Marketplace

by Laura Antoniou

  I could never figure out what it was, though. We would lie together in bed, touching each other’s bodies so softly and so gently, I would just purr like... like a kitten. And she was very good to me, she always made sure that I was, well, satisfied. She taught me how to please a woman, and we lived together for three years before we realized that somehow we had stopped having sex at all. It had gotten to be something routine. So we said sad good-byes and kissed each other and moved apart again.

  I tried to find another girlfriend right away. It took a little while, but I found this nice cute butch who wore leather jackets and was very political. She was very smart, too. She could talk about anything, for as long as you want. She liked me to wear sexy little black dresses and big jewelry, and she liked to hold my hand when we walked in the streets. It was scary and wonderful for a while.

  I thought she was all right in bed, but I was a little disappointed, too. Again, I couldn’t explain why. Again, I thought that there must be something dreadfully wrong with me.

  I found out what was so wrong because of this woman’s politics. I went with my girlfriend to this demonstration. There were these women there, who were saying things about pornography and women, powerful nasty things about exploitation and pain and degradation. I started to look at the pictures they had and suddenly, I knew what was so different about me.

  I wasn’t straight or gay. I was submissive. All those pictures they had, of women in sexy costumes, all tied up and gagged, I wanted all of that. I even remember seeing this picture of a women lying on the floor, all bound in yards and yards of rope, and this other woman was resting her feet on her. They both wore these high heel shoes, so high, I could never imagine walking in them! But the thing that stopped me cold was a picture of a sexy lady in a little skirt way up on her thighs, a little white lace apron, and a little lacy cap on her head. She was holding a tray in her hands and giving the warmest, most inviting smile! And this made me... well, it turned me on. More than anything I ever did before. And I knew this while standing in the middle of hundreds of women chanting slogans and waving signs against it.

  So I started reading about it, mostly in men’s magazines. No one notices when women buy them, you know. I thought that someone would, and he would make a comment about it, but no one ever did. I read the ads, and started to send away for books and tapes. I still lived alone, so I hid everything way back under my bed. In time, my butch girlfriend went on to find someone more her style, and we parted as friends.

  I couldn’t figure out how to meet anybody new though. Now that I really knew what I wanted, it seemed that it should be easy to find someone. But it wasn’t! There were no clubs for people like me where I came from. But just in case I did meet someone, I started to practice. I bought high heels and learned to walk in them. I read the books out loud, and said the words that the slaves said, over and over, until I got the sounds right. I even read books about being a waiter, making good tea, and the history of tea time! I really knew what I wanted. I wanted to be a sexy maid, just like in the pictures, carrying hot drinks and being ever so embarrassed when people could see my legs or my, my chest, or anything! It was a delicious fantasy.

  Then, one night, I was reading the personals in one of these magazines, and there was an ad for Mistress. She was looking for a new house slave, and being a French Maid was going to be part of what she needed. It took me a long time just to get the nerve to write to her. I tore the ad out and read it every day, having the most naughty thoughts about what she might be like, and what she might want from me. Finally, my fantasies grew to be too much, and I poured my thoughts out in a letter and sent it to the box number on the ad.

  And that was it, really. I answered it, and she invited me to go out and meet her, and four months later, I quit my job and went to live with her.

  Well, I guess it was more than that. Mistress was more used to men answering her ads than women, and she was surprised with me. She later told me that there weren’t a lot of women who actually liked the fantasy, that it was considered very degrading and something that only men really like. So she was looking for a pretty blond man to serve tea to all her lady friends. I explained to her that men or women didn’t make a difference to me, I just wanted to be submissive, and to be in that kind of role. And if that was degrading, then I loved to be degraded. So she agreed to kind of try me out for a few days, and see if she liked me. She called it playing, but I was never more serious in my life.

  She’s... she’s beautiful. Tall, and dark, like coffee with cream, and clever and... she’s just perfect. The minute I saw her in her leather clothing and her high boots, holding a whip in one hand, I wanted nothing more than to crawl to her and do anything she said. Oh, how she played with me those first days! She tied me up, she spanked me, and she told me what a naughty girl I was. She dressed me up to please her, in short, short skirts and stockings and little bodices that pushed me in and up. I wore stiff collars with shiny studs all over them, and sometimes she would even put me on a leash, and I would crawl after her like a dog.

  I knew that week that this was where I belonged. I would do anything to live that kind of a life. I offered myself to Mistress every weekend, and she would say, not yet, not yet. I think she wanted to make sure I was serious. So I would try even harder to please her. When she permitted me to... to... worship her body and please her in sensual ways, I cried with joy. This was what was missing from the relationships I had before! I never had the security of being held by my lover, being told what to do, and having no real choice. I cried in her arms when she began to love me, and I swore I’d never love anyone else the way I worshiped her.

  It was Mistress who made me into a maid. She ordered my custom outfits and gave them to me to wear. She began to take tea every day, just to watch me. Every move I made, I had her eyes on me, watching that my hands never shook, and that my posture was perfect. Then, when I was good enough, she would have real tea parties and invite her friends over to socialize.

  Before long, everyone knew that I was her little French maid slave girl. I had my own little room, with pink curtains and a fluffy bed with pure, white sheets and big pillows. She bought me a closet full of clothes, little uniforms in different colors, and special costumes for holidays and parties, and for when I was being very, very good. Every day, she would tell me what to wear, and I would put it on with a big smile.

  Dainty shoes with tall, spiked heels, heavy, thick velvet ribbons in my hair and around my throat, lacy gloves and stockings, the thin gold chains she would attach to my cuffs, the jeweled earrings and even the starched white aprons, I loved every piece of my wardrobe. I always tried to look my best for her.

  My life was very simple. I did a little dusting and cleaning, but not too heavy, because she had other slaves for that. But I served coffee at breakfast, tea in the afternoon, and sometimes in the evening. I would carry some of the lighter trays of canapes during a party, and generally fetch and carry things around the house whenever Mistress was there. I had a lot of free time, and Mistress encouraged me to read.

  The best times were when she would command me directly and continue my training. I was a very clumsy girl, and I needed correction all the time. Mistress was very, very patient. But she was also very harsh. I was caned a lot, and I had to learn to kiss the cane every time. It was so hard to do that! But I did, and even though I cried, Mistress would be pleased, and she would forgive me and we would go on to the next lesson. Sometimes the marks would last for days, and oh, how dreadful it was when she would ask me to show them to someone! But I always did, sliding my skirt up around my hips and bending forward to make them easy to see. Just the thought of it makes me shiver. Those were some of the times when I felt most like a slave.

  Sometimes, Mistress wanted me to do things I didn’t know how to do... well, that’s not right. She wouldn’t have done that, and it wasn’t nice of me to say it. She wanted me to do things I didn’t want to do, and I would find a way not to do them! It’s true! I was very s
tubborn, and stupid. I didn’t realize it then, but now I do.

  I... I was always very shy about my own... my own pleasure. Do you understand that? I knew I needed to serve, and that was my greatest pleasure. But... touching... myself... was something else. It was pleasure that never seemed to belong to the other thing I wanted. So I just pushed it away in my mind, and didn’t really think about it. I suppose I thought that all of my pleasures belonged to Mistress now, so I shouldn’t do it any more. Or at least that’s what I kept telling myself when the time came for me to figure out how I really felt.

  Because when she told me to... do it... in front of her, I just couldn’t. I disobeyed my Mistress! I don’t believe I did that! And she was so good to me, so patient and kind, and she loved me so... but I couldn’t let go of my fears and my silly embarrassment, and she was very unhappy with me.

  At first, she thought I was just a little shy. So she would try to get me to do things a little at a time. I never objected when she touched me of course, so she would take my hand in hers and guide it over my body. But something strange would happen inside my head and I would just freeze. I wouldn’t ever fight her, or say no to her, but my body would do things or not do things without me even thinking about it. And I would go all cold on her, and then I’d cry, because I couldn’t stop it, and then she would get angry, and then...

  And then she would hold me until I wasn’t afraid any more and I would sleep in her arms and hope that she forgave me. And that was only one thing that I couldn’t do for her. There were others, too, but they’re more complicated. The simple fact is that when I thought I was submitting to her, I was really only doing the things I wanted to do.

  No wonder she didn’t want me any more.

  I always knew about the Marketplace. I—I even met Alexandra and Grendel before. They would come, once in a while, to Mistress’ parties. Mistress Alexandra even came to tea! Mistress had a lot of friends who had slaves from the Marketplace. In fact, one of the reasons why she waited four months to invite me to stay with her and be her girl, was because she had almost decided to get a girl from the Marketplace and not have to train her. I guess she must feel like she made the wrong decision, because when I couldn’t be what she wanted, she sent me here.

  She didn’t tell me why I was coming here. She just told me that I was to obey Grendel and Alexandra and that they would tell me what was happening and why, and when I could go back. I cried and cried, because I thought that I was being punished for being such a bad girl. But now I know that Mistress didn’t want to punish me. She wanted to give me a chance to change and become the kind of girl she really wants. Or, give me the opportunity to be a good slave to some other person somewhere else.

  Except that there’s no happiness for me without my place at my Mistress’ feet. And I will fight as hard as anyone to get back there and make her proud of me. Because I love her, more than life itself. So I’m here to learn how to get back home.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The worst thing about being a slave, Brian reflected, as he tossed more dirty straw into the wheelbarrow, is not the pain of the punishments, the degradation of the usage, or the sheer hard labor that they can demand of you. It’s not being sexually deprived, or sexually used, and it’s not even being tortured for the sheer pleasure of it. It’s the enforced ignorance.

  He leaned on the pitchfork, admiring the phrase. Yes, that’s it, enforced ignorance. No one knows why things are happening, at all.

  Take for example, Sharon. The body of a model, the face of an angel, and the brains of a fruit fly. Do they fuck her brains out and make her prance around in lacy nothings? No, they make her memorize pages of rules and recite them, and then stick her in private tutoring sessions with a sissy salesman. Learning grammar, for crying out loud!

  And Claudia. She arrives already perfect. So what do they do? They give her things to do that she doesn’t have the slightest knowledge about, like some kind of accounting or record-keeping or something like that, and treat her like she was the world’s biggest clumsy idiot. Cute as a button and eager to serve, and she spends a lot of time crying her little eyes out.

  And then there’s Robert. Bad slave material to begin with, right? But Chris practically dotes on him, giving him private advice, encouragement, and light duties so he has more time to study. And what is the salesman studying? Speeches and poems. Very strange.

  Of course, Brian mused, scanning the stall for left over bits, there’s little old me. Prime slave material, good-looking, neat and fit, knows how to speak to a master, knows how to suck a golf ball through a garden hose, and can lick a mean boot. And what do we do with this lad? We put him out with the dumb horses, picking up their horse balls and cleaning up their messes and getting screwed by the one man on the estate who did seem to like to fuck.

  Which wouldn’t be too bad, if they hadn’t made sure that no “accidents” happened like the one that happened the first time he came out here. He looked glumly down the front of the loose coverall, to a glint of steel between his legs. A little metal cage was closed around his soft cock, bending it and pressing it against his balls. The whole thing was attached to a belt that went around him like a jock strap. The contraption didn’t have a lock, and it was dutifully taken off when he had to take a piss, and the leather and steel was dutifully cleaned by him every night.

  They hadn’t given him this new adornment until the second time he came without permission, again while under Jack’s tender care. He had thought he could control it. Hadn’t he had two mornings of nice orgasms when Sharon asked him sweetly if he would like one and he said yes right away? And oh, how that bitch could work a dick! He had joyfully spurted out two wonderful, thrilling, and extraordinarily satisfying comes, one right against her beautiful tits, the other into her hair. (She wasn’t speaking to him at all any more. It was a wonderful bonus.)

  But when Jack mounted him from behind, like a stallion, Brian just lost control. It was terrible and wonderful all at once. And definitely not worth the two days of extra chores and extra beatings and early bedtimes. And then came the cock cage.

  Which was another oddity. Ever since that first day, when a huge gag was strapped into his mouth for speaking out of turn, he hadn’t seen a single piece of fetish gear. Everything from peach switches to real riding crops to sweat scrapers, rulers, and whatever was at hand, had been used at one time or another on the slaves. But the only piece of leather was Chris’s well worn strap. And now this piece. And Claudia whispered one night after lights out that Alexandra had used a leather blindfold on her during one of their increasingly intimate encounters, and how it felt like she was going home. The other slaves had all shivered in empathic agreement. Slowly, some toys were coming out. But from where? No one had seen, in their visits to the master bedrooms, any cases of equipment, any racks in closets or behind doors. They speculated about Grendel’s workshop, a place he retreated to for a little while every day. Was that actually a dungeon?

  Brian smoothed the straw out and went onto the next stall, brushing flies away as he walked, and pondering the mysteries of his life. Regardless of his distaste for her personally, he had to feel sorry for Sharon. The woman was sexually used like she was a box of tissues, take one and pass the box on. Jack used her, Rachel had taken to dragging her off every once in a while, and even the visiting masseur, Jose, or Julio or whatever, dipped into her when he was in. She had to go through the motions of asking her fellow slaves if they wanted to get some, and whenever no one said yes, Chris had taken to just assigning someone at random to receive her attentions. Brian just automatically said yes the next time Sharon asked, and that was fine until Grendel decided that Brian should not be allowed even that pleasure, and now Sharon alternated between Robert and Claudia. And every time Sharon failed to please, not only was she punished in the regular way, with beatings and deprivations, but Chris would take something out of her bathing kit, like her hairbrush, or her shampoo, or even her soap. Brian wasn’t quite sure if he understood ho
w Sharon must feel about having to appear looking messy or dirty, or even smelling of sex and sweat, but it must be pretty awful. He knew he would hate it.

  The only people who hadn’t used her were Grendel and Alexandra. In fact, she still hadn‘t even been invited to see them after dinner. She was the only one. And she didn’t like that one bit. When the week turned and she had a chance to ask her questions again, she demanded to know why she hadn’t been chosen to serve the owners in their bedrooms.

  “Because you’re not good enough,” was Chris’s quick, dispassionate response.

  “Well, what do I have to do to get good enough?” she had immediately asked.

  “You’ll have to ask Ms. Selador or Mr. Elliot about that, Sharon.”

  Brian didn’t know what her answers had been when she did, but it was two days after the questions had been asked, and she still hadn’t been called out of the evening line up to freshen up and see either mistress or master.

  And what was going on with Robert? Not only was Chris treating him so nicely, but his punishments were down to practically nothing! Instead, every time Robert messed up and lapsed into his little girl behavior or whimpered when he should have moaned, or cried when there wasn’t a reason, Chris grabbed whoever else was nearby and beat the hell out of them! And there was no avoiding this; everyone had to pass someone while they did their work. And many of these proxy punishments happened during one of their line ups, when everyone was there, ready to be chosen, seemingly at random. Brian had already caught two strappings for Robert’s bad behavior. And no one could think of anything to do about it but learn to hate poor Robert, who was clueless over the whole thing.

  We are all being messed with, he finally decided. There’s a huge scam going, and Alexandra and Grendel are just playing these big games with our minds. He remembered a cartoon he had seen once. A hand was spreading toothpaste on a figure of a smiling man. The caption read, “God brushes his teeth with our minds twice a day.” Somehow, that applied here.