steeledheart | for subcircuits

i'll put something here eventually

Normally, Samir had an excellent poker face. Both natural skill and years of training himself to hardly respond - it was rare that something could crack it, much less cause him to drop it entirely. Still, there were tells for those who had managed to learn the him under the facade; Devero was one of them, as while Samir maintained a certain decorum even with his slave, he did allow himself to relax and, occasionally, indulge in the lack of pretending.

But that was willing. As he stepped in to his quarters, face pale and lips pressed in to a line so thin they were hardly perceptible?...this was not willing. This was a matter of him getting to safety as quickly as possible, as whatever had just happened was nearly impossible to keep a straight face against.

"Devero." His firm voice had the barest hint of shakiness in it as he called for the other man. "Finish up whatever you're doing, now."

Devero's in Master's study, ~~browsing~~ tidying the bookcases-- his go-to when there's nothing for him to actually do but he needs to stay available. He alerts immediately to the sound of Master's return to the suite, but it's not until he hears the timbre of Samir's voice that he shelves the volume in his hands.

He presents himself almost immediately, and stops short when he actually catches sight of the other man. "Sir...?"

Normally, there's a degree of allowance Samir grants; if Devero is in the middle of an assigned task, for example, he is generally given time to complete or at least advise as to why he cannot complete an order. But that tone in Samir's voice, here...it goes without saying that it is a rare sound. And the fact that Devero immediately responds?

Does nothing to soothe Samir. He runs a hand through his hair, visibly stressed as he looks the man over. The source of the stress is obvious in a few moments;

"Get yourself cleaned. Spotless. Heber has requested your presence for the evening and I will not have you anything less than at your best."

Ori Heber does not request. But he does not need to demand, either. Not with those who are under him. If he wants something - it is done.

Samir's visible distress turns Devero's concern into alarm, and that's before Master speaks. When he reveals Lord Heber's request, the blood drains visibly from Devero's face.

He's had very few direct interactions with Lord Heber, and for that he has been very, very grateful. Just observing the man as he's attended Master Samir has been enough to make him thankful nearly every day of the fact that Samir claimed him on his arrival here.

"Y...yes sir," he says, swallowing thickly. "May I... may I ask why...?"

"No." Well, he could. But Samir has no answer to give him. Instead he makes a gesture towards the washroom, already moving to find some garments for the other man. Not that there's much to choose from; to be fair, that's one of the few things they have in common. Samir hardly has the expansive wardrobe as some of his would-be peers, but that is a matter of choice, rather than caste. And that caste is what makes it impossible to refuse Heber's request.

Well, that and the fact that Heber takes defiance rather poorly. Samir has learned what battles are worth fighting, and chooses them very carefully. This?...as much as he would call himself appreciating Devero's steadiness, his skill, to say nothing of his servitude...to refuse Ori here would be to make it seem as though he was possessive of his slave. Or had other reasons to not want him touched. Indeed, by granting this, Samir is protecting him as best as he can...

Which isn't much, to be fair.

By the time Devero has finished, the clothes are laid out for him - his finest, though still very much naming his status as slave - and Samir is waiting impatiently with a pair of scissors to trim his hair. Normally Devero handles his own grooming, but apparently, his master here intends to personally see to certain aspects of it.

"You will do whatever he asks without question, including curse my name." Said bluntly, without any inflection or emotion. Luckily, Samir has been nothing but loyal; there is nothing to betray him, other than what Heber already knows. "If you cannot do something, it had better be because you are physically incapable of doing so, and you will grovel and do whatever else you can think of to earn a mercy. Do not assume anything with him."

Well. That's... that's the lot of a slave. Devero inclines his head, and hustles to the washroom. He bathes himself quickly but thoroughly, sparing a moment to be thankful that he'd recently groomed himself, ah, intimately, and only has to worry about a quick scrub.

Finding Master waiting with clothes and scissors does nothing to assuage his anxiety. Regardless, he sits ramrod straight and still in the chair, submitting to the trim without complaint. His face is an impassive mask as he listens to Samir's instructions.

"Yes, Master," he says, the words barely squeaking out of his throat. He swallows hard and forces a deep breath before trying again: "Yes, Master. Understood."

That comes out steady-- a sign of his control over himself only, a thin veneer over his mounting fear.

Such composure would be welcome any other time. Now, though...now, Samir moves round to take care of those bangs as his voice lowers to be all the more serious.

"This is the most important - do not try and keep anything from him, either. In order to get through this, you must hold back nothing. No walls. No control. When you are with him, he is beyond 'Master'."

It is how Samir himself has survived. Because what he keeps, is not even asked for in the first place - so much has he already given. But with that final warning- he does a final once-over of his work, twice, thrice- and only then does he set down the scissors and remove the towel he'd used to catch the debris.

"Now. I will walk you there, and if all goes well, he will send you back by morning with another slave. If he wishes to keep you longer, I will handle things, and you will continue to do as he wills until-" he pauses, briefly, thinking, as his brow furrows once more. "-until I signal you otherwise. Understand?"

There are Ori's 'games', and there is actually signalling Devero has been returned in full. But to emphasize this, he brings up a hand, giving three sharp taps under Devero's right ear - right at the hinge of his jaw.

"Until that, he is not finished with you, and you are still to attend him over me. Can you remember that, Devero?"

Those bangs of his had been getting unruly, hiding his eyes from his Master until the screen falls away. He tries to ignore the squirm of unease in his belly as Samir cuts them back.

When Master's finished, Devero takes the towel from him, folding it up to trap the hair inside as he listens. He brushes off his shoulders and neck automatically-- until Master reaches for his face. Then he freezes, looking up Samir as the other man demonstrates the signal.

His throat works nervously for a moment, the unease in his belly having crawled back up to his throat. It sits there huge and heavy and only with an effort is he able to say, "Yes, Master. Three taps. Otherwise, continue to serve L...lord Heber."

He surges to his feet then, even though he hasn't actually been released, retreating to the bathroom to dump the towel in the hidden hamper. He takes a moment to lean over the sink and hyperventilate, trying not to fixate on that phrase Samir has used, 'if all goes well'.

Because it might not. And Devero knows what happens when things don't go well for Lord Heber's slaves. He knows they die. And he knows his Master's master is capricious about dealing death, especially to slaves.

He doesn't want to do this. He is, in fact, terrified of this.

But he doesn't have a choice. It is simply not an option for him to refuse; not only would doing so end poorly for him, but it will reflect badly on Samir as well, and endangering Samir like that is out of the question.

So before his Master needs to call him out, Devero emerges again. He picks up the shirt Samir selected and finishes dressing himself, making sure to leave the collar open so that his, well, collar is visible.

"Is there anything I should do, to please him?" he asks, his expression grave as he looks to his Master. "Or anything I should absolutely not do?"

It is a mark of how upset Samir is, as well, that he grants Devero this deviance. And perhaps a mark of how much Samir understands the anxiety, the distress. He does not call for Devero, does not even think to remember. Let him be afraid.

Heber enjoys it. The power he holds over them, slave and master both. Perhaps this is as much a reminder to Samir whom his master is, as a whim to use another's slave.

As Devero returns...he regards him in silence for a few moments. Then, slowly, "You are not the sort to try and play games." It is praise and warning both. Samir is once again grateful Devero knows how to behave; some may enjoy the occasional brattiness other slaves show.

But not here. Not now.

"...he grows tired if you ask too many questions. But if you are uncertain as to what is required, it is better to ask than to risk being wrong. Just...try and use 'how' as opposed to 'what'." How would Heber like him to do something, rather than what Heber wants him to do. "And it is safer to do 'too much' than 'not enough'; he will tell you when to stop doing something." Other than that...there is only so much useful advice Samir can give. Aside from one that has him looking away.

"...allow yourself to hurt. "

Edited Date: 2022-07-26 09:09 pm (UTC)

Don't play games. Don't ask too many questions. Do ascertain what it is Lord Heber wants. Do wait for Heber to stop a proceeding. He files them away with the same gravity, nodding as he absorbs Master's advice.

Then Master looks away, and delivers his last piece of advice. Devero inhales sharply, and then-- laughs?

Well, technically that's what the sound is, though it's a bitter and humorless laugh. "I suffer beautifully," he says, a certain mocking hint to his voice that may indicate to Samir that he's parroting something Madame had beaten into his skull. "That part will be easy."

And terrifying! But still, easy. At least Devero has experience with torment. He's not going into this entirely green. (He wouldn't be so scared if he was.)

That? That has Samir looking back, and his lips tugging upwards in something that can't be rightly called a smile. "So I was told." But as he notices the time...that upwards tilt fades. "Come. I'd rather have you waiting for him than the other way around."

And with that? He begins to lead Devero through the halls. Heber has his own separate building for his personal quarters, his own manor, as it were...they walk through a small garden and are, in turn, led in to a receiving hall by a mute slave sporting a scar across their neck. Said slave nonetheless seems able to communicate answers to Samir's words - wait here, I will see if the Master is ready to receive the slave - and leaves them be as Samir turns to face Devero.

A hand abruptly reaches up to grip his hair.

"Whatever happens," he begins, "know that it, too, will pass. Though it may not seem so at the time."

And with those final words of - advice? Warning? - he lets go and moves for the door.

Devero follows his Master, walking tall and upright and hiding his fear while they're in the halls. For all intents and purposes, they could be on any regular errand, Lieutenant Bolut and his big, quiet shadow.

The facade slips in the garden, and by the time they're received by the mute slave, he inhales sharply at the sight of that scar. Now his tension is obvious, palpable, such that he actually jumps when Samir grabs his hair.

His lips part, exhaling a shaky breath as his dark eyes bore into Samir's. He nods, just slightly, against the grip, and wraps his arms around himself as Master releases him.

"Master--" he calls, his voice low as Samir moves away. He opens his mouth, so many thoughts tangling together on his tongue that all he can say, finally, is, "Thank you."

Thank you for the advice, the coaching. For giving him a fighting chance with Heber. For having faith that he'll make it through. Thank you for taking him in hand when he first arrived here. Thank you for seeing him as a person, not just a big, interactive sex toy. Thank you for giving him a chance to serve, for being patient while he remembered how to be something other than a consort.

Thank you for the pleasure and honor of being his slave.

He wishes he had the eloquence and the time to say it all-- just, you know, in case. In case he doesn't make it out of here, in case Lord Heber's capriciousness proves final. In case-- in case--

There's no time, and his mind shies away from the very real possibility that he could die here. 'Thank you' will have to suffice.

Samir shows no sign of acknowledgement, other than a brief pause his step. That, however, is enough to say I have heard you, or will have to be enough; the next moment, he is gone.

Devero is alone with himself and the hall. The only sound is the soft tk. tk. tk. of an ancient clock on the wall. There are a number of artifacts displayed here, ancient curiosities or ones that have been recreated; a veritable museum, were it not for the lack of any sort of explanation placard or podium.

tk. tk. tk.

Art on the walls is surprisingly...benign is not the correct word. Neither is innocent. They're bland, is what they are, not in terms of skill or quality - both of which are high - but of simple, almost serene displays. A still life of a fruit basket. A house by a river, with an ancient waterwheel. A cat curled up by a window, sleeping in a sunbeam.

The mute slave returns, and beckons to be followed. They lead Devero down a set of stairs, through a hall, in to...

...a library? Or some sort of study, at least. Heber is there, hands clasped behind his back, watching a vidscreen on a wall.

Were he anywhere else, even waiting on anyone else, Devero might have allowed himself a tour of the hall. Even without any context, just seeing new and interesting things would have been a treat. Hell, even the blandly serene paintings would have been a pleasure to look at-- were he anywhere else.

He stays were Master's left him, arms behind his back, and waits without indulging his curiosity.

He follows right on the heels of the mute slave, perfectly a step behind all the way down into the study. His eyes flick to the vidscreen and then away again, fixing on the only thing that actually matters in this room: Heber.

He goes to his knees with the controlled grace Madame had inculcated in him, then bends forward all the way, hands on his knees and forehead to the floor in full and formal genuflection. "Lord Heber," he intones, "how may this slave serve you?"

Heber himself is dressed in simple outfit, but it does nothing to diminish the sheer presence he has in a room, even when his attention isn't on someone. And when he does turn after a moment, gaze resting on Devero...

His thin smile may be hidden, but Devero may very much feel like a mouse exposed to a hawk as he begins to approach.

"For the moment? Remain where you are." Those feet come to a halt before him - then move slowly as Heber looks him over, studying his form, his features, even reaching to trace a hand along his muscled shoulders. Hn.

"Lady Valdana had so much to say about you, when you were given as a gift - it made me almost wonder why she gave you up in the first place." A pause, just to make sure Devero doesn't respond without being directly prompted, and then- the prompt. "Do you have any idea, slave?"

Face to the floor, Devero strains his ears and the very edges of his peripheral vision to track Heber's approach. He flinches a little when that hand traces his broad shoulders, a breath huffing out of him.

But he does not break position. He's too well-trained for that.

Hey, speaking of! The invocation of his Madame makes him lick his lips, her specter simultaneously unwelcome and necessary. He has to remember his place, that same place that Samir had lifted him so patiently out of....

He swallows hard. "No, my Lord," he says. "I was her-- I thought I was--" Breathe. Don't babble. "I thought I had her favor, before she sent me here."

"A thinking slave? How novel." There's a saccharine-sweetness that is nonetheless cloying in its sarcasm as Heber responds. "And I suppose my Halberd has only encouraged that little flaw of yours. Am I correct?"

Another clear prompt for a response. As if the nudge of his boot to Devero's side wasn't enough - though it does push a little harder, making to roll him over.

Devero grunts softly as he's nudged over, rolling onto his back. He immediately laces his hands together over his belly and locks eyes on the man standing over him.

His mind races for a moment before he answers, "Master Bolut appreciates that I'm able to serve him with a degree of... discerning autonomy. Within reason. Sir."

Dark eyes search Devero's for...something. But it's clear that his sweetness is a facade, even if Devero hadn't had the prior warning and distant experience of watching just how cruel and unhinged Heber could be. When he smiles, now, it is as sharp as the edge of a knife. "How charming of him. He treats you like a person, then."

A hand snaps down, quick as lightning, to grab Devero by the collar and haul him up by it. To bring them face to face, to force the gazes together.

"But do you know what you are, to me?"

That's why Devero is so devoted to him, isn't it? Because despite the vast difference in their castes, Master Samir still treats Devero as a person.

Lord Heber--

Devero's yanked to his feet faster than seems possible, and his eyes meeting Heber's are wide with alarm. "S-sir--" he pants, hands lifting as if to grasp Heber's wrists--

Ah, but he has not been invited to touch, has he? Devero aborts the motion, hands trembling as he forces them back down again. "Nothing, my Lord?" he ventures, voice trembling as much as his hands.

CRACK

that is the sound of a backhand against Devero's face, more than enough force to knock him out of Ori's own loosening grip and back on to the floor. And while Devero is no small man - a bit larger than Ori, in fact, though not by much - Ori's strength is nothing to be shy about, and as he moves to press his foot down on Devero's neck...

"'Nothing' would not speak. I appreciate 'nothing'." Perhaps that offers some insight in to the art in the foyer, but- "At best, you aspire for it. Otherwise, you are a blight whose only purpose is to desperately try and find a way to balance the weight you place on others' shoulders."

That foot presses down.

"You are fed. You are clothed. You are given everything. And you dare think you are 'nothing'?"

CRACK, and down he goes, landing with a thud on the floor at Heber's feet. He gapes up at the man, this time grabbing at his ankle before he can remember himself.

"F-forgive-- forgive me," he gasps, and peels his hands free. Heart pounding, the taste of blood in his mouth, he forces his hands flat at his sides, and turns his face away. "Forgive my-- my presumption, my Lord--!"

The brief resistance - however instinctual and reflexive it may have been - only results in that foot being shoved down all the harder, all traces of sweetness gone. Now there is only an intensity as Heber watches him struggle - not just to breathe, but with himself, fighting against the urge to survive and the urge to please...

Only when Devero's face changes color does that boot lift, resettling on the ground right next to his head.

"Clean it."

The words cut through whatever fog there is, and sound quite impatient.

To please is to survive. He used to understand that, balls to bones-- with her.

Could serving Master Samir have made him...soft?

Now is not the time to think, about that or, apparently, about anything. His body responds to the command while his mind is still reeling from the brief asphyxiation. Gasping for breath, nonetheless he rolls to the side, hands flattening to either side of the boot that had put him in his place. Without hesitation he applies tongue to leather, starting with the smudges left behind by his idiot fingers.

Some questions are better left unasked.

Devero is given some time to 'work' at the task, and then a hand reaches down again - not for his collar. This time, it takes hold of his hair and uses it to half drag, half guide him towards another portion of the room - one with a chair, where Heber seats before the other man and presents the sole of his footwear.

Continue.

Then the next boot. While Devero works, the Lord keeps a hand in his hair - a loose hold, allowing Devero to move, but firm enough to serve as a reminder that things could change at any moment.

Devero doesn't try to muffle the pained noise ripped out of him when Heber drags him across the room. Gods help him, he is getting soft, because there's an instant of disgusted hesitation in him when Heber lifts the sole of that boot. An instant, just a flicker, before he leans in to continue his work.

Continue he does, though, attention divided between licking Lord Heber's boots clean and the man himself. The fire in his scalp mutes down to an achy heat that makes his--

Well. Valdana trained him well, didn't she? His cock warms too, just a little, from nothing more than Heber's grip on his hair.

The man is watching him with an intensity that has not diminished, smirk reforming just for a moment when he sees that flicker of hesitation - but no admonishment. Not for the moment. Perhaps Devero has gotten off...

"That's enough for now," he declares, crossing his leg over the other. "As much as I will be finding better uses for your mouth, later, I think your voice needs training, first - go to the dresser, there." A nod. "Top right drawer. Select an item, and bring it back to me - let's see what your 'discerning autonomy' is all about."

In said drawer, clean and polished and laying on red silk, are...well. No use mincing words; devices clearly made to induce pain.

While it's a relief to be reprieved from boot-cleaning duty, what follows isn't exactly an improvement. His voice needs training? There's another flicker of expression across his face, concern and bafflement, before he drops his head in a nod.

He hurries to the indicated drawer and surveys the fine collection of tools of sadistic torment inside. He's familiar with... pretty much everything in here, so he knows what he's doing when he selects a steel cable loop flogger from the drawer.

Returning to Heber, he goes against to his knees in front of him, and offers the flogger on uplifted hands.

As Devero reaches for a tool, Heber reaches in to a pocket for a small remote, presses a button, and waits. The eyebrow arch is unreadable; is he impressed with Devero's selection? Disappointed? Either way, he accepts the flogger, turning it over with a thoughtful noise just as there's a soft knock at the door.

"Enter."

A young slave - perhaps just out of their teenage years? - enters, head bowed. Heber glances at them, briefly, then stands, voice calm and conversational; "There's no better way to learn than through a demonstration, in my opinion. Remove your shirt and stand at the wall," he orders the new face, who swallows nervously but hurries to obey.

Wait, what? Devero twists to watch the newcomer obey, though his knees remain right where they landed. He twists back to Heber immediately, mouth opening--

Don't ask questions.

He closes his mouth and grips his knees tightly, bowing his head and waiting for his instruction in turn.

A beckoning gesture indicates Devero should follow Heber as he moves over to the new slave; as it turns out, some of the wall fixtures serve a dual purpose. Decorative fabric doubles as ties, which are brusquely secured about the slave's wrists before Heber turns

and offers the flogger back to Devero.

"Consider this an honor. You've never been on this side of things, have you?"

Cautiously, Devero trails after Heber, startling visibly when the flogger is held out to him. He looks from the man to the implement, then back to the man, before finally reaching out to take it with fingers that are definitely shaking a little. He grips the handle tight, drawing the flogger to his chest and straightening up.

He, uh, has been on this side of things, actually. Part of being Madame's consort had involved meeting the needs of whoever she assigned him to, no matter what those needs were. He wavers for a moment, weighing whether it would be impertinent to correct Lord Heber....

No. Better to be honest. He licks his lips again, bowing his head as he says, "I have some experience, my Lord. My training with Lady Valdana was...extensive. It will be an honor to wield this for you, if you still wish me to do so."

"Oh? Then you won't need me showing you how to do this, then." Apparently, the answer is yes, Heber still wants him to wield it. "How thoughtful of the Lady - now, show me what skills she imparted."

A gesture of the hand towards the bare back of the young slave, whom is already trembling. Said back is already covered in scars - some, quite recent.

"And this one will show you how to scream."

Fuck. Fuck. Everyone he's ever whipped has wanted it. He was never an enforcer, just a fuckslave. The last thing he wants is to lay into the narrow, shaking back of the slave helpless in front of him, especially for no other reason than another man's sadistic pleasure.

But what choice does he have?

Another nod, then he steps up behind the shaking kid. Adjusting his grip on the handle minutely, he draws back and lets fly without hesitation, striking the younger slave across the shoulders.

The sound that emits from the slave's throat is not quite a scream, but it's no more held back than Devero's strength. Heber allows himself a thin, satisfied smile before ordering, "Again."

And again.

And again.

The ties on the slave's wrists quickly show another purpose; to actually hold them up and in place, as their legs quickly give out under them. The slave gasps for breath in between blows, weeping freely.

A sound that Heber seems to be drinking in like fine wine, by his expression. Though he seems to be paying just as much attention to Devero as he is the other.

Another Devero, in another life, might have faltered once the kid's legs gave out. Another Devero's heart might not have been able to handle the needless pain he's inflicting. Another Devero might have tried to put himself between Heber and this wretched slave.

Not this Devero. This Devero's arm rises and falls, again and again and again. And his training with Valdana shows-- he knows how to give an effective flogging. The loop of steel cable quickly reddens the slave's back, leaving curved welts everywhere that it lights with particular strength.

But he doesn't always use excessive strength. Better to sting and redden a patch of skin before he hits hard enough to welt. Better to vary his timing and his pattern, so that Heber's slave can't anticipate the blows. Better to here hit with the full length of the flogger, and there to snap just the tip of it against shuddering flesh, and there to turn it sidelong and whip hard enough that the skin-- splits.

Shit. Only then does he pause, rocking back a step and looking over for Lord Heber's reaction.

There's just something about it that's - enchanting? Mesmerizing? Something about this situation that draws Heber's attention like a moth to flame. The sight of blood - it has his tongue flick out, briefly tracing his lips in further appreciation, but Devero stopping...

An eyebrow raises, and whatever humor he had been drawing from this vanishes in an instant. Narrowed eyes are the only warning Devero has before he's backhanded once more, the CRACK briefly silencing the other slave's wretched noises.

"Is your arm tired, slave? Or have you another excuse for stopping?"

Devero lets the sound of pain escape him as he's hit again, head whipping to the side. Too late, he remembers Master Samir's advice to let Heber tell him when to stop.

He licks his lips, tasting fresh blood. It shows on his teeth as he says, "I didn't want to presume to damage your property." He bows his head, eyes on Heber's feet. "Shall I continue, my Lord?"