The Slave Breakers, 2/15
Jun. 15th, 2007 08:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maculategiraffePrevious chapter
As his master bent down and set the water running, Bran recalled with horrible intensity the twenty-four hours between Dunaev's call to the slave breakers and their arrival, which had mostly been spent in Dunaev's gleeful recital of the tortures they would visit on Bran once they got him home. When Dunaev finally left him to sleep, it was the water torture Bran dreamed of. Hands chained behind his back, strong hands gripped him from behind and plunged him face first into water, holding him there, barely noticing his struggles, his lungs bursting, darkness rushing in on him, and at the last minute, lifted him out. Space for one breath, maybe two, no time to beg for mercy, and back into the water. He had woken gasping for breath, fallen back to sleep and dreamed of those same hands pushing him back under the water, splashes of color exploding behind his eyes, pain in his lungs. He hadn't quite understood why it was this particular threat he dreamed of all that terrible night– certainly it was horrible, but not really more so than several other things Dunaev had informed him they were sure to do to him. Perhaps it was because some part of him knew this was the first thing they would do.
He fell heavily to his knees on the cold tile floor and stared up at his master, who looked back at him in surprise. Bran was surprised, too, that he'd been such an idiot, assuming his master's playful gentleness with him in the car meant for one moment that he'd hesitate to torture Bran. That was what he did; he was a slave breaker. Had Bran really been stupid enough to think that a pretty face and an eager blow job would mean anything to a professional torturer-- would mean he wouldn't use those same hands that had toyed so delicately with Bran's curls to push him under and hold him there?
"Bran?" said his master. "What's wrong? What's frightening you?"
Bran looked up at his master, trying to read his face. Was this part of an interrogation process? Mockery? Or did the master not expect that Bran would understand what was about to happen?
"The water, master," he said.
"You're frightened of water?" his master said, sounding genuinely puzzled. "Why?"
Bran was sure he was being mocked now. He dropped his gaze to the floor and said nothing.
"Bran," said his master sharply, and Bran flinched. "Tell me why you're afraid."
"My master-- I mean my former master-- he told me how you use the water," said Bran, almost angrily.
"How we use the water," his master echoed. "And how is that?"
Bran stared at the floor. He was starting to be angry. Why was he being led through this elaborate charade? It must be part of the breaking process somehow, but Bran was damned if he understood what purpose it served to make him explain what was about to happen to him to the man who was going to do it to him. Why couldn't the master just drown him and have it over with?
Then again, Bran supposed that the best torture was designed to make the victim wish for death. And here he was, wishing he was dead before he'd even been touched. Not such a pointless tactic after all.
He knelt in stubborn silence, his eyes on the floor. He'd say whatever they wanted him to say in a matter of seconds, no doubt, but he wanted no more of the stupid mind games.
"We use the water for bathing, Bran," said his master finally. "We're old-fashioned that way. If Dunaev has developed some new and advanced use for water, perhaps that explains why you smell the way you do. But now that you belong to us, you're going to have to be washed before we put clean clothes on you. Come here and get in. If you've never bathed before, I'll show you how."
Feeling battered between hope that his master was telling the truth and dread that it was all another mind game, Bran crawled, dragging the chain from his manacled hands, towards the edge of the pool and stepped down into the water, which was just above blood heat and set him shivering with the same kind of pleasure his master's touch had given him in the car. His master pulled off his own clothes in a series of swift, practiced motions, revealing an aging but still physically fit body, the cock Bran had sucked earlier limp and small-looking in its nest of dark pubes, and stepped into the water, kneeling down beside Bran.
"We call this soap," he said solemnly, reaching for a bar in a dish along the edge of the tub. "You lather it in the water-- like so-- see the pretty bubbles?-- and then--" He reached out with two handsful of lather and rubbed Bran's naked arms. "Then you rub it all over you." The hands ran across his chest, grazing his nipples, down his belly, then back up his sides to his armpits, while Bran squirmed involuntarily, trying not to giggle.
"You're skinny as two umbrellas," his master said. "I swear I can count your ribs like this. What did Dunaev feed you, besides strange stories about water?"
Dizzy with relief, with the ticklish pleasure of the touch and the warmth of the water, and the light teasing tone of his master's voice, Bran grinned. His master stopped for a moment, looking at Bran, a slight smile on his own face.
"What a beauty you are," he said. "Turn around."
Blushing, Bran obeyed, turning his back to his master, who ran soapy hands over it.
"We'll have to feed you up," he said absently, and then Bran was being pulled over backward by his shoulders, pushed down towards the surface of the water, his hands locked helplessly behind him, and his panic was absolute. He cried out wordlessly and twisted violently out of his master's grip, struggling to get out of the water, but slipped and fell back, and without the use of his hands, his whole body slid, his legs kicking uselessly, under the surface of the water, and he could not breathe.
It could not have been more than a second before he was gripped firmly by the shoulders and yanked, dripping and gasping and nearly hysterical, up into the air again. He twisted again to get away, slipped out of his master's hands and lunged for the edge of the tub; he managed to get one leg up and over the edge before slipping with a shout of despair back in. He did not go under this time; his master caught him under the arms and lifted him easily out of the tub and onto the floor of the bathroom, where he jerked forward, escaping his master's hands for a third time, and ran for the door, only to fall with an ignominious and painful thud on his bottom; his master had managed to grab the chain that trailed from his manacles. Bran scrambled to his knees and jerked on the chain, trying to pull it out of the master's hands; the master jerked back, hard, and Bran cried out in pain as his arms were wrenched back and up. Then his hair was caught in an agonizing vise grip; the master yanked his head to the ground by a fistful of wet curls and pinned it there with one hand while he used the other to wrap the chain once around Bran's neck and pull it taut.
"Stop fighting," he snarled, as Bran continued to struggle, pulling agonizingly against the grip in his hair and weakening as the chain around his neck cut off his oxygen. He kicked out hopelessly one last time, then went limp. The makeshift noose stopped tightening.
Bran's master dragged him, coughing, to his feet by his hair and led him by it into the next room, where he clipped Bran's manacles to a ring in the wall, then chained his feet together as well. Bran made no resistance. His master stood looking down at him for a moment, then walked back into the bathroom; after a few minutes he emerged, dressed and carrying a large towel. He knelt beside Bran and began, carefully and thoroughly, to dry him. Bran cooperated dully as his master toweled off his legs, his feet, his arms, his torso, his pelvis and ass, and finally, gingerly, his face and hair.
When he had finished, he disappeared into the bathroom again, then came out without the towel and carrying something else folded. He walked with it, as Bran watched, to a wide padded table with leather straps at all four corners-- unmistakably intended for a body to lie on, strapped down-- shook it out and draped it over the table. It was shiny, like oilcloth. Designed not to stain, Bran thought, and despite his dull despair these matter-of-fact preparations sent a cold chill through him. Would there be that much blood? His former masters had of course been careful not to leave scars, but the slave breaker--
--was kneeling beside him, and Bran snapped to attention.
"Bran," his master said quietly. "There's no way out of this house against my will. The doors are carefully locked, the windows are all sealed, and the neighbors know what business we're in. You can't escape. You'll only hurt yourself trying. Do you believe me?"
Bran nodded dumbly.
"What made you panic, in there?" his master asked.
Bran cleared his throat. "The water, master."
"The water again. Tell me what Dunaev told you."
Bran wasn't too terrified to feel like a colossal fool, but-- "That you torture with the water, master. Push-- push slaves under the water-- so they can't breathe--"
His master cursed fluently for several sentences. Bran hung his head. His trembling had caught up to him.
"Bran," his master said, and he sounded gentle again, "you seem like a good kid. But you've tried to run away twice, from two different masters, and now a third time, from me. Was it like this, the other times? Did you just panic and bolt, without thinking it through?"
Bran nodded miserably. He wished his master would just go ahead and start whatever he was going to do to Bran on that table.
"I'm going to unlock these chains in a second. What are you going to do then?"
"Whatever my master commands," said Bran dully.
"You're not going to bolt again."
"No, master."
"Why not?"
Bran answered honestly. "Because I know I can't get away, master."
"That will do for a start." His master undid the chains on his ankles first, then the cuffs behind his back. Bran sat still.
"Go lie face down on that table," his master ordered, standing up.
Bran moved to obey, clumsy with fear; his master reached a hand down to steady him and help pull him to his feet. He walked to the table, climbed ungracefully onto it, and lay down on his stomach, spreading his arms and legs to its four corners and laying his wrists inside the unbuckled straps.
His master sighed behind him. Bran waited, the oilcloth cold under him. Then his master's hands were buckling the straps securely onto his ankles and wrists. Bran had stopped trembling, resigned to the inevitable, but the warm hand that touched his back then started him afresh.
"Relax, Bran," his master said gently. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Bran heard this without understanding. People were not strapped face down onto tables to not be hurt.
But his master stroked his back, gently, pleasantly, the kind of touch that came as a reward, not a punishment. He passed his fingers over Bran's shoulders, his neck, then dragged nails lightly down Bran's spine to his ass, which he touched and cupped sensuously, fingertips delicately exploring the crease where buttocks met thighs, and slipping slightly in between his cheeks. Bran held very still, wondering if he were about to get fucked. His ass was still sore and torn from the last one of his master's-- former master's-- friends to use him; but if fucking-- even dry fucking-- was all Bran's new master had had in mind when he laid down the stainproof cloth, Bran might just go ahead and orgasm from relief right now.
Remembering his master's positive response to his advances in the car, Bran ventured to arch slightly into the touch, wriggling his ass invitingly against his master's hand. His master chuckled.
"No," he said, "not now. Maybe later." His hand traveled back up Bran's back to his shoulder. "You're stiff as a board, Bran. Relax. I said I wasn't going to hurt you."
The hand on his back disappeared for a few moments, then returned, slick and warm; startled, Bran jumped slightly. His master's hands were on his back, at his shoulders, sliding easily on-- was that oil?-- the fingers expertly probing and kneading his rigid muscles. Bran could not decide which was more astonishing: that his master was apparently giving him a massage, or how gods-damned good it felt to be on the receiving end of one.
"That's right," said his master softly. "Good boy. Just relax. It's okay."
Bran moaned very quietly as his master's thumbs worked out a kink between his right shoulder blade and spine. His master made a humming noise of approval and continued to work on the knots in Bran's muscles. Bran knew the techniques-- all slaves did-- but having them practiced on his own much-abused muscles was such exquisite pleasure Bran could barely muster the energy to wonder what the hell was going on. He lay limp and quiescent while his master did things to his back that made him feel as if the table he lay on were made of clouds or cream.
"You've been afraid for a long time," his master said gently, still rubbing small circles in the cramped muscles on either side of Bran's spine, sending electric waves of relief through Bran, who could not quite manage to speak before his master continued. "I'm guessing Dunaev wanted you afraid, since Dunaev is just the kind of idiot who thinks a state of chronic terror improves a slave's behavior, which is why Dunaev's slaves run the fuck away from him at their earliest opportunity." He moved his hands to the nape of Bran's neck and rubbed; Bran's breath caught in something like a sob of pleasure. "Good boy. Loosen up for me. Nice and easy. That's right. I don't want you scared, Bran, and I'll tell you why: fear makes you stupid. I don't want you stupid. I want you smart, smart enough to figure out which side your bread's buttered on, because that's what makes a good slave."
The caressing hands slid back down to his shoulders, the thumbs hooking under his shoulder blades; it felt so good Bran thought he might cry.
"Slaves need their wits about them, Bran," his master went on, pressing the heels of his hands firmly on either side of Bran's spine; Bran heard a crack and felt warm relief flood his back. "More than anything, slaves need to be smart. Because it's dangerous being a slave, and that's exactly why you can't let yourself get so afraid. Scared slaves do the most unbelievably stupid shit, like making a break for it when they're naked and wet and manacled-- no, don't freeze up again, kid, relax. It's not your fault. It's that son of an acid-secreting toad, Dunaev, filling your mind with gods-know-what crazy ideas about torture. We don't torture, Bran. And we don't want to break you. They call us the slave breakers-- but that's not what we do."
Bran was listening intently for an explanation of just what his new owners did do-- besides, apparently, bathe and massage their property-- when another man's voice spoke from the doorway of the room, out of Bran's field of vision.
"Hey, how come the new kid rates? I can't even remember the last time you strapped me down for sensual massage and a pep talk about the profession."
Bran's master laughed, continuing to rub Bran's shoulders. "Hi, sweetheart. Just trying to ease Bran's transition. He's been a little tense."
"Yeah?" Footsteps approached the table; Bran saw a flash of green cloth, then a friendly face, framed with sandy curls, with a few age lines around a pair of very blue eyes. "Hello, Bran. I'm Yves. Welcome to the jungle."
"Sir," Bran murmured.
"Sif, master, he's fucking gorgeous," said Yves, looking up with a grin. "May I, uh, help ease his transition?"
The master laughed again. "Maybe. What did you have in mind?"
"Mmm. I'm sure I could think of something." The face disappeared and was replaced by a view of a green-cloth-clad waist as Yves stood up. A favorite, obviously-- his master must be very fond of him to keep him around at all at his age, let alone allow him such familiarity. Bran prayed Yves wouldn't take a dislike to him-- he knew from experience how difficult life got when your master's pet decided you were an annoyance or a threat, and it wasn't as if this master could just sell him. This was the end of the line.
"Did Alix get hold of the doctor?" Bran's master asked the favored slave, while he went on massaging Bran.
"Yes, master. My mistress said to tell you the doctor will be here in about an hour, and to ask if Bran had any visible wounds or conditions that should be attended to in the meantime."
"Aside from an acute case of terror, no, not that I've seen," said the master. "Bran? Is there anything wrong with you physically that I don't know about?"
It took Bran a few moments to register that he'd been asked a question, and longer still to figure out what to say. He knew his ass was raw and a little torn, but not whether that counted as "something wrong"-- his former master certainly would not have bothered with it, but there were obviously new rules here. The question was whether his master would be more annoyed with him for mentioning something that didn't count, or for saying nothing was wrong if it turned out it did count. The other thing that was wrong with him was that he was hungry-- he hadn't been fed either last night or this morning-- which he certainly wouldn't have even considered mentioning if his master hadn't kept talking about how skinny he was and how he needed to be fed up, which would seem to indicate an inclination to perhaps feed him sometime in the near future.
Before he could decide, Yves said, "Is he asleep?"
"Bran?"
"No, master," he said hurriedly. "I mean, yes, master. I mean-- I don't know if my master considers this worthy of mention, but my-- my anus is, uh, kind of-- torn a little."
After a moment, hands gently but firmly parted his ass cheeks, and one finger probed at the puckered hole. Bran bit his lip to keep from crying out.
"How did this happen?" his master asked, sounding angry.
Bran swallowed. "My master-- former master-- had friends over the other night, master, and they fucked me. One of them likes to dry fuck, and his cock is very large, so I always get a little-- hurt-- when he fucks me."
His master was silent so long that Bran started to worry.
"Why did you act like you wanted me to fuck you earlier?" he asked finally.
Shit, shit, shit. Bran was afraid he couldn' t afford to hesitate again.
"Master, I thought you were going to-- when you put down the cloth-- I thought you were really going to fuck me up," he blurted. "For-- for-- I thought you'd, I'm sorry, I thought, I mean, when you try to run from normal owners you get sold to you, and I'd just tried to run from you, and this was, I mean the next thing, you strap me down and I thought, I was just hoping if you fucked me, at least it would postpone, I mean, and there was always the chance that you'd be pleased enough that you'd-- I, I wanted to please you, master."
There was another silence, while Bran's master stroked his hip a little absently and Bran considered that it might have been slightly more intelligent to pause for five seconds and then cut straight to that last sentence.
"He tried to run?" asked Yves curiously.
"If you could call it that," said Bran's master. "Had to be the most pitiful escape attempt in the history of slavery. I'm bathing him, right, in the tub, he's naked and covered with soapsuds, his hands are chained behind his back-- and it is this moment that the kid chooses as, you know, the absolute optimum moment to lunge for the exit like a crippled sea lion. Pure panic. Bran, I'm afraid you're not going to get fucked for a while-- not until that heals completely. I'm not risking infection, plus which I'm not really into fucking kids while they're screaming in pain. Not my thing. Not Yves' thing either, I don't think."
"No, master," said Yves cheerfully. "I prefer it when they're screaming for other reasons."
"Like with laughter, right?" There was a slight scuffle just outside Bran's field of vision. Bran was simultaneously amused and made very nervous by the extreme familiarity between his master and the older slave. The banter between them was not like banter between a master and even a highly favored slave; it was more like the good-natured raillery between Dunaev and the nobles he invited over for drinks and to fuck Bran till he bled.
"Anyway-- the doctor will be here soon and if there's anything that needs to be done--" His master patted his thigh reassuringly.
Bran took a deep breath. "Master?"
"Yes."
"I-- I haven't eaten, um, for a while."
"Oh, right," said his master. "I meant to ask you before-- when was the last time you ate?"
"Yesterday morning, master, before-- before I--"
"Loki venom-eyed," his master said between his teeth, already unbuckling the straps at Bran's ankles. "I'll kill Dunaev. I'm sorry, Bran, I didn't realize."
He undid the wrist restraints and helped Bran peel himself off the table and, shakily, to his feet.
"Take him downstairs and feed him, my dove," he said to Yves. "I have to make some calls."
"Uh-oh," said Yves, looping his arm through Bran's. "Lord Dunaev's in trouble."
"Damn right he is," said the master, scowling, as Yves led Bran from the room.
Next chapter
As his master bent down and set the water running, Bran recalled with horrible intensity the twenty-four hours between Dunaev's call to the slave breakers and their arrival, which had mostly been spent in Dunaev's gleeful recital of the tortures they would visit on Bran once they got him home. When Dunaev finally left him to sleep, it was the water torture Bran dreamed of. Hands chained behind his back, strong hands gripped him from behind and plunged him face first into water, holding him there, barely noticing his struggles, his lungs bursting, darkness rushing in on him, and at the last minute, lifted him out. Space for one breath, maybe two, no time to beg for mercy, and back into the water. He had woken gasping for breath, fallen back to sleep and dreamed of those same hands pushing him back under the water, splashes of color exploding behind his eyes, pain in his lungs. He hadn't quite understood why it was this particular threat he dreamed of all that terrible night– certainly it was horrible, but not really more so than several other things Dunaev had informed him they were sure to do to him. Perhaps it was because some part of him knew this was the first thing they would do.
He fell heavily to his knees on the cold tile floor and stared up at his master, who looked back at him in surprise. Bran was surprised, too, that he'd been such an idiot, assuming his master's playful gentleness with him in the car meant for one moment that he'd hesitate to torture Bran. That was what he did; he was a slave breaker. Had Bran really been stupid enough to think that a pretty face and an eager blow job would mean anything to a professional torturer-- would mean he wouldn't use those same hands that had toyed so delicately with Bran's curls to push him under and hold him there?
"Bran?" said his master. "What's wrong? What's frightening you?"
Bran looked up at his master, trying to read his face. Was this part of an interrogation process? Mockery? Or did the master not expect that Bran would understand what was about to happen?
"The water, master," he said.
"You're frightened of water?" his master said, sounding genuinely puzzled. "Why?"
Bran was sure he was being mocked now. He dropped his gaze to the floor and said nothing.
"Bran," said his master sharply, and Bran flinched. "Tell me why you're afraid."
"My master-- I mean my former master-- he told me how you use the water," said Bran, almost angrily.
"How we use the water," his master echoed. "And how is that?"
Bran stared at the floor. He was starting to be angry. Why was he being led through this elaborate charade? It must be part of the breaking process somehow, but Bran was damned if he understood what purpose it served to make him explain what was about to happen to him to the man who was going to do it to him. Why couldn't the master just drown him and have it over with?
Then again, Bran supposed that the best torture was designed to make the victim wish for death. And here he was, wishing he was dead before he'd even been touched. Not such a pointless tactic after all.
He knelt in stubborn silence, his eyes on the floor. He'd say whatever they wanted him to say in a matter of seconds, no doubt, but he wanted no more of the stupid mind games.
"We use the water for bathing, Bran," said his master finally. "We're old-fashioned that way. If Dunaev has developed some new and advanced use for water, perhaps that explains why you smell the way you do. But now that you belong to us, you're going to have to be washed before we put clean clothes on you. Come here and get in. If you've never bathed before, I'll show you how."
Feeling battered between hope that his master was telling the truth and dread that it was all another mind game, Bran crawled, dragging the chain from his manacled hands, towards the edge of the pool and stepped down into the water, which was just above blood heat and set him shivering with the same kind of pleasure his master's touch had given him in the car. His master pulled off his own clothes in a series of swift, practiced motions, revealing an aging but still physically fit body, the cock Bran had sucked earlier limp and small-looking in its nest of dark pubes, and stepped into the water, kneeling down beside Bran.
"We call this soap," he said solemnly, reaching for a bar in a dish along the edge of the tub. "You lather it in the water-- like so-- see the pretty bubbles?-- and then--" He reached out with two handsful of lather and rubbed Bran's naked arms. "Then you rub it all over you." The hands ran across his chest, grazing his nipples, down his belly, then back up his sides to his armpits, while Bran squirmed involuntarily, trying not to giggle.
"You're skinny as two umbrellas," his master said. "I swear I can count your ribs like this. What did Dunaev feed you, besides strange stories about water?"
Dizzy with relief, with the ticklish pleasure of the touch and the warmth of the water, and the light teasing tone of his master's voice, Bran grinned. His master stopped for a moment, looking at Bran, a slight smile on his own face.
"What a beauty you are," he said. "Turn around."
Blushing, Bran obeyed, turning his back to his master, who ran soapy hands over it.
"We'll have to feed you up," he said absently, and then Bran was being pulled over backward by his shoulders, pushed down towards the surface of the water, his hands locked helplessly behind him, and his panic was absolute. He cried out wordlessly and twisted violently out of his master's grip, struggling to get out of the water, but slipped and fell back, and without the use of his hands, his whole body slid, his legs kicking uselessly, under the surface of the water, and he could not breathe.
It could not have been more than a second before he was gripped firmly by the shoulders and yanked, dripping and gasping and nearly hysterical, up into the air again. He twisted again to get away, slipped out of his master's hands and lunged for the edge of the tub; he managed to get one leg up and over the edge before slipping with a shout of despair back in. He did not go under this time; his master caught him under the arms and lifted him easily out of the tub and onto the floor of the bathroom, where he jerked forward, escaping his master's hands for a third time, and ran for the door, only to fall with an ignominious and painful thud on his bottom; his master had managed to grab the chain that trailed from his manacles. Bran scrambled to his knees and jerked on the chain, trying to pull it out of the master's hands; the master jerked back, hard, and Bran cried out in pain as his arms were wrenched back and up. Then his hair was caught in an agonizing vise grip; the master yanked his head to the ground by a fistful of wet curls and pinned it there with one hand while he used the other to wrap the chain once around Bran's neck and pull it taut.
"Stop fighting," he snarled, as Bran continued to struggle, pulling agonizingly against the grip in his hair and weakening as the chain around his neck cut off his oxygen. He kicked out hopelessly one last time, then went limp. The makeshift noose stopped tightening.
Bran's master dragged him, coughing, to his feet by his hair and led him by it into the next room, where he clipped Bran's manacles to a ring in the wall, then chained his feet together as well. Bran made no resistance. His master stood looking down at him for a moment, then walked back into the bathroom; after a few minutes he emerged, dressed and carrying a large towel. He knelt beside Bran and began, carefully and thoroughly, to dry him. Bran cooperated dully as his master toweled off his legs, his feet, his arms, his torso, his pelvis and ass, and finally, gingerly, his face and hair.
When he had finished, he disappeared into the bathroom again, then came out without the towel and carrying something else folded. He walked with it, as Bran watched, to a wide padded table with leather straps at all four corners-- unmistakably intended for a body to lie on, strapped down-- shook it out and draped it over the table. It was shiny, like oilcloth. Designed not to stain, Bran thought, and despite his dull despair these matter-of-fact preparations sent a cold chill through him. Would there be that much blood? His former masters had of course been careful not to leave scars, but the slave breaker--
--was kneeling beside him, and Bran snapped to attention.
"Bran," his master said quietly. "There's no way out of this house against my will. The doors are carefully locked, the windows are all sealed, and the neighbors know what business we're in. You can't escape. You'll only hurt yourself trying. Do you believe me?"
Bran nodded dumbly.
"What made you panic, in there?" his master asked.
Bran cleared his throat. "The water, master."
"The water again. Tell me what Dunaev told you."
Bran wasn't too terrified to feel like a colossal fool, but-- "That you torture with the water, master. Push-- push slaves under the water-- so they can't breathe--"
His master cursed fluently for several sentences. Bran hung his head. His trembling had caught up to him.
"Bran," his master said, and he sounded gentle again, "you seem like a good kid. But you've tried to run away twice, from two different masters, and now a third time, from me. Was it like this, the other times? Did you just panic and bolt, without thinking it through?"
Bran nodded miserably. He wished his master would just go ahead and start whatever he was going to do to Bran on that table.
"I'm going to unlock these chains in a second. What are you going to do then?"
"Whatever my master commands," said Bran dully.
"You're not going to bolt again."
"No, master."
"Why not?"
Bran answered honestly. "Because I know I can't get away, master."
"That will do for a start." His master undid the chains on his ankles first, then the cuffs behind his back. Bran sat still.
"Go lie face down on that table," his master ordered, standing up.
Bran moved to obey, clumsy with fear; his master reached a hand down to steady him and help pull him to his feet. He walked to the table, climbed ungracefully onto it, and lay down on his stomach, spreading his arms and legs to its four corners and laying his wrists inside the unbuckled straps.
His master sighed behind him. Bran waited, the oilcloth cold under him. Then his master's hands were buckling the straps securely onto his ankles and wrists. Bran had stopped trembling, resigned to the inevitable, but the warm hand that touched his back then started him afresh.
"Relax, Bran," his master said gently. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Bran heard this without understanding. People were not strapped face down onto tables to not be hurt.
But his master stroked his back, gently, pleasantly, the kind of touch that came as a reward, not a punishment. He passed his fingers over Bran's shoulders, his neck, then dragged nails lightly down Bran's spine to his ass, which he touched and cupped sensuously, fingertips delicately exploring the crease where buttocks met thighs, and slipping slightly in between his cheeks. Bran held very still, wondering if he were about to get fucked. His ass was still sore and torn from the last one of his master's-- former master's-- friends to use him; but if fucking-- even dry fucking-- was all Bran's new master had had in mind when he laid down the stainproof cloth, Bran might just go ahead and orgasm from relief right now.
Remembering his master's positive response to his advances in the car, Bran ventured to arch slightly into the touch, wriggling his ass invitingly against his master's hand. His master chuckled.
"No," he said, "not now. Maybe later." His hand traveled back up Bran's back to his shoulder. "You're stiff as a board, Bran. Relax. I said I wasn't going to hurt you."
The hand on his back disappeared for a few moments, then returned, slick and warm; startled, Bran jumped slightly. His master's hands were on his back, at his shoulders, sliding easily on-- was that oil?-- the fingers expertly probing and kneading his rigid muscles. Bran could not decide which was more astonishing: that his master was apparently giving him a massage, or how gods-damned good it felt to be on the receiving end of one.
"That's right," said his master softly. "Good boy. Just relax. It's okay."
Bran moaned very quietly as his master's thumbs worked out a kink between his right shoulder blade and spine. His master made a humming noise of approval and continued to work on the knots in Bran's muscles. Bran knew the techniques-- all slaves did-- but having them practiced on his own much-abused muscles was such exquisite pleasure Bran could barely muster the energy to wonder what the hell was going on. He lay limp and quiescent while his master did things to his back that made him feel as if the table he lay on were made of clouds or cream.
"You've been afraid for a long time," his master said gently, still rubbing small circles in the cramped muscles on either side of Bran's spine, sending electric waves of relief through Bran, who could not quite manage to speak before his master continued. "I'm guessing Dunaev wanted you afraid, since Dunaev is just the kind of idiot who thinks a state of chronic terror improves a slave's behavior, which is why Dunaev's slaves run the fuck away from him at their earliest opportunity." He moved his hands to the nape of Bran's neck and rubbed; Bran's breath caught in something like a sob of pleasure. "Good boy. Loosen up for me. Nice and easy. That's right. I don't want you scared, Bran, and I'll tell you why: fear makes you stupid. I don't want you stupid. I want you smart, smart enough to figure out which side your bread's buttered on, because that's what makes a good slave."
The caressing hands slid back down to his shoulders, the thumbs hooking under his shoulder blades; it felt so good Bran thought he might cry.
"Slaves need their wits about them, Bran," his master went on, pressing the heels of his hands firmly on either side of Bran's spine; Bran heard a crack and felt warm relief flood his back. "More than anything, slaves need to be smart. Because it's dangerous being a slave, and that's exactly why you can't let yourself get so afraid. Scared slaves do the most unbelievably stupid shit, like making a break for it when they're naked and wet and manacled-- no, don't freeze up again, kid, relax. It's not your fault. It's that son of an acid-secreting toad, Dunaev, filling your mind with gods-know-what crazy ideas about torture. We don't torture, Bran. And we don't want to break you. They call us the slave breakers-- but that's not what we do."
Bran was listening intently for an explanation of just what his new owners did do-- besides, apparently, bathe and massage their property-- when another man's voice spoke from the doorway of the room, out of Bran's field of vision.
"Hey, how come the new kid rates? I can't even remember the last time you strapped me down for sensual massage and a pep talk about the profession."
Bran's master laughed, continuing to rub Bran's shoulders. "Hi, sweetheart. Just trying to ease Bran's transition. He's been a little tense."
"Yeah?" Footsteps approached the table; Bran saw a flash of green cloth, then a friendly face, framed with sandy curls, with a few age lines around a pair of very blue eyes. "Hello, Bran. I'm Yves. Welcome to the jungle."
"Sir," Bran murmured.
"Sif, master, he's fucking gorgeous," said Yves, looking up with a grin. "May I, uh, help ease his transition?"
The master laughed again. "Maybe. What did you have in mind?"
"Mmm. I'm sure I could think of something." The face disappeared and was replaced by a view of a green-cloth-clad waist as Yves stood up. A favorite, obviously-- his master must be very fond of him to keep him around at all at his age, let alone allow him such familiarity. Bran prayed Yves wouldn't take a dislike to him-- he knew from experience how difficult life got when your master's pet decided you were an annoyance or a threat, and it wasn't as if this master could just sell him. This was the end of the line.
"Did Alix get hold of the doctor?" Bran's master asked the favored slave, while he went on massaging Bran.
"Yes, master. My mistress said to tell you the doctor will be here in about an hour, and to ask if Bran had any visible wounds or conditions that should be attended to in the meantime."
"Aside from an acute case of terror, no, not that I've seen," said the master. "Bran? Is there anything wrong with you physically that I don't know about?"
It took Bran a few moments to register that he'd been asked a question, and longer still to figure out what to say. He knew his ass was raw and a little torn, but not whether that counted as "something wrong"-- his former master certainly would not have bothered with it, but there were obviously new rules here. The question was whether his master would be more annoyed with him for mentioning something that didn't count, or for saying nothing was wrong if it turned out it did count. The other thing that was wrong with him was that he was hungry-- he hadn't been fed either last night or this morning-- which he certainly wouldn't have even considered mentioning if his master hadn't kept talking about how skinny he was and how he needed to be fed up, which would seem to indicate an inclination to perhaps feed him sometime in the near future.
Before he could decide, Yves said, "Is he asleep?"
"Bran?"
"No, master," he said hurriedly. "I mean, yes, master. I mean-- I don't know if my master considers this worthy of mention, but my-- my anus is, uh, kind of-- torn a little."
After a moment, hands gently but firmly parted his ass cheeks, and one finger probed at the puckered hole. Bran bit his lip to keep from crying out.
"How did this happen?" his master asked, sounding angry.
Bran swallowed. "My master-- former master-- had friends over the other night, master, and they fucked me. One of them likes to dry fuck, and his cock is very large, so I always get a little-- hurt-- when he fucks me."
His master was silent so long that Bran started to worry.
"Why did you act like you wanted me to fuck you earlier?" he asked finally.
Shit, shit, shit. Bran was afraid he couldn' t afford to hesitate again.
"Master, I thought you were going to-- when you put down the cloth-- I thought you were really going to fuck me up," he blurted. "For-- for-- I thought you'd, I'm sorry, I thought, I mean, when you try to run from normal owners you get sold to you, and I'd just tried to run from you, and this was, I mean the next thing, you strap me down and I thought, I was just hoping if you fucked me, at least it would postpone, I mean, and there was always the chance that you'd be pleased enough that you'd-- I, I wanted to please you, master."
There was another silence, while Bran's master stroked his hip a little absently and Bran considered that it might have been slightly more intelligent to pause for five seconds and then cut straight to that last sentence.
"He tried to run?" asked Yves curiously.
"If you could call it that," said Bran's master. "Had to be the most pitiful escape attempt in the history of slavery. I'm bathing him, right, in the tub, he's naked and covered with soapsuds, his hands are chained behind his back-- and it is this moment that the kid chooses as, you know, the absolute optimum moment to lunge for the exit like a crippled sea lion. Pure panic. Bran, I'm afraid you're not going to get fucked for a while-- not until that heals completely. I'm not risking infection, plus which I'm not really into fucking kids while they're screaming in pain. Not my thing. Not Yves' thing either, I don't think."
"No, master," said Yves cheerfully. "I prefer it when they're screaming for other reasons."
"Like with laughter, right?" There was a slight scuffle just outside Bran's field of vision. Bran was simultaneously amused and made very nervous by the extreme familiarity between his master and the older slave. The banter between them was not like banter between a master and even a highly favored slave; it was more like the good-natured raillery between Dunaev and the nobles he invited over for drinks and to fuck Bran till he bled.
"Anyway-- the doctor will be here soon and if there's anything that needs to be done--" His master patted his thigh reassuringly.
Bran took a deep breath. "Master?"
"Yes."
"I-- I haven't eaten, um, for a while."
"Oh, right," said his master. "I meant to ask you before-- when was the last time you ate?"
"Yesterday morning, master, before-- before I--"
"Loki venom-eyed," his master said between his teeth, already unbuckling the straps at Bran's ankles. "I'll kill Dunaev. I'm sorry, Bran, I didn't realize."
He undid the wrist restraints and helped Bran peel himself off the table and, shakily, to his feet.
"Take him downstairs and feed him, my dove," he said to Yves. "I have to make some calls."
"Uh-oh," said Yves, looping his arm through Bran's. "Lord Dunaev's in trouble."
"Damn right he is," said the master, scowling, as Yves led Bran from the room.
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