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The Invisible Servant.
Birgitte was an overbearing persona, and Master supplicated her with endless tributes and niceties, giving her not only his bank balance, but his body as well. Endless diamonds, precious stones, black pearls, and white gold, her favorites. It was as though he was courting her every day anew.
She took his gifts as though they were mere entitlements, her cool countenance tightly controlled even if she was pleased. It was fascinating to watch them interact now that I had my indoctrination into slavery well behind me. I could see she played a more subtle version of his game for much higher odds than Master and I had, and she bent him to her will as easily as a green sapling. In spite of this they would argue often, one day I overheard her in her usual displeasure tell him quite loudly.
"Neanderthals don't have an opinion, so shut up!"
I have no idea what the disagreement was about and I never found out. Often I would catch snippets of such moments, and part of me felt frightened for Master, how could he be so blind.
The upside of all this for me was for the most part I went mostly unnoticed. I found if I was careful and kept things orderly and clean I could even steal a few hours a day for my own. I filled them with reading and learning as I always did, Master had a wonderful library room and I lost myself there at every opportunity. Self improvement was always something that placed high on my agenda.
Birgitte was absent almost fifty percent of the time, her modeling career required it. Master did not have the leisure to follow. I sensed he may have liked to, but work and his dubious past kept him firmly anchored at home in Denmark. So he and I spent many days alone together in his expansive home. The best thing about this time was I could sleep in his bed, however things were different now, he seemed a very different man from the one I shared a bed within Copenhagen. He seemed troubled and most morose.
We saw his elder Brother very rarely, a strange irony as I had always assumed after the move to Arhus we would have seen so much more of him. When he did visit he seemed cool and detached, and kept his conversations solidly on the company and its issues. Occasionally he would speak of his Father and Mother. Master would just shrug, he seemed to have very little passing interest in his parents affairs, and even less in seeing them.
Svend Eriksen would still look at me though his expressive gray eyes, full of longing, speaking volumes to me in a mere gaze. I felt he wanted so much more, more than it was in my capacity to give. However it appeared he had resigned himself to the fact I had chosen, and he was respecting my choice.
Men of influence sent her flowers and gifts, it seemed Birgitte's star was indeed on the rise. Master watched her from the sidelines. I don't believe he wanted to feel important, at least in the sense that she did, but the press of European millionaires all blatantly coveting what was his, took its toll. It was during this time I began to notice the erratic changes in him. They were subtle at first, the smallest things. I saw them I suppose because I knew him so well. Each episode making me ponder if it was not something deeper?
To begin with Master seemed to have this chronic sniffle, he rarely got sick. In all the years I had known him he was a very robust man, rarely skipping work for any ailment; perhaps because he was one of the management he felt more duty to his work, and even when he had broken his leg he still chafed at the thought of resting while he healed.
In recent weeks especially while Birgitte was absent he had seemed to vacillate between periods of intense enthusiasm, to crushing moods of dark lethargy. His sexual appetites would follow these wild mood swings. At one moment he was boisterous and almost fun loving, and at others such darkness consumed him, even I who knew him intimately felt hard pressed to understand. I would not have been a dutiful slave if I had not felt such deep worry, and as always I gave him my body unreservedly as the canvas for his desires.
One quiet afternoon only a month after his wedding, Master appeared most odd to me. Birgitte was again in Paris, and he was alone working as he often did. He looked up, like a golden lion from his vast stacks of papers and plans that shrouded his desk in his office and called to me.
I dropped the vacuum and peered around the doorway, he wordlessly motioned me to sit in his lap. I clambered up on to his strong legs and sat looking at him closely, I missed this immensely, the closeness we once shared, the scent of him, and his warmness.
Gazing at him closely he seemed fevered, his green eyes were bloodshot and shone with surreal brilliance, yet I could smell no alcohol on his breath. The mahogany paneled room was quite dark, even in the midday light, however I could not help but notice his pupils seemed excessively dilated; deep black pools. He just looked at me long, it was most unnerving, and never uttered a word.
He rose from his chair, lifting me as he stood, his arms were shaking, most unusual, he was always so strong, and solid to me. Today he appeared most unwell, his skin and presence felt fevered. I touched his face, I was correct, he was very warm, sweating slightly. He was ill then.
For these daytime dalliances he often sought the closest ground floor bedroom, there was one in particular we frequented that was just located just off his office space. He took me there and deposited me on the bed. He stood motionless at the foot of it eyeing me like the predator I had always known him to be.
"Stay put."
He turned on his heel and left me to lay there on my back looking up at the ceiling. He was gone some time, the house was vast and silent, I heard the grandfather clock chime three pm and the phone ring numerous times unanswered on his desk.
His steps loud in the hallway on the black granite as he approached, my eyes alighting on him the instant he reappeared in the doorway. In his hand he had a large kitchen knife, the one I always carved meat with, it was exceedingly sharp. I knew that firsthand. I had expected rope, it was so like him to always do the unexpected. I found I could not look at his face, only the keen blade in his hand as he approached the bed.
He did not remove his clothing but lay beside me pulling me to him, my back and behind nestled against his hard stomach, both his arms about me, the knife before my eyes. I was right he felt terribly hot, but I was by now sure he was not drunk. I felt alarmed, I could not place what was the matter with him.
"All women are users and liars." He stated, his voice was hoarse and bitter. "She doesn't love me, she's seeing someone else! I know it."
I lay very still, he was speaking to me yet he was not. I did not have to presume he was speaking of his new wife. His hasty marriage already dissolving into bitter disappointment. He looked more troubled than I had ever witnessed him to be. However I had eyes only for the blade he held carelessly in his hand, and ears only for his utterances and the tone of them.
