Broken Contracts, page 12
Micah took two steps and dropped to his knees, sitting back on his heels between Slate’s legs. Slate caught his chin, forcing him to look up. There it was—an impressive shiner, the bruises a couple of days along, with a small cut over Micah’s cheekbone.
“This isn’t from me,” Slate said, mostly sure it was true. “And I haven’t loaned you out. Explain.”
“The security team,” Micah said immediately.
Slate blinked. An escape attempt? From Micah? “Details,” he said. “I’ll have the truth one way or another, don’t make me nag it out of you.”
“They spar, sometimes, in their off hours,” Micah said quickly. “And I’ve been trained in hand to hand. I asked if I could practice with them.”
“But you’re not on the security team,” Slate said. He ran the pad of his thumb across Micah’s lower lip, before pushing it inside. Micah met him with a wet press of his tongue. “So why?”
Micah exhaled and withdrew, just enough to speak.
“My paperwork says I’m fit for security work. I wanted to practice, in case you . . . You’ve been gone for weeks, and you took some others, but not . . .” He dropped his chin, and Slate let him. “I thought maybe I was going to be for sale.”
Slate smirked, stroking his fingers through Micah’s hair. The slave was fishing for information; Slate wasn’t going to reward him.
“You thought you’d sell better with a black eye? That’s why you’re coming to me like this, instead of having the medic take care of it?”
“I went to the medic, and he said . . .” Micah hesitated, like he was unsure. Slate didn’t buy it for a moment. He stroked Micah’s hair fondly, letting the slave build his narrative. “I still have the marks, sir. From the last time you were here? I wasn’t sure I had permission to heal them yet.”
Micah paused, and Slate could practically see his thoughts. In Micah’s mind, this was where Slate would say, Let me see, and Micah would strip his clothes off, shirt first, then the pants, a feigned blush as he revealed the bruises the cane had left on his skin.
Slate wasn’t going to give it to him, as pleased as he was by this scenario Micah had concocted.
“Sir,” said a new voice, from the doorway. Anthony. Slate beckoned him in, still playing with Micah’s hair.
“I assume you two know each other?” Slate said, without looking to see Anthony nod. He didn’t have to assume. He could see. There was no connection there. They may recognize each other, but they were functionally strangers.
He ran his household this way on purpose.
“Isn’t he pretty, Micah?” Slate asked, and Micah dutifully checked before he agreed. And Anthony was pretty—his blond hair short and artfully tousled, his blue eyes wide and endearing, his full mouth perpetually giving the impression of a shy grin. Under his uniform, he was slender. Like Micah, he was kept fit, but unlike Micah, he wasn’t encouraged to build muscle. His barcode was new and crisp. “Anthony’s been with us for six months. How about you, Micah? How long ago did I buy you?”
“A year and a half, sir,” Micah answered. “Approximately.”
“And how many times have I had to discipline you?”
Confusion flickered over Micah’s face, but he reined it in. “I haven’t been counting, sir.”
“Estimate.”
Micah closed one eye, his brow furrowing, and then, “Maybe sixty times? I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“Good. Show Anthony what happens when one of my staff fucks up.”
Micah glanced to Anthony, then stood. Slate leaned back in his chair to watch. Micah pulled his clothes off slowly and carefully, revealing the caning that Slate had given him two weeks prior. It was mostly healed, except the parts where the strokes had overlapped and broken the skin.
When he finished, Slate said nothing, letting the silence drag out. Micah had come here to brag, to show off. He’d tried to take pride in his marks. Slate wasn’t going to let him. At least, not yet.
Micah laced his hands behind his neck, a variation of the waiting pose that didn’t obscure the view of his back. He was looking at the ground, but his usual confidence was missing. He wasn’t doing it to demonstrate form. He was genuinely embarrassed.
“What did you do to earn those?” Slate asked.
“I was presumptuous and selfish,” Micah answered immediately, and Slate nodded. He couldn’t recall the exact circumstances, but that sounded plausible.
“That’s an ongoing issue with you, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” Micah answered. His voice was hardening now.
“Anthony doesn’t have that problem,” Slate said. “Do you know what Anthony’s problem is?”
Anthony opened his mouth and almost protested but snatched it back before he could get in more trouble.
Micah’s eyes flicked in his direction before he answered. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Anthony thinks this is a game,” Slate said, turning away from Micah. “Anthony, can you tell me why Micah was caned?”
“Punishment for being presumptuous,” Anthony said, a tone of sullenness edging into his voice. Beside him, Slate felt Micah shift minutely.
Micah knew the answer to this question.
“Wrong,” Slate said. “If I wanted to stop him being presumptuous, I could gag him. He looks good in a gag. I’m asking you if you understand the purpose of discipline.”
“I . . .” Anthony said, then trailed off into silence.
“Micah?” Slate asked, turning to him.
“Discipline helps us understand our place,” Micah answered immediately.
“Good,” Slate said, and a small smile appeared on Micah’s lips. The thing Slate admired was, Micah didn’t just know the expected answer. He talked like he really believed it. Anthony might be able to parrot this sentiment back later, but he still saw punishment as an external consequence being inflicted on him against his will.
But Micah? Micah had really internalized that his will was irrelevant. He was disciplined because that was his purpose: to be something that Slate could inflict discipline on. Micah had come upstairs today, disobeying and deliberately being caught, specifically in order to be useful in that purpose.
Incredible, Slate thought, looking the man over. Absolutely incredible.
Slate had to know how far it went. He stood and went to the bookshelf, sliding it aside to reveal his tools.
“Anthony, take your clothes off and put your hands on the desk. Do not move them until I give you permission.” He listened while the slave complied. “Do you understand what I mean when I say that you think this is a game?”
“No, sir.”
Slate turned slowly, staring at him until, paling, Anthony realized his mistake.
“I mean, I don’t understand, sir.”
“Try again.”
Anthony stammered, clearly unsure of what he was being asked for. He didn’t have Micah’s training, and Slate wondered whether it would be worth it to remedy that.
“Please help us understand, sir,” Micah said, and Slate sighed.
“I asked him, Micah, you’re being presumptuous again.”
“Sorry.”
“We’ll address that later. In the meantime, yes, I will help you understand.” Slate removed a thin wooden switch from the shelf, swinging it experimentally through the air with a whoosh. “A game is an arrangement between two people, in which they both act according to negotiated rules in order to achieve a goal.” He set the switch down and picked up another one, thicker, not as springy. “Your problem, Anthony, is that you think you get to have goals. You don’t. There is no arrangement and there are no rules. We are not negotiating.”
He set the cane down and crossed the room to behind where Anthony was waiting, half bent over the desk. Anthony didn’t try to turn his head. Slate came up close behind him, nudging his foot, indicating that he needed to spread his legs wider. He let his hands rest on the small of Anthony’s back, running them up toward his shoulders, enjoying the feel of smooth, warm skin. The remains of broken connections pebbled under his fingers.
He leaned down, one hand resting on the desk, the other coming up to cup the curve of Anthony’s throat.
“So when you suggest to me,” Slate murmured in his ear, “that I trade you for someone whose tastes more closely match mine, it shows a fundamental misunderstanding of your place in the hierarchy.” Slate glanced at Micah then. “You don’t get input on that. Whether I use you, sell you, or put you in a cell and forget about you, is not something you get to weigh in on.”
“I just thought—” Anthony started, and Slate didn’t let him finish. He shoved hard, pushing the slave down onto the surface of the desk.
Micah flinched.
There was a small sound outside the door, likely the maid or the doorman overhearing. Slate didn’t need to shift focus to know they wouldn’t intercede.
“I did not ask you to think,” Slate said. “And I did not ask you to talk. Stay right there.”
He stood up and left the room. The two of them could stew a few minutes.
The bulk of his toys and tools were stored in the playroom, and that was where he went now. He had something specific in mind, and it didn’t take him long to find what he needed.
When he returned, he waited silently outside the door, listening. Micah was silent, but Anthony was talking, about how Cunningham was the one who had offered him the contract, and how things were supposed to be different. Slate smirked.
Indeed.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened there. Anthony had been involved with Cunningham romantically, and one of them (probably Cunningham, but Anthony could be surprisingly submissive sometimes) had pushed the idea of lifetime indenturement. Legal ownership, to add a little gravitas to the games they played.
Slate pushed the door open, and Anthony went silent. He was still bent over the desk, the pose putting his ass nicely on display. It was enough that Slate almost abandoned his plan in favor of simply fucking him and calling it a day. But then, he could never pass up an opportunity to teach a lesson. And this was a good lesson.
Micah was staring at the items Slate had carried in. Anthony could see Micah getting nervous but didn’t dare turn around. He wasn’t that untrained.
“Hands behind your back,” Slate said, and Anthony complied. Slate fastened them together with a pair of leather cuffs. “Good, now open your mouth.”
He did the good deed of letting Anthony see the gag before it went on. It was black leather that would cover the bottom half of his face like a muzzle. The silicone cock affixed to the inside slid easily into Anthony’s waiting mouth. It pushed deep into his throat as Slate began buckling the mask tight. Anthony gagged, his body bucking involuntarily back against Slate’s clothed cock. He quickly got it under control, so his training apparently wasn’t a total waste.
“That should help you remember your place in this conversation,” Slate said. He was looking forward to this. He’d had dozens of slaves, but he’d never been anyone’s initiation. It had always seemed like too much of a risk.
But things . . . well. Things were changing now, weren’t they?
“Micah, do you know why I chose you for the Saturnalia event?”
“I don’t, sir,” Micah said, shifting his weight slowly.
“Because you’re strong, and you’re obedient, and you’re not pretty enough to make anyone irrational. I told you not to drop your baskets, and you were able to follow that order.” Slate nonchalantly picked up a small bottle, drizzling the contents over Anthony’s lower back. “Do you know what would happen if I put up someone with the opposite characteristics?”
Micah was very still, calculating his answer.
“They would . . . fail?”
“Precisely, they would fail. Everyone runs the risk, of course, but there are strategies, and getting out early is an easy one to spot.” Slate ran his finger through the slick fluid, drawing nonsense shapes on Anthony’s back. It ran slowly downward, toward his ass. “So, assuming Cunningham is an asshole, which he is, but isn’t stupid, which he isn’t, why would he put up a slave like Anthony?”
In the following silence, Slate slid one slippery finger down Anthony’s ass, barely ghosting over his hole. Anthony flinched.
“Answer me, Micah,” Slate ordered.
“He expected to lose,” Micah said quietly.
Anthony had gone very still.
“Look at that, it took Micah fifteen seconds, and you haven’t figured it out in six months,” Slate said, picking up a plug that he’d carefully kept out of Anthony’s eyesight. He set it down now, right in front of the slave’s face, and Anthony’s eyes widened. It was big—probably too big, but what better to drive a point home?
Anthony said something muffled, shuffling back a little, pressing into Slate’s unmoving body. Slate caught him by the straps of the gag, hauling him back into place.
“Hold him, please,” he said, gesturing to Micah. Micah complied immediately, coming around and holding Anthony’s shoulders down against the desk. Anthony mumbled something else as Slate began dripping lubricant over the tip of the clear plug. It wasn’t a kindness. He just wanted to feel Anthony trembling while he watched.
“I will not be selling you back, for one simple reason,” Slate said, watching the fluid slowly drip over the surface. “Cunningham does not want you.” Slate smiled a little, switching focus to the slave’s connections, smug with the proof of his words. “He gave you away.” He picked up the plug, running the tip down the furrow of Anthony’s ass, until it rested against his hole. “And I don’t care if your tastes align with mine.”
He emphasized the point by pushing, a little too hard, and Anthony jerked against Micah’s hold as half the plug vanished inside him at once. He keened into the gag, his hands flexing into desperate fists as Slate continued relentlessly on.
“I want you to remember this, because this is what I want from you,” Slate said. Only the widest half inch was left outside Anthony’s body. The slave was taking deep breaths in through his nose. From the sound of it, he might be starting to cry. “It isn’t your job to think, or strategize, or worry about who owns you. You? Are a fuck hole.”
He pushed the last half inch inside, and Anthony’s body immediately closed around the narrow part of the flared base. It still looked massive, the clear resin holding him open without obscuring the view. Slate could see the velvet skin twitching as Anthony breathed, deep and ragged, trying to adjust.
“You can let him go,” Slate said, circling around his desk. He sat in his chair, leaning forward so his face was almost level with Anthony’s. “I don’t want any more bitching out of you.”
Anthony’s curse was amazingly well pronounced considering how full his mouth was. Slate sighed and leaned back in his chair. Micah was staring at Anthony, rightfully worried about the other slave’s outburst.
“I have work to do. Micah, go find an impact toy, I don’t care which one.”
Micah’s face hardened, and he dropped his gaze to the floor. “Yes, sir.”
Slate opened his laptop, deliberately not watching while Micah examined his options. His choice was predictable, and Slate had to repress a smile. Micah was a bit of a brat, always goading his way toward a punishment for himself, but he hated doling it out to others.
Micah returned with a flogger made of thick leather strands. It was formidable, but unlikely to break the skin. A safe, sane, predictable choice.
“Should I have him count?” Micah asked, and Slate resolved to take him, instead of Anthony, when he went back to the inn. Anthony would have asked, How many do I have to give him? and provoked a longer duration. But Micah, Micah put thought into his interactions. Micah asked artfully.
“No,” Slate answered, beginning to type. “I’ll tell you when he can be done.”
Micah nodded once, then put a gentle hand on Anthony’s back, adjusting his stance to keep Anthony’s cock and balls out of the line of fire. Anthony’s whole body went tense, his forehead pressing against the desk as the first blow landed with a thwack.
Slate actually did have work to do, a summary of a project that was already overdue, but he couldn’t focus on it. Something was wrong with the setup, though he couldn’t quite figure it out. Micah was going a little slower than Slate would have preferred, and wasn’t hitting as hard as he could, but that wasn’t it.
Anthony whimpered as another blow landed, wrapping ever so slightly around the inside of one thigh. Oh, that was it.
“Turn around,” Slate said, gesturing. Both slaves looked at him, unsure of who he was addressing. “Anthony. Turn around.”
Carefully, Anthony stood, turning so that Slate could see the angry red of his ass and thighs. The base of the plug was barely visible, nestled up between his cheeks.
“Sit on the edge of the desk and spread your legs.”
Anthony let out a little whimper but did what he was told. He hissed as he was forced to put his weight on the plug. Slate could hear the question in Micah’s hesitant step back.
“Keep going,” Slate said. “Throat to thighs. And I want him to see it in the mirror this time next week. Understood?”
Micah swallowed hard, set his jaw, then nodded. Of course he did.
Anthony’s whimpers got louder over the next half an hour, as Micah carefully tried to trade force for frequency, hitting hard enough to bruise and then waiting as long as he could before striking again. At one point, Slate almost threatened to make them change places, before he realized that Micah would almost certainly prefer that.
The room settled into a comfortable cadence, Anthony’s whimpers fading into background noise as Slate typed. His bound arms trembled as he tried and failed to take weight on them. It was impossible to watch him without remembering the toy keeping his hole open and ready. Thus motivated, Slate finished his summary, sending it and the relevant report to the client who had commissioned them. Eagerly, he came around the desk, surveying Micah’s handiwork.
It was lovely.
Anthony was leaning back with his hands together on the desk, stretching his body into an appealing curve. As Slate had ordered, he was red, beginning to bruise, from his collarbones almost all the way to his knees. Distinct reddish purple stripes stood out where the flogger had wrapped around the insides of his thighs. It was clear that Micah had done his best to spare Anthony’s cock, but he’d known better than to miss a spot.
