Disclaimer: Don't own them, just love to play with them!
Forever Mine
Chapter 1
Greg Sanders had no idea what he was doing in this part of the mall. He'd certainly had no intention of coming here. He'd just been wandering a bit aimlessly, not even really thinking about anything. Then he'd looked up and discovered himself here.
Even this early on a Saturday morning, the mall was crowded, this end a bit more so than the rest.
He had meant to go in a couple of shops, pick up a few pieces of clothing, then leave. Now, he found himself in the slave market, not exactly sure how he'd wound up here. He really should have been back home already, crawling into bed. While the hour was early to everyone else, it was actually quite late to Greg, since he worked the graveyard shift at the Las Vegas Crime Lab. He was the youngest head of a DNA lab in the U.S. at twenty-eight.
Spinning on his heel, determined to just walk out of the slave market without looking, his eye was none-the-less caught by a line of slaves standing nearby, awaiting inspection by prospective buyers. No wait, not all of them were on their feet.
A little ways away from the rest of the line, one man was on his knees, arms pulled painfully over a bar across his shoulders. Even in this helpless position, his face held a defiant expression: square jaw clenched so tightly shut, his jaw muscles stood out, brow drawn together in a scowl that etched deep lines across his forehead, deep brown eyes glaring at anyone who dared to stop and look at him.
That glare was now directed at Greg, as he ran an appraising eye over the kneeling man. At full height, Greg estimated him to be maybe a few inches shorter than his own six-one. Dark hair shaved close made sure lice and fleas couldn't gain a foothold. Powerful, defined muscles of the man's bare chest spoke of years of manual labor. The only clothing the man wore – a pair of faded blue jeans – were thread bare in most places, and had holes in several other places.
Without really thinking about why he was doing so, Greg stepped forward for a closer inspection. Gingerly turning the man's left hand on the bar so that he could see the palm and pads of his fingers, while causing as little pain as possible, Greg inspected the hand.
"Prime worker, that one," a voice interrupted Greg's thoughts, causing him to straighten and turn toward the sound.
The slave master was a portly man, at least a foot shorter than Greg. His graying hair lay in a greasy mess on his head, and his oily skin made Greg wonder when he'd last bathed.
Greg didn't say anything, just gave the slave master a calculating look and waited to hear what the oily man would say next.
"Slave of his caliber goes for fifteen thousand, easily, but this one's on special. Eight thousand and he's all yours."
Greg narrowed his eyes, looking from the kneeling slave to the slave master. "Eight thousand! You'll be lucky to get three for him. He's obviously going feral, or he'd be with the others," Greg motioned with his hand at the line of slaves standing several feet away, their eyes downcast. Then his mouth spilled out a few more words before his brain had the sense to intervene, "I'll give you four for him."
The slave master sputtered indignantly, but seemed to realize he'd tried to con a man with experience with slaves. "Fine! He's yours! Follow me and we can draw up the paperwork."
As Greg followed the oily slave master away, he missed the look of wide eyed disbelief on his new slave's face.