Foster Care: A Marketplace Tale, Part 7

{Foster Care is fanfiction based on Laura Antoniou’s Marketplace series, a fictional world in which there is a large and secret market for consensual slaves who serve their owners under contract. In Part 6, we get to the root of the intrigue that threatens Kelly’s life, and here in the conclusion, Part 7, we learn Bette and Kelly’s fate. }

About a week later, I get a call from Chris.

“There are some legal papers you probably want to see — contracts and stuff, for Kelly and for other slaves. I figured they’d be useful for review before the disciplinary hearing,” Chris says. “They’re at a lawyer’s office up there near you. Do you want me to have them messengered over?”

“What’s the address?”

Chris gives me an address on Rue St. Sulpice.

“Nah, that’s only a few blocks from here. I’ll pick them up myself, I could use the fresh air.”

“Be careful,” Chris says.

“They’re not after me,” I say. “But I’ll be careful anyway.”

I hang up the phone and look across the loft into the kitchen where Kelly was making my breakfast. She was in a robe and not an apron — come to think of it, she hadn’t been naked outside the bedroom since the bodyguards had moved in — but that didn’t seem to matter to my libido. As I watch her walk across the kitchen, I feel that familiar stirring.

I sip my coffee and let my mind drift. I imagine bending her over the counter and taking her from behind with my strap-on, fucking her roughly with my hand fisted in her hair, pressing her cheek against the counter as she moans…

“Excuse me?” Kelly says, holding a cloth napkin in her hand. I lean back in the chair, allowing her to spread it across my lap.

“This looks great, Kelly, thank you.”

Kelly sits down at the table across from me as I eat; Kelly eats only after I finish, unless I feed her from my own plate.

“I’ll be out doing an errand later today — just picking up some papers. Just so you know, before I return I’ll be texting you and I expect you to greet me by the door.”

“But…” Kelly points in the direction of the guest room, “What about…”

“They’re Marketplace, Kelly. Do you think they haven’t seen a naked slave before?”

Kelly gulps audibly. I stretch my hand across the table and squeeze hers. “We can’t stop living our lives because of this. We have to go on. We can’t let Negel win.”

Kelly nods, her eyes brimming.

“More coffee, please.” I don’t need more coffee, really, but I want to give Kelly a moment to calm down. There is something I want to ask her, a difficult question.

When she returns to the table and sits down, I say: “Kelly, the other slaves at MacFarlane’s ran away. Why didn’t you run?”

Kelly looked uncomfortable and slid back in her chair. “I couldn’t,” she says. “I was too hurt to run. I didn’t really even understand what was happening when the police came in – I didn’t know about what John had done.”

“I don’t understand. It wasn’t because you were trying to escape? He beat you before the shooting?”

“Yes.”

“Did he beat anyone else?”

“No. That’s why they got away — they were able to get away between the time Jack left and the police showed up.”

“Why did he beat you and not the others?”

Kelly looks down at her lap. “I…he beat me because I had sex.”

“But…the reports about MacFarlane’s house was that he had half a dozen or more pleasure slaves and he encouraged them to have sex with each other.”

“That’s true — but I wasn’t a pleasure slave. I was his personal secretary. He caught me having sex with one of the others.”

“He didn’t want you having sex with a man?”

“I wasn’t having sex with a man. I was having sex with one of the pleasure slaves. A woman.”

She gives a hiccupping gasp. “He didn’t…he didn’t want anyone to touch what was his, he said. He beat me to make an example of me. And then. The others. The men, he had them…I’m property, so I’m not sure I can say they raped me…”

I get up and come around the table. I hand her my napkin to wipe her eyes and put my hand on her shoulder.

“Do you understand that none of that is ever going to happen as long as you’re with me?”

Kelly nods, unable to speak for a moment.

“As long as I’m with you,” she says.

*******************

It’s a crisp, clear, cold day in Montreal, and they are running out of places to put the snow. It’s piled in the Place des Armes and in the square in front of the Cathedral. I round one of the giant piles to get to the door of Rouen & Marsan. I pick up the papers and ask if there’s someplace I can sit to review them. A secretary leads me to a conference room, and I open up the blue-backed packets of paper.

As I read them, I feel a sinking sensation. I’d been throwing around words like “belong” and “ownership” when I shouldn’t have. Kelly was not my property — even though I was acting like she was and she was very much playing along. I did not own her, and I could still lose her. If I did, my playacting at ownership would be, in retrospect, enormously cruel.

I ask a few questions of one of the lawyers about the contract, but not too many. My mouth is dry and my heart is heavy.

I go outside and stand on the sidewalk in the sunshine. I have my phone in my hand, ready to text Kelly to have her greet me at the door, just as if she is mine to keep.

I know I shouldn’t do it, but I do it anyway. Even if I only get to experience Kelly this way once — even if she is taken from me — I want to know.

I want to know what it feels like to own her.

HOME IN :15, I text.

*************

I greet Pierre at the entrance to the building and take the stairs up to the apartment. I put the key in the lock and take a deep breath to compose myself.

I open the door and shed my coat and scarf as if she isn’t there at all.

I step forward, putting one of my boots, cold and wet with melting snow, right between her thighs, but not quite touching them. I lean over her to hang my coat, her face only inches from the zipper on my pants.

I stand there, pick up the mail off the side table, flip through it, rifle through a magazine.

She’s being so good. Even when one of those infernal blow-in subscription postcards falls out of the magazine and drifted to the floor, she doesn’t make a move, keeps her eyes lowered, chin up, shoulders back.

Just as a challenge I brush the fly of my slacks against her lips, but she holds her composure. I’m turned on as all hell, but my composure isn’t at issue.

I step back, tossing the mail on the table, and take the leash off the hook and walk into the apartment.

The days are short in December in Montreal, and though it’s only 5:30, it’s already full dark. A few lamps are lit but the interior of the loft is still dim.

I sit in my leather armchair and hang the leather loop of the leash’s handle on the hook. Kelly folds herself smoothly onto the small meditation cushion beside my chair, still being silent until spoken to.

“Kneel up, please,” I say. Kelly kneels with her body straight, and looks right at me. “How are you, Kelly?” I ask. Slowly. Drawing it out.

“Wonderful, boss. Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure, my dear. Now, go fetch me a drink, I want to watch the Habs pregame.” I unsnap the lead from her collar to let her go to the sideboard. “I’m going to go upstairs to change. When you’re done fixing my drink, come back to the cushion and snap the leash back on to your collar and kneel.”

“Yes, boss.”

******************

I didn’t really need to change.

There was something else I had in mind. Taking my keyring from my pocket, I find the small key to the wardrobe in the corner of my bedroom. I open it, and within were all the things I hadn’t even looked at since Diana’s death.

Cuffs. Neatly coiled rope. Floggers and paddles and canes.

And in the back, on a peg, my harness, and beside it, a few silicone cocks of varying sizes.

I choose my favorite, a black one, kind of sleek with a nice curve and a big head.

I step into the harness and adjust it without looking; even after all this time, the buttery black leather straps were utterly familiar.

I look at myself in the mirror and gave my cock a quick stroke to be sure it’s seated securely in the harness. Then I pull up my underwear and pants, tucking the cock in sideways before I zip up. Looking in the mirror now, I have a large, noticeable, and notably cock shaped-bulge in my pants. “Check it out, Daddy’s got a hard-on,” I say, chuckling to myself.

I go back down into the dim living room, where Kelly is sitting on a cushion beside my chair. Whoever trained Pierre and Jacques trained them to be very discreet — unless they were working out front, I barely know they’re here. When they aren’t working, they keep to themselves on the second floor, where they have a bedroom with an attached bath.

I sit in my chair and sip my drink. “This is very good,” I say.

I relax and watch the game, taking pleasure in “mansitting” — you know, when some dude’s on the subway and sits thoughtlessly with his knees so far apart that he’s effectively taking up the seats on either side of him? Of course, in my own home, I’m not impeding anyone’s access to a place to sit. But I enjoy the masculine-feeling sensation of allowing myself to take up space, not crossing my legs or folding into myself to be smaller as so many women do.

I’m not trans — unlike my trans friends who always felt like there was something not right, I’ve always felt at home in my body. But that doesn’t stop me from being really turned on by wearing my cock, by seeing that big bulge between my legs.

I rattle the cubes in my empty glass. “Just seltzer and lime this time, sweetheart,” I say.

As she returns, I spread my knees and put my hand on my bulge, slowly stroking and squeezing it. As Kelly puts my glass on the wide wooden arm of the chair, she notices it — the big, hard cock-shaped outline in my pants. She breathes in sharply. Still bent at the waist, she lifts her eyes to meet mine.

“Down,” I say, pointing at the floor between my knees. She kneels obediently between my boots.

“Suck my cock,” I say.

Kelly leans forward, her naked skin brushing the denim of my jeans. She unbuckles my belt, unsnaps, unzips.

I can barely breathe as she slips her hand into my pants, brushing my pubic curls with her fingertips as she grasps my cock and pulls it out. I slide down in the chair, pushing my hips forward to the edge, and let my head fall back on the soft leather of the chair.

Just because I don’t have sensation in my cock doesn’t mean I don’t have plenty of sensation between my ears. God, I love sinking my cock into her mouth.

I look down at her and I can’t stifle a moan at seeing her wrap her lips around my shaft.

I’ve had some submissives that mailed it in when it came to sucking dyke cock — they figure, “She can’t feel it, so why do I have to do a good job?” But Kelly seems as turned on by this as I am, sliding her mouth down over my dick and back up, licking and sucking on the head in a way that drives me insane.

“Get up here,” I growl. Kelly climbs into my lap, straddling my thighs. I reach down and hold the base of my cock as she positions herself.

Oh god. She slides down on me and I have a sudden, urgent need to be wearing less clothing, to have more of my skin touching hers. I reach between us and rip open my snap-front shirt and unhook my bra — I don’t wear anything but front-hooks.

“Ah,” I gasp as I come skin to skin with her, pressing her to me. There’s no such thing as close enough now. I reach around and grab her luscious ass, rocking her cunt back and forth on my cock. She clings to me, her arms around my neck and her hands in my hair. I slide my hands up her back and lean her back into my arms, taking one erect nipple into my mouth, sucking, kissing, one and then the other, reveling in her until she cries out. The game flickers behind her, forgotten except where it traces her beautiful outline. I bite her shoulder, her neck, anything I can reach. I want her covered in marks showing that she’s mine in the morning.

Fuck, I can’t take this anymore. I lean her backward, managing to stay with her and not drop her on the floor. I scramble out of my jeans and boots and sink balls deep into her cunt.

I waited so long to kiss Kelly, and now I can’t get enough of her mouth. I could kiss her for a year. I fuck her, pounding her. “Please,” she groans into my mouth, “please, please, please.”

“Too hard?” I gasp.

“Oh, God, no,” Kelly says, her back arched, head thrown back. “Please don’t stop. Please, fuck me, give me your cock.”

I lift one of her legs over my shoulder and fuck her hard. With one hand I reach up to a side table drawer. In it is a bottle of lube and a small bullet vibe.

I reach down and press it against her clit as I turn it on.

“OHHHHHH,” she cries.

“Are you going to come all over my cock like the little slut you are?” I say.

Kelly doesn’t answer; she’s arched, mouth open, coming helplessly and so powerfully she tries to turn her body away from it, to flee from it; I pin her to the carpet beneath me as she holds her breath, taking only tiny gasps until a keening wail escapes from her.

She collapses on the floor like a rag doll. I roll her on top of me and hold her tightly in my arms, her head on my chest. I feel her heave a sob and hide her face against my shoulder.

“Ohhh,” I say. “Oh, baby. It’s okay. Let it out. Let it all out.” I rock her back and forth on my chest until she’s cried out. I reach to one side for the shirt I’d ripped off and thrown to floor earlier and use it to mop her face and my chest.

“You okay?” I ask.

Kelly nods against my chest. “Yes,” she says. “Very okay.”

**************

ONE YEAR LATER

In the end, the whole drama with Negel wound down without a big climax. The disciplinary hearing that I dreaded because it brought up a chance that Kelly would be remanded to Negel never happened. Negel settled, giving up nearly everything as part of a deal that guaranteed him one thing: continued access to the Marketplace.

I would have been happy to see Negel banished from The Marketplace permanently. But without a training house or the authority to represent buyers, Negel’s influence — and his ability to harm — is far smaller than it was a year ago.

I did keep Kelly; in fact, I did more than keep her. A year to the day her foster term began, I did more than take ownership of her.

Reader, I married her.

We still live in Montreal, and Kelly is expecting our first child in September.

Lily Lloyd is the author of Discipline: Adding Rules & Discipline To Your BDSM Relationship. You can find more of her writing at The Black Leather Belt.