The Slave

by Laura Antoniou

  That would allow for two birthdays, their anniversary, plus Christmas. Which was exactly how many times Robin voluntarily contacted them last year, anyway. The only problem in pretending that nothing had changed was that she’d no longer have the same address, and she would probably not be able to receive calls.

  “Mom, I’m going away for a while, and I won’t be staying in one place. But I’ll keep in touch.”

  “But Robin, can you afford this? Where are you going? Is it safe? Does it have to do with work? Are you all right?”

  Robin buried her head in her arms. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t! The less I say, the more she’ll worry, and the more upset I’ll get. And if I start threading lies together, they’re going to come apart somewhere! A glance at her watch told her that she wasn’t due back at the Upper West Side apartment for another five hours.

  Five hours is an awfully long time to sit with a Rolodex, a table and chair and a phone.

  Robin tossed the phone file into a shopping bag and left the apartment for the last time. She dropped her keys off with the super and went out into the cool afternoon to enjoy what would hopefully be her last day of freedom. And if she thought up something she could tell her mother during the day, well, that would be fine. If not, at least Christmas was still a bit away. The fact that her mother wouldn’t be able to contact her nagged like the real problem it was, but she refused to let it confound her. Some way, she would find a way to handle things. She always had before. She breathed deep in the autumn air, and smelled the approach of winter. Soon, she thought, picking up her pace and barely glancing at the passing world. Soon.

  * * * *

  Robin signed the release forms in four different places and dated her signature. The last of her medical tests had come in, and her professional file was almost complete. The beautiful photographs that Ken had taken of her showed her in profile and full face, clothed and nude. In one, she was kneeling with her back to the camera, looking almost fearfully over her shoulder. She hated it and thought it made her look stupid. Chris Parker tossed it into the folder anyway.

  Her medical records had been condensed to three forms which attested to her emotional and physical health. Her detailed reports would only be given to her owner, after she was purchased. Ken’s notes were in there, and they were warm and positive. But Chris waved a hand over those pages with disdain.

  “They show too much affection,” he told her.

  “Well, isn’t that good?”

  “No. Not all owners are interested in being affectionate toward their slaves. Nor will they fail to see that you were not Marketplace trained when you were with Mandarin. The training will make all the difference.” He piled everything together, and placed several clean sheets of paper on top, with a blank form. “My notes will make all the difference.”

  Robin pressed her lips together in reaction to his casual arrogance. But he was only telling her the truth. Even Ken said so. She composed herself and nodded.

  “This week, we do nothing but refinements. You will move and speak for me, and you will lose every trace of the mannerisms that will tend to lower your price. Tell me what they are.”

  “Sir. I hesitate too long before answering questions or moving to obey an order. My movements are still clumsy―”

  “Be more specific!”

  “When I rise from kneeling, sir. Especially after I’ve been kneeling for a long time. And I am too abrupt in my abbreviated bows, and too theatrical in my formal ones. I rarely anticipate your needs correctly, and I am still too prone to forget myself and daydream from time to time.”

  “And?”

  Isn’t that enough? Robin thought. I sound like a real jerk already. How could I have ever really thought that I could be a perfect slave?

  “Now, girl, now!”

  “Sir, please forgive me, sir. I can’t recall any other specific faults which you have instructed me to correct, sir.”

  Chris stood up and stretched. “That’s correct. You got them all. You may place the pallet at the foot of my bed and sleep there tonight. Coffee at dawn, and we shall begin to make you truly presentable.”

  “Yes, sir,” Robin said, barely restraining a grin. “Thank you, sir.”

  And again, as she rolled over onto her side, wrapped up in a warm blanket and feeling the unyielding floor beneath the thin padding, she almost cried, holding herself and disbelieving the sensations that ran through her. It’s so good, she thought, so good. So right.

  He turned the heat down, so much that her teeth chattered in the early morning, and lectured her long and hard, a multi-tressed, stinging whip in one hand.

  “Discomfort is meaningless. Your comfort comes from?”

  “Service, sir―”

  Slash! The narrow tresses caught her upper arm with a flick that stung like a wasp and made her gasp. Chris’s eyes were flat and angry behind his shaded lenses. “Too automatic, too dull. Believe it, or you’ll sound like an idiot. If you don’t believe it, this is all for nothing, and you might as well join a secretarial pool to get your required doses of humiliating labor. Tell me again.”

  Robin clenched her teeth, tried to ignore the chills running over her arms and belly and the heat where the tips of the whip landed. I am not cold. I am patience. I will wait patiently for the opportunity to serve. I will be warmed by my devotion.

  Somehow, the words that seemed so patently false when said aloud worked again. She drew her breath in and felt the stiffness in her limbs fade into a distant dull annoyance and looked up at Chris again. “Comfort comes in service, sir.”

  “Better, but still awkward.” Another flick of his wrist, and the same spot, only on the other arm, got a touch of fire. “And I want to see more artfulness in your reactions. Don’t be stoic, but don’t be showy.” With maddening calm, he flicked the whip up twice more, now touching each shoulder, and she winced, hissing a sharp breath inward.

  “Too melodramatic. Fetch the cane, I think you need a few stripes to remind you what pain is like.”

  * * * *

  On her knees again, her head cradled in her arms and pressed against the floor, her ass raised, her legs spread wide. Open and exposed, she inched forward to draw herself more correctly in place and waited for Chris’s painful correction. But she didn’t exactly know what she was being corrected for! She had been cleaning up the dinner dishes when suddenly, Chris marched into the kitchen, seized her by the hair and dragged her into the living room, where she was thrown to the floor with a barked command to assume the proper position. She trembled, waiting for the feel of the cane he had been carrying or the strap, which was on the chair. Instead, she felt his fingers trail lightly along the lips of her cunt, brushing the bare skin there with a tenderness she had almost forgotten.

  “Oh God,” she murmured, relief flooding through her and the words slipping from her lips before she could stop them.

  “You would do better to call upon your master than God,” Chris drawled, taking his hand away. When he pulled her up by her hair and pushed a gag into her mouth, she was red with shame and anger at herself. She assumed the position again, and he idly caressed her, opening her and stroking her and teasing her until she writhed and cried like an injured kitten. And then he beat her mercilessly, using his strap, ignoring her muffled screams.

  I hate you, she sobbed to herself, wrapped up again at the foot of his bed. I don’t understand you! I don’t know what you want! Spilling tears onto the pallet, she kept the edge of her blanket wedged tightly in her mouth. If he heard her, he might send her back to her bed in the next room. I am so confused, she thought, staring into the darkness. I don’t want to spend one more day with him, but I can’t stand the idea of not having the fucking honor of sleeping like a dog on the floor next to him.

  I’m not going to break, she swore. I worked damn hard to get this far. I am not going to fuck this up, no matter what he does!

  The constant burn and ache of the beatings, plus her own anxiety and confusion, kept her awake most o
f the night. In the morning, when Chris examined her, noting the reddened eyes and the dark circles beneath them, he slapped her, hard, and she touched her mouth in amazement. His occasional cuffs and light slaps had almost become expected and tolerable. But her mouth was filled with the copper taste of her own blood and she could feel the pounding in her lip already.

  “You may not indulge in any behavior that makes you unavailable to me,” he snapped. “Your self-pity has exhausted you, and made you unattractive. Perhaps you need a reminder that your body is not yours to abuse. No hot water for you, today or tomorrow.”

  Robin blinked in semi-comprehension, fighting not to burst into even more tears.

  “Yes,” Chris said, his lips parting in an insincere smile, “that includes the water for your internal cleansings. I will have my coffee after you have finished grooming yourself. And don’t bother to make more than two cups. No hot water means no hot water, period.”

  Later, Robin began to wonder if she would ever feel warm again. The chill of her shower and the biting cold sensation of douching herself with cold water was terrible. Feeling the heat on the sides of a coffee cup, the slight steam coming from hot food, all sent her into shivers and made little bumps rise all over her body. When she stuttered out an improper phrase, Chris beat her again, and the pain and heat from her assaulted buttocks made the chill in the rest of her body even more terrible.

  Late that evening she spent twenty minutes eagerly, entreatingly washing his boots with the flat of her tongue with her wrists held behind her back, her body arched correctly, until he relented and tossed her blanket back onto the pallet.

  And then he opened the window, just a crack, and turned out the light. As she heard him toss his robe aside and climb between the soft cotton sheets and under the thick comforter, she felt the slight wavering touch of cold cross the room to where she was curled up.

  “Sir, I may get sick,” she whispered the next morning, stiff, sore, and still cold. Her legs were still shaking after the morning cleaning ritual, and she hated the way her hair felt when all she had to rinse the shampoo out with was cold water. “Please, sir, I beg you to reconsider my punishment.”

  “More formal,” Chris snapped.

  “Sir, this slave begs for mercy, sir. This slave fears that illness may... make this slave less able to serve.” It was so hard to speak that way! Already, alternatives were occurring to her, and she struggled to ignore them as she listened to his response.

  “People don’t fall ill because they are cold,” Chris said, his voice neutral. “It is true that it weakens your natural ability to fight off various illnesses, but I am not overly concerned about that.”

  She couldn’t see his face because she had assumed a posture that was appropriate for such an impertinent request, kneeling in abject submission, her head down, her body curled into a posture that would be perfect for a footstool. Indeed, Chris had placed his booted foot on her bowed back several times this week, all in order to press a particular point home. Now, he nudged her, touching her arm with one swing of his foot. She raised her head a little.

  “So, is your concern regarding your health, or your comfort?” he asked.

  “It truly concerns my health, sir.”

  “I will consider it.” And he nudged her away to tend to her morning duties. Then, he returned to her training as though nothing had occurred, asking her questions and drilling her endlessly in movements and gestures.

  In the early afternoon, he told her to close the window in the bedroom and turn the heat up. “You will still be slightly uncomfortable, I think,” he told her when she returned to his side. “But now you will always remember that punishments may be difficult and unpleasant without leaving you with a single comforting thought or sensation. You may scream at a beating or moan at restrictions, but your body will throb with pleasure as you recover. However, your owners may choose to deny you even that much comfort, by utilizing methods of control and discipline that afford you no luxury of fetish. Your acceptance of that is vital to your ability to be a good slave.”

  And that evening, when Leon brought over a steaming pot of vegetable soup, Chris startled Robin by placing a bowl on the floor next to her, where she sat chewing on a piece of the crusty brown bread that had accompanied the dinner. When he didn’t also give her a spoon, she nodded, just a little bending of her chin, and said, softly, “Thank you, sir,” before lowering her head to lap from the bowl.

  “Good girl,” he said, letting one hand drop down to pat her head.

  I don’t believe I’m doing this, Robin thought, embarrassment and pleasure welling up together. And I don’t believe that I love him again.

  * * * *

  On Thursday night, Chris examined her again, carefully, and pronounced her fit for display.

  “I shall not cane you again,” he added, tracing the faint lines of her previous canings. “Although I think the marks are an enhancement, there are those who prefer the all-over rosiness of a paddle or a hand or a strap to the lines and bruises that canes and cutting instruments may leave. I wouldn’t want that to prejudice a buyer against you.”

  “Thank you for your thoughtfulness, sir,” Robin answered, a touch of color coming to her face. For all of his cruelty, each hour of each day, Chris never failed to remind her that she was scheduled for the sale on Saturday night. He no longer spoke of “if,“ only “when.”

  “You mean, ‘thank God he’s not going to use that blasted thing on me again,’” Chris shot back. “But that’s all right. I will be making a note of your reaction to it in my report. Your new master or mistress will, no doubt, find it to be valuable information.”

  He continued to stroke her ass cheeks, and pushed her forward a little more. “Although I personally dislike shaved pubics on women, we shall leave them bare, as the look seems to suit you. When you are aroused, your labia spread in a delightful fashion, and are very pretty―a clear asset. Also, the shaven look does seem to remain in fashion.” He sighed and stroked her there, pulling gently on her labia to bring them open and engorged, as though to illustrate his statement.

  Robin moaned and gently allowed a little of her weight to fill his hand, as he had taught her. She would not be so bold as to actually push back, but she would allow herself to be opened more, to be touched and probed at the slightest hint of interest.

  “Very good,” he said, sliding two fingers into her. “You would like to be fucked again.”

  “Sir, if that would please you, yes, sir.” The phrase came out with ease, and her reward was a tapping on the hood of her clitoris, a sliding of a wet finger to press over that sensitive and hungry spot until she whimpered with pleasure.

  “It would please me to see you fucking yourself,” Chris said, sliding his fingers in and out of her, pressing forward and up with every stroke. “When I let you go, you will go to your room and bring back the largest dildo you can comfortably take. Without using your hands, you will cover it with a condom, and then position it on the floor and mount it, for my amusement. And if you please me sufficiently, I will allow you to guide it with your hands until such a sight fails to interest me.” He drew his fingers from her and stepped away. “Go.”

  And despite her acute embarrassment and the difficulty of the task, she managed to amuse him for quite a long time before he allowed her to stop her self-inflicted torment and crawl off to bed. Without orgasm, of course.

  “You will be so sensitive that the slightest gaze will make you wet,” he promised, before turning out the light. “Any touch will make your entire body reverberate with need. It will be very attractive. It should more than make up for your lack of exceptional beauty.”

  Robin couldn’t deny the truth of his words; after all, he was the expert. But the aching between her legs and the constant ache in the pit of her stomach were bound together in her anxiety over the sale and her anxiety over what she could only see as his rejection. I may not be a model out of the pages of a fashion magazine, she sulked, but I’m nice-lookin
g. I guess. But maybe not nice enough for him to turn on to me.

  I want him to fuck me. Like I’ve never wanted it before, more than Troy, more than anyone. I want him to wrap me in his arms and just throw his body against me, make it hurt, just take me, goddammit, until I scream. Why doesn’t he? Is it part of the training? Why let others do it, but not try me himself?

  Doesn’t he want to?

  Shouldn’t he? So that he can say something about it in his report?

  And aren’t I trying to make up any reason for him to just roll me over and fuck me blind?

  Luckily, the blanket corner was still available to muffle the little whimpers of hurt and confusion and worry that came before sleep finally took her.

  * * * *

  Robin read the pages that Chris had left for her several times while she waited for him to return. After a rushed cup of coffee, he had left the apartment, with no instructions other than to consider what the pages meant.

  They were essays of a sort. From the language, she guessed that he had written them. They were about dominance and submission, slaves and owners, and the rewards and limitations of those roles and that kind of life. They were abstract, speaking generally as opposed to specifically, but they were filled with personal observations that were almost poetic in their clarity.

  Chris had been a slave once, Robin was now sure of it. It was so... classic. He had completed the great journey, gone from apprentice to mastery. That was where he learned all of the things he knew, that was how he so easily slipped into a service attitude from time to time. Flashes came to her, the sweep of his arm as he poured a drink for Dr. Emil, the quiet and firm acceptance of a responsibility thrust onto him, the way he held his body when offering a robe or a coat.