Slavery 2050 Pt. 02: Good Intentions

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, royalty or our Uppers. She's often on TV explaining why BAe3 is taking on so many conscripts for five years. We have Spending Targets to meet. 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 375698/2052, 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."

Jamie Tan

PA (London) to Tan Sri Lady Noor

Cadogan Villa

Belgravia, London

Thursday 6th May 2038

11.36am

It's 11.36am. Lady Noor has a tennis appointment at midday. Shit. I woke her with breakfast for two at 10am sharp as instructed. I stepped my way through the tangle of her and Major Richard Thornton's boots, shoes and clothes scattered on the floor. Clearing aside two glasses and a half-finished bottle of Krug Brut Vintage, I placed the platters of lobster omelette topped with royal beluga caviar by the marble four poster bed. I'd overheard Jules, her new private chef, whinging to his staff in the kitchen about the second omelette and lack of notice. I need to warn him later to watch his mouth.

At 10.20, I headed to her bedroom door to knock again but heard her screams from twenty metres away, "Faster! Yes! Yes! Faster you bastard!" I would've thought Major Thornton had duties to attend to.

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, Sydney, anywhere. She only arrived, unexpectedly, on Sunday, so I've been playing catch up since then, as has Major Thornton clearly. Her non-urgent and i-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 holo lounge, 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 friends in Soho and a VIP 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, that the catering is to her standards and if there's space to land those three damned helicopters. I only hope she can surface in time for the 11am tee off as Major Thornton seems to be flavour of this month.

Saturday sees the helicopters going up to Manchester for the Manchester Devils V Galaxy Madrid Europremier game followed by a gala dinner and chefs' presentation. Sunday, who knows? Monday she's sitting in a sentencing court for which I somehow need her to try on beforehand her ceremonial military uniform. Lady Noor pretty much does what she likes as is her right as an Upper, so planning more than three or four days ahead is tricky.

And now she's surfaced. Chaos. She tells me Major Thornton's uniform needs pressing and boots highly polished within the hour. That means rescheduling house slave 3, who should have been cleaning that disaster of a bedroom, helo lounge, bar and pool area, and house slave 4, who I'd allocated most of today to polishing her boots for Monday. She had the good sense to dress straight into tennis gear, which makes my morning a bit less hectic. I'm assuming she'll get changed at Richmond, so house slave 2 is upstairs packing her lunchtime outfit. I hear a plate smash and a hungover Major Thornton shouting at him.

"Get your ugly balls out of my fucking sight!"

Lady Noor looked up amused. She didn't normally approve of bad language. As soon as Major Thornton leaves, house slave 3 had better PDQ clean that disaster of a bedroom.

"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, his right eye now red and swollen. With Lady Noor sat on the chaise longue and house slave 2 tying her tennis shoe laces, I can get at least three items signed.

The first is a long overdue e-invoice from Harrods for a crate of Krug Brut Vintage 2018. I can only sign up to €$75000, and this e-invoice easily triples that. Lady Noor signed without comment. Next was a motivational speech she'd agreed to do at L'Escargot in Soho in August.

"No."

OK. That was agreed months ago. The special caterers, already paid for, 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 actually printed on paper. Lady Noor owns 400 or so slaves in BAe3, a huge old factory outside Oxford. I remember preparing and accompanying her to a trip there last year, but it's not one of her Level 1 high earners in the RuK so she won't be visiting again. Shame, though, as it made a refreshing change from all those Level 1 visits with her robotic slaves pumped full of potassium bromide. Young men beaten by the system in every way. At BAe3, you could see the hope in the machine slaves' roving eyes and their cocks, fat and juicy.

The paper report was two and a half pages of interview notes. She passed it back. "I don't have time to read all this paper. Summarise."

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

She stretched out her right leg. "Factory?"

"BAe3, Lady Noor, Oxford"

Yawning, "Level 1?"

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

She looked down at her left shoe. "New laces, slave?"

"Yes, Lady Noor Ma'am"

I added Oxford as Lady Noor wouldn't have even remembered BAe3. She clearly wasn't impressed last year. I remember, with a very heavy heart, passing on her order for a short sharp shock and her and Commander Robertson semi naked in the holo lounge watching edited highlights of the brutal aftermath.

She stood and walked to the waiting Aston Martin Condor half reading the disciplinary report whilst adjusting a wrist sweat band. Colour Sergeants Johnson and Ross, her duty chauffeurs and security detail, snapped to attention and saluted.

"At ease, Colour Sergeants."

Wow. They looked stunning in their Royal Marines summer uniforms.

The electric window opened. "Pen!"

Luckily, I always carry one of those messy old-style plastic pens, and as the Aston Martin edged away, she handed me the scrunched up paper disciplinary report.

"Drive, Ross!"

Both paper and pen fell to the ground. Pages were scattered as the powerful car roared away into London traffic, blue and red VIP lights flashing. Forget the pen. I was curious what punishment Lady Noor would order and brushed freshly-cut grass away from the report.

"7 minutes!! Add 7 years."

Ouch!

No machine slave would stop work for seven minutes. Something very out of the norm happened here, and poor 375698/2052 is someone's solution. The best solution of all would be to now shred the report. Serves them right for using paper.

It took less than a minute for my DenWa to find the right cameras. The overseers saw the cameras moving and were up on their feet. After last year's purge, they all know about Lady Noor, even when it's only me watching. At the end is 375698/2052 on 1F Row 35P. To think that fat juicy cock and Lady Noor's trademark clean-shaven testicles have been off the menu for four long years now. I saw the concentration on his tired young face. The rear camera showed his whipped back and how much he must have suffered in four hard years. He looks better in profile, though, and must have been an athlete or rugby player before conscription. A lot of the muscle had gone, but the resistance of the heavy wrist chains had kept his biceps and shoulders well-toned. I love the way his cock swings forward when he operates the foot pedal.

But I have my Rhys, or Colour Sergeant Johnson as I call him in public, with his thick powerful and more importantly free cock. He wouldn't dare shred the paper report. Too risky. Someone at BAe3 had set 375698/2052 up to deflect blame from themselves. They surely knew 375698/2052 would be severely punished, and yet they typed two and a half pages of lies to sentence him to years of further suffering. That sort of scheming and evil mind would know Lady Noor was back in the UK now and expect to see results from the report. As I swiped my DenWa and snapped the report, I wished 375698/2052 the best of luck in there.

375698/2052 CHANGE EARLIEST RELEASE 0800 Wednesday 10 October 2046 PROCEED?

"Yes."

Part 3 -- Seven years in chains

Coming soon