Subjection (14 page)

He sighs, like he’s relieved about something. I don’t understand.

“Please, master, I won’t be a problem anymore!” A while? How long is that? Is it a trial of some sort, so Mr. Dean can see if he really wants to own me? I should want him to own me, but I don’t. At least this master is familiar, and he doesn’t touch me. Will I be able to keep up the façade with Mr. Dean for a while?

“Get up!” he snaps, and when I do I see his eyes roll.

He lets me stand there, uncomfortable for a few moments.

“You didn’t want to go over there in the first place, did you?” he asks.

How am I supposed to answer? Of course not! But I can’t say that. I let a stock slave answer slip through my lips. “It was your decision, master.”

“Bullshit.” His dismissal is cold. “You didn’t want to do it, and I dragged you over there, and I left you there, and I made you do it, and now you’re pouting and moping and giving up on life because you’re upset.”

I stand there and tremble, because denying it would be a flat-out lie, and confirming it doesn’t sound much better.

“Dammit, Sascha, I thought you said you wouldn’t mind!” he snaps, getting up and walking across the room, away from me.

The distance makes me a little bit more comfortable, even though I doubt that this is why he does it. I don’t remember saying anything of the sort, though; I said that I would do it, and that I wouldn’t complain. Perhaps I had failed a little bit on the last part, but I’m not complaining, not really, I’m just giving up on life and trying to die. There’s a difference, right? I think there’s a difference.

“He didn’t request you again, by the way.”

I can’t feel anything but utter relief at those words.

He finally turns and looks at me, and his face has the same tight expression that it did when he left me with his boss. “I really didn’t think you’d mind.”

What is this? An apology? It sounds more like an observation. I’m probably supposed to respond, but I don’t. If he can’t offer a real apology, I guess I don’t have to offer a real response. I just stare at him.

“He told me he would treat you kindly.”

“He did,” I admit. But that’s not what matters. “He treated me very kindly, master. He didn’t force me. I went willingly.”

“But you still object to being used like a whore,” my master speaks my thoughts like he can read them.

I say nothing. It’s true. It’s stupid, but it’s true.

“Years of brothel work, and you object to being used like a whore,” he shakes his head.

Right. That’s all I am. So why does it burn so much to hear him say it? “It’s not my place to object—”

“Stop.”

One word and a glare freeze me solid.

“I’m sorry I made you do that when you didn’t want to,” he says, calm and assured. It takes a few seconds for the apology to sink in. “If I knew you’d mind I never would have forced you to do it. Hell, Mr. Dean would never have forced you to do it. In the future, you will tell me if something is going to make you this uncomfortable, understood?”

From anyone else, I would feel like I was being blamed, but with him it’s just a statement of fact. It was a mistake, on his part and on mine, and he’s not just apologizing, he’s making sure it won’t happen again. I can’t expect him to read my mind, and I can’t be that angry that he didn’t. “Yes, master,” I reply, quiet, grateful that he’s giving me this opportunity. A part of me knows I should be beaten for being so fucking difficult, if not passed around to hundreds of other people until I remember my place, but he shows no interest in either of those things.

He looks at me for a while longer, making me feel uncomfortable, before walking out of the room. He hesitates in the doorway. “Start eating and drop the attitude,” he mutters, facing away from me.

Nothing like getting back to business, after all.

Chapter 12
Inevitable

I hear the distinct, melodic announcement of a com call, and I’m surprised to realize that my master has left his device at home while he went to work. I frown, wishing it would stop, but I don’t bother to move from where I’m sitting. After all, he’s never told me to answer his calls, and I don’t want to displease him.

Things have gotten better since I realized that my master
doesn’t
actually want to whore me out. I find myself starting to become more comfortable, now that I know he will keep me. I take care of myself and the house better, because all he asks is that I clean some toilets and wash some dishes. I might just be the most fortunate slave in the world.

I’ve fallen back into the habit of eating regularly, and I feel better. A part of me wonders if my point was getting him to notice me, but that seems so fucking pathetic that I can’t think about it. I can do just fine without him noticing me, and I can do just fine without his approval. I try not to feel proud when he stops weighing me, because it was ridiculous that he had to do it. Could I really forget so quickly what starvation felt like?

My master leads a very comfortable life, and I benefit from it almost enough to forget that it’s not really my life at all. I pretend that I’m just a pampered homebody, maybe a college student living with wealthy grandparents, or a young entrepreneur who has “people” to take care of the business all day. My childhood was nothing like that, but I saw it enough on the vidscreen programs that my mother used to watch, and I draw out the fantasies to fit my situation. It helps to pass the time, coming up with these elaborate scenarios.

The device stops ringing, and I settle back into my comfortable spot on the couch, reading a new book on my tablet and contemplating my good fortune. Only seconds later, the device blares again, and I get up, finding it with a stack of papers that my master likely meant to take with him. It’s so rare that I hear the sound anymore; my master often places his devices on silent when he’s home, no wanting anything to interrupt his preferred silence. But it’s such a common sound, one I heard so frequently as a child, and it prompts me to pick up the device. I tell myself I’m not prying, I’m just… okay, I’m prying. I figure it might be Bobby or someone, and I figure I can set it to silent without my master noticing when he comes home.

The screen doesn’t display a contact name, it simply reads “Unknown” and displays a contact number. As the device goes silent again, I try to think of who it might be, but I have no clue. I pick it up, looking for the button to silence it, and when I do, “Unknown” calls a third time, just as my finger is glancing over the “answer” sensor.

I stare at it in horror for a moment before habit kicks in. “Hello?” I mumble, realizing just how long it’s been since I’ve answered a com call, much less one that wasn’t my own.

“Cashiel?” A man’s voice questions from the other end.

“Um…” I stall, seeming to have forgotten everything about polite conversation. “He’s not here.”

“And who is this?” the voice demands.

I’m confused, but I’m also irritated by the demanding tone. For all this unknown caller knows, I’m not a slave, I’m a guest, a friend, someone who should be treated better than the slave I really am. “Who the hell is this?” I snap in return.

“What did you say to me?”

The illusion of anonymity loosens my tongue. “I asked who the hell you were,” I retort, feeling a rush of excitement at pretending, just for a moment, that I’m not a slave. “You’re the one who called here, remember? Cashiel isn’t here, and even if he was, he wasn’t picking up. Maybe you should have left a message, that’s what the message system is for.”

“Sascha!” My master’s voice thunders out from nowhere, and I feel myself paralyzed with horror. He’s supposed to be at work! There is absolutely no room in my spoiled pet fantasy for my master to be
home
!

He’s not a figment of my imagination, and he’s also not very pleased with me as he storms into the room. I’m stupid enough to meet his eyes, and the rage I see there terrifies me. I’m too terrified to even flinch away as his hand approaches my face, I just stand there with my mouth open.

He grabs the phone away from me as I stand there in shock, jabbing at the button that ends the call. He continues looking at the phone, seeing who called, and looking through the list of missed calls, while I tremble beside him.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he growls.

“I—I’m sorry, sir,” I mumble, fighting back tears. “I just… it was ringing, and I went to silence it, and I answered it and—”

“Do you have any idea what you have just done?” he hisses. “It’s bad enough that you answered
my
call, but how dare you speak that way to the caller?”

“I’m sorry I was rude, sir,” I try, but my words only make his face darken. “I was disrespectful and, and inappropriate, and I shouldn’t have answered it, even if it wasn’t anybody important.”

“Wasn’t anybody important? Dammit, Sascha, that was—” before finishing, he stops himself. “That was a free person, and it doesn’t matter who he is to me or whether he is important or not. You have no idea who may be calling me, and you have no idea the damage you might have caused.”

“It won’t happen again, sir.” I try to think of something to say to make this go away, but I can’t.

With a furious look on his face, my master’s hand shoots out toward my face again, and this time, I feel rough pressure on my ear. I cry out as my master drags me out of the kitchen.

In a few moments, he’s pulled me to the living room, where he forces me to lean over the arm of the couch by tugging at my ear. I don’t fight, because I know I won’t win.

I feel arms around my waist, and I’m confused for half a second before I realize my pants have just been undone and are now being pulled down, along with my boxers, and left around my ankles. An embarrassing position, certainly, but I don’t dare to squirm to try and move them at all. I contemplate the fact that this is the first and only time my master has ever undressed me, and I wish I could be looking forward to what he is going to do next.

I hear the sound of a buckle being unfastened, and I
really
wish I could be looking forward to what he is going to do next.

The sound of leather sliding through fabric isn’t unfamiliar, and while it makes me shudder in fear, I know it’s not as bad as some other things he could use to hurt me with. I’ve been hurt with much worse, so much worse, in fact, that I’m almost relieved that he’s just going to beat me with a belt.

I still jump when his hand rests lightly on my lower back.

“Don’t move and keep your hands where they are,” he orders, curt and businesslike. “Can you do that, or should I tie you?”

“I can do it, master.” My voice is tiny and afraid. It matches how I feel. But I’m amazed that he doesn’t want to tie me, just to make it worse. I’m amazed that he trusts me.

He says nothing, just steps back and starts beating me.

It hurts.

I’ve met slaves who like to play tough, who act like and pretend and say that whippings don’t hurt, or that “just” a belt doesn’t hurt, but it does, and I’m crying by the fifth time the thick leather snaps across my skin. Just my fucking luck, this isn’t one of the days that he’s wearing a lightweight belt.

I dig my fingers into the arm of the couch, clutching the fabric as if I can squeeze the pain away. I can’t. It just makes my fingers hurt, too. I don’t dare move, because I know my master will make good on his threat to tie me, and I definitely don’t want that. I brought this on myself, and I’ll be damned if I give him the satisfaction of tying me up, too.

I estimate that he’s hit me maybe ten or twelve times before I start crying out, my whimpers creating a melody with the sound of leather striking flesh. I want to wipe at my eyes, but I don’t dare move my hands. I sob through the physical pain as well as the emotional blows. I was so stupid to think I could get away with it.

He pauses. “If you think your pathetic crying is going to make me go easy on you, you’d better think again,” he snaps, bringing the belt down where my ass meets my legs with increasing force.

“I’m crying because it
hurts
, master!” I protest, almost without realizing it. It doesn’t matter anymore that I’m contradicting him. What’s he going to do, beat me more? He’s probably already going to beat me half to death. Let him. I’ll go numb if he hurts me enough.

When he doesn’t say anything, I close my eyes, still crying, and try to focus on blocking the pain, on stepping out of my body like I used to. It’s hard, it’s been so long since I’ve had the practice. I feel him pause again, and I fight not to tense up, waiting for him to berate me again, or maybe to go and find something more brutal to beat me with. He’s hit me two, maybe three dozen times, and I’m sure he’s just beginning. I’m checking out, and he’s just beginning. This is how it always starts.

“You have a very low pain tolerance,” he observes, quiet, like he’s commenting on a goddamn statue or something.

I want to say “no shit,” but I don’t. “Yes, master,” I whimper. I should win an award for being pathetic. I hear him putting his belt back into his pants.

“Stay,” he orders.

I wonder what the hell else he expects me to do.

I lie there, feeling my ass burn and ache. I want nothing more than to reach back and rub it, maybe put some ice on it in a while. As though I’d ever be allowed to do that. At least he’s not yelling at me, or worse, asking me to speak. I’m too angry to speak, both at him and at myself, and I’d be too terrified to make sense anyway.

He returns and I start to taste bitter fear again, metallic in my mouth and heavy in my stomach. I wait for the pain.

It comes, but not as expected. I am expecting another blow, but instead I feel my pants being jerked up, not roughly on purpose, but not with any particular care. I fail when I try not to whimper.

He pulls me to my feet, still facing away from him, and says “open.”

It takes me a second to understand, but I see something in front of my mouth and I obey quickly. I think it’s a dishtowel, and he secures it in my mouth before wrapping it around my head and tying it tightly. I can’t help but try to close my mouth around it.