Pennies (Dollar 1)

Pressing a silver button by the shelf housing condiments, the trap door opened and the current bottle of bourbon Master A had selected shot to the top on an automatic delivery system.

Grabbing the expensive liquor, I trembled as I carried the blasted liquor back to splash generous amounts into crystal goblets.

My pour wasn’t neat; a few droplets landed on the bench.

My back turned rigid. I waited for reprimand.

I’d dropped a bottle once.

I’d only been with Master A for a month, and my rebellion hadn’t fully stopped. I didn’t remember if I dropped it by accident or on purpose.

But I did remember the punishment very well. It involved shards of the broken bottle and generous pouring of spoilt liquor on the open cut he’d adorned me with.

I’d cried soundless tears.

But I hadn’t given him what he wanted most—my voice.

Not that it mattered. He’d cured me of my butterfingers with one incident.

Ignoring the scar on my forearm from the horrendous memory, I quickly wiped up the small spillage and stoppered the bottle.

Replacing it back in the cellar, I set the glasses on the coffee table where both men had retired in the lounge and returned to my post by the wall, dropping to my knees with an ill-concealed wince.

Mr. Prest murmured something like gratitude, his eyes tracking me even as the soft clink of toasting goblets sounded over the music.

But he said nothing else. No barb about my wardrobe or fishing hook to taunt me to speak.

His body language shut me off, focusing on Master A.

For the next thirty minutes, I zoned out.

Listening to men—rather than granting forced blowjobs—was a much happier alternative. However, after the past few sleepless nights, I struggled to fight the heavy cloud of drowsiness. I battled drooping eyelids, pinching my inner wrist with demands not to fall unconscious.

I’d done that once: slithered from my bow into a full fetal position on the floor.

Darryl had been the one to punish me that night. Master A had goaded him, saying how undisciplined I was and needed a harsh lesson.

I hadn’t been able to move for a week.

The low hum of voices suddenly stopped.

I panicked.

Had I dropped off and they’d noticed? Had I been requested to serve and had a micro nap instead?

My heart did its best to flee. Only, Mr. Prest ensured it stayed in my ribcage with a soft curse. My shoulders rolled even more as he finally chose his moment to undermine my conflict not to watch him.

“At least your dress fits you better than that ugly skirt.” His voice acted as scissors, slicing up the dress he’d complimented, licking over my skin with sharp threats.

Inching along the couch, his shadow came closer as the automatic lights clicked on now the sun had well and truly gone to bed.

Don’t look.

Do. Not. Look.

He perched on the end of the settee like a black crow of intrigue.

“Let’s get back to signing the final contract, shall we?” Master A muttered, nursing his drink.

“In a moment.” Mr. Prest waved him away impatiently.

Even with my hair obscuring my vision and my steadfast obedience at keeping my gaze locked on the floor, I couldn’t stop myself straining to feel and hear and stare.

I hate you for what befell me.

So why was I still drawn to him?

Magic?

Fate?

What?

Sensing I was listening, Mr. Prest inched closer. Leaning over the end of the couch with his fingers linked around his goblet, his eyes resolutely locked on me. “Still silent, I see.” He chuckled, his body violin-string tight with inquisition rather than giving his attention to Master A.

Don’t do that.

Don’t you see what you cost me?

Look at him, not me.

Tipping forward, he placed his untouched alcohol on the coffee table before training his gaze on my head.

My scalp prickled beneath his stare, heating in degrees the longer we stayed trapped in whatever game he played.

“Mr. Prest…” Paper crinkling and a pen tapping on glass signalled Master A’s none-too-subtle attempt at interruption.

It didn’t work.

Mr. Prest merely stared harder, as if he could crack open my skull and drag out my thoughts without having to go through my mute mouth. Shifting slightly, he reached into his pocket.

Don’t be a penny.

Not again.

The soft ping of battered copper bounced on the tile by my knee, spinning with a dull bronze glitter before falling face up. “A penny for your thoughts, silent one. Perhaps, today you’ll speak.”

Stop doing this to me!

Damn him and his pennies.

I didn’t want to be paid for words I’d never utter. How about he gave me a penny for every kick I’d endured, every broken bone, every rape, every tear?

I’d be a damn millionaire with the means to run far away from here.

Master A stood.

My teeth clamped onto my bottom lip as I folded into myself.

I didn’t do anything!

Hurt him, not me!

But instead of swatting me around the head or kicking me into pieces, Master A wedged himself between Mr. Prest and me. The distance from my position by the wall and the end of the couch wasn’t much, and Master A’s trousers granted a whiff of the frangipani laundry detergent he insisted I wash his clothes with.