The Lady Friendly Resort Pt 02

Although Tracey felt like she badly needed to touch herself, in response to the effect the events of the day were having on her submissive instincts, she also knew that she badly needed a shower after spending the day in the hot Zongan sun. If her former needs were not going to be satisfied, at least she would be clean, which represented in an improvement in her situation, albeit a small one. In fact, so acute was Tracey's need for a shower that only after she had turned the water on, and she was halfway through with washing herself, did she notice that there were no towels. There had been no towels in the room, nor did there appear to be any towels in the shower room. There was a terry cloth bathrobe waiting for her outside of the shower room, but that was no substitute for a towel. Tracey supposed it would have to do.

That prompted a horrifying thought: Her robe was OUTSIDE of the shower room, along with her badge. Would it actually be waiting for her, or could some passer-by have grabbed it? And if some passer-by had grabbed it, that would leave her both without a robe and without a badge, walking around the resort naked, with no way to identify herself, in a country where slavery was both legal and commonplace. DAMN! She wanted to touch herself. She looked around to see if anybody was watching her, and saw the woman showering next to her turn off the water.

Tracey quickly resumed washing herself, but out of the corner of her eye she also watched the other woman to see what she would do after her shower was over. As soon as the woman turned off the faucet, she pressed down on the middle of the knob, and air started blowing out from a group of holes in the wall. Similar holes were embedded in the wall near Tracey's shower head, but now Tracey could see what they were for. It appeared to be similar to the hand dryers that could be found in many public lavatories, only this was for the whole body. So, one mystery was solved.

Tracey finished her shower and turned the water off, and was surprised by how quickly the warm air dried her. Unfortunately, she had neither a brush nor a comb, so she had only her fingers to use on her hair, but she made do the best she could. She walked out of the shower room, and although she hoped the hallway would be empty, there were several people walking by. She tried to be as nonchalant as she could as she walked out. Fortunately, she found her robe hanging on its hook, undisturbed, with her badge securely attached.

A few minutes later Emily emerged from the shower room and the two women started searching the labyrinth-like corridors for the lift. When they finally found it, they proceeded to address their second most pressing need: food. They were safe from any immediate risk of enslavement, they were freshly showered, and they were (sort of) dressed. Once they had some dinner they might be able to start enjoying their holiday.

The restaurant was easy to find once they reached the lobby, and at the entrance they were greeted by an olive-skinned hostess who wore nothing but a rhinestone bikini and a thick leather collar around her neck.

"Welcome to the Majestic Restaurant miss," said the hostess humbly. "May I see your badges?"

Tracey was taken aback by the hostess' demeanor. This was the first time anybody in Zonga -- even a slave -- had spoken to her so politely. Tracey and Emily removed their badges from their robes and handed them over to the hostess, who kept them as she led the two women into the dining room.

The atmosphere was opulent, and most of the guests were dressed up. The men wore jackets and ties, and most of the women wore evening dresses, albeit a bit more revealing than Tracey was used to seeing in England. Tracey and Emily were not the only women there who wore terrycloth robes, but there were few enough to make them feel out of place.

The hostess led Tracey and Emily to their small table, and as they took their seats Tracey noticed a woman at a nearby table stand up and start dancing, seductively, to the music that was playing in the background. The man who was sitting with her at the table watched attentively as she started giving him a lap dance. She uncapped the badge from her dress and handed it to to the man, and he took it while she unzipped her dress and slipped out of it, slowly and seductively.

"Is she the entertainment?" asked Emily, taken a bit aback at the scene.

"No Miss," replied the hostess. "She is a guest, just like any other."

"Then why the strip tease act?" persisted Emily.

"She is living out her fantasy," replied the hostess. "Don't worry, she is perfectly safe. No lady friendly guest can be enslaved on resort property. So, as they say, what happens in Zonga stays in Zonga."

"But didn't she just give that man her badge?" asked Tracey.

"Yes, she did. A lot of girls who come here with their boyfriends or husbands do that -- it gives him control over her fate. But she wouldn't do it unless she really trusted him."

As Tracey and Emily contemplated the idea of trusting a man so completely that they would put their freedom into his hands so completely, the hostess said, almost as an afterthought, "by the way, here are your badges," as she placed them on the table and walked off.

Eventually a waitress, clad in an outfit similar to the hostess, came and the two women ordered their meal. From time to time, they were interrupted by some woman doing a strip tease act either for a man she was with, or for some other male guest. Tracey was intrigued, and she could see Emily was as well.

"Don't they realize the risk they are taking?" asked Tracey.

"Are they though?" replied Emily. "I mean, nothing seems to be happening to the girls who perform like that. Except maybe they turn the blokes on."

"So, no risk," said Tracey, more to herself than to Emily. "And no consequences..."

"I think maybe that's the idea," said Emily, whereupon Tracey stood up.

"What are you doing Tracey?" asked Emily.

"What I came to do. No risk, right?" A flabbergasted Emily looked on as Tracey stepped away from the table and started dancing, seductively, in her robe in the middle of the restaurant floor. Several of the men sitting at adjoining tables looked on, and some whistled and catcalled. Tracey playfully undid the drawstring on her robe, and flashed one breast, then the other. She then closed her robe and spotted a young man seated at a table alone and approached him. She turned his chair, sat in his lap, and opened her robe slightly to expose herself only to him. The men seated at the surrounding tables cheered.

Eventually, much to the disappointment to onlookers who seemed to be expecting a fully nude performance, Tracey got up.from the man's lap and went back to her table, only to be greeted by Emily, with her mouth stuck open.

"My GOD Tracey, I can't believe you did that!" said Emily. The truth was, Tracey couldn't believe it either. If anything, Tracey was normally the more prudish of the two. But the events of the day, as frightening and humiliating as they were while she was experiencing them, had awakened in Tracey latent submissive urges that demanded an outlet. This appeared to be the safest outlet she could find.

Tracey was not inclined to explain this to Emily, since, frankly, it was none of her business. In any event, going to Zonga in the first place had been Emily's idea, so it was hardly her place to judge Tracey if she wanted to test the limits of the "lady friendly" protections the resort offered.

"No risk, remember," was Tracey's only comment.

"Sure, but honestly, you have to be more careful," replied an exasperated Emily. Who did Emily think she was? Her chaperone?

Before Tracey could respond, the young man whom Tracey had given a lap dance to approached the table and spoke to Tracey.

"That was quite a performance," he said. "I am pleased to see you getting into the spirit of things here."

"Thank you, sir," replied Tracey with uncharacteristic humility. Emily frowned a warning to Tracey, but Tracey ignored her.

"Would you like to accompany me to my suite for an after dinner cocktail?" asked the man. Normally, Tracey would NEVER accept a strange man's invitation into his hotel room like this, but in this case the alternative would be going back to her own room with Emily, which seemed distasteful to her at that particular moment.

She hesitated, but the man waited patiently. Tracey knew it was risky -- no, INSANE, to go to a strange man's hotel room. It would even be crazy back home. But she also knew that in coming to Zonga in the first place, she had already done something insanely risky. And the man was attractive.

"You CAN'T Tracey!" exclaimed Emily. "Don't be stupid!"

That did it. Tracey may have been on the fence about going up to the man's room initially, but she was not about to let Emily tell her what to do. Not now.

Without a word, Tracey stood up. The man offered Tracey his arm, and Tracey took it and let the man lead her away.

"By the way," she said, "my name is Tracey Smith. What is yours?"

"John Chambers," he replied, as they left the restaurant. John led Tracey through the lobby toward a door that was guarded by two attractive women wearing skimpy French maid dresses. They curtseyed to John and opened the door. Inside was a small, ornate lobby immaculately decorated with fine art, where John led Tracey to a lift. The lift was operated by another French maid, who did not need to be instructed, but knew immediately on seeing John where he wanted to go. The lift sped up to John's floor, and as soon as the lift door opened, they were in John's room.

"Room" didn't even begin to describe this accommodation -- it was more like a mansion. The foyer they were in was all marble, like the vestibule of a great cathedral, and Tracey could see beyond the foyer an elaborate corridor with wood paneling and several doors on each side. The contrast with the tiny chamber she and Emily were in was nothing short of stunning.

Two more French maids were waiting for John in the foyer, and they both curtseyed to him as he emerged with Tracey from the lift. One of the two women stood in front of John, dropped down onto her knees, and looked down toward his feet.

"Welcome back Master," she said humbly. "May we serve you in any way?"

"Attend us in the Drawing Room," replied John.

"Yes Master," answered the woman, whereupon she stood and scurried off.

John led Tracey down the corridor to a well-decorated Drawing Room, and motioned her to sit on the sofa, while he sat in an armchair opposite her. He instructed the French Maids who had scurried into the room ahead of them to pour a glass of whiskey for him, and another for Tracey. In theory, the whiskey could have been drugged, but it didn't seem likely. If John had wanted to do something to harm Tracey, he could easily have done so directly. There would have been no need to be sneaky about it.

"So tell me," began John, conversationally, "what brings you here to Zonga?"

"My flatmate and I are here on holiday," replied Tracey.

"Yes," said John, acknowledging the statement of the obvious, "but why take your holiday in Zonga as opposed to, say, Caen?"

Tracey didn't answer. The fact was, Tracey did not have an answer to that -- at least not one she wanted to speak out loud. She had told herself that she went to Zonga because Emily had found a good deal whereby they could take a luxury holiday on a limited budget, but that was a half-truth at best. The truth was that the thought of immersing herself in a world where female slavery was commonplace gave her an erotic thrill she was unlikely to experience otherwise. She didn't want to say THAT out loud either, since she knew how easily it could be misunderstood. The difference between "I want to immerse myself in a world of female slavery" and "I want to be a sex slave" may seem subtle, but it was of utmost importance.

After a long pause during which John waited patiently for Tracey to carefully choose her words, Tracey finally responded. "Zonga is a unique destination, and my mate and I wanted to take the opportunity to explore."

John nodded, and took a sip of his drink.

"I understand," he said. "This resort gives you a sort of freedom you cannot experience anywhere else. Not even back home, and certainly not in Zonga. You can be as sexy as you want -- as feminine as you want, and no harm will come to you. No consequences."

Tracey's subconscious forced her to nod. John had been eerily accurate in surmising what Tracey desired. He then followed it up by guessing, accurately, what Tracey wanted at that specific moment.

"Come here Tracey," said John, gently. Gentle as it was, it was unmistakably a command.

It didn't occur to Tracey to protest. She stood up and began to walk toward John's chair, when John abruptly interrupted her.

"Stop," said John, whereupon Tracey immediately stopped, as if by trained reflex. He stood up and walked a bit further away from Tracey to the other side of the room, and then spoke again -- calmly, but clearly giving a command.

"Undo your robe," ordered John. "Let it slip to the floor."

Without thinking, Tracey complied. Of course, since she had arrived in Zonga she had been made to undress in public several times, but somehow this was different. She had come up to John's room voluntarily, and she did not feel at all as if she were being forced to remain. She wasn't being forced to disrobe, she was obeying a command that she had subjected herself to of her own free will. Being forced was horrifying, but she wasn't being forced as all. She was surrendering, and surrendering was delicious.

So Tracey let her robe slip to the floor, and then complied again when John ordered her to drop to her hands and knees and crawl to him. There, he snapped his fingers, and a french maid came with a dog collar and a leash, which John placed around Tracey's neck. Using the leash, he led Tracey back to the sofa, where he sat down and had Tracey lie, face down, across his lap. In the perfect position for John to give Tracey a spanking.

It didn't hurt, but it did reinforce John's dominance, and it put the deepest and darkest of Tracey's submissive urges into a state of bliss. John and Tracey played like this throughout the night, with virtually every one of Tracey's dark submissive fantasies being acted out. It seemed like John had a limitless supply of bondage equipment available to him, obediently delivered by a french maid at the snap of his finger. While Tracey was put through her paces, John seemed to have an intuitive sense of Tracey's tolerances. So he whipped her, but no more than she could happily tolerate. He tied her up, but no tighter than she could comfortably handle. The proceedings went nowhere that Tracey did not want them to go.

And, yes, sex was well within those limits.

Near the end of an evening of blissful bondage play, John ordered Tracey to go to the bathroom and draw him a bath. She replied "yes, Master," having long since started using that title when addressing him of her own volution, and followed the established protocol of getting on her hands and knees and crawling to the bathroom.

It was a large whirlpool tub, easily big enough for the two of them. Tracey closed the drain and filled the tub with warm water, mixing in a generous amount of bubble bath. After the tub was ready, she got onto her hands and knees again and crawled out to John to inform him.

"The bath is ready Master," she said, humbly.

John motioned her to stand up, and together they made their way to the bathroom. They both badly needed a bath after the evening's activities, but by then Tracey had so thoroughly adopted the submissive mindset that she chose to put his needs before hers in every way, even here. She let him step into the tub first, and then she gently bathed him, spending more time on the area between his legs than was strictly necessary for cleanliness. Once she judged that area clean, she held her breath and submerged herself under the bubbles, so she could complete the job with her lips and tongue.

After their bath, she dried John off, then herself, and they went together into John's bedroom, where, now drained of energy, they collapsed into each other's arms.

No woman in history has regretted a one night stand as much as Tracey did the following morning. She had been in some sort of aroused haze that had clouded her judgment and made her do something insanely stupid, and she felt like a gullible idiot. Here she was, in bed with some man she had never met, in a country where women were routinely enslaved. What was she thinking!?

"Be polite, bide your time, and get the hell out of here," Tracey told herself. It was the best plan she had made so far, but was it too late?

John woke up, and Tracey realized that her plan was about to be put to its first test. Tracey thought John might want to continue their "master/slave" role play from the previous evening, which was something Tracey was in no mood for now that her head was clear. Fortunately, however, he made no attempt to do so. Instead, he simply picked up the phone next to the bed and summoned two French maids, who served John and Tracey breakfast in bed.

Once Tracey was done, she got out of bed, and it dawned on her that she was still nude. Then, Tracey remembered that she had left her robe on the floor in the drawing room, so she left the bedroom and made her way down the corridor so she could retrieve it. However, she found the drawing room immaculately cleaned up, with no robe to be found.

And, more important, no badge.

She had been had! Here she was, nude, in this man's suite, and the only difference between her and his little servants was that they at least had those french maid dresses. She had been so foolish with her lustful haze the night before that she had given up her only proof that she was a free woman entitled to the protections of the resort's policies, rather than a slave.

Desperately, she ran back to the bedroom.

"Where is my robe!?" she demanded, even though she knew that if John didn't want to give it to her, there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

John seemed to disregard Tracey's frantic tone, and reacted as if she had simply asked him if he had seen her missing keys. He gestured to a nearby dresser. Tracey opened the drawer and found within it her robe, freshly laundered and neatly folded, with her badge placed on top and her sandals placed beside.

It was as if a gigantic weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Despite her suspicions, John had been as good as his word. Yes, he had indulged his dark fantasies of dominations, and hers of submission, but at the end of the day he could be trusted and she was safe. Tracey was grateful.

Tracey got dressed, attached her badge to her robe, and affectionately bid John farewell, promising to see him again before their holiday was over. The french maid who operated the lift took her back to the lobby, where Tracey found the other lift that would take her back to her own room.

Emily was not in the room when Tracey arrived, but she was pleased to see that their luggage had finally been delivered. Another lucky break. Tracey happily removed her robe and, for the first time since her arrival, got dressed in her own clothes. She felt almost human.

On top of her suitcase she had noticed an envelope marked with the resort's logo, which she opened after she got dressed. Inside was a document labeled "invoice," and containing their bill. This did not concern Tracey, as Emily had told her that she had prepaid for the holiday, but one line on the invoice concerned her greatly.

"Discount for sale of Tracey Smith: £350"

It was a good thing Emily was not in the room, or Tracey's reaction to this "invoice" would likely have been violent. Tracey simply could not believe that her best friend and flatmate would do something so horrid as to try and sell her as a slave to the resort just to get a discount on the room. The fact that Emily had sold her for such an absurdly small sum -- £350 -- was all the more offensive. Tracey didn't want to be sold for any price, but if she were to be sold she was sure she would be worth more than that.