Marketplace (17 page)

“Very nice,” Chris said.
But the look in his steel-framed eyes was vicious amusement. “What
do you think, Brian?”

“Please, Chris,” Brian
choked out. “I... I don’t... I never...”

“Yes?” Chris
prompted.

“Please. I... I hate this.
Can I speak to Master Grendel? I can explain...”

Chris shook his head. “It’s
very impertinent for you to express such a judgment about your
master’s desire to adorn you. You hate it? That’s just too bad.”
Without taking his eyes away from Brian’s face, Chris held his hand
out again. When Claudia didn’t drop something into it instantly, he
gently smacked her across the top of her head, the way teenagers
take shots at each other in play. His hand returned to the open
position by her while his eyes pinned Brian to his spot on the
chilly tile floor.

The last thing to be added
for adornment was another length of ribbon. Chris let it unravel
from the ball that Claudia belatedly passed to him, and gathered up
Brian’s cock and balls in one hand.

Brian closed his
eyes.

The ribbon went around
them, and then crossed to separate the cock from the balls, and
then each ball from the other. The ends of the ribbon crossed each
other neatly around the whole package securely but not tightly, and
then tied at the top. Another bow. A neat, crisp one.

“There!” Chris announced
cheerfully. “That finishes the look. You may continue your work,
Brian.” Without another word, Chris and Claudia left the
room.

Brian remained at
attention. His hands were locked at his sides, his entire body as
erect as his cock wasn’t. Shame flooded through him. Clamps,
leather, straps, boots, chains, yes!

But pink ribbons and
bows?

All over his body. His
naked, shaven body. No. Oh God, no.

Rachel stepped in front of
him and pulled gently on the ribbons cascading down his chest.
Pleasure shot through his nipples, and she smiled at the tension in
his face. Wrapping the ribbons around her fingers, she led him,
stumbling, across the room, where there was a large table used for
folding laundry. She edged up against it released him, leaving him
standing at attention in front of her.

Carefully, she lifted the
edge of her black dress, revealing that she wore stockings and not
pantyhose, and that she had no panties on whatsoever. She slipped
herself neatly onto the table and reached out to get another grasp
on those damned ribbons. With a sudden harsh tug, she pulled him
onto her, and then pressed his head down.

“You heard him,” she said,
her voice raspy with pleasure. “Get to work, pretty
boy.”

* * * *

Cook’s frozen bread dough
had defrosted and risen overnight. Robert was given the task of
punching it back down, separating it into even loaves, and then
making braids. Cook showed him once how to use a sharp knife to do
the dividing, how to roll out even strips, and then the simple
method of braiding and tucking the ends in. Then, she turned away
from him to begin making up her shopping lists.

Robert did as he was
instructed. It was really as easy as she said, he reflected, neatly
slicing through the pounded down dough. Just slice, slice, and then
roll, roll, and before you knew it, three even strands. Then one
over the other, from end to end, and neatly pinch the ends together
before you tuck them under. His first loaf was almost identical to
hers. He moved it onto the wooden tray where it would rise one more
time, and draped a damp linen cloth over it.

“Very good,” Alexandra
said.

He jumped up from his seat,
dropping the next ball of pounded dough. It fell with a very dull
thud against the table and landed in a misshapen heap.

“Oh! I’m dreadfully sorry!”
Robert tried to pick up the dough, and his fingers sank into it. He
pushed it together and awkwardly threw it back into the bowl. He
shifted nervously back and forth and then finally came to rest
mostly facing Alexandra, his head down and his hands clutched
behind his back.

Alexandra studied
him.

“Where on earth did you get
the idea that this is how you should behave right now?” she
asked.

“Wh-what? Um. I don’t know,
ma’am. I’m sorry. I, I...”

Alexandra hushed him.
“You’ve been reading too much into some of the more formal
instructions in the behavioral guide. Robert, how many times do I
have to tell you to listen to what you’ve been told, and follow my
instructions first? I know you’re trying to be good, but you’re
also making a fool out of yourself and proving that you have
difficulty following direct orders.”

He whimpered, and his lower
lip trembled.

“And stop that whining! I
swear, you’re worse than Claudia!”

He sniffed hard. The sight
of him trying to control himself was almost as comical as his
outbursts. Alexandra kept what she hoped was a fairly neutral look
on her face. It was important that he get firmness, not amusement.
But he was damn silly.

She turned her attention
back to the table. “Now as I was saying—sit down, Robert, sit
down!—that was a good job you did on that loaf. Have you ever baked
before?”

“Not, um, before I came
here, ma’am,” he said. His voice was terrible. Whenever he tried to
avoid slipping into his falsetto, he sounded like he was trying to
imitate an adolescent boy at the time of a voice change. It was
grating.

“Well, get back to work.
I’m not here to disturb you.” She directed his attention back to
the bread, but didn’t move from where she was standing.

The dough stuck to the
bowl. (Despite the dusting of flour on the sides.) It fell from his
hands and wouldn’t roll out neatly. His strips were raggedly cut,
and he had to do them again. The second time, they came out with a
distinct curve, narrowing to shapes vaguely reminiscent of a
child’s drawing of a quarter moon.

He tried not to look over
his shoulder. Sweat broke out in the middle of his back and along
his hairline. Desperately he rolled out three lumpy, uneven strips
and braided them with trembling fingers. Pinching one end actually
broke three pieces off.

The finished product looked
like a Play-Doh approximation of what a braided loaf of bread might
look like to a visually impaired four year old. He heard
Alexandra’s thoughtful “tsking” behind him, and he began to
sob.

“I’ll see you this
afternoon, Robert. Let’s hope you regain your composure and your
dexterity by then.”

Alex met Grendel in the
hallway. He looked at her compassionately.

“Headache already?” he
asked.

“I think we might have made
a mistake with him,” Alex said, rubbing her temples.

“Here, let me do that.”
Grendel got behind her and applied his fingertips to the area below
her hairline and began to gently massage. “Don’t write him off so
fast; it’s only the first day.”

“I know that. It’s just
hard to see him as a sex object when he’s blubbering over a mound
of bread dough. How do I reach the real Robert? Somewhere in there
is a man who cared enough about his body to work it in high school
and college. A man who played and coached football.” She smiled and
leaned back. “Mmmm. That’s good.”

“I’m glad. And babe, if
there’s any way to find that man under the maid’s uniform, you’ll
find it. You’re the best.” He kissed the back of her neck, and she
chuckled. “Listen, I’m going out to the stable to check on darling
Sharon. Care for some entertainment?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’m
going to work Claudia before lunch, and the contrast is just too
jarring. But thanks for the offer and vote of confidence. I’ll
return the favor when you’re ready to give up on Brian.”

He stopped massaging and
laughed. “That’s a good point. Well, I’ll leave you to missy
perfection while I get her evil sister. At least you get
laid.”

“Ha! Don’t count on it,”
Alex turned around and smiled back. “See you later, my dear.” She
kissed him gently and they went their separate ways.

* * * *

“Are you out of your
fucking mind?” Sharon screamed.

Jack blinked and mimed
wiping spittle from his face. “I asked for th’ news, not the
bleedin’ weather,” he said laconically. He tossed the rake over to
her and turned away to get something else off the wall.

Sharon saw the rake coming
and leapt gingerly out of the way. “You are crazy if you think I’m
doing this shit!” she continued to yell. “You go and get Grendel
right now, and tell him this is just out of the fucking
question!”

“’
Ere’s a coverall—you’ll
be wantin’ that—and there’s muckin’ boots in the nor’ shed. They
may be a bit large for your feet, but you can always wrap a bit
o’tape about the tops to keep ’em on. If it works for the ’orses,
it’ll work for you.” He tossed the plain denim coverall at her, and
she reached out to catch it.

“Did you hear me?” she
asked, clutching the garment in front of her. “I’m not doing
it.“

“Aye, I got you. But you’ve
got to realize something, model.” Jack grinned, showing a mouth
full of strong, white teeth. “You’ll be doin’ what I say, or you’ll
be packin’ your bags for ’ome, and that’s for damn sure. Y’see, Mr.
Elliot and Mr. Parker told me all about you and your fancy ways.
Yet, ’ere you are. So put the cover on like a good little model an’
go an’ get your booties and we’ll ’ave a nice lesson in muckin’ to
start the day.”

Sharon looked at him in a
state of incredulous horror. He smiled again and snapped his
fingers. “Go to it, lass! You won’t be liking what ’appens if you
waste my precious time!”

“Look,” the beautiful,
young woman said, trying to stall for time. “You don’t
understand.”

“Oh, aye?” Jack leaned on a
stall post and folded his powerful, sinewy arms. “Educate me.
Elucidate my boggled mind.”

“I... I... I don’t know how
to do this,” Sharon began, pointing at the fallen rake. “And... I’m
allergic to animals, OK? And... and...”

“And?” He looked
interested.

“And look,” Sharon dropped
the coverall away from the front of her body. She spread her arms
out slowly and then lowered them in front of her in a coy,
stunningly practiced gesture. Her skin was the color of warm honey,
save for a gently contrasting triangle of white between her thighs.
In the cool of the morning, her nipples were erect, and pointed
slightly upward. Her lips parted in a sweet, childish
pout.

“Do I look like I was made
to work in a stable?”

“Naw, y’surely
don’t.”

“Then, please speak to
Grendel about this? I’m sure it was all, like, a mistake.” She
smiled back at him. “I’ll wait right here, if you want.”

Jack sucked in a short
breath and nodded. He turned away from her and walked to the far
end of the stable, toward the tack room.

I don’t believe this,
Sharon thought to herself, looking around. I mean, what do I have
to do to get through to these people?

She had come to the stable,
carefully picking her way over damp patches of ground and wrinkling
her nose at the smell of horses and horseshit, thinking that she
was going to be taught how to ride one. Not clean up after one!
After all, horseback riding was one of the things that Grendel
mentioned good slaves should be able to do. Wasn’t it?

She felt itchy. The pathway
in front of the empty stalls was dirt and straw on top of concrete,
and there was no clean place to stand. She stepped on top of the
discarded coverall and wiped her feet against it. There, that was
better. She turned around looking out the wide side door, into the
paddock. The horses were out there somewhere, probably eating their
oats or grass or whatever they ate for breakfast. Maybe she would
get a really pretty one, like all white, or maybe a big black one
with a white star on its forehead? And she could wear those totally
cool clothes, all those suits and top hats and stuff. Or was that
for fox hunting? Never mind, the tight pants would look good on
her, and so would those shiny black boots. Or would she look too
dykey?

Lost in her reverie, she
didn’t hear Jack’s return.

Suddenly, an incredibly
strong hand grasped her left wrist and looped something around it.
As she screamed her surprise, Jack jerked her body around and
caught her right wrist in a neat cross-tie. In an instant, the
loops were pulled tight, and her hands were bound together. In
another instant, she was rudely kneed into an adjoining stall, and
the end of the rein was threaded through a ring set just at the
highest point Jack could comfortably reach. He pulled it taut and
tied it off, and chuckled while he did it.

It had taken less than
thirty seconds. Sharon’s protest, one long screech of outrage,
ended when she ran out of breath, and she pulled ineffectually
against her bondage. The loops of leather were strong, and her
efforts pulled them tighter around her wrists.

“You’re some package,
model,” Jack choked out. He was still laughing. “Y’don’t
know
’ow
. You’re
allergic to
animals
.
” He mimicked her whining cadence.
“You’re too much of a precious bleedin’ little mama’s girl that
y’can’t get your pretty little ’ands dirty, that’s what y’are!” He
tilted his head back and roared. “You’re too bleedin’
much!”