Indulgent Fool

originally posted June 23, 2005

Less than you might expect, but more than I am willing to tolerate, the Lady Jenny attempts to foil me with half-truths; less than totally forthcoming responses. I am not surprised. I’ve known this barbarian for years and stare at her in disbelief from time to time that she is even alive. She has perpetrated any number of crimes that, in different times or different places, could have had her culled from existence with a brutal swiftness. How many times, in the handful of days since she signed the Contract of Companionship have I fielded the question, “Seriously? Her?”

“Yes, the very same,” I reply.
The truth of the matter is that our Free Companionship is not unlike so many aspects of life; dichotomous and not as it first appears. On one hand, it is an absolute sham. She is a barbarian, former resident of a slave planet, who infuriated far more fellows during her days of the collar and exposed brand than she pleased. Rarely was she able to utter the simple phrase “Yes, Master” without qualification, rationalization and supposition. Most women are pleased to have the colloquial ‘last word’. The slave Arjentia wanted the last word only after a spirited debate where, at minimum, you agreed to disagree with her. Yet she still walks and on finely slipper-shod feet. Would it not be far better to sell her milky-white hide to a Tor-bound caravan where at least her appearance will delight and arouse our swarthy, rugged brothers to the south? This brings me to the other hand. As much as the Free Companionship mocks the institution as thoroughly as she once made a mockery of her own submission, it is, in spite of itself, a true example in my mind; an uncontestable legal one. She is worked very hard at every task I deem beyond the scope of a slave’s duties in and around the Boarding House. Her duty is to support me in the endeavors I command her to. She better understands the basics of accountancy, finance and investment, as a result of my tutelage, than she ever could have hoped to grasp on her own. I find it increasingly unnecessary to perform more than a cursory audit of her books. It is succinct, accurate and unimaginative as the business of money should be.
This is not to say I do not have issues with her. In her quest to appear the ‘put-upon’, independent woman she imagines herself to be, she provokes trouble. At times, I wonder if it does not sully my good name to have her contracted to me as Free Companion. I like her. I genuinely do. And her plots are mostly harmless; schemes devised to do little more than provide her and the women who earn for me some modest comfort. I am not averse to looking away and playing the fool at times; allowing her to feel she has scored at least a moral victory over me. I am beginning to think I have been too indulgent, too kind to her.

Spike.

Those who know me even as a passing acquaintance, know that the idea of a fellow bowing, willingly accepting that he is a submissive creature, disgusts me. It rails against the natural order of things for men to flit about like so much useless fluff. “Oh, but they are worked hard. Thralls. Their life is one of suffering and pain!” I hear this argument and, no doubt, it allows these wretches a bit of security, one phantom scrap of their manhood and dignity. I think, however, that is a lot of bunk. They are unable or unwilling to accept the mantle and responsibility of manhood in society and they would rather be beaten like miserable cur than rise and stay the hand that strikes them. They would rather bow to a woman and lick her fingers, tend to her needs, than stand tall over her and give her what she truly needs. Harshly as I regard these fellows, those who know me also know that I take pride, as a man, in their redemption. That moment the synapses fire in their brains and the mental shackles are broken is a fine one, indeed. A cause for celebration.

I do not know that this momentous occasion has occurred for the day laborer of the Boarding House, Spike. The whores seem to like him well enough, particularly my four copper, and even regard him as a friend. He does not seem of the mind to inform them of their impropriety. I continue to play the part of fool. Willingly. I have treated the fellow with respect, giving him an honest wage for honest work and a place to sleep, food to eat, free of charge. Jenny seems to enjoy his company as much or more than the whores. She lies to the fellow with her eyes, her body language when they are in my presence, feigning misery at her situation. I have little doubt she verbalizes this falsehood when they have occasion to speak without my attendance. That irks me, in truth. I expect nothing more than obedience and nothing less.

“You are closer than you might think to being stripped and thrown beside these whores, to earn for me as they do,” I cautioned her.
She answered with all manner of qualification, rationalization and supposition that, as the slave Arjentia, she was famous for. She pleaded her case, not quite comprehending the downward slope she was sliding upon. Eager to prove her point, to gain a foothold with me, to come to some pleasant understanding, she failed to conceive the real gravity of the situation which I quickly rectified.

“The proper response to my last statement is ‘Yes Master’,” Itold her.

“Yes, Master,” she replied. “Yes. Yes, Master. Yes, Master.”