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.
