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I gasp when the leather strap around my chest breaks free first, filling my lungs with a full dose of air for the first time since it was secured. I’m so disoriented that it takes me a moment to realize when the other straps follow. Then the hands are in my hair, my limbs numb and lifeless as they flop to the sides of the bench.
He’s talking again, but it still feels like I’m listening to him from under water. My ears feel hot. Wet. Are they bleeding? Does that happen?
I shake my head, trying to gather myself. I’m better than this. I’m a good slave. Whoever this is, I need to listen. I need to show him how good I can be. Especially because there’s a very good chance this is a test. Master Roarke’s test. And there’s nothing more important than pleasing Master Roarke.
I’ve been in love with Master Roarke for a long time now. It happened slowly, like a decay inside my chest that eventually grew into something new and pretty. Do I love the fact that he owns me like an object instead of a person? Not particularly. Do I want to be owned by anyone else? Not in the fucking least. I’ve built my identity around him, piece by piece, month after month. He’s my master, my love, my everything.
When I’m beaten or used by his men or his guests, I endure it for him. He gives me to the most important business associates. He has me work the main area of any of his events. He chooses me more than any other slave when he wants to enjoy some cock warming. He tells anyone who asks that I’m the best, always with a booming pride in his voice, his hand sometimes even finding my hair to pet me. Even better? Sometimes he calls me a good boy.
I used to be afraid of what I’d do for that good boy, but that was a long time ago.
I used to tell myself I only loved him because it was easier to cope, but that was a long time ago too.
Sure, it hurt like hell when Master Roarke went and bought Maison’s little brother, but that had nothing to do with him wanting Carter, it had to do with revenge against Maison.
Besides, he told everyone he’d kill Carter once Maison was dead. Maison’s about to be dead, so Carter’s going to be out of the picture soon. I hate that—don’t get me wrong—I hate that so much it makes it hard to wake up in the morning knowing it, but it’s out of my hands. I can’t save Carter, but I can save myself. I can be the best fucking slave I can be for Master Roarke. And when he realizes that having Carter has gotten him used to having his own personal slave and realizes he wants another one, I’ll be right there waiting. He doesn’t even have to love me back. He just has to let me be his. He just has to fuck me and use me and keep calling me his best. Maybe he’d give me my very own collar instead of the one he gives all of his house slaves. Maybe he’d be so proud of me, he’d keep me forever.
I’m not sure what I’ll do if he doesn’t take me as his next slave. I don’t know how much longer I’ll last settling for his scraps of affection. It’s bad enough that everything is falling apart around me. One of the slaves here has started to lose his mind, forgetting things and getting confused and startling at things that aren’t really there. My own best friend hasn’t spoken in almost a year after he was horrifically terrorized as birthday party entertainment for one of Master Roarke’s men. The only reason I’ve kept it together this long is because of my goal of becoming Master’s slave, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep up that hope before my broken heart beats me down.
I don’t know how many more days I can survive before even the thought of doing all of this for love isn’t enough anymore.
So, I have to be good. Whoever this man is that’s helping me right now, I have to behave. I have to pass this test. I have to prove to Master Roarke that I really am his best. I have to prove to him that I deserve his attention, his pain, his cock, his praise.
I have to prove to him that I’m a good boy.
But I’m so dizzy. And the pain in my ears is getting worse as the seconds pass. And my limbs feel heavy and foreign, like they’re someone else’s. And the blindfold is off now, but the chandelier above me is so bright I can’t bear to open my eyes.
I try to form my mouth around the words, “How may I serve you?” but my tongue feels clumsy and wrong.
There are more voices now, all clustered together, different tones overlapping. The hands come back. I recognize them by the calloused palms and the gentle touches. Men in this world don’t have hands like that.
The hands tighten on me before I’m suddenly heaved into a sitting position. I list to the side, but a body breaks my fall, my eyes shooting open as I make contact. The world is nothing but dancing lights and blurred bodies for a moment before it finally focuses. I see a table with shattered glass and a body slumped over the edge of it. There’s blood soaking into the cream tablecloth below.
I think I should be scared.
My left ear pops, filling with a sudden searing pain. My weak hand shoots up to touch it, desperate to find some sort of relief. Someone catches it before it can make the journey. Sound pours in, too loud, sharp, make it stop.
“—urt yourself,” a man says. I somehow know it’s the same man from before, even though I couldn’t hear him then. There’s still a familiarity to the voice. A rumbling warmth that feels impossibly… safe. “Don’t touch.”
I slowly nod, understanding the order. Don’t touch. I don’t know what he doesn’t want me touching, so I curl my hands into fists to keep from making contact with anything.
The body holding me up slowly withdraws, like the person is afraid I’ll fall without the support. I tighten my stomach to keep myself up. They don’t tell me I’m a good boy, but that’s okay. It wasn’t like it was all that good anyway. Any slave should be able to handle staying upright.
The first part I register of the man is his stomach. It’s tan, sculpted, and dusted with dark hair. There are also bruises and cuts all over it. Before I can consider what might have happened, my eyes drop lower. He’s wearing a pair of black pants that are too tight for him, the waist button left undone and the zipper halfway down. His soft cock is tucked to the left, the fabric around it strained.
Will he want me to get him hard? Or just some warming with my mouth? I’m usually so good at anticipating a man’s desires, but I’m obviously off my game at the moment.
The man ducks his head, bringing his face into my line of sight. I flinch and try to look away. He doesn’t allow it, big hands grabbing my cheeks and guiding my head until our eyes are locked. I don’t recognize him. He’s not one of Master Roarke’s men. Is this a takeover? Did one of Master Roarke’s enemies kill him? Or did Maison’s men come to rescue him? Rescue… us?
“Can you hear me?” he asks, his face pinched with clear concern.
I don’t know if I should talk—or if I even could if I wanted to—so I just nod as much as his grip on my head allows. He sighs, his eyes fluttering in relief. They are very, very blue.
“Did you drink anything? Did anyone give you champagne?”
I frown. Why in the world does that matter right now? But he asked a question, and regardless of what the hell is happening right now, I need to answer. He looks relieved again when I shake my head.
“Another one?” someone says from behind me.
