Page 6 of Body Slave

Oliver wanted to close his eyes as the master drew back his arm. Knowing that doing so would likely cause his own whipping, he kept them open. He couldn’t help flinching, though, when the leather hit the flesh. The man laid down a hard stroke by any measure, yet Joe did little more than grunt. He remained equally stoic throughout the rest of his punishment. Over and over again, the master brought the strap down across Joe’s back, buttocks, and thighs. Without conscious thought, Oliver began to count the vicious strikes. When he reached twenty, Joe’s ordeal ended. Breathing harshly, the slave turned, knelt with obvious effort, and thanked the master for the correction.

The sight of such a nice man having to weather such pain, and grovel, having done nothing wrong, sickened Oliver. There was nothing he could do, however, and he had his own skin to worry about. After replacing the strap on its hook on the wall, the master barked to everyone to get back to work. Snapping his fingers in Oliver’s direction, he gestured for him to follow.

Oliver jumped to obey. The bulge in the master’s pants spoke loudly. Clearly the punishment had excited the man. Great, his master was a sadist. He’d known trainers like that. Most of them performed their duty with grim necessity. Others reveled in it. It came as no surprise to him that as soon as they entered the master’s study, he grabbed him by the arm and shoved him over the back of the couch.

The sound of a zipper was followed by strong fingers yanking Oliver’s sweats down and digging into his hips. The blunt, thick head of his master’s cock breached Oliver’s hole and slammed deep within his guts with a single thrust. He bit back the grunt of pain, wanting to be as strong as Joe had been, especially as this was nothing compared to what had been done to the older man. With his eyes open and his face schooled to betray no emotion just the way he’d been taught, Oliver took the invasion of his body. His outer calm belied the turmoil inside.

His master was not a nice man. Not just indifferent as Oliver had believed, but mean. The vigorous fucking and obscene groans of pleasure tripping past the man’s lips demonstrated how aroused he’d become. The beating had done that as nothing else had in the last week. The master got off on the power he held and the pain he inflicted on his slaves. Oliver understood this because he’d been taught all about it at the training center. He had been warned of it. It was how some people were wired, and a good slave had to endure it as best they could, even pretend to enjoy it if that was their owner’s wish.

His master slammed their bodies together, muttering incoherent oaths and clawing at Oliver’s flesh. It wouldn’t take long before the man realized he didn’t have to wait for a slave to screw up before he could achieve this level of arousal. Soon he’d use Oliver as a daily whipping boy and life would truly become hell. And there was nothing he could do about it, nothing at all.

With gritted teeth, he took the abuse and buried his anger deep within him.

Chapter Three

The frenzy of fucking lasted less than a minute before with one last, deep shove, the master bellowed out his release. They stayed joined for long seconds more, the master grinding his pelvis against Oliver’s ass while he milked the last of his climax. Finally, he pulled out and slapping one ass cheek in an almost playful fashion, walked away.

“Fix me a drink, boy, and put the game on,” he called before he went to the attached bathroom.

Oliver stood slowly and stepped out of his sweats. He didn’t need to be told to take them off now that he was back in his master’s view. He envied the man’s ability to wash up. Unable to stand the sweat and sticky residue his master had left, he used his sweats to clean up a bit. That, of course, left him with the dilemma of what to do with the messy clothing. He finally decided to hide them behind the wet bar and prayed he would be able to grab them before either his master or Mary saw them. By the time his master returned, Oliver had managed to get the drink and put the television on the right station. The master wore nothing more than a pair of worn jeans, as was his tendency when secreted away in his den.

With a satisfied sigh, he took the drink and flopped down onto the couch, sipping with obvious pleasure. Oliver hovered nearby patiently, waiting for his next orders. He was so bothered by the events of the evening, he couldn’t focus on the baseball. A game played by wealthy freemen hardly seemed right when a good man like Joe hurt from an undeserved beating.

His master rolled his shoulders with a groan. “Damn, I’m stiff.”

Really? Hard to imagine why unless you counted the effort of wielding that strap. The bitter retort sprang up in Oliver’s head, but of course, he said nothing.

“Get over, here, boy, and give me a massage.” The master issued the order without tearing his gaze away from the television.

Oliver obeyed, forcing himself to take a light hold of his master’s shoulders, even though he wanted to grab and squeeze and make the man feel even a little of the pain he had caused. That way led to disaster, though. Resentment and anger toward free people, especially one’s owner, was a sure way to end up hurt or worse. No, best to hide those thoughts and feelings away. Do as you were told, hope tomorrow will be better than today.

It made him want to cry, however, that fate hadn’t given him the home he’d longed for. His master was never going to see him as anything more than a hole—two of them. With opposable thumbs. The best he could hope for was to be a good enough slave to avoid a trip to that awful room downstairs. Of course, if his master was one of those people that enjoyed inflicting pain, it was only a matter of time before he started using Oliver as a punching bag to arouse himself. Why wait for a slave to screw up when you can convert punishment into foreplay?

And once again, Oliver had crawled so far up inside his own head, he didn’t need the master to torture him. He’d done it to himself.

He sought solace in the mindless rhythm of his task and forced himself to concentrate on the almost soporific drone of the play by play coming from the television. With well-matched teams, baseball could be almost as boring as golf. He worked the stiff muscles of his master’s shoulders as he’d been trained and hoped that, plus the scotch, would settle him down so that more fucking would not be on the night’s agenda. It would help, too, if the Sox would win, but their season had started out crappy, so he didn’t hold out much hope there. And they were playing the fucking Yankees tonight.

A glass rattled in front of his face. “Another,” his master barked and let go of the glass just as Oliver managed to grasp it. “Son of a bitch!” The master leaned forward and pounded his fist on the couch when the Sox outfield fumbled around enough with the ball to allow the Yankees to bring home two runners.

A leery Oliver returned with a fresh drink and handed it over. The master downed half of it in one gulp before sitting back. Assuming the massage should continue, Oliver returned to his position and laid his hands on the bare shoulders. A long inning went by. His fingers started to cramp and his back ached from holding his position so long, but he ignored the discomfort. He must have zoned out because he jerked in surprise when the master’s phone rang. The man yanked the phone out of his pants and looked at the caller ID.

“Vince, are you watching this bullshit game?” The master listened in silence. “If they don’t pull themselves out of this slump, there’s no fucking way they’ll make the play-offs.” He took a swig of his drink and laughed. “Yeah, right. You’re such a damned Pollyanna. So, what’s up?”

A soft drone came from the phone, but Oliver couldn’t make out the words. Didn’t really care what was being said anyway. It didn’t make any difference to him. Except then it did.

“Yeah, you’re damn right I went through with it. I’ve got a pretty, little naked boy giving me a massage as we speak.” More listening. “Eighteen, fresh out of training and tight as a drum.”

The master laughed lewdly and Oliver’s stomach clenched at the sound.

“Not in a million years, pal. His hole’s all mine. But I’ll tell you what, you can have a go at his mouth on Saturday.”

Oliver’s stomach dropped to the floor. His master planned to pass him around like a party favor, apparently. Great.

“Hell, yes, poker’s still on. Ben’s coming home on Friday, but that won’t change our plans any. Naw, the kid’s not into cards, unfortunately. Too bad, too, ’cause I can read him like a book.” Another laugh. “Yeah, I’m not above taking money from my own kid if he’d only play along.”

Oliver forgot about the party plans at the news that his master’s son was coming home. Freddy had said the young master was taking a trip in Europe, having graduated from college last spring. Oliver wondered what having two masters in the house would be like and whether he’d have to service both of them. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. He’d seen pictures hanging up in the house of the younger man and he was as handsome as his father. The other slaves seemed to like him, too.

“Okay, I’ll see you Saturday.”

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