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That’s too much detail. You’ve been looking at him for too long.
I quickly drop my gaze, nibbling on my bottom lip. I haven’t seen him since he fed me my oatmeal and told me about the party. Was that yesterday? Today? I think it was yesterday. Even though he hasn't seemed to come back to the room at all, his friend has brought me food twice, so a decent amount of time must have passed. Which means the party is soon. He should really get some rest.
It's a strange feeling - this worry that's growing inside of me. I've worried a lot before about what my master thinks of me or how I can please him, but never about his well-being. If my previous Master was too tired or sick to deal with me, I was relieved. But with this master… I want to drag him into bed and demand he get some sleep. After I force him to eat first.
It's surreal.
Then again, pretty much everything since the moment he bought me has been surreal. His friend didn't even look at me like a slave when he came by, just giving me a kind smile and asking how I was feeling as if that matters. He never laid a hand on me either.
So fucking weird.
Master pulls out a protein bar from his pocket and hands it to me. “I’m going to take a shower while you eat that. Then you’ll shower after. There’s water in the mini-fridge if you want something to drink. And I’m serious about that, little one. If you want water, get yourself some.”
“Yes, Master.”
He seems to hesitate, just standing there for a moment, but then he sighs and heads to the bathroom to take his shower. I quickly eat the protein bar, not wanting to get in trouble if it’s not finished before he gets out. My stomach cramps, but I ignore the pain and grab water from the fridge he mentioned, drinking half of it to show him how well I can listen. Thankfully, I have some time for my stomachache to ease because he takes a while to finish up. I’m settled on my knees and feeling perfectly fine by the time he emerges in a puff of steam, wearing nothing but a towel.
I find myself staring at a broad chest, unable to help myself. Then a toned abdomen. Then a trail of thick, dark hair that curls down beneath his towel. There’s a tattoo of a vicious looking three-headed dog taking up the right half of his torso, blood dripping from its maws and flames crawling up behind it. His cock is soft, but the bulge is still plenty noticeable through the thin cotton of the towel.
My mouth suddenly feels very dry, despite all the water I just chugged. And my body is very, very warm.
Terror rushes through me, warring with the sharp burst of arousal in my gut. I can’t decide if I’m going to get an erection or vomit.
“The shower is yours,” he says, his voice raspy for some reason.
Shower. Yes. I can totally do that.
I wasn’t given permission to walk, so I start to crawl. He stops me with a soft, “Please stand.”
I force myself to my feet. It feels so fucking weird to stand in front of him. Especially with him in just a towel, water droplets slowly trickling down his front, the smell of his citrusy soap wafting through the air between us. Fuck.
He thankfully steps out of my way, allowing me to walk to the bathroom. Except… he didn’t say I could walk. Just that I could stand. I thankfully catch the trick just before I take a step.
I wait.
It doesn’t take long before he softly sighs. “You can walk. Please walk. To the bathroom. All the way to the shower. Then turn the shower on, using warm water that’s comfortable for you, and step inside. Then stand there for however long you’d like and wash yourself with whatever soap and shampoo you find smells nice. All while standing, unless you’re more comfortable sitting if you’re sore or something. When you’re finished and rinsed off, help yourself to one of the towels from the towel warmer. Don’t worry about making a mess stepping out onto the rug. Dry yourself off and walk back in here to sit on the bed. Okay?”
That… was a lot of instructions. But it really wasn’t at the same time, since he’s basically telling me to shower how I’ve showered for decades. How a human showers. As long as I don’t make the mistake of letting myself think I’m actually human again, I should be fine.
The bathroom is muggy when I get inside. Since I’m not sure if I’m allowed to close the door, I nudge it until it’s only cracked open, then step toward the shower and begin to follow his instructions.
The water sprays me right in the face when I turn it on - and the world shifts beneath my feet. One second, I’m in my new master's bathroom. The next, I’m back with my old master.
There's a cum and piss-soaked rag stuffed in my mouth. Two of Master's friends are holding me down as Master takes the detachable shower head and turns it onto the highest power setting.
I try so hard to be good. This is just a game, after all. A new one, yes, but still just a game. I haven’t done anything wrong. If I fight them, I’ll have a punishment to deal with when this is over. I force my body to go lax, trying not to hyperventilate as Master approaches.
The water hits me right in the face, a freezing cold assault. One of the men fists my hair and yanks my head back. Water quickly pours into my nose and to my throat. I choke on it, some spilling into my mouth and soaking into the already soiled rag. My lungs feel like they've collapsed. Like they've given up. I don’t fucking blame them. A harsh burn spreads from my chest through my body.
I don’t even realize I’ve started fighting until my fist connects with the shower wall and my knuckles crunch. I tell myself to stop, but I can’t. It's instinct. I’m going to fucking die! I can't just let myself die! I have to at least try!
I kick and swing, but my head is starting to swim, my body feeling loose and heavy.
"Please," I shriek into the gag. "Please, you're killing me!"
The men don't understand me. Or maybe they don't care. Or maybe I don't even make a sound. The water keeps coming until my vision turns black. Then I’m being turned over, the rag removed, a harsh hand slapping my back as I cough and vomit up water. The men are all laughing. I hear Master speak, amusement in his voice. "That was fun. If you had behaved, it'd be over. But I guess now we'll have to do a second round."
"Please," I wheeze. I claw at my throat. My chest. Someone grabs my hands, pulling them away, hushing me, telling me to stop because I’m scratching and they don’t want me to hurt myself. But… that doesn’t make sense. They’ve never cared before if I’m hurt.
