By Any Other Name
Title: By Any Other Name
Author: rpssock
Artist: xdarlingnickyx; an absolutely fantastic artist-you should go check out their journal!
Rating: NC-17
Characters and/or Pairing: Jensen/Richard (non-romantic), Jensen/OMC, Richard/OMC; Misha, Sonya (plays Rachel), Julie (plays Anna), Lanette (plays Raphael) and Demore (plays Raphael)
Warnings: Unfree labor (slavery/indentured servitude), religious justification for the previous (I do try to avoid bashing religion in general, and it doesn't refer to a specific one), consent issues (rape/non-con due to slavery), implied gang-rape, implied underage (14 years old, pre-story), character death, torture (electric shock, exposure, sensory deprivation, etc.), enema, referral to attack on (fictional) government building
Word Count: 11635
Summary: For sixteen years, Richard-called Gabriel-has served Stephen Canso as a personal slave. He's getting old, though, and when Jensen, a young indentured servant, catches Canso's eye, Richard begins to wonder if Canso's constant threats of selling him to a brothel might become serious. Jensen, however, is belligerent at some times, naïve at others, and seems to be hiding something…
(click for art post!)
A thin line of light peeks in through the seams around the door, creeping across the mottled floor before petering out hesitantly as it reaches the foot of the bed. Richard's eyes blink open slowly, his mind still lost in the muzzy contentment of sleep, and focus on the glowing red numbers of the little digital clock on the table. 6:28. Two minutes before the alarm goes off, like always.
He rolls off the bed-he'd kicked the sheets off sometime during the night-steps over to the bathroom door, and has a glass of water drawn from the potable tap twenty seconds later. He drinks it as he walks back into his room, clicks off the alarm on his clock so that it doesn't go off (it never goes off), sets the empty glass down and pads into the master room at 6:29. He slips through the main door without making a sound, walks across the antechamber and reaches the door just before the light scratching starts.
It's Sonya, who gives him her usual sneer as he takes the portable table and serving tray loaded down with breakfast and lets the door click shut on her. He sets it up in front of the master chair, works up the saliva in his mouth, and is back in the master room with fifteen seconds to spare.
Summer is always nice, because he doesn't have to crawl under the blankets (where the air is musty and it's hard to breathe), just gently coaxes aside some sheets and crawls onto the huge bed. His breath is on Stephen Canso's penis just as the sound system plays the first strains of shivering violin music, just as the man's sharp blue eyes snap open and meet his, right before he bends his head down and gets to work.
It's not meant to be long, just to get the job done, and by now Richard knows all the tricks he needs to use to have Canso finished off in six minutes and in the shower by 6:40. Sometimes the man wants to Richard to do it in the shower, in which case he'll tug roughly on his hair and Richard will sit quietly back before following him to the bathroom. Now, however, he just grips Richard's cheek and strokes along it with one thumb.
Five minutes and forty-seven seconds later, Richard draws back just enough to catch all of the semen in his mouth so he can swallow it down. He's a little slow, though, chokes a bit, and a string drips down to plop with barely any sound on the bed. He tenses; he's leaning fully on his hands, and wouldn't have had the time to catch the drop even had he been quick enough noticing.
Eyes down, he pulls off, swallows the rest of it. Canso's hand lifts off his head. "You'll wash the sheets today," he orders, and Richard nods. He's gotten off easy. Usually his master is harsher.
Most days he waits, standing at the foot of the bed, until his master has finished showering (by 6:55 at the latest), but today when Canso walks to the bathroom he gestures at Richard to follow. Follow he does, and as he crosses the threshold to stand on slowly warming tiles he realizes with a jolt that he'd left the door to his little room open.
Canso barely glances at it, though. "In the tub, under the shower head. Don't take off your clothes," he says, sounding almost bored, and Richard clambers over the slate edge, stands in the middle of the tub-almost six feet square-and waits for Canso to join him.
Instead, Canso closes the shower door, and taps at the controls from the outside.
A rush of freezing water pours down onto Richard's head. He gasps, curls instinctively inwards, and jerks away from the downpour, and Canso snaps, "Stay there."
He digs his fingernails into his arms and tries to keep his breath steady even as it gets faster and faster. He presses his eyes and mouth shut, trying to keep himself from shaking. His wet sleep-pants cling to him, white gone transparent against his skin.
"You're getting careless, Gabriel," Canso says after a minute, his words muffled under the sound of water in Richard's numb ears. "I'm not in the mood for mistakes. Do you understand?"
"Y-yes, sir," Richard gasps out, "I'm s-s-sorry, sir."
"I should hope so." The water shuts off, leaving Richard still trembling and dripping onto the slate. "Get out. You can dry yourself off when I'm done."
"S-sir." Richard keeps his eyes down as he slinks past Canso and stands by the vanity. The sunlight through the window will warm him up, a little, despite the wet pants keeping cold water close to his skin, and he thanks his mother’s God that this didn't happen in the winter. His breath, at least, is slowing down, even if he's still shaking.
Canso's as efficient and thorough in his showering as he is in anything else he does, and thinks Richard will only slow the process if he tried to help. He's out in ten minutes-7:01-and dries off with the fluffy white towel Richard's been staring at the whole time. When he's done, he holds it out to Richard. Testing him. Richard doesn't take it.
"The water," Canso says, "that's dripping off your body is flooding the floor, and coming perilously close to the threshold of my room. Do I want water damage on my floors, Gabriel?"
"No, sir," Richard answers. It's been too long for him to want to tear up now, but ten years ago he might have.
"Look at me."
Richard looks up. Canso's smirking, a little. "Next time, where will you stand?"
"In the corner, sir. Away from the doors." And the window.
"Good. Strip. Dry off. Dry the floor. Then you will shave me, and clothe me, and for your sake I would hope you laid out the clothes yesterday. I'm already running late, thanks to you. You may take the towel."
"Yes, sir." The towel's half-wet already, damp from Canso, and Richard strips and dries himself as best he can before kneeling to mop the water from the floor. 7:02, by the time he's done. He drops the wet towel and pants in the laundry basket across from the vanity, and wets down a washcloth with warm water to apply to Canso's face. Canso is wary of electric razors for no discernible reason, and it makes the process that couple of minutes longer.
Richard opens the drawer with razor and shaving gel, takes out the gel and warms it with his hands before squeezing it out and patting down Canso's face. He has to reach up-Canso's several inches taller-and it's always a little awkward. The man doesn't like to sit for this, easier though it would make Richard's task. He stoppers the sink, fills it partway with water, and rinses the razor off just in case before starting in with quick, efficient strokes.
Canso could do this himself, of course, but for several years now he's had Richard do it for him. Occasionally he'll grab suddenly at Richard's back or buttocks, pulling him in close, and get angry when it causes Richard to nick his face. "You're not paying attention," he'll say.
Richard finishes, pats Canso's face dry and puts the equipment away. They proceed out to the master room, where Canso stands and waits for Richard to fetch the clothes he'd set on the dresser the night before. Canso's just as capable of clothing himself as he is of showering and shaving, but seems to prefer the opportunities to 'accidentally' kick Richard in the stomach being dressed offers. He gets a few good ones in this morning, perhaps a couple that will bruise, along Richard's ribs.
Richard's skin is perpetually a patchwork of half-faded bruises from the shoulders down, though Canso will never let anything scar. "Your resale value depreciates enough," he says, "without my leaving permanent marks." When he does get angry-or curious-enough to break the skin, he puts this lotion on the wounds that stings and itches and is sometimes more painful than the actual assault. The doctor comes in to check on the progress, and true to intention Richard is left as unscarred as any rich man's sheltered son, except on the front of his left shoulder where three marks sit-the slave mark he's had since the age of five, Canso's personal crest, and a light discoloration where his chip is implanted. They can be removed, if need be, as his first family's crest had been when he was sold, but the process is expensive and the scrutiny intense. No surgeon wants to risk clearing away the brands of a runaway.
Richard finishes zipping up Canso's pants, checks his shirt so that it's evenly tucked, and kneels down to coax Canso's feet into socks and shoes. If he keeps his head down, Canso won't kick him, because for some reason he doesn't like bruises on Richard's neck or face. He finishes tying the shoelaces, tugs them once to check the knot, and sits back on his heels until Canso gestures at him to follow into the antechamber, where the breakfast is hopefully still warm.
He stands at attention in the corner as Canso eats, fastidious as a cat. Richard's stomach will not growl at the sight of the sweetened oats, fresh berries, and thick slice of ham. He eats, officially, when Canso deigns to feed him.
Which is not this morning. He finishes, scrapes the last crumb of food off his plate, and asks, "How old are you, Gabriel?"
The man knows perfectly well. Richard replies anyway. "Twenty-nine, sir."
"Hmm. Do you know how much a slave like you loses in value with every year of service?"
Yes, because Canso can't stop quoting the figures at him. "Yes, sir."
"Don't be a fucking smart-ass, Gabriel. Tell me."
Richard flinches. He still can't always tell how literal Canso wants him to be. "Four point seven-eight, sir. Percent."
"Which means, Gabriel, that you would now be worth less than half of what I paid for you, had I paid for you already trained. Thank God I didn't waste my money like that. The fact remains, however, that if you continue to pile up mistakes, the amount I pay annually to feed and clothe and care for you will be much more than the amount I could earn even by selling you to the brothels, and I would be better served to sell you off and buy another slave. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir." There's no real fear of being sold off, though. Richard is as effective a domestic as anyone, even were he to no longer act as a personal slave.
"I don't think you do, Gabriel." Canso sighs. "I'm leaving. I expect you to do your washing, and last night I sent a text to your account-my niece, God bless her idiot soul, is doing a project and needs it translated for her research. You will do that and send it to her by three this afternoon. I want my dinner ready at six." Six-thirty, then-he never comes home on time. Canso stands and leaves the chamber. He will go to his office, first, to pick up anything he needs, then to the front door where Lanette will be waiting to drive him.
Richard waits until the door has closed entirely, then returns to the bathroom to wash his face and shave. He dresses in his little room, and is halfway through stripping the master bed when the knock comes on the door.
It's Misha this time, come to fetch Canso's dishes. "Why, it's the high and mighty Castiel, up from the kitchens himself," Richard drawls, "Too good to come up earlier?"
"Sonya insisted," Misha shrugs, just as deadpan, "She's got a crush on our boy Steve. Wants to take your place."
Richard snorts. "Tell her I said gladly. Wait one sec, I'm coming down to the laundry." He jerks the sheets off, crumples them up and throws them into the basket, then hefts it up on one hip. Misha's waiting, holding the tray and table.
"Sheets? Didn't you do those yesterday?"
Richard raises an eyebrow. "Your point?"
"Eh. Fair enough. You get food?"
"You got food?"
"Only for a kiss."
"Sure. You can kiss my ass."
"Oh, gladly." Misha leans down, makes obnoxious smacking noises, and Richard swats at him with his free hand until he pops back up, laughing. "Seriously, though. Gourmet breakfast for you when you're done throwing that in the wash."
"Gourmet, huh?"
"Oh yeah. Same stuff I eat, so you know it's good. Dry cereal all the way, baby."
"Sounds wonderful." He says it sarcastically, but it's anything but sarcastic-last night he'd had neither dinner via Canso nor the chance to sneak a sandwich from the kitchen courtesy of Misha.
Their paths diverge when they reach the bottom of the basement stairs as Misha heads to the kitchen and Richard turns to the laundry room. It's always too warm in here, except in the dead of winter, so he's quick about it-sheets in, tap tap tap the control pad and go. Canso has the latest in technology for everything in the house, even the things only his slaves ever touch. The more each individual can do, he says, the fewer slaves he needs.
True to Misha's word, there's a bowl of cereal and glass of water on the small table, and Richard practically inhales it as Misha leans on the counter. "So."
"Mmmph?" He looks up, mouth full, to see Misha's pinched face, and swallows. "What?"
"Don't know if you knew. There's people coming to reroof the west side today. In the afternoon."
Something drops heavily in Richard's stomach, and he looks down at his spoon. "The same-"
"Same ones as last time. Yeah."
"Well. I'd, uh, I'd better be on my best behavior." He titters, unconvincingly. "You'll be-"
"Taking care of them. Of course."
"Thanks." He's suddenly not quite as hungry, but finishes eating anyway as Julie pokes her head into the kitchen.
"Coming," Misha tells her, "Richard, you up to it?"
"Of course," because that's what he always says, "I've got to do something first, though. Shouldn't take more than an hour."
Misha shrugs. "Right, well, we'll still be working. I figure we're done with the roses by ten today. There's not much left to do. And then." He waves his arm theatrically. "You know the drill."
Nearly sixteen years. Yes, he knows the drill. He rinses his dishes, puts them away. There aren't any consoles down here, so he heads back upstairs to do the translation. Hopefully it’s a short document, so he doesn’t have to go back on his word. Now matter how much time it takes, though, he knows Misha and Julie will be understanding and Sonya snide.
The closest console’s part of the surface of the dining room table-he logs in with a few swipes and pulls up the document. Nearly eight hundred words. Richard sighs. It will be a long day.
--- ---
At 6:33, Lanette parks, gets out, and walks around to the back to open Canso's door. A soft beep sounds throughout the house, just as Misha and Sonya are preparing to cover the dishes to keep them warm, just as Julie and Richard have set their last carefully dusted antique vases down. Julie gathers up the cleaning supplies as Richard scrambles to the door Canso will come through and stands at attention.
At 6:45, Canso has not yet entered his house, and a tendril of fear is worming its way down Richard's throat. He's come in through a different door, is the first and best option-Richard will be punished, but not terribly, a few seconds of electricity and no food for a day. It isn't as if the latter is particularly effective. Worse is the thought that he's gone to inspect the roofing crew, gone to offer Richard up again for their hard work. One night in the company's barracks is worse than anything Canso could dream up.
Last time, it had been a punishment, but the line between punishments and normal work is thinning.
At 6:53, the door opens with a swish, and Richard starts and stands up straighter. Lanette walks in to stand aside, carrying Canso's briefcase. The man himself sweeps into the entryway with barely a glance at Richard, so Richard meets Lanette's eyes, briefly. She gives him a small smile, and then the third person-hidden by Canso's body and the door-steps gingerly inside.
By the collar around his neck, he's indentured, and by the company logo on it he's part of the roofing crew. He's young, could be pretty were he clean, and seems rather lost.
If this is the only one who's going to fuck him, Richard's pretty sure he's got a much better deal than last time. Maybe Canso plans to record it, and send the recording on.
"Gabriel," Canso says, "this is Michael. He'll be working with you. See if Castiel's clothes fit him. Clean him up, you may use what water you require. I want you both ready by nine. And Mr. Morgan will be by with some of Michael's personal effects, Raphael, you will lock them away to be returned at the end of his service."
Richard blinks. "Uh, yes. Sir. Yes, sir," he says, along with Lanette, even as Michael makes protesting little noises.
"Wait, wait, I-" he trails off as Canso leaves them standing there. "You can't take my stuff!" He turns to Lanette. "He can't take my stuff. And my name's-" he shouts down the hallway "-my name's Jensen!"
Lanette grimaces as she steps inside and the door swishes closed. Richard's not sure whether to be relieved or horrified or let out the snort of laughter he desperately wants to. "Mr. Canso bought out his contract," Lanette explains to Richard. "It's for about three and a half more years. I'll say, I didn't expect he'd be working with you."
"Believe me, I'm just as surprised." He looks the man up and down more closely-less a man, more of a kid. Older than Richard had been. Taller, too, than anyone in the house besides Canso.
"Did he hear me?" Jensen looks back and forth between them. "He can't just-"
"He can," Lanette says. "My name's Lanette. This is Richard. Mr. Canso will call us Raphael and Gabriel. And I don't know what they told you when you signed that contract, but you don't own anything. You're lucky he doesn't just take it all away."
"That-that wasn't in the contract," but Jensen's voice is a little shaky.
"They put all sorts of shit in the contracts," and it sounds like Lanette is trying to be soothing, "There's loopholes. You have to be careful."
Lanette, if she could, would have wanted to be a legal advisor for prospective indentureds, after what happened to Robert. As it is, she's lucky she can read.
Jensen takes a deep breath. "Okay, that's-okay. Four years, right? Not that long. I'm, uh, working with you, then?” He stares Richard up and down, then grins. “Alright. What is it-I mean, what do you do?"
"Oh." Lanette cringes a little.
"You have no idea." It's a flat question.
"No?” His grin fades a little. “I, uh, he just came up and asked Morgan to buy my contract. And I said yes, and signed a couple things-"
"I'm sorry," Richard interrupts, "I really am."
"What? Why?"
Because he doesn't want to inflict this on anyone else, but he doesn't say it, just shakes his head. "Take off your boots. Come with me," and leads Jensen upstairs to the bedroom.
As they walk, Jensen stares wide-eyed at the opulence of the house, occasionally reaches out to touch something before pulling back as if afraid his touch would break it. He walks heavily, even without boots on. It will be trained out of him soon enough. "Is that real?" he asks, stopping in front of the wall-hung aquarium. "Are they-the fish?"
"Yeah," Richard tells him, mildly, "Julie takes care of them, mostly. You'll meet her."
It looks as though Jensen could stare at the tank all day, and Richard lets him stand there tracing the movements of the animals for a few minutes before clearing his throat.
"Sorry," Jensen says.
"It's fine. But you'll have time to look at all the pretty things later."
Of all the slaves in the house, the bedroom's keyed to Richard's handprint alone. He leads Jensen through the antechamber, through the master bedroom, into the bathroom where Jensen gapes at the massive shower. "So what, are you like, the head slave?"
Richard snorts. "No. If that were anyone I suppose it would be Misha. But there's not that many of us. You're the only indentured."
"Oh. Were you all born here, then?" Jensen wanders over, traces the edge of the sink with one finger.
"Nope. He bought us when we were kids. I don't think Lanie was even born into it."
"She was born free, you mean." Jensen turns to face him, stares uncannily straight into his eyes. Richard looks at his shoulder, instead.
"Yup. Oh, don't call her Lanie to her face, she'll punch you. Probably. Or anywhere else, 'cause she'll know."
"She doesn't punch you?"
"Nah, she tolerates me." Richard winks, and Jensen relaxes, a little. "So, can you clean yourself? Wash behind the ears?"
"…um. I've never, uh. I've always sponged off."
"Same principle. Soap and water. Soap's there, I'll get the water going, call me when you need me but I'm going to grab you some clothes." He keys in the shower controls, and Jensen jumps as the water starts to flow. "Got it?"
"Uh. Yeah."
"Fantastic."
By the time he returns, bearing a spare set of Misha's clothing, Jensen's standing in the middle of the spray looking confused. "Washed off yet?"
Jensen startles, blushes, and folds his hands in front of his groin. "Uh. Yeah, but I can't figure out how to turn the shower off."
"Big blue button. Here." Richard shuts it off with the outer controls, and Jensen flushes even deeper red as the water no longer conceals him. Richard's eyebrows wrinkle. "Jensen," he says, quietly, "You're going to have to get used to being naked in front of people."
"Why?" Jensen seems smaller, wet, younger. "You never told me what you do."
Richard holds a towel out, turns away to give Jensen some semblance of privacy. "Are you a virgin?"
"Am I-what?"
"A virgin." No reply. "Have you had-"
"I know what the word means!" Jensen snaps. "And no, I'm not. Why the hell does it matter?"
"Have you been with a guy?"
"…no. I'm not like that," and he sounds a bit offended.
Richard waits. Jensen draws in a deep breath and exhales just as sharply. "Oh, no. No. You're not-fuck no. That was definitely not in my contract. Physical fucking labor only."
"It is physical. And laborious. And that would be one of the loopholes. Jensen, I'm sorry-"
"I'm not a whore!"
"You are now." Richard turns around and shoves the towel in Jensen's face. "Four years, right? Not that long," he mimics Jensen’s words back to him.
Jensen takes the towel, and it looks like he's having an argument with himself as he stares at it. His breath rattles in and out.
"Look," Richard says, "I don't know why you did it. Couldn't get a job. Family to support. Pilgrimage. Whatever. But-"
Jensen looks up, and his tone has completely changed. "Pilgrimage? People do that?"
"…yes, of course. You never met anyone who did?"
"The guys at the company were all in it for the money. I didn't think anyone actually believed that shit."
Richard glares. "Yeah, there are people who believe that shit. Service is sacred."
"So, you whoring yourself out is some sort of holy mission, is that it?"
"The greater the trial, the greater the ultimate reward," and maybe normally he wouldn't be quite so vehement, or even believe it at all, but this stupid kid has apparently gone and sold himself without giving it a damn thought.
Jensen sneers. "Yeah, I'm sure. Great trials, you spend all day on your back?"
"Well, I guess you're in it for the money, then. Pay off some gambling debts, is that it?"
"No." Jensen doesn't offer anything more, just towels himself off in little angry jerks and snatches the stack of clothes from Richard's hands. Dressed, he folds his arms and stares down. "So, what now?"
The desire to make this first night easy for Jensen has mostly evaporated. "You probably shouldn't have gotten dressed just yet."
"He can undress me when he gets here."
"Oh, no. You're not done cleaning. First we shave you, everywhere. And you'll like the second part even less."
"Everywhere? Hell no."
"Hell yes," selfish creature. Richard's the one who'll be punished. "Time's a'ticking. You can do it yourself, if you want." He rummages through the drawers for razors, waves the supplies in Jensen's face.
"No. I'll talk to him. I'm not doing anything else here."
"Fuck you, I'll make you."
"Yeah?" Jensen looms over him, menaces, flexes his arms. "You're going to make me, huh?"
Richard glares up at him as Jensen inches closer, then socks him in the balls.
"Aw fuck!" Jensen falls back, bent in two. "Fucking, fuck, fuck you bastard…"
"You don't want to? Your funeral," Richard snaps, "And you don't know shit about pain, do you? 'Cause I can promise it's gonna be a lot worse."
"I won't do it. Not until he talks to me."
"Fine."
--- ---
At 9:01, Jensen's dressed-Misha's clothes don't quite fit him, and they're loose on Misha but tight on Jensen-and sulking in the antechamber, and Richard's doing much the same, except that Richard at least took the time to lube himself up and wash his mouth out. Canso enters, takes one look, and sighs. "You're not ready."
"No, sir," Richard says, "I'm sorry, sir. I will accept whatever punish-"
"Of course you will," Canso snaps. "I doubt it's your fault. Just in case it is." He reaches for the small remote around his neck, and Richard tenses and relaxes in resigned fear before the wave of pain shocks from his neck all the way down, down, and he's collapsed, nearly hit his head on the hard edge of the couch before it stops.
Just a few seconds. He draws in a deep breath, wipes his eyes, and scrambles back to his feet. Jensen's looking at him in horror.
"Michael," Canso says, "This is what happens when you disobey," and he has a second remote, now, and Jensen's screaming. Richard looks away.
"Oh God," Jensen whimpers, afterwards, and raises one trembling hand to his collar. "God." Canso crouches in front of him, pats him on the cheek.
"Understand?"
"You-you can't do this. It's not s'posed to be punishment. It's-"
"Michael. I own you. I can do," he punctuates it with another half-second electric shock, "whatever," again, "I want," one more time, until Jensen is limp underneath him. "Good boy. Say 'yes, sir.'"
"Yessir."
"Alright. Now that's settled. Get up." Canso stands, and Jensen follows, wavering on his feet. He motions to Richard. "Follow me."
"Yes, sir." Jensen doesn't look at him as they obey, and Canso goes through the master bedroom, through Richard's little room (now Richard-and-Jensen's, he supposes) into the playroom beyond. Jensen cringes back when he sees it, full of concrete and metal, chains and stranger things, and Richard puts a hand to the small of his back to urge him onward.
"We'll have to start preparing you now," Canso informs Jensen. "Gabriel, strip, bench."
"Yes, sir." Richard strips, folds his clothes, and walks over to settle his torso down onto a padded black bench, his head down and legs splayed wide.
"Observe." Canso trails one finger down Richard's spine. "No hair, except for on the top of your head. No permanent marks. If you so much as cut yourself and fail to inform me, you will be punished." He dips his hand down behind, slips two fingers easily into Richard's hole. "Always ready, always clean. I'm glad to see you've at least washed the rest of your body. It was necessary that you use the shower this evening, but most days you will not. There is a spigot and drain in the corner of this room by the door. Understand?"
"Yes." Canso's eyes flick over, and he reaches slowly for the remote. "Sir!" Jensen adds quickly.
"Good. Strip." Jensen does, albeit a bit slowly, and stands there with the clothes in one hand. Canso sighs. "When in doubt, do as Gabriel does. Fold them. Place them next to his."
Jensen does so, and as he turns back, Canso shocks him again.
"Wha-huh?"
"When I give you an order, you always reply, and address me as 'sir,' unless I have instructed you not to."
"…yes, sir."
"Good. Gabriel, you may stand."
"Yes, sir." Richard rises, clasps his hands behind him and bows his head.
"Get the wax."
"Yes, sir."
He's been doing it since he first came here, and he still hates it-but though Canso will allow him to shave his face, he's forced to wax everything else. Jensen, Richard thinks viciously, will probably cry.
He's guilty at the thought, though. He'd been just as scared, just as stupid about things when he started. He hadn't had any idea what was in store for him, either. He takes the wax, the heater, the paper, and sets it up by Jensen, now kneeling at the bench.
Jensen does cry, but without making a sound. When they're done, his skin is red and painful looking, and Canso slaps his buttocks. He jumps and hisses. "Michael, on the floor. On your left side."
"Yessir," Jensen mumbles, and curls up on the floor. Richard already has his supplies ready, and Canso waves a hand at him.
"You can do it," he tells Richard, then settles, cross-legged, in front of Jensen and pulls Jensen's head into his lap, stroking through his hair. "Good boy," he soothes, "Such a good boy."
He holds the enema bag and slicks the nozzle up. With one hand, he spreads Jensen's newly shaven buttocks, and Jensen draws a breath in and tries to lift his head. Canso pushes it back down.
Richard eases the nozzle into Jensen's hole, and the other man whimpers, tenses, tries to shake his head. Canso chuckles. "You'll get used to it, my boy," he says, "something up in that tight little ass of yours."
Richard lifts the bag above Jensen's hips, and the liquid begins to flow. Jensen jerks forcibly this time, and Canso slaps him, the sound ringing in the room. "Don't move."
After a few minutes, Jensen whispers, “It hurts,” and Canso nods.
“Yes. It does. But not as much as you could be hurting, is it, Michael?”
Jensen slowly shakes his head, and Canso pats him. “Good boy. Hold it in,” he instructs as the bag empties and Richard eases the nozzle out. “You’ll keep it for a few minutes. Gabriel.”
“Sir.”
“How long since you’ve done this?” he asks, mildly.
“Four days, sir.”
“Hmm. And you’re still clean?”
“I-yes, sir. I wash myself well, sir.”
“Be sure that you do.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jensen’s squirming. “I can’t-“
“You can,” Canso tells him. “Quit whining.”
Jensen’s ‘sir’ is weak, and he turns his head slowly to look Richard in the eye. Richard looks away, and busies himself with cleaning up the setup.
Part II
Author: rpssock
Artist: xdarlingnickyx; an absolutely fantastic artist-you should go check out their journal!
Rating: NC-17
Characters and/or Pairing: Jensen/Richard (non-romantic), Jensen/OMC, Richard/OMC; Misha, Sonya (plays Rachel), Julie (plays Anna), Lanette (plays Raphael) and Demore (plays Raphael)
Warnings: Unfree labor (slavery/indentured servitude), religious justification for the previous (I do try to avoid bashing religion in general, and it doesn't refer to a specific one), consent issues (rape/non-con due to slavery), implied gang-rape, implied underage (14 years old, pre-story), character death, torture (electric shock, exposure, sensory deprivation, etc.), enema, referral to attack on (fictional) government building
Word Count: 11635
Summary: For sixteen years, Richard-called Gabriel-has served Stephen Canso as a personal slave. He's getting old, though, and when Jensen, a young indentured servant, catches Canso's eye, Richard begins to wonder if Canso's constant threats of selling him to a brothel might become serious. Jensen, however, is belligerent at some times, naïve at others, and seems to be hiding something…
(click for art post!)
A thin line of light peeks in through the seams around the door, creeping across the mottled floor before petering out hesitantly as it reaches the foot of the bed. Richard's eyes blink open slowly, his mind still lost in the muzzy contentment of sleep, and focus on the glowing red numbers of the little digital clock on the table. 6:28. Two minutes before the alarm goes off, like always.
He rolls off the bed-he'd kicked the sheets off sometime during the night-steps over to the bathroom door, and has a glass of water drawn from the potable tap twenty seconds later. He drinks it as he walks back into his room, clicks off the alarm on his clock so that it doesn't go off (it never goes off), sets the empty glass down and pads into the master room at 6:29. He slips through the main door without making a sound, walks across the antechamber and reaches the door just before the light scratching starts.
It's Sonya, who gives him her usual sneer as he takes the portable table and serving tray loaded down with breakfast and lets the door click shut on her. He sets it up in front of the master chair, works up the saliva in his mouth, and is back in the master room with fifteen seconds to spare.
Summer is always nice, because he doesn't have to crawl under the blankets (where the air is musty and it's hard to breathe), just gently coaxes aside some sheets and crawls onto the huge bed. His breath is on Stephen Canso's penis just as the sound system plays the first strains of shivering violin music, just as the man's sharp blue eyes snap open and meet his, right before he bends his head down and gets to work.
It's not meant to be long, just to get the job done, and by now Richard knows all the tricks he needs to use to have Canso finished off in six minutes and in the shower by 6:40. Sometimes the man wants to Richard to do it in the shower, in which case he'll tug roughly on his hair and Richard will sit quietly back before following him to the bathroom. Now, however, he just grips Richard's cheek and strokes along it with one thumb.
Five minutes and forty-seven seconds later, Richard draws back just enough to catch all of the semen in his mouth so he can swallow it down. He's a little slow, though, chokes a bit, and a string drips down to plop with barely any sound on the bed. He tenses; he's leaning fully on his hands, and wouldn't have had the time to catch the drop even had he been quick enough noticing.
Eyes down, he pulls off, swallows the rest of it. Canso's hand lifts off his head. "You'll wash the sheets today," he orders, and Richard nods. He's gotten off easy. Usually his master is harsher.
Most days he waits, standing at the foot of the bed, until his master has finished showering (by 6:55 at the latest), but today when Canso walks to the bathroom he gestures at Richard to follow. Follow he does, and as he crosses the threshold to stand on slowly warming tiles he realizes with a jolt that he'd left the door to his little room open.
Canso barely glances at it, though. "In the tub, under the shower head. Don't take off your clothes," he says, sounding almost bored, and Richard clambers over the slate edge, stands in the middle of the tub-almost six feet square-and waits for Canso to join him.
Instead, Canso closes the shower door, and taps at the controls from the outside.
A rush of freezing water pours down onto Richard's head. He gasps, curls instinctively inwards, and jerks away from the downpour, and Canso snaps, "Stay there."
He digs his fingernails into his arms and tries to keep his breath steady even as it gets faster and faster. He presses his eyes and mouth shut, trying to keep himself from shaking. His wet sleep-pants cling to him, white gone transparent against his skin.
"You're getting careless, Gabriel," Canso says after a minute, his words muffled under the sound of water in Richard's numb ears. "I'm not in the mood for mistakes. Do you understand?"
"Y-yes, sir," Richard gasps out, "I'm s-s-sorry, sir."
"I should hope so." The water shuts off, leaving Richard still trembling and dripping onto the slate. "Get out. You can dry yourself off when I'm done."
"S-sir." Richard keeps his eyes down as he slinks past Canso and stands by the vanity. The sunlight through the window will warm him up, a little, despite the wet pants keeping cold water close to his skin, and he thanks his mother’s God that this didn't happen in the winter. His breath, at least, is slowing down, even if he's still shaking.
Canso's as efficient and thorough in his showering as he is in anything else he does, and thinks Richard will only slow the process if he tried to help. He's out in ten minutes-7:01-and dries off with the fluffy white towel Richard's been staring at the whole time. When he's done, he holds it out to Richard. Testing him. Richard doesn't take it.
"The water," Canso says, "that's dripping off your body is flooding the floor, and coming perilously close to the threshold of my room. Do I want water damage on my floors, Gabriel?"
"No, sir," Richard answers. It's been too long for him to want to tear up now, but ten years ago he might have.
"Look at me."
Richard looks up. Canso's smirking, a little. "Next time, where will you stand?"
"In the corner, sir. Away from the doors." And the window.
"Good. Strip. Dry off. Dry the floor. Then you will shave me, and clothe me, and for your sake I would hope you laid out the clothes yesterday. I'm already running late, thanks to you. You may take the towel."
"Yes, sir." The towel's half-wet already, damp from Canso, and Richard strips and dries himself as best he can before kneeling to mop the water from the floor. 7:02, by the time he's done. He drops the wet towel and pants in the laundry basket across from the vanity, and wets down a washcloth with warm water to apply to Canso's face. Canso is wary of electric razors for no discernible reason, and it makes the process that couple of minutes longer.
Richard opens the drawer with razor and shaving gel, takes out the gel and warms it with his hands before squeezing it out and patting down Canso's face. He has to reach up-Canso's several inches taller-and it's always a little awkward. The man doesn't like to sit for this, easier though it would make Richard's task. He stoppers the sink, fills it partway with water, and rinses the razor off just in case before starting in with quick, efficient strokes.
Canso could do this himself, of course, but for several years now he's had Richard do it for him. Occasionally he'll grab suddenly at Richard's back or buttocks, pulling him in close, and get angry when it causes Richard to nick his face. "You're not paying attention," he'll say.
Richard finishes, pats Canso's face dry and puts the equipment away. They proceed out to the master room, where Canso stands and waits for Richard to fetch the clothes he'd set on the dresser the night before. Canso's just as capable of clothing himself as he is of showering and shaving, but seems to prefer the opportunities to 'accidentally' kick Richard in the stomach being dressed offers. He gets a few good ones in this morning, perhaps a couple that will bruise, along Richard's ribs.
Richard's skin is perpetually a patchwork of half-faded bruises from the shoulders down, though Canso will never let anything scar. "Your resale value depreciates enough," he says, "without my leaving permanent marks." When he does get angry-or curious-enough to break the skin, he puts this lotion on the wounds that stings and itches and is sometimes more painful than the actual assault. The doctor comes in to check on the progress, and true to intention Richard is left as unscarred as any rich man's sheltered son, except on the front of his left shoulder where three marks sit-the slave mark he's had since the age of five, Canso's personal crest, and a light discoloration where his chip is implanted. They can be removed, if need be, as his first family's crest had been when he was sold, but the process is expensive and the scrutiny intense. No surgeon wants to risk clearing away the brands of a runaway.
Richard finishes zipping up Canso's pants, checks his shirt so that it's evenly tucked, and kneels down to coax Canso's feet into socks and shoes. If he keeps his head down, Canso won't kick him, because for some reason he doesn't like bruises on Richard's neck or face. He finishes tying the shoelaces, tugs them once to check the knot, and sits back on his heels until Canso gestures at him to follow into the antechamber, where the breakfast is hopefully still warm.
He stands at attention in the corner as Canso eats, fastidious as a cat. Richard's stomach will not growl at the sight of the sweetened oats, fresh berries, and thick slice of ham. He eats, officially, when Canso deigns to feed him.
Which is not this morning. He finishes, scrapes the last crumb of food off his plate, and asks, "How old are you, Gabriel?"
The man knows perfectly well. Richard replies anyway. "Twenty-nine, sir."
"Hmm. Do you know how much a slave like you loses in value with every year of service?"
Yes, because Canso can't stop quoting the figures at him. "Yes, sir."
"Don't be a fucking smart-ass, Gabriel. Tell me."
Richard flinches. He still can't always tell how literal Canso wants him to be. "Four point seven-eight, sir. Percent."
"Which means, Gabriel, that you would now be worth less than half of what I paid for you, had I paid for you already trained. Thank God I didn't waste my money like that. The fact remains, however, that if you continue to pile up mistakes, the amount I pay annually to feed and clothe and care for you will be much more than the amount I could earn even by selling you to the brothels, and I would be better served to sell you off and buy another slave. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir." There's no real fear of being sold off, though. Richard is as effective a domestic as anyone, even were he to no longer act as a personal slave.
"I don't think you do, Gabriel." Canso sighs. "I'm leaving. I expect you to do your washing, and last night I sent a text to your account-my niece, God bless her idiot soul, is doing a project and needs it translated for her research. You will do that and send it to her by three this afternoon. I want my dinner ready at six." Six-thirty, then-he never comes home on time. Canso stands and leaves the chamber. He will go to his office, first, to pick up anything he needs, then to the front door where Lanette will be waiting to drive him.
Richard waits until the door has closed entirely, then returns to the bathroom to wash his face and shave. He dresses in his little room, and is halfway through stripping the master bed when the knock comes on the door.
It's Misha this time, come to fetch Canso's dishes. "Why, it's the high and mighty Castiel, up from the kitchens himself," Richard drawls, "Too good to come up earlier?"
"Sonya insisted," Misha shrugs, just as deadpan, "She's got a crush on our boy Steve. Wants to take your place."
Richard snorts. "Tell her I said gladly. Wait one sec, I'm coming down to the laundry." He jerks the sheets off, crumples them up and throws them into the basket, then hefts it up on one hip. Misha's waiting, holding the tray and table.
"Sheets? Didn't you do those yesterday?"
Richard raises an eyebrow. "Your point?"
"Eh. Fair enough. You get food?"
"You got food?"
"Only for a kiss."
"Sure. You can kiss my ass."
"Oh, gladly." Misha leans down, makes obnoxious smacking noises, and Richard swats at him with his free hand until he pops back up, laughing. "Seriously, though. Gourmet breakfast for you when you're done throwing that in the wash."
"Gourmet, huh?"
"Oh yeah. Same stuff I eat, so you know it's good. Dry cereal all the way, baby."
"Sounds wonderful." He says it sarcastically, but it's anything but sarcastic-last night he'd had neither dinner via Canso nor the chance to sneak a sandwich from the kitchen courtesy of Misha.
Their paths diverge when they reach the bottom of the basement stairs as Misha heads to the kitchen and Richard turns to the laundry room. It's always too warm in here, except in the dead of winter, so he's quick about it-sheets in, tap tap tap the control pad and go. Canso has the latest in technology for everything in the house, even the things only his slaves ever touch. The more each individual can do, he says, the fewer slaves he needs.
True to Misha's word, there's a bowl of cereal and glass of water on the small table, and Richard practically inhales it as Misha leans on the counter. "So."
"Mmmph?" He looks up, mouth full, to see Misha's pinched face, and swallows. "What?"
"Don't know if you knew. There's people coming to reroof the west side today. In the afternoon."
Something drops heavily in Richard's stomach, and he looks down at his spoon. "The same-"
"Same ones as last time. Yeah."
"Well. I'd, uh, I'd better be on my best behavior." He titters, unconvincingly. "You'll be-"
"Taking care of them. Of course."
"Thanks." He's suddenly not quite as hungry, but finishes eating anyway as Julie pokes her head into the kitchen.
"Coming," Misha tells her, "Richard, you up to it?"
"Of course," because that's what he always says, "I've got to do something first, though. Shouldn't take more than an hour."
Misha shrugs. "Right, well, we'll still be working. I figure we're done with the roses by ten today. There's not much left to do. And then." He waves his arm theatrically. "You know the drill."
Nearly sixteen years. Yes, he knows the drill. He rinses his dishes, puts them away. There aren't any consoles down here, so he heads back upstairs to do the translation. Hopefully it’s a short document, so he doesn’t have to go back on his word. Now matter how much time it takes, though, he knows Misha and Julie will be understanding and Sonya snide.
The closest console’s part of the surface of the dining room table-he logs in with a few swipes and pulls up the document. Nearly eight hundred words. Richard sighs. It will be a long day.
--- ---
At 6:33, Lanette parks, gets out, and walks around to the back to open Canso's door. A soft beep sounds throughout the house, just as Misha and Sonya are preparing to cover the dishes to keep them warm, just as Julie and Richard have set their last carefully dusted antique vases down. Julie gathers up the cleaning supplies as Richard scrambles to the door Canso will come through and stands at attention.
At 6:45, Canso has not yet entered his house, and a tendril of fear is worming its way down Richard's throat. He's come in through a different door, is the first and best option-Richard will be punished, but not terribly, a few seconds of electricity and no food for a day. It isn't as if the latter is particularly effective. Worse is the thought that he's gone to inspect the roofing crew, gone to offer Richard up again for their hard work. One night in the company's barracks is worse than anything Canso could dream up.
Last time, it had been a punishment, but the line between punishments and normal work is thinning.
At 6:53, the door opens with a swish, and Richard starts and stands up straighter. Lanette walks in to stand aside, carrying Canso's briefcase. The man himself sweeps into the entryway with barely a glance at Richard, so Richard meets Lanette's eyes, briefly. She gives him a small smile, and then the third person-hidden by Canso's body and the door-steps gingerly inside.
By the collar around his neck, he's indentured, and by the company logo on it he's part of the roofing crew. He's young, could be pretty were he clean, and seems rather lost.
If this is the only one who's going to fuck him, Richard's pretty sure he's got a much better deal than last time. Maybe Canso plans to record it, and send the recording on.
"Gabriel," Canso says, "this is Michael. He'll be working with you. See if Castiel's clothes fit him. Clean him up, you may use what water you require. I want you both ready by nine. And Mr. Morgan will be by with some of Michael's personal effects, Raphael, you will lock them away to be returned at the end of his service."
Richard blinks. "Uh, yes. Sir. Yes, sir," he says, along with Lanette, even as Michael makes protesting little noises.
"Wait, wait, I-" he trails off as Canso leaves them standing there. "You can't take my stuff!" He turns to Lanette. "He can't take my stuff. And my name's-" he shouts down the hallway "-my name's Jensen!"
Lanette grimaces as she steps inside and the door swishes closed. Richard's not sure whether to be relieved or horrified or let out the snort of laughter he desperately wants to. "Mr. Canso bought out his contract," Lanette explains to Richard. "It's for about three and a half more years. I'll say, I didn't expect he'd be working with you."
"Believe me, I'm just as surprised." He looks the man up and down more closely-less a man, more of a kid. Older than Richard had been. Taller, too, than anyone in the house besides Canso.
"Did he hear me?" Jensen looks back and forth between them. "He can't just-"
"He can," Lanette says. "My name's Lanette. This is Richard. Mr. Canso will call us Raphael and Gabriel. And I don't know what they told you when you signed that contract, but you don't own anything. You're lucky he doesn't just take it all away."
"That-that wasn't in the contract," but Jensen's voice is a little shaky.
"They put all sorts of shit in the contracts," and it sounds like Lanette is trying to be soothing, "There's loopholes. You have to be careful."
Lanette, if she could, would have wanted to be a legal advisor for prospective indentureds, after what happened to Robert. As it is, she's lucky she can read.
Jensen takes a deep breath. "Okay, that's-okay. Four years, right? Not that long. I'm, uh, working with you, then?” He stares Richard up and down, then grins. “Alright. What is it-I mean, what do you do?"
"Oh." Lanette cringes a little.
"You have no idea." It's a flat question.
"No?” His grin fades a little. “I, uh, he just came up and asked Morgan to buy my contract. And I said yes, and signed a couple things-"
"I'm sorry," Richard interrupts, "I really am."
"What? Why?"
Because he doesn't want to inflict this on anyone else, but he doesn't say it, just shakes his head. "Take off your boots. Come with me," and leads Jensen upstairs to the bedroom.
As they walk, Jensen stares wide-eyed at the opulence of the house, occasionally reaches out to touch something before pulling back as if afraid his touch would break it. He walks heavily, even without boots on. It will be trained out of him soon enough. "Is that real?" he asks, stopping in front of the wall-hung aquarium. "Are they-the fish?"
"Yeah," Richard tells him, mildly, "Julie takes care of them, mostly. You'll meet her."
It looks as though Jensen could stare at the tank all day, and Richard lets him stand there tracing the movements of the animals for a few minutes before clearing his throat.
"Sorry," Jensen says.
"It's fine. But you'll have time to look at all the pretty things later."
Of all the slaves in the house, the bedroom's keyed to Richard's handprint alone. He leads Jensen through the antechamber, through the master bedroom, into the bathroom where Jensen gapes at the massive shower. "So what, are you like, the head slave?"
Richard snorts. "No. If that were anyone I suppose it would be Misha. But there's not that many of us. You're the only indentured."
"Oh. Were you all born here, then?" Jensen wanders over, traces the edge of the sink with one finger.
"Nope. He bought us when we were kids. I don't think Lanie was even born into it."
"She was born free, you mean." Jensen turns to face him, stares uncannily straight into his eyes. Richard looks at his shoulder, instead.
"Yup. Oh, don't call her Lanie to her face, she'll punch you. Probably. Or anywhere else, 'cause she'll know."
"She doesn't punch you?"
"Nah, she tolerates me." Richard winks, and Jensen relaxes, a little. "So, can you clean yourself? Wash behind the ears?"
"…um. I've never, uh. I've always sponged off."
"Same principle. Soap and water. Soap's there, I'll get the water going, call me when you need me but I'm going to grab you some clothes." He keys in the shower controls, and Jensen jumps as the water starts to flow. "Got it?"
"Uh. Yeah."
"Fantastic."
By the time he returns, bearing a spare set of Misha's clothing, Jensen's standing in the middle of the spray looking confused. "Washed off yet?"
Jensen startles, blushes, and folds his hands in front of his groin. "Uh. Yeah, but I can't figure out how to turn the shower off."
"Big blue button. Here." Richard shuts it off with the outer controls, and Jensen flushes even deeper red as the water no longer conceals him. Richard's eyebrows wrinkle. "Jensen," he says, quietly, "You're going to have to get used to being naked in front of people."
"Why?" Jensen seems smaller, wet, younger. "You never told me what you do."
Richard holds a towel out, turns away to give Jensen some semblance of privacy. "Are you a virgin?"
"Am I-what?"
"A virgin." No reply. "Have you had-"
"I know what the word means!" Jensen snaps. "And no, I'm not. Why the hell does it matter?"
"Have you been with a guy?"
"…no. I'm not like that," and he sounds a bit offended.
Richard waits. Jensen draws in a deep breath and exhales just as sharply. "Oh, no. No. You're not-fuck no. That was definitely not in my contract. Physical fucking labor only."
"It is physical. And laborious. And that would be one of the loopholes. Jensen, I'm sorry-"
"I'm not a whore!"
"You are now." Richard turns around and shoves the towel in Jensen's face. "Four years, right? Not that long," he mimics Jensen’s words back to him.
Jensen takes the towel, and it looks like he's having an argument with himself as he stares at it. His breath rattles in and out.
"Look," Richard says, "I don't know why you did it. Couldn't get a job. Family to support. Pilgrimage. Whatever. But-"
Jensen looks up, and his tone has completely changed. "Pilgrimage? People do that?"
"…yes, of course. You never met anyone who did?"
"The guys at the company were all in it for the money. I didn't think anyone actually believed that shit."
Richard glares. "Yeah, there are people who believe that shit. Service is sacred."
"So, you whoring yourself out is some sort of holy mission, is that it?"
"The greater the trial, the greater the ultimate reward," and maybe normally he wouldn't be quite so vehement, or even believe it at all, but this stupid kid has apparently gone and sold himself without giving it a damn thought.
Jensen sneers. "Yeah, I'm sure. Great trials, you spend all day on your back?"
"Well, I guess you're in it for the money, then. Pay off some gambling debts, is that it?"
"No." Jensen doesn't offer anything more, just towels himself off in little angry jerks and snatches the stack of clothes from Richard's hands. Dressed, he folds his arms and stares down. "So, what now?"
The desire to make this first night easy for Jensen has mostly evaporated. "You probably shouldn't have gotten dressed just yet."
"He can undress me when he gets here."
"Oh, no. You're not done cleaning. First we shave you, everywhere. And you'll like the second part even less."
"Everywhere? Hell no."
"Hell yes," selfish creature. Richard's the one who'll be punished. "Time's a'ticking. You can do it yourself, if you want." He rummages through the drawers for razors, waves the supplies in Jensen's face.
"No. I'll talk to him. I'm not doing anything else here."
"Fuck you, I'll make you."
"Yeah?" Jensen looms over him, menaces, flexes his arms. "You're going to make me, huh?"
Richard glares up at him as Jensen inches closer, then socks him in the balls.
"Aw fuck!" Jensen falls back, bent in two. "Fucking, fuck, fuck you bastard…"
"You don't want to? Your funeral," Richard snaps, "And you don't know shit about pain, do you? 'Cause I can promise it's gonna be a lot worse."
"I won't do it. Not until he talks to me."
"Fine."
--- ---
At 9:01, Jensen's dressed-Misha's clothes don't quite fit him, and they're loose on Misha but tight on Jensen-and sulking in the antechamber, and Richard's doing much the same, except that Richard at least took the time to lube himself up and wash his mouth out. Canso enters, takes one look, and sighs. "You're not ready."
"No, sir," Richard says, "I'm sorry, sir. I will accept whatever punish-"
"Of course you will," Canso snaps. "I doubt it's your fault. Just in case it is." He reaches for the small remote around his neck, and Richard tenses and relaxes in resigned fear before the wave of pain shocks from his neck all the way down, down, and he's collapsed, nearly hit his head on the hard edge of the couch before it stops.
Just a few seconds. He draws in a deep breath, wipes his eyes, and scrambles back to his feet. Jensen's looking at him in horror.
"Michael," Canso says, "This is what happens when you disobey," and he has a second remote, now, and Jensen's screaming. Richard looks away.
"Oh God," Jensen whimpers, afterwards, and raises one trembling hand to his collar. "God." Canso crouches in front of him, pats him on the cheek.
"Understand?"
"You-you can't do this. It's not s'posed to be punishment. It's-"
"Michael. I own you. I can do," he punctuates it with another half-second electric shock, "whatever," again, "I want," one more time, until Jensen is limp underneath him. "Good boy. Say 'yes, sir.'"
"Yessir."
"Alright. Now that's settled. Get up." Canso stands, and Jensen follows, wavering on his feet. He motions to Richard. "Follow me."
"Yes, sir." Jensen doesn't look at him as they obey, and Canso goes through the master bedroom, through Richard's little room (now Richard-and-Jensen's, he supposes) into the playroom beyond. Jensen cringes back when he sees it, full of concrete and metal, chains and stranger things, and Richard puts a hand to the small of his back to urge him onward.
"We'll have to start preparing you now," Canso informs Jensen. "Gabriel, strip, bench."
"Yes, sir." Richard strips, folds his clothes, and walks over to settle his torso down onto a padded black bench, his head down and legs splayed wide.
"Observe." Canso trails one finger down Richard's spine. "No hair, except for on the top of your head. No permanent marks. If you so much as cut yourself and fail to inform me, you will be punished." He dips his hand down behind, slips two fingers easily into Richard's hole. "Always ready, always clean. I'm glad to see you've at least washed the rest of your body. It was necessary that you use the shower this evening, but most days you will not. There is a spigot and drain in the corner of this room by the door. Understand?"
"Yes." Canso's eyes flick over, and he reaches slowly for the remote. "Sir!" Jensen adds quickly.
"Good. Strip." Jensen does, albeit a bit slowly, and stands there with the clothes in one hand. Canso sighs. "When in doubt, do as Gabriel does. Fold them. Place them next to his."
Jensen does so, and as he turns back, Canso shocks him again.
"Wha-huh?"
"When I give you an order, you always reply, and address me as 'sir,' unless I have instructed you not to."
"…yes, sir."
"Good. Gabriel, you may stand."
"Yes, sir." Richard rises, clasps his hands behind him and bows his head.
"Get the wax."
"Yes, sir."
He's been doing it since he first came here, and he still hates it-but though Canso will allow him to shave his face, he's forced to wax everything else. Jensen, Richard thinks viciously, will probably cry.
He's guilty at the thought, though. He'd been just as scared, just as stupid about things when he started. He hadn't had any idea what was in store for him, either. He takes the wax, the heater, the paper, and sets it up by Jensen, now kneeling at the bench.
Jensen does cry, but without making a sound. When they're done, his skin is red and painful looking, and Canso slaps his buttocks. He jumps and hisses. "Michael, on the floor. On your left side."
"Yessir," Jensen mumbles, and curls up on the floor. Richard already has his supplies ready, and Canso waves a hand at him.
"You can do it," he tells Richard, then settles, cross-legged, in front of Jensen and pulls Jensen's head into his lap, stroking through his hair. "Good boy," he soothes, "Such a good boy."
He holds the enema bag and slicks the nozzle up. With one hand, he spreads Jensen's newly shaven buttocks, and Jensen draws a breath in and tries to lift his head. Canso pushes it back down.
Richard eases the nozzle into Jensen's hole, and the other man whimpers, tenses, tries to shake his head. Canso chuckles. "You'll get used to it, my boy," he says, "something up in that tight little ass of yours."
Richard lifts the bag above Jensen's hips, and the liquid begins to flow. Jensen jerks forcibly this time, and Canso slaps him, the sound ringing in the room. "Don't move."
After a few minutes, Jensen whispers, “It hurts,” and Canso nods.
“Yes. It does. But not as much as you could be hurting, is it, Michael?”
Jensen slowly shakes his head, and Canso pats him. “Good boy. Hold it in,” he instructs as the bag empties and Richard eases the nozzle out. “You’ll keep it for a few minutes. Gabriel.”
“Sir.”
“How long since you’ve done this?” he asks, mildly.
“Four days, sir.”
“Hmm. And you’re still clean?”
“I-yes, sir. I wash myself well, sir.”
“Be sure that you do.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jensen’s squirming. “I can’t-“
“You can,” Canso tells him. “Quit whining.”
Jensen’s ‘sir’ is weak, and he turns his head slowly to look Richard in the eye. Richard looks away, and busies himself with cleaning up the setup.
Part II