Hear Me (2 page)

The thought of leaving her cell terrified her, but it was already done. She couldn’t remember the transport, but that was probably just as well. She assumed it wouldn’t be pleasant, but then, she couldn’t remember her arrival at the compound either. All she knew was training.

At some point, her previous life had slipped away from her, like an old skin that no longer fit. She knew better than to try to remember. If whatever she had known or believed before threatened her survival in this life, she was better off without it.

The women who clung to their old identities suffered more. They fought until their last breath, finally mastered by their own stubbornness. What was the cost of sucking a cock or licking a boot when compared to life? No, she wanted to survive.

The men had whips and restraints. The only weapon she had was utter obedience.

Another thought occurred to her. Maybe they had given her something to knock her out or tamper with her memory. Gratitude welled inside her. They always took care of her. Sometimes it hurt, but she surely deserved it. Every lash to her skin raised a mirroring lash of self-recrimination and guilt.

The doorframe gaped, empty. Her Master had been gone a long time now.

The thought of his return terrified her, but the alternative was even worse. Maybe she was too much trouble for him, and he wouldn’t want her anymore. What if he wasn’t getting some painful implement to punish her? What if he was contacting her old Masters at the compound, demanding they take her back?

Her stomach clenched painfully. She didn’t know him, whether he would be cruel or merciful, but if she were returned to her old Masters, they would kill her.

She had barely made it through some of the harsher beatings. It was one of the reasons she was always obedient from early on. There wasn’t a lot of rope in her to begin with, she couldn’t afford for the Masters to burn through it.

She wanted to live. That had become her mantra, something she repeated to remind herself. Or maybe to convince herself that it was still true. On the bad days she felt like a ghost, going through the motions long after her death because she refused to accept it.

Thuds on the floorboards signaled the return of her Master.

He didn’t have a cane or whip with him, and that lent credence to the worry that he was getting rid of her, but she was too distracted by the food. He carried a glass of water and a plate with fragrant bread. Her stomach grumbled. She cringed in fear of reprisal and a small amount of embarrassment.

He set the plate down in front of her and pushed the glass into her hands. “Drink.”

It seemed unbearably luxurious, compared to the greasy scraps she was accustomed to. This room too, with its plain wood furniture and open window. Her new cage, gilded with cleanliness. She ached to keep it.

The cool water soothed her, revived her. He replaced the empty glass with a chunk of warm, crusty bread. She gobbled it up like the ravening animal she was. He tore off another piece from the plate and handed it to her, continuing to feed her from his hand until the plate was empty.

 Warmth settled in her core and spread to her limbs, sated by both the sustenance and his kindness. No dog bowl held fetid water. No mealy scraps picked off the floor. Charity like this was unheard of, but she thought she understood the message. If she pleased him, this could be hers.

Whatever he wanted, she would do. She would have done it anyway, because he was her Master. She paid her keep with obedience. She might earn reprieve from the pain with obeisance. But this generosity came freely, and gratitude suffused her. Maybe he liked her.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Her heart sank. They must not have told him about her. So much for pleasing him.

Bracing herself, she slowly shook her head.

He grasped her chin and raised her head. Prompted by his touch, she raised her gaze to meet his. His eyes flickered, as if a dam barely leashed something within.

She flinched.

His fingers tightened, not enough to bruise. “Tell me.”

Her mouth worked, but nothing came out. Nothing ever came out.

She couldn’t remember her name, but that wasn’t the problem. She could have told him that it was “slave,” or if she could manage without sounding precocious, asked him what he wanted it to be. She could have explained that she couldn’t remember anything before her captivity.

The real problem was she couldn’t talk.

He sighed. “Do you have someone I can call?”

Oh God, he really was sending her back. The ultimate failure as a slave—rejection—and she’d managed to achieve it within an hour.

No.
She would never survive the punishment. And besides, she liked this Master with his gentle touch and cozy bed. It was presumptuous to think she had a choice, blasphemous even, but there it was.

For as long as she could remember, which albeit wasn’t long, she had wanted to be owned. Not in the compound amid the huddle of slaves and litany of trainers but by one Master. Now she stood on a precipice between a generic slave and one with hope. She wanted
this
Master.

She flipped through the ways she knew to please and placate, all of them sexual. Her body was torn to bits, not pretty or sexy right now, if it ever was. She had no feminine wiles – none. Her body was too skinny, all the trainers berated her for it. Scrawny, weak.

In a reckless burst of courage, she reached out and put her hand directly on his cock. At first it felt like nothing, just the flat stiffness of his jeans. But then,
there
, it jumped beneath her palm, lengthened.

This was solid ground. She could arouse him, then she would get him off. Any way he wanted it, she had probably done it before, or she could learn. He would see her value then. It wasn’t exactly obedient to grope your Master without express orders to do so. The opposite, really, but she was desperate.

He put his hand on the top of her head, not pushing her closer or away. It was sweet, his hesitation, and she thought for a moment that he would let her get away with it. God, she would do anything.
Please.

He gently pushed her hand away.

She wanted to live.
How pathetic.

Tears fell in hot tracks down her cheeks.

“Someone really did a number on you, didn’t they?” he asked.

At his words, she looked into his eyes. Amazingly, they were filled with something like understanding. It was probably better that she couldn’t speak then, because she would have begged for him to help her. But she didn’t deserve his benediction. She’d failed.

 “Here’s what we’re going to do.” He slid his hand around her neck, grasping her firmly from behind. She melted into the firm touch. “You’re going to sleep now. Stay off the floor. Nod for me.”

She nodded vigorously, her eyes downcast in joy.

His fingers still curled behind her neck, he swept his thumb along her cheek, then down over her neck. Back and forth, he caressed her. She stayed still, watching as her breath ruffled the dark hairs on his forearm.

He moved his thumb against her mouth then pushed it inside. She closed her lips around it, eager to suck it. He tasted of salt and earth and hope. This was her chance to touch him, to please him, to show him badly she wanted this.

She swirled her tongue around the tip, worshipping his thumb like she wanted to worship his cock. Like she wanted to lick every part of him, if it meant she could stay. The soft wet sounds filled the room, tangling with the harsh sounds of his breathing.

She begged with the warmth and wetness of her mouth. She implored with the skill of her tongue. Every swipe promised pleasure, if only.

He pulled his hand away.

Her lips were still parted, damp from his ministrations. She stayed perched on the bed in supplication. A bulge rounded his jeans. His nostrils flared with what she recognized as arousal.

He turned and left the room.

She stared at the door for what felt like hours, until her limbs ached and her eyelids grew heavy. No trick. She sank into the clean bed.

She caught the slight sound of crickets outside, serenading her under the window. He had been surprised to learn about her defect, but he had worked around it.
Nod for me.
Maybe he would keep her after all.

Chapter Two

She had been naked before, cold before, but not like this. The chill bit into her skin, penetrated her bones, until she couldn’t imagine ever being warm again. Stripped not just of clothes, but of humanity, of hope.

The dream, she was in it again. Dear God,
no. Get out. Wake up!

The shadowy Masters in the dream paid no attention to her silent plea, just as they hadn’t in her memory. The wet cloth covered her face, heavy and stifling. Panicked, she sucked in a breath. No, wrong, stupid, because her mouth filled with water, not air. There was no air, none. Not in her lungs, not in her nose. Only water, never-ending water in her face and all around.

Her whole body bucked with the effort to breathe, but all she earned was a brief respite, just the flash of distraction as the bonds cut into her wrists and ankles and neck. Then she was drowning. This time they had gone too far. No air – she gulped. She sucked the water into her lungs, knowing it was over. Hope faded, everything dimmed.

The rush of air shocked her before the bright lights could register. She drank in the air, free from the torture chamber of simple damp cloth.

Her face was wet, leftover water, but also with her tears, with snot, with drool. And lower too, she had wet herself, but she couldn’t bring herself to embarrassment just yet. She couldn’t control them, not a single one of her reactions, as her body spasmed and shook and grunted out primal sounds of relief and fear.

The master crossed his arms, angry, but his eyes were amused. “Don’t have anything to say now, do you?”

Her body jerked in its restraints, though she couldn’t have said why. Actually, she couldn’t say anything. Her throat was frozen. Her mind pulled it to a halt like some large, clumsy piece of machinery now rutted into the dry ground. Good. She couldn’t remember what she had said, but she thought she must have talked back. She must have mouthed off, and her masters didn’t tolerate that.

“Answer me,” he said.

What was the question? No, she had nothing to say him, not ever again if it meant she did not have to endure that again. Her body jerked and secreted fear in the form of bodily excretions, but it would eventually find equilibrium. But her mind—God. Her mind was numb,
waiting
, like that moment after seeing your thumb hit with a hammer but before the pain sets in. She would never be the same again. She would never be warm, never be safe again.

He flicked her, right on her forehead. “Cat got your tongue?”

She closed her eyes, opened them. Licked her lips and tried to speak, but nothing came out.

His eyebrow raised. “The correct answer is ‘Yes, Master.’”

When nothing came out, he turned purple, splotchy. “You would disobey me now? That wasn’t enough for you? Answer me, slave.
Say it.
”

Fear shuddered through her. Her throat worked, fruitless. She formed the words with her mouth, desperate.
Yes, Master, Yes, Master, Yesssssmaster.

Her lips kept moving, even as the wet cloth clamped down on them.  The water slapped her face, fell into her mouth, and blocked her nose. Only one lungful of air left. She opened her mouth to scream. Use it all up to scream, but it turned into a gargle. She gasped and gasped, breathing in water. Drowning, sinking, falling too deep to ever make her way back up in time.

* * *

She woke gasping for air, shivering. That nightmare again.
God.

At least she couldn’t remember it. That was a small comfort, but the effects on her body were chilling enough.  It took her a minute to realize where she was again. Not her cell. She had a new master, one who kept a beautiful cell for her. One who fed her fresh bread and clean water.

It took her a moment to hear it: something between a groan and a whimper. She glanced at the window first, fearful of wild animals. The house was practically in the middle of a jungle. The sound came again, this time more clearly through the wall—from
inside
the house. When it was accompanied by a muted thump, she thought she knew what it was. Who it was.

Her feet hit the cold, gnarled wood, and she padded into the hallway silently. His door was open. She saw a shadowed figure flail on the bed, but far from scary, the sight was endearing. He had nightmares—like her.

She crept inside. How exactly would she wake him up without speech? Perhaps she could shake him, though the thought of touching him without permission… but she had to try. She knew the pain of being trapped inside a dream, again and again.

When she reached the side of the bed, he stilled. This room was darker than hers, without a window. The sheets drew gray relief against the black night. Perhaps his dream had ended.

In a flash of shadows and whip of wind, she was wrenched onto the bed. With a silent cry, she fell—caught by softness and blanketed with male musk. Uncertainty kept her still, but curiously she felt no fear.

No menace simmered in the air, just pain, and that was an old friend to her. Harsh breathing sawed just above her, touching her face like a caress. She waited, wanting. Longing for something, but what?

His hand on her breast, heavy and possessive, came as a shock. She jumped and twisted away. He didn’t slap her for her error, only straightened her body out, pulled at her lips like she was nothing more than a cloth to be spread out nice and straight. But he knew what she was—flesh and blood, oh yes. His cock lay thick and hot against her thigh, burning, seeking. His hand returned to her breast, probing, tweaking.

She had been in the dark before—blindfolded, hurt. She had been touched by hands and cocks before—humiliated, used. But not like this. Tears stung her eyes. Long dormant arousal unfurled inside her. Blasphemous thoughts whispered through her:
you’re not a slave. You’re a woman.