Marketplace (3 page)

“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. Could 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.

“It’s always good to see
you, Ali. I’ll call you in a week and let you know how Robert does
in the evaluation. Now... how about if we step outside and have
some iced tea? Served without the embellishments?” They laughed and
left the room together.

* * * *

Robert had followed the
little man, sniffling and sobbing, away from the scene of his
disgrace. At some distance from the room, they turned a corner, and
his escort stopped and let him go. Robert immediately gave a long
whimpering moan and slid against the wall.

I embarrassed Her, he
thought as he mourned. And myself. I’m such a bad slave, I can’t do
anything right! I’ll never get sold, I’ll never find a mistress,
I’ll never get it! Tears continued to flow, and the sounds he made
as he sobbed were alternately harsh and deep and high-pitched and
whining.

Finally, he realized that
Chris wasn’t reacting. Cautiously, he opened his eyes.

Chris was holding out a
clean, white handkerchief. Robert reached out and took it, his hand
shaking, and hurriedly dried his eyes. Shadow and mascara stained
the linen.