48 Hours on Blue Bayou Pt. 29: Three

48 Hours on Blue Bayou, Part 29: The Story of Three, Scene 1

Chef's Note: Dear Readers, it is a pleasure to introduce our new collaborator, who has chosen the 6th Century poet, Taliesin, as his pen name. A few lines from the poet:

"...has gathered together those that were in slavery,

A female restrained the din.

She came forth altogether lovely."

He has corresponded with our page almost from the beginning, and we have come to look forward to his insights and comments, which are wise and helpful. He approached us with some questions and an outline of the newbie Three's background. A draft or two later, and we are proud to present this extra course in the Blue Bayou banquet.

— Carole99 and J Spe

Taliesin's Note: It all started when I read and, for the first time ever, commented on the early Julie chapters of the 48 Hours on Blue Bayou saga.

While Julie was being "corrected" for voicing the possibility of escape, three new slaves were introduced. I thought that the slave named "Three" showed a certain spirit and personality that could be developed.

Or, maybe I just like redheads!

I began to write about her background and reaction to her enslavement by The Enterprises. Some time later, I confessed this illicit activity to the Master and Mistress of this page, along with a sample text. They decreed that the appropriate "correction" for this act of presumption was to revise, review, and continue the narrative. Whether it deserves an "Attaboy," or a tongue-lashing, is now over to you.

—Taliesin

My name is Three. I am a slave.

Did I have another name? Before I became a slave? I can hardly remember. I'm not supposed to remember.

I had just graduated in Marketing and Public Relations at Dublin City University, though I'm actually from Drogheda, an industrial and port town of population thirty thousand odd, about 50 kilometers north of there. It has lots of history and not much else. I was just ecstatic when I won a scholarship to the University. My father worked for the Port Company before he was crushed by a falling crane, and my mother worked at the dairy factory. I have a little sister, Bridget, who is an absolute genius, designs fashion, and travels all over the EU.

I was working in a department store, down on Mary Street, getting some retail marketing experience, with a promise of work in a Public Relations firm in the New Year when I was taken. It was a late closing night at the store, and then I had a couple of drinks in the Oval Bar with some of the girls I had gotten to know.

We were laughing and generally having a great time when one of the girls, Eileen, says, "Don't look now, but there's a really creepy guy over there by the 'Gents' who's been eyeing you for a while." I take a few seconds and glance over to where she said. There is a rather unkempt guy, who seems at that moment to be studying his cell phone, but he could have been watching me, I suppose. I giggle a bit, being the slightest bit tipsy, and say, "Safety in numbers." "Yeah," she says, "but be careful anyway." Next time I look over, he has gone. I dismiss him from my mind.

I know that having had a drink or two shouldn't be a factor, but, now, I'm kicking myself that I wasn't more careful. Anyway, I'm the only one getting off the bus in Ballymun Road, and I wait for the bus to drive on before crossing the road. That's when I'm grabbed and a cloth goes over my nose and mouth...

When I come to, I'm pretty groggy and, I think, hung over, but I pretty soon realise that I'm tied down spread-eagled on an old mattress on an iron cot. And I'm naked. I start yelling.

"Hey! What the fuck! What's going on! Hey!"

Two guys, one giant and one normal size, come into the room and the big one slaps me on the face like a sledgehammer. He grabs hold of my jaw and squeezes.

"So, yur back in the land o the livin, are yeh?"..."Well, y'can just shut yur trap. No-one can hear yeh, anyroad."

He stuffs some rag in my mouth and puts some tape over it.

The smaller guy leans over me. "Listen, your life has just changed, and you're going to make us quite a lot of money. It's no use your crying and yelling and carrying on. It'll only go worse for you. I'll just leave you for a bit to think about that."

He checks the gag and my bonds and they leave me alone. It's dark, but not pitch-black, so I think it's probably day. I can hear a plane go overhead, so, perhaps near the airport? Apart from that, nothing but some birds and possibly a cow. In the country, then.

I lie there, and moan and cry and struggle, 'til my wrists and ankles hurt, then I cry some more. And I do think about what he said. What are they going to do with me? It can't be ransom: my Mam is not rich and I don't have any money. He must mean some sort of sex trafficking, but I'm not really sure. It doesn't sound happy, however it turns out.

Several hours later — I'm not sure, but it seems like that — the smaller guy comes back and starts undoing my gag. I'm ready to do some abject pleading.

"Please, people will be looking for me. I have work; they will miss me if I don't turn up. I can get you money. You can fuck me." It's all pretty incoherent.

He raises his hand over my head and I shut up.

"First, today's your day off, then it's Sunday, and then your work will assume you're sick, so no one will be looking for you for a few days, if ever. Second, lots of girlies like you take a few days off, for lots of reasons, usually to hop over to England for an abortion. Even if the Garda aren't too busy arresting drunks and do look for you, what are they going to find out — you had some drinks in a bar and got on a bus, and even if they're clever enough to find the particular bus driver, he probably won't remember you and, even if does, what can he tell them? You got off at so-and-so stop. You're a long way from there now. Third, can you get me $10,000 tomorrow? Your face says, no. Fourth, I'm going to fuck you anyway, even without an invitation."

I start crying. Can it be that easy to make someone disappear? Unfortunately, I can't see any faults in his logic.

He strips off his sweatshirt and trousers and climbs onto the bed between my legs. I try not to look, but his erection is waving around so much that I have to pay horrified attention. He leans forward and tweaks my nipples, which sends a shudder through my guts. I have always had sensitive nipples. He smears some lubricant in my vagina and places the head of his penis between my labia. Well, I'm not a virgin, but, even so, it hurts like hell when he penetrates me. He holds his hand over my mouth to muffle my cries as his cock gets to work. He comes, he gets off, he gets dressed, and he leaves the room.

A few minutes later he comes back and says, "I expect you'd like to use the toilet." I nod. "I'll get 'Tarzan' to take you."

'Tarzan' turns out to be the big guy, the one who hit me just after I woke up. He unties me from the bed and leads me outside, his hand round my arm like a vice. My guess was right, we're in the country somewhere, I don't think too far from Dublin, but not close to anywhere else. The house is pretty dilapidated: outside toilet, dirt yard, and no other houses in view. There's nowhere to run to, even if I could outrun Tarzan, and, of course, I'm stark naked still, which is a bit inhibiting.

When I'm back in the house, small guy has got some McDonalds, and even remembered to get some for me. After I've eaten and drunk a cup of tea, they take me to the bed again. They have found some cuffs and a chain, so I'm locked to the bed, but I can sit up and move around a bit. Later, some other men come and fuck me. This is the routine for three or four days. Some of the men get me off the bed, but most just take me there. Some of them want me to suck them off, but I hate it, and, as it turns out, I'm not very good at it.

I'm unlocked from the bed and taken into another room. It is a small sitting room with just a sofa, one chair and a television set. There's a man waiting for me, of course. He's tall and well-built and, I think, about forty-five. "Come over here," he orders. I move towards him as he unzips his fly, pulls down his trousers and shorts, and sits down on the sofa. His penis is already semi-erect, and clearly he expects me to do something, but I just stand there like a ninny.

"Don't you know what to do?" he asks me. I shake my head. He laughs.

"Come over here and kneel down between my legs." I do as he says. At least he doesn't seem to be angry. "Now, come and give me a blow job." I must look confused. "Suck my cock," he says by way of explanation. Oh. I've heard some of the girls talking about this, and my boyfriend asked me to go down on him once, but I couldn't do it. It's not like I'm a virgin or anything, but this is Ireland and I'm a good girl.

I've been told in no uncertain terms to do anything I'm told so I shuffle forward on my knees until I am staring right at his crotch. His penis is now standing up as stiff as a pole. Close up, it has a certain beauty I had never appreciated before, never having examined one so near. It was always, out with the lights and under the covers. I reach out tentatively and touch it. He makes encouraging noises, so I bend forward and graze the head with my lips. "Take it into your mouth," he murmurs, "and watch your teeth."

So I take hold of his penis with one hand and bring my lips down to the top and open my mouth as wide as I can, taking it in. As the tip reaches the back of my throat, it feels like I am going to choke and my tongue reflexively tries to expel it. I'm terrified of touching him with my teeth, so I'm barely moving and I can feel his arousal falling off. I sense that he is getting annoyed.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Girl, you're as useless as tits on a bull!" He pulls his cock out of my mouth.

"Kneel down on the sofa, and stick your bum in the air."

He stands behind me and forces my knees further apart. He feels for my cunt and rubs my clit until I juice up a little. He guides the head of his cock between my lips and thrusts into me. My head is stuffed almost right into the sofa, and I'm moaning and crying and trying to breathe, all at the same time as he works at his orgasm. When he comes, he pulls out almost immediately, slaps me on the buttocks, and says, "Girl, you need a helluva lot more education."

My humiliation is now complete. Not even the nuns have made me feel so small and useless. This man was almost decent, he wasn't rough, but I couldn't satisfy him even though I tried my best. I wonder what my life will be like if I can't adapt to these demands. I just want to survive.

Another guy, who looks really dangerous, also gets me out to the other room, except he tells small guy to tie my hands behind me. He grabs my face and squeezes my jaw, to open my mouth, which I stretch as far as I can. Holding onto my head, he thrusts his cock right down my throat as far as it will go. My gag reflex cuts in and my stomach heaves. I retch and retch and throw up all over him. He proceeds to give me a solid spanking and, with his hands around my throat, I think he might have killed me if my screams hadn't prompted Tarzan and smaller guy to come and calm him down and, of course, I have to clean him off.

I lose track of the time; men come at all times of the day and night. At first, I try to keep count of the number of times I have been raped, but after a couple more days I can't be bothered. I'm just desperate for it to end.

One time after I've been taken to the toilet, they forget to tie me up. It's now or never, I think. I've heard a dull noise of traffic in the distance. If I can get there, I think, I might have a chance. I creep out of the room as quietly as I can, and see there is no one in sight. Tarzan seems to be washing a van, so I slip out the back, cross the yard, and wriggle through a fence. I am in two minds whether to crawl and try to be inconspicuous, or run and hope I can make it to the road. Just then, Tarzan comes back around the corner and spots me. He lets out a yell and I take off as fast as I can run.

Do you know how hard it is for a city girl, to run bare foot, let alone bare arsed, across uneven ground? I haven't gone more than twenty metres when I step on a stone and fall over with a yelp. In the meantime, Tarzan has vaulted the fence and is coming after me with a will. He doesn't waste any breath calling out, but runs with a single purpose. Even though I scramble up and keep running, he soon catches up, taking me down with a splendid rugby tackle. My hands are tied again, with the rope he happens to have in his pocket; he picks me up like a sack of potatoes and carries me back to the house.

He dumps me on the bed, and makes sure I'm well secured.

"I'd like to tan yur backside with me belt," he says, "but the boss's said not to bruise yer."

Next morning, it's certainly not more than a week, if that, since I was captured, the smaller guy, who seems to be the brains behind the gang comes in.

"It seems you've grown tired of our hospitality, I hear. Well, never mind, I've arranged a little trip for you and after that you'll have a new job. You're lucky, really. It'll be money for old rope."

I hadn't thought I could manage it, but I start to cry again. I imagine all the most terrible things, even worse than this. I suppose I thought they would get bored with me and let me go, or I could escape if they got careless, or be found somehow. Now, I realise how stupid that was. They haven't tried to disguise themselves, so I could give pretty good descriptions of them. Now, I'm sure I'm going to some third world brothel, or worse.

He gives me a slap to shut me up and says, "Don't be so worried, that's just an old expression for easy money, or an easy life. I'm sure you'll be better off. This place is really professional." What can he mean by that — "professional?" I'm confused and not greatly comforted.

Anyway, what can I do? Nothing. A little later, he comes back with a new fellow, who I've never seen before. They clean me up a bit, the new guy looks me over carefully, makes me walk around and kneel down. He says "OK, She'll do," gives me a shot, and I pass out.

The Slave Market

Headache! Groggy! Under harsh lights and noise, a dissolving dream turns into nightmare as I remember the last few days. I groan and thrash about. Someone calls out, "The new girl's waking up."

First thing I notice is that I'm not tied up anymore. I'm on a thin pallet, but someone has put a blanket over me. Astonishingly, I feel grateful for these small mercies, at least until I see that I'm lying in a kind of cage of steel mesh, about four by three metres. Why would I need to be tied?

Besides the pallet, there's a bucket and a large bottle of water. Standing in the next cage is a young Indian or Pakistani woman in a short skirt and tee shirt, with bare feet. I also notice she has a metal collar around her neck. It was probably she who called out.

"Hi, welcome to the zoo." Also British, by her accent.

I groan and reach for the water bottle. "God, I've got a splitting headache. Sorry, hello, what's your name?"

"There are no names here," she says enigmatically, and lies down on her pallet and turns her back.

A few minutes later, she rolls back towards me. "Sorry," she says. "I'm totally over this. Is this your first time here?" I gather she has been in this cell some time and is heartily sick of it.

I tell her about my abduction and rape and all the rest. I ask, "What is this place?"

"It's a slave market," she says. "Nobody has a name; well, we have all had names, but after we're sold our new Masters will most likely give us a new name, or maybe just call us 'Slave'."

I ask if she has been sold before. "This is the third time. My parents and brother were killed in a car crash. My uncle was supposed to look after me and my sister, but after a couple of years he sold me to this business associate. I'm sure he told the Social Services people I ran away with an infidel. My first master was the worst: he beat me and starved me. He called me Sūra."

I say, naively, "But that sounds like a nice name."

She makes a sour face. "It means 'pig' in Punjabi." Embarrassed silence. "When he got tired of feeding me enough to keep me alive, he sold me on to friend in another town. My second master wasn't so bad, but his wife found out, and made him get rid of me — not to free me, of course — I'm valuable property. So here I am. My master told me this is a high-class auction, only for wealthy people. I hope I will get a better master, ins'allah. No, fuck him. I don't believe anymore."

I notice she has a metal collar around her neck. I am about to express my shock, disbelief and outrage.

Just then, a man and woman come and unlock the door to my cage. The woman is rather ostentatiously carrying a large crop. They put handcuffs on my wrists and take me down a corridor of similar cages. Most of them contain a young woman, and all of them are beautiful. They take me into a kind of office with TV monitors and indicate that I kneel on the floor.

The man says, "You are a late entry to this auction. What do you know?"

"What do I know about what?" He kind of sighs, reminding me of a Sales Manager at my department store talking about his most difficult suppliers.

"We are an auction house. We deal in rather specialised products. Slaves. All kinds of slaves, but mainly girls. I suppose you've noticed some of them. You are now one of them."

My head is still splitting and I can barely croak, "Please, can I have some aspirin?"

He nods at the woman. "Get her an ice-pack, too."

I start to gibber. "What do you mean?... I don't know?... Where am I?... You can't..." He says nothing.

The woman returns with a glass of water, a couple of pills, and an ice-pack, which she drapes over my forehead. I swallow the pills and the water and hang onto the pack. I start to whimper.

They look at me like the dog that shat on the Ax-minster.

Finally, the man tells the woman, "You'd better get her cleaned up and find some clothes. She can't go to auction like that. She's filthy." The woman nods and gets a chain and a set of ankle shackles from a drawer. She exchanges my handcuffs for the ankle shackle and locks the chain to one shackle. Flourishing the crop, she leads me by the chain out of the office, down the corridor, and to a shower room. There she locks the free end of the chain to a ring in the shower, and says, in a foreign accent, "You wash. I get clothings."

There is lovely hot water in the shower, soap, and even shampoo in a little plastic bottle, like you get in hotels. I suppose it probably came from some hotel. This is the best I have felt since I was grabbed. I'm luxuriating in the heat and the scents of soap and shampoo. I can't believe how great it is to be clean again, and I begin to feel slightly human.

I think: Why am I being happy, sort of happy, in a slave market?

While I am trying to sort out these feelings, the woman returns with some clothes, a towel, and a safety razor and shaving foam. "You shave. There and there." She points to my underarms and groin.

I'm blushing like only an Irish girl can. "But.."

Zap! I get the crop on my naked thigh. The shock is like a bee sting. I jump and I'm about to hit out when I catch her steely glare and think better of it.

So, I shave myself, under her critical eye. She makes me do some bits again until she is satisfied. She gives me the towel and, when I'm dry, a pair of used and very tight jeans and a tee-shirt, maybe one size too small. No shoes. The effect is utterly revealing, without being naked. The woman unlocks the chain from the shower and takes me back to the "Bosses" office, where I kneel once more on the floor.