The Prince's Slave

by P. J. Fox

  He then described a months-long procedure where, each morning, he entered his lab and collected bees by grabbing their wings with forceps and pressing them against the body part of his choice until they stung him. He left the stinger inside for a full minute, timing with his pocket watch, before removing it. Then, he rated his pain on a scale of one to ten. With notes, of course, about its character and quality.

  “Pain is quite difficult to measure,” he said. “One is assigning numbers to an inherently subjective experience. Ham-handed, to be sure, but the best program so far.”

  “How many stings are you administering,” Ash asked, “per day?”

  “Five, along with my second cup of tea. I always start and end with test stings on my thigh, to calibrate the ratings. And of course, after each body part has had a chance to rest—usually over a fortnight or so—I sting it again. The sixteenth time I stung my testicles, for instance, I found it to be quite painful.”

  “Do some locations require the use of a mirror?”

  “Surprisingly, applying an agitated bee to one’s buttocks is quite challenging. It seems that the bee rarely wishes to comply. But you see, I couldn’t have Charlie—that’s my lab assistant—do the dirty work because that might conflict with the Helsinki Declaration.”

  “So what was the most painful?”

  “The tip of the penis,” the professor said with relish.

  This second professor, Belle thought, made quite a contrast to the first.

  The third course was served.

  Belle licked her lips. The swelling had gone down but the cut was still visible. The gesture brought a sharp look of interest from the professor, whose name was something Welsh that Belle couldn’t pronounce. “Too much fun?” he asked.

  “I…suppose,” she replied. During dinner, she’d tried to keep her conversation at a minimum. She’d noticed that, while her silence was motivated by fear, the others took it as evidence of her dominating tendencies. She wanted to do nothing to dissuade them.

  She felt like a minnow among sharks.

  “You enjoy pain?” This from the architect.

  Belle arched an eyebrow. “Receiving, or inflicting?”

  This brought a general laugh.

  “It should go without saying,” John was telling the architect, “that sluts undergoing training need to dress to please their masters. The master will choose and the slut will be persuaded—through fair means or foul—to comply.” That titter again.

  Belle glanced at Ash, but he was merely listening.

  “I want the number of your plastic surgeon.”

  Belle turned her attention to the architect’s wife, who said nothing. Here she was, being calmly discussed like a piece of meat. Only a slight flicker in her eyes gave any hint at all that she might not be fine with the idea. But even so, she listened in silence as the two men discussed her physique.

  And whether, in John’s words, she needed improvement.

  “There truly isn’t a woman who can’t be improved upon.” John turned to Ash. “I assume you’re in agreement?”

  Ash shrugged. “A position, which implies that women are interchangeable.”

  “But they are.”

  Everyone laughed. Everyone, that was, except the women. Their participation wasn’t needed; only their servitude. Their bodies, not their minds. John’s slaves went about their business as usual, clearing dishes and refilling glasses.

  “I’ve never understood the point of the so-called natural look.” John made a grimace of disgust. “The whole point is to achieve an unnatural look. If we wanted nature, we’d have left them as they are. Correct?”

  “Untouched women have a certain virginal charm,” offered the professor.

  “That gets old quickly.” John was dismissive.

  Dinner progressed.

  Belle felt as though she’d been transported into some emperor’s grotto. Caligula’s, perhaps; or Nero’s. Both men had been famous for their excesses, more often than not perpetrated on the unwilling. The women serving them could easily have been slaves in the old world sense. Perhaps were; Belle knew now that she lived in a world where women were still bought and sold at auction. She could picture them, though, dressed as nymphs and serving men who reclined on couches. The more things changed, a professor of hers had once been fond of quoting, the more they remained the same.

  One of the women bent over her to refill her water glass. Her nails had been painted the same hot pink as her corset. Her swollen, globe-like breasts displayed not the least hint of movement but projected proudly forward. Belle found herself staring, in spite of herself.

  She wanted to ask if the women had chosen this for themselves, but despite the other guests treating them like pieces of furniture couldn’t bring herself to do the same. They could hear her, even if they pretended otherwise. She couldn’t just talk about them like they weren’t there. The very idea was hideously embarrassing—on all fronts.

  The table was laden with half-eaten dishes: Cornish hens in a blackberry reduction, julienned carrots, cold cucumber salad, parmesan baskets filled with goat cheese mousse, lobster tails poached in butter. Half-eaten bowls of caviar sat ignored amongst bottles of half-drunk wine. There was too much food to even be appealing.

  Too much food—too much of everything.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Belle’s excuse was that she needed the washroom but, in truth, she simply needed to clear her head. Almost immediately after leaving the dining room, she felt better. The air inside was somehow thick, difficult to breathe. The overpowering mix of disparate colognes didn’t help; she felt like she’d just gone nine rounds with a cosmetics display at the mall.

  Their host, the self-described potentate, had sunk himself into a pit of license. All the women, all the sex. All the food. All the free time to enjoy it all, as he apparently didn’t need to work. He’d spent most of dinner waxing poetic about the various sex acts he’d performed recently. He could, of course, as he’d made a conscious effort to surround himself with like-minded people. Those around whom he’d never have to show restraint.

  Did Ash agree with this? Belle didn’t know. She liked to think that his life—their life—was different, but she couldn’t articulate precisely how it might be. Perhaps the difference, then, lay only in her mind. Wishful thinking.

  She pushed open the door and stopped. She suppressed a small squeak. Her hand spasmed reflexively on the knob.

  There was no floor.

  Where the floor should have been, the bathroom dropped away into an almost medieval oubliette. Rough stone shaped the walls, which couldn’t have been more than five feet from each other. Except no, that wasn’t right. There was a floor: a single panel of tempered glass. Across from where she stood, a simple toilet floated above its surface.

  Not an oubliette; an old elevator shaft, which some wit had thought to turn into a john. Carefully, Belle peered down. The walls descended slowly into darkness. It was impossible to see the bottom. The ground might have been ten feet below or fifty.

  A trick of the lighting that was, no doubt, on purpose.

  God, she hated this house.

  She did her business as quickly as possible, refusing to wash her hands in the small sink. She didn’t need a few minutes with a tap; she needed a full-on delousing and besides, she wasn’t going to spend a second longer in here than she had to. She’d never liked heights, but what made the experience worse was knowing that even the bathrooms here were calculated to provoke a reaction. As though the owner couldn’t stand to have his guests be in control of anything, even their own bladder functions.

  No; everything bore the stamp of John, his ego, and his undoubtedly tiny penis.

  Stepping out into the hall, she realized that she couldn’t quite face a return to the dinner party. If party it could be called. Instead, she decided to explore.

  And that was when she ran into the architect’s wife.

  She was standing in the other living room, alone, staring out the wind
ow into the night.

  Belle paused. She didn’t want to interrupt something. She could only imagine how upset the woman must feel—the woman whose name she didn’t even know. Had she been in a similar position, she didn’t know what she would have done. Screamed, maybe. Screamed and never stopped screaming. Stabbed the nearest person handy with a fork.

  But the woman must have heard her footfall, because she turned.

  Seeing Belle, her eyes widened. “Oh! Mistress, I hope I’m not—disturbing you.”

  Belle paused, taken aback. But she recovered herself quickly, stepping into the room and toward the woman, hoping to reassure her. “No, of course not! And, please, call me Belle.”

  “Mistress Belle.” The woman smiled. It was a small, shy flash of expression.

  “And you are?”

  “Julianne.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Julianne.”

  Belle sat. She indicated the spot beside her, on the window seat. After a minute, Julianne sat, too. She studied her hands, which were folded in her lap. For what felt like a long time, neither of them spoke.

  And then, “that conversation must have been difficult.”

  Julianne looked up. “What conversation?”

  “About….” Belle gestured.

  “Oh, no. Only the thought that I’m not pleasing him.”

  “What?”

  “I live to please my master.” Julianne sighed. It took Belle a minute to interpret the expression on her face: dreamy, as though she were imagining something wonderful. Her eyes fixed on some far-off spot, she continued. “Submission gives me a means of, oh, I suppose the best term is…release.”

  “But this—the tattoos, surgery. This can’t be voluntary.”

  Julianne seemed surprised at the suggestion. “Of course not.”

  But then she was staring off into space again. If Belle hadn’t known better, she would have thought the woman was on drugs. But she was perfectly lucid; just…clearly enraptured at the idea that a man who couldn’t see her for dust might deign to improve her.

  “As Master’s pet, I haven’t a care in the world beyond pleasing him. It’s really quite relaxing.” She sighed. “In our life together, everything is very much oriented toward the senses…taste, touch. Feel. My entire purpose is to please him, in whatever manner he chooses. It makes me feel beautiful, knowing that he’s chosen me to be his pet.”

  “But what about outside of the bedroom?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Belle attempted to frame her thoughts. That framing them should be necessary at all was so frustrating. The answer—both to her and to Julianne—should be obvious. So why was she struggling?

  “Mistress Belle,” Julianne ventured, “might I ask a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re in this lifestyle. With Master Ash.” She spoke each word hesitantly, as if afraid of giving offense. But clearly, Julianne thought she was the one stating something obvious. Something that, for whatever reason, Belle didn’t see. “Surely you understand?”

  Belle had never heard it stated so succinctly before: in this lifestyle. Then again, she hadn’t had much contact with the outside world of late. It had perhaps never occurred to her before this moment that this was a lifestyle; that, abuses aside, people chose this for themselves. That they derived the same pleasure from being tied up that Belle did or, indeed, from doing the tying. And that was okay.

  It wasn’t something deviant, to be hidden from kindly old men at Exeter College. Or from the rest of the world. When she and Ash went places together, it wasn’t a lie; any more than any other couple was lying, by not having sex in the street. Still, what she and Ash had was different—and now, thanks to Julianne, she knew why.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “But the sexual aspect of our relationship is entirely separate from its other aspects.” More or less. Belle wasn’t in control of her finances, or at least not as much as she’d like, but on the other hand Ash had no problem with her turning a sizeable portion of his home into an art studio. “I’m in control,” she emphasized. “Of my reproductive health. Of how I spend my free time. Of my career.

  “I’m—I’m a feminist, Julianne. Feeling demeaned inside the bedroom is one thing, but feeling demeaned outside is another thing entirely. Treating a woman like she doesn’t matter, that’s not romance. It’s abuse.”

  “But you’re a dominant.”

  “What?”

  “What you’re talking about is fair play—and being a submissive isn’t fair.” The other woman shrugged her shoulders. “In order to gain the benefits of submission, I must submit. Which means trusting that my master knows what’s best for me, in all respects, at all times.

  “Sexual gratification, the right to sex at all, or with whom…these are privileges to a submissive. Not rights.”

  “But, Julianne, that’s not true. You’re a human being. You’re entitled to your own sense of self.”

  “And my sense of self is what I choose to give to my master.” She paused. “Will you be playing with me tonight?”

  Belle was completely taken aback. “What?”

  “After dinner. In the dungeon. Master brought me here to entertain his friends. I see that you…I was wondering if you’d be one of them.”

  “You mean he hasn’t told you?”

  “Why would he?”

  Belle shook her head slightly. “I don’t—I’m not attracted to women.”

  “Oh.” Julianne actually seemed disappointed.

  “I’m sorry,” Belle said lamely.

  “That’s alright.” Julianne smiled. “I like you.”

  Belle smiled. Julianne blushed. She had, Belle realized, quite possibly just had her first—almost—lesbian experience. That Julianne was attracted to her seemed obvious now. Belle found the idea surprising, and flattering. And part of her, she was alarmed to admit, did want to whip the poor thing. Or bite her toes a little. Not because she found the idea alluring; she’d been telling the truth when she said she wasn’t attracted to women. But to make Julianne feel better.

  And then, “might I please ask another question?”

  Belle nodded.

  “How come you and Master Ash didn’t bring slaves?” Julianne blushed again. “I bet your slaves love serving you. I always wanted to serve a couple.”

  “We, ah—we’re traveling.” Then it was Belle’s turn for a question. One of two questions she’d been pondering all night. “You and your master are married?” When Julianne nodded, “how did you meet? And decide to get married?”

  “I was raised in a religious household. Raised to believe that sex was wrong; that ‘good girls’ didn’t want sex.” She paused. “But I did. The first time I watched porn…I can’t even explain. All this time I’d thought that I was some sort of freak, that no one could want what I wanted. I’d grown up watching and re-watching movies like Beauty and the Beast, fantasizing that this time the Beast would just rape her.

  “But then, eventually, I found out that there were other people like me. I might be sick, wrong, but at least I wasn’t alone.” There was real pain in that last word. Belle waited. And after a few more minutes, “everything about sex fascinated me. The toys. The costumes.

  “I read the online forums for months before I worked up the courage to post even a single sentence. I started by only replying to certain posts, here and there, and as briefly as possible. But eventually I felt more comfortable and then…I met my first master. He was my online master at first, and gradually the relationship transitioned to real life.”

  “You wanted this?”

  “Oh, yes. He and I were together for some time, and then he traded me to another master.” She wrinkled her nose slightly. “I should never say this about a master but he wasn’t my favorite. He didn’t have good hygiene. Still, I must feel grateful toward him for being my master and also for bringing me to the play party where I met Master.”

  Belle heard the capital in Julianne’s voice.

  �
��He deigned to use me.”

  “I see.”

  “A short time later, he purchased me.” Julianne sighed. “I strove to be worthy of his collar. He decided I was. Even though I’m not. We were married last year.”

  Through the course of their conversation, Belle had gathered that Julianne’s needs were quite different from her own—at least on the surface. Where Belle resented the idea of being punished, Julianne seemed to crave punishment. The more the better. Her husband’s obsession with her appearance, and with every other aspect of her life, didn’t seem to stifle her but rather to reassure her: that he was aware of her every move and that she was, indeed, owned. This was a woman who felt lost, if left to her own devices.

  Punishment assured her that the collar or, in this case, barcode she wore was controlled by a worthy master.

  It was then that Belle asked her second question, the one that had been niggling at her all night. “What—other mark of ownership do you wear?”

  If Julianne had been dreamy before, now her expression turned rapturous. “Oh! I have something new tonight. And then, conspiratorially, “it’s really quite uncomfortable.”

  She said this as though uncomfortable were synonymous with wonderful.

  “Would you like to see?”

  “If you’d like to show me.”

  Belle couldn’t imagine what Julianne was about to show her. Her dress left very little to the imagination; Belle couldn’t see where the other woman could possibly be hiding anything. And then she knew. Because, astonishingly, Julianne stood up and, before Belle could protest, pulled up her dress and bent over in one smooth movement.

  Belle stared in spite of herself. Julianne’s perfect round behind was encased in rubber.

  Julianne pressed her hand to the not-panties. “He told me that, unless and until he decrees otherwise, I’m not allowed to leave the house unless I’m…airtight.”

  Belle’s eyes widened.

  She remembered now that she’d seen a similar garment in a store, once, with Charlotte. On an afternoon excursion that seemed a very long time ago; a tattered photograph from another lifetime, more than a real memory. Something she could call up at will, and study, but to which she could no longer relate.