by Thom Lane
“You’d better, or I’ll see what kind of shine I can raise on your butt. I want to be able to shave by my reflection in the leather, you hear me?”
“Yes, Master.” He wouldn’t need to do that; I meant to shave him myself, any day he didn’t go to the baths. I didn’t say that, either. Not yet. Instead I eased off his slippers and started to work his feet into the boots. “May I ask where my master is going?”
“No need. You’re coming with me.” He rolled the message into a tube and tapped it thoughtfully against his palm, gazing down at me with a distracted smile. “Lucky boy, you’re going to be dressed after all tonight. We’ll go down to the market and find you something pretty. I can’t turn up at a private house with a naked slut at my heels.”
“Master, you’re not—”
“Not taking you? Of course I am. They’d expect a guest to bring an attendant, and I’ll need you to carry my winnings. There and back again.” He frowned, and tapped my nose with that rolled message. “Or did you think I’d turn tail and not go? Do you imagine that your master is a coward?”
I didn’t think it was cowardice, to avoid an obvious trap. But I bit back my doubts and protests, and shook my head earnestly. Just so long as you take me too, so that I can be your luck…
If I needed to be. So far, I’d only worked one foot into its proper boot. I took his other onto my lap, slid my hand up inside the trouser leg, held my palm against his bare calf and leaned a little.
For a moment he looked a little dizzy, a little confused; then he murmured, “Or maybe you’re right, maybe we should just stay home, hmm? Seductive little beast, you are. Be more fun, just the two of us…”
His hand was in my hair; I held my breath and hoped. And felt ashamed, a little, and wasn’t quite sure whether I was more ashamed of myself or him. It really shouldn’t be this easy; a master should be stronger minded. Though—knowing what I knew, what I’d left behind—I was truly glad that he wasn’t.
* * * *
He might have changed his mind about the evening, or let me change it for him; he did still take me to the market that afternoon.
Not to the flesh market, the way he’d threatened earlier. Not to sell. Not now.
He was spending money on me instead, a very little, a scatter of coppers: first to have a tag cut for my collar, to mark me out as his property.
“What shall I call you, hmm?” His hands were on my hips possessively; mine were properly behind my back, where they couldn’t be tempted into mischief.
It wasn’t really a question. He wasn’t consulting me for my opinion, just musing aloud. I kept my tongue still and my eyes down, still playing the good boy for all I was worth.
“Jay is for Jensen,” he said, after a moment’s thought. He sounded delighted with his own wit. That’s what he had them cut onto the steel disk that would hang from my collar ring, Jay is for Jensen. I didn’t really understand it, but apparently my name was Jay.
That was fine by me. I liked it, rather; and it was simple enough that I thought I could trust my master to remember it, even when he was drunk or hungover.
While the tag was being engraved, he guided me to the next stall with a hand lightly on my butt. Which really wasn’t fair, because that casual touch gave me a rising erection; which he cocked an eyebrow at, and laughed with that kind of affectionate contempt that some masters are so very good at.
“Poor Jay. Trained to please and ever ready, aren’t you?” One finger slipped between my butt cheeks, found the sphincter deep in its crevice and pressed lightly.
My erection passed swiftly from rising to raging. I may have whimpered, just a little.
“Never mind, lad. I’ll find you something nice to cover it up. Sometimes.” Meantime he took pity on me, took his hand away with a last sharp slap. I was trained to respond to that kind of treatment too; I nearly came there and then. We’re trained not to, though: not until Master says we may. There are tricks we learn to hold ourselves in check. Some of them are more painful than others. The inside of my cheek was bleeding before I was sure I wouldn’t disgrace him in the public square.
He hadn’t noticed. He was looking through a pile of linen tunics, trying to make up his mind which he liked best. One or two he held up against me, just to see; at last he said, “The green, I think. It brings out the hazel in your eyes. What’s the matter?”
“Master,” I murmured, biting my lip for a whole different reason now, not wanting to giggle aloud, not at him, “don’t you think it’s a little…short?”
The hem of it would be practically tickling my cock as I walked, it was so brief.
He might have cuffed me, or worse; I was half expecting him to. But he had asked, and I had told him truthfully. That’s what good boys do.
Sometimes, masters let you get away with things, when they’re in the mood. He just grinned. “All the more reason not to let yourself get excited. Besides, you have excellent legs, and I want to show them off.”
It wasn’t only my legs he’d be showing. I wouldn’t dare bend over, if there was anyone behind me.
I wasn’t really protesting. He owned me; he could dress me as he chose. Which meant skimpily, apparently. Which was better than not at all, though I didn’t honestly care too much. Free or slave, you’re always naked underneath.
Master Jensen did at least want to make sure that he had clothes for me, whether or not I got to wear them. He passed the tunic to me to carry, added a simple white shift and a couple of loincloths, then drifted farther down the stall and started turning over the display of whips and switches.
I followed obediently at his heel, finding yet one more reason to chew my lip. Not in dread—I thought I already knew him better than that—but in anticipation, yes. He wouldn’t hesitate to beat me if I gave him cause. Or if I didn’t, if he only thought it would be fun. Fun for him, that is.
Ah, well. I never had a master yet who didn’t beat me; I don’t think they exist. And at least he wouldn’t be like the last. That much I was sure of.
There was a black leather switch with silver mountings that had caught his eye. He tried its weight, swished it through the air a couple of times, eyed me as if he wanted to test it out on my hide.
I would have bent over the trestle there and then, at the slightest gesture. I think I would have wanted to.
In the event, though, he just stroked it down my thigh. And nodded his satisfaction as my cock twitched again, as I gave myself away altogether.
“Patience, little slut,” he murmured, tapping my butt lightly. “You’ll feel the sting of it soon enough, I promise. For now, you put that tunic on and let me see what you look like dressed.”
I pulled clean fresh linen over my head, glad of the chance to bury my blushing face in it. He was right, of course. Fun for him was fun for me too. It would still hurt, no question—I had a bad feeling about that switch; I thought it’d have a wicked sting to it—but pain and pleasure can get awfully confused in a boy’s head, if he’s trained well. In his head, and in his body too. And what pleases his master pleases him, if he has any sense; and—
Dimly through the linen, I heard his voice go on: “I’ll take that training whip too, the one with the short handle.”
A short handle meant close work, intimate obedience training. That wouldn’t be so much fun, however much I wanted to please him. The whip would give me reasons to want it, but I had better ones already…
By the time I had the tunic tugged down to my shoulders and the rough rope girdle tied around my waist, Master Jensen had moved on to other tack. As I watched, he tested the chain on a pair of leather bracelets, then glanced around and beckoned me with a jerk of his head.
I might have swallowed a little sigh as I trotted over, unless it was a smile. Some slaves are let run free, more or less, while some are kept closely chained. It’s not really to stop us escaping. Only very new slaves even dream of that, and not for very long. If it’s about trust, it’s as much about the free folk’s trust in themselves, h
ow confident they are in their own discipline; but sometimes, often, it’s just about their pleasure again. My new master might be young, but I didn’t doubt his self-confidence. I thought he just liked to have his boy right there, under his hand, under his control.
A word from him would be enough to control me, but he maybe didn’t know that yet. Or else—more likely—he didn’t care. He’d chain me because he wanted to, that was all.
It was enough.
I stood submissively still before him, hands behind my back so that he had to reach around me to fasten those bracelets on my wrists. My head on his shoulder, his cheek against my hair.
His breath in my ear, and then his teeth: lightly, laughingly. And then, too soon, he said, “Enough,” and slapped my butt as though that teasing little break had been my fault entirely. When I straightened he clipped a leash to the ring on my collar, an absolute guarantee that my new master wanted to keep his new boy close at heel.
Maybe he always would. I could find comfort in that, some. It’s hard being all the time under your master’s eye, but it’s harder sometimes if you’re ignored or forgotten or shrugged off. It’s better to matter, at least a little. I’d sooner be kept under strict discipline than none at all.
He let the leash dangle while his fingers twitched at my tunic, pulling it straight across my shoulders, tying the girdle a little tighter, making sure the ends hung neatly. My own fingers itched to do the same to him—to tidy his hair, to brush a little dust off his sleeve and give his buttons a rub—but the chance for that was gone. Just as well, probably. It would have been a risk, maybe a risk too far until I knew him better, until he knew me, until we were comfortable together. It always takes time, with a change of master.
His hands slid under the tunic’s brief hem, and he cupped my buttocks thoughtfully in his palms. Again I had to catch my lip between my teeth, when really I wanted to be catching his. There was no telling how much play he’d allow me, in public or in private either; it’s the kind of lesson you can only learn by going too far, taking your bruises quietly, being more discreet next time. Right now, with my back still as sore as it was, I didn’t want to be taking any chances. Bruises could wait. So could risky games. However tempting they were, those soft sensuous nippable lips of his…
Still, no wise boy ever lets his master wait, if he can help it. If his master leans in for a kiss—well. Kissing happens. If the boy has to stand on tiptoe and stretch up for it, that’s what he does. If his hands are chained behind his back, he just has to trust his master to hold him, because there’s nothing he can cling to on his own account.
I was just careful not to let him feel my teeth. Not yet.
I had enough anyway, enough for now, with his hands on my body and his tongue in my mouth: a little forceful, a little inquisitive, hands and tongue both. With so much still to learn about each other, every touch was like this: another inquiry, another swift lesson. The taste and the feel of him, the strength in his hands and the unexpected gentleness, the sudden pang of regret when he took his lips away from mine, stepped back and looked me up and down.
“You’ll do,” he said, a little breathlessly. “For me, you will most definitely do.”
The tag was ready for him now. He clipped it to my collar so that everyone would know who I belonged to, retrieved the dangling leash and said, “Come on, let’s get you home.”
Let’s get that tunic off you, I thought he meant, and ask a few more questions of each other.
I hoped that was what he meant, at any rate. Maybe I’d take a chance after all, my teeth against his lips. He couldn’t do any worse than beat me, and the way he was tapping his new switch against my thigh, I thought that was going to happen anyway.
If it pleased him to beat me, then it was no more than my duty as a good boy, to provoke him into wanting to. Wasn’t it…?
His other purchases were tied together into a single bundle; even my chained hands could carry that. He turned away, slipping the loop handle of the leash over his wrist and giving it a little unnecessary tug. I was already at his heel; where else was I going to be? If the leash and the cuffs had any real use, I thought they were for him, not for me: another reassurance that he wasn’t dreaming, that his money worries were over. That he actually did own a boy, me—but really I thought that in his head I was symbolic of something greater, an expression of security.
Which made me smile at his unheeding back, because how often does a lowly slave boy get to be symbolic of anything? My silly master…
I walked along quietly, two paces behind him, marching in step because he couldn’t see me and making little bets with myself, how long it’d be before he shortened the leash to draw me closer, how long before he reached to tuck me under his arm, where his curious wandering hand would go then.
Neither one of us was ready for it when a voice hailed him from the sky.
“Jensen! There you are! I was hoping to catch sight of you. Come on up, and share a glass with me.”
It didn’t really come from the sky, of course: only from over our heads. We stood in the shadow of an inn; I guessed it had a balcony, and a customer leaning over the rail. Waving a beaker of wine, most likely.
I had to guess, because I wasn’t looking. At the first word my eyes had dropped as my back had stiffened, the image of the perfect slave boy, trained and expectant.
I knew that voice intimately. It set shivers in me bone deep, cold steel at the core.
Up there was the man I’d last belonged to: the man I thought I’d escaped, into my new master’s care.
It was only imagination, surely, that set all my bruises flaming into fresh fierce life beneath my tunic. Only in my head. A man’s voice couldn’t really do that, and his ready whip was out of reach, and no longer had any rights anyway. Not on my flesh. I was Master Jensen’s now.
I was Master Jensen’s, and I couldn’t do a thing to stop him. Not with my wrists chained behind me.
He did tug the leash now, when it was too late; I did step obediently up to his side, to catch his whisper. “Jay, who is that? Do you know?”
“Yes, Master. His name’s Master Leonin, and he’s the man you won me from last night.” Me and half that money, but for once it was me that mattered. I’d betrayed my new master, all without meaning to. Without any choice in the matter, but nevertheless.
A man wakes up with a new slave, what does he do, first thing? Takes him down to the market, of course, to have a tag cut and buy the tack he needs. If another man wants his revenge, wants his money back and maybe his boy too, it’s easy enough to lay an ambush.
Master Jensen was too proud to refuse the invitation, now that Master Leonin had spotted him. And with my hands shackled behind my back, there was not much I could do to intervene. I did think maybe if I just nudged him, shoulder to shoulder, I could nudge his mind back to his earlier resolution. Remind him of how much he wanted to be private with me, naked, skin on skin…
It was a thin hope, though, thin at best; and Master Jensen forestalled it anyway, with a snap of his fingers and a swift gesture that I was obeying before I could even think about it, dropping to my knees by the hitching rail in the shadow of the balcony.
He wrapped the leash twice around the rail and said, “Stay,” as if there were anywhere else I could go or anything else I could do. Just for a moment, his fingers brushed my cheek; I risked a quick peek upward, and caught him with a wry hopeless smile on his face. He was trapped, and he knew it. Still: he tapped my nose firmly, a warning to behave; then he squared his shoulders and went straight up the wooden steps that would bring him to the balcony, my brave master. I watched him all the way, and by the time he reached the top you would never have known that he wasn’t springing up those stairs to meet a dear and a welcome friend.
The sun struck down through gaps between the boards above. I knelt where I was—because my master had told me to, not because I was chained and leashed—and watched slim bars of light drift across my skin and the scandalous brief he
m of my tunic. My old master’s harsh bray of a laugh came down to me, with my new master’s softer murmur as an occasional counterpoint, like bars of warm light against a chilly shadow.
I was suddenly very afraid. As I had been last night: afraid, but determined…
* * * *
Time passed; all the afternoon passed me by like market trade on the road. The light was turning dusky by the time two young men came down those stairs arm in arm. They might have been the oldest, the very best of friends, except that I could see how Master Leonin was guiding Master Jensen’s steps, almost holding him up already.
You drink too much, Master mine.
“Jay. Good boy. Up you get.” I could smell the wine on his breath, and a hint of brandy too—and something more, some hint of smoke. I wasn’t sure if it was a drug or a hedge wizard spell, but I thought Master Leonin had given him something that even Master Jensen wouldn’t be fool enough to take willingly.
Still, there was nothing I could do. I stood quiet while my master freed me from leash and cuffs; then, “Run all these things home, boy, then come find me at Lord Varty’s house. Bring my winnings from last night, I’ll want a stake. Bring all of it, mind, I don’t want to be sending you back for more if the play gets serious.”
Master Leonin really did want his revenge, then. All of it. And me too, I could see that in his eyes, the one bare glance I dared to snatch. A cold, fierce gleam, all purpose. My poor master didn’t stand a chance. Master Leonin would cheat if he needed to, and his friends would collude with him to strip the young nobody of every penny piece.
The young nobody my master. For the next few hours, at least…
I didn’t say a word, of course. I took the leash and cuffs from him, ducked my head in obedience in a way that I could brush my cheek against his arm, just for a hint of contact. I couldn’t do much, but maybe that little reminder would be enough to clear his head. Skin on skin, sometimes it only takes a moment.