Monday, August 11, 2008

Oh why not then

I started this story many years ago. It didn't work for me. I don't know... it just didn't seem to work. But it costs me nothing to post it. Perhaps one of my billions of adoring readers can do something with it. I guess I'm not a good PR guy. There are a few turns of phrase I like, but damn it, the chapter doesn't work. I fear the story is vulgar at its core and can't be redeemed even with the brilliance we all know I have.


The Bitter Workings of a Neglected Indentured Servant

(or Sex Slave: The Debate Continues)

by Pallidbust

My second day as a slave began with an early breakfast I didn’t eat, a long bath/shower/Turkish Sauna/shower/hair-skin-nails and girl chat with Simon’s wife, Pam, and then I was propelled into brunch. I, like so few people in the history of the human race, would meet my master over brunch. I know. It sounds ridiculous. Imagine how hard it is to write it. Its harder to write it than it was to live it.

And I did live it.

I sat with Pam on a lush couch in a lush living room in a mansion. Never been in a mansion before, but I supposed it was a lush mansion, but as far as I know it could have been a really crappy mansion as far as palatial palaces go.

Simon sat at his own thrown type giant chair and fought back the urge to gobble down all the brunch. I wore my only possessions. Dark blue tank top that just shows off my mid rift (which I was and am very proud of thank you very much), my blue jeans jacket that has served me since my older brother gave it to me eight years before, and tight-tight-tight low rise blue jeans that I stole from a wicked sorority sister when I dropped out of college because I loved them more than she ever could. Actually, I wasn’t sure they were mine anymore. If I were owned, and I owned the shirt on my back, then it made sense that my shirt was owned by whomever owned me. And what’s the difference between me and my shirt?

Now maybe you understand how confused I am. And was, but still am.

‘Mr. Simon. Missus.’ A tall man in a dark suit (ok, I admit it, an awesome dark suit) walked into the living room with a well practiced stride. Simon pounced and shook his hand and insisted that the new man sit. Apparently his name was Richard. A common enough name.

Richard unbuttoned his jacket and sat. He pulled out a flip notepad and reached for his inner pocket, probably for a pen. I liked his hair. It was very simple except for a slight, natural spiking around the edges only crude oil could keep down. He didn’t oil his hair. He probably had it trimmed once a week, but there was always a little showing to make it unmanageable. Very male.

Simon pressed. ‘You eating? Pam’s afraid you’re not eating.’

‘You look thin.’

‘Pam says you look thin.’

Richard paused a moment, taking in the scene. I could see his eyes avoid me. I’m use to it. Eyes either zero in on me or avoid me. That’s just the way it is.

Richard paused for a moment further after a failed attempt to respond. ‘Yes, I’m eating. So…’It was a pen! ‘How can I help y….’

‘Richard, that job you pulled for me last time… that was above and beyond, man. That was something.’

‘I’m glad you’re satisfied, sir.’

The man captured the whole room. He was so damned… I don’t know. He was very something. He put his notebook and pen back into place and waited. He looked like he never lost blinking games. Simon looked to Pam for something, got it, then turned back to this tall man in a suit that one could curl up in to die or snooze for hours if healthy. I should mention he had darkish blonde hair. Well, sort of brown. Or mostly black. Don’t know why I mention it, it just seems like one of the things one notices.

‘Richard, we’re concerned about you.’

‘I’m concerned about you, Mr. Simon.’

‘Frank! For goodness sakes, Richard, we’re at brunch! If you can’t call a man by his first name at brunch, then the Founding Fathers failed! Right? Of course I’m right.’

Frank Simon was in his fifties, an inch or five past being on the verge of being pudgy, and full of energy.

‘Right, Frank. So the last deal is holding?’ I could tell this Richard knew the deal was holding. He wanted Simon to get to it. Clearly a subordinate, but he pushed.

‘This is Fallon.’ That’s me. ‘See her there? Pam just loves her. Wants to adopt her; I can tell. What do you think? Brand new, right out of the pond. What do you think?’

He looked me over like I was a horse! That does not put you on my good side.

‘She’s very nice, Frank. Pam.’

Very nice? What the fuck does that mean? A new DVD player is very nice. It’s one thing to be humiliated like this, but for the love of God, I wasn’t nice. I was hot! If they were to enslave me, then the least they could do was note me as a high-end slave.

‘Good!’ Simon burst with joy. ‘Then she should suit you fine.’


‘A gift. Enjoy her while she lasts. Only have her for two years. Then she’s off the farm.’ Business over, Simon attacked the snacks. ‘Pam, do I like this? That there.’

‘Yes, Frank. It’s what you gorged on during your niece’s confirmation while Dr. Lee begged you to stop.’

‘Right!’ He munched down. ‘Dr. Lee is a good doctor. He cares. Good catering, baby.’

Richard didn’t eat. He scratched at that bone to the upper left of his right eye and thought a moment. ‘Frank, I have my home just how I want it, and I’m not sure I can accommodate…’

‘Life is conflict, my boy! Greeks knew that even in ancient times. Please, eat, or Pam will talk my ear off. But not this stuff; that’s for me. Pam, what is it called? Find out who invented it, and make sure I make them rich.’

Richard sighed. ‘It was invented hundreds of years ago by an Italian working for the king of Spain. He’s quite dead.’

‘Then I’ll make the delivery boy rich!’

* * *

I sat shotgun in Richard’s black, scary SUV and fumed. It was so clean and empty of fast food rappers it was positively eerie. OK… I’m a sex-slave. That’s a forced situation. Humiliating? Sure. Invoking my righteous indignation? You bet. But this thirty-something bastard not appreciating the gift the great Simon gave him, namely me, that just pissed me off.

By the way, I use both the past and the present tense, because I feel like it. Get over yourself, English Major; this is my life story, and it’s very emotional.

I hid my fuming.

‘So… I’m your sex slave. Any orders?’

‘You’re not my sex slave.’

‘Well, lets review. I have to do everything you tell me, and if you so order, I have to enjoy it.’ He ignored me. Under normal circumstance ignoring me was suicidal. I knew this was not a normal circumstance, so I played it cool. ‘I mean, if you pulled over, told me to strip, bend over the hood, and then took me like a big strong baron, I’d have to not kill you in your sleep later, right?’


‘Because my asshole ex-boyfriend had a charming little secret -- he was a coke dealer. Hurray! Kept his “supply” in my toilet… it was this or prison. A lawyer gave me the option: be a sex slave for two years, no record at all, or five to ten in prison as a sex slave to a large woman who wouldn’t care about my needs. Wouldn’t you choose free market slavery?’

My new master drove on a bit before addressing me. ‘I’d flee the jurisdiction if I couldn’t get justice, but you didn’t, you opted for me whether you knew it or not. However, you only need to serve me for a certain term. You’re an indentured servant.’

‘A sexual indentured servant.’

‘No. I promise you, if you just keep quite, you’ll breeze through the next two years with your virtue.’

Motherfucker. Look, I’m a feminist. I’m more of a feminist than you’ve likely met. I don’t even think in terms of feminism, that’s how feminist I am. The point is, I’m hot, I’m young, my “virtue” was as dead as my love for my ex-asshole-boyfriend, I’m smart as a whip, charming as a Kennedy, and this bastard isn’t at all grateful for getting me as a gift. Well… we’ll see about that.

‘I’m sorry to put you out. I know it must be a burden to have a nubile girl kneeling at your feet. It’s like having to take in a hapless brother-in-law with a gambling problem.’

‘Fallon, is it?’

‘Yeah. Or, of course, you can rename me.’

‘Fallon,’ he was calm, which upset me, as I was trying to get his goat. He had a big, fluffy, golden fleece goat, and I was going to get it, and gut it, then hire some redneck to roast it old school; but it wasn’t going well. So far he had total possession of his goat, well hidden behind an impregnable fortress guarded by gargoyles and Navy Seals. ‘Fallon, I don’t know what you’ve been told, and I don’t know what you expect. And I don’t care. I’m in this community. I work and live here. You’re my first indentured servant, and hopefully my last. If I want a wife I’ll order one from Russia or Korea. I don’t approve or disapprove of this community’s system. Its an ancient system, it works, it makes the powerful complacent, keeping them from turning Napoleon, and keeps honest young people, like yourself, out of a soul rotting prison. You are a shock to my system, but with patience, equilibrium is inevitable. Let’s be rational, OK?’

‘Ah… yes. Very good. So, are you a robot, or a Vulcan?’

He drove on. I really fucking hate being ignored. I must seem to you, my dear reader, like a vulgar person, given to foul language. Well I’m not. When I’m not entering slavery, I’m a dove. I’m a God damn Pollyanna. Anyways, I like attention. Ladies, you know what I mean. Gentlemen, you know the fucking horror.

‘What do you do for Frank?’

‘Mr. Simon.’

‘He told you to call him Frank.’

‘Brunch is over.’

* * *

Grasslands and corn. Lots of it. Every once in a while we passed a home. All of them nice. One of them had a pony. Boy do I envy the slave in the pony home. I hope Richard has a pony. I’ve never ridden one, but I could spend the next two years, sixteen hours a day, learning how to ride a pony and feeding it sugar cubes. I’d name it Basil if a boy pony, and Audrey if a girl pony.

My new lord and master pulled into a long driveway, but stopped well short of the two story number in the far distance, no pony in sight. Gravel driveway, if it matters to you. He parked, and rubbed that bone above his eye. Either he should see a doctor about that, or he should let me go, because I seem to cause it a lot of pain.


‘You didn’t put any luggage in my jeep.’

‘Yes I did. The slave-kit.’

‘I don’t like repeating myself.’ Shouldn’t have told me that. ‘You’re not a slave. Slavery is illegal, even here. You don’t have habiliments is my point.’ I looked him in the eyes, refusing to flinch. ‘Necessities.’ Shit.

Well, he had me there. Also, of course, he had me in general. I was had. I’m sorry if I keep getting back to that, but it’s not an easy concept to get accustomed to. Look, I’m ending my sentences in prepositions! I’m really thrown for a loop here.

He pulled the SUV back into the street and headed on down the road.

‘Master, aren’t you going to take me to your home so I can clean the kitchen floor with my toothbrush while you flick me with a riding crop for being lazy and/or insolent?’

‘You don’t own a toothbrush.’

He switched to cruise control. I just saw it… yes. A kernel of annoyance.

‘And don’t call me master.’

* * *

It was adorable. An adorable little main street with little mom and pop stores everywhere. Ah! A Homemade Ice Cream shop… gorgeous Americana.

I followed my lord and master into, what appeared to be, a micro-Walmart of some sort. It sold everything, but only had a few of each, and everything was overpriced by at least two dollars. And everyone looked happy, until they saw my above mentioned lord and master that is. They stiffened up a bit. Then they saw me, and confusion set in.


A sign read, “Welcome to Lauren and Paul’s Emporium!” Lauren and Paul were a couple in their forties. They seemed to run the joint. Richard spoke briefly with Paul, who nodded, confused, then amused. Paul then whispered to Lauren, who pounced! She took my arm, congratulated me on my red hair and being adorable (Lauren got it, what’s the asshole’s problem?), and ushered me to the female section of the micro-Walmart.

I looked over my shoulder, saw Richard approach, then was forced to look over a red sweater that matched my hair… but it didn’t, it was far too bright, but I needed all the friends I could get, so I agreed.

‘So, I guess she’ll need a sweater?’ Richard asked, like he was discussing his car’s maintenance.

Lauren seemed to have lost all fear of my vassal. She was in her element now.

‘One sweater? Mr. Rhodes… we’ll be a while.’

Mr. Rhodes, is it? Mr. Richard Rhodes. Alliteration… like a comic book superhero. A brooding superhero perhaps? One with a dark past that has focused his pain and fear into a brave and skilled crime-fighting persona? Or was he just a Dick?

‘OK. Look, get her what she needs. Put it on my tab. I’ll be back in an hour.’ Lauren shook her head. ‘Two hours exactly; that’s it.’ And the big strong man walked off, no doubt to find some wounded doves to step on.

‘Goodbye, Master Rhodes.’ He stopped on a dime and cocked his head like I insulted his mother. I believe he might have counted to five. He turned sideways. Paul and Lauren watched on, enjoying the newly-bonded spout.

‘Don’t forget her toothbrush.’

Erg. Hope he wasn’t serious about that. Ah hell with it. I’d achieved my first victory: public humiliation, so I smiled and shall smile at the memory as I type. La de ha, I am so pleased. Well, moments of joy don’t last. Back to it then.

I watched him through the windows as Lauren whispered in my ear.

‘The best thing to do, to start it off right, is to buy a lot of stuff. Let him know a woman has needs. He doesn’t have any experience with women that I know of, so how can he set the tabs too high?’ Paul gave Lauren a firm spank on the rear end, something I know old couples were into because none of them half way earned a B.A.’s in Women’s Study at Berkeley before dropping out to star as an extra in a B movie filmed in Thailand that they didn’t finish because of a monsoon but had no regrets because the Key Grip became their ex-boyfriend with a coke habit, but I didn’t hear Lauren object to the smack, or Paul relent, and I needed friends. I suppose people got tired of bickering, and just started smacking backsides to save time. I was in no position to judge, being a slave.

Besides, smack or not, I was winning round two already. I smiled a little wider. Victory two was in sight. Economic victory.

* * *

I don’t know how to describe houses very well. I shall keep this as short as possible, and you, dear reader, can use your imagination. If you don’t want to use your imagination, please watch some TV. I wont be offended. I recommend Desperate Housewives.

Two story, brick and wood. Modern, but not modern art. Brown carpet in living room. Big kitchen. Pool in the back (awesome!). Bookshelves all over the place, all packed. Big TV in front of couch, thousands of DVDs (awesome to a lesser extent). That’s about it. Just imagine a nice place without any plants. It was very clean, and as I carried load after load of possessions up to my room, second floor, I couldn’t help but noticed a heavenly aroma coming from the kitchen, which by the way, was very clean. The lying bastard didn’t need my toothbrush.

I had bought ten just in case.

I finished the moving, decided to nest later, and flopped downstairs. Oh, yeah, I don’t want to forget this part. He doesn’t wear shoes in his home. OK, fine. I would mind if he had pretentious Asian crap everywhere, showing off how “spiritual” he was, but he didn’t. Probably just liked clean floors. However, every time I passed the front door, I had to either take off or put on my sneakers, greatly increasing the time necessary to move my new habiliments from his scary, black SUV to my room on the second floor. I’m proud of my legs, and I’ve made more than one Stairmaster my bitch, but it was a good workout for my legs and glutes I admit.

I mention the barefoot affair as I consider it his victory number one. I’m still one up with my economic victory, but now I knew I’d have to watch him.

Too late. The slave kit, a green suit case, laid conspicuously on the couch table in the living room. It hadn’t been opened. Now… was I Pandora, or was I the cat? Wait… they both were curious, weren’t they? Both got it in the ass? I’m doomed.

Then the smell again and I realized I hadn’t eaten all day, and it was the late afternoon and I was very hungry. I will never turn down a free brunch again.

I peaked into the kitchen. I was very stealthy, but I couldn’t tell if he didn’t notice me or was just indifferent. I watched as he left an elaborate salad making factory to retrieve a marinating steak from the refrigerator. He carried a towel over his left shoulder with ease. Something about that towel over his broad shoulder gave me a… something. Damn you, words, you abandon me! Anyway, the towel over the shoulder piqued some instinct or DNA or something. I liked it, and filed it away in my memory so I would dream about Jeremy Brett in such a towel.

‘So, master, you’re one of those guys, right?’

‘Don’t call me master. What kind?’

‘The kind that are self-sufficient, don’t need any pestering female to take care of them, takes the garbage out without being told, knows how to cook… you know. Grown up, I guess.’

‘If you say so. Thanks for not calling me “master.”’


‘You’re welcome, Ma...’ He stuck an asparagus fried in a creamy butter sauce in my mouth… victory number two for Richard Rhodes. We were even. Then I savored the asparagus, and considered unconditional surrender.

‘Is it ready?’

‘Grrhmmmmraahhhhh…. Um, I mean…. Yeah, its good. I mean, it’s as good as its going to be, Master.’

‘Stop it. Sit down while I think. This pestering has to stop.’

‘Why, Master?’

‘Fine. If you insist, you can talk all you want in your room until breakfast.’

Ahhhh…. here it was. The master and the slave. Finally, we were being honest with each other. I knew it. Men were men. They could put on whatever veneer they wanted, but when push comes to shove, they shove. Tall, hairless monkeys, everyone of them, thank the Goddess. Now we can stop playing games and come to some kind of workable if uneven arrangement.

I, of course, sat down in the dining room at a small table fit for four at most, and three of them would have to be skinny. I twiddled my thumbs and looked around the room. Nothing on the white walls. It felt like we’d both just moved in.

To Sparta.

He brought me a salad. Let me describe the salad, and yes, I’m bragging, because I got to eat this salad, and you didn’t, Nah-na, nah-na-na. From bottom to top: a thin layer of roman lettuce, red vinaigrette dressing, a just barely seared in cream and cheese sauce slice of tomato cut from the middle, a bunch of iceberg lettuce, light Italian dressing (my guess was Newman’s Own until I saw him making it from scratch), capers, black olives, the smallest lightest Cherub’s toe tap essence hint of heated feta, and crushed croutons. If that doesn’t sound freaking great to you, then you don’t have a human’s tongue, or you didn’t recognize many of those ingredients. Make a list, take them to the store, and treat yourself. You’ve earned it reading my mad ramblings this far. Or get your slave to do it.

Master ate his…. I’m sorry, excuse me. The man who I call master to piss him off ate his salad in the kitchen. I could hear him performing impressive acts in there while eating, but dared not move from my seat to risk banishment to my foodless room. Unthinkable.

He returned with more of the adequately perfect asparagus and little crackers with tasty stuff on them and… you know what, you’re probably not reading this for the food. Sorry. I’m going to save some time. We ate the pre-steak stuff, he apologized for serving the dishes out of order (he implied it was my fault), he asked if I were a vegetarian (nope, bring the dead animals on), and he gave me a little speech.

Cliffnotes speech: we’re stuck together. Stop trying to piss me off. I don’t want to have to treat you like others in the community treated their indentured servants, but if you push me, I will. I like silence, and don’t call me master again.

Cliffnotes response: Agreed. I’ll try. I’d prefer to avoid that, too, whatever that is. I have earphones, and I’ll compromise with “sir.”

Cliffnotes inquiry: Why “sir?”

Actual answer: Because its silly, and I want the next two years to be as silly as possible, as my ego is very bruised.

He thought about that one for several courses. He brought in the steak. I fought the steak. It was a tie. I destroyed all of the steak, along with the potatoes that tasted like the steak, but it might have delivered me a death blow. Then this Greek summer salad deal… I somehow made it to the couch and slumped and thought about cutting open my stomach. Instead I moaned with equal parts pleasure and regret. If the movie Se7en didn’t prove it to me, then that meal did: Gluttony is a deadly sin.

He brought me coffee. He sat in a chair, drank his coffee, and read a book. Didn’t say a word to me.

‘Sir, why are you being so nice to me, and so rude at the same time?’


‘I mean, you feed me that… adequate meal, then you bring me coffee, but then you… oh my God is this freshly ground? Anyways, then you… oh, God… never mind, God, it is. Anyways, then you just sit there and… I guess its not rude, but it’s not normal, is it?’

‘I don’t know.’ He waited for a reply.

‘I guess not. Hey, what do you think is in the slave kit, sir?’

‘Hmmm? Oh, I don’t know.’

‘I’m guessing loin cloths and a neck collar with studs on it. Oh! You think they’re diamond studs?’ I expected a laugh, or a scolding even. Instead he grabbed the case and made to walk off. ‘Woa, where you going with that. I want to see.’


‘I don’t know. Either I’m Pandora or the cat. Don’t know yet.’ He looked at me critically and hard so I could see his eyes in detail (bright blue). He set the case down, careful not to tip my coffee, and opened the case.

In the case, which comes free with any purchase of me, were an assortment of paddles, whips, a thin stick with a cute leather handle, cuffs, chains, rope… you get the idea. It looked like the briefcase of a perverted Englishman.

And no diamonds. Damn it.

He looked at me. ‘I hope you’re happy. I suppose these are for use on you.’

‘Pretty sure, Sir. Oh, wait. A manual. Let me see…. Well… a lot of copyrights… acknowledgments… index… ah, yes. They’re for use on me. For correction and pleasure. Hmmm…’

He snatched the manual from me, sat down and read. He scanned each page, flipping when he was done with alacrity. He was so intense and fast at reading it, and dead serious, that it sort made me a little goofy in the head. I shook the goof out of my head and handled an equally serious wooden paddle, like the kind the sorority I left had on the wall for decoration, except this one didn’t have a sticker of Snoopy on it. I’d never taken a good close look at a paddle. It didn’t look all that bad. I fell on my ass once Bruised her up nice. I lived.

‘I’ll put it in the closet, and that’ll be the end of it. Reason will rule this house.’

I reclined on my couch (I claimed it as a cat would), and found myself in complete agreement with Sir. Play it cool, entertain yourself, two years would be a breeze. Maybe I’d learn a foreign language. Or get “a degree from home.” Plant a garden. There were thousands to things to do. I would not, however, get beaten like a naughty indentured servant that just ached for attention on my curvy bottom then stick my finger in my mouth and, eye’s wide, say, “have I been a naughty girl, sir?”

No sir, Sir.