Adam's Slave

o n e -Adam

Some chapters in this book ARE PRIVATE. You'll have to follow me to be able to read them.

Enjoy!

The knocks on the door were loud and rattling, but they were still not enough to stir the boy next to me awake. Not that I blamed him, low blood pressure tend to do that to you. That, along with exhaustion. He'd provided a good meal the previous night, luscious and pleasing, with as little fuss as one would expect. I could smell the remains of blood in the air, only a drift, but there was enough to put my mind in a slight haze.

Silky hair abstracted most of his neck and back from view, but I knew that if I lifted the strands, a deep red bruise would be all too visible, one that would take no less than few days to disappear and he'd be competent for another blood taste.

It was quite the nausea, at first, having to switch between slaves every night or another, but it couldn't be helped. Intravenous fluids only took them so far. That, and it left the blood tainted for weeks, the taste stale. Involuntarily, my nose wrinkled at the thought in disgust. Granted, I only had to taste it few times, but it was enough of an unpleasant experience that I never wanted it repeated, not if it could be helped.

That being said, my slaves weren't given any as long as they could do without. It had happened a few times, were it was either that or a corpse, I had obliged, and given in. However, that had happened few times, and far inbetween, so it wasn't that big of an issue.

The knocking continued, even more insistent. I signed inwardly, and moved to open the door. However, Soraya was already barging in, having given up on me replying. I couldn't blame her. The times where I had gotten up and opened the door myself were scarce.

She gave me a hard stare, way to start the day. From the way she stares me down every time she disapproves, you'd think I'm the one working for her, and not the other around. "Good morning, Sir." She greeted. "I hope you had a good night's sleep." Although her words respectful, her tone suggested that she didn't give a damn about how well I slept.

I answered her anyway, my tone pleased. "Well enough. When does business start today?" Translation: how late am I?

"In ten minutes, the Allen's representatives will be in your office."

"I'll be there in fifteen." I promised.

Soraya gave me another of her hard glares before nodding, and exiting the room.

My morning routine took less than ten minutes, and by the time I was out of the shower, and with a clean pair of dress slacks and shirt, a slave came in with my morning coffee, and I was out of my room.

I didn't have an office, or a study, or even a table with my pens and papers assembled on it. Soraya always referred to my father's study as 'your office'. Since, indeed, it was the place where all formal meetings in my home took place.

When father left to start his few-years-long vacation, I had the family home remodeled, for it had last been furnished before I was born. And nothing had been touched since. My father's study was the only room I left untouched. Its furniture was ancient, nothing like the modern, open spaces I preferred for my own living quarters. But it was imposing, and spoke of power. I've found it haunting as a child, and part of me revelled at the fact that I could make another as uncomfortable as I once was whenever I went to it.

Charles Allen, along with three other men, two which I identified as his lawyers and a third I didn't recognize, sat on the armchairs in the rectangular hall outside the study, sipping on beverages. My lawyer was standing to the side, having a heated chat with Soraya, most likely reprimanding her for my tardiness.