Lee chapter seventeen
Feb. 17th, 2008 12:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maculategiraffeLee lay still, face down, the bed soft and firm under his body, which had stopped its ridiculous trembling but still refused to relax altogether; he could feel the pain of his muscles' tension in his back and shoulders, separate from the barely-there pain of his healing lash marks. The sheets were smooth and cool. His face was half buried in a deep, soft pillow, his eyes closed.
Lying with your eyes closed was safe here; they just thought you were asleep, and here you didn't have to worry about whether the master would choose to wake you with a kick or a blow or a cut from the whip, or just a snarled epithet. When they woke you here it was with gentle hands in your hair or on your arm, or your name, spoken softly as if they didn't want to startle you. Lee hadn't heard his name so much since he was a child; his old master had rarely used it. Bitch was among the pleasantest of his habitual substitutes.
The new master called him sweetheart. Lee hadn't much liked that at first-- one of his old master's friends had called him honey, with a drawling false sweetness, while he did some of the things that hurt worst-- but then, his new master never did anything to him that hurt, or even seemed to get annoyed with him, no matter what he did or failed to do. It wasn't that he didn't notice or care what Lee did, either; he watched Lee a lot, and you could tell he was thinking about the things he saw. He just didn't seem to get angry, and his hands on Lee were always as kind as his voice, careful not to startle. Lee had never felt as stupidly safe and happy anywhere as he felt in his master's lap, free to rest, to close his eyes if he wanted, to be still and feel the strong, careful arm clasping him close as the solid chest rumbled with his master's voice and his easy, friendly laughter.
That might happen again, Lee thought with somewhat uncharacteristic optimism. He might get to be in his master's lap again, his head pressed against the warm neck. He probably would, at least once or twice, before his master realized what a worthless slave he would always be. Despite Lee's disastrous failure after more than two weeks of uninterrupted and surely undeserved respite, his master still seemed to think Lee might just need more time, or explanations, or practice, or something. Nothing would work, of course-- nothing ever had-- but if his master thought it might, then surely he would remain gentle for at least a little while longer. And then-- well, whatever would happen, would happen. Other things would be tried; there would be pain, more and more of it, and his master's voice would be angry sometimes, then always. Certainly his astonishing privileges would disappear, one by one or all at once: the soft bed, the plentiful food, his master's lap, Bran.
Bran. Even Bran's patience with him would wear thin, anyway, eventually. Bran desired their master. Bran was a good slave. Watching Bran arch backwards as their master wrapped his mouth around the slave's cock, seeing the ecstasy on his face, Lee had even thought he might be able to muster the right response when the time came. He'd never be as good or strong or beloved by any master as Bran, but he'd thought maybe he'd at least be able to serve the kind man without choking.
His master would probably try for a long time to fix him, Lee thought, trying not to shudder. He'd spent a lot of money, not buying Lee-- that had been an appropriate pittance-- but hospitals were expensive, medicine was expensive, and his master had paid for both. He wouldn't give up easily on making his investment worth something. And Lee would try, just like he'd tried that afternoon, and the harder he tried the worse it would be, and if he didn't die of shame and misery, his master would eventually give up, and the thing would happen that happened to slaves who couldn't perform a slave's basic responsibilities.
Lee had always had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn't entirely his own fault he was disgusted by his old master, who hit him and kicked him and snarled at him and choked him with his prick on purpose. But now he knew that whatever was wrong was definitely his own fault. There was no other explanation for why he couldn't make himself want his new master's cock, feel as honored by its hardness and as hungry for its pleasure as his old master had always told him he should. His new master was the kind of master you might daydream about on a particularly bad night, when you were hungry and hurt enough that your brain shut partway down in self-defense and things got a little dark and you allowed yourself to imagine impossible things like... like Lee's new master. If Lee couldn't want him, couldn't even suck him without insulting his master's cock by gagging-- and he didn't doubt he'd fail just as miserably at actually getting fucked; he'd probably cry-- well, whatever was wrong was definitely wrong with Lee.
What made matters even worse was the fact that while Lee couldn't feel the right things for his master, he could feel them for people he had no business feeling them for. He hadn't been able to hide how he felt about Bran, but his master hadn't been angry about that-- Lee's treacherous flesh tried to harden under him even now at the memory of Bran's mouth, the hot wetness of it, the tightness of Bran's lips around his long-denied cock as their master whispered permission and praise into his incredulous ear. So maybe, he'd thought, maybe it was all right, somehow, to want someone who also belonged to your master. Lee wouldn't know; he'd never had fellow slaves before.
But then he'd leaned into the beautiful young lord's kiss, his spine sparking with the sweet hungry touch-- and his master still hadn't punished him. Had offered him a chance for redemption, to show that he craved his master like a worthy slave. And look what he'd done with that mercy.
Oh well, Lee thought, feeling oddly drowsy despite the shame and self-loathing that still held his body taut. It wasn't as if he'd ever hoped to avoid fucking everything up for as long as two weeks, let alone longer.
There were footsteps in the room. Someone come to wake him? Lee held still, his eyes closed. It wouldn't be Bran; he was the one who'd sat by Lee, stroking his hair and humming softly, until he'd thought Lee was asleep. It would be his master, or someone sent to bring him to his master. Maybe his master would hold him for a little, before he set about discovering the extent to which Lee would never be able to earn that embrace.
A hand smoothed Lee's hair; he felt a warm exhalation of breath an instant before lips pressed against his temple.
"I don't want to wake him," his master's voice said, pitched low. (Someone else was in the room?) "He's tired out."
"May I stay with him, then?" Bran's sweet tenor asked softly. "Be here when he wakes up?"
"Honestly," said their master, and the bed tipped slightly as someone sat down, "I could stand to lie down for a little myself. I'll stay with him, and I'll explain our new plan when he wakes up. Might be more credible coming straight from the master's mouth, anyway. You did have to get some other things confirmed."
New plan? Lee tried not to shiver at the words, though the prospect of having his master lie down with him, maybe even pull him into his arms the way he had last night, while he thought Lee was asleep, was wonderful.
"True," Bran agreed. "All right, master. Is there anything I can get you?"
"No, love." The bed tilted a little more as the master lay down next to Lee; Lee stayed limp as he was pulled into his master's arms, held tenderly against the firm chest. Lee wanted to murmur with happiness, snuggle gratefully closer, but he didn't want his master to know he was awake. When he was awake, his master would explain the "new plan" to him, and the sooner it was implemented the sooner it would fail-- the sooner Lee would fail. It was safe to be asleep. Briefly, Lee considered how long it would take them to stop being tolerant if he simply never opened his eyes again.
Someone else's hand-- Bran's-- touched his hair, and then there were more footsteps and the door closed. Lee breathed deeply.
"You're not asleep," his master said softly, and Lee froze. "It's okay. You can keep your eyes closed. It's safer that way, isn't it? Oh, now, sweetheart," he added when tremors started to rack Lee's painfully taut body. "It's all right. Pretending to be asleep is very adaptive for a slave. You can find out a lot of things that way."
Lee didn't know what adaptive meant, but his trembling subsided when he realized his master wasn't angry. It was so funny how his master kept explaining to him what was and wasn't good behavior, as if any of it mattered next to the central fact that Lee was a sex slave who didn't desire sex with his master. But if pretending to be asleep was really all right, he was going to keep pretending as long as he could. He kept his eyes closed.
"Let's just lie here for a little," his master continued. "You just rest. You're tired out. And I'll lie here and hold you and think about how much I wish I hadn't done what I did earlier. Making you suck my cock."
Lee was too puzzled to answer, even if he hadn't been obediently "resting." His master wished he hadn't found out so soon that Lee wasn't worth all the luxuries and care and affection that had been lavished on him? Why? He should have tried Lee's mouth out when Lee was still lying on the floor of his room in his old master's basement; it would have saved him a lot of trouble and expense.
"See, sweetheart," his master went on, "when I kissed you last night-- well, it wasn't much like when you kissed Bran, or Andrei, was it? You had a lot of trouble relaxing."
Lee was trembling again; he couldn't help it. He'd thought he'd done okay with that kiss-- and maybe it would have passed for okay if he hadn't had the unbelievable stupidity to kiss the young lord back so enthusiastically. His master's regret could only mean one thing: Lee wasn't getting any more chances, at least not before everything changed under whatever "new plan" his master deemed necessary to try to teach him how to be worth anything as a slave. This was the last time he'd lie clasped in his master's arms, then; he breathed deeply again, scenting the master's skin, glad his eyes were closed so he wouldn't have to see the man's pity for whatever was going to happen next.
"I should have realized then," his master went on, as Lee tried hard not to sob out loud with fear and remorse, "that it wasn't a good idea to push it, with you and me. I just don't think there's much of a spark. You're a gorgeous kid-- well, you must know that, you saw how Andrei responded-- but, I don't know." He was quiet for a moment while Lee tried to puzzle this out. Spark? Push it? And what did being gorgeous have to do with it? Gorgeous, but-- was his master saying he didn't even want Lee? At that thought, Lee seemed to glimpse a new abyss where not only was he useless, but his master didn't even think he was worth attempting to fix. A small, involuntary whimper escaped him, and his master's hand moved to his hair, stroking him.
"It's not you," he said softly. "I mean, I realize I don't exactly get your blood pumping either, but I'm sure it doesn't help that I've been thinking of you more as--" He laughed, suddenly, softly, and Lee moved his head closer to his master's chest, liking the way it vibrated when he laughed. "Sorry, I was just remembering something I told someone once, about how I felt about Bran. I said I loved him like a son."
Lee couldn't help it; he laughed too, his eyes still closed, thinking of the nearly electric chemistry that crackled between Bran and their master whenever they were in a room together. His master was surprised for a moment, then he laughed again, harder.
"Is it that obviously ridiculous?" he asked, and, without seeming to expect an answer, "With Bran, yes-- but with you? I think that really is how I feel. I-- you're very-- dear to me, Lee." His master hesitated. "I want to-- take care of you. I want to rip that motherfucker who hurt you limb from limb-- more than I did when it was just Bran he'd hurt. I want to fight this through the courts. I want to change the world so this doesn't happen again, ever. Most of all, I want you to be okay. I want you to heal. I want to do right by you."
Lee held his breath, his heart beating too fast, barely managing to take all this in. The genuine tenderness in his master's voice was unfamiliar enough to be almost terrifying. He couldn't remember anyone ever talking to him like this.
"But I don't want to have sex with you. I didn't particularly before this afternoon, and I certainly don't now, not after seeing what it did to you." His master hugged him suddenly closer. "Lee, can you understand that I'm not rejecting you? I'm not denying you the chance to please me? You do please me. You're lovely and sweet and affectionate and intelligent-- and-- interesting. Just because I don't have sex with you doesn't mean I can't appreciate your good qualities."
His master's voice had a tone Lee had never imagined he would hear in an owner's voice, one he hesitated, even in his own mind, to be so impudent as to call-- pleading.
"Bran and I talked this over," his master went on after a moment, "and we thought maybe-- well, you do have the sex drive of a normal teenage boy, if your response to Bran is any indication. And you do need to start learning. But we thought, instead of me, you might respond better if you and Bran had permission to touch one another-- intimately. To have sex with each other. You have permission, is what I'm trying to say. You and Bran may do as you like together."
Lee was trying to breathe again, trying to understand, trying to grasp what was being offered, and why his master sounded nervous, as if he were asking for Lee's approval of his plan. After another short pause, Holden added, "And I won't be touching you for a while longer."
"You're touching me now," said Lee, his voice coming out as a barely audible croak that he nevertheless winced miserably to hear; he hadn't planned to speak out loud, and he half expected to be shoved out of his master's arms, as if the man hadn't noticed until now that he was still holding Lee close. He added quickly, placatingly, "Master."
"That's right," said Holden softly, his arms tightening a little around Lee. "I didn't say that right. I meant I wouldn't-- use you. Sexually. But of course I'll touch you. I love touching you. I love holding you. And you like it too, don't you? You-- seem to."
Again he sounded almost tentative, as if he wanted affirmation from Lee-- which was insane. How could his master care whether he had Lee's consent or-- or-- his desire, to do what he wanted--?
A thought suddenly formed in Lee's mind as if two shards of something broken had fitted together without a visible crack. Ridiculous, unthinkable, that a master should need his slave to affirm and accept him-- but wasn't that exactly what Lord Dunaev had nearly killed Lee for failing to do? For failing to desire him, to want him, to mean it when he said, Yes, please, take me. Lee had said and done everything Lord Dunaev had ever demanded, but he hadn't been able to mean it, or to force his body to respond with genuine desire, and he'd accepted that that made him worthless.
But what had his master said earlier that afternoon, before Lee had choked on him and shame and terror had driven all other thoughts from his mind? One of the odd things he was always saying, that Lee usually tried to think about later, when he was alone. He had good recall for what was said to him; he could remember the words now, and the tone, as simply straightforward as an objective remark on the weather: No one can tell you what you are and aren't allowed to enjoy. Your mind is your own, no matter who owns your body.
"Yes," he whispered.
His master's voice was very gentle when he said, "Good. Then that's our new plan, Lee. You and Bran may be together in any way you like-- and you can keep sitting on my lap without worrying about whether you should be doing anything else. Does that sound all right?"
Lee opened his eyes and pulled back to look into his master's face, staring so hard he almost couldn't see the individual features. But he could read the expression.
"Lee?"
"Yes," said Lee, and his own voice startled him; he'd never heard that tone in it before. He sounded fierce, even though all he'd said was "Yes," and then, "Yes... master."
Lying with your eyes closed was safe here; they just thought you were asleep, and here you didn't have to worry about whether the master would choose to wake you with a kick or a blow or a cut from the whip, or just a snarled epithet. When they woke you here it was with gentle hands in your hair or on your arm, or your name, spoken softly as if they didn't want to startle you. Lee hadn't heard his name so much since he was a child; his old master had rarely used it. Bitch was among the pleasantest of his habitual substitutes.
The new master called him sweetheart. Lee hadn't much liked that at first-- one of his old master's friends had called him honey, with a drawling false sweetness, while he did some of the things that hurt worst-- but then, his new master never did anything to him that hurt, or even seemed to get annoyed with him, no matter what he did or failed to do. It wasn't that he didn't notice or care what Lee did, either; he watched Lee a lot, and you could tell he was thinking about the things he saw. He just didn't seem to get angry, and his hands on Lee were always as kind as his voice, careful not to startle. Lee had never felt as stupidly safe and happy anywhere as he felt in his master's lap, free to rest, to close his eyes if he wanted, to be still and feel the strong, careful arm clasping him close as the solid chest rumbled with his master's voice and his easy, friendly laughter.
That might happen again, Lee thought with somewhat uncharacteristic optimism. He might get to be in his master's lap again, his head pressed against the warm neck. He probably would, at least once or twice, before his master realized what a worthless slave he would always be. Despite Lee's disastrous failure after more than two weeks of uninterrupted and surely undeserved respite, his master still seemed to think Lee might just need more time, or explanations, or practice, or something. Nothing would work, of course-- nothing ever had-- but if his master thought it might, then surely he would remain gentle for at least a little while longer. And then-- well, whatever would happen, would happen. Other things would be tried; there would be pain, more and more of it, and his master's voice would be angry sometimes, then always. Certainly his astonishing privileges would disappear, one by one or all at once: the soft bed, the plentiful food, his master's lap, Bran.
Bran. Even Bran's patience with him would wear thin, anyway, eventually. Bran desired their master. Bran was a good slave. Watching Bran arch backwards as their master wrapped his mouth around the slave's cock, seeing the ecstasy on his face, Lee had even thought he might be able to muster the right response when the time came. He'd never be as good or strong or beloved by any master as Bran, but he'd thought maybe he'd at least be able to serve the kind man without choking.
His master would probably try for a long time to fix him, Lee thought, trying not to shudder. He'd spent a lot of money, not buying Lee-- that had been an appropriate pittance-- but hospitals were expensive, medicine was expensive, and his master had paid for both. He wouldn't give up easily on making his investment worth something. And Lee would try, just like he'd tried that afternoon, and the harder he tried the worse it would be, and if he didn't die of shame and misery, his master would eventually give up, and the thing would happen that happened to slaves who couldn't perform a slave's basic responsibilities.
Lee had always had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn't entirely his own fault he was disgusted by his old master, who hit him and kicked him and snarled at him and choked him with his prick on purpose. But now he knew that whatever was wrong was definitely his own fault. There was no other explanation for why he couldn't make himself want his new master's cock, feel as honored by its hardness and as hungry for its pleasure as his old master had always told him he should. His new master was the kind of master you might daydream about on a particularly bad night, when you were hungry and hurt enough that your brain shut partway down in self-defense and things got a little dark and you allowed yourself to imagine impossible things like... like Lee's new master. If Lee couldn't want him, couldn't even suck him without insulting his master's cock by gagging-- and he didn't doubt he'd fail just as miserably at actually getting fucked; he'd probably cry-- well, whatever was wrong was definitely wrong with Lee.
What made matters even worse was the fact that while Lee couldn't feel the right things for his master, he could feel them for people he had no business feeling them for. He hadn't been able to hide how he felt about Bran, but his master hadn't been angry about that-- Lee's treacherous flesh tried to harden under him even now at the memory of Bran's mouth, the hot wetness of it, the tightness of Bran's lips around his long-denied cock as their master whispered permission and praise into his incredulous ear. So maybe, he'd thought, maybe it was all right, somehow, to want someone who also belonged to your master. Lee wouldn't know; he'd never had fellow slaves before.
But then he'd leaned into the beautiful young lord's kiss, his spine sparking with the sweet hungry touch-- and his master still hadn't punished him. Had offered him a chance for redemption, to show that he craved his master like a worthy slave. And look what he'd done with that mercy.
Oh well, Lee thought, feeling oddly drowsy despite the shame and self-loathing that still held his body taut. It wasn't as if he'd ever hoped to avoid fucking everything up for as long as two weeks, let alone longer.
There were footsteps in the room. Someone come to wake him? Lee held still, his eyes closed. It wouldn't be Bran; he was the one who'd sat by Lee, stroking his hair and humming softly, until he'd thought Lee was asleep. It would be his master, or someone sent to bring him to his master. Maybe his master would hold him for a little, before he set about discovering the extent to which Lee would never be able to earn that embrace.
A hand smoothed Lee's hair; he felt a warm exhalation of breath an instant before lips pressed against his temple.
"I don't want to wake him," his master's voice said, pitched low. (Someone else was in the room?) "He's tired out."
"May I stay with him, then?" Bran's sweet tenor asked softly. "Be here when he wakes up?"
"Honestly," said their master, and the bed tipped slightly as someone sat down, "I could stand to lie down for a little myself. I'll stay with him, and I'll explain our new plan when he wakes up. Might be more credible coming straight from the master's mouth, anyway. You did have to get some other things confirmed."
New plan? Lee tried not to shiver at the words, though the prospect of having his master lie down with him, maybe even pull him into his arms the way he had last night, while he thought Lee was asleep, was wonderful.
"True," Bran agreed. "All right, master. Is there anything I can get you?"
"No, love." The bed tilted a little more as the master lay down next to Lee; Lee stayed limp as he was pulled into his master's arms, held tenderly against the firm chest. Lee wanted to murmur with happiness, snuggle gratefully closer, but he didn't want his master to know he was awake. When he was awake, his master would explain the "new plan" to him, and the sooner it was implemented the sooner it would fail-- the sooner Lee would fail. It was safe to be asleep. Briefly, Lee considered how long it would take them to stop being tolerant if he simply never opened his eyes again.
Someone else's hand-- Bran's-- touched his hair, and then there were more footsteps and the door closed. Lee breathed deeply.
"You're not asleep," his master said softly, and Lee froze. "It's okay. You can keep your eyes closed. It's safer that way, isn't it? Oh, now, sweetheart," he added when tremors started to rack Lee's painfully taut body. "It's all right. Pretending to be asleep is very adaptive for a slave. You can find out a lot of things that way."
Lee didn't know what adaptive meant, but his trembling subsided when he realized his master wasn't angry. It was so funny how his master kept explaining to him what was and wasn't good behavior, as if any of it mattered next to the central fact that Lee was a sex slave who didn't desire sex with his master. But if pretending to be asleep was really all right, he was going to keep pretending as long as he could. He kept his eyes closed.
"Let's just lie here for a little," his master continued. "You just rest. You're tired out. And I'll lie here and hold you and think about how much I wish I hadn't done what I did earlier. Making you suck my cock."
Lee was too puzzled to answer, even if he hadn't been obediently "resting." His master wished he hadn't found out so soon that Lee wasn't worth all the luxuries and care and affection that had been lavished on him? Why? He should have tried Lee's mouth out when Lee was still lying on the floor of his room in his old master's basement; it would have saved him a lot of trouble and expense.
"See, sweetheart," his master went on, "when I kissed you last night-- well, it wasn't much like when you kissed Bran, or Andrei, was it? You had a lot of trouble relaxing."
Lee was trembling again; he couldn't help it. He'd thought he'd done okay with that kiss-- and maybe it would have passed for okay if he hadn't had the unbelievable stupidity to kiss the young lord back so enthusiastically. His master's regret could only mean one thing: Lee wasn't getting any more chances, at least not before everything changed under whatever "new plan" his master deemed necessary to try to teach him how to be worth anything as a slave. This was the last time he'd lie clasped in his master's arms, then; he breathed deeply again, scenting the master's skin, glad his eyes were closed so he wouldn't have to see the man's pity for whatever was going to happen next.
"I should have realized then," his master went on, as Lee tried hard not to sob out loud with fear and remorse, "that it wasn't a good idea to push it, with you and me. I just don't think there's much of a spark. You're a gorgeous kid-- well, you must know that, you saw how Andrei responded-- but, I don't know." He was quiet for a moment while Lee tried to puzzle this out. Spark? Push it? And what did being gorgeous have to do with it? Gorgeous, but-- was his master saying he didn't even want Lee? At that thought, Lee seemed to glimpse a new abyss where not only was he useless, but his master didn't even think he was worth attempting to fix. A small, involuntary whimper escaped him, and his master's hand moved to his hair, stroking him.
"It's not you," he said softly. "I mean, I realize I don't exactly get your blood pumping either, but I'm sure it doesn't help that I've been thinking of you more as--" He laughed, suddenly, softly, and Lee moved his head closer to his master's chest, liking the way it vibrated when he laughed. "Sorry, I was just remembering something I told someone once, about how I felt about Bran. I said I loved him like a son."
Lee couldn't help it; he laughed too, his eyes still closed, thinking of the nearly electric chemistry that crackled between Bran and their master whenever they were in a room together. His master was surprised for a moment, then he laughed again, harder.
"Is it that obviously ridiculous?" he asked, and, without seeming to expect an answer, "With Bran, yes-- but with you? I think that really is how I feel. I-- you're very-- dear to me, Lee." His master hesitated. "I want to-- take care of you. I want to rip that motherfucker who hurt you limb from limb-- more than I did when it was just Bran he'd hurt. I want to fight this through the courts. I want to change the world so this doesn't happen again, ever. Most of all, I want you to be okay. I want you to heal. I want to do right by you."
Lee held his breath, his heart beating too fast, barely managing to take all this in. The genuine tenderness in his master's voice was unfamiliar enough to be almost terrifying. He couldn't remember anyone ever talking to him like this.
"But I don't want to have sex with you. I didn't particularly before this afternoon, and I certainly don't now, not after seeing what it did to you." His master hugged him suddenly closer. "Lee, can you understand that I'm not rejecting you? I'm not denying you the chance to please me? You do please me. You're lovely and sweet and affectionate and intelligent-- and-- interesting. Just because I don't have sex with you doesn't mean I can't appreciate your good qualities."
His master's voice had a tone Lee had never imagined he would hear in an owner's voice, one he hesitated, even in his own mind, to be so impudent as to call-- pleading.
"Bran and I talked this over," his master went on after a moment, "and we thought maybe-- well, you do have the sex drive of a normal teenage boy, if your response to Bran is any indication. And you do need to start learning. But we thought, instead of me, you might respond better if you and Bran had permission to touch one another-- intimately. To have sex with each other. You have permission, is what I'm trying to say. You and Bran may do as you like together."
Lee was trying to breathe again, trying to understand, trying to grasp what was being offered, and why his master sounded nervous, as if he were asking for Lee's approval of his plan. After another short pause, Holden added, "And I won't be touching you for a while longer."
"You're touching me now," said Lee, his voice coming out as a barely audible croak that he nevertheless winced miserably to hear; he hadn't planned to speak out loud, and he half expected to be shoved out of his master's arms, as if the man hadn't noticed until now that he was still holding Lee close. He added quickly, placatingly, "Master."
"That's right," said Holden softly, his arms tightening a little around Lee. "I didn't say that right. I meant I wouldn't-- use you. Sexually. But of course I'll touch you. I love touching you. I love holding you. And you like it too, don't you? You-- seem to."
Again he sounded almost tentative, as if he wanted affirmation from Lee-- which was insane. How could his master care whether he had Lee's consent or-- or-- his desire, to do what he wanted--?
A thought suddenly formed in Lee's mind as if two shards of something broken had fitted together without a visible crack. Ridiculous, unthinkable, that a master should need his slave to affirm and accept him-- but wasn't that exactly what Lord Dunaev had nearly killed Lee for failing to do? For failing to desire him, to want him, to mean it when he said, Yes, please, take me. Lee had said and done everything Lord Dunaev had ever demanded, but he hadn't been able to mean it, or to force his body to respond with genuine desire, and he'd accepted that that made him worthless.
But what had his master said earlier that afternoon, before Lee had choked on him and shame and terror had driven all other thoughts from his mind? One of the odd things he was always saying, that Lee usually tried to think about later, when he was alone. He had good recall for what was said to him; he could remember the words now, and the tone, as simply straightforward as an objective remark on the weather: No one can tell you what you are and aren't allowed to enjoy. Your mind is your own, no matter who owns your body.
"Yes," he whispered.
His master's voice was very gentle when he said, "Good. Then that's our new plan, Lee. You and Bran may be together in any way you like-- and you can keep sitting on my lap without worrying about whether you should be doing anything else. Does that sound all right?"
Lee opened his eyes and pulled back to look into his master's face, staring so hard he almost couldn't see the individual features. But he could read the expression.
"Lee?"
"Yes," said Lee, and his own voice startled him; he'd never heard that tone in it before. He sounded fierce, even though all he'd said was "Yes," and then, "Yes... master."
