by Sara Bushway
Honey cocked an eyebrow at the master of the House. "Is something the matter, sir?
"Yeah," Beaumont groaned as he pushed himself up onto his feet again, "something is the matter. I heard you’re aiming to leave."
Oh no, Honey thought. How could he know? Who would have told him?
"Leave? Why would I do that? Where would I go?"
Beaumont continued as though Honey hadn’t said anything. "And Mrs. Money-bags from yesterday seems keen on pinning down your price--"
"Price?"
"To buy."
Honey’s eyes were wide.
She wants to buy me out of the House? His eyes widened, and he struggled to breathe as he waited for the master to continue. Did she enjoy our time together that much? Am I going to be free?
"Your price--...well, it doesn't really matter what your price is, but you're a pretty expensive piece of tail. It's hard to get a boy in these Houses since your kind is usually sold to sickos when you're just pups. Makes for high demand, and therefore a high price. She's willing to pay whatever number I put on your papers, but I don't like what she had to say about you, boy. I don't like hearing about whores who think they can do better out there on their own."
"I never said--"
"Don't interrupt me, boy!" His voice boomed. The floorboards creaked as Beaumont approached and stooped, stilling towering over him. His face was mere inches from Honey.
"Did you tell her that you want to leave? Did you ask her to be your savior?"
Honey swore he could feel his hair begin to mat with sweat as he stammered, "I--I--I didn’t--"
Beaumont took Honey by the arm and threw him down onto the bed. Honey reeled as his head struck the steel frame and ran his fingers through his hair, feeling slight dampness as he did so. Just as he started regaining his sensibilities, Beaumont's big, powerful hands grabbed hold of Honey's wrists, pulled them to the corner bedpost, and began to wrap a black cord around them, binding him to the bed. Honey shifted himself as he gazed up at the Housemaster.
"Sir, this isn’t necessary," he said with a slight smile, trying hard to hide the fact that his voice was shaking. Beaumont gave the cord one last pull, causing Honey to lose his cool composure to a silent scream, and chuckled.
"Of course it is, dear Honey. Of course, it is. It's necessary because I say it's necessary." Beaumont slowly made his way around to the foot of the bed and looked down at the young man. His body was fine. His golden hair and eyes as blue as the ocean had once been made him quite the asset to Beaumont's operation, but the time for reveling in the success of his brothels had passed. He reached into the inside pocket of his sport coat and produced a black-handled box-cutter. Honey kicked and struggled against his restraints.
"I’m sorry that I have to do this, but I can’t abide the idea that you aren’t keen on staying. I can’t let you go out there and steal business from me for someone else."
"Sir! Please!" Honey shrieked. "I'm not leaving! A client asked me a question, and I answered her to make her more comfortable! That's part of what I do! I please customers! Please, sir--"
"I can’t risk that, Honey. I took you in, gave you a home and a skill and a great-paying job. I even gave you my name, boy. I’ve been looking out for you all this time, even after your bitch of a mother sold you to the state like an old pot at a yard sale. She threw you away like you were trash, and I saved you. Kept you fed and clothed. I even let you make friends with the little girl whores because you liked them so well and played nice with them. Are you not grateful!?"
Honey strained against his bonds as he whined, "I am grateful! I’m so grateful, sir!"
"Not grateful enough," Beaumont said in a low growl, his eyes wild with rage. He crawled up onto the bed and sat himself atop the young man. He grinned and leaned forward onto him.
"The good news is that I am willing to forgive you," he whispered.
"You’ll forgive me?" Honey asked as tears burned his eyes and streaked his face.
"Yes, I will." Beaumont sat up and pushed the slide of the box-cutter up, revealing the blade inside. He sighed. "I am more than willing to forgive you for wanting to leave, but I can’t let you go on thinking that it’s ok for you to put the idea of leaving into anyone else’s mind. I have to make sure that the others know what happens to people who threaten to leave my House. The good news is that you’ll still have a place here, among the discounted dames."
The discount dames. They had their own hall in the House and for a good reason. They couldn’t be sold as high-end tail. Missing limbs, milky-eye, and mouth sores were just a few of the maladies that could send someone down their way. Their time was worth scarcely half of what Honey and the second-floor girls made. It had never occurred to Honey that those girls may have arrived in perfect condition, only to be tainted by Beaumont.
"No!" Honey shrieked. "Please! Don’t hurt me!"
Beaumont tilted his head and gasped in mock surprise. "Oh, Honey! I’m so surprised at you! The sadists said that you were a good sport about taking pain. They’re some of your best customers. You don’t seem to be all-in today, my dear boy!"
Honey kicked and flailed as best he could. He could feel the cord cutting into his wrists as he twisted and pulled.
"It’s going to be ok," Beaumont said as he leaned forward and slid the blade under Honey’s shirt. "You’re going to be ok. I’m not going to kill you, boy. I think you just need a good, strong reminder that this is what you are. This is what you were born into, and this is where you’ll die."
The blade split the neckline of his shirt and sliced the cotton down to the bottom hem. Beaumont pushed the two halves of the shirt off to the sides and gazed down at Honey’s bare chest. His muscles glistened with sweat as he still pulled at his wrists in hopeless panic, trying to free himself. Beaumont leered down at him and drew his fingers along the lines of his barely-defined abdominals. Then it was the box-cutter’s turn. Honey screamed and kicked once more.
"Don’t twist. You’ll only make it worse," Beaumont chided as he continued carving into Honey’s body.
"Stop!" Honey begged, trying desperately to heed Beaumont’s words, but the pain was just too much. He couldn’t just lie still while his nerves fired pain full-force through his body, and blood pooled in the crevice of his abdomen, drained down into his navel, and dribbled onto the waistband of his pants.
Beaumont sat back and eyed his work like an artist admiring his own brush strokes on a canvas. Honey panted as he started to feel relief that the ordeal might be over, but the relief was short-lived. Beaumont scooted himself forward onto Honey’s bloody torso and began slashing stripes into his arms. He drew lines in all directions from his warm, comfortable seat, creating what looked like tiger stripes that connected at one end and splayed at the other. Honey kicked and wailed as the assault continued. Then Beaumont stopped and glared down at the boy in heated annoyance.
"Boy, you need to stop moving! You’re going to make me nick you in a way that can’t be healed! I don’t aim to kill you!"
"Please, kill me," Honey cried. "Please stop. Please stop and let me die."
Beaumont leaned in close and kissed Honey on the tip of his nose. "No," he whispered softly. A big, toothy grin split his face in half as terror streamed out of Honey’s eyes.
I have to get out of here, he thought. Even his inner voice was sobbing. I have to live through this! I have to get out and find help!
Honey shot back down onto the bed and continued struggling against the cord. He wasn’t sure if the cord was starting to give or if he was slowly sawing his own hands off. At this point, he didn’t really care.
I must stop him. His inner voice growled while he shifted his weight this way and that, loosening the tension around his wrists.
Beaumont crawled back toward the foot of the bed and began to remove the rest of Honey's clothes. Honey froze as Beaumont unclasped his belt buckle and slid his pants off. If he was to live through this ordeal, he couldn't flail about and pray that the blade woul
dn't strike the arteries in his legs. He could live without his hands, but his legs? He would never be able to walk out of this place alive.
Beaumont continued to undress Honey until he was completely naked. He kneeled onto the mattress and took stock of his prized whore in all of his radiant glory. A bit of drool pooled at the corner of his mouth, and he wiped it away, eyeing the muscle-toned legs on either side of him. With swift, full swings, he began to hack into the muscular limbs, taking care not to slice into the inner thigh where the femoral artery noticeably pulsed. Honey strained to keep his legs still as he cried out for help in vain. Blood soaked the sheets of Beaumont’s bed as the attack raged on. It didn't take long before Beaumont turned his attention on the only extremity he hadn't yet attacked; the only tool a whore needs to earn his way.
The blade continued to cut until he was satisfied with his work. Honey’s beautiful body had not been destroyed but had been made unappealing to the discerning client, which was all he really wanted. Though he was skilled, his life would be far more difficult if he ever tried to make it on his own or make his way into another brothel.
"There we are," Beaumont sighed contentedly. Honey wheezed. His voice was gone from what had felt like hours of torment. He felt the heft of his own chest press his internals into mush. Beaumont stood and crossed the room. His eyes widened at the frayed cord around Honey's wrists. He smirked as he inspected a rogue strand of cord between his thumb and forefinger.
"I gotta admit it. You're a little tougher than I thought, boy. Too much longer, and you might have broken free," he mused. "But you just don't have it in you. You're just not strong enough."
Honey felt the cord snap against the chaffed skin of his hands as he was cut free. A new stream of warmth in his hand suggested that Beaumont had been none-too-careful when doing so.
"It’s ok, Honey. You’re not tough," the man continued. "You don’t need to be. You have me. I’ll be tough for you, even when you need to be tough on yourself."
Honey didn’t move. He stared into the crevice between the tiles of the ceiling, unsure if he should relax and be grateful that the ordeal had ended or if he should be praying for his eternal soul in case he didn’t survive the next round. Beaumont cocked an eyebrow and kicked the frame of the bed.
"You alive, kid?"
Honey tried to inhale enough to manage a sound, but all that came out was a wet cough as another tear streaked his face. Beaumont grunted, fed up with Honey’s lack of conversation. He crossed the room again, making his way over to a cabinet by the door, and tossed a folded sheet onto the bed beside the badly-injured young man.
"Clean yourself up. I’ll send someone in to patch you up, and I’ll be sure to let Mrs. Money-bags know that you’ve been moved down to the first floor for...cleanliness reasons."
Honey closed his eyes and silently wept.
I made it...I'm alive...I can't believe it, but I'm alive! He thought as he reached for the folded sheet. And someday, I will make you pay for this and for all the others you’ve hurt. I AM tough! Just you wait and see.
The screech of metal hangers rang through Honey’s room as he slid item after item from one end of his closet to the other in frustration. The ladies had done their best at healing his more lethal injuries, but he was still left a fair number of wounds that had to be bandaged and allowed to heal the old-fashioned way. It was common to find whores who had some magical abilities, thanks to the high-born wizards who liked a good time but didn't want to be tied down by parenthood. Many wizards were employed by the government bodies and needed their freedom to be able to travel and perform dangerous tasks, but that didn't stop them from making adorable little mistakes and giving them up for the state to sell. Loretta was one of these babies. Though she never had the formal training, she had a natural gift for using magic to heal superficial wounds. She even taught a couple of the girls how to do some light casting. According to her, magic was like the energy of the body, and casting spells was just using the body’s energy for something other than living. This never did sit right with Honey, though. If magic is just a body’s energy being forced to do something else, then anyone could be magical if they learned how. It just didn't seem right that such a special gift could be had by anyone who cared enough to study it. Still, he appreciated her help and conversation while she was closing his wounds with light that emanated from the palms of her hands. Unfortunately, she and the others could only do so much before exhausting themselves. This meant covering up.
It’s not impossible to be sexy without showing it all off, I guess Honey thought as he continued his search. There must be something in here...Maybe a tux. Tuxes are classy, right?
He smiled weakly as he pulled a hanger out of the closet and inspected its contents. "Coat, pants, shoes, bow-tie...no shirt," Honey muttered, drawing his gaze down to his chest. Even through his soft, cotton undershirt, he could see the outline of the bandages, and in his mind’s eye, he could see the scars that striped his chest underneath them. A lump began to form in his throat.
"There’s no shirt," he repeated, "but...it does cover up the rest of it…" Honey drew his fingers down his chest and sighed. His eyes stung with tears as he realized what he was feeling. For the first time in his life, Honey felt shame. His body, the one thing he had that was his own, had been ruined. He dreaded to see the pity and disgust in the eyes of his first client since Beaumont’s lesson. The two days he had taken to let the remaining injuries begin to heal and to sleep off some of the stress of enduring Beaumont’s anger had done little good for him. He doubted that he would ever truly be over it as long as he still lived under Beaumont’s roof, but maybe someday, after he had made something of himself, he could come back and make Beaumont sorry for everything he had ever done. Maybe he could make him say the words, make him apologize to each and every girl in the brothel for being so terrible to them.
Someday, Honey thought with a long sigh, but today...Today I just need to muster up the courage to get back out there before he starts to get upset that I’m not bringing in any money.
He slipped off his sleep shirt and ripped the cotton bandages off his chest in a single sharp tug. The ones around his arms didn’t give in as easily, but they eventually tore off as well. The coat would cover all of the slices on his arms without issue, and they would disappear in the dim light of the bedroom once he had secured a client for himself. He just had to draw them in before they noticed too much. He had hoped that his little red bow-tie would draw clients’ attention up to his face and away from the wounds, but he figured that removing the big, white stripes of gauze might help as well.
And maybe the girls have some sort of make-up I could use to make it a little less obvious overall, he thought as he stripped off his sleeping pants and dressed himself for work.
Chapter Four
Despite the lower pay, Honey found himself enjoying the first floor because he was closer to the kitchen where Betty could spoil him with treats. He did, however, miss his friends. The discount dames hadn't accepted him as one of their own and often left their dressing room locked to him, leaving him to dress alone in his tiny bedroom and await his clients inside. He missed all the floor-space of his old room. Much of what little he owned was put away in boxes and hidden in the closet with his shoes sitting atop them. The trunk he used to hold his various sex tools and bondage equipment was slid under the bed to help preserve his path to the washroom. After a few days of dealing with sliding the box in and out of the space beneath the tiny bed, he noticed it left tracks on the wooden floor. Frustrated with the wretched box, he ripped the lid off its hinges and positioned it as close to the edge as possible. This way, he could reach into it from atop the bed and find what he was looking for by feel instead of having to stop mid-performance and fight with the clasp of the trunk.
The first-floor hall definitely had its trade-offs. Since he wasn't expected to do all of those little extra services he had provided for the upscale clients, which filled the rest of the hour after the de
ed was done, he had a bit of extra time to rest and clean up before his next hour started. He often found that new clientele was more interested in getting the job done and getting the hell out. It was just as well. He made a lot less per client, but if he didn't feel the need to scrub himself raw for the time he had been paid for, he could easily service three or four clients in a single time slot. It wasn't fun, and it left him feeling like the layers of sweat and filth would never scrub off, but it would afford him some leniency in his pocket money for buying new clothes and accessories when the tailor came around.
It’s like they think we aren’t even worth bathing for, he thought as he stood in his washroom, scrubbing off his most recent client. Bathe for comfort. Bathe for fun. Bathe for the betterment of humanity, but geez...just--
A knock on his bedroom door struck Honey’s nerves and sent his bar of soap skittering across the floor. He knelt and tossed it into the sink, dried off with a towel, and made himself decent. He pulled on a tight pair of jeans, put on his cowboy hat, and buttoned a plaid shirt over his scars.
My skin is going to hate me later, he thought with a sigh. He could already feel the waxy soap drying on his skin. He turned his exasperated look into a suggestive smile as he opened his door.
"Anastasia," he said breathily. He gazed upon the beautiful woman in the hall for a moment and stepped back as she let herself in, closing the door behind her. He wanted to throw his arms around her and tell her everything that had happened since their night together, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit what Beaumont had proved; he was weak. He gazed at her, taking in her dark, purple dress that led up to a lacey choker around her neck. Her smile warmed his blood like the sun after a cold night’s rain.
"Hello, Honey."
"Miss Anastasia," he replied with a tilt of his hat.
Her smile faded. "Mrs. Anastasia Vinogradov, if you must, but please don't. Let me see."
All of his bravado faded in an instant.