Slavery 2030 free porn video

Slavery 2030

Part 1

With good intentions

From the author of Slavery 2020.

Slavery 2020 saw a society still coming to terms with conscription. 2037 sees One Britain One Economy. With the needs of the many far outweighing those of the few, production, Spending Targets and the Economy are paramount. 

Daniella Peterson

Public Relations Executive

BAe Factory 3 ( Oxford)

Tuesday 15 September 2037

9.45am

One Britain One Economy. Citizens of the United Kingdom need to remind themselves of that. We retire at 55, and our world-class free healthcare now sees us living into our 90s. You might be forgiven for thinking my job is redundant.

Not yet. Many other countries, whilst keen to invest and work with us, don’t share the One Economy concept. They express concerns about conscript labour. It’s cruel.

1. Conscripts believe in One Britain One Economy.

2. Conscripts serve a term before doing normal civilian jobs and retiring at 55.

3. The United Kingdom’s manufacturing base is the finest in the world.

4. No other nation can match our quality or cost.

These countries can feign disapproval as long as they like. They’re investing billions into our Economy.

People like me ensure that continues.

Jennifer Lim

Director of Public Relations

AeroSing Inc (Singapore)

Tuesday 15 September 2037

1.15pm

 

Fab to be back in London. Mummy’s originally from rural Oxfordshire, and I boarded at Headington, hated it, but later read Archaeology and Anthropology?at Magdalen and loved it, taking a flat in London Highgate and driving my 18th birthday present Jaguar Eagle 4WD (thank you Daddy) to lectures, occasionally.

The tears flowed leaving Eagle and London behind, but Daddy had a job for me at LimCorp Finance (Singapore) so after a year or two of travelling, I started as PR Manager there. Daddy’s daughter syndrome was a problem. Stuff them. I was clearly independent after living so long overseas, so I resigned, took an MBA at Imperial College London and walked into my PR Exec role at AeroSing.

I still don’t know much about aeroplanes, but AeroSing manufacture a number of sections for passenger helicopters and business jets. How ironic that various business jets adorn my Singapore office wall, but even now I still have to fly First Class from Singapore to London with everyone else, just like student days.

Clearly my presentation, social skills, Eurasian features and legs are ideal for AeroSing. I have the long thick black hair of a Southeast Asian but rounder eyes and fairer skin. My parents are tall, so I’m about three inches taller than your average Singapore twenty-seven year old.

No appointments today so I’m sleeping off my jet lag and watching CBN. I wouldn’t have chosen the Mandarin Oriental if I’d booked myself. My first appointment tomorrow is BAe Factory 3 in good old Oxford. AeroSing have been a customer since before my time. We’re including a short film clip from BAe3 in our 2038 campaign. Murmurings from customers and Singaporeans say BAe3 takes work away from Singapore and is too cruel. The former is solved by awarding lower-priority contracts in Singapore, too easy. The question of ethics is where I earn my money. Knowing the UK as well as anyone, I can show their one economy model is both ethical and beneficial to AeroSing and Singapore.

Alpha 375698/2034 Conscript (Hard Labour Level 2)

Machine 1F Row 35

BAe Factory 3 (Oxford)

Tuesday 15 September 2037

4.15am

CLANG!

Slaves say they remember the sounds. Many will say the whoosh of a whip before impact. For others, it’s heels approaching, male or female doesn’t matter. If they’re wearing shoes, they’re higher than you.

Two sounds I’ll never forget. First is the rattling of chains. No, not during the day. Machine noise drowns it out. At night. Most nights I collapse on my square of cardboard at midnight and sleep through till 4am, but the few times I’ve woken I hear distant rattling of chains from far off machines. It took me two years to realise it was the wrist chains of slaves masturbating. My mind’s full of wank material being chained by the centre aisle with secretaries and PR ladies walking past five days a week, but those slaves 30 or 40 machines along the rows must have great eyesight, or long memories.

CLANG!

The sound I hate is that fucking clang. It’s the next incoming component from machine 1B Row 36. These heavy aluminium brackets take 5 press machines to be fully formed. My machine is the third stage, and the component from the second (machine 1B Row 36) slides down a long ramp to a metal tray on the floor.

CLANG!

For obvious reasons, I don’t look around, but as far as I can tell, all production lines work from left to right. Our line AeroSing V/217A is slightly different as we’re split on two rows: Row 35, where I am, and row 36 in front. V/217A starts at Machine 2B Row 36. Components then slide down a small ramp to Machine 1B Row 36, i.e. opposite me. They then slide down this much longer ramp into this metal basket by my left foot.

CLANG!

I then bend down, and using my left hand pick up the component. As shown in training, my right hand keeps grip on the mesh safety guard so I can pull myself upright quicker and save a few fractions of a second. As my right hand then lifts up the safety guard, my left hand carefully (but quickly obviously) places the component in the press. I then use both hands to close the safety guard and my right foot to operate the pedal. My left hand then raises the safety guard, right hand removes the component and pushes it onto the ramp to Machine 2F Row 36. I then repeat the process. Machine 2F Row 36 then completes his pressing before the final stage at Machine 3F Row 36.

The slave at 3F looks a few years older, and I’ve heard PR ladies address him as ?volunteer slave?. I’ve heard of this, but I often wonder if he planned on being a chained machine slave when he volunteered. He has the extra burden of stacking the heavy boxes of components ready for the logistical slaves.

Production Planning, the posh university graduates sitting in one of those nice glass offices up there, calculated if I use my hands correctly as trained I should be pressing a component every 9.7 seconds.

Project Leader Miss Stevens, the tall blonde in the pin stripe short skirt suits, which she started wearing to wow one of our male overseers was too busy sitting with her hand cupped around his crotch to ever notice I start to see double after 7pm and close my right eye so I can concentrate on my work. My ankles swell from standing so long, so my ankle shackles (welded on to be lighter than a locked chain, thanks again Miss Stevens, Ma’am, you thought of everything) chafes the already raw skin as I operate the pedal. And it’s not unreasonable to assume we get tired and work slower, hence extra overseers in the evening.

CLANG!

Miss Stevens earned her bonus well so I should have no than one or two parts from machine 1B in my tray. If I stop and clean debris from my machine, machine 1B will still continue production, and I’ll get what’s known as a ?backlog?. If the overseers notice more than 3 or 4 components in my basket, I’m in trouble until I clear the backlog.

It would be nice if we helped each other, i.e. if 1B noticed me clearing debris, he’d slow down. Not a chance. We all have a yellow BLOCKAGE button just above eye level. If I press my BLOCKAGE, a light flashes overhead above 1B and a five-second bell rings. It means I’ve stopped work because 1B has stopped or slowed. Likewise if 2F to my right presses BLOCKAGE, it’s my turn for lights, bells and approaching heels.

I would demonstrate, but it’s a fucking painful as is pressing BLOCKAGE without reason. Getting an irate overseer out of his or her chair always ends in tears, mine. Better to show you with 2F.

2F’s machine is full of debris. He’ll have to clean soon or the debris will start damaging his components (serious punishment). Right on cue. Now I’ll speed up and press my BLOCKAGE. It only takes a second for 1B to speed up and a few seconds more for 2B. That fat redhead Scottish overseer was out of her chair the moment I pressed.

I’m enjoying this now. Maybe Tan Sri Lady Noor, our owner, is sitting watching through her cameras from her mansion in Malaysia as we saw on one of her monthly motivational videos. I’m making you even more money today, Ma’am. Poor 2F now has five (yes FIVE!) components in his tray. And he’s still cleaning.

CLANG!

Six.

?Clear that fucking backlog!?

But 2F had at least 30 seconds of cleaning left, and as he leant into his machine, his back was too easy a target.

CLANG!

?Your backlog, slave!?

2F’s head whiplashed back in sheer agony. We’ve all been there and would finish cleaning much quicker without a leaded whip across our back or a steel toe cap smashed into our balls. Another whiplash. 2F was cleaning systematically before but was now brushing anywhere in panic. Finally he bent down to pick up the first of seven, no, eight components, and I glimpsed 2F’s face grimace and maybe curse me as redhead’s steel toe cap crunched into his balls from behind.

I was getting tired now, but I could smell redhead’s scent behind me so wasn’t about to slow down. 2F was doing well, down to 4 components, but redhead still slashed an evil-sounding whip across his upper back. 1F was slowing down too, and I looked up for my BLOCKAGE button only to see the overhead camera was on and moving. Tan Sri Lady Noor really was sitting at home watching my orchestrated display. It must be almost 1pm in Malaysia. Lunchtime. Bon app?tit, Lady Noor Ma’am.

Three years here, and I’ve only had the honour of being inspected by Tan Sri Lady Noor once, in 2036. Although the main factory owners are Bowen-Barnes, Lady Noor owns the slaves in rows 35 to 40, which of course includes me and 479 other slaves if my maths is correct. Each machine, certainly in our section, has a smiling photograph of Lady Noor placed just above the BLOCKAGE button.

The preparation for Lady Noor’s visit included red carpets also placed along the machine rows 35 to 40. We were all given an extra five minutes to shave nicely and rehearse what to say if spoken to. Finally an announcement came over the PA.

?Tan Sri Lady Noor’s helicopter approaching!?

Despite the shitty five years out of my young life, this was actually very motivating to meet the person you make money for. I knew we would soon be called to attention, but I carried on working and even speeded up.

?Slaves, stop work!?

?Machine slaves, switch off your machines!?

I didn’t know about that part and almost tripped on my ankle chains as I ran in a panic around to switch off the power.

?All slaves face the centre aisle!?

In the rare silence, I could hear doors opening and closing and the clipped voice of Mrs Peterson. They’re on their way.

?Tan Sri Lady Noor approaching. Stand to attention, slaves!?

Can you imagine the grating sound of 10000 wrist chains moving in unison? I wanted to stick fingers in my ears, and I hoped Lady Noor was still in reception so her royal eardrums were spared that dreadful noise. I was only just in time and I wondered if my ankle chains had crossed as I spread my legs the regulation three feet apart, locked my fingers and touched thumb tips and placed hands on head with thumbs in the nape of the neck. Now was not the time to stand incorrectly. All the overseers were in full uniform and stood to attention at the aisle too, although obviously in military style and not like us.

And there she was, passing four feet in front of me, Lady Noor. Her chin was raised and it showed off her Asian features, high cheekbones, long shiny hair and pert breasts. She was taller than I expected, but was probably wearing heels. I daren’t look down obviously. Two Chinese-looking members of Lady Noor’s entourage followed respectfully behind. She reached the end of the aisle and was presumably going to the glass viewing area. I still had eyes front. Big day.

?Slaves, continue working hard!?

That was Lady Noor’s Asian voice through the PA. Odd expression, but logical. How else would we work, Ma’am? I reached round to switch on my machine. Wow! There was Lady Noor just five rows ahead sat in the plush viewing area just like on the motivation videos, with crossed legs, shiny silk pantyhose and, oh yes, heels. What a presence. What an aura.

The only time I could see her was each time I bent down to pick up, and I took full advantage. The fractions of a second I wasted each time weren’t going unnoticed by our overseer. Bending down to pick up, I looked up and met Lady Noor’s eyes staring straight at me. She showed no emotion as my face twisted in pain when the inevitable leaded whip cut into my back. Sorry Lady Noor Ma’am.

The whips and shouts intensified in front. Lady Noor was no longer in the viewing area. She was obviously in rows 39 or 40. Royalty or not, slaves can only be trained so far, and those breasts and legs will turn any male heads, even if it ends in leaded whips or steel toe caps. It’s worth it.

She was crossing the centre aisle now, crossing row 38. That hair reached all the way down to a gold waist chain. The figure hugging one-piece did my erection no favours, even the nipples showed through. I don’t think her leaded brown whip was just for show, though, so I worked on at high speed.

CLANG!

A very-highly polished black and gold stiletto stamped onto the component.

Holy shit! I snapped to attention before her. She squared up to me and from twelve inches away ordered, ?Report, slave!?

Lady Noor was even more beautiful than in the motivational videos. The first thing I noticed, even as she walked past earlier, was the Clive Christian perfume (?$2000 a bottle if I remember the motivational videos) cutting through the lingering smell of grease and 5000 hard-working slaves. Her long flowing hair was more hazel than black and those well-known piercing dark eyes were now level with mine thanks to her gold heels and my feet being the regulation three feet apart.

?Good afternoon, Tan Sri Lady Noor Ma’am. I am a conscript slave and have the honour of..?

?Yes yes.? She held the coiled whip against my mouth. ?How much money are you making me, slave?? She took the whip away, and the Clive Christian replaced the oily leather smell.

?I am making you a three-month average of 7005 Eurodollars per month, Lady Noor Ma’am.?

Pursing her lips, she stepped back to look down at my balls. ?How many more years will you serve chained to my machine??

?Three years, Ma’am.?

Her eyes looked up and her face hardened. ?Minimum!?

?Yes Ma’am.?

Those eyes bored into mine. ?7005 Eurodollars is not enough for my Spending Targets, slave.?

My scrotum tightened. How much harder can I work? Training never prepared us for this, being face to face with an owner of royal heritage, a genuine slave driver.   

?Yes Ma’am.?

?I expect 8500 Eurodollars, slave.?

A huge increase! She smiled, just like in the photograph on my machine that I’d looked up to every day.

?But want 9000.? She looked down at my balls again. ?You’re young. Work faster. Encourage the other slaves always.?

?Yes Lady Noor Ma’am.?

The smile went. Lady Noor placed both hands on my shoulders and maintaining eye contact swung her silky right knee squarely and powerfully up into my testicles, her diamond earrings swaying with the impact. That millisecond of finest silk rubbing against my semi-erect penis was a heavenly assault on my long-forgotten sexual senses, but that silkiness died when her knee squashed my clean-shaven swollen left testicle into the pelvic bone. That familiar acidic pain rose in my abdomen. I wanted to double over in pain but that would send my head into those pert breasts and to years of unimaginable punishment..

?Thank you, Ma’am?

She held my gaze. ?Get back to work, slave!?

?Yes Lady Noor Ma’am.?

She didn’t stop at 2F or 3F, sorry boys, and I got another glimpse of those heels as she strode down row 35. Solid gold! Ha ha, I probably slaved a year chained to this machine just to buy one of those. And those silk pantyhose, tailored with thin black seams, had just given me so much pleasure and then agonising pain, but with the chance to impress your owner in the factory, and an Upper Lady too, you work through any pain. What class and what an honour she spoke to me. As she stopped maybe 20 machines along to inspect another lucky slave, the brown leaded whip in her right hand reminded me who and where I was, and more importantly who I was in the presence of, and I did indeed continue working hard, doubly so spurred on by Lady Noor’s motivation and the new 9000 Eurodollar target. I quickly calculated in my head that’s an increase of 30%. It sounded impossible to me, but what did I know? If Lady Noor said 9000 Eurodollars, then it must be possible.  

Most slaves go through long sentences without seeing their owners. It would be great if Tan Sri Lady Noor inspected us again during my remaining three years, but that one visit was more motivating than 1000 overseers. To think, I could’ve been assigned to polishing shoes in a hotel or one of these house slaves we were told about. But to be here making a real contribution to the Economy makes it all worthwhile.

Daniella Peterson

Tuesday 15 September 2037

3.15pm

Welcome to my office which affords an unobstructed view over BAe3. Forty rows of machines divided into two semi rows by a carpeted centre aisle. Each semi row consists of thirty to forty machines, depending on machine type, either side of a walkway, i.e. up to eighty machines in a semi row.

This all equates to 5110 machines, with 5110 chained machine slaves, obviously, with around 340 unchained logistical slaves delivering the raw material and collecting the finished parts for inspection or despatch. There are also about fifty unchained slaves who maintain and repair machines and also stand in for any machine slaves on ?toilet breaks? or who are unable to work due to medical inspections, punishments, etc.

Last but far from least are the officers from Her Royal Majesty’s Overseer Corps. A visitor might think the overseers have the better deal. Don’t you believe it. Whilst the slaves work bloody hard, the overseers are responsible for the output figures. They’re paid a commission, of course, so hard work is rewarded well, and the monthly and annual award for overseers with the highest output ensures healthy competition. However, low performance is taken very seriously.

Jennifer Lim

Wednesday 16 September 2037

09.30am

Jet lag or not, I have a schedule. BAe3 tour, arrive 11am and hopefully leave by 1230pm. Another factory tour, somewhere called Abel Aero, near Aylesbury at 2pm, which is going through the motions as I’ve already deemed them unsuitable for AeroSing PR although they do excellent and cheap work for us. Yet another factory (yawn) awaits at 3.30pm in MDBA Milton Keynes, which isn’t even a supplier to AeroSing but has good lighting and great potential for our 2038 campaign.  A charity networking dinner overlooking the PrettyPolly production area in Nottingham at 7pm should be interesting. Plenty of room in my luggage for the usual freebies.

     

I remember this M40 London to Oxford overhead toll route too well. It was my twice weekly commute to and from uni. The normal road below was free of charge but had trucks, speed limits and police road blocks. That’s not for me. My driver today thinks likewise.

It was wonderful to meet with Jennifer Hiller at Claridge’s last night for dinner. She and I were at Headington, and she also studied at Oxford, reading History and Economics at Balliol College. Over dessert, she asked if I remembered our tour to BAe3 in year 12.

I remember going in with headphones and playing on my DenWa 6. A presentation droned on, and I remember finding a couple of poppers left in my blazer pocket. I made excuses and went alone to a toilet to take both. The walls started breathing, and I wanted to sit on that porcelain forever, but I become paranoid about being left behind in that grey prison and tried to head back. The way back was noisier, and I covered my ears and looked down at the red floor. I veered off to the left and it got noisier still. Now on either side were bare backs of men with patterns and stripes. Why didn’t they have hair? One bent down, and I could see his disgusting hairy anus and what I assumed to be testicles (I was only 16 remember), but why were they black in colour? Was that normal for Caucasians? I wanted to ask, but a huge black woman in a uniform stood in front of me. She had shiny boots and huge thighs but a nice smile and led me back to a nice normal lady on the big red carpet. I felt one man’s eyes on me as we walked past, but when I looked back with a smile, his face contorted into a scream as the uniformed black woman whipped his back. He too had black testicles and no hair, and as I tried to focus on his stiff penis, I vomited on the red carpet. Nice normal lady gently pushed my head forward, and I noticed he had big shackles on his ankles. Why? I had to see a nurse and lie on a bed. I dreamt of the big shackle man. He was nice and friendly and wanted to come back with us on the school bus. We gave him blazers and school scarves to keep warm, but whatever we did we still saw his penis and black testicles.

?Jennifer!? he called. ?Jennifer!?

Why didn’t he put one of the school scarves over his genitals?

 

?Jennifer!?

It wasn’t of course big shackle man. How sad. He was still chained at a machine. It was Mrs Lewis-Barclay our social science tutor waking me up to get back on the bus home.

I was wide awake on a high now and thought of big shackle man all the way home. He didn’t look that old at all, maybe two years older than me. Why did he risk being hit to take a sideward glance at me? OK, I was disorientated due to the poppers, but I got the impression he really used that brief glance to full effect, an ogle by any other word. It was dark outside now, and I gazed at my reflection in the school bus window. I doubt my green and purple striped blazer was flattering, but the high-lift bra may have accentuated my less than developed sixteen-year-old Asian breasts. The mid-thigh dark navy pleated school skirt wouldn’t have looked too bad I guess, but I hated the white tights and black ankle boots.

How na?ve we all were back then. Mr big shackle wouldn’t have just ogled if he hadn’t been chained. A sixteen-year old Eurasian in a public school uniform would turn any chained slave’s head. It’s just they’re trained so well not to look, but I’ve seen huge throbbing erections in factories I’ve visited since, even when just dressed in an everyday above the knee dress suit and heels.    

 

Daniella Peterson

Wednesday 16 September 2037

9.30am

I’ve a bad feeling about today. AeroSing have placed orders up to 2049 with options up to 2055. That’s a huge order worth billions of Eurodollars. Production is on schedule, and my six-monthly visits to Singapore are for no more than pleasantries. I’ve always liked AeroSing’s lack of bullshit. They want figures, costs, progress. If you ask an AeroSing Exec how was their flight, they’ll say how’s production? Small talk is off the menu.

So just who is this Jennifer Lim? She belongs on the cover of Gucci, not here. She’d stop traffic in Oxford Street, so what will she do here? As little as possible if me and the pre-warned overseers do our jobs.

She wants a photo shoot done in January. She asked if the conscripts could wear shorts like they do in MBDA. I couldn’t care less what MBDA does, BAe3’s owners such as the Bowen Barnes and Lady Noor set the rules here, and naked it is. Nothing on earth will stop my two-year Ministry secondment starting in January. Promotion is promotion, and nothing will stand in the way of that. Nothing.

Conscript (Hard Labour Level 2) 278431/2032

Machine 1F Row 35

BAe Factory 3 (Oxford)

Wednesday 15 September 2037

4.45am

Yes, I’m Level 2. Lucky for me I always finished in the second group during those winter 18Km conscription readiness runs. Any faster, and I would probably have had ?the honour? of serving as a Level 1 as Mrs Wilson at school would say. Slaves can be anything from Level 5, which is probably polishing shoes in some posh hotel, up to Level 1, which is being chained underground in a bombproof oil refinery or in one of the engine rooms of an aircraft carrier. Level 2’s tough, but spare a thought for the Level 1s who’ve burned or drowned to death chained on ships. We’re looked after well and will see freedom, a pension, and unlike Level 1s, women.

Like all BAe3 machine slaves, I was given five year’s minimum, but six months before my release this was increased to eight years by order of Lady Noor to meet her Spending Targets. I caught a glimpse of another owner’s monthly motivational video, a Lady Bon Jacobsen, which said her machine slaves were being retained due to rising costs. I guess Lady Noor is feeling the same so let’s all work that bit harder for her.

Alpha 375698/2034 opposite me in 1F Row 35 hasn’t made things easy. Since Lady Noor stopped at his machine in her only ever visit to BAe3 last year, he’s been working like a Level 1, pressing BLOCKAGE every two weeks or so. We all want to impress Lady Noor, but pressing BLOCKAGE after what must be two seconds of delay causes massive downstream problems for us and the logistical slaves as well as damaged parts. As I pull down the safety guard, I look up at Lady Noor’s smiling face. Ma’am, your motivational videos tell us you want more and more BLOCKAGE, but please, you’re a fair lady Ma’am, please sit and watch in your cameras and see the havoc he’s causing.

Jennifer Lim

Wednesday 15 September 2037

11.10am

Clearly a huge factory like BAe3 isn’t in the centre of my beloved Oxford. More’s the pity. It lies in Cowley, an ugly industrial area I only graced on that one popper-affected visit. I’ll keep an eye out for big shackle, although eleven years on he’s no doubt long since free.

This Peterson bitch doesn’t want me here. Tough. She asked if I wanted the slaves called to attention as I enter. I’d much rather see them work, but because of her, I said ?of course, yes?.

Poor old 2026 big shackle put me in two minds what to wear today. It’s almost autumn in England, and that white Fabienne D’Or trouser suit would have suited the weather and not attracted too much attention. However, it was hardly suitable for the PrettyPolly event this evening so I opted for the one-piece mid-thigh climatic and four-inch Daiki heels.

Daniella Peterson

Wednesday 15 September 2037

11.10am

I’m already drafting my report. Stopping 5000 slaves working for an owner is one thing, but to do so for a daddy’s girl to walk down the centre aisle in her Jimmy Choos will take some explaining. This promotion can be snatched away in an instant. Plenty others would step over me to do this secondment.  It’s supposed to be my job to keep VIPs and slaves apart. Well, I just hope Ms Lim enjoys the attention. It will take the overseers an hour to get them to concentrate on their work again. Lady Jacobsen causes enough illicit ogling on her annual visits, but Lady Noor last year was met with rows upon rows of throbbing erect penises.

To give an idea of how Jennifer Lim has no clue, she hasn’t even said when she’ll be arriving! Our VVIPs such as owners, ministers and the real businesspeople from AeroSing always give an exact time. For one thing, they know it lessens the disruption to production, and secondly they don’t want to witness ?toilet breaks? when the so-called shit cart is wheeled from machine to machine. Who can blame them? A chained conscript sat on a steel bucket wiping his arse on the communal cloth twice a day is something I avoid. Of course in a place this size, the shit cart takes all day to get round to everyone, but when VVIPs are here, sorry boys, you’ll all have to wait.

Conscript (Hard Labour Level 2) 278431/2032

Wednesday 16 September 2037

11.10am

Something’s amiss. Our section and a few others nearby were told to prepare for a VVIP inspection. No extra red carpets or three-monthly average earning briefing so it’s not Lady Noor sadly. Nevertheless, we were given an extra five minutes at 4.05amtoday. Whilst overseers shouted and whipped other sections to work, and their buckets were collected, we got to brush our teeth properly (real mouthwash too!) and shave our balls.

Jennifer Lim

Wednesday 15 September 2037

12.55pm

Oxford’s lunchtime traffic was as ever shit. Belmond Le Manoir aux Quat' Saisons was even more stunning than I remembered, though. How amazing that our old Magdalen favourite Foie De Canard Po?l? was still on the luncheon menu. This BAe3 Peterson’s organised lunch apparently, but I doubt she’s ever dined at anywhere like Belmond’s, so she can enjoy her leftovers whilst I’m on my way to Abel Aero or wherever afterwards.

As we approach through the forests, I remember this gargantuan monstrosity from my visit eleven years ago. I still say the architects should’ve been shot. It looks like a zillion tonnes of battleship grey concrete, soulless and windowless, discarded in a massive unwanted block alongside some first prize winner in a competition to see just how much glass could be used to construct a building. Beauty and the beast, but which is which?

The barriers lift and we’re through. My driver obeys the 15mph speed limit inside. This is 2037 after all. We go around all three sides of that great windowless battleship which takes what feels like ten minutes. I crane my neck to see the sides, but only one is broken by a colourful BAe logo and the huge ?One Britain One Economy?. The glass house entrance has a red carpet, but it’s old and faded, left out all year round and not laid out especially for me. Nevertheless, I know my driver will stop just there as there she is, Daniella Peterson, PR Manager. A good example of what you can do in Britain from humble working-class beginnings. I have to admit she looks the part, though. Just like the research, slim and blonde with that confident half smile. Not bad after two kids and an impending divorce. Blue knee-length skirt suit with BAe Sam Browne belt and black standard whip. Very smart, I’m sure, Mrs Peterson.

Conscript (Hard Labour Level 2) 278431/2032

Wednesday 16 September 2037

12.55pm

Something’s very wrong. The PR ladies, normally so prim and proper, are stressed about something. I’ve never squatted in the bucket and wiped my arse with one of those goddesses looking on nearby and checking her watch. The shit cart’s just been sent away. Whoever’s coming is here now.

Daniella Peterson

Wednesday 16 September 2037

12.55pm

Our research team warned us well. We knew she had a lunch reservation in Belmond Le Manoir in Oxford, so the pencilled-in 11am arrival was changed to a more realistic 1pm. I’d not even ordered lunch for her anyway. I was warned again when she left the restaurant so had at least fifteen minutes to sort my team. She’ll get the presentation, video and tour. We’ll be done by 3pm.

Just keep away from the slaves, Ms Lim, and we’ll leave on smiling terms.

Jennifer Lim

Wednesday 16 September 2037

1.10pm

My driver’s obviously in on the act, but I’m cool with that. These people want an exact arrival time, but it’s not as if I’m going to disrupt production or anything. He takes an age to walk around to open my door. Mrs Peterson and two assistants approach.

?Welcome to BAe3, Ms Lim. Daniella Peterson, Public Relations Manager?

To be fair, she seemed very nice. ?Nice to meet you, Mrs Peterson.?

?We understand this is your first visit to BAe3, Ms Lim??

Ouch! I’d have someone fired with research like that. ?Yes?, I lied.

The glass house entrance was 50 metres to our left, but I was led to an opening in the grey soulless block. From outside, through the thick concrete I could already hear the machines, the flywheels, the heavy presses. Automatic doors opened, and we were in, in a small partitioned off ante room. Wow, that’s loud. The heavy presses were now joined by the clatter of chains and shouts and a whip crack then another. Mrs Peterson had to shout to make herself understood as she used her whip to point out a safety poster.

KEEP SAFE. KEEP TO THE RED CENTRE AISLE.

ROWS ARE STRICTLY FOR STAFF ONLY.

ENJOY YOUR VISIT TO BAE FACTORY 3.

?Of course, as a VVIP visitor today, we’ll be happy to show you an AeroSing row if you’d like??

I hadn’t come all this way for the fucking food, had I?

Conscript (Hard Labour Level 2) 278431/2032

Wednesday 16 September 2037

1.15pm

?Slaves, stop work!?

Our guest or guests have arrived. This happens every two or three months, but it’s usually an owner, and the names are announced. Makes no difference to me, unless it was Lady Noor, of course.

?Machine slaves, switch off your machines!?

Please, let it be female and attractive. OK, I’m luckier than most being chained right by the centre aisle, but the last time I stood smartly to attention like this, two obese Arabs walked by. The time before that it was some Muslim woman with headscarf and trouser suit, glasses and a wart! 

?All slaves face the centre aisle!?

Whoever it is, I’ll use the opportunity to practice getting my chains right. I watched those fat Arabs with my left wrist chain somehow covering my right eye.

?Stand to attention, slaves!?

This is it. Feet on the markers, hips forward, chin up, hands on head, wait. Huh? The slave opposite, on the other side of the centre aisle is new. He looks about 15. I guess the previous guy finished his time. Welcome to BAe3, mate. Let’s hope this visitor, your first, brightens up what must have been a terrifying first few months for you.

It already sounds promising. Female voices approaching. The polished voice of our main PR lady and an American, maybe a Eurasian accent. My new friend opposite is keeping eyes front too, well trained. 

Fuck! This erection’s gonna be impossible to miss. My new friend opposite’s is huge. Just who is this? I thought Lady Noor was a goddess, but this is a Eurasian much taller version. One of the male overseers opposite jumps out of his chair and is now making his way to the centre aisle for a closer look. I don’t care. I’m risking punishment to look up and down with my eyes. Long jet black shiny hair, open expression, high cheekbones and full red lips. A cream-coloured one-piece climatic suit allowing a slight shadow to be cast under a lovely tight pair of tits. It’s just as well I’m chained. I feel my cock moving, throbbing in pain as even more blood rushed in. I felt as if my cock were halfway across the aisle. One of the PR ladies gave me a sideways glance, and I knew I’d better keep eyes front. The male overseer was now at the centre aisle looking down and following with his eyes as that butt and no doubt long and silky legs passed along the aisle all the way to the viewing area. Barstard. He tore his glance way and noticed me, still eyes front with huge erection, and grinned.

?Back to work, slaves!?

Jennifer Lim

Wednesday 16 September 2037

1.25pm

It was as I remembered, same big grey machines, presumably different men. When we come back with the film crew, we’ll pump the slaves full of potassium bromide to deal with the erections. From the VVIP viewing area (we didn’t come here in 2025!), I can see pretty much every machine, and although the far off machines are lost in a fog of wrist chains, I can still see individual shaved heads bobbing up and down, working hard. The nearer machines offer more clarity. The scarred backs of the first row of men are less than twelve feet from my chair. I’ll walk past shortly, and not one man will turn around such is the precision of their training. It’ll come over well on camera.

I sip my chilled Evian. I was offered tea, coffee (yuk) and even gin and tonic, but I already had a demi of 2022 Domaine Fran?ois?at Belmond’s, best not to doze off on this plush leather. I sit up and cross my legs. The slave chained to an aisle machine facing me looks up and then yelps as an overseer drives her whip across his back. She’s still behind him now encouraging him. He seems to be working hard enough to me with his limp penis swaying back and forth across his tennis ball-sized bruised testicles.

I’m reminded of 2026 big shackle, which is a daft name when every machine slave out there has four big shackles. He would have been about seven machines back on the left. It could be possible, but he’d be greying by now, and all the slaves I can see still have neatly-trimmed triangles of brown, black or red pubic hair. Young men in their prime. They’ll look great on camera.

?Mrs Peterson, 817 machines are working on AeroSing projects.? It wasn’t a question. ?I want to see the following Viking cells: V/217A, B, C, D, E and F. V/219A, V/226H and V/279J.?

Mrs Peterson raised a shiny DenWa I5 to her ear.

?Your cells are beautifully and clearly signed. My DenWa will lead me to each cell. V217/A is six rows to our right. Will you join me??

The factory was loud and would prove a challenge to our sound crew. My DenWa would record a short interview with an overseer and a slave, and we’ll see how that all works once back in Singapore. The slaves were fully at work now. No erections. A very smart southeast Asian-looking overseer patrolled one of the first rows, and I realised it was her who had whipped the ogling slave just now. Very photogenic. The steel heels on her highly-polished knee length boots could just be heard above the machines. Denier 12 regulation pantyhose, black knee length double pleated skirt and white blouse, freshly starched and ironed. The polished black leather Sam Browne, black peaked cap with gold HMOC badge and black leaded whip, she was going in my film alright. She stopped to watch a pasty and overweight logistical slave (interesting selection) balance two boxes of components in his arms before running, well wobbling, off past us with belly and penis jiggling at random.

?Faster, you fat shit!?

Not in my film. Sorry, fatboy. The overseer caught my amused look and flashed me a film star smile. It wasn’t an AeroSing row, but I didn’t care.

"你会不会讲普通话??Do you speak Mandarin Chinese?

She squinted in concentration. ?会，一点点.? Yes, a little.

I still print old-fashioned business cards from my DenWa, and I handed one to her. She took it politely with both hands.

不敢当. Thank you.

More than a little. The way she thanked me was a very formal expression not often used in modern Mandarin. Perfect.

?Call my secretary as soon as you’re off duty. You’re doing a great job.?

Daniella Peterson

Wednesday 16 September 2037

1.25pm

Ms Lim has smashed Lady Noor and Lady Bon Jacobsen’s joint record for centre aisle erections. Our poor slaves made me so proud today, though. With many barely 18 years of age, testosterone levels off the scale and in the midst of their full-blown sexual peak, they all kept eyes front before continuing work. Boys, you’ve no idea what a nightmare this woman is to me and to you, but you’ve made me proud today.

 

Conscript (Hard Labour Level 2) 278431/2032

Wednesday 16 September 2037

1.25pm

The cacophony of shouts and whip cracks from the rows behind say something interesting is going on. We all work on, eyes front, like good boys whenever the mini-skirted PR girls and secretaries walk by. I can take a sideways peep at them anytime Monday to Friday without risking another leaded whip across my back. But once in a while something different comes by whether it’s a new secretary dolled up in climatic suit and heels or, of course, Tan Sri Lady Noor last year.

?Know your place.? Mrs Peterson said during our induction as twenty of us stood to attention in two chained rows in the nice reception. ?You’re here as BAe3 machine slaves for five years to serve your owners, country and Economy. Your hard work keeps Britain great. Do I make myself clear, slaves??

Five years did she say? ?Yes Mrs Peterson Ma’am.?

She uncrossed her legs and stood up from her chair.

?There will be few highlights in your five years. Your owners might honour you with inspection visits, but Christmas is a normal working day. Hard work.?

I could hear her heels directly behind me on the marble floor as she walked between the two rows. 

?Free your minds of pleasure. You are not here to enjoy yourselves. Five years of hard work. Understood??

She did say five years. ?Yes Mrs Peterson Ma’am.?

She called to the waiting overseers. ?Take them away and chain them.?

Nice little speech. I was about the only one not crying as we waited to be marched away and chained. Five years? Just yesterday at Camp SW2 we were told our destination and two years. One lad behind who struggled through training even more than me actually dared speak without permission, ?Ma’am, we were told??

The heels quickened in his direction. ?Shut the fuck up, slave!?

His sobs changed to the all familiar guttural sound of pain as Mrs Peterson drove her knee up into his testicles.

?Chain this one first. One of the Al-Fahid heavy presses in row 16 will shut him up.?

I heard him being unlocked, and he gasped in even more pain as a male overseer twisted his arm high behind his back and dragged him towards the factory glass double doors. The overseer released his grip but then aimed a kick at the slave’s lower back forcing him to the ground halfway through the double doors. He uncoiled his leaded whip. ?Get the fuck up!? 

We all jumped in shock at that shout and whip crack. The chubby receptionist, who was probably only two years older than us, didn’t even look up from her DenWa. Seen it all before.

It left us in no doubt that Level 2 and this place would be hard. It also, however, told us to take our chances. When you see a real beauty walking by, she’ll be worth one or maybe two cracks, but look and remember well. There might be nothing to see for another two years.

   

Talking of risks, I just craned my neck around, and it was our Eurasian bringing so much delight to my comrades in chains whilst the overseers went into overdrive. I can’t see today breaking any production records, or tomorrow come to that with the right wrist chain orchestra starting a performance at midnight.

She was now in our row with Mrs Peterson and two other hangers on watching a section behind me at work. Nice to see she’s the only one of the group not carrying a whip. She looks much too nice for that. Now she’s directly behind me, and either taking pictures or filming with a DenWa whilst dictating in what sounded like Chinese and English.

?Row 38 Asian overseer. She’ll call for screen/language test. V/226H, V/279J, V217/B all no go.?

I found it amusing that Mrs Peterson was shushed away whenever she spoke. Whatever the purpose, our Eurasian knew her job, thank you very much. Now she’s filming at my right-hand side. She likes that long ramp, and as she checks it out, this is all my cancelled BAe3 Christmases at once. That shiny black hair and gold loop earrings. As she looks down at the flowing parts, I can see her features are very Asian with the cute button nose and full lips. And whoever gets to see those tits uncovered could spend 20 years chained in here and still be happy. The cream climatic suit exposes firm shapely lower thighs and calves wrapped in seamed satin silk pantyhose. Those legs are from treadmills, masseurs and Jacuzzis, not the varicose veined swollen kind we’re developing in service to our country. I’m not great on shoes, I’m afraid, but spike heels and highly-polished brown leather finishes those legs off nicely, and as she walks back, I notice she’s taller than me.

That DenWa’s out again, filming me and my erection from the side. I daren’t glance to my right. She’s clearly got no problem with erections, but if I catch those tits right now, I’ll ejaculate three months’ supply of semen all over my machine, or worse. 

?We’re going with V/217A.? This time in English.

No idea if that’s good or bad, but now I wish she’d just go. How ironic. Ninety seconds of ecstasy in five years of slavery in conditions I’d never dare imagine and now I want this bliss to end. Finally, she’s moved on to Alpha 375698/2034 and giving him and his erection the DenWa treatment. This is even worse, though, as now I have her in full profile! I can’t humanly take my eyes away now, and as I place a component on the ramp, I have to just stop and look. I knew Mrs Peterson was nearby so it was hardly a surprise when her leaded whip cracked around my ribs. It was as if I deserved that and stood still to make her job easier. The Eurasian glanced over at my yell before focusing again on her DenWa. OK, back to work. With Mrs Peterson six foot behind me, I had to somehow ignore millions of years of human instinct and my erection and focus on work.

Utter bastard! First Tan Sri Lady Noor and now this goddess. What does Alpha 375698/2034 have that I don’t? He’s stood fully to attention now answering her questions. Her expression shows genuine interest and pleasure, not the sour face of overseers and PR ladies who you feel will spit in your face. She’s laughing at a comment. Maybe he’ll share the joke. No laughs in here. Right Mrs Peterson, you want hard work? Watch me.

I took a deep breath and decided I would count 25 components and rush through without stopping. The two slaves to my left were just as messed up as me with full erections, so after seven components, I hit BLOCKAGE. Mrs Peterson made her way round to Alpha 375698/2034’s machine as one of our overseers came across. I only had ten seconds or so to wait before the components started again. Now we were all working well and at speed, and my thoughts returned to Lady Noor and her Spending Targets.

BLOCKAGE

Huh?

BLOCKAGE

A second machine? Of course, it was Alpha 375698/2034. I’d almost forgotten about Eurasian. She was still there! He was still stood fully to attention. It’s not my problem. We work until ordered to stop, isn’t that right, Tan Sri Lady Noor Ma’am? The smiling photograph of Lady Noor looked down from the machine flywheel above. I’ll take that as a ?Yes, slave? then, Ma’am.

?V/217A, stop work, slaves!?

By some form of telepathy, we carried on working.

?I said stop work, you worthless pair of cunts!?

The whip caught my right shoulder, and as Lady Noor’s photograph looked on with disapproval, I wondered what she’d make of her slaves being whipped for working.

As ordered, we stood to attention facing our machines. All five lights were flashing above now, and I could see a group of about seven uniformed overseers making their way along the centre aisle to us. Nothing they or we could do. Eurasian was still there. Mrs Peterson stood off to one side checking a stopwatch. Furious.

Oh well. I’d use this enforced break well to have another ogle and replenish my erection. I shifted eight inches to my left, not enough for the overseer to notice, but plenty enough for tits of the year part 2. She was lovely. Her face and smile would grace any social occasion. She turned in my direction and stroked her hair behind her right ear, revealing a chunky, probably Cartier, chunky gold bracelet. I could see the reflection of Alpha 375698/2034’s machine in her left shoe, so shiny was the soft brown leather.

And next to those nice expensive shoes, was the second best sight of the year. Alpha 375698/2034’s backlog. If I counted correctly, that’s 28 components stacked right there.

I believe in karma. I must have sinned in a previous life to be chained in here, but at least I’m doing useful work. We all want to serve Lady Noor well, but Alpha 375698/2034 opposite has taken that to the extreme since she honoured him with a visit last year. But Lady Noor is an owner, she knows that visits are motivational but bad for production, which is why she only stopped him for ten seconds maximum. This Eurasian, however, as lovely as she is, has caused big problems for V/217A today.

We’ll all be punished for stopping production, an offence against the Economy. Mrs Peterson will have to answer too. Something very bad will come of this.

Jennifer Lim

Wednesday 16 September 2037

1.35pm

It’s not until you get close to machine slaves that you realise how badly they’ll come across on camera. V/226H and V/279J are in rows owned by the Al-Fahid family, and it shows. Chained for the mandatory ten years, the male overseers get them working well, very well, but I saw too many missing teeth and black eyes, and also blood on the floor. I moved on.

The Asian overseer was a gem. If she passes her screen test, she won’t need to work in this place much longer. V/217A was near the end of my list, but the way the production line goes around two rows is ingenious. The slaves chained in both rows are owned by Tan Sri Lady Noor who insists on five years Level 2 minimum but is known for her fairness. This empathy was clear when you look at the slaves working. With her smiling photograph on each machine, you can tell they’re motivated to work hard for her. They were all youngish slaves with ages and sentences as follows: 20 (5 years of 8 left), 23 (1 year of 7 left), 20 (3 years of 5 left), 20 (7 years of 9 left) and a 28-year-old volunteer slave who wrote to Lady Noor in Malaysia asking to serve her (9 years of 14 left). I’ll use his story later, but as you would expect he’s one of the hardest workers, winning BAe3 slave of the year in 2034.

Alpha 375698/2034 Conscript (Hard Labour Level 2) chained to 1F Row 35 will be my BAEe3 star for 2038. His records show high levels of motivation, and whilst his current appearance isn’t as good as the naked picture on his record, he had a firm young body and a genuine open expression. 

?Slave. Stand before me.?

He bolted upright and was perfectly at attention before me. Not even an erection. Well trained.

Alpha 375698/2034 Conscript (Hard Labour Level 2)

Wednesday 16 September 2037

1.35pm

I couldn’t take anymore. First she walked past us all. I actually saw one slave’s penis go from limp to fully erect in three seconds. Then she sat up in the viewing area, and I pitied the B slaves with their backs to her. I looked up at Lady Noor’s photograph for permission and leant to my right each time to catch a few more seconds. What do you look at first? The face was open and confident. The breasts should have a gold picture frame around them. They were just there to be looked at, whilst the silky crossed legs belonged on plush leather like that.

She came out with the PR ladies to Row 16. That’s a scary-looking row with all male overseers and slaves usually working on after midnight. I was happy and not surprised that she appeared on the centre aisle again less than a minute later.

Amazingly, she then came to 36. Her DenWa filmed the backs of the two men in 36 before filming 278431/2032 from the side. With her now in full profile, working was impossible. The Scottish overseer was sat staring straight at me and my erection. Desperate! Panicking, I picked up a component and fumbled it to the floor. From there I gripped my foreskin and yanked it back and forth three times. That was enough. I stood up with the component and placed it, all the while shooting six months of semen on the floor and my machine. I pulled down the safety guard and looked up at Lady Noor’s disapproving photograph whilst enjoying the final spurts.

?Sorry, Tan Sri Lady Noor Ma’am.?

It worked. The erection was subsiding and now I could get back to work. Lady Noor wouldn’t have approved of my methods, but her photo approved that I was working hard again. For what felt like two whole minutes of ejaculation, the damage was minimal. I quickly wiped myself with the machine rag. It would be just my luck if the Eurasian gave me a motivational knee in the groin only to find slave semen soiling a ?$500 pair of silk pantyhose.  A few spots of semen on the floor were no problem, but out of respect I cleaned a component which had been splattered.

With the erection gone, I was the fastest in the section again. Ordinarily, I would’ve pressed blockage, but I had sympathy for 278431/2032 who could barely bend down with his throbbing erection and could hardly try my ejaculation trip with a VVIP filming.

?Slave. Stand before me.?

Those two highly-polished brown stilettos were right there next to me. I forgot about the next component and snapped to attention. Thank God for that wipe down.

?How are you today, slave??

How to respond to that? Who was she anyway? ?I am good, thank you, Ma’am.?

She looked up from her DenWa. ?I work for AeroSing Corporation. Do you know what you’re making here?? She gestured down at the part on the floor. I looked down too. By ?part? I mean ?parts?.

Oh shit.

CLANG!

?We are not told, Ma’am.?

She made a little laugh. Well, yes Ma’am, in the real world I’d ask, but this is not a place which rewards curiosity. Into her DenWa but looking at me, she asked ?If prepared, do you feel you’re lucid enough to explain what you’re making here, in front of a camera??

No. ?Yes Ma’am.?

CLANG!

OK, this conversation is over, OK? I’ll do whatever you want. Please just go, Ma’am. My backlog is waiting.

Again into that DenWa, ?And your future plans. I’m not interested in hearing them now, but do you have plans such as university or an apprenticeship, which you could mention on camera??

My future plans are to clear my backlog. ?Yes Ma’am.?

She sighed, a frustrated sigh, maybe boredom, which would have been good. ?British slaves, well trained but so fucking boring with your monosyllabic answers. The next question, I want at least a four-word answer, preferably a whole sentence. Is that clear, slave??

CLANG!

I thought of just saying nothing. What could she do? Now Mrs Peterson was behind her with a stopwatch and an itchy whip.

No DenWa this time. I had her full attention. ?Tell me about your plans after BAe3. Did you have a girlfriend?? She had been looking down at my flaccid penis, probably a rare sight for her in slave factories, but now she gripped it between thumb and forefinger, and didn’t wait for my answer. ?I ask because you’ve been chained here for two years. You don’t seem pleased to see me if you get my meaning??

CLANG!

It’s now or never. ?Ma’am, with respect. I am not gay. I work here to serve my country, Tan Sri Lady Noor and my Economy. I do have plans, yes Ma’am. I have a delayed entrance to Bristol University to study Aerospace Engineering, Ma’am.?

CLANG!

She clapped three times. ?Bravo, Stephen Henning, or should I say Henny??

That’s my real name and nickname from the rugby club. We’re told our names are secret and not on any records until after release. This woman knows people at the very top. ?Henny, you’re in my 2038 PR film for AeroSing. Well done. 

CLANG!

?Unlike the usual bullshitters who say this will look good on your record, this really will.?

CLANG!

Thanks. My record is about to change for the worse as is the skin on my back. She took one last look at my shrivelled penis. ?And AeroSing need graduates like you. I’ll be in touch after your release.?

CLANG!

?I said stop work, you worthless pair of cunts!? That was row 36 finally stopping because my backlog had exceeded limits. She turned to go. For all the pain and beatings I was about to receive due to her, I was still too much of a gentleman to let her slip in those heels.

?Ma’am, please watch your step. There are components on the floor now.?

She looked down and stepped on three of the parts, leaving them bent and damaged.

?No worries. See you soon, film star. If I’m not here for filming, have fun at Bristol. Ciao!?

Those heels headed back up the centre aisle, and the whips started again. Minus the three damaged parts, my backlog was at least twenty-five parts.

?V/217A slaves. Get back to work, slaves!? The Scottish overseer roared.

?Double speed!? Mrs Peterson. Why?

Conscript (Hard Labour Level 2) 278431/2032

Wednesday 16 September 2037

1.45pm

The Economy and Lady Noor’s Spending Targets come before common sense. Double speed is used after a whole section stops at once and maintained until normal earnings are achieved. Alpha 375698/2034’s backlog is huge. Clear the backlog first and then double speed.

Alpha 375698/2034 yelled, a cross between a little girl’s cry and a wounded dog as the fat Scottish overseer’s steel toe cap smashed into his balls for a third time.

?Clear your fucking backlog, slave?

Her whip struck him five, six, seven times, and as bent to pick up, I saw the left hand side of his face and temple had felt the tip of a whip. To be fair, the backlog now looked smaller, but at this rate we would be double speeding for an hour. Impossible.

The Scottish overseer drank from a water bottle as another overseer took over. Finally some common sense as a logistical slave arrived to pass the components up to Alpha 375698/2034 and save valuable seconds. This mercifully also stopped Alpha 375698/2034 having to bend down and expose his poor testicles to those relentless kicks.

But he was being constantly whipped which no man can withstand. And with probably fewer than ten parts remaining, he started to slow. The BLOCKAGE alarms were back.

Another overseer took over with what looked like a heavier leaded whip, possibly Level 1. No. This wasn’t the answer. The whoosh was loud, too loud, but the crack across his back was terrifying. Again and again. Five, six, seven, eight! His head whiplashed right back, but his whole body kept going and poor Alpha 375698/2034 fell back to the ground.

?Take over, slave!?

The logistical slave was fitter and fresher, and without the hindrance of wrist chains soon had the backlog down to five.

The Scottish overseer was back and taking a mini run up once more ploughed her toecap into Alpha 375698/2034’s scrotum. His head shot up, which was a relief as I really thought he was dead, and he let out a pitiful groan, too weak to express the pain it deserved.

?On your feet, slave!?

As a testament to his training and motivation, he did try to ease himself up.

?Faster!?

She whacked his balls with a bright yellow cattle prod and pressed the button. He writhed in pain onto his side, but she rammed the live cattle prod back into his balls. He did what any human would do, he pushed the cattle prod away.

?Hands off the cattle prod. Hands on your head, on your feet, slave!?

Even as he got onto his knees, she could have used that strength and aggression to help him up. But instead she aimed another kick to his balls. If he’d walked into an A&E now, the medical staff would think he’d in a serious road accident. His head was bleeding as was his mouth. His back was gouged and blood had run down his legs on to the floor. His eyes were pointing everywhere, but thankfully he was on his feet.

?Work!?

He stepped forward to work but straight into the logistical slave. He had no clue where he was. BAe3, mate. Welcome back. The logistical slave resumed his earlier position of passing parts up to Alpha 375698/2034.

?Fuck off back to your station, slave!?

Cruel. Just cruel. The logistical slave sprinted off, and I looked up at Lady Noor. Ma’am, is this helping the Economy or your Spending Targets? As the BLOCKAGE alarms sounded yet again, she smiled back right on cue.

?Faster!?

The whip across my lower back reminded me we were still at double speed.

Alpha 375698/2034 reached to pick up a part but missed it completely such was his disorientation. He deserved an award for what happened next, though. He closed his left eye and felt for the next part and carried on working with one eye closed.

The backlog was now at three but a constant three. No let-up for Alpha 375698/2034, but even the overseers were bored now. Only one stayed to encourage, but the others had all sat back down.

This was a long and cruel double speed, and I realised I had the power to stop it. My process doesn’t produce much debris, but I need to clean the presses two or three times a day, so why not now? Pretty unheard of in mid double speed, and I would suffer for it.

Here goes. I’m brushing inside now. Upper dye clean?..

?Faster, slave!?

Ouch! Lower dye clean. Backlog down to two.

?Why aren’t you fucking working, slave??

The first boot missed, hitting my inner thigh, but the second was spot on, squashing both testicles at once. Unusual to get a double hit so I have to get my breath back and look up at Lady Noor for motivation as another whip hits home.

I lean across to see the backlog. It’s gone! Well done to Alpha 375698/2034, and I gain another stripe leaning round to see if he’s OK. Shit! His hands are shaking, but he’s reaching up with one eye closed. What’s he doing?

BLOCKAGE

Ha. Welcome back, Alpha 375698/2034.

Jennifer Lim

Wednesday 16 September 2037

2.45pm

My secretary wasn’t in the office until 2.30pm UK time, so I was happy to take it easy and catch up with some friends by DenWa. Never leave a place without finalising arrangements. I don’t have to be here for the filming in January, but I’d like to be seeing as I’ll be skiing in Val d'Isere anyway.

I can see why many consider BAe3 to be crossing the borders between Level 2 and the more strenuous Level 1 forms of conscription. The five-year minimum must be tough to accept at first, but the slaves I spoke to today were happy enough if not full of conversation.

When you meet the likes of Daniella Peterson, you lose faith a bit. My film star, slave Stephen, though, was much more refreshing. An IQ of 155, rugby scholarship and AAA entry into Bristol, you’d think he’d feel held back by conscription. Not at all, and quite right too. He was itching to get back to work for his owner, Lady Noor, who like all of us has Spending Targets.

Maybe the Fabienne D’Or trouser suit would’ve been a wiser choice for today’s factory visits. I’ll have to wrap up in any case come January as no owner would pay to heat this ugly grey monstrosity. Sorry boys, but I’ll give you one last centre aisle walk past on my way out now.

I’ll also take the opportunity to check out film star Stephen again and his huge pile of parts all over the floor. Row 39, 38, 37, 36 and 35. There’s my boy, working away, erection free. I have to say he finished those parts quickly.

Looking forward to January. 

Daniella Peterson

Friday 30 October 2037

10am

Lisa Stevens, Head of Production Planning, started it all. Delays to production are an everyday occurrence, but all are accounted for. Most are due to machine breakages, shortages of parts or quality problems. All are logged and dealt with as a formality. The trouble is it wasn’t until six weeks later that she asked me.

I was in trouble. That Lim woman was out of control and wandered around the factory like an owner. Only she wasn’t an owner so that’s no excuse.

Seven minutes? How can she have chatted to that stupid slave for seven minutes? But that’s what the report says no matter how many times I look.

Machine 1F Row 35 stopped 1332, restarted 1339. Unexplained.

?You had a VVIP guest that day, a Ms Lim from AeroSing.?

Production Planning are a serious career-minded bunch with serious schedules to meet or exact reasons why not. ?She kept to the centre aisle? No interaction with machine slaves??

She is 100% to blame but you might as well try and point the finger at Lady Noor or the Al-Fahids. It will be pointed back in your direction with interest. ?Yes.?

Relentless she questioned on. ?So any idea why this slave just stopped work for seven minutes??

Lisa Stevens was scary all right. ?No idea. Sorry.?

Captain Paul Fuller

Her Majesty’s Royal Overseer Corps

Friday 30 October 2037

2.30pm

It’s not that rare to see a male overseer. Level 1 businesses are full of us. We’re all ex-military, of course. I served in the 5th Parachute Regiment for nine years and loved it. I saw action in Belize, Brazil and Indonesia. Lost a lot of good men. Nothing else to say.

Do I have sympathy for slaves? Yes and No. Not everyone is suitable for the military and do just as important jobs in civilian life. Slaves are doing an important service just as we did. But if I hear a slave complaining about his lot in life, it’s hard to agree after Indonesia. I make sure they don’t complain again.

Why do male overseers need to be ex-military? Because an ex-slave would be the world’s worst overseer obviously. I’ve had my fair share of kicks in the balls in the Paras, but that’s been in fights, and the kickers regretted it, often for months in hospital. But if it was my duty to just work and work, noble as it is, and get kicked in the balls and carry on working and working, I’d develop a fear for it. After years, that fear would never leave you. I still see civilian men in pubs, often in their 30s and 40s, look at a passing woman and then quickly resume eyes front. Ha. Good training, chaps, but you’re not chained to a machine now. So how could someone with that mentality force a slave to work? They’d hold off. The slave would soon notice and enjoy his holiday whilst the owners go short. Forget it. The only people who can oversee slaves are those who’ve never been slaves. Simple.

Daniella Peterson is a nice person, very nice. To be a caring sharing PR person at this place takes brains and looks. Whether it’s a group of schoolkids, a catholic priest (yes), royalty or the owners, most of whom are great but one or two make me sick, she treats everyone equally. She’s often on TV explaining why BAe3 is taking on so many conscripts for five years. We’re busy, OK? She’s also very involved in military charities, and has been a wonderful person to talk to for some of the lads who’ve lost friends, as I have. We’ll be sorry to see her go, but she’s long overdue promotion out of this place.

She’s stressed, though, about a small problem. I’d doubt it would affect her promotion, but she doesn’t want to take chances. In September, some bombshell from Singapore strode through here and messed up all our hormones. Bombshell stopped a slave working for seven minutes, and Daniella is in the firing line for this. If it was me, I’d say bombshell was to blame, and it’d end there. But Daniella, you’re worrying about nothing, but to put your mind at rest, it will only take two minutes.

How does this sound, Dani? I passed her a scrap of paper. ?Alpha 375698/2034, you’re naughty to stop work for seven minutes like that. No, no VVIP saw you that day. Don’t tell lies or I’ll be back for your teeth with my mate who’ll take a shine to your behind every night until you leave here.?

Dani barely read through. ?Do it.? She handed the paper back.

?Keep it, Dani, and don’t stress. I’m on duty Saturday and Sunday. Enjoy your weekend, and oh you owe me a beer in London.?

Jamie Tan

PA (London) to Tan Sri Lady Noor

Belgravia, London

Thursday 6th May 2038

11.36am

It’s 11.36am, and Lady Noor has a tennis appointment at midday. Shit. She was woken with breakfast for two at 10am sharp as instructed, but I could still hear them at it at 10.30. I would’ve thought Major Richard Thornton had duties to attend to. At 10.20, I headed to her bedroom door to knock but heard her screaming from twenty metres away, ?Yes! Yes! Faster you bastard!?

London is her favourite place in the world come summer, but as soon as autumn appears, she’s off to warmer climes in Kuala Lumpur, California or Sydney. She only arrived on Sunday, so I’ve been playing catch up since then, as has Major Thornton clearly since yesterday afternoon. Her non-urgent mail has sat here for nine months, and part of my job is to see to the more important mail, i.e. what she can review at leisure sat in her study, and the more trivial items which she can review and sign in her car or whenever I get the chance, not easy.

Her first appointment today is a noon tennis lesson and game at Richmond followed by dim sum at 4pm with a couple of friends in Soho and a VIP theatre premiere in the West End at 7pm. Tomorrow is a huge Pro-Am-Celeb golf day in Royal Eastbourne in Sussex, which Lady Noor only accepted yesterday, so I’m on a mission today to ensure she’s fully kitted out and that the catering is OK. I only hope she can surface in time for the 11am tee off as Major Thornton seems to be flavour of the month. 

Saturday sees a helicopter up to Manchester for the Manchester United V Real Madrid Europremier game followed by a gala dinner and chefs’ presentation. Sunday, who knows? Lady Noor pretty much does what she likes as is her right, so planning more than two days ahead is tricky.

And now she’s surfaced. Chaos. She had the good sense to dress straight into tennis gear, which makes my morning a lot easier. I’m assuming she’ll get changed at Richmond, so house slave 2 is upstairs packing her lunchtime outfit into a suitcase.

?Slave!?

She’s about to go and wants her tennis shoes tied. House slave 2 sprints down the stairs with a small Louis Vuitton case. With Lady Noor sat on the chaise longue with house slave 2 tying her tennis shoe laces, I can finally get at least three items signed.

The first is a long overdue invoice from Harrods for a crate of Krug Brut Vintage champagne 2018. I can only sign up to ?$15000, and this invoice easily triples that. Lady Noor signed without comment.

Next was a speech she’d agreed to do at L'Escargot in Soho in August.

?No.?

OK. That was agreed months ago. The special caterers had visited with a sampling menu, and there was going to be a chamber orchestra, celebrity charity auction and London helicopter tour, but ?no? it is.

The third item is an old disciplinary report. Lady Noor owns 400 or so slaves in an old factory outside Oxford. I remember accompanying her to a trip there last year, but it’s not one of her high earners in the UK so she won’t be visiting again any year soon. The report was two and a half pages of interview notes.

She passed it back. ?I don’t have time to read all this. Summarise.?

?Lady Noor, the conscript wilfully stopped production for seven minutes thus also stopping the four other conscripts in his line.?

She stretched out her right leg. ?Which factory??

?BAe3, Lady Noor, Oxford?

Yawning, ?Level 1 slave??

?The conscript is a Level 2 Hard Labour, Lady Noor.?

She looked down at her left shoe. ?Are these new laces in my tennis shoes, slave??

?Yes, Lady Noor Ma’am?

I added Oxford as Lady Noor wouldn’t have even remembered BAe3. She commented last year words to the effect that BAe3 was more like a holiday camp needing an upgrade to Level 1 to come anywhere near the income of her other factories.

She stood and walked to the waiting Aston Martin Condor half reading the disciplinary report whilst adjusting a wrist sweat band. House slave 2 put the Louis Vuitton in the boot and jumped in beside it.

 

The electric window opened. ?Pen.?

As the Aston Martin edged away, she handed me the scrunched up disciplinary report and pen. Both fell to the floor and were swept aside as the powerful car roared away, blue and red VIP lights flashing. Forget the pen. I was curious what punishment Lady Noor would order and brushed grass away from the report.

?7 minutes!!!! Add 7 years.?

Alpha 375698/2034 Conscript (Hard Labour Level 2)

Tuesday 13 August 2047

2pm

I couldn’t believe my luck where it appeared on the overhead screen last month.

TAN SRI LADY NOOR’S 2ND BAe3 MOTIVATIONAL VISIT

As far as I know, I’m the only slave in my EViva/12A project section, six machines, to have seen Tan Sri Lady Noor. I’ve worked on BAe/6G54a, AeroSing V217A, KAI KU-3 Woongbi and now EViva/12A. Everyone else has moved on, chains cut free with new slaves taking their place. Even the volunteer who served Lady Noor for 14 years chained to machine 3F had had enough and didn’t volunteer for more. We were later told he’d already served her for three years Level 3 at PrettyPolly. Wow. I see the same secretaries and PR ladies walking past Monday to Friday for years before they get pregnant or move on. The centre aisle carpet has been changed twice, and the glass offices have been upgraded with one-way mirror glass.

The only constants have been my machine, my wrist and ankle chains and the smiling picture of Lady Noor above. The motivational videos stopped years ago.

It’s been a long wait, though. Ten years. I’d been here just under a year when you last visited. We’re not updated with monthly earnings now, but using my ?$8500 a month as a guide, I must have made you over ?$1 million by now, Ma’am.

The red carpets have been laid in the rows too. I dared look around earlier and saw at least four rows behind too had been carpeted. Lady Noor’s BAe3 ownership has increased. Excellent, Ma’am. She’ll be here today, so the best thing to do is work until she arrives. The overseers are looking great too, although they now all look about 18 to me as do the PR ladies. The silhouette of a huge twin-engined helicopter roared over the dull frosted BAe3 skylights.

?Tan Sri Lady Noor’s helicopter approaching!?

The teenage Chinese overseer shouts in broken English ?EViva/12A slaves. Lady Noor is here. Fast work!?

I get the drift, Ma’am, but Lady Noor needs no introduction. Two very mini-skirted and prim Southeast Asian PR ladies strode by both clutching whips, but I no longer need to ogle, just work.

?Slaves, stop the work!?

More and more Chinese were here now. The English wasn’t always great.

?Machine slaves, switch your machines!?

I’m sure many would love to switch with my centre aisle machine, Ma’am, but I think you mean ?switch off?.

?All slave you face the centre aisle!?

?Stand to attention, slaves!?

The last order was perfect English and perfect sense as our owner was visiting after ten long years. The two Chinese overseers opposite grinned and covered their ears as 10000 wrist chains clattered and grated at once. Far off doors opened. Good to know again that Lady Noor’s ears with the swaying diamond earrings aren’t subjected to that racket.

And there she was, passing four feet in front of me, Lady Noor. It was the same long hazel black hair, but her cheeks were heavier. I risked a look down, a white cotton trouser suit with flared trousers. The breasts were no longer pert, just large and slightly saggy.

?Back to your work, slaves!? The broken Chinese again.

Lady Noor was up there in the viewing area puffing on a cigar. Her legs were crossed, but it was no longer the graceful slender silky crossed legs, more the awkward less than comfortable look.

But so what? Lady Noor’s aged just as I have in eleven years here. As she leans back on that plush leather for another puff, her double chin is evident. That’s the sign of the good life alright.

With so many extra rows of machines, the chances of her stopping to talk to me are even less. I want her to walk by and notice me working hard. I want to stand before her again and feel that knee against my testicles. I’ll do you a deal, Lady Noor Ma’am. If you stop and talk, I’ll volunteer to serve you more, Ma’am.

She’s crossing the centre aisle now and into row 38 where she stops to talk to a very young-looking machine slave. Her hands go onto his shoulders too, and the now heavier right knee rises sharply into his testicles. She’s now in 37. She’ll soon be here.

?Report, slave!?