48 Hours on Blue Bayou Pt. 29: Three

"That looks much better," he says. "Slave, we don't have time to give you any training, as the auction will take place tomorrow morning, but the position you are in is usually called 'Kneel' or 'Position One.' Your knees should be further apart, about eighteen inches, or forty-five centimetres, if you like."

I move my knees further apart. My god, am I starting to accept all this?

"This is the most common slave position. If your buyer asks for other positions, you must politely say you haven't been taught that command yet and ask for an explanation. It is very important, for you, to do exactly what you are told and nothing else. I know you're scared, all the girls are, until they get bored, but let me tell you that this is not just a meat market. The buyers at this auction — well, they're mainly agents for the actual buyers — are all extremely wealthy men and women. They are seeking slaves for, yes, sex, but also body servants and companions to a great extent. They will pay a lot of money for you, so they are very unlikely to damage you. We are very particular over who we allow to bid at these sales and we have never heard of a slave being permanently damaged.

"The auction will run like this: First, there will be a 'line up' where the buyers can examine you. They will probably tell you to lift up your tee-shirt and may tell you to lower your pants. You will follow their orders immediately and smile if you can. You will not be restrained, but you will keep your hands by your side unless following an order. Remember, the more they pay for you, the better you will be treated, so it is in your interest, as well as mine, for you to show yourself well. They are allowed to touch you at this point, but not to penetrate your vagina or anus. I see that you don't have a collar yet. We'll find something for you in the morning. Do you understand?"

After this lecture, I find, for once, I am speechless. He is looking at me quizzically, and I'm clued that he is waiting for an answer to that final question.

"Yes, sir, I understand."

"You'll go back to your cell now, and the warden has warmed up some stew for you."

I am so hungry, that consideration has me just about crying with gratitude. I feel I could even kiss him.

The stew is rich and delicious, full of meat and vegetables. Onions, carrots and others I can't identify, and I think maybe there's even wine in it. At least, they are trying to keep the stock in good condition. The warden woman, his assistant, shouts "Lights out in five minutes," so I wrap myself up in the blanket. I drift off to sleep, thinking, I haven't even been raped here.

The Auction

I've just woken up and I'm shivering a bit, despite the blanket, when the lights go on and there is a clattering in the corridor. There are more staff around this morning, for the auction, I guess. Any girl who has used the bucket, which is most of them, including me, has to take it out to the bathroom and clean it out. We also have the chance to wash our faces and brush our hair, an urgent necessity for me.

Next comes breakfast, which is a huge urn of oatmeal with milk, doled out into bowls, and about one third of a baguette. After that, we have to fold up any blankets, carry our pallets and buckets to stack them in a storeroom, and clean out our cells of any other scraps. This is pretty easy for me, but some of the girls have been here a while and have somehow accumulated a few items. Obviously, none of us will be returning to these cages. The 'boss man' comes up to me with a collar, which he fastens around my neck. It is really just a wide dog collar with a little padlock through the buckle, so it cannot be removed. Psychologically, it makes me feel even more helpless and submissive.

There are eleven of us lined up, seemingly resigned to our fates. Some of the eleven even look cheerful. We are led out into another room, rather larger and warmer, and comfortably furnished with quite a number of chairs arranged into a semicircle. There is a murmur of talk among the thirty or so people sitting or standing around. More buyers are arriving as we enter. Unsurprisingly, they are mostly men, but there are also a few women among them. The boss announces that there will be roughly an hour for inspection before the auction begins.

There doesn't seem to be any rush, but buyers slowly drift over to our lineup and give us the once over, from the front and the back. Someone tells me to lift up my head and I try to put on a smile, though it probably comes out as a grimace, making me look uglier than usual. Some of the buyers are obviously looking for a particular type and ignore me completely. All in all, about twenty-five, all men, pay me some attention. I'm told to lift up my tee shirt, or lower my jeans, or both. They all seem to have a similar routine. They stroke and squeeze my breasts and usually pinch the nipples, to see if they become erect. Mine do. Usually, they also feel my buttocks and slide a finger along the lips of my vulva, circling the clit. This invariably makes me jump.

One man asks about my experience in slavery. I say, "Please, Sir, I don't have any experience." Some tell me to move my head to the right or left and open my mouth. One man asks me to stand on one leg. He chuckles a bit as I nearly fall over.

"Gentlemen and ladies. The sale will begin in ten minutes. Please take your last impressions and be seated." The buyers sort themselves.

And so it begins. Each girl, in turn, is placed on a little raised stand. There is a brief description of each slave.

"Lot 1, Danish, twenty years, first sale, designer, tractable, partly trained, not virgin." And so, the bidding begins. Astonishingly, there are three virgins. I try to work out what prices are being paid, but there seems to be some kind of code I can't understand, and the bidders just wave a little numbered paddle. No shouting out.

Lot 6 is my former neighbour. "British, South Asian, twenty, third sale, high school education, no employment, spirited, partly trained, not virgin." There seems to be quite a lot of competition for her, so I hope her wish is coming to pass.

Eventually, I lapse into a kind of fugue, until I feel myself being led to the stand.

"Lot 10, Irish, nineteen, first sale, retail work, not virgin, untrained, unassessed."

My biography. Why do they think I'm nineteen? I'm twenty-one. Then I remember: my sister left her driver's license in my flat and I had it in my bag to give back next time I saw her. I never carry my own, because I don't have a car.

I don't seem to be the most popular item of merchandise. Even I can tell the bidding is pretty slow. The boss man tells me to pull my jeans down, to turn around, bend over, and grasp my ankles. I'm too terrified to think of disobeying. In this position, and blushing like a furnace, I can picture the sight from the audience. I have long shapely legs — I think they're my best feature — and my freshly denuded slit will be nicely framed between them. Well, this seems to have done the trick, because I can see, upside down through my legs, a number of paddles waving.

Eventually, I'm taken down and led back to the holding block. I've been sold.

Travel Broadens the Mind

There are three of us now in the same cell: myself, of course, a dark brunette and a blonde. Does this mean we've been bought by the same person? The blonde is French and the brunette Bulgarian. My French is pretty feeble, but she speaks English fairly well. She says she has been sold twice before, so I ask her if we have been bought by the same person. She doesn't know for sure, but thinks it is possible. The Bulgarian girl doesn't seem to speak much English, or maybe she's in shock, like me, so it's not much use talking to her, but she does communicate that she was married and this is her first sale. Normally, I'm pretty talkative myself, but then I am too shocked and scared to say much more. Eventually, four men come to the cell, one in a suit and the others in uniforms like security guards, which is exactly what they are, I suppose. They all move calmly and methodically. It's clear they have done this before.

The suit man says, "Slaves, you have been purchased by The Enterprises. You will now be transported to your new Master and Owner. You are not to speak," he says, looking pointedly at each of us, but I just stand there shivering with my mouth open. "Your names are One," he points at the blonde, "Three," pointing at me, "and Five," for the brunette. One seems to be resigned to this number name, but, then, she has been sold before. Five says angrily, "What you call? This is not name." I'm about to yell, "My name is not fucking Three," until I remember his previous look. He gives Five a vicious cut on the behind with a crop. "You were told not to speak, slave." Then, to all of us, "Remember your names. You will learn more on arrival. You will now be put in 'Transport Mode.' Kneel down on the floor."

We do.

The other three men cuff our hands behind our backs, put shackles on our ankles, and arrange blindfolds over our eyes. "Stand," he orders. The man behind helps pull me up and guides me out of the cell, along a corridor, and up a stairway. "Stop," he says, and "two steps up." I feel with my foot and there's a box or stool, then my shackle chain rattles on what feels like a metal floor. A van, I suppose. He guides me forward and a little pressure on my shoulders prompts me to sit. He attaches another cuff to a bar in the van and fastens a seat belt across my chest. "Can't risk damage to the goods," he whispers. "You're being a good girl, keep it up." Am I being good? I'm too shattered to do anything else.

We are driven for some time, via winding roads by the way I am bounced around, until we end up — where? My seatbelt is removed and I am unclipped and manoeuvred out of the van. I'm in an echoey space, like a large hall, and there is an oily, mechanical smell in the air. My minder takes my arm again and walks me forward. After about twenty or thirty metres he says, "More steps," and we climb up a narrow gangway, my leg irons rattling again on the metal, and he ducks my head through a small door. I'm guessing this is an aircraft, so our journey is far from over. A few more steps and I'm pushed into a chair and strapped in, my legs locked to the base of the seat.

"I'll make you more comfortable after we take off," says my guard, so definitely an aircraft.

A few minutes and the plane is taxiing, then the take-off rush presses me back into the seat, rather painfully, because of the cuffs. There's no hostess doing a safety demonstration and telling us to fasten our seat belts, but then, we're all pretty locked in anyway. The man in the suit makes a speech about going to our new home, where we will learn everything we need to succeed in our new life. When we arrive we must be ready to respond to every order at any time and not to do or say anything without permission. Not to talk on the aircraft. Our hands will soon be released and to raise a hand if we need anything. He says we will be fed soon. I am surprised when he adds that they should be able to find some magazines and, if we want, sleeping tablets for the trip.

The guards come round, remove our blindfolds and release our hands, but not our feet or seatbelts. It's really good to move my arms. Security is strict, but they're not being deliberately cruel, so I suppose that what the guy said, about not damaging the goods, is basically correct. I'm trying to figure out what's going on with this flight. Obviously we are being taken a long way from Europe, but I have no idea what direction. Russia? South America? Africa?

One thing I do realise is that, the further we go, the harder it will be to get away. Looking around the aircraft, I notice that some sections of seats are missing, replaced by pallets of wrapped goods. So, an airfreight courier service?

I raise my hand and a guard comes, raising an eyebrow. "Please, I have to use the toilet."

He says, "Lean forward, I have to cuff you."

"What the hell for? Where do you think I can go?"

His face is stony. "Routine procedure. Don't be difficult now or you'll regret it later." It's not a threat, just a statement, so I lean forward and he cuffs my hands, unclips my leg fetters, unlocks my seatbelt, helps me out of the seat, and down to the rear of the plane. There is the tiniest airplane toilet I have ever seen; he backs me in, undoes my jeans, and pulls them down.

I can feel myself blushing furiously, but at least he closes the door. "Finished," I call. The door opens. "Do I need to wipe you?" I nod, red in the face again. He does it quite matter-of-factly, then I'm pulled up, as are my jeans, and I'm back, locked into my seat, my hands uncuffed. He stands still, looming over me, and I glance up nervously. What can he want?

Then, I think about my position, so I say, "Thank you."

He says, "Very good, but that should be 'Thank you, Sir.'"

Another guard comes around with a selection of sandwiches, cookies, and plastic water bottles. I make a choice and think I'd better say the 'Thank you, Sir,' which I do. He puts a water bottle in my lap, winks, and says, "Sorry, but we're all out of the Chateau Neuf du Pape."

I opt for a sleeping tablet.

Sunlight streaming through the window wakens me. I've been dreaming of a trip I made to Crete, except it has all gone wrong and I'm captured by bandits in the hills... then I remember where I am and start to sob.

More sandwiches and a water bottle for breakfast, then a pilot announcement. "Approximately thirty minute to destination. Security protocol, please."

The guards come around and check our fastenings. They also put our blindfolds back on. The plane is descending quickly with that "going down in the lift" feeling and corresponding popping in my eardrums. A one, two bump, roar of reverse engines, and we're down. We taxi for a few minutes while the guards put us in handcuffs again.

The suit man comes around and says, "Intake have requested boxties; can we manage that?"

"On the ground?"

"Might delay delivery."

All of this makes no sense at all, until we disembark.

"The delivery truck is delayed in traffic."

"OK, boxties it is, then."

My guard says, next to my ear, "Stop. I'm going to take off the cuffs and tie your arms. Don't attempt to resist."

I'm far too scared to do anything, so my hands are tied to my opposite elbows and lifted to my shoulder blades. Not very comfortable, but, on the other hand, our blindfolds are removed and I can see that we are once again in a hangar.

I'm not sure of the reason, but One and Five are objecting strongly to something being done to them. My guard moves me to one side. I can't hear what they are saying because of being separated, and also because their English has deteriorated under stress. Five seems to have lapsed into Bulgarian. Maybe it's something they were told on the plane or even before the auction. There is a bit of a scuffle, which, inevitably, they lose, and they are fitted with ball gags, effectively silencing them.

The air is warm, so I think we are somewhere well south of Europe. Is it Thailand? I've heard some lurid stories about Thailand, so I'm feeling more frightened than ever. The boss at the auction did say we would be looked after, but I'm not so sure.

A truck arrives and we are loaded into its container and strapped to some kind of padded framework, which keeps us immobile. The truck moves off and is soon stopping and starting in what must be heavy traffic. That also sounds like Thailand.

Author's Note: Where in the world are Three, One and Five? Could they have been hijacked by the unscrupulous Couriers? Find out next time on.... The Story of Three.

— Taliesin