To Command And Collar

She watched a tiny hermit crab peek out of its stolen shell and retreat again, hiding in the secure spiral. “Yeah, me too, little guy,” she whispered. Don’t get too far from safety. Falling head over heels in love with Master R would be…pretty much…the worst thing she could do.

He wanted a slave.

She hated even the word.

So. Once they pulled this off, she’d go home to Savannah. To her real life.

* * * *

Christopher Greville leaned back in his office chair as his majordomo entered. “You rang for me, sir?”

“Dutton, when I was doing the accounts, I found a large deposit into the Owner’s account.

It matches what I paid for a certain slave.”

The majordomo’s swarthy face flushed. One of the more satisfying retainers Greville employed, he handled the household accounts, which included the purchase of slaves and any equipment needed for them, like the heavy dog kennel, the whips, and gags…

Greville smiled. The new slave had arrived two days ago, a big-breasted blonde with such an ear-piercing scream that he’d been forced to gag her the first day to preserve his ears. After he and his staff had played for a while, her voice had changed to a pleasingly hoarse sound.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Dutton said. “I forgot to mention it. After much stalling, the Overseer provided a refund for the black-haired slave. The one who-” He broke off.

The one who’d dared to attack her master. To stab him. Greville ran his fingers over his gray suit, feeling the lingering tenderness in his shoulder. The memory of pain as the knife punched through his skin still brought him up short on occasion. The little fuckhole had- “Refund.” “What refund? Dahmer gave you a refund for a dead slave?”

“Oh, she didn’t die, sir. She’d bled quite a bit but was still alive when we handed her over.” Dutton’s expression faltered into worry. “You did tell us to get rid of her, sir.”

Not dead. She’d stabbed him, and she wasn’t rotting in a grave? “I meant kill her. Fuck her to death or beat her to death.” His temper surged; he forced himself to stay seated. “She’s alive?”

Dutton’s face paled, and he took a step back. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize.”

Greville stared at him and then smiled coldly. “Of course you didn’t. I obviously wasn’t clear.” He nodded a dismissal and watched the majordomo quietly leave. Incompetent bastard. He’d be six feet down and feeding the worms before this week was out.

The fuckhole was alive. Greville turned to the computer and brought up the Association numbers shared with premium buyers. After using the code to get the right phone number for the current date, he punched it in.

“Yes.” Dahmer’s number. Dahmer was a typical flunky, but an efficient one. He’d definitely improved the quality of slaves in the Southeast quadrant.

“Greville. I just discovered I received a refund from you. When I questioned my staff, I found they hadn’t disposed of the merchandise-as should have been done-but had returned it to you.”

“That’s right.”

“Their actions were incorrect. Return the merchandise to me for proper handling.” He would cut pieces from her body-a finger, an ear, a toe-and see how long he could keep her alive. Maybe let her choose which part she’d sacrifice each day. But he’d take her tongue first. And her teeth. Make a real fuckhole.

“I can’t do that. It’s been resold.”

Greville’s jaw clenched, and his voice came out raw. “Buy it back.”

A pause. “I can try. As it happens, I’m scheduled for a follow-up with the buyer tomorrow.” Dahmer sounded annoyed, as if Greville would give a damn. “But he won’t hand her over for the same price. It’ll cost you.”

He’d hear her scream. See her eyes wide with agony, fighting to escape the pain, the dismemberment. See the light go out. “Do it.”

* * * *

The day for their trip to the Shadowlands finally arrived.

Pity eating like a worm in his heart, Raoul kept his little submissive busy with cooking and cleaning. In the afternoon, he’d given her final instructions on high protocol and how an owned slave should behave in public. They’d practiced until he was satisfied, and she’d felt comfortable.

“Time to leave, Kimberly,” he called. A minute later, he heard her footsteps on the stairs.

She looked adorable. The black dress laced tightly, pressing her breasts upward, her nipples barely hidden by a froth of white lace. The ruffles at the bottom came to the crease below her ass. The token white apron covered the front. Garters held up white fishnet stockings over her lovely legs, and she wore high-heeled fetish shoes. He knew her pussy was bare, and he had the urge to toss her onto the table and take her from the rear.

Maybe he’d buy the costume from Z. But, no. She wasn’t his. The knowledge she’d be leaving soon didn’t sit well in his gut. “You look beautiful, carino.”

An attempted smile was her response. He watched as she took the final few steps to stand in front of him. Body rigid. Cuffed wrists at her sides, hands fisted. Visibly fighting not to flee. It wasn’t him she feared. “Kimberly.”

“M-master?”

He sighed, hearing the return of the stuttered word. “Does the Overseer carry weapons?”

A blink of confusion. “No. I don’t think he’d want anything a slave might grab and use against him.”

“Will he have his guards at the Shadowlands?”

“You said only him.”

“Then, chica, if for some reason you couldn’t disable him-and you might do fairly well now-do you, by any stretch of the imagination, think he could beat me in a fight?”

“I-” Her gaze moved over him as if comparing their sizes, Raoul perhaps a couple of inches shorter, but far more muscular. A few lines eased from her face. “No. He couldn’t, could he?”

“No, I think not. So…we must suffer his presence and be polite, but carino, no matter what happens, he will leave by himself, and you will still be with me.” Raoul tapped a finger on her chin. “I promise.”

Her lower lip quivered. When she tried to smile, her courage broke his heart. “Thanks. Master.”

He nodded. “Good. Now let’s get this done.” He picked up the black leather collar from the counter. The moment of revulsion and a memory of Alicia disappeared as he looked into Kimberly’s clear blue eyes. The disconcerting desire to have her kneel, to request his collar, to kiss it, was so strong his hands shook slightly.

No, this was merely part of the costume. Not real, Sandoval.

Her big eyes fixed on his face as he buckled the leather around her throat. Z had even provided a tiny gold padlock. Damn him. It snicked shut, the heady sound of submission much louder in his head than in reality.

As he stepped back, he saw her hands trembling. Apparently the collaring affected her differently. “Ah, gatita.” He tapped her nose, the teasing gesture enough to break her paralysis. He pressed the key into her cold little hand. “Your apron has a pocket. Put this inside it.” He leaned forward and whispered, “But don’t let Dahmer see it.”

Her fingers closed, and she gave him a jerky nod, and then slowly, a real smile appeared, like the sun from behind the clouds.

Alas, the smile didn’t last long, and the night drive to the Shadowlands seemed to drag as she became increasingly tense. All he could do was hold her hand and remind her of his presence.

In the parking lot, the headlights of Raoul’s car illuminated Dahmer. He stood beside his own vehicle, which was probably equipped with all the jammers that had frustrated the FBI. But the Feds would lie low now until the auction.

With an effort, Raoul pulled his emotions under control. He had a role to play: master of the slave who he would call girl and nothing else, reminding them both of their places.

He got out, nodding at Kimberly to follow. As he took his toy bag from the trunk, he worked a smile onto his