Slavery 2050 Pt. 02: Good Intentions

CLANG.

A very-highly polished black stiletto and sparkly silk-covered ankle stamped on top of the component narrowly missing my fingers.

Fucking hell! I quickly kicked my ankle chains behind me and snapped to attention. She squared up to me and from twelve inches away ordered, "Report, slave!"

Lady Noor was even more beautiful than in the motivational videos, that golden brown skin really did glow. The first thing I noticed, even as she walked past earlier, was the Clive Christian perfume (€$9000 a bottle if I remember the motivational videos) cutting through that lingering stench 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. Brimstone, now stood close on my right-hand side, shoved the brass tip of his pace stick under my chin, forcing it up two or three inches. Miss Tan kept her distance to my left with the photographers.

"Good afternoon, Tan Sri Lady Noor Ma'am." Brimstone's cane made speaking difficult. "I am a conscript slave and have the honour of.."

"Yes yes." She shoved the coiled whip against my mouth. "Pleased to meet you I'm sure. Now how much money are you making me, machine slave?"

Her Malayan accent was much stronger than in the motivational videos. She lowered the whip. Its oily leather smell gave way once again to lovely Clive Christian.

"I am making you a three-month average of 7005 Eurodollars per month, 91% efficiency, Lady Noor Ma'am."

The dark eyes veered left to Miss Tan who nodded. Pursing her lips, Lady Noor's eyes dropped to my ident tattoos. First, the standard dark blue A375698/2052 barcode above my left nipple. Her glossed full lips creased and upturned a fraction as she looked across at her family Kris and "Tan Sri Lady Aziz Azura Noor" tattooed in red copperplate to the right. She stepped back and looked down approvingly at my nice shiny balls.

"And how many more years will you serve me chained to this machine, slave?"

"Four years, Ma'am."

The dark eyes looked up; her face hardened. "Minimum!"

"Yes Ma'am."

"7005 Eurodollars". Those big eyes locked into mine. "Not nearly enough for my Spending Targets, machine slave."

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

"Yes Ma'am."

"I expect 8500 Eurodollars, slave." The dark eyes darted across to Miss Tan. On the record.

A huge increase! She smiled, just like in the holo above my machine that I look up to every day. The photographers moved in.

"But want 9000." Down at my balls again. "You can do it, slave. You're still young. Work harder and concentrate on my Spending Targets. Important."

The last syllable was stressed. Whilst her English was perfect, the stress and pronunciation made understanding difficult against all the machine noise.

She looked up and stroked a finger across my right chest, across her family tattoo and her eyes met mine as she ran a hand over my smooth scrotum. My chin lowered a few degrees and was jerked back up again by Brimstone's cane, but I did notice the intricate royal henna on the top of her hands. She looked past me and beckoned with her eyes up to my BLOCKAGE button.

"Encourage the other machine slaves." Eyes back to mine. "Always, slave."

"Yes, Lady Noor Ma'am."

The smile left. Lady Noor's placed both hands on my shoulders and maintaining eye contact swung her silky right knee squarely into my bare testicles, her diamond earrings swaying with the impact. That millisecond of finest sparkly silk rubbing against my semi-erect penis was a heavenly assault on my long-forgotten sexual senses, but the silkiness was destroyed when her knee rose up and squashed my clean-shaven swollen left testicle against the pelvic bone. That familiar acidic pain and nausea rose in my abdomen. I let out a low grunt of pain and was thankful for Brimstone's cane held under my chin. Without that, I would have doubled over and planted my head into those pert breasts, warranting Brimstone's hand around my throat and years of unimaginable punishment.

"Thank you, Tan Sri Lady Noor, Ma'am."

She held my gaze and lowered her hands. "Get back to work, machine slave!"

"Yes, Lady Noor Ma'am."

One photographer filmed me working for a few seconds more, but none of the other entourage paid me any attention as they followed Lady Noor. She didn't stop at 2F or 3F, sorry boys, and I got another glimpse of those heels. Solid gold! Ha ha, I probably slaved a year chained to this machine just to buy one of those. And those sparkly silk pantyhose, tailored with black seams, had just given me so much pleasure and then nauseating pain, but in the presence of an Upper, your whole raison d'être is to work harder and just maybe be noticed.

What an unimaginable honour she spoke to me. She stopped twenty or so machines along to inspect another lucky slave wearing thick standard-issue glasses. Brimstone and his cane took up that overbearing position to the right. His eyes bored into the slave, and his right fist was clenched ready to inflict pain and suffering if ordered. As I turned to my right to drop another part for 2F, I saw those hennaed hands go up onto lucky's shoulders. Lady Noor's shapely right leg was a few inches behind her left and rose up sharply. Just as she drove her knee in a perfect arc up into the soft dangling flesh, her left heel lifted an inch or two for extra power. Ouch! His eyes widened and I saw, rather than heard, his cry of deep pain.

The overseers and PR ladies were too distracted watching their VVIP thrusting her knee into lucky's groin to notice I'd stopped working. However, the very prim Miss Tan stood with the photographers to Lady Noor's right, with her seamed smart legs smartly together, did glance behind in my direction. As she looked back, the knee went up again! Machine noise drowned out any sounds, but I could see lucky's distorted face let out a long groan. Lady Noor looked to her left at Brimstone. He stabbed his cane upwards to correct lucky's posture.

"Eyes front!"

I even saw one of the short-skirted sales executives sat in her glass office look down at that terrifying roar. Lady Noor was gearing up for a third! Poor lucky. The knee arced up again and crunched home, flattening his testicles. Lucky's face had turned grey, and I really thought he would vomit on to that lovely red one piece. Lucky for us we hadn't eaten since yesterday. Despite Brimstone's cane now dug deep into the flesh under his jaw, Lucky's head dropped, and his glasses fell from his face and were now around his neck.

"Eyes front!"

How the hell did he keep his arms on his head and those myopic eyes front for the photographer when his whole face showed terror and agony? Lady Noor removed her hands from his shoulders, and I earned my well-deserved leaded whip across and around my lower back.

"Work, you cunt!" The young Bristol female voice from earlier hissed from behind, quiet enough to avoid VVIP ears. "Do you know who that is?"

I looked down at the fresh welt on my right hip. She was right. To have a BLOCKAGE now would be serious. I turned right again. Lucky was working but still grimacing and sobbing as Lady Noor reached the far end of the row and crossed the newly-carpeted aisle to start inspecting the Row 35B machine slaves.

That sight will never ever leave me. I almost laughed at the incongruence of it all. The far end of row 35P is dark and dingy with boxes of our cleaning stuff, sleeping cardboard, machine parts and whatever overseers stash away stacked against the high grey walls. No guests, no PR ladies and certainly no VVIPs ever venture more than halfway along a row. And yet, against the backdrop of dim artificial light, the high grey wall with its WORK HARD KEEP BRITAIN GREAT, grey machines and gaunt machine slaves in welded chains, strode this radiant royal in red. Her confident face smirked as she inspected the bruised and scarred backs of her working slaves. I caught sight of two machine slaves desperately stealing a glimpse from behind, but Miss Tan and her whip caught them both.

"Work faster, machine slaves!"

Poor fuckers. How will they survive five years chained by that ugly grey wall with no passing scenery? As Lady Noor wheeled smartly right, 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. Despite the gnawing cramp in my entire left abdomen, I did indeed continue working hard, doubly so spurred on by Lady Noor's motivation and the new 9000 Eurodollar target. It sounded impossible, but what did I know? If Lady Noor said 9000 Eurodollars, then it must be achievable.

Looking behind was unthinkable, of course, but that heavy accent was now only metres away across the row.

"Continue working hard, machine slave!"

Miss Tan and her other red-suited colleague, various short-skirted PR ladies and several rows worth of crisply-uniformed overseers now filled row 36, but amongst the machine noise and the sonic whip cracks, I only heard one voice.

"Continue working hard, machine slave!"

"Work!"

The usual early warning heel sounds were deadened by the temporary red carpet, but the Clive Christian perfume was somewhere nearby.

"Faster, machine slave!"

And then moments later at a much higher pitch.

"Faster!"

I jumped in fright at the sonic crack from directly behind. Another followed and this time came a yell of pain. I told you the brown leaded whip wasn't just for show. Ignoring the decades' worth of wank material to my rear, I went into tunnel vision mode and worked on at top speed, spurred on by my new target. Component after component after component. Miss Tan, aware that I'd taken that little break moments earlier, stood behind to my left watching me work for what felt like ten minutes. Whenever I bent to pick up, I caught sight of her right shiny court shoe and gold ankle bracelet.

When you work that fast, you switch off from all distractions and lose track of time. 1B started to slow. My lower back ached from bending without a second's break, and I was starting to feel lightheaded. 1B was cleaning his machine, so I looked up at my BLOCKAGE but was shocked to see the large factory clock now saying 23.03. I'd been working flat out for eight hours. In that time, I'd missed Lady Noor and her entourage walking past to leave and take off in those huge menacing helicopters. The wall of glass offices above was dark with only one lonely admin slave still working. If only I could concentrate on my work like that all the time, her €$9000 target would be within reach.

Rows 35 to 40 worked through until 1am that week overseen by brutal male overseers and soldiers who marched in at 4am the next day, clearly a Lady Noor order. Through a mix of fear, adrenaline and motivation, I managed to get through that week with only one mishap. A staff sergeant walked past my machine and, without even breaking step, slammed a Kevlar and sand-padded fist into my solar plexus. I fell to my knees in agony, unable to even breathe. My mind was ready to blackout, and as I struggled to take in air, his metalled whip cut into my back.

"On your feet, you worthless cunt!"

I gasped in pain and fear and thankfully this flooded oxygen into my fading cardiovascular system. Sobbing and barely able to move, I gripped my machine and, struggling to my feet, needed to look up at my Lady Noor photo for motivation to work. But I saw or rather heard other slaves having their balls twisted and squeezed with clamps, face breaking punches seemed to be for fun and one soldier even pinned a life slave to his machine whilst a second held a blowtorch to his back. The screams could be heard above the 5000 machines. A PR lady, Miss Adams, passing by on the centre aisle had to cover her left ear to hear the DenWa she was shouting into.

"Ha. Yes. I'll wear the one piece, darling, but don't get jealous if the other men in the country club ogle. Love you..."

Although Miss Adams didn't say it for my benefit, I found that snippet utterly soul destroying. I'd look at her all day in that PR uniform if I could, but if she were to walk through here in a one piece, I'd be ripping these chains from their anchor points to get to her. This fucking five years in these welded on chains. I was on an unbelievable low, and looked up at Lady Noor's photo for motivation. Her smiling face wanted such thoughts banished. "Work harder and concentrate on my Spending Targets."

I certainly heard no wrist chains in those nights, at least not from Lady Noor's rows. None of us had the energy to masturbate in memory of her inspection. That glowing golden skin, those perfect firm breasts, the long hair and those well-toned silky legs would have to wait in the nightly masturbation queue with Miss Tan and Miss Adams. Instead, I heard sobs and grunts of pain as her slaves tried to get their battered bodies into relative comfort on their cardboard.

Training taught us that most slaves never see their Uppers. Apart from that grim week of pain and punishment, 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 2055

3.15pm

Welcome to my office which affords an unobstructed view over BAe3. Forty rows of machines divided by the carpeted centre aisle into two semi rows P and S, Port and Starboard. Each semi row consists of thirty to forty machines 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, with around 340 unchained logistical slaves delivering the raw material and collecting the finished parts for inspection or despatch.

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 are here to work 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.

But low performance is taken extremely seriously.

Jennifer Lim

Wednesday 16 September 2055

09.30am

Jet lag or not, I have a schedule and a reputation to keep. BAe3 tour, arrive 11am and leave by 1230pm. Another factory tour, Abel or Able Aero, near Aylesbury at 2pm, which is going through the motions as I've already deemed them unsuitable for AeroSing PR. Yet another factory (yawn) at 3.30pm in MDBA Milton Keynes, which isn't even a supplier but has good lighting and great potential for 2058. A networking dinner overlooking the PrettyPolly production area in Nottingham at 7pm should be interesting. Plenty of room in my luggage for freebies.

I remember this M40 London to Oxford overhead toll route from uni. The public road below was free of charge but had trucks, speed limits and police road blocks. That's for the public. My driver today thinks likewise.

Daniella Peterson

Wednesday 16 September 2055

9.30am

I've a bad feeling about today. AeroSing have placed orders up to 2049 with options up to 2055, critical for RuK Economy. 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, 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 give a shit what MBDA does. BAe3's Owners such as the Bowen Barnes and Lady Noor set the rules here. 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.

Kilo 278431/2052 Conscript (Hard Labour Level 2)

Machine 1F Row 35

BAe Factory 3 (Oxford)

Wednesday 15 September 2055

4.45am

Yes, I'm Level 2. Lucky for me I always finished in the second group during those weekly 18Km conscription readiness runs. Any faster, and I would probably have had "the honour" of serving as a Level 1 as Mrs Wilson, our school's Conscription Readiness Liaison, would say. Slaves can be anything from Level 5, which is probably ironing skirts and shirts 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 date this was increased to nine years minimum by Tan Sri Lady Noor to meet her increased Spending Targets. Alpha 375698/2052 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 monthly motivational videos say you want to see us pressing 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 2055

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, a huge industrial zone I'd no doubt driven past. This Peterson bitch doesn't want me anywhere near here. Tough. She even asked if I wanted the slaves called to attention as I enter. What better way to see how well-trained and disciplined they are than to watch their eyes as I pass? Of course, yes.

Daniella Peterson

Wednesday 15 September 2055

11.10am

Stopping 5000 slaves working for an Upper 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.

To give an idea of how Jennifer Lim has no clue, she hasn't even said when she'll be arriving! VVIPs such as Owners, royalty, 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 the shit cart wheeled from machine to machine. Who can blame them? A chained conscript sat on a steel bucket wiping his arse on the communal cloth once a day is something I avoid.

Kilo 278431/2032 Conscript (Hard Labour Level 2)

Wednesday 16 September 2055

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 Tan Sri Lady Noor sadly. Nevertheless, we were given an extra five minutes at 4.05am today. Whilst overseers shouted and whipped other sections to work, and their buckets were collected, we got to brush our teeth and shave our balls properly.