Subjection (20 page)

I don’t resist at first, and I’m ashamed to be such a whore.

I realize what’s happening and I try to pull away, managing only by ducking down and feeling him rip some hair out. He catches me again with his other hand and uses my own momentum to force me to my knees. I wince as I hit the floor.

“Cash is a good friend of mine, and he told me he wants me to have a good time, boy,” he says again. “Now, why don’t you be a good boy and show me a good time?”

I know what he wants. It’s pretty fucking obvious, what with his dick in front of my face, hard and ready inside of his pants. But he would have told me! My master would have told me if he wanted me to do this.

Wouldn’t he?

“Please, sir, he never said anything about this, I’m supposed to attend the party!” My attempt is pathetic, but it’s the best I can do.

“Are you denying me, boy?”

The question is a threat. There is no right answer. “Please, sir, just let me check with my master.” Please let him save me.

Bobby grabs my face and forces me to look up at him. “Now listen here, whore. I was with your master when he bought you, and I know what you’ve been trained for. If I tell my friend that you were being rude and uppity and defiant with me again, who do you think he’ll believe? You either show me those skills right fucking now, or I’ll help Cash to sell you back to a place that will make that one look like a goddamned beach resort!”

I know he’s lying, and I know my master wouldn’t want this, but this bastard has just laid out my worst fear, and I’ll do anything to avoid making it happen. I let the tears fall as I nod, whispering “yes, sir,” as my hands begin to unfasten his pants as quickly as I can.

It’s just a blowjob. It’s just. A fucking. Blowjob.

I may be out of practice, but it’s a skill you don’t lose easily, like riding a bike, and even the fact that he’s gripping me by my hair and thrusting down my throat doesn’t throw me off balance. Hell, this is what my training was like; if anything, it puts me back in the right mindset. Just another hole to be used. It doesn’t matter that I have a comfortable lifestyle now, and it certainly doesn’t matter that my master has never, ever required anything like this of me. It’s just a blowjob, and I’ll finish, and I’ll wash my mouth out with mouthwash or soap or bleach and try never to think of it again.

Except he doesn’t finish.

He’s almost there when he pulls my head back by my hair. I close my eyes, figuring he’s going for the facial, which will be a bitch to clean up, but I’d almost rather that than have to taste any more of him.

“Get up,” he orders.

I’m confused for a second, so I do, and he starts grabbing at my pants.

It dawns on me that he’s going to rape me, and I start to struggle.

Let’s be clear. I’ve had sex that I wanted, I’ve had sex that I didn’t want, and I’ve been raped, and there’s a difference between all three, and I know that he’s about to do the third thing to me.

“No!” I snap, twisting out of his grip. “Let go of me!”

“You’re telling me no?” he asks, in disbelief. “Wait till your master hears this. He’ll whip you until the fucking sun comes up and
then
he’ll sell you!”

I know it’s not true, if only because my master would never sell damaged goods. I doubt that he’s authorized this exchange, either. But I can’t help thinking about my master’s words to me before the party tonight, his orders not to fuck up, and I can’t help thinking that that’s exactly what I’m doing right now. “Please, sir, just go back to the party?” I try, hoping he’ll give up.

No such luck. He comes forward again and I back away until my back is pressed against the stove. I realize I’m trapped. He reaches out and grabs at my pants again, and I squirm, trying to move sideways, down, anything. I want to push him off of me, but no matter how terrified I may be, I’m not stupid enough to lay hands on a free man. “Stop it!” I yell, half-angry, half-pleading.

He backhands me hard enough to spin me and I taste blood where my teeth graze my lip. I’m dazed for a moment, and he uses it to his advantage, turning me away from him and pinning me to the counter with his body.

“Been wanting to do this since the first time I laid eyes on you, fucking whore,” he mutters, pressing my stomach painfully into the counter while he rips through the button on my pants and tears apart the zipper. “And don’t you go crying to Cashiel about this, either, or I’ll tell him what a rotten little shit you’ve been. What should I say, should I tell him that I saw you stealing? Touching yourself? Lying? What really makes him upset, huh?”

I struggle, but it’s hard, and I want to give up. It’s easier to just give up and let him have his way, at least then I won’t end up hurt, too. “There’s olive oil,” I mumble, squeezing out the words through my sobs. “You can reach it… for lube.”

He laughs as he jerks my pants down. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, whore?” He cuffs me on the back of the head. “Beg me for it, then. Beg me to fuck you, and
maybe
you can earn some lube.”

I can do it. I know I can. I’ve begged for worse, and I can feel my lips starting to form the words. “Please help!” I scream instead. “Help me—”

His hand clamps around my mouth so tightly I can barely breathe, and I redouble my efforts to struggle and escape. I’ve gone this far now, all I want is to finish it, to escape his grip, to avoid the inevitable.

“You son of a bitch!” he growls in my ear, and I can feel the hand that’s not around my mouth reaching down between us. I know he’s grabbing for his cock, and I know what he’s about to do with it, and I start to try to grab anything; the kitchen sink, the cabinets, anything that I might use as a weapon or a distraction. The animal instinct that I thought had been beaten out of me suddenly kicks back to life, and I feel his cock missing its goal, ramming just barely too high. I thrust back against him again, purposely aiming to press my tailbone into his cock, hoping I can hurt it or break it. It doesn’t matter now; I’ve been about as defiant and uncooperative as I can be, if my master wants to punish me for it later, let him.

Bobby twists my head to the side, and for a second I think he’ll snap my neck. For a second I want to let him, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes his hand and forces two fingers inside of me, roughly, and I try to scream but I fail.

He’s not preparing me. He’s holding me in place like that and it burns. My arms still flailing in front of me, I grab a dirty glass in the sink and I do the only thing that I have left to do.

I throw it, hard, against the wall. It shatters, and I hear the noise from the party dim the tiniest bit. Breaking glass. People always want to hear.

“Fucking little bitch!” Bobby mutters. He rams his cock into me, replacing his fingers, and as the pain intensifies I throw another glass, trying for a third before he captures my hands and clenches them tightly, slamming them down against the corner of the countertop with enough violence that I hear something crack.

I let myself go limp, sagging despite the pain so he has to work to hold me up, much less fuck me. I wish that one of the blows to the head would have knocked me out.

And then, I hear the most wonderful and terrifying voice I have ever heard.

“Sascha, what in god’s name—”

It’s my master, and he’s furious, and he’s apparently speechless. Bobby releases his grip on my head, and I turn to look at the man who owns me, and I can’t say anything.

“Cash, it’s not what it looks like!” Bobby says quickly, pulling out of me and releasing the death grip he had on my hands.

I crumple to the floor, whimpering and crying.

“He seduced me! The fucking whore seduced me, begged me to fuck him!” Bobby protests. I can hear his pants zipping up. “He was being aggressive and rude, and he wanted to tease me, and then when I started going, he, he asked me to be rough, and—”

“Get out of my house.”

The words barely make sense, because all I can hear is the fury in my master’s voice. I can hear him saying that if I fucked up he would sell me, and I can hear how angry he is, and I know it’s because of me and I know it’s my fault.

“Cash, come on, he’s just—”

“I will
not
repeat myself!”

I curl into a ball and start sobbing. This can’t end well. I can’t see any way that this will end where I don’t end up taking the blame. I’ve interrupted the party, and I’ve come between my master and his best friend, and I let myself be raped. I should have just taken it, should have just spread my legs and complied, because what good am I at anything else? I’ve ruined my chance to stay here and it hurts more than all the physical pain combined.

I don’t hear Bobby leave, but he must, because the next thing I know, my master is crouching down in front of me.

“Are you hurt?”

These words don’t make any sense at all. I’m expecting to hear threats, beratements, anger. And I do hear anger, but not like I think, and the words don’t mean anything to me. Bobby will come back, he’ll finish what he started, and then my master will have him help arrange for me to be sold. It always works out like this, the slave is always the one to pay at the end, even when all I was trying to do was to be good and to behave and to do everything right.

“Get up.”

He’s pulling me to my feet and I force myself to comply, to put weight on my ankles, and my legs, and he actually has his hands on my shoulders, steadying me. I struggle to pull my pants up, but they keep falling down because the closure is broken. He shakes his head at me, a look of disgust on his face.

There’s no words, I just keep sobbing. I wish I had been killed instead. I wish I had never come to a place where I had a taste of decency, only to have it ripped away.

He reaches his hand out toward my face and I flinch, ashamed that I’m so cowardly and weak. He is barely deterred, and a second later, he has me by the chin, and is carefully looking at my lip.

“I’m sorry, master,” I whimper. He probably won’t sell me like this, not until I heal up. He’ll be stuck with me for days.

He says nothing. He notices that I’m cradling my left hand in my right, and he pulls that toward him as well, frowning as he looks at it.

“Son of a bitch,” he mumbles, taking a step away from me.

I drop back to the floor, curling into a ball and waiting for the beating to start. He already has to wait for me to heal up, he’d be right to add a few more bruises first. I can’t look at him. I feel my pants sliding down again as I try to make myself invisible, and I try not to whimper when I hear the unmistakable sound of his belt being pulled from his pants. Just check out, disappear, stop being here. I’ve done it so many times before, how have I forgotten?

“You can’t walk through the house like this,” he mutters. “Come on, on your feet.”

I drag myself up, not bothering to look at him as I lean over the counter. It doesn’t matter that my ass is half exposed; he’s just going to hurt me more anyway. I feel him come up behind me and I can’t help but whimper when I feel his hands on the waistband of my pants.

He pulls them up and holds them there, fiddling with something I don’t understand.

“Turn around,” he orders, and when I do, he finishes putting his belt through my belt loops and fastening it. “I don’t need you tripping over yourself.”

He goes to put an arm around me and I jerk away, shaking. He shakes his head and curses, but grips me by the upper arm and leads me instead. He takes me out the back door and starts leading me around the house. I am terrified. Would he really just drag me out back and shoot me or something?

We arrive rather anti-climactically at the patio that connects to his bedroom. Pulling keys from his pocket, he unlocks the door and opens it, half-shoving me through.

“Stay in here,” he says quietly. “I don’t need my guests to see you. As far as they know, my friend was intoxicated and you helped him to get home. You can shower if you’d like, or just rest.”

“Yes, master,” I mumble, still confused. What does he want from me? “Please, master, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I fucked up.”

“Sascha…” he turns away, and I think he’s going to leave. “This was never supposed to happen. I’m sorry I didn’t stop him sooner.”

He leaves me no less confused than I had been just moments before. Maybe he regrets having to sell me? I have become pretty helpful to him, at least to his business.

He’s gone, and he’s even locked the door behind him, making sure nobody can get in. I want nothing more than to wash the tears and the sweat and feeling of Bobby’s hands off my skin, but I curl up on my master’s bed instead, breathing in the faint smell of him that’s left on his pillow. I shake and sob in confusion, and eventually I drift off to sleep.

Chapter 18
Lavender

“Get up.”

The words catch me off-guard, which is surprising, because it means I was sleeping deeply enough to be off-guard. I can’t even remember the last time that happened, but then, I can’t really recall why I’m not in my bed, or why my hand hurts so much, or the party last night…

I blink, and my master’s face comes into view and I remember. I start to feel sick.

“Go change,” he orders, not looking at me as he throws clothes at me.

He’s selling me today. He’s selling me today and I didn’t even get a chance to wash the feeling of Bobby’s hands off of me. The lingering smell of his cologne seems embedded into my nose, and the feeling of his fingers and his mouth and his cock… I fight back the urge to be sick again, sidestepping my master’s order to change in favor of using the bathroom first.

I frantically begin strip last night’s clothes off, not caring if they rip. I don’t want to see them ever again. I pause when I see my master’s belt around my waist, realizing now why he had taken it off in the first place. He hadn’t hurt me any more, not like I thought he was going to. It’s a bitter comfort in the face of being sold.

I wash my hands, rinse out my mouth, and grab a towel and scrub violently at my skin. It isn’t enough. I can still feel him touching me. A towel and hand soap will never be enough to erase the memories and the mistakes that were made last night. Throwing caution to the wind, I step into the shower, my master’s shower, the one he said long ago that he didn’t want to share with me. Fuck it. He’s selling me anyway.