Fighting Dreams Ch. 07

Author's Note: This is the chapter..... This is the reason I've warned you from the start; things will get bad as they can get. This chapter is one of those where I feel I have to warn you: if you have triggers related to breathing, please stop reading after the scene with Isabelle. There is also one mention of potential self harm (that serves a purpose). These have purposes in the story that will become clear in the final two chapters.

Kink/Trigger warnings: service slavery, spanking, abduction, edge play, breath loss, interrogation tactics, rope suspension play, wax play, electrostimulation play.

Major Trigger Warning for this chapter! Skip if you have triggers related to breathing.

Final warning: King's a brutal son of a bitch. There WILL be one majorly "scary" scene in this chapter for Jazz. But no, this is not the final chapter. You have three more to go.

Chapter: Business Not Pleasure

When I'm escorted to King's office the next day, I feel strange. Devon put me in heels, stockings, and a black dress meant for a boardroom, and then had Danny do my hair into a bun. I even have a sweater. The only lingering marker of my status is the silver chain that is hex locked to my neck and the anklet that tracks me.

I've never been in King's hands. Not once, which makes this all the more unnerving.

The Untouchable King holds the chains of the purse, and he gives no leniency from what I've heard. While I've read his rules and have seen the aftereffect of consequences, it's hard to know what to expect. Compared to ones like Black and Dream who thrive at public events, he is private in his methodology.

So standing before his desk, I don't know whether to prepare for the worst or expect the best as he looks me over.

"Welcome aboard, Jazmine. I prefer a useful slave over one that looks pretty," he warns as he gets up and walks over to a second door. "While you're with me, you will work as my secretary. I expect you to keep up."

He keys a code, then opens it to reveal a file room. "Sort them."

With no other directions, he picks up his laptop and leaves for his meeting.

How the fuck? I pull a drawer open. Stacks on stacks of paper are crammed into folders. Names and account details are crossed between folders; nothing is in date order and I seem to only pull out more files from underneath.

It's secretarial hell.

Swallowing the ball in my throat, I start pulling things out until the drawer is emptied.

When he returns to check my progress, I have multiple stacks started and a vague idea of what I'm looking at. He says nothing, working on his own tasks within his office space and generally ignoring me. By the time I have the drawer empty, there are 135 piles in alphabetic order.

Then it's going through the folders to date order everything, inventory, and double-check account numbers.

I've got the drawer sorted when I realize that this particular set of files is from ten years ago. In fact, as I look over the drawers in this room... they're all from ten years ago or less if the labels are accurate. That should mean my contract is in here too. Though I doubt he'd leave it in here. If there's anything I know about them, it's that they're always watching.

I turn around and take the next drawer down to sort.

By evening, I've completed one full cabinet of paperwork and am working on the late eight-year files when the door opens.

King's gray eyes scan over the room. "Show me what you've done."

I open the four drawers and explain how they're organized by year, alphabet, and then each folder by each set of documents' date. I show him the color coordination of the tag's dots that show if the file ended or continued the next year. And I show him how I've made an easy guide that shows which file is where.

He takes it in with the same stoic expression as I might expect from a CEO. "You've done enough for the day. Follow."

I fall in step behind him. The sun's setting, and through the window, I can see the wind brushing through the trees. Little golden drops of sunshine. But all too soon we're in the elevator, and then the tinted car.

I miss the sun.

Through the concrete jungle's shadows, he drives to a suburb and then through a winding valley between hills where the houses sit like tiaras. They're decadent affairs, unique touches setting them apart and their sweeping lines accenting their size. Each house is like a trophy proclaiming the wealth of the one who owns it.

I try to think about his rules while he drives. They didn't tell much about his styling; they were basically the same as the rules of the House. He's stringent on enforcement there. Isabelle's stripes are proof enough that he can be harsh; I don't want to experience that side of him.

Though he parks in the garage, he doesn't go directly in. No, he unbuckles his seatbelt and then reaches into the glove box. A hex key to the chain on my neck is in his fingers and with a gesture, he has me turn.

"You'll find I don't mix business and pleasure." He comments, removing it after a few quick twists. He collects the chain and tucks it into the center console.

What he pulls out drops any hope that this is going to be a pleasant experience.

It's not a collar. Not really. It's a piece of barbed wire wrapped around a piece of black leather. It swings back and forth as he dangles it in front of me by the iron center ring with a smirk. "Is there a problem, slave?"

"No, Sir," I whisper.

"Then strip and put it on," he orders.

He doesn't wait for me; he heads into the house.

I fold the clothes I'm wearing as I take them off, setting them on the freezer. Getting on the barbed collar is trickier; I get stabbed twice by the raised edges before I have it settled. The length makes it sit tighter at my neck than I'd usually like; I'm aware of it each time I tip my head.

Stepping into the house, I close the door quietly behind me and then wander into the kitchen. One girl is at the sink, washing dishes. She's dressed in a black velvet cocktail dress and heels, but that just makes the pink dog collar at her neck stand out more. She glances at me as I enter, but says nothing as she keeps washing.

King is in the living room; at his feet, another slave girl removes his shoes and then fetches him a tumbler with two fingers of whiskey. Her collar is blue; she's dressed like a waiter in a white button-down and black slacks. She goes to kneel when he snaps his fingers and points to the table. She fetches the blue binder and brings it to him quickly, but I notice that she's nervous in her movements as he opens it.

"Why is this not complete Lena?" His tone is displeased, and the flick of his eyes up to her leaves her squirming.

"I'm sorry Mr. King. I ran out of time."

"No, Lena," he muses, closing the binder. "If you had worked efficiently you would be done when I arrived. So you'll be taking a reduced deduction against your debt again today. If I have to reduce it after this, you'll be going to the auction block."

"Understood Sir," she replies meekly.

"Get it done." With a brush of his hand, he dismisses her back to her tasks.

I approach him cautiously and sink to my knees beside his chair. I have no idea what my duties are here; I opt for what I remember from the House. He looks at me, picking up a sheet of paper from the side table and hanging it in front of me.

Scanning the list, I swallow. Starching his dress shirts, laundering the day's clothes, scrubbing all the floors, the shower, the sinks, prep work for breakfast and lunch.... It feels endless. "Your tasks," he says, dropping it into my lap. "They must be finished tonight. If I ring, you come."

"Yes Sir," I reply. "May I be excused to complete them?"

"Go."

Out from under his eyes, I start working. I've got the laundry running and working on pressing his shirts when I hear the sound of a bell. Switching off the iron quickly, I wind through the house to the dining room where he rings it and then I take to my knees.

"Fetch me water, slave," he commands.

I blink, looking at his pink collared girl in the corner. Why couldn't he have used her? I keep my face carefully blank as I reply, "Yes Sir."

Going to the refrigerator, I collect the pitcher, pour him a glass, and then return it. I return to his side at the dining table. "Is there anything else Sir?"

"No. You are dismissed."

By the time I get back to his shirts, the iron is cooled. Turning it back up, I start sweeping up the floors and mopping the halls. My brain is turning what kind of game I'm in; I'm being used for little more than a maid service by him.... And yet I can't deny that it feels just as strictly controlled as being displayed by Devon.

I finish his shirts and start the dryer just as the bell chimes again.

This time he calls me to the bathroom, has me undress him and wash him, and then fetch him clothes for bed. He doesn't dismiss me until I've finished wiping up the water from the shower and taken the towels down to be laundered.

Everytime he calls, I'm losing more time and I have to pick up the pace a little more. I feel like I'm being tested. Like he's trying to make me fail... but I won't. I can do this. I just need to keep working.

Prepping the food for lunch and breakfast takes me the longest. Between washing, slicing, dicing, mincing, whipping, stirring, and layering, I lose two more hours. He calls me once more for an evening snack. But despite the interruptions, I am making progress.

It's eleven when I finish the laundry and get it hung up. Then it's down to the kitchen to hand scrub the floors.

The last task, though, takes me outside. Paving stones are stacked beside his deck and beside them are a tape measure and gloves. Carefully, I lay the tape measure down; placing the stones exactly two feet apart. Under the moonlight, I work those heavy pavers into their place until his deck has been surrounded and my hands and arms are aching.

I rinse my feet carefully and dry them on the mat before coming inside. He's waiting just inside the patio door. The clock shows half past midnight. His mood feels neutral, and given the recent days, I'm happy with that as I kneel before him.

"You're finished for tonight. We leave at five-thirty. Be ready," he warns before heading upstairs. "You're sleeping in the basement. There are blankets for you downstairs."

Thank god.

Nodding, I make my way down there. I set the alarm for four, then close my eyes to sleep. I'm still exhausted when I'm pulled from the nest, and my body aches from being on the floor.

Tossed into the shower, I manage a quick wash under the icy spray, then I'm put back into formal business wear. This time it's a green dress and heels with a black sweater. Then comes tight curling of my hair to neat ringlets, and then I'm sent down to breakfast. King lets me sit at the table to eat the bagel and get down water before we're off in the car.

The sun's not even up yet; the horizon glows but there's no golden light. The little bit of light has erased the stars from my view too. All that lingers is the vast darkness.

I don't speak to him more than necessary as I stare out the window and watch the world fly past me. But there's a question that's burning in me. A question I don't think I'll be allowed to voice anywhere but here. And even here? I'm afraid of what he might say.

"King?"

"Hm."

I swallow thickly. "How much do I currently owe?"

He raises an eyebrow, turning the wheel to pull into the garage. "Haven't you been keeping track?"

I close my eyes, feeling the thick ball in my throat grow. "Regulus never allowed me to see my file," I admit.

The burn in his gaze feels condescending even as his tone stays neutral. "It's in the closet with all the others."

I stare at him warily but make myself say it. "And if it's not?"

"Then it's not your problem."

He pulls into the spot nearest the door, then clicks open the glove compartment. He pulls out the silver chain and hex key, switching out the piece of leather with the wire and tucking it away in the compartment. When the hex lock clicks in place, he spins it so that it sits on the back of my neck.

"In the office, you're nothing more than a company employee. But make no mistake. Tonight, you return to slave. Understood?" he asks.

"Understood," I reply softly.

In the building, I trail behind him like a secretary after a CEO until we're in his office. He opens the door to his file room, and I start my monotonous task of finishing out the file cabinets.

It goes a little quicker; now that I have a system, it's just replicating that system across the other two and a half cabinets and double-checking to be sure it's correct in the entire flow.

By lunch, all the past files are taken care of.

But there's one more file cabinet to handle.

I slowly thumb the drawer's handle, then pull it out. Four lines of files greet my eyes, each with its own color. I pick up one of the green files and scan it. Rex's. This one's Jessie. Setting it back in, I pull a blue file next.

Those seem to belong to James, and when I get a red file, Luke is clearly the owner. Yellow pulls next, and though I recognize the name, it's not the one I"m looking for. The last ones are tan; and when I open them up, I find Slaton's slave Marissa's file among others.

I organize those quickly.

Then it's the bottom drawer.

These files are in oranges, purples, blacks, and grey. Ten leaders. Nine colors. Where's the last set? And whose are missing?

The purples are Dream's... there are so many it's easy to distinguish that much. I pull the black and find them to be King's. The orange are Baylor's, and the grey are the only ones left. Either they're Reg's... or they're Black's.

And just as I'm about to open them, the door opens. "Come. It's lunchtime," King orders sharply.

Setting the file back, I follow him into his main office. There's a sandwich, chips, and apple juice for me and as I sit at the smaller desk to eat, I hold my silence. After all, this is just a few normal minutes to refuel.

"How close are you to done?" King asks as he takes a sip from his drink.

"I'm on the last drawer of current files. I'll be done in around thirty minutes after lunch," I reply cautiously.

"Then you've earned a reward..." he answers, "Assuming it's done well. And your file?"

I glance up; his expression is neutral. "I haven't seen it yet. But I'm still looking."

"When you find it, put it on my desk."

He's so certain it's there. Yeah. Because it's definitely going to be and he's not just fucking with me... right? But then again. King doesn't lie. Often.

Finishing my meal quickly, I cleanse my hands and then go back to the room. The gray file's in my hands, I flick it open, start reading, and... freeze. It's not mine. This is Allie's... which means all of these are Black's.

"Mr. King?" I call out as I walk back toward the office.

He's on the phone, but he holds up a finger to tell me to wait. It's hard to wait those thirty seconds. Not when I've got a bomb like this on my tongue. By the time he's hung up the phone, my mouth has run dry.

"Sir...My contract's gone," I state softly.

King's expression goes from boredom to murderously cold. He picks up the phone, dials an extension, and turns away from me.

"Emergency Meeting," he states cooly. "I don't give a fuck what he's doing. Get Him here. Now."

He sets the receiver down as he turns to study me, steepling his fingers. But the last thing I expect is when he gets up, and releases the collar from my neck.

"Do not make me hunt you down, girl. From now until eight this evening, you are released from serving," he states as he sits back at his desk. "Go."

Frozen to the spot, I feel the shock of his words grip my heart. "King, please, I'd rather-"

"I didn't ask what you wanted," he replies. "Get going."

"I have nowhere to go!" I push back. "And you don't understand, without a collar, he-"

"Slave!"

The way he growls that word kills my voice in my throat and drops me to my knees in a low bow by instinct. I swallow thickly as I wait.

"Is it your place to question what your Master has set for you to do?" he asks as he gets back to his feet. His foot presses my head down to the carpeting."Does a slave get to tell her Master that he doesn't understand?"

"No, Sir," I whisper.

He takes his foot from me, walking over to the desk and opening up a drawer. "Given that little outburst, girl, I think I need to leave an impression on you before you leave. Over the desk. Skirt up."

Fuck me and my big mouth. I get up and place myself over it, flipping up the skirt to expose my nylon-covered rear end.

There's no warning or niceties. The only hint I get of the strike is the whistle before it lights a line of my ass on fire. One, two, three, four, five. It's a burning sensation and if my hands weren't already holding the desk I might have been tempted to try and cover myself as he lays five more along my thighs.

They throb as he waits for just a moment before landing three rapid ones in the same spot where my legs join my hips and those make me arch on the desk with a whimper.

"Now that you remember your place... get the hell out of my office."

I take the warning and beat a hasty retreat as I fix my skirt. Through the office, down the elevator, and out to the foyer.

"Miss Jasmine!" a voice stops me just before I reach the door and as I turn back, I see a girl running after me with a large envelope in her hand. "Sorry miss, he said to give you this."

Taking it from her, I open the envelope and freeze as she slips away. It's my ID, a phone, a credit card, and a note that simply reads "No more than two grand." I stare at it trying to process it for a second.

I have an afternoon, by myself, and I have money.

Right out of "It's a Trap" 101. With the anklet, there's no point in running. They'd be able to track my location in a moment, and I certainly don't want to test what kind of ass beating that will get me for trying. So what am I going to do with the money?

The first thing that my brain decides on as I walk down the street is that I need to eat. And though it's not the healthiest choice, the little Chinese shop on the corner smells divine. I wander in, get a plate of orange chicken and then take care of the growling in my stomach.

Once I'm able to think beyond my stomach, I keep walking. He seemed genuinely shocked that my file wasn't there. But who has it? Reg? Or someone else? But as he said... that's not for a slave to worry about.

There's something about being in the warmth of the sun that's heavenly. There's nothing like it that's quite as satisfying. I don't want to give up the precious time I have outdoors as I walk and think. I head for the green space and find a quiet bench to watch the world flow around me.

For a while, I'm content right there. Passive. Observing. Taking in the people and their world as though I'm not a part of it. But the longer I linger, the more I'm aware of tension in my body. It starts in my toes and rolls up to drum my fingers against the armrest. A glance reveals nothing, but the hairs on the back of my neck are beginning to rise.

Trust your instincts. Getting to my feet, I start walking briskly. Something's not right.

The feeling doesn't get better. If anything, the more people who are around me, the stronger the feeling gets. Then I spot the black car lingering along the side, the passenger door open though no one seems to be getting in or out.

I duck into a coffee shop quickly and wait in the crowded line to order. When I have my cup, I snag a magazine and settle at a corner table with my back against the wall. It's busy enough that I'm not worried someone is going to start trouble here, but it's also not so busy that I can't watch the other patrons while I pretend to pour over the fashions.