Work Text:
Paradise Lost
by Max
He'd long lost track of the days. Every time he tried to scratch them into the floor, someone would come around and clean it up. They didn't want their boys and girls to have anything like time to grasp. They controlled everything.
Drugs and sex and beatings. He was kept tame through drugs, he was kept exhausted from sex and beatings. Each day they molded him a little more into the sort of boy they needed him to be for various clients who came and went, paying a hefty fee to test the merchandise. Each day a little more of his old self died under their expert handlings and whorings.
These people were professionals. They purchased pretty faces from the scum that found them, and then they worked them over, taking as long as was needed, sometimes weeks, sometimes months, until that pretty face finally broke.
This acquisition they'd had for several weeks now, and though his body was compliant, his monotone words were quietly subservient, they still didn't trust the occasional flash of fury in his eyes. Opium wasn't enough anymore. They were going to have to give him something else to push him over the edge into complete surrender. Only then could they sell him to the highest bidder in auction and he would leave behind what they humorously refered to as Paradise.
The mistake they made was putting the newest boy into the pen with him. Even through the haze of drugs, the two males recognized each other. When other slaves in the pen went for the younger one, trying to exert dominance, the older one came to his rescue. He fought them off, tucked him under his arms, and kept him as warm as he could with his body heat.
Slaves were kept just on the brink of cold in that very secure prison-pen. They were fed nutritious but bland food from troughs, and so long as they didn't bleed each other too much in their squabbling, the handlers let them work out their differences on their own. The older male hadn't tried to exert dominance when they'd thrown him in there. Too depressed, he'd simply defended himself against attacks and kept to himself. Now he had a reason to be the man he was under those drugs again, and the two clung to each other as much as possible in the times between their agonizing training sessions.
Females were kept separate.
~~~~~~~~
"Boss, we have a problem with 29."
The Director looked up from his desk at one of his best Trainers. "Again? I heard he won the pony-cart race with you as driver. Did he give you any trouble?"
"No boss. He handled the harness, bridle, tail plug, reins and weight of the cart fine, no fussing, The problem came after we offered him his reward."
The Director's eyebrow arched in surprise. Slaves never gave problems over rewards. They received so few of them, only when the Trainers, or the Director, really felt it was appropriate for their conditioning program.
"He's refusing it unless he can share it with 40."
The eyebrow arched even higher. "Hmmm.... the newest boy, the one he's partnered with against the others. Interesting .... because as far as we've been able to tell, there hasn't been any sex involved. They just sleep together and follow each other around everywhere, even to the shit cans." The farside of the pen where the slaves, by mutual agreement, went to relieve themselves. They were given toilet paper to stay hygenic and clean along with a daily group shower of warm water and antibacterial soap under close Trainer supervision.
"Well Doc did ascertain during 40's entry exam that he was probably straight. He showed no response, even under drugs, to erotic images of men."
"But 29 did. He showed responses to men and women, and there's no doubt he's the alpha of the two, the way he's protecting the kid, making sure he gets enough to eat and the other slaves don't bother him. If he wanted sex from him in return, he'd take it, and there's been no evidence of it yet between them."
"As far as we know, he's never gone after any of the other slaves either. Usually, as tired as we keep them, they still go for each other. 29's been a loner since the start. 40 comes along and changes it."
"I'd like to find out why. I'll go see him. He's in a Quiet Room?"
"Yes boss. Room eight."
Quiet Rooms were the places slaves were taken to spend one on one time with a Trainer or a client. The Director opened the locked steel door to find number 29 kneeling, his bare ass on his heels as it should be, his gaze at the wall across the room. On the hard wood floor in front of the slave sat an unopened box of pizza and a large mug of beer. 29 hadn't touched any of it.
The moment the Director broke his gaze by standing in front of him, 29 came out of his self-imposed trance, quickly bowing his head and murmuring, "This pleasure slave is 29, please direct 29 on how to serve you, boss." Not only had he been conditioned to call himself a number, he was conditioned to do it in third person. Paradise stole all sense of identity from their boys and girls.
"Hello 29. Look up at me now."
The slave did, but he made damn sure his eyes didn't lock with the Director's. Full eye contact with anyone but another slave got you a very harsh beating.
"I hear you won the race, that you were a very good horsie today."
The slave said nothing. Unless he was asked a direct question, he wouldn't dare speak.
"And for your reward, your Trainer gave you an entire pizza and beer. It's not a trick, 29. It's a reward. I promise you, you won't be harmed if you enjoy it."
The slave still said nothing, his body, his face, his eyes not moving an inch.
"It must be getting cold." The Director reached down, opening the box and took out a slice to eat a bite. "It's very good. Why are you denying your reward?"
Honesty was the only answer, not just because he'd already given the answer to his main Trainer, but because he was so lost in his blurry opium filled head most of the time that lying was too difficult to concentrate on.
"29 wishes to share his reward with 40." 29 had recognized 40 upon his arrival, but severe trauma had already made him forget the boy's name he'd once known. He was 40 even to 29.
"Why?"
"Because he does."
There was a hard slap across the handsome face, but conditioned not to fall over, retaliate, or try to withdraw, 29 barely moved, only hissed slightly in pain as a nosebleed started.
"I want a reason, 29."
The slave stayed in place, but he began to shiver with fear of much worse punishment. "29 desires 40." Just to share the reward, the truth, but it was possible the Director would take it another way and not hurt him more.
"Ahhhh ..... I knew it. Everything comes down to sex. You're a strange one, 29. Rather than taking him like you easily could, taking ALL of them and being king in there amongst your kind, you stick to the one corner you claimed and now you're trying to seduce the newest young buck."
Thankfully, it wasn't a question, so 29 stayed quiet.
"Very well." The Director reached out, ruffling the head of short curly blonde hair almost affectionately and dropped the rest of the slice of pizza back in the box for him. "You can have 40 with your reward. Good luck with your seduction since we've determined he's not bisexual like you."
A few minutes later 40 was brought to the room with the same Trainer. Conditioning having started last week, even during burn recovery, he fell to his bare knees when the leash was unclipped and waited for further orders, his grey eyes locking momentarily with 29's brown ones over the pizza box.
"Enjoy 40. 29 is being generous. He wants to share his reward he got from winning the pony-cart race today. In a couple more weeks you'll be strong enough for it too and you'll be racing against each other. Should be interesting."
40, confused, reached out a tentative hand, carefully and slowly tugging at his Trainer's pant cuff. His head of short dark, almost black hair stayed tilted down, not daring to look up at the man.
"Speak your question." It was the established way of a slave to make it known he or she needed further clarification on something. If on your knees, tug the pant leg or skirt hem. If on your feet, touch the back of the Trainer's elbow. If they spoke first, they risked a tortuous punishment. 40 had already learned that lesson well.
"40 can ... eat and drink too, sir?" Only the Director was called boss by employees and slaves alike.
"Yes. That's what I meant by enjoy. Now get to it you two, and slacken." Slacken, the training word for relax, be at ease in posture, to sit as you will. "Tomorrow's water training, and now that your bones have fully healed, 29, you're going to be groomed for the next auction."
29 didn't even blink, but in the back of his head he started to cry yet again. He'd be bought, taken anywhere with anyone who had enough money to purchase his paper, and then how would .... would .... - 29 could no longer remember the name that went with the fuzzy face in his head - .... how would that fuzzy but beautiful face find him?
The two were left alone in the Quiet Room, though they were watched through a wide one-way window in the wall. The pizza was split in half, the beer too, both men silently taking turns sipping from the mug, careful not to spill a single precious drop as they quietly devoured the so very rare
offering of real food along with it, even licking their fingers and the box for every morsel they could get.
40 stayed on his knees the whole time, finding it too difficult to sit on the fresh welts covering his backside from his last training session. 29, accustomed to those welts by then, having just received plenty more from the driver in urging him to win the race as if he were a real horse being hit with a crop, ignored his own and went crosslegged. They didn't dare speak to each other in knowing they were under close supervision, and neither of them touched the piece the Director had touched. It might have been out of respect, but it was probably left out of disgust.
end
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