to get my affairs in order, say goodbye to my
folks, and generally enjoy myself - a handsome, strong
man like you won't be getting too many opportunities
to fuck the ladies in future!"

"No...."  The other cop was almost laughing now.
"Looking at your body, Id say there was going to be a
lot of fucking going on, but it's going to be you
that's going to get fucked!  Young, fit, white guys
don't come up for auction that often... And when they
do, they get a premium price, as everyone wants to
fuck an ass like yours."

"You've got it all wrong... It wasn't like that... We
were just arguing... It wasn't serious..."

"You northern boys think you can come down here and
fuck our women..." The first cop blurted out.  "Well,
wait and see what happens next!"

They didn't even say goodnight, just marched out, and
I was left standing there, really worried,  I'd heard
about this "southern justice" before, and, anyway, the
laws were so strong now, and the rules of evidence so
relatively weak. My fingers were almost trembling as I
punched Billy-Joe's number in to the phone.  As he
answered, I could hear that he was fucking - he was
breathing hard, and there was that "slap slap" noise
of two bodies together.

"Billy-Joe... Stop that.  We need to talk...."

Here was a kind of crashing noise, as if Billy-Joe had
summarily kicked someone out of his bed onto the
floor.  And then he asked me what was going on.  After
a couple of minutes he said "You're deep in it, Steve!
 Deep in the shit.  Yes, you do need a lawyer.  Get
one, tomorrow. First thing.  And then let's you and I
get together at lunch time - I'll drive over to you."

"But I've got appointments at the office..."

"Steve... This is serious.  From what I've heard,
you're as good as enslaved already.  You admitted it
to the cops, for fuck's sake - they asked you if she
told you to stop, and if you went on, and you said
yes!  That's all they need.  I think your lawyer will
tell you the same.  And, if he does, we'll have to go
for the Jackson gambit."

"What the fuck's that?"

"Wait, and I'll tell you tomorrow.  But talk to a
lawyer first.  This is serious."

He put the phone down.  And, unusually for me, I
didn't sleep that night.

End Of Part One

YOU CAN'T BE FRIENDS WITH A SLAVE, part two

By Pete Brown  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Induction


The next morning, acting in Billy-Joe's advice, I
phoned in to work to say I had a personal problem and
needed the day off, then rushed downtown to find
myself an advocate.

Kilkenny, Roberts and Fulman was right there on main
street, and looked very prosperous and businesslike.
I inwardly shuddered at how much of this month's pay
cheque would go to them for helping me!  In reception
I was asked to wait, and a beautifully dressed slave
girl brought me coffee - no overt displays of
sexuality here:  it was only the girl's slave collar
that distinguished her from the other smartly dressed
men and women who came and went across the busy area.

It was Mr Roberts who found time to see me, after only
a short wait, and I was ushered in to his plush office
- a big oak desk, law books neatly arranged in oak
bookcases on one wall, thick carpet, lush plants in
stylish plant holders in one corner.  His desk was
clear except for a telephone, and a writing pad.  This
place said "competence", and "money".

"So, what can I do for you, Mr Harris?"  Roerts exuded
confidence and professionalism, and, at the same time,
 I could sense that close to the surface there was a
sharp mind and a strong streak of desire to win at all
costs -  just the kind of lawyer I needed.

As he listened to me, Roberts' face remained
impassive.  He asked a few curt questions as I
explained the situation.  Then he told me it would be
expensive.  I agreed to pay - I was so impressed by
his style to date, that it seemed the best thing to do
as there was no way I wanted to end up as a slave.  We
chatted on whilst his secretary quickly produced a
standard contract, and I signed it.  His pen was
poised to counter sign on behalf of his firm, when I
innocently asked "And can secret recordings taken by
the police really be used in evidence now?  Surely
what they did was entrapment?"

"There's a recording, of the police interview with
you?"

"Yes, they gave it to me, and suggested I saw a
lawyer."

When he heard I had it with me, he pulled out a
recorder from his drawer - again, one of ours.  My
employer was doing well, and I felt pleased.  He
listened in silence, his face still impassive, and he
jotted notes on his yellow legal pad.

When it clicked off, he looked at me, then picked up
the contract I'd signed, and dropped it into his waste
bin.

"Hey....", I began.

"Get out, boy!"  His manner had changed abruptly.  I
was no longer a potential new client, fees for his
firm.

"Mr Roberts, what's the problem...?"

"Get out, boy.  You're as good as enslaved already.
They have you on tape, agreeing that she told you to
stop, and you carried on."

"But...."

"No 'buts'. An open and shut case.  Guilty out of your
own mouth.  They'll give you the standard sentence,
even if her side doesn't press for it."

"The standard sentence... What's that...?"

"Enslavement, of course.  Any infringement of the law
like that results in enslavement."

"For how long?"   I thought that perhaps it might not
be too bad -  I could get leave of absence from my
employer for six months or so, I felt certain.

"Intercourse without permission.... That's life.
You're going to be a slave for the rest of your
natural life, boy.  Now, get out of here, and stop
wasting the time of a free man."

"But Mr Roberts... You were going to act for me.... I
agreed to pay... What can I do...?"

"We don't act for slaves, as that's what you'll be.
You're as good as there already.  And you can't pay us
- all your assets are automatically forfeit on
enslavement.  Now stop wasting my time, boy!  Get out
of here and put your affairs in order.  Say goodbye to
your friends and family..."

I leaned across the desk, and started shouting "You
can't abandon me like this... You agreed..."

Roberts' manner changed yet again.  He banged his fist
down on the desk, and almost shouted "Stand up in the
presence of a free man, boy!  You'd better get used to
it.  Slaves don't sit in the presence of free men.
And keep a respectful tone in your voice..."

I was so shocked, that I got to my feet.  Roberts went
on "Look, I know it's tough, but that's the way of the
world.  Shit happens.  You may be lucky and get a good
master, and then it won't be too bad.  But, I have to
warn you that your attitude's going to have to
change... If one of my slaves starts shouting at me, I
reach for the whip, instantly.  You'd better start
practising, boy, or those first few weeks are going to
be tough on you - and tough on your backside if your
master has to instil too much discipline."

"Now, as I said, get out! There's no point in
discussing it.  It's an open and shut case, and this
time next week you'll be on the auction block after
you've been in court."

He reached across to his phone, and spoke to his
secretary.  "Margaret - make a note to keep an eye on
the upcoming slave auctions, will you?  Alert me when
Steve Harris's details appear... Yes, the Harris
that's in with me now.... He's just leaving.  I'll
probably want to bid on him as I need something a
little exotic to entertain important clients with,
and a young, educated, tough white slave will just fit
the bill."

Then, looking at me, he said "Why don't you just
undress and let me take an advanced look at the
merchandise...?  Are you cut, or do you still have
your foreskin?"

"Fuck you!  I'm not a slave yet!"

"Very foolish, boy.  As I said, you need to learn to
think like a slave.  And if I were to buy you, you
would at least be treated well, as I need a slave to
entertain clients who are in from out of town -
there's a lot worse jobs a slave can have than being
an office worker here in the day, and a pleasure boy
by night...."

"Fuck you!  I'm not going to be used for sex...."

"Boy, you are in for a shock!  Young, virile white
guys like you... how many slaves are there like that?
Most slaves around here are blacks or Hispanics... So
you'll be in real demand.  But, no matter.  As soon as
you've been stripped and collared, they'll post your
pictures on the Internet and I can see you then.  Look
out for me at your auction!"

He looked at me finally, as if appraising my body,
then snapped "Now, get out, boy!  And, next time we
meet, mind your manners."

I was so shocked, that I just walked out.  The
secretary sitting outside the door smiled at me, and
said "Hey, I'm looking forward to seeing more of you,
boy!  If Mr Roberts buys you, he sometimes lets his
staff use the firm's slaves after work, when there are
no out of town clients to service... I' looking
forward to getting my hands on that body of yours...."

I rushed out, blushing with embarrassment.  I suppose
it hadn't occurred to me before that slaves would be
used for sex!  I just thought they were there to work,
and work at the kind of jobs free men didn't want to
do - labouring, that sort of stuff.  I could probably
put up with that as I liked to use my body and it
would only really be like going to the gym, I thought
(how wrong I could be, as I later found out!).  But
being used for sex.... Oh, fuck me, what was going to
happen (and there, although I didn't yet know it, I'd
made a correct statement about slavery - "fuck me"
would be true, too).

Billy-Joe and I had arranged to meet in the bar we
usually frequented, and by the time he arrived I'd
already had a couple of beers to try and calm myself.
He was, as usual, immaculate in his pressed chinos,
shiny brown shoes, and tweed jacket.  A cravat was
artfully knotted in the open neck of his
crisply-starched shirt.  He eased himself into the
booth, and snapped his fingers for the slave waiter to
come and take his order.

"Hey, Steve!  You look dreadful, man.  Been to see the
lawyer?  Has he frightened the life out of you by the
size of his fees?  If it's any help, I could lend you
a few thousand to tide you over..."

"No.  He wouldn't take my money.  Said there was no
point in even trying to get me cleared, as it's an
open and shut case."  I then explained to Billy-Joe
about the recording and everything, and he just sat
there, nodding.

"Well, Steve, it looks as if there's no chance.  I
thought that last night, when you phoned.  So now we
have to plan how to get you out of it... The Jackson
strategy, as it's known."

"What  the fuck's that?"

"It's called after the guy who first did it.  Look,
Chantelle wants a meal ticket for life, right?  She
let you take her pussy whenever you wanted it as she
thought you were an up and coming executive, who'd be
her way to an easy life.  Then when you said 'no' to
all the marriage shit, she just put plan B into action
- get you enslaved, then rent you out."

"What do you mean?"

"Look, she's the complainant, right?  She'll expect
damages.  You'll be a slave, so all your assets, such
as they are, are forfeit.  Your only real worth is
your value as a slave, so the court will award
ownership of you to her.  The last thing she wants to
do is own you - she's an airhead, and quite unable to
control a virile, young untrained slave like you!  She
won't want to fuck with you of course - you'll be a
slave, and however nice your dick was before, it's
slave dick now, and slave dick and free woman don't
mix.  So the easiest way out for her is to sell you:
she'll put you straight up for auction, and you'll be
in the sale later in the week.  Or, if she's clever,
she'll lease you out, on a long-term lease, to one of
the big specialist slave leasing companies.  That way
she gets you back to sell on in, say, ten years, by
which time you'll be a properly trained slave and
absolutely no hassle, as you would be now., And in the
interim she'll get those regular monthly cheques,
guaranteed, from the leasing company.  Actually, from
her point of view, it's better than marrying you:  she
gets a guaranteed income, a valuable asset at some
point down the line, and she avoids all the risk of
marrying you in case your career doesn't prosper and
you stay as a low-paid grunt for your entire
career...."

"Billy-Joe, please tell me this isn't true! I'm
dreaming it, aren't I?  I'm going to wake up in a
minute and everything will be all right..."

"Steve, old buddy, I'm afraid not.   Slavehood
beckons, my man, and there's only one way of lessening
the problem.... As I said, the Jackson strategy."

"So what is this.. Come on, spill the beans..."

"Well, Chantelle sees you as money on legs, right?  So
we remove the possibility of her deriving any value
from you for a long time, then she'll drop the case."

"Why?"

"Because if she doesn't see that you can make money
from you almost immediately, she won't want to go
ahead through the courts and have her nice, prissy
'southern belle' reputation ruined, will she?  She
won't be attractive to other potential beaus is the
whole world knows she's soiled goods!"

"But a woman like Chantelle - everyone knows she'd
have had sex..."

"Sure, Steve.  But 'knowing' it, and having it
'proved' in all the newspapers and on the local TV -
that's two different things."

"I guess so.  So how do we make sure she can get no
value from me?"

"Simple.   As Jackson did first, you enslave yourself
voluntarily.  Then, as a slave already, Chantelle will
see it's your owner who's making the money, and she's
got no chance."

"You're mad!  Make myself a slave?  You've got to be
joking..."

"Steve, think, man.  If we do nothing, you'll be a
slave for life.  They can do what they like with you.
If you become a slave voluntarily, it can be for a
fixed period, in known circumstances."

"How long?"

"Well, that's a potential problem.  There used to be
lots of voluntary enslavement orders from guys who
wanted to 'play' for a couple of weeks, or a few
months, as a kind of kick, or a vacation.  So the
courts got clogged up, and they said that voluntary
enslavement now has to be for five years.  In your
case, though, I guess it's  OK, as it fits in with
your requirements - Chantelle has to see that there's
no possibility of making money from you for a long
time, so she'll drop the case.  And voluntary
enslavement isn't so bad - there's a lot of things you
can't do to a short-term slave - no branding,
mutilation, that kind of stuff...."

"But who owns me?"

"There's the clever part that Jackson thought of - he
assigned himself to a buddy so he was owned by his
best friend..."

"So, for me....   Billy-Joe, are you saying you'd be
my 'owner' if I  did this voluntary thing?"

"Of course, Steve!  We're best buddies, aren't we? "

Well, we talked on, and the more I thought about it,
the more it seemed to be the only way out.  Or perhaps
it was the several beers I had as the day wore on.

When we left, Billy-Joe gave me a lift back to my
apartment and I couldn't help but admire the careful
way his slave chauffeur threaded the big car through
the evening traffic.  As we drove along we discussed
practical things, and it was agreed that I'd sell or
give away my stuff in the next two days (I didn't have
a lot, as I'd brought almost nothing south with me,
and I hadn't bought much as the apartment was plainly
but adequately furnished), and meet Billy-Joe at court
on Friday morning.

"I'll call Judge Anderson", Billy-Joe told me. "He's
an old friend of the Colonel's.  He'll agree to have
the enslavement proceedings done in his chambers, so
you won't have to strip in open court with everyone
looking at you."

"What?"

"Yes... Slaves have to appear in court naked.  It
shows that they've got nothing to hide.  You'll have
to strip for Judge Anderson of course, but there will
just be the three of us there and I've seen you naked
lots of times!  So it would be sensible to get to
court wearing stuff you can slip on and off easily -
Jeans, a loose T, sandals... No underwear, no pockets
full of keys and change that can drop out... Not that
you'll have that kind of stuff by then, I suppose."

"Are you going to collect me, then?"

"No.  It wouldn't look good.   Just turn up and ask
for Judge Anderson's chambers, at 09:00, before
regular business begins.  Believe me, it will be OK -
there's nothing to worry about.  I'll get the
Colonel's lawyers to do all the paperwork:  the
enslavement order, that sort of stuff.  I guess you'd
better bring your social security card with you, and
your driver's licence, as ID, as these lawyers can be
tricky about that kind of thing - they wouldn't want
to enslave the wrong guy.  Oh... And one more
thing....  Here....."

Billy-Joe had a tape measure out, and went to put it
around my neck.

"Billy-Joe, what the fuck are you doing...?"

"Measuring you, Steve.  The court would fit a standard
iron slave collar, but if I take the measurement of
your neck we'll provide one of the kind the Colonel
always uses - the stainless steel links.  It's easier
for you - iron ones can chafe, you know.  I'm sure you
remember that the Colonel treats slaves well, and if
it's right for them, it ought to be right for you."

I think that having Billy-Joe put that tape measure
around my neck was the first time that the idea that I
was going to be a slave had really struck home - up
until now it had all been discussion, all theoretical.
 Now... well, I felt as if a process had started, and
I was powerless to fix it.

Perhaps the human brain is kind - when there's some
disaster looming in your life, you can largely ignore
it if you're busy.  And busy I was in those two days -
seeing my employer and explaining why I had to resign
(who knows, I might want a job there after five
years).  They did say, though, that I should ask my
new owner to contact them as they'd be interested in
employing me as a slave worker - I couldn't do my old
job, of course, but they knew I worked hard and
intelligently, and there were several lesser
administrative posts in the company that I might be
hired for.

I spoke to my mom and dad, who were at first
horrified, then supportive when they heard all the
circumstances.  Mom even said she was going to write a
nice letter to Billy-Joe, thanking him for helping me
out of this terrible problem.

It was easy to dispose of my books and CDs and
clothes- I just took them to a thrift shop - and it
was good to know I was doing some good.  A dealer
bought my car, although once the balance on the loan
paid off, I only had a hundred bucks or so.

I took myself out for one last good dinner, tipped the
waitress outrageously with the last of my money, and
walked back to my empty apartment and slept on the
bare mattress.

Friday morning was one of those great southern
mornings - the promise of heat later, a little mist
through which the sun was shimmering, and that tang of
'spring' in the air.  I threw away my underwear and
socks, and dressed in my sandals, Jeans and a T, and
pulled the apartment door closed behind me one more
time.  I thought of getting a bus downtown, but the
morning was so good I decided to walk - then, as I
realised how far it was, I had to break into a jog in
order to be on time.  Actually, it was no big deal - I
exercise regularly, and I like to use my body.

At the court house I waited in a short line at the
reception desk, and looked up at the great state seal
on the wall  "In justice and liberty we trust", it
said, and I felt vaguely cheered.  But my mood soon
changed to one of despair.

When I gave my name and asked for Judge Anderson's
chambers, the receptionist told me he had called in
sick, and his morning case load had been transferred
to Judge Wheeler.  I asked for his chambers, and she
consulted a list.

"Are you here for the Steve Harris enslavement
proceedings?"

"Yes, I am, I'm Steve Harris", I said, trying to
smile.

"I'll take that as a 'yes', then." The receptionist
replied icily.  "Judge Wheeler never deals with
enslavement cases in chambers - he's a firm believer
in the principles that justice must not only de done,
but that it must be seen to be done.  You're scheduled
in Court D at ten fifteen - that's the biggest court,
as Judge Wheeler always tend to attract a crowd."

I felt sick in my stomach.  Was I going to have to go
through all of this in front of lots of people?

"Look, it's OK, I think I'll call it off.... Wait
until Judge Anderson is back...."

The receptionist looked at me, and said "I wouldn't
recommend that, sir.  You're down on Judge Wheeler's
case list.  He's rearranged it once already, because
of Judge Anderson's illness.  He's pretty cross, and
if you mess him around, he's likely to sentence you
for contempt of court anyway."

"So what's the sentence for that...?"

"Oh, probably, enslavement.  Now, stop wasting my
time.  Go along to the waiting room outside courtroom
D, and ask for officer Hughes - he deals with
enslavements, and knows all the ropes.  He'll make it
as easy as possible for you."

I trudged along the corridor, my mind full of the
horror of having to appear naked in front of a room
full of people.  Officer Hughes, though, was
reassuring - he was in his mid forties, but in good
shape.  His tailored trousers were tight over his butt
and showed a nice bulge at the front, not because he
was fat or even overweight, but because he clearly
liked his clothes to be form-fitting.  Further
evidence of this was the way his biceps bulged from
his sleeves, which seemed to have been shortened
beyond the standard cops' uniform length.

"Officer Hughes, sir, I'm Steve Harris...."

He consulted a sheet on an impressive clipboard, and
smiled at me encouragingly.  "Yes, Mr Harris.  You're
the voluntary enslavement, aren't you?"

"Yes... And, look, is there any way of avoiding this
stripping business...?"

"Oh, so that's on your mind, is it?  Well, don't
worry, sir.  I've done lots of these, and I've never
lost a customer yet!".  He grinned again, and I began
to feel better.   "And I see you've been well advised
- simple clothes.... No underwear?"

"No., officer."

"Well, sir, it should all be over in a matter of
moments then.  I'll escort you in.  Just do exactly as
the judge tells you, and if you're in any doubt, I'll
be there to advise you, sir.  Now, we've got about
thirty minutes - you want a coffee?"

He took me to the coffee shop in the building, and as
soon as he realised I'd got absolutely no money left,
he bought me a coffee.  We sat across the table from
each other hugging our steaming mugs of coffee, and
chatted about this and that.  I liked this guy - not
sexually, of course, but as another guy I could have a
man to man talk with.

"So are there many voluntary enslavements?", I asked.

"Oh, some, Mr Harris.  Most of my work is with slaves
who have escaped and been recaptured and who are being
brought back for sentencing, or slaves where their
masters want a very severe punishment that needs the
court's approval.  The slaves are much harder to deal
with then!"

"What sort of punishments?"

"Well, as you probably know, the automatic punishment
for escaping is castration.  No arguments - the slave
is brought in front of the judge, and he just orders
it.  For the harsh punishment stuff - use of the bull
whip for more than five strokes, for example - the
judge usually questions why such a punishment is
necessary."

"And why is it, officer?"

"Well, sir, it depends.  It can be something like a
master finding a slave in bed with his wife.  Or
theft.  Or sometimes just persistent, wilful
disobedience and laziness.  I'd advise you to steer
clear of all those things, Mr Harris, as you really
don't want to even hear the whistle of the bullwhip
coming close to your body!  But you seem a sensible
sort of person, sir, so I'm sure we won't be seeing
you back here again.  My advice, sir, would be to
settle in to being a slave, and to obey your master
quickly, cheerfully and exactly.  If you do that, you
won't have any problems, and your time of voluntary
enslavement will soon be over."

He looked at his watch, and went on "I don't want to
hurry you, Mr Harris, but we ought to be getting
back..."

It all seemed so civilised, and he was such a nice guy
and so courteous and respectful  that I felt a whole
lot better.  We sat in the waiting room for a few
minutes, then a speaker on the wall announced "Case
36-57843.  Steven Hughes, Petition For Voluntary
Enslavement".  We got to our feet, and officer Hughes
opened the door for me and motioned me through.  The
previous case had only just finished, and the lawyers
were packing away their papers.  It was a standard
sort of courtroom - the judge was on a dais, a
recorder sat at a table tapping into a steno machine,
there were two tables for lawyers, and, behind all
this, seats for the public.... I began to feel uneasy
as I saw there were about a hundred people present,
men, and women.

Billy-Joe came in and sat at one of the tables usually
intended for lawyers, and the clerk intoned again
"Case 36-57843.  Steven Hughes, Petition For Voluntary
Enslavement."  The judge peered over the top of the
dais at me and said "Are you Steven Hughes,
petitioning to be granted a period of voluntary
enslavement?"

"I am, your honour."  I'd learned that from watching
cop shows!

"Are you represented by legal counsel?"

"No, your honour."

"Do you want the court to appoint a public counsel to
explain your rights to you, or are you happy to
proceed with the enslavement order?"

"Please, your honour, I'm happy to go ahead."

The judge picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and
read out "The petitioner, Steven Hughes, twenty four
years old, requests the state to grant him a period of
voluntary enslavement not exceeding five years,
subject to the state's rules and regulations regarding
such periods of enslavement.  He further requests that
during this period he become the property of Billy-Joe
Martin, citizen of this state, and that at the end of
the period of his enslavement said Billy-Joe Martin
restores to him his freedom."

He looked at me again, and said "Young man, do you
understand what this means?  For the next five years
you are the property of Mr Martin, to do with as he
pleases, subject only to the laws of this state...
Laws that prohibit the permanent mutilation or
disfigurement of temporary slaves, or their harsh
punishment without the prior permission of this court.
 Otherwise you accept all the roles and
responsibilities of a normal slave."

"Yes, your honour."

"Very well, Mr Harris.  The court so approves your
period of enslavement.  I declare that for a period
not exceeding five years you are the property of Mr
Billy-Joe Martin.  Mr Martin, do you accept the
slave?"

Billy-Joe stood up, bowed slightly to the judge, and
said "Yes, your honour."

The judge's tone seemed to change. He looked at
officer Hughes and said "Officer, strip the slave.
Slaves in this court appear naked."

He looked at the audience and intoned "The law gives
slaves few rights, and in order to emphasise both to
them and to you, their former peers, that they are now
no longer men but slaves, slaves appear here naked
before you.  The removal of the slave's clothes
symbolise his change in status from free man, with the
right to choose, to slave, with no rights."

I'd stood there listening to this, but I then hard
Officer Hughes snap "Don't stand there, boy, unless
you want to be punished!  Get those fucking clothes
off.  Now!"

I looked at him in amazement.  All his politeness, his
treatment of me as another regular guy, had gone.  He
looked threatening, and angry.  And I didn't like the
way I was now "boy."  But what could I do?  I kicked
my sandals off, and pulled my T over my head.

There was an appreciative murmur from the crowd as my
torso was revealed, and a couple of shouts of "Turn
around and let's see your pecs."

"Silence!", Judge Wheeler shouted.  "I will  not have
these unseemly scenes in my court.  If there is any
further interruption from the crowd, I will have the
court cleared."

I'd stopped whilst all this was going on, and now
Officer Hughes poked me in the middle of my naked back
with his billy-stick.  "Drop those Jeans, boy, unless
you want your first punishment!"

I wasn't used to being jabbed at like that, and I was
going to protest, until I saw the expression on his
face - an expression that said "Go on, try something,
as I enjoy punishing slaves."  I undid the button at
the waistband, pushed down the zip, turned around so
that my back was to the audience, and let my Jeans
fall to the floor - I'd worn loose-fitting ones, to
make this easier.

I heard people in the audience saying "Nice butt" and
"Great body".  I suppose I ought to have been pleased,
as I work hard at keeping in shape, but instead I felt
a great wave of embarrassment flooding through me, and
I started to flush all over my chest and shoulders,
and it quickly spread to my face.  The judge looked
down at me standing there naked in front of him, and
snapped "Assume the 'display' position, slave, then
rotate, slowly, so that all may see that you are a
slave."

I didn't know what to do, until officer Hughes said
"Hands behind your neck, boy!  Then chest out, stomach
in, and turn around, a full circle, slowly." I did as
he said, even though I hated it.  With my hands behind
my neck it was impossible to even attempt to shield my
dick and balls from the public gaze, and as I turned
around the volume of comments from the audience rose
to a new high.  There was even some clapping, until
Judge Wheeler banged his gavel several times, and
shouted for silence.

Look, I don't know about you, but I've never been
naked in public before - well, unless you count skinny
dipping when I was a kid, and then there wasn't a big
audience watching me! Of course I've been naked in the
locker room at the gym, but that's different, isn't it
- for one thing, it's all guys, and for another, most
of them are at least half naked, too.  In fact, I've
always been faintly contemptuous of those guys who try
to hide themselves in the locker rooms, who want
private shower cubicle rather than the communal ones,
who juggle a towel to cover themselves when changing,
and who struggle to pull up their underwear under the
towel.  We're all guys, after  all - we've all got a
dick and balls, and, sure, some guys have bigger and
better ones, like me, but you can't help what you're
born with, and if you're undersized, there's no point
in trying to hide it.  But this was different - now I
was the only one naked.  And there were men and women
looking at me.  And enjoying it, too!   Oh, fuck me, I
hated it.  I wanted it all to be over. I wanted
someone to come and drape a coat around me.

"Officer, prepare the slave for collaring", the judge
intoned.

"Arms behind your back, boy", Hughes told me.  Then
the next instant his big, strong hand grasped the back
of my neck - evidently, he was used to controlling
slaves.  He kind of pushed, kind of led me to the
front of the court where there was a with a wooden
block on it - I'd thought at first it was a modern
sculpture to decorate the room, but now he pushed my
head down so that my neck rested in a "U" shaped hole
in the top of the block.  I went to stand up, as I
knew that bent over like this my butt was completely
exposed to the crowd, but Hughes' strong hand was
controlling me.  The crowd were enjoying it - in fact,
they'd started to clap again as Hughes bent me over -
and, the more I thought about it, the more I realised
that as I shuffled around in the slightly
uncomfortable position, they'd all be seeing my dick
and balls through the gap between my thighs.  The heat
swept through me again, and I knew I must be bright
red.

There was a "clank" as something dropped onto the
table beside me, and I knew it must be the chain
collar that Billy-Joe had talked about.

"Is the slave not having a standard collar?", the
judge asked.

"Sir", Billy-Joe answered - I could hear his voice,
but could not see him - the slave will mostly be
living at the estate of my father, Colonel Martin, a
distinguished retired soldier and servant of this
country.  The Colonel believes that it is more humane,
and that it is therefore possible to work the slave
harder, if he is not pained and injured by the chafing
of a standard collar.  These chain collars, your
honour, are used on all the Colonel's seventy or so
slave, and they function exactly s the standard
collar.  As your honour will see, they are so chunky,
and, when closed, they fit permanently:  there's
therefore no danger that they might be mistaken for
mere jewellery.  Believe me, sir, these are proper,
weighty slave collars, designed to constantly remind
the slave of his status."

Thank you, Mr Martin.  You may proceed, officer."

Officer Hughes fumbled for a moment, and then I felt
the coldness of the large chain links as he manoeuvred
them around my neck.  Someone came over, and I heard
Billy-Joe say "See the open link, officer - close the
collar using it, then here's the adhesive.  Put a
little on each open end of that link, then you'll see
the link is hinged... That's right.... Push the ends
together.... That adhesive is stronger than the steel
itself, so now the link is closed, the collar's locked
around his neck permanently."

When all was done, Officer Hughes released the
pressure on me, and I stood up.  The judge said
"Slave, walk around the court room, and show the
public your collar, the symbol of your enslavement!"

"Oh, please, sir, please don't make me do that.. I
can't walk around naked.... Not here, not in front of
all these people."

The judge looked almost contemptuously at me, as he
snapped "Slave, do as you've been commanded!  I want a
full circuit of the court, so that all can inspect the
new slave in our society.  And, slave, remember this -
a slave is never naked, as he always has his slave
collar on.  A slave collar is all a slave needs to
define himself to the world.  A slave has no feelings
of modesty, and has no need of concealment - a slave
obeys free men, and if they command him to walk around
unclothed, that is what he does.  Now, move, before I
order punishment for you. And assume the 'display'
position again."

I was terrified.  I was embarrassed.  I was scared.
As I walked around, hands clasped around my neck, I
saw that most eyes in the room were focussed on my
dick.  I hated it.  I wanted it all to be over.  The
heavy chain around my neck caused me to want to stoop,
but Hughes was behind me, and half whispered "Stand
tall, boy.  Let the good folks get a proper look at
you."

It was over soon enough, thank God, and I again stood
in front of the judge.  Just as he was about to say
something, a voice broke out.

"Your honour, may I approach the bench?"

It was Mr Roberts, the lawyer I had consulted.  He
came into the well of the court, and addressed Judge
Wheeler.  "Your honour, I have reason to believe that
there are matters I should, as an officer of the
court, bring to this court's attention."

"Yes, Mr Roberts?"

"Your honour, you have agreed to the voluntary
enslavement of the former Steve Harris" (what did he
mean... The FORMER Steve Harris?).  "And I have reason
to believe, your honour, that this is a sham, a ploy
to prevent the former Steve Harris receiving a more
severe punishment, that of enslavement for life.  The
former Steve Harris is summoned to appear before
another court, your honour, accused of forced
intercourse, and, if I may say so, having heard the
evidence myself, I feel certain he will be found
guilty and enslaved for life.  I believe, your honour,
we have here a case of the 'Jackson ploy', to prevent
the former Steve Harris receiving his proper
punishment, full enslavement."

A murmur of conversation came from the crowd, who were
clearly thrilled at this unexpected turn of events.
The judge banged his gavel again.

"Mr Roberts, why did you not mention this before I
granted the period of temporary enslavement?"

"Attorney  client privilege, your honour.  The free
man Steve Harris consulted me,  so I could not
properly disclose these matters to you.  Once the
enslavement had taken place, of course, there was no
longer any impediment as a slave has no rights and
thus attorney client privilege no longer applies."

"Thank you, Mr Roberts.  But we now have a problem.
This slave is a slave for five years. But if he were
free, he might face a lifetime enslavement from
another court.  I am unable to free him, as the whole
basis of using enslavement in our society is that it
should be irrevocable - once enslaved, a man is a
slave until his sentence expires, or for life, if the
enslavement is permanent.  No remission, no appeal."

"Your honour... You can't free the slave, but you
could give him a longer sentence."

My blood ran cold!  Was he going to increase my
voluntary enslavement, to life?

Roberts leaned over the desk, and whispered something
to the judge.  The noise from the crowd grew, and
Judge Wheel called for silence yet again.  The judge
and Mr Roberts were both smiling, as if they'd shared
some clever, legal, joke

"Slave, I am going to increase your period of
voluntary enslavement from five years, to five years
and one day.  This increase requires your approval,
and that of your owner.  Indicate to the court that
you accept this increase in your period."

Well, I could hardly object, could I.  What difference
would one day make?  And, anyway, Billy-Joe was going
to release me as soon as Chantelle got tired of the
whole thing.  So I said "Yes, your honour, I accept
five years and one day."

"Mr Martin... A one day increase?"

"Yes, your honour."

"So be it.  The slave, formerly known as Steven
Harris, is hereby enslaved for five years and one day,
starting today.  Officer, take him down."  I saw him
bend over the enslavement order, and make changes to
it with his pen.

Officer Harris pushed me towards a flight of steps in
the corner of the room.  As we walked across the floor
I did so cautiously, as it felt odd to my naked feet.
Evidently I wasn't going fast enough for officer
Hughes, as he slapped my butt and said "Faster, boy!".

I'd hated stripping in court and appearing naked. I
didn't like the collaring process, and hated wearing
it.  Those had made me feel that I was taking
irrevocable steps into slavery.  But the casual way
that he'd slapped at my naked butt taught me something
new about my future life - a free man clearly had the
right to punish a slave;  I shuddered.


End of part two