The Seven Masters I Served

Linus let out a long, sad sigh. I wondered if he was disappointed. I didn't say anything, I just stared at the floor, my hands clasped in front of me. He shuffled to his old armchair slowly and sat down.

"Sit down, girl." He ordered, pointing with his cane to another armchair across from him. I sat obediently, kind of twisted in my chair to see him, since both chairs faced the television. For a moment, he didn't say anything, staring vacantly at the old western he had been watching before we came in.

I was a good slave. Didn't speak till spoken to and all that. Eventually he looked over at me and asked a question.

"What'd you do to get stuck with me?"

I tried to answer, but I was thinking about last night. About how I'd never see Mike Jr. and Rebecca again, and how they probably hated me. Nothing came out for a second, and I started to cry. He watched me silently while I fought back the tears. I still tried to force out an answer.

"I'm... sorry sire, my previous owner donated me." I wiped my eyes with the hem of my shirt. He grunted.

"You must've really liked him. Who was it?" He asked. I shook my head.

"Just their children sir. It was Annie Howser who donated me, but I belong to her and her husband."

"You poor sad soul. Ain't nobody should have to put up with the crazy bitch. Bet you could tell some stories. How long did she have you?"

"She had me for almost a two and and a half years, sire." He nodded slowly, and continued asking me questions about my past. Nothing he did was hasty or thoughtless. Every answer I gave was met with thoughtful contemplation. Finally, he seems satisfied. I relayed my whole story to him. He shook his head.

"That's pretty bad. It's ain't your fault of course, and ain't no part of it fair. I wish I could fix it for you." He said.

"Thank you sire." I replied.

"Much as I appreciate it, don't call me that."

"Sorry."

"Alrighty... you can stay. If you cook and clean, I'll keep you. I got a spare bedroom I keep clean for my son. O'course, he don't come see me none anyways. So it'll be fine I suppose."

For a couple days, Sarge was brief like that. He didn't tell me to do things at first. On the first morning I stayed with him, he tried to make breakfast for me, even though he struggled to stay on his feet for more than a few minutes. I guess he thought of me as a house guest. I wanted to do it while he rested, but he wouldn't let me. He thought it was improper for some reason, so I let him do as he pleased.

I didn't insist, but gradually over time I helped with breakfast more and more until I was the only one doing it. I don't think his pride would have let me do it right out. It was the same with cleaning. I'd start cleaning old newspapers or something out of a corner where they were piled, and he'd tell me not to worry about it, that he'd get to it eventually. It took me gently reminding him I was his slave before he relented and just let me clean his house.

Overall, the days with Sarge were quite nice. I'd clean a couple hours a day, do laundry and cook, then I'd get to do basically whatever I wanted. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to do, so I spent a lot of time watching baseball games on T.V. Sarge didn't like baseball all that much, he'd just turn it on and fall asleep in his chair. Eventually he told me to change the channel if he passed out, so that was nice.

I thought about Rebecca and Mike Jr. Most days. Sometimes I'd stop in the middle of a task, lost in thought, wishing I was with them. Sarge understood. He knew pain like that. He'd catch me, lost in my memories, and shake his head.

"I know." He'd say. "I know."

He loved watching the sunrise. The neighborhood was constantly noisey, between the neighbor's unhinged scottish terrier and distant gunshots or police sirens, there was almost never a quiet moment. But right before dawn things would be almost quiet, and the whole town seemed to be asleep. Sarge would sit out his back porch in an old rocking chair. One morning I woke up early enough to see him out there, so I made us both coffee and brought it to him. He smiled when he saw me, and gestured with his cane to the rocking chair next to him. The sun was just coming up, and for a moment, things were quiet.

"Sophie and I used to do this every morning." He said. I sipped my drink quietly. "Worst day of my life when I lost her. It's been lonely, Winnie, god it's been lonely. Sometimes I sit out here wishin' I could go be with her." He was quiet for a moment. I watched him closely, tucking my legs up under me to warm them from the morning chill.

"She'd sit right there, you know. Took care of me like you do."

"I'm so sorry. It must be hard." I replied.

"Absolutely broke my heart when she passed." He looked at me sadly. "I reckon you know about a broken heart, missing them kids you watched." I just nodded. He continued. "Yup, just a couple of bleeding hearts watching the sun rise." From then on, I joined him every morning.

Sarge loved to talk shit. It took me a while to catch up.

"This bacon tastes like boiled pig's ass," He'd say.

"I'm so sorry, sire." I'd say. "Would you like me to cook something else?" That would make him frown.

"No, that's... I was joking. It's alright I reckon."

I was confused at first, but after testing the waters I figured it out. That's how Sarge showed affection.

"You call that a biscuit? I wouldn't feed that to my dog." He'd say.

"If we had a dog I'd have some decent companionship." I'd reply. He'd laugh out loud and slap the table.

"She's got some fire in her!"

It took us a bit to warm up, but once he did, ol' Sarge never stopped telling me stories. He told me about his childhood. He told me stories about his brothers that would have him belly laughing and me politely smiling, and he'd tell me about his wife who passed away last year. His step son, Charles, was his only living family.

He loved Charles like his own blood son, but Charles was a lawyer in some big city firm and lived over an hour away. According to Sarge:

"He just never has the time to bring the grands by for a visit."

He told me about his time in the military (that's why I started calling him Sarge. He took the nickname endearingly and even seemed quite proud of it) Sometimes he'd be telling me a war story and he'd just sort of trail off, and we wouldn't talk for the rest of the day. He'd get this sad look in his eyes and stare into nothing. I knew better than to pry during those times.

He loved having me around, even though he'd been hesitant about me at first. I think just having someone to talk to was the most important thing for him. It was honestly adorable how he'd show me his appreciation. I remember one day going to get the mail for him after breakfast ("I've eaten shoe leather with more flavor!"), and there was a package with my name on it. I asked him about it over eggs and bacon. He just sort of scratched the stubble on his chin.

"You'd better open it, I reckon. Since it's your name and all." He was trying to act like he didn't know what was in it, but he was smiling ear to ear. I pulled apart the small package, and inside was this honestly hideous little necklace with some very gaudy gems set in it.

"Every beautiful girl ought to have a beautiful necklace." He was so happy and proud of himself. I guess he forgot that I watched the same 'as-seen-on-tv' shopping channels that he did, and I instantly recognised the necklace. I didn't say that though.

"Sarge, you flirt. I love it." I smiled really wide and acted like it was gorgeous. I wore that necklace everyday for years, even after it turned my neck green. He'd tell me every day how lovely it looked on me.

I remember one day walking around the yard with Sarge. It took a long time with his slow, halting steps. He'd point to some object with his cane, an old hand truck or lawn mower or something, and he'd say "That's for Charles. I'm keeping it for him." He'd repeat that every time we found another worthless piece of junk. At the end of the walk, we dropped down on the back porch, in the old rocking chairs made for him and his wife. I asked him when Charles was coming to visit next. He shook his head and shrugged, staring out over the backyard. I looked over at him and saw tears falling down his cheeks.

"Don't know. I used to call him sometimes after Sophie died, but he don't care to talk. I don't know, Winnie. I reckon I got no one now." He smiled, reached over and took my hand. "No one except you." I smiled, and squeezed his hand.

"And I'm stuck with you," I said. He laughed.

"She's got some fire in her!"

We started going out sometimes, something he had missed since losing his license due to cataracts. He joked it was the first date he'd had in years. I'd drive and he'd point to parts of town he knew, telling me about how he had worked there once, or he knew the owner of such and such place, but they died ten years ago. I listened politely as always.

We went to church a couple of times after he figured out I could drive. I was terrified I'd see Michael and Annie, but fortunately I was spared that. His attendance didn't last long. Eventually it got to the point where most mornings I'd have to come help him get out of bed, so getting up even earlier didn't suit him too well. We'd still sit out on the porch for sunrises, but not as often, and sometimes after the sun was already up.

Usually he'd call for my help in the mornings. One afternoon I heard him calling, and it scared me a little because he usually didn't need help in the afternoons.

When I came in, he was on his knees at the end of the bed, clutching the baseboard with white knuckles. He was naked from the waist down. On the bed, a pornographic magazine was open to a page with a woman in an extremely lewd pose. A bottle of medication lay next to it. I tried not to laugh as I walked over to him.

"Now don't take this the wrong way, Winnie." He wheezed.

"I would never." I replied, walking up beside him and laughing just a little bit. "What can I do to help?"

"I promise I don't do this much." He replied, still having a hard time breathing. "It's, you know, a man has needs, and I-... well I'd have spent the night on the floor if I didn't call you. My old knees won't let me get up. I'm sorry."

"I don't give a shit. I promise." I laughed out loud. "Imagine, a big tough marine, scared he got caught beating off." I offered him a hand, and he reached out and took it. I pulled him up as well as I could, but I ended up having to kind of wrap one arm around and hoist him up. He stood to his feet shakily, his hard dick still out.

"Well, did you at least finish?" I asked, laughing. He leaned over on the bed, breathing hard from the exertion of standing.

"No. Got a little dizzy and fell down. I haven't done this in months. I'm thinkin' I may not be able to no more. Don't get old, Winnie."

"I actually plan on it," I said. "Let me help you to the bed." I escorted him around the side of the bed and helped him lay down on his back, propped up by some pillows. His penis was still pointing up in the air, as hard as it could possibly be. I had suspicions about what was in the bottle.

"I'll get your pants," I laughed, "before you put someone's eye out." He was blushing with embarrassment.

"You ain't gotta," he said. "Poor young girl. You shouldn't have to deal with this dirty old man," I found his boxers on the floor and walked over to his feet, helping him lift them and slide the boxers around his ankles.

"Actually I should. I was originally trained as a pleasure slave." I explained, inching the shorts up his legs.

"Oh. Well. I reckon you do just fine as a housekeeper." He replied.

"I'm insulted," I joked. "You haven't seen my other skill set to compare." He didn't say anything. For my part, I just couldn't wipe the smile off my face. All Sarge's tough soldier bravado, and he couldn't stand that I'd caught him jerking off. I continued tugging the boxers up his legs until his rock solid erection blocked the shorts.

"Not sure I can tuck that, Sarge. You still want to take care of it?"

"I don't think I can. Just leave me be. I need to rest a while. Thank you dear." I took my hands off his boxers, but hesitated. I looked into his eyes.

"Do you want me to take care of it?"I asked. His eyes widened a little. I winked, trying to reassure him. "It's fine. This is what I'm trained to do." I stood by, waiting for his answer.

"Well, now, that's... I mean," he was at a loss for words. "Well I can't fucking say no, can I?" He smiled back at me in his joking voice.

He thought I was bluffing. I proved right away that I was not.

I dropped my head down, lowering my mouth over his cock. Sucking gently, I moved up and down his shaft, blowing him. I didn't look at him, but he moaned like I was doing it right. It was one of the longest blowjobs I've ever given. I ended up switching between blowing him and jerking him off. Eventually, he gave me a polite warning. With halting, strained breaths, he called out.

"I'm gonna cum soon. Watch out." I put my mouth back on his cock and sucked in all of it. I released him from my lips and watched for a second as he slowly started to get soft. Swallowing his load, I spoke.

"Feel better?" But he was already asleep. I pulled up his shorts as best as I could, kissed him on the cheek, and left.

He tried to apologise the next morning, but I was determined things wouldn't be awkward between us, so I brushed it off.

"Don't make a habit of it." I smiled at him. "I was feeling charitable. What do you want for breakfast?" And that was that. Neither of us spoke about that afternoon in his bedroom ever again.

I learned later, while accompanying him on a physical, that his doctor had given him strict orders that any kind of exertion could send him into cardiac arrest, so sex and masturbation were strict no for him. He hadn't told me that before, of course, but I could have killed him that night. He probably would have been happy with that, honestly.

Most of our days were spent pretty much the same way from then on out. He retold the same stories over and over, and I politely listened. We spent a lot of time on the back porch in the rockers, just listening to the sounds of the neighborhood. I put on about twenty pounds while I was with Sarge. It was a fantastic time, and honestly among the happiest of my life.

One night, I was woken by a noise in the living room. I went in and flicked the lights on. Sarge was standing over my armchair.

"Where's Sophie?" He demanded, angrily. I was confused.

"Your wife?" I asked.

"Yes my fucking wife! Where'd she go?"

"She's gone, Sarge." I tried to explain as kindly as I could. "She's been gone for a while."

His eyes softened, and he looked down at her chair.

"Oh." It was all he could say. I guided him back to bed by the arm.

His mind was making a slow fade. He'd ask to go out and forget where we were. He'd forget who I was sometimes, or he'd confuse me with other women he'd known, especially his wife. He'd ask about his son Charles a lot. I don't like to think about those last few months much. He started needing a lot of help, almost more than I could give him, and he started having lots of pain. Mostly his joints from arthritis. He couldn't walk much near the end.

He died in the best way I believe he could, watching baseball and eating ice cream on a sunday afternoon. It broke my heart when I found him. I was kind of overwhelmed, and it took me a while to recover and call for help. In all, I spent about two years with Sarge. I miss him dearly.

When the ambulance showed up, they asked me questions and took his body away. I felt so alone in that house after they left. It hit me hard, so I locked up for a bit, and sat in my rocking chair until dark. I realised with a start that I should probably call Charles, his stepson, and let him know what had happened. I assumed that he'd be my next master.

I stayed alone in Sarge's house for two days before Charles showed up. Early one afternoon he let himself in the front door. I was watching television and I jumped to my feet with my head bowed, doing my best to look like an obedient slave. Charles looked me over, and walked around me straight to Sarge's room. I waited while he rustled around, opening drawers and shuffling through boxes. Eventually he came back with the wad of cash Sarge kept under the mattress (The old man had me break it out for 'date night' before, so I knew about it). Charles ordered me tersely to wait in the car.

The car looked to be worth more than the house I had left, a modern looking sports car. I did as told, waiting in the car. He joined me soon after, loading a box of valuables into the trunk. Climbing into the luxury car, Charles seemed almost startled to see me in the passenger seat. He hesitated while buckling, looking at me.

"I don't get how that old fart scraped together enough for a pleasure slave." He sighed, put the car in drive, and started to pull away.

A slave, I knew, should never speak unless spoken to. But I remembered all the stuff Sarge had put aside for Charles, and I got the impression he wasn't coming back to the old house in the rundown neighborhood. Sarge would be heartbroken if that stuff didn't find it's way to Charles.

"Sarge, uh, I mean, uh, your stepfather, he kept plenty of things for you. Some things in the yard or the shed. I can point out what he wanted you to have, if you'd like, sire." I offered.

"Nah, I don't need any of that shit. Not worth anything. I'm selling the house as-is." Charles replied. I just sat in silence for the rest of the ride, thinking about the old man who had become my closest friend.

We pulled up to the dealership as they were closing the gates. Charles waved the guy down, stopping the young man from clasping the lock.

"Hey man, I just have this consignment check-in real quick. I know it's after closing, but I don't get down this way often. Is it okay?" The young man at the gate sighed, visibly rolling his eyes. He pushed the gate back open, motioning Charles to pull through. A large sign over the building read:

'Hall's Luxury Slaves'

With the subtext

'New, Used, and Everything in Between"

I contemplated silently what could possibly come between 'new' and 'used'.

We parked at the front of the building, and I obeyed the unspoken order to follow Charles inside. A man with a coat over his arm met us on the way in, showing us into an office where he flicked the light back on. They sat, and I stood obediently nearby. Charles and the man with a coat, who I learned was a salesman, discussed at length what my asking price would be. It was a strangely focusing exercise, to have my worth objectively appraised by two third parties who had never met me before that day. They decided that I was worth less for having had so many previous owners, but worth more for being trained as a pleasure slave. I also learned that my cost would be reduced because a previous owner had noted in my file that I was severely disruptive to home life.

They settled on a price (A ludicrously high figure, in my opinion), shook hands, and I never saw Charles again. The salesman showed me further into the building. The cold white walls and tile floors were lit by buzzing fluorescents. We walked by one large room with glass cases and large print signs. The salesman pointed it out as we walked by.

"Display room." He said with disinterest. I didn't say anything.

He opened a door at the end of a corridor and reached in. It was a small closet. I was supplied with a toothbrush, toothpaste, a pillow and blanket. From there, I was led to the dormitories, as he generously called them. My bed, like all the other beds in the cramped room, was low to the floor and sparsely furnished by a plastic-coated mattress. I thought he was just going to drop me there, but he motioned for me to put a hand out, and clasped a small plastic bracelet around my wrist. A bold '11A' was emblazoned on the face of the bracelet. Then he left.