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The memory of his first arrival at the estate was a stain in the back of his skull–a year ago, and yet as crystal clear as the polished windows of the mansion. An old rustic carriage rolled down the countryside, the wheels so withered that every stone and trench in the winding road, no matter how miniscule, sent the wagon and the two passengers inside joggling. Nothing but the axles grinding and the horseshoes clicking threaded the journey. Expansive brush of deserted woodlands smoothly glided by the window as if part of an elaborate presentation, an unsuccessful attempt to entice someone into being more accepting of a grim situation. The youngest kept his focus on them: the unending depth of trees, golden and faded green. His head rested against the windowsill. How long had they been traveling like this? He had lost track ever since he drifted asleep the last township over. They had left early in the morning, that was certain, and yet that seemed so long ago. When the overseers had barged into the sad huddle of a room and lined everyone up; he would never forget the bone-deep dread that rushed through him when they pointed his way. Now, silhouetted branches clawed out into the sky, the clear surface of the river reflected the tangerine hues of the sunset, and all was unnaturally calm. Too calm. A juxtaposition to the boy who wiped his nose and attempted to suppress his sniveling before the woman sitting in the seat in front of him could take notice. It hardly worked.
”You better not make a bad impression, Bennet,” the other passenger told him, and Daniel’s lips pressed together in a thin, wavering line. The woman was so graceful when the wagon occasionally shifted. Not a strand of silver hair fell out of place, but she left it hidden by a lace hat all the same. He had learned a great deal of keeping up appearances from her. “If he doesn’t want to keep you, you know what will happen. It's off to the workhouse.” She seemed to falter at the sight of him, and looked away posthaste. “Sit up straight, boy. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Daniel’s posture snaps upright as he distances himself from the window, like the matriarch’s command has him under her complete control. That would not have been far off, really, regardless of how much he wanted to disappear into the depths of the corner. He fixed himself because he was good at listening, and he was good at obeying, and he would have to learn to be even better at both.
Just a ways up from the river, the arched rooftops of the manor house peeked up from beneath the landscape. When the carriage took a less than stable turn around the bend, the wheels rolled from rugged, unpaved road to the edge of gracefully tiled stone, and in an instant, the trip became smoother. Still sitting as proper as a royal, Daniel returned his attention to the scenery. He had to stifle a gasp at the sight of it: his new home, if all was to be well. That still didn’t sound quite right to him. The estate presumably spanned tens of thousands of square acres, a monumental structure of brick and mortar, accented with marble pillars strangled by ivy. The stone pathway swirled around a fountain statue, and someone clearly had taken great care of it, for the reddish oxidation that inevitably builds up with continuously trickling water was completely absent. Somehow, it had been removed, and the Greek carving of the woman and her basket stood like new.
And as for standing, a personable man took to the portico, waiting until the carriage came to a complete halt before he approached. With a strangely casual manner about him–and only strange because, as Daniel noted, the man’s older appearance would almost have one take him for an uptight sort–he opened the doors for the two. He caught sight of the woman first, but she was familiar to him. ”Such a traditionalist, Mrs. Nicholette,” he chuckled, his voice so bright and kindly for someone his age. “A car would have brought you here much easier.”
Daniel’s caretaker upturned her nose. ”You know how I feel about those dreadful machines, Elison,” she sighed as she gathered her muff and prepared to make her exit. She took Elison’s hand, no matter how opposed to it, and carefully leapt from the carriage step, her boots crunching the early autumn leaves. “No matter, we’re here right on time. Is your master home?”
Elison was already in the process of transporting some of the luggage. Some would say the man was a dedicated worker. The man would say that he just didn’t want to bother conversing with the woman. In fact, he gives little thought as to who the suitcase belonged to–merely uses it as an escape. ”Afraid not, madame. Master Hargrove is out hunting with some of his colleagues. If you’d like, you’re more than welcome to wait for him in the antechamber.”
”You can’t be serious. I come all the way out here to speak with him, and he isn't even here? I can’t wait here all day. It’s supposed to storm soon.”
The man stopped short for a moment at the top of the front steps, his hands weighed with the bags he snatched from the back of the vehicle, and he smiled false and strained. ”Well I’m afraid that’s just something you'll have to take up with Master Hargrove. Not me.”
”Then take a message for him if you must,” the woman huffed, watching him hand the belongings off to a less friendly valet–the older man had a bad back, after all, or at least that was his excuse, “it’s about the boy.”
”The bo-” Elison stopped himself, as the situation finally set in. Oh right, he finally remembered that was why she was there in the first place; Madame Nicholette, a posh mistress of an orphanarium, rarely had a habit of stopping by for recreational visits. He peered into the interior of the carriage, and only then did he notice her meek travel companion. A boy. His eyes were what seized Elison’s attention first: golden brown in color, reserved, shimmering like drizzled honey. How unconventional. The fake imitation of a grin the attendant felt like he had to dawn gradually shifted to a genuine one. “Ah, you must be Daniel.” He extended his hand. “Elison Richards.”
Ever so hesitantly, Daniel shook it with surprising firmness, as if there would be consequences if he didn’t do so. As he was taught. He caught a glimpse of the prioress standing outside, staring at him intensely and immediately shuffled his way out from the carriage. For a scrap of an orphan, he presented well, a small sort of thing, pretty, posture upright, dressed in fine garments for someone of his status–someone in his situation. Of which, the woman cut in again, “He is to be returned perfectly intact if there are any complications. You know how hard it is to peddle damaged property.” Quite difficult was it to derive any fortune from a home for the abandoned, so the woman was exceptionally lucky to find another manner of work: to sell those off who had not been wanted as children. ‘Profitable adoption,’ Daniel once heard her jokingly call it that behind closed doors, when she was showing a few of her ‘products’ off to some potential clients, and they were considering a transaction for any needs necessary. Being offered no more rights than a slave in his case, and yet the ‘servant’ moniker was the one that stuck, more acceptable than the truthful alternative in high society.
Elison sighed at the interjection of the woman, but acknowledged her nonetheless. “Naturally… I will tell Master Hargrove as soon-”
”And if anything happens to him, we expect to be compensated for the loss in full. No exceptions. Otherwise, his wages are to be sent to me until his family’s debt is paid off.”
”Yes, Madame. I am sure he’s well aware-”
”You must understand, he is a valuable asset. I've ensured he'll do whatever you request of him. Well trained in the manner of a servant, horrified at the thought of being disobedient. You really should not have any problem with him, but if you do, there is a spot waiting for him in the factory line.”
”Madame,” Elison had to blurt his way into being listened to apparently, and he did so at an octave he did not intend to reach. He set his hands upon Daniel’s shoulders. He did not apologize for his tone, but the rest was delivered steadier. “I am going to escort this young man off to see the grounds. If you would like, please take up any of your concerns with Noah.”
Noah must have been the name of the other servant standing at the entryway, because he looked at the older man like he had just been left to the wolves–the most emotion that’s crossed his features thus far. Elison returned him an apologetic wince. The woman wasted no time at all before pestering the uninvested cellar worker. With her distracted, Elison took hold of the engraved handle, heaved open the front door, and ushered the boy off into the house.
”My God, how did you put up with that woman on the way here?” the older man remarked, slipping his hands away so the doors would slowly swing closed and muddle the unnecessary banter outside. He chuckled at the thought of it, and then muttered, as though listing off the traits that had been advertised of the new hire. “Quite resilient indeed.”
Daniel wandered inside the entryway, and a gust of cold air immediately overtook him. He wanted to keep his eyes down, knew he was supposed to, and yet he couldn’t help himself when he caught just a glimpse of it out of the corner of his periphery. As grand on the inside as it was out, he surely should have expected it: a gothic expanse of arabesque walls, dark and moody. An imperial staircase, paved by crimson runner, swept up from the far reaches of the expansive foyer up to the second out of many stories. Behind the wooden banister of the landing was apt enough walking space, surely designed with the thought of bustling servants and maids in mind. Just further than that, was the stained, rose window responsible for providing enough light for seemingly the entire room, aside from sparse candlelight. Everything was deathly quiet, to the point where Daniel nearly struggled to imagine anyone else living in it. A single step might have disturbed the profound peace.
The boy was not sure if he was permitted to speak, so he refused to do so. He merely thought about the appearance of the architecture to himself as his attention raked over framed portraits and furnishment, and the marvelous sights that put his poor chamber he used to share with six other strays to shame.
It’s beautiful…
All of it was. It was hard not to think of such things when seeing them for the first time. Its beauty, however, did not do well to detract from the servant boy's apprehension. His shoulders remained as tense as ever, even when he was distracted and exploring the intricate details. After all, this was to be his new living arrangement; he might have felt at home if the draft was not so frigid, or if rumors had not traveled about the man of the house. Daniel remembered, now that he was stuck within the walls of the estate, how one of the other orphans had become completely pale at the mention of it. ‘They’re sending you to Hargrove Manor?’ he had said. ‘Haven’t you heard what his family does to servants like you? I hear he’s a terribly cruel master. Why do you think he needs to take in replacements so often?’
A shudder crawled its way up Daniel’s spine at the memory and suddenly all the pretty characteristics of the residence became a lot less charming, and a lot more petrifying. His hands, nearly unconsciously, found their way up his arms to shield him from the chill. Why was it colder inside than it was in the courtyard? He couldn’t understand it. He had little time to consider the logistics before his eye was caught by a representation of a gruff looking man in oil. Perhaps middle aged, dressed in nothing less than a fine ashen suit, the subject’s concrete and bold features were drawn in a stoic expression. It must have been his unseen master, there was no doubt about that. The old plaque, a silver engraving etched within the bottom of the elegant frame implied that it was a gift.
My dearest Archer, it read, I wish you nothing but good will in our separation. May you have great fortune in your work in the coming years, and on account, I part with S—er. I trust he shall be of great use to you and your comrades. -Mary
Some of the cursive had worn down, muddled and incomprehensible. Daniel’s focus lifted once again to the stern face of the subject, stubbled, so cold and sour—and he swallowed thickly. He must have been spending too much time staring at it, for the elder began to walk further into the manor. Seeing this, Daniel finally snapped out of it and was spurred into motion forthwith, following after him like a shadow on the day of an equinox.
Elison addressed the boy beside him as he took each careful step upstairs. ”Now,” he started with the same casual manner, “I’ll show you to your room first. I would be happy to give you the grand tour, young man, but feel free to wander off and explore on your own if you so wish. Who knows? You may even run into some of the other staff. They’re usually fumbling about at this hour.”
The man led him down a wide corridor, wallpapered in gold and cyan, parisian roses–the section of the house delineated as his new permanent residency, and, by the looks of it, it was the same for the rest of the servants. This wing was not more than a row of oxblood doors, illuminated only partially by sconces all the way up to another dim stairwell that led heaven knows where. Elison gestured back to the opposite end of the hall, but did not cease walking.
”My quarters can be found in the west wing, by the way. First door on your left. If you ever need anything, you can knock at any time, but this is where you will be staying.“
Elison was presumably en route to Daniel's room, but was immediately prevented when the door right in front of him swung ajar with all the gusto of a dramaturge. From the room descended what must have been another attendant; with graceful steps and an enchanting, delinquent smile upon full roseate lips, he was pleasantly arrayed in fine black evening dress–so much so it nearly tricked the new hire into assuming he was of a higher position in the house than he actually was. The way Elison spoke to him, though, shattered that illusion. “What in God’s name are you wearing, Sawyer?” the elder seemed to eye the clothes as well, with much more apparent resentment than fascination.
The beam of pristine white upon Sawyer's face only broadened as he neared the other party. And as soon as the man was within reach, he wrapped his arm around his shoulder and whisked him even closer. ”Master Hargrove bought it for me. Haven’t you heard, my dear Elison?" he inquired all but rhetorically, through a voice sweet and syrupy. His question bordering on a song, he seemed simply over the moon with elation. Flickering lamplight bathed the three of them in a warm glow, lightening the unruly, ginger hair of the man several years Daniel's senior. Comely but not in the traditional, masculine way, light freckles speckled across his ruddy nose in a constellation and his brown eyes glimmered with delight. "He called upon me again to entertain his guests."
It seemed that Elison did not share the same sentiments. He withdrew from the taller servant as much as he could in his hold. “A party? Tonight?” When Sawyer nodded, he merely let out an understanding, but barely audible, “I see…" followed by, "Are you really sure about all this?”
”Why of course. I’ve never been more certain about anything else.” There was a microscopic second in which the evident glee dropped from Sawyer’s features, and the corners of his mouth twitched downward, so swift and involuntary Daniel nearly thought he imagined it. But his grin returned at a moment’s notice, and he finally glanced down at the silent viewer of their conversation. He retracted his arm from the older man’s shoulder. “And who might this be?”
”This is Daniel Bennet.” The oldest servant’s enthusiasm dwindled when he gestured to the redhead. “Daniel, this is Sawyer Campbell.”
Daniel wordlessly held out his hand, in a manner much too formal for the three of them. Sawyer gladly shook it, but not without stifling a laugh. Elison himself chuckled, and laid a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You don’t have to be so quiet,” he asserted, and instantly met the disbelief on the young man’s face. He decided not to think too hard about what circumstances must have led him to believe he would be punished just for speaking.
”Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Sawyer subjected him to a brief inspection upon that, frowning slightly. “Bit young to be tending to the soirees, isn’t he? Do you think he knows how to make a cocktail?”
The humor in his tone did not fly over Elison’s head, but he still nudged the man’s side with his elbow. “He will do nothing of the sort!” he insisted, almost aghast at the suggestion–whatever it was. “Heaven’s sake. I'm showing him to his room before you scare him off.”
Sawyer rubbed his arm for a moment, and then once rightfully insulted, dropped his mouth. “What did I do, hm? You know Master Hargrove needs all the servants he can at those gatherings.” His tone changed, voice lush and provocative. “Someone has to help pull those men off me.”
The redhead laughed cheerfully as Elison grimaced, but Daniel could not help but pay extra close attention to his face because there it was again. The inexplicable twitch of disgust.
What are they talking about?
Sawyer promptly excused himself, disappeared down the hallway, and Daniel was practically dragged off in the opposite direction. ”Ignore him, please,” Elison urged the boy. “I’m afraid I may need to reschedule that tour of ours.”
Elison cracked open the door to Daniel’s new living situation, and allowed him to walk in first. He groped around in the darkness for the lightswitch, and upon finding it, an antique fixture illuminates the meager space.
The boy takes a moment to explore the simplistic kind of confines found in the chamber, not the worst thing in the world, but no more than that; a wooden wardrobe decorated by the most intricate floral carvings stood beside a vanity mirror. Paired with a nightstand, the middle of the room occupied by a large canopy bed, which appeared comfortable enough. Curiously, he takes a fistful of the knitted covers just to feel how soft they are beneath delicate hands. They are so plush and pleasant. Clean and new. He imagines he would fall asleep right then and there if he were to lay down. The window filters in glowing rays of fading sun through the curtains.
He cannot get over how deceptively peaceful everything seems beneath the roof of a man whose reputation succeeds him. For a supposed monster, he sure has a kindly staff and he affords his servants with decent rooms. Already, he feels his fears begin to melt away. These circumstances were already nicer than the ones at the orphanage. A barely noticeable, crooked smile quirked at the corner of his mouth at the thought of telling the other boys at home, who had subjected the ‘runt’ to ridicule and torment, that his new private quarters were bigger than the one the seven of them had to share.
But the grin crumbled away as he remembered his teachings. That was not just an improper thought, but he had also not spent so much as a day in that manor yet, so it was unfounded as well.
Besides, he didn’t deserve a room as nice as this one.
”Noah should be up with your luggage soon,” Elison snapped him out of it, without thinking. “Rather unorthodox, I know, but it would be best if you stayed in your room tonight. Don’t worry about any of your duties today. I’ll tell you everything you need to know in the morning, so please don’t sleep in late.” The elder offered nothing more than a polite bow before he began to depart, but as he neared the narrow egress, he hesitated and turned back. He eyed the boy with an expression that could not be read. “Do you have any questions?” The new attendant had not spoken so much as a word, and Elison was actually beginning to find that sort of eerie; being dragged across the province to serve at an unknown estate in the middle of nowhere presumably for the rest of his life while his guardian raked in the profits. Did he not have anything to say at all? No one could have been that reserved in their station. What Madame Nicholette had done, to make him ‘well trained in the manner of a servant’ perturbed him.
Daniel blinked at the question, and quietly engaged in a game of mental gymnastics to puzzle out whether or not this was a test. But he reached his verdict, after very little contemplation, that the older man is much too kind to play that sort of trick. He trusted him already, even though he knows he probably shouldn’t have put that much faith in a near stranger. That always got him into trouble. He thinks back to the portrait, wringing his hands together apprehensively. He thinks to the cold eyes of the figure, the sculpted and darkly contoured face, to the fact that the man is out hunting… to the warning uttered by another orphan. Why do you think he needs replacements so often? After pressing his lips together as if to seal away the question on his mind, he finally, speaks for the first time. His voice is soft, barely even a whisper. ”Is master… cruel?”
The inquiry clearly struck the man off guard, as perhaps he half-expected to hear him ask about his duties early, but received that instead. It took him a moment to conjure up an answer, because he really, really did not want to lie to him. Just as much time passes for him to respond as it did for the boy to finally speak, “Only when he needs to be.” His smile felt like plastic on his face, but it was all he gave Daniel before he left for good.
Daniel pondered that response for a good long while, as he circled over to the other side of the bed and finally lowered himself onto the wondrously downy quilt. He broods at the sight of his open door. More footsteps approached as Elison’s faded. It was a dreadfully quiet corridor, he noted again, and even the most minor sounds travel seamlessly down wooden barriers. Noah crossed the threshold with the luggage in tow, and the very second he’s inside, he tosses the lightweight bags somewhere at random. Daniel sort of gasps at the mistreatment of his belongings, even if he did not have much in the first place.
”I cannot believe he had me bring up your belongings,” Noah spat, dusting his hands off to rid himself of peasantry. Like the boy carried disease with him. “And after I had to listen to that woman’s ravings.”
Noah watched the boy stumble to pick up his bags, and that must have been the first time he had really seen Daniel thus far, for he stares at him longer than he likely should. Daniel met his gaze and shrunk away at the sharpness of his eyes, and goosebumps pricked at the back of his neck when Noah’s mouth curved. All the man said before he departed was, “He'll eat you alive, kid.”
Upon hearing that, Daniel stared in horror at the vacant spot the standoffish, cynical servant used to occupy for heaven knew how long. Noah closed off his room behind him.
The boy did not think to lock it.
The hours passed as he stayed holed up in his room, just as Elison requested of him. Despite how quickly he became acquainted with his lodgings, stuffing away his scarce belongings within cabinets and closets, and despite the fact that there was really nothing to do and its all so dreadfully boring, he was admittedly too distracted. A good long while was spent on the bed, laying motionlessly. He just lays across the width of the mattress and thinks, really. He fixates on the tester of the canopy. At one point, his curiosity presided over his reason, because he swore he heard the distinct, yet faint, rumble of vehicular wheels on the paved cobblestone of the courtyard below.
There was no way to tell the time other than the impending darkness, so there was no way of knowing just when he peered out into the grounds and saw them through the mullion. A group of strangers gathered at the foyer. There were about three of them, conversing with the gray-haired butler.
The very moment one of them, a blonde in a well-ironed blazer, happened to look up, he ducked beneath the window frame. Upon instinct, even if he was not entirely sure why he was hiding.
It was all so alienating. The house. The help. The master.
That night, Madame Nicholette’s divination came to fruition. A storm raged behind Daniel’s window, rain violently splattering against the glass. The downpour of water splits against the pane so harshly he almost feared it would shatter. Every once in a while, the pitch black sky glows with white strains of lightning, and the flash plasters broad and strange shadows across his wall. A cacophonous roar of thunder followed the lights close behind, and each time the soundwaves traveled through the sky, the boy could not stop himself from jolting. With how intimidating the weather is in such a foreign place, he still couldn’t take his eyes off of it, sitting with his back against the side of the iron bedframe and his knees pulled up to his chest.
Another crack of thunder reminded him how, when he was much younger, his mother used to hold him in her arms whenever he was afraid of cloudbursts. His stepfather would insist that there was nothing for him to worry about, but if it would soothe him, they could sit by the fire while he played gentle chords on his employer’s piano. All this until he fell asleep. They made him feel like he was the most important person in the world. It had been years since he had endured a storm, and this time, he does it alone.
The weight of everything dawned on him like it never had before. The same way adrenaline wears thin after being in the center of inexplicable danger, he figured it was similar to his situation; the world around him moved so fast he never really had the time to properly let it all sink in. He curled in on himself even more.
”He’ll eat you alive, kid.”
”Only when he needs to be.”
”Why do you think he needs replacements so often?”
The warning ate away at his nerves. The resolve that he had spent years building up, brick by emblematic brick, began to rot away at the edges. He shouldn’t be afraid. He can’t afford to be afraid. A frightened boy is a weak boy, and a weak boy makes for a terrible servant. And being a terrible servant means he has no other worth than a workhouse, laboring until his fingers wilt with bruises or until he dies–either by factory accident or by being overexploited–like his parents.
No matter what misfortunes befell him, he refused to end up like them, recalling all too well the harrowing separation into a caravan. So when Madame Nicholette, who struggled for years to get anyone to care for the short urchin of worthless bones even when he was eligible for actual adoption, offered him two options, factory line or servitude, he enthusiastically took the latter and the training began henceforth. He should have been grateful enough that she had not thrown him to the streets.
He did not stew over the woman’s methods for too long before he, once again, heard someone approach his bedchamber. A few people, actually. He could hear the chattering of hushed murmuring, even in the far reaches of his quarters. Passing shadows muted the small sliver of light beneath his door.
Only one person’s command was infinitely clearer than the rest, “Get him cleaned up, he’s filthy.”
The numerous approaching footfalls split off into different directions. Careful and pronounced strides neared him, and he stiffened in his pathetic position the closer they were. The steps ended right before the door, reinforcing his assumption that whoever they were, they were there for him. He briefly considered opening the door for the unknown visitor himself, a deeply ingrained habit from his schooling, but fear won over that round, and he stayed put.
The stranger did not seem to mind either way. The doorknob pivoted downward, and both the metal and the wood creaked as it opened. His heart pounded in his own ears; it nearly drowned out the thunder as he awaited whoever was to enter. A man he had not yet met stepped in with purpose, and even though Daniel had not encountered him in person, he recognized him shortly thereafter. The spitting image of the portrait. Angular and tanned complexion, in all its grandeur. He had not aged a day since it was painted, but he was different. His features were much more hospitable. His gray eyes caught sight of the boy huddled up behind his bed, and softened.
”I do apologize for barging in,” the man chuckled a bit. His stance all too casual for someone with so much command at the tip of his fingers, he spoke exactly how Daniel imagined he would, in a rich, deep, and commanding reverb that’s velvety as molasses–so tranquil and smooth. “But as I was preparing for bed, I realized I had not even introduced myself to my newest servant yet.” He offered the boy a sturdy hand, and smiled when it was accepted. “How rude of me. I’m Archer Hargrove, the master of the estate.”
Another crash of thunder shook Daniel to his core.
Archer noticed the way the servant’s hand trembled as it withdrew. His attention shifted to the window. He hummed sarcastically at the sight of bending willow trees, buckling beneath treacherous winds. “Such wonderful weather we’re having.” When he saw the boy crack a miniscule smile at that, he added, ”Do you mind if I sit with you?”
What kind of question was that? The master of the house did not ask permission to sit within his own property, nor in the presence of a servant. If anything, he should have been honored that his status was not repellent. Daniel nodded. The man collapsed beside him on the floor.
”What a day…” he sighed, gesturing to the beaten window. “We rarely ever see this kind of rain in Lakesbrugh.”
Another flash, another eruption of thunder. Daniel shrunk in on himself, but tried not to make it too noticeable. Master Hargrove’s eyes flickered over at that; not a single change or action undertaken by his servants went under his radar after all, and because this one’s new, he gets his utmost attention. No matter how miniscule, every detail of the servant becomes a stitch in a well-sewn plot.
He could care less about his physical characteristics, the only reason he would ever put any effort into studying those matters was for the behest of his colleagues. That spot is already filled. But everything else, from the way he trembles at each coming storm to the way his posture urgently changed upon his master’s arrival, becomes a mental note. There’s so much already that can be used against him… by a lesser man, of course. Hargrove would never dream of something like that.
After all, Daniel’s new. He doesn’t fully trust him yet, but he will. They always do.
They let the storm brew without a word to each other. The two sort of watched the weather, one sitting as tense as a bow-string, the other as calm as can be. Dense silence festered between them, until:
”How old are you?”
The sudden interrogation from Hargrove came completely out of left field, but his welcoming mannerisms had yet to disappear; it was a seemingly harmless little attempt at conversation.
Daniel was still suspicious of it though, and he delayed in his answer. He was not sure if he was permitted to speak in the man’s presence, regardless of whether or not he asked him something.
He assured him, “Come on, boy, I don’t want you to be afraid to speak. I may be your master, but I want you to have a voice of your own.”
Daniel was still intimidated by him, despite his apparent kindness. He answered. A coincidentally timed question. To be fair, the day of his birth was in merely a few months, but it was all so close to the anniversary of his parents’ arrests that celebrating always makes him queasy.
”Much too old to be afraid of a storm,” he noted after a rather lengthy pause. The question was more of a curious one, if anything, completely void of any hint at accusation–which was to be unexpected, for anyone of high regard would be. “That’s not really what you’re afraid of, is it?“
The boy’s breath hitched in his throat. Such a casual tone for someone who read him like a book, but it was no use, was it? He was aware of how pathetic he looked, cowering away from the elements of nature, so he supposed it would have been easy to figure out that the glaze in his eyes was not because of the pour. A truthful reply would sever the already strained connection that had somehow haphazardly been formed by the man, but the warnings of the others were unable to be forgotten, and his master urged him to speak before, and not answering was one of the purest forms of insolence. So what could he do if he shared his feelings openly again? He reserved himself, taking in a deep breath. "They said you were an awful man," he uttered, and regret immediately began to sink in, so he turned away.
He deflected just in time to miss the way Archer’s eyes darkened at his statement. He kept his tone steady; the boy did not notice any change. “Oh, really? Who did?”
Daniel was clever enough not to mention the men in the house. “The boys at the Windsor School.”
”Ah, the orphanage.” The man relaxed at that, visibly. He reclined against the side of the mattress. "Do you believe everything people tell you? You seem much smarter than that."
This time, the boy did not answer.
”There’s nothing to be afraid of.” The man shifted over to properly see Daniel, and his smile returned. Face to face, the servant came to the conclusion that the man reminded him of someone he used to be very close to, and he was actually quite handsome… just as quickly as that thought occurred to him, he pushed it away. A terrible consideration for someone as lowly as him to have about a wealthy man. “Here. Why don’t we play a game, hm? You tell me something about yourself, and I’ll tell you something about myself, so the two of us can be properly acquainted.”
Daniel blinked in disbelief. His master wanted to know more about him. That was unusual, to say the least. ”There’s nothing about me to tell,” he maintained.
”Oh nonsense, you must have some interests.”
He had been in the care of Lady Nicholette for ten years, so he struggled to remember what activities he enjoyed partaking in before it all came crashing down. He was literate, he figured, that was enough. The prioress never let him read for leisurely purposes. There were also a few melodies he could string out on a violin, but he could not say he enjoyed the work of a fiddler, no matter how much good the woman insisted it would do him; it was more of a parlor trick that had been thrust upon him, she taught him enough to boast the instrument to impress her colleagues and nothing more. But if it could dazzle her high society clientele, perhaps it was good enough for Archer.
”I can play music,” he admitted, “and I like—liked to read.”
The mention of reading had Archer instantly lifting himself from the ground, as if he were expecting that of him. As if he were planning something. “You read? Most wonderful, I have something I must show you then.”
Archer ordered Daniel to follow him, and the servant was not about to disobey the first ever request of his superior, so he lets himself be escorted across the grounds to the opposite wing. Daniel stumbles to catch up. With a candelabra guiding his way, his master makes great haste, wandering down the east side of the bleak corridor. He reached a pair of double, mahogany doors, handling off the candles to the boy so he could push them forward. An unveiling of something pressing. Daniel peered curiously into the opening. An endlessly grand cathedral of rows upon rows of pristinely bound books awaited them, exemplary architecture tiered with oak columns and gouache, canvased landscapes plastered the wall.
Daniel was drawn in by the smell of paper and ink, his master strayed behind. His eyes cast up to the ceiling, but where he thought he would see the vaulted interior of a rotunda, there is clear plate glass, instead. The storm had cleared up lightly in their travels and the clouds had parted. Moonlight sets the tile aglow, and the millions of twinkling stars reflect into the carefully polished wood lacquer. His heart fluttered in his chest at the sight of it all, a gasp leaving his mouth.
If he was awe-struck by the entryway of the manor itself, then this ruined all other decor for him. Beautiful? Magnificent, maybe. Beyond words, perhaps. And his master was hiding all of this in a wing, why was he showing it to him? No matter the answer, he never wanted to leave.
”This is the library,” he settled his shoulder against the casing of the entrance. “You know, I typically do not allow my servants to enter here, but you’re free to come in here whenever you like. Madame Nicholette revealed a little to me about your situation. I know how difficult it is to lose your parents. I lost mine twenty some odd years ago.”
It feels so improper to be sharing such private details of each other’s life, to hear the past of someone so above him, but he has to admit, he likes it. Master Hargrove speaks to him like he’s an old friend, like they’re on equal planes of an unjust social hierarchy. It makes him feel special.
Even for a moment, he makes him feel like he’s the most important person in the world.
No other servants could enter the library, but he could. The other orphans had to be misconstruing him with another man, perhaps one from the township over, because this man could not be a monster. He had a habit of trusting people too quickly, and the charming eyes of his master reel him in much too soon. His face flushes, a faint warmth the shade of rouge.
Because he did not so much as mention it, Daniel assumed Hargrove did not notice. But not a single change or action undertaken by his servants went under his radar, right? He sees everything. Including the developing blush.
”I’m afraid there’s one last room I need to show you before I let you go this evening.”
This time, it was the salon he shepherded him off to. He led him all the way back to the staircase, and down to a niche in the foyer. It is, by comparison and on its lonesome, one of the most vacant rooms he had ever beheld. Just as large as the former. Glossy hardwood floors. A spatial maroon couch foregrounds a marbled furnace, paintings–sure, why not? What other room in the house did not have some sort of canvas furnishing? Something about the air is stifling; it smells… off, and that’s literally the only way he can describe it. Stale, empty, unsettling. A sharp detour from the perfection of a private book center.
Almost reading the thoughts whirling around in Daniel’s head, the man clarified, “Usually, we have a dining table and chairs. And guests. We just had them cleared, you see. It doesn’t always look this empty, I promise you.”
Every passing second of their stay was punctuated by a gentle, mechanic tick. An ancient grandfather clock was the culprit, and when his master looked upon it, he was overtaken by a sudden calm. A sudden sense of pride, even. His proclamation was no more than a whisper of awe.
”This is where the galas happen.”
”Galas?”
Archer hummed. ”It’s about time I tell you about myself, isn’t it?” Each syllable echoed against the emptiness. “You know, every servant has their role here. While a select few have the honor of working in my close employ, the others toil away elsewhere. If you are to be of any use at this estate, you must understand. I belong to a certain group of overseers. I work with many powerful men, good men, who have taken so many liberties to help me realize my ambitions. It is their alms that have led my family to where they are today. Given that, they should be rewarded for their efforts, right?”
Daniel contends the idea out of compliance, because a servant that disagrees with their master might as well be out of work, but was unable to truly see what he was getting at. "I suppose, yes," he stammered.
”My colleagues are wealthy aristocrats of unbelievable renown, Daniel, but they’re only human. They all have their shortcomings, you know. They have itches that need to be scratched. Some of them have unconventional needs, that you and I might call ‘animalistic.’ And, well, they can’t risk their reputation being sullied by entering a brothel.” He glowered at the thought of something, and the cold atmosphere paired with such a strangely dreary change, made Daniel shudder. “Besides, subjecting a paid whore to their deepest desires may prove harmful for both parties. So because I have such wonderful help, I provide an outlet for them. It’s an exchange.”
When the diatribe winded to a close, and he glances over at the smaller boy, he finds him at a bit more of a distance than he was previously, with a wide-eyed gaze that forces his master to curb down a chuckle; his hands are intertwined with each other again, that same habitual fidgeting he did whenever his nerves got the best of him. The men wanted to… with a servant… what servant? ”What are you saying…?” More accurately, why was he telling him all of this? Daniel’s voice was unsteady. The term ‘master’ sort of dipped from his vocabulary for a moment, but the man failed to mention it. Why bother?
”Don’t fret, Daniel, that’s not your job. It’s Sawyer’s.”
The guarantee that he would not be the one to suffer such a position relaxed his tense stature little by little, but with that came other concerns. It dawned on him that this was what his older contemporary and the eldest servant were conspiring about: the party, the one the latter seemed to have forebodings about in his own respective, silent way. And to think, for at least a moment, Sawyer made it sound as though it was some great honor.
”But I do need someone like you to serve the guests, do you understand? It’s strange, yes I know, but if you would be kind enough to keep the parlor staffed, I think we may have an understanding.”
”You mean… you want me as a footman? Nothing more?” He challenged the request inadvertently, because it was simple enough, a cinch in comparison to what tasks he had been trained with.
As a result, Hargrove’s expression contorts in disgust at the insinuation that he would ever force anything upon his domestics, much less such an active and demanding position. ”Yes, of course, Daniel. I would never make any of my servants do anything they don’t agree to.”
That would be a first for any master; that was practically every wealthy lord’s modus operandi, and for someone labeled as wicked beyond comprehension, it made less sense. But Daniel came to realize that there were no other options for him, and he could predict, if he were to say no, he would be back in the care of that dreadful woman. And well, at least here, some of the people appeared to be good-natured. He only had two options awaiting him after all. With Hargrove providing such a lovely space for him in both the library and his lodge—which is big enough to actually walk through, a fact that continues to mystify him, it became ever so impossible to refuse. The man had yet to share any of the traits he loathed in his mistress. So he seals his side of the bargain with the words he would come to regret more than anything else in his life:
”Anything for you, Master.”
~~~
A year later, as dreadful as the man’s traditions were, the forced bond he had with his beloved master had seemed to fortify itself. Following the first new gala, in which Daniel was left to be abused by all five of the guests at the estate, his master was so unrelentingly caring with him. He did not expect the boy to work, not with those aching muscles and that worn frame. In a strange turn of events, that leaves him feeling a bit ill for he is not accustomed to being idle, he is permitted proper rest. In his bedridden state, his master recurrently visited him, and they stayed up late talking about anything at all. It should have all disturbed him, this act, but it didn’t. Because to him, it wasn't an act. And even if it were, he was sated with sweet nothings, with showerings of praise: Archer's perfect servant, never needing to be punished—never speaking out of turn.
His favorite.
He is treated so well, and he feels so spoiled that he completely forgets what his master had said to him the morning after the rape. All unpleasant memories in Hargrove’s presence are to be whisked away, because now all he can think about is the way the man smiles at him and him alone. How he touches him, no matter how brief.
It makes him forget a lot of particulars, like the fact that Sawyer is still nowhere to be found.
The reward cycle of his trauma came to an end, as all things do, after he finally found his strength. He was eventually visited by a physician. When the practitioner entered his bedroom, however, Daniel immediately blanched and scurried back into the furthest confines of his bed post, desperate to get away.
Master Hargrove, with a wry smile, insisted that there was absolutely nothing for him to worry about. It was merely Dr. Fritz Alter, whose studies and interests admittedly went over Daniel’s head during any discussions at previous soirees. So yes, that man was now an advanced medical graduate, free to practice, free to examine, free to touch him wherever he wished with those same filthy hands that he once used to hold him down and–
Despite his spontaneous and unexplainable vomiting during his examination, Dr. Alter deemed Daniel fit enough to be able to work again.
That visitation was a few weeks ago. Now Daniel stares mournfully into the eyes of his own reflection, a ghostly sort of projection of himself on the surface of a shimmering tray; his hands, holding it above the basin, are strongly foamed up with a dense layer of soap and suds. He nearly forgets his intentions with the platter that morning. After being instructed to organize the rooms upstairs, to tend to the gardens, to practically do everyone else’s unfinished work as he always does, he was also ordered to clean the dishes of remnants from supper. Unfortunately, he forgets himself, unable to draw his attention away from the permanent scratch on his right cheek. A small but obvious mark, paler than his already porcelain-like complexion–generously provided by way of Leopold's wedding band, slicing open the skin when he backhanded him about a month or so prior. Frowning, he prods at it inquisitively. It had yet to fade even remotely, serving as a rotten, public reminder. The deep teeth marks in his opposite shoulder, compliments of the same man, were a similar story, but at least he could conceal all of that beneath his uniform.
”Do you… think it looks bad, Master?” he thought to ask, somewhat timidly, slowly submerging the silver into the filled sink. The last gala had chipped away at different parts of the boy, some more noticeable than others. He was thankful his voice had returned to normal, still quiet of course. Every now and then when he speaks, however, he’s noticed that he starts to hack for no apparent reason, for his trachea is not entirely unimpaired.
The mirror image of his master joins his, and at once, he feels solid, strong arms snake around his narrow waist. The man pulls him against his chest; the boy surely wouldn’t mind after all, he was the one who liked him most, and that knowledge was only solidified by the sight of a flush crawling up his collar at the intimate touches. “You look gorgeous, darling,” he reassures him, and for proper measure, presses his lips against the scar.
A chaste act, but having his master’s mouth anywhere on his soft skin always has his nerves tingling. A lovesick, tipsy little grin blooms. The occasions in which his master provides him any affection are rare; he had yet to actually make love to him, much to Daniel’s dismay. He often catches himself fantasizing about it, about the man’s body atop his, weighing him down into the bed, or the sofa, or even the kitchen counter he was leant up against—what did it matter, he would gladly have him anywhere. Hargrove could have him in any manner he wanted, truthfully, and he would be just as pliant. But in his own head, he likes to imagine he would be gentle. That while the fabric of the bedsheets rustled beneath the writhing, punch-drunk wreck of a boy, Hargrove would spread his legs apart and take him nice and slow.
He would not treat him as horribly as his associates had.
Just as quickly, he reeled himself back to the present whenever he found himself daydreaming about such lewd actions–not because the man is truly, inconceivably awful in all possible ways and Daniel has yet to fully internalize that, but because it was so unbefitting for a good-natured servant to have perversions featuring his own master. How crude. They’re shamefully improper thoughts, and until his master (hopefully, one day) actually returns his devotions, they need to be sealed up.
Hargrove’s stubble, carefully trimmed, scratches faintly into his cheek. A pleasant shiver weaves its way up Daniel’s back, and he feels the man break into an expectant smile against him.
Another flight of fancy. In times like this, during the infrequent moments where Hargrove was at least semi-reserved, Daniel liked to cope by fully imagining domesticity: that Archer was not his master, and he were not his slave, that they could be–in essence–a couple. And he would gladly play the doting spouse who just so happened to cook, clean, and take care of nearly every matter about the mansion. They could be normal that way, perhaps, and maybe sometimes the man would even set his tasks aside and kiss the boy, lovingly, with his arms around him, before he had to depart for whatever matters he had awaiting him. What Daniel wouldn’t give for the care of that hypothetical version of his master. It eases the pain, because a man like that would never put him through what his master had, nor make preparations for that dreadful night to repeat itself.
When Archer exhales, his breath whisps against the side of Daniel’s face. ”If you’re so worried about it,” the master continued, replacing his lips with the tip of his finger, prodding at the scratch himself, “you can use Jenevieve’s cosmetics and cover it up before the company arrives.”
All it took was that brief, impassive sigh from Archer to reel him back from his daydream with all the strength of a raging stampede. Such a simple proposition, so casually delivered, was devastating enough to shatter an entirely developed illusion like glass.
His suggestion practically knocked the wind out of Daniel. Nausea sunk into the bottom of his stomach, almost akin, he imagined, to a stone being carelessly tossed into a river. He staggers on his feet and struggles to stabilize himself, clutching onto the edge of the kitchen counter like a lifeline–a raft to a drowning man. Master Hargrove is kind enough to keep him balanced with his hold, but his touch admittedly grows more irksome than he would care to admit. His throat runs dry so fast he is painfully reminded of his ailment, as well as a few other unfortunate details.
Oh yes, it all comes back to him now. How could he have forgotten in the first place? Surely it must have been blocked from his memory by his pitying conscience. The first time his master ever actually kissed his mouth was succeeded by a promise; I’ll ensure they treat you properly next time. Right, he nearly couldn't comprehend it with how heavenly it felt to be in Archer’s embrace for the first time ever, but remembering it now, outside his false affections, he’s left nearly faint. Archer finally released him from his comforting grasp.
His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth, but he wills it to lift. He has to. Because maybe he just didn’t hear him right. “B. Before company arrives?” he stammers a repetition, and swivels immediately to meet his master’s stare.
Archer remains just as composed as he always is, if not a bit perplexed. “Why yes,” he confirmed. “We’re fit to have another gala tonight. The men really couldn’t stop singing your praises, believe me, and Fritz is bringing a potential business partner from Moscow, so it’s only fair.”
Silently, he delights in the usual reactions of terror; without a single change in his disposition, he watches the color drain completely from Daniel’s visage, and it seems the boy can do nothing but stare back at his master in a paralyzed shock.
”Do… you not remember, Daniel?” he asked after some fake consideration. “I thought I told you the plans for tonight."
He hadn’t.
”Oh dear, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”
The different characteristics and preferences, rather the different, moral degeneracies of each of his comrades are too familiar to him, even just after one night. Oh dear God, why did his master even have to mention them in the first place? Just thinking of them makes him feverishly sick. Daniel feels their hands upon him even now. Suddenly, he felt as though he had been thrust back into the parlor again, as perfectly preserved memories filled his head. Bitten. Torn. Struck. Suffocating. Screaming–he can hear his own screaming, shrill and helpless, only partially overpowered by the amused laughter of sadistic patrons. It takes him all too long to return to his reality, that he’s merely standing on tile instead of hardwood, that there’s a convection oven across from him instead of an expansive maroon sofa. It’s pathetic how he can hardly stand the sight of the color red on furniture without thinking about that night.
His hands began to tremble. “M-Master,” he tries, forcing a crooked and faint smile to his face. Perhaps the man would take pity on him, if he remained as kindly and gentle as he always was. That worked oh so well the last time he begged him for mercy. “Do you think that maybe, the gala can happen tomorrow instead?”
”Are you complaining about our arrangement, Bennet?” There it was again, his dreadful last name, spoken with the disappointment of a resentful parent. Hargrove was well-versed in the art of setting the boy off. It’s hardly necessary to spare him even a glance, but he does anyway; he's perfectly aware the question will sicken him enough to comply, implying that he's disobedient is an oft used trigger.
Daniel found himself spiraling again. The dear boy was no match for his master’s careful manipulation. “No! No, Master, never!” he assured him, shaking his head frantically. “It’s just…” He struggles to think of something. “I’m a bit tired today after completing my work, but I promise I’ll be ready for it by tomorrow.” He knows exceedingly well that a fate like his is unavoidable, and he doesn’t have the faith in his body, or his psyche, to be able to withstand that torture a second time, but perhaps if he were to put it aside–mentally prepare for the horrors that would befall him in that awful room, he could bear it a little better than the first time.
The man catches those jittery, cold hands of his subordinate in a manner that would pretext kindness in one of Daniel’s fantasies, but this was not another one of his late night fancies. This was real. ”Oh, but Daniel, my associates have already been invited,” the man clicks his tongue, frowning almost disappointedly and he uses a tone so condescending even his servant could hear it. “After they go through all the trouble to come here, I can't just send them home.” He pretends to mull over the idea, because oh, he just couldn’t bear to see the poor soul like this. After a moment, he conjures up a wonderful solution. “I suppose I can have them spend the night. Yes, they’ll stay here and we can have the gala tomorrow. In the meantime, you can tend to their rooms individually, to keep them placated. What a marvelous idea, Daniel.”
They're adversaries in a duel of outwitting the other, except one of them is not aware of any manipulation taking place at all. It's like a game of cards, but Daniel has the wrong deck entirely, and he's fumbling about with his hand as he desperately plays along.
The nervous jittering traveled beyond his hands now. “No!” he cries out almost on instinct. “No! I. I don’t want that.” He hates it. He hates that his voice is already thick from the threat of tears. Even with how close he is to the brink of snapping, he maintains the facade of being semi-composed, being okay with his reservations as a permanent replacement for Sawyer. Who no one has fucking seen. “It’s just… I was working all day today,” he attempted to reason again, averting his gaze from his master, “and I’m so dreadfully tired and I… I… W-Where’s Elison?”
He changed the subject, for it seemed like the older attendant had been missing from the estate for quite some time, and well, he had quite an important role in all of this; Elison would be there to help him prepare for such a sordid event just like he did before, but more importantly he would be his council, talk him through the budding panic that was already evident in his breath.
Archer sighs as he drops an empty mug from the counter into Daniel’s unsteady grasp, another dish for him to wash despite how distraught he clearly is. ”I’m afraid I had to send Elison away for the evening on an errand,” he admitted almost regretfully, "but don’t worry. Mr. Thatch said he would be happy enough to ensure you’re open and ready for them.”
Just when Daniel thought he was regaining control of himself, it all slips away again. His fingers drive into the sides of the mug, he can hear the ceramic chirp and clink beneath his nails. “Jason,” he repeats with profound horror. The worst of them all, the one who sought to cause him such horrible pain from the very beginning. The one that wanted him punished for no other reason than his own entertainment. He would never forget the way he, when Daniel had shrieked himself mute, encouraged him to make that noise again to get him to stop, fully aware that he couldn’t. His master wouldn’t be callous enough to put Daniel in his care, surely. “After what he did to me? You can’t let him do that, you can’t!”
Master Hargrove raises a brow at that, such a simple gesture that has the servant immediately snap his mouth shut. "What did you say, Daniel?" he asked slowly, a warning followed by a chuckle so misplaced the boy flinches away. "For a moment it sounded as though you were telling me I can't do something. I can do whatever it is that I want. It would do you good to remember that."
Daniel's lips stammered to say something, to apologize, to utter anything other than the inconsequential stutters currently slipping out, but it was no use. His collar must be too tight around his neck, because for a while, he seems to be completely unable to breathe properly. But he cannot loosen his tie either, for his body has seized up; he’s a mechanism wound so taut the gears are about to shuffle and crack. Everything feels like it's collapsing, like if he were to take one step, the ground would crumble beneath him. He would almost prefer whatever that hypothetical void would await him more than this conversation. With this, he’s hopeless. There’s no air. There’s no help. He’s stuck. The tears welling up in his eyes finally shed and he dropped to his knees before the man's feet in an instant. Muffled into his hands, he sobbed out, "Oh please don't let them hurt me again, Master! I’ll do anything else you ask of me, I promise! Just not that! Anything but that!"
His heartfelt plea meets nothing but venomous silence, and soon enough Daniel finds the courage to lift his head and take in his master's expression. It's a cold one, threaded with the utmost condemnation; not even a single twinge of sympathy or regret flickers in his gaze. Daniel knows those eyes. They're the ones his superior gave him at the first gala, when the boy had the wherewithal to glance over at him at the beginning of the night, when Leopold sought to have his way with him. That evident hatred sparks enough pain in his nerves on is own, and with everything going through his system right now, it only worsens his panic. "Please don't look at me like that!" he heaved. An itch burns its way up his throat and he’s back to hacking again, hacking and sobbing. God, what has he done? Master Hargrove despises him and it's all his fault. What a useless wretch. "I'll do anything else, I promise! I'll tend to the gardens. I'll empty the eavestrough. I'll make sure the house is clean and tidy without a sign of living, just please! I don't want them to touch me. Please don't let them touch me, master! I can't go through that again."
Something in his bargaining convinces Archer to give him the slightest leniency, and his scowl began to unfurrow. He releases a sigh that's as gentle as a cross breeze. "Daniel, Daniel, Daniel," he starts, disapproving, "whatever am I to do with you? You have such little faith in me."
Daniel hiccups, and his misery takes a brief sideline for confusion when the man kneels by his side. Reaching out, he cradles the young man's jaw, soothingly stroking away his tears with his thumb.
"Now I distinctly remember promising that they would treat you gently the next time around. You have my word, Daniel, that they will not torture you. It will be different, I swear by it.”
Last time, his master had promised that they would not physically harm him, and yet he spent the past few minutes studying a burdensome scar left behind in the wake of teeth and nails.
”I know you don’t want this, and it’s not your usual purpose, but that’s what makes you my favorite, Daniel. You’re always so good about taking over when needed, aren’t you?” He caresses his pseudo-lover’s damp face in both of his palms, and bends to ensure he’s eye-level—not that it would matter, Daniel’s eyelids have fluttered closed, unsuccessfully vying to keep the tears from leaking. “You’re so adaptable. Even when you were first brought to the manor, you hardly asked any questions.” So he towed the boy closer to him, lets his sniveling face conceal itself into the nook of his shoulder, and he gently smooths down ruffled black hair. As if it would make matters any better, he adds a trivial compliment, “You know, all the men I know find you to be quite beautiful. Who in their right mind wouldn't want to spend the night in your company?”
The body within his arms stiffens up. What a shame, it can't be helped. Hargrove tires of using manipulation tactics on the boy; he knows he will cave, but his patience whittles thin in the interim. There's a reason he's chosen Daniel as opposed to Noah or Henry, or any of the nameless figures that scurry throughout the corridors, because with the pathetic thing currently quivering at his chest, all it would take is one murmur of praise, one kiss, one look perhaps, and he'd be there in an instant, practically begging to be ravaged. A tremendously predictable bore. The other hand not threaded through black strands rubs up his back, and then down, maybe once or twice, to soothe the coughing enough to have a logical discussion.
"Please," comes the pitiful blabbering of a protest that has already weakened, "don't make me."
”Make you? Daniel, don’t be ridiculous, I would never make you do anything. It was you who agreed to it in the first place.” He pats his head with a false understanding. “’Yes, master, anything for you.’ I believe those are the exact words you said. And even before then, you assured me you would do anything I ask of you. So why now are you freezing up?”
Hargrove takes great pains to steel himself, not balking at the sensations of his coat sparged with tears and snot–the filth of his young attendant, no matter how much he wants to, in order to keep up the charade. He’ll have to change out of these clothes before the others arrive, and explaining that the lad destined to be his most committed servant needed this much convincing would warrant mockery; why, how could someone as powerful as him, not get one person, who claimed to have such affections for him, under his control? That was a feat he often bragged about. A faithful servant who would relentlessly obey.
After another minute or so of having his hair played with, of being steadily swayed in a warm embrace that emanates of expensive cologne, Daniel settles down as he realizes just how unreasonable he’s being. He must be the luckiest boy in the world to have a master so sympathetic, to not whip him or beat him for disobeying a command.
Daniel pulls himself away and together, wiping away the mess of himself with his sleeve. His eyes just won’t stop watering even so. Archer provides him with another consoling pet of his head. Ah, there was the spark. Such a tragedy that it took longer than usual. All those minutes spent trying to calm him down would be better suited for provisions.
Daniel takes one look at the state of Hargrove’s suit jacket and nearly croaks. “Master, I’m– please forgive me, I didn’t mean—”
”It’s quite alright, Daniel,” Archer claims, his smile more of a cringe than anything else. Another idea. Another aim that will have the boy in the palm of his hand… and other hands. “But if you could assist me in getting dressed, it would be much appreciated.”
Daniel sniffles. ”Yes, Master, right away.”
~~~
The sterling silver fork rattles in his hand, and every time he sets down a piece of flatware, he needs to adjust it, for it is near impossible to steady himself. Nothing can be crooked. Everything has to be perfect. It’s not all bad, he convinces himself, as he tailors the setting when needed; he gets to ensure the table is presentable, a task usually reserved for two. A task usually reserved for those who are not expected to ‘entertain’ company. His master would be quite pleased with him if he managed to perfect it on his lonesome. And when he finishes, he strikes a match across its box, and ignites the wick of each candle on the candelabra. Maybe he would pretend that it was to be a casual dinner party, one of those events his master used to have in the early weeks of his employment, where he could watch all the pretty guests in their swathing gowns and vestments. He, Sawyer and Elison used to stay behind whenever they could, and the elder would make a game out of it to pass the time. Sawyer’s earnest attempts to impersonate the visitors amused Daniel, who always had to guess the victim of his pantomime, and Elison would always feign annoyance and insist that secretly ridiculing the opulent would get them both lashed.
His heart plummets at the recollection that he would not see another function as innocuous as that. That was no longer his role.
His role was–
The antique clock strikes a bellowing chime. The stubby, well-crafted hand descends over the mark of five. He only has an hour left.
The mantle is void of dust, the floors have been swept three times over—it seems every element has been properly prepared and is set for the arrival of the guests, all except him. Daniel settles his nausea by reinstating the fact that he, himself, agreed to this, and it was no one’s fault but his own. Because his master said so, and his master was never wrong. He abandons the study when all is deemed pristine enough, and because he has little time to himself before he's cursed with bearing the brunt of lechery, he considers escaping to the library upstairs. All he wanted was a brief reprieve from his own mind. His own troubles. Archer, nevertheless, refuses him that right, for the moment the heel of Daniel's shoe connects with the carpetry of the first step, he is startled by the other man's presence.
"Where do you think you're going?" inquires his master from the top of the stairs.
And because the man effectively created a blockade from reaching the plateau of the second floor, he provides an honest answer, “I was hoping I could visit the library, for just a moment before the others come.”
Archer steps out of the way at that, with a noticeably gentler disposition. “Ah, yes, the library,” he mused, pulling down the cuff of his freshly cleaned coat to check his watch. “Of course. We have some time, don’t we? But before you go, please dust the foyer. It’s positively vile.”
”Yes, master…” he replied, though it saddened him. He was unable to remember the last time he had seen that room, and now he wanted it more that ever. If only, just for a second, to lock himself somewhere quiet and collect himself. He… wasn’t well.
As dejected as Daniel was upon returning to the lower levels of the house, he knew his master was not requesting much of him: one of his most prized skills, he would have the entryway suitable in no time at all. The main issue was he would sacrifice the break he could spend in the atheneum. After he substantially took a duster to the wooden engravings, the frames, and the classical sculptures, his excuse to leave was nonexistent, for the long mechanical ring of the doorbell burgeoned throughout the manor.
Daniel felt his blood freeze over as he turned to the front door, abandoning the dustcloth in a nearby cupboard. He waited optimistically for someone else to answer to whomever stood outside, but it was him alone in the entry, and the bell chimed again.
The servant steeled himself—deep breath in, out—and finally twisted open the door. He should have figured what to expect, but when he finally sees with his own two eyes who the first visitor is, he somewhat joins the marble carvings of the house in an almost impressive stillness. He stares widely at the man on the front porch, and his hand tightens around the handle of the knob until his knuckles whiten.
”Oh, hello Danny,” Jason Thatch greets him with just as much surprise. Whether or not it is genuine is another story. A spindly blonde with wild eyes. He was standing with deceptively harmless passivity, his arms raveled beneath the folds of a coat, no longer necessary to shield him from the storm blazing just beyond the portico. A normal man to anyone who had not had the misfortune of acquainting themselves with him. But there was a chip in his facade in the form of rabid gestures: a grin that was much too wide to be comfortable, and a predatory, stalking mimicry of a walk that had the boy stumbling back when he entered. “What a pleasure it is to see you again.”
The memories of Jason’s perversity suck the very breath out of Daniel’s mouth. He could not even answer him. It was almost as if he had gone mute again.
Jason takes a step or two forward, not towards the salon where he was expected, but towards the immobilized servant. “I do hope there are no hard feelings about what happened the other night.” The remorse of his tongue does not match his expression. There’s nothing there. Nothing but patience, for he awaits a return to his sentiments.
Daniel’s eyes begin to well up again, and he becomes aware that Jason can see his emotions whirling from that same tell-tale beam, no matter how much he endeavors to blink them away. His stomach sinks. The itch of his recurrent illness rears its head, and he has to swallow down a debilitating cough. His throat burns.
Leopold Redd, Jason’s younger, married suitor and partner in crime in more ways than one, lingered not far behind either; he expels a huff of cigarette smoke, and upon crossing the threshold, spots Daniel. He doesn’t exchange the same, false warmth as his counterpart. He’s the opposite side of the same coin: a grim figure, looking upon Daniel with disgust. There was no doubt in the world that the duo would be in tow. They’re like animals, a bloodthirsty pack that feeds on the defenseless together.
So awful, such awful men, and he could not say a word about it in his master’s presence. All he can do is return a painted smile of his own. “…Water under the bridge,” he says, even if his voice wavers and he wants to cry.
Jason’s lips quirk even wider, if that were even possible. “Good, good,” he chimed, “I’m so glad to hear that. You know, I do look forward to spending more time with you tonight.” He encroaches upon any semblance of personal space, his face merely inches away from the boy’s. “I want to get to know you more intimately.” He withdraws only when Daniel’s scared witless at the implications, and not without cackling at him.
The others pile in shortly thereafter, and as Daniel extracts a seat for each of them at the table, he recognizes all of them except one. There was Jason, and Leopold, of course, lounged at the end closest to his master’s upholstered armchair, and Dr. Fritz Alter and Benjamin Solace on the opposite side. Sebastian Parker, for once, was surprisingly not in attendance—deemed too much of a sot to be worth straggling along, his master insisted. Too risky, to have someone like that embarrass him in front of what would be an esteemed cast. In his stead, a middle-aged man, who had to duck beneath the arch of the mull in order to step through, emerged.
A brown, woolen overcoat draped over stocky shoulders, he had no more expression than irritance. Grave, precise features like slightly yellow ivory were staggered by a permanent glare; a sullen mouth, defined by a scraggly beard, sank at the corners into the little folds filled with resentment. Daniel could not help but gawk at the person, more oak than man. His hands teeter when he receives his wool, and hangs it with the others upon a rack close by. He bears a striking resemblance to someone’s else in the ballroom. The boy catches himself reflecting, that if the newcomer’s brooding appearance were just the slightest bit different—had he not been as giant, or had he trimmed the hair on his face—he would almost look like… he would look just like Master Hargrove. At some point during his unconscious study of the man, Daniel meets his amber eyes and in an instant averts away, but he can still feel the stranger’s gaze upon him. It doesn’t leave, even after his associate gives the proper announcement.
”This is the man I was telling you about,” Fritz beckons to the towering figure and introduces him in his usual gravely heavily-accented way. “Vikentiy Nikolaev II, adviser to the Tsar and the head of his military cabinet.“
They trade inconsequential pleasantries, and introductions, and Hargrove issues information on the guests. The candlelight flickers, but their talks of business matters and so on continues normally, as they always do during these events. The attendant usually tunes it all out, but this time he does not have a choice. There’s a symphony of chaos in the back of his head, and everyone’s voice is a warbled mess. He focuses on nothing but the bottle in his hands, the wine glass on the table that he has to fill. For now, it was all just… normal. A normal gala, as he had been promised. He’s the drink bearer.
The matters of the real world crack down on him like a whip before he can grow comfortable in his familiar job, those close enough grapple and grope at him. Without even sparing Daniel a glance, Jason’s icy hand slithers beneath the hem of his clothes, sliding up his back. The servant’s skin crawls, but squirming away, the touch merely follows him as far as it can. As he escapes his grasp, he’s left vulnerable to another as he tries to pour spirits for Leopold. The boy is a walking invitation for that kind of exploration; Hargrove's colleagues are impatient men, why wait until they are officially permitted to have him? He’s here, isn’t he? They can touch him now.
Everyone does, save for Vikentiy, who merely stares at him with the same scrutiny and perhaps a pinch of suspicion. Daniel can’t read whatever is going on there, so he quickly moves on. Some of their points of conference become increasingly perceptible to the one individual that doesn’t want to listen.
”Before we continue with formalities, I must congratulate you on your wonderful achievement, Herr Fritz,” interjects Jason. He thoughtfully traced the rim of his glass with a fingertip. “You know, one of these days, you really must bring along some of those awful instruments of yours. I’d love to see how they work firsthand. A speculum, perhaps.”
Fritz chuckled, not so much at the idea, but the way he catches Daniel tense up in the corner of his eye. “Your fascination with medical tools is quite macabre, Mr. Thatch.”
Jason chooses not to deny the accusation; why bother? He was not ashamed to admit it was true. “Perhaps. Leo was thinking about joining the field once, weren’t you?”
”I spent a year at university before realizing there was no merit in it,” Leopold admitted. He warms the air with more ash, another blow from his cigarette.
At the northern side of the table, Daniel bitterly sneers to himself at that confession. It made perfect sense coming from Leo, who certainly could not wrap his head around the concept of aiding someone instead of harming them; to him and his partner, medical instruments and the like are no more than torture devices put to tragic misuse. The boy doesn’t even know where to begin dissecting what that must mean for the ill-fated, impoverished men and women under Leopold and/or Jason’s employ. He had only a small, uncharacteristically sarcastic question about Leo’s unsatisfied quest for a doctorate:
Shouldn’t a man who studied medicine know not to smoke like a chimney?
And Daniel only realizes he has uttered that thought aloud—by way of his usual gentle whisper of a tone—after the parlor falls dead silent and all attention is promptly redirected to him. Whatever misplaced confidence had possessed him to voice his conceptions vanished into thin air. The only thing stopping him from clasping a hand over his own mouth with deeply burrowed regret is his handle around the neck of the liquor bottle, constricting instead, like he wants to throttle it. What on earth had gotten into him? That was so unlike him, it leaves the young servant mortified. The potential effects of speaking off the cuff frighten him as well; the men did not need any more incentive to hurt him. His heart thunders wildly, and his eyes, wide and terrified, cast themselves to each pair of disdainful ones. Leopold appears to have hunger of his own that can't be suppressed with the dinner on his plate; he leers at Daniel as if he's imagining treating him like that decanter of his, strangling him with his bare hands. Jason becomes the voice of reason, bizarrely enough, whispering something unheard into his ear that has the rage in his appearance slowly dwindle.
His master fixates on him with a virtually equivalent murderous intent. The page boy came to the conclusion that he was, as some experts would say, royally fucked.
“I-I’m sorry!” Daniel instantly splutters, bowing apologetically. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn, Mr. Redd. I didn't mean what I said, really.”
"You must forgive him. The stress must be taking a toll," Master Hargrove chuckles to clear the uncomfortable tension brewing between a gathering of gentry and a servant who seems to have let his impulses get the best of him. Unacceptable, he would deal with that in private. "Always overworking himself, it was only a matter of time before something slipped. He didn't mean anything by it."
Leopold flicks some of the ash from the cartridge, grumbling flatly, ”Don’t worry, Hargrove. I’m sure he'll find some way to make it up to me.”
Daniel shrinks away from them, but Hargrove captures his arm before he can make himself a total recluse. “Daniel… darling, would you be so kind as to fetch The Box from my bedroom upstairs?” He explains in a whisper, sooner than the boy can protest about retrieving that awful black case, “In the meantime, I’ll tell them what we agreed upon: to be gentle with you. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten.”
The servant doesn’t want this, he’s afraid, yet he flashes a miniscule, indebted smile all the same. His wonderful master, a saint, who—although must force his hand and manipulate Daniel into consorting with devils—is so considerate no matter what, even after that screw-up. That was the least he wanted, if he had to go through with this at all, he begs for the terror to be reigned in. He scurries off towards the egress of the parlor and makes his temporary leave.
”You want us to be gentle with him?” asks Benjamin, a man, out of all of the patrons, that had the most benevolent tendencies; granted, that would not be saying much, but the way he utters every vocalization of his is a relaxing lull of a tenor. His inquiry is genuine, because he would agree to such terms with good grace if it meant he could have easier access to the lithe frame concealed beneath modest attire.
Indeed, Hargrove wields, in his commands, more power than even he fully comprehends; a wealthy tradesman, a German doctor, a Russian royal advisor, an art dealer with a sadistic kick, and his business associate from New York—regardless of what eclectic lineup crowds around the board, they look to him. The five, in comparison to Archer, hold a drop more influence than the average servant on the grounds of his estate. He could demand they leave, or that they treat his newest hire as they would a precious jewel, worship him, or that they tear him limb from limb. It was up to him. And him alone.
For a moment, this knowledge crashes down upon him, not that it had ever fully left, but he mulls on it as Benjamin’s query remains unresolved. The master of the house gnaws at the inside of his cheek, then straightens his jaw. He has a reputation and it was not defined by kindness. Or honesty. The five are expectant. A few factors alter his judgment: Leopold continues to silently fume at his chair, Jason kneads his shoulders with a far off gaze—his mind occupied with all the creative ways he could make Daniel plead—and then there was the most recent addition. Vikentiy, a wordless observer at the end of the table, was promised by Fritz to have his unearthly fantasies fulfilled by a boy that had endured the unthinkable.
A strange feeling, troublingly unfamiliar, rushes through Archer's chest when his verdict is reached. “Don’t be ridiculous, Benjamin.” He ensures the boy is out of earshot, elsewhere completely, before he tells them, “Give him hell.”
~~~
In the page’s absence, the diplomatic code progresses evermore. Some of them have their own concerns, which they take this opportunity to seek advice for. Jason, being one of them, who laments over his third glass of champagne—upon deciding the wine was too sweet for him, naturally—about the conditions of his latest recruitment, “My dear maid, Elisha, Emma, Elizabeth-“
”Emilia,” Leopold counters.
”Whatever her name is,” the blonde spitefully waves him off, “still cowers from me every time I come near her. It’s appallingly exhausting.” His vent aside, he tinkers with a slender vial of oil, retracted from his own pocket; it patiently waits its purpose of slicking up something tight and unwelcoming. “How do you do it, Archer? You’ve signed Daniel up for this turmoil and he’s still hopelessly devoted to you. I must know your secret.”
This drive of puppetting his young servant came frightfully easy, but all he implemented were the similar strategies he had always applied to each employee. But Daniel cares not for the gifts he has bought him over the years, trinkets–books, clothes, things that remind him of his lost family–used to buy his obedience, and he genuinely cannot fathom what he did differently to have the boy fawning over him the way he does. Hargrove shares his usual methods even so, “In the event of receiving a new servant to your estate, they’re almost always terrified. You have to establish some form of trust. Gift them something. Something suitable to their interests. Say, for example, you have a servant who likes to play piano. You also have an old music room: no one goes in there, all the instruments are beyond repair and most keys to the piano are missing, it’s practically useless. You give the servant the honor of being the only one permitted to access it. That, along with continuing to be kinder than their perception of you, and you’ll have them at your feet forever. It does help if they’ve been properly conditioned beforehand, of course.”
Benjamin squints slightly at that. “And what if they discover that this conservatory is useless?” he asks the obvious.
”They won’t. You order them to work, and work, and work, and they’ll never have enough time to properly explore it. But they’ll always remember it. And they’ll be oh so grateful.”
Jason rises from his seat and shoots back the rest of his drink. “I’m bored,” he announces with no decorum whatsoever, “Where is he?”
”You don’t think he’s fled, do you?”
No one, much less Benjamin, the one to voice that concern, understands what about that suggestion sets the man off so unexpectedly, but his fist crashes the table in a fury. The others, at least some of the less sturdy members of the board, jerk at the explosion. Either it’s the statement that Daniel would snap out of his obedience training, or the insinuation that he would leave the estate on its own, and Master Hargrove just cannot for the life of him figure out which one was worse. ”Not a chance,” he presses, “he would never.” His shoulders visibly untensed, and he cleared his throat abjectly. “And even if he did, Noah would chase him down and drag him back.”
The grandfather clock ticks away sequential seconds. Once. Twice. Thrice. The pendulum swings incessantly behind the beveled glass, then the chime bounds through the silence. Seven o’clock on the dot, when ‘it’ usually began.
The servant could have slipped out the front door while the others were distracted amongst themselves, but regrettably, Daniel was never late. The boy knew better than that, to even try something along that front, no longer did he have a disobedient bone in his body; he has his moments, surely, where he gets too comfortable, and assumes Master Hargrove will listen to him, or his thoughts somehow bleed into words, but that was the extent of it. He returns to the study, with a shiny black case tucked within his arms and his head lowered. He dreads meeting the gaze of any of them, of seeing the wolfish, perverted gloats of vultures. So, he remains absorbed in anything else, perhaps, the spotless floorboards, even better, his own stride—so perfect, so graceful, so petrified, and he eventually reaches his overseer’s side of the table.
Without a complaint, he gently sets down the small chest housing the infernal contraption and slides it towards Hargrove. His master accepts it, and assesses its contents: the carmine silk keeps it hidden, but it is there. The shimmer of durable steel protrudes from one of the folds. “You remember the rules, I trust?” he asks, collapsing the lid.
”Yes, Master.”
”Say them.”
Daniel wrings his hands before him, and gulps down an unsettled breath. “Don’t push them away,” he recites, “don’t tell them to stop, don’t leave a mess.” He falters at the following repetition. It’s filthy, but redundant. “And don’t c-come.”
”Good.” Archer lifts from his chair and offers Daniel a once over, a brief inspection. The boy actively tries to will away the glassiness of his vision as his master circles around him, straying much too close. His breath sends a sharp, uncomfortable jutter up the servant’s spine, as he murmurs from behind his back, “Now, strip.”
Simple, but harsh, and the authority in the way he voices his command is enough to have his attendant’s unsteady hands raise up as a result; he struggles to grasp at the knot of his tie, fidgeting, but he eventually is able to unwind the fabric. Never before has this been asked of him. Humiliation heats him a pale red as he is subjected to the unwavering gaze of the five, all of whom have taken up occupancy on the loveseat. Watching. Waiting. Where the help has three rules to follow, they have one: do nothing that would leave permanent damage. The silk leisurely slides around the nape of his neck, almost unconsciously. He feels so detached from himself, his grip tightens and unlaxes in a cyclical fashion at his side with the tie threaded between his hold. He agreed to this, he'll endure it, it will hurt, but he'll survive—all this and more, a shallow reassurance to himself, repeated over and over and over and over until he actually believes it.
Yes, yes, it will be fine. More than fine. He weathered the brutality before, and all he had to do was ride it out again. And again. For as long as he lived at the estate. His fingers descended upon the buttons of his collar, plucking open the dress shirt and the black waistcoat till at long last, the cotton pools around his shoulders, unveiling smooth, sensitive skin that is–aside from a dental pattern forever scarred into the muscle of his shoulder–void of imperfections. A blank canvas fit for destruction. The lights blurred into an indecipherable slurry of nothing, and he had the sudden urge to brush away the stream forming beneath his eyes. Is he crying? Already? Even his own mind conspires against him.
Don’t cry, Daniel. They haven’t done anything to you yet.
Next was his belt, the metal buckle clinks open. Such a minuscule clatter is all that fills the deathly soundless chamber. Prohibited from keeping them waiting any longer, he fraily exhaled, hooked his thumbs around his trousers, which already started to skid below his waist, and let them gather around his ankles. And soon, his undergarments, the last piece of protection, the final layer of dignity he longs to keep reserved for himself, was also shed. Daniel stands bare in front of an audience of spectators, of eager future participators, trembling every once in a while at the chill or the unfathomable yearning complete strangers have to wreck him. He grows alarmingly self-conscious of his own appearance at an inopportune time, and his legs press together and his arms wind their way around his frame out of habit.
His meager gestures derive chuckles and amused murmurs from the guests. They have seen this much, and many of them had seen so much more, so covering himself up was a worthless endeavor. Jason leans his back against the boardrest of the couch, and, with the hand that is not currently clutching a bottle of oil, pats his thigh. The ridiculing sneer he always dawns overstays its welcome. “Come now, Daniel,” he orders with all the casualty of an owner taking their hound for a walk, and adds at the boy’s hesitation, “Don’t worry, I don’t bite. Leo does.”
So hopeless, it’s all so hopeless. He hardly even registers taking the first step towards the lounge, or the second, he recognizes that he’s moving because there’s no other choice for him. Even when he has control over his own actions, he doesn’t, influenced only by the circumstances around him. When he is close enough, he suppresses a sob and strews himself across Jason’s lap, face down. He jolts when Jason’s—it must belong to Jason, it’s positively freezing—hand strokes across his shoulder blades and faintly outlines the lean planes of back. Lower, lower, it travels; Daniel flinches despite knowing its destination, and shuts his eyes when it begins to knead curiously at the curve of his ass. Jason detracts from him with a pleased hum rumbling from the back of his throat. Daniel hears a slosh of viscous liquid, the unscrewing of a metallic lid, and the fingers return, now lukewarm and slick.
The man’s index dips between the cleft, traces slow circles along the sensible muscle without pushing in just yet. He slickens the rosy rim of his hole tentatively. Daniel breathes out in preparation. He supposed he should have been grateful they were using actual lubricant instead of spit this time, but also, it was Jason, renowned for his lack of compassion, so he doesn’t delude himself by assuming it will be any better. And he was right to do so: as soon as he adjusts to the blunt tip rubbing at an area rarely ever touched, the man takes the opportunity to shove in two digits at once.
Daniel feels white hot pain set his nerves on fire. A yelp leaves his mouth and he makes a grand effort to wriggle away, but the fingers move inside of him, stretching, curling. Relentless. Jason catches him by his hip, and eases in another, warning him, ”Try not to move too much, my pet, you’ll hurt yourself.” The preparation is easy on Jason, no doubt; he’s unnaturally tight, but the oil is the perfect temperature and his bony fingers are so slippery that his sphincter accepts them far and deep.
It burns. His feet drag against whoever’s leg, bucking, futilely trying to distance himself from his touch. Laughing, he can hear them all laughing at him. What about his suffering was so hilarious? ”W-Wait, please!” he begs. “Why are you—ah, oh God, please! I can’t!”
Jason’s cackle ruffles his hair. ”Of course you can. You’ve taken so much bigger.”
He wasn’t wrong, and the digits weren’t particularly wide, but they were long and crooked and unpleasant. Still, a part of him wants to ask what he had ever done to the blonde to make him despise him so, but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to find such eloquent words. His hands open and close around nothing, then claw into the surface of the cushion below, as those grease-coated fingers scissor him open at a sick tempo, in, out, stretch, in, repeat—the ring clamps around them and he winces at the sting. His body wants them out, but can’t do anything about it.
Jason purposefully scratches across sensitive tissue. Although tempted to plunge in a fourth finger, the three withdraw as he decides against it. There was no use in making the servant too open. No one likes a loose whore. “There we go. I think he’s ready.”
”Ready?” Benjamin objects that theory by shoving one of his own fingers in, ignoring the frustrated and displeased groan of the attendant. It disappears down to the third knuckle with no resistance at all. “I suppose. Though you barely spent any time on him.”
”Forgive me for being impatient, Mr. Solace, but I’ve been eyeing him all night. If I don’t have him now, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
”And I suppose that means you’ll want to go first?” Fritz cuts in.
”What is that supposed to mean? Of course I should go first. You were the first last time, you had your fun.”
The same bickering that occurred at the first gala ignites into yet another argument, and the boy, with his face obscured into the plush furniture and his head spinning in a torrential whirlwind, can't help but snort humorlessly at the abysmal predictability of lecherous men, and their conflict of the hour—who would have the privilege of using him before he became a mess, before he was broken down, before he went numb? One of them shouts over someone trying to speak, another recounts who broke him in at the last event, Fritz, who takes a stab at quelling the dispute once and for all by reminding them of their Russian entrant, “Perhaps it should be Ser Vikentiy that does the honors. It is his first time, is it not?”
An agreeable silence follows. Somewhere distant, Daniel hears a biting, throaty voice he had never encountered before, foreign, bold and heavy with distinctly Eastern European palatalization. The first assurance he ever utters surprisingly drips with delight. “You will not want me to go first.”
”Well then it’s settled,” Jason punctuates that claim by shoving the boy off him sooner than he can draw in a startled cry. He looms over him upon rising to his full height, unbuckling his own belt and unzipping his pants. “Now then, Danny-“
Stop calling me that, Daniel thinks, irritated, as he pushes himself up from the floor after the tumble. His eyes flicker up to the malicious display of teeth, then down at his erection.
”Open your mouth.”
Daniel observes it for a second, glaring, and in a vengeful act of defiance that truly only delays the inevitable, he keeps his mouth sealed shut. Contrary to what he was trying to do, Jason’s amusement doesn’t falter. It grows.
”Your whore is acting awfully strange tonight, Hargrove.” His thumb strokes across the boy’s sharp jaw, and the boy’s features crease in disgust. Any gentleness he shows is almost certainly a precedent to cruelty. He abruptly captures a fistful of black hair and yanks back. When Daniel shouts at the pricking of his scalp, Jason takes it as the perfect opportunity to guide his dick into his mouth. But he does not slide in slowly or tenderly, the glands push past his uvula, the entire length grating deeper and deeper into his esophagus until his lips stretch around the base. The taste of brine and ammonia, perhaps a vague hint of bitter champagne, washes across his tongue, which is effectively pinned to the floor of his mouth from the sheer heft of it. So heavy, so long… The inside of his throat, much too narrow, struggles to accommodate it. Daniel gags around the shape, a reflex that wracks through his body as an uncontrollable shudder.
Two hands suddenly seize him by the sides of his face, fingers splayed out in a vise. And so it began, the reign of terror he would come to expect. Daniel’s throat gurgles loudly as the searing rod is dragged out, hauled back until only the tip is engulfed in wet heat. His saliva is already overflowing around his teeth, and he tries to suck in the excess, lips slick with spit as each pulsing vein rolls over them. Jason sheathes himself fully with a harsh plunge of his hips, pulling Daniel forward to meet his thrust. His nose is pressed up against fine hairs and he loses the ability to breathe.
His molars ghost over the surface of rough skin. He blindly reaches out, finds purchase on the textured cushion on the sofa behind his assailant’s gangly legs, uses it to steady himself as he jabs in fast and hard. Jason skullfucks him like he wants to suffocate him. The rounded head crushes his palate, mashing a contusion into the far reaches of his throat, then retracts—he can feel Jason’s thigh muscles ripple at the effort—then drives in. Daniel can do naught but endure it; the man keeps him steady. Keeps him accessible, even. His jaw aches, but he has trouble focusing on that or the wrenching grip tightened in his hair or the strain of his shins upon cold, hard wood. Daniel tries to shift out of his position, lift his weight off his bruised knees, but he just can’t seem to get his foot up from under him. His oxygen-starved nostrils whistle with each pitiful attempt at taking in air.
He’s left completely lightheaded by the time a flavorless, treacly consistency drips onto his tongue. It’s surrealistically massaged into his tastebuds, and lazily discharges down his throat. Abominable and revolting, but Daniel feels a spark of relief in his chest (among other things as Jason pushes a bit too far) because he's familiar with what this means: he's closer to getting this over with–one man down, several men and an unknowable amount of rounds to go. Another grueling few minutes or so of his tongue being scrubbed raw, of the sound of desperate gargling permeating the study, and finally, with his ears ringing, he somehow hears Jason hiss contentedly. His head is pushed all the way down, the sore muscles of his throat reluctantly flexing and contracting to make way for the cascade.
Daniel urgently forces himself to swallow entire mouthfuls of thick cum before it overflows and drips all over him. He's partially successful, though some pearly dribbles of release find their way out the corners of his mouth and down his chin. Jason finally releases him, shoving him away like a discarded fleshlight. The boy cares not for the way he’s treated after the fact, but can’t deny that he’s ecstatic to be free from him—emptied of him, and though he’s left a mess, he is much too preoccupied with making up lost breaths to worry about it. His chest heaves with each pant, and he feels sick to his stomach with how much of it’s probably filled with release. But it’s over. It’s over and he glances over at the table where his master is seated.
Archer, though conflicted over the exceeding common and unexpected rebellious streaks exhibited by his servant, is ultimately satisfied with his endurance; unlike the last time, he remains an altogether neutral observer, not upset nor too pleased. It’s sufficient enough. What did he expect? He was new to this after all.
But Daniel still interprets the lack of rage as a symbol of affection, no longer able to decipher the boundary between such and savagery, and all the nervous pressure building up inside of him is alleviated. As long as master is happy, he is ‘happy.’
Next is Benjamin, who gives the boy a much needed break after having his throat fucked open; always the adoring gent, perhaps focused on Daniel’s pleasure too much compared to anyone else, in a way that almost makes him more uncomfortable than the cruelty and harm he’s used to, he snatches Daniel’s wrist up in a cautious, but unyielding grip. A part of the servant wonders what his insistence on grabbing his wrists is about, but he doesn’t dwell on it when Benjamin runs his thumb over the creases of his palm. “You have such pretty hands,” he murmurs, and the boy jolts with a disturbed shiver at his hum of fascination. “I’d like you to use them on me.” The man is lenient compared to his contemporaries, but it still is not a request. He’ll have his hands on him one way or another.
And Daniel is all too aware of this. Benjamin unhands him and lets him clumsily shuffle into the space between his legs. He fumbles with the buttons of his slacks. Taking his bottom lip between his teeth, the servant undoes them hastily, and wraps his fingers around what’s presented to him. Touching the flaccid thing isn’t particularly appealing, but he supposed it was a better deal than having to taste it. He steadies it with his other hand, using his right to loosely stroke it up and down once. The skin creases with each motion of his fist.
Daniel occupies his mind by thinking of literally anything else than what he has to do, and his machinations become repetitive impulses as a result: up, down, up, down, until Ben begins to harden in his grasp. While a clear droplet oozes out from the slit, with enough effort, drips along Daniel’s hand. It was so, so difficult to conjure up anything remotely pleasant in the midst of all this. Anytime his brain drifted, it was snatched back by a sigh, or a groan, or an instruction, “Use your fingers.”
Or an affront from a third party, “Look at him. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
Daniel reflects on that remark; it was true, his experience was reduced to what he had seen, that one cozy morning with Hargrove that already seemed like no more than a dream, and the quiet nights alone in his room shortly after, when he wished someone else was in his bed. But regardless of his admittedly awkward technique, Benjamin reclines against the backrest, his arm draped over it as a reminder that with him—for some reason—he’s permitted to do as he wishes. He won’t grab the boy and force him unless he has to. Maybe he was supposed to be grateful, but he isn’t. The free hand he had momentarily rested on the man’s thigh, hesitantly grasps the rest of the exposed length. Even two hands fall short of handling the entire thing.
He’s not sure why, but something about this he finds strangely more intimate than having it push into his mouth. Maybe it was because he had to do all the labor, instead of being used. His attention floats away as this becomes a mechanical task. Perhaps they would be put to better use, his hands, if he were at someone else’s lap… the apprehension and amateurism would fade if he were in the presence of—and thus, he snaps out of it. Terrible, to associate Master Hargrove’s grace with something as dirty as this, he should be ashamed.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been going at it, but Benjamin’s cock twitches in his grip. The man groans and shifts in his spot, and Daniel’s hands are painted and covered when he comes.
The boy grimaces at the gummed muck he’s left with, and a patron watching him turn sickly, kindly reminds him of the third rule, “Come on now, Daniel, you know better than to leave a mess, don’t you?”
His mouth twitches, as do his fingers when he lifts them up and licks them clean.
That patron, probably another person besides Jason, he realizes, noting the lack of an unwanted pet name, coos praise, “Good boy.”
Daniel feels a sudden tautness assail his middle, gut knotting and churning. His soaked hand shoots up to cover the lower half of his face. He’s sick, and pained, and winded all at once. Much too soon, he knows, because then one of the men takes him by the scruff of his neck and impels him to stand, even though he sways on unsteady legs when he steps forward at their command. They escort him to the sofa—a short amble but it may as well have been centuries to someone staggering like he was. Daniel mindlessly reaches around for the furniture, and sinks into a vacant spot. He finally sees who escorted him: Fritz.
Daniel squeaks as he is flipped over on his back, so close to the edge of the cushion his head hangs over it. Of course, knowing the inherent danger of laying in this position for a prolonged period of time, he makes an effort to scooch back so blood doesn't collect into the back of his skull, but Fritz grabs him by the shoulders and prevents that from happening. Now he's positioned exactly how they want him. There's no need to move even though a nerve-wracking rush dizzies him, disorients him. The world totters upside down. Above him, Fritz crudely takes hold of his plump cock and gives it one or two firm strokes; he nudges at the seam of the boy's mouth with the leaking head. Cowper fluid smears messy streaks across his cupid's bow, and it takes all the reserve and iron-willed obedience not to immediately recoil and gag. Daniel allows him to unpleasantly make a mess of him, despite how much he hates it, despite how he has to bite into his tongue to keep steady. But the worst part of it all is that the servant knows damn well what the man is after. Soon enough, he takes after the others, "Open, Schönling."
Daniel twitches in remembrance. He’s had his fill of Fritz before. Not the worst he had been subjected to that fateful night, but the gold of his irises instinctively dim at the recollection.
He exhales slowly, trying to ground himself before he obeys, and he barely has any time to wedge his lips open completely before Fritz hastily begins to feed his cock to him. The massive shape stretches the passage of his throat wide and deep so suddenly he sputters. His trembling hands raise in reflex, but he drops them. His eyelids shut so he no longer has to look at wrinkled corduroys.
He has to think himself through it, because he certainly does not have the ability to speak. Don't push him away, don't push him away. Just—it'll all be over soon. Don't push him away.
But something about the way Fritz moves has panic spume up, unable to be suppressed. Daniel braces himself for the inevitable mechanics of pulling back and shoving forward he's already so accustomed to, but it never occurs. Instead, the man shoves in as deep as he can go, until the boy takes in the scent of his musk. Too much time passes with him all the way in for the dread to subside, it only festers. Thank God, he feels the length lazily begin to withdraw, and he prepares to inhale, but it only shifts about half a centimeter out before it's back in.
Daniel jolts, eyes snapping open and tears threatening to prick at his waterline. His chest hardly expanded at all with the breath he unsuccessfully attempted to take.
Fritz stays in much longer the next time before playing the same dirty trick.
Tears begin to glide down the side of his temples as the next interval of time spans even longer.
Every moment he has the opportunity, however scarce, he tries to respire before he's denied that privilege again.
It's never enough. It's not nearly enough to cool the burning in his ribcage. It's not nearly enough to end the simulation of being practically asphyxiated.
Fritz's methods are so horrifically cruel—as the boy needlessly stumbles upon an understanding of what the man is doing: he provides him just barely enough oxygen to keep him conscious, to keep him alive. And being a doctor, he knows exactly how much that is. His throat is being used to cockwarm and nothing more.
At the next spell, he has no choice but to hold on for what seems like a minute and a half.
Daniel's entire body is subjected to violent convulsions as his lungs stir for air; he's already lightheaded enough as it is, but this ploy has his eyes rolling back, black stars dancing across his vision. Something surges out from the back of his esophagus, an expulsion of thin, frothy fluid dribbling down his face—not sure if its spit or come, at least he thinks it's spit at first, but he really can't find it in him to string together a cohesive thought and if he could, he'd realize it's much too salty and bitter to be his own. In actuality, if he was able to retain any speck of sensibility, he would realize that the man has already reached his climax. His seed splurts so far back into his pharynx that Daniel should hardly even need to swallow, but he still hacks some of it back up because the sludgy sensation is too much to bear. So it should be over: Fritz has had his turn, and his awful trial has run its course. But just because he has reached his limit doesn't mean Daniel has, and he remains so curious as to how much more he can endure.
Fritz traces the ridges of the column of his neck, traces the pad of his thumb over the bulge formed where his sex curves and he applies a firm pressure to the cartilage.
The little black flecks expand out, consuming his perception until it's littered with blinding voids.
Can't… Breathe…
He is so close to passing out, like at the first gala, and he desperately fights it. Please, he doesn't want them to use him like they did back then, ruining him entirely so he wakes to a defiled version of himself he cannot recognize.
His master genuinely can't expect him to keep his hands to himself when he's on the verge of keeling over. It’s a morbid fear, but blacking out and the worst possible outcome is a precariously thin line.
He begins to thrash in earnest when Fritz refuses to let him up for air after two whole minutes, but the others have already caught on to the methods of his torture, and they aid the German in anyway they can; Leopold on Daniel’s right, Benjamin on his left, they both take hold of his forearms and weigh them down helplessly into the cushion. Daniel whines his high, muffled protests as his throat squeezes around the obstruction.
By the time Fritz decides to be merciful and actually pull all the way out, he's completely soft and the servant doesn't know left from right. Strings of saliva and semen that connect Daniel's tongue to Fritz's shame snap free. He clutches at his wounded throat, wheezing out ugly, forceful coughs. His leadened lungs hurt like a bitch afterwards and using them spikes a sharp stitch of soreness within his ribcage. If he could have his way, he'd seal that channel up entirely, never to be used again.
"He's not as weak as he looks," the man chuckles above him, and luckily the servant can't hear what he’s saying over the pounding migraine that bedevils him as a result. “I assumed he would have lost consciousness."
Jason, who sits where he can have a perfect view of the exhibition, appears as though he's been outmatched, nearly visibly awestruck as he listens to every despairing gasp that eases out of the boy. He crosses his legs on the ottoman and actively has to settle down. "You're one sick bastard, Fritz. You may be worse than I am," he commends. By now, the choking seems to have subsided, and Daniel is left to miserably wipe at his mouth. "What do you think, Daniel?"
Daniel looks daggers into Jason, but does not answer. Rather, he can't answer. Of course, it's difficult to share one's thoughts when they're being shoved face down into the cushion, told to lap up all the evidence of Fritz's test.
Enthusiastically filling out the role of briefly forgotten antagonist, Vikentiy looms over the boy when he is done. He grabs him by the chin, tilting, angling his head to get a better survey of him. His eyes cast over his abused mouth and darken; he knows he’s not going to fit in there without fracturing something, so he chooses to be the first to use the only alternative. His hand crawls lower, big enough to more or less envelop the expanse of Daniel’s chest. The newest guest barely uses an ounce of his brawn to shove him down again. Once more, he subjects him to inspection: even now, the boy pants unevenly, returning his gaze with a frightened, misty one, raven locks splayed across the cushion—his cheeks, his neck, both burning red and hot. For some inexplicable reason, the sternness of the man’s disposition fades slightly as he draws away, uttering only a raspy comment in his native tongue that the attendant can’t hope to understand. He gestures over to Jason, a soundless request for whatever is left in that vial of his.
Jason begrudgingly shuffles around in the pocket of his blazer, though can’t help but bemoan the fact that he wants it, “Fine, but I don’t see why you would—“ until he begins to disrobe, “…oh. Yes, here, you’ll need it.” Vikentiy strips only enough to free a turgid mass that slaps hard against his abdomen. The others have to hold Daniel down as he catches sight of it.
Vikentiy is hung like no one he has ever seen, and he spirals into a panic at the thought of that monstrous thing entering his body. Swollen violet, a head that nearly rivals that of his fist in size, he has almost as much to offer as two men, and the boy makes a less-than-successful effort to wring free or climb upwards; he's cornered. Vikentiy measures himself, not penetrating yet but he does discover that his dick reaches above his navel. “It. It won’t fit,” Daniel avers as he’s made to watch the adviser use the remainder of the oil, slickening the organ until it glistens. “It won’t!”
”Don’t you worry, Danny,” Jason croons from beside him, brushing through his damp hair. “He’ll make it fit.”
Vikentiy spreads his thighs, effortlessly lifts his lower half off the couch to take him easier, and lines himself up, Daniel whimpers as the tip prods at the opening. After a moment of assessment, the patron pitches himself forward, a start to the long, long arduous process of spearing in. The page boy blenches as an ache spreads accordingly. For all he knows, shoving in all at once could have been more merciful, almost like snatching off a bandage that's adhered itself into a wound, unbearable for a few deplorable minutes and then it mellows out into something at least semi-tolerable. But he doesn't take that route. Daniel is rendered unable to even scream, he knows his mouth is open but nothing ever comes; every single time he assumes he's taken all of him in, more skims through. His toes are curling when the appendage claws so deep inside, his body outright rejects him midway, unable to accept it any further no matter how insistent the man is. No matter how hard he tries. He can't take any more, he can't. Though he does not look out of fear of what he may find, his stomach must be distending with how crowded it feels, he's gone completely boneless, a silently sobbing wreck that can manage nothing but an unspoken plea for mercy. Of which, none is spared.
It won't fit… it won't fit, please. It hurts.
He was right.
It's on the tip of his tongue: the forbidden word, 'stop,' trapped by barriers of conditioning, and the permanently rooted desire to appease Master Hargrove. But he knows from experience that speaking it would change nothing; those four letters were not of an arcane origin, and using them wouldn’t have the five back off with apologetic utterances. If anything, it would spur them on even more. Another thrust, another aimless strive of fitting in but all it accomplishes is ripping a hiccup from the boy. Nothing more, nothing less. It was no use, so Vikentiy relented—being half-buried in pleasantly warm, dense muscle was fine enough, he reckoned, if that was the best he could manage. The blood pumping from the boy's heart is practically audible, beat occasionally skipping, as the others have their undivided attention centered on the sofa. Some witnesses relieve the tension of tented pants, palming themselves eagerly, awaiting what they would call the ‘fun part.’
The gathering surely had a flair for having the, well, undeniably more endowed members of the party proceed before all else. And sure enough, as Vikentiy begins to pound into him, still unable to force all the way inside, Daniel involuntarily arches his back with a scream. The first of the night, and some unknown figure behind him answers to his angst with a blissful moan, spilling into their own hand. The limits of their sadism are boundless, and the wailing and shrieking that come with being split are like fine music to them, like a freshly-tuned violin: the instrument he no longer needs to play in order to please such affluent company.
Worse than Fritz, bordering on the detestable blaze of Leopold and Jason's simultaneous use, the boy is revitalized by a sense of self-preservation, regaining the ability to preside over the frenzied use of his limbs. He kicks at nothing, a wild, physical revolt against being hollowed, as the rules wilt and die: don't push them away?–fuck that. To be fair, his intentions were not that pointed nor deliberate. The feeble bashing of his fists against Vikentiy's sizable, clothed chest achieves nothing, but he does feel it rumble beneath with a hearty chuckle. Even his most logical neurons in his aching head are consumed by internally hellish pangs of ember, coal, incineration in its purest form. All of it is too much, even a twitch from within has him reeling.
He begs for unconsciousness now. An exhausted stupor, a familiar friend, creeps in, and instantly, his arms lifelessly drape across the expanse of the loveseat on either side of him, his eyelids droop half-mast as everything above him fades into a collage of cloudy shapes and blotches of the indistinguishable. The pain is too great, and it made sense that his body was shutting down as it had before. For a few euphoric seconds, he blacks out. For a few seconds, he’s in the arms of someone else, someone humane, sitting before the warmth of a radiating fire. For a few seconds, he loses all semblance of himself or his troubles.
For a few seconds at the most.
Daniel rouses back to the present with a start when a fizzy, acidic cold splashes across his face. He awakes so violently that it takes all too long for lucidity to set itself right, and he confusedly coughs up what tastes faintly of bread and limestone. Jason, who had swiped his glass of chilled champagne from the setting and thrust it forward upon the barely unconscious slave, grins wickedly. “No you fucking don’t,” he snarls, “You don’t get to pass out this time. You’re going to stay awake and make sure everyone leaves satisfied.”
They won’t even let him rest, not even when the pain internally gnaws at him. Daniel whimpers as it resumes, too busy tightrope walking between fainting and cognizance to put up a token fight. The only problem is that this position—the pliable boy, lying on the lounge with his waist up in the capable hands of the one drilling him—is difficult to maintain and one the older man grows increasingly vexed by, seeing as he’s so tall and Daniel’s so… not. He growls lowly, pulls himself out, ignoring the gasp of relief that follows. Vikentiy spares no time for the boy to curl in on himself. Instead, he rises from the sofa. Then, arresting him by the arm, Vikentiy hoists Daniel up as if he’s made of nothing but styrofoam, and maneuvers the alarmed servant to his liking. He slides back in, as far as he can for now. Daniel has no choice but to sob and cling to him with his arms wrapped around his neck, legs anchored around his torso, face buried into his chest, as the man carries him and fucks him while standing.
Vikentiy’s stout fingers settle under Daniel’s thighs, biceps flexing, sweat dripping throughout the vulgar display of virality and exertion. Even though he can feel the boy’s manicured nails raking across his back, it hardly bothers him, hardly stammers the unrelenting tempo he works with.
The clock ticks a consistent record of their time together. It takes until the small hand marks a passing hour for the viscount to empty himself. White shoots up into the petite sleeve, and eventually drips out in foul rivulets down his shaft, no matter how plugged he’s got him. He has to yank out eventually, but a part of him is tempted to hold, to relish in the fluttering, clenching of skin moistened with his cum; it takes all his will to return the attendant to the lounge.
Daniel kneels where he’s placed, shaking with the force of aggrieved cries. A morbidly curious part of his brain makes him reach around, stick his fingers into his exposed hole, just to ensure he isn’t bleeding—he isn’t, he’s not torn; he’s miraculously intact, but the sensations that remain strike him as the aftermath of being irreparably damaged. One man after another, that’s the way it has to be. So he examines the fluid spilling between his fingers for only a short period, and then Leopold taps him on the shoulder.
”Aren’t you forgetting someone?” he teases, expecting Daniel to defeatedly lift his head any moment now. When he does, Leo takes his aim and huffs smoke out into his waiting face. The boy recoils, gasping and choking on second-hand cinders. “And after you took that time to insult me, how rude.”
”I-I’m sorry,” Daniel bawls earnestly after he catches his breath, “I’m… so sorry, Mr. Redd. I didn’t mean it, I don’t know what came over me!” It was clear he feared the consequences of his insult, and who could blame him after everything that already happened?
Leopold frowns, falsely touched by the sincerity of his hyperventilated jumble of noises. “Aw, if you want my forgiveness so bad, you’ll have to earn it. On your side.”
Ever the ‘obedient slut,’ as they would dub him for his submission, he sorrowfully acknowledges the demand and does as he's told. He braces himself laterally, and flinches when Leo presses up against him from behind, sliding his arms around from beneath and over. The patron hooks his chin over a narrow shoulder, and Daniel can sense the pattern of his twisted smile, he can smell the toxic chemical fumes with each exhale. Leopold drones with a nostalgic sound as his gaze lowers to inspect the sweaty skin, and he tracks his finger along the indents of incisors and canines. "Ah, yes, I remember this," he reminisces, "how fascinating that it's still here after all this time."
When Leopold slips himself into him, he’s almost completely anesthetized, and he allows it with only a simple sniffle. Immediately following the last occurrence, the man truly should not have flattered himself by thinking he was making much of an impact; he hitches forward with ease, his dick—thoroughly average in comparison to Vikentiy—does no more than needle sore muscles. Daniel mewls softly, debilitated, in sync with each thrust, but he lasts. In fact, he hardly realizes that Leo is done with him until he’s off of him completely, readjusting his garments.
His eyes, already drearily dark, flicker to Hargrove, an instinct, to see how he’s faring. He’s on the cusp of breaking down completely. His master again left him with a promise unfulfilled. He claimed they would treat him as they did Sawyer, with nothing less civilized than lustful caresses and, by accounts, false displays of what could be mistaken for love—he would have hated it even so, but at least then he wouldn’t feel like a steam train had collided with him. Why him? What was it about him that made the men so thrilled to bite and scratch and shove? Master Hargrove’s expression is unreadable, but he has not yet turned away; maybe this was all a test. Maybe his master just wanted to ensure he was a boy of his word, having agreed to this mess. Maybe his success with suffering through this was a prologue to their wonderful story, his unblemished record of servitute would be the gateway to the love he always dreamed of, but never received.
Who knew how long they wanted to do this? A quick peek at the clock confirmed that it had been three hours already. And upon that, the recognizable cycle begins anew, with the first participant rolling him over prostrate. Jason lurches over his back, aligning himself with a particularly heinous remark Daniel doesn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting to. Jason rolls his eyes, but oh well, not the end of the world. Confident hands settle on his ass, spread him open—again, again, again.
All Daniel thought, alone and inwardly, was let it be over. All of it. Let them tire of him, grow bored of him. Let them realize he’s always been worthless, even in this. Whatever that would take. But Jason could keep going forever apparently, each peg apostrophized by that squishing sound the boy’s come to loathe. Any signal from brain to body might as well have been traveling through frayed telephone cord, but he tries to tighten himself, even if it makes him hiss at the strain, around Jason’s girth—tries to coax his orgasm out of him. Jason groans at the pressure, so he does it more.
It works… eventually, he feels his motions stagger and halt. He comes with a breathy laugh, “Clever boy.” And he departs with a playful ruffle of Daniel’s hair that makes him want to cut it all off.
The cushion sank with the weight of a new arrival, and even flaked out, Daniel could tell it was Benjamin because he takes a pause to wipe his tears, which he apparently finds an eyesore on a consort when missionary. A worthless gesture. There was not enough false sympathy in the world to rid him of the humiliation or bruising sensations roiling through him, from head to toe.
Benjamin settles in. He should be next, but the guests grow impatient and begin to clamor over each other to have a turn; the men almost form their own little hivemind, completely interconnected to each unspoken idea and desire of another. Leo approaches Benjamin when he's already balls-deep into the poor servant, kneeling down to whisper something into his ear. And Benjamin, though clearly preoccupied, considers whatever murmurings he was subjected to for a moment, and then nods over in the boy's direction. Leopold promptly responds to his wordless indication and straddles Daniel's face, stuffs his throat, muffles his whimpers.
Throughout the night, Daniel can’t do much to counteract them, as they force themselves upon him in different positions–some he couldn’t even begin to imagine. One has him against the wall. Another on the floor. Fritz folds his legs in. Jason, a showman, has him in his lap for his next turn, so he can thoroughly demonstrate just how he should be taken in a deplorable emulation of an exhibit he once held in London. They’re creative, he’ll give them that. It never gets easier to experience the same process over and over, his body erratically contracts and spasms around whatever pulsating organ is shoved into him next. His ass, his throat, his hands, his thighs—whatever they can use to get off, they use. The first breach almost always has him with fervid, compulsory kicks and tremors. He doesn't have the energy to be resentful that his normally conformed routine has been replaced with this: with being made to endure pain beyond that he could conjure in his wildest nightmares.
No order. No pattern. Just chaos.
He’s been left to rot. He’s no more than meat fought over by a hoard of ravenous wolves.
But even wolves were more merciful with their prey. At least they would kill him.
The clutch of an unseen assailant tows him up from the flooring, grip driven so harshly into his forearm that it alone earns a wince and a hiss of pain from the boy, as they—more than one, he figures, feeling at least two pairs of hands upon him—arrange him above someone’s hardness. When the blurring of tears clear away, Daniel sees Leopold below him, patiently waiting, laying against the armrest of the sofa. But he gives no command. The metaphorical gears of Daniel’s brain do a full rotation before he understands what he wants. What an honor, when the servant is breathing raggedly and one fragile waft of air away from capsizing, he gets to put in all his effort; he gets to ride him. How lovely.
Ever so slowly, Daniel sinks down on his cock, jaw tightly wired shut to choke back his sobs until he's fully hilted. It's an unfortunately easy slide down the shaft, he's vaguely aware of seed oozing out of him even now, even as he's extended. He straddles his lap, his hands—placed palms down upon Leopold’s abdomen—steady himself between astride thighs. As Leo lightly traces the contours of his frame, from his hipbone all the way up to his collarbone, his muscles instinctively contract beneath each pass of his fingertips. Everything aches. His shoulders, his legs, especially his hole, which unconsciously twitches and clenches as much as he tries to stop—even his arms struggle to support his weight.
And then comes the inevitable demands. "Move," Leo sternly orders. But as Daniel shakily lifts his body up, Leopold takes him by the shoulder and slams him back down hard enough to have his head crane back and his eyes snap wide, a startled cry breaking through grit teeth. "Not like that, you dumb fucking whore."
The degradation wounds his pride in addition to the physical pain, but more than anything, it baffles him; what the hell did he want then? After recovering from the crack of thunder that seemingly blazed through his system, he hazily looks up at Leo through narrowed eyes, hidden partially behind hair matted with sweat, and scowls in confusion. Leopold grabs his waist, guiding him with instruction, on how to shift and swivel to properly please him.
Fully seated, Daniel began to—albeit unenthusiastically—grind his hips down, back and forth, and the man below him groaned out.
"There, see? Doesn't that feel good?"
Though the question is purely rhetorical, merely an attempt to mock him, Daniel still shakes his head and whimpers. No, no… It doesn't feel good, it doesn't. Molten lava courses through his blood, the study is so unbearably humid, no matter how deep he breathes, it's never sufficient and he feels like he's suffocating. His hips sear horribly when he rocks forward and back, and he just wants it to stop. He just wants it to stop. Why won't they let him stop?
Daniel doesn’t react to the murmurings around him with any more than soft noises of disapproval, knowing that the sooner he can get Leo off, the sooner he can put all of this behind him. It doesn't matter who's talking; they're all so terrible.
Leo posits through his grief, "You know, Archer. If you ever tire of him, you can always sell him off to a whorehouse."
No… no, please don't say that…
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Redd. Then we’d have to pay.”
"Well I'd be happy to. Sell him to me instead, I'll surely find some use for him."
It takes forever for him to get Leopold to come.
~~~
And then Vikentiy returns, having been on the sidelines for an indeterminable few successions, just when Daniel was beginning to beguile himself with the fact that things could not possibly get any worse for him; he stands–or rather, lays uselessly prone–corrected. The adviser drapes himself over his back, shadowing him with a comparably exceptional size, and works his cock back in up to that inevitable restriction. But alas, the man tires of only being half-fulfilled, and he prepares to fix this incompetent feature of his anatomy, at long last.
Vikentiy snaps his hips onward and another six inches merge in. Daniel releases a raw, soul-splitting howl, smothered into the cushions but still deafening and miserable. It’s a dreadful blare, like that of a siren, seconded only perhaps to that one shriek that shredded his vocal chords to utter destruction at the first gala. The other men assumed the boy would be loose enough by now, but their expectations remained delightfully exceeded. The man is merciless even when the boy squirms; but he’s eventually restricted by a single grip at the back of his shoulder, weighted down and almost completely immobilized so the man behind can make proper use of him. Pulling friction tows haphazardly through a too-stretched rim, pushing him past his breaking point. Even his guts ache. He’s never had anything reach so, so deep inside his core, it’s agony. Every rut punches wounded sounds from Daniel's spasming diaphragm. Sweltering heat radiates from his insides, a dull throb seizes his legs–his spine, leaves him desperate for a single breath to successfully travel through his septum. Another thrust breaks through any resistance. The sinewy complex of Vikentiy's pelvic bone fuses flush against his ass, the most perverse noises rattle in his own ears at the incursion; the squelching and smacking of bare skin against bare skin.
Any time the man creates any distance between where their two bodies meet, Daniel gasps wetly at the unbearable emptiness, cold and cruel. And when Vikentiy goes grinding back in, he scream-cries and quivers. The springed edges of the loveseat grate below him, wooden frame splintering and creaking at the sheer force of it all. He certainly knows that it's impossible, but at one point, in his haze, he swears to whatever divine force that was punishing him that he can taste the acrid teasings of the man's precum at the back of his throat. For a moment, he worries it may seep out his mouth, but he stifles that irrational fear. He knows he's not buried that far into him, that's not... it isn't possible.
"P-Please..." the plea shatters around a wince, teeth braced, “not…—not so r-rough, I’m.. g. gonna.. tear.”
Someone, somewhere, cackles at him.
But he might as well have been chanting 'more, more, more’ or nothing at all with how little the man above pays him any mind. If anything, the weak, pitiful blabbering heats his blood, a match to a pile of brushwood; something about the way he wails without end what are you doing to me? and that you're going to break me has the rugged bastard raring to hear more, to make him scream for an end proper. The boy rocks, shaking his head where it’s obscured by pillows. Vikentiy’s hips slam, in and out, in and out, he saws through the boy until he's stripped of coherency, pounding his fists weakly against the cushions in a fit.
Demonstrating an almost masterful precision, each time he pulls away, he leaves him completely before bottoming out again, ensuring that the feeling remains as new and as excruciating as when it first occurred. When he sinks back down all the way to the base, he crams apart quivering flesh. And though his overtaxed insides strongly protest, clenching, flittering around his massive cock, they are no match for his brute strength. Whether he wants it or not (and he doesn't, he doesn't, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts-), the veins pulsate into him, carving out a perfect spot as his walls slicken from pre-ejaculate.
Daniel's staccato cries falter with his face planted in the maroon upholstery, but he keeps sane by reminding himself he only has to endure it for a handful of minutes–or hours, he’s so out of it, he can’t tell—before it gradually slows. By the mark of the clock, he can feel his tormentor's balls tauten against his perineum. One last slide all the way in and Vikentiy coats the boy's intestinal walls with obscene heat.
The servant despises the stinging sensation of it, the torrent of sizzling cum bubbling up and splurting across battered skin, but even he fails to bite back a moan when he's filled completely to the brim.
When Vikentiy withdraws, slowly pulling out each delicious inch, he marvels at the pinkish tint to his own release, spilling out of the quivering, sobbing form. Almost as if he's fascinated by the wrecked sight of him, his thumb prods at his entrance, tugging open the red, sore ring of muscle—to which Daniel pitifully whines in anguish—just to watch it gape and gush clods of fluid down his legs. The sight of his hole leaking all over has arousal swim back to his groin. Not even a full minute after he had treated Daniel as no more than a stress reliever, and his dick already surges back with life again, half-hard at least. He gathers a good amount of the spill and plunges it into the boy's hole, fingerfucking it back inside until it stays. Along with the vulgar squelching of those broad, damp fingers being reluctantly swallowed, Daniel whines long and strained. The adviser’s sigh of relief is a gust of wind in itself, fanning against his bedraggled hair.
Vikentiy subjects the parlor room to a moment of inspection, distant eyes spanning across the expanse of decor and malicious prospectors. A selection of his associates are scattered about the table, drinking, chattering, and the undeniable truth is that almost everyone seems exhausted. Leopold clenches his teeth around a cigarette; the filter glows with each inhale, and with every exhale, a cloud of ashen gray escapes from his nostrils. Hunched at the end of the loveseat, anyone could gather that he was burnt out. Benjamin is settled comfortably not too far from him, but he spares the servant no more attention than he does the discussion with Jason. And Fritz sits at the table, just as much of a voyeur as Master Hargrove himself, so Vikentiy supposed it was really just him and Daniel.
It made sense, really, that eight hours would be unreasonable for men to keep up with. The only, singular reason Daniel's not unresponsive himself is because every fucking time he's close to slipping away, someone wakes him. Either by cock, or fingers, or wine, he's startled back to the waking world.
Well, then surely no one would care if he took the initiative while they were dawdling. "I hate to be selfish, but would anyone mind if I used him again?" Vikentiy asked.
Daniel minded.
He minded a lot, actually.
But it's Jason who answers in his place, as predictable as ever. The blonde was reclined against the side of the couch by then, taking up residence on the floor. He answers between sips of champagne that’s run stale, as if it’s his right, "Sudar Nikoleav, you are the guest of honor. As far as I'm concerned, you can fuck him as much as you need." His unoccupied hand tries to nurse enthusiasm back into his spent cock, a loose grip around his shaft sluggishly lifting and lowering. "As much as I would like to, I don't think I have it in me to have another go." Perhaps not willing to be an active participant right now, no, but as he examines the attendant's drained expression, he is thrilled by the sight of that watery, pleading gold. Daniel silently begs him, or anyone, to intervene. "But I'd love to watch."
Behind him, Daniel recognized the indent of shifting weight, and then, another spike of discomfort, another dilation as Vikenty slates back in. There’s a wringing pressure in his windpipe, twisting out and inflaming that accursed illness Daniel already has. He hacks out a plea between coughs, "N-No, please… I can’t…” But there’s nothing he can do; he numbs at the realization.
A massive hand sweeps through his locks, short nails gently carding across his scalp in a way that would be comforting under other circumstances. ”Don’t worry, my dear,” the deep voice rumbles through his ribs, “I’ll be gentle, I promise." Daniel reckons he can hear the smile, hear how inauthentic it is from the coarse chuckle that follows.
Master, please… please make them stop...
He lacks the energy and drive to even voice such things to Archer. He’s soiled and ruined; he feels himself being peeled back, pruned, torn, made a mess from the inside out. All over again. Wet against wet, skin against skin, it’s a plague of his senses. But it doesn’t matter, what he wants has never mattered, especially in the presence of his colleagues. His cheek feels a little swollen, riddled with the familiar paresthesia of friction burn where it's pressed. The miasma of sweat and hormones is a dense burden surrounding him. The slow slide of Vikentiy’s cock, breaching folds, is further aided by slick, drooling out of his hole. Disgusting, is a fleeting comment that comes to him. Suddenly though, the angle changes, and any strong convictions he has blend into a frazzled mush as that ignored pleasure center of tubes is crushed by the heaviness of that appendage. A sudden cruel pressure punishes his nerves, the irritation tapers out into something that has him gasping unexpectedly.
Everything about this was an atrocity, a night of pure horror. Hour after hour of being violated, he hates it—all of it, and yet… something about the way this unseen man presses his body against his back, bucking into him with purpose and intentionally grating and throbbing against his prostate with all the force of his past abuse... This reprieve was admittedly quite pleasant, as much as Daniel wanted to deny it. Whatever the man is after bewilders him to no end, for he didn’t seem like the loving sort, but any time he tries to piece the puzzle together, a rush of exhilaration distracts him. The boy trembles, sobs into the pillow—but not in pain, he melts below each capable thrust. Vikentiy is so deep again, but this time it feels so good, the bulging head of his cock plowing into bowed flesh, sending shockwaves of bliss up his spine. Again, he must have been so mal-adjusted to sadistic tendencies, that something as simple as this has him reduced to an oversensitive heap. His eyes sting with tears again. He unsuccessfully vies to hold back soft-spoken slurring, “P-Please, n. no, nononono, I can’t…”
There’s no urgency in what he says, but it is the principle of the matter: it’s still happening against his will and regardless of the stimulation, he makes a strive to inch away or avoid the intrusion, whether it be by crawling his way up—and being promptly dragged back—or titling his hips away—to which, his efforts are rewarded by being bound further into the sofa. Nothing works. He’s made unfortunately aware of his own neglected cock, sandwiched between him and rough, embroidered upholstery, hardening as he’s forced to grind it against coarse stitchwork. Soon enough, the cushion below him slathers with his own pre-cum. Even now, Vikentiy overlays him out of sight, caging him within his hold from behind, rubbing wide, slow circles into his prostate, and with the way his scratchy beard tickles his nape with a similar, wiry texture, well, it almost reminds him of…
It reminds him of…
”M. Master…” Daniel emits a choked moan, short circuiting.
It's a moment where, to be completely honest, his brain simply stops working. The scratching of a familiar surface upon his skin is enough to fragment the important context of his assault; with this, he can merely posture that it's someone he cares about more than anything else in the world on top of him. His mind might as well have soared out the window—empty, gone, as he becomes so absorbed in the sensations expeled upon him. No longer present, everything around him is a vaccum.
Oh, but of course, such a simple slip catches everyone’s attention, rousing them from their—perhaps premature—breaks. They all delight in the dissociation of a broken down servant, melting and keening—master, oh master—as he relishes, glazed-over-eyes and all, in the company of a man who certainly did not possess that title. But Daniel is somewhere else, back in the floaty imaginary prism of his own mind. It’s nice there. It’s safe.
”He thinks it’s his master…” Benjamin mutters.
"He's completely off his rocker." Jason clasps his hand over his mouth to stop his usual sadistic laugh. The closest spectator to them, he watches the whole thing go down with the keenest interest, grinning maliciously behind the bowl of his half-empty glass. “Feeling good, Daniel?” He taunts him, and for once, the fact that he receives no rebellion in response has his previous refractory period race to its end.
Daniel mindlessly responds in a broken daze, “S. So… g-good…ngh-“ Another hitch in this throat.
Vikentiy might as well have been his master with how similar they already are in appearance. Daniel forgets where he is and what he is, why or how, and instead focuses on the steady pace of couch springs squeaking, in time with each thrust. It could be a bed, he reasons. The pretty antique in his Master's chamber. He could be pressed down into cool satin instead of the damp swirling pattern of embroidered flora. A strong grip curls around his jugular, squeezing, and though his fingers catch at it, he does nothing to pull it away. Perhaps his master liked to be rough, and what kind of servant—what kind of lover would he be to deny him that?
He could pretend that his master would hold him after all of this was done, thread his fingers through his hair and tell him how good he was for taking it… He was good at pretending. He pretends Archer loves him, after all. He pretends this is a better situation than the smoke-filled, crowded workhouse. He pretends his only options aren't suffering here or suffering at the hands of someone else. He pretends he's just as devoted as he was when he first arrived. He pretends everything isn't falling apart at the seams, because if he doesn't, he'll forfeit whatever’s left of his sanity at how lost he is.
He greedily lavishes in whatever he can get from his “master,” so needy and disheveled. It’s as slow and gentle as he dreamed it would be, but also so overwhelming, and little strangled sounds of lust tumble from his lips. A rift forms deep within the pit of his abdomen, a compression that builds and builds and builds; it’s too much, the grinding against his prostate, being mounted–being molded into a perfect cockslut, the upholstery beneath him moistens with clear fluid. It’s impossible for him to think straight. Impossible to remember certain rules. His walls cling to the density of his member, massaging it in quick spasms he has no control over. He quivers like a leaf in a storm, and his half-lidded eyes roll back again at another brutal surge of pleasure that overtakes him, only intensified by the lack of oxygen he’s provided with the pressure of Vikentiy’s his master’s hand around his neck and it so, so goodso good why does it feel so good?
The boy sags forward, wracked by violent shudders as that little nerve center inside him continues to be pummeled and battered and pulverized. Something warm bubbles up and spills from his own cock, sullying the cushion underneath in sticky streaks. But his “master” isn’t done with him yet; he moans helplessly as he’s tipped into hypersensitivity. The aftershocks that rip through him become unbearable to withstand, as if a quake has its hold over him and him alone, and he still fails to realize what’s been done to him or what it entails. But eventually, thick, smooth syrup floods his insides and while he giggles in his delirium around the thought of his master cumming so deep in him, his hole hungrily swallows all of it, not letting a single drop spill out.
Daniel lays limp for a good while, stuffed full of cock, enervated, drifting away, but moving shadows drag him back to awareness. He blearily opens his eyes and his brows knit.
Why… why are there men standing above him? Why do they look so upset?
He hazily takes in his surroundings. The teal walls. The flickering candlelight. The gathering of sadists. Reality slowly trickles back into his consciousness. Not his master’s room. Not his master’s bed. His master is sitting across from him in his chair, he can see him framed between two of the other guests, quietly seething.
Jason, one of the men who has approached him to ultimately snap him out of his trance, rakes across the furniture with his gaze. “Oh Daniel,” he pretends to be petrified for his sake but he’s obviously amused, “you did something very, very bad.”
It’s enough to sober him up. Once he reels back on his hands and knees, desperately vying to retain his composure–that's when he sees it, when his head is lowered he finally sees the evidence of his insubordination in the form of white droplets. Understanding slowly eats away at the admittedly pleasurable afterglow until all that's left is mortification. He's come. He's not supposed to come.
Hargrove reaches for the slender black compartment laying before his armchair. ”Bring him to me,” is all he says after sighing through his nose.
Metallic copper fills Daniel’s mouth, his trachea seems to have been screwed completely shut. No, not that. Not the box. Hadn’t he suffered enough? There are so many apologies he wants to say, so many excuses he wants to make, hoping that the man would understand. He never meant to, he never wanted this; it was only because, for a beautiful moment, he felt as if he were in his master’s arms, not Vikentiy’s. He settles on, “Master, please–”
”Please, what, Daniel?” Archer snaps in return. "I warned you about what would happen and you didn't listen, you didn't obey.” He repeats with newfound urgency, “Bring. Him. Here.”
The men oblige, and Daniel obviously tries his damndest to struggle and twist away from the crushing grips capturing either of his arms, but all it takes is the collaboration of Fritz and Leopold to successfully yank him up from the sofa and propel him to walk. The others congregate around the empty banquet with morbid fascination, the bystanders to the first ever punishment Hargrove has ever enacted in their presence. It’s an honor that they don’t receive lightly. When the boy’s slammed down upon the table, Benjamin does superficially propose something that causes the others to dismissively shush him, “Hargrove, shouldn’t you go easy on him? It’s only his first offense.”
”Oh, just give it a rest will you, Benjamin?” retorts Leopold. “How else is he supposed to learn?”
"No, no, please! I won't do it again, I promise!" Daniel’s desperate sobs go ignored, his squirming completely futile as the rest of the patrons—the five of them at this point, though one or two surely would have done the trick on their own, they all want to have a part in manhandling him—work to restrain his limbs. He attempts to writhe out of their grip on the mahogany table as his master approaches. His master uses a firm hand to wrap around his softening prick; it’s good that he’s not hard, it makes things easier. "Please, Master! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"
”Well, aren’t you going to punish him, Hargrove?” Jason urges from his side, “aren’t you?”
"I've never had to actually punish him before," Archer's tone actually hints at half-hearted surprise, somehow, and maybe a hint of penitence though his expression remains dry. He pries open the lid of the black compartment in close proximity, and Daniel whimpers as he eyes the dreadful rod of surgical metal, which now seems so much thicker than what he remembered. He lifts it from its bed of cloth and calmly aligns it with the boy’s weeping slit. "Oh well... I suppose there's a first time for everything."
His protests raise an octave as the cold, beaded end nudges at him, threatening to breach the duct. "Please, master, please! I didn't mean to come, I didn't! I didn't! It's only because I thought it was you!"
The five patrons subject his blubbering to open laughing fits, but Hargrove falters a hint upon listening to that impassioned confession. It's honestly so pathetic, he almost feels bad for him. "Fucking hell, Daniel…" he murmurs and averts from him, a pause lingers as he realizes he hardly knows what to say in response. In front of the others. He frisks his thumb over the top of the silver sounding rod, and briefly considers stowing it away. But there were rules, ones he had to follow as well. “I’m sorry, but you brought this upon yourself.” The only warning he gives before he begins the torturously languid slide of freezing metal, an insidious invasion of sensitive tissue.
Daniel goes rigid at the fear of the metal lodging somewhere it shouldn’t, but he fails to bottle up any of the blabbers of inconsequential nothings and the hiccoughs. His pupils waver, eyes blown wide as they totter between the stern facade of his master and the sound, long and thick, which disappears inside his urethra in a pulse of indescribable traction. Hargrove only ceases when it refuses to probe any further, pushing against his bladder.
It’s fundamentally wrong in every way.
To him, of course. The punishment rouses some of the others, particularly Mr. Thatch and his equally evil paramour. Jason kisses his teeth, settling his hand on Leo’s waist. “Leopold, I believe you were up next. Unless, of course, you’re no longer interested in such a disobedient toy.”
”I think I’ll take my chances.”
They couldn’t possibly be serious. Daniel wants to hide, wants to turn away and imagine that he could wake up at the start of a new day, clothed and unmarred as he recovers from a nightmare that was never real.
”Do we still get to use him?” Tilting his head, Jason shamelessly asks the question on everyone else’s mind.
Hargrove himself wears of the regimen; how many hours had it been already? Surely, had there been any windows in the study, the sun would have already lit the sky. But it was he who told them to satisfy their infernal delight, to 'give him hell,' to take him kicking and screaming if they so desired. It was his doing, all of it. Something about that makes bile spread on the back of his tongue. He pinches the bridge of his nose and dismisses his guests to do as they wish. “If you must," follows in the form of a labored exhale.
The night continues succinctly and as much as he should be distressed over the constant plowing of his insides, he's distracted by the piercing of metal that he can feel in the very marrow of his bones and the enamel of his teeth. He hesitates to even call it painful, it's too bizarre a sensation. But of course, at that point, the men are increasingly inquisitive, having never bore witness to a servant breaking a fundamental rule–of course not, none of his predecessors have ever been stupid enough to get so attached to their master that they came to the thought of him fucking them—and Leopold's hand glides between his thighs, taking hold. His thumb grazes over the protruding hook of the sound (designed for removal, surely) and Daniel feels it catch further. He locks up and squeals something that he thinks may have been words, but he's too incoherent and disjointed that it could have been anything. Hurt, pain, strange, bad, he reflexively scrambles to get Leo's grip off him, but the man refuses to let up.
"You know," Leopold's obscenities lose their bite when they're being spoken to someone so distracted and off kilter, "I would have never done any of this to you, but you really gave me no choice. You only have yourself to blame."
With the relentless pressure building, he finds out just what happens when he comes with the infernal thing lodged inside–nothing. He spurts nothing but dry air, and his entire being is set alight in the worst way. His jaw slacks around a scream that never follows, and then snaps shut on instinct. It's a not-quite orgasm, a lackluster imitation of something meant to be satisfying that leaves him nauseated in exchange.
And when they stumble upon the understanding that the rod doesn’t necessarily stop the slave from coming, it only makes him come painfully dry, everyone else's curiosities get the best of them.
The parlor room echoes nothing but the grunts of effort, the monotonous creak of worn wood, the rhythmic strikes of flesh, hard and wet, and perhaps the occasional scream as they wring out another unwanted orgasm. But by then, Daniel's all but lost the fight, and he's left dehydrated, limp, a surrendered prisoner to their depravity.
By the twelfth round, Daniel’s a catatonic shell of himself. Still conscious, Jason ensures that it stays that way, but the guests themselves tire of his deathly boring demeanor. Not even a fist induces much of struggle out of the boy, so the night winds to its eventful conclusion. Archer apologizes for the waywardness of his usually obedient attendant as he escorts the men out, to which his guests assure him that it was more than alright and that, according to Jason at least, it’s actually much more fun to have him revolt, I've never seen him that way. Even Vikentiy charmingly speaks the most he has for the entire evening, musing about plans for another affair. But Hargrove declines to offer any particular resolution to their haggling, instead merely ushering them to their respective vehicles and drivers. He rolls his shoulders as he re-enters his manor, noting how tense they are upon sitting for so long. The man, who had the most passive role in all of this, a simple surveyor, anticipated the soak of warm water upstairs. Before he could savor epsom salt and ginger, there was something he had to attend to seeing as Elison was still abroad. He could have had Noah–who was unfortunately familiar with the ritual–attend to him, he surmised, and worry about the consequences in the morning, but what better way was there to prey on the boy’s adoration for future use. Surely his servant did not deserve his care after such a lamentable performance, but given his colleagues' responses, it was a success. He returns to the parlor, leant up against the egress to find the poor creature crumpled up on the sofa.
“Oh Daniel,” tuts his master, who extracts a handkerchief from his breast pocket in a swift tug. Hargrove settles into the couch beside him, and coaxes him up. Or rather, Hargrove has to tug him out of that fixed position, having Daniel lean his back against his chest so he can wipe away all the cum and drool that has accumulated from his cheeks. The attendant carries with him a stench of use. They can both smell it, but Archer was such a gentleman he didn’t mind at all. Yes, he was always there, never laying a malicious finger on him unless absolutely necessary, and with Elison away, he once again assumes the role of the comforter, of the savior: he’s the provider of much needed gentleness after horrific torture. A trustworthy instigator of said torture. “You did… better, I suppose. You broke the most important rule, but I won’t hold it against you. You’ve been through enough as it is.”
Like the first night in each other’s company, they barely exchange many words. Maybe a thoughtful hum escapes the older man as he purges the boy of stains, and of course, the ticking grandfather clock—tick, tick, tick—the minutes pass for an imitation of intimacy.
Hargrove sighs with exhaustion; this was an ordeal for both of them, or at least that was what one would be led to believe from the way the master moves and acts. “I tried to tell them to be careful with you, but you did wound them earlier with that comment toward Leopold. I’m afraid you’ll just have to get used to their whims.”
Daniel, with his arms wrapped around himself and hunched over to hide his shame, stares at nothing at all, saying just as little. All he responds with is the occasional sniffle.
Truthfully, the idea of anyone touching him right now, even his beloved master, inspires him to want to scrub his skin with sponges and scalding water until it bleeds. His embrace reminds him of blazing storms, of the years before he was repeatedly subjected to mistreatment in all forms, and it is as pleasant as spiders skittering beneath his skin. His fingers twitch where they grip at his forearms. The thin rag pads at his cheek, cleans him—at least on a surface level—of a particularly stubborn streak of dried saliva. His master must love him so much to coddle him after a disgusting ritual.
His master must love him so much to give him a library he’s never permitted to enter.
His master must love him so much to buy him so many nice things, and in return, expect his obedience even in something like this. He must love him, he must, even if he only ever sits by and lets his colleagues rape him.
Daniel glowers at the implications of his own thoughts, and he can’t control himself. Another rub of the handkerchief is all it takes, and he sharply swats Hargrove’s hand away from him. The impact of the back of his hand against his master’s cracks through the study.
Silence follows, and nothing more. Truthfully, it surprises both of them, even Daniel, who never felt capable of touching–much less striking–his owner.
It’s a sudden impulse just as before, and it’s Daniel who gasps instead of Archer, as soon as he realizes what he has done. His master lours at him, clearly affronted but more so shocked at the utter gall of someone usually so quiet and accepting. Oh God, what has he done? Daniel doesn't feel his throat muscles working to produce noise, or the lift of his tongue, it resonates so disembodied and detached, so distant from his own ears it might as well have traveled from the next room over. It sounds alien too, not like himself. Deadened and raspy. His apologies had become a senseless refrain, repeated incessantly. Still, ever so frantic as he reasonably finds he needs to explain, "Master, I'm– please forgive me, I didn't mean–"
But the shock has dissolved from Hargrove's features, and the look he has now is indecipherable; the boy has no idea what it means. It differs from his usual expression of dissatisfaction, for it isn't as visibly fuming. Instead, there's an unnerving calm present in the dips of his frown. His calloused fingers curl around the damp tissue and without a word, the man abandons the lounge. Equally quiet, with his knees pulled up and that dreadful sound still rodded in him—he's left to wonder, was Master serious about leaving it in until morning? Oh God—Daniel watches his overseer approach the pile of his forsaken clothes and gather them from the floor. When Archer returns, he has the boy's uniform wadded up in his hand, and he gives him a silent onceover before he hurls the bundle of fabric at him. His servant recoils, naturally. "I do not know what has gotten into you," he begins, and Daniel, staring up at him in horror, could arguably say the same. "But clearly you've become too comfortable, so I am here to remind you that I am your master, and I do not have to be as kind as I am. You have ten seconds to get dressed and go up to your room."
Daniel's heart pounds so hard in his chest he can hear it ring in his own ears. He manically scans his master's face for an ounce of the patience and kindness that he's come to love. The kindness he falsely projected onto the man all these years. It's an unsuccessful search.
"If you are not out of my sight by the time I count down…” he chuckles the same lighthearted way he always does. It unnerves Daniel more than any shouting or violence ever could. “I’m afraid I’ll have no other choice but to bring the other servants in here and let them have what's left of you. I'm sure they'll be in for quite a shock when they see their dear colleague on his knees, a worthless whore so eager to please. Is that what you want?"
An exhale stops short of properly escaping, his lungs tightening up. He freezes entirely, like no more than a block of ice in form, a static figure, so afright his skin feels almost wintry to the touch despite the autumn hail and the heat of the nearby furnace. He slowly shakes his head when he regains the ability to move, or perhaps he is not even conscious of his own movement; because no, no his master couldn’t possibly do that to him. He couldn’t say that to him. He wasn’t worthless. He wasn’t a whore. His master’s associates called him that repetitively, and he could endure it because they meant nothing to him, but not Hargrove. Anyone but Hargrove. And he knew those servants, he had worked alongside them; they wouldn't—they would never touch him the way his master implies, but for them to even see him like this, the boy that kept his appearance exceptionally tidy to win over his master's affections... now naked and soiled and filthy. Used. His breathing grows erratic, but before he can make his case, he hears the clock beat.
His master reasserts his bold threat with the start of a vitriolic count down, despite the fact that he acted so casual in manner and stance he might as well have been discussing the weather outside. "Ten," he began.
Daniel's heart instantly sank. Mind racing, he hurriedly scrabbles to collect the disarrayed articles of clothes scattered around him, his collar shirt cloaked over the arm of the lounge. He tumbles to the ground to snatch his trousers up from beside his master’s foot.
”Nine.”
He doesn't even bother with his undergarments, he doesn't have the time, he simply takes his trousers and struggles to yank them up trembling legs. Even though wet, slick fluid is grotesquely dribbling down the inside of his thighs, sullying the fabric and sticking it to his skin.
"Eight."
He tugs his shirt over his head, clumsily clasping the buttons together to the best of his ability. Raising his arms is a laborious task in itself, each movement seems to send an electric shock straight from his hands up to his shoulders. He can only manage the first and the second button, but it’s enough. He can hardly hear the countdown over the incessant pounding in his ears, a loud, constant thrum.
”Seven.”
Shooting pains also saw their way up his legs when he attempts to stand, feet unbalanced, and he collapses back onto the floor. They feel so numb. He can't walk. The clock chimes twice.
”Five.”
"Please!" Daniel begs him as he reaches this realization in time with another passing second, "don't!"
"Four,” is all his master responds with, the false patience fades from his tone.
Daniel sobs and attempts to stand again, but it's hopeless. He's rendered a mound that dons and shifts in his spot, fruitlessly trying and failing to get any leverage. Even if he weren't so sore, the rod of metal that he apparently can't remove makes the use of his lower body foreign in nature.
"Three.”
Oh God, if only Elison were there; he would have never allowed any of this to happen.
"Two."
Adrenaline sweeps in at the last moment to rescue him from his fate. He regains enough strength to rise up to his feet, just enough fragments of orientation to break into a meager, stumbling mad dash out the doorway.
As soon as he crosses the arch, he distantly discerns the end of the countdown far behind him. But the boy hardly has the guts to turn around, instead he continues straight as steady as he can, though tripping over his own steps and his blurred vision certainly do not help to improve things. His bare feet meet the carpet of the stairway, and he races up to the landing. Instead of taking a hurried route over through the wing of red doors and other servants’ quarters, he nearly takes a spill on a left turn to find the French doors his master once guided him to.
Daniel throws them open and slams them shut behind, leaning his back and head against them as if it would keep them closed in the event of an intruder. The accelerated pace of his heartbeat makes him feel like he could faint. His breaths are no more than irregular, spasmic gasps, which he maintains to recover from his panting. And his running. And his fear of the man becoming the monster he once suspected he would be. The library was a better choice than his room, he decided, aware that the comfort of his own bedchamber was likely the first place his master would ever search for him. His trembling fingers click at the lock, though he doubted it was sturdy enough to keep the heavy doors shut; now that he properly inspected it… it was a rusted fragment of a thing. He wipes at his eyes with his sleeve and takes in the room and he wonders if it had always been as awful as it is now: a dusty labyrinth of broken shelves and cobweb-ridden portraits, once obscured with rose-colored lenses. He slides down the barrier he’s plastered himself against until he’s seated on the ground, and his entire body trembles as he swallows a lump forming in his throat. And he weeps until he’s too exhausted to stay awake.
Elison discovers him in the morning.