Subjection (15 page)

“Is it hurting you?” he asks, his face blank.

I shake my head, hoping he doesn’t change that.

“Good.” He glares at me. “I warned you, Sascha. I told you, if you spoke like that to a free person again, you would be beaten and gagged, and here we are. You’ll wear the gag for the rest of the day, and
I
will remove it this evening, is that understood?”

I nod. Shit. He really had warned me.

“Do
not
remove it,” he glares some more.

I don’t know whether to nod or shake my head, so I just stare at him.

“And I want this place clean when I get back,” he adds. “I doubt you’ll want to be sitting around all day anyway.”

He’s right. My ass is still on fire, and I have no desire to sit. I watch as he picks up his keys and his briefcase and strides out, as if nothing happened. I don’t even know what he came home for. He either took care of it while I was crying over the couch, or he forgot; too put off by my deplorable behavior.

I lie on the couch on my stomach and cry for a few more minutes, only partially because of the pain. I cry because my master beat me, and I had deluded myself into believing he might not, even though he had always made it perfectly clear that he would. I cry because I know it’s my own damn fault, and if the situation was reversed, hell, I’d beat me too, and I wouldn’t have stopped as quickly as he did. I cry because he
didn’t
beat me too badly, which is fucked up, because that should make me happy, not sad. But he’s the first person who’s ever really noticed when I start to check out, when the pain doesn’t matter as much. It’s him, so I can’t believe it’s a coincidence, because he notices everything. I cry because he wasn’t even all that angry when he beat me, he was more inconvenienced. All I have ever been to him is an inconvenience.

But mostly, I cry because I’ve fucked up, again, with him, when I thought I was trying. It was inevitable. I fuck up everything.

Chapter 13
Capable

I’m halfway down the street when I realize I’ve forgotten the very paperwork I went back to the house to get, before my defiant slave decided to test me. I don’t go back for it, though, I don’t want to see the aftermath. I didn’t beat him too severely, I know that. He’s taken far worse before. I was surprised that he broke that quickly. It makes me wonder why others in the past have felt the need to brutalize him so much.

Then I think of the standardized training initiatives my mother’s re-education centers implemented, and it starts to make sense. Such a waste of so much potential. No wonder he panics whenever he so much as thinks of doing anything wrong.

I know he didn’t try to mess anything up today, but the way he spoke to my colleague placed me at risk. The research I’m conducting on the side requires subtlety, and the less anyone involved knows about my life, the better. I return the call, joke about an “overnight guest,” and try to pretend that I don’t even own a slave. It’s so much safer for both me and Sascha to keep him out of this.

I’m trying to enjoy my lunch break when my com device begins playing the theme from a series of horror films, and I shove my food aside as the name “Kristine Miller” flashes across the screen, demanding my attention and docility. I don’t say hello, I just wave my hand across the answering sensor, feeling a cold chill at the prospect of talking to my mother.

“I hear you got a slave, Cashiel,” she says, her voice thick and taunting.

“Yes.” I don’t care if I’m sullen. My mother has ruined my life once, I don’t care for her to do it again. The less she knows about Sascha, the safer we both are.

“You know, it’s important to keep up appearances in your new life,” she advises, as if she were ever the type of mother to give advice instead of orders. “I think it’s good that you’re starting to come along, giving up all those ridiculous ideas you used to have.”

“Why?” I ask. “It’s not like I’m your son anymore. You disowned me, remember?”

She laughs, the taunting sound from my childhood that haunts me to this day. “Cashi, you’ll always be mine. And you should be grateful. I pulled some strings to get you cleared of the treason charges.”

My mother was the one who exposed my research and had the charges brought up in the first place.

“Thank you,” I say anyway, because it’s what she wants to hear.

“I was thinking we should visit sometime,” she suggests. “I miss my little boy. There are still so many things I’d like to teach you, now that you’re trying to be all on your own.”

It’s funny, because she never referred to me by any sort of pet name when I was a child. She would degrade me, humiliate me, terrify me, but my mother never nurtured me like she seems to think she did. I don’t understand how she can possibly think that I’m just now “on my own” when I’ve been struggling to break free from her clutches since I passed the Assessment.

“It was unfortunate that you couldn’t continue the family business,” she comments, ignoring the fact that I have yet to respond to her last statement.

“You had me arrested for continuing in the family business,” I remind her. The three weeks I spent in federal prison had been enough of a reminder of the power of the Demoted system, not to mention the power of the woman who birthed me and bought slaves to raise me.

“I don’t know where your father and I went wrong with you,” she muses.

I don’t reply. My father did nothing; my entire life, he was merely a stock figure who backed up my mother’s every wish, including when she had me arrested. I used to try to defend him, but when the courtesy wasn’t returned, I washed my hands of him. At least he had the decency to leave me alone.

My mother would never back down so easily. Part of our agreement after I tried to overthrow her re-education system was that we would stay in contact. What I thought that meant when we made the agreement so many years ago was that she would drop the restraining order against me and invite me to family dinners on occasion. What it means to her is that she coms me at least once a month, and if I don’t answer and bow to her wishes, she harasses me, often going so far as to hire private investigators to keep me in line.

“Tell me about the slave, Cashi,” my mother prods. “Was he well-trained? Did he come from a talent agency? Does he have special skills? I do hope you’re putting him to better use than you did the last ones.”

The last ones weren’t actually mine; they were my mother’s. I used them for research that damned me as much as them. I won’t make the same mistake with Sascha. Not just because of the research; the fear I felt when I heard him on the phone today made me realize that I actually want to see him safe. “He’s a brothel whore,” I reply, smiling at the expression I know will be on my mother’s face. “I bought him for less than the cost of a nice suit, and I love the filthy things he knows.”

The silence from the other end confirms my suspicions.

“Cashiel, I don’t know why you try to hurt me so much,” my mother says, her voice cold instead of hurt. “After all I’ve done for you.”

She continues to tell me what a great asset I could have made to her business, how I should appreciate the corporate finance job she got for me, how she wishes I could let go of my “youthful rebelliousness” and become a valuable member of society. I wish my words had hurt her, but all I hear is disappointment. I disappointed her by challenging the status quo she set before I was even born.

I tolerate the lecture because I have to, and I listen carefully for any hint that she is aware of the reboot of the research I had to abandon so long ago. She’s brilliant; for years I could never outsmart her, but I feel like we are pretty evenly matched these days. What she’s lost to age and overconfidence, I’ve gained in caution and experience. One day I will expose her work for the sham it is, but until then, I play the contrite son, or the spiteful brat, depending on my mood. It’s always a risk to antagonize her in return, but she is more likely to slip up when she’s emotionally challenged. We play each other like a card game, each hiding so much more than we show.

I leave work a little earlier than usual, on the pretense that I need to get home to meet with guests. In all honesty, I want to make sure Sascha is all right.

I find him in his room, and watch him wince when he rolls onto his backside before getting up. I suppose he deserves it; the attitude he displayed earlier was utterly unacceptable. I don’t ask to see the marks I left on him, but I know they are there.

“Bobby’s coming by tonight,” I inform him. “I’d like you to start dinner.”

He starts to nod, then makes a terrible gagging noise. His eyes fill with tears, and I quickly discern the source of his disgust. The dishtowel gag is all covered in drool; no matter how he tries to hold his head or swallow, the soggy, squishy fabric is there. He gags a few more times and I can see him struggling to breathe through his nose.

“Come here,” I order. I’m ashamed of myself. I know better than this, or at least, I should. The dishtowel could have been dirty, could have caused him to choke. A proper slave-owner should always have appropriate training tools.

“Turn around,” I order impatiently. He’s far too busy trembling and worrying to respond quickly. Still, he obeys, and I deftly untie the dishtowel.

I’m surprised when he turns, his eyes wide as he searches my face for the answer to some sort of question.

“That must have been incredibly unpleasant,” I comment, hoping to downplay my mistake.

I fail, miserably, because he just shrugs and mumbles something. The look on his face says far more. He must think I did it on purpose.

“That was not my intention when I did it,” I inform him. “I intended it only as a reminder not to speak. I should have realized…”

I stop, equally appalled at my choice of punishment as I am at the thought of apologizing to the slave. What am I supposed to do, explain why I should have realized how uncomfortable it was? It was a stupid beginner’s mistake, and for all public purposes, I am a beginner in the slave-owner world. I don’t know that I can trust him, or that I want to.

“I apologize,” I say instead, changing the subject. “That was an error on my part. You may be released from the punishment early.”

He stares at me in shock.

“I’ll buy something more appropriate for the future,” I decide. “If you think it will be necessary to repeat this in the future.”

He struggles, but he finally nods. “Yes, master, it might be necessary. I’ll try, but…”

It’s amazing to see such strength in a slave. Raw honesty won’t serve him well in life, but I respect it. “Thank you for your honesty. Now, wash up and start dinner.”

I leave Sascha looking shocked, and I can’t help but smile as I walk away. So often, he seems like he’s just done, finished, checked out of everything, but now and again I see the brightness that he displayed when I met him in the brothel, when I took him to the Peace Day Celebration. I continue to be reminded of the best subjects of my early research. More and more, I am reminded of myself. The problem is, I never knew what I wanted others to do for me and I don’t know what to do for him. Leaving him alone seems to be the best option.

I’ve put aside the morning’s conflict by the time Bobby arrives, and I relieve some stress as I chat and joke with him. Sascha plays the part of the perfect slave, attending as he should be. Bobby is far more interested in the boy than I am, calling him closer and hand-feeding him.

I can tell that Sascha isn’t enjoying it. He has probably already eaten, and even if he hasn’t, it’s insulting. But I don’t know how to tell Bobby to stop. He thinks it’s cute, and it’s not like he’s hurting the boy. I just try to avoid paying attention to it.

Sascha starts squirming as he kneels on the floor, and makes a little gasp when he sits carelessly. I suppose the beating left at least somewhat of an effect.

“Not comfortable down there, little one?” Bobby asks, interrupting our conversation.

Sascha blushes. “Um… no. Sir. I’m sorry if I interrupted you.”

“Come up here, you can get a little more comfortable, I think.”

Bobby is always so forward with slaves. I’ve never really noticed it until having one of my own. He pats his leg, indicating for Sascha to sit on his lap. To his credit, Sascha does as requested, although he’s stiff and clearly uncomfortable.

Bobby misses it, though, pulling Sascha off-balance until the boy is forced to fall into his arms, clutching at him for support.

“See?” Bobby teases, starting to rub his back. Sascha’s thinly veiled whimper doesn’t suggest to me that he’s enjoying himself, but Bobby doesn’t stop. I’m not sure whether I want to tell off Bobby for groping my slave in the middle of dinner, or Sascha for being rude again. I check my communication device for updates, hoping they’ll both stop being themselves by the time I look up again.

Unfortunately, by the time I do, Sascha is squirming and clenching his teeth as Bobby proceeds to fondle him.

“Knock it off,” I snap, glaring at Bobby. “You’re hurting him. Stop.”

Bobby stops immediately, settling his arms around Sascha’s waist. Sascha looks relieved, if still uncomfortable. He gives me a grateful and surprised look. I think I should have stopped it far sooner.

“This sweet ass getting a little too much action, lately?” Bobby teases.

Sascha blushes and I feel myself growing increasingly irritated. “Hardly,” I reply. “He was being disrespectful earlier and was punished.”

Sascha looks ready to cry, and I’m almost relieved when Bobby turns him away from me. I hadn’t intended to embarrass him; I want this entire conversation to be put to rest.

“Aw, did Cash punish you for being naughty?” Bobby asks, petting my slave gently.

Sascha looks like he’d rather bite his hands than answer. “Yes, sir,” he grinds out.

“Poor thing,” Bobby coos. “You just sit right here where it’s soft and comfortable, then.” He nuzzles his cheek against Sascha’s head in a disgusting display of false affection.

“Yes, sir.” Sascha replies, looking no less pleased than I am.

“Cash, I’m surprised at you!” Bobby chastises. “Beating the poor boy—you know how they are. They’re simple, delicate. You shouldn’t beat him!”