by John Ringo
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 anything 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.
She stopped in front of Christel and pirouetted in place.
"Will this do?" she asked, sharply.
"It will do very well," Christel replied with a nod. "I'm sure Paul will love it."
"As am I," Megan said tightly.
"Dinnertime," Christel said. "Why don't you go get your . . . friends. And put a robe on; that thing is scandalous."
Megan went back to the room and stripped off the outfit, replacing it with a robe. She felt more dressed with a robe on. She felt more dressed naked.
"It was a hit," she told Mirta sourly. "Christel's going to want one."
"I might make her one," Mirta replied, with a malicious smile. "And she'll never understand why she doesn't look as good as you do in it. But the next outfit I'm going to make is for Amber."
"Amber?" Shanea said. "Why?"
"Because I want to." Mirta grinned. "You'll see. And one for you, dear, of course."
"One that will suit her?" Megan asked. "Dinnertime, by the way."
"Oh, yes," Mirta replied, as they walked out the door. "Definitely one that will suit her. And I think that Amber's will cover her almost completely. And make Paul want to tear down walls. The human body is a lovely thing, but never so lovely as when properly covered. It's using clothes to create a mystery that is the truest art."
"Not much mystery in what you made for me," Megan said, sourly.
"Enough." Mirta smiled. "Just enough and no more."
When they reached the dining room the food still hadn't been served and Megan sat down with a puzzled frown.
"Girls, listen up," Christel said, clapping her hands for attention as Mirta sat down. "Starting tonight, you will be served individually. And for tonight all the portions will be equal. As soon as I can obtain a scale, all of you will be weighed. Those of you who are overweight, and you know who you are, will be placed on reduced servings."
"What?" Karie said.
"Yes, Karie, you're one of them, and Shanea and Demetra. But we're also going to start having classes in dance and exercise. They will be mandatory for most." There was a general unhappy muttering at that and she looked around at the group with a hard smile.
"Paul maintains a harem, not a palace for lazy slugs. It is about looking good for Paul and, frankly, most of you are starting to look a bit soft in the middle. That is going to change." She waved to the kitchen and the servants began carrying out plates that had been pre-served. Megan carefully kept her eyes on her plate and tried very hard not to smile. One change effected.
CHAPTER FIVE
After another week, Megan had the books in order and Paul still hadn't put in an appearance. And after struggling for that week, maintaining things became easy enough that she got bored again. But she still didn't go out of the room, much, preferring to use the excuse of "keeping up the books" to maintain some relative privacy. She was also exempt from the regular exercise and dance classes, but she kept in shape by working out in the office. Everything was on track except one: The kitchen books still wouldn't add up; the harem was paying for at least twenty percent more food than was being consumed.
After going over the numbers repeatedly she reached the point that she was positive it wasn't just sloppiness. Which meant she knew darned well where it was going. The problem was what to do with the information. She could inform Christ
el in which case the head cook could look to being on the wrong end of a Change. Or she could manage it more . . . obliquely.
She was also fascinated by some of the items available for order through the kitchens. There weren't only foods and spices but cookware, distilling materials, cleaning solvents . . .
An idea was starting to tick over in her head one afternoon when the door opened and Christel waved at her imperiously.
"Megan, go to your room and put on that lovely outfit Mirta made for you," Christel said, smiling viciously. "There's someone you need to meet. Again."
* * *
"Ah, the washing girl," Paul said, smiling. He was no longer the old man he had appeared, but the face was the same. As was the long hair that hung in lanky strands. But his clothes were clean and finely made. He had the look of being about two hundred, slightly below normal height. Megan suddenly realized that she had met him before, years ago. She truly hoped that he would never remember the meeting.
"Her name is Megan," Christel said. "Megan Sung."
It was the name she'd used after the Fall. She didn't know why she had changed it; it wasn't like her father was well known. But, then again, the sort of people who would react to the name "Travante" were precisely the sort she didn't want interested in her.
"How have you been, Megan?" Paul said, holding out his hand. "You look much better than the last time I saw you."
"Oh, I am much better, sir," Megan said, not taking the hand but instead dropping in a curtsey that kept her legs modestly crossed. She stayed in the curtsey for a moment then straightened back up, not meeting his eye.
"What a delightful young lady," Paul said, running an eye over her like a horseman with a likely looking filly. "Beautiful bone structure. Love the outfit."
"Thank you, milord," Megan simpered as well as she could. Let him choose one of the others, let him choose one of the others . . .
"I think we should get to know one another better," Paul said, taking her hand and leading her to the room reserved for him.
"Yes, milord," Megan said, trying to sound happy and failing miserably. She bit her lip and the last thing she saw before the door closed was Ashly looking at her with an expression of malicious delight.
* * *
"The first time is always hard," Paul said, raising himself off of her and rolling to the side. "It will get better."
Megan rolled onto her side, away from him, and curled into a fetal position, clenching her hands so hard that her nails dug into the palms of her hands.
I will not attempt to kill him, she thought. It's not possible. He's protected. I'm in a prison in a fortress. It will only get me killed.
"It was . . . wonderful, milord," she heard herself say.
"That is, in fact, a lie," Paul said, neutrally. "But I appreciate the effort." He patted her on her rump. "Get up. Clean yourself. It will help you feel better. And it will get easier with time. What you do here is of great importance. You are a fine group of potential mothers. Good genes should be perpetuated and here you are protected from harm to you and your children. Understand your importance and it makes the life much more pleasurable."
"Of course, milord," Megan bit out. I'm supposed to be thankful for being a well-kept broodmare. Gee.
Paul rolled to his feet and pulled on his clothes than tapped her on the rump again.
"Get up," he said, not unkindly. "I will give you a few moments to yourself but then you will come out of this room."
When he had left Megan grabbed one of the pillows and hugged it to her stomach, fighting against tears. She wanted to cry, she wanted to scream. She wanted, oh, how she wanted to escape. But neither tears nor screams would do anything. As she lay there, feeling fluids trickling down the inside of her thigh, she had a clear vision of her hands pushing Paul's head into a bucket. And she realized that the bucket was not filled with water, for all that the liquid was clear.
With that thought, she rolled to her feet, her face hard and her eyes like agate. She walked to the silver basin and carefully washed herself, then, recomposing her features, she donned her "outfit" and walked out the door.
* * *
"Marlene, thank you for meeting with me," Megan said, sweetly.
She was sitting in the dining room by the door to the kitchen when the head cook came in. The cook was a slightly overweight, older woman with piggy eyes buried in her flesh.
"What do you want?" the cook asked, brusquely. "I've got work to do."
"I know, I know; it must be terrible slaving over a hot stove all day," Megan said. There were enough cooks on the payroll, if they all existed, to do the work three times over. She doubted that the fat old bitch had been near a stove in a year.
"I work for my keep," the cook snarled. "I don't make it on my back."
"Well, we all do what we can." Megan sighed. "Speaking of doing what we can, I just had a couple of teensy questions. Nothing really."
"Oh?" Marlene said, suddenly wary.
"I was just looking at this item for meat last week," Megan said, her brow furrowing in clear perplexity. "You see, based upon what we've worked out in the individual diets, there should have been seven kilos of beef used in last Friday's meal. And it appears that we paid for ten kilos . . ."
"Well, there's wastage," the cook said, huffily. "I mean, we order it on the bone. Bones, gristle cut out, you ladies have to have everything perfect . . ."
"And I know you make your own noodles, aren't they delicious? But there's another ten kilos of flour listed as used. And, by golly, the servings should have only worked out to five kilos. I'm just so perplexed!"
"You had better get unperplexed, missy," the cook said, nastily. "You have no idea what can end up in your plate."
"Oh, I rather think I do," Megan said. "I rather think I do. And anything . . . untoward would be easy enough for Paul to detect if one of his concubines turned up dead. And he would wonder, wouldn't he? Let's just drop the bullshit, okay? I've been over the books for the last several months. You're not just skimming, you're stealing a council member blind. What do you think his response would be?"
The cook just looked at her, her jaw working in anger.
"Now, let's be friends, shall we?" Megan said, after a moment to let the cook consider her position. "I see no reason to cut in on your little . . . peccadilloes."
"What?" Marlene replied, suspiciously.
"I don't, frankly, care if you steal that bastard's shorts," Megan said, making the point clear. "On the other hand, there are a few things I need. And I see no reason that you can't get them for me."
"Oh."
"If you're stealing and I catch you out, I'm a hero," Megan said, smiling sweetly. "On the other hand, if you're stealing and at the same time slipping me things I need, while I'm covering you up in the books, that makes us . . . partners."
"What do you need?" Marlene said, after a moment. "And is this . . ."
"It's not going to cut in on your take at all," Megan assured her. "But you really need to be a bit more discreet. I can point out some areas that are easier, and more profitable, to cover up than others."
"Okay," Marlene replied. "What do you need? And how are you going to get it past the Gorgon?"
"I'll handle Christel," Megan replied, handing the cook a sheet of paper. "Here's a list. I'll also handle the books on those items. We'll just list most of them as . . . spice."
* * *
"Christel," Megan said as she was carefully walking the older woman though the last week's receipts, "you know what this harem needs that it doesn't have?"
"Dildos?" Christel said snippily. She had been spending less and less time on the books and liked that state of affairs. But she wasn't going to entirely trust "the new girl" either.
"No, easier to just get cucumbers from the kitchens," Megan replied with a chuckle. "No, it needs perfume."
"Perfume?" Christel said, then smiled. "Yes, as a matter of fact it does. I think Paul would like that."
"Perfume and cosmetics
. I know all the girls are gorgeous, but there's nothing that a little cosmetics can't improve upon. The problem is, I talked to Marlene and there aren't any suppliers available."
"Paul could probably find one," Christel said, thoughtfully. "Or just ken it."
"He probably could," Megan admitted. "But wouldn't it be better as a surprise?"
"Yes," the older woman replied. "But you said there aren't any suppliers."
"There aren't. But the raw materials are available." Megan pointed out. "In fact, there's some indication that most early perfumes were invented in harems. Still-rooms used to be common in them."
"Stills?" Christel said, cautiously. "One of the reasons we only serve a little wine is that I could easily see us all getting to be drunks . . ."
"A still can be used for much more than making alcohol," Megan said, shaking her head. "What you do is you get raw materials for the perfume and you distill them down, concentrate them. That's how you get the concentrated scent. By the time of the Fall they were mostly based on nannites, but this is the old way of doing it."
"How do you know that?"
"I said I was studying numbers," Megan replied. "That wasn't . . . entirely accurate. What I was studying was chemistry. Early perfume production was part of the history I audited. I can make some simple cologne just from stuff available in the kitchen. But with a few other items, nothing expensive or complicated, I can make some really nice perfume. I think. I know the theory, anyway."
She looked up and saw the older woman eyeing her warily.
"Look, I'm talking about some rose hips to start, okay?" Megan said, shrugging. "I promise I won't be making brandy in my spare time. If I do anything out of line you can always zap me, right? There are two spare rooms. All I need is a table, some glassware, a catchment for runoff and some spices. Perfume, scented candles. I can't sew, but this I can do."
