Yeah, by giving him ice cream to keep his mouth shut, and maybe so no one could smell cum on his breath. Oh God, Oliver needed to stop thinking about it in such graphic detail or that chocolate chip cookie wouldn’t linger long enough in his body to go to his hips. Ben looked equally sick, but he didn’t start yelling or anything, the way Oliver feared.
“Does Mary know?”
“Of course not. What do you take me for?”
A child molester. Oliver had to literally bite his tongue to make sure that response didn’t actually pop out of his mouth.
A long silence ensued in which neither man looked at the other. Finally Ben stood. “I should get back to work.” He left the room without uttering another word or looking at his father.
After Ben shut the door behind him, silence reigned until the master rose. Grabbing Oliver by the hair, he hauled him to his feet and tossed him against the desk. Seconds later, pity for Danny was displaced by the need to endure while the master once more worked out his frustrations. Thank God Ben wasn’t there to see, Oliver thought, before the master’s punishing cock stretched his ass.
Thank God Oliver existed to receive the anger instead.
Chapter Seven
Shit, scotch was a harsh drink, burning all the way down Ben’s throat to churn away at his stomach. To be fair to the top shelf brand, he’d been nauseated even before sitting in the dark den to sling back his father’s numbing agent. He hadn’t expected it to make him less so. Besides, enjoyment wasn’t the point. He hoped to get shitfaced enough to fall asleep. Beer didn’t operate in the right league for that kind of abuse. Thinking that word, abuse, and in this room, let the horrible images back in that had plagued him for the last eight hours. Draining the glass, he laid his head on the back of the couch and willed his mind to think of other things.
It didn’t work. Visions of that sweet little boy he had watched grow up in this very house being forced to service his father haunted him. This would have been the place, too, his father’s private fucking lair. No one other than his mother would have dared to interrupt the master when he holed up in here, and she would have been sick in their bed, fighting the effects of the poison that fought in turn to keep her alive. It was grotesque, and no amount of pain his father had been going through could ever justify it.
What the hell was Ben supposed to do now? His mother must have served as a smoke screen, keeping Ben from seeing his father’s true nature. Or, maybe, just maybe, losing her in that protracted and brutal way had changed the man. Ben wasn’t sure he could believe that as much as he wanted to. People’s sense of morality didn’t alter with grief, did it? It didn’t matter anyway. Regardless of the reason he’d done what he’d done, it was a terrible truth to live with. Ben could give up on the man, simply cut ties and make his own way in the world. His mother had left him enough money to allow that kind of decision. He didn’t have to stay.
But he did. It wasn’t his own interests that held him chained. Even if he were able to write off Danny, Mary, and Joe, all of the slaves under his father’s control who might suffer if he left his father unchecked there, he still couldn’t put aside the most important one of them all. Oliver. Strange how the one slave he’d known for such a short time had become his primary concern. His father already used the boy as a punching bag. If Ben enraged his father by leaving, that one slave was sure to feel the full brunt of it.
Thinking of the slave seemed to conjure him up. With a quiet snick, the door to the den opened and a blond head peeked in.
“I-I’m sorry, sir. The master sent me to get his mobile phone. He thinks he left it in here.” Oliver slid his body a fraction more into the room and waited for a response.
Sitting up, Ben stared back, allowing himself a second to take in the pale beauty of the naked boy. Then he set his glass down on the coffee table and traded it for the phone lying there. He stood up and held it out. “Here.”
If he’d been put to the rack, he would have sworn he didn’t toss it to the boy for fear of it dropping and breaking. That was a lie. He wanted the slave to have to come all the way in and take it from his hand. Part of that was for the pathetic thrill it would give him to see and almost touch the boy. The other part was a nagging worry that his somewhat-fight with his father that afternoon had led to punishment for the slave. Although only a dim light by the bar illuminated the room, he could see the smooth flesh well enough as Oliver approached. He seemed fine, but that was only from the front, and only from the outside.
“Thank you, sir,” the slave said, reaching out to take the phone.
Ben didn’t let it go right away, scotch and fear giving him Dutch courage. “Did he hurt you?” he asked and heard the pleading in his own voice. Please say no.
Oliver held his gaze for a few seconds. “No, sir.”
Relief flooded through him and he let the phone go, except reality slammed through him a split second later. He snatched the slave by the arm and brought him up short when he turned to leave. Eyes wide with fear and more, what more Ben didn’t dare name, stared at the fingers encircling him.
“Don’t lie to me!” Ben uttered the rebuke no less potently given that he did it in a voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m not, sir. I promise.”
“Look at me. At. Me.” He shook the boy for emphasis until he obeyed the order. Now just fear shown in those beautiful eyes. “I made him mad this afternoon. You were there. He had to have taken it out on you.”
Oliver swallowed hard but held his gaze steady. “He relieved his frustration, yes, sir. He didn’t hurt me.”
Gore and anger rose within him. With a low cry, he let go of Oliver’s arm and fisted his hands in his own hair. “You’re so fucking well-trained as a body slave, so used to being property that you don’t even recognize that everything he does to you hurts you. God, if you asked Danny, he probably doesn’t think he was hurt, either.”
There was a small sound, almost a sob. When Ben looked at Oliver, the slave shook his head. “He doesn’t. Danny, I mean. He doesn’t think he was hurt.”
Ben’s head whipped up. “You asked him?”
“No, sir, he’d told me about it before lunch. I guess he figured we were kind of in the same boat.” Oliver shrugged.
“Well, at least he has someone to talk to about it. That’s something, I suppose, although damn fucking little. But who do you have to talk to, Oliver, when things get too hard?”
Oliver reached out as if he were going to touch Ben, and Ben silently urged him to do so. The hand dropped down again. “I don’t need anyone.”
“Oh, Oliver, everyone needs someone to talk to once in a while.” He swallowed a few times, the scotch making his mouth dry and his voice raspy. “I wish you’d talk to me.”
The slave’s eyes flashed. “You don’t mean that, sir. Not really.”
“Yes, I do!” The fierceness of his response surprised even him.
Oliver looked away. “I don’t want to talk to you about the things that bother me. Please don’t make me.” His voice hitched. “I don’t want to be one more thing that comes between you and the master.”
Of course. What was the matter with him? He tried to push the slave into a position that would only cause him more misery. He was no good at hiding his feelings with his father, never had been. If he knew half the things his old man did to the poor kid, it would probably make his head explode. Then his father would take it out on Oliver again, a repeated cycle of anger and abuse.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want you to worry that I’ll confront my father and make him angry enough to hurt you even more. I didn’t mean it like that.”
Oliver’s head shot up and he took a step closer. “No, sir. No. I mean I don’t want you and the master to fight because he’s, well, your father. You shouldn’t strain your relationship with him because of some whiny little slut like me.”
Fury roared through Ben, fueled by booze and unfulfilled need. Clasping Oliver by the shoulders, he hauled him in close. “Don�
�t you ever refer to yourself that way! Do you understand me?” He gave the boy a shake for emphasis.
“Yes, sir,” came the breathless reply.
Their noses practically touched and Oliver’s plump lips were parted. His quick breaths wafted up to Ben’s chin. It would be so easy to kiss him, so easy. All he had to do was lower his mouth. But, no, it wasn’t right. Everything that ate away at him about his father would be mimicked in taking advantage of the boy even in such a small way. As he resolved to pull away, the slave surprised him by reaching up and pressing their lips together for a fraction of a second.
That small contact was electrifying, shattering Ben’s control. With a growl, he pulled the boy flush against his body and covered his mouth with his own. He wasn’t content with a simple blending of their flesh, pressing his tongue against the seam and plunging inside. The slave gave no resistance, instead melting into his embrace. He mimicked Ben’s moves with enthusiasm if not grace. Ben took that as permission to increase his assault, fisting one hand in the boy’s silky hair to gain greater purchase.
Sweet, so sweet, both the feel and the taste. His imagination couldn’t have conjured anything better. Despite the alcohol invading his blood and slowing it down, some of it still managed to flow to his cock. The erection strained against his jeans. Ben slid his other hand down Oliver’s back and cupped one firm globe of his ass. He pulled to bring the boy’s pelvis against his own and rubbed. That’s when reality crashed the party. Instead of another hard rod, his dick rubbed against bits of horizontal steel. Not a zipper, but the chastity device his father had the slave contained in.
Ben broke the kiss with a string of curses flying through his now cold lips. “God damn it!” he cried, putting distance between them.
Oliver let out a soft whine. “Did I do something wrong, sir?”
“What? No,” Ben hurried to reassure the kid, because that would be the shitty cap to the whole fucking day, him hurting Oliver’s feelings. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I promise you. It was me, all me. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m sorry.”
A dejected look crossed Oliver’s face. “Free people don’t apologize to slaves.”
Exasperation replaced concern. “Yeah, well this one does.” Placing the heel of his hand against his forehead, he sighed. “You should hurry back upstairs. My father is going to wonder where you are with his phone.” A thought struck him and he smacked himself. “Oh my God, you’re going back to my father. I’ve been drinking. He may smell it on your breath.”
He ran over to the minibar and scoured the shelves beneath it. Ah, there they were. “Here,” he said, racing back to Oliver with a mint. “Suck on this, and make sure to crunch and eat it by the time you’re back with him.”
The slave didn’t take it from his hand. Instead, he leaned down and slipped it inside his mouth directly from Ben’s fingers. It was possible his tongue lingered a few seconds more than necessary, but that could have been Ben’s fevered imagination. His cock certainly believed it, being harder than ever.
“Thank you, sir. Please don’t worry.”
Ben whimpered in frustration. “I can’t help it. I just wish I could do something for you,” he confessed. And, yeah, he sounded so whiny and pathetic as if he were the one living under oppression.
Oliver’s face lit up with a smile. “You have done something for me, sir.”
“What, the mint?” he retorted.
The smile dimmed. “No, sir, the kiss.”
“Seriously? I kind of manhandled you and it was pretty sloppy given how much I’ve had to drink. Not my best effort.”
“I wouldn’t know. It was my first time.” An almost reverent tone infused Oliver’s voice.
Ben felt as if he’d been punched in the solar plexus, the slave’s confession delivered such pain. “No one’s ever kissed you before?” he asked breathlessly.
“No, sir. You’re the first.” He paused. “Thank you.”
Christ, now Ben felt like crying. If he remained staring at the wistful look on Oliver’s face, he would for sure. Clearing his throat, he said, “You’re welcome. Now get going before my father comes looking for you and we both get into trouble.”
That warning sent the slave scampering out of the room. He gave a last look back at Ben before closing the door quietly behind him. Ben stumbled to the sofa and dropped down. He stayed sitting there, staring at nothing for a long time. His thoughts were in a jumble, his erection only partially subsided. As bad as things had seemed when he’d first entered the den, they were measurably worse now. How was he going to get through the months before his sister came home for Christmas? It wasn’t a matter anymore of navigating through a tense relationship with his father. No, apparently he needed more trouble.
Because he was falling in love with his father’s slave.
****
Oliver still felt Ben’s kiss even though two weeks had passed since that night. He couldn’t help touching the tips of his fingers against his lips as the memory swamped him again as it frequently did. He knew he was being silly, it had been a quick, alcohol-fueled impulse on Ben’s part, something he no doubt had forgotten by the next morning. He certainly didn’t give any indication that he remembered or cared. If anything, he treated Oliver with disappointing indifference, barely giving him a first glance, let alone a second one, and not speaking directly to him.
And why should a free person bother to interact with a slave that did him no service? Ben was busy with his new position in the master’s company. Both men were working long hours with little time for themselves. The one blessing was the master brought Oliver to his office more often than not. Of course it meant spending long hours on his knees, often under the man’s desk. Blow jobs were the staple of the day, although that caused the benefit, along with the toll of the master’s heavy work load, of reducing the nights when the master wanted to fuck him. Sometimes all the master wanted was for Oliver to kneel between his legs and keep his cock warm with his mouth while he worked. Weird, but whatever. At worst, it merely bored him to tears.
The upside of it all was it got Oliver out of the house where absolutely nothing interesting happened. He usually took lunch with the company slaves, as well. While those guys often teased him about his cushy life as a body slave, it was done good-naturedly. Danny had obviously vouched for him among the tight-knit group. John clearly ranked as a leader among them and he always sat with him and Danny, giving tacit approval of the new slave among them. Oliver now viewed the younger boy as a friend. Whenever the master dismissed Oliver for lunch, he made a point of going to the woodworking shop to meet up with Danny.
Sometimes, like this day, Oliver arrived early and it allowed him to watch Mr. Fiorello teach the slave how to make the beautiful cabinets and other stuff the master sold. Oliver had always liked playing with wood, carving stray pieces he found from time to time with an old knife his mother had let him use. He’d tried to carve little figurines for his sister to play with and the results hadn’t been half bad if he said so himself. The sounds and smells of the wood being cut, sanded, and stained comforted him, made him feel a little bit more at home. There were always scraps lying around and he couldn’t help but reach out and scoop one up occasionally. He palmed a two-inch sliver and ran his thumb over its smooth surface much as he had his lips.
“You like carpentry, huh?”
Oliver started at the sudden voice next to him. Turning, he whipped his hands behind his back before he remembered that hiding something one had done wrong would bring worse punishment. He stared at the floor as he presented his upturned palm holding the piece of wood.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said as contritely as he could. Maybe the penalty would only be no lunch. Hunger always trumped a beating.
Mr. Fiorello chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder with the same hardy camaraderie he used with Danny. “It’s okay, lad. It’s trash, that’s why it’s on the floor. Go ahead and keep it.” When Oliver offered up a sincere thank-you, the man looked a
t him for a few seconds. “You never answered my question. Do you like working with wood?”
Oliver bit his lip, not sure if his childish efforts constituted anything worth mentioning. But the man waited for some kind of answer, so best to go with the simple truth. “Yes, sir.”
“Hmm. I don’t suppose body slaves are expected or allowed to do manual labor.”
Oliver had no answer to that. His body and time belonged to the master. The man wouldn’t allow him to do anything that interfered with servicing him in anyway. How the shop manager’s question fit into that world view was above Oliver’s pay grade.
“Well,” the older man continued. “Mr. Tanner is a busy man and probably not interested in being bothered with such a thing. So let’s just leave it that if you find yourself hanging around as you sometimes do and you want to try your hand at something, you ask. I’ll see what I can come up with.”
Oliver treated Mr. Fiorello to a genuine smile. “Thank you, sir. I’d like that.”
The man chuckled again, ruffled Oliver’s hair in a fatherly way, and left him. Absurdly happy over an offer he’d likely never have time to take, he put the wood in his pocket and ran his thumb over it again. So smooth, yet not soft. Not like Ben’s smooth and soft skin. It would have to do, though.
It would have to do.
Later that afternoon, as he sucked the master to climax, Oliver played with the chip again. The master controlled the bobbing of his head with the strength of his fist in his hair, so no hands needed. Having even this small thing that was uniquely his own pleased him immensely, especially as it remained a secret. The master could fuck his throat, but he couldn’t deprive him of the wood if Oliver was careful enough to hide it. And he was. With a muted groan, the older man shot his load and pushed Oliver away. The office door opened and he heard the voice that sent delicious shivers down his spine.
Body Slave Page 9
