by John Ringo
She didn’t wait for an answer. She just pinched the nerve point so hard the girl must have thought she’d been hit by a neural lash and then walked out, twitching her robe into place.
She didn’t know if the girl would take it lying down or not. But when she got back to the main room she gave Karie a significant nod and then strode over to Mirta.
“Hi,” she said, squatting down in front of the seamstress.
“Hi,” Mirta replied neutrally. “Could you move over, you’re in my light.”
“Sure,” Megan replied, moving over. “What do I have to do to get you to make me something?”
“Oh, I think you’ve already done it,” Mirta replied, lightly. She was hand-embroidering the edge of a bra that was made of silk so transparent it was like glass. “I’ve been waiting for months for someone to take down that arrogant bitch.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Megan said with a broad smile.
“Yes, you do,” Mirta replied. “I wasn’t sure at first, but Karie steps aside when you walk past. And she never gives just one lesson to the new girls. She didn’t give me just one lesson,” the woman said in a low but fierce tone. “And I notice that Ashly seems to be taking a long time in her toilet. But she only went in there to pee. She’d have been out at least two minutes ago.”
“You notice a lot,” Megan said, sitting down.
“I notice that you spend a lot of time in your room,” Mirta replied. “That when you come out you usually go to the shower because you need it. I notice that you don’t walk quite like a dancer, either. You walk more like some martial artists I’ve known. You walk like a panther, except when you play that meek little girl role. I notice that you watch all the time, too.” She looked up and pinned the girl with her eye, tying off a section of the embroidery and picking up the next color without looking down. “And your hands have calluses. But not from sewing.”
“How old are you?” Megan asked.
“Me?” Mirta squeaked. “I’m just like you, just a little girl, not even twenty! And some man picked me up by the side of a stream and then… oh, it was So! Terrible!” The entire performance was delivered in a frightened little voice while cold eyes stared back at Megan.
“Yes, it is so terrible,” Megan replied neutrally. “Will you help me?”
“With sewing?” Mirta replied, finally looking down. “Happily.” She had been stitching the embroidery, tiny stitch after tiny stitch, without looking at what she was doing. And doing it perfectly.
“You do it so well,” Megan pressed.
“Most of my life,” Mirta replied. “My parents were reenactors. You know what that means?”
“Yes, people who had a hobby of doing stuff the old ways,” Megan said. “The town elders where I… was… were sort of like that. At least, they lived in an old house and had some stuff that they used from time to time.”
“My mother taught me to sew when I was very young,” Mirta said. “We’d make stuff and then take it to Faires.” Her face cleared of the cold lines it normally had and she smiled. “I used to love to go to Faire.”
“I hope we all can some day again,” Megan said.
“Don’t talk that way,” Mirta said carefully. “We are Paul’s servants. That is all that we are or ever will be.”
“Doesn’t mean he can’t take us.” Megan grinned.
“Hmmph,” Mirta grunted, but she smiled as she did. “So what do you want?”
“I really don’t know,” Megan replied. “Some simple panties, for God’s sake. I’m just too clumsy with a needle to get the fine sewing for them.”
“Easily done,” Mirta said, then looked at her. “I saw what you were trying to do with the other outfit. I have some ideas. I don’t know if you’ll like them.”
“As long as it…”
“Pleases Paul.” Mirta grinned evilly. “Yes, I think it will. Do you want me to do it?”
“Please,” Megan said. “How do I repay you?”
“Oh, you already have,” Mirta replied calmly. “Although breaking the bitch’s neck and boiling her in oil would have been preferable.”
“Once you break the neck, they don’t feel the oil,” Megan pointed out. “Details. You have to decide.”
Mirta shrugged. “Okay, just lowering her into a vat of acid.”
“What?” Megan said, frozen.
“I said…”
“Yeah, okay,” Megan replied, her mind racing. “I guess I’ll get them in a few days?”
“That… works…” Mirta replied.
“Thank you,” Megan said, suddenly looking her in the eye. “You have been very helpful.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Mirta said, staring at her. “Very glad.”
Megan gave her a nod and walked back to her room. She refused to whistle as she walked.
* * *
Shanea was there when she arrived. The girl had gotten over her fear of being out of the main room and now hid in Megan’s room much of the time despite the still-noticeable smell of urine. It was a pain in the ass in some ways and in others quite comforting. Megan had never really had many girlfriends and certainly none that looked to her for protection. It was pleasant and cloying simultaneously.
She was working on another outfit and looked up happily when Megan entered.
“Where were you?” Shanea asked.
“I had a… conversation with Ashly,” Megan said. “And Mirta is going to make me an outfit.”
“How did you talk her into that?” Shanea asked, eyes round.
“I was very charming,” Megan said, throwing herself on the smelly pillows. “Shanea, I need to think for a bit, okay?”
“Okay,” Shanea said, going back to her sewing.
After a while Megan threw herself to her feet and paced back and forth.
“Shanea, what does Christel do in her office all day?” she asked. It bothered her that the woman almost never came out except for meals. For that matter, she was never at the evening bath.
“She’s working on the accounts,” Shanea said. “You didn’t know?”
“No, I didn’t know,” Megan said, stopping her pacing and looking at the girl. “All day?”
“There’s a lot of them,” Shanea replied. “That’s why she’s always so angry. She hates doing them. I saw them one time and they’re really really complicated. I couldn’t make head or tails of them.”
Megan stared at her, unseeing, for quite some time, then smiled broadly.
“Shanea, you are the most wonderful person in the world.”
“Thank you,” Shanea smiled. “Why?”
“Just because,” Megan said. “I’m either going to be stumbling back in just a minute or I’ll be quite some time.”
She walked to the door to the office and knocked, knowing that all the other girls were watching her. What was that feely she had watched? Oliver Twist. “Please, sir, can I have some more?” That was just how it felt.
“What?” Christel said angrily from beyond the door.
“I’d like to speak to you,” Megan replied, as meekly as she could manage.
“Come in,” the woman said.
Megan stepped in, half expecting to end up on the floor, doubled in agony. The older woman was behind the desk, which was littered with paper.
“Shanea just told me that you’re in here doing the books all day,” Megan said, standing more or less at attention. “I… think I could help.”
“You?” Christel snapped, throwing a pencil on the desk. “What do you know about it?”
“I… was studying numbers before the Fall,” Megan replied. “I know something about accounting. And… you seem like you really hate it. That makes it hard on the rest of us. If I can help, that makes it easier. And, frankly, I’m bored to tears.”
Christel looked at her, cocking her head slightly to the side, then shrugged.
“You really think you can make head or tails of it?” Christel asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Megan said, w
alking over to the table and looking down. The papers were covered in columns with notations and numbers by them. They also were covered in equations, most of them scratched, rubbed or in some cases ripped, out. It was pretty clear that math was not Christel’s strong suit.
She pulled one of the papers around to her and read it, then blanched.
“Oh, my God,” she exclaimed. “You use single-entry bookkeeping?”
“What?” Christel said.
“Single entry,” Megan replied, shaking her head. “You’ve got both your expenses and your income on the same line. Not to mention mixing up your purchases and your use. No wonder you’ve been having problems.”
“How else do you do it?” Christel asked, bewildered.
“Okay, okay,” Megan said, dropping into a cross-legged position next to the desk. “You’ve got food purchases here and a new shipment of cloth. Not to mention housekeeping items and cleaning supplies. By the way, can I get some new pillows?”
“What happened to the ones you have?” Christel asked, angrily.
“They got… damaged. Look, what you do is separate this out by category…”
* * *
For the next two days Christel led her over the accounts, although it was quite often the other way around. It turned out that the woman was responsible for managing all of the needs of the harem. She had to track, and account for, all of the food that was consumed, the supply of bedding, the raw materials the girls used in their sewing, their “feminine” supplies and everything else that went into a functioning harem.
By the second day, Christel was in a more jovial mood. Megan hadn’t been lying when she said she knew something about accounting. It was clear that the younger girl was far better at organizing the accounts than Christel had ever been.
“The worst part is that Paul is always checking on them,” Christel admitted early the next day. “He wants me to account for every single item and explain why they were used. The food budget is the worst. He’s always harping about how much food the girls eat. So one time I cut them back and then they didn’t have enough and were complaining.”
“Well, from the looks of some of them they could use a diet,” Megan noted. “But not all. What we need to do is manage the diets individually. But that will mean working more closely with the kitchen staff. Also…”
“What?” Christel asked, looking at her sharply.
“Well, there’s no reason they have to sit around all day,” Megan pointed out. “I’m sure some of them know how to dance, for example. And they could use some toning up. Dial in on the food consumption, maybe have weigh-ins and track their body fat, and start having classes in, oh, dance, singing; can any of them play a musical instrument?”
“We’re a harem, not a choir,” Christel noted.
“Yes, but you said that one of our purposes is to keep Paul happy,” Megan said. “Is he going to be happier with a bunch of roly-poly slugs? Or a group of girls that are healthy, happy, in good condition and maybe can entertain him other than on their backs?”
Christel made a moue and shook her head.
“Think of it this way,” Megan said, carefully. “It’s not going to cost anything more, except maybe for some instruments, and it’s going to look good. Look, I can dance for Paul, at least. And I can teach the other girls, if there’s no one else.”
“You?” Christel asked.
Megan stood up and took off her robe, uncomfortably aware that it left her entirely naked, and went through a series of simple dance steps, lifting on a toe, turning, bending. She wasn’t about to show her advanced moves, much less katas, which looked very much like a dance when she did them.
“Me,” Megan said when she was finished. She picked up the robe and put it back on, belting it tightly. “Not to mention stretching exercises and gymnastics. I’m sure that Paul gets tired of the missionary position all the time.”
“Well, you’ll just have to find out, won’t you?” Christel said cattily and then sighed. “You do have a point, though. And you’re not the only one who can dance, girl. In fact, you don’t dance all that well at all.”
“No, I don’t,” Megan said, meekly.
“I’ll see about it,” Christel said.
* * *
Megan had been working all day, skipping lunch in fact, getting the books in order. She had broken out most of the items by category and had started to get a handle on in-flow and out-flow. Some of it still didn’t add up, but she wasn’t sure if that was Christel’s execrable bookkeeping or something else. But she realized that she was so tired of staring at columns, and so hungry, that she wasn’t making any more sense, so she stood up and walked out into the main room.
Christel, once Megan had demonstrated she knew what she was doing, had been spending most of her time in the main room. Ashly had been displaced from the position of prominence and Christel spent her time chatting and playing Yahtzee while Ashly sulked off to the side.
As Megan walked out and headed for her room, she heard her name called.
“Megan,” Mirta said. “I’ve got your outfit finished.”
“Let’s… see it in my room if you don’t mind,” Megan said, gesturing at the corridor.
Mirta merely nodded and headed down to the room where Shanea, inevitably, was ensconced. Megan noted that her friend was one of the ones who needed to go on a diet. Since Megan had befriended her, mysteriously larger portions had made it down the table. Amber was in there as well, knitting something golden this time.
“Here it is,” Mirta said, holding up two pieces of cloth that together might have made one decent skirt.
The top was at first glance a simple halter, with very brief coverage of the breasts; the triangular fabric might just cover the nipples. But the fabric was of some odd material that changed color as the light hit it. Small as it was, it was quite spectacular. The “skirt” that accompanied it, in the same fabric, was brief to the point of scandal in any other environment. Short, very short, and slit up either side.
“I made you some panties as well,” Mirta said. “But with that, well, even a thong might show.”
“It looks… tight,” Megan said.
“It is tight,” Mirta replied. “I got the outfit you were working on from Shanea for sizing and figuring that you went a little loose, I tightened it up, because…”
“Paul will like it,” Megan said, making a moue of distaste. She slipped off the robe, despite the company, and slipped on the skirt, which had two buttons in the back. She found it easier to slide it around to the front to button because it was tight. The buttons gave no sign of straining loose, but she had a struggle to get them in the holes. She also had to pull it down onto her hips to maintain any shred of decency. The halter top was tight as well and as she had feared the tiny triangles barely covered her nipples.
“Oh, that’s… lovely!” Shanea said.
“Pretty,” Amber said, looking up at her with a fixed expression. “So pretty.”
“Just right,” Mirta said, pushing Megan’s breasts up into the halter; the bottom of her breasts showed a goodly bit of rounded flesh. “Perfect.”
“I think I’d rather wear a robe!” Megan said.
“I think that Paul would rather you wear this,” Mirta replied. “And Christel will certainly have no problems with it. The other girls will be clamoring for one just like it.”
“I want one,” Shanea blurted. “But I don’t have anything to trade!”
“I’ll see if I can fit you into my busy schedule,” Mirta replied. “Now that I’ve got the pattern in mind, turning more out won’t be all that difficult. Some… small, strong stitches involved, but not hard ones.”
“I can’t wear this out of here,” Megan complained. “Every time I sit down I’ll show all I’ve got!”
“Not so,” Mirta said, stepping to the side. “The method for sitting is thus. You point your toes and roll down onto your legs.” The woman demonstrated, gracefully sitting without spreading her legs or showing any
thing she didn’t care to show to the audience.
“Where did you learn that?” Megan asked.
“That’s for me to know, dearie.” Mirta laughed, getting up with almost the reverse motion. “When you sit, you stay in the same position, with your feet tucked under your butt. Nobody gets to see anything you don’t want to show. Drives guys nuts. Try it.”
After a few tries Megan had managed to sit without collapsing or spreading her legs and she realized that it was how Mirta always sat down. It was both elegant and, she suspected, alluring. A graceful and sexy motion. Grand.
“Now, go show it off,” Mirta said.
“I’m not going to parade around in this… this…”
“Go show it to Christel,” Mirta said, definitely. “You will too ‘parade’ around in it. You’re my walking advertisement. Get out there and advertise.”
“You evil old…”
“Ah, ah,” Mirta smiled. “Me?” she added in a little girl voice. “I’m just… just a little girl…”
“Right,” Megan said, facing the door. “And I’m Sheida Ghorbani.”
She strode down the corridor and into the main room, walking over to where Christel was playing Yahtzee. The other girls watched her and she had to admit that based on their reaction she had to be the most hated girl in the harem. Many of them had some minor form of lingerie or panties and bras. But the outfit Megan sported was, to those, what a nuclear weapon is to a firecracker. It was the sexual equivalent of a weapon of mass destruction.
