The day Will was bought, by a tall, elegant, sharply cut man, he knew that there was only one true use for him. And it was not changing the car oil, or cleaning the gutters, or repairing the garbage disposal. It was not sweeping floors and vacuuming. It was not dusting, or scrubbing the bathroom. Though the man inspected Will’s work, gave praise and dinner baubles, none of this had anything to do with why he was Hannibal Lecter’s slave.
Each month when his skin softened, when his breasts became so sensitive merely brushing one sent shocks through Will, when the slick gathered in the folds of his cunt, he vomited. Shaking, he would brush his teeth to be presentable for his master.
And each month, during his heat, his master would require him to do his chores naked. It always made Will aware: the whisper of air against his wet cunt, the pucker of his nipples in the cool, dim house. It could almost have been erotic.
Hannibal never used the remote on Will’s slave collar to shock him into a stupor or unconsciousness. He thought it undignified, though Will wished he would shock him.
Sometimes Will could feel the swirl of air behind him, or see the change in the shadows. Other times it was just a hand over the mouth.
“Sssh,” his master would croon, as though what would happen would be comforting.
The events had begun to blur, conjoined to one another, so that Will was never certain. Was Hannibal making him bend over and present himself, pulling him open so his holes gaped? Was Hannibal forcing him onto his hands and knees? Was Hannibal fingering him, hand clamped over his mouth, muffling not Will’s moans of pleasure, but his sounds of protest, and then as things proceeded, sounds of despair. Was he bent over the couch, listening with a sizzling panic to the sound of Hannibal’s belt and zipper coming undone? Then a heat against his inner thigh which made Will yelp and thrash. But then go still. Or was he still the whole time? At either rate, he’d learned Hannibal liked it when he struggled. So he wouldn’t. He became water. His legs parted and with a groan Hannibal entered him, thick and hard as an ax driving through wood. He always took his time, murmuring endearments, before he began to thrust in earnest. Meanwhile, Will studied the carpet, the fine drapes, the paintings, the glistening kitchen counter tops.
Then the tremor throughout Hannibal’s body. The rumble of his voice as he yanked Will’s head back by his hair.
“You want to be bred, don’t you, you whore?”
Will would always protest that, shaking his head. Sometimes, he would say: “No, please.”
The tempo of Hannibal’s thrusts would increase, and then he would stiffen. Heat would flood Will’s cunt and Hannibal would fall atop him, heavy, sweaty. Will hated it. But he stayed, until Hannibal could pull out and get up. Will would feel a sliver of relief at the sensation, even as, oddly, he would ache for Hannibal’s cock.
He would lay on the couch, or floor, or bed, for awhile, not because he was so stricken he couldn’t move. He didn’t have room for shame or disgust or sorrow or rage, not if he wanted to survive.
But he did have room for this: the heat pooling inside him, in his lower belly. He prayed each month his own heat would not come and that he would be pregnant.
Then, then he would mother Hannibal’s child. Will knew Hannibal far too well. He thought himself in love with Will. If Will had his child, that love would only increase in magnitude. And though Hannibal would never give Will up as a slave, Will would have leverage. Will would have power: to slice the child’s little fingers and toes off, to smother it in its sleep, to poison it, to drown it. Hannibal could try to touch Will, but he could be reminded of the child, the child, and wouldn’t it be unfortunate if . . . .
However wretched his circumstance, of Hannibal fucking him on his hands and knees in the living room, or fucking him flat and spread on the kitchen floor, or on his back in the bedroom, or any number of places or ways -- Will knew eventually he would win.
So he waited.