48 Hours on Blue Bayou Pt. 43: Igor

48 Hours on Blue Bayou: Part 43, Igor's Tale, Part 1

Author's Note: Thank you to all our Dear Readers who have been patient while I was Out of Contact. I also owe thanks to my co-authors, Carole48 and Taliesin1, who managed to keep our saga on course.

In this Part, we turn to the story of one of Martin's lieutenants, Igor. He was the crewman who introduced Julie to slavery on Martin's yacht after the auction on Blue Bayou. Igor's tale, of course, will affect our Heroine, Julie.

Your Comments, as usual, are invited and welcome!

• J Spe

Chapter 115: Getting Straight

I suppose the best way to start my story is at the beginning. It wasn't a very promising start, I'm afraid. I grew up in East St. Louis, which is just east of St. Louis, but in the state of Illinois. We had some "prestige" issues in those days; the big city had the prestige, while we had lower class neighborhoods, lower class businesses, and lower class people. Don't get me wrong: my friends in my neighborhood would give you the shirts off their backs, as the saying goes, if you were in trouble. It just wasn't a very stylish shirt, I'm afraid. And, sometimes, it had a hole somewhere.

It was in high school, another of the problems of our town, that I got into the sort of trouble that someone's shirt wasn't going to help solve. The principal came up with one of the solutions popular back then. Get the kid out of our hair by getting him out of town. That meant getting him into the Army and hoping the military would "straighten him out."

For me, it turned out to be the US Marines. And, looking back on my tours of service, I suppose it worked out like they hoped. I moved through the Marines' Ground Combat Element — that's the guys who "assert battlefield dominance" — pretty much on schedule: Private First Class, Lance Corporal, Corporal, Sergeant, Staff Sergeant, and, almost, Gunnery Sergeant. I had two tours in Iraq leading platoons of Marines. Along the way, I got my GED, the high school equivalency diploma, and even picked up enough college courses in Exercise Science and Kinesiology to get a Teacher Certificate in Physical Education. I was about to be promoted to Gunny when my enlistment term ran out. I suppose I could have re-enlisted and taken the promotion, even though it meant being tied to a desk job, but I'd had about enough of war. And then, of course, there was the call from Albert.

Albert had been one of the officers I served under. Actually, because of the kind of officer he was, I really served with him. Anyway, he'd gotten into some kind of "teaching job," he said, and the school needed more teachers, and would I be interested in working with nice young boys and girls in a nice environment where my talents would be appreciated?

Sounds like a good job, right? Well, I knew enough not to agree to anything over the telephone, even when it came from what the Corps fondly calls a "brotherhood that lasts a lifetime." He sent a ticket to Miami, where I joined him aboard a good-sized cruiser. The next night, we went out and trailed a small pleasure boat for two days, reconnoitering the crew and passengers. They seemed like regular folks to me, but Albert called them some less-than-favorable names, including "fodder" and "lunch."

On the second night, I found out what this "school" was about. Albert's crew hijacked the boat and sold the passengers and crew to a slaver organization, keeping two of the women for himself. It was these women he wanted me to "school." And the curriculum of the school was to be sexual arts, mostly how to please a man using whatever parts of herself the man showed any interest in.

At a small villa on one of the offshore islands, Albert demonstrated some of the educational techniques on these two "students." They were kept hungry, thirsty, naked, restrained (with handcuffs or ropes) and assaulted, mostly verbally and sexually, but also with spanking and flogging when they broke any of the "rules" Albert laid down for them. This combination of physical and psychological stresses produced docile slaves within a couple of weeks, just the time I had taken for "leave."

I was suitably impressed. It was nice to have a willing female at my beck and call, especially when "willing" meant anything I could think of.

However, Albert pointed out that this was just the basic level of slavery. "These girls will perform, of course, but they actually are a 'high maintenance' companion," he said, requiring constant attention and effort to keep them "willing." What he wanted was a higher-level slave. He had seen what some other slavers could produce, and he was, to be blunt, jealous of their product. What he wanted was slaves who would choose to be submissive, who would learn to love their Owners and Masters, and who would strive to bring these Owners and Masters the highest sexual gratification.

In return, Albert was willing for these slaves to also experience their own sexual satisfactions. "I don't need to be a 'dog in the manger,'" he added. He showed me that, for an Owner, watching his slave gripped in a magnificent orgasm was a terrific experience and cost nothing. In fact, he had stories of slaves who ignored possibilities for escape just so they could maintain such an active sex life.

I was willing to accept all this as Albert laid it out. The "dominance" I had been trained for was purely in military situations. Still, working with a beautiful female had a lot to recommend it over a bunch of grunts!

"OK," I agreed, "so, how do you see me in this new world?"

"I remembered you had gotten a Teacher Certificate some years back. So, I figured you knew how to inspire and motivate students. That's what these new slaves need: inspiration and motivation. I've changed their lives completely. Now, I want them to do more than just accept their new lives; I want them to actively embrace it."

I had to chuckle a bit at Albert's Grand Scheme. "You have me mixed up with a guy named Svengali. How do you figure I could do this?"

Albert joined me in a bit of laughter. "It shouldn't be hard. Look, people have been training slaves for centuries, millennia, probably. And, I've seen the product of some Houses of Slavery. If you sign on, I'll send you around to a few Houses so you can get the training you need."

I could see Albert had given this some real thought. "OK, but won't these other Houses of Slavery balk at training a competitor?"

"Good point," he answered. "You'd think so, but it doesn't actually work out that way. Each House has its particular brand of slave, trained up to its particular standards. Each House also has its range of buyers, its 'market,' you might say. My House isn't likely to be in direct competition with them, so there shouldn't be that kind of hitch. Besides, I've supplied fresh meat for these guys — actually, some of them are women — so we've got friends out there."

I caught his last pronoun and jumped on it. "Who's this 'we' you're talking about? Don't start counting on me just yet!"

Albert just laughed. "Go back to Camp and think for a few days or so. Pretty soon, you'll have a decision about re-upping or coming to work with me. Let me know and we'll go from there."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 116: Albert Sends Another Ticket

Looking back, it seems like it was a no-brainer, but, at the time, I wasn't sure about anything. I suppose the thing that made the decision for me was the chance to try something new, something completely out of my experience. It was only later that I realized that training slaves is not altogether different from training new recruits. The manuals use the line "We break them down and then build them up." What works for grunts also works for slaves, at least from the Thirty Thousand Feet overview.

My next ticket from Albert was an overnight, non-stop American Airlines flight, Business Class, from New York's JFK to Barcelona-El Prat airport. At the baggage area, a sign with my name put me, or at least my suitcase, into the hands of a young man who got me through the customs and passport stages like a VIP and, after a running commentary on the history of Barcelona, deposited me at the start of a half-day tour of the city by electric bike, by cable car to Montjuic (where the views of the city and coast were outstanding), and by sailing ship along the port and beaches of the city.

Exploring this major metropolis, one of the most important trading centers of the world, with the major commercial and cultural venues to support it, was quite pleasant. The guides were uniformly knowledgeable and helpful, with the young man, probably one of Albert's staffers, adding an insight on occasion. At the completion of the tour, he tipped the guides handsomely (to judge by the wide smiles the guides gave us), and he called a taxi to take us to the Olympic Port.

This port catered to a more personal type of craft. We boarded a two-masted schooner, the Flying Ferry, and were greeted by a beautiful young woman bearing a tray with flutes of Champagne. The young man thanked the woman and she fell to her knees, a brilliant smile lighting up her face. "Thank you, Master," was all she said. It was clear that this woman was a slave, but one of the slaves trained to that "higher standard" that Albert had discussed. I began to see how hard this job could be: how do you even think of training a slave to have that reaction to a simple Thank you, let alone How do you get that perfect a smile and body position?

The sailors easily got the craft underway, using the diesel engine rather than any sails, and we made our way into the Balearic Sea, headed south to the port of Mahon on the island of Minorca. I would have been happy to stay on deck, watching the water and the maritime traffic, but my guide had another plan.

He took me below deck to show me a stateroom where my suitcase had been placed on a small shelf. Next was a large room, probably the main hold, I guessed. And, to be truthful, it did contain some cargo. But, this cargo wasn't the standard machinery, boxes, cartons, or pallets of produce. The cargo was young women, each one naked, held in cages built into the hold. There were probably about two dozen cages, with a half-dozen cages each holding a single captive.

"We can carry up to about a hundred units, if necessary," my guide announced, "but tonight's cruise is just to pick up part of a shipment that got delayed in transit. These units were taken in the last day or two, and we've secured them in individual cages just for general precautions."

A closer look showed these "precautions" included wrist and ankle shackles, with short chains from each cuff to a central steel ring. "The chains are based on the idea of a sirik, which is an ancient arrangement of chains for slaves, but this is a much lighter, although more restrictive, arrangement. Sometimes, we add gags, but these units have been told that we will excuse those as long as they are silent. It's all part of the initial conditioning protocols."

I had a bunch of questions, of course, but I kept them to myself for the time being. If these "newbies" were going to be part of my responsibility, it wouldn't do to have them know how new I was. As a finish to the tour, the young man pointed out the "environmental controls" in the hold: cameras and microphones arranged to cover each cage from two or three perspectives, showerheads in each cage, with floors gently sloping to drains at the back of each cage. Although there were no windows, there were enough lighting fixtures to provide good light throughout the hold. Air handlers kept the atmosphere fresh.

My guide brought me to the crew dining room, where he introduced me to the crew — men and women — as "Albert's new assistant." It seemed to generate some respect in the looks I got.

"I'm looking forward to working with Albert again," I said, insinuating that I had a longterm relationship with the boss. "Still, some of this job is going to be new to me. For instance, how come we're using a sailing ship?"

The laughter, quiet but obvious, dissipated any bit of "experience" I might have built up.

One of the crew-women, probably in her mid-thirties and sporting a huge grin, explained. "This ship's design is based on the Turkish goleta. It's in the line from schooners built at Bodrum, and is credited with speed, its large back deck, spacious chamber design and low board. It is in the tradition of the famous master, Ziya Guvendiren of Bodrum. We've added a modern diesel engine to make it a great ship for carrying our cargoes. Our time to Mahon, for example, should be below seven hours."

I smiled my thanks for her answer and, abandoning any pretense of experience, asked a few more questions. I learned that these girls, who were casually called "units of merchandise," had been captured within the past two or three days and, aside from losing their clothes and control over their bodies and speech, were completely unchanged. That would start with their landing at "the School."

"We don't want the units 'frozen with fear,'" one of the crew said. "There will be plenty of fear once they get into their training, but we want them to know that we don't plan to harm them. What would be the purpose of harming a potentially valuable asset? So, we tell them that from the start. And, we don't simply rape or beat any of them. Mostly, that gets them through the first parts of training."

The Captain contributed an important piece of information. "Usually, these girls don't know anything about slavery. Maybe they've had a boyfriend or two, but they haven't traveled in the circles of our prime market where these men, or women, want slaves because they want to own someone, to control someone. That's the pleasure of owning a slave: you get complete control: body, mind, and soul. You can mold a slave however you wish. And, they have to comply. The First Law of Slavery is Slaves Never Win. Anything the Owner wants, he or she gets. For the Owner, that's a terrific feeling, worth whatever it costs."

I didn't know there were Laws for slavery, so that was an interesting point. I had heard about the "Exchange of Power," by which the Owner had all the power and the slave had none, becoming dependent on the Owner for everything, starting from air to breathe. We talked for almost an hour before I decided to call it a day.

The ferry crossing was uneventful, something I gathered the slavers preferred. We docked around 4:00 AM and Albert greeted me warmly. The new slaves, locked into a coffle by chains from one girl to the next, were marched onto the dock and transferred to a van which took them to the School. There, they were lined up for inspection under the eyes of the "trainers." None of the girls stood as straight as the marines I had been responsible for, a fact that Albert chuckled over. "We'll have to do something about that. I'll see that it's added to their schedule."

The inspection seemed to go on for a long time, and without anything happening. A trainer would pass across the line of girls and, seemingly on a whim, stop at a girl, look her over like a piece of meat at a butcher shop, perhaps fondle, stroke, or pinch a piece of flesh, and then move on.

Albert explained, softly. "The girls don't know what the trainer is doing, or what he's looking for. Actually, he isn't looking for anything particular. This exercise is to get the new slaves to think that there's something they should be showing their Owner, or to wonder if there was something they did wrong, or failed to do up to standards. It's a mind game, really. Later, we explain to the new slaves that they owe their Owner a duty: it is to be ready to do anything, or have anything ready, their Owner might want or need in the next moments. It makes them focus on their Owner, rather than on themselves."

My grin probably announced my agreement with this program. I was beginning to see how the Owner-slave dynamic worked. All the power was with the Owner; the slave had none. Of course, later on, I would learn that slaves actually do have some power: their offering or withholding of their submission, the property that gives their Owners such pleasure.

The crack of a short whip announced the end of the Inspection. The coffle was marched into a large building in the center of the School's complex.

Albert gave me a slap on the back and ordered, "Gunny, follow this slave to your quarters. He'll show you how to work the lights and stuff, and he'll wake you in the morning. Welcome to The School."

Morning came with a gentle wake-up by the slave assigned to me by Albert. It was a strange feeling; for years, I had been awakened by the sounds of "First Call" and "Reveille." Now it was a gentle male voice; the Corps did not feature gentle male voices. I turned over and wondered what awakening to a gentle female voice would be like. While getting dressed, my thoughts wandered to some other bugle calls. Each nation's military, of course, had its own calls. When I'd been at other bases, naturally, they had always sounded strange. I filed a mental request for a female-voice wake-up, but, then, wondered if Albert had some female voices that were as strident as any voice from the Corps. I went to breakfast in a good mood.

~~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 117: You Can't Slug a Guard

Everyone else was not in a good mood. It seemed that one of the new units we'd brought last night had slugged a guard and tried to break out of her cell. Of course, other guards, who had been watching via the surveillance cameras, had immediately responded and corralled the rebel. Amidst some admiration for her pluck and ability to move while wearing her chains, there was no doubt that a severe punishment was called for.

This was where I learned some of Albert's way of doing things. He wasn't calling for a "punishment," which he called a "harsh, scary term." Rather, he was asking for an appropriate "correction." I could see the distinction, but wondered if just using a different term made the action less painful? My guide grinned and ventured, "Probably not physically less. Still, we've found that it makes a psychological difference. And, that's more important in the training these slaves undergo."

I listened to the various actions the team suggested. As one guard noted, the fact that she had actually hit a guard meant that she had to be hit as part of the correction. One trainer favored a spanking, suggesting the humiliation would reinforce the pain in her ass. Most, however, favored some type of whipping, using either a standard cat o'-nine tails or a single-tail long whip.

Albert seemed to prolong the discussion, and I guessed that he wasn't happy with the suggestions. Most seemed to me to be at least partially offered by team members who had been embarrassed by their loss of control of the slave.

Without really thinking it through, I raised my hand and Albert called on me. "Sir," I began, "I understand that this slave is just in her first days. There are probably going to be lots of chances to administer corporal punishment over her training course. What we really want to accomplish at this stage, I think, is to get the slave to give up her rebellion, to see that she is a slave, and to see that she owes her Owner and Masters proper respect. The idea I'd want to plant is that resistance is futile and that the rest of her life will be so much better if she accepts this new reality."

I wasn't sure if this was actually true, but it seemed as logical as a severe whipping to me. But, the more experienced members of the team all seemed united on the whipping. So, I quit there and sat back waiting for their reaction.