Locke was not like them at all. Locke, in his inimitable, relaxed manner was worse. He appeared to have no real agenda other than controlling Wulf. But he commanded the very air about him with his soft, low voice, his graceful manner, and the lit-up beauty that made his dark eyes and hair glow.
Locke didn’t have to yell. Locke was a master. An Eminent Master, according to Bunny.
What did that mean?
It meant there would be punishment, of course. Discipline. And sex violations. That was what Wulf had been taught. That was what he knew. It was worse than any commander, captain, teacher or superior Wulf had ever known. For to be a master of pleasure slaves, this man had to be a sexual sadist. Wulf’s mind could offer no other conclusion.
Why, then, did his body react to the man? With strange heat and tingling? With accelerated heart rate? More than fear or death-anxiety, this was different. Startling in its intensity. It made his stomach tie up in a knot not of pain, but strange delight. A delight that had been beaten out of him by his father when he’d hit puberty and got caught touching himself.
He hadn’t known, then, the evils of such deeds. But his father taught him. His father beat him. And he never did it again.
But now? Locke caused those feelings to return. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have such feelings in his adult years, but he clamped down on them hard. He ignored them. He drank alcohol with his fellow warriors in his unit, pretending not to care when they secretly went into shadows with “loose” women, pretending that he was waiting for his arranged marriage to lose his virginity when really he didn’t feel anything like that for women at all but might, deep down, have preferred a male. That, even more than sneaking away with women, was highly forbidden, a crime one would be put in prison for. He had thought something was wrong with him.
But all those feelings were purged from him with hard work and dedication to wiping out the forces of evil in the world that took away people’s wills that allowed sexual debauchery free reign.
Avilan was the enemy. Avilan should not exist.
He told himself his feelings of arousal were because of the Palace itself. As he’d been escorted through the main landing, and the halls, he’d seen the erotic paintings, murals, and carvings. Scenes of all sorts depicting men with women, women with women, and most surprising, men with men. He’d tried not to look. But he must have seen with more than just a quickly averted gaze. He must already be suffering from the beginnings of brainwashing, he told himself.
He refused to become aroused. He wouldn’t!
But Locke, with his tranquil smile and smooth, untroubled features continued to haunt his mind.
Locke would be back in the morning. But he’d said his lessons had already started.
Wulf’s hands made fists as he got up from the chair and started to pace.
The walking helped stretch his muscles and get his digestion going. He no longer felt the need to vomit. But he was still greatly upset. Of course! Who wouldn’t be? he told himself. Forced into pleasure slavery, even if Locke told the truth and he was not to be killed, he faced a lifetime of being raped and abused by his captors! By sinners! By the very devils who thought they could rule the world with their evil ways.
So many thoughts passed through him as he paced. Could he cooperate, earn trust, and then escape? Should he just get it over with and kill himself now if he could find the means? Maybe the collar, if he tugged on it enough, would deliver such a shock as to stop his heart.
But when he thought of that pain, and how it froze him in every way, he could not begin to consider that course of action.
He paced for about a half an hour before exhaustion over-took him.
He went to the bathroom and used the facilities. They had provided him with everything. Toothbrush. Comb. Electric shaver. Washcloths, towels, soaps, and shampoos. He used them all, feeling clean and relatively human again, and made his way to the bed.
Wulf could not recall the last good night’s sleep he’d had. In his unit, they had cots with lumpy, thin mattresses. In the military prison, and the cage on the airplane, he’d had only uncomfortable moments of sleep. The bed looked like a dream. His current dream. To escape into sleep. For one night, at least. He could curl into himself for warmth and comfort and let his exhaustion ride over him and turn to solace for a weary prisoner of war.
The collar chafed just a bit, but already he was getting used to it.
Normally, he slept in briefs. But now as he slid under the comforter and between the soft, cotton sheets, he didn’t mind his nakedness. The cloth felt smooth against his abused flesh. The covers surrounded him. The pillow held his head positioned just right. Sleep began to envelop him before he took his next breath.
*
A distant beeping interrupted Wulf’s dreams. Coming through a dense fog, his mind forgot his dreams as soon as he opened his eyes.
Light streamed through the window where the evening before he’d forgotten to close the curtains before getting into bed.
He pushed himself up on one elbow, his free hand rubbing at his eyes.
The beep sounded again to his right. On the night table sat a cell phone, its screen back-lit. He had not seen this phone before. Had someone come into his room—his cell—and left it in the middle of the night as he slept?
He shivered as he reached for it, lifting it toward his face so he could see it better. An answer light blinked green. Wulf touched it.
“Good,” said a cool voice. Locke.
“I have a phone?” Wulf asked, voice hoarse from sleep.
“It only works as a two-way between you and me. All other functions but the clock are blocked. Don’t think if you fiddle with it you can make those functions work. It’s got alarms which are monitored by the guard stations.”
Wulf had expected nothing more from the phone. It was the device itself that surprised him. Sleek. Black. Expensive. Like a gift he did not want.
When Wulf said nothing more, Locke’s voice filled the silence.
“You are to rise now, shower and make yourself presentable. That includes shaving and combing your hair. It’s a mess.”
Wulf looked up to see if he could locate the camera that watched him. Or cameras, plural. For there had to be eyes all over his pretty cell. It was obvious Locke could see him live and in color even now.
“In one half hour you are to be ready to leave your rooms,” Locke continued. “You may wear the shoes provided to you, or not. Your choice. But if you are not ready and clean and shaved, assistants will be sent in to force you to comply. It will not be enjoyable for anyone involved, most of all you. They are instructed to use the shock collar if need be.”
Wulf had felt that pain only twice, and his mind already diminished the memory of it. But his physical self did not forget. Just the mention of the shock made his skin raise Goosebumps all over. His body shivered.
“Are my instructions clear?” Locke asked.
Wulf pressed the red spot on the screen to end the call. He did not like that Locke might think him stupid, but he was wise enough to hang up before he mouthed off about it.
He was ready to go in half the allotted time. The rest of the time he gazed out over the Palace grounds, looking at the empty platforms where, upon his arrival, live statues of men and women had stood.
He had no idea if playing statue was a part of training or punishment. All he knew was he didn’t want to be one. These people—these Avilanians—had very strange ideas of art, life and philosophy. Dark ideas. Evil. To be a party to that—his mind wanted to rebel.
And yet the past twelve hours he’d been treated better than he had since he was caught. For that matter, he’d been pampered more here than he had ever experienced his whole life.
Even though he hated it, he knew he had been somewhat lucky to be chosen to come to the Palace. And Locke—well, Locke was another matter. The man confounded him. Locke owned him. Wulf should hate him. Instead, his stomach knotted. He found himself anticipating the day’s events wit
h both fear and curiosity. And Locke himself was interesting, at the very least.
All of it made Wulf outraged mostly at himself, but at least he wasn’t in pain. He wasn’t hungry. He was no longer tired. And his impending death had been put on hold.
He had not truly wanted to die. For that reprieve alone, he was grateful.
The door to his room/cell opened.
Locke stood at the threshold. “Ready?” he asked.
Wulf turned from the window. His body quickened at the sight of the Eminent Master, but he told himself it was simple apprehension. He had not forgotten Locke’s appeal, a sort of glamour exuding from him that was more than his stature in the Palace. It came from within, an impeccable serenity, a magnetic soul. Wulf dismissed his anxious response to the man as culture shock, and disgust for what he represented.
“Are you asking if I am ready for a day of lessons in debauchery?” Wulf asked.
Locke raised one eyebrow. “Breakfast first, I should think.”
Wulf pressed his lips tight, breathing deep through his nose.
“Hand me your leash.”
Wulf looked down at the leather thong trailing over his chest. It reached just below his knees.
“Pick it up,” Locke instructed. “Come forward. And hand it to me.”
Wulf did not move.
“Did you hear me?”
Wulf stared at him, unblinking. But inside, his heart rate became rapid. He had no control here. Nothing left of his old self. Already it was happening, the body’s reactions to fear and anger and despair overtaking him. He’d been trained not to give into these emotions. But with his life as he knew it gone—country, comrades in arms, even his clothing—past training meant nothing to his brain now. Less than nothing.
“You will not like it if I have to come to you and take the leash in hand myself,” Locke warned.
Wulf’s muscles went rigid. A last stand. He had so much defiance inside and nowhere to vent it.
Locke entered the room.
Wulf stood his ground, holding his breath, for if he let it out he knew he would start to gasp, to shake.
Locke grabbed the leash. Jerked.
Wulf grit his teeth. Shut his eyes.
The pain did not come.
Slowly, Wulf opened his eyes. “What happened?”
Locke looked at him with a steady brown gaze. “Nothing. I have your leash now. Will you come, or not?”
Wulf said, “The collar is not turned on?”
“Oh, the collar is on. Did you think it wasn’t?”
“You pulled it. It didn’t shock me.”
“I did not pull. You projected in your mind that I would tug the leash once I had it in hand. Probably even felt a constriction at your neck, yes?”
Wulf glared at him. He did not like it that Locke seemed to be reading him as if they had already known each other for days, or even weeks.
“It’s the conditioning of the collar. It works quite quickly, do you not agree? You haven’t been here twenty-four hours and already you feel the collar’s affects without me having to do a thing.”
Anger surged in Wulf. “You won’t do that to me!”
“Do what?”
“Condition me.”
Locke sighed. “Everyone is conditioned in so many ways in life from the moment they are born. Even you. By your own culture, beliefs, habits, addictions, teachings. Through media we are told what to wear, to eat, speech mannerisms, how to style hair, clothing, and how to decorate our homes. Everything, and I mean everything, is conditioning.”
Locke’s words rolled past Wulf as garbled sound. He heard some of what he said, but didn’t like it at all, and tuned the rest out, focusing instead on the man’s face, which in itself was a mistake because the distraction of Locke, his beauty, made Wulf even more anxious.
One thing Wulf noticed—though he didn’t want to-- was Locke’s eyelashes were very thick and dark. Almost too pretty for a man. He wanted to turn away, but Locke had the leash now, and if he did pull back, the shock would come for sure.
“It is natural for you to tune me out on your first day when I say things you don’t want to accept as truth. So for now, may we go to breakfast? The dining hall is out the door and to the right.”
Wulf thought about the pain of the collar. If he pulled back and refused to accompany Locke, the knife-fire would consume him. How many times, he wondered, might he defy this master and stay sane? Or even conscious?
He thought he might try. But when Locke moved forward, Wulf’s body followed, his heart racing. He could not do it. The memory of that pain was agony. His mind wanted to refuse. His body could not.
In Rille, his commander would have called him weak, a coward.
A sudden shudder came over Wulf.
Locke turned. His voice remained soft, commanding but not cruel, which was confusing. “You have my permission to take your time.”
The gentleness of those words threw him into a quick fury that was gone as soon as it came. How effective it was, he thought. Keeping him off track, confused, unsure.
They entered the hallway at a slow walk. Wulf kept his gaze turned downward. He did not want to see other people, or know if they were looking at him. And if there were other slaves about, he did not want to see them.
But he could not shut off his other senses. He heart footfalls on marble tile. He felt the air flowing warm against his bare skin from light eddies and currents of those who passed by. The scents of other humans assaulted him, a combination of talc, sweat, spice, soap. People everywhere. People who were not his people, not his friends. The enemy.
Wulf paused.
As if reading his mind yet again, Locke paused along with him. He did not force Wulf to hurry. He did not jerk the leash. Why?
Wulf frowned.
“You’re doing quite well,” Locke said.
“Just shut up with your voice and… and all of it!” Wulf blurted.
He stood gasping now, hands clenched at his stomach, elbows in, body stiff. Wulf’s eyelids fluttered. He squeezed them closed. The hallway was too noisy, too full, though he had actually seen no one about. But he’d heard them, smelled them.
“The option for me to shut up is not your choice to make. My voice is your beacon and you will obey it. You are experiencing anxiety. If it gets worse, we will see the doctor. For now, breathe out. Count to three. Do this until you feel yourself calm.”
For some reason, Wulf did just that. It was automatic for the room had begun to spin and he was afraid if he fell the collar would activate.
Nothing was his to control anymore. Nothing.
Of course Locke was right. Wulf did not breathe in until the count of three. When he did, the world righted itself again.
He opened his eyes and the handsome master’s eyes met his. Handsome. How could he think that? But his body responded. To his master. His good-looking master.
“Good,” said Locke. “Do you like eggs? Bacon?”
“I don’t want—“ Wulf’s voice stopped in his throat.
“I could enforce a diet on you.” Locke soothed. “But I like to leave every slave I train with some choices. You may not be allowed to choose when you eat, but what you eat, within reason, can be made according to your tastes.”
Probably this was another trick, Wulf told himself. But he did not like eggs at all. And he could not deny some consolation in the fact that he would not be forced to eat them.
The dining hall held an actual buffet. Wulf saw many naked slaves collared and leashed as he was following trainers about or sitting at tables and eating. Low volume instrumental music played, unobtrusive.
The artwork on the walls was more modern than what Wulf had seen in the rest of the Palace. These paintings were abstracts of bright shapes, or massive watercolor close-ups of flowers, more like pieces of scenes, or focused details of nature. He liked them.
Locke led Wulf to the buffet, saying, “You may choose whatever you like.”
Wulf thought, This is my tr
aining?
But it was strange the way Locke’s choice of words and actions encouraged instead of corrected. It was also infuriating, because in Wulf’s deepest, darkest fantasies which he forbade himself ninety-nine percent of the time, Locke was his type.
Though half the room’s occupants wore nothing, Wulf still could not get used to his own nudity. He faked an ease he did not feel, and had to consciously force himself from clasping his hands in front of his groin. Though he wanted to defy the culture of this so-called Palace, he did not wish to further display his vulnerability concerning it.
Wulf chose bacon and waffles for his breakfast. His hands shook as he held his tray.
Locke said nothing about Wulf’s hands. In a hearty tone, he asked the cook to make him a fresh omelet.
When they approached a booth a booth with their food, a waiter laid a fresh towel on Wulf’s couch before he sat. Locke used a hook on the wall to attach the leash.
The waiter then took their drink order, kneeling before Locke. The waiter himself wore only a white apron. Wulf couldn’t help but notice he had been shaved to show off his strong, young chest and thigh muscles. A lovely man. He said, “Your drink, Master?”
“Coffee. Cream.”
When the slave turned to Wulf, he called him, “Sir.”
Wulf also ordered coffee.
“Surprised?” Locke asked.
“At what?”
“Everything.”
“Of course. Nothing here is normal,” Wulf replied.
Locke took a bite of his omelet. After he chewed and swallowed, he said, “What is normal?”
“All this, of course, is abnormal.” Wulf gestured to the hall with a lift of his hand, and tried to keep the frustration from his voice.
“Perhaps you are correct.” Locke nodded his head and continued in his infernally, gentle voice. “If I were in your country and had been captured by your soldiers, I would be imprisoned in a place not resembling this one in the least. It would not be normal to me, either.”
“I was imprisoned. I am imprisoned!” Wulf insisted.
The Slave Palace: Wulf and Locke (Kingdom of Slaves Book 1) Page 6