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.
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.
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.
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.
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?"
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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?"
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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."
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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.
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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."
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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?"
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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.
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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'?"
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"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--!"
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
no subject
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.
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"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.
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Don't ask questions.
He closes his mouth and grips his knees tightly, bowing his head and waiting for his instruction in turn.
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and offers the flogger back to Devero.
"Consider this an honor. You've never been on this side of things, have you?"
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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."
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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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?"
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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?"