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phantismaFandom: Supernatural (Broken Verse)
Title: The Sense of Self
Characters/Pairing: Dean/OMC, Dean/OFC, Dean/Sam
Rating:NC-17 (for violent sex, sexual slavery, etc)
Word Count: 9827
Summary: This is a story in two parts, the first examines the loss of self, the second the road back to self. This is dark fic, folks. The first part immediately follows Collaring. Dean has earned his collar, and is sold. The result is not what he expected. The second part takes place before Reunion when Sam and Dean are on their way to meet John at the Roadhouse.
A/Ns & Warnings: For Leslie, who asked for this a long time ago. I hope it lives up to your expectations. Warnings: This is a very OOC Dean. He is broken and programmed and this story gives us more look into the way he became the slave Sam found at the beginning of Broken. There is violence in the form of whipping, caning and paddling. There are degrading sexual situations. This is not a fic for everyone. For those of you familiar with and/or susceptible to falling into Sub-Space, be warned. That's where this Dean lives, and read at your own risk.
Excerpt from Gone
There was a voice suddenly, filling the space. “You are nothing. You are no one. You are alone.”
The voice was loud, bouncing off the walls. It disguised the approach of the person whose fist was suddenly in his hair. He was pressed forward, his ass invaded by a hand, then water, washing over him, into him. He slid onto his hip from the pressure, cussing as his elbow crashed into the floor.
“On your knees, slave.”
“The name’s Dean.” The backhand would have knocked him over if not for the hand in his hair.
“You are nothing. No one. Alone. On your knees for your master.”
“Woah, not liking the sound of that.”
The blow was like a line of fire across his back, and he yelped. “Slaves do not speak unless directly instructed to. On your knees.”
The fist in his hair yanked him up, onto his knees. This was not good. His body wasn’t responding to his need to move, his head pounded and his stomach still felt queasy. He was suddenly aware of another presence.
“He’s a strong one, Master.”
“Nothing you can’t handle though, right Thomas?”
“No Sir. He just needs some…special handling.”
There was amusement in the voice of the Master. “Oh, do you have suggestions for me?”
The one called Thomas tightened his fist in Dean’s hair. “I recommend a thorough beating, restriction of food and water, sensory deprivation, all for at least thirty six hours.”
“Hmmm…” There was a hand now on Dean’s chin, turning his face up. “Use the paddle and the riding crop, but I don’t want any blood. Don’t gag him until we’re sure he’s done vomiting. Wouldn’t do to kill him.”
The grip tightened. ”As of this moment, you have no name. As of this moment you have no purpose. You are nothing. You are no one. You are alone. You belong to me. Everything that is about to happen to you is because I wish it to be so.”
The hand in his hair disappeared and a body appeared behind him, pulling him tight against strong legs. There was something sharp, cutting into his chest. It felt like a “J” carved into his skin. “This is my mark, so everyone will know that you belong to me. So that everyone will know that you are nothing, no one, alone.”
The hand released him. “Bring him to me after his beating, I wish to evaluate him properly.”
And, from Collaring
”A good slave doesn’t have to ask his Master what he wants.” A heavy hand was on the back of his neck. “A good slave knows the rules, lives the rules and confesses freely when he breaks the rules.”
The hand came off his neck. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.” His heart pounded in his chest. He hadn’t broken any rules. He was sure.
“What is it I want, slave?”
He closed his eyes. “An obedient slave.”
“Are you obedient?”
His mind raced over the day so far. He had risen, showered properly, cleaned every inch of his body meticulously. Shaved himself clean. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair. He straightened his cage and cleaned the bathroom. He’d prepped himself carefully. Today was the day he was to earn his collar. Everything had been perfect. “I believe I am Master.”
“Present yourself.”
He stood and went to the apparatus. His feet slipped into the restraints and he bent forward over the curved top, both hands moving to part his ass cheeks. Once in position he raised himself to his tip toes, putting his ass on display.
The cold touch of a gloved finger caressed his skin. He didn’t move. It dipped inside him, testing, exploring. If Master was pleased with his preparation he would take his pleasure with him. He would accept him. He would be good enough. As the cock entered him, he tried hard to hold still, not because of any discomfort or shame, but because it meant he was good. His Master wanted him.
He was pleased. Master had allowed him to serve, had used his ass and freed him from the apparatus before sending him to clean himself. He knelt in his place, waiting.
There was someone with Master, a man he’d seen before. The man looked at him. “Dean.”
He came closer, Master coming with him. “Dean.”
He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to understand, but Master’s hand fixed it. He touched his face, cupped his chin to tilt his head up. “What is your name?”
“Slave.”
“What are you?”
“Nothing. No one. Alone.”
“And to whom do you belong?”
“You, master.”
The man beside Master smiled and nodded. “I’m impressed, Master James. Took forever to break him, but his training has made up for it.”
Master looked down at him, his face passive. He waited, his chin resting in Master’s hand. “Hmm…I will be sorry to see this one go. He’s a good fuck, and his mouth is heavenly.”
“I take it then that you want the other one?”
Master nodded and let go of him. “A matching pair is always fun.”
They walked away. He waited. The man left and Master returned, a box in his hand. “You have done well, Slave. I always award good performance. This is for you. You may open it.”
Master held the box in front of him and he opened it slowly, carefully. On a soft white pillow, a thick, black collar rested. He felt a rush of relief. He was good enough. He’d learned enough.
“You may speak.”
He nodded, licked his lips. “It is…beautiful, Master.”
Master’s thumb caressed his lip. “I am feeling generous.” He lifted the collar, caressing over it with gentle fingers. When Master moved close, he bowed his head to receive it. Master’s hands settled the collar around his neck, buckling it tightly. He could feel it when he swallowed. “You may return to your cage. I will give you a few hours to adjust to wearing it. We will be entertaining this evening.”
“Thank you, Master.”
When Master’s hand left him, he rose and went to the door that hid his cage. With that door closed, he let one trembling hand rise up to touch it. He let one finger slide along the top edge, up to the buckle, before sliding it down to the bottom and back around the front.
A collar.
His own collar.
He’d tried so hard for so long. His hand fell to the scar on his chest. It was his mark. His Master’s mark. He touched the collar again.
It fit snug against his neck, heavy and yet not unpleasant. It could never be unpleasant because it marked him as complete. Whole. Completely and perfectly pleasing.
He was good. He pleased his Master. He’d learned all the important things; to clean and prepare himself, to kneel properly, all his positions and postures, when to speak and when to hold his tongue. His performance in serving his Master’s needs had been flawless. His body was beautiful and unmarked and built to offer pleasure, and he was trained to submit and accept, to serve and satisfy.
He was ready.
There was a sense of accomplishment, accompanied by a thrill of fear. The collar meant that he would be leaving Master. Sold to someone new. He licked his lips and laid down on his small mat. It made him nervous.
He closed his eyes, swallowed against the leather. A new master. He indulged a moment of imagination, wondering what he would be like. Strong. Powerful.
A picture formed in his mind. Tall. Big hands. Messy brown hair.
An ache formed in his stomach. He shook his head. Chastised himself. He shouldn’t think of such things. Master said they would be entertaining. Better to prepare himself. He would prove himself worthy of his new collar.
He pushed the image away, swallowed the vague reminder that there had ever been anything other than this. Here. Him.
------------------------------------------
He was roused after a time alone, the light coming on in the cage to wake him and let him know that Master had need of him. He stretched, remembering the collar as the leather pressed into his skin.
He was good. He had proven himself.
He remembered that Master had been pleased. And with Master's pleasure, he was complete. He rose to his knees and moved to the door to the cage. It opened and he moved out, still on his knees, his head bowed.
He could smell food, hear others in Master's suite preparing for the company Master had mentioned. He waited and was rewarded with the warm touch of Master's hand on his head.
"Are you well?"
"Yes, Master."
"Good. As I mentioned, we will be entertaining this evening. Go and prepare yourself." Master's hand caressed over his head for a moment and when it lifted, it fit under his chin and tilted his face up. "Several of our guests have expressed an interest in you. I expect you to honor your Master."
"I will do my best."
Master nodded and took his hand away. "I am pleased with you, Slave. You may orgasm while you shower."
He bowed his head in thanks and waited until Master had moved away to rise to his feet and return to the bathroom. He closed the door gently and gave himself a moment to smile, grateful for the praise and the reward. It had been a long while since he had last been told he could be erect, longer still since he had been commanded to orgasm.
Pulling back his pleasure, he attended to his needs, relieving himself and flushing before turning to the shower and starting the water. He had showered once already, and cleaned up after Master had made use of him, but company was always cause for cleanliness, and Master had said he might be sold to one of them. It was best to be his best for them, right from the start. If he was pleasing, then he was good.
While the water heated, he turned to the mirror, checking his face to see if he needed to shave again. He found a new tool among his things and ran a hand over it reverently before lifting it.
The plastic was perfectly shaped to fit over his collar, to protect the leather from the water. He had seen one like it in the earliest days of his training, when Master's older slave had helped him learn how to clean himself.
He watched in the mirror as he lifted the plastic and fit it carefully around the leather, latching the Velcro in the back so that it fit snug to the collar. He didn't like the look, the opaque plastic hid the dark leather of the collar, obscured it.
He swallowed to feel the way the leather held him. It was reassuring.
He tested the water and decided it was good, then stepped into the shower. This too was reassuring, calming. He stepped under the spray and let the water rush over him, careful to ensure he was wet everywhere before he turned.
Master had told him to orgasm. He exhaled and closed his eyes. Better to do that before he began washing. He had to concentrate on making himself hard. He had learned for a long time how to not get hard. The last time he had been told to be erect it had been a part of training, with Master's guest. She had been brought in for his training on pleasing a Mistress.
He had been a little afraid that he wouldn't be able to perform, but Master had told him that to earn his collar he must. So much of his training had been about pleasing his Master, he had not expected the possibility that when he was sold it would be to a woman.
He had pleased her first with his mouth. It had come easily to him, and he had needed little instruction other than what she personally desired. She tasted very different from Master. He had been instructed then to get hard and to lay on the bench on his back. She had taken her pleasure with him then, guiding his hardened cock into her and riding him until she had orgasmed again.
He had not been given permission to orgasm. It had been difficult to hold it back, but he took pride in the fact that he had, that he kept his erection for her to use and controlled his body to please her. Master had been pleased as well.
Remembering how it felt to be inside her that way, he stroked over his cock, willing it to respond. It hardened and he remembered the feeling of her wetness, so different from Master's hand, from masturbating in the shower. He held the thought in his head, how close he'd come then and willed himself to just do it.
His hand tightened and pulled, twisting a little over the head of his cock. He wasn't often required to use his hands in serving, and he tried to imagine how to make his hands work the way his mouth did, rubbing his thumb over the slit in place of his tongue.
A ripple of unexpected pleasure moved through him and he opened his eyes. He repeated the motion and gasped. One more time and he came, his orgasm making him double over. The evidence of his pleasure washed away, down the drain with the water and he turned himself to his task.
He turned the heat up a little and reached for the shampoo. “Always begin your shower by cleaning your hair with the shampoo that Master has provided you.”
It had become routine. A part of his life. He never questioned, never faltered.
Wash his hair. Rinse. Scrub his body, toes, feet, legs, stomach and chest, face, hands, arms…genitals, ass.
He had to be clean and perfect.
When he finished, he stepped out of the shower and toweled off. Once he was dry he used the lotion all over his body. It kept his skin soft and supple. He paid special attention to his feet and elbows because they sometimes got dried out.
He turned to the mirror then, wiping it clean with the towel. He probably didn't need to shave, but decided he should anyway. He wanted to be perfect so that his Master could present him, so that his Master would desire to use him and offer the use of him to his company.
Each step was measured, his hands steady as he lathered his chin and jaw line, as he drew the razor carefully across his skin. He rinsed his face and dried it and paused a moment to examine it in the mirror. When he was satisfied, he lifted his hands to remove the plastic from the collar.
He allowed himself a moment of pride, the pads of his fingers running lightly across the top.
His final step is to prepare himself for service and he does so quickly, no more lube than necessary, working up to three fingers into himself before washing his hands.
He was ready.
He knelt in presentation pose as company arrived, as Master James welcomes them. He knelt, on display in the center of the room, his ankles crossed, his face pressed down to his knees, offering an unobstructed, uninterrupted view of his back and ass. His hands laid on the surface under him, ready to move to open himself up for inspection or push himself up to be seen. His skin was pristine, unmarked. He had not required instruction or punishment in many, many days. Over all, Master James is pleased.
"Oh, now James, the pictures don't quite do him justice."
He smiled and let them circle around the slave. There had been a time he would not have believed they would come this far. The boy had been incredibly hard to break, longer than any other he had ever had the pleasure of working on. Master James had nearly given up, when Thomas had come to him with an idea, devious and bloody, and probably outside his purview, but Razzmel had shown an enthusiasm for the task, and in the end it had been exactly what was needed to break that final wall and bring the boy willingly to his knees.
He joined his guests and let one hand caress the boy's head. "Let my guests see you, Slave."
Obediently, the boy lifted up, his legs spreading open to reveal his flaccid cock, his muscular thighs, his flat stomach. His eyes focus on James, on the lapel of his suit coat, appropriately blank, unseeing.
"You're sure this is the Winchester boy?"
James ran his thumb over the boy's lip, sticking it inside slowly and pressing his mouth open. "Yes. Exquisite, don't you think?"
"The same one that took a record breaking eight months to crack?"
He looked up at Angelina and grinned. "Eight months to crack, my dear, but perfectly trained in less than two."
Angelina raised one manicured hand to skim down the boy's back. "Are you so sure?"
"That is why you have been invited here this evening. To see for yourself." James looked up at her and smiled. "Assuming you're still interested."
"I don't care if she is." Charles said. "I am. I've been salivating over the idea of fucking this one since he broke."
James looked at the boy who had not yet moved. "Would that please you, Slave? To service my friends?"
"If it would please you, Master?" the boy responded.
"Indeed it would. Show them how well you have learned to use that mouth."
The boy nodded and glanced around the room, uncertain of where to start. Charles solved his problem by stepping in front of him, cock already out and in his hand. James withdrew to watch the boy work.
He knew from experience the slave was good with his mouth, those full lips were delicious and looked incredible wrapped around a thick cock like the one he was servicing now.
It didn't take him long to bring Charles to the brink, and Charles grabbed his hair and held him as he came.
"I'm next."
The slave turned to Mistress Marta as she lifted her skirt and laid back on the nearer couch. The boy looked to James for approval and when James nodded, he moved on all fours and lowered his head to her pussy. His head bobbed, his tongue moving diligently, his hands never moving from their position on the floor in front of the couch. Marta squirmed and squealed and came in a gush that left the slave's face wet.
Before he could move, Angelina grabbed his head and shoved his face into her own exposed groin. The slave responded easily, submitting to the roughness of her touch.
Like Marta, Angelina was already wet with anticipation, but unlike Marta, Angelina made the boy work for it. Still, he was victorious, wringing not one, but two orgasms from her before she released his hair.
The slave sat back, instantly in posture, waiting further instructions.
"I want him." Angelina said, standing and smoothing her skirts.
"Somehow, my dear, that doesn't surprise me. Come, dinner is ready. We'll discuss it then."
He worked hard to not show his fear as the brash Mistress with bright red hair clipped a leash to his collar. This was everything he had worked for. His Master had sold him, his training was over. His new life would begin as they moved out that door.
"You may walk, or it will take us forever to get upstairs." Her tone confused him, with anger and harshness that belied her words, but he stood, daring a brief glance at Master James before his eyes focus on the floor at his new Mistress' feet. "Come on then, we haven't got all night."
He followed as she walked out into the hall and into and elevator, careful to stay two steps behind and one to the left. In the elevator he knelt behind her, rising again when the doors opened. The night air was cool on his skin and his attention drifted slightly as he realized they were outdoors.
He didn't remember being without four walls, though some part of him registered that he knew this on some level. The leash tugged and he hurriedly refocused his attention. There was a car, a long car and she was getting inside, pulling him with her. He settled to his knees beside her on the floor, eyes firmly on his own knees.
He had not expected to be sold to a woman. Master had often said that Mistresses were rare, and ones who wanted to do more than train were rarer still.
He considered that perhaps a woman would be easier. Their pleasure was mostly served with the use of his tongue and sometimes they would require him to be hard to use his cock. They had never used his ass during his training, though one had put a fake cock into his mouth. It had confused him, because he could not see what pleasure she derived from the practice.
"Are you always this distracted, Slave?"
He blinked and stiffened. He had been distracted, thinking things he should not be thinking. "I….I am sorry, Mistress."
"What were you thinking?"
He tried to control the way his heart was beating erratically, his fear nearly something he could taste. "I…was thinking of ways to please you, Mistress."
She tightened her hold on the leash, dragging him closer. "You will please me any way that I desire, Slave."
"Yes, Mistress."
"And pray I don't decide you're a worthless excuse for a pleasure Slave and set you loose. I doubt you'd like the world outside anymore."
His breath hitched at the thought. It was something he had never let himself consider. If he wasn't good enough…He forced himself to put it out of his mind and concentrate. He was good enough or Master would not have given him his collar. He had proven himself. He would prove himself.
He remained focused for the rest of the drive, his eyes trained on the floor at her feet, his hands in his lap. When she pulled him from the car, he did not stumble or fall. He followed carefully, walking two steps behind her and one to the left as required. He did not look up to see where they were, or what manner of house he was led to. He did not shrink from the cool of the night, nor make a sound as he walked across stones and gravel. There was a heavy floral scent as they neared the door, something familiar that he couldn't place.
Jasmine, he realized as he spotted the flowers near the door. Though how he knew it's scent he was not sure.
She led him inside, to the cage that was his new home. It was not as big as the old one, with no pad to soften his sleep. He had to kneel and crawl to get inside, though her hand caressing his ass made him think that alone was the purpose. She closed the door and locked it before patting the top of the cage.
"Get some rest, I will be expecting you to be prepared for service in the morning."
He knelt in the middle of the cage as she turned and left the room, as the lights were turned out. He was not used to being so on display while caged. His cage had always given him some semblance of privacy.
He went to the corner and lay down, curling up tight and closing his eyes. The room was cold and noisy. Strange lights burned blue and green in the room and they made it hard to sleep.
He shivered, dozing fitfully as morning neared, waking uncertain of himself. The lights came on and he got up onto his knees, resisting the urge to rub his eyes. A man entered the room, crossed to the cage and opened it. "Come."
He crawled out of the cage and followed the man into a bathroom. "You have ten minutes. Mistress will be upset if you're late."
Ten minutes wasn't nearly enough time to prepare himself correctly. He relieved his bladder and got into the shower. The water wasn't nearly hot enough, but he couldn't make it hotter. He washed quickly and stepped out, turning to the mirror to shave. Before he was completely finished there was a noise and the door was opening.
"She's waiting, Slave."
He hurried, followed the man out to a sunny back porch where Mistress was waiting. He went to his knees beside her, bowing her head. "It's about time." Mistress said disdainfully.
He was not asked a question, so he did not respond, only knelt beside her while she had coffee and breakfast. He was hungry as Master had not fed him before his guests arrived, but he knew better than to voice his needs. It was not his place. If Mistress chose to feed him, she would. If she did not, he would stay hungry.
Abruptly, Mistress stood. "I will not tolerate slowness, Slave. You would do well to remember that. I am not lenient either. You will be punished for all infractions." She towered over him. "Present yourself."
He bent forward, shaking a little as he reached for his unlubricated ass. There hadn't even been time to look for lube in the bathroom. Her finger poked at him and she made a sound he interpreted to mean she was unhappy. "On your feet. Clearly you need to be trained in proper preparation."
He lurched to his feet, following as she led him inside, but not to the bathroom. They went to what appeared to be a training room. He shivered at the sight of the racks and benches. One wall was lined with leather whips and crops and floggers and paddles. He tore his eyes away from them and followed Mistress to a particular apparatus that he had seen only once before.
She raised an eyebrow and prodded him toward it. He lifted one knee and settled it into the hard plastic cup, then the other, until he was kneeling on the bench. Mistress moved in to secure the straps over his knees and ankles, then her hand glided over his back to his neck, covering the collar and pushing him forward over the cold iron bar. She latched the D ring in his collar to the smaller bar, making it so he could not lift his head, and secured his arms behind his back, running her hands over him when she was done.
"Now, I'm going to give you something to think about while I shower and get ready for my day, Slave." She held up a large dildo in front of him. "We'll see if you don't prepare yourself more completely next time."
He did everything he could not to tense up as it penetrated him, burning against un-lubed skin and still coming when his body resisted. It was bigger than Master's cock, thick and long and he was gasping before she was done. Her hand patted the end of it, sending shocks through him. And then, she was gone.
He knew better than to fight, knew it would only bring pain. Still, he had not been so locked down in a long, long time and his every instinct was to try to escape. He fought the urge and kept still, his eyes closed. He could manage this. He would learn. He would do better.
The boy was beautiful, Angelina could not deny that. She had lobbied hard to get the privilege of training him herself, but James was always the go to guy when it came to these special cases. Her job was to test his results, to put the boy through his paces and find any holes in need of filling.
She already had him off balance, she could tell. She watched him on the monitor while she dressed and prepared herself for the day. He was trying hard not to test the restraints, she could tell. His eyes were closed and he was breathing carefully through his nose.
Angelina sat at her desk, flipping open the file. James was a thorough master, and the boy was well trained. Any problems she was going to find would come from the boy himself. She started at the beginning of the file, the story of a boy who lost his mother when he was still young, trained from a young age to be obedient, which in turn had served them well enough once they'd broken him.
Then there was the thing with his brother. Angelina considered that for a long moment, eyes skimming over the statement from the son of some hunter that had bartered the Winchester boy for his freedom. The two brothers had grown up in the back seat of some car, dragged around the country by their hunter father and it was little wonder they had turned to one another for sexual gratification.
She turned to the notes from the process of breaking the boy. Over and over it was the brother's name he screamed out when he couldn't hold his silence. Over and over it was the brother's name he whispered in his dreams…and in the end, it was the simulated death of the brother that cracked him open and dropped him into the dark, dark place where he gave up fighting them.
Angelina unclipped the picture of the brother from the file and ran a finger over his face. He was a handsome guy himself, not as shatteringly pretty as the other, but still, a looker with pretty eyes and hair she'd love to grab fistfuls of. It gave her ideas.
She stood and headed for the training room, stopping in the office room of her secretary. She handed the picture to him. "Find me someone who resembles this. Over six feet, broad shoulders."
There were holes to be found, and Angelina was determined she would find them.
She had to admit, she was impressed.
Three days with little sleep, less food and endless humiliation and the boy was just starting to show wear. She had him on the brink now, laid over a bench with a fake cock up inside him, his inner thighs welted from the crop, fighting off the erection that the constant pressure on his prostate was trying very hard to provoke.
She lowered herself over his face, demanding his attention to her open pussy even as she turned on the vibration in his ass. He started, his eyes closing as his body twitched.
As his tongue started to work on her, she leaned forward over him, reaching for the dildo and working it in and out of him lazily, making sure it came in contact with his prostate with each shove in. He made some noise against her wetness, a bitten off grunt of need and she smiled. Almost. His tongue stuttered against her clit as she turned the vibrations up a little higher and let her hand brush over his struggling cock.
He actually gasped, the most noise she'd gotten out of him and she pulled away, turning to glare down at him. "What was that, Slave?"
He fought to get his breathing and arousal under control, though he was failing at both. "I'm sorry Mistress. I don't know--"
She slapped her crop down over his chest, stopping him. "You're right, you are sorry…a sorry excuse for a slave. You can not control your mouth or your body. Look at this." She slapped his cock with the crop and was rewarded with it filling completely, just as she'd wanted. "Perhaps I need to cage that thing to teach it a lesson?"
His eyes were dark and he pulled against his restraints. "Please…I can be good." He bit his lip and breathed hard through his nose and she watched him trying to make the erection go down.
"Good? Do you even know how?" She tapped the crop on the tip of his cock and he moaned. "I think you should be punished for this, Slave."
"Please, Mistress…" He was biting his lip and cringing when she unbuckled his restraints.
"On the rack."
His movements were stiff, slow, but he went, bending himself over the bar and settling his feet into the locking cuffs. She opted for a long belt, laying it over his ass and thighs until he was sobbing.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" She grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled his head back.
His voice cracked a little as he fought to get the words out. "Thank you Mistress. I will be good, better. I will."
"You better be, Slave or I will take that collar off your neck and throw you away. Unworthy to even bother trying to retrain. Your training Master will be very disappointed to learn you have failed him."
The beating and her words managed to deflate his cock, but she was pretty sure it wouldn't be long before he came all over himself and gave her all that she needed to take him back to James.
He had not been this sore since he had started his training. He stepped into the shower gingerly, hissing as the water touched his welted skin. He had been here only a week, and he had done nothing right since arriving.
He could not understand why. He was suddenly hard when he had not been asked to be, and no matter what he did for Mistress' pleasure she seemed to only be enraged. He had serviced her with this mouth repeatedly, but she seemed to never reach orgasm, and he would be punished.
She seemed to get more pleasure from punishing him and filling him with large dildos than with anything he did. He was confused and uncertain in ways he had not been since coming to Master James.
He touched his ass tenderly, opening it and cleaning it softly. It was sore from the service he had given the day before, servicing Mistress and her friends while they used ever bigger cocks on him.
He turned off the water and stepped out, drying carefully lest he break open the scabs on the welts left from his punishment for his erection, even if Mistress had chosen to use it to her pleasure once he was hard.
She had left the punishment to her valet, and the man had been vicious.
He brushed his teeth and pulled the lube down from the cabinet. He had learned that lesson early. Mistress was not above using his unprepared body. The lubricant was cool on his hot skin and he closed his eyes as two fingers sank into him, welcoming the relief.
That done, he raised a shaking hand to shave. Mistress was particularly picky about the hair on his face. He had been punished one day when his chin had hairs by midday. He wondered if perhaps she would ever be pleased with him, or if her pleasure truly came when he cried out in pain.
He blushed furiously red and couldn't even look at his own reflection. He should not think such things. Mistress had every right to take her pleasure as she chose, to use him to achieve that pleasure anyway she chose.
And if her pleasure came in watching him take her cane and her whip and her belt, he would serve.
He finished shaving and checked himself over. He could find no faults beyond his own shortcomings, which he knew would outweigh any physical defects anyway. He let himself out of the bathroom and went to where Mistress would be waiting.
He went to his knees beside her, not noticing at first that she had company. Her hand fell on the top of his head, using him as an armrest. He held himself still for her. "More coffee, Sam?" Mistress asked and he felt himself stiffen.
"Yes, please Angelina. I must say, I was intrigued when I received your letter about this slave."
"I do not know what James was thinking, Sam. He's pretty enough, but completely worthless in every way. He talks out of turn. He cannot control his cock. He cries of all things."
"Master James is usually much more thorough."
Mistress moved her hand under his chin and tugged him up. He stood, keeping his eyes down. He could not see the man clearly. "Look at what punishment has done to his skin. I can't even sell him now." She turned him so that his back was to the newcomer.
A large hand skated over his back, pressing in on scabs before ghosting over his ass. "These will heal."
Mistress turned his face toward the man. His smile was vague, his brown hair disheveled as he pushed his chair back from the table. The man stood, and he was easily six inches taller than he was himself. It made him feel small.
The hand left his chin and he sank back to his knees.
"Perhaps he just needs reminding of who he is."
A thick thumb caressed his lip. "Who are you, slave?" the man asked.
"I am nothing, sir. No one. Alone."
"Hmmm…shall we take him inside? I should like to see for myself."
They walk toward the doors, Mistress beckoning him when they are nearly there. He follows, though his eyes travel to the man's back. There is something familiar about him…something he can't place. Mistress laughs at something he says and leans into him, calls him "Sam" again and again…as if trying to remember his name.
As every other morning since his arrival here, they took him to the training room. He does not wait for instruction, moving to the presentation rack and stepping into position.
When he is in position, he feels Mistress' hand on his back, her finger sliding in to him. "At least he is better prepared today."
"See, he is not a total loss."
Another hand joined hers and he felt a thrill of excitement flush through him. It had been a week since Master had used him, and all that Mistress had put inside him had been cold rubber and metal. Perhaps she would let this man…this Sam, use him as he had been trained to be used.
"I think he likes you, Sam." Mistress says, her hand on his face. "He never looks that excited for me."
"Perhaps you just lack the proper equipment, Angelina." Sam says. "May I?"
"Suit yourself."
He was released from the rack. "Knees Slave."
He went easily, looking up expectantly. Nor was he disappointed. The man unzipped his pants and let his cock out. "Show me you're worth your Mistress' time."
He nodded, glancing up at her briefly before leaning in to take the limp cock in his mouth. He licked at it slowly, then, as it hardened, he sucked lightly at the tip, and down the length before opening his mouth to take him in. He was good at this. He knew that. He focused, concentrated, worked hard.
The sounds coming from the man were encouraging. He stepped up his efforts and two hands grabbed his head, holding him still as the man fucked his face to a finish. His come was hot and slick as it slid down his throat and a warm sense of satisfaction filled him as the man stepped back.
"You know, that is a mouth made for this." Sam said, grinning.
Something shifted in his stomach, the pride at his work slipping away. This wasn't right. This man wasn't Sam. Sam was dead.
He didn't know where the thought came from, but it wouldn't go away. It repeated around in his head. Sam is dead. Sam is dead.
A hand slapped against his face hard, bringing him back to the man standing in front of him. Mistress was glaring at him. The man squatted, one hand gliding over the stinging skin. "Shh…easy now."
Vague memory of someone else flitted through his head…someone who comforted him, someone who cared for him…He closed his eyes, but the memory was elusive, slipping away as that hand caressed his face. Sam The name came with a flush of emotion, desire and he groaned, his hands dropping to cover his sudden erection, then falling away.
Never cover up what belongs to Master.
"See what I mean?" Mistress asked, her voice hard and scary.
"Do you remember something Slave?"
He shook his head. He didn't. Not really. It was so vague, so elusive.
"I think you do." A hand closed around his hard cock, stroking it, making him cry out and fight not to move. "Tell me what you're thinking."
He shook his head again, his fists clenched on his thighs. He bit down on his lip hoping the pain would dull his arousal. When that didn't work, he looked up at Mistress. "Please, Mistress…punish me. Teach me to be better."
"Tell me who you're thinking of with your cock so hard." Sam said.
Not Sam. Sam is dead.
There were pictures, a smile so bright it hurts, a broken body, blood and come. He squeezed his eyes shut again. No. No. He could be good. He dug his fingernails into his palms, focused on the beating the day before. Nothing was working.
"Are you thinking about me, Slave?"
Sam. The sense of him is too much, tight, hot heat in a dark place, forbidden, dangerous, wrong…His body shuddered and his hand reached out, grabbing the wrist of the hand stroking his cock. "No. Please…please…"
He froze as he felt it, as his cock spilled onto the floor under him. His whole body burned with embarrassment and shame. For a long moment none of them moved. He waited for the pain, for the fury.
Sam left him, standing and moving away.
Mistress' boot heels rang out against the floor as she came closer. He cowered, head bent forward, expecting the lash or the paddle…or something worse.
Instead, her fingers touched his neck, slid along the top of the collar and before he could even register what was happening, she unbuckled the leather and let it fall to the floor.
Two sets of footsteps retreated, leaving him alone on the floor, naked without his collar.
Unworthy.
Bad.
Wrong.
Nothing.
No one.
Alone.
He couldn't stop shaking. He couldn't breathe. She would throw him away.
He knelt there on the floor, his eyes on the dark leather of the collar, unable to touch it, unable to look away from it. Master had given it to him because he was good. But he was not good enough to keep it.
Angry tears slid down his face, burning against his skin. He was a good slave. He had worked hard…and yet the evidence lay in slimy strings of come on the floor that proved him wrong.
He didn't know how long he knelt there, hours at least, before Mistress sent her valet. "Get up."
He moved to his feet, wanting to wipe his face, but knowing he shouldn't. The valet left the room and he followed. The house was quiet. Empty. He was escorted out of the house and onto the front porch.
The valet turned on his heel and went back inside, shutting the door behind him.
He stood there for a long time, staring at the door. The tears came back, along with a gnawing knot of fear that filled his stomach. He sank to his knees, his hands holding his sides as he waited to know what to do.
There was nowhere to go. He was alone. He wasn't even worth disciplining. Mistress had not bothered to punish him, only threw him out, threw him away.
The cold settled over him as the sun went down and he shivered, bending forward until his head was against the wood of the porch floor. The dark deepened and he drifted on the pain and discomfort.
Sometime later there was a sound, like a car, then footsteps. A shadow fell over him and a hand touched his back. He shifted, stirred enough to look.
White shoes and pants. He moved up so that he was kneeling. Master James.
"Look at you. What a mess." Master sounded angry, though he wasn't sure where the anger was directed. "No collar, your back all marked up, your eyes red and puffy. It's like you've never been trained."
"Please." His voice was barely a whisper, his hands lifting, but not daring to touch.
"You think I would take you back?" Master asked, his gloved hand brushing over his face.
"I can learn, I can be good. I can please you. Please let me try." He was hoarse and pleading.
"If you come back we start at the beginning again. I will not tolerate any disobedience."
He drew in a stuttering breath, not daring to look up. "I will be good. I will be perfect. I will obey."
Master's hand closed on his chin and tilted his head back, looking into his eyes. "You are nothing. You are no one. You are alone."
He had never felt the truth of those words more than that moment, teetering on the edge of not knowing, of fear and hope and the sick twist in his stomach of not good enough.
"Yes, Master."
"Say it."
"I am nothing. I am no one. I am alone."
For a long moment Master held him there, looking at him. Finally, Master released him and stood. "Get in the car, slave."
He knelt at Master's feet the whole way back to the place where Master lived, followed him inside. They went to the cage and Master held the door. "Sleep. We begin again in the morning."
Beginning again would mean the cock cage to retrain him not to get erect, and long hours in the positions, and servicing Master until he was perfect. It would be hard to go back as though he had learned nothing, but at least he wasn't thrown out, thrown away. He belonged again.
To Master.
++++++++++++++++++++
"Stop."
"What?" Sam looked at him funny, but was pulling over.
"Just stop the car."
Dean was out of the car before it was fully stopped on the side of the road.
"Dean?"
He held up a hand and paced beside the car. The smell of jasmine filled the air. It had started a mile or so before and it filled the car, dragging out a memory he didn't want. He had tried to stop it, but it came crashing out of the dark to assault him. "Jasmine." Dean said tightly when it was obvious Sam wasn't letting him off the hook. "The smell."
Sam nodded, one hand caressing over Dean's arm. "Memory?"
Dean shivered. He didn't want to talk about it. About her. His face flushed and he moved away from Sam, or tried to.
"I will take that collar off your neck and throw you away."
His hand rubbed over his empty neck. "Shit."
There were great big holes in his memory. Spotty recollections of days of captivity, of nights alone, of the time before Sam had left. Why this, why now? Jasmine.
The flowers were all along the road side, sticky with pollen and the air was heavy with the scent. Dean could feel it on his skin, thick like sweat and he rubbed at his arms trying to make it go away.
"He's pretty enough, but completely worthless in every way. He talks out of turn. He cannot control his cock. He cries of all things."
He squatted down beside the car, both hands covering his empty neck. He had worn the collar. He had been proud of it. And when he lost it, Dean had lost the very last piece of himself.
Nothing. No one. Alone.
It echoed around inside him, rolling him through an emotional morass that was going to drag him under if he didn't find some control.
She abused him mercilessly. Tormented him with anything and everything for days on end in an attempt to prove to him he was worthless. That he had learned nothing.
Sam squatted beside him. "Dean?"
He gasped in air, looked up at Sam and it flushed his mind with the memory…he wasn't Sam, but he was meant to provoke the memory of Sam.
Vague memory of someone else flitted through his head…someone who comforted him, someone who cared for him…He closed his eyes, but the memory was elusive, slipping away as that hand caressed his face. Sam The name came with a flush of emotion, desire and he groaned, his hands dropping to cover his sudden erection, then falling away.
Never cover up what belongs to Master.
"See what I mean?" Mistress asked, her voice hard and scary.
"Do you remember something Slave?"
He shook his head. He didn't. Not really. It was so vague, so elusive.
"I think you do." A hand closed around his hard cock, stroking it, making him cry out and fight not to move. "Tell me what you're thinking."
He shook his head again, his fists clenched on his thighs. He bit down on his lip hoping the pain would dull his arousal. When that didn't work, he looked up at Mistress. "Please, Mistress…punish me. Teach me to be better."
"Tell me who you're thinking of with your cock so hard." Sam said.
Not Sam. Sam is dead.
There were pictures, a smile so bright it hurts, a broken body, blood and come. He squeezed his eyes shut again. No. No. He could be good. He dug his fingernails into his palms, focused on the beating the day before. Nothing was working.
"Are you thinking about me, Slave?"
Sam. The sense of him is too much, tight, hot heat in a dark place, forbidden, dangerous, wrong…His body shuddered and his hand reached out, grabbing the wrist of the hand stroking his cock. "No. Please…please…"
He froze as he felt it, as his cock spilled onto the floor under him. His whole body burned with embarrassment and shame. For a long moment none of them moved. He waited for the pain, for the fury.
Sam left him, standing and moving away.
Sam reached for him and Dean pulled away. "Dean…let me…"
Dean shook his head, standing and backing away. "Sam…don't….just…give me a minute."
He couldn't fall apart. Not when they'd come so far. Not when Sam was barely hanging on. It hadn't been all that long ago Sam had nearly ended everything. Dean breathed through the rush of emotion, the shame and humiliation, the despair that came with the loss of the goddamn collar. "Fuck."
That only brought other memories skittering to the surface.
Master kissed him. “Dean. Please.” His hands cupped Dean’s face, then slid down, closing on the collar. “Here, let’s get this thing off.”
He bowed his head forward as Master worked the buckle, and he fought the whimper that came up as the collar came loose and fell away.
“Dean?”
He wasn't good enough. Never good enough.
Sam was suddenly beside him, arms circling his waist, pulling him in. "Dean, talk to me."
Dean shook his head, eyes closing. "Collar." He said as more memory bubbled up.
He huddled against the wall in the darkest corner of the room, the collar in his hands. It wasn't his cage, but it was the best he had here. He pressed his back to the wall and waited for Master to wake. Except he wasn't supposed to call him that. He didn't understand.
“Dean?” Master squatted beside him, his voice soft. “Are you okay?”
Dean shook his head. This wasn't okay, and he didn't know how to make it okay again.
“What’s wrong?”
He held the collar between them. “You don’t want me.”
“No…no Dean…I do want you…I went through hell to find you.”
Dean’s eyes lifted to Master's…Sam's, trying to understand, trying to know what to do. His hand twitched around the collar. “You took it off.”
Master Sam’s eyes caught on the collar, then came back to his. “Yes, I took it off Dean. You…don’t…I want you…but not like that.”
He was confused. “Sam?”
Master Sam nodded, his hand closing over Dean’s. “Yes, Dean. It’s Sam.” He kissed him then, fervently. “God I’ve missed you Dean.”
Dean shook his head. “Hard to remember.” He was supposed to remember. Master said so. But he didn't. Master wanted him to and he didn't.
“It’s okay…you’re going to be okay…I promise. I’m not ever leaving you again.”
“You bought me.” That much he was sure of. Master bought him.
Sam closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes, I did.”
“And you want me…but you took the collar off…” He wasn't sure what that meant. The collar meant he was good, that he was good enough, worthy of Master's attention.
“I want you Dean, not a collar.”
“I like the collar," he said, wanting Master to understand that he wanted to serve. “Please let me wear it for you. Let me please you.”
"Tell me." Sam whispered in his ear.
Dean let Sam pull him back so that they were leaning against the Impala. "The collar…when you took it off…."
Sam nodded against his shoulder. "I remember. You looked so scared. I didn't understand."
Dean swallowed around the loss and fear. "I was afraid because the first time…" His voice cracked and he still didn't want to talk about that. "…when I lost the collar before, I had to start the training all over again. I went back to the cock-cage and the restraints and the endless voices reciting the rules, and it was humiliating." His face was burning red and he knew the real humiliation was in how he'd begged to be taken back, to be retrained.
Sam had never gotten to that part. Dean carried those memories alone. Except for how most of them were lost in the dark places in his mind. He knew about them…he knew what was there, but the intimate details, the fine memory of moments spent learning to please his Master were blissfully still gone in whatever stroke of self preservation his mind had given him when it couldn't handle them anymore.
Dean drew in a shaky breath. The tide of memory seemed to fade, pull back and leave him more or less where he'd been before it started. "My turn to drive." Dean said, pulling away from Sam and holding out his hand for the keys. "And my turn to pick food. No offense, Sammy, but your taste in food sucks."
Dean stopped them at a diner for food and even though they still had a few hours of daylight, he pulled them into a motel shortly after. He left Sam to settle them in and went to shower, hoping the water would help scour off the sick feeling the roadside memory bomb had left him with.
The water wasn't nearly hot enough and the soap smelled like roses, but he scrubbed and rinsed and stepped out, wrapping a towel around himself and stepping back into the room. Sam had stripped himself naked and was laying on the bed, legs spread as he lazily stroked his cock. Dean leaned on the bathroom door to watch before clearing his throat. "That for me?"
Sam gave him a dopey grin. "I figured we stopped early because you were horny."
"Good enough reason to stop…it's not like we're actually going anywhere."
Sam moved his hand away and Dean could see the shiny slick of lube. He dropped his towel and crawled onto the bed, holding his hand out for the lube. Dean slicked his cock with it, the reached for Sam's. He knew this was Sam's way of pulling him out of the memory slide that had started on the side of the road, something to remind Dean of what was important…this…them…not the horrors of what happened.
Dean eased a finger into Sam, then a second. Sam hissed and Dean looked up, checking in. Sam nodded tightly, but Dean could see the discomfort on his face. After all, Sam had his own memories to fight with, his own horrors to face each time they touched.
Dean pulled his fingers out and changed tactics, sliding his cock up alongside Sam's. This was something they would never do…this was something they had together. He lined their cocks up, both of them slick and hard, moving to straddle Sam's leg and hip to make it work. His hand almost didn't fit around them both together, so he dragged Sam's hand up.
With both hands circling their cocks, Dean guided Sam in a long, slow pull up…and an equally slow slide back down. He watched Sam's face, his mouth open, his eyes focused on their hands.
Nothing.
Dean pushed the voice away and sped up the rhythm of their hands.
"A proper slave does not want anything but to please his master."
"Dean." Sam's voice pulled at him and Dean opened eyes he hadn't realized he closed. "Right here."
Dean nodded. His hand stuttered and Sam's hand tightened around their cocks, pulling them closer.
"A proper slave is never aroused without permission."
He closed his eyes again and focused on the feeling of his cock next to Sam's, on the feeling of safety, of Sam, of home.
"Dean." Sam's free hand covered the mark on his chest, the S that covered the J that used to be there. "Mine."
He nodded, his free hand moving to cover the D on Sam's chest. "Always, Sam. Mine."
"Always." Sam squeezed and twisted and Dean was coming, Sam following a few moments later. Dean grabbed the towel and cleaned them up before laying down beside Sam.
"I was thinking that maybe we could head toward Dad, but if you're not ready…"
Dean put his head on Sam's shoulder. "What if I'm never ready?" He rubbed a hand over his face. "I sound like such a girl." He listened to Sam's heart beating up at him. Maybe with their father around, Dean could find his way back to himself better. More than that, Dean was sure Sam needed their father around…to know that he was forgiven, to know that he was loved…not that John Winchester was good at either of those things, but…
"Dean?"
Dean lifted his head to look at Sam. "I say we go find Dad."
Sam smiled, though it was tired and strained. He closed his eyes and Dean laid back down, closing his own eyes. He breathed in deep of the smell of sex and cheap motel and Sam…the smells of home. Here he wasn't no one. He wasn't nothing.
He knew who he was…and it was time to stop running from it.
Title: The Sense of Self
Characters/Pairing: Dean/OMC, Dean/OFC, Dean/Sam
Rating:NC-17 (for violent sex, sexual slavery, etc)
Word Count: 9827
Summary: This is a story in two parts, the first examines the loss of self, the second the road back to self. This is dark fic, folks. The first part immediately follows Collaring. Dean has earned his collar, and is sold. The result is not what he expected. The second part takes place before Reunion when Sam and Dean are on their way to meet John at the Roadhouse.
A/Ns & Warnings: For Leslie, who asked for this a long time ago. I hope it lives up to your expectations. Warnings: This is a very OOC Dean. He is broken and programmed and this story gives us more look into the way he became the slave Sam found at the beginning of Broken. There is violence in the form of whipping, caning and paddling. There are degrading sexual situations. This is not a fic for everyone. For those of you familiar with and/or susceptible to falling into Sub-Space, be warned. That's where this Dean lives, and read at your own risk.
Excerpt from Gone
There was a voice suddenly, filling the space. “You are nothing. You are no one. You are alone.”
The voice was loud, bouncing off the walls. It disguised the approach of the person whose fist was suddenly in his hair. He was pressed forward, his ass invaded by a hand, then water, washing over him, into him. He slid onto his hip from the pressure, cussing as his elbow crashed into the floor.
“On your knees, slave.”
“The name’s Dean.” The backhand would have knocked him over if not for the hand in his hair.
“You are nothing. No one. Alone. On your knees for your master.”
“Woah, not liking the sound of that.”
The blow was like a line of fire across his back, and he yelped. “Slaves do not speak unless directly instructed to. On your knees.”
The fist in his hair yanked him up, onto his knees. This was not good. His body wasn’t responding to his need to move, his head pounded and his stomach still felt queasy. He was suddenly aware of another presence.
“He’s a strong one, Master.”
“Nothing you can’t handle though, right Thomas?”
“No Sir. He just needs some…special handling.”
There was amusement in the voice of the Master. “Oh, do you have suggestions for me?”
The one called Thomas tightened his fist in Dean’s hair. “I recommend a thorough beating, restriction of food and water, sensory deprivation, all for at least thirty six hours.”
“Hmmm…” There was a hand now on Dean’s chin, turning his face up. “Use the paddle and the riding crop, but I don’t want any blood. Don’t gag him until we’re sure he’s done vomiting. Wouldn’t do to kill him.”
The grip tightened. ”As of this moment, you have no name. As of this moment you have no purpose. You are nothing. You are no one. You are alone. You belong to me. Everything that is about to happen to you is because I wish it to be so.”
The hand in his hair disappeared and a body appeared behind him, pulling him tight against strong legs. There was something sharp, cutting into his chest. It felt like a “J” carved into his skin. “This is my mark, so everyone will know that you belong to me. So that everyone will know that you are nothing, no one, alone.”
The hand released him. “Bring him to me after his beating, I wish to evaluate him properly.”
And, from Collaring
”A good slave doesn’t have to ask his Master what he wants.” A heavy hand was on the back of his neck. “A good slave knows the rules, lives the rules and confesses freely when he breaks the rules.”
The hand came off his neck. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.” His heart pounded in his chest. He hadn’t broken any rules. He was sure.
“What is it I want, slave?”
He closed his eyes. “An obedient slave.”
“Are you obedient?”
His mind raced over the day so far. He had risen, showered properly, cleaned every inch of his body meticulously. Shaved himself clean. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair. He straightened his cage and cleaned the bathroom. He’d prepped himself carefully. Today was the day he was to earn his collar. Everything had been perfect. “I believe I am Master.”
“Present yourself.”
He stood and went to the apparatus. His feet slipped into the restraints and he bent forward over the curved top, both hands moving to part his ass cheeks. Once in position he raised himself to his tip toes, putting his ass on display.
The cold touch of a gloved finger caressed his skin. He didn’t move. It dipped inside him, testing, exploring. If Master was pleased with his preparation he would take his pleasure with him. He would accept him. He would be good enough. As the cock entered him, he tried hard to hold still, not because of any discomfort or shame, but because it meant he was good. His Master wanted him.
He was pleased. Master had allowed him to serve, had used his ass and freed him from the apparatus before sending him to clean himself. He knelt in his place, waiting.
There was someone with Master, a man he’d seen before. The man looked at him. “Dean.”
He came closer, Master coming with him. “Dean.”
He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to understand, but Master’s hand fixed it. He touched his face, cupped his chin to tilt his head up. “What is your name?”
“Slave.”
“What are you?”
“Nothing. No one. Alone.”
“And to whom do you belong?”
“You, master.”
The man beside Master smiled and nodded. “I’m impressed, Master James. Took forever to break him, but his training has made up for it.”
Master looked down at him, his face passive. He waited, his chin resting in Master’s hand. “Hmm…I will be sorry to see this one go. He’s a good fuck, and his mouth is heavenly.”
“I take it then that you want the other one?”
Master nodded and let go of him. “A matching pair is always fun.”
They walked away. He waited. The man left and Master returned, a box in his hand. “You have done well, Slave. I always award good performance. This is for you. You may open it.”
Master held the box in front of him and he opened it slowly, carefully. On a soft white pillow, a thick, black collar rested. He felt a rush of relief. He was good enough. He’d learned enough.
“You may speak.”
He nodded, licked his lips. “It is…beautiful, Master.”
Master’s thumb caressed his lip. “I am feeling generous.” He lifted the collar, caressing over it with gentle fingers. When Master moved close, he bowed his head to receive it. Master’s hands settled the collar around his neck, buckling it tightly. He could feel it when he swallowed. “You may return to your cage. I will give you a few hours to adjust to wearing it. We will be entertaining this evening.”
“Thank you, Master.”
When Master’s hand left him, he rose and went to the door that hid his cage. With that door closed, he let one trembling hand rise up to touch it. He let one finger slide along the top edge, up to the buckle, before sliding it down to the bottom and back around the front.
A collar.
His own collar.
He’d tried so hard for so long. His hand fell to the scar on his chest. It was his mark. His Master’s mark. He touched the collar again.
It fit snug against his neck, heavy and yet not unpleasant. It could never be unpleasant because it marked him as complete. Whole. Completely and perfectly pleasing.
He was good. He pleased his Master. He’d learned all the important things; to clean and prepare himself, to kneel properly, all his positions and postures, when to speak and when to hold his tongue. His performance in serving his Master’s needs had been flawless. His body was beautiful and unmarked and built to offer pleasure, and he was trained to submit and accept, to serve and satisfy.
He was ready.
There was a sense of accomplishment, accompanied by a thrill of fear. The collar meant that he would be leaving Master. Sold to someone new. He licked his lips and laid down on his small mat. It made him nervous.
He closed his eyes, swallowed against the leather. A new master. He indulged a moment of imagination, wondering what he would be like. Strong. Powerful.
A picture formed in his mind. Tall. Big hands. Messy brown hair.
An ache formed in his stomach. He shook his head. Chastised himself. He shouldn’t think of such things. Master said they would be entertaining. Better to prepare himself. He would prove himself worthy of his new collar.
He pushed the image away, swallowed the vague reminder that there had ever been anything other than this. Here. Him.
------------------------------------------
He was roused after a time alone, the light coming on in the cage to wake him and let him know that Master had need of him. He stretched, remembering the collar as the leather pressed into his skin.
He was good. He had proven himself.
He remembered that Master had been pleased. And with Master's pleasure, he was complete. He rose to his knees and moved to the door to the cage. It opened and he moved out, still on his knees, his head bowed.
He could smell food, hear others in Master's suite preparing for the company Master had mentioned. He waited and was rewarded with the warm touch of Master's hand on his head.
"Are you well?"
"Yes, Master."
"Good. As I mentioned, we will be entertaining this evening. Go and prepare yourself." Master's hand caressed over his head for a moment and when it lifted, it fit under his chin and tilted his face up. "Several of our guests have expressed an interest in you. I expect you to honor your Master."
"I will do my best."
Master nodded and took his hand away. "I am pleased with you, Slave. You may orgasm while you shower."
He bowed his head in thanks and waited until Master had moved away to rise to his feet and return to the bathroom. He closed the door gently and gave himself a moment to smile, grateful for the praise and the reward. It had been a long while since he had last been told he could be erect, longer still since he had been commanded to orgasm.
Pulling back his pleasure, he attended to his needs, relieving himself and flushing before turning to the shower and starting the water. He had showered once already, and cleaned up after Master had made use of him, but company was always cause for cleanliness, and Master had said he might be sold to one of them. It was best to be his best for them, right from the start. If he was pleasing, then he was good.
While the water heated, he turned to the mirror, checking his face to see if he needed to shave again. He found a new tool among his things and ran a hand over it reverently before lifting it.
The plastic was perfectly shaped to fit over his collar, to protect the leather from the water. He had seen one like it in the earliest days of his training, when Master's older slave had helped him learn how to clean himself.
He watched in the mirror as he lifted the plastic and fit it carefully around the leather, latching the Velcro in the back so that it fit snug to the collar. He didn't like the look, the opaque plastic hid the dark leather of the collar, obscured it.
He swallowed to feel the way the leather held him. It was reassuring.
He tested the water and decided it was good, then stepped into the shower. This too was reassuring, calming. He stepped under the spray and let the water rush over him, careful to ensure he was wet everywhere before he turned.
Master had told him to orgasm. He exhaled and closed his eyes. Better to do that before he began washing. He had to concentrate on making himself hard. He had learned for a long time how to not get hard. The last time he had been told to be erect it had been a part of training, with Master's guest. She had been brought in for his training on pleasing a Mistress.
He had been a little afraid that he wouldn't be able to perform, but Master had told him that to earn his collar he must. So much of his training had been about pleasing his Master, he had not expected the possibility that when he was sold it would be to a woman.
He had pleased her first with his mouth. It had come easily to him, and he had needed little instruction other than what she personally desired. She tasted very different from Master. He had been instructed then to get hard and to lay on the bench on his back. She had taken her pleasure with him then, guiding his hardened cock into her and riding him until she had orgasmed again.
He had not been given permission to orgasm. It had been difficult to hold it back, but he took pride in the fact that he had, that he kept his erection for her to use and controlled his body to please her. Master had been pleased as well.
Remembering how it felt to be inside her that way, he stroked over his cock, willing it to respond. It hardened and he remembered the feeling of her wetness, so different from Master's hand, from masturbating in the shower. He held the thought in his head, how close he'd come then and willed himself to just do it.
His hand tightened and pulled, twisting a little over the head of his cock. He wasn't often required to use his hands in serving, and he tried to imagine how to make his hands work the way his mouth did, rubbing his thumb over the slit in place of his tongue.
A ripple of unexpected pleasure moved through him and he opened his eyes. He repeated the motion and gasped. One more time and he came, his orgasm making him double over. The evidence of his pleasure washed away, down the drain with the water and he turned himself to his task.
He turned the heat up a little and reached for the shampoo. “Always begin your shower by cleaning your hair with the shampoo that Master has provided you.”
It had become routine. A part of his life. He never questioned, never faltered.
Wash his hair. Rinse. Scrub his body, toes, feet, legs, stomach and chest, face, hands, arms…genitals, ass.
He had to be clean and perfect.
When he finished, he stepped out of the shower and toweled off. Once he was dry he used the lotion all over his body. It kept his skin soft and supple. He paid special attention to his feet and elbows because they sometimes got dried out.
He turned to the mirror then, wiping it clean with the towel. He probably didn't need to shave, but decided he should anyway. He wanted to be perfect so that his Master could present him, so that his Master would desire to use him and offer the use of him to his company.
Each step was measured, his hands steady as he lathered his chin and jaw line, as he drew the razor carefully across his skin. He rinsed his face and dried it and paused a moment to examine it in the mirror. When he was satisfied, he lifted his hands to remove the plastic from the collar.
He allowed himself a moment of pride, the pads of his fingers running lightly across the top.
His final step is to prepare himself for service and he does so quickly, no more lube than necessary, working up to three fingers into himself before washing his hands.
He was ready.
He knelt in presentation pose as company arrived, as Master James welcomes them. He knelt, on display in the center of the room, his ankles crossed, his face pressed down to his knees, offering an unobstructed, uninterrupted view of his back and ass. His hands laid on the surface under him, ready to move to open himself up for inspection or push himself up to be seen. His skin was pristine, unmarked. He had not required instruction or punishment in many, many days. Over all, Master James is pleased.
"Oh, now James, the pictures don't quite do him justice."
He smiled and let them circle around the slave. There had been a time he would not have believed they would come this far. The boy had been incredibly hard to break, longer than any other he had ever had the pleasure of working on. Master James had nearly given up, when Thomas had come to him with an idea, devious and bloody, and probably outside his purview, but Razzmel had shown an enthusiasm for the task, and in the end it had been exactly what was needed to break that final wall and bring the boy willingly to his knees.
He joined his guests and let one hand caress the boy's head. "Let my guests see you, Slave."
Obediently, the boy lifted up, his legs spreading open to reveal his flaccid cock, his muscular thighs, his flat stomach. His eyes focus on James, on the lapel of his suit coat, appropriately blank, unseeing.
"You're sure this is the Winchester boy?"
James ran his thumb over the boy's lip, sticking it inside slowly and pressing his mouth open. "Yes. Exquisite, don't you think?"
"The same one that took a record breaking eight months to crack?"
He looked up at Angelina and grinned. "Eight months to crack, my dear, but perfectly trained in less than two."
Angelina raised one manicured hand to skim down the boy's back. "Are you so sure?"
"That is why you have been invited here this evening. To see for yourself." James looked up at her and smiled. "Assuming you're still interested."
"I don't care if she is." Charles said. "I am. I've been salivating over the idea of fucking this one since he broke."
James looked at the boy who had not yet moved. "Would that please you, Slave? To service my friends?"
"If it would please you, Master?" the boy responded.
"Indeed it would. Show them how well you have learned to use that mouth."
The boy nodded and glanced around the room, uncertain of where to start. Charles solved his problem by stepping in front of him, cock already out and in his hand. James withdrew to watch the boy work.
He knew from experience the slave was good with his mouth, those full lips were delicious and looked incredible wrapped around a thick cock like the one he was servicing now.
It didn't take him long to bring Charles to the brink, and Charles grabbed his hair and held him as he came.
"I'm next."
The slave turned to Mistress Marta as she lifted her skirt and laid back on the nearer couch. The boy looked to James for approval and when James nodded, he moved on all fours and lowered his head to her pussy. His head bobbed, his tongue moving diligently, his hands never moving from their position on the floor in front of the couch. Marta squirmed and squealed and came in a gush that left the slave's face wet.
Before he could move, Angelina grabbed his head and shoved his face into her own exposed groin. The slave responded easily, submitting to the roughness of her touch.
Like Marta, Angelina was already wet with anticipation, but unlike Marta, Angelina made the boy work for it. Still, he was victorious, wringing not one, but two orgasms from her before she released his hair.
The slave sat back, instantly in posture, waiting further instructions.
"I want him." Angelina said, standing and smoothing her skirts.
"Somehow, my dear, that doesn't surprise me. Come, dinner is ready. We'll discuss it then."
He worked hard to not show his fear as the brash Mistress with bright red hair clipped a leash to his collar. This was everything he had worked for. His Master had sold him, his training was over. His new life would begin as they moved out that door.
"You may walk, or it will take us forever to get upstairs." Her tone confused him, with anger and harshness that belied her words, but he stood, daring a brief glance at Master James before his eyes focus on the floor at his new Mistress' feet. "Come on then, we haven't got all night."
He followed as she walked out into the hall and into and elevator, careful to stay two steps behind and one to the left. In the elevator he knelt behind her, rising again when the doors opened. The night air was cool on his skin and his attention drifted slightly as he realized they were outdoors.
He didn't remember being without four walls, though some part of him registered that he knew this on some level. The leash tugged and he hurriedly refocused his attention. There was a car, a long car and she was getting inside, pulling him with her. He settled to his knees beside her on the floor, eyes firmly on his own knees.
He had not expected to be sold to a woman. Master had often said that Mistresses were rare, and ones who wanted to do more than train were rarer still.
He considered that perhaps a woman would be easier. Their pleasure was mostly served with the use of his tongue and sometimes they would require him to be hard to use his cock. They had never used his ass during his training, though one had put a fake cock into his mouth. It had confused him, because he could not see what pleasure she derived from the practice.
"Are you always this distracted, Slave?"
He blinked and stiffened. He had been distracted, thinking things he should not be thinking. "I….I am sorry, Mistress."
"What were you thinking?"
He tried to control the way his heart was beating erratically, his fear nearly something he could taste. "I…was thinking of ways to please you, Mistress."
She tightened her hold on the leash, dragging him closer. "You will please me any way that I desire, Slave."
"Yes, Mistress."
"And pray I don't decide you're a worthless excuse for a pleasure Slave and set you loose. I doubt you'd like the world outside anymore."
His breath hitched at the thought. It was something he had never let himself consider. If he wasn't good enough…He forced himself to put it out of his mind and concentrate. He was good enough or Master would not have given him his collar. He had proven himself. He would prove himself.
He remained focused for the rest of the drive, his eyes trained on the floor at her feet, his hands in his lap. When she pulled him from the car, he did not stumble or fall. He followed carefully, walking two steps behind her and one to the left as required. He did not look up to see where they were, or what manner of house he was led to. He did not shrink from the cool of the night, nor make a sound as he walked across stones and gravel. There was a heavy floral scent as they neared the door, something familiar that he couldn't place.
Jasmine, he realized as he spotted the flowers near the door. Though how he knew it's scent he was not sure.
She led him inside, to the cage that was his new home. It was not as big as the old one, with no pad to soften his sleep. He had to kneel and crawl to get inside, though her hand caressing his ass made him think that alone was the purpose. She closed the door and locked it before patting the top of the cage.
"Get some rest, I will be expecting you to be prepared for service in the morning."
He knelt in the middle of the cage as she turned and left the room, as the lights were turned out. He was not used to being so on display while caged. His cage had always given him some semblance of privacy.
He went to the corner and lay down, curling up tight and closing his eyes. The room was cold and noisy. Strange lights burned blue and green in the room and they made it hard to sleep.
He shivered, dozing fitfully as morning neared, waking uncertain of himself. The lights came on and he got up onto his knees, resisting the urge to rub his eyes. A man entered the room, crossed to the cage and opened it. "Come."
He crawled out of the cage and followed the man into a bathroom. "You have ten minutes. Mistress will be upset if you're late."
Ten minutes wasn't nearly enough time to prepare himself correctly. He relieved his bladder and got into the shower. The water wasn't nearly hot enough, but he couldn't make it hotter. He washed quickly and stepped out, turning to the mirror to shave. Before he was completely finished there was a noise and the door was opening.
"She's waiting, Slave."
He hurried, followed the man out to a sunny back porch where Mistress was waiting. He went to his knees beside her, bowing her head. "It's about time." Mistress said disdainfully.
He was not asked a question, so he did not respond, only knelt beside her while she had coffee and breakfast. He was hungry as Master had not fed him before his guests arrived, but he knew better than to voice his needs. It was not his place. If Mistress chose to feed him, she would. If she did not, he would stay hungry.
Abruptly, Mistress stood. "I will not tolerate slowness, Slave. You would do well to remember that. I am not lenient either. You will be punished for all infractions." She towered over him. "Present yourself."
He bent forward, shaking a little as he reached for his unlubricated ass. There hadn't even been time to look for lube in the bathroom. Her finger poked at him and she made a sound he interpreted to mean she was unhappy. "On your feet. Clearly you need to be trained in proper preparation."
He lurched to his feet, following as she led him inside, but not to the bathroom. They went to what appeared to be a training room. He shivered at the sight of the racks and benches. One wall was lined with leather whips and crops and floggers and paddles. He tore his eyes away from them and followed Mistress to a particular apparatus that he had seen only once before.
She raised an eyebrow and prodded him toward it. He lifted one knee and settled it into the hard plastic cup, then the other, until he was kneeling on the bench. Mistress moved in to secure the straps over his knees and ankles, then her hand glided over his back to his neck, covering the collar and pushing him forward over the cold iron bar. She latched the D ring in his collar to the smaller bar, making it so he could not lift his head, and secured his arms behind his back, running her hands over him when she was done.
"Now, I'm going to give you something to think about while I shower and get ready for my day, Slave." She held up a large dildo in front of him. "We'll see if you don't prepare yourself more completely next time."
He did everything he could not to tense up as it penetrated him, burning against un-lubed skin and still coming when his body resisted. It was bigger than Master's cock, thick and long and he was gasping before she was done. Her hand patted the end of it, sending shocks through him. And then, she was gone.
He knew better than to fight, knew it would only bring pain. Still, he had not been so locked down in a long, long time and his every instinct was to try to escape. He fought the urge and kept still, his eyes closed. He could manage this. He would learn. He would do better.
The boy was beautiful, Angelina could not deny that. She had lobbied hard to get the privilege of training him herself, but James was always the go to guy when it came to these special cases. Her job was to test his results, to put the boy through his paces and find any holes in need of filling.
She already had him off balance, she could tell. She watched him on the monitor while she dressed and prepared herself for the day. He was trying hard not to test the restraints, she could tell. His eyes were closed and he was breathing carefully through his nose.
Angelina sat at her desk, flipping open the file. James was a thorough master, and the boy was well trained. Any problems she was going to find would come from the boy himself. She started at the beginning of the file, the story of a boy who lost his mother when he was still young, trained from a young age to be obedient, which in turn had served them well enough once they'd broken him.
Then there was the thing with his brother. Angelina considered that for a long moment, eyes skimming over the statement from the son of some hunter that had bartered the Winchester boy for his freedom. The two brothers had grown up in the back seat of some car, dragged around the country by their hunter father and it was little wonder they had turned to one another for sexual gratification.
She turned to the notes from the process of breaking the boy. Over and over it was the brother's name he screamed out when he couldn't hold his silence. Over and over it was the brother's name he whispered in his dreams…and in the end, it was the simulated death of the brother that cracked him open and dropped him into the dark, dark place where he gave up fighting them.
Angelina unclipped the picture of the brother from the file and ran a finger over his face. He was a handsome guy himself, not as shatteringly pretty as the other, but still, a looker with pretty eyes and hair she'd love to grab fistfuls of. It gave her ideas.
She stood and headed for the training room, stopping in the office room of her secretary. She handed the picture to him. "Find me someone who resembles this. Over six feet, broad shoulders."
There were holes to be found, and Angelina was determined she would find them.
She had to admit, she was impressed.
Three days with little sleep, less food and endless humiliation and the boy was just starting to show wear. She had him on the brink now, laid over a bench with a fake cock up inside him, his inner thighs welted from the crop, fighting off the erection that the constant pressure on his prostate was trying very hard to provoke.
She lowered herself over his face, demanding his attention to her open pussy even as she turned on the vibration in his ass. He started, his eyes closing as his body twitched.
As his tongue started to work on her, she leaned forward over him, reaching for the dildo and working it in and out of him lazily, making sure it came in contact with his prostate with each shove in. He made some noise against her wetness, a bitten off grunt of need and she smiled. Almost. His tongue stuttered against her clit as she turned the vibrations up a little higher and let her hand brush over his struggling cock.
He actually gasped, the most noise she'd gotten out of him and she pulled away, turning to glare down at him. "What was that, Slave?"
He fought to get his breathing and arousal under control, though he was failing at both. "I'm sorry Mistress. I don't know--"
She slapped her crop down over his chest, stopping him. "You're right, you are sorry…a sorry excuse for a slave. You can not control your mouth or your body. Look at this." She slapped his cock with the crop and was rewarded with it filling completely, just as she'd wanted. "Perhaps I need to cage that thing to teach it a lesson?"
His eyes were dark and he pulled against his restraints. "Please…I can be good." He bit his lip and breathed hard through his nose and she watched him trying to make the erection go down.
"Good? Do you even know how?" She tapped the crop on the tip of his cock and he moaned. "I think you should be punished for this, Slave."
"Please, Mistress…" He was biting his lip and cringing when she unbuckled his restraints.
"On the rack."
His movements were stiff, slow, but he went, bending himself over the bar and settling his feet into the locking cuffs. She opted for a long belt, laying it over his ass and thighs until he was sobbing.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" She grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled his head back.
His voice cracked a little as he fought to get the words out. "Thank you Mistress. I will be good, better. I will."
"You better be, Slave or I will take that collar off your neck and throw you away. Unworthy to even bother trying to retrain. Your training Master will be very disappointed to learn you have failed him."
The beating and her words managed to deflate his cock, but she was pretty sure it wouldn't be long before he came all over himself and gave her all that she needed to take him back to James.
He had not been this sore since he had started his training. He stepped into the shower gingerly, hissing as the water touched his welted skin. He had been here only a week, and he had done nothing right since arriving.
He could not understand why. He was suddenly hard when he had not been asked to be, and no matter what he did for Mistress' pleasure she seemed to only be enraged. He had serviced her with this mouth repeatedly, but she seemed to never reach orgasm, and he would be punished.
She seemed to get more pleasure from punishing him and filling him with large dildos than with anything he did. He was confused and uncertain in ways he had not been since coming to Master James.
He touched his ass tenderly, opening it and cleaning it softly. It was sore from the service he had given the day before, servicing Mistress and her friends while they used ever bigger cocks on him.
He turned off the water and stepped out, drying carefully lest he break open the scabs on the welts left from his punishment for his erection, even if Mistress had chosen to use it to her pleasure once he was hard.
She had left the punishment to her valet, and the man had been vicious.
He brushed his teeth and pulled the lube down from the cabinet. He had learned that lesson early. Mistress was not above using his unprepared body. The lubricant was cool on his hot skin and he closed his eyes as two fingers sank into him, welcoming the relief.
That done, he raised a shaking hand to shave. Mistress was particularly picky about the hair on his face. He had been punished one day when his chin had hairs by midday. He wondered if perhaps she would ever be pleased with him, or if her pleasure truly came when he cried out in pain.
He blushed furiously red and couldn't even look at his own reflection. He should not think such things. Mistress had every right to take her pleasure as she chose, to use him to achieve that pleasure anyway she chose.
And if her pleasure came in watching him take her cane and her whip and her belt, he would serve.
He finished shaving and checked himself over. He could find no faults beyond his own shortcomings, which he knew would outweigh any physical defects anyway. He let himself out of the bathroom and went to where Mistress would be waiting.
He went to his knees beside her, not noticing at first that she had company. Her hand fell on the top of his head, using him as an armrest. He held himself still for her. "More coffee, Sam?" Mistress asked and he felt himself stiffen.
"Yes, please Angelina. I must say, I was intrigued when I received your letter about this slave."
"I do not know what James was thinking, Sam. He's pretty enough, but completely worthless in every way. He talks out of turn. He cannot control his cock. He cries of all things."
"Master James is usually much more thorough."
Mistress moved her hand under his chin and tugged him up. He stood, keeping his eyes down. He could not see the man clearly. "Look at what punishment has done to his skin. I can't even sell him now." She turned him so that his back was to the newcomer.
A large hand skated over his back, pressing in on scabs before ghosting over his ass. "These will heal."
Mistress turned his face toward the man. His smile was vague, his brown hair disheveled as he pushed his chair back from the table. The man stood, and he was easily six inches taller than he was himself. It made him feel small.
The hand left his chin and he sank back to his knees.
"Perhaps he just needs reminding of who he is."
A thick thumb caressed his lip. "Who are you, slave?" the man asked.
"I am nothing, sir. No one. Alone."
"Hmmm…shall we take him inside? I should like to see for myself."
They walk toward the doors, Mistress beckoning him when they are nearly there. He follows, though his eyes travel to the man's back. There is something familiar about him…something he can't place. Mistress laughs at something he says and leans into him, calls him "Sam" again and again…as if trying to remember his name.
As every other morning since his arrival here, they took him to the training room. He does not wait for instruction, moving to the presentation rack and stepping into position.
When he is in position, he feels Mistress' hand on his back, her finger sliding in to him. "At least he is better prepared today."
"See, he is not a total loss."
Another hand joined hers and he felt a thrill of excitement flush through him. It had been a week since Master had used him, and all that Mistress had put inside him had been cold rubber and metal. Perhaps she would let this man…this Sam, use him as he had been trained to be used.
"I think he likes you, Sam." Mistress says, her hand on his face. "He never looks that excited for me."
"Perhaps you just lack the proper equipment, Angelina." Sam says. "May I?"
"Suit yourself."
He was released from the rack. "Knees Slave."
He went easily, looking up expectantly. Nor was he disappointed. The man unzipped his pants and let his cock out. "Show me you're worth your Mistress' time."
He nodded, glancing up at her briefly before leaning in to take the limp cock in his mouth. He licked at it slowly, then, as it hardened, he sucked lightly at the tip, and down the length before opening his mouth to take him in. He was good at this. He knew that. He focused, concentrated, worked hard.
The sounds coming from the man were encouraging. He stepped up his efforts and two hands grabbed his head, holding him still as the man fucked his face to a finish. His come was hot and slick as it slid down his throat and a warm sense of satisfaction filled him as the man stepped back.
"You know, that is a mouth made for this." Sam said, grinning.
Something shifted in his stomach, the pride at his work slipping away. This wasn't right. This man wasn't Sam. Sam was dead.
He didn't know where the thought came from, but it wouldn't go away. It repeated around in his head. Sam is dead. Sam is dead.
A hand slapped against his face hard, bringing him back to the man standing in front of him. Mistress was glaring at him. The man squatted, one hand gliding over the stinging skin. "Shh…easy now."
Vague memory of someone else flitted through his head…someone who comforted him, someone who cared for him…He closed his eyes, but the memory was elusive, slipping away as that hand caressed his face. Sam The name came with a flush of emotion, desire and he groaned, his hands dropping to cover his sudden erection, then falling away.
Never cover up what belongs to Master.
"See what I mean?" Mistress asked, her voice hard and scary.
"Do you remember something Slave?"
He shook his head. He didn't. Not really. It was so vague, so elusive.
"I think you do." A hand closed around his hard cock, stroking it, making him cry out and fight not to move. "Tell me what you're thinking."
He shook his head again, his fists clenched on his thighs. He bit down on his lip hoping the pain would dull his arousal. When that didn't work, he looked up at Mistress. "Please, Mistress…punish me. Teach me to be better."
"Tell me who you're thinking of with your cock so hard." Sam said.
Not Sam. Sam is dead.
There were pictures, a smile so bright it hurts, a broken body, blood and come. He squeezed his eyes shut again. No. No. He could be good. He dug his fingernails into his palms, focused on the beating the day before. Nothing was working.
"Are you thinking about me, Slave?"
Sam. The sense of him is too much, tight, hot heat in a dark place, forbidden, dangerous, wrong…His body shuddered and his hand reached out, grabbing the wrist of the hand stroking his cock. "No. Please…please…"
He froze as he felt it, as his cock spilled onto the floor under him. His whole body burned with embarrassment and shame. For a long moment none of them moved. He waited for the pain, for the fury.
Sam left him, standing and moving away.
Mistress' boot heels rang out against the floor as she came closer. He cowered, head bent forward, expecting the lash or the paddle…or something worse.
Instead, her fingers touched his neck, slid along the top of the collar and before he could even register what was happening, she unbuckled the leather and let it fall to the floor.
Two sets of footsteps retreated, leaving him alone on the floor, naked without his collar.
Unworthy.
Bad.
Wrong.
Nothing.
No one.
Alone.
He couldn't stop shaking. He couldn't breathe. She would throw him away.
He knelt there on the floor, his eyes on the dark leather of the collar, unable to touch it, unable to look away from it. Master had given it to him because he was good. But he was not good enough to keep it.
Angry tears slid down his face, burning against his skin. He was a good slave. He had worked hard…and yet the evidence lay in slimy strings of come on the floor that proved him wrong.
He didn't know how long he knelt there, hours at least, before Mistress sent her valet. "Get up."
He moved to his feet, wanting to wipe his face, but knowing he shouldn't. The valet left the room and he followed. The house was quiet. Empty. He was escorted out of the house and onto the front porch.
The valet turned on his heel and went back inside, shutting the door behind him.
He stood there for a long time, staring at the door. The tears came back, along with a gnawing knot of fear that filled his stomach. He sank to his knees, his hands holding his sides as he waited to know what to do.
There was nowhere to go. He was alone. He wasn't even worth disciplining. Mistress had not bothered to punish him, only threw him out, threw him away.
The cold settled over him as the sun went down and he shivered, bending forward until his head was against the wood of the porch floor. The dark deepened and he drifted on the pain and discomfort.
Sometime later there was a sound, like a car, then footsteps. A shadow fell over him and a hand touched his back. He shifted, stirred enough to look.
White shoes and pants. He moved up so that he was kneeling. Master James.
"Look at you. What a mess." Master sounded angry, though he wasn't sure where the anger was directed. "No collar, your back all marked up, your eyes red and puffy. It's like you've never been trained."
"Please." His voice was barely a whisper, his hands lifting, but not daring to touch.
"You think I would take you back?" Master asked, his gloved hand brushing over his face.
"I can learn, I can be good. I can please you. Please let me try." He was hoarse and pleading.
"If you come back we start at the beginning again. I will not tolerate any disobedience."
He drew in a stuttering breath, not daring to look up. "I will be good. I will be perfect. I will obey."
Master's hand closed on his chin and tilted his head back, looking into his eyes. "You are nothing. You are no one. You are alone."
He had never felt the truth of those words more than that moment, teetering on the edge of not knowing, of fear and hope and the sick twist in his stomach of not good enough.
"Yes, Master."
"Say it."
"I am nothing. I am no one. I am alone."
For a long moment Master held him there, looking at him. Finally, Master released him and stood. "Get in the car, slave."
He knelt at Master's feet the whole way back to the place where Master lived, followed him inside. They went to the cage and Master held the door. "Sleep. We begin again in the morning."
Beginning again would mean the cock cage to retrain him not to get erect, and long hours in the positions, and servicing Master until he was perfect. It would be hard to go back as though he had learned nothing, but at least he wasn't thrown out, thrown away. He belonged again.
To Master.
++++++++++++++++++++
"Stop."
"What?" Sam looked at him funny, but was pulling over.
"Just stop the car."
Dean was out of the car before it was fully stopped on the side of the road.
"Dean?"
He held up a hand and paced beside the car. The smell of jasmine filled the air. It had started a mile or so before and it filled the car, dragging out a memory he didn't want. He had tried to stop it, but it came crashing out of the dark to assault him. "Jasmine." Dean said tightly when it was obvious Sam wasn't letting him off the hook. "The smell."
Sam nodded, one hand caressing over Dean's arm. "Memory?"
Dean shivered. He didn't want to talk about it. About her. His face flushed and he moved away from Sam, or tried to.
"I will take that collar off your neck and throw you away."
His hand rubbed over his empty neck. "Shit."
There were great big holes in his memory. Spotty recollections of days of captivity, of nights alone, of the time before Sam had left. Why this, why now? Jasmine.
The flowers were all along the road side, sticky with pollen and the air was heavy with the scent. Dean could feel it on his skin, thick like sweat and he rubbed at his arms trying to make it go away.
"He's pretty enough, but completely worthless in every way. He talks out of turn. He cannot control his cock. He cries of all things."
He squatted down beside the car, both hands covering his empty neck. He had worn the collar. He had been proud of it. And when he lost it, Dean had lost the very last piece of himself.
Nothing. No one. Alone.
It echoed around inside him, rolling him through an emotional morass that was going to drag him under if he didn't find some control.
She abused him mercilessly. Tormented him with anything and everything for days on end in an attempt to prove to him he was worthless. That he had learned nothing.
Sam squatted beside him. "Dean?"
He gasped in air, looked up at Sam and it flushed his mind with the memory…he wasn't Sam, but he was meant to provoke the memory of Sam.
Vague memory of someone else flitted through his head…someone who comforted him, someone who cared for him…He closed his eyes, but the memory was elusive, slipping away as that hand caressed his face. Sam The name came with a flush of emotion, desire and he groaned, his hands dropping to cover his sudden erection, then falling away.
Never cover up what belongs to Master.
"See what I mean?" Mistress asked, her voice hard and scary.
"Do you remember something Slave?"
He shook his head. He didn't. Not really. It was so vague, so elusive.
"I think you do." A hand closed around his hard cock, stroking it, making him cry out and fight not to move. "Tell me what you're thinking."
He shook his head again, his fists clenched on his thighs. He bit down on his lip hoping the pain would dull his arousal. When that didn't work, he looked up at Mistress. "Please, Mistress…punish me. Teach me to be better."
"Tell me who you're thinking of with your cock so hard." Sam said.
Not Sam. Sam is dead.
There were pictures, a smile so bright it hurts, a broken body, blood and come. He squeezed his eyes shut again. No. No. He could be good. He dug his fingernails into his palms, focused on the beating the day before. Nothing was working.
"Are you thinking about me, Slave?"
Sam. The sense of him is too much, tight, hot heat in a dark place, forbidden, dangerous, wrong…His body shuddered and his hand reached out, grabbing the wrist of the hand stroking his cock. "No. Please…please…"
He froze as he felt it, as his cock spilled onto the floor under him. His whole body burned with embarrassment and shame. For a long moment none of them moved. He waited for the pain, for the fury.
Sam left him, standing and moving away.
Sam reached for him and Dean pulled away. "Dean…let me…"
Dean shook his head, standing and backing away. "Sam…don't….just…give me a minute."
He couldn't fall apart. Not when they'd come so far. Not when Sam was barely hanging on. It hadn't been all that long ago Sam had nearly ended everything. Dean breathed through the rush of emotion, the shame and humiliation, the despair that came with the loss of the goddamn collar. "Fuck."
That only brought other memories skittering to the surface.
Master kissed him. “Dean. Please.” His hands cupped Dean’s face, then slid down, closing on the collar. “Here, let’s get this thing off.”
He bowed his head forward as Master worked the buckle, and he fought the whimper that came up as the collar came loose and fell away.
“Dean?”
He wasn't good enough. Never good enough.
Sam was suddenly beside him, arms circling his waist, pulling him in. "Dean, talk to me."
Dean shook his head, eyes closing. "Collar." He said as more memory bubbled up.
He huddled against the wall in the darkest corner of the room, the collar in his hands. It wasn't his cage, but it was the best he had here. He pressed his back to the wall and waited for Master to wake. Except he wasn't supposed to call him that. He didn't understand.
“Dean?” Master squatted beside him, his voice soft. “Are you okay?”
Dean shook his head. This wasn't okay, and he didn't know how to make it okay again.
“What’s wrong?”
He held the collar between them. “You don’t want me.”
“No…no Dean…I do want you…I went through hell to find you.”
Dean’s eyes lifted to Master's…Sam's, trying to understand, trying to know what to do. His hand twitched around the collar. “You took it off.”
Master Sam’s eyes caught on the collar, then came back to his. “Yes, I took it off Dean. You…don’t…I want you…but not like that.”
He was confused. “Sam?”
Master Sam nodded, his hand closing over Dean’s. “Yes, Dean. It’s Sam.” He kissed him then, fervently. “God I’ve missed you Dean.”
Dean shook his head. “Hard to remember.” He was supposed to remember. Master said so. But he didn't. Master wanted him to and he didn't.
“It’s okay…you’re going to be okay…I promise. I’m not ever leaving you again.”
“You bought me.” That much he was sure of. Master bought him.
Sam closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes, I did.”
“And you want me…but you took the collar off…” He wasn't sure what that meant. The collar meant he was good, that he was good enough, worthy of Master's attention.
“I want you Dean, not a collar.”
“I like the collar," he said, wanting Master to understand that he wanted to serve. “Please let me wear it for you. Let me please you.”
"Tell me." Sam whispered in his ear.
Dean let Sam pull him back so that they were leaning against the Impala. "The collar…when you took it off…."
Sam nodded against his shoulder. "I remember. You looked so scared. I didn't understand."
Dean swallowed around the loss and fear. "I was afraid because the first time…" His voice cracked and he still didn't want to talk about that. "…when I lost the collar before, I had to start the training all over again. I went back to the cock-cage and the restraints and the endless voices reciting the rules, and it was humiliating." His face was burning red and he knew the real humiliation was in how he'd begged to be taken back, to be retrained.
Sam had never gotten to that part. Dean carried those memories alone. Except for how most of them were lost in the dark places in his mind. He knew about them…he knew what was there, but the intimate details, the fine memory of moments spent learning to please his Master were blissfully still gone in whatever stroke of self preservation his mind had given him when it couldn't handle them anymore.
Dean drew in a shaky breath. The tide of memory seemed to fade, pull back and leave him more or less where he'd been before it started. "My turn to drive." Dean said, pulling away from Sam and holding out his hand for the keys. "And my turn to pick food. No offense, Sammy, but your taste in food sucks."
Dean stopped them at a diner for food and even though they still had a few hours of daylight, he pulled them into a motel shortly after. He left Sam to settle them in and went to shower, hoping the water would help scour off the sick feeling the roadside memory bomb had left him with.
The water wasn't nearly hot enough and the soap smelled like roses, but he scrubbed and rinsed and stepped out, wrapping a towel around himself and stepping back into the room. Sam had stripped himself naked and was laying on the bed, legs spread as he lazily stroked his cock. Dean leaned on the bathroom door to watch before clearing his throat. "That for me?"
Sam gave him a dopey grin. "I figured we stopped early because you were horny."
"Good enough reason to stop…it's not like we're actually going anywhere."
Sam moved his hand away and Dean could see the shiny slick of lube. He dropped his towel and crawled onto the bed, holding his hand out for the lube. Dean slicked his cock with it, the reached for Sam's. He knew this was Sam's way of pulling him out of the memory slide that had started on the side of the road, something to remind Dean of what was important…this…them…not the horrors of what happened.
Dean eased a finger into Sam, then a second. Sam hissed and Dean looked up, checking in. Sam nodded tightly, but Dean could see the discomfort on his face. After all, Sam had his own memories to fight with, his own horrors to face each time they touched.
Dean pulled his fingers out and changed tactics, sliding his cock up alongside Sam's. This was something they would never do…this was something they had together. He lined their cocks up, both of them slick and hard, moving to straddle Sam's leg and hip to make it work. His hand almost didn't fit around them both together, so he dragged Sam's hand up.
With both hands circling their cocks, Dean guided Sam in a long, slow pull up…and an equally slow slide back down. He watched Sam's face, his mouth open, his eyes focused on their hands.
Nothing.
Dean pushed the voice away and sped up the rhythm of their hands.
"A proper slave does not want anything but to please his master."
"Dean." Sam's voice pulled at him and Dean opened eyes he hadn't realized he closed. "Right here."
Dean nodded. His hand stuttered and Sam's hand tightened around their cocks, pulling them closer.
"A proper slave is never aroused without permission."
He closed his eyes again and focused on the feeling of his cock next to Sam's, on the feeling of safety, of Sam, of home.
"Dean." Sam's free hand covered the mark on his chest, the S that covered the J that used to be there. "Mine."
He nodded, his free hand moving to cover the D on Sam's chest. "Always, Sam. Mine."
"Always." Sam squeezed and twisted and Dean was coming, Sam following a few moments later. Dean grabbed the towel and cleaned them up before laying down beside Sam.
"I was thinking that maybe we could head toward Dad, but if you're not ready…"
Dean put his head on Sam's shoulder. "What if I'm never ready?" He rubbed a hand over his face. "I sound like such a girl." He listened to Sam's heart beating up at him. Maybe with their father around, Dean could find his way back to himself better. More than that, Dean was sure Sam needed their father around…to know that he was forgiven, to know that he was loved…not that John Winchester was good at either of those things, but…
"Dean?"
Dean lifted his head to look at Sam. "I say we go find Dad."
Sam smiled, though it was tired and strained. He closed his eyes and Dean laid back down, closing his own eyes. He breathed in deep of the smell of sex and cheap motel and Sam…the smells of home. Here he wasn't no one. He wasn't nothing.
He knew who he was…and it was time to stop running from it.
