: : :
Jensen hurried through the market, careful of the other pedestrians. His arms were chained tightly behind him and his shoulders ached from being bound back so closely. He resolutely ignored the pain; there was nothing he could do about it. He had the equivalent of twenty minutes to get to Trinity House. Twenty minutes before Simion’s timer in his collar would go off and there’d be all hell to pay.
Jensen hated this world, this universe he had fallen into. Hated feeling so frail and vulnerable as he ran barefoot, nearly naked, through the market on his latest assignment. Hated the bold, knowing touches and lustful looks that trailed covetously across his spotted skin. Hated that nothing was truly his anymore, especially not his body.
His cat growled, its fur rubbing up along something inside of him. And he hated that too, the freak he’d become. He wasn’t even human anymore. He hissed in disgust without thinking: Jesus, even the sounds he made weren’t human.
He glanced up briefly to check his route, careful not to accidentally meet the eyes of a freeman, another excuse to be beaten in this frakked-up hellhole corner of the galaxy, where slavery was the norm and humans were snatched off their world with impunity. His cat growled in sympathy, but all Jensen felt was anger, anger and disgust. He had spent so much of his time the last few years being angry: angry at being yanked away from his life, angry at being a slave. He felt sometimes like that was all there was left of him now, a pretty outer package that was lusted after and pawed at – that, and his rage – and he was so tired of the weight of it. He wondered what would be left of him if he set it aside and stopped struggling against…everything; if he just broke and became what they wanted him to be, the whore they’d trained. It was only his mission that kept him as sane as he'd managed to stay, that gave him purpose and a reason to keep living, that enabled him to keep accepting this abuse.
Jensen shuddered in distaste. He couldn’t give up; it would be admitting defeat. He had to try to hang on a bit longer – though it was the hardest thing he'd ever done. He just couldn’t quit yet.
He clamped down on his dismal line of thinking, realizing he had let his mind wander far too long; he hadn’t been watching the crowds for potential trouble, and that was dangerous. He heard his first warning ping and paused mid-stride to look up and calculate how far he had left to go.
That was when he was grabbed from behind and shoved into the alley.
: : :
“Suck it, bitch.” Jensen’s mouth was forced open as the youth stabbed his slim blue dick past Jensen lips. “Ah, fuck, we should have tried this sooner, Zaorh. What a pair of lips on this thing.” Jensen squeezed his eyes closed at the rush of humiliation that flooded through him. He should fight against this; he was a grown man for god’s sake. He should be able to shove them off and kick their peach-fuzzed asses back to their mothers’ arms and escape. Instead, he was a powerless ‘thing’ kneeling obediently in the dirt as he sucked down a strange cock.
“Ya gotta do it harder, feels better that way; don’t be such a pussy,” the other youth instructed in a superior, knowing way, having just gotten off in Jensen’s mouth moments before. “Yeah, fuck into him; he ain’t gonna break.” He could feel the soft fur of the older boys legs against his back as he walked around him.
Emboldened, the first youth started slamming back and forth down Jensen’s throat. His eyes watered at the awkward, uneducated thrusts, and he gagged a little but kept up a steady suction. The sooner they were done, the sooner he could be on his way. The first youth fumbled with his head, held onto the tufts of his ears with a death grip, and pulled Jensen closer until his face was buried in the lightly furred crotch. Jensen felt his anger and hopelessness bubble up again, and he wondered if he’d pull the fur off at the rate he was going.
“Ah common, Jatta, hurry up. I’m not sure I’m gonna last…” The third youth had been watching and stroking himself, but Jensen could see out of his watery eyes that it wouldn’t take much to tip that one over the edge.
“Hey, what are you boys doing down there?” The youth plugging Jensen’s face faltered in his thrusts as the adult voice floated down the alley. “That ain’t your slave, and I’m telling your papa, Jatta. Let him go right now. Gods, his collar is blinking. Don’t you know how much trouble you could get into? Get lost.”
The first youth, Jatta, was torn; he was near completion, but fear was rapidly shriveling his erection. He tried for a few dashed thrusts into Jensen’s mouth but couldn’t quite manage to come. Only as he pulled out and the cooler air of the market hit his purpled straining dick did he let go. All over Jensen’s short leather kilt.
The boy cried out in embarrassment and relief and scrambled to tuck himself in as he and the other two ran off down the darkened alley. Jensen was left kneeling, trying to catch his breath with come dripping down his front and no way to clean himself up. His fists opened and closed in anger behind him, and he had to duck his head lower to hide the rage that threatened to bleed across his face. His cat snarled in anger, and all Jensen could do was try to control both of them as they teetered on the edge of disaster.
“Thank you, master,” Jensen whispered out. His voice shook slightly, throat raw, bruised by the assault and rattled by the boys’ sudden attack. They had been, what, fourteen? Sixteen? If they were a day? They still had some of their baby fur, their skin not yet lightened from the cobalt blue of youth to paler sky color of adulthood. They had just seen him and taken him because he was a slave, because he was powerless to protest, powerless to defend himself.
He had realized early on that Simion was a pretty negligent owner. Jensen's vulnerability and helplessness in the face of the smallest whim of any freeman stared back at him. He had to clamp down on the insane desire to run screaming down the streets, snarling and biting and kicking. It wouldn’t do him any good; no one cared about the petty problems of a slave. No one saw anything wrong with their absolute right to use and abuse him at will as long as it didn’t interfere with his duties. He had no more defense against their petty cruelty than he did against the more calculated and targeted versions he suffered at the hands of his captors.
The rage burned brighter in his soul.
He rose shakily to his feet, his head still bowed, and moved to leave the alleyway.
The shopkeeper blocked his exit. The freeman spat on the ground and said, “Fucking Felix, if I’d known you were one of them, I’d a let the boys play with you. Now get the hell outta here. Slavery’s too good for your kind.”
Jensen swallowed and sidled past the disdainful shopkeeper. He made sure to stay hunched, with his head submissively down, so he didn’t tower over the man. All he needed was a pissed-off shopkeeper whaling on his ass in addition to being late. Fuck! Jensen’s cat howled in agreement.
He rejoined the flow of pedestrian traffic on the main street and left the watching shopkeeper behind. He gradually allowed himself to straighten, though he kept his head bowed, eyes up just enough to peer through sooty lashes to see where he was going, but not so high as to risk looking a freeman in the eyes. The buzz of alien languages washed over him as he moved through the market’s crush.
He was helpless, as always, to resist snatching quick glimpses of the inhabitants of the city in which he now found himself. He kept a particular eye out for city guards. He had learned through bitter experience to be wary of them and their brutish treatment of slaves, especially eager to target Felix, since the fighting had gotten closer to Vega.
Felix Prime was one of the ten planets in the Alliance leading the rebellion against the Imperium. In spite of that, he did see the occasional Felix in the crowd, though he felt no particular affection for his ‘kind’. He also picked out a variety of other races: Coscans, Beyans, some free, some slaves. On Vega, though it was a slave planet, the majority of the populace out and about were, ironically, freemen, their slaves safely cossetted behind closed doors. It made it all the more dangerous for an unescorted slave to be out on the streets. Not that Simion would spare the money for an escort to keep him safe. Hell no, that would represent a loss in profits. He had only himself to depend on, and now it was more important than ever to stay out of the paths of freemen and the city guard. No one beating on him would stop and ask the specifics of his lineage, nor would they care.
He was late for his appointment now, he was sure. His master would be angry; hell, his master would beat the shit out of him if he didn’t arrive on time, never mind the jolt the collar would deliver if he wasn’t in position when the timer went off. The blinking light on his collar told any citizen that he was on a timed errand, but that hadn’t stopped the group of boys from grabbing him as he walked by. Typical teenage prank, at least on this world; Jensen didn’t know about any other worlds, except Earth. Here, boys would grab a slave hurrying through the market on its master's business, and kidnap it briefly for free blowjobs, or fucking, or whatever they wanted. There was only a penalty if the owner could prove a financial loss was incurred. If anything, parents were proud of their sons for showing a slave its proper place. The delay, though, would cost Jensen more severely than any kicks or smacks handed out by the boys he had been forced to service.
Jensen swallowed as he heard the second warning ping from his collar. The sounds would only continue to escalate in volume and frequency as he neared the five-minute countdown. He lengthened his stride and tried to remember exactly how far away Trinity House was. He couldn’t outright run in case he ran into some freeman, or worse yet, was gunned down as an escaping slave by some trigger-happy city guardsman.
Sweat was already rolling off his brow as he at last sighted the familiar street. He rounded the corner and threw caution to the wind in the less-congested street, flat-out running the last few meters to the House. Citizens cursed and yelled at him as he sped past. Using all the inherent agility of his forcibly-adopted ‘kind’, he never actually touched a single soul as he flowed through the crowd with sylvan grace. The massive structure came closer into view, looming high above the normal four- and five-story neighbors. But what would you expect from one of the most affluent whorehouses on Vega?
The pinging in his collar accelerated to the last warning level, and Jensen shivered with dread.
He saw the green lights on the slave ports lining the side of the building. All were full and closed except one, its red light glaring at him in condemnation. He hunched over in a dead run as the port began to close. With his hands bound behind him, he had no choice but to throw himself, uncaring, into the cell before the door slid shut. He came smashing to a halt at the other end of the metal cylinder and groaned in pain. His collar's location chip dinged once and the warning pings stopped. He knew from experience the light on his collar would now be back to its normal white glow. He gasped a sigh of relief – rather some bruises now than a shock jolt and a whipping for missing his appointment.
He lay on his side, curled up in the metal holding cell, as he tried to catch his breath. That was too close. Damn his spotted hide. Once his breathing was finally under control, he forced himself to rise. He couldn’t just lie there; he had to check in.
Jensen scrambled up to his knees, bowed forward, his head still brushing the ceiling of the port. Blood dripped from his bicep where he must have scraped it on his mad slide into the cell. He licked frantically at the crimson flow, hoping it would stop and not mess up the cell; another strike against him. The slight rasp of his tongue on the damaged flesh caused Jensen to flinch, but he couldn’t afford to let his kilt be more soiled than it already was. He lapped at the wound until the bleeding stopped, and was left with the coppery taste on his tongue as he straightened himself, kneeling in the low space. Somewhat presentable now, he nudged his shoulder on the button positioned on the side of the portal.
He heard a whirring and clicking, and the end of the port became a full view screen with the image of a bored slave manager at his post.
“Cutting it kind of close, aren’t you, Felix?” the man asked.
“Sorry, master,” Jensen mumbled, ducking his head down further and repressing his urge to explain. The pod manager didn’t care, and his experience had been that they didn’t like excuses either.
“Logging you in at 10:01; your master will hear about this.”
Jensen tried to halt the whimper that wanted to sneak past his lips. He dropped his head down further, head nearly touching the floor of the port.
“Your will, master.”
“You will be up for selection later this evening. Maybe no lunch will remind you of your duty.”
“Yes, master,” Jensen whispered. He almost wanted to giggle hysterically at the thought of going longer without food as his stomach rumbled in distress; it was either that or cry. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday. His master had been angry at some competitor who had been chosen over him to supply the lion’s share of slaves for the Prince’s Ball, leaving Simion with only the smaller contract. He had taken his anger out on the nearest slave, who happened to be Jensen reporting back to his master's office after servicing a client. After the beating, he had laid unconscious on the cold tile of the floor of his master’s office until this morning, when he was kicked to wakefulness and sent on this, his newest contract.
“Lock down in 5, 4, 3, 2…”
Jensen braced himself for the lockdown process. As the slave manager voice said, “1,” in that same bored tone, he flicked off the port monitor screen and went back to his other duties. Jensen stiffened in dread as a metal arm separated itself out of the smooth walls of the port and looped in under his chest; the arm snaked up and snapped onto his collar, then continued back down under the other side of his chest and continued to extend to the wall. The bar held him in place but also formed a band he could lean his shoulders against as he knelt crouched, bent forward in the pod with his arms still bound behind him.
He felt another arm move from the wall behind him to slide around his torso and on to the side of the port, anchoring him in place. Mechanical arms snapped onto his ankle manacles and spread them wider, and the robot probe rose up from the port floor and moved under Jensen’s leather kilt to unerringly find his entrance. The metal plug pushed into Jensen, and he winced at the chill of it. At least it provided its own lubrication: wouldn’t want to damage the property, just keep it in its place, Jensen thought dryly. As it finally bottomed out, the metal began to shift back and forth inside him, machine intelligence angling until it began to hit his prostate. He groaned and hung his head in defeat as the probe’s steady rhythm produced the expected results. Soon, in spite of himself, Jensen was hard and aching.
On cue, sensors automatically picked up his body’s response and another robotic arm swung out and attached an electronic lasso around the base of his penis, perfectly preventing him from coming until his masters decided otherwise. Jensen groaned in pleasure pain as the probe continued to thrust inside him. His now acute hearing could pick out the other slaves’ guttural moans and groans through the thick walls, all similarly held in their ports, held for their master’s pleasure. Jensen’s nose twitched, scenting their arousal, and he knew that, like him, they were being prepped for the evening’s entertainment.
He heard one female cry out, a pain-laced sigh, and he thanked the heavens once more that he remained relatively unmodified. He knew the women slaves were also being ‘milked’ by their ports. Probes inserted into the women’s nipples sucked chemically induced milk to flow. Masters most often liked their female slaves large breasted and lactating and redesigned them to suit. Sometimes extra mods were requested of the male slaves. Jensen often worried that with his looks, and often referenced cocksucker lips, that some genius might come up with the idea to modify him for milking. He shivered at the thought of being changed to develop breasts. It was not unheard of and was, in fact, quite sought after in the kink market Simion Bajeer, Jensen's master, catered to. Right now he had enough to worry about with the machine mercilessly milking his prostate.
The machine’s loop ended but it did not withdraw from his ass, instead stayed warm and hard in place. In a panting breath, Jensen shook his head and tried to clear his thoughts. The snick of the water tube as it unfolded itself from the side of the pod reminded Jensen of how thirsty he was, especially after his recent activities. Knowing the water was drugged, he still sucked desperately at the tube. Nothing would stop what was going to happen that evening, and maybe Jensen could fill up a bit on water as no lunch was forthcoming.
The chemicals flooded his blood stream instantly, and Jensen groaned at the pain of forced arousal and felt the familiar tightening of his animal as it snarled against the indignity of it all. He felt the fur and fangs scrabbling inside as his cat futilely tried to escape. The muted white glow of the control light on his collar was a constant reminder that, like him, his beast was enslaved.
In the near soundproof pod, Jensen screamed, a high-pitched, enraged, feline sound, and shook in his bonds. He felt a spiraling panic at his enforced confinement as the walls of the pod closed in. He continued to scream in drug-laced frustration, held perfectly in place by collar and steel until his limbs trembled and he felt blackness edge the sides of his vision. Energy finally flagging, he hung there in his bonds, his chest wheezing and coughing, short, hoarse, cat-like coughs that echoed in the cylinder. The last of his reserves ran out, and he fell wearily into exhausted sleep. The only upside to the confining metal straps was that he could lean his full weight against them as he slept. The primer cycle would begin again soon. It promised to be a long day.
: : :
Time in the port went at one speed: slow. It was physically draining to kneel there, he had long since lost feeling in his arms from them being held immobile behind his back for so long, and his knees ached fiercely. Whether it was the long, boring wait or the equally long primer cycles, the enforced inactivity was maddening. He reminded himself again and again after his outburst to keep his emotions in check. The port was randomly monitored by House control, and Jensen would never know it till the cyber whip hit his back.
He gurgled in pleasure-pain and shook his head as the cycle peaked and he was brought near pinnacle again. His dick, hard and aching, leaked a steady pool of pre-come between his legs. He couldn’t tell how long it had been exactly except…long. Primer mode had cycled five or six times, and Jensen was almost hysterical. He didn’t know how he was going to be able to serve like this, but he knew he would. The only other option was pain.
Finally the port door slid open. Just outside, leather-clad legs stood tapping a zapwhip against them. Both Jensen's restraining bands retracted, and his collar was released so suddenly he almost lurched face-first onto the floor. The plug invading his ass slid out with equal speed, and he felt the walls of his channel shudder and gape at the sudden lack. He shuffled forward though, without even thinking. It never paid to keep a master waiting. He came to a stop at the guard’s feet and pressed his head to the floor, waiting for a command.
“All right, up, the bunch of you. Eyes front,” the guard snarled.
Unsteadily, Jensen tried to rise to his feet, without use of his hands, on legs tingling with pins and needles. Breathing out carefully, he tried to control the pain. He stood, weaving slightly in weakness, and cast his eyes to the ground, not even daring a look at his fellow slaves with the guard standing so close beside him.
The guard, a huge Amphian lizard male, grabbed his collar, reading, “Felix class 4, Simion Bajeer’s. He’ll go at the main table. The prince wants some exotics tonight. Gotta get him cleaned up though. Looks like he was drug through a ditch. Goddamn animals.” Jensen was shoved up against the wall to wait as the guard and a slave manager worked their way through the rest of the line of waiting slaves.
The slaves were leashed together and filed out down several wide hallways toward the baths. Trinity House was not only the biggest whorehouse in Zaros, capital city of the planet Vega, it also boasted the largest and most discreet ball rooms and pleasure parlors on the planet. The crème de la crème of Vegan society played hard and fucked hard within their walls, all beyond the knowing, all-seeing eyes of the vidcorders and telelenses of the intramedia. When big events like the Prince’s Masqued Ball were hosted at Trinity, it often supplemented its rather large ranks by contracting out for exotics and specialties from other houses like Simion’s.
The slaves were channeled off one by one, through door after door, to waiting Providers who would clean and oil and prep them for the coming evening’s events. Last in line, Jensen was soon the only slave left in the corridor. He paused at the next door and glanced up at the guard and began to turn to enter. A strong hand whipped out in front of him and braced against the wall, halting Jensen’s movement.
“And where do you think you’re going, Pussycat?” the guard’s voice was deceptively soft as his hand curled up to stroke the soft tufts on Jensen’s ears. The hand continued to run down the side of his face and stopped when a scaled finger hooked in his collar and pulled him up so he could feel the guard’s breath on his cheek. He wobbled on his tip toes and kept his gaze down.
“M-master?”Jensen’s voice shivered out.
“They say once you’ve had a felix, you can never go back. That true, Pussycat? You got special magic in those lips of yours, in that furry ass?”
Jensen stood there and tried to channel his inner whore. He could do this – he’d done it countless times before: tease, titillate, entertain, it’s what he had been trained for, after all. That was all his life was now. The guard released his collar, and Jensen sank back down onto his heels.
He swallowed down his nervousness and slid gracefully to his knees. Jensen started to mouth the guard’s cock, already hard beneath his uniform. He looked up in what he hoped was an erotic enough look from under his long, sooty lashes, a question in his gaze as he looked back down at the man’s zipper. At least the guard was humanoid. Scales or not, he had a man-style dick. Jensen suppressed a shudder, remembering some of the alternatives he’d been forced to service.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it,” the guard wheezed out, rushing to unzip his fly. Jensen’s bound wrists prevented him from taking the guard in hand, so he had to rely on his lips. The man’s green-scaled cock sprung out from his dress uniform with barely a nudge from Jensen.
He licked up and down the guard’s fat, stubby length. Before he swallowed him down, he allowed his head to fall back and growled low and fierce, letting his two pointed canines show to good effect before diving in. The guard jerked at the sight of the teeth and jumped as Jensen took him into his mouth and sucked hard on his dick. Jensen deliberately didn’t let himself think about the taste or the smell of the unwashed guard. He let the pad on his tongue do its work rubbing, under the sensitive head of the man’s cock. He started to purr, knowing the vibrating hum in his throat on the Amphian’s dick would drive the man wild. He’d seen men come just from that alone, the low gravelly sound sending them rushing to climax.
This guard was no different, and within minutes he had his hands on Jensen’s head in a death grip, straining back as he chased his climax. Finally the man came, shooting wads of ropey, blue-green come down Jensen's throat. When he jerked out, some of the come splattered across Jensen’s lips, and in the perfect imitation of a cat licking cream, Jensen delicately cleaned the last of it from his lips.
The guard shuddered at the sight and grabbed Jensen roughly by the neck, pulling him back up onto his feet. Jensen tried to hunch a little; none of the guards liked a slave that was too large, not a sex slave at least, even if he was still shorter than the guard. The guard hastily shoved him in toward the last door as he nervously wiped his scaled brow. Jensen deliberately let his hips swing more than usual as he moved into the new room. He could hear the guard’s breath wheeze out of his chest as he watched the Felix saunter away. Jensen tried to keep the triumphant smirk off his face, but unsettling the guard had been the high point of his day so far. Of course, the bar was set pretty low.
The room he entered was large and airy, with long, gauzy curtains and light, spa-like colors. Deep within Trinity House the baths had no exterior windows, but this room did boast a large vid screen tuned to a soothing beach view. The smells were pleasant, too: scented oils and lotions, all of the highest quality, not like the cheap stuff Jensen was often doused in when he served. His nose scrunched up in pleasure, and his cat purred in approval. He breathed out a sigh of relief; he’d be a painted whore tonight, but he’d be a high-class one.
“Be careful of this one,” the guard warned the Providers standing within. “He’ll bewitch you. Damned animals and their tricks.” The guard huffed and strode off, leaving Jensen in the care of two tall, sturdy, blue-skinned male providers. Both were well over six feet, and a half, tall even by Vegan standards, and both looked completely unimpressed by the little vignette he had put on for the guard’s benefit.
Jensen shuttered his eyes and looked down at the floor, dropping all traces of his siren persona. It was a survival tool, nothing more, beaten into him at the Breakers. Jensen never had felt, nor ever did feel sexy or alluring with potential Johns; it was all an act. What he felt was dirty and used. The providers seemed to know this and did not comment. They would have met their share of whores and catamites in their line of work, and he figured nothing he did would surprise them.
Jensen knew from the slim black collars around their necks that the providers were also slaves, but he was under no illusions that they were equals. Slave whores were the lowest of the low, and contract whores such as he were ranked even lower. If he was competing with dirt, he would lose. So he stood quietly and said nothing as the providers stripped off his kilt, leaving him standing in his bare skin.
Firm hands traveled over the myriad spots covering his chest and back. Smaller spots continued up the column of his neck on either side; they trailed off to a lighter pattern as they went further down his abdomen, following his treasure trail to his now lightly furred groin. More spots extended in a sweeping line along his arms with a few covering the tops of his hands like overlarge freckles. He still had those too, the freckles he was born with dusting over his skin and intertwined with this new, hypnotic pattern that, along with his fur and tufted ears, marked him a Felix now.
Many of his masters had touched him over the years, run their hands over his spots and commented on how beautiful the pattern was, how unusual, and how they could gaze at him for hours. It was ironic how so often their admiring gaze hurt.
Undistracted, the providers ran more clinical hands down his flanks, pausing at the many bruises and abrasions from his beating last night, and came to a stop at the sensitive fur on his thighs near his hard, jutting cock. Jensen shivered at the touch. He wanted to step back out of their reach, to not be touched, prodded, or poked, but he stomped that desire down. He had no say in what would or would not be done to him; he'd had none in a long time. He turned his head away to hide any expression flitting across his face, then closed his eyes in resignation as they walked around him, assessing.
Jensen could hear the click of the scanner as they confirmed his identity, embedded in his collar. “Simion Bajeer, Class 4 Felix,name: Jensen. Hmmm…He’s been beaten pretty badly; should we fix him up?” the larger of the two providers, a red-haired Vegan with prominent forehead ridges, asked the other.
“He’s scheduled to be at the prince’s table, isn’t he?” the second asked; he was a bit shorter with dark hair.
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Then yes, the prince is pretty territorial; he won't want to see any marks on him but his own, so let’s get him all prettied up before we wash him.”
“You in pain, boy?” the dark-haired one asked sternly, arching one blue brow at Jensen. Jensen bit his lip and nodded once, not looking up. He was so much meat they were responsible for re-bundling. He wasn’t a person to them; he was their job.
“From the looks of him, don’t look like he gets fed too often either. We’ll have to do something about that too. Don’t want him fainting in front of the prince,” Red broke in.
“Yeah, last time that happened I think the providers were castrated.”
“Frak, really? I don’t want anyone snippin’ off my boys over a missed meal. For real, man?”
“That’s what I heard,” the dark-haired man said as he gripped Jensen’s chained arms to lead him to a disk-like table on one side of the room that hovered in mid-air.
Jensen was hauled to a stop beside the table. Red leaned in and said in a very matter of fact tone, “We loosen you, boy, are we gonna have any trouble?”
He shook his head quickly ‘no’, and Red proceeded to unclip his arms.
Sparking pins and needles rushed up and down his numb arms and sizzled across his shoulders as his arms were freed. Jensen fought back the scream of pain that wanted to rip out of him as his arms fell limply to his sides. He worked through the rush of feeling to his neglected limbs until he was able to move his arms without crying. He brought his hands out in front of him for the first time all day and shook them out to help get the circulation back. The providers waited patiently as he stretched and tried to regain the feeling in his extremities. He hopped up on the table, his limbs still tingling; he did not want to keep the two workers waiting too long.
“On your back, slave,” the dark-haired one ordered, and Jensen rolled obediently onto his back, wincing slightly at the twinge in his ribs.
The red-haired provider set up the MedLight, and the soft blue glow was soon cascading over his body. The MedLight made its first passing scan, and Jensen instantly felt better able to breathe.
“Hmmm, two broken ribs and some internal bleeding, good call, Ves! He could definitely have passed out while on shift.”
“Here’s to protecting what’s important to both of us,” Ves, the dark-haired provider made a mock toast as he returned with a plate of sliced meat and fruit and a tall drink container.
“It’ll take a while for the MedLight to finish. Eat up now, boy; there won’t be time after.”
The smell had Jensen’s mouth watering long before it came into view. Ves carefully set the plate of food on his stomach as he lay on the floating platform, meticulously avoiding his straining erection. Jensen had to control his urge to bolt everything down. His first desire was for liquids, and he almost moaned as he sipped not just water but Caw’fee out of the slide tube from the drink holder Ves passed him. He closed his eyes, savoring the almost forgotten taste as it slid warm and rich down his throat, so close to the taste of coffee from Earth he almost thought he imagined it. He hadn’t realized he was purring softly in contentment until one of the providers said, “Maybe we should leave you two alone?”
The red haired man chuckled; both he and Ves continued to talk softly amongst themselves.
Jensen blushed and carefully juggled consuming both the drink and food while trying not to move too much. The MedLight’s healing beam continued to scan down the length of his body, paused, then turned 90 degrees and continued on another pass. This cycle repeated again and again, and Jensen continued to improve. He wondered if the dish on his belly was blocking its curative rays. Red seemed to sense his question and said, “Don’t worry, the MedLight goes through anything made of plexicrete. We’ll get you all fixed up, boy, don’t you worry! And hopefully some lucky master will look after that tonight too.” Red nodded suggestively at Jensen’s aching cock.
Biting back a whimper of discomfort, Jensen nodded and went back to work on clearing his plate.
: : :