Subjection (12 page)

“I think it will serve you well,” she explained. “You need a special skill, anyway.”

She taught me to respond to pain instead of shying away from it. She started light, a slap or a pinch while one of the other Demoted got me off, then increased it, mixing the pain and the pleasure until I lost the ability to separate one from the other. It didn’t make the whippings better, but it allowed me to continue responding to sexual touch no matter how battered I was. She cultivated me like an heirloom vegetable, tending to me carefully and clipping away what she didn’t like. I bloomed for her every time she demanded it, letting her help me channel my pain and fear and frustration into something different, something valuable. We were both surprised when she tried to reward me with “normal” sex and I couldn’t bring myself to come. I was not only addicted to praise, but to pain.

It shouldn’t have been such a surprise when our job postings were revealed and we found out which sector of service we had been chosen for.

One of the trainers had explained how some of the Demoted were selected as bodyguards, others as personal attendants for the wealthy, some as human companions for spoiled dogs and cats, a position so degrading I would want to kill myself, and a good hearty portion as “sexual servants.” Every service usually included meeting the baser needs of society, but at least those of us with legitimate jobs might not end up on our knees all day. We all dreaded finding out that we would be among the portion of us who were selected for work as escorts and courtesans and brothel workers.

I wasn’t surprised when I saw my name on that list on the vidscreen. After all, I had been labeled as “defiant,” “uncooperative,” “resistant,” “rude,” and “lazy,” but good in sexual skills. I figured Mistress Rae had put in a good word for me, and I hoped to end up as some spoiled courtesan pleasuring a wealthy senator or something. I figured I could make cute, politically correct comments and show off my “trivial” knowledge of classic literature and arts. It wasn’t exactly the kind of hopes and dreams I had when I was a kid, but I thought it would be a pretty tolerable life. I looked across to the specific job postings and saw that I was listed for service at a notoriously low-class brothel, the kind of place that was joked about in fear. I traced the line with my finger, to be sure, and when it didn’t change, I turned to the person next to me with a shaky voice and asked him to look for me.

The asshole laughed as he told me I was indeed registered for service at “Bethel’s Brothel,” a name so unoriginal it made me cringe. I didn’t say anything, I just walked away, numb.

I sat on the floor at the edge of the room, not speaking or moving until the Devil Man came up, smiling at my misery, and smacked me on the shoulder in a poor imitation of the gesture meant to bring me to my feet. I stood, because I didn’t have the will to fight. If he beat me, then, I knew I might start crying and never stop.

“Looking a little down, slave,” he snickered, his stupid glee obvious on his face. “I knew from the first day I saw your scrawny ass that you’d be no good for anything but a hole to fuck! Just glad I got to stick it to you before the general population had a chance!”

I hated him more than I had ever hated anything else in my life, and I wanted to leap out, strangle him, bash his face against the floor until blood spewed out and bones cracked. I wanted to rip his arms off and use the bones to bash his eyes in and stab through his throat until he suffocated and drowned in his own blood.

I stared at him, expressionless.

“You always thought you were smarter than everyone else, didn’t you?” he taunted, grabbing one of my ears and twisting it until I squirmed. “Thought you were clever and cute—all I see is a defiant, untrainable pile of shit who likes to cause trouble!”

His words hit home, and I felt my stomach twist. Two years, and that was the impression I gave off? Even after all that time? I had realized early on that I should play their games, that they didn’t appreciate intelligence or independence or individuality, but I had done this poorly at hiding it? Untrainable? Had I learned nothing? I had never failed so badly at anything in my life. The truth hit harder than any blow he ever gave me.

“At least I’m through with you now,” my guard said, shoving me away. “You’re Rae’s problem until the transport next week. Special training.”

The words barely sank in. I was glad to be rid of the man who had single-handedly made my life hell for the past two years, but that didn’t cut the misery I felt at the moment. I failed. I ruined everything, every chance I had at any sort of comfort or decency. I fought back tears, willing them not to fall, not yet, and I ran down the corridor to the sexual service training room where I displayed at least some skill in the past.

It was empty, none of the other slaves too eager to come here to accept their new life as sexual servants. Heedless of punishment or reprimand or anything but my own misery, I rushed into Mistress Rae’s office, where I knew I wasn’t allowed to go, and I saw the only person who had been remotely kind to me at the re-education center. I threw myself to the floor at her feet and started sobbing.

I heard her gasp in surprise, but her hand was light in my hair.

“Sascha, Sascha,” she said softly, and I could hear the regret in her voice. “Shh, it’s okay. You’ll do fine there. You’re a good boy, you’ll please the clients and you’ll do well.”

I couldn’t say anything, in part because I was crying too hard, in part because I didn’t want to tell her she was wrong. I knew I was a failure, a useless fuck up who couldn’t even lie his way through re-education, and I knew I would never please anyone.

She let me cry for a few more minutes before cupping my chin gently in her fingertips and tipping my face up to look at her. Her voice was barely above a whisper, and I had to stop crying to hear it. “Listen, there are worse things than brothel work—they don’t tell any of you, but there is a blacklist for slaves who can’t conform, and it was all I could do to get your name off of it. The blacklist is where they get human subjects for experiments, or organ transplants, or other terrible things, and I just… you’re far too capable to go there. I saw a different slave than anyone else, and the clients at Bethel’s won’t care about your history. I’ve prepared you the best way I know how, and I know you’re strong enough to make it. Start fresh, and put your skills to your advantage.”

I nodded, nuzzling up against her hand and her legs like she had taught me to. I half-expected her to order me to pleasure her, because that was how slaves usually paid for comfort. I didn’t mind. But she didn’t, she just held me close against her legs and petted my hair until I calmed down.

“Sascha,” she said, sadly. “You could have done so much more. You still can. Keep an eye open and remember to put your best features forward.”

I let her words flow over me. She was always spewing out messages of hope and happiness; I guess it was expected for someone who had fifty goddamn orgasms a day and wanted all of them. She let me cry in her office until I calmed down, and she allowed me to sleep in the small room next to it instead of returning to the regular dorm. Just avoiding the guards was enough of a reprieve.

I was fortunate to have “special training” with her for the next week until the transport. Any other trainer would have beaten the sulkiness out of me, and Mistress Rae even threatened to, once, before my pathetic sobbing won her over again. Instead, she had me help with the new batch of slaves, getting them to relax and accept that their bodies were not their own anymore. The work itself wasn’t hard, but it didn’t mean I liked it, either. I touched them when they begged me not to, made them touch me, kissed them and sucked them and told them how to do it in return, how to make it feel good. It was hard for me to enjoy even the best sexual touches when the person touching me was in tears, but I knew they would be punished if they failed to please me. The fear added enough excitement that I could force myself to get hard, to stay that way, even to fuck them when ordered.

I was complicit in their abuse, but at least I was kinder than the others, and I tied to remember to be patient. I hated having anything to do with the re-education process, but at least teaching others something new was a challenge. It comforted me as I prepared to leave the terrible, familiar life I had become accustomed to.

I was taken with another boy and two girls, and the hover-van dropped us off unceremoniously in front of a garish purple building with red lights in the window. Ironically, I found myself eager to go inside, if only to escape the fucking eyesore that stood in front of me.

Even two years in the re-education center hadn’t beaten the good taste out of me.

A heavyset woman wearing an unfortunate-looking corset came storming out with a riding crop in her hands, and she looked like every cliché dominatrix I ever saw back when I modded Abriel’s tablet so he could watch porn and see tits. At least it was me here, and not him.

The woman raised her riding crop and gestured with it as she spoke, and I was struck with the ridiculous image of her conducting a marching band with it.

“My name is Mistress Bethel, and you’ll be answering to me and this crop for the rest of your foreseeable future,” she announced, her voice excessively loud and overdone considering there were only four of us, and we were all on our knees a few feet in front of her.

She pointed toward the door with the crop. “Get inside.”

The others crawled, but I felt stupid and daring as usual, so I got up and walked, holding the door for the other three like some sort of valet. Mistress Bethel glared at me, but said nothing. Still, I dropped to my knees again once we got inside. I didn’t actually
enjoy
being beaten, at least, not outside of the bedroom.

Somehow it took her nearly an hour to tell us we were going to fuck for money and that we better damn well be good at it. I tried to count the varicose veins that were visible on her legs, which earned me a smack with the riding crop when I failed to respond to her question.

“Um, I don’t know, Mistress?” I played dumb. The fucking crop hurt, the Demoted are expected to be stupid.

“Always!” she hit me with the crop. “Get the money!” another smack. “Before the service!” A final smack, and there were tears in my eyes.

“Yes, Mistress,” I answered, my shoulders stinging.

We were put to work instantly, Mistress Bethel half-leading, half-dragging each of us to the room that we were going to “occupy” for the night. I expected them to be gross, but exactly how gross they were startled me. The sheets were stiff with dried come and probably a variety of other bodily fluids I didn’t even want to think about, and the walls were splattered with something as well. You couldn’t really tell, because they were painted a sort of mottled greenish brown, and the lights were dimmed. I thought it might have been better if the lights were off entirely, but our “customers” probably wanted to see us going down on them or something.

My first few customers were pretty standard. They came in, handed over money, and rammed their cocks into me. It was unpleasant, but it didn’t exactly hurt, especially not after the first one was finished. One had me suck him off, which I actually found more tedious than being fucked, because I had to put some effort into it. The asshole insisted on grabbing my hair and jerking me up and down on his cock until he came, but he didn’t seem to mind my teeth grazing him, so I let them. Better his dick getting scraped up than my lips.

After what seemed like an eternity, but what was really probably only five or six hours, we were told that it was our “shift” to sleep. Another slave came to collect us, a little redheaded girl whose ribs showed and who had welts over all the visible parts of her skin, which there was a lot of. She half-dragged us up some stairs to an attic, where I figured we would be sleeping. “Half-drag” seemed to be synonymous with “walk” around here, which was rather unpleasant, but I didn’t complain. I wanted to avoid being “half-beaten-to-death.”

The attic did contain a place for sleeping, although calling it a “room” was quite an exaggeration. Actually, calling it an attic was a bit of an exaggeration—the floor wasn’t even finished, it was just a series of boards over top of a layer of insulation. The girl warned that if we fell through, we would come through the ceiling of the brothel. I could imagine the kinds of punishments we would get from that. Here and there, I saw sheets tied around the boards, making a sort of tiny hammock between them. I wondered if I would ever get any sleep.

“They’re actually pretty comfortable,” our battered tour guide whispered next to me. “Better than downstairs was.”

I didn’t ask about downstairs, because I had enough nightmare fuel already.

The girl introduced herself to us as Raven, pointed out empty sheet hammocks, and showed us how to tighten the knots around the beams before darting back downstairs in response to Mistress Bethel’s scream. I lay down, starting to feel exhaustion setting in. I wondered when we would be allowed to shower, and I tried to ignore the smell of come and sweat and dirt that permeated the place. I rejoiced in the almost trivial fact that I managed to avoid a beating that day, which two of the others hadn’t, and I tried to ignore the hunger I felt. I simply assumed we would get fed enough not to starve to death. After all, dead whores didn’t bring in money.

Chapter 11
Fallout

Leaving Sascha with my boss is surprisingly difficult. I spend the night vacillating between feeling guilty and feeling ridiculous. He’s a sex slave. He’s had plenty of experience being used for sex, plenty who have hurt him. I know Mr. Dean will treat him well, but it’s hard to get the look Sascha gave me out of my mind. I wonder if I’m becoming possessive over him, a jealous master, but it doesn’t sit right. Why should I be possessive? It’s not as though I’m interested in him like that. While I do find him catching my eye on occasion, it’s always spoiled by his fear, his anxiety, and sometimes his annoying defiance. In different circumstances, there might have been something between us, but as far as I can tell, he has no interest in ever being touched by me. I won’t push the issue.