Feb. 6
[Drawn in the Margin: a beautiful estate, palatial, with a gorgeous sunrise, surrounded by a generous and beautiful garden]
While I write, I'm sitting on my bunk in the servant's quarters of my new Master's estate. The bunk above me is my new friend Kat. She talks a lot, and gets easily excited, but she's very sweet. Across from us is Abigail on bottom, and Yvette on top. Abigail has been here basically forever. She's Master's 'fitness guru', whatever that means. I'm writing this while Kat argues with Abigail about a T.V. show they all watch together, and which episode was the best.
Today was a big day for me. One of the biggest of any slave's life.
This morning, I'd just finished my training (Top of my class), and I had been purchased. By whom, I didn't know, but I was filled with nervous energy. This excitement had my brain in a frenzy over the possibility of my new master. What if he was old? What if he was young? Handsome? Ugly? Could I ever be a good pleasure slave if I had an ugly master?
These and a thousand other thoughts blasted through my brain as I stood, my head bowed obediently. In my hands, I clasped a bag of my few belongings and some toiletries I was allowed to take with me. I wore a simple outfit, a blouse and loose fitting pants.
Nearby, a woman rifled through a filing cabinet, silently mouthing names as she searched. Finally, she located the file she wanted, plucking out a small manila folder with my name printed across the front. The woman thumbed through it quickly, skimming the pages. Once she was satisfied,I was led by leash down a hallway toward the sales floor, and I followed without question. I matched her pace, doing my best to keep slack in the leash that connected us.
The woman was professional, tall, and quick in her movement. She wore a name tag that read 'SALES, Hello, my name is SANDRA.' and a pair of spectacles as thick as the bottom of a pop bottle. Sandra seemed stressed, and I couldn't blame her. I was stressed too. It was a big day for both of us. Arguably more for me.
In the next room was my new owner. I was confident that my master would be a male, as pleasure slave owners almost invariably were. I also assumed he would be wealthy (Let's face it, I'm expensive), and judging by Sandra's nervous demeanor, he was a very important customer.
Before the final door, we paused. Sandra inspected me, pulling a strand of my strawberry blonde hair out of my face, pushing my shoulders back, and straightening my blouse.
"The commission on this sale is going to decide if I vacation at the beach... or at the in-law's." She said, adjusting my bra. "Make a good impression, please," Sandra ordered. I nodded. I certainly intended to make a good impression on my new master, but not because I wanted Sandra to have a nice vacation.
Satisfied that my appearance had been properly tweaked, Sandra tugged my collar, leading me into the next room. The sales floor was as boring as could be expected. A small waiting area had seating and a collection of magazines splayed out on a table. A bored looking clerk clicked at a terminal, trying hard to appear busy.
The most beautiful woman I'd ever seen in my entire life, holy crap I am not exaggerating, sat in the waiting area. She wore high heels, a well fitted white business suit, and a pencil skirt. Her blonde hair was pulled tightly into a small, professional bun. The stern look she wore unsettled me slightly, as if she might be ready to scold us both. Just being in the room with her, I sensed, almost naturally, that this woman was in charge. I wondered if my leash-holder felt the same way.
"This is your delivery, madam. For Mr.... Gerrard Morgan?" Sandra checked her notes. From the name of the customer, she had not been expecting a woman.
Though not particularly tall, the power of the woman's confidence was palpable. Her heels clicked across the tile as she strode confidently toward us. Wordlessly, the gorgeous, commanding woman in the suit held her hand out, demanding the manila folder. Sandra quickly complied.
The buyer casually read through my file. She was taking her time, making my seller more and more nervous by the second. Before long, Sandra cleared her throat and spoke.
"I'm sure Mr. Morgan will be satisfied. Everything is exactly as he specified." There was a silence that hung in the air following her assertion. Slowly, the beautiful woman's eyes drifted up from the paperwork, as if pitying the being that dared interrupt her. Snapping the folder shut, she handed it to me purposefully. She spoke a single word, and her calm, even voice matched her intimidating demeanor.
"Exactly?" She asked.
At first, both myself and Sandra thought she would say something else, but she didn't. The woman fully intended to wait for the previous claim to be corrected. Her disappointed gaze penetrated Sandra, who shifted uncomfortably on her feet.
"...Exactly," Sandra eventually confirmed, with some hesitation.
The confident blonde produced from a pocket a small measuring tape, the type for measuring a person's proportions. She guided me to raise my arms slightly, and wrapped the tape around my chest, measuring my bust. She studied the numbers meticulously before speaking.
"Is eighty-eight equal to eighty-six,
exactly
?" The woman asked. Sandra sighed, failing to hide her exasperation.
"No, it is not," She hissed.
"So then, the product is not...exactly... what my Master was promised." I was Shocked as I realized the buyer was a slave, a mere representative of her owner. I'd never seen a slave speak with such authority.
"It would seem there was a minor discrepancy-..." Sandra tried to explain, but she was not allowed.
"A minor discrepancy, which I'm sure will be reflected in the pricing. Mr. Morgan is a loyal customer. He would hate to take his business elsewhere." The slave was cold, unforgiving. Her victim frowned deeply.
"I'll speak with the manager," Sandra deflated. She thrust my leash into my hands, barely containing her grumbling as she stormed out of the room.
I stood in silence by the terrifying slave, my head politely bowed. It would be outside of protocol for me to meet her eyes, but curiosity overwhelmed me, and I risked a peak. The imposing woman had an angsty snarl on her face, as if she held a bee in her mouth and was forced to keep it there in secret.
Her sour expression did nothing to lessen her good looks. I was in awe at the beauty of the woman. Her makeup looked as if it took three hours to apply, and her hair was professionally styled, not a single bit out of place. I could never hope to be a slave of her caliber. She wouldn't have been out of place on a magazine cover.
Finally, Sandra returned, apologizing. She produced new paperwork concerning me. There was a flurry of signing. In the end, I finally belonged to a new Master, and Sandra was going to spend the holidays with her in-laws.
The slave gave no orders. With the signing complete, she wasted no more time in a place that she so clearly believed beneath her, walking with long confident strides out the door of the dealership. I followed her, half walking and half jogging, clutching my small leather bag. I belonged to the same master as her now.
A limousine waited for us by the curb outside, with engine idling. I was grateful we didn't have to stay long in the cold. The slave opened a door for me, motioning me into the limo. Inside, I slid into a bench seat, facing a built-in side wall television and mini bar. My chaperone sat in a front facing seat to my right. She slipped a smartphone out of her pocket, her fingers flying across the screen. Pausing for a second, she pressed a button on a panel by the door, speaking clearly.
"Take us home, Whitlow," She gave a terse order. As the vehicle shuttled us out of the slave dealership, I used the moment of relaxation to collect my thoughts. It was clear that my new owner was fabulously wealthy. Besides the extravagant transport, he had at least two slaves, probably more. I envisioned a politician or a CEO of a Fortune 500 company.
Not to sound snobbish, but wealth is a good quality in a Master. While it doesn't guarantee a kinder or more lenient master, it certainly means an easier life and lower chance of difficult labor.
I wanted badly to study my companion in more detail, but it was a risk. Some masters, and consequently their high ranking slaves, may view it as a breach of protocol for me to raise my head in their presence, or to look directly at them. With still no idea how strict my owner was, I needed to be careful. With trepidation, I glanced at my fellow slave briefly.
Beside the expensive suit and heels, the slave wore jewelry. While I had no doubt about the price of her shiny bracelets and earrings, the piece that mostly caught my eye was the rose gold chain she wore around her neck. The heavy, ornate piece was more of a choker, sitting up higher on her throat. As I watched, she rubbed a finger across it unconsciously.
It was a common tradition for masters with many slaves to single out one slave as a favorite or highest ranking among their slaves. Frequently, the master in question will mark the favorite slave with expensive or unique jewelry. I wondered if her necklace was a sign of that. It was pretty, and looked heavy, and I thought from her preening she must be quite proud of it.
After a few more seconds of work, she sighed deeply and set her phone to the side. She watched the scenery through the window of the limousine for a time. I sat in silence. It wasn't my place to initiate conversation. Fortunately, my host was kind enough to brief me.
"Your master's name is Gerrard Morgan. Perhaps you've heard of him. If not, you've certainly heard of his many business enterprises," She explained.
I was stunned. Could she be talking about the wealthiest man alive? The Morgan family and specifically the young heir, Gerrard Morgan, were synonymous with money. If belonging to rich clients was lucky, I'd won the lottery.
"You're his twelfth slave, his tenth female slave, and his eighth pleasure slave." The commanding woman breathed heavily. She uncrossed her legs, turning toward me and making eye contact. The gesture as a clear invitation to relax formality, and I met her eyes. She continued to explain. "Mr. Morgan is a strict and rigorous master. He is not kind, nor is he unkind. If your performance is within the expected parameters, your time with him will be pleasant."
"Yes madam. Thank you," I spoke for the first time. She was being highly informal with me, but I maintained a respectful tone. If I was right, and she was my Master's favorite slave, she would require respect and hold a position of authority over me.
