Horatio Palmer's 3rd Level 2 Assignment
Story Of Steve
For whatever reason, it’s usually the loners that get picked on. Maybe it’s because in their solitude, they stand out more than someone attached to a clique. That was certainly the case with Steve Whyte. He kept pretty much to himself in school, preferring the solace and peace of the library to the hysterical trappings of a basketball court. It was this hermit’s lifestyle that was the cause of his problems.
Las Vegas is a place where anything goes and people come to live their lives any way they want to. It was a wonder then, that Steve was never accepted by his peers in this most eclectic of towns. Guys- mostly jocks, bullied Steve. They punched him in places where bruising wasn’t visible- the stomach, the arms and so on. Girls- cheerleader types, would taunt him for their own amusement. He knew his limitations and never fought back. He knew he’d be beaten to a bloody pulp if he retaliated.
Every day, he’d walk out the school gates amidst a chorus of jeers. Trudging onwards towards home through swathes of residential streets with their well-tended bungalows, his thoughts couldn’t be further away from his sad existence. His thoughts were of what he’d find when he got home. Steve would escape into a world of death, brutality, intrigue and sensuality- his own world. In his free time, Steve was a writer. There was nothing high concept about his work. It was firmly rooted in the genre of pulp fiction with a dash of noir for good measure. His inspiration was the city he lived in- a place where no one was the same as anyone else. His stories told of romance and adventure in the casinos and seedy nooks of sin city. It was a world he was so close to yet so far away from and one that only his fantasies took him to. He never ventured downtown.
Sure there were those that admired Steve from afar but risked the mockery of the throng should they let their desires be known. It didn’t matter to Steve anyway. The best women were in his stories and as far as he knew, none could compare. As soon as he finished school, he was out of Vegas. Maybe he’d go to LA or Europe. The only place a writer like Steve could find work was LA, but Europe seemed so alluring.
Steve was eighteen so he was legally allowed to leave home. He wanted to finish school first though. His father was away all day. He was an accountant that would launder as much money for you as you cared to. His mother, a croupier in Wynn’s by night, slept all day. He rarely saw his parents. Steve was completely alone- not a friend in the world or anyone that cared deeply for him. Now, at eighteen, he was ripe for picking.
Money talks in sin city. If you’ve got enough dough you can do anything you want. There is always someone willing to relieve you of your hard earned cash and provide any service you desire. Roger Bilboa was one such person. Like Steve, Bilboa kept to himself. Unlike Steve, Bilboa was feared by all who knew him and it was this fear that made him the most powerful slave owner in Las Vegas.
Bilboa wasn’t old- only forty five, yet, though nobody knew it, he was the richest man on the Strip. As rich men went, Bilboa was a phantom. Few knew of his existence and none, of his fortune. A recluse, he rarely left his hotel suite above Wynn‘s casino. His money was holed up in banks offshore. Sure, he had a business front. His luxury car dealership all seemed legitimate and the profits more than accounted for his lifestyle. The money he made from his slave ownership was all stashed in offshore bank accounts, away from the prying eyes and busy hands of the IRS.
Bilboa owned a huge private residence out in the desert. This was the Mystique ranch and barely anyone knew what lay inside. In fact, it was a school of sorts; a school where people were taken and moulded to order. This was where slaves were born. Once taken away from outside life, the people were no longer human and they were not treated as such. Slaves were subhuman and merely playthings for wealthy customers. Though usually kidnapped to order some were taken on Bilboa’s own request. After all, who better to manage slaves than a person trained from their rebirth to do so? They would train and control the slaves but they in turn would serve and worship Bilboa and his closest friends.
The conditioning of a slave was not expensive. It was merely a simple question of mind control. This was easily achieved with a few sessions of light torture and hypnosis. Due to the low cost nature of the conditioning, the profit margin on each slave was enormous. $250,000 was the starting price for a slave and depending on a customer’s requirements, they could fetch up to a million and a half. No matter what a customer wanted in a slave, the Mystique ranch could provide it.
The employees of Wynn’s casino knew they were being watched all the time by the hundreds of security cameras in the building. What they didn’t know was that the cameras were also routed to a bank of monitors in the suite of Roger Bilboa. Nor could they have guessed that one of the senior managers was on the payroll of Bilboa. Gilbert Glass reported everything back to Bilboa and had a case file on every casino employee. This meant that Bilboa knew practically everything about everyone that worked at Wynn’s. Of particular interest was the file on Madeleine Whyte.
The handlers were the lifeblood of the Mystique ranch. They were unusual among Bilboa’s employees in that they had never undergone any training. They were in it for the money and were more like private detectives than anything else. The handlers gathered information for Bilboa; information that filled in the blanks on the employee’s case files and on future subjects of interest. They kept an eye on those people that seemed like the right material to be plucked from society and when the time came, they did the plucking.
Madeleine Whyte’s file showed that she had a son called Steven, or just Steve. He seemed to Bilboa like a potential future slave. His mother was away all night and slept all day. His father was away all day and only sometimes came home- that is when he wasn’t with his mistress. Steve Whyte seemed like perfect material to Bilboa. He had the handlers keep their eyes on him.
A bicycle bell chimed.
“Excuse me, you dropped this.” a female voice called. Steve turned around expecting it to be just another prank by one of the cheerleaders. Her hand reached out passing him a card and she flashed him the sweetest smile he had ever seen. Steve had never seen the young woman on the bicycle before, her blonde hair fluttering like her white-spotted red dress in the light desert breeze. She was no older than twenty five. He thought she was like something from an old French movie. Dropping his rucksack in awe of her beauty, she rounded a street corner, out of sight. Taking a look at the card, it read “CALL ME“, followed by a number. Something fluttered, but it wasn’t Steve’s tight sandy hair. It was something new that had awoken deep inside; a feeling that he had never felt for a real person before. Was this that thing love that he had written about?
Steve thought he’d play it cool like one of the hardboiled private eyes in his stories. He wouldn’t call her right away. Keeping her waiting would be the way to do it; denying her the full Steve Whyte experience would only make the occasion sweeter for both parties. After a couple of hours, he could wait no longer. Calling the number, he felt butterflies in his stomach.
“Yes?” her voice answered.
“I’m Steve- the guy you handed that card to.”
“Oh, so you’re that guy that I’ve wanted to know so much about?”, her smile audible over the line.
“Really? Well how about you get to know me a little better?” Steve was loving this. It was exactly like something Jack Flynn, his favourite PI would say.
“Are you alone? I am.”
“Why don’t I keep you company?”
“I’d like that. Do you know where I live?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“One forty two, Prickle Park. From where you live that should take you no more than twenty minutes if you run. Be there. If you take any longer, I won’t let you in.”
“How do you know where I live?” Steve demanded.
“I’ve been watching you Steve. I only plucked up the courage to talk to you today. Anyway, twenty minutes. Don’t be late- the clock is ticking.”
Steve arrived at the door, breathless. He didn’t even have to knock. As soon as he arrived on the front porch, the door opened. He was greeted by the woman in a bath robe.
“You’re sweating.” she said. “Looks like you’ve earned what you’re about to receive.” Steve smiled a wry grin, his cock already throbbing with excited expectation. He shut the door behind him. The woman gazed at him through her sultry eyes and he saw her hand moving down to untie the cord holding her robe in place. She was grinning a sort of tempting, devious smile. The cord fell to her side and the robe slid to the floor. Lacy black lingerie covered her pert, surgically enhanced breasts and she wore a matching thong that looked miles too small. Her stockings and suspenders accentuated her legs that seemed to go on forever.
“I’m yours for the taking.” she said, seductively. Steve took a step closer. He brushed the hair out of her eyes. She was tall- about five feet eleven, the same as Steve. He gazed into her expectant eyes and their lips met. Steve hardly felt the jab of the syringe in his neck. It wouldn’t have mattered. He slumped over in seconds, his fall to the floor eased by the woman’s grasp.
“Ok Morty, let’s get this guy into the trunk.” A short man of about fifty, wearing a brown suit stepped out into the hallway from the living room.
“Nice job Scarlett.” He tilted his head sideways and looked at her in admiration. “Very nice indeed.”
“Back off shorty. I’m spoken for.” she retorted, feigning a humorous seriousness.
“Too bad.”
“Take him into the garage and put him in the trunk. I’m going upstairs to change.”
“Well, don’t change too much. By the way, why did you make him run?”
“Just for once, I want to get home in time to put Amy to bed.” There was nothing between Scarlett and Morty. They were simply professionals working for some mysterious guy that was supposed to live on the Strip. They’d take their victim to some place out in the desert called the Mystique ranch and never hear anything about it again. They might get another call in about a month‘s time. Payment would be received at the ranch. They both used a downtown accountant to wash it, so it wouldn’t look suspicious. The guy’s name was Tom Whyte. Scarlett and Morty were Roger Bilboa’s two best handlers.
A metallic whack across the face usually has the effect of waking a sleeping person. After a few stylish backhands to the jaw, Steve came to. It wouldn’t have been nearly so bad had the freakishly tall woman before him not worn a knuckle duster. Through his bleary eyes, he could make out a relatively young woman- early to mid thirties maybe.
Both her hands were encased in leather gloves with a metal stud atop each knuckle and on her right hand, she wore the offending weapon. Her clothes, though few, were severe and daunting. The thick, silver studded leather boots that stretched to just above her knees let her captors know that if kicked, they would certainly feel it. Her skirt, matching her gloves and boots, fell just further than the top of each boot and complimented her also-matching tank top with a sharp, one inch spike protruding from the position of each nipple.
Both her muscular arms was decorated with dark, macabre, full sleeve tattoos depicting people in various stages of different tortures, some being strangled or hanged by the vines that ran between the gory images and all in austere tones of black and shade. The artwork finished at each shoulder and ran down into her gloves. The colour of her sharply tied back, pony tailed hair didn’t depart from the effect of the outfit; It was dyed black.
That was the first sighting Steve had of Katya Krilenko. No sooner had he taken her all in when once again, another blow struck him. Now, he was really awake.
Katya Krilenko’s parents were distraught when she left their Moscow home in 1992, aged just fifteen. The note she left behind told them that she had gone to live with her boyfriend Sergei, ten years her senior. They never saw her again. Sergei was a mobster with the Izmailovskaya gang and was quickly rising to the top through sheer brutality and a sharp mind. Katya and Sergei were very much in love and he showered her with gifts and made enough roubles to ensure she never had to work.
On Katya’s seventeenth birthday, Sergei was killed when someone detonated a bomb under his Mercedes. Katya’s heartbreak soon turned to murderous anger and through Sergei’s friends, she was able to track down his killer. The satisfaction gained by Katya’s torturing of the killer was immense as she seduced him, lulled him into a sense of security and tied him to the bed under the guise of a good night in. She hacked his manhood off with her knife that she kept in her handbag. As if that wasn’t enough, she made cuts all over his body and smeared them with honey from the guy’s kitchen. His screams gave her more satisfaction than she thought possible. Slicing the carotid artery was the bit that she didn’t enjoy.
After setting fire to the guy’s home, burning his slashed body in the process, she went to Sergei’s best friend, Mikhail. Katya was no longer safe in Russia, so, travelling together, herself and Mikhail flew to Toronto where some friends of his allowed her to stay. She even got a job working for YBM Magnex, a company that was little more than a Russian mafia front. After a while, she got tired of Canada and, with an expertly forged passport went to Newton, Pennsylvania to work with Magnex’ US division. Following the FBI raid in 1998, Katya was on her own. She no longer had any ties with Russia and had to reinvent herself.
Katya did what everyone in search of a new life does. She headed out west. Working as a hooker in Las Vegas, she was spotted one night by Morty Gold, one of Roger Bilboa’s handlers. He did what he did with every pick-up; he jabbed her in the neck with a syringe and took her out to the Mystique ranch.
Unusually, it was Bilboa that did the questioning. Morty had brought him a wildcard- someone that they knew nothing about. Bound to “the chair”, Bilboa’s gentle questioning yielded marvellous results. She told the whole story of her life until this point. Bilboa knew he had his “breaker”.
The defection of the British spy, Kim Philby to the Soviet Union in the early ’60s was sparked, not by money or ideology, but by the Russian way of doing things. Secrecy and suspicion were part of the Russian psyche even before the Communists came to power. If there was one thing a Russian could do well, it’s keep a secret. Bilboa decided that Katya needed no work. She would never tell of what happened inside the ranch and she felt she owed something to Bilboa for taking her off the streets of the murder capital of America. His gentleness ensured that there was no hostility between them and she would remain his most loyal servant.
No one knew quite what made Katya such a good breaker. Did she have some technique or was it just that she more sadistic than anyone else? Either way, she embraced her job with a relentless enthusiasm and her ability to adapt to new techniques was part of her skill.
Steve tried to move to no avail. His arms and legs were securely strapped to the chair and with each movement the tiny sharp spikes that lined the straps bit into his flesh. He tried to look down to see what was happening, but was stopped by the thick metal collar around his neck. His grogginess turned to panic as he yelled to Katya to release him. This was met by a excruciating electric shock to the stomach from the cattle prodder in her hand.
“You do not speak unless spoken to. UNDERSTAND?” she screamed in her Russian accent.
“Why are you doing this to me? Where am I?” Steve retorted, the tears in his voice. Katya slapped him across the face with the knuckle duster and delivered more current, this time to his groin. Steve roared in agony. Katya moved her head close to his.
“You just don’t get it, do you? I keep repeating the message until you learn. You are no longer a human being. You’re now slave. You will do everything you are told, speak only when spoken to and take your punishment without question. Do it this way, and it will be better for you.”
“Where am I? What are you doing to me?” he said, tears rolling down his cheeks. Katya clenched both her fists and closed her eyes in frustration. She went to the back of his chair to where there was a large handle and gave it a half turn. Steve felt the collar tightening around his neck, crushingly so he couldn’t speak.
“You will never see your family again. The police will stop looking for you in a matter of weeks and you will never escape from here. You are ready now for your first session to begin.”
Katya opened a series of catches on the back of the chair, removing both the rear and bottom panel, leaving Steve’s back, arse and genitals exposed and leaving only his arms, legs and neck to support him. She reached under the chair and grabbed his sack, pulling it downwards and locking a thick metal band with rings on each side, around it, stretching it painfully. Steve heard her behind him somewhere but couldn’t turn around. He didn’t see her return, but felt the sharp crack of metal tipped whip across his back. He tried to writhe in pain but was met by several more blows to the back. Katya giggled deliciously.
With each crack, he felt the whip inch further and further south and the blood dribbled down his back. Suddenly, the blow he had dreaded the most occurred. One of the barbs made contact with his extended sack and brought a cry of pain, even through the pinched neck. Katya did it again, this time more barbs whipped it and Steve passed out with the pain. The passing out was a very brief mercy as he was brought round again by Katya spraying him with ice cold water from a hose.
The room itself was tiled entirely white with one large two way mirror on one wall. There was nothing in the room except for another piece of furniture that Steve could only make out from the corner of his eye. The water seemed to flow away as if a drain existed in the floor. At first, Steve didn’t care that Katya was standing in front of him, unbuckling her tank top at the shoulder. He became more curious when she let the top drop to the floor with the chink of the studs as they hit the floor. She started to sway, her dangling nipple rings over-accentuating her movements. She moved closer to Steve, pressing her breasts against his face. Glancing down, she noticed his cock was starting to swell and throb. Looking back at his face, she smiled deviously.
“I have just the thing for you.” Katya returned with some long coils of insulated wire and a voltage regulator. First, she grabbed his cock and locked a ring around it. The ring had struts that fitted around the shaft to hold it in place, with two metal protrusions either side of the penis and outside the ring. The inner protrusions wouldn’t touch the penis if it were flaccid. Next, Steve felt the sharp pain of two toothed clamps suddenly placed on his nipples, followed by the same type of clamp to each earlobe. Without warning, she opened his mouth and pulled his tongue out, clamping that too.
Katya proceeded to connect everything up with a trail of insulated wires that only touched the skin at the clamped points. She plugged one end of the cable into the regulator. One wire went to one clamp, the other, away from that clamp to the next one. Katya slid the first connector onto the metal shackle around his left wrist, trailing cables upwards and connecting up his left nipple, tongue, left earlobe, right earlobe, right nipple and right wrist. She ran the wire down and it finished when she slid the end connector onto the protrusion outside the cock ring. With another wire, she slid one end onto the other protrusion and connected the next bit to the metal band around his sack. The wire terminated there and she knew she had forgotten something.
Once again, she disappeared and returned with a polished, gently pointed piece of metal with two wires emerging from the bottom. After coating it with lube, she shoved it into his arse without warning, the cold steel making him clench. Tightening a strap so it wouldn’t fall out, she connected the wire from his sack to the anal dildo and connected the other wire emerging from it to yet another cable which ran down to both his ankles. Finally, she plugged the other end into the regulator completing the circuit. Trailing another wire from the box, she plugged it into a socket across the room on the wall.
Katya left Steve for another few moments and returned with a pair of eyelid clamps.
“You ever seen A Clockwork Orange?” she asked him mockingly. “This is a little like that.” Katya placed the clamps on both his eyelids, forcing them to stay open and fastened them around the back of his head. Once again, she disappeared and while Steve’s eyes began to dry out, he heard the noise of a projector behind him. Katya twiddled the dial on the electrical box that Steve was wired up to.
“I’ve done this before. It will hurt, but you won’t die. Not unless you have a weak heart, in which case, you are useless to us anyway.” She procured a small bottle of eye drops and dripped them into each of Steve’s eyes, relieving the soreness. Pornographic images began to appear projected onto the wall in front of him; a couple screwing in a park, a PVC clad girl eating out another. Steve was forced to watch, Katya watering his eyes every minute or so. He could not feel much pain and began to pay attention to what was happening on the wall.
He soon felt his cock begin to swell slightly and awake with arousal. It grew until it touched both protrusions on the inside of the cock ring. A paroxysm of pain ran through his entire body, causing intense pain in every orifice as the circuit was completed. All the while, Katya just laughed like a hyena as Steve’s body bucked and vibrated. The current only stopped once his cock had subsided enough which meant that Katya changed the images again. It was much the same as the last set, only this time, Katya upped the voltage. When Steve got hard again, the pain was worse than before and mercifully, he passed out, this time for longer.
Steve awoke in a tiny, very bright, artificially lit cell, no more than six feet by four. The floor and walls were tiled in white. He hadn’t felt hungry before this and was thankful to find a plate of dry bread and an oddly coloured cup of fluid beside his head. The floor was the only bed in the windowless room and there were no sheets. First he tried to open the door, but unsurprisingly, it was locked. He downed the fluid, the sour taste making him screw up his face in disgust. He realised he was still naked and sore. Looking down, he found a plastic tube locked around his penis, preventing him from touching it. As he wondered where he might piss, he noticed a hole in the floor that seemed to lead out of sight.
He felt the temperature drop as he relieved himself and in a short while, he was shivering madly. Then the noises started. First it was white noise played without stopping and then it was the moans of a woman having sex. He lay back down on the floor and tried to sleep, but the noise and the light continued. The cold seemed to have subsided and Steve now felt decidedly warm. He could feel the heat rising incrementally until the point where he was sweating profusely.
Suddenly, the temperature dropped again, plunging him back into freezing conditions. He cried out.
“STOP! STOP! LET ME SLEEP.” This didn’t work and the noises continued throughout the night as the temperature fluctuated wildly, not giving him a single moment’s rest. At half past seven the next morning (though Steve couldn’t tell what time it was), the temperature levelled off to a pleasant degree and the noises stopped. Steve was thankful and his exhaustion sent him drifting to sleep almost immediately on the hard floor.
Asleep for just five minutes, Steve was awoken by a female jackbooted kick in the stomach and dragged to his feet by the hair. His hands were cuffed behind his back and he was shoved out the door into a corridor. He felt the familiar jolt of a cattle prod in his back. He never saw his persecutor‘s face, but he knew it was Katya. Shocked down the corridor, he was led back to the room he was in yesterday. He was told to stand by the other piece of furniture that he had seen from the corner of his eye the day before, and spread his legs. The piece was like a low gymnastics horse. Obeying unquestioningly, Steve did so and Katya bound his ankles to the legs of the horse. Grabbing his hair, she bent him over and shackled his hands to the far legs so he was painfully arched.
The humiliation Steve felt as he was pounded up the arse by Katya with her strap-on was immense. It wasn’t like the electrode dildo, he was being forcefully violated by this woman and there was nothing he could do. To her, it was just routine. His misery was heightened by her sharp nails digging into his back, tearing away at the flesh with each thrust. Katya continued relentlessly for an hour or so, Steve not daring to make a sound in case she thought of some new punishment.
Unbuckling him, Katya once again grabbed Steve by the hair and pulled him over to the chair from yesterday. Meticulously, she fastened all the restraints and tightened the collar as tightly as it was before, maybe tighter. Using a tiny key, she opened the lock on his chastity tube and removed it. Unexpectedly, Katya pulled out a revolver and aimed it at Steve’s head. He pissed on himself with fear. She pulled the trigger six times, both hearing nothing but empty clicks. She smiled a hateful grin and leaned close to him.
“I’m not that merciful. I’m going to make your life worse than hell until you crack. Then, I’ll keep going and going until I’m completely satisfied. Trust me, I’m very hard to satisfy. Looks like you made a mess you filthy worm.” Whereas yesterday she had slapped him across the face with the knuckle duster, this time, it was a full force punch to the jaw and a cold dousing with the hose.
Like the day before, she removed the back and bottom of the chair and eviscerated him with the whip, this time harder than yesterday. Every time he passed out, she would wake him with another punch to the face and continue. By the time Katya had finished the whipping that afternoon, his body was raw and bloody and he was passing out more often. Ever the professional, she stopped and fed him some ***** washed down with a cup of the same liquid he drank last night.
After a short break, they began the electro torture. This time, there were no images. She rigged up the wiring from the day before, inserting the dildo into his numb arse once again. Inexplicably to Steve, he had wood to begin with. Katya knew why. In addition to the energy ***** she had fed him, she had given him a couple of ****** to make him hard for longer. The voltage today was higher than before and she controlled it using the knob on the box rather than waiting for his cock to subside which wasn’t going to happen. The shocks were longer and more painful today and he was quickly brought round each time he passed out.
At about eight that evening, Katya stopped for the night and shoved the wreck that was Steve back to his cell. The night was no different to the last and the next day was no different to the previous one. Over the course of the following week, Steve was driven slowly insane by the mixture of pain and psychological torment. After a week and half, he was broken. After two weeks, Katya was satisfied.
“You’ve done a very good job once again Katya. I’ve been watching you through the camera link to my room. This one is going to be top notch. Not as good as you though. No one could ever be as good as you.” Roger Bilboa kissed Katya’s hand in the torture room, Steve’s bound and unconscious body propped up rigidly in it’s shackles.
But Steve wasn’t broken. He’d lost almost everything- his identity, his freedom, his dignity. One thing he hadn’t lost though was hope; the hope that some day, he might escape and write of his experiences. Someone once told him that the best stories are the personal ones. This was like no personal story that had ever been written before. With that small grain of hope, Steve could never be fully broken or turned.
The last thing he remembered before he passed out was a long painful current of electricity coursing through his veins. He was surprised then, to wake up warm, in a soft comfortable bed. Maybe, Steve thought, that it might have all been a dream, until seeing the drip coming from his hand. He hadn’t the energy to move, though he felt rested. Footsteps approached and a nurse appeared at his bedside. She smiled, noticing he was awake and jogged off quickly to alert someone more senior. Five minutes later, Dr. Linus Martyn arrived.
Martyn was a smooth, urbane guy in his fifties. He had a bizarre knack of making people feel at ease with his charming manner and enchanting voice. Bilboa first noticed him about ten years ago when Martyn treated him for a stomach virus. In passing, Martyn mentioned that he trained as a hypnotherapist. Bilboa knew that could be very useful to him. So, with a huge offer to lure him away from his post, Bilboa ensnared him and he had worked on all the slaves ever since.
Martyn pulled up a chair beside Steve’s bed and smiled a comforting smile.
“Hello, I am Dr. Martyn.” Steve tried to speak, but, for some reason couldn’t. “No need to talk. I’m sure you’ve not fully recovered yet. All you have to do is listen. We’ve brought you here to give you the chance of a better life. You’re very important to us. There will be no more pain; just kindness and love. If we hadn’t brought you here, you’d still be out in that world of violence and depravity. We know about the bullying Steve and we realised that you couldn’t exist in that world. You are too valuable to us.” Steve felt more relaxed with every word Martyn spoke. Everything started to make sense. These people loved him. The torture was only a test- an initiation to a better life. He felt the yearning and desire to please his generous masters, Mr. Bilboa and Ms. Katya. Oh, how lucky he was. And then the command came. “Sleep.”
“Awake.” Steve came round once again. “We’re finished here now Steve. I’ll be getting along. Get better soon, won’t you?”
“Thank you Dr. Martyn” Steve replied, now able to speak. No sooner had Martyn left when Katya appeared. She was dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a purple turtleneck. She smiled a sheepish half smile.
“I brought you some grapes.”
“Thank you Miss Katya.”
“Mr. Bilboa says we are going to be working together. I have to show you the ropes as it were. You are going to be a breaker, like me. The demand for slaves is growing. We must have more than one breaker to keep the slaves flowing through. That is why Mr. Bilboa handpicked you. I think you are going to enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you, thank you!” Steve grovelled. “How can I thank you enough?”
“No need. Just be a good student and pay attention. I must go. You get well soon.”
Steve felt privileged. His mistress had spoken to him and was going to show him how she worked. He thought he must be the luckiest guy in the world. He was with people that loved and cared for him in a way that no one else could. His own words could not express how happy he felt.
But beneath the joy of being chosen, he felt something missing. While it was a privilege to be here, he didn’t feel like he belonged. Sure he loved Miss Katya and Mr. Bilboa, but there was a little knot inside him that told him he must escape and tell his tale. For now though, that was impossible and would be impossible until he had the complete trust of his wonderful, kind and loving masters.
