The Slave

by Laura Antoniou

  The hand left the back of her neck and went toward the strap and she gasped out, “Canes! I’m afraid of canes!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, sir!” She moaned, and gasped, and her breath started coming in those light rhythmic waves that signaled an approach to ecstasy, and then his hand stopped.

  “How interesting. What about knives?” His hands left her all together, and she moaned again, from their absence.

  “No,” she whispered, her voice now more than slightly strained. “No, sir, I’ve played with knives. They scare me, but not as much as canes. Canes are... different.” Her entire body seemed to ache again. But the ache circled around her clit, and spread outward. Even the burning pain of her glowing ass cheeks couldn’t compare to the erotic agony between her thighs.

  “Bring me more coffee. And a damp towel, and the telephone. And then clean the table off, I think you may have marred the polish a little.”

  Feeling slightly faint, Robin managed to push herself off the table. She had indeed marred the polish a little, with the marks of her body, her sweat, her little pool of tears. Her nipples were tight, compressed by her own body against the wood, erect with the pleasure of Parker’s expert probing. Robin fled to the kitchen with a flush covering her face, and her hands trembled when she took a coffee cup down from a shelf. In the reflection of the oven door, she could see the difference in color between her legs, back, and that area between them.

  Oh God, she thought, reaching back to touch the heat. Oh God, I can’t take this.

  But she followed his directions, and watched him wipe his hands with the damp towel, as dispassionately as a terrace gardener who had pulled up a very small weed before coming to dinner. Would she never stop blushing? Then, he tossed her the towel to put away, and dialed a long number on the cordless phone she brought him from the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Rachel,” she heard him say, as she deposited the towel back in the kitchen and searched for cleaning rags. She listened carefully. There was no real need to eavesdrop, but her curiosity was almost as strong as her frustration.

  “No, I’m fine. Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. I’m going to be staying at Nancy and Lawrence’s apartment, the West Side one. Would you please arrange to send me some clothing, a copy of the workbook, and a collar?”

  Robin shivered as she walked back into the dining room and ran the soft cloth over the table top, wiping up her responses and rubbing out her image. Chris ignored her; he had a slight smile playing around his lips.

  “Well, you’re right my dear. What can I say? I have to do something to keep busy. How are things at the house?”

  There was a long pause as he listened, and Robin saw him nod a few times.

  “Fine, fine. Let me know if you need any help. Oh, and Rachel? Include in that package three of my canes, will you? There’s a good girl.” He paused again, and laughed suddenly. “Anytime you like, my love. Take care.” He clicked the receiver off and handed it to Robin to replace.

  “Now,” he said, when she returned, “you’re in serious trouble.”

  Robin felt the blood drain from her face.

  “What did I do?” she asked.

  “What didn’t you do?”

  She looked around. The coffee was in his hand, the phone was put away, the table was polished clean again... What?

  “On your knees while you think,” Chris snapped.

  She knelt immediately and, not knowing what position to take, brought her hands behind her back. What had she forgotten to do? She ran images backward in her mind, from the current moment back through the beating. It was the second time she did this that she realized what she hadn’t done.

  She immediately pushed her shoulders forward and down, lowering her face to the floor in front of Parker’s feet.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she whispered, blushing to her ears again, and this time slightly shaking as well. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. Please sir, please accept my thanks for teaching me, for disciplining me. I’ll be better in the future, sir.”

  “Incredibly, unforgivably sloppy. What did you think I was waiting for when I stopped beating you?”

  Nothing, she thought furiously, raging at herself. I wasn’t thinking of any damn thing except how good it felt, and how awful it was, and how hot I was! But she pressed herself even lower, unable to speak these things out loud.

  “Your punishment for this one will not be as simple as a beating,” Chris said, nudging her shoulder. She picked her head up, and seeing his nod, drew herself up on her knees again. “Most of it will have to wait until later this afternoon, however, because you have an appointment in about an hour. But for now....”

  He turned, leaving her kneeling on the floor, and left the room. She heard the jingling of his keys for a moment, and shivered again. How could she be so stupid? That was one of the first things you learned; you thank someone for disciplining you, you thank them for letting you please them, you thank them for pleasing you, damn it, you practically thank them for every kind of attention!

  But she was so overwhelmingly distracted by the specter of the Marketplace, the looming reality of it, taking over her future and erasing her past. Although she tried to contain it, tears formed in her eyes.

  Chris returned, and leaned over her from behind. She caught a glimpse of the object he held before he pulled her head back and forced the gag into her mouth. It wasn’t huge, but it felt like it filled her, and the shame of it crashed through her with a powerful violence. He spoke as he buckled it on.

  “Since you haven’t learned to be polite, I don’t see any reason why you should speak at all for now. Perhaps this will remind you that speech is a privilege, not a right.” His voice was slightly angry, enough to add another needle of fear to her emotional state. When he raised her up and turned her to face him, he seemed content with the tears that trailed down her cheeks, but showed no sign of pity or compassion. Instead, he told her to wash his coffee cups and the pot and last night’s dishes, and clean the kitchen.

  Later that day, when the doorbell chimed, he went to answer it. Robin was now standing in one corner of the living room, her hands behind her back, still gagged, posed with her back and shoulders straight, her head bowed. She had been there just long enough to feel a little cramped. She tensed and felt another shudder of shame and fear run through her.

  “Chris, good to see you!” It was another man’s voice. “Got yourself another project, hmm?”

  “It keeps me out of the bars.” Chris’s voice sounded lighter. “I’m glad you could come on such short notice.”

  “How pretty!” The new voice belonged to an older man, only a little taller than Chris, but well into his fifties. His hair was a thick, wavy white and silver, and he was wearing an exquisitely tailored business suit; Robin could spot old money a mile away. She tried to keep her eyes cast down, but her curiosity fought her every inch of the way.

  “But misbehaving already? What a shame, what a shame!” He looked her over with frank but friendly appraisal, snapped his fingers, and a third person entered the room.

  Robin felt a moment of dizziness. Her eyesight almost seemed to waver, as though someone had smacked her hard. Because the woman who joined this man entered with an aura. And there was not a shred of doubt in Robin’s mind that this woman was a slave, that she was utterly owned, meant to be that way, and that she carried with her a sense of intense joy that permeated her being.

  It was as though this new woman were alive, and Robin a shade. Robin moaned behind the gag, more ashamed then she had ever been in her entire life. This wasn’t simple embarrassment here; it wasn’t going to make her blush. This was true shame, the sense of worthlessness felt only in the presence of awe, and the power of it was overwhelming.

  Without thinking, Robin sank to her knees and bowed her head. It was so hard to think, she couldn’t really determine if she were bowing to the slave or to the implied power of the man who owned her. At this point, it barely made a difference.

>   “Oh, that was nice,” the new man said, walking into the room and examining her.

  “And entirely unnecessary,” Chris added dryly. “Not that I blame her. She’s had a trying morning. Would you like something to drink?”

  “Oh, some coffee would be lovely, lad, with a small dollop of something single malt. And some for Greta, if you don’t mind. We’ll conduct the exam in here then? The light is perfect.”

  “Make yourself at home, Doctor.”

  Doctor? Robin’s curiosity easily defeated the shock, and she was surprised when she realized what position she was in. She peeked up out of the corner of her eye to see the older man smiling down at her.

  “Yes, yes, that’s right,” he said easily, bending down. “You can come up for a while. Let’s have this off, shall we? Greta?”

  The woman crossed into Robin’s sight, and put down two cases she was carrying, a slender portfolio style briefcase and a Gladstone bag. Then, she came over to undo the gag, and Robin got a real look at her.

  Greta looked to be in her mid to late forties. She had short, wavy blonde hair, streaked with silver-colored highlights and cut in a rather severe, mature style. Her face was a little long, with arched cheekbones and a pointy chin. Gold hoops hung from her earlobes, dancing in the light. Her ice blue eyes were deep set and kindly, noticing everything. When she reached her arms around Robin’s head, Robin could smell something light and floral, a perfect scent for such a woman. Under the collar of the burgundy silk blouse she wore, the herringbone edges of a heavy gold chain flashed.

  The gag slipped out of Robin’s mouth, dripping with spit. Robin flushed and shut her eyes, working her jaw to shut and open again. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she managed to whisper.

  “That’s all right,” Greta responded, depositing the gag onto the coffee table. Her voice was carefully controlled, like that of an actress or someone whose native language had not been English.

  “Yes, it’s impossible to wear one of those things without getting a good helping of saliva down your chest, isn’t it?” The doctor sat down in one of the chairs as Greta opened the briefcase and presented him with a file folder and a gold pen. It was so seamlessly done that Robin felt even worse. Was she expected to compete with people like this? To be so graceful and so perfectly attuned to someone that you can slide something into their hands the minute before they started to move toward it?

  I’m a clog dancer at the ballet, she thought, the ludicrous image establishing itself in her mind.

  “Now for introductions. I am Doctor Emil Kaufmann, and this is my slave, Doctor Greta Mueller. And you are?”

  Slave-Doctor? Robin nearly lost herself again, but struggled and held on, and coughed to clear her throat.

  “I―my name is Robin, sir,” she said, not knowing whether to give him her full name. It suddenly seemed so odd to be totally naked in a room of clothed people who didn’t seem to pay any attention to that fact at all.

  “Excellent, excellent. We are here to examine you, my dear, to establish that you are in good emotional and physical health, and to create your medical file for the Marketplace records. As with all your files, the contents will be considered confidential, although they will be released to your owner when you are purchased. Do you understand, and give your consent to be examined?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wonderful! Then we shall begin.” He opened the file, and Greta opened the Gladstone bag, and they started the most comprehensive examination Robin had ever heard about, let alone experienced, in her entire life.

  Chris went back and forth, serving coffee with a style and ease that Robin knew came from long acquaintance with such tasks. And Dr. Mueller―Greta―worked with a cool efficiency and a wonderfully assuring bedside manner, testing reflexes, taking up instruments to peer into Robin’s eyes, ears, nose and throat. She listened to the heart and lungs, probed Robin’s body with expert fingers, took hair and saliva and blood samples. At one point, she conducted a simple gynecological examination, with a level of gentleness and care that Robin had never experienced in a table fitted with stirrups, and the irony of this didn’t escape her.

  “No evidence of past trauma to the area, developed and healthy external organs, patient is shaven,” Greta said when she finished. “A lovely cunt. You are erotically functional, yes? You experience clitoral orgasms? Multiple? G-spot?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Robin admitted, almost bashfully. “All of them.”

  “How fortunate,” the woman said back, flashing a bright smile. “Mr. Parker, would you like her pierced?”

  Robin froze.

  Chris looked as though he was considering it. Then, the corner of his mouth turned up and he said, “No, Greta, it’s too much in vogue. If her owner wants her pierced, then they can outlay the money for the gold. Leave her with the holes she already has.”

  Robin nearly fainted with relief, and Greta gave a short, light laugh and continued her examination. You bastard, Robin thought, closing her eyes. She opened them again as Greta began to ask more questions.

  She probed Robin’s medical history for almost an hour, finding out about childhood injuries and diseases, and adulthood experiences. As she asked, Emil kept that beautiful golden pen flashing, taking notes, marking off boxes on lengthy lists, and interjecting questions from time to time.

  Robin was asked about everything from vaccinations to allergies, from venereal diseases to whether she performed regular breast examinations, and if she knew how. She was asked for the prescription for her reading glasses, and the names of her doctors. Greta even asked her about her family medical history―heart problems, high blood pressure, cancer? Did she exercise regularly, and what did she do?

  At their request, Chris brought out a step aerobics block and Greta instructed Robin in doing a series of movements, stepping on and off it in cadence. Her heart rate was measured before and after, and her recovery time was noted.

  And then, as lunchtime approached, they took a break. Leon came by again, this time with vegetable soup and chicken salad sandwiches. Robin, still being punished, ended up sitting on the floor in the corner while Leon served up the food and some light, bantering chatter.

  Robin was not allowed to speak, except in answer to a direct question.

  It was as thoroughly agonizing as any beating she had ever taken. She watched them out of the corner of her eye, watched as Greta took a seat at the table with the two men and spoke and laughed at perfect ease. Was she being treated the way Chris talked about this morning? Like a member of the family? Were there no consistent rules regarding how slaves were treated? Emil reached out and touched Leon intimately once, cupping the young man’s ass cheek in one hand and making a joke about its supposed tenderness, and Leon seemed neither surprised nor upset. In fact, he sighed just a little and moved away with a slight show of reluctance. Was he being teasing?

  So many questions! And she was ordered into silence!

  But after lunch, she was given the opportunity to talk as much as she liked.

  After lunch, Dr. Emil sat her on the floor and began to ask her questions about her life. And not in the abstract, as Chris wanted to hear about her, but specific questions. When was she first aware of sexual feelings? How were her relationships with her parents? Had she ever been arrested, and for what? What did the word friendship mean to her? How often did she masturbate, and how? Who did she think was the best president in her lifetime? What percentage of her life would she say she was happy? What were her favorite books? If she had a penis, what would it look like?

  And the questions came at her seemingly at random, never staying long on one topic. Emil did allow her to think for a moment before answering, but encouraged her to speak off the top of her head whenever possible. Now, it was Greta who was taking the notes.

  They only finished with her in the late afternoon. She hardly realized that it was over, until Greta began to gather papers and instruments and put them away, and Chris came back into the room with what looked like sh
erry in two small glasses. Emil took one and nodded before Chris offered the other to Greta.

  I might never have noticed that, Robin marveled. It’s all so natural for them.

  “Would you like to stay for a while longer?” Chris asked, giving the tray to Robin and pointing at the kitchen. She rose, her knees more than a little stiff. “Robin is at your service, of course.”

  “Thank you, Chris, your hospitality is as generous as your employers’. But I’m afraid that we have another engagement tonight, and cannot see to your charming new acquisition.” Emil sounded jovial. He sipped his sherry with a murmur of approval, and laughed at Robin’s retreating body. “You know, I can see that you have a shy one in your hands. So delightful! So enticing! She must be exhibited, and as soon as possible. Can you not see her, mounted in some well-lit corner, her thighs spread, her body opened and unprotected, inviting glance and touch?”

  Robin returned to the room, her face flushed, her body shaking, despite all efforts to keep it under control.

  Chris didn’t even look at her, but pointed to the corner she had been sent to before Emil and Greta arrived. From there, she watched as Chris chatted amiably with Emil. Shortly thereafter, the two doctors took their leave, without a single word directed to her. Chris saw them out, holding their coats for them, closing the door behind them.

  The gag sat on the table where Greta had left it.

  But Chris walked past it, and without warning, brought his fingers up between Robin’s legs, and opened her. She was wet, a steamy, heated wetness that parted for him, invited him. She moaned, suddenly, and the sound seemed to shatter the silence of the room.

  Chris smiled, and brought his fingers up to her lips. She didn’t need a command to lick them clean, tasting her tangy moisture.

  “Go and drink some water,” Chris said, retreating to a chair. “And bring the strap back with you.”

  He posed her with her hands braced on her knees, her head down, and used the strap on her in sets of ten strokes. For each ten, he had another reason―pausing too long before responding to a question, looking sulky, delaying before obeying a direct order, sneaking glances at the doctors when she should have kept her head down.