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  • 48 Hours on Blue Bayou Pt. 31: Three

48 Hours on Blue Bayou Pt. 31: Three

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The Story of Three - Part 2

Author's Note: Three and her traveling companions arrive at last, but where are they and how will they react to their new home and life?

Uproar ensures a strong rebuke.
Flogger falls, a lesson endures.
— Taliesin1

*****

Unpacking

Eventually the truck stops and the motor goes silent. The container is opened and six Guards are waiting on a loading bay. A pair for each of us. They quickly unstrap us and hustle and push us along dimly lit corridors, one on each side. They have crops in their hands and urge us, loudly, to hurry, to move!

We are bundled into a wide open square space with cells around the outside, and a kind of Control Room in the centre, manned by three more uniformed Guards. Two come out and take some papers from the ones who brought us here and give them some papers in return. I am staring open-mouthed — this is the last thing I expected; it seems more like a state prison than a Thai brothel.

Suddenly there's a loud whistle blast, which gets everyone's attention.

A man, with a commanding voice, is yelling at us. He's telling us we all have to be naked, that it's the uniform, and that they are going to cut our clothes off. He says if we get cut we'll have to lick the blood off the floor. He says to nod if we understand. The three of us nod furiously.

I'm quaking in the boots I don't have. The French girl they call One has gone white as a sheet. This is worse than the slave market, it's like being back at square one on the outskirts of Dublin. How can they do this —while our arms are still tied up — without drawing blood? If we have to be naked, why can't we just undress ourselves?

It only takes a few seconds to shred all our clothes with wicked looking crescent-shaped knives. The speed and finality of our denudation furnishes its own explanation. I am so shocked, I try to crouch down to cover my nakedness, however ineffectually.

The Guards now push each of us into a separate cell. The doors shut automatically with a clang.

I stand with my face to the wall, trying to retain at least a small scrap of dignity, but soon I realise the futility of such modesty. Apart from the Guards, we are all naked. I take a look around this cell; it is slightly bigger than the cages where the auction was held but there isn't much more in it. A pallet on the floor and a cabinet with some drawers. There's another woman I haven't seen before in the cell next to mine, also naked, except for a contraption of chains which hang from a collar around her neck to her wrists and ankles. I glance at her a few times, and wonder if we are all going to be wearing these chains, but I don't say anything. I don't know what we're allowed to do. Let her be the first to speak. The Bulgarian girl has dropped down onto the pallet and seems to be asleep, despite still having her arms tied.

Before long, another self-important-looking man arrives in our cell block and huddles with the Guards. The Guards bring out the woman in chains. She kneels down gracefully, with her knees apart, her head bowed, and her hands on her thighs. It's just like the auction boss described, except that she makes it extremely submissive and almost like a ballet movement. A beautiful slave.

He starts off in a very lofty style, telling us that he is the Training Director and welcoming us to the Intake Unit, as if we've all just won a trip to some exotic, tropical Club Med, with himself as the Gentil Organisateur. We are all precious and expensive and valuable to The Enterprises, and they're going to train us to be the best performing slaves in the whole world. And if we don't? Well, then there will be "corrections."

I think, this place now sounds more like some kind of weird boarding school.

He says they prefer not to use harsh words like "punishment;" that certainly sounds just like Sister Bernadette at school, who could easily combine unctuous flattery with dire threats. I wonder if he will make us write lines. "I must try to become a better slave" two hundred times. I expect he really means something more painful.

He tells us we have to thank anyone who does something for us, even if we don't want them to do it, I guess, and that we will be fed a carefully balanced diet that we have to finish completely. He keeps asking if we understand. When one of us forgets to nod, he turns to the slave kneeling next to him and tells her to explain how a slave should respond.

She says a slave must always answer, aloud and without delay, and that lying would be disrespectful and deserve a severe correction.

Wow! Is she a complete toady, I wonder, or has she been set up for this little speech. Perhaps she is the Head Prefect, and her chains are a badge of office. I can barely suppress a giggle. However, I realise that she is almost certainly here being punished, and, naturally enough, would do or say anything to get back into the good books of whoever has ordered her punishment.

The Training Director outlines the schedule for the rest of our day. We will be in our cells for instruction on proper etiquette in the slave corridor by the Guards. Evening Nutrition will be followed by instruction in Evening Rituals. Definitely sounds like Sister Bernadette.

He says there will be free time until Lights Out, and we will be woken up for Morning Rituals at the proper time. I gather that means we won't know the time until it happens.

More Guards enter my cell and remove my leg shackles. The Guards stand there, with the shackles in hand, until I figure out that I need to respond.

"Thank you, Sir."

Next, the Guards cut the boxties on my arms. I flex and move my arms around until the pins and needles subside, and manage a "Thank you, Sir." This time I really mean it.

Another Guard comes into my cell, armed with syringes. She takes a blood sample from my arm and also gives some injections. "These are inoculations." Lastly, they describe the protocol for the Food Cart.

And lo, as if on cue, a chime sounds, announcing the very Cart's appearance. I am most glad to see it as I haven't had anything to eat since the sandwiches on the plane. There are two attendants. Working together, they move us all, starting with the chained slave, as another demonstration of total control, one by one, from our cells to the Cart. They attach leashes to our collars and shackle us to the Cart. It is a ballet of precision. Bowls of stew are ladled out, with a roll added for each of us. There is no cutlery, but I see the first slave is using her fingers and tongue. As she licks her bowl clean, we all follow suit. I use the last of my roll to wipe up the gravy.

As soon as the Food Cart moves out of the block, we are able to talk. An immediate hubbub breaks out. The woman in chains tells us her name is Julie. Somehow, this makes me furious. Why does she have a real name when we are only called by numbers? Is it her original name? I remember the girl next to me in the slave market pens — she said slaves usually get a new name when they're sold. All this and the stew in my belly loosens my Irish tongue.

"Those bastards didn't even give us proper names!"

Julie warns me to watch my language. "Slaves Never Win is the First Law of slavery and the Second is, however bad you think something is, it can always get worse."

She turns her back and we can see the red stripes made by a cane. I am shocked. I was raped and beaten up a bit before I was sent to auction, but these neatly spaced stripes are deliberate and calculated punishment. I can't help my cry, "Oh, my god!"

We all talk and tell our stories, especially how we got here, until the Security Station calls "Lights Out in ten minutes" and everyone makes themselves as comfortable as possible. It's really dark when the lights go out, with only a dim glow from the Security Station and the red eyes of the cameras. There is no blanket or covering, but it is quite warm, so either the cell block is heated or we are somewhere really tropical.

Waiting for sleep, I go over the events since we were unloaded from the truck. It seems to me that all of the yelling and the brutal stripping combined with the petty rules, like no talking at meals, are designed to throw us off balance and accustom us to doing whatever we are told without question.

There is another thought, and it is more disturbing. The gang that abducted me was only three or four guys; the slave market people, maybe ten at the most; but this place is on a totally different scale. There are the four men who collected us from the auction, the pilot, probably also co-pilot, and all the back-up personnel this implies. There are the Guards in the Intake Unit, the people who brought the dinner cart, the Chef who designed the menu and those who prepared the food, the Training Director and his "team," however many they may be. Not to mention our mysterious Owner, who we "may" meet during our training.

Our talk with Julie implied there are probably hundreds of slaves doing different things, so this is a very large organisation. Did Training Director say worldwide? I decide that as I am not going to get out of here anytime soon, I'd better co-operate, at least until I can find out more. Even the best prisons have escapes.

Flipping out

The clanging of something against the bars ushers in the new day for us slaves in The Enterprises' Intake Unit slave corridor. The Guards are going through Morning Rituals and they start talking about "internal cleansing" and enemas, until it suddenly dawns on me they are talking about anal sex. One and Five are protesting a bit, but I flip out.

"No way! NO WAY!" I back myself into the corner of the cell. "There's no way I'm going to let you stick that up my arse. You're all bloody perverts!" I slump down by the cell wall and sob, by which time two more Guards come into the cell, pop a ball gag in my mouth, and secure me to one of the convenient brackets in the cell, head down and bum up. They proceed with the enema as if nothing had happened. The Station Chief tells me the correction is five strokes with a flogger, which will be administered later in the day.

So much for my resolution last night.

We are running behind schedule, because of my undisciplined tongue, but we are just finished when Training Director arrives with a group of trainers. Our cell doors open and the three of us are lined up with a trainer for each of us. Our hands are handcuffed behind our backs, in what they call "Transport Mode," and we march off to the lifts. Three slaves and three trainers go in one lift. Training Director goes in another.

Our lift opens into a large hall, fitted out with the usual array of gym machines, as well as some I am completely unfamiliar with. There are some people, men and women, already here and, aware of our nudity, we try to huddle together but we are restrained by our escorts. Though some of the exercisers glance in our direction, most of them just ignore us. This must be quite a common sight. The trainer with me says, "Remember, naked is not out of uniform." We are made to line up, feet apart, in what the military call "at ease," while the handcuffs are removed. We've been told to remain in this position.

Soon, the Training Director appears with clipboards and papers, which he distributes to the trainers. He turns to us and announces, "Slaves, today we are going to start with an assessment of your general fitness and strength. We will be measuring your heart rate, your endurance, and we will measure blood sugar levels before and after your sessions. You will not forget to thank your trainers for their efforts and attentions. Move now to Position One."

We all kneel down, heads lowered, hands on thighs, and chorus, "Thank you, Training Director."

My trainer orders, "Give me your hand, Three." I lift up one hand and feel a sharp prick as he takes a drop of blood for analysis. He also takes my blood pressure. "Now, come." I follow him to a treadmill and climb onto it while he attaches a monitor to my breast. He gives me a little stroke as he does so; it sends a shiver through me, causing my ever-sensitive nipples to harden.

"Ready?" "Yes, Trainer." The treadmill starts at walking pace, goes fairly quickly to jogging, and then from jogging to running. I am monitored continuously, both by instrument and the discerning eyes of the trainer. He is making notes in his tablet, no doubt recording the deficiencies that will be worked on over the coming weeks.

It is a solid and exhausting workout which couldn't have been harder if they were training us for the Olympic Games. The Naked Olympic Games! I recall giggling in school when someone told us the original Olympic athletes performed in the nude, only for men though. This makes me giggle a bit now and I come off my pace. A sting with the crop gets me back on track.

My trainer inquires, "Perhaps you would like to share that moment of levity, Three?"

So I gasp out my thought, while keeping pace. He laughs with me. He also slightly increases the speed. Because, well, if I can giggle and talk, I'm obviously not working hard enough.

When we next stop for hydration he says to the group, "Three has likened our training to preparation for the Olympic Games, and she is not far wrong. We aim to make you the gold medalists of the slave world. Not all of you will make that level, but we always aim for the gold."

After a rotation on the bench press and rowing machine, it's back to running over another (virtual) hill. We get more hydration and a fruity, nutty energy bar, which is lunch, I suppose, before each of us slaves is taken to a different activity.

My class is Positions and Movements. It is taken in what looks like a dance studio, with mirrors all around, so you can check your posture. Position One is pretty familiar by this time, but a slave needs to assume this position gracefully, from whatever she is doing, when her Master or Mistress appears. After about an hour of practice, I am starting to get the hang of it. Of course, this is just one of many slave positions which have to be mastered. The next is Obeisance, a position of total submission. Would that turn aside my Master's wrath if I have been found lacking? Inspection position is standing, legs apart, with hands behind the head. The elbows should be in a line, the head erect. This raises and pushes out the breasts, for obvious reasons.

I am being instructed in the art of walking, something I thought I had pretty much mastered by the age of two. I was wrong. Walking as a slave is quite different from walking as a free person. I discover that there are many kinds of slave walk: the Walk of Seduction, the Walk of Pride, the Walk of Reluctant Submission. The slave should always be conscious of how she walks; it signals to her Owner that she is aware of his or her mood and needs. My favourite is the Walk of Happiness, for when you have been praised by your Master. It is a combination of the runway strut, but less haughty, and a provocative dance. These are just introductory lessons, described by the Dance Mistress and demonstrated by a lithe slavegirl. My own first attempts are reminiscent of the Walk of the Baby Hippopotamus. We all crack up. No corrections are ordered.

I learn when I should walk ahead (rarely), when behind, and when beside my Master. I am introduced to the mechanics of stiletto heels. I've always really been a medium heels girl, at most, so I'm pretty ungainly in stilettos. It feels really strange to parade around naked, in high heels, so that my trainer can assess shape of my calves and the rotation of my glutes. At least the heels make me flex my bottom, which I usually think is far too skinny.

At some times we are a group and at others we are taken separately to work on some aspect the trainers are not completely happy with. We all feel the occasional sting of a crop, but, I have to admit, only when we are not paying attention or giving our utmost effort. It is such a strange but relaxed and actually enjoyable day that I begin to think maybe I won't get a flogging after all.

How wrong can you be?

We are all brought back to the corridor early. Me, for my flogging, and One and Five as spectators. The Guards have set up a post in the centre of the corridor. It is about seven to eight feet tall and it is slotted into a hole in the floor which I hadn't noticed before. It seems to be polished on one side, from about head to knee height. Perhaps from the writhings of previous occupants? I am mesmerised just by the look of it. I feel like I am closing down as two Guards take off the transport mode cuffs and move me to the post. My arms are positioned around it and shackled again in front. The chain between my cuffs is lifted up to one of several lock points above my head. I am lifted until I am fully stretched, just standing on my toes. One of the Guards takes the flogger around, showing it to One and Five, then he comes up and shows it to me. It has a carved wooden handle with forty or fifty thin leather strands, which he call "falls," each about sixty centimetres long. He runs them slowly across my back and they feel so soft I believe it may not be so bad after all. I suppose the carved handle is for a better grip.

Now he moves behind me and strokes my back a few times. It feels quite sensuous and makes my skin tingle. Without further warning, a pain like an electric shock explodes on my back. I hear the crack of the flogger. The pain turns to fire. I am in shock. I scream. A brief pause while the fire turns to throbbing and the Guard's hand strokes the other side of my back. I scream again as the second blow lands. I thrash about, desperate to get away from the pain. Futile. The next strike overlaps the first and I lose it completely, crying and sobbing, hyper-ventilating and pleading for him to stop. I yell. I am sorry! I will obey! I will do anything! Another hand stroke, another lash. I am incapable of speech, I can barely breathe. I have lost all sense of time; the next touch and strike seem to last forever. I am broken.

Finally, I realise that the ordeal is over. I have taken five strokes. It is the worst pain I have ever experienced. I must look a sight, tears and snot streaming down my face. They leave me hanging there for what seems like hours, wracked with sobs and crying, as my back throbs and the pain matures. I'm sure my back must be raw and bleeding, but, when the Guards come and take me down, they assure me that the skin is not broken. They carry me, quite gently, into my cell and lay me down prone. A few minutes later, a female Guard comes in and says, "I have some lotion that will help the pain and speed healing. Just lie still while I apply it." A wonderful cool feeling eases me as it is applied. I can hear the others talking, but I can't make out what they are saying. I just want to lie here forever.

However, Evening Nourishments are arriving, and slaves do not have any choice, to eat or not. The Guards help me out to the cart and I finish my bowl, as I must, though it is a struggle. Afterwards, I don't want to talk, so I'm actually grateful when I'm taken back to my cell. I sleep fitfully, my back still throbbing, and I cry quietly, more from misery than pain.

Taking up a new Position

Next day I am allowed the morning to rest and recover. The training begins again, the same as before. Now I am trying super hard to meet or exceed the expectations. I know one thing. I don't want to experience another flogging! At the same time, I ruefully acknowledge, my tongue will probably earn me something similar in the future.

Today the Positions class begins with yoga. The instructor says this is to loosen our muscles and prepare for Sexual Arts. Personally, I can't see the relevance of standing on my head to having sex, and since the atmosphere is more relaxed here, I venture a question. Carefully phrased.

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