A Scotch for the Road - Part 8

[flighty_dreams]

TITLE: A Scotch for the Road - Part 8
AUTHOR: flighty_dreams 
WARNINGS: Slavefic. NC-17 just in case, tho not yet needed.  F/m, Femdom.
WORD COUNT: 5,266 (this chapter)/ story so far (30K)
SUMMARY: A slave enduring a party encounters more than he bargained for.
NOTES: Should be updating this story more often, at least for a while. (And yes, more Spliced is coming.)
FEEDBACK: Always welcome, even if it's just to say that you read it.

 

“Mistress…”

The unhappiness in Brett’s voice was as clear as the evening sky above them.

Sighing, Jenna stepped away from the car. She’d forgotten how insistent he was about these things; he never let her carry anything.

“If I help, it’ll only take one trip,” she explained, though she knew it was futile.

“Two trips won’t torture me, Mistress,” he said, leaning over the open trunk to gather up a few of the bags.

“No, the shopping already did that,” she said, grinning.

He straightened so sharply she was afraid he’d hit his head, but he just barely missed the edge of the lid. Brett looked at her over his shoulder, his expression anxious. “Of course not, Mistress. I’m grateful you bought me all these things. Too many things,” he added, ducking his head shyly, his hair sliding down to hide his face.

God, he squeezed at her heart when he said such things, his past deprivation showing. How could anyone bear to deny him simple needs like proper clothing? But it was obvious they had. Cruel bastards.

“Brett,” she said now, “I know you appreciate it. You don’t have to reassure me. I was just teasing.”

She reached up, her fingers brushing his cheek as she tucked some of his hair behind his ear. He seemed a bit embarrassed, perhaps that he’d reacted so seriously to her comment. Well, best to let the moment pass then.

She stepped away, walking towards the front door with him behind her. She held the door open for him, though she knew he probably felt she didn’t have to do that either. As directed, he placed their purchases on the couch near the door.

As he passed by her to go out to the car again, she said, “I’ll make some tea.”

“Mistress.” The one word was brimming with disapproval.

He’d halted, frowning at her, and she fought to hide a smile. She’d known what his reaction would be. “Fine,” she said, making a placating gesture, “I’ll wait and let you do it.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” he replied before walking back out, the frustration not quite gone from his voice.

Although part of her was exasperated, amusement won out in the end. She understood that he knew she could do these things, but he believed menial tasks were his responsibility, not hers. If at times this left her feeling a bit useless, that was her problem, not his. It would just take some getting used to, because she’d spent four years taking care of herself again. She suspected it would be better this time though, because unlike when they’d been together before, she now worked full time.

I’ll be a lot more grateful to come home after a long day and not have any chores to do, she mused, than I did when I wasn’t really working.

After he’d brought everything in and locked up the car, she joined him in the kitchen. She sat at the breakfast table, silently watching him make the tea. Jenna loved his lean arms and his strong, capable hands. His fingers, long and graceful like a pianist’s, fascinated her—especially when they touched her, making her burn.

She felt a little warm already, and she looked away, thinking of their kiss earlier. His eyes when he looked at her then had been so filled with yearning. A passion she understood so well herself, that was ever-present in her need to touch him, to have him near.

Her gaze swung back to him, taking in the lines of his body. He was wearing clothes she’d bought him today, replacing the ill-fitting ones from earlier. The olive green shirt, its sleeves rolled up past his elbows, suited him, as did the snug jeans. He’d removed his new shoes and socks by the door, and his bare toes drew her attention as he padded over to the refrigerator.

But her eyes kept flickering up to the collar. A base, primitive part of her was pleased by it, a curl of warmth stirring inside her as she looked at it. She loved the acknowledgment that he was hers and hers alone. Her family couldn’t separate them now.

Finally she stopped studying him long enough to wonder what he was doing. The water was still heating up on the stove, and he was examining the contents of the refrigerator. “Looking for something?”

He turned to look at her before speaking. “I was seeing what I could make for dinner, Mistress.”

“There’s not much in there,” she said ruefully. This was her uncle’s villa, and it was the off-season. She was glad for the latter; it meant no one else was here. But it made their food options a bit sparse.

“We could order in.” There were some menus in one of the drawers.

The look Brett gave her was almost reproving. “I’ll find something to make.”

She opened her mouth to protest and he added, “Please, Mistress.”

That made her pause, and she studied him for a minute. He’d said the last with a peculiar intensity, and she read the same strong emotion in his eyes. She thought back to the way he’d thanked her for the clothes, and then she understood. In his eyes, after what she’d done for him today, he needed to serve her in whatever way he could. And how could she deny him that?

“All right,” she said, conceding.

When the water was ready, she watched him prepare the tea just how she liked it. He didn’t forget, she realized, trying to cool the heat rushing to her cheeks. He placed the tea in front of her and she smiled up at him. “Thanks, Brett.”

He gave her a bashful smile in return that made her want to kiss him again. But no, she wouldn’t rush things, or push him too fast, no matter how much she was tempted to. The encounter with mall security notwithstanding, they’d had a nice day together, and she wanted to ease him into things. He needed time to forgive her, to move beyond the past, and they both needed to figure out how the last four years had changed each of them and adjust to those differences.

But that didn’t mean she would avoid enticing him.

He moved away, investigating the pantry. As he gave her a list of dinner options, she realized he hadn’t poured any tea for himself. He’d often had it in the past, so it wasn’t a question of him not liking it. After they decided on pasta, the best option from their meager selection, she sipped at her tea, watching him. She frowned as he found the drawer that held the pots and pans and searched for the size he needed, obviously moving on to making dinner.

“Brett.”

He looked over at her, the familiar crease at his brow telling her he was already working out how best to make the meal. Years ago, after he’d told her his mother had been a cook and that he enjoyed the activity himself, she’d encouraged him to learn as much as he could. As time passed she’d seen him acquire a special confidence while cooking that he didn’t have anywhere else. Well, perhaps one other place, she thought, her smile turning wicked.

“Mistress?”

He spoke hesitantly, nervous now, and she sought to soothe him. “Sorry, my thoughts wandered.” His raised brows told her he could guess in what direction they had gone. “Brett, you know you can have some tea if you like. Or whatever else.”

He looked torn, glancing between her and the drawer of pots, so she added, “There’s no rush on dinner.” Nodding in acknowledgment, Brett closed the drawer and poured himself half a cup of tea.

With her foot she nudged the chair across from hers further away from the table, sparing him any confusion as to where to sit. He sat where directed, cradling the cup in his hands. For some reason he was more tentative now, not making eye contact with her. He’d clung to her at the mall, and just minutes earlier he’d practically scolded her for trying to help him, but now his underlying anxiety had risen to the surface.

Was it her that was making him apprehensive, or was he feeling guilty about something? She’d guessed correctly earlier today, but his return was too new, and she couldn’t be sure of anything about him anymore. A sad thought but a true one.

Clearing her throat, she asked, “Was there anything else we needed to get for you?”

That jarred him out of his troubled thoughts, whatever they were. His brown eyes softened as he looked up at her. Shaking his head, he said, “No, Mistress. Thank you.”

She gazed back at him dubiously, thinking there surely must be something she’d overlooked. On their way back here, they’d made an unanticipated stop at a pharmacy when she recalled that she hadn’t bought him toiletries. Running through a mental checklist now, she decided finally that no, there wasn’t anything she could think of either.

She noticed Brett studying the kitchen. “This place belongs to my uncle.”

His eyes went back to her, waiting for her to say more, and she obliged. “Uncle Rick. He divorced his gold-digging shrew of a wife a few years ago. She got their house, but he kept this villa. He spends every winter here.”

“I can see why. It’s a lovely place, Mistress.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “You can’t beat the view.” The pool deck behind the house overlooked the hills going down to the azure sea.

They didn’t talk for a while after that, quietly drinking their tea. His nervousness seemed to return, and wanting to dispel the tension, she turned on the kitchen TV. Flipping idly through the channels, she finally left it on an old movie.

Done with his tea, Brett got up. “Would you like some more, Mistress?”

“Yes, thanks.” She handed him her cup.

For a while her gaze drifted between the TV and watching him make the meal. Then she got up and left the kitchen, pausing only to say, “Let me know when dinner’s ready.”

Walking over to the foyer, where they’d left their purchases, she began sorting through them. His clothes she packed in the suitcase they’d bought, leaving out only enough for him to wear the next day. She packed some of the items from the pharmacy as well, leaving out the essentials and taking them over to the bathroom. She returned to the foyer, and as she was gathering up the plastic bags, Brett appeared.

Predictably, his mouth thinned unhappily when he saw what she’d done, but he didn’t comment on it. She hid a smile; no point in protesting what was already finished.

“Dinner is ready, Mistress.”

When she reached the kitchen again, she saw that only one place had been set at the table. Her insisting on him sitting at the table with her to have tea earlier hadn’t been enough of a sign? Sighing, she said, “Brett, like I always told you, it’s silly for me to sit at the table alone when there’s plenty of room.”

He hung his head. “I didn’t want to presume, Mistress.”

Reluctantly she supposed that for him it was a valid enough concern. After four years, he couldn’t be sure if her likes and dislikes were the same, and a slave was generally wiser to err on the side of caution.

“I understand, Brett,” she hastened to reassure him, hating to make him feel uncomfortable. “No harm done.”

A place was set for him and they began to eat. She made small talk during the meal, telling him what Derrick and his circle of friends had been up to the past four years. For the most part he just let her talk, replying only when expected. The edginess from earlier was still there, and he was carefully unobtrusive.

Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Brett, what is wrong?”

His head snapped up from his plate, and for a moment he looked guilty before he strove for that neutral expression she’d seen on his face when he was with Yorkfield. Hurt to see it, she put her hand on his. “Talk to me.”

She regretted her choice of words immediately. To him it would register as a command, and she didn’t want to force an explanation out of him. She’d rather he told her willingly.

His tension ratcheted up, and his eyes dropped away. Shit.

Jenna put a hand up, forestalling him. “That’s not an order. You don’t have to tell me, but you can if you want to.”

Glancing up at her, his brows were knitted in confusion. “But you want me to tell you.”

She chose her words carefully. “I see that you’re nervous about something, and I just want to help you. To soothe you, hopefully.”

He was quiet for a while, one hand shuffling his food about with his fork. Finally he dropped the utensil, and he slipped his other hand away from hers, dropping both hands beneath the table. Not looking at her he said, “I shamed you today, Mistress.”

“What? You mean at the mall?”

He nodded.

“No, you didn’t.”

His head lifted, bewildered caramel eyes staring at her. “But I caused such a scene, and was rude to all those people.”

Jenna met his eyes and stated bluntly, “I don’t care.”

“What?”

“You did the right thing, Brett.” Knowing he needed more of a clarification, she said, “You don’t actually think I would’ve preferred that you let those guards rape you, do you?”

He shook his head, his face reddening. “Of course not, Mistress. But what I did, it was the lesser of two evils. Still wrong.”

“Maybe to some slave owners, but not to me,” she told him. “If something like that ever happens again, I don’t want you hesitating, thinking I’m going to be mad at you for taking action.”

She smiled at him softly. “It’s the opposite actually. I’m proud of you, Brett.”

His eyes widened, and the pink tinge to his face now was from pleasure, not embarrassment. “Proud, Mistress?”

“Yes, I am,” she confirmed, warmth coursing through her. “You saved yourself.” She let the words ring out, studying his reaction.

Seeming both pleased and embarrassed, he ducked his head. “I didn’t think of it that way. I just didn’t want it to happen, and I knew you would be upset if they… used me.”

“Yes,” she said fiercely, “no one else touches you.” She placed her hand on the table palm up, and he lifted his hand, fingers twining with hers. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

He looked better after that, but there was still something else bothering him. His hand slipped away from hers, and his expression grew troubled again. She waited him out, and finally he mentioned it. “Mistress, you told the guards that you would correct my behavior. I thought you were unhappy about what I’d done.”

“Brett,” she said, “I was just telling them what they wanted to hear. I was upset with myself for losing you so quickly and trying to get rid of them. All I cared about was that you were safe.”

“Oh,” he huffed out softly, looking so relieved. “Thank you for explaining, Mistress.”

Seeing now how seriously he might take her more careless words, she said, “Don’t believe everything I say to other people, especially in regards to you. Unfortunately, there are appearances I must keep up sometimes.” She grimaced at the last part.

Reaching over the table, she cupped his cheek. “Brett, if I’m unhappy with something you’ve done, I’ll tell you directly. Otherwise, don’t worry about what I said to someone else.”

He leaned into her hand, granting her a smile. “Yes, Mistress.”

She let him go, returning to her meal. But her mind kept spinning, and after she was done she asked, “Was there anything else I’ve said that you’re confused about?”

His wariness gave him away, but she waited him out. At last he said timidly, “What you said to Yorkfield last night…”

“Hm? Which part?”

“That after a year you umm, get tired…”

She blanched. Had he really believed-? As she stared into his worried eyes, she realized that he was uncertain enough to fear it was true. And after what had happened four years ago, she couldn’t blame him for being concerned, even though she was hurt that he might believe such a blatant lie was true.

“No, of course not,” she said sharply, softening her next words when he winced. “I just didn’t want to make the same mistake with Yorkfield that I made with Donovan. I didn’t want him to think I was too eager, and I was persuading him to sell you.”

“I thought that was probably what it was, but,” he made a helpless gesture.

“Brett,” she said gently, “we don’t have an expiration date.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Did he not believe her?

“I will not be tired of you in a year, or five or however many you’re thinking.” A quiet chuckle escaped her. “Hell, I haven’t had anyone since, well,” she stumbled as she realized the implied meaning of her words. She hadn’t been celibate the past four years—she’d been depressed, not dead.

Correcting herself, she said, “I haven’t had anyone—free or slave—live with me since you.”

 

 

Her words were a relief.

Four years apart, and she’d never replaced him. That said a lot about how strong her feelings for him were.

But her earlier statement, the one she’d cut off—that one made him uneasy. It was ridiculous to expect that she wouldn’t sleep with anyone in four years, especially when she was a free woman who could do as she pleased. She had no legal or moral obligation to be faithful to him even while he was living with her. But picturing her with anyone else made him inappropriately angry. He remembered clearly the night he’d discovered this particular flaw.

Four years earlier, she’d taken him to her cousin’s party. It was full of university students, mostly people slightly younger than his mistress. Since her cousin was attending an elite, expensive school, many of them were from Jenna’s social class, and had a certain arrogance to them.

Attending her throughout the night, he’d stayed close most of the time. But as he was returning from throwing away her cup, Brett noticed Tony Torrento hovering near Jenna again. Torrento had been getting steadily drunker throughout the night, and his behavior towards Brett’s mistress had become worse and worse. The guy clearly couldn’t take a hint, because Jenna kept rejecting him.

“Come on, babe,” he said as Brett came within earshot, alcohol making his voice slur, “let’s go find a room and have some fun.”

“I said no the last five times you asked, Tony. What makes you think the answer’s changed?” Jenna retorted, scowling at him.

Unbelievably, he still didn’t give up. Throwing a heavy arm around her shoulders, he grumbled, “Babe, don’t be like that.”

She pushed his arm off, and her voice had menace in it. “Don’t touch me.”

If she’d spoken to Brett in that tone, he would’ve found himself backing away from her before he even realized it. Unfortunately, Tony Torrento was an idiot.

He wrapped one arm around Jenna’s waist, preventing her from escaping while his other hand groped her ass.

“Motherfucker,” Jenna growled, trying to pull away.

Brett couldn’t remember how he got from several paces away to right on top of them, but he was suddenly there. He reached for Jenna just as she managed to free herself from Torrento’s hold. Rage boiling within him, he pulled her behind him protectively before focusing on the bastard who’d harassed his mistress. The drunken moron was leering, pleased he’d felt her up. Violence surged within Brett, and his hand clenched into a fist, rising to-

“Brett, stop,” his mistress commanded, grabbing his arm and pulling it down. He fought against her for a moment, his attention still on the asshole in front of him. Then the command registered and he stopped resisting her, but continued to glare at Torrento, his fury needing an outlet.

“Mistress…”

He wasn’t sure what he was asking her for, besides permission to beat the shit out of Torrento.

The bastard sure didn’t make that desire lessen. “That’s cute, babe. He supposed to be your guard dog?”

“Don’t,” Jenna hissed, low enough for only Brett to hear. Her grip on his arm tightened as his muscles tensed beneath her fingers. To Torrento she said, “Stop calling me ‘babe’, asshole, and get the fuck away from me.”

“Don’t be like that. I can show you what you been missing,” he replied, leering at her again.

She stepped around Brett and drew her hand back, smacking Torrento full force with a backhanded slap. “That’s what you’ve been missing.”

A few cheers rang out as Torrento yelped, and Brett realized some of the people near them had noticed what was happening. He glanced around them, seeing at least two other men close by, and wondered why the hell none of them had tried to help Jenna. A closer look showed that they were just as drunk as Torrento, and probably hadn’t given a damn.

“Let’s go,” Jenna said firmly, dragging him away. He obeyed, keeping a wary eye on Torrento as they left to make sure there was no retaliation coming.

Ironically, she took him to one of the empty rooms Torrento had been so eager to go to. Locking the door behind them, she turned on him. “What the hell were you thinking?!”

Still furious with Torrento, he couldn’t answer her calmly. “I was trying to protect you, Jenna!”

“That much is obvious.” She paced across the room before facing him again. “Brett,” she said, her voice soft and sad now, like snowfall in a barren wilderness, “you can’t hit a free man—especially a member of a family rich enough to own a small country—in front of a room full of witnesses.”

Brett hung his head, his anger leaving him, replaced by the heavy weight of reality. Born a slave, he’d never had any expectations of ever being anything else. But for the first time, he wished he were free just so he could hurt the bastard who’d molested his woman. He’d never thrown a punch in his life, but oh how he’d wanted to minutes ago.

Not voicing his disturbing thoughts, he said only, “He was disrespecting you, and no one was doing anything to stop him.”

“Because this party is full of drunken slackers. I’m never going to one of Teresa’s parties again, I promise you that.” More seriously she added, “You can’t punch him just because he was a jerk to me. My life wasn’t being threatened.”

The latter was the only circumstance under which he was legally allowed to act with force. An ugly knot of anger formed in his chest at his helplessness. She could protect him, but he couldn’t do the same for her. Any bastard could touch her like Torrento had and he was expected to stand there and let it happen.

Of course, the attention didn’t have to be unwelcome to her. She could sleep with anyone she wanted, and he couldn’t react to that either. It was just how things were, and he’d never cared before if any of his owners had sex with someone else. But, growing dismay filling him, he realized that if Jenna did he’d be furious—and hurt.

The realization alarmed him. He was possessive of Jenna. She was his mistress, and he didn’t want anyone else touching her. It was completely inappropriate for a slave, but he couldn’t control the feeling.

Unaware of the turmoil brewing within him, she was speaking again. “Tony isn’t normally a bad guy, but he broke up with his fiancee a couple months ago and hasn’t been the same since. He drinks too much now and sleeps around, trying to forget.”

Personally Brett felt that Torrento could forget all he damn well pleased, as long as he wasn’t using his mistress to do it.

“I shouldn’t have cut him so much slack though. I felt sorry for him because he’s in a bad place right now. But I should’ve slapped him down a lot sooner.”

The unfairness that while he couldn’t hit Torrento in front of a crowd of witnesses, Jenna certainly could, wasn’t lost on Brett. But it was just another rule for slaves among a myriad of them; he had to submit to it, along with the rest. And at least one of them could hit Torrento.

This possessiveness though, that had taken him by surprise. It must’ve been building gradually all this time, so quietly that he’d never noticed it. To be emotionally attached to his mistress was dangerous enough, without adding this to it.

“Are you all right?” She stepped up to him, running her hands over him. And now he sensed it, the bit of smugness hidden amidst the pleasure, the knowledge that she never got tired of touching him. In seven months together, she’d never shown an interest in anyone else.

“Yes, Jenna,” he whispered, touching his forehead to hers. Her concern bolstered him. “I’m better now.” Their bond was special, and everything would work out somehow.

I was so naïve, Brett thought now, looking back at his past self. They’d had no plan, just living from moment to moment, but he’d believed her reassurances. He knew better now; no matter how close they were, the world would always intrude somehow. Depressing, but unavoidable, just like Jenna’s mother.

Recalling what he knew of the woman, he realized suddenly that she must really be pushing Jenna to marry by now. Four years ago she had brought it up occasionally, and Jenna was twenty-seven now. No doubt the woman would be horrified if her daughter was unmarried at thirty. She’d do everything she could to prevent that.

It meant Brett probably only had about two years left with Jenna. Then she’d get married, some bastard claiming her in ways he never could. The four years lost suddenly tasted as bitter as burnt coffee.

He would never begrudge Jenna happiness, and he could picture her as a bride, beautiful in her wedding dress, but he couldn’t help feeling sick at the thought. That would be the day he’d lose her for sure, if not sooner. It was terribly selfish, because he knew his mistress deserved much better than a lowly slave like him, but he didn’t want to share her. No, it would shatter something in him to watch her with her husband; if it came to that, he might beg her to sell him. That would be another misery of its own, never seeing her again, but at least he wouldn’t have to pretend he wasn’t consumed by jealousy as he watched her be with her husband. Let her have her happiness guilt free, without seeing how miserable he was.

He looked across the table at her. Even with all the doubts he had about their future, he had trouble picturing her letting him go like that. She might eventually ‘come to her senses’ as her mother would put it, and get married, but she wouldn’t sell him without guilt. He doubted Jenna would ever be apathetic towards him. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t do the sensible thing one day.

“You look so sad,” she said now. “What’s wrong?”

Not willing to tell her all his worries, he settled for, “I was just thinking about that party we went to four years ago, when Tony Torrento kept harassing you.”

“Ugh,” she said, making a face, “that asshole. He never recovered from that break up. Why were you thinking about him?”

“Your reaction at the mall today, when you wanted to go after the guards, Mistress…”

Her cheeks reddened adorably, and he stifled the sudden urge to kiss her. “What about it?” she asked.

“It reminded me of that party,” he told her, bowing his head. “Just from the opposite direction.”

A wry laugh escaped her. “You’re right.” She took a drink, putting her cup down before continuing, “You know, you scared the hell out of me that night. You were really going after him. And you are the least violent man I know.” She paused, her fingers drumming the table for a moment. “Or maybe you’ve just been conditioned to be that way.”

He lifted his head, her words making him curious.

“That night, that was purely you. All training gone.” Her voice softened. “Sometimes I wonder what you would be like if you hadn’t been born a slave.”

Surprised, Brett stared at her before hesitantly daring to say, “I’ve wondered the same, Mistress.”

There was a pause as she looked at him with a sad, tender smile.

“I wish,” he began, finding the words difficult to admit, “I wish I could be what you deserve.”

“What?!” she exclaimed, her eyes suddenly bright with emotion. She got up, moving to stand beside him, her hands on his shoulders. “Honey, there is nothing wrong with you.”

Instead of replying, he just reached up to touch the collar.

Her hand covered his. “This is not your fault.” Leaning down, she kissed his forehead. “I don’t care about it, Brett.”

He bowed his head. “I do, Mistress.”

“What?” It was barely a whisper, but bursting with dismay.

“No,” he said, slipping off his chair to kneel at her feet. “I want to be yours, Mistress. It’s just, other things.”

“Like what?”

He searched his thoughts for a good example, and found one. “You can protect me, but I can’t protect you, Mistress. Not from the Tony Torrentos of the world. I’m not allowed to act.”

Her blue eyes widened, distress a storm in them. “God, I never thought of it like that. I can’t imagine…”

There was a heavy pause before she spoke again. “Fucking laws. You know that if I could, I would free you in heartbeat, don’t you?” Anyone born into slavery could never be freed.

“Then you could hit whoever you wanted,” she added, trying to lighten the moment.

He gave her a small smile for the effort. It wasn’t that he yearned for freedom exactly; he didn’t know how to be anything other than a slave. But being able to serve and protect her fully, and having a guarantee that he wouldn’t be cast aside some day… he’d be happy enough with that.

“I used to fantasize about finding you again and cleaning out my accounts and taking you off somewhere and starting fresh. Get new identities and have a new life where we both could be free.”

He shook his head. “Your family would hunt for you.”

“Yeah,” she said tiredly. “They would.”

“You shouldn’t leave them anyway. They love you.”

“I know,” she sighed. “I just wish I could give you a better life.”

Her words were touching, but impossible. “I just need you, Mistress.”

She stroked his hair. “You make me happy, Brett. Why do you insist I should have more?”

“Mistress, I’m a slave, I don’t expect much,” he said, frowning. “But you’re from one of the Families, a Vanlean-Warren, you should have only the best.”

“Brett, you are the best.”

He looked at her doubtfully, and she added dryly, “Do you think a free man could satisfy me the way you do?”

Part 9

Comments

[flighty-dreams.livejournal.com]

Aww, I'm sorry to depress you.

Yes, Brett is in a very difficult position. If he remains distant he denies himself a rare chance at happiness, but getting so emotionally involved could lead to great heartache again later.

But where there's life, there's hope, as the saying goes. I'll just have to keep plugging along. ;-) Thanks for commenting.

[fran-fic.livejournal.com]

Yes, Brett is in a very difficult position. If he remains distant he denies himself a rare chance at happiness, but getting so emotionally involved could lead to great heartache again later.

That's very interesting, because... that's really true for all of us, isn't it? Sort of the sadness of being a human. None of us can be sure that when we open up to another human there won't be major heart ache later. What's interesting with writing that theme in a slavefic is of course that the premise of slavery in this case makes this truth very clear and direct.

[flighty-dreams.livejournal.com]

Yeah, that thought occurred to me too when I was writing this--his dilemma is really the same dilemma that all people face when we get into a relationship. But you're right, the slavery element sharpens the helplessness of it.