Tales of Drysdale House (16) Pulled Back In (3)

 Pulled Back In (3)

Narrative of Patrick Masters.

I replaced the phone in its cradle on my desk in the Library at Drysdale House. It was really my favorite room of all the rooms in the house. It contained my books, my father’s and grandfather’s collections, and some volumes that had been in the house when I bought it. Juli had unpacked and shelved most of the books, but they were in no particular order. I had planned to work on cataloguing and organizing over the winter, but now the demands of collecting and shipping candidates for slavery on Gor had pushed that pleasant task to the side.

“Anders reports that Jane Bennet has been confronted and agreed to accommodate us in the matter of selecting candidates for acquisition. He has made a preliminary assessment of her himself. Her responses were very good. She will bring a good price herself in time.”

Zach Frick has an infectious grin.

“She thinks that she will be a free associate?”

“Yes. A member of the team. Scipio will file slave papers on her tonight, but as long as she has utility as a talent scout, she will not be collected. Gerry is bringing her to the House. I want you to make sure she sees the pens and understands what we are doing. It will prepare her for what is to come. I suspect it will get her juices flowing. Now please show in Don Emery. He is becoming a pest; always underfoot. He wants me to invest in his K-girl company. I won’t; not without more control.”

The Slave.

Narrative of Miss Jane Bennet

Mr Reiss walked me through the maze of hallways and storage rooms that were in the basement of the Hathaway Building. Once I asked where a certain corridor led, and was told that such curiosity was not becoming and indeed could be dangerous.

“Just stick to what you are told to do and don’t inquire into anything unless you are told. That is safest.”

I did not say anything. I had got myself into this mess by being too inquisitive and pushy. Perhaps there were certain advantages to be found in this situation but I would need to be careful. We walked up the stairs instead of taking the elevator and came out on a loading dock at the rear of the building. I was surprised we had come out here instead of the front of the building, but climbed down the iron ladder from the loading dock to the alleyway. We came out on Mercado street and headed up the hill. It was a steep climb, but not unknown for San Francisco Across the street, I could see the famous Scaramouche Restaurant and tucked behind it in an alley, the infamous Captain Blood’s tavern. I had never dared to go to Captain Blood’s and had only been to Scaramouche once when a date took me there. Of course there was a quid pro quo for such an expensive date. On our right as we went up the hill were the high brick walls of the gardens of Drysdale House. I could see the tops of the trees peeking up over the top of the walls. I wondered if I would see the gardens. Even at this time of the year I was sure they were lovely.

At the top of the hill, on Drysdale we turned right and walked along the wall until we reached the gates for vehicles. A small passage gate in the larger gate opened as we arrived. Once we were through it closed behind us, silently. In my mood, I would have expected it to clang like a cell door in a jail movie. We moved under the overhang of the Porch Cochere, Mr Reiss was still holding on to my arm. Mr Anderson came up behind. The door to the house opened and a young-looking man was standing there.

“Take her down to the farrier’s forge by the old stables. There is something she should see. Then bring her back here.

“Sure thing Zack. Then the pens?”

“Yes. She needs to see what she has joined.”

She. Take her. No mention of my name. He had not addressed me. I think I know who that pushy arrogant young man is: Zach Frick. Dana Winters mentioned him as prodigy. Finished Princeton at sixteen; graduated Harvard Law at nineteen. I bet the overprivileged rude little prick doesn’t have any student loans either.

We walked down the graveled driveway towards some old looking buildings. As we came closer, they turned out to be stables converted to garages. We walked by open doors, there were two Suburbans, a green Subaru and a couple of white vans. One had Animal Control written on the side. We went in one of the doors and through to a little workshop. It was quite warm in the workshop, which was full of old iron implements. I grew up in a country town in the Central Valley, the looked like blacksmith tools. Around a corner I came to a stop in shock. There was an iron frame with a naked woman secured to it. A large man was securing her left thigh into a vise. Once the top of her thigh was secure in did the same with her lower part of the thigh. He tightened the vise until she whimpered. It was only then that I recognized the frightened anguished face as that of Sofia, the friendly security guard, who had not come into to work today. The heat was coming from a brazier, full of glowing coals, with long-handled irons thrust deep into the coals. I had grown up in a old-fashioned farming community, I knew what those were for. My mind could not comprehend what I was sure was coming next. The large man turned. It was Skip Talus, a friend of Patrick Masters who had taken to coming around the office recently. But he was entirely different to the jolly happy flirting man who so enchanted the women of the office. It was like seeing Skip’s evil twin. He was intent on torturing this poor young woman. Sofia’s eyes were darting around. I am sure she saw me, but in her panic and I don’t think she recognized me. Anders grabbed my arms from behind, just behind the elbows.

“Say nothing”, he hissed. “Stay entirely still.”

I don’t think I could have spoken even had I wanted to. I calmed my breathing and relaxed my muscles. There was nothing I could do. I had seen animals branded before, there were still small ranches in the hills above our town. I had gone there with my school friends. That made things both better and worse. I knew that Sofia would survive this barbaric ritual, but at the expense of great pain.

The menacing big man, such a caricature of the kind man who visited the office poureda clear liquid on a cloth and wiped a spot on Sofia’s thigh. She tried to flinch, but her leg was held far too securely.

“That will sterilize the site and give better contact for the iron; like oil in a pan,”

That was Gerry Reiss. It seemed this ceremony was something he had seen  before as well. Skip took an iron from the fire, looked at it, and returned it, taking another. This one seemed to satisfy him. Gerry turned up a knob. I realized that there had been music playing softly in the background all along, but the horror of the scene had prevented me from noticing. He touched a button and the soft contemporary jazz was replaced with opera: The Anvil Chorus. I recognized the irony of that choice. As the music grew louder, Skip pressed the iron deep into Sofia’s thigh. One. Two. Three seconds. There was a smell of burning; Sofia was shouting, drowned out by the singers. Skip replaced the iron in the brazier and applied some sort of salve to the site of Sofia’s brand. He then attached a clear protective bandage over the wound which looked like a flowery k.

I had not expected this. I thought the operation these people were running was akin to selecting ‘hostesses’ to work in Japanese businessmen’s clubs or Thai brothels. But this was permanent marking. The brand represented a moment of transition from one life to another. It was something that a girl could not return from. This was even more serious than I had thought.

In a way, though, this was easier to watch for me than it would be for a girl from the city and even more so than a girl from the sheltered suburbs. If you grow up in the country, around animals and those who farm them, you grow used to seeing such things. Even with our big brains, humans are still largely animals and what works for a horse or mule will work in training a human. It is not just often seen today. I grew up country, not stupid. I come from a reading family; I know that the human past, even the very recent past is full of cruelty, of mastery and of submission. It is jarring though to see up close.

Anders had let go of me. I regarded Sofia. We had bonded as girls from the country making our ways in the city. She had come from a town just two stops down the road from my own. Unlike some, I know enough to be polite and gracious to those around me, even in menial positions. They can help or hinder you, a smile and acknowledgement goes a long way. But I knew that there was an inseparable gulf between us now. She had been branded.

And she looked hot. Her hair was tangles and loose, her body covered with sweat. Her hands and arms were secured above her head. Her breasts were heaving with pain and emotion. Skip Talus had secured her with her legs apart. I am sure that a man could not resist desiring her. She was restrained, she was open, she was available, she had been marked. It was not until then that I noticed the shiny steel collar around her neck. She Helen in the hands of the Greeks, Greek maidens seized by the Persians. She was dusky Persian maids seized by the men of Alexander as he marched east to avenge the Persian invasions of his homeland. She was seized booty, ready for ravishing. She was the history of mankind.

And then Skip began adjusting the rack to make his access to her more easy. After branding her, he was going to rape her!

Mr Anderson and Mr Reiss turned me away and lead me towards the house.

“Why Sofia?”

Sofia was good looking, but not of the caliber of the three woman whose photographs Gerry Reiss had shown me in the basement of the Hathaway Building.

“She was too curious about things that did not concern her. She was poking around in the cellars of the Hathaway Building. Curiosity is not suitable in one like her. She will find that. She may be beautiful enough for a pleasure slave; otherwise, she will find her level as a mat and kettle girl. Scipio said it could go either way, depending on the market.”

Mr Anderson spoke in a very matter of fact voice, as though the disposal of one inconvenient woman was of not much importance. I decided not to be overly curious, and to certainly not get caught if I was snooping. I also learned Skip’s real name and occupation. Scipio was a slaver.

The Pens

 

Back at the door to Drysdale House, under the Porte Cochere, the young Zach Frick met us.

“Mr Reiss, your wife has arrived, she is taking tea with Mrs Magruder. They would be pleased if you joined them.”

Mr Reiss hurried off. I had met Myrna Reiss at a couple of receptions for Masters Law Firm staff. I would never be in a hurry to meet her. She scared me a bit. Frick continued.

“Anders, will you join me in taking this one down to the pens for a tour? Mr Masters wants her to understand something of our operation.”

The arrogant young man had still neither addressed me nor referred to me by name. He had no idea of how to treat or address women! Intimidation tactics and they were working. I followed Frick and Mr Anderson, whose name I guess was Anders following me. We descended some service stairs one flight to the kitchens, then another flight down to the pens. As we descended the second set of stairs, the finished walls gave way to bare brick, then to worked stone. At the bottom of the stairs, Frick unlocked one of what was a number of strong thick oak doors. Behind the doors was a wide corridor. On each side of the corridor were what looked like low ceiling jail cells. Whoever was in the cells could not stand up straight. The lights were bright overhead. I estimated the height of the cells was four and a half feet. The cells were not large either. Most were empty, a couple held a couple of women each. I was not surprised by now that they were naked. They were all also beautiful. I know I am good looking, but some, I must admit, were more attractive than I. Maybe it was the nudity and collars, but objectively, they were attractive.

Zach Frick reached for some switches. The harsh lights from above, were replaced by some soft orange lights, like torchlights from above and behind the cells. He commented, addressing me directly for the first time.

“It is good for the lighting to be changed at our whim. It reminds the slaves that they control nothing and only the masters have choices. The corridor is in darkness, so that they are being observed and assessed within knowing who is observing and assessing them. Please don’t speak until I give you the word.”

I nodded. Again, I may be from the country but I am not stupid. By silencing me, he was exerting control. Perhaps it was because he was young and needed to assert himself, but I suspected it was because he had worked in Pittsburgh with my rival Dana Winter. Doubtless she had poisoned his mind against me. I resolved to be pleasant and amenable so as to win him over. Nothing to obvious at first, just to make him esteem me more than that condescending suburban cow, Dana Winter. I considered that she would look well here, in a pen, naked and collared, and yes branded too, the bitch.

We walked along the cells or pens, the doors were low, a woman would have to enter or leave on her hands and knees. Good psychology I thought. As we walked slowly through the pens, many of the women knelt down with their hands resting on their thighs with their legs wide apart. Nothing of their charms was concealed. In one cage I recognized Sheila Grant, the Australian backpacker Gerry Reiss had told me had been picked up over a week ago. He was kneeling to expose herself, the other girl in the pen, was curled up in a ball trying to conceal herself.

“Good girl Sheila, come and get a candy.”

Zach Frick had taken a hard candy from his pocket. Sheila crawled forward, her body close to the ground, when she reached the front of her cage, she knelt again, her mouth open. Frick placed the candy in her mouth.

“Sheila’s a good girl, but you Carole are not. You have been here long enough, a whole day, to know you must kneel in front of masters. You will be whipped tonight.”

The girl became almost hysterical, begging for reprieve and adopting an approximation of Sheila’s pose but Frick was adamant. I recognized standard animal training techniques. I should have been more shocked by the pens, but I had seen chickens raised in pens before raising free range chickens was the norm. My school friends who came from farms loved their animals but were not sentimental about how they were treated. And at base, we are animals.

Passing alone the pens, we came to a pen with another girl I recognized; Melissa the kindergarten teacher who had worked in data at Masters Law during the summer break. She looked up from her kneeling position and was shaking. She did not seem to be handling the transition to a slave as well as Sheila. Zach said to me.

“Both Bruno and Nils, the handlers, took her last night. Each more than once. She became very responsive, very hot. Bruno says she is a good fuck. But this morning she is ashamed of her slave responses, feeling she did not know that she had. Scipio will take her in hand tonight. He thinks she may become a gold piece girl. I don’t think so, but he is the expert.”

Gold piece girl? How big a gold piece? I know the price of gold is going up, so that sounds like a lot of money. I wonder where these girls will be sold, although I better keep my curiosity to myself. I don’t want to end up like Sofia. I must remember that curiosity is unbecoming.

At the end of this line of pens, there was a girl backing out of a cell with a couple of smelly buckets.

“We change the slop buckets twice a day. There are not really any of the new girls who can be trusted yet, so the House Slaves take it in turn”

We followed the girl with the buckets to the end of the corridor. Around a corner there was a room where the buckets could be dumped and cleaned. As the girl dumped the buckets, I recognized her. It was Juliet, once Mr Masters’s girlfriend. At one time she had been a conservative and elegant dresser, but at the beginning of summer she had started dressing in a very slutty way and wearing a steel collar. Suddenly it clicked, I felt stupid for not seeing it sooner. Mr Masters’s former girlfriend was now a collared slave! I turned to Zach Frick and he nodded.

“Is Juliet a slave too?” I felt silly for asking when it was obvious.

“Juli is a slave.”

“Is she branded?”

“Brand!” he snapped at the former Juliet Chen.

She stuck out her left leg; it was turned to reveal the upper thigh. I bent down, her brand was beautiful, a lovely cursive P. P for Patrick I assumed.

Juli looked very fetching, kneeling with her leg extended, collared, feet bare in a brief piece of emerald-green silk. She had once been so elegant and respectable, now just a collared slut. I had tried to take Patrick Masters away from her, but if this is how he saw her every day, I would have had no chance. A tall bald man came down the hall from a different direction. He was leading a naked barefoot blonde with a leather hood completely covering her head. It was laced at her throat so it could not be removed. I checked, she too was collared and branded. Her hands were secured behind her back. Zach Frick asked the bald man,

“How is Scipio’s special project coming along”

Zach Frick reached out and caressed her left breast, playing with the nipple. The woman did not flinch or move.

“As you can see, becoming very tame, almost affectionate.”

Zach Frick ran his hand down the blonde’s body, caressing her belly, then further down through the blonde pubic hair and felt inside her.

“She oils nicely, ask Scipio if I can have her use tonight, will you?

“Certainly sir.”

We passed on. It was clear that slaves were for use, as horses are for riding and that I was fortunate that I had been offered a position of ‘talent scout’. I did not want to be a branded slave, no matter how hot it seemed at times.

*

In the Grand Salon

Zach Frick led me back up the two flights of stairs to the main level of Drysdale House. I had never suspected that the grand old house concealed such secrets. As we emerged into the hallway he turned to me.

“You understand what we are looking for in an acquisition? And what becomes of them?”

“Yes, women of beauty who would look good on their knees, women who could come to love their collars like Juli and Sheila, girls who will pant when a man touches them, any man at all, in the way that Scipio’s blonde project does.

I know that they become playthings for men, fucktoys, branded and used. I know that what happens to them, the women they become is revokable. That for them there is no way back. For some women, like the ones you want me to find, they are happier that way. Juliet Chen was uptight and stuffy, the slave Juli is free and relaxed. If you had ravished her there, among the slop buckets, right in front of me, she would have cried out in ecstasy.”

“Exactly. Make sure you find us these women. There is a great need right now.”

“I can recognize them. It is a good thing though I am not like them.”

“Are you not? I wonder.”

He walked off towards the Grand Salon. I followed him. I was angry that he would not admit that I was different from the naked sluts in the pens. It should have been obvious. I was more determined than ever to win his good opinion and detach him from that prude Dana Winters. It may be harder than I first thought.

In the Grand Salon Myrna and Gerry Reiss were having tea with an older woman I did not know. Both Myrna and the older woman were wearing long skirts, down to midcalf. With their white blouses and small jackets they seemed more like something out of 1916 than 2016. Gerry Reiss rose as I approached with that little prick Zack. At least he knows how to treat a lady I thought. Then I remembered how he had held my wrists while Mr Anderson or Anders or whatever his name was had ravished me over a table as I accommodated him in my welcome to the Drysdale House operation. Monsters, the lot of them, sexy monsters to be sure, but monsters to be careful around.

“Mrs Magruder, Myrna, I would like to present Miss Jane Bennet, an associate at Patrick’s Law Firm.”

Neither of ladies offered their hands. I was invited to sit down. I was more afraid of these older women than I had been in the pens or watching Sofia be branded and raped.

“I am so lucky to be married to Gerry.” Mrs Reiss spoke. “He needs keeping up to the mark of course, but gently and respectfully. He is so wonderful.”

This was the same man who had blackmailed me into becoming a scout for slavers, the same man who had not turned a hair as he narrated Sofia’s branding. I wondered what Myrna would say to that. I just nodded. I recalled that Mrs Reiss had joined the New Feminists and there is no arguing with fanatics. It was Mrs Magruder who spoke next.

“Are you fortunate enough to have a man in your life, Miss Bennet? To protect you and guide you?”

“No, unfortunately I do not. It is sometimes difficult to find a suitable man.”

“That is so true. So many of the men have been rendered weak and unassertive with today’s modern thought and propaganda. I notice you do not wear a purity ribbon; that might help you find a suitable man.”

I figured that I had better play along. Just as I was about to speak, a slave came into the Salon carrying a silver tea tray, with a replacement pot of tea, fresh cups and biscuits. She was barefoot but somewhat clothed. Her thin cotton shift was longer than the silk that Juli had worn, and looser. The neckline was a lot a higher too. Still it was very thin and sleeveless and it was clear there was nothing under it. She cleared away the used things and walked away.

“Purity ribbons were not a thing when I was in college and sadly I may have slipped a bit once or twice since.”

Mrs Magruder tsked tsked but didn’t make any comment. It had more than once or twice and it wasn’t just since college. There is not much to do in a small town, and we have to make our own fun. I had arrived at Stanford well primed to enjoy my college years and I had. Myrna had to continue the conversation though.

“It would be good for you to find a good man though.” She was very earnest. “Then you wouldn’t have to work so hard and frankly my dear, you do have some bags under your eyes.”

It was the past few hours discovering that female slavery was a thriving institution that had made me look a little haggard, but I could not say that to her. Not when her beloved husband was one of the slavers.

The slave girl came back in and knelt next to Mrs Magruder. The older woman was scarier than Myrna. Mrs Magruder then commented.

“I don’t like trousers on women. I know that so many wear them now, but I think skirts and dresses are much more appealing and feminine, don’t you Mrs Reiss?”

“Entirely right, Mrs Magruder. Although I am afraid that sometimes when I visit the Law Firm, Miss Bennet, and those of the other young women are often quite scandalously short.”

While she was saying that, the Slavegirl was sitting in her thin shift. Fortunately this slut’s knees and thighs were pressed tightly together. The conversation moved on to other topics than my clothing mainly through interests of the New Feminism. I found the whole subject stifling and horrifying. These two ladies out of some Dickensian nightmare were rolling back any progress women had made in the last one hundred and fifty years. I was resisting the temptation to stand up and inform Myrna Reiss that her husband was a slaver who likely enjoyed dozens of collared women and was very conversant with the practices of branding that I heard her speak some really chilling words.

“My dear, I was shocked when I first learned of indentured females, like Veronika here. Actually taking women and putting them in collars and letting men have them seemed a little out there, at least at first. But when there are some women who cannot restrain their lascivious urges and act modestly and decently, what can one do? Clearly they must be regulated by society.”

Myrna turned to the kneeling Veronika.

“You are a little slut, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress, I am sorry Mistress, I can’t help myself.”

Myrna turned to me.

“You see, she admits it. What can we do with such girls. Of course society is not ready for it yet, but it will come. I hope I can trust you not to breath a word of this yet, you seem a nice girl, so we can trust you. Most of the movement, my dear New Feminists are not ready to admit that to protect the good women, the sluts have to e regulated, but it will come. If they are collared and regulated, and yes, marked, so they cannot not deny what they are, then we can have a proper decent world.

Mrs Magruder nodded.

“And of course, Men are Men, and to be real Men, they need access to these sluts. Both to make them real Men, and to protect decent women. Don’t you agree Miss Bennet?”

“Of course I see your point Mrs Magruder.”

I was going to say I see your point but, then make some arguments for the freedom and autonomy of all persons, but I wisely restrained myself. I didn’t get out of my small town by being a fool. I was relieved when we were interrupted.

*

In the Library

Another girl in a white tunic and collar like the girl who knelt at the feet of Mrs Magruder came into the grant salon or formal reception room or whatever it was. She knelt in front of us, putting her head down onto the carpet with her arms outstretched in front of her.

“The Master is ready to see Miss Bennet.”

Mrs Magruder was graciousness itself.

“So nice talking to you dear. I hope to see you again.”

I followed the girl out of the grand salon through an archway and found myself in a wide hallway. To my left was the front door, to my right a grand staircase where two corridors met. Straight ahead was a thick wooden door. The collared girl padded towards in her bare feet; I followed, my heels making a clicking sound on the marble floor. She opened the door and I followed her in. She knelt, her head again touching the floor.

“Miss Bennet, Master.”

Patrick Masters nodded and she padded out. As we had entered I had heard Zach Frick saying, “Wyandotte is worried about loose ends. That helicopter pilot and the flight attendant.”

Patrick Masters cut him off.

“We’ll talk about it later.”

He turned to me.

“Welcome Jane. I trust you enjoyed your tour of some of the facilities of Drysdale House. By now you should understand what we want of you, the sort of women we are looking for, and what becomes of them. I hope you would prefer to be a good team member, and not an item of commerce.”

That was not subtle at all. I had seen in the pens how the items of commerce were treated and I did not want that for me. Some of women seemed to have adjusted and accepted their fates while others seemed stunned and shocked. It seemed the longer they had been in the pens, the more resigned and in some cases happier they seemed. That was when I noticed a slave kneeling by the knee of Mr Anderson. She looked up at him with adoration. Of course her feet were bare and she was in a steel collar. And that was nearly all she wore. Unlike the other two slaves I had seen ‘above stairs’, she only had a silk scarf wrapped around her waist. My attention had been drawn to her when she had made a movement, I think to draw her knees together.

While I assured Mr Masters that I had ever intention of being a diligent and hard working team member I did some quick thinking. Obviously in front of ladies who were free a certain decorum was expected of slaves. The girls in attendance on Mrs Magruder and Mrs Reiss were pretty much covered, although the skimpy nature of the cloth made distinguishing their body shape easy. In front of me, who was a team member, the slave kneeling by Mr Anderson, who here seemed to go by Anders, was topless, and until she moved her knees together, her business would have been cleared exposed to the men’s gaze. Mr Masters spoke to me again.

“Come here, Jane, I want to show you the terminal you will use to communicate with Central Research for submitting candidates for acquisition. You will use only this terminal to communicate with Central Research for reasons of security. Also use this terminal for any messages to us regarding your acquisition work. It is entirely secure. One last thing, any researches you do at all on an prospective candidate, do on this terminal. Not on your phone, not on your laptop. No searches for addresses, names, or anything else regarding acquisitions. This terminal is completely secure. Is that understand?”

I understood two things. Operational security as doubtless I would be monitored by this Central Research on all my devices; and that I was not regarded as an equal by these men. Mr Masters had always referred to me before as Miss Bennet, (he never used Ms), but now I was just Jane. I was determined to win back my status. The next thing Mr Masters said made it clear how hard that would be.

“You understand that as a junior team member you will be required to accommodate senior team members when required? You know what we mean by accommodate?

I gulped. “Yes sir, I understand.”

He gestured to young Zach Frick,

“That includes Zach here as well.”

“But he is just a kid!”

“None the less, you must accommodate him. And now you should beg his pardon for the insult. On your knees.”

I am not stupid. I knew I had made a stupid blunder. I had meant to appease Zach Frick, to make me like me and then I went a did a stupid thing by reacting without thinking. I knew that any more argument would result in even more humiliation. I got down and apologized to this twenty-year-old kid. I was hopeful apologizing would be the extant of what I had to do while on my knees.

Mr Masters pointed to a gray terminal with a blank screen.

“One like this will be placed in your apartment. The first time you use it, enter your username, jane, and your password: k-a-j-i-r-a. After that the terminal will recognize you biometrically and you need only press the k key to be logged on. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You may go. The sooner you start your hunt, the better.”

Dismissed. Just like that. No offer of a drink, or coffee, or pleasantries. I would have to work on getting myself treated with my respect, more deference to my position. But not today. I had ruined the chance for that by apparently being disrespectful to Zach Frick. But I am intelligent and clever. I would have time to prove my worth and become more respected. But that was for another day. I thanked Mr Masters for the opportunity and left. I made sure that he understood that I was truly grateful. And to an extent I was. I had seen what had happened to Sofia. As I went through the front door I breathed a sigh of relief. It could have been so much worse.

*

On the Park Bench

I walked out the front steps of Drysdale House. My mind was reeling with all that had happened in the past few hours. I had been blackmailed and raped. I had seen a woman I knew (slightly, but we were friendly) confined in an iron frame and branded with a red-hot iron. I had seen other women, some of whom I knew, again slightly, confined naked in pens with collars. I had seen a woman led on a leash like a dog. I had been informed that while I would have a new job part of which involved accommodating various members of the team. I like sex, and they all seem strong and capable, but I like to choose the time and place.

There is a park across the street from Drysdale House. Most is fenced for the private use of the area residents. There is smaller public area. I stumbled across the street, nearly getting hit by a Mercedes. The driver cursed me. I barely noticed. I sat under a tree by the statue of some old general on a horse. The day was dull and misty. I need to think

I reviewed my options. First, I could go to the police. But what could I tell them? That distinguished lawyers were running a female slave ring outside of a consulate? First a consulate has diplomatic immunity; and there were those payments in my accounts to consider. The police could not enter Drysdale House and were far more likely to look me up. The police were out.

Second, I could go the papers or the TV stations. They would not want to risk libel suits and would ask Patrick Masters for comment. Then the whole scenario with the police would occur. I would be lucky if I escaped being locked up in a loony bin. Even if I escaped that, my law career would be over. So, no. No publicity.

The third option was to go on the run. But I had little money saved, maybe three thousand dollars and that would not take me far. This Drysdale House operation seems pretty well organized and could likely find me, and quickly too. Then there were the student loan people. They are relentless, and likely would be more diligent and tenacious in hunting me down than the Drysdale House people or the police. When I was at Stanford, I heard of a woman who ran away from her debts and hid out in Yorkshire where she thought no one could find her. Within three months, she was found. The student loan people had put a lien on her. Not her earnings, her. She was dragged back to face the music. Rumor was she had to give up a kidney to them. Not to settle the debt, just to pay for their time and trouble in tracking her down.  Running was out.

I needed options. I put aside any idea of spending any of the money I would get for efforts in identifying candidates for acquisition. Every dollar of the #250.00 I received for identifying an accepted candidate would go to my student loans. Paying down capital would buy me time before they started looking for me. Twenty candidates in the next few months would give me another Five Thousand dollars of time to run. Any money paid once the candidates were acquired I would keep in cash, as a runaway fund. That would help.

I texted my acceptance to a Young Professional Women’s Networking night. Origiginally I had not intended to attend; but now it seemed a prime place to find acceptable candidates for acquisition.  I left the park and walked down the hilly McMurtry Street to Hathaway. There I caught the cable car for my trip back to my apartment.

**

A Universal Truth.

On the Bart (Bay Area Rapid Transit) I considered a Universal Truth. When you come from a family of girls, and your family name is Bennet, and your mother is an Austin fan, you know that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be need of a wife. For a long time when Patrick Masters had been going with Juliet it had been assumed that someday Patrick ‘would put a ring on it’ with Juliet. But as I had seen today, he had put a collar on Juli and she was a branded collared slave working in his pens emptying slop buckets. So Patrick was in need of a wife. So why not me. I already knew, as of today, of his darkest secret, I could show myself to be trustworthy, that unfortunate blackmail attempt aside, so I was the perfect candidate. True, my father was a country lawyer in a small dusty town in the Central Valley instead of an idle aristocrat,  but my sister had married well and moved to England, but I was in every way suitable.

I knew he had other women, but what married man doesn’t want to screw around, and what rich man doesn’t? As Mrs Magruder had said, Men are Men. As my train screeched to a halt at my stop I decided that running be my escape plan, but that marrying Patrick would be my goal.

*

Coda.

I got back to my apartment in a better frame of mind. It would take some doing, but I could already see myself as Jane Masters. Renting even a small apartment in San Francisco by myself is expensive, but the privacy of not having a roommate is worth it. I did a quick tidy and vacuum and dusting of the front room that serves as a living room with a dining nook, then a quick cleaning of the kitchen. I did not want the men who delivered the research terminal I would use to submit the acquisition requests for the ‘indentured females’ to think I was not a good housekeeper. They might report that to Patrick Masters and I needed only good reports of me if I was going to land him as a husband.

It was when I was vacuuming the hardwood floors in the bedroom that I remembered something. Although I had told Mr Anderson and Mr Reiss that I did not own silken intimate apparel, that was not strictly true. There was an emerald-green teddy whose shoulder straps tied with knots, a red pair of panties, and a very skimpy white thong which was practically see-through. I removed them from the bottom of the drawer and looked around for somewhere to hide them. Not in the bedroom. I headed to the kitchen and stuck them on a back shelf in a lower cabinet behind a large sack of rice.  As I put the items in a plastic bag, I noticed that the K in K-girl was shaped like the marks burned into the bodies of the collared girls of Drysdale House. I did not think that was a coincidence. I would need to dispose of them as soon as possible.

I made a bowl of Nutri-girl, hearty nut flavor, for supper. If I was to drink at this networking meeting tonight, it could not be on an empty stomach. The meeting was as dull as I feared, mostly a bunch of chattering women all trying to one-up each other in the sweetest way. Unlike them, I knew what my career path was going to be: work my way up in the Drysdale House organization, make contacts with the New Feminists, and work on ensnaring Patrick Masters. I went in with a goal, and collected a lot of business cards. I knew, from what I had seen in the pens of Drysdale what I was looking for, and came home feeling I might have some good prospects.

I decided I would shower before bed, so much had happened. Standing under the hot water was wonderful. I got out clean and refreshed. I stepped from the bathroom to my bedroom and stopped in shock. There was a little gray table sitting under the window. On it was a gray terminal, the same as the gray terminal that had been beside Patrick Masters’s desk. While I was in the shower naked, they, whoever they were, had entered my locked apartment, come into my bedroom and set up the terminal.

I had not heard a thing. I ran to the bathroom and got another towel and draped it over the scary gray thing. The bathroom door had not been locked when I had taken my shower; because of the steam it had not even been fully closed. Quiet as a mouse, I locked my bedroom door, then got dressed as quickly as I could. I sat on the bed for nearly thirty minutes listening for any sound that might indicate that they, whoever they were, was outside in my apartment, waiting.

Finally I got up my courage. Silently I unlocked the bedroom door. I looked out into the dark apartment. I turned on the lights and still quietly checked the apartment door. It was locked and bolted, as I had left it. How did they get in? The window by the fire escape was closed and locked, the drapes undisturbed. In the kitchen, the K-girl items were there in plain sight on the counter by the sink, folded on top of the plastic bag! I put them in the trash. Tomorrow, when it was daylight I would dispose of them. I would dispose of them in someone else’s garbage.

I was very scared; but I reasoned that perhaps being able to surreptitiously entering apartments was part of ‘acquisitions’. I picked up the little table the terminal sat upon and pulled it over by the bed so I could sit down. There did not seem to be a power cord, but as soon as I touched it, the screen lit up.

ENTER NAME:

Slowly I typed in my name.

Jane.

ENTER PASSWORD:

As I prepared to type in the password k-a-j-i-r-a, I noticed that the k was different than all the other letters on the keyboard. It was red and glowing, and shaped like the k on the K-girl silken lingerie and like the k on the women of Drysdale House.

I took a deep breath and typed in the password.

WELCOME JANE, ARE YOU READY TO SUBMIT Y/N

I pressed Y.