Untie the Twist: One
LJ-SEC: (ORIGINALLY POSTED BY aecamadi)
Title: Untie the Twist Author: aecamadi Characters: See the cast, with short bios, here Length: ~3,700 words Rating: Adult Summary: The first look into the Slater marriage. Disclaimer: This isn't real. This is nothing like what's real. If you think this is real, what color is the sky in your world? Is it a pretty purple? I'd like a purple sky... Warnings: This is RPF set in an AU in which slavery is legal. Inherent non-con and cruelty will feature in this story.
This story is my novel-writing effort for NaNoWriMo 08. It is presented here in unedited/unbeta-ed form as the month and writing proceed. A final, polished version of this story will be presented at some point in December 2008. Those choosing to read now should expect wordiness and some rough edges.
The title is from the Annie Lennox song, "Twisted"
Lady Gabrielle Union-Slater emerges from the doctor's office with a look of disgust on her face. Kerry instantly leaps to her feet from the waiting room chair where she was perched, awaiting the completion of her mistress's visit to the fertility specialist who has been trying to help with the creation of a Slater progeny.
"Lady Union-Slater, would you like for me to drive for you?" Kerry keeps her voice soft, anticipating her mistress's needs, but not wanting to be presumptuous. "Or is there anything else I can do?"
"No, it's fine, I'll drive." Gabrielle shakes her head, wrenching the door open and walking briskly out into the corridor, stabbing the button for the elevator repeatedly, as if it might make the car arrive faster. "I need to drive. I need to get the hell away from here." She stares at the display above the cars, trying to figure out which one will arrive first. "I cannot believe that man. What nerve he has." She makes a scoffing noise, arms crossed over her body, toe tapping, jaw set. Everything in her demeanor reads hostility.
Concerned about her mistress's state of mind, Kerry fishes in the large handbag that she carries, and finds a roll of caramel hard candies. "Would you like a candy, ma'am? It's your favorite kind." She knows sugar is a good way to short-circuit a fit of pique or panic, it soothes anger and calms anxiety. Since mistress is an emotionally expressive, sanguine woman -- not flighty, just occasionally the type who wears their heart on their sleeve, she always has the caramels in her bag just for mistress in these situations. She carries many things in her bag that are just for mistress. She dislikes caramel. She dislikes spearmint breath mints. She loathes black licorice drops. But she keeps all three, because what's in the bag is only nominally about her.
She has those things for mistress, the only reason why she carries a bag anyway - as a slave there's nothing she really owns for herself, though she's permitted to have a few things to carry for herself, could carry more things as far as mistress is concerned but she's a trained body slave and she's been well taught not to worry about herself in that way. The candies, along with wet wipes, tissues, a sewing kit, tampons and pads, handkerchiefs, eye drops, mouthwash, hand sanitizer, spare pantyhose, perfume, and, given mistress's issues with her reproductive system, redundant panties, are all carefully organized and ready for her to hand anything that's needed over to mistress in a wink, even before she's asked for it.
Gabrielle is well aware that the candies only come out without a request when she's appearing to be over the top. Kerry has been in the Slater household from her childhood, alongside her mother. She's well aware that the late former Lady Slater, Gabrielle's husband's dead mother, was deemed fickle, mercurial and reactionary, and the edict from the elder Lord Slater (also dead now) was that all household staff members (what a delightful euphemism) were to use whatever means available to keep a lid on the woman's more visible or highly vocal expressions. The tactics that they used included cajoling, bribery, mild to not so mild deceit and above all else, distraction. Christian, Gabrielle's husband, the current Lord Slater, has told her about the way that Tyne, his mother's body slave, eventually got to the point of carrying a flask of scotch and offering Lady Slater a belt of it whenever she got to be "too much." Gabrielle dislikes that she's being treated in much the same fashion now, but with candy rather than booze. She wonders if there's a progression, and booze will be coming in a few months.
"No, thank you, Kerry." Gabrielle cools down a bit at the offer, despite herself, only because it steals her focus of anger away from the doctor for a moment. She cools down more when the bell dings and one of the three sets of elevator doors slides open, revealing an empty car, one that will take her away from the quack and his office. Stepping inside the elevator, Gabrielle puts her back to the wall and grasps the handrail tightly. She lets Kerry press the button for 2B, the second level of the underground garage where Gabrielle's car is waiting. It makes Kerry feel that she's doing her duty, little things like pressing elevator buttons and opening doors when they both reach them at the same time. As opposed as Gabrielle is to slavery, and to having someone act as a body slave, she knows that appearances demand that she keep Kerry, and knows that the woman's training -- brainwashing, really, begun as a small child at her mother's knee, even -- makes her feel obligated to do something, anything for her mistress.
But Gabrielle will not consider the woman to be her body slave. In the five years since she married Christian and moved into the financial bracket that involved mandatory ownership, she has lived with the circumstance because she understood, or at least believed that she understood something about how the Slaters viewed the matter of the humanity of slaves and the humane approach to slavery. She's not sure now that her outsider's understanding has borne out to be the truth, now that she's inside, but she knows that she does not have to willingly accept that she's a part of the system. She can resist from within, as much as possible, and she does.
She does not, will not, use the slaves personally in any significant way. She will benefit from slaves as everyone in society does, since slaves make everything, grow everything, transport everything, and the entire service industry is made up of slaves except for the highest levels of management and ownership. She can't avoid that if she wants a professional haircut or to eat at a restaurant (or anywhere) or to wear non-homemade clothes, she's taking advantage of slave labor. Even homemade clothes, as she wore through most of her younger years, were made from cloth made by slaves. Even homespun was made with cotton grown and harvested by slaves. Unless a person went off the grid and grew everything themselves, made everything themselves, even made the tools that they needed in order to be able to make the things that they needed to live their life, there really isn't any way to avoid being complicit in the system of slavery that has permeated every level of society, right up to the fact that the entire domestic staff of the White House were slaves now.
But in Gabrielle's personal life, it's different. She doesn't let Kerry drive her around like a chauffeur, nor help her dress or undress, or run her baths. She never allows the young woman to kneel in her presence, or otherwise assume grossly subservient postures. It goes without saying that she doesn't believe in physical punishments, nor does she make any use of the woman sexually, or at least Gabrielle wished it could go without saying. She's learning that it appears that she and her husband are distinct rarities in that regard, never beating any of their slaves, or ordering that they beat one another, setting up a hierarchy of favoritism and authority even amongst the slave ranks on the estate. Nor do they use their slaves' bodies carnally. Gabrielle was pleased to learn that unlike most men of his class, Christian lost his virginity with a friend, a free friend, not in adolescent fumbling with the male body slave who shadowed him through his youth (and was trained in special classes to be a pleasing human sex toy for his master) or with a female slave ordered by his father to "make a man" out of his son.
If Gabrielle is alone, or just with Christian, not in the company of others in the owner class, she will happily go to the kitchen and get herself something to eat or drink, when she wants it. She doesn't expect anyone else to handle her day to day routine for her, and won't let anyone do so. She has no choice but to consume what the kitchen slaves prepare, wear what they wash and iron, sit in rooms that they clean. For someone of her stature to cook on a daily basis or spend her time doing housework is not acceptable, and word would get out, causing troubles for her in the work that she tries to do, and for Christian in the corporation. But she does do her own laundry when she can, going so far as to have an apartment sized washer and dryer moved into the bathroom in her private suite to accommodate her needs, and the cooking and cleaning would be done whether she lived in the estate house or not. And if there are additional slaves in the household because of her, like Kerry, she finds a quantum of solace in keeping in mind that at least they're not owned by someone else, someone who would not treat them well. Someone who would forget, or who never believed to begin with, that they may be slaves, but they're still human.
So she climbs into the car, putting on the classical station out of Oakland, and takes the risk of lead-footing it a bit out of town, back up into the hills to the estate. Kerry is silent in the passenger seat, hands folded on her lap, looking straight ahead. Gabrielle doesn't try to have engage the woman in conversation. It's not that she finds the woman an unpleasant conversational partner, it's not that she finds Kerry beneath her or beyond her ability to communicate with. Just the opposite, it's Kerry who has a problem talking with Gabrielle, in a way, because Gabrielle wants to hear honest opinions, thoughtful insight. It's obviously painful for Kerry to be challenged to say what she thinks, to speak her own mind. Gabrielle's not sure if that's because it goes against what she's trained to do, or if it's because Kerry honestly doesn't have her own perspective on things, if she's wholly sublimated herself, even her own thoughts, to the whims, beliefs and positions of her masters, or at least what she believes them to be.
The ride home seems interminable, even with Gabrielle's speeding, and she's glad to pull into the garage and hurry into the house, leaving Kerry behind. She knows that Kerry won't follow, that she's finally made it clear that when they're in the house, she'll call Kerry when she needs her. It only took four and a half years, and sometimes Kerry still shows up unexpectedly. But she's in the clear now, Kerry disappearing toward the kitchen, probably to help Maura or her mother with dinner. Gabrielle heads directly toward Christian's office, bursting through the doors, the anger coming back, heightened now that she can share her displeasure with the one person who will truly understand.
"Christian!"
"Sweetheart, what happened?" Looking up from his iMac where he's been studying quarterly projection figures, a task he'd just as soon leave behind, but preferably for something other than dealing with an irate wife, Christian tries to remember what Gabrielle had planned for today that could have her in such a state.
Closing the doors behind her, Gabrielle strides to Christian's desk and collapses into a chair. "That doctor was an idiot. An insulting, horrible, idiot. I can't even... argh!" Gabrielle wants to recount the conversation to her husband but even trying to get her mouth to form the hateful words the doctor had used is beyond her at the moment. "Why did I ever go there? Who recommended him? And why did they know of our situation to recommend him?"
"It was Anderson, Dr. Waverly was featured in a series the magazine did last year, he's ranked one of the best specialists in this entire part of the state." Christian sighs. "I'm sorry I told Anderson, but he is my best friend, and he knew that something was weighing on my mind. I didn't give him specifics. He doesn't know if it's me or you or both of us, or anything." Christian rises and steps around the desk, crouching at Gabrielle's side, hands gently rubbing her knees. "I'm sorry he's made you so sad, my angel. I'll write him a nasty letter for you, if you can tell me what happened."
Calming at Christian's gentle touch, Gabrielle shakes her head. "He asked me... oh Christian, it was awful. He was so rude and presumptuous." She tries to catch her breath. "First he said that I ate the wrong things, that I probably have polycystic ovaries and insulin resistance and that's why I'm heavy." Gabrielle is not heavy. She has a curvy figure, voluptuous even, with a healthy helping of breasts and butt, but at 5'7½" and 128 pounds, she's on the light end of the normal range. If she lost even ten pounds, she'd be clinically underweight.
"He didn't even test me for insulin resistance, though, when I demanded the paperwork for my blood tests there wasn't even a basic check of my blood glucose level on there, let alone any of the gold standard tests for it. And no signs of cysts in my ovaries from the ultrasounds. He was just making some aspersion about the shape of me. I've researched that a lot and I have none of the risk factors!" Gabrielle has done more reading on the topics of fertility and gynecological health than she cares to think about.
Christian is aghast that the doctor could take such a view of his wife's body. He loves her body. It's curvy in all the places that a woman is meant to be curvy, but toned, she does put in time with him in the gym every morning. And she's by no means heavy. Christian knows this, empirically, better than anyone, doctor or not. After all, he's the one who picks her up to carry her to bed as often as he can. And he's the one who regularly wakes up with her sprawled atop him, the majority of her body over his, like a living quilt. She's not heavy, she's feminine and, as far as he's concerned, just right. "Oh, my angel, I'm sorry."
Gabrielle shakes her head. "That's not all, though. Then he said that it wasn't unusual for women of my station to have all sorts of problems because we don't take proper care of ourselves, and then! Then he said that we were probably having sex too often to maximize our potential for conceiving but that wasn't unusual for my kind either, we just can't help ourselves! Even if I couldn't, he knows who you are. I guess I've just been raping you regularly, with my out of control, low-class libido running rampant. I'm just a poor, uncontrollable, junk-food pounding fat woman who'll never have a baby." And now the tears that Gabrielle has been holding back since stomping out of Waverly's office come, in a hot torrent down her face, cutting through her eyeliner and smearing inky black under her eyes, raccoon style circles appearing.
Even with a societal hierarchy so well delineated between the haves and have-nots, that sort of overt classism is unusual. Especially spoken directly to someone's face. That this Dr. Waverly could be so bold with Gabrielle is deeply troubling to Christian. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wipes away her tears, dabbing at the smeared makeup to avoid making it worse. "We'll have our child, Gabrielle. One way or another. Waverly's a jackass. That's not going to stop us. We'll find someone else. We'll go into Oakland or San Francisco if we have to. It's not a problem. I promise you, my angel." Christian smoothes her hair away from her face, leaning up to kiss her tenderly. "I'll take care of Waverly. You need to not worry about him, not worry about anything. We'll find our way." He holds her hands, looking into her eyes. "I promise, Gabrielle."
Bending down, Gabrielle wraps her arms around Christian's shoulders, clinging to him. "I just hate to disappoint you. I know how important this is to you, beyond how much I want it." There are important legal implications to Christian, she's well aware, she was disconsolate over it when she first found out. Under a proviso of his great, great, great, great grandfather's will, having an heir, a blood heir, is a requirement for Christian.
Unless Christian has an heir, male or female (the will was, mercifully, not specific about sex) by the time he's 55, then control of the Shopway Corporation and the Slater estate will pass out of the family's hands for the first time ever, after twelve generations. Should this occur, Shopway would be divided amongst various and sundry holding companies and other corporate interests, leaving Christian and Gabrielle with their home for the rest of their lives, but only as tenants, and putting most of their assets, including all but the household slaves, in someone else's control. Neither of them want that.
Christian is determined to be a greater leader of the Slater legacy than his own father, who had a bit of a temper problem, exacerbated by alcohol, and had left the company in a bit of a financial shambles. He's come a long way, restoring the company's reputation and integrity, acquiring the fourth largest grocery chain to put Shopway on top of the list of grocery companies in the country, and greatly increasing the humanity of the already liberal rules governing the corporation's slave labor force. For all that he's done, to lose the company based on this technicality that is caught up in the randomness of human biology would be a devastation that neither he nor Gabrielle believe that he could ever live with.
All of that is the furthest thing from Christian's mind as he looks at his tear-stained, shaken wife. Holding onto her tightly, he rises slowly, bringing her to her feet, safe in his embrace. "Don't you think about that. It's important to me because I want us to have a family of our own, to have your dream of a pretty little girl with your eyes to teach all the things that you know, and to watch grow up into a beautiful, brilliant, honorable woman like her mommy. That's what matters to me. That's what I want." He gives her another gentle kiss, barely a whisper of his lips across hers, and his voice takes an urgent pitch as he makes a promise: "I will move heaven and earth, if that's what it takes, to make sure that your dream comes true. There is nothing I won't do, Gabrielle, I promise. Starting with eviscerating this Waverly flea, and making it entirely clear that no one speaks to Lady Gabrielle Monique Union-Slater that way. No one. Ever. Not so long as I draw breath on this earth."
"You're my hero, Christian. I love you to the moon and back." Gabrielle begins to put her head on her husband's shoulder, but thinks better of it looking at his immaculate, crisp blue shirt. "I should go wash my face. I'm sure I'm a mess. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."
"Shh," he presses a finger to her lips. "None of that. Go bathe your face," Christian gestures to the powder room attached to his office, "and I'll pour us some iced tea and we can sit outside and swing." He smiles and brushes the finger across her lips. Even puffy-faced from crying and emotionally spent, she's the most beautiful woman he's ever known. "Go on, angel, I'll be out on the deck. Come out and meet me when you're cleaned up. We'll make out." Smiling, Christian gives a head nod toward the French doors, and the deck that lay just outside them, a sumptuous span of bamboo, running the entire length of the back of the house. They often spend time there on beautiful days like this, when the sun is bright in a sky full of puffy clouds. They daydream together on the old-fashioned wrought iron swing right outside of his office.
Gabrielle nods. "I'd like that. I'll be right back." She gives him another squeeze before moving out of his arms and toward the powder room. Christian crosses to the small refrigerator in the mini-bar on the other side of the room and pulls out a pitcher of iced tea, pouring two glasses and trying to compose himself. A war of emotions moves through him, anger at the doctor at the forefront. It's unconscionable that the man could be so shoddy in his work, and insult Gabrielle in the process. It's wholly unacceptable, and a scathing letter will be written, as he promised. He's already composing it in his head. (Though "Dear Dr. Shit-for-brains" may be a bad opening tack if he wants it to actually be read.) But he would be lying if he said that he wasn't worried, worried about Gabrielle, worried about why her reproductive system is rebelling against her, against them, worried about what it will mean if she can't have their child. Leaning over the bar, he turns on the sink and splashes cold water onto his own face. Looking up, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the sink, he huffs out a breath. "Well, dammit anyway." He grabs a cocktail napkin to dab away the clinging drops of water before Gabrielle comes out and sees him this way.
Outside, Kerry rises silently from her seat, just far enough away from the open windows of Christian's office that she cannot be seen, but close enough that she could hear every word that Gabrielle and Christian exchanged. She slips into the house through the door into the kitchen, and heads downstairs to her room. The conversation that she wasn't meant to overhear has provided her with much food for thought.