48 Hours on Blue Bayou Pt. 05: Juli

Welcome back, Dear Readers! When we last heard Julie's story, she had been taken by slavers, "trained," raped, and auctioned to Master Martin, who transferred her to his yacht, where, on her first evening, she is starting her education as a pleasure slave for the Master.

Carole99 and J Spe

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Chapter Three: Interrogation

Anne shepherds me back to my cabin, or, rather, my cell. I notice the cot is now dressed with a sheet. Anne arranges herself comfortably in the chair and points to a spot about a meter in front of her. I guess that's where she wants me, so I walk to it.

"Slave, what was your first name before Master bought you?"

My answer is prompt. "Julie, Ma'am." Part of me is surprised and puzzled. Wouldn't any of Master's staff already know about the auction and the name of the slave Master bought? I barely catch myself before asking this question.

"That's a nice name. Master may leave that alone. Of course, by the time we get home, I'm sure the accounting folks will have a proper number for you. You see, slave, you're just a new asset to be added to Master's books. The accountants will be following you as you cause expenses and earn income. You might guess what happens if the expenses get too far ahead of the income."

It is said as a statement, not a question, so I do not make a comment. Inside, I'm wondering how Master is expecting me to "earn income." At least one function jumps to mind and I cringe just a bit.

Anne picks up and gives a short laugh. "No, my dear, Master doesn't plan on simply renting you out. Get your mind up and out of the gutter. In Master's society, that stuff is small potatoes. I'm sure Master will have more information for you when the time comes.

"Now, let's get down to details. The first thing slaves have to do is move into positions. Did the slavers teach you anything?"

I remember the "training" from Albert and that girl Lisa. For a split-second, I wonder what happened to her; after I was sold, I heard several screams, but nobody said anything to us.

"Please, Ma'am, they taught us three positions. They called them 'Inspect,' 'Kneel,' and 'Down'." I don't offer to demonstrate. I'm smart enough to realize that when someone wants me to do something, they'll tell me to do it. I'm just a slave; I don't get to demonstrate initiative, right?

Right. Anne gives a small smile and comes up to remove the handcuffs. Seated again, she smiles and issues an order. "Strip."

Mindful of the only clothes I have, I bare my body, taking just a moment to fold each piece: shirt, bra, jeans, panty. Anne nods toward a corner, and I deposit the tiny pile with care. I am hoping to get more use from each item.

"Now, let's get back to the positions. Show me what the slavers taught you." She puts me through the three positions, checking not only the positions but my grace in moving from one to another. Anne seems satisfied, I think.

Then, Anne speaks. "Not really what we're expecting, but you do seem to move from one position to another without falling down. Go to Kneel, now!"

I scramble into the position as fast as I can; I'm attempting to project a willingness to perform, I think. Anne circles me with a critical eye. From somewhere, a riding crop has appeared in her right hand. She uses it to tap my forearm.

"For the basic kneeling position, probably the one you will spend most time in," she says, "we want your hands palm down on your thighs. This is less tiring than up behind your neck."

Directed by taps of the crop, I widen my knees and move my hands. I am surprised by Anne's "less tiring" comment. My Master is concerned about my getting tired?

Anne must be a bit psychic. She laughs, "Surprised by our concern? Don't be, my dear. We've been doing this for quite a while and we've worked out the simplest ways for slaves to be productive and efficient. Now, you will also come to have your hands locked behind your neck while kneeling, but we call that position 'Kneeling Presentation,' and we use it for certain tasks that we'll get to eventually. This basic kneeling position we call Position One. You'll learn to hold this for as long as necessary, sometimes over an hour if that's what's needed. Do you understand?"

The question! I hurry to answer. "Yes, Ma'am. This is Position One, the basic position, hold as long as necessary. Thank you, Ma'am."

"Now, go to the Down position the slavers taught you and I'll demonstrate how Master wants it."

I move easily into the "all fours" position and look up expectantly. Anne raises an eyebrow and I quickly look down, a more subservient position. Anne's crop taps the insides of my thighs and I spread them a bit. More tapping and I spread my thighs as wide as I can.

"Come off your hands and go down to your elbows." I lower myself, at least my head, but then I realize my ass is sticking up much higher and my pussy is more visible with my ass higher.

It is also more accessible, as I find out when Anne's crop starts trailing over each of my labia. She uses a slow stroke, starting from the front and coming to the back, where the crop circles my rosebud before she lifts the crop to start at the front of my other lip. In just a few strokes, I am lubricating like mad. Anne uses the crop to scoop up some juice and presents it to my mouth with the command, "Lick the crop clean, slave!"

I have never really tasted myself, but I find I like it! I nibble on the leather tip, but Anne picks up on this, as she does on my reaction to everything, and pulls away the crop. "Hey, slave! Slow down, there. A bit more gentle on my crop, if you please — and I'm sure you will please, right?"

From my aroused state, I manage to croak out a "Yes, Ma'am, slow and gentle. Thank you, Ma'am."

Anne looks at me with a small smile. "Slave, I think you're probably a bit aroused now, aren't you?"

I manage my "Yes, Ma'am. I'm aroused," with just a bit of a blush.

Anne coos, "And you would like to cum, wouldn't you?"

Is she nuts? Of course I'd like to cum. What's arousal for if not to climax? But, something tells me there's more of a lesson coming. I reply simply, "Yes, Ma'am."

I am rewarded by a pat on the head. Anne picks up her lecture. "Sorry, slave, but that's not on, and, many times, may never be on. You see, slave, some of this society gets their own highs when the slave is denied her climax. Your pain becomes their pleasure. This is another part of slavery. Do you understand?"

My sense of fairness is outraged. I'm sure Anne sees my muscles tense. She pats my head again, this time running her hand down my neck and back in a soothing motion. I have been asked a question; I know an answer is expected. Another deep breath and I am ready.

"Yes, Ma'am. Foregoing my climax makes their climax better. I understand, Ma'am."

"I hope you do, Julie. Most often, I won't be able to tell you ahead of time. There is a rule for slaves that you already know, and it might be a help in this situation. You know that slaves have nothing, right? So, that means you don't own your own climaxes, right? So, that means that you must ask permission, from whoever is arousing you, before you climax. Don't leave it too late, or you may not be able to control yourself before a climax erupts. An unpermitted climax is one of the major crimes in this society, and you can bet the correction is correspondingly stiff. Do you understand?"

What's to understand? Someone will push me up the path to arousal just for the pleasure and excitement of punishing me for cumming if I don't get permission to cum? I'm beginning to see into the dark side of this "pleasure slave" existence. I remember to answer Anne's question. "Yes, Ma'am, I understand."

Anne's sigh tells me that she understands my feelings. She, too, is a part of this society and is bound by its conventions. She adds, "Just to continue with the idea that this society will often provide you with some pain or suffering for their own pleasure, this evening I'm to put you into an example of bondage. Do you know what a hogtie is, slave?"

The name makes me think back to some rodeos I saw as a youngster, but there is nothing specific. "No, Ma'am, just that it sounds like something from a rodeo."

Anne's laugh is a low chuckle. "Very good, Julie. But, this is a far more potent tie. I'll go slowly, so you can adjust."

Anne moves me to lie on my cot, face down. From a small bag, she retrieves two hanks of rope, about like clothesline. She crosses my forearms at the small of my back and wraps several loops of one rope around my wrists. As the loops settle in, I realize that there is no way I'll be getting out of this tie on my own. Some knots finish the wrist tie and Anne leads the rope up to my upper arms, where more loops draw my arms towards the center of my body. A few cinches in these loops wrack my shoulders back and I can feel my breasts thrust forward under the stress.

The second hank is used to tie my ankles together. Then, the ankle rope is led up to my wrists and Anne's pull draws my heels up to my ass. A bit more tension and my back begins to arch backward. I gasp and Anne takes that as sufficient and ties off the rope.

"You'll find you can roll from side to side, and maybe even roll off your front and onto your back. I wouldn't advise that, because your weight will be all on your arms and shoulders."

She doesn't say what pain or damage that might cause, but I can bet that means some sort of dislocation.

"I'm sure you'd like to know how long this tie is for, but that's another thing about slavery. The slave never gets to know how long a trial will last or how many strokes of the whip or cane she will receive. It's another tool to teach acceptance. I do have some comfort for you, however. Someone will always be checking on you. And, just like all the other corrections we've talked about, this one will hurt but you will not be harmed."

There is another pat on the head, stroking down my neck and upper back to the ropes. And then she is gone, the click of the door lock putting an end to what my Master had called "tonight's tasks."

I'm sure there's no chance of my getting loose from this hogtie, particularly because I can't even see or reach any of the knots Anne tied. Still, I spend some time reaching and rolling and pulling on the tie. I am careful not to move too violently: I don't want to fall off the cot.

I make no progress in getting free, or even a bit loose. This takes a bit of effort, and I find myself working up a sweat. I stop, not wanting my Master to find his slave with an offensive aroma. It occurs to me that, considering he has bought me and ordered Anne to teach me, my Master probably knows all about his slave's aroma. Still, for my own sense of myself, I'd rather not stink. It takes just a few seconds for me to realize that this is how small I've become: the big thing for tonight is to not stink.

I spend some time reviewing Anne's earlier instruction. I can guess that food and ropes are likely to be the big expenses for my class of asset. But what kind of "income" could I earn? Anne seemed to dismiss simple prostitution as beneath the social order I've been drafted into. Before I build up some expectations, I drift into sleep.

The urge to pee wakes me. There is no one in the cell with me, but I am certain that there must be cameras all over the ship. I hope there is also a microphone, and I call out, "Please, someone, I've got to pee. I don't want to wet the cot you've provided for me."

Relying on Anne's assurance that someone will always be checking on me, I make just the one call. I trust that my betters will appreciate my attempt at a dignified communication rather than a series of hysterical screams. Then, I wonder if they really would care which communication I made. Slaves don't sit on furniture. Slaves don't get alcohol. Slaves don't get pie. Slaves don't get to have climaxes. I'm learning that slaves are pretty low on the scale of life in Master's society. I suppose I should be getting angry about that, but, right now, I'm really focused on getting to pee.

It probably takes about five minutes for a crewman to respond, and I am unbelievably happy to see the same man who had given me my first instructions.

"Hey, kid, how are you doing? Got to go, I understand? Hold still for a bit and I'll get these training wheels off."

I hold still and whisper my Thank You when the ankle rope is finally gone. He moves my legs back and forth gently until I regain control of them and then hauls me up and walks me down the hall to the head. After I finish emptying my bladder, he dries me with a gentle touch and guides me back to my cell.

He places me face down on the cot and snaps a set of shackles from one ankle to the cot. These have several links between the cuffs and I am unbelievably happy with the new degree of freedom compared to the handcuffs. I'm getting to be an expert, it seems. I take the chance of whispering another Thank You, and, when a "correction" is not immediately forthcoming, I have the daring to ask, "Please, Sir, is there a service I can perform for you?"

Whatever my daring, he throws back his head for a good laugh. When he has finished, he grins and informs me that, as a slave, it is not my place to offer a "service." My Master or his friends will inform me when a "service" is to be performed. "It's part of your new life, kid. You don't get to set the clock or the agenda, or whatever. We set it as we wish. Your job is, as you will see, much easier. You never have to worry about what to do; you just do what we say and when we say it. Do you understand?"

My answer comes pretty quickly. "Yes, Sir. As you wish, Sir. Thank you, Sir." I take a breath and dare to add, "Please, Sir, may I know your name, Sir?"

He smiles and I get another pat on the head. "OK, kid, it's Igor. And I'm not Russian; my mother was fascinated by Russian literature." In a conversational tone, he announces that he'll dim the light so I can "get my beauty sleep." In a moment, he is gone, the click of the door lock ending the scene.

I take stock of my new situation. Arms still tied, naked, shackled face down on the cot. Right, all present and accounted for.

I am surprised, and a bit puzzled, that I never asked about the arm tie. After all, without the ankle rope, it isn't a proper hogtie. He might or might not know for how long this upper tie is scheduled. Then, I remember Anne's instruction: a slave never speaks except to answer a question. I got away with a couple of questions. I'm glad I didn't ask more.

I am startled to realize that I have fallen into the behavior pattern Master and Anne laid out for me. Not much of a peep out of me! The girl who competed her way through high school, college, paralegal training, and several rungs of the corporate ladder is submitting to new rules of behavior just because someone paid a lot of money for me. I have no explanation for this and fall asleep without even a plan to find out about this.

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Chapter Four: Training

The next few days pass with Anne or Igor putting me through some basic training in positions and movements. With taps or slashes from their riding crops, I am encouraged to learn a variety of positions and to accomplish movement from any one to any other with not only speed but even grace.

Igor makes the point: "Any slave can be taught where to put her head or a hand. The good slaves, however, think about and practice movements so they look beautiful. When I judge a horse's conformation, all the pieces have to move together, what we call the 'way of going,' and grace and beauty there is a major part of a horse's value. Do you understand?"

I'm afraid I do. As a slave, a piece of property, eligible for sale or trade, I'm going to be valued like any beast. My answer is perfunctory. "Yes, Sir, grace in movement. Thank you, Sir."

Igor thinks for a moment and then continues. "Let me push on with the horse conformation idea. There are seven major parts to judging a horse. They are animation, stamina, vigor, alertness, adaptability, attitude, and tractability. Master's slaves have been known for stamina and vigor, along with eagerness and a strong natural way of moving. We're going to start your gym routines soon so that should take care of your stamina and vigor. The attitude you bring to your job will show in your eagerness and in your way of moving. I'll be letting you know when you meet Master's standards."

I suspect his preferred method of communication will be his crop. So far, he and Anne have used the crop with just taps to direct my position, but I'm afraid that the instrument is also capable of the "hurts" they call corrections.

The yacht has a small gym with a couple of machines, but Anne and Igor are creative with just some elastic belts and a pair of two-pound weights. I had been more or less regular at some yoga and Pilates classes before the Blue Bayou, but those lasted only an hour. Now, my "classes" go until I am exhausted. Anne and Igor, however, never seem to break a sweat. I am afraid to ask if that is what they mean by "Master's standards."

There is another addition to my schedule. Anne is instructing me on "erotic anatomy of the male and female," as she calls it. There isn't a lot of Latin and Greek names to remember, however; I'm learning street names as well as proper names in French, Spanish, and German. Anne says I'll eventually pick up some Chinese and Russian names as well. Her teaching method involves her pointing to a structure on myself and then having me apply my fingers or lips or tongue on her, for the female parts, and on Igor, for the male parts. I can't tell much about Anne's level of arousal, but Igor seems to arouse quicker than any of my previous lovers. I suspect this is another aspect of slavery.

Throughout, I am not allowed to become aroused. Igor puts it bluntly: "Kid, you haven't earned it yet." With their crops so handy, I do not dare to ask when, or how, I might "earn" some arousal or, even, a climax.

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Chapter Five: Travel

One day, perhaps a week into my "training," the atmosphere on the yacht changes. Crews are moving faster, with more purpose. Conversation is more clipped, the vocal tones more urgent. Igor is nowhere to be seen. Anne manages my gym class with a slightly disconnected air. Even with a desperate need to know what is going on, I manage not to commit the crime of asking a question. I am comforted — just a bit — by the fact that, when anyone wants the slave to know anything, they'll be sure to tell the slave. I do know this aspect of slavery.

It is afternoon when Igor comes to my cell. He has a dress and sandals for me to wear. It is the first new clothing since my auction. The dress is a black Calvin Klein White Label Asymmetrical Zip sleeveless dress. The industrial-sized zipper runs from the scoop neckline at my left breast down to a slit in front of my left knee. The sandals have a moderate heel. There is no bra or panty.

Igor takes me from my cell and brings me, in Transport Mode, up on deck. A quick look shows some land, with our yacht bearing towards a small jetty. Master smiles at me and says, "Julie, you're about to go for an airplane ride. You haven't been seasick, I notice, so I expect you'll enjoy the flight."

The crew brings the yacht alongside the dock and a pair of gangplanks are laid out. I am surprised at the number of crew debarking with Master, Igor, and me. I have a moment to wonder if Anne is with us, and another moment to wonder if Chef is with us. A small convoy of SUVs fills with people and a truck loads lots of luggage. Nobody asks for any Passports or documents. The convoy moves off in just a few minutes. The trip is short and ends at a small white building, standing at the end of a runway and sporting a few antennae. I guess this is the local International Airport.