48 Hours on Blue Bayou Pt. 37: Julie

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Chapter Eighty-Seven: There's Always a First Time

Fifteen comes for me in the morning, just as she came for me last night. Then, she brought me to my trainer Igor's apartment. Several hours later, she picked me up — literally: that man wore me out! Fifteen had to help me stand as we waited for the elevator back to my room. Now, she's scheduled to bring me to the gym, where my trainer will try to wear me out again, this time by making love to weight machines and a treadmill.

After a stop at the kitchen for some juice and a bit of cereal, I enter Transport Mode as automatically as usual. Fifteen has not said anything since "Good morning," and, as any slave will, I'm wondering if this has any meaning. Perhaps my status has now risen to a bit above hers? That would make her reluctant to initiate a conversation. Perhaps my status has fallen to another low? That would make any conversation irrelevant.

Fifteen parks the handcuffs on my right wrist, as usual, and Igor welcomes me with a big smile. Again, I wonder what it means. Is he remembering — happily, I hope — last night's lovemaking? Or, is he gleefully planning some new, and enlarged, stresses on his machines?

It turns out to be a bit of both. Igor remarks that he enjoyed last night and that he slept well. His voice changes a bit as he asks if I slept well?

My answer, of course, is automatic. "Yes, Sir, quite well. Thank you, Sir." My Inner Goddess pokes my rib and points out that this is not one of the routine questions trainers ask of a slave. I break out a fine blush as I cast about for a better answer.

Igor's laugh washes that need away. "OK, kid. Today's program focusses on your neck, upper back, and upper extremities. I've got the machines set up a bit differently from the usual."

He takes me through some range-of-motion exercises and then some resistance exercises. In about a half-hour, I am convinced that my trapezius muscles are the largest muscles in my body, mainly because I ache from my skull down to my hips. Igor has me sit on a low stool while he massages this territory, and I begin to get the same glow I got last night.

When the ache is about gone, Igor reaches under my arms to continue the massage on my breasts. In a few moments, he instructs me to start a massage on my front to match his efforts. I run my hands over my shoulders and down the sides of my ribcage and, quickly, my hands come to cup my breasts.

I lift and my breasts feel heavier than usual. I circle the "girls," feeling the smoothness of the skin. There seems to be sparks of energy leading to a pebbling of the skin. As I get closer to the areolae, I feel my nipples engorging. I remember the feelings after Anton's vacuum tube testing, and this feels even better.

My trainer comes around to face me, watching me work on my breasts. I am climbing the rainbow of arousal, but slowly, not sure where or what my trainer wants.

He drops his shorts and brings his erect cock to my breasts. I enfold his lance and move my now-sensitive breasts on his cock. He is so hard that the friction makes me climb the rainbow a bit faster. I am just about to plead for Permission to Orgasm when his cock seems to swell a bit and his jism spurts out. With the first spurts, my face and hair get decorated. As his climax wanes, my neck and chest are splattered.

His cock softens and drops out from between my breasts. Igor's hands return to the "frontal massage" he had prescribed. Slowly, ever so slowly, I come down the rainbow. When we both are back to "normal," I reach for his cock, bring it to my mouth, and clean my trainer.

As I work, Igor clears his throat and says, "My dear, that was the first time I've come just from a breast fuck. I'm not trying to make a joke, but it seems as if there is no part of you that isn't golden."

Well, when a Master or trainer gives you such a compliment, you can be excused for having to giggle, can't you? Fifteen appears and her face shows some concern, and puzzlement, at this display of levity, but Igor waves and thanks her for, as usual, her appearance at just the right time. I am returned to the kitchen for a proper breakfast with Pat and Anne.

Edward shows up and I prepare a cup of tea for him before he asks. He takes a sip, smiles, and tells me, "Julie, thank you, it's just as I like it." I'm not sure whether it's how I prepared his tea or how "decorated" I still am from my trainer.

I get that inner feeling of satisfaction, again. I notice that he's said Thank you, also.

Edward has a file for me. "Here's the latest financials for the Opera. The accountants tell me that you're OK, at least for now. You visit the Opera this afternoon, so you have a bit of time this morning to go over these figures and charts. Do you know with whom to discuss these at the Opera? Someone who can answer any questions you might have?"

"Yes, Sir," I answer. "Mrs. Ping seems to know just about everything in the organization, and most of the staff treats her like a local supervisor."

Pat grins and adds, "There's almost always someone like that in any organization. Whatever they have in personality or skill, people just gravitate to them. I've come to think of that as the best definition of 'leadership.' Now, Anne and I will take over the First Lady's List for today."

I clean up the dishes and prepare the kitchen for whatever my Master's afternoon meetings will require. Back in my room, I get a quick shower and start to review Edward's file, but then my Inner Goddess reminds me to test the door. The handle turns and the door opens; the click is just the latch. For a moment, I wonder how long it has not been the lock.

The Reception staff calls and tells me that my ride to the Opera will be at the door in five minutes. I collect Edward's file and my notes and make it to the lobby just as a Security crew comes through the door. He waves to me and we set out in the ever-present traffic for the Opera offices.

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Chapter Eighty-Eight: I Face the Competition

It's a nice day, and I pay no mind to the traffic. A block or two from the Opera offices, the Security crew pulls over and says, "Julie, at the rate we're moving, you'll get to the office faster walking the block or two more. OK?"

I grin my thanks and leave the SUV. A glance around orients me and I head off, feeling the busy crowd around me, everyone rushing to be productive in their own universe.

As I'm crossing a street, I get a small push from behind and stumble a bit into the man in front of me. He turns and, as I'm about to beg his pardon, he gently thrusts the biggest gun I've ever seen into my abdomen.

"OK, kid, this is a real gun, and I'm really ready to use it, so you better be really ready to come with me. Right, kid?"

Part of me registers that this is about the corniest "Pick-Up Line" I've ever heard. Most of me is being more practical. I gasp out a weak "Yes, Sir. Follow you. Just don't hurt me, please?"

I register that this, also, is not a Shakespearean response, but I certainly don't want a spray of bullets among all these pedestrians. With the first man close behind me, I follow the gun across the street to a small van whose side door opens and the man holding the gun pushes me inside; the man behind me follows. The door slams and it takes me a moment to adjust to the dim light.

When my vision returns, I see a bench running along the opposite wall, with two young women sitting on it. Handcuffs, linking their hands, are raised almost to the van's roof where a simple hook secures them. Seatbelts hold the women's waists secure, while each ankle is shackled to a D-ring in the van's floor. Duct tape is plastered across their mouths.

A middle-aged woman dressed in a leather vest and leather jeans, waves me to the bench. She grabs my file folder and drops it into a box. As she handcuffs me, she remarks to the man, "Nicely done, Jim. Just the right amount of push to make it look so innocent. Get another set of shackles for her legs, would you?" The van's front door slams and the van begins to move.

My handcuffs are hooked to the roof and the woman starts belting me to the bench. "Jim" fishes some shackles from a box and, before I even think of kicking him someplace, he's got my ankles secured.

Dozens of thoughts run through my head, but I realize I need some information before my captors gag me and prevent any communication.

"Please, just tell me what's going on?" I'm a bit embarrassed that my voice is so squeaky and weak, but, then, I realize that this is not going to seem threatening or aggressive, and so might buy me a few more minutes.

"Jim" pats me on the head and says, "Kid, you've been captured by a slaver gang. You're going to be the star at a party we've got set up tomorrow night. Aren't you lucky?"

The woman frowns at this. "Jim, it's better to keep them in the dark. That way, they show off better. Just follow our leads, OK?"

I see a small flush in Jim's face and he gets busy cutting a few strips of duct tape for my mouth. I'm beginning to put things in order. The man with the gun is probably now driving. The woman looks to be in charge. Jim is probably the newbie on this crew. If we're going to "star" at a party, it is probably going to be a slave auction. With no time allotted to training or preparing the "stars," this is probably not an elite House of Slavery like the one in Guangzhou. A quick thought flashes in my mind: This time, I won't even get the three positions Albert taught us.

There is no further conversation in the van and I concentrate on listening for clues. There is a short time when I hear some shipping whistles, the van seems to drop down several feet and the sound changes: a tunnel? We're being taken off the island!

Not long after, the van slows, drives across some uneven terrain, and comes to a stop. Doors open and a flood of men and women surround the three new slaves. Our shackles are loosed, but the handcuffs remain. We are marched across a lawn, down a short flight of stairs, and into a basement corridor. A glance around tells me this is another slave corridor!

A short, pudgy Oriental man stands in the center of the corridor and we are arrayed before him. His eyes show no emotion as he inspects us.

"Welcome to my estate," he says, and his voice is flat, unemotional. "You are now slaves — units of merchandise. You will be auctioned off to the highest bidder tomorrow evening. There is no escape, so my advice is to prepare yourself for your new life. This life will be one of service to your new Owner. If you serve well, you very likely will be treated well. If you don't — well, I'm sure you can imagine what punishments your Owners will give you. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out on which side your bread is buttered, does it?"

Of course, his question goes unanswered. I've heard this speech — or one like it — a few times before: from Albert and his crew, from Martin, Igor, Pat, and Anne, and from the auction team at Guangzhou.

The next command is about as expected. "We're going to remove your handcuffs now. The first thing I want you to do is reach up and peel off the duct tape on your mouths. I don't want to hear a sound from you except maybe for some breathing. You might think of this silence as your first service to me, your new Owner. That's the kind of thought a slave has, and the sooner you start thinking like a slave, the better slave you'll be, and the safer you'll be."

There is a short flurry of activity and my hands are freed. I pick at the duct tape and, with just a bit of pain, it comes off. I'm not sure what to do next, so I just stand and wait. The other two women are not as quiet. One is crying, with some loud wails mixed with some foreign speech. The other makes an effort to run back to the corridor doors. Both are roughly grabbed and pushed to the center of the corridor.

Our new Owner remains calm; I'm guessing that this is not the first lot of "merchandise" he's handled. He reaches out to the sobbing woman and slaps her face, a short back and forth blow. The blow is repeated on the woman who tried to run.

"You see," he says calmly. "Punishment is immediate when you don't serve. If you continue this 'not serving' behavior, the punishments get harsher. You had better understand this. We don't care if you show up at auction showing a beating. In fact, for some of our Buyers, it might improve your selling price."

I'm getting more certain that this slaver organization is not at the level of my Master, or the Empress. I wonder if they will ever know what has become of me?

The two women are now silent, standing with heads down, at least for the moment, broken. The Owner looks at me, some curiosity showing in his expression.

"And you, nothing to say, no rebellion to show?"

Well, I'm a trained slave, right? I know what to do, don't I? So, I glide slowly and sinuously into Position One and move my hands to the small of my back. I hold the Owner's gaze with my eyes (something I would never do with my Master or his trainers) and take my deep breath.

"Please, Master, I am already a slave. I was bought by my Owner and Master almost a year ago. My Owner's name is Martin, and he is the owner of The Enterprises. My name is Julie and I am in training for evaluation by the Empress for First Slave status."

I have fired the only shot I have, that I already belong to a bigger Master than this man. Even he should know the rule that one Owner doesn't take another Owner's slave, doesn't even presume to use another's slave.

This Owner, to give him credit, doesn't bat an eye. Behind me, however, I hear a few muttered "Oh, shit!" and "Damn it all!" comments. He shifts a bit and comes right back at me.

"You can prove this?"

Well, my Master has not provided me with a collar, for some reason, so I can't show that. He hasn't tattooed a Registry Number on my ass or breast. I'm running out of ideas when the Opera file pops into my mind.

"Please, Master, I was carrying my Master's file for my work on his latest project, the Opera. It will show his trust in his slave that he sent me to the Opera today to plan some future events."

There is a small commotion behind me and the woman from my van brings up the folder I was carrying when I was captured. I know there are several pages of letterhead, along with lots of financial tables, in the folder. Now, I wait to see if they will have any effect on this slaver.

I don't see any, but the Owner returns the folder to the woman and waves her away. She leaves and the Owner points to Jim and says, "Put this one in Cell One."

Jim grabs my arm, drags me to a cell, shoves me inside, and slams the door. I hear the lock clunk into place and, for the moment, I am safe. The Owner gives a series of orders to the other Guards and the other two women are taken to a large cell across from my cell where they are made to strip. A shower in one corner cleans them and, naked and barefoot, they are marched down the corridor to another room. A quick glance at their faces shows fear and terror in each.

For a while, the corridor is quiet. A few guards work at computer workstations. A small Oriental man shows up with a mop and bucket and the corridor floor, but not my cell, gets a cleaning. As he passes by, he grins at me and my Chinese skills allow me to understand his advice: "Best if you do not resist. Just do what they order, and quickly." It's the same advice I'd been given since Albert took over the Blue Bayou. I smile back and offer a small curtsey.

When the two women are brought back to their cell, I notice small bandages in front of their elbows and on the side of their upper arms. Blood drawn for tests and immunization or contraception shots given, I guess. I'm a bit surprised by these details, but then realize that even low-level slavers would want to maintain a reputation for "healthy merchandise."

The woman from my van comes up to my cell and passes my file through the bars. "Here you go, Julie. You're the best one to take care of this."

She manages a small smile and continues. "I've called The Enterprises and managed to talk with someone called Edward, who said he was in Management. Do you know him?"

I grin and reply, "Yes, Ma'am, he's quite senior."

She nods. "He seemed not too surprised to learn you had been taken by our team. He even complimented me on making this call so quickly. How could he do that?"

I'm just as mystified, but my Inner Goddess suggests I do nothing to explain how The Enterprises work their magic. It might give them more leverage in getting me back, she suggests. I manage a simple shrug of my shoulders.

Her smile fades a bit, but she lets slip a bit more information. "He said he'd check with the 'proper people' and get back to me. He took my number here and rang off." Her smile is now a frown. "He didn't even ask what we'd want to return you. That's weird, don't you think?"

I think this is weird, all right, but I give another shrug and observe, "Please, Ma'am, it's a big organization and they probably have some routines they have to follow."

There is a bit of a pause and she shakes her head. "OK, we'll just wait and see. Now, if you need anything, just ask the guards to call Celia, that's me."

I drop another curtsey. Celia moves to talk with the guards and then goes off the corridor.

A check through the file shows all the papers present, although their order has been messed up. As I re-arrange the papers, I try to imagine what Edward will be doing at The Enterprises. I'm pretty sure the Empress will get a call — it could even be that her spy service was the one that alerted Edward first!

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Chapter Eighty-Nine: The First Night Is the Toughest

The evening Food Cart comes by with a plastic container for each new slave. My container is a bowl holding a pretty good portion of some kind of stew: lots of vegetables and a few chunks of some kind of meat with some brown sauce. It's a bit salty for my taste, but I know better than to criticize the local chef.

As a guard passes, I raise a hand, the global signal for a question. He stops, a look of surprise on his face, and asks me what I want.

"Please, Sir, is it permitted to talk with the other new slaves?"

He grins and says, "Sure, kid, just as long as you're not plotting an escape?"

I respond with a short laugh — I've learned to "appreciate" any humor my guards provide.

The two women are immediately at the bars of their cell. "How can you be so casual? We're both scared to death."

I give a small wave and explain that I was captured a long time ago. "I really have been a slave, so I know exactly how the two of you are feeling. There's just a bit of encouragement I can offer, if you want to hear it."

I'm about to offer some comfort when the small Oriental man reappears, this time with a pushbroom. Again, the corridor gets polished, but not our cells.

The women give nods and waves, so I continue. "Please don't think I'm trying to be superior or elitist. It's just that I went through this introduction to slavery myself. You may think that slavery is illegal, or at least old-fashioned, but you're wrong. Powerful people still want to have slaves, so there are slavers to provide what they call 'merchandise,' or 'units.' People can hire a woman for any job, any service. That gets them a body. With a slave, however, they get a soul.

"Until you get sold to a permanent owner, you can probably depend on the slavers not damaging you too much. After all, damaged goods bring lower prices.

"As for prices, you want to be sold at the highest price possible. High prices mean a better Owner. So, if they let any prospective buyer look you over, it's in your interest to act as interested as possible in the buyer, as submissive and as sexy as possible. Do anything you can do to get the best buyer interested in you. This is the only way you can show yourself as more than a bunch of holes for your Buyer to plug whenever and however he or she wants.