Chapter 56: When Is a Slave Not a Slave?

NOW LEST YOU START THINKING ‘Bob is the world’s biggest hypocrite,’ let me tell you that I did free Angel—under her terms. I took her to Areola and undressed her completely, including removing her collar. Then I gave her the full tour of the palace and city, with both of us wandering around naked, like the majority of the inhabitants.

“When you said you were from a different world, I thought you meant it figuratively,” Angel said as we stepped into the pool just to float for a bit. “This is literally a different world than earth.”

“We think so. At the very least, it is a different dimension. Everyone here is free. But we all live in harmony in the lifestyle we prefer,” I explained the best I could. “Maybe my concubines would be better at explaining. Many were once slaves or lived in societies where the practicality was slavery, even if it didn’t go by that name.”

“But if I’m employed by you, that’s no different than being a prostitute. When I offered myself as a slave, I got no personal gain from it. It was a mission—a kind of ministry if you will. I would be taken care of as good masters take care of their world, but I wouldn’t get paid. Even the little bag of things I brought with me was little more than the necessities and a couple of gifts from former masters. You can’t imagine how liberating that lifestyle is,” she said.

“Well, I’m not going to pay you,” I laughed. “Everyone here works for the good of Areola. As a result, everyone has plenty for all their needs. I make sure everyone is cared for.”

“So, in a manner of speaking, everyone here is your slave,” she said thoughtfully. I had to think that one through for a while. It reminded me...

Remember when I was with the Great Khaans of Mongolia and China? Most notably, Chinggis Khaan loved to hear me talk of the places I’d been and temples I’d built and the battles I’d witnessed. We sat for hours while I outlined the wars and strategies of Caesar, and sometimes he called one or more of his sons and grandsons in to listen to something particularly important in his mind. Then he asked me to go find a place for his capital city and build it. By that time, I think he was pretty convinced that I was not mortal.

I went off wandering and eventually found the site for Xanadu where I built the city and palace and temple while waiting for Khaan to arrive. Instead, his chief minister or general arrived with 20,000 horsemen, ready to storm the city. They found the gates open wide and the city ready for them to inhabit. When the Khaan arrived, it was Hubilai Khaan ready to take possession. When he was installed and had toured the city, I begged his leave to return east to my homeland ‘to die.’ He agreed, but said to wait just a bit until he had learned ‘one more thing.’ The tales his grandfather told had not fallen on deaf ears. Hubilai was fascinated with tales and stories of other lands and customs. He’d been visited by two ‘Latin’ brothers and sent them back to Europe to get him priests and oil from the lamp at the sacred sepulcher. They’d been gone some years before Khaan moved to Xanadu. But while I was there, they returned.

The brothers Nicolo and Maffeo were accompanied by Nicolo’s son, Marco Polo. Marco was the reason I was finally permitted to leave the service of the Khaan. Each time I’d suggested that I needed to leave, Hubilai would agree and say, “Next month,” or “Next year.” Or, in fact, whenever he grew tired of me.

Marco was a new diversion for the Khaan. His father and uncle were welcome, but Marco soon became the Khaan’s favorite at court. He was a bright young man, about twenty years old when he arrived. He had no idea at the time that he and his father and uncle would remain there in the service of the Great Khaan for many years. Khaan sent Marco to me for instruction in the martial arts and Buddhism as the family had failed in the mission to bring priests. The priests they were bringing chickened out and fled back west. Nicolo and Maffeo set up a school in which they taught the seven arts of the West: rhetoric, logic, grammar, arithmetic, astronomy, music, and geometry. In turn, Marco was to learn the arts of the East.

He was a little full of himself, but generally a nice kid. He studied diligently and soon prepared for the first mission that Hubilai would send him on over the next fifteen or so years. He asked my advice.

“The Khaan is dissatisfied with the reports he gets from his ambassadors,” I said. “You can be different.”

“How shall I differ, Zongshi?” he asked. One of the things Marco had going for him was that he was taught respect from an early age. He had another uncle in Venice who had mostly raised him. The Italian Family was very big on respect.

“The other ambassadors the Khaan has sent out came back with a concise factual report on the situation they went to investigate or deal with. They struck a good trade deal for winter rice. This tartar would like to marry the daughter of that tartar. The war at the wall has been averted for now but there is a weakness near Lomein. He needs these reports. But he wants to know more about them. He wants to hear about the customs in this part of the land that differ from customs in Xanadu. He wants to know what you think of their language, what the people look like, what the fashions are. He wants examples of their art and their music. Even differing religious beliefs and philosophy. These are things the other ambassadors fail to bring back to him, but which you have brought him from Italy. You have told him about the pope and brought him oil from the holy sepulcher. These are the things the Khaan yearns for and they are all things that will make him a better and wiser ruler. You can bring these things to the Khaan.”

Marco considered this and went off on his first short mission as a representative of the Khaan. When he returned, he gave his official report and then sat with Hubilai and regaled him with tales of the customs of the people, what vassal had a birthday, who was pregnant, how the peasants were dealing with the water shortage, and even sang a song he’d learned. Khaan was delighted. It turned out that Marco was quite a storyteller.

I chose that time to ask Hubilai Khaan once again for leave to return to my homeland in the East and he granted it at once. He gave me a horse and attempted to press other valuables on me that would have taken a wagon to carry. I politely declined the gifts with the statement that these gifts would do me no good in my grave and should be given to the bright young ambassador, Marco Polo.

The next morning, I rode like the wind toward the East. Three days later, I found a place where I could seclude myself within the satchel and changed my body for one much younger. I renewed my relationship with my wives and possessions and then with my concubines and with my priestesses. Refreshed and ready once again, I proceeded into Northern China and what is now Russia.

In all but name, I had been a slave in Hubilai Khaan’s court. I was not ‘captive.’ All I could ever want was provided for me. I had minimal duties in work that I loved, teaching about the tantras and the forms of martial arts. But I could not leave Xanadu without the permission of the Khaan.

Marco Polo served in Hubilai Khaan’s court for seventeen years before his father and uncle successfully begged to be allowed to return to Italy. It was a near thing then and they would not have been allowed to leave if it had not been that a certain princess needed to be delivered to a subsidiary king in India. Read about Marco’s adventures sometime. They are almost as interesting as mine.

But if Khaan had not had a new plaything to occupy him in Marco Polo, I would never have been free.

Where was I? Ah, yes. Angel.

“Since you consider all here in Areola to be my slaves, then I free you to join them,” I said after I’d considered her proposition. “I will expect you to work for the betterment of our world, just as all the others do. Will that be acceptable to you?”

“Yes, master. If that is what it takes to serve you, it is acceptable except for one minor thing. I am a sexual being. If you will not call me ‘slave’ then I am your sex servant. My job on Areola is to give you any sexual experience you desire upon your command. Please, Mr. Bob. Use me. P...”

I slammed my lips against hers and took her, right there beside the pool. But I did not let her use the words ‘Possess me.’ On the other hand, I found she was one of the most creative lovers I had ever had. Every part of her was open for my invasion. And I used every opening. Oh, I made sure she had pleasure from everything we did and we both lost count of the number of orgasms we’d enjoyed. But she explored me in ways I had not used since we learned the tantric meditations. I went to bed, exhausted with Nimia and Josie at my side. And for the first time that I could recall, I had a nocturnal emission. Yes, a wet dream. It so startled me that I sat straight up in bed and looked down at the mess I’d made on myself.

As I sat there with my sleeping wife and possession beside me, gasping for breath, Angel crept up from the foot of the bed where she’d slept and proceeded to clean me with her tongue as I petted her head and whispered loving words to her. She nursed my cock back to full stiffness and then swallowed it into her throat as I came again. She smiled at me and quietly returned to the little nest she’d made at the foot of my bed.

Angel does not sleep at my feet every night. In fact, she once confessed that she was glad there were a hundred other women to help keep me satisfied because I would exhaust any dozen women with my appetite and stamina. And I heard it whispered that she had found a mission teaching others her techniques and philosophy of being a willing sex slave to Bob. I’m not sure any of my concubines, wives, possessions, or priestesses actually needed the instruction, but Angel had her mission.

I still struggle with the ethics of this situation. I created the infinity room. Or did I? Perhaps I only truly opened a gateway to another dimension that created itself around my desires. Yet, everyone I have brought into the infinity room—with their consent—has found everything they ever need provided for them. They all contribute in some way or another.

I have firmly disproved the idea that people need to work forty hours or five days a week or fifty weeks a year to earn their bread by the sweat of their brow. The one who contributes a new song to our community is as valuable as the one who harvests a bushel of wheat. This is the rule our world lives by. Other than Angel, I don’t believe anyone considers him or herself a slave. But as we grew, I needed to continue to think about my relationship to my people.

Soon after I brought the mini-series contestants to Areola, Artemisia, the youngest of our crew, came to me with a question. She’d happily discovered that ganja was freely available in Areola. As a result, use was casual and it was mostly used for special occasions. People really didn’t need any additional way to relax or feel good. Nonetheless, Artie had indulged, simply because it was available and the idea was firmly ingrained in her from her home in California. She had definitely indulged in a favorite cupcake before she came to talk to me.

“I was wondering, Bob,” she began as she planted her naked butt in my lap. I did not impale her, but it was a near miss. She wouldn’t have minded if I had. But we reclined comfortably beside the pool and cuddled for this conversation.

“Yes?” I prompted.

“Um ... What is the religion here in Areola? Are we going to offend someone by not offering a proper prayer before a meal? Should we be going to church? Are there seasonal rituals? Are you really a god?”