48 Hours on Blue Bayou Pt. 20: Julie

Julie, Scene 13, Part 20

Author's Note: Our Heroine, Julie, has been exiled to the Intake Unit Slave Corridor for use pending an auction where she is to be "sold off" for the crime of thinking "escape." Her "schedule" here will not be the same as it was in Master's apartments and offices.

• J Spe

Chapter Thirty-Seven: New Day, New Schedule

I am awakened by something clanging against the bars of my cell. A new Guard is grinning at me. "Good morning, slave! Up and at them, now! Morning Ritual in ten minutes!"

It takes a moment to realize I've slept through the night. Next, I realize I'm still wearing the butt plug. Finally, I've got to pee.

I squat over the drain and relieve my bladder. A small rinse from the hose leaves the area clean. I mentally send a note of appreciation to last night's Guard for his tips and chance to practice. OK, I'm ready for whatever the new day has for me.

This surprises me. I'm ready? I think for a moment and understand that, when I was "upstairs," my trainers were constantly leading me. We worked together, which is different from "now." Fifteen isn't coming to show me what clothes to wear; I won't be wearing any clothes in my Master's Intake Unit Slave Corridor. I'm going to be learning about slavery on my own. In a way, I'm not worried. In my old law office, I worked on my own on particular aspects of the Partner's cases. I do know how to do this.

At least, that's what I tell myself. The cell door rumbles open and I scramble to kneel in my sirik. The new Guard is a woman, a few years older than I am. From my quick glance, I don't get a "read" from her expression.

She's all business. She has me stand erect and turn slowly so she can assess her charge completely. She has me move my arms and legs to demonstrate the bounds of the sirik. "All right, slave, face away from me, bend forward, straighten your legs, and grab your ankles. When I pull on your butt plug, I want you to bear down. That will help relax the sphincter, just like when you move your bowels. Do you understand?"

Her commands came so fast that I'm not sure I've got all of them, but I want to be helpful in getting rid of the plug. I provide a quick "Yes, Ma'am, this slave understands" as I get into position. This time, I'm facing in the proper direction, at least!

She grasps the disk of the plug and begins to twist and pull. I bear down as hard as I can and the plug pops out easily! I'm about to express my thanks when I realize this Guard hasn't given permission for any speech yet.

She orders me into Position One, which I manage pretty well. She runs me through a series of Positions that my trainers had taught me just two months ago and seems satisfied. I end up in Standing Display position: I am erect, with my feet slightly apart, my head up, and my hands locked behind my neck, my elbows out to the side. I kind of like this position because it presents my breasts quite nicely.

Too nicely. The new Guard uses her crop to apply a slash to each breast. I am so shocked I don't move or even scream. Actually, I'm too busy trying to breathe. She doesn't speak until I'm back in control and then she explains: "Those cuts were for the demerits you accumulated yesterday. In this corridor, we try to keep your tally down to zero, because a slave who is fearful of her punishment can't work as well on learning her new skills."

So, here they speak of "punishments?" What happened to "corrections?" Even this newbie knows not to ask such a silly question.

"Did anyone explain Morning Rituals to you?"

That's easy: "No, Ma'am."

"OK, listen up. From the time we wake you until Food Service comes with Morning Nutrition, you have about 30 minutes for Morning Ritual. You need to get the cell spic and span. You need to pee. If you need to shave, you need to request a shaver. You make the request like any other: raise your hand for permission to speak; when permitted, speak clearly, and follow any command the Guard gives you. If anyone comes into your cell, you will go to Position One. Do you understand?"

Another easy one. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Now, your Morning Ritual has another procedure for you. To help with your anal training, you are to give yourself an internal cleansing every morning. That means an enema. I'm going to show you how to do this quickly and safely. It's also the easy way. The tools are in Drawer Three."

She motions me to open Drawer Three and I retrieve a liter-size bottle with a screw-on spout. I learn how to fill the bottle almost full, leaving some air to help push the fluid in. She has me practice lubricating and inserting the spout in my rosebud and squeeze almost all the fluid and air into my bowel. She is clear that the fluid must remain inside for three minutes, suggesting a count to 180 as a marker. Finally, and most important, I must be careful in discharging the fluid and bowel contents over the drain. The hose will have cold water to rinse the cell floor clean.

She has me practice insertion four times before she is satisfied. Then, she watches as I fill the bottle to the recommended level and squeeze the water into my bowel. I gasp as my abdomen becomes tight and I feel some cramps. She sees this and counsels simply: "Fill your bowel slower." I do three fill and empty cycles before she is satisfied with my technique and the cleanliness of the discharge.

So far, I've felt lots of feelings in my anal canal, but none of them has been erotic or arousing. I wonder what it will feel like when it's a live cock. It's an old wonder but I know it's actually meaningless. Anal sex is not so much for the female's pleasure as it is for the male's pleasure, right? It is a way for the male to dominate the female, right? I'd like to ask this female Guard, but this slave doesn't have permission to speak.

The Guard goes through the rest of what will be my Morning Ritual. I notice no mention of tooth care but, again, I am still not permitted speech.

Food Service Protocol is next. A cart will come into the slave corridor. My door will open and I will step to the door, but not out into the corridor. A Guard will signal when I may approach the cart. I will be shackled to the cart during Food Service. In turn, each slave will be given a stainless steel bowl filled with Chef's fully nutritious food. Usually, there will be some bread I may take from a breadbasket. There will be no utensils, so I may use my hands, fingers, tongue as needed. I will return the empty bowl when the Cart Attendant asks for it. The bowl will be empty because no slave will reject the fully nutritious food provided by her Owner. In turn, the bowl will come back with a drink. At this time, I may be asked for my choice of drink. It will be about my only free choice all day. I will empty the bowl a second time. With either the first or second bowl, my Owner will provide some medications. These may be vitamins or minerals or even contraceptives. I will not waste these either. When all the slaves have completed their diet, I will be unshackled from the cart in proper order and will return to my cell. From the time the cart arrives in the slave corridor until it departs, no slave will say anything except as the Cart Attendant asks.

The Protocol is stern, but not brutal or mean. I accept it.

That's when the Protocol wants my teeth brushed. I can see the reasoning. My teeth will be cleaned just after having chewed through "fully nutritious food." I'm sure this will be more pleasant for anyone I work with during the day.

The female Guard adds that there is no formal mid-day meal, although there will be nutritional supplements between the morning and afternoon classes and tasks. I smile; my Master really is taking care of me!

A chime sounds and a cart rolls into the slave corridor. The Guard watches as I go through Morning Nourishments, managing all the steps of the Protocol properly. The bowl contains oatmeal today, but without any of the fruit toppings I have used at home. Given the choice of milk, water, or apple juice, I select milk, thinking it would provide more substance. I am inordinately pleased by the opportunity to exercise a choice. I understand that I am actually making the choice to accept my slavery. After a little reflection, I am not bothered by this. There is little else I can do, right? Who knows what will happen after my upcoming auction?

In mid-morning, as I judge the time, a new Guard arrives and huddles with the Security Station Guard. There are some papers shuffled and some tapping on a keyboard and the new Guard opens my cell. I am already in Position One before he speaks.

"Slave, the schedule calls for you to work in the Laundry today. I will take you there now. While there, you will obey any command given you by the Staff. You will obey promptly. I or another Guard will come for you at the end of the day and return you to this corridor. Do you understand?"

These are getting easier and easier: "Yes, Sir. Laundry today."

This Guard clips a leather leash to my collar, tugs twice to signal me to rise, and I follow him to the elevator and another floor, where he delivers me to a grandmotherly lady who is clearly in charge. He unclips the leash and leaves with the command: "You will obey Madam Chan."

He doesn't ask if I understand. Just briefly, I am puzzled. Then, clarity. A slave's job is to obey, right? For this question, how could a slave need any answer besides assent?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Sort. Wash. Dry.

Madam Chan speaks a heavily accented English, but she takes her time instructing me in my first job: sorting laundry. I am amazed at the number of towels the Enterprises use in a day, and further surprised at the variety of sizes and qualities. Master's apartments only showed the highest quality, I find out. There is also a huge number of tablecloths. Most are white, but we have a rainbow of other colors. A bit of thinking and I suspect that these come from the conference rooms, where display tables, buffets, and so forth were always draped professionally.

About the time I get these sorted, Madam Chan shows up with a liter bottle labelled with my name. I guess it's my Mid-day Nutritional Supplement. Madam watches as I drop a curtsy and drink the bottle dry. I look for where to put the bottle, but Madam Chan holds out her hand for it. I wonder if it is proper for a superior to dispose of some waste for a slave, but Madam Chan's hand is insistent. I drop another curtsy, smile, and say "Thank you, Madam Chan."

She thinks this is funny, because she starts with a giggle and quickly moves up to a real belly laugh. I have no idea whether she is laughing with me or at me. From my position as slave, I know that the difference between a wave and a slash from a crop or whip is just as slim as a supermodel's arm.

This must be a with, because Madam Chan takes my arm and shepherds me to my second job: filling and running a pair of washing machines. This station has a few piles of towels, all sorted by quality (possibly even sorted by the new slave on the job?). Madam Chan selects from one pile and shows me the detergent to use for it. She pairs a towel quality level with a particular detergent. Who knew there was so much difference in soaps?

Madam Chan disabuses me of this idea quickly and succinctly. I put the proper detergent on the proper pile of towels and wait, kneeling, for her approval. I must have gotten it right, because Madam Chan produces a world-class grin and a string of Chinese that I interpret as Yes. Then, it's just a matter of Load, Wait, Unload and then Repeat. The machines make a variety of sounds as they cycle, sounds I have never heard before. But then, "before" was when I was running between tasks, checking e-mails, and planning what to unfreeze for dinner.

As I am unloading the last wash of towels, Madam Chan shows up, smiling, and takes me and several baskets of wet wash to a bank of dryers. I am told the towels usually need 20 minutes but the tablecloths need about 30 minutes because they are a heavier material. I return Madam's smile and turn to loading a dryer. There is a line of baskets with other wet stuff waiting. Well, I'm good at waiting.

I keep the five dryers going. I fold the towels easily but the size of the tablecloths makes them more difficult to manage. Still, I get them all folded and ready for the ironing station, which I guess is my next job.

Wrong again!

Madam Chan appears with another liter of fluid, which — after hours slaving over a hot machine — I now really need. I down the first half quickly, kneel, and settle into a sipping rhythm for the rest. Madam Chan finds a chair and joins me. "You worked in Laundry before?" she asks. I smile, shake my head, and answer, "Please, Ma'am, no. I have only cleaned my own clothes. Thank you for your instruction."

Madam Chan looks me over carefully. "My daughter also. Just her own clothes. Now, she travels all over world, so has assistant for clothes."

A penny drops. I hug the bottle for "protection," and dare ask a question. "Your daughter is Vivian Chan, the singer?"

Madam Chan lights up like a Christmas tree. "You know my daughter?"

Now, I have to suppress a small laugh. "Please, Madam Chan, I was at the Opera office and I saw a poster for a concert featuring Vivian Chan. Everyone said she is a great singer."

Her grin tells me I have made a friend for life.

Still, she has her own job to perform. As soon as the bottle is empty, her hand is out and I give the bottle to her. Still wearing a pleased smile, she signals me to rise and follow her back to her desk. I am not surprised to see the Guard who brought me here coming down the corridor. This job has unfolded with precise efficiency. A lot of people in my Master's Enterprises seem to meet the "high standards" they tried to tell me about.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Thirty-Nine:

The Guard clips the leather leash to my collar and I trot behind him back to the slave corridor, the chains of my sirik jangling from our pace. He checks me in at the Security Station, retrieves the leash, and the female Guard from this morning sees me into my cell. It takes only an instant for me to notice the addition to its furnishings: a pillow. I look to the Guard and she smiles, adding, "You did well today. Madam Chan has high standards and she says you met them. If there's one thing I've heard in this building more than any other, it's that meeting standards brings profits. Today, that's your pillow."

I'm finding out more about my Master's Enterprises down in one of his slave corridors than I did in his top-floor apartment!

A chime sounds and Charles marches into the slave corridor. He stops at the Security Station for a moment and then comes to my cell, taps a code into the kiosk and waits for the door to rumble open. I am kneeling in Position One before he crosses the threshold. Just a step behind, the Guard brings a chair into the cell. He thanks her and she leaves, closing the cell door. Charles positions the chair a meter in front of me, settling himself comfortably. He has managed to replace the horror his face showed last night, but I'm not yet clear with what. I remain silent, head bowed, all to show submission and acceptance.

Charles starts with a demand. "Slave, I want your report on today's assignments." His tone is much more formal than the easy friendship we shared "upstairs." I don't suppose I met his "high standards" either.

I do my deep breath thing and list the day's events, starting with Morning Ritual, including the butt plug removal and "internal cleansing," the two cuts to square my list of demerits, Morning Nourishment, and my jobs in Laundry. I do not omit the details about Madam Chan's daughter Vivian.

He nods and continues. "Do you have any complaints about today?" I'm instantly on guard. The law office taught me to stay away from invitations like this. And, if I'm candid with myself, I don't have any complaints — not with my chains, my cell, my butt plug, my Nourishments, or my job in the Laundry. First, they are all appropriate to my status as a chattel. Second, my crimes justify this sentence to slavery. I did not meet my Owner's high standards.

I have taken too long! Charles leans forward and searches my face. "Slave, do I need to repeat my question?" His tone has changed; he seems genuinely worried.

I rush to provide the answer. "Please, Sir, this slave has no complaints, Sir. This slave begs forgiveness for taking too long to report. Thank you, Sir."

Charles sits back and tries another tack. "Slave, do you have any questions?" Now, I do have a question: What happened with my intelligence from Sharon and Marie? But, in the present circumstances, am I cleared for such information? I manage to formulate a compromise.

"Please, Sir, I reported some business information from a luncheon at the Empress' Headquarters. If it is thought proper to share it with this slave, has it proved useful?"

I can see Charles relaxing. His face lights up and I know the information was good! In a moment, however, his formal demeanor returns and he announces that, Yes, the information was considered helpful, together with other data, in understanding some maneuvers. More results are awaited.

I offer my gratitude for this tidbit of information. Inside, of course, I'm dying to learn all the gory details, but I know that a slave is told only what she needs to know and when she needs to know it. At present, that time is a long way off for this slave.

Charles hitches his chair forward and leans close to my ear. He whispers that he's really broken up about what happened to me — as if I hadn't done it to myself! He whispers that he has friends up and down the Enterprises, and some of them are also upset with how I've been treated. They are working on a plan to help me escape from Martin, from Hong Kong, from slavery itself. He warns me not to say anything to make anyone suspicious. My auction is in just a few weeks, and they are hoping the plan will spirit me away before that event. He covers this conversation with a few strokes on my hair.

Well, I like the strokes, of course. But can I believe a word he's said? Charles is one of my Master's oldest and most loyal lieutenants. No matter how open any news is, it takes time to put together a cabal planning an escape. Who can be trusted with the secret? Who needs to be in on the maneuvers? I see that he has started some work: he has gotten some of the codes for the slave corridor kiosks, like the one that opens a cell door. The mind of a slave, however, is trained to see what my Master really needs. My thoughts flash a sign to me: this is another test!

But, then, the mind of a free woman from a Chicago law firm claims attention. Fool, dummy, idiot! Charles has all the keys, all the levers of control in this Headquarters Base. He was the one who understood Master and knew the story of the Legend! If he says he can do it, it is almost like a money-back guarantee. Give him the go-ahead, moron!

It takes just a few moments for all this to swirl around and sort itself out in my mind. With my Inner Goddess smiling encouragement, I take my deep breath, lean into his strokes, and whisper back, "Are you out of your mind? You are one of Master's two trusted lieutenants, a position you've earned by years of loyalty and competence. I can't let you throw all that away just for a not-too-bright slave. My Master considered my crimes and made his ruling as is his right. I have been looking back since you brought me to this corridor. It's probably a wonder Master put up with me for so long. Please, Sir, tell the others that this slave accepts her Master's ruling. Please, don't let anyone get into trouble over this. In a few weeks, a month at most, the auction will be history and this slave will be only a footnote in it. And, please, Sir, tell my trainers particularly: this is my fault, my inability to accept this new life. They all worked so hard with me and I'm so embarrassed that I, no one else, have let them down. Please, Sir?"