Chapter 9

The dull sound of the large truck moving was lulling him into sleep. He had no notion of how many hours had passed since he’d been sent out from his former master’s house and shipped to be taken who knew where.

The gray clothes he wore felt like a rash against his skin. The boots were a bit too large, as well. It was like Dion was given a new life, along with a new uniform, that didn’t agree well with him. He kept his head down. It was too dark to look at his companions. No one was talking, despair and pain too deep for that. A small thought traveled his mind, like a shooting star, that he was not even going to remember the faces of those riding with him in the old truck.

Suddenly, the truck halted, a sign that they must have arrived at their destination. A loud voice barked at them, and Dion got up along with the rest, waiting patiently in line to descend. No one could say former servants from Drena were not well trained; they knew how to keep in line, how to keep their distance and how to keep their heads down.

A strong hand gripped his elbow and pushed him forward, once he was out. He’d barely noticed that he’d stopped, suddenly aware that the air he was breathing felt foreign as if there was an entirely different world situated outside the gates of Drena.

The gentle sea breeze felt warm against his skin, as it had felt back home. He moved along, as the man guiding them barked another order. He didn’t have the energy to make up the words the man was saying. It only meant one thing; that Dion, just like the others, was there to obey.

The room felt small, but Dion was glad there were only he and two other people assigned to it. From what he could gather, there were other accommodations meant for sleeping that were much larger, where dozens were forced to live. He went to sleep and let the world fade away. There was always another day tomorrow.

Ayn examined the stores as they went by. Cory was explaining a lot of stuff with the speed of lighting, and he was too amazed at the richness of the place to pay too much attention. The servant helped him try out some new clothes and even encouraged him to pick a few he truly liked.

“It’s ok, it’s on our master’s tab,” Cory winked at him, and Ayn smiled back. He was speaking very little, aware that he was supposed to be an ignorant savage slave with no knowledge of the language.

The store they stopped by proved fascinating to Ayn. He let Cory speak with the store manager about some decorative knives Xavier wanted, and he began exploring the weapons on display. As the servant was vividly bargaining with the shopkeeper, he quickly grabbed the one thing that had truly caught his eye. The servant was still turned with his back to Ayn. Maybe it was for the best if Cory didn’t know just everything.

Xavier’s heart was filled with joy as he turned back home. He had Lucas’s friendship back – sort of -, he had Ayn, and everything was working like a charm in his book.

Cory welcomed him with the same smile on his beautiful face.

“How was your day?” he asked, as the servant took his coat.

“I took Ayn shopping. He loved it,” Cory said excitedly. “I let him choose some of the outfits. I hope they will please you, Master.”

Yes, he very much wanted to see Ayn wearing beautiful clothes. Not that he didn’t prefer the slave naked, his exotic beauty more valuable and interesting than the softest fabric made in Drena’s factories. He felt a sudden, urgent need to see the slave.

“Where is he?” he demanded, a bit abruptly.

“He is in his room. Should I put the table, Master?”

“Not right now,” Xavier waved his hand and went by Cory to reach Ayn’s room, most probably making the servant wonder about his unusual behavior.

He entered the room without even bothering to knock. Ayn turned swiftly, with a small frown on his handsome face. Xavier chose to ignore how the young man had looked quite startled by his sudden appearance. He just took the slave in his arms and kissed him deeply.

“I’ve thought of you for the entire day. Every single moment,” he whispered against moist lips when he had to cut the kiss short so that they could breathe.

Unlike many other times before, the slave grabbed his head and drew him in for a kiss on his own accord. Xavier barely refrained from gasping at his prized slave’s forward determination. Maybe Ayn was starting to like him, after all.

He massaged round buttocks through the thin fabric of the tight blue pants Ayn was wearing. “I wish I could use you right now,” he mumbled as he freed his mouth only to nibble down on a graceful neck. “But Cory will be mad if we do not eat first,” he added, and reluctantly let Ayn go.

The slave took his hand and guided him out of the room. No matter how strange that seemed, Xavier didn’t care. He followed, feeling suddenly at peace, being directed like that, in his own home, where no one ever dared doing that.

Ayn let out a breath, once he was back in his room. He checked under the bed. The gun was secured, strapped to one of the massive legs. It had been a close call; Xavier was starting to get too many liberties. He stopped for a second, to caress the contour of the weapon; its solidity made him feel safe. It was making his heart fill with anticipation, and that he had to rein in if he wanted to succeed in his plans.

Until then, he had to make nice to Xavier. He knew what was going to happen as soon as the night would come, but he did not find it in him to feel dread. It was not indifference what he felt, either.

He shook his head. He was not like that. The damn place was rubbing onto himself, making him weak and self-indulgent. So what if Xavier was kissing him like no girlfriend had ever done it? It didn’t mean anything. Not his kisses, not the feeling he got in his gut when he was thinking about how the man was going to take him once again.

When Cory called for him to shower, he was as prepared as he could ever be to face Xavier.

Xavier’s long caresses were making his skin catch fire. At Cory’s insistence, he had brought a few outfits to show his master. Apparently, Xavier found it more exciting to take Ayn out of them than seeing him dressed.

He was a bit too daring to do that, but besides the tight, see-through clothes Cory had insisted on getting, he also brought along one of the outfits he had chosen.

As he stopped in the middle of the room, dressed in blue jeans, combat boots, and a tight black t-shirt, he waited for Xavier’s reaction. He pulled the black leather jacket on, too, and then smirked and challenged his master with his eyes.

There was something unreadable in gray eyes, as Xavier was inspecting him without a word. He wasn’t hurrying to take Ayn out of his clothes this time around, either.

“They ... fit you well,” Xavier murmured, mostly to himself.

Of course they did. This was how he had used to dress as a free man. Xavier finally got up and reached Ayn. Pulling at the lapels of the black leather jacket, the master dragged his slave in for a kiss. Hungry hands did not try to undress the beautiful body. Instead, Xavier glued himself to Ayn and breathed in the other’s scent, burying his head for a moment at the hollow between neck and shoulder, a mix between the strong leather fragrance and Ayn’s personal smell making him lightheaded.

There was a moment there, a window of opportunity Ayn didn’t want to miss. He let his hands travel to his master’s sides, brushing over the small of the man’s back. Xavier was wearing nothing but loose black silk pajama pants. Bold hands reached lower and lower until they cupped Xavier’s ass.

There was a small grunt of acknowledgment from Xavier, as the master of the house realized what his prized slave meant by that. Yet, Xavier straightened his head, and their eyes clashed. Ayn’s dark pools weren’t asking for permission.

“You’re assuming too much,” Xavier suddenly felt angered by the proud, know-it-all look in his slave’s eyes.

He pushed the jacket down briskly, forcing the slave out of it.

“Undress,” he ordered harshly, ignoring that the slave could not understand him. “Undress,” he repeated while grabbing the hem of the t-shirt and yanking it up.

The slave finally seemed to understand, and he proceeded to undress himself.

“I’ll have Cory burn these,” Xavier said through his teeth, as the heap of clothes was gathered at the slave’s feet.

Ayn’s eyes grew darker. Xavier pushed him on the bed, this time with his face down. The slave closed his eyes. All the need to react, to grab the man by the throat and force him down, had to be quenched. Tense hands parted his buttocks, and something cold was poured over Ayn’s tight hole. Too soon, there was the blunt head he loathed against his entrance, and Xavier pushed inside in one go, angrily.

Ayn bit his lip through. He was not going to give the fucker the satisfaction to hear him scream in pain.

Xavier’s heart throbbed painfully in his chest, as he took his slave, in short, punishing strokes. For a short moment, he had felt at peace, happy, in Ayn’s arms. That had never happened before; not like this.

This sort of happiness was a luxury he could not afford. For the most powerful master in Drena, letting another gain importance like this was unheard of. He felt scared; the balance had to be restored, and taking Ayn like this, humiliating him, was the only way.

Earlier, Ayn’s lips had tasted of freedom. He had to ask Cory to burn those clothes. Ayn as a captive was exhilarating, more than any man he had ever brought to bed; Ayn as a free man was addictive as crack and dangerous like it. One taste and he could have been hooked. He had dodged the bullet just in time.

Dion pushed his hair inside the hard helmet, frustrated at how red strands still spilled over. The same gray clothes and large boots seemed to be the uniform needed to work at the factory. He wondered absently whether there was a place they could shower.

There was a short ride from their sleeping quarters to the factory. The building stood tall and gray and menacing. The only sound that could be heard in the chilly morning was the shuffling of boots through the mud, as the workers headed for their shift.

He was all eyes and ears during the orientation that all new workers had to go through. Manipulating the heavy machinery used for training seemed easy, and the man in charge, an older guy in his 40s, commended his ability to learn so fast. He smiled curtly. It looked like people here weren’t that bad, after all.

The work seemed tedious and boring, and it put a strain on Dion’s arms after a while. He was indeed grateful when the perfunctory sound of a bell announced them that it was time to take a break to have lunch.

He had yet to talk to anyone, so he searched the room for a quiet place, to sit with his tray in his hands. He noticed a tall, dark man sitting in a corner. The guy looked like he liked his privacy, too. Dion wasn’t going to impose on that.

As he sat at a table not far away, he started chewing slowly while watching the other as he ate. He could not say what was drawing him to that man. There was certainty in his moves, short and efficient, as he tore just the right amount of bread needed for each bite. People inside Drena walls were all exquisitely beautiful. Dion doubted he had ever seen a man like the one he was inspecting right now. He hadn’t paid any attention to his co-workers, but there was a peacefulness radiating from the man like he had never seen before.

He could not see the man’s eyes; they were probably darker than his skin. The guy looked strong, even if he was not bulky or too brawny. Dion’s eyes traveled over the hard planes of the man’s face; they were harsh, like cut from sterner stuff, just as the rest of his being. But he was not unpleasant to look at. Dion just stood there, his spoon still in his hand, forgetting that he should have been eating.

The man’s eyes rose from his plate and clashed with Dion’s warm brown ones. His expression remained unreadable, and Dion, suddenly flustered, shook his head and tried to focus back on his food.

He sensed someone taking a seat next to him and turned to see a man in his 30s watching him with intent.

“You’re a pretty thing,” the man spoke. “Are you spoken for?”

“W-what?” he stammered.

“Do you have a partner yet?” the man insisted, frowning slightly.

“It’s my first day,” Dion said in his defense.

“Ah,” the man said shortly. “Mind if I eat next to you?”

“Not at all,” Dion said politely.

Not one minute passed and another man approached their table. He nodded to the other and looked straight at Dion.

“We got a good looking one in our section this round,” he spoke, although he wasn’t speaking to Dion.

“It was about time,” the first one replied.

Dion felt apprehension growing in his gut. Antoine’s words came to mind. Was he going to get raped? Maybe killed afterward? These men looked strong and harsh, not the type to mess with. He made himself little in his chair.

“It’s his first day,” the first one spoke again.

“Ah,” said the other. “Let’s let him adjust a little.”

They continued to eat in silence. Dion felt a lump growing in his throat, and he could not swallow anymore. As his eyes rose, he met the guy’s stare from his corner. This time, his eyes looked as the man was disgusted for some reason.

“Your name is Dion, right?” the foreman asked while crossing his fingers over the wooden desk and looking at the redhead over his glasses.

Dion doubted he had done anything wrong, but he was prepared to be punished. There were probably rules of the place he could not yet understand. Like the strange behavior of those workers who had sit next to him during lunch.

“You’re pretty,” the older man commented, with no trace of emotion in his voice, like he was saying Dion was a cow supposed to give x liters of milk.

The redhead squirmed a little. What was that supposed to mean?

“I don’t need fighting in my section, do you hear me?” the man said sternly.

“Fighting? I won’t get in any fight,” Dion eventually managed to articulate a few words in his defense.

The foreman looked at him as if he was about to ask the former servant what kind of stupid was Dion taking him for.

“Pick one fast, or else they’ll start fighting over your ass,” the man slammed some files on his desk as if he was trying to make a point.

Dion almost jumped from his chair. The foreman let out a frustrated sigh.

“They should really be telling you a few things before unloading you on our hands. Former servants sent here,” he started, as if he felt strained to tell the same text over and over again, “draw immediate attention. There are two choices: either you pick a partner, or you pick all.”

“Am I going to get raped?” Dion let out, without even thinking. There had been too much strain on his mind to think clearly.

“We punish such behavior,” the foreman spoke, annoyed with the interruption. “It happens very rarely, so you should not be that concerned with that.”

“How could I not?” the redhead mumbled. Images of his first time, when Antoine had had over a dozen slaves fuck him, came to mind. It had felt like it was never going to end. No crying and begging had been enough; if anything, the slaves had seemed more turned on by his cries.

“Anyone caught raping another is punished by death,” the foreman spelled it for him as if he was hardheaded.

The man rose from his chair and took a look out the window.

“Come here,” he told Dion, and the redhead approached cautiously.

“See the one there?” the foreman pointed out a nice looking guy, without a helmet on his blonde head. He was smoking and seemingly waiting. In just a few seconds, another man appeared and went straight to him. The blond kissed him shortly then got on his knees, unbuckling the man’s pants with efficient moves. Dion watched, without daring to make a sound, as the blond blew the guy. As the man straightened his pants, the redhead saw how he gave the blond something. The beautiful one slipped the object into his pants, and then returned to his smoking.

“We have good, hard-working guys here. Of course, no one is fond of losing his head. The blond there? He decided he wanted the attention, so anyone who wants to have him comes here during breaks.”

“What did the man give him?” Dion asked, not knowing why that aspect mattered.

“A lighter, most probably. He is fond of his smoking, and he collects lighters. Others just give him money.”

More men appeared as the foreman spoke. The blond just dropped his pants and turned to face the wall. The guys waited in line, patiently, while each took turns at the blond’s ass. The blond only turned a little, each time one man finished, to get his gift or pay and slide it into his pockets.

Dion felt disgusted to watch. The foreman looked bored. He shifted from one foot to another. The older man shook his head.

“Are you really afraid I’m going to jump your bones, kid? Now, go back to your chair, and think. What’s going to be? This or that?”

Dion sat gingerly on the chair. “What if I don’t want either?” he eventually asked.