True Servitude

"That's right." Shantell smiled a little, trying to maintain her submissive decorum but apparently enjoying interacting with a fan quite a bit. "Sometimes in wrestling, like in our line of life, a little blood is needed."

"I'll be dining out on that story for months!" A new voice said.

It was Max. A year hasn't changed his appearance, Ben thought. He still looked like a former pro athlete, still fit, strong jawline, mustache, twinkling eyes and a charismatic smile. He used all of it now.

All of the subs looked down, respectively, even the ones with other owners. Obedience went deep, Horst though, his own head bowed.

"It's good to see you again, Ben," Max looked like a Germanic barbarian chieftain staring down his Roman counterpart from across the battlefield. His eyes were fierce, the black irises so large and dark that they seemed dead and still. His handlebar mustache, his pride and joy, hung long and silky from tight, haughty looking lips.

"I..." Ben fumbled, looking as if he had been struck. The Flies goggled at him, the Thrall's lips twitched, and Stunning Shantell nearly raised her head to look Max in the eye.

Horst reached under the table and took Ben's hand, squeezed it supportively. It wasn't the gesture of a lover or a fellow servant, but a supportive friend, and the older man realized in that moment how much he needed it. He squeezed back.

"Max, come on back to the main table," Domina appeared at his elbow. "I am about to uncork this lovely bottle of this Washington shiraz. And Master Bobby was about to spellbind us with a tale from his auto parts store."

"Bobby couldn't spellbind anything if he was a court wizard," Max said, finally tearing his eyes away from Ben, who had nearly wilted in his chair. Finally, the rangy blond man smiled at the much smaller and darker Latina woman at his side. "Domestic shiraz? Has this caterer lost his mind?"

"I'd keep it down, Bobby is a teddy bear but Laszlo is apt to cleave off your hand," Domina joked, her cheerful but businesslike expression never wavering.

"Shiraz should be grown in a dry climate," Max opined as he was dragged off. "Not in the wet and wild like that."

"Come try it and see."

"Fair enough." After he had turned, almost as an afterthought, the big man gestured at the submissive table. "Thrall."

The Thrall stood without a word and left them.

When they had all gone an awkward silence came over the rest of the table. The Flies exchanged a look. Horst's eyes searched his friend's face, but Ben had turned away, covering his mouth with his hand. Stunning Shantell smiled professionally and presentationally, as if to say, the show must go on.

"Ben, do you want to hear about the time I brawled with Empress Amaya in a concession stand and she threw my head through the popcorn machine?" The professional wrestler asked gently.

**

After that, the party got more raucous. The Spider used her two Flies as human furniture, draping her old and withered body over them with surprising elegance. Master Bobby bade Stunning Shantell to sit in his lap, told dirty jokes and suckled wine off of her considerable cleavage. The Thrall squatted at Max's feet, like a dog.

The Domina's way was to leave them to their own devices when they were not needed, but this night was different. She had them perform.

Ben had "done stuff" in front of people before. Such a tawdry sounding phrase, to do stuff. It was almost an insult in and of itself. But stuff didn't mean sex and people didn't mean an entire dinner party. As such, he availed himself heavily of the wine he had himself recommended. Ben hardly ever drank, but the eyes of the assembled guests, especially Max's, compelled him to. When domina had told him he and Horst might very well be the centerpieces in a game that the doms had thought up to play with their subs, Ben had inhaled a glass and a half of the black peppery, gamey Mourvedre wine. It tasted like an explosion of some exotic jam on his tongue, but he found it steeled his nerves in front of so many people.

Horst was more in his element, more in control than his fellow sub. Though he hadn't ever told anyone, the gangly German kid had earned extra euros back home by performing in adult web shows. This isn't much different, he thought.

"Now that dinner is over and the caterers gone home we'll be playing 'Killer.'" Maria told the dinner guests. "One sub, chosen at random, will be the Killer. It's the Killer's job to kill, if you can believe that."

A few of the doms tittered, more from drunkenness, good food and the company than actual amusement. Ben thought he saw Max studying him over the rim of his wine glass, but he was determined not to tear his respectul gaze away from his mistress. She went on:

"The sub who is the Killer will perform a sexual act upon other party guests to 'kill' them. It has to be one that brings the receiving partner to titillation, but orgasm is better. Either way, we shall have the rest of the evening to play, so take your time. If you die you have to lay or sit down where you've been killed. Once someone 'dies', hopefully by cumming their brains out," Raunchy laughter, more genuine this time, resulted from that remark. "We'll convene and try to deduce who the Killer is. Everyone ready? Max has kindly volunteered to be our time keeper. Max?"

The big blond man lifted up his wrist to show off a digital watch as thick as a brick and said, "We have three hours, so the game ends at midnight."

"Correct. We begin now. For the remainder of the evening we should all mingle about the house. I've arranged for music to be played throughout. First things first: choosing the Killer. Do we have the hat ready? Remember not to share with anyone what is on your slip."

The hat in question was a Phillies baseball cap domina wore when she would accompany her father and brother to games, Ben knew. In it were six folded slips of paper. He and Horst both reached for the hat at the same time when their domina offered it, bumped hands, and all three exchanged a quick, nervous smile, eager for their guests to have fun with the game.

Both Horst and Ben's slips said "NOT THE KILLER" written in their domina's hand, her trademark small, wapish capitals. Horst was slightly annoyed, despite knowing how uncomfortable Ben was. Horst had been teased for the majority of the night by all of the bared flesh and the prospect of something adventurous and kinky, something to push his limits, at the end of the night. Ben was visibly relieved at the thought of not having to perform any sexual acts with Max and even anyone else that evening.

When the slips had been handed out some light music was piped into the house from the stereo system Maria had installed just for this occasion. One of the kitchen staff appeared in a fresh apron, offering champagne, which Ben quickly spotted as domestic. He inspected the bottle closely as he picked a flute for himself. Not only domestic, but from Connecticut. Inwardly, the former sommelier thought it was in bad taste. The first miss of the evening, he thought.

For the first time, the dominants and the submissives walked and talked freely. Horst caught himself with the Spider as they disappeared, Maria and Stunning Shantell were arm and arm and headed towards the office, talking business. Max was lingering by the lit fireplace with his big fingers curled around a brandy glass. The cheerful Master Bobby was browsing Maria's bookshelf and frowning over some of the titles, as if he could recognize them the more he concentrated.

There was an aura of classiness to the entire lifestyle, Ben thought. Just because people call you "master" and so forth you think that you have to be smart and sophisticated. And when you were called someone else's property you were assumed to be weak willed, idiotic. It wasn't a stereotype so pervasive to make him swear off his life's work, but it did fill Ben with ugliness over the years. Like now.

"It's a lovely home," A deep voice, resplendent with a local accent, said, making Ben jump. Max.

Looking sideways, Ben spied the big boned blond man as he swirled his liquor near the fire like a movie villain. When he half turned towards the other man he saw that his former master's eyes were bright with the light from the fire and perhaps all of the alcohol he had consumed that evening.

"You look well, Ben," Max said in his customary hard and firm tone.

"Thank you," He replied. He hated his own voice at that moment. He sounded like a stereotypical, whiny submissive. Ben had almost called his former master by his old honorific, "Maxter."

"You're lost weight," The dominant man went on. "Trimmed up. I like your head shaved like that."

Ben didn't want to repeat another servile thank you, and so he kept silent. He contemplated both the wisdom and politeness of simply showing his back to the other man and departing, but where would he go? The house wasn't that big.

He was saved by the bell, so to speak. From the other room they both heard a shocked scream. Ben felt his stomach tighten in alarm, but then when he heard breezy cocktail titters following it he remembered the murder mystery game they had all been roped into playing.

Max was already heading into the mud room. Ben saw Master Bobby lying face down on the linoleum. He thought that this type of game would be better off in a mansion or something, the sort of home that had a conservatory, a solarium, rooms like that. But no, here they were in the same place where they did the laundry and shook out Ben's boots after he went hiking or shooting.

"Murder most foul!" The Spider cried in a dramatic tone, causing more chuckles.

"Who was in here with him?" Maria wanted to know, crossing her arms. "I see one of the two Flies here, the Thrall, Stunning Shantell? Did you have anything to do with this, killing your own master?"

"There should be a fancy name for that crime," The Spider said thoughtfully.

"Perhaps we should vacate this small room and do our detective work with fresh drinks in hand," Max suggested, lifting his nearly empty glass.

The fire was dying when they did so, so Horst automatically and obediently tried to stoke it anew. Ben saw his fellow sub having difficulty and drifted over to help.

Stunning Shantell lingered by the door, fingerless gloved hands resting on the jamb, eyes on her dominant, the jolly man who was still laying rotund and face down on the ground. "Master?"

"Shhh, he's dead," Maria teased.

The black submissive had her wrestling boots on her, and they made a tiny noise as she walked and knelt over the prone man stretched out on the cold tiles. "Master."

"Aren't we supposed to--"

"My god! BOBBY!" Shantell had prodigious strength to both her voice and in her athlete's body. She turned over the much bigger man with little effort and turned his head, revealing the puffy, reddened throat and neck. The olive skin was discolored and his big, formerly passionate brown eyes had gone slack, disinterested.

The collective gasp in the room was cut off by the roar of gunshots, shockingly loud indoors. Ben was half blinded by the muzzle flash, felt himself hitting the hard wood floor. There was no pain. His ears were ringing, but he could see and faintly hear screaming around him.

His vision had cleared, if not his hearing. Horst was struggling with the Thrall, the small, shiny pistol between them as they tugged and shouted. Both men were slender but one was clearly more fit. The Thrall forced the barrel of his weapon toward the young German's body. The next two shots were more muffled, the muzzle flash scorching Horst's bare skin, the impact of them hammering into his skinny frame. He seemed to twist and tighten with every bullet. The Thrall held the other man in his arms for just an instant, eyes searching his shocked and pained face and then let Horst's body drop.

The other party guests had fled, all except Maria and Ben. Shantell and Bobby curled next to one another in a position hideously reminiscent of a post coital cuddle.

The Thrall swiveled to aim at Maria, hiding behind a love seat. He extended his gun hand dramatically, the front sight bisecting her expressionless face. The hammer fell and clicked uselessly. The silence that followed was louder than any gun shot.

"You motherfucker," She spit out.

The Thrall struggled with the compact pistol, which was coated in Horst's blood. Maria stood from her hiding place, eyes ablaze. Another woman would have had more words, questions, or given in to fear. They would have called the police or screamed.

Not Maria Reina Velázquez-Patrón.

Her short stride ate up the length between them. She cocked back a tiny fist. A cry of rage escaped her perfect lips.

"Wait, shit--" The Thrall's bloody hands fumbled at the gun. He had ejected the magazine and was frantically trying to clear the jam. His small, shiny eyes looked up at the furious woman.

A blur of movement erupted from the next room, a huge form on an intercept course. Max hit Maria with all of the force and speed of an all star defensive end. The explosion of sound and impact catapulted her into the big, wall sized glass sliding doors. She hit them hard enough to make Ben cringe.

"Ah," The Thrall had wiped the pistol and his hand down with his own shirt. He racked the slide and smiled in satisfaction when a round was chambered. "Thank you, Maxter."

"Cover him." Max said, looking down at the crumpled form of Maria at his feet. He prodded her with his toe and looked satisfied when she groaned in pain. "We'll have to finish this, and quickly."

This meant Maria's eyes glazed and unfocused as she stared up at the two murderers. This meant kindly Master Bobby side by side with his lover, one strangled and the other shot. This meant Horst's ruined, curled up body, his wounds and powder burns still fresh and grotesque.

"You're awfully quiet, Ben," Max said in a gently inquisitive voice, as if it were just the two of them having a tough conversation they had been putting off.

"You can let her go," Ben replied. His customarily calm tone sounded strange to his own ears, still oddly fluctuating after the loud gunshots. "You should run. You should go. The Spider woman, the Flies, the caterer and all the kitchen help. They're gone and they'll have called the police."

"We'll go when we're done," Max smiled a little sadly down at him.

"Three rounds left," The small, sinister Thrall said. "Unless we want to finish them off with something here or run out to the car for the other magazine."

"You didn't bring it with you?"

"Didn't think we'd even need the one. This hasn't gone according to plan, Maxter."

"Tell me about it." Max winked down at Ben, as if they were discussing a flat tire at an inopportune moment. "Three rounds, you said?"

"Just three. Better make 'em count."

"So let's make them count," Max said. He knelt and clicked his tongue when Maria shied away from him. His big pale hand cupped the dusky skin of her cheek, and then ran his fingers through her thick black hair. The side of her face was one large, already ripening bruise, gently weeping blood. His fingers combed it into her hair as he petted her with restrained violence. "You truly are a beautiful woman, Maria. If I was so inclined..."

He let the thought trail off as he looked down at her with a fondness he genuinely seemed to feel. Max's smile faded when he spoke again.

"The Thrall can make it quick for you. We have a boat to catch tonight, him and I. And then a plane. I set up all that and he set up all this. The Thrall here is a former Navy SEAL, did you know that? You wouldn't know it to look at him but he's done a lot worse than this in the name of god and country. This is a walk in the park to him. One of the reasons I took him in. They booted him out of the service when they found out he was gay. Same reason I didn't make it in the pros, you know. That and my injury."

"Let her go, please," Ben pleaded. "She has nothing to do with any of this."

"How do you want her?" Max asked his sub, ignoring Ben's pleading. "Lined up against the wall?"

"Best to do it like this," The Thrall corrected him. "Barrel right up against the head."

"Won't that be messy?"

"No," The small man said. "This is too small of a bullet to do all that. Instead it'll go in and won't come out. That's how the mob kills people."

"Fine, let's be done with it." Max's cold eyes turned to Ben. "And you, you watch. Then its your turn."

The Thrall had partially field stripped the small, shiny pistol, and after checking the chamber like the expert he apparently was and had reassembled it. The movements of his hands were automatic, drilled into his brain. That left his smoldering eyes free to gaze down contemptuously at Ben. Then he smiled in a queasy way that was so repugnant that Ben had to turn away.

"No, no," Max said, and with an inexorable strength pushed his face towards the scene. "You watch."

He found that it was easier to pretend that what he was seeing was some macabre scene in a movie. The Thrall, clad in a leather and chain submissive outfit, knelt by Maria, and placed the barrel of the weapon to her head. Her struggle was brief but spirited, and the Thrall easily subdued her via a pistol whip and kneeling roughly on her ribs.

It was Ben's turn to struggle, but Max held him so easily, as if he was a child. Try as he might he couldn't wriggle free. An iron like hand clamped over his jaw and forced his head to turn.

The Thrall thumbed back the hammer of the weapon and narrowed his eyes. Maria shut hers in response.

"AAAAARGGGHHH!" It was as if Shantell had carried the battle cry from warlike ancestors in her bloodlines. It made Ben jump in his skin and Max flinch and tighten his grip, but the Thrall was immediately waving his weapon in the direction of the sound, beady eyes scanning for a target.

He found one as the solidly built wrestler charged at him, still screaming. Her costume was in disarray, and she was bleeding heavily, but the most terrible part of it all was her hateful eyes. A smooth double tap of shots wasn't enough to stop Shantell's momentum, but she more fell into him than tackled him. All three of them, both women and the Thrall, tumbled over in a bloody heap.

Ben flurried his hands at Max's face, his curved fingers and nails. Felt his index finger push into something soft, gain purchase against skin and bone. He yanked. The cry of pain was shrill and yet somehow masculine as the big blond man making it. Max clutched his bloody face as Ben fought his way free.

Maria had kicked the gun free in an attempt to pick it up. The Thrall was spindly but quick, but he was having trouble getting out from under Shantell, who was messily and loudly dying atop him.

As someone who had never handled a gun before she had a very unsteady grip, an awkward posture. The small caliber pistol didn't make her hands look larger as it would in anyone else's. But her eyes were full of resolve as she aimed at the Thrall's upper torso as he tried to wriggle out beneath Shantell's body.

She pulled the trigger with zero hesitation. Her lips tightened, pursed and she automatically flinched. But no sound came. Maria frowned. By then, the rapidly blinking Max and his sub were both up and recovering, if not completely recovered.

"Safety catch," Thrall advised her as he took the gun from her grip, as if she was a child who had picked up an adult's possession, something that was dangerous for her to handle. In an instant he had the business end of the weapon pointed at her. The click of the weapon's safety filled the small room. The submissive grinned like a jackal.

"Wait," Max said, trying to blink away the blood in his eye. "Where did Ben go?"

"I didn't see," The smaller man replied, his eyes rapidly searching. "I didn't even see him--"