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“I’m scared,” the slave whispers. He blinks, more tears falling. They pool against Nathan’s thumbs. “The – the monster…”
“I’m not letting the monster out," Nathan promises. Then, because it's only fair, "But that means you can't let Carter out either. Put him away. I want my slave here now."
The slave carefully nods. Nathan lets go of him, allowing his head to drop. Benny fidgets off to the side as the slave takes a deep breath, sets his shoulders, and then relaxes into a perfectRestposition.
“Who owns you?” Nathan asks.
“You do, sir.”
“What are you?”
“A slave, sir. Holes. Entertainment for your guests.”
“Good boy.” Nathan leans down, brushing his lips against the slave’s temple. “Keep it up, and I’ll let you come on sir’s cock tonight.”
The boy shudders – not in disgust, not in fear, but inarousal, inanticipation.
“You ready?” Benny asks.
Nathan is confident when he says, “We are.”
The bench they restrain Carter to is similar to the one from the auction - at least, it feels similar, since he never actually saw that bench. He can see now, though. Enough to make him wonder if maybe his anxiety from being blindfolded would be worth the chance to miss everything. The stage with lights that will shine on him. The leather bench. The wall of hooks, all holding a different instrument of pain or torture. The line of guests so long it's wrapping around the tent. The steely look in sir's eyes as he straps Carter in. The way Benny can't even look at him at all when he pats his head once and mutters, "You're going to be alright."
“Guests will only use their hands," Benny announces into a microphone - like he's hosting a show. Which, Carter supposes, he kind of is. "Anything below the waist is free game. One hit per guest." A dramatic pause. Then, "Enjoy."
The classical music playing through the speaker system suddenly shifts to something darker. Heavier. A steady pulse of low voices and seductive melodies. Someone steps up behind him. Hands caress his ass cheeks, kneading and spreading them to expose his hole.
“Damn, Roarke,” a husky voice says. The man pushes at the plug in Carter’s ass. “You’re so fucking lucky.”
“That I am,” sir agrees, his voice much louder than Carter expected. Carter startles, not having realized sir was standing so close. He turns his head, looking away from the crowd toward the back wall full of instruments. Sir is at the corner of his bench, one hand resting on one of the leather legs. His fingers are just inches from Carter's ankle. Something in Carter settles. Calms. "Move it along, Damon. Line is going to get restless."
The man –Damon– sighs wistfully, but releases Carter. It takes a few seconds for the hit to land, Carter tense and holding his breath. He jolts forward when the hand comes in contact with his right ass cheek. It didn't necessarily hurt - not compared to what sir has done to him in the past - but it didn't feel great either. He knows it's going to get worse, though. Much worse.And he still has a few sore spots from his last beating.The first man had missed them, hitting a clear stretch of skin.
The second man does the opposite, hitting the one spot sir had almost broken his skin with the belt.
Carter chokes on air, his body trembling as the pain shoots through him.
Another steps up. This time, the hit is to the sensitive spot between his left ass cheek and left thigh.
The next is over the same spot the second man hit.
It doesn’t take long for people to catch on that the spot hurts particularly bad.
The next hits him there.
And the next.
And the next.
Someone hits the back of his left thigh.
Someone hits his right ass cheek hard enough to feel like a closed-fist punch.
Someone hits the sore spot again.
And again.
The hits start to blur, guests impatient, hurrying forward to hit him before the guest before them has fully moved away.
