by Lisa Henry
“You certainly do look out for your employees! If only we could all be so lucky.”
The doctor turned to Tate now, taking out a little light and flashing it into Tate’s eyes. Tate flinched but didn’t turn away. Didn’t complain. Obey. He had to obey.
“Yes,” said the doctor. “I was worried you might be some trouble, rezzy. Your scans did indicate some damage to your brain. Seizures, I believe, as a child? Nothing the chip couldn’t work around, I assumed.”
“The sponsor may be more to blame than the chip,” Lowell reiterated. He looked at Tate expectantly.
“He wanted to be my friend,” Tate told the doctor. “He wanted to know what I wanted.”
“An outsider, remember,” Lowell said.
The doctor shook his head. “Screen them all you like, outsiders just don’t understand our ways.”
“He’ll learn. He just needs time, and some guidance. We have to let outsiders in, after all, or else we’d wind up with a bunch of incestuous offspring, wouldn’t we?”
“Thus why my allies and I in the scientific and medical communities think it would be best to institute a controlled breeding program. Import sperm. Import eggs. Import genetic material and breeding stock but leave the outsiders—and their lack of understanding of our values—where they belong.”
“You can import all the genetic material you want,” Lowell said, “but it’s not just bloodlines that stagnate; it’s ideas. It’s civilization. The boy has a good mind. Once he acclimates, he’ll be a wonderful asset. And helping him acclimate is why I’m here, and why I want you to make sure his rezzy is absolutely perfect. Isn’t that right, Tate? You want to help, don’t you?” He ruffled Tate’s wet hair.
It had been ages since the shower. Why was he so sweaty? Why was his heart pounding so hard? He didn’t need to be afraid. He was serving. He never needed to be afraid so long as he was obedient to his masters.
The doctor clicked his tongue as he ran a scanner over Tate’s wristbands. “Well, the chip’s functioning well. No error reports. A spike, earlier tonight, but nothing to be alarmed about.”
Lowell’s brow furrowed. “Apparently, he cried out ‘Help me’ before he collapsed.”
“Oh. Oh, now that’s a little disconcerting.” The doctor wheeled his chair over to Tate and took his chin in his hand. “Why were you asking for help, boy?”
Because . . . because . . . Tate didn’t remember. Couldn’t grasp that feeling, not now that he was draped in the blanket of certainty Lowell cast over him. “I . . . I don’t know. Because he asked me what I wanted. I wanted . . . I wanted . . .”
“Enough,” the doctor said. He smoothed Tate’s hair and glanced at Lowell. “Yes, this is a problem with the sponsor, not the chip. He’s not providing a stable home environment for Tate. If this happens again, we may have to transfer him somewhere there won’t be such a . . . fertile breeding ground for these kinds of insecurities.” Now, he looked to Tate. “Boy, you must help your sponsor to be a better master for you. That’s why we call them sponsors; they’re an important part of the process. They contribute, just as much as the chip does. You feel calm when you’re around me and Justice Lowell, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Tate said, even though his body was trembling. His body didn’t count here, only his mind.
“That’s because we’re ideal sponsors. We take control. We give you boundaries. We satisfy your need to serve, so that your brain doesn’t go haywire struggling to make that connection. It’s true it’s a born attribute to be a master, but Justice Lowell is confident it can be taught so we’ll do things his way . . . for now.” He gave Lowell a hard look over Tate’s head.
“The boy will learn,” Lowell said, his voice tempered with a smile. “Both of them will.”
“You know my opinion on immigrants,” the doctor said. “An unknown quality and an unnecessary risk.” He turned his attention back to Tate. “From now on, you must help guide your sponsor into being who he needs to be. You must teach him how much you love and crave service. You must show him how happy serving him makes you. When he asks you what you want, you must tell him you want to serve him. Maybe if he sees how happy you are, he’ll become more comfortable with his role. So here’s what you must do. If ever you feel that . . . uncertainty you felt earlier tonight, you must push yourself into service immediately. You must not express that confusion, and in doing so, encourage his uncertainty. Rezzy and sponsor feed off one another. The better you service him, the more confident he becomes in his place as your master.”
Tate nodded, frowning. “I . . . I will try, sir.”
The doctor sighed. “And if he’s making it difficult for you, Tate, then you only need to remember that to serve is your purpose. If he won’t give you any instructions at all, then find a way to serve. Seduce him. Polish his shoes. Whatever makes him happy. And take comfort in the knowledge that you are good, and that I know it and Justice Lowell knows it and so do the guards. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, his voice more firm.
The doctor’s gaze flicked to Lowell and then back to Tate. “Good. You’ll prove it for me now, won’t you?”
“Please, sir. I want to prove it.”
“Has he fucked you?” the doctor asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you like it?”
Tate hesitated. He didn’t want to lie. He couldn’t lie. “I liked it when he used me. I liked it when he came inside me. But it hurt. And he was upset that it hurt.”
Lowell, silently standing aside, reached down and gave his groin a conspicuous rub.
“Well, you possibly need to loosen up a little,” the doctor said. “Or at the very least, you need to learn to keep that hurt to yourself, especially if it displeases your sponsor and makes him think you don’t enjoy service, even when you do. I think I’ve just the thing to help you.”
The doctor reached into his bag. Tate’s eyes widened.
No.
It was too big. He wanted to serve, but the thing the doctor held was too big to fit inside him.
No.
Tate wavered, afraid that his visceral reaction would cause that tearing pain in his skull to return. He drew a deep breath and remembered what the doctor had told him: “If ever you feel the uncertainty you felt earlier tonight, you must push yourself into service immediately.”
He squared his shoulders.
“That’s right. Don’t show fear.”
The dildo had a suction cup on the bottom, and the doctor stuck it to the floor.
“You may begin,” the doctor said.
Tate crawled forward, forcing himself to breathe deep and even. He could do this. He could do this. He opened his mouth and lapped at the simulated head, thicker even at its narrowest point than the entirety of Rory’s cock. Wet. He had to make it wet.
“Gentlemen. Give the boy some help.”
Hands closed around Tate’s biceps, pulling him upward until he was squatting.
“This will hurt you, boy, but it’s all for the best. Remember, your sponsor is displeased by the sight of your pain. It makes him squeamish. Unable to master you.”
Yes. This was for the best. He would serve, he would, and Rory would learn to be the master he needed, just so long as he could hide the pain, squash the fear, silence the voice that cried out, Help me.
The guards’ fingers dug into his arms. Forced—no, guided—him down, spearing him on that massive, barely slicked implement.
When he cried and gritted his teeth, the burn destroying him, Lowell and the doctor both solemnly shook their heads. Tate almost sobbed in despair as much as pain. The men at his sides didn’t let up; they surely knew that mercy wouldn’t help him in the end. Tate knew that too. Knew it, but it didn’t make the pain hurt any less. There was no point even trying to ride this out. Tate could only hope to disguise the spasms as shudders of pleasure.
Lowell stepped toward him, unzipping his fly. “Time to finish what we started, Tate.”
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Yes. Please, yes. Something to distract him from the pain. Serve instead of begging for help or mercy or reprieve. Just serve. And yes, his mind was at peace with that; his mind was, even if his body wasn’t. Even if his body was being torn apart.
Tate blinked away his tears. Tried to pitch his voice more toward need than the ragged end of pain. “Yes, please let me serve you!”
The grips on his arms shifted as he finally seated himself on the dildo. Keeping him upright now. Lowell took Tate by the back of the head. Tate closed his eyes and opened his mouth.
This was the way to happiness.
omething wet and warm flicked between Rory’s legs, behind his balls. Layers of dreams—of vines and tentacles and unfurling flowers—fell away, leaving . . . a tongue. Someone was licking him. Playful, affectionate licks that sent tingling warmth through his skin. He bucked his hips and stretched lazily, not wanting to open his eyes and ruin this wonderful feeling. This feeling of being just on the edge of sleep, trapped between two perfect, shifting pleasures. Not even aware of where he was or who—
Tate. Tate was licking him. Tate was in his bed, under his covers, lapping at his balls and aching-hard shaft.
Rory moaned his encouragement and reached down with both hands, gently brushing his fingertips through Tate’s soft curls. “Tate. You’re feeling better today?”
“Mmm.” Tate didn’t even try to speak, which Rory couldn’t fault. He nuzzled against Rory’s balls, warm breath and wet kisses.
He must be better, to be waking Rory up like this. He closed his eyes and let his head sink back into his pillow. Imagined that he could wake up to this every day, here in paradise. Just him and Tate in this perfect little house. Cooking together, getting to know each other better, making love.
To think that on the outside, Tate would be in a prison and Rory would go the rest of his life hating and fearing him and missing out on all of this. No perpetrators and victims here, no defined roles to fall into and be bound by. Just two people, learning to forgive and start again.
Starting here, with this. Sharing a bed. Rory cupped Tate’s face, tilting it upward. “C’mere. I want to kiss you.”
Tate beamed at him from under his veil of Rory’s blankets. He slid, lithe and naked, up Rory’s body, kissing his skin as he went. His smile became impish, teasing. Holding Rory’s hooded gaze, he dipped his head and laved his tongue against Rory’s nipple. Then bit.
“Fuck!” Rory arched off the mattress. “Tate!”
Tate licked his lips. He widened his eyes. “Yes, Rory?”
He reached down and gripped Tate’s hair. “Don’t play innocent!”
Tate laughed and squirmed closer. He kissed Rory on the cheek. “And are you feeling better too, Rory?”
“I am now.” Rory slid his hands down Tate’s body and held him by the hips. They fit together well like this, their erections rubbing together. “What did the doctor say?”
“That I was tired and I fainted.” Tate turned his face away and hid it against Rory’s neck. Found a place to lick and nip. “But I feel good now.”
“I can see that,” Rory growled, thrusting against his cock for emphasis.
Tate moaned into his throat. “Feels good. I feel good.”
“Are you sore from last night?”
Tate stiffened suddenly, then his breath shuddered out of him. “No. It was good. F-felt good. It made me happy.” He raised his head and met Rory’s gaze. “You made me happy.”
Rory smiled, sweeping a bouncy ringlet of hair out of Tate’s eyes. “Will I make you happy again?”
“Please,” Tate whispered. He jerked his hips. “Will you? Do you want to?”
“Of course I want to.” Rory held Tate tightly and rolled them over. “I want to do this again and again and again . . .”
Tate smiled at him, so beautiful and trusting. He shifted, parting his legs and drawing them up. “That’s what I want too.”
He knelt between Tate’s legs. He closed his hand around Tate’s cock, loving the way it made him shudder with pleasure. Tate’s chest rose and fell rapidly, and he bit his lip. His fingers were clenched into fists, as though he was desperately trying to hold on to something that wasn’t there. His composure. His control. He was already on edge, and Rory couldn’t wait to push him over and watch him come apart.
And then he slipped a hand between Tate’s legs, seeking out his entrance, and Tate hissed in pain.
Rory’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure I didn’t hurt you?” he asked, sitting back on his heels and withdrawing his hand. He rubbed Tate’s thigh instead. “It’s okay to admit it, Tate.”
“You . . .” Tate shook his head. “It’s a little sore, but I want it anyway. I want you anyway.”
It was obvious Tate was ashamed, putting on a brave face, so Rory made sure to keep his voice light. Push down his feelings of concern, of apology for ever causing Tate pain. “Don’t think for a second I don’t want you too. But how about we give you a couple days to bounce back, huh? I can think of other things we can do together.”
Tate looked guardedly hopeful. “Like what?”
Shit. He really wasn’t very experienced at all. There was an innocence to him, and an eagerness, that made Rory think he hadn’t done much at all in the past. Although Rory wasn’t surprised. Being openly gay in the outside world just painted another fucking target on your back. Rory rubbed his thumb across Tate’s balls, and Tate jerked and gasped. “Like I can touch you and kiss you and even make you come in my mouth.”
Tate’s eyes widened. “God, Rory.”
Rory just smiled. Ducked down and took the pretty head of Tate’s cock into his mouth. Gave him a gentle, teasing suck. Just a second or so before he pulled off with a kiss. Tate shivered, squirmed. Rocked his hips upward.
“Rory,” he whispered. “God.”
He looked so astonished, so worshipful, that Rory almost laughed. “Have you forgotten how to say anything else?”
“Um.” Tate gasped. “Fuck.”
Rory did laugh that time and dipped his head to lick Tate’s cock, laving his tongue over the slit. “Do you like that?”
Tate whined. “Y-yes!”
“Hmm,” Rory said. He licked again. “Maybe I can do this every morning.”
“Wh-whatever you like.” Tate’s body twisted, the sheets bunching up underneath him as he did.
“Whatever you like,” Rory corrected.
“I like this,” Tate said. “God, I like this.”
Rory laughed again and licked him again. Yes, this was how he wanted all his mornings from now on. Him and Tate, and sex and laughter. Tasting Tate, making him moan and squirm. Giving and receiving pleasure both. Learning the things Tate liked, the things that drove him wild. To wake up to this every day would be paradise.
Except . . . Rory quickly glanced at the bedside clock. Except he had to wrap this up or he was going to be late for work. He didn’t have time to tease Tate for ages, to take him to the edge and hold him there until he was begging. But he’d make time, next time.
“I have to go to work,” he murmured.
Tate’s eyes widened with disappointment.
“But, before I do . . .” Rory curled his fingers around Tate’s shaft and took the head in his mouth again. He sucked on it, hard, and Tate moaned. That’s it, that’s it. He slurped and bobbed, rapidly working his hand over Tate’s cock, wringing the orgasm out of him.
“Th-thank you!” Tate cried, just before his cum flooded Rory’s mouth.
Paradise.
Tate stayed naked all day, fantasizing that maybe one day Rory would master him the way he needed. It felt good to be naked. It felt proper. To know, that if his master was there, he only needed to nod, and Tate would be on his hands and knees for him, ready and eager to serve. Except Rory wasn’t here. Rory was at work. But one day, one day he would master Tate properly, like Lowell had the night before. And then Tate would be truly happy.
He swept and mopped the floors. His back ached by the
time he was finished, but it was a good ache. It was an ache born of hard work and proud service. He had never been more proud of anything in his life than serving Rory.
Emmy.
Emmy . . .
The name cut through the static in his head, and he froze, the mop in his hand.
No. That name belonged in his old life, not inside the walls of this house. He hadn’t been good before. He hadn’t been happy. He had been angry and cruel and sometimes he had been violent. He had lied and he had stolen and he had hit the man who would become his master. He had not been a good man. He had not been deserving of redemption.
Here, he was better.
Here, things made sense.
He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and continued to work.
The beds were next, and then the laundry. Tate bundled up the sheets, inhaling their scent before putting them in the machine. They smelled of Rory, of Tate, and of cum and sweat. His face burned as he thought back to the morning, to when Rory had blown him and Tate had done nothing in return. It had been an uneven exchange, strange but wonderful. Was it possible he could serve Rory best by allowing Rory to serve him?
No.
That was wrong.
He just had to try harder. Maybe today. He could greet Rory on his knees, naked at the door. Show him how good following their roles could feel. Suck him off. Swallow his cum. Things that he had never imagined doing before but wanted to do now. Needed to do now, for his penance. To make himself a better person.
But more than that too. Because with everything he did, Rory proved himself a good man. A kind man. And Tate burned to repay him for that. He would worship him, if only Rory would allow it. Until that day, he could only serve in other ways.
Like preparing dinner, for instance. He could start on that now.
He worked carefully in the kitchen, pausing every now and then to refocus as his cock grew hard. The doctor had warned him that could happen. His body was finding pleasure in his service, even in service as mundane as chopping vegetables. But, of course, no service was mundane, was it? There was nothing beneath Tate, and nothing that he wouldn’t do if it pleased Rory. His body knew it, even if his mind still stumbled sometimes.