Author's Note: This is one of several short stories in a series called "The Island." All stories take place in the same secret island resort, where women come to serve as sex slaves for a year, under the control of a man known only as "Sir."
All characters are over 18. All places, characters, and stories are completely fictional. Sexual slavery and human trafficking are real, serious problems, and rape and kidnapping are illegal.
The following story is a sequel to "The Island: Caroline." I recommend reading that one first.
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That girl would be here now. Sir would be with her, fucking her, pushing her to her limits, showering her with praise.
Caroline never cared this much when a new girl arrived. There was always a new girl, and Sir always kept her with him and did all the same things that he'd done with Caroline when she'd stepped out of that elevator for the first time. If it always bothered her this much, she would have had to leave long ago.
But this was different.
Because this time, Caroline knew she'd brought in her own replacement. She'd tried to push Sir out of her mind, had actually pushed him away, and had found this girl to take her place in Sir's heart.
Why?
Because she couldn't take it anymore, knowing that as much as she wanted him all to herself, he'd always have some other girl in there with him. He had his pick. All he had to do was snap his fingers, or send a message, and in minutes whichever girl he wanted would be in his office, dropping to her knees.
And she had only him. When he had time for her. And he snapped his fingers for her less and less often.
It had to be done, but it tore her apart. And worse was knowing that he would move on, and she couldn't. Who could possibly replace him in her life?
A knock at her door brought her out of her private pity party. That would be Pierre. Hopefully with copious amounts of alcohol.
"Come in!" she called, and went out to the living room to greet him.
He came in, wearing a suit and tie - where had he gotten a suit and tie? - and carrying an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels and two pints of ice cream. Good man.
"You seemed down," he said. "Cookie dough or fudge?"
"Both."
"That bad?" He set the bottle down on her dining table and took the ice cream to the kitchen. "Bowls, or straight from the carton?"
"You know me too well," she said. They'd only been dating two months, or maybe it was just fucking, but she really did enjoy his company, and he really did seem to understand her. "Unless you want some?"
He opened the cartons and brought them and a spoon to the table. "Far be it for me to help you eat your feelings." He smiled to take the sting out of the words. "What are you so upset about anyway?" He opened the bottle and went to retrieve glasses from the kitchen.
"That girl."
"Which?" Ice clinked in the glasses, and he poured generously.
"The new one. She just got here."
"Why is that upsetting? You don't usually get this morose. Usually you're proud of your find."
So maybe he didn't understand everything about her. But that wasn't his fault. "Did you read Andrew's report?"
"No. I don't usually bother."
"Me neither, but I did this time. She's perfect, Pierre. He had to almost make up reasons to punish her. She's that good."
"Is that unusual? What do you mean he had to make up reasons?"
She sighed. "I guess you don't really know how it works. You just find the girls, pass along the message, and put your nose back in the data. But that was me once, you know?"
"So enlighten me." He sipped at his whiskey.
She hesitated. "I don't think I should."
"Why?"
She dug into the ice cream, cookie dough first, to give herself time to think. "Well, maybe you don't really want to know."
"You brought it up," he said.
"Okay, fine. So the agents, they meet the girl and tell her that Sir will help her out, but first she has to serve for a year. They don't tell her what she'll be doing. That's the catch, see? She agrees, and they take her to a hotel room and make her take off her clothes. Some will do it without a problem, and others will have to be, um, coerced. Then they get on the plane and bring her here, and on the plane they ask her questions to fill in any gaps we have in her sexual history. And then they make her masturbate in front of at least one of them, and they film it for Sir."
Pierre had stopped with his drink halfway to his mouth and was staring at her. "Why didn't I know this?"
"Wait. There's more. So they get here, and she's butt naked, and they send her in to meet Andrew. He takes her on a little tour, kind of breaks her in, right? She gets shown off to the guests a bit, and then he takes her to the bar and has her give a guest a blow job. Just like that, no warning, no training. And then she goes up to Sir."
He tossed back what was left in his glass and coughed. "And she does all of this?"
"Well, that's the thing, see. Most won't. I mean, really, would you expect them to? So whenever she balks or refuses, that goes in Andrew's report, which he gives to Sir to decide on her first punishment. Sometimes it's bad enough that he or Mac have to punish her in the bar. Sometimes the agents already had to punish her in the hotel room or on the plane, depending on how uncooperative she is. Eventually, they get her to do what she's told, and then when she gets up to Sir, he'll do a formal punishment. Sort of an indoctrination, I guess."
"When you say punishment..."
"Spanking, flogging, hitting with a riding crop, whatever is needed."
"Right." He looked a bit green. She poured him some more whiskey.
"You didn't know any of this?"
