Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
I have been with my Masters for more than two weeks now, possibly as long as three.
I am not supposed to track time—we slaves are meant to live always in the moment, trusting our Masters and Mistresses to tell us when it’s time to eat, time to sleep, when our contracts expire—and yet I can’t help myself.
I have always been like this. Oh yes, always the over-thinker.
They have not had me speak again since my conversation with Master Séverin in the bathroom that morning, how many days ago?
But I hear them murmuring to each other on the porch, or in bed.
I have heard my name once or twice, as well as the name Master Séverin called out in his sleep that first night—Béatrice, his lost sister—and it’s a struggle not to ask what they talk about.
They torture me and fuck me, but Master Séverin only ever fucks my ass, which makes more sense since he told me that he never loves women.
Not that love is a necessary element to fuck someone, but I felt I understood more in that moment than his words might have implied.
He is also gentle with me, almost sweet at times, when he isn’t hurting me.
Master Erek is himself, as he always is, I think.
Laughing often, punishing me in simple, wicked ways.
He loves to use his hands and his teeth.
He loves to chain me up in the bedroom, then leave me for hours, ordering me not to wet myself, then forcing me to urinate in the tub, or sometimes just outside the cabin on the bare earth like a dog.
They have given me more enemas while Master Séverin fists me, and I’ve come to love and abhor these little rituals of theirs.
But that is the life of a slave, what I signed up for, the wicked and compelling combination of those things we love and those things we hate but endure.
And it pleases me to be able to take it, both the enemas and Master Séverin’s fist in my cunt.
I crave to feel his cock there, but it seems it’s not to be, which sometimes makes me cry.
But unlike other Masters and Mistresses, who have no patience for my nearly constant tears, these two seem to love them.
Master Erek loves to lick them from my cheeks, and Master Séverin always smiles when his lover drinks my tears.
I sleep each night on my pallet of blankets on the floor, and while I am very much used to this, having spent that single night in their bed makes me think of nothing else. Each night I lie down, silently saying a prayer to any gods who will listen, asking to be brought back into their bed.
For the first time since I was a child, I feel lonely.
Finally, one evening after I’ve been given an enema and bathed, Master Erek has me crawl onto the front porch.
The wood boards are hard under my knees, but the air outside is cool and lovely, a small breeze ruffling my hair.
I breathe it in; those scents of green and bark, the leaves and the earth, and the darkening sky.
To my surprise, he pulls me to my feet and has me sit on the bench beneath the kitchen window, where he and my dear Master Séverin often sit while I am cleaning up after meals. He takes my hands in his, his body turned toward me.
“I want you to talk to me, Mina. You are to answer my questions. Do you understand me?”
My heart pounds. Is this to be some sort of test? What if I fail?
He seems to take my hesitance as something else.
“Ah, yes, let me cover you so we are on more equal footing,” he says, before getting up and going into the house, leaving me to wonder what this is all about.
More equal footing?
He returns with one of his button-down shirts and a small blanket. “Here, put this on,” he tells me, and I do, feeling almost as if I’ve left my body; it’s such an alien sensation to be clothed.
Then he covers my lap with the blanket. “Better?” he asks. “You may answer. I want you to speak with me now.”
I bite my lip. I truly don’t know. “I’m…I’m not sure.”
“Yes, yes, of course this is confusing. Look, I’m not going to explain right now, but I need to know about you. I need to know you. And you need to know us, Master Séverin and I, as well.”
These are such odd circumstances, and I don’t know whether to look at him, or at the dark silhouettes of the trees standing sentry all around the cabin, our little lair.
Our little love nest.
The idea is so absurd as it flashes through my mind, I almost laugh. But it does help me to relax a bit.
“Mina,” he says, the sound of my name on his tongue making me tremble.
“Look at me. We are going to have a conversation now. I will ask you questions, and you will answer. For the time being, it will not be as if I am your Master.” He pauses, then says, “No. I can never be anything but that. But let’s assume that the protocol has been relaxed to some degree. ”
I nod, even though I still don’t quite understand.
He takes a breath. “Alright. Let us begin here. Séverin has told me that he spoke to you briefly. Tell me why you were alone at such a young age.”
I don’t want to talk about this. Bad enough that I dream of it so often. But it’s still my Master asking this of me, and I am too good a slave to deny him.
“My mother died,” I say, the words coming out far more stiffly than I intended. Apparently they are still hard to say, even twelve years later.
“Ah, I’m sorry. Tell me how.”
Still the Master, then. It was a demand more than a request.
Fuck.
I take a deep breath, trying to say the words without feeling them.
“She was…an addict. A heroin addict. She was using as far back as I can remember. But a friend of hers who I once called ‘Aunt’ told me she didn’t start until after I was born. She overdosed maybe once a year, and…”
I have to stop. The damn tears are starting again, but I don’t appreciate these at all.
They aren’t in response to my adoration, my need to please, my self-doubt about the quality of my slavehood.
They aren’t about the yearning I am always filled with that overwhelms me sometimes.
No. These tears are unwanted, and a small part of me is furious about it.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, soaking the sleeve of my Master’s white shirt, the one he put on me.
He pulls my hand away and I wait to be punished. But instead he wipes my face with a handkerchief, and I am as shocked by the old-fashioned square of cloth in his hand as much as I am by the kind gesture.
“So she died of an overdose?” he asks.
“Yes, Master,” I say, still half-choking on the words.
“I’m sorry, Mina. And what of your father?”
“Oh, I only met him once.”
“Tell me about that experience,” he demands, even though his voice is as soft as I’ve ever heard it.
I want to question if I really must do this. But of course I must. This is the life I’ve chosen, after all.
“He came to our apartment when I was seven, maybe eight. He had the same dark hair and gray eyes I do. I recognized who he was immediately.”
I can see in my mind’s eye the dingy apartment with the refrigerator that whirred and whistled. The yellow Formica table in the kitchen. The sagging green couch. I don’t want to see it, but I am in the memory now, and I find I can’t stop talking. I have to tell him all of it.
“When he came to the door my mother sent me to my room, but I knew something was…different. I peeked around the corner of the hallway so I could see who it was. She was angry when he didn’t ask about me, and they argued for what seemed a long time.
But she took him to bed with her, anyway.
They got high together, and it was quiet for a while, and I went back to bed and slept.
But I woke to them arguing again early in the morning, and she kicked him out.
After that the house was full of smoke all day, and that night a neighbor took her to the hospital, and I was alone until the next day.
We never spoke of it. I knew she wouldn’t tell me anything. And that was…it.”
I feel the need to shrug. To shrug off the feelings. To shrug off the acrid scent of burning black tar heroin that hovered always in the back of my mind. To shrug off the parents who were more interested in getting high than in me.
“My father was an alcoholic,” Master Erek says, “so I have at least a glimpse of what addiction can look like.”
I look up into his face then, and his blue eyes are brilliant, intense as he looks back at me.
“You’re so, so pretty when you’re sad,” he murmurs, wiping my cheeks again. “I don’t know why I’m like this,” he says with a small laugh.
It’s perhaps the first sign of vulnerability I’ve seen from him, this bit of amused self-deprecation. I don’t know what to think of it. But it does make him more human, and I have no idea if this is a good thing or a bad thing.
“So,” he continues. “Tell me what your life was like after she died.”
“Oh, I…well I…I wasn’t able to stay in that apartment.
It reeked of death and the sadness and drugs that killed her.
I was on the streets for a few weeks before I got a fake ID, and I was able to get a job go-go dancing at a little club on Sunset.
Then eventually I got a better job stripping, and got an apartment in Hollywood. ”
“But? It sounds as if there’s a ‘but’ there.”
I nod, memories flashing through my brain so fast I can barely hang onto any one of them.
“Not a ‘but’. An ‘and’, perhaps?” I stop and shake my head, needing to clear it.
“A girl I worked with took me to a kink club. And for the very first time, I felt…at home. No one there cared where I came from. I had my first flogging there. I went back every chance I had, and fell in love with all of my Tops.”
“Of course you did,” he says, nodding. “And then?”
“I…this isn’t boring for you, Master?”
He leans a bit closer. “Quite the opposite. I’m fascinated. Tell me your story in kink. How did you become a slave?”