#sopsantana

The Curator did not prefer to spend his time on Paradise Island, personally. At any given time, it was home to anywhere from ten to twenty twenty-somethings, most of whom were spoiled, obnoxious, and listened to truly terrible music, and nearly all of whom made handled their transactions with him, with no more respect or consideration than they would give to punching numbers into a vending machine. To be fair, the fact that none of them had ever seen his face might have had something to do with that. But the Curator had very little interest in being fair. When he did have to take up residence on the island - as he did now, on a Sunday evening, when his personal yacht was being used by a couple of said twenty-somethings, and he was biding his time until it was back in his own possession and he could have a cleaning crew scour every inch of it - he remained out of sight, locked in his personal quarters below the manor, content in the knowledge that they would, of course, all pay dearly for their insolence in time. Most of them purely financially; a handful in more... colorful ways. However, he could not allow himself to be distracted by such pleasant thoughts tonight. Instead, he had a rather regrettable meeting to conduct. As was his custom, the Curator seated himself behind his desk, facing away from the door, with a pair of his personal guards at his side. Instead of keeping an eye on the door, he watched the security feed on one of the many mismatched monitors and screens behind his desk, which displayed live footage of most of the public areas of the manor. And he watched with particular interest as Mistress Santana Lopez left her suite, walked down the hall, made her way down past the slave cells, past the punishment chambers, through the island's business offices, and lifted a hand to knock on the closed door that sealed the Curator's own office, and the rest of his quarters, away from the rest of the island. "Enter," he called, sharply, before she could actually knock. "It's unlocked." Santana jumped when his voice commanded her inside. “Fuck!” she whispered as she straightened her shoulders and opened the huge door to his office. Her eyes found him easily, sat behind his massive desk as usual. She honestly felt like a kid headed to the principal’s office, but this was so much worst than that, she could feel it. He wasn’t exactly a nice man in general, much less when you’d been slacking at things he knew you excelled at. Though she could remember times when he was very kind, teaching her what she needed to survive and thrive here, giving her the tools to become better than the rest. He wasn’t all ice cold and fiery hate, but the nearer she came to her father today, the cooler the air around them became. Each click of her heels seemed to echo off the walls and crack back with an electricity she could feel and almost see. As she neared the desk, Santana could see she was in just as much, if not more, trouble as she thought. Coming to a stop in front of the desk, Santana stood, back straight and tall, hands clasp behind her back, her chin held high, she’d be damned if he got to see her fear. “Sir,” she said, her voice hardly cracking at all. The Curator felt his mouth twitch at the sound of her voice. Though her body language didn't betray it, she was nervous. Good. He didn't turn in his chair immediately, instead choosing to watch her on the security feed for another moment or two. "Leave us," he said to the pair of guards, his voice barely more than a murmur, and they exited immediately, crossing behind Santana as they went. "Santana," he said, as soon as the door closed behind them. He let his chair slowly swivel around until they were face to face. "Do you understand me, right now, or are you intoxicated in any way?" His voice was a little louder now, each syllable dripping with sarcasm and fake concern. "Should we perhaps reschedule? Or are you too preoccupied with slumber parties and pillow fights?" Santana studied the high-backed leather chair as she waited for him to turn to her, to yell at her, but the sarcasm pissed her off and she gritted her teeth behind her fake grin, attempting to give off confidence in an effort to hide the fear teeming below the surface. Her head cocked, it was more a twitch really, as she listened to his mock concern. While he infuriated her, she knew one day she wanted to be him and she was desperate to please him, a slave to him in her own right. But she couldn’t think about that now. Now she focused on her mentor, her father who sat very pissed off in front of her. She went to swallow but her mouth was suddenly completely dry and she almost choked on the response she wanted to give the man before her. Instead of all the things she imagined doing, saying she merely shook her head slightly. “No sir, that won’t be necessary. I’m completely sober,” she swore, wishing like hell she’d had a drink or six before coming here and thanking God she hadn’t all at once. The Curator's face darkened, and his voice grew a little louder. "Well, that does make a change then. Are you aware that you've said something, in public, about how intoxicated you were nearly every day for the last... I do believe I've lost count. Consider this lovely message, posted to the feed for the island at large to see," and as he spoke, he picked up a printout on his desk. He hated to read from a screen. "'Drunk. I hope this is my deck, 'cause I’m probably passing out here.'" He fell silent for a moment, letting that sink in, before leaning forward, openly snarling with rage now. "The ​slaves​ could see that, you silly little ingrate. It's not enough that you use the resources I give you to drink and smoke yourself half to death, but you have to make yourself a laughingstock as well." He slammed the paper down onto his desk. "Forget fearing you, how are they even supposed to respect you after this nonsense?" Santana remained silent as her father suddenly showed a crack in his usually perfect armor, thinking to herself, “Ah, there he is.” She knew he was where her temper came from, but sometimes he hid it so well she almost forgot. He rarely showed anything beyond absolute control. As he read her message, she cringed. Shit… She’d really meant to only send that to Brittany, but she’d been wasted so… Yeah, she was completely fucked right now, but no way was she backing down. Then the words came like slaps to the face. Not that he hadn’t called her worse. Her mother had been a slave, a toy, a plaything. She was only a mistress by his grace, and he never let her forget it. But she was his too and she would prove it to him. She got his point perfectly. He was right after all, she’d been partying far too openly and she knew, somewhere in her mind, that he would notice eventually. But then again, maybe that’s what she’d been hoping for. Santana took the verbal blows and held her ground, looking straight in her father’s eyes as he called her out. Shaking her head at his last statement, but pausing, almost waiting for permission before speaking. “They do respect me, sir. Have you seen your stock? They’re all well-behaved, broken-in and pliant. They respect me, sir, but I understand what you’re saying and it won’t be a problem anymore. I swear.” The Curator scowled at her. She was in denial, he thought, about many things, but none so much as her own potential. She was a part of him: that meant she had greatness in her. He'd bring it out, one way or another. "If they're broken in," he said, his icy facade coming back up, "then it's because the other Masters have been excelling themselves, not because you've been doing your job. You haven't punished a single one of them. And you've only trained one for the dog show - a mediocre showing, by the way, no fewer than three people out-performed you." He sniffed disdainfully. "So now one of them is on my yacht, toasting his own superiority. Yes, you've been on the yacht before; you don't care as much about the prize - but I was under the impression that you had pride in your work." He leaned back in his chair. "The rest of your rentals have lasted no more than one or two days. And what have you accomplished, during those rentals? What did you teach them? Is it even worth asking? You are my ​blood,​ my second in command, but that seems to mean nothing to you. Perhaps Mistress Pierce would prefer your position, if you don't want it. Perhaps you could teach a course for our ​lovely customers.​" His voice dripped with disdain. "How about underwater basket weaving, or throwing pots - I said pots with an 's', now, don't get too excited." The Curator's eyes glinted with repressed joy. He hated that his daughter had been so disappointing lately - but he loved mocking her. Santana shook with rage at his words, his smug smile, everything about the man she called her father. But she damn well knew better than to say another word. Instead she shook her head almost violently as he spoke about giving her position away. It was a blow she almost couldn’t bear, and she damn sure couldn’t wrap her mind around an island where she was anything less than second in command. This was her home, he hated it here, she may not be the reason these slaves were broken, but she’d been away, and she was the only reason he could hole away on that damn boat anyway. Maybe she’d been away too long, she’d gotten used to not caring. Even the past few weeks had felt like she was still away from the island, her responsibilities, her position. But that wasn’t the case anymore and she opened her mouth to beg him for her position, but she stopped short, closing full lips into a tight, thin line. When she met his eyes, Santana had to fight the urge to snarl at the look on his face, the urge to unleash a flurried mix of English and Spanish she’d learned so well from him. But she’d learned his control as well. So, instead, a deep breath and a restraightening of her shoulders were the only indications of the war her anger fought with reason inside the young woman. Finally, she could hold it in no longer. “No sir, please. I have no desire to relinquish my spot to Brittany,” Santana stated, trying desperately to keep the begging from her tone. “We both know I can do so much better. I can. Please give me another chance, punish me another way. But don’t take my position.” The Curator tilted his head, as if thinking it over, although he'd already made up his mind. "I have no intention of punishing you," he said, finally, almost regretfully. "Yet. But if this continues, I will indeed have to... ​retrain​ you." Silently, he stared her down, knowing she'd recognize the warning for what it was. Over the years, she seen what happened to Masters and Mistresses who displeased him. "I will do whatever it takes to help you reach your full potential, hijita." His voice held a strange combination of threat and tenderness. Having run out of threats for the moment, the Curator sighed, and revealed his hand. "I needed to see that you still had a passion for your work. Demotion would be an absolute last resort. Mistress Pierce has been impressive enough of late, but she is not my daughter. You are the one who possesses my strength and my spirit, and I want you to act like it. I could not possibly care less if you drink, if you smoke, if you run off to the forest with your friends for a few days. All I ask is that you show some restraint and discretion, and do not let your work suffer." Santana couldn’t quite believe her luck and nodded stupidly with relief. “I swear, Papi,” she promised. “It won’t happen again. I’ll be the one you can trust again. I know we can have fun and still be responsible. I will do you proud.” Santana took a deep, calming breath, allowing it to completely sink in that she wasn’t being demoted or punished or, even worse, retrained. Her whole body shivered with the thought of what that exactly meant and she focused back on her father, smiling at him in thanks for a brief moment before letting her mask fall back into place as she waited to be dismissed. “You won’t be sorry, sir. Thank you, sir.” The Curator allowed himself the very faintest of smiles. "Good. Then we're in agreement. Just so were clear, I have two very specific goals for you." As he spoke, he began shuffling papers on this desk, re-organizing his daughter's file and adding a few quickly jotted notes. He kept a detailed file on every slave, every employee, every Master and Mistress. Santana was no exception. "You are to improve your reputation with both Masters and slaves. The Masters should look at you with respect, as a potential source of advice and guidance. As for the slaves, they don't have to cower when you walk past, although that might be a start. But you must make an impression on them. One way or another." He finished his busywork, then half-turned his chair away from her, looking back at the live feeds from the security cameras. A Mistress in the weight-room, a Master sunning himself by the pool, a pair moving through the halls, disappearing from one monitor, moments later appearing on another. He knew their sexual preferences and finances intimately, and yet in most cases, he couldn't even match the faces to the names. "I would also like for you to keep an ear out and develop an opinion as to which of these outsiders are effective Masters, and which are not, as well as whether or not you think any are likely to remain on the islet with us. It's still too early to say with all of them, of course, but..." He shrugged, his eyes still on the security monitors. "Indulge me. Find out whatever you can about all of them, and then report back to me whenever you're ready." Santana listened carefully as her father laid out what he expected from her. As she listened, she planned just how to go about it all, but she wasn’t even a little bit worried. She could do this, the slaves would be easy - some of them would already do anything she asked while the others would be simple enough to ‘train’ into line. Most of the masters and mistresses already liked her, and those that didn’t, she’d get Brittany to help her with. Santana was always good at manipulation and blackmail while Britt could just read people. “I can absolutely do that, sir. I won’t let you down,” she said, nodding. The thought of some of them staying was something she hadn’t considered. She’d become used to it being the few of them on the islet and the small little community rarely took on new residents. Upon further reflection though, watching her fellow masters and mistresses go about their daily lives on the small monitors built into the wall to her father’s left, she could see why he believed some of them would choose to stay and the thought intrigued her. “I’ll look into it, Padre. I’ll find out what you need to know,” Santana promised. She would exhaust all her sources to get the man what he wanted, the threat of him ‘retraining’ her never far from her mind. The Curator's eyes flicked back to her face for a second, and he gave her one last hard look up and down, assessing her. If nothing else, he mused, she still looked every inch a Mistress - her mother's beauty, merged his own intellect and fire. She ought, by all rights, to be perfect. And sometimes she seemed to be, but not always, which he found supremely annoying. Perhaps it would come with age. "Bien," he said, shortly, then turned himself away from her completely, focusing his attention back on the monitors. "See that you do. That will be all, then... for now. Do not make me have another conversation like this with you again." Santana wasn’t shocked when the chair was turned back around to face the screens he found supremely interesting. It was infuriating how she longed for his attention like that. How she tried so desperately to be the perfect employee, perfect daughter, perfect second in command that he demanded and her actions went unnoticed. But even the slightest sign of a problem and he was disappointed with her. It was all she could do to swallow her arguments and choke out, “Si, gracias, Padre.” Without another word, she turned on her five-inch Louis Vuitton’s and headed back to her suite to plan her next moves.