The Heiress

The Heiress-2

"Sophia?"

The only response was a muffled groan from beneath the voluminous white duvet.

"Sophia," Alder tried again.

"What?"

"Are you feeling any better?"

"No," she groaned.

Adler Rothschild frowned down on the bed.

"Have you taken your antibiotics?"

"Yes," she groaned again.

"Where does it hurt the worst?"

Had she been more than partially conscious, Sophia would have been taken aback at her father's concern. While Adler was her birth father, he had never been the sentimental type.

"Head."

Adler left, finding the slave he had selected waiting on the floor of the hall where he had instructed the servant to leave him.

"Come."

The slave immediately responded, following his master into the room, seeing nothing but the bottoms of furniture as he crawled behind his master, being careful to stay two steps behind and watch for when his master stopped.

"Stand up."

He did, keeping his gaze focused on the hardwood floors as he stood.

"Her head hurts," was all his master said before leaving the room.

11 glanced up at the bed, seeing nothing but a white covered lump. Eventually, he located a tuft of brown hair underneath the pillows near the center of the king sized bed. He chuckled to himself.

"I'm going to come to you, okay?" His deep voice startled the girl under the blanket.

"Okay," came the strained response.

He crawled cautiously onto the bed, not wanting to disturb its inhabitant. He reached her without too much trouble, and began to massage the back of her head.  She moaned with what sounded like pleasure, so he continued.

"What did you catch?" He asked, not entirely expecting a response.

Most masters didn't like vocal partners, his trainer hadn't been shy about his concern that 11's mouth would reduce his selling price. Fortunately for the trainer, a good slave who liked to talk was exactly what Adler had been in the market for four years previously, looking for something to make his parties a little more interesting.

"Strep," she hesitated, "in July. What kind of idiot does that?"

The slave laughed and felt her head move under his hand.

"Have you taken any antibiotics?"

"Yeah, like 4 hours ago. They made me less nauseous."

"They'll make the rest of you feel much better too, just give it a couple of days. Let me know if you want me to do something else to help you feel better now, though."

"I don't want you to get sick."

"Don't worry about that, that's the nice thing about being a sex slave, you get sick and you get a couple of days off from training and service because no master or mistress wants to get sick."

"Oh, you're dad's slave then."

"That I am," he stated, no longer seeing the point in being ashamed of his position. He was fed and treated well on the Rothschild estate, far better than he had been on the streets of Long Beach or the floors of the Hebron training compound.

"What's your name?"

"Most people call me by my number, 11, but my name in Arian," he stated the name that he had been given after careful evaluation upon his arrival at the training compound.

"You," he continued, "must be the young mistress Rothschild."

"I'm not that young," was her protest.

"Oh, no offense meant, ma'am, it's just that we call your mother the mistress Rothschild, you the young mistress. I'm sure we could change it if you'd like."

"Would you call me Sophia?"

"I will be sure to inform the others."

"No, Arian, just you."