The Rise of Women

I walked briskly down the hallway. Pictures of my mother, and my grandmother, and my great grandmother, and so on lined the mahogany wood. Marshal and Roberto followed behind me, a step or two behind, for my anger was practically radiating off of me. I came upon the largest door, at the end of the hallway. The delicate carvings were intricate and beautiful, but with me, seeing red, I hardly noticed. I burst through the door, and my mother looked up, sitting on her ridiculously over stuffed couch.

"Darling, darling! I am so glad you came! Look, Michael is here too!"

I growled with disgust. Not at Michael, but at my mother. While she was drinking tea, Michael was chained to the legs of her dark brown coffee table. His arms were splayed in an uncomfortable manner, and his head was bowed, showing submissiveness. My pupils dilated.

"Release him!" I bellowed.

My mother set down her glass of tea and rolled her eyes at me.

"Honey, must you be so loud? And you already have Roberto and Marshal! Do you have a need for three man-servants?"

She was right, I did have Roberto and Marshal. I legitimately owned them. Roberto was 15 when I was given him on my eighth birthday. Marshal was my age, given to me on the day I became an adult, 16.

But Roberto was not my love, and neither was Marshal. The love of my life laid there, in front of that despicable woman who I have been cursed to call my mother, arms outstretched, as if waiting for me to embrace him. But such gestures are not permitted, not with the law. Every since 3024, men were taken away to be slaves to respectable women. The rest were thrown on the streets, not being allowed to work, most starving to death. The population decreased incredibly, and then they also became breeding utensils. It did not matter if he were in love with another, he would not be permitted to have intercourse with someone other than his master, without permission.

Sometimes a slave will get a hospitable and caring master, on rare occasions, who will free them and let them work at their abode, but other times, the majority of the times, a slave will get a master cruel and atrocious.

"Mother, Michael is a fine....slave....I am asking for your permission," I bowed, and spoke through gritted teeth, "To take him and care for him myself. I promise you he will thrive and bear me grand children."

My mother seemed thoughtful, but by the way her eyes narrowed subtly and here dimple shown in one cheek, I knew the deal was sealed.

She smiled at me.

"I want grandchildren withing the year."

In my mind, I was gaping like the black catfish that swim in our rivers, but I kept my blank expression.

"As you wish, Mother."

My mother, seeming pleased, snapped her fingers. Jameson and Donatello, her man-servants, undid Michael's chains and he slumped forward.

"Your Highness?" Donatello questioned.

"Leave him, he will get up eventually," my mother sighed, "I am quite tired. I will retire, Constance."

My mother got up, her servants following her through the doors to her quarters.

As soon as she was out of sight, I raced to Michael. Checking his pulse, I sighed in relief. He was OK, perfectly OK.

"Michelangelo..." I whispered in his ear. He moaned, softly, more of a whimper, and he turned his face into my chest. He began grasping at me, arms around my waist, holding tight as he convinced himself I was there.

"It's alright, Michaelangelo, my angel, I will keep you safe. Always safe...."