Sausages for the Slave Ch. 11

Dan gazed out the window. Thirty five thousand feet below him, small white fluffy clouds were drifting slowly across a steel grey rippled Atlantic Ocean. His mind was buzzing. What to do? What to do? The plane would land in Paris in about four hours. Mary Hemmings, his wife and owner (officially ex-wife, since she had divorced him just to make him more insecure and dependent on her), was up in business class somewhere, paid for by the company. Dan, her slave, was, appropriately, sitting in steerage. He didn’t mind that. Just being in a plane, just being on an international flight, that was heaven for Dan. He had a passport in the name his wife had given him, Nathan Hemmings, in his pants pocket, and nothing else. Except for his boarding card, but now that he was aboard, it was so much scrap paper.

Mary had been reluctant to give it, or the passport, over to Dan, but had no choice. She was boarding separately for business class. She had watched as Dan, waving his passport and boarding card, was cleared through the boarding gate into the tourist section. He looks happy, she thought, wearing his new wardrobe of chinos and casual shirt, plus a pair of trainers. Proper clothes, just like everybody else had. She didn’t allow him underpants. Keep him a little nervous, a constant reminder as to who calls the shots in Dan’s life. But after three years in track pants and sweat shirts, or being made go just plain naked, why wouldn’t he look happy with his chinos and shirt? Mary headed over to the business class desk. Off on her new adventure.

The riskiest bit of the trip was behind them, Mary knew. Dan could have made a run for it on the way to the airport. There wouldn’t have been much she could have done about it. Or, he could have simply refused to go. Refused to leave the house, even. Just in case, she had convinced Tom Berovich, the burly next door neighbour, to be on hand to make sure Dan exited her property. Tom was allowed by Mary to use Dan for his pleasure. Tom had agreed to drive them from the house to the airport with the back doors of his car locked to prevent Dan jumping out at traffic lights or something. At the airport, when Tom had dropped them off at Departures, Dan made no attempt to break for freedom, though he could have. They went through airport security without incident. Inside at the departure gate Mary knew Dan could simply declare that he didn’t want to fly. She was slightly surprised when he didn’t. She thought he had a bit more fight in him.

The reason they were taking this flight was because Mary’s IT firm had appointed her the new Marketing Manager for the Middle East and Africa. A great career opportunity for Mary. One that she intended to make the most of. Having Dan around, or not, wouldn’t make much difference. She was fond of Dan in her own way. She was at ease in his presence, in the presence of the silly, simple slob she had married and now owned as her personal slave. He now knew how to cook all her favourite dishes, do her laundry and housework as she wanted it done and, after a little training, to pleasure her just the way she liked it.

Even so, Mary thought a change of scene would do them both good. Dan had been her house slave for the guts of three years, and everything was getting a bit tired. Mary had been selling the benefits of the sojourn in Dubai to Dan since she got word of her promotion. Her objective was to get him on the plane. What might happen after that was a different matter. She was led to believe that slaves were ten a penny in Dubai. They were called houseboys these days. An agency sends them along on demand, apparently.

Mary was looking forward to the new job, the new challenge, the new scene. She felt she had earned it, and she knew she could do it. A directorship, member of the board in head office back home, could be hers at the end of the three years, all going well. The person she was replacing in Dubai was appointed the Marketing Manager for Europe, based in Paris. Mary would have a four day stopover in Paris with her predecessor to do a detailed handover. She needed a full briefing on the active contracts they had in the region, what was in the pipeline, who’s who and the lowdown on her staff in Dubai.

As decisive as ever, thirty-five thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean, Dan now decided that he should really have made a run for it before boarding the flight. He told himself, trying to justify his failure to flee, that he had been really looking forward to the experience of travel after three years as a domestic slave. Just to be on the plane, just to be one of all the other international travellers; like he had somewhere to be, something to do. Wearing chinos and a regular shirt. Listening to the clunk of the doors shutting and the ‘Arm doors and cross check’ announcement, whatever that was about. It was like hearing the door slam shut on his former slave life. A chapter closed. Something new and exciting up ahead. Whatever that might be.

Much as he was enjoying the air travel experience, Dan knew that three years as a slave in Dubai didn’t really meet the ‘new beginning’ test. Walking away at the airport would have been a new beginning. Mary couldn’t have stopped him. The whole prisoner thing was done with. He was a free man in the eyes of the law. Tom Berovich couldn’t have forced him to get on the plane. Dan could have got a job in McDonalds — right there at the airport, or become one of those Deliveroo people, he thought. He wouldn’t have starved. People lived off dumpsters and stuff. But too late for that now, Dan thought, dejectedly.

Dan had read up about Dubai. He wouldn’t fancy making a run for it in Dubai. They still had slave markets there, out in the desert. He wouldn’t have be surprised if Mary decided to sell him on to some local, or lease him out for the three years. They probably had laws and harsh punishments concerning runaway slaves in Dubai.

Dan could see himself shackled naked to a palm tree after the auction, freshly and painfully branded on his left buttock was the mark of the runaway slave. A mark that forever reduced him to the second division of slave auctions, doomed to be sold cheaply to poorer rural slave owners. Once he had received his forty lashes for attempting to escape, the chain on his collar would be attached to the saddle of his new owner’s camel and Dan would trot along, naked, trailing behind the camel, his new owner perched on top, swaying over and back in that ship of the desert, stately camel gait sort of way, heading into the deep interior.

There, slave Dan would spend his days hauling water in leather bags from deep wells and servicing, with his mouth only, because he would be left with nothing else to service them with, the pussies of the four wives of his owner. They would be completely covered in their long black niqabs and abayas. He’d never get to see their faces, ever; just their shaved pussies. To hide the tell-tale signs of his cock stirring and stiffening in his brand new chinos, Dan quickly pulled the airline magazine onto his lap, lest the young lady sitting in the middle seat beside him became alarmed.

He’d already exchanged a few harmless pleasantries with this younger female. She was about thirty he reckoned. A New Yorker, she said. For the first time Dan was aware of the reverse age gap. She was all business, working away on some sort of spreadsheet on her laptop. Stuff to do. People to see. Places to go. Whereas Dan, aged forty, was sitting there twiddling his thumbs. No job, no business to run, no class to teach even. Going to where his wife — though technically no longer his wife — told him to go. He felt left behind, passed out by the younger set.

Unless…unless… he did it in Paris. After all this flight was to Paris, Dan reminded himself. The Dubai flight was four days away. If he was serious about putting the slavery thing behind him, Dan told himself, he should do it in Paris. All was not lost yet. That’s it, he decided, once again, to be sure to be sure. Desperately decisive Dan really would make a break for it in Paris. His last chance to be a free man once more. They have McDonalds there too, he realised, remembering the line from Pulp Fiction. What was it John Travolta said? ‘You know what they call a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in Paris? They call it a “Royale with Cheese”… and a Big Mac’s a Big Mac, but they call it “Le Big Mac”.’ That’s definitely it so, Dan tried to convince himself once more. He’d run away in Paris. Get a job in McDonalds. Eat leftover le Big Macs. He’d survive. He could deal with change. Had done.

As the plane continued its seemingly slow crawl across the vast ocean, Dan thought back to the recent dramatic changes in his circumstances. Two big changes actually. First there was the pig thing, and now this. The pig thing was big. Just three short months ago Mary had suddenly decided to turn him into her pet pig. Just because he had politely wondered if his slave terms and conditions might be adjusted a little. He shuddered at the memory of it all, instinctively bringing his hand up to feel the hole in his septum that his wife’s pal, Bette, had pierced, punched more like, before inserting a big brass piggy ring in his nose that had hung down below his upper lip for the following three weeks.

Dan’s transformation from Mary’s totally owned slave to Mary’s pet pig happened very quickly. One minute he was getting ready to do the washing up after serving Mary her dinner, the next he was dressed up as a giant pig in a costume that he couldn’t get out of. His hands trapped in rigid elbow length mittens that ended in two hard trotter like toes. He had thought at first it might just be a practise fitting for a planned Slave Dan podcast the following day. Even when Mary said that this was how he was to be from now on, Dan hadn’t quite taken it in. She implied there would be an exotic level of piggy transformation – including a sex change. Dan agreed. He felt he had no choice anyway. Even as she sent him to sleep in the outfit that night, Dan didn’t quite realise the enormity of what was being done to him.