Master, Boss, Jethro
By Gunnery Sergeant
A/N: this is one of my rare write-on-request stories. Months ago, I received this PM on FFnet: "Hello, I loved your Star Wars story "The Personal Companion". Now that you've moved to the NCIS fandom, is there any chance you might use that premise for a Gibbs/DiNozzo story? I'd love it, but please, don't make Tony a eunuch!"
This short story was prompted by it.
Thanks to Finlaure for the betareading!
My name is Anthony DiNozzo, just Tony for most people, and since this afternoon I'm the last Personal Companion in America.
Nah, I'm not the last of a dying breed. None of us died. We simply ceased to exist on Presidential decree—well, all but me.
I guess you started smirking as soon as you read the words Personal Companion, but if you're among those not knowing what we are – were – I suggest you to check the novel "The Persian Boy" by Mary Renault. That's what I am. Although, contrary to the character of that book, I'm happy to still have all my very important body parts.
The Personal Companions or the PCs, as I'll start calling us to save time, were created when one of the first US ambassadors to Japan returned from his assignment believing his country needed an institution like the Japanese Geishas.
Now, the guy screwed up badly, 'cause he conveniently forgot that one) Geishas were free women who choose to undertake that training; two) Geishas didn't offer sexual favours to their clients.
While the first American PCs were chosen from among the existing slave populace, sex was definitely among the things required from them. In the beginning the PCs were only black females, but soon males and individuals of other races began to be recruited, even if it was kept very hush-hush in order not to scandalize the public opinion.
Anyway, when slavery was abolished by Lincoln, the first guy in favour of it somehow managed to convince the President to make an exception for the PCs belonging to the White House Harem and that is why we kept on existing well into the 21st century. That is until today.
Regarding myself, I can tell you I was born in New York and taken from my family when I was six. Now, why a rich family like the DiNozzo's would choose to condemn one of their members to a life of glorified prostitution is beyond me. But in the last few years I've made some searches and it turned out my father has always lived atop of his means. He had big financial problems around the time I was given away and all his debts were settled shortly afterward.
Coincidence you're saying? Perhaps, but someone I know very well has taught me coincidences don't exist. Maybe one day I'll show up in my father's house and demand an answer, but I won't bet on it. I'm happy with my life, and I'm not especially looking forward getting answers I wouldn't probably like.
Returning to my past, after being taken from my family, I was sent to live in a facility in Virginia, a big isolated house in the countryside where I was schooled and trained until I reached my 18th year. Yeah, no underage PCs were allowed to work, but once they reached the age of majority and were sent to the White House Harem, they were expected to work—and work hard.
For whom you ask? Gosh, for our enlightened political class, of course! It's not called White House Harem for nothing!
I've been close up and personal with many of our country leaders. Nah, I'm not gonna tell you which Presidents, Congress men or women, or Senators or Secretaries I have known in the Biblical way…Let's just say I've been always popular and sought after. Yeah people, I was good – very good – at what I did. I still am, although in a different way.
I worked in the Harem for twelve years until, one day, all of sudden, my life changed. My supervisor came in my room and without any preamble told me to pack my stuff because I was moving out.
PCs moved out for two reasons only: one) they were sent back to the Virginia house because they could no longer work; two) they were gifted to someone—and that was my case.
The powers that be had decided to gift me to someone and I hadn't the slightest idea to whom this someone was.
Being gifted away filled me with both concern and expectation. On one hand, my life was going to change radically and I had no idea of what kind of person my master or my mistress was going to be. On the other hand, having a master would mean from now on I would have to serve and please only one person, because a Personal Companion was just what the name implied—personal. We were personal gifts and laws prevented the receivers from renting us out for cash or things like that.
That also meant that if I was really lucky, my owner would turn out to be someone I could like, respect, and come to care for. It also meant I could end up in the hands of a bastard, and should that happen, suicide would have been my only way out.
As things turned out, I ended up in the hands of a self-proclaimed bastard-- but one with the most generous heart I ever met.
I said all of this to give you an idea of what my emotional state was when I boarded the car taking me to my new owner. I was almost shaking, and my hands were so sweaty I kept on drying them on my pants, leaving stains on the fabric.
During the ride I was informed I had been gifted to a NCIS agent who had prevented the President from being taken hostage on the Air Force One.
Armed with that bit of knowledge – my new owner was a hero – I squared my shoulders and watched out of the window as the car travelled toward the Navy Yard, taking me to my new Master, Leroy Jethro Gibbs.
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