Twenty-One

by D. Victoria BonAnno

  Faith reached over and caressed the statue as if brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, and the bookcase beside it twitched with a heavy click, some hidden hinge activated. The twins pulled the bookcase to reveal a staircase behind it. So far as Twenty-One knew, this was the only way to the basement where the slaves were kept. Faith gave her a soft pinch in the arm to prod her forward. They went down the staircase, dark and gaping like the mouth of an underground cave.

  The stairwell opened up to the training room where the group training sessions always took place. Twenty-One looked down. She had been in this room plenty of times. She didn’t need to see it again. She kept her eyes on the concrete floor, stained gray as a thundercloud, and tried to move gracefully past the dreaded wooden tables with leather restraints chained onto them, the standing crosses that resembled the ones outside in the yard. She had not been bound to one of those crosses yet, but she remembered Seventeen in the yard and could easily imagine herself tied to one, her arms and legs splayed, her body fully exposed. She shivered, though a tingling sensation pulsed between her legs.

  The twins herded her into the sleeping chambers. Twenty-One was surprised to find every slave and attendant in a flurry of activity.

  The slaves sat unbound on the beds while their attendants oiled them and fussed with their hair and smudged their eyes with kohl. She caught sight of Three sitting on a bed near the front of the room, but if she saw Twenty-One, she gave no indication. Her gaze was on the floor as Rodney teased her choppy blonde layers like a demented hairdresser. Her blue glass collar shuddered against her throat with every breath. Twenty-One stared at the frail girl for as long as she dared. She expected her heart to ache, but there was nothing.

  Charity called out to Gabe, who stood behind the third bed on the left, deftly brushing Seventeen’s dark hair. She was as still as the rest of the slaves were, her vacant black eyes staring at the bed ahead of her, Twenty-One’s bed. Her face was blank, her hands limp in her lap. Gabe met Twenty-One’s eyes and broke into a smile. She looked down, but she felt her lips curve a little.

  “Hey, there she is,” said Gabe, patting the bed where Seventeen sat. “Come sit, sweetie. I’m almost finished.”

  Twenty-One obeyed. The other slave did not react as Twenty-One sat beside her. She had seen Seventeen at the height of rage in the baths, screaming and struggling in Gabe’s arms, her lips bloodied from biting the attendant who had crossed her. She had seen Seventeen alert and obedient, silently maneuvering the vibrator during Twenty-One’s orgasm control training. Now she was as blank-faced as she had been when Twenty-One had first come across her bound in the yard; silent, awaiting command. Her outburst in the baths seemed almost an illusion looking at her now. If she had come back from that, perhaps Twenty-One had a chance. Perhaps she could be as good a slave as Seventeen one day. Seventeen’s collar caught her eye, a wide steel shackle that a few slaves also wore. Twenty-One thought of Three’s glass collar and her own, made of thick black leather. She did not quite understand the slave categories, though she knew that each group was trained differently. S stole glances at the other slaves as Gabe chatted with the twins. About half of the women wore leather collars like her own, and the other ten were glass or steel. Each slave was unique, some exotic like Seventeen or the heavily-tattooed Seven, while still others had a clean and wholesome look. They were diverse in figure and ethnicity, but each one was beautiful.

  Twenty-One relaxed the minute Gabe began to rub her shoulders, his hands slick with gleaming oil. The muscles he worked seemed to melt, and Twenty-One no longer cared about the other slaves or what their collars meant. It was not her business unless her Master chose to tell her. Thought dissipated into the rolling and kneading of flesh. Even the lingering ache around her brand felt soothing. Gabe moved along her breasts, down her stomach, along her thighs, and Twenty-One remembered how she had cried during her attendant’s pampering not too long ago. She did not flinch now. When he smudged eyeliner along her lids and dabbed rouge on her lips and cheeks, he behaved as if she were a blank canvas, or a mannequin, or some other uncomprehending thing he was altering.

  “Finished,” he said after running a dollop of mousse through her short hair. He wiped the oil from his hands onto his ripped black jeans and popped a grape into her mouth. The fruit burst on her tongue and Twenty-One closed her eyes. She was regularly fed now that she was an obedient slave, but compared to her daily bland vegetable soup, the fruit treats were ambrosial.

  “I’ve got a present for you, sweetie,” said Gabe, reaching again into one of the many pockets of his jeans. He pulled out a flat circlet, similar to the steel collars but a delicate antique gold. Copper rivets ran along it in vertical rows, and three small blood-red jewels hung from the copper D ring on a long gold strand.

  Twenty-One stared at the collar in awe. The other collars, though beautifully crafted, were very plain, even the glass ones. None were studded or bejeweled. She couldn’t help but look at Gabe, burning with questions she knew she shouldn’t have. I will not question. Gabe met her gaze. He shrugged off her curiosity with a smile. There was a weary crease at the corner of his dark eyes. He reached over and unbuckled the leather collar around her neck. Cold air hit her throat for the first time in months. For a moment, she was too startled to breathe.

  “The boss always has a reason,” he said, an edge of fatigue in his voice. The decorated collar slid into its place and locked, the perfect circumference of Twenty-One’s neck. Twenty-One tilted her head from side to side, testing the feel of the new collar. It was lighter and less snug than the leather, but it was cold, unyielding, a constant presence against her throat. The jewels, garnets, she guessed by the look of them, tickled when they brushed against her skin. For a moment she wondered how she looked oiled and made up with a new collar, but she let the thought die before it became a genuine curiosity. It didn’t matter how she looked. All that mattered was that Demetrius approved, or rather, Konri, whomever that was. The thought brought a fresh wave of anxiety. Twenty-One drummed her fingers along the thin mattress.

  “All right, stand up, girls. Let me look at you,” said Gabe, taking a step back from the bed.

  Twenty-One and Seventeen rose in unison. Twenty-One had nearly forgotten the other slave was there. Gabe studied them. He ruffled Twenty-One’s hair a bit and evened out Seventeen’s eyeliner. Finally he nodded.

  “Now look at each other. Everything look good?”

  A sudden timidity brought colour to Twenty-One’s cheeks as she turned to the other slave. Seventeen was nearly the same height as Twenty-One. From a distance, Seventeen was beautiful, but now so close and so still, Twenty-One realized that the slave was one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. Gabe had brushed her black hair so it hung in glossy waves over her shoulders. She had the figure of a woman who worked on her body, with curves of muscle etched into her smooth skin. Her face was fine-boned and perfect as any runway model’s, with full sensual lips and dark almond eyes made larger with eyeliner. Twenty-One felt caught by those dark eyes, not like Demetrius’ predatory gaze so often trapped her, but more like she had stepped into a pool of something thick and black, sucking at her, pulling her down into some terrible depth she would never escape. Before Twenty-One realized what she was doing, she reached over and stroked the other woman’s cheek with the edge of her knuckle. Seventeen blinked in surprise, looking at Twenty-One as if seeing her for the first time.

  Gabe laughed. “Easy, sweetie. Save it for the photos.”

  Twenty-One’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. Seventeen took her hand before she could draw it back. She pulled the hand away from her cheek and gave it a gentle squeeze before she let it drop. Twenty-One bowed her head and turned back to Gabe, knowing her face was pink. Gabe laughed again and patted her shoulder.

  “Should’ve let them kiss,” came a voice that made Twenty-One cringe inside. Rodney approached them, with Three in tow. Twenty-One took a breath to steady her nerves. Rodney’s black boots appeared in her e
ye line and she tensed when he tapped her chin to raise her head. His leer hovered less than an inch from her face.

  “Pretty, pretty,” he said, grabbing Seventeen’s face in a similar fashion. He let go and fingered Twenty-One’s new collar, flicking the strand of gems.

  “What is this, the favourite’s collar or something?” he turned to look at Gabe, who tossed his shoulders.

  “She’s the Model Slave,” he said, giving Three a quick once-over.

  Rodney’s laughter was sharp to the ears, like a dog’s unexpected bark. “Whatever he wants to call it, but we all know what she’s really doing here.”

  A beeping sound from the intercom system interrupted Gabe’s response. Twenty-One jumped at the sound, her muscles tight as if Gabe had never massaged her.

  “Report to the training room,” came the voice of one of the twins.

  “All right, girls, move out,” said Gabe, taking Seventeen by the D-ring and filing in behind Rodney and his slave. Twenty-One followed, trying to ignore her fluttering pulse. She lined up in the training room with the other slaves, standing At Attention like a line of statues, their attendants behind them. Silence crept over the normally chatty attendants. It was so quiet that Twenty-One could hear the creak of the bookcase in the office upstairs swing open, hear the heavy steps on the stairs. Demetrius emerged from the shadows, looking as otherworldly as ever. He was shirtless, but his arms, neck, and chest were covered in a solid layer of some sort of body paint, a messy blend of black and rust red, ending across his upper stomach. Twenty-One was struck by the way it adhered to his pectorals, the slender grooves of muscle in his arms. Even his clavicle was etched and defined. She was so struck by his appearance that it took her a moment to notice the other man standing beside him, a man she had never seen before.

  The man was a few inches shorter than her Master, with mocha skin and short greying black hair. His skin was smooth, save for a few lines etched around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. Something about the way he held himself, exuding an air of knowledge and experience, stirred memories of a father that Twenty-One no longer had and did not want to think of. It struck her that he was the oldest man she had seen since her arrival at the house. She had no idea how old her Master was; older than her, she suspected; but he was closer to her age than this man’s. Though the new man was blessed with smooth, dark freckled skin, he still appeared to be somewhere in his fifties. His light dun-coloured eyes swept over the line of slaves with a stoicism that made Twenty-One’s insides cold. He stopped at her. She lowered her gaze immediately.

  “The Model Slave,” Demetrius said softly. She felt both of their eyes on her, boring into her skin. “Boyd will be here soon, so start with her and we’ll ready the other slaves for the photo shoot.”

  Gabe’s hand appeared at the small of her back. “Go over to Konri, sweetie.”

  Twenty-One forced her feet into motion. The man, Konri, led her to an unused training table.

  “Sit.”

  Twenty-One obeyed. She put her hands to her neck, arching her back up, At Attention.

  “Arms down. I’m examining you,” said Konri.

  He opened a bag beside the table and pulled out a stethoscope. Twenty-One took a deep breath. This man was a doctor. Again the face of a bearded man with a warm smile threatened her mind. She shoved the image aside, focusing on the cold bite of the stethoscope on her skin as she breathed deeply.

  Konri did not speak to her, other than to order her to change position. His hands were as cold as the stethoscope as they roamed her ribs, the various little marks on her body from training and sessions with her Master, her mouth and her sex. Twenty-One clutched the table when he examined her sex. Something about him made her want to cover her breasts and squeeze her legs closed.

  “Medical conditions? STIs?” Konri asked as he packed up his bag.

  Twenty-One shook her head, “No, Sir.”

  “Allergies?”

  “Latex, Sir.”

  Konri met her gaze for the first time.

  “Severity?” he asked, raising his brows over his glasses.

  “Severe, Sir,” she said. “I almost died when I was-”

  “You’re finished.”

  Konri closed up the bag and walked away from her, leaving Twenty-One on the table, alone. After a moment, she rose and walked back to Gabe, who was in the process of posing Seventeen for a short man with a camera. Gabe flashed her a smile when he saw her approach.

  “All healthy?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sir,” said Twenty-One.

  “Good news. Was Konri the same old robot he always is?”

  Twenty-One blinked rapidly, afraid to speak. Gabe chuckled.

  “Don’t worry, you don’t have to answer. I’m just poking fun at the old man. He’s about as friendly as the Terminator.”

  Twenty-One lowered her eyes, but couldn’t help nodding. Gabe laughed again.

  “All right, get in there and pose pretty for Boyd. We’ve got to get the catalogues out to the buyers.”

  Twenty-One obeyed. The photographer led her through a series of poses, most of them slave positions she already knew. Her mind, however, was far from the camera. Her gaze drifted toward Demetrius more than once. He paced around the basement, talking to Konri, the twins, and the attendants. He plucked slaves from the line and examined their makeup. Twenty-One saw him grab One by the collar and pull her close to him, leaning into her ear, his hand travelling to her buttocks. Something burned in her as her Master handled a slave the way he so often handled her.

  “Don’t scowl,” the photographer said. “We’re all sexy pouts and bedroom eyes here.”

  Twenty-One bowed her head to compose herself, burning with shame. She pushed everything from her mind, her Master, Konri, the man from her past who still hovered in the corners of her consciousness, and posed for the buyers’ catalogues. She was a slave. She would obey.

  Chapter 25

  November 23, 2011

  “Fuck you and this fucking shithole!”

  Rafe didn’t even bother going after Bobby as the door man stormed out of the office, throwing his meaty fists into the door as he departed. It was 4 am and Rafe was fucking done with this whole night. There had been an incident at the Oryx involving a couple of frat guys coming in to provoke patrons. Though the thirty dollar door charge for customers not dressed to theme had almost eliminated such incidents, it still happened with enough frequency for the Oryx bouncers to have specific protocol for handling the situation. They were to escort the trouble-makers out with as little force or fuss as possible, so as not to provoke them or the crowd. Such situations had become full blown attacks in the past, complete with police, lawsuits, and threats to shut the club down.

  Tonight, Bobby came to work strung out on meth and punched a frat guy in the face before he had even caused any trouble.

  The police had come and gone, Demetrius having “spoken” with them and contained the situation as usual. Rafe ran a hand over his shaved head. It was ironic that he had been trying so desperately to gather evidence against a guy whose crooked relationship with local cops had saved Rafe’s workplace from trouble more than once.

  It had been a week since the feds responded to the message he’d left on Bobby’s idiotic watch bug and outfitted him with a recorder in the shape of a button. They had called at least four times since then, desperate for him to glean any sort of information about the missing girl. They didn’t quite understand how masterful Demetrius was about keeping silent, if he even was guilty of the crime. But even as the thought crossed his mind, Rafe knew that Demetrius had had a hand in the girl’s disappearance, and worse. He had no evidence, but he knew like you know when it’s going to rain. If he weren’t absolutely certain, he would never have agreed to wear a wire, right?

  “Rafe!” Marcus, another bouncer, ran up to the office door, his face tense and wide-eyed. “Bobby’s going fucking crazy outside. He’s slashing tires.”

  Rafe sprang up. “Fuck.”


  He followed the other man out into the chilly parking lot, where sure enough, Bobby sat crouched on the pavement, his face contorted in inebriated rage, stabbing tires of the staff’s cars.

  “Fuck you!” he screamed over the hiss of escaping air. “Fuck all of you!”

  Rafe got to the man in a few strides, grabbing him and twisting him into a Nelson hold. Bobby struggled, slamming Rafe against Demetrius’ white truck, but he was too fucked up to put up much of a fight. Rafe wrestled the man to the ground and knocked the knife out of his hand.

  “Call the cops,” Rafe ordered Marcus. He pinned Bobby with a knee on the back, but he doubted the ex-bouncer would try to get up again.

  “Fuck you, man,” Bobby slurred against the pavement. “This job was all I had.”

  Rafe shook his head, looking at the row of damaged cars. Bobby had only gotten to four of them, stopping just short of Demetrius’ truck. If he had slashed the tires on the truck…Rafe paused. Demetrius maintained a rigorous schedule regarding the coming and going of his dolls. If something were to interrupt that, maybe something would happen that could help the police. But what?

  Rafe took the knife in his hand and hesitated. The parking lot was empty, save for the incoherent lump of flesh under his knee. Rafe gripped the knife, took a steadying breath, and thrust the blade into the truck’s back tire. The tire bucked and hissed, and the truck sank lower to the ground. It was totally flat by the time the police arrived and lifted Bobby off the pavement. Rafe got to his feet and answered the officer’s questions in the same rote tone he always did. His heart thundering in his chest was the only evidence of his discretion. If anyone had seen him, or if Bobby were able to comprehend more than Rafe guessed, word would get back to Demetrius.