48 Hours on Blue Bayou Pt. 03: Julie

Written in collaboration with guest author J Spe. The auction is over and Number Two — Julie, the girl who was rated lowest by Slaver Albert — meets her new Owner. He has some nice things to say, but are they real? Julie takes a deep breath (this is one of her coping mechanisms) and enters her new Path of Life: Slavery. Your comments are welcome.

*

I

I am Julie. At least, I was when my date and I boarded Blue Bayou for a two-week cruise. Slavers took over the yacht and I and the other women were stripped, "trained," and auctioned off in just two days. My paralegal mind — when it wasn't frozen in terror — actually thought the whole process ran pretty efficiently.

I was bought by a man who seemed nice enough when he took possession of me. He said his name was Martin. He had me put my hands behind my back and handcuffed me, what he called "Transport Mode." He told me that he had bought me to be his "pleasure slave" and that I could have a nice life and, if I satisfied him for the next year or so, he might let me go back to my own life. I had no way to tell whether this was true or just a ruse to get me compliant for our trip to what he called his base in Hong Kong. In the end, with a whipping as an alternative, I opted for "compliant." This seemed to please him. I have no idea what being a "pleasure slave" will be, so I'm simply just going along. Actually, there's nothing else I can do. My gut tells me I'll be finding out more than I might want to know soon enough.

Oh, yes. He also said that, if I wasn't satisfactory, he might "sell me on." I am too scared to ask what that means.

At my "Hand-off Ceremony," Martin acquires my passport, credit cards, driver's license and car registration. The cards don't quite fill the envelope the slavers provide. That sight is my first intimation of how small I am.

I get smaller as I am transferred from Blue Bayou to Martin's yacht. The narrow plank bridge to his yacht makes my stylish heels a hazard and Martin simply orders "Kick your heels off." I enter Martin's domain barefoot and handcuffed. The bridge is retracted and I sail off to a new life.

A crewman takes me below decks to a small room, actually a cell. There is no porthole and only a single small lighting fixture recessed into the ceiling. There are two pieces of furniture: a small folding cot bearing a thin mattress and a solid wooden chair. The crewman points and says, "The cot is for you. The chair is not for you. Do you understand?"

I'm startled. The chair is not for me? The crewman must have seen my reaction, because he explains, "Slaves don't get to sit on furniture. Do you understand?"

Fear makes me afraid to give any answer. Finally, I manage a weak voice. "Please, I don't know anything about how I'm supposed to behave. I won't try anything, but please explain more."

He gives a short laugh and sits me on the cot. In a moment, he has uncuffed one hand and moved the cuff to the cot. I look at the tether with not much comprehension. Where could I go on a small yacht in the middle of some ocean?

"Look, kid, the cuffs are not only to lock you in. They are to tell you something, something about your new life, new position in society. Can you think of what the cuffs, the cot, the chair are all trying to tell you?

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that this crewman is "instructing" the new kid in school. I don't see any of the whips or canes the slavers carried, so I think this lesson could be less scary than the ones I got from them on Blue Bayou. That lets me think a bit.

I take a deep breath. "You're trying to tell me about my new life, aren't you?"

His grin tells me I'm on the right track.

"OK, then this is like an introduction to slavery, right?"

The grin stays friendly. "Keep going, kid, you're on the right track."

I think a bit longer. "I'm on a ship in the middle of the ocean. I'm not going to escape to anywhere, so the cuffs are for more than restraints. The chair is not for me, so it must be for my captor, the man who bought me. What you're trying to get me to see is that I'm not at his level, I've been demoted. I'm just a slave."

The crewman's eyes soften. "Right on, my dear. Everyone on this ship is higher status than you. You are barely human. You're a slave, what we used to call chattel before that word got old. You have no rights. You have only what we give you. Do you understand?"

That question, again! This time, I pick up some deeper vibrations. The Master gives an order and asks the question to make sure the slave understands. I guess that this is the slave's only time to get instructions clarified. If the slave says "Yes," then the Master will assume that the order is perfectly understood and that the slave will carry out the order perfectly. I try this out on the crewman and am rewarded with a "One Attaboy, kid!"

Great! Master is going to expect perfection from his slave!

But, I'm a paralegal. I know from "immaterial," "inconsequential," and "irrelevant." He really isn't going for perfection?

The crewman disabuses me of this flight of fancy. "Look, kid, the Master has standards. You will be trained to those standards. You will meet those standards. I can say this because I've seen his previous slaves. They met his standards. You will, too.

"Or," he pauses and the grin vanishes, "you get corrected. You might call them punishments, but we think 'correction' is a nicer word. Whatever, they hurt. Let me tell you that they aren't 'harms.' There's no point in harming you, is there? So, let me comfort you that you will recover from any correction. Of course, once you've recovered from the hurt, your survival will tell you that you can always be hurt again."

I tumble from the cot, falling into a kneeling and begging position. "Please, help me escape! I know I won't be able to do this. I'll fail and he'll get tired of me and — "

He cuts my plea off with a grab for my hair and a shake of my head. "Stop right there, kid! He's got an investment in you. He's not the kind to settle for failure. But, I'm here to tell you he'll be a good Master for you. Just don't do anything stupid and I'll take bets that you'll be one of his stars.

"One last bit of advice. Don't ever ask anyone to help you escape. Whatever your old life, you had better accept that it's gone. This is your life now, kid. Accept that and, I'm sure, you'll get a head start to success here. Do you understand?"

That question! I struggle to come to terms with his challenge. He waits, patiently, serenely. He has all the time in the world. He watches as I fight for that "acceptance" he has prescribed.

He doesn't have all the time in the world. "Perhaps a few taps from one of our discipline canes would help you see your way better?" His tone is helpful, suggestive.

It helps me decide; I don't want to be caned.

"Yes. OK. I'll try to accept like you say. Please don't beat me?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Were you trying to make a deal with me? No caning for your acceptance? Sorry, kid, but it doesn't work that way. You have no 'leverage.' You don't suggest bargains. Your job is to accept. Period, end of deal. Do you understand?"

It is too much! I burst out sobbing and throw myself at his feet. He sidesteps and I am snubbed by the handcuff to the cot. He waits until I have cried myself out. He has not lost his serenity, while I have lost my self. I am a chattel, a slave.

At last, I raise myself into a more proper kneeling position, as the slavers trained me aboard Blue Bayou. My head is down, in submission. I manage to whisper, "Yes, Sir, I understand. My job is to accept. I will try."

Gently, he lifts my chin and looks into my eyes. There is a hint of a smile in his eyes. "Not quite, my dear. Do you understand?"

I take just a moment to think. Then, it is obvious. "Yes, Sir, I understand. My job is to accept. I accept."

"Good! Thank you. I know how hard this has been for you. And I'm sure there will be hard work ahead of you. But, and I repeat, I'm willing to bet on you. Now," and here his voice becomes lighter, "you get a little time to lie down and nap. Someone will come when it's time for your next appointment." There is no further question. He turns and leaves. I hear the lock click.

Another lesson? Not only the handcuffs but the door lock also? Master is making sure his slave understands.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Two: Dinner

I am awakened by the clicking door lock and immediately recognize the need to pee. I slide off the cot to the kneeling position as my Master, Martin, enters.

"Good to see you had a bit of rest, my dear." His tone is relaxed and friendly. I respond with a grin.

"Thank you, Master." I mean, what can one say to the one who holds them as property?

He unlocks the cuff from the cot, twirls a hand around, and says "Transport Mode." I obey, automatically putting my hands behind, ready for the handcuffs. The click is instantaneous but the cuff is not too tight. I may be a newbie, but I'm paying attention to the important stuff first.

Master seems to sense that I have a request. I don't know how to initiate this, so I just hold back a bit.

"Does my slave have a problem?" His tone is not as relaxed, but he has not raised his voice.

"Please, Master, I've got to pee." If a slave has nothing, then I don't need to waste time with euphemisms, do I?

Master laughs. "Nice job! A direct way to get to the problem. OK, we'll stop at the head en route." I don't know where we're en route to, but I'm glad he's going to stop. I follow his lead down the corridor and through several passages. He stops at a door, opens it, and waves me in.

I pause. With hands in Transport Mode, how do I lower my jeans and panty? The instant is long enough for Master to understand. Another laugh and he opens a snap, lowers a zipper, and pushes material down. My face a bit red with embarrassment, I enter the toilet and get relief from the pressure.

There is another pressure as I try to figure out how to rearrange my clothing. Not to worry. Master beckons me out, uses a tissue to pat me dry, and lifts panty and jeans back into place. He turns and our procession resumes.

I am guessing we're going to the stern of his yacht when we arrive at a flight of stairs. Climbing to the top, I find I'm right. It seems to be early evening, but the sky is full of stars. Master sees my upward gaze and adds, "The moon won't be up for a few hours. Still, I thought this would be a nice setting for Evening Nourishments."

My ears prick up, hearing the capital letters for this "appointment." I turn and face a tableful of crew, both men and women, all inspecting me intently. In an instant, I feel a hot blush ripple from my face to my feet. There is a prompt cheer and a whistle from the crew.

I am adrift. One part of me wants to turn away and collapse into a puddle of shame. Another wants to laugh and join them, making myself part of their life. The "acceptance" part of me finally wins and I step forward. Master pets me on the head; I have done something right!

"Can we get on with it?" The toque identifies him as Chef. "My food is ready and it's not better when it's cold."

Master grins and bows in his direction. He moves easily to the head of the table and sits. For a moment, I look for a seat, but then, I am reminded, a slave doesn't get to use furniture. There is a space at Master's side. I head for it and find a folded blanket. I guess it's a kneeling pad for his slave and assume the position. I'm right.

Chef starts bringing out platters with salads and cuts of meat and fish and veggies. They fly around the table but, naturally, do not stop at my place. "My place" doesn't have a plate or cutlery or a glass or anything resembling dinner utensils. I wonder what this lesson is all about when, with the platters settled on the table, Master says a few words of thanks for the food. I notice his plate is full and he tucks into some salad with gusto.

By now, his slave — me — has discovered a ravenous appetite. The slavers had fed us fairly gingerly before the auction, not wanting any displays of gastric revolt to upset their patrons, I guess. I am about to "explain" this to Master when a forkful of greens appears before my face.

"I hope you'll like Chef's dressing." I sense from his quiet but determined tone that he has picked up how near his slave was to not accepting her slavery. I push that feeling down and get the salad down as fast as I can. The dressing is light and sweetly savory.

I'm sure Master has detected the surprise in my "Yes, Master, the dressing is delicious." I see that smile that accompanies his slave's acceptance of something. Another forkful comes every few moments, and then a bite from a warm dinner roll. Chef is good at baking also!

Conversation flows around the table. Mostly, I recognize it as standard banter and gossip about the day, the ship, and the crew. There is no mention of Master's slave or the prior evening's auction, or our destination. My mind wonders if this is a "security precaution" or if these topics are too routine and mundane for comment.

I am fed at odd intervals, sometime from a fork and sometimes from Master's fingers. From somewhere in the past, I recall reading that handfeeding a slave is a mark of a Master's high estimate of that slave.

Two pies appear on the table for dessert, and one of the crew dishes them out. Slaves, it appears, don't qualify for pie. Master holds a glass of water to my lips and I quench my thirst. I am surprised by a small "burp" and quickly look to Master to see if this is a faux pas. His smile is much wider. "I'm going to tell Chef you enjoyed your dinner."

I manage a quick "Thank you, Master," and look down, trying to hide my blush.

In the next few minutes, the crew begins to abandon the table, each taking his or her plates and cutlery to the galley. One comes back with a tray and collects the glasses and another wipes the table clean, down to a glistening shine. I am reminded of the "high standards" point the crewman described to me.

When we are alone, Master turns to me and asks, "Slave, what lessons have you learned from this appointment?"

Confusion erupts in my mind. Was I supposed to be taking notes? Is this an exam?

Master probably sees the turmoil in my eyes. He leans back and glances toward the stars. I cannot tell if this is a gesture of annoyance or merely to let a bit of time pass.

Not much time passes. "Slave, I want you to understand that you are always being tested. Every moment of every day you should be doing me some service or planning some service or thinking about what service I am going to need or want. Do you remember that question my officer asked you so many times when you arrived? The 'Do you understand?' question? Well, that question is designed to make sure we have complete communication, with no chance of mistakes or misunderstanding. I am expecting you to understand my world and be ready to serve my world all the time. Do you understand?"

OK, maybe I should have seen this coming. The officer had pushed that question at me enough times I should have realized how important it is. I take a breath, mostly to let Master know that his slave isn't a complete idiot and does have something to report. I hope my paralegal's mind has noticed something that would have some weight with Master.

"Please, Master, I haven't gotten everything quite organized yet. Let me go through as the impressions arrived."

OK, it isn't Churchillian, but I hope it is good enough to buy me some time to think.

It is. Master smiles just a bit and waits.

"First, I want to thank you for the stop at the toilet. And for your help with the clothes. I was surprised at the length, the size of this ship. I was amazed at the number of stars I could see. It took me a bit to get used to eating with the crew, but I was thankful for the opportunity. I think it means you have some trust in your slave not to throw a tantrum. The Chef is a real treasure. I've heard about people who can produce a dinner in a big restaurant, but this is the first time I've seen it in person. Finally, thank you for hand feeding your slave."

Master appears to think each observation over. After a few moments, his smile disappears and, with it, my abdominal muscles tighten in fear.

"Slave," his tone is distinctly cooler, "those are observations. The question was about what lessons you had learned. Take a few moments and think about lessons, not observations."

A reprieve! Only, this feels like going back to re-take an exam I had failed at university.

My paralegal's mind goes into overdrive. If one sort of report isn't satisfactory, another report would have to be, right? As with the books of a company, the numbers are all there, but the Balance Sheet presents them in a different view compared to the Income Statement, right?

I take another deep breath. This is becoming my signature move to gain a bit of time and presence. "Lesson one: your crew has accepted me as part of your world. I think this means they will be helpful in getting me to understand your world and be of service to you. Lesson two: Your hand feeding me taught me that, even though I'm just property, you do feel a responsibility for my well being. Lesson three: slaves don't rate pie."

OK, that last one is a bit of a blatant attempt at humor. But, I am curious whether Master has any sense of humor. Since Albert's bad joke about "embarrassing the ladies" before the auction, I had seen no evidence of a sense of humor in anyone.

Well, Master does have a sense of humor. His laughter is easy, loud, and rich. It subsides by stages, leaving a wide grin on his face. It is kind of a nice face with that grin.

"All right, slave, another Attaboy for the pie story. By the way, of course, you're right. Slaves don't rate pie. Other foods slaves don't rate include ice cream, carbonated drinks, and alcohol of virtually any kind. You've already been told about furniture. You'll find out about the rest of a slave's world as we go along.

"The other lessons were correct. You are a part of my world and therefore part of theirs. As a part, I expect all of you to be helpful and generous to each other. At least in my world, there is to be no 'Office Politics' games. I'm glad you picked up on that lesson.

"And yes, as your Master I do feel a responsibility for you. The psychology books call this an exchange of power. You have none; your Master has all. The compensation is that your Master has responsibility for your health and welfare. In my world, that means that all my decisions will be for your good, to help you serve in my world. There will be hard jobs for you to do, things you may not like or want to do. Because you are serving in my world, you will do them, and do them well. Over time, there may be occasions to give you corrections, hurts, but it is my responsibility to see that you are not harmed.

"My last lesson for tonight is perhaps the most important, my dear. We will be having a very close and intense relationship. It is important that there be complete understanding between us. If a slave could lie or hold back anything from her Master, not only would this be disrespectful but it could also affect how well her Master could provide for her. I suspect you can guess how much hurt you would call down on yourself for forgetting or ignoring this lesson."

My mind is a bit staggered by this last. Master had been toting up things up as if they were credits and debits on a Balance Sheet. This last item, however, could be so large as to unbalance the accounts and drag my world down to destruction. There is no way, I decide, I am going to be caught in that debacle.

I am so caught up in this consideration I don't recognize the approach of one of the female crew. Finally, Master taps me on the shoulder and presents me.