Until the Sky Falls

Privilege

Monday 12th March 2007

Montreal

Bouvier Apartment

6 PM

Marly

"The price of domestic chattel has risen 50% in the last two years and hence for many it has not become financially feasible to keep owning such property..."

Pierre was watching the news as I sat at the kitchen bench studying. 

Glancing up as the reporter drivelled on I smirked slightly.  "Aren't you glad you don't own me anymore?"

He looked over at me and snorted.  "I could still afford to.  I'm in a band, remember?" 

Rolling my eyes, I closed my textbook and went to join him on the lounge.  He slid an arm round my waist and pulled me close. 

"Yeah, but you can use that money for more important stuff." 

"Like?" Pierre raised an eyebrow at me. 

I shrugged.  "A hair cut." 

His expression darkened and I held up a hand in defence.  "I was just saying..."

Pierre looked back at the television before responding.  "I like my hair like this."  'This' was the longish, windswept style that he had had for the past few months, since the end of 2006. 

Laughing I reached up and ran my fingers through the silky strands.  "So do I," I reassured him as I leaned my head against his shoulder. 

He glanced at me and grinned faintly then turned back to the television frowning.  "Y'know, you weren't domestic chattel.  You were a slave." Pierre paused, "A sub..." 

I blinked.  "Isn't that the same thing?"

"No.  You didn't do menial tasks...y'know, cleaning, cooking..."

I snorted.  "I fixed your socks...picked up after you..."

"That's more like a mother than a domestic servant."

"Heh...servants get paid."

"That's true.  But you still weren't domestic chattel..."

"I wasn't your mother," I grinned.

"No...you were my...slave..."  His voice was tight.  I leaned my head against his shoulder and rested a hand on his right bicep, rubbing slowly.  He relaxed beneath my touch and let his breath out in a soft sigh. 

When he next spoke, his tone was a lot calmer.  "The general population don't know the difference though.  And I'm assuming the stats the journo is using include the slaves and submissives that are provided by the Guild."

I nodded against his shoulder.  He lifted a hand and gently stroked my hair.   Then he leaned forward and grabbed the remote flicking absently through the channels.

I silently observed Pierre as he randomly surfed the channels.  He looked tired.  His dark eyes were dim; he had five days growth on his face, growing especially thick on his jaw.  His shirt and pants were ruffled, unironed.  I had offered to press them for him but he had declined.

Sure, Chuck had been getting on his case about writing for the third album, but it wasn't just that.  The Guild of Dominants and Submissives (formerly known as the Montreal S&M Training Centre) had filed a legal complaint against Pierre because he had admitted his love for me before he had freed me.  So, he was in the process of defending his position and mine.