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