Except that Eric sort of stopped making use of her. Oh, on nights when he and Jimmy put on one of their production number orgies, she was always included somewhere, but he never called upon her for his own use or to perform with one of the other slaves for his titillation.
Robin liked to think that it was guilt, and then wished that there was a way to rid herself of such thoughts. They tainted her awareness of her obedience and dedication. If I can feel resentment, or happiness because I think my master feels bad, I’m not a good slave, she would remind herself. And I so want to be a good slave.
* * * *
“What’s on your mind, sugar?” Monica asked, lying back in the lounge chair. It was the week after a major series of political meetings in Washington, and she had come out by herself for some quiet time. Eric was out on another shoot, this one in Greece, and Raul was with him―something new. Carl was running the house, and Robin was Monica’s personal servant, which suited them both just fine. Muscledog was busy doing the garden work, wearing nothing but a jock strap and a broad weightlifter’s belt.
“Pleasing you, ma’am,” was Robin’s automatic answer. She smiled. Some of their conversations started out like this and ended up encompassing hours of late-night murmurs and secrets shared. But it was a sunny day and the water was sparkling, and it just didn’t seem the time to talk about the stories that filled the night.
“That’s nice. What would please me would be your telling me exactly what you were thinking of when you stared across the pool for so long.”
Robin smiled. “I was thinking of the coming autumn, ma’am.”
“Hm. I bet it’s real nice out here in LaLaLand. It’s fun back on the right coast, too. Congress comes back, the Court comes back, the lobbyists come back, and everyone with money comes back. Lemmings, crawling back up the cliff, forgetting why they were so quick to get away.”
Robin laughed appreciably.
“You been in the Marketplace long?” Monica’s question was startling. People rarely, if ever, asked questions like that of owned slaves. If you wanted to know, you asked the owner. But Robin was getting used to Monica getting what she wanted in unconventional ways.
“For almost two years, ma’am. This autumn.”
“Ah. So now we are at the root of the matter. Anniversary time. Contract time?”
“One of my masters would have to be consulted about that, ma’am.” That was the general, all-purpose answer which meant, “Hell, I can’t tell you that!”
“Ah-hah. Another one right on the nose.” Monica smiled and trailed a finger through the droplets of moisture on the outside of her iced tea glass. “Going to sign on for another hitch?”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” Robin lowered her eyes. “I can’t answer that question.”
“Hm. OK. Who trained you? I know Eric said you were a virgin on the block.”
“Chris Parker.”
“No kidding? I haven’t seen that character in years. Quite a trainer, I hear.” Monica eased her legs out and wiggled her toes as Robin nodded in agreement. “Quite a little butterball, too, if I remember. Cute, kind of.”
“Maybe you’re thinking of someone else, ma’am?” Robin frowned. “The Chris Parker who trained me wasn’t tall, but he wasn’t, um... He was actually quite built up.”
“Really?” Monica pushed her sunglasses back and fixed her dark eyes on Robin. “Well, I guess he could have dropped some excess weight, or built it up in a few years. But just to make sure we are talking about the same fellow―short, light voice, a little scratchy, black hair, kind of thick-waisted, glasses? White, with an upper class affectation in vocabulary? Hangs around with Elliot and Selador?”
“That would be him,” Robin admitted. “He has a mustache and a beard now, but Ken Mandarin said that the mustache was new... two years ago.”
“Well, I guess so.” Monica grinned. “So? How was training for you? Discover any deep dark secrets about him? He’s quite a topic of gossip, you know. Very up-and-coming as far as trainers go. Want to share some insights with me?”
“Ma’am, I really don’t... I mean, I don’t think that would be appropriate, and I’m very sorry―”
“OK, OK, I’ll stop pushing.” The older woman patted Robin on the head and sighed. “Ethics. Sometimes it seems like all the ethics have left politics and entered slavery. Did you ever consider the philosophical and sociological ramifications of that? That slaves might someday be the most honorable class in a society and leaders the least?”
Robin giggled, grateful for Monica’s quick capitulation on the gossipy questions.
“Why don’t you go inside and get me something really cold, like ice cream or something? I’m feeling a wave of sweet tooth coming on.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
But when Robin came back, very little of the ice cream ended up in Monica’s mouth. Most of it ended up melting all over Robin’s body, and then Muscledog’s, and Monica watched and laughed and encouraged as they licked the sticky stuff off of each other. She drizzled trails of strawberry across Muscledog’s broad chest, and down to his shaven crotch, and dropped a heavy dollop of the stuff over his cock and balls. And when Robin finished smearing it all over her face while trying to lick it up, she ended up on her back for the same treatment while Muscledog licked his way across her body.
It was cold and it tickled, and it turned sticky in the sun, but the feeling of being eagerly licked all over while she stretched and pushed her hips out was just delightful. And even though she gasped and giggled when a scoop landed right on her crotch, she quickly began to sigh as Muscledog’s talented tongue worked its way through the creamy mass to find a different kind of cream below.
And when Monica ordered Muscledog to bring Robin off that way and he good-naturedly applied himself to the task, Robin found herself staring up into Monica’s face when she came, her eyes open even as her face was screwing up in the waves of pleasure that ran through her body.
It was a moment of near perfection. Later, while she showered and cleaned off the residue of the scene she sighed and fingered herself under the stinging showerhead.
It would be so nice to belong to a woman. But she had no control over that. If she wanted to stay with Chris, he would not allow such a restriction in her contract. She could hear him saying, “You’re looking for an owner, not a lover!”
No, despite the drawbacks, she had something real good right here. She had owners who didn’t really abuse their slaves, fellow slaves that she got along with, and an interesting and varied life.
And according to what she’d heard and seen, she lived comfortably, having plenty of time to rest, a bed to sleep in, and a generally undemanding household rhythm. It could be much, much worse.
This is as good as it gets, she realized, suddenly losing all interest in jerking off. This is what I’ve wanted my whole life, to be a real slave, property of a master who could use me as stakes for a poker game if he wanted to. Living a life under someone’s complete authority. Giving myself utterly to them.
This really is the best I can hope for, she thought, stepping out and beginning to mechanically dry herself off. How can I even think of taking such a chance with my life, and messing this up? I could end up anywhere. I’ll just have to figure out a way to deal with these wrong feelings and get ready to sign up again in the fall. Chris will approve.
That night, in Monica’s bed, she worked even harder to please the woman, and was rewarded with an invitation to spend the night in the room again. Yes, Robin thought as she relaxed and got into a comfortable position. This is certainly where I should be.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chris did the contract negotiation with Eric after Robin called him and told him that she would be pleased to stay if her masters wanted to keep her on. But when Chris asked her if he should add more time to the contract, Robin paused and couldn’t get the word “yes” to come out of her mouth. Chris went on to the next question without missing a beat, and when she saw her new contract
on the first day after the old contract expired, she saw that it was for another two years. She also noticed that there was an additional clause that identified ANDERSON as a person to be notified for any disputes or renegotiations if PARKER was unavailable.
Well, he said he’d leave her in good hands. She saw Eric and Jimmy glance at each other when they came across that name, but they signed all the same.
Maybe, she thought, they were thinking that they could send me for more training. The idea appealed to her. What would it be like to train under someone who Chris obviously respected so much? I wonder what she is like. I wonder if they are training people together. Wouldn’t that be great? But the topic was not raised with her.
She had up to three weeks “off” if she chose. She decided to take two, and went down into Los Angeles to experience the city by herself. The only times she had been there were for various sales and viewings. Now, with fourteen days all to herself, she played tourist, going to Hollywood and making the rounds of the best attractions. In between, she called people in New York, extended the storage contract for her things and spent lazy mornings reading colorful magazines in a soft, wide hotel bed while eating whatever she damn well pleased.
She spent a lot of money on gifts for her family and shipped them with friendly notes that spoke of the wonderful life she now had in California. Remembering that cousin David’s wife had been delivered of twins (or so her mother’s last birthday card had informed her), she bought a box full of Disney-themed toys and hats and little T-shirts and sent that off, too. It made her feel good. And it seemed ironic that cousin David would probably never know how clearly she remembered the games she played with him when she was a child, and what her life was like now. She wondered what kinds of games his kids would play.
She played news junkie, reading newspapers and magazines and watching some television. It was amazing how many things could happen without other people talking about them. Reflecting back on her two years, she realized that she probably wouldn’t have realized that there had been an important election this past year if it hadn’t been for guests like Monica, who chatted about current events. Eric and Jimmy never watched commercial TV, and Jimmy got all of his economic news through various computer services. It was like living on an island, cut off from mainstream life.
In the classified ads of one local newspaper, she found a listing for a meeting of some kind of leather society. It described an “SM Support Group” that met every week. She had been tempted to go; wouldn’t it be funny? But then she remembered her disappointment when she had gone back with Ken. If it had seemed so small and sad to her when her only other experience had been Ken and her household, what would it appear like now? And there was also a persistent nudge of old loyalty. She would not put herself in a position in which to ridicule that time which, for all its pain and occasional emptiness, was the best she could have hoped for.
I’ve changed so much since then, she marveled. Look at how much I’ve learned. Think of how much has happened. I am living the life. In a way, that started the end of her vacation. By her thirteenth day of freedom, she was more than ready to get back to the quiet house in the hills.
* * * *
Another autumn. More cycles, artwork here, a statue there, a glorious illuminated depiction of the “crimme af sodomie,” probably designed as an early version of a gay men’s sex magazine. Eric went into raptures, bought the special airtight frame that she suggested and displayed it under subdued light.
It seemed to settle his discomfort with her once and for all.
Monica started to drop by regularly, sometimes with April but mostly alone. She had established some very important allies in LA and in San Francisco, and was becoming quite the jet-setting businesswoman, her political acumen no longer a well kept secret. She started to joke that now she really believed that “the boys” had purchased Robin for her pleasure. It seemed that whenever she arrived, Robin appeared at her side and didn’t leave it until ordered to.
And Monica never ordered her to leave.
Life was good. Usually. But in those moments when she wasn’t working, and especially in those moments when the masters were using one or any combinations of the boys but had not requested her, Robin felt those old doubts returning. Have I settled again? she asked herself one day, lifting Maria’s old collar into her hands and caressing the leather. Have I become used to something, convincing myself that it’s as good as I’m going to get?
The speed in which these thoughts returned after what seemed like such a strong resolution to banish them depressed her more than she liked to admit.
* * * *
“Oh, this is beautiful,” Robin said, drawing the coiled whip out of Monica’s bag.
“Yes, isn’t it? Signal whip. As in, ‘On you huskies, mush!’ and all that jazz.”
“It makes noise?”
“Like a gunshot.” Monica crossed the room, silver chains jangling around one western boot ankle. She took the whip from Robin’s hands, let it uncurl, and then made a strange motion that Robin wouldn’t have associated with such a whip: she seemed to throw it, like a ball.
It did indeed make a loud crack that resounded in the room. Robin jumped. “Impressive, isn’t it? It wants to be hung up.” She passed it back, and Robin dutifully hung it on one of the hooks inside the closet door.
“You never used anything like that on me, ma’am,” Robin casually remarked, continuing the unpacking.
“No. For one, you’ve never made me angry enough to want to genuinely punish you. For two, I don’t think you could take it in a way that would amuse me or get me hot. It’s a mean mother of a whip. I tend to use it mostly on boys. They’ve got the back and shoulder development that’s best suited for the trauma, I think.”
You’d be surprised at what I can take, Robin thought. But she didn’t give voice to that impertinent comment and concentrated instead on putting Monica’s things away. “I’m glad I’ve never gotten you that angry,” she finally offered.
Monica laughed in response and stretched. “I think I’ll go cook in the Jacuzzi for a while, sugar. When you’re finished, come down and give me a nice massage, will you?”
“It will be my pleasure, ma’am!”
“You know, sugar, from you, I almost believe that.”
Oh, but it is a pleasure, Robin thought as Monica left the room. To be able to touch all of your body, to rub oil into your skin and make you moan and sigh. It’s better than having sex, because then you’re still paying attention to me. But when I touch you and press into you, you just melt away and let it happen and for minutes at a time...
For minutes at a time―you belong to me.
Blasphemous. Shocking!
But true.
It didn’t matter, though. Later on, Monica would take herself back and make sure that Robin would feel nothing but the sensation of being owned and used. Things would be in balance again. The pallet was already at the foot of the bed, the restraints ready at hand and Monica’s favorite paddle on the bedstand.
Another weekend in paradise.
But that night, Monica got a phone call that sent her running to find Jimmy. The two of them went into his office, and the sounds of work started to emerge. Robin looked over to Carl, but he could only shrug in confusion. Eric was home, but he only dropped into the office from time to time, seeming to check on the proceedings but leaving the situation in Jimmy’s hands.
Carl served coffee and sandwiches, but had nothing new to report when he got back.
And in the hours after midnight, when Monica emerged, all she did was call up an order to pack her overnight bag and get the car ready. As Robin repacked all the things she had happily unpacked that morning, she kissed the perfect weekend good-bye. When she took the bag downstairs and gave it to Muscledog to take out to the car, Monica was standing by the kitchen doors, hastily drinking a cup of coffee and checking her watch.
“I... I hope everything is all right, ma’am,” Robin offered.
&nbs
p; Monica turned, and smiled. “It sure is, sugar. Here.” She passed the cup into Robin’s hands and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “You go take care of that. I’ll be back soon. Be good!”
And with a whirl and a jangling sound, she was out of there, running to the car. Robin stood with the cup in her hands until Raul coughed a warning. Then, with a start, she went into the kitchen to dispose of it.
When she came out, Jimmy and Eric were on the upstairs landing, conferring. She waited politely until Eric went back to the master bedroom and Jimmy ducked back into his downstairs office to go to her own room to sleep. Carl was waiting on Jimmy, Muscledog was driving to the airport, and Raul probably had gone off to be with Eric.
It was the first time she could recall going to sleep alone. But since she couldn’t even begin to imagine what the crisis or excitement was all about, she only mourned the lack of Monica’s company and went to sleep.
* * * *
The following morning, Eric and Jimmy did something that they almost never did.
They turned the TV on.
And then, after an hour of watching the news, they turned it off and went back to business as usual. Carl shrugged, his face a mask of confusion. They had been watching the clock all morning, and nothing had been said about the commotion the night before. Muscledog mentioned to Robin that in the entire drive to the airport, Monica hadn’t said one word, only listened to the radio and looked out the window.
It took three more mornings before the expected incident happened.
At ten o’clock that morning, a regular news broadcast was interrupted with a “just breaking” story about a scandal concerning two or more senators and a consortium of banks and investment agencies in the southwest. Robin glanced at Jimmy. His eyes were narrow with concentration, but his lips were compressed into a smile. She was firmly pushed back toward the stairs by Raul, whose patience seemed totally unrealistic now; didn’t he want to know what was happening? But she obeyed, slowly, taking her time to mount the stairs. To her surprise, she had barely reached the landing when Jimmy’s voice reached her―in fact, resounding throughout the ground floor.
The Slave Page 33