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“Yes, Master. I - I was on a college team.”
“What was your stroke?” Master laughs softly. “Is that the right way to ask that? I’ve never been much into swimming. But swimmers usually specialize in strokes, yes? Or at least have a favorite? Like… Michael Phelps. He swam butterfly, right?”
I almost smile. “Yes, Master. He did. I swam freestyle. Individual and relay.”
“Did you do it because you enjoyed it? Or because you were good?”
I want to ask him how he knows I was good, how he even knows I swam, but I’m too afraid of the answer. “Both, Master. Mostly because I enjoyed it. I - I loved it.”
“We have a pool here. Maybe when you’re healed, I’ll take you for a swim. I’d love to watch you.”
The words are like knives in my skin. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember how to breathe. It’s a game, I remind myself. Don’t get your hopes up you idiot. You’re smarter than this. He’s never going to let you fucking swim.
“Th-that’d be very kind of you, Master,” I force myself to say, hoping Master can’t hear how upset I am.
“Only if you want, of course,” Master adds.
And there it is.
Only if I want.
That’s the trick, isn’t it? Because I’m not supposed to want a single fucking thing. Slaves don’t want.
The urge to cry wells up inside of me, threatening to close my throat and burn my eyes, but I force it down and remind myself that this is nothing new. It’s just a game. I’ve become an expert at playing these fucked up games. I can survive this.
At least, until I get a chance to stop surviving altogether.
Chapter Eight
Jake
Clearly, asking about swimming wasn’t a good idea. The boy has completely shut down since then. He barely even reacted when I emptied his bath of its dirty water and refilled it with fresh water and more lavender oil and soaking salts. I let him relax a while longer before bursting the bubble of tense silence between us. “Sit up for me. I’m going to wash your hair.”
He swallows a whimper as he moves, but I still hear it. I nudge his chin upward until his head is tilted back. “Keep like that, okay? I don’t want any soap getting in your eyes.”
His only response is a tiny nod. He bites down on his bottom lip as I bring the first cup of water to the top of his head and begin pouring it over his long, filthy hair. I’m careful, using my free hand to brush stray drops of water away from his forehead so none of them trickle down his face.
Once his locks are thoroughly soaked, I grab a bottle of shampoo and start lathering his scalp. He shivers, a soft hum rising in his throat. I let myself smile, but don’t ask him if it feels good. I don’t want him to be afraid of the pleasure. Maybe if I don’t draw attention, he’ll allow himself to bask in it for a while. That’s why I take extra time to work the shampoo in, massaging his scalp in slow, even strokes and carefully working through each tangle I find.
Eventually, I have to rinse his hair. He looks a little sad, so I do the entire process over again. It can’t hurt, right? The hair was fucking filthy.
He seems genuinely relaxed by the time I’m working a soapy loofah over his body, gently washing away any lingering grime on his skin. I’m careful around his injuries, rage spiking inside of me every time I come across a scar that I’m sure he didn’t have before. I do his face last, gently cupping it as I swipe a cloth across his cheekbones and over his nose, making sure no soap gets in his eyes or mouth.
His body is listless by the time I pull him out of the bath and stand him on the mat so I can gently dry him off with a towel from the towel warmer. He keeps his chin tucked low, avoiding eye contact. It makes me desperate to meet his gaze.
Once his body is dry, I grab a new towel and a bottle of lotion before guiding him to the bed. I take a seat against the headboard, pulling him between my legs so his back is pressed to my chest. I pull a blanket over his lower half, so he doesn’t get a chill while I slowly work on drying his hair with the towel. He rests his head back on my shoulder when I’m done, his cold nose pressed against my throat as I start working lotion along his limbs.
He hums and shivers every once in a while, seeming very happy with the treatment. A few tears fall down his cheeks, but I gently wipe them away and continue. When I’m fairly certain he’s fallen asleep, I carefully pull one of my softest sweaters over his head, slide out from under him, and tuck him in. I let myself stand there for a moment, staring down at the sleepy boy with clean, messy hair and a soft smile on his lips.
I’ve always dreamt of spending my time just like this. Bathing a boy. Caring for him. Tucking him in. Sure, in my fantasies I was his daddy, and he wasn’t recovering from a fucking nightmarish existence. In my fantasies, I could slide my cock into his tight hole and wrap my arms around him while I make him feel good. In my fantasies, he was fucking happy. But the past hour was close enough to hurt a little. Just a tiny stab of longing in the center of my chest.
I don’t let myself dwell on it. This beautiful, broken boy is mine to care for, but he’s not mine.
He never will be.
My mind has completely switched gears by the time I've showered and gone through my nightly routine, my focus now on my job instead of Casey. I'm in the middle of creating a mental checklist for things I need to get sorted out before Travis’s - well, Nathan Roarke’s, actually - upcoming birthday party. The soirée needs to go perfectly since a major operational move will be taking place during it – if all goes well and Travis can convince a man named Vasco to switch to our side tonight, the operation could be over in a matter of weeks. Days, even.
The mental checklist is why it takes me a moment to realize something is off when I step out of the bathroom, my mind taking a moment to process.
