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Master’s voice sends a chill down my spine. I think it’s on instinct more than anything that I manage to turn my chin toward him, giving him my attention without looking at him. At least, I hope I’m not looking at him. My eyes are still blurry. I think my head is spinning. Or the room is. Or both.
“What do you want him to do?” Master asks. It takes me a moment to realize he’s not talking to me. Someone else is in the room.
There’s a stretch of silence that burrows beneath my skin and itches. I try to keep my heart from pounding so I can listen, but it’s getting harder to breathe. Why is it quiet? Who is Master speaking to? What's going on?
“I want to see his hole,” someone finally says. An American. There's a distant memory in my head of an American speaking to me. One at the party? Carter's master? No. After that. Here, in the house. Wasn't he here? In the room? Didn't he talk to the doctor? Didn’t he talk to me? He said - he said-
"Present," Master snaps. I swallow a whimper as I maneuver my body into the requested position. The pain is sharp and awful, but bringing my head closer to the floor seems to help my eyes clear.
"Awfully pretty hole for someone with his history," the American muses. I'm too far gone to be embarrassed by the words. That's what I’m good for - my hole. Of course he’d want to see it. I should be pleased with the compliment, actually. I’m in too much pain to feel the pleasure though. "How about his cock?"
"Turn around," Master orders. "Show him your pathetic little cock."
I used to get so angry about that. I almost laugh at the memories. Who the fuck cares if they call my cock small or pathetic? The thing hasn't left its cage since I was purchased. It probably is small at this point. For good. As it should be. What does someone like me need a cock for? It's a piss slit. Nothing more.
I return to my original kneeling position before pushing up on my knees, so my caged cock isn’t hidden in the crook of my lap. I waver in place, a sharp pain stealing my breath as I put more pressure on my knees, but I somehow manage to keep myself balanced as the American man studies me.
“Gag reflex?” the man asks.
“None. Would you like to see for yourself?"
The American hums thoughtfully, then steps forward. I keep perfectly still as my eyes finally focus. I find myself staring at his shoes. They’re a caramel color, the leather shiny and impeccable. Expensive.
"Follow his orders, esclave," Master warns me.
The American takes a step closer before reaching down to grab my chin between his thumb and fingers. He lifts until my head is tilted back. I keep my eyes on his belt, refusing to let them wander any farther up without permission. His voice is low and smooth when he orders, "Open."
I part my lips. A moment later, his other hand is coming forward, two of his fingers entering my mouth and sliding along my tongue. I breathe slowly, carefully, knowing what will happen if Master thinks I've regained my reflex. I nearly cry tears of relief when I feel him press all the way back without my body reacting.
"Lovely," he says, though I'm not sure if it's meant for me or Master. Probably Master. I'm his slave after all. My accomplishments are his. But it’s still awfully nice to hear. "I'll take him. Has your guard finished counting the cash?"
"He has. I appreciate your patience. It's nothing personal. I've just been burned before."
"I completely understand." The American steps away, leaving my mouth empty and my body cold and shaky again. "I look forward to enjoying him. Thank you, DuGray."
I look forward to enjoying him.
So, the American is here to use me. That makes sense. He's probably one of Master's friends. Or maybe a business contact. He's lent me out before. Sometimes for an hour or two, sometimes for a whole night. What will this man make me do?
Hopefully he'll just hurt me and fuck me. A few men ago, the man insisted I sleep in the bed with him despite my terrified protests. When Master found out I'd had the audacity to sleep like a human, he had whipped me bloody, then kept me in a cramped cage for so long that I worried my body would be stuck curled into itself forever.
God, I hope this man doesn't make me sleep in a bed…
"Well, he's all yours. Did you bring a collar, or would you like to borrow one?"
I almost break position then, the mention of a collar doing two things at once - making me realize that for the first time since being purchased, I'm not wearing one, and that these men are speaking about me like - like maybe Master… isn't my owner anymore?
Panic rushes through me. I deflate, forgetting all about the position I'm supposed to be holding, more focused now on just trying to fucking breathe. It feels like I’m hooked up to that machine again, air being kept from me despite how hard I fight to reach it.
And - oh god.
That's where the American is from. Before, when I was still on the ventilator, the American had come in and barked orders and bossed Master around. And then he'd called me his slave.
A collar wraps around my throat. I look down to see the American's shoes back in front of me.
He's collaring me.
The American is collaring me.
