Joe Doe wrote most of Part 2 in February 2012, but it remained only a fragment (or "snippet") until I expressed some interest in it, and he gave it to me. I wrote the lengthy set-up (Part 1), edited Part 2, and collaborated on Part 3. TRACY IN ZAMBUANGA, PART 1 by C. Lakewood The right-hand drive Range Rover bucked and bumped its way along the dirt road, past occasional knots of people headed in the same direction: toward Bazinga, the capital of Zambuanga. "Oh, the monkeys have no tails in Zamboanga, Oh, the monkeys have no tails in Zamboanga, Oh, the monkeys have no tails...." "For heaven's sake, Emily," Tracy growled at her ex-patriate Brit PA, "stop that interminable caterwauling! Besides, we are now in Zamb-U-anga...sub-Sahara Africa; your...um...'song' was written about a place in the Philippines." She cocked an eyebrow and looked thoughtful for a moment. "Though it IS curious that the Zambuangan word 'munkee' means 'female slave,' isn't it?" "I didn't know you spoke Zambuangan, Miss Smith," Emily gushed. "SENATOR Smith," Tracy corrected. "And...I'm not what I'd call 'fluent,'" she added, with a casual shrug. (In fact, she knew half a dozen words in the dialect...and those imperfectly.) "But keep your mind on your driving, girl. This is little more than a glorified goat path.... By the way, what do you suppose happened to all the foreign aid money we've dumped on this benighted area over the years?" "Not for me to say, miss," Emily answered, without turning her head. "But, I'm sure that, after you get slavery abolished here, you'll investigate Zambuangan corruption, too." "Senator. But that's an idea," Tracy nodded. She'd spent 16 months in the Senate -- the STATE Senate -- having been appointed to fill the unexpired portion of the term of Winslow J. ("Windy") Blather, who'd been elevated to the DNC. But she'd been voted out in 2010 as fiscally irresponsible. Now she was searching for a gimmick to use in a comeback in 2012. Armed with an impressive-looking but essentially meaningless letter from the Deputy Assistant Chairman of the U.N. Committee for African Affairs, she had taken it upon herself to champion the end of one of the few remaining systems of chattel slavery in the world. Also exposing corruption (for which the previous U.S. administration could of course be blamed) would be gravy. ****************************** At length, tired and grubby, they arrived in Bazinga and managed to get rooms with running water at the best (!) hotel in town. Despite the fact that the plumbing looked like it dated from before WWI, Tracy very much enjoyed her shower. The tepid water, which normally would have enraged her, turned out perfect for washing away the grime and fatigue of travel through the sweltering bush. She even managed to nap for a couple of hours in the stuffy hotel room...while Emily dutifully fanned her. As a result, in the afternoon, Tracy was relatively cool, composed, and rested, whereas Emily was as grubby and frazzled as she had been all day. It didn't matter, though, as they headed off to meet with the government's representative: a Major Muangabu. Tracy was the principal; Emily was merely entourage. It was true, however, that Tracy was somewhat annoyed that they were relegating her to a mere major (a rather lowly rank in Zambuanga). She had expected a full colonel, at least. She was determined, however, to be pleasant with the fellow. Her cause (and her political future) were too important to jeopardize with a relatively minor (though completely justified) grievance. They were forced to wait an unconscionable length or time in a grandiose but ill-maintained anteroom, being eyed by a slack-jawed sentry. Tracy was fuming inside when they finally got in to see "Major Moo" (as she was already beginning to think of him), but she never forgot one of the politician's golden rules: You can be as rude as you like to underlings, but you must always be polite toward anyone with power. "Major Moo" turned out to be a sweaty, toad-like little man of about 50, in a powder blue uniform trimmed with imitation gold braid. To Tracy, he resembled a black Boss Hogg dressed like a doorman. But she greeted him gushingly and was careful, when she sat down, to "carelessly" let her skirt ride up, exposing quite a lot of thigh. She presented her vaguely-worded "credentials," and the major seemed impressed (with either the U.N. letter -- or Tracy's legs), and everything was quite cordial...until Tracy used the word, "investigation." Then the atmosphere turned chilly, and the major lost most of his ability to communicate in English...or in French (Zambuanga's second language, a relic of the colonial past). The meeting was quickly terminated, amid a flurry of empty, pro forma, diplomatic phrases. ****************************** Back in the hotel room, Tracy was beside herself, sensing that her great humanitarian triumph was in danger of slipping away (and, with it, her political comeback). She calmed down only when Emily (who spoke tolerable French) volunteered to go out in disguise and see what she could find out. She slipped out after the hotel had quieted for the night and returned more than a dozen hours later, when most of the populace of Bazinga was napping through the noon-day sun. Her report was disappointing...but with a glimmer of hope. The two of them gradually worked out a plan. It was a plan that might serve as a plot outline for an x-rated "I Love Lucy" episode, but Tracy, desperate, was grasping at straws by this time. For Tracy to get an inside look at the slave-processing, they would employ Boogloo, a Zambuangan youth who worked as a gofer around the slave-pens. He spoke a sort of pidgin English and a smattering of broken French, so Emily was able to befriend him, sell him on a cover story, and enlist his help. According to the cover, Emily's employer, Tracy, was a foreign thrill-seeker who wanted to experience a slave auction from up close...but not too close. Tracy would play the potential slave, Emily would pretend to be the seller, and Boogloo would facilitate the charade. Tracy was not too happy with this story and would have much preferred switching roles with Emily, but agreed in the end for a variety of reasons: 1) the "slave" would be the star, 2) Tracy could remember all the details much better than the idiotic Emily, 3) the seller must be able to communicate, in one language or another, 4) Emily, as seller, could intervene at any time prior to Tracy's actual sale, 5) Boogloo, convinced by the initial cover story, might have second thoughts if they now started modifying it, and 6) the plan was so fool-proof, nothing could possibly go wrong. Tracy frowned at #6. She'd heard that somewhere before -- a movie, perhaps -- but just couldn't recall where. She shrugged. It was immaterial. They had to act fast, she realized, before Major Moo got the idea of deporting them on some bogus charge. The next slave auction was to be held in two days' time, so, meanwhile, they went about establishing an innocent, innocuous routine. They drove out to the desolate area north of the city and went sight-seeing. They did the same thing the following day, making several trips back into the city, driving here and there, accustoming the people (miltary/police and citizens alike) to the sight of the car. It quickly ceased to be a novelty. On auction day, they went through the same motions, but this time circled around and entered the locale of the slave pens inconspicuously from the rear. Boogloo provided Emily with credentials identifying her as a seller and then slipped away to reconnoitre. After parking in a handy spot, Tracy and Emily ducked into an unlocked storage shed nearby to prepare Tracy. Tracy reluctantly stripped naked. Dreading what was to come, she was in a foul mood. "Well, let's get it over with.... And stop looking at me like I was a prize heifer." Emily thought, "Heifer? No, more like a sow." Aloud, she said, "I was just wondering what they'll think of the fact that, well, the curtains don't match the carpet, as I think the saying goes." "Never mind about my carpet.... You've spent too much time in British girls' schools. Now go fetch the slave-master or whatever you call him." ****************************** But the slave-master did not go to slaves. They went to him, as Tracy learned to her sorrow a few minutes later, when two brawny blacks armed with leather spanking straps burst into the shed and drove her out into the yard. Emily soon appeared, along with a ferret-faced man in white. Tracy felt the hot sun on her skin, the sweat that immediately began running down her body, the dust between her toes. She forced herself to stand quietly and endure his examining her teeth, hefting her tits, checking her muscle-tone, and probing her cunt and asshole. She was being treated like an animal at a state fair, and it was all the fault of that stupid bitch, Emily. Tracy distracted herself from the indignity by plotting her revenge. Emily and the man were jabbering away in French, a language Tracy despised. Typical. It was, she was fond of pointing out, a language of thugs, cowards, traitors, and losers. The slave-master asked Tracy's name. "Tracy," Emily replied. "Dorassy?" "No, no. TRACY." "THEE-SI?" Emily gave up. No use beating a dead horse. Momentarily, she thought about trying "sen-a-tor," but changed her mind. "C'est 'Munkee,'" she shrugged. Everyone (even Tracy) understood -- and could pronounce -- THAT. There were smiles all round (except, of course, for Tracy). But she didn't have any time to brood about that, for the two burly assistants were already in the process of strapping her down, lathering her crotch, and shaving off her pubic hair. They applied a purplish goo (apparently a re-growth inhibitor) to the shaved area, waited a while, then hosed it off and released her. The color of the carpet was no longer an issue. The slave-master marked something on Tracy's butt -- a grade, a sequence number, his initials, who knows -- and the inspection was concluded. ****************************** TRACY IN ZAMBUANGA, PART 2 by Joe Doe The slave "inspection" had been brutal, indignity piled on indignity, and Tracy was relieved to get back to the storage shed to dress. But her clothes were gone. She spun about to confront Emily, who was following close behind. "Not to worry, miss," Emily said cheerfully. "This door doesn't have a lock, and I didn't want to leave your clothes unguarded, and I had to use the loo, so...." Tracy, who had just been awash with sweat, was now shivering, butt-naked, standing on cold concrete. She was in no mood to listen to the little airhead's diary...or to wonder why the air was stifling, but the floor chilly. "WHERE-ARE-MY-CLOTHES-GIRL?" she growled, enunciating every word as if it were Emily who was language-deficient. (She was even so distracted that she neglected to correct 'loo' to 'ladies' room.') "No need to fret, miss. I locked your clothes in the boot of the car. If you'll just give the keys...." "SEN-A-TOR, dammit! And the keys were in my purse, you twit! Where's my purse?" "Ah...in the boot of your car, miss. I wanted it to be safe." "How am I supposed to open the car with no keys?" Tracy shouted. "Are you an idiot? Are you STUPID? And it's 'trunk,' not 'boot.'" "Yes, miss. You're so smart, and I'm so stupid. I don't understand why you're the one who's standing butt-naked in a slave market." For the first time (or perhaps it was merely her imagination), Tracy thought she saw a flicker of intelligence in Emily's eyes. "I can go fetch a locksmith," Emily offered. "Though they don't really believe in locks around here, there has to be one nearby...somewhere." "What about me?" Tracy wailed. "Oh, I could chain your hands behind your back, and leash you, and take you with me." "But I'm naked!" "Yes, miss. Slave girls usually are. Keeps them humble, they say." "I'm not going to let you parade me through the streets naked." "Sorry, miss. That was stupid of me.... I could leave you here...but if someone comes, he'll think you're a runaway. And you'll be pun-isshed." Emily enunciated the word "punished" slowly, and with a trace of relish, letting the "shhh" linger, as if it were the sound of a cane swishing through the air. Tracy winced as she felt the stripes on her bottom. She didn't want to go through THAT again. (On the other hand, for some reason, she was horny.) "No. You can't leave me here. I'm not a runaway! You have to put me somewhere safe." "Wait, miss, I have an idea," Emily said brightly. "Come along." She flung the door open and hustled Tracy out. Naked, Tracy didn't want to leave the safety of the store room, but what choice did she have? Two minutes later, she found herself locked in a corral in the main courtyard with 30 or 40 other naked girls. "I'll go find a locksmith, Miss Smith. I'll be back in a jiffy...I hope." "But this is a...a pen for slave g-girls," Tracy protested. "Yes, but no one will bother you here, miss," Emily said. "You look JUST like all the rest!" she added with a giggle. Not quite like all the rest; Tracy was the only white girl in the corral. There was, however, SOME logic to the plan, in an airhead sort of way, but.... Then Emily was gone. Tracy didn't even have a chance to say, once again, "SEN-A-TOR Smith, you nitwit!" So Tracy waited. And waited. And waited some more. She waited while they set up the podium on the large wooden block next to her pen. She waited while they set up the cameras in front of the block. Her crotch itched. She waited while they set up the chairs. Meanwhile, she retreated to a corner of the corral and scratched herself. She waited while the crowd came in and sat down. Though she KNEW some people were watching her, she thrust her fingers deep, in and out, in and out. The itch was maddening. She waited as the first girl was taken out of the corral and put up for auction. As the girl was sold, Tracy began cumming, uncontrollably. Scanning the crowd, hoping to see Emily, she saw "Major Moo" instead and quickly looked away, hoping irrationally that HE wouldn't see HER. A batch of five girls was sold next, followed by a set of six. The herd was thinning rapidly. Then Tracy spotted Boogloo, and she forced herself to extract her fingers and beckon to him. He sauntered over, licking his lips. She blushed when he grinned at her gooey fingers, but, finally managing to explain her plight, she inquired when Emily might return with a locksmith. "Ah, nice lady be gone big-long, missy," he said, laughing. "Is no word for 'lock' in Zambuanga language." Edited by C. Lakewood ****************************** TRACY IN ZAMBUANGA, PART 3 by Joe Doe and C. Lakewood "No word for 'lock?'" Tracy shrieked. The boy grinned and shrugged. "No need. You steal an'...THZHSKK!" He made a throat-slitting gesture. "But no worry, missy. You make good price. Mostly two plenty-rich will bid on you. "Number 1 is Madame Ewgly. Has big, big brothel -- but all brown girls. You white, so she figure you make much money for her. You be humpin' night an' day or she whip bottom good. Even if you DO work hard...fock ever'thin' you see, she still whip...but jus' a little." "But...I'm a SENATOR!" she protested. Boogloo shook his head. "No diff'rence. You still spread an' hump, or she whip bottom good." He excitedly pointed to another buyer. That is Major Muangabu -- very important man. He...." "Yes," Tracy said, rubbing her crotch. "I know who he is." Despite herself, she began wondering what sort of perversions Maj. Moo might be fond of. The itching was becoming progressively worse...spreading. She shook herself, but with only partial effect. "I must get out of here, now," she muttered. "Yes, missy, I think right away," Boogloo said, backing away. Tracy was still rapt in thought, a moment later, when the slave-master's assistants came for her. She was sweating heavily -- and not merely from the heat. As they hustled her out toward the block, a tumult of thoughts tumbled through her brain.... "This is preposterous! I can't be sold! It's a nightmare! What's that wretched boy yammering about now? He knows I don't understand monkey language.... And now the guards are gibbering at each other, too -- like a couple of apes.... Or gorillas.... Brawny bastards, though.... I wonder if they're...if they're BIG...all over. Wait! Wait! They're tying my hands behind my back.... No! I can't reach my-my.... Oh, god! The itch is torment! I don't deserve this!" Weeping, sweating, writhing, and struggling, she was dragged onto the block, and the slave-master began haranging the crowd in Zambuangan, extolling Tracey's virtues -- chief among them her seemingly unquenchable sexual appetite. Meanwhile, Tracy scanned the audience, desperately seeking an ally. Then she spotted Emily, standing to the side, quite near the block, sipping a drink. Watching. Smiling. Enjoying Tracy's shame. "Emily!" Tracy gasped. "Why aren't you gone? You're supposed to get a locksmith! You-you're going to save me...." "Don't worry," Emily said airily. "At least I'll take care of your credit cards and jewelry and the money in your purse. I will find them all a happy home." The slave-master was now gibbering at her...in vain...then he switched to what Tracy recognized as French...but might as well have been Greek. "Accroupissais, salope!" he said, like an x-rated Pepe le Peu. "Écartais et montrais la chatte!" Tracy dithered, completely bewildered. The slave-master repeated himself, louder, and swung his strap, but it didn't do any good until Emily shouted out a translation: "Squat, bitch, and spread. Show your cunt." Tracy bridled. "I most certainly will not. Listen, this is all a dreadful mistake. I...." Swish! The strap cut through the air and landed on Tracy's bottom. "Accroupissais, salope!" he repeated. Gritting her teeth, she squatted and spread her legs. She did not understand what was being said about her, but she understood the smiles of the mostly male crowd, who were very much enjoying the view. "Keep your legs spread, Miss Smith...or, should I say, 'Munkee,'" Emily called. "Your pussy is SO wet; it will surely attract a splendid buyer, one who'll see to it you get all you can handle -- and more." The slave-master was saying something new, now, but just as incomprehensible, until Emily obligingly translated: "On your feet, girl! Jump up and down. Make those tits jiggle!" Tracy groaned, but rose and did as she was told. The slave-master, however, was not satisfied. SWISH! "Faster...knees higher! Make your big jugs really bounce!" Emily laughed. Biting her lip with shame, but very conscious of the two broad stripes on her bottom, Tracy obeyed. "Turn around, spread your legs, put your hands on the block, and show the buyers your arsehole!" "Listen, I...." SWISH! SWISH! SWISH! This time it took three stripes across Tracy's reddening bottom before she submitted. "On your back, knees up, legs spread. Show your cunt!" Very aware of the strap, Tracy did not have to be told twice. She turned her head and pretended to be elsewhere as the grinning slave-master knelt down next to her and playfully teased her shamefully exposed clit. As he rubbed her, the bids flowed like Tracy's juices. "Please, Emily, help me!" Tracy shrieked, the tears rolling down her face even as the juices dribbled down her widely-splayed thighs and were drunk up by the thirsty sand that covered the block. "I am not a munkee! I'm a white girl! I'm a Senator!" While the slave-master skillfully brought Tracy to one shattering orgasm after another, Emily began to sing softly. "Oh, the munkees have no tails in Zambuanga...." Tracy rocked through her serial orgasm as the bidding reached a frenzy.... "Verkoop!" the slave-master shouted -- to some laughter and some cat-calls and some light applause. No translation was necessary. Tracy -- or "Munkee" -- had been sold. Emily was already making her way toward the exit, but her natural curiosity won out, and she paused to scan the crowd. Mme. Ewgly was scowling, while Maj. Moo had a triumphant expression on his toad-like face. QED. And Emily shared his moment of triumph.