48 Hours on Blue Bayou Pt. 19: Julie

Author's Note: Julie tried to escape. Actually, she just talked about it. Within slavery, there is no real difference and it is about the worst crime possible. The Empress has sent her home for her Master's decision on her correction. It starts at the doorstep to the Enterprises Building.

J Spe

Chapter Thirty-Three: Welcome Home

There is no welcoming party at the front door of Master's headquarters. With a gathering sense of dread, I enter, check in with Security, and take the elevator to Master's apartments. The lobby is empty. I try the kitchen and find everyone enjoying a mid-afternoon snack.

Their enjoyment does not extend to a warm welcome. As the focus of four gazes, I feel about an inch tall. I kneel, bend my head in proper submission, and relate my crime. Again, I offer no explanation or excuse. For a slave, these are irrelevant.

My Master clears his throat and announces his satisfaction with my confession. "Julie, you have done so well at so many tasks over these past months that we've all expected great things from you. You probably realize that your interview with the Empress was also a great success. But, you seem to have no end of lapses from your awareness of your slavery. This cannot continue. Our accountants have updated your Profit and Loss sheet recently. We don't have all that much invested in you, so selling you on represents only a small capital loss, assuming you meet your Reserve Price at auction. Of course, with your history, that may be a large assumption."

De-accession! That's what he's talking about. Getting rid of me, selling me on, sending me to another slave auction! The world revolves before my eyes, goes gray, and I fall to my side, unconscious.

A beeping sound awakens me. I am in the Infirmary, in an entirely white room where the only color is in the monitors attached to any patient. One other bed is occupied by a young man, presently sleeping. To my horror, my Master's speech repeats in my ears and in my mind. The shackle locking my left leg to the bed is a minor facet in my universe, suddenly so constricted that I have barely enough room to breathe.

My Inner Goddess, however, has been busy. She has thought of all sorts of arguments I must present — if not directly to my Master and Owner, then at least to my trainers. I tell her that slaves don't get to make appeals; it is the First Law, again: Slaves Never Win. She is shocked into silence.

Eventually, Fifteen comes in with a slice of bread and a small pitcher of water. The accountants are not going any further into deficit for me. I hesitate, then ask, "Please, Fifteen, are you allowed to speak with me?" The last thing I want now is to get another slave in trouble.

She smiles a bit, answering, "Of course I am. How else can Master make sure you're taken care of? Now, do you need anything?"

What I need is Another Chance, right? But, this moron knows that it won't be coming from Fifteen. A glance around and a quick survey and, sheepishly, I ask for a bedpan. "I think I just need to pee."

Fifteen giggles and gets the instrument. I empty my bladder and she cleans the bedpan. I work up enough effort to ask her, "Please, do you know what Master has planned for me?"

Fifteen's face saddens a bit. "Not really. There's been a lot of rushing around and telephone calls and Igor is forever on his e-mail. Everything is going through Charles, I think, because every time the phone rings it seems to be for him. Anne and Pat are going through photographs of events since you came, but I have no idea what for."

I have a suspicion "what for." They're putting together a "Catalogue Page" for me, something the slave auction house can use to entice bidders. I wonder what my "Reserve Price" will be, knowing that not enticing a covering bid — not being able to cover my cheapest price — would be a warrant for my death.

We fall silent. Fifteen knows nothing about my Master's plan, and I know nothing that can be done. Then, I recall the information from the luncheon. Sharon and Marie had let drop some information on their men's business. I explain to Fifteen that I have some business information for Master and ask her to check with my trainers for the proper procedure "in the current circumstances."

My messenger's eyes go wide. I guess this is the first time she has been entrusted with a major task. She nods and scurries out as if she's carrying the original Message to Garcia.

[The story of Message to Garcia is told at http://govleaders.org/message-to-garcia.htm.]

Some time later, Charles enters and, as always, gives me a warm greeting. I think his warmth comes from the progress I've made as his student of Chinese language. So far, I can recognize dishes on a menu, so I won't starve, he says.

He turns off the monitor and I am glad the beeping stops. There is no introduction, just a simple "What's the news?"

I give him the two-minute drill on the luncheon, the ladies, and what Sharon and Marie have said about the business dealings their men were doing. Charles nods, asks just a question or two for clarification, and departs.

In a moment, a nurse bustles in and wants to know why the monitor isn't beeping. I explain that Charles turned it off and that seems to deflate her. She plumps my pillow and checks my shackle, but doesn't seem to notice the bedpan lying on the foot of the bed. It seems that, as long as I'm not actually dying, the staff has no need for any activity for me. Fifteen brings me another slice of bread and pitcher of water later that day. When another nurse comes by to announce Lights Out, I figure the day is over and I try to get some sleep.

That's when my memories start pestering me. What I did wrong. When I did it wrong. How could I have done it wrong? And, the times my Master or my trainers tried to teach me, guide me, help me with accepting my slavery. On my first night aboard my Master's yacht, Anne had explained, "Your 'trying' is a given. What we all expect is your success. Do you understand?" She had continued her lessons, showing that I would be trained to Master's standards. Well, the training hadn't taken. This was the first course I had flunked since kindergarten.

And, it hadn't been a course in any skills I needed to be a First Lady. No, it was just in accepting my role, my position as a First Lady. I had never accepted my slavery at this level; now, I was being set up for another level of slavery. My Inner Goddess suggests they wouldn't ask me to accept this new level.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Thirty-Four: A Possible Buyer

Fifteen wakes me to my new day, again with bread and water. The morning nurse wanders around the room, clearly curious about a patient who has no medical or nursing care plan. I say nothing about how glad I am that my Master has allowed me to be kept in the Infirmary rather than in some dungeon while awaiting auction. I wonder if, indeed, I will ever be able to thank him for this small indulgence.

Charles appears, this time all business. "The next auction at which we could present you isn't for almost a month. Anything earlier would be unlikely to recoup much of our expenses. But, we've been scouting around and there is one promising opening.

"You know that, just sixty kilometers west of here, is the Macau SAR? It used to be Portugese and they developed quite a gambling business. Their deal with China left most of that intact and the resort and entertainment sector is doing quite well. It turns out that the executive in charge of services at one of the main casinos is in town. Master has invited him to evaluate whether you might fit into his team of entertainers, what he calls his "stable." He was a bit fussy about adding you to his schedule until I threw in a dinner.

"You will be available to him in the same room as the Minister starting at 1600 hours. You will follow any command he issues. Dinner is tentatively set for 2200 hours. Do you understand?"

What's to understand? There won't be an auction where Master might recoup my costs for some time. Now, the "executive in charge of services" is available for six hours. His title suggests he's in charge of prostitute services for the high rollers at the casino. Master wants me to sell my services, myself, to him. And, his need for a dinner means he's probably a crass and coarse oaf.

I know my answer: "Yes, Sir, this slave understands. An executive at 4:00 PM. Thank you, Sir."

I have no need to ask for details. I don't expect to be wearing the Plume de Chanel tonight, or probably anything beside a smile. It will be to Master's benefit to have me clean and tidy for this guy, so I expect that Anne or Pat will run me through a shower and fix my hair. The ridges from my caning and the tracery from Empress' whip and flogger are still red. My skin will show that I "mark nicely."

At 3:00, Anne arrives, frees my shackle, and escorts me to what was my room. With a glance, I am shocked: the room is barren of any hint of a former occupant. The bathroom shows a completely new assortment of soaps and lotions. Anne sees to my cleansing, both externally and internally. If my executive wants my anal virginity, Master has given it to him. Anne supervises my shaving: underarms, mons, pussy, and ass. She does spend time on my hair, brushing it out until it gleams as it covers my shoulders. No words are spoken, but I can read my trainer's emotions easily. She is disappointed. In me, of course, but also in herself as not having been tough enough or far-seeing enough to prevent this collapse, this dénouement. Finally, she pronounces me ready for my appointment. I do not walk freely this time; it is Transport Mode, as it was when I arrived.

In the room, Anne removes the handcuffs, but leaves them on the bedside table. An invitation to my executive? She turns to leave and I, thinking this may be the last moment I can speak to her, risk a correction by speaking out. "Please, Ma'am, let me say how much you've meant to me these past months. I'm so sorry to disappoint you. But, please, this is all my fault. You were never anything but kind and helpful to me. Again, I'm sorry."

It all just rushes out. I'm sure my trainer sees it as just another example of my refusal to accept that slaves don't speak out. But, Anne just turns, blinks back her tears, and rushes out of the room. The click of the lock is a thousand times louder than it was in "my" room.

The soft glow of the clock-radio shows 4:00 PM. There is some talk outside the door, a bit of a laugh, and the lock clicks open. My executive turns from his escort and enters the room.

I recognize the former Opera Boss Slave.

I don't faint. My Inner Goddess doesn't shriek. Slaves have a perfect response to this kind of shock. I slide gracefully into Position One with my head down in submission. I greet the one who will command me for the next few hours with a warm "Welcome, my Master. This slave awaits your command."

He doesn't seem surprised. Then, I realize he has seen me in the Catalogue Pages. He knew from the start which slave was being presented for his scrutiny. The fuss about dinner was just to rub my Master's nose a bit. Empress was right in labeling him a twerp. He circles me, inspecting, and seats himself in an armchair.

"Julie, isn't it? No, don't speak, my dear. In the past few days I've heard all I would ever want to hear about 'Julie.' It started with the Empress — that old bitch — telling my Mistress that I wasn't good enough for her damn opera, that she was going to put someone else's First Slave in my position. That put my Mistress in a real pickle. If the Empress wouldn't have me at the opera, she couldn't have me around at all. So, now I've been sold off to the whorehouses in Macau. Well, kid, I've been to Macau, even to the Venetian Macao, the resort that bought me. They tell me my job is to run the cunts around for the VIPs. I'm going to screw some cunt in every one of the 3000 rooms in the place. It's almost like the plot for one of those damn Italian operas. And this time, we won't have to wait for the damn soprano to sing. This time, the tenor, that's me, is going to sing the final aria.

"And now I find you're not going to be the Empress' new girl. Now, I've got the option on you. You be nice to me and I'll take you with me to Macau. That jerk of a Master you have, Martin, hasn't named a price for you yet, but I'm going to chew him down to get you within my budget. It's a line item called Talent, wouldn't you know? I don't know if you know accounting, kid, but my kind of accounting is what counts now, right? Do you understand?"

I can sense both his embarrassment at being fired by the Empress and his joy at being able to acquire the source of his embarrassment. I don't irritate him by the usual "It shall be as my Master wishes" answer. He needs a more abject reply, so I try "Please, Master, this slave understands. Thank you, Master." I feel, for the first time since Martin took the envelope at my Hand-Off Ceremony, humiliation.

Humiliation continues. The former Opera Boss Slave (Butterfly and I had labelled him "OBS") stands and gives me my first command. "Julie, I want you to see your new Master. You will stand and walk around me three times. In some cultures, that constitutes a marriage contract. I want you to see the fine suit I'm wearing, not some pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I want you to notice the fine leather shoes I'm wearing; they were crafted in Italy. You will notice the perfect silk shirt, with its white tone-on-tone pattern. You will notice the silk tie, also crafted in Italy, and the Windsor knot in which it is tied. I want you to be able to recall all these for me any time I ask. Let us call this Lesson One in our relationship. Do you understand, slave?"

My answer, obviously, is the simple, "Yes, Master," and I deliver it in a properly subdued voice. I dutifully make the three circles and notice how well-tailored he is. His new Owners must have been impressed by his former Mistress for them to have dressed him this way. I also notice that his suit jacket is just a bit shiny at the cuffs and the crease in the trousers is not sharp. I wonder at the suit's provenance, but, even if my Inner Goddess were to prod me, I would never remark on these.

The circles completed, OBS commands me to undress him, taking care to hang the clothes properly. In particular, I make sure that the leather belt holding his trousers is hung inside the jacket. I have no trouble taking his boxers down with my teeth; that was one of the first skills my trainer Igor taught me.

Naked, he is not imposing. His muscles are poorly defined and his gut droops almost like an apron. My Inner Goddess comments that I could probably take him in a wrestling event, but I push that thought away. OBS seems to want humiliation to be the theme for this encounter, so that's what this slave will provide. I am too aware of the instruments in the room to even think of rebellion.

OBS gets into his desires right away. "Slave, your first task is oral servicing. Do you understand?"

Behind my automatic "Yes, Master," my Inner Goddess and I giggle at the hyper-formal language this twerp is using. As soon as he sits on the edge of the bed, I am kneeling between his thighs and reaching upward to start a gentle massage. He lets this go on for a few moments before demanding, "Slave, when are you going to start?"

OK, he's not interested in foreplay. His prick is fairly erect so I encircle it with one hand and lavish some kisses on its head. Immediately, his lance becomes fully erect, the head engorged with blood. I slide his foreskin up and down and he starts to moan and buck a bit. His horniness, I think, practically guarantees this will not last long, so I take his prick into my mouth, moving it back and forth with my tongue, and pushing until my nose is in his bush. I add a bit of suction and then start to hum the March of the Volunteers, now the National Anthem of the People's Republic of China. Charles had been teaching it to me before ... well, before that became superfluous. I don't know whether OBS is a fan of the government, but he seems quite pleased with my humming. After just one chorus, he erupts in my mouth and I have to swallow a few times to prevent any of his cum from leaking away.

As a good slave, I hold him until his erection has softened and then withdraw, opening my mouth to show my Master I have held his essence with respect.

His eyes are a bit glazed, I think, but he has a pretty wide grin on his face. His horniness has been assuaged, at least for the moment. After a minute to examine my mouth, he issues the Swallow command. I swallow and think about his taste. Slick and oily, with not much flavor. I return to his flaccid prick and lick it clean, returning to Position One and ready for whatever he has planned next.

Next comes quickly. He moves a bit forward and announces, "Water sports time! Drink, slave!"

As fast as I can, I lean forward and take his prick in my mouth. Immediately, he lets loose a stream of urine and I am forced to swallow as fast as I can, again taking care not to lose a drop. My trainers got around my distaste and reluctance for this service by the simple expedient of using me every few hours until I accepted their flows with the grace they demanded.

OBS is impressed! I can see it in his eyes and facial expression but, naturally, this is not the sort of encouragement he wants to give his new slave. Still, I know, and it gives me a kind of strength to face whatever other trials he has in store for me.

My Inner Goddess approves. "He may be able to command you, but he won't ever be able to command your loyalty." I have a flash memory of both Pat and Anne. They are no longer First Slaves, but there is no question that they would "walk through walls" for my Master.

At this point, the twerp surprises me. "I'll be ready for another go in about 20-30 minutes," he says, "so I'd like you to show what kind of massage you can do. Do you understand, slave?"

I put on a bright smile with my "Yes, Master." He stretches out prone on the bed and I reach for the oil in the nightstand. I pace myself for the next half-hour, working his shoulder, chest, back, thigh, and leg muscles. I figure that a bit of initiative might help me later, so, when he turns over, I finish the massage with attention to his prick and balls.

Fortunately, the timing is good, and his erection returns. I play with it, wondering idly what the correction might be if I simply strangled it.

His next command is also simple. "Slave, mount me, cowgirl position. You will take me deep, as deep as you can, and then ride me slowly until my next order. Do you understand?"

Duh! If he's going to continue with that damned question for every step, I'm not going to be humiliated, I'm going to think he really doesn't know much about commanding a slave or, even, about sex.

Still, even a twerp can be a Master, and this slave has been asked a direct question, so I give my "Yes, Master" answer and move carefully to straddle his hips. This opens my pussy and I know he wants me to feel the humiliation of having to reach for his erection and place it into my sheath on my own.

OK, but I'm also looking forward to feeling full in that place and, possibly, even getting my G-spot stroked, something any girl would enjoy, right?

I take the chance to tease him a bit, rubbing the tip of his prick along my labia for a moment. Before he catches on, I seat him at my entrance and swoop down on him, burying half his length on the first try. By the third pass, he is fully inserted and I do feel good at my G-spot. Score one for the slave!

I set up a pleasant rhythm, rising and falling, letting his prick almost come free and then burying its entire length. He seems to be enjoying this, and I am right with him. Then, of course, I realize I haven't received permission to orgasm! In as small a voice as I can make, I ask, "Please, Master, may this slave have your permission to cum?"