At His Throat, a Promise (45 page)

Master hadn"t lied. It hurt. It hurt all over on the outside, and in some important places on the inside. His ribs ached. It hurt to breathe. His back hurt. His kidneys felt swollen. It hurt to piss. It hurt to dress. It hurt to do just about anything.

Apologies hadn"t been enough, of course. Reassurances hadn"t been believed. There was nothing, just as Ellis had known, that he could do.

It was over now, at least.

He returned to the bedroom, where Caleb stared at him with wide eyes. Ellis didn"t look at him. It was like… thinking of Harte hurt as much as his aching, beaten body. Master had abused the want right out of him. Now every thought of Harte or William made him almost physically ill. It was his weakness for them, really, that had done this to him. Not that he didn"t take responsibility for sneaking into Caleb"s bed. He"d known that it wouldn"t end in anything but pain. Still… if it hadn"t been for Harte, Ellis wouldn"t have felt so connected to Caleb; William telling him he"d be a good master had made him want to comfort and protect Caleb so he could prove William"s words to be true.

388

AT HIS THROAT, A PROMISE

Master stood in the doorway and watched Ellis change from his bloodied and torn shift to a new one. The blood was no longer flowing, but every abrupt movement threatened to open the cuts up.

“Your collar,” Master said. He didn"t seem angry anymore, but there was a coolness to him that Ellis didn"t recognise. After punishment, Master was always his old self again. That was one of the things Ellis actually liked about Master. He didn"t really hold grudges. After a punishment, all was forgiven. Maybe not forgotten, but Master didn"t hold it over his head. Then he"d tell Ellis how hard he was trying, how close he was to being better, how improved he was.

There had been none of that afterward, this time. Not a pat on his head or even a kind look. It very nearly sent Ellis into paroxysms of anxiety.

Ellis took his collar from the top drawer. It sat beside Caleb"s, the leather of which was so stiff it looked cutting. Ellis"s was much softer. He wore it to bed sometimes.

“Tighter,” Master said after Ellis buckled it.

Gulping, Ellis tightened the collar another notch. It was now flush against his throat. He could breathe and swallow comfortably, but it wouldn"t move much.

And yet, “Tighter,” said Master.

Another notch had the collar digging in. Swallowing was awkward but not impossible. Breathing was easy if he didn"t panic.

The leather stitching dug in and scratched him.

It wasn"t entirely undeserved.

“Go wait by the car.”

Master left the room and Ellis went to follow. Caleb stopped him with a gentle hand on his back. “Are you okay?” 389

AT HIS THROAT, A PROMISE

“Of course,” Ellis said stiffly, the collar making his voice breathier than usual.

“It… it hurts, Ellis,” Caleb whispered, shifting from foot to foot.

Oh
. “Have a bath. It will help. Use the salts and then the salve in the clear glass bottle. Try to get some inside, but if you can"t, put it thick on the outside. More in the morning. And if… if I don"t see you, keep using it. I can get more.” Master was free with the salves, but Ellis would still be punished for sharing without permission.

Ellis left the bedroom, not willing to look back in case, for some reason, he didn"t return to it after whatever Master had planned. Ellis didn"t
think
he"d be taken to the Facility after going to the Lounge, but Master could be unpredictable.

He left the house and waited by the car, his sandals feeling foreign on his feet. He couldn"t remember ever leaving the house the entire time he"d been there.

The driver of Master"s car watched him with removed interest.

Ellis saw him from the corner of his eye and was reminded of how that same driver had looked over when Ellis had presented himself for Master in the backseat on his first day on their way to his new home.

He shivered and closed his eyes. When he saw Master on his way—made possible by the windows that stood in for walls—he knelt onto the rough gravel, letting it bite into his knees and make him forget about the aches of his body. He felt like his body mass had increased from sheer swollenness.

“Up,” Master said, closing the front door behind himself. The driver got out and opened the backseat, and Ellis got in first, followed by Master, who immediately crooked two fingers at him.

390

AT HIS THROAT, A PROMISE

Ellis did his duty, kneeling in the scant space of the footwell in the backseat. Gravel still clung to his knees, and he ground down on it, the pain slicing through him and helping him focus. If he"d been asked only a few months ago about whether he"d ever intentionally cause himself pain, he would have balked.

Now every ache, every twinge felt like absolution. He was beaten in order to be forgiven. It only followed that any pain was his body"s way of being pardoned.

Master came into his mouth and made him hold it until the come was so diluted with saliva that a stream of it slid from the corner of his mouth onto his sheath. He whimpered. The taste was foul and every breath reinforced the unwanted flavour. He was about thirty seconds away from gagging when Master finally permitted him to swallow, and when he did, the collar felt tighter than ever, barely letting the watery mouthful pass.

He spent the rest of the car ride trying to get rid of the taste by swallowing every few seconds. By the time they pulled into the jammed parking lot of the Lounge, Ellis"s throat was sore and his lips chapped and dry.

Bookended by skyscrapers, the Lounge was anything but innocuous. The blacked-out windows concealed secrets and sins.

Around the entrance milled any manner of person, from moneyed to poor, from powerful to power-hungry, from beautiful and damaged to ugly and unbroken. Ellis looked away.

The driver opened the door, and Master yanked Ellis out by his hair, which had been, before that point, the only part of his body that hadn"t hurt.

“Now, remember, Ellis, that this is punishment. I will not have you embarrassing me further. Be a good boy and I will reward you by the end of the evening.”

391

AT HIS THROAT, A PROMISE

Ellis nodded his understanding and then followed Master through the heavy wooden doors.

Music immediately assaulted them. Ellis cringed away from it; he hadn"t realised just how quiet Master"s house was until that moment.

He was reminded of the last time he"d been there. As before, the right side of the room was occupied by slaves and masters in various acts of carnality, strewn over sofas and chairs. Slaves were writhing, moaning, being spanked, being drugged, and doing anything their masters wished without reluctance.

On the left, the dance floor was packed with slaves grinding together or with masters. The dancing was almost as lewd as the sexual acts in the other half of the room. There were a few slaves who weren"t collared, and fewer still that bore sponsor tags or collars, but most wore collars indicating ownership. Ellis should have been proud to be among the latter group. Maybe it was the bruises, scratches, and scars littering his previously unmarred body, but he just didn"t feel pleased to belong to the owned elite.

“Go dance,” Master instructed, voice hard.

Knowing better than to hesitate, Ellis moved onto the dance floor and began to move. He felt awkward, like he was being watched—it didn"t give him the thrill it had with William and Harte at the costume party when they had taken turns kissing him and the eyes of the partygoers had caressed him. There was something desperate about dancing alone and something mechanical in being forced to do so.

He knew Master was watching, so he did his best to be seductive, even though he felt anything but. With his bruises and marks, not to mention the fact that his face must have been bright red from his struggled inhalations, he felt undesirable.

392

AT HIS THROAT, A PROMISE

Eventually another slave came and danced with him, and Ellis gratefully turned his attentions toward him instead of the thoughts demanding recognition in his own mind. The slave wasn"t particularly attractive, but he could move very well and probably made Ellis look like a graceless oaf in comparison.

It was almost halfway through the dance when Ellis saw them.

They shouldn"t have been there, really. William hated the Lounge and loathed bringing Harte there.

Yet there they were, sitting in the half of the room designated for fucking and sucking. Only they were doing neither. William sat on an armchair and Harte was on his lap; they were both facing the dance floor, and they were both staring.

At him.

Ellis could feel his dancing slow, could feel the slave currently grinding against his ass grow impatient, but he couldn"t look away.

They had him pinned with a strange sort of desire that was subdued and uneasy.

Ellis turned away, into the other slave"s arms. Master would see, and then Master would punish Ellis worse… and he just didn"t know if he could take any more. The other slave ran his hands over Ellis"s flanks, and the pain was almost unbearable. The music pounded, almost matching the throbbing that coursed through his battered body. He had a headache bad enough to warrant closing his eyes, which he knew was a mistake as soon as he did it, but it couldn"t be helped. Everything hurt too much, and now his heart—

which had been heretofore unaffected—was just as pained.

“Your friends are here,” came a voice in his ear, one that was indelibly engraved on his brain as belonging to the man who owned him.

Opening his eyes was a struggle, but he managed. He shook his 393

AT HIS THROAT, A PROMISE

head, trying to showcase incomprehension. He had no friends.

“Look,” Master said, taking Ellis from the other slave and turning him toward where William and Harte were still watching him. They didn"t bother looking away, even though they must have known that Master saw them.

“I suppose you"d like to speak with them,” Master said lightly, brushing Ellis"s hair away from his face. His fingers pressed against a bruise that travelled from his jaw to his temple, almost fading into his hairline.

Ellis shook his head in negation. No, he had no desire to revisit that torture. He"d lose himself completely if he had to face them so broken, so defeated. Still so
bad
.

“Stay here.”

With a heart that was desperately trying to protect itself against whatever Master had in mind, Ellis watched as Master approached William and Harte. William put Harte on his feet and stood. The two masters spoke, but Harte never took his eyes away from Ellis.

Ellis had almost forgotten how beautiful those eyes were. He could see the shocking depth of blue from halfway across the room. He wondered how he"d ever thought Caleb looked like Harte. Caleb was like a poor photocopy, covered in striations, granulated. Harte was real, whole and beautiful. Otherworldly.

Ellis blinked and forced himself to watch Master instead.

Master was in control. William was not. Anyone who cared to look on the scene could tell that. Master was smiling softly and using his hands to speak, whereas William was tense all over, fists clenched at his side, a glower hiding just beneath the affected surface of indifference.

William gestured toward Harte, and Master looked considering.

He eyed Harte up and down, and Ellis could see Harte was trying 394

AT HIS THROAT, A PROMISE

his best to look innocent, which wasn"t hard. Finally, Master nodded, said something else to William, and turned to walk back toward Ellis.

As Master walked forward, behind his back, Harte jumped into William"s arms. William held him tight and Ellis almost remembered.

“Well?” Master asked, standing in Ellis"s line of sight, blocking his view of William and Harte.

Ellis cocked his head to the side. That wasn"t something that could be answered with a yes or no, so he wasn"t sure what was expected of him.

“I told William that you could talk with Harte for a few moments while we discuss a matter of contention between our firms.”

Shaking his head, wide-eyed with horror, Ellis almost took a step back. But such a rejection of what was an act of magnanimity—or maybe not, judging by the knowing gleam in Master"s eye—would be punished harshly.

“Oh, come. Surely you would like to see your friend again?

You were very close, were you not?”

Dejected, Ellis nodded and stared at the ground. He wasn"t going to be able to get out of this, not when the Master was so intent. What did he have in mind? What was the plan here?

“Go on, then.”

Ellis took a halting step forward. Master nodded his encouragement, his smile biting. Another step and another until he was standing before Harte. William was off to the side, but his eyes were on Ellis—he could feel them.

“Boys, why not take a seat? William, let us have a drink.” Master led a reluctant William over to the long bar.

395

AT HIS THROAT, A PROMISE

Harte"s eyes were wide, the white showing all the way around.

Ellis walked past him to take a seat in one of the unoccupied booths. He checked to make sure Master could still see him.

Master was looking over and gave Ellis a nod. He exhaled and waited for Harte to sit across from him. In his memory, William ordered Harte a glass of water with lime because he
knew
him.

“He said I"m not allowed to touch you,” Harte said, his voice only a breath but still carrying. “But I imagine I am. In my head, I"m so careful when I hug you because you"re obviously hurt. I wrap my arms around your neck and you pull me against you like always. Don"t I feel good, Ellis?”

A sound like a whimper escaped Ellis"s throat, and he looked away. This was almost as bad at the beating. At least when it was his body being hurt, he could escape. There was no disappearing when it was his heart being savaged.

“I miss you.” Harte"s hand touched his own collar—soft, buttery leather that sat loosely around his neck.