Author's Note: The current setting is... fluid. While the primary setting idea is sort of Steampunk Victorian, I'm not going to bend backwards to avoid anachronisms because porn.


Chapter One: Acquisition

Lord Charles

Unfortunately, the time had come for a new pet. While I completely understood my daughter's more violent sexual tendencies, and even shared them to some degree, it had been mere months since our previous pet had died and the rest of the family had been forced to wrangle an agreement from her. A modicum of self-control this time; rules as to what was allowed and what was not. She didn't like it, but she still had plenty of room to play, and I would abide by them as well, and so I struck off in search of the newest member of our little family

I already had someone in mind.

At first glance, he would not appear to be someone a well-to-do family would look for in a sexual partner. Young, homeless, and rarely without a layer of filth and grime, young Sascha had been on the streets for a considerable period of time. I did not know precisely how long; such questions were not met with enthusiasm from the boy and were often avoided. He sat on the platform above the train station, where most travelers waited for their ride home or to work, unobtrusively asking for change.

I had struck up a conversation with the boy months prior, before the whole unfortunate affair with Margaret. I had found myself drawn to him for whatever reason, and had offered him something to eat. He had reacted with some understandable surprise and suspicion, but over time, we developed a rapport, even a friendship. He accepted my offerings of food and warm beverages cheerfully and without any hesitation, and unlike most on the streets, he was more than capable of polite conversation.

I should clarify that despite my description of Sascha as a boy, he is only a boy in that way that rather young men are boys to older gentlemen. I would guess that he is at least eighteen, perhaps twenty at the most. Not even he is completely certain. Being a homeless orphan has many disadvantages.

Of course, his disadvantage is my advantage.

I approached him at my usual time. I had spent my day running various errands in the city, though he would assume I was returning home from work. In reality, I would not be boarding the train, and in fact had a carriage on stand-by.

I brought him our usual on these colder winter evenings: a mug of hot chocolate, which he accepted gratefully.

"Not a particularly good day for you, I take it?" I asked, eyeing the rather sad amount of coins in the brown hat that sat next to him on the frosty ground. He rolled his eyes.

"Not many people out when it's this cold," he said bitterly. "You'd think Christmas would bring the virtue of charity, but apparently not." I chuckled. "Well, not in everyone, at least." he amended, holding up his cup and smiling. I bowed slightly in acknowledgement.

We remained in companionable silence as he sipped his chocolate, and I watched him out of the corner of my eye. The hot chocolate had been drugged, though he would never suspect as much. I felt a bit bad about betraying his trust, but I contented myself with the knowledge that life with us, though difficult, would be much better than life on the streets, and I hadn't put a great deal in. Just enough to make him groggy, helpless and easy to lead. It would begin to take effect in a bit, but for now, I simply waited.

"I saw you in the Red District a few nights ago," I said conversationally. "Business or pleasure?" There was a beat of silence, and when I glanced down at him, he was looking at me with an expression of surprise.

"You saw me?" He asked. "You don't seem the type."

"Every man is the type at one point or another, my young friend," I laughed. He grinned sheepishly.

"I was... looking for work," he said, looking away. "But none of the..." He rolled his hand, embarrassed.

"Brothels?"

"Right. None of them wanted me." He shrugged. "Apparently I'm not manly enough for a woman, but not girly enough for a man or something like that."

I made a noise of sympathy, but I could understand the idea behind that. Sascha rarely stood up in my presence, but when he did, he proved to be surprisingly tall. However, one could tell from his gaunt face and almost fragile looking hands that he was slender beneath the bundles of threadbare coats he wore. He was on a middle ground of masculinity and femininity, bulk and delicacy.

I couldn't imagine why anyone wouldn't find him remarkably attractive though, under the layers of dirt and disgusting scavenged clothing. High cheekbones; a straight if somewhat long nose; thin lips; a sharp chin and jawline. The overall effect was excellent.

More than once, I had alarmed myself by wondering what he would look like after a bath, decently clothed... and then what he would look like after I'd peeled the clothing off.

Yes. Yes, he'd make an excellent edition.

The train roared into the station. I bowed slightly to him, and he to me, and we exchanged cheerful farewells as I made toward the train.

Yet I did not get on, not that he would know.

I gave it a few minutes. I had followed him once or twice to his... well, hovel was probably a generous word. It was really just an indentation between two abandoned houses that he had managed to make some facsimile of a roof between. Often, I was amazed he was even alive.

By the time I had left the train station and caught up to him on his usual route to his "home", the drugs had begun to take effect. Had there been people on the dimly lit streets, they would have given him a wide berth and muttered darkly about the drunkenness of our city's homeless. He stumbled slightly as he turned into the alley leading to his lean-to, and by the time I turned into it myself, he was leaning heavily against the wall, his legs apparently close to giving out.

I approached quietly as he slide to the icy ground, and I heard a small sob escape him. I knelt and place an arm about his shoulders.

"It's alright, my young friend," I whispered. "I'm not going to hurt you." I pressed a small kiss against his temple. He groaned and shook his head, trying to push himself away. "Sascha, you wound me. Come, stand up. You're not staying here." He fought as much as one could reasonably expect a drugged man to, but ultimately gave in and allowed himself to be half-carried, half-dragged through the empty streets to my carriage, which was a block or two away. I got him tucked in and settled, and told the driver to take us home.

Sascha

"Hmm... I guess he'll do." I felt hands on me. I was surrounded by warmth and nice smells, and there were hands massaging something into my hair and hands on my body, fingers in my mouth. I tried to wriggle away, but my arms and legs felt like they were made of clay. I tried to open my eyes, but they were too heavy to move. Someone whispered, "Shhhhh," and petted me.

"He's cute when he's clean."

"I guess so."

"His name is Sascha. Don't kill him. I don't want to have to find another pet this soon again, Elizabeth."

A whiny sigh. "Fine."

When I woke up, I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't a warm bed in a well-lit room, that's for damn sure.

It looked like it was probably a room in the cellar, judging from the lack of windows. While it probably wasn't big compared to most rooms, it was pretty great compared to where I slept in the city. The bed was big and warm and comfortable, and the sheets smelled clean. There was a little niche in one room for a tub, and on the opposite side, a table and some chairs. There was a dresser next to the door, and an empty bookcase.

My head still swam from the drugs. I tried to remember what happened, but only got bits and pieces. Talking over my head, being warm and being touched. I rubbed my eyes and blinked, staring at my hands. They were paler than I'd seen them in years. I ran my fingers through my hair. It was dry and weirdly fluffy.

"We gave you a bath," a familiar voice said, and I looked up to see Lord Charles standing in the doorway with a covered tray. He smiled fondly at me. "It took a bit longer than we thought it would, I must admit. You were remarkably filthy." I glared at him, betrayal filling me with heat.

"You drugged me." I said angrily. He put the tray down on the table.

"Only a little," he said, as if that changed a damn thing.

"I trusted you." He glanced at me, and maybe there was a flicker of something like regret in his eyes before he sighed.

"Yes, you did. Unfortunately, it was necessary." He uncovered the tray. There was a teapot, tea cups, and little sandwiches on it. My stomach whined, but I stayed on the bed. He kept talking as he poured the tea. "I would like to offer you a position in my home, Sascha."

"If you wanted to offer me a job, you could have just said so," I muttered. "Didn't have to drug me."

"Alas, the nature of the work may or may not be to your liking. Though," he looked at me thoughtfully, and I found myself blushing in spite of myself. "Perhaps you're more likely to accept than I previously thought." He turned back to the drinks. "Sugar?" I swallowed hard.

"Please."

He put a couple sugar cubes into the tea and placed it on the table, then sat across from it with his own tea. He glanced pointedly at me.

I hesitated, then got out of bed.

The moment I got up, I realized something that had completely escaped me before: I wasn't wearing my clothes. I was wearing a white shirt and brown pants. The pants were loose. The shirt was not. In fact, it clung to my ribcage, chest and back to the point that I might as well not even worn it. I glanced up from the outfit and found Lord Charles eyes on me. The look in them was hungry and dark, and I felt my face flush again.

I sat down and picked up the tea cup. He smiled and took a sip. I was about to do the same, before I remembered the last time I trusted him with a drink. I put down the tea and watched him.

"Before I begin," he said, not commenting on my refusal to drink. "I would like to assure you that this is strictly voluntary, at least at first."

"Oh yes, I'm getting that feeling," I said dryly. "Volunteers are usually drugged, right?"

"As I said, the nature of my offer makes that something of a necessity," Lord Charles said, unabashed. "However, it is absolutely your decision whether or not you take the position. After you make that first choice, you live with it. If you agree, you must remain here. If not, you cannot come back and ask again." I barely stopped myself from making a face. If I said no once, chances were I wasn't going to come running back for it again. But I nodded all the same.

"Fine. What is it?" He leaned back in the chair and looked at me for a long time, long enough for me to start to feel uncomfortable.

"You are aware that I am married, correct?"

"You've mentioned her."

"And my children?"

"Two of them? About my age?"

"Very good. Now, how best to put this..." He kept staring at me for some reason, until I felt my ears burn. "Every member of my family that lives in this household has certain... proclivities in the bedroom. Sexual preferences that would not be considered socially acceptable, and generally not preferred in most houses of ill-repute, due to the harm that often occurs as a result. Consequently, we find men or women who are open to the idea of doing what we ask, we accept them into our home, and we share them. If we feel that you have performed admirably yet no longer wish for you to share our home, you will be allowed to leave with a generous amount of money, which obviously comes with the agreement that neither you nor I nor my family will speak of your term with us." He smiled brightly, as if he hadn't just described something incredibly depraved.

I shook slightly, fury and humiliation making me stupid. "You want me to be your family whore?" I snarled. He blinked, and his smile became considerably cooler and less kind.

"If I recall correctly, you were not so averse to being a whore earlier this month," he said, stingingly, because it stung. I flinched and looked away. For some reason, him throwing that in my face hurt more than him drugging me. Maybe it showed, because he was gentler when he spoke again. "As I said, you can say no if it is such an offensive idea to you. I will not hold it against you in the slightest." I almost said yes to that. Just take me back. But...

Back to what?

Back to begging on a frozen, empty platform? Back to a snowy lean-to in a back alley? Back to being cold and hungry and miserable and alone with nothing but bad memories and nightmares?

I took a deep breath.

"What exactly what I do?" I asked, my voice sounding like someone else's as I said it.

"That would depend largely on who you were with." Lord Charles said. "Myself and my daughter... it will not be easy. In fact, it will be extremely difficult. My daughter prefers physical pain, I prefer mental. My wife will likely not ask much of you; we no longer sleep in the same bed, and men and women who have done what I'm asking you to do have told me she asked for little more than someone to talk to. My son is gentle, but prefers being in control." I looked up at him and found him looking closely at me. "Does that sound like something you would be interested in?"

No, but what choice do I have?

"Fine," I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "I'll do it." He nodded, then stood. When I made to stand as well, he said, "Sit."

I sat.

"You move when I tell you to move and not a moment sooner or later. Stay in the chair. I'll be right back." And with that, he turned and left.

A few minutes of awkward waiting later, he returned with something I'd never seen before. He held up the second thing and said in a tone of such coldness and authority that I shivered, "Do you know what this is?"

"N-no..."

"No...?"

I swallowed, knowing what he wanted. "No, sir."

"This is a gag. A ball gag, to be precise. It will not stop you from making noise, but it will stop you from speaking, and if you do make noise or attempt to speak, you will drool." I stared, the words sinking in slowly. "To be honest, you will likely begin drooling whether you attempt to speak or not. Not that it matters. I find the helplessness of the whole thing to be very arousing. However, if you only speak when spoken to, I won't have to use the gag and we'll avoid that altogether. Am I clear?"

"Y-yes, sir," I said, immediately regretting my decision, but I had the feeling that there wasn't much I could do about that. As I sat there, it struck me how much larger he was than me. Two, maybe three inches taller, and much bulkier. He could force me, if he wanted. He could make me do things.

But at the same time, I found myself thinking that maybe, maybe, it wouldn't be as hard as my head and heart and stomach were making it out to be. He was... actually very good looking. All sharp angles and heavy lines. Blond hair, bright blue eyes.

My heart started being faster, but maybe it wasn't just out of fear.

"Good. Go lay on the bed." I got up and went over to it, feeling my stomach drop a little with every step. "On your back. Very good." I gripped the sheets and stared determinedly up at the ceiling. I heard him walk over, slowly, and could practically feel his eyes on me. He stood next to the bed for a moment before reaching out and stroking my torso. My breath hitched slightly as his fingers ran down my stomach and began fiddling with the strip of skin between the hem of the shirt and waist of the bands.

"This will be a test of self-control," he said softly. "And a test of sensitivity." His hand slid down to rub at my crotch, and I hissed in shock, my hips snapping up into his touch before I could stop them. He smiled slightly.

"Shall we begin?"