The Slave Read online

  The Slave

  by

  Laura Antoniou

  Published by Luster Editions

  an imprint of Circlet Press, Inc.

  Cambridge, MA

  The Slave by Laura Antoniou

  Copyright © 2010 by Laura Antoniou

  Smashwords Edition

  An earlier edition was published by Masquerade Books in 1994 and a second edition by Mystic Rose Books in 2001.

  First Luster Editions release February 2011

  Ebook preparations by JimandZetta.com

  Cover Art Credits:

  Art Direction: Madison Young

  Photography: Malia Schlaefer

  Models: Minx, Simon, Saxon MacLeod, and Lilac Wine

  Location: The SF Armory: The Upper Floor

  Published by Luster Editions, an imprint of

  Circlet Press, Inc.

  39 Hurlbut Street

  Cambridge, MA 02138

  www.circlet.com

  License Notes

  Please do not support online piracy of copyrighted works. This ebook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the purchaser only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Additional copies of this ebook may be purchased through the Amazon Kindle Store, Fictionwise, Barnes & Noble.com, Scribd, Smashwords, All Romance eBooks, and many other online sites, as well as from the publisher’s own site at circlet.com.

  The Marketplace Series

  The Marketplace

  The Slave

  The Trainer

  The Academy

  The Reunion

  The Inheritor (forthcoming)

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three: Robin's Story: Games of Youth

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five: Robin's Story: The Soloist

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven: Robin's Story: Maria's Girl

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine: Robin's Story: Troy's Real Thing

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven: Robin's Story: First Contact

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen: Robin's Story: Bank Shot

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Tweny-Four

  Chapter Tweny-Five

  Bonus Story: A Familiar Ring

  Bonus Story: That’s Harsh!

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  New York City, Autumn

  The traffic in the streets below the hotel echoed upward, pushing through the window, which was cracked open for fresh air. The city was restless; the pulse of the weekend had reached its frenzy. The customized horn of a wedding limousine blared out the identity of the newlyweds that the dark-haired woman had passed in the lobby. The sound made her want to jump, but she held herself still with practiced tension.

  The man sitting in the high-backed chair paid no attention to the tacky sound of the horn, or to her for that matter. His eyes were busy scanning the papers in front of him, turning them over in patient, careful movements that didn’t betray the slightest interest in their contents.

  The urge to speak, to cough, to shift her body into a more relaxed position, to pour a glass of water from the sweating pitcher on the room service tray, all hit Robin at once. She had been standing still since she handed the file to him; he didn’t seem to notice. She pushed all the thoughts aside with an almost angry strength. I will be patient, she chanted inwardly. I am patience.

  “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?” His voice was a rough tenor, a singer after a grueling concert, a student at four a.m. It was also loud; it broke the silence and Robin’s efforts to be calm.

  “Please,” Robin said. Her own voice shook, almost imperceptibly. When the man looked up, she swallowed hard and continued, “I’m unsure of the proper courtesy to show you, sir.”

  He nodded. “Very nice. Why don’t you sit down on the couch for now? It’s already been a long night.”

  Robin nodded and sat, smoothing her skirt neatly down her lap. Sitting made it easier to relax into a more proper attitude. She took a long, softly casual look at her inquisitor.

  He was older than she, but had the kind of face that refused to betray its years. His short, black hair was very thick, and showed a slight tendency to curl, but was trimmed back so severely that Robin knew he would get it cut again soon. A sparse mustache and the vaguest of five o’clock shadows gave him a scholarly look, or, as she remembered in the dim light of the bar last night, the look of a terrorist. He wore tinted glasses in heavy steel frames. Today, he was dressed in a crisply clean, long-sleeved shirt and a muted tie. His jacket was draped across the arm of the other chair in the sitting room.

  There was no sign of the leather jacket he had been wearing last night.

  He finished with the papers and stowed them neatly back into their folder. Then he sat in silence, until Robin began to imagine that she could hear the swishing sound of the second hand on her watch. The silence was as oppressive as any heavy hand she had ever felt. She wanted to bend to it. For a brief moment, to her horror, a flush of shame and thrill passed over her, as clear to her interviewer as the strident horns of the taxis below.

  The corner of his mouth rose in a twitch of a smile.

  “You’re very good,” he said, leaning over to retrieve his jacket. “Tell me what your instinct was telling you to do.”

  Robin’s mouth went dry. She licked her lips and coughed a little to clear her throat. “I wanted to kneel,” she whispered.

  “I know that. But there’s more.” He pulled a cigarette box from one pocket and snapped it open.

  “I wanted to make obeisance at your feet.” Robin’s voice was still at a whisper. Her blush fairly glowed.

  “Show me how you were trained to do that,” the man said, leaning back into his chair.

  Robin rose, quickly but without any jerky movements. In two steps, she was in front of him, but still outside of arm’s reach. With grace, she knelt, lowering her body to the carpet, and then continued the movement seamlessly until her forehead brushed the fibers. She could smell the chemical scent of the cleaners. It struggled with the richer scent of the well worn, polished leather boots now within her reach. She held perfectly still.

  “You may,” came the voice from above. The man sounded faint, his tones overrun by the pounding in Robin’s ears. She raised her head a few inches and placed one careful, soft kiss on each boot, firm enough to let him feel her presence, light enough not to leave the faintest smudge of her lips. Then, she retreated back and lowered her head again.

  “Very nice,” the man repeated. “Please seat yourself again.”

  She rose up to her knees and looked at him, her eyes meeting his. “Thank you.”

  “Oh, you’re quite welcome.” As she sat down again, he lit a cigarette. “Do you smoke?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That’s good. You would have to quit, you know.”

  Robin leaned forward, her heart pounding. “Does that mean that you’re accepting me?”

  “Yes. Your records are acceptable, your spotter is well known to me, and your behavior is impeccable. I just wanted you to realize that when you enter the Mark
etplace, you are not permitted to retain any addictions.” He smiled suddenly. “Except of course, for the obvious one.”

  She smiled back despite the echoes of panic which resounded in her. “The addiction to submission?”

  “To being owned, yes. That’s a prerequisite. We weren’t formally introduced last night. I am Chris Parker.”

  “Thank you,” Robin said politely. “I’m sure you know all about me now.”

  “What, this?” He waved his hand over the folder. “No, that doesn’t tell me much about you. It tells me how you’ve experienced some minor forms of service, which is helpful, but it couldn’t possibly tell me anything about how genuine your devotion is, or how serious you are about a potential commitment, or how profound your need for this kind of life is. Those things I can only learn from you. I will need to test you some more, and to train you in the specific areas of behavior and service that I require any client of mine to possess before I present them for sale.”

  Client! Robin swallowed hard. When they called me a slave, I wasn’t, and now that I am, they don’t call me one. She resisted the urge to giggle, but her shoulders relaxed just a little bit more.

  “I would love to have the opportunity to show you my dedication.” Robin’s eyes danced. “These are things I’ve been thinking about for years. No, not only thinking about, but dreaming about. Trying to do, in some way or another. This is something I’ve wanted all my life.”

  “All your life? That’s impressive. Tell me.” Chris flicked ashes into the glass ashtray beside him.

  “Everything? From the beginning?”

  “That’s the traditional place to start a story.”

  Robin frowned for a moment, considering. Where do I begin, she wondered. What is the real beginning here? When I was little? Those games we used to play? Or when I first realized what power the fantasies had? Or with Maria? Or Troy?

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, suddenly aware of time moving around her. Parker hadn’t moved an inch, except to bring the cigarette up and down again.

  “I’m so excited... so, relieved, I guess. But scared, too. This is turning out to be harder than I thought.”

  “I won’t tell you to relax,” Chris said with a slight smile. “But you shouldn’t be trying to impress me with your story. I’m much more interested in the things you remember as important.”

  “But I remember everything,” Robin laughed. “And I’m not sure what’s important. I mean... it all was. And... and... nothing was.” She took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. “I’m sorry. Now that I have a real chance, suddenly I’m nervous.”

  “Naturally. It’s all right to be nervous.” Chris ground the stub of his cigarette into the glass, twisting it down until the last sliver of smoke vanished. “Tell me about your first sexual experience as an adult, if that makes it simpler.”

  Robin nodded gratefully. “That’s easy. But you’ll laugh.” When Chris remained silent, she blushed again and lowered her head. Everything depends on this interview, she reminded herself. He’s accepted me for now, but I can still mess things up. I have to be perfect.

  “I was at college,” she began.

  * * * *

  “Greg? Do you have the... things?”

  “Sure, baby, right in my pocket.” Greg Carneson, basketball player, drummer, and communications major, patted his hip pocket with a knowing chuckle. “I wasn’t going to forget. I mean, how could I? With you writin’ it down and everything. That was a nice letter, babe. No one ever wrote me nothin’ like that before.” He grinned and shifted his knapsack onto one shoulder. “I wish we had a nicer place to go, though.”

  Robin laughed nervously. People passing them raised their heads to follow the sound and saw a really cute couple. Greg was tall, with raggedly cut blond hair and a tight T-shirt that displayed his team number. Robin always looked like she stepped out of a soap commercial, her face bright and slightly pointy, her burnt mahogany hair swinging free around her shoulders in soft curls. Neither one would ever be picked out as a beauty, but they were young and healthy and seemingly happy, and that made up for all their minor imperfections. They complemented each other, tall and slight, massive and elfin, fair and dark. Even their eyes―Greg’s an uncomplicated bright blue and Robin’s a deep amber-brown―were as different as possible.

  “We’ll just have to make do,” Robin replied, eyeing her boyfriend’s pocket.

  Oh no, was her real thought. I don’t believe it. He just brought condoms, the idiot! What the hell did he think I was writing about?

  As she followed him to the parking lot, she tried to remember everything she had written about in that oh-so-hard-to-write letter. I was as clear as I could get, she thought desperately. What do I have to do, scream it out? Serves me right for going out with a jock. She bit her lip, trying to figure out what to do. Damn it! I shouldn’t have to do all this! Doesn’t he get it?

  They had been dating for about two months. They had met in the gym, where they had been eyeing the same karate class. In the end, he didn’t have time to take it, but Robin enrolled. And since she was in the gym so much anyway, she came to watch him shoot baskets and drill with the coach. Soon, they were going for lunch together, and then, wham, they were dating.

  And of course, everyone knows what eventually happens when you date someone. What Greg was absolutely oblivious to was the fact that Robin had never gotten to that “eventuality” before. Nor, apparently, after all of her careful hints and coaching, had he gotten around to understanding her more specific desires.

  A terrible, nervous weight settled in her stomach. Oh God, why am I doing this? was the thought that rustled through her consciousness as she followed Greg silently to the car, smiled blankly when he sang along with a love song on the radio, and then nodded when he pulled into a parking space near the off campus frat house where his friend was going to let him borrow his bedroom.

  In the end, all that Greg had brought was the condom in his pocket. No scarves, nothing to bind her or to blindfold her, or anything. And if he’d seen any of the movies she had suggested he rent and watch or bring with him, his style certainly didn’t show it.

  Because the minute he closed the door behind him, he was all over her. His big hands encircled her body in a rush, and he kissed her hard and long, the way they kissed after at least twenty minutes of warm-up stroking, nibbling and licking. As he slid his fingers up inside her sweater, his sole concession to romance was whispering “Oh, babe, I’ve wanted this forever.” Followed immediately by, “But we gotta get outta here by eight.”

  Robin tried to think of what she was doing as submitting to his desires. She allowed him to lead her to the bed, passively standing and turning for him as he pulled her clothing open, up, down, off. She closed her eyes to his kisses, to his glee as he fingered and then gently kneaded her breasts, but it just didn’t work. Her disappointment over his lack of attention to her careful hints was so overwhelming, and his eagerness was so clean-cut and so achingly stereotypical!

  His own body was as handsome as his face, a strong chest and beautiful long legs. And her first sight of an erect male organ wasn’t disappointing; it was about the size she had expected, and Greg was fresh from showering after practice. She reached out to touch it, and he fairly purred.

  Her imagination switched on, and she heard his purr change to a growl. “Do you like it, baby? Tell me you like it, slut. Tell me how much you want to kiss it. Get down there and make me believe that you love this cock. ’Cause I’m gonna slam it right down your throat, baby, and you’re gonna take it. You’re gonna take this cock any way I give it to you, aren’t you?”

  Instead, in cold reality, he quickly guided her backwards to the bed and practically fell on top of her. He shifted to find a good position, trying not to lean an elbow on her, kissing her when he could, trying to keep at least one hand on her tits. And then, he remembered the rubber in his pocket and had to go back to get it, leaving her lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She loo
ked over to one side of the room, where the frat boy had pinned up about a dozen overlapping beer posters, all featuring big-chested girls in skimpy bikinis, running around at the beach, their hands full of dark, sweaty bottles. She looked back down at her own body, with her small breasts and her short legs, and felt a sudden wave of inadequacy.

  By the time Greg got back, fumbled around in his idea of foreplay for a little while longer and then heaved himself up to put the condom on, she found herself wishing that the experience would be as painful as some of her romance novels suggested it was; instead, it felt a little like a lightning-fast cramp.

  She then tried to imagine that he was someone else. Her very distant and cold Italian teacher, for example. Or maybe, if she squeezed her eyes really tight, she could believe that he was a pirate, a dashing serial villain, holding her maiden’s body in his rough, churlish hands, breathing the scent of rum into her face, growling curses and taunts.

  Yes, that was it! Or, maybe, when Greg was done, he would leap off of her, pull a pair of handcuffs out of his knapsack, and snap them on her while she lay back in an exhausted swoon. Then, with a leer, he would tell her that the price for the room was her body―and that all the boys in the house would be by to sample her charms. And they would come, first to ogle, and then to paw at her, and then to finally thrust their way into her body, again and again...Yes... yes....

  But before she could work that fantasy into a proper orgasm, he was done, his body heavy and sweaty over hers, his breath as stale as any pirate’s, a wet, limp bag of latex dripping across her thigh and onto the musty sheets.

  And to make matters so much worse, he nuzzled her throat gently, whispered, “Oh, baby, baby, that was great! Was it good for you, too?”