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Here Be Dragons	By : drowsyfantasy Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 2701 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Rammstein. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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It’s a morning ritual to check his piercings and tattoos. Till diligently examines each and every one in the bathroom mirror, not the small one above the sink but the full-length one. After all, it’s hard to inspect something on your ass or your cock if you’re sitting on a porcelain bowl.
So far, so good. Nothing looks infected, though he cleans each stud and ball with alcohol wet-wipes that are found in the medicine cabinet. He gives the tattoos a touch-test: Till gently presses on all the areas. They’re still new enough that the skin is tender, but it regains its colour after he releases, meaning the blood flow is good and it’s not getting infected either. No redness or swelling or constant pain, which is a plus.
He does this every morning before his shower. Then, he adjusts the temperature to just as hot as he can stand it before going under the spray. Sometimes it feels like it should be scalding, but he never gets any burns. It helps wash the feeling of those hands away.
Those hands.
The Master’s hands.
Till punches the tiled wall, but it’s strong enough not to crack under his anger. He wonders idly for a moment what the Master would do if he broke something. Probably get a punishment beyond anything he’s seen so far, and the thought makes him pull back, tilting his head back to wash his hair now.
He hears someone come in and use the toilet. There’s no lock on the bathroom door, and people come and go. It’s nothing they’ve never seen before, and they spend their days naked in here, so there’s really no point. Privacy is a privilege they can’t afford with only one bathroom anyway.
“Good morning.” He calls out.
“Good morning.” It’s Schneider. “I heard the Master will be back today.”
Till’s stomach squeezes into a tiny little frozen ball. He knew this. He’s been waiting for this day for a month, and yet he was able to put it out of his mind. Well, Richard helped a lot with that. His ass is almost healed. And his cock was seeing more attention than usual, which was nice.
When the singer doesn’t respond, the drummer goes on. “This evening, Sophie said. After dinner. We may want to skip that meal.” There’s the sound of running water, of hand-washing, and then he’s gone.
Till feels the water hitting his back and stops it, stepping out and turning off the water. He grabs a towel, a dry one, there are really no personal effects here, just clean things and dirty things. Drying off his skin with the rough side of the fabric. Get used to the rough side of things again.
Till wanders up for breakfast. Brunch, really, as it’s nearly ten. When the Master doesn’t call for morning services, they’re left to their own devices. Most of the time they get as much sleep as they can.
On the main floor, there’s a servant-wing where Till and the others come to eat. It’s part of the main kitchens, and there’s tables and chairs set up for them.
Flake and Paul are already there, chatting with the chef. Apparently the Master is bringing back some new servants – servants, not slaves – with him, and they’re Rammstein fans. Fantastic, Till thinks to himself, as he grabs a stack of dry toast and begins to slather it with fresh butter, we either have new people on our side, or more tickets to our body parts.
The servants are allowed to take their pleasure with the slaves, although for the most part they don’t. One of the cleaning maids rode Ollie down the main banister one time, with a polishing cloth strapped to his back. Apparently it was something to behold. Ollie’s not keen to do it again, as he was terrified that he would fall the entire time, though the young woman is quite tickled to walk by him and pinch his bottom.
In any case, it’s new faces. Bustle and talk. Till peels an orange and stacks the rinds in a neat pile.
“We haven’t had any calls from him as to instructions.” The chef says. “I don’t even know what he wants me to prepare for dinner tonight.”
“He’ll be back after dinner, so maybe he’ll be eating on the plane?” Paul suggests, and the older man nods.
“That makes sense. Do you boys want something for dinner? A ‘last meal’?”
“That’s not funny.” Surprisingly, Flake is the one to say this, and not Till, who is about to put his fist through the chef’s skull. “So you can just stop making jokes about it. How would you like it if he violated your ass and fucked your throat until you puked up your last meal?”
The older man shrinks back a bit from this quiet rage, and looks away. He goes back to rolling out some dough for pies.
Flake looks sideways at Till but says nothing. Till gives him the same look. Thank you, he says silently, hoping the keyboardist would get the meaning in his eyes.
The hours of the day pass far too quickly, and the grandfather clock in the main hallway plays the Westminster Quarters in an almost mournful way. The servants are lined up with their backs to the walls, and the slaves are in a row with their heads down and hands behind their backs, awaiting their Master’s entrance.
It’s grand. The man is seven feet tall if he’s a foot, and he’s dressed to the nines in a sharp black suit with a crisp white shirt underneath the jacket. A butler takes his hat and the Master is home.
Behind him are two young women, already dressed in the seductive outfit of a French maid, made up with pale faces and matching dresses and leg garters. They’re identical twins, each with painted red lips and long black eyelashes against the white make-up. Their hair is drawn up in identical buns and they look as much frightened as they are eager. Everyone waits for the Master to speak first.
“Where is my daughter?” he asks the nearest maid. She responds quickly and clearly.
“Sophie is ill, sir. She caught a bout of stomach flu from one of her friends at the Academy.”
“Oh dear. I hope it doesn’t spread.” The Master replies, and then looks over the slaves. He lingers on Till and Schneider. “You, and you. To me. The rest of you, I will see to tomorrow.”
Everyone is dismissed, while the singer and his companion rise to their feet, walking after the Master. At least he doesn’t make them crawl. Not yet, anyhow.
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