Slave Lover by Marco Vassi Page A

number of anonymous men puts us in a rather formal and strained relationship. On the other hand, what’s done is done, and it is foolish to live in the shadows. You might protest that it is all very well for us to “forgive and forget,” because we are in a superior position, but that is true only from a relative viewpoint. On the scale of absolute reality, our petty dramas are beneath insignificance, and what we enjoy or suffer, or how long our lives go on, makes no difference within the space of a century.
    Aside from the duty hours assigned to you (which you can look upon simply as a job, and which makes you no different than you were when you lived on the “outside”), you are at complete leisure and liberty to enjoy yourself. All the amenities are here, including a wide variety of media (all the current films are shown in our theater and all our women and staff are encouraged to participate in our theater group). There are sports, the best medical facilities, a boutique sporting the latest fashions. Under special circumstances you will be allowed to go sailing and horseback riding. About the only things not allowed are telephone calls and incoming mail. If, however, you wish to write to someone to assure him or her of your well-being, we will mail the letter for you (after reading it, of course).
    There is the delicate point of The Snuff, and we would be less than honest if we didn’t mention it. There is no real justification for our subjecting you to this, except to note that death comes to us all and so we are not tampering with nature but merely making a few minor adjustments in relation to time.
    Well, there it is. We are slavers and through one circumstance and another, you happen to have become one of our slaves. If we can accept our mutual destinies, then we can aspire to a modicum of happiness within our common limitations on this planet.
    So, enjoy your days and nights, perform your tasks with verve, and make yourself one of the family. We’re sure that after a while, what with your work and your off-duty diversions, your love affairs and hobbies, time will pass smoothly and you will come to realize that what happens here is as much life as what happens anywhere, and so make your peace with your condition.
    Sincerely,
    The Management
    * * *
    When Constance finished the letter, she let it fall to the ground beside her and closed her eyes and remained for a long time without moving, without thoughts, soaking in the rays of the sun. She was calm, resigned, relaxed. Although the fact of it struck her as somewhat peculiar, she was at peace. So many things which provided anxiety in her previous life were missing here. She had no fear of random violence, of unexpected rape or attack. She had no worry about paying the rent. She didn’t know where she was geographically, but suspected it was a subtropical climate; she wouldn’t have to worry about the cold. Her life had become neat, compact, totally rationalized.
    Finally, she poked into the envelope and dug out the rest of the material. It included a map of the grounds, with forbidden areas marked out. There was a brisk description of security measures and a warning about the futility of attempting escape. There were color brochures in which different facilities of the place advertised their services, including the library, the discotheque, the arts-and-crafts shop, the adult education center, the yoga center.
    With a sigh, she let the envelope fall to the ground, got up, paced around a bit, and then went back inside where she flung herself onto the bed and without warning burst into hot, copious tears. She cried for a quarter of an hour and then fell asleep.
    She had troubled, inchoate dreams and was finally awakened by a hand shaking her shoulder. She looked up. It was the maid, a black girl with cocoa skin dressed in black dress with a white frilly apron, net stockings and glossy pumps. The woman was no older than twenty, wore no makeup, and had hazel