* * * *
That spring, Akira’s contract was up for renewal, and Roberto invited the slave’s trainer to the house for the weekend. Lamont was in Houston for the week on a shoot, but had already talked extensively to Roberto about his delight in Aki. “Oh, and see if you can get to know that guy Parker better,” Lamont said on the phone. “He was pretty weird. I’m not sure what it is.”
It had been two years since Roberto had last seen Chris Parker, but the memory remained strong of the short, stocky trainer. They met at the Tokyo auction, where three slaves Chris had trained were on the block: a petite blond woman with elaborate tattoos, an exotically attractive Eurasian gentleman, and Akira. Their conversation that evening was strictly business, and very limited; Chris’s boss was there hovering over everything, and he was one tough customer. Chris practically kow-towed every time the guy passed by, moving stiffly at times. It was unnerving.
But the next night Roberto and Lamont ran into Chris at a gay bar near the auction house, and bought him a drink. When Lamont found that his beautiful looks and easy smile did not penetrate Chris’s shield of politeness, he wandered off for easier prey. It had seemed kind of kinky and powerful, the idea that he could seduce a trainer of slaves, but there was no need to waste his time. There were plenty of lithe Japanese men who were delighted to find a handsome black American in their midst, and the short, stumpy little Marketplace professional seemed to have a chip on his shoulder along with a rather recent scar on his cheek. Roberto, however, stayed to talk. Chris was more than he seemed, and Roberto appreciated that, and gave the trainer the respect he would give another owner—or a good slave. They talked extensively about training; it seemed that Parker was on some sort of exchange program, not in Japan for long, and he expected to be going home to New York fairly soon. When Robert gently asked about the scar, Chris told him that he was recovering from a minor accident and politely brushed off further interest. But he did show a genuine interest in Roberto’s family, which had employed three families of slaves in Central Mexico in a line which extended back through the Revolution to the first Spanish settlers in the New World. Roberto was only too pleased to be able to share this heritage with someone who obviously appreciated it for its romantic value. He remembered the gleam in Chris’s eyes when he told him about the love and respect his family had for the fewer members of each generation of servitors who returned to their tradition proudly.
When the trainer called, Robert picked up the phone himself. “I hope you have a single malt scotch at hand, Mr. Parker,” he said. Akira was bringing him a drink as he sat in his comfortable chair by the window, feeling the warmth of the afternoon sun on his shoulders.
“You have a good memory, Señor Vazquez,” answered Chris. “I do indeed, and all the relevant papers as well.”
“You are not an easy man to forget,” answered Roberto, who dismissed Akira with a wave of his hand, then lifted his drink slightly to the absent trainer. “I wish you could have taken me up on my invitation to visit us here; you would have enjoyed the weekend, I assure you.”
“I thank you, sir, for your kind invitation. But business presses me these days,” Chris said. “Perhaps some other time.”
They spoke lightly about insignificant topics—the weather, the economy. And when they had both sipped from their drinks more than twice, Chris got down to business. “I have already spoken to Akira, of course. He is quite happy with you, and is willing to renew his contract. He did, however, mention that your health has been in question.”
Roberto nodded absently. “Yes,” he said. “I have AIDS. My doctor has been very positive, but I am sick, and I expect to die soon. I’m not being dramatic, merely accepting. I have lived a good life, and I hope to die with dignity. You understand?”
“I understand,” Chris responded, compassion in his voice.
“My biggest concerns, frankly, are for Pedro and Lamont,” he said. “Akira is young and will be of use to Lamont over the next two years. But Pedro has been with me for, well, for all of my life, and most of his. I’m not certain how to address his contract in my will. And Lamont, well...” his voice trailed off. Chris allowed the silence to remain until Roberto collected himself. “I don’t know how to help Lamont. He is very courageous, but he does not know it. And he’s very angry about my getting sick. Not that I blame him, but you can’t beat this virus out of my body.” He chuckled.
“I understand your dilemma, Señor Vazquez,” Chris said gently. “You are not the first owner who has faced this regrettable situation. However, I do have some suggestions that might be of use to you at this point.” And he began to talk, Roberto looked amused, and then intrigued. It was much later when he finally hung up and retired to his bed, thoughtful.
* * * *
When Lamont returned from the Houston shoot, he was disappointed to learn that Roberto had decided not to renew Akira’s contract. “Why?” he pouted. “Akira was great fun, and very useful. I liked him.”
“I liked him, too, and he is getting a good recommendation from us,” Roberto said. “But I’ve decided it’s time for a change. Let’s go to Amsterdam next month.”
“Amsterdam!” Lamont threw his arms around Roberto. “How fabulous! Let’s find us a big old blond Scandinavian to round out the household.” Roberto merely smiled.
The Amsterdam auction had little in common to the Tokyo auction, Lamont’s only other experience at major Marketplace events. The Japanese auction was very businesslike, held in a towering office building, the slaves posed carefully under bright lights, high-resolution television showing each slave up close in the adjoining room where elaborately tattooed women and men served sushi to the clients. Here, the hors d’oeuvres were excellent cheeses and a sharp white wine, more in keeping with the centuries-old house that served as the auction house’s headquarters. No garish, exposing TV here, but the rooms were large and interesting, filled with antiques and art.
Lamont left Roberto reading the catalog and wandered to the viewing room. He saw a lovely pair of twins—male and female, beautifully displayed and clearly the highlight of the season’s offerings. There were several well presented women and men who probably served as general house staff, and Lamont spent a few minutes looking at the men. An older woman, dressed in a business suit, stood cheerfully as a gentleman used the paddle attached to the stand to spank her. Lamont wondered idly what her skills were—cooking? Bookkeeping? Law? He didn’t bother to read the book placed before her. But just beyond her he saw a profile he wanted to investigate.
The man was gorgeous. His blond hair reached to his shoulders. Happily, he wasn’t shaved, and a soft gold dusted his chest and then grew deeper as the hair developed in a line starting just below his navel and continuing down to his groin. Lamont’s eyes traced the strongly developed muscles, lingering at the meaty cock and balls. He reached out a hand to caress the slave’s chest, to discover if the hair was as soft as it appeared to be. Lamont’s hand brushed slowly down the muscled wall of stomach, stopping just above the hairline. Touching the genitals was permitted, but was considered an assertion of serious intent to purchase. With a sigh, Lamont moved around the slave, his hand enfolding the hard buttocks, sliding between them to run down the inside of his thighs. He imagined the slave bending over for him, spreading his ass cheeks wide to take his dark cock. It was maddening, looking at this blond angel, knowing that if he was at home, the slave would do anything he wished. Where was Roberto?
Returning to the front hall, Lamont found Roberto pouring over a printout of statistics. “Oh, Roberto,” he cried, “there is an angel in there, a fabulous, blond angel—you must come and see.” Roberto smiled and shook his head.
“I’m looking at them from the other side,” he smiled, indicating the table where the Marketplace records were kept. “This is what’s important to me, you know that.” True, Lamont thought to himself. Pedro was an excellent example of Roberto’s interest in skills over looks. Roberto never seemed to notice what was important, Lamont thought crossly. But the vision of the blond man kept him pulling at his lover’s arm.
“Roberto, this man, this—you’ve just got to see him,” Lamont insisted. “Quick, before the viewing ends.” But even as he pried his lover away from the auction books, the doors to the viewing room were closing, signaling that the bidding would begin in minutes.
Because Lamont was not technically an owner, it was considered bad taste for him to pay too much attention to the bidding. Casually, he wandered away from Roberto and back to the bar, smiling at one or two of the Marketplace owners on his way. Lamont knew the Marketplace rated his performance in Roberto’s household as part of his owner potential, and Roberto had explained to him the importance of keeping up his contacts and his behavior at Marketplace events would also have an impact on his rating. Lamont was well familiar with networking in his own line of work, and the smiles came easily to his face when he met the eyes of Marketplace owners. But the men were more interested in the bidding than Lamont, and shortly he lost their attention.
At last, after his third vodka tonic, Lamont heard the change in the crowd noise and knew the business was over. He strolled over to Roberto, who was shaking hands with several other men. “Good luck, Roberto,” said one, clasping his hand before turning away.
“Lamont, we have a new purchase,” Roberto informed his lover happily. Lamont’s eyes opened wide. “Really? Who? Which one?” he jabbered, as his lover laughed and shook his head as the doors to the slaves’ display area were reopened.
“His name is Joshua,” Roberto was consulting the numbers as they moved through the room. Lamont looked vaguely around, frustrated that he hadn’t bothered to read the slaves’ books when he was looking at them earlier. “He’s thirty, Bachelor of Science in Nursing,” Roberto continued, but Lamont was barely listening, reading the information quickly at each station to find a Joshua, stopping before a tall French maid to check whether the name was female or male. He vaguely heard Roberto’s voice talking about credit hours in immunosuppression, certification in something called oncology, before the realization broke through. He turned and stared at Roberto.
“You bought a nurse!” He cried. “A nurse!” Roberto shushed him as other owners turned briefly toward them, then away politely. “You aren’t that sick, Roberto, you don’t need a nurse!”
Roberto shushed him, answering in a quieter tone. “Lamont, my darling, I don’t need one now. But I will need one soon. Probably sooner than either of us wants to think about. Ah, here he is!” And Lamont once again found himself staring up at the blond god he had been so taken with earlier. But now the muscles lost their appeal, the blond tuft brushing across the slave’s brows was no longer entrancing. As Lamont stared numbly, Roberto snapped a collar onto the slave. Immediately, the slave knelt, and presented himself to his new owners.
You may look like an angel, Lamont murmured silently, but you are really the Angel of Death.
* * * *
“He is a beautiful man,” Roberto said as they returned to the hotel. But Lamont was not to be placated.
“Roberto,” he said tersely, “I cannot—I cannot accept that you will ever be so sick as to need a nurse in the house, no matter how handsome he is.” As Roberto started to object, Lamont raised his hand. “I know I overreacted when you were sick last time, but I wasn’t sure what to do then. I can do it now, Roberto. You don’t need a nurse, you have me! I can take care of you.” He glared at his lover, and they stayed that way for what seemed an eternity.
“Lamont,” said Roberto after a moment. “You are my lover. You are my companion. Asking you to be my nurse on top of that is simply too much for anyone. Especially you.”
“What!” Lamont exploded. “What do you mean, especially me?”
“Lamont, face it. You’re a wonderful friend, fabulous lover, great at parties, but you hate dirty work,” Roberto replied firmly. “There may be a time when I need help feeding myself, or, God forbid, when I am unable to leave the bed to relieve myself. Lamont, you can’t even stand the smell of ceviche, how will you handle my vomit and shit?” As he watched his lover shudder at the thought, Roberto continued more gently. “Lamont, I’ve just purchased someone whose job it will be to take care of all of those problems. Someone who will change my sweat-soaked bedsheets and smile when I fart.” Roberto paused for a moment, his eyes far away. “Joshua will be there for the worst of it. When you need a break from it, I’ll still have someone to take care of me.”
“But Roberto—” Lamont protested, interrupted by a knocking at the door.
“That would be Joshua,” Roberto said. “Let him in.” With a groan, Lamont walked to the door. “Lamont,” Roberto added. “I think you will thank me for this decision. Maybe not now. But someday.”
* * * *
For the next several weeks, Lamont hardly saw Joshua, unless he was called upon by Roberto when the two of them were together. Joshua was aware of his discomfort, and kept out of Lamont’s way. It was a relief, because every time the slave would walk past him, Lamont could feel his cock twitch. He longed to touch the slave, but his desire would deteriorate to hatred, and he would dream of beating the blond man into a bloody pulp. Sometimes Lamont dreamed of fucking him first, and sometimes he would imagine driving his dark cock between bruised and marked buttocks. But mostly Lamont dreamed of Roberto gaining strength and health as Joshua slowly grew sicker and sicker, giving up his life for Roberto. It was a dream that Lamont held onto.