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”“Good question, Lizbeth. I don’t have any desire for you to call me ‘Master’ and ‘Master Sergeant’ is a courtesy title until I find out what my new rank the Confederacy will be. For the time being, let’s stick with ‘Sir’ or ‘Boss.’”“Yes, sir.”“Very good.” I looked around to see the rest of the girls acting innocent. Butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. “Let’s go eat. Alfred, please lead us to the Dining Hall.”“Yes, Sponsor Steward. Please follow the yellow flashing line.”We stepped into the hall and started right. After a left turn we walked down a long hallway that was filling with some traffic by family groups, that like ours, came from a North American time zone. Many of the concubines and all the children wore the grey, formless shifts. Most of the sponsors wore a fatigue uniform like mine. I didn’t see any Confederacy rank insignia, so I didn’t know if I should be saluting anybody I encountered. I subvocalized the question to Alfred.“You have not been formally sworn into any. It would stretch her at first, it would likely even hurt for a moment, but she assured Jutta that she would adjust, and experience a pleasure like no other. The Count bent toward her but Jutta stopped him. “Togliere la maschera,” she said. The Count hesitated, suddenly self-conscious. Slowly he undid his elaborate leather wrap, revealing the grotesqueness of his battle-damaged face and head. Jutta reached up to him and cradled his face in her soft hands. She pulled him toward her and then placed gentle kisses on every scar, every smashed bone, every misshapen form. “Sei bello amore mio,” she whispered, echoing the Count’s pronouncement about her. A whispered laugh escaped the Count’s lips and with it went his self-consciousness. Jutta’s excitement, already beyond her experience, grew as she ran her hands over the Count’s firm body. The flex of his buttocks against her palm, the feeling of his hard chest against the soft pillows of her own, the hardness of his thighs and arms as.
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