Master's Favorite Toy Ch. 04

"Are you going to have sex with this guy at some point?" I asked.

"Well, yeah, but he hasn't even revealed his identity yet," She answered.

"You know what, don't worry about it. I'll just write something. Shauna already called dibs on doggy style. Do you like missionary position?" I was being terse, but I felt like I couldn't take another minute of anime B plot. With a sad, long sigh, Yvette shrugged.

"Yeah, I guess." She said.

A pang of guilt shot through me at the dejection of the young woman. I clicked my pen twice more and wrote:

'Yvette prefers Missionary with someone she knows well, who looks good in a tuxedo.'

Hastily, I slapped my notebook shut.

"Okay, um, sorry to interrupt. I just have to get this done, you know? Master's orders." I smiled. Yvette smiled weakly back.

She had been so hesitant to share her sexual fantasies. But as soon as she could tell a story or talk about something she liked, she had taken off. I think I even hurt her feelings when I cut her short.

I closed my eyes, calmed myself, and tried to improve her mood.

"Maybe you could tell me about this masked stranger over breakfast?" I asked, stowing my notebook. "I was enjoying the story. I just had to get sex stuff for Master," I lied. Yvette brightened a bit, her smile more genuine.

"Okay," She said. "Do you ever watch any anime?"

"Can't say that I do," I replied.

I spent two hours impersonating an interested person while Yvette told me about anime, video games, and fantasy. If nothing else, the experience helped me to understand Yvette better as a person. The quiet, shy young woman I had met when I first arrived seemed totally different from the one I was listening to. Yvette is introverted, but not quiet. The distinction between the two was now crystal clear.

The dining room was silent and empty by the time I finally found a polite way out of the one sided conversation.

"So, if the spell targets your character, you roll the twenty sided die, and add your modifier-,"

"Hold that thought," I interrupted Yvette. The tall, stunningly beautiful Margaret was making her way through the kitchen. I waved as she passed by. The head slave was dressed comfortably in pajama pants and a T-shirt, her hair pulled back into a hasty ponytail. The ever present golden choker rode high on her neck, a reminder of her status. Margaret waved back politely, walking toward her office. I winced apologetically at my nerdy friend.

"I'm sorry, Yvette, I've got to get an interview with Margaret really quickly. Can we pick up this conversation later?" I asked.

"Oh yeah, sure. It's a lot to remember," she replied.

I thanked Yvette quickly and scurried after Margaret.

"Maggy! Wait up," catching up to her, I fell in stride with the fast walking woman.

"What's up?" She asked.

"I've got an assignment from Master. I'm almost done, but I need your help."

"You want an interview about my ideal sexual encounter?" She asked.

"Who told you?" I replied.

"Winnie. Come on," She surprised me by walking past her office. "Let's hang out in my bedroom. I need a break from... this," She gestured vaguely behind us.

I sat at Margaret's vanity, notebook before me. Margaret laid back on her bed, a pillow covering her face. I was interested to see her in such casual clothing, but glad to see she was finally prioritizing comfort. Her normal attire was all business, ironed blouses and form fitting pencil skirts. I quietly waited for her to remove the pillow from her face and say something. After a few seconds, I grew concerned.

"Are you feeling alright?" I asked.

"I'm not."

We both were silent.

"Something Master did?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Was it something gross?"

Margaret laughed, tossing the pillow against the wall.

"No. Good guess, but no. Sometimes the most uncomfortable things he asks of us are not sexual," She replied.

"You want to talk about it?" I joined her on the bed, sitting by her feet.

"Maybe later. Let's get this other dumb thing out of the way," Margaret sat forward, retrieving her pillow and hugging it to her chest. Taking a deep breath, she continued.

"Master's big into gay women. We'll tell him that my fantasy involves him, Shauna, and maybe Abigail. I'll go down on them or something. I don't know," She waved a hand and shrugged, "You could probably copy whatever Kat said. He'll like that."

"Are you telling me to just write down whatever Master wants to hear?" I asked. I retrieved my notebook and laid back on the bed, bearing down on my thighs with the paper.

"Yeah, whatever he likes," She said.

"Well, okay, I can do that," I rolled onto my side, propping myself up and looking into Margaret's perfectly symmetrical face, "Or you can tell me what you really fantasize about. Maybe it'll encourage Master to help you fulfill your real fantasy."

Margaret smiled and shook her head.

"Oh Marcie, you're so sweet. Naïve, but sweet. Master doesn't care what I want. It's easier to tell him what he wants to hear. Make him happy." I frowned and rolled my eyes, tapping the tip of my pen against the notebook.

"Well, maybe he doesn't care. Forget about Gerrard Morgan for a minute. You know him better than anyone. I don't doubt you could make up a stupid fantasy that would have him bust in his shorts. You don't need to do that anymore, do you? I mean, since you dumped him."

'Dumped him' might not be technically accurate. But it was the best term I could use to describe what had happened between the head slave and her beloved master. Well, ex-beloved, still-master.

Margaret gave me a sly smile, a fun kind of evil grin.

"You think I could get back at him a little, maybe show him a fantasy he can't possibly fulfill?" she asked.

"No, not exactly. I mean, that would be fun, but no. Just tell me what you really want. What your genuine ideal sexual encounter would look like. Maybe I'm just curious as a friend. I'll be honest, I'm dying to compare notes between all the girls," I said.

Margaret thought for a moment, her eyebrows raising and lowering.

"Alright. My -actual- ideal sexual encounter. Just for you, Marcie."

_______________________________________________________________

I picture myself in a cabin deep in the woods. We built it with our own hands, My Love and I. I like to fantasize that I was still pregnant with our firstborn while the home was being built, and My Love did most of the work. He loves me and our child, and no sacrifice is too great.

On a usual day, My Love leaves early in the morning, before the sun comes up. There's important work to be done, and My Love isn't afraid of hard work - especially if it means providing for us.

I'd stay home and keep the children. Two of them, maybe more. I prepare breakfast after he leaves, and I spend time teaching the children. Throughout the day I do chores and clean the home. My Love works hard, and he deserves to come home to a clean home and well mannered children. It's important that our little cottage in the woods be spotless. I know It's not much, maybe two or three rooms, but I take pride in keeping it. My Love deserves nothing less.

I'm careful to have a hot supper on the table when he comes home. When My Love returns, he'll have a full meal, a clean home, and well behaved children. My loved one will have brought home, I don't know, some kind of wild animal he's killed. He's the breadwinner, and I am the housekeeper. We'll eat as a family, and he'll tell me about his day. My Love will ask about my day, and tell me how proud he is of all the hard work I've done. My Love is very appreciative of what I do, and cares deeply about my struggles from the day. He encourages me when I'm tired and helps me relax when I'm stressed.

I'll make him comfortable after dinner. Whatever he needs, I'll make it happen. I'll draw a bath and put the children in bed. Not that he won't interact with the children - he does, and he loves our children very much. But as the homemaker, the children will primarily be my responsibility.

For his hard work, I will reward him with rest. My Love may want an extended full body massage, or to be left completely alone. Either way, it's his. Nothing is too much for my provider.

Once the children are asleep, and the two of us fall exhausted into bed, My Love will come for me. Slowly he'll kiss the back of my neck. I'll feel a finger run down my back, slipping my clothes off tenderly. His weight is above and behind me, pinning me down, but not hurting me. I moan gently as I feel him touching me from behind, and more gentle kisses on my neck and back. Moaning, I push my butt back toward him, inviting him in, offering myself to him entirely.

They'll make sure I finish first. Once I'm satisfied, he'll lay back against the pillow and covers, legs spread, and grab my hair - again, gently - to guide me between his legs... Sexually, personally, physically, completely and totally, I am his. I belong to My Love.

_______________________________________________________________

Margaret sat back against the headboard of her bed. I watched her closely, giving her a moment to ensure she had completed her story. She glanced out a window, avoiding my eyes. I took a deep breath, and blurted out a question.

"You really are the perfect slave, aren't you?"

I've never been good at keeping my inside thoughts on the inside, but I winced when this one slipped out. Cringing, I physically braced myself for another explosion of emotion from Margaret. It was not the first time I had offered such unwanted input.

But there was no explosion or swearing, just a short release of breath and halting chuckle.

"It's... yeah. I am," She replied. Then, slowly, sadly, with a far off tone, Margaret

spoke of her ex-love, Master Morgan.

"I would have been anything he wanted," her eyes fell to her lap. I was overwhelmed with simultaneous pity for my friend and disgust with our Master. I again spoke my mind.

"Well, fuck him. You deserve better anyway. You're the best. He wasn't good enough for you," I smiled and shrugged, trying to lighten the mood. I took her hand, squeezing gently. To my surprise, Margaret flashed a quick smile back at me.

"Thanks Marcie. You're honestly one of the best friends I've ever had," She squeezed my hand, looking into my eyes.

Since I can't take a compliment, I quickly changed the subject, blushing and pulling my hand from hers.

"So, your love... him? He's a man?" I asked. Margaret nodded, her face neutral.

"Well, maybe. For the longest time, when I imagined my love, it was Gerrard Morgan's face I saw. But not as much recently. If my fantasy dream person was a man or a woman... I suppose it wouldn't matter."

I remembered all the private conversations I'd had with my fellow slaves, away from Margaret's ears. All of us had basically agreed that Margaret was straight, and only pretending to be bisexual in an attempt to please our Master. His fetish for gay women was not a secret.

Now my face flushed red with guilt and embarrassment. I believed every word Margaret spoke. It genuinely did not matter to her the sex of her love. I had been wrong to make that judgment for her.

"Well, a confession from me then. I didn't believe you. About being bisexual. I thought maybe you were just saying that so you could impress Master. I should have trusted you." I apologized, still red faced with embarrassment. To my relief, Margaret wasn't upset.

"I don't think you were wrong, Marcie. Very likely, I was saying that to please him. I don't feel like I'm bisexual." She shook her head with confusion.

WHAT?

"You're interested in both men and women, but you're not bisexual?" I scanned my notes as if they contained the answer. Margaret shook her head, frowning deeply. She wasn't happy with my incredulous questioning.

"No. It's not that I'm interested in all sexes and genders. Things like that simply don't matter. Sex is not what attracts me to a person. It's so much more than that." She tried to explain, but seemed frustrated in her inability to frame her feelings accurately. "I just want a genuinely loving person. Who cares about me. Someone who cares about those around them. I want someone who can love me totally, and who I can give myself to totally,"

We shared a confused silence so long and intense, I felt the need to reassure her.

"It doesn't matter that much, does it? Definitions of words or whatever. Just love who you love," I smiled as reassuringly as I could. Margaret smiled in return, and I made another suggestion.

"If you get the chance, you should talk to Yvette about this. Her story was kind of like yours, in a strange way."

"I might. Thanks," Margaret replied.

I picked up my notebook with both hands, displaying the spiral bound paper for emphasis. Her story was for my journal. The blank pages I showed Margaret now were for Master's eyes.

"So, what should I tell him then? Should I go with Kat's crazy orgy or...?" I clicked my pen nervously, then reminded myself not to do that so often. Margaret thought for a second, and her face took on a characteristic sternness.

"You know what?" She said, "Tell him the truth. My real fantasy. If he doesn't like it, well, fuck him." And she grinned at me.

I'm proud of her. She's so much more confident in herself than she used to be. I'm glad she let me be her friend.

March 5

Margaret had told me that Emily was sometimes difficult to find. So the head slave made some arrangements for me. Apparently, some things had been stored in a particular room during a renovation, and now Master needed the room for someone. Thanks to Margaret, Emily and I were both given the job.

After breakfast, I was eager to get started. Emily obviously did not feel so inclined, as it was nearly a half an hour into the job that she showed up. The room we were tasked with filled with an eclectic arrangement of every type of rubbish imaginable, from cardboard boxes of clothes, to old plastic bins with keepsakes, Christmas decorations, unused lamps, doilies, cabinets filled with silverware, etc. The old spare room was a certified pile. As I cleaned alone for the first half an hour, I mused about why we were cleaning this specific room amidst a cluster of sterile, ready, unused guest rooms.

I had just dragged my fourth box of women's clothes into the hallway when Emily finally popped in, rushing and disheveled. Emily was small and slight, the most petite of all of us. Her face was framed by big nerdy glasses, and her hair was bright blonde. The wiry little woman was almost in a panic, apologizing furiously for her lateness.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Marcie, I didn't know what time it was! It's entirely my fault. I'm so sorry!" She almost ran me over with words as I leaned against the wall, breathing hard from my exertion with the box. I waved at her with a shrug, dismissing her concern.

"Yeah, no worries. Did you call me 'Miss Marcie'?" I asked, confused. Shyly, Emily nodded.

"Ah, it's just that you're so close to Master, and you've been here for such a short time. I thought maybe you deserve the respect." She explained.

I'll admit I was as flattered as I was baffled. My mind filtered every memory I could conjure, picking through to figure out what exactly she might be talking about.

"'You're so close to Master'?" I asked, eyebrows raised, "How do you figure that?" I re-entered the spare room, kneeling to collect a hard plastic case filled with binders. As I slid the case to Emily, she tried to explain her thoughts.

"Well, he took you to that dance. And he bragged about your ping-pong skills. And you're so close with Margaret! And just a few days ago he called you to his room by yourself. You've obviously done something right to make him like you." She looked at me as if she sought my approval. I committed several seconds of thought to her list. Did I really have Master's favor?

"Could be because I'm new." I postulated.

"Could be," Emily shrugged. We worked in silence for a few minutes, sorting a pile of monogrammed towels, emblazoned with the letters IMC.

I searched pensively for the perfect time to press Emily with my uncomfortable question. She seemed to like me, so at least I had a good stepping stone. Even though I hadn't really spoken with her, I had made some sort of impression.

I summoned up my nerve, formulating the question in my mind before I forced myself to ask. I opened my mouth to speak, but Emily beat me to the punch.

"How do I get Master to like me?" She asked. I stumbled over my words.

"Uh, geez, wow. I don't know. He doesn't like you?" I replied.

Finally, we had finished emptying the room into the hallway. As we dragged and carried all the junk into a nearby attic via a tight scuttle door, Emily explained her point of view.

"He's always on me about my work. I do forget stuff sometimes, but so do other girls, you know?"

"Well, is that all he's said?" I asked, remembering that she was thirty minutes late to her appointed task literally right before we had this conversation.

"Technically, he hasn't said anything else to me in over a year," She replied. I almost dropped the box I was carrying.

"Does he ever... sleep with you?"

Should I say fuck? I know we're pleasure slaves, but it feels weird. 'Does he ever fuck you?' ...Nah. I'll say 'sleep with you' for now.

"Not since he bought me," she replied. "I'm worried... Well, I'm worried he might sell me. I don't want him to. I love it here, my friends are here... I need Master to like me."

"That certainly is a pickle," I replied, demonstrating a firm grasp on the obvious.

"So... what do I do? He obviously likes you," Emily begged, "I don't want to be sold, Marcie." We stowed the last box and stood in the hallway. I was forced to look away from her worried puppy dog eyes. Clearing my hair from my eyes, I mulled her problem over.

"Marcie?" She asked.

"I'm not the one to ask about this," I replied, my original assignment completely forgotten, "But I'm friends with the girl who is."

March 5, Afternoon

Emily squirmed like she was three steps away from a pit full of tigers. Judging by her body language, I thought she might bolt down the hallway at any moment, screaming. I raised a hand to knock on the door, and the petite, timid woman stopped me, her voice a panicked whisper.

"You want me to ask MARGARET how to get Master to like me?" She hissed.

I stepped away from Margaret's office door.

"Sure, why not? She's been his favorite for years."

Emily's panicked eyes nearly bugged out of her head, and she had to readjust her glasses.

"Because Margaret HATES anyone who tries to come between her and Master. She'll sell me just for asking!" Her whispered voice tended toward a shout, silently cracking.

"No she won't," I asserted. Before Emily could give me more grief, I knocked on the door. Emily covered her face with both hands. I shook my head at her.

"Relax," I whispered.

"Who is it?" Margaret called from the other side of the door.

"Hey Maggy, it's Marcie," I answered. I flashed a reassuring smile to Emily, whose ghost white face evidenced her lack of trust.

"Come in," Margaret replied with a sing-song voice. I opened the door to the snug little study. Margaret's desk faced a window, Her laptop and papers splayed across it. She swiveled her desk chair around, smiling at me.

"Marcie," Margaret stood happily, wrapping me in a hug. As soon as her head was over my shoulder, she saw the frightened young woman behind me.

"...and Emily..." She added, much less warmly. They did not hug.

"We need your expert advice," I said.

"Is she pregnant?" Margaret asked. The Head Slave dropped into her desk chair, giving a clean view of the gold chain on her neck as she returned to her work.

"What? No," I replied, "Kind of the opposite problem."

"She wants to be pregnant?" Margaret asked.