Page 18 of Stolen Slave

Was I his new puppy?

That wouldn’t be the worst fate ever, as long as he was the type of owner who lavished affection on his pet and never scolded.

Following his suggestion, I continued to eat. And when the spoon hit the bottom of the bowl, I shamelessly used my fingers and tongue to clean out the rest.

CHAPTER NINE

VYA

He plucked the bowl from my hands.

“That was so good,” I said as if licking the bowl hadn’t been confirmation enough for him.

When he sat me on the chair by myself, I wondered what he would do next until I heard the same sequence of beeps as before. Even though I knew he hadn’t eaten, my first thoughts were of seconds for myself.

“Please let that mean you’re making more for me,” I said under my breath.

He answered my prayers when he sat me on his lap again and handed me a spoon. I used my free hand to find the bowl and stuck my finger in the food just to make sure it wasn’t the wiggling stuff again.

Eating blind was hard work without his guiding hand. I dribbled on my lap and chest. Although I tried to clean up where I dropped stuff, mostly to make sure I ate every drop, it wasn’t easy to find once it fell.

I felt a little sticky when I finished and knew it was true when my keeper didn’t pick me up again. Instead, he set his hands on my shoulders and gently steered me forward.

My first few steps were hesitant. He said something in a low and unrushed tone and smoothed one hand over my arm. It definitely felt like a pet. And reassurance.

Keeping my hands out in front of me, I carefully walked in the direction he wanted. I heard a metallic rasp in front of me. Three steps later, he stopped me and turned me ninety degrees to the left. Twelve steps, then a right turn. Stop. Another metallic rasp. Then three more steps.

He stopped me with a pat on my shoulder, which I took as a “Good job, now stay” command.

The sound of rustling behind me was followed by that metallic rasp I now associated with a door opening or closing.

A ball of something hit me in the back again and again, but not in the same spot. Thankfully, whatever he was throwing at me didn’t hurt, unlike the stinging shots to my arms and legs. So I stood still and waited as he slowly worked his way from the top of my back and down each leg.

When it stopped, he placed his big hands on my back and started rubbing brisk circles over my skin. I frowned. It felt like he was scrubbing me. Hadn’t that horrible vomit fest while being doused with jets of liquid been a shower? And why my back? I’d spilled oatmeal on my front.

While I puzzled out what was happening, his hands continued down my spine and molded over my butt. When one slippery hand slid between my cheeks, I jerked forward. A hand clamped down on my shoulder—again, not painfully—and kept me in place as he continued washing me from top to bottom.

Finished with the back, he turned me around. I got hit in the chin with the cleanser, then breasts, and right between the legs before it continued downward.

My skin heated with embarrassment, and I started rubbing the cleanser onto my chest, hoping to avoid his help. When he didn’t tug my hands away, I breathed a sigh of relief and kept going.

The cleanser didn’t have a strong smell and didn’t foam up. It felt more like a slippery lotion. But it removed the lingering stickiness from my chest and stomach.

When I got to my downstairs, where he’d left a healthy amount, I paused, unsure what level of washing would be good enough.

He took my matters into his own hands. The feel of his fingers brushing over my folds shocked me enough that I grabbed his wrist.

He stilled.

I stilled.

My heart started racing. I was stupid. So stupid. Now what would he do?

For a few tormented seconds, we stayed locked like that. Me holding his wrist. Him fingertips-deep in my lady bits. The pad of one digit was close to my entrance.

It won’t be that bad, I told myself. Just relax as much as you can so it doesn’t hurt worse.

Swallowing hard and shaking even harder, I released him.

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