Lingering.
It was several hours -- days? -- after their first meeting. While CJ wasn't feeling entirely himself, there was a little pep in his step. Mostly long gone were the slowly distressing images of being replaced in his head, filled with anew idea of wanting himself free, of feeling the sharp stab of pain in his skin. He was slowly opening up, albeit slowly and surly. Nobody would see the actual him, but that didn't matter. He wasn't interested in being sold. He didn't want to be sold. Maybe that was why he was so sassy and snarky lately. Maybe that's why he was so defiant and pushy. Even so, there were plenty of reasons why CJ wasn't interested in anything that had happened in the last -- well, few days. It was a few days after all right? Today, what CJ assumed would be a rather warm day on the outside, seemed to be rather of a stifling day on the inside of the warehouse. Or maybe that was just the young masochist's opinion about the warehouse. He got extremely bored extremely fast, and he needed constant simulation to keep his hands busy -- whether it was chores or servicing someone or even just being told to go draw for several hours; he was one of those types. Then again, CJ figured, most Masters had a life outside of slave owning, so they'd have to make due with what they had and what they could get. It was one of the reasons why CJ, uninterested in everything around them, had found himself completely and utterly bored with being in a cage. He didn't like being here; he wanted the freedom to explore, the curious nature that would wrap him up in cotton wool and leading him along like a dog, willingly waiting for anything that would be handed to him. The slave was laid out on the floor right against the cage's frontal part, his shirt off and an arm laying out between the bars. Several slavers who had done their rounds had told him to put it back in, rather afraid that the young masochist was going to grab their legs, but CJ ignored them. After a few of them gave the arm some rather hard kicks, CJ gave a smirk and let it slide into his cage before returning to his spot once the guard was gone. Some of the slaves around him shook their heads, and one even asked what the fuck CJ's problem was, but that was fine with CJ. He wasn't out to grab a master's leg and scare the fuck out of them. Likewise, either way that a master came through, they'd be able to see CJ's arm and walk around it, avoiding any initiation of any kind. It wasn't his fault that the slavers gave the slaves absolutely no entertainment, and some of the slaves -- like Cobra Jackson -- were easily bored and craved anything. More often than not, CJ turned to craving pain to cure himself or to stave off boredom that settled deep within his bones. He had heard footsteps coming, and looked up, watching as a master or two walked by, but none were interested in him. That was fine. He didn't want to be interested in, anyways. He tucked up his arm that wasn't outside his cell to lay underneath his head, almost as a makeshift pillow. Maybe I'll take a nap, he told himself, letting his dark eyes flutter shut as he listened to the whining of the slaves around him and the footsteps and quiet conversations of the masters browsing the slaves in the pens.