“I’ll keep an eye on things,” Eric said and stayed outside.
“Thank you.” Nathaniel opened the door.
Alone again, where it all had started. A hotel suite shouldn’t feel like that, but the place was familiar, good. Brooklyn opened the door to the playroom. Pillory, stocks, cross, all still there. Nathaniel would look good on either. And he’d accept it and get off on it. They both would.
“Do you want to eat anything?” Nathaniel picked up the menu.
“Something with protein and some complex carbs.”
“Brown rice and a small steak? With a big salad?”
“That’d do me, yeah.”
Nathaniel smiled. “You won’t have to keep that strict discipline for much longer, you know.”
“I like my six-pack.” Brooklyn touched his abs. “And you like it too.”
“Oh, I’m not complaining.” Nathaniel winked and headed to the phone to order.
Brooklyn stepped into the room, touched the padded leather support of the pillory and stocks. Why was he nervous like a teenager on his first date, complete with racing heart and sweaty hands?
The man he’d been would never do what he was about to do. The kinkiest he’d done in his own life was to fuck his wife hard, knowing full well they were enacting her rape fantasies—and his own. But he’d never wanted to be held down and fucked hard like that. Yielding control to anybody was a ridiculous idea.
He stripped, nevertheless, and knelt down in the pillory. Opened his legs wide enough to fit the spreader bar, and closed the cuffs around his ankles.
He wanted nothing more than to free himself, but he forced himself to close the cuff at the front with one hand. He couldn’t do the other one. All he could do now was relax and hope Nathaniel got the message. Oh, he would. He wouldn’t laugh or joke or freak out. Nathaniel would know exactly what to do with this. With him.
God, he felt weird.
“Food should— Uh.” Nathaniel’s sentence stopped on an oddly husky, breathless sound. Brooklyn’s skin crawled. How to read that? Surprise? Shock? What if Nathaniel was really in the mood to eat rather than this?
“Do you need help there?” Nathaniel asked, much more collected.
“Yeah, I can’t close that other cuff.”
Nathaniel knelt down beside him and fastened the second cuff, then checked the first cuff and loosened it by one hole. “What brought this on?”
Brooklyn shrugged. “I thought you’d enjoy this.”
“So it’s a favour? Payback?”
“No.”
It’s a gift. I trust you. Brooklyn struggled to relax into the restraints. Not that he had many other options. But if he really trusted Nathaniel, he wouldn’t be so nervous, right? Wrong? He had no idea.
He sensed it touched Nathaniel, but he wanted to be free now. Show of goodwill over. Let me go. Relax. Breathe. He shrugged again. “It’s all right. I want . . . I want this.”
“Strong, beautiful Brooklyn.” Nathaniel’s hands ran soothing patterns over Brooklyn’s back, up towards his shoulders, the strong grip then turning almost into a massage. “This means a lot, but you know that.”
Brooklyn closed his eyes and tried to focus on nothing but those hands. The words. His body remembered the touches, even if they weren’t sensual. They told him Nathaniel was there, with him, for him. They were alone like this. Trust given and received.
But why did every bone in his body crawl with dread? The leather of the padding stuck to his sweaty skin. He remembered Les tying him down like this. The only thing missing was the strap holding his neck down.
“Calm. Relax.” Nathaniel’s hands roamed over his body; movements slow and deliberate, intense without demanding anything. Not even that he really relax. No attempt to arouse him.
Nathaniel touched his body, feet, calves, hips, sides, obliques, chest, neck. Then throat, face, his scalp. Stroking, the tenderness tightening Brooklyn’s heart. He wished he could go further, get turned on like Nathaniel probably wanted. Allow himself to be, yeah, dominated. Owned.
Back in the day, he’d watched slave-training porn too, not thinking whether the slave actually agreed to it, or whether it was just telling a story that freemen liked watching. Inexperienced slaves broken through sexual dominance, discovering they were really born to be subs. Invariably, the slave would fall into the role and accept it without reservations. Embrace it. Become a slave.
“Nobody’s asking anything of you,” Nathaniel murmured. “Just relax.”
“Will you fuck me?”
Nathaniel’s hands kept stroking, kneading, exploring, sliding over Brooklyn’s skin. Even to the insides of his legs, his glutes, but nowhere near his anus or cock. And Brooklyn expected he’d jump out of his skin if the touch did become sexual. But he’d agreed to this, hadn’t he? He’d put himself in this position, and that meant . . . What did it mean with Nathaniel? No other freeman would hesitate at using him any way they wanted.
“I get very little opportunity to just touch you. You don’t mind being held, but you get restless when you’re being caressed.”
“Never occurred to me.”
“Sometimes I wonder if your idea of masculinity doesn’t allow that.” Nathaniel kissed the midpoint of Brooklyn’s spine. Chaste, a touch of lips and a brush of breath.
Brooklyn managed to stay relaxed. It was actually rather nice to feel this odd way of touching. Not about sex. Or dominance. Or control. It was exactly what it was. He breathed more deeply, let Nathaniel touch him however he wanted and as long as he wanted. This wouldn’t lead to Nathaniel ramming his dick into him. He got it. He didn’t understand, but he got it.
When the cuffs fell away, Brooklyn stayed in position a while longer, until Nathaniel took him by the shoulder. Somewhere between dazed and too relaxed to give a fuck, he followed Nathaniel into the bedroom and stretched out on his belly. Nathaniel kept touching and kissing him, and then, shockingly, kissed his opening and licked it.
Brooklyn snapped wide-awake and opened his legs, now definitely inviting. Things were completely different when he wasn’t tied up. He could get into this.
Nathaniel pushed his tongue into him, a forbidden, somehow dirty pleasure, though it wasn’t all that different from what they’d already done.
Still, the soft wetness, the noises from tongue and lips and the very fact that nobody had ever done this sent Brooklyn’s mind into a haze of desire and need. He felt thoroughly wet when Nathaniel shifted and slowly pushed his cock inside him. Brooklyn groaned and rose up on knees and elbows, pushing back against Nathaniel when he began to fuck him.
No thoughts, no worries, no resentment. This was perfect—no thought left that Nathaniel was weaker than him or that he was a freeman and could do whatever the fuck he pleased. There was something indulgent and right and relaxed about all this, and besides, Nathaniel was simply good at it, reading his responses just right, thrusting to pleasure them both rather than to break and humiliate.
When Brooklyn was very nearly panting, but never begging, Nathaniel stayed still inside him and jerked him off, and then fucked into Brooklyn’s tightening body and climaxed too. Things almost made sense, then.
A voice woke him. Realising he was alone, Brooklyn rolled out of bed, huffed laughter when he remembered where that nice ache had come from, and padded towards the bathroom.
“Yes, I am going through with it, Rupert.”
Shit. Rupert Edwards, the MP? Jessica’s father. Kicking legs. Brooklyn froze.
“I don’t believe for a moment that Brooklyn Marshall is a murderer. The images I’ve seen are not conclusive. We don’t know how much of that was a push and how much of that was Jessica just stumbling back. She went straight at a policeman carrying a riot shield, Rupert. And it’s not like Marshall set out that day thinking, ‘Great, I’m going to kill a young student today to ruin my life.’ I can feel the guilt eating at him. This incident did ruin his life. Yes, it ruined yours too, and everybody who knew Jessica will agree. But I think he�
��s paid enough.”
Nausea. He’d barely felt her when she’d jumped against his shield, shouting obscenities against a state that had been slashing benefits in a new round of austerity cuts. Even the police had felt it. Hell, everybody had felt it, and expected worse to come.
But the riots in Central London, the smashed bank windows, the paint bags thrown at high street stores like Vodafone and Topshop, the chants of “Pay your tax!” and “No cuts!” and “Bring down the government!” had set them all on edge. Unpredictable rioting and looting, burning houses, the firefighters too stretched to respond quickly. Cancelled leave and long shifts, worries about anarchists out for trouble among half a million otherwise-civil protesters, and then the more virulent protest from a few hundred people just off Moorgate in front of the headquarters of an investment bank.
They’d been ordered to kettle them in, and at that point, the protesters freaked out.
A skinny, loud girl with a mop of curly, black hair jumped against his shield, calling him “filth.” Fell back, hit her head on the edge of a big block of dark stone positioned there—like some artwork, or just a random opportunity to bash your skull in.
Legs went into the dog dance. Some rioters went crazy. The ambulance took forever. Too much demand on the Day of Wrath.
She died two days later in hospital.
Jessica Edwards, nineteen, student of international conflict resolution, youngest daughter of MP Rupert Edwards.
Problem was, while Brooklyn sat in the hospital, mute and shocked to the marrow, he couldn’t remember whether he had pushed her. There were moments, cold, sweaty moments when he thought, no, no, he couldn’t possibly have done that. She was no threat, just because she was loud and full of anger. She was way too small and light to hurt him. But other moments, when his stomach sunk down to his knees and heat gathered behind the ice on his face, he thought, yes, he had. In a reflex, maybe, but right there, she’d surprised him. He might have shoved her, not to hurt her, but to keep her under control. Inside the kettle. He must have underestimated his own strength, overestimated her ability to withstand him.
But in the end, he’d killed her. Whether on purpose or not, did it matter? She was dead.
“Yes, I’ll fight you over this,” Nathaniel said as if he were commenting on the weather. “You may want to think about whether tormenting this man brings Jessica back.”
A long pause, and then movement. Brooklyn unfroze, shook his head, and headed off into the bathroom, where he splashed water into his face and then opted for a full shower. To relax. As if.
Nathaniel awaited him with breakfast—fresh fruit, porridge, eggs, bacon—and calmly read his newspaper, The Independent. “Ah, Brooklyn.” He closed the paper and folded it, placing it to the side. Perfectly pleasant, like he hadn’t just declared war on a powerful politician.
Brooklyn’s stomach churned.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Nathaniel reached over to touch his hand. “What is it?”
“Caught what you said on the phone.”
Nathaniel’s face twitched. “And?”
“You know Edwards well?”
“But we’re not close by any means.” Nathaniel pressed his hand. “He interfered with the law. Or, to use a somewhat hackneyed concept, with justice.”
“But is it right that policemen can kill people and not get done for it? Usually?”
“In our country, policemen and soldiers never get convicted. The Americans dealt with their own after Abu Ghraib. No such thing in the UK,” Nathaniel said.
“Yeah, but is that the right thing?”
“I do not believe they should start with you when they begin convicting people who made a mistake while on duty and risking their necks for the state.”
Brooklyn pulled back. “She was nineteen. Half my weight. She couldn’t have been a threat under the best of circumstances.”
Nathaniel regarded him, clearly evaluating several options. Brooklyn wished he’d stop that and just say what he thought. Just straight out. No strategy, no tactics, just the bare-arsed truth.
“Would you prefer to stay a slave to punish yourself? Edwards would certainly agree. To him, you’re a piece of council trash that should never have been allowed to mix in polite society. You should never have finished school, let alone become a policeman. You should never have had a shot at a marriage or children or, you know, a modest terraced house somewhere in the commuter belt that you’d pay off for thirty years, with your wife taking a part-time job in some retail outlet once the children are old enough. To him, you didn’t deserve a shot at any of this, and he’s making no secrets of his opinions.”
“Just because he’s a fucking toff doesn’t mean I wanted to kill his daughter.”
“I’m a fucking toff too, Brooklyn. And no, this isn’t about class. This is about a powerful man’s unforgiven burden that he projects onto you.”
Brooklyn laughed. “I did kill his daughter. It’s not . . . It’s real, Nathaniel. I killed her. If somebody had killed my child, I would have fucking murdered them, no mistake.”
“We’ve since moved on from the ‘an eye for an eye’ laws.” Nathaniel rubbed his face. “Listen. I understand your guilt. I’m not saying you’re innocent—even though it could still be argued it was an accident, it probably doesn’t feel that way to you, and feelings are feelings because they’re irrational. But even if you were guilty, what would you do with your life? You’re not a menace to society. From what I can tell, you’d do anything to have your old life back. That’s not the mindset of a man who’s going to kill again.”
Brooklyn studied him in silence, the earnest expression on his face, the calm, rational demeanour, heated with real conviction. “Shit, you’re good.” He leaned back.
Nathaniel smiled. “Not quite the freeman champion of barristers, but in my career, I had a little more time and much more support.”
Brooklyn forced himself to at least have a banana, so he cut that into his porridge. Working out without some kind of breakfast wouldn’t get him where he wanted. “So what’s going to happen?”
“Today?” Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. “I’ll submit what I have on your case. And then wait for the hammer to fall.” He reached over and touched Brooklyn’s hand again. “You might fight Odysseus as a slave, but you’ll fight Thorne as a freeman, I promise you.”
Brooklyn turned his wrist and briefly squeezed Nathaniel’s hand. “And if that doesn’t work?”
“Then things get really interesting. I can’t afford to buy you, Brooklyn. I submitted an offer a while ago, but I was told you’d be worth a lot more once you become champion. And that price is out of my budget.”
Shit. That must have been the bid Les had advised against accepting. Had Les approved, though, his life would already be quite different. But could he be Nathaniel’s slave? Even if, between them, it wouldn’t matter? Just on the outside? No. The bracelets would remind him every day what he was. He couldn’t pretend to be free while wearing those things. But being owned by Nathaniel would be a hell of a lot better than being part of the stable and living in the gym.
“What if I throw the fight?” Brooklyn stood. “I could lose.” His stomach knotted and somersaulted at the thought.
Nathaniel stared at him, even put his croissant down. “They’d be able to tell the difference.”
“Maybe.” Brooklyn sighed. “But if that’s the only way to escape?”
“They’ll think I broke you, or at least your will to fight.”
“Would you be in trouble?”
“Possibly, but I’m more worried about you. You’d get hurt. They can use some fairly extreme measures to, let’s say, reignite your desire to win.”
“Yeah.” Would Les really torture him? No, but there was Curtis. That sadistic bastard would enjoy being let loose.
Brooklyn exhaled. “What about a gradual decline?” If he went from champion-in-waiting to less than that . . . and less. Slowly diminishing. Become second-rate, then third, unt
il not even Cash managed to book him a fight? And then wait for Nathaniel to make a bid. People would notice. They could always be spiteful if they connected Nathaniel to the sudden losing streak and sell him elsewhere.
“Brooklyn, no. You’re on the way to the top. It might be the only chance you’ll get at this. I know you love boxing. You’ve worked so hard for this chance. I can’t ask you to throw all that away for me.” Nathaniel got up and stood in front of Brooklyn, grabbed his arms. “I’ll free you. And if you want to have your old life back after that, then have it. If you want to stay with me, I’d . . . be pleased.”
“There’s nothing left. No job, no wife . . .” Brooklyn shook his head. “Fuck, why is this so hard?” Like a rat in a cage, unable to gnaw through any of the bars in front of him. Maybe it was even worse now because he was able to have something like a life. Now that there was one man out there beyond the cage who gave a fuck about him, who offered to be there. And he wanted to be with Nathaniel, but as equals. There’s no guarantee Nathaniel wouldn’t sell him on once he got bored, throwing him out once he became too much trouble. Like fucking Shelley having their marriage annulled when he’d been sentenced.
“Just concentrate on the fight. Don’t worry about what’s going on outside.”
Brooklyn shook his head, tried to focus, and felt Nathaniel’s hand flat on his chest.
“I know you can do this, Brooklyn. Especially if you want to win. Ignore me. Ignore everybody else. What’s going to happen will happen between Odysseus and you, and nobody will interfere with that.” Nathaniel smiled at him. “That’s the beauty of boxing. As brutal as it is, it’s also very simple.”
“But you’ll be there?”
“Yes.” Nathaniel kissed him. “I’m always there, watching you.”
“I shouldn’t have asked to come along.” Nathaniel looked pale on the chair in the corner of the changing room.
Brooklyn tried a smile, but he was tense and apprehensive, withdrawn into his own body, a position he’d have to defend very soon. He felt the pressure of the crowd in the hall above them. Santos had just left to get more water, and Brooklyn was unable to do anything but sit there and wait. Another hour until the fight. He stood, moved from foot to foot, like he was skipping, just to keep loose and limber.
Counterpunch Page 12