Page 2 of Body Slave

“That was good, boy. They trained you well.” There was a sigh and a clink as another sip of scotch was taken. “I was primed, too. It’s been a while for me. I won’t be so quick off the mark next time.”

Oliver didn’t know what to say in response to that promise or threat, however it was intended. But the fingers were soothing and he laid his head against the man’s thigh. He’d been taught to do this as a gesture of affection to the person who owned him, and it gave him time to catch his breath.

He closed his eyes. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad being the body slave of this man.

Maybe.

****

“Here, these should fit you.”

Oliver took the faded jeans from the other slave’s hands. “Thanks, Freddy.” Stepping into them, he pulled them up and tried to fasten them. They were just a little bit too snug, so with a shrug, he left them unfastened. “Are these yours?” he asked, realizing as he did that the jeans would be too long on the shorter guy.

“Nah,” Freddy replied, pointing to the faded cargo pants he wore. “Those threads are too fine for me. They belonged to the young master.”

“There’s a young master?” Oliver followed the slave out of the storage room and back up to the kitchen area.

“Yeah, Master Ben. He’s in Europe right now, some kind of tour to celebrate graduating from college. Master and Mistress had one son and one daughter. They’re both traveling.”

“Mistress?” He hadn’t seen that his master had a wife. Maybe they expected Oliver to service them both. The thought made him queasy until he remembered he didn’t have the luxury of such feelings.

“She died about nine months ago,” Freddy explained before Oliver had a chance to ask.

“Boy, are you gossiping about our master?” The stern question came from Mary, the middle-aged slave who cooked and kept house.

The master had handed Oliver off to her after dinner because the master had an overseas call to take that evening. The meal had only been for the master, of course. He had made Oliver kneel by his chair while he stuffed himself with delicious-smelling food. Oliver knew some owners hand-fed their body slaves during meals, but that hadn’t happened. His master simply tucked into the food, ignoring him completely. It had been hard to stay still, especially given the hunger gnawing at his stomach. But training had, as usual, saved his ass, and at least the master was letting him get food now.

The clothing had been an afterthought, a matter of hygiene really, when Mary had asked if Oliver could wear something while sitting at the kitchen table with the others. With a vague order to find him pants, the master had left them.

The command had been passed along to Freddy, who answered Mary’s question with a quick shake of his head. “No, ma’am, just explaining where the jeans came from.”

“All right, then. Let’s eat, everyone,” she replied, placing a platter of food on the worn kitchen table.

The slaves of the house gathered around to eat a meal much more basic than what the master had eaten. Meatloaf, not steak, but hell if Oliver cared. It smelled fantastic. As he sat where Mary pointed, his tight jeans pinched, so he lowered the zipper a bit, grateful for the covering despite the discomfort. Being naked in front of his master had been one thing. It was another for his fellow and sister slaves to see him that way.

There were only five of them, including Oliver. Besides Mary and Freddy, the gardener and general handyman and only a few years older than Oliver, there was Joe, the middle-aged chauffeur and mechanic. And Polly, the maid, one of those washed-out women who looked to be anywhere from twenty to forty.

No one said anything for long minutes as they tackled their food. It tasted wonderful in a homey way that reminded Oliver of his mother’s cooking. As soon as the thought entered his head, he shoved it aside. She and his sister were gone from his life and he would likely never see them again. Better to shut the memories away before sadness overwhelmed him.

Instead, he wolfed down his meal and when he’d emptied his mouth enough to talk politely, he said, “Thanks. It’s been a while since I had something this good to eat.”

Mary beamed at the compliment.

Polly wrinkled her nose at him. “The food at training centers is terrible, isn’t it?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“Hush, now, girl,” Mary chided. “You know better than to complain.”

Polly’s eyes widened. “I didn’t mean it as a complaint. I was just saying. Besides, Master can’t hear.” She leaned closer to Oliver and added in almost a whisper, “He’s not like Mistress, may she rest in peace. That woman had ears like a bat.”

Mary cuffed the other woman’s shoulder. “I said hush. The mistress was a good woman and the master is a good man, stern but fair. He doesn’t punish you unless you deserve it.”

Oliver was glad to hear it. Some slave owners were sadistic and there was little in the law to keep them in check. Sure, they couldn’t kill a slave without showing just cause and getting a court order in advance, but they could hurt and even maim without any real repercussions.

“He doesn’t pull his strokes though when he does punish,” Freddy observed around a mouthful of food. “That man can deliver a hard beating.” He shot a knowing look at Oliver.

Okay, not such good news, because no matter how hard slaves tried, they were bound to screw up sometimes.

“You only know that because you deserve the beating more often than the rest of us,” Joe teased the younger slave. “Some of us haven’t been to the whipping post for years.”

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