Undercover Slave Girl, page 1
UNDERCOVER SLAVE GIRL
Copyright © Argus
All rights reserved.
The author has asserted moral rights under sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by Fiction4All
Imprint: FetishWorld Ebooks
All characters depicted in this story are over eighteen.
Hannah cursed softly and threw back the sheets, swinging her legs out of the small cot and onto the steel floor. She couldn't sleep. That wasn't a new phenomenon for her, especially so soon after a shift change. She was on the four to midnight shift at the moment, but last week she'd been on midnights. Her body was irritated with her.
Of course, the problem with living on a warship, particularly a British warship, was you couldn't simply pad down the hall to the kitchen in your underwear, nor even in a robe. You most especially couldn't do so where ratings could see you and perhaps lose respect for you as an officer. It had been hard enough gaining that respect in the first place, and Hannah had no intention of endangering it through laziness.
It was three in the morning, but there were always people up. She slipped on her blue uniform blouse and buttoned it up, stuffed her legs into trousers and then pulled on a pair of shoes before checking herself in the mirror. Muttering, she pulled her hair up and back. It was getting longish – now almost to her shoulders, and it wouldn't do to leave it loose.
All that took little time. Then she was out the door and up the quiet, narrow corridor. She took the stairs (which the navy persisted in calling a ladder) down two decks and then found the officers's mess. It was empty, but coffee, tea, milk and scones were laid out for anyone who wanted a snack. She passed up the caffeine in favor of milk, took a scone, and headed back to her cabin, chewing lightly.
Because it was so near, she took a detour and peeked into Communications. She frowned at the sight of Able Seaman Griffith working hard on a video game. The prohibition against doing so was well-understood, and she certainly agreed with it under most circumstances. On the other hand, it was the midnight shift, and the only thing Griffith needed was his ears, and unless he was a bloody fool he had the radio turned up and the sound of the game turned down low.
And keeping awake was the real name of the game. Still, if he was caught by Lieutenant Connor, who was officer of the deck, he'd get his private parts roasted.
Hannah took another bite of her scone as she examined the game over Griffith's shoulder. He had very nice shoulders, she thought. He was a handsome young man, as well. Not that there was a lot of relevance to that, given she was an officer, and a massive four years older than him. She took another leisurely bite on her scone. It wasn't as if she had a lot else to do. She loathed eating in her bed.
She finished the scone, then set her milk down on top of an equipment locker, brushed the crumbs off her lips, and then stepped inside.
“Griffith!” she snapped
The young man lept to his feet and turned around, jerking his shoulders back.
“Ma'am!” he exclaimed.
She scowled at him as she stepped three paces into the room, turning her eyes from him to the screen and back to him.
“Are you an idiot, Griffith?!”
“No?! No!? Are you completely incapable of understanding that you have to veer left through the black door to get the first aid gear before you throw yourself forward onto those zombies? How do you bloody expect to do anything more than get slaughtered before the spider queen drops on you?!” she demanded, still scowling.
He gaped at her a long moment, apparently lost for words.
She softened her face and then tapped him lightly on the chest.
“And if Lieutenant Connor walked in you'd be in for a month of scrubbing out the bilge. Find something less outrageous to pass the time, Griffith.”
“Uh, yes, ma'am,” he gulped as she turned away and left him.
She went back to her quarters, sipping the milk as she went, then tried to get to sleep again. They were docked, but there was always work to be done. And she didn't do her best when tired.
She slept until just after noon, then rolled out of bed, had a shower, and headed for breakfast.
She halted at her name and turned.
“Sir?” she said as Captain Timmings walked forward.
He led her aside and she followed, not much concerned until she saw his face.
“I'm sorry, Foster. There's just no good way of saying this. We've had word from your family. I'm afraid it's your father.”
* * *
Hannah folded the uniform neatly, her longer fingers smoothing out the fabric around the edges of her blouse before reluctantly lifting them up into the armoire and then, after a brief hesitation, closing the door. She felt, in a sense, as though she were closing a door on a part of her life. She had, much to her surprise, really enjoyed being in the navy, and not intended to quit after her enlistment was up. But circumstances had now intervened.
She turned away from the armoire, a three hundred year old heirloom built on the orders of one of her distant ancestors and her eyes caught the broad fields and gardens on the north side of the house. The Foster estate was not large. Not any more. Time had worn it down to just a few hundred acres. And thanks to her father's foolishness on the stock market even that was now in danger given it was all mortgaged to the hilt.
She shook her head, feeling a tightness in her chest at the pressure she was under. She'd been able to resolve many of the financial problems facing the family since returning and immersing herself in the invoices and records. They would be able to start paying the mortgage – almost certainly – in a year or so. That was when the sole remaining investment her father had made which didn't seem mad, was likely to come to fruition.
It was a luxury holiday resort and gambling casino in Monaco. Everything looked quite good, and it should produce enough money to keep the estate afloat and pay down the new mortgage – eventually.
The problem was how to make it through the intervening period without everything they owned being seized by creditors.
Hannah's mother was hopeless at money, and certainly had no skill with which to earn any. And while Hannah had attempted to borrow more, she had nothing but a heavily mortgaged estate and no job with which to guarantee repayment. Nor could they try to borrow from friends. That simply wasn't done. To acknowledge their near poverty would have been too humiliating for the family, especially her mother, who had barely managed to hang on after the shocking news of her father's suicide.
Her brother was an alcoholic sot, and her aunt Louise even more of a financial incompetent than her mother. As for her cousins... she shuddered at the thought of even attempting to involve them.
No. There was no one but Hannah to figure out a resolution, to find a way to earn sufficient money to see them through the next year or so. And there was only one possibility, however horrid it was, that sh
She cast a glance at herself in the large wall mirror, and sardonically saluted herself, then raised one long leg, straight out, and did a small twirl, reminiscent of her long years of dance and ballet classes. They'd certainly done little for her in life, other than to give her a certain grace of movement. But perhaps now they'd be worth all the time she'd devoted to them.
She sighed as there was a knock at the door.
“Come,” she said.
Sara, the maid, entered, along with John the steward, wheeling a dolly.
“All right there,” she said, pointing at the luggage.
She'd considered long and hard where to go. Certainly she had no intention of staying in the UK. She wanted to put as much distance as possible between her peers, both in the military and in Britain’s upper class society, and herself as she could. She liked New York and Boston, but so too did any number of people she knew. None of the places the better classes tended to visit would do.
The problem was, the most money to be made was in New York, California and Florida, all favorite destinations of her peers. New Jersey, on the other hand, was virtually empty of Britons, particularly the upper classes. And certain parts of New Jersey bordered on New York City
And so that would be her destination.
She followed them down the stairs, said goodbye to her mother and aunt, and then got into the car, ostensibly to take up work at a high paying job as a communications consultant in an American high technology firm. It would pay, she had told her family, well over a hundred thousand pounds a year, and could, with some success, double.
Even that, she secretly feared, would not be enough, not quickly enough.
* * *
“Are you out of your mind?” Rupert demanded in irritation.
“No, just thinking outside the box, as you suggested,” Blair said.
“You want to put an informant into O'Neil's estate as a sex slave!?”
“It's not really a slave,” Blair said. “I mean, it's not like they're held against their will.”
“And where do you think you're going to get the girl?” Miller asked in amusement.
“Put an add out for a sex slave?” Dale suggested with a laugh.
“If you look at it unemotionally, the only unusual part of this job is the sex and nudity,” Blair replied, sitting back in his chair and gazing across the board room table. “We've used girls for sex before. Let's not be overly delicate.”
“For sex,” Miller said. “Not for getting whipped.”
“I'm sure it's painful and unpleasant,” Blair said blandly. “But the right kind of person, with the right motivation, can bear up under it. It's not like O'Neil is really a sadist anyway. He doesn't harm the girls he plays with, after all.”
“Physically,” Miller snorted.
“The point remains, how are you going to find someone who'll accept that as part of an assignment, and who is smart enough to be a capable operative? It's not like we could just hire a hooker for this sort of thing. They don't have the temperament to do more than seduce a man and have sex with him. If you want an informant in place she has to be smart enough to pass communications to us without getting caught, and to look around and recognize what we need.”
“Anyone smart will tell you to go fuck yourself,” Rupert said with a grunt.
“She can't simply be smart. She has to be disciplined. You're going to be able to simply use some cheap bimbo to do this, Powell. You need an actual operative. An agent. And none of our female agents would consent to something like this.”
“We find an outsider.”
“An outsider who is capable of being an agent, and also willing to undergo this sort of brutality? How are you going to find this mysterious young woman?”
“That's where motivation comes in.”
“And you intend to motivate some young woman how?”
Blair raised his eyebrows. “Money, of course. And lots of it. We find a girl who is smart, who is capable, and who is also desperate for money. Then we make her a proposition.”
“And will her skill set include keeping her mouth shut afterward? Presuming she survives, that is. Because if anyone ever found out about this we'd all be screwed.”
“We'll find one who will not want to put this around for their own reasons.”
* * *
This was going to be more difficult than she had hoped, or been willing to admit when she'd accepted the idea, Hannah thought, chest tight, stomach churning.
She gazed out into the club, watching Gwen dancing, dancing poorly, she thought anxiously. At least she wouldn't have a difficult act to follow.
She'd first gone to a beach in Spain when she was sixteen. It had seemed wonderful exciting and wicked to go topless there, but then again, most of the other girls were too. Still, flashing her naked breasts at men and boys walking by had been a very strange experience. It had been horribly embarrassing, but had turned her on enormously. She'd felt like an exhibitionist!
But years of holidays on the south coast, especially in the Med, had gradually robbed her of her embarrassment. She'd eventually graduated to nude swimming and bathing, which was not terribly unusual in southern Europe. It had still felt terribly wicked for her, and she'd never failed to be aroused by strutting about nude, howevermuch she tried to pretend otherwise.
It simply did something to her mind. All those years of lectures about modesty, and there she was naked, walking around, letting men ogle her private parts! She'd felt like a slut! Oddly, she hadn't felt guilty so much as deliciously naughty and aroused. Any day at the beach was certain to bring a rich reward to whatever guy she went back to her hotel room with that night!
So she'd gotten used to being seen naked in public. She had lost most of her embarasment, and during beach parties, she had even danced, just as other girls had – naked.
So surely she could do so now. In a strip club.
She'd known it wouldn't be the same, of course, but she'd done it on the beach so surely she could do it here. What really was the difference, logically?
Emotionally, of course, there was a huge difference, but she was trying to paper that over in her mind with a few strong drinks. Being nude on a beach in southern France was simply a sign of sophistication. Being nude in a strip club in New Jersey across the river from New York was quite a different thing.
Then again, another difference was she got paid nothing to be on a beach, while she stood to make a very great amount of money here. And she needed it.
Then the music changed, and Gwen came back through the curtains. Her heart pounded even more loudly, and she froze in place as she was announced, but someone experienced gave her a push and she was through the curtains and onto the stage, all eyes on her. There was nothing to do then but follow through.
Hannah had applied herself to this task in advance, doing her research wherever possible, often on the internet. She had a decent idea of what sold, of what was popular, and so she had designed her 'act' with that in mind.
Most exotic dancers were not particularly good at dancing. That was, they were ordinary girls who, through desperation, usually, had gone to the only job they could which would pay the kind of money they wanted or needed. They had little imagination, rarely had the discipline to properly apply themselves to anything, and were often either drunk or drugged. The only required skill by most clubs was a nice body and a willingness to bare it. Hannah had had to demonstrate rather more than that to get in here, at one of the better clubs, where the clientele were richer, paid more, and gave better tips.
Most of the girls came on stage in something slinky and which would easily fall off, usually a minidress or short skirt of some sort. Pleated schoolgirl outfits were always popular too, of course.
Hannah was wearing a tight, sleeveless t-shirt which strained across her breasts, and low riding, short denim shorts with a heavy gold belt drap
Inside, she was petrified, but her body carried through the movements she'd practiced. She stood there, hand on hips, smirking out of them, cocking her head to one side, then the other, tossing her head arrogantly, running her tongue slowly across her lower lip as she gazed out at them and let her hips start to slowly move from side to side.
She backed against the pole and let her arms go up above her head, clutching the pole with her hands as she pushed her hips out and ground them slowly in time to the music. She swung slowly around the pole so the customers on all three sides could see her, then threw her body in the other direction, swinging around the pole.
She was in no hurry to strip. Most of the strippers had forgotten the 'tease' part of strip-tease. The more she delayed, she thought, the more eager the men would be to see. They could certainly see her long, well-sculpted legs, and her trim, flat belly. The tight little shorts did little to hide the shape of her bottom either, as she turned to the pole and bowed forward, rolling her bottom at them slowly, grinding her hips.
She turned and slid her hands up and down her body, her fingers brushing up against the bottom of the t-shirt, sliding it higher, then letting it fall, sliding it higher again, then letting it fall. She slid her hands down to her shorts and unbuttoned the first button, then swung herself around the pole again, letting her shoes fly off towards the curtain.
The jeans were tight, but her movements gradually lowered the zipper, and that loosened the shorts. The thin string of her black thong made an appearance, first on one hip, then on the other, as her shorts started to slide down.
She leapt up, using the strength in her legs to produce a short, abrupt movement, and her shorts slid down her thighs. She swung her legs sharply around and the momentum sent her shorts shooting off her feet and onto the stage behind her.