Sedition (23 page)

“You can piss right now if you want to,” Torenze taunts, knowing fully well how hard I am. I couldn’t piss right now if it would save my life. “Don’t you want to?”

“Yes, sir,” I whimper, hating myself for sounding so weak.

“Oh, you do?” Torenze acts surprised. “But poor little Muffin has his mouth wrapped around you trashy little cock, and it’s going to stay there until I tell him to move it. Wouldn’t that be disgusting?”

It’s gone on long enough that I’m sick enough not to care. “Yes, sir,” I mumble. “But I’d do it.”

“Tell me what you’d do,” Torenze growls in my ear, still fucking me. Goddammit, this is turning him on, and as much as I want to vomit, my body is responding to the stimulation, my cock getting hard, aching for release, both of come and urine.

“I’d piss in your slave’s mouth, sir.” I give in, crying as I feel Mark tense underneath me. I feel awful. “I’d come down his throat and then I’d piss in his mouth, so he could swallow it or choke on it. I’d love it, sir. I wish that I had done it earlier, but it will be even better now. Right into his mouth.”

“And why is that, Trash-Boy?” Torenze grunts, about to come.

“Because…” Because I need to piss so bad I’m afraid my bladder will explode, because I’m trained to get off on pain, and once I come, I know I won’t be able to hold back anymore. “Because I’m a dirty, trashy whore, sir,” I admit, feeling the truthfulness of it. Fighting is too hard. I’m too weak to protect myself and too selfish to protect this boy. “I’m a dirty slave whore who loves cock, and who doesn’t care who he hurts or who he pisses on.”

The words bring Torenze over the edge, and I can feel him coming inside of my ass again. At the same time, he reaches around to grab Mark by the hair, jerking him down hard on my cock and ordering me to come.

As I’m shuddering and Mark is struggling to swallow, Torenze laughs again. “Now, you can piss in his mouth.”

I’d like to say I’m strong enough to resist.

I’m just not.

I fight the urge to be sick again as I let go, feeling relief mixed with shame that I’ve never felt before.

The relief is spoiled as soon as it starts, as I feel my own piss being spit back out at me, covering me as Mark chokes and Torenze holds his head down on my cock. I want to sink to the floor, but I’m still held up by my wrists, tied to the shower bar, and I finally remember how to check out like I used to.

The rest of the day is a horror-movie blur. I’m fucked multiple times, both by Torenze and his slave. Maybe I even fuck the slave. Torenze could have ordered me to fuck the wall and I would have. There are bodily fluids everywhere, curses for being dirty, beatings, restraints, bruises. Various methods are utilized to make me “clean” again, but they are all much less about actual cleanliness and much more about furthering the pain and humiliation that gets Torenze off. It doesn’t matter, though, because I’m done, gone, checked out.

Chapter 19
Dirty

The only reason I’m aware my master has come for me is that the suffering stops. I hear knocking, and I’m left alone with Muffin or Mark or whatever the hell his name is, and I wait for the suffering to start again.

It does to a minuscule extent; Torenze drags me by my hair to the foyer where I last saw my master.

I have been fantasizing about this moment so much that the sight isn’t surprising or relieving. I expect it to be a fantasy that gets blown away with some new torture. That’s what’s been happening for the past twelve hours, except when I forget to fantasize about anything at all.

“Oliver, if I let you borrow my hov-car and you returned it in this state, I’d insist you take it for a tune-up first.”

It’s the cynicism and careless disdain in my master’s voice that cuts through the haze, convincing me that it’s actually him. Fantasy-Cash always pulls me into his arms and carries me to safety.

“I could always keep him overnight for observation,” Torenze suggests.

I jerk away from him and fall at my master’s feet, too weak to stand. Being tied up, forced to stand on the tips of my toes or face worse damage to my arms and shoulders, has taken a toll on the muscles of my legs, as have the beatings. I don’t beg, but I lie there, pleading silently. Everything is blurry, and I’m still scared that it’s not real.

“You used him hard.” My master’s voice is carefully void of emotion.

“I use all my toys hard, you’ve known me long enough to know that.”

“I hope I can say I’ve known you long enough to trust that you haven’t broken any of the terms of our agreement?”

“Of course,” Torenze agrees. “He’ll be just fine in a month. Probably even less than a month.”

“Good.” My master finally looks down at me.

I turn my face away, unable to meet his eyes. I don’t want to see it, the pity, the disgust, the horror that he must feel looking down upon me. I’m miserable, covered with my own blood and piss and Torenze’s come and all sorts of other repulsive things. I can’t look at him and see that. I look down at the floor instead. It spins.

“We’ll be going, then,” my master says calmly, as if nothing has happened. “Like you said earlier, I’m sure you’re tired out.”

“In the best of ways,” Torenze says, laughing his sickening laugh. I gag, praying that I don’t throw up again.

“Your cooperation on the project is most appreciated. Welcome to the team,” my master says cordially. “Come, Sascha.”

I try to follow him, but all I can do is crawl, and even that hurts. Fortunately, I’m too addled to realize what’s happening, because before I know it, he’s picking me up and carrying me. I want to protest, badly, but the exhaustion shuts me up nearly as much as the firm grip. I let myself sag as my master carries me to the hov-car.

I can’t avoid crying out when he sets me down on the seat, and I can feel my face contorting with pain as he reaches across me to fasten the seatbelt. My master says nothing, but the disgust is clear on his face.

“I’m sorry,” I whimper, starting to cry again. Or was I crying already? My face is wet, but I don’t remember starting to cry. But I don’t remember going outside, either.

He says nothing until he walks around, getting in on his side and putting it into gear. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sascha.”

Right. It would be ridiculous to hope he’d still want me. That’s why he didn’t want me to do it in the first place. He knew I’d come back like this and be nothing to him. I cry more.

“Son of a bitch!” my master snaps, slamming a hand down on the dashboard and making me jump. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Just when I thought I was unhappy enough, he wants to let other people see me like this?

“Please, master, no!”

“I’m taking you to the goddamn hospital,” he insists. “You look terrible! I don’t know what the fuck he did to you, but you need a doctor!”

“No. No hospital,” I moan. I can’t. I can’t handle it. “I promise there’s nothing permanent. Please, Cash, just take me home?”

He glances over at me and I can see him soften. He thinks about it for a moment before responding.

“All right. We’ll go home, but if I check you out and anything looks suspicious, we are going to see the doctor first thing in the morning, is that understood?”

“Yes. Thank you, sir,” I mumble, slumping over in the seat. I flinch away when a hand reaches out toward me, but I realize it’s Cash, and I clutch it to me, holding on to him. For once, he doesn’t seem to mind.

We get home and I struggle to unbuckle myself and open the door. By the time I’ve finished, Cash is already at my side, about to pick me up again.

I pull away. “Don’t,” I beg. “I’m dirty and disgusting, and covered in—”

“I know what you’re covered in, and I have a pretty good idea of what he’s done to you. We can get you taken care of more quickly if you let me help you,” my master insists, grabbing me firmly and pulling me out of the car.

I try not to think of how dirty I’m getting him and his car. “You’re never gonna get that smell out of your car,” I mumble, only aware of how strange it sounds after I say it.

“I know a good detailer.” Cash’s jaw is set, his face looking grim.

He helps me into the house and takes me straight to the shower. Not that I blame him, I know how awful I smell and how terrible it must be to touch me. He deposits me on the edge of the tub and turns the water on, ordering me to wait while it warms up. I lean against the wall and fight the urge to be sick again.

He comes back quickly with a chair from the kitchen and a drink bottle. He places the chair in the shower while I watch and then turns, holding the bottle out to me.

“Drink,” he orders. The familiar command pushes me over the edge.

I lunge past him and manage to reach the toilet before throwing up, the memories from earlier today all too fresh to handle a threat like drinking something.

“Sorry,” my master says, rubbing my back gently.

I try to shake him off, but he’s as stubborn as I am.

“It’s a sports drink,” he explains calmly. “Electrolytes. Minerals. Sodium. You need it. I promise it will make you feel better.”

I tremble, shaking my head. “I’ll throw up,” I try, an inadequate explanation.

“You’re throwing up already,” he reminds me. “Trust me, Sascha. Think back to your high school anatomy class and the early effects of water intoxication.”

I do as he says, and it does sort of add up. “That’s why he gave me salt,” I mumble, realizing it now. I thought it was just because he enjoyed the way it burned my throat, raw from screaming.

My master nods. “He wouldn’t have let you go too far, but he did enough. Sascha… I’m so sorry.”

I accept the drink from him, the salty cherry taste thick on my tongue. He hands me a small pill as well, which I swallow without comment.

“Diuretic,” he explains.

I shudder. “He gave me some of those, too.” I thought it was just to increase the need to piss, torturing me more.

Cashiel nods, waiting on me to make the next move.

“You knew?” I ask, finally, when I can’t handle any more sports drink. “You knew he’d do this?”

“I’ve known him for a long time. His proclivities haven’t changed much, as far as I can tell.” He looks ashamed. “I should never have let you do this.”

“I wanted to,” I recall, wondering what the hell I was thinking. I start shaking, badly, and I can’t quite figure out why.

“Let’s get you in the shower,” my master says, half-lifting me and placing me on the chair he’s sat in there.

I think he’s going to leave me to clean myself up, to get rid of the evidence of the dirty, disgusting mess I’ve become, but he starts stripping off his own clothes, and I realize he’s going to join me.

“Please, Cash, just leave,” I shake my head. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Don’t argue with me,” he insists, stepping inside. “It’s my goddamn fault you’re hurt like this, it’s the least I can do to help you clean up. Besides, you aren’t so mobile at the moment.”

I want to fight him, but there’s no fight left in me. I go limp, feeling like a rag doll as he hoses everything off of my body and props me up when my body threatens to fall over, despite the chair and the wall of the shower supporting me. The sight of blood and the smell of piss, real or imagined, has me gagging in seconds, and it’s only my master’s quick reflexes of pulling a trash can into the shower with us that saves us both from being covered in red sports drink. I can’t stop crying after this, not even when my master starts to look disturbed and annoyed.

Finally, he finishes washing me twice, himself once, and I flash back to the day he brought me home, how I wondered if he’d like to delouse me. I look worse now, I’m sure. I feel worse. How did I do it back then? How did I survive months of torture like this?

He’s carrying me again, I’m dimly aware. I feel myself being placed on his bed. I start to struggle, panicking. He hates his bed getting dirty, and I’m sure I’m still bleeding, and I smell bad. I should be on the floor or something.

“Calm the fuck down before you hurt yourself!” my master orders, stilling me instantly.

I feel a sharp sting and I jump, relaxing when I realize it’s disinfectant spray he’s put on me. I’m quiet as he does the rest, applying bandages over the worst ones, the ones that are still bleeding. There are startlingly few, given the pain I’m in, but bruising covers most of my body. I know it will only look worse tomorrow. I catch a glance of my master’s face, and he is clearly furious.

I wait, apprehensive, until he’s finished everything, checked for broken bones, even fondled my ass and dick in the most clinical way possible to make sure everything is intact. Maybe I should have let him take me to the hospital; they wouldn’t have been so fucking thorough.

“You’ll heal,” he says quietly, as if it’s some sort of surprise to him.

He crawls into bed carefully, on the other side, and I hope that he will just go to sleep and leave me to my misery. No such luck. I feel his hand brushing lightly across my back, and the very sense of being touched makes me shudder.

“Please, Cash,” I whisper, feeling sick again as I say it.

“I’m sorry, Sascha,” he repeats, his voice bitter and quiet. “This… it wasn’t worth it.”

He’s right. I’m spoiled now, ruined. I thought I couldn’t be taken any lower, but I was, I am, and now he doesn’t want me here, doesn’t want me at all, and I’ve fucked everything up. “I’ll go,” I mumble, turning to roll out of bed.

Rough hands grab an arm and a leg and pull me back down.

“You’ll stay right fucking here,” he growls.

I lie there silently, trying to check out again. The things that Torenze did, at the end, they were just to my body. I wasn’t really there. I could go again, leave my body, take the rest of me somewhere safe.

The sensation of fingers on my back again jerks me into the present and I try to squirm away.

“Sascha.” His voice is a warning tone.

“Please, Cash…”

His touch is more demanding; he reaches around to embrace me and trap me. All I can think is how little I’ve been reduced to, how I don’t deserve the soft touches anymore. If he wants to fuck me, he should. He should do it roughly, violently, like I deserve. He shouldn’t soil himself by touching me more than he has to.