It just might, if he's super-into pain. Ugh.
My new owner heads down the long, quiet hallway. I look longingly at the tree—it's the first bit of greenery I've seen in years—and follow a few steps behind him. He stops at a door at the end of the hall and presses his hand to a panel in the wall. I notice that his fingertips are also metal, and his skin shimmers as if he's wearing even more metal underneath. I stare at his back, too. I'm familiar with the sight of it, of the bars and tubes and endless amounts of metal that crawl up his spine like a ladder. Clearly something happened there, and the first time I saw it through the window, it shocked me. Seeing it up close doesn't shock me. I kind of want to touch it…but I also don't want to get sent back. So no touching any metal parts unless he gives the explicit order. No gawking, either. I've seen him scowl at passers-by that gawked at him as he stood at the front of his shop. As a pale, pale human amongst a sea of red and blue and orange-skinned aliens? I get it. Oddities get stared at, and sometimes it's downright uncomfortable for the oddity. I'm used to it at this point—heck, I encouraged it, because I had the safety of the window and my ankle chain—but I know from watching him that he hates it.
We step inside his quarters. At least, I assume they're his quarters. They're stark and severe, which makes me think of him. The living area is large, with a step-down area filled with pillows and a couch of sorts, like a big nest in the middle of the living room. There's a changing electronic mural on the ceiling that swirls and moves to faint humming music, and off to the side of the large, open living area is a kitchen space full of dispensers and a stone bar for eating at. There's an odd sculpture or two, and then a curtained area leads off to what must be the bedrooms and a lavatory. It's not huge by Earth standards, but on Three Nebulas, where space is at a premium? It's utterly luxurious.
This man is rich. I don't know what he does—his shop is rather plain looking on the outside and I've never been inside. The customers he gets seem to be few and far between, so I suspect he's some sort of crime lord, and that terrifies me, just a little. Crime lords tend to show up in packs at the cantina, and they always pass their slaves around. I wonder if I've been condemned to a life of master merry-go-round.
God. This gets worse and worse the longer I think about it.
He turns toward me, his expression unreadable.
Is he waiting for me to say something? Has he forgotten he told me to shut up? Maybe he's waiting for me to blow him instead. Biting my lip, I avert my eyes—because he didn't like me looking at him, either—and slink toward him. I move one slow step at a time and then put my hands on his belt.
Then, I drop to my knees.
This presents a problem. He's too tall. Even if I strained my neck, I wouldn't be able to reach his cock. Perturbed, I look up at him, a silent plea for help in my eyes.
He crosses his arms over his chest. "What are you doing?"
I feel a bit like a cornered animal. "You told me not to talk," I whisper, dropping my gaze again.
There's a low groan, and when I dare to look up again, he's got his eyes closed, his hand running over the rounded dome of his half-metal skull. He looks annoyed, and the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach grows stronger. "You can talk if I ask you a question. And I just did. What are you doing?"
"T-trying to please you?" I gesture at his crotch. "I can suck your cock, but I might need a stool—"
He groans again, scrubbing his hand over his face once more. Then he looks down at me, his jaw clenching. He gestures at the nest of couches in the middle of the living area. "Go sit."
Wordlessly, I get to my feet and scramble over to the couches. I perch on the edge of one and fold my hands in my lap, my heart hammering. I'm deeply, deeply aware that I am fucking things up more with every moment, and my skin prickles with terror. If he sends me back, I'll be auctioned off. I'll end up god knows where, doing god knows what. I just need to figure out what pleases him. I know he likes me—he watched me all the time, didn't he? He bought me? So I must at least look appealing?