Master's Favorite Toy Ch. 01

Every character in the following story is age eighteen or older.

Feb. 6

[Drawn in the Margin: a beautiful estate, palatial, with a gorgeous sunrise, surrounded by a generous and beautiful garden]

I'm sitting on my bunk right now in the servant's quarters of my new Master's estate. Above me is my new friend Kat. She talks a lot, and gets easily excited, but she's very sweet. In the bunk across from us is Abigail on bottom, and Yvette on top. Abigail has been here basically forever. She's Master's 'fitness guru', whatever that means. Yvette I don't really know that well. As I write, they're talking about some T.V. show they all watch together.

It was a big day for me. One of the biggest of any slave's life. I'd just finished my training (Top of my class), and I had been purchased. By whom, I didn't know, but I was filled with nervous energy. This excitement had my brain running about a million different scenarios concerning possible masters. What if he was old? What if he was young? Handsome? Ugly? Could I ever be a good pleasure slave if I had an ugly master?

Well, time to find out.

I stood, my head bowed obediently as the woman worked. In my hands, I clasped a bag of my few belongings and some toiletries I was allowed to take with me.

The woman rifled through a filing cabinet, silently mouthing names as she searched. Finally, she located the file she wanted, pulling a small manila folder. The folder had my name on it, and the woman thumbed through it quickly, skimming the pages. Once she was satisfied, she led me by my leash down a hallway, and I followed her without question. I matched her pace, doing my best to keep slack in the leash that connected us.

She was professional, tall, and quick in her movement. She wore a name tag that read 'SALES, Hello, my name is SANDRA.' and a pair of spectacles as thick as the bottom of a pop bottle. Sandra seemed stressed, and I couldn't blame her. I was stressed too. It was a big day for both of us. Arguably more for me.

In the next room was my new owner. I was confident that my master would be a male, as pleasure slave owners almost invariably were. There were exceptions, but I doubted that would be the case. I also assumed he would be wealthy (Let's face it, I'm expensive), and judging by Sandra's nervous demeanor, he was a very important customer.

Sandra inspected me, pulling a strand of my strawberry blonde hair out of my face, pushing my shoulders back, and straightening my blouse.

"The commission on this sale is going to decide if I vacation at the beach... or at the in-law's." She said, adjusting my bra. "Make a good impression, please." Sandra ordered. I nodded. Certainly, I intended to make a good impression on my new master, but not because I wanted my seller to have a nice vacation.

Satisfied that my appearance had been properly tweaked, Sandra tugged my collar, leading me into the next room. The sales floor was as boring as could be expected. A small waiting area had seating and a collection of magazines splayed out on a table. A bored looking clerk clicked at a terminal, trying hard to appear busy. Opposite him, the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen in my entire life, holy crap I am not exaggerating, sat in the waiting area. She wore high heels, a well fitted white business suit, and a pencil skirt. Her blonde hair was pulled tightly into a small, professional bun. The stern look she wore unsettled me slightly, as if she might be ready to scold us both. Just being in the room with her, I sensed, almost naturally, that this woman was in charge. I wondered if my leash-holder felt the same way.

"This is your delivery, madam. For Mr.... Gerrard Morgan?" Sandra checked her notes. From the name of the customer, she had not been expecting a woman. She wasn't particularly tall, but the power of her confidence was palpable. Her heels clicked across the tile as she strode confidently to us. Wordlessly, the gorgeous, commanding woman in the suit held her hand out, demanding the manila folder.

She casually read through my file. The woman was taking her time, making my seller more and more nervous. Before long, Sandra cleared her throat and spoke.

"I'm sure Mr. Morgan will be satisfied. Everything is exactly as he specified." The beautiful woman's eyes drifted slowly up from the paper, as if pitying the being that dared interrupt her. She slowly closed the folder, handing it to me purposefully. She spoke, and her calm, even voice matched her intimidating demeanor.

"Exactly?" She asked. At first, both myself and Sandra thought she would say something else, but she didn't. The woman fully intended to wait for the previous claim to be corrected.

"...Exactly," Sandra eventually confirmed, with some hesitation.

The confident blonde produced from a pocket a small measuring tape, the type for measuring a person's proportions. She guided me to raise my arms slightly, and wrapped the tape around my chest, measuring my bust. She studied the numbers meticulously before speaking.

"Is eighty-eight equal to eighty-six, exactly?" The woman asked. Sandra sighed, failing to hide her exasperation.

"No, it is not," Sandra answered.

"So then, the product is not ...exactly... what my Master was promised." I was Shocked as I realized the buyer was a slave, a mere representative of her owner. I'd never seen a slave speak with such authority.

"It would seem there was a slight discrepancy-..." My seller tried to explain, but was cut off.

"A slight discrepancy, which I'm sure will be reflected in the pricing. After all, Mr. Morgan is a loyal customer. He would hate to take his business elsewhere." The slave was cold, unforgiving. Her victim frowned deeply.

"I'll speak with the manager," Sandra eventually relented. She handed me my own leash, barely containing her grumbling as she stormed out of the room.

I stood silently by the unsatisfied slave, my head politely bowed. Curiosity overwhelmed me, and I risked a peak. The imposing woman had an angsty snarl on her face, as if she held a bee in her mouth and was forced to keep it there in secret.

Her sour expression did nothing to lessen her good looks. I was in awe at the beauty of the woman. Her makeup looked as if it took three hours to apply, and her hair was professionally styled, not a single bit out of place. I could never hope to be a slave of her caliber. She wouldn't have been out of place on a magazine cover.

Finally, Sandra returned, apologizing. She produced new paperwork concerning me. There was a flurry of signing. In the end, I finally belonged to a new Master, and Sandra was going to spend the holidays with her in-laws.

The slave gave no orders, walking with long confident strides out the door of the dealership. I followed her, almost jogging, clutching my small leather bag. I belonged to the same master as her now.

A limousine waited for us outside, with engine idling. I was grateful we didn't have to stay long in the cold. The wind bit deep, even though I had been appropriately attired with a warm coat. The slave lady opened a door for me, motioning me into the limo. I slid into a bench seat, facing a built-in side wall television and mini bar. My chaperone sat in a front facing seat to my right. She slipped a smartphone out of her pocket, her fingers flying across the screen. Pausing for a second, she pressed a button on a panel by the door, speaking clearly.

"Take us home, Whitlow," She gave a terse order, presumably to the driver. As the vehicle shuttled us out of the slave dealership, I used the moment of relaxation to collect my thoughts. It was clear that my new owner was fabulously wealthy. Besides the extravagant transport, he had at least two slaves, probably more. I envisioned a politician or a CEO of a Fortune 500 company.

Not to sound snobbish, but wealth is a good quality in a Master. While it doesn't guarantee a kinder or more lenient master, it certainly means an easier life and lower chance of difficult labor.

I glanced at my fellow slave briefly, studying her in more detail.

Beside the expensive suit and heels, the slave wore jewelry. While I had no doubt about the price of her shiny bracelets and earrings, the piece that mostly caught my eye was the rose gold chain she wore around her neck. The heavy, ornate piece was more of a choker, sitting up higher on her throat. As I watched, she rubbed a finger across it unconsciously.

It was a common tradition for masters with many slaves to single out one slave as a favorite or highest ranking among their slaves. Frequently, the master in question would mark the favorite slave with expensive or unique jewelry. I wondered if her necklace was a sign of that. It was pretty, and looked heavy, and I thought from her preening she must be quite proud of it.

After a few more seconds of work, she sighed deeply and set her phone to the side. She watched the scenery through the window of the limousine for a minute. I sat in silence. It wasn't my place to initiate conversation. She eventually spoke to me, thankfully answering my unasked questions.

"Your master's name is Gerrard Morgan. Perhaps you've heard of him. If not, you've certainly heard of one of his companies." She explained.

I was stunned. Could she be talking about the man who was allegedly the wealthiest man alive? If belonging to rich clients was lucky, I'd won the lottery.

"You're his twelfth slave, his tenth female slave, and his eighth pleasure slave." The stunning woman uncrossed her legs, turning a bit and making eye contact with me. I took the gesture as an invitation to relax formality, and I met her eyes. She continued to explain. "Mr. Morgan is a strict and rigorous master. He is not kind, nor is he unkind. If your performance is within the expected parameters, your time with him will be pleasant."

"Yes madam. Thank you," I spoke for the first time. She was being highly informal with me, but I maintained a respectful tone. If I was right, and she was my Master's favorite slave, she would require respect and hold a position of authority over me.

"My name is Margaret," She explained. "You may refer to me as ma'am."

"Yes ma'am. Thank you."

She turned back to the window. We didn't speak for the rest of the trip.

The estate wasn't visible from the front gate. A well pruned row of evergreens grew along the fence line, obscuring the majority of the property from the view of travelers on the road. The grounds of my new Master's property consisted of several acres of well kept lawns and gardens. Winding through terraced hills filled with neat shrubbery and meandering paths, the driveways crossed over a small creek. The creek's bridge held an emblazoned plaque which read 'MORGAN ESTATE, EST. 1911'.

The sightly estate grounds were enough to convince me of my new master's wealth, but the mansion removed any remaining doubt. I was simply in awe at the beauty of the large building, and I guessed it to be more than 10,000 square feet. It was a brick building, and ivy climbed around some of the windows of the huge structure.

"That's the Master's house." Margaret pointed to the big building. She then directed my attention to a smaller cottage, sporting the same brick design, but some distance further away. The attractive little building was just barely visible, a large portion of it obscured by trees.

"Those are the servant's quarters. I'll take you there once he's approved of you- If he approves of you." She corrected herself. The servant's quarters sat perhaps a third of a mile from the main house, connected by a dirt path. I wondered if it was a walk I'd be making every day.

Margaret led me quickly through the house to Mr. Morgan. She carried the folder from the slave dealership, taking long, quick steps.

The building was sleek and modern, with a very open floor plan despite the antique origin of the home. The main entry hall, the kitchen, dining room, and a large living room were all connected. Through the rear windows, I could see a large indoor swimming pool and another building that Margaret hadn't told me about.

Coming to a large set of double doors, Margaret paused, checking her smart watch. We stood silently, waiting. From the other side of the door, I heard voices, and a rapid, faint clicking noise. Margaret continued to wait, checking her watch. Her punctuality was impeccable, and she was waiting for the exact minute to enter.

Standing in the corridor with nothing to occupy me, I was twisted up badly with nerves. I felt so intense. I knew how important a first impression could be on my new master. Margaret had promised me he was a fair and reasonable master, but that did nothing to calm my fears. Unconsciously, I knotted my fingers behind my back, bowed my head, and practiced calming my breath.

Margaret checked her watch again, counting down in a whisper, then knocked on the door.

"Enter!" The voice came from the other side of the doors. Margaret did, and held the door open for me.

The next room was a spacious office, with couches arranged around a low coffee table. A large desk dominated the far wall. Two men were playing pingpong on a table in the middle of the room, having slid some of the couches aside to accommodate. They volleyed the ball back and forth quickly, escalating the speed and ferocity of their strikes.

I knew instantly which of the men was my Master. Mr. Morgan had an air of control and confidence. He was a tall, handsome man, with a good figure. I could see the power in his forearms and the size of his shoulders through his button up shirt. He wore his sleeves rolled up to his elbow. A suit jacket sat, recently discarded, on a nearby chair.

He was so handsome! I am so excited to have such a good-looking master.

I've often contemplated how I force myself to be intimate with an unattractive master. I consider that bullet pretty well dodged. I can already imagine his large, steel-strong hands grabbing my hips from behind...

Shortly, Master returned a high ball, and the other man spiked it ferociously across the table with a loud crack. The sound shocked me and I involuntarily jumped, letting out a short cry in surprise. I had been so focused on studying them that the sudden crack had caught me off guard. The other man, a lanky, goofy looking guy in a sweat suit, yelled as he returned the ball.

"Eat shit, Gerry!" He called, tossing his paddle on the table. He held his hands up in victory, a smile on his face. Master shook his head in disbelief, his chest heaving as the ball clacked to a stop somewhere behind him. My tall, dark, and handsome Master looked over at me, a playful eyebrow raised.

"Hey there, cutey," He said, "Don't let Loud-ass scare you." Mr. Morgan nodded to his victorious companion. "He's easily excited."

"And better at ping pong than you," Master's friend interjected.

"Yeah, I guess I can't argue with the numbers." Gerry relaxed, leaning on the table and straightening his tie. "Hey, Jayden, give me a second. I've got some business here." He nodded at me.

"Another one?" Jayden asked.

"I've got my reasons." Gerry replied.

"Mmm, yeah, sure you do," Jayden shot back. With a shake of his head, Master's friend shuffled to the exit. "I'll let you settle your new piece of ass. You got an addiction, man." He said.

Mr. Morgan scoffed.

"It's a hobby. You've got your shoe collecting thing. This is my thing," Master said, pointing at me. Jayden let the door close, but his muffled voice could be heard from the hallway:

"Shoes don't get pregnant."

Gerrard Morgan sighed deeply, closing his eyes in frustration. Margaret stood beside me, obediently silent, and I bowed my head. We waited for the master to speak.

He remembered us, looking up excitedly.

"Margaret!" He swept her up in a hug, squeezing her hard and kissing her on the cheek. When he dropped her, she staggered a bit, her formal blouse disheveled.

"Good to see you, gorgeous," He winked at the beautiful blonde, snatching my documentation from her grasp. Margaret smiled shyly, her eyes on the floor as she rocked on her heels with joy. She was positively enthralled by her Master's affection.

Mr. Morgan flipped through the papers, scanning each page. Margaret took the chance to speak.

"I found all of her accolades satisfactory, and in line with your requests," she explained, "However, there was a minor discrepancy in the physical specifications. I highlighted it here." Margaret stepped up next to her master, pointing to the page. Gerrard read the paper very carefully.

"Her bust is... two centimeters smaller than advertised," He said, incredulous.

"Yes sir." Margaret replied, serious as the grave. She folded her hands in front of her sadly, as if preparing to accept a rebuke. He was silent for a moment, looking first to the paper, then up to me.

"Well, you really saved the day there, Maggy," He said sarcastically. "I mean, two centimeters, god forbid." He flipped the folder closed, walking up to me. With one finger, he lifted my chin to look into my face. He had such an authority in his gaze, I felt as if I couldn't look away without written permission. Mr. Morgan whistled, one long low note.

"She's cute as hell. You outdid yourself, Margaret. Keep an eye on this one, she's almost prettier than you." He said. I grimaced with discomfort as he compared me to his favorite slave. Margaret frowned, glaring at me. Master continued speaking.

"Let's check that two centimeters." He cupped my left breast, squeezing gently. When he rubbed a thumb over me, I breathed in sharply, still looking into his eyes. He smiled warmly, enjoying my nervousness.

"Yep, that checks out," He said with a grin, "I think we'll let those two centimeters slide. I hope you didn't make things hard on the dealer." Gerrard looked to Margaret expectantly.

"I... did not, I don't think..." Margaret tried to reply, but Gerrard cut her off with a hug and a kiss, this time on the lips.

"You keep me in line, baby girl. Don't change." She relaxed in his arms, smiling again. "Thank you, sir." She said.

I felt very confident in my assumption that Margaret was his favored slave. 'Sir' is very informal. I would never call a master that without explicit permission. Master once again leaned against the ping pong table.

"Alright, Margaret, give me a minute with the new girl. And get someone else to give her the tour. I'm gonna hit the shower in fifteen minutes, and I'd like you to be there." He winked at his slave, slapping her butt lightly. She hurried from the office, wearing a cheesy grin. As the door softly shut and the sound of Margaret's heels faded down the hallway, Master spoke.

"So," He began, reading through my file. "Marcie, age twenty four, height one-fifty-five, weight fifty-four, and bust size... two centimeters smaller than Margaret needed to let that poor salesperson have a good day." He laughed at his own joke, and I smiled. I was getting good vibes from the man. I was still nervous, but he seemed relaxed and easygoing. All the pomp and seriousness I had felt from Margaret seemed utterly unfounded in Gerrard Morgan.

"Let's get down to business, Marcie. Tell me about your art." He commanded. I had been so set in silence, my brain short circuited when I tried to speak.

"Oh, I'd um, I mean, I do art." I answered. He rested his chin on his fingers, narrowing his eyes.

"Interesting. You do art," He said, wearing a sarcastic thoughtful look. I squinted my eyes up, trying again.

"What I mean, sire, is that I am enthusiastic about my art." I tried to explain. He smiled at me.

"No worries. It's a big day for you. I get it. Relax and try again." I smiled, grateful for his chill demeanor.

"In my schooling, I took as many electives as I could pertaining to art, sire. I have several years of formal training, as well as my own private practice time. It's one of my two big hobbies."