Bob’s Memoir: 4,000 Years as a Free Demon
55
Dark Chocolate
I AM PASSIONATE about a few things. I’m passionate about beautiful women. I’m passionate about good looking women. I’m passionate about pretty women. I’m passionate about pretty good looking women. And other women, too. But there are other things.
I’m passionate about all my people in Areola, and would defend them against all odds. I’m passionate about flying. I still wish Pinaruti had thought to give me wings. That would be so awesome. And I am passionate about fighting sex trafficking and all forms of slavery.
I say all forms and that includes men, women, and children. For example, a few years ago, as I was munching on one of my favorite dark chocolate bars, I read an article about slavery in the cocoa industry. I was appalled and spat the chocolate I was eating into the garbage. We might as well be eating the bodies of the children who are trafficked into slavery in Ghana and West Africa to work on the plantations.
I considered several ways to combat this. The easiest, in my simple mind, would be to loose the ninja priestesses on the owners and slavers in the industry and let them nail a few bodies to the doors. It’s become more difficult to launch crusades like that when I have to travel in today’s world. The airport scanners can identify my satchel even if the look-away spell is fresh. Of course, they can’t see Areola. Unless I open a gateway, the satchel functions as a simple case in which I keep a few papers and innocuous traveler’s goods. That’s all they see when the bag goes through the x-ray and when the bag is opened to look inside. I am concerned, however, about the effect of various forms of radiation on the satchel seeping into the infinity room. I have no evidence of that so far, but it still concerns me.
Each time I adopt a new identity, I need to create all the paperwork for it. I need a driver’s license, birth certificate, passport, marriage certificate, deeds, stock certificates, and bank accounts. It’s very complicated to travel anonymously to another country and wreak havoc on the slave trade.
So, I did the next best thing. I bought a cocoa plantation, freed the slaves and tried to reunite the children with parents when possible, and employed workers to take care of the plantation. I have compared the cost of owning a slave to the cost of paying a fair wage and employing workers. I find it is a wash. I continued to sell my cocoa at the same prices the slave cocoa had commanded. But I soon found the doors closed on my efforts to buy other plantations.
After attacking a few traffickers, I gave up the process for two reasons. The first was that each trafficker I brought down accounted for such a minuscule portion of the children and adults stolen into slavery that it did not seem to make a difference. The second reason was that, as fast and silent and nearly invisible as my ninja priestesses are, they are no match for machine guns, grenades, and other ordnance that falls freely into the hands of traffickers. I’m still working on a solution to that problem. My priestesses are precious to me and I will not willingly risk them in a battle against such machinery.
I fear that the days of attacking traffickers and pirates with swords and knives and nailing their bodies to the wall are all but gone.
Next, I turned to an all-American solution, inspired by a teen whose research paper revealed the amount of slavery involved in the chocolate industry and outlined a means to combat it. I employed him to start putting his ideas in action. We created a small chocolate company and started importing only fair trade coffee from independent farmers Josh negotiated with personally. I made sure he was supplied with adequate capital to get the ingredients we needed and to ensure it was not slave-based cocoa.
Of course, that only served to make a very small dent in the chocolate market. We weren’t even listed on the Exchange of American Chocolate Companies. We got distribution through a local chain of grocery stores and a few specialty shops. But it was our start.
I invested in a chocolatier back in 1855, when I was living in San Francisco. Through ups and downs and several generations of ownership, it had survived and prospered. It had a much better marketing position, and even though it wasn’t strictly enforced within the company, it was trying to do an ethical business in a market that was becoming less and less friendly. I increased my stake, and once I’d become the controlling board member, I finished the acquisition and made Josh the chief of the larger company. We began to gain brand recognition and Josh expanded our buying into the markets that were dominated by the slavers. When he discovered an independent farmer was actually owned by one of the big plantations, he cut them off, even if they personally weren’t using slave labor in their operation. We insisted on purity in our product and purchased the beans directly.
And then Peninnah came along. When she found what we were doing, she began negotiations with a very large chocolate company and I began acquiring shares in the publicly traded international company. That required a great deal of negotiation as the company was closely held. Ultimately, she was able to exchange the value of our little company for equivalent shares in the new parent and I began pressing the megalith to start sourcing their chocolate in the way we did.
At first, they simply left Josh alone to continue to make his elite type of chocolate. It has since been discovered that our little subsidiary is more profitable by percentage than the rest of the company combined. That might be because the big plantations have seen the guaranteed rates we pay independent farmers and have tried to price their cocoa in the same range. That went over poorly with many chocolatiers around the world.
We’ve a long way to go. We have begun to make a dent in the slave trade by making fair trade cocoa more profitable than slave cocoa. But even the major chocolatier we own a stake in accounts for only four percent of the world chocolate market. I’m thinking we might still need to invade Africa with a few ninjas and make an example of the worst of the plantations we have found.
Where was I going with this? Oh, yes. My continued passion for fighting the slave trade and human trafficking.
Liz frequently tells me that my prevailing opinions are chauvinistic and it should not take the sex trafficking of women and children to get my goat—so to speak. Yes, I am opposed to slavery of all kinds. I just have a special soft spot for helping the weakest.
Back when Pinaruti summoned me… Remember Pinaruti? He was the hapless and slightly drunk sorcerer who attempted to summon Beelzebub back in Knossos, Crete about 2,000 years BC (Before Caesar) and slurred the name. Much to his surprise, he got me: Beetlebob. (Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Me.) Pinaruti conveniently died of shock when he saw me and unwittingly created a bridge for me to cross into the natural world, a free demon.
I read Pinaruti’s memories from his cooling body and discovered his intent was to imprison me in the walls of King Drakomaxos’s palace and force me to keep it cool in the summer. Yes, his intent was to make a slave of me. I was horrified! And frankly pleased the old fool had died when his summoning actually worked. But the very thought of slavery has gone against my grain ever since that day.
When I finally convinced Drakomaxos I could build a palace of stone that stayed cool, he immediately wanted to get a bunch of slaves to build it for him. I started my mantra that has been with me for four millennia: A house built by slaves will soon crumble around its owner. In Mania, I made sure that was the case when I was hired to build a palace for the king. Soon after the palace was built for Idiopheles by slaves (and I was safely away at sea), an earthquake brought his palace down around his ears.
Then I was commissioned to build a temple for the god Ninra in Bathra, a town in Mesopotamia. He and the goddess Namri agreed that no slave labor would be used in building their palace. Slavery became anathema in Bathra for centuries.
And so the story goes. I have always been opposed to slavery.
As to sex slavery, this started out as just another form of slavery that I was opposed to. You see, one of the things about having lived a long life is that I have changed. I have learned to adapt to changing mores and to learn from them.
There was a time in certain cultures when women were considered chattel, disposed of by their fathers into the possession of their husbands. In some cultures, women were not allowed to own property, to make friends or even to leave their house. I always felt this was silly but it did not truly sink in that the treatment of women was abhorrent and immoral and a form of slavery until I spent twenty years as a woman. I discovered my weaknesses, my frustration, and my fears. I thereafter made sure that each of my women had the opportunity to learn martial arts to the best of their ability so they would never need to walk in fear.
I further gave those who wished it an opportunity to live as a man for a day and to gain insight into a man’s appetites, fears, and power. Most discovered the physical power of a man was not worth exchanging their female bodies for. Some wanted the change made permanent and I happily gave them that wish. There was even an instance back in Bathra when the goddess Namri granted a man his wish to become a priestess in her temple. I got to fuck her once and verified that she was, indeed, changed wholly into a woman.
The thing is that I changed. I became more aware of women as societal equals of men. And when I witnessed women denied that equality, through slavery and abuse, my ire rose to heights unmatched. I once severed the head from the body of one of Odysseus’s crew who insisted the woman he captured in Troy was his to do with as he wished. I lost a few more crew members that day as they decided my rules were too hard for them to live by. And I gained a couple of women who chose to live in the infinity room.
I believe that is a fundamental problem with the world as I look around it today. People refuse to change. I include both men and women in that category. They see the problems and are taught the lessons, but they refuse to change. The thought that greater physical power carries the right of greater social power is so deeply ingrained that men attempt to exercise their superiority by suppressing, abusing, and enslaving women and children.
I am sad to say that this myth is propagated through many of the world’s religions, designed, it seems, to maintain a society in which men are inherently superior to women and children. This fundamental belief is what feeds the slave trade—especially sex trafficking of women and children.
As a result, I become irrationally incensed when I find captive women and children.
Since the time I discovered the first young girls imprisoned on a pirate ship for the pleasure of the pirates, I have taken as my mission dispatching the offenders as quickly and efficiently—and sometimes as painfully—as I can. My demon morality is not offended by the deaths of slavers.
Those priestesses—the fifty-two very young women I found on various pirate ships over my few dozen years as a trans-Pacific trader—experienced the worst of serial rape and abuse. They were healed and cleansed by me in the pool and became my priestesses. And then they trained harder than any other people in Areola to become an avenging force wherever I pointed them at sex traffickers. They’d once saved Peninnah from kidnapping and rape by completely destroying the personal army of a Japanese corporate president. We now own his company.
All of that is to explain some of my actions in this Current Era (CE).
The United States experienced a surge in refugees coming across the southern border. Rather than taking them in and giving them shelter, they were considered ‘illegal aliens’ and were arrested. Many parents and children were separated, most never to be reunited. That pissed me off. But when I found out what was happening under the radar, I went full goat ballistic.
The liberals of the world decried the pictures of children in cages and parents separated and kept in detention camps. Many were announced as deported. But the true story never made the news. I found out only by accident when I was searching for a place in the Arizona desert where I could hide the satchel and crawl in for a few years. I’d also decided to hide out and see what happens when refugees illegally crossed the border out in the desert.
Truckloads of hopefuls were being taken across the border and were stopped and incarcerated on the spot by border agents. Dozens, or perhaps hundreds never made it to detention camps. The desert hides hundreds of bodies of unknown people who came across the border for refuge and were killed on the spot.
Oh, don’t let me get the issue confused. I would never accuse the border patrol of murdering innocents. I don’t think. It seemed that just before the agents showed up, however, the men who ran the transport lined up the men in their load and shot them. They made the women and children dig in the sand to bury their fathers and husbands. Then they spotted border agents coming to chase down the illegal immigrants. The men running the transports always seemed to be able to disappear while the agents focused on rounding up the women and children and putting them in yet another unmarked truck to take them away to detention. The women tried to tell the agents about the murders but were simply pushed into the truck and taken away.
When I witnessed this happening, I took off across the desert in my demon form after the men who transported these unwitting refugees across the border. They were already in Mexico, but that didn’t make a difference to me. We don’t need no steenking badges. Six men were counting out and dividing the money they’d taken from the refugees. I fell upon them and twisted heads on necks until there were none still alive. I discovered the transporters were called ‘coyotes.’
That was how I found out about rescue operations and bullets. This scar I bear on my side is where the one shot that was fired in time hit me. I hadn’t been swift enough to avoid it. I was lucky. It hit me in the side and I was in a remote part of the desert where I could hide and enter Areola for a few days to recover. But like Issa still bore the scars of his execution after he’d been resurrected, so I still bear the scar from my brief battle.
When I left the infinity room to have a look around, I discovered the bodies, truck, and money I’d left behind were all removed. I assumed someone had come looking for them. That meant there would be others in this racket that needed to be taken care of eventually. I didn’t know when or where to start looking for them, so I prowled around the desert for several weeks before I spotted another delivery being made.
“Where did they take the women and children,” Zhi asked me as I was healing.
“I don’t know, love,” I said.
“Bob, it is good that you destroyed the murderers, though you should have called for me or the priestesses to help you. But killing those men did nothing to help the women and children who were taken away,” she said.
“Don’t you think they were taken away to a detention center? Those were government agents who rounded up the refugees and took them away.”
“Bob, I don’t think that’s a safe bet,” said Virginia. My concubine had been with me since the late 1950s and had continued to be active in the civil rights and antiwar movements into the mid-sixties. She was a pretty savvy young woman, though she’d disappeared from the natural world some sixty years previously. “You said the truck was unmarked. None of the agents accompanied it. How do you know where they were taken?”
So, I watched the scene in the desert play out once again. This time, however, I did not chase after the coyotes. I waited and watched as the women and children were rounded up and loaded in the unmarked truck. The truck went one direction and the border patrol went another, pretending to search for the coyotes. I followed the truck.
It did not stop at any known detention center. In fact, it went straight to a major city and into a warehouse. When the truck got past the rocky and slow part of the desert track it had followed, it picked up speed and it was obvious I would not be able to keep up with it. I quickly went into the infinity room and pulled out my Trans Am. I probably tore the hell out of the undercarriage bouncing over some of that track, even though the truck had picked up speed. I made a note to myself to get a Jeep if I decided to do any more of this shit.
Regardless, I was able to keep up with the truck once we hit the freeway. The look-away spell I had on the Trans Am kept me from being noticed by other drivers, but I knew radar would pick up the car if I encountered a speed trap. I had enough to do to keep out of the way of drivers who didn’t notice me on the freeway.
I parked near the warehouse where the truck led me, and started to do some scanning to see what I could find. I brought Zhi, Ali, and two other bodyguards from the infinity room to help keep watch over the action. What we discovered was sickening.
A manager came through the warehouse and checked each room, making notes on the contents. I managed to locate his clipboard when he went into a restroom and discovered it listed the contents of each room in the terms one would use for livestock. Each person in the room was given a number, written on her forehead with a permanent marker. On the sheet, the number was placed in a column with the names of various buyers for the livestock. Some were for shipment out of the country. Some for ‘adoption.’ And some were designated for buyers in the States.
You might think of the United States as being relatively pure when it comes to trafficking, but that is not so. A study I encountered near that time had said that fifty percent of the human traffic went through the US at some point. A percentage of those stayed in the country. The rest were shipped to buyers around the world.
This would be a massive effort. We might manage to assault the warehouse and take out the guards and free the women and children. But to what life? The men they had known were dead. They were illegally in the country. Where would they go? And how would that change the game? We needed to get to the buyers.
The first set was easy. A truck came, loaded women with a few small children, and drove to a dock in Texas. There, the container was loaded on a ship bound for Iran. Before the ship was sealed, I entered, opened the container, and invited the women to come to the infinity room. Maya explained what was being offered in terms the women could understand and they all entered through the gateway.
I returned to the warehouse to await the next load.
I’d missed some and was upset that I’d let so many be enslaved. I was preparing an assault on the warehouse when we got our first big break. The boss came in to tour the warehouse and inspect the stock. He was accompanied by half a dozen buyers who were there to negotiate prices and delivery.
I unleashed the priestesses.
They were prepared for the men with guns and I had provided a look-away spell for each of them so they would not be noticed until they actually made contact. The first contact was with the guards who were outside the warehouse, patrolling in a way that let us know they’d done this many times before. At a silent signal, they all fell with arrows in their throats, eyes, or chests. A second crew of priestesses swiftly moved among the men silently dispatching any who were still alive.
My bodyguards quickly pulled the bodies under a concealing tarp as the priestesses moved inside. They stayed in the shadows and were silent death as they efficiently took care of the remaining guards without a shot being fired. And finally, we came to a room where the men were getting to sample the wares. Women and children were being stripped and presented to the men for their pleasure.
The priestesses of Bob had all undergone similar treatment at the hands of pirates in the Pacific two hundred years before. They did not wait for commands or instruction. Shuriken flew and swords flashed. None of the traffickers were left alive in two minutes as fifty-two furies descended upon them.
Maya, Josie, and Liz led a humanitarian squad from the infinity room and, with the assistance of the priestesses, conducted over a hundred women and children into the infinity room.
The priestesses and bodyguards were not finished. Once the women and children were gone, the priestesses hauled all the bodies into the main area of the warehouse and began nailing the bodies to the walls. I noticed they seemed to take particular pleasure in putting a spike through the genitals of each man and into the wall. They swung heavy hammers with long nails. Some were driven directly through the neck and into the wall. Some through shoulders. Some were hung upside down with nails through their feet. Then everyone went into the satchel and I surveyed the area, noting that not a single sword, shuriken, arrow, or knife had been left behind.
I was surprised, however, when I recognized the dead face and blankly staring eyes of a United States Senator among those nailed to the walls. I ran out of the warehouse and drove my Trans Am north to a private spot before packing it back into my bag and getting out a much newer Lexus. This I drove back to my base in the Midwest where I was a simple housing developer.
The only newspaper article I ever saw about the subject was a notice that Senator Truman had unexpectedly suffered a heart attack and had passed away in his home before emergency medical services could arrive. There was never a mention of the others who were left hanging in the warehouse. Or if there was, perhaps I simply didn’t know the names to identify what story had been released about them. There was certainly nothing about a warehouse massacre in a city in Arizona.
I had to wonder how high up in the US government the workings of human trafficking were being supported. I really needed to get out of here.
Well, that went way darker than I intended to get in this volume, but I was reminded of all of that when I met a young woman one day as I was doing some shopping for gifts for my harem. They all liked me to bring home new sexy things for them to wear, even though they didn’t keep them on for long.
Let me just say that the store was not a major brand. You know what they say: Shop local.
“Welcome, sir. We’re happy to have you in our store this evening,” the young woman said. There were half a dozen women sitting in a little lounge area—all dressed in very scanty sexy clothes. “Have you ever been to ‘Show Me’ before?”
“No,” I confessed. “I just want to buy some pretty things for my women.”
“I’ll bet you do. You must have a lot of them, as strong and handsome as you are. You aren’t gay are you?” she asked innocently. “Nothing wrong with that, but I’d call one of the boys to help you. Let me tell you about how we work here.”
She proceeded to tell me they were a ‘personal shopping’ service. All the girls were available to help select and model the lingerie. I could have as many of the girls as I wanted for just $200 each and they would help me select and then model up to five different outfits. They hoped I would purchase something ‘off the rack,’ in a manner of speaking. I glanced around and saw that prices displayed were well over $100 per outfit.
What the heck. It’s only money and this promised to be an interesting new experience. I asked the young woman if she would be my model and she happily accepted the $200 I gave her and hung on my arm as we walked through the very well-stocked store. I was surprised that she actually knew her business as well as how to arouse me. She pointed out several outfits and asked questions about who I was buying for.
“She must be very special that you care enough to shop here. This is one of my favorites. It’s soft and sexy. See? No rough seams or scratchy lace. I feel like a million bucks in it, I’m told. Please let me model this one for you.”
I agreed. Wait! She’d been told it made her feel like a million bucks? Wouldn’t she know how she feels in an outfit without being told?
She led me to a room with a comfortable chair, table, and small stage. She poured me a glass of wine and told me to just relax for a minute while she changed into the first outfit. Then she took the five pieces I’d selected and disappeared behind a curtain. I heard voices outside our room and wondered how many stages like this they had for customers. It turned out there was a stage for each girl who was working and by the time I left, they all had customers. Of course, that was much later.
“Mr. Bob, this first outfit is one you chose in a royal blue,” she said as she mounted the stage in front of me. It was very attractive and wonderfully displayed on her lithe body. “I love how this fabric moves with me when I walk, making that gentle swishing sound that will let you know your lover has arrived before you ever see her approaching. Notice the way it hugs my curves, especially how the fabric falls across my butt and accents the shape. If you are an ass man, this is a sure fire way to bring the soldier to attention.”
She continued to strut across the stage and pause to pose in various sexy positions. I was very appreciative. Then she stepped off the stage and approached me.
“You can’t always tell what an outfit will do for your girlfriend unless you touch it and confirm that she would feel good in it.” She guided my hand to touch her… the fabric, as it fell over her butt. “Did you notice that you can see the shape and outline of my nipples without actually seeing through the fabric. She’ll love it when you softly caress her breasts encased in this lovely fabric.” She demonstrated by guiding my hands to her breasts and rubbing them around so I could feel her hard nipples beneath the fabric. Then she stepped back.
“That’s lovely,” I said. “I can imagine Maya in it. She’ll love it. I’ll take it.”
“Oh, my! A sale already? You are a wonderful boyfriend. Stand up and help me out of this.”
What? I stood and she showed me exactly the best way to remove the little outfit, leaving her bare in front of me. She turned to face me.
“Would you like me to show you the next outfit now?” she asked, making no move to leave until I gasped a ‘yes.’ Then I watched her bare bottom disappear behind the curtain.
As soon as she was off-stage, a woman I recognized as the cashier at the door of the shop entered the room and took the outfit from me.
“I’ll wrap this and have it ready when you are finished here,” she said. “I hope you enjoy the rest of the show!”
And thus, the show continued. She arranged the outfits in a way that let the sexiness increase with each piece of lingerie she wore on stage. I bought each of them. The last item was the ‘favorite’ she had chosen.
I once met an artist who had experimented with sculpting women behind a veil. It was a fascinating technique and when he was finished with a marble sculpture, you swore the veil was transparent in places, showing details of her face, while a fold in the fabric obscured other places. The final outfit Angel, my model, wore reminded me of that as it was nearly transparent, exposing her nipples, her navel, and her crotch, though keeping them covered with the fabric. As she moved, multiple layers of the fabric would shift and obscure the view.
Finally, she settled on my lap and encouraged me to pet her wherever I wanted. She even showed me how to get my hand beneath the fabric so I was caressing her skin and bare breasts beneath the fabric.
“I’m afraid this outfit has a very high price, Mr. Bob. But it has accessories that come with it. Do you see the collar I wear around my neck? It’s my slave collar. If you snap this leash to the collar, and pay the $1,500 price for the outfit, I come with it. And I promise, you will come, too. I will be your sex slave for as long as you will keep me and take care of me. I know you’ve mentioned Maya and Josie and Liz, and I know you must have others. Add me to your collection. I’m not normally a high pressure sales girl, but I’m ready for a change and you are the best thing that has come through our door in a long time. Buy the outfit and take me with you, Mr. Bob.”
I was so shocked I could hardly speak. She was rubbing at my crotch and I had a finger in her moist pussy as she talked. It was incredibly disorienting.
“You’re a slave?” I asked in disbelief.
“Yes. I’ve been in the lifestyle since I turned eighteen and that’s been almost ten years.”
Ten years? She didn’t look more than twenty at the most.
“I’ll buy you and set you free,” I said angrily. “And all the others in the store.”
“Mr. Bob! How could you? Don’t you like us? Me? Would you really throw me out like that? I thought you were special. I wanted you to own me.”
“I’m confused. Do you mean to say that being a sex slave is your choice?” I asked.
“Yes. I love it! I don’t have to make any decisions. I don’t live in poverty. I get all the love and affection I could ever want. My owners have been good men, but I’ll probably not be marketable for much longer. Most of the masters want younger women. I thought you liked me.”
She started to push away from me and I pulled her tighter to hold her.
“You really want me to buy you? I don’t know if I can be a slave owner. I live in a different world.”
“Then take me to your world. Even if you remove my collar, I’ll remain your slave. Mr. Bob, take this last outfit off of me and make me yours.”
I complied, and an hour later I walked out of the lingerie store with my new sex slave—dressed once again in the transparent negligee—to return home and try to explain to my wives how I came to own a slave.
Sometimes, life is very confusing for a simple demon!
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