The Slave Breakers, 3/15
Jun. 15th, 2007 09:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maculategiraffePrevious chapter
"Lean on my arm," Yves said gently as they reached the top of the stairs. "You okay?"
"Yes, sir," Bran murmured, letting the other slave's arm steady him down the stairs. "Thank you, sir."
"You don't have to call me sir," said Yves, amused. "Just Yves is fine."
"Yes-- Yves," Bran faltered; the older man so obviously outranked him that to address him by his first name seemed impertinent, but to disobey him seemed at least injudicious.
Yves gave his arm a quick squeeze as they reached the foot of the stairs. "Come on-- the kitchen's this way. Think you can make it?"
"Yes, sir-- Yves."
"We eat well around here. I'm not sure what's available right now, but I'm reasonably sure it will be better than what you're used to."
"Yes, Yves."
Yves laughed. "When I say you don't have to call me sir, I mean relax, kid. You can talk normally to me. I don't own you."
Bran flushed. "I-- it's just, you spoke so freely with the master, I didn't realize at first that you were a slave."
"Well, I've been his for seventeen years," said Yves. "We're pretty familiar by now."
"Seventeen years?" Bran echoed, stunned. That would make Yves, at an absolute minimum, thirty-two years old. Pleasure slaves did not get much older.
"Yep," said Yves. "The mistress bought me as a wedding present for the master when I was nineteen. Lived here ever since. Here we are."
He was over thirty-five, then, Bran thought, allowing Yves to guide him to a kitchen chair and seat him carefully. Which was not impossibly strange, especially since a slave given as a wedding present might well have some sentimental value beyond his actual value as a pleasure slave, but what really didn't make sense was why he didn't seem the least bit threatened by Bran, who was young and pretty and clearly intriguing to their mutual master. Unless he was just trying to get Bran off his guard. Bran hunched his shoulders slightly, nervous, while Yves heated something on the stove, spooned it thickly into a bowl and set it down in front of Bran.
"Don't eat too fast," he said.
Bran picked up the spoon awkwardly-- it had been a long time since he'd handled one-- took the first bite without wondering what the food was, and was stunned at the flavor of the hot stew-like soup, which was better than anything he'd been offered a bowl of since his mother had died when he was nine. Bran ate slowly, despite the agony of hunger in his stomach, dazed at how good it tasted, desperate to make it last; when he had emptied the bowl, Yves refilled it. He finished the second bowl and put the spoon down awkwardly.
"Still hungry?" Yves asked.
Bran looked up shyly. "No, sir-- Yves, thank you."
Yves had opened his mouth to say something when they heard raised voices through the open door. Bran recognized the voice first of his mistress, then of his master, both sounding angry. Bran drew in on himself almost unconsciously.
"Hunger is not the same as damage, Holden!"
"It's not 'perfect health,' either! What if he gets sick because of a lowered immune system? Anyway, what about the actual damage? He's unusable until that heals. You don't think the price should reflect that?"
Oh Sif help me. The only thing more likely than a fight between owners to get an innocent slave hurt was a fight whose subject was said innocent slave. Bran listened, hoping against hope that the yelling was retreating and would end, upstairs, in violent make-up sex that did not involve Bran.
"He's only unusable because you prefer that sex not hurt him."
"Oh, and that's such an unreasonable preference!"
No, it was definitely coming closer.
"Not to me, but to Dunaev, yes! You can't expect Dunaev to make out a bill of health based on your standards."
"Gods damn it, Alix--" the master slammed into the room, followed by his wife-- "perfect health is perfect health!"
Bran dove to the floor so quickly when they came in that he jarred his knees and bumped his forehead hard on the wood of the floor. There was silence above him as he crouched, heart pounding, face pressed to the ground.
Footsteps came past him; the chair he had been sitting in was dragged a few inches, and a hand touched his head and twined itself in his hair, tugging lightly upwards. Flinching a little at the memory of a much harder yank earlier, Bran obeyed the wordless command and lifted his upper body, edging to where he could comfortably bury his head against his master's knees, avoiding looking at anyone or anything else.
"It's okay, Bran," his master said. "We're just having a little shouting match. Happens a lot. Don't worry, nobody will ask you to pick a side."
Remembering that the gesture had met with approval in the car, Bran pressed his lips to his master's knee in silent thanks for the reassurance, and was rewarded with a caress to his head.
"Did you feed him?" his master asked.
"Yes, master, a couple of bowls of that soup," said Yves.
"Is that enough?"
"He said he wasn't hungry any more. I don't think he's used to eating much at a time."
"Hmm," said his master dubiously. "Bran, how much are you normally fed?"
"One pound of food, twice a day, master," said Bran without looking up, "plus any food my master is pleased to give me as indulgence or reward."
Into the pause that ensued, a chime rang out through the house.
"There's the doctor," said Bran's mistress, sounding rather weary. "I'll let her in."
****
Shortly, Bran was back on the oilcloth-covered table, though not strapped in this time, making a supreme effort to hold still while a thin, prim woman in her fifties examined his bottom.
"I can give you some salve that should help prevent infection as well as soothing the pain," she said at last, "but I'm afraid you're right about intercourse. It would do worse damage and probably lead to infection, not to mention the pain it would cause him. You see, not only is there this fissure, but the entire anus is badly chafed, and the skin is so tender here that some of these minute abrasions have drawn blood as well. This is an excellent demonstration of why lubrication in the matter of anal sex is never optional."
She sounded severe, and his master made an indignant chuffing sound.
"Tell that to Mikhail Dunaev!" he said.
"Oh, don't misunderstand me, sir. I quite realize that you yourself are not in the habit of such carelessness," said the doctor, taking her hands from Bran and bending down to rummage in her bag. "But one can never be too conscious of these things. With your permission, I'll clean the wound and apply the salve now. Please watch so you can do this for him yourself."
Something cold on his anus quickly turned into something that burned like fire. Bran gasped, more with surprise than pain-- it certainly hurt less than the original infliction of the damage-- and gritted his teeth as the whatever-it-was seared his tender area, then was followed by something cooling and soothing.
"That's a good boy," the doctor said, patting his bottom in a businesslike manner. "That's about it, ma'am. He's certainly underweight, and he has the usual symptoms of long-term stress-- tension combined with fatigue. It would probably do him good to sleep until morning. I can give him a mild tranquilizing shot if you like."
"Please," said his mistress. "I'm sure it will do him good to get some rest, and it's always hard to get to sleep, your first night in a new place." She patted Bran's head as the doctor swabbed his buttock with iodine. "Remember our first night here?"
Bran was puzzled until his master's deep voice answered, "I don't remember you having much trouble getting to sleep."
Bran had had shots before; as they went, this one was not painful.
"I guess having a new owner is probably what's really unnerving," said his mistress.
"Tell me, doctor," his master said, as Bran stifled a yawn, "would you describe this boy as being 'in perfect health'? I mean, if you were selling him at the moment?"
"Really, sir, not being in the habit of selling slaves, I am not quite competent to determine that."
"But what if I were selling him, and you'd just examined him, and I told you I intended to tell the next buyer he was in perfect health?"
"I would have to ask for a definition of perfect health to a slave owner, sir."
"But don't you think the word 'perfect' denotes a certain--"
"Let it go, darling," said the mistress sweetly. "Thank you, Dr. Carey. How much do we owe you?"
Bran didn't hear how much they owed her; he had drifted off into a sound and surprisingly peaceful sleep.
When he woke up, he was so ridiculously comfortable that only an urgent need to pee could have driven him to open his eyes. He was in a bed. He was actually lying in a bed, not by his master's side, as he had occasionally been allowed to do if he had pleased his master exceptionally well, but alone. And alone in the room, as well. And-- he tested carefully-- not chained or restrained in any way. A thrice-attempted runaway, his latest attempt only hours ago, and they'd put him to sleep alone and unchained. In a bed.
Who were these people?
Well, whoever they were, he had to pee, desperately. He climbed out of the bed and checked under it for a chamber pot. Thank the gods, there was one; he peed gratefully and then climbed hurriedly back into the bed, pulling the covers (covers!) back up to his chin as he luxuriated in the soft mattress, the deep pillow, the smooth sheets, warm from his body, the sheer gorgeous sense of a space designated for him alone to rest in, no rough boots or elbows likely to nudge him awake and into instant service.
Bran lay there thinking about his master's voice above and behind him yesterday, talking about fear while he rubbed the tension out of Bran's muscles. I don't want you afraid, Bran. Fear makes you stupid, and I don't want you stupid.
Bran had never thought about it before, but it had the ring of truth; fear did make him feel stupid, thick with panic, unable to judge a situation. Fear would keep him from understanding his new household's rules, keep him blindly obeying what had been beaten into him by Dunaev and, before Dunaev, by Oreskovich. Fear would have kept him from the small gestures he had ventured so far that had delighted his master: kissing his knee, pushing his head against his master's hand; fear, he knew, blind, unreasoning fear, had made him try to run away yesterday, and his master was right that that was about the stupidest thing he'd ever done in his life.
I want you smart. Smart enough to know what side your bread's buttered on.
Was Bran smart enough for that?
He was certainly smart enough not to try to run from this house again, and not only because he believed he wouldn't succeed. There was nothing to run from here, at least not yet; there was certainly nothing better to run to elsewhere. He thought he was smart enough to notice and remember which things he did pleased and which displeased. That had to be a start.
He ran down the list so far. His master liked him to demonstrate affection, or pleasure. He'd liked it when Bran smiled. He'd liked having his cock sucked. He hadn't liked it-- obviously-- when Bran tried to escape, and he'd been angry whenever Bran showed he was in pain, though that anger seemed more directed at Dunaev than Bran.
He said I was beautiful, Bran thought, thinking of his master's smile when looking at him. Yves had said the same thing-- Sif, master, he's fucking gorgeous. (Bran would have to find out whether he was allowed to sexually service Yves. He suspected it would make his life here easier if he were.) Bran lifted a hand, half consciously, to smooth back his tangled curls. If he was beautiful, that meant that just looking at him pleased his master. Dunaev had beaten him so often for this expression or that that Bran had learned to keep his face carefully hidden. But his new master-- What a beauty you are, Bran heard the man say in response to Bran's smile. And Bran hadn't smiled at him again all day. Stupid. Scared stupid.
The door opened, and Bran felt himself tense all over, his heart jumping into his throat, suddenly feeling a horrible certainty that he'd been put, or crawled, into this bed by mistake and was about to be punished within an inch of his life for it. He coached himself to breathe as his master came in, and started, clumsy again with the physical fear response, out of bed to kneel down on the floor, but, remembering what he'd just been thinking about, lifted his face to his master's instead of bowing it to the floor, trying not to let his fear show in his face.
His master smiled.
"Good morning, bright eyes," he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Heart still pounding, Bran crawled to his master without a command and leaned his head against his knee, looking up again into his master's face for approval. His master smiled again and reached out to touch Bran's cheek with a gentle finger.
"Well, look at that," he said. "Less afraid this morning, are you?"
Bran smiled back, filled with relief that the gamble had paid off. "Yes, master."
"Gods, you've got a seriously great smile. I'm going to have to watch I don't spoil you rotten just to see it."
Bran's smile widened. What with the bath, the petting, the abundant and delicious food, the promise of no sex until he had healed, and the bed, he considered that it would be difficult to spoil him any more without making him a count of some small province.
"You seem awfully cheerful this morning," his master said, amused. "What's up?"
"I--" Bran hesitated for a moment, then plunged on. "I'm trying to-- figure out which side my bread's buttered on, master."
His master blinked at him for a second, then roared with laughter.
"You're not even a little stupid, are you, kid? Good. Really good. I wasn't sure, yesterday." He rumpled Bran's hair. "Not that I blame you for being scared witless, under the circumstances, but I'm glad to see you a little more lucid. Especially since I came in to talk to you about your place here, rules and so on. You ready to listen?"
"As it please my master," said Bran, looking up alertly into his master's clear brown eyes.
"Right, first things first. I told you yesterday that 'slave breakers' is a name other people've given us, not what we call ourselves. We call ourselves trainers. Trainers, and retrainers, because we work with new kids straight from their parents, and with slaves like you with such bad records that their masters can't sell them to anyone else."
Though his master's tone was not unkind, Bran dropped his gaze, feeling a sick sensation at the pit of his stomach at the words. His master leaned down and laid a gentle hand on his neck.
"With kids who have no previous record," he went on, "we just do a basic course, intro to slavery, what to expect, some sexual skills, pain tolerance, and if we've got a buyer with specialized interests we take care of that training as well. With delinquents-- that's you-- we work with the specific problem and try to fix it. Sometimes a slave isn't getting enough attention; sometimes he's getting too much, or the wrong kind, or can't tolerate sex, or punishment, or a certain kind of punishment. We can usually figure out what the problem is, and once we've figured it out, it's usually fixable. Then we do the same thing we do for the new kids: we look out for a good buyer, one who'll be a good fit, and we sell, at a considerable profit, due to the fact that we are very good at what we do."
Bran looked up apprehensively.
"What?" his master asked.
"It's just--" Bran swallowed. "You said 'usually.' What happens if you can't, uh, fix the problem?"
"You don't need to worry about that," said his master briskly. "You're doing fine. Now. The rules around here are fairly simple. Do as you're told. If you disobey a direct order from me or your mistress, you'll be punished. Behave with respect-- I don't think that's going to be much of an issue with you, honestly-- and no leaving the house without permission from me or your mistress. Not that you could, at the moment. So basically, do as you're told."
Bran smiled faintly. "Yes, master."
"Good. Just one more thing. It's confusing enough learning a new owner's preferences without having to learn two. Alix-- your mistress-- and I officially co-own you, and you will obey us both, but your service is to me. I'll be handling most of your retraining, and it's to me you should look when you have questions or needs. Clear?"
"Yes, master," said Bran readily. He had wondered where his mistress fit into his new life, and was grateful for the clarification.
"Have you got any questions for me now?" his master asked, smiling at him.
Bran kept his eyes on his master's face again, half admiring the man's dark good looks-- if he hadn't been so old, forty or so, he would have been as pretty as a pleasure slave himself-- and half thinking hard. He knew better than to press the question of what would happen to him if it proved impossible to successfully retrain him; in any case, his master's unwillingness to answer told him enough in itself.
"You allowed me to offer my mouth to you yesterday, master," he said carefully. "May I always do so?"
"Yes. I might not always accept, but you may always offer. And that was good, yesterday. I'll teach you more about my preferences later, but you have a good instinct, a good touch. I enjoyed it."
Bran squirmed, pleased and embarrassed by the praise. "Thank you, master. I-- I hope my mouth will satisfy you until you can make use of me otherwise." It was an oblique apology for his damaged state, which had obviously displeased his master, though he didn't seem to blame Bran.
"Don't worry about that," his master said. "If I want to fuck, I've got other options. Not that I don't look forward to it." He winked at Bran, who grinned shyly up at him. "What else?"
"I was wondering, master, about my-- how I stand with Yves."
"He outranks you," said his master, "and you should treat him with respect. You don't have to obey him, though, not that he's likely to try to make you. And you don't need to be afraid of him. He likes you."
"Yes, master. I-- when it comes to sexual service--"
His master tilted his head slightly to one side, examining Bran intently. "You want to know if you can have sex with Yves?"
Bran felt himself blush. "I just-- I just wondered, master."
"As an appeasement tactic, is that it? Like with me, yesterday?"
Bran's blush deepened.
"No," said his master. "You and Yves both belong to me. If you enjoy each other, it will be on my orders, in my presence, for my pleasure. But no, you may not go around offering him favors that belong to me."
His voice was rather cool, and Bran, cursing himself for not knowing better, bowed his head in acceptance and apology.
"It's all right, Bran," the voice said above him, more gently. "I'm not angry at you for asking. It's a reasonable question. Look at me. Good boy." His master traced the line of his jaw with a delicate finger, continuing soothingly. "A lot of masters encourage their slaves to form their own sexual bonds, apart from the master. When I was-- I mean, I've seen elaborate ranking systems, hierarchies designed to let slaves explore power dynamics among themselves, and it-- seemed to work fine. But personally, I'm possessive as all hell, and it's better you know this about me now than after the fact. So it's good you asked."
Bran was not really reassured-- possessive sounded like a powder keg, and his brain was already busy manufacturing multiple nightmare scenarios where a careless spark struck in the wrong direction got him blown straight to you don't need to worry about that. To avoid showing his worry too clearly on his face, and to distract his master from whatever jealousy Bran had ignited, and because a master's orgasm seldom came amiss, especially in the mornings, Bran started to nuzzle his way between his master's thighs again.
"No," said his master again, putting a hand on Bran's forehead to stop him.
Bran swallowed hard, trying not to give way to panic at the rejection. Probably Yves had already serviced his master this morning. Probably it didn't mean his master was displeased with him. Probably.
"Stand up," said his master softly.
Bran rose promptly to his feet. His master did the same, and they stood face to face. They were nearly of a height, Bran perhaps an inch taller.
His master cupped a hand under his chin, leaned in and kissed him on the lips. Bran kissed back obediently, grateful for the gesture of affection, but the kiss went on, his master's mouth gentle but increasingly insistent on his, his hands slipping down Bran's body to grip him just under the arms. Bran was puzzled as he leaned pliantly into the touch; his master was behaving almost as if he wanted to use Bran sexually-- but if that was what he wanted, why had he just refused--? Teeth nipped softly at his lower lip as thumbs (accidentally?) grazed his nipples, and he breathed in sharply, trying instinctively to pull back as he felt his cock stirring with unexpected interest. His master made a soft, amused sound in the back of his throat and put his hands on Bran's hips, holding them in place as he pressed his own body closer, his erection pressing against Bran's through the thin layer of cloth that separated them, as the kiss deepened. Bran moaned involuntarily into his master's mouth.
His master broke the kiss lingeringly and kissed down the line of his neck; at a bite to the hollow of his throat, Bran's hips jerked against his master's pelvis, his cock now fully hard. His master turned them both around so that Bran's back was to the bed and, planting a firm hand between Bran's shoulders, laid him down on his back, still kissing his throat. Bran tried desperately to catch his breath and figure out what was happening as his master kissed down his chest; teeth caught at his nipple and he cried out, his hard cock grazed bewilderingly by soft cloth; his master pulled back for a moment, his eyes on Bran's face, but before Bran could begin to understand his expression, his master's lips were around Bran's cock, sucking with an expert's skill, and the single conscious thought in Bran's mind was that he would never understand anything, ever again.
Next chapter
"Lean on my arm," Yves said gently as they reached the top of the stairs. "You okay?"
"Yes, sir," Bran murmured, letting the other slave's arm steady him down the stairs. "Thank you, sir."
"You don't have to call me sir," said Yves, amused. "Just Yves is fine."
"Yes-- Yves," Bran faltered; the older man so obviously outranked him that to address him by his first name seemed impertinent, but to disobey him seemed at least injudicious.
Yves gave his arm a quick squeeze as they reached the foot of the stairs. "Come on-- the kitchen's this way. Think you can make it?"
"Yes, sir-- Yves."
"We eat well around here. I'm not sure what's available right now, but I'm reasonably sure it will be better than what you're used to."
"Yes, Yves."
Yves laughed. "When I say you don't have to call me sir, I mean relax, kid. You can talk normally to me. I don't own you."
Bran flushed. "I-- it's just, you spoke so freely with the master, I didn't realize at first that you were a slave."
"Well, I've been his for seventeen years," said Yves. "We're pretty familiar by now."
"Seventeen years?" Bran echoed, stunned. That would make Yves, at an absolute minimum, thirty-two years old. Pleasure slaves did not get much older.
"Yep," said Yves. "The mistress bought me as a wedding present for the master when I was nineteen. Lived here ever since. Here we are."
He was over thirty-five, then, Bran thought, allowing Yves to guide him to a kitchen chair and seat him carefully. Which was not impossibly strange, especially since a slave given as a wedding present might well have some sentimental value beyond his actual value as a pleasure slave, but what really didn't make sense was why he didn't seem the least bit threatened by Bran, who was young and pretty and clearly intriguing to their mutual master. Unless he was just trying to get Bran off his guard. Bran hunched his shoulders slightly, nervous, while Yves heated something on the stove, spooned it thickly into a bowl and set it down in front of Bran.
"Don't eat too fast," he said.
Bran picked up the spoon awkwardly-- it had been a long time since he'd handled one-- took the first bite without wondering what the food was, and was stunned at the flavor of the hot stew-like soup, which was better than anything he'd been offered a bowl of since his mother had died when he was nine. Bran ate slowly, despite the agony of hunger in his stomach, dazed at how good it tasted, desperate to make it last; when he had emptied the bowl, Yves refilled it. He finished the second bowl and put the spoon down awkwardly.
"Still hungry?" Yves asked.
Bran looked up shyly. "No, sir-- Yves, thank you."
Yves had opened his mouth to say something when they heard raised voices through the open door. Bran recognized the voice first of his mistress, then of his master, both sounding angry. Bran drew in on himself almost unconsciously.
"Hunger is not the same as damage, Holden!"
"It's not 'perfect health,' either! What if he gets sick because of a lowered immune system? Anyway, what about the actual damage? He's unusable until that heals. You don't think the price should reflect that?"
Oh Sif help me. The only thing more likely than a fight between owners to get an innocent slave hurt was a fight whose subject was said innocent slave. Bran listened, hoping against hope that the yelling was retreating and would end, upstairs, in violent make-up sex that did not involve Bran.
"He's only unusable because you prefer that sex not hurt him."
"Oh, and that's such an unreasonable preference!"
No, it was definitely coming closer.
"Not to me, but to Dunaev, yes! You can't expect Dunaev to make out a bill of health based on your standards."
"Gods damn it, Alix--" the master slammed into the room, followed by his wife-- "perfect health is perfect health!"
Bran dove to the floor so quickly when they came in that he jarred his knees and bumped his forehead hard on the wood of the floor. There was silence above him as he crouched, heart pounding, face pressed to the ground.
Footsteps came past him; the chair he had been sitting in was dragged a few inches, and a hand touched his head and twined itself in his hair, tugging lightly upwards. Flinching a little at the memory of a much harder yank earlier, Bran obeyed the wordless command and lifted his upper body, edging to where he could comfortably bury his head against his master's knees, avoiding looking at anyone or anything else.
"It's okay, Bran," his master said. "We're just having a little shouting match. Happens a lot. Don't worry, nobody will ask you to pick a side."
Remembering that the gesture had met with approval in the car, Bran pressed his lips to his master's knee in silent thanks for the reassurance, and was rewarded with a caress to his head.
"Did you feed him?" his master asked.
"Yes, master, a couple of bowls of that soup," said Yves.
"Is that enough?"
"He said he wasn't hungry any more. I don't think he's used to eating much at a time."
"Hmm," said his master dubiously. "Bran, how much are you normally fed?"
"One pound of food, twice a day, master," said Bran without looking up, "plus any food my master is pleased to give me as indulgence or reward."
Into the pause that ensued, a chime rang out through the house.
"There's the doctor," said Bran's mistress, sounding rather weary. "I'll let her in."
****
Shortly, Bran was back on the oilcloth-covered table, though not strapped in this time, making a supreme effort to hold still while a thin, prim woman in her fifties examined his bottom.
"I can give you some salve that should help prevent infection as well as soothing the pain," she said at last, "but I'm afraid you're right about intercourse. It would do worse damage and probably lead to infection, not to mention the pain it would cause him. You see, not only is there this fissure, but the entire anus is badly chafed, and the skin is so tender here that some of these minute abrasions have drawn blood as well. This is an excellent demonstration of why lubrication in the matter of anal sex is never optional."
She sounded severe, and his master made an indignant chuffing sound.
"Tell that to Mikhail Dunaev!" he said.
"Oh, don't misunderstand me, sir. I quite realize that you yourself are not in the habit of such carelessness," said the doctor, taking her hands from Bran and bending down to rummage in her bag. "But one can never be too conscious of these things. With your permission, I'll clean the wound and apply the salve now. Please watch so you can do this for him yourself."
Something cold on his anus quickly turned into something that burned like fire. Bran gasped, more with surprise than pain-- it certainly hurt less than the original infliction of the damage-- and gritted his teeth as the whatever-it-was seared his tender area, then was followed by something cooling and soothing.
"That's a good boy," the doctor said, patting his bottom in a businesslike manner. "That's about it, ma'am. He's certainly underweight, and he has the usual symptoms of long-term stress-- tension combined with fatigue. It would probably do him good to sleep until morning. I can give him a mild tranquilizing shot if you like."
"Please," said his mistress. "I'm sure it will do him good to get some rest, and it's always hard to get to sleep, your first night in a new place." She patted Bran's head as the doctor swabbed his buttock with iodine. "Remember our first night here?"
Bran was puzzled until his master's deep voice answered, "I don't remember you having much trouble getting to sleep."
Bran had had shots before; as they went, this one was not painful.
"I guess having a new owner is probably what's really unnerving," said his mistress.
"Tell me, doctor," his master said, as Bran stifled a yawn, "would you describe this boy as being 'in perfect health'? I mean, if you were selling him at the moment?"
"Really, sir, not being in the habit of selling slaves, I am not quite competent to determine that."
"But what if I were selling him, and you'd just examined him, and I told you I intended to tell the next buyer he was in perfect health?"
"I would have to ask for a definition of perfect health to a slave owner, sir."
"But don't you think the word 'perfect' denotes a certain--"
"Let it go, darling," said the mistress sweetly. "Thank you, Dr. Carey. How much do we owe you?"
Bran didn't hear how much they owed her; he had drifted off into a sound and surprisingly peaceful sleep.
When he woke up, he was so ridiculously comfortable that only an urgent need to pee could have driven him to open his eyes. He was in a bed. He was actually lying in a bed, not by his master's side, as he had occasionally been allowed to do if he had pleased his master exceptionally well, but alone. And alone in the room, as well. And-- he tested carefully-- not chained or restrained in any way. A thrice-attempted runaway, his latest attempt only hours ago, and they'd put him to sleep alone and unchained. In a bed.
Who were these people?
Well, whoever they were, he had to pee, desperately. He climbed out of the bed and checked under it for a chamber pot. Thank the gods, there was one; he peed gratefully and then climbed hurriedly back into the bed, pulling the covers (covers!) back up to his chin as he luxuriated in the soft mattress, the deep pillow, the smooth sheets, warm from his body, the sheer gorgeous sense of a space designated for him alone to rest in, no rough boots or elbows likely to nudge him awake and into instant service.
Bran lay there thinking about his master's voice above and behind him yesterday, talking about fear while he rubbed the tension out of Bran's muscles. I don't want you afraid, Bran. Fear makes you stupid, and I don't want you stupid.
Bran had never thought about it before, but it had the ring of truth; fear did make him feel stupid, thick with panic, unable to judge a situation. Fear would keep him from understanding his new household's rules, keep him blindly obeying what had been beaten into him by Dunaev and, before Dunaev, by Oreskovich. Fear would have kept him from the small gestures he had ventured so far that had delighted his master: kissing his knee, pushing his head against his master's hand; fear, he knew, blind, unreasoning fear, had made him try to run away yesterday, and his master was right that that was about the stupidest thing he'd ever done in his life.
I want you smart. Smart enough to know what side your bread's buttered on.
Was Bran smart enough for that?
He was certainly smart enough not to try to run from this house again, and not only because he believed he wouldn't succeed. There was nothing to run from here, at least not yet; there was certainly nothing better to run to elsewhere. He thought he was smart enough to notice and remember which things he did pleased and which displeased. That had to be a start.
He ran down the list so far. His master liked him to demonstrate affection, or pleasure. He'd liked it when Bran smiled. He'd liked having his cock sucked. He hadn't liked it-- obviously-- when Bran tried to escape, and he'd been angry whenever Bran showed he was in pain, though that anger seemed more directed at Dunaev than Bran.
He said I was beautiful, Bran thought, thinking of his master's smile when looking at him. Yves had said the same thing-- Sif, master, he's fucking gorgeous. (Bran would have to find out whether he was allowed to sexually service Yves. He suspected it would make his life here easier if he were.) Bran lifted a hand, half consciously, to smooth back his tangled curls. If he was beautiful, that meant that just looking at him pleased his master. Dunaev had beaten him so often for this expression or that that Bran had learned to keep his face carefully hidden. But his new master-- What a beauty you are, Bran heard the man say in response to Bran's smile. And Bran hadn't smiled at him again all day. Stupid. Scared stupid.
The door opened, and Bran felt himself tense all over, his heart jumping into his throat, suddenly feeling a horrible certainty that he'd been put, or crawled, into this bed by mistake and was about to be punished within an inch of his life for it. He coached himself to breathe as his master came in, and started, clumsy again with the physical fear response, out of bed to kneel down on the floor, but, remembering what he'd just been thinking about, lifted his face to his master's instead of bowing it to the floor, trying not to let his fear show in his face.
His master smiled.
"Good morning, bright eyes," he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Heart still pounding, Bran crawled to his master without a command and leaned his head against his knee, looking up again into his master's face for approval. His master smiled again and reached out to touch Bran's cheek with a gentle finger.
"Well, look at that," he said. "Less afraid this morning, are you?"
Bran smiled back, filled with relief that the gamble had paid off. "Yes, master."
"Gods, you've got a seriously great smile. I'm going to have to watch I don't spoil you rotten just to see it."
Bran's smile widened. What with the bath, the petting, the abundant and delicious food, the promise of no sex until he had healed, and the bed, he considered that it would be difficult to spoil him any more without making him a count of some small province.
"You seem awfully cheerful this morning," his master said, amused. "What's up?"
"I--" Bran hesitated for a moment, then plunged on. "I'm trying to-- figure out which side my bread's buttered on, master."
His master blinked at him for a second, then roared with laughter.
"You're not even a little stupid, are you, kid? Good. Really good. I wasn't sure, yesterday." He rumpled Bran's hair. "Not that I blame you for being scared witless, under the circumstances, but I'm glad to see you a little more lucid. Especially since I came in to talk to you about your place here, rules and so on. You ready to listen?"
"As it please my master," said Bran, looking up alertly into his master's clear brown eyes.
"Right, first things first. I told you yesterday that 'slave breakers' is a name other people've given us, not what we call ourselves. We call ourselves trainers. Trainers, and retrainers, because we work with new kids straight from their parents, and with slaves like you with such bad records that their masters can't sell them to anyone else."
Though his master's tone was not unkind, Bran dropped his gaze, feeling a sick sensation at the pit of his stomach at the words. His master leaned down and laid a gentle hand on his neck.
"With kids who have no previous record," he went on, "we just do a basic course, intro to slavery, what to expect, some sexual skills, pain tolerance, and if we've got a buyer with specialized interests we take care of that training as well. With delinquents-- that's you-- we work with the specific problem and try to fix it. Sometimes a slave isn't getting enough attention; sometimes he's getting too much, or the wrong kind, or can't tolerate sex, or punishment, or a certain kind of punishment. We can usually figure out what the problem is, and once we've figured it out, it's usually fixable. Then we do the same thing we do for the new kids: we look out for a good buyer, one who'll be a good fit, and we sell, at a considerable profit, due to the fact that we are very good at what we do."
Bran looked up apprehensively.
"What?" his master asked.
"It's just--" Bran swallowed. "You said 'usually.' What happens if you can't, uh, fix the problem?"
"You don't need to worry about that," said his master briskly. "You're doing fine. Now. The rules around here are fairly simple. Do as you're told. If you disobey a direct order from me or your mistress, you'll be punished. Behave with respect-- I don't think that's going to be much of an issue with you, honestly-- and no leaving the house without permission from me or your mistress. Not that you could, at the moment. So basically, do as you're told."
Bran smiled faintly. "Yes, master."
"Good. Just one more thing. It's confusing enough learning a new owner's preferences without having to learn two. Alix-- your mistress-- and I officially co-own you, and you will obey us both, but your service is to me. I'll be handling most of your retraining, and it's to me you should look when you have questions or needs. Clear?"
"Yes, master," said Bran readily. He had wondered where his mistress fit into his new life, and was grateful for the clarification.
"Have you got any questions for me now?" his master asked, smiling at him.
Bran kept his eyes on his master's face again, half admiring the man's dark good looks-- if he hadn't been so old, forty or so, he would have been as pretty as a pleasure slave himself-- and half thinking hard. He knew better than to press the question of what would happen to him if it proved impossible to successfully retrain him; in any case, his master's unwillingness to answer told him enough in itself.
"You allowed me to offer my mouth to you yesterday, master," he said carefully. "May I always do so?"
"Yes. I might not always accept, but you may always offer. And that was good, yesterday. I'll teach you more about my preferences later, but you have a good instinct, a good touch. I enjoyed it."
Bran squirmed, pleased and embarrassed by the praise. "Thank you, master. I-- I hope my mouth will satisfy you until you can make use of me otherwise." It was an oblique apology for his damaged state, which had obviously displeased his master, though he didn't seem to blame Bran.
"Don't worry about that," his master said. "If I want to fuck, I've got other options. Not that I don't look forward to it." He winked at Bran, who grinned shyly up at him. "What else?"
"I was wondering, master, about my-- how I stand with Yves."
"He outranks you," said his master, "and you should treat him with respect. You don't have to obey him, though, not that he's likely to try to make you. And you don't need to be afraid of him. He likes you."
"Yes, master. I-- when it comes to sexual service--"
His master tilted his head slightly to one side, examining Bran intently. "You want to know if you can have sex with Yves?"
Bran felt himself blush. "I just-- I just wondered, master."
"As an appeasement tactic, is that it? Like with me, yesterday?"
Bran's blush deepened.
"No," said his master. "You and Yves both belong to me. If you enjoy each other, it will be on my orders, in my presence, for my pleasure. But no, you may not go around offering him favors that belong to me."
His voice was rather cool, and Bran, cursing himself for not knowing better, bowed his head in acceptance and apology.
"It's all right, Bran," the voice said above him, more gently. "I'm not angry at you for asking. It's a reasonable question. Look at me. Good boy." His master traced the line of his jaw with a delicate finger, continuing soothingly. "A lot of masters encourage their slaves to form their own sexual bonds, apart from the master. When I was-- I mean, I've seen elaborate ranking systems, hierarchies designed to let slaves explore power dynamics among themselves, and it-- seemed to work fine. But personally, I'm possessive as all hell, and it's better you know this about me now than after the fact. So it's good you asked."
Bran was not really reassured-- possessive sounded like a powder keg, and his brain was already busy manufacturing multiple nightmare scenarios where a careless spark struck in the wrong direction got him blown straight to you don't need to worry about that. To avoid showing his worry too clearly on his face, and to distract his master from whatever jealousy Bran had ignited, and because a master's orgasm seldom came amiss, especially in the mornings, Bran started to nuzzle his way between his master's thighs again.
"No," said his master again, putting a hand on Bran's forehead to stop him.
Bran swallowed hard, trying not to give way to panic at the rejection. Probably Yves had already serviced his master this morning. Probably it didn't mean his master was displeased with him. Probably.
"Stand up," said his master softly.
Bran rose promptly to his feet. His master did the same, and they stood face to face. They were nearly of a height, Bran perhaps an inch taller.
His master cupped a hand under his chin, leaned in and kissed him on the lips. Bran kissed back obediently, grateful for the gesture of affection, but the kiss went on, his master's mouth gentle but increasingly insistent on his, his hands slipping down Bran's body to grip him just under the arms. Bran was puzzled as he leaned pliantly into the touch; his master was behaving almost as if he wanted to use Bran sexually-- but if that was what he wanted, why had he just refused--? Teeth nipped softly at his lower lip as thumbs (accidentally?) grazed his nipples, and he breathed in sharply, trying instinctively to pull back as he felt his cock stirring with unexpected interest. His master made a soft, amused sound in the back of his throat and put his hands on Bran's hips, holding them in place as he pressed his own body closer, his erection pressing against Bran's through the thin layer of cloth that separated them, as the kiss deepened. Bran moaned involuntarily into his master's mouth.
His master broke the kiss lingeringly and kissed down the line of his neck; at a bite to the hollow of his throat, Bran's hips jerked against his master's pelvis, his cock now fully hard. His master turned them both around so that Bran's back was to the bed and, planting a firm hand between Bran's shoulders, laid him down on his back, still kissing his throat. Bran tried desperately to catch his breath and figure out what was happening as his master kissed down his chest; teeth caught at his nipple and he cried out, his hard cock grazed bewilderingly by soft cloth; his master pulled back for a moment, his eyes on Bran's face, but before Bran could begin to understand his expression, his master's lips were around Bran's cock, sucking with an expert's skill, and the single conscious thought in Bran's mind was that he would never understand anything, ever again.
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