The Tenth Master

IN REGARDS TO THE WARNINGS: This is really more of an R rated fic, and it's more dark/angsty than anything else, but I just wanted to be careful. I hate reading a fic and stumbling across something that I wasn't warned about, so I figured it was better to "over exaggerate" the warnings that to take the risk of doing that to one of my own readers. That being said, just keep in mind that this fic is about a slave's past, and you should be fine.

ALSO: As mentioned in the "summary," this is a companion fic to my earlier ficclette entitled Whimpers. It's been a long time in coming, so I apologise to the one or two readers who have had to wait about two years for this, but suffice it to say that I've been very sick. I do keep my promises, however, so here is the first of (at least) two companion fics for Whimpers, all of which will eventually make up a "story" dealing with a slave and his master. That being said, please enjoy:

~~The Tenth Master~~


The very first time he was purchased, the Boy felt excited. His master was an older man who lived by himself, and kept a limited number of slaves for the sole purpose of maintaining the house and easing his day-to-day routine. The Boy completed simple tasks – such as going to the nearby market to buy a copy of the weekly newspaper for his master to read after lunch – but his main purpose was simply to bring some life back into the old house.

At first, the Boy was thrilled to help out. He and the other slave children had been told repeatedly that they had no worth what-so-ever until they were purchased, so the Boy viewed his new life as recognition of his worth; proof that he had a purpose. But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, the reality of his situation seemed to sink in. By the end of the first year, the Boy had become restless; living in a household full of adults was tiresome for an eight-year-old, and he longed for adventure. If he had known then what was to become of him, the Boy would have thanked whatever gods he had believed in at the time for a kind master who gave him good clothing, plenty of food, and simple chores, but at the time he knew nothing of the world and longed only for the freedom it seemed to offer.

When the Boy turned nine, his master decided to sell him to a friend who was in need of a young male slave to serve as a companion for his own son. The Boy went willingly, glad to have the company of someone his own age, but he soon learned of the injustices that a slave of his rank had to endure. His “Young Master” was a spoiled child who constantly got into trouble, and to his dismay the Boy discovered that he was the one to receive the punishment. Thankfully, after a year and a half, his master decided to purchase a new slave for his son, and the Boy was taken along to be re-sold at the slave auction.

His third master was rich, fat, and ran an upper-class brothel in the middle of the city. The Boy was to be one of four “server boys” – all his age or younger, with innocent faces and not-yet-developed bodies – whose sole purposes were to draw in customers and take complementary food to the regulars. He was forced to wear sheer, too-large outfits that showed off his hairless chest and the creamy skin of his arms and legs, but other than periodical bouts of discomfort that stemmed from the hungry leers he often received, the Boy thought nothing of it.

Pleased with his better-than-average looks and shy enthusiasm, the Boy’s master soon had him start to serve at the weekly dinner parties that were attended by only his closest friends and most valued customers. The men seemed to enjoy watching the Boy run about to bring them what they asked for, laughing at his flustered expressions and embarrassed blushes. The worst part about it, however, was that some of the guests insisted on fondling him every time he walked past – a hand stroked down over his hip, a squeeze or slap to his rear, a tug on his flimsy outfit to make it slip off of his too-narrow shoulders. These actions greatly confused the Boy, and made him feel humiliated; his face was often stained permanently red by the end of the evening due to the constant teasing he endured.

After a while, however, he caught the attention of fellow brothel owners, and after only six months of service his master received an offer he simply couldn’t refuse. It was under his newest master’s care that the Boy learned his first true lessons about sexuality; images and phrases that he had overheard while in the previous brothel took on newer, deeper meanings… much to his never-ending mortification. Here there were no clothes at all – with the exception of the Master and his visitors, of course – and sexual acts occurred at a constant rate in full view of the various household members.

Eventually the Boy learned how to ignore his nakedness and focus on his work, but all it took was a particularly pointed leer or a stranger’s hand against some part of his body and his cheeks would flush an endearing – and thoroughly humiliating – shade of pink. Sometimes, at the end of the day, his master would call the Boy into his room and simply stare at him while he stroked himself to completion. Afterwards, the Master would smile at him and give him a highly-coveted piece of chocolate before sending the Boy back to his room for the evening, but the Boy could never bring himself to eat the treat and ended up throwing it away on his way back from the washroom.

Then, one evening towards the end of his third month in his fourth master’s house, the Boy was summoned to the Master’s private chambers. The Master had told the household not to disturb him for the rest of the evening because he was entertaining five “special acquaintances,” so the Boy assumed that he was simply needed to fetch a forgotten item, or perhaps to serve drinks. Instead, he walked in to find an auction taking place... and that he was to be the main event.

It was a night that would forever be imprinted in his mind and relived in his nightmares. He was passed from one seated man to the next, being inspected by each; hands touched and stroked over his flesh, eliciting both cries of protest and gasps of surprise. One demanded a kiss, then roughly pushed his tongue past the Boy’s lips and down his throat, making his gag. Another grabbed some of his hair and yanked his head back, exposing his neck to be tasted and bitten. The Boy, confused and frightened, cried out to his master for help, but the man simply laughed and told him to “be a good little slave and do what they tell you to do”. The next two men’s actions were simply variations of the actions of the first two, both eagerly admiring and molesting his tender eleven year-old body.

Finally the Boy was shoved in the direction of the last man, who had remained somewhat aloof from the others, and he risked a glance upwards. The man reached out to wipe away a tear that had escaped to slide down the Boy’s cheek, and then a small smile slid across the man’s handsome face. Firm, gentle hands reached out to beckon him forward, and the Boy – desperate for comfort – allowed himself to be settled onto the man’s lap, willingly burying his head into the man’s shoulder when directed to do so.

Soft strokes soothed across his back and buttocks, calming him, and slowly the Boy relaxed. “There now, that’s a good boy...” the man murmured, and the Boy was so relieved that he didn’t notice the direction of the man’s hand until a finger slipped inside of him. With a cry of abject terror, the Boy reached behind to try to remove the offending object, but before he could his hands were captured and his whole body vibrated with the man’s laugh. “Oh, my, but he IS a virgin...” and then the finger wiggled a little deeper and the Boy whimpered.

That night, the Boy went home with his fifth master, who not only allowed him to ride in the carriage but also gave him a blanket to curl up in. The next morning he was presented with beautiful clothes that actually fit for a change, and the Boy decided that maybe – just maybe – his luck might have changed.

The next night, he lost his virginity.

Master Corin wasn’t a harsh master, but he was strict. He made it perfectly clear from day one that His Word was Law and was to be followed to the letter. Prompt obedience was rewarded, while anything else incited varying degrees of punishment. In short, he was The Master, and all slaves existed to serve him to the best of their ability.

Although the first few experiences weren’t exactly pleasant, as time passed the Boy grew to enjoy the regular intimate encounters he had with his new master. Once he accepted the fact that it was going to happen whether he wanted it to or not, the Boy discovered that Master Corin was actually a very generous lover. He was even permitted to call the man by name when in his bed, and found great joy in the playful sex that occurred whenever he found an opportunity to tease Corin about the double meaning behind his name.

To everyone else in the household, the Boy’s increasing infatuation with the Master was blatantly obvious. Not that it was his fault, by any means; if anything, it was normal that a boy just entering puberty would fall in love with the man who took his virginity, especially with the continued sexual activity between the two. Never-the-less, the other slaves continued to warn the Boy to be careful, reminding him not to get too attached, and that, at the end of the day, he was still only a slave. But the Boy, blissfully ignorant and basking in his new-found happiness, ignored them all, even when they told him that the longest period of time Master Corin had ever kept a “personal” slave was two years. And as the two year mark came and passed, and the third year drew to a close, several of the other slaves began to think that maybe, just maybe, the Boy truly was as “special” as he appeared to be.

Then, one day several weeks later, Master Corin brought home a new slave. The Boy took one look at the small, doe-eyed boy that was roughly the same age as he had been when his master had first brought him home, and knew his life was about to change forever.

That night, Master Corin made love to him over and over. He whispered sweet words into the Boy’s ear and held him close, telling him what a good slave he was and that it wasn’t his fault that he belonged to a master who preferred the company of young boys over men. The Boy clung to his master, trembling, and for the first time in years he cried himself to sleep. When he woke up the next morning, the Master was already gone, and the Boy was cleaned up and taken back to the slave market yet again.

It was from his sixth master that the Boy learned the true meaning of fear. Still hurt and grieving from his recent loss, the Boy automatically latched on to the first stable aspect of his new life and put his trust in the quiet, kind-looking man that decided to purchase him. Unfortunately, “stable” was perhaps the worst description possible for his newest master, as the Boy soon realized when, a week later, he found himself tied to the Master’s bed, bleeding from the numerous cuts covering his body.

The sadistic nature of his master allowed the Boy a brief respite from his pent up agony, first as a way to excuse his tears, then later as a physical distraction from the emotional ache inside. But as the weeks passed, the emotional and physical torture began to affect him more and more, and gradually the Boy’s mental and physical wellbeing began to decline.

But the worst part, by far, wasn’t when he was chained and helpless, or even after his master had found his release and had left him, alone, to suffer in agony. It was the rare occurrences when the Master truly was as kind and gentle as he had first appeared to be, apologizing with quiet murmurs of affection while he made love to him, which hurt the Boy the most. Because as unpleasant as the physical pain was, the taunting memory of what had been – what could be – was far, far worse. And knowing that a simple word, a touch, a breath, could set his master off again; that, at any moment, the hands touching him so carefully could tear into his skin and cause unbelievable pain; constantly trembling on a knife’s edge of uncertainty while he cursed his body for responding to this demon’s touch... that was true torture.

Unable to deal with the grim reality that his life had become, the Boy’s fragile mind began to break. It was slow at first, and easily overlooked, much like a piece of fine china with a small hairline fracture, but the continued strain caused a rapid progression. On the verge of shattering, the Boy’s tortured psyche made a leap of self preservation: if dealing with reality made the problem worse, it reasoned, then the easiest solution to the problem would be to simply not deal with reality at all.

And so the Boy learned to escape from the prison that was his mind, watching his body’s abuse with uncaring, distant eyes as he hovered above in a state of “nothingness”. Like any child with a broken toy, the Master’s reaction to his suddenly unresponsive pet was a surge of anger, followed closely by manipulative kindness, self-depreciating tears of frustration, more anger, confusion, and finally – blessedly – disinterest. After weeks of attempting to coax a reaction out of his slave, the Master finally gave up, and the Boy was tossed into the streets to fend for himself; an emotionally crippled, mentally unstable, half-dead shadow of a human being that not even the lowest-rent whore houses had interest in.

It was in this state of utter dejection that the Boy stumbled across his seventh master. Or, to be more precise, it was then that his seventh master stumbled across him – literally, as it turned out, since the Boy had passed out in the alley the man used as a shortcut to return home. The man was a doctor, new to his practice, who earned money for his research by providing medical care to the slave traders who visited the town on a regular basis. Seeing the potential in the Boy – if not as a source of revenue, then as potential “research material” – the young doctor carried him back to his house and began to nurse him back to health.

It took several weeks, but with continued medical care, decent food, and the occasional lucky “special medicine” that happened to be beneficial instead of detrimental, the Boy slowly regained much of his physical health. With some coaxing from who he thought of as his “seventh master,” the Boy was soon up and about, helping out with this and that whenever the doctor’s assistant needed an extra pair of hands. The curiosities of the medical world slowly drew the Boy out of his protective shell, and in conjunction with the doctor’s kind words and his assistant’s encouraging smiles, he gradually opened his heart up again and began to let it heal.

If he had only known then what a mistake that would turn to be! But hindsight, as the saying goes, is 20/20, and he was still only a child… in mind, if no longer in body.

The Boy could still remember that night, that Monday night that he went with the doctor to the nearby slave auction to help with his rounds, as he always did, but then was left behind. He remembered how he had dismissed the fact that the doctor – his master – had talked longer than usual to his friend who brokered in “used” slaves, chalking it up to the newborn child who had had something the doctor had called “colic”. He remembered the smile that the doctor had given him as he laid a hand on the Boy’s shoulder, before turning and walking away. He remembered how cold the metal of the slave shackles had felt, how his new “owner” had gripped his arm so tightly that it had bruised him. He remember how he, who had been tortured for nine months and survived, had broken down and cried – begged – for his master not to leave him… just like he remembered how the doctor hadn’t looked back, not even once.

He remembered the excruciating pain that had torn through his chest as his heart shattered into a hundred jagged pieces.

That night, the Boy broke. That night, the kind, caring, friendly doctor who had brought him back from the very brink of death and given him life again, accomplished what none of his other masters had been able to. And the Boy knew it, and some part of him grieved, but he no longer cared.

His eighth master was one of two brothers, who bought him to become part of their harem. One of them coddled him, while the other had a penchant for more… physical play, but neither of them were able to evoke a response out of the Boy. They sold him after only a month, and told the slaver that he was broken, but had a “good mouth and a tight ass, so you might be able to get something out of him yet.” The slaver agreed, and added the boy’s willingness to “do anything you want without a fuss!” to his sales pitch.

His ninth master returned him after less than a week, complaining that even he didn’t like them that broken, and demanded a refund. The slaver agreed, grudgingly, and then beat the Boy until he passed out.

After that, the Boy was passed from owner to owner, none of whom could manage to sell him except to other slavers, who were willing to overlook his mental state for the promise his physical beauty appeared to offer. The other slaves were wary of him, too, superstition overriding their sympathy for one of their own. The children would throw things at him – sticks, stones, mud, and occasionally even rotten food – to see if he would react, but the Boy never did, and sooner or later the older slaves would warn the children to stay away from “the boy with empty eyes,” lest they, too, end up like him.

It didn’t help that he had gone through 9 masters, either. Oh, a slave that had lasted that long had some sort of standing among the other slaves, to be sure, but they all knew that they were only allowed to live for as long as they had worth. Sooner or later the slavers would decide to cut their losses, and sell them to a brothel for a small price, or occasionally just a free room and some company for the night. And everyone knew – slaves, owners, and masters alike – that for whatever reason, 10 was the magic number. If your tenth master sold you, you were as good as dead; slaves never lasted long at the brothels, though for many that was a mixed blessing.

The Boy didn’t care. He was already dead.

So when yet another pair of expensive shoes stepped into his line of vision that bright summer day, he didn’t even blink. He suffered through the normal routine without so much as a sound, letting the auctioneer tilt his head up and pry open his mouth for the potential buyer to inspect, turning around and bending over when prompted without the slightest flinch, not noticing and not caring when the man moved on, his owner still babbling about how willing he was and gradually lowering the price to a point where the Boy should have been insulted… but wasn’t. He didn’t care.

Just like he didn’t care when he saw the man walk back towards him with a healthy young female slave trailing behind him.

Just like he didn’t care when the slaver, out of sheer desperation to be rid of the Boy and win the good graces of the wealthy gentleman, offered him up as a gift for “being so generous with the price you paid for the girl, milord.”

Just like he didn’t care when the man once again tilted his head up with a soft, gentle hand, and actually looked at him.

And because he didn’t care, the Boy felt no joy when the man smiled, and stroked his cheek, and accepted his leash to take him back home with him. Because the Boy knew that no matter how kind, how gentle, how caring this new master appeared to be, eventually he would hurt him. Because they always did. The boy was living proof, after all.

So instead of skipping the way he had the first time he had been purchased, or chattering happily like the girl beside him was doing, the Boy simply smiled – a tiny, empty, broken little smile – and then, keeping his head lowered, followed his tenth master.

If only he had known then what was to become of him, he might have acted differently. But the Boy simply didn’t care.
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And there you have it. This has not been beta'd, so if you catch a glaring mistake, pls feel free to mention it. Also, reviews are wonderful motivation to keep writing, so if you liked this and would like to know more about these characters, a review is an excellent way to ensure an update. *wink*

And yes, you can flame me if you'd like, but please have to decency to leave your e-mail address if you do.