Subjection (7 page)

“You did fine at the Peace Day Celebration,” he reminds me. “But I don’t want you clinging to me at the next event we attend. That sort of show only works once without raising questions. Show me that you can pull off an event where there’s more than a few inches between us without looking like a kicked dog.”

I turn away from him and close my eyes, trying to recall the positions and movements I read about in the training manuals, and I pretend I’m just practicing by myself as I demonstrate them for him. I show him how I can walk, the smooth, graceful, restrained gait that is valued above regular walking. I kneel for him, in a variety of positions, demonstrating how I would wait, unobtrusive, or how I would sink low to the ground, begging forgiveness.

The training manuals explained it in so much detail, telling me how and when I should move, and speak, and laugh. It’s not how I would have moved before. At least, I think it isn’t. I wonder if I could even step back into my old life now if it was an option. I throw myself into moving like a slave with the same enthusiasm as most people studied for the Assessment. I’ve studied the positions for days, tried them out on my own even, because I
want
to look right. I
want
to say the key phrases that all good slaves should say. I want to succeed, just this once, and I want him to keep me.

I show him how I can crouch low to pick up a fallen item, ensuring that I present myself properly, in a pleasing manner, even when it’s not quite functional. I do all the things that slaves do that nobody really notices, but that take practice and work, anyway. I show him everything I can think of, and when I’ve exhausted myself, I go to my knees next to him again, and my heart soars when he nods at me.

“You could use some practice so you aren’t so stiff, but you’ve come a long way on your own,” he tells me. “We’ll work on postures and positions for a while, and then you can continue on your own.”

I try not to draw away as he walks toward me, but his face doesn’t give me any indication that he notices. Then again, he seems to notice everything else, so maybe he’s just letting this slip.

He guides me through some positions, referring to them by name or reason to assume them, and when I move, he watches carefully, guiding me into more proper stances. I have no idea how he knows so much about slaves, but he does, and he points out little corrections here and there that I need to change.

“Put your hands a little higher,” he orders, and I tentatively raise my arms.

“A little more,” he demands.

My shoulders still hurt, remnants of the abuse I suffered at the brothel. I pray there’s no permanent damage, that I’ve just pulled a muscle or a tendon or something, but the longer it lasts, the more afraid I get. I doubt my master would want a permanently damaged slave. I used to be able to diagram all the parts of the human anatomy, but now all I know is that my arms and shoulders hurt a fuckton.

“I can’t put my arms above my head without being in a lot of pain, master,” I confess. “I’m hoping it will heal on its own.”

“You should have seen a doctor when I first bought you,” he comments. “Do you need to see one now?”

I consider the lingering pain in my arms. “Well… maybe. I’m not sure.”

He looks at me and I expect to see pity. I don’t. All I see is irritation, presumably at me, presumably because I can’t even make the decision of whether I need to see a goddamn doctor or not.

“What happened?” he asks.

I’m surprised he cares, but it still seems so impersonal. “I was tied and hung by my arms for a few hours, master.” I was beaten and raped and taunted throughout the process as well, but I spare my master these details. A part of me doesn’t want him to get any ideas of how to use me; another part of me doesn’t want to admit what has been done. He seemed disgusted enough with my condition when he brought me home.

“Are your arms or hands numb at all?” he asks.

“No, master, not anymore.”

He nods. “You’ll tell me if it gets worse or if it doesn’t go away in a few days. My doctor can get you in immediately.”

I’m relieved. When I told Mistress Bethel about it, she hit me and told me to stop whining about it. “Thank you, master.”

I’m elated that my master hasn’t sold me, yet. I know it can happen at any time, and I know that I can go back to a brothel, or to someone who hurts me. He doesn’t seem to like me, at least, not in a way that I’ve ever seen a master act when he likes a slave, but he also doesn’t seem to be as disgusted as he was when he first brought me home. I do my best to please him, hoping for a kind word, and acknowledgement, something to tell me that I’m doing the right thing. But I know better than to ever hope for something like that. It’s all business with him; I’m his property, he’s training me to serve better. It’s all I can do to keep myself from begging him not to sell me off once I’m trained to his specifications.

“It won’t do to have you immobile,” he replies. “Let’s focus on some lower body moves.”

I bite down on my tongue, because the idea of working on my lower body makes me think of something far more exciting than slave postures. The fact that he’s been touching me, just barely, but still enough to feel the soft strength in his hands, doesn’t help that matter at all.

“Kneel,” he orders, when I stand there like a statue. “Like you’re waiting for orders.”

I’m relieved by the order, just as I’m relieved by his brusque manner. He poses me like a mannequin, guiding my body parts to the proper location without saying more than a few words. Hands a little higher. Legs wider apart. Back straight. Head up. In between, he stops and nods. I can’t tell if he’s approving of my work or his.

There’s one thing in particular that I’m supposed to do while kneeling, that I’m apparently doing all wrong, and his pointers just aren’t cutting it. He comes up behind me, after ordering me to keep facing forward, and nudges my legs apart a little with his foot. He doesn’t kick, which is nice. Once he does that, he stays, standing between my legs, and he leans over to position my arms from above.

I try my best not to think about the fact that my head is at the exact level of his cock.

“You need to relax, you’re far too stiff for this to work.”

His words only increase the tension, and the warmth of his body against my back makes me aware of how close we are, how easy it would be for him to grab me and throw me to the floor and take me. I should be afraid, but I’m not. He’s being gentle with me, despite my thick-headedness, and it’s been so long since anyone has touched me.

“Try and focus on what I’m telling you,” he demands, increasing his efforts and moving me a little more forcefully. He moves in closer, almost straddling me to get the effect he’s looking for.

I try really, really hard not to think about what it would feel like to turn and feel his thighs brush against the sides of my head. I hear his voice, a distant hum, and I try not to think of how much nicer it would be if he was whispering my name, claiming me with his words and his body. I
especially
try not to think about what it would feel like if he were in front of me instead of behind me, and how he would smell, and taste, and feel…

“Sascha, are you even paying attention, anymore?”

My master’s voice is exasperated, but not quite angry. His grip on my arms becomes a bit firmer, as he all but drags them into place. I attempt an answer, but all I get is some sort of muted consonant sounds that make me sound like I’m drowning. The forcefulness as he moves me pushes me past the point of no return, and I’m just thankful that I avoid moaning.

“Christ,” he mutters, and I can feel him moving away from me. I hear him pause by the doorway to my bedroom. “Well, get up, then,” he says. “Maybe we’ve done enough for one day.”

I hear him, this time, but I don’t want to get up, I don’t even want to turn and face him, because there’s an uncomfortable bulge in my pants. I failed miserably at not thinking of all those things that I was trying to not think about. I try to tell myself that it’s just habit, that it’s just because he’s attractive, but I can’t help wondering what it says about me. If I wasn’t so afraid of disobeying him, I would refuse to move from this spot until it receded.

I get up, and I sort of shuffle around, wishing for a tree or a chair or something to hide myself behind. I settle for clasping my hands in front of me, trying to hide it.

“Sascha, what—” he stops, looking at my hands. A look of realization crosses his face, and I realize I probably made the problem more apparent, instead of less. “Oh.”

I can feel myself going red, and my face is burning in shame. It’s not my fault. I’ve been trained to view anything as a source of sex, and to expect that anyone and everyone is going to be fucking me. I want to take it back, to see the pride that was starting to show on his face when I was pleasing him, but all I see is the discomfort. All my hard work, and I can’t even keep my own body in control.

The fact that he’s annoyingly attractive doesn’t help matters any.

“We were finished for the day anyway,” my master says, clearly uncomfortable. He’s doing a terrible job of hiding it. “You’re free to go, and in the future… take care of that beforehand, please. I may have neglected to tell you, but you have my full permission.”

“Yes, master,” I mumble, the heat running through my body mixing with the blush on my face. I want to cry, but I can’t draw more attention to myself.

He nods, looking unsettled for another moment before turning and walking out of my room, leaving me with my hard-on and my shame.

The shame doesn’t stop, although it helped a little to notice that he wasn’t comfortable, either. The fucking truth of it is, I have been taking care of it, pretty regularly, but it’s apparently not enough. Maybe I am just a whore.

Chapter 7
Impressions

I blaze through another training book and allow myself some quality time with the tablet. It’s been a
long
time since I’ve touched a tablet, but it’s like riding a bike, except I’ve always been rather clumsy on bikes, unlike tablets, which I’ve been able to master since the time I had adequate fine motor control to work the screen. I don’t even think about doing anything untoward with it until I want another training manual, which says something about my frame of mind, but once I start down the road of hacking and modding, it’s like it all comes back to me, and I can’t stop, and I look forward to it every day.

It’s only an hour or two before I’ve destroyed the content blocker that limits my searches to dull topics, and from there I manage to mod it to work with voice commands, steal media, function in all sorts of ways it was never intended to. I sneak in my own reverse content blocker, so anyone peeking in on my connection will be unable to see what I’m working on. I break into a few small sites, just for fun, just to see if I can.

I remember, and it’s glorious.

I look up my family to see how they’re doing. I can’t visit them or anything, but I can’t just ignore it. I find their address is still the same, still the house we grew up in, but the last census data indicates two married adults living there without anyone else. Abriel?

I know he passed the Assessment, but what he did after that… I never really thought about it, just like I never really thought about what
my
life would be like. Is he okay? Did my plan work? I comb through registries of college after college, desperate to find his name among the registrants. I can live through him, right?

I’m engrossed, hunting for Abriel when I finally become aware of the feeling of eyes watching me. I glance up and see my master, and I quickly tap out the combination that will clear my screen except for the training manual I am supposed to be viewing and a page of recipes I was looking at before I started on this new task. I glance up at him, trying my best to look innocent.

He stares at me for another moment or two, long enough to make me want to squirm and hide. I resist the urge to cower, because I know he doesn’t like it when I cower.

“The reverse content blocker needs to go,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Do you really think I gave you a tablet so you could sneak around and do illegal things on it?”

I blush furiously and try not to tremble. “No, master.” Simple is better.

“It won’t happen again.” His words aren’t threatening, nor are they a question. It’s like he’s stating that the sky is blue, he knows it with that much certainty.

And he’s right. “No, master.”

He nods. He’s not angry, which is good, because I don’t even know what I’d do if he was angry. He just nods at me and keeps standing there.

“You obviously need more to do with your time,” he states. “Meet me in the dining room in twenty minutes. The content blocker will be removed by then.”

“Yes, master,” I mumble, as he strides away. I disable the content blocker immediately. He hasn’t told me to take away anything else, so I don’t, not yet.

He doesn’t seem angry, but he wasn’t particularly pleased, either. I hadn’t expected him to check, I figured he would have assumed I was just a stupid slave and never thought of it.

I wonder how long he knew before he told me.

With that taken care of, I have a few minutes to ponder his request to meet him. More to do with my time, he said, what does that even mean? I clean when he asks, I try to cook…

I wonder whether he’s going to fuck me or beat me.

I have myself in a blind panic by the time I arrive in the dining room, and I rush to drop to my knees at my master’s feet the second I get there. I don’t wrap myself around his legs, because I’m terrified he might kick me in the face if I try it.

He looks at me critically. “Is there a problem?” It sounds like an accusation.

I stare up at him, silent and stupid. Wait for him to hurt me. He raises an eyebrow, and it’s like I’m afraid he’s going to hit me with it, because I cower away.

“Go get me a soda, calm yourself down, and when you come back, show me some of the things you’ve learned in the training manuals. The ones I sent you and the ones you stole.”