After The Bighorn Chapter Eight Preparing the Merchandise

 Chapter Eight

Preparing the Merchandise.

Two of the illustrations for this Chapter are Courtesy of TroyDM and were created specially for this Chapter and are copyright TroyDM

Janey Anstruther’s Narrative.

I awoke in the night.  The hood that had gagged me and prevented me from hearing and seeing was off.  I was glad to breathe freely.  That hood had stunk of sweat and fear.  I surmised I was not the first girl who had been confined in it by those brutes!

But they did make mistakes.  They had grabbed me for a start even though I was wearing my Purity Ribbon.  I touched my hair, and I could feel it, still tied in its place, proclaiming my Innocence and Purity.  They should have let me go as soon as they had seen it!  It was only then I realized that my hands were free.  The only thing securing me now was an ankle ring around my left ankle that led to a chain looped around a pipe.

And that was their second mistake, after the one they made grabbing me.  They had left the lights on, so I could see that there were other girls all similarly secured.  It seemed that all the girls who had been waiting for the bus had been kidnapped.  I counted nineteen of them, which, with me made twenty. More than half of us were wearing Hair Ribbons.  I was pleased that so recent an innovation had been adopted by so many girls.  It indicated how much our movement, the New Feminism, was making progress.  Not all were perfect Purity Ribbons; there were a few with University Colors.  There were more pure Purity Ribbons, than the ones with University Colors meaning that I was correct in the position I took in the Ribbon Dialogues.  I am usually correct, almost always in fact; something that Amanda Sloan just cannot understand. I think she is jealous of me and my standing in the Society and would do almost anything to supplant me.  Hers is not a very sisterly attitude, as I have often pointed out to her.  I am helpful to my sisters in pointing out to them the way to proper thought and behavior.  It is why I am so popular with them.

There were also a few rainbow ribbons, the sign of the Old Feminists.  And how they hate it when we call them that.  They support the old, outdated idea of Feminism, that women are the same and equal to men.  So, we call them Old Feminists.  I suppose any young, vital, University girl would hate being called old, but they really hate it.  They say they are new women, and many have started wearing Rainbow Ribbons.  The fact that they now wear ribbons, something we started, shows how much influence we are gaining.

I work alongside one of the Old Feminists, Agnes Morrison-Atherton, who is studying to become an Astronomer.  Ms Morrison-Atherton, as she calls herself, is adamant she is as good as any man, or better.  Every setback is blamed on men standing in her way.  It seems like there is a lot of anger in her.  She is a good sort though, and very pretty, but not as pretty as me.  A little flat actually, with freckles across her nose.  A visiting professor once was talking about the freckles being indicative of something or other, but he started mumbling when he saw me listening.  Likely it means she is stubborn. 

I don’t think I would go far in Astronomy, it has a lot of math, which is hard for girls. Agnes Morrison-Atherton is determined to struggle through though.  A few days after I received my Purity Ribbon from our faculty advisor, she started wearing her Rainbow Ribbon.  Another front in the Ribbon Dialogues, but not as heated.  I don’t think she is as jealous of me as Amanda Sloan is.

I am very hungry and thirsty.  Those brutes need to come and let me go and give me something to eat.  No Nutri-Girl though, I won’t fall for that again!

Slave Juli’s Narrative.

(Illustration of Juli knelling as she imagines Patrick courtesy of Troy DM)

I miss my Master so much.  Living alone was hard, even when I was free; as a slave I feel bereft.  Without him I am without purpose.  I follow his instructions to the letter, just for the structure it gives my life.  Today, I washed the floor and dusted the furniture in the formal dining room and in the small dining room as well. This is a lovely small room, paneled in light coloured wood, overlooking the garden between Drysdale House and the Hathaway Building. I spent two hours unpacking and shelving books in the library.  I love that room with its dark wood paneling, which is mahogany, I think, high windows and magnificent fireplace.  Then I broke down and put away the empty boxes and vacuumed the oriental rugs on the floors. 

I dressed in the skimpy clothes I am allowed to wear outside Drysdale House.  I was catcalled and followed on the streets and groped on the cable car.  It made me feel so pretty and valued.  The stop is just outside the Hathaway Building where Master Patrick has his new offices.  The car turns around right there, at Hathaway and McMurtry. I try to time things so I don’t wait too long in front of the Hathaway Building.  When I am seen by people from his office, I feel small. They knew me when I was free and Patrick’s girlfriend.  Now they look down on me.  At the Exercise Studio where still teach, which is the only place I am allowed a nether closure, I led three classes.  By now it was a relief to get back into my ‘street slut’ clothes after class. I don’t like pretending I am not a slave, even though I don’t want people who knew me before I was Master Patrick’s slave to see me now.  The contradictions in being an owned kajira are still being worked out in my mind.  I know I should glory in what I have become, in what I have been made to become, but it is hard when I meet people who knew me before.

In ‘ethnic’ dance class, I could just let go, just physically express my sexuality as a submitted kajira, trying to attract male attention, arouse male interest in me.  Such a relief. I even flirted wordlessly with two young men on the cable car home, but they were confused and ashamed to respond publicly to me.  Master Woodrow Frick is right when he says that the men of this planet have forgotten to be men.  I am sure on Gor a flirting Slavegirl like me would be put to use for such a display.  Maybe Master will find a way to take me to Gor some day.

When I got off the cable car at Hathway and McMurtry and started walking up the hill to Drysdale Avenue where the front door to Drysdale House is I felt so good. The sun was out, there was a slight breeze, and I would soon be home, home to where Master Patrick lives, even if he is not there.  I could go up to his room, sneak in, and smell his clothes, look at his things, surround myself with memories of him.  But when I turned the corner onto Drysdale after the two-block walk up McMurtry along the high brick wall which surrounds the gardens of the House, my stomach sank.  She was there again.  The woman from yesterday, with the binders and the books.  Ringing the bell, knocking on the door, as if she had the right to disturb Master Patrick at his house!  I crossed the street to the little park that faces Drysdale House.  Fremont Park is just two blocks, a few trees and benches, a swing set and monkey bars.  I sat on a bench under the statue of Fremont and waited until she went away.  I fear strange Free Women when there is no man to protect me.  As soon as she turned the corner back down to Hathaway, I ran across the street, punched in the code to allow me to enter and collapsed on the floor, breathing heavily.  When I composed myself, I removed all my clothing as I am always to be naked at home.  Then on the marble floor of the Foyer, I started practicing some of the moves I had learned in dance class.  This fixed them in my mind and muscle memory.  I want to please Master and dance like Tiffani the Frick’s dancing girl.  I want to be desired, to arouse men, to excite them as I display myself in all my helplessness. So, I practised my dance moves until I was calm again.

Patrick Masters’s Narrative.

(Illustration of Patrick Masters watching Tiffani practice courtesy of TroyDM)

I am watching Tiffani dance, or rather, practice her dancing.  We are the only people in the ballroom of the Frick Mansion which is about the same size as the one I have in Drysdale House.  The proportions are not as fine here as Drysdale House’s are though, at least in my opinion.  Of course, Drysdale House has just been restored and renovated back to its original Nineteenth Century glory, albeit with all the Twenty-first Century conveniences and comforts; the best of both worlds. The curtains here are a little threadbare and old, Mrs Magruder tells me that neither Willard Frick nor his father cared much about upkeep of furnishings unless they were of practical use.  She says that Mrs Crandell, the new housekeeper who Wyandotte Frick is installing in her place, informs her that Wyandotte Frick will put more effort into the upkeep of the House.

“Mr Willard was always very focused on essentials, building up the Family, increasing its Standing amongst the Old Families, of bending society to his will.  Mr Wyandotte sometimes seems a little trifling.”

I knew she was loyal to Mr Willard Frick, who it was clear, she adored.  But I had my reasons for seeing if she could see things another way.

“But aren’t displays of wealth, of position, a part of projecting confidence and wealth?”

Mrs Magruder sniffed, “the other Families never came here much, I think that they were afraid.”

What about local people, to build up allies and local power.

“Mr Frick had all the power he needed; he did not need local influence; he was a national figure.”

I did not point out that Willard Frick was dead and a lack of allies was hurting Wyandotte in his quest to restore the Fricks to the Families Council.  I mentioned that the slave basket at the foot of my bed was lacking the thin pad it usually was supposed to have.

“I will mention it to Mrs Crandell, that sort of thing is her responsibility now.”  She was very snippy about that, losing her position, her job, and her place in the world clearly stung.

I left it at that; we sipped our coffee in silence. It was then I received at call from the Frick Company Lawyer, J. Augustus Frick IV. 

“Patrick don’t bother coming to the office today. The entire third floor is in an upheaval.  The Engineers we share the floor with are moving more quickly than I have ever seen them move.  They are determined to beat the Marketing department to get that prime space on the Fifth Floor occupied.  Once they are gone, we can get your people moved in alongside mine.  Wyandotte’s idea of a contest has certainly worked.  It is not how Willard Frick would have done it, but it is effective enough I suppose.  I will see you for supper before you leave for San Francisco”.

I was pleased enough to spend the morning wandering around Frick House which is how I found myself in the ballroom, watching Tiffani the dancer practise her moves.  She was dancing naked of course, with a long piece of narrow yellow silk as a prop. To the sound of a drum machine, she was repeating a long sequence of moves over and over.

I stopped thinking about the strange event of last night and watched her graceful sensuous dance, expressing her femineity and surrender, enticing and arousing in equal measure.  How beautifully women can move, when unrestrained by society and convention, restrained only by their collar.  Naked women in repose are enticing, when in movement they are doubly so.  Still as I watched, my thoughts drifted to another girl, equally enticing when naked and collared; my own lovely Juli.  What a joy to possess her, to own her!  I longed to have her here, to throw her to the inlaid parquet floor, to take her right in the middle of the ballroom.  As she wasn’t here, my thoughts drifted to Fleur, the former classmate of Miss Chelsea Frick and now nothing but a slave in the Frick House.  As I had said goodnight to Wyandotte and Woodrow Frick the previous evening, Fleur had been kneeling by my chair, rubbing against my leg.  As I rose, I put my left hand in her hair, pulling her to her feet.  Bending her forward at the waist I had led her through the Entrance Hall and to the stairs.  There I had pulled the knot tying the scrap of silk from around her hips, leaving her wearing only her new collar, the one with Wyandotte’s name on it.  I had her proceed me up the stairs, watching her buttocks undulate as she climbed, the dimples of Venus in her lower back just above the butt cleft moving enticingly in the shadows cast by the candle I was carrying. 

At the top of the stairs, there were three corridors, straight ahead, to the right and to the left.  The corridor to the left was shut by a heavy oak door.  It was the door to the Free Woman’s wing, which could be locked at night for their safety and protection.  I considered that I might have to install such a door at Drysdale House, should my plans for a Luthan Consulate there prove successful.  The door was ajar.  A hand in a black silk sleeve reached out, grasping at my wrist.

“Please Mr Masters, I have to talk to you.  I still need your help.  As a gentleman you must help me.”

It was Chelsea Frick of course.  Before I could say anything, she was jerked back.  The door was decisively shut, and I heard the key turn in the lock. Obviously Mrs Crandell, the new housekeeper was on the job, protecting the reputation of Free Women and the sanctity of their quarters.  I shrugged, grinned, and smacked Fleur on her beautiful bottom and pointed her down the opposite corridor to my room.  In my room Fleur proved quite satisfactory and begged to sleep on the bed.  I pointed to the floor. 

“Maybe the basket, Master, please.”  I had outfitted Drysdale House with the same baskets as the Fricks used on the Lazy F Ranch, I knew what she meant.  There were woven rattan baskets, like dog baskets, at the foot of the bed, in which a pleasing slave could sleep curled up on a thin pad instead of the hard floor. I considered the matter.

“The basket then, but I am securing your ankle to the ring.”

She nodded and ran to the foot of the large comfortable bed and pulled the basket from its storage place under its foot.

“Oh Master, someone has played a nasty trick, they have removed the little pad.  Please let me sleep on the floor instead”.

I looked, the thin pad was gone, Fleur would have to sleep on the hard woven strands of rattan, each about an 1/8 of an inch thick.  It would be very uncomfortable and leave marks on her skin, but she had begged for the basket, so she would sleep in the slave basket.

I secured her left ankle and slept comfortably in the large soft bed.  It was not until morning that I found the episode stranger than just a trick one slave might play on another. For how could the trickster be sure that she would not be the one selected for the night?  Not that I was going to get involved in a squabble among slaves, but it seemed odd.  It was not until I was breakfasting with Mrs Magruder that it seemed clearer to me.  Chelsea Frick!  She had been angry with me earlier in the day; and did not want me distracted by kajirae when she was trying to incline me to her side.  Of course I would not get involved with a Free Woman who did not belong to me.

I did mention that the slave pad in my room needed replacing.

“I will report this matter to Mrs Crandell, such things are her responsibility.”

Mrs Magruder was still tight-lipped about losing her place and her authority with the change in leadership of the Family.  Wyandotte might have an angry and jealous Mrs Danvers type on his hands, I thought. But again, not my worry.

I was concentrating again on watching Tiffani practice.  She was now repeating one short sequence over and over, a step and glide with a particular hand movement and head bob. She was covered with a sheen of sweat now.  I heard footsteps and turned.  It was Woodrow Frick.

He walked up and watched Tiffani for a moment. 

“Bruno tells me the new merchandise have awakened a couple of hours ago and are pretty much screamed out and cried out by now.  Would you like to watch the next steps?”

“I would, very much.”

The Emery's Pay a Visit.

we walked back to the main part of the house, where a young man was standing with Wyandotte Frick and young Zach Frick.  The two young men looked like two newly full-grown lions, each ready to take over a Pride.    They had all just come from Wyandotte’s office.

“This is Michael Emery, who has come to convey his condolences on the murder of Willard.  Felicity Emery is one of Chelsea’s closest friends and is condoling her now.”

Michael Emery shook hands with me, and then shook with Wyandotte.

“Again, our most sincere condolences, and I will convey your thoughts on the other matter to Uncle Elliott.   I will wait outside by the car for Felicity.”

He and Zach headed outside.  Woodrow steered me towards the parlor where Chelsea sat with a young woman her own age, almost as beautiful as she was. This morning Chelsea was a picture of propriety, collar done up to the neck, the sleeves of her gown falling down over her wrists.

“This is my best friend ever, Felicity Emery.  We were such great chums at school, inseparable, forever.”  She and Michael came to say how sad they were that Daddy was killed.  So kind of them.”

I was not convinced that Chelsea and Felicity were in truth great friends.  Allies yes, but close friends?

“Michael says we need to get back on the road.  He is driving the convertible you know.”

“Of course Darling.  The important thing is that you came and that Michael was able to talk to Wyandotte about boring man stuff.”  The girls giggled.

They walked arm in arm to the hall and out the big main doors, with Woodrow and me following.

I don't like your fashion business, mister

And I don't like these drugs that keep you thin

I don't like what happened to my sister

First we take Manhattan, 

…then we take Berlin!

 

A second-rate cover of a Leonard Cohen song was playing on the radio of a vintage convertible.  A pricy little toy.  Michael and Zach were separated by about ten feet not talking, but at least not fighting.  Felicity got in the passenger side of the car, Zach opening the door for her.  Michael made the tires squeal as he roared off; Chelsea waving until they were out of sight.  She went in without saying another word to me.

Woodrow set off to the basement outside door, “shall we see to that merchandise?  You will find it interesting.”