Nor Iron Bars a Cage

Nor Iron Bars a Cage
by R. Olivia Brown
Part 2


"I'll say this for the master, he has excellent taste."

Jarvik pushed his groin against Avon's and rubbed against it suggestively.

"Does he, indeed?" Deva sounded as if he did not agree with Jarvik's assessment of Avon. "I know how much he cost and he isn't worth half of it."

"Let the slut go, Jarvik," the woman intervened, "we've work to do. Though he's pretty enough, Deva's not going to see it. He's jealous."

"Jealous!" scoffed the other.

"Yeah, you want the master's cock and this slut's got it instead, that's all."

"Has he?" Jarvik ran his fingers through Avon's hair. "Has he fucked you, pretty?" Avon didn't reply, so the taller man pulled his hair, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. "I asked you a question, you whore, so answer it!"

"No!" Avon shouted, "No, he hasn't!"

Jarvik gave Avon an open-handed slap that almost made his teeth rattle. "Don't take that tone with me, you worthless shit! And call me 'sir' when you speak to me! So, has he fucked you?"

"No, sir."

The man hit him again. "Liar!"

"What is going on?" The master's voice from behind Avon's tormentor.

"He was rude to me," the man tried to excuse himself.

"Oh?"

"He wouldn't call me 'sir'."

"Slave, you will address my people properly. I'll punish you for your rudeness later. Jarvik, if in future my slave is at all rude to you, or lazy, or unhelpful or even - Gods forbid! - disobedient, remember that you have no power to punish him and that I do not wish you to touch him in any way. He is not yours. If he is to be disciplined I will undertake it."

As soon as the master had gone, Arlen broke out into crowing laughter. "That told you, then!"

Jarvik turned back to Avon. "You're still a pretty slut," he ran the back of his curved hand down Avon's cheek. "I usually prefer women, but I'd fuck you, given a chance."

"You wouldn't get a chance," said Avon.

"Don't you believe it," Jarvik told him.

"Oh, leave it!" said Arlen. "We've got work to do."

The four of them together managed to move all the ruined but heavy furniture out of the residence. Jarvik was heard to mutter several times that if only they could open the fixed plastiglass windows that formed one wall of the living room they could shove the things out, down the garden and over the cliff. Avon wondered if he had done this on purpose to draw the prisoner's attention to the fact that the garden ended in the cliff, but then reconsidered, he didn't think the man was clever enough to think of anything that cunning.

The job took nearly all day, nothing seemed the right size to be removed easily and Avon wondered in passing how it had all been put in there in the first place. He was also worried by his nakedness which put him at a distinct disadvantage compared with the others, though for most of the day no one took the slightest bit of notice. Not, at least, until Arlen called out, "Ha! The slut's got a hard-on! Been thinking about the master again, slut?"

Avon reddened, he had been hoping it would not be noticed.

"Pretty prick he's got," Jarvik's voice, sounded lustful. "Though that's really Deva's speciality."

"Too small," said Deva, flatly.

Arlen laughed. "Not the master's you mean."

Jarvik groaned. "Leave it, Arlen. Don't you know to leave well alone?"

Once cleared out, the residence turned out to be a five roomed flat, a large living room with one glass wall looking out on the ocean, an equally large bedroom with only slightly smaller windows where Avon left his mattress and blanket, a room he supposed could only be a study as it had computer and communications contacts wired in, a bathroom and a small kitchen.

It was very dirty even with no furniture and Avon sat on his blanket resting before he started the cleaning, wishing he had something to eat. The others had left making plans for a meal, plans that had made Avon's belly rumble, and Deva had taken an obvious and intense pleasure in pointing out that Avon was forbidden to leave the flat, and in reminding him of his master's orders.

Avon hated them all and he would have killed any or all of them gladly, but his nakedness made it impossible for him to hide any sort of weapon and at no time had any of them been alone with him.

He had been resting for only a few minutes when he became aware that once again he was not alone. Opening his eyes he was not too surprised to see his master looking down on him. He had changed his clothes, loose dark trousers, a loose shirt and an embroidered jacket reaching nearly to his knees had taken the place of the smooth dark leather he had worn on the ship. Once he was sure he had his slave's attention, the master spoke. "It's not very clean yet."

"Give me a chance!"

"I did not give you permission to rest."

"You weren't here to ask!"

"And you seem to have forgotten your manners."

"Master," Avon mumbled, unwillingly.

"Good. As I said, I want the place clean. When it is clean, you will be permitted to eat and sleep. The longer you take over the job, the longer it will be before you can do either. I would have let you eat and rest now, but you were rude to Jarvik and you must be punished."

"What do I clean it with, Master?"

"Materials have been provided and they are through there." The master indicated the next room. "In the unlikely event you need to speak with me - to ask my permission to rest, for instance, the residence is connected to wherever I am by a comlink activated by the words 'Beloved Master'. Understand?"

"Yes, Master." Avon decided that he would not, for any reason, utter those words. Since his master seemed to be expecting it, he pulled himself up.

"Good. I find it's much easier to do that sort of job standing up."

Weary and unwilling Avon started work once more. He was beginning to hate these five rooms with all his heart and soul and to loathe the man who had set him this task with equal intensity. He had found a set of steps, which with the materials were indeed where the master had said they would be. By the time he had finished the bathroom, his hands were red from the water and the action of the cleaning liquids, and by the time he finished the kitchen his hands were both red and sore, and he was tired and aching from scrubbing and polishing. He was also dirty, in both kitchen and bathroom he had discovered problems with the drains and he suspected the master, whoever he was, would not be inclined to listen to excuses. He had an idea that the master was watching from whatever vantage point he had, and thus Avon did not dare to rest. The memory of the cold cell with it's filthy wet floor was still fresh in his mind and to avoid that he would undergo far more than a little cleaning and polishing.

At long last he finished and sat down again on the mattress in the bedroom, waiting for the master to arrive. He was almost asleep by the time he did, his eyes had closed, and he could feel himself drifting away.

"You have worked hard, slave."

Avon looked up to see the master smiling and his heart thumped uncomfortably, though whether from fear or something else he was not quite sure.

"Stand up, slave."

For a moment, Avon toyed with the idea of reminding his master that he had promised a reward, but his throat closed on the words and they would not come. He stood, as he had been ordered to.

"Follow me."

Once again Avon obeyed without question and the master led him out and into another much smaller flat, where a table had been laid out for a meal. "Before you get the wrong idea, I am going to eat and you are going to serve me. Understand that being permitted to serve in this way is a reward for your hard work."

"But, Master ..." The words came out before Avon could stop them.

"Are you daring to question me?"

"No, Master."

When the master had seated himself, Avon fetched the food from the kitchen and served him carefully. Though nothing had been said he was certain that he would be punished if anything were dropped or spilled and this added to his nervousness. He noticed that the master ate slowly and that he rarely finished all that he was given. No words passed between them, the master spent most of the meal reading what appeared to be paper documents, the sort Avon had only read about. He wondered what they could be and why they were important, even trying to catch glimpses of them while serving his master's wine or spooning vegetables. None gave any hint about his identity, which disappointed Avon.

"Thank you, slave. You can clear away, finish what remains and wash the dishes. Then come back here."

Avon would never before have been tempted by another's leftovers but he was too tired and too famished to think about it. He took the dishes back to the small kitchen and ate all that was left on them hungrily. When at last he returned to his master's room the man was working at a desk, his back to the door. The master didn't acknowledge his presence and Avon swallowed and spoke. "Master?"

"Yes?"

"You wanted to see me again, Master."

"Did I? I don't remember why, but no matter. Sleep there," he indicated a thin mattress and a blanket on the floor in a corner. "I may remember and I can't be bothered to fetch you at this time of night. Go on then, sleep."

Avon's hesitation was caused by a sudden thought, more a memory. He had rarely slept with another present, not even Anna; he was surprised but her memory no longer caused him any sadness. Perhaps he no longer had any pity to spare.

***

He was woken up by a blow to his side and pulled himself into a sitting position groaning gently. He was immediately aware that his hands were itching unbearably from the work he had done the day before and every joint and muscle in his body ached abominably.

"Get up, slave."

"I'm getting tired of this! Stop ordering me about! I'm not your slave, or anyone else's."

"Get up, slave. Would you rather belong to Commissioner Sleer? I doubt it, I doubt it indeed. I think she had death in mind for you."

"How would you know?"

"I'm not a fool, slave."

"Are you Blake?"

"Who do you think I am?" The question was unexpectedly soft in tone.

Avon admitted the truth. "I don't know."

"I'm your Master. Don't forget it."

There was a soft tap on the door and it opened to reveal Jarvik, standing outside in a short sleeved shirt and dirty work trousers. "Sir?"

"Take the slave, he's to continue working in the residence section."

"Sir. This way, slave."

Once again, Avon was given cleaning to do. This time the flat had been cleared of the old furniture before he arrived and all he had to do was the cleaning and polishing, but when hot water touched his hands, Avon could not stop a shocked cry from escaping his lips. He instantly regretted it, the noise made Jarvik come back and the man stood leaning against the door jamb, watching him.

"Hurting, slut?" he asked.

"No," said Avon.

"I can make it better," offered the man, smiling.

Avon looked at him doubtfully. "For a price, of course."

"Everything has its price, pretty."

"Don't call me that."

"Call me 'sir', pretty, or I'll tell your master you were rude again. You want to go hungry for another day?"

"No, sir."

"Well, pretty, do you want me to do something about your hands?"

Avon didn't reply, it seemed obvious what Jarvik would demand in payment and he did not feel his pain required that. As Jarvik was there Avon decided to indulge his curiosity. "Sir, who is my Master?"

"You don't know?"

"I'm not sure."

"If he has not told you I'm sure he has his reasons."

Avon digested this for a moment, "What is he doing here?"

"Sir."

"What is he doing here, sir?"

"He's setting up a base."

"I had gathered that, yes. But what for?"

"Ask him, slave. Tell you what," the man strolled over and ran his hands down Avon's naked back and buttocks. "I'll tell you - for the same price."

"I don't think I need to know that badly," said Avon, pulling himself away.

Jarvik brought his hand down on Avon's rump, harshly. "Have you ever been told you're a pricktease?"

"No, sir."

"I wonder your master doesn't just hold you down and rape you." Another blow fell. "You really need an ass full of a man's juice, it might teach you a lesson. The master told me to tell you that if you needed to talk to him, the same phrase as yesterday would get you his attention." With a third swat to Avon's exposed buttocks, Jarvik strolled out again.

The day passed. Avon unblocked another set of drains, feeling sick at the smell, scrubbed yet another set of dirty walls clean and another and another. By the end of the day - or what he supposed to be the end - he had harsh reddened places on his hands and he knew that if he had to spend another day like this he would have open and bleeding sores on them. In addition to that, his body was dirty and he was sure it was beginning to smell, he needed to shave very badly and the pains in his back were intense.

His master stood at the door to the flat, quite unruffled by Avon's scruffy appearance. He, in what the prisoner was sure was a deliberate comparison, was well dressed, clean and very composed. "This way, slave."

Serving the meal, Avon was aware that he was being watched, though quite why he was not sure until the master spoke. "Slave, always serve from the left hand side. And don't make such a song and dance about it, the ideal of service is that it should be unobtrusive." It seemed his master intended that he should be able to at least serve a meal properly, what else he intended remained hidden, but Avon wondered.

Once each course had been served the master made him sit on the floor at his feet and Avon found himself staring at the master's shoes. He wore some sort of leather ones, laced in a style Avon had never seen before except in very old pictures and once in the museum in Yuropdome. They looked comfortable, but Avon was curious about them. The man's loose dark trousers tucked neatly into the tops created a baggy style that was most Blakean, almost too much so.

After his meal Avon returned to his master's room to find him once again sitting at the desk, working. As he came in the man leaned back, sighing and stretching. "Ah. Rub my neck, slave."

His master's neck was smooth and unblemished and Avon wondered if Blake's had been. He had no intimate knowledge of Blake at all, had never shared a cabin with him, or even a tent when on planet. Almost, he thought now, as if Blake had avoided being alone with him. Of course he hadn't, why should he?

"Ouch!" remarked his master, as Avon continued the massage. "Not so hard!"

"Sorry."

"Sorry, Master," he was instantly corrected.

"Sorry, Master," Avon parroted, obediently. Then caught his hand against his master's shirt collar and gasped.

"What's wrong?" The man took one of Avon's hands in his. "Hmmm, stand there." He opened a drawer, took out a small container, and opening it started to rub the medicated cream onto Avon's hands.

Almost at once the soreness and itching that had plagued him stopped and Avon smiled in genuine gratitude. "Thank you, Master." For the first time he used the title without sarcasm or forcing himself.

"You have worked hard, slave and you deserve a reward. Now, go to bed."

"What will I be doing tomorrow?"

The master patted his face, almost affectionately. "Let tomorrow take care of itself. Go on, sleep."

***

Next morning he woke refreshed, almost light hearted. The master had not woken him, he had been permitted to sleep until he woke naturally, an unexpected bonus.

Almost immediately the master noticed that Avon was awake and crossed the room to stand by his pallet. His outfit today was dark red trousers, a black shirt and a black embroidered jacket, the trousers and shirt flowed about him as he crossed the room. Avon stood up without being asked, feeling dirty and dishevelled.

The master spoke gently. "Today is to be an easy day for you. Clean and tidy this room, the adjoining bathroom and the kitchen along the passageway. You might as well start there."

Avon blinked, his eyes felt gummy, full of matter and he felt almost as if he were still asleep.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes. Yes, Master."

"Good. Go along then."

Avon longed to be as clean as the kitchen he was working on. Unobtrusively he cleaned his eyes as best he could and washed his mouth out with plain water. He was sure from the way his mouth tasted that he was getting bad breath, if he didn't have it already. He was also sure his body smelled, he had now been kept working at endless physically exhausting jobs without a proper bath for more than five days. Dimly, he remembered some pre-Atomic Queen of whom it was said that she was considered to be a very clean woman because she had a bath once a month whether or not she needed one and tried to comfort himself with the thought.

He had nearly finished when Arlen wandered in. "Ah, slave. Make me a drink."

Avon opened his mouth to say something sarcastic but remembered himself just in time, Arlen would have no compunction about reporting him to his master. Instead he said, "Madam?"

"Are you deaf, slave? A drink, now."

"Which drink would you like, madam?"

"Tea, slave. I trust you can manage that?"

For a moment Avon considered spitting in it while making it, but then thought again. He made her tea, while she watched him. As he handed her the drink she said, "Doesn't your master ever have you wash, slave?"

Avon thought for a moment. "He has never given me permission to wash, madam." He hoped that would shut her up.

"Have you ever asked him? You haven't, have you?"

"No, madam."

"Why is that? Are you afraid he'll whip you?"

"No, madam."

"Why does he like his fuck-slave dirty?" Arlen asked. Avon couldn't think of an immediate reply to that and said nothing. "I asked you a question."

Avon had to reply, wished he could think straight. "He doesn't ... doesn't ... fuck ... me."

She laughed. "Are you joking? How could he not fuck you?" She looked him up and down slowly, while he blushed with shame. "Still, maybe he's saving you for a special occasion. Federation Day, perhaps."

"Is he a great supporter of the Federation?" Avon hoped he sounded sufficiently naive.

"Him? Not that I ever heard. Finish your work, slave or you'll be feeling his whip. And your skin would look so lovely marked, I'll have to tell the master so."

"Don't trouble yourself on my account."

"The pleasure is all mine, slave."

As he turned back to the kitchen Avon wondered if she would lie about him to the master - and it wouldn't be all lies, he had been sarcastic, rude to her. From the tone of her voice he had an idea that Arlen would love to see him, as she said, 'marked'.

To his disappointment he had to work around his master when he started the other room, but about halfway through the man seemed to remember something that needed doing elsewhere and left in a hurry. Avon sighed with relief and continued his work with a lighter heart. The man's absence enabled him to search once more for any clue to his identity, or more precisely, any clue that he was actually Blake.

Once again every item of clothing had to be searched, every drawer gone through, the contents of every cupboard examined. Finding a stack of pictures Avon thought his luck had turned, but though they shocked him, they were not what he had so diligently searched for. Each depicted an act of sexual intercourse and though both parties were men and neither were his master they provided an insight into his character. In every picture one of the men was bound, restrained in some way and was submitting to penetration by another, usually with an expression of joy or at least pleasure.

To his embarrassment, Avon felt himself becoming erect as he flicked through them. He did not think he had any desire to take part in the activities shown, and sincerely not as the submissive partner, but he realised, sickly, that he might have no alternative. Despite his conscious feelings his penis seemed unrepentant, taking a long time to go down and reasserting itself whenever he thought of the pictures.

There was a drawer Avon could not open and he searched the top of the master's desk for something that would serve as a lockpick, finally finding a small screwdriver. This he inserted into the old fashioned lock as Vila had shown him so long before. The lock clicked back and Avon slid the drawer open, his belly crawling as he did so. He slid it back again almost at once and with shaking hands, re-locked it only just in time. There was no clue to the master's identity there.

"Haven't you finished, yet?"

"Nearly, Master." Obedience was suddenly easier to find and while Avon knew why and hated himself for it, indicting himself for his rank cowardice, the contents of the drawer could not be forgotten so easily.

"Good."

Avon sighed and finished his cleaning. He wished he could escape but there was nowhere a naked man could hide a weapon. He had tried last night to make himself break the man's neck during the massage he had given, but had found he was unable to do so. Still not knowing why he was angry with himself, he knew that while aboard Scorpio he had not scrupled to kill and kill again, so why was that ruthlessness deserting him now?

For some reason his penis was erect again when he turned at last to face the master, but the man took no notice. "You've finished at last, slave. That took you longer than I thought it would. No matter, perhaps you are tired." That acknowledgement didn't prevent a further order. "You will serve my meal now."

"Master."

He laid the table with precision and served his Master's meal, striving for the unobtrusiveness he had been told was ideal. He was irritated to see the master examine the cutlery with frowning care.

"How are your hands?" The master asked, when Avon returned from the kitchen and his own meal. "Let me see."

Unwillingly Avon permitted his master to examine his hands. They were not as sore as they had been, but were still dry and the skin was flaking. "Not so bad," the bigger man commented, calmly. "Right, take a shower and make sure you wash properly, including your hair and your teeth."

Avon stood, looking at him in astonishment.

"Go on! Move!"

It was wonderful to be clean again, Avon had loathed being dirty with all his heart and soul, but he couldn't help but wonder what his master had in store for him, whether this might lead to a change in their admittedly precarious relationship, one that from his point of view would be a change for the worse.

He re-entered the room clean and dry, but with some trepidation. He jumped when his master touched his hands again. "What's wrong with you?" the master demanded. "You're like a cat on hot bricks. Now, give me your hands."

Once again his master rubbed Avon's hands with cream from the jar, stopping the itching and the soreness. "Nice?" he asked. Avon nodded. "Good. Are you tired, slave?"

"A little, Master."

"In that case you can give me a neck rub and then you may sleep."

***

Next day it seemed that nothing had changed. His master sent him back to cleaning the empty flats, of which there seemed to be an infinite supply.

He was alone until Jarvik came in. Avon had not realised he was there until he felt a blow fall on his buttocks. The slave jumped and turned to face the intruder. "I see your master let you wash." Jarvik looked up and down the exposed body.

"He did ... sir."

"It's improved your manners at any rate."

Avon scowled at him but said nothing.

"Do you want to take me up on my offer?"

"What offer was that, sir?" Over Jarvik's shoulder Avon could see that the master had entered.

"Why, to tell you everything you want to know about him."

"And what do you want to know about me, slave?"

Jarvik jumped and turned at the sound of the master's voice. "He wants to know who you are sir," the blond informed him.

"Ah, we're back to that hoary old chestnut are we?"

"We never left it, Master." Avon couldn't help the insolent tone that entered his voice.

"Did we not? Thank you Jarvik, you can go."

With obvious reluctance, the blond left; master and slave were alone. The master touched Avon's face with the tips of his fingers. "You look much better clean."

"Do I ... Master?" Avon did not know what to make of that remark.

"Oh, indeed."

Suddenly the master became brisk. "I want you to give me a back rub, so you can leave that for the time being. I shouldn't really allow you the reward after your display of appalling manners, but my back hurts, which is more important."

"As you wish, Master."