Page 12 of Anchored

“Didn’t think they did this to guys like you,” the doorman said as he walked Daniel to the elevator, and it was all Daniel could do not to snap back, What the fuck does that mean? Guys like him? He was a slave, just like the doorman. Just a damn slave.

And he was reminded quite firmly of that when his master led him to the center of the living room without so much as a greeting and said, “Strip.”

It must have taken him five minutes to wriggle out of his clothes, but his master didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry. He was lounging on the couch, arms stretched across the back cushions, the ankle of one leg resting on the opposite knee. His eyes were intent on Daniel, but his face was completely neutral. What was he thinking? Was he enjoying this? What did he want?

Daniel peeled off his left sock and placed it neatly atop the rest of his clothes on the couch. Naked at last, he stood as straight as he could manage, feeling flush and fighting back a yawn and the urge to fidget.

“Turn around,” the master said, his voice more soft and even than seemed possible from such a large man.

Normally, Daniel would have been relieved to obey, to hide his nudity, but today presented a whole new world of vulnerabilities. He’d caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror in his office as Tim had helped him change, seen the head-to-toe bruising, the red welts that stood out bright against pale skin, the dozen or so cuts across his right shoulder blade and hip where the tip of the strap had landed too hard too close to bone. There was an intimacy to letting someone see those things that went beyond nudity: a weakness, a failure, a helplessness painted on his skin for this stranger to see. To jack off to, even, for all he fucking knew.

But who was he kidding; he wasn’t letting. There were no choices here. Not for him. NewWorld had driven that home rather agonizingly hard today.

He turned around.

Silence, save a rustling behind him, a single footstep on the carpeted floor, and then curious fingers traced blazing paths down his back that made him gasp and flinch.

Please don’t hurt me anymore, he prayed. I can’t, I’m done, it’s too much, and like some miracle from the God he no longer believed in, the fingers disappeared. And then so did his master, leaving him alone in the middle of the living room, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now.

The master came back a minute later with a yawning Jane trailing behind, dressed in pajamas, hair tousled. She took one look at Daniel hunched and shivering by the coffee table and said, “Oh, darling.”

“Fix him, would you?” the master said, casually gruff, as if he’d handed her a shirt to mend or a broken heel to repair, and then ambled off to his bedroom.

What? What was happening here?

Jane touched a hand to Daniel’s arm and gently turned him to face her. It was strange how unself-conscious he suddenly felt; maybe he was just too weary to be bothered with such things, or maybe too confused. Jane was looking at him like his mother used to after his old mistress got a hold of him, and it made him warm in a way that had nothing to do with pain or shame.

“Sorry to wake you,” he mumbled as she led him the two steps to the couch, laid him down on his belly like he was made of glass, and ran a hand across his hair.

“Don’t be silly,” she chided. “You just rest. I’ll be right back.”

She returned with cool washcloths and hydrogen peroxide and a cold, sweet-smelling cream that numbed his skin as she rubbed it into his legs and back. “Was this because of yesterday?” she asked as she worked. Daniel nodded, too tired to clarify, already feeling better than he had all day. “I saw you tonight, knew what happened right away. Don’t tell him I told you, but the master looked quite upset.”

He did? Daniel wanted to press her about that, but said instead, “I thought I was careful.”

Jane smeared some cream into his shoulder. “I don’t think most people noticed. Master just knew what to look for.”

“And you?”

Her hand froze momentarily on his shoulder blade. She didn’t reply, but Daniel could read the truth in her face—a dark history there to match his own—and he let it go.

“All right, darling,” she said, clearing her throat and wiping her hands on a washcloth, “that’s as good as I can make it. Off you go now. Master’s waiting.”

Daniel paced toward the master’s bedroom, telling himself over and over that he could sleep soon, that in a few moments this day would be over and he could close his eyes and put it all behind him.

The alternatives did not bear considering.

Still uncertain of the rules, he knocked on the open door. His master, propped against the headboard, looked up from his book—The Slavery Fallacy by Nathaniel Bishops, Daniel was surprised to note; Carl didn’t strike him as a typical consumer of ultra-left-wing rhetoric, especially from an atheist British barrister—and patted the empty space beside him. When Daniel hesitated at the bedside, not wanting to smear cream on the sheets (never mind how much sitting would hurt), his master said, “It’s okay. You can lie down if you want to.”

He wanted to very much, so he eased onto his belly, tucking his arms beneath the pillow, facing his master’s hip. His eyes drifted closed, but the sound of a flipping page pulled him from the beginnings of sleep. A moment later, he felt a hand on his head, heavy and warm, still but for two fingers making short, tentative strokes through the hair at his nape.

He stiffened and squeezed his eyes closed, focusing on controlling his breathing. What was wrong with him? When Jane had done the same thing just minutes before, he’d taken pleasure from her touch. Why did the same touch frighten him so much when the hand belonged to his master?

Because he can hurt you.

Not to mention the issue of Daniel’s desires, for as much as they ever mattered for anything. And maybe choice as well; Jane didn’t expect compliance or false affection from him. He could tell her no.

The hand disappeared just long enough to flip another page, then returned again, bolder this time. Fingers traced the shell of his ear, the line of his jaw. A thumb brushed across his lips, pushing a little; Daniel unclenched his jaw just enough to allow the thumb the entrance it demanded. It explored the inside of his lower lip, touched his teeth, then pulled away to turn another page.