Master of Babylon Ch. 03

There's a painting of my mother on the wall of the suite. By Babylon's standards, it's almost tasteful. It's a landscape, two of its sides framed by the trunk and low branches of a tree. My mother reclines against the trunk, captured in a quiet moment as she reads a book. Her right hand rests on the grass beside her, as though inviting the viewer to join her.

She's naked, save for her collar and ears, but that's Babylon for you.

The little collection of rooms is called the Willow Suite. I didn't actually know they had names, but I suppose it would hurt our image if the guests felt they were just a number. There are three rooms in the suite; an atrium, bedroom and bathroom, all large enough for an orgy but smaller than I was expecting. Probably to encourage our guests to get their money's worth out in the manor and the estate.

The décor is about what you'd expect. I've never quite understood where artistic nudity becomes pornography, but Babylon doesn't so much straddle the line as lean over it for a better view of the other side. Nude figures are hidden everywhere; in the art and photographs on the walls, of course, but also carved into the legs of the dining table and stitched in silver thread into the green curtains, a dozen tiny silver silhouettes climbing dangling vines.

It would be tasteless if it wasn't so unapologetic. Instead, it's like a declaration of intent.

I wash up in an enormous shower lined with intimidating nozzles, slightly surprised to discover that the dispensers in here contain the same soap, shampoo and conditioner as the shower block in the male barracks, but we probably buy it in bulk. Once I'm dry, I stand naked in the bedroom, looking down at the uniform I laid out on the bed. I've barely worn anything else since I was twelve and started working in the kitchen, but already I feel no connection to it at all.

Instead, I slip on the complimentary white bathrobe and slippers, both marked with a monogrammed B. I remember hearing that they're among the most frequently stolen items in the estate, even though we sell them in the gift shop and our guests can definitely afford to buy. Wearing one, I kind of get it.

I hear knocking at the door to the suite, followed by a few seconds of silence before it clicks open. Making my way into the atrium, I find a bunny laying out my breakfast on the table, her back to the bedroom door with her spine arched to present her ass. It would be titillating if I didn't recognise her ears and the body wearing that leotard and fishnet stockings.

"Good morning, Master," Julia says in a chipper tone as she turns towards me, bowing her head in greeting with her hands clasped in front of her. She's in full rig, her cuffs and collar perfectly positioned, with her hair done and a fresh face. She's perfect, but that's what's expected from her. "My name is- Julius, what... oh my God!"

She sprints over to me on four-inch heels, using my chest as a brake and bringing her hand up to brush against my bare neck before wrapping her arms around me in a fierce embrace, a giddy laugh escaping from somewhere deep in her lungs.

I match her embrace, losing myself in her happiness for a fleeting moment. I feel like a coward, knowing what I have to tell her next.

"I thought someone would have told you," I say, my voice choked.

Julia shakes her head, still clinging tightly to me.

"I only just finished freshening up after seeing off my last client. I heard about the old man, but nothing about this. I'm so proud of you, Julius. You're free!"

"Let's sit down, okay?" I guide her to the colossal green leather couch set in front of a comparatively small TV, Julia leaning against me like it's any other night and we're sitting together on the day bed in the kitchen. My heart is in my throat.

"It's not just freedom, Julia. I'm Julius Hawthorne now. I'm his heir."

She wriggles around until she's kneeling on the couch, her hands on her legs as she peers intently at me with an awestruck look on her face.

"Holy shit, bro." She laughs, a hand flying up to brush at her chin. "Or I guess it's Master now."

I wince, unable to look at her anymore. Julia picks up on my distress at once, reaching up to squeeze my shoulder.

"What's wrong?"

"I had to make a choice," I confess, my voice weak. "A condition in the will. I inherit everything, but I can't free you. If I do, everything else -- everyone else -- gets sold."

Julia freezes, her hand clamping down on my shoulder before she lets go and climbs off the sofa, pacing up and down in front of me as she tries to stop herself from completely losing control.

"That... old bastard!" she wails. "I helped him through the last days of his life, and he pulls a vile little trick like that!?"

"We can do it anyway," I argue.

"No you fucking won't!" Julia snaps, reeling on me. "Don't you even think about it!"

"Julia, what-"

"He shouldn't have put that in the will," she continues, emphatically. "He shouldn't have put that on you! All the girls are under proscription, anyway. 'Do not sell, do not emancipate.' The court orders are in his safe!"

"Julia, please, sit down..." I ask, trying to calm her. "I've never heard of anything like that."

She slumps back onto the couch with a huff, one leg tapping out a silent rhythm on the shag pile carpet before she spots it and smothers the motion by crossing her legs.

"The guy from last night, he's a Senator. He's having second thoughts about a bill on the floor, talked through his doubts with me. Last week there was a mining exec whose wife's threating divorce, a film star who likes to take it up the ass, a celibate Cardinal. Babylon's all about confidentiality, so we don't get freed and we don't get sold, which means no tell-all book deals. Costs heaps to get it done, but that's our USP."

"So, to free you..."

"You'd have to go to the courts. It'd hit the press, and then everyone I've fucked would wonder if I'm gonna kiss and tell."

Then it's my turn to stand, throwing my weight around the room and glaring at the décor as though it was personally chosen to piss me off.

"I'm pulling you off the escort roster," I declare, finally managing to force a smile onto my face.

She doesn't react like I expect, instead springing off the couch like she's been struck.

"The Hell you are!"

"What kind of reaction is that?" I ask, goggling at her in disbelief.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Master," she drawls, glaring at me as she bows sarcastically with her hands on her hips. "Whatever you say, Master. Your wish is my command, Master! Want me to suck your toes, Master!?"

"Julia, you're my sister!" I protest, but she just storms forwards, jabbing an angry finger at my chin.

"So what!? If you want to pull some slave in name only bullshit, what makes me so special? Claudia's still in solitary 'cos she bit that guy's dick, even though she didn't mean to. Tabia isn't allowed near the pools in case she has a seizure. Fuck, she's an unrepentant bitch but you have to admit Arete deserves it a lot more than me."

Her lip wobbles, tears beading at the corner of her eyes before she turns sullenly away from me and crosses her arms.

"You made a promise, Julius. No squeamishness, even if you find it uncomfortable. What I do here wouldn't be normal anywhere else, but nowhere else matters. Am I a whore? Is this a whorehouse and are you a whoremonger, or is this Babylon, where I'm a girl in the prime of her life, with the same duties and responsibilities as every friend I have? Turn me into a pampered doll and I'd lose all of that."

I groan, rubbing my brow in frustration before finally surrendering to the inevitable.

"Fine, you win. I'm sorry, Julia. I wasn't thinking."

"Good," she declares, suddenly all smiles. "Because there's a Brit billionaire arriving this evening who asked for me specifically, and I really don't want you to fuck up your business on your first day on the job. Master."

"Please don't call me that."

"When we're alone, sure, but if anyone else's around I'm gonna call you Master Julius. Now, Julius, would you care for some breakfast? It's fresh from your kitchen."

She holds out my chair until I give in, taking a seat as Julia artfully removes the plate's metal cover, revealing a perfectly made Eggs Benedict; a thick slice of ham and a poached egg set atop an English muffin and half-drowned beneath Hollandaise sauce. The sight is oddly heartwarming, the folded-up note on the side of the plate even more so.

"Master Julius," I read aloud, "congratulations on your emancipation. It couldn't have happened to a better man, though we'll all miss your exceptional work here in the kitchen. Yours in every way, Matia and the team."

I fold the paper back up, tears glistening in my own eyes now as I look down at the meal, not sure how I can bring myself to destroy it.

"Where was that praise when I worked for her?" I ask, forcing a chuckle.

"You know what they say," Julia retorts. "If you can't suck off the boss, suck up to him."

"Who says that?" I demand, leaning back in my chair to look up at her. "Damnit Julia, please don't wait for permission to sit down."

"I says that," Julia answers, taking the seat across from me. "Just now."

She reaches across the table and boldly seizes the champagne glass, swirling the yellow liquid around before taking a sip.

"Well well, you're already embezzling me better drinks. Buck's Fizz..." she stretches out the words. "Add a little orange juice and suddenly it's socially acceptable to drink champagne first thing in the morning."

She downs half the glass, leaving the rest for me as I give in to the inevitable and begin deconstructing my breakfast, making sure to savour each individual flavour and the way they combine. Part of me fears that I'll someday forget the effort that goes into a meal like this, but for now eating the whole thing is my way of thanking Matia for her note.

"Okay," Julia says, once I've set my cutlery on the plate. "Serious talk part two."

I straighten up, set my palms on the table and nod.

"What you said back there really hurt, but because I'm your sister I understand why you said it. You can't talk like that around the other girls. You can't ignore them, either. Right now, everyone in Babylon probably thinks you're going to gather all the girls into a big heap and dive right in, and that would be normal."

I want to argue, but I'm not fond of repeating mistakes.

"It's so unbelievably lame to have to tell you this," Julia continues. "I mean here you are in the palace of male power fantasies and I've got to convince you to fuck your childhood friends without making them feel like they're doing something shameful. You guys sure do face the hardest battles."

When I move to argue she holds up a finger, glaring at me until she's sure I'll stay silent.

"You're probably about to say something like 'what if they don't want me' in a whiny voice, so I'll tell you to shut up because you're young and they know you and you're not overweight."

"Gee, thanks."

"I'm sorry, did you want the professional flattery? You're fine, bro. I mean you're not one of the athletes we get, but you keep yourself in shape. Don't get fat, though. It limits what you can do in bed, and it gets heavy for the girl."

"Understood," I say, smiling. "If that becomes a risk you've got my permission to coerce Matia into feeding me nothing but the old man's palliative soup."

"I am sad he's dead," Julia confesses, looking away. "I cried when I heard. Is that weird?"

I shrug my shoulders. "Babylon's the whole world, and he was at its heart."

We fall into a comforting silence, like we have so many times on the kitchen bed in the dead of night, or out on a bench somewhere quiet while Babylon's on a non-working day, the air smelling of chemicals from the super-chlorinated pools.

It can never last forever, and sure enough the moment is broken by someone knocking on the door. We sit there in silence for a few moments more, before Julia gives me a pointed look.

"Come in!" I order, the door swinging open as another girl enters with as much grace as she can manage while weighed down by two suit carriers and three different shopping bags. She's wearing more than any woman I've ever seen in the flesh, her uniform heels and just the barest strip of her fishnet stockings disappearing into women's office pants in light grey, paired with a matching suit jacket and a white business blouse whose collar can't be seen beneath the folds of an embroidered black hijab that falls down to her breasts.

She's put her ears on top of the garment, the headband off-centre in a way that suggests she forced it onto her head right before opening the door. Like her mother they're all black, though hers are straight, if a little droopy near the top.

"Hey, Sabah," I greet her as she gives me a practiced but still entirely novel bow. "You look like you've been out?"

"Yes, Master," she says, her professional tone undercut by her eagerness. "Mom sometimes sends me on errands. Says I need the experience." She's about two years younger than Julia and I, which meant we shared a lot of classes growing up, and she's always sounded like she's trying really hard to sound like her mother.

"I'm sorry I took so long," she continues. "The traffic was awful. Mom sent me to buy you a wardrobe, or the start of one. I was supposed to be waiting for you when you arrived."

Julia smiles, rising from her seat.

"What a perfect opportunity," she drawls, grinning at me. "I mean we were just talking about this, and all the while your emancipation present was stuck in traffic."

"I'm really sorry, Master," Sabah apologises with a bow, trying and mostly succeeding to keep hold of the clothes. "And congratulations. I'm really excited to be your first free lay."

A half laugh escapes me, the two girls looking confused enough that I feel obliged to explain.

"Amata actually beat you to it, Sabah."

"No way!" Julia exclaims, awestruck. Sabah almost looks mortified, but not for the reason I'd expect.

"What was the point of the pep talk if she was going to jump the line?"

"Pep talk?" I ask, trying to hide my sudden worry that she's been coerced with this. Sabah flushes, embarrassed, while Julia looks a little concerned at the question.

"Mom's been grooming me to take over her job when she retires," Sabah starts, confessing the worst-kept secret in Babylon. "But that's probably not happening anymore, since I'm no longer the biggest nepo-baby in the stock. No offence, Julia."

"Oh yeah," Julia exclaims, beaming like the thought's just occurred to her. "Sweet."

"So, mom sent me to demonstrate my skills to my new Master."

"You're a bit overdressed for that," Julia retorts, taking my clothes from Sabah's hands. The girl nods, smiling at me, then moves to take off her jacket.

"No," I command, earning me an annoyed look from my sister.

"You said she's a present," I explain. "I'll unwrap her myself."

Julia laughs, beaming, and gives me an exaggerated bow.

"I'll take your dishes back to the kitchen, then I should get back to my shift."

I shake my head. "Nope, you'll come back after. You're still on shift, Julia. You're floating today, which means you go where you're ordered, and I'm ordering you to serve me until it's time to get ready for your Brit. You'll fetch drinks, take me where I want to go and generally wait on me hand and foot, since you're so concerned about favouritism."

My sister raises her eyebrows, but nods in acceptance.

"As you command, Master Julius."

It's a good compromise; my name takes a lot of the sting out of hearing her call me Master. Once she's gone, I beckon for Sabah to follow and lead her into the bedroom, closing the door behind us. She stands with her feet together in the middle of the room, glancing at the painting of my mother with a pained expression.

"I should have noticed that when I picked the room..."

"Don't worry about it," I tell her, stepping in close and reaching up to run a hand over her hijab, plucking the ears from her head and setting them down on a dresser. "I didn't know you were religious."

"I'm not, really, but mom is. She lets me out on errands because of the whole 'grooming her successor' thing, but she makes sure I'm properly covered up."

"I've never seen her in a hijab," I remark, finding the end of the headscarf and a little amateurishly unwinding it, exposing her wavy brown hair, the collar circling her neck and the three undone buttons on her blouse.

"Babylon is a harem, and we're slaves."

The word is said without malice or even much thought, which makes it easier for me to let it roll past me as I pinch her chin with my finger and thumb and tilt her head up. I can see her mother in her features, but they don't seem as sharp. Her copper skin looks warm with life, her lips curling up in a nervous smile. I lose myself in her brown eyes for a moment, Sabah holding my gaze for as long as I want it. As I stare, I brush my thumb down her throat, hooking it under her collar to feel the gap between leather and flesh.

Her jacket slides off her shoulders without much effort, the same finger and thumb trailing down her blouse to undo the button of her pants. Finally, I break eye contact, crouching down to tease her pants over her hips, revealing the base of her leotard and the fine fishnet stockings climbing like ivy down to her heels. I have to take those off to lose the pants, but I slip them back on before unbuttoning Sabah's blouse and placing her ears back on her head.

She stands perfectly still as I circle her, her hands on the back of her head like I'm a buyer in a brokerage. Unlike my sister's deep blue, Sabah's leotard is canary yellow and almost pops off her skin, her modest breasts cupped by two shaped triangles of reinforced fabric.

I wrap my hands around her waist, my middle fingers almost close enough to touch each other, and pull her in close as my hands sink to her ass, feeling the border where fishnet-clad flesh gives way to yellow fabric. Like a good girl she keeps her hands on her head as I trail mine up her back and find the zipper for her leotard, stepping back to enjoy the view as I pull the zipper down and peel the cups off her perky breasts, which hardly sink without the support.

Her nipples are hard and, as I slip a finger in while drawing the leotard over her hips, I feel dew beading in her pussy, which I take as a sign to stop teasing the poor girl.

Instead, I grab her under the shoulders and hoist her up, straining with effort as her hands finally fly from her head before letting out a gleeful giggle as I throw her onto the bed. My old uniform is swiped onto the floor, her shoes thrown aside and stockings almost ripped off, leaving her squirming in just her collar and ears.

She makes to crawl away, grinning all the while, only to surrender as I clamber onto the bed, grab her by the ankle and tug her beneath me. Her hands fly to the knot on my bathrobe, letting it fall open as she stops a moment to stare at the rigid pendulum swinging just above her waist.

Sabah looks up at me, her eyes wide and lips open in a welcoming smile before she brings her hands above her head and grips the headboard like it's a rail on a ship in a storm. I plunge onto her, into her, rocking forwards like a wave and roaring in savage satisfaction, her own wails joining with mine as I drive myself into her again and again, my hands squeezing her hips, her breasts, forcing her mouth open with my thump. I fall onto her lips with a possessive, plunging tongue as she surrenders her hold on the headboard and tries to wrap her hands around my back.

It doesn't last long, but it feels like forever until I finally burst inside her, collapsing onto her with a rattling, exhausted breath as she rubs her shaking hands on my back and trails kisses down the side of my neck. In that moment of clarity, with my cock starting to soften inside her cunt, I wonder how much of that was a performance and how much was real. In the end, I decide it was art either way.

I shower again, intending to leave Sabah to relax on the bed only for her to duck in behind me with an insistence that men have no idea how to wash themselves. I don't protest, but I do shove her against the tiles and finger her to a giggling orgasm. When she's done drying me, she helps me dress in a white button-up shirt and a pair of tan chinos, sliding a brown belt through the loops and kneeling down in front of my crotch before doing up the buckle. Her own clothes are scattered on the floor, along with my old uniform.

"Throw that away," I remark, gesturing at the chef's tunic before leaving her to get dressed. In the atrium I find Julia reclining on the couch with her head and heels on either armrest. She glances at me and immediately looks away, her cheeks colouring in a fierce, embarrassed blush that sends me into a fit of laughter until she throws a cushion at my head.