arms.
“A little more,” he demands.
My shoulders still hurt, remnants of the abuse I suffered at the brothel. I pray there’s no permanent damage, that I’ve just pulled a muscle or a tendon or something, but the longer it lasts, the more afraid I get. I doubt my master would want a permanently damaged slave. I used to be able to diagram all the parts of the human anatomy, but now all I know is that my arms and shoulders hurt a fuckton.
“I can’t put my arms above my head without being in a lot of pain, master,” I confess. “I’m hoping it will heal on its own.”
“You should have seen a doctor when I first bought you,” he comments. “Do you need to see one now?”
I consider the lingering pain in my arms. “Well… maybe. I’m not sure.”
He looks at me and I expect to see pity. I don’t. All I see is irritation, presumably at me, presumably because I can’t even make the decision of whether I need to see a goddamn doctor or not.
“What happened?” he asks.
I’m surprised he cares, but it still seems so impersonal. “I was tied and hung by my arms for a few hours, master.” I was beaten and raped and taunted throughout the process as well, but I spare my master these details. A part of me doesn’t want him to get any ideas of how to use me; another part of me doesn’t want to admit what has been done. He seemed disgusted enough with my condition when he brought me home.
“Are your arms or hands numb at all?” he asks.
“No, master, not anymore.”
He nods. “You’ll tell me if it gets worse or if it doesn’t go away in a few days. My doctor can get you in immediately.”
I’m relieved. When I told Mistress Bethel about it, she hit me and told me to stop whining about it. “Thank you, master.”
I’m elated that my master hasn’t sold me, yet. I know it can happen at any time, and I know that I can go back to a brothel, or to someone who hurts me. He doesn’t seem to like me, at least, not in a way that I’ve ever seen a master act when he likes a slave, but he also doesn’t seem to be as disgusted as he was when he first brought me home. I do my best to please him, hoping for a kind word, and acknowledgement, something to tell me that I’m doing the right thing. But I know better than to ever hope for something like that. It’s all business with him; I’m his property, he’s training me to serve better. It’s all I can do to keep myself from begging him not to sell me off once I’m trained to his specifications.
“It won’t do to have you immobile,” he replies. “Let’s focus on some lower body moves.”
I bite down on my tongue, because the idea of working on my lower body makes me think of something far more exciting than slave postures. The fact that he’s been touching me, just barely, but still enough to feel the soft strength in his hands, doesn’t help that matter at all.
“Kneel,” he orders, when I stand there like a statue. “Like you’re waiting for orders.”
I’m relieved by the order, just as I’m relieved by his brusque manner. He poses me like a mannequin, guiding my body parts to the proper location without saying more than a few words. Hands a little higher. Legs wider apart. Back straight. Head up. In between, he stops and nods. I can’t tell if he’s approving of my work or his.
There’s one thing in particular that I’m supposed to do while kneeling, that I’m apparently doing all wrong, and his pointers just aren’t cutting it. He comes up behind me, after ordering me to keep facing forward, and nudges my legs apart a little with his foot. He doesn’t kick, which is nice. Once he does that, he stays, standing between my legs, and he leans over to position my arms from above.
I try my best not to think about the fact that my head is at the exact level of his cock.
“You need to relax, you’re far too stiff for this to work.”
His words only increase the tension, and the warmth of his body against my back makes me
“A little more,” he demands.
My shoulders still hurt, remnants of the abuse I suffered at the brothel. I pray there’s no permanent damage, that I’ve just pulled a muscle or a tendon or something, but the longer it lasts, the more afraid I get. I doubt my master would want a permanently damaged slave. I used to be able to diagram all the parts of the human anatomy, but now all I know is that my arms and shoulders hurt a fuckton.
“I can’t put my arms above my head without being in a lot of pain, master,” I confess. “I’m hoping it will heal on its own.”
“You should have seen a doctor when I first bought you,” he comments. “Do you need to see one now?”
I consider the lingering pain in my arms. “Well… maybe. I’m not sure.”
He looks at me and I expect to see pity. I don’t. All I see is irritation, presumably at me, presumably because I can’t even make the decision of whether I need to see a goddamn doctor or not.
“What happened?” he asks.
I’m surprised he cares, but it still seems so impersonal. “I was tied and hung by my arms for a few hours, master.” I was beaten and raped and taunted throughout the process as well, but I spare my master these details. A part of me doesn’t want him to get any ideas of how to use me; another part of me doesn’t want to admit what has been done. He seemed disgusted enough with my condition when he brought me home.
“Are your arms or hands numb at all?” he asks.
“No, master, not anymore.”
He nods. “You’ll tell me if it gets worse or if it doesn’t go away in a few days. My doctor can get you in immediately.”
I’m relieved. When I told Mistress Bethel about it, she hit me and told me to stop whining about it. “Thank you, master.”
I’m elated that my master hasn’t sold me, yet. I know it can happen at any time, and I know that I can go back to a brothel, or to someone who hurts me. He doesn’t seem to like me, at least, not in a way that I’ve ever seen a master act when he likes a slave, but he also doesn’t seem to be as disgusted as he was when he first brought me home. I do my best to please him, hoping for a kind word, and acknowledgement, something to tell me that I’m doing the right thing. But I know better than to ever hope for something like that. It’s all business with him; I’m his property, he’s training me to serve better. It’s all I can do to keep myself from begging him not to sell me off once I’m trained to his specifications.
“It won’t do to have you immobile,” he replies. “Let’s focus on some lower body moves.”
I bite down on my tongue, because the idea of working on my lower body makes me think of something far more exciting than slave postures. The fact that he’s been touching me, just barely, but still enough to feel the soft strength in his hands, doesn’t help that matter at all.
“Kneel,” he orders, when I stand there like a statue. “Like you’re waiting for orders.”
I’m relieved by the order, just as I’m relieved by his brusque manner. He poses me like a mannequin, guiding my body parts to the proper location without saying more than a few words. Hands a little higher. Legs wider apart. Back straight. Head up. In between, he stops and nods. I can’t tell if he’s approving of my work or his.
There’s one thing in particular that I’m supposed to do while kneeling, that I’m apparently doing all wrong, and his pointers just aren’t cutting it. He comes up behind me, after ordering me to keep facing forward, and nudges my legs apart a little with his foot. He doesn’t kick, which is nice. Once he does that, he stays, standing between my legs, and he leans over to position my arms from above.
I try my best not to think about the fact that my head is at the exact level of his cock.
“You need to relax, you’re far too stiff for this to work.”
His words only increase the tension, and the warmth of his body against my back makes me
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