Page 5 of Body Slave

Oliver swallowed hard against the collar. “I’m sorry, Master. I won’t forget again.” He made his tone as contrite as he could, meaning it. He didn’t want to be punished, and talk about raw, his ass stung like a son of a bitch.

His master smacked him lightly again. “Go finish your workout. Don’t want you getting fat.”

“Yes, Master.” He turned and returned to it.

Later, after showering and prepping his sore hole, he knelt at his master’s side while the man had a couple of drinks before dinner and then while he ate. The dining room was quiet except for the noises his master made while eating a wonderful-smelling dinner.

Oliver was hungry after his workout and sparse earlier meals. At first, he hoped his master would feed him some morsels from his plate this time, but it soon became clear his master had no interest in doing that. Apparently, he wasn’t the kind to shower a slave with any type of attention or affection. The best Oliver could do was stay still and try to stop his stomach from growling.

He knew how to achieve a state of calm, to hold his submissive position for hours if need be, while still keeping an ear open for an order. Still, he was bored and his knees ached even on the lush pile of the undoubtedly expensive Oriental rug. Relief washed over him when his master finally finished and stood. Oliver joined him and he gave him leave to go get something to eat.

“Thank you, Master,” he said in all sincerity before leaving the room.

Dinner followed the same routine as the other meals, mostly filling, but not as nice as what the master had consumed. Oliver was already starting to feel comfortable with his fellow slaves. It was new to him to be around so many adults. His mother and younger sister had been his constant companions up until his sale. There had been little opportunity to socialize given how unsocial his bachelor master had been. Mary and the others were easygoing and kind, so that helped.

After dinner, he joined his master in his study, a masculine and casual room, and blew him while the man sipped scotch and watched the Red Sox win the first game in the latest series. At least the game had been entertaining and Oliver had been allowed to sit between his master’s legs when he wasn’t sucking cock or refilling the drink. The master celebrated the victory with a vigorous fuck before once again dropping into a heavy sleep. Oliver’s wake-up call the next morning was another perfunctory penetration. Lying in bed, flinching from the pain and desperate to pee, he had to admire the guy’s virility.

For the next week, Oliver’s days formed a pattern that while boring, became something of a comfort. He worked out—a lot—and caught up on shows he hadn’t seen much of as a child. Although Mary sternly refused to let him help her, she did allow him sometimes to hang out in the kitchen while she cooked and cleaned. It was nice chatting with her. She reminded him a little of his mother, albeit older. He wouldn’t allow himself to dwell on that thought too long, though. The chance of seeing his mother again wasn’t very good and knowing it made him unbearably sad. He had cried a lot the first month at the training facility, most of the kids did, but crying didn’t get you anything more than a firm rebuke in the form of a slap. Besides, he was a man now, not a kid, even if his master did call him boy.

The evenings were all about the master, and Oliver worked hard at pleasing him. The sex was the easy part, not a lot of fun for him, but no great hardship either. The widower was obviously making up for lost time, and if he treated Oliver like a living doll instead of a human being, well, what did that matter? He wasn’t mean or even particularly demanding. Oliver could have done worse. That’s what he told himself every night anyway, lying still and waiting for sleep to come.

On his eighth night in his new home, the master dismissed Oliver as usual from the dining room to eat his own dinner. In the kitchen, he found an unusually subdued group sitting around the table. Mary looked up at him. Her eyes held a weariness he’d never seen before.

“I left your plate warming in the oven.”

“Thanks.” He slipped on the sweat pants Mary allowed him to keep on a hook in the mud room before he took out the plate of grilled chicken and steamed vegetables. He was glad to see a larger amount of food than usual, if not a more interesting one. He shook his head mentally for even thinking such a thing. He was being fed a lot better fare than he had received at the facility. Even at his childhood home, he and his mother and sister had eaten pretty plain food. This was measurably better. Taking his seat, he noticed again the unusual quiet around the table. The other slaves only picked at their food. Joe didn’t even have a plate in front of him. He just grimly sipped on a glass of water.

“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked the older man. Joe didn’t answer him, but Polly whimpered in response.

“Hush, girl, and eat your dinner,” Mary chided. “You’re not helping any.”

Oliver swallowed his mouthful of food hard. “What’s going on?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

The ominous silence continued for a few more seconds. Only his great hunger allowed Oliver to take another mouthful of chicken, even while his stomach started to flip-flop with nerves.

Finally Joe answered him. “It’s nothing much. I’ve got punishment coming tonight.” He took another sip of water before continuing. “I was running errands for the master and found a dent in the car when I came out of the store.”

Joe fiddled nervously with his glass. Not surprising. Who liked punishment, and from what Joe had said earlier, he wasn’t the kind of slave to warrant it very often. It seemed to Oliver he didn’t deserve it now.

“I don’t understand. Didn’t someone else hit the car? It’s not like you backed into something.”

Joe shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Taking care of the car is my responsibility. The master loves that car, paid a lot for it, too. A lesson has to be learned.” He paused. “I’m a big boy. I can take my licks.”

Oliver had no doubt he could. What choice did Joe have? Still, it wasn’t fair for Joe to be punished when he hadn’t done anything to cause the damage. The fact that the master wanted to take his anger over the dent out on Joe didn’t bode well for the future. Obviously the master wasn’t the forgiving type. Oliver stuffed more food in his mouth and chewed with frustration.

“A strapping always makes me puke,” Joe added. “So, I’m not eating. Less to toss that way.”

Oliver’s stomach lurched at the very idea. He usually took a beating better than that himself, but he had seen plenty of boys and girls at the training center vomit and pass out during punishment. “I’m sorry,” was all he could think to say.

“Nothing for you to be sorry about. It’s the way life is. Now that the master has finished his dinner, you’d all better hurry up. He won’t wait much longer.”

The import of Joe’s words sunk in fast. They were going to have to watch. It was standard at the training center, but his old master had always done the punishing in private, a small blessing that his mother hadn’t had to see her children being beaten, and vice-versa. Things here were different, and the news made eating even harder.

They finished the meal in relative silence, and when the master’s voice called them over the intercom, they filed down to the basement without delay. Oliver brought up the rear, following the others to a room he hadn’t been in before. It was near the furnace, not very big, but big enough for its intended purpose. A whipping post was bolted into the cement floor in the middle of the room. Various instruments of punishment hung on the wall: paddles, straps and even a mean-looking whip. The master already held a thick strap in his hand.

Oliver found it hard to believe that outside of a professional slave-training center, anyone would have such an elaborate setup. Perhaps this was normal for a wealthier home. Oliver’s original master had relied mostly on his own hand, and occasionally the very belt he wore. It made Oliver’s dinner roil in his stomach just looking at all the methods the master had amassed to punish his slaves.

Without needing a command, Joe stripped off his clothes and went to the pole. He clasped it with his hands high over his head, his legs spread a foot apart. Although the pole had cuffs attached at the top and the bottom, the master didn’t bother to use them on Joe. Obviously, the older man could be relied upon not to struggle and evade the blows. The rest of them stood in a semicircle close to the back wall. Polly sniffled a bit but went quiet with one quelling glare from the master. Mary put an arm around her and held her close. Freddy had shoved his hands in his pockets, uncharacteristically subdued.

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