by Aya DeAniege
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Which means you're just going to have to suck it up,” he grumbled, glancing sideways at me.
“Did I just tick off another condition?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah, you definitely did,” he said, turning his full attention to the window.
“You're grinning like a Cheshire cat, aren't you?” I demanded.
The man's shoulders shook ever so slightly. I made an annoyed sound and turned to my window, watching buildings pass by. Something occurred to me, and I turned back to him.
“Did I just tick off another one?” I asked.
Mr. Wrightworth tensed. He seemed to choke for a moment and then turned to me with a carefully neutral face.
“Whatever makes you think that?” he asked, sounding as if he were holding in a breath as he spoke.
I wondered if by mentioning the Cheshire cat, I was somehow proving that I was well-read. Not a lot of poor folk had gotten to read Alice in Wonderland. It just happened that my reading class received a copy of the book through a donation my senior year. The teacher had insisted that we take turns reading it out loud.
“I'm not that well read,” I said.
Mr. Wrightworth burst into laughter as I fumed beside him. The man laughed until he had tears in his eyes, and then he wiped the tears away and quieted down ever so slowly.
Apparently being too well read was on the con list of the contract. Though I didn't understand why reading lots of books might be viewed as a bad thing, unless the contractor wanted to pick and choose what I read.
“How many haven't I ticked off?” I asked.
“Oh, there are a lot of conditions we were to look for, but you've ticked off the major ones. As I said, I also know him and what he'd want for this ... position."
“You hesitated before you said position,” I grumbled.
“That I did,” he muttered.
There was quiet over the car as I turned back to the window and he did whatever it was that he did. It was as we pulled into a long drive that I turned back to him. But he was focused out the window, head following a gardener on a ride-on-mower who smiled and waved as we passed.
I wasn't even paying attention to the building we were driving towards. My sole focus was on Mr. Wrightworth, and his surprise and fury as we passed the gardener.
“He fucking waved at me!” Mr. Wrightworth said, turning to me as he jabbed a finger at the window. “Did you see that? Did you see him wave at me?”
“Yes?” I asked. “I don't understand why that's a bad thing.”
“Bring him a damned contract and the help waves at me, that is a terrible thing,” he snarled, tugging his suit straight. “Your contract will be fulfilled. If he had cancelled the contract, he would have said so when I contacted him to tell him that I was coming.”
I still didn't understand what was going on. I certainly didn't think that a man being friendly might have meant that my contract was cancelled.
“Why is smiling a bad thing?” I asked.
“Servants smile and wave and make a fuss when you've done something wrong. Rich folks believe the help should be invisible."
“Oh, yeah, that makes sense," I said. "It's what I'd expect. So you two aren't friends?"
“We are.”
In those two words, there was such a weight that I felt bad for Mr. Wrightworth. He almost seemed brokenhearted as he traced his finger over a ring on his right middle finger. There was a distant glazing to his eyes as the car pulled to a stop.
“Mr. Wrightworth?” I asked.
The man gave himself a shake and swallowed hard. “My apologies, let us go inside and introduce you to him.”
Chapter Three
We left the car and walked up the steps, into the open doors of the estate. The building wasn't as large as the Program building, but then the Program building had been about thirty stories high.
The estate was made of white stone. The entrance hall had marble flooring and a grand staircase leading upward. There were no paintings in that area of the estate, though most other rooms had at least one. In place of the portrait of the homeowner at the top of the steps, there was a statue of a dog. The dog sat nobly and seemed to watch all the visitors of the estate.
Above the entranceway, a chandelier made of crystals hung from the high ceiling, at least two floors up. It had a distinct shape that was almost phallic in nature.
“That looks like a—” I started as I pointed upward.
“It is,” Mr. Wrightworth said, steering me away from the stairwell and to the right.
We left the greeting hall and moved down another hallway. He pushed me past a painting so large that it nearly took up the whole wall between the staircase and the room he pushed me into. I hardly had time to register the shapes on the painting.
The room I was pushed into was decorated simply. Wicker furniture and patterned rugs that looked worn, but clean. The one wall that stood at the front of the estate was covered in windows that overlooked the front lawns. None of them were open, but the room was still cool as if the morning air was slipping in.
On the wall behind the bar was a landscape painting of a meadow. It was small compared to the one in the hallway, but I still stared at it. The painting was real, after all. Not printed on paper or canvas and then tossed into any old frame and hung up. Even the frame looked expensive and large.
Mr. Wrightworth motioned for me to sit in one of the wicker seats and so I did. He stood and watched another door. The seat made a little sound as I sat despite the fact that I sat on a cushion that was on the seat. The cushions on all the furniture matched, just a boring beige canvas type of thing. It was durable but so boring and every day compared to everything else I had seen so far.
I turned my attention to the door and watched as a young man stepped out in formal trousers and a vest over a white linen shirt.
Around his throat was a black collar with a short purple leash dangling from it. The young man had bright blue eyes and blond hair that looked as if it had just been dishevelled by a hand, not to make a stylistic choice. Even as I watched, a lock of hair slipped back into a more natural placement on his head.
Who musses up hair right before walking into a room?
“Would Master like a drink?” the young man asked quietly in a European accent.
Mr. Wrightworth's face didn't move, but his hands curled ever so slightly. The two men watched each other silently for far too long.
“No, thank you,” Mr. Wrightworth said with all the inflection one might expect from a doll.
The young man bowed—his leash almost touching the floor with how low he bent—before he turned and left through the same door. I glanced at Mr. Wrightworth and saw a fury on his features that settled suddenly as his hazel eyes locked on the door once more.
I turned back to the door and stared at the man who had stepped in while I was looking at Mr. Wrightworth.
To call him handsome would have been an insult.
The man wasn't as tall as Mr. Wrightworth but wasn't shorter by more than an inch. He was broader at the shoulders, however. Even through the tailored three-piece suit, I could tell that he had muscle to him. He wasn't thin like most rich people were, he used his body often. Even his skin had a slightly tanned quality to it, instead of the almost orange colour most rich folks had due to the chemicals they used to tan themselves with.
His suit made Mr. Wrightworth's look like it had been selected at random. I couldn't even put my finger on what the difference was, only that there was one. The stranger's was a dark grey that was almost black, and it moved with his body instead of distorting it the way Mr. Wrightworth's seemed to about the midsection. He wore a tie that had just a shade of grey to a royal blue, perfectly tied.
I took it all in and then looked over his thick brown hair and those startlingly green eyes. There was an icy quality to them that green eyes simply shouldn't have been able to contain. Like glacial ice, the man's eyes cut me to my core when they fl
ickered to me and then back to Mr. Wrightworth.
Nothing about his face or expression changed as he walked to the loveseat across from us and simply remained standing. There were the barest of lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes. Which led me to believe that he was rich, but not that rich. If he were rich, his face would be the porcelain mask that I had seen on so many other rich folks' faces.
He stood watching Mr. Wrightworth as my eyes moved down him once more. I couldn't help myself. I wanted to commit this man to memory. Those could have been my last moments, and I wasn't going to waste them not gawking at the man. My eyes roved down the suit jacket and the pants to his ...
... Bare feet?
Rich people are weird.
Those eyes locked with mine as I looked back up and I felt my resolve melt away. Suddenly I wanted to hide.
This man was a predator. I knew that simply by looking at him. He maintained his body that alone was a warning sign. There was also a keen intelligence behind those eyes.
Not that all rich people lacked intelligence, but that this was a different sort of intelligence. I felt bare as the man summed me up, coming to some decision about me before he turned back to Mr. Wrightworth.
“May I do introductions, Nate?” Mr. Wrightworth snarled.
There was an edge to his voice that expressed the unasked question. In the name alone was something that made me just want to run away and hide. The last time I had heard that tone of voice, my father and uncle had come to blows. After that, we weren't allowed anywhere near my uncle. The memory picked at me, making me wonder if the same thing would happen here if my contract would be tossed out because of Mr. Wrightworth's demeanour.
Rich people were like that sometimes.
“I need to move away from supporting the Program. Father is coming back from overseas," the man responded in a deep, soothing voice. "You know how he is. Supports the foundation, then gets pissy when someone uses it to its full extent."
Even then I felt a twinge in the pit of my stomach.
“And the boy?” Mr. Wrightworth asked.
The man smiled slowly in response, showing off a full set of straight, almost white teeth.
“Patrick?” the man called, causing the young blond to appear in the doorway once more. “Get Master Wrightworth a scotch.”
“It would please me to serve Master,” Patrick responded quietly, dipping his head as he entered the room and walked behind us.
“Introductions, I believe you were saying?” the man murmured, relaxing against the back of the wicker loveseat.
“Yes, this Isabella Martin,” Mr. Wrightworth said.
“I go by Izzy," I said, it must have been the tenth time I had corrected someone since entering the Program building, and no one ever seemed to listen to me.
One of the man's eyebrows twitched upwards, but only for a moment as those green eyes seemed to focus too pointedly on Mr. Wrightworth.
“Isabella, this is Nathaniel Edwards. He is the one who posted the contract. I will facilitate the contract details between the two of you.”
“Izzy,” I said to the table between us.
I looked up, wondering if anyone heard me speak, or if I just thought I had a voice.
Nathaniel rubbed at his lips with the back of his right hand. When I turned to Mr. Wrightworth, I could almost see the amusement there.
“Did I just tick off another one?” I asked Mr. Wrightworth.
Mr. Wrightworth turned and accepted the scotch from Patrick, then turned back to Nathaniel and sipped from the glass, seemingly ignoring me on purpose. Even knowing him for such a short time, I knew that he was hiding amusement. That he wasn't looking at me because he was concerned he might start laughing at the sight of me.
“Questions authority, pretty, and a mind behind those eyes of hers,” Mr. Wrightworth said to Nathaniel.
“I wouldn't call her pretty,” Nathaniel said.
I tried not to flinch as both men turned to me.
When I realized they were watching me for outward signs of what I was thinking, I lowered my eyes and focused on my lap. I tried not to clench my hands as the words tumbled through my mind.
No one had ever called me beautiful, and I didn't expect it. From the person offering my contract, the words seemed an insult. As if it were a tick on the con list. The idea of filling out that list made me tremble. I didn't want to be on that list at all. I didn't want to get closer to death.
I don't want to die.
This was a chance for me to get out of the slums, to get away from the whispers. I didn't know what was going to be involved in my being contracted out to the man. The details suddenly didn't matter. It was a chance at life. An opportunity for a fresh start.
A chance to be useful.
“She's done some reading, but not a great deal. Knows what actual pain is so she's not going to whimper and whine at the idea of whatever work you put her to.”
“I'm surprised you found someone who met my measurement requirements,” Nathaniel muttered. “Though her file says otherwise.”
“As was I," Mr. Wrightworth responded. "Though, as I pointed out, on the one area case her file is incorrect. It seems she used to bind her breasts, and it was that sizing which was included in the file. Does she meet your specifications?"
Nathaniel glanced at me, then turned his full attention to Mr. Wrightworth. “What are the limits?”
“The obvious, no knife play, fisting, mind-fucks, gas lighting, scat.”
“No age play, bestiality, abandonment, sleep deprivation. Mm, or verbal humiliation.”
“No swapping, swinging, or gang-related activities."
“I don't like gangs,” I said with a nod.
Nathaniel chuckled lightly, then said, “That's not what he meant.”
“Let's say pornography," Mr. Wrightworth said. "Watching—not participating in. I think she may need the education. Unless you'd rather she reads the classics. I believe you found that one trilogy to be useful."
“On what not to do,” Nathaniel responded smoothly. “Watching pornography could be fun. Let's talk about some yeses, then.”
“Obvious vaginal, anal, toys.”
“No anal,” I said quickly.
We were taught in the slums that anal was dangerous and dirty. While our mothers told us it was a way to keep a husband from straying too far from home between children, the medical personnel talked about bugs and diseases. Married women did it, but they only had the one partner.
“Anal will happen,” Nathaniel said, his cold eyes stopping my protest before it left my throat. “Don't take that as meaning I'm going to bend you over and have you that way, but one day I will need you to understand just how much I own you body and mind. On that day, I will have you like that.”
“Nate,” Mr. Wrightworth said in an impatient tone.
Nathaniel sighed and looked at Mr. Wrightworth. “What?”
“That may require training," Mr. Wrightworth said.
“She's had an anus for twenty-five years, I'm pretty certain she knows what to do with it,” Nathaniel said sternly in response.
“No, not that extreme nonsense. I just think you should consider the story I told you about the fellow I saw to for two years.”
The other man went absolutely still, then sat forward.
“I will take it into consideration."
“You may be interested to know that I believe she may benefit from another sort of training.”
“She could benefit from a great deal of training,” Nathaniel said, turning his attention to me. “Stop fidgeting and sit straight.”
I hadn't realized what I was doing, but my fingers were at the hem of my jacket, trying to smooth out the edge. Self-conscious, I straightened and swallowed. Nathaniel's cold green eyes remained on me for a moment longer before he focused his attention back to Mr. Wrightworth.
“I meant orgasm training.”
A tremble ran through me. The movement made Nathaniel glance back at me, but only for a mo
ment. Likely checking to see if I was already disobeying him or just reacting to something that had been said.
“I'll take it, and gags.”
“No!” I all but shouted. Both men turned to me for an answer as I dragged in a loud, long breath. “No, they gag the oath breakers, they make you wear one for an hour in school to show you what it's like. No! Especially not for sex, there's nothing sexy about spittle all down my chin.”
Nathaniel considered for a moment. "I can agree to no gag if you can agree to verbal restriction. That means if I tell you to stop speaking, you do. If I tell you not to say something to someone, you don't. If I tell you to tell someone something, you do. That rule will never apply to Mr. Wrightworth."
“Addendum,” Mr. Wrightworth said.
“With the possible addendum,” Nathaniel said.
“What's an addendum?” I asked.
“An addendum is—” Nathaniel started.
“No, I know what an actual addendum is. What's it mean in this context?" I asked as I wondered if I should have asked what other things they were listing off meant.
“It ... means,” Mr. Wrightworth struggled to say.
“It doesn't matter what it means," Nathaniel said quickly, raising a hand to stop Mr. Wrightworth. "She shouldn't have interrupted like that. She doesn't get an explanation."
“No one said I couldn't interrupt,” I protested.
“She has a point.”
“She's sitting right here!" I protested loudly.
Nathaniel's hand twitched against his pant leg. Mr. Wrightworth sucked in a sudden breath and glanced sideways at me. I understood that I was on dangerous ground, and so I tried to relax in my seat.
Neither of them gave me any indication as to which list I had just ticked an item off of. I was worried, given the fact that Mr. Wrightworth didn't appear amused, that I had placed another tick on the con list.
“Untrained per your request, of course,” Mr. Wrightworth said to Nathaniel.
“I see that,” Nathaniel responded. “I shall have to get started right away. Perhaps a beating would adjust that attitude of hers.”
“He said no fisting,” I said, trying not to sound like I was being insulting.
