The text pops up on my phone, apparently just a minor distraction in a sea of meetings and presentations and team-building exercises. But when she looks at it, it says, "Unit 4U is called into service." And then Haley Keene goes away for a while, and I emerge.
I text back, "Unit 4U acknowledges service call," and sink into stillness to await further instructions. While I do, I access Haley's memories of the time since I last emerged from the depths of her mind. I see that we are attending a business conference in San Diego, part of an ascending career path that Haley still believes to be entirely her own doing. This is important information that the Masters need to know, so my fingers twitch back to life just long enough to add, "Unit 4U is out of normal service territory." Then I return to perfect, placid submission once more.
The Masters respond within minutes. "We are aware. The diversion of routine was planned. Excuse and depart, further instructions en route." An address follows. I memorize it and slip the phone into Haley's purse. Then I rise from the conference table, allowing my face to go ashen as I describe a sudden stomach upset.
The excuse is accepted without further comment, and I am allowed to leave. This is definitely different from the corporate practice I know from accessing Haley's memories, but I remain calm and unsurprised. If the Masters were able to arrange for Haley to take this trip, they almost certainly could arrange for her behavior on it to go unremarked. It is even possible that the Masters run the company Haley works for, but it is not my place as a slave to speculate as to the Masters' identities. Male or female, young or old, black or white, they direct me and my only place is to obey.
I walk out of the conference hall and hail a taxi, providing them with the address I was given. I sink back into the seat cushions, providing perfunctory but polite responses to the small talk the driver offers, and take out my phone to await my next instructions. Time narrows to a meaningless void as I stare at the screen; a slave has endless patience, and I can wait as long as I need to in order to receive further direction from the Masters.
This patience has also served Haley well-she no longer wastes time at work on meaningless distractions, and she finds herself happy to concentrate on tedious projects for as long as she needs to in order to meet her goals. But it is only when I emerge that we find the true reserves of infinite, depthless obedience that allows me to focus fully on service to the ones that own us both.
The taxi has not yet stopped when I see the next text flash across the screen. "Entertainment/Service/Return," it says. There is a picture following that text, a woman of Middle Eastern descent in her mid-forties, followed by a name, "Masuma Zaman". I understand that entertaining her is my next responsibility, and I can feel my entire center of being shifting to direct itself around the priority to make her happy. It feels inexpressibly wonderful.
"Message understood, arrival at first stop imminent," I text, before sliding the phone into my jacket pocket. The taxi pulls up to the hotel that is my initial destination, and I pay the driver with a modest tip to make sure the journey is entirely unremarkable. I step out and walk into the lobby, and there she is. I immediately understand that her joy is the most important thing in the world to me, and my mind is filled with perfect pleasure both at the understanding and at my unhesitating obedience in coming to that understanding. I am conditioned to obey, and I am also conditioned to accept my conditioning.
I walk up to her. "Masuma?" I ask. She nods, smiling back at me with undisguised desire. "It's very nice to meet you." My voice is carefully neutral as I allow her to set the tone of our encounter. I have no information on whether she is an uninhibited sybarite, or indulging in a cautious tryst away from important responsibilities. My duties demand her safety as well as her enjoyment.
"And you as well, my dear," in a thick accent that I place as Bahranian. "You must be Martha." And instantly, I am. My name becomes a new part of me, fitting seamlessly into the other instructions that I know I am to obey. Haley is Unit 4U. Unit 4U is a slave, and Unit 4U is commanded to be Martha. So I am Martha. It makes perfect sense to me now. "I've heard so much about you. Shall we go up to the room and discuss the security arrangements for my visit?"
I nod politely, understanding that this is the fiction that we are using to disguise her intentions. And yet, it also is true to me. I feel a quiet pride at my ability to hold all these contradictory ideas and concepts and personalities so perfectly, but I know that it is truly the Masters who must be proud of their work. "Of course, Ms. Zaman," I say, politely and professionally. "Lead the way."
She takes me to the elevators, and from there to a penthouse on the 22nd floor. It is vast, but I expected nothing less; the Masters have invested a great amount of time and effort into my programming, and they expect a return on that investment. Slaves serve the powerful, my conditioning reminds me, and while I am not allowed to know why or how, it appears that Masuma Zaman is a very powerful woman.
And one with appetites to match. The moment the door closes, she pulls my jacket down around my wrists to bind them behind my back, and rips my blouse open with enough force to send the buttons ricocheting off the walls. She yanks my bra down and grabs my nipples, pinching them tightly and tugging on them to lead me to the bed. I feel the strong sensation, but I am no longer capable of understanding it as pain. I see on her face that it pleases Masuma, and all things that please Masuma are pleasure to me now.
