Subjection (4 page)

I panicked, unable to make sense of why he would have me turn for whipping if he wanted me to stop bleeding. It made no sense. “Master, please,” I whimpered, turning around anyway. I expected to hear an angry reproach.

I heard a cabinet opening.

“Calm down, boy, I’m going to bandage you up before you bleed all over everything!” My master snapped at me. I noticed him taking out a first aid kit, and I calmed a little.

He wasn’t particularly gentle as he wiped away blood and bandaged the worst of the cuts, but he wasn’t trying to hurt me, either. He sprayed something on that burned, and I struggled not to cry out. I failed, just like I failed to stop crying.

He just kept taping bandages over the wounds. When he finished with my back, he turned me around with a hand on my shoulder and took care of the ones in front as well. I could have reached those ones, but it felt good to have someone take care of me, even if he was doing it as methodically as humanly possible.

“Do you need to see a doctor?” he asked, his voice quiet.

“No, master,” I replied, without even thinking of it. I didn’t want to inconvenience him with complaints. Besides, I figured the pain in my shoulders would subside soon enough.

My master nodded, satisfied. “Clean up, get dressed, and meet me in the study.”

“Yes, master,” I replied. I did as he ordered, dressing myself quickly. The clothes hurt as they brushed against my skin, but at least the worst of it was bandaged. The clothes were soft and a few sizes larger than what I usually wore, even when I had been at a healthy weight. I glanced at the spray my master used on me, unsurprised to see that it was an antibiotic and disinfectant spray.

I found the study without too much difficulty. My master was sitting at a big, mahogany desk that matched his appearance and personality perfectly. Dark. Stately. Intimidating. It just needed to be black, to match his clothes. It was rather handsome, too, the desk.

“You may kneel,” he said, interrupting my musings.

He said it like an invitation, but it was an order. I obeyed, regardless, and waited for his next demand.

“You’re emaciated,” he pointed out.

I bit my tongue to keep from screaming at him. I hated him for making it sound like it was my fault

“Do you have some sort of eating disorder, or did she just not feed you?”

“She didn’t feed me,” I muttered. “Master.”

“Cut the attitude,” he warned. “I won’t put up with it.”

I didn’t say anything, because I was still irrationally seething. He continued just as calmly.

“You’ll have free access to the kitchen and all the food. I want you to eat, get back up to a normal weight. Eat whatever you’d like, and I’ll show you later how to order supplies and groceries. You can order what you’d like. You said you can cook?”

I hesitated. I had said that, hadn’t I? “I can learn, master.”

He went silent. “That wasn’t how you described it earlier,” he reminded me.

“I meant—”

“Don’t lie to me again,” he cut me off. “And you’d better learn quickly, if you want to eat. I go out for meals more often than not, and you’ll be sorely disappointed if you think I’m bringing you home something.”

My face burned with shame. I stayed silent, waiting for more blame, maybe punishment. He was interrogating me like a common criminal.

“Lying, hiding, and any number of other vices may have kept you safe in the past,” he said, his voice a little softer. “You would have said anything to get out of there, understandably. But no more.”

I nodded, unable to speak. I knew how to handle cruelty; the fact that he was trying to be understanding was unfamiliar and terrifying.

“Can you actually clean?”

Either he was taunting me, or he thought I was that stupid. Either way, I couldn’t reply at first. I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood before I spoke. “Yes, master. I can clean just fine.”

“Good,” he continued, as if there was nothing the matter. As if I wasn’t trying to rub tears off my face. “I’ll cancel the housecleaning service. Nice to see you’ll be good for something until the party.”

I was struck with the irrational desire to tell him all the other things I could do. All the ambitions I once had. I wanted to tell him that I could help him with account management, whatever research he did at work, mod his tablet and wristband, do all sorts of cool shit, but I didn’t, because slaves aren’t supposed to do cool shit like that. “I’ll try, master,” I mumbled.

“I’m sure,” he said dryly. “You may move freely around the house. Make sure things are cleaned. Don’t pry or look through my belongings; that will be very unpleasant for you. Let me know at once if there’s something you need, whether that’s medical treatment or cleaning supplies or anything else. If you’re sore, you should rest for a few days; I don’t want you any more damaged, is that clear?”

“Yes, master.”

“I work from home quite often. Stay out of my way while I’m working, I don’t want a needy slave around,” he ordered. “If you have a question, figure it out yourself or ask me later. I assume you can make simple decisions on your own, don’t come bothering me all the time. That’s why I don’t have a slave. Pesky things, really, always underfoot.”

I seethed at being compared to a child or an unwanted pet. “I’ll stay out of your way, master.”

“Good,” he nodded, frowning at me anyway. “We’ll start next week working on training you to act like something more than a common brothel whore. For now, take care of yourself and keep up around the house. Are there any questions?”

I wanted to ask him if he hated me so much, or if he was always this cold. I wanted to ask why he bought me in the first place. “Just one, master. Are there any food allergies, dislikes, or preferences that I should be aware of?”

He looked at me for a moment, and I thought he might get up and hit me. That would have been better than the scrutiny. Suddenly, he smiled, ever-so-slightly, the first he had directed at me. “I
detest
olives,” he replied. “But anything else is fair game.”

“Thank you, master.” I waited for his next command.

“Go find the kitchen and then get some sleep,” he relented, after staring at me for a while longer. He waved his hand, dismissing me.

I ate like a starved animal that night, pausing only to notice the quality of food in his refrigerator. Expensive sodas, high-quality restaurant leftovers that had been left untouched, supplies of foods bought from international imports. I tried to notice what I could, but I was starving, just like he said, and once I ate my fill, I made my way to my new bedroom. I stripped off my clothes and crawled into bed, thrilled at the soft, cushiony mattress and pillows. Even if my new master hated me, I was in love with the bed, and nothing else mattered.

Chapter 4
Expectations

I never wanted a slave, and the more I think about it, the last one I would possibly want would be one like Sascha. When Bobby told me he had a lead on a slave for the Peace Day Celebration, I never expected him to drag me to a sleazy whorehouse. I thought he had a legitimate lead, maybe a new escort service, preferably one with free persons instead of property. I swore I was done with slaves. I made up my mind years ago to avoid live subjects, only dealing with the research and financing aspects of the whole Demoted system, and yet… the way he looked up at me, there was something more. That desperation, that ruthless desire to survive. I haven’t seen it in years, but I recognized it. At least, I thought I did.

Sascha is difficult. He amazed me at the Peace Day Celebration last night, making me wonder how such a damaged individual can put on such a convincing act. Any other time we’re together, he ignores what I say in favor of staring at me in fear. The look on his face when he does something wrong, or thinks he’s done something wrong, is terrible. He’s appropriate and grateful, something the years of abuse will naturally create, but he doesn’t seem to have many other original thoughts in his head. Was I wrong? Did I see something that wasn’t there?

I do my best to leave him be. He seems so uncomfortable around me. I have my own work to do anyway. My own indentured servitude.

Dean & Chanu Associates, the soulless investment firm I’ve been with for seven years, demands an excessive amount of time. Playing with numbers, calculating financial possibilities, researching trends and comparing the best investments and returns in every profitable industry. It’s busy work, something the damn slave could probably do if he’s as bright as I thought. But he doesn’t speak, or ask, or do anything. I thought I saw a little spark from him when he demanded to know my food preferences, but it didn’t pan out to much more than safe, boring dishes. He looks at me in terror when he prepares something for me to eat, taking any enjoyment out of the meals. He cooks and cleans and follows orders, but aside from that, he hides in his room most of the time.

The abuse he has endured is horrible. I knew it at the brothel, but the full extent didn’t become apparent until I was bandaging him up once I brought him home. He wasn’t just beaten and starved, he was purposefully used as a torture victim. He is covered in scars, old and new, some with patterns and initials visible. It was intentional. No matter how severe re-education center training is, there is never the intentional, pointless infliction of pain that my new slave has endured. It sickens me to see it. Pain can be fun at times, but what has been done to this boy is just wrong. Disturbing. The panicked look he gets in his eyes when I move too quickly or speak too loudly unnerves me, so I avoid moving or speaking around him. I’m not sure if he can be rehabilitated.

He leaves me alone as well, although I guess he’s following my orders. I wonder sometimes if he’s even alive, but then he shows up, cowering and nervous, and I remember why I’ve avoided him.

But the show he put on at the Peace Day Celebration makes me think that perhaps he’s not so damaged as he seems. My boss found him attractive, which he is, even in spite of the condition I bought him in. I got many approving nods for having such a pretty, well-trained slave, although I found his training to be distinctly lacking. Still, he may prove to be more of an asset than a liability.

I hear a knock on the door to my office, very light, like he’s trying not to make a sound. It irks me—if he’s going to knock, he can at least do so with some force! But at least he’s not loitering around until I notice him. Proper as it may be, it’s annoying in one’s own house. I wait for him to come in, and when he doesn’t, I call “what?” through the door.

If he wants to speak with me, he can come in here.

He does, and he looks even more terrified.

“Master, I was wondering…”

He stands there trembling, ducking his head down and allowing his hair to fall over his eyes, shielding him. He looks ridiculously young, like he should still be in school. Of course, that would put me in the position of the principal or something of the sort, which is the exact opposite of what I want. I scowl and wait for him to get to the point.

Finally, he takes a deep breath, steadying himself before he speaks. “May I look at a tablet, master, for some recipes?”

I roll my eyes and look back down at the work I have on my desk. He finally interacts with me, and it’s to borrow a damn tablet? “I’ll see what I have around. Go. Don’t bother me.”

I wave him off, hoping he’ll leave me to my work. I’ve asked him plenty of times if he needs anything, but he’s always so quiet. I hope it’s a good sign.

I resume my work, but not before doing a little research on the boy. There’s little that I can find; most of the accessible information on children is destroyed once they are Demoted. What’s left is school newspapers, community announcements, things like that. Not very useful, but they give me a picture of who this slave is, or, rather, who he was. Average family, no connections to anyone particularly important, no outstanding achievements from anyone. I can barely tell him apart from any other slave, the banal existence of the typical slaves blending together as I continue to read.

Sascha’s reports from the re-education center are far more interesting, and probably far more relevant to his life as it is now. He’s been marked as a problem, nominated for research and medical testing, but spared, perhaps by a favorite guard or instructor. As much as the re-education centers are standardized, there is always room to play, especially when one takes a liking to a slave.

Before he was so damaged, I could see Sascha being likable.

I finish my work for the day and dig through a drawer full of old electronics; last year’s wristband model, some com devices, and finally, an older tablet. It’s a little used, but it will suffice for the slave, at least until I decide whether I’m going to keep him much longer. I bring it to him in his room, obviously surprising him.

“Older generation. Probably the model you’re familiar with,” I explain. “Let me know if you need help working it.”

“Thank you, master,” he replies, staring up at me in shock and awe.

The way he looks at me is unnerving. I haven’t hurt him and I don’t intend to. But the worshipful look on his face is over the top. All this, for a used tablet?

“I would like you to learn to cook,” I say calmly, hoping I can get him to relax. “I’d also like you to brush up on some more formal training. I’ll be flashing over some training manuals and videos that will review some of the basics of posture, movement, and conduct.”

Sascha goes pale, looking up at me with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry, master,” he mumbles. “I didn’t realize I wasn’t pleasing you. Please, I promise, I can do better.”

I try not to scowl. He’s not exactly begging me to keep him, but it’s what he wants, and the desperation puts me off. “You haven’t done anything wrong,” I assure him. “Your performance at the Peace Day Celebration was wonderful. You far surpassed my expectations, and you impressed my colleagues. I’d just like to invest more time in working with you.”

He looks up at me, hopeful once more. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret it.”

“Get to work,” I order. The gratitude is as unnerving as the desperation.