12) The Guest.

Naomi:

I watch the young girl playing in her room. Rosemary is such an adorable child. So pure and innocent, with a genuine curiosity that I remember having at her age. She's filling in a coloring book, and she's doing a pretty good job, considering how young she is.

I have music almost blaring within the room. It's a safe, sterilized, kid's version of a modern pop song. As I consider the lyrics, the young musician's voice seems increasingly weak and vulnerable. She seems so incredibly... subservient.

♪I'd do anything for you... (Woo-hoo!)♪

♪Anything you ask me to... (Oooh-oooh!)♪

♪Baby, we could be so fine... (Like wine!!)♪

♪If you'll just say, "You're mine!" (You're Mine)♪

The song is a few years old at this point, but the words now take on a dark, depressing tone to me. The artist who originally performed that song presumably sang it because she wanted some guy to lovingly claim her, and she could ride off with him into the metaphorical sunset. But that isn't what happened.

Some man, some fucking monster, probably told her, "You're mine," as she knelt before him, uttering the horrific words that must have been thrumming constantly in her ears. Surely she must have said, "I acknowledge myself owned," before the collar sealed around her neck, forever snatching away her personhood, her very self. Did her catcher even bother to let her stand before he unzipped his pants and used her?

I doubt it, but I guess I'll never know for sure. She was of legal age, and now she dances and sings with a collar encompassing her throat. No less beautiful, but so much less of a person.

It's heartbreaking. The music pulses in my ears, and I can feel tears forming at the edges of my lashes. Rosemary turns back to me to display her drawing, and I wipe my eyes immediately.

"That's really good, Ro-Ro! Very pretty!" I struggle to keep the pain hidden in my voice. I think I mostly succeed. The drawing that she has colored is from a book, Beautiful Dresses from Around The Globe. It has line work depicting women's clothes from a dozen or so different countries. All of them are incredibly feminine and traditional. Of course they are. Rachel picked out this book. Why would she give her daughter anything different?

Fortunately, Thomas seems to be a little cautious about what media he lets his daughter consume. The music and shows that she's allowed to watch are all safely pre-event. But a book like this? It doesn't even have words, just pictures. Who knows when it was made? There's nothing wrong with it, inherently... but it's just another reminder that women need to dress a certain way and act a certain way, because it's the proper course of action for a person of the weaker sex.

I can feel my stomach churning with revulsion. Each day, I find myself trying to shield this innocent girl from the horrors that may await her. Her mother lives in a blissful dream world where servitude is pleasure... but it's all unnatural. She cleans, works, and exercises each day as if every simple, submissive act is the most joyous experience imaginable.

Rosemary colors a bit more and holds the page up once again. "How tu you like tis dwawing, Missis M'aomi?" Her speech impediment seems worse when she's excited. She grins at me with a childish simplicity that warms my soul. The page is awash with reds, blues, and purples. "I maded her hair bwonde, like you!"

"That looks amazing, Rosemary! The yellow is very close to my hair color!" My long hair is currently pulled up in a tight ponytail. I always try to pick hair and clothing styles that look nice... because I want to look the part of a submissive... but not too pretty, because I don't want to attract any extra attention from Thomas. So far he hasn't seemed to pay me much mind. Rachel mostly tells me what to do. She's strict, but she hasn't ever been unfair or unkind to me.

The music is still pounding loudly as I take Rosemary's coloring book and begin to inspect it more closely. In reality, the shade of yellow that she used isn't nearly as bright as my natural hair color. I doubt she had a crayon to match. My on-page depiction is a girl from some northern country. Her dress is all the wrong colors, but of course Rosemary would have no way of knowing...

I freeze suddenly, as all the blood drains from my face. My fingers tremble, and the book threatens to fall from my grip. I struggle to find my voice.

"Rosemary... what is that brown line? The... the one on the..." Instinctively, I cover my mouth, incapable of finishing my sentence.

Rosemary immediately intuits what I'm talking about, but if she notices my horror, she doesn't react. "Tat's your cawor, Missis M'aomi!"

Instinctively, with a shaky hand, I flip through the other pages in the coloring book. Every page has a different woman, colored with childish scribbles. And upon each woman's throat, Rosemary has drawn a brown or black collar. This book was almost certainly published pre-event, so the women depicted have nothing on their necks. Rosemary added one for each girl, apropos of nothing. She's just been imitating what she's been seeing... on the street, on the internet maybe... fuck; she's seen it in her own home.

Tears threaten to spill out in earnest, and I turn my head away from her. I can't let her see me cry, but I feel like a horrible person. As I hide in plain sight, pretending to be a collared woman, hoping desperately to never be exposed to the payload... Hell, I'm sending this message to every single person who sees me. "I am a willing slave! I am a firm supporter of the patriarchy! I am a shining example of how women should act and behave!"

Even as young as she is, Rosemary can sense that something is wrong. "Missis M'aomi? Is ebery-ting otay? I'm gonna turn off ta moosic." She steps over to the speaker, reaching out her hand.

"WAIT!" I call out immediately, "LEAVE THE MUSIC ON!" I force a smile across my face, but I'm certain that my mascara is probably smeared, at least a little. "I wanna dance to this music! Don't you?!"

I jump to my feet and start dancing around in my best attempt to seem happy and cheerful. Rosemary begins cackling with uproarious glee, and she starts hopping about as well, swaying to the thumping beat.

♪Baby we could be so fine... (Like wine!)♪

♪If you'll just say, "You're mine!" (You're Mine)♪

The lyrics weasel their way into my head, and the tears begin to flow, unbidden. I turn my back to the child, as my sobs are drowned out by the song's hook, words that perfectly describe my situation. They epitomize every woman's current stance towards the patriarchy.

♪I'd do anything for you... (Woo-hoo!)♪

♪Anything you ask me to... (Oooh-oooh!)♪

The truth is that I have to keep the volume up. I can't let it down even for a moment. Because just down the hall, I know that Rachel is letting her husband fuck her brains out. And I can just barely make out the sounds of her impassioned screams. The music has to stay on... because Thomas has forgotten about his daughter.

Before the song can end, I hit restart. Fortunately, the song has a blaring intro. I know that she won't hear any noise coming from the other room. I can tell that she's getting sleepy, and I hope that a cold drink might help her slip down for a nap. It's worked before.

"Hey Ro-Ro! You stay right here and keep dancing, okay? I'm gonna go get us some juice boxes! Would you like that? You'll have to wait here, okay? Don't leave! Keep dancing! I'll be right... back!" I hold up a finger, motioning for her to stay in place, as I back towards the door.

Rosemary nods emphatically. With a hand that hardly feels like mine, I twist the doorknob and slip out, shutting the door behind me as quickly as I can. As soon as it's closed, the music from inside fades and the sounds of lovemaking fill my ears. No. That isn't right. "Love making" is not the proper term; because they aren't making any love. They're just fucking. Plain and simple.

The sounds only grow louder as I walk past the bathroom. I want to dart past their bedroom as quickly as possible. I can't though. After all, slave girls don't slink by. They walk slowly, and their steps are delicate and demure. The master is enjoying his fuck-session, so why should it bother his property? I remind myself that I must reflect all of these traits. If I stand out, I'll be ruined.

As soon as I step into the cracked doorway, my eyes are drawn inside automatically. I don't wanna see what's happening in there, but somehow I feel compelled. The lights are dim, but there's enough illumination for me to make out both bodies. Rachel is topless, riding Thomas with a wild abandon. Her moans are so loud and passionate; she sounds like a porn star... but I know she isn't faking anything.

Her entire body is glistening with sweat, and her brunette hair is swirled around her head haphazardly. I saw it pinned up in a bun this morning, but her violent gyrations have clearly worked a large portion of the strands free.

As soon as my shadow fills the doorway, Thomas sits up, thrashing with the blankets to cover their joining. His fearful eyes stare in my direction, and as soon as he sees my face, I see the panic fade. "Oh Naomi, it's you! I was afraid for a second it was Ro-Ro!"

So he didn't forget his daughter. But he didn't think to silence his wife or close the bedroom door? What if it had been Rosemary? What then?

I try to look away, but not so much that it appears conspicuous. I imagine that it'll be safe to lower my gaze and watch from my periphery. Rachel is still pumping madly, intent on pleasing him, even in their new awkward position. Her moans are just as loud as before. They might have gotten even louder, since I showed up. Thomas pats her shoulder lovingly and gives her a light shush. She silences her cries immediately. Of course she does. She's so obedient.

"I realize that we probably got a little noisy, but I also noticed that Rosemary was playing some loud music. I guess the songs mostly drowned us out, huh?" There is the slightest embarrassed edge to his voice, but it is so faint that I can barely tell. He's becoming so accustomed to having sex with me nearby. His sense of modesty concerning me seems to be waning rapidly.

I nod dutifully in response to his question. I'm trying my best to hide the disgust from my face. After all, it was my decision to turn on the music, but if I hadn't been there, what would they have done? Clearly, Thomas has the ability to silence Rachel. And yet he chose not to. Part of me still wants to believe that he cares about his daughter. Just not enough.

And of course he won't bother to thank me for tending to Ro-Ro. I'm just his humble slave. He believes that I want to do all of this because of the payload. Ironically, everything I do is indeed because of the payload, but not the way he thinks.

"I guess the music was your idea, Naomi? Thank you. I appreciate it."

Damn it! My teeth grind with frustration. Tom's so infuriating! Whenever I think I can fully trust him, he seems to slip downward and show me signs that he'll become the monster that I fear. However, whenever I decide that he's a lost cause, and he's completely forgotten about my humanity, he'll do some tiny gesture to remind me that he values my personhood. I can never get a solid bead on him.

Thomas is still adjusting the sheets, making sure that Rachel's ass is covered up. She's still entirely topless, though. I always feel like Thomas' views on exhibitionism are oddly inconsistent. It isn't like he ever tries to let me see, but he hasn't stopped Rachel in her constant attempts to show off. He seems to notice Rachel's toplessness as an afterthought, and he whispers to his wife.

Rachel reaches up and covers her breasts with her arms. As she continues grinding on his lap, she turns to look at me, and even in the darkness, I can see a disgusting gleam in her eye. She wants me to see this. I don't fully understand what the payload is wanting from her, but I'm not blind. Some part of her enjoys it whenever I see her and Thomas together.

Ironically, or perhaps not, Rachel never displays sexual behavior when Tom isn't here. While Tom is at work, she and I have tons of time alone, but she's never once done anything lewd or immodest. Of course not. What good is a sapphic display if there's no man around to be enticed by it? I let out an almost imperceptible huff of annoyance.

Thomas stares at me, almost guiltily. "Can you close the door please, Naomi? Thank you."

I nod, like the good little slave that I am and pull the door closed. As soon as it's shut, I can hear a gentle word from Thomas, and Rachel screams out once more in ecstasy. I immediately hear their bed begin to squeak again, and the muffled sounds of their combined moans slip through the door. For reasons beyond my understanding, I can feel my face flush with embarrassment.

It isn't that part of me wants to be with Thomas. No. I assure myself of that. I mean, if I'm being a hundred percent honest, I will admit that he is good looking. He's not a hunk or anything, but he is... well, he's "conventionally attractive," I suppose. And I guess I've always had a thing for blonde guys. Especially men with stunning blue eyes. And on top of that, he's really fit. That's good. For him, I mean. It's fortunate for him and Rachel.

Well, I mean... I say that it's good for Rachel; but honestly, it isn't like she cares. She's in love with the drug-like pleasure that the payload gives her mind every day. She'd fuck any guy if it stimulated her programmed brain. So she really doesn't deserve a handsome guy like Thomas... as if I care what that brainwashed bimbo has.

I shake my head. That isn't fair of me. Rachel is sick. Literally, she's been infected with a vile, man made mental poison. It makes her a "perfect wife," but it also removes any idiosyncratic nuances that used to make her a real person. She is a blank slate, waiting to be written up on and customized by the patriarchy.

It breaks my heart, when you compare her current state to the woman that Rachel clearly used to be. In the guest bedroom, there is a massive bookshelf full of Rachel's old books. Romance, mystery, and drama novels line the shelves. She used to read quite a bit, apparently. Of course, now she doesn't bother with that at all.

Now her mind constantly simmers with one, solitary thought. "How can I lower myself further for Thomas?" It's all she thinks about. She's incapable of appreciating his affection. She was blessed with a handsome, loving husband, but now she doesn't value it anymore. She'd be just as happy with a hideous, abusive man. What a waste.

I close my eyes as I attempt to banish these thoughts. Why am I thinking about Thomas, and his level of attractiveness? I chide myself, but my mind continues to ponder. Being trapped in this house with a couple who fuck like rabbits certainly doesn't help. The constant exposure to their ravenous sex life is taking an unexpected toll on me.

Rachel is willing to present herself to Thomas in any room, at any time. She's started wearing sundresses most days, and they often won't even bother undressing before he takes her. He'll bend her over the kitchen table, the living room couch, or the washing machine. He almost seems as insatiable as she does.

I overheard Thomas saying something about "knocking her up" so I guess they're trying for another kid. Why anyone would want to bring a child into this fucked up world now, I can't imagine. What if it's a daughter? You'd only be creating another future slave. The last thing I'd ever want would be to get pregnant now, and either give birth to another servant or another master.

Once in the kitchen, I open the refrigerator, looking for the juice boxes. The fridge is ridiculously well organized. I mean, it isn't surprising. Rachel keeps the entire house immaculate, as any fucking brainwashed wife would do. She wouldn't dream of allowing her husband to see the house in disarray. That would be unthinkable!

Involuntarily, I roll my eyes. Upon retrieving the drinks, I close the fridge door, and I can see Rachel's list that she made. The second item on the list says that Thomas has to help with the house cleaning. I'm sure he'd still keep his word on that, if there was anything to clean when he gets home in the evenings... but of course, there isn't. Another item on the list says that he can't collar other women. I made him throw that one out of the window too.

Still, it seems like he's trying to stay strong. Thomas still does the yardwork, just like the list says. He doesn't cook anymore though, because that's become my job. But at least by cooking and tending to Rosemary, I can make myself useful. I don't want Thomas to consider me a burden; I'll serve him faithfully as a maid and a cook. I don't want his mind wandering to anything else that a woman could provide him. Hell, Rachel is there for his sexual needs constantly. He wouldn't have time for a second fuck-toy.

The list on the fridge does ban blow jobs and anal. I suppose Thomas has kept his word about that. I would have no way of knowing if he was putting it in her ass, but I've walked in on them more than once, by accident... and I've never seen him inside her mouth. Also, she couldn't scream like she does with her mouth spread around a cock.

I shake my head, trying to rattle some sense into myself. I need to get Thomas' sex life out of my mind. Thinking about it can't do me any good.

I hear the doorbell chime. Down the hall, Rachel is still calling out with libidinous delight. Her voice is still loud, but at least with the door shut, it isn't as loud. With the juice boxes in my hands, I walk to the front door. I reach out and place my hand on the knob when a terrifying thought hits me.

What if it's James at the door? Thomas doesn't have a peep hole. He has a porch camera, but I don't have access to the feed. A real part of me is still terrified of James. While I can't prove it, I am one hundred percent positive that he was planning to collar me the day that I met him and Thomas.

I desperately want to tell Thomas about it, but I worry how that might look. I'm supposed to be a payload-addled slave. Why would I ever try to accuse a man of attempting to collar me? Would a woman who is actually programmed do something like that? I have no way of knowing for sure, but I don't think so.

Worst of all, Thomas seems to trust him completely. I don't know if Thomas is just so eager for a single friend that he's willing to overlook any sign that James isn't the man he's pretending to be... or what. I know that besides James, most guys don't seem like they like Thomas very much.

It's no secret that he is on a mission to shut down the payload. And of course, it's no secret that he collared both me and Rachel. I can see a subtle look of anger and envy in the faces of most of the guys who look at him. A week ago there was a barbeque at this house. Several of Tom's coworkers and family came. The men all brought their collared wives and girlfriends, of course.

The rest of the men talked amongst themselves, and they were all polite with Thomas... but there was clearly distaste in their interactions with him. Only James acts kind or friendly towards him, but I don't trust that fucker one iota.

Thomas was cordial back, but he did end up getting into a heated debate with his brother-in-law over the payload. None of the guys at the cookout openly support the payload. They all say it's terrible... they say that, right before they boss their women around and probably whisper about wife-swapping. They keep that topic away from Thomas, I think.

I realize that I'm stalling in front of the door. As long as it isn't James, I'm fine, but the idea that it might be...

I mean, I don't think that James would try anything with me. As far as he knows, I'm Thomas' plaything, Even if he believes that Thomas doesn't fuck me - which I'm certain everyone else doubts - that wouldn't give him the right to do anything to me. I belong to Thomas. I mean, as far as he's concerned, I belong to Thomas. I wince at the way that I've already begun letting the role I play seep over into my own personal thoughts.

When the doorbell chimes again, I consider ignoring it. I could always pretend I didn't hear. Or I could go and get Thomas. No... I think a good slave girl would probably open the door, and that is who I'm pretending to be. If I get lax in my performance, I'll give myself away. How ironic that pretending to be a slave is functionally identical to being a slave for real... in so many ways.

I laugh bitterly at the absurdity of my situation. Every woman in the world is a slave being rewarded by the payload for their obedience. I'm obeying for free. At least if I had the payload I'd be cumming myself at every submissive act. I scoff at the idea and grit my teeth. I shouldn't make jokes like that, but sometimes I feel like gallows humor is all I have left in the world.

I open the door a crack and peek out. "Hello?" I see no one. Looking down, I see a cardboard box sitting on the welcome mat. It is a package, completely unmarked. The door swings open, and I step forward to inspect it. As I kneel down to pick it up, there is a flash of movement to my left.

A hand snatches forward, sealing around my wrist in a vice-like grip. I start to scream, but only a gasp escapes my lips as the arm snatches forward, and I am caught in a powerful grip. I can't see my attacker, but I feel his hand clamp around my mouth.

"I got you now, bitch!" The voice growls, and my terror spikes to unimaginable levels. "You got away from me before, but not this time!"

'Oh my God! Someone help!' I want to scream, but the hand over my mouth prevents any sound from escaping. Even without the fingers muffling my mouth, I haven't yet struggled or tried fighting.

I've been living as a slave for long enough now that something forces me to maintain that role, even as the crippling fear floods my entire psyche.

I was so afraid of James!-Fuck!-I was so afraid that James would capture me, I never even once considered how much worse it could be!

The immovable arms of Henry, my foster-father, coil around me, and I realize that James would have been a mercy.