Colors and Fog

A moment later, The Missus comes out of the service entrance and stops in front of blue. There is no flicker of recog--, that blue knows who The Missus is. Chief hands blue's leash to The Missus, and all of a sudden we can see something go "click" behind blue's eyes. Her legs buckle, and a second later she is on her knees in the dust, thighs wide spread, her wrists crossed behind her as if for binding. Her eyes are on the shoes of the woman in front of her. Even from where we stand in the stair landing, I can see that she is trembling. The Missus puts a finger under blue's chin and tilts blue's head back.

Her eyes very wide, blue says, "M-Mistress?"

The Missus nods, and then blue turns inside out. I don't mean with her body. What I mean is that you can see it in her eyes: blue knows that she will never again feel pleasure with her own skin. From now on, when blue gives The Missus pleasure, and only then, a small part of that pleasure will somehow be piped straight into blue's brain. She will sense and judge every second, every feeling, not through her own eyes or skin, but as though looking through the eyes of The Missus, feeling through her skin. From now on, her only hope of pleasure, or even just of no-pain, is if The Missus feels pleasure. It is a little like saying that your toe (blue) can not be happy if the rest of you (The Missus) isn't happy first.

The Missus looks into blue's eyes to watch these changes as they happen. She gives the leash a jerk, and blue rises to her feet. The Missus says, "Come along," and heads for her boudoir, with blue in tow.

Then Ed comes out of the service entrance, holding a riding crop, and swaggers up to baby blue. Chief hands him the leash, baby blue goes "click," and she, too, drops to her knees, her hands clasped between her breasts as if in prayer. We can hear her through the open window as she says, "Sir, am I to be your domestic?"

Ed says, "If you're good enough..."

The change comes in her eyes, just as with blue. For baby blue, it is as though some being from heaven, maybe Apoll--, that sun god guy, has been made flesh and is shining right in front of her.

She looks up at him with awe. In a low voice, full of wonder, so low that we can barely hear her through the window, she says to no one: "Oh. My. God."

Ed continues, "...which I doubt."

And baby blue seizes his hand, the one holding the crop, with both of hers, and covers the back of his hand with tears and kisses. "Please, sir," she sobs in a broken voice, "Please, I'm inexp--, I'm new at this, but please, please let me serve you."

Ed smiles a thin smile, and I think I can see the cruel streak in him, maybe only about a mile wide. Perhaps he gets it from his mother. He says nothing. The girl, thinking that she is being refused, that she is not good enough, reaches out with one of her hands, her hand shaking as though she has lost control of it, and begins with trembling fingers to stroke the front of his trousers. "Please, sir? Use me as you wish. I can learn how to be very good for you, really I can."

Clearly, she sees her chance to serve Ed as a once-in-a-lifetime gift, a dream, already slipping away from her, a chance never to be found again, a crazy chance, one she does not deserve, one that she must not let get away, or she will hate herself, or worse, for the rest of her life.

Ed's smile gets broader and meaner. He pulls her to her feet with the leash, and says, "Oh, can you, little one? Let's see about that. You'd better hope that you're a quick learner, bitch." He drags her into The House with the leash, she stumbling behind him, and they head for his room.

A moment later, Chief joins pink and me on the landing. He says, "I must emphasize that blue and baby blue have never been to this House before this morning." (He can say those big words that we can't.)

I look at pink, back to him, and we say, "Yessir!"

He says, "It would be...unfortunate...if you were to say anything to either of them that would lead them to believe otherwise."

"Yes, SIR!"

(What I really say is, "Yeth, thir!" It will be a while before I can do my S's right, with the tongue stud.)

And then he says something that drives a spike of ice through the top of my skull and straight down my spine. He says "As you value your memories, not one word. Now back to your duties." And he spins around and leaves us on the landing.

I almost piss myself with fear, standing there on the landing.

It's pathet--, it's really sad, isn't it? Here I am, only the most tiny step above a sex slave, or maybe not even that, and I cling to even this sorry sense of I/me/mine/myself with all my might. The fear of going through re-write, of someone wiping from my mind with a damp cloth even the few pain-filled things I think I can recall, scares the living hell out of me.

Then a new thought trumps even that fear: How many times have I been through re-write myself before now? How many times has a self of mine been left on the cutting-room floor? There's no way to know. I have never been so afraid. I am shaken by grief and loss--grief for all those women who have lived in this body and are gone, mourning for those women I will never know, loss of all those selves who must have been as dear to me in their time as red is to me now.

I am dimly aware that pink is hugging me, trying to comfort me, even though she has no idea what I am afraid of. At last I get control of myself, kiss her forehead, and we go our own ways.

I didn't hear the 'phone call from The Mister to the people behind the white van, but I bet it went something like this: "Get me re-write! You got my email on the new thing I want to try with the woman? No problems? Good! For both of them, let's dial back the fear factor a notch. No, make it half a notch. Dial up the lust factor a notch, and the need-to-please factor two notches. For the girl, knock her self-esteem down to half of what it was. And let's see what we get this time. Thursday morning? OK, and this is covered under the repair plan, right? Good! See you Thursday."

The rest of the day there are muffled screams and cries from boudoir. From Ed's room, there is no sound at all.

Twice I hear pink's wail of release from Robert's room. My heart swells with a mother's pride: by Rule One, she has made Robert cum twice, which is not doing badly for a girl so new to this life. That's my girl! The Mister snorts. He's a little pissed, and a little amused. He mutters to himself, "Robert will have to gag that girl if that keeps up."

Dinner time comes, and we take our places. I seat The Mister, and step back to the wall.

Robert comes in, with pink climbing all over him. She is skipping, and she giggles as she rubs herself up and down his body. As they reach his chair, he grabs her arm, spins her around, and plants a roundhouse spank on her bottom that lifts her right off the floor. She yelps and backs away to the wall beside me, fighting back tears, rubbing her abused bottom, and settles into a pout. I smother a smile: she is drunk on being the object of his lust, but she is coming along nicely. She has to learn her place, and how much is too much, but that will happen. Robert seats himself, and shares a quiet remark and chuckle with his father.

Now for the stars of the show.

The Missus appears with blue behind her; blue seats her mistress and backs away. The domestic has clearly been well-used: her hair is a tangle of sweat and maybe some other fluids. The Missus has removed blue's collar sometime during the day. Of course, blue moves stiffly, and some fresh bruises are peeking out between the panels of her blouse and skirt.

It is clear that the link from the body of The Missus to blue's brain is fully online, and blue watches The Missus like a hawk from behind. I can see that blue feels the need to sense the faintest first stirring of any desire in The Missus, to leap on it and make it happen before The Missus even knows that there is something she wants. So blue jumps forward to place the wine glass into her mistress's hand, and when The Missus takes her first sip of wine, the pleasure that The Missus feels as she savors the taste blooms on blue's face.

The Missus looks across the table to The Mister, and gives him the very most tiny smile and nod. The Mister inclines his head the smallest bit in answer. Chief misses none of this, but very little gets past Chief. He does not relax--he needs to see what is up with baby blue.

A moment later, Ed shows up with baby blue. Her collar is still locked in place. Given what I have seen of Ed, I doubt that it will be coming off any time soon. The lack of sound from Ed's room is explained: even in the dim light of the dining room we can see the weals in her cheeks, left by tight straps of the gag, the chafe on her wrists and ankles, left by the cuffs. Her tunic is spotless and not wrinkled at all, which tells me that Ed yanked the ends of the bows at her shoulder and hip right after he and she went into his room.

As Ed comes to a stop behind his chair, she kneels at his side, and looks up at his face. She has learned her place, which is at his feet.

Her The thought is as clear as if she had spoken it: this is my last chance to touch him today. Her hand rises between his legs to cup and stroke his groin, where lies the index of her value and the only source of any hope that she might someday become worthy.

Fear is written on her features. The demands for painful and humil--, shameful acts were constant, never-ending today, but she tried her best to please him through it all. Was she good enough? Please let her be good enough! She searches his face for clues.

As if to answer, Ed hooks a finger through the ring on her collar, hauls her to her feet, plants his palm between her breasts, and gives her a hearty shove. She staggers backward, nearly falling, to fetch up against the wall next to blue with a thud. She bursts into tears. Just as she feared: she is not good enough! And she tried sooo hard! She covers her face with her hands.

Ed seats himself, reaches across the table to share a high-five and a laugh with Robert, and gives his father a smile and nod, while blue bends over to comfort her daughter: Ed's high-five shows that he's happy with her, right? Her daughter bucks up only a little, not really convinced. She will live in constant fear of being tossed aside, will never believe that she can be good enough for Ed.

The Mister turns and gives a nod to Chief. Chief lets himself slump maybe a sixteenth of an inch as the tension comes off.

A motion from Chief, and The Help rushes forward to begin serving. We domestics head for the back stairs, and try to snatch a bite as always as we go through the kitchen. The cook is alert, though, and we come up empty.

In the closet, we work quickly with pitcher and basin, soap and towel, to get rid of the signs of our usage today. I use the little mirror from the wall to show pink the handprint that Robert's spank planted on her rump. She traces the outline of his hand with the tip of her finger, with wonder and a new fit of giggles. Then the light goes out.

As I spoon up behind pink in the dark, I say quietly, "Baby, you've got to not be so loud when Robert uses you."

She chuckles. "Momma, you know there's no way I can hold back. I mean, can you stay quiet?"

I sigh. "Sweetie, you're going to have a big rubber ball as a chew toy."

After a pause in the dark, she asks, "Momma, is it OK for one of us to be in love with her owner?"

Hoo, boy.

I have to be careful here. For all I know, my loathing for being owned, for being used for sex, the fact that anal sex is still such searing pain for me, even the fact that I know that someone has been messing around in my mind (I've never heard any other domestic say she feels that), maybe even those things were picked by The Mister from the options list when he ordered me. Just because I hate what is done to me, how I am used, doesn't mean that she has to hate what is done to her, or how she is used.

But this is what mothers do. I try to keep her from hurting herself. Failing that, I try to help her heal. And for things that can't be healed, I hold her.

"Baby, it's OK for you to be in love with him, but you have to know that he will never love you."

That stops her. "Never, Momma?"

"Look, honey, you're a domestic. You're a sex toy, just like me. God knows how we got here, but here we are. Your place in his life is to make his penis happy between breakfast and dinner, to be someone he can slap around when he feels like it, and to do funny little tricks for him. You will never be more to him than that."

A long silence in the darkness, then "Shit!"

"pink, watch your tongue!" I scold.

"Sorry, Momma."

I think of the cheer leader outfit, and it is time for the hammer, delivered with love, but the hammer. "Baby, did it ever occur to you that he almost for sure has a girlfriend from college that he's going to marry some day soon?"

A long, long silence in the dark, then she starts shaking in my arms. I can tell that she is sobbing in silence as some view of the future she had hoped for is being torn to shreds in her mind. I can feel her tears dripping on my arm. The sobbing gets stronger and stronger, then a cry of despair is torn from her: "SHIT!"

This time I say nothing. There are some hurts you can't heal, and I just hold her.

Slowly, she calms down.

"Listen, sweetie, forget 'love.' You want him to keep you, not get tired of you, not trade you in? If he keeps you, it won't be because you're the best pink you know how to be!

"So how? Robert is young, and what fires his lust will change from day to day. Maybe today he wants a frightened captive, maybe the next day an eager slut, maybe the next day a wide-eyed, timid schoolgirl, maybe the next day someone else. He won't tell you--he may not be aware of which he wants, or even that he wants a girl at all. You'll have to figure it out yourself. He will give off the cues you need without knowing that he's doing so.

"Then you have to become that girl. I don't mean acting; we can't act well enough to pass. I mean be that girl, right down to your toenails, and it doesn't matter if you don't like who she is. Filter what you recall, to fit what that girl would recall; create what you expect, to fit what that girl would expect. Forget that pink was ever any other girl. Forget that pink may be some other girl tomorrow. Forget that you have built this sense-of-me out of thin air and his hormones. Believe that pink always was, always will be, that girl.

"His daddy could buy any of those girls for him, custom-made, fully-finished, but not all of them. But you can be every one of those girls as his lust changes. Become any girl he ever wants, and he will screw your brains out every time he sees you. You'll be sore, but he'll never get tired of you."

Do you feel disgust that a mother would give such advice to her young daughter? Before you condemn me, recall that the lives we are forced to live are not the life you live. Recall that it will cost her her Self if she fails.

She digests what I've said. At last, "Momma," she says, "thank you."

And we sleep.

The next evening, as we gather in the dining room, I look around at my sisters.

I've never met any other domestic who thought about re-write, though we all know about the curtain of fog. I'm scared to death of going to re-write, of being wiped clean, of not even knowing about my pink whom I love so much, scared that someone will take from me this sorry Self, even if it stinks. So I do as I'm told and more. I study The Mister's likes and dislikes and make sure I stay on the right side of his ledger. But as much as I try to deny it, I know that someday the damp rag will come and clean me out and make me to order as someone new, with no trace of what came before.

What there used to be of blue as a bundle of wants and hopes and desires is gone beyond reclaim. What's left is a grasping hand of the id of The Missus. What The Missus wants, blue wants, even when it hurts like hell. If The Missus is flogging blue and The Missus delights in the joy of giving pain, blue gets some of the pleasure The Missus feels even as she bleeds. It's a bit like Rule Two.

As baby blue stands there, she knows only two things beyond doubt. First, she knows that as far back in time as she can recall, she has always wanted to be--will always want to be--Ed's domestic, to serve him on her back, on her belly, on her knees, to give him pleasure, to give him her pain, if only she can stay in his Godlike presence. The second thing she knows is that she can never deserve that happy ending, can never be good enough, will always be a sorry excuse for a domestic, that some day he will toss her aside like a mealy apple, and he will be right to do so. She does not dare to love him, because she knows herself to be lower than the lint in the carpet. She can only worship him without hope. She knows that she is not only beneath contempt, she cannot even earn his notice. That is why, when he slaps her, she cries with joy, because it means that at least he has deigned to look at her.

The talk at the dinner table turns to the plans for Robert's wedding.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see pink looking at Robert with a wistful smile. She is coming to terms with being the "other woman," like a single woman who is in love with a married man, who comes to see that the man she loves really will never divorce his wife. She will never have all of him to herself. If he ever mentions her to his closest friends, it will be with a wink and a dirty laugh and an elbow in the ribs. No matter how much she is in love with him, pink is just his little bit of fluff on the side. I hope for her that she can learn to be content with that, because it is the best she can hope for.

I haven't got the heart to point out to her yet that she will likely be the only domestic in Robert's new household for a long time, and she'll service both Robert and his bride. My pink will be a busy girl, and it won't be easy to stay on the good side of Robert's new wife.

We miss out again on our pass through the kitchen. And so to bed.

When the light comes on in the closet the next morning, it is like a punch to the face.