She fiddled with one of the rags, unable to look at him. Her old masters would not care if she disrobed enough to settle the rags in place, but he seemed far less interested in that part of her, so she did not want to expose herself without his express permission.
“Oh! You... yes.” He was flustered, gesturing for her to follow him. It was strange how his anxiousness made her relax a little more. She felt guilty for it, and she was half waiting for him to turn on her, for his confusion to turn to retaliation as she was the source of his unease. But he was still giving her that smile that perhaps bordered on a grimace, and she wasn’t overly fearful when he led her through an adjoining room and to an even further chamber beyond.
They passed his bed, but Master Olivar seemed to think it of no great significance, and she was given no time to linger on that room—not when he opened a door to a smaller space. He did not enter it himself, only motioned that she should, and she obeyed, wariness creeping over her. There was another basin with the strange spout, a tall, strange looking chair, and a much larger basin than she had ever seen before.
Thralls cleaned themselves in short, squat little tubs. Enough to clean, but there was nothing luxurious about it—especially not when her turn meant the water was nearly cold.
She could drown in that bath...
Though she supposed that was only logical since it would have to accommodate Master Olivar’s much broader frame.
“You can... clean... in here...” he muttered awkwardly, and he must have caught sight of something for he turned greener than she had yet witnessed. His attention seemed to have drifted over her person again, and she wondered what had mortified him so. She peeked behind her, just to see, and though her clothes were thick and the cloth relatively dark, she could still see a few drops of blood beginning to spread through even the outer fabric.
She dreaded to think what the inner clothes would look like.
She closed her eyes, her embarrassment acute, though she wasn’t certain why. Her previous masters would only have cared if it was to be used as an additional infraction. Thralls tended to the washing in any case, though she supposed her carelessness could have been seen as ingratitude for what the masters had provided for her.
But it was Master Olivar’s embarrassment that fuelled her own humiliation. He did not wish to see these things, did not wish to know of them, yet her body betrayed her.
“I will get you something to wear,” he choked out, “so you can wash... anything you need to.”
And then he was closing the door hurriedly and she was left standing with a basket of cloths, unable to bring herself to move just yet.
It was the first time she had been alone since...
Since she had waited for that last implantation to begin.
There was always a master, always someone watching, and she felt panic tickle at the edge of her mind to be locked in this room all alone.
But he had tasked her with cleaning her clothing and tending to the blood, and she would not be punished for dawdling.
She stripped out of her clothing, feeling strangely uncertain even as she did so. She was used to being watched, and to be doing it in private seemed... not exactly wrong, but distinctly odd. She was dismayed at how much blood had collected in her inner clothes, but after only a few hesitant jabs at the strange spout and its handle, she got the basin filled with water and placed them in to soak. Her outers had to join as well given their state, and with only a little debate she wetted one of the cloths from the basket and washed herself thoroughly.
Master Olivar was uncomfortable with her blood, and bathing surely would be encouraged if he’d known to require it of her.
She wished she had been tasked with washing before, but she had been charged with the mending of garments, not the cleaning of them. So she was left to scrub as best she could with little knowledge of what she was really doing. It was difficult to tell if she was successful at removing the blood, the dark nature of the fabric becoming nearly black once it mingled with the cold water. But she tried her best and comforted herself that it was only the outers that truly mattered as Master Olivar would rarely see the others unless he specifically asked to see her with fewer clothes on.
She pushed away her worries that accompanied such thoughts.
She still didn’t know her purpose here and despite her earlier words with him, she still did not know how to ask him plainly. Not without being disrespectful by requesting a conversation with him.
There was a sound outside the door, as if a large hand was gently being thumped against the wood of the door, and she startled a bit. She stared, not knowing what it could mean, her hands still submerged. The coolness of the water was a welcome thing, her body finally feeling more akin to its usual temperature. But the noise distracted her from the pleasant sensation, and when Master Olivar began speaking, she pulled her hands out completely so she could come closer to the door and understand him better.
“Ness? I have clothing for you. Well... they are mine, I am afraid, and I cannot promise that they will fit you well. Or... at all. But it is yours if you will have it.”
Her eyes widened. It was similar to what he had said about his home—an offering given from master to thrall.
He said that it might be hers.
He must be mistaken. She was jumping to a dangerous conclusion, and that would only lead to eventual disappointment when he recognised the mistaken word and clarified his intention to mean quite the opposite. Nothing was hers. Especially not something that had belonged to a master. Did belong. It was merely an unfortunate circumstance that meant she would be wearing his clothes. She would not mess them, she told herself firmly, thinking fearfully of the blood and how difficult it was to control. What if she soiled them accidently?
She almost wished he wasn’t offering them, that he would simply lock her in here until her own garments were dry enough to put on again. But he was waiting, and it was wrong to tarry, even with her own trepidation.
“Ness?” he tried again. “Can I open the door?”
She didn’t know why he was asking. It was his home, not hers, and he could do what he liked. But he seemed to be waiting for confirmation, so she gave it. “Yes,” she said clearly, not knowing how loud to make her voice so it would carry through the solid door.
He opened it, a bit hesitantly, only to slam it shut again as soon as his eyes flickered over her.
She frowned. He had neglected to give her the clothes, and she had thought that was entirely the point. She suppressed a tiny sigh of her own. Everything here was terribly confusing.
“You are... I do not know the word, but you...” she heard a beleaguered groan on the other side of the door. “No, I could not open the door, for you are not wearing clothes!”
She glanced down at herself, recognising the error. He must be at least a little like her old masters, she decided. They did not like to see skin either. She had thought he would be different since he exposed so much of his own, his thick arms completely exposed in his sleeveless tunic, but obviously she had assumed wrongly.
“They are washing,” she explained timidly, hoping he would listen before becoming angry. “I am sorry,” she finished lamely, hanging her head and wrapping her arms about herself. Now that she knew he did not wish to see any of her skin, she felt overly exposed, her shame burning through her. “I’m sorry,” she said again, this time likely too low for him to hear.
She heard another thump against the door followed by a deep sigh. “I was surprised,” Master Olivar replied, his voice suddenly sounding weary. “I should not have raised my voice as I did. I hope I did not scare you.”
She was frightened. Terribly so, but it felt so natural a state for her that it was a strange thing for him to be concerned about.
This time he opened the door and held the clothes out, his arm the only thing poking through the slit of the open door. She kept herself carefully hidden, acutely aware that he wished her entirely covered, and grabbed the clothes as she wa
s bid. The door shut again. “I... You can come out when you are finished,” he stated, his tone a bit strange. He sighed again and she heard footsteps, and despite herself, she was glad of his order. Was he beginning to recognise that she would remain where he put her? She hoped so. She was trying to be a good thrall. She wasn’t one, and she knew that, but she could not seem to stop trying.
She glanced down at the clothes dubiously. The fabric itself was thick, the stitches small and tight. It was clothing that would accept the strain of work well, she thought, but found that rather odd for a master.
She held up the topmost article.
His clothing was... large.
His tunic alone reached beyond her knees, the openings for her arms leaving large gaps where her small breasts were clearly exposed. It would not have troubled her—if the master had given it to her, then obviously it was what he wished to see her wearing—except for his reaction to seeing her nakedness. She bit her lip, considering what was best to do, but decided that hers was not to reason and presume. He gave them, so she could wear them. Perhaps she had misunderstood his earlier reaction, or so she tried to convince herself, doubt still niggling at her belly.
But alone in the small room, if she was being terribly honest with herself, she found that she did not mind her exposed skin so much—not when she had spent so much of the day sweltering in the heat of the suns.
The leggings were beyond absurd. She had to roll the cuffs many times before her feet could hope to be freed from the billowing legs. On him they would likely be fitted nicely, but on her...
There was no string to cinch to hold them up on her slim hips so she was forced to keep them from slipping with a fistful of fabric. It was not ideal, but it was what she had been given and she would not complain.
It did make it more difficult for the cloths to stay in place, and her worry for bleeding on the master’s clothing increased. She could not rely on simply holding her bottoms on with her hands, not when the state of his clothes was in jeopardy. She was never very creative—there was no cause to be in her position, but she finally managed to knot the fabric about the waist. She wished she had a needle and thread, but even if she had, she wouldn’t dare alter the master’s clothes so permanently. And so while the knot was bulky and a little haphazard, the leggings at least no longer threatened to fall down, and the cloths felt a bit more secure between her legs.
She did not know what to do with the rest of her soaked clothes, but she wrung them out as best she could and draped them over the sides of the large bathing basin. She doubted that was correct—they would dry quickly outside on a line like she saw the others doing as she’d walked through the village, but she did not know if Master Olivar had such a thing, or if he would like a thrall’s clothing displayed next to his nice house.
She did not linger once her clothing was sorted. There was a master waiting, and she was leery of the quiet solitude afforded her in the strange room.
He was sitting on the bed as she exited, rising quickly as the door opened. She felt his eyes on her, assessing her, and she stood very still, accepting his appraisal and hoping he would be pleased with her efforts.
He made the strange coughing sound again, and she saw him go to a large wardrobe, pulling open the door and rifling through the contents. He paused, not pulling out anything more, turning back to her. “Ness,” he said slowly. “Is... that is... are there not rules about... bared skin where you come from?”
She resisted the urge to look down and reconsider just how much was exposed. It was a difficult question to answer without giving a far larger history of her people and the Narada, and she struggled for a moment before settling on a slow nod. “Yes,” she confirmed aloud, in case he missed the small gesture.
A truncated sigh. “And they are?”
She hunched her shoulders. He was growing frustrated, and that was the last thing she wanted. “Covered unless a master requires you to be otherwise.”
Another huff of breath, this time even more annoyed. She shrunk further.
She heard more ruffling, another few huffs of irritation, and she waited, not certain what would come but rather sure she did not want to know what would. She should have remained in the bathing room.
Except hiding always made things worse. She knew that, even as every instinct begged her to do it.
“I will have to find things more your size,” Master Olivar mused, his head buried in the wardrobe, the sound muffled. “A child’s maybe?”
She wanted to correct him, didn’t want him to assume she was so young. She was grown and could handle what responsibilities he required of her. She pushed away the troublesome reminder that she certainly had not done so in her last placement. She pushed those thoughts away firmly.
He released a sound of triumph as he reappeared from the confines of the wardrobe—she wondered who all of them belonged to, there were so many of them—and he held a garment aloft. His celebration was short-lived as he came closer, holding it out to her.
“Sleeves, see? So that your...” he gestured over her, to the holes his too-big tunic created. “So you do not have to be exposed if you do not want to be.”
She blinked at the new fabric, accepting it because he was still holding it in his outstretched hand. If she didn’t want to be? And if she did?
There was no possibility she wouldn’t put it on, not when he’d gone to such lengths to find it for her. But apparently he insisted on speaking in ways that suggested she had a choice in the matter, a chance to act upon her own opinion. It was a dangerous possibility, one that would have her hurt or dead quickly if she succumbed to the temptation. She wished he wouldn’t talk like that at all, not when she knew them to be tests of her own submission.
But she couldn’t ask him not to, not when that would be equally bad.
So she accepted the new garment and slipped it over the tunic. It was heavy, a thick material clearly intended for colder temperatures, and she did not like it. It was good to be covered, to not shame herself by exposing her tender skin when he clearly did not wish to see it, but she had rather liked the coolness of what she wore before.
She kept her eyes on the floor, expecting Master Olivar to be pleased, but instead she felt him touch her chin, and she looked at him as expected. He was frowning at her, no hint of his earlier upset, only a dissatisfaction that was almost worse. “You do not look pleased,” he observed.
Was she supposed to? The Narada did not expect smiles and thanks. Placid acceptance was required, nothing else. But Master Olivar clearly liked smiling, more than she had ever known in a person, so she tried to muster enough of one, looking at him directly as he liked. “My thanks to you for the clothing,” she said clearly, a bit more genuinely. She was thankful not to have to put on sopping clothes, to have them stick to her skin as she waited ages for them to dry.
Master Olivar did not look convinced, his frown deepening. He tugged at the sleeve of the new garment. “Do you not like this?”
She bit her cheek, hard. It was a direct enquiry, and she could not lie to a master. Never that. But it would insult him and his garment if she spoke truly, and she did not wish to do that either.
A thick finger skimmed over her cheek, and a little smile appeared, almost coaxing and encouraging her to speak freely.
She knew it couldn’t actually mean that, but with an unhappy sigh and a slouch of her shoulders, she relented. “It is hot,” she confessed. He had not been angry for stating that before, though that was in reference to her general state of being and not one of his own garments he had so generously supplied her. “And... itches.” That part slipped out before she could think better of it, though the moment it did, she regretted it deeply.
She braced for the blow, for the insult to be met with swift and well deserved punishment.
But instead there was a bark of laughter, loud and full, her eyes flying to his in confusion. There was nothing malicious in the sound, which seemed terribly unnerving.
“I thought
you might think differently about it than I did,” he answered ruefully. “But apparently not.”
He was quiet for a moment, almost as if he was waiting for her to say something, but she couldn’t think of something appropriate so she remained quiet. He shook his head a little, tugging the heavy outer garment off of her, and shoving it into the back of the wardrobe from whence it came.
Master Olivar seemed a bit tense, and she shifted the fabric as best she could to cover as much of herself as possible. He smiled, a little sadly, a little hesitantly. “You said you worked with a needle?”
“Yes,” she confirmed, relaxing immediately to talk of something she knew. “Mended and making.”
He nodded. “If I were to get you the tools, would you... would you like to make those things fit you properly?”
Her brow furrowed. “If... if that is what you would like for me to do.”
Master Olivar hung his hand, shaking it tiredly. She bit her lip, knowing she’d said wrongly. “You need clothes, Ness. Ones you will be comfortable in. They don’t have to be those ones, but they could be if you want them.”
Words caught in her throat. Important ones that pressed on her, begging her simply to ask, to know for certain if he knew what he was saying. He hadn’t hurt her yet, even with so much opportunity with her many mistakes. So she found her lips moving, despite her wariness. “They would be mine?”
Master Olivar relaxed into a pleased smile, as if a weight had lifted when she seemingly understood. “Yes, of course. But I am certain you would like them to fit correctly.”
She glanced down at herself. She could do that. She would need thread and a needle and...
A knife. There was simply too much fabric otherwise. She had never been permitted to use one before, Nell the only thrall trusted enough with such something so perilous, but Master Olivar did not know that.
Thrall (Deridia Book 3) Page 7
