flighty_dreams: (bashful)
[personal profile] flighty_dreams
Characters: Brett, Jenna
Timeline
: Five years prior to the start of the story, after Brett has moved in with Jenna.
Length: 3,262 words

Notes: Sequel to Early Days #1 and #2 of course. Happy New Year, everyone!


“All right, I’ll see you tonight.”

Jenna ended the call with Amber, her oldest friend. Stretching, she rose from the couch and headed towards her bedroom, intending to put the phone back on its cradle. Idly she wondered where Brett was; most of the time he was almost a ghost, he was so quiet. Both bedrooms were closed, and she assumed he was in his room.

Opening her bedroom door, she discovered him inside on the floor, kneeling in front of her dresser. Her delicates drawer was open, and he had a pair of her underwear in his hands, to go with the folded stack on his lap.

She couldn’t help the heat that filled her cheeks at the sight of him holding her black panties. Belatedly she remembered hearing the dryer rumbling earlier, which explained his presence here now.

“Ms. Warren,” he said, straightening. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude. I can leave. I just thought while you were on the phone I might put the laundry away.”

Her gaze seemed frozen on his hands, his fingers clutching the lacy edge. She followed them as they put the panties back down on the pile before setting it all aside, preparing to get up.

“No, stay,” she said, putting a hand out. “You can finish.” She backed away from the doorway and headed for the living room again, knowing her face was still red. It was only as she sat back down on the couch that she realized she was still holding the phone in one hand.

Damn. He’d been living with her for almost two weeks now, and she was slowly going insane. She wanted him, but she couldn’t bring herself to take advantage of him. How could she, when she’d seen how traumatized he’d been the night she met him? Of course she wasn’t going to be rough with Brett or pass him around, but if he didn’t want her it would feel wrong.

She wished she knew how he felt towards her. Back at Derrick’s he’d seemed to like her, a brightness in his eyes whenever he greeted her, but now he’d become so wary around her. Perhaps it was because he was serving her now. Derrick had given her control over Brett, and she could do anything she wanted to him, including discipline him.

Dear God, not that she planned to physically hurt him. Brett was timid and obedient enough as he already was; someone else had clearly beaten his 'proper' place into him. The thought of adding to that abuse herself was repulsive.

He seemed determined to stay out of her way as much as possible though, maybe afraid too much of his presence would disturb her. It did disturb her, although not in the way he thought. So she’d cooperated, going out a lot the past two weeks, figuring the less she was home, the better. It was much easier to resist temptation that way. She’d only gone out with him a few times, mostly to shop for groceries. She wanted to buy him more clothes, but had only taken him shopping once. The way she hadn’t been able to keep her hands off him when he was trying things on, shamelessly seizing the excuse to touch him, had told her that taking him again wouldn’t be a good idea. The tension that evening when they returned home had been so strong that she’d had to go out again soon after, before she did anything she’d regret later.

Most of her friends would think she was an idiot if they knew about this. Even Amber had argued that Brett was a personal slave, and he accepted that sex was part of his duties. The problem was, Jenna didn’t want to be a duty. If he wanted her then it’d be different, but she couldn’t bear to sleep with him if he was secretly just enduring it. Not when she wanted him so much. Besides the damage to her pride, she’d feel as if she were no better than Derrick’s bastard friends then. The affection and protectiveness he stirred up prevented her from just coldly making use of him, without regard for his feelings.

It wasn’t as if she could just ask him flat out if he wanted her though. He’d give her one of those puzzled looks of his and say yes, regardless of whether it was true or not. Her heart ached at the thought of it.

Brett entered the room at that moment, folding gracefully onto his knees near her feet. He positioned himself close, just outside of invading personal space. He’d never done that at her cousin’s, to either Derrick or herself. The hopeful part of her wanted to take that as a sign of interest, but she ruthlessly silenced that voice.

Her hand lifted almost involuntarily though, instinctively reaching out to him before she pulled it back. Eyes on him, she saw him quiver as her hand neared, and then slump a little after she retreated.

A lump forming in her throat, it struck her, not for the first time, that she had never seen anyone as alone in the world as Brett was. She had family and friends that cared about her, who would worry if something happened to her. Even the household slaves she’d known growing up in her parents’ house had at least had each other for company. Who did Brett have? Derrick had never been that attached to him.

I care about him. She reached out once more, this time with more confidence. He pressed his cheek into her hand, closing his eyes. The near-blissful expression on his face made her chest hurt.

He’s starved for human contact, she realized. He wants me to touch him. It didn’t necessarily translate into him wanting sex though, she reminded herself. He was lonely with only her for company here.

She dragged her hand away, and now that she was focusing on him, not distracted by her own conflict, she caught the disappointed longing he quickly masked.

Damn, he needs more attention than I’ve been giving him, but I don’t trust myself. That seemed to leave only one solution, as much as part of her protested it. If it would make him happier though, she’d adjust.

“Brett, should I get another slave?”

To her confusion, he paled, looking absolutely mortified. Then his face was lowering to the floor, and he groveled, just as he had the day she’d told him he could come live with her.

“I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you, Mistress. Please, please tell me how I can be better. I’ll do whatever you wish of me,” he said in a rush, his panic unmistakable.

Cursing her own stupidity, she hastened to reassure him. “No, Brett, no. You haven’t disappointed me. In fact, you please me very much. I’m not talking about replacing you.”

She heard him take a calming breath, but he didn’t sit up. After a moment to steady herself, and against her own reservations, she patted the couch cushion beside her. “Come up here.”

He obeyed, sitting on the edge of the couch, his awkwardness revealing how nervous he still was. “It’s okay,” she said, the need to soothe him overwhelming her better judgment. She slid her palm over his arm and around his back, drawing him in for a hug.

His arm brushed her, as if to curl around her in return, but he put it back down at his side. “Brett,” she murmured from where her head rested against his shoulder, “you can hug me. It’s okay.”

She didn’t have to tell him twice. He embraced her, his hands sliding along her waist and back slowly, as if savoring the contact, and stirring up dangerous thoughts in her. She’d spent a ridiculously large amount of time the past two weeks watching his hands, admiring his deft fingers as they went about their tasks and imagining them employed in more enjoyable ways. Between his hands and his sweet, sad eyes, it was hard to get through each day without kissing him.

Especially when she had the voice of temptation whispering, Just a kiss won’t hurt. But she knew she would never stop at just a kiss.

Like now, it was hard to leave it at this. His body was so warm and solid against hers, and his arms held her with such care. It made her wish there were no clothes between them, nothing obstructing the feel of his skin all along her body.

Shit, she needed to stop doing this to herself.

“I just was thinking you might be lonely, and might want some company around here,” she explained, struggling to ignore how nice it felt to be so close to him. She should end this embrace, but between her own wayward desire and the lingering need for comfort she sensed from him, she couldn't bring herself to do it.

He didn’t say anything for a while, just held her tighter, and she was about to prompt him when he finally responded, “I’m fine, Mistress.”

The use of that title for the second time did strange things to her. The word had never been such a turn on for her before; it had to be because of the way he said it, warmth in his voice, as if he were caressing the air with it.

It took her a minute to focus back on the conversation. “Brett, you aren’t fine,” she said, sighing.

He seemed to seize on any reason he could to argue against having another slave around. “I don’t think there’s enough work for two slaves, Mistress. And I would share my room with him of course if that is what you wish, but the apartment is not so big.”

No, he was right, it wasn’t. And having another slave around would compound her should-I-sleep-with-my-slave-or-not issues. There not being much work she didn’t care about—it would give Brett time to relax with the new slave, and hopefully be happier. But it would also be unfair to toss the newcomer into the middle of an already tense situation. No, overall it wasn’t a good idea.

She said as much to Brett, and he relaxed against her, sliding them closer to the back of the couch.

She knew what the real solution was: she needed to get herself under control so she could give Brett the attention he needed. She’d been a terrible mistress, neglecting him like this. All those times she’d yelled at Derrick for his neglect; she felt like such a hypocrite now.

She might be worried about going too far with him, but that shouldn’t have stopped her from talking to him.

Stroking his shoulder, she said then, “Tell me a little about yourself, Brett.”

“I-” He stopped, and she pulled back a little to see him better, observing how flustered he looked. He turned his head, hiding his face from her. “What do you wish to know, Mistress?”

She picked a harmless topic. “Where did you learn to cook?”

“My mother got me started,” he said, surprising her. Knowing he was a born slave, she’d assumed he’d grown up in a State Shelter—a government facility for raising young slaves—as most of them did.

“I didn’t know you knew your mother.” She was glad; it showed that he hadn’t always been alone. But obviously his mother’s lack of presence in his life now meant this story didn’t have a happy ending.

He nodded, a melancholy look on his face. “She was the cook on the estate. I learned the basics from her, and then picked up other things later. I was too young to understand then, but she was teaching me whatever useful skills she could, before… before she couldn’t anymore.”

Jenna's arms tightened around him again, her palm rubbing circles along his back. She couldn’t imagine—didn’t want to imagine—the pain of losing family like that. “I’m so sorry, Brett.” She hesitated, wanting to know but not wanting to push him too hard. “Were you sold, or…?”

A sad huff of breath brushed her ear. “Yes, Mistress.”

“What about your father? Did you know him?”

He shook his head, and she glanced at his haunted expression. Not knowing his family or what had happened to them must be a horrible burden.

Wondering if she could track his mother down, Jenna asked about her again. She hadn’t been born a slave, but he knew only her first name—Mary—and not her surname. As a slave, she hadn’t used a last name anymore. With such a lack of information, finding her would be impossible, Jenna reluctantly conceded.

Curious as to what had happened to him after losing his mother though, she asked him about it.

“I was put in a Shelter when I was nine.”

She was almost afraid to ask. “What was that like?”

“I- Do you really want to know, Mistress?” he asked, hesitant.

She swept the back of her hand along his cheek, feeling the brush of light stubble. “If you don’t want to tell me anymore, it’s okay.”

“No, Mistress, I,” he began, sounding oddly distracted, “I just… did not wish to bore you.”

She kissed his jaw. “You could never bore me.”

He swallowed, taking a long pause before answering her prior question. “The Shelter was hard to get used to, at first. The other kids in my group didn’t like me—I was a stranger, while they had always known each other.”

She frowned, aware of how cruel children could be. “Did they pick on you?”

“Yeah, some of them, but,” he ducked his head, seeming embarrassed by his next words, “I stood up to them, which they didn’t know how to handle.”

“You did?” she said, too startled to hold the response back. She leaned back, shifting to get a better look at him.

His face was reddened with shame. “It was wrong, I know. But I was angry that my mom had been taken away from me, and them doing that…” He glanced up at her, his voice earnest now, as if he were trying to reassure her. “The Trainers were quick to correct my behavior though, Mistress, to show me how inappropriate it was. I learned I was no different than the others.”

Appalled, Jenna gaped at him. Just a boy, and he hadn’t even been allowed to mourn the loss of his mother.

Brett seemed to think she was somehow appalled by his behavior though. “I would never do such a thing again, Mistress. Please believe me.”

Still too outraged by the Trainers' cruelty, her tongue felt leaden, incapable of communicating the many things she wanted to say.

Misinterpreting her silence, Brett began to slide away from her. That jolted her out of her shock, her fingers grasping his arm. “No, I-”

She paused. What could she say? 'I understand?' She'd never experienced anything nearly so horrible.

Her hesitation caused him to move again, slowly but with intent towards the floor.

“No, don't,” she told him, pushing him back against the couch. Obeying, he stilled, but she straddled him for good measure, making sure he wouldn't be going anywhere. Then she cupped his cheek in her palm, looking into his anxious gaze. “Brett, don’t worry, I’m not upset with you.”

It was other people entirely that she was upset with. Not that it was surprising to hear life in the Shelter had been strict, but they could have cut Brett some slack, under the circumstances. Could have, but never would have. She gave thanks once again that she had been born free. So many, like Brett, were less fortunate.

“It was those Trainers who were in the wrong, not you,” she told him now, tucking some errant hair behind his ear. “They should have allowed you more time to adjust.”

It was far more polite than what she really wanted to say about them, but shocking him wouldn't do any good.

His lips curved up a bit at her words, but her response dispelled none of the sadness from his eyes. Sighing, she leaned against him, slipping an arm around his neck. In turn his arms formed a loose circle about her waist, not trapping her yet letting her know he appreciated the closeness.

So she remained on his lap, wanting to provide whatever reassurance she could—while the shameless part of her savored being so close to him. After a while spent in quiet thought, head pillowed on his shoulder and one hand sliding under his shirt to rub his stomach idly, she remembered to wonder about his comfort—and recalled the need to put an end to this before she did anything regrettable.

Straightening, she asked, “Are your legs falling asleep? I can move.” Not that she wanted to, but circulation was kind of important.

He'd been looking away, but he turned his head towards her then. Suddenly their mouths were close, only a hand span of distance separating them. His gaze met hers before lowering, his brown eyes darkening as they studied her lips. Her breath caught at this evidence of desire, but his gaze darted back up, and his face flushed. “Yes, Mistress.”

He squirmed, suddenly intent on shifting away from her. An idea as to why he might be abruptly uncomfortable hit her, filling her with hope.

A minute earlier she would have let him move away, but not now. “Stop,” she said, flattening her palms against his chest and pressing him back against the couch.

He stilled, and she could see shame in his eyes even though he wouldn’t look at her directly. With deliberation, she slid one hand down his upper body, and he squirmed again, trying to avoid the inevitable.

“Mistress,” he protested weakly, flinching as she found his arousal.

“Brett,” she said, the huskiness of her voice surprising even her. He might feel dismayed, but she felt absolutely elated. She stroked him through his pants, feeling him harden further beneath her hand. “You want me.”

Desire made his caramel eyes flare, even as his face reddened. “Yes,” he admitted, the word almost a hiss.

“How much do you want me?”

For a few moments he was completely still, before he took a deep breath, steadying himself. Both longing and shame in his voice, he said, “More than I’ve ever wanted anyone, Mistress.”

“Really?” It slipped out as a squeak, and she could feel a blush spreading across her cheeks. There was no doubting the sincerity in every word. “I feel the same way.”

His eyes widened, a comical expression on his face, as if he thought he’d misheard her somehow.

She bit back a smile. Arms circling his neck, she kissed him, his lips giving her an eager welcome. It was sweet and passionate and even better than she’d imagined, making her heart pound as if in rhythm to the joyful yes yes yes chant in her head.

As they took a breath the hands that clung to her waist slipped away slowly. Looking into his face, she watched his euphoria become uncertainty. Somehow he still didn’t believe her desire was as strong as his.

No matter. She’d just have to spend long hours in bed convincing him otherwise.
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January 2013

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