Page 16

The fingers disappeared, and Daniel dropped his chin again, suspecting that he and his master had two very different definitions of the word “hurt.” He wanted to believe him, but he’d heard those words before, and they’d been a lie every time, even when the men speaking them had seemed kind. The loofah returned, low on his belly, and his eyes were drawn like magnets to his master’s erection, much larger than Daniel’s would be if his nuts weren’t trying to crawl into his throat. All he could think of was why his master had bought him, what the man wanted so badly—or wanted to hide so badly—that he’d been willing to drop millions for it, and how long it would be before he lost his patience and simply took what he’d paid for.

The loofah brushed over Daniel’s genitals, no faster or slower than it had over his torso, pushing no harder or softer. It was almost . . . clinical, Daniel thought, clenching his jaw but spreading his legs obediently when his master’s hand nudged the inside of his thigh. The man squatted in front of him, his rock-hard cock bumping against Daniel’s tense calf, his hands and eyes intent on the leg he was washing.

Then his master started on the other leg, leaning in close to reach across Daniel, that hard cock no longer just brushing but actually pressing against Daniel’s calf. The master moaned at the same time Daniel did, but Daniel bit it back lest his master mistake the sound for desire. Of course, the master might not care one way or the other. He had no reason to.

No reason at all.

The master stood and said, “Turn around,” his voice low and rough and as thick as the cock straining between his legs.

Daniel swallowed hard, breathed even harder. If he hyperventilated, maybe he’d pass out and . . .

No. No such luck. His body turned of its own accord, so accustomed to obeying orders that it didn’t even check with his brain before moving. He braced his palms against the back wall of the stall, squeezed his eyes shut. He would not allow himself to beg, would not ask his master to stop, no matter how awful it was. He wasn’t a child anymore, but there was still no way that giant cock could possibly fit where his master planned to put it. At least not without the agony he remembered, the blood, the tears, the way he couldn’t sit or walk right or bear to use the toilet for days after. The way he could still smell them on him long after it was done, after he’d washed and washed again, the way he could feel their weight, scratchy hair and hot damp skin, pressing him down in his dreams. Would he be able to hold himself still through it now, or would the master, like those men from his past, have to pin him in place, shout at him, hit him until he stopped struggling?

His master stepped close, so near that Daniel felt the heat of him, even through the steam. Then a hand fell on his shoulder, and a soft, “Shhh,” tickled his ear. Daniel wanted to believe the sound was meant to comfort, but maybe, like his first mistress, like the men she’d given him to, the master just didn’t want to hear his fear.

Or worse, maybe he did want to hear it, and he was simply trying to unnerve Daniel.

The loofah made a single stroke down Daniel’s bruised left shoulder, painful but bearable, and a trail of soap bubbles tickled down his back. Another stroke, toward the middle, then over the welts and cuts on his right shoulder. He hissed, muscles jumping and fingers flexing against the tile, and the loofah instantly withdrew. His master’s bare hands took its place, soap-slicked and so, so gentle, working carefully around the worst and brushing feather touches over the rest.

It should’ve eased Daniel’s mind, that careful touch. He knew it should’ve—a sadist wouldn’t be so careful, would he? And yet still he trembled against the wall as those enormous hands trailed down his battered back, to his equally battered waist and hips. Daniel let his head drop between his arms, panted hard through clenched teeth. Maybe he even believed his master didn’t mean to hurt him, but it hurt anyway, and it wasn’t the road to Heaven that was paved with good intentions.

The next touch was the loofah again, which was better than the master’s hands, but not by much. It stroked down to his ass—and Jesus, how long did it take to wash someone? How much longer would his master make him stand here, trembling beneath those hands, before the man took what he’d come for? For a moment, he wondered if the suspense wasn’t worse than the actual deed would be—he knew some men enjoyed penetration, though he couldn’t fathom how—but then his master’s cock bumped his hip, and it felt like a steel fucking rod. Unbending, unyielding, cruel.

The master stepped away and adjusted the spray until the water washed the soap from Daniel’s back. Every second that passed without skin against his skin, with hot water streaming in its place, Daniel unclenched a little more, but it was all undone a moment later when a large hand cupped his elbow and turned him around.

“You know,” his master began, and from his blown pupils, flushed lips, and raging hard-on, Daniel was certain he was about to be scolded, berated, ordered to his knees. You be a good little cunt now or I’ll beat you senseless, you hear? “Not to belabor the point, Daniel, but you really do need to calm down.” And then he left, calling, “Stay in there as long as you like,” as he toweled off and closed the door behind him.

Daniel stared at the suddenly empty bathroom, muscles locked and frozen, hot water streaming into his open mouth.

Daniel hid in the shower for a long time. There was no clock in there (there was, however, an in-shower radio, tuned to NPR when Daniel flipped it on), but it must have been half an hour, he figured, before the water went suddenly cold. He lunged for the tap with a curse and a flare of panic—he hadn’t meant to lose so much time, hadn’t meant to use all the hot water. What if the master wanted some?

His fingers had pruned. He dried off with a Turkish cotton towel four times the size of the ones in the dorms. His red toothbrush and a shaving kit were sitting on the sink, tagged with a little yellow sticky note that said simply, Daniel. The clothes waiting for him on the vanity also looked new—distressed jeans and a gently fitted black button-down shirt, navy watch-plaid boxers and a pair of socks. He wondered who had snuck in here to drop these things off, but what the hell, it felt like the whole damn world had seen him naked this week already. That he hadn’t noticed someone come in was perhaps of slightly larger concern, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to worry. He was tired and stressed and in pain, that was all.

He groomed and dressed slowly, half of him content to hide in here all day, the other half just waiting for the master to storm in, strike him, scold him for loafing. The shaving cream smelled fantastic. The clothes were soft and loose enough to be almost comfortable against his healing skin.

Finally, he ran out of excuses to stay inside his little marble cocoon. He wished he could find a reason to go to work today; he didn’t know what having a heart attack felt like, but the morning had barely passed and already his throat felt tight and his chest hurt. How would he make it through a whole damn weekend of this?

One foot in front of the other, Daniel. You’ve lived through worse.

With a fortifying sigh, Daniel headed toward the living room. He found the master there, lounging on the couch, watching football on a huge TV. But the master didn’t acknowledge or direct him. Not knowing what else to do, he stood off to one side, against the wall where he could watch the game (not that he had any idea what was happening), and where his master, if he so chose, could watch him.

The master finally turned his head, gave Daniel a slow, appreciative once-over, and went back to the game. Eight minutes into the first quarter. He’d probably be watching for a while.

At the two-minute warning, Jane and Dave came out of the slave suite, hand in hand. Dave said, “Back at three, Master.”

The master waved them off with barely a glance. Was this a regular Saturday routine, then? Daniel ached to go with them, somewhere, anywhere that wasn’t here. But they were gone before he could even think about working up the courage to so much as toss them a longing look, so he rocked back on his heels and resigned himself to an afternoon of sports.

How boring. Epically boring. He’d never been much good at doing nothing—not a lot of practice, after all. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, pulled them out to cross his arms, put them in his pockets again. Started writing questions in his head for the interview on Wednesday with that Tea Party asshat, who somehow simultaneously thought that slaves (rather than, say, automation) were to blame for the erosion of the blue-collar and unskilled job market but were also soulless godforsaken creatures who could only earn redemption through total dedication and lifelong service to society. On TV, another sack, still no score. God, didn’t anything ever happen in this game? He was tired of standing, wanted some Tylenol. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“For God’s sake, would you sit?”

The words cracked like a leather strap, and Daniel startled hard, apology spilling from his lips before the offense had even registered in his brain.

But his master didn’t look particularly angry. Irritated, yes, but not angry. “You’re not a dog, you know,” the master added, sliding from irritated to . . . bemused? “I won’t shoo you off the furniture. But God help me, I may swat you on the nose with a rolled-up paper if you fidget even one more time.”

Daniel believed him.

The couches formed an L around the coffee table, and he approached the unoccupied leg, sat stiffly on the edge of the middle cushion. The master followed him with his eyes, frowning slightly. Had he wanted Daniel to sit next to him? For a moment, the master looked like he might say something, but he only sighed and turned back to the game.