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.