Arthur regained consciousness slowly, his sore limbs reflexively stretching as his emerald eyes fluttered open. He was first aware of the soft blankets that covered his thin frame. He hadn't felt this warm since his days back in England. The thought caused a pang of loneliness to bloom momentarily in his chest, but he quickly brushed it aside, realizing that there were more important things to worry about. Foremost, he was in an unfamiliar room with no memories of the past night or how he got there. He gazed blackly at the light blue walls, frowning at the stream of bright yellow sunlight that seeped in through a crack in the heavy curtains. Presumably the curtains covered a large window. Thoughts of escape flitted through his mind, but he pushed them down almost immediately. He could barely sit up, let alone flee the numerous slave catchers that roamed the city. With a sigh, he lay back in the bed, groaning at the painful throb in his abdomen.

Millions of questions plagued his tired mind, fighting for dominance. Who's bed was he in? Why did his thigh hurt? What happened last night? Thoughts of torture and rape were quick to plague his heart, but he denied them, forcing himself to come to another conclusion. He hadn't come this far to give up. He rolled onto his stomach, forcing his protesting muscles into a more comfortable position and closing his eyes as he tried to think back to the auction.

He remembered Francis, the creepy auctioneer, cornering him before the show, forcing him into a corner away from the other slaves. Shame and regret pooled in his stomach as he recalled how he had been untied, how he had run while the auctioneer had his back turned, how he had been cornered by his greatest foe, alone and vulnerable in the alleyway behind the theatre. Freedom had been in his sights; Francis being the only man stopping him from running out onto the busy streets, and Arthur had taken the bait and foolishly tried to fight him. The French man was obviously expecting it, and came prepared. He pulled a small revolver from his pocket, leveling it at the Brit's forehead and ordering him to stand against the wall. Arthur had complied, having seen what cruelties the auctioneer was capable of, and with a resounding click, his fate was sealed. His hands were cuffed together, and Arthur had waited, expecting to be led inside and whipped. Francis had a different, darker, punishment in mind.

Arthur had been naked. Like the rest of the slaves, the only garment he wore was the thick leather collar around his neck. Francis had shoved him against the wall, laughing evilly, his breath hot against the shell of Arthur's ear as he slid his hands down Arthur's back, finally coming to rest at his unprotected entrance. Arthur had kicked and punched, screaming for help and trying desperately to get free, but it was no use. Months of abuse and starvation had weakened him significantly, and he soon found himself lying on the ground, Francis towering over him, leering suggestively.

"You know what to do."

Arthur shut his mouth, turning his head violently to the side and squeezing his eyes shut as Francis unzipped his trousers, prodding at the slave's lips. When he refused to open them, Francis had laughed, purring in his ear, "I would advise you to open up, cher, unless you want it to hurt more than it has to." And he had opened his mouth, fighting back tears of shame as the hard flesh slid over his tongue, choking him. He felt disgusting. He relaxed his jaw and waited for it to be over with, refusing to participate any more than he had to. Francis had slapped him disapprovingly. "This is why you failed your training. If you had just obeyed, you might not be in this situation. Although," he chuckled darkly, "I'm glad that you are." Arthur had but down then, angrily glaring at his tormentor and smirking slightly at the howl of pain that escaped his lips. The auctioneer's hands had fisted in his sandy blonde hair, jerking his head back so it smacked against the dirty pavement. "You'll pay for that," he hissed, letting the words ring ominously. And then he had thrust in, ignoring his own pain, determined to make Arthur scream. And he did. It felt like he was being ripped in two, the burning pain spreading through his body as he tightened reflexively, trying to halt the Frenchman's progress. Francis had ignored him, forcing himself in and out until finally he finished, coating Arthur's insides before pulling out.

He dragged Arthur to his feet, yanking him forward until they were nose to nose. "You're lucky you're being sold tonight, or I would have done much worse. You are nothing, a pitiful sub-human, a pet, and from this evening onwards, you will live that life. I know you think you're going back, that you'll somehow escape, but I can assure you that it's not going to happen. You will spend the rest of your life reliving this moment, trapped in the home of some wealthy businessman, forced to obey, and there is nothing you can do about it. Now get back inside, you sniveling excuse of a slave, so I can make you presentable for the auction."

Arthur had been forced back into the theatre, where a stagehand had doused his thin frame with a bucket of cold water. Francis then toweled him off, mopping up the leftover semen between his legs. He had prodded gently at his entrance, and Arthur had been so sure that he would be raped again, the memories of his brutal 'training' flashing before his eyes. To his relief the auctioneer had stood, smirking at Arthur's terrified expression. "We're done, for now, although if no one bids I might just consider keeping you for myself. Wouldn't that be lovely?" He prodded at the slave's entrance again, causing some of the leftover fluids –A pinkish mixture of blood and semen- to ooze out. "I'm not going to clean you any more. I want you to walk out onto that stage, knowing that I'm inside you. You'll never be free, Arthur." And then he had led him back to the line of slaves about to be auctioned.

Arthur opened his eyes, gasping for breath and sweating profusely as the last tinges of the memory echoed in his mind. He hadn't expected it to be so vivid. He raised a hand to wipe at his eyes and found that he had been crying. He mentally slapped himself, hating how easily the tears came, how right Francis had been. He didn't know where he was, or why his thigh hurt, but one thing was clear: he had been sold. He forced himself to think back to the auction, desperately trying to figure out who had bought him.

He had been onstage, and the auctioneer had whipped him…that explained the bruises and gashes on his torso…but what about his thigh? Arthur fought down the rising panic in his chest as he struggled to recall the remainder of the evening. He had been on stage, he knew that much for sure. And he had fought with the auctioneer, during the auction…and then… they had injected something into his neck. The rest of the night was a blur, random memories swirling in his head with no order or meaning. There was a blonde man, and the auctioneer, and a slave driver…wait, he'd been bought by the blonde man. They shook hands. Alfred, that was his name. Alfred Jones. They'd been leaving, and the auctioneer had stopped them…and he'd been tied down. Ah, that explained the pain in his thigh -he'd been branded. And then he'd gotten into a carriage, and everything went black. Things didn't look very promising.

Arthur lifted the heavy blankets that covered his aching body, sighing in relief as he discovered he was still clothed. Well, he was wearing the leather shorts anyway. He couldn't bring himself to call the revealing garments 'clothes'. He slowly pulled them off, wincing at the bloody stain on the inside from Francis's activities. He parted his legs and peered anxiously at the junction where his thigh met his hip, gasping slightly at the puckered red wound that marred his otherwise pale skin. He was so absorbed with the sheer horror of the wound that he didn't notice the door quietly creak open. Only when the bed dipped next to him did he look up.

Alfred was sitting next to him, concern reflecting in his clear blue eyes. For a moment, the two merely stared at each other, not knowing what to say. Arthur could feel a deep crimson blush coating his cheeks as he withered under the American's concerned stare. Finally, Alfred broke the silence. "So, um, you're awake."

Arthur bit back a sarcastic retort, nodding in response to the American's inane statement. Of course he was awake. How could he be expected to sleep with the horrible ache from his brand?

Alfred continued, trying his best to ignore Arthur's annoyed glare. "You were pretty beat up last night, and you ended up falling asleep in the carriage on the way here, so I couldn't check out the cuts on your chest." He paused awkwardly before continuing, "Or, you know, your…mark." Arthur flinched as the American tried to change the subject. "I didn't really want to freak you out, so I just put you to bed. But I really need to take a look at your injuries now, or else they'll get infected."

Arthur treated the American to another scathing glare before muttering to himself sarcastically, "Oh, we can't have that, now can we?"

Unfortunately, the American heard him. "What?"

"You don't want your property to be damaged." Arthur spat, turning away from the businessman.

"Hey now, that's not true!" Alfred whined, resting a hand on Arthur's shoulder and ignoring his obvious flinch. "I care a lot about you, why can't you see that?"

Arthur had had enough. "I'm not stupid, you prat. I'm a slave. You're my master. You bought me at an auction. Let's skip the act and just get to the part where you use me and abuse me, just like everyone else."

Alfred had stared, blue eyes widening as he took in Arthur's words. He felt awful. Here he was, sitting on his guest room bed, trying to console his slave, whom he had bought at an auction, which he had promised himself he would never attend. He was so stupid! Maybe the other businessmen were right. Maybe slaves did want to be used. He couldn't imagine any other reason for Arthur's hostility. Alfred had done his best to treat him like a friend, putting as little emphasis as possible on the fact that technically, he owned the Brit. And Arthur hated him for it. He looked away, not wanting the Brit to see how much his words had hurt him. "Do you really want that?" He whispered, hesitantly removing his arm from Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur started at the American's response. He was expecting a beating, a whipping, something; anything, so long as it was physical, something that he could understand. He could almost feel the harsh leather cutting into his skin, the bruises forming on his chest and back. Why couldn't Alfred be like the others? In the brutal months after his capture, he had learned to abandon his emotions in favour of the more physical feelings that coursed through his body. It helped him cope with what had happened, what he had become. And now this American idiot had to come along and mess things up.

He guiltily looked up at the sorrowful blue eyes that stared into his own. "I'm sorry," he choked out, the words sounding foreign on his tongue. "I-I'm not what you wanted. I'm a bit of a lost cause, really." He laughed blackly, the noise echoing in the still air of the guest room, sounding hollow and forced. "I'm not used to being treated like this. I'm supposed to be hurt, can't you see that?" His voice rose in pitch until it was almost a whimper. "I don't think I know anything else."

He was thrown off guard when Alfred threw his arms around him, pulling him tight to his chest and burrowing his face in the Brit's shoulder. "Oh Arthur," he whispered, running his hands down the smaller man's back in soothing circles. "You deserve so much better."

Arthur closed his eyes at the American's words. "No, I don't. I can't. I'm broken."

"No, Arthur, you're not." The American continued to rub comforting circles into the Brit's back until he stopped shivering. "You alright?" He asked, dreading the reply.

Arthur nodded, hesitantly wrapping his arms around the American to return the hug. Alfred beamed, happily squeezing back before releasing the Brit and stepping off the bed. "Come on then, let's get those cuts of yours checked out."

Arthur nodded, moving to follow his host –master; he corrected himself- to the bathroom. He was about three steps away from the bed when he realized he was naked. Blushing profusely, he darted back to fetch a large, green quilt, wrapping it around his shoulders so that it covered his body. Alfred simply smiled that sad smile –which Arthur was coming to hate rather quickly, something about it just seemed wrong on the American's face- before leading the way to the bathroom. He motioned for Arthur to sit on the edge of an ornate bathtub as he rifled through a large chest of drawers, searching for the supplies necessary for treating the Brit's wounds. When he had everything ready, he spoke, blushing slightly at what he was about to do.

"Um, I'm sorry Arthur, but could you please, uh, spread your legs for me? I need to see the burn." He averted his gaze, awkwardly staring at the floor as he waited for the Brit's angry reply. To his surprise, he got a sort of embarrassed scowl before the quilt was tossed to the floor. Alfred knelt down to examine the wound, determinedly keeping his eyes strictly below the waist –or as low as he could, seeing as the mark was situated right beside his cock, on the inside of his pale thigh. He couldn't help but marvel at how beautiful the Englishman's skin looked. It was smooth to the touch, coated in a fine layer of light blonde hair. Drawing his attention away from the more...intimate… details of Arthur's body, he focused his gaze on the brand once more. Or tried to, seeing as a significant part of Arthur's anatomy was in the way. Looking up hopelessly at the Brit, he found that the other had his eyes tightly closed, his lips moving in a silent prayer each time Alfred moved his hand along the pale skin of his thighs. "Hey Arthur?" He asked hesitantly. "Um, can you maybe, help me out here? I kind of need a clear view." Arthur reluctantly opened his eyes, somewhat surprised that Alfred didn't just grab him like everyone else. The American had asked Arthur before touching him. The idea was sort of pleasing, and Arthur could feel something suspiciously like hope beginning to grow in his heart. Maybe Alfred wasn't all bad.

Arthur pulled his member out of the way, shivering lightly as Alfred nudged his legs farther apart. The American traced his fingers around the bloody wound, prodding at the reddened flesh cautiously as he fought to keep from vomiting at the sight. He chanced a glance at the Brit's face, noticing that his eyes were closed again. A faint red blush tinged his cheeks, quickly spreading to his chest and shoulders as Alfred continued to examine the wound. No wonder the auctioneer had been so keen to brand him there; it was obvious that it would be impossible to hide if he were to do anything intimate.

Alfred applied a liberal amount of disinfectant before covering the burn with cool gauze. He thought about taping the bandages in place, but decided against it, realizing that binding the wound would be much more effective. He motioned for Arthur to stand, wrapping the bandages around his upper thigh as he did so. As he passed the roll of gauze through the Briton's legs however, Alfred noticed something…odd. A pinkish smear was barely visible on the inside of his opposite thigh.

At first, Alfred thought it was some form of makeup, that maybe the slaves were painted before an auction so that they looked healthier. "Hey Arthur, why do you have paint on your thigh?" Alfred asked, worrying his lip when the Brit looked away. "S'not paint." He mumbled, refusing to meet the American's eyes.

"Hmm? Well is it a birthmark or something? 'Cause it' doesn't look like it. And it's such an off colour too. It's almost a faded red. Did you fall in something last night?" Arthur gave no response, shaking slightly as Alfred rambled on, oblivious to Arthur's mental turmoil. Finally Alfred quieted, continuing to stare for a few moments before the implications of Arthur's words hit him. "Wait…oh Arthur, tell me it isn't!"

The Brit could only nod miserably. Alfred stared. Silence echoed through the small room for a good few minutes as Alfred tried to understand. Finally he was able to speak, though his words were laced with nothing but thinly veiled rage. "No wonder you're so upset! I'm going to kill that auctioneer –it was him, right? Well, either way, someone's going to pay for this."

Arthur didn't respond, feeling the tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Alfred knew. The only person to treat him like a human in at least a year knew about Francis. And how long would it be until he found out about the others? What would he think? He'd probably whip him; punish him for being a disobedient slut. Things would go right back to how they were. Francis was right; Arthur would never be free.

Alfred finally noticed Arthur's misery and pulled him into a tight hug, uncaring of the fact that Arthur was completely naked, save for the collar. "I'm sorry Arthur. I'm sorry I wasn't there sooner. I'm sorry I couldn't stop him."

Arthur let out a shaky breath. "It's alright."

"No, it's not. No one deserves to be treated like that, especially you."

"You couldn't have stopped them. It's not your fault." He was still shocked that the American hadn't been angry; if one of the slave drivers found that someone else had used him first, they would beat him, then rape him again first thing the next morning. He assumed the owners would be no different. Why should the American blame himself when Arthur was clearly the one at fault?

"It's my fault for not challenging this system sooner," the American continued, as if reading Arthur's thoughts. "Don't you try and deny that, we both know it's true. But don't worry Arthur; from now on I'm going to be your hero. I'm not going to let anyone touch you."

Arthur gave him a soft smile, wanting desperately to believe the American. "Thank you, Alfred."

"You're welcome." The American pressed a chaste kiss to the Brit's forehead, pulling him tighter against him and sighing contentedly, enjoying the moment. After a few moments, he noticed that the Brit had gone stiff in his arms. He then realized what he had done. "I-I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me, I didn't mean it like that, the kiss, it's just-"

"It's alright Alfred. I-" Arthur's voice cracked for a second, but he pressed forward anyway, wrapping his arms around the American and uttering the three words he hadn't spoken for a long, long time. "I trust you."

So there's chapter 3 up. I'm not very happy with how it turned out. Oh well. For people who like rape and fluff, this is the chapter for you :D
I tried to keep the rape part "tasteful" by not mentioning anything specific, but I think I failed at this.
The next chapter will be more interesting, I promise.
Let me know how you feel about things (if you want). Thanks,
-Meg