Sold to Master Jay

I finished my water and my bar, dropping the wrapper on the counter. I stared down at my lap, but jumped when Jay slammed his empty cup in front of me.

"Clean up the kitchen," he told me. And I realized, looking around, that he had left everything out; wrappers, knives, spoons, every ingredient he had used, the blender, my cup, his cup, everything. I swallowed, hard, unhappily. Like hell if I was going to clean up after this man. I scowled at him and he leaned his face closer to me, sensing resistance. "Do it."

"No," I crossed my arms and stared at my lap. "Clean up your own damn mess." The silence and tension swept between us like wildfire. Finally, he stepped away and began to clean up his objects, even going so far as to pick up my glass and my wrapper. He threw everything away, rinsed out the dishes, and placed everything neatly into the dishwasher. I couldn't believe it.

I looked up at him, my arms falling to my sides. I had... won? And then he turned around and I instantly wished, with all my heart, that I had done what he had asked. The dark expression in his eyes as he wiped his hands dry, the way his body was tensed... everything about him screamed that I was about to be beat within an inch of my life. I shrank away from him as he snatched my chain and pulled me out of the chair.

My neck screamed in protest, already overly abused from yesterday and I gripped the chair to stop it from tugging on me. He yanked it harder and the chain slipped between my fingers, chafing my palms. He stalked into his living room and yanked me forward. I collided with his chest and instantly punched at his face, hard. He ducked and my fist slipped over his ears. He didn't seem angry, even, I realized with a cold fear, just determined. Determined to tame me.

He slammed me down on the coffee table and my forehead hit rather hard. I cried out and he grasped the back of my head, then slammed my forehead against the table again, making my vision go fuzzy and my ears ring. My muscles go a little numb as my brain rattles around my head, all sense of fight lost. I felt his strong hands flip me over like I was a rag doll and felt ropes pull at my ankles and hands, securing me spread-eagle across the coffee table. I tensed everything, dizzy, waiting for the blow, but nothing happened.

Very, very slowly, my ears stopped ringing and just as slowly, the ceiling I realized I was looking up at stopped spinning, and even more slowly the feeling in my limbs came back to me, just in time to make me realize I was in an increasingly uncomfortable position. I pulled a little at the restraints, trying to twist my limbs to get into a slightly less painful position, but to no avail.

I craned my head up to find Jay, annoyingly on his phone again, a glass of wine in his hand. Where had he gotten that? My adrenaline spiked as I saw, draped over the armchair he was leaning on, a whip. I considered smashing my head against the coffee table to knock myself out, but my head already hurt so bad... I slowly lowered my head back onto the table and my shoulders gave a burst of pain. An involuntary cry leapt from my lips.

I heard Jay sigh and felt tears perk into my eyes. I wished, fervently, that I had cleaned the kitchen as he had asked. I wished, for once, that I had obeyed.

"Good," he said. Out of the corners of my eyes, I could see him stand. I arched my head back, not wanting to see him, not wanting to even think of him. "You're conscious enough to feel pain again." I wished I had kept silent. I wished, for once, that my fight would silence and go quiet and clean the kitchen like a good damned servant instead of some pain-addicted brat who can't bow her head and do a single thing.

"I teach my slaves how to make my breakfast," he continued. "The third day I have them. They list out the ingredients and the measurements after I tell them once. Every time they get it wrong, I make them restart and hit them on the hand with a ruler." I heard the whip slither off the armchair and it cracked in the air once. I winced and felt myself start to cry, heat pulsing through my body, adrenaline.

"But it seems that method won't work with you," his voice was a little huskier, almost like he was turned on by the mere idea of whipping me to an inch of my life. "Since you can't even clean up a kitchen without a temper tantrum." The whip cracked again and I heard his almost-hearable moan. It scared me, how much he wanted this. "Tell me what I pulled out for my breakfast."

I blanked on everything he had pulled.

"A blender," I finally blurted out. Searing pain snapped on the inside of my thigh, the kind of pain I couldn't even scream out, it hurt so bad. He was merciless.

"A blender, Sir," he corrected. "Do it again."

"A blender, Sir," I gasped through my tears. "P-peanut butter, Sir." No crack of the whip, nothing. Thank God. I tried to remember what else, tried desperately and sniffled when I realized I was going to be whipped again. "A banana, Sir." My memory started jogging, replaying his hands and his body moving across the kitchen. His body language had been so deliberate, so open with everything, like he had wanted me to see what he was doing... why hadn't I noticed?

Another searing line of pain across my other thigh. I did cry and scream, then, arching my back, nearly dislocating my shoulders. This was awful. This was worse than the water.

"Too long a hesitation," he growled.

"Protein powder!" I shouted out. He had put the same thing in my water.

I realized my mistake as I nearly blacked out from his next strike, the whip licking the inside of my thigh. I felt his hand trace up the outside of my thigh and cry at his touch, this torturer's touch.

"Protein powder, Sir," he sounded too calm, not even slightly fazed by the pain he was causing me, not even slightly moved by how much I was crying and begging. "Start again." I sobbed and gulped back tears.

"A blender, Sir," I cried out, tears streaming down my face. "Peanut butter, Sir. A banana, Sir. Protein powder, Sir. C-chocolate, Sir." I blanked. I prayed that was all.

"Milk. Ice. And an apple to eat with it." I screamed as the hit split apart my skin. Blood ran down my leg, sticky, strangely cold to me. I forgot what I was and where I was and focused only on pleasing the man with the whip, pleasing him so I could go to sleep and stop being hit. I had to please him. Had to make him happy, even if I forgot what his name was, only that I had to call him Sir. "Start again."

"A blender, Sir," I said, between heaving sobs. My lungs ached. I was crying in that way you could barely breathe, the sobbing heaving kind where all you needed was someone to pat you on the back and pet you and calm you, and I had a man standing over me with a whip instead. "Peanut butter, Sir. A banana, Sir. Protein powder, Sir. Chocolate, Sir. Milk, Sir. Ice, Sir. An apple, Sir." I sob, trying to tense my muscles, to prepare for the next blow, but it didn't come.

"Again."

I repeated it, again. Blender, peanut butter, a banana, protein powder, chocolate, milk, ice, and an apple. My mind told me over and over again, imbedded it so I never forgot. When he prompted it a second time I repeated it a second time. And a third. Finally, I heard him put the whip down and sobbed with relief. His fingers gently untied my ankle, then my other one. I didn't move them, couldn't move them, not without moving my legs and causing more pain, more blistering, stupid pain.

I felt him undo the ropes around my wrist, then my other one and then slowly reach under me, scooping me into his arms. I cried out as my wounds pressed together.

"Please Master Jay, please, please," I whimpered. "I'll be good, I'll be good."

"You said that yesterday," he whispered to me as he started moving. I whimpered and sobbed with every step he took. We climbed the stairs and I felt him open a door and walk into a room after what felt like hours of him just... walking... He sighed. "When can I believe you, Malacia?" He suddenly stopped and very gently eased me onto a bed. I opened my eyes and recognized his room, the windows opposite me shining with light. It wasn't even noon yet. I refused to look at my legs as he padded away, into the bathroom.

When he came back, I turned my face away from him. I didn't want to see his blue eyes, didn't want to even look at him. My thighs burned for an instant and then instantly cooled as I felt his hands rub something all over my wounds. I bit my tongue to stop the relief from coming through as a moan, but every muscle in my body relaxed. My eyelids, staring at the door, fluttered. He lifted my leg and I felt bandages wrap around my legs and then be tied off, on both sides. I heard the bed move and knew he'd sat down.

"I trust you've learned your lesson," he said.

"Yes, Sir," I responded readily. Some voice in the back of my head chastised me for responding so quickly and I shoved it down. I didn't want to be whipped or drowned again. I didn't want any of this.

"I would be lying if I said I didn't like punishing you, Malacia," he continued. "But I would also be lying if I said I wanted you to continue disobeying me." It made no sense to my confused brain. He stood and brushed my ankle overly gently with a single finger. "I'll get you at noon. There are more things in the house you need to learn how to do."

But for a long time I didn't sleep and just stared at the ceiling, silently crying, muttering the recipe to his smoothie.

I did end up sleeping, fitfully, in pain. I preferred to sleep on my side, but rolling over meant moving my legs and pressing them together, something that made me sick to even think about. When I finally did wake up, still dizzy with pain, the sun was brighter. Sunlight. I sat up and winced at the pain in my legs, but ate up the scenery outside. A green forest stretched for what looked like miles. In the far, far distance, I thought I could see houses, and beyond that... was that... my hands clenched in the sheets... the ocean?

I stared at it, the far-away blue line on the horizon and prayed somehow that I was right, that it was an ocean. That I was still in California. Because being in California was better than being in Florida or in a completely different country. I barely remembered the trip from my kidnapping spot near my home in San Fransisco to the facility. I wasn't sure whether I had been loaded onto a train or a plane, or just knocked out and kept in the bus. Was I still in San Fransisco?

The hope kept me alive, eased the pain in my legs, and gave me just enough resilience to not cry when I heard his footsteps coming down the hallway. I forced myself to take a deep breath, forced myself to look at the door instead of away from him. I could meet his eyes. I could stay strong under him, no matter what he did to me. I heard the door's lock click and it opened. Jay walked in, closing the door behind him. In his hands were strange metal things. I stared at them as he shoved bolts and screws into his pockets, holding the strange metal pieces between his hands carefully.

He finally looked up at me and I didn't cower from his blue eyes. Maybe because they, for once, held some semblance of warmth. Something human. However, as his eyes traced down my body, the humanity faded away until he was the man who had drowned me and whipped me. I stared down at my bandaged legs. To my surprise, the blood hadn't leaked through. The bandages were white, clean, almost surgical in their precision.

"Come," Jay said and I looked up at him. He motioned me to him and I swallowed. Trying to move was like death. My legs screamed for mercy as I swung them over to the side of the bed and put weight on them. I took a step and instantly stumbled forward. Jay caught me in his arms, the metal pieces pressing strangely into my back as he grunted, hauling me back to my feet. I stood carefully, his forearms pressing against my shoulders as his hands were full.

I stared down at the floor, my legs shaking, my body shaking. I was cold, in the thin athletic gear he had given me. But I could feel my body screaming to be quiet, to not do anything that might even remotely upset him. He turned around and opened the door with an elbow and started to walk down the hall. Bracing my hand against the walls, I followed, wishing I had a stick or cane to lean on.

When I reached the stairs I braced both my hands on the railings and eased myself down, my core and arms trembling as I fought to keep the weight off my feet. I limped my way into the kitchen, dreading whatever new task I was about to learn to perform. Jay poured the bolts and screws out onto the island counter, put the metal pieces down and began to fiddle with them. I stood uncertainly by the counter on the opposite side.

"Find the bread," he said after a minute. My mind instantly compels me to scowl and fight and scream, but the throbbing pain in my legs reminds me not to even tempt myself. I bowed my head to him and started limping around the kitchen. A bitter taste in my mouth arises as I check different cabinets looking for the bread. I was tempted to throw the knives I found in one drawer at his head or stab myself with them, but I resisted.

I could still be in San Fransisco, I reminded myself. I could be close to home.

I found the bread in a corner cupboard and put it on the counter next to Jay. He glanced at it.

"Turkey slices."

I went to the fridge instantly and searched through the bottom drawers, finding it quickly. I felt a surge of happiness as I put that next to him too, despite how little acknowledgment he gave me for finding it so quickly. Over the next five to ten minutes he sent me all over the kitchen, finding things for him, putting them next to him, and going back out.

Finally, he stood and stretched, staring at the metal parts on the counter.

"This is my lunch everyday."

With despair, I stared at the huge amount of food and my body trembled with anger.

"I have to find all of this for you everyday?" I snapped. My temper flared and I forgot about all the pain in my body.

"Yes," when I opened my mouth to protest more he stared at me, his hands laying flat on the counter and I remembered how much he could hurt me. I swallowed and looked at the ingredients, memorizing them. I didn't want a repeat of this morning. When I was sure I had committed them all to memory, I looked up at him, to see a slight, evil smile decorating his face.

And I realized that I had done exactly what he wanted, and hated myself for it.

He showed me where to find containers for the food, and the plasticware, and a lunchbox. He instructed me on how to make his sandwiches and what the certain measurements for the protein powders were, and how to pack it. I was disgusted that he made me pack it in a certain way, that he was so OCD he couldn't handle it packed in any other way.

As I finished making his lunch, sliding in the third water bottle (the THIRD!) into the lunchbox, and closing it, I noticed how perfectly it fit. There was no extra space in the box and I had somehow fit a three-course meal into a tiny box. I put it next to the fridge, as he requested, and turned back to him. He beckoned me to him. Swallowing my fear and dread at having done something wrong, I walked to him, trying new ways of shifting my weight so I was stepping as light as possible, and stopped in front of him.

He put his fingers under my chin and lifted my head. His expression was soft, his fingers soft, his body relaxed.

"Good girl," he said and I felt a strange flashing heat pass through my body the instant he said it. He leaned down and kissed me, gently, his hand pressing against my cheekbone with a strange tenderness. He was too good at kissing, I think to myself. He almost made me not hate it. Almost. But when he pulled away and turned to the counter, I was still tempted to grab a knife and stab him with it.

"Tell me how to make my lunch," he said, fiddling with the metal pieces more. I started reciting it to him, word by word, proud at myself for remembering the portions and measurements and how to pack it. I concluded my speech and looked at him. I hated myself for wanting his approval, for wanting him to tell me I had done a good job in remembering, for wanting him to be proud of me.

For a long time after I was done, he was silent.

"Three turkey slices, not two," he finally said and my stomach seized up in terror at his correction. He was going to beat me for forgetting it, but all he did was stand, drop all the metal pieces, and look at me. "Repeat it again." I did with some irritation, made the correction, and finished. He nodded, once.

"Every morning you'll make breakfast for me and prepare my lunch. You may eat a bar and any extra of my smoothie I have. During the day, you can have one snack between breakfast and lunch. It must be a fruit and accompanied with water. During lunch, you can make the same sandwich you would make for me and eat it, accompanied with water. You may have one snack between lunch and dinner. It must also be a fruit, and accompanied wth water. After every meal you will clean every surface, return things to their rightful place, and make sure you put away the dishes the instant they come out of the dishwasher."

I ducked my head and nodded.

"You're forgetting something," he said and my head jolted upward. He leaned on the counter. "Yes, Sir."

"Yes, Sir," I repeated, swallowing my pride, the bitter taste in my mouth growing by the second. He nodded.

"Good girl."

And as I tried to tell myself I didn't like it, I felt a small pit of longing between my thighs at the sound of his voice.

~~~

For some reason I couldn't fathom, he decided to show me the rest of his house. The basement was half-spa and half-bowling alley. A huge lap pool lit with a light purple light dominated the right side of the room, the water shimmering in the low light. After looking over Jay's body with something other than revulsion I recognized the distinctive swimmer muscles. The instant he had walked around the pool, he had relaxed.

"I'll teach you how to do chemical checks and how to clean the pool later," he said. "There's a hot tub you are allowed to use for thirty minutes a day, only after your workout." He indicated a door, but I stopped listening to him.

I freeze. "Workout?"

He stopped and his eyes glinted as he looked at me.

"You're weak," he observed. "And I'm not interesting in playing with a pile of bones. It will be your responsibility to work out at least an hour a day, on top of everything else you will do. I'll know if you don't." I swallowed. I hated working out. I liked playing sports and being active, but working out in an actual gym was a despicable activity. I clenched my fists and his body tenses in preparation for my resistance. I could practically see his eyes churning, debating what kind of punishment he would inflict on me for this newest resistance.

I held the image of San Fransisco in my mind as I slowly bowed my head. "Yes, Sir."

"Don't think I don't know you have an ulterior motive for obeying me, Malacia," he chuckled and I bit my lip. I heard him approach me and his hands slid around my waist. He pressed his mouth to my ear. "But that motive will fade in time." I pushed him away, anger shaking, my lip pulled back. He looked amused more than angry as he watched me.

"You're wrong," I hissed. "I still want to go home." He tilted his head.

"Do you even remember where home is?"

Panic flooded my system and he watched as my body went rigid, my eyes went wide, and I dug through the years of torture, trying to remember where my home was in the city of San Fransisco, what my parents looked like, what my dog's name was... and I blanked. I blanked on everything. I didn't know my name before all this. I had forgotten. They had hammered it out of me.