A resounding smack echoed across the somewhat empty courtroom, and Owen was unceremoniously jerked back into reality.
'Do you understand the charges young man' the judge repeated
Owen nodded an affirmative, a stinging sensation now rising in his butt cheek where the bailiff had landed a firm spank. Owen Thompson, 20 years of age and standing wrists cuffed in front of him in only a pair of plaid boxer shorts, mused back to a few hours before, when he had been sitting in a small room with his public defender.
His public defender had been obviously stressed and overworked, but she had spent more time with him than was needed in such an open and shut case. 'think of it this way', she had said, 'before the slavery laws, you'd have been guaranteed the noose, being caught with drugs in your college room'. Owen's response could be best described as childish, with a selection of choice curse words. 'I'll let that pass this time' she said, 'but any more language like that and i'll have to call the guards with a paddle'.
Owen's face burned. He'd just been threatened with a spanking like a child, well, like a slave. The slavery laws had been passed several years before, with widespread support, even Owen had been in favour until current events intervened; prison did not exist as a concept for men of a certain age anymore, instead slavery was the standard punishment for crime.
Owen had seen slaves around, and he knew the reputation for brutality, but he'd never paid much attention to all that, he was just a poor college student after all. Helpfully, the public defender had an information pamphlet ready for him, which gave him some idea what to expect, leaving him for some time to digest the information.
The information pamphlet was extremely detailed, and Owen must have spent 30 minutes reading and rereading key sections. He did recall the debates that had happened once the popular vote had passed for the slavery laws, which had formed the rules and principles which he would soon be subject to. He would be processed and sold at public auction, just as any other slave, and owners had virtually unlimited power over their property; the one exception was killing a slave, it had been decided that the chaos that would create was too difficult to manage, however Owen did spot 3 clear exceptions: (I) The slave department reserved the right to terminate any dangerous slaves at their discretion - hanging being the approved method; (ii) The rendering plant which recycled slaves could do so in the course of its normal operations; and (iii) Slave Vets could 'put down' a slave if it was the right course of action in their professional opinion (Owen remembered seeing this in a TV drama as a plot device, where a slave was put down with an injection in the butt by a slave vet). Owen was surprisingly unphased by this, he was somewhat at peace, he was guilty after all, though he did hope that his future owners were good people, and were sparing with any spankings they chose to administer.
Snapping back to reality, hearing his name amongst the judge's ramblings, he received another smack to his boxer-clad bottom.
'Owen Thompson' the judge continued. 'You have been found guilty of possession of restricted substances, for which the mandatory sentence is slavery'.
The next 24 hours proceeded for Owen Thompson just as the information pamphlet had set out. He found himself dragged away and transported to the slave processing centre, the first stop for all newly enslaved. On arrival, his boxer shorts were removed and he was placed on a production line of other young male slaves, strapped into frames which moved between stations. As he had not yet been sold, Owen was given only visited the 'routine' stations, namely all hair below his head was permanently removed for hygiene reasons, a permanent metal collar was welded around his neck.
Owen had been in a haze as all this happened, but he was violently brought back to reality as he was placed over some kind of horse frame and a branding iron was pushed into the baby fat of his butt cheek, sizzling the flesh.
Before he knew it, Owen found himself standing on a platform at the Saturday slave auction. His pictures had been taken a couple of days earlier, and he hadn't quite gotten used to being on display in front of free people. The whole thing took only a couple of minutes, a few bids, and ultimately a winner and his new owner - but blinded by the lights, Owen wasn't sure who had bought him. He did know it was an individual however, a wave of relief rushing over him that someone had bought him, knowing that undesirable slaves were often bought directly by the rendering plant, which would pay by the pound.
'Got him' Mr Moffat texted his wife. He had promised her that he would buy a slave to help out around the house and take part of the load off. They had looked through the listings online together, finally settling on the slave now only known as 'Owen' as a strong potential, mainly because he was enslaved for non-violent crimes, was relatively young but was a mere 5'6" and certainly wasn't likely to be looked at for profitable hard labour. Jason Moffat was a practical and traditional man in his early 40s, he had 2 children, a 12 year old daughter and a 15 year old son; a slave was a big investment for him and his family, and was the result of considerable saving.
Mr Moffat proceeded to the desk for successful buyers, receiving all the documentation he would need. The girl manning the desk offered him a sheet with various details, setting out additional services and tools which he might need, Jason's eyes growing wide at the prices.
'Will you be needing any additional services or items', the girl asked. Mr Moffat looked her up and down, she couldn't have been more than the age of the young slave he had just purchased.
'Just castration please' Mr Moffat responded. 'I've got a 12 year old daughter', he continued, as if justifying his decision.
The girl nodded, 'of course' she said. 'Might i also recommend a slave paddle, as i see this is your first slave'
'No' Mr Moffat interjected, thinking of the price, 'i've got a paddle at home'. While the paddle he had at home wasn't as heavy as a slave paddle, it certainly made an impression on his son when needed, and he figured that would suffice.
Back in the processing centre, Owen found himself strapped onto a frame and placed back into the production line. Who had bought him, he wondered, and where was he going. A worker came up to him, holding a metal tool with what looked like a rubber band stretched out - without warning, the band was tightened around his scrotum and testicles, illiciting screams from him as he felt the circulation cut off. Roughly an hour later, he was wheeled to a new station, manned by a Slave Vet, where he was bent over a horse in the same way he had been for his branding. An efficient process carried out countless times, the Slave Vet carried out Mr Moffat's wishes, with Owen sobbing over the horse.
Dressed in a pair of orange slave boxers, the only clothes he would be expected to wear for the rest of his life, Owen Thompson found himself handed over to his new owner, being driven to his new home. Mr Moffat had without a word pulled down the front of Owen's boxers to ensure his wishes were carried out, but Owen was surprisingly calm; he was after all a slave now, and the faster he accepted it the easier it would be for him.