maculategiraffe

...and thereby harbinges the apocalypse.

dotty_at_home gets the blame for this one, having made a comment on the Gwen interlude that sparked the idea in my fevered (literally, at the time) brain.

Slave Breakers 'verse, undefined time and place, ~3800 words, NC-17, graphic M/f sex.

"And feel free to discipline her for any further disrespect."

Brighid felt tears spring to her eyes at the coldness in her mistress' voice. The man she was being ordered to serve-- in front of whom she'd just begged her mistress not to make her do so-- looked completely inscrutable.

"Thanks, Valeria," he said. "I'm sure we'll do fine. If you don't mind, I think we'll go ahead and turn in now."

He reached out and took her wrist, not roughly-- not yet. Brighid didn't dare look up as he and her mistress said their good nights, and he led her up the stairs and into the guest bedroom.

She dropped to her knees when he released her and bowed her forehead to the carpet at his feet, hoping he was in a lenient mood, or horny enough to just fuck her and leave it at that. Nothing happened for a minute, and then she heard footsteps, and the bed creaking, and he said, "Come here, Brighid."

She crawled obediently across the rug, without looking up, to his feet, and stared at his black leather boots, wondering if she should be taking the initiative to undress him, or wait for an order. This was exactly why she hated being shared. With her mistress, she knew what was expected, and she could always do it well enough to please; she could read her mistress' moods and knew when to be quiet and when to be sweet and when to be silly, and her mistress would smile and pull her close and they'd fall asleep together. But with her mistress' guests, she got so nervous, and jittery, and clumsy, and stupid, and she knew they never liked her. She'd only wanted to point out to her mistress that sending Brighid to serve the man she was trying to impress might not be the smartest option, and now she'd managed to disgrace herself and her mistress before he'd even gotten her alone.

Her tears spilled as his hand came down to cup her chin and turn her face up towards his.

"Hey, now," he sai. "Am I really that scary?"

Brighid stared at him. He looked younger than her mistress, with dark hair and eyes, and he didn't look angry.

"You know what I do for a living, Brighid?" he asked, and Brighid got scared again.

"Yes, my lord," she whispered. "You train disobedient slaves."

"Right," he said. "Although I'm not a lord. But yes, that's right-- I retrain problem slaves. Delinquents, we call them. That's my job. Are you a problem slave, Brighid?"

Brighid whimpered, trying to duck her head again, but he was still cupping her jaw firmly with one hand; he reached down with the other and brushed her tears away.

"That wasn't a very nice thing to ask," he said. "Not when you're in disgrace. But the answer is no, Brighid, you're not a problem slave. You're a good girl, and your mistress is usually pleased with you, or you wouldn't have dared ask her to spare you. Besides, she was embarrassed when you spoke up, so she must not have been expecting it-- so you're usually well behaved."

Brighid blinked up at him, her tears no longer flowing.

"So I'm wondering why you misbehaved just now," he continued. "I'm guessing either you don't like men, or you don't like strangers, or you don't like professional slave trainers with a reputation for correcting the incorrigible. Which is it?"

"Strangers, my lord-- I mean, s-sir," said Brighid nervously, and the man smiled at her.

"That's understandable," he said. "Being given over to a stranger can be pretty alarming, especially if you're shy. You are shy, aren't you?"

Brighid hesitated, trying to figure out the right answer, for a moment before she gave up and said, "Yes, my-- sir."

"Nothing wrong with that," he said. "Lots of people think it's cute. I bet your mistress does. But only when it suits her, right?"

Even though he wasn't being rough or angry, Brighid started to cry again as she said, "Yes, sir." What was he leading up to? She knew punishment was coming for her disrespect before; why didn't he just get it over with?

"It's okay, Brighid," he said softly. "Hey. You're not in trouble, not with me. And unless your mistress is planning to pay me for a night of my professional services, I'm not going to punish you for her. So we're fine, okay?"

He let her bow her head, this time, as she said a heartfelt, "Thank you, sir." Then his hand was on her hair, tracing the plait down the back of her head, her neck, and all the way to the end of it, nearly to her waist.

"One of the things you probably don't like about strangers is that they want strange things from you," he said. "Look at me, Brighid. I want something odd from you, but it's not going to hurt and I'm pretty sure it's not scary."

"Yes, sir," said Brighid dutifully, looking up into his face.

"I want to brush out your hair," he said. "Go into the washroom and get my hairbrush for me."

Brighid had been spanked with the back of a hairbrush before, so she wasn't exactly thrilled to be fetching one, but she scrambled to obey anyway; he certainly didn't seem eager to punish her, and maybe if she showed herself eager enough to please, he really would just brush her hair.

"Good girl," he said, when he took the brush from her. "Let's see. Why don't you sit down in that chair, there."

She obeyed, seating herself at the little dressing table, and he moved behind her with the brush, pulled the tie off the end of her braid, and started undoing it. He was careful, and it was obvious he'd done this before; when he started brushing, he did it from the ends up, so it didn't pull or tear, and he ran his fingers through, smoothing and checking for tangles.

"You have very pretty hair, Brighid," he said. "It reminds me of my wife's."

"Thank you, sir," Brighid murmured again, trying not to flinch; married men were the worst, especially when they started talking about their wives this early on. But maybe he was a widower. She'd served a widower, once, and he'd been gentle like this man, which was nice, even if it had been a little creepy to have him call her by what she assumed was his dead wife's name.

"Your mistress must like your hair, too," he added, still brushing. "To let you keep it this long."

"Yes, sir," said Brighid, smiling a little. "She says--"

And stopped herself, not quite in time. Her mistress had tried over and over to hammer it into her not to speak unless she was asked a question, or given explicit permission. But he'd been talking so much the way her mistress did on the occasions when Brighid did have permission to make conversation... she'd just forgotten that she didn't.

He hadn't stopped what he was doing, though, and now he was saying, "She says what?"

That was a question, so Brighid said, "She says she doesn't have time for long hair herself, so she likes it on me, sir."

He chuckled, and ran a hand over her hair. "Makes sense. Stand up and turn around."

Brighid obeyed.

"Pretty," he said, and touched her face, then her hair, and then stepped closer and ran a hand down her back. Brighid held her breath.

"You're terribly skittish, Brighid," he said, pausing with his hand still on her back. "What are you so afraid of?"

"That I'll displease you, sir," Brighid answered honestly.

He raised his eyebrows at her. "Are you going to defy me?"

"No, sir!" Brighid gasped quickly, trembling.

"Then why would you displease me?" He stepped closer, his hand growing more firm at the small of her back, and guided her towards the bed, not seeming to mind her clumsily hesitating footsteps. "I didn't come in here with a chip on my shoulder, and you've got no plans to try my patience, so I don't see any reason why we shouldn't get along. Do you?"

Brighid managed a faint "No, sir," as he sat down on the edge of the bed and pointed at his boots; she was well trained enough to kneel and ease them off for him, but she felt the blood drain from her face as he reached down to unbuckle his belt. It was a heavy strap, and she knew what they felt like in punishment.

"I'm just getting undressed," he said, and Brighid went from cold with fear to hot with embarrassment as he handed her the belt; she knew to coil it properly as he pulled his tunic over his head. She folded that too when he handed it to her, and held onto both, hoping he gave her some kind of order where to put them.

"Just on the floor is fine," he said, and she put them down beside her; he reached down to cup her cheek. "Good girl. Stand up and take off your tunic."

She did it as fast as she could, unable to make it the seductive little striptease she would have done with her mistress for fear that he'd think she was hesitating to obey. When her tunic was off, he reached out unexpectedly to take it from her, folded it neatly, just as she'd done to his, and laid it down beside his own. Then he reached out and drew her down into his lap. His nude body was warm, almost hot, against her slightly chilled skin; his chest was lightly furred with soft hair, his encircling arm supporting her more than trapping her, his penis still soft against her bottom. He leaned down, unexpectedly, and kissed her temple.

"It's a lot easier to tell when you're pleasing your mistress than when you're pleasing a stranger, right?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," she said, wondering if he meant she wasn't pleasing him.

"She probably has all kinds of signals that you've learned to read so easily you don't even know you're doing it. So when you have to consciously read someone, you get scared, because you aren't sure you can. Do you think I'm pleased with you, right now?"

Brighid swallowed. "Sir?"

"Just take a minute," he said, his palm rubbing little circles on her back, "and take a guess, when you're ready. You're always guessing anyway, with other strangers, aren't you? So what's your guess, based on all the signals I'm giving you right now? Do you think I'm pleased with you?"

Given permission to hesitate, Brighid took stock. He was stroking her back; he'd kissed her, he was speaking gently to her, he was holding her close. But--

"I think you're being kind, sir," she said finally. "I don't think I've done anything to please you, particularly. You don't like me being skittish, and I've been-- I don't think I've pleased you, sir, with my-- with my behavior."

"Okay, well, if I'm not pleased with you," he said, still caressing her back, "and this is how I act when I'm displeased, then do you think you have anything much to worry about, with me?"

Brighid couldn't help smiling a little at that, and he pulled her back a little to look at her, and smiled back.

"Brighid," he said, stroking her hair now. "I've had delinquent slaves bite me in sensitive places and try to burn my house down. Trust me-- I'm not particularly likely to get violent with a kid whose biggest problem is that she's too eager to please."

Brighid blinked, wondering what he could mean-- it wasn't possible for a slave to be too eager to please, was it?

"Sure it is," he said, as if she'd spoken aloud. "Isn't that why you're so jumpy? What's your worst-case scenario, here, Brighid?"

"Not pleasing you, sir," said Brighid immediately.

"Why?" he asked.

Brighid furrowed her brow. "I'm a slave, sir. I'm supposed to please you. My mistress gave me to you for the night."

"So what if you don't please me?" he asked. "No, hold on-- forget about me. You've got nothing to worry about with me, Brighid. You please me. I think you're a great kid. Trust me."

"Thank you, sir," said Brighid shyly, not entirely prepared to believe him, but grateful for the reassurance, anyway.

"But hypothetically," he went on, "if I were your worst nightmare-- if I had a short fuse and a mean streak and a heavy hand and a simmering grudge against all willowy blondes, on account of one who once dumped me for a younger, cuter guy-- well, what's the worst I could do to you?"

Brighid had to swallow again, but this time it was to keep from giggling, since he probably wanted her to take his question seriously.

"It's okay to laugh," he said, with a tiny wink. "I aim to entertain."

Brighid did giggle then, looking up at him with new interest-- not many people bothered to be witty for the benefit of a mere slave-- and thinking that he was really pretty good-looking, if you liked men.

"But really, think about it," he added. "What's the worst that could happen? I don't own you, so I can't kill you, or scar you, or do you any serious injury-- and your mistress isn't the type to risk handing you over to anyone she thought might damage you. Of course, I could rough you up a little-- hit you around, pin you down and fuck you mean-- but that's nothing you haven't been through before, right?"

"Yes, sir," said Brighid, not adding that she wasn't at all eager to go through it again.

"Nobody's idea of a good time, I realize," he said, "but when it's over, it's over. So, worst-case scenario, you're sore for a day or two, your mistress is especially nice to you because she feels bad about your ordeal, and she takes you more seriously the next time you ask not to be shared."

"But you could tell her I was bad," said Brighid. "I mean, not you, sir--"

"The hypothetical jerkass," he agreed quickly. "Let's give him a name. Call him-- Kolya."

"I can't call a nobleman by his nickname, sir," said Brighid, appalled.

"Oh, fine," he said. "Call him Lord, um, Abramov."

"Lord Abramov could tell my mistress I was bad and defiant, sir," Brighid pursued. "Then she wouldn't feel sorry for me getting punished. She'd probably punish me more."

He put his head on one side, quizzically. "She'd believe this Abramov over you?"

Brighid was startled. "Wouldn't-- wouldn't she?"

He shrugged. "You know her better than I do."

"I don't know," said Brighid after a moment. "I never thought about it."

"Think about it," he advised, moving her in his arms-- she jumped a little, startled, then tried to relax as he laid her down on her back on the bed and lay down, himself, beside her. "Are you sleepy?"

"No, sir," said Brighid, adding, "unless it please you, sir."

"Nice manners," he said, smiling at her again. "Turn over on your stomach."

She obeyed, not very fearfully, although she couldn't think of any good reason for the order except that he wanted to spank or whip her-- but she really didn't think he had anything like that in mind. Maybe he planned to fuck her from behind, or fuck her ass; she guessed that would be okay. He probably wouldn't hurt her any worse than he had to.

The bed shifted under her as he moved to brush her hair to one side, then began stroking her back lightly with his fingertips. It felt good.

"You have beautiful skin," he said, and then, "Anyway, what are the odds that any of your mistress' guests are going to turn out to be Abramov?"

"I don't know, sir," she said, rather vaguely.

"Not great," he said, still stroking her back. "And the odds that we're all going to be Abramov are even worse. But when you treat anyone she offers you to like he's already Abramov and it's just a question of when he blows up at you, well. It's no wonder your mistress doesn't take you all that seriously when you get an attack of nerves over being shared."

That wasn't a question, so Brighid didn't answer, and he stopped talking, but kept touching her.

He stroked her back, and the nape of her neck, and her arms, and then her bottom and thighs, alternately massaging her muscles with a light touch, and letting his nails skate over the surface of her skin, not hard enough to hurt; he even scratched lightly at her scalp, which was something her mistress sometimes did, and which felt just as good when he did it. When he tugged at her shoulder, turning her onto her back again, she realized she was so relaxed from all the touching that her muscles were nearly liquid.

On her back, she spread her legs obligingly, but he didn't move his hand there right away; he stroked her stomach, and her collarbone, and her cheek, and kissed her forehead, and then moved his hands over her breasts, and back down her belly again, and stroked softly over her inner thighs as he leaned down and covered her mouth with his. His lips were warm and soft, and she opened her mouth to his tongue, which slipped in at the same moment that one of his fingers slipped past her vulva and, deeply, inside her.

She moaned into his mouth, surprised-- and not unpleasantly-- as his finger wiggled around inside her. Then he took his mouth off hers and whispered huskily in her ear, "You're pretty wet."

That wasn't a question either, so she didn't answer, and after a moment he kissed her earlobe, nipped at it with his teeth-- she gave a faint squeak-- and then kissed her neck, lingeringly, and her shoulder. Another finger slipped inside her, beside the first, and she whimpered, and then moaned again as his thumb found the swollen little knot under its hood of flesh and rubbed, softly, but very firmly.

"Sir," she whimpered, and then bit her lip, hard; she hadn't meant to speak unbidden, but he didn't sound angry at all when he stopped kissing her left breast to answer, "Yes."

"Sir, may I--" His thumb was still describing little circles at her clit, his fingers slightly hooked inside her, rubbing at the most sensitive part of her, and the part of her brain that used words was rapidly shutting down. "May I-- do I have-- permission--"

"As soon and as often as you like," he answered, with a smile in his voice, and put his mouth down onto her nipple, and sucked, and nipped with his teeth, and his fingers kept touching her, but she wasn't quite there. He didn't seem put out by this; he switched to her other breast for awhile, while her arousal grew, maddeningly, and then she did come, with a moan, her muscles spasming around his fingers, and he sighed with what sounded an awful lot like satisfaction and kissed her breast again, then the cleft between the two breasts, but his fingers didn't stop.

She came again quickly, not as hard this time, and this time his fingers did draw out of her; he lifted them to his lips and slipped them in, his eyes on hers, sucking her wetness from his fingers with a kind of sheepish luxury, like a child who'd slipped into the kitchen and dipped his fingers into a jar of honey.

"Good?" she asked him, without even thinking, as if she were the indulgent cook, and he slid his fingers out of his mouth and grinned.

"Fucking fantastic," he said, and then moved down her so fast that she yelped with surprise when his mouth latched on between her legs.

His tongue played with her clit until she came again, harder this time, and then he sucked and slurped so hard between her legs that she giggled with dizzy, ticklish delight in his enthusiasm. He came up sucking his lips and laughing too, flushed and pleased, and then he was over her, on top of her, the head of his erection pressing in between the swollen lips of her vulva, and then further in. It had been a long time since a cock had been inside her, and she stiffened against the expected pain; he sobered at once.

"No?" he asked her, pausing with the head of his cock inside her, not pushing any further in. She stared up at him; he didn't look angry, just questioning.

"No--?" she repeated, bewildered; he pulled back, sliding out of her, and she reached for him without quite meaning to, grabbing his shoulders. "No, I mean-- I mean, you can--"

Unthinkable words to speak to her mistress' guest-- as if he needed her permission to do anything he liked to her body, let alone the most natural thing a man could do to a girl-- but he said, not moving, "Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir," she said, and he reached down and moved his cock with his hand, guiding it back between her slick lips, watching her face carefully as he slid deeper in. When she winced again, he stopped until she said, panting, "I'm okay," and then kept going, slowly, till he was all the way in.

He started with short slow strokes, seeming to feel his way through the initial tightness, and then, still watching her, picked up speed and force, his face flushing, fingers digging hard into her shoulders, and whispered, "Oh, fuck yeah-- Brighid--"

"Yes," she whispered back, moving against him, rippling her internal muscles rhythmically around him, and he made a soft whimpering sound and slowed down; she was surprised, but relaxed into his rhythm, hoping he'd finish before she started to get rubbed raw. After a while she forgot to worry about that, but it still came as a bit of a shock when she abruptly had another orgasm.

He cried out, at the same moment, and drove into her very hard about four times, and then came to a halt while she shuddered under him; he put his head down on her shoulder, and she put her arms around him, resting her palms on his sweat-cool back. They lay there like that for what seemed like a long time-- long enough for Brighid to wonder whether he'd fallen asleep-- before he stirred, raised himself slightly, slid himself out of her, and said, propping himself up on one elbow by her side, "You okay?"

She laughed-- she couldn't help it-- and he laughed back, pleased.

"Good," he said, lowering himself down to lie on his back, and closing his eyes. "I try. And now I'm going to do the man thing, and fall asleep. You mind?"

"Sir?" said Brighid, and he opened his eyes and looked at her expectantly. "Did I please you?"

He smiled at her, slowly, and closed his eyes again.

"Guess," he said.