Steel World Inc. Chapter Eight

“Fidelio.”

 

The taxi had dropped me off on Hampstead Lane, outside an imposing set of iron gates and matching wall that must have been a good twelve feet high in places. Whoever lived here definitely liked their privacy and security. The iron gates tonight were open, but two men stood there as security, greeting anyone who might try and gain entrance. Interestingly, both men were masked, and dressed in dark suits. The masks were almost Venetian in style and covered the top half of their faces. Behind them I could see a line of upright poles planted to one side of the gravel, each pole ending in a lit torch that illuminated the pathway to the grand house. 

 

“The password, Sir,” I had been asked. Upon giving it, they stepped aside and swept their arms to indicate I was free to go inside. 

 

I had, on a whim, knowing I was going to an expensive and exclusive address, dressed in one of my fine, bespoke, dark suits that Miss Madison’s corporate account had generously paid for. With it, I wore a freshly pressed white shirt, silk tie and hand tooled leather shoes from Milan, Italy. Within minutes of arriving at the house I congratulated myself for having made the right choice, for all the other guests were dressed exceptionally well. All the men wore fine suits, and all the women wore long dresses and heels. 

 

I say all the women, but not the familiar faces of Tessa and Puta who, beside two other girls, were moving around the grand reception room, serving guests with flutes of champagne. This, I felt sure, was going to be the good stuff.

 

Puta and Tessa were dressed as I had seen them dressed in the night club. They wore very short tunic dresses, that barely even counted as mini-skirt length, they were barefoot, and they again wore steel collars about their necks.

 

It was an incredible contrast with the finely dressed women who were obviously guests, and I couldn’t help but wonder what those rich women in their luxury party gowns might have thought of the briefly attired serving girls. By and large the female guests seemed to ignore the four girls in the collars and short tunics. When they did glance at them, it was usually with an expression of irritation. How dare they dress in such a sexually enticing manner, they must have thought, but if they did think that, they made no comment that I overheard as I passed on through.   

 

I glanced again at Puta, specifically at her beautiful legs, and as I did so she turned and saw me. A smile softly crossed her lips as she lowered her own eyes, but then, with barely a moment’s hesitation, walked toward me with short graceful steps. 

 

“Welcome, handsome Master,” she said. Her voice was as beautiful as the girl appeared. 

 

“Puta, isn’t it?”

 

“Master remembers,” she said. She stood close to me, close enough that I caught the scent of her perfume. It was exquisite, and breathing that scent made me want her all the more. This wasn’t a perfume that the gentle Miss Whitlock might wear. Miss Whitlock would wear a perfume that was sophisticated and tasteful. This perfume on Puta was created to enhance the sexuality of the woman wearing it. 

 

“It was hard to forget you.” I wanted to reach out and touch her, but of course I didn’t. Such a thing would no doubt offend her. I had to remember she was only acting the part of a slave girl, and was no doubt paid a lot of money to do so. There would be strict contractual conditions, of course, probably ensuring no one was to actually touch her. 

 

She smiled, hearing me say that. Her eyes remained downturned, submissively so, which added to her desirability. “I shouldn’t say this, Master, but I am glad you are here, tonight.”

 

I think my heart just skipped a beat as she spoke those words. 

 

“I don’t think you truly mean that?”

 

“I do, Master. Last night in the club, when you looked at me, I felt…” she glanced quickly away. 

 

“You felt what?”

 

“A connection?” And then she dared to look at me, but only for a moment. “You are very handsome,” she said, though the way she said it, it seemed it was a daring thing for her to say.

 

I suppose I cut an impressive figure, now that I was dressed in such fine, expensive, tailor made clothes. But even so, this was a girl who could easily grace the cover of Vogue magazine. And yet, looking around me, the other men here were generally older than me and often with more weight and less hair. Maybe she was simply comparing me to the other guests? For there was a marked difference between the men and the women. A marked age gap, mostly. These were rich men with trophy wives or girlfriends much younger than they. Rich, powerful men can always attract young, beautiful women. 

 

“Puta… can I break the Fourth Wall a bit?”

 

From her expression I could see she didn’t understand the reference. She was so lovely, but perhaps not as well read as me.

 

“Breaking the Fourth Wall is a literary term for when the characters in a story speak outside of the confines of their setting, perhaps speaking directly to the audience in a knowing way, admitting that they know they are in a story.”

 

She still didn’t understand, but she smiled in such a lovely way that I felt my heart flutter again.

 

“What I mean is, can I speak to you outside of the role you’re currently playing, that is to say, leave aside the theatricality of this party, and all the Eyes Wide Shut references.” I smiled, because obviously I had recognised the origin of the password. No doubt that impressed her that I knew my Kubrick films. “I’m just wondering, are you an actress, or are you… well, there’s no delicate way of putting this, are you an escort?”

 

Puta smiled again and shook her head. “Neither, Master. I am a slave.”

 

I shook my head. “And you’re very convincing. Really. I can see you’re not supposed to step out of character, and I promise I won’t say anything to anyone, but I’m just curious how far you’re supposed to go in this role?”

 

“Master is very sweet, but he fails to see the obvious. I am not playing a role. I am a slave. I wear a collar.”

 

A lightbulb clicked on in my head, and I was instantly jealous. Oh, yes, I knew that were some women, and men too, who subscribed to the BDSM lifestyle, but I had always assumed that they would be plain, overweight housewives. The thought that two girls as incredibly beautiful as Puta and Tessa might be doing this without being paid, because they enjoyed the dressing up and being told what to do, well, it beggared belief. How could Magnus be so lucky? Well of course, it was because he was rich. Of all the women who sought out the BDSM lifestyle, I suppose he could accommodate the most beautiful ones. No doubt there was a bit of light spanking involved, and being led around on a leash. Did Magnus have sex with them? Possibly. So, yes, I felt very jealous.

 

This was their fetish! Of course! How stupid of me to think a girl as lovely at Puta could be a prostitute. She was far too well spoken. In fact, she sounded very well educated, from a good family. 

 

“Can you read my collar inscription, Master?” asked Puta.

 

“Of course I can, it’s…” I suddenly realised I couldn’t read the inscription etched into the steel. It wasn’t written in English. “No… I can’t. What language is that?”

 

“Gorean, Master.”

 

“Who speaks Gorean?” I hadn’t heard of it. 

 

“Well, Goreans do, of course.” Puta was amused by this.

 

“I mean, which country? Where is Magnus from?”

 

“He is from Treve, Master.”

 

I felt I was going around in circles. I had no idea where Treve was. It certainly wasn’t a country. A city, perhaps?

 

“Where is Treve?”

 

“On the planet Gor, Master.”

 

Okay. I shrugged my shoulders. This was all still part of the game. She wouldn’t step out of character. But adding a made-up planet? At the back of my mind there was some nagging thought that I had heard of that planet before, but I couldn’t remember where. Was it from some book I’d read? Possibly. I’ve read a lot of books in my life, not all of them memorable literature, to be honest. 

 

“You’re the most beautiful slave girl a man could set eyes on, Puta,” I said, with a cheeky smile that I hoped she might like.

 

“Master is kind to say that, but I suspect he has not seen many kajirae before me.”

 

“Kajirae?”

 

“The Gorean term for slave girls. A collective noun.”

 

“Ah, Gorean. I shall have to look into this.” The word was strangely familiar, but I still couldn’t place it. I sucked in my breath. How daring could I be with her? Would she like me to… dominate her a bit?

 

I felt thrilled at the thought. How would she respond if I gave her an order? I felt a little aroused just thinking of it. It was her fetish after all. “Puta…”

 

“Yes, Master?” She stood very close to me, close enough that I was intoxicated by that wild, savage, sensual perfume she wore. 

 

“Can I… I mean… I don’t know how this works tonight. Can I… give you orders?’

 

She smiled again. “Master can do anything he wishes, for he is a guest. I’m a slave at his disposal.”

 

“Be careful,” I said with a knowing wink. “The word ‘anything’ suggests many possibilities you probably didn’t mean.”

 

“Does Master wish me to be more clear?”

 

“Well, as I said, I’m new here.”

 

“Master can put me to use if he finds me desirable, and if I do not please him, he may have me whipped, though I hope he will find me pleasing, for I fear the whip.”

 

Time seemed to slow.

 

“Put you to… use?”

 

“In the furs. There are pleasure alcoves in the side rooms, away from the Free Women. Free Women are not permitted in those rooms. There you may do as you wish with me. I am only a slave. But I have been trained to give pleasure to a man.”

 

“This… is…” I didn’t know what to say. The girl was inviting me to…

 

“Fuck’s sake – what are you doing here, Rogers?” It was James, dressed in a smart tailored tux, with a fabulous looking Kissy on his arm. He had spotted me from the other side of the room, before I had seen him, and had appeared suddenly. 

 

“James?” I turned round and must have seemed shocked to see my friend and Kissy Face at this same party. But of course, if I’d been invited, then, so too, James might have had a similar invitation. 

 

He punched me lightly on my upper arm and laughed. “Didn’t think the Madison would have considered you ready for Hampstead Lane. You old devil, have you been holding out on me, man?”

 

“Hello, Simon,” said Kissy Face. She was dressed in an absolutely stunning evening gown with a long skirt from which her high heeled gold sandals peeked out. “He’s actually pleased to see you, but won’t admit it.”

 

“Course I am,” said James as he, without warning took hold of my head in a crooked arm rugby team style embrace that forced me to stoop, before he rubbed my hair vigorously in a way I hated. “Glad to see you’re coming up in the world, mate.”

 

“Stop that! You know I don’t like it!” I pulled away rather more firmly than might have been polite in a rugby crowd. 

 

“Ooh, did I muss up your hair?” James laughed as I tried to  comb it back neat with my fingers.

 

I was annoyed. He had made me look stupid in front of the delightful Puta. And yet, Puta didn’t seem to show any sign of thinking that. 

 

“Just… don’t do that.” I straightened up and checked my reflection in a mirror. I looked good. It was okay. “Look, James, what is all of this? I’m a bit confused.’

“Woah! Didn’t anyone explain anything to you?”

 

“Not really. I was just invited, that is, well, sort of invited. I was told…”

 

Before I could say anything more, a voice called for our attention. I turned and saw at the far side of the room, on a small podium a smartly dressed figure holding a microphone, and, beside him, looking far more fabulous than she had any right to do at her alleged age, Miss Madison, dressed in a sparkling evening gown. 

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, but most especially Ladies, thank you all for coming tonight.” He spoke into a microphone. “The rich pleasures of this night are still an hour or so away, but for those of you who have attended before, you will know we always begin with our little game.”

 

There were murmurs of approval throughout the room, and soft ripples of laughter from mostly the men, but also from a small handful of the women present. Many of the women however didn’t seem to know what the compere was about to describe. Like me, perhaps, this might have been their first party. Certainly, Kissy’s expression suggested she knew nothing about any game, but like all the women here in their expensive gowns, she looked interested.

 

“Beautiful Ladies, for many of you this is your first night at Hampstead Lane. Welcome. As Free Women you are respected and honoured. But moving amongst you are lovely women of a very different pedigree – collared slaves.” The man smiled like a cobra as he indicated the lovely Puta, Tessa and one or two other similarly attired girls. “So few, to attend to so many. But perhaps we can find a couple more! Miss Madison, if you would kindly…”

 

Miss Madison moved to one side and drew some heavy drapes aside to reveal a spinning wheel mounted to the wall. Along the circumference were what seemed to be prizes – sums of money to be claimed and spent at specific designer stores in the very finest parts of London. Boutiques and perfumers, offering the most pedigree of consumer desirables., But amongst these prizes were two strange symbols – each one a cursive k shaped sigil. It seemed that the wheel could stop not on a fabulous prize, but on one of these symbols in turn. 

 

“Let’s have a little fun tonight, before the true pleasures begin.” The compere gazed down at the young women who stood beside their rich men. Some of the women would be wives, some girlfriends, some perhaps recent acquaintances who relished dating a man with money. “I invite you, Free Women of London, to try your luck, as women routinely do on Gor. Spin the wheel, and perhaps come away with expensive shoes, gowns, perfumes, but beware the fickle finger of fate that may instead see the wheel cease spinning at the kef symbol. For the Lady who spins a kef will be gently escorted outside by Miss Madison. When she returns, it will not be as exquisitely dressed as she is now, but rather dressed in a briefly skirted slave tunic, collared, barefoot, much like the lovely Puta and the lovely Tessa. And she too will serve the Free Men and Women tonight as a Gorean kajira.” His smile seemed infectious, for many of the young women laughed and pretended shock at the thought of such a game. How risqué it now seemed, for any one of them might have to spend several hours skipping gaily about the room in a collar and slave tunic! And yet the prizes were evidently fabulous. 

 

I could see many of the young women gaze round at one another with raises eyebrows and mock smiles. Who would be first to try their luck? Oh, but how embarrassing the forfeit would be for those who lost the spin of the wheel. Those women would re-enter the party barefoot, in the shortest, most revealing of tunics, with a pretty steel collar around their necks. Their cheeks would be blushing with embarrassment as they spent the remainder of the night serving drinks and food, rather than enjoying the luxury of the evening to come. No doubt they would be teased mercilessly by the women who had been fortunate when they span the Gorean wheel, for what woman does not relish seeing one of her peers brought down in such a fashion, even if only for the amusement of a party game? 

 

I saw one or two hands begin to rise hesitantly in the air, but the compere motioned immediately for those women to lower their arms. “No, Ladies, that is not how it works. Each of you here tonight is in the company and guardianship of a man, and it is he, not you, dear Ladies, who will choose to stake you to a spin of the wheel, or not. For each man already knows that if he wishes to enjoy the true pleasures that the night has to offer, then his Lady must risk her dignity to win him his pleasure. Only your men may nominate you.”

 

And now the room was a flurry of conversations between the couples. It seemed to me that most of the women here had known nothing about his, but evidently every man did.

 

And then I heard a voice call out beside me. It was James and he called out “I nominate Kissy Ryde!”

 

There was an outraged squeal from Kissy who playfully slapped James, for he hadn’t consulted with her, as men nearby, and some of their women, began to applaud and cheer.

 

Kissy stood there shaking her head, crying out, “no, I can’t! Really, I can’t!” but laughing and blushing while she said that. “James! You’re so horrid! How could you?”

 

“Gentle Lady,” said the compere with a sweep of his hand. “If you would ascend the podium at your leisure.”