Michael Prince was a sweet natured slave. A good submissive. Obedient, loyal. A pleasure slave stilted to be a great addition to any collection. His innocent, angelic looks had attracted three other Masters of various Supernatural races. Mike had seen all three, the last had taken one look at him and told them to leave, he wasn't interested. Of course by then Mike had been through two of those Master's.
Mike had been defiant in a way he had never been before. He argued with Camilla Marsters, and he defied the other two Master's. He'd only been honest; Mike had a Master, and none of them were him. He'd refused to listen. Refused to strip. Refused to pleasure them. Refused to allow them to touch him. His Master hadn't given permission for them to. When punished, he taunted them. They couldn't ever bring him the pleasure and pain his Master could. Told them tauntingly he would never cry out for the likes of them. He'd been whipped and caned for his taunting harshly, and he'd not even whimpered. Though it had taken biting his own tongue to keep from doing so.
The last one had pushed the wrong button with Mike and he'd called him a 'pussy'm which saw him backhanded.
Mike was in pain and banished to his room when not being taken to a potential Master since returning from Carrick's home. And now all he could do was lay upon his stomach and wish for his torment to end. Wish for his Master's cool touch.
He did not know Camilla caved after the third. Did not know that as he fitfully slept, energy drained by his trials and wounds, that his Master arrived. Not until he was summoned. He came downstairs in a light, white nightgown, as it was something that didn't cause him great pain and distress to wear. He appeared with a bruised and slightly swollen cheek, eyes ringed black from lack of proper sleep, moving stiff and limping slightly, his movements holding none of the grace that was so natural to him.
Though a few steps into the receiving room had Mike stopping and looking up sharply. Tired eyes focusing and widening a moment. "Master," he said so very softly, slightly garbled as if he couldn't speak right. He rushed over to him and fell to his knees with a whimper of pain from his quick movements aggravating his welts - a couple bad enough to have broken skin - and clutched at Carrick's legs, face pressed to his knee. Tears fell and he held so tightly. The top lashed from a whip could be seen along his shoulders where the nightgown didn't cover, but all the rest were hidden.
Camilla stood aside, watching in stony silence. Her face devoid of emotion.