CWs (i suck at these just lmk if i need smth): slavery whump, minor whumpee (17), self amputation (its pretty gross), blood, abuse, beating, referenced abuse, anxiety attack, derogatory language, threat of noncon (noncon will be threatened a lot in this story but it will never actually happen)
Masterlist
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Master was having an important dinner. He’d told Kensington that he was to serve he and his coworkers dinner and drinks, and keep out of the way. If he embarrassed his master even once, he’d pay the price dearly for it.
Master’s temper had been getting shorter recently. When he first bought Kensington to help out around the house, he had mostly ignored him aside from assigning chores. It was for a small infraction that Master lost his temper and hit him for the first time. The second time Kensington was punished with two broken ribs because he’d flinched away from his master, something he learned was not allowed under any circumstances.
His chest still ached.
Master was stressed about the dinner, and it was almost like Kensington could physically see him get more and more tense as the day went on, watching the way his jaw tensed and his shoulders stiffened. He could only stand back and wait until his master snapped.
The doorbell rang and Kensington’s head shot up, his hands freezing over the dishes he was placing on the table. Master walked briskly to the door, pausing to run a hand through his hair and shoot his slave a deadly look, saying don’t mess up one last time. Then he plastered a smile on his face and opened the door.
“Grayson! Good to see you!” his boss said, stepping inside and shaking Master’s hand.
“Same to you, Mr. Brown.”
“Hey, we’re not at the office. Call me Nicholas.”
Two more men stepped inside, and were introduced as Carlos and Jordan. Kensington kept his eyes down, trying to focus on setting the table and staying out of the way. The wine glasses clinked against each other and he froze, the sound painfully loud. The one that had been introduced as Jordan caught sight of him first.
“You’ve got a slave, Grayson?” he asked, surprised.
Kensington stiffened as all the men’s attention turned to him. He set the rest of the glasses down slowly, hyper aware of his movements. Don’t mess up, Kensi.
“Yeah,” Master said proudly. “Bought him a few months ago.”
It wasn’t like Kensington was expensive -- Master had bought him at a second-hand back auction for a fraction of the price the fancy ones sold for -- but it was still a status symbol to own a slave. He straightened his back and kept his eyes on the ground as the men walked toward him. Carlos took his arm and examined it while Jordan turned his head back and forth. Kensington’s cheeks burned red. It was like he was being examined at the market.
“How old is he?” Nicholas asked.
At a quick glance up, Kensington saw Master shrug, and then look at him.
“How old are you, boy? Do you know?” Nicholas asked again, this time directed at Kensington.
He cleared his throat nervously. “I’m seventeen, sir.”
“Seventeen! You know that’s the perfect age to start selling him off for breeders to use.”
Kensington’s head snapped up as he stared with wide eyes at Master. His master gave him a sharp look and shook his head minutely, his jaw tensing. Kensington hoped he knew what it meant.
Don’t embarrass him. Just get through the night.
The men kept going. “Yeah, my cousin’s got a couple of boys he rents out every so often,” Carlos said. “They pay upwards of three hundred dollars per night.”
To Kensington’s horror, his master actually began to look interested. “Really? How often does he rent them?”
“At least once a week.”
Master let out a low whistle. “Wow.” Jordan and Carlos stepped away and Kensington felt like he might be able to breathe again. “Should we eat?” The men sat around the table. “Kensington,” Master nodded. Kensington gratefully hurried to the kitchen to fetch the wine and steaks.
Once he was alone, he took just a moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath. He couldn't panic about the breeders. He just had to get through the night, and not make Master angry. Maybe if he was good, and after the guests left, he could try to talk to him about it.
Kensington opened his eyes and began to gather the food. Yeah. He just had to be good.
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Dinner went well. Kensington stood by the wall silently, only interacting with the men when told to refill cups or clear plates. When they had finished eating, he wordlessly collected some of their dishes and took them to the kitchen. His stomach dropped when he returned, and found himself the topic of conversation.
“He looks strong,” Nicholas was saying, “I don’t see any reason why they wouldn’t want him. Good genes, it seems like.”
“I’m just not sure he’d be able to handle something like that,” Master responded. “He’s kind of a crybaby.”
Kensington felt himself blush as he picked up Carlos’ plate. He was a crybaby. And he would absolutely not be able to handle something like that. He’d heard the horror stories from other slaves at his past houses or in the markets. Lots of them said they’d rather die than be sold to a breeder. He took Jordan’s plate, his trembling hands making the dishes rattle. Nicholas looked at him.
“His name’s Kensington?” he asked Master quietly. “Kensington, come here.” He obeyed, his legs shaking as he tried to keep his growing panic under control. “Put those down.” He did, risking a glance at his Master. The look on his face was severe enough to make him look away.
Just be good, Kensi. Master won’t let them hurt you too bad. He hoped.
Nicholas surprised him by pushing him down to his knees and forcing his head down, his hand heavy on his neck.
“Not too big of a crybaby,” Nicholas said, sliding his hand down onto Kensington’s right shoulder. Kensington stifled a whimper as he pressed on the welts from his last punishment.
“He’ll be facing more than that at the breeding house,” Jordan laughed. He reached over and slid his hand under Kensington’s shirt, making him flinch and close his eyes, trying to stop the tears stinging his eyes. He wanted to look up at Master where he sat on the other side of the table, but the hand on his neck wouldn’t allow it. Carlos’ chair scraped against the ground, his footsteps echoing as he got closer to put his hands on Kensington too.
Just be good just be good just be good. Just get through dinner, it’s okay. Just breathe, they’re not hurting you it’s fine it’s--
His eyes flew open when he felt Carlos’ hand near his waistband.
“No!”
He pulled away from the hands and stood up, taking several steps backwards. His chest was heaving as he gasped for breath. Kensington might be a slave and he might be given away to breeders at some point in his life, but as long as he had even the smallest chance to defend himself, he would take it.
“Maybe he is too weak for it!” Carlos said, going back to his seat next to Master.
The man all laughed, happy with their joke. Kensington glanced up to see his master laughing, too. There was a smile on his face, but it didn’t reach anywhere near his eyes like it did earlier in the night when the men were buzzed and joking. Instead the icy gray was filled with fury, and Kensington’s heart dropped with newly learned dread.
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“Yeah, have a good night!” Master called one last time. He closed the door and turned immediately to his slave cowering in the dining room, the friendly attitude he had toward his coworkers dropping. “Come here.”
Kensington moved his shaking legs toward his master. He could already smell the alcohol on him, see the rage in his expression. As soon as he was within an arm’s reach, Master grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and backhanded him so hard black spots clouded Kensington’s vision. Master threw him to the ground and kicked him in the stomach, causing him to cough and curl in on himself, the ever present pain from his healing ribs lighting up.
“Do you know how embarrassing that was?” Master yelled. He kicked Kensington again, who was suddenly very glad he hadn’t been fed yet that night. He probably wouldn’t be fed at all now. “My own slave can’t obey me and behave for one night! You’re useless Kensington, absolutely useless!” He emphasized the last two words with three harsh kicks to his ribs again, and Kensington gasped as he felt something crack. Tears pricked at his eyes again, but he forced them back. He couldn’t afford to cry now.
“Get out of my sight. You’ll get your full punishment tomorrow.”
Kensington pushed himself up and began to walk hastily to his room.
“You know,” Master called after him, “I wasn’t actually going to give you to any breeders, but maybe I should! Maybe I will!”
Kensington closed his door behind himself and leaned against it, sliding to the ground. He wrapped his arms around his aching chest and tried to calm his breathing. He flinched as glass shattered on the kitchen tile, no doubt Master throwing something in his drunken rage. Kensington pulled his knees close, buried his face in his hands, and allowed himself to cry.
His mind ran wild with possibilities. The air around him grew thin and stale as he pressed his palms against his eyes, willing the tears to stop. His shoulders shook with silent sobs -- he didn’t want Master to hear him.
Would he be caned again? Whipped? Burned? Beaten? Maybe Master would take away all his food for days or drug him so he couldn’t sleep. Maybe he’d tie him up and lock him in the closet--
Kensington clapped his hands over his mouth in an attempt to stifle the sob that forced its way out of his mouth. Oh gosh when did the air get so thin? His heart beat rapidly as he attempted to get a grip, but his breaths were too fast and too shallow and his hands shook and he couldn’t get any air and maybe his rib had punctured a lung and he would die soon and never have to worry about his upcoming punishment because it would never happen or maybe he would die because of a heart attack because there was no way it was normal for everything to be going so fast all at the same time!
He stood suddenly, moving towards the window next to the cot he slept on. He unlocked it and quickly threw it open, the cool night air flowing over him. The fresh breeze that filtered in seemed to jumpstart his system and he took a deep breath in, not caring as his ribs protested the action.
Breathe, Kensi, he told himself. He closed his eyes, the tears drying on his skin. He took a few deep breaths, but they were still too fast. He had to just calm down because if he stayed up all night freaking out it would only make tomorrow’s punishment worse.
Kensington flinched and looked to the door at the sound of another glass breaking. His breathing went shallow again, tears falling down his face. No. No no he couldn’t be there anymore -- just, just in his room, he couldn’t just sit there and wait for Master to hurt him, he had to breathe, he had to calm down or everything would be worse. He needed a moment all to himself, with no one else getting inside his head and ruining it. He just needed a moment.
The screen on the window had been ripped out before he was bought, so Kensington swung his legs outside with no issue, dropping the couple of feet into the backyard.
The summer breeze washed over his entire body. He stumbled around the side of the house, somewhere where there were no lights save for the neighbors far away. Kensington fell to his knees, the dewy grass soaking through his sweatpants and sticking to his palms.
He closed his eyes again and allowed himself to take in the fresh air with no distractions, his mind going blank.
Kensington wasn’t sure how long he knelt there, his hands kneading the grass. The night got colder, his chest aching with every breath, but he welcomed it. A dog barked far away. Birds called. Cars drove by. He focused on all of it, grasping onto anything to allow himself to feel like he was somewhere else, somewhere safe. Somewhere he had no memory of but knew must’ve existed long ago, before he was sold over and over again to masters that enjoyed being cruel just for the sake of being cruel.
But he eventually had to give it all up.
He forced himself to open his eyes and stand up. He rested a hand against the house to help him stay upright, his eyes focused on the light from his bedroom on the grass.
Kensington braced himself before hauling himself over the window, falling unceremoniously on the floor. He hissed in pain, taking a moment to let his ribs stop aching before getting to his knees.
It was then that he noticed the shoes.
The breath caught in Kensington’s chest as he froze, staring at the shoes. Shoes he knew, shoes he shined, shoes that had been kicking him not even an hour ago.
He slowly, slowly brought his terrified gaze up. Shoes, legs, torso, crossed arms, shoulders, and then his Master’s furious face.
Neither of them said anything for a long time, just staring into each other’s faces painted with rage and fear. Kensington took a sharp breath once his vision started to blur, and it was then that his master began to move. He hauled Kensington up by the arm and began to drag him from the room, down the hallway.
“You think you can get away from me?!” he shouted. “You think you can open your window and just leave like that?!”
“N-no, no I wasn’t trying to leave, I wasn’t--!”
Master threw him up against the wall by the door, his arm pressed against Kensington’s throat. His hands flew up to grip his master’s arm, but he didn’t dare push him away.
“What were you doing then? Huh? You just wanted to see how disobedient you could be tonight?” He pressed harder, forcing Kensington to gasp for air. “You wanted to see how far you could push me? Well congratulations! You made it!” He let go and Kensington slumped against the wall, his eyes on his master as he grabbed a jacket. “Let’s go.”
“Wh-where?”
“I’m selling you to a breeding company. Maybe you’ll obey them better than you do me.”
Kensington’s heart dropped. It was like someone peeled off his skin and poured a bucket of ice water over his skeleton. He could only stare dumbly at his master and shake his head, tears flooding his eyes.
“No, n-no, no, you-- you can’t--”
“I can. And I am.” Master opened the door. “Go.”
And just like that Kensington fell to his knees and began to sob, his shoulders shaking with the effort. “No, please don’t send me to them Master, please!” he cried. His rapid breaths and heart pounding in his chest were making him panic, his chest protesting every gasp and cry. Hot tears poured in a steady stream down his red cheeks. “I-I’m so so sorry! I’m sorry Master just please don’t send me there please please please…” He kept murmuring pleas between choking sobs, repeating what was going in a loop in his mind. Please please please no no no please please please no no no…
It was something he feared above almost everything else, something he knew would happen to him eventually but not now. He needed time to prepare and have less hope and fight and pride, this wasn’t something he could survive through now. He put his forehead to the ground in front of his master shoes and sobbed pathetically, waiting for him to answer.
“...You want to stay here?” Master finally asked. Kensington vigorously nodded, his head rubbing the ground uncomfortably. “Then you have to prove it to me. Are you willing to do that?”
"Yes Master anything please!” Kensington begged, sitting up and staring at his Master with hope and tear filled eyes.
“Follow me,” Master ordered. Kensington quickly got to his feet and stumbled after him through the living room and into the kitchen.
He had to maneuver through the glass shards littering the ground, evidence of his master’s anger. He’d clean it later.
Master pulled out a seat from the bar and indicated for Kensington to sit. He placed a cutting board in front of him and then began to search through the drawers. His fear spiked when he saw Master take out a large knife, murmuring to himself that it would do. He set the knife on the cutting board and then took the seat next to Kensington, watching him expectantly.
“If you would rather stay here,” he began slowly, “than be sold to a breeder, you have to prove it to me.” He slid the knife closer to Kensington. “Cut off your pinky.”
The room seemed to sway around Kensington, and he had to grab the edges of his seat so he wouldn’t slip off. He stared at the knife, the seemingly only stable thing in the room.
Cut off your pinky.
Kensington looked back up at Master, hoping to see him uncharacteristically smile and say it was a joke, that he wouldn’t really make Kensington do something so awful to himself. But all he saw was cold anticipation.
“M-Master?” Kensington asked breathlessly.
“You claim you want to stay here, but you were trying to leave me not fifteen minutes ago. Prove you want to stay here with me.” He leaned forward. “Cut off your pinky or I’ll cut off your whole hand and sell you to the breeders anyway.”
Kensington squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe. Oh why did it seem like his chest had weights on it? Like he couldn’t breathe tonight no matter how much he tried? His breaths came even more rapidly, but it still didn’t help oh why couldn’t he breathe--
“Kensington.” His master’s severe voice prompted him to open his eyes and look up. “Now.”
Tearing his hands away from the chair seemed an almost impossible task, but Kensington managed it. He used the thought of the breeders to give himself enough strength to pick up the knife, although his hands shook so badly he thought he might drop it anyway.
“Cut it off. I’ll let you decide which one.”
Kensington went still, staring at the knife shaking in his hand. Maybe this was worse than what the breeders would do to him. Maybe it wouldn’t be worth it, what his master would make him do, in the end. Master must’ve sensed his train of thought because he spoke, taking Kensington’s left hand and lying it flat so his palm faced the air.
“It’s either this or the breeders’, Kensington. And they’ll do worse than this. They’ll keep you constantly drugged, so you can’t fight back. Not like you would anyway. You’re too much of a pussy. You’ll only get fed maybe twice a week. And even that will be laced with drugs. They will rape you countless times a day. You’ll be forced to rape other slaves. Every day. For the rest of your life. Because you will die there, Kensington, if you go. You’ll die because if you’re not being raped, then you’ll be used for stress relief. They’ll hurt you there, worse than I ever have or ever will.” He guided the knife so it hovered closely over Kensington’s left pinky. “It’s your choice to make. Stay here with me, with one less finger, or go to a breeding company to die.” Master let go of Kensington’s hands, forcing him to try to keep still or accidentally cut himself.
Tears dripped off his face and onto the cutting board. Kensington closed his eyes and took a deep breath, attempting to come to terms with what was going to happen. He had to do it. He had to cut it off. Honestly the fact that this was all Master wanted was incredible. He had the power to do anything -- anything -- to Kensington, and he didn’t have to give him a voice in the matter at all. It was one finger for his life. It seemed fair.
So why couldn’t Kensington do it? Why was his hand frozen against his will, his fingers turning white with their grip on the knife? He opened his eyes, staring at the knife, trying to will it to move.
“You have five minutes, Kensington,” Master said after a while. “After five minutes I’ll just send you regardless.”
“I…” Kensington took a breath. “I want to stay here,” he whispered. “But I can’t do it.” He hiccupped on a sob. Why couldn’t he just do it?!
Master leaned back in his chair. “Then you must not really want to stay.”
Kensington shook his head. “No! No, I do, I do, I promise I do…”
“Then prove it!” Master yelled, with such ferocity that Kensington flinched and cut himself shallowly. He gasped, the air stinging the cut. It was only a small taste of what was to come. Master spoke again, his voice suddenly soft. “Want some help starting off?” Kensington nodded gratefully, another sob forcing its way out of his chest.
Master took Kensington’s right hand with surprising gentleness. He raised it up, the knife catching the light hanging above them and blinding Kensington temporarily. Then he gripped his wrist, and brought the knife down on the pinky.
Blood covered the counter, spraying up on both Kensington and Master’s faces. Kensington screamed, the sudden reality of what had happened becoming clear through the pain. He let go of the knife, gripping his left wrist like he could cut off the blood supply to his finger. It was then that he realized the finger was only partly severed. His hand was pried away from his wrist, and something hard was pressed into it. Kensington focused on his hand, realizing he was holding the knife.
“Finish it,” Master ordered.
Finish it. Master did most of the work, so it should be easy. Just put the knife on the cut, and press down. Finish it.
But Kensington’s hands were shaking more than ever, and the edges of his vision were tainted with black spots. Just do it. Line it up and press down. He took a few quick, deep breaths, but soon realized that the hot liquid in his mouth was his own blood. Nausea bubbled up inside him and he started to dry heave. Master gripped his hair and pulled his head back.
“If you vomit I’ll make you lick it up. And the blood. Understand?”
Kensington nodded, swallowing. He had to focus.
Steeling himself with quick breaths through his nose, he lined up the edge of the knife with the cut. Just one quick slice. That’s all. Then it’ll be over and Master will let him stay. One quick slice.
Just DO IT Kensi!
The second cut brought on pain more blinding than the first, and for a moment Kensington feared he really would throw up. His ears started to ring as he looked at his pinky again, the pool of blood and severed flesh making him gag in revulsion. But it was done.
To his horror, Master reached over and picked up his severed finger. He examined it briefly before turning around and tossing it into the trash.
“Well done,” he said, standing up. He wiped some of Kensington’s blood off his face with his sleeve.
Kensington himself was still trying not to gag, his breaths hitching with sobs as tears ran down his face, mixing with his own blood.
“Wrap a towel around it. Clean all this up before morning. We’ll talk more then.”
Master walked away, his bedroom door slamming shut soon after. Kensington took a towel, wrapping it around his heavily bleeding wound and praying he wouldn’t pass out. He only hoped he’d done enough for Master to forgive him.
Not sure if this one has been done but someone sent in a thing about a character performing surgery on themselves and I propose a similar scenario: self-amputation (which I've actually written something for, something involving an energy weapon which was designed to immediately cauterize any wound... bc it was designed as a torture device... so do with that what you will...)
I honestly didnt like this one because i feel like it didnt turn out as good as the rick one. Obviously i chose the joker because i kinda wanted to stay in character and i could see the joker doing something like this, I was also trying something new with blood and i just dont really like how it came out.
