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Jan 21, 2019 6:53 PM
jean goes shopping
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"We'll work on that speed."

He snaps his fingers for Sky to follow, leads him to the car. It's compact, electric, vividly blue.

"Sit in the passenger seat. Wear your seatbelt."

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...what a weird contrast.

“Yes, sir.”

He ducks through the passenger side door and buckles himself in, glancing out at Jean as he does.

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Jean gets in, starts the car, pulls out; he doesn't speak until they're on the road.

 

"My name is Jean Dulac. My style is monsieur, but you may carry on saying sir until I am satisfied with your ability to pronounce the vowels."

He makes a turn, glances at Sky when he can take his eyes off the road.

"You'll be the only slave in my household. I expect you to handle basic cooking and chores; I'm not expecting anything sophisticated on either count, and instructions will be provided. You'll also maintain a regular exercise schedule, as well as voice practice; you'll meet with a tutor weekly, and I expect them to report being impressed at your progress every time. Eat regular meals, inform me promptly of any health concerns that arise. You sleep in my bed at night."

Another thoughtful look. "I'm not stupid. You obviously enjoy pain; I will find things you don't. You may use household objects freely so long as you keep them in good condition, but you may not touch my computer, or my phone, unless instructed otherwise. The toy closet is also off limits. Touching my books is a privilege, not a right, and you haven't earned it yet; there is a designated shelf of books you may handle, and you will tell me when you have finished all of them."

He pauses for several moments, before finishing, "...you don't fuck anyone I haven't told you to fuck. You may touch yourself, exercising appropriate discretion as to time and place. You may not come."

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He hates being in charge of chores, but he can do it — and it makes him feel useful, makes him feel owned, so it’s not all bad. Exercise is so much better than the alternative. So is the voice practice. If he expects Sky to be impressive every week — well, he’s setting him up for punishment. That’s fine.

He definitely won’t mind sleeping in Jean’s bed — in his bed, not at the foot of it or on the floor, that’s a blessing. Maybe he likes to wake his slaves up at night.

People aren’t as good as they think they are at punishing Sky, but Jean could be an exception. He seems perceptive.

Touching himself whenever he wants is a luxury he didn’t expect — but he shouldn’t do it much, he’ll just be torturing himself. He’d rather someone else did that for him.

He gets to pick his own food, from the sounds of it. He’ll have time to read. A few luxuries and freedoms, but he’ll be trained, and he’ll be very owned.

He hopes he’s going to get used often.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best not to disappoint you.”

He’s so gorgeous. His face, his voice (that accent!), everything. They’re barely on the road and he’s already trying to figure out how he can earn a beating.

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"You're welcome."

He drives in thoughtful silence for a minute, before going on.

"You don't use furniture unless you need it for a task, or you're on it with me. You do sit properly in motor vehicles. You may speak without being spoken to; if you make a habit of being inane, or interrupting me when I'm working, you will lose that privilege. You may sing at any time I am not asleep or otherwise doing something where noise will interfere; it won't be a distraction when I'm working."

"My sister visits, sometimes. She's a trainer. You will be fully dressed when she does; you treat her with appropriate respect but refrain from displaying sexuality in any manner in her presence. You will not be in a room alone with her with the door shut. If you break those rules you will regret it. If you break them deliberately, I will break you, I will end your contract, and I will see to it you are never admitted to the Marketplace again."

"If I ask you a question about art, you tell me the unadorned truth, not what you think will please me. You may contradict me, about art. You won't be punished for either."

"Have you any questions?"

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“What counts as art, sir?”

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"Any of the fine arts. Poetry, music, dance, architecture, literature, the performing and visual arts."

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The usual, then.

“Yes, sir.”

It’s an interesting rule anyway. This is an interesting master.

(And as far as he can tell, he bought him for his voice. That’s new.)

“What would please you most to hear me sing, sir?”

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He gives this serious consideration.

 

 

"Do you have a favorite?"

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—oh. His opinion. He seems a little thrown.

“...Ceremonials, most recently, sir — the whole album — but my range isn’t always enough.”

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"Sing one of those you have the range for."

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"–now, sir?"

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"Is there some obstacle to that, or are you questioning orders for no good reason?"

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His shoulders tense, a little, his expression falters, like he's just been struck – he smooths himself out almost immediately. Be graceful, be beautiful.

"I'm sorry, sir. My last owner told me not to sing in such small spaces, when I wasn't alone. Because of the volume."

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"Do you make a habit of carrying on that sort of order from previous owners?"

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"No, sir, except he told me it was rude and unpleasant. Is that not true, sir?"

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"Don't startle me with it when I need to be focused on the road. Don't interrupt with it when I'm having a conversation with someone else. It's not rude to follow orders, and my car has good acoustics."

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"Thank you, sir."

He closes his eyes and sings.

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You are the hole in my head
You are the space in my bed
You are the silence in between
What I thought and what I said
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
When it's over, you're the start
You're my head and you're my heart


It's a desperate, clinging sort of song, which comes through in his delivery. It takes him a moment to adjust well to the size of the space, but he's quick about it.

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The car really does have excellent acoustics.

He listens in perfect silence, from the first note to the last reverberation, and stays silent for a minute after that.

"Again," he says, finally.

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“—yes, sir.”

 

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He delivers it differently, this time. Not so desperate, more possessive — hungry, but in a way with sharper teeth.

A revelation in the light of day
You can't choose what stays and what fades away
And I'd do anything to make you stay

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He pushes in the car's cigarette lighter. Makes him sing it three more times before they arrive.

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He repeats it. The third time, he sings it straight, paying close attention to his own voice and the places where it trembles — the fourth and fifth times improve, in subtle ways.

His eyes flick only once to the cigarette lighter.

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He parks in the garage.

"Take off your shirt. Put your hands on the roof."

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