Rescuing the Fallen Ch. 05

I can feel my heart fluttering. Not with desire, but with awe, fear, and something deeper. I know that this man wishes to possess me. I can sense his dominant need for control in the way that his eyes fix on my body. He is not undressing me with his eyes. No, I sense that my clothes could never offer any resistance to the unabashed force of his will. It is as if my clothing never existed to begin with.

Simultaneously, I want to cover myself to hide my shameful weakness, and I want to spread my legs wide for him, to show him any part of me that he might desire. Instead, I do neither; I stand with my hands behind my back and my head lowered. The gesture causes my breasts to jut out slightly, presenting my assets to my new owner. I am an object. I need to acknowledge myself thusly.

As I take a single step towards him, I can feel a tiny portion of my psyche trying to slow me down. This man is evil. He's a wicked, immoral monster and probably a murderer as well. How could I possibly wish to serve him? I have no idea. His physical attraction is all inspiring, but it is not the source of my desire.

I long to please this man, regardless of what he's done, because I know in my soul that the strength which he possesses is the exact power I long to submit to. He IS the patriarchy... the symbol of its might. Bogart holds a portion of this power, and I am willing to lower myself below his disgusting form and revel in the slimy pleasure that it offers me.

But Nicholas is the absolute embodiment of that power. So much purer... so much more raw... than any other man I've served. He has not yet reached middle age, and yet he already runs one of the most influential mafia families in the nation. Such undeniable control is held by this one single entity.

"Walk over here, my sweet thing." His words are simple and quiet, but they are dripping with authority. To disobey these words would be unthinkable. I long to rush over to him and throw myself at his feet, to bathe in the overwhelming control that he will exert over my weak feminine frame, but my feet move slowly, demurely. I must show him that I move to submit to his dominance, not because of my own rapacious lust. It is only proper.

His eyes watch me with a possessive gleam. I long to be owned by this man. Hell, I am ALREADY owned by this man; I merely long to show him how low I will stoop in my quest to please him.

"Thank you, Bogart. I'll make sure you get an extra 20% boost in your weekly payment, in exchange for this lovely agent's time. I'll return her in a few days, no worse for wear."

"ABIGAIL, STOP!" Bogart's voice is loud and commanding, and yet it still contains only a fraction of the authority that Nicholas' words possessed only seconds ago. Nevertheless, my body freezes in place. My master has spoken, and I am powerless to resist. "You're gonna give me an extra 20% for her? Try 50... My time with her is limited, and it's gonna take a hell of a lot more than twenty percent to steal her away from me."

I can see a calm scowl form on Gambini's face. "Your greed is unbecoming, Bogart. We both know that such a price would be a pittance for me, but we also know that it is more than this woman is worth."

My worth? In a dollar amount? Immediately, my eyes widen. Obviously, Nicholas is right in this instance. I definitely feel like he's overpaying... but twenty percent seems much closer to my value than fifty! Fifteen percent would be more realistic. No, ten percent... Wait, no. Perhaps five. Or less... The demeaning thoughts swirl down and down, and I can feel my cunt growing slick at the notion.

"You can have everything you want outside these walls, Nicholas. But this is my territory! You are a customer who pays for the information and services which I provide. You're not an employer who pays me to work for you... and don't you forget it!" I see Bogart turn to face me. "Abigail, it seems that our guest is not interested in properly compensating me for my things. Get back under my desk, bitch."

I turn to obey.

"Wait, Abigail. Come over to me." Gambini's voice is so cool and calm, but it thunders within my ears like a massive wave crashing upon me. There is so much authority in those words, so much strength.... so much potency. My body freezes in place.

"Listen bitch! You're my fucking slave. Now get the fuck back over here!" I can hear the frustration, the visceral, impotent rage seething within Bogart's voice. He is the weaker man. Everyone within the room knows it. But Gregory placed the collar on my neck, and he delivered me over to Bogart. So Bogart IS my master. My disgusting, slimy, weak, servile master.

To be controlled by such a repellent ruler shames me to my core. And yet, something inside reminds me how fucking hot that is. I cannot argue with it.

Nevertheless, Nicholas holds authority within this room. As much as Bogart denies it, we all know that it is true. So who do I obey? My master? Or his master? I don't know. My own psyche is completely silent. I don't get a say in this. Tears begin beading up at the edges of my eyes. I only want to serve.

I am like a dog, being called in two different directions. My own desires are irrelevant. Either of these owners will provide me with endless mental pleasure. Why would I care which one of them controls me? I merely want to be humiliated. I don't care who does it.

I close my eyes and allow my body to move. In the moment, my mind swoons, and I don't even know which direction I am headed. The two voices have grown silent, as I take step after step. After a lifetime has passed, I open my eyes, and I find myself standing in front of...

Bogart. The metaphorical clit within my brain trembles, and I bite my lip to stifle a moan as mild pleasure cascades through my body. I have obeyed a man, and received my reward. I have no idea what would have happened if my body had chosen differently. But as the pleasant sensations sweep across my body, I couldn't care less.

"That's right, Nicholas! You can't get everything you want! You might think you're hot shit on the street, but I'm not scared of you! Get the fuck... out of my office!" There is a subtle hitch in his voice, and I realize that he's just given his load to Blair. Her muffled, rapacious moans send my mind swirling.

I've been robbed of my chance to please Dearest, and I wasn't even able to pleasure Nicholas in exchange. Yes, I received stimulation for obeying, but it could have been so much better. Blair stole all of my hard work. I hate her so much.

Nicholas stands. I expect to see anger, frustration, or some other negative emotion on his face. Afterall, he lost. The mental image of Gregory's scowl as he watched me submit to Bogart blooms in my mind. Surely, Gambini must be feeling all these same emotions. If so, they are not visible. His face is a mask of calm, placidity. He failed in his goal to claim me, but he seems entirely unperturbed.

"Very well, Bogart. I'll take my leave for now. Just remember that you obtained this cushy little spot on your own merits, right? You don't owe anything to anyone. And of course, no one could ever take away your position, just like this." He gives his fingers a brisk snap, for emphasis. The sardonic edge to his voice is hidden so deep that I can barely detect it... but it is there.

I can sense the paranoia in Bogart's words as he retorts. "I don't owe my success to anyone! I do belong here! And no one is taking anything of mine! Do you understand!?"

"Of course, Bogart." Nicholas smiles, as if nothing is amiss. "Stay safe, now."

.......................................................................

11) The Guest

Naomi

I watch the young girl playing in her room. Rosemary is such an adorable child. So pure and innocent, with a genuine curiosity that I remember having at her age. She's filling in a coloring book, and she's doing a pretty good job, considering how young she is.

I have music almost blaring within the room. It's a safe, sterilized, kid's version of a modern pop song. As I consider the lyrics, the young musician's voice seems increasingly weak and vulnerable. She seems so incredibly... subservient.

♪I'd do anything for you... (Woo-hoo!)♪

♪Anything you ask me to... (Oooh-oooh!)♪

♪Baby, we could be so fine... (Like wine!!)♪

♪If you'll just say, "You're mine!" (You're Mine)♪

The song is a few years old at this point, but the words now take on a dark, depressing tone to me. The artist who originally performed that song presumably sang it because she wanted some guy to lovingly claim her, and she could ride off with him into the metaphorical sunset. But that isn't what happened.

Some man, some fucking monster, probably told her, "You're mine," as she knelt before him, uttering the horrific words that must have been thrumming constantly in her ears. Surely she must have said, "I acknowledge myself owned," before the collar sealed around her neck, forever snatching away her personhood, her very self. Did her catcher even bother to let her stand before he unzipped his pants and used her?

I doubt it, but I guess I'll never know for sure. She was of legal age, and now she dances and sings with a collar encompassing her throat. No less beautiful, but so much less of a person.

It's heartbreaking. The music pulses in my ears, and I can feel tears forming at the edges of my lashes. Rosemary turns back to me to display her drawing, and I wipe my eyes immediately.

"That's really good, Ro-Ro! Very pretty!" I struggle to keep the pain hidden in my voice. I think I mostly succeed. The drawing that she has colored is from a book, Beautiful Dresses from Around The Globe. It has line work depicting women's clothes from a dozen or so different countries. All of them are incredibly feminine and traditional. Of course they are. Rachel picked out this book. Why would she give her daughter anything different?

Fortunately, Thomas seems to be a little cautious about what media he lets his daughter consume. The music and shows that she's allowed to watch are all safely pre-event. But a book like this? It doesn't even have words, just pictures. Who knows when it was made? There's nothing wrong with it, inherently... but it's just another reminder that women need to dress a certain way and act a certain way, because it's the proper course of action for a person of the weaker sex.

I can feel my stomach churning with revulsion. Each day, I find myself trying to shield this innocent girl from the horrors that may await her. Her mother lives in a blissful dream world where servitude is pleasure... but it's all unnatural. She cleans, works, and exercises each day as if every simple, submissive act is the most joyous experience imaginable.

Rosemary colors a bit more and holds the page up once again. "How tu you like tis dwawing, Missis M'aomi?" Her speech impediment seems worse when she's excited. She grins at me with a childish simplicity that warms my soul. The page is awash with reds, blues, and purples. "I maded her hair bwonde, like you!"

"That looks amazing, Rosemary! The yellow is very close to my hair color!" My long hair is currently pulled up in a tight ponytail. I always try to pick hair and clothing styles that look nice... because I want to look the part of a submissive... but not too pretty, because I don't want to attract any extra attention from Thomas. So far he hasn't seemed to pay me much mind. Rachel mostly tells me what to do. She's strict, but she hasn't ever been unfair or unkind to me.

The music is still pounding loudly as I take Rosemary's coloring book and begin to inspect it more closely. In reality, the shade of yellow that she used isn't nearly as bright as my natural hair color. I doubt she had a crayon to match. My on-page depiction is a girl from some northern country. Her dress is all the wrong colors, but of course Rosemary would have no way of knowing...

I freeze suddenly, as all the blood drains from my face. My fingers tremble, and the book threatens to fall from my grip. I struggle to find my voice.

"Rosemary... what is that brown line? The... the one on the..." Instinctively, I cover my mouth, incapable of finishing my sentence.

Rosemary immediately intuits what I'm talking about, but if she notices my horror, she doesn't react. "Tat's your cawor, Missis M'aomi!"

Instinctively, with a shaky hand, I flip through the other pages in the coloring book. Every page has a different woman, colored with childish scribbles. And upon each woman's throat, Rosemary has drawn a brown or black collar. This book was almost certainly published pre-event, so the women depicted have nothing on their necks. Rosemary added one for each girl, apropos of nothing. She's just been imitating what she's been seeing... on the street, on the internet maybe... fuck; she's seen it in her own home.

Tears threaten to spill out in earnest, and I turn my head away from her. I can't let her see me cry, but I feel like a horrible person. As I hide in plain sight, pretending to be a collared woman, hoping desperately to never be exposed to the payload... Hell, I'm sending this message to every single person who sees me. "I am a willing slave! I am a firm supporter of the patriarchy! I am a shining example of how women should act and behave!"

Even as young as she is, Rosemary can sense that something is wrong. "Missis M'aomi? Is ebery-ting otay? I'm gonna turn off ta moosic." She steps over to the speaker, reaching out her hand.

"WAIT!" I call out immediately, "LEAVE THE MUSIC ON!" I force a smile across my face, but I'm certain that my mascara is probably smeared, at least a little. "I wanna dance to this music! Don't you?!"

I jump to my feet and start dancing around in my best attempt to seem happy and cheerful. Rosemary begins cackling with uproarious glee, and she starts hopping about as well, swaying to the thumping beat.

♪Baby we could be so fine... (Like wine!)♪

♪If you'll just say, "You're mine!" (You're Mine)♪

The lyrics weasel their way into my head, and the tears begin to flow, unbidden. I turn my back to the child, as my sobs are drowned out by the song's hook, words that perfectly describe my situation. They epitomize every woman's current stance towards the patriarchy.

♪I'd do anything for you... (Woo-hoo!)♪

♪Anything you ask me to... (Oooh-oooh!)♪

The truth is that I have to keep the volume up. I can't let it down even for a moment. Because just down the hall, I know that Rachel is letting her husband fuck her brains out. And I can just barely make out the sounds of her impassioned screams. The music has to stay on... because Thomas has forgotten about his daughter.

Before the song can end, I hit restart. Fortunately, the song has a blaring intro. I know that she won't hear any noise coming from the other room. I can tell that she's getting sleepy, and I hope that a cold drink might help her slip down for a nap. It's worked before.

"Hey Ro-Ro! You stay right here and keep dancing, okay? I'm gonna go get us some juice boxes! Would you like that? You'll have to wait here, okay? Don't leave! Keep dancing! I'll be right... back!" I hold up a finger, motioning for her to stay in place, as I back towards the door.

Rosemary nods emphatically. With a hand that hardly feels like mine, I twist the doorknob and slip out, shutting the door behind me as quickly as I can. As soon as it's closed, the music from inside fades and the sounds of lovemaking fill my ears. No. That isn't right. "Love making" is not the proper term; because they aren't making any love. They're just fucking. Plain and simple.

The sounds only grow louder as I walk past the bathroom. I want to dart past their bedroom as quickly as possible. I can't though. After all, slave girls don't slink by. They walk slowly, and their steps are delicate and demure. The master is enjoying his fuck-session, so why should it bother his property? I remind myself that I must reflect all of these traits. If I stand out, I'll be ruined.

As soon as I step into the cracked doorway, my eyes are drawn inside automatically. I don't wanna see what's happening in there, but somehow I feel compelled. The lights are dim, but there's enough illumination for me to make out both bodies. Rachel is topless, riding Thomas with a wild abandon. Her moans are so loud and passionate; she sounds like a porn star... but I know she isn't faking anything.

Her entire body is glistening with sweat, and her brunette hair is swirled around her head haphazardly. I saw it pinned up in a bun this morning, but her violent gyrations have clearly worked a large portion of the strands free.

As soon as my shadow fills the doorway, Thomas sits up, thrashing with the blankets to cover their joining. His fearful eyes stare in my direction, and as soon as he sees my face, I see the panic fade. "Oh Naomi, it's you! I was afraid for a second it was Ro-Ro!"

So he didn't forget his daughter. But he didn't think to silence his wife or close the bedroom door? What if it had been Rosemary? What then?

I try to look away, but not so much that it appears conspicuous. I imagine that it'll be safe to lower my gaze and watch from my periphery. Rachel is still pumping madly, intent on pleasing him, even in their new awkward position. Her moans are just as loud as before. They might have gotten even louder, since I showed up. Thomas pats her shoulder lovingly and gives her a light shush. She silences her cries immediately. Of course she does. She's so obedient.

"I realize that we probably got a little noisy, but I also noticed that Rosemary was playing some loud music. I guess the songs mostly drowned us out, huh?" There is the slightest embarrassed edge to his voice, but it is so faint that I can barely tell. He's becoming so accustomed to having sex with me nearby. His sense of modesty concerning me seems to be waning rapidly.

I nod dutifully in response to his question. I'm trying my best to hide the disgust from my face. After all, it was my decision to turn on the music, but if I hadn't been there, what would they have done? Clearly, Thomas has the ability to silence Rachel. And yet he chose not to. Part of me still wants to believe that he cares about his daughter. Just not enough.

And of course he won't bother to thank me for tending to Ro-Ro. I'm just his humble slave. He believes that I want to do all of this because of the payload. Ironically, everything I do is indeed because of the payload, but not the way he thinks.

"I guess the music was your idea, Naomi? Thank you. I appreciate it."

Damn it! My teeth grind with frustration. Tom's so infuriating! Whenever I think I can fully trust him, he seems to slip downward and show me signs that he'll become the monster that I fear. However, whenever I decide that he's a lost cause, and he's completely forgotten about my humanity, he'll do some tiny gesture to remind me that he values my personhood. I can never get a solid bead on him.

Thomas is still adjusting the sheets, making sure that Rachel's ass is covered up. She's still entirely topless, though. I always feel like Thomas' views on exhibitionism are oddly inconsistent. It isn't like he ever tries to let me see, but he hasn't stopped Rachel in her constant attempts to show off. He seems to notice Rachel's toplessness as an afterthought, and he whispers to his wife.

Rachel reaches up and covers her breasts with her arms. As she continues grinding on his lap, she turns to look at me, and even in the darkness, I can see a disgusting gleam in her eye. She wants me to see this. I don't fully understand what the payload is wanting from her, but I'm not blind. Some part of her enjoys it whenever I see her and Thomas together.