Service Unit

Chapter Fourteen – Cleaning

She let him go and he stopped walking, making sure to hold position while she turned on the water in the shower. Steam started gathering at the ceiling and he suppressed a shudder. He'd been cleaned with nearly all temperatures of water, but when the creatures had used hot water, they'd made sure it was near boiling and then they'd scrubbed his scalded skin until it bled.

She turned to face him and said, "Spike, come here, please."

This was his first verbal command that wasn't accompanied by some kind of touch. He dug for courage again and took a small step then checked to see if he'd done right. She nodded and beckoned with one hand. He kept going until he'd reached her then stopped, fighting back a flinch as she took his right hand and extended it toward the steaming water. Then she asked if the temperature was all right like he was actually worthy of having an opinion about it. It was a little too warm and would hurt when it hit his damaged skin, but there was no way he was going to disagree with her or tell her she was wrong, so he slightly pushed his hand further into the stream to show that it was fine.

She told him to get in, accompanying the verbal command with a light touch on his back, and he stepped into the stall, looking for the manacles that would hold him in place while he was cleaned. There weren't any, so she expected him to hold himself still without the aid of restraints.

He'd been left unrestrained during his first cleaning, but when one of the creatures had shoved their hand inside him along with an enema hose, he'd twisted and side-stepped, trying to get away from the pain, and had ended up breaking its arm. His trainer had instructed the creatures to chain him spread-eagled in the middle of the room then he'd had them beat and sodomize him with the heavy, stiff-bristled brushes used for cleaning. They'd beaten him severely enough that he'd ended up with several broken bones – quite a few of his ribs, both legs, and one arm – and both shoulders had been dislocated. Then they'd cleaned him, spraying his mangled body with caustic chemicals and scrubbing at it with the stiff brushes before rinsing it off with a punishing jet of scalding hot water. His first 'cleaning' had left him damaged enough that he'd needed over a week to heal before his training could continue. He'd always been restrained after that, and even though he couldn't move or resist, he'd still been beaten and sodomized, although not quite as badly as that first time.

He stepped to the wall and assumed the position for cleaning, pretending that there were manacles tight around his wrists and ankles, and then he waited. For what he wasn't sure. He didn't think she'd clean him in the manner he was accustomed to, being that she didn't have manacles mounted in her shower and he hadn't seen any of the usual cleaning implements like scrub brushes or enema kits, but he didn't know what else to do. He desperately wanted to please her, but she wasn't giving him specific commands, so all he could do was what he normally did and hope that was good enough.

She stepped into the stall beside him and he flinched involuntarily then tensed in anticipation, hoping that she wasn't upset with him. He heard her breathe in deeply and his stomach clenched again. She was. He braced himself for whatever she was about to do and almost flinched again when she touched his back. He let his stomach unclench a little when she said she wasn't going to hurt him, but only a little. Of course it would hurt. Being cleaned always did. If it wasn't the water scalding him then it was harsh chemicals burning his skin or the brushes nearly scraping it off. And even if the shower water was at a tolerable temperature, the chemical laden enema solution that made his guts spasm in agony was always near the boiling point. Always.

She took his right hand down from the wall then maneuvered him under the water with light touches and gentle pushes. The water hurt quite a bit as it sluiced down his damaged back and across his mangled cock and balls and he hissed at the sudden pain. He held his breath until he'd gotten used to the temperature, then let it out in a quiet sigh. The water actually felt good now, the heat seeping into him and making him feel warm for the first time since he'd been unpacked from his crate.

She turned him around and said she was going to wash him and he watched as she picked up a bottle and poured some of its contents into her hand. He tensed slightly, expecting the burn of cleaning chemicals as she applied it to his scalp and started rubbing it through his hair, but instead of burning or stinging, her massaging fingers felt… good. His eyelids started to close and he worked to keep them open then let them fall shut when she gave him permission to do so. Then he stood there, his muscles starting to relax as she kept up the gentle motions of her fingers, scratching lightly with her nails and pressing with her fingertips as she spoke quietly about his hair. He didn't hear most of what she said, the pleasurable sensations she was causing overriding nearly everything else, but the cadence of her voice was soothing and familiar, and something inside him started to break loose.

He was good at showing fear and pain… those emotions were expected in a service unit… but once he'd been broken, he'd built a wall around his other emotions, not daring to show anger, sadness, happiness, or gratitude – not that he'd had any cause to show the last two during his captivity – but now that wall was starting to crumble. She could've stopped washing his hair after a handful of seconds… it wasn't like he had much, considering he'd been thoroughly waxed right before going to his last renter… but she was still massaging his scalp, treating him as if he were something to be cherished and not just a toy to be cleaned and stored.

And when she started to rinse the soap off his head, covering his eyes with a wash cloth to keep the suds from stinging them even though they were closed, the wall crumbled completely. Nobody had shown him an ounce of consideration during his captivity. Nobody had done anything to prevent him from feeling pain, even something so slight as the sting of soap, and he started to do something he hadn't allowed himself to do since he'd been broken. He cried.

Oh, he'd shed tears since he'd built that wall, but they'd only been a visceral reaction to the agony his body was going through, not because of any emotions he'd felt, but now tears spilled from his eyes to mix with the shower water as an overwhelming feeling of gratitude toward his owner washed through him. He would do anything for her. Anything at all. She'd been so kind to him, and even though some of what she'd done to him had been painful, he knew that she hadn't meant it to be. She cared about him – cared if he hurt, cared if he felt pleasure… cared if his eyes got stung by soap suds. He mattered to her.

The tears continued as she gently washed him, being careful not to disturb the many wounds littering his body, and when his cock filled and rose from the contact with the soapy washcloth, she asked him… ASKED him if he wanted her to bring him to orgasm. He did, because he'd thoroughly enjoyed the last one, but then again he didn't, because his cock hurt… a lot. It was scratched and abraded and bruised, and there was a constant throbbing pain radiating from his balls that would only get worse when they emptied themselves of his seed. But it was her decision, not his. She was the owner and he the service unit, and if she wanted to use him, then it was her right. It didn't matter that what she wanted to do would cause him pain, so when she asked him what he wanted, he answered the only way he could… in the affirmative.

Then she wrapped her hand around him and stroked, and it hurt, the soap she'd coated her hand in stinging the dozens of scratches and abrasions up and down his shaft. The lube she'd used earlier hadn't stung, and that, coupled with his complete unfamiliarity with the situation, had made the pain caused by her touch seem less important, but now… it was important. It was all he could do to not pull away from her, to make himself stand and accept the pain as he should, and he nearly missed the question she asked. She wanted to know if it had hurt when she'd stroked him.

It had, but could he tell her that? He wasn't used to anyone asking how he felt, if what they were doing to him was painful. It was supposed to be, that was the entire point. But she wanted an answer out of him and she wanted the truth. Part of him wanted to tell her no, because even though he wasn't sure how stroking him to completion would bring her any pleasure, it was her right to do so. She could also get him almost there and then put a ring on him so he'd be ready for later use. And even though she cared about him, he was still her toy to use as she chose. He searched her face and decided that using him wasn't what she wanted. At all. She was genuinely concerned about how he felt. He tapped that well of courage that seemed to be filling up the more he accessed it and nodded.

And she let go. Immediately. She didn't squeeze or stroke or even brush her soapy fingers down his shaft. He was completely thunderstruck; his mind a flurry of awe and gratitude and surprise at her actions. She'd stopped doing something to him because it hurt. Nobody had done that before. Nobody had put his needs or feelings above their own. Usually any sign of pain from him had only resulted in more pain being inflicted.

The tears that had only been leaking from his eyes suddenly flowed from them in a torrent, pouring down his face as she reached around him to turn off the water. He wished he could somehow show her how thankful he was that he belonged to her now. How much he appreciated all she'd done for him… and hadn't done to him.

It never occurred to him to try to speak to her; to actually say the words. It hadn't hurt when his hearing and ability to scent had been taken. It had been uncomfortable to have small stones stuffed up his nose and into his ears, sure, but when they'd taken his voice; his trainer had slashed his throat with his claws, leaving a gaping wound. Then he'd used a claw to slice and dig open a hole in his larynx large enough to cram a large black stone into it. And now, because his throat didn't hurt from the incisions that would've had to be made to remove the stone, he assumed that his voice hadn't been returned to him. Maybe it couldn't be. The stone might well be part of him now; it had been there so long.

She stepped out of the stall without giving him any kind of command, but he didn't really need one for this part of the cleaning process. He was used to following the creatures from the cleaning area to another room where they would then command him into whatever position was needed to prepare him for his next renter.

So he stepped out of the stall after her and then, without waiting for the command, did the only thing he could think of to show his thanks. He assumed the position he was ordered into each time his trainer was done reclaiming him… after he'd stopped writhing on the floor in agony from the reclaiming, of course. Every unit was ordered to do so to show their gratitude to their trainers for their continued care.

He knelt and bent at the waist, pressing his forehead to his owner's foot, hoping that the gesture would convey how he felt to her. He was grateful, yes, but grateful wasn't a big enough word to encompass what her kind treatment meant to him. If he hadn't already been her slave, he'd have willingly given himself to her, and he vowed to do everything in his limited power to make her happy.

She stood quietly as he kept his forehead pressed to her foot, his tears dampening her already wet shoe, then she wiggled it out from under him and a moment later a heavy cloth was draped over his back and her small hands were tugging at his shoulders. He sat back, flinching slightly at her gasp, then tried to blink the tears out of his eyes. She thought she'd hurt him, but that was the farthest thing from the truth and he didn't know how to tell her that. His gesture of thanks had been misunderstood and a sob forced its way out of his throat. She knelt beside him then took him into her arms, holding him close as he berated himself for his inadequacy.

She'd treated him better than anyone ever had and now she was apologizing to him for it. He should be the one apologizing, not her. And now she was crying. He'd made her cry.

That thought fueled his tears even as he tried to hold position. He'd made the only person to ever show him any kindness cry. He had to do better. Had to turn off these useless emotions that were only causing problems. But the tears wouldn't stop. Once the wall had crumbled, all the emotions he'd been holding back had spewed forth, and no matter how hard he tried not to, he continued to sob against his owner's neck.

He didn't know how long it took, but he finally managed to get himself under control. He started to build a hasty barrier around his emotions, determined to shore it up as much as he was able, because he would not make his owner cry again. By the time she commanded him to sit up, he had it mostly constructed. It was weak in spots and he would have to be careful not to put pressure in those areas, but he thought it would hold. He glanced quickly at her face, inwardly cringing with guilt at the tears he could see on it, then dropped his eyes to his knees.

And she surprised him again by gently lifting his face and smiling at him. Then she said that she would make mistakes and he almost shook his head. Owners didn't make mistakes. Slaves did. And then they were punished for them. Even if what the owner ordered was irrational or physically impossible to do, the slave was held responsible if the order wasn't followed.

She'd stopped talking and was looking at him expectantly, like she'd asked him a question. His stomach clenched and his eyes widened in fear. He hadn't been paying attention and he'd missed it. What had she asked? He had to stop thinking so much and just listen to her! But instead of being angry that he hadn't answered, she gently cupped his cheek and apologized to him. Again. And his hastily constructed barrier came tumbling down.

He struggled to contain the tears as she tugged him to his feet and started drying him off. By the time she hung up the towel, he had himself under control once more and was standing quietly as he waited for her next command. She told him to give her his hand then praised him when he did. He had to blink quickly to stave off another round of grateful tears as she led him away from what had been his most enjoyable cleaning ever.

She led him into her sleeping area and stopped him next to the bed then said she was going back into the bathroom and would get him some blood. His stomach gurgled in anticipation. Then she said he could sit down if he wanted. She squeezed his hand then turned and walked away and he held position as he cut his eyes to the bed. Did he want to sit down? He honestly didn't know. He was a slave and slaves knelt where they were told, they didn't sit on their owner's furniture like actual people. He hadn't sat on anything just to sit on it during his entire captivity. Anytime he'd been on a piece of furniture, it was because it was supporting his weight or he was manacled to it while a renter used him or beat him.

She hadn't actually told him to sit, so would she be upset when she came back and he hadn't? Maybe he should. He stared at the bed, trying to convince himself that he could turn and sit on it, but he couldn't. His training wouldn't allow him to move without being specifically commanded to. He'd been punished for that infraction too many times to count and he'd learned the lesson – don't move unless ordered to or your owner or renter moves you.

She reappeared suddenly, startling him slightly, although he managed to suppress the flinch as she stepped up next to him. She took his arm and gently turned him then pressed down on his shoulders until he sat on the bed. She turned him again and laid her hand lightly on his thigh, nudging it toward the bed. He lifted his legs onto the bed and she nudged him toward the headboard, making adjustments until he was leaning against several pillows.

She pulled the blanket over him then laid his hands on top of it, resting them on his thighs. His fingers twitched against the soft fabric as she gently kissed his forehead then left to get him some blood. He watched her go, his mind awash with awe again. She'd put him in her bed and had covered him with her blanket like he belonged there. He'd fully expected her to have him kneel in a corner while she slept. He'd never… his eyes welled up again and he blinked several times until he'd battled the tears back.

He would do anything for her. Anything at all.