The Slave

by Laura Antoniou

  Repeatedly, Robin searched herself, her mind and soul, for jealousy. She found none. Her throat bore a collar. A contract guaranteed her place. She knew that no matter how many other women Monica enjoyed, whether for a night or as part of a long-term fuck buddy circle, Robin was the one who cooked for her, who kept her life together, who could be counted on to be calm, cheerful, and quietly accepting. Robin belonged to her in a way no one else really could.

  If I were the type of person who couldn’t stand non-monogamy, Robin thought, then I wouldn’t be a slave. I’d be someone’s lover. But I can do this. Better yet, I can do this and be happy about it. How do I make sure that Monica understands that?

  The only really annoying part of Monica’s almost two-week-long trip was that it would be two weeks of being alone. Robin kept the house well. There were no long-standing projects that awaited which would be best done in the absence of her owner. Well―she could paint the kitchen ceiling.

  Her personal spending money, her “allowance,” as Monica jokingly called it, was plentiful for someone who had very few expenses. She thought of taking in some movies, going to some local restaurants, maybe investigating some museums. But a mere week before she was ready to go, Monica came home one night and took Robin by the hair and pulled her up against her body, making Robin shiver in delight.

  “Sensitive little kitten,” Monica laughed, pulling Robin’s head back. “I’ve got a surprise for you!”

  Robin giggled and writhed comfortably against her owner. “What is it, Monica?” she asked softly.

  “Found you some babysitters,” Monica purred. Her mouth was right next to Robin’s ear. “I didn’t want my baby to be lonely and bored while I’m away. So, when you pack my bags, better make one up for yourself, too. After you drop me off at the airport, you’re going to go somewhere else!”

  Robin’s eyes, which had closed in delicious pleasure, opened sharply, and she was grateful she was not facing Monica at that moment. “Somewhere else? But―where?”

  Monica let her go and walked into her little living room and flopped down on the couch. “Oh, it’s not far,” she said, taking the question literally. “I’ll have directions for you.” Then, she relented and grinned. “Don’t worry―these ladies will know what to do with you! It’s Judy and Khim. They said they’d love to keep an eye on you while I’m away. And I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

  Robin’s eyes widened even as she went into the kitchen to get Monica a drink. Judy and Khim!

  No, no, she didn’t mind at all, although at first she didn’t know why. Neither Judy nor Khim were exactly her type, except in the fact that they were older than she was, and she always appreciated older lovers. They were a couple, naturally, and Monica had known them before Robin had come to live with her. They were both into SM―in fact, the only times Robin had seen them had been at the non-Marketplace play parties Monica had taken her to.

  Khim was definitely a top. She was taller than Robin, and substantially curvy, with bright, jade eyes and a deep, wicked laugh. The last time Robin had seen her, she had been wearing a magnificent British-made corset with gold Chinese dragons scampering around her body, her breasts compressed and held up for attention. She had been busy attending to her partner, Judy, whose petite body had been twisted almost double and secured in full suspension, a feat made even more astonishing by the occasional giggle that escaped from the totally immobile form. Robin remembered wondering how the smaller woman could even draw a breath, let alone snicker and giggle with delight as ropes tightened and moved and she went spinning or gently rising and falling to Khim’s expert manipulation.

  Later on, there had been jokes made about Khim’s style, and the fact that only the extremely flexible Judy could be so twisted into pretzel shapes and hoisted up like so much laundry. But the two women laughed, both at themselves and the picture they presented, full of confidence and erotic energy.

  That wasn’t all Robin remembered. The more she thought about it, she began to realize why she was interested in finding out more about them, and felt safe about being loaned to them. It was Judy and Khim, out of all of Monica’s non-Marketplace friends, who never asked uncomfortable questions or got flustered in front of her formal manners and made a fuss. In these play party settings, Monica often introduced Robin as her slave, and Robin’s collar, of course, never came off. Robin did not go into all of the behaviors of a Marketplace client, but she did remain silent until spoken to, and she stayed at Monica’s side except when sent away, and she was generally quieter and more well behaved than any of the other slaves there. (If indeed there were any slaves present. She certainly never noticed any.)

  This sometimes upset people, and sometimes confused them. More than once, Monica got elaborate praise for “training” Robin, something that drew the attention of every other person in the room, exactly the kind of thing no Marketplace owner would do.

  But Judy and Khim just nodded to Robin when she was introduced to them and continued their conversation with Monica. And unlike a few other people who did at least that much, they never asked Robin for any sort of service themselves, or referred to her in any demeaning ways.

  In other words, they had good manners.

  Well! Good manners, experienced players―they were already far ahead of many of Monica’s SM pals, no matter how sad that was to admit. What could possibly go wrong? Either she would move in like a temporary kinky roommate, or maybe they might go as far as have her do some cleaning and cooking and think of it all as a little vacation for themselves. Either way, it wasn’t something her relationship with Monica depended on, and it just might give Monica great face among these soft world people she cared for so much.

  Robin delivered a drink with a smile and sank down to her knees next to her owner’s leg. “You are so good to me, Monica,” she said, laying her head against Monica’s knee.

  “You betcha,” Monica said, leaning back with a sigh.

  * * * *

  The directions to Bethesda were easy to follow, and by the time Robin got to the correct address, old doubts had seated themselves firmly into her psyche. It wasn’t just the memory of Troy, although that was certainly there. How could she avoid comparisons? Troy had loaned her to a friend who, although safe, was hardly an experienced or demanding master, let alone Troy’s equal. Now, Monica was loaning her to amateurs―nice, safe ones, sure, but not Marketplace owners. How could this be anything but disappointing?

  Plus, there was no way Robin could be comfortable trying to pretend that she could use a safeword or tell these nice women that she wasn’t in the mood or anything that felt like the regular way of doing this sort of thing among equals. That would be betraying her beloved owner, who deserved to have an obedient slave who reflected well upon her. Not to mention it would just feel―odd―after all these years to negotiate with a top, to set limits. But would not being willing to pretend that she was free seem even odder than being a good girl?

  And, there was also a sense of anxiety over how to behave. Sure, they knew enough to not touch or chat with her at an SM party, but Robin knew that she craved the discipline of her daily existence. It was what had been missing in her years before she took the collar―a feeling that she had a place, with responsibilities and duties that mattered, a place that was recognized and at the same time taken as the right of her owner. She had only seen glimpses of that potential when she had been free, a person here and there, perhaps one relationship among hundreds of relationships that mocked her in its balance, until she found it herself.

  Oh well. She pulled in front of the house and put the car in park with a sigh. She had not packed much, as per Monica’s instructions, so with her bag over her shoulder, she prepared herself to be invited in for coffee and some genial lesbian SM play.

  There was a note on the door, with her name on it. For a moment, as she detached it, she felt annoyed―did they go out, leaving her to wait by the curb? She opened it and read, “Enter, strip, and wait on your knees by the coffee table
in the living room.”

  She felt a shiver of excitement run through her. How delightful! How risky! She grinned at the thought of a nosy neighbor picking up this little piece of paper, and folded it carefully before stuffing it into her pocket. OK, she thought. Maybe Judy and Khim will be a lot more fun than I imagined.

  Robin turned the door handle and let herself into a dark front hallway. To her left was a dining area, the table piled high with newspapers and bills and other household flotsam. The living room was to the right; she could see a tall bookcase filled to overflowing, and a long, sturdy coffee table. She put her bag down and started to strip immediately, with the order taught to her by Chris, top down, layer by layer, even though there seemed to be no one watching. She folded her clothing and laid it all on top of the bag, and then took what she imagined to be a good position near the end of the table.

  Surprisingly, it felt good! It felt like one of Monica’s tricks, the little games she played to keep Robin on her toes. Maybe Monica was more hands-on about this little two week stay than she had suggested. She had only said, “I told them they can do anything they wanted as long as I get you back in one piece,” Monica had leered just before vanishing into the terminal at the airport. “So, I’d be nice to them!”

  You got me, Robin thought, with a slight smile. Tricky woman.

  She was too well practiced to start fidgeting within minutes, but she was aware of the time passing. From time to time, she heard a sound in the house―the ticking of a clock, and then its chime, a creak, something that might have been a voice. But no one came near the hallway that led into the room she knelt in. She didn’t move, other than to make sure her legs didn’t fall asleep, and from her position found that her temporary mistresses read science fiction and fantasy and books on geography, politics, human resources, mysteries... They read a lot. At least one of them did crossword puzzles. Books and magazines were everywhere, some shelved, some stacked, some turned to open pages. They didn’t use coasters as often as they should, and Robin itched to find the wood cleaning supplies and get the top of this nice old table clean again.

  But when the clock informed her she had been waiting for nearly twenty minutes, she finally heard a door opening somewhere inside the house and human voices. She sighed and composed herself, wiggling her toes for one last time.

  “Good girl!” came Judy’s voice from the doorway. “Isn’t she a good girl?”

  “I know ’em when I see ’em,” Khim said with a satisfied laugh.

  Robin was already facing the door, and she kept her eyes down, and back straight. It was tempting to do a full presentation bow, bring her head down to the floor, a formal way of offering yourself to a master or mistress for the first time, but she dismissed the thought. It was too Marketplace.

  And if by magic, Judy asked, leaning down a little, “But shouldn’t you be bowing?”

  Robin gasped at this intersection of thought and words, and then swept down into the presenting bow, her cheeks turning pink. It’s a coincidence, she thought furiously. Remember not to show too much of our way!

  “That’s better,” Judy said, bringing herself back up. She was even shorter than Robin, with somewhat larger breasts. Where Robin was almost elfin in features, Judy was softer, sweeter―but with a devilish edge to her. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint us on the first day, would you, slave?”

  “No, ma’am,” Robin said softly. “Please forgive me, ma’am.”

  “I might be persuaded to be merciful,” Judy said with a grin.

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t worry about her,” Khim said, tapping one foot. “I’m the one you should worry about.”

  Indeed, she was, Robin thought. Because Khim, along with enjoying bondage and knives and needles and whips, also used canes―and no one had caned her since that time in California. Monica never did.

  Did Monica tell them what I think about canes? Robin suddenly thought in a panic. Oh, no, what if she didn’t? For a second, she wanted to ask for permission to speak, to ask about this, but that was wrong, wrong, wrong. She must not give out her desires or fears like that, certainly not when she hadn’t even been asked!

  “Well, great, now you went and scared her,” Judy said with a laugh.

  “Good!” Khim said. Today, she had not gotten dressed up in one of her exquisite corsets, but looked nonetheless impressive in black leggings and a silky top that did nothing to hide her figure. “But I admit that scaring you was not exactly what we came in to do, Robin. We just need to establish some ground rules. Look up at me.”

  Robin did, and was once again struck by how sharp Khim’s deep green eyes were.

  “Pretty basic stuff. You’re the slave, we’re in charge. Ma’am is fine, so is mistress, don’t go overboard with repetition. Follow orders, and if you don’t know, ask. You will not get punished for asking, only if you don’t ask.”

  Robin could barely keep from nodding. Instead, she held herself still and said, with some relief, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Monica told us what you can do and what you can take and what you’re used to with her. We might do things a little differently, but I don’t think it’ll be too hard to adapt. We’re in this for fun―and to get a little long overdue work done around here.” She sighed and looked around at the disarrayed room. “I don’t think you’ll be bored,” she added. “But anyway, one last thing to get out of the way. Are you in any way not willing to do this? Tell us now, and you can go home. We’ll tell Monica it was our choice, because we got too busy, had to visit a sick aunt, something like that. I swear we won’t say it was your decision.”

  Robin blinked in astonishment. That was one thing she hadn’t counted on hearing.

  And―she was a little nervous and doubtful. Wouldn’t it be a lot easier to say “yes” and go home, paint the kitchen, and get some alone time?

  She glanced quickly up at the two of them and their suddenly earnest faces―they weren’t joking around. She felt, deep inside, that they would do as they said, and let her go, telling Monica some silly story. And somehow, that made it easier.

  “I am here of my own free will,” Robin said clearly. “Thank you, ma’am, for asking. But I am yours to command.”

  Judy beamed. “I like her.”

  “Good! Then let’s have the welcome party before we get to work.” Khim reached down and threw a narrow leather strap around Robin’s neck. “I know your real collar doesn’t come off, but we don’t take service around here without a collar of our own, so here’s something new for you, Robin!” She buckled it on; it fit smoothly and comfortably, the inside surprisingly soft.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Robin said, unable to keep the tears from forming in the corners of her eyes. It was such a nice gesture, so reminiscent of good times and bad. And it was sweet of them to once again acknowledge her collar, and to call it real.

  How little you know, she thought, even as she saw Khim make a hand gesture. She was on her feet, feeling the tingles along her ankles and knees as she rose, before she realized what happened.

  That slight upward motion, the hand held at eye level to someone on their knees―that was almost certainly a Marketplace gesture!

  There were no universal protocols in the Marketplace. There couldn’t be, since once the slaves left the hands of their trainers, their behaviors were determined by owners. But it had been explained to her, both by Ken Mandarin and Chris Parker, that there were guidelines covering the most basic commands, with postures to be taken and responses made which would be easily adaptable once the personal taste of an owner were known.

  “But why teach me only one set of movements if there are dozens?” Robin had moaned once during her training. “What if I have to do it all some other way once I’m sold?”

  “You are being conditioned to obey,” Chris had said, looking into her eyes. “Your obedience is what is being trained, not the positions. When you have new ways to behave, it will hopefully be your obedience which will enable you to learn and please your owner.” And h
e had run her through the motions over and over, until she did obey instantly, learning to watch his hands, the slightest shift in his body, or even his eyes, when she was allowed to look up. His litany of “again, again,” whether softly uttered or sharply snapped, became as agonizing as his strap. But in the end, she obeyed. Instantly.

  It had come in handy in California, where indeed, her Masters had a different set of positions they liked―they spread legs wider, and they liked hands down the sides rather than across the back. But once she knew the proper ways to respond, she took direction as quickly―as she just had.

  But Monica knew better than to give Marketplace training guidelines to people outside! Didn’t she?

  “Get a move on, slavegirl. Let’s not make your first visit to the basement a punishment for tardiness!”

  “No, ma’am, right away, ma’am!” Robin hastily moved, horrified that she had frozen in place and still reeling from the possibilities.

  Once she got downstairs, after her temporary mistresses, she gasped and then had to struggle to keep from grinning. The last time she had seen Judy and Khim had been at an expensive private dungeon owned by one of DC’s better professional dominatrices. But it was now clear they never had to go far for a quality playroom.

  The low ceiling probably inhibited playing with long whips, but added measurably to creating an atmosphere something like a grotto designed by a sensual hedonist. Apart from a curtained-off area, the entire space was given over to a long, waist high table, a wide armed St. Andrew’s cross with interesting holes cut into the arms, and a sturdy looking frame that supported a sling. The floor was covered with overlapping rugs, and the walls had one long rack of whips and cuffs, and an assortment of drawings and paintings of women in bondage―and not a few men, as well.

  But Robin’s eyes went back to the sling. Had it been that long since she felt Monica’s hand sliding up inside of her? The last time had been long before the ring went in, that was for sure. Despite a warning twinge between her legs, she wanted nothing more than to feel that full again, to feel the firm pressure of a hand expanding her from the inside, something so unique and so perfectly wonderful that she had never discovered another sex act like it. Ken had taught her to take a fist―but Monica had taught her how to love it.