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I remain perfectly still and quiet. None of that was an order and it’s not like the American - fuck, I mean Master - cares about my opinion or anything. I just need to wait and see what he decides for me.
Master sighs again. I inwardly wince, knowing I’m upsetting him. A hand touches me on the shoulder. Then another on my cheek. I forget how to breathe, suspended in the moment, waiting for the pain to come. But it… doesn’t.
“Can you walk, little one?”
I can. Well… probably, at least. It’s been a pretty long time. But even if I can, I won’t.
"If you're capable of walking, I want you to get out of bed and walk to the bathroom."
That… sounds like an order. My old master never used to say he wanted me to do things, but maybe this man is different. He's American, after all. Americans tend to want things a lot. I remember that feeling.
God, I haven’t wanted anything in so fucking long. Slaves don’t want. They get what they’re given and they’re fucking happy about it.
“That’s okay,” Master says, sounding… sad? “I’ll carry you, little one.”
Shit. I think I was supposed to try and walk. Will I be punished now?
Master scoops me up, the blanket falling off my body in the process. What will the punishment be? Will Master drop me on the floor, ignoring any injuries I get from the fall? Will he kick me? Whip me?
Master doesn’t drop me. In fact, he doesn’t hurt me at all. Or yell. Not yet, at least. He just places me on the closed toilet lid in the bathroom and leaves me there as he heads to the bathtub.
"We'll keep the temperature of the water a little cooler than normal. We don't want to tempt your fever into making a comeback. I'm going to put this salt in. It'll help your wounds that are still healing, though everything looks pretty good from here. And some lavender too. Should help you relax a little."
I take a huge risk, tilting my chin just enough to see the man as he works. He’s dressed in dark gray slacks and a black shirt. His brown leather belt matches his dress shoes. He’s probably wearing a tie, but I can’t see his front enough to be sure.
The man undoes his cuffs and rolls his sleeves to his elbows, revealing that one of his arms is covered in tattoos. Then he answers my question of a tie because he’s reaching up to loosen it and pull it off, tucking it in his back pocket after. He uses long, deft fingers to free the buttons around his collar until it fans out a little around his neck.
I wish I could see his face better, but that’d be too risky. I can at least see parts of it. Tan skin, a beard that’s only a few days past stubble, the corner of a dark eyebrow. His honey brown hair is cut short on the back and sides, a little longer on top where it swoops and curls like he runs his hand through it a lot.
For the first time in a long time, I find myself wondering what I look like. Does my reflection show the weight I’ve surely lost? Are my eyes heavy with exhaustion? Is my skin marred by bruises and scars?
I used to be strong. Broad. Tan from all the time I spent outside swimming. My hair was never very long because I hated trying to keep it all tucked comfortably in my swim cap. My muscles were finely toned.
A pang of longing hits the center of my chest. I quickly drop my chin, reminding myself not to think of my old life. That Casey doesn’t exist anymore. He was human. Useful. He had his whole life ahead of him. I shouldn’t even risk tainting the memory of him by bringing him into the darkness of this world. Better to forget he existed and keep him safely tucked away.
The Casey I am now is a slave. Which means… I should probably be on the floor kneeling, right? My old master would expect me to be doing that by now. Just because he put me on the toilet doesn’t mean that’s where I should stay. Unless I’m being useful, I should be in my default setting - the kneeling pose he spent weeks forcing me to perfect.
I slide off the toilet, swallowing a groan when my still-healing knees meet the cold tile. I easily settle into the kneeling position like it’s second nature. This is who I am now. This is where I belong.
Master turns, his shoes pointing right at me. He stands there for a long time. My heart pounds, panic returning as I realize this might have been wrong. What one master likes might not be what another does. Should I have stayed on the toilet? Does he not like the way I’m kneeling? Is he speaking and I can’t hear him over the running water?
Master squats in front of me, his face almost eye level with mine. I quickly drop my chin, wanting to avoid accidental eye contact. My eyes land on my caged - no, my… cock. Just my cock. Because my cock isn’t caged anymore.
When the fuck did the cage get taken off? Where is it?
Master clearly removed it. He had to have. But… why? Slaves like me don’t need a cock.
Will I be punished for not having it caged? I’m not the one who took it off. It’s not my fault!
But of course it is.
Everything is my fault.
I squeeze my eyes shut, shoulders slumping as misery washes over me.
“Look at me.”
I suck in a breath at the order, preparing myself to really see my new owner for the first time. Then I slowly lift my chin and look at him. I settle my gaze on his nose, figuring that’s safest. It’s a nice nose. A little crooked, like it’s been broken before, but not in an obvious way. If I was looking at his whole face, it probably wouldn’t even be noticeable.
