My first week at the family business soon fell into an exhausting but pleasant pattern -- wake up; blowjob; breakfast; work all damn day; skip lunch; dinner; fuck Sam; sleep. Learning the slave trade on the job was like drinking from a firehose -- too damn much too damn fast. Twenty seven centuries of accumulated Imperial law combined with constant modern controversy and revision did not breed simplicity.
That said, I wouldn't trade my situation for all the stars in the sky or a seat on sacred Olympus. Dad, damnably hard as it was to admit, had been right. This was in my blood. How could I turn back now? Still, I was getting ragged by week's end.
Samantha, my constant companion, also seemed to thrive in her own inscrutable way. My dark haired beauty was no longer a forgotten naked slave girl chained to an unending paperwork mill. Instead she had transformed almost over night into an office manager and the owner's favorite. She had a glow about her that was undeniable. My sphinx said little but I sensed she was pleased.
She filled her new office dress well and, though it varied from day to day in details, it was always about the same. She was topped by a black double-breasted six-button blazer or perhaps a tight sweater but never a bra beneath. My nudity-conditioned slave girl had managed to adapt to all sorts of clothing -- just not that. Sam was not a particularly buxom woman but what she did have, she flaunted well. Below the top she sported a matching form-fitting mini-skirt that did little to hide the brief black thong beneath. She kept her long gloves and patent leather high black boots that she had worn the day I met her. And of course, her collar -- the perpetual and persistent reminder that she was mine.
By the House of Erato's standards the ensemble was rather tame covering her almost completely below the neck. By any sane standard, Sam's uniform was enough to break hearts and steal breaths. Certainly both were done to me.
The week pushed on without interruption until I had two unexpected visitors stop by and casually complicate my life. The first was the Queen Shark herself, Desiree Romanov, my sales manager. She arrived just before what should have been the lunch hour on the last day of the work week -- Vensday -- the day of Venus. As I noticed her approach, it happened that for a moment both Sam and Desiree were almost side by side. I couldn't help but compare them.
They were both attractive, certainly, but in so many ways they were polar opposites. The simplest difference was hair color -- Desiree's straight platinum blonde and Sam's curled raven black. Build also separated -- Germanic vivaciousness versus Gallic suppleness. Desiree was free-born and had never known a slave's collar. Sam was born into slavery and raised in House DeMornay -- destined since birth for the block. Sam was a green-eyed sphinx -- elegant and enigmatic. I could never truly know what she was thinking or how she really felt about me. Desiree was a blue-eyed lioness. I didn't have to guess long what she wanted.
"You, Mister Rayburn,..." she remarked as she leaned on my desk like she owned it, "...have done pretty well for your first week. I saw the restock order you filed. Solid."
"Thanks."
"We've had a good week. I think that's quelled a lot of fears about the new boss," she said with a toothy grin.
I laughed a little. "Good to hear I guess."
She shrugged. "Better than the alternative. I've a couple of special orders I want to add, by the way. I've a lead on placing some high end Nubians."
"No problem, Miss Romanov. Just get it to Sam by the end of the day and I'll add it to the order."
She cocked an eyebrow. "Miss Romanov? Please, Ty. My slaves call me Miss Romanov. You can call me Desiree."
"Desiree. Sure," I answered as casually as I could. I had grown more accustomed to my Queen Shark over the course of the week, but there was still something fundamentally terrifying and predatory about her.
"You'll have my order by three. There's one more thing, Ty. Any plans for the weekend?"
"Plans? Uh..." was all I could muster.
"Dear Carl really tossed you into the fire, didn't he? No friends, no connections... I can help, Ty. I'm having a dinner party Saturday at my villa. Nothing too formal, just a celebration of the ides of June. I'll be sacrificing a bull and peacock to honor Juno Regina, my patron goddess. And if you care to meet the crème de la crème of Cythera City's slave trade, they'll all be there. I know they're all anxious to meet the great Carl Rayburn's boy. It would break my heart if you didn't come."
I was unsure what to make of the invitation. Was the Queen Shark actually being nice to me? "Sure. Why not?" I heard myself say.
"Excellent. Here's my address," she said handing me a folded bit of parchment. "See you there, Ty. Oh, and if you want, you can bring your pretty little slave. After all, there will be entertainment."
I was unsure what she meant. She was gone leaving only a memory of her shark-tooth smile and the invitation. Nothing too formal, eh? The carefully folded sepia parchment adorned with gold calligraphy and old Imperial script seemed to suggest otherwise. What had I just agreed to do? But then the real devastation came at the end of the parchment from a single little word: "togati". Literally, the word meant 'the people of the toga' -- an ancient description of the citizens of the Eternal and Imperial City. But what it actually meant was that I needed a formal toga -- tomorrow!
Togas. Gods in heaven, how I despised all the formality and folderol of togas. One of the blessings of the life of a college student was the lack of toga parties. Welcome to the real world, Ty. That's all changed.
It would have been easy to panic. Fortunately, the mountain of work I had ahead of me helped. I decided I would panic about this later and got back to attacking the mountain with my tiny little shovel. I was deep into the paperwork piles when my second complexity much more meekly approached my desk.
"A question, Mister Ty?" The voice startled me and I almost knocked over my coffee.
"Yes, of course, Cassie," I answered regaining some fraction of my composure. She was looking straight at me with her pretty hazel eyes. She wasn't wearing the usual office uniform. She had left the jacket I had bought her at Erato's back at her desk and so she was topless. That's right. I had been so deeply absorbed in pencil-pushing and paperwork that a nearly naked girl had crept up on me. In college, they called that focus.
"I don't want to be a corporate slave. I want to be your slave. What do I have to do to be yours?"
The question took me off guard and I could do was laugh. "Right now, I've only one slave. That's Sam and ... well..."
She's enough. I didn't say it, but I thought it loudly. Wait ... she's enough? One woman is enough? Is this what it feels like to be in l... Cassie interrupted my train of thought.
"I understand, Mister Ty. She's your favored concubine. I know that. But a man of your power and importance should have more than one. I like working in the office, Mister Ty, but I also want to serve you..." she paused leaning over and whispering in my ear. "...more directly."
There is no point in lying here. Having this petit vixen offering herself to me had an immediate effect. I shifted in my chair hoping to conceal the tent I was pitching. My efforts were an immediate failure and in true Cassie-style frankness, she had something to say about it.
"Oh, Mister Ty, are you excited by me?" She seemed almost giddy.
