By slaveobjectx

The Cut

Then, to my surprise, only my cage was unlocked; they both grabbed me, unlocked the cuffs and dragged me out, cuffing my hands again behind my back. The other men were left where they were; apparently they had to stay for a while, or perhaps still had to be transported to some other place.

I was stiff and could scarcely stand but they gave me no time to collect myself but hauled me up and dragged me indoors. I had just time to see that night had almost fallen, and that I had arrived in a kind of compound, surrounded by high stone walls. This was no flimsy little structure but a real, high security prison, from which there wouldn’t any chance of escape. Anybody entering against his will surely had to give up hope at once that’d he’d ever come out unless released. I was shit-scared by now, thinking that I was entering into a nightmare now, and that there was no way out.

I was dragged down a corridor with bare brick walls, only occasionally broken up by a metal door, until we came to a halt outside one of these. The taller pig knocked on the door, and, not waiting for an answer, I was marched inside. A uniformed governor, tall, greying, middle-aged but good-looking, was talking to a few of his associates. He looked up briefly.

‘One of the new slaves?’

The tall guard replied smartly, ‘Yes, sir!’

‘Did he give you any trouble?’

‘A bit of insubordination but otherwise OK, Sir!’

‘Right, standard irons to start then.’ And he turned back to his conversation. But before we could leave, he asked: ‘Both other boys still in the van?’ and when the guard nodded, he added, ‘I’ll send some other warders to look after them.’

I now began to lose all hope that the whole thing was some kind of mistake. I really had ended up in some kind of severe correctional institute, where the inmates were seen as a kind of sub-human slave that had to be fettered immediately after arrival. I was afraid now that I hadn’t misheard the old man in the court, and that I would become part of a kind of chain-gang and as such had to do hard physical work. But even at this moment I still didn’t doubt that the law set limits in respect of the treatment of their convicts, and that also as a prisoner I still had basic rights. However, after my presentation to the governor I was marched off again, down another corridor, and into a large tiled room with showers along one wall. Then, to my surprise, the handcuffs were removed. Immediately I started to rub my wrists, which were red and sore.

‘Strip!’ ordered the heavier guard. I started to peel off my clothes, instinctively turning way to hide my embarrassment. But this only made them laugh. While I was doing this, another guard entered and waited till I was naked then said in a bored voice,

‘Sit here.’

I sat down and he plugged in a set of electric shears and began to crop my hair on the left side. Shave would be closer to it as there was no attempt at a cut; this was simply a way of removing as much of the hair on that part of my head as he could. As soon as I became aware of this, I protested softly, but the barber ignored my words and moved on. Then he paused for a while and said, ‘You’ll have to get used to that, boy. No slave has any right to more hair than we allow him. And that’s not very much, be sure about that! Still, when I’ve finished your nice new cut, you’ll probably beg me to remove the bit I’ve left you. But we won’t.’ Then he went back to his clippers.

Although I hadn’t a mirror in front of me, it became clear to me that he was leaving no hair at the left side of my head at all. So I wondered what he meant. I got an idea of that after he’d finished on the left and started to do the same on the right, because he apparently passed over the central range of my head. And indeed, after the right side was done, and shaven as bald as the other, he laid aside the electric shears and took a pair of scissors and began to shorten what was left in-between. Apparently, he just shortened it till it was the length usual for American marines, so just a little bit under an inch. But the difference was that this strip of hair on a marine was confined to just the centre of his head, whereas in my case a long black strip of short-cut hair was left between both fully shorn white sides. It was perhaps not even three inches wide and extended from my forehead to my neck. That meant it divided my head symmetrically from front to rear in three parts — a covered small one in the very middle between two totally bald broader ones.

His task completed, the barber gave me a mirror, and said, ‘I hope you like your new cut — it’s yours for the rest of your life, slave. It was specially designed for our inmates some fifteen years ago, and although that’s a rather long time for a hairstyle, we still think it’s very up to date. Anyhow, you have to accustom yourself to it. So you better start to like it now.’ After that he took some very stinging ointment out of a jar and started to rub it in roughly all over my head. ‘And this stuff will keep it as it is now. It stops your hair ever growing again so this is how you’ll look for the rest of your life even if you are released from here. We can’t shave all our slaves each week, you see.’

Meanwhile I was looking in the mirror to see what he had done to me. The guy had been right: it would have been better to have left no hair at all. My head looked like a sandwich of two fat pieces of white bread and one small piece of black bread in-between. No tough guy would ever choose this ridiculous haircut for himself. But that was the point exactly, I wasn’t allowed a choice. My new cut would make clear my new state as a prisoner to everybody at first sight. I felt humiliated by the idea, having to walk about with it.

What I didn’t know was that this humiliation would be nothing compared with the things which had yet to come. The barber had just taken the mirror out of my hands, when the door opened and my fellow-cage-inmates entered, still handcuffed, with two other warders each, who looked even more brutish than mine. Both men caught sight of me and my new slave haircut and I could see their dismay as they realised that they were next.

But the barber hadn’t finished with me yet. He suddenly grabbed my balls and started to shave my genitals with an electric razor. I was so started by that, that I forgot the manners Bob had tried to teach me some two hours before and shouted, ‘Hey man, what the Hell….’

At that moment Bob hit me right in the face with his right hand. ‘Keep your mouth shut, you fucking animal, or we’ll not only shave your balls, but cut them off too, for a slave doesn’t need them here anyhow.’ I was so flabbergasted by that, I couldn’t get a word out and resigned myself to keeping my mouth shut.

The barber, I must admit, did his work expertly. Within a few minutes, no hair was left on my cock and balls at all. In a way they had unmanned me by that, and I felt totally naked and vulnerable. Obviously they were steadily taking away my identity to give me the uniform appearance of all the other inmates. I was very upset by the idea, that I was going to be reduced to a just a number. Now the shaving was over, I was hauled out of the chair and one of the waiting other men — the one I had seen for the first time in the van — was uncuffed to allow him to strip and sit down in the barber chair. I didn’t see him get the haircut I got, as Bob now started to measure me, while the tall warder wrote down all the inches and feet Bob shouted across the room.

To my surprise, he didn’t stop with just my total height but also used the measuring tape to get the circumference of my neck, hips, ankles and wrists, and even my genitals, and their distance to my ass and to my navel as well. It was a puzzle for me what the Hell they wanted to know that for. Then the guard chucked me a bar of soap and said, ‘Shower.’

I stood trying to get the water to run hot before I realised that it never would and, shivering, I got under the cold jet. I turned away from them to hide my bald, naked genitals but they kept up a running commentary all the same. ‘Kinda tight ass that one’s got,’ ‘Tight little body all round,’ and more of that sort of thing, some of which made my stomach sink when I heard it. They couldn’t mean what they were saying, surely? There were laws, and surely even here….

I stepped out of the shower, and they chucked a coarse towel at me. When I had finished drying myself, I looked round for my clothes, but they had gone. I stood there foolishly for a moment before saying, as respectfully as I could for I was kinda scared by now, ‘Sir, where are my clothes, Sir?’

‘No, slave, you won’t wear any clothes in this place at all. As a slave for the rest of your stay you’ll have to serve naked, except for that special sort of dress you won’t want to wear anyhow!’

To be continued…