Counterpunch

  “I can’t do that, Brook. Jesus. I can’t.”

  Brooklyn shrugged. “It’s okay.” He closed his eyes and forced himself to relax. There was no point being tense. He couldn’t escape. He didn’t have that choice. He’d learned he wasn’t allowed to fight. The guard at the slave auction had made that clear: If you bite, I’ll smack you so hard in the mouth you’ll never bite anything again.

  A forced blowjob wasn’t forced when it was a slave who gave it. There were guards who considered those a perk of the job. And compared to having to suck off a dozen guards a day, getting fucked up the arse twice a week or thereabouts wasn’t so bad.

  “I’ll pick you up in the morning, okay?”

  “Yeah.” Brooklyn listened to Les’s steps on the way out and kept his gaze on the cuffs around his wrists, the links of metal chain. The pattern of the parquet.

  From winning in the ring to this in the span of less than an hour.

  A piece of furniture that could talk back.

  The guy who’d bought his services for the night still didn’t show up. Brooklyn refused to picture him, but in his experience, they weren’t people he’d look at twice when sober. Too bad handing him over piss-drunk wouldn’t work.

  Finally, the door opened. Soft footfalls. Barefooted. Brooklyn realised his hands had clenched, but he couldn’t get them to relax. Would the guy simply come over and fuck him? Or shove his cock down his throat? Well, at least he was thoroughly showered.

  “Brooklyn Marshall.”

  Brooklyn turned his head. He saw naked legs and a dark-blue bathrobe, and then twisted his neck farther. Not fat, not old. The man was average looking, dark hair curling wet at his neck. Midthirties. Banker or trader, most likely.

  “And you are?”

  “Nathaniel.”

  “Isn’t that some kind of demon in the Bible?” Brooklyn grinned.

  “And you—part of New York City?” Nathaniel stepped closer. “No, not a demon. At least, I don’t think so.”

  The accent was from somewhere in London. So he might not be a trader at all. No Essex boy. “My parents got pissed in New York and ended up fucking in Brooklyn. My mother thought that was a cracking name.” Why are you telling him that? Winning time? Winning time.

  “You look just as big as on TV. Larger than life.”

  Brooklyn laughed. “Skip the roses and chocolates. Fuck me already.”

  Nathaniel paused, and then walked from the left to the right. He reached out and touched Brooklyn’s neck just under the steel ring, stroking down and to the side. Tracing lines of muscle and sinew. “I have the night.”

  Yeah, he had. Brooklyn resisted rattling the chains again. It would only give away his frustration and anger.

  The fingers trailed down his spine, pressure strong enough that Brooklyn felt his own vertebrae. They went slowly deeper and farther, into the hollow before his arse, where the hand rested for a moment.

  Nathaniel stood close enough that Brooklyn smelled his citrusy shower gel. It might end up not being too bad, all told. Apart from the freakish little detail that Nathaniel knew his—previous—name.

  “Simply beautiful. You work very hard, and it shows.”

  Brooklyn didn’t dare hope that all the man wanted was to touch him a little. “You’re a fan of boxing?”

  “Very casually. I watch a fight every now and then, but you’re starting to change that.” Those hands slid along his hips now, thumbs digging into his glutes. Then the right hand glided to the underside of Brooklyn’s body and took hold of his cock. Brooklyn jerked so hard in the restraints it hurt. Not a good start. Shit, he wished Nathaniel would keep making small talk.

  After a few touches there, probably to see if he reacted, the hand moved on to his balls, weighing and stroking them.

  “You going to tell me you’re my biggest fan?”

  “No.” Nathaniel withdrew his hands. “But if you’ll forgive me, I’ve wanted to do this for weeks.”

  “Sure. Be my guest.” Oh hell, this was weird. Brooklyn couldn’t read the man, just felt unease creep all over him. It wasn’t a threat but certainly something he couldn’t gauge. What did the man want? Brooklyn moaning his name? He could probably do that. He could possibly even get hard.

  Brooklyn heard a tube being opened and closed; the plastic click put him into familiar territory. And indeed, one hand returned, oily, stroking his cock. Brooklyn tried to respond to it, but it had already stopped.

  “Patience,” Nathaniel said. He stepped away and then dragged something over the parquet and positioned it between Brooklyn’s legs. Then something encased his cock up to his balls and groin.

  It all made sense when he switched the machine on. A penis pump. The suction started gentle, and Brooklyn suddenly realised he was actually getting hard. Fuck. He arched in the pillory when the suction increased. A human mouth would have tired eventually, but the pump could go on forever. At the same time, there was nothing he could do—no friction to gain from fucking against or into anything. The pump settled in a powerful, slow rhythm, and Brooklyn gritted his teeth. This felt amazing.

  Then fingers at his arse. Right. So this was all a trick to get him to enjoy getting fucked? Oiled fingers pushed into him, and holy hell, Nathaniel knew what he was doing there—fucking him with two fingers in time with the pump’s suction. Brooklyn could do nothing but surrender to the sensation, the expert touches to his prostate, the mechanical, uncompromising suction from the pump. Pointless to resist.

  He was getting pretty close when Nathaniel pulled back. Now he’s going to fuck me, Brooklyn thought, grimacing against the sensation surrounding his cock. Yes, something thick and blunt pushed against his arse and then breached him: a thick head, bigger than a penis. It was also not soft, not human. Dildo? Whatever.

  By now, Brooklyn was ready to accept just about anything if only the feeling persisted.

  And Nathaniel used that one well too. Fucking him with deep, slow, intense strokes, pulling out every time so he felt that thick head push into him again. And again.

  The tension built in his legs first and then throughout his muscles. The steel restraints became anchors he could push against that would never break, as much as he tried. He came, the sensation all-encompassing, from his sweaty skin to his taut balls.

  Thankfully, Nathaniel immediately stopped the pump and removed the plastic cylinder.

  Brooklyn caught a glance of a polished steel dildo in the man’s hand but was too much at peace in the comedown to comment on it. He relaxed into the leather cushion supporting his chest. No more strain or tension. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt this calm. If Nathaniel wanted to fuck him now, he wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t enjoy it, but—whatever.

  Instead, the man returned with a wet washcloth and cleaned him, then dried him with a towel. Almost clinical, businesslike. Certainly not like somebody who had rented a slave to let their inner freak out.

  “Do you want to sleep?”

  “Yeah.” Brooklyn was amazed when the steel ring around his neck was opened and removed. He surely didn’t plan to . . .

  Then the cuffs around his legs. He could close his legs, and did, feeling the residue of the oil in his arse.

  He could easily sleep like this, or at least rest, but that wasn’t what Nathaniel had in mind. The cuffs around his wrists came next. Nothing to hold him down but tiredness. Brooklyn glanced up to Nathaniel, but the man gave him no orders, so he stood and rolled his shoulders.

  Nathaniel was about as tall as he was. Six foot one, maybe two. But Brooklyn had at least thirty-five, if not forty, pounds on him, and a much lower body fat percentage. Plus, he was a fighter, and Nathaniel clearly wasn’t. Nice dark-blue eyes, though.

  “You’re not worried I might get violent?”

  Nathaniel chuckled. “What would you do? Rape me? Highly unlikely.” He left the room, and Brooklyn followed him, for lack of anything better to do. He picked up his jeans and slipped into them, even though he hadn’t been given leave to g
et dressed. But that at least made him feel less vulnerable. More like himself.

  The vast lounge had a fireplace, surrounded by glass on three sides. Lights were dimmed. An enormous LED screen was mounted on one wall, showing golf.

  “Now there’s a pointless sport if I’ve ever seen one,” Brooklyn huffed and plonked down on the couch. “May I?”

  Nathaniel regarded him with one ironically lifted eyebrow. “Do you want to sleep here?”

  “I could.” Brooklyn sank back in the soft cushions.

  “I’m like that. I sleep best with the TV still on,” Nathaniel said and motioned for Brooklyn to suit himself.

  Brooklyn grabbed one of the cushions, placed it against the armrest, and stretched out, arms crossed over his chest. However, he couldn’t drift off. Despite the fact that he’d lived in communal quarters for close to two years, he still struggled to fall asleep with a stranger moving around the room. He cracked an eye open. “So what’s your plan?”

  “Do some paperwork while you recover for the second round.”

  Was that an attempt at boxing-speak? A pun? “Still first round for you.”

  Nathaniel smiled. “No, I took care of that under the shower.”

  “That’s really weird. I mean, you’re renting this place and me. And then don’t really use it. Me.”

  “I got a very good deal on the suite. And I did use you. Maybe not the way you expected, but I did get my kick out of that.” Nathaniel glanced at him, mock-coyly. “Making you come, that was very sexy. But I am a believer in eating before I go out to a good restaurant so I’m not starving when I get what I’ve wanted for so long. I apologise for the food analogy.”

  “Understood. You’re all about control.”

  Nathaniel smiled. “No. I’m all about savouring the moment.”

  “Well, I had a fight, and I’m wrung out. I’ll catch a wink or two. Wake me when you want to fuck. Don’t stick anything in my face while I’m asleep, okay?”

  “Okay.” Nathaniel seemed to suppress a grin, with the sudden tightness around his lips, but his eyes gave the humour away.

  Morning was bright, golden, and glorious, pouring into the window at the front of the suite, and Brooklyn basked in it before he fully realised where he was and why. The clock on the wall said seven thirty. He’d slept through his usual waking time. Sunday morning. When was he expected back? He rolled off the couch and went in search of the bathroom to piss.

  Nathaniel wasn’t around. There were a couple of guest bedrooms, but Brooklyn didn’t walk into any of those, a kitchenette, and a bathroom larger than the communal shower at the gym. He had a quick shower and went back into the playroom where the rest of his clothes were.

  The pillory gave him a weird tingle up and down his spine. Lots of people liked this, did this voluntarily, and all power to them. But he hated being restrained and more than anything hated being at the mercy of another man.

  “Good morning.”

  “Fuck, you move like a wraith.”

  Nathaniel smiled. He was almost dressed—sharp grey suit trousers with a white shirt, tucked in and open at the collar. French cuffs, Brooklyn noticed, and Nathaniel was fiddling his cuff links into the openings. “Breakfast?”

  “I could eat a horse.”

  “I don’t believe it’s on the menu.” Delivered straight-faced with an underhanded humour Brooklyn tried not to like. “But I’m sure they’d make an attempt if I placed the order.”

  “Bacon and eggs would do me, then.”

  “Tea? Coffee?”

  “Tea.”

  Nathaniel nodded and turned to call room service, Brooklyn assumed. He grabbed his other clothes from the floor and made sure he had everything before heading to the dining area with its high-backed designer chairs surrounding a glass table. Friday’s Financial Times sat next to the fruit bowl. The Lex column was on top. Headline: The hidden cost of the slave economy.

  Yeah, people might talk about it, but there was fuck all they were going to do about it.

  “When do they pick me up again?”

  “After breakfast.” Nathaniel had a dark-blue tie dangling undone from his neck when he came back. “Which should be with us in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Enough time for a blowjob?”

  Nathaniel smiled. “Giving or receiving?”

  Brooklyn lost a beat. That possibility hadn’t occurred to him. Receiving. That had been a while. Ages, really. Was Nathaniel joking? He probably was. Freemen could tease slaves with possibilities that remained purely theoretical. Seemed the guy was more interested in fucking his mind than his body. “Tends to be giving?”

  “Would you like to give me one?”

  Phrased like that, there was really only one answer. “No.”

  “Then why are you asking?”

  “Listen— What the fuck do you want from me? You said there’d be a second round. Now you plan to feed me breakfast and put me out the door. What the hell are you after?”

  “You have very strong opinions for a slave,” Nathaniel said. If the tone hadn’t been so bloody neutral, Brooklyn would have punched him for that superior attitude. “You haven’t resigned yourself to slavery yet, have you?”

  “No. And I never will.” Brooklyn kept himself from glancing over his shoulder for the malicious presence of Curtis, normally the guardian of his politically incorrect views when dealing with the outside world. He could speak freely with Les, usually the only one who accepted that. He’d had a few slipups with the reporter, but those had mostly been in the grey area he could claim as a boxer. Trash talk. A show of brazenness, balls, testosterone—whatever people wanted to call it. A boxer had to be confident. Hell, after sending another man down, he had plenty of confidence. Reining that in was the real problem.

  “See, I reconsidered. We won’t have sex today,” Nathaniel stated.

  “Does that mean you’ll tell the Neanderthal outside the door I’ve been a bad slave? Because I’d rather suck you off than get beaten into submission.”

  “No, you did everything I asked for.” Nathaniel didn’t cringe, didn’t stutter, didn’t react in any way shocked. “As far as I’m concerned, you will not be punished. Besides, you’ll need to rest for your next fight.”

  “Then what the fuck did you want?”

  Nathaniel raised a finger and turned to the door. A waiter rolled a cart in and set up their breakfast. Fried eggs, bacon, freshly squeezed orange juice, oat porridge, a bowl of fruit salad, a boiled egg, and some thick slices of white toast, golden with butter. Almost like in better days when his meal plan hadn’t been optimised to keep him in fighting shape. The toast especially was near criminal.

  Brooklyn sat down at the table and waited for Nathaniel to join him.

  “How important is it to you that I answer this question?”

  “Ah, sod it.” Brooklyn dug into his breakfast, unwilling to play head games. If all the man had wanted was to get him off, he was okay with that. It wasn’t like he’d see him again.

  “How was it? How are you?” Les asked once Brooklyn settled in the car.

  “I’m all right.” Brooklyn turned his head. “Could do some light training today.”

  Les seemed reluctant to believe him. Well, he’d left Brooklyn in an S/M dungeon, after all. Maybe he expected Brooklyn to be covered in welts or something. No point telling him otherwise. He’d only report that to the management and kid himself that whoring Brooklyn out wasn’t so bad.

  In this case, it hadn’t been that bad. The eggs and bacon had certainly been close to spectacular. And the taste hadn’t been ruined by swallowing some stranger’s spunk.

  Back at the gym, Brooklyn changed and went for some light cardio, toning and stretching, and pushed Nathaniel from his mind. Travelling businessman or banker on a stop in London. Why should he give a fuck?

  He spent the evening with Les, watching his next opponent’s last fights. Almost like watching a DVD with a mate and a six-pack. Back when he’d been free, such evenings sometimes tu
rned into semidrunk groping and often enough into a mutual handjob or occasionally a blowjob. He’d had one mate who’d enjoyed getting fucked, which was even better.

  What Nathaniel had done had sated him, but at the same time, there was a pleasant—and recent—memory of that orgasm. Even the penetration. He much preferred to be fucked by a man he trusted, but that was a rare commodity, both then and now. The freaks he’d encountered in the last two years had given him a strong dislike for that method of sex. He’d take it from Les, and that was about it. But of course the man he wanted he couldn’t have, so he was better off without. Until the next rich, perverse bastard decided to top him.

  There had to be something irresistible about fucking a guy who could just as easily break your neck. Brooklyn didn’t see the appeal.

  “Y’all right?” Les glanced at him.

  “Yeah.” Brooklyn leaned forwards, clutching both hands together and gritting his teeth. “I’ll take him, easy.”

  “You should. He really struggles against southpaws.” Les reached over and placed a hand against his neck. “Call it a day?”

  Brooklyn breathed deeply. “You do like touching me, don’t you?”

  “I sometimes think that’s the only thing that gets through to you.” As if defying him, Les kept his hand where it was. It was the only thing he couldn’t ignore. That, and Curtis’s fucking tonfa.

  “Yeah, call it a night. Lots of work to do tomorrow.” Brooklyn stood and trotted off to the washrooms. In the mirror there, he thought he looked tired, like he’d just run a marathon and was struggling to recover. Back when he’d been free, this would have been a good moment to break away and take a couple days off. Fly over to the continent, see something else, do something else. Drift. Think on whatever he had to chew through.

  He wasn’t giving up. He hadn’t resigned. But right now it was harder than normal to keep fighting.

  Going to bed felt a lot like hiding, evading the real issues, but it gave him some respite. Time he could spend alone, until, at least, the other slaves began coming in and getting ready for bed.

  Stu slept to his left, a fresh slave to his right. At the end of the hall stood a chair for the guard. Lights were never completely off, and he heard the distant rumble of the trains heading into and out of Victoria Station.