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Once I was bought by my old master, it was drilled into my head that I didn’t exist before then. I wasn’t a human anymore. In fact, it’d be better if I forgot that I ever was one in the first place. I am a thing now. A slave. A dog. I exist solely for my Master’s pleasure.
So, to be asked about swimming, to be asked about my past… it spins my whole world.
Why would Master bring that up? Is he trying to hurt me? Is he trying to remind me I didn’t exist before? Is it a test?
Fuck, what should I say?
“Little one?” Master prompts. He moves closer to the tub, dropping one arm so his fingertips skim the surface of the water. He tilts his head. Fuck, I’m in trouble now, aren’t I? “Am I wrong? Did you not swim… before?”
“I-” I have to pause to swallow a sudden wave of bile that tries crawling up my throat. Then I decide to just go for it. Honestly, it might be a relief if this man will just finally punish me. Punishment, I understand. It’s this, whatever the fuck this is, that I can’t wrap my head around. “Yes, Master. I used to swim.”
Acknowledging that hurts worse than I possibly imagined.
“Did you swim competitively?”
“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.
