factory slave
08-02-2003, 12:39 AM
This is Factory Boy who started to continue Phemral's Slavery Conscription epic. Slavery 2020 isn't over, not by a long way. Let's just say it's put on hold.
I have some ideas, perhaps including these:
-Woman being subjected to selective conscription to work as overseers.
-Slavery replacing conventional prisons for male criminals and political prisoners.
-Part-time conscription for men finishing their two years, e.g. two weeks per year.
-National emergencies requiring men to be re-conscripted into arms factories by a lottery system.
-The thoughts of slaves who'd escaped/not reported for duty, now serving lengthy sentences chained to machines.
-The public way of thinking, accepting slavery, despising men who don't report, etc.
-Finding the AWOL/non-reporters: Squads patrolling streets and entering trains and buses, ordering all men to stand before checking ID, lifting up shirts to check for scars on mens' backs, etc.
Obviously such stories are fantasy and readers can always say such a plot wouldn't work for a number of reasons. Many BDSM stories are set after a collapse of civilisation, but life seems quite normal to all except the slaves. However, everyday life in Slavery 2020 is pretty unpleasant for everyone. It's set in violent times following war and economic collapse. It's not so hard to think countries would adopt such extreme policies. Furthermore, boys and girls are brought up within a "slavocracy". It's the norm.
Any other ideas, please?
And a quick preview of part 4:
Sarah Joyce
Training Manager
HM Conscription Training Centre South-West 2 (SW2)
Wednesday 28th April 2020 2.30pm
It feels odd to be in this huge new factory alone. This time next week of course it will be very different. 200 out of our 250 slaves will be sent here. The other 500 or so will come from SW1, SW3 and long-term slave prisons. Whilst the long-term slaves such as escapees and political prisoners deserve long sentences in such places, I'm dreading next Thursday when I inform our innocent conscripts where they're going. It's not easy when an 18-year old conscript standing to attention before my desk learns he'll spend 21 months minimum chained to a machine in an arms factory, every slave's fear.
This new arms factory is long overdue. During the skirmishes at our northern oilfields last year, I visited the existing plant next door. Despite all slaves working 20 hours a day, the factoy's output was way behind schedule. Extra overseers and Civil Defence were brought in. Non-direct employees such as secretaries, marketing and PR staff were diverted to overseeing slaves, being paid a commission for their slaves' work. It was a dreadful sight. The slaves were dropping like flies but there were no replacements. The overseers, working impossibly long 10-hour shifts were under huge pressure and showed no mercy. As I walked through that cacaphony of machines and cracking whips, I saw a slave lying unconscious by his machine. Whilst the slaves nearby all stood to attention, presumably their orders when production stops, a young Asian woman, no doubt a PR lady who'd look more at home wooing customers at cocktail parties with her curvy legs, stylish above the knee suit and heels, was yelling and kicking his ribs repeatedly before stepping back to use her whip. As the blows rained down on his red back, an overweight overseer, her thighs bulging out of her black army shorts sat nearby, watching on, smiling and smoking. Uncrossing her legs to stub out her cigarette, she came over to help. "On your feet", she roared to the motionless slave. With her boot, she jerked the his ankle chain sending him flying onto his back with his legs wide apart. The "PR lady" stepped between his open legs, grinned at the overseer before driving her highly polished toecap twice into his exposed testicles. He groaned in pain but hardly moved. Finally the overseer's electric cattle prod soon had the poor slave back on his feet, clearly in agony. With that section's production resuming, the overseer and "PR lady" sat back down. I approached the young slave who promptly turned and snapped to attention:
"How long are you in for, slave?" I demanded to satisfy the two women, still sitting comfortably in their armchairs, the "PR lady" wiping her shoes with a handkerchief.
"Three years, Ma'am." He was sobbing in pain and terror.
"When are you due for release, slave?"
"November 2022, Ma'am"
He'd only been there about three months!
"Where did you do basic, slave?"
"SW2 Ma'am, with you, Ma'am"
"I see. Get on with your work, slave!"
"Yes, Ma'am. Thank you, Ma'am"
He waited a second for the usual knee in the balls, which didn't come, before restarting his machine. My God! I usually recognise our old slaves but that place had changed him totally. As I stepped back, watching him painfully work, I noticed what looked like cigarette burns on his lower back. The overseer was on her feet again walking along the rows of slaves. Clutching a new cigarette in one hand, whip in the other, her thighs rubbing together, calves sticking out the top of her boots. It'd do her good to spend a few days as a slave. Meanwhile, the PR woman sat, legs crossed, laughing into her mobile phone. A slave knelt before her polishing her shoes.
Although things have calmed down a lot now, it's always nice to leave that arms factory. Still, it's nice and peaceful in this new facility. I stop to stand in front of a shiny new machine. The sound of my heels echo off the grey, windowless walls. Looking down, I see the familiar ankle shackle which will imprison one of our slaves for the best part of two years of his young life. Well, I've always wondered what it's like. Now's my chance. Checking no one is about and that the slave cameras are off, I squat down to place the shackle around my own ankle. It's greasy and feels cold, even through my tights, which get smeared with smelly oil. I have a spare set in the car. I stand up taking one step towards the machine. The factory is suddenly filled with the sound of the clinking chain. I never knew chains were so heavy. Standing, I look up at the silent machine lifting up its safety guard, putting it down, lifting my chained foot and stamping on the pedal. So this is what factory slaves do for 18 hours a day. On both sides of me are long rows of machines. I look back to see a glassed off area with two easy chairs, a table and a computer. To think, a progress controller or military overseer, armed with a leaded whip, will sit in those chairs watching the slaves. I'd also have had my bare back whipped for just turning round. I wouldn't last a day in here. What must these boys go through? I lever open the shackle and run.
Composing myself back in the car, the two huge prisons in front of me. One empty, the other full of boys going through living hell. Taking the box of tights from my glove compartment, the card inside was in seven different languages:
Congratulations on choosing Pretty Polly tights. These tights have been hand-made in our Nottingham factory in England by British slave:
2019/26792AQ
Please use this number in any correspondence.
Below was a photograph of the slave. He was stood to attention, chained by his ankles and wrists to a table. His testicles were badly swollen but oddly pink, which suggests the picture was doctored. On his left was the smiling and very leggy Rebecca van Arsten, Pretty Polly's model. A not so smiley Lady Jane Hetherington, Pretty Polly's owner, was stood on his right, arms behind her back failing to conceal her whip. She should be smiling, she's never done a day's work in her life. She's become a millionaire through slavery. What a ghastly picture to send around the world.
I only do this job as I thought I could get my own two sons an easy job when their time comes. They're short-sighted, absolutely no chance of getting into the army. Slave's jobs are getting harder every year. More factories are opening. Foreign companies are coming here or buying British products. Our economy is booming but at what cost? My sons are a year apart so both will be away, and I won't even be told where. When I lie in bed at night, I run my hand over my husband's back, so smooth and so very lucky to have missed slavery. Last year, my brother-in-law John, Michael's younger brother stayed with us at our Chalet in Provence. In that hot summer, I wore a bikini, Michael went topless but John, being self-conscious about his scars, kept his t-shirt on, even twelve year after slavery.
I'm just glad I have one daughter.
I have some ideas, perhaps including these:
-Woman being subjected to selective conscription to work as overseers.
-Slavery replacing conventional prisons for male criminals and political prisoners.
-Part-time conscription for men finishing their two years, e.g. two weeks per year.
-National emergencies requiring men to be re-conscripted into arms factories by a lottery system.
-The thoughts of slaves who'd escaped/not reported for duty, now serving lengthy sentences chained to machines.
-The public way of thinking, accepting slavery, despising men who don't report, etc.
-Finding the AWOL/non-reporters: Squads patrolling streets and entering trains and buses, ordering all men to stand before checking ID, lifting up shirts to check for scars on mens' backs, etc.
Obviously such stories are fantasy and readers can always say such a plot wouldn't work for a number of reasons. Many BDSM stories are set after a collapse of civilisation, but life seems quite normal to all except the slaves. However, everyday life in Slavery 2020 is pretty unpleasant for everyone. It's set in violent times following war and economic collapse. It's not so hard to think countries would adopt such extreme policies. Furthermore, boys and girls are brought up within a "slavocracy". It's the norm.
Any other ideas, please?
And a quick preview of part 4:
Sarah Joyce
Training Manager
HM Conscription Training Centre South-West 2 (SW2)
Wednesday 28th April 2020 2.30pm
It feels odd to be in this huge new factory alone. This time next week of course it will be very different. 200 out of our 250 slaves will be sent here. The other 500 or so will come from SW1, SW3 and long-term slave prisons. Whilst the long-term slaves such as escapees and political prisoners deserve long sentences in such places, I'm dreading next Thursday when I inform our innocent conscripts where they're going. It's not easy when an 18-year old conscript standing to attention before my desk learns he'll spend 21 months minimum chained to a machine in an arms factory, every slave's fear.
This new arms factory is long overdue. During the skirmishes at our northern oilfields last year, I visited the existing plant next door. Despite all slaves working 20 hours a day, the factoy's output was way behind schedule. Extra overseers and Civil Defence were brought in. Non-direct employees such as secretaries, marketing and PR staff were diverted to overseeing slaves, being paid a commission for their slaves' work. It was a dreadful sight. The slaves were dropping like flies but there were no replacements. The overseers, working impossibly long 10-hour shifts were under huge pressure and showed no mercy. As I walked through that cacaphony of machines and cracking whips, I saw a slave lying unconscious by his machine. Whilst the slaves nearby all stood to attention, presumably their orders when production stops, a young Asian woman, no doubt a PR lady who'd look more at home wooing customers at cocktail parties with her curvy legs, stylish above the knee suit and heels, was yelling and kicking his ribs repeatedly before stepping back to use her whip. As the blows rained down on his red back, an overweight overseer, her thighs bulging out of her black army shorts sat nearby, watching on, smiling and smoking. Uncrossing her legs to stub out her cigarette, she came over to help. "On your feet", she roared to the motionless slave. With her boot, she jerked the his ankle chain sending him flying onto his back with his legs wide apart. The "PR lady" stepped between his open legs, grinned at the overseer before driving her highly polished toecap twice into his exposed testicles. He groaned in pain but hardly moved. Finally the overseer's electric cattle prod soon had the poor slave back on his feet, clearly in agony. With that section's production resuming, the overseer and "PR lady" sat back down. I approached the young slave who promptly turned and snapped to attention:
"How long are you in for, slave?" I demanded to satisfy the two women, still sitting comfortably in their armchairs, the "PR lady" wiping her shoes with a handkerchief.
"Three years, Ma'am." He was sobbing in pain and terror.
"When are you due for release, slave?"
"November 2022, Ma'am"
He'd only been there about three months!
"Where did you do basic, slave?"
"SW2 Ma'am, with you, Ma'am"
"I see. Get on with your work, slave!"
"Yes, Ma'am. Thank you, Ma'am"
He waited a second for the usual knee in the balls, which didn't come, before restarting his machine. My God! I usually recognise our old slaves but that place had changed him totally. As I stepped back, watching him painfully work, I noticed what looked like cigarette burns on his lower back. The overseer was on her feet again walking along the rows of slaves. Clutching a new cigarette in one hand, whip in the other, her thighs rubbing together, calves sticking out the top of her boots. It'd do her good to spend a few days as a slave. Meanwhile, the PR woman sat, legs crossed, laughing into her mobile phone. A slave knelt before her polishing her shoes.
Although things have calmed down a lot now, it's always nice to leave that arms factory. Still, it's nice and peaceful in this new facility. I stop to stand in front of a shiny new machine. The sound of my heels echo off the grey, windowless walls. Looking down, I see the familiar ankle shackle which will imprison one of our slaves for the best part of two years of his young life. Well, I've always wondered what it's like. Now's my chance. Checking no one is about and that the slave cameras are off, I squat down to place the shackle around my own ankle. It's greasy and feels cold, even through my tights, which get smeared with smelly oil. I have a spare set in the car. I stand up taking one step towards the machine. The factory is suddenly filled with the sound of the clinking chain. I never knew chains were so heavy. Standing, I look up at the silent machine lifting up its safety guard, putting it down, lifting my chained foot and stamping on the pedal. So this is what factory slaves do for 18 hours a day. On both sides of me are long rows of machines. I look back to see a glassed off area with two easy chairs, a table and a computer. To think, a progress controller or military overseer, armed with a leaded whip, will sit in those chairs watching the slaves. I'd also have had my bare back whipped for just turning round. I wouldn't last a day in here. What must these boys go through? I lever open the shackle and run.
Composing myself back in the car, the two huge prisons in front of me. One empty, the other full of boys going through living hell. Taking the box of tights from my glove compartment, the card inside was in seven different languages:
Congratulations on choosing Pretty Polly tights. These tights have been hand-made in our Nottingham factory in England by British slave:
2019/26792AQ
Please use this number in any correspondence.
Below was a photograph of the slave. He was stood to attention, chained by his ankles and wrists to a table. His testicles were badly swollen but oddly pink, which suggests the picture was doctored. On his left was the smiling and very leggy Rebecca van Arsten, Pretty Polly's model. A not so smiley Lady Jane Hetherington, Pretty Polly's owner, was stood on his right, arms behind her back failing to conceal her whip. She should be smiling, she's never done a day's work in her life. She's become a millionaire through slavery. What a ghastly picture to send around the world.
I only do this job as I thought I could get my own two sons an easy job when their time comes. They're short-sighted, absolutely no chance of getting into the army. Slave's jobs are getting harder every year. More factories are opening. Foreign companies are coming here or buying British products. Our economy is booming but at what cost? My sons are a year apart so both will be away, and I won't even be told where. When I lie in bed at night, I run my hand over my husband's back, so smooth and so very lucky to have missed slavery. Last year, my brother-in-law John, Michael's younger brother stayed with us at our Chalet in Provence. In that hot summer, I wore a bikini, Michael went topless but John, being self-conscious about his scars, kept his t-shirt on, even twelve year after slavery.
I'm just glad I have one daughter.