The Slave

by Laura Antoniou

  Then you exfoliate, Robin thought with a sigh. Or moisturize. I’m giving facials to boots. But it turned out the steps of bootblacking were similar to a facial―and why not, it’s still skin, she realized. Except I don’t set fire to my foundation before putting it on. Muscledog liked to ignite a can of black polish to soften it before spreading it thinly onto a boot. Raul sniffed at that practice and called it showy and lazy. But Carl liked it. “What’s wrong with showy? Besides, the less she has to show she doesn’t have the upper arm strength, the better.”

  It was useless, the boys agreed, to practice on empty boots. So every evening before she got her ten spanks with the leather paddle, she first knelt before one of them while they wore a pair of their own or one of the Masters’ pairs of boots, and she worked her hands into soaps and polishes and leather conditioners. She used different brushes to remove dust or to buff to a shine; she worked greasy lotions into the seams and creases of old leather. She learned when to bring out the mirror gloss of a high intensity shine and when she shouldn’t. Then, they brought out more pairs of boots for her to learn different lacing patterns as well.

  The aroma of the waxes, creams, and polishes seemed to hover around her as she slid between her sheets at night. The sharp bitterness of the inky polishes leavened with the pine scent of the shoe grease, and under it all the faint echo of leather. Despite herself, she found it tantalizing, curling one hand up against her mouth and nose to breathe in the scents of her labor. Now she understood why Chris’s boots had that distinctive smell; he must have used some of these products. It was awful to lie there, her ass aching from the paddling, nipples erect despite not being teased by Raul’s endless array of clamps and cups, and a taste of latex on her lips from the last chance every day to bring Muscledog to erection. That, at least, was easy. He sprang up at the slightest touch, and didn’t mind at all that she was a girl.

  Deep inside, she resented that she couldn’t serve along with the rest of them. I can suck cock! She thought, curling on her side. And I know I have a tight ass, too. God, to be just another body at the party, instead of the costumed, bound-up reject not allowed to do anything but polish boots. But that’s what I get for belonging to a gay couple. She signed and tried to relax, hoping she could pull it off. For all that it felt awkward, it would be her first party since... that incident with the earrings. I want to fit in again, she thought, her fist tight in her pillow, the scent of boot polish and saddle soap enveloping her. I want them all to like me again. It almost feels like it used to be. If I can get through this and be useful and cheerful, it’ll be like old times.

  * * * *

  Raul did as much cooking and prep work as possible even before his four assistants arrived. Two bars were set up, one inside and one out by the pool, along with an ice-maker and rented freezers to make sure no one would lack a cooling drink when he wanted one. And of course, for all those guests, Raul, Carl and Muscledog would not be the only slaves providing sexual service or play. Most of the guests were Marketplace owners, or at least aware, plus a spotter or trainer here and there. Some of them would bring their own playthings, to use exclusively or to share. And of course, some guests would prefer to bottom.

  “God, I hope someone grabs me to fuck ’em first off,” Carl said with a groan as he got up the morning of the party. “I feel like I did when I was thirteen. A passing breeze could get me off today.”

  “We’ll see what you say after the fifth one needs you to get it up,” said Raul.

  “At this rate? I’ll say, hot damn, toss those legs around my neck, cowboy!” He stretched and grabbed the flogger hanging from the post of the bunk bed and nudged Robin with one foot. “And speaking of legs, spread ’em, sweet cheeks.”

  “Huh?” Robin threw back her sheets and looked up. “My... legs?”

  “That’s where this morning’s twenty five are going!” He whirled the tresses with delight and grinned at her.

  Robin gasped as the first thud hit her pussy and then groaned, her head back against her pillow. Muscledog laughed and Carl did, too. “Remember, no coming,” Carl said with a wicked leer. “And don’t fall over laughing too hard, Dog, your balls are next.”

  “Oh, man,” Muscledog sighed, cupping his cock and balls for the moment. “That’s...”

  “Harsh,” the other three slaves echoed.

  * * * *

  The four service slaves showed up, and Eric dressed them in black Lycra shorts and little shirt cuffs and bow ties like Chippendale dancers. They also wore skimpy, black gauze vests with “hands off!” painted on the back in bold orange letters.

  “Subtle,” Jimmy said, when he saw them.

  “Well you know this crowd; once they start getting in gear, they’ll start fucking anything that moves.” Eric eyed the four men critically and then handed them over to Raul. The house manager was attired in a bright red latex jockstrap, tight around his small asscheeks, with matching bands around his wrists and ankles. Attachment rings were steel wound through with more red, and a chain half-harness had been laced with long scarlet latex straps as well, glinting in the light across his tan chest. Somehow, he managed to look as cool and elegant as always, escorting the four slaves to their service positions and showing them the day’s schedule.

  Muscledog, who was making his debut, wore a gleaming black latex wrestling singlet that left his ass completely exposed and allowed his cock and balls to jut through a hole in the front. Long straps passed his swollen nipples and marked a lane framing his taut abdominal muscles. The only thing the scant garment did was accentuate his impressive build. He also had wrist, bicep, and ankle cuffs, black rubber and sporting locks as well. His heavy cock was secured into a series of connected rubber rings, each one smaller than the last, a classic item of torment often called the “gates of hell.” Naturally fair, he had a California all-over tan, and the black latex and rubber fetish gear looked cruel on him.

  But Carl was dressed in leather. The older man had a full body harness, down to the thick chrome ring around his cock and balls. The straps crossed his chest, formerly the brawniest in the house before Muscledog’s appearance, and a single strap ran down his tight stomach to the ring around his package, well hidden by something Robin had never seen before―a leather kilt. It was crafted of buttery black leather, and caressed Carl’s legs when he walked. Her mouth went dry when she saw it; she’d never seen a man in a kilt in person before, and regretted that now to the core of her being. It was intensely sexy, even moreso on the one man she regularly had sex with. He was the only male slave in boots, and Robin now knew every inch of his Wesco Highliners.

  There was no doubt who the most beautiful man was, though. Eric was a professional model, after all. He had chosen to start the party in one of his many uniforms, this one in midnight blue leather, from the tailored breeches to the short-sleeved shirt complete with pockets and epaulets. His Sam Browne belt gleamed against his chest, his slender hips making a classic V-shape of masculinity. Under his cover, his wavy honey and platinum hair caught the light, and when he slipped on dark shades, he became a walking fetish. Robin had only been allowed to watch as Carl personally shined the tall Dehner boots that completed the ensemble.

  “If only your catalog fans could see you now,” Jimmy said with a grin. He was in classic leather―chaps over jeans with harness boots on his feet and a vest over his bare chest. And he was the one least likely to change over the day; Eric had arranged several different costume changes for himself and for most of the slaves.

  But not for me, Robin thought with a sigh. She felt self-conscious in the layers she wore, very unsure of her ability to pass even the most cursory of inspections. After many discussions and modeling sessions, she was outfitted in Levi’s 501 jeans under suede chaps. A compression vest held her small breasts down to insignificance and made her catch her breath from time to time; over that, she wore a black cotton uniform shirt that looked like it came from a gas station; it even had a name embroidered on it―Rob.

 
“Why make up a new one?” Raul had asked when he gave it to her.

  A leather bar vest over the shirt furthered the goal of making her upper body appear more masculine. She had leather wristbands that extended halfway up her forearm, and tightly laced military boots that were at least one size too big. Her feet, according to the boys, were a dead giveaway, even worse than her hands. So, she was also wearing three pairs of socks. A leather bondage belt not only threaded through the loops in her jeans, but had two locking straps around each leg, as clear a signal to guests as the “hands off” sign on the serving slaves.

  Carl clipped her hair short, but not as short as she expected. “Kiddo, we expose the full shape of your head and face and people will know you’re a girl from fifty feet. Instead, Eric thinks you’ll pass as a sort of gothy poet kinda guy. You already duck your head about a thousand times a day; just make sure you toss your hair in your eyes a lot.” And he’d snickered.

  So now, she had her hair short in the back but long over her eyes and in front of her ears, styled with an unhealthy amount of mousse and gel. Her chain collar was temporarily replaced by a thick leather one, the lock dangling over her absent Adam’s apple. The last stage of her transformation had been makeup, which Eric did himself. He hadn’t liked Raul’s efforts in the dress rehearsals. With careful, precise hands, he darkened a little under her eyes, and used a mascara brush to bring up the tiny, almost invisible hairs on her upper lip and in front of her ears. Keeping with her goth-boy persona, he also gave her a little bit of liner around her eyes. His gentle touch on her face was almost unbearably intimate and tender, made more so by the memory of the back of his hand when he’d called her a thief and tore up the very foundations of her life in his household.

  It was still hard to look into his cerulean eyes, despite her vows to be a good slave, patient and understanding and forgiving. But as he fussed with different touches of makeup on her, she thought, maybe this is my redemptive moment. Maybe this really is their way of saying, well, if not that they’re sorry―which she knew they would never say―maybe they’re saying it’s all buried in the past now. Not only by letting her stay for the party, but making sure she was disguised and included, even in this very limited way.

  Still, compared to the stripped down, tightly strapped and buckled men around her, she felt short, overdressed, and very, very forgettable.

  Which is my job, she struggled to remember. I need to vanish. I need to be someone people will walk right by, so I can be useful and not disruptive. She had a flashback memory to her days with WISE (Women Into Sadomasochistic Expression), the lesbian SM group she had belonged to in New York. How diligent they had been in their defense of womenspace! Not only would they not attend parties with men present, they’d even argued about using a place space after a group of men had used it for a party. “What if there’s... bodily fluids everywhere?” one of the officers had plaintively protested. Their fear of contamination by the mere proximity to maleness had been one of the more annoying aspects of belonging. And here was the reverse! Apparently, her mere presence as a girl, even one who could be ordered to not touch or speak to anyone all day and night, might ruin the entire party for some male spiritual twin to the... masculinaphobe? Androphobe? Whatever. The lesbian who thought boys were icky.

  If they could see me now, she thought with a sigh. Of course, they stopped liking me when I took up with a man anyway. She cocked her head at the mirror and considered herself again. Would I have gone for me? She wondered.

  Hell no, she decided. I look like an underage, clove-smoking Nietzsche-quoting piece of chicken too tiny to get noticed for anything but pretension. Complete with a tiny little dick, too.

  Rolled up socks didn’t work as well as they did in stories. They were too bulky and invited a touch to confirm, or they were too insubstantial and slipped out of place with the mere act of walking. Various dildos were tried, with and without harnesses, and none of them suited Eric’s critical eye. It was Muscledog again who came to the rescue.

  Raul had picked up the item gingerly, letting it dangle between his fingers with amusement or distaste or both. “And they call this... a what?”

  “Mr. Cushy,” Muscledog said with a grin. “A packing dick!”

  It looked ridiculous; a pale and limp facsimile of a penis, complete with a set of balls―it was short, and soft to the touch, and looked flabby dangling from Raul’s slender fingers. “Why,” the Latin houseman asked, making the item bounce in his hand, “would a woman―a lesbian―want to put a limp penis in her pants?”

  “So she looks like a guy instead of a dyke with a huge fucking dildo,” Muscledog patiently explained. “It’s like... drag. Drag queens tuck, drag kings pack. Get it?”

  Raul pursed his lips and nodded. Drag he understood. He handed it over to Robin and shrugged. “Let’s see if the Masters like this look better.”

  Fastening it in place took more experimentation, as the heavy leather dildo harnesses in the house were far too obvious under the jeans. Robin figured it out using a pair of stockings, wound about her hips and legs, twined in such a way to keep the cock part dangling and the balls tucked up between her thighs. Once Mr. Cushy was in the right place with her jeans buttoned over him, it was remarkable how realistic the prosthetic was! And comfortable, too, unlike a stiff dildo. Until, at the last minute, Carl came to her with a final addition.

  With the ease of a man familiar with her body, Carl slipped the fat little dildo inside her cunt, and then arranged Mr. Cushy over it, tying the packing dick in place. “Jimmy thought there was no reason why you shouldn’t get a little extra something today,“ he said with a grin. He buckled her bondage belt over everything, and set the locks with three little snaps.

  “I’d rather it was your cock,” Robin teased.

  “Baby, me too. I could fuck six trees and a snake right now.” He could, too, she thought, seeing the edge of his cock brush the kilt every time he moved. More than anything, she would love ducking under that kilt and taking him in her mouth, the scent of him mingled with the soft aromatic leather, the feel of those tall handsome boots against her naked body...

  Her hips jerked and he laughed and smacked her ass, well tenderized by a week of beatings. Now, when she walked, the dildo inside her awakened the tenderness of her pussy lips as well. “Oh my God, this is going to be a long day,” she said, with just the slightest of whimpers.

  “Rob, my boy-for-the-day, you said a cotton pickin’ mouthful.”

  * * * *

  “Do a good job, punk, and maybe next time, you’ll get some dick,” sneered the third man in her chair. Robin ducked her head and cursed herself even as she did it; dammit, Carl was right, she did bob her head down a lot!

  “Yes, master,” she whispered in her lower-toned boy voice. She wrapped the rag tightly around her fore and middle finger, winding it around her hand in a firm series of anchoring twists, and used it to rub and rub and rub until the spotless gleam of polish seemed to pop up on the boot. Cigar smoke floated over her head and she tried to breathe in short, shallow pants. The smoke, the heat and the labor all combined to make her feel light-headed... those, plus the taste of polished boots.

  The man in the chair lifted the boot she wasn’t working on and planted it roughly on her shoulder. She wanted to cry out but kept it tightly inside, offering only the lowest, short grunt she could make under the circumstances. He laughed and shifted, turning his attention to a man standing next to the chair and waiting his turn.

  “Leave it to Eric to grab some cherry chicken and keep him all locked up and licking leather all day.”

  “Yeah, well, one debut at a time. And his other bootblack isn’t going to be fucking useful today, is he?”

  There were two bootblack chairs, one next to each other, installed under a freestanding canopy about five yards away from the pool, situated so as to allow the man in the chair full sight of the bondage and sling frames plus the array of naked and mostly naked men lounging at the pool and Jacuzzi. Muscled
og had started out working the second chair and did exactly one pair of boots before the man wearing them―and nothing else―grabbed him by the collar and shoved his face down onto the man’s erection. Shortly after the man came, splattering his ejaculate all over Muscledog’s chest, the newest household slave was dragged away to a sturdy beating-and-fucking frame that held his mouth and ass at appropriate levels.

  “I guess that depends on what you mean by useful,” the man in the chair said. “Getting ass-raped by thirty horny fags sounds useful to me!”

  They laughed and Robin felt heat rise up in her as she continued to work on the shine. Oh, God, to be strapped down and just... ganged like that! To feel cock after cock after cock, to be helpless and just completely used...

  “Hey, faggot, finish up, I gotta go fuck one of your bigger brothers!” The boot on her shoulder pushed against her and she almost fell backward, but she set her teeth and nodded. “Yes, master,” she rasped, and set to work with faster movements. The speed of her arm was as―if not more important than―her strength, or so she had been taught. In due time, she judged the boots acceptable and lowered her head to press her tongue against the leather.

  She had kissed boots and shoes before, of course. Every top she had submitted to, soft world to Marketplace, had insisted on this sign of obedience or humility at least a few times. Chris Parker had her masturbate on his boot the first night he had examined her, and then shoved that boot, glistening with her pussy juices, under her face to clean. She could still remember the mingled tastes and scents―her own lubricating wetness plus tears and that faint pine smell of what she knew now was a leather conditioner.