Puerto Esclava | Neal's Home Page | ASSTR Home Page
CAUTION: This story is not politically correct. It includes the humiliation and degradation of willing and maybe not so willing black women. The "n" word is used liberally.
by Neal
The day before she was to depart, Tamika finally told her mother about her new job working at the vacation resort. She said how she'd be gone for six months, but that all the bills would be taken care of. She talked about long hours of cleaning and cooking for the guests, but failed to mention that her primary purpose there was to be a slave for their sexual gratification.
Tamika's mother accepted her explanation with few questions. Perhaps the older woman understood that there was more to this than her daughter was telling her, but that it would be best not to press it.
* * *
At nine o'clock on the morning of the thirty first, Tamika arrived at the airport. It felt odd to her to be starting a long trip like this without any luggage or even any personal effects beyond the sweatshirt, jeans, and jacket she was wearing.
She'd never heard of Tropical Tours and had a little difficulty locating their counter. There was only a single person on duty there, a pretty brunette about her own age dressed in a blue uniform. No one else was in line. Tamika felt nervous and very self-conscious as she stepped up to the counter.
"May I help you?" asked the white girl behind the counter.
"Um..., yes...," answered Tamika. "I'm supposed to pick up a ticket here."
"Your name?" queried the uniformed brunette.
"Thompson," replied Tamika. "Tamika Thompson."
"Let's see...," said the brunette, looking in a drawer under the counter. "Here it is. I can just check you in right now."
"Um..., okay," said Tamika.
The brunette pulled an envelope out of the drawer and took the ticket out of it. She slid a boarding pass along with the envelope over the counter to Tamika.
"Gate forty one," the ticket counter girl smiled professionally. "Departure is at eleven forty."
"Thanks...," Tamika managed to say.
Walking away from the counter, Tamika followed the signs to the gates. She looked at the boarding pass. "Tropical Tours charter flight 104," was all it said along with her seat number. Looking in the envelope, she found a red card. "Wait by the baggage claim area keeping this card visible," was written on side of it. The other side was marked "502" in large block numbers. There was no indication of the destination. Perhaps she should have asked, she thought. On the other hand, it would seem very strange for her to be picking up a ticket without knowing where she was going. She found the gate and sat down and waited.
As departure time approached, other people came by and took seats in the waiting area. Couples, families, and other groups, all talking and laughing amongst themselves, clearly on their way to a Caribbean vacation. However, Tamika noticed two other black women who were, like herself, alone and looking around nervously. Shortly before they were to board, the woman she'd seen coming out of the office where her interview had been held arrived. Like before, they briefly made eye contact before quickly looking away, ashamed at having been seen by someone who knew why they were there.
On the plane, the four unaccompanied black women were seated far apart. Once they were in the air, the pilot came on the speaker.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking," he announced. "Our flight time today will be approximately five hours. You'll be happy to hear that the temperature in Saint Croix right now is seventy degrees."
Saint Croix, thought Tamika. Now she knew where she was going. However, she knew that the final leg of her journey would be by boat, so this was only an intermediate stop over point. She spent the flight looking out the window and paging through in flight magazines in an effort to take her mind off what was at the end of her trip. For most of the other passengers, it would be a pleasant break in a tropical paradise filled with sun and fun. All that awaited the colored girl and the other three black women was a long several months of slavery filled with humiliation and degradation.
* * *
After getting off the plane, Tamika headed for the baggage claim area as the card had instructed her. She felt a little foolish standing there, displaying the red card. Looking around, she saw the other three black women from the plane standing well back from the baggage carrousel, each with a red card in her hand.
Together, they waited without speaking or even making eye contact. Once the last piece of luggage had been picked up, they were the only ones there. A few minutes later, a middle aged man with thinning collar length hair walked into the baggage claim area. He looked at Tamika and the others.
"All of you with the red cards, come with me," he said.
With that, he turned and walked away. Tamika and the others followed him through the terminal and out to the curbside in front. The tropical sun was bright and left the negro women blinking. The man led them to where an unmarked white passenger van was parked.
"Get in," he instructed before opening the driver's door and getting behind the wheel.
Obediently, the four black women climbed in. Tamika looked out the window as they drove from the airport. After a few minutes, they turned off the main road and eventually came to a large windowless warehouse looking building made of cinder blocks surrounded with a chain link fence. Beyond the building, the ocean could be seen. There was a younger man with long blonde hair inside the fence who opened the gate to let the van in. They stopped in front of the building.
"Everybody out," directed the driver.
Tamika and the others got out of the van. The the scent of seawater was heavy in the air. The younger man who'd opened the gate walked over and opened the door to the building.
"Inside," he said.
It took a few moments for Tamika's eyes to adjust to the dimness inside the windowless building after having been in the bright tropical sunlight. She'd been expecting something more imposing, but the room she found herself reminded her more of the waiting area at the department of motor vehicles than a place where women were taken into slavery. A few rows of wooden benches faced a desk at the back of the room. No one was sitting at the desk, which was next to a closed door. A couple dozen casually dressed black women, much like herself, waited nervously. Some of them looked up to see who'd just entered the room, but they quickly looked away.
"Sit down an' wait 'til your number is called," instructed the long haired blonde man.
Tamika and the others found seats on the bench and waited. Every few minutes, the door by the desk would open and a broad shouldered white man with close cropped brown hair would call out a name and a woman would get up and go through the doorway. None came back out.
After half an hour or so the outside door opened up, bringing sunlight into the darkened room. Tamika and several others turned to see four more black women entering the room, looking around blindly as their eyes adjusted. She looked away before they'd taken their places on the benches.
Another half hour passed as the slow procession to the back room continued. Finally, Tamika's number was called. Somewhat bashfully, she rose from the bench and walked towards the inner door, consciously avoiding meeting the eyes of the black women who glanced up at her as she passed by.
The inner office was a small room with a desk and two chairs. A short white man with thinning black hair and wire rimmed glasses sat at the desk and the broad shouldered man who'd called her sat in the other near the door she'd just come through. Another door was on the other side of the room. On the desk was a telephone and a folder that was marked "502". On the floor was a cardboard box, also with "502" written on it.
"There are two contracts for you to sign," said the balding man, taking some papers out of the folder. "The first is a personal services contract between yourself and the company. It states that you will be providing unspecified services for us in exchange for settling the debts listed. Look it over and make sure it's complete before signing it."
He pushed one of the papers across the desk to her. Looking around, Tamika confirmed there was no chair for her to sit in, so she just picked the document up and skimmed it. The list of debts was correct, but there was no mention of exactly what services she was expected to provide.
Tamika felt the knot in her stomach tightening and could hear her pulse pounding in her head. This was it, she realized. Sign this, and she was committed. This was her last chance to back out. But, she thought, there was no backing out. She'd come this far because she had no choice. The black woman went ahead and signed the contract. The balding man took it and put it in the folder. He then picked up the phone and dialed.
"Five oh two is signed," he said into the phone.
He waited for a few seconds before saying, "Okay."
The balding man hung up and turned his attention back to Tamika.
"Your debts have been taken care of," he said simply. "You may call your creditors to confirm if you like. I have the numbers here."
"Um..., okay," said Tamika softly.
She recognized the customer service number for the mortgage company on the paper. Tamika had called it many times in the recent past to try and explain why payments would be late. She dialed and waited. After working her way through the voice menus she reached a representative who told her that, yes, the balance was paid in full. There would be no more threatening letters or demands. The house was safe. Somewhat dazed she hung up the phone.
Looking down at the list, Tamika saw the number for the bank that the car loan was from. This one was familiar, as well, but she had no desire to call. The resort company had fulfilled their part of the bargain. All that remained was for her to spend the next six months in slavery.
"Do I... uh... have to call the others?" she asked.
"It's not required," he answered. "I can assure you they've all been taken care of, but you're free to verify it yourself.
"Okay," replied Tamika. "That's enough. I don't need to call 'em."
"Very well," said the balding man. "Remove your clothing and any jewelry you're wearing and place it all in the box on the floor. We'll keep it here for you and return it at the conclusion of the contract."
Tamika felt her face flush. Seeing the look on the faces of the two white men, she knew that they fully expected her to comply. It began to dawn on the colored woman that she would be naked for the next six months unless someone chose to give her something to wear. She felt incredibly exposed even though she hadn't even started to undress. A tear rolled down her cheek. It was all getting very real very fast.
Swallowing hard, and brushing the tear off her face, Tamika removed her jacket. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head. The balding man looked at her intently while the broad shouldered man merely watched as if he weren't all that interested in seeing a shamed black woman strip herself of her clothing and remaining dignity. The negress proceeded to remove her shoes and socks before taking her jeans off.
Fighting back the tears, Tamika unhooked her bra and pulled it off, tossing it into the cardboard box on the floor with the rest of her clothing. The balding white man smiled as he drank in the view of her exposed breasts, the first hint of expression she'd seen on his face yet. She looked down at the floor while pulling her panties down and stepping out of them. Putting them in the box, she stood naked in front of the desk, her arms at her sides, a lump in her throat.
"This is the slave contract," said the white man, his eyes fixed on Tamika's breasts. "By signing it, you agree to six months of indentured servitude. This means that you will obey all commands given to you by the owner of the contract. While you may be subject to corporal punishment, you will not be injured or permanently marked. We agree to insure that you are fed and sheltered and kept in good health as well as returned to your point of departure at the conclusion of the contract."
The balding white man pushed the contract across the desk. Tamika's tears were flowing and she wasn't able to read the document. She knew it didn't matter anyways.
"Sign here," he instructed.
Leaning forward, Tamika signed where he indicated and straightened up.
"There's also a bonus clause that may interest you," he added, looking over his glasses at the colored woman. "The company will pay a you a bonus of two thousand dollars if you consent to having your hair cut."
"Cut my hair?" asked Tamika. "Like, how? Short?"
"That would be at the discretion of the owner of contract," he answered. "Typically, it would be shorn completely off upon your arrival."
"You mean I'd be bald headed?!" she replied.
"Essentially, yes," the white man confirmed.
Two thousand dollars was a good bit of money, she thought. But, somehow, it didn't seem worth it. She was still surprised that Chantelle had agreed to it and used the money to buy a high definition television set.
"Uh..., I don't think so...," said Tamika.
"Very well," he replied.
The white man put the signed document in the folder and reached into a desk drawer. He pulled out something that looked like a large rubber stamp and adjusted a dial on it.
"Brock?" he prompted.
The broad shouldered man got up and moved behind Tamika. Suddenly, he grabbed her by the shoulders, holding her fast. The balding man stood and pressed the stamp against the upper part of the negress's bared left breast. Glancing down, she saw that she was now marked "502" in large block numbers.
"That will fade away in six to twelve months," said the balding man matter of factly. "We have ways to remove it before then, however, they're not without... discomfort. It'll be your choice at the conclusion of the contract. Now, turn around and bend over."
Without waiting for her to comply, Brock forcibly turned Tamika around and pushed her shoulders down until she was bent at the waist. She felt the stamp against her right ass cheek. The broad shouldered man released his grip on her and the colored girl stood up, brushing the tears of shame from her face.
"Go through that door and wait with the others," directed the balding man as he put the stamp away in the desk drawer.
Brock opened the back door and Tamika walked through it. This room was much like the first one; dimly lit and furnished with benches. Seated on them were other naked, numbered, black women. The few that looked up as she entered the room quickly looked away in shame. She heard the door close behind her. Finding an empty spot on a bench, the colored woman sat down. She felt like a piece of livestock; an animal no longer human. Again, her tears flowed freely.
As the afternoon wore on, more women joined Tamika on the bench. Like her, all were naked and numbered. Some had faces wet with tears while others wore more stoic expressions. A few seemed completely unfazed by the degrading ordeal they'd just suffered.
Finally, the last of the newly indentured negro slave women had signed their contracts, stripped naked, and been marked with an identifying number. Brock followed the last one out of the middle office.
"On your feet," he ordered in a voice reminiscent of a drill sergeant.
Slowly, they all stood. Brock strode around to the next door, which had been closed up until now. Tamika was struck by how having this broad shouldered white man, fully dressed in jeans and a tight polo shirt, taking charge of a couple dozen naked black women, made her feel like part of a heard of barnyard animals. It was degrading and humiliating. And, it was only just beginning.
"Line up and go through the door in single file," Brock instructed them. "You'll be boarding the boat to Puerto Esclava."
Tamika got into the line that slowly made its way through the door. She couldn't take her eyes off the "508" on the fat black woman in front her's ass. She was very aware that she was marked in the same way. It all seemed completely surreal to her, almost as if it were happening to someone else.
Approaching the door, Tamika could smell the salt air. Once through it, she saw it was a huge covered dock with a large boat that had to be sixty feet long next to it. A gang plank connected the boat with the dock. The boat itself was rather non-descript. Originally white, but now kind of grubby looking, it may have been used for day tours at some time in the past before it was pressed into service as a slave boat.
A middle aged white man in khaki slacks and a khaki shirt stood on the deck, carefully checking out each of the naked negro women as she came aboard. Three younger denim clad men looked on from further away. Tamika tried to avoid making eye contact with them. She was ashamed at being seen by these strangers this way even though she knew they'd likely been carrying such human cargo many times in the past.
Brock led them down a narrow staircase below deck to a large windowless room with a low ceiling furnished with rows of bunk beds. Ceiling mounted florescent fixtures provided the dim light that illuminated the room.
"Keep moving," directed Brock. "I want two niggers standing at each bunk. Let's go."
One by one, the women found a bunk. Tamika ended up at the same bunk with 508, the fat negress she'd been behind in line. Once the arrangements were sorted out, Brock stood at the bottom of the stairway.
"The trip to Puerto Esclava will take twelve hours," he announced. "You will remain in this room until you arrive. You will follow the orders of the crew. Act up or get out of line and you'll be punished and restrained for the duration of the trip and punished again upon arrival. You've been warned."
With that, Brock went up the stairs and sound of the door above being shut rang through the room. 508 lay down on the bottom bunk. Tamika thought about saying something to her, but no words came to mind. Instead she climbed into the top bunk and layed down herself.
It occurred to Tamika that she may have made a big mistake. Some how the reality of the situation was far worse than what she'd imagined. Being home worrying about finding a job and paying the bills seemed pretty good to her right now.
Next: Chapter 5 - Tamika's Voyage
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