maculategiraffe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
maculategiraffe) wrote2007-06-15 08:46 am
maculategiraffe) wrote2007-06-15 08:46 am
Entry tags:
The Slave Breakers, 1/15
Summary: Bran is a "pleasure slave" in a society where impoverished peasants are legally permitted to sell their children into slavery starting at age 15 (think The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty meets "A Modest Proposal"). When he tries to run away one too many times, his master sells him to the fearsome married couple known as "the slave breakers."
Overall rating: NC-17
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Ten Point Three, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, Part Fourteen, Part Fifteen
All chapters where originally posted on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
slavefics: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15
Bran lay on the floor, naked, bound and gagged, listening with dull despair to the conversation going on over his head.
"I'm sorry for the poor lad, but I'm a very busy man," his master was saying, in the honeyed tone he had been using ever since the visitors arrived. Bran wondered if the strangers could hear the insincerity in it, or if it was only obvious to him because he knew what his master's voice ordinarily sounded like. "I simply don't have the time or resources to deal with this kind of thing. I'm sure you can understand that."
"Of course," said the blonde woman with just a touch of polite impatience. "That's why we're here."
"Yes, I understand you specialize in– among other things– breaking, shall we say, excessively independent spirits. Of course, given your own, er, history–" Bran could practically hear the leer in his master's voice, and swallowed past the constricting gag. The woman wouldn't be in a good mood later, which was very bad news for Bran.
"Right," she said, the contempt in her voice now barely concealed. "And your estimate of his market value, leaving aside the behavioral issues?"
"Well, he's eighteen, in perfect health– I'd put it at forty thousand."
"Mm-hmm," said the woman, sounding dubious, and they began a process of haggling. Bran listened with half an ear to the protests and estimates, praying to whatever gods might look down to kill him where he lay rather than send him home with the slave breakers.
"Done," said the woman finally, firmly enough to startle Bran back to attention. There was a rustle of papers above him. They had bought him, then. Bran felt his body, quicker on the uptake than his mind, begin to tremble.
Someone– the strange man, his new master– was kneeling beside him. He bent down, threaded an arm under Bran's shoulders and one under his knees, and lifted him up like a child.
"Can you carry him all the way to the car?" the woman asked as Bran blinked, disoriented, up at the man's face. He was a handsome man, perhaps in his forties, with dark hair threaded with silver.
"Sure," he said to his wife. "He weighs, what, ninety pounds?"
"One hundred and twenty, according to this," said the woman, somewhere out of sight.
"Yeah, I got him. Thanks for drinks, Lord Dunaev. Better get this young man home and see what can be done with him."
Bran's trembling worsened at the casual words. His new master glanced down at him, his face inscrutable. Bran lowered his eyelids and swallowed again, convulsively, trying to still his trembling as he was carried from the house to the courtyard outside. The master set him briefly on his feet, supporting him with one arm, while he opened the back door of a spacious and luxuriously appointed car, then lifted Bran inside, propping him in a sitting position on the floor of the vehicle, before getting in himself. The new mistress got into the driver's seat, started the car, and drove away.
"Son of a bitch," said his mistress viciously, and the master laughed. "How fucking rude can you get?"
"Pretty fucking rude, apparently," said the master, leaning down to a small nylon case that sat beside Bran on the floor and unzipping it. "I'm surprised he went for your history, though, instead of mine. Yours is practically prehistory."
"It'll never get old to these people," said the mistress, the irritation in her voice touched with amusement, as Bran watched his master's hands like a rabbit watching a hawk. They produced, somewhat anticlimactically, a bottle of water.
The master reached down towards Bran's head, and Bran's throat constricted in panic, but the master only reached to the back of his head to undo the gag and peel it from Bran's mouth. Bran lowered his eyes submissively, his heart racing, as the master unbound his arms as well. Not knowing what else to do, Bran held them in position at his back. After a moment, the master reached out and moved them to his lap.
"Drink this," he said, not unkindly, handing him the bottle of water. Bran, his mouth dry, was grateful to obey. He drank slowly, not wanting to spill anything. When the bottle was empty he lowered it, and his gaze, to his lap again. The master took the empty bottle from him. Bran wondered whether he should thank his master, and opted not to risk speaking without permission.
"Are you hungry?" the master asked neutrally.
"Only if it please my master," said Bran softly without raising his eyes.
"Oh yeah," said his master, looking up at the mistress. "He'll take some serious breaking, this one."
Bran saw black. Fuck! What had he done wrong?
"Don't, Holden," said the mistress, barely audibly over the roaring in Bran's ears. "He's terrified."
Bran tried to bring his shaking under control as his master reached down and put a hand on the back of his neck. He knew his skin was clammy with sweat and that he must stink of fear. He hoped the master would explain his transgression at some point, because he had absolutely no idea what he had done to earn whatever was going to happen to him.
"Poor kid," said the master, almost gently, and Bran felt sudden tears of fright and frustration prickle in his eyes. He blinked furiously, not knowing whether the new master would be inclined to pity tears or punish them.
"He's crying," said the master. "Fucking hell."
Well, that answered that. The damage done, Bran let the tears flow. He did not dare lift his hands from where they had been placed to wipe them away; he had clearly landed himself in enough trouble for his first five minutes.
"He's practically catatonic," said the master. Bran didn't know the word, but he heard the anger in his master's voice and cringed. "Bran. Look at me. Look at my face."
Finally, a clear order that could be obeyed. Bran looked up so quickly he almost gave himself whiplash. The older man's face was grave and thoughtful, his eyes fixed on Bran's.
"Why are you crying?" he asked.
Shit. He had to speak now, and his one brief speech so far, as respectful and uncomplicated as he knew how to make it, had made his master angry. He swallowed, his throat dry.
"Please, master," he said hoarsely, "I'm sorry I've displeased you, master."
"You haven't, kid," said the master. "I'm not angry with you."
More tears overflowed at the kindness in the older man's face and voice. He wanted to bow his head to hide them, but held his gaze on his master's face as commanded.
"You can look away now," said his master gently, and Bran dropped his gaze, trying to swallow a sob. "You haven't done anything wrong, Bran. You're being very good. Very obedient."
A wave of relief washed over Bran. He would have spoken his gratitude, but he hadn't been asked a question and still was not sure whether speaking was otherwise permitted.
"Good boy," his master said softly. "I can see you want to please me very much, don't you?"
"Yes, master," Bran said in a low voice.
"But you don't know how yet, because we've only just met." A pause. "Yes?"
"Yes, master," Bran whispered.
"You'll learn soon enough, Bran. Try to relax a little."
Bran swallowed again. "Yes, master."
"Good boy," the master said again. "We should have brought Yves with us."
"The way Dunaev described the kid, I was expecting a bite-and-kick scenario," said the mistress. "I didn't realize he'd be... like this. I know they all get told that the 'slave breakers' are coming for them, but Dunaev must have laid it on pretty thick."
"He overestimated," said the master, and Bran shivered involuntarily as he felt a caressing touch on his hair. "This kid isn't a fighter."
"He did try to run away, and they said he fought like a wild thing when they caught him," said the mistress. "Though I'll admit it's hard to picture."
Bran was more comfortable with his new owners discussing him over his head, even on dangerous subjects, than with attention paid directly to him. And he definitely liked being petted while they talked. The hand that toyed with his curls was gentle and unthreatening, reassuring in the extreme, and the sensation on his scalp was delicious. Without thinking, Bran moved his head into the touch.
"Oh, you like that," his master remarked with a smile in his voice, continuing to run his fingers through Bran's hair. "What the hell did Dunaev mean, unresponsive? He's practically purring."
"I guess Dunaev never played with his hair," the mistress laughed.
"Lean your head on my knee, lad," said his master, and Bran obeyed, again shivering a little at the pleasure of the unthreatening physical contact. The slim hand played with his hair, occasionally brushing his forehead and the nape of his neck. Bran was so comforted by the touch that, sleepy and dangerously relaxed, he turned his head and softly nuzzled his master's thigh. He froze immediately afterwards, his heart thudding painfully, but the hand in his hair continued to stroke.
"That's good, that's just right," said his master soothingly. "Gods, what a sweet boy. Dunaev is an idiot."
"You don't say," said the mistress dryly, as Bran, thus encouraged, resumed his nuzzling along the inner edge of his master's thigh. Tentatively he pressed a kiss to the warm skin– the master wore no hose under his long tunic– and then, unreproved, kissed further up along the thigh, nudging the tunic back. If his master's soft gasp of pleasure wasn't all the confirmation he needed that his service would be welcome, his nose-to-nose encounter with his master's nearly-erect cock came soon enough afterwards to encourage him to continue. Reverently he kissed the cock's tip– it twitched under his lips– and engulfed it expertly in his mouth, burying his face in the darkness of soft cloth and softer pubes, and eliciting a moan from his master.
His master had given no permission to use his hands– his master had, in point of fact, given no instructions at all– so Bran did the best he could with nothing but lips, tongue, and an acute desperation to please the slave breaker. The hand slipped from his hair as he slowly speeded up, counting out the rhythm in his head. His new master's cock was smaller, which was a relief; Bran could easily take the whole thing into his mouth by letting the head press against the back of his throat. Being fucked would probably hurt less too, when it came time for that. Focus.
At last his master groaned with pleasure and came, seed spilling into Bran's mouth and down his throat with hardly a missed beat. Bran sucked the softening shaft for a while, milking it of ejaculate, and then pulled back respectfully, waiting with lowered eyes for his master's verdict. He knew he had done something wrong– this was a new master with new preferences, which Bran didn't know yet, and his clumsy guesses must be corrected– but childishly, and encouraged by his master's generosity so far with gentle speech, he hoped for praise as well.
"You were hungry," was what his master said, with a chuckle in his voice. Without meaning to, Bran looked up into his master's face unbidden. His master met his gaze, the smile fading from his face. Bran looked down instantly, fear flooding him again, but his master reached down and grasped his chin, tilting his face back up. He studied his slave with an unreadable expression.
"We're getting into Tenarus," said the mistress from the front seat. "I'd untie his legs. I don't think he's going to run. Just cuff his hands behind his back and put the chain on."
Bran's master examined him for a few more infinitely long seconds before following his wife's advice. He unwound the ropes from Bran's legs, whose nerves then sprang into agonized life; pins and needles jabbed into them at a thousand points and a sudden tearing cramp made Bran cry out in pain before he could stop himself. The master cursed angrily.
"What's wrong?" the mistress asked.
"The idiot tied the ropes too tight," said the master. "Cut off circulation. I swear to the Ash, if there's damage, I'm suing the hell out of that fucker."
His movements were swift and angry as he pulled a pair of manacles and a long chain leash from the same nylon case that had held the bottle of water. Bran clasped his hands together at the small of his back without being told, and the master clipped the cuffs on.
Something was bothering Bran, something that didn't make sense, distracting him from the pain in his legs and from his fear of the anger that practically crackled from his master. He didn't quite understand what. Then he put his finger on it. Swearing to the Ash was part of the religion he had learned as a child– but it was the religion of peasants and slaves, not of nobles and slave owners. Nobles swore by the hands of God, or simply to God. Now that he thought of it, hadn't his new master made reference to gods, not God?
Perhaps his new master spent so much time with so many slaves that he had picked up some of their habits of speech, or even their religious beliefs. Bran wondered how many other slaves his master owned at the moment. His former master had said the slave breakers preferred to own very few slaves at a time, so they could give each one as much attention as he needed. Bran shuddered at the memory of Dunaev's inflection on attention.
"You all right there, beautiful?" his master asked gently, all trace of displeasure gone from his voice, and Bran suddenly could have cried with relief. The man was really pleased with him– pleased well enough to speak kindly and reassuringly to him even when he was in a bad mood, well enough to use an endearment that was also an entirely gratuitous compliment. Maybe he would survive this after all.
This surge of optimism lasted while the car pulled up in front of a largish, ordinary-looking house– nothing like the ominous palace of tortures Bran had vaguely imagined– and while his master helped him out of the car on shaky, still-prickling legs. It lasted while he limped up the stairs of the house and inside; while his mistress said briskly, "I'll telephone the doctor; you go on and take him upstairs," even though his skin prickled faintly at the mention of a doctor (who needed– or was going to need– one?); and while his master's strong arm helped him up a flight of stairs and across a landing. When he saw the room they had entered, fully furnished and lined with whips, switches, floggers, clamps, vises, benches of various shapes with leather cuffs attached to them, and implements and structures of more obscure but definitely ominous function, Bran's optimism took a sharp hit, but it wasn't until his master had led him through that room and into a spacious bathroom with an enormous sunken tub that Bran began to feel its wounds were mortal.
Next chapter
Overall rating: NC-17
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Ten Point Three, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, Part Fourteen, Part Fifteen
All chapters where originally posted on
slavefics: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15Bran lay on the floor, naked, bound and gagged, listening with dull despair to the conversation going on over his head.
"I'm sorry for the poor lad, but I'm a very busy man," his master was saying, in the honeyed tone he had been using ever since the visitors arrived. Bran wondered if the strangers could hear the insincerity in it, or if it was only obvious to him because he knew what his master's voice ordinarily sounded like. "I simply don't have the time or resources to deal with this kind of thing. I'm sure you can understand that."
"Of course," said the blonde woman with just a touch of polite impatience. "That's why we're here."
"Yes, I understand you specialize in– among other things– breaking, shall we say, excessively independent spirits. Of course, given your own, er, history–" Bran could practically hear the leer in his master's voice, and swallowed past the constricting gag. The woman wouldn't be in a good mood later, which was very bad news for Bran.
"Right," she said, the contempt in her voice now barely concealed. "And your estimate of his market value, leaving aside the behavioral issues?"
"Well, he's eighteen, in perfect health– I'd put it at forty thousand."
"Mm-hmm," said the woman, sounding dubious, and they began a process of haggling. Bran listened with half an ear to the protests and estimates, praying to whatever gods might look down to kill him where he lay rather than send him home with the slave breakers.
"Done," said the woman finally, firmly enough to startle Bran back to attention. There was a rustle of papers above him. They had bought him, then. Bran felt his body, quicker on the uptake than his mind, begin to tremble.
Someone– the strange man, his new master– was kneeling beside him. He bent down, threaded an arm under Bran's shoulders and one under his knees, and lifted him up like a child.
"Can you carry him all the way to the car?" the woman asked as Bran blinked, disoriented, up at the man's face. He was a handsome man, perhaps in his forties, with dark hair threaded with silver.
"Sure," he said to his wife. "He weighs, what, ninety pounds?"
"One hundred and twenty, according to this," said the woman, somewhere out of sight.
"Yeah, I got him. Thanks for drinks, Lord Dunaev. Better get this young man home and see what can be done with him."
Bran's trembling worsened at the casual words. His new master glanced down at him, his face inscrutable. Bran lowered his eyelids and swallowed again, convulsively, trying to still his trembling as he was carried from the house to the courtyard outside. The master set him briefly on his feet, supporting him with one arm, while he opened the back door of a spacious and luxuriously appointed car, then lifted Bran inside, propping him in a sitting position on the floor of the vehicle, before getting in himself. The new mistress got into the driver's seat, started the car, and drove away.
"Son of a bitch," said his mistress viciously, and the master laughed. "How fucking rude can you get?"
"Pretty fucking rude, apparently," said the master, leaning down to a small nylon case that sat beside Bran on the floor and unzipping it. "I'm surprised he went for your history, though, instead of mine. Yours is practically prehistory."
"It'll never get old to these people," said the mistress, the irritation in her voice touched with amusement, as Bran watched his master's hands like a rabbit watching a hawk. They produced, somewhat anticlimactically, a bottle of water.
The master reached down towards Bran's head, and Bran's throat constricted in panic, but the master only reached to the back of his head to undo the gag and peel it from Bran's mouth. Bran lowered his eyes submissively, his heart racing, as the master unbound his arms as well. Not knowing what else to do, Bran held them in position at his back. After a moment, the master reached out and moved them to his lap.
"Drink this," he said, not unkindly, handing him the bottle of water. Bran, his mouth dry, was grateful to obey. He drank slowly, not wanting to spill anything. When the bottle was empty he lowered it, and his gaze, to his lap again. The master took the empty bottle from him. Bran wondered whether he should thank his master, and opted not to risk speaking without permission.
"Are you hungry?" the master asked neutrally.
"Only if it please my master," said Bran softly without raising his eyes.
"Oh yeah," said his master, looking up at the mistress. "He'll take some serious breaking, this one."
Bran saw black. Fuck! What had he done wrong?
"Don't, Holden," said the mistress, barely audibly over the roaring in Bran's ears. "He's terrified."
Bran tried to bring his shaking under control as his master reached down and put a hand on the back of his neck. He knew his skin was clammy with sweat and that he must stink of fear. He hoped the master would explain his transgression at some point, because he had absolutely no idea what he had done to earn whatever was going to happen to him.
"Poor kid," said the master, almost gently, and Bran felt sudden tears of fright and frustration prickle in his eyes. He blinked furiously, not knowing whether the new master would be inclined to pity tears or punish them.
"He's crying," said the master. "Fucking hell."
Well, that answered that. The damage done, Bran let the tears flow. He did not dare lift his hands from where they had been placed to wipe them away; he had clearly landed himself in enough trouble for his first five minutes.
"He's practically catatonic," said the master. Bran didn't know the word, but he heard the anger in his master's voice and cringed. "Bran. Look at me. Look at my face."
Finally, a clear order that could be obeyed. Bran looked up so quickly he almost gave himself whiplash. The older man's face was grave and thoughtful, his eyes fixed on Bran's.
"Why are you crying?" he asked.
Shit. He had to speak now, and his one brief speech so far, as respectful and uncomplicated as he knew how to make it, had made his master angry. He swallowed, his throat dry.
"Please, master," he said hoarsely, "I'm sorry I've displeased you, master."
"You haven't, kid," said the master. "I'm not angry with you."
More tears overflowed at the kindness in the older man's face and voice. He wanted to bow his head to hide them, but held his gaze on his master's face as commanded.
"You can look away now," said his master gently, and Bran dropped his gaze, trying to swallow a sob. "You haven't done anything wrong, Bran. You're being very good. Very obedient."
A wave of relief washed over Bran. He would have spoken his gratitude, but he hadn't been asked a question and still was not sure whether speaking was otherwise permitted.
"Good boy," his master said softly. "I can see you want to please me very much, don't you?"
"Yes, master," Bran said in a low voice.
"But you don't know how yet, because we've only just met." A pause. "Yes?"
"Yes, master," Bran whispered.
"You'll learn soon enough, Bran. Try to relax a little."
Bran swallowed again. "Yes, master."
"Good boy," the master said again. "We should have brought Yves with us."
"The way Dunaev described the kid, I was expecting a bite-and-kick scenario," said the mistress. "I didn't realize he'd be... like this. I know they all get told that the 'slave breakers' are coming for them, but Dunaev must have laid it on pretty thick."
"He overestimated," said the master, and Bran shivered involuntarily as he felt a caressing touch on his hair. "This kid isn't a fighter."
"He did try to run away, and they said he fought like a wild thing when they caught him," said the mistress. "Though I'll admit it's hard to picture."
Bran was more comfortable with his new owners discussing him over his head, even on dangerous subjects, than with attention paid directly to him. And he definitely liked being petted while they talked. The hand that toyed with his curls was gentle and unthreatening, reassuring in the extreme, and the sensation on his scalp was delicious. Without thinking, Bran moved his head into the touch.
"Oh, you like that," his master remarked with a smile in his voice, continuing to run his fingers through Bran's hair. "What the hell did Dunaev mean, unresponsive? He's practically purring."
"I guess Dunaev never played with his hair," the mistress laughed.
"Lean your head on my knee, lad," said his master, and Bran obeyed, again shivering a little at the pleasure of the unthreatening physical contact. The slim hand played with his hair, occasionally brushing his forehead and the nape of his neck. Bran was so comforted by the touch that, sleepy and dangerously relaxed, he turned his head and softly nuzzled his master's thigh. He froze immediately afterwards, his heart thudding painfully, but the hand in his hair continued to stroke.
"That's good, that's just right," said his master soothingly. "Gods, what a sweet boy. Dunaev is an idiot."
"You don't say," said the mistress dryly, as Bran, thus encouraged, resumed his nuzzling along the inner edge of his master's thigh. Tentatively he pressed a kiss to the warm skin– the master wore no hose under his long tunic– and then, unreproved, kissed further up along the thigh, nudging the tunic back. If his master's soft gasp of pleasure wasn't all the confirmation he needed that his service would be welcome, his nose-to-nose encounter with his master's nearly-erect cock came soon enough afterwards to encourage him to continue. Reverently he kissed the cock's tip– it twitched under his lips– and engulfed it expertly in his mouth, burying his face in the darkness of soft cloth and softer pubes, and eliciting a moan from his master.
His master had given no permission to use his hands– his master had, in point of fact, given no instructions at all– so Bran did the best he could with nothing but lips, tongue, and an acute desperation to please the slave breaker. The hand slipped from his hair as he slowly speeded up, counting out the rhythm in his head. His new master's cock was smaller, which was a relief; Bran could easily take the whole thing into his mouth by letting the head press against the back of his throat. Being fucked would probably hurt less too, when it came time for that. Focus.
At last his master groaned with pleasure and came, seed spilling into Bran's mouth and down his throat with hardly a missed beat. Bran sucked the softening shaft for a while, milking it of ejaculate, and then pulled back respectfully, waiting with lowered eyes for his master's verdict. He knew he had done something wrong– this was a new master with new preferences, which Bran didn't know yet, and his clumsy guesses must be corrected– but childishly, and encouraged by his master's generosity so far with gentle speech, he hoped for praise as well.
"You were hungry," was what his master said, with a chuckle in his voice. Without meaning to, Bran looked up into his master's face unbidden. His master met his gaze, the smile fading from his face. Bran looked down instantly, fear flooding him again, but his master reached down and grasped his chin, tilting his face back up. He studied his slave with an unreadable expression.
"We're getting into Tenarus," said the mistress from the front seat. "I'd untie his legs. I don't think he's going to run. Just cuff his hands behind his back and put the chain on."
Bran's master examined him for a few more infinitely long seconds before following his wife's advice. He unwound the ropes from Bran's legs, whose nerves then sprang into agonized life; pins and needles jabbed into them at a thousand points and a sudden tearing cramp made Bran cry out in pain before he could stop himself. The master cursed angrily.
"What's wrong?" the mistress asked.
"The idiot tied the ropes too tight," said the master. "Cut off circulation. I swear to the Ash, if there's damage, I'm suing the hell out of that fucker."
His movements were swift and angry as he pulled a pair of manacles and a long chain leash from the same nylon case that had held the bottle of water. Bran clasped his hands together at the small of his back without being told, and the master clipped the cuffs on.
Something was bothering Bran, something that didn't make sense, distracting him from the pain in his legs and from his fear of the anger that practically crackled from his master. He didn't quite understand what. Then he put his finger on it. Swearing to the Ash was part of the religion he had learned as a child– but it was the religion of peasants and slaves, not of nobles and slave owners. Nobles swore by the hands of God, or simply to God. Now that he thought of it, hadn't his new master made reference to gods, not God?
Perhaps his new master spent so much time with so many slaves that he had picked up some of their habits of speech, or even their religious beliefs. Bran wondered how many other slaves his master owned at the moment. His former master had said the slave breakers preferred to own very few slaves at a time, so they could give each one as much attention as he needed. Bran shuddered at the memory of Dunaev's inflection on attention.
"You all right there, beautiful?" his master asked gently, all trace of displeasure gone from his voice, and Bran suddenly could have cried with relief. The man was really pleased with him– pleased well enough to speak kindly and reassuringly to him even when he was in a bad mood, well enough to use an endearment that was also an entirely gratuitous compliment. Maybe he would survive this after all.
This surge of optimism lasted while the car pulled up in front of a largish, ordinary-looking house– nothing like the ominous palace of tortures Bran had vaguely imagined– and while his master helped him out of the car on shaky, still-prickling legs. It lasted while he limped up the stairs of the house and inside; while his mistress said briskly, "I'll telephone the doctor; you go on and take him upstairs," even though his skin prickled faintly at the mention of a doctor (who needed– or was going to need– one?); and while his master's strong arm helped him up a flight of stairs and across a landing. When he saw the room they had entered, fully furnished and lined with whips, switches, floggers, clamps, vises, benches of various shapes with leather cuffs attached to them, and implements and structures of more obscure but definitely ominous function, Bran's optimism took a sharp hit, but it wasn't until his master had led him through that room and into a spacious bathroom with an enormous sunken tub that Bran began to feel its wounds were mortal.
Next chapter