He had been a slave all his life, but not a simple slave used for physical labor or menial cooking or tending a family in a posh little plantation manor. There were so many times in the years he could remember that he wanted to die for what he was. He was one of the worst, the most tormented, the most anguished, the most used.

He was a sex slave.

…and had been since the approximate day he turned fourteen…

Before that, though, like every other male child slave not sodomized by a vicious master, he worked his body to the bone in the fields. Female children were never so lucky. He often heard them screaming in the slave shacks at night when masters came to ravage their not-yet-pubescent bodies.

He had been a sex slave for six years, not that his body was pure and untouched when he turned fourteen and was sold to a new master. After all, he was a beautiful young man, or so he had been told. He had been touched and taken many times.

His body was skeleton-thin without an extra ounce of flesh on his frame, but toned from years of hard work. His hair was unkempt and raggedly cut, but thick obsidian-colored and wispy like fine chocolate curls on a rich cream cake. His eyes were even more shocking. They were beautiful, a liquid gunmetal and deep with profound suffering and sadness.

While his body and features were attractive, the numerous scars and abuses his body had suffered had taken some of the beauty from his figure. His stomach was concave, eyes sunken deep back in his face and shadowed heavily with exhaustion and bruises, his hands were stick-thin with nails chewed to the quick, and his ribcage was crooked and craggy with numerous breaks. He had been beaten countless times and his sun-deprived skin still bore the pearl-white scars. He looked sick and dead, like a corpse made up to be gorgeous in its velvet coffin.

The worst part of being a sex slave wasn't the sex, which could hurt and make him sick to his empty stomach; it was the horrible used feeling that welled up in his heart. His body was dying all around him from the tortures he endured.

Then, on one of the days he couldn't thoroughly recall in absolute clarity because of his growling empty body, something happened that he wasn't expecting. His master took his blood to be tested for disease and fed him a heavy meal of bread and milk. Then, he was told that he was being sold.

Through all that joy, he could only dwell on the way his master took him the final night and morning he was in her possession:

Gripping the sheets tightly in his white-knuckled fingers, he screwed his eyes shut as she dug her fingers into his chest and rode him. She was moaning and yowling in pleasure, like a rutting bitch in heat. Her wetness soaked the cavity of emptiness in his stomach and her fingernails carved half-moons in his skin. When she kissed him, he let his lips be bruised and crushed beneath her onslaught. Then, she bit him and suckled at the tear in his thin lips.

When she was finished, she lewdly spread herself against him on the bed and made him touch the depths of her wet core. He stroked her the way he was supposed to and brought her to another shattering climax. Then, she fell asleep.

She slept with her leg draped over his narrow sharp waist and her cold fingers fisted in his freshly washed hair. When the sun dawned on another sleepless night turning to day, she groaned in her sleep when the light touched her closed eyes. Then, her eyes opened and he pretended to be asleep, hoping she wouldn't take him again.

"Hey, wake up," she crooned against the shell of his ear. A shiver ran down his spine and he tried to keep his faux sleeping face blank. He heard her make a displeased sound in her throat and then he wished he had woken up when she first bid him to.

"I said, wake up!" she snarled and pinched his nipple hard between her fingers and twisted it viciously.

Whimpering in pain, his eyes slid open.

"Were you faking?" she hissed.

"Yes, mistress," he confessed weakly.

Her mouth twisted meanly and her brows rose. "Oh, do you know what I do to lying slaves like you?"

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly. "You beat them," he whispered.

Her pointed tongue traced the long length of his collarbone and then she bit him, hard, in the hollow of his throat. He heard the flesh rending like the first bit of a crisp peach and the pain rocketed through his entire body like a white-hot flame.

"You're lucky you're being sold today or I'd whip this beautiful translucent skin right off your chest," she snarled. "I'd skin you down until I was able to see your beating heart," she splayed her fingers on his chest and then dug her nails into him, "and I'd squeeze it in my hand until you stopped breathing."

He shuddered.

"But, you'll be gone soon and I'll be a married woman just next week. I can't say I'd rather have your cock than kill you, but your body is within my grasp." Her cold hand ventured between his legs and wrapped around the length of him. She squeezed firmly and rubbed him into fullness.

Afterward, she scooted down the naked curve of his body and mounted him. Rocking her hips, moaning, and cursing, she fucked him the hardest she ever had. She gripped his shoulders, dug her nails into his flesh, and then hit him. Once, twice, three times, she slapped his face.

His teeth sank through the corner of his mouth and she lewdly licked the blood away.

He squashed down a whimper of fear as she fisted her hands in his hair.

She kissed him, hard, pushing her tongue into his mouth. She clawed his chest and fondled him and struck him a few more times and finally her muscles clenched hard around him. After she climaxed, she spread herself on her bed and waved her hand at him.

"Alright, you can go now. I have no further use for you, fuck-toy," she said.

And then, she sent him off to auction like the piece of used worthless property that he really was.

...

Dressed in a fresh pair of ragged pants and a loose threadbare shirt that once may have been white, he watched as his hands were shackled in front of him. Then, they led him out of the plush plantation manor. The lady master was getting married and was not longer allotted a sex slave, especially one as beautiful as him. He was packed away in the truck and then the vehicle trundled away from the place where he had spent years on the cold floor and in her bed.

At auction, lined up like a fish to be filleted, he waited to be sold and owned again. Finally, his turn came.

Cold fingers gripped his face and turned his eyes from the floor to the assembly of buyers. Unable to meet anyone's eyes, they rolled back in his head in resistance.

"I have a handsome young man here! Sex slave, appears completely broken! Do I hear 900 dollars?"

"950!"

"1,000!"

"1,100!"

The bidding continued and he tried not to think about what new horrors his body would be delivered to, but his twisted shattered mind just kept replaying images and terrors to him. He could be bought by a man and sodomized, taken from behind, or sucked by a sour mouth. A sadist could beat him to a bloody pulp every night or stuff his body with toys and gag him. A woman could be almost more inventive than men.

"3,000!" The sweetness in the voice surprised him. It was gentle and feminine and kind.

Her bid was followed by a collective gasp from the assembled crowd. No one would pay so much for a used sex slave. For a virgin female, maybe, but never a violated and beaten male slave.

His chest clenched and he was suddenly afraid of the hope blossoming inside his heart.

"Do I hear 3,050? 3,050? No?" The auctioneer waited for a moment and then released his face with a snarl.

"Sold, Number 17 for the price of 3,000 dollars!"

He got a harsh shove and stumbled from the platform into the waiting arms of the auction guard, also a slave. The beefy man handled him back into the cells to await his new master to come pay for him. Shivering with cold and fear, he huddled in the dark corner. He could hear the auction through the thick stone walls and abruptly felt nauseous. His empty stomach roiled with acid and he almost retched, but tamped down the urge as there was nothing in his stomach anyway.

Surprisingly, after only a few minutes, the beefy slave came to get him. It seemed his new master had no intention of staying throughout the entire auction.

His raw wrists were shackled again and he was led from the darkness of the cell. In a lighted room with polished linoleum floors and marble countertops, a slender young woman waited. He wouldn't dare look at her face, but her legs were long and shapely and she had a narrow waist with lightly flared hips. She was wearing a beautiful white dress with a long flowing skirt and some gold embroidery. Her feet were small and dainty and her toenails were painted dark blue with silver stars.

As beautiful as she was, he realized something was wrong with her when she turned. Her right leg dragged slightly on the floor behind her when she walked. It was encased in a tight metal brace that went far up her leg to disappear beneath the hem of her white skirt and traveled down below her foot and shoe.

She was crippled, it seemed. Maybe more than just her leg, but he didn't dare raise his eyes to look.

"Hello," she said in that beautiful sweet voice of hers.

He dropped to his knees in a graceless bow. His fingertips were scant inches from her feet and he suddenly realized how easy it would be for her to just crush his bones beneath the heel of her shoe.

"Oh," was all she said and she did not so much as move to grind his fingers beneath her foot. "Could you stand up, please?" She continued. "We need to be going soon. I can only stand on this leg for a short while before it weakens too much to stand on."

He rose to his feet and held out his wrists for her to attach a leash.

She attached a soft loop of what looked like silk to his black and bloody chains. Wincing as the cold metal rubbed roughly against his chaffed wrists, he followed her obediently out of the white room.

The sunlight kissed his pale flesh and the faint flower-scented breeze whispered on his cheeks. Unthinking, for a moment, he paused and turned his battered face into the sun. Breathing deeply of the fresh air he hadn't tasted in years. The only smells he had known were blood and sex and his own unwashed skin.

He heard the girl make a quiet sound and instantly snapped his eyes back to the ground.

"It's alright," she whispered. "You can take all the time you wish…"

He shook his head and took the few steps required to reach her side.

"Really, it's alright," she told him gently.

He wrapped his fingers into fists and tried to resist the tremor that wracked his frame.

For a moment, they stood there and he felt the young woman's eyes on him. Then, she made a soft noise and started walking again. Her leg dragged along behind her, metal brace screaming on the macadam. He wanted to offer to help her, but he couldn't speak to her without invitation.

They reached a vehicle, but he didn't raise his eyes to see what color or model. Unbidden, he took a few extra steps and opened the door for her.

"Thank you," she said kindly and he watched her legs as she eased into the driver's seat of the vehicle. She slipped her body in first, then her good leg, and finally lifted her crippled one in with both her hands wrapped around her knee. "Go ahead around and hop in the passenger seat."

As he slid into the plush seat, he took a moment to wonder why she had thanked him.

Masters never thanked slaves.

The engine turned over on the first try and then the car rolled out of the lot. "Here we go," the young woman said cheerfully. She paused to adjust the heater and then shift her crippled leg into a better position to allow her good leg to reach the pedals.

He glanced up and saw the auction house disappearing in the mirror. This part of his life was over and he dared hope it was for the best.

...

Finally, the long drive ground to a halt in front of the most beautiful place he had ever seen. The moment he saw it, his awe overwhelmed his fear of even being beaten. He straightened in the seat and leaned in at the window.

The house was beautiful. It was mildly colonial and painted crisp clean white. Its shutters were deep blue, cobalt colored, like deep twilight. It had many big windows and a few done in beautiful brightly colored stained glass. The porch was wraparound and decorated with a beautiful ornate railing. Several wicker sofas and chairs lined the porch.

All around the house was a burgeoning garden with every sort of flower he had never seen. A big beautiful cherry tree was in full bloom, decorated with pink, red, and white blossoms. Petals and the wonderful scent swirled on the breeze.

It was like something from his dreams.

"We're home," she said beside him and his eyes instantly crashed to the floor of the car again. His shoulders trembled. "It's okay," she whispered. "I love my house, too. I just bought it, after I left home, after it happened."

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and she was resting one slender pale hand on her crippled leg. Like his fingers, her nails were bitten to the nub.

What had happened to her leg?

He reached for the handle, preparing to get out and open her door for her.

"Wait," she said suddenly and his back tensed. "Let me take those things off you."

His fingers worried at the hem of his shirt. Things? His clothes?

"Here," she said and reached for him. Much to his surprise, she lifted his hands and quietly unlocked the chains around his wrists. Then, she tossed them in the backseat with a sound that must have been disgust. "It's sick," she whispered, "what they do to you. Disgusting."

He shivered.

"I'm not going to hurt you," she whispered and clasped his hands gently in her own. "I'm sure you don't believe me, but I…"

Her hands were so warm and soft, touching him softly, compassionately.

She never finished what she was saying. She was staring at his hands, at the many countless wounds and scars in his flesh. "Oh my God," she whispered and he tried to pull his hands away. She only tightened her grip on him. "How could they do something like this to you? How could anyone hurt anyone so badly?"

He had wondered the very same thing many times when his body was torn and beaten and raped. His wrists were encircled with scars, pink and thick. They were old burn scars from searing hot metal shackles. Other smaller fainter cuts crossed over and around the burns. These were from chains he had struggled against as a child, knives and razors that slowly dug through his flesh, and a few small punctures from places were nails had been driven through him.

Further up his arms were other scars: lacerations, cuts, and smaller burns from the years before he turned fourteen, before he became a sex slave, when he still worked in the fields. These were mainly accidents. She could only see the scars on his arms, not the ones on his back or his chest or his heart.

He heard her sigh, but did not dare raise his eyes.

Slowly, her warm soft hands left his wrists where they had been gently touching the ridges of his scars. She cupped his face and tried to raise it, but he twisted from her hands. She held his shoulders and they felt like the skulls of birds. Delicate, weak.

"Please, won't you look at me?" she whispered.

A distressed sound emerged from his throat, fighting past his teeth to escape.

"I promise not to hurt you. I just want to see your eyes," she murmured.

This time, when she slid her fingers under his chin and lifted it, he allowed her to, but he kept his eyes screwed tightly closed. Her soft fingertips touched his eyelids gently, but he resisted her quiet encouragement to open them.

It was forbidden for a slave to look at a master! Forbidden! He would be punished for such a crime.

Shivering, he waited for her to finish touching him. She traced the planes of his face with her fingertips, gently, lightly. Her touch ghosted over his eyes, his high sharp cheekbones, his split lips, the shadowed bruises around his eyes, the scars on his brow, and down the curve of his jaw. Then, she tenderly ran her finger down the column of his throat and then across one long deep collarbone. Her hands rested on his body for a long moment.

Sighing so suddenly that she startled him, she then pulled away and opened the door. "Come on, then. Let's go inside," she said kindly.

He scrambled from the car, gingerly touching his sore chaffed wrists. He followed after her as she limped up the stairs, fished out a ring of jingling keys, and unlocked the door. She stepped inside and he heard her shrugging from a jacket of some kind.

"Come on in," she murmured as she hung the jacket in the hall closet.

He closed the door quietly behind himself and inhaled the scent of the house. Something was cooking, meat and vegetables and something vaguely garlic-scented. Beneath that was the smell of clean linen and soft flowery perfume. The dark hardwood floors were polished to a sparkling shine and waxed so there was a faint trace of lemon. There were no rugs on the floor and a few lamps were glowing with low light. The atmosphere in the house was beautiful, relaxed, calm, and, above all, safe.

"Let's go to the kitchen. I put something in the crock pot this morning and it should be ready by now."

He wondered if she planned to starve him. Some people liked their slaves slender to a dangerous anorexic state. Bones were beautiful, lovely, and white. His stomach growled hollowly, empty. He hadn't eaten in days, since before his last master had sent his blood in to test for diseases.

"When was the last time you've eaten?" she asked as she limped to the kitchen and flipped on the light. Warm amber light flooded the kitchen, bouncing off the marble countertops and sparkling copper pots hanging from the ceiling rack. The glass topped table was set with a lace tablecloth and a vase of wild daisies.

He bit his lip. Should he lie or confess that he was starving?

"When did you eat last?" she repeated patiently and lifted the lid on the crock pot to investigate the contents.

The scents that washed over him made his mouth water and he tried to remember exactly what day his blood had been sent out. When had he last eaten?

"Do you understand me?" she said, sounding very concerned.

He nodded.

She let out a sigh of what must have been relief. "Good," she murmured and he heard her stirring the food. She delicately sipped the broth and made a sound in her throat. "Perfect. Now, tell me, when did you last eat?"

He hesitated, "I'm not sure…" His voice sounded strange to his own ears, weak and shivery, like that of a small fearful child.

She was quiet for a long moment and then she shuffled to a cabinet and began pulling out dishes. He heard her set them out and then ladled food into them. "Come, sit at the table. Would you pull a chair out for me, please?"

Scrambling to do her bidding, he rushed to the table. Her gait was lurching, jerky, as she limped to the table and set out two bowls. One was significantly fuller than the other and she set that one in front of the chair she seemed to intend him to sit in. Trembling, she lowered herself into the chair he had pulled out for her and then cursed quietly.

His back jerked ramrod straight.

"I forgot spoons. Would you get some, please?"

He hesitated and glanced at the kitchen through the veil of hanging pots. "Where are they?"

"In the second drawer from the left side of the fridge," she said and sounded happy.

He got two spoons and returned to the table.

"Sit down and dig in," she said. "If you want more, just tell me."

He wouldn't and he was sure she knew that because she went quiet and ate delicately. He wanted to nibble at his food, to appear as if he wasn't starving to death, but once the first taste touched his tongue. The ravenous appetite he was trying to hide surged up through his throat. It must have been the best thing he had ever tasted. The meat was soft and juicy with potatoes and carrots and celery mixed in a smooth broth.

Before he knew it, he had emptied his bowl.

"Would you like more?"

He shook his head.

"I won't hurt you. I just want you to eat your fill."

He shook his head again.

She sighed and whispered, "Maybe with time…"

Then, she stood up, took his bowl, stacked it on hers, and limped to the kitchen sink. He watched from the corner of his eye as her pale white hands loaded the used dishes into the dish washer. Then, she closed it and took a few hobbling steps back to his side.

"Come on. I've already got a room set up for you," she murmured and he followed her down the hall. She pushed open a door and flipped on the light. "This will be your room. Mine is right down the hall so, please, if you need anything don't hesitate to ask."

He wouldn't and she knew that.

She smiled, though he didn't see it, but her voice had lightened. "One more thing, if you hear anything during the night, wake me. That's an order."

And with that, she limped down the hall and disappeared in her room.

Spent and shivering, he stepped into the room and looked around. It was painted pale blue with soft white curtains and a plush white carpet that his feet sank into. There was a nondescript dresser and two dark wood doors with crystal knobs. Closer inspection led one to open into a bathroom and the other to an empty closet. Finally, he hesitantly went to the bed and brushed his hands over the soft cotton quilt. Some black sweatpants and a loose one-size-fits-all t-shirt had been left out for him.

He quickly changed clothes, laying his slave garb neatly on the nightstand next to the bed. He slid between the crisp cool clean sheets. The bed was blessedly comfortable, but he could not sleep.

Through the door, he heard the young woman crying in her sleep.