The Slave (26 page)

“
Do you mean―” Robin paled. “Is there going
to be...? Will there be buyers there?”

“
Certainly.” Chris slid the invitation
back into his pocket and checked his watch. “Now come, the car is
waiting.”

The car, of course, was a limousine. The
driver was already waiting for them as they exited the building,
and he ushered them into the back without a word. As they pulled
away into traffic, Chris leaned back with a sigh.

“
Normally I don’t attend
such things,” he said casually. Robin, who felt uncomfortable
sitting by his side, tried to relax her posture. “But my employers,
who would have attended, are away, and they have appointed me to
take their place. Upon reflection, I realized that it would be
valuable for you to meet some other members of the Marketplace in a
setting less intimidating than your first sale. It will also serve
as your last chance to interact on conventional social
circumstances. Although a few individuals may know that I am
training you, you are not considered a slave
per
se
. I advise
you to take advantage of this evening. Tomorrow and Monday are your
last days to settle your common affairs before embarking
wholeheartedly into this life. Tonight, you can catch a glimpse of
some of the people who are living it.”

“
This is really living in style,”
Robin commented.

“
Well, this is a formal occasion.
Certainly not all of our functions are this elaborate. You will
discover that our average one- or two-slave owner is only
moderately well off by the national standards. Some wealth is
necessary to be sure; it is not cheap to purchase and maintain a
slave. In addition to the sale price, an owner must provide quality
health care and room and board, and in some instances, vocational
training or some form of higher education. But we are seeing a new
generation of buyers emerging, those for whom their slave is an
investment in their occupation, as opposed to a conspicuous way to
display their erotic tastes.”

“
Tell me about that, please,” Robin
prompted.

“
It is analogous to a situation in an
ancient society utilizing slavery as a method of debt management. A
partnership, or perhaps a family, purchases a talented slave to
fulfill an aspect of their small business. Today, that might be an
accountant or a lawyer perhaps, or a skilled carpenter or
electrical engineer. That slave becomes a part of the business, an
unlisted asset in a way. They may be registered as an employee or
not, depending on the usefulness of that description. But
instantly, they become an integral part of these people’s lives, a
worker whose energy, commitment and loyalty are without question.”
Chris paused.

“
But they’re still treated like
slaves, aren’t they?”

“
As I’ve mentioned, the
treatment of property is highly individualized. The situation may
vary as much as having a slave become a
de facto
member of a family, to being a
do-it-all whose duties begin hours before their masters rise and
end late into the night when everyone else has gone to sleep. It
would not be uncommon to have a slave who works in the family
business but is also expected to cook, clean, perform child care
duties including elementary education, drive the car and run
errands, and then entertain the owners sexually as the mood came
upon them.”

Robin blew out a heavy breath. “That’s some
workload.”

“
Yes,” Chris agreed. “But, in fact...”
He smiled, the corner of his mouth turning up.” Such a situation
used to be fairly common in this country. It was called being a
housewife.”

Robin made a face. “That doesn’t make it
sound very appetizing.”

Chris shrugged. “Yet it makes eminently more
sense to have a class of persons willing to commit themselves body
and soul to such work rather than depend upon society to pressure
half of the adult population to conform to such an unrealistic
cultural expectation. And within the Marketplace, we do maintain
the added bonus of requiring that foreign-born slaves hold valid
green cards, and that all of the merchandise is protected legally
and fiscally within their nation of ownership. In fact,” he smiled
again, a little wicked twinkle of amusement, “I’m sure that the IRS
is aware that Marketplace nannies and housekeepers are among the
best paid and the best provided for in the country.”

“
What about other situations? Not
every slave ends up being a housewife, right?” Robin didn’t try to
hide desperation in her voice.

“
No, they don’t. Many are, as I’ve
said, purchased for their professional skills. Take, for example,
Greta.”

“
OK.”

“
Greta is a skilled personal
physician. She entered the Marketplace shortly after her
internship, and bidding was fierce. For her first contract, she was
purchased by someone who owns a small tourism and cruising
business. She spent two years acting as ship’s doctor on a cruising
vessel that services Marketplace members on one out of every three
voyages.

“
For her second contract, she returned
to open bidding and ended up serving for three years as the private
physician for a Californian wine merchant and his
household.

“
Then, upon her request, she spent six
months training with Anderson, and was sold to Dr. Kaufmann.” Chris
ticked off each sale on his fingers. “Emil is a psychologist, whose
practice was split between servicing the Marketplace, which he
preferred, to seeing clients from the outside, which he only did to
maintain his standard of living. By making a substantial investment
in the acquisition of Greta, he added a physician’s skills to his
services and now fills a specific niche in the scheme of
things.

“
Since physical check-ups and
supervised medical care are specifically provided for in every
standard contract, it is to the Marketplace’s benefit to have
doctors available who will be able to treat patients and make
examinations without being surprised or outraged or even
embarrassed by the existence and appearance of slaves. And since
psychological profiles are considered highly desirable, this team
of two doctors has become enormously convenient. The fact that Emil
still insists upon doing on-site work also gives him a competitive
edge.”

“
I guess so. Finding two
doctors who make house calls
period
is pretty amazing.”

A chuckle. “Yes, there is that.”

“
But what about the other things? What
about the bondage, the punishments, the sex?”

“
Oh, they’re almost always present,”
Chris assured her. “They may be less emphasized, because of a
slave’s usefulness in other areas, or they may be curtailed for
lifestyle or disciplinary reasons. But slaves are rarely, if ever,
permitted to forget or put aside their primary function, which is
to be utterly available and useful to their owners for whatever
purpose the owner identifies.”

“
Which sounds very hot,” Robin
admitted, “until you realize that an owner may have something in
mind that a slave would never expect. Like putting them to work in
the family business.”

“
Exactly. The mark of the fetishist is
the pleasure received in the sadomasochistic attention. The mark of
the slave is in their devotion to their duties, regardless of their
master or their work. It is not a common factor in humanity,
although it is a recurrently persistent one. Greta has it. You
might.” Chris glanced out the window. “Tonight, I expect you to be
my companion, not my attendant. Use every minute you can. Learn all
that you are able. Because if you return to me on Monday night, you
must leave behind your old life with no regrets. Remember, Robin.
Not every master will be Prince Charming.”

“
I was never very interested in
royalty,” Robin replied.

“
That is to your credit,” Chris said.
And they rode in silence for the rest of the trip.

* * * *

It was exactly as she had imagined such a
gathering to be.

The long private drive with a liveried
servant instantly available to open the car door. The matching
couple at the door who took coats and hats and murmured responses
to questions in perfect upper-class accents. The guests,
resplendent in evening wear, floating in and out of a large
ballroom with a skylight exposing an inky night sky. And the
servants―exactly as she had pictured them.

Men and women, of years ranging from
college age to grandfatherly. A few were stunning, absolute
perfection in their bodies and their gleaming smiles. There were at
least two types present, and her hungry eyes took in all the
details possible. Some were totally clothed. She was drawn at once
to the servants’ manager, who maintained a discreet distance from
the guests, but directed the workers when they scurried back and
forth carrying trays and running errands. He was dressed in a
working tuxedo, but his collar chain was draped over his white
shirt, the lock centered on his chest like a European
order.

“
The best majordomos are still trained
in Great Britain and Ireland, as he was,” Chris said to her as she
watched the man send a pretty little slave on her way with a light
swat to her rear. “Or so the majority of owners believe. The trick
is to find someone with an absolute faith in organized hierarchy,
who can both give and receive orders with maximum
efficiency.”

“
Sort of like a Marine Lance Corporal
in fancy dress,” Robin quipped.

“
Exactly!” Chris raised an eyebrow.
“It should come as no surprise to you that many slaves had either
served or wished to serve in various armed forces, looking for that
precise manner of living. Of course, the Marketplace is a more
equal opportunity employer than most military
organizations.”

The servers themselves were dressed (if you
could call it that) in brief costumes designed to force the viewer
to acknowledge and appreciate the form of the slave beneath.
Low-slung bands of black silk caressed the hips, falling into a
breechclout that dangled just above the pubis, hanging almost to
the knees. The silk was weighted by a line of beaded fringe which
danced in the light of the room, and made the band of silk fly and
shimmer around the legs. Behind them, a narrower matching band
fluttered, just an inch or so between the cheeks of the buttocks.
Their flanks were bare. And each of them also wore a vest, the same
color silk as their breechclout, clasped under their nipples with
criss-crossed white ribbons.

They hurried through the guests, bearing
trays and messages, their smiles flashing and their voices low.
Robin took a fluted champagne glass from a tray and smiled back at
the man who had offered it, and he blushed, just a little.

“
I could really get used to living
like this,” she said to Chris as they both admired the retreating
form of the server.

“
Could you?” Chris sighed, and patted
his pocket absently for cigarettes. “I couldn’t.”

Before Robin could ask why, she noticed
something red swoop down upon Chris from behind.

“
Parker! What on earth are you doing
here?”

The woman who was now hugging Chris with a
warmth that made Robin blink in surprise was tall and attractive
and ever so familiar and homey. Her burnt russet hair was pulled
back into a bun, but stray wisps framed her face and bounced with
every move. As she pulled back to look at the man at arms’ length,
Robin realized that the woman was a lot older than she would have
originally guessed. Her long, straight body and the thickness of
her hair screamed thirties. But her mischievous deep brown eyes and
the faint lines around them told a tale at least ten years older.
Or more.

“
Ali,” Chris said amiably. “It’s
always a pleasure.”

“
Then you should call me more often,”
Ali said, swatting at his shoulder. “Instead of making me embarrass
you at stuffy parties.”

“
You could never embarrass me. Please,
may I present Robin, who is accompanying me tonight? Robin, this is
Allison Cruz.” He performed the introductions with a semi-formal
move that Robin had been practicing all week, a discreet nod of the
head and shoulders that looked as natural as a handshake. Robin
extended her hand, knowing that she still wasn’t nearly good enough
at those little motions.

Ali’s grip was firm and cool. “Pleased ta
meet cha,” she said in an exaggerated accent. “Call me Ali,
everyone does.”

“
Thank you.”

“
Don’t mention it. Say, Parker, are
the bosses here?”

“
No, they’re still in
Europe.”

“
Oh, too bad! Wait, here’s my date.
Listen, Robert’s here. You gotta see him, he’s been asking about
you forever...” Ali half turned and waved to a slightly shorter and
more buxom woman who was making her way through the crowd. Robin
had to admire the view; it was quite substantial, but all in
proportion to the woman’s other gifts. Rubensesque would actually
be accurate for her, she reflected. Ali turned back to them and
flashed a quick smile. “That’s my latest project. I better go keep
her company. Good to see you, and great to meet you,
Robin.”

“
She seems nice,” Robin said as Ali
returned to her date. “Is she an owner?”

“
She is more of an agent than an
owner. She handles a specialized corner of the
Marketplace.”