by T. J. Hamel
Carter blinks slowly, his face far too calm for what he just endured. “I’m sorry, sir,” he whispers in a voice void of emotion.
He’s lax and empty, staring up at Nathan like Nathan is his God. Nathan gets the distinct impression that he could order Carter to do anything right now, and Carter would obey without hesitation. It terrifies him.
“Okay,” Nathan whispers, more to himself than to Carter. “Okay. It’s – it’s okay.
He takes the boy’s hands in his and guides him off the bed. It takes Carter a moment before he’s steady on his feet. Nathan waits a few more seconds after feeling him stabilize before actually letting go of him. He wishes he could carry the boy, but everyone would be floored if they saw a man like Nathan Roarke willingly ruining a bespoke Armani by carrying a useless slave covered in piss. If this was another life, Nathan wouldn’t give a fucking shit about scraps of clothing or people’s opinions. He would hold Carter close for hours. Days. Forever.
Then again, if this was another life, Carter wouldn’t be hurt in the first place.
Nathan grabs some wet wipes from the table beside the bondage bed, running one up the insides of Carter’s thighs. He almost smiles when the boy squirms and flushes red. It’s not a reaction of pain, it’s a reaction of embarrassment. That means Carter is still in there somewhere. He’s just hiding right now. It’s a fucking relief.
When Carter is clean enough for Nathan not to have to worry about him dripping piss on the floors upstairs, he takes the end of the boy’s leash and walks him out of the dungeon.
The first house slave Nathan passes gets the order to go clean up after them. They walk through the main area of the house soon after. Not many of his men are around. They probably assume Nathan isn’t in a good mood and want to stay out of his way. Benny is there, though. He falls into step beside Nathan the moment Nathan passes him. He looks at Carter for just a second before his eyes rebel against the sight. Then his nose wrinkles. Twisted anguish appears on Benny’s face, reflecting Nathan’s own hidden emotions.
Nathan wants to defend himself. He wants to explain what happened, and his reasoning behind it all. He wants to admit to the metal door in his mind. To the selfishness of it. To the way he had run and hid like a child instead of staying present and facing his own monstrous deeds. He wants to tell Benny that he’s destroyed right now. He wants to tell Benny that he’s terrified he may no longer be fixable.
Nathan wants to tell Benny that he can’t breathe. That he hasn’t been able to breathe. Not since he first got the order from Maison to buy Carter as his personal pleasure slave.
That’s all Nathan wants. He just wants to breathe.
He needs to fucking breathe.
But Nathan isn’t the victim here, he’s the villain.
So, he says nothing at all.
Chapter Eleven
Carter has lost his mind. He can’t get himself to care about anything but sir. There’s no reason for thought or processing, unless it’s processing an order from sir. The only words he needs are the ones sir pours into his mouth. The only thing he needs to care about is making sir happy.
It’s almost… nice.
Carter’s muscles ache, his ass and the back of his thighs burning, but it’s okay because it reminds him of sir. Every shift of his weight is like sir touching him again, sir hurting him again, even if sir isn’t. Even if sir hasn’t touched him since the scary dungeon. Even if sir wants nothing to do with Carter anymore.
After Carter’s punishment, sir had led Carter to his office, pushed him down to his knees in the corner instead of under his desk like usual, and told Carter to stay. Sir hasn’t looked at him since. He hasn’t talked to him. He hasn’t touched him. He just ignores Carter all day as Carter sits in the corner like a bad puppy, still covered in bodily fluids. He’s starving. The plug in his ass is heavy and uncomfortable. His knees are aching. His face is itchy from the dried cum, sweat, and tears. He’s exhausted. He’s sad.
So very fucking sad.
But none of that matters because none of that has to do with pleasing sir. Sir wants him to stay, so Carter stays. Even when sir leaves the room. Even when sir eats lunch at his desk, ignoring Carter’s grumbling stomach. Even when sir has people come in for meetings. Even when sir’s men run their hands all over him, touching his cock and balls, pressing firmly against his injuries. Even when sir and his friends make fun of him for pissing himself, commenting on him being a filthy animal. Through it all, Carter stays quiet and still, staring at the floor because that’s what sir wants.
It’s freeing. Carter doesn’t have to care about hunger or pain or thirst, he doesn’t have to care about emotion, if he’s focused solely on pleasing sir.
Nothing else matters but sir.
Sir hangs up the phone with a louder than usual bang, making Carter jump. He quickly settles back in place and hangs his head, hoping he won’t get yelled at. Sir just continues to ignore him. It hurts, but Carter swallows it down because the pain doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Nothing but sir.
When sir leaves the room once again, he’s gone for a long time. A long enough time for Carter to start feeling afraid.
Would sir forget about him?
Is sir mad enough to just leave him here?
Is he supposed to stay in place?
Would sir rather him pass out, or leave to go find water and food?
Is this where Carter is sleeping tonight? Should he lay down? Curl up like a puppy? Or should he try to sleep sitting up? Is he allowed to sleep at all? Does sir want him to stay awake?
The office door opens and closes again, sending a twist of anxiety through Carter’s chest. He peeks up through his lashes to find sir walking towards him. Wanting to please sir, Carter makes sure to keep every muscle still, his back straight, his chin down, his eyes on the floor.
Sir stops when the toes of his expensive leather shoes are in Carter’s line of sight. Carter focuses on keeping his breathing steady and slow, not wanting to upset sir by reacting without permission.
After releasing a slow breath that sounds more tired than angry, sir says, “Time for bed. Up.”
Sir takes the end of Carter’s leash and tugs. Anxious and eager to please, Carter scrambles up to his feet. He immediately drops back to his hands and knees when he remembers he isn’t supposed to walk. He had been told to get up, but maybe that’s not what sir meant.
“Your knees must be killing you,” sir says softly. “You may walk.”
Swallowing hard, Carter once again rises to his feet. It hurts to stand, his muscles trembling under the weight of his body, his knees locking, the skin of his ass and thighs on fire as the air kisses them. Sir begins to walk, going slow as Carter desperately tries to force his body to move properly. He only stumbles once, and he’s the luckiest slave in the world because sir doesn’t yell at him for it.
They walk past the dining area and kitchen, the scent of dinner still thick in the air despite no food being in sight. Carter’s stomach grumbles, but he ignores it, and so does sir. They walk past men who reach out and slap Carter’s bruised ass as he walks by. Carter bites down on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood in order to keep quiet.
By the time they get to sir’s bedroom, Carter is bone-tired and a little light-headed. He’s trying to come up with the best way to apologize to sir a final time to gain the privilege of going straight to sleep tonight when they step through the bedroom door. Carter’s breath catches as his gaze falls on a new addition to the room.
There is a metal cage at the foot of sir’s bed.
The cage is all black, from the bars and lock to the leather padded bottom and restraints in the corners. It’s too small. He’ll have to curl up tight to fit in it.
Carter sways on his feet, feeling dizzy and untethered. He should have expected this. Sir had mentioned a cage, hadn’t he? He had mentioned giving Carter away to someone else at night too. At least he chose the cage instead of that. Carter’s not sure he would have survived that.
“Use the bathroom if you need to,” sir says with a flick of his wrist. He doesn’t bother looking at Carter, just dropping his leash and walking towards his closet. Uninterested. Uncaring. “Fucking shower, too. You reek.”
A painful lump forms at the base of Carter’s throat, but he doesn’t dare try to clear it away. He just pads softly to the bathroom, his chin tucked, his eyes on the floor, the end of his leash dragging on the ground between his feet.
Carter relieves himself, though barely any pee comes out. Then he slides into the shower to wash up. The water is cold at first, but he doesn’t wait to let it warm, already lathering his body with soap. He sobs when he scrubs his ass and the back of his thighs, but he forces himself to endure it. There are a few places on his skin that look like they may have bled a bit, and the last thing he needs is an infection.
After peeking through the glass shower door that has yet to fog, and finding sir nowhere in sight, Carter tilts his head back and gulps down some water. It’s a little too warm and not all that refreshing, but his body still sings in relief.
A sharp knock on the open bathroom door causes him to startle, Carter almost slipping. “Hurry up!”
Heart pounding, Carter hurries to turn the faucet off and steps out of the shower. Sir isn’t there with a towel, and one hasn’t been set on the counter either. Carter stands on the mat dripping for a few seconds before deciding to grab a hand towel from the wall between sinks and use it to dry himself the best he can, only gently patting his ass and thighs to avoid as much pain as possible. His body protests, but he also squats down to wipe up the stray drops of water on the floor not protected by the mat.
It isn’t until he’s walking back into the bedroom and sees the dog cage again that Carter remembers. His stomach plummets, his throat tight.
Sir is halfway through undressing, but when Carter steps forward to help, sir lifts his chin and gives him a sharp enough look that sends Carter dropping to his knees. His body curls in on itself until he’s in the closest thing possible to a fetal position while still kneeling for sir. Sir makes an indignant sound before turning his back to Carter and continuing to undress.
Hot tears of rejection sting Carter’s eyes. He dips his chin even lower, not wanting sir to see him crying. He understands that sir doesn’t want him, and he respects that. Whatever makes sir happy. Sir’s happiness is all that matters.
But Carter is just so… lonely. So empty. So useless. He wants to do something for sir. He wants to please sir. He wants sir to hold him in his arms and praise him. He wants sir to forgive him now. He wants sir to make him feel good again. He wants to make sir feel good again.
Carter wants to prove to sir that he can be a good boy. That this was just a mistake. That it won’t ever happen again.
He’ll happily choke on a cock, or take more spankings, or offer his ass up to be fucked. Whatever sir wants. Whatever will make sir happy. Carter just wants to be a part of it. He needs to be a part of it.
Stripped down to nothing but his tight black boxer briefs, sir takes a seat on the cushioned top of the cage and snaps his fingers between his legs. Carter has seen people do the same with dogs, getting them to come forward and sit, so he makes the assumption that’s what sir wants him to do. He crawls until he’s between sir’s knees before settling with his ass resting on his heels, his eyes trained on his bruising knees as he tries to control his fear of what’s to come.
Honestly, Carter isn’t sure what he’s more afraid of; the idea that sir might hurt him again, or the idea that sir won’t even touch him before locking him away.
The second fear is abated when sir reaches out, running a gentle hand through Carter’s hair. It’s one movement, his fingers not even touching Carter’s actual skin, but it’s enough for Carter to shudder through a dry sob of relief.
“Shhh.” Sir moves his hand down to Carter’s chin, encouraging him to lift it so they can look into each other’s eyes. Sir’s brown eyes flick from left to right across Carter’s expression, his eyebrows pulling in. Carter is filled with the sudden feeling that sir is looking for something from him. Expecting something. A panic beats inside his chest as he tries to figure out what it is sir wants. He’d give him anything, gladly, all sir has to do is ask.
Sir drops his hands, leaving Carter cold and lonely all over again. He’s in the middle of overanalyzing the situation when something warm brushes his left cheek. Caught off guard, he startles and pulls away from the thing. Sir doesn’t yell at him. He just hushes Carter, fingers moving back to Carter’s hair while he drags his thumb over Carter’s cheek again. He’s wiping Carter’s tears away.
Carter hadn’t even realized he’d begun to cry.
Sir takes his time, touching Carter all over even though his tears surely only managed to get on his cheeks and possibly his jaw. He touches Carter’s forehead. The shell of his ear. The arch of his brow. He touches Carter’s shoulders. His throat. His sternum. He touches Carter like he can’t stop himself, as if he had missed touching Carter as much as Carter had missed being touched by him.
With sir so focused on his fingers gliding over Carter’s body, Carter is free to openly watch the man. He studies him, memorizing the way his forehead wrinkles slightly, the way his lips hover close together without touching, the way his jaw darkens with a 5 o’clock shadow. There’s a very small scar at the corner of his left eyebrow that Carter had never noticed before, and a similarly new discovery of a freckle on the shell of his right ear.
After a very long time, or perhaps no time at all, sir drags his thumb along Carter’s cheekbone a final time and whispers, “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
Carter blinks, his eyes meeting sir’s. The compliment is genuine. He can see it in the way sir is looking at him. His stomach flips. “Thank you, sir. So are you.”
“Mmm.” Sir’s lips twitch. Then, “Turn around and press your forehead to the floor, ass in the air.”
Flushing, Carter hurries to obey, hoping sir is about to remove the plug from his ass. Or, at the very least, add some lube so it’s more comfortable inside him.
A whimper accidentally passes through Carter’s lips the first time sir touches his plug. He cowers against the floor, biting down on his lip to keep any other noises from escaping. Sir doesn’t chastise him. Carter’s not sure if it’s because sir doesn’t feel like it right now, or if it’s because his night is already going to be bad enough without sir feeling the need to add to it.
“You’re okay,” sir whispers as he gently adjusts the plug in him. Bile burns Carter’s stomach because it’s not okay. None of this is okay. His hole hurts, and his heart is breaking, and he just wants sir to hold him.
But sir says it’s okay, and sir is law, so it has to be okay.
“Just breathe, sweetheart.”
Breathe. Carter can do that, at least. He breathes nice and slow, keeping himself calm as sir removes his plug. He manages to swallow a pained gasp when his rim catches on the toy. He’s proud of himself for staying so quiet, even if it meant digging his nails into his palms until they drew blood, squeezing his eyes shut until they ached, and biting down on his lip enough to make it bleed once more.
Sir mumbles something under his breath that Carter can’t quite hear before standing up and stepping over Carter to walk away. Carter turns his head just enough to peek up at sir as the man disappears into the bathroom. He returns just seconds later, his hands empty, his lips twitching when his gaze locks with Carter’s.
Before Carter can look away and apologize, sir curls his finger. “Back in your kneeling position.”
Once Carter has situated himself properly, sir tilts his head and asks, “What rule did you break today, sweetheart?”
Self-hate burns through Carter’s veins.
“Rule 4, sir. I got out of bed without permission.” Carter swallows hard, trying not to cry. “And I’m really, really sorry, sir. I’m so sorry.”
“Mmm.” Sir passes in front of him, entering his walk-in closet. Cart
er can’t tear his eyes away from the tensing and twitching of the man’s ass and thighs. It’s unfair how attractive he is. Men like him should have to look like the monsters they are. It’s only right.
When sir returns from the closet, he’s holding something in his hands. He puts it behind his back before Carter can see what it is. “Are you ready to tell me why you broke the rule yet?”
Carter sinks in on himself, feeling both empty and overfull.
“Because I’m bad, sir,” he admits, his voice cracking in grief. He clears his throat and forces himself to repeat the truth. “I’m really, really bad, sir.”
The sound sir makes is pained and broken, but Carter reminds himself it surely can’t be regarding him. Sir probably saw a text, or maybe he’s remembering how truly bad Carter is and debating what to do with him.
Or maybe Carter has gone insane and sir didn’t make an abnormal sound at all.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” sir encourages, his fingers nudging below Carter’s chin. Carter tilts his head back to meet sir’s gaze. He looks different than he had a moment ago. Haunted, somehow.
Unless Carter is going insane, which he has already decided could very well be a thing, sir’s voice even has a slight tremble to it when he speaks again. “You’re not bad, sweetheart. Not at all. You acted bad. You made a mistake. When your punishment is over, you’ll be forgiven. You’ll be my good boy again. That’s how this works. Understood?”
Carter nods, sniffling as he fights back tears of relief. Sir’s fingertips dance across his cheekbone, making him shiver before sir lowers himself to one knee. It feels wrong to be at the same level as sir, but Carter would never dare say so. It’s not like his opinion matters anyway.
Sir presses his forehead against Carter’s, his eyes falling closed. “Why’d you do it, sweetheart? Why’d you leave me?”
Carter’s chest constricts at sir’s words. He’s not asking why Carter left the bed, not really. He’s asking why Carter left him. It should be such a small difference, but it’s not. It’s everything.