Sharon took her time strolling down the aisle to her seat at the back of the bus. The air was heavy with the scent of male perspiration - quite understandable, she supposed, under the circumstances - and the naked young men that filled the seats were now beginning to look very meek and subdued indeed. Other than a few scattered sobs and sniffles, they were almost perfectly silent. It seemed that being stripped, chained, blindfolded, and placed under the constant threat of corporal punishment was enough to break the spirit of just about any bloke.

Some of the nude bodies that surrounded her were so well built that they could have served as models for a Renaissance sculptor, and Sharon paused to appreciate them as she passed by. Sometimes she reached out to feel the hard muscles of a man's bicep or shoulder, or brush a stray lock of hair back into place, or even pinch a small male nipple between her fingertips. That sort of thing was actually encouraged; the poor lads were supposed to be made to feel like property, like objects, and casual, possessive touching helped to drive home the message. And besides, their toned masculinity felt so good underneath her hands. "Are the boys behaving themselves?" another officer asked as Sharon returned to her seat. Rebecca was a plump, cheerful woman with masses of dark ringlets and an impish sense of humour, but that morning she had terrorised the conscripts as effectively as anyone. She wasn't afraid to use her whip, and she could yell like a drill sergeant. "Oh, they're being good," Sharon replied. "No talking or fussing or anything. I think we put the fear of God into them after our little midday break." Sharon had almost felt sorry for the miscreants as they groaned and pleaded under the lash, but really, what did they expect to happen when they talked back to the officers and refused to follow instructions? "No wanking?" said Rebecca archly. Sharon looked at her in surprise. "Would they really do that? Knowing that we're watching?"

"Oh, probably not yet. But just wait a week or so and see what happens. They'll start to get desperate. They'll be doing it with themselves, maybe with each other - and with us, in their imaginations. It's just the way their minds work. We'll have to keep a close eye on them to make sure they don't get away with anything." "Well, if you say so. You're the one who worked in a prison for three years." Rebecca laughed. "You were a bartender. I'd think you'd know all about lonely men and their problems."

"Not many had problems that involved being locked up under guard for weeks on end." She sighed. "Say, you don't think we're being too rough on them, do you? I know they need a firm hand and all that, but some of those boys look absolutely terrified. I don't like to think that we're traumatising them or anything." "The average young man these days needs a little trauma in his life, don't you think? Don't you dare feel guilty. We're just giving them the discipline they need and deserve, and probably should have had all their lives. This only comes as such a shock to them because they're used to having everything their own way, day in and day out. It's really a wonderful opportunity for them to get a stiff dose of reality. The tougher you are with them, the more grateful they'll be five or ten years down the road." She smiled mischievously. "Besides, it's so much fun. Did you notice those teenage girls waving at the bus and blowing kisses, just before we got out of town? They loved what they were seeing, and I'll bet it drove the men crazy. They know they're not going to get their hands on a woman for a long, long time."

"But we can get our hands on them whenever we want, of course. It's wonderfully unfair, isn't it?"

"Got something on the radio," announced another guard from the seat behind them, pulling off her headphones. "They say that three hundred and seventy-two lads in our zone turned themselves in on time, and another forty or so showed up late. That means a hell of a lot of non-compliance - almost twenty percent." "This is why they need to be conscripted in the first place," sighed Rebecca. "No respect for rules at all." "What are they going to do about it, then?" asked Sharon. "They've got policewomen out looking for the silly sods right now. Apparently they've already taken dozens of them into custody. A lot of them were just sitting at home, hoping they'd somehow get away with it." "So what's going to happen to them?" "Same thing that happens to the rest of the conscripts. They'll be strip-searched and transported to the camp in restraints. It's just that it'll be lady coppers doing it, instead of us. But when they arrive I expect we'll get to punish them." Rebecca grinned. "Can't wait." "You might not have to," said Sharon suddenly. "I think we've arrived. Time to look tough again." She grinned conspiratorially, then squared her broad shoulders and put on what she hoped was a cold, intimidating expression. "Not for a little bit," said the guard with the radio. "I heard Sergeant Hallee say we were going to wait a few minutes before unloading the lads." "What for?" asked Rebecca. "Why, to see if any of them are stupid enough to yell out questions about what's going on. If they do, they'll have to be punished."

Richard was miserable by the time the bus shuddered to a halt. His legs were cramped and stiff from hours of being made to sit still, and the hard seat - considerably less comfortable than the padded ones he'd seen at the very back and very front, where the guards were clustered - made his buttocks ache. It hadn't been so bad on the motorway, but eventually they'd passed onto uneven dirt roads that made the bus constantly rock and bounce. Despite the hunk of stale bread and half-cup of water he'd been given at lunchtime, he was hungry and thirsty, and he was beginning to feel the need to urinate again. The air stank of nervous sweat, the temperature felt uncomfortably warm despite his nudity, and he didn't like the way the narrowness of the seat forced his body into contact with that of the equally naked black conscript who sat chained beside him. And he was terrified. At lunch some of the men had rebelled; he hadn't found out whether it was the meagre rations, the fact that they'd only been allowed to go to the toilet in full view of their female overseers, or the blindfolds they'd had put on when it was time to re-board the bus. They'd been thrown down right there on the side of the road, about half a dozen of them, and flogged mercilessly while passing motorists slowed down to get a better look and even in one case snap photos. Everyone had been very well behaved after that. The bus was no longer moving, but he sat where he was, waiting for instructions or a firm hand on his arm. From outside he could hear barking dogs, women shouting, the occasional crack of a whip. During the ride Sergeant Hallee, a middle-aged officer from Bangladesh who had said she would be acting as their overseer during the "entry phase" of their conscription, had told them they were going to some sort of training camp. Apparently they had to learn to be good slaves before actually being put to work. Thanks to the blindfold, he had no idea where they were. It could be anywhere within a few hours' drive of Birmingham. Were they ever going to get moving? His legs ached more than ever. Finally the doors of the bus creaked open, and Hallee's firm, lightly accented voice broke the silence. "We have arrived at Camp Thatcher," she announced, unnecessarily. "The officers will be coming by to remove your blindfolds. When yours is off, you will rise and exit the bus." Richard heard the clank of chains from near the front, accompanied by the occasional chivvying slap and exasperated "Move along, lad." When one of the officers - the big one, with the dark curly hair - freed him from his blindfold he immediately got to his feet, ignoring the sudden pain in his cramped thighs, and shuffled toward the front of the bus. Strong hands helped him down the stairs and out.

He was seized at once and marched over to where the rest of the naked conscripts from his bus stood in a sodden, unhappy cluster under the steadily falling rain. An officer began unfastening his restraints, a welcome surprise. "Stand still and stay quiet once these are off," she said warningly. "Just take a look around before you even think of doing anything stupid. You couldn't get out of here in a million years." He nodded meekly and followed her suggestion, letting his eyes sweep slowly around Camp Thatcher. What he saw overwhelmed and frightened him. The camp seemed to consist of an enormous open space surrounding a small central cluster of buildings. Everywhere he looked were more buses, more conscripts, and more officers - dozens and dozens of them, maybe hundreds, shouting and cracking those damned whips as they herded their naked charges from place to place or directed them in any of a dozen different tasks. Richard saw men unloading supplies, setting up enormous white tents, and digging holes and trenches; others were disappearing into the central buildings. It seemed they were being required to build their own prison camp from the ground up, and none of the officers was lifting a finger except to direct the straining conscripts or encourage faltering men with a sharp crack of the whip. The whole nightmarish scene was surrounded by two concentric fences that had to be ten metres high, and topped with cruel barbed wire. There were towers of some sort along the perimeter, and the space between the fences was patrolled by pairs of officers with German shepherds whose deep, menacing barking provided a savage counterpoint to the human sounds all around Richard. There was only one gate, heavily guarded and flanked by two of those towers. More buses were lined up outside it, and there had to be well over a thousand conscripts in the camp already. Richard didn't need a second look to know that the woman's advice had been absolutely correct. He would never, ever, succeed in escaping from this place. The whole busload of forty men had now disembarked, and stood uneasily under the close scrutiny of their eight officers. "Welcome to Camp Thatcher," Sgt. Hallee said briskly. "You will be sharing this regional training facility with about three thousand other conscripts, but the forty of you will remain under my direct supervision. We are Unit 34 - do not forget that number. Because you belong to my unit, I run your life. I am responsible for overseeing and disciplining you, and when the initial training period is over I will decide whether each of you is ready to move on or needs to be held here for further instruction. I also have a great deal of influence over where you'll be sent afterwards, so I suggest you try to stay on my good side. I expect orderly behaviour, strict adherence to the rules, and unquestioning obedience at all times." Her gaze swept over them imperiously. "What unit do you belong to?" "Thirty-four," they chorused, grudgingly. "Thirty-four, ma'am! Always address me and the other officers properly. I don't tolerate disrespect. What unit?" "Thirty-four, ma'am!" "Right. Any questions, boys?" One man actually raised his hand, a little nervously. "Yes?" "How long is the initial training period you mentioned, ma'am?" "You don't need to know that. What you need to know is that you don't get out of here until I say you do. Anything else?" There was a long silence. Men shuffled uncomfortably. "Good. While you're here you can expect hard work, drill and discipline, starting now. You don't get to shower and eat until the camp is set up, so I suggest you work diligently." She glanced down at some sort of document. "Horton!" "Yes, ma'am!" a tall blond officer near the back replied instantly. "Get ten of these maggots in work boots, and take them to dig latrine pits." The woman immediately began pulling men out of the crowd, seemingly at random. "Desalle, take ten others to help unload the supply lorries, wherever they're needed. The rest of you, over there to help with your dormitory tent. You'll be sharing it with units 31 through 40." Richard ended up with Desalle, the stout dark-haired woman who had removed his blindfold on the bus; that is, he was one of the ones she grabbed and began to herd toward the part of the camp where the white supply lorries were parked in a tidy row. He exchanged glances with the other conscripts as they marched together under her watchful eye. Everyone had to be thinking the same thing. No matter how big and strong Desalle was, she was just a woman, and they were ten to one. But there were more guards everywhere, some with dogs and tranquiliser guns, and of course they'd be sure to come down hard on any sign of rebellion before it could spread. Better to endure the indignities of being shouted at and marched around naked, and maybe whipped occasionally - and wait for a better opportunity. "Start them at lorry sixteen," called the officer who seemed to be in charge of the unloading operation as they approached. "We're running a little behind, so hurry them along." "You heard her!" Desalle roared. "Move, you useless male parasites!" One man yelped in pain as her whip found his buttocks, and they broke into a shuffling trot across the muddy grass. Another officer was waiting at lorry sixteen to direct them while Desalle encouraged them in their efforts with creatively abusive shouting and liberal use of her whip. Richard found himself lifting what seemed to be bags of potatoes and onions down from the back of the lorry, and passing them on to other sweating men who relayed them to the central buildings. The bags were heavy, and with Desalle cracking her whip and screaming "Faster! My grandmother could do better than that!" he didn't dare stop for a moment. So this is slavery, he thought grimly, as the burning ache in his arms grew worse and worse. Despite his best efforts, he knew he was slowing down, and he wasn't really surprised when he felt a sudden, stinging pain across his buttocks. "Pick up the pace, Tipper!" Desalle boomed from behind him. "This isn't a bloody vacation at the seaside." "But ma'am, I'm exhausted," he pleaded. She snorted. "Nonsense. Exhausted is on your knees, vomiting and seeing stars. Just you wait till we really put you to work. Now get on with it, you little wanker!" She hit him again, casually, across the shoulders. Blinking back tears, he turned back to his task. The rest of the afternoon was a nightmare of sore muscles, stinging welts from the whip, and seemingly endless physical labour, all played out against a harsh background of shouted insults and orders and the incessant barking of the dogs. After lorry sixteen there was another to be unloaded, and then another. Richard didn't fall to his knees and vomit, but once or twice it seemed like more than a remote possibility as the merciless Desalle kept working them at the same relentless pace. The woman was a slave driver - quite literally, come to think of it. The only time her stern overseer's face relaxed into a smile was when they lifted four large steel cages down from one of the lorries, stoutly built things that looked large enough for a man to sit or crouch in but too low for standing up and too narrow for lying flat. Desalle laughed as they were lifted down. "Hoping those are for the dogs, boys? Don't worry - if you behave yourselves this is as close to them as you'll ever have to get." There were about a score of cages in all, emerging from several of the lorries, and they ended up in a grim row facing the line of white dormitory tents.

But finally their task seemed to be complete, and shortly after sunset the conscripts of unit 34 were assembled and led over to the trenches that served as lavatories (none too soon for Richard) and then paraded to the middle of the camp for a shower, a very close haircut, and a bowl of cold and congealing beef stew. Ordinarily it would have revolted Richard, but after a day of hard work and almost no food (he'd risen too late for anything resembling a proper breakfast) he wolfed it down and was sorry there wasn't more. The water in the shower block was actually fairly warm - probably just a detail they'd overlooked, he thought sourly. Everything was done in a spirit of brisk efficiency, leaving no time to appreciate the comfort of being fed, clean, and in out of the rain. Five minutes in the shower, five more for a sour-faced blond girl to shave most of his hair off (he was almost glad there wasn't a mirror in the room), ten for dinner, which they had to shovel into their mouths with their bare hands, and fifteen for washing up, toothbrushing and shaving. Sergeant Hallee herself gave most of the orders, in a calmly assured tone that was nothing like Desalle's bellowing outside, and when two or three bearded men protested about being made to shave it was her whip that stung them back into obedience. But the other officers were always ready to back up her commands, herding the men through the whole vaguely humiliating process and hurrying them along with shoves or well placed slaps. Richard wished more than ever for something to wear. Being kept naked under the scrutiny of fully clothed women was bad enough, but when they touched him - prodding him along, grabbing his wrist or elbow to guide him through a doorway, or sometimes just reaching out to fondle his shoulder or bottom with shockingly casual intimacy - he felt twice as ashamed and vulnerable. And when they were led outside, still a little damp from the showers, the evening chill made gooseflesh rise on every inch of his bare body. "We're putting you to bed early today," Hallee announced. "You're all sore and tired, and we'll be waking you up before dawn tomorrow for calisthenics, so try to get some rest. Does anyone need a last trip to the toilet?" Richard decided he was fine, but a few of the men raised their hands. Sergeant Hallee grinned in cold, unpitying amusement. "Then I hope you can hold it," she almost sneered. "The dormitory overseers will punish you severely if you wet your cots. Come on, boys - over to the tent." It had stopped raining, but the damp grass was cold on their feet and ankles. As they moved past the row of punishment cages toward their tent - number four, apparently - Richard was amazed to see that two or three of them were already occupied. He got a good look at one of the prisoners, a pudgy man who sat cross-legged with his hands cuffed behind him and some sort of dark mass crammed between his parted lips to keep him silent, and turned hurriedly away at the expression of abject suffering on his florid face. The young brunette standing guard gave him a cool smile. Bed turned out to be a narrow little cot, one of hundreds lined up in rows within the enormous tent. Hallee and the others went off to dinner, leaving them in the charge of another set of officers who would apparently be guarding them as they slept. They endured a sharp lecture from a thin, humourless-looking woman with a faint moustache - keep your cot tidy, you will be watched at all times so don't think you can get away with masturbating or whispering to your neighbours, when told to rise in the morning you will get up at once and stand at attention at the foot of your cot, etc., etc. - before being led to the cots assigned to their unit and finally allowed to crawl under the shelter of the coarse sheets and thin blankets that had been provided for them.

There were no pillows, and because adjacent cots were actually touching one another Richard found himself sleeping only inches from the two men flanking him, but nevertheless he felt warm and almost comfortable for the first time since entering the Intake Centre that morning. He was starting to think like a slave already: cold stew made an acceptable dinner, an adequately warm shower was a pleasant surprise, a cramped cot in which he could cover his nakedness with a threadbare blanket seemed luxurious. His warm bedroom in his parents' house in Birmingham might have been on the other side of the world. Two years of this, he thought wretchedly. Two bloody years. Why couldn't I have been born a girl? He wanted desperately to sleep, dreading the moment when he would be hauled out of bed and marched outside for undoubtedly strenuous morning exercises, but a kind of muted panic kept him wide awake. How on Earth was he going to survive in a place like this, naked and subject to the lash? Terrified and sleepless, Richard lay in the semi-darkness, listening to the snoring of the other men and the ceaseless tread of the dormitory officers as they patrolled the aisles between the rows of cots.