Hear Me

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.