Sedition (4 page)

“You haven’t done well since you came out from behind your mommy’s skirts, have you Cash?” Torenze teases, smiling viciously. It brings a scowl to my master’s face.

The other people standing around laugh; although, some seem to find it more entertaining than others. I don’t really understand it—my master has nothing to do with his family. Perhaps it’s just a joke, poking at his age?

“Some of us have a need to protect our interests with subtlety,” my master replies, his jaw set.

I can’t understand it. Why isn’t he shooting this man down, putting him in his place? He’s nothing more than an investment partner for his job, this wouldn’t be any big deal.

Torenze almost roars with laughter. “Subtlety?” he repeats. “Cash, you wouldn’t know subtlety if it subtly bit you in the ass. Admit it, boy, you like the dramatics! Daring revelations, a pretty slave boy all dressed up in glitter—you want the attention. You forget you’re a businessman, not some sort of celebrity.”

I make my first slip-up, letting out a snort of disapproval, like one might give to a joke made in poor taste. Cashiel doesn’t acknowledge it much, he just pinches my arm, cueing me to shut up. I glance up at him, nervous, but he doesn’t seem angry. If anything, he’s tolerating me, just like he’s tolerating Torenze.

A few of the other free people standing around snicker, and I hear one whisper to another “looks like the slave has the most sense out of all of them.”

The other just shakes his head. “Sounds like they have some history,” he whispers back. “And a distinct lack of social etiquette.”

I feel almost vindicated, despite knowing better than to challenge a free man. Torenze is out of line, and everyone knows it. I should take my master’s advice and shut the hell up, but it grates on me to hear this smug little man spout a line of bullshit.

I’m smarter than him and so is my master, but he’s acting like he’s so far above both of us. He may be the host, but my master is in some ways his benefactor; from what I understand, Torenze’s most recent business undertaking would never have been possible without the agreement that Cash and his company made. Yes, Cash was thrilled to have him as a business ally, but Torenze needed him just as much. I can’t understand why he would be so eager to harass and demean my master.

Torenze makes his attacks more personal, criticizing my master for his youth, his inexperience, his newness into the business field. It’s never so direct as that, but it’s the comments, the assumptions, the dismissals of my master as “probably not skilled enough in that area” to understand what he freely discusses with others. It’s said with a smile and a wink, as though it should be playful. It’s not playful, though, it’s malicious, and the rest of the people in the conversation seem to notice it as well, their laughs turning uncomfortable as the conversation grows less pleasant. A few of the people turn and leave, but those who are left are somewhat trapped, not wanting to offend the host, who’s launching a cringe-inducing attack on my master.

I manage to stay quiet for the better part of ten minutes, just long enough for the attention that I drew to myself to fade. Then Torenze makes another asinine statement.

“Cashiel, I don’t know if you have the business sense to keep going in the direction you’re headed,” he taunts, giving him a knowing look. “Perhaps you overestimate your connections. Or underestimate your threats.”

“Oliver, we don’t need to discuss this, now,” my master replies, looking away. It infuriates me that he won’t stand up to this man.

“Don’t you think you should be spending your time making sure your competition doesn’t come back to bite you in the ass again, instead of pushing forward so quickly?”

“How would you know?” The words tumble out of my mouth. “Your first attempts failed years ago, and if my master hadn’t funded you, your current attempt wouldn’t be anywhere
near
completion. You’re bluffing, and it’s making you look preposterous. If you had half the business sense that my master does, you would have gotten behind this idea years ago when it was still fresh—well before my master was in the business, as you pointed out.”

I attacked what I saw as his biggest failure. I know enough about my master’s business to assess the situation adequately, and a part of me reveled in the chance to let the bright, capable part of myself out of its cage like I do when Cash and I work together. It felt good, powerful… and incredibly stupid.

Shit.

“Sir,” I tag on, as if that will erase everything I just said.

There’s silence for a moment, and I think that maybe I didn’t really say it, maybe I didn’t really just call this man out like I did, and just when I have myself convinced that I’m delusional, I hear my master’s voice, low and cold and angry.

“Go wait for me in the coatroom, Sascha.”

I want to apologize, to beg, to plead, but instead I just nod, feeling my eyes grow wide as the words, “Yes, master,” claw their way out of my throat.

I’m scared that I’ve fucked things up for him, and he’ll be upset, and I’ve made a mistake that could hurt him, whatever his goals are that he never tells me about. I don’t even have time to be afraid that I’m walking around alone and unprotected, and I guess it doesn’t matter, because the only eyes on me now are staring at me with shock, offense, and occasional amusement. I walk to the coatroom in a panic, feeling terrible and guilty and wishing he would just come and tell me if everything is going to be okay.

Chapter 4
Humiliation

I don’t wait long.

“Start stripping,” he orders, scowling.

I frown, confused and concerned about how my actions might have affected him. What the hell does he want me naked for? “But—”

“Do as you’re goddamn told!” he hisses, grabbing me roughly by the shoulder. “You’ve done enough damage for one night; Torenze had better be able to see you behave properly when you’re beaten, at least!”

The words hit hard, and I’m suddenly afraid for myself as well as my lover’s reputation. “Cash, please—”

He grabs me by the jaw, cutting off further protests. “Not another fucking word from you. You will
only
answer direct questions, and you will
only
do so respectfully, is that clear?”

“Y-yes, master,” I mumble.

I hear someone enter the room as Cashiel—as my
master
—lets go of my face.

“Start stripping,” my master repeats, and I remove my shirt with shaking hands. I toss it aside, because there’s nowhere else to put it. Torenze has joined us, and he’s smirking at me, standing proud and pleased at my misery.

“Give me your belt,” my master orders, just as I’m undoing it. His voice is quieter now.

I don’t want to. I don’t want to give him my own belt so he can beat me with it. I don’t want someone else to watch this happen. I don’t protest, no matter how badly I want to. As I pull the leather through the straps, I glance up at him, begging him with my eyes and trying to bite back tears.

His face stays hard.

I hand it to him and drop my pants, slowly, before realizing that I’ll have to take my shoes off to get them off completely. Awkwardly, I bend down, trying to squat to avoid putting my ass any more on display than I already will be. I nearly topple over, clenching my teeth at the goddamn spectacle I’m making.

“He could just leave them on,” Torenze comments. “I doubt he needs to move around very much for this part, anyway. It might do him good to have a little restraint.”

I feel my skin crawl, and I hurry to disrobe completely. It would somehow be more humiliating to stand here with my pants around my ankles than it will be to be completely naked.

“I ordered him to strip,” my master counters. I’m almost grateful.

I’m naked a moment later and I stand, trembling before the man who fucks me and touches me and kisses me every night and a man who is obviously getting off on the prospect of humiliating me. I don’t understand how Cashiel can do this to me. The beating is bad enough; he’s never allowed anyone to watch before, much less allowed them to enjoy it.

“Sascha, tell Mr. Torenze what happens when you’re disrespectful and rude to free people,” my master orders.

I feel my stomach churn. He’s not just allowing Torenze to enjoy it, he’s helping him. I’ve been deluding myself, thinking I am more than a slave to him. I face the disgusting worm of a man who I blame for my punishment. “I am beaten, sir.” It’s all the more I can say. I can’t bring myself to utter another word, because all I want to do is berate him for his cruelty, and my master as well, and god knows that would end up worse.

“But you haven’t learned your lesson, have you boy?” Torenze teases, actually grinning at me. “Has your master been too soft on you? Let you pretend to be some sort of fancy pet instead of an overpriced sex doll?”

I feel my face start to burn. “My master has corrected me appropriately, sir. I just messed up.”

“Go stand against the wall,” my master orders. I follow his commands like a puppet. “Lean forward. Legs spread.”

I brace my hands against the wall. I’m surprised he doesn’t have me bend over, putting my ass on display more prominently, but he has always given me something to support myself with in the past. Maybe he’s worried that I’ll fall over when he hits me, which is probably true. I’m glad; standing means it will hurt a little less, as my skin isn’t stretched too tightly over my ass.

“How many lashes do you usually get, boy?” Torenze asks, the self-satisfied smile coming through in his tone. “Is it a lot? Enough to make your pretty little ass sore for days, maybe make you shed some tears? I bet you cry easily.”

I hate him. I hate him more than I hate being beaten. “That’s up to my master, sir.” I don’t care to tell him that I usually don’t get many. Then he might ask for more.

“Ah, like to keep him guessing,” Torenze must be addressing my master now. “Great way to keep him in line. These types, they’ll take advantage of you if they know too much about what’s going to happen to them.”

“Stand back,” is all my master says in response.

I tense, waiting for the first impact. I don’t wait long, although I’m stunned that he’s hitting me across my back and shoulders. He’s never hit me there before. It hurts.

But as much as it hurts, I’m instantly aware of how much he’s holding back, and I’m shocked. He moves quickly and efficiently, lashing me from the tops of my shoulders, down my back, across my ass, and then down my legs. I can’t keep count and I can’t keep track. I certainly can’t keep from crying and whimpering. But he’s not hitting nearly as hard as he usually does, and he hasn’t hit me in the same place twice. It’s almost like he’s trying not to hurt me, but that doesn’t make sense. If he didn’t want to hurt me, he shouldn’t be beating me in the first place, and he certainly shouldn’t be doing it in front of Torenze.

He’s covered my backside with pain and probably bruises and I’ve leaned forward so I can rest my head against the wall and cry. I know it doesn’t hurt as much as it could, but it still hurts, and the reminder of what I am and how little I mean stings worse than the belt.

“He’s scarred up,” Torenze comments, as if I’m not there. I wish it was true. “Must have been a bad boy.”

“My slave’s previous masters wasted far too much energy on him,” my master explains, not elaborating further.

I bite my lip to keep from protesting, to keep from crying out. Is that really all I am to him, a waste of energy? Is it not even worth his time to beat me; is that what he’s saying? I can’t help but sob, curling my arms tighter around my face and trying to press myself into the wall.

“Well, with a smart mouth like that, no wonder!” Torenze exclaims. “I bet he could be taken down a notch with a good thorough whipping, though. Maybe on a regular basis, keep that ass nice and sore.”

“He requires only a minimum level of pain and correction to be brought under control,” my master comments. “Marking him and damaging him that badly was a complete waste of energy and counterproductive to teaching him anything. Look at him now, Oliver, imagine how hysterical he’d be if I were to use a whip on him. He’d be unable to process anything. They need balance.”

My head spins. Is that all this is about, then? He’s not treating me well, he’s conserving energy? Being more productive? Bringing me under control? I’ve never tried to convince myself that he really cares about me, but I thought he at least saw me as a person. I thought he had some respect for me.

I want to hate him, but I can’t, not just yet. It’s too fast, too awful, and he’s given me a reprieve, hasn’t he?

“Turn around, Sascha.”

I obey instantly, considering his words.
Processing
. Not thinking, not what humans do. Just processing. Like a machine, or maybe an animal.

“Put your head and your hands back against the wall and don’t move them.”

I do so, and I’m suddenly struck by the realization that he’s going to hit the front of me as well. Not just my legs, this time; he’s told me to hold my head back because he’s going to hit my chest. It’s all I can do not to fall to the floor and beg him not to do it, but that didn’t work out so well last time, and this fucking man is watching us. It’s not so much that it would be inappropriate that stops me, it’s the fact that Torenze would enjoy it. I won’t give him that satisfaction, not if I can help it.

I don’t beg, but I yelp as the leather snaps across my chest, lighting a fire between my shoulders and across my sternum. I’ve been hit there before, with fists or on accident, but I’ve never intentionally been beaten there. It’s more intimate, somehow, and the fact that my master would be looking into my eyes if he was focused on anything at all makes it that much worse. Somehow, I feel violated. The lashes move lower, and I can’t help but squirm as the belt snaps across my nipples, searing me with pain.

“Look at him move, he must like it! You’ve got yourself a pain slut, don’t you?”

My master stops, and I’m not sure whether to be grateful or angry. If anything, it gives me a minute to compose myself. I like pain, but not this kind, and not like this. Torenze clearly has no idea what it looks like when someone enjoys pain, not someone other than himself.