by Aya DeAniege
I whimpered again, having heard that tone of voice before. He was waiting for me to protest, but I didn't.
“When we get back home, I'm going to tie you up and make you come. Again, and again. Until you beg me for it to stop. And then I'm going to fuck you. How does that sound?”
Whatever you want, just shut up and lay your hands on me.
Nathaniel's green eyes warmed as they locked with mine. The man slid his hands into his pockets and just stood there, tormenting me. He kept his distance and didn't move towards me because he knew it was driving me mad. I either had to continue with my silence or give in.
“Please, Sir,” I whined, moving my hips.
I was satisfied of course, but my body still ached for a full play session. I wanted to be hung from the ceiling. I wanted to feel the contact of leather against my skin. The ache for something hard impacting with my skin was indescribable.
Nathaniel approached the bed slowly. He looked down at his feet, then back up at me, lips quirking up just slightly.
“All I've got is a belt," Nathaniel muttered.
My response was a questioning sound, not understanding what he meant. At the edge of the bed, Nathaniel stopped, watching me. He looked out over the bedroom and made a questioning sound of his own.
“Lots of items I could tie you with or to,” he murmured. “Don't want to use my hand. Suppose the belt will have to do.”
What followed was an hour of beating. Over my backside and legs, Nathaniel hit me until I cried, until the tears came for no reason I could come up with. As I cried, he untied me. The play was over as he pulled me into his lap and held me as I cried.
It was as the tears would come no more that I realized they were not tears of sadness, they were of relief. Every bit of stress was finally gone, my hesitance was gone, my walls down. I clung to my Sir as his arms wrapped around me.
“What do you need?” Nathaniel whispered.
I bent my head upward, capturing his lips in mine. As I kissed him, Nathaniel turned me, pressing my back into the bedspread. It ached, all down my legs hurt, but it wasn't an unfamiliar ache. I was hardly aware of him pulling away to strip off his clothing. I was so bleary from being in that special place.
Nathaniel kissed and caressed, teasing me with finger and tongue. Something in the way I moved must have told him I was almost there because he pulled away suddenly.
“Beg me for it,” he said.
“Please, Sir," I begged.
“Please, what?” he asked.
“Please, Sir, let me come," I begged.
Nathaniel slipped between my legs and thrust into me. I clung to him as the first wave rolled through me. I cried out as he continued, keeping me at that point. There was no escaping that feeling. It just drove on and on. It was a gloriously annoying feeling.
He captured my lips, thrusts slowing to rocking as I whimpered. I came again as he stilled, my nails digging into his shoulders as I moaned against his lips.
Nathaniel slid down, setting his head on my stomach. With a small contented sigh, he dragged the tips of his fingers down my side.
Pleasure made my limbs and eyelids heavy. The beating had dragged everything else from me. There was no emotion remaining besides the sexual pleasure and the contentment of having another body so close to mine. I ran my fingers through his hair, settling the other hand on Nathaniel's shoulder, which was damp with sweat.
I dozed for a bit. I think we both slept really.
Nathaniel woke me a few hours later to more sex, but no play whatsoever. We explored each others' bodies in the late hours of the night, then again in the early hours as the sun rose.
Every thought of the day before had gone from my head. My world had narrowed to the four walls of the bedroom. Outside of that, nothing existed. Only me, only Nathaniel.
Only the pleasure.
It was a good escape from the events. Not only of what had happened but of what would happen over the coming days.
Chapter Seven
The next morning we met up with Mr. Wrightworth for tea and coffee in the hotel's dining hall. We all carefully avoided the looming cloud of darkness that was the outside world. In reality, I didn't even think about it. A good night of sex can do that to me.
I was still aware that there was a problem, but I simply didn't think about the cause of the trouble.
After tea, we changed into full slum clothing. They looked worn, still smelled like the slum, and didn't fit well at all. Mr. Wrightworth made me go back and put on a bra, which brought my breasts up and basically in my face. Presenting myself once more, both men eyed me critically.
“There's no way she'll be recognized,” Nathaniel said.
Mr. Wrightworth pulled out his phone and held it up. He looked at the screen, then back at me.
“Her face is too....” he started to say.
“That's what happens when you have work done,” I countered in annoyance.
“Clear,” Nathaniel added. “They didn't alter your looks, just fixed the scars. That mark there, it's gone.”
“That and this," Mr. Wrightworth motion to the photo, "were dirt, not marks on the skin. This is the photo that made it to the news outlets. You people assume that every slum person knows every other slum person. The slums are larger than you expect. With the population of this particular slum being almost in the triple digits.
“Remember when the Hamptons closed? They brought about sixty percent of that population here to service your damned tourist spot.”
“The population of the Hamptons was only about thirty thousand,” Nathaniel said.
“Which means that approximately eighteen thousand people were brought to this slum from there," Mr. Wrightworth said. "Four families have paid off debt, entire families totalling over three thousand people released from debt."
“Entire families?” I asked.
“Everyone takes it equally," Nathaniel said. "The reason for the equality is that you all pay off at the same time unless you take on more debt, in which case you stay behind. Like your parents would have, had you not taken the contract with me."
“That's three thousand people from Isabella's neighbourhood no less. Most slum folk only know between fifty and three hundred people. We aren't going to her part of the slum. Even if someone is outside of their usual area, Izzy Martin had no boobs. Look at that chest. That's all anyone's going to be looking at, especially with that skimpy tank top.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“I've got a bag for myself and Nathaniel to carry to trade some items. First, we'll get breakfast at a cafe, then wander the market and see if anything catches our eye. You'll have to take the lead after that. I don't know the spots. We've got the goods to get in pretty well anywhere."
“There's a swimming hole if you pay off the police. I've always wanted to go to the top of the tower, but they say that takes something special and I've never had the goods. Supposedly you can see the whole slum from up there."
“Good, let's get some food into you,” Mr. Wrightworth said with a small smile.
We went down and did manage to find a cafe. There weren't many in the slums at that time. Cafes were a new thing, one of the jobs introduced by the government to "deliver equality" to the poor folk. Like the two legal pubs—which only served two alcoholic drinks to patrons a week—per slum, and the bowling allies that were added.
The idea was that, with more pleasure activities, the slums would be less likely to revolt again. Busy hands were happy hands, after all.
My slum received the good kind of control. Some others received more work and curfews, a military law type of control. Those slums were chosen mainly because of their participation in the first riots, but a few random slums were chosen.
Say whatever you like about the government, they still used poor folk in slums as social experiment participants without their permission or knowledge.
Sitting in a cafe was a new experience for me. The whole of the patio was packed, and we had to
wait out turn for a seat. The menus we were given were printed on laminated paper and only had a few items on it. These items were available for rather cheap. We did not have to pay actual money or to trade off an extravagant amount.
Our breakfast consisted of tea and coffee, along with breakfast sandwiches with egg, a thin slice of sausage, and real, fresh basil slipped between the two layers. The flavours weren't exactly right, but no one cared beyond the fresh herb. The biscuit the sandwich was on was a slum staple.
Dry as could be, and dense. However, the biscuit had salt to it and real flavour, it didn't taste like stale flour like those biscuits normally did. Due to the nature of the biscuit, it kept and travelled very well.
Which meant that slummers were coming and going, just to order the breakfast sandwich to take to work with them. The number of people I saw in that hour and a half as we waited, and then ate, was amazing. I had never seen any one part of the slum be that busy before.
The cafe was new, brand new, and everyone always gets so worked up over new things. There was so much excitement about going to the new cafe that the moment our food was eaten, we were presented with the so-called bill, which Mr. Wrightworth paid for with a bunch of six bananas.
“I heard one of you might know how to turn this into bread,” he said as he handed over the partially green, unbruised fruit.
“Thank you, for your payment,” the waitress said, giving him a polite smile. “I am required to inform you that loitering after a meal is not permitted due to the line of people waiting to take a seat.”
We stood and left the cafe. By the time we got out onto the street, our table was already filled once more with a party of four.
The street that the cafe stood on led straight to the largest market in the slum, which was probably another reason why there was a line up out the door. We walked the street without being stopped or stared at, because the market was so large, people from all over the slum travelled to it. Likely it was normal to see people one didn't recognize.
We wandered the market, going from stall to stall to look at the wares.
They were right. No one recognized me. I even spotted and oldster who I knew. She seemed to stare at me for a moment, then shook her head and turned back to her negotiation for a small necklace.
In the end, we didn't buy much. Most of what the market sold was foodstuffs, and we had just eaten. Little of it held interest for a full stomach that knew the next meal was coming from a five-star hotel. I did ask Nathaniel for a sweet pie. Slum pies were about the size of a fist and held fruit or sometimes nuts.
“You two make an adorable couple,” the stand owner said as she handed over the sweet pie.
“Tell her that,” Nathaniel muttered before he turned and walked away.
I gaped after him as Mr. Wrightworth slipped up behind me. He leaned past my shoulder and handed the stand owner a real coin in exchange for half a dozen of the sweet pies.
Real coins were mainly traded in the slums. Some hoarded coins and cashed them in outside the slums, having those who worked as servants and gardeners buy items outside and bring them back in. That was how we knew what a tampon was, how some women had eyeliner and lipstick even though most of us couldn't be bothered.
Which meant that the owner was happy to have the coin, but it didn't seem entirely out of place. We only ever saw the one type of coin in the slum, the dollar coin. Those little gold coloured circles traded for things like a half dozen pies, or several loaves of bread.
Mr. Wrightworth drew me away from the stand with a hand between my shoulders.
“That is bratty behaviour if ever I saw it,” Mr. Wrightworth murmured when we were a distance away from the stand. “How long has he been behaving like that?”
“I don't know, since I got back?”
“Really?” The man was quiet for a moment, then sighed out. “You may not be aware, but that's him baiting you.”
“I'm aware, and I don't appreciate it.”
“So express the dislike,” Mr. Wrightworth said. “Nate may be a brat, but he's very well trained. Once you take control, he will obey. He's baiting you to make you take control. Subs do it all the time, before you decry him as being manipulative. You've done it before. It's just that normally it doesn't go on for this long.”
“He wouldn't do anything if I took control. He'd get a beating, I might feel a little better for beating him, but I don't think I really would.”
“Nate will lick anything that comes near him.”
I choked on nothing in particular. My choking caused Mr. Wrightworth to chuckle at me.
“I assume you mean oral,” he said. “As a rule, Nathaniel doesn't perform oral except when a sub is very good—and I do man very good. Nate, on the other hand, will lick and lap at anything that comes near him. He's oh so well trained.”
“You aren't playing with him.”
“Well, if you don't deal with the brat, I will. Then he'll be mine.”
“You know where you can go with that attitude and tone, Mr. Wrightworth. I don't appreciate it in the least. He's not a brat to you. Therefore you don't get to act."
“Would you like some advice, then?”
“Advice? I'm sorry, but I don't have your skill to put him on edge and keep him there, that will take time and practice."
Mr. Wrightworth smiled that Cheshire cat smile of his. He looked up ahead of us, where Nathaniel had stopped at a stall to ask about a necklace.
“You don't need skill, but you do need to have him completely tied up before initiating.”
As we wandered through the rest of the market, he murmured quietly to me, explaining just what made him smile so deviously. I clarified a few points and was finally given the trigger word to make Nate... stand to attention.
I'm not always one for euphemisms, but that was the one Mr. Wrightworth used as he stopped to buy a locally grown apple because he was hungry. Apparently, the sweet pies were not for eating.
When we reached the end of the market, Nathaniel rejoined us. He came up on my left as Mr. Wrightworth walked on my right. The two men shared a glance, then looked at me.
“The swimming hole's over there,” I said, motioning down the road.
We strolled leisurely towards the swimming hole as the people of the slum went about their everyday lives. Here and there people did stop, we were strangers after all. They'd pause in their morning chores and watch us pass, then resume once we had walked past them.
The swimming hole wasn't really a swimming hole, it was an actual pool, but we called it the swimming hole. It was only open on weekends and special holidays. Sometimes when the weather was really hot, it'd also be opened, to help everyone cool off.
Problem being, it was one pool for the whole of the slum. The line up to get in almost always went around the corner and those who controlled entrance were careful not to overfill the pool. I had been swimming legally once.
Illegally, I had snuck in something like ten times. A few others I had gained entrance by either bribing the guards or being part of a group that bribed the guards.
Sneaking in was practically a right of passage, everyone did it.
The guards that day were ones I didn't recognize. They were dressed differently than any I had seen before. It hadn't occurred to me that after the riots, the guard company might have changed, or that the military might take over guarding certain things.
They were soldiers, young ones who hadn't been through the full training. The old guards had been from the slum and were deemed untrustworthy after the riots. Regular guards had been removed from such duties and placed instead on border control and ramping up police control in the slums.
Slum justice as it was called, or the investigation of slum crimes through techniques perfected before the collapse, was investigated and settled a great deal quicker. Vigilantism was suddenly a crime. If a brother found his sister had been wronged, it was no longer possible for him to deal with the abuser his way.
He now had to sit on his hand
s and do nothing, for fear of being condemned of vigilantism and then disciplined accordingly.
Seeing the soldiers put fear into me. They didn't like slum folk and viewed rich folk with distaste, but understood that rich folk held the leash and their freedom. If not for the rich folk, the military would simply be a group of orphan children running the slums.
While we were one of practically each area of the hierarchy, I pulled to a stop and motioned Mr. Wrightworth off. The man didn't even hesitate, he walked up to the guards and started talking to them.
Like they were regular slum folk.
Mr. Wrightworth wasn't stiff in the least. Suddenly he had charisma and laughed easily. There was nothing commanding about his tone, and I swear his voice was just slightly higher than it had been before. He was suddenly an easy going slummer just talking to someone on a day off. Like he hadn't a care in the world.
It was not what I expected of Mr. Wrightworth.
Of Nathaniel, maybe, but not Mr. Wrightworth.
Suddenly Mr. Wrightworth lowered his voice, though I thought I heard, “I'm, uh, trying to impress the lady.”
We did eventually gain access to the pool. It cost all of Mr. Wrightworth's sweet pies. He didn't seem bothered at having to hand them over, which made me wonder if he had purchased them just for that purpose.
Slipping through the gate, I couldn't help but feel a loss. A tradition of the slums was now broken even though my slum hadn't participated in the riots outside of minor protests. The protests were even peaceful in nature. The government practically encouraged peaceful protests.
I suppose because we got to feel like we were doing something while bringing possible rebels to the attention of the governing authorities.
While we did swim that day, there was something very bittersweet about it. We swam for about an hour before Nathaniel said that we should move on. Neither of them mentioned it, but I'm sure they knew that I was feeling very uncomfortable and vulnerable at the same time.
Still wet, because towels had to be brought to the pool, we exited the gate, and Mr. Wrightworth stopped to thank the guards, who were obviously gawking at me. Even as we walked away from the pool, I felt their eyes on me. For once it didn't make me feel good to have been naked in public.
