Ice Angel stared at the figure before him from beneath the veil of his lashes. Whatever he had been expecting, this certainly wasn't it. This person, his new Master, wasn't anything like any of Master Wilks' other associates. For a start, he was much younger; late teens, Ice Angel estimated.

And secondly - he was messy.

Ice Angel pondered. That wasn't exactly the word he was looking for. The clothes were all wrong, he decided. His Master wore no business suit or fancy leather, just a pair of comfortable tattered jeans and a t-shirt. After a moment, Ice Angel revised his first assessment; not messy, simply unpretentious. It was a strange kind of honesty, from one who held his Key.

From behind his mild expression, he continued to critically examine his new Master. Black hair, straight and shiny. Obviously having grown out of a shorter cut, it now hung in varying lengths from ear to shoulder, framing the face that came to a point at his chin. Liquid brown eyes, thin eyebrows, dark lashes. Clean-shaven, with smooth coppery skin, marred only by a small nick of a scar on the ridge of one cheekbone.

His body was not overly muscular, but fairly toned, from what Ice Angel could see of it as he dropped his gaze demurely and then swept it quickly back up. If Ice Angel had dared to meet his eyes, he would have had to look up, indicating that the man was at least a couple of inches taller than he was.

His Master stood casually, one thumb in his pocket, but there was something about his posture that seemed a little stiff, as though he were nervous, or wasn't sure what to expect.

Ice Angel's snowy brows furrowed. It was very unusual for him to have an inexperienced Master; he was too costly a Key to be used to break in green customers. The idea actually unsettled him a little. He preferred having a Master in complete control, knowing what he wanted, and how to use Ice Angel to get it. The less Ice Angel had to take the initiative, the better, as far as he was concerned.

With a sudden mental shift back to reality, he realised that he had been staring as he mused, and immediately dropped his gaze as fear coalesced. But there was no word or movement from his Master at all, and after another few moments with no sound but the pounding of his heart in his hears, he dared risk a quick glance back up.

His Master was looking at him with dark eyes, drinking him in from head to bare toes. He was so intent that he seemed not to be aware of Ice Angel himself at all, merely his body - his hair, shoulders, hands; and he breathed a silent sigh of thanks that his transgression went unnoticed.

"Master?" Ice Angel prompted reluctantly, letting his gaze fall back to the floor. As much as he preferred not to speak at all, the silence had dragged on as long as he was allowed to let it. It was his job to begin the inevitable dance of words and tones and gestures, if his Master did not make his desires clear .

The man started, seeming surprised, as if he had forgotten that the term might apply to him, and then sneered slightly. "So, you're him?"

"Pardon, Master?" Ice Angel kept his eyes lowered despite his confusion, the perfect submissive.

"Him - they Key boy. My slave."

A strange sense of foreboding began to tingle down Ice Angel's spine. There was something in this Master's voice that was dangerous. A roughness, an angry rawness.

"Yes, Master, I am your slave."

There was silence for a few moments, but Ice Angel waited patiently, unmoving, without succumbing to the temptation to raise his eyes. He may as well have been a statue of ice, even his breath only causing the faintest rise and fall of his chest.

"Do you have a name?" His Master's voice broke the silence again.

"No, Master. I answer to 'Slave'." There was just a slight pause as he considered whether it would be presumptuous to add more, and then decided to risk it. "But if you would prefer, you can call me Ice Angel."

His Master grunted, but Ice Angel couldn't tell whether he was pleased or irritated. "Kori no tenshi, ne?"

The words sounded strange to Ice Angel's ears. A language he wasn't familiar with. "Sorry, Master?"

"Forget it." The response was curt. Ice Angel held his tongue, deciding that no reply to this was required, or desired. The silence began to stretch and drag again.

It may have made another Key nervous, but Ice Angel merely bore it. It made little difference to him whether he stood here all night or not. His time was his Master's, and he cared little for what his Master did with it. Or him.

Save for the fact that he had his orders, and he feared punishment even more than he feared the man standing before him. With his eyes still fixed on the floor, Ice Angel stretched out with his other senses, trying to determine what this Master wanted from him.

Emotions began to filter through, increasing in intensity until the floodgates burst and he was hit by such a wave of anger that he almost stumbled backwards. He forced himself to suppress a shiver. His Master was already furious, and he'd only just arrived. What had Ice Angel done wrong?

Perhaps his Master was angry that he wasn't moving fast enough, hadn't taken the initiative decisively enough. Ice Angel steeled himself and stepped closer. "How can I serve you, Master?"

He dared a quick look up again. His Master's eyes were dark, almost black, as they ran over his body hungrily; a welcome reaction, one he understood. Desire was an emotion he had been trained to enhance, inflame. He moved a little closer again, tilting one hip provocatively, fingers of one hand toying with his shirt, letting it fall further open at the front.

He was seduction incarnate, and sooner or later, he would have this Master burning, just for him.

The first impression Sekka got was of whiteness. For a moment, he could have almost mistaken the slave for a perfectly-carved sculpture of milky marble, until he stretched luxuriously, melted off the bed, and trod lightly over to stand before him.

He was dressed in a white, gauzily gothic shirt, with ruffles at the wrists that spilt over hands clasped together in front of him. The shirt was so transparent that the decorative bands he wore upon his upper arms were visible beneath. White silk drawstring pants completed the outfit. His feet were bare.

Most of his hair was pulled back into many tiny braids that streamed over his shoulders to his waist, each one so white it was almost blue. Two remaining waves of white hair were loose and spilt to either side of his delicate face. High, angled cheekbones gave him an aristocratic look, but the slight roundness to his cheeks betrayed his age.

Sekka hadn't expected the slave to be so young. He guessed the kid to be somewhere in his mid-teens, around fifteen, though his wide blue eyes made him seem younger. For a moment, sympathy flared, but was quickly and violently quenched. After all, he'd been on the streets even before he'd made it into his teens, and none of his customers had had any scruples about using him.

Sekka felt the anger continuing to build within him. He'd been used - on filthy mattresses, in back alleyways. Nothing like the luxury of this place, with its plush carpets and elegant furnishings. This kid had it good; regular meals, a warm, safe place to sleep every night.

He looked back at the slave, who was still standing in front of him. Strangely, the boy's eyes seemed to have drained of colour, from their initial cobalt now to the palest blue-white of ice. And he could see fear in their depths.

This only infuriated Sekka even further. How often had he worn that pleading expression, and how many times had it been ignored? Too many to count, before he'd mastered the art of hiding the fear behind an arrogant sneer. The boy's face was so cool, impassive, but his eyes were wide and open, hiding nothing.

"How can I serve you, Master?" The Ice Angel was asking now, as he stepped closer, gestures calculated to arouse and invite. It offended him, enraged him - he didn't need to be seduced, he was more than capable of taking what was his without entreaty.

"Master?" The soft voice came again, insistently.

It was now or never. If he didn't speak now - take control immediately - he would falter, and the boy would see his hesitation as weakness. This is mine, he thought, stirring the embers within him into flames, the flames into a blaze. For once he would be in control. All he had to do was reach out and take the opportunity.

"Strip." Sekka ordered shortly. "Slowly, I want to see." It was the first thing that came to mind. It had been spoken often enough to him, and he had never bothered to hesitate. What had he cared for modesty, when they were going to see, touch, violate, in moments? But rarely, even in couplings of choice, had he ever had the opportunity to merely watch.

"Yes, Master."

With careful, practiced grace, the boy slipped the gauzy shirt from one shoulder and down one arm, keeping his eyes halfway lidded, watching him through the lacework of white lashes. His skin, too, was pale, alabaster or porcelain, the long arm drawn from the sleeve seeming too fragile to belong to a male. Chest bared now, and one shoulder, and then he let the shirt slide off the other arm completely and flutter to the ground. It fell over one foot, but Ice Angel made no move to push it away.

Next, the slender hands began working at the knot in the silver cord that held the silk pants up. The cloth was white, and so fine that it was translucent, revealing the stretch of legs within them. The knot was easily untied, but the boy drew the process out, in accordance with Sekka's request. When finally he let it come loose, he drew the cord entirely from around his waist, to drape around his neck, like some kind of scarf.

The slim hips gave the pants no purchase, and they slipped off one, and then the other. The boy caught them just before they fell past his groin, to hold them precisely at that level, letting them sink no further. His other hand drifted up to his chest, to temple his fingers over one tiny nipple. Then the hand flexed and slid lower, trailing down his chest to his flat belly, one finger dipping into the indentation of his navel. Lower still, until they passed the other hand at the loosened waistband, and continuing down the crease of his thigh, stretching the material taut over himself.

Sekka found himself following the path trailed by the long, thin fingers with riveted attention. He wasn't sure he could have looked away, even if he had wanted to. It was the most exotic striptease he had ever seen in his life, and he could feel the heat in his stomach snake lower.

The boy continued to run his fingers back up his body until they came to the hollow of neck and shoulder. There they slipped beneath the silver cord still draped there, running it over the backs of his knuckles for a few moments, and then with a flick, the boy tossed it from his shoulder.

And then finally, the hand holding up his pants released the silk from between his fingers, and with a whisper of sound they slid down to pool at his ankles. He stepped out of them, toes pointed like a dancer, bare feet silent upon the carpet. He wasn't wearing any underwear, and now stood naked, save for the bands upon his arms.

Perfectly proportioned in every way, body small, hips tilted enticingly, with one foot placed in front of the other. Sekka desperately wanted to touch him, to see if he was as smooth as that pale skin promised.

Ice Angel himself remained silent, apparently waiting for further instructions. Sekka's mouth was dry, but he forced himself to speak. He was in control here, and he'd make sure the slave knew it.

"All right. Bring me something to tie up your wrists with. Proper metal, not just cord."

With a languid nod, Ice Angel turned and moved to a door set into the wall. Inside, Sekka caught a glimpse of an array of items, some of which he recognised, some which seemed disturbing, even to him. There was no hesitation as the Key reached to a particular shelf with barely a glance, then closed the cupboard door and returned in that same fluid, unhurried manner.

Handcuffs. They dangled, swinging slightly, from the boy's index finger as he offered them in Sekka's direction from an outstretched arm.

Sekka's fist closed around them, almost snatching them in his haste, feeling the solid curves of metal between his fingers and palm. This provoked a small, knowing smile from the Key, as if his inexperience was all too easily read. Sekka wanted to wipe the smirk from his face, his fist clenching tightly, feeling the bite of metal edges pressing into his hand.

Apparently this reaction was also observed, for Ice Angel's smile widened another fraction. The tablieu held for a few moments as a battle for control was waged, gazes locked, brown and blue.

And then the boy laughed, a silvery laugh, and threw something small and glinting in Sekka's direction.

Automatically he caught it and brought it close to examine. He found a small key nestled within his palm, the candlelight reflecting from it, and with a smirk of his own, realised the balance had shifted. He was in control again. To his satisfaction, Ice Angel seemed to be aware of this also, his gaze having returned to the floor, the smile vanished. Eyes lowered, his expression was once again unreadable.

It was Sekka's turn now to step forward, the first move towards the Key he had made yet. He was confident now, angry and determined, grasping the slender wrists that were offered out in willing submission.

He was shocked by the first touch, skin against skin, as his fingers closed tightly around arms that felt so fragile he could crush them easily. Ice Angel was cold, startlingly so against the warmth of his heated flesh.

But those blue, depthless eyes rose again to fix upon him, waiting with endless patience, seeming to mock his hesitation. Angrily he worked the cuffs in his hand until he could loop them around the fragile wrists and snap them closed.

The handcuffs clicked into place, and the Ice Angel Key was trapped.