By Faith Ashlin (Guest Blogger)
Have
you ever read a book that had you arguing with the characters? One
where you can't stop yourself giving them advice? Not long ago I read
a story that had me telling – or, much to my family's bemusement,
shouting out loud – my opinion at the poor people in the pages. I
even had to put the book down a couple of times because I'd reacted
so strongly to it; stomping off in a huff until I'd calmed down and
could start reading again.
It
wasn't that I didn't like the book, oh no, I thoroughly enjoyed it
and had fallen in love with the characters. The story had me so
involved I couldn't stop thinking about it and I was neglecting all
the important things that had to be done now, now, now, as well as
staying up late, reading. I'd turned back into the naughty kid my mum
scolded for reading under the covers with a torch. But I couldn't
stop; I was living and breathing the story.
I
was thinking about it at the supermarket, when hubby was telling me
about his (boring) day at the office and in important meetings.
Whenever I was forced to do other things I was tingling with
anticipation to get back to it.
I
absolutely love it when a book does that to me because it’s
magical. Only this time, as well as loving the story, I was also
cross with it – the story, not the author because causing a
reaction like that meant they'd done their job really well.
My
reaction to it is what kick-started me to write my new story A Slow
Process of Understanding. I wanted to take the same situation and
twist it my way, make the characters react the way I wanted them to.
The book I'd read was a fantastic slave story but I kept getting
annoyed, thinking, 'I wouldn’t react like he did. I’d be plotting
my revenge!' or 'why did you do that? Why didn't you do...'
Now,
I'll admit I can be a stroppy cow at times – just ask my hubby –
but I can't imagine falling hopelessly in love with my owner, if I
were a slave. I’d be seething with anger, no matter how carefully I
had to hide it. Even if I were treated well, I’d still resent my
owner and the power he had over me, especially, as in this case,
I'd been free before becoming a slave.
I
then started thinking about the mind-set of the owner. How would I
feel/react if I’d been brought up in a society that accepted
slavery? One where it was common place and unremarkable. I think
it’s too easy to say I’d see how wrong it was and act
differently. I’m sure that during Roman times people didn’t spend
their days worrying about the morals of slavery – even if they were
truly decent people. I think they would be more likely to simply
accept it, the same way the whole society accepted it.
Attitudes
change over time and place and I think it's too simple to ascribe our
views to other circumstances. Recently there was a documentary on TV
about television in the UK during the 1970's. The casual racism,
sexism and homophobia were truly shocking and yet, often, back then,
it was meant to be funny. It really was a different time.
Thinking
about the slave story again, I realised that just because a character
accepts being an owner doesn’t make him a bad person. He could be a
really sweet guy who does what he thinks is the right thing, the good
thing, in a situation that everyone else thinks is okay.
So,
if the good-guy owner gets a slave, how would things work between
them?
How
would I react if I were the slave or the owner?
I
can understand that owner and slave can become very close; but real,
equal full-on love? No, I can’t see that. I think the power dynamic
would be too unbalanced.
But
I adore a happy ending so I was interested in how I could bring a
couple together with that kind of awful, unequal dynamic at the
start. I wanted them both to see things from the other's point of
view, to really understand the situation so they could fall in the
kind of deep, ever-lasting love that I dream of.
I
thought that was a huge challenge but one I was eager to attempt. I’d
have to change mind-sets, diffuse the anger and, somehow, bring them
together in a loving, caring and, most importantly, equal
relationship. Like I said, no easy task. I think the result is one of
the best things I've ever written.
A
Slow Process of Understanding by Faith Ashlin was released by
Totally Bound on December 26th.
Amazon
buy link
Totally
Bound buy link
Blurb
How
does a world that accepts slavery affect both master and slave? Can
two people build a new life for themselves with a start like theirs?
It’s
a world like this one except for the all-powerful State that’s very
firmly in control and the fact that slavery is legal. Jimmy had never
really thought about it or the fight for freedom going on around him.
He was too busy enjoying his privileged life as an actor on a sci-fi
show.
But
what is he meant to do when he’s forced to permanently bond to a
slave he doesn’t want just because he made one silly, drunken
mistake? Does it change who he is, what he is?
Trouble
is, Jimmy isn’t sure who he was to start with. He’d never thought
about it.
And
what about his slave, Nate? Can a slave force Jimmy into learning
something about himself?
Excerpt
‘It’s
not fucking fair,’ was all that kept going through Jimmy’s mind.
Over and over on repeat. It wasn’t fucking fair—not fair he was
here, not fair he’d be here for weeks, not fucking fair he was
being forced to bond with some guy he didn’t even know. How could
something like that ever be fair?
Okay,
so maybe he’d stepped out of line and said things he shouldn’t,
to people he shouldn’t. Said them long and loud. But he’d been
drunk, and everyone knew he was an arsehole when he was drunk. He’d
just kind of assumed they knew he was he was a friendly,
didn’t-mean-it kind of arsehole.
And
okay, maybe he had hit someone, but he hadn’t meant that either. He
was the kind of drunk that did stupid things they wouldn’t
normally—things they didn’t mean. Hit people they didn’t mean
to. It wasn’t personal. He hadn’t known who the guy was. Just
some random kid, who just happened to have a powerful mother.
Was
it such a crime to get drunk and say things he shouldn’t, in front
of people he shouldn’t? And hit people he shouldn’t?
Yeah,
actually even he knew it was a crime, but shit, this was a hell of a
punishment.
He
was a good guy really, only the authorities hadn’t seen it like
that, and now he was fucking stuck here. Even the minor celebrity
that came with being on a TV show with plastic spaceships hadn’t
bought him any leeway. But he should have known that, known what a
hard, unforgiving bastard The State could be.
Now
he had to pay for his stupidity. Nothing else to do now but suck it
up and pay his dues.
But
it might not be all bad. They’d told him he was going to be bonded
with this guy—which was as near as damn it to fucking marriage—but
the man would still be Jimmy’s slave. Jimmy would own him, be
accountable and responsible for him. That was supposed to be part of
his punishment. To teach him to be responsible, so in future, he’d
act that way toward The State.
Owning
a slave. That was a weird concept, but there could be positives.
He
wasn’t about to treat a slave the way some people did. He’d seen
it—at parties, around, hell, on the streets. Slaves bent over and
fucked, passed around for anyone’s pleasure. Treated as slabs of
meat. He wasn’t about to do anything like that. He’d be fair,
protect him from the perverts. He’d be responsible, just like they
wanted, even if it wasn’t fair.
They
both knew the score, knew there’d have to be sex, but he knew how
to treat a person right. Slaves were people, no matter what The State
said. He’d take the free, no-strings sex as a bonus. But people,
anyone, deserved to be treated right.
He
might not have understood the freedom movement, but he could help one
man live an easier life. He’d be doing his small part to make the
world a more decent place. He’d be responsible and accept his
punishment like a man. Once he got through prison.
That
made him feel a little better about everything.
He
just hoped the guy didn’t look like the tail end of a rhinoceros.
Two-and-a-half
hours later, just as Jimmy was beginning to think that nothing would
ever happen and that the silence would eat his brain away, his cell
was unlocked. Three men held the door open for him, the first one
pointing to the door. “It’s time,” he said.
Jimmy
was led along numerous corridors, his hands sweating, his belly
rolling every step of the way. He knew what was coming. He’d be all
right, but still, shit. He rubbed his palms on the back of his jeans
but the moisture was replaced as soon as he wiped it away.
On
into a court room with more people, all the equipment laid out ready.
Hell, this was real. This was really going to happen.
He
was taken to the far end, stood in front of a lectern, then a court
official murmured to him, “We just have to wait for your slave to
be brought in. He needed medical treatment. He’ll be here shortly.”
Medical
treatment?
Then
the door at the back opened again, and Jimmy twisted round, straining
to see as a group of people made their way forward. Two enormous men
were half leading, half carrying a guy who was dragging one leg
behind him. Jimmy’s eyes were drawn down to where the guy’s jeans
had been raggedly cut open above his knee. His foot, ankle and lower
leg were covered with a thick plaster cast, his bare toes sticking
out—his bare, filthy toes. Jimmy wrinkled his nose in disgust as
his gaze moved up. The rest of the guy was just as dirty, mud
encrusted and grungy. His hair wasn’t much better, nor his face,
but he sure wasn’t bad looking under the dirt.
Maybe
this wouldn’t be as hard as it could have been.
Before
Jimmy could take in anymore there was a commotion and the judge
entered. His thick robes and stupid hat may have been over the top
and melodramatic, but they had the right effect. They brought an air
of seriousness—of things being out of his control and
inevitable—and Jimmy felt himself start to shake.
“Verdict
has been passed,” the judge spoke solemnly, the majesty of the law
behind every word. “I’m here to carry out sentence.” He studied
Jimmy as a small hand-held machine was pushed in front of him. “Sign
your name,” the judge instructed.
Taking
the stylus that was thrust at him, Jimmy fought to keep his hand from
shaking. He had to do this right, make his writing legible. This was
important. This was permanent.
Permanent.
He
exhaled hard, nostrils flaring, and wrote his name.
The
judge nodded and turned to an official. “Bring the slave forward.”
The guy with the cast was hauled forward, his right hand pushed onto
the lectern, his fingers splayed. The machine was fitted into place
over the back of his hand and a button pressed. He grunted and a
flash of pain hit his face, but he quickly pulled himself together,
standing as immobile as he could. The only sign of anything wrong was
the way his chest heaved.
Permanent.
“Second
brand,” the judge ordered, and the guy’s face went blank.
One
of the men who had brought him in now braced the slave on the side
with the broken foot. The guy leaned in, gripping on with one hand.
He had no choice if he didn’t want to fall over, as one of the
other men undid his jeans pushing them and his underwear down his
thighs. The man moved behind the slave, and Jimmy caught sight of
pale freckled skin and a soft belly as his shirt was lifted and held
up. Again the machine was brought forward and placed on his left hip,
over the pubic bone. When the button was pressed this time, the grunt
was deeper but more contained.
The
slave’s shirt fell down as he was steadied on his feet and he was
left to pull the rest of his clothes back into place himself. Someone
pushed Jimmy next to him before they were both turned to face the
lectern.
“Now
for the bonding,” the judge spoke to Jimmy. “You will own your
slave but, as you are also to be bonded, you will have extra
responsibilities, even more than in an equal marriage. Do you
understand?”
Jimmy
nodded.
“Do
you accept this bonding as the right and proper recompense to your
benevolent State for your crimes?”
Jimmy
knew better than to argue as his heart thumped against his chest. “I
do.” They really were going to go all the way through with this.
“Raise
your hand.”
Jimmy
held his hand out, palm upwards. His family would kill him.
The
judge turned to the slave. “Do you accept?” No niceties or
explanations but he had to be heard to say yes.
There
was silence and Jimmy couldn’t stop himself glancing over. The
slave stared straight ahead as he swallowed deep and hard. Then there
was a huge hand on the back of his neck, fingers arching and pushing
into the vulnerable tendons at the side. Pushing and pushing and…the
veins were standing out either side of the fingers, and Jimmy thought
he could see the blood held back, pumping just under the surface and…
“Yes,” the guy said, and the clamp on his neck was lifted away.
“Raise
your hand.” The judge didn’t even look at him anymore—slaves
weren’t worth the effort.
The
guy lifted his hand, holding it palm down just over Jimmy’s. The
court official moved forward and wrapped a leather cord round their
combined hands, pushing them flesh to flesh as the judge enunciated
carefully something frighteningly legal. Jimmy couldn’t hear it for
the rushing of the blood in his ears.
“You
are now bonded,” the judge said, as the official tied the cord
tightly. “You are now mates.” A beat pounded in Jimmy’s head,
his mouth dried out and his belly clamped. His mum would cry for a
month.
The
judge was already getting up ready to leave. “Take them to their
cell. Assessment in…” He consulted his book. “One month.”
Jimmy
dropped his hand. The warm palm tied to his went with it. The
implication of that hit him like a brick, and he thought he might
just fall over. But the men who had brought them in were trying to
usher them out. With a firm hand pressed to his back, Jimmy took a
couple of steps forward and was almost immediately brought to a stop.
He glanced round. The guy really was filthy but his eyes were…
“I
can’t walk properly,” his slave said quietly.
“No,
right. Of course you can’t.” Jimmy went to support him on the
side of his injured leg but stopped, turned to the court official.
“Do I help him? Am I allowed, seeing as he’s my slave?”
“No,
you’re not allowed to give aid or assistance to a slave. Let them
do it.” The official nodded toward the men around them. Jimmy
realized for the first time that they were slaves as well. On the
back of their hands, instead of an individual’s signature, there
was a State department’s stamp. They were owned by the state. One
moved forward and caught Jimmy’s slave’s arm over his shoulder,
taking his weight.
“You
can untie that now.” The official pointed to the cord. “But keep
it. It’s another sign of ownership and bonding. Some people like to
tie it round their slave’s neck.”
Jimmy’s
fingers fumbled as he fought to undo the knots. He didn’t want to
tie it anywhere. He stuffed it in his pocket as he followed the
slaves out and down more corridors to a prison wing. They stopped
outside a metal door with a number twenty-two on it, waiting as it
was unlocked. Then it was opened and he was steered inside, his slave
was brought in after him and dumped unceremoniously on the floor by
the wall. The door was locked behind them.
The
banging echoed inside Jimmy’s skull. His mum was going to make more
noise than that when she found out.
Nothing
else to do but make the best of it.
“Well.”
He walked forward, assessing the space. “I guess as prison cells go
this could be worse.” The room was rectangular in shape, a small
table and two chairs at one end, big bed at the other, a bank of
windows along the short end. Off to one side was a door leading to a
tiny bathroom. The whole place was scruffy. There were the scrapes
and scratches of other occupants everywhere, but clean enough,
functional and better than he’d expected. “What do you think?”
When
there was no answer, he turned so he could see the man on the floor.
“You okay?” Still no answer. “Hey, I asked you a question.”
The
man had stretched out his injured leg and was rubbing above the
plaster cast. He raised his eyes a little, licking at his bottom lip.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how this works.”
“How
what works?”
“My
being your slave. Do you really want to know what I think? If I’m
okay?”
Jimmy
stopped then, suddenly conscious of everything. There were rules for
how to treat a slave. They were meant to be followed all the time,
whether in private or public. It was his turn to lick at his lips as
he turned in a circle, studying the room again in a completely
different way. “You think they have a camera or some kind of
microphone in here? That they’re watching what we do?”
“Are
you asking me? Am I meant to answer?” It was said softly,
hesitantly.
The
question had been more Jimmy thinking out loud than anything else but
now he wanted to know. “Yes. How private do you think this place
is?”
The
man—Jimmy’s slave, and that idea still blew his mind—examined
the place, ceiling, walls, fittings. Missing nothing. “There’s no
camera, no mic I can see and no obvious place to hide one. But then,
why would they bother hiding it?”
“True.
I guess we don’t have to watch ourselves all the time then, that’s
one good thing. I think that…” Again he stopped, hands on hips as
he stared down. “I can’t carry on like this. What’s your name?”
“Nate,”
the man said simply.
“Nate,
Nat, that’s nice. I’m Jimmy, Jimmy Stephens.” He stuck his arm
out, ready to shake hands. Nate stared at it for a moment before
holding out his own, palm down.
“I
know,” Nate said, looking at the back of his hand. Jimmy’s eyes
were drawn to it as well. There, amid the raised, red, angry looking
puffy skin, was his name, clearly visible in black, burnt-in
lettering.
Permanent.
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About
Faith Ashlin
When
Faith was clearing out her attic many years ago, she found a book
she’d written as a ten-year-old. On rereading it she realised that
it was the love story of two boys. Over the years her fascination
with the image of beautiful young men, coiled together as they fell
head over heels in love, became a passion for her.
Since
that first innocent book—written in purple sparkly pen—she has
written many stories, set in varied worlds, but always with two men
finding their way to happiness.
You
can find me at…
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Twitter
Email
faithashlin
[at] gmail [dot] com
