Behave Like a Slave
The registration hall of the Slave and Indentured Servants Processing Center was brighter than I expected.
Light pressed against my skin from high windows, mixing with the flat fluorescent glow that left nowhere to hide. The polished concrete floor echoed every footstep. The walls were painted in a gray-green that made the space feel like it was already processing me before I reached the counter.
I had anticipated something different. I was not sure what exactly. Perhaps something that would justify the weight settling in my chest. Instead, this looked like a place designed for efficiency, and my body already understood what that meant before my mind caught up.
The space held perhaps fifty people, though only a third of the chairs were occupied. Young men sat in plastic seats along the walls. Others stood in loose clusters near the entrance, still holding intake paperwork. Behind the long counter, staff processed applicants at a steady, unhurried pace. The room hummed with quiet compliance.
I took my place in the queue.
The man three places ahead kept adjusting his collar, shifting his weight, glancing at the floor. His body wanted to disappear. Two seats to the left, a different type—legs spread wide, arms crossed, chin lifted. His posture announced control he did not have. A performance I recognized because I felt the same impulse pressing against my own ribs.
And then there were the others. Most of them. Young men who sat normally, filled out forms normally, answered questions normally. They looked like people at any bureaucratic institution that processed bodies every day.
No one was crying. No one was being dragged. The most dramatic thing happening was a mild disagreement at Desk 4 about a missing signature. My shoulders loosened slightly. My breathing slowed. I noticed this happening—my body deciding before I gave it permission.
Above the main counter, a banner stretched in clean sans-serif lettering:
STABILITY THROUGH CONTRIBUTION.
I read it twice. The words landed in my chest like something I was supposed to feel grateful for. I thought about my family. Not their faces or voices. Just the fact of them. The fact that this decision made sense. The arithmetic that brought me here.
My number was called, and my legs moved before I finished the thought.
The administrator at Desk 7 was a woman in her late forties with reading glasses pushed up on her forehead and a small stack of folders arranged at her elbow. She did not look up as I approached.
"Sit," she said pulling my folder from the stack without checking the name,.
I sat. The plastic chair was harder than expected. Cold seeped through my jeans.
My thighs pressed against the seat, and I felt the fabric of my underwear shift, creating an uncomfortable friction right where it mattered most. Heat pooled low in my belly, unwanted, as her eyes flicked over my file—not my body, but I felt exposed anyway, skin prickling under clothes like it was already bare. My cock stirred slightly, betraying me with that dull ache of anxiety-turned-something-else, and I shifted to hide it, face burning hotter than before.
She didn’t notice. Or if she did, she gave no sign. Her voice continued, flat and procedural, reading terms that now felt like they were being etched directly into my skin.
"Jacob Mercer." Not a question. She glanced at my face, then back at the documents. A small frown as she made a mark in her system. "You submitted your preliminary application online. Your background check cleared. Your medical evaluation is on file."
"Yes, ma'am."
The "ma'am" came out before I thought about it. She did not acknowledge it.
"These are standard conditions." She flipped to a tabbed page. "You are already familiar with them."
The assumption that comprehension had already occurred—that no further explanation would be offered—registered somewhere in my stomach. A small tightening. I nodded.
The administrator began to read aloud.
"Term five-point-one. Your indenture service period is fixed at five years from the date of status activation. Extensions may apply based on compliance assessment and administrative review."
Five years. Sixty months. The number sat in my chest like something I had swallowed whole. I had done the math many times. It was finite. It was survivable. I repeated this to myself as she continued.
"Term five-point-two. Your status may be upgraded or downgraded based on continuous evaluation of conduct, performance, and adaptation metrics. Status changes affect assignment type, supervision level, and administrative classification."
Something shifted in my posture—a slight straightening, automatic. Performance-based. Effort and compliance produced better outcomes. My body understood this logic before my mind finished processing it.
"Term five-point-three. Participants who achieve and maintain high status ratings receive accelerated compensation distribution and enhanced post-service placement support."
Work well, receive benefits. The words pressed against my skin like something warm, something that made the chair feel slightly less hard.
"Term five-point-four. Participants who receive low status ratings are subject to extended service terms, track reassignment, and restriction of privileges until performance indicators stabilize."
The warmth retreated. A coolness spread across my shoulders instead. If compliance produced reward, then non-compliance produced correction. The logic was obvious. I sat straighter.
"Term five-point-five. Behavioral or physical corrections may be applied to address non-compliance, resistance, or adaptation failures. Correction methods are standardized and applied proportionally to recorded violations."
Correction. My jaw tightened slightly. I released it deliberately. Correction was guidance. Correction was how improvement happened. This was what I told myself as my hands pressed flat against my thighs.
"Term five-point-six. Your baseline track assignment is Physical. This designation determines your primary service category, training protocols, and deployment eligibility."
Physical. My body responded to the word before I processed it—a recognition in the muscles, the lungs, the trained capacity for strain. This was where my strengths applied. I would lift, carry, endure.
"Term five-point-seven. Track assignment may be revised during the service period based on adaptation, demand, and administrative discretion. Participants are expected to demonstrate flexibility and cooperation during reassignment processes."
Flexibility. The system could adapt to circumstances. I repeated this to myself as the tightness in my chest suggested something else.
"Term five-point-eight. No permanent or irreversible physical modifications may be applied without participant consent during the initial service term. Consent protocols are subject to revision after status finalization."
Something loosened in my chest. A boundary. The system acknowledged limits. My body would not be permanently altered without my agreement. I held this thought like a small warm object.
"Term five-point-nine. Compensation is activated upon status confirmation. Designated household recipients will receive standard monthly allocations as specified in your preliminary application. This allocation is guaranteed regardless of your individual status changes during service."
The words landed hard in my solar plexus. My family would be supported. The payments would begin immediately. Whatever happened inside the system—the money would flow. My mother's medical debt. My brother's tuition gap. Done.
A warm pressure built behind my eyes. I blinked it away.
The administrator placed a form in front of me and held out a pen.
"Sign at the marked locations."
My hand moved before I finished deciding. The same motion I had used for employment contracts, rental agreements, release waivers. Ink transferred. Form complete.
She collected the papers, made a final notation, and produced a small plastic card from a tray beneath her desk. She slid it across the surface toward me.
"Your registration card. Keep it on your person at all times."
I picked it up. White with a blue-gray border. My photograph in the upper left corner—the one taken during my medical evaluation. Next to it, printed in clean block lettering:
- PARTICIPANT ID: NW-P-104772
- SOCIAL RATING: A
- TRACK: PHYSICAL
This was who I was now. A participant with a designation, a rating, a track. The information was precise and complete. The card felt heavier than plastic should.
The administrator was already reaching for the next folder.
"Proceed to the Processing Center, boy."
The word landed in my body before it reached my mind. Heat climbed into my face. My jaw set. Boy. I had not thought of myself that way in years. But the correction was already happening inside me—the adjustment of posture, of expectation, of self. The heat did not leave my face as I stood. I placed the card in my pocket and walked toward the door at the back of the hall, aware of my own footsteps, my own breathing, the way my shoulders wanted to hunch and how I forced them straight.
The space around the door was empty. Unlike the registration hall, there was no queue here, no cluster of waiting bodies. The area had been designed to discourage gathering—I understood this in my legs, which wanted to hesitate, before I articulated it.
An officer stood beside the door. Slave police. The uniform occupied space in a way that made my chest tighten. Static and present. Waiting.
"Show your card, boy."
My hand moved immediately, producing the card before I finished deciding to move. Two fingers, careful, attempting to appear neither rushed nor slow. I was already learning that pauses were not expected.
The officer looked at the card. Then at me. The gaze held longer than necessary for verification—long enough to register on my skin – not lingering, but enough to make my stomach clench, my balls tighten involuntarily. Sweat beaded at the small of my back, trickling down, and I felt dirty, exposed under clothes that suddenly felt too thin. The shame hit like a wave, hot and sticky, making my thighs press together without permission. My pulse quickened.
"You're not officially a slave yet," the officer said. His tone was calm, instructional. "But you should behave like one."
He returned the card.
"Be polite to free people. It's your job for the next weeks to adapt to a new modus—slave behavior."
Heat flooded my face and neck before I understood why. Something in my bearing, my posture, my manner of presenting the card had been incorrect. My skin burned with the knowledge of the error before I could name it. I had failed to perform the appropriate deference, and the failure lived in my body now, hot and undeniable.
I nodded, the motion sharper than intended.
"Yes, sir." A pause. My voice felt thick. "Thank you for corrections, sir."
The officer gave no acknowledgment. No approval, no dismissal. The heat in my face remained.
"You can wait inside. In a few hours, when there's enough of you, you'll be escorted further."
He shifted slightly to clear the doorway. I entered.
The room pressed against me—larger than expected, strangely vacant. Rows of plastic chairs faced the far wall. Water dispensers at intervals. The lighting left nowhere to retreat. Approximately ten other young men were already seated, distributed unevenly across the space. All of them looked tense. All of them were performing calm.
I understood the performance because I felt it in my own muscles. The studied relaxation. The controlled breathing. The careful management of expression. The effort to look like this was nothing, while my body hummed with alertness.
I chose a seat beside the first available person.
He was approximately my age, solidly built, with close-cropped hair and broad shoulders. The kind of frame that looked natural in work clothes. He glanced at me, and the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
"Family, bro."
The word came out low. Private. An acknowledgment between equals.
I nodded.
He leaned back slightly, arms crossing over his chest. "My uncle did the same thing. Five years. Construction, physical track. The whole deal." His voice stayed low, unhurried. The tone of someone referencing facts, not drama. "Did it for his family too. Came back home. Got a regular job, got his own place. Took him a while to get used to things again, but he's good now."
The information settled into my chest like confirmation. Five years, completed. A man who entered the system and walked out the other side. Not a figure from an orientation pamphlet—someone's uncle. Living at home. Working. Evidence that the arithmetic held. That the contract had a beginning and an end, and people came through it.
I did not ask for details. I did not need them. The fact of it was enough—a precedent, solid and close, sitting right next to me in the shape of a man whose family had already been through this.
"Yeah." The response came with unexpected ease. "Now they'll be fine."
Almost ordinary. Two people who understood the same arithmetic, sitting under the same fluorescent light. Time stretched, and nothing happened. No one entered or left. The young men shifted occasionally—standing for water, returning to seats. Conversations faded. The tension settled into something ambient, like the hum of ventilation. I found myself counting not minutes but states: sitting, waiting, the weight of my own body in the chair, waiting again.
The door opened without warning. "Stand up, boys."
My legs straightened before my mind caught up. The chair scraped back under me. I was standing with everyone else, too fast to question it, the word why dissolving before it could form.
The officer waited until the last chair scraped back into place. The young men stood in a loose approximation of a line—shoulders squared, feet planted, eyes forward. No one spoke. The room held its breath.
I positioned myself near the center, close enough to the man I'd spoken with earlier to register the shared tension in my own muscles. The air smelled of recycled ventilation and the sharp tang of nervous sweat. My skin prickled with awareness.
The officer paced slowly along the front of the group, boots making soft measured sounds on the polished floor. He stopped at the midpoint and faced us squarely.
"Welcome to the Compliance Integration Program," he said. His voice carried without effort. "The next two weeks will educate you in basic slave behavior and standard protocols."
"I trust you have all reviewed the Basic Slave Behavior Rules as required in your contracts. This material will help clarify expectations. You are here now for practical application. Our purpose is to demonstrate how indentured servants and slaves contribute to societal stability and benefit the community through structured service. You entered this program voluntarily, understanding the essential supporting role of servitude in our society. The system will care for you during this transition, guiding you to become effective servants, protecting you from abuse, and directing you to suitable roles."
The words protection, contribution pressed against my chest. My posture adjusted before I decided to adjust it.
The officer continued without pause. "This is preparation. The goal is to equip you to interact properly with free people—to prevent mistakes that could cause offense, misunderstanding, or escalation."
He let the words settle.
"Free citizens have expectations. They deserve appropriate deference. Your role is to meet those expectations seamlessly, without requiring correction or intervention. Most issues arise from simple errors—eye contact held too long, a response phrased incorrectly, hesitation where immediate compliance was expected. Addressing a free person with insufficient respect. Failing to yield space when appropriate. These are not moral failures. They are gaps in training."
The words gaps in training moved through my body like something cold. My earlier error at the door—the heat of it still lived in my face.
"A servant who understands protocol protects himself. When you anticipate what is expected, you minimize the need for corrections, avoid escalations in procedures, and maintain a stable position within the system. We want you to succeed. Success means fewer interventions, smoother interactions, and a clearer path through your service term—all designed for your benefit and successful adaptation."
He scanned the line once.
"You will also learn to understand the consequences inside the system. Not as threats, but as structure. Structure exists so that everyone—free people and servants alike—knows what to expect. When you understand the structure, you can work within it effectively. This benefits you. This benefits society."
My stomach tightened at consequences before I finished hearing the sentence. Structure. The word was supposed to feel neutral.
"During these two weeks, you are not indentured servants yet," the officer said. "At the end of this period, you will be evaluated as suitable or unsuitable. There will be a final voluntary exit opportunity after the two weeks."
Exit. Still available. Two weeks to assess fit. My body held this information like a small anchor—something to grip.
The officer let the information settle, scanning the line with unhurried eyes. No one moved. The group held its formation. I straightened my posture slightly, aligning my shoulders. Satisfied, the officer nodded once.
"You signed consent for behavioral and physical correction as part of your registration."
The statement hung. I recalled the form, the checkboxes. Consent given freely, terms reviewed. My palms dampened.
"That means light corrective measures may be applied during orientation," the officer added. "They are applied intentionally, so your final decision is informed."
Light measures. The words landed in my body as pressure—across my shoulders, down my spine. My skin tightened. Informational. Preparatory. I repeated these words to myself while something colder moved beneath them.
"Orientation cannot be interrupted," the officer concluded.
The words closed something. Voluntary entry meant following the steps. I had agreed to this structure. My agreement lived in my body now, in the way my hands hung at my sides, in the steadiness I forced into my breathing.
The officer gestured toward a row of gray plastic containers lined against the wall—sturdy boxes, each labeled sequentially. They stood empty, lids propped open.
"Take a box and get undressed, boys," he said.
The command cut clean through the room. The group moved as one, breaking formation toward the containers. I took the next available box, number 17, my fingers registering the cool plastic edges. Around me, the others did the same. The solidly built man grabbed box 16, our eyes meeting once before focus returned to the task.
Undress. Fold. Place inside.
Shirt off, nipples hardening in the cool air, goosebumps racing down my arms. Jeans down, the waistband catching on my hips, exposing the trail of hair leading down. Underwear last — I hooked my thumbs in, pulled, felt the air hit my cock and balls, soft and shrunken from nerves, but stirring traitorously as eyes around me watched or didn't. The smell hit — collective sweat, faint musk of arousal not wanted but there. I held the box low, trying to shield my groin, but it only pressed against my stomach, making the heat worse. Around me, cocks dangled, some half-hard from the tension, balls tight or loose, bodies marked by scars or hair or freckles — all exposed, all accountable. Shame throbbed in my veins, heavy in my chest, pooling low where I didn't want it.
Heat climbed up my neck and spread across my face. Weight pressed down through my shoulders. My skin felt thin, too visible. Around me, the other men stood in the same state—exposed, still, waiting. The shame was physical, heavy in my chest, warm across my face and throat. It did not require my understanding to exist. It simply existed, in my body, as I stood naked in a line of naked men, holding a box that contained everything I had been wearing moments ago.
From the "Basic Slave Behavior Rules" I had read I knew the rule: slaves and servants, like me, when inside enclosed premises and not in the presence of free citizens who might find nudity offensive, are to remain unclothed. It saves wear on clothing. It prevents concealment. It ensures that nothing is hidden from those to whom one serves. The text had presented it as practical, almost hygienic — a logical extension of contribution and transparency.
But right now it didn’t feel practical.
It felt different.
My skin prickled with cold and something hotter. I felt exposed, not controlled. Vulnerable, not supervised. The shame was immediate and physical — a heavy flush spreading from my chest up into my throat, down into my groin where it twisted into that dull, unwanted ache. This was nothing like the locker room after practice, where nakedness had meant equality, shared exhaustion, the casual pride of muscled bodies that had just earned their rest. There everyone was the same: teammates, competitors, men. Here I stood naked before an officer in uniform, before men who were no longer equals, before a system that had already decided what my nakedness meant.
I tried to straighten my posture, to make the exposure look deliberate, disciplined — the way I had held myself in the gym. But the attempt only made it worse. My shoulders pulled back, chest forward, and I felt every inch of skin tighten under invisible scrutiny. The half-stirring below refused to settle. Shame throbbed in time with my pulse, pooling where I least wanted it, reminding me that my body was already answering questions I hadn’t been asked.
The officer walked the line, stopping occasionally, adjusting a posture with a firm hand on a shoulder or hip — not mine, but close enough to feel the threat. When he passed me, his breath ghosted over my skin, and my body betrayed me again, a twitch below that made my face burn hotter.
I exhaled. My body complied. My mind would follow. Two weeks to prove suitability. Family counted on that stability. I would deliver. The thought came after the commitment was already made—in the straightness of my spine, in the stillness of my hands, in the heat that still burned across my exposed skin.
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