Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 12

By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 12: This Season, Brown Is Trending

They let me loose and I fell back, panting.  Automatically, my hands went up to my neck.  But it wasn’t my neck anymore; it was a thing wearing a collar.  “Yeh mon,” Malcolm said, “you a slappie now.”  I twisted, holding my stomach, trying to get my breath.  My eyes were level with their waists, and I saw that their shorts were tented.

“OK slappie, straighten up,” Jojo said, kicking a chair in my direction.  “Sit on it,” Malcolm said.  My balls slumped down on the wooden seat.  “Keep still,” Jojo said.  “This doan take long.”  He plugged a shaver into the wall, and in two minutes he had shaved me bald.

“Get up,” Malcolm ordered.  “See that wall?  Stan’ there.  This is a camera, slap boy.  Hol’ still, gonna take you picture.  I said hol’ still.  An look pretty—this is you audition, dude.  I mean it—how you think I get this great job?  You keep lookin unhappy, dude, this gonna last all night.  OK, that’s better.  Now turn left.  Turn right.  Lemme see you butt.”  So now my white naked body and my white bald head were fully recorded.  “Through that door,” he told me, pointing.

I’d come to the rear of the house, where people always put the kitchen.  No stove, no refrigerator, but it did have a table, the remains of a sink and counter, and a set of pantry shelves.  The shelves weren’t loaded with food.  Half of them were loaded with boots, and the other half with piles of brown cloth.  By now I knew what those had to be.  They were slappie boots and slappie suits.

“Stan’ on those,” Jojo said, pointing to a line of yellow feet painted on the floor.  The feet were of different sizes.  “Move to thee right.  Move to thee left.  That’s it.  Size 10.”  Malcolm pulled down a pair of brown boots and dropped them on the table.  A giant THUD! echoed off the barred windows and the flaking paint.  Then he reached into the other set of shelves and flipped four wads of brown onto the table—shirt, shorts, underpants, sox.  “Get into em,” he said.

A naked body in an old house with nothing in it except two hot young guys, who are doing everything they can to give him what he needs—the ideal setting, right?   Except that it was something out of a horror movie.  “I said get into em!”

When I picked up the underpants I realized that I’d never touched a slappie’s clothes before.  I hadn’t known how heavy and cheap that brown cloth would feel.  Or how your flesh crawls when you handle it.  These were just little y-front briefs, but they felt like fuckin concrete.  Concrete that had obviously been through a lot of washings, which meant it had covered a lot of balls and dicks.  My flesh crawled again . . .  there’s something weird about wearing another guy’s clothes, let alone a hundred guys’ clothes.  I pictured their bodies—white, black, brown–and their dicks—big, small, cut, uncut, cum leaking, cum shooting . . . .  Then I saw the big black SLP stamped on the butt.  Even my underwear was property of the State Labour Program.  I pulled the thing over my dick, and my dick shrank to nothing.   I looked down at myself.  There it was again: SLP stamped on the thigh.  Coming or going, there was no doubt who owned me.

No doubt with the shorts, either.  They were just bigger, so the SLP was bigger, back and front.  No pockets, no belt.  I guess belts can be weapons, so all I got was the same cheap elastic on the shorts that I got on the underwear.

Once my ass was covered, I reached for my footwear.  Of course boots are the S and the D in “BDSM,” so I should have had them on my fetish list.  But the BDSM sites didn’t feature this kind of boots.  They were giant, scarred old clodhoppers that looked like they’d spent years on a chain gang.  Maybe they have, I thought—who knows what goes on out in “the fields”?  And shuddered.  But if they hadn’t been built out of leather with the heft of wrought iron, they would have fallen apart a long time before.  You could tell that from the scuffs and dings, and the way the top of the eight-hole tower flopped over on its side, and the way the tongue lolled out like the organ of something large and dead.  It was thoughtful of the Program to provide a pair of thick brown scratchy sox, so my feet wouldn’t need to touch the leather, once they were jammed inside.  It didn’t take me long to lace them up—those steel holes and leather laces had broken in too many slappies to delay the latest set of feet from completing their imprisonment.

There was one piece of brown still on the table—the shirt.  More than anything else, the shirt meant “slappie.”  Before you noticed the boots or the shorts, it was the slappie shirt that you saw—the brown, square-cut, no-one-would-wear-this-except-a-servant uniform of the slap.  Even more than the collar, which usually lay back, snakewise, hidden behind it, the shirt said, “I am a tool, use me.”  The shirt I was about to put on was worn and faded, and it wasn’t stamped with a name and number.  It didn’t literally say “How May I Serve You?”  But the SLP on the chest said it all.   On the chest and on the back—there it was.  And I had to wear it.  I’d be wearing that sign front and back, up and down—back, chest, thigh, butt.

The shirt went on.  My arms went into the holes; the fabric tightened across my back; my head bent to watch my fingers buttoning up.  I straightened myself in my boots and browns, and Jojo and Malcolm looked me over.

“Check it out,” Malcolm said, nodding toward a niche in the wall that a refrigerator must once have filled.  Now it housed an old, frameless mirror.  “Get closer.  Take a look.”

I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t stop myself.  There, looking back at me, was something long and brown.  Its head was bald.  Its clothes were shapeless, styleless—a cheap work shirt, a pair of shorts like kids wear to camp, a pair of absurdly heavy, ugly boots.  Its arms, its knees, its skull were white like things that the sun never touched.

I saw myself, looking at myself.  I also saw Jojo and Malcolm, looking at the same spectacle.

“You all fixed up now,” Malcolm said.

“An doan be lookin so sad,” Jojo said.  “Nobody care how a slappie feel.”

Lowering my eyes, I saw big bulges romping under their shorts.  Their neat, fresh, official, SLP-HQ slappie shorts.  They were not looking sad.

It must have been hard for them to end my humiliation, but I was just one of their tasks for the day.

“OK,” Jojo said.  “Here are thee rules.  Thee Major tol’ you before.  Now you hear em from thee slaps.  Maybe little diffrent.”

“OK,” I said.

“I know somethin bout you,” Malcolm said.  “You ain’t never show respec’, not to nobody in you life.  Now you gonna show respec’, or you gonna be dead.  Got it?”

“Yes.”

“You respec’ thee officers, you respec’ thee bosses, you respec’ the slappies that been roun here before you come—other words, you respec’ evryBODY in the Coop.  Got it?”

“Yes.”

“You do like you tol’, you min’ you business, an you NEVER open you mouth bout NOTHIN in here.  Got that?”

“Right.”

“You even think bout tellin stuff, you even think bout snitchin, we jus kill you.  Right?”

“Right!  Right!”  He was looking like he might jus kill me there an then.

“Thee freemen, they all dicks, but if you fuckin up with them, ain’t no slap never gonna rescue YOU.  Cuz why?  Cuz you bringin thee heat on evrybody.  Understandin that?”

“Yes.  I understand.”

“With the freemen, you always give em ‘yes sir, thank you sir.’  With any a thee boss slaps, it gonna be ‘yes boss, yep boss, yeh boss, right boss.”

“Right boss.”

They both snickered.  “Ain’t bosses yet.  But good enough.  Now cmere.  Put you cap on.”

Next to the tall piles of shorts was a tall pile of brown slappie caps, one inside the other.  Jojo pulled the top one off.  “That’ll fit,” he said.  “Cover up you baldy, an follow me.”

I put on the cap.  Now I was a slappie from head to foot.

Malcolm nodded toward the back door of the bungalow, opened the door, and pulled me out.  He pointed at the barracks on the other side of the slab.  “See that building?” he said.  “That’s thee barracks.”

“He knows what it is,” Jojo said.  “He already been there.  Guided tour.  Remember, boy?”

“I remember,” I said.

The sun had gotten lower.  The slab and the buildings were sliding into shadow.

“That barracks over there has a door,” Malcom said.  “An on thee other side a that door is Boss Churchill.  You run over there now an tell him you thee new slappie.  Go boy.  That’s you new home.”

“Run boy,” Jojo said.

I started toward the slab.

“Fuck!” he said.  “Didn’t I say to run?”

Malcolm came up behind and gave me a friendly kick on the ass.  “Run boy,” he said.

I ran, in my boots, stumbling across the slab until I got to the barred door of the barracks.  I reached through the bars and knocked.  Fuck! I thought.  I’m trying to get INTO this place!

“Git in here,” Boss Churchill said, opening the door.  “I been expectin you.”

To be continued …

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One thought on “Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 12”

  1. Hope this slap boy gets his hair permanently removed. Loved that detail of the WORC program and on a tropical island a slick smooth hairless slappy could probably get a nice even color to it

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