The Slave

by Laura Antoniou

  “Winter sales are difficult,” Ken was musing. “Unless we go to Hong Kong, or perhaps to Spain. What languages do you speak?”

  “Just English and Italian.”

  “How do you Americans get away with your colossal ignorance?”

  Robin ignored the lure. It was one of Ken’s favorite ranting topics. It would hardly help her now.

  “Italy, Italy, who is in Italy? You are not tall enough for them―and you aren’t exotic enough. The Italians love models, anything that doesn’t look like the child their parents wanted them to marry. No, Italy is wrong for you.” Ken walked back and forth, weaving her fingers together and then tearing them apart. “I know of some other trainers, but at this time of year, they are all busy polishing up their best clients. The Marketplace has its seasons like any other business. And the autumn through winter is the best. You are in trouble, little one. I think your best option is to wait until these people return, enter their training, and be prepared for the sales after the New Year. It is unfortunate, because there is a large volume of sales just before Christmas. But without good formal training, you will never fetch a price that will ensure a good home.”

  “If you say so, Ken.”

  “I do! So there is nothing more to be done, and we shall have that much extra time together. In fact, this is perfect, because we have time to assemble your Marketplace file, and make you presentable. And we shall make some more calls, to see if there are any other trainers who might be free, just in case.”

  “My file?”

  “To be presented for sale, you must have a file with your identity papers, some photos, and a history of your time in service. I shall have a photographer come, and we shall hire an excellent writer to describe your positive attributes. And then I shall write my own description of you, which will be most excellent, because you will be even more pleasing to me from now on, hoping that I will be generous and kind in my writings.”

  Robin had to smile at the look of pleasure that crossed Ken’s face. And to tell the truth, there was something comforting in the thought that she wouldn’t have to think about it for another couple of months. And as a few days passed, and Ken asked her personal friends and some business contacts about where a good local trainer could be found, they were steered back to the people who were out of town, or to others who were either too busy or not acceptable by Ken’s standards.

  But Robin submitted to the photographs and the making of the file, and enjoyed numerous fantasies about people looking through it, trying to decide whether she would be a proper investment. Sometime next year.

  * * * *

  Two weeks later, Ken invited Robin to accompany her on a weekend of slumming. Ken knew about all the events and places where people who were interested in SM frequented. She often cruised them for playmates, and took great pleasure in attending their functions and pretending to be what she called “merely kinky.”

  Robin didn’t quite know what to do when she accompanied Ken on these outings. Sometimes, she laughed at Ken’s wicked observations and enjoyed the thrill of knowing about an entire world that lay within the reach of these people but always out of sight. But at the same time, there was a pathetic element to it all. This was the world that had sheltered her, provided her with her two important lovers. To see it through Ken’s eyes was like looking at your childhood and realizing that your parents weren’t really all-knowing and loving, that you really didn’t have a comfortable home. Ken considered the entire SM underculture to be nothing more than a huge joke. One evening, she described a Platonic view of it.

  “It is as though these people were really dwelling in that cave,” she said, pausing to make sure that Robin understood. “They cannot see the flames behind them, and they cannot see the other people around them. They are focused upon the shadows of reality, bound in one place by hoods and blinders and chains that they never realize can be removed. So they create a reality that is based upon a wavering, insubstantial, two-dimensional vision.

  “Naturally, this cannot be satisfying, so they create ways of granting themselves another dimension. They make governments, and declare each other leaders and politicians. They form circles of supporters and pronounce that they are outlaws, struggling against an oppressive society. It is great fun to watch them at their work; they are most industrious. But they rarely take the blinders down and bend to look behind them.”

  “That’s not fair,” Robin protested. “When it’s all you have, you have to make the best of it. You don’t know what it’s like thinking that you’re the only twisted pervert in the world! When I needed them, that community was there, and they welcomed me. Just because you’ve had access to something better all your life doesn’t mean that people like me shouldn’t try to get what we can out of what’s available.”

  “Ah, but it is not a matter of better, my pet. You are comparing the apple with the orange. I do not scorn that little world because what they have is inferior, any more then I scorn a man who works for his money. I find them amusing because in their need to assure themselves that they are acceptable, they find many ways to deny that I exist, or that my slaves do. They make it all into a game that lovers play, with their terrible black costumes and clubs and slogans. Look! Here is a three day conference, where they shall undertake to teach me―let us see.... ‘Humiliation vs. Degradation’... and ‘The Basics of Watersports.’ Ken rolled her eyes. “Taught, I am sure,” she added, “by those for whom humiliation and urine drinking are the most desired of activities. But only the correct humiliation. Certainly, it would be unacceptable to call this one ugly, or that one a worm; they must have the appropriate oaths and curses shouted at them, and only by the most appropriate of partners! Only urine from a person of the proper physical attributes, and in such a context, with such and so amount of the urine, and only if asparagus was not eaten at the last meal.” She laughed and tossed the brochure over to Robin, who caught it and sighed.

  “We shall go to that one, I think,” Ken had said, a twinkle in her eye. “And perhaps we shall attempt to match their recommendations, and see if that pleases you.”

  And so they had, and Robin was reminded why she had strayed away from the SM community so many times. She found herself looking into people’s eyes and trying to spot the dedication, perhaps the obsession, which she knew was reflected in her own. She also tried to listen to some of the presenters with the same openness and gratitude that she had felt when she first encountered them, and found herself being embarrassed for them. With a few forgettable and insignificant exceptions, they were all well-intentioned. But next to Ken and her slaves and her friends, they seemed... lacking.

  “It’s like going back to your old junior high school,” she said when Ken finally took her back to their hotel suite. Ken was busy marking off other seminars they could go to for her amusement. “It all looks so―small.”

  “Never mind them, little one. In a few months, they will be nothing to you. Look! Here is a class called ‘SM and Legal Issues.’ Let’s go to that one and ask about slave contracts, shall we?”

  And although she still felt some slight resentment at some of Ken’s broader and more insulting characterizations, she knew that she could never go back. Not when she knew that there was something so much more suited to her needs just beyond the next ridge.

  But when Ken invited her to go out and wander through the leather bars where the gay men went, Robin agreed. There was always something romantic about the leathermen, in their tight jeans and heavy black chaps. They always seemed like knights to Robin, in their colors and their armor and their easy camaraderie. If Ken wanted to go see a few of them strut their stuff on a stage and mill around in tightly packed bars, it was no great hardship to accompany her.

  * * * *

  It turned out to be a great night, cool enough for the heavier costumes, warm enough for bare chests under leather jackets. In her own chaps and leather shirt and cap, Ken looked simply too hot to handle, and many of the men appreciated her androgyny wit
h cheer and approval. Robin wore black jeans, her boots, and her motorcycle jacket and faded in neatly next to her more flamboyant companion. Together, they blended into the mixed crowds, buying raffle tickets and admiring the flesh, walking from bar to bar and then to a packed dance club where men stripped down on stage and performed fantasies for the delight of the crowd and the approval of various judges. But Ken didn’t bother to stay for the resolution. Taking Robin by the hand, she dragged her out and back to one of the bars.

  “But why? Don’t you want to know who won?”

  “The winner will come to the bar to be admired,” Ken replied. “I have no patience to wait while they thank all of their penurious sponsors and stall for time. We shall obtain a good spot for witnessing his triumphant entrance and perhaps get the pool table for a game.” Ken grinned wickedly. She was a great pool hustler.

  But when they got there, there was someone playing, and upon seeing him, Ken froze and then grinned again. “Ma chérie, I think you have just been saved,” she said confidently.

  “Why?” Robin looked around, taking in the entire bar in one sweep. There were about twenty men posed around the bar, another five or six hunched over tables, idly talking over the sound of the music and the television screen, which showed highlights of last year’s contest. Several men were gathered in the back, grouped in twos and threes, and two men were stalking the pool table, waiting for the loser of the current game to get out of the way.

  “See that man there? The one who is no doubt winning? He is your salvation. Go and purchase a shot of whatever single malt scotch these heathens have on hand and then come to stand with me. Do not speak. You must be on your very best behavior. You must be most serious. Go!”

  While Ken sauntered casually toward the pool table, Robin went to the bar and did as she was told. And from her place slightly behind Ken’s shoulder, she got a better look at the man Ken had pointed out.

  He was short, and young. He was dressed like almost everyone else, in the usual uniform of jeans and boots and chaps and vest, but his looked well worn and perfectly tailored to draw his slightly bulky torso in and make his legs seem longer. When he bent and cradled the pool cue, Robin could just see the shifting of flesh on his upper arms that suggested muscles. He had kind of a cute ass, just a little rounded and tight against the edges of the chaps. He moved slowly, with conservative steps and motions, kept his attentions strictly on the table. There was a dark shadow across his cheeks and chin, that artful shading of facial hair that suggested carelessness. Robin’s first thought was that all she needed to do it was dress him in fatigues and put a gun in one hand and he would look like a hijacker.

  Within minutes of their arrival, he did indeed win the game and collected a strong and somewhat more lengthy than usual handshake from the loser. But as someone else stepped up to rack the balls, Ken made a motion, and the man looked up at her. There was a brief moment, and then he turned and spoke softly to the challenger. The man nodded agreeably and beckoned to another player and the short man came over to Ken and nodded.

  “Mandarin. Slumming again?” His voice was as careful as his movements, a mellow tenor. His eyes were partly hidden behind the slightly shaded lenses of steel-rimmed glasses, but Robin knew that he had already glanced at her several times. She also realized that he was older than she had originally thought, but it was more a sense than an observation of his face. He was probably the kind of person who looked anywhere from five to twenty years away from his true age, depending on what you wanted to see.

  “Home was dull. And you never know what you can find out here: look, I have found you! And such a new you! I like your mustache. And you look so healthy! Your wastrel’s life must be paying as well as your pool hustling. Allow me to buy you a drink, in way of apology for losing the table.”

  Robin knew a cue when she heard one. Gingerly, she extended the shot of whisky, which the man picked out of her hand without comment or acknowledgment.

  “I accept. You’re looking exceptionally well yourself, Mandarin,” he said. “But I am forced to disagree with your assessment of what’s to be found out here. We both know exactly what’s available. Nothing much.”

  Ken abruptly dropped the small talk. Outside the bar, they could hear sounds that suggested the contest had ended. Men who didn’t wait for the crowning ceremonies were hurrying back to get their drinks ordered. “I thought you were in Europe.”

  “I decided not to go.”

  “That may be fortunate for my friend here, and for you.”

  “I am on vacation.”

  “Nonsense. With what you can earn from her sale, you can purchase another vacation. Surely, you do not intend to spend the next several weeks cheating these boys out of their money?”

  The man grinned, flashing teeth in the dim light. “They always get the money back one way or another.”

  “Yes, you no doubt beat it back into them dollar by dollar. Consider a more civilized way to pick up some minor change, if you will.”

  Finally, the man turned to look at Robin. He beckoned her from behind Ken, and examined her without touching her. With one finger, he made a gentle gesture, and she turned, so he could see all of her.

  “She’s very common.”

  Robin turned dark red with embarrassment. She was grateful for the dim lighting in the bar, and for the rising noise of the entering crowd, which had probably drowned out this man’s casual comment about her.

  “If you’re only handling models now, you should change your advertising, white boy. What do you want, quality of form or quality of spirit? She was born to the life.”

  “I will interview her tomorrow night,” he said abruptly. “Five weeks, you get spot only.”

  “She is to be ready for the next sale. Spot plus five percent.”

  “In two weeks? No spot, and I’ll prorate my standard fee.”

  “Bastard.”

  He smiled again.

  “Your fee against twenty percent, I get spot. If your fee isn’t covered, you can take my spot and I’ll pay the balance. If there is any.”

  “My full fee then?”

  Ken glanced at Robin, and Robin froze. She hadn’t understood a single thing they were talking about.

  Ken muttered another Chinese curse. “Fine, and fuck you! You’re lucky I like her so much.”

  “I’m lucky that you don’t need the money, so you might as well give it to me. You’re not in the business, Mandarin, you just like pulling short hairs.” He drank the scotch down quickly, and Robin was barely there in time to catch the glass as he let go of it. “OK, you’ve got me for a miracle. Let’s hope your latest find is worth it.”

  “You’ll be pleasantly surprised,” Ken promised. “And you’ll call me after the sale and beg my forgiveness for being such a grasping prick.”

  “Seven o’clock then?” The man pulled a business card out of one shirt pocket and wrote something on it. He passed it to Ken when she nodded. “I’ll be in touch if she’s acceptable.”

  Ken took the card and nodded again, and the man turned away from them, to watch the new game of pool.

  “Come, my pet,” Ken said, leading Robin back through the new crowd of leathermen, pressed together in a morass of polish, oil and sweat. At the door, they were able to see the new winner, a broad sash crossing his chest and a bouquet of leather roses over one arm.

  In the cab, Ken grinned and placed the business card in Robin’s hand with a flourish. “You have it made, little slave. He will get you to your paradise. We will have a celebration lunch tomorrow and invite some of my friends, because the next time you see them, you shall be chattel. What joss, hey? You’ve got some luck. And it won’t cost me a dime, no matter what he says.”

  Robin looked down, and then held the card up so that she could read the plain black printing against the pulsating flashes of streetlamps they passed. On one side, it named a hotel and a room number. On the other, it said:

  Chris Parker, Trainer

  Chapter Fourteen


  Her apartment was nearly empty now. With the last of her belongings packed off to the storage facility, and the last volunteers carrying away the few pieces of furniture that were left, she was alone with her walls, her empty closets, a table and two chairs, and her bed.

  Sitting on the table, by her phone, was the Rolodex, still flipped open to the same card. A legal pad sat next to it, with a long list that had most of the entries crossed off.

  So easy to do away with a life, Robin marveled, taking another tour of the place. It wasn’t that long ago when I moved in. Now everything I have is gone, or packed away. And it barely took two full days.

  Have I been waiting for this all my life, that I never placed that much importance on lasting tangible assets? I never even considered buying into a co-op. I never thought of owning a car. I kept my wardrobe to a minimum, borrowed more books than I bought, and never collected anything.

  It had been so odd, sleeping in her wide, soft bed again, and waking up when she wanted to. Throwing on jeans and a sweater to go down to a bakery for croissant and coffee, and then getting a newspaper. Watching television. Hell, it was odd hearing people talk about newsworthy events that had happened in the past couple of days.

  I’ve been living on another planet, she thought, touching the Rolodex. And now I want to emigrate.

  So what do I tell Mom?

  Chris had explained to her what the general policy was for Marketplace slaves. If the slave did not choose to cut all contact off with their family, they were permitted a certain amount of contacts per year. Although some slaves insisted on constant communication, most were content with limited interaction with any member of the outside world. Chris’s preferred contract allowed for four.