48 Hours on Blue Bayou Pt. 30: Julie

Anton's instrument, the jumping bat, makes a loud smack, but the pain is different. It is not as sharp as his hand, but it seems to cover a larger area. Again, I get one on each side and Anton finishes with another gentle stroke, as if to wipe away the strikes. He steps around to face me and I remember a training tip from Igor. "Thank you, Master," comes out of my lips almost automatically. I hear the same refrain from my sister slaves.

The line moves forward, leisurely. Dmitry wants to stroke my breasts as well as my back and ass. His hand, however, is just as sharp on my butt. But, his paddle is a much more powerful item. Its strike causes a deeper pain, seems to cover more area, and the initial sting lasts a lot longer. Dmitry doesn't wipe away the pain, but he does fondle my breasts again. I'm surprised that my "Thank you, Master," is much lower and breathy.

Kolya is next. He pushes me down a bit before stroking my back and butt. "My dear, this ass has the best curves I've seen in a month of Sundays. And, it's getting to a beautiful rosy color."

I have a flash of pride at his compliment, but then his hand slides forward, stroking my pussy. It is a motion made easy by the wide stance enforced by the leg shackles. A finger dips between my lips and I realize I am already wet, already part way up the ladder of arousal. My trainers had told me that a spanking could as easily be to stimulate as well as to punish, to hurt. I suppose I hadn't really had much experience with spankings or, really, any beatings — looking back, my trainers pretty well kept me on the straight and narrow (probably not the best course, as it turned out) — so I couldn't know about this. Now, I understand their point. My ass is being spanked into a "beautiful rosy color" and I am ignoring the pain while climbing the ladder of arousal.

Kolya's quirt is a different case altogether. The lash is longer and thinner than the other crops. The pain is sharper, deeper, and seems more personal. It seems to burrow into me, looking for my core. I scream after each cut, but Kolya strokes my back and ass and, within a few moments, my screams dissolve into simple sobs.

The line of Russians moves to the next slave. I look up and find a break before Aleksei would appear. In this pause, I hear the sobs, screams, and cries of my sister slaves. In less than an hour, our team has descended from world-class courtesans representing a worldwide Enterprise to five weeping, broken slaves.

Aleksei appears but I'm in too much despair to pay him much mind. His hand spanks are nothing new. But his riding crop makes an impression: it's cut is sharp but localized, and the pain does not last as long as the pain from the paddle or quirt. Aleksei leaves with a few pats on my ass, rather than the comforting strokes the other men used. I now feel how hot my ass is, and I wonder what color it has become.

The Russians gather around Sergei, looking rather pleased with themselves. Sergei waves them to the bar in one corner of the salon and they move to serve themselves. I get a small satisfaction from this: had they waited for our Opening Presentation, we would now be serving them! My Inner Goddess corrects me — we're serving them just fine, she says.

Sergei comes around our line to stand facing us and smiles at all of us in turn. "Slaves, welcome to our temporary Estate. Now, I promised you an audience for your opinions on our various tools. Pat, won't you please start with your observations?"

Their hands filled with glasses, the clot of Russians forms behind Sergei. Their faces all show an interest in this humiliation of our leader.

Pat amazes me by gracefully sliding down into a perfect Position One. Her head is bent slightly in submission. I can see part of her ass, and it is a bright red, so it must be hurting her fiercely. Still, even with her ass resting on her heels, she gives no hint of distress.

"My Masters, this slave wants to report how effective each of your hand spanks was. This slave was driven into such arousal by your care that I could not discern any differences among your whips. Each slash was painful and I will remember each of them for a long time. Your slave begs forgiveness if any cries were discordant to your ears. Thank you, my Masters, for this spanking."

I just manage to keep my mouth from dropping open at this speech. You could be forgiven for thinking Pat had been stroked with a flamingo feather instead of whips useful for making thousand-pound cattle and horses move as their masters wished. And, I could see how the sweetness of her words could also be interpreted as a declaration of independence and promise of retribution.

Obviously, Sergei heard only the sweetness. He steps forward to bestow a pat on Pat's head along with a routine "Thank you, slave," and moves to my platform. Copying Pat, I also manage to move into Position One (although with not nearly as much grace). I have the sense to wait until he signals me to speak. I hope my voice is as strong as Pat's, although I am terrified that I won't be able to carry off anything like Pat just did.

"Please, my Masters, this slave realizes only two points. First, the spanks, from both hands and whips, were more painful that I thought I could stand. Second, this slave was surprised by how arousing each spank was. In fact, if this slave could request a favor, please explain how this slave could request permission to cum, to climax, as this slave is used. Thank you, my Masters, thank you."

Well, it isn't as Shakespearian a speech as Pat's was, but I did manage to get in about our climaxes!

Sergei appears a bit nonplussed. There is a hiatus until he manages, "Thank you, slave. Of course, we are not difficult Masters. As you request permission, any Master is free to grant permission as he feels it is indicated."

A diplomatic answer, at best. But, at least our right to ask has been granted. Better than "no rights," right?

Sally, One, and Five manage to give similar answers: submissive but non-specific. Sally even managed to get in a request to be allowed a toilet trip to pee. Of course, it was ignored, but neither Sergei nor any other Russian produced a "correction."

My glances notice that each Russian shows arousal as well their slaves do, at least judging from the tenting in their pants. So, I guess that the next step will be some penetration, acts of coitus.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Seventy-One: Circus, Part II

Wrong! The Russians have another drive at work. Aleksei is in charge of this operation.

"Slaves," he announces, "we have arranged to join the VIP casino, starting in a few minutes. We have your clothes ready for you. You will accompany us and provide a little distraction for the others in the games. I don't need to remind you to show proper attention to your man, I'm sure."

With some well-practiced moves, the Russians free us from our platforms and present a small package to each of us. Opening it shows a harem outfit: loose trousers gathered at the ankles with a bolero jacket which is closed at the front by a delicate golden chain. The material is a fine gauze with some lacy appliques which serve to emphasize our breast aureolae and Venus mounds. As I dress, I notice the trousers are crotchless! As the other slaves notice this, a small giggle goes around our team and I notice less pain in my ass. By the way, the gauze does nothing to obscure the red color all our asses are showing!

By some plan nobody has told us, each Russian takes a slave: Sergei with Pat, Aleksei with me, Anton with Sally, Dmitri with One, and Kolya with Five. There's something about Kolya that is bothering me; he seems the youngest here, but I can't put my finger on the problem. I push it out of my mind for the present.

Aleksei has a surprise for us. With a flourish, he presents five jewel boxes to us, via our Masters. The boxes contain a silver necklace, really, a choker. When the men have enjoyed fastening them on us, it is obvious: these are slave collars. Possibly, the shiny gold ring dangling from the front gives this away. There are no giggles as this part of our uniform is checked by each Russian. Each of them, of course, wears a wide grin. Another humiliation!

We are marched out of our salon and taken up to a private casino. Well, as private as a huge room, filled with cigar and cigarette smoke from perhaps two hundred gamblers, can be. The Russians, naturally, have a plan, and each pair peels away to a different area.

Aleksei heads to a blackjack table, murmuring to me that the Venetian has some of the best blackjack odds in the world. "The house edge at the high-roller tables is only 0.16%. And the high-roller table minimum is just HKD 1000 ($128)."

He takes an end seat which, conveniently, permits me to drape myself over him, a sycophant looking to emphasize obsequiousness and servility. Two players glance at Aleksei, but examine me carefully. I smile sweetly at them and, from their reaction, guess that they won't be as accurate in card-counting as they think. The other end seat player hardly responds to our appearance.

Chips appear and my Master plays carefully but well. His bets are not aggressive, but within the statistics of the game I learned back in college. I find that the dealer will stand on a soft 17! Here, used cards are continually recycled in a shuffling machine, which effectively makes card counting ineffective. For a moment, I think about the chasm between the young thing at college and the trained slave in Macau.

I plant a big kiss on Sergei's cheek when he wins and stroke his chest, and then his abdomen, when he loses. I plan to go lower if he loses more. I catch the eye of a waitress and order champagne for Aleksei which I present to him every few minutes. He sips cautiously; he probably has been warned about getting drunk while on duty.

Over the next few hours, Aleksei wins more than he loses, and his strategy means he has accumulated quite a pile of chips. I accumulate a series of pinches and hickies from nips he has taken when winning a particularly large pot. The chain holding my harem jacket closed is missing, lost when Aleksei won a very large pot and wanted to kiss "the boob that made that bet." I did enjoy the kiss, and the other players seemed to enjoy it as well.

Passersby who comment to my Master about his "harem girl" are given a broad smile and a brief introduction which does not fail to mention my slavery — that status seems to be well-appreciated in this casino. Aleksei manages to show off my red butt to each passerby and, inevitably, they reach to stroke it. To me, these strokes are fairly pleasant; the passersby are impressed with the heat radiating from my ass. Anyone who slaps my butt is rewarded with a forced smile and an (almost) sincere Thank you, Sir or Madam.

I don't see any signal, but Sergei's team reassembles and banks their chips with the casino. All seem to have done well. My sister slaves show various degrees of déshabillé; none has an intact jacket. Our furtive glances show nothing but a common desire to get away from this room.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Seventy-Two: Circus, Part III

The trip back to our salon is quite boisterous; winning bets usually produce that reaction, my law firm taught me. About the only one not sharing this mood is Kolya, and, again, I wonder what makes him different.

The Russians have no difficulty remembering which slave went with which platform, except that, after we remove and fold our harem costumes, our hands are brought behind us, around the post, and locked in handcuffs. Now, we face into the room with our breasts highlighted by our position. I notice some hickeys and bite marks have appeared since our trip to the casino.

Our Masters have ordered a buffet dinner and they fall to with gusto. Eventually, they seem to recall their slaves and come to feed us slices of fish, raw and smoked, and meats, prepared with several different sauces. My man, Aleksei, remembers to add a few veggies and bites of bread. At the end, I am offered a choice of juice, apple or orange. I essay a giggle and ask for "One of each, Master?"

Aleksei is so pleased with this that I get a cup of each!

The leader is talking with Kolya in Russian so, naturally, I don't know what they're discussing. It looks like Sergei is giving some orders and Kolya is agreeing, but with some hesitancy. I overhear what sounds like a question and that ends with his name: Kolya Sergeyevitch.

And that's when the penny drops! Kolya, the youngest Russian here, looks pretty much like what a younger Sergei might look like. The Russian use of patronymics adds a suffix to the father's name to create a "middle" name for the child: Sergei's son would have "Sergeyevitch" after his baptismal name.

I'm beginning to put a few things together. The original plan was for four Russians, but now there are five. So, Sergei has drafted his son to this circus. Why would he do that?

My Inner Goddess pokes me in the ribs and points out: Stupid, the son is probably a virgin and the father realized this is an excellent introduction to all kinds of sex for his kid. And someone else pays for it! Well, I'm not going to argue with such logic, am I?

Gradually, Sergei, Aleksei, Anton, and Dmitri finish dining and feeding their slaves. Kolya seems to be trying to get Five to eat a few more bites. There are a few short words from Sergei and Kolya comes to attention.

A new scene is starting.

Author's Note: Any ideas what is brewing for Kolya? Or, any ideas how to get Pat and our slaves out of the hug of the Bear? It will have to be a "MacGyver" maneuver, because Martin, Charles, Edward, Igor, and Anne are all back in Hong Kong, unaware of this turn of events.

— J Spe