TRAINING THE MARINE - Part 1
By Pete Brown. petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
I was quite excited when I first saw the marine. He was standing in his dishevelled uniform in one of the larger size travelling cages that is used to transport prisoners and slaves around the country. He had the usual marine's very short hair, but his face was swarthy with several days growth of his jet black hair. I couldn't see any of the detail of his body as he was fully clothed, but his 5'11" height seemed to be perfectly complemented by his general body weight and shape - I guessed that he would be very fit, tough and muscular - although not with those ghastly overdeveloped body builders' muscles you see on men who have been worked too hard in the gym.
Enquiring of the slave dealer, I discovered that he had been captured only a few days before on a supposed "secret" mission into our country. His trial had of course been immediate and swift, and he had been sentenced to a lifetime of slavery as is normal for those who are in serious breach of our laws. The dealer was the "official" government dealer, who took all those who were sentenced by the courts at a fixed price per head, and then sold them on at whatever price he could get. As is usual with these dealers, he had no proper respect for my position and whined on about how hard it was to make a profit - he had to tender in open competition once per year for the contract to take the slaves, and this year had been very bad: very few of the young males most favoured in the markets had been condemned, as drinking alcohol - the most common cause of enslavement - had rather gone out of fashion.
He wasn't expecting to cover the standard price for this marine, as they has achieved an unenviable reputation in the market for being difficult, if not impossible, to train properly. The punishments and regime necessary to properly break their spirit so that they could be remoulded as good, subservient slaves often proved so harsh that the slave's body, or his mind, or both, were permanently damaged.
I always like a challenge, and I was somewhat bored at that time as my business empire was running "on autopilot". One of the secrets of success as a manager is to identify, train and promote subordinates so that they can be entrusted with all those mundane tasks you delegate to them - and I mean properly delegate, so that the whole thing can be handed over to them, and the manager can be sure that the work will be carried out completely satisfactorily. So I had lots of time on my hands, and most days only made token appearances at my headquarters to chair important board meetings, and to meet our top ten global clients when they were visiting.
My father was renown in the country as a top "amateur" trainer of slaves, and this is the only area in which my reputation had not yet exceeded his. In all the stress and effort of starting and building our business for its first thirty years, he had still found time to manage and operate our country estate and its flock of slaves. He had handed on to me an organisation that I then rapidly grew to the global giant it is today, but even with all my managerial skills I rarely found time for a focus on a "hobby", as my father had. It would amuse me, I thought, to take this slave and show that where others had failed, I could succeed. I would turn this "wild" marine into a perfectly trained slave, and knowing that many men of his kind are initially repulsed by close personal contact, would furthermore fit him for use as a slave in my sauna, whirlpool and shower suite.
Knowing something of the contract price for government slaves, I offered the dealer a fair price for the marine - 10% above his buying-in price, that would adequately compensate the dealer for his freight and handling costs and allow him a modest profit. He was initially reluctant to accept my offer, as these dealers are slimy creatures and are always looking to take advantage of honest businessmen. But I pointed out that he himself had told me that the marine would have a bad reputation and be unlikely to fetch this price at open auction: he could take a modest profit now, or risk getting almost nothing later.
Of course the slave was a snip - I had him invoiced to my company and he would therefore be an "allowable business expense". His true cost to me was reduced by the rapacious profits tax I would otherwise pay. I arranged for him to be delivered to my office HQ later that day, specifying that he should not be stripped naked as a new purchase would normally be - I regarded the Marine voluntarily removing his clothes as one of the first steps in his acceptance of his new status. However I did not want him to know where he was and some degree of disorientation was desirable, and therefore he was to be hooded in transit. I was also quite specific that no violence was to be used towards him and he was not to be whipped or beaten: my only requirement was that he be lightly cuffed (and the cuffs should not dig into his flesh as they can if they are tightened over zealously). However instead of the usual cuffing with the arms just behind the back, I wanted his arms high up in the middle of his back when the cuffs were applied - not so high as to be painful, but high enough so that he felt more helpless; the arms would be held here by a light chain to a collar - again, not too tight, just so that he knew that if he tried to lower his arms he would get an unpleasant strangling sensation.
I went off to my office, pleased with my activities already that morning. As I expected, there was little real work for me to do - I was given a number of presentations on key strategic issues facing us, but as usual my subordinates had properly prepared and I really only had to approve their recommendations. I find that's what executive managers do all the time, and I only occasionally send back a proposal for "further review" as I know this keeps my staff on their toes. I therefore had plenty of time to go and inspect the training suite that my father had had installed when the building was constructed, but which had not really been used as he had died shortly after the works were complete and I took over.
Taking my private elevator from my office ( my room, and the offices of my immediate assistants and subordinates occupied the entire top floor), I went down to the fourth level of basement, underneath all those used to house the air conditioning, store rooms, garages, etc. It was deathly quiet down here, and there was that "dead" sound you only get when all external noise is eliminated. Here, deep below the earth, there was no traffic noise to intrude on the absolute calm, and all the walls were massively solid concrete to support the weight of the tower above, so nothing could penetrate from one closed-off space to another. Even the air conditioning had been specially silenced - the air was fresh, but felt still: the number of air changes down here had been very reduced compared to the building as a whole, so there was no need for massive fans and that annoying background "rumble" that was all-pervasive in my own office suite and in every modern office block I have even been in to.
My father was considered by the cognoscenti to be a true master craftsman in the art of training and educating slaves, and he had had this lowest sub-level of the building extensively fitted out for what was, in effect, his hobby. He had planned to keep a number of slaves in need of training down here, so that he could visit them in breaks between meetings and the interminable lunches and dinners with visiting foreign dignitaries. He had also intended to use some of the rooms for "correctional activities", shall we say, for unruly and persistently disobedient slaves from our country estate: father planned to have such individuals shipped with him in the trunk of his car when he returned from weekends there, so he could personally supervise their punishments. He considered that a week spent being punished, under his personal supervision would be more than adequate for even the vilest transgression of his rules that any slave could make.
But, as I said, he never really got around to being able to enjoy this extravagant luxury of an entire floor built for his leisure pursuit (the building's architects in London could never understand why he had wanted this additional level constructed, and had at one stage, noting that it was totally "void", even deleted it from the plans! When father noticed this, the building was already up to fifth floor level, and had to be torn down. I think father got as much pleasure from pursuing the internationally famous architects through the courts as he did from even the most fierce whippings he ever administered to any slave). The various rooms were however complete and fitted out, and the massively heavy soundproof doors to each of them moved easily as the hydraulics slid them open and closed at my touch on the opening and closing buttons: even then, father was beginning to feel a little frail, and he wanted to be able to use this area without the normal requirement for door opening slaves and all the others you routinely need to make life bearable.
Thinking about how I planned to train my marine, I rejected the obvious as I knew it was unlikely that pure pain, in itself, would achieve my objective. It was likely that the use of the rooms fitted as properly kitted-out torture chambers would merely firm his resolve not to bend to my will, and I would simply end up by having to do severe damage to his bones or his flesh: and then what would I have? Just another piece of flesh that would have to be consigned to the mines, or sold back to the slave dealers to be sent to Brazil for the organ transplant banks. I knew that what I wanted to achieve was a formerly proud marine who had become a totally subservient slave, but this had to be done in such a way that it was the slave who submitted voluntarily to my superior will. Simple pain, administered for however long a period, would not do this (although of course it might play a part in the overall scheme of things - I would have to see how we got on).
The room I had in mind was just as I remembered it from an inspection visit I had made some years before.
It had been kept clean, and in "working order" by occasional maintenance visits, so was ready for use. As the massive door slid silently open on its runners, I saw the area divided into two halves by the floor to ceiling stainless steel bars. "My" half was comfortably but simply furnished with a couch on which I could recline or sit, a TV, a telephone, and a PC so that I could keep in touch with my business or receive very urgent e-mail if my visit was prolonged and my subordinates truly needed me. I opened the steel cabinet against one wall that held the instruments and devices I might need as my plan for the slave unfolded - I didn't want to have to leave the room if we were at a key point in the training as this might "break the spell" and set us back several days in his progress. A door opened into a bathroom suite with a good sunken bath, large shower, basin equipped with toiletries, razors, toothbrushes, etc., so that I could freshen up if I needed to, and a lavatory. Unlike most westerners, I am of course not shy about bathing and excreting in front of slaves as I have been doing this all my life, so you might consider the door to be an irrelevancy. It does however show how my father had thought things through: it was important to have some privacy down here as you might want to use your own nakedness with the slave as a proper "step" in his later training.
The slave's half of the room was of course completely different. The deep grey carpet on my side of the room turned to smoothly painted concrete on "his" half. About one quarter of the floor was gently shaped and sloped down towards a four-inch diameter hole, which served as the usual crap hole for the slave, and also as a drain (as the concrete ceiling above it held a complex of shower heads).
There were no switches or controls in the slave's half, and no furniture of any kind. Once in there, the slave had only the bare concrete floor to sit or lie on. Whilst he could piss or crap whenever he wanted, he could only clean himself if the occupant of the other half allowed him to do so by turning on the shower. There was however a standard slave drinking spigot on one wall, tongue operated as usual, so the slave could normally get water if he wanted it (although there was provision for turning off this from the controls on the other side, in case the trainer decided the slave should go thirsty).
All looked in working order, and I familiarised myself with the controls on the little table adjacent to my couch that turned on and off the lights, worked the shower (noting that the temperature control could be set almost down to zero, with specially chilled water from the building's air conditioning plant), and varied the temperature. Here again, father had thought of everything: just outside the bars, an "air curtain" effectively separated the space into two zones: I could remain comfortable on my side, whilst the air conditioning outlets on the other side delivered scorching hot or icy cold air. The remaining set of controls caused me to shake my head in puzzlement for a few moments, until I realised they were for the supply of water that ran through pipes just under the floor surface: as for the shower, it could be adjusted to be scalding hot or icy cold, so rapidly changing the temperature of the concrete floor on which the slave had to stand, sit or lie.
I hadn't planned to use any physical methods on the marine, as I have said, but on reflection decided that keeping him warmer than usual, or colder than usual, might on occasions be helpful in reinforcing some lesson I was going o give him. I also realised that I needed to spend some time familiarising myself with the complex remote controller for the TV: pressing the buttons I saw that it would swivel to face only me, or only the slave, or could be positioned so that we could both see it. As well as the usual channels piped to all the offices in the building, it could of course also play videos or DVDs, but a novel arrangement also allowed via a link to the PC any images from anywhere on my PC network to be piped in. I realised that I could sit in my office high in the tower and address the slave via the TV. A camera on top of it would relay back to me a view of the facility and could be panned and zoomed to show me whatever I wanted.
I then saw that all the room's controls could in fact be operated remotely via a PC link, if a master control set them to "remote" rather than "local". I felt certain that this would be a great help on occasions, if my stupid subordinates or assistants failed to cope with a crisis, or messed up my diary, so that I could not be here in person at some vital stage of the training.
Pleased that everything seemed to be in order, I went back up in my elevator to my offices, glad that we had paid the additional money when the building was constructed to have a real "express" installed: the 45 story transit took less than a minute. The rest of the morning, and half the afternoon, was frankly a waste of my time as it spent in strategic reviews, and a "business" lunch with a British cabinet minister stopping in our country on his way back to London: as ever, he was pleading their case for more trade with my organisation. I was seething with impatience now I had embarked on this new project, and had to have one of my secretaries call to make sure that they had not failed to inform me, as I had instructed, when the slave dealer had delivered the marine.
Once warned of my interests, my staff did of course step in without any further intervention or need for comment on my part - they know from long experience that as the absolute owner of the business, my tiniest wish is to be implemented at once. Having been alerted by a secretary that I had casually asked if the slave had yet been delivered, my PA at once swung into action. They tracked down the particular slave dealer by asking my chauffeur about my movements that morning, and then, I suppose, "put the frighteners" on him!
We're not enormous users of slaves ourselves, as most of our operations take place in the international cities where we trade: LA, New York, Boston, London, Paris, Frankfurt, Rome, HK, KL, Sydney, Tokyo, BA, and Rio. Even most of my office staff here at base are not slaves, as I have found that employing expatriates, at generous salaries and with huge tax-free allowances, makes for more willing workers. Like everyone of my status and wealth, I do of course have about a thousand or so slaves to keep my country estate in good order. However the actual business this generates for the dealers is small as I breed most of the stock I need on the spot - we've been going on the "in house" breeding programme long enough so that there's always a steady stream of new slaves to replace those who die, or who are sold on as being past the end of their useful working life. Whilst the dealer would not be concerned about the volume of my business as such, he would know that I am so well connected, and the tentacles of my organisation extend so far and so deep throughout the global economy, that it would be unwise to upset me: almost certainly I could have him out of business within minutes, if I chose.
So within seconds of my PA's call, I imagine that there would be panic at the dealers and frantic efforts would be made to cuff and hood the slave as I had specified, load him into a transit cage, and get it on a truck around to us.
I had just finished a short interview with one of the senior finance directors who I was firing for general lack of enthusiasm for my business when my PA respectfully interrupted me and told me that here was "a package on the loading bay" for me. I always insist on firing direct subordinates, and direct reports to them, personally: I always hire executives at this level, or approve their promotion, and so I consider it my responsibility if they prove to be less than satisfactory and should be terminated. I don't like these "firing" interview, as there's usually nothing to say - the man generally knows why he's being let go, and can't really argue with me anyway as, after all, I am the boss. And I don't personally haggle about the terms for the settlement of outstanding salaries and so on - when your business makes as much money as mine does, it really is a drop in the ocean. So you sit for three or four minutes making polite conversation, expressing mutual thanks, and shaking hands: what a waste of time! When I contrast this with how easy it is to get rid of a non-performing slave, I do sometimes wonder whether my "ex-pat" policy is the right one!
It's important that executive managers should not get too directly involved in the actual mechanics of anything, so would have loved to have gone down and seen the slave in his cage on the loading dock and supervise his unpacking , I restrained myself. Feigning indifference, I told my PA to have the cage moved down into suite 6 in the basement (the one I have told you about) and that I would then attend to it later, and told him to get my next meeting started.
They were lucky at that meeting: their idiotic plan for the global reshaping of my business was of course nonsense, however many eminent management consultants had devised it. A whole set of the senior partners from the major Boston firm that had been hired at vast expense had flown in to present their findings, and had I not been seething with impatience to get down to see my new acquisition, I would have spent at least an hour savaging them. As it was, I contented myself with swiftly outlining how the reorganisation and restructuring was in fact to be done, and telling them to go away and produce a detailed implementation plan for my scheme. They professed to be unable to do this within the 48 hours I gave them before they should present to me again, but changed their minds when I then told them their contract was therefore terminated: their most senior partner apologised that "his colleagues had not properly understood my requirements, and my natural desire to have my business re-engineered in a way that only I, as the owner, could truly understand". I could work with this man, I thought, as he had a good appreciation of how a global businessman and slave owner thinks and operates, and relented on the contract termination. The man was so grateful - I suppose a substantial part of his bonus that year was dependent on the success of their project with us - and invited me out to dinner with him that evening.
Of course I don't usually dine with tradesmen, however important they think they are. But I was now in a better mood, and politely explained that it was not my practice ever to eat out, as especially not in our own country. If I wanted to sample food other than the excellent fare produced by my own chefs, I had it sent in - or, rather, I had the chef from the restaurant concerned brought to my kitchens. I have found that even the most eminent chef from anywhere in the world can be persuaded to fly here when his fee can be whatever he chooses (and especially if one of my correspondent banks who have the mortgage on his restaurant put the squeeze on him).
I had been intrigued by this senior partner, however, and the rapidity with which he had seen my displeasure, told his team to shut up, and promised me that they would of course do as I required. I knew that he would be formidably intelligent and assertive to have got to the top of his firm at only 45, and was interested to see if I could persuade him to come and work for me directly. So instead I invited him for dinner at my town house. As they left the room, I told my PA to lay on a special dinner that night for the two of us: I knew that the offer of mere money could not tempt the man away from his firm, as even now with the sort of lifestyle he would be leading, working eighty hour weeks, he would not have time to spend his salary, bonuses, and partnership profit share. But clearly he liked power, and this I thought would be the key to his character: I would show him what power really meant, when you have absolute control of other men, and that therefore there should be an after dinner "entertainment": my team of eight perfectly matched gymnasts would perform for us, and then when they had completed their routines and were covered in sweat from an Olympic-standard performance, I would ask him to tell me what they should then do. If I guessed correctly, he would understand from their naked bodies, the rumours he had heard about my tastes, and what he knew of slavery in our country, that he should order them to show us some interesting sexual acts.
My briefing papers on his firm had given me a little of his biography, and I knew that he was married with three children - not that he would see much of them and his wife, given his work schedule. I supposed he was "straight", but I know that all men are interested in seeing other men's bodies (look at the sneak peeks that men take in communal changing rooms all the time), especially when the bodies are such perfect specimens as my gymnasts are. Everyone likes to see the perfection of an Olympic athletics performance, and as my team of course are completely shaved and perform naked and oiled, you get to appreciate their muscles even more. If he specified some clever routine involving multiple or simultaneous fucking, and even better, if he did this without hesitating and with no preliminary "warm ups" moving slowly from athleticism to sex as he got bolder, I knew I would have him. I would promise him power like that over a household of slaves of his own, and such power would be irresistible to one who had spent his entire working life in pursuit of it.
However the problems of finding suitable senior executives is not really germane to my story. That afternoon I simply cancelled my appointments for the rest of the afternoon and took my express elevator to the basement.
Four guards and their commander were standing just outside the elevator doors, just lounging around. They sprang to attention when they saw me, and their commander politely indicated the transit cage to me and asked me for further instructions.
Because I had specified that the hands were to be chained high on the back, and the slave was clothed, there had been more of a problem than usual in fitting him into a "local" transit cage. The lower part of his back and ass were hard up against the bars of one side and his feet against the other. There was hardly room for his curved-up back to get between his bent-up knees, and the barred cage lid was, I thought, compressing his hands slightly as it had had to be pushed down hard to make him bend his head right down.
I was of course denied the first sight of his cock and balls - usually, when slaves are delivered caged like this, these are clearly visible as they hang down between the thighs towards the floor of the cage.
I told the commander to have his men get the slave out, then lead him off to the suite I had prepared. They were not to talk to the slave or give him commands as they did this, only move him by physical force if necessary. One of the guards pulled the bolt back and flipped open the lid, and the slave was able to sit upright. Being hooded and cuffed, he sat there shaking his upper body - I expect he was trying to relieve cramped muscles that had been bent rather unnaturally. Two guards then put their arms under his armpits, and raised him to his feet - he was a bit unsteady at first, but even through his dishevelled uniform trousers I could see him flexing his muscles in an attempt to get them working fully again.
Without giving him time to start to react, the two guards marched him off down the corridor - the slave was trying to say something, but this was muffled by the hood (and anyway it could be of no importance or relevance).
I do not like the lower orders to know too much about my affairs, and so only the two guards guiding the slave were allowed into suite 6, and the commander and the other two guards had to wait outside after I had pressed the code to open the massive door. I did not allow these two to see much of what the suite was like either, as I told them to leave as soon as they had pushed the slave through the gate in the bars separating the two halves of the room, and closed it behind him. I dismissed the five guards, saw them move away towards the elevators, and closed the door to the suite so that we were totally isolated from the world.
With the lack of outside sound, no noise from the air conditioning system, and my own stealthy tread across the thick carpet, the slave might have imagined he was totally alone and totally isolated. I watched with interest as he walked around, pressing his body against the walls and the bars, trying to understand the size and geography of the room - something that did not take long as, of course, it was featureless and quite small! He was calling and shouting as he did this, but I made no reply: I wanted him to think he was totally alone for a few minutes.
It was amusing to see him jump when I called out "Come over here!"
This was the first time I had used English in his hearing, as when I commanded the guards it was in our native Arabic. However my English is absolutely flawlessly perfect, and I speak it with that upper-class British accent that almost automatically commands respect from the lower orders (my father sent me to an English prep school at seven, then to Eton, and Cambridge). Until I had taught him simple commands in Arabic, I was perfectly happy to use English, as anyway this is the language we work in in my organisation as it is the world-wide lingua franca.
Actually, it makes for a nice differentiation: all my work colleagues, and all my close personal friends, speak in English irrespective of their nationality, as do I. I reserve my Arabic for discussions with the lower orders, and for commanding my slaves. Sometimes I wonder what my "native" language now is - I can switch effortlessly between English and Arabic, and I dream in both languages!
"Come over here!", I repeated, louder (he would have to learn that I was not used to having to repeat myself, and especially not to slaves, but this would come later).
"Put your back against the bars, so I can reach that hood and get it off you". I deliberately tried to sound friendly, as I wanted to start to get this man to trust me.
He stumbled over towards me, and I could hear him saying, even though it was muffled by the hood, "Thank you, sir. These bastards had me hooded and cuffed like this, and I'll be fucking glad to get out of them."
Poor man! He was fooled by my English into thinking that I was "one of him", rather than "one of them". He would have to do a lot more before his cuffs were removed!
I undid the press studs up the back of the hood (it was not particularly close fitting as there was no intention to restrict breathing, just to disorient by depriving the slave of sight), and pulled it off. I felt a thrill run through me at this, my first, contact with the slave's body.
The slave blinked a couple of times in the light, looked around and saw me. I am indeed an impressive figure, especially when I am wearing my pure white tribal robes on my 6'3" frame. But his reaction was not, as I would have expected, one of respect: rather ,he considered me to be some sort of workman!
"Get these cuffs off next!", he snapped.
"What's happened to the 'sir'", I replied. "A moment ago, when I said I would take the hood off you, I'm certain I heard a 'thank you' and a 'sir' in there!"
Hearing the naturally superior tone in my voice called him to stop for a moment. He had seen that I was clearly of high status, and he began again "Sorry, sir. Could I ask you to help me out of the cuffs these bastards have ut me in, please?"
"Slave, you need to understand one thing: You address me as 'master', when you are allowed to. You are usually only allowed to address me at all when responding to one of my questions, and you do not initiate questions or requests. Is that clear?"
"'Master', 'Slave', don't be so fucking stupid! I'm a marine. There are no such things as slaves today. I'm a prisoner of war and I demand my rights.... I...."
"Silence!". I used the full power of my voice to shut him up instantly.
"Understand this, slave. You used to be a marine. Note the 'used to be'. You are now a slave, and these do indeed exist, and exist in very large numbers, here today."
"You are not a prisoner of war, as you have been enslaved by the courts for illegally entering our country. You are not only a slave, but you are my slave. I hold the complete power of life and death over you, and can order any punishment for you that I see fit."
"But I am known as a reasonable and generous master, and do not punish my slaves capriciously, only when they deserve it. I am prepared to forget your current disrespectful behaviour as I want us to have a good master-slave relationship: one based on your respect for me as a master and your understanding of the status of a mere slave, not one based purely on fear of punishment."
"I do not want to see you standing there in those uncomfortable cuffs longer than necessary, so if you ask properly, as a slave should, I will consider removing them."
I stopped and waited, and the marine finally said
"Please, sir, take these cuffs off."
I thought that it was interesting that he had used a "sir" again - was it my accent, as it was the one he would have been used to hearing from the officer class, or was he just tryinfg to curry favour with me?
"No, slave. The proper form would be 'Master, would you consider removing the cuffs from this slave so that he can serve you better?'. Have another go at it!"
"Fuck you! I'm not a slave, and you're not my master!"
"Very well. If I'm not your master, and you're not my slave, I have no interest in removing your cuffs."
"I will give you one more minute to ask properly, then I will leave. I recommend that you look around your cage and locate the water spigot - that's the thing that looks like a tap in the corner there - it's operated by your tongue, like an animal feeder, as you may need it before I return."
I stood impatiently waiting for a reply, but saw he was going to say absolutely nothing. So I opened the outer door, and before leaving, turned off all the lights so that when it closed and the light streaming in from the corridor was extinguished, he would be in total blackness.
End Of Part 1