A SLAVE'S LIFE, Part 1
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
There was something wrong when I woke up. I usually snap awake and go from deep sleep to full consciousness without any intervening period. I know a lot of young guys like me like to just lie there and would stay in bed all day, but I'm a morning person, I'm wide awake, and ready to go. There was something else different, too - I didn't have my usual morning hard-on.
When I say that I don't lie there like a lot of guys my age, that isn't quite true - the first thing I have to do is get rid of my erection, and I think wanking when you first wake up is one of the best things a man can do for himself: I'm at my brightest and best, and my thoughts can run riot as I stroke my cock and fondle my balls. I rarely even have to play with my tits in the morning to keep myself hard, so I've got both hands free to concentrate on my tackle as I wank.
But this morning was different - I was slow and lethargic. I knew I was awake, but somehow my brain wasn't functioning properly. And as I reached down for my cock, it was flaccid, just lying there between my thighs like a warm, moist slug. Then other sensations started to come to me - for one thing, I'd still got a T-shirt on, and I always sleep naked. I'd obviously taken my shorts off, though, as I could feel my cock against my thighs. What the fuck had happened to me? And there was something else curious, too - my body was starting to report all kinds of little differences between what I was used to and "here" - the smell of the bed, for example: there wasn't my own man scent all around me. I moved my knees up and down experimentally, to waft air from the bed over my face, and there wasn't that familiar smell of sweat, dried cum and general body odour that I usually get. And the sheets felt differently - hell, that was it.... I usually sleep under a duvet, and now this felt like a rough, scratchy blanked on top of me.
I forced myself to try to remember what I'd been doing the night before. Had I picked up a woman and gone back to her place? I reached around, hoping to feel a warm body for a clue, but I seemed to be alone. Thank Christ for that! The last time this had happened I'd had way too much to drink after the match (I play in the club's first team), picked up a woman, gone back to her place, fucked her, fallen asleep, then couldn't even remember her name in the morning - in fact, I couldn't even remember that I was with a woman, and it was only when she came in with coffee for me and I almost jumped out of my skin in surprise that I vaguely remembered what had happened. She was really pissed off, and spread the word around that I was just a casual fucker, only interested in sex and not a "proper relationship" - well, that was true, of course, but it didn't do me any good with most of the girls who hang around the club and it took me a long time to get my next "date". Actually, it's not too bad for picking up casual dates at my club - since they built the gym we've had a string of nubile young women joining just as gym members, and the joke is that they only spent all the money on the new facilities to provide us studs in the first team with sex. Well, rugby's a man's thing, isn't it? I know they do play women's rugby now, but, frankly, who'd fancy those women?
Guys need to bond together, especially in their early twenties, and I really enjoyed the twice-weekly training sessions and the Saturday matches: it helped me to keep fit, as working in a boring office (even though I had excellent "prospects") would otherwise have let me slide into sloth, like a lot of the guys I still kept in contact with from university. And as I was in the first team, I did a lot of other training as well to maintain my fitness - I usually went for a long run every morning that I wasn't training or playing.
But where the fuck was I now? What had happened? I remembered the match - we'd won - and that incredible feeling of complete exhaustion that comes over you as you finally come off the field and you know you've run as hard and as fast as you can, and have put all your force into the scrums and tackling the other team. It's a real man's game, not like those wimps who play soccer. And then the communal bath, with all the heat, and the steam, and the comradeship of the other guys as you all lie there stark naked, drinking the first of the after match beers and talking about your girl friends.
Of course I'd gone on to have a few more beers, too, who doesn't? But I can take a lot - my tall, big-framed body has a big mass because of all my muscles, and the alcohol hardly affects me (not that I'm one of those vile body builder "muscles on muscles" types - I'm lean and athletic, and my strength comes from all the regular, different types of workout. I can't imagine spending hours a day in a gym, and all those supplements and things, trying to get bigger biceps, or whatever). So where the fuck was I now? What had happened after that?
Only one way to find out - I threw aside the blanked, and pushed my feet to the floor, then stood up and stretched all of my 6'2" in an effort to finally throw off sleep and wake up. As I felt life returning to me I saw that I had indeed only got my T shirt on - I could kind of fell my cock and balls hanging down from under the hem, which was resting on my bum at the back. I scratched myself, as you do, and looked around. Other than the bed and a bucket in the corner, the room was bare - just plain painted walls, and thermoplastic tiles on the floor that felt cold under my bare feet. Where the fuck were the rest of my clothes? And my watch - I never took that off, and I always slept with it on, but now my wrist was bare. Fuck me, I must have been out of it last night, to have taken that off (or let someone take it off?). Mind you, this didn't look like some bird's house - where the fuck was I?
I went over to the door, intending to peer out and see what could be seen, but there was no handle. It looked a tough door, too, not like a domestic door in a house. Oh Christ - this was looking bad - it seemed to be some sort of cell. What the fuck had I done last night, to get arrested?
Another problem was presenting itself now, too - I needed to piss. All guys do, when they first get up, don't they? So I banged on the door, hoping to get someone to come. It sounded curiously "dead", though, and I just got the impression there wasn't anyone out there listening. As I'd started to do something about it, my need to piss was now almost unbearable, and I looked at the bucket - there was nothing for it, was there? The sound of my big stream of gold hitting the metal was odd - we all get used to pissing in lavatories and urinals, don't we, and you're not used to hearing your piss splash against bare metal, which is itself acting as a sort of amplifier. Still, it was good to at least get rid of that problem, and I massaged my cock to get the last few drops of piss out - well, you need to, don't you? Even though I didn't have one of those very long, droopy foreskins hanging long past the end of my cock, I wasn't "cut" like some of the guys on the team: you could always see my piss slit as my 'skin covered about half my cock head, but even so it was possible for piss, sweat and the odd bit of pre-cum to get caught under it and it was just as much trouble as having a full 'skin to keep clean. In some ways I envied the guys on the team who were cut, as it seemed to be easier for them to remain "sweet" and fresh - you never know, after all, when the opportunity to get a good sucking off from a woman you've picked up will arise, do you? We often talked about things like this in the bath after matches, but I told them they didn't know what they were missing -when you wank, having your 'skin slide backwards and forwards over your cockhead is fantastic - I don't know how those cut guys manage!
It was odd, really - usually when I've had a heavy night of drinking I wake up with a raging thirst, and although there was nothing to drink, I didn't feel all that thirsty. So I didn't think I'd had a big drunk last night then done something to get me locked up. And the police took stuff like your belt, didn't they, to stop suicides, not all your clothes? So why was I here? And where the fuck was "here"?
I tried banging n the door again, but it still sounded "dead", so the only other thing to do was to go and lie down again on the bed. I pulled the blanket over me and just lay there - I was worried, now, as I hate having things in my life I can't explain. There was absolutely nothing to do, so I decided to have a wank - that always passes the time, doesn't it, and takes your mind off other things? So I spat big gobs onto my hand, and started to lubricate my cock with it and gradually began to stroke myself into that special place you go to when your climax is near. Oh shit! I stopped suddenly, as I remembered where I was - just the blanket, and me. Somehow I didn't want to shoot all over the blanket or the sheet on the base of the bed - I didn't know who might come in and look, and the thought of having dried cum (or even worse, wet cum stains) visible was awful. I know some guys catch their cum and then eat it, but I'd tried that once and it almost made me sick - yes, I know it doesn't taste as bad as it smells, but somehow the huge, semi-fluid semi-gelatinous pool of my spunk made me feel totally nauseated. I don't know how women get on with sucking a man off - I do like to shoot into their mouths as I can't stand all the mess if I shoot over their faces and over their breasts - but I suppose they get used to the taste if they really want to please their men.
I was too far gone now, though, and I felt my balls contracting and my spunk forcing itself along my cock.
With a big groan and sigh I felt my hot cum pumping out all over me - my hand was covered, of course, and my hard stomach, and as the after shocks died away and I relaxed, I knew my pubic hair was covered in it. The blanket fell down onto me, and, oh fuck, yes, it was covered in my cum, too, where the initial big spurts had fired themselves upwards. So what was I going to do now? Not only had I soiled the bed, but my hand, body and pubic hair was all covered in my thick slime. Suppose someone was to come in? Oh shit! I did the only thing I could do - I got up, pulled my T off and used it to mop over myself - but it's never very successful, is it? Once your cum gets into your pubic hair you do really need to have a good shower, or at least stand on tiptoe so you can wash yourself in a wash basin to get away all those strands that cling to the hairs. And even hough I scrubbed away at it, I wasn't very good at cleaning the blanked either - there was a very visible big wet damp patch still on it, even when I'd finished.
There was no possibility of wearing the T again as I'd shot a really monster load, even for me, so I balled it up and tossed it into the corner by the bucket, and lay back on the bed, now totally naked. I really had no idea of how long 'd been there - without my watch, even the time I'd been "awake" was a bit of a mystery as I thought I'd drifted in and out of a light sleep a couple of times. But when I felt the stubble on my chin, I thought it must be about thirty six hours since I'd last shaved on Saturday morning before going off to the match, so it might now be late Sunday afternoon. Surely someone would have noticed I wasn't there by now? - but, probably not: all my mates on the team would think I'd gone off with a bird, so wouldn't be surprised when I hadn't turned up at the pub for a lunchtime drink. And I'd got no close family really - I only called my sister very occasionally. I suppose someone would notice tomorrow morning, at work, but it wasn't that unusual for guys just not to turn up - in the web design game, if you're offered a better job over the weekend, you often just take it.
I was getting really worried by now - for one thing there were the rumblings of hunger, and for another I started to think about what would happen if I needed to crap - surely I couldn't use that bucket? It's one thing to share your "cell", as that's how I was now thinking about it, with a bucket of piss - but with some vile smelly turds? I was getting thirsty, too, and thought about getting up and beating on the door again. But somehow I sensed that it would be useless.
I don't know how long I lay there, but the deathly quiet of my "cell" was broken by a loud "snick". I started upwards, and saw that the door had half opened. Wrapping the blanket around me - I'm not ashamed of my body, but even so, when you're in a strange place, and you don't know what the fuck's happening, you tend to try to cover up, don't you?
I peered into the corridor outside the door, and all that could be seen was a row of identical doors. I walked cautiously along, trying the doors as I went, but they had no handles either and there was nothing else to do - especially as, just as I'd left it, the door to my own "cell" had closed and was now immovable when I pushed at it.
At the end of the corridor, though, there was an open door, and inside there was a lavatory, a big shower, and a washbasin!
It felt so good to be able to crap, then shower to get my body really clean, and then to stand and shave off my stubble with a disposable razor - you feel so much better, don't you, when you're fresh and smart? I looked around for deodorant but there wasn't any, and I noticed that the shampoo and shower soap, and the shaving cream, were all unperfumed - very unusual. Best of all, though was that on a shelf by the side of the shower were some clothes - not what I would have chosen for myself, but clothes, never the less. I pulled them on gratefully, and they seemed to be a good fit, if that's the right word - the top was a plain white cotton singlet that left my shoulders exposed and had very deep, loose arm holes stretching half way to my waist. It was that sort of cotton that's very thin, almost translucent, and even though it was not tight on me, I just knew that the shadow of my thick thatch of chest hair was easily visible - even where it was not poking out above the low neckline. It was too short, as well, not even coming to the top of my pubic thatch.
The shorts were in that satin material they used to make sports clothes out of until the Lycra stuff became fashionable, and felt silky smooth on me. The legs were cut very high, though, so you could see most of my big strong thighs, and they were very low-cut, barely coming over the top of my bush: I knew that if I bent down the top of my ass crack would be exposed, and, as it as, there was a visible gap between the top of the shorts and the bottom of the singlet. Unlike most sports shorts I'd ever owned, these didn't have one of those "pouch" linings, either, and had the legs not been relatively tight around my thighs my cock would have fallen out. As it was, it nestled snugly in the silky fabric, trapped between the short legs and the low waist band - I just hoped I didn't get an erection!
A door in the other side of the shower room now opened, and I went through. I was in a brightly-lit space, very bare, with a man in a dark business suit behind a desk.
"What the fuck's going on....."
"Silence, until you're spoken to...."
"I will not! Now, tell me what the fuck's...."
I never got to finish the sentence, as I was howling with pain and leaping up and down trying not to let my feet touch the floor.
"Now, silence, until you're spoken to! All over this facility the floors have embedded wires, and I can send those painful shocks through them, as you have just experienced. I have rubber-soled shoes, as do all the guards here. But all prisoners have bare feet. So, you see, we can control you. Either obey, or suffer the consequences."
"Anyway", the man continued, "I know that you're wondering where you are, and why you're here. All our prisoners want to know that. Firstly, let me reassure you that you're not in trouble with the police.... You didn't drink too much, smash a place up, and get arrested. A lot of men think that. But before you start to congratulate yourself, let me tell you that, sadly for you, the position is far worse."
"You have been taken, to order. A collector ordered a man like you, and we are supplying..."
"What the fuck is this? 'A collector....', 'Taken to order'? Are you mad...."
I was rolling around on the floor this time, as the shock had been much more intense, almost disabling.
"This is for your own good", the man continued calmly. "So listen well, and hear me out. There are certain rich men in the world - very rich men - who have achieved everything they can. They run huge corporations, control thousands of workers' lives, and make a significant difference to economic life all over the planet. They play expensive sports, own houses on many continents, fly around in their private jets. What else is there for them do? What can they spend their wealth on? What is the ultimate pleasure for a man who is used to ordering affairs on such a scale?"
"I'll tell you", he went on. "The ultimate control that a man can exercise is to own slaves. A slave owner completely orders and controls the life of a slave - he can command when the slave rises and when he sleeps, what he eats and when, what he works at, whether he is allowed to breed. The owner can have he slave tattooed and branded, whipped or otherwise punished for disobedience, and, of course exercise the ultimate control over him: he can sell him, just as he would sell any household chattel."
"Of course the ownership of one man by another, although a long established feature of human society, is now illegal in most countries. But there are certain parts of the world - islands in the Indian Ocean, deep in the Amazonian rain forests, on the vast plains of Central Asia, for example - where a truly rich man can indulge himself. In most of these places the law still prohibits slavery, but appropriate levels of illicit payment to the local police and civil authorities can enable a powerful man to enjoy the ultimate fruits of his efforts by owning and managing slaves."
"A lot of slaves are simply the human waste from very poor countries - blacks from Africa, where life is very cheap, some of the teaming billions from India where parents are only too glad to sell their teenage sons, uneducated peasants from most South American countries... Those sorts. But the real connoisseurs amongst slave owners want to own good looking, educated, Westerners. To some extent there's no satisfaction in owning many hundreds of the "peasant" types as to them their slavery is almost a relief - they get properly fed, enough water, access to proper medical care, and generally live a life that's better than they were experiencing before. But to a well educated man from a typical Western country, slavery is hell: no freedom, no choice, and the requirement to obey your owner absolutely all the time, or risk punishment."
"It's no wonder that these very rich men want slaves like this: the satisfaction of 'taming' a sophisticated Westerner, used to his freedom, is so much more intense. And with their education, they area able to perform so many more useful tasks."
He looked at me, and I saw that he had given me permission to speak.
"You're mad! They could never get way with it! And why enslave me? If someone wants me to design a web site for him, he can just hire me...."
The man roared with laughter! "No, you won't be required to design a web site, I shouldn't think! We've taken you to order, as your owner specified a 23 year old, over six foot, properly muscled.... Sitting at a terminal is the last thing you're likely to do! Almost certainly you're destined for a life of hard physical work of some type, and that's what will be so appealing for your owner: he'll know he's chosen to squander all your education, all your training, so that he can use your body in a way that pleases him. And believe me, we're not mad - we do this hundreds of times a year. We're one of the largest agencies in this field, and we routinely search out and 'take' young men like you. Haven't you ever noticed the statistics that occasionally appear about the number of young men mysteriously vanishing from home, never to be heard from again? Well some of the might be suicides - the rate is very high for men in the 20 to 30 age group - but the majority have been taken by specialist firms like this to be shipped as slaves. It's really easy to do, once you've made the investment in the infrastructure, as we have: a few strong guards, a 'chance' meeting with the man in a pub or club, a small pill in his drink, then you 'help' him to the door."
"If you doubt any of this", he went on, "Look at this facility: escape-proof soundproof cells, the under-floor wires.... You wouldn't build something like this if there wasn't a need for it, would you? What do you think was behind all those other doors on the corridor you came along? I'll tell you: other young men, just like you, awaiting a time that's convenient for us to ship them out to their new owners. The only reason you weren't in that cell for a couple more days is that there's a flight later this afternoon that we need to get you on - usually we like to leave the men locked up, silent and hungry, a bucket of stinking bodily waste in the corner, for at least two days - it starts to focus their minds on what's happening to them."
"Well, that's you fixed, then!" I couldn't help interrupting. "My passport's with my sister as I left it there when I got back from holiday, and ...."
The man was laughing. "You are so naive, like a lot of the men who pass through here. You don't think you'll need a passport, do you? You won't be going trough customs and emigration - you'll be neatly crated up, as cargo, travelling as all goods do around the world, in the cargo hold. There'll be no trace of you ever leaving the country, and you'll just be one of those young men who has 'disappeared' - if anyone notices! They'll wonder at that rugby club of yours when you don't turn up for practice for a couple of weeks, but none of the men you know there are old-time friends. Your employer will write you off as someone else who's just found another job. Your sister won't worry for a few months as you're not a close family, and by then it will be too late as the trail will be cold: one of our agents will have paid up your landlord, and moved your stuff out of your rented flat."
"Let me give you something to think about", he went on. "You're unusual, as your new owner has specified that you are to be shipped clothed - the majority of the stock that leaves here goes naked, as it's so much easier to deal with human shipments when the stock is nude - fitting catheters to deal with the urine on a long journey in a crate, and so on, is so much easier.
But your new owner has specified shipping "lightly clothed" - I expect he wants to savour the delight for himself of making you strip for him: many of the newly enslaved are touchingly concerned about their nudity originally, and I expect your new owner wants to experience this first hand."
"Let me warn you not to try to escape from here, or whilst you're being shipped, though - as you have seen, we will punish you if you disobey. Do not think that we would hesitate for a moment to have you killed if there was the slightest risk of our operation being compromised. You'll be surrounded by our guards, of course, and any attempt to break loose and 'make a run for it' will result in your being shot."
"Right!", he finished finally. "You'll have lots of questions, I know, but you may not ask any of them. Now - put your hands behind your back."
I stood there, dumbly, and he snapped "Now - or do you want a shock that will incapacitate you, and then I'll just do it anyway?"
So I put my hands behind my back, and he got up and came over, and I felt myself being handcuffed! I've read about it, of course - having someone cuff your wrists behind your back, and I know some guys get turned on by the thought. But it's actually horrible - you feel so powerless, so defenceless - if he'd tried to grab my cock, I couldn't have stopped him. If he'd pushed me, I couldn't retaliate. If he'd tripped me, I wouldn't have been able to save myself as I fell. Somehow it seemed as if I'd let all my freedom slip away in this act - I was no longer really able to even contemplate making a break for freedom. It was if I was already a captive - no, as if I'd somehow already entered a new life where someone other than me was already starting to rule things for me.
He went back to his desk, and returned holding a small tag - rather like a luggage tag - on a steel chain. This was passed around my neck and there was a "snap" from the catch. The tag was hanging down just below my throat, and I could feel its coldness against my skin. I hate wearing jewellery, and I don't like to see other men doing so, whether its rings on the fingers or necklaces - there had been quite a thing recently, I know, for guys to wear gold or silver chains - some quite chunky - around the neck, but in our club we didn't do it. Anyone wearing something like that on the rugby field was likely to find it torn off in one of the rucks (and by his own team mates, too!).
He didn't waste any time then, and pressed a button on the desk. A guy in neatly pressed chinos and a white polo short came in, and the man told him to "take him away to the airport."
I was led through what seemed to be a large building - evidently this was quite an operation - and I wanted to ask the man who was leading the way more. But the moment I started a question, he stopped, turned, and said "You were told to shut the fuck up in there. You saw the penalty for carrying on talking. Now, do as you were told, before I punish you. The first rule a slave has to learn is that he is here to obey, not to question. You have no need to know more, no need to think, no need to do anything other than obey - simple obedience to your owner's orders, complete and absolute subservience to his will, is all that is required of you. So... Shut the fuck up, slave boy!"
It was awful being refereed to like this. I wasn't a slave, and I wasn't a boy! I was a mature man, capable of living my own life, making my own decisions. Yet here I was being led, scantily clad, through this place, and the far of punishment was actually making me start to do exactly as I was told - I didn't want to go on speaking in case I was in fact punished! Of course I'd taken hard knocks in my time - as a rugby player you expect to get a bit battered and bruised, don't you, and that ability to treat men roughly is all part of the game. But no one had ever deliberately set out to hurt me before - no one had ever caused me so much deliberate pain that I had stopped what I was doing, immediately (well, not since dad last spanked me, when I was about seven!).
Ultimately the guard leading me came to an external door, and there was another guard sitting behind glass in a little cubicle. "Shipping a slave - permission to leave the building?" My guard asked, and the man in the cubicle reached out with the kind of gun thing you see at checkouts in supermarkets, and pointed it at the tag hanging around on my neck. He consulted a screen on his desk, and said "OK, there's a van outside. Door opening."
We went out into a yard, that was totally enclosed, where there was a white van waiting with its back doors open. Even if the yard hadn't been totally enclosed and I was worrying about the threat to shoot me, I probably wouldn't have tried to run at this point - it's not easy with your hands cuffed behind your back, you know, especially when the guard accompanying you looks as if he's in good shape and works out regularly.
The guard gestured for me to get in the back of the van, then said "It's an hour to the airport. The doors are locked, but we don't want any silly attempts to escape, now do we? You'll see that the floor of the van has he same pattern of lines that we have in the building - any noise, any commotion when we're stopped in traffic or anything and the driver will shock you, or really turn up the juice and stun you."
So I lay there in the back of the van, bracing myself with my legs against the walls as it drove through the streets. I tried to imagine where we were in relation to the geography of London, but we seemed to be taking a maze of normal city road, and I didn't really recognise any of the motorways or anything. The journey went on and on, and I realised that I probably wasn't going to be able to escape - an organisation that followed men in transit with some type of tag, and who bothered to have special vans for transporting them, was unlikely to slip up and leave some chink in their arrangements, was it? Still, I might catch a glimpse of a policeman, or an airport security guard of some kind, and then I'd do everything I could to scream and shout and attract his attention.
When the van did finally stop and the doors were opened, my hopes were dashed - we were way out on a big concrete space, one of those holding areas you see at airports, drawn up by the side of a big executive jet. No policemen or any other officials in sight! Two of the polo- shirted chino'd guards were standing there, and as they "helped" me out of the van to stand in front of them (rather roughly, I thought). One of them ran one of the scanner things over my tag again, looked at a little inbuilt screen on it, and said to his companion "Yes, this is the one. Let's load him onto the flight."
"Look, please. Enough is enough.... Why don't you let me go, and I'll say no...."
I never got to finish the sentence, as one of the two guards slammed his rubber-soled boot down on to my naked foot - he pushed it very hard down, almost totally crushing my instep, and I fell to the ground, shouting with pain.
The two men stood there, looking down at me as I rolled around the concrete clutching at my foot and trying to "make the pain go away", and they laughed. "Always have one last try, don't they?", one said to the other. "They've always led a nice, civilised life and they think that rational argument can fix things. As usual, he's trying to bargain with us! As if anyone would negotiate with a slave! Still, perhaps that's taught him that you don't need sophisticated electrical stuff to really hurt a slave when he's disobedient."
"You, slave, get on your feet NOW", the other barked. "Me and my mate are expert at giving a man's body a good kicking, and causing real hurt without permanent damage. There's nothing we like more than an unruly slave, as it allows us to practice our kicking before we go off to gang fights at the weekend. Now, UP!"
I struggled to stand up, finding it very hard to do so without the help of my hands, and stood there all covered in dust from where I'd rolled on the concrete.
"Should we clean him up - take him over to the hanger and hose him down a bit?"
"No - if they want, they can clean him on the plane - I've been on board this one, and the owner's got it fitted up as a complete suite for himself - bedroom, bathroom with a proper big bath in it, everything. If they want the slave clean, they can give him a bath as he flies off to his new life!"
I didn't like hearing the way they spoke - all this "If they want the slave clean... They can give him a bath" - there was no element of choice, no "If he wants to clean himself up..." kind of discussion.
They led me - still hurting - up the steps of the plane, and inside it was unbelievably luxurious - not like a commercial jet at all. It was all dark wood, deep carpets ( that were so tempting to my feet that I wanted to stop and just wriggle my toes down into the thick rich pile), and big leather furniture. On we went though through a room fitted out as an office, with PCs and stuff, then along a corridor (dividing of a bedroom?) and finally through a heavy-looking door.
Beyond this was not even a normal aeroplane interior - no plastic and soft lighting. Instead you could see all the construction of the machine as the ribs, cables, and all the other stuff were clearly visible. Standing around on the floor, strapped down, were crates and cartons of various kinds, and I guessed his must be some sort of cargo hold. The only unusual feature was in the far corner where, against the wall there was a kind of cell, or cage - about four feet square, with stainless steel bars running floor to ceiling. The guards led me to this, opened the door, and told me to get inside. Once in, they closed and locked the door with a heavy-looking lock, then told me to turn around.
It was a relief to get he cuffs off, as standing and lying all that time with my arms behind my back had become very uncomfortable and I felt as if I was beginning to lose sensation in them. To the best of my ability, as the cell was so small, I tried to spread and stretch my arms and to rub life into my cramped muscles - I got all those "pins and needles" sensations as the blood flow returned fully.
"Right, slave boy", one of the guars said "Make yourself comfortable! Take off's not for about an hour, and it's a long, long flight for you, even in this jet."
With that, the two men turned and went back out through the door, leaving me alone there in the cell. Well, they said "get comfortable", but have you ever tried it in such a small space? I could stand up, of course, but the thought of doing that for what might be a very long time seemed stupid. Lying down wasn't possible, and I tried to sit - but in the confined space my back was pressed against the bars or the metal wall of the aircraft, and my legs had to be all hunched up. There wasn't any padding or anything, and I was sitting on the metal floor of the aircraft. I don't think overweight guys with big fat asses realise how painful it can be for a guy with real muscle only to try to sit on a perfectly hard surface - there's nothing to really cushion you, is there?
I don't know how long I sat there for, but after dome time I saw out of one of the windows four men coming towards the plane - they were in those dark blue uniforms beloved of airlines. Two seemed very obviously in charge, and two much younger ones were following them.
End of part 1