48 Hours on Blue Bayou Pt. 21: Julie

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Ring a Bell for the Bellwether.
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Part 21 of the 51 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 10/21/2014
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Carole99
Carole99
470 Followers

Author's Note: We left Julie wondering whether to crack open the briefcase of her temporary Master to discover Business Intelligence. Thanks to all of you who suggested a practical (or even an impractical) strategy. Here's how Our Heroine resolved her dilemma.

J Spe

In the end, if I'm being honest with myself, it's my own curiosity that gets me to open the case. I make a mental map of everything and gingerly lift up the portfolio he was working on. There is a photo of a large tract of land, with boundaries and a few buildings inked on it. The photo and documents are all labelled "Leicestershire Project." There is a list of materials that sound like debris from a construction site. Tons of it, in fact. Finally, there is a short list of Requirements, including a Total Contract Price of €15 million in one column and Base Price of €10,450,000 in another column. I slide all the papers back into the portfolio, checking for cleanliness and possible finger smudges. I replace the portfolio and close and lock the case carefully. I replace the key in the exact pocket from which I extracted it. Finally, I move the case to an open space on the bookshelf near the desk. If he suspects anything has been disturbed, I can suggest that it happened when I "straightened up" the desk.

All this has taken just a few minutes. I settle into Position One in the main room and wait, something I'm good at. As usual, thoughts filter through my mind. Is this another test? A set-up? But, I did see the packet of his airline tickets, so he's not from the Enterprises Base. But, what if he's from the Enterprises' side of the deal, rather than from "across the table?" It seems more likely that my Owner would lend me to someone from his companies, right? But, I'm proud enough to think I'm a powerful inducement to dangle in front of "across the table." My Inner Goddess says "Damn right, kid!"

Whatever, the deed is done, likely caught by the cameras and microphones I suspect have this suite under surveillance. The Guard didn't mention any safety precautions or maneuvers, so I'm assuming they have me under watch, at least some of the time, as they did on my first night, when I had to pee and Igor came to help me.

This sort of back and forth goes on for some time in my mind. There's no way to work out the correct, or even the best, answer. I'm satisfied that my brain is still working, that I'm not the "mind-numbed robot" most people mean when talking about servants or slaves.

I am startled to hear the door lock clicking and overjoyed when a Food Cart rolls into the room. Aware that the Food Cart Protocol calls for complete silence, I grin but say nothing. The attendant, however, is bubbly. "Hey, kid," he says, "d'you know how long it took to find you? The slave corridor Desk says you aren't there, so don't bring the Cart. Then, Concierge says she needs one slave meal. Then, we get a call from the Casino. Some party is ordering an extra meal, just like from their menu, for this room. If one of the staff hadn't put it together, we'd be running all over with three meals.

"Here's the one they ordered for you. Salad, beef Wellington, baked potato, stewed carrots, and soufflé. Sorry, Chef cancelled the soufflé. He says it would never survive the trip up here without falling in, whatever that is. You also get a bottle of ginger ale. I'm to stay here until you've eaten all of it and then clean it all up. Don't worry about the tab or the tip. That's all going on the budget for the dinner."

I sidle up to the cart and start on the salad, adding the beef and veggies little by little. I'm sure my trainers will be horrified by this deviation from my diet, but nobody asked me what I wanted, right? And, the Protocol is to finish whatever Chef serves up.

I'm going so fast I have to take a minute off every few bites. My mind's eye goes back to the Empress' luncheon, dining with four other First Ladies. The ginger ale and absence of dessert remind me, however, that this is an aberration, with little chance of a repeat in the next millennium. I finish, as usual, with a small burp, which sends the attendant off in a paroxysm of laughter. We have both enjoyed this moment.

Afterwards, I cannot help but beat myself up. I could have had this as routine, but I had to try stupid tricks. I had a better life than at the law office, but I had to throw it away. I was wearing clothes I had only dreamed about; now I'm "dressed" in a sirik, the formal attire for disobedient slaves. I could have had amorous adventures with global movers and shakers. Tonight I'm loaned to a salesman for a construction company. I could be leading a major cultural institution, but tomorrow I'm going to be sorting, washing, and drying laundry. I could be soaking up the sun on a fabulous beach; tonight I'm worried about strokes from the flogger in the closet.

It's time to stop this train of thought, which can lead only to despair and depression. I get up and start opening cabinet doors and drawers. It is as expected. The main room is well-stocked with cuffs, chains, rope, gags, and some other devices I'm not sure about. When he returns, I will be able to retrieve any instrument or device my man could want.

Of course, it doesn't turn out that way. I have had a few catnaps while in Position One, and have walked and stretched a bit in between. The door locks rattle a bit and my man manages to get the door open. I spring up just in time to catch him from falling on his face. The fragrance of brandy, the lopsided smile, the disjointed movements, and a bit of drool from his mouth announce he is drunk. He is mumbling something about "Playtime!"

Well, that's not going to be possible for some hours, I estimate. I gently support him to the bedroom where we get entangled as I undress this tycoon of business. I manage to get him stretched out on the bed and flip the covers over him, making like a cocoon. It is so delightful that my man takes a deep breath, giggles a bit, and goes to sleep.

I go about the suite, picking up stuff thrown about too casually. The suit and tie get brushed and hung in the closet. The cufflinks get returned to their kit. The shirt and underwear are put in the hamper. I stock a few towels close by and roll my man side to side, getting a large towel under him for emergency use if he starts throwing up. These are all items I learned from college parties.

I consider my position. I'm in a room with a client I'm supposed to be sexually satisfying. He won't be able to claim that in the morning. Am I failing?

On the other hand, I'm nursing a falling-down drunk so he doesn't vomit and inhale the stuff. That seems a better way to describe my position, I think. I probably won't have to service this clod until he wakes up with a hangover. Sex, I know, is not a cure for hangover. And, I told him there would be wine with every course! It seems I'm not the only one with no brains in these Enterprises.

One item bothers me. He has an appointment in the morning, right? How do I get him up, together, and to the appointment?

The words of the Guard who delivered me provide an answer. She advised calling the Concierge for any problems. This is a problem. I call the Concierge (CON on the keypad). I identify the room, describe the problem and what precautions I've taken, and ask for instructions. There is a clipped "Wait One." I wait.

A dry voice provides instruction. His morning appointment isn't until 10:00 AM, so we'll just let him sleep it off. Room Service will be by about 9:00 with breakfast, including lots of coffee and some headache medicine. If I can shepherd him through waking, washing, eating, and dressing, they'll have someone come to guide him to his appointment. Also, someone to take me back to my cell. I'm to call if there are any complications. The Concierge staff will shift their monitoring to full-time and call me if they notice anything untoward. I check the little red dots in the ceiling. All four are on and steady. I smile up at them.

The rest of the night is unremarkable. I doze and wake, checking my man's breathing. At one point, he turns on a side, and I put my ear to his chest and listen for funny sounds. It sounds like a windy day, with air going in and out.

Towards morning, I estimate, he seems to wake and thrash about a bit, mumbling something like "Gotta pee, dammit." I get in front of him before he falls off the bed and suck his prick into my mouth. "Let it go, big boy, your slave is here to drink it." That and a few taps by my tongue are enough to convince his system to let loose his flow. I manage to get it all down. I'm swallowing so fast I don't get much beyond it is hot and salty. He goes back to sleep and I go to rinse my mouth. My trainers taught me that this may not be fun for me, but it is always important for my client, either as an aphrodisiac or as emergency care. I see their point!

There is some light outside when my man finally wakes up, mumbling to himself. I put on a bedside lamp and am greeted by a surprisingly coherent "Do I have a hangover?"

I drape myself over this man and whisper in his ear. "Yes, Master, you have a hangover. Can you sit up?"

He does! He looks around, grins a bit shamefacedly, and remarks, "Visit didn't go too well, did it?"

I hug him, letting him feel my breasts and my chains. "Service is Life," I repeat.

He grunts and manages to stand up. "Help me to the can," he orders. I help him and he sits heavily. There is the sound of water splashing and then solid waste splashing, along with the usual aroma. He shakes his head. "Think I hadn't gone for a week."

My man seems to be coming around, so I head him to the shower, where I arrange fairly warm water and put his hands on some fixtures whose purpose I'm not interested in. As he holds on, I soap and scrub him all over. When I start on his prick and balls, he looks me in the eye but says nothing. I smile my most angelic smile and go to work. In short order, he is no longer hanging from the fixtures, he is standing and thrusting against my fingers.

That's my clue to go down on him. I take him as deeply as I can and add tongue Swirls and Twirls and some suction and my man responds like a teenager. His prick becomes hard, his balls rise up, and he erupts with jet after jet of cum into my mouth. I back out of the shower spray and show him I've kept his gift. He nods and commands "Swallow, slave." It's the first time he's used that name, so I figure he's about as back-to-normal as possible. I lean in to clean him, followed by more showering, and we get out of the shower together. I wrap him in a fluffy bath sheet and get one for myself. I hear the Room Service cart moving in the main room and lead him to breakfast. Chef has set it up in single portions, but there are enough of them that, if he wants, he can feed me quite a breakfast.

Sorry. He falls to as if he hadn't had dinner just a few hours ago. A hangover will do that to you; I can testify to that. I pour a cup, and then a second cup, of coffee, which he takes black and strong. When the cart starts to look like a shambles, he announces that this has been the best breakfast of his trip. Not Shakespearean, but I will pass his compliments to the Chef.

I lead him back to the bedroom, where I dress him in a blue blazer and gray slacks with a gray shirt, highlighted with a red tie. He looks in the mirror and asks, "Collegiate?"

I laugh and reply, "No, Master, dynamic young executive."

He takes this with another grunt.

I press on a bit. "Master, what kind of business are you an executive in?"

He is working on his tie and, offhand, says, "We're one of the UK's biggest contractors for recycled buildings. We take brick, stone, concrete, whatever and we turn it into the base for whatever you're building. New roads, new buildings, anything."

"Sounds like a noisy job," I offer. I'm trying to make conversation, of course, to keep him heading to his appointment. But, I'm learning a bit about what was in his attaché. I add, "I hope I'll get to see you again." It's just a polite throwaway line, but he takes it seriously.

"No, kid, I don't think so. There's only so many buildings and roads a business builds."

"Wise counsel," I reply. I get him his case and see him to the door.

"Your manager coming for you?" he asks.

I nod and answer, "Yes, Master. Probably in just a few minutes."

Of course, who does show up are one of his dinner buddies and a female from the Concierge Office. There is a bit of "Good Morning" and "Everything OK?" palaver, and the two executives go off. The Concierge woman enters and closes the door. "Julie," she says without any preliminaries, "the Enterprises want to let you know that your service last night was up to the highest standards of care. The video and audio files are in your permanent file, and appropriate managers have been notified. The guy who was on duty last night asked me to give this to you." And she leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek!

Well, you can only laugh about such a speech, but it damn near brings tears to my eyes. I can do things right, after all! I'm beginning to understand how Anne must feel. She just about told me that she'd been First Lady and then gave it away. I suspect that's one of the reasons I think she'd walk through walls for my Master. Will I develop that feeling, too? Well, probably not after my auction sends me to a new Owner and Master.

"Please, Ma'am, I have some information?" I'm not sure who to call for with the stuff from my client's attaché. The woman from Concierge grins and whips out a pad. "Details?"

I go over a bit of what I did, expecting that, if any of it was impermissible, she will tell me. She listens and says nothing. I progress to the numbers on his Leicestershire project page. She jots them down and repeats them for me, making certain she's got them right. A careful lady! She rises, nods briefly, and is gone without a word.

She also left without giving me any cuts with the crop or whips from the main room. I smile.

The female Guard from my slave corridor shows up and drapes a cape over my shoulders, fastening the front with a large clip, and I am ready to return to my cell. I have that warm feeling — today, my Master has provided a cape to cover my nudity. Still, I have Morning Rituals to perform and someone, eventually, will tell me what they have me scheduled for today. The first thing, it turns out, is Morning Nourishments.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Forty-One: Stand and Serve

Since I haven't been in my cell for much of the last 24 hours, there is little cleaning and straightening to do. I complete my Morning Ritual and wait for instructions. Have I said that waiting is something I'm good at? This wait is a lot longer.

A new Guard comes for me, but with the usual leash for my collar. I trot along the slave corridor to just past the elevator. The plaque on the door reads "Correction Room." I'm inside before I can even think of some resistance, but then I know that resistance is futile. I am led to a complex contraption. The top of the base, about two meters by two meters, is made from loose lumber. Towards one side, a solid wood post rises from the base to about the level of my head. It bears a crossbar of two boards, stacked, each about four inches wide.

I'm not sure what this device is, but its location tells me that it won't be giving me pleasure.

The slave is correct! The Guard hooks my leash to a convenient cable coming from the ceiling. He announces that my next service is to stand in this combination of stocks and pillory, fourteenth century punishment machines. He adds that these were popular "all over the world."

He moves some boards on the base, opening two holes which he indicates are for my feet. The sirik's ankle chain is just long enough to allow me to stand in the base, my feet somewhat spread, while he moves the boards back, trapping my legs. Padlocks secure the boards. The openings are not tight, but are not large enough for me to pull my feet free. The Guard unhooks the leash from my collar.

"That's the stocks part of the device," he says. He rummages through a nearby drawer until he finds a small box. He waves it, saying, "This is the driver for the pillory." He pushes a button and the post and crossbar apparatus in front of me sinks a bit into the base. He lifts one board and I see circular cutouts.

"This is the pillory part, where you place your neck and wrists. Now!"

I bend forward, placing my neck and wrists where indicated; the sirik, again, does not interfere. The Guard drops the board, but the cutouts are large enough that I am not damaged, just scared by the slam. He grins as he fastens a padlock to the crossboards. He pushes buttons on the driver and the post rises and falls until he is satisfied with my position. He gives me a mock salute and leaves.

I am bent over and am not comfortable. If this lasts any time, my back is going to be in spasm. I expect that this was his purpose in running the device up and down.

My Inner Goddess is irate. "He's got no need to make this so bad! I'd like to kick him where he'd remember it!"

"That's the thing about slavery," I tell her. "He doesn't have to have a 'need.' It's enough for him to have a 'want.' This is just how it is in a slave's world."

The thing is that I'm not held tightly at any point. I can move my head, legs and arms a bit. But I cannot close my legs or ease my back. Surprisingly, my thigh muscles are the first to complain. Some rhythmic movements, as much as I can, help a bit, but I'm getting more fearful by the moment.

The same woman from the Concierge Service as this morning comes in and circles me once, inspecting and listening to the low moans I'm making. She finds the driver and moves the post up and down, to the limits of my back movements. Hand strokes massage my back muscles until the spasms let go. She leaves me at a different height; I'm not sure if this will be better than the level the Guard selected, but I'm sure I'll find out.

"We wanted to let you know how your client from last night reported on you. There was a lot he wasn't sure about, as you might guess, but, for the parts he remembered, he gave you high marks. He was particular about saying that, if he has another chance to visit here, he'd like you to be assigned to him again. Do you realize what that means?"

"Please, Ma'am, I'm not sure what that means," I answer.

She looks thoughtful for a moment, then continues. "You should know that a slave's service is not just to get the client off, to deliver an orgasm. The way you treat the client, the way you make him feel he's the most important part — the center — of your universe, this is what makes the sex memorable and satisfying. This is the high standard your Owner has set. We think you met this standard last night."

I am shocked! I had just done what seemed necessary, hadn't I? And now, it seems, that was the "high standards" I've been told so much about.

Before I fully recover, the woman adds, "And, I've got some news about the information you provided. It was forwarded to the proper executives, of course, and they were pleased to get it. They've modified their discussion plan a bit, they said, and they are sure the final contract will be ready much sooner, and be more satisfactory, than they had expected. Again, nice work!"

Again, I have that warm feeling. My Inner Goddess harrumphs a bit and lectures me. "Kid, this is the 'pride and satisfaction' thing they've been talking about since you left Blue Bayou. Are you beginning to catch on?"

OK, I'm not a moron, but I might have been a bit slow about this part of my slavery. How would I have known? At the law firm, nobody told me anything. Nobody told anybody anything. You were just surprised that you got a bonus at year-end, along with being happy you weren't fired along the way. In some ways, I'm beginning to understand, the people running my slavery have more Human Relations skills than those running my free life "before."

Carole99
Carole99
470 Followers