Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Colonel Benson’s residence, this is his slave speaking.”

It was part of his duties to answer the master’s phone when the master wasn’t there and sometimes when he was there, but didn’t want to talk to anyone. He answered it like a machine, having said the phrase so many times he could speak it in his sleep.

“Regan?”

He straightened up immediately, as if the woman on the line could see him, he was at once standing at attention. “Yes, Mistress.”

Helen Benson wasn’t really his mistress. The Colonel and his wife were separated, and he’d only been brought here after she’d moved out, a little more than three years ago. She still called and visited quite often, and it usually ended in an argument between her and the master.

Regan didn’t know why they hadn’t officially divorced when they seemed to get along so badly. However, his master didn’t speak of his personal life with his slave, and it would be the farthest from Regan’s mind to ask such a personal question. Technically, she was still married to his master, and the title was correct. She’d never protested it.

”Let me speak to Carl.”

”I’m sorry, Mistress, he isn’t here.”

”Where is he?”

”I’m sorry, Mistress, he didn’t tell me.”

”Will you stop saying ’I’m sorry’? I really hope for your sake you’re not lying to me again. Don’t you think I know Carl sends you to answer the damn phone when he doesn’t want to talk to me?”

Regan swallowed hard. ”He really isn’t here, Mistress, I’m sor... I- I wouldn’t dare lie to you, Mistress.”

”Yeah, right! The only one you wouldn’t dare lie to is Carl.”

Regan couldn’t answer; what she said was true, after all.

There was a deep sigh in his ear. ”Never mind, Regan, it’s not you that I’m angry with, and it’s not your fault in any case. What else can you do than obey him? Tell him to call me back, okay, and that I really need to talk to him.”

”Yes, Mistress, I’ll tell him as soon as he gets back.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Mistress. Have a nice day, Mis...”

She hung up, and Regan winced as he put the receiver down. ’Have a nice day’? What an utterly stupid thing to say, especially since it was clear she wasn’t having a nice day at all. She always seemed so sad and frustrated whenever she called or came around, but of course, it wasn’t in his power to make her feel better. Regan only wished he wasn’t so often forced to be an accomplice in making her feel worse.

Not when she was so kind to him.

Deep down, Regan didn’t wonder that she had moved out, as he knew how difficult his master could be. There were moments he wished he could move out, too, but those were quickly extinguished thoughts. Wishing for things to be different was a waste of time, and he couldn’t risk it ever showing on his face.

He really shouldn’t complain, not even to himself. Even at his worst, the Colonel wasn’t as bad as some owners out there were, Regan was well aware. The Colonel wasn’t a bad man, really, only strict and firm, not letting people under him get away with things. Regan had made mistakes in the Colonel’s service and they had been… dealt with.

Once, in the beginning, he’d been foolish enough to think he could make his own judgment about how things should be done. The Colonel had ordered him to clean the master bedroom and en suite bathroom. Regan had finished the bedroom, but had thought the bathroom looked nice and clean enough already. He‘d just changed the towels and tidied up a bit. When asked if he was done, he’d told the truth: that he was finished but hadn’t cleaned the bathroom as thoroughly as the bedroom since it hadn’t been necessary.

The Colonel had caned him so badly his ass had been black and blue, and all shades of purple and yellow for weeks. He learned quickly then the master’s orders were to be followed by the letter, and that his assessment of the necessity of things wasn’t wanted. Since then he’d cleaned many already clean rooms, dusted many shelves without dust, and polished many already shiny things.

It wasn’t that the Colonel was hard or unreasonable, he thought, but he was a… perfectionist, and had high standards. As long as Regan never questioned those standards, he would be forgiven for not understanding them.

Another time, he’d raised an eyebrow at something the Colonel had said that he’d found odd – he couldn’t even remember what – and his master had backhanded him so hard he’d ended up on the floor with a split lip. As much as the sudden violence had shocked him at the time, Regan had made sure to take that as a learning experience, as well. The Colonel was not amused by any commentary from his slave, even if the ‘commentary’ only consisted of the smallest of facial expressions that he’d hardly even been aware of.

Especially in the first year with the Colonel, Regan had had many such opportunities to learn and better himself, which had been awful, terrifying and very painful, but he told himself to be grateful for the lessons. Today, having indeed learned, his master punished him much less often. Regan had in time succeeded in proving he really tried his best and wanted to please, he thought, which meant it even happened he was reprimanded painlessly, or not at all.

It was rare, but it did happen.

Just the other night, for example, when he’d assisted the Colonel undressing for bedtime, he’d accidentally pulled an already half-loosened button off from his shirt. In the beginning, such a thing would have earned him a hard slap, at the very least, and Regan had stammered apologies as he’d fallen to his knees, crawling around looking for the button that had rolled across the floor. However, his master had only given him a displeased frown, thrown the shirt in his face and told him to get out and see to it that it was mended.

He knew this meant he had a good owner.

Regan pulled himself out of his musings when he heard the front door opening. His master was returning already? He rushed out into the hallway. The Colonel wanted to be met by a slave who took his coat and knelt down to take his shoes off, and he wanted this even if he almost never informed his slave of when he was coming back. In time, Regan had learnt, somehow, to detect the sound of the door opening even in his sleep if need be. His backside had learnt what happened if he didn’t. Thankfully, his master preferred to keep a relatively small home – the sound could be heard almost anywhere in the apartment, if you listened for it.

Sometimes, Regan wanted to believe his master actually made noise on purpose opening the door.

He hung his master’s coat in the wardrobe and took his shoes off in silence; his master required no words of welcome to his own home from his own slave. Regan noted the shoes needed polishing, which he would see to as soon as he was able. The Colonel wanted to look his best at all times and that his shoes should always be well polished or well brushed was such a given it didn’t need a spoken order.

The Colonel had walked into the apartment, without as much as a single look at him, but that in itself wasn’t unusual. It was worse that Regan could feel the bad mood his master had been in all day, hadn’t improved by going outside for a while. For a moment, he was tempted to start on the shoes right away, but not checking on his master’s possible needs first simply wouldn’t do. With a slowly forming knot in his stomach, he followed the Colonel inside.

There was a small den beyond the sitting room, a space for relaxation or informal get-togethers with a friend or two. It had a few comfortable upholstered chairs around a coffee table, a bar in a corner and an audio system and TV set. The Colonel often retreated there in the evening, to have a drink and read the mail and the paper. When Regan stepped into the den and silently knelt down inside the door, waiting, head bowed, his master was already reclining in his favorite chair looking through today’s mail.

“The usual,” he said, not looking up.

“Yes, Master.”

‘The usual’ was his master’s favorite drink, and Regan had learnt to mix it to perfection after having done it about a thousand times by now. Even so, he’d never tasted it himself.

Alcohol was of course something he was strictly forbidden to have, and he didn’t even want to think about what would happen to him if he ever dared break that rule. He’d no desire to anyway. Mixing drinks for his master, he could smell it well enough, and he didn’t like how it smelled. His whole life he had wondered at, and secretively wished for a taste of, the many delicious things free people enjoyed right under his nose, but when it came to alcohol, Regan was sure he wasn’t missing anything.

Besides, he’d seen what it could do, to some.

He placed the drink on the table in front of his master on a coaster, making very sure that no condensation from the chilled drink would drop on the tabletop’s perfectly polished surface, and then he took two steps back and sank down on his knees.

The Colonel sipped his drink while he read the mail and Regan patiently waited. Normally, he would have retreated to his spot by the door in case he was further needed, and the master would send him out of the room with a silent wave of his hand if he weren’t. However, today he’d something to say, and so he knelt down a little bit closer.

Some masters, Regan knew, didn’t mind their slaves just saying things. Colonel Benson was most emphatically not one of them. He could show he wished to speak though, and hope that it would be acknowledged.

The Colonel finally threw the mail on the table. “Yes?” he said.

Regan took a deep breath; he could already hear the annoyance in his master’s voice. “While you were out, Master, there was a phone call.”

“Who?”

Sometimes his master had this way of speaking mostly in one-word sentences, and it always scared him. “Your… wife, Master.”

The Colonel only snorted at that.

“May I relate her message to you, Master?” he asked carefully.

“I’m not interested,” the Colonel coldly informed him.

Regan looked down at his hands; they were only slightly trembling, so far. “I… promised I would, Master…” There was a moment of total stillness and Regan held his breath, his hands trembling just a little bit more.

“Regan, come here!”

He obeyed and shuffled closer, still on his knees, cursing his own stupidity as his master’s strong fingers wrapped around his collar.

The Colonel held on to his collar while he slapped him with an open hand one time, and then backhanded him a little less hard a second time. None of those slaps had been even remotely as hard as some he’d received from the Colonel’s hands, but his cheeks burned nevertheless. His master still held on to his collar, and he tried not to move or flinch as he waited for more slaps. There were no more. The Colonel released him and he bowed deeply, heart beating hard in his chest.

“You know better, slave, than to talk back to your master,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” he replied, grateful the relatively mild slaps had only been a warning. “I beg your forgiveness, Master.”

He was grateful for the warning. He was just being stupid, feeling so bad for having lied to Helen Benson in the past that he’d risked his master’s ire. Slaves shouldn’t try to decide for themselves which free person deserved what. He should just follow his master’s rules and orders, and nothing else.

“Well, tell me what she said then.”

Oh… Regan slowly sat up again. “Yes, Master. Mistress asked you call her back, she said it was very important.”

The Colonel gave up a short and harsh laugh at that. “Is that so? It’s always ‘very important’ with her, isn’t it? She’s really manipulated you into feeling sorry for her, hasn’t she? Well, I’m prepared to forgive you for that, Regan, I suppose, since you’re just a naïve boy, and not too bright a slave at that, but you would do well to remember where your loyalties are.”

“Yes, Master,” Regan readily agreed, having just come to the same conclusion on his own.

“Now, don’t annoy me with this further. Life is annoying enough as it is, I would like my own home to be an annoyance-free zone, thank you.”

Regan flushed red and looked down, feeling ashamed at his manners now. He withdrew to his spot by the door, and his master picked up the paper and dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

Regan slipped out of the den and went to fetch his master’s shoes. There was time to polish them now before he was to start on the Colonel’s supper. He was relieved there had been no mentioning of further punishment.

Regan feared the canes with the same nameless horror that a small child feared the monsters under its bed.

Regan remained in bed after he woke up and kept his eyes closed. Waiting, and… a few minutes later, the alarm went off.

His alarm clock went off at five in the morning – every morning, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five days a year – and had been doing so from his first day of service here. His body and mind was so used to it by now, he always woke up a few minutes before it went off. Regan had still never dared not to use it. Oversleeping was simply not an option.

He reached out to turn it off, yawned, scratched his crotch and stretched like a cat. What he wouldn’t give to snuggle back into the soft sheets and go back to sleep, but it was impossible. No matter what the day before had been like, or if his services had been demanded late, he had to get up in time. The Colonel was very strict with such things.

Admittedly, the Colonel was rather hard on himself, as well, and followed his own routines almost as strictly. On weekdays, his master usually got up at six in the morning, no matter if it was needed or not. Usually, it wasn’t needed, as far as Regan could tell. He wasn’t quite clear on exactly what his master did for a living, as he was retired from the military and was now working in the family business, but he’d understood as much that the Colonel decided his own work hours.

The difference between his master and himself was that the master did allow himself some exceptions from his self-imposed rules and routines now and then. No such exceptions were ever allowed the slave.

Regan sighed as he threw the cover aside and lifted his legs over the edge of the bed to sit up and rub at his eyes, yawning again. A cold shower usually woke him up, followed by a warm one to make up for the shock. He went out into the bathroom.

After the shower, he always used a fat lotion and took his time rubbing it in properly all over his body. His skin was overly sensitive and easily got dry, flaky and splotchy red, which was an unfortunate side effect of the features he’d been born with. Regan was pale as a sheet, blue veins showing in stark contrast, and the hair on his head was more white than blond; his eyes a pale blue. He had heard it said he was ‘technically not an albino’, but everybody who saw him seemed to assume he was.

His odd looks were not entirely a coincidence. He was a product of selective breeding by a large slave facility, after all. Some people liked odd things, and he was designed to fit such a demand. They had matched up the palest and prettiest slaves they could find and had finally produced a few like him. He probably had siblings, but he wasn’t sure. What he did know was that the desired traits had come out a bit more exaggerated in his case than what they had hoped for, causing him some physical issues. As such, he had been told, he should be grateful he hadn’t been culled out of the program already as a baby. It did mean they’d ‘tied his tubes’, so no one would breed him further.

His paleness was further enhanced by the fact the Colonel rarely let him leave the apartment, or even stay in the sun on the balcony; preferring to give him various supplements instead, or whatever those pills were. He had no idea what he was given, really, but if the Colonel gave him something to swallow… he swallowed…

The fact that he’d been de-haired didn’t help him look less odd. The Colonel had ordered the procedure done only a few weeks after he’d bought him. Regan hadn’t been overly hairy before, and his former master hadn’t minded the soft and pale fuzz, but Colonel Benson had.

Regan had not had a say in the matter.

With the exception of the hair on his head, his eyebrows and his eyelashes, all body hair had been chemically and permanently removed, and it had taken three horribly long treatments with the stinging, burning and foul-smelling chemicals before he was turned into something that most resembled an antique porcelain doll. That’s what he had felt like, anyway, a doll – dehumanized. He had reminded himself that in his papers, he was legally actually not considered a human already, so it really shouldn’t have bothered him so much.

His master hadn’t had it done for an aesthetic reason, anyway, not as far as Regan had understood it. It was more of a hygiene question for the overly pedantic retired Colonel, Regan thought, and his master preferred his sex toys ‘easily cleanable’.

Regan would never dare complain about that either, not even in his own head. The Colonel was both clinical and distant in bed, even more so than outside of it, reducing him to a sort of ‘sentient masturbation device’ in the bedroom, but he never hurt him in the process, and Regan knew from experience that it could be a very painful act.

The facility that had bred and raised him had sold him for private use when he was sixteen years old, and his first master had been so unbelievably kind to him, soothing all his fears of leaving the place that had been all he had known up until then. The facility had meant a bleak and strict childhood, he had later understood, and he had been so woefully unprepared for the love and care the man who had taken him home had showered him in.

Regan had worshipped the man.

The more it had hurt when his master’s true colors showed. The man was an alcoholic, and there had been no warning of the monster that lurked underneath. Regan soon learned what would follow the smell of alcohol – shouting and yelling, beatings, harsh fucks that left him torn and bleeding, accusations of thievery, knives at his throat, promises of gruesome deaths for imagined slights…

His first master had always felt bad about it the next day, patching him up and promising him he would never treat him so harshly again. Regan had believed him and had felt bad at flinching away from his good master who was so sad over last night – but the next weekend there would be another bottle of Vodka, another beating, another night of pain and terror...

In the end, Regan was not able to find comfort in the man’s saner moments, and he ended up sneaking along the walls, a nervous wreck, always slowly and painfully healing from one injury or another.

The Colonel had never showered him in love and care, but he had also never, ever lost control over his drinking, never lost control over anything, and for that reason alone, Regan would never complain.

Well, after about a year in that hell, the man had left the apartment in some errand, and had simply not returned home, abandoning Regan in his dingy apartment without food for more than a week, before there was suddenly police breaking down the door, and he was taken away.

No one told Regan what had happened, but listening to the police officers talk around him, he had been able to gather as much that his master had committed some sort of serious crime and would be in prison for a very long time. Shortly after that, the Colonel had bought him at a police auction, so he supposed it meant his first master had somehow lost his ownership over him in the process. He’d never dared ask his new master to explain the legalities of his change of ownership.

Regan finished his morning grooming routine with drying off excess lotion, brushing his long white hair and braiding it to keep it out of the way, before dressing in what he liked to call his ‘uniform’. It consisted of a pair of black Capri pants and a likewise black closefitting, collarless, waist-long jacket with three-quarter sleeves and a row of buttons in the front. He always had to keep it buttoned up properly. There was that one time when he had missed a button and the Colonel had twisted his ear in a most excruciatingly painful way. He’d never missed a button again.

He had several identical sets of this outfit and as good as never wore anything else. There were other things in his closet, things better suited for going out in colder weather, for example, but as he was usually never taken anywhere, they remained mostly untouched. Some owners, he knew, liked to dress slaves like him in fancier outfits, colorful, pretty things, revealing and titillating pieces, but not his master.

The Colonel didn’t like fanciful things.

Regan looked at himself in the mirror, smoothed back a strand of hair, brushed a tiny speck of dust from his shoulder, and made sure his collar was straight. His master wanted to see the lock at the back of his neck, and the steel ring riveted to it at the front. There would be punishment if he caught him with the collar not sitting straight around his neck. Regan had made a habit of checking at his throat for the ring constantly during the day to avoid that.

Thus having finished up, he turned to his bedroom door… only to walk back to the mirror and do the whole thing over again – hair, lint, buttons, straight collar, hair, lint, butt… Regan forced himself to stop and walk out the door.

Being tardy was not an option.

Regan was his master’s alarm clock.

At six o’ clock, sharp, Regan tiptoed into his master’s bedroom, knelt beside the bed and reached a hand up, speaking softly, close to his master’s ear. “Master, it’s six o’clock, if it would please you to wake up?”

The Colonel muttered something unintelligible under his breath and Regan sat back and waited. If his master didn’t wake up the first time his order was to try again, a bit more firmly, but he really hated doing that. It didn’t feel right to act in any way that could be said to be demanding or pushy with his master, even if he was ordered to. Usually though, the Colonel wasn’t hard to wake up. He soon turned, blinked, yawned, and waved toward the twin doors leading out to the balcony.

Regan stood up, bowed, went to pull the curtains aside and opened the doors to let in the light and some fresh air. He remained a few seconds, to enjoy the air and light himself. Oh, how he wished the Colonel would take him out. Regan didn’t even remember when he’d been last allowed to go with his master anywhere, and it sure as hell wasn’t something he dared ask for.

He didn’t dare standing in the doors too long, either. He went to fetch the Colonel’s robe and slippers and assisted in putting them on as he got out of bed.

His master sleepily shuffled out into his en suite bathroom and Regan hurried to tidy up the bedroom in the meantime. When his master was done with his shower, he wanted to see a perfect bedroom on his return. Regan gave the bed linen a quick shake from the balcony, before hurrying back inside to make the bed. He smoothed the sheets and covers with his hands until they were completely unwrinkled and straight, and then he went over the rest of the room in the same hurried, but thorough manner. If he wasn’t completely finished by the time his master came back, he usually wasn’t punished these days, but the frown the Colonel would give him was uncomfortable enough.

This morning, he finished several minutes before his master came back and was rewarded with a neutral expression. Neutral was good, much better than a frown. His master picked out his clothes for the day, and again, Regan assisted in dressing

It was one of the few duties he actually enjoyed.

Early on, he had been ordered to learn how to tie a necktie, and it had earned him one of the very few words of praise the Colonel had ever given him. As it turned out, he’d learnt quickly how to make a perfect knot and his master had been pleased. Knowing how hard it was to live up to the Colonel’s standards and that his master didn’t think a slave deserved nice words for simply doing his duties, Regan had floated on little pink clouds of happiness for days after that simple pat on his shoulder, and the ‘very good, boy’ spoken to him by his master with a smile. Nowadays, the Colonel always let him tie his neckties for him, even for formal wear, which made him very proud.

So, dressing the master was connected with good feelings.

It was also the moment he’d set aside for himself to admire the Colonel’s physique, entirely in secret, of course.

His master was as different from himself as day was to night. The Colonel wasn’t less impressive in the nude than clothed, and was, in Regan’s mind, quite the essence of manliness. Dark-skinned and broad of shoulders, he was at least a head taller than his slave was, and very fit, as well. Really, you would not believe the man was in his late forties.

Yes, overall, his master was quite, quite handsome, Regan thought.

Just as secretively, Regan was envious of the Colonel’s looks. He wondered what it would be like to look so powerful, instead of being thin, pale and smooth like he was, but then, he supposed, if he had had a body like that, he would have been sold to do hard labor, and would never have seen the inside of homes like these.

He wouldn’t say finding his master this attractive made bed service easier – the same kind of performance would be demanded of him no matter what – but he supposed it didn’t make it harder, either.

Regan had a much harder time understanding what on earth the attraction could be for his master in bedding him. It had especially puzzled him in the beginning, as he had come to understand his master wasn’t really into men. The Colonel never dated men, or had sex with men, or showed any interest in men whatsoever, as far as he knew.

Regan could only conclude that just as he was not really a ‘human’, he was not quite a ‘man’ either. Using a vibrator, you would get off on it, but would you find the vibrator attractive… of course not, and that’s all that he was.

There were times when knowing this made him feel this vague and dull ache within him, a sort of hollow longing for someone to care about him, or even love him. It was very stupid and very silly, he realized that, but he couldn’t help it. Sadly, when they crossed out his human status on his papers at birth, they forgot to erase the human emotions with it.

Finished dressing, the Colonel left while Regan started to clean his bathroom. He had to scrub the sink and toilet every day, no exceptions. Regan knew his master would go pick up the morning paper from the hallway floor in the meantime and retreat into the den to read it, as he did every morning. He had to hurry up so he could start with the Colonel’s breakfast and bring it to him by the time he finished the paper.

Having finished the bathroom, he cleaned his hands until they turned red before he went out into the kitchen. The Colonel would cut his fingers off, at the very least; if they weren’t clean enough handling his food.

In the kitchen, he put on an apron, not to accidentally soil his clothes, and tied a cloth around his head. The Colonel obviously wanted a slave with longer hair since he’d forbidden him to cut it from the first day, but if he ever found one of those long hairs in his food… Regan shuddered at the mere thought, doubting he would survive the experience.

The Colonel always wanted the same breakfast. Toast and scrambled eggs, coffee, and a big glass of orange juice – freshly squeezed from actual oranges – at the side. Regan could fix this breakfast in his sleep and was soon bringing his master the tray. He waited in the door, head bowed, until the Colonel folded the paper and put it on the table, a sign he was ready to eat.

Regan put the tray down and bowed deeply before leaving again. The Colonel didn’t want him to serve him his breakfast, even if he usually wanted him to serve at all his other meals, and he didn’t have to be told to leave.

It gave him a chance to eat something himself, and by this time, his stomach was usually growling unhappily.

Regan ate standing at the kitchen counter. There was a small breakfast nook in the kitchen with a table and two chairs, but he wasn’t allowed to use it, which he, very secretively, did think was a petty rule. He had long since stopped caring where he was eating, though; as the important thing was that he was eating. It didn’t mean he could eat what he wanted, of course, or as much as he wanted, as with everything else, the Colonel had very specific rules for that, but he ate good quality food and never had to go hungry.

That had more and more often not been the case with his first master.

He startled as the phone beside him on the counter suddenly rang loud. The phone in the kitchen had a caller ID and he cursed inside his head looking at it, it was the mistress again; he well recognized her number. Regan didn’t want to answer, but his master would hear the phone ringing, and he would definitely not want to be disturbed in his breakfast.

Regan grabbed the receiver in the middle of the second signal. ”Colonel Benson’s residence, this is his slave speaking.”

“Carl has to be there now, right? Don’t tell me he isn’t!” The mistress didn’t bother with a ‘hello’.

Regan hesitated. He knew he could safely assume his master didn’t want to leave his breakfast to talk with her, so, the thing he needed to do here was to lie.

“Regan?” Her voice was so sad and pleading.

He simply couldn’t stand that sad voice and the lie just wouldn’t come.

“Yes… Yes, Mistress, he’s here. I… I’ll let him know you’re on the phone, Mistress.”

“Thanks, Regan. You’re an absolute doll, Sweetheart.”

“Yes, Mistress, thanks, Mistress… Mistress, if I may ask you to wait… only- only a few minutes? Master is eating his breakfast, and- and… I… I- I don’t dare disturb him while he eats, I- I’m sorry.”

The voice was tender and understanding. “That’s all right, boy. I can wait.”

“Thank you, Mistress. Thank you so much.”

Regan slowly put the receiver beside the phone and forced himself to finish his breakfast though he could hardly get a single bite down now. Telling the mistress to wait wouldn’t help him. Whether or not his master had finished his breakfast, Regan had put the man on the spot and he would now be forced to take the call.

There would be punishment. There was just no chance he wouldn’t be punished for this.

Why, oh why, was he so stupid?

As scared as he was, he couldn’t let the mistress wait forever. He’d put himself in this situation, he had to see it through. Positively shaking, he went back to the den. ‘You’re a doll’ the mistress had said, he’d be a broken doll soon, he feared.

The Colonel was finishing the last of his breakfast as he knelt before him and bowed deeply.

Regan flinched, as the man put down the glass hard on the tray. “What?” he demanded.

“I- I beg your forgiveness, Master. Your- your wife is on the phone.”

“Still?”

“Y- yes, Master.”

“Why didn’t you tell her I was busy?”

“I… don’t know, Master.” It was true; he truly didn’t know why he was being so stupid.

The Colonel gave him a look that felt like it could burn a hole in him, and he shook. However, he went to take the call in another room.

Regan got up from the floor and carried the tray back to the kitchen, his hands shaking so badly the glass and cups rattled. He could hear their angry voices from the receiver that was still lying off the hook on the kitchen counter. His hands shook even worse as he slowly put it back on, and they refused to stop shaking as he started with the dishes.

It wasn’t long before the Colonel was standing in the kitchen door. Regan turned and fell to his knees, painfully aware of how his hands dripped dishwater on the floor between his knees, which most surely would anger his master even more.

“I’ll be in my study, slave, and when you have finished your morning chores, you will wait for me in the punishment-room.”

“Y- yes, Master.” He barely managed to find the air to answer.

The Colonel left without another word.

Why, oh why, oh why was he so stupid?

He hurried over to the punishment-room as soon as he was finished with his chores, as the Colonel had ordered.

There was no actual hurry, by all means, as the Colonel usually let him wait for it, so he had ample time to think over what he had done, he supposed, reflect and resolve to better himself. However, it usually only meant he would work himself up into a state of dread where he was hardly able to reflect, at all. Waiting in the punishment-room was a horrible, horrible thing, but he’d rather be early than making his Master wait for him. Doing that would add on to the punishment in a way that made him nauseated just thinking about it, and he simply didn’t dare risk it.

It was just his luck this relatively small city apartment had a punishment-room, at all, as that was usually the case only for country manors and similarly large households, or for different kinds of institutions.

However, this apartment had formerly been just such a large rich household – a real state apartment that had taken up the entire floor of the big, grand, old city building the Colonel lived in. In modern times, this state apartment had been parted up into several smaller ones, but for some reason, the old punishment-room had been left intact, and it was placed in his master’s apartment. Sometimes, Regan wondered if the Colonel had chosen this apartment in particular, only because of it.

It was true, he wouldn’t have been spared any punishment if such a room had never existed, but the mere design of it enhanced the experience in a particularly bad way.

Steeling himself, willing himself not to cry already, Regan opened the door and shuffled inside.

The small room was entirely tiled, had a floor drain in the middle, no windows and a bare light bulb in the ceiling. There was a faucet with a hose on one wall, for easy cleaning of… what? Blood, piss, vomit… Regan supposed. He was grateful his collected and controlled master was never intent on drawing blood.

There was also a bare toilet bowl in a corner with no lid and next to it, a square iron bar cage, which looked in size to be more suitable for a dog than a human. The Colonel had never used it, and it looked to be an actual antique. Regan thought the cage had most likely been left here from older days and he thanked his lucky star his master didn’t seem interested in it. Having it there only, was still unsettling to him.

The object in the other corner on that side of the room he was more familiar with – an iron pole bolted to the floor and going all the way up to the ceiling. It was a whipping post, and there had been no lack of those in the facility where he’d been raised. Luckily, at the facility, they were usually used only with the most troublesome slaves, and Regan had never been one of those. No, he had never been chained to a whipping post, but he had been forced to watch…

Thankfully, the Colonel ignored the iron pole, as well.

Regan preferred not even looking at that side of the room, which forced him to focus on the opposite wall instead, where the setup was located that the Colonel did use with him. This focus was cruelty in itself, which he chose to believe his master did not quite understand he was putting his slave through.

What the Colonel did use then, was a padded beam, suspended between two A-shaped trestles, which had steel rings bolted to each foot, meant to secure a slave’s wrists and ankles as he was bent over the beam. Underneath the beam, there was a pile of leather restraints…

…and the dreaded canes.

Looking at the canes, a whole bunch of them of varying length and thickness, Regan again had to fight his tears and his anger with himself. He’d told himself not to interfere in his master’s dealings with his wife, only yesterday he had told himself, and still he’d gone and done just that, knowing full well it would end like this. He deserved what he was going to get, every damn strike.

Telling himself he deserved it helped in snapping him out of his dread enough that he finally got going preparing it all. It was his job to do that, but it was always so very hard to make himself.

He removed his clothes and folded them as neatly as he could, placing them in a corner away from anything that might spill on them, then he went to fetch a bottle of rubbing alcohol from a medicine cabinet on the wall and sat down on the floor, pulling the whole bunch of canes onto his lap.

As with anything else, the Colonel wanted these canes thoroughly cleaned, before and after, and as Regan couldn’t know, which cane his master would use, he had to clean them all. He should find comfort in knowing he was cleaning something for his own sake this time. That he was minimizing the risk of infections, should his master break his skin by accident, but it was hard to see it that way. It only filled him with ever more dread and regret, to feel every damn cane between his fingers, rubbing in the alcohol, knowing very well which ones hurt the most and praying inside his head one of those wouldn’t be the one used today.

He had to remind himself constantly this was his own fault and that he deserved it.

Finishing this, he walked over to the toilet bowl and forced himself to do his business even though he really didn’t have to go. Once, when his former master had been in a state of raging madness and had beaten him in a particularly vicious way, Regan had pissed himself. His current master was never brutal in such a manner, but he still wanted to do what he could to avoid something similar happening, as he was sure the Colonel would be very disgusted with him.

Lastly, he fitted himself with the restraints, so the Colonel only had to snap them to the rings, and knelt down on the floor, bowed his head, and waited.

No matter how prepared he was for the Colonel’s arrival, he still jerked violently when his master finally did open the door and came inside. He didn’t bow down fully as he would normally have done, because, in here, he wasn’t supposed to. He wasn’t supposed to try to appease his master, or beg for mercy, either in words or in movements. It was also a lesson he had learned early on, but it was still one of the hardest ones to maintain.

He followed his master’s feet with his lowered gaze as they neared him and tried not to shake quite so pathetically much.

Regan still flinched when his master spoke. “Are you clear on what you’re being punished for, slave?” he asked.

Regan swallowed hard. Whenever his master called him ‘slave’ instead of his name, it sent chills up his back. “Ye- y- yes, Master,” he stammered.

“Then, let’s hear it!”

This was part of the procedure. He should relate his crime in words, and the Colonel would not start until he got it right. A few times it had proven to be a horribly stressful situation, as he had not been quite clear on what had displeased his master. It had had him sobbing and stammering as the Colonel pressed him to speak his crime.

He did understand this wasn’t only to torture him further, but that the Colonel actually thought it was important he always knew why he was being punished. It was to reassure him he was being treated fairly, that there always was a real reason to why he was being beaten, and that his master didn’t do this to him only on a whim. Regan agreed with this. Afterwards, it did feel much better to know exactly what he’d done, if for no other reason than to better know how to avoid it in the future.

“I…” he started not quite knowing how to express himself, though he knew what he’d done. “I… disturbed your breakfast, Master.”

“What else?”

“I… I didn’t… do it right… with the phone call.”

The Colonel frowned. “You can speak better than that, slave.”

Regan clasped his hands together to stop them from shaking and tried to think while not hesitating too long on the answer.

“Knowing… what you think about your wife calling, Master, I shouldn’t have disturbed you with it. I should have told her that… and… and not- not…” He silenced and tried to describe the core crime he had committed here. “I- I made a decision that was not mine to make, Master,” he finally offered.

“Correct,” the Colonel said, “and this is what I will punish you for, slave. I was thinking that eight good strikes would be enough to teach you the lesson, but then you really should know better by now, and I’m disappointed in you. You will get fifteen.”

Regan gasped, his stomach rolling in fear, shame washing over him. “Yes, Master,” he managed, the urge to fall flat on his face at his master’s feet and tearfully beg for forgiveness almost overwhelming him. Only the certain knowledge of the number of strikes rising steadily at every plea stopped him.

“Then stand up and bend over!” the Colonel commanded.

Regan did as he was ordered. Knees weak, shaking and trembling, he bent over the beam and spread his hands and feet so his master could restrain him.

He hated being restrained and had to fight the urge to flinch away when the Colonel reached for his hands. Regan knew it wasn’t rational, as there was nothing a free person could do to a restrained slave; they couldn’t simply do to an unrestrained one. His status alone meant he was restrained every second of his life, but there was still something about the concrete realness of actual physical restraints, which made this simple fact so much harder to handle.

Even so, Regan knew his master showed him a great kindness here, in restraining him. Trying to get away from a punishment was one of the biggest crimes he could ever commit, and the Colonel knew how weak he was, of both body and mind. He was being spared the impossible order of staying still for the strikes on his own accord.

Regan was grateful to his master for that.

The first strike over his bared ass had him screaming and pulling at his bonds, arching his back and clenching his buttocks, panting while he tried to ride out the pulsing wave of pain and the fire in its wake. He felt shame over that, too, but he couldn’t help himself. They had noted already at the facility that he was very bad at taking this kind of pain. Maybe it had something to do with his sensitive skin?

Strike number two had him weeping on top of it all, but shameful as it was, it was all right with his master. The Colonel had forbidden him to beg not to be punished, or try to get away from it, but once it started, he let him cope with it anyway he needed to. His weeping and crying out might not stop his master, but he never gagged him, and he never told him to shut up or tone it down.

Gags were often used at the facility, for all sorts of infractions, and he hated them even more than the restraints. His master was kind who never used them.

He was already a complete mess after the third strike, and his master paused behind him. “You will get through this, Regan!” he said.

He wouldn’t be able to stop weeping and shaking, but of course, he would get through it; he didn’t have any other choice. The Colonel was a man of his words, and it had never, ever happened that he’d changed his mind about a punishment. If it had been uttered, it would happen. He would get all fifteen strikes, no matter what.

The next strike was so bad it took his breath away; his screaming the loudest so far, once he found the air again. He feared he wouldn’t be able to speak tomorrow, having screamed himself hoarse in here, and there were still eleven strikes to go.

Again, the Colonel paused. “Look at you,” he growled. “Look what this is doing to your skin. Do you think I enjoy this? Do you think I want to put welts on a complexion as fine as this, risk scarring you, risk lowering your value? I’ve spent so much time training you, giving you every chance to be good, and this is what you do, angering your master with things you should have learnt long ago not to do? Is this how you show your gratitude for being taken into a decent home, slave? Well?”

“I- I’m sorry, Master,” Regan wept, devastated at the Colonel’s words. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m…” He abruptly cut himself short, cold with fear, dreading the Colonel would think he was trying to beg and beat him even harder, but the next strike was considerably less severe instead.

He was still weeping through the ten last strikes, but his master must have understood how he was only trying to express how sorry he was for his behavior, because no strikes after that were even as remotely bad as the first four.

When his master finally released him, Regan slid down on the tiled floor at his master’s feet and sobbed uncontrollably, but the man only waited patiently until he managed to get somewhat of a grip of himself and knelt up properly before him.

“Have you learnt your lesson?” the Colonel asked.

“Yes, Master,” he managed. “Thank you for teaching me, Master.”

There was the smallest trace of a smile on the Colonel’s lips. “You’re forgiven, boy. You may clean up in here later. Go to your room and lay down for a while! I’ll let you know when your rest is over.”

His master was a good man.

“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.”

Regan picked up his small bundle of clothes, held them to his chest and walked stiffly through the apartment to the small room the Colonel let him use as his own.

Exhausted, he uncharacteristically dropped his clothes on the floor and threw himself on his stomach on the bed, on top of the covers. He should have washed the tears and snot off his face, should have put a cooling damp cloth over his burning ass, should make sure there were no bleeding, and should in that case, clean the wounds properly, but…

He was too tired, and much too ashamed to do anything else than hide from the world as long as the Colonel would allow him, and cry into his pillow.

The welt and bruises on his ass looked horrible on his pale complexion, but the Colonel had not broken his skin, and it healed slowly but well over the coming weeks without leaving any scars.

The fear and shame took much longer to pass.

He hadn’t been punished this harshly in a long time, and certainly not for having disappointed his master. Regan had thought he’d managed to build up a certain level of trust with his master, but now he had no idea if he might have completely lost that trust. He did his best to make up for it, tried everything he could think of to prove to his master he would not disappoint again, but he had no idea if his efforts had the desired effect.

The Colonel was very hard to read that way. Regan would always know when his master was displeased with him, there would be no mistaking that, but it was much harder to figure out if he was ever pleased with him.

Regan didn’t even dare think about what it would mean to have lost his master’s trust to such an extent the man would no longer want him, at all.

While still at the breeding facility, all of the other slaves were as stupid, naïve, and unknowing as himself, because no slave ever came back there to tell the younger ones about things they had seen, heard or experienced.

However, when he was with his former owner, Regan had had the opportunity to speak with other slaves a few times, brought by friends and acquaintances of his master’s. One such slave had told him what usually happened with slaves like him when they were no longer wanted.

Less skilled domestic slaves, he had explained, who were pretty enough to also be used sexually and serve their owners in their personal life, those lived dangerously when they became too old, sick, or their owners simply bored of them. They didn’t have much of a second hand value, and they knew too much. An owner would not bother with trying to sell a slave for mere peanuts when that slave could also reveal their embarrassing habits and secrets.

That’s when a new kind of fear had forever taken root in the only sixteen-year-old Regan’s mind – that of being put down. It was his most all-encompassing fear, that one day, the Colonel would have enough of him, take him to a doctor, and… it would be the end of him.

This day in particular, he had been much plagued by such thoughts without being able to push them out of his mind, and he knew why - he hadn’t been doing a good job today.

He’d felt tired and out of sorts since early morning, a dull ache in his stomach, or maybe his side, he couldn’t quite tell. In fact, he hadn’t felt quite well in days, but not as bad as today. He had tried to do his chores without letting on, but he feared it hadn’t been very successful since the Colonel had frowned at him several times.

Toward the afternoon, the dull ache in his stomach became increasingly worse. Eventually, he was having such a hard time keeping it together enough to finish his chores and not neglecting his duties, he’d never in his life been so relieved to fall into bed when the day was over. Finally, he could curl in around himself and moan into his pillow.

He didn’t understand what was wrong with him. Regan didn’t think he had eaten anything bad, and he didn’t seem to be constipated, either. Maybe it was some kind of stomach flu, but he hadn’t seen anyone who could have given it to him, and his master seemed just fine.

Whatever it was, Regan was sure it would soon pass. Surely, if he could just ignore the pain long enough to fall asleep, it would all be better in the morning. He refused to believe anything else than that it would go away by itself in a little while, and that he wouldn’t need to bother his master with this, because the alternative was too frightening to consider.

Eventually, hours later, he did finally dose off, from sheer exhaustion, in spite of the pain and fear.

The sound of the alarm clock took a while to reach through his feverish sleep, and when it finally did, he was surprised he hadn’t woken up before it went off, as he usually did, but then pain took over with such force he couldn’t stop himself from crying out with it.

The horrible stomachache hadn’t passed at all with sleep, and it felt as if someone was repeatedly stabbing him in the guts.

He tried to get out of bed. It was five o’ clock in the morning, his alarm had gone off, and he simply had to get up. Not being there to wake up his master at six o’ clock, neat and proper, was not an option, and he just had to get a grip of himself.

However, Regan soon discovered he simply didn’t have the strength. Not even when he felt he was going to be sick could he persuade his body to act, and to his utter shame, he simply turned his head to the side and threw up all over his pillow and his own shoulder. This did nothing to relieve his pains, and by now, it was so bad all he could do was to lie there and cry in agony.

Regan did understand there was something seriously wrong with him, but all his thoughts were centered around the fact he was neglecting his duties, and that somehow he simply had to get over this and get out of bed.

Fever raging within him, he didn’t realize the fuzzy image standing beside his bed was an actual flesh and blood man. He wasn’t afraid, at first, at this weird ‘dream’, until his head cleared enough that he recognized his master staring down at him with a particularly deep frown.

The Colonel almost never came into his room. He must have overslept, and his master was sure to be very angry with him, having to drag him out of bed himself. He would be caned again. Regan didn’t know how he was ever going to be able to cope with being caned feeling as sick as he did. “Master… Master, I- I’m sorry…” he managed, but his pleading apologies were soon interrupted by his own screaming.

His master turned and ran out of his room, but was back again in what seemed only a few seconds, fully dressed, but not in his usual impeccable manner. The loose-fitting sweatpants hardly matched the white dress shirt, and it wasn’t even buttoned.

The Colonel leaned over him – his eyes wild and his mouth set in a tight and grim line – and took him by the arm. Regan cried in fear and pain, not understanding what his master was doing with him, but knowing with all of his being that the man was not pleased and fearing a beating for it.

However, the Colonel only eased his arms under Regan’s shoulders and knees, lifted him out of the bed, still wrapped in his covers, and carried him out of the room.

His master half-ran through the apartment still carrying him, stopping only for a second in the hallway to push his feet into the nearest pair of shoes, before rushing outside, and kicking the front door closed behind him with his foot. The Colonel carried him down the stairs, and out into the still dark and mostly deserted street.

Regan was cradled in those big and strong arms like someone’s small child, but he wasn’t, was he? No, he was a less skilled domestic slave, sometimes used for sex, with a low second hand value, who knew everything about his owner’s personal habits. He was a slave who had been disappointing his master lately, and who might not have sufficiently made up for it. He was an odd, weak creature to boot who had soiled his own bed, disgusting his master, and now seemed to have simply broken completely...

He was cradled like a child, but he might only be waste, carried away.

The Colonel placed him in the backseat of his car and drove off, not saying a word. Regan screamed with pain, and wept with fear in the back seat, knowing the streetlights he saw through the car window, rushing past over his head, might be the last he would ever see of the outsides he had so often wished to visit.

When the car finally stopped, Regan was so out of it he only understood bits and pieces of what went on around him, and it was all confusing and horrifying.

There were weirdly dressed masked people around him, pulling at him, and trying to speak to him, rushing him through an echoing corridor on a wheeled stretcher.

The last he remembered was the mortal dread that managed to seep through his pain and fever as an unknown man pressed down on his face with something, while others caught his arms flailing in panic.

Then everything turned black…

“Regan? Regan?”

The voice was insistent but friendly, and it was a female voice. The only woman who ever spoke to him was the mistress, and he tried to tell her the Colonel wasn’t really in and that he wasn’t lying, but he was just too gooey in the head; it seemed, to be able to speak properly.

Someone patted his cheek gently. “Regan, it’s time to wake up. Come on, boy; open your eyes for me!”

He finally managed to obey and saw the smiling face of a brown-haired woman in a white frock leaning over him. It wasn’t the mistress; in fact, he’d never seen this face before.

Confused, he tried to sit up, but felt instantly sick as he did so, and again he threw up without being able to do a thing about it, again, he soiled the bed he was lying in, and some of it even splashed on the stranger who had woke him up.

Regan was mortified. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m so, so sorry, Ma’am. I didn’t mean to… Didn’t mean to… I- I… I’ll…”

Again, he tried to sit up, but the woman, who was strangely enough still smiling, took him by the upper arms and gently but firmly pressed him down into the mattress. He was no match for her in his weakened state and readily complied. “Stay still!” she ordered sharply, a frown replacing the smile.

His slave-nature responded immediately to a given order. “Yes, Ma’am,” he said, feeling immensely dizzy, confused, and achy, though the horrible pain from before was gone.

She slowly let go of him, smiling again. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “You were anesthetized and have had an operation. It’s not uncommon that people throw up when they wake up from having been put under.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said, though he didn’t quite understand what she was saying. He’d had an operation? What did that mean?

“May, I speak to ask a question, Ma’am?” he asked, as politely as he was able.

“Of course,” she said. “Ask me anything.”

“Where… where am I, Ma’am?”

“You’re in the hospital, Sweetheart. You’ve had an emergency operation for a ruptured appendix. You were in quite bad shape when your master brought you in, too, could have ended badly that, but you will be just fine now. They removed it, so don’t you worry, doll.”

Regan couldn’t help gaping in sheer wonder. He really had been very ill, so ill he had needed an operation, and the Colonel had taken him to the hospital, not to have him put down… but to have him… treated?

Never in a million years would he have thought the Colonel would…

It might have been too much to take in, what with his mind still being so fuzzy, and instead he was again painfully aware of the mess he had made of the clean hospital sheets, and himself. He cringed in shame. “Ma’am, I- I apologize, I- I… Please show me where the cleaning cupboard is and I will clean this up, Ma’am. Right away, Ma’am.”

She laughed at him. “Goodness gracious, boy! You just had an operation, don’t you understand? Right now, you are not a domestic slave, boy, you are Nurse Salinger’s patient – that is me, by the way – and the only thing you will be doing for at least the rest of this day, is to stay in bed and take it very easy, am I making myself clear?”

He stared at her in astonishment, but there was of course only one answer to that. “Yes, Ma’am,” he said.

The woman left and a few minutes later, a man and another woman, other nurses perhaps, came to take care of the mess. They helped him stand up on wobbly legs. The man cleaned him with a sponge and changed the blue hospital gown he was dressed in, while the woman changed the bed linen. He felt embarrassed and ashamed all through it, convinced this wasn’t right, but didn’t dare protest and gratefully sank back into the now clean bed when he was ordered to.

Being left on his own again, he looked around the room with shy and discreet curiosity, now that he was fully awake and aware. It was a rather large room, not very wide, but long, and there were two rows of ten beds each. Most of the beds were empty. Apart from his, only three of them were occupied. He wondered if the other three patients were slaves, too, but thought they simply had to be, since it seemed unlikely to him free people would want to share a hospital room with a slave. As he couldn’t be sure, though, he decided it was best if he didn’t try to speak to anyone. If he was wrong, it could be a big mistake to do so, and if he was right, they might not be allowed to converse anyway. The others didn’t speak either.

Instead, he lifted the covers and peeked at himself, carefully feeling at the bandage put over his stitched-up operation wound with his free hand.

They had removed his appendix? Regan wasn’t sure what an ‘appendix’ was, or what it did, but if it had caused him all that pain, and you could apparently, obviously, be alive and well without it, then he was glad it was gone.

The fact that the Colonel had saved his life struck him with renewed force, filling his now clear head completely with this enormous thought. For a moment, he was overwhelmed by a feeling of worth he hadn’t felt since those early days with his first master, when he had still been a mere child and thought he was loved, but the wonderful feeling didn’t last.

It didn’t last because not until just then did he realize he wasn’t wearing his collar, as his fingers, by sheer force of habit, searched in vain for the ring at his throat.

Regan let go of the bedcover and clawed at his neck in disbelief with both hands, but there was no mistaking it, the collar was gone. His heart beat painfully hard in his chest, this couldn’t be. He wasn’t ever to go without his collar. It was supposed to be locked around his neck permanently.

The Colonel had put the collar on him on his first day and told him to get used to it, because it would never come off again, unless he was sold, or died.

His master had been strict about it, he thought, because in spite of his age, and being out of the facility for over a year, this had been his first collar. His first master had spoiled him and neglected him in equal measures, and not bothering with giving him a proper collar was a clear sign of both. The Colonel had corrected that, right away.

It had been hard to get used to, at first, cold and stiff around his neck, unforgiving, relentless steel, never changing, never conforming, never letting him forget, never, ever, ever coming off.

However, in time, he had gotten used to it. It was designed for long-term wear and wasn’t as uncomfortable as his childish resentment first had made him insist it was. In time, it had even come to mean a sort of safety for him. Whenever he felt worthless and insecure, trying to please a man who never let on if he was pleased, he could at least always fall back on the fact that he was still wearing a collar that bore the man’s name. As bad and disappointing as he often was to the Colonel, as long as he was still wearing his collar, he would still be given another chance to better himself, right? He would not be discarded, as long as he was wearing the collar, but…

…he was no longer wearing the Colonel’s collar.

A little later in the day, the nice brown-haired nurse came back to check on him.

She asked how he was, and he replied politely that he was fine. She had him drink a big glass of orange juice, and eat some red-colored jelly that tasted of strawberries. The bandage was checked, and he had to turn on his side, so she could stick a thermometer up his ass to make sure there was no fever.

He would have felt embarrassed by all this care if he weren’t still so shocked about the missing collar. He was miserable and scared, and as if numbed with the weight of what it could mean that it was gone. He didn’t have any reference points here, even to imagine what would happen to him next. The Colonel had obviously not had him put down, so, did it mean he was already sold then? To whom, to what?

Yes, Regan was numb, and cold, and utterly at a loss of what to do, or feel, or think, and he let the nurse simply handle him like the doll she had called him.

The nurse looked at the thermometer and sat down at his bedside. “No fever. You’ll be just fine in a couple of days.” She smiled, leaned over and pushed a strand of hair out of his face. “Such nice hair... You’re so pretty, aren’t you, such unusual colors… If I could only have a decent raise, I’d buy myself a boy just like you.”

She seemed so nice, spoke to him with such a friendly voice. Maybe he could ask her. “Ma’am,” he dared. “Please forgive my rudeness, may I speak again?”

She grinned, amused. “…and you’re so very well-trained, too, aren’t you? So polite. Go ahead, boy.”

“Ma’am, do you…. Do you know where my collar is?”

She looked puzzled. “Your collar? No, I haven’t seen a collar. Did you wear one when you were brought in?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he fought his tears now. “I must always wear it; I’m not allowed to go without it, Ma’am.”

“I see. Was it leather or metal?”

“It’s stainless steel, Ma’am.”

“Ah… Your master was probably asked by the operation staff to take it off. All things made of metal are usually removed from patients who are to be operated on. They would definitely remove a steel collar.”

“But, he… He hasn’t been here to put it back on, Ma’am. I’ve been without… all day. Maybe… maybe he doesn’t want me anymore?”

Regan had honestly never meant to complain. He had only meant to ask, never to complain, but here he was, unable to behave, as always, complaining to this nice woman, and finally, breaking down crying miserably into his hands. No wonder the Colonel had abandoned him.

The nice nurse didn’t scold him for his atrocious behavior; she only patted his shoulder in comfort as he wept.

“I have no idea what the situation is here, boy,” she said, “but I’m sure it will be all right. Now, stop weeping, boy, try to get some rest, and I’ll check around and see what I can find out, okay?”

Nurse Salinger looked through the white-haired boy’s case file for his owner’s phone number and resolutely called it. It was answered already on the second signal, and she got a deep, strict voice in her ear.

“Colonel Benson speaking?”

“Good afternoon, Colonel. This is Nurse Salinger, from the hospital. I’m taking care of your slave, Regan.”

“Yes? I just talked to the doctor who performed the operation a few hours ago, and he said everything was fine. Is there a change?”

“Physically, no, there are no changes. He’s doing fine. I was just wondering if I could ask a question. Do you intend to keep the boy after his release, or… will he be sold?”

“If you’re asking me if he’s for sale, then I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere for a similar type of slave. He’s not.”

“I’m glad to hear it, as I’m not really asking on my own behalf... I apologize, Colonel, It isn’t any of my business, I’m well aware, but the boy is just miserable, and wouldn’t stop weeping. He’s absolutely convinced you will not come for him, because you removed his collar. I promised him to find out if he was right, that’s all.”

There was a deep sigh in her ear. “That boy is so stupid.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about his level of intelligence, Colonel, and as I said, it’s not my business how you treat him. However, the poor thing being so utterly and completely devastated at the thought of having to leave you, made me think you must be a good owner. It would be so easy to come by the hospital tonight, lock that collar back on, and reassure him regarding this.”

“Well, you’re certainly correct on one point, this isn’t your business.”

What a rude man. Nurse Salinger was just about to tell the boy’s master so, as well, and demonstratively hang up on him, but he forestalled her.

“Well? What are the damn visiting hours then?”

She told him.

“Fine! I’ll be there by seven, let the boy rest until then.”

“Certainly! I’ll…” and… he hung up on her.

Nurse Salinger put the receiver back on the phone with a frown. What a remarkably rude man. Really! Still… he actually had to care about that poor boy, as he would be paying half a fortune for the operation and the aftercare.

Regan heard the steps but didn’t recognize them to be his master’s, and didn’t turn where he lay, miserably curled up in the hospital bed.

“Regan!”

There was no mistaking the strict voice, though. He turned so quickly he would have fallen out of the bed if he hadn’t tangled himself up in the sheets. Desperately he tried to free himself so he could get up and kneel on the floor.

“Lay back down and be still, slave!” His master ordered.

He obeyed instantly.

There was a moment of absolute stillness in the room, as if the other slaves in the beds also had obeyed that order and, like him, hardly dared breathe. The Colonel walked all the way up to the bed and looked down at him. Regan held his breath, and dared not look his master in the eyes.

“It’s been brought to my attention you’re not behaving yourself here. Whining about things, bothering the nurses?”

Regan couldn’t answer for the life of him. His lower lip trembled.

The Colonel sighed and sat down at the bedside. “Regan, listen, you may speak freely. Why do you think I wouldn’t take you back home again when you’re well?”

“Master, I’m sorry. I- I thought; if the collar was taken off…”

“You would no longer belong to me? Well, yes, I do remember telling you it wouldn’t come off unless you died, or I sold you. It didn’t occur to me at the time to add it could also come off in a medical emergency, and this was such an emergency. I have no intentions of getting rid of you, you stupid boy.”

Regan hesitated. “But- but, I’ve made so many mistakes, Master, and- and…”

The Colonel raised a hand to silence him. “Perhaps, I’ve been too harsh on you...” He sighed. “I need a well-trained and well-behaved slave, Regan, who knows his duties and performs them to my satisfaction. I believe a set of strict rules, and the proper consequences for deviating from said rules, will give me that, if the slave material you start with is good enough to work with.” The Colonel looked away. “I… might have neglected to add a bit of encouragement, as well, now and then. That sort of thing… doesn’t come easy to me.”

“Master?” Regan didn’t understand.

“I admit,” the man went on. “I wondered what I had done, the day I bought you at that police auction. I doubted you would measure up; you seemed so small and weak, scared and nervous... Completely against better judgment, I bought you mostly for your stunning looks, boy. However, you most certainly proved me wrong.

“I strive for perfection, yes, and you have made mistakes, yes, but I don’t demand the impossible of you, boy. You will make mistakes, and will punish you, that’s just how it is, but you are still the best slave I have ever owned. No one else has been so obedient, so attentive, eager to please and meticulous in his work as you. No one else has responded so well to my training, or has even been close to entice me in bed. Why on earth would I ever want to be rid of you, boy?”

Regan was speechless.

“I’ll forgive you your weakness, boy, since you’re ill. However, I will have no more whining and weeping over such things in the future, is that clear? Maybe it’s my fault you obviously haven’t understood your worth, but do I really have to spell it out to you like this? I take pride in keeping belongings that are of the best quality; you think my slave would be an exception? From now on, I expect you to remember that Colonel Benson does not put a collar on just any slave crap out there. Is this now fully understood?”

“Y- yes, Master,” Regan stammered, stunned and amazed.

The Colonel put his hand down a paper bag he’d been carrying and took out the collar. “Sit up!” he ordered.

Regan hurried to obey.

Strong hands pulled the collar apart just enough to be able to slide it around his neck, and the Colonel pressed his face against his broad chest as he leaned over him and locked it at the back.

Regan sighed with relief as he heard the clicking sound, and again felt the familiar weight around his neck. It was cold, as he remembered it had been when he’d worn it the first time, but it would soon warm up to his body heat.

Safe again, safe…

“Thank you, Master,” he said. He was truly and utterly grateful as he was laid down.

“You’re welcome, boy. Now, you will not make me have this conversation with you ever again, Regan. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Master. Please forgive me, Master.”

“That’s all right, boy. Now rest, and get well! I hate to make my own breakfast.”

Regan remained stunned and amazed after his master had left.

He’d never understood. How could he have?

His hand came up to feel for the ring, checking that the collar was on straight, as was his habit. He felt a completely different sort of pride at wearing it now. A man like the Colonel considered him valuable to such an extent? How could he not be proud?

The young man in the bed closest to him rose on his elbow and stared at him until he felt it and shyly returned the look.

“Yeah,” the other slave said, “it figures. Not only are you fucking beautiful, you have a great master, too. You lucky son of a bitch…” He snorted bitterly and turned away from him, pulling the cover over his head.

Regan fingered his collar and looked up into the ceiling, smiling. Yes, he was lucky, he was so, so, so lucky.