Gambling Heart

I heard him stifle another groan. A moment later, a curious hand reached out beneath the covers and touched my thigh, then my cock.

It lingered there for a minute, curled around my morning stiffness; then slid up over my belly and chest, light and inquiring, until it found its way to the iron collar around my neck and the chain clipped to its ring.

That must have answered both the immediate questions in his surely muzzy head: I was male, and I was slave.

Hopefully, he could work the rest out for himself.

His fingers traced my lips, my eyes, my hair, as if he was reaching for a touch memory in the dark, building a picture in his head. Hoping to trigger some clear recollection, maybe, just what might have happened the night before…

His body shifted, rising above me as he propped himself up on one elbow. Moving was a mistake, though, fatal. A moment later he was sitting bolt upright in the bed and swallowing convulsively. “I need—”

I was way ahead of him, reaching out to snatch up the basin I’d left handy just in case. I thrust that into his lap just in time; he bent over it, spewing wretchedly.

I knelt on the mattress beside him, holding his shoulders until he was down to dry retching. Then I pushed my fingers through the sweat-soaked tangle of his hair, and nudged him into sitting back against the headboard.

“Wait one minute, Master.”

Working by touch, I found the ewer on the side table and poured a beaker of cool water. I pressed that into his hands, making sure he had a grip before I took my own hands away. “Here. Swill and spit, don’t swallow.”

He did what he was told, my good master, then handed me the basin mutely. The chain on my collar ran to a staple at the foot of the bed; it was just long enough—or this room was just small enough—to let me reach the door unhindered.

I had to feel in the darkness for the unfamiliar latch, but there was an unshuttered window in the passage outside. The gray smudge of the predawn sky gave me light enough to see what I was doing as I set the basin down on the floor. It’d be full day in an hour. I wasn’t any too impressed with my new owner’s accommodations, but even in a rooming house as cheap as this I reckoned I could count on a slave coming by soon enough. I’d noticed last night that the rooms might be mean but the floors were scrubbed and the brass was polished. That didn’t happen by magic.

I closed the door with relief on the foul-smelling basin, and made my way back to the bed. He was still sitting there, hiccuping gently, with the beaker clasped loosely in his hands. I filled it again and this time encouraged him to drink.

“Better now?”

“My head hurts.”

“Yes, Master. I know a cure for that.”

“I’m not drinking some foul witches’ brew. I’ve tried too many miracle cures. None of them works, and they all taste more disgusting than each other.”

You drink too much, I thought cheerfully, Master mine. I might have to do something about that. For now I just knelt astride his legs, wrapped my arms loosely around his neck, nuzzled at his lips until they parted. His breath was still tainted with acid, but I kissed him determinedly. Then I murmured, “This cure tastes better than that. And works better too,” as I tugged him down onto the mattress and pulled the covers up over our heads.

I made him sweat again, and then I let him sleep again. I slept too, curled against his side, until I felt him shift and stretch. I was instantly awake then, opening my eyes to find his just a hand span away, looking at me quizzically. It was hard to be sure in the dim light, but I thought they were gray, his eyes, behind his absurdly thick lashes. His hair was a dark, overgrown disgrace that my fingers yearned to play with; I wanted to brush it into glossy good order, then tie it back in a ponytail, just for the pleasure of pulling the ribbon loose again and watching his hair fall back in soft, natural waves around the extraordinary beauty of his face.

“Hullo.” His voice was awkward, still hoarse from last night, and still careful from this morning’s consequences.

“’Morning, Master.”

His fingers were at my throat, puzzled, feeling at the ring of my collar for a tag that wasn’t there.

“What’s your name, boy?”

I just shrugged, and shook my head slightly. I didn’t have one yet.

“Well, who do you belong to?”

This time, I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. “Don’t you remember?”

His turn to shake his head, gingerly. “I remember…I remember dinner at the tavern and getting into a game I couldn’t afford. Nothing new there,” he added ruefully, “except how surprised I was that they would ever play with me.” Free folk are heedless with their slaves sometimes, confessing things they’d never tell their friends. “After that… No, I don’t remember. Did I borrow you from someone?”

“No, Master.” I couldn’t speak for his friends, but the people he gambled with were not that generous, to lend their slaves to him.

“Hire you for the night, then?” His hand on my cheek said he could understand why he would have done that; his anxious frown said he really couldn’t afford it if he had.

I turned my head to kiss his fingers. “Not that either. I belong to you now.”

“You—what?”

“Belong to you. Master.”

“Oh, gods. Don’t tell me I bought you? If I could afford to keep a boy, don’t you think I’d have one already?” His gaze swept around the room, in a gesture that pointed up both his poverty and his desperate need of a body slave. The more light that leaked in through the cracked shutters, the more it revealed about the way he lived. Young man adrift in the big city, barely keeping body and soul together. His clothes were threadbare and scattered any old how across the furniture and the floor. His boots were scuffed and shamefully dull. The sword hanging on the back of the door lacked a scabbard, and I thought there was rust on the blade.

“You didn’t buy me. You won me.” In that game you couldn’t afford, my extravagant Master.

“I…won you?”

“Yes, Master.”

“I never win anything.”

I could believe that. His whole life had an air of bitter bad luck about it. And yet he kept playing, he didn’t give up. I thought I could admire that, perhaps. Even while I rolled my eyes at his intransigence.

I thought I might have to do a lot of eye rolling, in days to come.

For a minute then he didn’t say anything, only lay there with one hand exploring my body slowly. Then he slapped my flank, suddenly decisive; said, “Get up and open the shutters. Carefully,” added with a quick anticipatory wince.

I slithered out of bed and crossed the room, stalked by a metallic rustle as I felt the weight of chain dragging behind me. The shutter’s hinges creaked as I drew them open; the fall of sunlight was warm and welcome on my bare skin.

“Come here.”

Back across the room I went, a few short strides, feeling the weight of his gaze now, heavier than the chain and warmer than sunlight. He was squinting a little against that light as he looked me up and down. I stood passive and exposed before him, hands behind my back, eyes down, legs apart, the image of an obedient slave boy.

“Show.”

Eyes up, hands behind my head, legs wider. My body was there before my mind caught up. That’s what training does; it settles bone-deep. Obedience is almost instinct after a while.

He looked his fill and took his time about it. Free folk seldom hurry; it’s what they keep us for, to do their hurrying for them.

“Turn.”

I turned around on the word, still holding the same pose, letting him see the back of me.

He grunted. “Bad boy, are you?”

“N-no, Master.”

“This says you are. Not such a bargain after all. Maybe your last master was glad to be shot of you, eh? ”

It wasn’t a question; I didn’t say a word. Besides, I had my lip caught tight between my teeth to keep myself from yelping as his thumbs counted off the evidence, all the welts and bruises from my last whipping.

That had been three days before. This slow exploration of the damage almost hurt worse. Almost. The soreness settles into your bones and you learn to live with it, almost to take it for granted; you learn to how to move and how to lie still, how not to disturb it while it slumbers, while you heal. Then along comes a free man with a devil in his fingers, who seems to know just how to pinch and where to press, to wake it all into fire again.