The Slave (52 page)

Robin delivered a drink with a smile and
sank down to her knees next to her owner’s leg. “You are so good to
me, Monica,” she said, laying her head against Monica’s knee.

“
You betcha,” Monica said, leaning
back with a sigh.

* * * *

The directions to Bethesda were easy to
follow, and by the time Robin got to the correct address, old
doubts had seated themselves firmly into her psyche. It wasn’t just
the memory of Troy, although that was certainly there. How could
she avoid comparisons? Troy had loaned her to a friend who,
although safe, was hardly an experienced or demanding master, let
alone Troy’s equal. Now, Monica was loaning her to amateurs―nice,
safe ones, sure, but not Marketplace owners. How could this be
anything but disappointing?

Plus, there was no way Robin
could be comfortable trying to pretend that she could use a
safeword or tell these nice women that she wasn’t in the mood or
anything that felt like the regular way of doing this sort of thing
among equals. That would be betraying her beloved owner, who
deserved to have an obedient slave who reflected well upon her. Not
to mention it would just feel―odd―after all these years to
nego
tiate
with a top, to set limits. But would not being willing to pretend
that she was free seem even odder than being a good
girl?

And, there was also a sense of anxiety
over how to behave. Sure, they knew enough to not touch or chat
with her at an SM party, but Robin knew that she craved the
discipline of her daily existence. It was what had been missing in
her years before she took the collar―a feeling that she had a
place, with responsibilities and duties that mattered, a place that
was recognized and at the same time taken as the right of her
owner. She had only seen glimpses of that potential when she had
been free, a person here and there, perhaps one relationship among
hundreds of relationships that mocked her in its balance, until she
found it herself.

Oh well. She pulled in front of the house
and put the car in park with a sigh. She had not packed much, as
per Monica’s instructions, so with her bag over her shoulder, she
prepared herself to be invited in for coffee and some genial
lesbian SM play.

There was a note on the door, with her
name on it. For a moment, as she detached it, she felt annoyed―did
they go out, leaving her to wait by the curb? She opened it and
read, “Enter, strip, and wait on your knees by the coffee table in
the living room.”

She
felt a shiver of excitement run
through her. How delightful! How risky! She grinned at the thought
of a nosy neighbor picking up this little piece of paper, and
folded it carefully before stuffing it into her pocket.
OK
,
she thought.
Maybe Judy and Khim will be a lot more fun than I
imagined.

Robin turned the door handle and let herself
into a dark front hallway. To her left was a dining area, the table
piled high with newspapers and bills and other household flotsam.
The living room was to the right; she could see a tall bookcase
filled to overflowing, and a long, sturdy coffee table. She put her
bag down and started to strip immediately, with the order taught to
her by Chris, top down, layer by layer, even though there seemed to
be no one watching. She folded her clothing and laid it all on top
of the bag, and then took what she imagined to be a good position
near the end of the table.

Surprisingly, it felt good! It felt like one
of Monica’s tricks, the little games she played to keep Robin on
her toes. Maybe Monica was more hands-on about this little two week
stay than she had suggested. She had only said, “I told them they
can do anything they wanted as long as I get you back in one
piece,” Monica had leered just before vanishing into the terminal
at the airport. “So, I’d be nice to them!”

You got me
, Robin thought, with a slight
smile.
Tricky woman.

She was too well practiced to
start fidgeting within minutes, but she was aware of the time
passing. From time to time, she heard a sound in the
house
―the
ticking of a clock, and then its chime, a creak, something that
might have been a voice. But no one came near the hallway that led
into the room she knelt in. She didn’t move, other than to make
sure her legs didn’t fall asleep, and from her position found that
her temporary mistresses read science fiction and fantasy and books
on geography, politics, human resources, mysteries... They read a
lot. At least one of them did crossword puzzles. Books and
magazines were everywhere, some shelved, some stacked, some turned
to open pages. They didn’t use coasters as often as they should,
and Robin itched to find the wood cleaning supplies and get the top
of this nice old table clean again.

But when the clock informed her she had been
waiting for nearly twenty minutes, she finally heard a door opening
somewhere inside the house and human voices. She sighed and
composed herself, wiggling her toes for one last time.

“
Good girl!” came Judy’s voice from
the doorway. “Isn’t she a good girl?”

“
I know ’em when I see ’em,” Khim said
with a satisfied laugh.

Robin was already facing the door, and she
kept her eyes down, and back straight. It was tempting to do a full
presentation bow, bring her head down to the floor, a formal way of
offering yourself to a master or mistress for the first time, but
she dismissed the thought. It was too Marketplace.

And if by magic, Judy asked, leaning down a
little, “But shouldn’t you be bowing?”

Robin gasped at this
intersection of thought and words, and then swept down into the
presenting bow, her cheeks turning pink.
It’s a coincidence
, she thought furiously.
Remember not to
show too much of our way!

“
That’s better,” Judy
said, bringing herself back up. She was even shorter than Robin,
with somewhat larger breasts. Where Robin was almost
e
lfin
in features, Judy was softer, sweeter―but with a devilish edge to
her. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint us on the first day, would
you, slave?”

“
No, ma’am,” Robin said softly.
“Please forgive me, ma’am.”

“
I might be persuaded to be merciful,” Judy
said with a grin.

“
Yeah, I wouldn’t worry about her,”
Khim said, tapping one foot. “I’m the one you should worry
about.”

Indeed, she was, Robin thought. Because
Khim, along with enjoying bondage and knives and needles and whips,
also used canes―and no one had caned her since that time in
California. Monica never did.

Did Monica tell them what I
think about canes?
Robin suddenly thought in a panic.
Oh, no, what if she didn’t?
For a second, she
wanted to ask for permission to speak, to ask about this, but that
was wrong, wrong, wrong. She must not give out her desires or fears
like that, certainly not when she hadn’t even been
asked!

“
Well, great, now you went and scared
her,” Judy said with a laugh.

“
Good!” Khim said. Today, she had not
gotten dressed up in one of her exquisite corsets, but looked
nonetheless impressive in black leggings and a silky top that did
nothing to hide her figure. “But I admit that scaring you was not
exactly what we came in to do, Robin. We just need to establish
some ground rules. Look up at me.”

Robin did, and was once again struck by how
sharp Khim’s deep green eyes were.

“
Pretty basic stuff. You’re the slave,
we’re in charge. Ma’am is fine, so is mistress, don’t go overboard
with repetition. Follow orders, and if you don’t know, ask. You
will not get punished for asking, only if you don’t
ask.”

Robin could barely keep from nodding.
Instead, she held herself still and said, with some relief, “Yes,
ma’am.”

“
Monica told us what you
can do and what you can take and what you’re used to
wit
h
her. We might do things a little differently, but I don’t think
it’ll be too hard to adapt. We’re in this for fun―and to get a
little long overdue work done around here.” She sighed and looked
around at the disarrayed room. “I don’t think you’ll be bored,” she
added. “But anyway, one last thing to get out of the way. Are you
in any way not willing to do this? Tell us now, and you can go
home. We’ll tell Monica it was our choice, because we got too busy,
had to visit a sick aunt, something like that. I swear we won’t say
it was your decision.”

Robin blinked in astonishment. That was one
thing she hadn’t counted on hearing.

And
―she was a little nervous and doubtful. Wouldn’t it be a
lot easier to say “yes” and go home, paint the kitchen, and get
some alone time?

She glanced quickly up at the two of them
and their suddenly earnest faces―they weren’t joking around. She
felt, deep inside, that they would do as they said, and let her go,
telling Monica some silly story. And somehow, that made it
easier.

“
I am here of my own free will,” Robin
said clearly. “Thank you, ma’am, for asking. But I am yours to
command.”

Judy beamed. “I like her.”

“
Good! Then let’s have the welcome
party before we get to work.” Khim reached down and threw a narrow
leather strap around Robin’s neck. “I know your real collar doesn’t
come off, but we don’t take service around here without a collar of
our own, so here’s something new for you, Robin!” She buckled it
on; it fit smoothly and comfortably, the inside surprisingly
soft.

“
Thank you, ma’am,” Robin said, unable
to keep the tears from forming in the corners of her eyes. It was
such a nice gesture, so reminiscent of good times and bad. And it
was sweet of them to once again acknowledge her collar, and to call
it real.

How little you
know
, she
thought, even as she saw Khim make a hand gesture. She was on her
feet, feeling the tingles along her ankles and knees as she rose,
before she realized what happened.

That slight upward motion, the hand held at
eye level to someone on their knees―that was almost certainly a
Marketplace gesture!

There were no universal protocols in the
Marketplace. There couldn’t be, since
once the slaves left the hands of their trainers,
their behaviors were determined by owners. But it had been
explained to her, both by Ken Mandarin and Chris Parker, that there
were guidelines covering the most basic commands, with postures to
be taken and responses made which would be easily adaptable once
the personal taste of an owner were known.

“
But why teach me only one set of
movements if there are dozens?” Robin had moaned once during her
training. “What if I have to do it all some other way once I’m
sold?”

“
You are being conditioned to obey,” Chris
had said, looking into her eyes. “Your obedience is what is being
trained, not the positions. When you have new ways to behave, it
will hopefully be your obedience which will enable you to learn and
please your owner.” And he had run her through the motions over and
over, until she did obey instantly, learning to watch his hands,
the slightest shift in his body, or even his eyes, when she was
allowed to look up. His litany of “again, again,” whether softly
uttered or sharply snapped, became as agonizing as his strap. But
in the end, she obeyed. Instantly.

It had come in handy in California, where
indeed, her Masters had a different set of positions they
liked―they spread legs wider, and they liked hands down the sides
rather than across the back. But once she knew the proper ways to
respond, she took direction as quickly―as she just had.

But Monica knew better than to give
Marketplace training guidelines to people outside! Didn’t she?

“
Get a move on, slavegirl. Let’s not make
your first visit to the basement a punishment for
tardiness!”

“
No, ma’am, right away, ma’am!” Robin
hastily moved, horrified that she had frozen in place and still
reeling from the possibilities.

Once she got downstairs, after her temporary
mistresses, she gasped and then had to struggle to keep from
grinning. The last time she had seen Judy and Khim had been at an
expensive private dungeon owned by one of DC’s better professional
dominatrices. But it was now clear they never had to go far for a
quality playroom.

The low ceiling probably inhibited playing
with long whips, but added measurably to creating an atmosphere
something like a grotto designed by a sensual hedonist. Apart from
a curtained-off area, the entire space was given over to a long,
waist high table, a wide armed St. Andrew’s cross with interesting
holes cut into the arms, and a sturdy looking frame that supported
a sling. The floor was covered with overlapping rugs, and the walls
had one long rack of whips and cuffs, and an assortment of drawings
and paintings of women in bondage―and not a few men, as
well.

But Robin’s eyes went back to the sling.
Had it been that long since she felt Monica’s hand sliding up
inside of her? The last time had been long before the ring went in,
that was for sure. Despite a warning twinge between her legs, she
wanted nothing more than to feel that full again, to feel the firm
pressure of a hand expanding her from the inside, something so
unique and so perfectly wonderful that she had never discovered
another sex act like it. Ken had taught her to take a fist―but
Monica had taught her how to love it.