Chapter 8: In Which Alice Meets Her Fate, and I Consider a New Opportunity

In the end, it took just over three months to properly train Alice and to prepare her for delivery to her new owner. I could have done it faster, I suppose, but my methods, both physical and psychological, work best when allowed their proper time. Each girl is different, even the ones we choose, the ones who are natural slaves longing to be taken and conquered by a firm but loving Master. Each work of art is unique. But three months is a good rule of thumb. I have worked with some girls for as much as six months, some as little as a matter of weeks. Those latter were usually special cases: a client’s pressing deadline, for example, or an unruly spouse sent to us for ... softening. A nicer word than reprogramming a shrewish wife into a properly submissive slave, don’t you agree? Still, it can be done when the girl is a natural.

And Alice was certainly a natural. I could probably have passed her along after a month, and certainly after two. She’d learned more than enough, and would doubtless perform admirably, out of desire as much as fear. I’d shaped her carefully and well. She was a true masterpiece, worth every penny of the considerable fortune to be paid for her.

I think on some level she was anxious to meet her new fate. That is part of the training, of course, and my methods never fail. I had taught her a great deal about the man she was to serve, the man to whom she should soon belong. But I confess, I was enjoying this one. My Alice. For once, I didn’t find myself longing for the next conquest even while training the women at hand. I found myself wanting to linger over her. I sighed at the thought. It would be nice to have a slave of my own, a girl like Alice, to keep, rather than to pass on (albeit for a rather considerable sum). For once, I did not anticipate starting on the next. I wanted the comfort of the familiar. Perhaps I was getting old.

When at last I packed Alice for shipping, I dressed her in an erotic lingerie version of Alice in Wonderland’s iconic blue dress — the client’s fetish, after all. I’d had it made especially for her. I placed a mild sedative in the wine I offered her, and she drank deeply. Good, she would sleep during the ride, and wake perhaps ten or fifteen minutes before she arrived. Time enough to collect her breath, and for her anticipation to build. A vibrator I’d strapped across her clit would start to work then, on it’s lowest setting, so she’d be in a delicious frenzy by the time she was finally unwrapped.

I bound her tightly and securely in silver-plated chains that coordinated beautifully with her blue dress (again, presentation; an artist must not overlook the details) and kissed her deeply and fondly before I shut her into her well-padded and ventilated crate. She was already drifting off to sleep, despite the fact that this new bondage excited and aroused her, even as it filled her with apprehension. I attached her chains securely to a number of eyebolts, checked the velvet padding, and nailed the crate shut. I’d stenciled “precious cargo, handle with care” on the wood.

The truck my partner sent ‘round to fetch Alice arrived moments later. In two hours, Alice would arrive at her new home, and meet her new Master for the first time. I knew she’d please him. I knew he would treasure and care for her. All was well, despite a wave of wistful melancholy that fell upon me rather unexpectedly. I raised my glass in a final toast and shut the door. With that, I bid her a fond adieu.

I watched until the truck was lost to my view. My smile was a sad one. I was going to miss her. That never used to happen. I was, nonetheless, beginning to find myself eager for the next one after all. A new slave girl to shape and mold — that would chase my despondency away. I was merely a teacher saying farewell to a favorite student. Soon, a new class would arrive. I whistled a little tune as I wandered back inside.

The very next night, I adjourned to my club to await my partner. I was due a very large commission, and I always made a point of collecting personally.

I flicked my wrist gently, just enough to scatter the ice cubes in my drink. I so like the sound they make, clinking against fine crystal. In the dim clubroom, lit mostly by dancing flames from oil lamps on the tables and gas sconces on the walls, the amber brandy turned red gold, so appropriate given the way it warmed me going down.

I was lost in thought when my partner, Jane Porter, joined me at last. I made a subtle glance at my watch, and then raised an eyebrow as I looked up to meet her gaze. She was late. I was not pleased. She rolled her eyes dismissively in a way she knew would irritate me further.

“Yes, darling, yes. I’m a minute late. Shoot me.” She rolled her eyes again. I frowned. She wasn’t a minute late. Closer to twenty. Unprofessional. “But I found us a new client. Now then. Isn’t that worth an extra few seconds?”

“You still owe me for the last,” I reminded her.

“Of course, darling. Of course. Here you go.” She reached into her purse and offered me a very large envelope. I slid it closer to my side of the table, but didn’t bother to open it. It would be as agreed, and counting in public is vulgar.

Jane was a handsome woman, tall and raven haired, with high cheekbones, a sharp nose, and flashing blue eyes. Not wide like Alice’s, but sharp and piercing. She might have been a beauty had she ever softened herself. Had she, say, loosened her long hair, or had she ever smiled, in anything other than that cold and mocking manner. Had she ever worn clothes to flatter, rather than hide, the slopes of her womanly figure. She wore fine material, with a preponderance of black wool and leather, but she dressed — severely. Yes, that’s the word.

“Now then,” she said. “Would you like to hear about our new commission? Or do you intend to scowl at me all night?”

“The two are not mutually exclusive, Jane.”

“Well, Jack, darling, if you’re not interested ... Are you retiring at last? God knows you’ve made enough of a fortune to keep yourself quite comfortably. That last commission alone could keep you very well, I dare say.”

“Ah, but in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed?”

Jane smiled that mocking smile again. “In the manner to which anyone has become accustomed, I should think. Unless you mean the manner of a lifestyle devoted to perusing and capturing a new young beauty every few months, with the sole intent of training and molding her into a slave girl before selling her on to the highest bidder?”

“Not the highest bidder. To a carefully selected match.”

“Who pays a king’s ransom for a trained and willing slave girl. A slave girl we deliver in chains. Now then. Are you walking away from all that?”

I twirled the ice in my glass again and finished the last of my brandy. “Why Jane, I very nearly think you’re suggesting you don’t need me any more. Have you found someone new to bring in? Am I to be put to pasture at last?”

Jane rolled her eyes again. “Darling, when you retire, I retire. I’d have no choice, would I? No one else could master your techniques, if you’ll forgive the pun. Probably not even if you were willing to share them. I refuse to deliver a lessor product. My clientele has become used to nothing less than the very best.”

“Then we’d best get to business. What are we to look for this time?”

“The client is our wealthiest yet, if you can believe it. His opening offer was more than double what we’ve even thought of charging for a commission in the past. Why, my eyes nearly popped out of my skull when our go-betweens brought it to me. Of course, I didn’t accept his first offer. One simply must negotiate, after all. Else, no one will appreciate the value of your product, will they? The final price we agreed upon was higher by far. It’s a tidy sum. I think it’ll impress even you, Jack Corwin.”

As she spoke, she retrieved a manila envelope from her purse. On the first page, she’d written a number. I kept my face carefully composed, but I was impressed; it was a fair sum indeed. More than we’d made on any three girls combined. More than we’d made on any five.

“And what are we to deliver?” I asked.

“You mean whom.”

I flipped through the rest of the pages as Jane spoke: the details of the client’s request. There was a profile, two pages, and a number of prints. Reproductions of pulp fantasy art by the likes of Frank Frazetta and others in his tradition. Large breasted women, mostly nude, often chained. A few in flowing white, diaphanous gowns. Mostly dark-haired. Always in a fantasy setting. I repressed a smile. No need for Jane to see that. This client was a man after my own tastes. I had a rather pronounced penchant for myth and fantasy myself. Rare editions of Tolkien’s books and C. S. Lewis’s Narnia stories were among the prizes of my considerable library. I even owned two original Frazettas.