Subjection

Subjection

Demoted
Book One

Alicia Cameron

ForbiddenFiction
www.forbiddenfiction.com

an imprint of

Fantastic Fiction Publishing
www.fantasticfictionpublishing.com

Disclaimer

This book is a work of fiction which contains explicit erotic content; it is intended for mature readers. Do not read this if it’s not legal for you.

All the characters, locations and events herein are fictional. While elements of existing locations or historical characters or events may be used fictitiously, any resemblance to actual people, places or events is coincidental.

This book depicts depicts fictional BDSM; it is not intended to be used as an instruction manual. It contains descriptions of erotic acts that may be immoral, illegal, or unsafe. The characters are not models for the Safe, Sane and Consensual forms embraced by most current practitioners of BDSM. The authors take license with the use of BDSM for dramatic effect. Do not take the events in this story as proof of the plausibility or safety of any particular practice.

To everyone who begged for Cash’s POV: You got it!

Chapter 1

Peace Day Celebration

My master and I arrive at the Peace Day Celebration looking like the perfect couple. The glitter and paint make me sparkle, but more importantly, they cover the scars.

The Celebration commemorates the end of the fourth World War and the signing of the Peace Declaration. I’ve never seen it as all that peaceful; the Peace Declaration came at a steep price: the Demoted system was signed into place with that agreement, enslaving approximately fifteen percent of the population, a demographic I would join decades later.

I’m grateful that my master has taken me to a high-end costume designer, who took it upon herself to coordinate me as a shining accessory to my master. The theme of this year’s Peace Day Celebration is “Luck,” and I’m decorated from head to toe in thin latex paint that fits more like a second skin than clothing itself. Hundreds of painted four-leaf clovers blend together on my skin like glistening camouflage, and peeking out from behind them are carefully painted coins, replicas from ancient history books. Some are outlined with sparkly gold rhinestones, disguising the marks that my previous owners have left on me. I sparkle no matter which direction I am viewed from. The costume designer added some designs along my face and hands as well, not to cover anything, simply to match. The same gold dust that glitters on my body adds highlights to my dark brown hair, and complements my dark green eyes.

To even the best-trained observer, I am a prime specimen, a highly-valued Demoted slave, not the brothel whore I once was.

My dick has been spared the green paint that decorates the rest of my body, and is the only clothed part, covered in what basically amounts to a g-string. The paint blends seamlessly with the fabric, and she’s covered most of my ass up to look like I’m actually wearing pants. Strangely, I feel more covered with my ass swathed in paint that I ever did in some of the other outfits I’ve been forced to wear. Maybe it’s because the paint is a lot harder to rip off, or maybe it’s just because it was applied with such care and attention to detail, the goal being to make me look valuable, not cheap. She’s even painted a tie around my neck, matching the real tie she chose for my master. The dark green suits him quite well, though it is the most color I’ve seen on him since he purchased me a month ago.

Cashiel Michaud made my heart race from the first time I laid eyes on him. He pulls off the stereotypical “tall, dark, and handsome,” while still managing to take my breath away—usually, from fear, but tonight he’s simply stunning. His look, as expected, is classic suit and tie, but it’s the subtle hints that make him shine; the tie, some cuff links, the costume designer even dabbed some makeup on him while he scowled at her. For once, we look less like a detached master and a used up whore, and more like a businessman and his high-class escort.

I try to hold onto this idea as we arrive at the casino, where my master hands his keys over to the valet to park. As practiced, I am literally holding onto his arm, clinging, really, and I find myself glad, because all of a sudden I’m terrified.

The casino is immaculate. The biggest and most prestigious in the city, if not the state, it features a marble entrance with inlaid diamonds, matching perfectly with the diamond chandeliers that hang low and heavy from the ceiling. Everything shimmers; the gold flecks of paint, the glitter embedded in the glass, the Demoted slaves who are owned by the casino.

The other guests look at home; unlike me, they aren’t staring wide-eyed at the decorations or one another. My master must fit into this world as well, but I’m used to him. He doesn’t seem so superior, so distant. The attendees continue with conversations as if the extravagance is commonplace, and the slaves remain focused and attentive without looking tense. They move gracefully, fitting under a master’s arm, holding a mistress’s purse, making everything look so effortless.

This was a stupid idea. I can’t do this. I can’t pretend to compete with the beautiful men and women here, the real high-class escorts who have trained for years to come to expensive parties on the arms of other beautiful men and women. I’m a goddamned brothel whore who’s no good for anything but torturing and fucking!

My master must notice my increased heart rate, or that I’m gasping for breath, or something, because he looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “Doing all right?” he asks, and it’s so normal that I forget to be scared for a minute.

“What if I can’t do this, master?” I need to know. I need to know how badly he’ll hurt me, or if he’ll sell me, or what other consequences there might be. I need to know how soon before I get put back in my place.

He shakes his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sascha, of course you can do it. I wouldn’t have bought you if I didn’t think you could, and you certainly wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t completely certain that you would succeed. Stop being so melodramatic.”

His words affect me more than he probably knows. He isn’t just hopeful, he’s confident that I can do this, and it’s been an awfully long time since I’ve had someone believe in me like that. There’s no threats, no bribes, just a simple statement of fact. I can do this, and he knows it.

Okay, maybe I am a little melodramatic.

We enter, and I’m soon so swept up that I forget to be nervous. There are people to meet, drinks to fetch, plates from snacks to clear away and hand to the proper attendant, compliments to accept. Because, yes, I do receive compliments on my attire, as does my master, but it seems acceptable for me to directly thank the person paying the compliment, and I fall into it naturally. As if I belong in this world.

Perhaps I do.

The card games and gambling start up quickly, and my master takes me to a table full of wealthy individuals, surrounded by Demoted men and women. Their outfits are perfectly tailored and display the best assets of the slaves, though none are as creative as mine. I watch in amazement as the free people throw down ludicrous amounts of money, cashing in on the opportunity to out-donate their peers. Charity and social causes are big on Peace Day. It doesn’t explain the greed that happens during the rest of the year, but it’s a nice show.

I perch on my master’s lap, as practiced, and I let him play a few hands on his own. He bought me to serve as eye candy, and my skill at counting cards adds the bonus of him being able to appear “lucky” in the gambling games, when the time comes. We’ve trained for this for weeks, working out subtle hand signals, brushes of hair, and smiles that I can use to guide my master’s moves. I don’t flinch any more when he touches me, and I don’t mind sitting at his feet or on his lap. Whether we’re sitting or standing, his arm fits naturally around my waist, pulling me close against the curve of his body, and I don’t have to try very hard to lean into him.

I play with his hair and whisper things just for fun, just to make it clear that I’m a handsy, needy boy who’s entirely uninterested in the card games my master plays. He smiles indulgently at me, and I fall into the role more easily.

It’s nice to lie for something other than sheer physical safety, and it’s nice to have him smile at me, even if it is an act.

I help him to win a few hands, here and there, hands where it won’t look too obvious to the others playing with him. He rakes in a huge pile of chips, and the wide smile on his face assures me he’s pleased. I share his enjoyment.

“Cash, you’re having quite a winning streak!” one of his coworkers says, smiling as he loses his chips to my master. “Last week you said you weren’t an experienced gambler. Congratulations on your beginner’s luck!”

I smile along with everyone else, but it’s my master’s appreciative look that really reassures me.

He’s told me about each of his coworkers, especially his superiors. I can tell that it’s Mr. Dean, the head of the company, who’s actually doing the worst in the game. He’s betting too high, taking too many risks, and while he’s passable at bluffing, he just doesn’t have the cards to back it up. He’s almost out of chips, and on his next turn, he pulls the blonde girl standing next to him directly onto his lap.

“I’ll raise you a night with Melinda,” he challenges Cashiel, a gleam in his eye as he runs his hands over her most prominent features.

I’m appalled. So base, for such a supposedly high-class event, and this wager won’t even benefit charity. It’s nothing but an excuse to stay in the game, to keep having fun without the bother of getting up to buy more chips. There’s silence for half a second, before everyone starts jeering and laughing. Of course, they wouldn’t call their boss out for being over the line. Melinda looks scared, but she hides it by turning her face into her master’s chest and giggling. That move has never worked for me.

I’m rather stunned when my master’s turn comes and I hear his reply.

“I’ll see your bet with Sascha,” he smiles, winking at his boss. “I’m sure he’d keep you company.”

The older man leers at me, and I wish I could hide like his girl is doing. Instead, I force my best sexy smile and lean over to blow him a kiss. In the resulting cheers, the rest of the crowd is distracted enough not to notice all the signals that I slip my master. I’ve developed excellent card-counting skills, and I watch the game carefully, running a hand through my master’s hair when he should bet higher, twisting my legs up with his when he should stay. He doesn’t respond, not that anyone else can see, but he makes the moves I want him to.

I’ve been playing casually up until now, just making my master win a little more than he loses, but now that
I
am at stake, I’m tense, on my game, refusing to lose. I study the cards carefully, even going so far as to peek at the hands of others. Nobody suspects a pretty little slave boy of understanding the game, much less cheating at it. We’ve been dealt a decent hand; I try to convince myself that my master must have known this before he agreed to place me as a bet. Still, it needs some help, and I hold my breath as I cue my master to draw more cards. The highest are still in the deck—that is, if Mr. Dean isn’t holding them.

I try not to appear tense, but I’m more eager to see the cards than my master is. As usual, he is calm and collected, pulling the cards slowly and returning them to his hand without haste. I hold my breath as he does, willing him to go faster, and when he finally turns them so I can see them, it’s all I can do to avoid gasping for air.

Mr. Dean isn’t holding the two highest cards, because my master has them in his hand. We win the round, and we win the girl, and her master shoos her away with a laugh. She’s smiling, but I can see the fear in her eyes as she comes toward us. I’d feel bad for her, if the alternative were something other than me being passed around. My master, to his credit, merely pulls her close with an arm around her waist, his hand locking in place just above her hip and not straying at all. I think at first that it’s because he’s not attracted to girls, but he surprises me by acting remarkably protective of her. The man sitting next to us tries to feel her leg under the table, and the glare he receives makes him retreat instantly.