Bliss

by Lisa Henry

  But he was worried. He was a good man.

  A ball of frustration formed in Tate’s stomach. He didn’t need a good man; he needed a master.

  “I’m okay,” he said, his voice even. He couldn’t tell if he was still crying or not. He willed the chip to make this right, to make him calm. “I think . . . I think I just pushed myself too fast, too hard.”

  Rory tsked. “I knew I should have gone easier on you. I’m sorry. Are you sore?” And then, without warning, he climbed into the shower alongside Tate, drawing the curtain behind him. His gentle hands closed around Tate’s shoulders, rubbing them in small circles.

  “A little.”

  Rory kissed his back, right between his shoulder blades where the hot water sluiced down the indent over his spine. “I’m—” another kiss, this time lower “—sorry.” Another. “So—” another “—sorry.”

  Tate warmed with pleasure. With guilt, too. “Don’t say that. Please, don’t say that.”

  It wasn’t right that Rory should apologize for hurting him, or for anything. Rory was supposed to take what he wanted, to demand it, and it was supposed to make Tate feel good. So why didn’t he feel good?

  Rory had lowered himself to his knees. Hands on Tate’s hips now, and he turned Tate’s body until they were facing each other. He pressed his kisses to Tate’s thighs. Gently scrubbed his hands over them, over Tate’s groin and back, softly down the cleft of his ass, which was still so tender and puffy but somehow soothed by Rory’s touch. Then squinted up at him through the shower spray. “What you said . . . master. Where did that come from?”

  “I . . .” From the chip. From the core of his being. Tate didn’t fucking know. He couldn’t think, either, not with Rory’s lips making trails across his sensitive flesh again. “I don’t know.”

  Rory looked disappointed now. The kisses stopped. He picked up Tate’s discarded washcloth and began to sweep it over Tate’s skin, perfunctory. “You don’t know? Really? Because you say that, but your expression says different.”

  Lying. He’s accusing you of lying to him.

  “It felt . . . it felt right,” Tate managed.

  “I don’t want you to think of me like that,” Rory said. “That’s not what this program is about, and . . . and I want us to be friends. Can we do that?”

  I hit you. You fucked me. How can we be friends?

  “I think,” Tate began tentatively, “I mean, in my head . . .” No. Dangerous. It would hurt. He pushed his thoughts away from the chip and back to safer ground. “I want that too.”

  He’s touching you like he owns you.

  He fucked you and came inside you and fucking bred you like he owns you.

  Hit him. Hit him again. Do it fucking properly this time, so he never gets up.

  Thoughts of blood. Of pain.

  Blood on his hands. His hard cock. Jerking off for the doctor with his own blood, soaked in blood and abject humiliation.

  No. No no no.

  Tate dropped down onto his knees. Cupped Rory’s chin in his hands.

  I don’t want to hurt you. Not ever. You are my master. You do own me. That’s okay. You’ll take care of me. You’ll help. You’ll help me get better. You’ll help me serve you. You’ll help. Me.

  “Help . . . me.”

  White pain pierced Tate’s skull. His vision blurred, his chest tightened, and he crashed forward into Rory’s arms.

  Gone.

  ory hadn’t known what to do, or who to contact, when Tate had collapsed. He’d called Lowell, hoping he could recommend a doctor or tell him where the closest hospital was—anything. But ten minutes later, Lowell had been knocking on the front door. He’d been drunk only a few hours ago at their dinner, but it was obvious his concern for Tate had sobered him right up.

  “I think he had some kind of fit or something,” Rory said, looking down at Tate’s sleeping form, covered in a sheet. His small bed was so narrow and uncomfortable that Rory had laid Tate down in his own instead. “I think he was hurting. He asked me to help him, and then he just collapsed.”

  Lowell made a worried face.

  “It couldn’t be his chip, could it? I mean, he had a full health checkup, right? He was healthy? No epilepsy or anything?” No STIs. I fucked him without a condom. He let me do that. “But if he’s fainting, it must be in his head. Are those chips safe?”

  “Of course they are,” Lowell replied. “The technology here is so much better than what you’ve encountered in the outside world. And the modifications are really so tiny there’s almost no risk that it would cause any kind of side effects.”

  Rory nodded, still worried.

  “It might be something as simple as stress,” Lowell said. He moved forward and put his hand on Tate’s forehead. “I’ll bet he worked himself ragged preparing dinner tonight, didn’t he? But I’ve called the medical team from the restitution program just in case, and they’re sending someone over.”

  Rory glanced at the clock. “It’s three in the morning!”

  “Don’t worry about that.” Lowell smiled. “Tate’s health and safety is their priority twenty-four hours a day. If a rezzy gets so much as a splinter, they’ll come and check it out.”

  Rory drew a deep breath. That was a little reassuring. So now if Tate would only wake up . . . “I’ll, um, have to get that number. Put it on the fridge or something.”

  “Stop hovering like a worried wet nurse,” Lowell said, his tone indulgent. “He’s breathing, he’s comfortable, and he’ll be just fine.”

  Except how could Lowell know that? What if Tate had an aneurysm or if he was bleeding internally for some reason? What if it looked like he was sleeping but he was actually dying? Rory couldn’t tell the difference, and he was pretty sure Lowell couldn’t, either.

  Rory pinched the bridge of his nose and flinched—still tender. Okay, so Lowell was just trying to stop him from worrying or, worse, panicking. Even if Tate had had an aneurysm, what would Rory’s worry do for it that Lowell’s calmness wouldn’t?

  “Does your nose still hurt?”

  “A little.”

  Lowell nodded to the painkillers sitting on the bedside table. “Take your meds, Rory. It does me no good to watch you suffer needlessly.”

  Rory sighed and picked up the small bottle. “They make me drowsy.”

  “They’re supposed to,” Lowell said. “When you rest, your body repairs itself. Which is what Tate’s is doing now, I’m sure. Sit down beside him and hold his hand. It will do him good, I’m sure, to know you’re here.”

  Rory swallowed two of the pills and sat. Then he laced his fingers through Tate’s and wiped his damp hair back from his forehead with his free hand. Tate sighed and shifted. He opened his eyes.

  “Wh-what happened?” His confused gaze shifted from Rory to Lowell.

  “You fainted,” Lowell told him. “Don’t worry, the medical team is on the way.”

  Tate’s eyes widened. His mouth moved soundlessly, like he was trying to say something but couldn’t find the words. At last, he managed, “Fainted?”

  Lowell patted his arm. “You worked hard today, Tate, didn’t you?”

  Tate glanced quickly at Rory and then back again. “Yes, sir.”

  “See?” Lowell said. “He’s just overextended. I suppose your former life of petty crime didn’t much prepare you for the rigors of preparing a four-course dinner party, did it?”

  “No, sir.” Tate’s voice was curiously flat. “I’m sorry if I caused any trouble, sir.”

  This wasn’t right. This wasn’t Tate. This wasn’t the Tate who’d been so happy earlier this evening. Not even the Tate who’d been so intense in bed with Rory an hour ago. Rory squeezed his hand. “What happened, Tate? Was it your head?”

  “My . . .” Tate glanced at Lowell again.

  “You were just dizzy, I expect,” Lowell offered.

  “Yes.” Tate blinked up at Rory. “I was dizzy.”

  Rory frowned. “When the medical team arrives, you need to tell t
hem exactly what you felt, do you understand?”

  “I was dizzy,” Tate said, “and then I fainted.” The words ended on an upward lilt, as though he was asking a question. As though he wasn’t sure what had happened. Or he didn’t want to say.

  “There, you see?” Lowell stepped back. “He’ll be as right as rain come morning. You should get some rest, Rory. I’ll stay here, and watch out for Tate until the medical team arrives.”

  “Tate?” Rory asked, looking to him. He stifled a yawn. “Do you want me to wait up with you?”

  Again Tate looked to Lowell. “No, that’s all right, Rory. I’ll stay with Mr. Lowell. He’ll take good care of me.”

  “I don’t know. I’d feel better if I waited with you.” Tate was his responsibility, wasn’t he? More so now, given what had happened between them tonight. It was normal to feel a little possessive of Tate, surely. Rory wanted to be the one who took care of Tate. He wanted Tate to need him too.

  “I’ll be fine,” Tate told him with a smile.

  Rory nodded, sweeping a hand over Tate’s curly hair. “I’ll get your clothes.”

  “Yes,” Lowell said. “You do that, and I’ll go fix us some tea. Does that sound nice, Tate?”

  “Thank you, sir,” Tate said, smiling slightly. The color was slowly coming back into his cheeks again, and he seemed more alert. “But I should make the tea.”

  “Nonsense,” Lowell replied, already heading toward the door. “I know my way around a kitchen. You get dressed, make sure Rory goes to bed and gets to sleep, and then meet me out there when he is. The tea will be waiting when you do.”

  “Are you sure?” Rory asked Tate in a low voice once Lowell had gone. “I can stay up. It’s no problem.” He wasn’t sure it was true though. The painkillers were already making him drowsy.

  “I’ll be fine, Rory,” Tate said. “I feel better already. And Mr. Lowell is right. You need rest, and you can’t be late to work tomorrow. Especially not on my account.”

  “Okay.” Rory released his hand at last, almost unwillingly. “I’ll get your clothes.”

  Tate smiled at him.

  “Let me make it, sir,” Tate said, moving around Lowell in the kitchen.

  “Rory’s asleep?” Lowell took a seat.

  Seeing the man seated, taking on the natural role of service, filled Tate with immediate relief. “Yes, sir. As soon as he lay down, nearly. The pills make him tired, but it must have been a long day for him.”

  “And for you too,” Lowell said. “You shouldn’t be up and walking around after your little episode, should you now?”

  Tate paused, his hand hovering over the kettle.

  “You should be over here,” Lowell said. “On your knees.”

  Tate’s gut lurched, but then a calmness spread over him. It felt good to be told what to do. It felt safe. Lowell’s strong, certain voice was so much more comforting than Rory’s waffling. Tate took the kettle, poured a mugful of hot water over a tea bag, and brought Lowell his cup of tea. And then, finally, he knelt.

  He sighed with pleasure. Wonderful. So wonderful, as warm and fortifying as any cup of tea.

  Lowell leaned back in the chair and spread his legs.

  Yes. This was what Lowell wanted. Tate too. He inched forward on his knees and reached for Lowell’s belt buckle.

  “Why were you naked when I arrived?” Lowell asked, lazily shifting to let Tate undo his fly.

  “I was in the shower, sir,” Tate said.

  “That’s all?”

  “I was in the shower cleaning off after Rory fucked me.” The words sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine. He wasn’t sure now why he’d been disgusted at himself in the shower, not when it felt so good to be of service.

  “Ah, that’s good. Very good to hear. I was worried Rory wasn’t going to accept the way we do things here. Wasn’t going to accept how happy and eager you are to serve him in every way you can. Clearly I needn’t have worried at all. You take good care of him, don’t you, Tate?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tate said.

  Lowell narrowed his eyes. “Good. I like a boy who knows his place, not like those little teases who smile and flirt, then run the other way. You don’t do that, do you, Tate? You like to suck a man’s dick.”

  Tate shivered. “Oh, yes, sir.” Lowell sounded so certain of the fact, that Tate didn’t even dream of contradicting him. So certain, that he must have been right. All of Tate’s worries from earlier tonight—the anxieties and conflicted feelings he’d been drowning in with Rory—eased away, leaving nothing but bliss.

  “I want us to be friends,” Rory had said.

  No. Tate didn’t need a friend. A friend couldn’t make him happy. Only this could. Only a master could.

  Lowell was a master. Lowell wanted Tate to suck his dick. Tate leaned forward.

  “Ah-ah-ah,” Lowell said, pressing a hand to his face and pushing him back. “Not clothed. A good boy doesn’t do anything clothed.” He flapped a hand dismissively, and Tate quickly stripped off his plain scrubs, feeling better as soon as they were gone. A good boy doesn’t do anything clothed. Maybe that was why he had such a hard time with Rory. Rory didn’t master him right. Didn’t do little things like this to make clear the difference between them. Naked at Lowell’s feet, Tate felt mastered. He felt right. He never felt right with Rory.

  “Very nice, boy. Much better without those drab things concealing your natural beauty. I can’t believe Rory hasn’t done away with them, but maybe he just needs to be shown a better way. Yes, he needs a mentor, someone to guide him in how best to treat you and make you feel secure.”

  Hope flared in Tate’s chest. “Please teach him, sir. Please!”

  Lowell smiled down at him and said nothing.

  Tate wet his lips and leaned in. Lowell’s dick was thick and stout, with heavy, low-hanging balls. It would hurt Tate’s mouth to stretch his lips around that girth.

  Lowell laid a hand on the top of his head.

  A promise. Lowell would help him. Yes, the girth would be difficult, but Lowell would help him. Lowell was a good master. He wanted Tate to be happy.

  Tate gagged as Lowell thrust into his mouth and the head of his cock plunged into Tate’s throat. His eyes watered, but he didn’t pull away. Lowell gripped his hair tightly, holding his head still. Tate worked his tongue over as much of Lowell’s cock as he could. Messy. Sloppy. But he was trying. And if messy was what Lowell liked, then he was doing just fine.

  “Good boy,” Lowell murmured. “Do you do this for Rory? Do you suck his cock like this? On your knees where you belong?” He pulled Tate’s head back so that he could answer.

  He sucked in a deep breath and resisted the urge to wipe the drool from his chin with his hand. “No, sir. I tried once, but he didn’t want me to.”

  Lowell chuckled softly and shook his head. “That silly boy! Doesn’t know what he’s missing.” He pulled Tate’s head forward again.

  Tate moaned and lost himself in the pleasure of servicing a master. A real master.

  “If you were mine, I’d have you start every morning by sucking my cock while I had my coffee. I’d keep you naked all the time, so I could enjoy the look of you. You’re very beautiful, aren’t you? I’d make sure you remembered your time of service for the rest of your life, even when your time was up. Your whole body would remember.”

  Tate made a sound of fervent agreement. Lowell’s cock was heavy in his mouth, so heavy and thick and veined, filling the inside of his cheek and crushing his tongue flat. Lowell thrust down his throat, deep, deep, and Tate choked loud and hard enough that his entire body convulsed.

  “You’d beg to stay with me,” Lowell said. He suddenly pulled Tate’s head back again.

  Tate blinked up at him, confused.

  “That was the door, boy,” Lowell said. “Go and answer it before they wake Rory.”

  Naked? Some small part of him asked. Yes, naked. And then the men at the door would know immediately that he was a rezzy, ready and willing to b
e mastered and used. That was what Tate wanted. Yes.

  He went to the door. Through the glass, he could see two shadowy shapes. He remembered them, but this time, he didn’t feel fear, not like before. Because Lowell was here with him, and he was naked, and all he had to do was serve. He opened the door and immediately knelt.

  “Hello, Tate,” one of the guards said. “Are you causing problems for your sponsor again?”

  Lowell had risen and was standing behind him. In direct opposition to Tate’s simple nakedness, Lowell had done up his trousers again and was standing fully clothed. “There’s nothing wrong with his chip at all. The problem is with his sponsor. What happened, Tate?”

  Tate flushed with shame. “He wanted to be my friend, sir. Asked me what I wanted.”

  The men at the door snorted and shook their heads. “Friends! With a rezzy! What does he think this is, a playdate?” said one.

  “Well,” said the other, “we’d best run you through your paces just in case. The doc’s getting his bag from the van.”

  “Not here,” Lowell said quietly. “His sponsor’s asleep.”

  “There’s room in the back of the van,” the first man said. “Come on, Tate. Let’s go see the doc.”

  Tate nodded and stood, padding out behind them through the cool, midnight air. Lowell followed as well, and all of them piled into the van.

  Tate remembered this. Remembered the mobile treatment unit with its blindingly bright lights and narrow bed with restraints. The guards in their uniforms and—

  It was a different doctor than the last time he’d been in this van. But Tate still recognized him: the doctor who’d first activated the chip. The one who’d made him cut himself and then use the blood as lubrication on his cock. The doctor with the lizard smile.

  With a little shudder of fear, he knelt.

  “Justice Lowell,” the doctor said, a smile curling his thin mouth. “Are you taking a personal interest in every rezzy you send me?”

  Lowell smiled back. “Just one or two. This one belongs to my assistant, so of course I want to make sure he’s performing at peak capacity.”