Foster Care: A Marketplace Tale, Part 3
{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 2, Bette rescues Kelly, the property of a Silicon Valley billionaire who’s retired to Costa Rica and gone off the deep end. She starts to become committed to Kelly — and in Part 2, we learn just how deep that commitment goes. }
Maybe it was the hockey, but Kelly seemed to improve dramatically over the next few days, enough so that I began to train her to do some simple errands. This morning we go across the street to the depannéur, where I show her which daily paper I took, what brand of coffee and juice I like.
Watching her buying the items at the counter, I enjoy seeing how the gruff, sixty-something owner, who never gives me anything more than my change, succumb to Kelly’s effortless, artless charm. It’s like walking around town with my own personal Audrey Hepburn.
We move on to my drycleaner, where I acted pretty much like a mime, and the clerk gave me the You Do Not Speak French I Cannot See You treatment. I sigh, determined to wait him out, and fish out my phone to check my email.
“Bonjour, j’aimerais faire nettoyer ce costume, s’il vous plait. Il y aun tache de cafe sur la manche de la veste, la, vous voyes?”
I look up. That’s Kelly! Speaking French!
“Oui je vois. J’enprends note. Voici votre ticket. Ce sera prêt vendredi apres midi.”
Out on the street I pilot her around the corner into a cobblestoned alleyway and push her face against the cool granite of the building. I swat her ass with my gloved hand.
“That’s for not telling me you speak French, you little minx. If there’s anything else I need to know I expect you to be forthcoming, do you understand?”
She nods, making that face people make when they’re trying not to smile and failing.
***************
If Kelly is well enough to sass me a little, then I figure she’s well enough to leave the apartment on her own, and maybe even for a bit more.
“I want you to go to the shops downtown and pick out some clothes for yourself,” I say.
“What would you like me to wear?” Kelly asks.
“Do I look like I dispense girly fashion advice?” I joke.
While she’s out, I take out my toolbox and find an extension cord for the electric drill. I drill a hole in the baseboard next to the little slave pallet where Kelly sleeps next to my bed, and install a hook. I install another, shoulder high, next to the front door. And a third I drill right into the wooden upright of my favorite leather armchair. Then I flip open my pocketknife and slit the tape on a cardboard box that had been delivered earlier that day. Inside is a simple dog leash — six feet of shiny chain links and a leather loop for a handle. Underneath some packing peanuts is a simple leather dog collar.
I knew plenty of people who go in for elaborate, custom-made collars. But I’ve always liked the utilitarianism of repurposing an actual dog collar — as much as I adore giving the right girl some bling, I also want a girl who will humble herself to wear a dog collar for me if that’s what I want.
I clip the collar to the end of the lead and hang the leash by the handle on the hook beside the coatrack.
*********
Kelly comes back with a profusion of bags full of a fresh but simple wardrobe for herself. She also comes back with a few things I hadn’t asked for, including some fresh flowers and a bottle of decent Bordeaux.
Diana taught me to encourage this kind of improvisation in a slave, mainly by being so brilliant at anticipating needs I didn’t even know I had. As I watch Kelly flit around the apartment I feel a slicing pang of loss; for a minute I missed Diana so much tears stung my eyes. I face away from Kelly as she works and take a deep breath. Diana doesn’t want my tears, and Kelly doesn’t need them.
I sit down in my favorite chair and flip on the TV for the pregame. It’s the third night of a three-game series with the Bruins, and thus far we’ve watched the whole thing together, me in my big leather armchair, her sitting beside me, naked on a cushion on the floor.
She trots up behind me and hands me a glass of the Bordeaux, and seats herself on the little cushion by my feet.
She’s wearing a Habs hockey jersey, and nothing else.
This is so much better than nakedness for me. I feel instantly, dizzyingly aroused. The tips of the laces at the throat dangle against her breasts, and I can see through the jersey that her nipples are hard.
I sip the Bordeaux through the first period, and the Habs start to really get their game on in the second.
“Do you know what a power play is?” I ask, as I slip my hand down into the open neck of her jersey.
“No,” she gasps, as I take one of her nipples between my thumb and index fingers and squeeze.
“It’s when one team has a player in the penalty box. The other team has a numerical advantage. A team can have as many as two players in the box,” I say, slipping my other hand into her jersey and finding her other nipple to give it a vicious squeeze. “With two players in the penalty box they can’t possibly fight back,” I say, squeezing harder. Kelly’s hips thrust forward and her head is thrown back on my lap now, her lips parted. I ease off on the sensation and her eyes open, still unfocused.
“My glass is empty,” I say. Her lips are so close. I still haven’t kissed her yet.
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 .
