Sedition (5 page)

“Do you enjoy this, Sascha?” my master asks. He doesn’t really sound curious though, he sounds like he’s reciting lines from a play.

“No, master,” I grind out, wanting nothing more than to cup my hands over my chest and cry for hours. “I do
not
enjoy this and I’m sorry I misbehaved.” In a different situation, I might enjoy something similar, but all I feel now is horror and mortification and burning pain.

“I’ll continue, then,” he says, almost a whisper.

The belt is louder as it snaps across my chest a few more times.

He continues, thankfully avoiding my stomach and crotch, and picks up the momentum again at my thighs, and then down my legs. I can tell he’s barely putting any force behind his swing, using the belt with practiced ease to avoid wrapping it around my legs, but it still hurts, every part of me hurts. He’s hit me probably a hundred times, all together, and all I want is for it to end.

“You may apologize to Mr. Torenze.”

I lurch forward, eyes blurry with tears, and drop to my knees. I don’t want to apologize to this bastard. I want to scream at him for making my life miserable. I want to see him destroyed for taking pleasure in my misery. I want his business to fail, his family to die, his health to suffer, because he has just facilitated my destruction.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” I force out. “I… I was rude, and disrespectful, and I shouldn’t have spoken out of turn.” I don’t mean any of it. I’m too busy hating him, because I still can’t bring myself to hate my master, and if I let myself take responsibility for my actions tonight, I’ll curl into a ball and Cashiel will have to drag me out of here. “I apologize, sir,” I repeat, meaning it no less this time.

Torenze frowns down at me, and I wonder for a moment if he might kick me. I wonder for a moment if my master might let him.

“Cashiel, is that the best he can do?” he sneers. “I’ve seen the new slaves at the re-education centers do better than this, maybe he could use a few more lashes?”

I panic, dropping lower to the ground and reconsidering my motivations. I can humble myself in front of him if only for self-preservation. “Please, sir, I really am sorry, I just didn’t want to impose, didn’t want you to have to waste time on me! I didn’t understand, sir, how offensive my words were, and how much they were inappropriate, and now that I’ve been punished, I get it, I do, I promise! Please, please, sir, excuse my master, and don’t let this cloud your judgment of him, and know that I really am remorseful, please sir, I swear!”

I hope I sound sincere now, because I am, in that false way that terror and pain can make you believe anything you say. Or anything someone else says.

“He’s not too used to having to speak after being punished,” my master says. “I don’t want to hear it. Tell him what usually happens after you’re beaten, Sascha.”

I glance up at him, wondering why and how he can be so cruel as to make me say this. He provided an excuse, and if Torenze doesn’t buy it, I’d rather have the extra lashes that he suggested. But my master’s face is rigid and he looks away from me, refusing to meet my eyes. I don’t understand; he’s never hesitated to take charge and glare at me before. I feel like he’s abandoning me, my only anchor casting me aside so callously. I turn my gaze back to Torenze, sickened by his smile.

“My master usually gags me, sir,” I tell him. I can feel my face flushing with shame, like I’m a naughty child. The corners of Torenze’s mouth curl up into a smile, a perverse look of satisfaction that makes me thankful for the tears that are blurring my vision. I just want this to be over.

“Continue,” my master orders, the word as tight and clipped as possible.

“I wear the gag all day, sir, and sometimes the following day, so I can remember to hold my tongue.” I don’t like thinking about the gag, and I don’t want to experience it again. Even more, I don’t want to talk about it. I wish he’d just do it, so this could all stop, so I wouldn’t have to be complicit in my own torture anymore.

“I’d wash your mouth out with soap,” Torenze replies, almost a challenge.

“That is highly impractical and not nearly as effective,” my master comments, sounding irritated at the suggestion. “It’s hard on him not to be able to speak.”

“What should we gag him with?” Torenze asks, too eager. He looks around the room, and I can just hear his evil mind thinking of all the things he could shove in my mouth; all the things he could use to keep it there.

“I will
not
walk around with a gagged slave,” my master replies, haughty and dismissive. “I trust that he will not speak another word at this event, and he will be promptly gagged when we return home as a reminder.”

“I can think of something else that might remind him of his place,” Torenze suggests, his tone lewd and lustful. “After all, that was a pretty lenient punishment. Slaves like this are good for one thing, and that’s certainly not giving unwanted business advice to free people.”

There is silence, and for a moment, I’m terrified that he’s going to let him do it. Use me, fuck me, put me in my place. I guess it makes sense, it would drive the point home, and while my master has promised not to lend me out, this would be different, this would be punishment, this would be done to hurt and humiliate me even more than I’ve already been hurt and humiliated. I don’t know if I can handle it, and if I wasn’t on my knees already, I’d be dropping to them. I know better than to speak, so I settle for trembling instead.

“Get dressed, Sascha.” My master’s words are cold.

I scramble to get up and dress myself, biting hard on my lower lip to keep from crying out as the fabric slides across my bruised, burning skin.

“As I’ve posited before, it’s not the severity of the punishment that matters, it’s the fit,” my master explains. “Obviously he’s been severely beaten and worse in the past. Obviously it did nothing. Careful timing, humiliation, predictability—that’s how to train them. I am not a savage, Oliver, and neither are you. It’s entirely uncouth to drag a slave around gagged and beaten like a common brothel whore; surely you don’t display your personal slaves like that?”

I glance up, pleased to see Torenze’s face turning nearly as red as mine.

“Of course not,” Torenze mutters. “I just… I guess you’re right.”

“Then we shall return to the party.” My master smiles at the man, but it’s an empty smile.

Torenze leaves, leaving me alone with my master for a minute. He turns to me, and I open my mouth to speak.

“Not a fucking word, Sascha,” he hisses, his jaw set.

I nod, grateful that he is too proud to be seen with a gagged slave. Not that I don’t deserve it. I’ll stay silent to try to repay him, to try to show him how grateful I am. I’ll stay silent because I do deserve it; I deserve to be gagged for speaking out of turn, and I deserve far worse for ever letting myself think that I was anything but a slave. He turns away from me in disgust, and it’s all I can do not to start sobbing again, but I’ve promised to be silent. I follow him into the party in disgrace, trying not to show how much pain I’m in. The other guests might notice me, or they might not. Right now, the only thing that is real is the shattering of my false contentment.

Chapter 5
Secrets

I can’t tell whether to be furious at Sascha or worried that Torenze is going cause trouble for me. I try to remind myself that Sascha didn’t know, that he had no idea how much risk he was exposing both of us to, but it makes me feel no better. We leave the party early; not too early that it is noticeable or in poor taste, but I want out of there as quickly as possible after Sascha’s outburst. I come home and retreat immediately into my office, intent on making sure there are no loose ends or dangerous lines of communication left open. I slam the door, letting Sascha go treat his wounds or whatever he wants. I’m too angry to deal with him.

But he knocks on my door, anyway. I walk across the room, throwing open the door open.

“What?” I demand, feeling guilty when he cowers away.

“D-did you want the gag?” he asks. “Master?” he adds at the end, his voice small.

“Go to bed, Sascha. Take an ice pack if you need it.” I slam the door. I can’t comfort him, but I don’t want to speak to him either. He could have destroyed everything, endangered both of us, but there was no way for him to know that.

I beat and humiliated him because I’m too paranoid to let him in on my secret.

When I finally go to bed, he’s not there. It’s the first time in weeks, and it’s unnerving. I don’t sleep well and I’m surprised to wake up to breakfast the next morning. He brings it to me silently. I don’t know how to bring up what happened, but I hope he’s not too upset. It’s strange that I even care. After all, he’s a slave, he should have been punished. I just can’t help regret what happened after things were going so well.

I try to thank him, but he turns and leaves before I can say anything else. He’s silent the whole time, just as he is while he works all day. He works harder than usual, perhaps to make up for his mistake, but he doesn’t speak to me. Even when I tell him I’m going into the office for a while, he just nods. When I go into our bedroom to change, I realize that he’s taken his clothes and toiletries and everything that has accumulated since we started sleeping together. I stay late at the office, messaging him to let him know I won’t be home for dinner.

I remind him to eat, because I worry about him.

He’s in his bed when I come home, pretending to sleep. I stand in his doorway, not knowing what to do. I could handle a pouty slave; I have no idea how to handle an injured lover.

“Sascha, are you all right?” I ask. I realize too late that I sound more irritated than concerned.

“Yes, master,” he answers, stiff and cold.

I don’t know what to do or say. I stand there for a few minutes, taking note of the bruises that are visible even in the dim light from the hallway. I did that to him, and he doesn’t even know why.

I try to let him take space the next day and he does so silently. I look at him sometimes and wish things could go back to the way they were. I don’t know if he’s scared, or angry, or something else. It bothers me that I have no idea how to fix it.

My mother has always had a knack for knowing when I’m struggling, and she always manages to exacerbate it. She coms while I’m avoiding Sascha. I’d ignore her, but I’ve experienced the repercussions of avoiding her contact. I don’t need a private investigator following me around again, nor do I want to discover another tracking device on my com unit. She’s made it clear over the years that answering her is a priority.

“Oliver Torenze is partnering with Dean & Chanu? Quite convenient,” she starts, her voice taking on the thick, syrupy tone it used to when she caught me doing something wrong as a child.

“He has a successful business. We manage finances and investments for successful businesses.”

“One of my associates saw you at that slave auction,” she reminds me, her voice taking on an accusatory tone. “And I heard you and your little pet were honored guests at Torenze’s opening?”

“Plenty of people saw me,” I reply, cold. “I was there on business. Which was why I did business there.”

“That better be all you were there for.”

I let the line go silent, unwilling to respond. I can lie to her, but it won’t matter. She thinks she knows what I’m doing already. She’s right, of course, which makes it that much harder to hide.

“Cashiel, I’ve done the best I can to protect you from business dealings like this. Torenze, the people in the slave industry—you want to stick with the legitimate businesses.”

“Like yours?” I mutter.

“The Miller System isn’t just the most effective training system in the world, it is one of the most financially stable,” my mother reminds me. If she were anyone else, I’d say she was really calling to give me advice.

“I’m just following the business interest,” I say, trying not to sound so meek.

“Do they know?” my mother asks. “Do they know about your history? I mean, except for Oliver. Do any of your other ‘business interests’ know that you tried to destroy them in the past? That you’d do it again if you could get away with it?”

I fume, because she’s always ahead of me. When I first conducted research into the Demoted system and the re-education centers, the research had been conducted under the guise of continuing my family’s business. I had plotted the grand reveal for months, but I let my news slip at a holiday party. She discovered my results before I ever had a chance to take them public. The results that could have torn down her empire were buried under layers of legal and administrative security, and she has monitored me closely ever since. She’s onto the reboot of the project; she has been for a while. The only advantage I have is that she has no proof, and I have Sascha to thank for that. He hid it from her last time without even knowing what he was hiding. I’ve told him about my current research, but nothing about the past, or my mother. Whether I continue to enjoy that benefit of his help in future seems unlikely at the moment.

“I’m sure the partners at my company are well aware of the existence of the Miller System,” I snap. “And nobody but Oliver knows anything about me. It will stay that way. That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

“You’ve always been the most ungrateful child!” she yells through the phone, making me cringe despite the distance between us. “One day I won’t be there to help you. You’d better keep your nose clean!”

She disconnects before I have a chance to reply, leaving me thinking about my options and hers. She’s tried to interrupt my progress, but she has nothing on me, thanks to Sascha. I doubt Oliver would turn on me, but then again, he was at my mother’s call for years. I have only trusted one other person with my research, and even then, my insistence on keeping secrets got in the way. I didn’t tell him about Oliver’s connection to the original research, or his history with my mother. What happened at Oliver’s party was Sascha’s fault, but it was mine as well.

I don’t want to lose him over my own paranoia.

After dinner, I follow Sascha into the kitchen, watching him wash dishes and pretend I’m not there.