By Jackson Amacher
From the basement, all Dylan could hear was the thumping of the music and the noises of the party. He looked around the basement and tried to memorize where he was, everything around him.
Things grew quiet upstairs, suddenly. Dylan thought he heard a cheer. Then he heard the basement door. Slow footsteps came down the stairs.
“What’s up, slave,” Rex said.
Dylan grunted through his gag in response.
Rex was wearing the full Red uniform, casually drinking from a beer. He set the beer down on the floor near Dylan’s ankle cuffs.
Rex stared at Dylan’s naked, helpless body for a moment. Then he reached out to Dylan’s right nipple, and began tickling it, softly.
“This is how it was meant to be. You, a slave; owning nothing, wearing nothing, no choice in who sees you, no choice in who fucks you. And me, your master. You might think that your current situation is the product of just dumb luck on my part, or maybe the product of cheating. But you’d be wrong, slave,” Rex said.
Rex stopped tickling Dylan’s nipple and let his finger slowly slide around to Dylan’s back, then down to his butt.
