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And yet once again, the master surprised him. “Don’t,” he said as Daniel’s hands dipped south, seeking the master’s pleasure. Daniel froze, but before even a hint of fear could begin to settle, the master added, “I told you it’s supposed to be good, that I’d never, ever hurt you. Let me show you, okay? Let me . . . Let me woo you a little, yeah?” The master leaned in and brushed a kiss against his neck, his bare collarbone, slid a hand down Daniel’s torso and cupped his soft cock. “This is for you. Just you. All I want is for you to lie there and enjoy it.”

Maybe he was overtired, or maybe he’d forgotten his own warnings and begun to like the man too much, trust too much, feel too safe, too entitled to actually being wooed. Or maybe he really was just a terrible slave. Whatever it was, he let his hands fall back to his sides without the slightest sense of concern or obligation, arched into his master’s hands and mouth as they chased over every inch of him, leaving pleasure in their wake as he’d not known since—

No. Don’t think of him here.

Half an hour later, he came with a grunt into his master’s mouth, wondering if there’d ever been a master in all of history who had brought his slave to orgasm and asked for nothing in return.

The next night, Daniel asked if this time, he could touch the master back. He felt no passion, per se, but he truly did want to please the man, to be the good slave such a good master deserved, no matter how the master ultimately decided he felt about slavery. His new request was met with eager enthusiasm, and he tried to match it as the master led them into the shower. Daniel knew how to wash a man, how to make it good, sensual, downright erotic, even; sometimes those ten minutes in the communal shower at the NewWorld dorm were the only ten minutes you’d get with a lover all day, so you learned how to make it look like you were just helping a guy out, washing his back, when in reality you were sharing what touch and affection you could.

Here, with the master, he had nothing to hide, and no ticking clock to rush him through. He thought back to the first shower he and the master had shared, back when he’d been so afraid the master would hurt him, when the master had taken so much care to convince him otherwise. Thought of all the things the master had done for him, and did them for the man in return. Knelt down and ran soapy hands up one calf, then the other, hairy and firm beneath his palms. Then up to the master’s thighs, the skin warm and smoother and pale white, so different from the dark skin of Daniel’s prior lovers.

But we’re not lovers.

Still, there was no denying the arousal tingling in Daniel’s groin as his soapy fingers skirted the master’s, threading through surprisingly soft pubic hair, but not touching the heavy balls or the cock straining hard toward the master’s belly.

On impulse, Daniel leaned forward just a little and kissed the tip.

The master moaned, long and low and in clear disproportion to the amount of stimulation Daniel had provided. Daniel decided he liked that—the implication that the master wanted Daniel to want this too, the same unfamiliar thrill of power he’d felt when the master had asked permission to touch him, when the master had begged his forgiveness for wronging him. And more than that, more than his own pleasure, more than that banked, latent fear that the master might grow tired of him one day, find him no longer worth the money and leave him on the market for someone else to lease, he realized he liked making the master feel good. That he did want this too, wasn’t just doing some duty. The man had done so much for him. Was such a good man. Even kind of an attractive man, for a middle-aged, desk-bound, rich white guy.

So when the master’s hands came to rest on Daniel’s head and nudged him, ever-so-slightly, forward again, Daniel went along happily. Kissed the tip of the master’s cock again, then followed that with a little lick. It earned him another moan, and still the master’s hands on his head were only asking instead of telling, and Daniel answered by opening his mouth and sucking the master down.

All the way down, like his first companion lover had taught him over twenty years back. He could only tolerate it a few seconds without worrying he’d puke, but a few seconds was all it took. The master’s hands lifted from Daniel’s head and pressed to the tiled walls—so careful not to hurt him, even in the throes of orgasm—and then he grunted and went rigid and still and trusted Daniel to milk him as he spilled down Daniel’s throat.

Daniel pulled off, coughing and sputtering but thoroughly pleased with himself, and next he knew, he was on his feet and pressed against the heated tile wall, water beating down on his shoulders as the master knelt down to give all his attention to Daniel’s own erection.

It wasn’t until they were washed and dried and tucked naked into bed in each other’s arms that Daniel realized he hadn’t thought of Mr. Foster or the supervisors or his old mistress’s clients the entire night.

After that, Daniel spent half an hour or so every night learning what made the master tick, how to excel at what he liked best. And afterward, after the master pleasured Daniel in return, they’d lie together in the dark and talk, and even when Daniel skirted the very edges of the confidentiality clause, he never once feared that his words would get back to NewWorld.

The next few weeks proved their arrangement more than a good one—it was a happy one. Daniel often missed his free time, his privacy, but he’d gained a whole host of luxuries and a strange sort of companion—a master who cared about him, listened to him, tried as hard to make Daniel happy as Daniel tried to make him happy.

And mostly, Daniel thought he did. But only mostly. The master made no secret of the delights he found in Daniel’s hands and mouth, but Daniel knew the man wanted more. Many nights he’d feel a hand snake around, a finger touch lightly where he’d only ever known pain instead of pleasure. He’d stiffen, and the finger would go away, slide back to his balls or his cock, and not return for the next little while.

But each time, Daniel would think about what Mr. Foster had said: I could’ve made this nice for you. And the master, too: It’s supposed to be good, Daniel, it’s supposed to make you feel good. They each had reasons to lie, but Daniel was coming to believe that perhaps they hadn’t. The master had promised not to hurt him, after all, and he’d proven himself a man of his word, so why would he keep trying unless he really believed . . .

Tonight, Daniel thought. Tonight, if the master tries again, I will try to let him.

Daniel came home late. Breaking news had left him chained to the anchor desk until almost eleven, and by the time the car pulled up to his master’s house, his eyes felt hot and heavy. He longed for nothing more than a shower and a soft pillow, but when the master met him at the door and swept him up into a kiss, undressing him on the spot between licks, nips, and proclamations about how much he’d missed him, he had no choice but to concede to the master’s wishes. Which wasn’t to say the man didn’t arouse him, even through his exhaustion, because at some point this whole mess of feelings in his heart and head—dampened by his lack of soul or otherwise—had shifted from a sense of duty and a desire to please and into a purer kind of desire. It probably helped that the master knew just how to touch Daniel, just what to do and say to drive him crazy. Daniel supposed he could think of worse obligations to have.

The master pushed him toward the bedroom, and between kisses Daniel felt brave enough to ask, “Shower?”

The master growled into his neck but veered off into the bathroom. Daniel was already naked, and the master ripped his own clothes off, turned on the water, and shoved Daniel inside, up against the heated tile wall. Water pounded them both.

The master pressed a bar of soap into Daniel’s hands. “Wash,” he said, then dropped to his knees at Daniel’s feet and swallowed Daniel’s half-formed erection.

Wow, he really had missed him.

Daniel moaned, closed his eyes, and let his head tip back against the tile.

“You’re not washing,” the master mumbled around a mouthful of Daniel’s cock.

Daniel gathered up the brainpower to stick one arm out and soap it up. Then the other arm, then his chest. It was awfully hard to do anything with his cock down the master’s throat, but he squeezed his eyes tighter and imagined that his hands were (Victor’s) the master’s hands, and suddenly it was easy, it was wonderful, and he ran soapy hands across his belly, his nipples, his face and neck. He was panting hard, knees threatening to unhinge, and when the master held one hand up and said, “Soap,” the vibrations shot through Daniel’s cock and tore a whimper from his throat. He had to drop one hand to the master’s shoulder to stay upright.

The master took the bar and ran soapy hands up and down Daniel’s thighs, calves, balls, ass. Fingers approached his crack, brushed along it, and though Daniel tensed momentarily, he remembered his resolution and forced himself to relax, to sink back into the pleasure the master was giving him. He let those fingers wash him, caress him, and as they circled across and around that tight ring of muscle, Daniel exploded into the master’s mouth.

The master milked him until the tremors stopped, then stood. “I’m getting too old for this shit,” he grumbled, but the satisfied smirk on his face belied the complaint. He moved Daniel under the spray, chased soapy trails with his fingers as the water washed them away.

Daniel wrapped a hand around the master’s cock, which was so hard it must have hurt, but the master batted him away.