The man who swore that he would not be bound to any sort of formal commitment fell victim to the common lover’s malady of jealousy.
In public, he turned hostile to anyone who showed even the slightest interest in Robin. Even other submissives learned to keep their distance when Troy was around.
In private though, he was simply cruel. He wavered from angry passion to cold disinterest, and returned always to the same questions. Did she like sleeping with another guy?
“It was just that one time,” she insisted. “If you don’t want me to ever be with anyone else again, you have that power!”
“Until you see another dick you like,” he sneered back. “Then all of a sudden it’ll be, ‘Master, please lend me to him!’ won’t it? Any excuse to get another cock between your legs!”
Robin’s eyes narrowed in fury. “If that’s what you believe, then I don’t see the point in continuing this discussion,” she said. “You can call me if you want to talk about this like adults.”
“Oh sure, turn cold on me, you bitch! Well, just remember, I made you fucking crawl to me! I was your only real master, you’re never going to find another man like me!” He rose, too, his slim body suddenly threatening. “If you walk out that door, you’re making the biggest mistake of your life!”
“Then tell me what I should do!” Robin thundered back. “You think I don’t want you; you believe that I’d use you to sleep with other men! What am I supposed to do, sit here and wait until you go insane with jealousy? It was just an experiment that went bad, Troy. You’re the one who’s dwelling on it. We don’t ever have to do anything like it again!”
“Until you want to,” he repeated stubbornly.
She stared at him, feeling the anger subside a little bit and sadness flow in. “I’m really sorry,” she said. And then she left, his dire threats and insults echoing down the hallway until the elevator closed and she slumped against the back wall. No tears, not yet.
The tears didn’t come until three weeks later, when he called her and apologized and promised that he would behave better if she came back. “I’m so, so sorry,” he had said, his voice sincere and soft. “It was all my fault, I should have never done that to you!” And as she heard him, she realized that even in the immediate loneliness of their short separation, she had not missed him as much as she had missed being beaten regularly.
He had done his damage. She was no longer interested in him.
That night, the tears flowed like rain.
* * * *
But her story with Troy wasn’t over yet. Although she made it clear to him that she was not going to come back, she also told him that she was not angry with him. In fact, she emphasized that she was appreciative of their relationship, and that she would remember it always as a pleasurable and positive part of her life. And while he resisted the “let’s be friends” approach as well as any rejected lover would, he realized that he had predicted her eventual absence on many past occasions. It was to his credit to be clear-headed and rational about the whole thing.
She was even pleased that he found himself a new girlfriend/slave. In her opinion, Susie, Joe’s ex-slave, was a bit of an airhead, but she seemed to make Troy happy.
In contrast, her own search for companionship was as frustrating as ever. Now hampered by her public roles as a slave to a man and a woman, she became pursued beyond her capacity to even contemplate. But the inherent quality of her suitors had not changed. The vast majority saw their interest in SM as an imaginative kink in their otherwise straightforward sex lives.
And so it was that nearly a year from the end of their relationship, in the ballroom at a large East coast fetish gathering, Troy came looking for Robin and found her engaged in a discussion about the comparative merits of several works of SM fiction. Interrupting the conversation, he drew her aside, politely but with firm enthusiasm.
“What is it?” she asked, smiling. Around them, the crowds chattered and milled, the crinkling and creaking sounds of leather and PVC and crinoline adding a steady undertone to the evening.
“There’s someone I think you should meet,” Troy said, gesturing across the room. Robin glanced casually over and saw a black haired woman, dressed in a tuxedo, standing near a pair of men in pony harness, bits firmly in place and headstalls wrapped around their ears and foreheads. She confirmed the target with Troy.
“Yes, the oriental lady,” Troy nodded. “Robin, I don’t know what exactly’s going on, but there are some people here who seem a little bit more serious than the average pervert. Can you tell?”
Robin nodded. She had begun to be aware of a subtle difference in a small percentage of people she met. It attracted her, in ways she couldn’t exactly put a finger on. This gathering was no exception. Mixed in with the weekend sexual warriors, the bedroom frolickers, and the organization and contest celebrities were a few individuals who seemed unaffected by the posturing and the presentations. Or perhaps amused by them.
“Well,” Troy said, taking another glance at the woman across the room, “I think she knows what’s going on. And, more so, I think she’s willing to talk about it. But not to me.”
“Then what makes you think she’ll talk to me?”
“She told me so.”
Robin turned to look at the woman. Even across the room, she could see her careful nod. She turned back to Troy. “Why am I scared all of a sudden?”
“Because you might be that much closer to getting what you really want.” Troy said this without rancor, and Robin loved him for it. “Shall I introduce the two of you, or do you want to just go over by yourself?”
Robin first felt the urge to walk over and talk to her. But she hesitated, feeling that perhaps such a move wouldn’t be proper. So she allowed Troy, resplendent in his leather pants and black shirt, to escort her across the room, there to formally introduce her.
“Robin, please meet Ms. Kenda Mandarin.”
“Ken,” the woman said smoothly. Her voice was light, but serious, and her eyes were predatory. “My friends call me Ken.”
Chapter Twelve
Robin struggled with the knot over and over, until her fingertips felt numb. It resisted her diabolically, remaining tangled where it should be smooth, tight where it should be loose, sloppy where it should be crisp. It never came out even.
She never realized that so much went into tying a simple bow tie.
But she had to get it right before Chris came back from wherever he had gone. His tuxedo hung, freshly aired and dusted, his shirt was crisp in white tissue paper on the bed. A box containing the braces and studs and cufflinks was on the edge of the nightstand. Robin had been struggling with the tie for almost an hour. Nothing that she knotted seemed even close to the ideal that was pictured on the instruction sheet she had gotten from the formal wear shop.
That had been an inspiration. When Chris had left her, all he had done was hand her the tie and tell her that she would be expected to act as his valet that evening; she did know how to deal with one of these, didn’t she?
Robin’s sole experience with bow ties had been seeing them around the throats of professors, or on the boyfriends of various girlfriends on their wedding days. And those particular ties had an adjustable band that clipped on. So as soon as Chris left, she opened the yellow pages and called the nearest formal wear shops. One of them did indeed have a prepared sheet that they gave out to their customers, and yes, they could give her one if she came by. So she had dressed and gone out (Chris never told her that she couldn’t), and, feeling odd to be so covered, picked up the hint sheet.
Now, with Chris due back any moment, she was only a little closer to tying the damn thing correctly.
When she heard his key in the door, she shook the band of silk out and smoothed it over the shoulder of the tux. Luckily, it showed no great sign of the abuse she had put it through. She hit the hallway as the door started to swing inward, and was ready to receive the large package out of his arms when he extended it toward her.
/> “We’re going to do something a little different tonight,” Chris said as he walked into the apartment, letting her close the door behind him. He almost never said “hello” or “good morning.” She’d gotten used to it, especially since she realized that on some mornings, he went to a gym and came back all ready to tear into her at the slightest sign of sulkiness. He shrugged his jacket back over his shoulders, and she had just enough time to put the package (a long box) down on the table before she neatly caught the garment and hung it on the rack. “In the meantime,” he said, “try this on, and make sure it fits.”
Robin eyed the large box and picked it up again. “Sir?”
“You may use the dressing room in the master bedroom. You’ll need the mirrors. But first, make some coffee.” He walked into the dining room without another glance.
Robin rushed competently through preparing and serving the coffee, and opened the box with trepidation. But as she brushed aside the layers of tissue paper, she revealed a simple but lovely black dress, suitable for a formal party. Separated from the dress by a partition was a small cloth envelope that held stockings and a garter belt, a box containing a pair of gold earrings, and a larger box with a pair of fashionable shoes.
I’m going to a party! Robin thought deliriously as she rushed into the dressing room. Of course everything fit, allowing for the stiffness of new shoes. There’s no reason why anything would be unsuitable, she reflected. Chris knows every inch of my body; he has all my measurements.
The dress was long-sleeved, with touches of layered black lace where they would add dimension without color. It was high-necked, but cut to wrap around her sensuously. It was deceptively simple, as all little black dresses should be. There was no designer label on it, which said more than the presence of a label would.
With her hair done up and the earrings and a little make-up, she’d be very pretty. The heels would help a lot; they would make her legs look longer. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. It was conceivable that someone would pay an awful lot of money for the woman who looked back at her. The thought was amazing; it was unlike anything she had felt about herself since she was a little girl.
Taken by her musings, she didn’t hear Chris’s approach until he slid back one of the doors. She turned to him with a blush. “It seems adequate,” he said.
“It’s wonderful,” Robin gushed, turning for him. “It’s beautiful, sir. Does this mean that I’m going with you tonight?”
“It does. So take it off, and do whatever it is you would normally do before a black tie affair. When you come to dress me, I want you naked, as usual. You’ll dress after me. We have to leave at 6:15. Will that be enough time for you to get ready?”
It was. Chris wanted her to be able to complete his dressing, not oversee it from socks up. So, she fastened the braces, did up his starched collar and French cuffs, and standing behind him, tied the bow-tie into the neatest, most even knot she could have imagined coming from her fingers. Chris glanced at himself in the mirror, flipped his hair in place with his fingers and grunted, releasing her to dress.
The recognition for a job well done doesn’t seem to apply to my situation, Robin thought as she rolled a stocking up past her knee. But then, I know it was done well. And I know he knows. And―that’s enough.
Her make-up box, one of the things she had brought back from the apartment, seemed alien to her after only a week without it. She used it sparingly.
When she came out of her room, Chris had another surprise for her: a long, black coat. She was relieved that it wasn’t fur; she had always maintained a distaste for the sensation of fur. But it was a lush, thick cashmere, with a silken shawl collar. He was wearing a black trench coat, with a white scarf tucked into the lapels.
It was all too, too classy. She giggled as she slid her arms into the warm embrace of the coat.
“What?”
“It’s just that this doesn’t feel like a regular night, sir,” Robin said. “I used to go to formal parties all the time. Hell, they were part of the job. Openings, shows, anniversaries, birthday parties for big clients, museum fundraisers... I have lots of dresses in storage for this kind of thing. But tonight, I feel... different. Almost like I’m going to the prom. Or to Cinderella’s ball.”
Chris shrugged. “In a way, you are. Tonight, you are going to your first function that takes place within the Marketplace. The event,” he took the invitation out of his pocket and glanced at it, “is an anniversary. The house that manages the New York Autumn/Winter auction, which is the one I would like to show you in, is celebrating their fiftieth year of business.”
“Do you mean―” Robin paled. “Is there going to be...? Will there be buyers there?”
“Certainly.” Chris slid the invitation back into his pocket and checked his watch. “Now come, the car is waiting.”
The car, of course, was a limousine. The driver was already waiting for them as they exited the building, and he ushered them into the back without a word. As they pulled away into traffic, Chris leaned back with a sigh.
“Normally I don’t attend such things,” he said casually. Robin, who felt uncomfortable sitting by his side, tried to relax her posture. “But my employers, who would have attended, are away, and they have appointed me to take their place. Upon reflection, I realized that it would be valuable for you to meet some other members of the Marketplace in a setting less intimidating than your first sale. It will also serve as your last chance to interact on conventional social circumstances. Although a few individuals may know that I am training you, you are not considered a slave per se. I advise you to take advantage of this evening. Tomorrow and Monday are your last days to settle your common affairs before embarking wholeheartedly into this life. Tonight, you can catch a glimpse of some of the people who are living it.”
“This is really living in style,” Robin commented.
“Well, this is a formal occasion. Certainly not all of our functions are this elaborate. You will discover that our average one- or two-slave owner is only moderately well off by the national standards. Some wealth is necessary to be sure; it is not cheap to purchase and maintain a slave. In addition to the sale price, an owner must provide quality health care and room and board, and in some instances, vocational training or some form of higher education. But we are seeing a new generation of buyers emerging, those for whom their slave is an investment in their occupation, as opposed to a conspicuous way to display their erotic tastes.”
“Tell me about that, please,” Robin prompted.
“It is analogous to a situation in an ancient society utilizing slavery as a method of debt management. A partnership, or perhaps a family, purchases a talented slave to fulfill an aspect of their small business. Today, that might be an accountant or a lawyer perhaps, or a skilled carpenter or electrical engineer. That slave becomes a part of the business, an unlisted asset in a way. They may be registered as an employee or not, depending on the usefulness of that description. But instantly, they become an integral part of these people’s lives, a worker whose energy, commitment and loyalty are without question.” Chris paused.
“But they’re still treated like slaves, aren’t they?”
“As I’ve mentioned, the treatment of property is highly individualized. The situation may vary as much as having a slave become a de facto member of a family, to being a do-it-all whose duties begin hours before their masters rise and end late into the night when everyone else has gone to sleep. It would not be uncommon to have a slave who works in the family business but is also expected to cook, clean, perform child care duties including elementary education, drive the car and run errands, and then entertain the owners sexually as the mood came upon them.”
Robin blew out a heavy breath. “That’s some workload.”
“Yes,” Chris agreed. “But, in fact...” He smiled, the corner of his mouth turning up.” Such a situation used to be fairly common in this country. It was called being a housewife.”
Robin m
ade a face. “That doesn’t make it sound very appetizing.”
Chris shrugged. “Yet it makes eminently more sense to have a class of persons willing to commit themselves body and soul to such work rather than depend upon society to pressure half of the adult population to conform to such an unrealistic cultural expectation. And within the Marketplace, we do maintain the added bonus of requiring that foreign-born slaves hold valid green cards, and that all of the merchandise is protected legally and fiscally within their nation of ownership. In fact,” he smiled again, a little wicked twinkle of amusement, “I’m sure that the IRS is aware that Marketplace nannies and housekeepers are among the best paid and the best provided for in the country.”
“What about other situations? Not every slave ends up being a housewife, right?” Robin didn’t try to hide desperation in her voice.
“No, they don’t. Many are, as I’ve said, purchased for their professional skills. Take, for example, Greta.”
“OK.”
“Greta is a skilled personal physician. She entered the Marketplace shortly after her internship, and bidding was fierce. For her first contract, she was purchased by someone who owns a small tourism and cruising business. She spent two years acting as ship’s doctor on a cruising vessel that services Marketplace members on one out of every three voyages.
“For her second contract, she returned to open bidding and ended up serving for three years as the private physician for a Californian wine merchant and his household.
“Then, upon her request, she spent six months training with Anderson, and was sold to Dr. Kaufmann.” Chris ticked off each sale on his fingers. “Emil is a psychologist, whose practice was split between servicing the Marketplace, which he preferred, to seeing clients from the outside, which he only did to maintain his standard of living. By making a substantial investment in the acquisition of Greta, he added a physician’s skills to his services and now fills a specific niche in the scheme of things.
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