Mistress Kathy's Slave Catalog Ch. 05

"Looks like I lose the bet after all," said the Duchess. "It doesn't fit him at all now."

"Not anymore," agreed the Baroness.

The pair playfully used their eating utensils to undo the clasps that held the garment. The Baroness pulled it from his naked body and examined it as it hung from the end of her fork.

"Is the chain real gold?" she asked.

"I didn't ask," admitted the Duchess. "I had my staff place the order to my tailor. Emily, does your firm have a men's line?"

"Not yet," said Emily with interest, "but I think I may start one!"

Now Lady Tara had an idea for a new game to play with her spoon. She warmed it over a candle and placed it in a pat of butter until the butter melted. She ran the smooth side of the warm spoon up and down his exposed shaft, allowing the butter to glide from base to tip. Adam responded, his lungs gasping, his man part throbbing.

"Don't provoke my slave any further," warned the Countess, pointing her carrot. "An ejaculation on the dinner table would be unseemly."

"Don't be such a killjoy," said Lady Tara. "I think it would be an interesting experiment to see how many candles can be extinguished with airborne sperm."

"But it's early," said the Countess. "The ceremony must be completed first. Then—"

She bit the carrot.

"The Countess is quite right," said the Duchess in her capacity as chair of the Assembly. "The new slaves are not yet initiated. Protocols must be obeyed."

"Fine," said Lady Tara. "Let's get on with it then. We've questioned them all. It's time to assign them rank."

"But we haven't asked the man-slave any questions yet," noted Lady Emily, giving him a patronizing pat on the head.

"Surely that's a technicality!" insisted the Baroness.

"One that's easily corrected," observed the Duchess. "We shall ask him a question. Lady Emily, please undo his gag so we may be done with this."

Lady Emily unsnapped Adam's panel gag. The Duchess peered at Adam judiciously. "I will ask you one question, Sweetcheeks. It is the only question relevant in your case. Are you ready to hear it?"

Adam nodded.

The Duchess's eyes narrowed imperiously. "Define deviant," she said.

The maid slaves seated behind him tittered among themselves as if it were some private joke.

Adam remembered reading something about the subject from the castle slave manual. "It's the lowest position in the slave hierarchy," he said. "Equal to playthings—and pets."

"Yes," said the Duchess. "But what exactly sets a deviant apart from playthings and pets? What is unique about a deviant?"

"I don't know," he admitted.

"He admits he doesn't know," said the Duchess smugly. She looked to one of the rented maids for the answer.

"The Mediary explained it earlier," responded the maid proudly, "when he was still sleeping—when we pulled him from his box. A deviant is unworthy of rank because a deviant is a man."

That fucking end note, Adam remembered.

"The rules of initiation are quite straightforward," said the Duchess. "We've judged the new slaves' desirability. Sweetcheeks scored highly in that part. Then came the test, in which the slaves were awarded points for their competence. He didn't do as well in that part. Now to adjust for his deviance, we must multiply his score by zero."

"The poor man-slave," said the Countess, rising from her chair. She stepped to Adam's side and placed her hands upon his body as a pianist would place hands upon a keyboard. She smiled in the most unpleasant way possible. "I think his life is about to take an unexpected, possibly excruciating turn!"

Adam cringed from her touch. His sense of panic returned, but he could only flail in resistance.

"The Assembly has determined Sweetcheeks to be a deviant," concluded the Duchess. "He will not have the privilege of clothes, opinions, or speech, and will be fully bound at all times. He has been judged unfit for any position of responsibility except as a sex slave. As such, he will primarily service Assembly members—and secondarily, any slave who outranks him. A bootlicker will be assigned who will spoon feed him once a day—provided she is not bound herself, which has been known to happen on occasions when she requires discipline." She paused to stare at him. "Is he still listening?"

In truth, he wasn't. The Countess—on a mad impulse—was using her blunted carrot to wedge apart his butt cheeks. He defensively clenched.

Yet even this was not his most troubling concern. A more desperate thought was crying out from the most private part of his brain.

I failed Eve—like I failed Monica. Even if I survive the night, the Countess will never let me go!

To be continued . . .