How It All Began (Part Two)

This experience started here.

Sorry about the unexpected interruption. We were discussing how this entire lifestyle began. Pura had unexpectedly asked me about my sexuality, but I had decided I was going to ignore it. For a lot of reasons, not the least of which being I was a big chicken

A very, very cute chicken.

*smiles wickedly at her slave* Be careful, Pura. If you interrupt my story again, I'll spank you.

*Pura laughs and is not the least bit concerned about that silly threat* Mistress, I don't really believe you, and also, if you did not want me to interrupt you, you would not pass over the computer when I so sweetly request it.

You mean when you yank it out of my hands? *Spank!* Get the picture?

Yes, Mistress. *Shoots her readership a skeptical look* I will sit quietly and let you tell your story.

Thank you. Anyway...

Several hours passed in silence. She had the TV on for a while, but when I got my laptop out to work on some things, she shut it off. She was considerate in that way. She was always looking to me to be sure that what she was doing wasn’t disturbing. I was easy to please, though. I wasn’t terribly fussy.

She wandered around for a few minutes, moving laundry, wiping down the table, and then she sat beside me on the couch, holding one of my books from the shelf. She began reading somewhere in the middle, and, intrigued, I looked up and watched her. She felt my eyes.

“Yes?” she asked, glancing up at me.

“Have you been reading my book?” I asked, pleased and a little nervous. I enjoyed writing, and it was always fun for someone to read what I had written, but I was a little embarrassed that she had been reading it, and I didn’t know why.

Bethany smiled, and flipped several pages. “Actually, I have read them all. You write a lot about slavery.”

I nodded. “That is generally the topic,” I admitted. “I have always written about some sort of captivity.” I nodded toward the book in her hands. “That one, though, is really about the human condition, and paradoxical law. It’s a society where slavery is practiced and it is law, but humanitarian law suggests slavery is wrong in any form, so it’s a human battle. If doing the right thing, in this case freeing a slave, is against the law, how does one proceed?”

She laughed a little. “I think I can argue your perspective on right and wrong,” she told me. “After all, if there is no greater deity to give us a code of ethics, is slavery wrong?”

“Yes,” I answered. I was certain of that. “It is wrong to own another person as if they were an object, like a toaster.”

“So, is it wrong to own an animal?” she asked me, turning on the couch to face me, crossing her legs.

I shrugged. “Of course not.”

“What’s the difference?” she wanted to know. “Are people for some reason more important than animals? Is our ability to think rationally and dream make us better?”

Again, I shrugged. “I don’t know how to answer that,” I replied. “I’m inclined to say yes, but I’m afraid the ASPCA would show up and jump down my throat. I think people can’t own other people. They certainly can’t capture and train them.”

She shook the book at me, “Maybe they shouldn’t,” she said, “but they can. In this alternative world you created, though, perhaps their deity set up life for slavery.”

I laughed. “Well, that’s what the slave trainers would have you believe, I suppose. I still say it’s wrong. People should be free. They have to make choices and live up to the responsibilities of life. You can’t rob someone of their right to choose.”

Bethany reached over and closed my laptop, getting my full attention. In a somewhat haughty voice, she said, “Why not?” She spread her hands. “If you’re willing to give up your freedom… mark that! I said willing because in our real world, it would be a crime to force someone to submit. That being said, if someone willingly gave up their freedom so they didn’t have to make choices or abide by the responsibilities, would you think that was wrong?”

I scoffed. “Like S&M? People do it all the time. It’s kinky. It’s a fetish. I even get the appeal, but they’re just role-playing, even if they choose to role-play their whole life. It’s not real slavery. Real slavery still happens in their world, and it’s terrible and wrong, and should be stopped.”

“I agree,” Bethany said. “But I’m not talking about forced slavery; I’m talking about willing submission. In your books, you have very rarely written about a willing submission, and I think it would happen sometimes. Just the sex appeal, like you said S&M, would pull some people to the slave island.”

I actually agreed with her. “I know. I don’t write about them as much, because the unwilling are often more interesting to write about.”

“Why?” Bethany answered, serious suddenly, laughter gone from her eyes. “If unwilling slavery is wrong, why is it the fun one to write about?”

I put a hand on her knee. “Because it is the paradox I was talking about. Slavery is wrong, but the law of the land says it is not. Et cetera.”

Bethany let out a sigh. “I like the books,” she said. “I’m highly intrigued by them, but I’m confused by your opinions of your own work. You say that, if it’s done here, it’s kinky S&M role-playing, but it’s not in your books because it’s their life? If slavery was the role-play of your life, it wouldn’t be a role-play anymore. It would be your life.”

I agreed with that, but I said, “The difference is, in the book slaves cannot get free. They can’t ask to be freed. They can’t just walk away from the role-play when they don’t like it anymore. They don’t get to choose. If someone in a role-play in America got tired of it, they could leave. It could be like ‘This isn’t fun anymore. I’m done.’ Real slaves don’t have that as an option. That’s why it’s wrong.”

She watched me for a moment, looking up into my eyes, and nodded, accepting my words.

When she said nothing more, I put my laptop down and suggested, “Movie?”

She nodded and gave a weak smile. “Okay,” she agreed. Before I could move, she was off the couch and across the room to the TV. “Which did you want?”

I thought about it and shrugged. “Something silly.” I made a couple suggestions and she put in a movie. Then she returned to the seat right next to me. It was strange, but she always did that. She sat right beside me, even at the dinner table. My old roommates usually situated themselves on the loveseat or the chair across the room. When other seating wasn’t available, that’s when people chose to sit close to one another.

We watched the previews and got about ten minutes into the movie before I realized she was staring at me instead of watching. I looked at her and immediately she looked away. Several minutes later, the same thing happened. Finally, I paused the movie.

“Is something wrong?” I asked her.

She let a breath out through her nose in frustration. “Yes,” she admitted. “You write about slavery like you lived it. And it’s not dirty, sex-novels, like you could find in every grocery store. It’s like you have a passion for it in your heart. I have a hard time believing you hate slavery as much as you claim to do.”

I turned to lean against the armrest. “I think slavery is wicked.”

She shrugged. “That’s what holds you back in a lot of things, I bet. You think being gay is wicked, too, so you most certainly won’t act on that.”

I was surprised because I suddenly realized we were in an argument. I didn’t even know one had begun. “I will when I’m ready,” I replied. “But I think humanitarian law suggests I’m right with regards to slavery. You can’t own a person and take their rights away.”

She got on her knees in front of me on the couch. “Even if they want it?” she asked. “Even if they ask to be a slave?”

I lifted my hands helplessly and said, “I think even then. Why?”

She let out another frustrated breath. “Slavery really appeals to me,” she said in a quiet voice.

I laughed. “It appeals to me, too. I think that’s why I wrote the books. I could live on an island and be waited on hand and foot. If I got filthy rich tomorrow and bought a stateless island, I might even consider creating the island and inviting willing men to be my slaves. It’s a great little fantasy. But that doesn’t mean it should ever happen. It’s still wrong.”

“You misunderstand me,” she insisted. “Slavery appeals to me, not slave-owning." I stared at her in surprise, trying to comprehend her words.

That's all I have time for. I'll tell you the rest later.