Sesshoumaru's Slave

V: The Waking
1350+ words
Sage POV, by Talon

Sage wakes, habitually silent and unmoving, his breath barely changing before moving back into sleeping breathing patterns. He is not consciously being deceptive; it is merely habit, one born from waking up in places and with people he has no idea how to properly respond to. Or he knows who he is with, and how they will respond and has no wish to court whatever it is.

Either way, the result is the same and he remains, his eyes closed, breathing and relaxed as though he is still asleep as he assesses his current situation. It IS strange; warm, soft and clean for starters. And the smells…the smell of sex and his ass affirms that, but he’s wrapped in soft, strong fluff that is bigger and stronger and fluffier than Doki…who is also sleepily content. He is clean, he…he remembers.

The memories flood him as they often will, but he is used to the way his brain works when he wakes and he lets them until the flood is a mere trickle and he can make sense of everything. No collar, no spells, no new lashings or other injuries. He was procured without any monetary exchange, bathed, his wounds cleaned and treated and he himself treated more gently than he can remember since becoming a slave.

Gently yes, but not softly. Not in a way that he could or would take advantage of. No, this Master seemed new at slave owning, but he was very aware of his power and dominance and that is something Sage feels very clearly. Feels it, smells it and has courted it in order to read more of his new Master. This one talks. Talks, asks questions, listens or does not. And without the collar it has been harder to answer, he has found. The collar spells let him hide nothing and he habitually told the truth as a result. But complicated questions about how he feels about certain things, does he understand, why does he do this or that…they have been hard to answer and harder not knowing exactly what pleases this Master.

He still is not entirely sure, only that Master wishes to be pleased by him. And that he wants to please this Master. It is very odd. New masters and new duties are always difficult to adjust to. But he has never responded this way to a master, not ever. Never wished to have his ass fucked with a big cock and rarely took any sort of sexual pleasure at all. No wonder he is confused.

He winces slightly. And here still is another confusion. He does not know where the slave privies are, if there are any and he does not smell any chamber pots nearby even if he were bold enough to use a Master’s chamber pot. He has no clothing, and no permission to relieve himself either, but he has eaten and drunk and taken the medicine he knows is partially responsible for his current need. He doesn’t think overmuch about that; he has been through it enough times and knows when it is done he will feel better, just as he feels better with his back cleaned and treated, his neck the same and his fur and hair scrubbed with the flea and louse killing soaps. Clean is halfway to healthy. He can hear his mother’s voice very clearly, in his head, saying that.

That is a good distraction. Master asked how he became a slave, and he could not tell how without telling about the fire, and he could not tell about the fire without telling about Mama. But he could not think about Mama while trying to figure out what pleased this Master.

He can now. Right now he can call her to mind. He was so young when she died, but he remembers so many bits and pieces before the fire. Mama was big. She was tall and strong and had oddly yellowish hair and yellow eyes like his only her yellow eyes had a black ring around the yellow. They were safe eyes for him, but scary to other people. She said her people came from a land far away and he had their blood.

And her teeth. They had the same teeth, the same strong bite, stronger than any dog or cat or wolf. They were special teeth Mama said and she used to kiss each sharp one. Hers were bigger because Mama was bigger. They were also safe for him but scary for other people.

She would sing to him, songs about all sorts of things, distant things, familiar songs heard everywhere…she would sing as she groomed him. His hair, and Doki too.

She had a long nose and a sharp nose for smelling things. His nose was not long, but it was good like Mama’s. Everything about him that was like Mama he holds inside himself, holding and hugging it tightly to him. And the differences, he didn’t reject them, only saw them as another part that made him Sage and not Mama. He is not big or tall, or light of hair like Mama. He is small, short and dark and he has a fur that Mama did not have. His ears are tipped just a little, but Mama’s were much pointier. His nose is a little snub to her long, pretty nose but Mama kissed his nose to make him giggle.

He is made from Mama, but also his father. He knows his father is dog, and a big strong dog. Mama told him when he asked. His fur is from his father and his stripeys too. Mama got spots if her beast got woke up. He got stripeys. He has his father’s eyes, Mama said, too. And he is very doggy and Mama did not think it was a bad thing. He asked to know more about his father, and she beeped him on the nose. He giggled, and she told him that it was not time yet. She would tell him someday. And he knew when to press for more, and when she was meaning what she said. So he asked one more question. Was he good? And Mama said yes. He was good and strong and someday Sage would know him. When you are ready.

He would never know now and he doesn’t much care anymore. The information was only important as long as Mama was alive to tell it. No one else knows who his father is, he knows that for certain. So many who had died in the fire had been those who cared for him when he was a baby and played with him when it wasn’t business time, or when they were on a day off from working. Some cuddled him when Mama was busy or took him outside to play or taught him different things. He knows now it was a whore house. He knew then, but then he didn’t know what it meant really. Only that those few who survived were taken away or went away and no one in the village wanted a hanyou whore’s brat.

That was okay. He didn’t want anyone who made bad words or smells at Mama after she was dead anyway. He got very bitey then. And then he was sold.

Inside his brain, he shakes his head. Not physically, just an image to clear his thoughts. He hears how the more he thinks about Mama and the time before the fire, how much younger he sounds. Younger and younger as though he is the same small puppy who giggled when his nose was beeped. Who called his youkai markings “stripeys” and saw the world through eyes that were both smaller and larger at the same time.

He is not that puppy anymore, but the puppy is still there, inside him. He has to be because that is the only way to keep Mama close. The puppy he had been is the only part of him who remembers Mama, who remembers truly even if the memories are bits and pieces and fragments and scents and impressions or snatches of music.