48 Hours on Blue Bayou Pt. 34: Three

Two guards come to bring me from my cell to the apparatus. Nothing is said. Nothing needs to be said. The guards are superfluous, really, I would have walked to the bench. I think I am slowly coming to accept my fate. The guards sense that I am fully compliant and barely hold my arms as I kneel on the bar and bend forward to rest my arms.

As they strap down my arms and legs, one guard says, "We are securing you, slave, so that your involuntary movements will not cause you harm." I nod. There is another broad strap I had not previously noted which goes over my lower back. The guard explains that it is not strictly necessary on this occasion, but is to protect my kidneys in case of a more severe caning.

A guard shows me the cane. It is about one metre long and about as thick as a ball point pen. I clench my teeth as I hear "Begin" and a line of fire falls onto my buttocks. The shock is incredible, my torso bucks reflexively as all my muscles contract, but I manage not to issue more than a groan. Tears come. About thirty seconds later, the second stroke falls. This time I cannot help but scream. It is finished. The guards leave me for about five minutes, then unstrap me and help me back to my cell. Once more, I am prone, with a guard gently smearing a soothing lotion. She says, "The stripes are perfectly even. Some men — or women — would be incredibly excited to see them."

Climbing the Corporate Greasy Pole.

Naturally, after such a mild correction, I do not need any time to recover, so it's back to the laundry and Madame Chan's cheery, if sometimes incomprehensible, instructions. I'm standing all day, but then, I have no great desire to sit down. Besides, slaves rarely sit: they stand or kneel.

The following days are taken up with an aggressive regimen of gym, weights, and toil in the kitchens and staff quarters. No more "easy" work on vegetable prep. Now, it's scouring the pots and pans and scrubbing the floors. I know I'm being tested, so I make a supreme effort to perform up to standard. By the end of each day, I'm exhausted, and I fall asleep as soon as the lights go down.

Two mornings after my correction, a new and exciting development. The transport guard arrives with some clothing for me to wear. It is a business suit, in gray pinstripe. A skirt and a jacket that buttons to just above my cleavage, with low heel pumps, but no underwear. However, the silky lining of the suit more than compensates for that lack. In less than a minute I am transformed, from naked drudge to cosmopolitan business woman. At least outwardly, clothes make all the difference. Even my collar takes on the semblance of a discreet piece of jewelry.

The transport guard tells me I am going to work with a Manager, and the appropriate address is "Master." He says my new collar is not yet programmed for the upper levels, so it's Transport Mode again. I am taken to the lifts and whisked far above the basement level. We arrive in a corridor with many doors; my attendant waves his security card at one, takes off my shackles, and I enter.

It is an office, quite large, with a desk and a separate computer station. The occupant is a South Asian man, thirtyish, staring into the laptop on his desk. I see a kneeling pad by the desk and lower myself gracefully onto it, in Position One, eyes downcast. All of that intense training has come to fruition in a submissive slave.

After what seems like an eternity, but is probably less than a minute, he notices me.

"Ah, you are Three," he says abruptly. It is not exactly a question but I reply nevertheless. "Please, Master, yes, this slave is called Three." I get the feeling that his terseness, and delay in noticing me, are due to shyness, rather than arrogance. He doesn't have that authoritarian stare. Perhaps he hasn't had a slave before?

"My name is Hari Singh. I have just relocated here, from Mumbai, to work on a project for The Enterprises, and I am told you have the skills to be my assistant."

He said, "Here!" I feel like yelling,Where is here?I still have no idea where I am, except it's a large city in Asia. Instead I say, "Please, Master, this slave doesn't know anything about your project, but this slave is here to serve you in any way you need."

A thought occurs to me. "Master, does your project involve marketing?"

He relaxes, and his smile tells me I have hit the jackpot. I also file away the fact that his smile renders him rather handsome in a Bollywood way. Hell, in an "any kind of wood" way.

"Good," he says. "I have been worrying about the marketing side, since I don't have any experience there. Tell me about your qualifications."

I decide to risk a personal pronoun. "Master, I have a degree in marketing from Dublin City University, but I don't have a lot of experience, apart from a part-time job in a department store. I assisted with displays and advertising." Everything on the table. He doesn't correct me about the "I," so I figure I have gotten away with it, and I feel more relaxed myself.

"Well," he says, "I have some technical work to complete, and then we can talk about marketing. In the meantime, I would like you to enter some data into a spreadsheet, rather a complicated one I'm afraid, and check that the totals are updating correctly in the totals page. Can you do that?"So polite, to a slave!I realise he is asking about my competence, not my willingness, to do the task. I reply, "Master, I think I can complete this task, but if I have difficulties, I will ask for instruction." He beams.

He rises from his chair and offers a hand to help me up. I accept it gratefully, even though I am by now more than capable of rising gracefully from Position One, even after many hours. The computer station has a kind of kneeling chair, which I have heard of, but never seen before. It is supposed to help your posture and prevent backache. I fit myself into it, carefully avoiding contact between the seat part and my buttocks, which are still a bit tingly. He hands me a pile of data sheets and indicates how they are to be entered into the spreadsheet. I set to work and find that it is not too difficult. I check the totals before and after updating, to confirm the spreadsheet has been set up correctly and is updating properly. Mostly it is, but there are some problems, which I can sort out by myself.

While I am doing the data entry, I take a surreptitious inventory of the office, not being sure whether I should be doing this. Besides the desk and computer station, there is a set of cabinets, a coffee table with three easy chairs, and a tiny "kitchenette" with electric jug, coffee maker and microwave. It is impressive, but not sumptuous, so I gather that Hari is quite high up in the office, but not "Top Management." On the other side of the office from where I came in, are glass panels and another door, leading out to an open plan office. I can see people working there. The computer is not connected to the internet. Yes, I checked, and no, I am not going to put that in my report. I also take a few sideways glances at Hari, and each time I find him more attractive. I am aware that he has also been eyeing me.

I finish entering the data and checking the updates, so I print out the totals page and go back to kneel by his desk. This time he says straight away, "Yes, Three?" I say, "Please, Master, I have entered all the data you gave me, checked the updating, and printed the results." I offer him the paper. He takes it, peruses it carefully, then says, "Thank you, Three. This is much more like I expected."

I take another risk. "Master, would you like a cup of tea, or coffee?"

Another payoff! "Yes, I would like some tea, but you won't know how to prepare it the way I like, so I will show you now." He gets up and motions me to follow him over to the bench. It is quite a complicated ritual, heating the glass tea pot with boiling water from the kettle, measuring the tea leaves, pouring more water from the kettle, and, finally, timing the steeping.

He is standing close to me. He doesn't appear to show signs of arousal, being absorbed in showing me the tea-making ritual, but his arm is touching my arm, his leg my leg.

He holds up the packet for me to inspect. "This is high altitude Darjeeling, second flush. I prefer it to first flush, because it is more full-bodied and aromatic, to my taste. See the symbol of the Indian lady on the seal? That is the guarantee of authenticity." He chuckles, "There is much more Darjeeling tea sold than produced." He watches while I carry out the procedure as instructed.

"Pour me a cup when it has finished steeping," he says, "and bring it to the coffee table." I pour the tea into one of the pair of delicate porcelain cups set in the cupboard over the sink.

"Pour yourself a cup, too, and come over here."

I glance around for an ordinary cup, or a plastic mug, something more suitable to my status, but I cannot see anything suitable. Nervously, I pour some tea into the other cup.

Master says, "There's milk in the fridge if you like it that way." I decide I will like it the way he does. I kneel beside his chair and we sip our fragrant tea. Master doesn't say anything about the cup.

He asks me some questions about how I found the data entry task he had given me. I answer, "Master, it was quite exacting, because of having to cross-check the data and results, and from not being familiar with the project, but I believe I have completed it properly." He smiles and says, "Yes, I believe you have. I wanted to see how you would perform with a simple but demanding, possibly boring, task."

He tells me he has only been in Hong Kong —Aha! — for twelve days and has been asking for a suitable assistant. The tea is finished so I take the cups and wash them out, carefully drying and stacking them.

"I have to go to Perth, Australia, on Wednesday," he says. "Go and tell the travel clerk to book me air tickets and hotel for three days." He points to a large Chinese lady by the window. I have no idea what day it is now — there are no weekends for slaves — but I suppose it probably must be Monday, since the office is full, or Tuesday, at the latest, so as to secure a reasonable fare. As I walk through the office, I can feel dozens of eyes on me, and I feel about as naked as I am in the slave corridor. I complete this simple task and, while the lady is making the reservations, I gawk at the stunning distant view of the harbor from the window.

I return with the documents to Master Hari's office. As I hand them to him, he says with a little grin, "It's a pity my budget won't run to an assistant on this trip."

Is he mad? If he took me to Australia, I'd try to escape, wouldn't I. Wouldn't I? Would I? I have just begun to get an inkling of the size and scope of The Enterprises, and, by implication, the power and influence they must wield. Could Iwantto be a slave here? I'm getting the impression I wouldn't mind being anemployee.

These thoughts are messing with my mind, until he says, "Come, we'll have some lunch in the canteen." We go out the back door, down the corridor and down two floors in the lift.

Canteenmust be an Indian idiom, because it turns out to be a very elegant restaurant, much smarter than the one I waitressed in. He is shown to a window table by a young woman of uncertain ethnicity. Isshea slave, I wonder? I am directed to kneel on a cushion. Hari orders, and is soon served with a large plate. He eats, and feeds me, from the same plate. It is some kind of savory omelet, with salad, and is light and delicious. He pours me a glass of mineral water, and one for himself, and chats about his life in Mumbai, how he misses the Tennis club, and how he hopes to return before long. I don't seem to be required to participate, so I concentrate on enjoying the best lunch I have had for a long time.

When we return to the office, he hands me a dossier. "This is the marketing plan for my current project, but I am not satisfied that it is effective. I would like you to read through it and make any notes you feel necessary. Take a pad and pen and work at the coffee table. I say, "Yes, Master, thank you, Master," and settle down. It outlines a plan to introduce some Chinese products into new markets in South East Asia, Australia and New Zealand. Hence the trip to Perth, I guess. It is quite detailed, but as I get into it, I notice any number of problems and deficiencies.

I work my way through the folder, making notes as I go, and Hari — no,Master Hari, mustn't forget— is working on his laptop. From time to time, I'm aware of him gazing at me intensely. I catch his eye once or twice, and look away in my most demure fashion.

Towards the end of the day, I finish up and go to kneel by his desk.

"Three, what do you have to report?"

"Please, Master, there are a number of problems I have identified, especially problems of cultural misunderstanding, which could affect the acceptance of these products in some markets. That and problems of timing the release, due to not recognizing the opposite seasons of the Southern Hemisphere. Master, I have noted all the problems and I have identified them as bullet points."

He takes up the pad and quickly runs down the points. "That was well done, Three." he says. Again, he holds my eye.

I glow.

He leans back in his chair and stretches. Then, standing up as if he has come to an urgent decision, he announces, "Three, come with me."

Something in his tone of voice — a girl gets to pick up these things — suggests I'm going to be fucked.And, I'm really looking forward to it!

We go out of the door into the corridor where I first entered. A few doors away we stop while Hari uses his magnetic card to open a new door. Behind, is a large bedroom suite, furnished with a Queen size bed, wardrobe, drawers, desk and chair and, I guess, an ensuite behind another door.

I move smoothly to Position One, on the plush carpet. Hari sits in the chair.

"Undress," he says.

Well, that would be pretty simple, but I think he might like a bit of entertainment with it. I undo the top buttons of the jacket as I rise, but then turn my back, flicking my red hair, now grown long since my capture, as I do. It tumbles nearly halfway down my back. I undo another button and slip the jacket off my shoulders, not forgetting to wiggle my bum. Next, the last of the buttons, and the jacket slides off to the floor. I turn, going into Inspection Position, my hands behind my head, which raises my breasts to extra perkiness, and my feet as far apart as the skirt allows. My nipples are already erect.

His face tells me I made a good choice.

I wait for just a few seconds, then unhook the skirt band, unzip the zipper, and let it slither slowly to the ground. Kicking off my pumps, I quickly pick up the skirt and jacket, laying them on the drawer top, and glide back to Position One.

Master Hari stands up and moves towards me. "Help me undress, Three." Husky.

I rise and get up close, putting my arms on his chest. I undo his tie and slide it out of his shirt collar. I can already feel him beginning to stir. I put my arms around him and press myself against him, as tightly as I can. Next, his shirt, slowly, button by button, until I can pull it out of his pants and slip it off. He doesn't wear a singlet, a sensible omission in this climate. He is slim but muscular with a scattering of black hair. I kiss and suck each nipple.

For the lower half, I start with his shoes and socks, kneeling again and bending completely forward, my bum in the air, almost Obeisance Position. I know that this will show off my slender waist and the flare of my hips to the hemispheres of my buttocks, not to mention the stripes from my caning. I am certain that this view of submissive womanhood, complemented by the hair veiling my back, would be exciting to any man.

I rise up on my knees to deal with his belt, which I slide out of the loops. I present it to him, as if he had meant to strap me. He grasps the symbolism of this move and says, "Thank you, Three. Place it on the bed." As if he means to use it later. I secretly hope he doesn't.

I slide open the catch on his trousers, slide the zip, and slowly draw them down, pressing my cheek into his shorts as I do. He lifts each leg to free his pants, and now there is only one more step. I gently release his rigid penis from the prison of his shorts and whip them off. Now there are just two naked people. Except for my collar, of course, and that is not easily removable. I imagine the tableau, as if an observer, Master and slave.

I begin by running my hands lightly over his thighs and buttocks. There is a noticeable strengthening of his erection. Softly, I stroke his ball sac and run my tongue along his length, closing my lips over the glans. He strokes my hair and shoulders and sits down on the bed. Now I can attack from a much easier angle. As I shuffle forward a bit, and take more of his length into my mouth, I use my tongue, suction, and movement to build his arousal. He seems to have an extraordinary amount of self-control, because, although he is hard, he does not seem to be coming close to satisfaction. He is breathing heavily, though, so I am happy to carry on.

"Stop now, Three," he says.

Damn! I thought I was really getting the hang of this oral sex at last. I let him slip out of my mouth.

He is disappointed! He will mark me down for correction!

But no, he wants me to join him on the bed, so I clamber up beside him, and see a look of contentment on his face. There is a long but light chain attached to the wall above the bed. Master Hari clips the end to my collar. The chain doesn't really restrict my movement, but a slave should always be restrained for a sexual encounter.

He strokes my face, and kisses me, on the eyes, on the mouth. "No hurry," he says. I relax, arch my back, as he wants to hold my breasts, to pinch and suck the nipples. I am becoming more and more aroused, and I can feel the lubrication mounting in my vagina. I run my hands over his back and chest in reply and reach down to grasp his erection. It is throbbing. He rises up and I part my legs, thinking he will enter me now, but instead he strokes my belly.

Trickling down to my vulva, he inserts a finger and circles my clit. He alternates between filling my cunt with his fingers and tweaking and teasing my clit, until I am squirming with mounting passion.

Suddenly — Oh my God, he is going to go down on me! I open my legs as widely as I can as he leans over and kisses the mons, then kissing and nibbling all around the labia, until he lands on my clit and I shiver, as if a jolt of electricity has hit me. I cry out, and grab hold of his cock. I want this in me, but his tongue slips in between my lips, his forehead pushing on the thighs. He goes to work on my sex, inserting a finger, then another. Moving again, his cock slips out of my hand, but now he has positioned himself between my legs and is moving against my slit. I thrust up my pelvis and he slides in, filling me completely. I hold him tightly around his back, crying "Master!"

His movements begin, slow and steady. My breath comes in short gasps and I hear myself begin to moan, but I sense he still has complete control, and remember I must ask permission for my orgasm, which will surely come.

A few more strokes and he whispers, "Come on top of me, I want to play with your breasts."

Taking care not to lose him from my canal, I roll to one side, until he is underneath. I lie for a moment on his chest, my hair flowing down like a curtain, then I rise up and feel his penis pressed tightly against the front of my vagina, the base pressing on my clit. I am further excited now, by the freedom and control I have over the angle and penetration. He reaches up and strokes my breasts, and tweaks the nipples, as I move above him. My hair is flying about like a halo. I have almost lost control, but I call out, "Please, Master, permission to come!"