Chapters A Holsom Women's Social Chapter 12
“Cherry…” Julia’s voice penetrated the moment; hushed, as if she might somehow wake the crowd. ”I think it’s time for you to leave.”
“Right.” Cherry panted, resting her forehead against Diane’s, relishing the final seconds of contact. Diane’s clouded eyes were closed, no longer searching for a shadow in the fog, and somehow they were closer now, here in this stolen, stupid moment. She hadn’t said anything more — Cherry wasn’t even sure how she had managed to say as little as she had — but Diane was practiced at communicating without words, even when she wasn’t totally blocked. Cherry just wished that Diane could see her own affectionate grin reflected back across the short space between them.
Even after Julia’s interruption, it still felt as though the two of them were private together, the small gap tented in by strands of black and blonde hair. But Julia was right. As much as she might want to, Cherry couldn’t stay in this moment forever. She was lucky — crazy! — to have gotten it in the first place. She left one last kiss on Diane’s cheek, a mirror of where the other woman’s lips had marked her earlier, and giggled as Diane’s eyes shot open again. One more — the other cheek. Ok. Now she was done!
Stepping back, turning to Julia, she couldn’t help the smile lighting up her face — even despite her hostess’ exasperated countenance.
“I guess it is.” Cherry said resolutely, drawing herself up in a gesture meant to convey a bit of her regained confidence but in actuality just jutting her breasts further out before her.
Julia sniffed, raising an eyebrow at Cherry’s proffered tits. “This maid will escort you home.” She nodded toward the maid who had retrieved Cherry’s dress, before a sharp turn of her heel began her march towards the door. As if it was necessary, she singsonged, “Come along now.”
The maid clicked a leash to her collar, but for the moment it hung limp across her cleavage, and Cherry’s eyes glued to it, feeling unfinished here.
“Julia…?” Cherry called, hesitating.
“Yes?” Julia sighed, rapidly approaching the open door and running out of patience.
Cherry looked back out over the crowd, finding Liza and Jeany, Madison, Sprinkles… all stuck in what must have seemed to them to be an endless Intermission. Waiting for Cherry to leave, though they wouldn’t know that. Sprinkles in particular was swaying and bouncing in place, apparently passing the time by subtly dancing to the muzak. The uniquely bubbly display of impatience fit so well with the personality Cherry had gotten to know in her short time with the scripted ladies, it made her feel even closer to her new — and likely lost — friend.
Cherry was painfully wistful. She felt as though she had peeked at a certain life here, crafted it like a playhouse, placed herself as a doll inside it, and now the fragile panels had all fallen apart. Yet she had lived here, just for a second. She eyed the persistent blush on Diane’s face, the impatience on everyone else’s. She had made an impression, at least.
Cherry pranced up to Julia, who turned to her with a look of surprised consternation. Before that expression had a chance to sour further, Cherry said earnestly, “Thank you for inviting me. Even after everything, this has still been the best day I’ve had since my wedding, and…and I’m not even sure that day was really as great as I thought it was.”
Julia’s face clearly weighed challenging such nonsense or hastening Cherry’s exit, yet her mouth betrayed her, responding to polite gratitude in kind. “You…are welcome. I am sorry that things turned out how they did.” Then she huffed, eyes scanning the huddled mass of her guests. “I’ll be lucky if this crowd is not halved by next Social, after an Intermission this long. It reflects poorly on a hostess, you know.”
Cherry looked back at the crowd again, noting to her growing embarrassment the way nearly everyone was shifting in agitation at least a little bit.
“What will you tell them?”
“None of the unsavory details, dear. If anyone asks after you specifically,” She said with a disapproving glance towards Diane, “I will say that you had an accident, and made an early exit. Even if I were to invite you again, I am not sure your husband would allow you to return.”
“That’s ok.” Cherry said, knowing full well that this was Julia’s way of politely informing her that she would not be invited again, regardless of Francis’ potential objections. “I don’t think I’ll be around much longer anyway.” She stared out into the empty landscape beyond the open door, a censored haze of nothing between her and her fate. Replacement, in one way or another, seemed the only thing she could expect for certain. “I just hope you’ll give the next Mrs. Crane a chance.” She tried not to let melancholy tinge the request. “I know how special it will be for her.”
“I….” Julia was momentarily, deliberately, speechless. She closed her eyes and let out a long breath. When she opened them, her ice blue gaze had once again thawed, her voice warmed. “I will send her the invitation. Now go, Cherry. And… good luck.”
Cherry nodded, giving a small smile by way of goodbye, and the maid led her into the fog.
Gentle muzak, the amber haze of the long summer sunset, and a steady pull on her leash.
The walk back home to Francis went much the same as her unwitting stroll had that morning. She idly wondered whether the streets would be bustling or quiet at this time of early evening, noting brief changes in the air as people passed, the occasional whiff of a wife’s perfume, or a man’s cologne. She understood now why she had to be kept so thoroughly censored out of doors. The faintest smell of a man was enough to set her wondering whether Francis might be there—and then where he had gone. Not enough to convince her entirely, not without the visual, but worrying all the same. She shuddered to think what the sight of a crowded street packed with men, all seemingly wearing the persona of her husband, would do to her. That morning it might have merely confused the stuffing out of her, but now…
What would the sight of the real Francis do to her, now? Was…was there even a real Francis at all? There must be. She pictured her wedding, that sweetest of moments she had replayed in her mind for weeks, pining for that golden day. Surely her father had given her away to someone on the altar.
The series of strange cocks she could attach to her image of him, each one unique, still frightened her terribly. Many men must have visited her in that little bedroom she had thought she shared with only her husband. That much she could put together on her own. What she didn’t understand was why. Francis’ permission seemed implicit in the arrangement — anything that happened between her and the other men must have been done with his knowledge, even if not with hers. It was different from the events with the men at the Social — that had been unplanned, and surely against his wishes. In his own home, at his permission, there was nothing to be violated. It seemed there was something more, something she had lost long ago without even realizing it, but the thought held less form than the mist that surrounded her whenever she tried to put it into words.
Slipping off that nebulous sense of wrongness, she again found herself puzzling over the much more approachable question: Why? She was determined to ask him, if she ever saw the real him again. If she would even know when she did.
There wasn’t even a hitch in the maid’s leisurely pace as they passed through what could only be the front door of Francis’ home. It must have been opened ahead of them—they were expected, awaited. The shift in light from the outside was her only sign. Even the muzak continued indoors, unlike that morning. She wondered why there would be sounds to keep from her in the evening that had not been present earlier. Another little puzzle to add on top of all the rest.
Cherry had enjoyed puzzles, when she’d had the fingers for them. She’d even done a few with her brothers, with the little squiggly shapes instead of the simple squares and rectangles hers had been made from. Remembering that was a sign of yet more damage that had been done to her today. She was being far too curious, unbecoming of a wife and something she had worked hard to bury in finishing school, or what parts she had attended before meeting Francis. Truly, Cherry would have rather been womanly as can be, following the tug on her collar without this ceaseless wondering. Yet after so much had been hidden just under her nose, she couldn’t help but pick at her little questions like a young girl with her irresponsible hands, picking at a scabby knee.
They turned a few corners along the route inside the house. Cherry tried in vain to imagine the path she had taken that morning but in reverse. It was impossible of course, with so much having transpired between now and then, all of it destabilizing. Keeping track of her lefts and rights was difficult enough even when not blinded, especially now that she couldn’t put her hands up in front of her to find which one made the right “L” shape. Or left. Right…. Was she being taken back to the little bedroom? Or somewhere else? She didn’t know which might bode worse for her. At least the bedroom would be familiar.
The gentle tug stopped abruptly, and so did her breath, catching in her throat as she stumbled to a halt on her high pleasers. Ungraceful. That’s what she got for being so distracted. She was in her husband’s home! She should always be moving as if his eyes were on her. Perhaps they were, she shuddered to imagine. Wait, she…shuddered? That was not at all the correct response to the thought of her husband watching her!
The muzak faded to a low whine, and then was gone. Her eyes remained uselessly obscured, yet she could just pick up the sound of a breath nearby, rumbly and deep.
“I hear you’ve had a rough day.” His gruff voice stabbed through a long moment of anxious silence.
“Francis?” Cherry flung her blurry gaze around, searching for some hint of his form in the fog. “What—what a wonder—!“ with significant effort she managed to bite back the automatic response and continue at a more cautious volume. “…Is it really you?”
“Yes, it’s me.” He sounded exasperated.
She took a hesitant step back and found herself halted by a mechanical hand on the small of her back—the maid, ensuring she remained where she was put. The hand wasn’t so steadfast as usual, far from the iron grip of impending punishment, but it still prevented any retreat. Cherry bit at herself, again. Why did she want to retreat?
All her carefully cultivated determination evaporated before the blow of his next words.
“So the old man was right after all. You’re broken.”
Before Cherry realized it she was blubbering apologies, tears welling. “I’m sorry—I—I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know—!“
“Stop.” He commanded and she snapped her lips closed. “I’m not going to police my tone for your sake, Cherry. I’m out a lot of money, I’m fucking pissed, and I am trying very hard not to direct that anger your way. I know this wasn’t your fault. I don’t want or need apologies from you, but I’m also not in the mood to sugarcoat a fucking disaster. Is that understood?”
Cherry nodded, sniffling, biting her plump lower lip, but keeping quiet. She found herself leaning into the maid’s hand for support as she did her best to show him she would listen carefully and speak when permitted. That nothing had changed.
“Good. Now how are you? Drestin said they roughed you up a bit, in addition to all the rest. Anything still hurting?”
“No, Francis.” She assured him, then waited for him to indicate whether he wanted more. When he didn’t respond, she cautiously ventured further details. “He…the younger one…he hit me. A little. But it doesn’t hurt anymore. Dr. Drestin made it better.”
“Idiot.” Francis cursed through clenched teeth. “I doubt I’ll get anything for property damage, but I can press to have him fired at the very least. Anyone else and I’d be compensated, but knowing the Retirement Bureau…well, I’m not holding my breath.”
Cherry, on the other hand, was. She was struggling with whether to tell more of what had happened—it appeared she had permission to speak, yet every detail seemed to make him more sour. Not at her — not so long as she didn’t stray into hysterics— but she didn’t want any men to get in trouble on her account, either. Still, she thought it was important to tell. “Clarissa—Mrs. Fitzgerald. She said she knew you…”
“She does. Did.”
Cherry swallowed, still uncertain she should be telling this at all. “Well…The other one was much nicer to me, but…he was mean to her, Francis. Really mean.” It started off well enough, but emotion crept into her voice before she could stop it. “I think…I think he hurt her a lot. H-He shouldn’t have done that…right? She was being retired—she was good!”
Francis grunted. “No, I suppose he shouldn’t have.” He let out another rumbling sigh. “I’ve got no love for that woman, for my own reasons, but retiring her was Roger’s decision and that should have been properly honored. Fucking idiots. They’ve probably been taking free rides every other day on some used up old beater. Get one chance at a more delicate model—and they fucking ruined you.”
Ruined.
There it was. The confirmation she had feared. Even before the events of the Social, his disposition towards her was already cause for grave concern. Knowing what she did now, she wasn’t even sure how to process what exactly his expectations had been, and how she had failed to meet them. But whatever her prior faults, at least she hadn’t been ruined.
“Will…” She gulped down the desire to put too much pleading into her voice. Begging could come later, and she was ready to if need be, but first she had to know what he planned. “Will you retire me now?” The preferable option, given the circumstances. The only other conclusion loomed like a threat, the price girls paid for failure. “Or…cut me loose?”
“I’d sell you before it came to that. If I could find a buyer who’ll put up with you freaking out every time he fucks you. I know some might enjoy it…”
Cherry felt another little quiver run through her at that thought. Not merely the idea of a cruel owner—that was just something you had to expect, as a girl, unless your father was the type to ensure otherwise. But Francis wasn’t her father, and that was the real reason such a sale put her on edge. It would be her second, and would surely lead to a third. Second-hand wives rarely made retirement, instead being sold again and again until they ended up on the street anyway. Everyone knew that being sold to a new husband after failing the first all but guaranteed being cut loose eventually…
“…but I’ve made a rule not to cater to that sort in my regular business,” Francis continued, heading off her spiraling thoughts before they had a chance to nestle anywhere truly dark, “And I’m not breaking it now. For the time being, I’m keeping you here.”
Cherry’s eyes wandered in the fog, looking for proof she had heard him right.
“You are? I thought you… I thought you didn’t love me, anymore.” She ground her pleaser self-consciously, a bad habit she might have been spanked for, growing up. Francis had never spanked her, not even for minor transgressions. That had made her proud once. Now it just added to the overall sense of neglect. “Even b-before what happened, you almost never visited me. And…” She steeled herself. She had to know. “And when you did…it wasn’t really you, was it?”
The air hung stale. Cherry knew she was being inspected, but couldn’t stand as proudly as she once had, couldn’t draw her shortened shoulders back and hold her chin high. Not when she knew the truth. The supportive hand on her back was the only thing keeping her from shaking in place.
“….Figured that out, huh?”
All she could do was quietly mumble an apology for even mentioning it.
“My own fault.” Francis mused. “Your father warned me, I shouldn’t have left you so smart. So, let’s hear it. What else have you pieced together? Might as well have it all out. I need to know what I’m working with, if I’m going to try and salvage my investment in you.”
More than once, as a girl, Cherry had suddenly found herself on a side street beyond her usual avenues, surrounded on all sides by floating patches of blur and haze; censored signs, people, and who-knows-what. She felt like that now—having to carefully navigate forbidden territory without even knowing where the real dangers lay.
“I…I know you replace your wives really fast. That you’re probably going to replace me, soon. Even if I wasn’t…ruined.” The word burned her tongue, but it was true. She had known it since she was face down on that carpet.
“Who told you that?” He growled and Cherry winced. She’d wandered too close after all. “Drestin’s woman knows to hold her tongue about my business, and she usually keeps the rest in line.”
“Clarissa.”
“Of fucking course.” Francis bit, cursing, “I can’t say I’m not happy to finally have that bitch out of my hair. Good riddance.” Cherry frowned a little before she caught herself. When Clarissa had explained her reasons for disliking Francis, Cherry would have never guessed the distaste was mutual— why would another man’s wife even be his concern?—but she was being overly curious again.
She heard the clink of a glass, and a long moment elapsed in silence before he continued. “No, Cherry I am not going to get rid of you so soon. You think I dump thousands into a new girl every six months and then just toss her aside? What kind of business model is that?”
“I don’t know. I—I don’t know what that means.”
“It means that your purpose is to make me money, Cherry.” His finger jabbed into her chest, punctuating the statement by skewering her tit and making her stumble, yet the mechanical hand on her back held her steady. When was the last time he had touched her? The real him? Cherry’s heartbeat kicked up—adding to the turbulence of her breasts as they resettled from his prodding. “And I’m not done with you until you’ve made me far more than I spent on you in the first place. So far, you’re not even close. So here you stay. I just have to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with you.”
“But how can I…make money?” She didn’t even know how men did that, not really.
“You do it the way any woman does.”
He must have seen the confusion painted across her hazy eyes.
“Come on, you’ve seen loosies soliciting on the streets. You’re a higher class than that, of course. But the principle is the same.”
Cherry had… and she hadn’t. Loose women were exactly the sort of thing the censors would regularly block, but she knew enough to differentiate their misty forms sidling up to male passersby, dipping in and out of alleyways, diving onto scraps of food tossed onto the street. They subsisted off of handouts—bread crusts, apple cores, and yes, occasionally coins or even paper money (which was worth more somehow, despite the coins being prettier)—and they rarely got anything just for asking nicely.
Is that what she was now?
”So I…w-with those men. The ones I thought were you?” Cherry gulped.
“And many more. The imprint takes a while to sink in properly, can’t overexpose you right away. Plus, I have to be careful while you are officially my wife—the Board frowns on such things and I get more than enough grief from them already. But just a few more weeks and you would have been ready for your big debut.”
“I don’t understand…”
Francis took a sip of something— men’s libations, she imagined. Maybe the amber brown kind, or the clear. “You aren’t meant to. This is all supposed to be behind the curtain, so to speak. As far as you were concerned, a year from now—two years, five—you’d still be my wife, and I’d be fucking you to your little heart’s content.”
“But Clarissa said that the others… Penny, she was the one before me. And now she’s gone. I’m even wearing her shoes.” She raised a foot to show him. Uncertain exactly where he was, she held it limply in front of her for a few moments.
“And where exactly do you think she went?” He paused. “You’re right, those are her shoes. How the fuck…? One of the maids must have screwed up. They’re normally so dependable it can be easy to forget they used to be women. But they still make mistakes sometimes—especially with your rooms being across from each other.”
“Our rooms…?”
Francis exhaled heavily, and Cherry held herself back from apologizing yet again for her lack of understanding. “Might as well give you a peek. I doubt it can do any more harm, and it might actually set you at ease.”
Her censors came down suddenly, without warning. Cherry was in their… her bedroom after all, facing Francis as he placed an empty glass on the nightstand by the bed. And it was him. She could pick out individual features and match them perfectly to the memory of Francis’ description. Blue eyes, a slightly rounded nose that might have seemed too large if not balanced by his strong, wide jaw. It all fit the way she remembered describing him to herself.
But that was no guarantee. She had learned better than to trust even her most cherished memories.
“Francis…?”
He paused, and frowned at her. “I thought we were past that. It’s me.”
“Sorry—,” she flinched.
He raked his fingers through his slicked back hair. “It’s alright, Cherry. Christ. It really is as bad as Drestin said. Whatever. I’ll deal with it somehow.” He walked around her, reaching for the door knob.
“You’re leaving?” Cherry suddenly panicked. She didn’t want to be left here all alone, again, like always. Even if he returned, would it really be him? If he left now, would she ever see the real him again?
“Relax.” he commanded with a mix of annoyance and worry. “I’m not leaving. I’m showing you something.”
He opened that impenetrable door simply, with a flick of the wrist, and Cherry blinked, her momentary confusion washed away by what lay outside. She could see out the door! She could see the other wall, across a wide hallway with a parquet floor!
“It’s… not censored?” she tried not to let her jaw hang in wonder at such a broadening of her tiny world.
Francis shrugged. “No point in that right now. Come on.”
Cherry waited for Francis to grab hold of her leash, to pull her close and along, yet he just strolled out into that interior unknown, and the maid gently pushed her forward, staying behind. Looking down at her cleavage, it seemed the tether had been detached at some point, when she was much too preoccupied to notice. Cherry treaded cautiously after him into the hall. It must be safe if he was there, and she was allowed.
Once past that threshold, her head swung from side to side in amazement, staring at the twin rows of doors that lined either wall, each just like the one to her own room behind her, each with a little brass plate on the front, each with a name embossed in a swirly script.
“Penny….?” Cherry frowned at the name on the door directly across from her own room. “That was Penny’s room?” She murmured, fumbling for the meaning. “Before…before she was retired?”
“That is Penny’s room, Cherry.” Francis swept his arm unceremoniously across the expanse of the parqueted hall. “And that is Blossom’s. And Muffy, Summer, Kelly, Tessy,” He said, pointing seemingly at random at a few of the near-identical doors lining the walls. There were more than a dozen on either side. “…Bonnie…and…” He paused on a door that was just a bit too far to easily make out the nameplate, snapping his fingers a couple times as if trying to summon the name to him—and maybe he could. Cherry didn’t know all the ways men could control the things they saw. But if he succeeded, he dropped the hand without saying it aloud. “Well, there’s a bunch of you now. It’s getting to be more than I can handle on my own, but I should have that sorted out soon.”
Francis noticed Cherry’s face, twisted in confusion. He pointed at the floor beside where he stood in front of the ‘Penny’ door. Cherry knew that gesture well, every girl did, and she moved to comply, coming to stand beside him as he reached for the knob.
With a simple twist he revealed a room just like the one Cherry had inhabited for the last four months. A small space dominated by a king sized bed with a wooden frame—this one painted white, whereas Cherry’s had been left with the rich mahogany as exposed as she was. In fact the rest of the space was brighter, too — the nightstands were similarly painted, and the bedspread was all in pastels. She suspected there was a treadmill tucked neatly beneath the bed—all the rest of the furniture was the same. Two windows framed the bed on either side. Blurred behind the blinds, just as the two in her own room always were. It seemed the lifting of her censors still did not extend to the outside, which was probably for the best, she had to admit.
The only real difference was the occupant—and even then it was barely more than a matter of color palette. The copper haired girl was arranged on the bed just as Cherry usually was — naked, chained to the headboard, but comfortable. She sat bolt upright the instant the door swung open, barely able to contain her excitement.
“Fwancy!” she squeaked in a voice that matched her tiny frame—that was another difference. This girl lacked a portion of the padding Cherry had gained from her surgeries, and couldn’t be much taller than Cherry’s chin—pleasers included. “What a wonduhful suhpwise!”
“Hello, Penny. I’m just checking on you.” He surveyed the room—easily accomplished in the small space— as if looking for something else to say. “Everything…uh, good?”
“Well, of couwse it is, silly-willy!” She seemed to bounce with every word. “You just weft!”
“Sure.” Francis sighed, in a very familiar way. “Well, Penny, I have someone here to introduce you to.”
Penny bounced out of bed, landing gracefully on pleasers which matched the pair Cherry had worn to the Social, sidling as close to the door as her chain would allow, yet not letting it go taut. She knew its bounds well. “Who izzit?” she beamed, peering around him eagerly. Francis stepped aside and waved Cherry forward, beyond the door frame—and into Penny’s vision.
“This is Cherry, Penny. She wanted to say hello.”
Francis nudged Cherry when her mouth failed to produce anything resembling a proper greeting, but she was reeling at the idea that this tiny woman, a girl in all but name, had been living just across the hall from her since her wedding. Indeed, this was the woman Cherry had hoped to meet on that altar. The wives’ ceremonial kiss had filled her with anticipation back then — for reasons she was now slightly more ashamed to reflect on — but that kiss had been meant to symbolize the passing of the wifely role, a blessing for the new woman and an acknowledgment that one’s life had to progress to the next stage.
Cherry hadn’t received that blessing from Penny, that altar had been conspicuously empty, and the reason now seemed painfully clear.
Francis nudged her again, impatient. His touch, however dismissive, brought her back to the here and now.
“It’s… n-nice to meet you, Penny.” Cherry said, trying not to swallow her tongue. “You, uhm— You are… Francis’ wife?”
“Of couwse!” Penny said with a loving smile toward Francis, before that smile twisted into something quizzical. “Hey, awe you ahwight? Wheah’d you go?”
Cherry realized she had backed all the way out of the room when her back thudded against the door on the opposite side of the hallway, the one to her own room. She spun around, and was faced with another golden nameplate. “Cherry.”
She turned, wide-eyed, back to Penny beyond the open doorway.
“I think that’s enough for now.” Francis said, “Penny, I’ll be back in…about half an hour, if I am remembering correctly. I’m sure it will be a more amorous visit.”
“Ok, Fwancy pants! I’ll be wight heah, wike ahways!” Penny beamed. She puckered for a kiss, but Francis strode out of the room without another delay. The last glimpse Cherry caught of her was a slightly confused pout, staring out through the door crack. At nothing, she realized. The hallway was just as censored for Penny as it had been for Cherry until only a few minutes ago. Those wandering eyes, wishing he would leave her with one parting peck, Cherry saw herself in them as the door closed with a thud and click that reverberated along all the other doors and nameplates.
“That went well.” Francis was dusting his hands as if he’d just finished a chore. “I need to show my face to you all every now and then anyway, to settle the imprint. Penny should be good for another week.”
Against her best intentions and manners, Cherry’s mouth was still open, eyes wide like saucers. “Y-you married these— you married us all, for real? How… how do I know—”
“You don’t,” he grunted, stepping around her to reopen the door to her room. “Just trust me.”
“But—but if Penny is still your wife then how can I be, too?” Cherry asked, following him back inside. “How can any of us be?”
“You are my wife, Cherry, for now. The rest aren’t anymore. Though each one still thinks she is. You couldn’t put that together on your own? I know you’re not dumb.”
Cherry tried to get her thoughts in order, “I just meant… I thought…Well, it’s against the rules, isn’t it? The Marriage Board—”
Francis abruptly changed his stance, not aggressive, but enough to make Cherry shut herself up. “I’m not married to the others. I don’t even own them, technically. The business does. I abide by all the Codes—this is a licensed establishment. It might take a little grease to get through the yearly inspection, but I’m liquid enough now that the expense is negligible”
“I don’t un—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he interjected “The details are out of your depth. The point is that every one of the girls has a happy little life, the same life I wanted for you.”
“I thought you wanted me to be your wife…”
He chuckled darkly as he retrieved his glass from the nightstand. “Sorry to break it to you, Cherry, but you’re not really my type.”
He might as well have slapped her.
“I’m…not? B-but…but I…” She staggered towards him, pleasers clipping on the hardwood, as if her swaying curves might remind him that he put them there, that she was supposed to be exactly what he wanted. At the same time she was just a girl, desperately reaching out to her owner for support, contact, affection… but he casually stepped aside like she was simply headed for the safety of her bed, totally oblivious to her intentions or the significance of what he had just said.
Wives were customized — perfected — for their husbands. Every woman knew that. Back at the Drestins’, each of those mingling ladies was a certain man’s desire made real, for all to see. To imagine the lengths some of them, like Madison, had gone to! If Cherry wasn’t Francis’ type, why hadn’t he simply made her that way? What did it mean to be a woman without a match, what purpose was there for her now? She thumped her soft behind onto the mattress — standing on her own felt too difficult just then, and the maid was busy refilling Francis’ glass.
Her mind spun, thinking of the preparations for her wedding, the improvements the doctors made and the recovery too. Cherry hadn’t been awake for most of it, but she still remembered the ache of so many changes. If all this wasn’t for him, then—
“Don’t take it personally.” Francis said, as if that were possible. He took a sip from the refilled glass. “None of you are—it’s all about appealing to the customers.”
“Who?”
“The customers. The men who pay to fuck you. There’s a lot of different tastes to satisfy—you saw Penny, for example. I’d been getting requests for something with a younger look for a while.”
“But… why?” she asked, full of genuine incredulity. “What about their own wives?” What about the women who were supposed to be just as perfect for them as Cherry herself was supposed to be for Francis? “I don’t understand.” There must be something. Her husband’s pleasure was a woman’s purpose, and failures were her fault. “Can’t they fix her? Or… Or get a new one if they don’t want her anymore?” All women failed eventually, were replaced eventually—but surely the problem would be identified, so the doctors could make the next one even better. That’s how it worked, wasn’t it?
Even knowing now that it all wasn’t true for her and Francis, Cherry couldn’t believe that such promises had been a total fairytale from the start. No…it was supposed to be the kind of fairytale that came true!
“Well see, that’s the whole issue.” Francis leaned against the wall, twirling the liquid in his glass. It was the amber brown kind, after all. Cherry remembered her brother sneaking a drink of that once and spewing it out immediately, complaining that it had burned his throat. Francis sipped casually, immune to the fire. “Men crave excitement, and one of the best ways to get that is with a little variety. Say a man loves his wife, loves fucking his wife, but he wants to try something else, just for a little while. What’s the solution? Retiring wives on a whim whenever he wants to switch things up? Or he can come to a place like this, to a girl like you, and let his own little lady keep her collar for another day. You get to make that happen. A valuable service, don’t you think?”
“I guess so…” Cherry murmured, considering.
“Loose women are available, of course, but there’s always a reason a loosie wasn’t wanted in the first place. Most are just old, which isn’t great for her looks, but also she’s not gonna have anything special or new going on with her body. A lot of guys want to try the latest mods without having to kit a girl out themselves—whether they can’t afford it or they just aren’t ready to upgrade. Best you can hope for is last year’s features, broken in… or just broken. Good luck finding a loosie with the kind of grafted muscle tissue you’ve got in your holes, for example.”
Cherry winced, reminded of the last man who had enjoyed her gra…giraffe’d?…her holes, and the feel of his hand spanking her… over, and over — but then, her pleasant memories of satisfying ‘Francis’ had to be weighed against that experience. Had she really been unhappy with her treatment before today? No, if anything she had wanted more. But she had wanted it from him.
“But that’s only half of the appeal here,” Francis kept on, impassioned by explaining his work, ignorant to Cherry’s growing discomfort. “There’re other brothels in town—some even have highly custom girls. But see, they all know precisely what they are. There’s a desperation there that makes a lot of guys uncomfortable. Every loosie wants to be owned—not by her self, and not by a brothel, by a man. They’re constantly selling themselves, in more ways than one. It’s nice to have a girl who’s as content and welcoming as a real wife would be, because that’s what she thinks she is!”
Cherry looked down at her pleasers, grasping for resolve.
“So… that’s what I do….” She mumbled, determined to like it. Turning a shaky smile up towards him, “Okay, I promise I’ll do my best.”
Francis exhaled heavily, and Cherry felt herself deflate, too. She had said something wrong again. “No, Cherry. Don’t you see? Your best isn’t good enough anymore. That’s what I had wanted you to do. Ironically, the imprint was supposed to make everything easier for you, as well as more fun for the customers — but as things are, you’re too unpredictable. There is a specific experience you were expected to deliver. You are no longer able to.”
Cherry winced and shrank away from him again, eyes feeling ready to burst. “I’m sorry…”
“I already told you it’s not your fault, and I meant it.” He said, more softly this time. It didn’t make her feel better, but she knew it was supposed to and that helped. He did still care about her, at least a little bit.
“There shouldn’t have been any men around Drestin’s place—I’ve been assured of that, numerous times. But Roger Fritzgerald called for a retirement team to pick up his wife while she was ‘out of the house.’ Ideally while on the walk over, but he didn’t specify on the order form. He…can be a bit dumbass about that sort of thing. I take some responsibility as well—I’ve been riding Roger for years about tossing that bitch, one way or another. Retirement wouldn’t have been my choice, but it shouldn’t have been a problem, if not for the team of fuckups they sent. Still, Roger should have informed me of the risk when he told me you’d asked to attend the Social. That’s on him, and I’ll make sure he knows it.”
“Mr. Fritzgerald was the one who… who told you that I wanted to go.” Her voice was so deflated it no longer even held the tone of a question.
“Yes, you asked him yesterday. He was me, of course.”
“I…I see.” Every interaction Cherry had ever had with Francis was now suspect, there was no guarantee he actually heard anything she said. He might not even know her at all.
“Why did you let me go to the Social in the first place?” She asked suddenly, “I would have been safe in my room…” What a reversal from how she had felt just that morning! It would have crushed her if he’d said no, but looking back now it really did seem the wiser choice.
Francis drew his gaze down upon her sharply. “I am being incredibly forthcoming with you right now, Cherry, but don’t get into the habit of questioning my decisions.”
“Sorry.” She really did wish he would spank her, sometimes. Of course she should have known better than to argue or dispute.
He dismissed the apology with a handwave. “The short answer is that I knew you were lonely. The other benefit of this whole arrangement is that the girls are content, with lots of company, and that’s important to me. But there’s only so many customers I trust with you right now, and I’m so busy with the rest of the business. Some of the others have really benefited from attending the Social in the past. Drestin’s wife is sharp, we’ve talked things through. She knows how to shepherd girls like you away from anyone who might have a bone to pick. Even if you did hear something… unsavory, you would have forgotten most of it just by seeing my face. That’s how it’s worked with the other girls I allowed to go.”
“…but obviously things were different this time.” he added for both of them.
Cherry bit her lip, grinding her pleaser into the floor, knocking her knees together; the silence hanging between them.
“So… what’ll happen to me, then?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.” he answered plainly. He was being so straightforward, and yet it didn’t make any of it better. Cherry wanted it to be better.
She looked up at him from the bedside, the closest yet to pleading. “I really could be your real wife, you know. If you don’t like me, then… then… you can change me till you do!”
Cherry’s head was filled with all the women she had met at the Social today, scripted and sharp-tongued, dolls who followed every whispered command, girls who could hear nothing but, stumpy wives in baby carriages, boxes on a shelf somewhere out of sight, hyper little things, and esteemed women vying for respect and safety. She hadn’t envied them all, but Cherry knew in her heart, she would gladly be any of those things for Francis, for her husband. Anything at all. All he had to do was tell the doctors where to cut, what to give, and what to take.
Even as she poured her passion and soul into this shaky offer, this thread-bare hope, the eyes that met hers were anything but passionate. Not cold — honest.
“That’s not an option, Cherry. That’s never been an option for me.”
There was nothing left. He had finished the glass again, held it out to the side and let it drop neatly into the maid’s waiting hand with a delicate clink. Finished with Cherry too, he strode the few steps it took to cross the tiny room and reach for the doorknob.
“Then…” she called to him, searching for something to cling to, “Whatever it is, will I make you happy?”
“If you’re profitable,” he said simply, turning back, “and you will be profitable. I can promise you that.”
“Then I’ll be happy, too,” she told him… and herself.
He didn’t say anything to that. The door opened to a familiar bright hazy nothing which Francis’ shadow faded into, before it closed, and Cherry was alone.
“I’ll be happy.” She said to the empty room, determined to make it so.
The maid took the chain from her headboard and clipped it to her collar.
“I’ll be happy.”
END OF BOOK 1
Find accompanying notes and illustrations on Slothargy’s DeviantArt and Pixiv