The Lady-Friendly Resort Pt. 01

Inspired by characters and settings created by Kate Smith. All characters are 18 or over.

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Just over ten years ago, despite being a small, impoverished country in sub-Saharan Africa that few people other than its own citizens had ever heard of, the Republic of Zonga did something that would change the course of world history forever.

Its Parliament re-legalized slavery.

Specifically, it legalized the enslavement of women, with very few practical limitations on the circumstances under which a woman could be enslaved. Very few people outside of Zonga paid much attention to this development, since, to the extent anybody thought about Zonga at all, they thought of it as a primitive, backward country where men had always treated their wives like property anyway. Nobody cared about the "third world," and even fewer people cared about the women of the "third world," so the "first world" simply ignored Zonga as it always had.

That all changed when a French Women's Volleyball team traveled to Zonga to compete in a tournament with the Zongan National Women's team. After the game, the bus that was carrying the French players back to their hotel was involved in an accident. The driver -- a local man -- had been drinking, and he drove the bus into a stall where a man had been selling fruit on the side of the road. Nobody was hurt, but the owner of the fruit stall was angry, so to appease him the Chief of Police had everybody on the bus arrested. The driver, of course, had no money with which to compensate the owner of the stall, so he was quickly released. But the French women were a different matter entirely.

The police ripped the clothes off all of the French women and crowded them into a small holding cell at the police station. The police station was a makeshift aluminum shack with no plumbing or air conditioning, so the tropical sun made it even hotter inside than it was outdoors. They were kept in the cell overnight, but even at night there was no respite from the sweltering heat. They sweated profusely. The cell was devoid of any furniture save the hard concrete floor, which had not been smoothed out, so it was uncomfortable to stand on. Even if the concrete were suitable for sleeping, the small cell packed with nude women provided insufficient space for everybody to lie down.

It was a miserable night, and by the following morning all of the women were exhausted, delirious from the heat, and drained of all their strength. Thus, they lacked the energy to offer any meaningful resistance as they were fitted with shackles, chained together, and led to a public plaza where, one-by-one, they were unlocked and marched onto a raised platform to be auctioned off. Some of the buyers were pimps, some were farmers who needed slaves for heavy labor, and some were just simple laborers who wanted a woman to have their way with. Zonga was a poor country, so the prices the women sold for were absurdly low by western European standards, but nevertheless it was enough to satisfy the man whose fruit stall had been damaged.

While this auction was taking place, an unknown member of the audience took a grainy video of the proceedings with a cell phone, and posted it to YouTube. The video went viral, and suddenly female slavery in Zonga captured the interest of the western world. The French government, of course, made the usual pro-forma diplomatic protests, but there was nothing they could do. Zonga was a sovereign country, and the women had traveled there of their own accord. Yet the idea of female slavery captured the imaginations of men and women alike throughout the world.

Overnight, Zonga started to rival such places as New York and Rio de Janeiro as a popular tourist destination. Men traveled there to experience being in a place filled with women who had no choice but to serve them and do their bidding, and, perhaps, to acquire a slave or two of their own. A surprising number of women also traveled there. Some went out of pure curiosity. Some to experience the erotic thrill of risking their freedom by spending time in a country where they could be enslaved at any moment. Many described the experience as like jumping out of an airplane or riding an intense roller coaster. Then, there were some women secretly imagined themselves on that auction block, being sold as a sex toy or a beast of burden subject to the lustful whims of some horny stranger. Whatever the reason may be, each year hundreds of thousands of men and women visited Zonga from all over the world, and many of the women never returned.

Tracey Smith was not likely to become one of those women. Yes, she had seen that YouTube video, and she was as intrigued as anybody else. Yes, when she was alone, in the wee hours of the night, her fingers occasionally found their way between her thighs as she imagined herself on that auction block. But whatever erotic thrill she might experience by imagining herself as a sex slave, she knew perfectly well that the reality would be far different, and she had no interest in experiencing that reality.

In any event, sexuality aside, Tracey knew that life as a sex slave would be a waste of her talents. She was a student at Said College at Oxford, and she was mere weeks away from earning a First in Economics and Management. She already had job offers for junior executive positions at several large companies in London, and she was looking forward to a bright and lucrative future. Nevertheless, even though she would be highly paid in the near future, at the moment her funds were limited. So, she lived in a small flat with her best friend Emily. Emily, like Tracey, was also a student on the verge of completing her studies, and here prospects were every bit as bright as Tracey's were.

That is why Tracey was surprised by the suggestion Emily made one morning.

"That holiday we were planning on taking together after graduation -- maybe we could go a bit further than Amsterdam," said Emily.

"How much further?" asked Tracey. "Did you find a cheap flight somewhere? You know I don't have a lot of extra money, and I don't think you do either -- unless you have some rich uncle you haven't told me about who just left you his manor house."

"Unfortunately, Uncle Desmond just refuses to die, no matter how much hemlock I put in his porridge," replied Emily. Emily sometimes had a dark sense of humor.

Tracey allowed herself a quick chuckle before steering the conversation back to the original topic. "So, where do you want to go for graduation?" she asked.

"Zonga," replied Emily.

There was that dark sense of humor again. Tracey laughed.

"I'm serious," said Emily.

"You know what they do to girls like us in Zonga, right? Why on Earth would you want to go THERE?" asked Tracey.

"I found this resort, with all sorts of fun activities. It's got a beautiful beach, a huge pool, great food, dancing, shows, you name it. And it's all expenses paid. Even if we fly there first class it will be cheaper than our trip to Amsterdam," said Emily. Emily handed Tracey a brochure she had apparently obtained from some travel agency or another, that depicted a tropical paradise with all of the activities Emily plus golfing, horseback riding, surfing, and many others. Importantly, all of the women in the photos were clothed. Not a slave could be seen.

"That does sound lovely," said Tracey, "and the price is right, but the fact remains I have no desire to become someone's sex slave in Zonga or anywhere else."

"Not to worry," said Emily, "this is a 'Lady Friendly' resort. According to the brochure, the resort has a strict policy prohibiting the enslavement of any female guest as long as she remains on the grounds of the property. Of course, that means we would have to stay at the resort, but with all the fun things to do there why would we want to leave anyway?"

Tracey had to admit that what Emily said made sense. No doubt, she would see female slaves while she was there, but as long as they stayed at the resort she wouldn't become one, and that was the really important thing. This would give her the opportunity to experience the erotic thrill of realising her fantasy of being immerced in a country that enslaved women, without having to take on the corresponding risk. Plus, she would have a highly luxurious tropical holiday instead of the mediocre budget holiday she was planning.

"Okay, I'm in," said Tracey.

"Great," replied Emily. "I'll make the arrangements."

And that is how it happened that eight weeks later, Tracey and Emily were at Heathrow Airport holding two round-trip Business Class tickets on Zonga Airlines, Flight 124. Ten hours, direct to the capital city. Check-in went smoothly and soon the two women were seated comfortably in their business class seats. Tracey noticed that the flight attendants wore uniforms were a bit skimpier than usual, with shorter skirts and displaying more cleavage than was usual at most airlines, but they were not so radically outside the norm as to cause alarm. Zonga, after all, was a tropical country, so it was only natural that they should wear less.

The real change took place a short time after takeoff, when the Captain announced that the aircraft was now clear of British airspace. As soon as he made that announcement, the flight attendants all ripped off their skirts and blouses, revealing only the g-strings and bikini tops they were wearing underneath. It seemed their outer garments all had velcro seams, making the sudden wardrobe change a simple matter. Now, instead of flight attendants, it looked like the business class passengers of Zonga Airlines Flight 124 were going to be waited on by burlesque performers.

But not Tracey. Or Emily.

Immediately after disrobing, one of the flight attendants approached Tracey and Emily's seats and addressed both of them, "okay girls," she said sharply, "up you get, back to Economy where you belong."

"But we have Business Class tickets," protested Tracey.

"Your tickets are only valid until we leave British airspace," replied the flight attendant, briskly.

"Look," said Emily, "we paid for..." Her protest was interrupted by a swift slap in the face from the flight attendant.

"Shut up BITCH," snapped the flight attendant, "and no more backtalk. Now get your little cunts out of those seats and back to Economy before we tie you up and throw you into the cargo hold." Tracey wouldn't have cared to admit it, but she was getting a little wet, with her submissive side reacting to being talked to that way by a flight attendant. Enhancing the effect was the fact that several other flight attendants had joined her, standing ready to provide backup in case she needed to carry out her threat.

"We'd better go Emily," said Tracey, reluctantly. Emily merely nodded, not wanting to do or say anything further to provoke the flight attendant. Both women got up and started down the aisle, with one of the male passengers giving Tracey a swift, open-handed smack on the ass as she walked by. Tracey ignored it, but her pussy did not.

Urged along by the flight attendants, Tracey and Emily made their way to the Economy section in the back of the plane to find that not only was every seat taken by a female passenger, but so was most of the space in the aisles. It had seemed that there were not enough seats on the plane to accommodate all of the women who had booked economy seats, let alone those in Business Class who had been moved to Economy. After the treatment they had received at the hands of the flight attendants, neither Tracey nor Emily were about to complain. Even if they were, there would have been nobody to complain to, since the Flight Attendants simply locked the door to the Economy cabin and left the passengers their to their own devices.

The flight lasted 10 hours, but to Tracey, seated as she was on the floor of the aisle with her knees pressed against her chest, locked in a cabin packed with women while her own comfortable Business Class seat lay vacant, the flight may as well have lasted 20 hours or 25. Even after the plane landed, it seemed like an eternity by the time when, after the men had all disembarked, a flight attendant unlocked the door to the Economy cabin and ushered the women off the plane. The flight attendants were still scantily clad in their g-strings, but they also carried what looked like riding crops. To Tracey, those uniforms now seemed less like the costume of a burlesque entertainer and more like the uniform of a prison guard. They led, and with their heads down the women followed. No arguments.

They were herded down the staircase leading from the plane and across the tarmac toward a prefabricated aluminum shack with a large sign above the entrance reading "Woman's Customs."

"I wonder what Customs is going to be like here," said Emily, who was walking beside Tracey.

"Probably not good," replied Tracey. "Any time they have separate services for men and women here, I think you can be sure what they have for women is worse."

"I'm sure it's nothing to worry about," said Emily. "Anyway, all we have to do is get through Customs and then the Hotel Shuttle will be waiting for us. Then it's just fun in the sun."

"No talking," barked one of the flight attendants who surrounded the women walking toward the Customs building. She swiftly swatted Emily in the ass with her crop, followed by Tracey. It wasn't enough to really hurt that badly, but it was certainly enough to make the point. Tracey and Emily put their heads down and, along with the other women, walked the rest of the way to the Customs building in silence.

The Customs building was pure chaos, with a mob of women crowded into a waiting area and no clear direction about where they were to go. Here, the flight attendants were no longer in charge -- they were simply herded in along with all of the other women who needed to be processed. Instead, the proceedings were directed by large, burley men in uniforms, who had even less patience for female nonsense than the flight attendants did. Soon, Tracey was shoved into one queue, and Emily into another, and although she tried to keep her eyes on Emily to keep track of her, the line moved so quickly that Tracey soon lost sight of her friend.

As soon as Tracey reached the front of the line she discovered why the process was so quick.

Tracey handed over her passport to the Customs officer, and he barely glanced at it. A suitcase emerged from a nearby conveyer belt. The officer effortlessly lifted the heavy suitcase and placed it on the table.

"This your suitcase?" he asked.

"Yes sir," replied Tracey, meekly. Tracey had decided that meek subserviance would probably be the wisest attitude in this situation.

The custom's officer scribbled some notes on a tag and attacked it to the handle of the suitcase, and then scribbled some more notes on a label, which he stuck onto a transparent plastic bag.

"Clothes off," said the officer, "put them in the bag." He handed the bag to Tracey.

"WHAT!?" exclaimed Tracey. Surely the man did not expect her to undress, right there, in public, in the middle of an airport.

"Clothes off," the officer repeated in a tone indicating growing impatience, "put them in the bag."

Tracey looked around the area, at what was going on in other queues, and she could see other women undressing. Some were undressing themselves, and a few were having their clothes ripped off of them by the burley uniformed men. In those cases, she could see that the women were having their hands zip tied behind their backs and taken away. Tracey shuddered, feeling equal parts fear, anger, and arousal. On the one hand, though she would never admit to it, being forced to exhibit herself in public was a secret fantasy of hers. On the other hand, this was really happening, and that was different.

In any case, there was nothing she could do about it. She could either undress herself and be off to her hotel, or she could have her clothes ripped off, and be taken away in handcuffs.

She undressed, folded her clothes as neatly as she could under the circumstances, and placed them in the bag. The officer snatched the bag away from her and tied it to her suitcase.

"Next," the officer shouted.

"Wait," said Tracey, "what about my bag? My passport?"

"They'll be sent to you at your hotel after we've searched them. Next!"

Tracey decided there would be no point in arguing with him any further, and as she made her way toward the exit she could peek at the holding cell filled with bound, nude women near the exit. That holding cell represented what Tracey's own fate would have been, if she had argued.

The exit led to an outdoor plaza filled with stalls, where local vendors sold all sorts of things, from cold drinks to tourist trinkets to meat and eggs. Quite a few stalls sold women -- each wearing an heavy steel collar chained to an anchor in the concrete ground of the plaza. Tracey did her best to stay clear of those stalls, as she had no wish to interact with any of those women, let alone become one.

She would very much have liked to be able to buy a cold drink (it was very hot), or even better yet something to wear, but the customs officer had taken everything she owned, including her clothes, her handbag, and her money. Her top priority needed to be finding the resort's shuttle somewhere near this crowded plaza.

No, she reminded herself. Her TOP priority needed to be finding Emily, so they could go to the hotel together. As tempting as it was to simply make a dash for the safety of the hotel, she could not leave her friend and flatmate alone in a place like this. Yet, as she looked around the Plaza, she did not see Emily.

Did Emily go off to the hotel without her? That didn't seem like Emily, to abandon Tracey like that.

A horrifying thought crossed Tracey's mind: Could Emily have talked back to the customs officer when she was instructed to disrobe? Then, she would be back there in the holding cell. Should Tracey go back for her?

No -- she wouldn't do that. Even if Emily had been detained Tracey doubted there would have been anything she could do to help her.

Eventually, Tracey resigned herself to the idea that she would probably not find Emily in the plaza after all. Hopefully, she would meet Emily back at the hotel. If not, she would just have to check with the British High Commission for help finding her. Either way, all she could do now is find the shuttle and make her way to the hotel.

Easier said than done -- the shuttle turned out to be just as elusive as Emily was. Just as Tracey caught a glimpse at what appeared to be a large bus parked about a block away from the Plaza and began walking toward it, she came across the nude figure of Emily, near one of the stalls where women were sold. The proprietor of the stall had grabbed Emily by the arm, and Emily was struggling in vain to break free.

Thinking quickly, Tracey dashed to a spot several meters away from the end of the stall opposite Emily. She shouted to the owner.

"Ooooh," Tracey taunted, fondling her own breasts and shaking her hips provocatively as she spoke, "such a big strong man. But you'll never catch me." Tracey giggled, and then ran. The man dashed after her, but it meant releasing Emily, who bolted in the opposite direction. Unfortunately for both Tracey and Emily, the crowd on the streets supported the merchant rather than the two women, so Tracey and Emily both had to dodge a litany of attempts by various bystanders to grab or trip them. Eventually, they started making their way towards one another, until, in their haste, they both plowed into a large, burly man who wore what appeared to be the uniform of a security guard.

He grabbed Tracey's the back of Tracey's neck with one hand, and Emily's with another. So powerful was his grip that both women knew there was no hope of getting away. They were both going to become slaves on the first day of their trip, before even making it to the hotel. What fools they had been!