Page 22 of Stolen Slave

Something slid out of one wall when I approached. It was padded, like a chair. When I sat on it, I heard another whir of noise and discovered a small table protruding from the wall in front of me.

Uninterested in either, I stood and continued along the wall until I heard a familiar rasp of noise. The door.

“Hello?” I called again, not venturing past the threshold. The last thing I wanted to do was wander, blind to the dangers around me. My keeper had left me here, so this is where I planned to stay.

But I really needed to pee.

“Hello!” My voice echoed around me, and I heard a faint response.

Unwilling to yell again and risk annoying him, I returned to the bed and sat. Then I wiggled. Then I stood and moved around. If he didn’t get here soon?—

The door rasped, and I tried not to fidget.

“I really need to go to the bathroom.” I gave a little pee-pee bounce, hoping he’d understand.

A hand covered my breast, gently caressing it. I jerked away before I could stop myself.

He said something, and his hand shifted from my chest to my arm. He petted it.

I gestured in the direction of the door and tried to convey my need to leave. When he kept petting my arm, I cupped my crotch and bounced on my toes again. If he didn’t catch on soon, I was going to act like a puppy and wet the floor.

He moved his hand to my back and picked me up. However, my focus shifted from the need to pee to the hand that circled around to splay over my stomach. The other one stroked my hip as he supported my legs. I frowned, trying to remember if that was how he’d carried me previously.

Before I could dwell on it, he started moving. I counted steps, determined to figure out how to get around on my own. He paused after six, and I heard the rasp of a door opening. He took a few more steps. The door closed behind us. And he set me down again with a pat on my shoulder.

I listened to a rustle of movement behind me but he gave me no guidance.

Desperate, I reached my arms out. I needed a toilet. I needed?—

A familiar wetness hit my back in rapid succession and destroyed the frail hold I had.

My bladder let loose, and I let out a groan of combined shame and relief.

The assault-by-cleanser paused, and I cringed and tried to stop. But there was no stopping once started. I desperately hoped I wasn’t breaking some kind of rule that would result in a beating or a shock.

As soon as I finished, his hand touched my back. I jolted at the contact, waiting for some kind of harsh reprimand, but breathed a sigh of relief when he started rubbing my skin in familiar scrubbing-like circles.

He worked down, over my ass and legs. I internally cheered that peeing all over his floor had won me a free pass from an ass-crack scrubbing and started to turn when he reached my ankles.

His hand clamped down on my shoulder, stopping me, and another splat hit me on the ass. A moment later, his fingers scooped it up and slid between my cheeks. My heart jolted and started beating faster, but for whatever reason, what he was doing didn’t send me into an all-out panic.

The feeling of his fingers brushing me there felt fifty shades of wrong, but I didn’t jerk away like the previous time. I held still and let him wash me the way he wanted because he hadn’t punished me for wetting the floor, and because, when he’d washed me last, he hadn’t done anything more than wash. Was it invasive? Yes. But damaging? No. And I could deal with that.

He kept his touch politely brief, doing only what was necessary to coat my skin then withdrew.

This time, he let me turn.

He said something to me, ran his fingers along my collarbone, then hit me with the slippery cleanser from neck to toes again. I swiped a healthy amount from my hip to quickly wash between my legs, hoping to avoid a repeat of the day before. However, doing that left my chest wide open.

His hand settled over my right breast, coating it thoroughly with the same slow, circular motions he’d used everywhere else. My heart thundered under his touch, but he didn’t seem to notice. When he finished with the right one, he moved to the left, being just as meticulous. To be fair, he paid the same amount of attention to all my other parts, too. But those parts didn’t pebble after the third rub.

Swallowing hard, I fisted my hands at my sides to hide the trembling and forced myself to hold still.

It’ll be fine. That thought echoed in my mind again and again as he slowly worked his way down.

When his hands finished with my hips, he paused, and a fresh splat hit me between the legs. My face heated.

“You really don’t need to do that. I can do it myself.”

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