Nor Iron Bars a Cage

Nor Iron Bars a Cage

by R. Olivia Brown

Part 3

With some internal misgivings Avon followed his master back to the small flat and watched as he removed his jacket - dark blue today - and his shirt. He handed Avon a tube of massage oil and the slave set to work.

"You're very good at this," the master commented after a while.

"Thank you, Master."

"Where did you learn?" he asked.

"I've back problems myself. You can't receive a lot of these without learning something about the way it's done." Avon hoped in a way that he would be asked more questions, but it seemed the master was content with that. He was also surprised, the master had never before betrayed any curiosity about his slave's antecedents.

The master's back was smooth and well muscled, more so than Avon had expected, the clothes the man wore made him seem heavier set, fatter than he really was. He was no longer surprised that this man had managed to overcome him on the day he'd been sold and he wondered how long it would take for the master to force on him the ultimate humiliation.

"Enough." The Master sat up. "Go back to your duties, slave."

***

He was not permitted to wash that night, or at all for the following five days. Avon started to think of murder again, to long for his tormentor's death. He spent his days miserably cleaning and scrubbing, washing the endless rooms of the base, unblocking toilets and polishing windows. He began to believe his life served no purpose other than to clean and if he was lucky, serve his master one meal a day. He also knew that once more, he stank. His mouth felt full of rubbish, he was sure others could smell him, his eyes were gummed and he seemed perpetually tired.

On the seventh day he decided he'd had enough. He did not want to get up and when he did and received the expected order to go back to his cleaning, he refused.

After a moment's apparent disbelief the master reached for him and used the probe he remembered so well and that was never far from his hand. With Avon's arms rendered useless his wrists were easily bound behind him.

"What are you going to do to me?"

"Punish you," said the master, as if surprised he should ask. He opened the locked draw in the desk and Avon whimpered almost in disbelief. The whip produced was about as long as the master's forearm, narrow and wicked looking. The master tipped Avon onto his face, bending him over the side of the bed. "I see I have treated you too well, and you are taking advantage of my good nature." The first blow fell and Avon cried out.

By the end he was sobbing with the pain. The master's blows had covered his buttocks, thighs, calves and even the soles of his feet. The master stood back and for a moment it seemed as though he was admiring his handiwork. Then he hit a comlink. "Jarvik."

"Here, sir."

"Come here now."

"As you wish, sir."

"Help me take this ..." he indicated the bound slave, "to the punishment cell."

"Yes, sir."

Avon fought back violently, he had an idea of where and what the punishment cell might be, but the combined force of Jarvik and his master proved too much for him and he was tossed into the cell. Jarvik picked his way across the water and cut the binding on his wrists then tied them to the bar above his head. He was left alone.

The fall into the cell had bruised him in several places, the worst was on his thigh where he had hit the broken bit of pipe and his back and legs which were on fire from the beating he had received. The cell still smelled disgusting, sickeningly so, and he was cold. There was no one to look at him, but perversely he felt more naked here than anywhere else.

The silence was absolute, there was no way to measure time passing. His arms were stretched above him and they started to hurt along with the rest of his body. He could either rest the muscles of his legs by standing with his feet flat on the floor, or rest his arms by standing on the tips of his toes and once more Avon felt increasingly hungry. He drowsed rather than slept, a true sleep was impossible. He kept being woken by the pull on his arms and this served to confuse his sense of time still more. He started to feel curiously lightheaded, the edges of consciousness became blurred and strange. Suddenly the room was filled with a bright light and Avon saw that the door was open.

It was a relief when a soft voice, Blake's voice unmistakably so, spoke to him. "Oh, Avon, my poor love!" The sympathy was tangible and he was suffused with a sense of gladness ... something he could not remember feeling since he was a small child. It brought tears to his eyes and he saw Blake approach him through a curious haze, so that he did not know if the man was real or not. When he felt the touch on his face and the tears spilled over onto his cheeks, the soft voice spoke again. "Don't cry, my love. I'm here with you now."

"But Blake, I have to kill you."

Blake said, "Have you, my love? That's unfortunate." He sounded amused and ironic; Avon could remember himself using that tone, but not why or when.

"You don't understand, I have to kill you."

"Why?"

"They told me to."

Blake unfastened Avon's wrists and pulled the man into his arms, it was warm there, he felt protected and safe. "What will happen if you kill me, Avon?"

"You will be dead."

"What will happen to you?"

"I will be free."

"What else?"

"I will be dead."

He felt Blake's lips touch his and wondered how the man could bear to touch, to be near, one who must smell as bad as he. He tried to pull away, to free Blake from this disgusting unwashed creature who dirtied his clothes, who stank. Blake's arms tightened around him. "Shh, my love," he whispered. "You're safe with me."

"But you aren't safe with me. No one is." Avon was quite desolate.

"Why will you be dead if I am?"

"Because ... I will ... have no reason to go on living."

"Ah. I see."

"But I have to kill you," Avon pleaded for understanding.

"Avon, I love you. And you belong to me, so you aren't free to kill me, because I won't permit it."

Avon relaxed against the other man. "Oh. That's all right then. I can't kill you because I must obey you and you won't let me. And while I do that, will you take care of me?" It did seem to make perfect sense.

"My love, of course I will. Now, come along, you can't stay in this terrible place."

"Why did you send me here?"

"Because you disobeyed. You had to be punished. But I think you've been punished enough now and I'm going to reward you."

"What for?"

"For not killing me. Come along."

Blake led Avon through the corridors of the base and to the flat he had first cleaned. It had been furnished since he had seen it last and Avon looked around curiously at the furniture, upholstered in a soft shade of blue and the warm beige carpet. "It's lovely," he said wonderingly.

"I'm glad you like it," replied Blake. "It will be your job to keep it nice."

He led Avon through to the bedroom and towards the bed with it's white covers. "Blake!" he protested. "I will make it all dirty!"

"It's washable. Come, lie down and let me hold you." Stunned, Avon obeyed. "Now, let me kiss you." At first Avon was unwilling to open his mouth, but finally he submitted to Blake's demands and the insidious sweetness of his kisses. He felt Blake manoeuvre him onto his back and lifted one knee to allow his lover an exploration of his hard cock and the soft sac beneath, not even protesting when a slick finger slide inside him.

"Are you going to fuck me?" Avon asked. He wasn't worried by the idea, more curious.

"No, my dear. I'm going to make love to you."

"Oh."

The entry of Blake's hard penis into his body was not as painful as he had been led by young men's folklore to expect it would be, it was more uncomfortable than actually painful. Avon wriggled a little to allow Blake to take full possession of him and quickly accommodated himself to the insistent thrusting of his lover's body and the feel of another's hand on his prick. The intensity of his orgasm was such that he hardly noticed his lover's, only realising it had happened when the softening organ slipped from him.

He was half asleep when he felt Blake rise from the bed and heard him come back. "What are you doing?" Avon asked, too tired to open his eyes.

"Don't bother moving, I'm going to wash you."

Avon obeyed the voice, trusting to it instinctively and enjoying the attention as the cloth moved over him, to be followed by a warm towel. He slept.

***

Waking, to a bright warm room, was something of a shock. He was still ravenously hungry and what had woken him was a smell, food. New bread, fruit, and coffee. He sat up, the events of the night before had become dreamlike, almost unreal and he wondered ... he wondered if it had ever happened, or if it had been a dream, some sort of wish fulfilment. Surely not? He had never had wishes like that and certainly not about Blake. He was no longer even lying on the bed, if indeed he ever had been, he was on a mattress on the floor in a corner of the large room.

What was preventing him from eating? He looked around and then waited for a few moments. As he sat he could feel the bruises from the beating he'd been given, his buttocks, thighs and calves all hurt. Finally he spoke. "Beloved Master?"

For a moment he thought he wasn't going to get a reply, then the voice came. "Yes, slave?"

"Master, may I eat?"

"Yes, slave."

The food seemed to Avon to be the most wonderful, the most perfect, he had ever tasted. He had almost finished when he saw his master standing by the door looking down on him and he was conscious of a feeling of pride, not in himself, for he knew he was dirty, stinking and unshaven, but his master was faultless. He was wearing a cream jacket, white shirt and loose cream trousers and these combined with his curly hair caused him to look almost angelic. At once the slave forgot about eating and stood, ready to do his master's bidding.

His master frowned slightly and Avon swallowed. He spoke, quite gently, "I don't like to punish you, slave. But I will if you disobey me." The pain in the soles of Avon's feet served as a bitter counterpoint to the words. He hung his head and was surprised to feel his master's hand slide along his jaw, rasping the stubble that was rapidly becoming a beard. "Come, slave, continue with your work. If you do well, I will see you this evening."

It took a long time for Avon to work the stiffness out of his muscles. He was still trying to work out whether the ... sexual encounter ... he remembered had been a dream or not and tried to tie in the muscular aches to his memory of the night before. Unfortunately he ached in so many places, any one of them could have been as a result of sex, or merely a response to having spent many hours tied up. He thought someone had cleaned him, but that also was hard to judge, his dirt was more background griminess than spectacular filth and the need to evacuate his bowel was more a sign that he had eaten recently.

He had only vague memories of what he had done. He didn't think he had done anything expect submit, but the memory of the kisses, his master's kisses, Blake's kisses, intruded, making him blush all over and causing his penis to rise. He climbed the steps and concentrated on scrubbing the top of the wall, trying to block out the memory.

"You look well today," Jarvik of course. Avon wondered irritatedly what Jarvik did for his master that allowed him to wander off whenever he wanted to in order to torment a slave. He said nothing.

"Still curious?" The blond ran his hand down the slave's back and buttocks in his usual caress. He reached out and grasped Avon's wrist, forcing him down the steps, looking at the still erect penis as he did so. Jarvik touched him intimately, rolling Avon's foreskin back to expose the head of his penis and pulling it down again slowly, making the invasion a caress and the caress an invasion.

"Don't ..." Avon said, trying to free his wrist.

"Ahh ... ask me properly, slave."

"Please ... sir ... don't do that."

"And why not, pretty?"

Avon swallowed. "My master wouldn't like it."

"And will you tell him?"

"Yes, sir."

The blond moved his other hand to the back of Avon's head, using a grasp on his hair to tilt his face to the light. "You know, I almost believe you would too. Has he started fucking you yet?"

A slight hesitation. "No ... sir."

"You don't seem too sure. Perhaps you've started to suck him off? Is that it slave? Do you feel his cock in your mouth, his spunk in your throat? With a mouth like yours how could he resist it? If you were mine, slave, you'd serve me in every possible way, starting the hour you were bought, on your back!" Jarvik pinned Avon against the wall and the slave resisted fiercely, finally reaching for the inside of the man's thigh and twisting his balls suddenly. With a yell of pain Jarvik let go. "You little bitch!" He knocked Avon to the floor and kicked him, hard, in the belly.

"What the hell is going on in here?" The master had entered, unnoticed by either of them. Even through his pain it occurred to Avon that he had a habit of doing that.

"That little hell cat attacked me!"

"Did he? Slave, get up!"

Avon struggled to his feet, still clutching his stomach, trying not to be sick. He leaned on the steps for support and waited.

"Jarvik, I have told you before, you are not permitted to touch my slave and you are definitely not permitted to punish him. He will suffer for his misbehaviour, but at my hands, not yours. You may go."

He turned to the slave. "And as for you ... do not attempt to use physical violence against any member of my staff."

"He tried to ..."

"Rape you?" The master stared at Avon. "Of course he did. Jarvik will fuck anything with a hole in it. And if I wanted him to have you I'd have allowed it long since. If he touches you again, call me. Now, carry on with your duties."

Avon found out what his punishment was to be soon enough. As dusk fell outside Arlen arrived. He was on his knees scrubbing a bedroom floor and as she looked down on him he moved to get up. She laughed, "You needn't bother, slave, the master says you're to remain here tonight. He doesn't need you, he's spending the night with Deva."

The night seemed very long, the room was warm enough but Avon had nothing to cover himself with, not even a blanket and the floor was too hard to sleep on with any degree of ease. It was almost as bad as lying in water in the punishment cell, certainly it was as painful. He supposed at least that this was his punishment, his master had told him that being allowed to serve him was reward for good behaviour. Avon discovered he missed that reward and was horrified to realise how very much.

In the morning it was Arlen again who told him to continue with his work, he did not see his master at all. He was saddened, then realised how absurd the feeling was, actually missing the man who forced him to endure pain and who heaped total humiliation on him. No, not quite total. He now believed the night he had submitted to Blake's caresses to have been a dream, his master could not be Blake, this man would eventually rape him. Admitting this to himself, the slave could not help but wonder what it would be like ... if the reality would resemble the dream of Blake.

The day passed, he was not fed and found that he worked more and more slowly. The morning seemed to drag on forever and the warmth of the afternoon sun shone in, as it did in the flat that his master had gone to so much trouble to furnish. He reasoned that the flat could not therefore be far away, it must be below him, the base was not so big that there was more than one residence block. He wondered if his master was there.

To give himself an excuse to stare out of the window Avon set to work cleaning it. He could see the garden of the flat a couple of storeys below, and as he watched he saw his master walk down the garden and stand almost at the edge of the cliff, staring out over the ocean. Avon looked down at him longingly, he could see the wind ruffle the soft curls of his master's hair and mould the dark baggy trousers to his strong legs. The dark blue jacket showed off his wide shoulders and powerful back and as he turned Avon could just see a pink vee of chest.

Blake looked up at him. Avon was sure from here that it was the rebel, it just couldn't be anyone else. He stopped polishing and their eyes met. As Avon felt blackness engulf him he was conscious of vertigo, pain and a feeling of falling and still that sense of having failed to complete a task he had been set, of there being school tomorrow and work yet to be done.

He woke to find himself on his back with his legs raised, they were resting on the bottom rung of the steps and he could see his dirty feet with the cracked and broken toenails and the bruises on the right instep where he had dropped a heavy can of cleaner. He was ashamed, he'd always had nice feet. His master was sitting beside him on the floor, legs crossed.

He dared to speak. "Master, are you Blake?"

The master looked at him for a few moments. "I have told you I am your master and that should be enough for you."

"Oh." The certainty Avon had felt on looking down had gone again, swept aside like spiders webs, washed away like the dirt on these residence walls. "What happened to me, Master?" Avon pulled himself into a sitting position.

"You fainted. Hunger, probably."

"Does that mean I can eat?"

"Take that tone, slave and I'll think you did it on purpose." His master's voice was light, joking, but Avon didn't miss the warning it held.

"Please, Master, may I eat?"

"Of course you may." The man handed Avon a milky drink. His voice was so kind that Avon's eyes filled with grateful tears. He hated himself for his weakness.

The slave found his voice. "What is this, Master?"

"It's a food concentrate, it contains protein supplements and extra vitamins. It will make you feel better."

"You haven't been feeding me properly, Master?"

The master cuffed him, lightly, but enough for it to sting. "Don't be rude."

While Avon sipped slowly at the hot drink, the other leaned against the wall, watching him with that lazy appreciation he had sometimes shown before. As soon as he had finished, the master stood and ordered him to carry on with his work. The slave sighed.

The flat was warm and oddly welcoming as Avon came in. He laid the table carefully and served his master's meal as he had been taught, proud that once again he had done well enough to be rewarded.

It seemed that his master was very pleased indeed with him, once he had eaten he was ordered to massage the man's back. Avon took his time over it, loosening each muscle group and as his oiled hands slid over the smooth skin Avon found he was enjoying the sensuality. His master seemed tense and Avon wondered, idly, what was worrying him, then reminded himself that it was none of his concern.

Though he lay beneath his slave's hands with his eyes closed, Avon didn't think the master was asleep, his breathing was regular but not deep enough for sleep and as he worked it seemed obvious that his touch was having an unforeseen effect, the man's breathing quickened with what Avon was certain was arousal. He felt a mixture of pride and fear, pride that his hands could give such pleasure and fear of what it might lead to.

At last he was addressed. "That's enough, slave. You can get some sleep now."

For a moment Avon was disappointed. He had screwed up his courage to face a sexual assault, and he felt perversely annoyed that he had been deprived of the opportunity to make his feelings known. He unrolled his mattress and lay down, spreading the blankets over himself, rolling into his preferred position and feeling their softness against his hard penis. He wished that he was alone, somehow the idea of masturbating with an audience did not appeal to him, even when that audience was his master. Why he had been prepared to orgasm with his master inside him, but could not do so with the same man merely watching him was ... peculiar ... to say the least, though Avon would have been hard put to say what was most peculiar about it. He also had an idea that he would need his master's permission to pleasure himself and he did not know quite how to phrase the request.

He wondered if his master was also in this odd quandary, he had certainly reacted to Avon, of that he was quite sure and the idea of that self-contained man lying there with a raging hard-on, unable to do anything about it because of Avon's presence was distinctly amusing. It also made him somehow sad. Why should such a man suffer in that way when the means existed for his relief?

He realised which way his thoughts were tending and was horrified at himself. He knew enough to know that his treatment so far had been intended to result in the annihilation of his self, to subsume his identity into that of his master and he was frightened to see how well it had worked. He was also helpless to stop it and was badly scared by the realisation.

He wondered what the point of it all was. His interrogation following the bank fraud had an obvious intention, to find the names of his co-conspirators and he had been able to withstand it. Shrinker's torturers had wanted only his name, and he had weathered that interrogation also. He had known that he could, and although the pain, physical and mental, had been intense he had known he could wait the length of time it took for Shrinker himself to arrive, had known that the agony would end when he did so. He was not even sure what his master wanted and could foresee no end to it.

To his astonishment, his master's first instruction on the following evening was that his slave should wash and shave. This treat had not been permitted him for well over a week and though he tried not to allow his joy to show he did not attempt to deny it even to himself. He wondered if the disgusting state of his body was finally beginning to tell on his master, but somehow he doubted it, the man's patience seemed infinite.

Clean and dry he knelt at his master's feet with pleasure, waiting patiently for him to finish eating. He wondered if his master would want a massage again tonight; he hoped he would, he wanted to touch the broad shoulders and to feel the strong muscles softening again under his hands.

He didn't, and Avon was badly disappointed. It was almost as if his master had let him down, but he told himself he had no right to expect any more than he was offered.

The following day was hard, the room he worked on was infested with some sort of large biting insect and the naked slave shuddered every time one touched his skin. The room stank, the walls were greasy and difficult to clean, the more so because every time he concentrated on his work the repulsive insects would distract him again.

At last he could stand no more. "Beloved Master?" He wondered if his master had even bothered to have the link moved into here.

A soft voice, sounding a little surprised. "Yes, slave?"

"Master, this place is infested, I need some insecticide."

"Really? I'll have some brought to you."

"Thank you, master."