Chapter 12: Fixer

The trip to Sydney was nice. The shuttle took about an hour and a half. I traveled with Master and not with any other whores, so Master was nearby. I just cuddled as good as I could sitting next to him, and my mind emptied and the entire trip seemed to happen in minutes.

At customs and immigration, Master showed a blue passport for me, rather than a collared servant’s gray passport, and there didn’t seem to be a problem with it.

At our hotel, waiting in our room was the Floozy, wearing a collar.

“Gidday, mate,” the Floozy said, smiling, as we entered. She didn’t have the slightest hint of an Australian accent.

“Hi ... Stella, right?”

The Floozy nodded. “You can call me Floozy. I’m starting to like it when I hear it from you.” She laughed.

Master walked in, and suddenly, he was the center of her attention.

“Go ahead and kiss her already,” Master prodded.

I shook my head. “Uh ... I told you girl-girl stuff is disappointing with a collar, Master.”

The Floozy agreed. “Don’t I know it. Weird. It’s like...”

“Masturbation,” I suggested.

The Floozy nodded. “Yeah. Very distracting.”

“I’ve heard that from a number of girls,” Master said. “The programming seems intentional, but I haven’t figured out why they did that particular kink.”

“Maybe as a punishment,” I suggested.

Master looked at me. “Really?”

“It seemed so with Sammy and me.”

The Floozy nodded. “You know, now that you mention it, you could say that. Maybe the programmer was homophobic, and put that in.” She looked at Master.

Now that I knew he invented the collar technology, a lot of things became clearer to me.

“That’s a possibility,” Master said, pondering.

The Floozy looked at Master with tremendous need. I went over, kissed Master, and found a nice little spot on the floor and lay down.

I heard the bed springs squeak for a bit, and then heard the Floozy finally sigh.

The Floozy and I had some private time to ourselves. We didn’t spend it sexually, but did discuss things.

“I thought Master was punishing you for betraying him,” I said.

“He is.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. If you betrayed him, why would he trust you working for him?”

“He trusts the collar, not me,” Floozy explained. “He only sees me as a whore. Jess, I’ve tried to apologize to him, but I cannot form the words in front of him. Wait ... you know Master and I used to work together, what I did?”

I nodded. “Not what you did, but that you were partners, and I think he meant it outside the sexual scope. The last time I saw you, he told you to report for reassignment. He told me you were coming here.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, you need to understand, Master doesn’t want apologies. He prefers revenge, and this is his typical way. He told me you invented the bonding technology. Now he’s applied it to you. I think that’s his way of finding the punishment to suit the crime.”

The Floozy nodded. “I have this need ... I’m unfulfilled if I don’t apologize, and then I physically cannot do so. I can get sexual satisfaction, but it goes away quickly and always seems very hollow without my being able to apologize to him.”

“That’s precisely the punishment he programmed for you,” I said.

The Floozy looked at me with disbelief in her eyes. Her jaw was agape. “What an evil mind he has. I knew he was twisted, but this ... even now that I know it, I’m still helpless! Anyway, enough about me. What is he having you do here? I see you’re an illegal. You cannot be collared without having a physical collar here. They will eventually detect you.”

I simply shrugged.

“Well, if they catch you, the fine is a special collar and you walk the street for sixty hours a week for three years, all proceeds going to the government. That also pauses the sponsorship contract, so your five year contract would become eight years.”

Bristling, I simply said, “I will have to trust in Master.”

“Good luck with that.” The Floozy shook her head.

I couldn’t believe she was such a fucking idiot.

An “interesting” thing during my stay in Sydney was that I met a guy named Trevor. He was the nerdy type, and I saw him in the lobby of a hotel different from the one we were staying in. Master had work to do, and he told me to “go walkabout” in the city. I was wandering about the city, noticing the various collared whores peddle their wares in an area of the city known as The Cross. The tourist literature said it used to be a red light district until the early twenty first, and recently has undergone a rebirth of the “new glory days” with state-sponsored sexual entertainment in its place. It was Floozy’s assigned location, and she told me she was popular as a Caucasian Yank among many Asians and Ozzies. I was curious about the area and was admiring the restoration of an old hotel that supposedly dated from the early twentieth or late nineteenth.

It was about four in the afternoon and I saw a young man in his late twenties that was just sitting in the lobby, reading a tablet. Normally, I don’t get attracted to other people, but something seemed special about him.

“Hi, my name’s Jess,” I said.

“Trevor,” he said. He then looked at me and did a double take. “Sorry. Were you talking to me?”

“You’re the only one here except me, and I rarely talk to myself.”

“You’re a yank.”

“A tourist. Yes. This place looks amazing. Opulent, even.”

“Trevor Muscat,” he said, offering his hand.

“Just call me Jess,” I said, shaking.

Trevor looked around the lobby. “You sort of expect a bell boy, a doorman, and the manager all around. The place isn’t quite open, but I like the feel of this place. It might become very popular with the tourists.”

“Are you waiting for somebody?” I asked.

“Not anybody specific. A few of my mates went to the pub, and I didn’t want to stick out.”

“Stick out? How?”

“I’m ... I’m not much with the Sheilas,” he said. “They make jokes. Not really my scene, so I just decided to sit around and wait here.”

“You were waiting for me? I’m touched.”

Trevor laughed. “Somebody will need me to figure out where their car is. They’ll call me on my comm. I live on the other side of the bridge, so I wait here for the eventual call.”

“I tell you what. I don’t drink, but if you promise to get me something nonalcoholic, I’ll go to the pub with you. I’ll be your date you can show off with your mates.”

“Are you for real?”

I nodded. “I don’t have anything else to do, and I have been dying to visit a real Australian pub.”

“They’ll know you’re a Yank.”

“I can say gidday with the best of ‘em,” I said. I always had a good ear for voices, and I think my accent was impeccable.

“That’s actually pretty good.”

“I won’t lie to them, though. Let’s tell them the truth. You picked me up here at the hotel, and I’ve always wanted to see how Ozzies live and play.”

Trevor warned me that to American sensibilities, the pub he was taking me to would be pretty seedy. He offered to instead take me to something more upscale.

“Upscale is what I’ve been seeing. I want to see real people. I promise you, I read the stories about the area I was in. You cannot shock me!”

“All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The pub was seedy, but all the people were warm and genuine. A few didn’t seem to appreciate the fact there was a Yank in their midst, but still everybody seemed nice.

All of them, even the ones that didn’t warm to Yanks, made me feel at home. A few of the women commented on my expensive silk dress. I told them mine were imported from Japan, and all of them gushed over it. The general feeling was that I was a rich playgirl from the states, and I didn’t say anything to disabuse them of it. A couple of the guys asked if I had a husband or boyfriend, but I simply shook my head and indicated I was with Trevor.

Trevor kept his promise. He kept getting my drinks from the bar. A lemon soda called Lemon Up. It was served over ice with a tiki umbrella, complete with a cherry. When people pointed out my “girly” drink, I just smiled at them.

Bawdy jokes were being told all around.

Trevor wasn’t telling any, I guess due to him not wanting to offend me, or as he told me at the hotel, he just didn’t fit in with the others.

One of the boys telling stories looked at me. “So, I bet you Yanks don’t tell stories like that, now, do ya? You got no sense of humor, I hear. Right?”

I shrugged and asked, “What is green and brown, has six legs, and if it fell on you from out of a tree, it would kill you?”

“What?”

“A billiard table,” I said. It was a silly joke I heard a while back that seemed to fit in with the jokes they were telling.

Everybody looked at me, and suddenly the entire table erupted in laughter. “She got you, mate!”

I knew another one. “Did you hear the one about the two cement trucks that got married? Now they have a little sidewalk running around the house!”

The group laughed at that as well, and I was told that “footpath” might have been a better description. I loved the local slang, and explained that I would imagine a foot path to be where somebody would hike.

“Well, I guess the Yank definitely has a sense of humor, mate!” said the guy that originally said we didn’t have any sense of humor earlier.

The jokes they told were funny, but I heard most of them already. Living and working with whores a few times, I’ve heard them all. However, I laughed politely at them all, and refused to get offended, even at Yank jokes.

At six, a show started. Strippers performed on stage. All of them were collared. The guys seemed to be more intrigued by the start of each act, when the girls were clothed. I guess the rule about always being nude was not in effect when they were stripping. Anyway, a collar with clothes seemed to be a local kink. I thought that somebody might make a fortune with a strip show that started with the girls nude and then putting on clothes.

I pointed this out.

“That would be a trip, mate.”

“Yeah. ‘Put ‘em on!’ we would scream,” said another guy.

“The collars are jarring to me,” I said. “We don’t have them in the States.”

“Yeah. You disguise your sex workers there.”

I shrugged. “People know them. They do wear uniforms.”

“So, what do you think of Ozzie strippers?”

“Different tastes for different cultures.”

“Like how?”

“Well, I’ve been to Tokyo. They have a class of people that could probably make you soil your pants without taking off a single item of clothing.” I was thinking about my soku, of course.

“Right. They’re nude to start with!”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “They just ooze sensuality. At home, there are some exotics known as Belly Dancers that also ooze sensuality, again, with minimal stripping needed. We have our own strippers as well, of course. And they strip. The tradition goes back hundreds of years, back to the dance hall girls.”

“Too bad you’re not Japanese or a Belly Dancer. Are you telling us you’re a dance hall girl?”

“Oh, I was given a Japanese soku worker as a gift.”

That silenced the table. Just the stripper wiggling to electronic music was moving.

“Crikey, you got a sex worker as a gift? Female?” Trevor asked.

I nodded. “From a powerful person in Japan. One of the richest, actually. It’s rude to not accept a gift in their culture. Asami, the girl, is my best friend now. She has sex with who she chooses as well.” I didn’t mention she usually chooses me, and that she still considers me her Mistress.

“Is she here?”

I shook my head. “She still has immigration issues.”

“Tell me she taught you all her tricks,” said one of the guys that I recognized didn’t seem to like Yanks because we were all, quote, “Wankers.”

“She’s taught me some, actually, but I would think us Yanks know stripping just as well.”

“Now I know you’re shitting me. Americans are stuck up and prude wankers!”

I turned to Trevor. “Trevor, you’ve been such a dear, can you walk me over there?” I pointed to a bored looking stage manager.

“Why?”

“Just humor a stuck up and prudish Yank, OK?”

Trevor glared at the guy that made the insult, but nodded at me and said, “Sure.”

As soon as we were away from the table, Trevor said, “Don’t mind him, he’s an arsehole. Most of the rest of the blokes are fair dinkum.”

I said, “I prefer you, anyway. You’re fair dinkum as well. Do you want to see me onstage?”

“G’arn! You’re shitting me!”

“Nope. Serious.”

“You’d do that? Here?”

“Of course! I’ll make you proud!”

Trevor didn’t seem convinced I was serious. “Go for it, honey!”

There was a stage manager, but it didn’t take any real difficulty for me to convince him to let me backstage to do a song.

“You’re a Yank, aren’t ya?” The accent was wrong. It wasn’t Australian. It was British, actually. My ear for voices couldn’t be wrong.

“And I hear you’re a POM,” I said, using the local Aussie euphemism for somebody born in England that I heard in a few of the jokes at the table earlier.

“You have a good ear for accents. At least you didn’t add the last part. If I had a dollar for every time I heard the term ‘Pommie bastard, ‘ I’d be rich. Anyway, I see you’re not wearing a collar.”

“Don’t you allow amateurs to try out?”

The man gave me a big belly laugh. “Do you need some old Dutch?”

“Dutch courage? Not really, but I have a favor to ask. Can you send a particular song to your music guy?”

The stage manager turned and yelled, “Hey, Deej. I got a request for ya!”

“Send it.”

The manager said, “Just don’t make it Tie Me Kangaroo Down.”

I laughed. “I’m a yank, not a rube.” I pulled out my portacomm. “Here’s the code...”

I quickly used my comm to select a song I heard a few times, mostly in old comedy viddies. It had the right rhythm and feel for an old fashioned American bump and grind. I found it, and sent it to the code the manager gave me.

“Holy shit,” yelled Deej. “Who is she?”

“A Yank, and we’ll both find out,” the manager said. He winked at me and showed me the stage, where the previous artist just departed.

The song started with a very, very sensuous drum beat that ended with a lewd brass arrangement with lots of musical slides. It was a song from the twentieth called The Stripper. Despite its name, it didn’t seem to be in common use at strip clubs any more.

The song volume seemed to be at the max, which is what I hoped for. When the brass joined in, I rotated my hips in an over-the-top motion.

I thrust my breasts out, and exaggerated all my motions as I slowly danced to the beat. I let my mind empty until the only thought would be how Sammy would play this to evoke the maximum amount of sensuality, and from my memory of old black and white viddies I watched when at the WfD shelter.

The club quieted down, and the only thing I could hear was the music, and I channeled Sammy’s encyclopedic knowledge of all things sexual into my performance. With each emphasis in the song, I thrust my crotch or breasts toward the audience. Soon, they were accompanied by cheers and raucous claps.

As I was wearing my silk dress with nothing else other than my slippers, there wasn’t much for me to take off. Even so, I managed to keep the final reveal until the last chorus. I was writhing, throwing up my hands, thrusting, and even dancing until the reprise of the main theme at the minute and a half mark (how did I know the exact time? How the hell would I know?). At that time, I managed to perform a motion I saw Sammy do many times, but until that moment, never managed to figure out. My dress flew completely off, held above my head, flying out as I waved it around in circles above my naked body for the final crescendo, where I jumped down from the stage into the surprised arms of Trevor.

“Good catch,” I told him.

“You were fantastic,” he said.

“I am fantastic, but only as fantastic as who I’m with. Thanks!”

Trevor let me down onto the floor. “You left a fortune on the stage.”

I noticed a bunch of coins and bills that were thrown at me during the performance and shrugged. “Donate it to the elderly strippers union.” I didn’t have any use for foreign money.

Trevor laughed.

The stage manager came over. “You know, that was bonzer. I haven’t seen a throwback to burlesque in donkey’s years. Would you accept a collar? I could have you making thousands every day!”

I shook my head. “Thanks, but I just wanted to show Trevor and his mates that us Yanks aren’t all stuck-up prudish wankers!”

Of course, my performance and my jumping into his arms made everybody consider Trevor with admiration, especially the females.

Trevor shook his head, but soon there were scores of people crowding around us looking to buy us rounds of drinks.

“If you take me home, I’ll show you I’m even better in bed than on the stage,” I whispered.

“You’re naked!” he said, scandalized.

I still had my dress in my hands. I did the reverse flip from what I did on the stage, and suddenly I was completely dressed. I then jumped back into his arms, surprising him completely. “You can let me down, but if you really want to make an impression, leave with me now. You’ll be getting shouts for the rest of the year, I imagine!”

A “shout” from what I gathered, was a round of drinks and had something to do with paying or not paying for them.