But she was by far his favorite.
This probably had something to do with the fact that she looked like whoever they modelled the Barbie doll on — with smooth blond hair, big round eyes set in a perfect face, flawless skin, ridiculously curvy breasts and thighs, and long legs that made her look six feet tall, even though she was actually 5’5″, the same height as me. But gorgeous girls are a dime a dozen in the Hamptons, so Master Richard must have seen in her other, rarer, qualities.
To be honest though, I had no clue what these qualities might be. I did not like Carla. At all.
Everything about her was a bit too… much. She didn’t just greet guests at the door, she curtseyed as though she’d been trained at Buckingham Palace. When she served tea or wine or whatever, she didn’t just walk about the room, she floated — even when she was wearing eight- or ten-inch stilettos, which I’d never be able to wear without toppling over. When we served together, I always felt plain and stupid and clumsy compared to Carla. It was like we were in a constant competition, one that I was bound to lose. Every. Single. Time.
Worst of all, it was obvious she knew how perfect she was. With her owner and his guests, of course, she always kept her eyes demurely turned to the floor, and her voice was as sweet and humble as huckleberry pie. With me? Not so much. She did her best to hide it, but I always felt her looking down her nose at me. She never spoke an unkind word out loud, but there was always something in the way she said things — a hint of snootiness, or condescension, or whatever you’d call it. You know?
And Sir and Mistress didn’t help the situation any. Every time we visited Master Richard, their conversation on the way home was always the same — Carla this, Carla that, Isn’t Carla perfect, Richard is so lucky to have found Carla. And on and on and on. Yuck.
On the other hand.
If Carla’s anniversary was the reason my unbearable punishment was ending at last, then Carla had become, at least for the evening, my absolutely very favoritest person in the whole wide world.
Mistress offered me the garment bag. “This is for you to wear tonight,” she said. I recognized the Saks Fifth Avenue logo, so I knew whatever it contained would be classy, not slutty. But I wasn’t prepared for the cascade of red velvet that spilled out when I undid the zipper. The dress had set Sir back at least a grand, and probably closer to two. And that’s not even counting the matching red leather heels at the bottom of the bag.
Instead of touching my heart in thanks, I threw my arms around her neck and kissed her over and over. It took all my discipline not to squeal in delight. “Alright, alright,” she said, gently freeing herself from my grasp. “You know, Holly, we really do value having you with us, even if I don’t always show my appreciation properly. I hope this little token helps make you see that.”
Which was as close as Mistress could possibly get to an apology.
“Go ahead and try it on,” said Sir. I raised my eyebrows in mock trepidation, and he laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson.”
Mistress joined the laughter. “That’s why I came,” she said. “To make sure he has.” And that’s when I knew that everything was OK between us.
I went to my bathroom, and a little while later I emerged wearing a full-length cocktail dress with three-quarter sleeves and a modest back cutout. It was off the shoulder, exposing ample cleavage, and the skirt was split to mid-thigh, but it was the last thing from slutty. The heels were six-inches, a bit higher than I was used to, but I was sure I could manage. I was aching to fix my hair and makeup.
“Wow,” Sir said. He took a long moment to undress me with his eyes. Which I found strange, since he’d seen me more or less undressed not ten minutes before. He turned to his wife. “I guess we’d better leave, while I can still control myself.”
As they walked out, I started to fantasize about the soiree. How Carla would turn green with envy when she saw me in the dress. How Master Richard’s guests would ogle me for a change, instead of her.
I could hardly wait.
CHAPTER TWO, in which Holly attends a soiree
Besides Sir and Mistress and me, Master Richard had invited only a dozen or so other guests to Carla’s anniversary. There may be a lot of kinky people in the Hamptons, but let’s face it, not all of them hold the same social status as Sir and Master Richard. The merely filthy rich don’t really fit in with the ultra-rich, no matter how many kinks they share.
I felt out of place next to Carla at the dinner table with our owners, especially since I was friendly with all the submissives and slaves who served us. I did my best to behave as I thought Sir and Mistress would want, while at the same time trying to show my peers that I hadn’t forgotten my place. I was still one of them, after all.
To be honest, navigating status dynamics among kinky people can get tricky.
For one thing, I still don’t understand all the subtle differences among of the titles — “submissive” and “slave” and “little” and the rest, even though Mistress gives me a welt on my bottom whenever I call someone the wrong thing.
For another, a person’s sexual status says nothing at all about their status among outsiders, and vice versa. For example, the slave responsible for organizing drinks that evening — a fit, well-kept man of about 60, wearing only iron shackles, which looked like they’d been borrowed from the Spanish Inquisition, and the latest model stainless steel chastity cage — was a good friend of mine called the vile slave slug (his preferred title, spelled with a lower-case “s”). The vile slave slug is an exceedingly successful entrepreneur, who’d actually been one of Sir’s early investors, while his owner, the imperious and cruel Mistress Victoria, is a former Russian stripper, whom he’d met on a business trip to Moscow in the early 2000s.
Carla, of course, had no problem at all fitting into the role of guest of honor for the evening. I was happy to see, though, that her black chiffon cocktail dress, while elegant, couldn’t possibly compare with mine.
After dinner, we all retired to Master Richard’s lounge, where sofas and easy chairs were arranged around an enormous freestanding fireplace. We sat down, and the vile slave slug kept the other submissives busy making sure everyone had their choice of drink. I stuck with the Bordeaux they’d served at dinner, not because I’m particularly fond of snooty French wines, but because I thought it would make me look more sophisticated than Carla, who would for sure switch to Moscato, or even Port, to satisfy her sweet tooth.
When all the guests were comfortable, Master Richard tapped his wine glass to get their attention for a brief ceremony. Carla read aloud her updated slave contract, and when she’d signed it, her owner gave her a fancy new collar to mark the occasion. Personally, I’d hoped the ceremony would include a bit more excitement — for example, a red-hot branding iron applied to the creamy white skin of Carla’s perfectly round bottom — but no such luck.
Naturally, all the guests wanted in on the action, so I had to sit through speech after speech after speech lauding Carla’s virtues. Every speaker had brought her a gift, each more lavish than the last. The whole performance was nauseatingly over-the-top, and I needed all my discipline not to barf on our host’s hand-knit Persian carpet.
Sir was the last to speak. “Carla, I prepared no remarks,” he said, “but I’m sure you know how much Brenda and I value you.” (“Brenda,” in case you didn’t guess, was Mistress, and while I’m at it, Sir is called Stephen.) “In fact,” Sir continued, “we value you so much that we thought one present insufficient. So, we prepared two, and you may choose between them.”
Carla replied in her angelic voice, “Your friendship means much more to me than any gift, Sir. Yours and Mistress Brenda’s.”
Oh, give me a break.
Mistress reached into her handbag and handed Sir an envelope. “Since you got your MFA in Italian Renaissance art,” Sir continued, “we thought you’d like a chance to see some of it again.” He held out the envelope to Carla. “Here are two first-class tickets to Rome, bookings at some of the finest hotels in Italy, and a debit card with twenty-five thousand dollars in spending money. Your owner has already agreed to grant your freedom for one month to make the trip.” He looked at his Rolex. “Starting now. Your flight leaves in just over twenty-four hours.”
For a moment, even Carla was at a loss for words. Finally, she said, “Sir, this is too much. I don’t know what to say.”
“I often find that ‘Thank you’ comes in handy in situations like this,” said Sir with a wry smile.
“Of course, Sir,” said Carla. “Thank you.” She reached out to take the envelope, but Sir didn’t hand it to over.
“Now, Carla, be patient,” he said. “Don’t you want to know what your other choice is?”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” Carla said. “Please tell me.”
“Your other choice,” he said, “is Holly.”
Wait, what? My jaw dropped. This had to be some kind of joke. Right?
“Forgive me, Sir,” said Carla, “but what does that mean, exactly?”
Excellent question, I thought. Exactly what I wanted to know.
“During your month of freedom, Holly will serve you, as she serves us,” said Sir. “She will obey any command you give her, with no limits and without hesitation. And she will accept whatever humiliation, degradation or punishment you feel she deserves. Or, which simply amuses you to give her.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Spending an entire month under the same roof as Carla would be bad enough. But living as her slave? Just thinking about it made my blood curdle. I started to hyperventilate, but after a couple of seconds I calmed myself. There was no way Carla would pass up the Italy gig just for a chance to make my life a living hell. Right? I mean, think how great would it be to spend a month roaming around Tuscany… The atmosphere. The food. The wine. The…
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