Page 10 of Chained
“I am, thanks. Your home is amazing.”
“Food’s to your liking? Gym’s okay?”
“Everything’s great.”
Whitaker nodded and then remained silent, eyeing Terry in a way that made him worry he was going to have to strip again. Terry kept his expression neutral and fought the urge to fidget.
At length, Whitaker spoke again. “I’ve invited a few people over for tomorrow night. Important people. I want to see what they make of you.”
Finally we’re getting somewhere.“That sounds great. What do you want me to do?”
“Just make a good impression, kid. Show everyone you’ve got potential.”
“Okay, sure. And if it goes well?”
“Then we’ll see. No promises yet. You gotta score with these people or there’s no deal. But even if they like you, well, you still gotta score with me.”
“And how do I do that?”
“Just be a very good boy.” Whitaker wasn’t smiling. He downed the last of his drink and leaned his head toward the dog on his right. “Duke’ll walk you back to your room. I need to talk to Edge.”
Edge’s face was as emotionless as always, but when Terry passed him, he thought he caught something in Edge’s eyes. He was fairly certain that something was fear.
Chapter Five
The dark room. That’s how Edge had always thought of it, and it wasn’t until several years after his first visit that he learned that darkrooms were, in fact, places where people developed photographs. The boss didn’t develop photos in his dark room, but by then Edge was used to thinking of it that way and the name stuck. The walls were painted a dark maroon, which looked black when Edge was in dog form, and the ceramic tile floor was the color of wrought iron. There were no windows, and although the several light fixtures could illuminate the room brightly enough to hurt Edge’s eyes, the boss usually kept them dim.
Edge didn’t have to be told what to do after they’d entered the room; he’d been trained years ago. He quickly stripped off his clothing, left it on a wooden chair against one wall, and knelt in front of the boss with head dutifully bowed. His collar felt especially heavy tonight, as if it had magically been converted from steel to lead.
“Has he fucked you?” The boss smelled of whiskey and cigarettes and shoe polish.
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
Don’t squirm. It will make things worse.“He hasn’t asked, sir.”
The boss kicked his ribs hard enough to make Edge’s breath whoosh out but not hard enough to knock him over. “Don’t wait for him to ask, idiot. Offer. Make it clear he should use you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Idiot.”
The floor chilled Edge’s knees, and the air conditioning brushed his skin, giving him goosebumps. The boss never let him stay in dog form in the dark room, so Edge couldn’t rely on the warmth of his fur.
“Bring me the belt.”
Suppressing a shudder, Edge stood and hurried to the shelves on one wall. The item wasn’t actually a belt but rather three thick leather strips of varied lengths, connected at one end to a handle. The boss used the belt when a whip left too much distance between him and Edge or when he wanted to leave bruises but not draw blood.
The boss grabbed the belt from Edge and pushed him toward the shackles that hung from the ceiling. Edge raised his arms, locked one iron around his left wrist, and stood still while the boss secured the right. Then Edge waited, head hanging. He smelled the boss’s burning cigarette, and only when he heard the whispery sounds of the cigarette being stubbed out did he tense.
The first couple of blows were bad. They rocked him on his feet and made his breathing ragged. Then, as always, his body prepared itself and he dropped into a brief respite zone where the strikes were only distant thuds, almost welcome for the way they warmed his chilled skin. But that part never lasted long, and soon the real pain began as the blows brought first noisy exhalations, then moans, and finally full-throated cries. His back and ass and legs felt swollen, everything inside of him seemed broken, and his wrists burned where he’d struggled against the manacles.
By the time the boss finished, Edge hung by his arms, panting harshly, snot running from his nose. Some part of his mind registered what followed: the tiny thud of the belt being tossed onto the shelf, the click of the boss’s lighter, the scents of burning paper and tobacco.
“Do you know why I do this?” The boss’s voice was sudden and very close by, but Edge was too wrecked to startle.
“Because he didn’t fuck me.” His voice sounded as ruined as he felt. He knew his disobedience hadn’t caused the beating—the boss beat him regardless of whether Edge complied—but he couldn’t think of another answer.
