48 Hours on Blue Bayou Pt. 36: Three

48 Hours on Blue Bayou, Part 36, Three, Scene 4

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
Wm Shakespeare

Well, Three does have a few other things to do, but old Will certainly got the flavour of slavery.

— Taliesin1

Working Nine to Five

Next morning, after Morning Rituals, I am suited up and ready to go. I was allowed to keep the suit in my cell. Security even gave me a hanger. The Chief said, "Slave, it is good to see you smiling, at last." I hadn't been aware I was smiling. I hadn't been aware of not smiling either, but I admit I was pretty miserable doing laundry, kitchen and housemaid work. The prospect of a lifetime's continuance of that was not something I would wish for.

The Security Chief says to go back to Master Hari's office. My collar has downloaded the route, which I know anyway, so I set off again to the upper levels and Master Hari's office. Overnight, I have been thinking about the Marketing Plan and the various problems I outlined. Now, if there are problems, there have to be solutions to problems, right? So I know I will be expected to come up with, and justify, at least some of those solutions. It's what you're not paid for, says my rebellious tongue. I tell it to shut up, and find that — without that nagging internal critic — many of the problems almost provide their own solutions. For others, well, I have some ideas.

Master Hari is not in the office when I arrive, so I am about to kneel down and wait, something slaves are well trained for. But I notice a large folder lying on the coffee table, with a Post-it® note on top.

The note says: "Three, this is the full Business Plan for the project. Please read." I kneel down and set to reading the Plan. It seems Master Hari knew he would be delayed and intends me to be fully informed about this project. I take this as a sign that he was pleased with my work and, hopefully, I will continue to be freed from housekeeping duties. The Business Plan provides a lot more of the background and helps clarify many of my marketing ideas.

By the time it is mid-morning, I realise that Master Hari will probably be in need of tea when he arrives, and I wouldn't mind a cup, either. So I boil the kettle and prepare a cup, and a surreptitious extra, in case I am permitted one. Julie's words, about making your Master the centre of your universe, come to mind. Could it be that I am assimilating that lesson?

I have barely returned to the Plan when he arrives, briefcase in one hand, laptop in the other. I move to Position One, then think a full obeisance would better express my feelings for him. He dumps the laptop on his desk and the briefcase on the table.

He says, "Kneel up, Three." As I do, he strokes my hair. "I see you have been reading the Business Plan; good!" He sits on the edge of the chair and begins to take papers out of the briefcase.

"Please, Master, tea could be served in less than a minute."

"Brilliant!" Which I take to mean "Yes, thank you, Three," so I get up, click the kettle on again, finish the preparation as he showed me yesterday, serve a cup, and kneel again. He sips it and says, "Excellent, well made, but don't you want a cup?"

"Master, I need permission." He looks slightly abashed. "Three, please pour yourself a cup."

We settle down to the Business Plan and the Marketing Plan. He goes through each of my points, one by one, and we discuss the recommendations I have made. The work is highly demanding. He is fiercely intelligent and energetic. I have to justify everything I suggest, and I realise that I am working at a level I would not have reached for years in the agency I was planning to join. I am more convinced than ever that he is a rising star in The Enterprises. I wonder if I can be pulled along by his gravity.

Two hours or so later, he calls for sandwiches. I make more tea. "For both of us," he says.

This gruelling pace continues all afternoon. What if this, or that, happened? Timing, schedules, media, budgets. On many of these items, I have to plead my ignorance, but he likes to use me as a sounding board none the less. I only get to catch my breath when he fires off some emails from his laptop.

Most of the outer office is deserted when he finally leans back and says, "Three, I think we can call it a day. Tomorrow, I have the morning off until I fly out in the afternoon. First break since I arrived."

I offer, "Master, is there any other service you need?"

"You have been amazing," he says. Then, taking my meaning, "Weeell,..."

I take that as "Yes" and move in towards him. This is just a quickie, I think, and then remember there are still a few eager beavers in the outer office. Well, what the hell! I undo his belt and ease his trousers and shorts down. He is starting to come to life. I take his rising pole in my hands and engulf it with my mouth. He lets out a sigh of contentment as I stroke up and down with my lips and apply random pressure with my tongue. His balls get their share of attention, with kisses and gentle squeezes, designed to delay his climax. I am determined to show that I have mastered the skills of fellatio. His gasps and moans and a cry of "Ahhh, Three," persuade me I have, finally, graduated. At last, "Finish me, now."

I take him right into my throat, my nose buried in his pubic hair, and swallow, triggering spurt after spurt. I cut off the swallow as he slowly softens, until I can slide him out. I sit back, with my mouth open, to show off his semen. He has leant right back on the sofa, his eyes closed, seemingly exhausted. I am beginning to wonder how long I must kneel here when he opens one sleepy eye. "Ahh, oh, Three. You may swallow."

I'm not quite finished with him yet, so, in the guise of a very dutiful cleaning, I use every trick I have learned to resurrect his erection. It appears that he has gained a second wind from my exertions, because before long he is satisfactorily hard again. Quickly, I discard my skirt and position myself over his lap, guiding his member into my very welcoming slit. For once, I don't mind having to do all the work, squirming enthusiastically on his cock. As my rhythm mounts, he gives out some little moans and I echo them as my own arousal grows until we both shudder in climax.

Oh! I forgot to ask permission, but he doesn't seem to have noticed. As his cock slips out of me, I turn and clean him once more. His expression seems to be of tired contentment. He touches my cheek, as if to say "Enough." I decide that I will confess my crime, in case he remembers later.

"Master, I am sorry. I didn't ask permission to come."

He looks at me rather oddly, until at last he replies, "I will have to think of a suitable correction."

"Yes, Master." I bow my head while he adjusts his dress and taps the code which will direct me back to my cell.

"I might see you tomorrow," he murmurs, tentatively, packing up his computer and briefcase. The tickle in my collar tells me to move. I leave, wondering what he can mean.

Small Torc

Next morning brings another surprise. My business suit was whisked away last night, for cleaning, I guess, and I don't expect to see it again until Master Hari returns from Perth, if ever. I could get really annoyed by the fact that I'm never told what is happening, but there is no point. I think that the uncertainty is part of my training. A slave should be patient, but also ready for whatever happens to her!

However, the gear that Security presents me with this morning is incomprehensible. It is a strappy floral summer dress, ideal for a picnic or a day at the races. And underwear! A matching pair of racy briefs and bra, both transparent and highly embroidered. "In case of accident," says the guard. I am familiar with the idiom; my mother always insisted on clean underwear — in case you get run over, she'd say — but the relevance escapes me. And shoes! A pair of moderate heeled sandals, in red patent leather. I wonder idly if I can even tolerate shoes any more.

But these are not the biggest surprise. It is what the Chief calls a "dress collar." It is in the form of a Celtic torc, made of matte polished stainless steel, with stylized "dragons head" terminals. Those are the knobby bits that almost touch in the front. Ancient torcs were made of twisted metal wire which flexed when the ends were twisted, so they could be put on and off. This one, though, has a catch and an inner sleeve that slides out at the back for application. When closed and locked, it is just as unremovable as the standard collar.

I suspect, make that know, that it has a tracking device, probably a stun device as well. It does look beautiful, though. Security unlocks my standard collar and locks this lovely piece around my neck.

I am led off, without even being put in transport mode. I have no idea what is happening but the very strangeness is exciting. The lift goes up only two floors and opens into a huge glass and steel foyer. All is revealed and made clear: Master Hari is waiting for me. The guard hands him a mini remote — in case I run? — and he offers me his arm. As we go out the grand automatic doors, he says, "I have got permission to take you out for the morning." Unspoken is the fact that he is taking a pretty big gamble on my behaviour. It's the first time I have been outside since I tried to escape my original captors. I bite my lip, so as not to cry.

There is a black SUV waiting to take us the short hop to Pier 7. Master Hari buys two return tickets and we follow a crush of people to board the picturesque old ferry Celestial Star, which plies between Hong Kong Island and Kowloon. He guides me to the open deck and, as we lean on the rail, the ferry draws away and the panorama of Hong Kong Central unfolds before us. I am amazed by the beauty and crassness of this skyscraper farm, which nestles up to the forest-clad hills of Hong Kong Island.

Master points out The Peak, where the famous cable car ascends. He points out some of the more famous buildings, the Centre and the mighty, slim — No, I'm not even going to think that! Oh, go on! All right — phallic tower, with a crenelated peak, which Master Hari calls "Two International Finance Centre." Contrasting, to the east, is the Hong Kong Convention and Exhibition Centre, squat and modernist, on its own promontory, like a casually downed, alien spaceship.

In only a few minutes we are docking at the Star Ferries Kowloon terminal, which is the polar opposite of Pier 7: old, well-used, dowdy, and in need of a coat of paint.

Master says to me, "It is such a lovely day, I thought we should just walk around the waterfront, and up to Kowloon Gardens, which I'm sure you'll enjoy. Then back to the ferry."

"Master, I'm so happy just to be outside, in the sun, and with you."

So it happens that we follow the harbour, past an old brick clock tower that Master says was once part of the Kowloon railway station, behind the newish Hong Kong Cultural Centre. We walk along to the pier called Avenue of the Stars, which encloses a lagoon surrounding the Intercontinental Hotel. I decide that this is one of the occasions a slave may walk beside her Master. I walk close up to Master Hari, and slip my arm into his. He seems quite pleased by my forwardness.

As we walk along, he wants to chat, and I get the feeling that he has been rather lonely in Hong Kong. He tells me about his childhood in Jaipur, the famous "Pink City," and his family: one brother, in the Air Force, three sisters, one married, two in school. I skip over the events which brought me to this conjunction, but contribute stories of my childhood, my sister, the death of my father, holidays with cousins in Baltimore (County Cork).

He has heard of Baltimore, USA, so asks me more about the town.

"Well, it's more of a village, really," I reply. I tell him of the little port, the cove where my Uncle's house stands, and that I learned to sail there. Diplomatically, I don't mention that most of the population was once carried off into slavery by Barbary Pirates. The morning is warm, with just the slightest of breezes, and there is so much activity on the shore and on the harbour to grab attention. Funny little fishing and utility boats chugging on some important mission, as well as the freighters further off. A replica Junk, for harbour tours. I feel light-hearted; we look like lovers, but I know, and he knows, and I know he knows I know, the purpose of that little remote in his pocket.

At the end of the pier is a covered walkway, with eateries, crossing busy Salisbury Road, and leading to Signal Hill gardens. The Signal Tower is a time ball station, used by sailing ship skippers to tell the time at a glance. It is no longer operative but was once essential to the teeming commercial port of Victoria docks. It now forms the focal centre of a tranquil spot.

Nathan Road, where we descend, is anything but tranquil, as we run a gauntlet of hawkers, offering to make you a suit in one hour, or selling a "genuine" Rolex watch, for a Mickey Mouse watch price. I expect they would be happy to sell me, too. Not far beyond this den of entrepreneurs is the entrance to Kowloon gardens, behind the Mosque.

For such a relatively small area, the gardens have amazing variety. Not a lot of open lawn, but shade is the story in this climate. There are formal gardens, parterres, ponds, and a fountain. There are flashy flowers, as well as winding paths through close-clipped shrubbery.

There is just time to grab a plate of vegetarian noodles at Cute Fei, in Haiphong Road, before it's time to return, down Kowloon Park drive, past Hullett House, a heritage building now a fancy hotel, to the ferry. This time, it's the Meridian Star, sister ship to the Celestial Star. Master Hari phones from the ferry and the SUV is waiting at the pier.

On the brief trip back to Enterprises HQ, I delicately broach the subject of my failure the previous night.

"Master, may a slave ask if the matter of her correction has been considered."

He looks at me intently. "Yes, I have been thinking about the most appropriate correction. Since you took an unauthorised orgasm, you must be prevented from having another."

My mind races back with horror to the unfortunate slave who had been circumcised.

"You see," he continues, "I had thought to spend most of the morning in bed with you, but since you needed to be corrected, I felt I had to remove the temptation for a repeat offence. No orgasm for you this morning!"

This pronouncement is so funny and absurd that I burst out laughing. Secretly, I'm glad he is so new to the role of Master. Most of them would have thought of something much more unpleasant. Master Hari laughs, too, and strokes my thigh. Automatically, I spread my legs, but he wags a finger, leans over and kisses me. I blush to think that I have, even subconsciously, taken on the mentality of a sex slave, always available to a Master.

We are met in the foyer, from whence I am taken back to my cell. I strip. The collars are exchanged, and it's back to the gym for a good work out. At least, I have been walking this morning, so the trainer has little opportunity to use his crop, except when I daydream a little. I'm returned, pleasantly exhausted for Evening Nourishments and Rituals which are completed with the insertion of the largest butt plug. It has the girth of, most probably, the thickest penis in the world, but I have learned how to accommodate it, so that it moves in easily. It reminds me that, ultimately, and probably soon, my rectum will be occupied for the first time by the real thing.

Bottoming at the Top

Next day, since Master Hari is in Australia and has not left any instructions, I expect to be assigned some other work, so I'm not too surprised when this morning's clothing turns out to be a short black skirt and tee shirt top. Security says, "Follow your collar to the lifts."

A lift arrives when I press the button and I enter. The doors close and it seems, by the lift's ascent, I am headed back "upstairs." When the lift slows and the doors open, I am met at the lift foyer by a broad-bodied European man. He wears a business suit, so he must be Management. I am trying to decide if I should kneel when he pre-empts me.

"Three? I'll take you from here," he raps, and immediately turns and walks away.

He sounds rather grumpy, so I hasten to follow this new Master. I think, from his tone, that I should definitely walk behind. Without another word he leads me back to Master Hari's office. The door is unlocked, we enter, I now go to Position One. He ignores me and unlocks a large filing cabinet, pulling out a drawer.

"Master Hari e-mailed that he wants you to be familiar with all his current projects. So, take out all of the folders in this drawer."

His tone of voice seems to indicate that he thinks letting a slave read a Master's projects unsupervised is very improper. I scramble up and unload the contents of the drawer onto the coffee table. He re-locks the cabinet and heads for the door, where he pauses. "You'll be here for the day. I don't have time to supervise you — I could use some help with my own projects! Someone will bring up some food later."

He leaves and the door lock clicks. Effectively, I'm here until he chooses to release me. No restaurant lunch today! I don't think I should use Master Hari's tea, but at least there is water available. I hope I don't need to use the loo.

Well, down to work. I take a folder at random and start to read, trying to remember as much of the detail as I can. After, maybe, an hour or two, my head is spinning a bit with all of the projects he is working on. The only common thread seems to be that they are projects, with disparate elements which need to be co-ordinated. Only a few have real marketing components, so I realise that, if I am going to keep Hari's attention, I'll have to quickly extend my skill set. I pay a lot of attention to the minuscule hand written notes on nearly every page. I'm coming to the end of a long and complicated (and technical) proposal to manufacture and export glasshouses from Japan to Dubai. I wonder why would they want glasshouses in Dubai, then I twig that they are talking about virtually completely sealed environments for water and nutrient efficiency.

At last, my temporary, I hope, Master returns. With just a gesture he permits me to rise, with another to gather up all the files, as he unlocks the cabinet.

"Slave, have you read all the files?"

"Yes, Master."

"And did you understand everything that Master Hari is doing?"

"No, Master."

"Well, that's honest at least." Then, more conversationally, "I believe Master Hari has been very successful in Australia. He will be promoted on his return, I'm sure. He seems to have a quite astonishing regard for you. I wonder if he will want you for his permanent assistant?"

"Master, I would do anything to be Master Hari's assistant."

This last comment doesn't go down well. His annoyance is evident as he replies tersely.

"Slave, you should know that, for you, the conditional tense does not exist. You will go where you are told, and you will do what you are told, and nothing else. 'You' don't really exist, save as an instrument for your Masters. You will do better if you keep that in mind."

All I can say is, "Yes Master." But he is determined to drive the lesson home in a more physical way.

"Now, drop the skirt and bend over the desk."

I obey instantly, alarmed, not so much because of what I know is coming next, but by the thought of whatever correction he may decide to order. There is a rustle of clothing. A hand slaps my thigh and I spread my legs wider. He cups my mound and slides a finger along my lips. Incredibly, I can feel some lubrication as a finger penetrates me. The finger retreats, to be replaced by a greater thickness. His cock. I push my pelvis back to allow him to enter more easily, for my benefit, if nothing else.