#cjpastthread

CJ's head felt like it was empty. He hated that. He hated how frustrated he felt, how cooped up he was inside a cell which was locked inside a warehouse, and he was one out of thousands of faces. How was he supposed to make himself known? Thankfully, he didn't care. He wanted out. He wanted the sharp jab of a knife against his skin. He wanted to feel the warmth of blood trickling down his body. He wanted the bruises that came after, the scars that were left. He wanted to feel the pain of someone not giving him a choice as his body was a canvas of skin and blood, of tears and sweat. He wanted to hear hitched breath of the other, the way the skin tore -- all of it. He needed it. He didn't need it. It needed him. He had an addiction. At one point, well before Alvin took the reign into his life, his father had him diagnosed. Something he kept tidied away from other people's thoughts. A long time ago, a psychiatric told his father that he was an avoidant-type masochist, one who purposely caused trouble or put himself in the line of failure to receive the pain he craved. And it wasn't wrong. CJ would break cups, or not do chores, or do anything that would piss someone off. He'd purposely create hazards that would result in a hard backhand across the fact. He'd get a slap, a kick in the groin -- anything to curb these needs that took over his life, claimed his mind, wrapped him around in cotton wool until he couldn't breathe. So what was he going to do to get it? He wasn't the type to hurt himself, because where was the fun in that? He could know his limits, know when he didn't want more. But someone else? He licked his lips at the thought of someone just holding him down by the neck, hands tied up and out of the way, back exposed to a line of fire of some sort, the way the fire tickled his skin, but at the same time, burnt and felt so good. Or maybe it was the sharp tip of the knife trailing down his spinal column, dangerously close to permanently disfiguring him. He figured masters wouldn't want a slave unable to move, walk or feel, so that was save, but the thought of it. He didn't realize that he was up on his feet, face pressing against the bars as he watched masters go by. Here and there someone stopped, but nobody cared to bother with him. Finally, CJ got the best of himself and spoke up, not really caring who heard him. Disrespectful, agitated, needing to be put in his place -- that's what he sounded like. And that's how he'd get what he wanted. CJ tried to manipulate the system. Often, he'd succeed. "Bet you can't make me say stop." It was a challenge. It was a dare. He wanted to see if someone would step up to the plate, accept the challenge he gave out. After all, the chances of CJ saying stop were slim to none, if at all.

There was something naturally unsettling about being in the pens again, although not in the pens like he was several weeks ago. He glanced over his shoulder at his Master, who was busy doing something and not paying attention to CJ, although CJ wasn't far behind. He wouldn't be far behind. The last time he had strayed, it had ended up being rather dangerous and a very bad situation, like from the party. He chewed his lip at the memories of that, and quickly started to close the distance between himself and his Master, not wanting to get into trouble again. He was stupid for getting into trouble the first time, and he knew better. All he wanted was Master to be proud of him, to love him the way CJ loved him, but Master was a mean man, a sadist at times, and CJ loved it. He was able to indulge in the pleasures of pain his Master inflicted, and at the same time, able to explore the comfortably numb warmth of Master's surroundings. It was really the best of both worlds to the young masochist, and he wouldn't trade it for the world. Or, well, for any of the worlds, considering how many there were. He stepped quickly, albeit quietly, to close the growing gap between himself and his Master. He had only made it about ten steps when he saw another boy, maybe a few years his junior, shifting closer to the bars. Something -- something about this boy made CJ stop and stare, made him want to tug Master back to see if they could have quality time. Something about the boy reminded CJ about himself -- although, CJ actively sought out the pain when it never came, and wasn't quite as quiet and passive this boy seemed to be. But the parallels where there, and CJ tilted his head, ignoring the falling footsteps of Master as he stepped to another cell to browse the person or thing inside it, looking for another slave to buy and bring home. Not that Master would have another slave like CJ. Because, obviously, CJ was special. He didn't know what to say to this boy though; the one who looked lost and confused, scared and heartbroken. CJ felt that way. CJ couldn't help but swallow the knot in his throat at the realization that, if Master ever got tired of him. The idea did not sit well with CJ, and a nervous look casted towards his Master made CJ feel a little more reassured. Master liked him, right? He turned his attention back to the boy before allowing the goofy, silly smile to cross his face, light up his dark eyes and show rows of straight teeth, with little dimples hiding in his cheeks, "You look scared and lonely. Can I sit and talk?" he asked. He didn't let the boy have an answer, as he plopped down right onto the floor outside of the cage and crossed his legs. At least he wasn't wandering off in the opposite direction of his master, and at least he would be stationary. For now. "My name is CJ. What's yours?" Sure, he could've just read it, but that'd take CJ eons and, well, he didn't have eons to make new friends.

It was several hours -- days? -- after their first meeting. While CJ wasn't feeling entirely himself, there was a little pep in his step. Mostly long gone were the slowly distressing images of being replaced in his head, filled with anew idea of wanting himself free, of feeling the sharp stab of pain in his skin. He was slowly opening up, albeit slowly and surly. Nobody would see the actual him, but that didn't matter. He wasn't interested in being sold. He didn't want to be sold. Maybe that was why he was so sassy and snarky lately. Maybe that's why he was so defiant and pushy. Even so, there were plenty of reasons why CJ wasn't interested in anything that had happened in the last -- well, few days. It was a few days after all right? Today, what CJ assumed would be a rather warm day on the outside, seemed to be rather of a stifling day on the inside of the warehouse. Or maybe that was just the young masochist's opinion about the warehouse. He got extremely bored extremely fast, and he needed constant simulation to keep his hands busy -- whether it was chores or servicing someone or even just being told to go draw for several hours; he was one of those types. Then again, CJ figured, most Masters had a life outside of slave owning, so they'd have to make due with what they had and what they could get. It was one of the reasons why CJ, uninterested in everything around them, had found himself completely and utterly bored with being in a cage. He didn't like being here; he wanted the freedom to explore, the curious nature that would wrap him up in cotton wool and leading him along like a dog, willingly waiting for anything that would be handed to him. The slave was laid out on the floor right against the cage's frontal part, his shirt off and an arm laying out between the bars. Several slavers who had done their rounds had told him to put it back in, rather afraid that the young masochist was going to grab their legs, but CJ ignored them. After a few of them gave the arm some rather hard kicks, CJ gave a smirk and let it slide into his cage before returning to his spot once the guard was gone. Some of the slaves around him shook their heads, and one even asked what the fuck CJ's problem was, but that was fine with CJ. He wasn't out to grab a master's leg and scare the fuck out of them. Likewise, either way that a master came through, they'd be able to see CJ's arm and walk around it, avoiding any initiation of any kind. It wasn't his fault that the slavers gave the slaves absolutely no entertainment, and some of the slaves -- like Cobra Jackson -- were easily bored and craved anything. More often than not, CJ turned to craving pain to cure himself or to stave off boredom that settled deep within his bones. He had heard footsteps coming, and looked up, watching as a master or two walked by, but none were interested in him. That was fine. He didn't want to be interested in, anyways. He tucked up his arm that wasn't outside his cell to lay underneath his head, almost as a makeshift pillow. Maybe I'll take a nap, he told himself, letting his dark eyes flutter shut as he listened to the whining of the slaves around him and the footsteps and quiet conversations of the masters browsing the slaves in the pens.

Well, there he was. Again. Once again, he felt what it was like to settle himself into the back of a cell, his knees pulled up to his chest and his chin resting on those pretty bent knees. He let his fingers trail over the top of his feet, tracing idle lines around his skin as he watched, quiet for once. He felt rather lethargic instead of his usually loud, outgoing and personable nature; it was probably from the rejection that the couple who had just previously had him had returned him to have a cuter, younger slave. One that probably was more quiet than CJ was. He didn't know why he kept finding himself in this position; first with his father, then with Alvin, and then the couple -- now it really all depended on who decided they wanted him. He wasn't on sale quite yet, he had heard a man say. Or maybe he was just going to be tested to see if he fit in with anyone. Then again, he didn't really belong anywhere. He knew that. He knew that wherever he belonged, it wasn't here. It wasn't in a cell. He wanted to feel a whip against his back; he wanted the feel the pain he craved, the pain he needed to feel wrapping around his body, making him shudder and groan in esctacy. It was terrible. His body was trained -- he couldn't say no. The word "no" was something not rich in his vocabulary; neither was the word "stop." "No" meant "yes" and "stop" meant "more." It was a never ending loop with the young masochist, and while he hated and loathed it, he secretly loved and craved it. And that was no longer something that bothered him. But now, as he sat in the cell, surrounded by other slaves, and with people walking to and from, he felt rather ignored. Sure, he could make himself know, he could make himself be seen and heard, but what was the point in that? He didn't really want to find himself in another home that would give him up only a year or so later. He got attached too easily, and that meant that the final separation was almost heartbreaking. It was like falling in love and then having your heart ripped out, or at least to CJ it was. It was like a knife had been plunged into his chest and yanked hard. He didn't like it. It was one of the few reasons he made himself lesser of a slave, and more apart of the cell that he was kept in, hidden away from prying, wandering eyes and hands. He wasn't in the mood to be much of a good boy now, anyways.