"I understand," said Zach. And he did. Jeremy had been bitching about the slave-gone-bad business since he'd landed. He'd heard the complete story more than once.
"I'm a laughingstock."
Zach flipped down the sun visor in an attempt to block the lowering sun's glare, but it didn't help all that much. Summer in the Pacific Northwest meant sunlight until almost nine o'clock at night. "That'll pass."
"It would've passed a long time ago if some spineless men would've muzzled their beasts."
Don't slam others for a weakness you also wear. "You'll be fine," Zack said instead.
"I'm humiliated." The Jag's turn signal clicked as Jeremy guided the car down the bridge exit and turned a nearby corner. "And broke."
"You'll recover." Zach knew that to be true. If there was one thing Jeremy knew, it was how to use the stock market to make money. How the slave had gone through that much money still blew his mind. What had she bought? Had she taken it all with her? His brother's home wasn't all that lavish for all its prime location. Where had all his money gone?
They drove along downtown's streets until turning into the warehouse district. Zach caught sight of train tracks near the river--heavy rail this time, not the light rail. The presence of the load-bearing tracks indicated their entrance into the industrial zone.
The Quarterly Dungeon Romp location wasn't far away.
His stomach rumbled. "There gonna be food at this gig?"
"Plenty," said Jeremy, as he pulled into a parking spot and killed the engine. He flashed a grin. "And slaves to serve. You do remember protocol, right?"
Zach rolled his eyes. Yeah, he'd been forced to shelve his sexual preferences when he'd signed his name on the enlistment form. "I remember protocol."
They exited the car, he with a bit of trouble maneuvering his gimpy foot from the floorboard, through the door, and onto the ground. His new, non-military trousers rasped over the still-tender scars that decorated his knee and thigh. Once he was standing, though, he looked and moved adequately, not too much of a limp thanks to the PT three times a week, but he wouldn't be square-dancing anytime soon.
The doors opened as they approached, two girls exiting into the darkening light. The little girl outfits, including pigtails and over-sized lollipops, looked incongruous against the cigarettes they lit as he and Jeremy moved inside. He turned from the sight. Some folks liked age play. He didn't. The thought of that special someone who sucked his cock calling him "Daddy" turned his stomach and in a seriously unpleasant way. But these were consenting adults and it wasn't his place to call them on what they did with their own bodies.
Around them, the warehouse opened up. The mouthwatering smell from the buffet of potluck items filled the air, as did the quiet throb of the music. He followed the sound of laughter and located the BDSM players. Fetish gear and clothing spilled like a rainbow across the warehouse's interior. Men dressed as French maids moved among the revelers, serving chips and dip, as well as drinks. He stifled the urge to roll his eyes. Sissy maids were a kink he didn't understand. Nor did he want to.
Flashbulbs snapped.
His gaze followed the flicking lights and located what looked like people wrapped in giant spider cocoons hanging from the ceiling. Kinbaku--Japanese erotic rope art. Some folks called it lovely. He called it annoying. There was nothing more frustrating than spending an hour unwrapping a slave before he could use her. Usually, by the time she'd been freed, he was tired, grumpy, and the thrill was long gone.
"We're over here," said Jeremy.
Zach followed, catching sight of the silk-clad slaves of their particular kink. A bolt of lust kicked him in the stomach. He swallowed the spit that pooled in his mouth. It had been a long six years without the services of a tender and willing beast of pleasure. Fucking a girl was one thing--and a pleasurable thing it was, to be sure--but the inner knowledge he could never be wholly satisfied unless he had a willing and adoring slave at his feet had been reinforced with each liaison.
If a slave today happened to be available and willing, then bang away, he told himself. But don't get attached or let her get attached. You'll be redeployed as soon as the fucking leg is certified fit for duty. Be forthright about that with whoever catches your interest. Honor always. Semper Fi.
"Oh, come with me." Jeremy made an abrupt directional change. "Let me introduce you to the First Knight."
Again, Zach followed. May as well greet the local community leader, he thought. The food could wait.
They approached a table. Two men sat there flanked by two girls, one wearing a collar of steel and another wearing one with a buckle. One slave in training and one owned.
The men stood as they approached. The girls came to their feet as well, which was accepted practice for the arrival of a visitor of his gender. Zach saw everyone's considering gazes sweep his body and zero in on his limp. Damn it!
Jeremy stopped beside the table. "Mike and Seth"--he gestured--"this is my brother Zachary, back from Afghanistan. Zach, this is Mike"--they exchanged nods--"and Seth, our former slave master."
"Welcome home," said the one called Mike. "How'd you make out?"
"A little worse for the wear, but I'm alive," Zach answered, as they shook hands.
"Then well done."
The man called Seth stepped forward and offered his hand. "Seth. Marine. Operation Victory."
Zach knew the Corps's history. Operation Victory had been a brutal campaign in Iraq about ten years before his time. He took Seth's hand in his own and shook it. "Zach. Marine," he also offered up the name of his most recent assignment. "J.S.S. Falcon."
"Heard Falcon took some artillery a while ago," said Seth, as their hands disengaged.
"Yeah, we had some rain, but we handled it."
Seth smiled, although the glint in his eyes was ice cold. "Ooh-rah, devil dog."
Zach grinned back, his expression doubtlessly equally cold. "Ooh-rah."
Mike laughed, commented on the esprit de corps filling the air, and excused himself from the conversation as someone else called his name. Zach glanced around and discovered his brother had deserted him for the line at the buffet.
He and Seth were alone, but for the slaves quietly standing.
"They can sit," said Zach. "I don't mind."
Seth nodded to the property, and they slid back into the chairs. Their voices blended into a very low murmur with him as the subject, if he was any judge of the covert glances sent his way. Jeremy's abandonment was obvious to everyone at the table. Expressions of embarrassment colored the girls' cheeks, and Seth flicked a narrow-eyed glance toward Jeremy's back. Instead of saying anything, however, Seth offered him a seat, which he took, and picked up the conversation.
"How are you finding Portland?"
It took a minute to translate and realize the man wasn't originally from the USA. "Where you from?"
"Scotland. Dual citizenship."
Zach nodded. "Portland is nice, especially considering the housing in 'Stan."
"Raccoons instead of camel spiders?"
His laughter filled the area. "Those fuckers are bad ass."
Seth nodded and a half-smile lifted one side of his mouth. "
"But to answer your question," Zach continued, "it's fine, except I can't find an affordable place to stay."
"No?"
"And bunking with my brother is getting stale."
"No doubt," said Seth. "And an older brother at that."
The comment was a direct hit, and Zach bit off the resultant growl. "Don't get me wrong. I'm appreciative of the bed and bread--"
"Aye."
"But I'm a grown-ass man. I need my own place. Apparently, I'm stuck here for a while."
"How so?"
"Still waiting for the PEB to certify me combat ready."
"I saw the limp." Seth nodded toward his leg.
"It's getting better, but not fast enough. I should be with my unit, not..." He stalled out in frustration. "They've got me driving a desk at a recruitment ce
nter downtown."
Seth hummed, a sound of understanding and support. "That's a hit to the wallet."
"With incendiary ammo," agreed Zach, annoyed.
Seth laughed, the full-throated, belly-laugh kind. When he caught his breath, he turned to the slaves. "Girl," he ordered, "get me a drink."
"Yes, Master," said the one in the leather collar. She set off toward the open bar.
Zach watched the play of lights over her auburn hair and across the length of leg displayed by the silken garb. The ass that swayed in the tiny skirt looked quite fuckable. "Nice."
"She's tolerable," said Seth.
Despite the lukewarm words, the possessive gleam in Seth's eye warned Zach away from asking further about the slave-in-training. She was off-limits. He nodded his respect for the unspoken boundary and turned from the sweetness in blue. The blonde remaining at the table didn't look available either, since she watched Mike, awaiting instructions like any well-trained slave would do.
"I have a townhouse you may rent. I'm no longer in it, and it's furnished."
Seth's voice broke into Zach's musings, the offer slapping him back to more important issues than a slave's bouncy ass. Reality quickly squelched a brief flare of hope. "I doubt I could afford it. My paycheck isn't what it used to be these days. 'Ouch' comes to mind."
The other man picked up a peppermint candy from a tabletop dish. "I'm sure we could work something out."
Hope returned. "Where is it?"
"Downtown. Nice district. Close to the light rail and buses up the ass if you have no car."
This was ideal! If only... "You sure?"
The few minutes spent unwrapping the candy before Seth slipped it into his mouth were obviously spent in thought. Then, he said, "Ooh-rah," and held out his hand to be shaken.
Pleasure zinged along his nerves. Finally, after months of pain, physical therapy, and sitting like a gimp in his brother's spare bedroom, things were looking up. He shook Seth's hand with enthusiasm, their agreement confirmed. "Damn, that's good of you."
The slave returned carrying a tumbler filled with amber liquid. "Your single malt scotch, Master."
"Good girl." Seth accepted the glass and took a sip.
The slave-in-training looked at Zach with large, pretty eyes. "May I get you something from the bar, Master?"
Something long dormant in his soul stirred at the address. A silk-draped girl hadn't called him "Master" in long time. It felt good. Damn good.
He shook his head in answer. "Not necessary. I'll attack the buffet soon so I'll get my own." He glanced over and saw his brother headed toward an empty table with an over-full plate. Fuck, I should've brought something to the potluck.
"There are some expectations," Seth said, continuing their conversation.
Zach refocused on him. "Such as?"
"You'll be expected to treat it honorably. Like it's your barracks, not like it's a motel."
He nodded and offered a smile. "You gonna check on it?" He chuckled. "Monthly inspections? A quarter bounced off the bedspread and white gloves?"
Seth's chuckle joined his, even as the man moved into his personal bubble just like a drill sergeant would and gave a threatening bark, "You're damn right I will."
Another laugh roared across the warehouse floor, this one from Zach. He spent a bit of time caught in laughter's fit before managing to locate enough air to offer up a salute and a wheezed, "Aye-aye, Sarg."
Her Master summoned the blonde. Zach watched her walk away. She accompanied Mike over to where Jeremy sat alone at a table and joined him. His brother bloomed. That was the only word he could find to describe what happened.
Zach knew Jeremy had felt excised and expunged from the community for a while now. Mike's choice of settling down at that table offered reassurance, telling everyone Jeremy was welcome, trusted, and valued. That simple act seemed to open necessary floodgates, and others came to the table. At a motion from Mike, slaves flocked around them.
"You'll want to join them, no doubt," said Seth, who had also watched the drama. "It's been hard for your brother. He could use the support."
"Not just yet. First..." Zach brought his gaze back to Seth as a burning began in the pits of his guts. "Who did this to him? Where is she?"
Unlike many, Seth didn't flinch from Zach's stare. "She is not here. Hasn't been seen since the flare-up."
Zach ran his eyes along the flock of slaves clustered around the table like finely plumed birds. "Damn."
"You want to meet her?"
He glanced over his shoulder at the other man. "Do I want to meet the bitch who broke my brother's wallet and fucked his self-esteem? Hell, yeah, I do."
Seth tipped his head to one side, as if in thought. He then selected another candy from the dish and unwrapped it with deliberation. "There is a question of consent involving the financial submission."
"What?" Zach straightened. His knee protested, which only pissed him off. "I hardly think my brother--"
A sudden silence fell like an inverse thunderclap. Everyone, with the exception of Zach and Seth, was staring at the entrance, looking shocked and uneasy. Curious, Zach followed their line of vision to the warehouse door. A woman stood there, one wrapped in leather and attitude. She stared back at the watchers, her expression one of contempt.
"Out of hiding she comes," said Seth. "Your target, devil dog. Annabel."
Zach tasted her name on a whisper.
Chapter 4
That's right, bitches. I'm back.
Annabel clung to the thought, using it like a suit of well-tempered armor. Across the warehouse, in the usual place, the community kennel clustered around a collection of tables. Normally, they gossiped and chatted amongst themselves--these days with her as a topic, no doubt--but right now they sat silent, eyes wide and mouths agape.
Her arrival had frozen the group's many conversations, bringing a shocked silence into that section of the dungeon in the same manner as the arrival of a skunk at a garden party. Sure, skunks weren't welcome--and neither was she--but a warm reception wasn't why she was here.
And she was damn well gonna stink up the place.
A dungeon monitor approached her, all smiles and ready to show her around. They'd shared laughter and casual chat many times in the past, but apparently he didn't recognize her. She cut off his approach with a wave of one hand. "No need, Andy."
The use of his name, and probably the sound of her voice, must have flipped a switch in his memory. He came to a stop, his own eyes widening. "Annabel?"
"I'll find my own way," she said and set off to where the Owner/property community was congregated. She couldn't help but acknowledge the prophetic words as she marched toward her enemies.
The leather in her corset creaked. Her boot heels cracked across the cement floor. Slaves shifted nervously in their seats as her direction became clear. A slashing glance from the corner of her eye located Jeremy. He sat beside Mike and pretended not to notice her, but the red wash of shame across his complexion told its own tale.
He should be ashamed. He would be more ashamed when her story was told. Say one word to me and you'll wish you'd never met me, you lyin' piece of shit.
She stopped at the tables full of slaves and kicked an unoccupied chair away from the fourth one. Giving the women there a contemptuous glance, she sat, coincidentally right across from the biggest bitch in the kennel, and she wasn't referring to her size. No Ceci was a rancid piece of whispering lies and pretentiousness. She was the type who would toss anyone under the bus in a desperate attempt to prove her superior intellect...which all knew to be less than superior.
Venom incarnate. Unfortunately, the world was full those types.
But it was Kaydee who spoke first. In Annabel's opinion, she was another piece of walking sewage. This one loved to wield her bilingual skills. As if that was any proof to the quality and content of her character. That only meant she played people in more than one language.
"What are you doing here?" demanded Kaydee,
with a sneer.
Annabel glared at the slave. Sure, she was pretty, with large, dark eyes and smooth, nutmeg-colored skin, but that attractiveness didn't go beyond the well-shaped ass she paraded throughout the community. She lied like a rug and fluttered her lashes at any unattached man in hope of a financial conquest. Unfortunately, most of the men here could only see that perky ass and not the viper she truly was.
Annabel leaned forward with deliberate care and gave the mouthy slut the cutting edge of her tongue. "I can go where I want these days and do whatever I want. Stay the fuck out of my business."
Ceci stepped in. "According to our community documents of behaviors and expectations, because you were kicked out of Jeremy's home--but have chosen to show up here wrapped in leather--doesn't make you anything other than a failed slave. Who are you to give any orders?"
That was Ceci. She had an archivist's knowledge of the community's Codes of Conduct, but that was all she had, all she was. That one existed as an extensive memory of words on a page with no social understanding of the philosophy beneath the writings. There was a difference between the letter of the law and the spirit of the law, but that stunted intellect couldn't grasp the concept.
"Before you say another word," Annabel replied with a snarl, "put your by-the-book memory to work and remind yourself what it means when a Master removes the collar of another Master's slave."
An audible gasp came from more than one girl at the table. The situation was unprecedented, but the by-laws of their community had made it possible, while still ensuring everyone remained in protocol. A Master could remove the collar of another Master's slave if it became necessary, thereby freeing the slave from consensual bondage. The once-but-no-longer-slave was to be then afforded all of the rights and respects given to any other non-slave within their community.
That is, if the protocols of their community were faithfully followed. And that always depended on the value a person placed on the vows given.
In Control Page 2