Marketplace

by Laura Antoniou

  “He’s not all like that, Gren. There is something real in him. I’ve seen it, I’ve brought it out. Besides, I’m not asking for three months of real training here, just the basic six weeks. Just enough to fetch a nice starting price. Have I brought you any dogs before?”

  Grendel grinned. “Only that puppy.”

  “Right!” Paul pointed at Grendel, emphasizing his words. “And he went into a two-year contract right out of training, didn’t he? And traded at a 25% increase out of San Diego last year.”

  “So he did.” Grendel flipped open the file again. He looked back at Paul from time to time. The man had a point. Paul had yet to bring someone by who didn’t have some real potential in them. But taking a trainee like this was always an iffy proposition. If he didn’t fetch a high enough price at his first sale, Paul only lost a spotters fee. Grendel and the house stood to lose the cost of training, and the loss of face if the training didn’t last longer than the sale.

  “You say he’s bisexual,” Grendel said, still thinking.

  “Well, he says he is. But his preference is men.”

  “Does he know that preferences aren’t allowed here?”

  “Of course.”

  Grendel tapped the folder a few times and then reached for the intercom button. “Chris? Bring him in, please.”

  The door opened immediately, and the man from the photos walked in, followed by the majordomo. He strode to Paul’s side and knelt next to his chair, keeping his eyes lowered. He was wearing artfully worn jeans covered with stylishly cut black leather chaps. His chest was bare except for a harness made of silver chain. A matching chain was around his neck, with a silver lock, and small, silver rings adorned his nipples. His hair was shorn boot-camp short, and he wore a black mustache.

  No imagination, Grendel thought. “I didn’t tell you that you could kneel,” he said, his voice soft and reasonable.

  The man looked up, then toward Paul. Paul groaned and rolled his eyes in frustration. “I warned you not to embarrass me, you scumbag. Get up!”

  With a jingle of harness, the man did so, and then stood, his arms behind his back and his head lowered.

  “I didn’t tell you that you could avert your eyes, either,” Grendel smiled. “Paul, why don’t you introduce me?”

  “Sure. Grendel Elliot, meet my latest boy, Brian Cohen. Brian, this is Mr. Elliot, the master of this place. If you’re lucky, he’ll accept you for training. But thanks to your spectacularly stupid entrance, he probably thinks you’re nothing more than a cheap, thrill-seeking little leather clone, and he’ll kick both of us out in the next ten minutes. After which you’ll be walking the sixty miles back to Manhattan.” Paul compressed his lips into a smile. He’d do it, too.

  “Uh. Pleased to meet you, sir.” Brian exposed a mouthful of large white teeth and he extended his hand across the desk. His attitude had gone from stylized subservience to game show host in one second. It took him two more to realize that Grendel had no intention of shaking his hand. Awkwardly, he pulled back. Unsure of how to stand, he put his hands behind his back again.

  Grendel studied the man before him. He was not particularly stunning, but handsome in a dark, ethnic way. His skin didn’t show evidence of a lot of time out in the sun or at a tanning salon, and his waist showed a lack of time spent in a gym. Grendel’s face didn’t show the slightest spark of interest as he rose and walked around the desk to study Brian a little closer. He looked as though he was dutifully examining an incomprehensible piece of art at the behest of a loved one.

  Brian was clearly not used to such dispassionate observation. Within thirty seconds, he began to tense. In another thirty, he began to fidget.

  “No discipline,” Grendel snapped from behind him. Brian almost jumped, but managed to remain still.

  “He’s just shy,” Paul offered.

  “Are you? Shy?”

  “Well, it depends, sir. I’ve competed in contests, and I don’t think I could win if I was really shy. I, um, get nervous sometimes, but I try to get over it as best I can...”

  “That is not an answer to the question I asked, Mr. Cohen. That is a series of personal observations referring to yourself far too many times in one sentence. Try answering yes or no.” Grendel remained behind Brian, speaking to the back of the man’s neck.

  “Uh, no, sir!”

  Grendel raised an eyebrow at Paul, who merely grinned and shrugged again.

  “This is not very promising, Paul.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to waste your time, Gren. Listen, I’ll make it up to you, real soon. I‘ll find you a muscle stud like you wouldn’t believe, a god. Some guy that would eat this twinkie for breakfast.” Paul started to rise, but Grendel waved him back down. Before he could begin to speak, Brian piped up.

  “Please, sir, please reconsider me! I’ll do better! I’ll learn. I can be better, much better. I’m just nervous today, I promise you, I’ll be the best slave you ever trained!”

  “I wasn’t speaking to you, Mr. Cohen. And if whining and making impossible promises is any indication of how you plan to be the best anything I’ve ever trained, you are badly, badly mistaken.” Grendel put his hand out and grasped the back of Brian’s neck. The man’s first reaction was to stiffen up, but then he relaxed and leaned backward into the hand.

  “Hm. First thing you did right.”

  Paul smiled.

  Grendel let go and walked back around to his seat. “All right, Mr. Cohen, I’ll give you one more chance. Tell me what you’re good for.”

  Brian looked startled at the question. Although Grendel asked it of all new applicants, many of them didn’t know how to answer. They invariably felt intimidated by the question, some of them afraid of boasting, others simply mystified at the implication that they should know their own capabilities.

  Brian started to say something, but stopped himself on the first syllable. Some instinct in him told him that “Whatever master wants” wasn’t going to fly here. Not with this man.

  “Well, I can take a good beating, sir.” Grendel nodded, and gestured for him to continue. “And... and I can obey orders. I can take care of a man’s leather, polish boots. Um. I can service a man...”

  “Don’t be evasive!”

  “I can suck cock, sir. And work over a man’s body, I can make love to every part of him, sir.” That came out in a rush. Paul nodded, obviously agreeing.

  “Can you? Show me.”

  Brian looked startled again, but recovered quickly and looked at Paul. When Paul made no invitation or protest, he glanced at Grendel, and then began to walk around the edge of the desk.

  “Not on me, Mr. Cohen. On Chris.”

  Brian turned to the majordomo, who had remained standing inside the door until this time. They had not exchanged a single word in the time that Chris had been watching him, but Brian had plenty of time to study him.

  Chris was a very small, compact man. He was dressed in a suit with a crisp, high-collared white shirt and a long, dark jacket, which seemed to emphasize his heavy shoulders and hide his waist and hips. His hair was dark, thick and curly, his eyes shadowed by tinted glasses with heavy steel frames. It was Chris who had answered the door and brought them to this office. After announcing Paul in a mellow tenor voice, Chris had stayed with Brian in the antechamber, silent and watchful.

  Blow him? That would be easy. Little guys tended to have undersized dicks too. It would look good for Brian to dive in with enthusiasm. As the majordomo moved forward, unfastening the fly of his pants, Brian slid to his knees and moistened his lips.

  He put his hands behind his back as he had been taught, and waited for Chris to pull out his cock. The first indication that things were not as they should be was when Chris’s hand had to actually slide into his fly to grasp it. Maybe he’s not that tiny, Brian considered, giving his lips another swipe. No big deal, I can handle it.

  But he couldn’t handle what came out of those pants. For although the size was indeed respectable, it lacked one important
element for any devoted cocksucker. His eyes widened as he gazed at it, and without a single cognizant thought, his head snapped back and his hands loosened from behind his back. He heard his own voice echo in the room. Instantly he gasped, and then compressed his lips in trepidation. He screwed his eyes shut for what he knew was coming.

  “You stinking, good-for-nothing fuck-up!” Paul exploded. “You’re going to be lucky if anyone ever takes you home as anything but a cheap trick, you lousy son of a...”

  “Paul, Paul, please.” Grendel held up one hand as he jotted one more note down. “No need to raise your voice. Chris, you may put that away.”

  Still mute, the majordomo did as told, tucking it back into his pants. Brian remained where he was, a deep blush growing at the back of his neck and a trickle of sweat sliding down his back. I screwed up big time, he thought, grinding his teeth. I don’t believe my big, fucking mouth. Oh, that was rich, Brian buddy, just shout it out like this was the first time you ever tried any of this. What’s the big deal if the guy...?

  He glanced up at Chris, who seemed entirely unaffected by the exchange. Brian shuddered involuntarily and then ducked his head down again. Whatever this guy was didn’t matter any more. Brian wouldn’t have to worry about ever seeing Chris or Mr. Elliot ever again. Paul would kill him when they got out of here.

  It took me four months to get him to admit that he knew about this place, and I blow it in the first ten minutes, he thought in a flurry of self-condemnation. He lowered his chin until it almost touched his chest and didn’t look up as Chris walked away from him.

  But Paul was smiling. Grendel hadn’t stopped taking notes, and that was an excellent sign.

  “This is what I’m offering you, Paul,” Grendel finally said. “We’ll evaluate him as usual. If he passes, and we think he can get better, we’ll take him on as a total novice. Your commission will be cut by fifty percent for our trouble. If he fails and proves to be a loss, you owe us his estimated value on your next find.”

  Paul laughed. “Cut the commission only ten percent and I’ll guarantee your choice on the next one. If he fails, I’ll cut my fee fifty percent on whatever I bring you.”

  “I hate to quibble. Twenty-five, plus our choice on the next one with a ten percent decrease in your fee. No change on the failure, take it or leave it.”

  Brian trembled.

  “OK. But only because I know that he’s quality and that you’re the only people in the world who can bring it out. And get a mark-up worth my time.” The two men shook hands over the desk.

  Brian was almost in shock as Chris reappeared, bearing a key. The chain around his neck was taken off and returned to Paul. He was so flustered that Paul’s voice had to filter through his confusion gradually, like light coming through a dense fog.

  “...and you do as they say, boy. Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “You’ll see, Gren. He’s got the potential.”

  Grendel stood up and closed the file. “We’ll let you know in one week, Paul. Chris? Take Mr. Cohen to the dorm, please.”

  Brian turned back as he got up. “Thank you, sir, you won’t be sorry—” and immediately knew that he had made yet another grave error. Paul’s grimace told him so.

  “And gag him,” Grendel said softly. The majordomo nodded and pushed Brian out the door. As they were exiting, Grendel turned back to Paul with a devilish glint in his eyes. “Our choice for your next find? How about a pair of twins...”

  * * * *

  “May I serve you tea, ma’am?” The server’s body was bent awkwardly forward. His large hands held the teapot gingerly, aware of how much more fragile it seemed when those blunt, calloused fingers were wrapped around the delicate handle. He started pouring at once.

  Alexandra cut off her reply as he poured and studied him some more, unabashedly amazed at the sight.

  He had to be over six feet tall in his stocking feet, so the grotesquely large high-heeled shoes he was wearing made him seem like a giant. The corset-style maid’s costume he wore emphasized the broad expanse of his back. A beautiful wig gave him styled locks of bleached-blond hair which contrasted with the barely discernible shading on his cheeks and chin.

  “Would you like some sugar, Mistress?” His voice was scaled up to approximate something feminine. Alexandra declined, and he offered the sugar tray toward the woman who brought him, who waved it away. With a slight rattle, he replaced it on the table and reached for the lemon. His offering was stiff, and his hand trembled, and when he replaced the lemon, the china rattled some more. He whimpered.

  Alexandra narrowed her eyes as he lifted the creamer. They followed his shaking hand as he poured a little cream into the other woman’s cup and droplets spilled down the side.

  “Oh dear, oh dear! I’m so sorry Mistress!” That comic-opera voice grated.

  “Just serve the sweets, Roberta,” came the icy reply.

  The creamer quickly found its way to the table, where it left a growing stain. The man in the maid’s uniform hurried in ridiculous little steps to the sideboard, where he picked up the waiting tray and turned around. But as he stepped toward the table, the stiletto heel of his right shoe caught on the edge of the carpet.

  Alexandra closed her eyes.

  The man stumbled, lost his balance, and the tray shook in his hands. His face a mask of horror, he tried to regain his feet and succeeded, but the tray had tilted too far already. A plate of cookies slid neatly off.

  Alexandra heard the dull thumping of the tray hitting the floor and sighed. What a stereotype. But when she opened her eyes to see the damage, the only thing on the floor was the tray. The plate of cookies was in the man’s hand. His knees were still bent. He had caught the plate before it fell, sacrificing the tray. Nice move. But totally irrelevant in the context of the scene.

  He had also started to cry.

  “Oh, dear! I’m so sorry, Mistress! I am so bad! Please don’t punish me, I didn’t let them fall! Please?” He sniffed.

  “That will be enough... Roberta. Chris, please?” Alexandra beckoned, and Chris came forward, picked up the tray and replaced it on the sideboard, and took the plate from the man’s hand. Placing it on the table, he gave a slight bow to the two women, and then took the sniffling man by the elbow and led him from the room. Alexandra watched them leave with a sigh.

  “What was that?” she asked, ignoring the tea.

  “That was a perfectly good slave, absolutely ruined... ruined! by some amateur bimbos who called themselves ‘mistresses!’” Ali glared at the closed door. “Do you believe it? The first time I saw him, I thought it was a joke, some kind of one-time role switching, maybe a punishment. The woman who ‘owned’ him,” she raised her fingers to make imaginary quotation marks, “was, well...” She sighed and said a name and Alexandra nodded. “You know, Ms. Famous All Around the World, I’ve been on Donahue, and I charge $400 an hour to do this stuff so I’m much better then anyone at it?”

  Alexandra laughed and nodded. Yes, she knew the type and knew the particular woman involved as well.

  Ali continued. “But then I realized that this woman was proud of the way he was trained! She actually wanted to take him on some sleazy talk show and show him off as her great success! I tell you, I almost smacked her I was so angry!”

  Ali Cruz was an expert in a specialized field. She had not been born a woman, but achieved that status after years and years of effort. Her skills in teaching others in similar positions made her a much sought-after mentor, but her focus was on those who not only desired a change in gender but in lifestyle as well. Any transgender property of Marketplace value in this part of the country could be traced to Ali or one of her students or friends. They were all uniquely qualified to deal with the combined needs and pressures of their clients. Ali had been to the house many times before.

  “He... Robert?... he doesn’t really want to change, does he?” Alexandra asked, opening his file. It was very brief.

  “No! Oh, God, no. Co
uld you imagine? He’d be an Amazon!” Ali rolled her eyes. “He’d be a silly-looking Amazon. But can you believe it? That... woman he was with wanted him to go for electrolysis. And he has got to have beautiful body hair... when it grows back. You’ll see. And Alexandra... his cock. It’s beautiful. Huge. Mama, men would kill for such a cock. And he’s ashamed of it. That’s how I met him. He was actually attending meetings asking about where he could get it cut off! To please his mistress, he said.”

  Alexandra shrugged. “Not unheard of.”

  “You’re telling me? I hear it all the time. But he’s not really like that, Alexandra. He’s all man, inside and out. He’s just a little confused, about the slave part. I know, believe me. He’s a natural slave. Trust me on this, babe, have I ever lied to you? Of course not! It’s just that he needs to be... deprogrammed.”

  “Ah. You mean, he’s stuck.”

  Ali nodded. “Too many women told him that he should behave like that and look like that if he was going to be submissive to women. And Mistress Prime Time, She Who Must Know Everything, told him so. What else could he do? He wanted to be a slave, and that’s how he was told slaves should act.” She shook her head.

  “Well, somewhere in there, he made the decision to put those clothes on,” Alexandra commented. “You can’t blame it all on the tops.”

  “Of course not! But still, it’s a sin. I want you to do whatever you do, find out what he’s good for, and get him out of those stupid clothes. He wants to be owned, Alex. He needs it. But like this? You couldn’t move him for play money.”

  “Do you know,” Alexandra asked in between making marks on her notepad, “he’s the second maid I’ve seen today? But we’ll take him.”

  “You’re an angel. A miracle worker! Have a good time with him.” Ali brought her notebook out, bracelets jangling, and wrote down some notes. “If he gets through the evaluation, keep him as long as you need to. He wants to be sold to a woman, but I told him about house rules. I told him everything.” She stressed the last word, glancing up to give it extra meaning. The two women shook hands warmly.