Subjection (11 page)

It’s not as bad as all that. He’s gentle, at least, none of the bruising that I had almost gotten used to at the brothel. He certainly wouldn’t split my lips.

I still hate it.

He molests my mouth with his tongue for a while and then pulls back, a smile on his face. I try to return it, knowing I’m probably mostly unsuccessful.

“You are a little shy,” he smiles at me, his tone encouraging. “Not too shy to show off that beautiful body, are you?”

My body isn’t beautiful, and I’m not shy. But shy is more attractive than disinterested. I look down and try to force myself to blush by holding my breath. When I feel my face redden, I look up and shrug. “If it would please you, sir.”

He smiles at me and runs his hand over my leg. “It would,” he says, but there’s no order to it. He pets my leg for a few more seconds. “Perhaps it would make you more comfortable if I took my clothes off, too?”

It wouldn’t, actually, but I don’t say that, I just look down and nod. It’s going to happen anyway.

I hear him undressing, and I’m bold enough to look up, curious as to what I’ll see there. I’m not surprised. He’s let his body go, which I suppose he’s entitled to, the head of a successful company, an older man. He’s not flabby, but he’s not toned by any means, and he has hair in all the places I wax. He looks almost nervous when he realizes I’m appraising him, which I would expect anyone else to smack me for.

“I’m past my prime, but I’m considerate and I’ll be gentle with you,” he says softly, actually looking into my eyes.

It’s the sadness that does it. He wins me by being pathetic, and I can’t say anything, so I strip my own clothing off, wondering what his response is going to be to the scars on my body.

He reaches out and touches them, very lightly.

“Cashiel told me about this,” he says softly. “What a terrible shame, that anyone would do this to such a beautiful creature.”

I’m not a creature.

“Yes, sir,” I mumble.

He eases me down on my back softly, and I comply, becoming uncomfortable only when I feel his lips graze over the worst of the scars on my stomach.

“It’s terrible, like defacing fine art,” he comments, running his hands over my skin like he owns it.

He doesn’t, and I’m also not fine art.

“Yes, sir,” I repeat.

“Cashiel doesn’t hurt you like this, does he?” he asks, his eyes suddenly hard as they stare at me. “I wouldn’t want someone working for me who could be so cruel.”

“No, sir,” I answer quickly. “My master doesn’t hurt me.” I don’t mention that he doesn’t fuck me, either, and that he hates the very sight of me without clothes. And sometimes with clothes.

“Good.” He seems to relax.

He alternates between stroking along my skin with his hands and his tongue for a while, and I’m damned because my body responds, my cock hardening at once even though I don’t want this. He doesn’t comment, but he’s touching that part soon, and I hate it, but it feels good. When he wraps his lips around it, I can’t fight back the tears that are pooling behind my closed eyes.

He doesn’t suck cock expertly, but I can tell he enjoys it, and he takes his time, and I’m trained to respond to stimulation.

It’s wrong, and I wish he wasn’t doing it, even though it feels good. I wish it was someone else.

I’m just about to come, holding back because I doubt it’s allowed, and I feel him change positions and I hear him gasp. He pulls off my cock and comes up next to me immediately, brushing his hand through my hair.

“Sascha, darling, are you all right?” he asks, his tone conveying his distress.

It takes me a moment to realize that I’m crying, and he noticed, and he cares. While the first thing happens often, the second one rarely does, and the third almost never.

“I’m fine, sir,” I mumble.

“Sascha, what’s wrong? Am I hurting you? Am I going too fast? Tell me what’s wrong, beautiful boy, I’ll fix it! You shouldn’t have a bad time!”

He’s so concerned that I feel guilty. I’m a whore, doing my job, and he’s treating me really well, and I’m crying and scaring him. I can’t keep doing it; I can’t make him feel like this.

I lie, instead.

“I’m fine sir, it’s just…” I force myself to smile. “It’s just that it feels so good, and I’m so happy, and it’s been so long since someone’s made me feel this good. I’m sorry I get emotional!”

He kisses me, soft, like he might break me. His lips are papery and clammy all at the same time. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “It feels good, then?”

No. “Yes, sir. Very good, sir.”

“Good.” He breathes a sigh of relief. “You want me to keep going?”

Not in a million fucking years. “That would be wonderful, sir.”

He holds me for a few more minutes, petting me and I suppose trying to soothe me. I wish he’d just fuck me already, so I can stop pretending. One more minute of this twisted kindness and I might start crying for real, and I worry that I might never stop.

He goes back to giving me head, and it does feel good, and I don’t think he minds that I’m still crying a little, now that he has a nice lie about why I’m doing it. I suppose I appreciate the fact that he doesn’t
like
that I’m crying. I guess I’m pretty fucked up, if I have to appreciate that.

After another eternity, he gets up, and I wonder if he’s going to leave me all horny and hard like this. I can’t decide whether that would be a good or a bad thing.

He doesn’t, though, he comes back with a bottle of lube and kneels between my legs. He prepares me more slowly and thoroughly than I’ve ever been prepared before, and I admit that it does feel good. He hits a sensitive spot and I moan, mortified by my response.

He laughs. “It’s okay, dear, you can show me if you like what I’m doing. I was worried you’d gone to sleep there for a minute.”

“No, sir, I’m certainly awake,” I mumble. “You’re… very talented. You make me feel wonderful.” It’s not a lie. He
is
making me feel wonderful. I just hate it. I hate that he’s using me, and I hate that he’s being allowed use me, and I hate that I’m enjoying it.

“You’re very tight,” he comments. “Your master must be very careful with you.”

My master would rather fuck a cheese Danish than me. “He’s a very careful man, sir.”

“I’ll go slow,” he promises, leaning over me.

He does. It’s some of the most considerate, gentle sex I’ve ever had, and despite not having been fucked for over a month, he doesn’t even hurt me in the slightest. He keeps going, thrusting in and out with utmost care, and he starts to stroke my cock as he does. I can’t help whimpering, just like I can’t help moving along with him, but I keep my eyes closed, and I try to pretend it’s someone else.

I wish I could pretend it’s my master, but I can’t imagine him having sex like this, ever. I can imagine him forcing into me as I scream and claw at his skin, both of us biting and kissing and hurting each other. I can imagine him making me beg and me enjoying the begging even more. I can imagine us passionate.

One of my hands rests near my hip, and I pinch my skin between my fingers until the pain blossoms through my body, until I know I’ve drawn blood, until I feel myself coming. I don’t remember the last time I came with another person when I wasn’t in pain, and I guess it won’t be tonight, even if I have to be the one to bring the pain.

It’s not long after this that I feel Mr. Dean coming on top of me, inside of me. I grit my teeth at the familiar, unpleasant sensation of his come inside of my ass, and I take a deep breath just before he collapses on top of me, crushing my delicate frame for a minute.

To his credit, he rolls off quickly and even apologizes. He reaches over me to grab some tissues from next to the bed, and he wipes away the evidence of both our pleasure, still gentle. Damn him for being such a nice guy. I can’t even hate him.

“Did you have fun?” he whispers in my ear, provocative.

I squirm and stretch, trying not to make it too obvious that I’m moving away from him. “Yes, sir,” I reply, forcing a smile again. “It’s been a long time since someone’s treated me like that.” There. The last part wasn’t a lie, at least.

“Cashiel doesn’t make you feel this good?” he asks, surprised.

Right, I
am
supposed to be my master’s loyal fucktoy. “It’s… different, sir. With my master.” Yeah, if “different” is the same as “not-fucking.”

“I’m sure,” he says, smiling. He gives me a few more minutes before pulling me close, all possessive and needy, though still gentle. “Do you like to be the little spoon or the big spoon?”

I don’t have the heart to tell him that I’d rather be the teakettle, sitting on the stove all by myself. “Whichever, sir, it feels very nice when you touch me.”

He grabs me and pulls me close, wrapping his body around mine like he’s protecting me from an earthquake that’s making the building collapse. He kisses me, lightly, and I hope he’ll end it here. I guess it wasn’t that bad; it’s true that he is the most considerate person I’ve been fucked by in a while, and he really did seem concerned with my pleasure. I can’t blame him for my being a slave, and I can’t blame him for passing me around like a whore. I only have myself and my master to blame for these things.

Chapter 10
Service

I spent two years in the re-education center, learning how to be a slave, and unlearning how to be human.

The only area in which I excelled was sexual training. Our unit was the first to advance to this “secondary” skill, one that they taught us after we had been effectively broken and beaten into compliance. Plenty of us were uninitiated to the world of sex, and the guards stood by during the first few days not only to assist in raping us, but to hurt those who refused.

The trainer was a dull, slight woman in her mid-forties, who introduced herself to us as “Mistress Rae.” She started by pairing us up with other Demoted, ordering us to strip and explore each other’s bodies. My partner that first day was a stocky young man, one who hadn’t bothered me too much, and who turned pale at the order. I moved quickly, obeying before I could be hurt again, and I touched him gently. We hadn’t been told to speak, but I did, quietly assuring him and myself at the same time. He stood still until I took his hands and placed them on my body.

“Please, don’t,” he whispered. “I don’t even like guys.”

I preferred guys, but not unwilling ones. I could hear the screams and the sound of leather striking flesh from the other side of the room. “Just close your eyes,” I whispered. “I’d rather do this without being whipped on top of it.”

He let me move his hands over my body, tolerated my hands on his, and by the time Mistress Rae came over to us, we had been ordered to start using our tongues as well. I was on my knees, being a show-off, putting my barely developed skills to use on the cock of my fellow Demoted. I half-expected to be reprimanded for taking it farther than ordered, but I managed to convince myself that I wasn’t really being raped if I initiated it.

“So eager,” Mistress Rae observed, her voice soft and appreciative.

I paused, waiting for correction.

“Keep going,” she encouraged. “Bring him off.”

I didn’t hesitate. I tried everything I had seen in dirty videos, everything I had experienced in my own limited sexual encounters. I had never really learned much about sex, just a few awkward makeout sessions and a single, fumbling sexual experience in a dingy motel room after another school’s prom. I had no idea what would work, because my partner seemed disinterested. Still, my partner was a teenage boy who was getting his dick sucked. I made him come, and when I finished, I looked up at our trainer, desperate for approval.

“That was very nice,” she told me, reaching down to pet my head.

I was desperate for the praise, and shifted toward her without thinking about it. “Thank you, ma’am,” I said softly, cherishing the soft touch.

“What’s your name?” she asked, surprising me. Most didn’t bother to ask, or to refer to us by anything other than degrading terms. She made the question sound friendly, and I was happy to play along.

“Sascha, ma’am.”

She smiled and kept petting me. “I see potential in you, Sascha,” she told me. “You’re good at this, if untrained. We’ll have you perfect in no time.”

The little bits of praise she gave me during my time at the re-education center were like a drug. It didn’t matter that she had me put things in my ass, around my cock, and down my throat, it didn’t matter that she let the guards use me and took her turns as well. It didn’t even matter that she used me as a shining example of perfection while degrading and criticizing the others, because I was doing good, I was succeeding. I convinced myself that I wasn’t being raped if I enjoyed what was being done to me, and I convinced myself to enjoy it. It was a lie, and I knew it, but it made it easier. I had to succeed at something. I pretended that my partners were people I was attracted to and I even forced myself to smile. I had read somewhere that the physical act of smiling could make you enjoy things. I got some satisfaction out of being one of the only slaves who wasn’t sobbing in bed every night during our first week of sexual instruction.

Learning something new was enjoyable enough to let me ignore the violations that were committed against my body on a regular basis. Mistress Rae bought my big eyes and pathetic tears, and kept me after class for “additional instruction” on more than one occasion when I knew my guard would be beating the shit out of me after class.

She even found a way to deal with that, the pain and physical abuse I suffered. More than anyone else, she saw the evidence on my body, the way it hurt to move or breathe or be touched. As much as I tried for her, some days I just failed to do more than whimper at even the lightest touch.

“Sascha,” she said, running the back of her hand over a set of fresh welts against my ass. “You keep getting yourself hurt.”

I nodded, unwilling to correct her and point out that it was other people who were hurting me.

“Would you like to learn to cultivate that pain?”

I didn’t understand what she was asking, but I took offense at being compared to a plant. Still, she was never cruel to me like she was to the others. I trusted her, in a way. “If you wish it, ma’am.”