My Secret Garden
Sarah senses my sudden tension but does not understand it.
I have recognized her laugh. Sarah was the classy woman who touched and kissed me when I was tied, spread legged, at the auction. I try to speak as calmly as I can:
“Sarah. You were there. At the auction.”
She nods, surprised by my surprise:
“Sure I was. After all, I own the firm.”
At first, I do not understand:
“You own the... You own what firm?”
“I own the Secret Garden Sex Slave Franchise. Well, not exactly. I own just eleven percent. But you see, I also own eleven percent of a holding company which happens to own forty percent of…”
The girl gets excited when talking about financial magics. Rolling my eyes, I interrupt:
“All right, all right. I got the idea. But how come… I mean…“
The right words aren’t coming to me as easy as usual, but she understands the point. She seems slightly disappointed by my lack of curiosity about the lovely financial detail but senses my interest in the organization, so she cuts short:
“One of the most profitable of my firms. The only one outside hi-tech, but it is worth it…”
She knows a lot about the Sex Slaves operations of course. The Secret Garden is a franchise, she explains, that is why the girls are leased at auctions, to franchisees all around the World. Or to selected billionaires, like Prince Orlov, of course.
Prince Orlov. Of course.
I am still incredulous that this girl, this very girl who is holding my hand is still sweetly smiling as she speaks about the illegal trade of enslaved women. And I cannot believe she is making money on it. But more is to come. She anticipates my questions as she shifts from Wall Street mode to bitchy-friend mode:
“And there is a bonus of course.”
She makes a pause, seeking an effect. She gets my undivided attention.
“I spend my holidays there.”
At that, my jaw drops:
She smiles sweetly.
“I spend. My holidays. There.”
I am left without a word, but I begin to understand. Pleased by the impact, Sarah continues:
“As a sex slave. In training.”
I just nod, sipping my cafè au lait. I would need something stronger. But I guess I cannot have a double whiskey, straight, at a French bistro.
“Nothing else is so… exciting and relaxing at the same time. You don’t have anything to decide, for a change. Yet exciting things happen to you all the time. Not to talk about the fitness you gain. See, I am as fit as I ever dreamed.”
She flexes her muscles, smiling, then gently makes me touch her. Her belly is as hard as a boxer’s. Pussycat Gym’s magic.
“Nobody knows who I am, of course, only the Operations Manager.”
Another piece of the puzzle piece.
“Stephen, yes… Do you like him? Isn’t he cute with his soft ponytail and that short, sculpted beard?”
Wasn’t he cute? When he made me kneel in front of ugly valet Pierre, level with his thick dick? Wasn’t he cute, with his fingers in my cunt and his snug smile? But then, I feel something stirring down there, so again, I just nod. She likes to talk now, old friends’ naughty chat. She whispers in a conspirational tone:
“He also holds a lovely cock you know”
I nod, trying to convey a little sarcasm:
“I know. A big one, as well. Lovely balls, too. I saw them from a vantage point. Upside down as the cute man was about to stick his lovely cock all the way down my throat. Thank God I have a Navy Seals’ apnea training.”
Undeterred, she answers:
“Ah sure. You are right. Damn earthquake ruined your vacation too…”
Ruined my vacation. But Sarah is a torrent now:
“Imagine that, Varela, he wanted to cut that ponytail when I hired him. He has a background in ICT and had been the Operations Manager of a hi-tech start-up, so he thought it was a better idea to get a more conservative haircut. I menaced to fire him if he dared to do so…”
I shake my head at the indignity of the thought. Cutting his ponytail, think about that…
“So Sarah… you have a privileged stance, you are the CEO, not a sex slave… Sir Stephen protects you…”
“No, no, that’s not correct. He is the only one to know and he is nowhere near me when I am on vacation. Vacation is no work, right? No Master, no Servant, no Guard knows who I am. But as you know, no woman is abused at our operation. And they can always opt out. The ones at risk are the guards. Sex-slaves in training are thoroughly fucked in all their holes, and tied, and spanked and sometimes caned. But they are never hurt. We hire a lot of debauched alpha men there, but they are professionals. And like all good professionals, they really like their… their trade.”
I shake my head, but I remember the bobbing head of the master linguist, the slight delicious sting in my inner thigs, and I must admit it. Professionals, they are.
“So, it is all a fraud. The girls are not abducted after all.”
“Hell no! Almost all are abducted. Like you were. Only a few selected friends are just… holidaymakers.”
She winks at me. I guess I could be admitted among the lucky few. But she goes on:
“I was abducted myself, and I must say ex-post it added to the thrill. That’s why I bought the firm. I envy abducted girls. But you can enjoy that emotion just once of course. And you see, there is a selection…”
I nod. Another piece of the puzzle.
“The girls who disappear after the first spanking…”
“You got it Varela dear.”
“And they are…”
“…sent back home. Of course. With our apologies. They have no attitude. And no value as Secret Garden Sex Slaves. Our women are Alpha Sex Slaves. And when we send the unfortunate ones back.”
“Those without attitude...”
“Sure. Those without attitude. When we send them back home we give them the year’s Secret Garden jewel. Diamond and emerald earrings as yours this year. As an indemnification. But also, to let them know the Secret Garden is for real. As you may imagine, a fair percentage of them get back… in a few years. Every woman is entitled to her own Secret Garden experience.”
She is wearing a Secret Garden emerald and diamonds necklace. I recognize the style, and I tell her. She nods:
“You are right. Bulgari. We were lucky, last year we convinced them to cast a small series for us, marked ‘Secret Garden’. Not that they know our core business.”
She looks with envy at my emerald necklace. Craziness must be contagious, I have been unable to resist wearing it.
“And even Bulgari can’t reach the heights of Fabergé, of course”
Still incredulous, I try to summarize:
“So… the servants, the guards, the Masters. They don’t know that, but they are all your… your slaves.”
“Well, I’d prefer the term ‘employee’. The Trade Unions would not approve the term you used. But yes, in a way, you can say that. Sex Slaves.” Sarah smiles and laughs that contagious laugh of hers, so I join.
She is as crazy as a drunk horse, of course. But incredibly, what she says makes sense.
“Sarah. This is all illegal as hell”
A dismissive smile:
“Oh come on Varela. You know the old saying, about all good things being a sin, or illegal, or making you fat. Now, our sex slaves are in perfect shape when leased, curves in the right places without an ounce of extra fat. Probably never been so fit since puberty. And we don’t believe good sex to be a sin anymore. So a little illegality is in the things, is it not?”
She winks, and I see her again, trotting under the long whip of the Gym Master.
“Besides, the law was made up by the patriarchal society…
I can’t stop my eyes rolling:
“Oh please, stop the sociological paleo-feminist lesson, do you really believe that crap Sarah?”
She looks at me intently, pleased by the interrupt
“No, but you see, Varela, there are so many paleo-feminists in control places you know, congresswomen, judges, State Governors.
“Uptight alpha women, by the way, we keep a shortlist of them, to be recruited in due time. Stephen presses to abduct Ms. Sinema, fancies her too, but I have still to decide. Well, I guess she could be a nice companion to meet. Maybe we’ll abduct her for my next vacation.”
All the same, something is still not adding up here.
So, I shot the critical question.
“All the same, Sarah, I cannot believe you are involved with the Humans. Or Los Humanos, as they are also known. They are dangerous criminals.”
Unexpectedly, she again laughs:
“Oh, the Humans. Los Humanos. One of the best ideas our Operations Manager had. It cut in half our transfer expenses you know Varela dear. One of the most wonderful fake news the creative manager invented. He took from the dreadful legend of course. And then, the power of the web, a horror story here and there, and voilà, bribes have become almost unnecessary overnight.”
I can still see poor Josè’s I-am-about-to-puke green face and bleached mustaches and can’t avoid smiling in admiration.
But I am not convinced. I can almost feel a dreadful presence, even here. I feel the Humans spying on us, looking over our shoulders, amused at our unimportant distress, attending their incomprehensible chores in their incomprehensible world. It is just an obsession probably, but only obsessed people survive as special undercover agents.
Any case life is about to change and to become even more interesting. Albeit a bit more complicated.
But not today. Not now. Deep breath, and my Zen soul kicks in. No-mindedness, and I can enjoy the café au lait under the sweet French sun, holding hands with this mad, gorgeous, irresistible businesswoman.
A demoiselle can be seen at a distance, hands in hands with her fiancée, a tall man in a formal suit. She is holding a tiny pink sun umbrella. Is her long classy gown a Roissy dress? I can’t say.
Uncharacteristically for a tech mogul, my new friend Sarah extracts a small paper book. Her agenda. She quickly draws a red mark on a number of important appointments, canceling some Board of Directors meeting. I follow her long fingernails in all the colors of blue, from aquamarine to cobalt.
From time to time, she punches away on her Golden IPhone, and for thirty seconds this sweet girl I have embraced and kissed all night becomes again the bossy CEO:
“I know exactly how much it costs to postpone this meeting Jock. And I don’t care. Just do it!”
Eventually, when she has canceled enough meetings and freed a whole week, she re-plans her lost vacation, writing across the page in surprisingly clean and elegant handwriting: “My Secret Garden”.
End of Part One