It was getting easier, Abigail realized, to say 'no' to her friends. When first she had told them that she couldn't go get donuts with them, that she had to focus on her classes, she had felt like a betrayer. Now it was easier.
Easier for her, anyway. Her friends weren't taking it any better.
"Come on, Abigail," said Cora, stretching the word 'on' until in nearly snapped. "You never do anything interesting."
Abigail squeezed her empty coffee thermos. "I need to improve my grades, okay?"
"Bullshit!" Cora came back, slapping the table. She pointed an accusing arm (a finger just wasn't enough for Cora). "You used to be all social with us!"
"It's true," said Zoey. Her voice was flat, and her head inclined like a cartoon schoolteacher. "Last year, we went out twice a week, minimum, and you were there every time. You almost skipped an exam to go see Ruby Skies II with us."
Abigail squirmed. "I was in the wrong major."
"Didn't you change majors in May?" asked Minnie. Minnie had only just finished her meal, the slowest eater as always. But for how little she spoke, she always paid the most attention, damn her. "But you only started saying 'grades this, grades that' in October."
"Ooh!" Cora squealed. "Busted!"
"Fine," said Abigail. "After I changed majors, I worked on making my home energy-efficient. That was my project. After I got that done, then I started focusing on being a good student. That's my new project, okay?"
"Bullshit," Cora said again. "You spent Halloween with us."
"But then I focused!" Abigail said it with more force than she'd meant two, and her jury of three were shocked. "I had to, alright? This is important. I neglected my classes, and I almost lost my scholarship."
Abigail got ready to slug it out with them like a proper lawyer, to give dates and events that explained her behavior down to the day. In her mind, she started assembling a portfolio of evidence to prove that no, it wasn't an excuse to push her friends away. She really was concerned about her grades and nothing else.
Mercifully, she didn't have to. The conversation veered away from Abigail's absenteeism. They began talking about Minnie's plans for graduation, and the next time Abigail checked her phone, almost an hour had passed. She worked up the courage to excuse herself, and just as she opened her mouth, Cora let out one of her ear-splitting yowls.
"Katri-i-i-i-ice!" she squealed. "What's up, girl?"
Into the food court walked the student who had so recently been a free woman. Where she had once worn a long shirt, short pants and a pair of old sandals (her Bachelorette Suit, as Minnie had dubbed it,) her master had swapped the shirt out for a tighter one with a heart-shaped boob window, a short, pleated skirt and bright red stripper heels. And, of course, she wore a collar around her neck, from which hung a little heart-shaped locket with a keyhole in the front.
When Abigail had first heard of Katrice's enslavement, she had feared the worst. Then Katrice had been unreachable for a few weeks and been suspiciously tired when she finally reappeared. But now she seemed to be proud of her jingling collar. She seemed proud of her high heels, which made her the tallest of the group. She even seemed proud of that ridiculously slutty boob window.
Katrice looked like she wanted to say something, but she never had a prayer of getting the first word in. Cora, Zoey and Minnie all bombarded her with questions, sympathy and demands for news all at once. Abigail felt only a small pang of guilt as she joined in the barrage.
"It's okay, it's okay," said Katrice, when the noise died down enough. "I'm fine, girls, really."
"But you looked so scared before," said Zoey.
"Yeah, I was scared." She fingered the keyhole locket. "I mean, it's scary, making a big transition like that. I knew Eric for like a year before, so it wasn't completely just random, but being his sex slave? It's a big change. Now he decides where I'll live out of college, he's got me off my part-time job... and now I'm dressing like this!" She struck a sexy pose, and Cora gave a squeal of approval.
Abigail knew she had work to do, but Katrice coming back was a big deal. Her coursework could wait for a little longer, just long enough to catch up.
It didn't have long to wait. Less than twenty minutes into their conversation, Katrice's phone gave a musical flutter, and she pulled it from her ankle pack. "Oops," she purred. "Looks like a booty call."
Cora gave another one of her ear-splitters.
"We'll talk later," Katrice promised, as she clicked away on her heels.
On that, Abigail found her opportunity to leave. She ducked out of the university building and onto the pavement, heated to sizzling by the Nevada sunshine.
The universe, it seemed, was conspiring against her getting any coursework done. In the shade of a pedestrian overpass, a voice stopped her. A male voice.
'A man.' Abigail's mind went into overdrive. The University of Nevada had split its campuses into men's and women's colleges so female students wouldn't have to worry about enslavement on campus. But by state law, people couldn't be banned from roads or sidewalks, so she couldn't get the authorities to come and get rid of him. She was alone, and statistically, a man was more likely to enslave a lone woman than to pick one out of a group and take her home. Abigail was in a bad spot, but it couldn't be helped now. She turned around.
"Miss," the man repeated, "You've dropped something." Sure enough, he held her stainless steel water bottle in his hand.
He didn't look the way Abigail had imagined a slaver would look. He was thin, not much taller than her, and had a mild, neutral face, pale enough that he must have been an indoor person. He wasn't fancily dressed, but his black T-shirt and black work shorts nicely set off his short, swept black hair.
He carried the bottle to her with a lazy stride and a casual smile. It very nearly made Abigail believe that this wasn't a ruse to get his hands on her.
"How about you set it down so I can come grab it?" she challenged.
He stopped, knelt, set it in the shade, and stepped back into the blasting sun. He shaded his eyes with a hand. "Better?"
Not much better, Abigail decided. Even if he never got close enough to hand her the bottle, he would still be close enough to enslave her. For that matter, he was already in a position to own her. The letter of the law didn't require that a man put a collar on a woman to acquire her. The collar was only one option. He could also 'issue a clear verbal command' for a legal enslavement. She had answered him, proving that she could understand him from where she was standing. And if he knew what he was doing, then he was recording this conversation on his phone. All he had to do now was say the word, and he'd have proof that he had legally, comprehensibly demanded her. It would hold up in court, easily.
"Nothing to lose," she sighed to herself, as she walked up to the bottle. Maybe she would get lucky.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Susie," she said. 'Now,' she thought, 'here it comes...'
"What are you doing tonight, Susie?"
Abigail scowled. It was one thing for this slick jerk to turn her into his personal sex slave—the least he could do was not waste her time doing it. "Busy, very busy," she recited. "Work to do. And I promised to meet my friends later." It was one of those half-truths so badly told that it sounded like a complete lie. She snatched up the bottle.
"How about I take you on a date instead?"
She clenched her fists. She looked back to see if the bus was just about to leave, allowing her to make an Indiana Jones-style escape from earshot. No such luck. She could either say 'yes' and waste her entire evening with this complete stranger, or she could refuse and probably be collared and kneeling at his feet within the hour. "That would be fine," she strained out.
* * *
To the man's credit, he pulled out all the stops with the act he was putting on. He didn't have to do it; already, Abigail could practically feel the stripper heels on her feet, the lipstick on her face and the tassel glue on her nipples. Or whatever slutty thing he planned to put on her.
Nonetheless, he played it to the hilt. He took her to Mancy's, a nice, upscale restaurant that did mostly bread, soup and salad, and also had burgers and sandwiches for people who didn't like to try new things. Susie made a point of ordering the most expensive dish on the menu. She had been wanting to try it anyway.
The man was called Mitch. It was the perfect name for him, because it was short and ordinary, but still somehow caught her attention, even when it had no right to.
'I wonder what he sees in me,' Abigail thought. 'I'm not one of those submissives who will go around dressed like a slut.' She looked, she supposed, like a frumpy, grown-up version of a schoolgirl from a Japanese cartoon: a buttoned shirt with a conservative skirt over tights, plus shoes that her friends insisted were dress shoes. Abigail considered them to be merely nice-looking running shoes. Her ordinary dark brown hair, too-round-for-prettiness face and her habit of looking at the floor did not recommend her either. Of all her group of friends, she had always figured she would be a man's last choice of a slave girl.
"You might not remember me," said Mitch. "We met in Social Geography class back in our freshman year."
"SoGeo?" She racked her memory for a boy who looked like him. Back in her freshman year, as a virgin eager for experience, she would have been on the lookout for pretty boys—
'Not that I think he's pretty,' she insisted to herself...
...and she didn't remember calling anyone 'Mitch.' Then the memory clicked, and an evil, petulant thought occurred to her. "You're not Mitch," she said gleefully. "You're Doon. Doon Eiserton." He hated the name so much that he went by his middle name.
Abigail waited for him to deflate.
Instead, he smirked. "I always went by Mitch, but if you prefer it, Doon it is. I can be flexible when it comes to names. Anyway, 'Susie,' how is your master's degree coming along?"
"My master's?"
"In sociology? You told me that would be your major."
