Oliver swallowed hard against the collar. “I’m sorry, Master. I won’t forget again.” He made his tone as contrite as he could, meaning it. He didn’t want to be punished, and talk about raw, his ass stung like a son of a bitch.
His master smacked him lightly again. “Go finish your workout. Don’t want you getting fat.”
“Yes, Master.” He turned and returned to it.
Later, after showering and prepping his sore hole, he knelt at his master’s side while the man had a couple of drinks before dinner and then while he ate. The dining room was quiet except for the noises his master made while eating a wonderful-smelling dinner.
Oliver was hungry after his workout and sparse earlier meals. At first, he hoped his master would feed him some morsels from his plate this time, but it soon became clear his master had no interest in doing that. Apparently, he wasn’t the kind to shower a slave with any type of attention or affection. The best Oliver could do was stay still and try to stop his stomach from growling.
He knew how to achieve a state of calm, to hold his submissive position for hours if need be, while still keeping an ear open for an order. Still, he was bored and his knees ached even on the lush pile of the undoubtedly expensive Oriental rug. Relief washed over him when his master finally finished and stood. Oliver joined him and he gave him leave to go get something to eat.
“Thank you, Master,” he said in all sincerity before leaving the room.
Dinner followed the same routine as the other meals, mostly filling, but not as nice as what the master had consumed. Oliver was already starting to feel comfortable with his fellow slaves. It was new to him to be around so many adults. His mother and younger sister had been his constant companions up until his sale. There had been little opportunity to socialize given how unsocial his bachelor master had been. Mary and the others were easygoing and kind, so that helped.
After dinner, he joined his master in his study, a masculine and casual room, and blew him while the man sipped scotch and watched the Red Sox win the first game in the latest series. At least the game had been entertaining and Oliver had been allowed to sit between his master’s legs when he wasn’t sucking cock or refilling the drink. The master celebrated the victory with a vigorous fuck before once again dropping into a heavy sleep. Oliver’s wake-up call the next morning was another perfunctory penetration. Lying in bed, flinching from the pain and desperate to pee, he had to admire the guy’s virility.
For the next week, Oliver’s days formed a pattern that while boring, became something of a comfort. He worked out—a lot—and caught up on shows he hadn’t seen much of as a child. Although Mary sternly refused to let him help her, she did allow him sometimes to hang out in the kitchen while she cooked and cleaned. It was nice chatting with her. She reminded him a little of his mother, albeit older. He wouldn’t allow himself to dwell on that thought too long, though. The chance of seeing his mother again wasn’t very good and knowing it made him unbearably sad. He had cried a lot the first month at the training facility, most of the kids did, but crying didn’t get you anything more than a firm rebuke in the form of a slap. Besides, he was a man now, not a kid, even if his master did call him boy.
The evenings were all about the master, and Oliver worked hard at pleasing him. The sex was the easy part, not a lot of fun for him, but no great hardship either. The widower was obviously making up for lost time, and if he treated Oliver like a living doll instead of a human being, well, what did that matter? He wasn’t mean or even particularly demanding. Oliver could have done worse. That’s what he told himself every night anyway, lying still and waiting for sleep to come.
On his eighth night in his new home, the master dismissed Oliver as usual from the dining room to eat his own dinner. In the kitchen, he found an unusually subdued group sitting around the table. Mary looked up at him. Her eyes held a weariness he’d never seen before.
“I left your plate warming in the oven.”
“Thanks.” He slipped on the sweat pants Mary allowed him to keep on a hook in the mud room before he took out the plate of grilled chicken and steamed vegetables. He was glad to see a larger amount of food than usual, if not a more interesting one. He shook his head mentally for even thinking such a thing. He was being fed a lot better fare than he had received at the facility. Even at his childhood home, he and his mother and sister had eaten pretty plain food. This was measurably better. Taking his seat, he noticed again the unusual quiet around the table. The other slaves only picked at their food. Joe didn’t even have a plate in front of him. He just grimly sipped on a glass of water.
“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked the older man. Joe didn’t answer him, but Polly whimpered in response.
“Hush, girl, and eat your dinner,” Mary chided. “You’re not helping any.”
Oliver swallowed his mouthful of food hard. “What’s going on?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
The ominous silence continued for a few more seconds. Only his great hunger allowed Oliver to take another mouthful of chicken, even while his stomach started to flip-flop with nerves.
Finally Joe answered him. “It’s nothing much. I’ve got punishment coming tonight.” He took another sip of water before continuing. “I was running errands for the master and found a dent in the car when I came out of the store.”
Joe fiddled nervously with his glass. Not surprising. Who liked punishment, and from what Joe had said earlier, he wasn’t the kind of slave to warrant it very often. It seemed to Oliver he didn’t deserve it now.
“I don’t understand. Didn’t someone else hit the car? It’s not like you backed into something.”
Joe shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Taking care of the car is my responsibility. The master loves that car, paid a lot for it, too. A lesson has to be learned.” He paused. “I’m a big boy. I can take my licks.”
Oliver had no doubt he could. What choice did Joe have? Still, it wasn’t fair for Joe to be punished when he hadn’t done anything to cause the damage. The fact that the master wanted to take his anger over the dent out on Joe didn’t bode well for the future. Obviously the master wasn’t the forgiving type. Oliver stuffed more food in his mouth and chewed with frustration.
“A strapping always makes me puke,” Joe added. “So, I’m not eating. Less to toss that way.”
Oliver’s stomach lurched at the very idea. He usually took a beating better than that himself, but he had seen plenty of boys and girls at the training center vomit and pass out during punishment. “I’m sorry,” was all he could think to say.
“Nothing for you to be sorry about. It’s the way life is. Now that the master has finished his dinner, you’d all better hurry up. He won’t wait much longer.”
The import of Joe’s words sunk in fast. They were going to have to watch. It was standard at the training center, but his old master had always done the punishing in private, a small blessing that his mother hadn’t had to see her children being beaten, and vice-versa. Things here were different, and the news made eating even harder.
They finished the meal in relative silence, and when the master’s voice called them over the intercom, they filed down to the basement without delay. Oliver brought up the rear, following the others to a room he hadn’t been in before. It was near the furnace, not very big, but big enough for its intended purpose. A whipping post was bolted into the cement floor in the middle of the room. Various instruments of punishment hung on the wall: paddles, straps and even a mean-looking whip. The master already held a thick strap in his hand.
Oliver found it hard to believe that outside of a professional slave-training center, anyone would have such an elaborate setup. Perhaps this was normal for a wealthier home. Oliver’s original master had relied mostly on his own hand, and occasionally the very belt he wore. It made Oliver’s dinner roil in his stomach just looking at all the methods the master had amassed to punish his slaves.
Without needing a command, Joe stripped off his clothes and went to the pol
e. He clasped it with his hands high over his head, his legs spread a foot apart. Although the pole had cuffs attached at the top and the bottom, the master didn’t bother to use them on Joe. Obviously, the older man could be relied upon not to struggle and evade the blows. The rest of them stood in a semicircle close to the back wall. Polly sniffled a bit but went quiet with one quelling glare from the master. Mary put an arm around her and held her close. Freddy had shoved his hands in his pockets, uncharacteristically subdued.
Oliver wanted to close his eyes as the master drew back his arm. Knowing that doing so would likely cause his own whipping, he kept them open. He couldn’t help flinching, though, when the leather hit the flesh. The man laid down a hard stroke by any measure, yet Joe did little more than grunt. He remained equally stoic throughout the rest of his punishment. Over and over again, the master brought the strap down across Joe’s back, buttocks, and thighs. Without conscious thought, Oliver began to count the vicious strikes. When he reached twenty, Joe’s ordeal ended. Breathing harshly, the slave turned, knelt with obvious effort, and thanked the master for the correction.
The sight of such a nice man having to weather such pain, and grovel, having done nothing wrong, sickened Oliver. There was nothing he could do, however, and he had his own skin to worry about. After replacing the strap on its hook on the wall, the master barked to everyone to get back to work. Snapping his fingers in Oliver’s direction, he gestured for him to follow.
Oliver jumped to obey. The bulge in the master’s pants spoke loudly. Clearly the punishment had excited the man. Great, his master was a sadist. He’d known trainers like that. Most of them performed their duty with grim necessity. Others reveled in it. It came as no surprise to him that as soon as they entered the master’s study, he grabbed him by the arm and shoved him over the back of the couch.
The sound of a zipper was followed by strong fingers yanking Oliver’s sweats down and digging into his hips. The blunt, thick head of his master’s cock breached Oliver’s hole and slammed deep within his guts with a single thrust. He bit back the grunt of pain, wanting to be as strong as Joe had been, especially as this was nothing compared to what had been done to the older man. With his eyes open and his face schooled to betray no emotion just the way he’d been taught, Oliver took the invasion of his body. His outer calm belied the turmoil inside.
His master was not a nice man. Not just indifferent as Oliver had believed, but mean. The vigorous fucking and obscene groans of pleasure tripping past the man’s lips demonstrated how aroused he’d become. The beating had done that as nothing else had in the last week. The master got off on the power he held and the pain he inflicted on his slaves. Oliver understood this because he’d been taught all about it at the training center. He had been warned of it. It was how some people were wired, and a good slave had to endure it as best they could, even pretend to enjoy it if that was their owner’s wish.
His master slammed their bodies together, muttering incoherent oaths and clawing at Oliver’s flesh. It wouldn’t take long before the man realized he didn’t have to wait for a slave to screw up before he could achieve this level of arousal. Soon he’d use Oliver as a daily whipping boy and life would truly become hell. And there was nothing he could do about it, nothing at all.
With gritted teeth, he took the abuse and buried his anger deep within him.
Chapter Three
The frenzy of fucking lasted less than a minute before with one last, deep shove, the master bellowed out his release. They stayed joined for long seconds more, the master grinding his pelvis against Oliver’s ass while he milked the last of his climax. Finally, he pulled out and slapping one ass cheek in an almost playful fashion, walked away.
“Fix me a drink, boy, and put the game on,” he called before he went to the attached bathroom.
Oliver stood slowly and stepped out of his sweats. He didn’t need to be told to take them off now that he was back in his master’s view. He envied the man’s ability to wash up. Unable to stand the sweat and sticky residue his master had left, he used his sweats to clean up a bit. That, of course, left him with the dilemma of what to do with the messy clothing. He finally decided to hide them behind the wet bar and prayed he would be able to grab them before either his master or Mary saw them. By the time his master returned, Oliver had managed to get the drink and put the television on the right station. The master wore nothing more than a pair of worn jeans, as was his tendency when secreted away in his den.
With a satisfied sigh, he took the drink and flopped down onto the couch, sipping with obvious pleasure. Oliver hovered nearby patiently, waiting for his next orders. He was so bothered by the events of the evening, he couldn’t focus on the baseball. A game played by wealthy freemen hardly seemed right when a good man like Joe hurt from an undeserved beating.
His master rolled his shoulders with a groan. “Damn, I’m stiff.”
Really? Hard to imagine why unless you counted the effort of wielding that strap. The bitter retort sprang up in Oliver’s head, but of course, he said nothing.
“Get over, here, boy, and give me a massage.” The master issued the order without tearing his gaze away from the television.
Oliver obeyed, forcing himself to take a light hold of his master’s shoulders, even though he wanted to grab and squeeze and make the man feel even a little of the pain he had caused. That way led to disaster, though. Resentment and anger toward free people, especially one’s owner, was a sure way to end up hurt or worse. No, best to hide those thoughts and feelings away. Do as you were told, hope tomorrow will be better than today.
It made him want to cry, however, that fate hadn’t given him the home he’d longed for. His master was never going to see him as anything more than a hole—two of them. With opposable thumbs. The best he could hope for was to be a good enough slave to avoid a trip to that awful room downstairs. Of course, if his master was one of those people that enjoyed inflicting pain, it was only a matter of time before he started using Oliver as a punching bag to arouse himself. Why wait for a slave to screw up when you can convert punishment into foreplay?
And once again, Oliver had crawled so far up inside his own head, he didn’t need the master to torture him. He’d done it to himself.
He sought solace in the mindless rhythm of his task and forced himself to concentrate on the almost soporific drone of the play by play coming from the television. With well-matched teams, baseball could be almost as boring as golf. He worked the stiff muscles of his master’s shoulders as he’d been trained and hoped that, plus the scotch, would settle him down so that more fucking would not be on the night’s agenda. It would help, too, if the Sox would win, but their season had started out crappy, so he didn’t hold out much hope there. And they were playing the fucking Yankees tonight.
A glass rattled in front of his face. “Another,” his master barked and let go of the glass just as Oliver managed to grasp it. “Son of a bitch!” The master leaned forward and pounded his fist on the couch when the Sox outfield fumbled around enough with the ball to allow the Yankees to bring home two runners.
A leery Oliver returned with a fresh drink and handed it over. The master downed half of it in one gulp before sitting back. Assuming the massage should continue, Oliver returned to his position and laid his hands on the bare shoulders. A long inning went by. His fingers started to cramp and his back ached from holding his position so long, but he ignored the discomfort. He must have zoned out because he jerked in surprise when the master’s phone rang. The man yanked the phone out of his pants and looked at the caller ID.
“Vince, are you watching this bullshit game?” The master listened in silence. “If they don’t pull themselves out of this slump, there’s no fucking way they’ll make the play-offs.” He took a swig of his drink and laughed. “Yeah, right. You’re such a damned Pollyanna. So, what’s up?”
A soft drone came from the phone, but Oliver couldn’t make out the words. Didn’t really care what was being said anywa
y. It didn’t make any difference to him. Except then it did.
“Yeah, you’re damn right I went through with it. I’ve got a pretty, little naked boy giving me a massage as we speak.” More listening. “Eighteen, fresh out of training and tight as a drum.”
The master laughed lewdly and Oliver’s stomach clenched at the sound.
“Not in a million years, pal. His hole’s all mine. But I’ll tell you what, you can have a go at his mouth on Saturday.”
Oliver’s stomach dropped to the floor. His master planned to pass him around like a party favor, apparently. Great.
“Hell, yes, poker’s still on. Ben’s coming home on Friday, but that won’t change our plans any. Naw, the kid’s not into cards, unfortunately. Too bad, too, ’cause I can read him like a book.” Another laugh. “Yeah, I’m not above taking money from my own kid if he’d only play along.”
Oliver forgot about the party plans at the news that his master’s son was coming home. Freddy had said the young master was taking a trip in Europe, having graduated from college last spring. Oliver wondered what having two masters in the house would be like and whether he’d have to service both of them. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. He’d seen pictures hanging up in the house of the younger man and he was as handsome as his father. The other slaves seemed to like him, too.
“Okay, I’ll see you Saturday.”
The master tossed the cell on the coffee table and draining his glass, reached behind to clasp Oliver by the wrist. With his eyes back on the television, he dug his thumb in the soft spot between the wrist bones. Pressure turned into pain until Oliver gasped. The master tugged him forward so that he had to stumble around the couch.
“On your knees, boy.”
Body Slave Page 3
