CHAPTER FOUR: A SLAVE-IN-TRAINING
The escort brought me before the Headmaster’s desk. I knew immediately what would be expected of me, and even before I was commanded to do so I knelt down the moment I arrived and bowed my head and upper body in submission. This seemed to surprise both my escort and the Headmaster, who apparently usually had to command new slaves-in-training to do such a basic, elementary thing as this first. But I’d already been studying to be a slave for years by then and wanted to make a good first impression.
I succeeded, judging by the Headmaster’s reaction. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” he stated mildly. “I don’t often see trainees show the proper respect right on their arrival.”
I made no visible reaction and said nothing; just as I knew I was supposed to do.
“Did you coach him?” the Headmaster asked my escort.
“Certainly not, sir!” my escort replied proudly, as if denying a breach of regulations – which in fact he was. He said nothing more, nor did he need to. The headmaster evidently took him at his word, and – from what I gather – looked me over carefully.
“I think I’d like to spend a few moments with this one,” the Headmaster said to my escort. “In fact, I’ll tend to his processing personally. You may go.”
I remained quiet and unmoving as the escort left; again, I knew that was what was expected.
There was dead silence for a few moments, and I began to get nervous. But I wasn’t fooled. The Headmaster was waiting to see if I would break the proper slave protocol and look up at him, fidget, make a noise, or otherwise react to an outwardly uncomfortable situation. I’m not stupid though; I couldn’t be tricked that easily into a mistake. I’d kneel there with my head bowed all day if I had to; patience is a virtue, and that goes especially for slaves and slave-trainees.
“Look up at me,” the Headmaster told me.
I did so, but of course remained on my knees since I hadn’t been told to rise.
“How old are you?” the Headmaster asked me. Not as silly a question on my world as it might be on yours, since a person my age can pass for anywhere from 10 to his mid-30’s because of the way we age – or, rather, don’t age - once we hit puberty.
“Twelve as of today, master,” I replied quickly, quietly, truthfully, and with the proper respect for someone I knew to be infinitely my superior.
“Have you been a slave before today?” he asked me mildly.
“No, master,” I replied promptly. “At least, not officially.”
“And unofficially…?” the head master prompted me.
“Uhhh…” I mentally flailed around for the proper answer. “I practiced being a slave with anyone who would let me, master.” I finally said.
“Why?” the Headmaster asked me tersely but evidently not without approval.
A host of possible answers flew through my mind, but it was easy to decide which one sounded the best. “Because I want to be a good slave,” I answered simply.
The Headmaster paused; perhaps expecting me to elaborate. But I knew that no one likes a slave who talks too much; if he wanted more details, he would ask for them. Otherwise, he would not.
The Headmaster arose from his chair and walked around his huge desk to stand beside me. I did not move; after all, I hadn’t been told to. It was too difficult to keep looking toward him as he shifted position, so I decided the best action to take was to look back down at the floor in front of me again without turning at all. If I was mistaken, he would tell me so.
But the Headmaster said nothing; indicating I had made the proper choice. He simply stood beside me for a moment; evidently looking me over. Then he must have activated his intercom, because he suddenly asked for someone named Overseer Michael to come into his office, and to bring the usual trainee gear.
The headmaster spoke no further to me, so I remained quiet and as motionless as a statue for the next few minutes; not moving even when there was a knock on the door and the headmaster bid whoever it was to enter. The door opened, I heard someone walk in, close the door, and leisurely walk over to stand beside me. I could hear the jingling of numerous keys on a ring, but not the usual clinking of chain restraints rattling together as I would have expected.
“Michael, I want you to prepare this new slave for Class-3,” the headmaster promptly told the newcomer before the other could say a word, “and I want you to train him personally.”
“Class-3, sir?” Michael asked with evident surprise. “That’s unusual for a new trainee, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve started a slave that high before. I can’t even think of the last time I started one at Class-2; let alone Class-3!”
“This one seems to be an usually advanced newbie,” the Headmaster told him frankly. “He hasn’t made a single one of the usual mistakes a first-day trainee makes starting here. I think we can skip the basic starting sessions with this one and begin more advanced training. But try him out and see what you think. I want you to devote the rest of the day to showing him the ropes.”
I was certain that this was not simply a figure of speech.
“Very good, sir,” Michael replied respectfully. “I’ll have him tagged and registered at the office immediately.” He then bent down over me and placed a new leather slave collar around my neck; locking it on with a small padlock. He then connected a rope leash to my collar and stood up. Throughout it all I didn’t budge nor make a sound. I remained motionless; I hadn’t been told to do otherwise.
Michael made a slight upward tug on my leash. “Up!” he said to me quietly.
I immediately stood up as quickly as I could; considering that my feet were still hobbled and my wrists cuffed behind me. Michael did not offer to help me, nor did I expect him to; I managed to get on my feet on my own almost as quickly as a boy my age who was not fettered at all. I faced my body toward Michael, but kept my head bowed and my gaze on the floor and on my feet rather than look upward at him.
“Heel,” Michael told me next; this time with no tug on the leash. It was not needed. As he turned and began to walk out, I immediately followed behind him; remaining two steps behind him and to the side that held my leash in hand. No one said a word to me as we left the headmaster’s office; just as no one would have talked to me had I been a dog.
Once we were outside, I sneaked a quick look at Michael. Slaves are typically allowed to look around when they are walked; provided only that they look at no free person in the eyes. So I was committing no breach of slave etiquette as I looked at the person who was, for all intents and purposes, my new master for the time being. He was tall (perhaps six foot one), and slender with well-developed muscle definition; weighing perhaps 160 pounds. He was evidently of mixed Asian ancestry; giving him an exotic and pleasing physical appearance. On your world he would have seemed to be about 16 or 17; which, on my world, meant he must have been about 75 to 80 and therefore middle-aged. My first impression was that he was a firm but fair disciplinarian. If so, I was very fortunate to have him as my initial trainer.

I looked around at the school training grounds as he led me along and I took in all the sights. There was very much to see, and I wished I could have stopped to see more of it; but my master had places to go and things to do, and of course I had to follow him at his own pace. Even so, I managed to glimpse quite a few interesting aspects of slave-school life as we went along.
I remember in particular seeing a slave bound to a tree; his back facing outward while three boys – trainers in training – beat him mercilessly with towel slaves. A fourth, older boy was casually instructing them in how to punish a slave by inflicting pain *without* damaging him in any severe or permanent way. And indeed, although the slave was in obvious distress, none of the numerous blows he received inflicted more than reddish bruises that looked very painful but nevertheless would heal quickly. He was undoubtedly being disciplined for some infraction, as slaves are generally never beaten by even the harshest masters – let alone by professional slave trainers – without cause. I had no doubt he’d never again repeat whatever offense had gotten him into this predicament.

The route Michal and I followed was apparently along a regularly-used exercise path, because I saw slaves being walked and/or ridden everywhere. Most of the slaves were male, as female slaves usually had different kinds of training. however, there were a number of females present as well; most considerably older than me, and therefore appearing to be in their mid-teens by your standards. One athletic-looking female was being led along by one boy while another boy at least as heavy as she was rode on her shoulders. This must have been quite a burden for her, but she showed few signs of strain and none of complaint (unless these were hidden by her gag). As, of course, would be expected of a good riding slave.

Michael abruptly stopped and turned to look at me. Someone my age who had studied slavery less extensively than me might have been caught by surprise and run right into him. Luckily for me I was looking more or less in his direction when he stopped and I was able to react quickly enough to avoid such a horrible blunder. Instead, I immediately stopped at the right distance and stood at attention; head bowed inn submission as protocol demanded.
“So, what is your name?” Michael asked me suddenly; if he’d noticed my near faux pas he chose not to mention it; which was a good sign. He’d correct real mistakes, but wouldn’t chastise me for imaginary ones.
“My name is whatever my master chooses,” I answered glibly.
“What is the name you were born with?” Michael clarified patiently.
“Robert Newman, master,” I answered at once.
“Very well, Robert,” Michael replied. “I prefer to use the names slaves are already accustomed to when I start out. It removes unnecessary distractions. I’ll assign you a new name later if it suits me, but for the time being you’ll answer to Robert.”
“Yes, master,” I replied when he paused.
“So Robert; what kind of slave do you wish to be?” Michael asked me.
“Whatever kind my master wishes,” I answered immediately.
Michael sighed patiently. “Robert, look at me,” he told me kindly. I did so of course; getting a good look at his face for the first time. It was a firm, handsome and kindly face; lit with a smile that a slave always desires to see directed at him by his master.
“This isn’t a test to see if you know basic protocol;” Michael explained to me. “I can already see that you do. So does the Headmaster; that’s why you’re skipping three months of basic training and starting as a Class-3. I’m not trying to trick or trap you into a mistake; at least, not at the moment. I just want to know what you feel your role is a slave is. We don’t just arbitrarily assign slaves to certain tasks without finding out what they’re most suited for first; that would be a waste of human resources. The best slaves tend to be those who enjoy what they do. Cooks; mechanics; grounds-keepers; janitors; assistants to the disabled; companions; the list goes on and on. Now then, answer me as honestly as you can… what you think you’d be best at? What ways to serve a new master would make you happiest, and the best slave you can possibly be?
Well, I had to admit I had never given that much thought. I had never realized before that slaves even had the freedom to make personal choices like that. I thought a slave simply did whatever his master told him to do! And so I was thoroughly stumped to give Michael an answer to his question. I bowed my head again; this time in shame and embarrassment rather than merely to show my current master the respect he was due.
“I – I don’t know, master,” I replied honestly. “I – I was thinking mainly as a house-pet and playmate, I suppose. At least, that’s what most of the slaves I’ve known personally were. Or maybe as one of those who are used as furniture or decoration.”
“Really?” Michael replied neutrally; not judging me personally but only my answer. “Well, you seem like you might be suitable for such. But such slaves often face severe restrictions on their freedoms; more so than most. They must be very patient, and willing to endure treatment that borders on abuse without complaint. Do you think that you can do that?”
“Yes, master,” I replied without hesitation.
Michael looked at me without expression for a few moments. Then, without a word, he turned and resumed walking. He had not told me to heel this time, but I assumed (correctly) that the previous command to do so was still in effect (since there had been no countermanding order) and so I immediately resumed following him at the same pace and distance as before. I made no attempt to renew the conversation of course; it was not my place to do so.
We came to a building with a sigh that read “Tags and registration” on it and went inside. There I was fitted with a metal collar and tags that read “Slave Class-3: Robert”. Michael then led me to a fitting room where I was bid to remove the shorts I had worn here and put on a set of plain black briefs (with a red ‘3’ stitched on either side); the usual clothing for slaves-in-training.
I was then taken outside to a beginning of a rugged, rocky path through a small stretch of woods that was full of numerous obstacles such as half-buried tree roots, rocks, small bushes, numerous pieces of broken glass, and so on. It was the kind of path that was easy to walk along in broad daylight but which would have been hazardous to anyone walking along in the dark. It was here that Michael removed my new metal collar for the time being, tied the rope lead snugly but not tightly around my neck, and – after I had gotten a good, long look at the hazard-filled path -blindfolded me. I could not see a thing, and was still hobbled, barefoot, and cuffed as well.
“Heel,” Michael told me suddenly, and began to lead me along the unseen path.
I realized at once that this was a test of trust. I was expected to trust my master to guide me safely along this hazardous path so that I would not trip, stumble, cut my feet, bump into anything, or otherwise come to harm. A true newbie slave would have hesitated or even balked at being led into such hazards. But I had every confidence in my new (if temporary) master and trainer by this time, and followed along at the pace he set as if I could see where I was going as well as he could. Even when he increased the pace to a slow jog, I kept up with him as well as my hobbles would allow. And my trust was fully justified; never once did he lead me to any spot where I could trip, stumble, cut my bare feet, or otherwise hurt myself unless I was careless, clumsy, or lose trust in him. Nor did he go any faster than my hobbles allowed me to go.

“Excellent, Robert,” Michael said to me with a pleased voice as we returned to our starting point and he removed my blindfold. Then, somewhat to my surprise, he turned me around, unlocked the handcuffs from my wrists, and removed them; clipping them to his belt. “I think you can manage without these for a while.”
Unsure of the proper response, I simply said, “Thank you, master.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he told me with a grin as he suddenly stepped behind a tree and pulled out a metal box (about one foot high, one foot thick, and about three feet long) that I had not noticed sitting in the tall grass there. It was attached to a chain that was in turn tethered to the tree, locked with a padlock, and marked: “Rope Cache Number 54”. Michael got down on one knee beside, took a belt from his belt, opened the padlock, and flipped open the box. Inside it was a generous supply of white rope.
“Stand against the tree facing me and then stand perfectly still,” Michael bid me. He said it kindly and conversationally, but it was nonetheless an order I dared not question.
I remained where I was bid to stand while Michael took the rope and tied me securely but not uncomfortably tightly to the tree. By the time he had finished, a good portion of my body was covered by the ropes that bound me to the tree. He then used my former blindfold to gag me.
“You just stay here and guard this tree for a while,” Michael told me with a sardonic grin as he put the metal box back where he had found it. “Don’t let anyone steal it until I get back. Oh, and if anyone comes along to play with you, you have to let them do whatever they like without making ANY noise. You can squirm all you like, but no noise. No moans, no crying, no trying to talk, no sighing, no laughing even if you’re tickled… nothing! No sound from you until I return! Understand?”
I almost tried to say “Yes Master,” through my gag, realized just in time that this would be a direct conflict with my orders, and simply nodded my head in affirmation while keeping my gaze aimed downward as usual when spoken to.
“Good boy,” Michael said approvingly. “I’d have added two hours to the time I have planned to leave you here if you’d tried to talk. You may be the brightest beginner I’ve ever trained. Well, see you when I get back.”
And with a jaunty wave of his hand, Michael left me tied to the lonely tree out in the middle of the woods. I watched him go; making not a single sound… just as I’d been told.
Dare to be different... and make a difference.
To boldly go where no one in their right mind has gone before...