Disclaimer: This is a fantasy universe. Slavery is not endorsed or encouraged in anyway by the following story.
Everyone in the story is 18 or older.
*****
I opened my eyes to the sound of a phone buzzing next to my head. Bleary eyed, I snatched at it, roughly unplugging it and swiping to answer.
"What?" I croaked. On the other side, the voice of my older sister, Bella, answered back.
"It's 11:40 East Coast. Surely I didn't wake you?" My eyes rolled over to the bedside clock, squinting to make out the large red numbers. 11:42.
"Nope. I try not to sleep in. Whatcha need?" I replied. She laughed.
"Actually I gotta ask a favor. I think it might do you good to get out of the house for once."
"I get out of the house all the time." I said. "I just don't tell you about it."
"Really?" she quipped. "When's the last time you went to a restaurant that doesn't serve fries with every meal?"
I pulled myself out of my covers, searching through the pile of dirty clothes on the floor. I found some underwear I assumed was clean, and pulled it on. Tired of my sister's condescending tone, I cut to the point.
"What do you want, Bella?" In the background, I heard a voice on a speaker warning her by name to put on her seatbelt. No doubt her personal jet was taxiing at this very moment.
"I ordered a package." She explained. "Accidently shipped it to your city. Must've been thinking I still lived at home." Her reference to living at home was a thinly veiled poke at me. Our parents had died almost two years ago in an aircraft accident. They left me the house, and Bella the extremely successful telecommunications company. Perhaps not equivalent, but she had always shown a head for business I never possessed.
"Yeah, only a loser would still live at home." I said sarcastically.
"I'm worried about you, little bro." Her tone change woke me up a little bit more.
"You need to pull yourself out of this funk. Don't try to make a joke and cover it up. You just sit at home and play video games all day. It's not healthy... " She trailed off for a second. I didn't reply. "Remember when you said you'd come to thanksgiving, and you didn't because you had a headache?" I didn't reply. I really wanted to just hang up.
"Gerry? You there?" She asked.
"Yeah I hear you. I still workout." It seemed pathetic, making excuses to my sister about my lifestyle.
"I know. And I'm proud of you. But you do that alone. At home" It was true. I did all of my workouts in the private gym adjacent to the house.
"I'll find something to do, sis. What's this about a package?"
"Ah crap. Hold on a second." She replied. I sat in silence for a moment. The call terminated, and I received a text from Bella.
Important call. I'll text you the address. Just hang on to it until I can ship it later. Love you bro.
Most of our conversations ended in a similar manner. I dropped the phone on my bed and pulled the cleanest clothes I could find onto my body, mostly from the pile on the floor. My room was a mess. Pocketing my phone, I made my way out of the bedroom, and down the hall. The problem with being the only person to live in the house my parents left me? It was massive. I was one guy, living alone, in a nine bedroom, thirteen bath modern home. The walk to the kitchen was a bit of a hike. My phone buzzed when I reached the kitchen, another text from Bella.
313 cromwell ave. Pick up by 1 plz. Love you
I ignored a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, finding a tupperware container and filling it with cereal. I really needed to clean up, but it was easier to ignore the mess.
Outside, the lawn was perfectly manicured, the hedges were trimmed and the walks were swept. Mom and dad had hired a lawn service, and I never bothered to cancel when the accounts transferred to me. It was a convenience that reflected on my sad state. If I had to do it, I had no doubt the beautiful, picturesque estate would be overrun with weeds.
Punching the address into my gps, I made my way to the end of a very long driveway. The interior of my car reflected my sad state, bags from fast food joints and various clothing laying about on the seats. Maybe Bella was right, I reflected. I really need to get my shit together.
I parked the car and walked into the building, double checking the address. The building was small and modern, much like my home. It seemed familiar to me, but I couldn't quite place it. I made my way through the glass doors and into the lobby. I spoke to a man behind a desk, studiously typing away on a keyboard.
"I'm here for a pickup." I said "It should be under Isabella Morgan." He looked slowly up at me, and then suspiciously to the magazine on his desk, a copy of Bloomberg Businessweek. On the cover was my sister, with her name blown up in large print.
"Just check the system." I insisted. He eyed me for a second, but began tapping away.
"I'm sorry." His voice was almost bored. "Could it be under a different name?" I huffed in agitation, pulling out my phone.
"Give me a second." I dialed Bella. She answered after a couple of rings.
"I've only got a couple of seconds." She spoke quickly. "What do you need?"
"I'm at the address and the package isn't under your name." I said.
"Oooh, yes." She replied. In the background, I could hear the sounds of a bustling airport. "It might be under your name. Just check for me." She didn't sound at all surprised.
"Try Gerrard Morgan." I said to the man at the desk. He tapped away for a second.
"Ah yes. We have your purchase, Mr. Morgan. You'll just need to fill out some forms." I returned my attention to my sister.
"Why is it in my name?" I asked. But the line was already dead. I sighed, accepting the form from the man behind the desk. Sometimes my sister could be a real pain to deal with.
My phone battery was low, and I was seriously considering an ad on my smartphone offering to tell me which Disney Princess I was. Whatever package I was waiting for, it was taking a very long time to prep.
"Mr. Morgan?" A woman's voice called to me. Two women had entered the room while I was waiting. One of them was clearly a slave, with a collar and lead. She was young and blonde, and very good looking. In her hands she clasped a small leather bag. By her looks, I had no doubt she was an extremely expensive slave. The woman holding her leash was the speaker, an older woman in a business suit. I stood, stretching my legs.
"Yeah that's me. Where's the package?" I asked, approaching the woman. She offered me the leash.
"This is your purchase, Mr. Morgan." For a moment, I looked at the slave, then back to the woman.
"What?" I asked. The lady in the business suit seemed confused.
"If there's an issue with your purchase, I'm sure we can find a solution." She seemed genuinely concerned.
"Just... Just let me make a call." I furiously dialed my sister. "Come on... come on..."
Her voice chimed in quickly, and very merrily.
"Hey little bro!"
"Bella, what the hell-."
"You're the only one with this number, so I know it's you! Leave me a message at the beep!"
*Beep*
I lowered the phone from my face.
"Damn it." The woman in the suit still looked very confused.
"Would you like to discuss complications with your order?" she asked sweetly.
"No... It's fine." I replied, turning my attention to the slave girl. She was politely keeping her head bowed, a sign of obedience for slaves. Her hair was back in a ponytail, and I could see freckles across her face. I had to admit, she was absolutely gorgeous. I noticed a tear on her cheek, trailing down to her chin. I felt bad for her for a moment. I'd cry too if I belonged to my sister.
I accepted the leash from the woman and handed it to the slave. I had no intention of leading her around like a dog. I'd seen enough of that from my father. The slave accepted the leash meekly.
"Come on." I said. Anger at my sister began to rise. The slave followed me quickly out the door. As we left the building, it occurred to me where I had seen the structure. My mind flashed back to coming here as a child with my father when he had purchased Ogivly, our manservant. Of course, I thought, it's a slave dealership.
I stopped by my car, fumbling my keys out of my pockets. I unlocked the door, and immediately realised I'd have to clean a place for her to sit. Hurriedly, I dug through the piled trash, tossing papers and wrappers into the backseat. I became flustered quickly, and embarrassed. I should never invite such a pretty girl into my car without cleaning. That's what my mother would have said.
"You can just, uh, put your feet on top of that stuff." I pointed at the trash in the floorboard. "It's not important."
"Yes sire." She spoke for the first time, and I felt red flush my face. I realised how embarrassed I was at the state of my car. It just made me more mad at my sister, who gave me no warning about what it was I was picking up for her. I jumped into the driver seat, hurriedly dialing my phone.
"Hey little bro!" Answered her voice.
"Bella, you have got to give me more warn-"
"You're the only one with this number, so I know it's you! Leave me a message at the beep!"
Oh, I'll leave a message alright.
*Beep*
"What the fuck Bella? I was not prepared to pick up your slave for you. And my house is a mess, I wasn't..." I stopped realizing I was about to say 'expecting company'. Bella wouldn't consider a slave company, she would make fun of me for the slip.
"... planning on rooming a slave. I don't even have a room ready. You'd better send someone to get her, quick." I pushed hard on the end call button, even though it was a touch screen. I dropped the phone in my lap angrily, focusing on the drive. The ride was silent for a moment. Just a moment, as I heard sniffling from my passenger. The slave was breathing quickly, tears all over her face.
"Oh hey, no..." I said, pathetically. I was not much of a people person. "I'm gonna get in touch with my sister and we'll get you to where you're supposed to be. See I didn't, I didn't buy you, my sister, she ordered you to the wrong address."
"I'm sorry Sire, forgive me." She said, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.
"No, nothing to forgive." I found an unused napkin (they were plentiful) and handed her one. "We're gonna sort this out real quick. Don't worry."
The rest of the ride was a very awkward silence. I was going to get my sister back for this.
We made it back to my house a little before dark, pulling up the long driveway. The car idled quietly in the large garage, the small compact looking out of place next to my father's dusty old BMWs and Bentleys.
I dialed Bella again, with no luck. I glared at the young woman in my passenger seat. Her head was still bowed obediently, and she sat quietly, waiting for my command. I knew if I stepped out of the car and walked in, she would follow me. Unspoken orders were an important part of a slave's training. But that didn't feel right to me.
"Come on sweetheart, I'll find an empty room for you."
'Sweetheart' something my mother used to call the slaves. My dad of course didn't approve. "Don't humanise the help," he'd say.
She followed me into the kitchen. I sat my phone on the table and rubbed my temples. Plenty of memories were coming back - memories from when the house was filled with servants, paid and unpaid alike. When my parents were here.
I could take her to the slaves' quarters, a small house sitting adjacent to the main building. But I had plenty of guest rooms and no guests. It just seemed easier.
Dad would not approve. He would tell me she is positively not a guest.
"Follow me." I said. "Please." I led her up the stairs, and to the same main hall my room was on. I chose the guest room nearest mine because I knew it was, relatively speaking, pretty clean. As I opened the door, I was reminded of my sister's last orders to the departing servants.
"Strip every room." She had said. "We'll be selling the place no doubt." Of course she hadn't factored for me living here another two years. The room was stark, a single queen size bed and a dresser, no sheets, no curtains, and no decorations. My face warmed up. I fought back the irrational feelings of embarrassment at the pathetic quarters. She's just a slave, I told myself, though it sounded like my father's voice. Or perhaps my sister.
"This is your room for now. Until my sister picks you up." I said.
"Thank you sire. It's very generous." I reflected on the accuracy of that. Compared to the servant's quarters, I suppose it was generous.
"I'll get you some sheets and a comforter before bed." I continued. "You can make yourself at home." She moved into the room somewhat hesitantly, setting her single possession, the leather bag, on the dresser. She thanked me again.
"Thank you sire."
"Just sir is fine." Dad wouldn't approve of that. "What's in the bag, anyway?" Her reply was quick, accurate and obedient.
"A toothbrush, toothpaste, a change of undergarments, a comfort toy, and a hairbrush."
"A comfort toy?" I asked, confused. She reached into the bag and withdrew an old, ragged teddy bear, offering it to me.
"Oh. No thanks. You can keep it." She replaced it in the bag wordlessly. Her vernacular sounded to me like she had been trained to call it a 'comfort toy'. I didn't question it further.
"Let's go get you some blankets." I said. We started off for the laundry, clicking the light off in her room.
It was now after nine, and I had heard nothing from Bella since I picked up her slave. The laundry room had been a disaster, a mountain of unwashed laundry, all of it mine, that I had been intending to get to at some point. Luckily, the servants had a linen closet before they were let go by my sister, and stocked clean sheets and comforters. We had returned to her room and made her bed. Awkward silence blanketed most of what we did, broken up by me giving an order, and the occasional "Yes sir. Sorry sir. Thank you sir." from her. We now sat at the kitchen table, the pile of dishes still taunting me from the sink.
I'd almost given up, but I picked up my tired, nearly depleted cell, and called Bella one last time. It rang twice, and I'd given up hope when she answered.
"Hey Gerry. How's my package treating you?" She was taunting me. Not a good sign.
"Great. When and who is coming to pick her up?" I was tired, frustrated, and just wanted a direct answer. She laughed.
"Oh, I had to move some things around. It may be a couple days yet. Don't worry though." My phone buzzed, a text from her. She continued. "She's in your name, so no worries about ownership." I checked the text, resting my forehead on my palm. It was the bill of sale for the slave, who I realized was named Margaret, and the invoice had my name on it.
"Bella." I said. "What the hell are you trying to pull?"
"Well you know. Just a couple more days. I hope you don't get attached to having your own pleasure slave in the house during all that time." She continued. "I'd hate to have to find another one."
"Pleasure slave?" I almost yelled. "You're straight! Why would you order a female pleasure slave?"
"Pretty silly of me, isn't it? To drop a few hundred grand on a pleasure slave in your name, one that I can't even use?"
I had been denying what was right in front of my face for too long. This was Bella's way of pulling me out of my slump. I was upset.
"And to send her to my address." I said flatly. "And not pick her up. Bella."
"Yes, little brother?"
"You're not sending anyone to get her." It wasn't a question. Bella faked concern.
"Oooh, Gerry, it's so hard to get good help these days. It might take me awhile."
"I hate you."
"No you don't." She gloated. "Look," She continued, "It'll be nice to have a helping hand around the house. You don't have to fuck her. If you're really upset, you can resell her. She's a Mason and Brockeridge trained girl. They're top drawer. Someone will take her off your hands for the price of a Corvette." I didn't reply. I'd like to say this was a surprise, but this kind of conniving was commonplace from my sister. I looked at the face of the slave girl. She was staring back at me with big sad brown eyes, her forehead wrinkled up with worry. She was truly beautiful. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to have someone to help with chores...
"You know how I feel about slaves, Bella. I don't need one. I don't want to put up with one."
"Oh, you sound like dad. Get over it." She said. "Happy birthday!" and with that she hung up. I looked at the phone in my hand. The date confirmed it.
"Oh." I said out loud. "I guess It is my birthday." There was silence. The weight of my sister's gift leaned on me, and I considered the concept of owning my own slave. Then the slave girl spoke, choked a bit, fighting tears:
"Happy birthday, sir." I wondered if that was part of her training, too.
We both stood silently in the kitchen, just sort of staring at each other.
"Please don't cry." I said. "I don't... I can't deal with that right now." I realised immediately how mean that sounded. Definitely my dad talking. She buried her face in her hands.
"I'm so sorry, Sire." She slipped on calling me sir. "I'll stop as soon as I'm able." Tears continued to flow down her cheeks. Okay, I thought, time for less dad and more mom.
"What's got you upset, sweetheart?" I asked, reaching out to touch her shoulder.
"I'm sorry sire. Sir. I feel as if I've failed you. My first day with my first master, and I'm disappointing you."
"Not your fault. Not at all. You're doing great, actually. I'm really pleased with your performance." She sniffed, wiping her face with the back of her hand.
"Thank you sir." I waited for her to elaborate, but she was silent. Of course, she wouldn't speak unless directly prompted. I fought back a slight case of nervousness and nausea, realising I was very hungry.
"Let's not try to figure anything out tonight, okay? We can take our time and think this over." I said.
"Yes sir." She replied, still sniffling a bit. I moved on.
"I'm gonna get something to eat." Sheepishly I remembered that she must be hungry too.
"Can I make you something?" I said. She hesitated to answer. That was of course, a very difficult question for a slave to answer. To say yes was to imply your master should serve you. To say no was to decline something from your master. I rephrased to avert the trouble it seemed to be causing her.
"I'll make you something."
"Thank you sir." I went to the cabinet and pulled it open. For the hundredth time that day, I felt my face flush red with shame.
Corn flakes, Two packs of ramen noodles, a package of expired oreos, and a container of protein powder. I admittedly didn't like grocery shopping very much.
"I hope you like cereal." I said as I pulled the cornflakes from the cupboard. Another day of cereal for breakfast and supper.
"Yes sir." She said.
We ate in silence. I didn't care to talk, and she wasn't allowed too. I knew mom would have scolded me for ignoring her, but I just didn't have the energy. I left the dishes on the sink wordlessly, and she followed me up the stairs.
"We'll, uh, figure things out tomorrow." I said. "Bathroom's right there. Get some sleep."
"Yes sir." She said.
"Goodnight..." I thought of my mother again. What would she do here?
".. Margaret." I finished. For just a second, I saw a smile on her face.
"Good night sir."
My eyes peeled themselves open slowly. My clock read 10:30AM and the message history on my cell phone told me yesterday wasn't a dream. I pulled on yesterday's clothes (They were the cleanest) and stepped out into the hallway. I knocked gently on the slave girl's door.
"Margaret?" I called. She did not answer, so I repeated myself more loudly. When she didn't answer again, I let myself in. The room was empty, and the bed was immaculately made. I checked the bathroom with a knock, and she wasn't there either. Slaves never ran away of course, the microchip in their skin made tracking them so easy it was impossible.
My curiosity vanished as I descended into the kitchen, where I found her elbow deep in soapy water, cleaning a sink's worth of dishes. I made my presence known.
"Good morning, Margaret." I spoke quietly, so as not to startle her. She turned abruptly and bowed.
"Good morning sir." She said curtly.
"Thank you for doing the dishes." I smiled at her as genuinely as I could. She returned to her work. I watched her work for a while as I pondered silently. Really, I couldn't take my eyes off her as she scrubbed, rinsed, and dried dishes that had been in the sink for probably weeks. It slowly dawned on me that Bella was winning. Maybe I would keep her.
I recalled one time in my childhood, the kitchen slave Maila had been sneaking me sweets and candies. When my father found out, he flogged her. He explained to me that it was his right to decide when and what his children would eat, and he wouldn't allow a slave to undermine his authority. I got sick just thinking about it. My mother's only solution, as I sobbed in her arms over harm I thought was my fault: 'Don't bother the slaves, this might happen.'
I shook my head. I can't keep her really. Just a fantasy. I don't want slaves.
"We should go shopping." I said. She didn't reply. There was no reason to. "We'll get some groceries," It occurred to me I was speaking in plural, "And I'll get you a change or two of clothes. You'll have to wear something while I figure out what to do with you."
"Thank you sir." It kind of got annoying, hearing that over and over again. I spoke with a confidence I didn't know I had.
"I'd like to hear you talk normally. You may give me your opinion, or say what's on your mind whenever it pleases you." I said. She turned to me, smiling.
"Thank you sir." But this time she continued. "I think that's very kind of you."
It was a crisp, cool autumn morning as we loaded into the car. The sun was bright, and though I was hungry (We'd finished the corn flakes last night,) I felt good. Excited, nervous, curious were all words that described me. I couldn't help but hum a tune. Even though I was embarrassed once again about the state of my car, I smiled at her. She smiled back, which felt really nice. But I could almost hear my dad scolding me. She's a slave, she has no choice but to smile back. I put on some music.
I picked up breakfast for us from a drive through. She wasn't familiar with the process, apparently, so I just ordered for both of us. I drove and ate while I spoke with her.
"Can you cook?" I asked around a mouthful of egg sandwich.
"Very well sir. Is there anything specific I should prepare?" Her manner of speech was perfect, almost robotic. I figured she'd lighten up with time. Probably something taught to her at the place my sister had mentioned.
"Spaghetti." I replied. "I like spaghetti."
"Yes sir."
"Tacos."
"Yes sir."
"Steak and potatoes."
"Yes sir."
"You never miss a sir, do you?" I asked. She hesitated before answering.
"It's what you asked me to call you." She looked at her knees as she spoke, as if she had done something wrong. I felt bad for her. She must be terrified of making a bad impression on me. I turned my blinker on, pulling into the parking lot of the local mall.
"Well, it's okay to just say yes sometimes, or you got it, or you betcha. Anything to mix it up." I told her. She didn't miss a beat, clever girl.
"You betcha." and she smiled at me. I couldn't hear my dad this time.
"So, um... where do you want to get clothes?" I asked her. I was standing in the middle of a crowded suburban mall, staring at a map with a red dot that read 'You are here'. There were probably a dozen stores that carried women's clothes, but I barely bought my own clothes. I didn't know the first thing about women's apparel.
"Wherever you would like me to, sir." I knew she would be hard pressed to give me an opinion. Slaves, especially high-dollar ones like Margaret, were trained to be agreeable. Anything I decided would be law to her, and she wouldn't want to risk picking something I didn't like.
"Okay, well, here is good." I pointed to a nearby department store. "We'll go see what they have."
"Yes sir." She hesitated for a second, awkwardly. "Um, yep. You got it." I stopped and looked at her. Her hair was still in a ponytail, and I could see the concern on her cute freckled face. Her trainers had obviously taught her very well. Her nose scrunched up, she studied her feet, her hands clasped behind her back. She was genuinely worried about answering me the way I wanted. It was sad, but still cute.
I smiled at her and touched her arm to reassure her.
"Cool. Let's go." and I strode off to the store. She nodded her head confidently and followed me.
I wasn't the only one with a slave at the mall today, and I saw many people with their servants. Middle class families with single attendants, older single men with a single, younger female slave (I assumed pleasure slaves), casual shoppers with a slave carrying their bags.
One practice I never understood, many of them had leads on their slaves. It seemed to me more like a status symbol than an actual, functional piece of equipment. Why put a lead on someone who won't run away?
Inside the store, I was lost again. It was my best guess to just grab a little of everything for her to wear.
"So, let's get a couple pairs of pants, a couple shirts. Shit, I guess we need socks and shoes too." I listed things off, and she listened quietly, never questioning anything I said. I looked to her, and she looked up at me, the very picture of attentiveness, her big brown eyes locked on mine. For a second, I just stared at her. I couldn't help it.
"Shirts first." I said.
I told her to pick her own shirts, as it wasn't something I was very interested in. She seemed really bothered by that at first, hesitating, picking up a shirt and putting it back down. She stood awkwardly for a second in front of a display of pink and red blouses. Clearly, she was not accustomed to making her own decisions, and she wasn't comfortable with the idea at all. My guess is she was just terrified of making a decision I didn't like. She stood stock still. I thought she was just frozen, and I was about to say something, but she snapped one up, a little bit too quickly, and turned to me.
"Is this one okay?" She asked with a concerned voice.
"It looks great to me." I didn't really have an opinion on women's clothes. "Pick a couple more and we'll go try them on." I told her. She repeated the process a few more times, hesitating, considering, thinking, then asking for my approval on any given piece of clothing. It was a little frustrating, but I understood. She wasn't taught how to pick her own clothes out. She was taught to wear whatever was given to her.
Some time later, we had gathered what I deemed a sufficient amount of clothes, and moved through the painful process of trying them for fits. She didn't try them on all at once in the changing area, instead putting on a single piece of clothing, coming out of the stall for my approval (Which I invariably gave) and then moving to the next individual piece of clothing. I heard some variation of "Is this suitable, sir?" About three dozen times by the time we made it to checkout, but I didn't mind. It made me happy to tell her yes every single time, and see her happiness at my approval. I hoped it would never get old.
Once outside of the store, I asked her about underwear.
"Is there any particular brand you prefer?"
"No sir. Nope." She corrected herself.
"Okay. Just... the nearest store then." I said. I found a lingerie store nearby, and we shopped there in the exact same way. As she held up a bra for my approval, a black, lacey and slightly more revealing option, I hesitated. In my mind, I could see her in it, her small, perfect breasts, and I imagined, her freckles continuing across her chest. I let the daydream carry on just a moment too long, and she assumed I didn't like it.
"Sorry sir. Not this one. Sorry." She said with a frown, moving to put the bra back on the rack. I almost jumped to stop her, holding out my hand.
"No no, it's good. It's great. Get that one." She stopped and added it to the bag with a smile.
"I'm glad you like it." She said. I blushed, but at the same time, I was confused. Did I detect a hint of coyness in her voice there?
Once we had a set of bras and panties she had obtained my approval on, we checked out and left. I split the bags with her carrying some of them myself. I think it made me the only slave owner in the mall, carrying my own purchases. We made it to the car, and began to load it, but surprisingly, she stopped me.
"May I ask a favor, sir?" She said nervously.
"I'd like that." I replied, curious. She gestured to my car, and the piles of trash inside.
"I'd like to serve you by removing any unwanted refuse from your car." She immediately lowered her head after speaking.
This struck me profoundly. She must be getting much more comfortable with me. Of course she had phrased it in the most passive way possible. She had framed her request as if it were me doing a favor for her by letting her clean out my car. And she had mentioned how she'd like to serve me. Her wording was very careful, as she didn't want to seem like she was implying there was too much trash in my car (which there absolutely was), but some slave masters might take it that way. I had seen my father cane a slave for less.
I looked to the mess in my car, then to the beautiful, nervous woman who had asked for the honor of cleaning fast food bags out of the floor boards. It was a unique situation.
"I'd like that." Her relief that I wasn't insulted was immediate. "And let's do it together." I finished. She smiled at that.
It took us about twenty minutes in the mall parking lot to empty the trash from my car into nearby bins. It was downright embarrassing. There was old food in there, I don't know how it got like that. She didn't say anything of course, just doing her job and minding her own business. Still, it made my face red. Once we finished, we loaded the bags into the trunk and set off for a grocery store.
My shopping cart was full to the brim for the first time in a long time. I had quizzed my slave on every type of meal she could cook, and collected whatever ingredients she needed. I felt excited to eat, excited to have a full pantry. I had survived for two years now on cheap cereals, boxed noodles and take-out. It was a pleasant change to see vegetables and meats in the cart.
I felt exuberant on the ride home. Excited and nervous about the beautiful girl I now owned, more alive than I'd been in years. Maybe Bella was right. Maybe this is what I needed.
"Margaret, Tell me about the place you were trained. Whatsis name and something."
"Yes sir. Mason and Brockeridge. I was top of my class four of my six years in attendance. What would you like to know?"
"How'd you get there?" I asked.
"I was sold to them by my previous owner. From there I was graded on my looks and submissiveness respectively, and sorted into the appropriate class."
"Graded on your looks?" I said in disbelief. "That cannot be good for your self image." She seemed to struggle with that for a moment.
"I don't know sir. Maybe."
"I'm curious, what did you score?" I looked at her briefly as I asked, trying to hastily make my own judgement.
"I was rated a 66 out of possible 80, sir." she replied. I laughed.
"Maybe to Mason and buddies," I said, "But you'd be an 80 out of 80 to me." She blushed, and looked down at her lap.
"Thank you, sire." It took me a minute to think about what I had said, and then I blushed too. Suddenly I didn't know what to do with my hands, and I fiddled with the air conditioning.
"Um, what kind of training did you receive at Mason and something?" I asked.
"The majority of my classes were in different types of etiquette, and home maintenance. It's where I learned to cook, clean, and pleasure my owner." She didn't hesitate or falter, but the inclusion of 'Pleasure my owner' made my hands work even less. I just stared at the road and tried to concentrate on driving. She continued unaware of my condition.
"I was also allowed elective courses, so long as the course in question was potentially useful to my future owner. I took accounting and health."
"Can you balance a checkbook?" I asked.
"Yep." She replied.
"Neat." I said. Anxiously shifting my hands around the steering wheel. We rode silently the rest of the way home.
By lunchtime, we were back in the house, unloading groceries. As the last of the bags went into the fridge, I held up a package of beef.
"I know it's, like, a supper food or whatever. But I'd like one of these meals now." She smiled as she responded.
"Of course, sir. Would you like spaghetti?" I nodded enthusiastically.
"Yeah! That sounds great." I handed her the beef and she set to her task, setting long unused pots and pans on the stove. Once she had begun cutting onions, I interjected.
"What can I do to help?" I asked. She looked at me, confused and concerned. The concept of giving an order was scary and foreign to her, and I could tell it was troubling her. She couldn't decide how to phrase a response. Once again, I changed my wording to make it easier on her.
"I'd like you to show me how to cook. What would I do first?" She looked to me and nodded, gathering her thoughts.
"Yes sir. Yes. Um, you would brown the meat. I'll dice onions, and then we'll combine them." She showed me the pan I should use, and handed me the meat. She returned to chopping onions, and I stood in the kitchen, meat in one hand and pan in the other, feeling stupid.
"Margaret..." I said, embarrassed. "How do I brown meat?"
That's about as well as the rest of cooking went for the day. I found out how extremely useless I was in the kitchen, and how extremely the opposite my new slave was. She was a master chef, dicing, chopping, spicing and flavoring. By the end of it all, I had learned the basics, and Margaret had cooked a magnificent meal of spaghetti, almost entirely by herself. I sat down at the bar in the kitchen with a bowl of spaghetti, and invited her to do the same.
As lunch dragged on, the conversation grew quiet and cold. The clatter of silverware began to jar me slightly, as the silence of the room compounded awkwardness. I began to search desperately for something to talk about. My social anxiety was screaming at me, demanding that I be cool, entertaining, that I make conversation. I began to regret keeping her as I half heartedly shoveled another mouthful of spaghetti into my mouth. My father's voice spoke to me, telling me she's just a slave, talking to her doesn't matter, she doesn't have anything worthwhile to say anyway. I took another bite. What would mother say right now?
"This is the best spaghetti I've ever eaten."
"Thank you, sir." She replied, beaming. She couldn't make eye contact when I said nice things. I think perhaps it embarrassed her.
"I mean, you put in ingredients I've never even heard of. Really takes it up a notch." I continued. She just smiled silently as she ate.
Okay, I thought, that felt good. Just keep calm and talk to her.
"I hope you're happy with the clothes." I said.
"Extremely, sir. Thank you so much." I knew she had to say it, but it still felt genuine.
"I thought so." I forced myself to continue. "You seemed excited to try them on."
My brain told my mouth to just keep talking. Just don't let the awkward silence come back. I continued.
"I'm sad you couldn't try the lingerie on for me." Brain what are you doing? I almost dropped the fork as I said it. My palms started sweating. But the brilliant girl, she didn't miss a beat.
"Perhaps after lunch I could try them on for you, sir." She said. With nothing in my mouth, I swallowed. I was very aware of my hands. Should my off hand be in my pocket while I ate? Should it be on the table?
"Uh, that would, be, I'd like that." I said. Pulling my hand from my pocket and putting it on the table. I couldn't beat my brain into saying anything for the rest of the meal. The next five minutes were awkward silence. When we finished, Margaret cleared the table silently. She washed and dried the dishes while I watched her, awkwardly sitting with one hand in my pocket and one on the table.
"Would you like me to show you my lingerie now, sir?" she asked, looking at me with her big brown eyes. I could feel my heart pumping. My hands were jittery. I was nervous, but my body knew what I wanted.
"Yes." I said. She left for her room without another word.
I was excited. Nervous. Scared. I don't know why, but for some reason I felt like I was a teenager again, hiding porn from my parents. It felt dirty and perverse, but I knew what I wanted. I couldn't stop myself.
I stood still in the kitchen, adrenaline pumping through my veins.
She returned in moments, smiling innocently, fairly bouncing into the room. She wore a light blue bra and matching panties. I just stared at her. Her curves were perfect, her stomach was smooth, and her small breasts were perky. And my eyes locked on them as she entered the room. I didn't say anything, I just watched her silently.
"Is this acceptable, sir?" Her big brown innocent eyes looked at me, she seemed worried. I looked from her face to her body, and I couldn't help but stick a while on her body.
"Your body." I said. She paused, arms at her side, confused.
"I'm sorry, sir?" she questioned.
"You're an 85 out of 80." I said. She smiled, looking at her feet. Nervously, she crossed her arms, and then quickly uncrossed. It was a strange motion, and I wondered if she had been trained to not cross her arms.
"Another one." I said, eagerly. I felt my lust rising.
Twice she left and came back, each time in a more ravishing set of lingerie. For my part, I did my best to memorize every curve of her perfect, petite body. She had a supple bottom, and perfect, toned legs, so much so that I commented.
"Do you work out?" she wore a beige bra and white cotton panties, and my eyes were glued to her as she spun in a circle.
"Yep." She nodded, smiling. "Some form of fitness training is required by my trainers. I happened to excel at core strengthening and leg-based exercises." For a moment, I forgot that I was talking to a beautiful woman in her underwear.
"You do workout!" I exclaimed. "You have to join me in the gym. I'd love to see what you can do!" For the last two years since the loss of my parents, the one positive habit I had in my life was my relationship with the gym. My four sessions a week were the only thing that kept me sane. She smiled and nodded in response.
"Yes sir. I'd like that very much."
"Okay. We can do that next. Is that the last one?" I asked. She shook her head.
"One more, sir." She left the room promptly. I knew which set was next, the lacey black bra and panties. I was on the edge of my seat in anticipation, and my knee was bumping on its own. Suddenly I found courage, and I decided I wanted to see more. She was mine, and I had the right. My father would have laughed at me for even hesitating. I ran to the stairs, and made it to the top as I saw her door close at the end of the hall. I walked to her door and prepared to knock, but I hesitated. I pushed through and knocked twice.
"Margaret?"
"Yes sir?" My mouth went dry.
"Are you dressed?" I asked.
"I've changed panties, sir. I'm still wearing the bra." My nerves were high. I had trouble breathing. I was honestly scared, but my libido told me what to do at this point. I had no control.
"I'd like to watch you change." There was a brief silence, and the door opened. She still wore the beige bra, but she had black panties on now. If she was anyone other than a pleasure slave, she might have been made uncomfortable by my unwavering gaze. I couldn't help but stare.
"Yes sir." She said looking at my eyes. Slowly, she brought her hands up behind her back and unclasped the bra. It fell to the floor, and I stared at her naked breasts. I continued to stare for a moment. She pulled up the black bra and clasped it behind her back.
"Is this acceptable, sir?" After a moment, I realized she had spoken to me. I checked my breathing. It was extremely loud and heavy.
"It's beautiful." I said.
"Thank you sir." I shook my head, pulling my eyes off her body.
"Um, go ahead and get dressed." I ordered. "We'll go to workout. Next. after this. Next." I turned and left abruptly.
In my room, I leaned against the wall, slightly dizzy. I could hear my blood pumping in my ears. I hadn't been that anxious and nervous in a long time. I was concerned mostly about what she thought of me. I knew she must think I'm a pervert now. She must think I'm so disgusting, I told myself. I could hear my dad's voice in my head. It doesn't matter what she thinks. She's a slave. But for some reason, I was very worried about what she thought. I didn't want her to think less of me. I was terrified that I had ruined it all by asking too much, that we couldn't be friends because I had forced her into an uncomfortable position.
I was startled by a knock on the door.
"Yes. Hello?" I asked.
"I've changed for you, sir." My memory flashed back to moments ago, Margaret standing topless in front of me.
"Changed?" I asked.
"Into the gym clothes, sir."
I sighed, collected myself, and opened the door. She stood on the other side, smiling up at me in shorts and a tank top. I felt reassured, but still nervous. I fought the urge to apologize to her.
"Hi. Let's, let's go workout." I tried to smile.
I wasn't very focused in the gym. Located in an adjacent building to my home, the gym was my father's. He had packed it with every type of workout equipment you could imagine. I showed her a couple of my favorite workouts, but took things fairly light. She did seem to know what she was doing, and I felt, again, somewhat bothered as I watched her workout. I needed to get my mind off of her. As we finished up, I spoke to her.
"Let's go get a shower." I suggested. "Then do some supper." She nodded affirmatively.
"You bet." She said. I walked back to the house and up to my bedroom. As I entered the attached bathroom, I pulled off my shirt and dropped it. Turning around I found her in the bathroom with me.
"Oh. uh, what's up?" I said.
"I'm showering with you, sir." She seemed confused.
"No." I stuttered. "No, you're... you use the other shower. Across the hall." She looked where I pointed, raising her hands to cover her mouth.
"Oh!" She said. Her cheeks flushed red. "I'm so sorry. I misunderstood. I thought... I was taught.," She stopped herself, looking at the floor. "Forgive me, sir." I felt awkward.
"Um, it's fine." I said. As she walked quickly away, curiosity got the better of me. "You were taught what?" I asked.
"I was taught." She breathed deeply. "I'm sorry sir. I was taught that most masters would want me to wash with them. For me to clean and pleasure them."
I felt embarrassed for her. I shook my head.
"We won't be doing that." I said. As she walked away. I felt relieved. At least I wasn't the only one who felt awkward. My face was bright red. I had been seconds away from accepting, but I felt so... weird.
After showering I walked to the kitchen, where she met me a moment later, wearing a new set of clothes. I couldn't help but smile. I was plainly excited to see her. We made eye contact. She bit her lip and looked away. I coughed awkwardly.
"I uh, hey. Supper." I said. "What sounds good?"
"Whatever you like, sir."
"...Of course. Sandwiches, then. I don't feel like taking a long time to cook."
We set to cooking, and I helped a bit more here than I had with lunch. Sandwiches I could do. As we finished preparing, I noticed the sun going down and had an idea.
"Let's watch a movie with supper." I said. "My dad's got a home entertainment center here. It doesn't get used a lot."
"Yes sir." She replied. "That sounds nice."
As the movie continued to play, I looked over to her on the opposite end of the couch. Then back to the screen, then back to her. I couldn't keep my eyes off her. I watched the bluish light of the screen flick across her face.
There's a side to me I had never known, and I felt... different. I was still warm with lust. It felt wrong to take her, to use her body like I knew I wanted too, but she was mine. My property. I gave in just a little bit.
"Come sit next to me." I said, patting the couch. She complied wordlessly. She moved in close, and I put my arm around her, resting my hand on her far shoulder. I loved the feeling of her warm body, and the power I felt from my hand on her shoulder. She was so small next to me. It felt so nice. And then...
She lay her head on my shoulder, and my heart missed two beats. My throat constricted a bit, and my desire rose further still. At this point I didn't even know what was going on in the movie anymore. I could only think of her. Of the beautiful, warm female that was my possession.
I realised the movie had ended. Credits were playing on the screen, leaving the room mostly dark. It wasn't very late, and a bit of daylight trickled through the windows. The home theater continued to play as I thought about what to do next. Margaret sat silently, waiting for my order. I rubbed gently up and down her arm, feeling her smooth warm skin. The only thing on my mind was sex. But I felt too awkward to say anything, and I was scared, terrified that she would hate me if I pushed the issue. What if she didn't like me because I wanted sex? What if...
I cursed Bella for buying me a slave and triggering my anxiety. It wasn't her fault of course, I was just an awkward person. We sat silently a little while longer. I had not implied any commands, so Margaret would wait quietly until I said something. She was a very well trained and intelligent slave. I made up my mind.
"Take off your top, Margaret." I said. Wordlessly she followed my order, sitting up on the couch and peeling her shirt off. She dropped it to the floor, and I found myself staring at her breasts, still covered by a bra. She smiled at me, but said nothing. My heart continued to race. We stared at each other silently and for a few seconds.
"Okay." I said. "Well, let's um. You look great," I didn't know what to do with my hands. "Let's uh...wow. That is.."
"Would you like me to keep going, sir?" She asked, still smiling.
"Yep." I said. Margaret reached behind her back and unclasped her bra, pulling it off and tossing it on the floor. I continued to move my eyes over her chest, taking in the sight of her perfect, small, perky boobs. I couldn't help but count freckles on her chest.
"May I ask you something, sir?" I looked up to her eyes as she spoke.
"Yeah. of course." I replied.
"Will you touch me?"
I was so nervous I worried I might vomit. Without saying anything, I reached forward and cupped her breast in my hand. She jumped, and I pulled my hand off quickly, realising how cold my fingers were.
"Sorry." I said.
"It's okay," She replied. "I'm ready for it now." I reached out again, holding my hand over her right breast, feeling how warm and smooth she was. She continued to smile at me, and she shook slightly, as if a chill had run down her body.
"You okay?" I asked.
"I'm nervous." She replied. "But eager." She added, almost apologetically.
"What are you nervous about?"I asked. "Be as honest as possible." She collected herself, eyes closed for a second before answering.
"I'm worried I won't perform as required while pleasuring you." I wasn't too surprised. As I'd seen many times, my father wouldn't hesitate to cane a servant for a poor performance in any job.
"I don't think it'll be a problem." I said. "You're gorgeous, and well trained and all that." I said. "Plus I'm a little nervous too. We can take a break if you want." she shook her head slightly.
"I'm at your call, sir." She replied. "What should I do?"
"Well," I thought for a second. "Just do what you were trained to do." I noticed a slight tremor in her hands as she reached for the zipper on my shorts, undoing the fly and tugging them down my legs. I could hear my heartbeat, and swallowed several times. I cleared my throat, and that made her hesitate. Margaret had her hands on the brim of my undershorts, and she looked up at me curiously.
"Just coughing." I said. "You're doing great. Good job." I sounded like an idiot. That was a stupid thing to say. Margaret pressed on, hooking my undershorts and pulling them down. I lifted my back, and with a bit of struggle, my pants were around my knees, and she knelt in front of me. She layed one hand on my inner thigh, and with the other she gently cupped my cock. I could feel her shaking slightly in both hands. I should have asked her if she was okay, or said anything at all, but I was so nervous and excited I couldn't speak.
Margaret pulled gently on my flaccid penis, beginning to tug me off. It was hard very quickly, which surprised me given how nervous I was. Her eyes didn't leave my crotch the entire time, and I could see a sort of strange, intense focus. She dipped her head down and kissed, then licked the head of my cock. Involuntarily, I arched my back just a little bit, pushing up into her mouth. I felt the warmth of her lips and the wetness of her tongue. My eyes closed.
"Oh my god." I said. "That's incredible." She pulled back for a second, squinched her eyes closed, and pressed farther down onto my cock. I watched as my whole penis disappeared into her mouth. A sensation of pure pleasure overwhelmed me, and I bucked my hips involuntarily. She choked, pulling her mouth off of me quickly, and gagged badly.
"Oh god. I'm so sorry." I said. She wiped her mouth and looked up at me.
"I'm okay." she flashed a smile. We both paused for a moment.
"Should I continue?" She asked.
"If you're comfortable." I replied. "It kind of looked like you were having trouble."
"No sir!" She insisted. "I am thrilled to be pleasuring you!" Her eyes were big and worried.
"Okay. Just..." I coughed awkwardly. "Just stop saying 'Pleasure'". She nodded, and bit her lip, noticeably taking a mental note. She was so extremely serious, I forgot a little bit about my own nervousness.
Gently, she gripped my cock and lowered her head, taking me into her mouth. Pleasure overwhelmed me, but I fought the urge to pump my hips. Slowly, sensually, she slid her wet lips down the shaft toward the base. She stopped more than halfway down, and I felt her tongue moving back and forth, massaging my cock. I grunted and sat forward.
"That's amazing." I gasped. She pulled off a bit, and then pressed her lips down, keeping friction on my cock with her warm, wet tongue. She began to work up and down, her head moving, one hand on my thigh, and the other cupping my sack. I felt pure bliss from her movement, and slowly my muscles began to tense. My abs and legs tightened, and I laid a hand on her shoulder, gripping tightly. She continued to bob up and down on my cock. The feeling overwhelmed me and I orgasmed, arching my back and releasing fully into her mouth. It was complete bliss. I thrust forward, and her eyes flew open in shock. She jerked backwards, throwing herself to the side and vomiting on the carpet.
I stood over Maragaret in shock, my pants around my ankles. She lay on the ground, on her hands and knees, heaving and coughing. I was frozen for a second, but snapped myself out of it. I yanked up my pants and knelt next to her, patting her back.
"It's okay. Just get it out. God, I'm so sorry." I said. She didn't respond, shaking slightly and breathing heavily.
"Let's get you to the bathroom." I said. "You probably want to take a shower. Shit, I feel terrible." I helped Margaret to her feet, and she followed me quietly to the bathroom. I left her there, and went to clean the mess. It was a short job, and the aftermath was a small stain on the rug in the entertainment room. I thought at least I'd have something to remember this night by.
I returned to the bathroom upstairs, where I heard the shower running. I knocked.
"Can I get you anything, margaret?"
I slumped to the floor as I heard crying from inside the bathroom.
"No master." Came the choked response. I waited in the hallway for another ten minutes before knocking again.
"You have to come out at some point. I know it's embarrassing. It's my fault too." The shower stopped.
"Margaret?" I called. But she didn't answer. "I promise I'm not mad," I said, pushing open the bathroom door.
She lay face down and naked on the floor, her knees tucked under her, and her arms outstretched in front of her body.
"Sire." She said, "Accept my supplication. Forgive me." I looked at her sadly, laying there on the floor.
"It's not a big deal. There's no need for punishment. And I don't know what that means."
"Thank you sire," She said nervously, and I could tell she was crying. "I will improve. I will be the best slave I can for you."
"I bet you will." I said. She continued to lay on the floor. I waited for a second before I thought to command her.
"You can get up now." I said. She stood slowly to her feet, and bowed her head.
"We're cool," I continued. "It's, I mean you know, I should have warned you. It's my fault really." She didn't say anything. I thought about all the changes she had made, how confident and relaxed she had been just a little while ago. She continued to cry in front of me, her face twisted up in fear.
"Look, I'm not a bad guy." I said. "It's not that bad."
"They told me, in my training, that... sort of thing would be punished by a severe beating." She looked up at me, eyes still foggy. "There were horror stories some of the girls passed around."
"Oh." I said. My mind went to my friend, the kitchen slave, and my father's cane coming down on her. "Yeah. I could understand that. But as long as you're with me, that's not going to happen." I finished with a smile, wiping her cheek with my hand. She looked into my eyes, her confidence somewhat restored.
"What if I'm with your sister, sir?" my smile dropped. "Will she hurt me? Or a stranger?" A steady silence held between us. We both stared for a moment. I realised Bella had won.
"You're not going to be with anyone else." I said. "I'm keeping you." She smiled and wrapped her arms around me.
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