The Family Business Ch. 01

No applause. I wasn't really expecting any. But there was lots of nodding and perhaps even a smattering of approving muttering. But really, it was Desiree who lifted my spirits.

She hopped up, shook my hand and whispered in my ear. "Gods, kid, you sound just like your father up there."

She took the podium and said, "I think we all owe Mister Rayburn a welcoming round of applause."

At her word, finally applause. She glanced over at me, smiling pleasantly. She didn't say another word to me, but I got the message. These men work for me, kid, not you. The Queen Shark showed me her teeth.

I stayed eager to watch her rile up her school of sharks with red meat. She did not disappoint.

...

By ten I was on the floor watching the sales staff peddle their wares. Desiree found me fast. "Follow me. The other salesmen can be nervous about their deals being watched. Sales is a superstitious trade. I'm meeting a buyer to close a deal."

"Sounds great."

"Just keep your mouth shut and pretend to be my assistant." She passed me a pile of documents. "Here, hold these."

She immediately put on a broad smile and walked quickly to meet an uncertain looking older man, all thinning grey-hair and thread-bare tweed, just coming through the door. She was quick for fear of other sharks. They got the message and instead went looking for other prey.

"Mister Hollander, so glad you could make it!" She leaned in and gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek. "You are ready to view the merchandise?"

"I was hoping for a private viewing room," he said.

"Already arranged, Hermann. You don't mind if I call you, Hermann, do you?"

The man beamed at her attention. "Of course not, Desiree."

"You old charmer you. Let me introduce my sales assistant, Ty Rayburn."

"Rayburn? Any relationship to..."

"The old man's first born fresh out of business school," she said.

"Really? It's a pleasure, young man," he said shaking my hand. "Your father and I have been doing business for almost thirty years. He's sold me all my wives."

I smiled back. "That's great, Mister Hollander. Always glad to meet a loyal customer."

"Oh, please, call me Hermann." He suddenly got serious. "But, I'm not here for pleasantries, am I? You said there was something I had to see. The triplets."

Desiree smiled. "Oh, Hermann, what a treat I have for you today. By the way, how is Delia working out for you?"

"She's been terrific. I bought her from Desiree six years ago, Ty," he said as an aside to me. "A real fire-brand in the sack. She's pregnant now you know." I blinked. Was he boasting about knocking up his slave?

"Congratulations, you rascal! Are you going to recognize the child?"

"Don't know. If it's a boy, yes. A girl, maybe I'll sell her. Make a return on my investment."

"We'd be glad to handle it all very discretely," replied Desiree.

I've got admit, I was horrified. Was he seriously contemplating selling his daughter? And then it hit me. Where did every one of these girls come from? That naked red head on the block right now -- somewhere she had a mother. That leashed Nordic blonde being carefully inspected by a prospective customer -- who were her parents? I knew in my heart that the gods themselves had ordained that some people were meant to be slaves. Not everyone can be a king or the emperor, after all. And not everyone was meant to be free.

In the end, everyone serves someone. I've never met any sitting royalty, though I had seen Prince Daniel when he visited my school last year. As the then valedictorian I even got to shake his hand. But if the Emperor strode into my showroom right now, you can bet I'd be on my knees. Was this really any different? Buck up, Ty. Welcome to the real world.

Desiree escorted Hermann to the private sales room and I hurriedly followed behind. Inside the room, already waiting for us was a security guard holding the leashes of three girls. The trio was naked, of course, a perfectly matched set of delicate Japanese porcelain dolls. They were petite though surprisingly buxom and sported shining jade green eyes. They reminded me of Sam's eyes, though they were not quite as beautiful.

"In the province of Nippon, these would be rare. Here, they are a rarity of rarities. Let me introduce Chiharu, Akiko and Netsuke -- perfectly matched triplets of House Miyake. They are from a hybrid bloodline -- pure Nipponese stock bred with European slaves to produce more prominent assets," she said provocatively fondling one of the girls breasts, "and green eyes."

Desiree wove her tale like a seasoned pro. Soon she had the three girls circling and embracing the old man like a pack of sirens. She had the poor old sod in the palm of her hand. Hermann never had a chance. An hour later, the ink was drying on the sales contract.

"Impressive," I remarked as I watched the contract being filed. "But I'm not sure how much I learned. After all, that was a pretty easy sale."

Desiree shook her head. "You learned nothing then, Ty. It was an easy sale because I got the right buyer in front of the right merchandise. I knew that Hermann Hollander's last pleasure slave was pregnant before I phoned him up. We keep tabs on all the girls. He was looking to trade up. I also noted in the sales report that every slave he inspected closely on his last visit was Asian. He settled on Delia because he could afford her.

"Last year, Hollander Freight went public and since its stock has shot up almost eighty percent. That made the paper. He's flush with cash and ready to fulfill his fantasies. I special ordered a stock triplet set from House Miyake and bang! I moved a seven figure slave set in less than forty eight hours.

"You want to know, what your family business is, Ty?" Desiree remarked sharply. "You just saw it in action."

...

By six o' clock, I was wiped out. After Delia's lesson, I had attended the daily noon auction in which we successfully moved eighteen girls to local brothels, dance halls and hotel chains. Hotels surprised me, but Queen Shark had informed that most cutting edge corporate suites keep a stable for their guests. Traveling executives need love too, I suppose. I even got to witness the arrival of the new shipment where almost a hundred new girls filled out the guest rooms putting us back up to more typical stock levels.

The rest of the day I spent up in the upper offices largely alone (save for Sam) perusing records and financial data trying to understand what sort of shape Carl's was in. Over the course of the day, I had absorbed as much as I could about the slave trade but all I could recall now was that there was a lot more to learn.

"Enough for today," I announced and shut down the accounting software. I stretched. "Thanks for your help, Sam. I mean it. I couldn't do this without you. I'll see you tomorrow morning." I picked up my keys and headed out. Sam gracefully interposed herself between the door and I.

"Tomorrow morning, sir? Aren't we going home?"

"Uh, home?" I said feebly.

"I am your slave, sir."

"Right. Look, I don't exactly have a home yet. I'm just staying at a motel."

"A motel is fine, sir. If you don't want me to stay with you, Jojo could secure me in the guest quarters. That is where your father usually kept me." Her voice trailed off. I might have been a largely clueless twenty-two year old male but even I could tell that Sam did not relish another night locked in one of the holding cells.

What the hell? There are worse things than having a beautiful slave follow you around. "Okay, get your things. Just bring what you need for tonight. We'll get the rest later."

Sam quickly returned with a small black duffle bag. "This is it, sir. This is everything."

"Right. Of course it is. Sorry. Gods, I must sound like a total idiot. I'm just very new to all this. In college, every girl in my class was noble or at least free. A few of the students had slaves but not many. There really wasn't space in the dorm and I've just really gotten out of the habit of dealing with..."

"I understand. If it's simpler, sir, until you get settled, I don't mind the guest rooms."

"No! No. Look, I want you."

She cocked an eyebrow and wore that wicked little grin she found so natural. "Right now, sir?"

"No! I mean, yes. Gods, what I mean is," I paused and tried to regain my haggard composure. "Of course, I want you to come with me. I mean if you want to."

She giggled at my discomfort and then suddenly became much more serious. "Sir, may I speak frankly?"

"Please do. Gods know I can't seem to manage to put one word after another."

"Your father took me off the lot almost seven years ago. I was a new girl then, eighteen, just off the farm. He selected me because I had the highest IQ score of the batch and he decided that a paid office staff was costing too much. At first, he was enamored with me. But honestly, I was never his type. Soon enough, the office pool was full of frequently rotated blondes selected for one criteria, breast size, and it was my job to see that things actually got done. My work was all I had. For the last two years, I have not stepped foot outside this lot. Until your father summoned me to sign me over, I'm not sure he had spoken my name in six months." Her voice was tremulous. She seemed almost a moment away from tears, ready to be overwhelmed by a tidal wave of onrushing sorrow. Was this the same brazen angel with a devil's heart I had met this morning?

"That you care enough to be nervous is a welcome change, sir."

I shook my head. "My dad is a solid business man, Sam. But he's also an idiot if he wasn't smart enough to remember you."

A few tears came, but instead of drowning in sorrow green eyes floated with relief. I was uncertain then if I should say anything more to comfort her. What I was certain of now was that I was starving.

"Let's get some dinner," I announced to no one but myself and my tearful slave.

I left and she went with me.

...

I reclined against an ornate pillow and watched the allegedly Persian slave girl dance around the dinner tables. I was fairly sure that the girl was not Persian at all, maybe Hispanic, but what did that matter? All that mattered was the rhythmic motion of her hips and the entrancing sway of her gossamer-swathed curves. She was lovely, but not near the equal of the jewel who sat next to me. Samantha for her part watched the dancer bemused, her exact thoughts concealed behind that sphinx smirk of hers.

"She is beautiful, sir," she whispered into my ear, cancelling out the distance between us.

"She's nice enough," I remarked more than little startled as I turned to Sam and realized just how close she was. "But..."

"But?"

"Well, don't get me wrong. She is easy on the eyes. But her face. It does nothing for me. A little too ... gods, I'm going to sound like a jerk." I leaned over conspiratorially and whispered. "She's horse-faced. I think the veil is a good decision. Definitely B-grade."

Samantha smirked. "B-grade? You already sound like a slaver, sir. She's not actually a slave you know."

I blinked. "Really? How can you tell?"

"No tag."

I nodded and actually took a moment to carefully examine something other than the swell of her bosom, the ripple of her midriff, the sway of her hip, the tiny bits of fabric that kept disappearing one after another. The dancer mingled and moved amidst the tables at the Sultan's Tent.

Sam was right. Nowhere to be found was the telltale tattoo complete with her owner's seal and ID number. Every slave had one and this girl did not. They were largely obsolete of course. Electronic ID Tags were far more efficient but the law remained the law. Every slave must be marked.

"It would be on her arm, her ass or the back of her neck like mine," explained Samantha. "She's wearing a collar, yes, but its little more than a ribbon. A real collar has to be heavy enough to support the tracking chip and durable enough to be difficult to cut. Trained Persian harem girls are expensive, sir. A local dancer is cheap."

"But a slave girl would be a one-time expense. Surely in the long run..."

"With all due respect, sir, that's not true. With an employee -- they come here, they work, you pay them, they go home. A slave is your property. They have to be housed, fed, cleaned and cared for. Slaves are an ongoing expense. The Sultan's Tent is a nice enough restaurant, but I can see how that could be out of reach."

"Interesting." I pondered it and almost had another well-formed cogent question ready to go when I realized where I was and what I was doing. I was talking shop at a nice restaurant while watching an enticing dancer who moments ago had disposed of her top next to a raven-haired beauty. Was I mad?

"Enough!" I proclamed with a wave of my hand. "This strays dangerously close to talking about work. Tomorrow we will do nothing but. Tonight, something else."

Samantha nodded."As you wish, sir."

"And, Sam, enough with 'sir'. Ty is fine."

"As you wish, Ty. So, tell me about you," she purred abruptly changing the subject.

"Me? I'm not sure there is much to tell."

"Of course there is and I wish to know it all. How can I serve you properly if I don't know everything about you?"

She was so close, inches away from me, almost offering herself to me. Suddenly, I was once more acutely aware of Sam's nudity. Working all day had almost made her condition seem almost normal. Now as she leaned towards me, her breasts unveiled, her long legs neatly folded beneath her barely concealed sex, I could as soon stop breathing as I could ignore Samantha.

"Right," I began.

We chatted for hours over tabouleh and falafel, lamb and long rice, strong coffee and honeyed baklava. Mostly I talked: school anecdotes, tales of my misspent youth, business school follies. Mostly she listened. When she spoke it was rarely louder than a whisper like a shared secret. She hung off me like a beautiful ornament, never far, always eager to please.

When finally we noticed the dancer was gone and the servers were giving us anxious please-leave looks, we took the hint and retired back to my small motel room. It was late, I had a large meal in my belly, I had slept poorly the night before and worked all day. There were plenty of reasons to go straight to bed. There was one compelling argument against and as I washed my face and kicked off my shoes, that reason lay on the bed in the next room. As I emerged from the bathroom still toweling off, I saw her. How could I help it? She filled my vision. She had peeled off the long gloves and boots and even freshened up a little.

She was on top of the spread of the queen bed, her front nestled in the covers, her legs crossed and her pert bottom on display. Instantly, blood began to flow and I could feel the unmistakable first moments of arousal -- the pressure against my slacks, the tightness, the knotting need. She was there, waiting for me. For the last five years I had no real contact with slave girls. I had dated free women, of course. With them it was all negotiation and nuance. Sam instead was simply here. Available. Mine.

I hesitated. No. No, this would be rape, slave or no. I want her to want it. I'll get to know her and eventually maybe she'll ask or at least, she'll say yes when I ask. Tonight it was enough to just to be together. Maybe a kiss, I considered. Was it appropriate it for a master to kiss their slave?

Sam finally turned to face her flustered master. "Ty, could I ask you for a favor?"

I emerged immediately from my muddled cloud of musings. "Of course," I answered.

"I know its been a long day, Ty," she said plaintively, "but would you fuck me?" She did not wait for an answer. She raised herself from the bed in one graceful movement. Up on all fours, she spread her legs, presenting herself, unfolding her secrets. Would I fuck her? That was definitely a question she would not need to ask twice.

I approached her, my heart beating like a drum. I considered a dozen answers from witty to polite to profane. They all seemed to fail the moment. Instead I simply unbuttoned my shirt and slid off the dark blue silk. I abandoned my black pants into a disheveled pile. For now, I left the tented boxers in place.

I leaned across the wide flat expanse of motel-chic bedspread and took hold of her hips. Her flesh was warm and soft, firm but yielding. She purred at my touch. I removed the distance between us and nuzzled my face into her wantonly displayed sex. It had been a long time, yes, but I think I still remembered the basics. I took one long lick, surveying this newly discovered country.

Sam shuddered at the attention. "Oh, yes," she breathed as much as spoke. "Devour me, dominus."

I was briefly taken back by the formal title. No one had ever called me that before. Master. She called me her master. And so I was. I continued, savoring her sex -- the deep earthy musk of it, the flavor of her mounting arousal, the taste of her readiness. She whimpered and pleaded for more.

I obliged with yet more long, slow licks. I trembled with rampant need. Patience became almost painful as I strained against my last garment.

I licked her faster, more insistent. While my tongue did its work, my hand found her secret little nub and began to play and tweak. Her clit was erect and eager.

It took only a few minutes for her to shudder and climax. She had been exquisitely ready for release. More than ready. I could guess why. Masturbation is forbidden in the guest rooms. The chastity belts were cunningly constructed to make any sort of self-stimulation impossible. She knew the guards and perhaps they occasionally allowed her a little privacy during showers, but a hastily stolen frig while a guard impatiently waited was hardly a joyous moment. This ... this by comparison was slow and patient.

"Oh," she cooed. "So nice, dominus." Her voice was warm with want and deep with desire.

I still said nothing. The boxers and the time for talking were gone. I had my own needs, my own frustrations. I had been patient longer than any college kid had any right to be. Two years of nothing but theory and cold coursework. Two years of constant worry: could I stay at the head of my class? Would this next exam be the one that took away my grade point crown? Two years of dorm life with only rare moments of privacy, always uncertain when the roommate would return.

My dad could have afforded to rent me a private apartment off campus. But dorm-life, I was repeatedly assured, built character. Cafeteria food built character. Doing my own laundry built character. Every fucking thing that saved my dad a buck built character. Maybe it did. But it also built frustration. And right now every ounce of that frustration seemed to concentration in the length of my cock. I was hard as fucking steel.

I lanced her and she took me eagerly. She moaned. "Oh, dominus, take that cunt. Make it fucking yours." All she could do was hold on as I buried myself in her molten velvet depths and thrust out and back again and again. My movements became desperate, furious. She pressed against me, trying to keep pace with this mad rhythm. It was a futile effort. This was not the love-making of two practiced partners, well acquainted with each others wants and needs. This was a violent race to ecstasy. This was the frantic search for release. This was pure heart-pounding fucking.

Sweat began to flow, the slick sheen of shared heat and rampant need. We fucked each other as hard as we could. No subtlety. No sultry whispers. No pet names. Hard fast forward fucking.

It didn't take long. Of course it didn't. Was it a minute? Was it two? All of that frustration and pent up desire spilled out of me in one concentrated release of come and cursing. I spewed hot thick ropy seed again and again into her silken sex. I came and kept coming and she took it, not pulling away but luxuriating in her master's release.