5 comments/ 35657 views/ 17 favorites The Family Business Ch. 01 By: Errantry Chapter One "I'm giving you the business, son." I stared at my father blankly. If the famous Carl Rayburn, founder and sole proprietor of Carl's Cuties Slave Emporium, had turned green and grown two heads, I might have managed a word. But this -- stunned silence. "Oh, yeah, it's a done deal. All the t's are dotted and the i's are crossed," my father chuckled. "Carl's Cuties is now one hundred percent yours, mister business school graduate -- lock, stock and shackle. It's not news, Ty, that I've been considering retiring. Gods know, I don't need the shekels anymore. And then I thought -- what would make a better graduation present? So, son, it's yours." The old man beamed broadly and tossed a large ring of keys into my fumbling hands. I barely kept the tangled mass of metal from hitting the floor and finally managed to find a few words. "But I don't know the first thing about running a slave dealership!" "Of course you do! You practically grew up at Cuties." "I've been to the lot like twice, dad!" Carl paused. "Twice? It was more than twice." "Twice!" Carl laughed it all away. "Maybe you're right. Anyways, doesn't matter. Our family's been slaving for at least six generations! The biz is in your blood. I know it. And soon, so will you." The old man kept his wide smile and slapped me on the back. "I'm moving to Maui, son. Got me a nice bungalow all lined up. Sea-side and fun in the sun! I'm putting the big city behind me and going to enjoy some serenity, harmony, nature ... that sort of crap!" He let out a powerful hearty laugh. "Of course not entirely alone. I'm taking my personal slaves with me -- Brandy, Mandy and Tandy." "Dad, that's practically the whole office staff! I have a million questions! Are you at least going to guide me through..." Carl waved it all away. "I'd love to, son, but it's like this. I'm not getting any younger and you're a smart boy with a college degree. Hades' Holy Hell, Ty, nobody helped me start this business!" I let the words sink in. Again -- stunned silence. "I'm not taking everyone. I'm leaving you the dark haired one -- Sandy." A naked stacked blonde on a leash leaned over and whispered into the old man's ear. "Sammy, sir." I for the briefest of moments was distracted from my shock by the jiggling movement of a mountain of naked, pert and largely plastic breast. Dad -- the gods know I love him -- but he was a man of simple pleasures. I believe this particular simple pleasure was named Mandy, but honestly I had never been good at telling the three blondes apart. Dad once more waved it all away. "Sammy. Sandy. Whatever. She's yours. Smart little slave. She'll show you the ropes. Watch out for her, though. She's mouthy. Anyways, she'll run you through the day to day and make sure the dealership is ready to open on Monday." "Monday?! That's tomorrow!" Carl kept his smile. "Yep and my flight is tonight." "Dad ... this is..." I was trying not to sound desperate. I was failing. "No need to thank me, son. You deserve this. Hell, the business practically runs itself. In no time, you'll be raking in the payola. Gods know that the slave trade has been good to me. And don't worry. I'll check in on you in a few months." "I... uh.... A few months?" "Look son, I'd love to stay and have a few beers and get all mushy with you. But the graduation ceremony ran a bit late and I've got a flight to catch. So, tell you what." Carl shoved a thick roll of bills into my pocket. "Here's a little walking around money. Bacchus' bouncing balls, boy, I do envy you." My dad barely managed not to tear up and gave me a big hug. "You've got your whole life ahead of you, Titus Rayburn! I know you'll make me proud." And he was gone with his three slaves in tow. Just that fast. I finally found a breath. "Fuck," I managed at last. ... "So, are you gonna keep it?" Marc meekly asked for the third time. "Fuck," I said miserably into my beer. The whole bar seemed to move and seethe around me. I could find no focus. It was all too much to take in. Carl's Cuties, a multi-million denarii slave dealership, was mine. The ink on the parchment of my degree was barely dry. In twelve hours, I needed to be three hours away opening my dealership. Mine. It all spun and whirled about me. "Of course, he's keeping it," said Gaius definitively. "I can't believe you're so miserable about this, Ty. C.C.'s is practically an institution in Cythera City! And it's yours. Not sort of yours. Not going to be yours. Mother-fucking yours. You are loaded, my man. You graduated top of your class. You've been handed a cash cow. You are going to be working with naked fucking slave girls every damned day. If you had half a brain, tonight you would be celebrating." "The slave trade is big business," said Marc. I took a long drink. Gaius made a good point. But then -- the crash of reality, the pressing weight of tomorrow rushing towards me. "What I've been handed is a major business operation that I know next to nothing about. Most of the staff and liquid cash are gone with dad to frolic in paradise. And I don't even have an apartment in Cythera City, for fucks sake. Oh, and if I drive the business into the ground, my dad is going to disown me." "He didn't say he'd disown you, did he?" Marc managed meekly. "You think he'll disown you?" "Yeah, well ... cry me a fucking river, dude," said Gaius loudly. "My dad got me a watch for my graduation present. He definitely didn't give me several hundred slave girls and a pocket full of cash." I fumed over my beer but didn't say a word. Maybe he's right. "So, are you gonna keep it?" asked Marc for the fourth time. "Fuck." "Zeus almighty!" said Gaius throwing up his hands. "Ty, if you walk away from this, not only will you piss off your dad, but you are going to regret it for the rest of your life which will be short because I will personally kill you. You are a smart guy, my friend, so stop acting like an idiot. Quit yer bitching and have another beer!" I finished my beer in one slam. I took one piece of advice from Gaius. I ordered another. ... At five past eight, I fumbled once more with the tangle of keys and finally finding the right one, unlocked the front door of Carl's Cuties. I entered the place for the first time in close to five years. It was bigger than I remembered -- a cavernous show room and auction block up front, offices and support buildings in the rear. I turned on the lights and was relieved to discover the place clean and in good order. During the very small amount of sleep I had managed to grab at a nearby motel, my dreams all centered on this place being either a wreck or on fire. "You're early," said a voice up above me. I glanced upward to a catwalk above the showroom floor and had my breath stolen from me. It was a woman ... a slave. She wore high black boots that traveled half-way up her well-formed legs, buffed to an almost liquid shine. Her elegant arms were adorned with long gloves, coal black and lustrous. Around her neck was a black leather collar, simple and unadorned (though no doubt concealing the required tracking and ID chip). Besides those three items, she wore not a stitch else to conceal her athletic frame and classic features. Her hair was raven black, gently curled and long enough to hang even with her shoulders. Her skin was fair, neither pale nor ruddy, a soft warm middle pink. Her face was gentle and almost angelic. Her smile was anything but. She exuded a casual wickedness. She walked down the stairs towards me and for the second time in two days, I had no idea what to say. She solved the problem quickly. "You must be Titus. I'm Samantha, sir." "Right," I stammered. "Sammy." Her eyes narrowed. "If Samantha is too long to manage I prefer Sam, please, sir." There was something in the final 'sir' that was so pointed it almost stabbed me in the eye. "Sam, yeah, that's fine," I managed. "Glad to hear it, sir." Her proximity meant I could hardly help but take her measure. She was a balance of graces: athletic but curvaceous, elegant but accessible, innocent but wicked. She was well groomed though almost devoid of makeup of any sort; her only enhancements were subtle eye-liner and soft crimson lips. She was hairless from the neck down; her sex a neat orchid on display. She had obviously been a slave for a while; there was no hint of shame or shyness. If she had a flaw, her breasts were small for a commercial slave, almost boyish. Still they suited her well and from any angle there was no doubt she was all woman. "So, how about the tour, sir?" She said interrupting my over-long stare. "Or do you need a little longer to gawk at me?" I looked up into her sorcerous jade-green eyes. She was smirking. "I apologize." She looked at me quizzically. "You're apologizing ... to me?" I laughed a little. "It's kind of absurd, isn't it?" "It can't be," she said genuinely amazed. "Am I Titus Rayburn's first slave?" "Well, no. We had slaves around the house of course when I grew up, but..." "They all belonged to your father," she said even before I managed to complete the sentence. "Uh, yeah and in college... Dad thought it would have been a distraction." "Your quoting your father, I assume." "Yeah. It doesn't matter. I have lots of experience with slaves, is all I'm saying." "Obviously, sir." Gods, time to change the subject. "So, how long have you worked here?" "I don't work here, sir. Not any more. I work for you." "Wait. What?" "Every other slave in this facility is owned by the company. They are company assets. Not me. When your father signed the company over to you, he made me your slave. You may not have owned a slave before, sir, but you do now. I am yours." I could only take a deep breath. For the first time since yesterday, I whispered quietly 'thanks, dad.' "Now, sir, would you like to see the grounds?" "Yeah, let's do that." "Follow me, please, sir." She turned, graceful and full of confidence. Her bare bottom was then for the first time in full view. Suffice to say, I found it easy to follow. In fact, it took quite a bit of willpower for me to notice anything else. The tour began. "You're here earlier than I'd thought you'd manage your first day. You'll be glad for the extra time. There is a lot to see here at C.C.'s. What your father has given you is a state of the art palace for the purveyance of female flesh. "There are lots of reasons to buy a slave, sir," Sam continued. "Laborer, maid, bodyguard, gladiator, nanny, tutor. C.C.'s doesn't stock any of those. Here, we sell only one thing. We have a lot of different names for that one commodity -- masseuse, mistress, concubine, geisha, pleasure girl and my favorite -- personal assistant. They all mean the same thing." "What's that?" Sam stopped and looked me straight in the eye. "Sex slave, sir. Female sex slaves in particular -- we don't stock boys, alas." I knew that. Of course I knew that. Intellectually I had known that fact for years. It's right there on the big ten meter tall sign -- Carl's Cuties. Of course, the word 'sex slave' appeared nowhere in this building. It didn't appear on company ads. It didn't appear on the titles and deeds for each of these girls. It didn't appear on promotional banners or in the literature. But what were all of these attractive young naked girls here for? They were here to be bought and fucked. "This way, sir. These are what we charmingly call 'the guest rooms'." The guest rooms, it turned out, were almost too much for me to handle gracefully. How could I be blamed? Right now the stock of C.C.'s was a little low, Sam mentioned in passing happenstance. There were barely two hundred girls on the lot. From the observation platform, I looked across a sea of nubile beauties ready for the block. They ranged across every build, hair color and ethnicity -- wanton Gallic harlots, supple Japanese courtesans, stacked Swedish sex kittens. Few were older than twenty; this was a new slave dealership after all. None were younger than eighteen. Imperial law required that. And largely, save for a few wisps of tantalizing gossamer, the subtlest hint of lingerie, they were uniformly nude save for their collars and chastity belts. Of course, they all had chastity belts. Virginity after all was a premium commodity. At night,they were housed here -- temporary accommodations until the sales team could place them with owners. Sam described it like a prison. I was instead struck by how closely the pens mirrored my college dorm. There was one major difference; these girls couldn't leave. The locks, electronic monitors and security made sure of that. Our entrance garnered some minor attention from the girls below, but only brief glances. They were busy, each engaged in their own private beautification ritual. They were fresh from their training centers and desperate to be purchased. Their training and indoctrination made sure of their eagerness. Even those few that somehow avoided the brain-washing were still eager to get out of here. The fate of a slave girl who proved unmarketable was not a kind one. Surveying the sea of flesh, I became acutely aware of my own personal needs. I was twenty two and single. A young college graduate who for the last four years had buried his social life in his studies. It had been two years since I had indulged in any sort of tryst. I was no virgin certainly. But it had been a long time. "I don't see any local girls," I remarked. "Are they kept in another building?" "There is no other building, sir. We deal almost exclusively in high end 'personal assistants' and that, in today's market, means imports." "People don't buy American girls?" "Of course they do, sir, when they can't afford an import. Anyways, we do have a few -- mostly in the used section." "The used section?" "Any dealership of this size has a few used slaves, sir -- older women, trade-ins, repossessions, seizures, girls who have been on the floor too long to be really considered new. And of course a few voluntary conversions." "Wait...voluntary? People who want to be slaves?" "Very rarely. Voluntary is more of euphemism, sir. It usually means slaves raised outside a training center and sold by their family because of financial desperation. In these hard economic times, it's all too common. We rarely keep those girls for long. We have an arrangement with Jacob Martigan's economy dealership down the street. But every once in a while, we do get a diamond in the rough." "I see," I said, still taking it all in. "You should pick out two or three, sir." That stopped me in my tracks. "Yeah?" "For the office staff. Your father was kind enough to take the bimbo trio with him to Maui. I will do all that you command, sir, but there is no way I can efficiently run the office by myself. You could select from the new stock, I suppose, but these will cost the company less. All I ask, sir, please try to pick one or two that have the semblance of a brain. I'm weary of short sentences." "Looks like we have an intruder on the premises," said a deep powerful voice behind us. I instinctively turned and was face to face, or more accurately, face to chest, with a gigantic mountain of a man. The colossus was dressed in a crisp black paramilitary uniform with an white armband that sported the C.C.'s logo and the motto lege et lacrima -- read it and weep. His skin was deep bronze and craggy. His black hair was slicked back and tied in a pony tail. Mirror shades, ear piece and an impressive moustache completed his ensemble. The mountain smiled. "Angelo Guzman Huerta reporting for duty, jefe. A pleasure to meet you, Mister Rayburn. And good morning to you to, La Noche." "Morning, chief," answered Sam. "This is your chief of security, sir. Everyone calls him Jojo." I blinked and shook the hand of one of the largest men I'd ever met. "Wow. Glad to meet you...uh, Mister Huerta." "Jojo is fine, jefe." "Jojo has the distinction of being the most veteran employee here at C.C.'s," said Samatha. "Really, how long have you worked here?" "Twenty seven years. Your father hired me after I won my freedom in the lucha libre circuit down in Juarez." "Lucha libre? Masked gladiatorial combat?" I asked genuinely impressed. "Yep. I fought as El Angel de la Muerta -- the Angel of Death. Good times, jefe. Anyways, I'm just completing my rounds before the shift change. If you need anything, just call." He handed me a small handset. "We use channel fifteen for security. You be careful around La Noche, jefe. She's the most dangerous thing on the lot." Sam rolled her eyes and the mountain sauntered on its way leaving only a hearty laugh behind. "That could be the most impressive man I've ever met," I said. "Jojo is a sweet heart," Sam said with a shrug. "He seemed very friendly to you. Are you two...?" Sam stopped and barely refrained from laughing. "Are you asking your slave if she's dating?" "Well, yeah." "You've got a lot to learn about being a master, sir. No, we are not involved. Besides, the way he was checking you out, sir, I'd say you are more his type." "Jojo is..." "Why do you think your father trusted Jojo to watch his girls?" ... We wrapped up the tour in time for me to make the sales meeting at nine thirty, thirty minutes before opening. I walked into this cavernous chamber full of veteran slave-traders and it was my job to tell them that I was there new boss. To say I was nervous was like saying Ghengis Khan was a little harsh to his enemies. As I made my way to the front of the sales office, I got my first chance to survey the crew. Mostly they were a bunch of well-dressed, cleanly appointed professionals who looked ready to kill to make a sale. Dad had always called the sales office his "shark tank". Now I knew why. Most were vastly my senior, gray hair and stern glances being the norm. They eyed me suspiciously, certain no doubt I was about to do something idiotic. Still, there was one who stood out: the sole female slave-trader at C.C.'s -- Desiree Romanov, the Sales Manager. That a woman had managed to attain that lofty position at all was remarkable. That she had managed to hold it for almost a decade was nothing short of historic. Her hair was long and straight platinum blonde -- almost white. Her features were clean and angular, very Germanic actually. Her figure was vivacious and would have flattered women half her age. If we'd met at a bar or a bacchanalia, I would happily have bought Desiree a drink and eagerly flirted. Here, I'll admit, she terrified me. She was the queen shark, no doubt about that. The school of sharks said nothing as I took the marble podium. I smiled. They didn't. "Good morning," I said. Stony silence was my only answer. "Everyone knows it by now, so let me just confirm it. As of last night, I am the sole owner of Carl's. My father's gone to Maui with no definite plans to return. For some reason he's decided he prefers bungalows and babes to business. So, we're all stuck with each other." I had meant it to be a joke. No one laughed. No one said anything. No one even coughed. Gods, I was dying up here. Okay, Ty, new approach. "Let me be frank, I'm not sure either why my father did what he did. But I'm here. I'm the boss. Get used to it. That said, I need you. All of you. Every single gods-blessed one of you. I have no idea what I'm doing. I'll admit that. That's not your fault. But if I still don't know what I'm doing in three months -- that will be all of our faults. "I want to learn this business. I want to know every inch of it, every nook and cranny. And to learn it, I need your help. More than anyone else here, you are the heart and soul of this operation. I know that. Show me how each and every one of you have helped make Carl's the institution that it is today. You do that for me and I promise to respect what my father has built. Now, I'm told that Miss Romanov usually handles the day to day so I'll stop wasting her time and yours and let her get to it. Thank you." The Family Business Ch. 01 No applause. I wasn't really expecting any. But there was lots of nodding and perhaps even a smattering of approving muttering. But really, it was Desiree who lifted my spirits. She hopped up, shook my hand and whispered in my ear. "Gods, kid, you sound just like your father up there." She took the podium and said, "I think we all owe Mister Rayburn a welcoming round of applause." At her word, finally applause. She glanced over at me, smiling pleasantly. She didn't say another word to me, but I got the message. These men work for me, kid, not you. The Queen Shark showed me her teeth. I stayed eager to watch her rile up her school of sharks with red meat. She did not disappoint. ... By ten I was on the floor watching the sales staff peddle their wares. Desiree found me fast. "Follow me. The other salesmen can be nervous about their deals being watched. Sales is a superstitious trade. I'm meeting a buyer to close a deal." "Sounds great." "Just keep your mouth shut and pretend to be my assistant." She passed me a pile of documents. "Here, hold these." She immediately put on a broad smile and walked quickly to meet an uncertain looking older man, all thinning grey-hair and thread-bare tweed, just coming through the door. She was quick for fear of other sharks. They got the message and instead went looking for other prey. "Mister Hollander, so glad you could make it!" She leaned in and gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek. "You are ready to view the merchandise?" "I was hoping for a private viewing room," he said. "Already arranged, Hermann. You don't mind if I call you, Hermann, do you?" The man beamed at her attention. "Of course not, Desiree." "You old charmer you. Let me introduce my sales assistant, Ty Rayburn." "Rayburn? Any relationship to..." "The old man's first born fresh out of business school," she said. "Really? It's a pleasure, young man," he said shaking my hand. "Your father and I have been doing business for almost thirty years. He's sold me all my wives." I smiled back. "That's great, Mister Hollander. Always glad to meet a loyal customer." "Oh, please, call me Hermann." He suddenly got serious. "But, I'm not here for pleasantries, am I? You said there was something I had to see. The triplets." Desiree smiled. "Oh, Hermann, what a treat I have for you today. By the way, how is Delia working out for you?" "She's been terrific. I bought her from Desiree six years ago, Ty," he said as an aside to me. "A real fire-brand in the sack. She's pregnant now you know." I blinked. Was he boasting about knocking up his slave? "Congratulations, you rascal! Are you going to recognize the child?" "Don't know. If it's a boy, yes. A girl, maybe I'll sell her. Make a return on my investment." "We'd be glad to handle it all very discretely," replied Desiree. I've got admit, I was horrified. Was he seriously contemplating selling his daughter? And then it hit me. Where did every one of these girls come from? That naked red head on the block right now -- somewhere she had a mother. That leashed Nordic blonde being carefully inspected by a prospective customer -- who were her parents? I knew in my heart that the gods themselves had ordained that some people were meant to be slaves. Not everyone can be a king or the emperor, after all. And not everyone was meant to be free. In the end, everyone serves someone. I've never met any sitting royalty, though I had seen Prince Daniel when he visited my school last year. As the then valedictorian I even got to shake his hand. But if the Emperor strode into my showroom right now, you can bet I'd be on my knees. Was this really any different? Buck up, Ty. Welcome to the real world. Desiree escorted Hermann to the private sales room and I hurriedly followed behind. Inside the room, already waiting for us was a security guard holding the leashes of three girls. The trio was naked, of course, a perfectly matched set of delicate Japanese porcelain dolls. They were petite though surprisingly buxom and sported shining jade green eyes. They reminded me of Sam's eyes, though they were not quite as beautiful. "In the province of Nippon, these would be rare. Here, they are a rarity of rarities. Let me introduce Chiharu, Akiko and Netsuke -- perfectly matched triplets of House Miyake. They are from a hybrid bloodline -- pure Nipponese stock bred with European slaves to produce more prominent assets," she said provocatively fondling one of the girls breasts, "and green eyes." Desiree wove her tale like a seasoned pro. Soon she had the three girls circling and embracing the old man like a pack of sirens. She had the poor old sod in the palm of her hand. Hermann never had a chance. An hour later, the ink was drying on the sales contract. "Impressive," I remarked as I watched the contract being filed. "But I'm not sure how much I learned. After all, that was a pretty easy sale." Desiree shook her head. "You learned nothing then, Ty. It was an easy sale because I got the right buyer in front of the right merchandise. I knew that Hermann Hollander's last pleasure slave was pregnant before I phoned him up. We keep tabs on all the girls. He was looking to trade up. I also noted in the sales report that every slave he inspected closely on his last visit was Asian. He settled on Delia because he could afford her. "Last year, Hollander Freight went public and since its stock has shot up almost eighty percent. That made the paper. He's flush with cash and ready to fulfill his fantasies. I special ordered a stock triplet set from House Miyake and bang! I moved a seven figure slave set in less than forty eight hours. "You want to know, what your family business is, Ty?" Desiree remarked sharply. "You just saw it in action." ... By six o' clock, I was wiped out. After Delia's lesson, I had attended the daily noon auction in which we successfully moved eighteen girls to local brothels, dance halls and hotel chains. Hotels surprised me, but Queen Shark had informed that most cutting edge corporate suites keep a stable for their guests. Traveling executives need love too, I suppose. I even got to witness the arrival of the new shipment where almost a hundred new girls filled out the guest rooms putting us back up to more typical stock levels. The rest of the day I spent up in the upper offices largely alone (save for Sam) perusing records and financial data trying to understand what sort of shape Carl's was in. Over the course of the day, I had absorbed as much as I could about the slave trade but all I could recall now was that there was a lot more to learn. "Enough for today," I announced and shut down the accounting software. I stretched. "Thanks for your help, Sam. I mean it. I couldn't do this without you. I'll see you tomorrow morning." I picked up my keys and headed out. Sam gracefully interposed herself between the door and I. "Tomorrow morning, sir? Aren't we going home?" "Uh, home?" I said feebly. "I am your slave, sir." "Right. Look, I don't exactly have a home yet. I'm just staying at a motel." "A motel is fine, sir. If you don't want me to stay with you, Jojo could secure me in the guest quarters. That is where your father usually kept me." Her voice trailed off. I might have been a largely clueless twenty-two year old male but even I could tell that Sam did not relish another night locked in one of the holding cells. What the hell? There are worse things than having a beautiful slave follow you around. "Okay, get your things. Just bring what you need for tonight. We'll get the rest later." Sam quickly returned with a small black duffle bag. "This is it, sir. This is everything." "Right. Of course it is. Sorry. Gods, I must sound like a total idiot. I'm just very new to all this. In college, every girl in my class was noble or at least free. A few of the students had slaves but not many. There really wasn't space in the dorm and I've just really gotten out of the habit of dealing with..." "I understand. If it's simpler, sir, until you get settled, I don't mind the guest rooms." "No! No. Look, I want you." She cocked an eyebrow and wore that wicked little grin she found so natural. "Right now, sir?" "No! I mean, yes. Gods, what I mean is," I paused and tried to regain my haggard composure. "Of course, I want you to come with me. I mean if you want to." She giggled at my discomfort and then suddenly became much more serious. "Sir, may I speak frankly?" "Please do. Gods know I can't seem to manage to put one word after another." "Your father took me off the lot almost seven years ago. I was a new girl then, eighteen, just off the farm. He selected me because I had the highest IQ score of the batch and he decided that a paid office staff was costing too much. At first, he was enamored with me. But honestly, I was never his type. Soon enough, the office pool was full of frequently rotated blondes selected for one criteria, breast size, and it was my job to see that things actually got done. My work was all I had. For the last two years, I have not stepped foot outside this lot. Until your father summoned me to sign me over, I'm not sure he had spoken my name in six months." Her voice was tremulous. She seemed almost a moment away from tears, ready to be overwhelmed by a tidal wave of onrushing sorrow. Was this the same brazen angel with a devil's heart I had met this morning? "That you care enough to be nervous is a welcome change, sir." I shook my head. "My dad is a solid business man, Sam. But he's also an idiot if he wasn't smart enough to remember you." A few tears came, but instead of drowning in sorrow green eyes floated with relief. I was uncertain then if I should say anything more to comfort her. What I was certain of now was that I was starving. "Let's get some dinner," I announced to no one but myself and my tearful slave. I left and she went with me. ... I reclined against an ornate pillow and watched the allegedly Persian slave girl dance around the dinner tables. I was fairly sure that the girl was not Persian at all, maybe Hispanic, but what did that matter? All that mattered was the rhythmic motion of her hips and the entrancing sway of her gossamer-swathed curves. She was lovely, but not near the equal of the jewel who sat next to me. Samantha for her part watched the dancer bemused, her exact thoughts concealed behind that sphinx smirk of hers. "She is beautiful, sir," she whispered into my ear, cancelling out the distance between us. "She's nice enough," I remarked more than little startled as I turned to Sam and realized just how close she was. "But..." "But?" "Well, don't get me wrong. She is easy on the eyes. But her face. It does nothing for me. A little too ... gods, I'm going to sound like a jerk." I leaned over conspiratorially and whispered. "She's horse-faced. I think the veil is a good decision. Definitely B-grade." Samantha smirked. "B-grade? You already sound like a slaver, sir. She's not actually a slave you know." I blinked. "Really? How can you tell?" "No tag." I nodded and actually took a moment to carefully examine something other than the swell of her bosom, the ripple of her midriff, the sway of her hip, the tiny bits of fabric that kept disappearing one after another. The dancer mingled and moved amidst the tables at the Sultan's Tent. Sam was right. Nowhere to be found was the telltale tattoo complete with her owner's seal and ID number. Every slave had one and this girl did not. They were largely obsolete of course. Electronic ID Tags were far more efficient but the law remained the law. Every slave must be marked. "It would be on her arm, her ass or the back of her neck like mine," explained Samantha. "She's wearing a collar, yes, but its little more than a ribbon. A real collar has to be heavy enough to support the tracking chip and durable enough to be difficult to cut. Trained Persian harem girls are expensive, sir. A local dancer is cheap." "But a slave girl would be a one-time expense. Surely in the long run..." "With all due respect, sir, that's not true. With an employee -- they come here, they work, you pay them, they go home. A slave is your property. They have to be housed, fed, cleaned and cared for. Slaves are an ongoing expense. The Sultan's Tent is a nice enough restaurant, but I can see how that could be out of reach." "Interesting." I pondered it and almost had another well-formed cogent question ready to go when I realized where I was and what I was doing. I was talking shop at a nice restaurant while watching an enticing dancer who moments ago had disposed of her top next to a raven-haired beauty. Was I mad? "Enough!" I proclamed with a wave of my hand. "This strays dangerously close to talking about work. Tomorrow we will do nothing but. Tonight, something else." Samantha nodded."As you wish, sir." "And, Sam, enough with 'sir'. Ty is fine." "As you wish, Ty. So, tell me about you," she purred abruptly changing the subject. "Me? I'm not sure there is much to tell." "Of course there is and I wish to know it all. How can I serve you properly if I don't know everything about you?" She was so close, inches away from me, almost offering herself to me. Suddenly, I was once more acutely aware of Sam's nudity. Working all day had almost made her condition seem almost normal. Now as she leaned towards me, her breasts unveiled, her long legs neatly folded beneath her barely concealed sex, I could as soon stop breathing as I could ignore Samantha. "Right," I began. We chatted for hours over tabouleh and falafel, lamb and long rice, strong coffee and honeyed baklava. Mostly I talked: school anecdotes, tales of my misspent youth, business school follies. Mostly she listened. When she spoke it was rarely louder than a whisper like a shared secret. She hung off me like a beautiful ornament, never far, always eager to please. When finally we noticed the dancer was gone and the servers were giving us anxious please-leave looks, we took the hint and retired back to my small motel room. It was late, I had a large meal in my belly, I had slept poorly the night before and worked all day. There were plenty of reasons to go straight to bed. There was one compelling argument against and as I washed my face and kicked off my shoes, that reason lay on the bed in the next room. As I emerged from the bathroom still toweling off, I saw her. How could I help it? She filled my vision. She had peeled off the long gloves and boots and even freshened up a little. She was on top of the spread of the queen bed, her front nestled in the covers, her legs crossed and her pert bottom on display. Instantly, blood began to flow and I could feel the unmistakable first moments of arousal -- the pressure against my slacks, the tightness, the knotting need. She was there, waiting for me. For the last five years I had no real contact with slave girls. I had dated free women, of course. With them it was all negotiation and nuance. Sam instead was simply here. Available. Mine. I hesitated. No. No, this would be rape, slave or no. I want her to want it. I'll get to know her and eventually maybe she'll ask or at least, she'll say yes when I ask. Tonight it was enough to just to be together. Maybe a kiss, I considered. Was it appropriate it for a master to kiss their slave? Sam finally turned to face her flustered master. "Ty, could I ask you for a favor?" I emerged immediately from my muddled cloud of musings. "Of course," I answered. "I know its been a long day, Ty," she said plaintively, "but would you fuck me?" She did not wait for an answer. She raised herself from the bed in one graceful movement. Up on all fours, she spread her legs, presenting herself, unfolding her secrets. Would I fuck her? That was definitely a question she would not need to ask twice. I approached her, my heart beating like a drum. I considered a dozen answers from witty to polite to profane. They all seemed to fail the moment. Instead I simply unbuttoned my shirt and slid off the dark blue silk. I abandoned my black pants into a disheveled pile. For now, I left the tented boxers in place. I leaned across the wide flat expanse of motel-chic bedspread and took hold of her hips. Her flesh was warm and soft, firm but yielding. She purred at my touch. I removed the distance between us and nuzzled my face into her wantonly displayed sex. It had been a long time, yes, but I think I still remembered the basics. I took one long lick, surveying this newly discovered country. Sam shuddered at the attention. "Oh, yes," she breathed as much as spoke. "Devour me, dominus." I was briefly taken back by the formal title. No one had ever called me that before. Master. She called me her master. And so I was. I continued, savoring her sex -- the deep earthy musk of it, the flavor of her mounting arousal, the taste of her readiness. She whimpered and pleaded for more. I obliged with yet more long, slow licks. I trembled with rampant need. Patience became almost painful as I strained against my last garment. I licked her faster, more insistent. While my tongue did its work, my hand found her secret little nub and began to play and tweak. Her clit was erect and eager. It took only a few minutes for her to shudder and climax. She had been exquisitely ready for release. More than ready. I could guess why. Masturbation is forbidden in the guest rooms. The chastity belts were cunningly constructed to make any sort of self-stimulation impossible. She knew the guards and perhaps they occasionally allowed her a little privacy during showers, but a hastily stolen frig while a guard impatiently waited was hardly a joyous moment. This ... this by comparison was slow and patient. "Oh," she cooed. "So nice, dominus." Her voice was warm with want and deep with desire. I still said nothing. The boxers and the time for talking were gone. I had my own needs, my own frustrations. I had been patient longer than any college kid had any right to be. Two years of nothing but theory and cold coursework. Two years of constant worry: could I stay at the head of my class? Would this next exam be the one that took away my grade point crown? Two years of dorm life with only rare moments of privacy, always uncertain when the roommate would return. My dad could have afforded to rent me a private apartment off campus. But dorm-life, I was repeatedly assured, built character. Cafeteria food built character. Doing my own laundry built character. Every fucking thing that saved my dad a buck built character. Maybe it did. But it also built frustration. And right now every ounce of that frustration seemed to concentration in the length of my cock. I was hard as fucking steel. I lanced her and she took me eagerly. She moaned. "Oh, dominus, take that cunt. Make it fucking yours." All she could do was hold on as I buried myself in her molten velvet depths and thrust out and back again and again. My movements became desperate, furious. She pressed against me, trying to keep pace with this mad rhythm. It was a futile effort. This was not the love-making of two practiced partners, well acquainted with each others wants and needs. This was a violent race to ecstasy. This was the frantic search for release. This was pure heart-pounding fucking. Sweat began to flow, the slick sheen of shared heat and rampant need. We fucked each other as hard as we could. No subtlety. No sultry whispers. No pet names. Hard fast forward fucking. It didn't take long. Of course it didn't. Was it a minute? Was it two? All of that frustration and pent up desire spilled out of me in one concentrated release of come and cursing. I spewed hot thick ropy seed again and again into her silken sex. I came and kept coming and she took it, not pulling away but luxuriating in her master's release. The Family Business Ch. 01 "Fuck!" I cried, the first word I'd spoken since her invitation. It wasn't just a word. It was a prayer, an exultation to any passing god of sex that might be listening. It was a good enough word that it bore repeating. "Fuck," I whispered in gasping relief as I slid out of her slick sex and collapsed on the bed. Racing hearts began to slowly cool. I softened in both sex and stance. She cuddled up to me and I took her into my arms. "Gods above, Venus, that was exactly what I needed," I whispered. "I live to serve, dominus," she returned. Sam and I exchanged no further words that night. Instead, I sat awake for just a few minutes, musing in the midst of my post-coital glow. My first day at the office was done and desperation was giving way to a certain amount of pride. It would have been easy to surrender to the enormity of the task. Instead, I had taken it head on. The first inkling of hope started to creep into my mind. Maybe I could do this. Maybe dad was right. Maybe it was in my blood. Who could say for sure? What I was sure of now was that the sleeping slave girl cradled in my arms felt right. Sleep overcame me quickly and Sam and I, we slept together. Both, never better.