A Slave and Her Boy Pt. 02

I remembered my accounts written on a napkin. With all the money I'd never known about, an expensive tux and dress rental seemed like an okay splurge.

Once there, we were seen by several people. All of them were young, good looking, and wearing nice clothing. They took our measurements separately, and asked a couple of questions about my tux preferences. It was simpler picking out my own tuxedo than it was getting Margaret fitted, which seemed kind of sexist to me.

After my fitting. I was led into a large, circular room with a small raised platform in the center. Nearby, a pair of recliners were prepared. Two champagne bottles were nestled in ice within arm's reach. With some trepidation, I took my seat, and my attendants vacated the room silently. I was alone, it was quiet. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to do something or simply wait. Glancing around, I noticed the lights dimming slightly, followed by Margaret's entrance.

She walked confidently onto the stage, now lit by a spotlight. Her semi-nude body glowed in the light, showing her perfection. My slave wore only her underwear, but she didn't seem bothered by her lack of clothes. I waved, but she didn't wave back, in fact she didn't even look in my direction. I assumed she was blinded by the spotlight. Sliding back in the overstuffed armchair, I prepared for... whatever was happening.

Low music began to play, some kind of Muzak or smooth jazz or something. It was all kind of weird, and definitely outside of my comfort zone.

Attendants appeared, other slaves or employees, carrying bags shaped vaguely like dresses.

"I'll jot down some of your favorites, sir, and confirm your purchase once you've selected."

I jumped a bit, as the speaker had appeared quietly next to me, a thin, young slave, dressed in a suit that looked like he was attending a fancy party himself.

"Uh, sure. That sounds great." Sometimes, I decided, you just go with the flow.

The attendants on the stage quickly assisted Margaret into a dress, a silky purple number with a low cut front and straps that hung loosely about her shoulders. Every one of her curves was hugged perfectly, and the material contrast made her skin look smooth and flawless. I felt my eyes widening as I stared, almost licking my lips.

"Holy shit..." I said unintentionally.

"A favorite, sir?" The young slave by my side asked.

"You can show me some others," I said. "But that's gonna be the winner."

"I'll note it, sir."

I was completely wrong. Each dress floored me the same way the first had. There was no clear winner. At the end of my private show, I had decided they could slap a burlap sack on Margaret, and it would make me salivate. She was just incredible.

"Your choice, sir?" My attendant asked.

"I, uh... I'll... number... seven?" I couldn't remember which one was the best.

"The black satin evening gown with optional Tahitian Pearl strand?" I remembered the dress he was referring to. It was gorgeous. They all were, but that one sounded fine to me.

"Yes. That one."

"With or without the Tahitian Pearls, sir?"

"...With, of course." I tried to sound confident. I wasn't really sure what a 'Tahitian Pearl' was and how it was different from a normal pearl, but I went along with it.

I was reunited with Margaret by the entrance to the store. She was beaming, her smile brightening the room. She practically ran up to me, standing by my side.

"Hi!" She said, giddy and giggling. "I had so much fun. Oh my god. Thank you sir. So much."

"Sure, uh, do you like your dress?" I asked. She shook her head, her smile holding steady.

"I have no idea which one you went with, but I loved them all!"

"Oh. Okay. Cool."

Within a few moments, I was presented with a bill. I accepted it from the hands of the young man who had managed our entire transaction, and I eyed it closely. It was a staggering amount of money. I noticed the 'Tahitian Pearl Strand' represented about two thirds of the substantial bill.

"Um, it'll be on my bank card." I rifled through my pockets, handing the newly issued card over. From behind me, Margaret peered over my shoulder.

"Sir?" She asked.

"Go ahead, Margaret." I responded. The thin man accepted my card suspiciously, squinting at me as if he wasn't sure I was serious. My face was hot as I realized they probably didn't get paid with a lot of bank cards in this sort of establishment.

"I may need to call your bank, sir. They'll have to up your daily maximum expenditure. By about... forty times."

"...Yes. Thank you. Good idea."

We walked casually through the mall with our new clothing. Margaret made sure to clasp the pearl necklace particularly firm, holding the little black box under her right arm securely.

"It was very nice of them to help us so much with that." She said innocently.

"Yes," I was still slightly dizzy with embarrassment. Margaret had done most of the talking, and I had mostly just tried not to pass out. The whole situation had felt extremely difficult for my anxiety.

"Fortunately they accepted payment plans." She said, "I didn't know a bank card's increased maximum also had a maximum."

"Me either," I said.

"It covered the down payment. You can... -I- can write a check, and you can sign it, and we can send it to them for the full amount." She replied.

"Yes."

"I'll call tomorrow and have the bank send us a checkbook, and if you like a debit card with a higher limit."

"Yes." I was just trying to keep up as Margaret walked me through all the steps I'd need to go through to take care of this account. She was still talking when we were interrupted.

"Gerry? Gerry Morgan? It's Jayden. From high school." A voice snapped me away from my train of thought. The man who spoke held his hand out, smiling. I looked the man up and down. Sure enough, beneath the facial scruff and about thirty pounds of extra muscle, I recognized the scrawny teen I had known in high school. He hadn't been particularly close to me - perhaps we shared three classes. I shook his hand, clamming up. Internally I groaned, my stomach knotting up. I wasn't prepared for any more social interactions, but I knew one was coming. "It's good to see you man. Hey, who's this?" He looked to my side, where Margaret stood, head obediently bowed.

"Oh uh, it's good, this is Margaret, It's good to see you too, dude."

"Damn, you got a slave? Where you working these days?" He smiled, flashing rows of perfect teeth. He was handsome, and I felt a tinge of jealousy. I wondered if Margaret had noticed how handsome he was.

"Uh, I don't." I replied. "What about you?" I didn't care what he did, but as far as I understood, asking was required by social protocol.

"Oh man, I just landed a sweet gig in an accounting firm. I'll be knocking back like three hundred a year."

"Oh. Cool." I replied. I didn't know what else to say. As far as I knew there weren't many places he could stay for three hundred a year. I wondered if he lived with his parents.

"How much was she?" He nodded at my slave, looking her up and down. "Is she trained? I'm thinking of picking one up myself. Something in the high eighties, maybe." I looked at Margaret as if that would help me know what he was talking about. I was confused, because I knew for a fact slaves cost more than eighty or ninety bucks. Maybe he knew someone.

"I uh, Mason and something. Margaret, where were you trained?"

"Mason and Brockeridge, sir." I nodded when she replied, as if I remembered. Jayden's eyes widened and he tilted his head to one side.

"Oooh-weee! Okay, Mr. Money, first name Big. Flexing a little, huh?"

"Uh, no. She's cool." I didn't really understand what he was asking. I wanted out of the conversation desperately. We both stood quiet for a couple of seconds, and he looked like he was searching for something else to talk about. He pointed to our clothes.

"Are you going out somewhere?"

"Yeah." I responded. We stood silently for a few more seconds. I wanted to physically run away. I couldn't think of anything cool to say.

"Okay, well... good to see you man." He stuck out his hand, offering a handshake. I clasped it lightly and he nearly crushed my fingers.

"Y-you too." I said. As he walked past us, he stopped, looking Margaret over from the ground up.

"Damn. Whoever said money can't buy happiness..." He nodded toward her. "Couldn't afford one of those."

I waited for him to be out of hearing range before speaking.

"Well that was awful." I grumbled. Margaret chuckled.

"I kind of liked him."

"Sure. I don't get other people." I replied.

"He made me feel pretty special." I felt another pang of jealousy.

"How?" I held the door politely as Margaret walked through it.

"Well, he just seemed like... he thought I was valuable."

"You are valuable. A lot more valuable than the slaves he was talking about." She shrugged as we made our way through the parking lot.

"I guess... he would have been proud to own me." I squinted against the glare of the sun, searching for her meaning.

"I'm proud to own you."

"I know," She smiled. "I'm very pleased to belong to you."

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I ruminated on the encounter. I still felt jealous. I couldn't get it out of my head. I drove a short distance while replaying the interaction in my head. We rolled up to a stop light, both of us looking out opposite sides of the car.

"Well how is it different?" I asked.

"How is what different?" Margaret responded.

"Him being proud of you and me being proud of you." I responded. Margaret, usually cool and concise with her speech, hesitated.

"Oh... I'm quite happy to belong to you." She said.

"That's not what I asked."

"I don't understand the question, sir." Margaret looked out the window, trying to avoid the glance I gave her. I sighed heavily, rolling my eyes.

I remembered living with my parents. When my house was full of slaves and servants. Sometimes as a young child I'd ask the slaves to play with me. They, being slaves, were compelled to comply.

They knew who my father was.

I always suspected the various hapless slaves I'd snare into being my playmates. They pretended to enjoy it, but as I grew older I saw through that façade. Eventually, I asked them, 'Do you like playing with me?' Universally, they answered yes, they were very pleased to play with me. It was always said with a smile and enthusiasm, and I always saw it for what it was: a lie.

"I'm not my father." I said. It was a thought, but I said it out loud. Margaret looked at me curiously, but didn't respond. "Okay, look. I know you're scared I'll freak out or get mad at you or whatever. But that's not my style. I want you to be completely honest. I promise I won't be mad. Why does it make a difference, the way he was proud of you?" Margaret stared straight ahead silently. After a few moments, she shifted, crossing her arms.

"I like to be shown off." Margaret replied. She blushed deeply, pulling her legs up into the seat with her and resting her head on them. "I'm valuable. A prize. I should be bragged about, people should be jealous of whoever owns me. My master should coyly slip into every conversation that he owns me. And people should be impressed."

I had to concede, she was trained for a totally different class of owner. I imagined politicians on a yacht, showing off their slaves. Slaves who cost more than the boats they stood on. That was the world Margaret had trained for, and I deduced, had been excited about. I started to respond, but she continued.

"I'm so sorry if I hurt your feelings, sir. You are a very kind master. I truthfully, honestly am happy to belong to you." I looked at her for a second, and she looked back at me. I wanted to believe her. To believe that she did like being my slave. I just wasn't sure I could.

"That's just not really my thing." I said.

"I know." She replied. "And I'd never ask you to change that." She reached out and took my hand, pulling it toward her. I hesitated. She seemed so genuine. I let her guide me to her leg. She wrapped her arms around mine and laid her head on my shoulder. I had to force myself to focus on driving with one hand. It felt good to have this beautiful woman cuddling up to me. I did feel more powerful.

"Please forgive me if I offended you, sir." She spoke in a low voice.

"No, I get it."

I thought about it for a moment. What would it feel like to show off Margaret? I felt her on my arm, and I felt good. Maybe I could brag about owning her. If I ever bragged about anything.

"I might enjoy it." I said. "Showing off a little." She smiled, squeezed my bicep, and kissed my shoulder.

"Thank you, master."

I waited nervously at the bottom of the stairs. My legs were tingling with a mixture of nerves and anticipation. Attending any kind of party was so far out of my comfort zone. The tuxedo fit perfectly, but I still felt like I had to adjust it, tugging on the collar and pulling up the pants.

"Margaret? We gotta get going soon." I called up the stairs.

"Yes sir." She replied. "I'm just trying to get everything right."

"What is there to get right?" I asked, fiddling with the cufflinks I was quite sure I'd put in wrong.

"My hair, the outfit... everything. I wish I had make-up." She replied.

"Yeah, next time. Slipped my mind." I waited a few more impatient seconds. "Margaret?" I called again.

She descended the stairs quickly, almost tripping over her heels.

"Okay, I'm ready." She spoke quickly, obviously feeling rushed. I was in awe of her. The strapless black satin dress was beyond perfect. Every bit of her body was hugged immaculately by the dark fabric. Her shoulders were exposed seductively. I could just see the freckles that ran across her perfect chest. She smiled hopefully at me, her hair hanging in ringlets about her head. In her hands, she fiddled with a... purse? Pocket book? Some kind of clutch. Probably came with the dress, I thought.

"What do you think?" she asked, smiling slightly, like she knew the answer.

"How did you curl your hair?" Okay, probably not what she was looking for. Her smile sagged a bit.

"There's a curling iron under the sink in the bathroom." She answered flatly.

"There is?" I asked, dumbly.

"Mm-hmm." She said, biting her tongue.

"Oh. Um, you look good." I felt like I was supposed to say more. Girls like poetic guys. "That dress looks nice on you." Poetic guys, myself not included.

"Thank you." She walked past me towards the door. I sucked at this. But I was being cool tonight. I had said I would try. I forced out the first cool sounding thing I could think of.

"It would look better on the floor." I cringed instantly after saying it. My stomach knotted up. Oh god, was that a creepy thing to say? Margret turned back to me, a hand on one hip.

"If you command it, sire." She winked. My heart skipped as she walked towards me. She stopped just in front of me, laying a hand on me.

"Your chest looks good in that tux." Margaret could have asked me for anything in that second, and I would have given it to her. She was too much for me to handle. "We'll be late if we don't leave." She turned slowly and walked toward the door. I followed hurriedly, my eyes glued to her backside.

In the garage, I fished my keys from my pocket, walking towards my Sedan.

"The seats are kind of dirty." I said. "Maybe we should get a towel or something? These clothes were pretty expensive." Margaret stopped walking.

"May I ask a favor, sir?"

"Oh. Uh, yeah. What's up?"

"Do any of those run?" She asked, pointing to the opposite side of the spacious garage. My father's old cars were parked in a neat row, half a dozen of them. They were uncomfortable to me, a cold memory well outside of my personal style.

"Uh, I guess so. My dad paid a guy to come by and service them. He still comes sometimes." I replied. "But I don't usually drive them. I think Bella told me to sell them. I meant to, I just don't know how."

Since Margaret had been around I'd increasingly noticed when I said something dumb because of the look on her face. I received one of those looks now, her mouth slightly open, processing what I had said.

"Can we take that one tonight?" She finally asked, pointing to a yellow one with a trident shaped emblem on the front. Her eyes were big and pleading. Normally I'd have said no, but I really couldn't turn her down in that dress.

"I guess. I think the keys are in the cabinet. I really don't like that one. The doors open funny." I retrieved the keys, showing her what I meant. I pulled the handle and the door slid upwards smoothly.

"See?" I waved my hands. She was already in the car, pulling her door closed. As I joined her, she gave me a worried look.

"You don't get out much, do you?" She asked.

"I talk to people online a lot." I replied, a weak defense I had used before.

"I'm sorry sir." She could tell it had upset me a little.

"It's fine." I assured her, annoyed. I touched the start button and the engine roared to life, much louder than I liked. "I'm used to it."

The address Bella had given me was a huge event center, right in the middle of downtown. Margaret was digging through my texts for our tickets as I pulled up to the designated street. The drive was blockaded, and a very official looking guy told me I couldn't go any further without tickets. Fortunately, Margaret had found them, and he let us pass.

"There's nowhere to park." I said, looking at the entrance of the building. Large crowds of people were gathered outside, not many of whom were formally attired. I wondered if we had overdressed.

"It's valet." Margaret pointed to the entrance, a semi-circle driveway passing right by it.

"How does it work?" I asked.

"Just pull up. The man wearing a bowtie will take your car." Margaret explained.

"How do I get it back?" I asked.

"He'll give you a ticket for it." She replied.

"Have you done this before?"

"I've been familiarized with formal event procedures as part of my training."

"Oh."

I pulled into the drive, keeping the car's engine as quiet as possible. It was extremely loud with even the slightest touch of the gas pedal, and I didn't want to bother anyone. As I parked, the young man in the bowtie approached us. I rolled the window down.

"Hey watch out," I said to him, "The door opens funny." He paused, confused. I opened the door upwards and stepped out, handing him my keys.

"See?" I said. He passed a slip of paper to me in return, giving me the same look Margaret gives me when I say something stupid.

"...Yeah. I've seen one before." He said, climbing into the car. I joined Margaret by the curb. What I saw made me uncomfortable.

The large crowds were on the other side of a series of plastic barriers. In front of us, another couple, who presumably had arrived earlier, were walking between the barriers. Those outside the barriers were clearly paparazzi with cameras. Every single one of them were snapping pictures of the couple.

"I wonder if they're famous?" I whispered to Margaret, pointing to the people in front of us.

"I'm so excited." She was grinning broadly, and quickly wrapped both of her arms around one of mine.

"Yeah. Me too." I lied. But I remembered I was going to be cool, so I pushed my nerves down, ignoring the pain in my stomach. It was a social anxiety symptom I was quite familiar with.

We followed the famous couple, and as we did, a few of the photographers snapped pictures of us. I didn't like it one bit, but Margaret loved it. She was smiling and waving at them as we walked by. I wondered why they were taking pictures of us. Did they know who I was? Did they care? Both of my questions were answered when I heard one asking another who we were. They didn't have a clue. Maybe they were taking pictures just in case we were famous.