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The Color of the Wheat Fields

For Jessica Elwood (jessicaelwood.deviantart.com)

By the Muse of Caprice and Whimsy (mocaw.deviantart.com)

Disclaimer: The "Jessica Elwood" fursona and its distinctive likeness is the property of Jessica Elwood and is used with permission from the creator. Everything else, including the Starlight setting, all other characters, and their distinctive likenesses are the property of the MoCaW and may not be used without prior consent. This story may be distributed freely as long as it is distributed in its entirety without editing, and with this disclaimer block intact. In other words: please give credit where it is due, it's the decent thing to do. Thanks.

chi•me•ra

Function: noun

1 a capitalized : a fire-breathing she-monster in Greek mythology having a lion's head, a goat's body, and a serpent's tail b : an imaginary monster compounded of incongruous parts

2 : an illusion or fabrication of the mind; especially : an unrealizable dream (a fancy, a chimera in my brain, troubles me in my prayer -- John Donne)

3 : an individual, organ, or part consisting of tissues of diverse genetic constitution

From the Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary (www dot m-w dot com)

• * -

"I am for you, if you will have me."

My pulse pounded in my ears as the girl waited for my response. She was naked of course, as the ritual demanded: the master, after all, must be able to inspect his slave carefully before making the final decision, and that meant that every blemish, every flaw, every imperfection must be clearly visible. It was a moot point. If there were any, I couldn't find them, and besides, it would have been rude to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak.

With trembling hands, I took the black leather slave collar from its silver tray, nodded nervously to the girl, who turned her back to me and bowed her head slightly, lifting her long, blonde hair out of the way. I nearly dropped the collar twice as I reached around her slender throat to place the black leather strap with its silver fastenings around her neck. At one point, her butt accidentally brushed against my thigh, causing me to flinch in surprise. "Don't worry about putting it on too tight," the valet had said to me before the ceremony. "Each collar is custom-fitted to the slave, so it is impossible to put it on too tight, even if you cinch it down all the way." It had seemed a strange thing to say then, but now I understood it perfectly. Given my current state of mind, the slightest surprise could have had me jumping out of my skin, which is a very bad thing to do when fastening a leather strap around someone's throat.

Somehow, I managed to slide the silver prong into its slot, draw the loose end through the buckle, and slip it through the loops that kept it tucked cleanly away. Now it was the girl's turn. She turned to the valet and took the ring from its black velvet box. It was a simple signet ring embossed with the same intricate bird-and-tree pattern as the small oval tag that hung from her slave collar. Her cool, slender fingers wrapped around my hand as she gently slid slipped the ring onto the fourth finger of my right hand - always the right, never the left, I'd been told.

Only one thing remained. On unsteady legs, I walked the required twelve steps past her, turned on my heel. In a voice made shrill with nervousness, I issued my first command to my new slave. "Jessica!" I barked. "Come HERE!"

With all a dancer's lissome grace, the slave girl walked to me, dropped to one knee, and kissed the ring. "What is your bidding, master?" she asked.

The audience erupted in applause.

• * -

"Congratulations, Jonathan!" Alistair Brookside said, shaking my hand warmly. "And you as well, Doctor Ellison. You've really outdone yourself this time."

"You flatter me, milord," the geneticist replied, his voice simply dripping with false modesty. "She may be one of my better creations, I will admit, but in the end, I'm just a dab hand with a TEM and some reverse transcriptase. Kelly does all the hard work."

"Oh, come off it, Gregory," Kelly Woodsbury snapped. "Stop trying to be humble, it doesn't suit you at all. You and I know perfectly well that if it weren't for your skills, none of my designs would come anything close to what they are today. El-Wood Enterprises is a partnership, remember? We share everything, and that includes the credit." She gave Alistair a meaningful glance.

"But of course," Alistair replied, kissing the back of the tall artist's hand. "Please forgive a young fool his oversights."

"Your apology is accepted," Woodsbury replied in a cool, elegant voice.

"Your generosity," Alistair went on, "is as boundless as the stars themselves, milady. Perhaps you would allow me to make amends by serving as your escort you this evening, milady?"

A rare smile cracked Ms. Woodbury's stony façade. "Why not," she said, in a surprisingly flirtatious voice. Alistair offered her his elbow, and the two of them walked out onto the ballroom floor arm-in arm.

Doctor Ellison gave a low whistle of surprise. "Lad," he murmured, "I've known Kelly Woodbury for nigh on five years now, and I've seen her angry, furious, in a rage, and just plain mean, but this is the first time I have ever seen that old biddy blushing like a schoolgirl."

"Not surprising," Remiel said, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. "Alistair can get into any woman's panties in seven lines or less. It's a talent." He extended his hand to me, paused, and handed me the drink instead. "Here. You look like you need it more than I do."

I downed the champagne in one gulp, coughing slightly as the bubbles fizzed on the way down. "Thanks," I rasped. "God, do I really look that bad?"

"I almost thought you were going to pass out during the collaring," Remiel said idly. "I wonder, what is the proper protocol when that happens?"

"It depends on how far the collaring ceremony has progressed," Doctor Ellison explained, between bites of hors d'ouvres. "If the principal has already affixed the collar, then ownership has been transferred, and the ritual is considered complete. Otherwise, we have to restart from the beginning. Things are a little more complicated if the principal has already touched the collar, but hasn't touched it to the slave yet: if it touches the ground first, it can be considered a refusal." He shrugged at our curious glances. "I've seen about fifty of these collaring ceremonies, lads. You pick up certain things after a while."

Refusal. Why didn't I think of that before? There was no reason for me to have a house slave, I reflected glumly. I didn't have a big family that needed taking care of. My house was pretty large, true, but I got by on my own with some help from a cleaning lady that came by twice weekly. I wasn't even an industrialist or a plantation owner who needed a labor force: I worked in an office, for crying out loud.

Still, there are some people whom you just don't refuse a gift from, not in front of hundreds of guests and the society page correspondents of three major newspapers.

About then, three soft bell-tones rang out - the signal that nobility was entering the room - and the entire room fell into a respectful silence. A tall, effeminate-looking man with pale lavender hair dressed entirely in white walked into the room, escorted by a petite, feral-looking redhead wearing a simple black coat emblazoned with a wing-and-blade insignia across its back. He raised his hand in a gesture of polite dismissal, and everyone returned to their conversations, albeit in slightly softer tones. After all, it wasn't every day that you had a chance to see Ellsworthy De'Laile, consort to Count Marcus De'Laile (and director of the Starlight Foundation) in the flesh. Unless, of course, you work for him. Like me.

"Do you approve of our gift, Jonathan?" Ellsworthy asked softly, extending his gloved hand to me.

I took his hand in mine, bowed over it respectfully. "It is. . . most generous, your Grace," I replied.

"I'm glad." The Director smiled at me warmly, turned to Doctor Ellison. "You've really outdone yourself this time, Gregory," he said. "Seriously, this must be your finest work ever."

"It was nothing at all, your Grace," Ellison replied, a bit sheepishly. "A little cat DNA here, a little squirrel DNA there, a dash of mink and mouse. . . Kelly does all the hard work. I just assemble the pieces and let it grow."

"Nonetheless, you are to be commended. By the way, where is Lady Woodsbury now?" the Director asked curiously.

"Dancing with young Mister Brookside," Ellison said.

The Director swept the crowd with a glance, raised a delicate eyebrow as he noticed the pair dancing cheek to cheek. Alistair, I noted, was murmuring something into the older lady's ear: I couldn't read his lips from this distance, but whatever it was, it had Kelly Woodsbury biting her lower lip and blushing like. . . well.

"Mmmmmmmm," the Director murmured, smiling enigmatically. "Well, then, I don't suppose I shall bother her, as she is currently occupied, or will be soon."

"Telepathy, your Grace?" Gregory asked.

"Human observation," Ellsworthy corrected him with a smile. "Anyway, please pass on my complements, Gregory. I hate to leave so soon, but I'm afraid I really must be off. If I stay too long, people will start trying to talk to me, and I do despise politics. Besides, my chaperone here seems to be getting a bit antsy. Perhaps she thinks I shall turn into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight." He smirked at the girl standing next to him. The bodyguard rolled her eyes in reply, with all the appearance of a long-suffering martyr. "Well, then," Ellsworthy said, straightening out his collar. "I'll be off now. Good night, and congratulations, Jonathan."

"Good night, your Grace," I replied, bowing deeply.

Ellsworthy raised his hand in a gesture of benediction, turned on his heel, and walked out of the ballroom, followed closely by his red-haired bodyguard. I took a deep breath and returned to the onerous task of accepting the congratulations of my peers.

• * -

I won't bore you with the details of the party, except to say that if you've attended one upper-class formal ball, you've attended them all. They're all the same, really: rich people and nobles standing around complementing each other and dancing and talking out of both sides of their mouths and trying to look clever in front of their peers. The only difference was that for this party, I couldn't duck out after the first couple of hours or so with an apology to the guest of honor, given that the guest of honor was, well, me.

It was well past midnight when I finally bid farewell to the last of the guests and headed home from the hall the Director had rented for the occasion. Given that this was a rather posh occasion, slaves and servants were, of course, required to remain in the servants' hall for the duration of the festivities, lest they ruin the formalities with their animal appearance, vulgar manners and ill-breeding, with an exception being made for those few who were involved in serving guests. Which meant that the car trip home was the first chance I had to get a good look at my new acquisition, aside from my half-panicked glances during the ceremony itself.

"Jessica Elwood" was an amalgam of different animal features in a humanoid form: this was a legal requirement, I'd been told, to make sure that artificially created chimeras (who could legally be bought and sold and owned as slaves) could be differentiated from baseline humans (who could not.) I remembered Doctor Ellison's words, something like, "a bit of cat, a bit of squirrel, a little bit of mink and mouse here and there." Now that I had the chance to look at her sitting demurely in the seat across from me, I could see the evidence of her animal heritages in her perky, triangular ears, her long, bushy tail, her slightly luminous grass-green eyes, the softness of the snow-white, velvet-soft fur that covered her entire body.

Under all her animalistic features, her body was that of a beautiful, teenaged girl: round, perky breasts (not too big, not too small), a slim waist that accentuated her perfect hourglass figure, slender limbs, rounded shoulders and hips, and long, blonde hair that reached well past her waist. Her hands, I saw, were slender, with long, delicate fingers painted with a tastefully understated pink nail polish, and her feet were small and delicate enough to drive a Yamato noblewoman to fits of violent envy.

There were women who frittered away everything they owned at bodysculpt clinics chasing an ideal of perfection that was embodied in the slave girl sitting across from me, I mused.

She was dressed in a maid's livery: a short black satin dress with red trim and a stiffly starched white collar, french cuffs, a pair of elegant silver cufflinks inset with jet. A red silk cravat was tied around her throat, the pendant of her slave collar resting against the crimson cloth. A short apron was tied around her waist, tied in the back with a large white bow. A frilly white hairband kept her long, blonde hair out of her eyes. She wore a pair of thigh-length black silk stockings with red garters that emphasized her slender thighs and shapely calves. A pair of low-top, high-heeled patent leather boots on her small, delicate feet finished off the ensemble.

"Is there something wrong with what I am wearing, master?" she asked, in her young, clear voice.

I flinched in surprise. I hadn't even realized she'd noticed me watching, as she'd kept her eyes lowered the whole time. "No, nothing's wrong," I replied, in a slightly shaky voice. "I was just. . . wondering where you got that dress, is all."

"Doctor Ellison provided it for me as part of my starter package," the slave girl replied, "along with some basic supplies and sundries that will help me starting out in my new life as your servant. It was included my cost when Director Ellsworthy purchased me. It is traditional to include such when giving a slave as a gift, I am given to understand."

"Oh. Sort of like a dowry, I guess?" I replied uncertainly.

"That's correct. Although in this case, the starter package belongs to the master along with the slave, instead of a dowry which, according to Uniform Commercial Code law, is the property of the wife even after divorce."

"Oh, right. Because slaves can't own private property."

"That's correct, master." The girl hesitated. "Is there something wrong with my current uniform? If it does not please you, I do have others." She kept her eyes averted from me, I noticed, as if afraid to look at me - which, I guessed, was probably not that far from the truth.

"Oh. Um, do you have something a little more modest, perhaps?" I asked sheepishly. "If you're going to be around, it would be better for me not to be distracted, and that skirt is awfully short," I muttered.

The slave girl's expression turned puzzled. "Actually, master, this was the most modest uniform I was given in my starting package. I chose this one based on your obvious discomfort with my nudity during the collaring ceremony."

"Figures," I muttered, turning to stare out the window. "Even my slave noticed."

"Forgive me, master," the slave girl replied meekly. "I was out of line. I will accept any punishment you desire."

I sighed. "Just drop it. It's nothing."

"Yes, master." The girl fell silent.

I stared out the window as the flivver left the city and headed out into the suburbs. The lights zipped by like little fireflies, the girl's face reflected in the diamond glass, her eyes fixed her own lap. She stayed like that the entire rest of the trip out to the manor, hardly moving a single muscle.

• * -

I approved the debit from my account, and the flivver's reader returned my credit chit with a cheerful beep-whoop. Its engine revving up, the little car zipped off into the night in search of another fare, leaving me, my new slave, and the suitcase containing her "starter package" on my front porch.

The manor was dark and empty, of course: I'd lived alone for the past ten years, except for occasional visitors. I opened the front door and sighed as it creaked open loudly. "I'll have to get that fixed one of these days," I murmured quietly, then held the door open. "After you."

"Forgive me, master, but I believe that the proper protocol in this case is for me to hold open the door for you," the girl replied, curtseying deeply.

"Um. . . right. Well, we'll let it slide this time, okay?"

"Begging your pardon, master, but no. It would be frightfully improper for a master to hold a door open for a slave." She took the door handle from me (I felt a strange thrill run up my body at the touch of her cool fingertips against my hand), and curtseyed deeply.

"Welcome home, master."

"Um, right. Very good." I walked into the house, feeling a bit silly. Jessica followed two steps behind, carrying her suitcase with her. "Well, um. . . right, your responsibilities. Well, it's mainly going to involve looking after the house," I said, as I led her into the front hall. "Cleaning, cooking, that sort of thing. I will admit that the place is a bit large, especially since I'm the only one who lives here. I usually have a lady come by twice a month to clean up. . . I suppose I'll have to let her know her services are no longer needed." I looked over at her curiously. "You do know how to clean, don't you?" I asked. "Windows, floors, dusting, that sort of thing?"

Jessica nodded quietly. "Of course, master," she replied demurely. "I've received extensive training on all sorts of things."

"Oh, um. . . really, that's nice," I murmured nervously. "Cooking, cleaning, tailoring, that sort of thing?"

"Among other things, my master," she said quietly, with, perhaps, just the slightest bit of flirtatiousness in her voice. "I was, after all, intended to serve you in every way possible."

I gulped nervously and tried not to think about what THAT could mean. "Ah, yes. . . um. . . of course." I paused outside a small doorway with a tarnished brass doorknob. "Well, we're here. I'm afraid the servant quarters have not been used for quite a while, so I'm not sure what condition they're in." I fumbled with my key ring for a moment until I'd found the one I was looking for, slid it into the lock and gave it a slight jiggle.

The door opened with a slight puff of dust, which made me sneeze. "Oh crap," I muttered. To say that the room was a little dusty would have been like saying that Alistair was a bit of a flirt. This was more like the sort of thing that got caught in a clothes dryer's lint screen, covering every single surface in the tiny room. "Shit," I muttered. "This isn't going to do at all."

"It is all right, my master," Jessica replied. "This will be quite sufficient."

"No, no it won't," I sighed. "You'll choke to death on dust before morning or something like that. Look, why don't you just sleep on the couch in the parlor tonight? We can clean this up tomorrow morning instead."

"Forgive me for my boldness, master, but it would only be a matter of a couple of hours for me to clean up this room to an acceptable level. There is no need for you to trouble yourself by asking me to behave in such a crude manner," Jessica replied quietly.

"A couple of. . . Jessica, it's two in the morning."

"It would not hurt me too much to go a night or two without sleep, master," she replied.

I stared at her in silence for a moment. "That is the stupidest thing I've heard in a long time."

"My apologies, master. I spoke out of turn." She bowed her head deeply, and her tail drooped into a pose of submission.

I sighed and rubbed the bridge of my nose. "You know what, forget it. If you really don't want to sleep on the couch, you can use the guest room. Alistair was just by about a month or so ago, so it shouldn't be THAT bad. Anything has to be better than this."

"Forgive me, master, but it would not be appropriate for one such as I to sleep in a room reserved for your distinguished guests," Jessica replied quietly.

I resisted the urge to bang my head against the wall. "So, you won't sleep in the guest room either. You won't sleep on the couch. There's no way in hell I'm letting you sleep in here, and I somehow don't think that you're going to sleep in the bathtub. Any other ideas?"

Jessica lowered her eyes and folded her hands in front of her demurely, a pale pink blush rising prettily to her cheeks.

My hands began to shake again.

• * -

"Do you wish me to come to bed with my nightgown on or off, master?"

"On, please."

". . ."

"What. What is it?"

"Are you displeased with me, master?"

"No. No, of course not. I'm. . . um. . . tired. It's been a long day."

"If you wish, I could give you a relaxing massage. I am trained in that field as well."

"No. I don't want a massage. I don't want to have sex. I just want to go to sleep."

"As you wish, master."

Rustle, rustle.

"Good night, Jessica."

"Good night, master."

Click.

• * -

I woke up the next morning to the sound of bluebirds chirping outside my window. I sighed and rolled over in bed, scratching my balls sleepily as I got out of bed and put on my dressing gown, stretched out in front of the window, looking out at the morning sun rising over the hills. It was, I reflected, a beautiful day to be alive.

"Good morning, master."

My heart skipped a beat, and I turned to see Jessica walking into the room, carrying a silver tray with a covered plate. "I've brought you breakfast," she said shyly, putting the plate down on my desk. "I didn't know what you would like, so I decided on pancakes."

"Oh, um. . . right." I shrugged sheepishly. "Pancakes are great." Thanks."

Jessica pulled out the chair for me, and I sat down, feeling like a little kid being helped into his chair by his mother. She removed the cover from the plates, revealing a half-stack of fluffy, hot buttermilk pancakes, a small pitcher of warm maple syrup, and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. "Wow!" I exclaimed in surprise.

"Is there a problem, master?" Jessica asked nervously.

"No, no, no problem!" I stammered. "This is. . ." I sighed. "Perfect. Thank you, Jessica."

"The pleasure," she said, bowing deeply as she tucked the tray cover under her arm, "is all mine, master. Let me know when I'm finished over the intercom, and I'll come by and clear up the plates. If you'll excuse me, I have some other things to take care of."

"Right, right," I said idly. "Carry on." Jessica curtseyed and backed out of the room, closing it gently behind her.

The pancakes, as it turned out, were excellent: fluffy and light, with just the right amount of butter, and I poured the entire pitcher of maple syrup over them until they were almost drowning in the sweet, brown nectar. After years of rushed breakfasts of danishes and coffee, a real breakfast was a feast fit for a king. I remember actually moaning in carnal pleasure as I took my first bite, my eyes closed, as I reveled in pure joy.

What can I say: I'm easily pleased.

Unfortunately, such pleasures are fleeting, to say the least, and soon enough, I was sitting at my desk and staring morosely at an empty plate with bits of pancake and some maple syrup residue. I sighed and laid my fork and knife at the 4-o-clock position like my mother had taught me, gave my mouth one last wipe of the napkin, and decided to carry the plates down to the kitchen for washing.

I walked down the stairs, through the halls, past the immaculately clean parlor, paused, and backtracked a few steps. No, I was not hallucinating. The empty wine bottles, cigar stubs, and general mess and mayhem were gone. The furniture had been dusted, and the dark wood had been newly polished. The portraits on the wall had been dusted and aligned with military precision. She'd even laid down doilies over the arms of the chairs and sofas. Doilies, for crying out loud!

I didn't even know I owned doilies.

Another thing. . . I sniffed the air and was startled to detect the slight scent of lavender and lemon oil. That musty sort of old-socks and cigars smell that had permeated the house was. . . gone. It was kind of intoxicating, really, like. . . like. . . like the scent of a young girl.

I made my way to the kitchen in a kind of half-conscious haze, where I got another shock. The sink was empty. The tower of dishes half-encrusted with bits of food were washed, dried, and put away neatly in the cupboards. I opened one up and ran a finger along the shelf.

She'd somehow managed to dust inside the cupboards as well.

"Master?"

I spun around and saw Jessica standing in the doorway of the kitchen, her grass-colored eyes wide with shock. "Oh, hi there," I said guiltily. "I was just. . . um. . ."

To my surprise, Jessica backed away, putting a hand to her mouth, shaking her head with dismay. "I. . . I'm sorry, master. I should have remembered to come up and clear your breakfast dishes for you," she said in a stricken voice.

"Oh, no, it's no big deal. I can do this on my own."

Jessica shook her head. "No, no, no, it's my duty to do that, master," she said, reaching out and trying to take the plates from me. "If you'd give me a moment to rectify my mistake. . ."

"What mistake?" I retorted, starting to get a little irritated by her actions. "What, do you think I'm so lazy as to have someone else clear my dishes for me?"

"My master should not be burdened with such menial tasks!" Jessica cried.

"Fine, have it your way!" I let go of the plates.

Unfortunately, Jessica hadn't quite gotten a good grip yet. She bobbled the catch, and the porcelain shattered into pieces on the floor. One fork spun across the floor and disappeared under the refrigerator.

There was a long silence.

"Bugger," I muttered, a cold wave of anger rising in my heart. "That is not a good thing."

Jessica wailed and dropped to her knees, sobbing. I stared at her in disbelief as the anger faded away to be replaced by bewilderment and shock, then annoyance. "What the. . . are you actually CRYING?" I exclaimed. "Jeez, it's not that big a deal, just a broken plate. It's my fault, too, you know. . . Oh, for crying out loud!!"

I reached out and took her upper arm, lifted her up to her feet. She turned her face away, her eyes scrunched tightly shut. I don't know what she was expecting me to do. . . slap her? Scream at her? For the briefest of instants, some part of me wanted to do just that, to yell at her to shut up, ask her how she could be so stupid and clumsy. . . but then I noticed the empty sink behind her, the freshly-cleaned windows, and the kitchen table, which had been polished to a mirror shine.

My anger faded away. Instead, I reached out and gently wiped her tears away, sighing. "Are you all right now?" I asked, trying to make my voice as kind as possible.

". . . aren't you angry?" Jessica whimpered.

I sighed. "Yeah, a bit," I admitted. "But what the hell. It's just a plate. And a man would have to be some kinda monster to yell at a girl over something like that, especially after all the work you've put in here." I paused, noticing the bags under her eyes, the tired drooping of her ears and tail. "How. . . how long have you been up, anyway, Jessica?" I asked.

"Since dawn, master, so. . . about five hours," Jessica said quietly.

I looked up at the clock. "You mean to tell me you've been doing all this on three hours of sleep?" I asked incredulously.

"There is much that needs to be taken care of," Jessica said, averting her eyes. "I am your slave, master. I must take care of your needs. My own needs are secondary to yours, master."

"Hold it," I said, raising my hand. My mind raced as I tried to think of a way to put this in terms that she would understand. "Look, your body is my property, right?" I asked.

Jessica bit her lower lip and blushed. "As you wish, master," she whispered, and her hands reached up to her collar, undid her cravat and began to undo her buttons. I didn't realize what she was doing until she'd opened her dress down to her sternum, the pale pink of her bra just starting to peek out behind the black satin. . .

"Woah, woah, woah, hold on there!" I exclaimed, grabbing at her wrists. "I didn't mean that! I'm just trying to say that, if your body is my property, don't you think that you're kind of mistreating it? I mean. . ." I sighed. "Look, all I'm trying to say is, you can't really take care of my needs if you don't take care of yourself first, you understand?"

Jessica nodded mutely, and I let her go, rubbed the back of my neck thoughtfully. "All right, here it is, Jessica," I said. "Your master is ordering you to get some sleep now. You're not to do any more work until you've gotten at least another six hours, do you understand? In fact, my first standing order to you is to take care of your own body. Get plenty of sleep, eat right, all that stuff. I don't want to hear of you wearing yourself out taking care of me again, do you understand?"

Jessica nodded mutely and bit her lower lip, looking sad and tired. "I am sorry, master. I wasn't thinking."

I patted her gently on the cheek. "It's all right. Your intentions were good."

She looked up at me, smiling. "So, you are pleased with me, master?"

"Um. . . yes! Very pleased, actually. You've done some incredible work here. So yeah, some little thing like a broken plate is. . . we'll just call it more than even, all right?"

She blushed and lowered her eyes. "You're too kind, master."

"No I'm not." I waved her away. "Go. Sleep."

She curtseyed deeply. "As you wish, master." She turned and left the kitchen, her tail flirting back and forth happily. I waited until I heard the door to the servant's quarters closing behind her before I started picking up the broken bits of porcelain from the tile floor.

• * -

After that morning, I felt the need to get out of the house before Jessica woke up again. Besides, I figured, Jessica would probably get more done without me hanging around and getting in her way. I also felt the need for a good, stiff drink: a real drink, prepared by a professional, not the cheap wine I usually drank around the house alone. And for that, I knew exactly where to go.

The Anacraeon Club was the premier gentleman's club in the city - and by gentleman's club, I mean a place where men gathered to drink fine brandy, smoke expensive cigars, and complain about women, not a glorified strip club. Mister Reynald, the proprietor, had been a former batman to Count Aldaris, so he knew all about fine wines and cigars. Although the Anacraeon was a young establishment, it had already become the major social center for upper-class men in the city.

"I'm glad to see that your new slave is working out well for you," Remiel Alexandre said off-handedly, as I sat down in the armchair across from him, a snifter of Courvosier in one hand and a lit madras in the other.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," I replied, my cheeks burning crimson with embarrassment.

Remiel gestured to my shirt collar. "Perfectly pressed," he said mildly. "Not to be rude, but I've generally noticed that when you iron your own shirts, you come out looking like some sort of peasant."

"My ironing is fine," I replied defensively, taking a sip of my brandy. It burned a bit as it went down, but not much: Courvosier is a very smooth brandy, perfect for sipping. Not like the Vickham I usually bought for my own consumption. Of course, one glass of Courvosier cost as much as the gross national product of some small planets, so there you go.

"If you insist," Remiel replied, and took a puff of his own cigar. Remiel had always been like that: cultivating a blasé persona that, nonetheless, concealed a sharp mind and a keen sense of observation. "So," he went on, after a little bit. "Have you heard the latest rumor making its way through the grapevine?"

"No," I sighed, "but I can guess from your expression that it has something to do with last night's party."

"Close. It has more to do with something that happened AFTER last night's party. Namely, our friend Alistair Brookside and a certain lady, who will remain anonymous, being spotted in flagrante delicto in a back alley at about three or four this morning. It was everything that his mother could do to keep it from appearing in all the papers."

I blinked in surprise. "You're kidding me. Kelly Woodsbury? The designer?"

Remiel shrugged. "Apparently, the artist has a wild side."

"Got that right," Alistair said, laughing loudly as he barged into the room and threw himself into the chair next to Remiel's. "She's an animal, that one! Like I always said: there's nothing wrong with any woman that a good humping won't solve, eh?" He grinned lewdly at Remiel, gave him a nudge in the ribs with his elbow.

"You're disgusting," Remiel sighed, "and if you don't stop that right now, I'm going to spill my brandy."

"Ehhh. . . lighten up, Remiel. Get that stick out of your ass and get yours into some pussy, if you know what I mean." Alistair yawned and stretched out. "How about you, Jonathan? How's your new slave in bed? I bet she's a real screamer, that one! Probably swallows every drop, too, neh?"

"I don't think that what goes on between Jonathan and his slave is any of your business, Alistair," Remiel replied, glaring daggers at the boisterous young man.

"What, I can't congratulate a buddy on getting laid?" Alistair complained, pouting.

"Well, for one thing, Jonathan hasn't even said if he had intercourse with his slave last night. I think you're assuming too much."

They both turned and looked at me. I slid down into my chair, ears burning bright red, trying to hide behind my brandy snifter.

"Told you," Remiel said. "He didn't do it."

"Oh, please, how can you be so sure?" Alistair retorted.

Remiel gestured to me. "He's not smiling. If he were embarrassed because he did have sex last night, he'd be grinning like an idiot too. The fact that he looks sheepish is an indication that he's embarrassed we're bringing the subject up, mainly because he did not, in fact, sleep with his slave. Q.E.D."

"Jessica," I muttered into my wine. "Her name is Jessica, and I'll ask you to call her such, if you please."

"My apologies," Remiel replied, raising his glass to me in silent salute.

"Shit. . . that's a waste, letting a nice piece of ass like that get away," Alistair said. He leaned forward, grinning conspiratorially. "Hey, I know! If you're not gonna sleep with her, why don't you let me do it?"

"Bugger off, Brookside," I growled in reply.

"Hey, hey, suit yourself." Alistair raised his hands disarmingly. "It was just a suggestion."

"Whatever." I finished off my glass and ground out the stub of my cigar in the ashtray. "I'm going to the library, then home. Cheers."

"Cheers," Remiel replied, raising his glass again.

"See ya!" Alistair called out, grinning widely.

I walked out of the club and into the busy city streets, paused, and looked around quietly, suddenly very aware of the large number of chimera slaves walking the streets: some of them walking three steps behind their masters, others out on their own, on some errand or another. Their appearances ran the gamut from huge, hulking creatures of ox lineage, to small, lithe tabby cat girls, even a pair of winged bird-types gliding over the rooftops overhead.

All of them, I noticed, were wearing the black collars with silver tags that marked them as the property of some human or another.

I'd always known they were there, but they'd been part of the background, like the flivvers zipping down the streets and the pigeons picking crumbs off the sidewalk in the park. Humans didn't pay attention to chimeras, after all. They were the bio-engineered labor cobbled together from human and animal DNA that kept this society together, the working class that labored to sustain our way of life, and they'd been trained, since birth, to accept this as part of their nature.

What had changed?

Perhaps, I thought, the very act of owning a slave myself had changed my attitude towards the chimeras. They weren't just automatons and robots: they were. . . people, even if they weren't human. They laughed, they cried, they felt fear and happiness and satisfaction.

I shook my head. Such thinking, I mused, was counterproductive. Chimeras were slaves. Humans owned them. Some of them treated their slaves with dignity and respect, others treated them like animals and chattel. Such was the way of things.

Nothing I could do about it.

• * -

Time passed.

. . . Jessica continued to suckle at my manhood, her warm, pink lips wrapped lovingly around my shaft, making me moan in pleasure as I ran my fingers through her soft, blonde hair. "I love you, Jess," I whispered as I gently stroked her behind the ears, thrilling at the sensations from her skillful blowjob. She turned her eyes upwards, eyes twinkling with satisfaction as my thick shaft slid in and out past her sweet, soft lips and in that moment, I knew what heaven must feel like as I came, back arching as I pulled her head close. Her eyes opened wide in surprise, and a thin stream of semen mixed with saliva spilled from the corner of her mouth as she struggled to swallow my entire load. . .

I awoke to the sound of bluebirds chirping outside my window, the dream fading quickly from my memory. "Wh. . . what the hell was that?!" I shouted in surprise.

"Excuse me, master?"

I hadn't known I could leap about three feet straight up from a prone position until then. "Wh. . . what the. . ." My voice trailed off as I noticed Jessica carrying a silver tray into my room, just as she had every morning for the past six months. "Oh, um. . . good morning, Jessica," I said sheepishly, pulling the sheets up over my waist.

"Good morning, master," Jessica said cheerfully as she placed the breakfast tray on my writing table. "Breakfast is served." She removed the cover from the dishes, and the wonderful smell of buttermilk batter and maple syrup wafted through the room. "I made your favorite today, master: pancakes. I hope this will be satisfactory?"

. . . I poured the maple syrup over her ample bosom and licked it gently off her fur inch by inch. "Mmmmm. . . that's so good, master," Jessica whispered, as I ran my tongue over her perky, erect nipples. A thin stream of syrup ran down her taut, velvet-smooth tummy to trickle over the mound of her sex, and I eagerly lapped it up with my tongue, head swimming with the smell of her love juices mingling with the sweet ambrosia. . .

I shook my head. "Yes, thank you, Jessica," I said softly, trying not to look at her voluptuous curves as she carefully laid out the utensils and poured me a glass of orange juice. One of my pens rolled off the desk onto the floor, and my voice caught in my throat as she bent over to pick it up.

White lace panties. With frills.

. . . I eased the panties off her hips with my teeth, the soft white cloth damp with her desire. She shivered in ecstacy as I carefully slid them down her legs to dangle around her left ankle, lifted her up onto the breakfast table and laid her on her back, scattering my breakfast all over. Maple syrup pooled underneath us in a sticky, sweet mess as our lips pressed lustfully together and our tongues intertwined. . .

"Is there something wrong, master?" Jessica asked curiously.

"Nothing!" I squeaked. "Um. . . actually, would you mind laying out my clothes for me while I eat? The gray jacket, please."

"Of course, master." Jessica curtseyed deeply and went to my closet. I took the opportunity to grab my dressing gown from its hook and climb out of bed, quickly covering the wet spot on the sheets with the comforter. I tried to tie up the gown as loosely as possible to hide my erection. It didn't help. To my eyes, at least, it was clearly visible from across the room, and possibly from orbit as well. Thankfully, Jessica seemed to be preoccupied with rummaging through my clothing, which gave me a little time to eat breakfast and, hopefully, satiate my wildfire libido with food.

It's never that easy. Jessica had served me hard-boiled eggs with my breakfast that morning. Two of them, in fact, neatly peeled, in a small dish. And the more I looked at them, the more they reminded me of a pair of firm, round, perky white buttocks raised up towards the sky.

. . . I ran my tongue along the curve of her ass and down to her dripping pink pussy, slipping it gently between her folds. Jessica moaned with pleasure, clutching at the tablecloths, knocking the syrup pitcher over in the course of her passionate writhing, the sweet, brown liquid spilling across the snow-white linens and dripping off the edge of the breakfast table and onto the hardwood floor. . .

I grabbed one of the eggs and, in my haste, tried to swallow it whole. "Are you all right, master?" Jessica asked, poking her head out of my walk-in closet.

No, I was not 'all right.' I was a sex-crazed young nobleman who had descended so far into madness that hard-boiled eggs were reminding him of sex. "I'm fine!" I coughed, pounding at my chest and reaching for the juice. Masturbation. That was the answer. Jerk off quickly and silently before she notices, wipe up the semen with my dressing robe or napkin, toss it all in the laundry before Jessica notices along with the sheets, the comforter, and, perhaps, my dirty dirty mind.

Oh, how I wish.

I picked up the syrup pitcher, hesitated, and carefully placed it aside. Instead, I picked up the butter. . .

. . . and slathered it all over Jessica's luscious body so that it dripped off her curves like corn on the cob, before licking it off with my tongue slowly, inch by inch . . .

Oh, bugger.

"Actually, I'm um. . . not. . . I had a big. . . I mean I. . . I'm going to wash up!" I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door behind me, making the breakfast tray clatter. Castration. That was the answer. Use the straight razor above my sink and lop the cursed thing off entirely. That was the only way to be sure. Oh God, it wasn't even seven in the morning yet. How was I supposed to make it through the rest of the day? How was I supposed to go through an entire week?

Shit, I wasn't even thinking far ahead enough. . . was it going to be like this for the rest of my LIFE!?

"At least this can't get any worse," I sighed, leaning my forehead against the mirror.

"Sir? Did you spill something on these sheets?"

Just had to open my mouth, didn't I?

• * -

"There is nothing to be ashamed of, master," Jessica said, gathering up the sheets. "These things do happen, after all. I'll put it in the wash along with your dressing gown."

"Thanks, Jessica," I muttered sheepishly. Jessica bowed and backed out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. I sighed and sat down at my desk, cutting a wedge of pancake and syrup, spearing it with my fork, and popping it into my mouth. Stone-cold, I reflected glumly. Not that it was Jessica's fault.

You know, I heard a voice saying to me, There is a very simple solution to this problem. All you have to do is ask.

Shut up, I thought to myself. I'm not going to do that.

Why not? It's not like there's anything wrong with it. Hell, it's a cliché: the master whispers something into the housemaid's ear at dinnertime, and that night she comes up, takes off her clothes, and lets her master take her as many times as he wants. It's even better this time: she's not even a housemaid. Just a slave. She doesn't even have to say yes. You could just grab her any time you wanted and fuck her right there on the floor, and there's nothing she could do about it.

I can't do that. That would be rape.

In whose eyes? Not the law's. A slave's body is the owner's property, remember? At the very worst, it could be considered vandalism, and hell, there's no law that says a man can't vandalize his own property.

It just wouldn't be right. I'm not going to do it.

See, this is why women don't like to be around you. Women don't want the nice guy. Oh, sure, they say they do, but in the end, they all wind up with the dangerous jerk who'll abuse her and treat her bad and toss her aside when they're done. It excites them. Why the hell else do you think Alistair's managed to get laid so many times, and you've only had that one time at your grandmother's estate, back when you were sixteen. . .

"Shut up," I said softly into the silent room.

Suit yourself. You know I'm talking the truth here. You'll come around eventually.

I stood up and got into the shower. The pancakes stayed on the plate, growing colder and colder until Jessica finally cleared away the breakfast dishes.

• * -

What with one thing and another, eighteen months passed. I won't talk about most of it, because it was really kind of boring: just your typical year of debutante balls, parties, work, hunting, spending the evenings with my friends down at the club and so on and so forth.

The wet dreams continued, even after I took to masturbating every night before bed.

Things changed that spring when I met the lovely Miss Christine Walden for the first time at her debutante ball. I must have made a good impression too, because I spent the rest of the evening chatting pleasantly with her, as the other men in the room gave me looks that could have felled an elephant at fifteen paces. As the ball ended, I presented her with my card, asked if I could call upon her some time, and she fluttered her eyelashes at me, smiled, and said that it would be her pleasure.

We had our first date in the park, strolling down the tree-lined boulevards and watching the birds fly overhead and the squirrels scamper in the trees. Jessica and Veronica (Christine's maidservant) followed us three steps behind the whole time. Veronica, I noticed, looked excited and happy for her mistress. Jessica's expression was. . . ambiguous.

I didn't care. I was in love.

I kissed Christine goodnight at the door and walked the entire way home, laughing happily. That night, for the first time in a long while, I got a good night's sleep without waking up to a damp bedspread.

Time passed.

Three months later, I dropped to my knee in front of Christine and asked her to be my bride. She accepted, laughing happily, and kissed me in the face.

The next few months passed by in a whirlwind of emotion as we prepared for our wedding. There were engagement parties, and bridal showers, and long sessions spent haggling with wedding planners and musicians and other such individuals. Through it all, Jessica went through her paces quietly, working smoothly and efficiently like she always had.

Maybe, if I'd looked closely, I might have noticed a slight lack of spring in her step, a slight sadness in her movements, but like I said, I was in love, or something close to it.

I had a lovely fiancé, friends in high places, and a slave who waited upon all my needs. It was the second-happiest time of my life, and it all came to a halt one day when Jessica quietly walked into my study, a small, cream-colored envelope sitting on a salver.

The envelope contained the engagement ring and a simple note. "Dear Mister Hawkins," it read, "I am canceling our engagement."

That was all. No explanation, no reason, no excuses, nothing. Just seven small words that sent my life crashing down around me like a house of cards.

I burst out of the house into the pouring rain and ran the entire mile and a half to the Walden house. It was closed, the windows darkened, and a simple placard on the front gate said, very tersely, that the Waldens had left for the Nexus Confederation that very morning. No explanations. No reasons. No forwarding address. No answers. All I knew was that I'd just been jilted, and in the worst way possible.

At a time like that, there's only one thing a man can do: get blind, stinking drunk.

• * -

"Women!" Alistair sighed. "They're all bitches, all of them." He poured me another round of bourbon. "They take what they need from you, suck your blood like a vampire, and move on to the next poor sap to cross their paths. That's why I say fuck 'em all! Literally," he said, winking at me.

"You're an idiot, Alistair," Remiel replied. "And you're not helping one bit."

"Remiel, you just don't get it, do you? Jonathan here's hurt bad! He's been cut down in his prime, and the only thing that can heal that sort of wound is a little nookie, you know. A half hour between a whore's legs will do him good, get him right back up on the horse and back into action. Always works for me."

"And you are, of course, a shining example of a noble gentleman," Remiel replied sarcastically.

"Seriously, Jonathan, you gotta get some like, right now," Alistair said, ignoring Remiel. "I mean, hell, if you want, we can head down to Redchapel right now, and I'll buy you the hottest slut we can find: two of them, even. Hell, you don't even need to do that! All you have to do is head on home and get some from that sweet lil' slave girl of yours, what's her name. . . Jennifer, Jasmine. . ."

"Jessica," I slurred drunkenly, gesturing to my empty glass.

"That's right. God, she's a hot piece of ass. . . hell, I'd hit that any day," Alistair said, pouring me yet another drink. "Hey, barkeep!" he shouted, waving the empty bottle. "Bring me another one!"

The barkeep pursed his lips, cat's ears flat against his head, looking like he'd much rather tell me I was cut off, but he brought over another one anyway. "Seriously, man," Alistair went on, "That's what slave girls are for, right? Cleaning house and sucking cum?"

"Are you listening to yourself? You sound like Mephistopheles in a very bad high school production of Faust," Remiel said in disbelief.

"Never heard of the man."

"I find that hard to believe," Remiel replied.

"Besides, it's not like it's anything new. Jonathan's probably fucked his slave tons of times, right?"

"Nawwww. . ." I sighed, laying my head down against the bar. "Nev' got 'round to it."

"What are you, insane? How the hell could you pass up a nice piece of ass like that?" Alistair exclaimed in disbelief.

"Too shy at first. . . then Christine. Wanted to be fait'ful. Ha!" I laughed bitterly. "Fait'ful! Whadda crock a shit." I fell off my bar stool and slumped to the floor. "Jeezus, stop this room 'spinnin'!"

"Good lord, Alistair, he's wasted! You were supposed to watch him!" Remiel snapped angrily.

"I did watch him. I watched him get really really drunk," Alistair sniggered.

"I'm taking him home now." Remiel gestured to the bartender, who started calling us a cab.

"Come on, Remiel, don't be an ass."

Remiel said something under his breath that I didn't quite hear and carried me out to the curb leaning on his shoulder. He was very nice to me the rest of the ride home, even when I threw up all over him.

• * -

"Master?"

"He's in really bad shape, Jessica," Remiel said as he carried me in through the front door and laid me on the couch. "A little too much anger and alcohol. Bad combination. It would be best to let him sleep it off."

"Yes, sir."

"His fiancée broke off their engagement today. He's. . . not taking it well."

"I heard. I'm so sorry, Mister Remiel."

"Don't be. It's not your fault."

". . . what should I do?"

"Just be there for him. Like you always have. That's all."

"Yes, sir."

". . . he doesn't know, does he?"

"About what, sir?"

"Don't be daft, girl. It's written all over your face."

". . ."

"Well, that's fine. It's none of my business, anyway."

"If you say so, sir."

"I'm going home. When he wakes up, ask him to call me."

"I will do that, sir."

"Good night, Jessica."

"Good night, sir."

Click

• * -

The house was dark when I woke up with my mouth feeling like cotton and my head pounding like a bass drum in a marching band. Someone, I noted, had tucked a blanket around me, and laid a damp cloth on my forehead. Not that I particularly cared. All I knew then was that I was not, in fact, drunk, and that simply would not do.

The first thing I did was grab a bottle of wine from the wine cabinet and pour myself a glass. I downed it in one long gulp and poured myself another one. I took this one to the parlor and sat by the fireplace, staring into the flames, watching the fire crackle and snap, sending little sparks across the artificial marble hearth.

Something moved in the corner of my field of vision, and I turned to see Jessica standing in the doorway, looking a bit disheveled, as if she'd been sleeping in her uniform. "Master?" she said softly. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Jessica," I said sullenly. "What time is it?"

"About midnight, sir. Mister Remiel carried you home from the club. She hesitated. "Pardon my forwardness, master, but it seems to me as if more alcohol is not a good idea."

"When the hell did I ever ask you for your opinion?" I growled.

"I'm sorry, master. I spoke out of turn."

"You should be. In fact, come here!" I snarled drunkenly.

Jessica bowed her head meekly and walked forward to stand in front of me in silence, her hands clasped in front of her and her tail lowered in a submissive posture.

I've thought many times about what I did next, and I've often tried to come up with an excuse or a reason or some way to justify what I did next. I can't. Sure, I was drunk, and angry, and tired, and depressed, and all sorts of other things, but it was still no excuse.

I've know I've been forgiven, but some things you just have to live with.

"Jessica," I said. "Take off your clothes."

"Sir?" Jessica looked up at me, surprised.

"Take off your clothes, Jessica. No, wait!" I interrupted as she started to remove her frilled headdress. "Leave that on. And your boots and stockings. But take off everything else. And do it slowly."

I leaned back in my chair and sipped my wine as I she stripped, her fingers fumbling with her buttons as she took off her clothes. She stripped down to her bra and panties (they were black, I noted, and trimmed with expensive-looking lace), and hesitated, one hand on her bra clasp. "Do it!" I snapped, and when she didn't move, I staggered over to her, fumbled with the hooks, finally managed to get the bra off her and threw it into the fire. She backed away, but I grabbed her by the arm. "I didn't say you could leave," I growled, tugging at her panties until they came off. She stood very still, biting her lower lip as I pulled down her panties and stuffed them into my pocket.

I backed away and stared at her for a long time, standing in front of me, totally nude, her hands clasped in front of her in a vain attempt to hide her blonde bush, her pink, tender nipples starting to stand erect. "That's it," I laughed mockingly. "A naked slave serving her master, just like the day we first met, neh? Well, slave, your master wants another cup of wine." I gestured to the bar. "Go get it."

"As you wish, master." Jessica said in a trembling voice. She took my cup from me and slowly walked to the wine cabinet.

I stared at her moodily as she opened the wine cabinet, carefully opened the decanter. "So. You really will do anything I tell you to do," I mused.

"Yes, master. As I said, my body is yours to do with as you will," she replied, her eyes downcast."

"Absolutely anything I want. I could ask you to dance for me, and you would do it. I could ask you to masturbate in front of me, and you would do it."

"Yes, master," Jessica replied. She picked up the silver tray with the golden cup and brought it to me, kneeling next to me as she offered me the drink.

I stared into the cup, watching dark red liquid swirl against the pale gold. "How about sex? What if I asked you to fuck me right now?"

"I am your slave," Jessica repeated tentatively. "My body is yours to do with as you wish."

"Anything I asked. Suck my cock, let me fuck you up the ass, whip you, tie you up. . . anything."

"Yes, master," Jessica replied quietly.

"I see." I put the goblet down, cold rage running through my veins. "Jessica," I said suddenly, "take one of the daggers from my display cabinet and stab yourself in the heart."

Jessica blanched. "Master?"

"I'm displeased with you. I want you to kill yourself now. You say your body is mine to do with as I wish. I want to destroy it." I said harshly.

Jessica hesitated for a moment, her initial look of incomprehension fading to bewildered shock, then to desperate questioning, and, finally, a kind of sad resignation. "As you wish. It has been a pleasure serving you, master, and I'm sorry that I could not serve you better." She curtseyed deeply, turned to where the mahogany case where I displayed a collection of antique bladed weapons, opened the case with shaking hands.

She hesitated with one hand on the hilt of a dagger, turned to look at me over her shoulder, a pleading look in her eyes.

I gazed back at her levelly with a look of utter disdain, and she seemed to fold inwards, as if the life had gone out of her. She drew the blade from its sheath and raised it to her chest, her hands shaking.

I took another sip of my wine.

"Goodbye, master," Jessica whispered. She placed the point between her breasts, took a deep breath and closed her eyes tightly, nerving herself up for the final thrust.

I stared at her numbly over the rim of my glass.

A tiny drop of dark red blood welled up under the point of the blade.

Adrenaline and fear coursed through my veins, sobering me up in an instant. "NO!" I shouted, rising from my chair, the gold goblet clattering to the ground, spilling dark wine over the hardwood floor.

Jessica hesitated.

I tackled her and she went limp, the knife falling from her nerveless grip and bouncing off the polished oak boards. "Damn it, what the hell do you think you're doing!" I screamed, pinning her wrists to the ground.

"I am your slave," she whimpered in reply. "My body belongs to you. . ."

". . . don't give me that! You were really going to kill yourself?!" I howled, in a near panic.

"My master gave me an order," she sobbed, a tear streaming down her face. "I must obey. . ."

"Well, forget it!" I shouted. "Ignore that last order, for God's sake!!!"

"As my master wishes," Jessica replied.

Why was it so hard to breathe? I rolled off her, heart pounding, resting my forehead against my knee. "Christ," I whispered. "Christ. . ." I slammed the back of my head against the wall over and over again, punching the wall over and over, screaming obscenities at the top of my breath as Jessica cringed in terror just inches away.

Eventually, I ran out of steam and calmed down, curling up in my favorite chair and staring silently into the fireplace. I sat there for a long time, shivering in cold and fear, more than a bit shaken by what had just happened. Until that moment, I don't think I'd realized how far my control over Jessica really extended. "I belong to you, master," she had said, over and over and over, but the full implications of those words had not quite hit me until she'd placed the point of my dagger over her heart and said her farewells.

Her life, her body, perhaps even her soul, were all in my hands to do with as I wished. At a word from me, she would perform the most degrading of acts, wait upon my every whim, even destroy herself if I so asked her to do so in a fit of depressed, self-destructive anger.

After all, she was a chimera, and I was a human. What else could she do?

What else indeed. . .

"Jessica," I said, gesturing to where she sat huddled in the corner, looking scared and miserable. "Come here."

She looked up at me hesitantly, her big, green eyes wide with fear. "I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. Come here," I repeated.

As she leaned down, I reached up and undid the latch on her slave collar. The heavy leather strap came off easily, and I threw it into the corner, where it clattered against the wall and fell to the floor. Jessica stepped back in surprise, one hand to her throat, her tail curling around her, and she ducked her chin down a bit to cover her bare neck. It was as if she'd finally realized she was naked, or perhaps, that she hadn't actually felt naked until I'd removed her collar.

I didn't care. I knew what I was doing.

"I'm sorry," I said. "You're free."

To my surprise, Jessica burst into tears again. She cried for a long, long time, until I finally decided to leave her alone and went to bed.

• * -

We went before the judge the very next morning, where I handed her my ring and signed the letter of manumission that said that one Miss Jessica Elwood, once slave to one Mister Jonathan Hawkins, was now a free woman, with all the responsibilities and rights of a citizen of the Empire. It was hardly enough to repay her for what I had done, I mused sourly, as the judge handed her the papers in their dark blue portfolio. If I'd been her husband, and Jessica my wife, my behavior could have gotten me thrown in prison, and a judge would have ordered me never to see her again under the direst of penalties.

Of course, some little part of me said, if I'd been her husband, and Jessica my wife, none of this would ever have happened in the first place.

Lady Harrington, my old governess, had been in need of a maidservant for her eldest daughter for quite some time, so I sent Jessica to her with a glowing letter of recommendation and a generous severance gift: the equivalent of one year's pay for a household servant. Remiel agreed to drop by from time to time and see how she was doing. I didn't dare: in fact, I made sure never to step foot in that section of town ever again. It was better that way, I decided.

I spent the next year in a kind of private hell. Everywhere I went, I saw her lovely face, accusing me, mocking me, hating me. The very sight of a chimera in servant's livery was enough to send me running away in a panic, and like I'd said before, they were everywhere in the city nowadays. I couldn't look at a slave collar again without feeling a sick sensation deep in the pit of my stomach, and more than once, I found myself having to duck into a nearby alleyway, vomiting my guts out, when I saw a master rebuking his slave in public for some perceived or actual slight.

I hired a cleaning lady. A few days later, I fired her and hired a male housekeeper to come by and clean up every week or so. Eventually, I fired him too: the house was too clean, and the very cleanliness seemed to remind me of her. I began purposefully leaving stacks of dirty dishes in the sink, throwing my clothing over the backs of furniture, anything to make the place dirtier and more messy.

Things got better eventually. They always do. The worst of the guilt and shame passed eventually, leaving a sullen, empty feeling in my heart that slowly faded to a dull ache.

I drank quite a bit. It didn't help, but it was something to do.

Then there came a day about a year later when Alistair came to the club with a black eye and several parallel scratches down one cheek. "What the heck happened?" Remiel asked in shock.

"You know that Jessica Elwood girl? The one who used to be Jonathan's slave?" Alistair asked.

Remiel glanced over at me, but I was nursing my third drink that night, pretending not to hear while hanging on every word. "Well. . . yes," Remiel replied cautiously.

"Girl's got a mean left hook," Alistair said sullenly.

Remiel glanced over at me, suddenly seeming really worried. "Alistair, I don't think this is a good. . ."

"She was working for Lady Harrington, and good lord, that ass is so damn fine, I just had to have her," Alistair went on. "So anyways, I caught her behind the stables and was giving her my usual once over, and all of a sudden she just hauls off and clocks me. Kicked me in the nadgers, too. Whatever. I managed to get her fired, at least: told Lady Harrington I'd been attacked by her maid and I wanted the girl disciplined." He pfehed. "Serves her right, the bitch."

I rose out of my chair, silently walked over to Alistair, and, very calmly, punched him in the face as hard as I could.

It took three men to drag me off him in the end. If you look closely, you can still see the dent where his head hit the ground and I started punching his teeth out of his mouth.

• * -

There was a message for me the next morning from the Director. "I need to talk to you face to face. Come by my home tonight at 7 pm."

It was a bad sign. Ellsworthy was the type of boss who barely said a word to you if you were doing okay, was happy just to let you do your own thing at your own pace, so the fact that he wanted to talk was ominous, to say the least.

If I'd been a little more astute, I would have wondered why he wanted me to come to his home, of all places.

Ellsworthy met me at the door himself, poured me a brandy, and we spent the first half hour or so just talking about business. Everything was fine, things were going great, the field operatives were all doing well, thanks for asking, and so on and so forth. Small talk.

I was finishing up my second glass when the Director pulled a letter from his desk. "Well, I received a letter this morning from Lady Brookside informing me that I was employing an uncivilized brute who had assaulted her son without provocation," he said, putting on a pair of reading glasses (more for show than anything else: Ellsworthy had near-perfect vision). "She is threatening to withdraw her support from the Starlight Foundation if I do not immediately discipline the party responsible for the altercation at the Anacraeon Club last night." He took off the reading glasses and looked at me curiously. "A certain Mr. Jonathan Hawkins. Sounds familiar, no?"

I stared into my drink in silence.

"So, was there any reason why you gave Alistair a black eye?" Ellsworthy went on.

"He already had the one and I thought he'd look better with a matching set, your Grace," I said sullenly. "And after that, I figured I should do something about his teeth. He has too many of them, after all."

Ellsworthy sighed at my rebellious attitude, folded the letter up in thirds. "Mmmmm. . . In any case, I let Lady Brookside know that she is a tiresome old bore and that she can take her money and stuff it between her ears, where there is undoubtedly plenty of room. The Foundation shall get by without her." The Director tossed the letter into the fire. "Still, I've known you for several years, Jonathan, and I am a bit surprised that you would do such a thing. You are not a violent man, after all," Ellsworthy continued. "So. Tell me. What is really bothering you?"

"You're a telepath. Why don't you tell me what's wrong?" I said snidely.

"I could," Ellsworthy replied calmly, "but then again, it's not about me, is it?" He leaned his chin against his steepled fingertips, waiting patiently. "Sometimes, it helps to put things into words, you know."

"He had no right to say that about Jessica," I blurted out at last.

Ellsworthy raised an eyebrow. "Your former slave girl? Interesting. So you mean to tell me that all this was over a slave I gave you whom you didn't even want? Whom you gave away?"

"I didn't want to give her away!" I snapped in reply. "I had to!"

Ellsworthy just stared at me in silence.

I felt my hands clench tightly into fists as I went on. "It. . . it just wasn't right! I was such a terrible master. I treated her so horribly, and she was so beautiful, so intelligent, so talented. . . Letting her go was the only moral thing to do. Wasn't it?"

"I don't know. Was it?" the Director asked, steepling his fingers.

"It had to be! Someone like that doesn't deserve to be a slave!" I shouted

"We are all slaves," the Director said.

I looked at him in surprise.

"Not all of us as literally as Jessica was, no, but we are all slaves to something or another. An ideal. A goal. A dream. A concept. I, for example, am a slave to the Starlight Foundation, to which I am at once founder, leader and servant. Your friend Alistair is slave to his own lusts. There are those who are slaves to money, to liquor, to power, to religion, to pleasure, to their art.

"It is, very simply, in our nature that all of us, eventually, find ourselves in servitude to something or another eventually, no matter how much we may claim to value freedom. It is what we choose to enslave ourselves to that defines us. In the end, if we choose to enslave ourselves to something worthy, there is no shame in it. At least, that is what I think."

Silence.

"Do you know what you are a slave to, my friend?" Ellsworthy said, after a long pause.

"To you, your Grace. I am always your devoted servant," I replied quickly.

Ellsworthy laughed. "Mmmmm. . . No, that's not it. You work for me, but you do not enslave yourself to my whim. It's loneliness, Jonathan. You've enslaved yourself to your own loneliness."

I had no reply.

"You live alone in a house meant for a large family," he went on quietly. "Your friends, such as they are, know almost nothing about you. I doubt that any of them could say what your mother's name is. I know I could not."

"Susan, your Grace," I replied a bit peevishly.

"My point is, Jonathan, you've built walls around your heart that are so high and so steep that no one has ever been able to break them. Perhaps it makes you feel safe. I don't know: after all, I'm just your boss, not a therapist. The effects, however, are obvious. You've lived like a leaf in the wind, tossed from one place to another, never rooting yourself in anything, never allowing yourself to be overwhelmed by something else.

"Jessica, I think, nearly changed that, if only a little bit," he went on. "To be master to someone is, in a way, to be enslaved to them, except that instead of enslavement, we call it responsibility. It means the same thing, really: you have duties, obligations to the other person that you, personally, must see to. Except that when it comes to mastery, it is not you who will suffer if you neglect those duties. It requires a special kind of courage to trust yourself with someone else's fate, and a special kind of trust to allow your fate to rest in someone else's hands. Do you understand?"

"I. . . I think I do. But I somehow don't think that anyone else would use the word slavery for what you describe," I replied irritably.

"Then what would they call it, my friend?" Ellsworthy asked, smiling like a cat who had just devoured the family canary.

"I think they'd call it lo. . . lo. . ." my voice trailed off.

Silence. Ellsworthy just stared at me for a long moment with that enigmatic Mona Lisa smile of his quirking his lips, just waiting for me to go on.

"Love," I whispered, at last. "They would call it love."

Ellsworthy shrugged. "Your words. Not mine."

I swallowed hard. "I've been an idiot," I whispered.

"Yes. But that is immaterial now." The Director stood and looked at his watch. "Mmmmmmm. . . oh dear, look at the time. I can't ask you to go home now. I'll have someone prepare a room for the night." He clapped his hands.

I glanced at the clock, was about to point out that it was, in fact, barely eight in the evening, when the door opened and She walked into the room.

"Jessica?" I breathed in astonishment. She gave me a cool glance, looked away, as if not wanting to even look at me. I didn't blame her.

Ellsworthy grinned mischievously. "I happened to be near the Harrington estate last night and found a perfectly capable maid just wandering around without a home. Of course, I took her in, as I'm a sucker when it comes to strays. Miss Elwood," he went on, "Mister Hawkins will be spending the night here. Please see him to the guest room and make sure that he is made comfortable. I leave him in your capable hands."

Jessica curtseyed deeply. "Of course, your Grace. Mister Hawkins?" She turned and led me down the hall in silence.

I gave Ellsworthy a despairing glance. The Director just smiled and gave me a little wave of his fingertips. "Good night, Jonathan," he said, flashing me that enigmatic Mona Lisa smile of his. "Sleep well."

• * -

We didn't say a single word to each other the entire way down the hall. What could I say? The last time we had seen each other, I had been her master, and she had been my slave. I had ordered her to die, and she'd nearly obeyed. The magnitude of my sin humbled me.

How does a murderer ask his victim to forgive him?

He can't. It's that simple.

"We're here, sir," Jessica said quietly, opening the bedroom door. "Is there anything more you require?"

Yes, Jessica. There is. I want you to forgive me for what I did to you when I was your master. I want you to forgive me for treating you like an object, like livestock, for being such an asshole to such a wonderful person.

"Nothing more, Miss Elwood," I said. "Good night."

"Good night, Mister Hawkins," Jessica replied. She curtseyed deeply to me and turned to leave, the silver tag on her slave collar reflecting bright orange in the firelight. . .

. . . slave collar?

"Jessica, wait!" I called out.

She stopped in the doorway, turned to look at me. Her eyes, I noticed, were cool and calm as I reached out and fingered the tag on her collar. A familiar bird-and-tree sigil was engraved in the shining metal, I noticed, the exact match to a ring that I had handed over to her at the manumission hearing.

"Why?" I asked, after a long time.

Jessica looked up at me, and I could see a bit of her dispassionate façade starting to break away. "I. . . I don't know," she said softly. "It just felt right. I wanted to do it."

It is what we choose to enslave ourselves to that defines us.

My mouth felt like it was filled with cotton. "Jessica. . ."

"I'm sorry, Mister Hawkins," she said quietly, her equilibrium returning. "I shouldn't have upset you. I'll take it off right away."

I didn't reply with words, just reached out and touched her cheek, cradling her face in the palm of my hand. Jessica closed her eyes, just drinking in my touch, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. I could feel her pulse under my fingertips, right at the base of her chin. Her heart was pounding, fluttering like a frightened bird as her warm breath caressed my wrist.

It was all the answer I need.

"How long?" I asked, at last. "How long were you in love with me?"

"I don't know," Jessica replied at last. "I certainly didn't at first, but as time went on. . . You were kind to me, and decent, and always treated me with respect, even though I was a slave. At first I was afraid that it was just one of those things, you know where the slave just starts thinking they're in love with their master, but it's not real. . . like with hostages. Then I realized it wasn't. That I'd really, truly fallen in love." Her eyes closed, and tears streamed down her face. ". . . and that just made me even more afraid."

"Jessica. . ."

". . . the night that you asked me to come to you and take off my clothes. . . I was afraid of you, yes, but somehow, I felt excited too. Because I'd loved you for so long and I wanted to make you happy. I wanted to serve you in every way that I could, to let you take me for your own pleasure. But then. . ." Her eyes filled with tears. "How could you do that!?" she cried. "How could you ask me to do such an awful thing, then send me away like that?" She closed her eyes. "I trusted you. . . and you hurt me."

I felt the tears rise. "Jessica, I. . . I'm so sorry," I whispered. "I was an idiot. I was angry, I was tired, I was depressed, I was drunk. I. . . nothing can excuse what I did that night, and I've hated myself for it ever since then. I couldn't even ask you to forgive me, because I was too ashamed of what I did.

"Maybe I wanted to destroy something beautiful that night. Maybe what I wanted to hear was that you weren't just a slave to me, that someone out there loved me even though the person I'd loved had abandoned me. That it wasn't just because I owned you that you stayed with me, that you would have stayed even if you were free, of your own free will. I wanted someone to love me, not just to serve me, and love is something that you can't force someone else into. It's not something a master can ask of a slave.

"There is something I've wanted to tell you for a long time. . . something I was holding back for so long," I went on. "I should have told you this long ago, but I didn't. Maybe I was too proud, or too afraid, or just too stupid to do so, but I should have been honest with you and told you this a long time ago."

I looked down into eyes and did the bravest thing I'd ever done in my entire life.

"Jessica," I said. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I love you."

It was like a dam breaking. She surged upwards like a breaking wave, kissing me frantically, her lips pressed tightly against mine, her hot breath mingling with mine, her arms thrown around my neck. Buttons popped off the back of her frock as my impatient hands tore at her clothes, throwing her dress to the floor as I caressed her lovely body, her soft fur warm against my skin. The smell of her hair was like an intoxicating fragrance, the touch of her hands raised goosebumps all over my body, and I lifted her into my arms, still kissing her deeply, my tongue questing against hers, thrilling at the feel of her wet warmth.

We tumbled into bed with the desperate energy of two long years of smoldering frustration and self-restraint flaring into brilliant flame.

• * -

Now I bet you're expecting me to go step by step and tell you about every moment of what happened next in extreme, titillating detail, right while boasting of my own sexual prowess, yes? Well, I'll just have you know that certain things are not meant to be shared with outsiders. After all, a gentleman never tells. Granted, I'm no gentleman, but it was also a bit complicated and confusing at the time, and I'm not sure I remember it all correctly. In any case, you can probably fill in the blanks on your own.

But one thing I do remember is lying between her legs, feeling her soft fur against my skin, her warm moistness tight around my manhood as I thrust into her over and over, and as I came up from kissing her neck and face, I could see her smiling radiantly, her eyes alight with a transcendent joy born of more than mere physical pleasure. That smile, and the realization that something I did was making her so blissfully happy, was what finally tipped me over the edge, and I let out an explosive gasp of wordless pleasure as I spurted my hot seed into her womb, which tipped her over the edge as well, her smile turning into a loud moan of pleasure, her warmth clamping down around me hard as her nails ran roughly down my back, our two bodies shuddering simultaneously as we clutched each other close, as if trying to join not just our bodies, but our hearts, our minds, our very souls.

• * -

"I guess things just got a bit more complicated, didn't they?" I said afterwards.

Jessica lay in my arms and just smiled sleepily. "It's a good kind of complicated, though. The fun kind," she murmured.

"I suppose." I kissed her tenderly over each eyelid. "So. . . what do we do now?"

"I think I should begin by turning in my resignation to the Director," Jessica replied. "I can't work for both of you at the same time, after all."

"Are you sure you want to do that? You're sure it won't get weird or something?" I asked.

"What do you expect to do without me? You can barely make your own breakfast. I'm surprised you've lived this long without me without starving to death," Jessica teased.

"I ate a lot of fast food," I admitted sheepishly, "and the dishes are starting to pile up a bit in the sink."

"See what I mean? I'd better get back to taking care of you fast, or you'll never get anything done," Jessica said, pouting with mock annoyance.

"You're too good for me," I sighed. "I don't deserve you."

"No, you don't," Jessica said, kissing me gently on my cheeks and running her hands up and down my sides. "But you can have me anyway."

I kissed her back, stroking her firm, round buttocks as I pulled her close to me. "I can, hmmm? Body and mind?"

"As much as I'll let you," she said softly, nibbling at my ear. "No more."

"Then I've got everything I could ever ask for."

"Can I ask you for a favor, then?" Jessica asked.

"Anything you want."

She smiled and leaned out of the bed, rummaging around her clothing for a bit.

I raised an eyebrow in surprise as I saw what she handed to me. "Are you sure?" I asked.

"Just for fun," Jessica pleaded. "Please?"

"All right," I sighed. "But we're going to have to come up with some rules for this to keep things from getting too weird, okay? We don't want a repeat of last time."

"Sounds fine with me," Jessica said, grinning happily.

I reached up and fastened the collar around her neck, then took the ring from her and put it on my right ring finger. Jessica took my hand in hers and kissed my hand tenderly.

"What is your bidding, my master?" she asked, eyes twinkling mischievously.

• * -

Ellsworthy, when he found out that Jessica was leaving his service, was strangely understanding. "I guess the old saying about loving something and letting it go is true after all," he said cryptically. He sent her on her way with a very generous severance package, which Jessica used to buy her own apartment near my house. We agreed it was important for her to have her own place when she came to work for me, a place she can call her own, outside of my home.

She doesn't use it much, though.

Don't get the wrong idea: Jessica is still a freedman. I owned a slave once, and I don't think I'll ever own one again. Having such total control over another person is a bit frightening, to tell the truth. I can barely keep my own life straight, so how can I trust myself to be responsible all the time for someone who is willing to entrust themselves to me so completely?

On the other hand, there's nothing wrong with a little make-believe. I've still got the collar and the ring, and once in a while, Jessica asks me to break them out again, for old time's sake. I don't mind. Because the truth is, despite the fact that she sometimes calls me master in the bedroom, and plays at submitting herself to my every whim and desire, now she does so because she wants to, and if I go too far, she can end it all with a word. Which makes it a lot better, if you ask me. As Ellsworthy might say, it's not just Jessica who's enslaved to me. Now, it goes both ways. Both of us are slaves to the other, devoted to each other's pleasure, no matter what it looks like at first glance.

It's kind of complicated. But complicated in a good way. A fun way, as Jessica would say.

Which reminds me - I've got some preparations to make. Miss Elwood will see you to the door. Come by again if you're in the area. You're welcome any time.

• FIN -