Lee chapter nine

[maculategiraffe]

See, I told you it would do me good to start posting something else. :)





There was something addictive-- Holden thought the next afternoon, as he knelt beside Lee on the bed, smoothing antibiotic ointment onto the whip cuts on his back while Bran curled at the head of the bed, watching-- about a body that was just now learning to trust you. The slightest hesitation before every movement; the moment-by-moment yielding of tension to relaxation. The bodies of boys and girls interested him, and not just sexually, although he'd made peace with the fact that he'd turned into a middle-aged lecher and wasn't likely to grow into anything but an elderly one. It wasn't like Yves' scientific interest; he didn't want to learn about the human body, or much care why beating hurt and fucking felt good. He was interested in each individual body, how it demonstrated, wordlessly, what and who it was; the sounds of pain and pleasure, the shifts in taste and temperature at the moment of orgasm.

He should have been able to turn his fascination with the possibilities of the body into real excellence as a sex slave, but it hadn't worked like that. He wasn't passive enough, and he didn't have Yves' patience and restraint, the ability to be what his owner wanted even when it wasn't what he wanted.

"Thor, Holden," Jer had said once as Holden sulked after a whipping, too proud to cry. "Why can't you just fucking hold still when he tells you?"

"Because it's boring," Holden had answered irritably.

Jer had rolled his eyes. "Well, you got yourself whipped. Was that more interesting?"

"Not really." Holden shifted, wincing. "It's always pretty much the same."

"Right, so you're bored either way. Would you rather have boring sex or a boring beating?"

"I want to have interesting sex."

"You're a slave, Holden. Nobody gives a shit what you want."

"Well, I don't give a shit what they want, either, so let's call it even."

"Yeah," said Jer, eyeing the lash marks that crisscrossed Holden's back. "Real fucking even."

"Good boy," Holden said now, as he soothed the cuts and welts on Lee's buttocks and upper thighs with the medicinal cream. He reached for the other tube of cream and put some on his finger. "Try to relax, now. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just going to put this on you where you're torn up."

Lee submitted, silent and motionless, to having his buttocks gently parted and his reddened, chafed little hole anointed with the antibiotic, as Holden continued, "I did this for Bran, too, when I first bought him. Remember, Bran?"

"I remember, master," said Bran, sounding like Valor: Yes, Dad, we've all heard that story. Holden grinned at him as he touched Lee's shoulders, feeling the boy's muscles twitch, tensing, relaxing. "There. All done."

"Thank you, master." Lee didn't move as he added, "May I use my mouth to please my master?"

Holden considered the unexpected offer for a moment. You could tell a lot about a kid's background and temperament from the way he-- or she-- sucked your cock, and he was curious about Lee's technique, but it was fairly obvious from the kid's tone and his anxious expression that he was hoping the answer would be "no." Interesting that he'd asked anyway. Some masters gave extra points for volunteering, or extra punishment for failing to; maybe Bran's passivity had been part of what annoyed Dunaev about him.

Some passivity, he thought, letting a smile curve his lips briefly at the memory of the previous night before he answered Lee.

"Not now," he said gently. "I'm already pleased with you, kid. You're doing great. Just rest."

The front door slammed, startling Holden. Jer was at the market and Alix was out screening a potential client, but he wasn't expecting either of them back this soon.

"Dad?"

Bran and Holden looked at each other, then at Lee, who was looking startled. Holden could hear voices downstairs, then footsteps coming up the stairs at a fast clip, more footsteps than Valor accounted for.

"The cavalry is here," he said. "Bran, I don't suppose you told Lee about my daughter."

"--maybe we should--" Valor's voice, sounding uncharacteristically tentative, just outside the door.

"It's okay, Valor, let me just--" An unfamiliar girl's voice was followed by the unfamiliar girl herself, a tall, brassy-haired young woman in what looked like a painter's smock, bursting into the bedroom, a camera slung on a strap around her neck. She scanned the room's occupants, located the injured boy on the bed, raised the camera and pointed it at Lee as Valor came in behind her. Lee went rigid at the flash.

"Hi, Dad," said Valor breathlessly. "Is this Lee?"

"My God, look at his back," said the other girl, and snapped another picture before Holden moved to block her. Bran was stroking Lee's hair, murmuring soothingly to him again.

"I'm Valor's father, by the way," said Holden coldly to the stranger. "And you are...?"

"Dad, this is Robin," said Valor. "Darling, don't take any more pictures right now."

"Really, Valor!" Robin was still looking through the lens of the camera. "This is absolutely perfect. You can count his ribs from here."

"Come on, Robin," said Valor. "You're scaring him."

"Time is of the essence," said Robin sullenly, but she lowered the camera, staring unabashedly at Bran. "Is that one a slave too? What's your name, boy?"

"That's Bran," said Valor, when Bran didn't respond.

"The other one who used to belong to Mikhail Dunaev? Good. I want some shots of him too. Hold that," she said to Bran, who was staring at her with one protective hand on Lee's neck, and snapped another picture. Holden had had enough. He took the stranger by the shoulders, turned her around and pushed her, none too gently, from the room and into the hallway.

"Nice camera," he said, kicking the door of the bedroom shut on Bran and Lee. "Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?"

Robin raised her chin. "Your daughter invited me, Mr. Larssen. She said you were interested in doing something about the abuses in the slave system. But if you're still invested in concealing the reality of what's done to innocent young men and women with the full consent of the law--"

"I take it you got my letter," Holden said to Valor as he herded the two girls towards the stairs. Greta was standing at the foot of them, looking a little shellshocked.

"Just this morning!" said Valor breathlessly, walking down the stairs sideways. "The timing was so perfect, Dad! I called Robin and she said we should leave right away and I hope that's okay, I mean, you've always said I could come home any time, and this is really important."

"I know," said Holden as they reached the foot of the stairs. "And Robin is...?"

"Oh, sorry-- Mom, Dad, this is my friend Robin, she's a photographer. Robin, this is my dad, Holden Larssen, and my mom, Greta."

"I gathered that she was a photographer," said Holden, taking Greta's hand and leading the three women towards the sitting room. "I'm just wondering why she's here, barging in on my slaves while they're naked and scaring them half to death."

"Oh, well, okay, I see," Valor babbled as Holden sank down on the couch, pulling Greta with him, with the vague feeling that there was strength in the united front of Valor's parents. The kids sat down as well, Robin firmly, as if she wanted no nonsense from the chair, Valor with a dramatic near-collapse. "Well, we're already working on the legal aspect-- I've got David and Natasha looking at precedents and writing a few letters, seeing who we can get on our side-- and we need your help with that, too, Dad, I want to look at your files on Mona, and Will, and all of the-- and Bran, too, and anyone we can get to testify for us is great, but it comes down to sympathies, and nothing's going to prepare the ground like--"

"Pictures," said Robin, her hands laced in her lap as primly as a dowager of seventy. "To shock the cushioned sensibilities of the privileged, Mr. Larssen, a picture is worth a thousand words."

"Although words help, too," said Valor brightly. "Like what the slaves have to say. Not just court testimony-- interviews. Publicity."

"Awareness," said Robin crisply.

Valor nodded. "I'm sorry we scared Lee, Dad. Robin won't take any more pictures until you say she can, will you, darling?"

Holden and Greta exchanged a glance, and he could tell she was thinking the same thing he was. Valor usually didn't act this scatterbrained unless she was in love, and the buxom blonde Valor was darling-ing right and left bore a certain physical resemblance to Inga, who was now, as far as Holden could understand, functioning as a sort of mascot, informant, and conversation piece for Valor's various groups, while Valor virtuously refused to sleep with her.

"Valor, dear," said Greta, reading his mind, "where's Inga?"

"At home with Lisa. She didn't want to come. Robin doesn't like her."

"Valor!" Robin looked annoyed. "Of course I like her. I just feel she could demonstrate a bit more interest in the cause. Considering."

Poor Inga. He'd have to have a talk with Valor. At least she hadn't let this Robin character talk her into doing anything stupid and dramatic, like freeing Inga against her will and leaving the girl without any established position or legal protection. But Holden suspected undue influence anyway. It wasn't like Valor to plunge into the journalistic side of things instead of the legal.

"So," he said, "who's going to do these interviews? Is Robin a journalist, too? Or are you switching careers, Valor?" He sent up a brief prayer that his daughter wasn't so infatuated she was quitting law school to play girl detective with "darling" Robin.

"No, no." Valor shook her head. "We've got a writer. Someone local. He's supposed to meet us here this afternoon. I'm just here because-- you know. You're my dad."

Thank goodness. "So you want to interview-- whom? Just Lee?"

"Bran, too," said Robin. "And you and your wife. About the business you run. The cases you've seen."

"And Mom and Yves and Jer," said Valor, but Robin shook her head.

"I don't think so, Val. No offense," she said to Holden without looking at Greta, "but the last thing we need is more stories about slaves who are well treated and happy. There are too many stories like that out there already. People think that's what slavery is all about, and it makes it too easy to ignore the ones like Lee. We need to--

"Shock the cushioned sensibilities of the privileged," Holden finished neutrally. Robin squinted suspiciously at him.

"I'm sorry to barge in on you guys like this," said Valor again, "but Robin said it was really important to get pictures before Lee heals too much more."

"Which is still true," said Robin pointedly. "If you don't mind, Mr. Larssen, we'd really like to get some more shots. Now. Or," she conceded grudgingly, "as soon as possible."

"I understand your concern," said Holden carefully, "and I appreciate your motivations. But I need to talk to Lee before you take any more pictures. I can go up now and--" As he started to rise, Greta grabbed at his hand; he glanced over, startled, and saw her eyes, wide with exaggerated horror, cut sideways at Robin. The message was clear: Don't leave me! Holden swallowed a laugh and cleared his throat.

"Valor," he said, "I'm sure you and your mother have a lot to catch up on. Why don't you stay here and talk with her while I walk upstairs with Robin? Maybe she can get a few shots of the training room while I talk to Lee and Bran."

Robin's eyes lit up with a predatory gleam at the mention of the training room, and she jumped to her feet without so much as a nice-to-meet-you to Greta.


At the foot of the stairs, they met Yves, who paused at the sight of a stranger and lowered his gaze respectfully.

"Hi. You must be Yves. I'm Robin," said Robin, her tone less appropriate for delighted, I'm sure than for I claim this land and all its inhabitants in the name of the sovereign nation of....

"Miss," Yves acknowledged quietly.

"Robin." The invitation to use her first name should have sounded friendly, but it sounded impatient instead, and she brushed on past Yves without further conversation or acknowledgement.

"The abolitionists are attacking," said Holden to Yves, one eye on Robin as she charged up the stairs. "Come on, I have to make sure she doesn't--" He hurried after her, Yves following.

Fortunately, the training room had stopped Robin dead, and he left her photographing every inch of it while he led Yves into Lee's room, closed the door behind them and began to explain.

He'd expected more reaction from Bran, but though the young man nodded periodically to show he was listening as Holden talked, his eyes stayed thoughtfully on Lee, who didn't seem to be taking much in at all. Yves was still the picture of well-trained neutrality.

"Should I try to put her off until Alix gets back?" Holden finished.

"You might as well let her take her photographs, master, if Lee's willing," said Yves. "I would think she can't use them without your permission in any case. Then you can discuss the whole idea further when the mistress gets home."

"Wipe that 'it's not my place to comment' look off your face, please," Holden told him. "What do you think? Should we let them do the story?"

Yves smiled. "Since you ask, master, I think it's a good idea. Miss Robin seems a bit abrasive, but-- well, I think people should see this, too." He nodded to Lee's back. "And if they're actually going to interview us? I have to admit the prospect of speaking my piece on slavery, somewhere free people might read it, is pretty tempting."

"Yeah," said Bran quietly to the top of Lee's head. "Me too."

"Yeah?" Holden asked him curiously, but Bran didn't say anything else. "How about you, Lee? Are you okay with being photographed?"

"Yes, master," said Lee quickly. "I'm sorry I-- it just startled me. Of course, if my master wants me to be photographed--"

"It's all right if you're not comfortable with it," said Holden, but Lee just gave him the disoriented look of someone who had gone too long without defining comfortable as anything but the relative absence of misery. "Well-- all right, then. Let's get her in here."



Lee was the perfect photographic subject, turning without a word in obedience to Robin's orders, assuming any pose she dictated ("Lift up your arm. My God, you're skinny") with the same expression of blank resignation. Despite his annoyance with her brusque manner, Holden was oddly fascinated by the shots Robin composed, and found himself picturing the images of Lee's lamb-to-the-slaughter stare, the mottled and bruised back, the sharp relief of the ribs, and the flaking crust of the antibiotic ointment, as photographs leaping accusingly out from between the pages of-- whatever. Something normal people read. For everyone to see, not just him and Alix.

Between that disturbingly compelling notion and keeping an eye on Lee for signs of fatigue or distress, he was so absorbed that the doorbell startled him. Robin ignored it, but a minute later, there were more footsteps on the stairs, and Valor burst, pink-cheeked, into the room. She was closely followed by a young man, who hung back in the doorway as if, in stark contrast to Robin, waiting to be sure of his welcome.

Holden blinked.

"Dad," said Valor happily, "this is the guy who's going to do the interviews and write the piece. He's an investigative journalist."

"Just freelance," said Denys Harper sheepishly. "Hello again, Mr. Larssen."