Prominence
Copyright 2024
by Chris Bellows
Part One - Abduction - Indoctrination
“You can’t hold me... like this!”
A forceful tone, more of a demand than a plea.
“But yes we can, Mr. Probert. You’re not in the United States,” a woman of some thirty years calmly responds, exuding confidence in standing before the exasperated form of the captive. “You’re in Zolanda.”
“I know that!”
“Then I should remind you that Zolanda is a monarchy... a matriarchal monarchy. The Queen rules. And the Queen has... well... taken an interest in you.”
“Well, she should. There’s oil... lots of oil... and I’m here to make her... make Zolanda... rich.”
“Your skills are noted. A petroleum engineer... for Benchmark Oil... a very venturous exploration and production company. I am Dr. Martha Humbert. You may call me Miss Martha. My staff and I will be taking care of you on behalf of the Queen.”
“I’m fine. I don’t need a doctor. I need my clothes,” the tone of aggravation somewhat tempering in standing completely naked before the handsome woman, attired in the white smock of the medical profession,
The male bravado begins to erode.
“In the stifling heat of equatorial Africa, covering can be considered optional... for some. For you a privilege to be denied, Mr. Probert.”
The revelation shocks, stunned to momentary silence.
“Well at least get me out of these cuffs,” Robert Probert turning his head, dipping his chin to gesture where his hands are secured behind his back.
“No. For now it’s best that you acclimate to bondage. And being under constant feminine control... convincing feminine control. It begins by always keeping your knees and feet parted in the presence of a woman.”
With the plainly spoken words, the matter-of-fact tone, the bravado completely fades, the realization of his vulnerability daunting. And subconsciously, Robert Probert finds himself indeed parting his feet.
“What’s this all about?” a pleadful quest.
Dr. Martha Humbert, unfolds her arms from her stance of authority. She steps forth, a hand lowering. She brazenly palms then lifts the male appendage. It is flaccid, yet beginning to engorge. And it is long... and thick.
“This.”
Earlier in the Day
“You boys staying the night?” Robert Probert inquires as he steps from the gleaming Falcon jet of the Benchmark Oil Company, shouting over the noise of the spooling engines.
“No. We need fuel and have to ferry to Lagos. It’s less than hour, but the facility shuts down shortly after dark,” the copilot explains dropping to the tarmac the two light travel bags of the only passenger.
“We’ve already filed and need to get going. Good luck with the find.”
“It’s been found... and lots of it. Just need to tidy up details with the old broad running this banana farm.”
“If you’re talking about the Queen, take care. The guys who regularly fly in and out of here are cautious. She’s powerful... knows how to use her power... and enjoys using it. And no one calls her old.”
With that, the copilot ascends the few steps to the jet’s cabin and hastily pulls shut the door, leaving petroleum engineer Robert Probert alone on an airfield of limited activity.
Though age twenty-eight, he has risen quickly in the hierarchy of Benchmark Oil. Success has emboldened and, though alone in a foreign country of limited culture, euphemistically referring to such as a banana farm, there is self confidence. Yes, the monarchy is ruled autocratically, but he has the power of knowledge, not only possessing the details of the energy resources but how to extract such and bring to market.
He is omnipotent.
Spotting a large sign, ‘Customs’, with the term translated below in some half dozen languages, he picks up his bags and begins the trek of legally entering Zolanda, an impoverished backwater monarchy geographically wedged amongst more notable Western African fiefdoms.
Landlocked, there isn’t even a beach for recreation which would attract free spending tourists, Robert reminds himself. Thus he is a godsend for the Zolanda economy... the Zeus of oil riches. He is to become the difference between a nation of abject poverty and a nation of unfathomable wealth.
Such a welcome sight he will make. He is sure to be feted by Zolanda royalty.
Into an makeshift shed, Robert cannot help envisioning the stately terminal building that is sure to be constructed with the prospective oil funds. He has too often visited similar but more mature oil commonwealths. There will be much infrastructure... modern roads and bridges ironically traversed by barefooted locals leading donkey carts. There are few instances of the oil wealth trickling down to benefit the masses. But such is the way of the world.
Dictators and monarchs are corruptible... and oil money corrupts.
Entering the customs shed Robert Probert is surprised to see state of the art security equipment. Two burly uniformed women of color, appearing bored, greet. One takes his proffered passport and points to a conveyor where his luggage is to be scanned, the other beckons and speaks brusquely in accented English.
“Here boy,” Robert to step through a metal detector.
‘Boy’!... not the salutation this ‘oil god’ expects. Apparently decades of colonialization remain staining cultural relations. Robert chooses to remain silent, smiling smugly. As he steps forth he notes that whereas most scanners he has been subjected to on his many travels are arches, with this device it appears he is to pass through a tunnel. Indeed when he alacritously glides through, a pair of meaty black hands greet his chest, pushing him back into the small cave.
“You stay, boy. Be good for me. Stand still. You be scanned. I tell you when. Hands on head.”
It is a command, sharply uttered, and with compliance thereafter earns a more kindly ‘good boy’.
Robert hears hums and bleeps. He is mindful of an MRI scan... magnetic resonance imaging... taken years ago after a knee injury. After many minutes he notes the security guard looking at a monitor. She smiles, gesturing to security guard number two as she begins typing into a keyboard. The second guard joins her at the screen. She smiles not, instead outright giggling.
“His name is Robert Probert,” English heavily accented.
The women begin speaking in their native tongue, security guard one picking up a phone and speaking more unintelligible words. After a few moments she smiles, nods and places down the receiver.
“Probert, mahn, the boss lady, she wants confirmation.”
“‘Confirmation? I don’t understand.”
“Drop your pants,” the words of security guard one coming as another brusque command.
“You’re a big boy,” security guard two more graciously offers. “The boss lady wants photos,” pulling a cell phone from her pocket. ‘The scans... always accurate... but never as welcoming.”
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