Rhiana

Anira’s attention was drawn to the figure at the centre of the holo; a tall man, standing straight with his arms raised out and above his head, palms upturned towards the roiling purple sky above. From his head flowed beautiful blonde hair, completely natural in colour, even in the unnatural-looking blue light of Ascreus, but almost artificial in straightness. It parted in the middle and flowed around his hard face, its smoothness accentuating the grey baldness of his cheeks over a high cheekbone and thick jaw, continuing over his shoulders and down his back and chest.

His hair was straight and beautiful like a woman’s, yet he did not have a feminine appearance; to the contrary, his tall, slender body seemed bursting with masculine power. His broad shoulders seemed to push out his V-shaped torso into his boiler suit, accenting his appearance even in the most unflattering clothing, and muscles all along his arm were bulging against his sleeves as if he were tensing them hard.

His face was set in a harsh snarl as he shouted, head bowed forwards so that his deep, narrow eyes stared out from under his smooth brow; it seemed to Anira that he was staring straight through the holo directly at her, aiming his words to her.

Anira found herself unable to look away as the newscaster’s commentary on the events eventually trailed off, replaced with the words of the speaker and the noise of his gathered crowd. A few words at the end of his speech filtered through the sound system as the crowd drowned him out in applause: “Money is not power! Power is not freedom!”

As the image dimmed Anira found herself somewhat shaken. She commanded the newscast to switch off, then turned her mind back to the unopened safe on the table. Finally overcoming her last fears, she lunged forwards, plugging in the key and hurriedly whipping open the door before she lost her nerve again.

Inside the safe was nothing more than a stack of papers, perhaps only ten sheets deep. She reached in and glanced at the top one, feeling a little concerned and a little disappointed at the same time. The top sheet was a servant issue paper, similar to the one given to her when she had collected Connie. It was dated seven years previously and had a holograph of a young girl, perhaps eighteen years old; the paper identified her as Leanne Walters.

Anira shifted the paper uneasily, uncovering the next sheet. Another slave, Nadia SaVante. She turned the paper again – this time Fern Spencer; and another, and another and another. Already knowing what she would find, Anira placed the papers she had inspected face-down on the table, for some reason not wanting to muddle their sequence. Three papers remained in her hand; she took the last paper off of the bottom of the stack and stared at it – already knowing what she would see. Her own face stared back – innocent and girlish, so different from the look she saw in the mirror every morning. And her real name – Rhiana DeCaunes, printed next to her face, brought a tear to her eye as she took in the detail of the paper.

Anira returned her sheet to the bottom of the pile and finally discarded the top sheet, revealing the one that she had not yet seen; the slave that she imagined she had replaced. She was at once terrified and awed by the number of slaves her previous Mistress had owned, and she wondered what fate had befallen her immediate predecessor. She looked at the paper, and suddenly felt as if her heart had stopped.

A young, innocent face stared back at her; narrow and pointed, with clear blue eyes, as beautiful as the sky at dawn and pure as the autumn rain; blonde hair fierce like the Graylight at midday; thin red lips in an anxious, tight line. Anira gazed at the girl in the hollow, unaware that she had stopped breathing. For staring back at her was a woman that the paper identified as Sylvie Harris, but it was the face of the woman she had called Mistress.

Anira stood in front of Connie’s bedroom door, gazing sorrowfully at her girl. Showered and dried, she was ready for bed, but Anira felt such a cold emptiness inside her that the thought of locking her girl away seemed a punishment only to herself. A wave of despair washed over her and she felt a wall of tears suddenly push at the back of her eyes; she painfully swallowed them down, then leant forwards into Connie, burying her face into her girl’s soft milky neck. Her arms wrapped around her girl and held her tightly as her tears overcame her and she cried helplessly into Connie’s neck.

Connie’s soft clean hair brushed against her cheek, and her body was pressed tightly against her, warming her cold soul with its angelic radiance. Anira felt her tension dissolve as Connie’s hands gently touched her back and shoulders, hugging her in a gentle embrace.

Eventually Anira’s tears dried, and she lifted her head, gazing at her girl, who looked back curiously. A sad smile creased her lips as she looked into her deep brown eyes, lost among their swirling innocence; and she felt as if that moment could go on forever, hoping it would, wishing it would. The bittersweet realisation of her fate brought to her, that she would live the rest of her life with this girl, unable to escape, only to draw out her life as long as possible. She realised suddenly that she was standing uncomfortably when there was a warm bed waiting for her.

“Come, girl, sleep with me tonight.” She said quietly.

Sleep was a long time coming for Anira, her mind a swirling maelstrom of unchained thoughts. When her consciousness did eventually drift into slumber she was haunted by vivid but incomprehensible dreams; one moment she was Rhiana, being tortured again by Mistress; the next the speaker on Ascreus was shouting at her, spitting out his words as he stared into her mind: “Money is not power! Power is not freedom!”

He kept returning throughout her dream, just as Mistress was about to make her come, interrupting the release that she sought, screaming his final words at her with a fury matched only by her internal craving. Again and again she was under the touch of Mistress, pleased almost to the point of orgasm, then again he was before her, shouting. Finally she was back with Mistress, again just about to come, when she awoke, terrified, frustrated and uncontrollably aroused.

Words still roiled in her mind as her fingers worked down towards her dripping sex: Money is not power, power is not freedom.

***