Cobra Putnam was anything but shy. He was loud and rambunctious, with a hint of ego and a little bit of saltiness. He was a man who stood straight, head high and shoulders down, and confidence that radiated out of every pore in his body. He wasn't afraid to get down and dirty, and he wasn't afraid of anything -- well, maybe the demons under his bed, but most of the time, he was still up and running. Today, though, he had found himself on Xenedria, in the home of the slaves who were available to be purchased, and he walked through the pens with idle hands, fingers dancing over the bars. He felt the coolness of the metal against soft, warm skin, and he debated how it would be to be the slave inside the pens. Rabid animals belonged in cages. He didn't necessarily think of people or aliens in cages, but then again, CJ didn't care. It wasn't his body locked behind the cold metal that kept him in a singular space of sweat and filth. He was a free man, willingly going wherever he wanted to go. He was on the browse today, trying to find someone to take home. His home felt so quiet, so empty and lonely, and CJ hated it. He hated the crushing, overwhelming lonliness that seemed to seep into every corner of his home. He needed to get someone there to come home to, to wrap his arms around and see squirm and writhe. While CJ was a master, he was by no mean any sort of classic master in the world. He was a master who liked to have himself hurt, and to have a slave for both pleasure and companionship. He was looking for a specific type of slave, one that would satisfy his own needs, but satisfy his slave's needs, as well. So far, everyone he had looked at seemed uninteresting and too passive. He wanted someone of a challenge, someone that would push him as a master, but he'd be able to push as a slave. He needed someone that would be able to turn the tables on him, all the while being able to keep the tables turned in the right direction. He needed, above all else, someone who'd fit with him, would fit his lifestyle and who would push CJ to grow as not only a person, but as a master, as well. He had slowed as he passed a cell that held a dark haired, tattooed man, one who seemed angry and spiteful at his situation. CJ leaned close to the cell and peered inside, curious as fuck because, let's be real, it was CJ. He tilted his head before he spoke, debating what he wanted to say to the older man who looked so very, very angry, "Don't look so angry. Nobody's going to want your ass if you're that angry," he added on the offhand, a smirk tilting at the corners of his mouth to raise the apples of his cheeks and brighten his already dark eyes. He waited for a response from this man, hoping something came out of it. CJ was truly interested in him, that was for sure. It'd be a disappointment if he was boring or not interesting enough for CJ to just pass by.

"Come." CJ blinked at the man as he unlocked his cage. The slaver today was in a bad mood, and CJ couldn't help but huff. There was nobody around looking at him, so he figured the only thing the slaver had was to abuse CJ. He didn't move from where he was on his made shift bed, and the slaver looked at him with irritated eyes. He spoke, slowly, so that he knew CJ would understand. "You have been bought. I am to escort you to your new owner." It was the thing that CJ would never thought he would hear. He was owned. He was sold. The nerves bundled up in his stomach and his shoulders tensed a little as he stood up, slipping out of the cage he made his home and followed the slaver through aisles of cages, watching the others as he was watched them as he walked. It was an odd feeling. He felt it was so odd to watch others from this side of the bars, and he found his eyes dipping to stare idly at the ground, at his feet, as he walked. He couldn't bare to see some of the people he became friends with watch him take the walk of shame. It was the walk of shame for CJ, at least. He thought he was too rambunctious, too out going for someone to want him. And the anxious nerves kept piling on as he realized that he didn't know who bought him. He chewed on his lip, harder than he should've, because by the time he got to the door and the slaver grabbed his upper arm, his fingers digging into CJ's arms to leave deep bruises, the slave had dug his teeth into the flesh of his bottom lip and had left little marks from his teeth in a line on the outside of his skin. He kept his eyes down until they had reached the world outside, and once the warmth of the sunlight hit CJ's skin, the young masochist turned his attention to the world outside. He missed the warmth of the air, and the clean, crisp smell of the world outside of the cages. It was a lot quieter, too; there was always quiet chatter in the warehouse where he was, but right now, he just heard the silence. Once or twice a flying thing whizzed above him, but that only caught his attention for a minute. He didn't have time to take in the scenery, to take in the world around him, as the slaver basically frog marched him towards his owner. The man was familiar. He was far from familiar -- it was the guy that CJ couldn't get out of his head. The skinny jeaned guy who teased him with the tip of a knife and then left in the middle of playtime. It was so rude. A pout crossed his face and once the slaver had disappeared back into the warehouse, as he was close enough to his master that he wouldn't be able to get far, CJ crossed his arms over his chest, "You have to be kidding. You bought me? Why? You just left me like you did. That was a really jerky move, you know. I am mad and will continue to be mad at you for it. That was just a thing that made me mad." And apparently he was talkative. Maybe it was the sunlight that was warming up his skin that was making him so talkative.

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.