Michael's Prize

One -Oscar

The men evacuated the graveyard slowly. Black suits and shiny shoes as they walked in small groups of twos and threes to their cars. The service was slow, and quite boring. Men in designer suits giving repeated speeches of how good the dead man's deeds were, how often he gave charity, how they'll always miss him. And women were crooning to the young man who had all eyes on him since the begining of the day, and seemed to be enjoying himself a little more than he should. Since it was, after all, his father's death they were mourning.

The bad blood between father and son was not a secret. The son was known to bad mouth his father in public events. And likewise, the father never missed a chance to criticise his son. Michaelson Sheldon was a womaniser, drunk man who was mostly known for the nude pictures that were all over the tabloids every month or so. Appearantly, the boy couldn't keep it in his pants.

That was what public knew, what everyone believed to be the truth. But I knew a different story.

One I was lucky enough to be trusted with. And as I followed the trails of the few slaves that came along, I once again repeated the last conversation I had with the old man. I trust you, he'd said.

How many years had it been since someone showed me the kindness that Mr Sheldon did, or the time and attention he showered me with. A slave that has long since lost his value, one who lived with masters far too many to count, and changed ownership as more times that he could remember.

But all that didn't matter to Sheldon the eldest, which probably explained the lengths I was prepared to take for his sake. The life as I put on the line to follow his orders as they came.

A hand nudged me, not hurtful, but firm, and it broke me out of my thoughts as I turned.

The man gave me a slight motion with his hand, pointing the other way, to his car instead of the one waiting for the slaves. I hesitated, naturally, "Won't that be too quick, perhaps he needs the time to-"

"Time to bury his sorrows," Mr Hershy rolled his eyes. "I don't see him batting an eyelash. I get paid per hour, and unless you plan to pay me back, my dear heir, you'll do as I say."

To mock the Master the day his father dies, the nerve of this man.

I tried one more time, "I'm a slave, I couldn't possibly sit in the car without invitation."

"What am I? A sack of potatoes? I'm inviting you." I wanted to tell him that his invitation did not matter. That, yes, he was a sack of potatoes. Not in the literal sense, but in every other way that mattered. That the invitation I seek wasn't his to give, but again, I was a slave, and he was talking again before I could open my mouth to say anything anyway. "You're worth billions now, no slave I know is, let alone a whore."

Giving up, I followed him, allowing him to guide me through the thick crowd. Clearly, we weren't the only ones interested in getting in the same car as Mr Sheldon Jr. Unsurprisingly, though, he acknowledged Mr Hershy at once -This was, after all, the man in who was about to hand him millions. He guided him to the sleek car, making his rushed apologies to the men who flanked him.

He ignored me, of course, but once I moved to get in, he frowned. "Is he necessary?" he stared at Mr Hershy. "He's an eye candy, sure, but we've got more important stuff to deal with."

A virgin would've bushed at the compliment, especially one that had been received from a man as Michael Sheldon. He was broad and beautiful, long lashes framing his deep brown eyes, black hair shiny with gel and slicked back, and a bearded jawline to drool over. But I was no virgin, and whores certainly did not blush at men checking them out.

"He's necessary." Mr Hershy insisted. "As you'll find out in a few minutes."

Michael nodded with disdain clear on his face. He didn't look convinced, but didn't object, "He can ride front, with Jimmy."

A man came forward at the mention of the name, his bulging muscles underneath his shirt and the black sunglasses along with the earpiece the picture of a bodyguard should look like. Jimmy took me by the arm, guiding me to the front passenger seat before going to the other side of the car and turning the engine on. "Where to, Sheldon?"

"Home."

Clearly, Jimmy wasn't the only bodyguard who stayed with Sheldon at all times. There were a dozen of them, in two black jeeps that drove ahead and behind us. And the frown that I got earlier from him, was only because I forced him into the situation where he only had one bodyguard around. At least in wasn't a personal grudge against me. The thought settled my nerves for seconds before I remembered the conversations that were to happen soon, the truth that was to be revealed.

He didn't hate me yet, but he will, soon.

The group finally settled in the now dead man office, and the bodyguards followed inside. Hershy shook his head. "No one will try harming you here, Micheal, it's only us, they can wait outside.

Micheal Sheldon took off his suit jacket, moving to stand behind the huge mahogany desk and carelessly drapped it on the chair, "You've got your pretty little slave here with you, we won't need refreshments here more than I'll need protection."

Hershy gave a sigh of clear exhaustion, "I told you that he's needed here, while I read you the will."

"I'll settle for two. But that's all you're getting." The men filed out of the room, closing the door behind them. Jimmy and another man -a man with a collar- stayed.

"Now talk," It wasn't a request. "He left me the slave? He's not even wearing the Sheldon crest." he eyed me warily. "And no fancy collar."

Hershy didn't look at him, he was getting out a sealed envelope from the breast bucket of his suit jacket. He opened it, and read "For my dear son Michealson, I leave the slave Oscar, may he find him enjoyable and to his liking."

Michaelson waited, and when Hershy said no more, he raised a perfect eyebrow, question in his eyes.

Mr Hershy shook his head, "That's all there is."

Michaelson's features were unreadable as he moved and snatched the paper out of the lawyer's grasp. He went with his eyes through it, slowly, cautiously. I knew the words by heart, for I was right there when Edward Sheldon had written them. Know that I will always love you, Your Father, Edward Sheldon

Michaelson's expressions flared, he shot a dark look Hershy, "Is this a joke?" He moved closer towards Hershy "'Cause in case you weren't fucking informed, the actual inheritance could buy me hundreds like the boy over there. Fucking hundreds."

I've seen Michaelson before, in the rare occasions he came around his father's house, I've seen him annoyed, looking bored, molesting a slave a couple of time, driving race cars and lurking shirtless with an overgrown beard and a smirk tugging on his lips. But I've never seen him angry. He was a changed being without his carefree attitude and lacking his 'chill'.

I've never seen him slip, losing the rich, embellished British accent that he's acquired in boarding schools or heard his thick accent so plain before.

In his anger, he was distant, ready to hit anything and everything, but mostly, desirable. I've never been attracted to a man the way I was attracted to Michaelson. The man who now owned me.

Just as much as I owned him.