Fighting Dreams Ch 08

Author's Note:

Welcome back. If you're confused about how we go here, go back and read the other chapters first. We're still in the realm of NC/R, so if that offends you (or any of my writings do because they're dark) please don't bother to read this. I still don't promise a Happily Ever After, and welcome to the Darkness of my very fucked up tale.

Kink/trigger content warnings: gags, confinement, claustrophobia, mutliple partners, pain play, restraint, leash and collar training, hoods, slave auctioning, slave inspection, mental conditioning

Chapter: Darkness Falls

When I wake up, I'm tethered to the ground by my wrists and ankles. Blackness is all I see; from the press of the material and the smell, I've been put in a full mask. But the lick of air on my skin tells me the rest of me is naked. Fingers trail along my arm, there's a tug and a brief burn before a bandage is pressed on.

"She's up..." someone reports. "Sedative will be worn off within the next fifteen."

"Good. Then take her to the holding room," he commands. "After you do her intake inspection."

Black...?

I'm in his dungeon already then. And I guess being prepared to go to the Block instead of on a training rotation. Whether or not it's a good thing I'm not going to be in his personal hands remains to be seen.

Waiting as my limbs are released, I answer the tug at my collar by following its pull upward to sit. A tap to the shoulder and then I'm on my knees. The pressure shifts me forward to crawl carefully a few steps before I have to turn to the right and keep going. I'm being led in circles until they seem satisfied with my ability to follow the cuing.

Then it's a lot more crawling.

I can hear some things as we move. Whimpers. Sighs. Occasional cries that might be elation or pain. The thud of feet and the small jangles of harnesses or leads. The floor's cold and smooth; probably tile from the way my knees are complaining. But ever onward we go.

Eventually I hear a door open and we turn. There's several people in here; I can tell by the sound of their breathing and the rustling sounds. Then, I hear a click of a key in a lock and feel a foot press against the back of my thighs, pushing me forward.

Stumbling as my hand catches on something hard, I almost faceplant into its fuzzy surface before righting my body to crawl up and forward until that foot pulls back. Ramps are evil when you can't see. I have no idea how high up I am and it makes me feel a little dizzy.

"Turn around."

And when I have, I feel them unzip the hood, and pull it from my face so that I'm looking up into their face. I don't know him or the room, but I'm not surprised. I don't make it a habit of visiting Black or his people whenever I can avoid it. I'm on a raised platform box, probably more for his convenience than my comfort.

His eyes are flat, dispassionate as he looks my face over.

"Present mouth."

I open, extending my tongue without question. He takes my chin, tilting it up and still I hold even when his thumbs pad presses against my tongue and then into my mouth. He feels my tongue, my teeth, even the inside of my cheeks like some bizarre inspector. And I just let him.

Because screwing up here means going into the small, dark, cold of the Box.

He notes something on his display, then orders "Close and on your belly."

Down I go. He runs his hands from my head down my neck to my shoulders and sides, then over my rear and legs all the way down to my feet. I don't know what he's looking for, but the skim of his hands to my welts hurt. But that's not enough to make me consider doing anything but what he asks.

"Roll over."

Automatic obedience exposes my front to him, and he repeats the movement. From head to neck to shoulders and chest, then down my belly and center to my thighs and shins and feet. I say nothing at all, and stay put not even when his fingers dip down between my slit and rubs along the sensitive bud.

I just don't care.

He doesn't seem to like that. His frown is getting deeper; the lines above his eyes are getting more pronounced. "Spread."

When I have, he makes a show of inspecting my intimate parts. If he's expecting a blush or some shift, he's disappointed. The only sound he gets is when he thrusts a finger into me. That one he gets a breath in as it stirs the stinging lines left by King's ropes. But nothing else.

His inspection takes minutes, then he steps back.

"Questions get answers, slave. Do you have a name?"

I look up at him. "Jasmine, sir."

"Why are you here?" he asks as he makes a note.

"Because the House has decided to sell me Sir following my rotation."

His eyebrow twitches as he notes that too. "And what did you do to go on rotation?"

"I ran, sir."

His indifferent mask slips but he recovers and takes the information down, moving on to the next question on his board. "What age was your intake, slave?"

"Nineteen."

His pen pauses, then makes the note anyway. "How long is your contract?"

"Until repayment, sir."

He makes an impatient sound. "How much do you owe then?"

I try to calculate it in my head; I never read over the documents so I'm still not sure how much is left of the total amount. "I'm not sure Sir. I've lost track."

He looks up. "How many owners?"

"Two."

That seems to please him as he notes it. "Then what was your intake worth?"

"One million, two hundred ten thousand, four hundred fifty-eight credits." I reply. The numbers Reg seared into my mind that first week with his crop. I could answer that question in my sleep.

His pen freezes mid scratch. "Repeat that."

"One million. Two hundred ten thousand," I respond slowly, "Four hundred and fifty eight credits."

There's a sound of impatience. "That's a lot of debt for someone so young," he says slowly, crossing his arms. The body language says he doesn't believe me; there's no flicker of recognition.

It's none of his business, but I'm not sure that I have the option to be silent. "Things rack up quick when your mom's an Ice addict," I reply.

"Bills?" He asks bluntly. "Or was there some leisure in there too, girl?"

My eyes fall from his, my own mask slipping as I think of all those things I had to pay for. "Hospital bills and Housing accounts for the most of it, Sir. My owner also doubled my debt when he assumed it."

"How long have you been with the House?"

"Four years."

"Branded?"

"Yes, Sir. Recently."

Something seems to click in his head as he looks at the brand on my leg. "You were Reg's pet."

The words don't feel like a positive. "Yes, Sir."

"I've heard about

you

." The drop in his tone has my eyes on the floor, my body leaning back away from him even if I don't shift a step. The indifference is gone. He's a threat; my senses know it before he even touches me. "Do you think you deserve to be here, slave?"

There's only one right response to that trick question.

Thank god Reg drilled me on it.

"I deserve whatever the House decides to do with me, Sir. I am its slave."

"And mine by extension... so if I told you to lick my boots, would you?"

"Yes, Sir."

Though I'd be thinking of anything else.

"If I told you to piss yourself would you?"

"Yes, Sir."

Though I'll hate you for it.

His voice lowers to a near whisper as his thumb skims my cheek. "And if I told you that I'd have paid your debt off to see Seth's face when you made him sign that form,

bitch?"

A flash of memory strikes; a flash of that same leering face from the bars of my cage. The hazed feeling of rough hands and the tattoo of the lion on his arm.

Fuck me. One of Seth's customers...Didn't Black vet him? Or is the whole House in bed with Seth?

"He's going to enjoy having you back. And I'm going to enjoy getting you ready for him."

His thumb skims along my lips then it forces into my mouth suddenly. The motion startles me to movement; I jump back, coughing and nearly fall from the block before his hand snatches my collar and pins me flat to its surface. While it's saved me from falling, it makes me painfully aware that he can suffocate me right here.

"Bad girl," he scolds. "I can see you're going to need the

special

treatment."

A press of the button on his wrist and I can't help but scream as my body locks under me and leaves me twitching against the carpeted platform. My neck is on fire. I can't breathe. It's hell. Pure utter, miserable hell.

He lets go a few seconds later. "Present.

Now."

Crawling to his feet, I don't look up as I make myself kneel before him.

Knees at forty-five. Back arched. Chin to chest. Hands behind back. Chest up. Never ever look them in the eye. Pliant, obedient, quick. Survive for now. There will be someone safe later.

"What do you say?" he snaps.

"Thank you, Sir. For correcting me." I reply robotically, the mask firmly back in place.

Whatever he wants. Whatever keeps him happy. Just do it. Don't think. Just do.

"Oh pretty little slut," He pats my head twice. "No one likes a broken toy. And that little act won't be nearly enough to satisfy Seth. So let's fix it."

A chain clips to my collar, holding me in place as he steps away. When he returns in front of me, he has a chair that he puts down and then he sits so that we're eye to eye. The cruel tilt to his lips does nothing to ease the nerves. I'm aware of him, and some part of instinct makes me sit so very, very still when I realize I can't see his hands..

"Let's start with the basics... Suck my cock," he orders.

I just stare at him before hesitantly crawling forward. But my body freezes as I see the short spiked tails of the flogger in his hands. He flicks it back and forth as I watch its trailing waterfall; I flinch in anticipation of its bite to my skin.

"Hurry up, slut," he warns.

But my body won't move. Can't move as it watches them. No matter how I silently scream at my legs to take a step forward, they refuse. I'm too transfixed by the memory of those spikes splitting my skin; the burning agony that they create which is worse than anything I've known. The tears bead up at my eyes as I fight my body to ignore their danger.

"Three... two.... one."

I can't even take a breath before two of his people have me tight in their grip and are pulling me toward a large white box with a lock on top.

He smiles. "Into the Box you go. Maybe an hour in there will animate you properly."

The Box is my worst nightmare when it comes to punishments. Cold, dark, and tight. I fight them with everything I have and it's still not enough; they force me in. Down into the blackness I go. There's no light, no time, and no guarantee I'll ever get out. The lid slams heavy; I hear the click of the lock hold it in place.

Curled up isn't warm. It just makes the numbing out of my toes all the more painful as they start cold, then burn, then tingle, and finally go numb. My skin feels like it's sticking to the sides of the Box. Every breath is painful to my throat; every breath out makes my nose run a little more. My knees and wrists ache.

There I stay in my tight little ball, cursing him silently. But as time stretches on, the fear fades to resignation of my fate and pure exhaustion.

The first time he takes me out, he decides I'm not quick enough to wake up under his call and behave the way he wants. So it's back in to Dante's Hell. I'm struck by Slate's words from his rotation:

What you want little slave doesn't matter.

Those words haunt me in the darkness as I try to endure.

No matter what I do, I'm going to be sold. I have to make sure that it's not to Seth, and that I can get someone who is safe outside the House to keep me. That means I need to get good ratings. I have to obey. Or I'm not going to survive.

The next time he hauls me out, I drag myself to his feet and kiss his boots like they are air to my lungs.

I lick them when he commands, I pose and make myself slutty as he orders me to display for him. If he asks me to bark, I bark like a bitch until he tells me to stop. When he gags me with his cock I don't dare back off even as my stomach threatens to empty. No, I suck like a good slut and endure.

Whatever it takes. I have to make the ratings. I'll do whatever they want.

He takes his use of me liberally, leisurely. I start to learn to please him; he likes me brazen and slutty and eager. So I make myself play his game with enthusiasm I don't feel. Whether it's begging for breakfast or shaking my tits, I smile and perform.

I'm never allowed out of that little room, though eventually he no longer puts me back into the Box. After several days, he passes me off to the next trainer.

She's a white-haired devil bitch. She doesn't allow me to stay in my little room, no she drags me out to the cage in hers. And whenever she's not using me, there I'm left with my arms locked tight in a binder for her eyes to study and critique.

No matter what I do she finds fault with me.

I'm smothered under her cunt daily until she's cum to her satisfaction. She whips me as I crawl to fetch her slippers, everytime my body shifts in a way she doesn't think is pretty. I learn to keep my eyes down no matter what, to avoid "selfish" words, to never slump even when exhausted.

But when I flinch away from her large associate's hands as I crawl after her, she throws me back into the Box for the first time. But unlike the Box under him, this one is hot. Muggy. Thick and hard to breathe in the darkness until I swear she's going to suffocate me or leave me to sweat out until I die of dehydration.

When she takes me back out, I beg and kiss her feet and promise to be a good slave for her. She whips my ass for wasting her time in the Box, and I thank her for each one so that she won't put me back in. And then, under her critical eye I make my apology to her associate.

He makes me grovel just as she had. But unlike her, he doesn't whip me. No. He instead draws out his sadistic side to make me "prove" my regret. My arm binder is used to secure me standing and exposed before them both. And there, he begins to decorate me with tight black binder clips.

They clamp tight to my nipples and begin to form lines down my belly, my hips, my pussy and legs. As the pain builds and I shake, they clatter. And when I've thought he can't make them worse, he holds up a line of fishing wire... and flicks it hard like an invisible whip.

The motion rips them from my skin and leaves me shrieking as the intensity goes beyond what I can tolerate. He wants to put them back on for the noise, and she lets him. Then the process repeats again, and again until I'm able to hold all the sound in despite the tears pouring down my cheeks.

Then he lets me down, covered in little "bite" bruises and speckled blue.

Only as I finally break down in frustration and cry at her feet does she seem satisfied. But she never lets up her demands or her crop. My only assumption is that her time to train me runs out because one day, another man comes to get me.

I learn what he wants, and then it's on to the next trainer... and the next.

Sometimes I'm given back to ones like the red haired bitch or my intake man. Sometimes I'm given to new people or pairs to serve.

But I'm never allowed to rest, barely allowed to eat, and desperately clinging to the mantras I've been given.

I will be a good slave. I have to be.

Eventually, one leads me back to the platform. I'm so tired that each step leaves me shivering. But I know there's no sleeping. Not here. Not on this platform. If I do, the lights will come on. The noise. And then they'll whip me. Or shock me. Or worse.

I don't want to go back into the Box again.

So I do whatever they ask, whenever they ask it. And right now that means staying awake and still to wait.

I am bound to serve them. Whoever them is who is going to come in. Man. Woman. Slave. Master. Domme. Cock. Cunt. It doesn't matter. I want them to choose me. To make me something useful, something that can earn her place.

Something that won't be taken back to the dark.

And when that clip attaches to my ring and the gag is fed over my tongue with a hood? I eagerly take them and crawl after the leash that leads me.

Whatever they want, is whatever they will get.

When I'm put into a waiting kneel and told to stay, I do just that.

In the darkness of the mask, with no tongue to talk and no will to move, I can find a minute of quiet just to rest. I can ignore the throbbing ache in my knees, the cool brush of the air of the room. I can pretend that I'm going to be okay. Because by myself, I'm not in danger of displeasing them.

The door opens and closes. Two sets of feet enter the room.

"Three different slaves," Black states, walking a slow circle around the room. "Yours to work any way you please. They were prepped with full gags to keep the noise down in case you're feeling particularly sadistic. I've arranged for an hour. Hopefully that's enough to let out your frustrations.."

There's a crack of knuckles, a breath in and then an all too familiar voice answers, "Thank you. It's been far too long since I've had a chance to let loose."

Reg? Why is he-

Black notes, "King is handling Skylar as we speak for the theft; he wants to meet after to review for the auction so try not to leave too many marks."

"I'll be sure to discuss my findings with him. We need to turn a profit on this batch," Reg replies as he moves about the room. "So I have no intention of damaging the merchandise."

I try to track his vocal tones, try to understand what might be happening.

Reg does reports for the auction?

That seems important. So I repeat it to myself once before focussing back in as I hear the footsteps move again.

"One."

"Two."

A finger taps my forehead, dead center over the mask. "Three."

That must be my name at the moment.

Waiting still, I try to focus in. He's in a mood. I can hear it in his voice, in the way his feet hit the floor as he steps back. And given that Black seems to be here also, I need to be doubly careful.

"All of you. Stand, wrists crossed overhead," he orders. There's the sound of limbs shifting to follow his command and I follow suit. An elongation of the body. A presentation of pure vulnerability that must be completed gracefully.

It makes my heart rate quicken. He could find fault with me at any moment. I can feel him attach something to my collar, probably a chain though it's not tight.

Insurance for whatever is coming up next.

"Your hands do not fall below your head," he warns, pacing behind us. "You do not move a single step."

I have no idea what I expect with words like those. A whip? A teasing?

But it's not either. Nope. True to his style, he goes with the unexpected.

Icy water blasts over my back and skin and based on the squeals to my left, I'm not the only one who is shocked into making noise by its frozen blast. The gut reaction is to pull my hands down toward my sides but I make myself simply tense instead, grabbing tight to the cuffs on my wrists. It feels like tiny needles battering my skin, leaving me arching but unable to move lest I incur his wrath.

I'm a good slave, I'm a good slave, I'm a good slave. Dear fucking gods its cold!

Soaked to the bone, shivering as the stirred air licks my skin between blasts, I repeat the mantra that's been playing in my ears every night since I came here.

Slaves obey no matter what. Bad slaves are punished. Good slaves are rewarded. I am a good slave. I will obey no matter what.

Sucking my breaths against the gag, I relax a little as the water stops.

But not everyone is breathing so easily. I can hear the rapid slap of hand to flesh and the squeals of one of the others being solidly punished. And big as his hands are, there's no escaping having a red ass when he's done. As the cries build in pitch, I know she's feeling that soreness already.