Voyager

My arrogant walk is in stark contrast to the other girls we pass. The Asian and Latin women all are all bare breasted and collared, with a red sash around their hips. They all look docile and subservient--cowed. The black girls are all dressed in a tiny white loincloth that barely covers their hard round asses. They are all hobbled with short chains at their knees and elbows. They all look dangerous and surly. Stereotypes! Amazingly, everyone here has been forced into a particular stereotype. The white girls, who all seem to be tall, thin, and athletic, either wear the leathers or are nude. They are all on a leash like me or part of a coffle accompanied by a guard. It's as if the white girls are valuable, while the non-whites are not.

The psychological impact of being clothed is also amazing; it's impossible to walk past a half naked girl, white, yellow, or black, and not feel superior. I wonder if the people who run this place purposely cultivate racism as a way to keep the CELTs divided.

We enter the anteroom of an important looking office. The faggot checks with a male secretary then leaves after chaining me to a wall ring. I glance back at the man who is clearly appraising me out of the corner of his eye. In a few minutes, the door opens and the tall man walks out.

"Please come in, Jesse," he said pleasantly as he unhooks me from the wall. Fucking hypocrite; just a few hours ago he was torturing me, now he's being sociable. I want to smash his smug Russian face into the wall, but instead just follow him inside and stand respectfully until he points to the chair. The desk is empty except for a clipboard which is positioned in the exact center.

"My name is Grigoriy Yelena Nemov," he begins. "You can call me Mr. Nemov." "For all practical purposes, I am your contract owner." He speaks slowly and clearly as if I am a little slow. "Your formal owner is a Russian holding company called RDE, Ltd. which you've probably never heard of; it's incorporated in Switzerland." "First, let me remind you that you have the right to protest your treatment here at any time as per our agreement. Our staff understands this and all you need to do is say the word 'protest' and you will immediately be taken to a telephone." I nod, but stay silent. This is obviously the party line; I want to hear the kicker before reacting.

"Contract girls who protest their treatment here are segregated from the others until the issue is resolved. If the protest leads to your repatriation back into..." he consults the papers in front of him, "the U.S., our policy is to immediately stop all contract payments and sue you for any payments already made. Do you understand?"

I nod again. So far, this is standard procedure.

"Good. Let me explain about this place. You are now in Russian Kurdistan in a private mountain resort called Turkslaw. It covers about 1,500 square kilometers. RDE uses it to entertain corporate guests; we can accommodate 100. They usually stay about one week, although there are some exceptions." He looked bothered that there were exceptions. "A unit of 100 mountain troops guards the perimeter under special arrangement with the government." He pauses and leans back in his chair. "Senior Lieutenant Kuznetsova works for me under this contract with the Army."

"The primary activity for the guests is the hunt which I will explain in a moment. However, we also offer horseback riding, a small casino, a musical group, dancing, a pool, and a spa. Our restaurant is rated four star." He pauses again.

"We also maintain some 200 CELTs to entertain our guests. They are divided into four groups: Jägers, runners, entertainers, and servers." I start to fidget. He looks at me with a hard stare. "You would do well, Jesse, to listen very closely." I lower my eyes respectfully. What an asshole!

He continues, "Jäger, which means hunter, are girls who have proven themselves to be of superior intelligence, physical ability, and resourcefulness. They live in private rooms and have the right to use any of the resort's facilities. They may engage in social interaction with the guests at their own discretion. Typically, they are not disciplined." Sounds good! Where do I sign up?

"The Jäger retain their status by capturing runners. Runners are girls who volunteer to 'escape' into the surrounding woods. They are hunted by guests, who are mounted on horseback...like your game of hide-and-seek." He stops and smiles. "A runner who evades capture twice is invited into the Jäger ranks. Runners who are unable to evade capture are punished as part of a show for our guests. Runners live in two-person rooms which are quite nice; they sometimes serve the guests, but only in exceptional circumstances; and they are disciplined. They may not use any of the resorts facilities except the exercise and training facilities." He stops again for emphasis.

"I hope you will become a runner, Jesse." He stares at me for a few unnerving seconds. I get the distinct impression that this is the way he gives orders.

"Entertainers act as escorts for the guests. When not assigned to a guest, they are locked in two-person cages. Entertainers are disciplined in the same way that any CELT is disciplined. You might find that we are somewhat more demanding here at Turkslaw, but we strive for perfection."

"Servers are girls from the lower races," he explains. ...the lower races! I'd heard that Russians were racists, but I'd never met anyone so open about it. "They serve the guests, but not as escorts, although again we sometimes make exceptions." Again, it sounds as if he is offended by "exceptions."

This guy is a psychiatrist's wet dream--a real head case. "Servers live in rooms which are separated by race." He looks up and smiles. "We don't mix races here." "Do you understand me so far? I know that you are educated and intelligent, but if you need any of this repeated, I'll be happy to do so." The contradiction is unnerving. He knows I'm intelligent, yet he is treating me as if I were retarded. For a second, I wonder if this is Russian sarcastic then discard the idea. Sarcasm requires subtlety.

"No thank you," I mumble softly.

"Yes, we know your background--family, educational achievements, athletic activities, CELT assignments--we also know that you have had pony-girl training, where you did quite well." They researched my background...through my lawyer? Isn't he supposed to keep that information confidential? I'll kill that fucking bastard!

"We were quite impressed with your pony-girl training; it should give you a clear advantage as a runner." It appears that my decision to be a runner has already been made.

"Any questions ...any at all?" again he uses the same insulting tone.

"Yes, I have a question." I keep my voice as level as possible. "I thought my contract was being purchased by an individual, not a corporation. I'm not sure that I want to be part of a...resort." My tone is polite.

He looks at me like I was an insect. "I'm sorry for the confusion, but our offer was explained very clearly to your lawyer and written into our agreement. As I said, however," he is speaking very slowly now, "you have the right to protest at any time, even now." He continues to stare at me. It's intimidating. It is very unlikely that the Court will be sympathetic to your confusion. We were very careful given the amount of your contract--$525,000.

$525,000! I'm confused for a second, then all the pieces fall into place. My fucking lawyer took a $75,000 commission from RDE and a 10% commission from me...a neat $120,000. No wonder he didn't insist that I study the contract's details.

"Also," Nemov continues, "the average stay in the holding cages, which are quite small, is about four months."

"Four months!" I blurt out before I can control myself. "Why?" I demand.

Nemov remains quiet and stares at me warningly.

I immediately realize the danger, "Please excuse me, Mr Nemov." I wait until the red flush goes out of his face then continue. "May I ask why it takes so long to process a protest?"

"We are perfectly within our rights," he replies evenly. "Girls who protest are not required to work, nor are they disciplined. Instead they are given food and shelter free of charge. We are not responsible for the length of time it takes the wheels of justice to turn in this country." This is fucking blackmail and entirely illegal! I can feel my temper flaring and work desperately to control myself. The right to protest is fundamental to every CELT arrangement. It's what makes it a consensual "contract" between parties, rather than an act of illegal imprisonment. I resist the urge to bolt out the door and just keep running.

With a superhuman effort I get my emotions under control and begin to think. What are my options? Given the remoteness of this place, escape seems unlikely. I'm not going to voluntarily spend four months in a "holding" cage; the flight over here was bad enough. Maybe they would let me call my lawyer? No...he's not going to give back a $120,000 commission without a fight; he'll let this drag on forever. And no other lawyer will challenge him based on a phone call from someone in Russia. Maybe I can call the Russian police or a Russian lawyer? That path sounds silly, even to me. The bribes needed to keep this place running must be enormous. I wouldn't stand a chance. Not only that, but what's my actual complaint? RDE's $75,000 was probably paid legally. Clearly, it was clearly my responsibility to check contract details. And so what if I'm held in a cage while my protest is being processed; does the law specify the size of a protester's accommodations?

As I realized last night, I'm fucked!

"Would you like to protest?" he asks, clearly annoyed. It's infuriating how correct he is. I have the feeling that this was how the Nazis operated--

completely in accordance with "the legal rules."

I continue looking at the ground and answer, "No," feeling royally screwed. I'll just bide my time for now.

He waits.

"No, Mr Nemov, thank you." This guy is dangerous, maybe even psychotic.

"Good," he declares, satisfied. "I will list you as a runner."

It wasn't really a question, but I nod again. I know I can compete with the other girls.

"Excellent," he says, his mood instantly improved. "I will have you moved into the runner's quarters and assign you a mentor. She can start your orientation this afternoon. Remember, if you would like to protest or to be listed as an entertainer, just let your guards know."

I nod again, astonished. He wants me to agree to the illusion that everything's okay! Amazing, but maybe I can use this moment-of-reconciliation to my advantage.

"May I choose my roommate as a runner, Mr. Nemov?" I ask in my most subordinate voice. He stares at me again for a few seconds and then smiles.

"Why not," he replies; "as long as it's another runner, why not?"

"It's Victoria, the girl I was transported with from New York," I say. He smiles and nods his head.

"Victoria. Yes, a beautiful girl." I imagine him standing over her naked quivering body.

"I will see to it." Thank you for your time, Jesse, and again, welcome to Turkslaw. A guard is outside to take you to your new home." Incredibly, the bastard holds out his hand. I look at it and walk away. Maybe I don't have any contract options, but I can still choose my friends.

++++++++++++

Victoria

The runner's cells are rustic, but nice. I relax for the first time in days. Nemov is a bastard, but it's my reactions to him that are the most worrying. Why am I so resistant...so filled with violence? I'm a CELT for crying out loud. Despite my recent stupidity, I know what to expect. Turkslaw might be extreme, but it still operates within the law.

The truth is that despite the pain and the humiliation, I want this life. Men are animals with primal, sadistic urges and frankly it's exciting to play with them, to poke at the tiger. Men also have a huge capability for love. It's this balance that makes being a CELT an adventure.

When this capability for love is absent, as I suspect it is with Nemov, everything is thrown out-of-balance. This is the problem.

Maybe my time with Howard was the anomaly; maybe this out-of-balance condition is the norm. The thought is profoundly depressing and...

The door opens and Victoria steps into the room. I roll out of bed and hold out my hand, "Jesse!"

Her return grip is strong, "Victoria," she says. "Tory, if you like." I look at her for a long moment and then pull her to me. We hug, hard. We've gone through a lot together in the last few days; a handshake seems...inadequate.

She clings to me for a long time, so long in fact that I begin to feel uncomfortable. I move to break it off. She tightens her grip. I can feel her body trembling. Poor kid, it's obvious that she's been holding it together with sheer courage. I lead her to the bed and try to calm her down. She needs a friend. Who wouldn't after what she's been through?

"Are you okay?" I ask, wiping away her tears. "That was pretty rough last night, especially after getting shocked on the plane." Her tears start flowing all over again. Dumb! She doesn't need to be reminded of this stuff right now. It's obvious that she's teetering on the edge. Fucking idiots, don't they know that she's new and fragile? All they can see is luscious, fresh meat. I bend over and kiss her softly on the lips. It's a friendship kiss, but she doesn't take it that way. She pushes her mouth into mine and French-kisses me in a way that is way beyond friendship. Her reactions are borne of desperation; it's as if I am the last person on earth. Maybe I am...for her. I just don't have the heart to push her away even as our bodies come together onto the narrow cot. "I'm not a lesbian, Tory," I whisper to her as gently as I can.

"Neither am I," she replies with equal softness. "Please, just hold me."

"You're just in shock. This place is a disaster. We both just need someone to talk to..."

"Yes," she says then pushes her tongue into my ear and kisses me on the neck.

I weaken and then finally give up. What's the problem? We can both use some TLC right now. I start playing with her long hair; it's a mane really, the color and luster of a silver cup. "I though you might protest today," I say, half-statement, half-question.

"I did," she answers slowly, "then they showed me the holding cages. You wouldn't believe it, Jess. They're tiny things like you would use for a small dog." She starts to cry again. "The girls can't move; they live in their own waste until the guard feels like washing them down. One's been caged for eight weeks...she thinks. It was horrible." She resumes the kissing.

"It takes time," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Making a protest is only the first step. Their lawyer needs to petition the court for emancipation. With fees on the line, they won't take any short-cuts." I was trying to give her this information as gently as possible. "This is the problem with an international assignment."

"At least they let me withdraw my protest." She was beginning to calm down. "Mr. Nemov said that normally once someone protests, they are required to follow procedure, but in my case, he would make an exception." I think about Nemov's pathological aversion to exceptions. I'm sure, Tory, it has nothing to do with your Virginia-Secret body! She starts to cry softly again. "What kind of a place is this, Jess?" I stroke her hair.

"It's a resort where men to indulge their sexual fantasies," I answer. "I've read about them. They're controversial, primarily because many don't follow the recommended international standards for CELT monitoring, but strictly speaking, they're legal. That's why there's already been so much bondage and discipline for us. They're conditioning us." I can feel her legs pressing into my crotch. "Even the holding cages you saw are technically legal. The boilerplate in our contracts says that a protesting CELT may be confined in 'minimal' conditions until the court or an arbitrator makes a ruling. 'Minimal' conditions can mean anything."

"How did you end up here, anyway?" I ask.

"I broke up with my boyfriend and then flunked out of school. I was embarrassed and didn't want to face people anymore. A CELT contract seemed like a good way to get away from it all. You know, like the foreign legion." She looked at me and flashed an embarrassed smiled.

"You don't need the money?" I ask dumbfounded. She shakes her head. "Oh, Tory," I feel incredibly sorry for her. "You have just made the biggest mistake of your life."

"I'm beginning to understand that," she says. "That ride on the plane and the craziness when we arrived; it's like something out of a Marquis de Sade nightmare..." She stops and whispers, "My asshole still hurts." I stay quiet, afraid that what happened last night is just the beginning. "I'm glad you agreed to be a runner," I say, changing the subject. "Are you fast?"

"Like the wind," she says with a lighter tone. I can feel the tension draining out of her body. Her leg continues to push its way between mine. I truly had no interest in women, but this was different. We were adrift on a raging sea in the black of night; holding each other felt right.

She rolls to her stomach and I untie her vest. I run my hand over the red stripes on her back. Her marks turn me on and unconsciously I work my hand into her leather pants; then push them off her hips. She frees her legs and moves onto her back. I begin to rub her breasts, kissing her hard nipples, saving her cunt for later.

"You know Tory," I say. "You looked incredibly beautiful last night on the spit."

"The spit?" she asks, half listening.

"Yes, that's what I call it, that thing with the dildos."

"Yes, it was a horror..." She's losing interest in conversation. I gently push my finger into her hole; it's soaking wet! At the same time, I bite down hard on her nipple. She moans and her hips gyrate in response, I bite even harder. She moans again. I can't tell if it's in pain or excitement. It doesn't matter; I'm into it now and grab her other breast hard; I hear her breathing hard then start to spasm. Her orgasm is quick, violent; I feel the tiny stream of a woman's ejaculation on my fingers.

After a while she says, "You made me squirt." Her voice is deeper. "I never squirt!" Then she pushes me down and buries her face in my crotch. There is no nipple biting, but her long tongue reams and sucks both holes with enthusiasm. My climax is deliciously long and deep.

I don't know much about Lesbian sex, but as I lay in her arms I realize that she is submissive; she doesn't use pain. I nearly bit her nipples off and the worst she did to me was suck hard on my clit. Does that make me "the man" here? I shudder at the image.

Whatever...at this moment, I feel incredibly protective towards her. That's not good; emotional attachments can be painful for a CELT. What really bothers me, though, is that Tory is going to miss the good stuff in this place. Turkslaw is about pain, and pain without intelligence, without intimacy, without love--Nemov's pain--is simply that, pain.

++++++++++++

Marina

The next afternoon our Jäger mentor pays us a visit. She looks quite fit.

"Jesse?" she asks.

"Yes," I answer, offering my hand. Tory does the same.

"Marina. I am happy to meet you," Her hand is hard like a man's. "I have been asked to provide orientation and instruction." As she speaks, she looks directly into my eyes with a piercing gaze that is disconcerting, bordering on rude. Her English is heavily accented. "Thanks," I reply. "We're all yours." Marina is dressed like us except that she wears boots and has no collar or cuffs. Tory and I are barefooted.

"Come." She leads us off the porch into the sunlight. "I am a Jäger. It means hunter." She looks back and smiles disarmingly, "You are rabbit-runners, our prey." Somehow, despite the smile, the words are menacing. I smile back, trying not to look bothered.