Author's Note: It's dystopian, this is NC/R. In case you forgot things are going to continue to get worse for a while, and no, I don't guarantee a Happily Ever After in the future. There sure as hell isn't one in this chapter and you're gonna get a peek at Dream's brutal side. Everyone's over 18.
Trigger/kink warnings: this section contains M/M, Master/slave dynamics, caning, exhibition/voyeur vibes, nudity, punishment, impact (caning), and humiliation.
Please don't copy or download unless it's for your personal enjoyment.
Chapter: Choices and Consequences
The door opens to a black tiled room of steam. My hands are chained to the wall this time with some sort of rubber manacle; he meticulously strips me down of the body harness, ribbons, and pants before tossing them into two separate chutes.
Then it's into one of the stalls where he pulls the curtain tight and hooks my hands up to a hook in the ceiling.
He slips on gloves, then turns on the water. The sprayer in his hand dribbles, then he sets that spray right at my back.
Dear sweet fucking gods.
It's like being frozen. There's no warmth at all to the water as it makes me jolt in my bonds. He flicks the water back and forth over my back, cleaning down the skin before he mercifully turns it off. Then it's a washcloth, rubbing over the skin there carefully, avoiding my new rings until he can delicately turn and rinse each one with small jets of the cool water.
It's surprisingly gentle work when contrasted to the temperature of the water.
When he wants to work on my front, he turns me and then rinses down the front. It might be me getting used to the temperature, but it feels a little warmer this time. He peels the faux skin from my tattoo gently, then rinses down to my calves and along my sex.
The rinsing helps to cool my ardor further and then, to my pleasant surprise, he wraps me up in a fluffy towel. The second skin is reapplied to my leg and then he unhooks my hands.
I'm allowed to take the towel with me as he brings me into the halls and up some back elevator that feels like it's more for crates than people. Then it's more hallways. Finally, he pulls the door open to one of the House's small slave apartments.
When he closes the door behind him, he gestures to the thing that looks like a giant snowball on his floor by the TV. "Go lay down... do you like chocolate or vanilla?"
I get a choice?
"Uh.. chocolate please?" I reply as I drop my towel and crawl up into the giant mush of a beanbag. Its fuzzy sides stroke me like tickling fingers and the gentle pressure of the stuff inside? It's a fucking glorious cloud compared to the bars.
I could lay in this forever.
I doze on the beanbag only to find a small bowl of ice cream settled into my hands as he flicks on the television.
"Do you want this or something else?"
It's a show about the ocean. I look at the screen, then back at him. The questions feel foreign, I stare blankly before replying hesitantly, "This is fine."
Savoring the creamy treat, I let myself stay simple and be grateful for the small blessings. How long has it been since I got to eat something like this or enjoy just a soft place?
He sits in a chair, and vaguely I notice that no matter how I shift, his hand always lingers. It's a stroke of the hip, a rubbing of the shoulders, and occasionally a stroke of the hair.. But he never takes it off for more than a second.
I fall into the fish and the pulsing waves on the screen like they're a pendulum that draws me to sleep.
It's the middle of the night when I feel a hand brush against my arm.
Stirred awake, I blink through the darkness and stare up into Regulus's face.
He puts a finger to his lips, then beckons for me to follow him. When I hesitate, his eyes harden. The twitch of his fingers toward his belt are enough of a warning that I move.
Getting up from my little cloud of happiness, I rub my eyes as I follow him down the short hallway and then out. He opens the next door; once we're through it, he locks it behind him.
I stand silent, arms wrapped around my body as though it might somehow shield me. I know the marks I carry are blazing against my skin. The uncertainty that I feel stirring in my chest is unwelcome, leaving a distance between us. I don't want to be here with him. Not right now, when simply being in the same room has put me into hell, and by his own design.
His dark eyes show traces of fatigue, of regret as they soften. "Jazmine-"
"You shouldn't be here," I interrupt as I turn away. "Devon's going to find out."
"I had Alan let me in using his key card; Devon won't know anything," he says quietly. "Let's go sit down."
"I don't want to sit!" I can't help it, my voice raises; the tension is starting to crack through my calm facade. "I want...." My voice dies on me, no end to that sentence springing clear.
Am I even allowed to want anything right now? I'm a debt slave, collarless one at that. I don't get to want anything. Wanting means I'm hoping for something still. And what is there hope for?
The words are screamed silently at him; a tremble rolls through my body as my hands curl to fists. "I want..." But I come up empty once more. Frustration broils in my chest. Why can't I even make a stupid decision right now?
He steps forward and slowly, gently takes my hands in his. "Jazmine... do you want a hug?" he asks quietly.
It's a lifeline thrown to me in a storm. Looking up into his eyes, I choose to take the one refuge that's offered to me as I start to splinter.
"Yes."
Those arms wrap around me, holding and nothing else. He lets me nestle against him as he guides us to the couch. He helps me to sit, stroking my hair silently. And me? I take the moment to try and remind myself why I hate him.
"Breathe, Jazz," he murmurs. "Let's talk. You've had every decision made for you, and you're under immense physical and mental pressure to perform. This is normal."
"How the fuck is this normal?"
He lifts my chin out of his chest, and while he's not amused by my swearing, he doesn't correct it either. "You're under pressure. You've not had decision making power for a month, nor the ability to really express yourself. You're like a soda bottle all shaken up, just waiting to burst."
And why is that I wonder?
His brow cocks as he holds my eyes, seemingly able to read the words as they run through my mind.
"But it's not going to get easier," he continues. "You've made it through the baseline, and part of the second phase. You can expect that they're going to keep pushing. They're going to break you, Jazz."
"I don't break," I answer stubbornly, pushing away and pacing the small living room. The longer I stay in his touch, the easier it is to forget that he is the reason I'm here "You know that. That's why
you
trained me instead of letting them do it."
His voice darkens. "You don't break
easily
. You're willful and very fucking stubborn. The abuse you took at Seth's hand means you have a resistance to pain and your mind shelters itself from reality. But the more you fight it, the worse it's going to get until it eventually happens."
"It might be easier if you stop sabotaging me," I snap. "I mean for fucks sake, Reg, you're the reason I'm even here!"
Those words seem to hurt him; for a moment the words are frozen on his lips as he stares at me. I can see the struggle in him but he eventually finds his tongue. "I'm trying to help you," he replies, frustration evident in his tone. "Jazz, I don't want to lose you."
