The Adversary
By Xanthe  

A phone call informs me that Charles is on his way over. I’m a little surprised because it’s been less than a week since his last visit, and he’s usually a much more infrequent patron. I’ve often had the feeling that he despises my salon – or maybe himself for needing it. However, despite his disdain, when the mood is upon him he’s always more than happy to take full advantage of the recreational facilities his rank makes available to him here.  

He’ll be here in half an hour, so I call the lounge, and have Emilia standing by ready. She’s in her mid-thirties, a beautiful, honey-haired woman, with large breasts, and wide, curving hips. Charles has always had a taste for mature, intelligent ladies he can wine and dine, and later retire with to one of our rooms to make love. I have never known him to be anything other than a gentleman with women – he saves his ill temper and his well-hidden streak of brutality for other men. There are always boys available in my salon of course, but he is rarely interested in them, so I have every expectation that tonight he will dine privately with Emilia in one of our comfortable suites.  

Charles looks tired. He’s dressed as impeccably as ever, but his face is gray and his shoulders tense; his work has clearly taken a toll on him. He’s ushered into my salon by the butler, and I silently offer him a glass of brandy, which he takes, and gulps down, in a manner completely at odds with his usual charming demeanor. I say nothing; the Elite come here for rest and relaxation - they don’t want to be annoyed by prattling questions. I have my most recent trainee, Luke, by my side. He’s newly broken, and it’s important not to let them out of my sight for long during this initial period. Luke is far too vulnerable to be allowed time to think or worry right now. He needs reassurance, which I give him by stroking his curly head occasionally, and giving him orders – usually to perform meaningless little tasks, but it gives him some sense of importance and he’s eager to be of use to me, as they always are after breaking.  

Charles loosens his tie, sits in the armchair with a weary sigh, and lights up a cigarette.

"I have Emilia waiting for you," I tell him, and he looks up sharply, a dark expression in his eyes.

"I don’t want her." His eyes wander over to Luke, who is kneeling naked at my feet. "He’ll do," he says, in a throaty voice edged with anger. I try not to allow my flicker of annoyance to show on my face. 

"Let me call you another," I tell him smoothly, unprepared for this. "Luke isn’t ready yet."

"He’s ready enough for what I require," Charles replies in his usual languid tones, taking a drag on his cigarette.

Luke is 20 years old, with curly dark hair, and large brown eyes. He’s been a pleasure to train – very easily broken - and I have no desire to hand him over at this stage in the process to Charles. The hard work has all been done with Luke, and I’ve been concentrating on showing him affection after all the pain. A night with Charles will considerably set back the trust we’ve built between us, and that's annoying. The process of training new recruits is very finely tuned, and I don’t like it interrupted before completion.

"He’s only just been broken," I tell Charles, refilling his glass of brandy. "He hasn’t been fully trained. Another boy would suit you better."

"I like the look of this one."

Charles likes to play pointless little domination games. I think he needs them – or rather he needs to know that he commands respect for his status within the Syndicate, and this is one way he can get the affirmation he requires. I consider the matter. Luke, poor love, is kneeling by my side, those brown eyes eager, and devoted. He’s just learned to trust me, to eat from my fingers – it’ll be a shame to throw him to the wolves at this point in his training. I glance back at Charles, weighing the matter up. He is, of course, entitled to take whichever of our trainees he wants. It’s my job, after all, to provide recreational material for the entire Syndicate – with the hectic pace of their lives they often have little time for romances of their own, and finding a mate can be time consuming. It’s only right that they should have access to their sexual partners of choice whenever they require them. Charles is an important man as well – it wouldn’t do to anger him, however irritating or personally inconvenient his choice is to me. I smile, and offer him a cigarette from a small, silver case.

"Of course. If you want Luke then by all means, take him. Just remember he’s a little unschooled. I wouldn’t want his performance to reflect unsatisfactorily upon me. I do pride myself on providing the most willing and able trainees for your use, Charles."

He grunts, and then gives a little chuckle. "Professional pride, Laurence?" He asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Of course," I reply with a little smile. "I’ve been doing my job for a very long time after all – I wouldn’t want my skills called into question."

"Oh, your skills have always been first rate – that’s why we pay you so well," he laughs.

"Thank you." I incline my head modestly but his words do irk me somewhat. As if I do this job purely for the money. I like to think that my pride in a job well done reveals me to be more of a connoisseur than a mere mercenary, which is how Charles clearly classifies me. "Would you like supper first, or the boy?"

"Him." He finishes his drink with one gulp, and nods at the boy.

"Very well. Room eleven is free. Follow me." I snap my fingers at Luke who gets up, looking confused. Poor boy. He has only been trained by myself and my assistants thus far – he has never been with one of the Elite. I would not have chosen Charles for his first experience, but it’s irrelevant really. This is his life from now on so he might as well become accustomed to it. I usher the boy along to room eleven, Charles following behind, unlock the door, and show them inside. There is a bed and a fridge, fruit in a glass bowl on a small table, armchairs, and soft, warm lighting. I don’t think any of this will make Luke’s experience this evening a pleasant one.

"Luke, Charles wishes to spend some time with you. Be as obedient with him as you are with me," I tell the boy smoothly, and his eyes widen in alarm.

"Sir…are you leaving me here…?" He whispers, panic stricken.

"Yes, be good, Luke." I ruffle his dark curls regretfully. Poor lamb. It really won’t be easy for him. Then I nod to Charles, and withdraw.  

An hour passes. I purposefully do not eavesdrop on my clients; it would be discourteous. There have, of course, been fatalities – but they are frowned upon, and I do complain to the upper echelons when it happens. All that hard work wasted for a few moments of pointless, savage lust. It’s irritating. Finally, a ring on one of the bells informs me that Charles is done, and requires my presence. I go to room eleven, and knock politely, before entering. Luke is huddled in a corner of the room, sporting a badly bruised lip, and a discolored jaw. He’s whimpering, his arms crossed over his body as if to ward off further harm. Charles is wearing one of the plain red silk robes that we provide for clients.

"The boy resisted me," Charles grunts. I glance at Luke again. He starts to cry; he knows I’ll punish him later.

"Well, I did say he was unschooled. However, judging by the tension in your shoulders when you arrived here, a struggle might have been just what you needed: something to raise the temperature of the blood. Hmm?" A smile tugs the corners of my lips and Charles laughs, and lights the cigarette I’m offering from the small silver case.

"Damn it, Laurence, you’re so good at this!" he exclaims.

"I like to think so." I incline my head. "The boy will be whipped though – obviously he has to learn. Now, why don’t you return to the salon and I’ll join you there shortly?" Charles nods, moving his shoulders slowly, as if they are stiff and pain him, and leaves the room.  

I turn, and gaze at Luke for a long time. He is unsure just how angry I am with him, and his whimpering becomes more soulful.

"Be quiet, boy. You survived," I chide softly. "I’m sorry that your first experience with one of the elite had to be with Charles, as he can be a little demanding, but you do have to learn your place and purpose. Come here and let me examine you." He comes, quickly, without protest – he is broken to my commands after all. He’s bruised in many places, and his ass has belt marks across it, but the rectal bleeding isn’t as bad as I’d feared. "Run along to the infirmary," I tell him. He nods, and starts to scamper, naked, across the room, his beautiful little cock swinging against his thighs. "And Luke," I stop him before he gets to the door, and he turns, a questioning look on his face. "I’ll visit you this evening before I retire. 12 strokes with your whip."

His eyes fill with tears, but I’ve trained him not to anger me by pleading for lenience. He swallows hard, nods, and runs out of the room. I smile, ruefully, and shake my head. Ah, the pleasures of training the dear creatures to my will and word – it never fades, even after all these years, although I’ve been a little jaded of late. I wish Luke had been more of a challenge – I am now so good at what I do that few of the recruits present me with the real satisfaction I used to find in my job. Maybe I’m even a little bored. It’s still good, but I long for a struggle, for something new, and exciting – and for an opportunity to be really creative.

I return to the salon. Charles is sitting in one of the armchairs by the fire, puffing on his cigarette, and looking much less stressed than when he first came in. I’m pleased about that – it is my job to ease the stresses on our operatives after all, and he has a great weight upon his shoulders. I’m told he performs his duties with diligence, passion, and care – and I have enormous respect for him. A terrified little trainee is a small price to pay for taking some of the pressure off this great man.

"You look tired - I do hope everything is well," I say, pouring him a glass of brandy. He accepts it, and thoughtfully washes the liquor around in the glass.

"Yes. There are just a lot of problems in my work right now." He rubs his eyes wearily.

"I could call the masseur," I offer, and he smiles. "I noticed your shoulders were tense."

"Thank god for you, Laurence," he murmurs in a heartfelt tone. "Taking care of us all."

"As you are taking care of us – all of us; the entire world in fact. You deserve a little respite and care. It’s the least I can do. I’m sorry the boy wasn’t pleasing."

"Oh, he was," Charles chuckles. "And I’m sorry that I was a little…rough with him. You’re right; his struggles did excite me."

"Well then – a satisfactory result all around." I sit down on the armchair facing his, and take a sip of my water, regarding him. He must once have been a handsome man, but now he’s careworn, and he stoops where he must once have stood very tall and proud. The amount of cigarettes he goes through can’t be good for him; his leathery face is lined around the lips – the sure sign of a life-long, heavy smoker. "Would you like to talk, Charles?" I offer. He often does like to talk. There are few people he can unburden to after all, and I am the soul of discretion. I enjoy my work too much, and the perks that go with it, to jeopardize it in any way.

"It’s the same old thing, Laurence," he sighs.

"Ah. The regrettable Agent Mulder is causing you another headache."

"One headache too many," he growls.

"Forgive me – I’ve never understood why you don’t just have him killed." I sip my water again, and Charles sighs, and gazes into the fire, as if contemplating some great secret.

"I can’t. He’s valuable to us… I wish he was obedient as well. He jeopardizes everything with his foolhardy crusades, and his ridiculous idealism. I offered him a job once; I just wish he’d taken it. If I could have had some time with him, made him see…" Charles closes his fist angrily.

"From all you’ve told me you’d have your work cut out," I chuckle. "It doesn’t sound as if your Agent Mulder is very malleable."

"He isn’t – that's why it would be so satisfying to…" Charles trails off, and stares into the fire again. "Damn, but if he weren’t so important, I’d…" He clenches both fists this time. He isn’t a man given to dramatic outbursts so I know this must be serious.

"You should send him here," I murmur, taking another sip of water. "He sounds like just the kind of challenge I’m ready for."

Charles bursts out laughing. "I think even you might find your legendary success rate threatened by Fox Mulder," he comments wryly.

"I’d enjoy it," I say, surprising myself. "He’s just a man after all. I’ve broken dozens of them. And I’ve been jaded of late. I’d like to try something new."

"You’re serious?" Charles turns to face me, his expression suddenly animated, and cruelly dark. I know that he is imagining Fox Mulder writhing under my carefully brutal ministrations, and, to put it bluntly, that arouses him.

"Why not?" I glance up, amused by the whole idea. "He’s been a thorn in your side for a long time, Charles. You can’t kill him, but you need him tamed. Well, that’s what I do here, isn’t it? You bring me the raw material, and I shape the dear creatures for their new lives as sexual playthings." Not just that though - some of those who are brought here show initiative, and eventually work their way out of the lounge. They become valued operatives in their own right, with the freedom to make use of all the Syndicate’s facilities - including the trainees - themselves. I’ve noted how few of them turn down the chance to avail themselves of that privilege when it’s offered. It amuses me considering how hard some of them struggled and fought me during the breaking process.

"No. It’s…insane…" Charles says, although the idea still clearly enchants him.

"You’re right," I sigh.

"First off, he’s far older than your usual recruits," Charles continues, rolling his brandy around in his glass. "Not as young and impressionable as you like them."

"All the more challenging." I take a long, deep drink of my water. I really am excited. I’ve heard so much about Agent Fox Mulder – not just from Charles either. The man is clearly a menace. I’d love to see what I could do with him. I haven’t met anyone yet that I haven’t been able to break – given enough time. I have no doubt that Agent Mulder will be hard – but those are the ones who give me the most satisfaction, and his age doesn’t bother me. It just gives me all the more material to play with, in fact.

"You’d have to be careful not to kill him," Charles says, half convinced, despite himself.

"I’ve never killed a trainee yet," I point out politely. I leave that to the less self-disciplined of our operatives, after all.

"We want him obedient – able to take instruction, to dance to our tune."

"I’m sure I could manage that."

"But still able to function in the outside world. Still able to do his job." He looks up at me, his eyes dark and full of anticipation.

"Your own assistant started out as a trainee with me," I point out. "He doesn’t have any problems functioning in the outside world, does he? And I believe he’s shown admirable initiative in his time." I smile into my water. Charles hasn’t always approved of his assistant’s little displays of 'initiative', and has even sent him back here for me to punish on more than one occasion. A little correction was all it took to have that particular young man back on track. The trainees never forget me – I can reduce them to quivering wrecks even when they’ve reached middle age, and become confident, ruthless operatives. I like to think I hold a special place in their hearts.

"I would need to get authorization from the others," Charles murmurs, lost in thought. I feel a wave of heady euphoria course through me. This is just what I need to complete my illustrious career. I’m growing old – sixty next year - and I’ve learned so much about my trade during my years working for the Syndicate. Fox Mulder will be precisely the person to test the full range of my expertise and knowledge on – the culmination of my art.

"Of course. Let them know that I’m happy to help if required. I have always been happy to help in my own way. This is my contribution to our cause, Charles. I know that training these boys and girls is minor work compared to the great sacrifices that you and the other esteemed Elite have made over the years, but, small though it is, I like to think I’ve helped in my own way."

"You have, Laurence. You’ve taken very good care of all of us, and provided the most diverting distractions," Charles affirms, and my heart glows.

"I’ve done my best." We exchange grave nods. I reach out and press a bell to summon the butler. Charles and I sit in companionable silence, both of us still musing the unexpected turn our conversation just took. When the butler arrives I instruct him to have the masseur get ready for a visitor – and put the chef on stand by for Charles to dine later. Charles gets up, still rolling his stiff shoulders, and looks at me, with a new expression of respect in his hazel eyes.

"You know, I’ve never been sure about what you do here, Laurence," he says, "but this idea…well, it fascinates me. I haven’t been able to bring Agent Mulder in line by any other means. I’m intrigued."

"And regretful?" I note something else in his eyes.

"I’ll just be sorry to see his fire go, that’s all. I’ve done many things in my time, Laurence – taken action that was personally distasteful to me but had to be done. You, on the other hand…" he considers me for a moment. "I’ve often wondered about your work. Don’t the screams bother you? How do you sleep at night?" He leans forward, and I can smell the liquor on his breath.

"I’m a professional," I reply disarmingly. "I’ve never killed a man, Charles. I’ve never had that on my conscience." Unlike you, I think, in silent reproach. He has no business asking questions about my conscience. "I know that I provide a service, and I’m proud to belong to such a great group of men – all dedicated to saving our world. It’s an honor. I hope I’ve made your lives a little easier, and more pleasurable along the way. So many of you have given up any hope of normal lives, or marrying…I hope I’ve made up for that sacrifice in some small way."

He smiles, barely listening to my spiel. "Yes, but you enjoy it, don’t you?" He asks, still standing too close, in a stance designed to intimidate. It doesn’t work with me. I’ve played and won too many of these domination games in my time. I can see the fascination in his eyes. He knows what he is capable of, but he’s fascinated by what I might have done, and seen. My work is so very different to his, and yet curiously similar at the same time.

"Oh yes," I murmur, with a little smile. "Of course I enjoy my work, Charles. That is why I hope you will consider this evening’s proposition; I’d like to show you the full extent of my skills, and who better to help me prove them to you than your very own bete noir, Agent Mulder?"

He nods, recognizing in me an equal, someone who is prepared to enter the darkness in search of the greater good – somebody prepared to make that supreme sacrifice of self. More than that, I can see that he is wondering whether I could break him and the answer is, of course, that I could, and if it was asked of me I would – without a qualm or second thought. He knows that, and fears it. He has so much power, so much authority but at the end of the day he is just flesh and blood as we all are, and I know how to bring flesh and blood to its knees, and bend it to my will. Charles’s eyes flicker with the fire of that knowledge, and I know that he fears me for my skills – and he isn’t a man who likes being afraid. In some way, condemning Mulder to me will be his substitute for undergoing the process itself. If Mulder resists me Charles will know that he could have done so as well, and if the Agent submits to me, and breaks, then Charles will know that he, also, would have the same lack of strength. I have no idea why his own sense of identity is so deeply tied to Agent Mulder but it is. Intriguing.

"I’ll let you know," Charles says in his smooth, languid tones, and then he leaves.  

Luke is waiting in his cell when I go down. He scrambles over to me when I enter, and kneels, looking up at me pathetically.

"I’m sorry, sir," he whispers, his eyes reddened by crying.

"Oh, my dear boy. This was most unfortunate. Just when we were starting to enjoy ourselves as well, hmm?" I tip up his chin, and look into those large, dark lashed eyes.

"I’m sorry. He was just so rough…" Luke whimpers pathetically.

"Quiet!" I snap, in a change of tone that scares and confuses him. "He’s a member of the Elite, Luke – your superior. You must never ever speak a bad word against any member of the Elite. Charles works very hard and is entitled to take his pleasure wherever he can find it. You are a trainee – you should be honored by his touch. You’ll never get ahead if you don’t learn how to please the Elite, Luke. One day you could be like Charles, one of the great men who work in our Syndicate, but you won’t achieve that goal if you continue to behave like a scared, spoiled child. Go and bring me your whip."

He goes quickly, and returns to my side with the whip. It’s a single strand of worn leather – worn out on him. I start each new recruit with his or her own whip, and can measure their progress by its wear. Some, like Charles’s pretty but truculent assistant, go through quite a few of these whips. Others, like Luke, need only one. He gets into position quickly, placing his hands spread-eagled on the wall, legs wide apart, as he has been shown on numerous occasions. The whip leaves a welt wherever I stroke it. I always go hard; if a whipping is necessary then it should be delivered at maximum strength or not at all. Luke is soon sobbing abjectly, but when it is over, he takes the whip from my hands as he has been schooled, and replaces it over his bed where it belongs, and where it serves as a constant reminder of the penalty for poor behavior.

"Go to sleep," I tell him, not unkindly, pulling aside the blankets on his bed. He slips between them, shivering, and looks at me longingly for some sign of affection. I sigh – newly broken trainees, while adorable, can be very wearying. I sit on the bed beside him, brush back his curls, and kiss his forehead. "You’re progressing very well, Luke," I praise him. He relaxes, and leans into my caressing hand. I sit with him for a few minutes to help nurture the bond between us, and when his breathing deepens, I get up and leave. He’s like a child, learning to leave its mother for the first time. However, if the proposition I made this evening is accepted, then I may have to terminate the training process with Luke and send him out into the lounge earlier than is my usual habit.  

I retire to my own suite of rooms. I have a large, exquisitely decorated bedroom containing a huge bed, a Jacuzzi, a desk, and other little accoutrements but I do not sleep there except when I am bringing along a new recruit. My real bedroom is a small, Spartan room with a narrow, single bed, decorated in the stark simplicity of black and white. I like it for its clean lines, and uncluttered feel. It is my respite, and my sanctuary, where I plan my strategies and conquests. Nobody is allowed to sleep here with me; nobody may even enter this room. This place is mine, and mine alone. I close the door behind me, undress, and then slowly don the ivory silk pajamas that are my usual sleeping attire. It is my habit to read for quite some time before sleeping; I need to empty my mind of the dramas of the day. It’s just as I’m losing myself in the labyrinthine wonders of James Joyce’s beautiful mind, that I am interrupted by the telephone. I recognize Charles’s voice at once.

"Laurence, I’ve spoken to the others. It’s been agreed," he says in those quiet, intense tones. I feel a surge of warmth inside – and almost drop my book in surprise. It’s been a long time since I felt such a strong emotion. I try to identify it: tingly, a feeling of nervousness in the pit of my stomach – and excitement. I realize that what I’m feeling is anticipation.

"That’s good, Charles," I breathe softly down the phone. "When can I expect delivery of our latest recruit?"

"Soon," he replies with a little chuckle. "Very soon."  

*****

Mulder stopped at a mall on his way home from the Hoover Building, and wandered around aimlessly for a while, looking in the stores, and feeling like a stranger in a strange land. Shopping was something he tended to do twice a year – once for his mother’s birthday and once for Scully’s so it felt weird to be doing it now, in the middle of a workday – as if he was playing hooky from school. He had gone to work this morning as usual, only to be unceremoniously thrown out of his office by the head of Human Resources, aided and abetted by a Scully who had looked as if she was trying hard not to laugh at his most unusual predicament. He was told that his leave time had now stockpiled to such an extent that if he didn’t take a week’s immediate vacation he’d be suspended, without pay. A form had been waved in his face with Skinner’s signature on it, and that had been that. So he was faced with a weeklong unwanted and unplanned for vacation when he had expected to be buried up to his neck in files, which was how he liked to spend his time. He had long since stopped viewing work as work – it was his life.  

Mulder withdrew a sum of cash from an ATM, ate his way through a burger, and then wandered around a bookstore for a couple of hours, finding the whole process of having leisure time nerve wracking, and stressful. It was so hard to just switch off, and relax. He liked being buried in a case, working his butt off to find the answer, following clues, and making phone calls to unravel mysteries – that was his idea of relaxation, and he realized he was actually feeling depressed about the prospect of a whole week spent trying to fill his time some other way. The Gunmen were fun but… a whole week spent playing computer games with them? Mulder stared sightlessly at the books in front of him, wondering what the hell was wrong with him that the idea of vacation time filled him with such dread. He’d often thought that if he had some time there were places he’d like to visit, and now he had the opportunity, but the truth was that the idea of all this time on his hands depressed him. He knew all too well the demons that crowded back in when he wasn’t occupying his mind with X Files and conspiracies. He could defeat the demons with the weapons of exhaustion and constant activity, but when those weapons were taken away from him by well meaning friends… Mulder took a deep breath. He needed a project – maybe he could write a paper for one of the journals he occasionally contributed to. It would be a good time to write up some case files, maybe with an eye to publication. My Life As A Ghostbuster, By An FBI Agent, he considered, grinning. Mutants and Monsters – an Expert’s Guide. A small boy became entangled around Mulder’s ankles and was called away by an over-anxious father.

"Jamie! Sorry if he’s bothering you," the man said, lifting up his small, blond haired son.

"No problem," Mulder said, smiling at the boy, filled with a sudden wave of sadness. Damn Skinner and Scully for this. He didn’t want time to think about how regular folks lived, or the dreams of a normality that he had long ago turned his back on. What was his life? Was this what he’d wanted it to be, what he’d dreamed of? This lonely existence? 

Shopping clearly wasn’t going to be the answer. He’d have to find something else to occupy him, or his own over-active mind would drive him insane. He selected a book at random, something that would occupy him for couple of hours if nothing else, paid for it, and jogged back to the parking garage. An empty evening stretched ahead of him. He hoped there was something good on TV – a really bad old movie, maybe. Or maybe he’d just dig into his porn collection, but he usually saved that for his frequent insomniac nights, and even then he was rarely assured of any release. Perhaps there was a movie he could go to see…anything to fill up the looming desert of spare time that threatened to unsettle the uneasy truce he had with his own demons. He reached his car, pulled out his keys, and slid into the driver’s seat.

"One whole week." He rested his head on the steering wheel and sighed. The first thing he noticed when he looked up was that there was someone sitting in the seat behind him, reflected in his rearview mirror. The next thing he noticed was that something wet and smelly was being placed over his face. He tried to shout, but only succeeded in taking an inhalation of whatever was on the rag instead, and the world began to swim. He was unconscious within seconds.  

*****

 Nothing compares to the moment when a new recruit is delivered. Nothing. There are many highlights to the breaking process – the first coupling, the first, faltering confidences, moments of revelation, and betrayal, and not least the exquisite joy of the actual breaking itself – and the subsequent sweetness of winning trust, and giving comfort to the newly born trainees. Still, the moment of delivery is especially beautiful – and one I like to savor. I am called at 4 pm and recognize Charles’s voice immediately.

"Prepare for a delivery," he says. "Two hours," and then the line goes dead. I sit there for a moment, just enjoying the anticipation. Two hours. In two hours time I will begin my greatest challenge. Oh, I do hope he struggles. I hope he is hard to break, and resistant, and challenging. I hope his mind is truly as bright as I have been told, and he is as independent and wild as I have been led to believe. I do not want an easy victory. I want this to take time, and I want to enjoy every single second.  

Luke is sitting by my side, eager to be of use to me, but the time has come to send him to his duties. He really requires a few more weeks to complete the training process, but he’s malleable, and easy going – he’ll be fine.

"Luke, I want you to go and clear out your cell," I tell him softly. He looks at me questioningly, his doe-brown eyes alarmed. "The time has come for you to spread your wings a little. You’ll take up residence in the lounge with the other trainees."

I use the bell to call Brady – he’s in charge of the trainees once they leave my care. He’s a big, bluff man, not very imaginative but then he doesn’t have to be to preside over the lounge. He simply needs to keep order, and administer discipline where required. He must ensure the trainees are always clean, and their rooms kept in an orderly fashion; that they are available for use, willing, and in good shape. Any trainee backsliding, or unpleasing to a client is sent back to me, or my assistants, for Remedial Treatment. It doesn’t usually take much to remind them of their initial breaking, and after a couple of days their attitude improves remarkably and they can be returned to the lounge with renewed zeal for their duties.

"You have a new trainee to take to the lounge," I inform Brady, who nods, and inspects Luke with a predatory glance. He always tries out each new trainee himself before putting him or her to service. He needs to know their strengths and weaknesses, and which members of the Elite they’ll appeal to.

"Please, sir…" Luke looks up at me, with an expression of despair in his eyes. I smile, and tuck one of his curls behind his ear.

"Now, Luke, don’t force me to punish you," I tell him firmly. "You belong to the Syndicate, not just to me, and it’s time to go and serve them to the best of your ability."

"But I’ll miss you, sir," he whispers.

"Of course you will." I run my thumb along the side of his cheek. "You’ve been a very dear boy, but you can’t stay here with me forever."

"But I want to." He looks close to tears.

"Luke, what have you learned about wanting?" I ask him in a firm tone. His eyes widen.

"That I must only want what the Syndicate requires me to want," he replies.

"That’s right. If you serve them well you’ll be rewarded. If you don’t, then you’ll be returned to me for Remedial Treatment. You won’t like that, Luke," I warn, and his eyes are radiating panic now, as he remembers his breaking.

"No, sir. I’ll be good, I promise," he says sweetly.

"Good boy." I stand up, gesture him to his feet, and plant a kiss on his curly head. "Run along with Brady now. It’s been a pleasure working with you, Luke," I tell him gently.

"Yes, sir. Sir…" He turns as he reaches the door. "You won’t forget me will you, sir?" He asks hopefully, still in need of reassurance, which shows that he’s really leaving me too soon.

"Of course not, Luke," I murmur, and he responds with a beautiful, beaming smile, and then Brady puts a hand on his shoulder, and takes my newest trainee away. I didn’t lie to him. I won’t forget him. I haven’t forgotten any of my recruits – I remember each and every one. I remember their stories, and their struggles, their moment of delivery, and their moment of breaking. I wouldn't be able to forget any of them. However, the moment he has left the room, Luke, with his adolescent dreams and dramas, and the small agonies of his young life, is consigned to the very back of my mind. I have someone new to concentrate on now, someone who will take all my energy and every single ounce of my ingenuity to subdue, and, eventually, break. I’m beside myself with excitement.  

I prepare the Delivery Room with extra care. This will be the new recruit’s home for the next few days, after all. Later he will be transferred to Luke’s cell, to complete the process, but upon initial delivery I’ve found that concentrated spells of deprivation and physical discomfort, combined with sessions of intense pain, work best. The room is not particularly large – I prefer a small space to increase the claustrophobia of the event for the recruit – and help focus his mind only on what is happening to his body, without distraction. There’s simply an adjustable table, complete with plastic bindings, chains, and tie down restraints at regular intervals along each side. Hanging from the ceiling are several horizontal bars, to which the recruit’s limbs can be tied, as required. The room is lined with shelves, containing the equipment I’ll use, and I check each and every single item to ensure it is clean and in perfect working order. I open the cellophane around a new whip – this one is Fox’s inaugural whip, the first, but not, I’m sure, the last that will be saved for use only on him.  

The room is warm – I like to work in comfort, and sensory deprivation can be applied later, when the recruit is left alone. The lighting is low – although it’s likely that I’ll keep Agent Mulder blindfolded for some time; he is, after all, a man who likes to control events around him, to initiate, and act, rather than remain passive. Losing the most basic of his senses, his sight, will disorientate him. Charles has supplied me with a dossier ten inches thick on dear Agent Mulder, but I’ve declined to read it thus far. I already know the outlines of his story and the rest I’d prefer to learn from him. I don’t want any preconceived notions getting in the way of the fundamentals of my work: reading body language, and listening to the timbre of the voice. If he lies, I’ll know because I’m good at my craft, not because I’ve read the truth in a file. Besides, I want to hear his perceptions of his own life and personality, not those of the various Syndicate operatives who have compiled the file. The truth lies inside Agent Mulder, not in a stack of papers. I pause, and glance at the huge mirror hanging opposite the table, catching sight of myself. I’m surprised by the brightness in my eyes, and the slight flush of my cheeks. I am really enjoying myself far too much. The mirror serves a dual purpose; it allows the new recruit to see himself under torture, if I wish him to witness that, and I frequently do, but it is also an observation window through which the new recruit can be observed from the room next door. Obviously recruits are monitored at all times, and sometimes it is useful to watch their behavior when they think they’re alone – in fact it can be most illuminating.  

Finally satisfied with the room, I return to the salon to compose myself. I feel like an actor preparing to go onstage and give the performance of my career, and a shiver akin to stage fright snakes along my spine. This is my big moment, when the spotlight will shine upon me, and I’ll perform my greatest service to the Syndicate. I can almost hear the swell of the orchestra, but I will take no satisfaction from praise or the crescendo of applause. My pleasure will be in the event itself, not the glory I might achieve from it. I endure the longest few minutes of my life as I wait for the bell to ring, and when it finally does, my heart gives a little leap of nervous anticipation, but then experience takes over, and I get slowly and calmly to my feet, and prepare to walk onstage.  

The Delivery Room is in the basement – fully soundproofed, and accessible only to the highest members of my staff. I walk down the carpeted hallways, and then onto the stone floors of the basement itself, and into the Observation Room. I sit in the large, comfortable armchair, and press a bell to inform my staff that I’m ready to proceed. A few seconds later the doors to the Delivery Room open, and three men enter, carrying the unconscious weight of my new recruit. They place him on the table, and gaze at the mirror questioningly.

"Do you want us to tie him, sir?" One of my assistants asks. I press a button and speak into the microphone in front of me in order to reply.

"When was he anaesthetized?" I ask, and the reply comes back that it was less than three hours ago. He has subsequently been injected with another drug that will keep him unconscious for two more hours, so I have plenty of time. I therefore reject their offers of help, and dismiss them.  

This is the time I like best – the time when I have my first few moments alone with a new recruit, to examine him or her, and get to know them a little. I watch Mulder for several seconds, just savoring the fact that he is here, in my clutches, and imagining the joy that lies ahead, for both of us. It’s too dark in the Delivery Room to see as much of him as I’d like, and he does have to be prepared for awakening, so the time has come to touch, and taste, and smell. I open the door between the two rooms, and step into his presence. I can hear his breathing, and observe the soft rise and fall of his chest, and then approach to examine him more closely.

So this is Agent Mulder. I reach out a finger, and touch his face, then gently push a strand of hair away from his forehead. If I didn’t know he was in his late thirties I would have imagined he was much younger. He has a peculiarly beguiling innocence about him in repose – he reminds me of Charles’s assistant in that. That illusion was dispelled the moment Charles’s boy opened his eyes though. I wonder if it will be the same with this young man, or whether he retains that youthful innocence when he is awake. He isn’t beautiful – or at least it isn’t a definable beauty, but he does have the most powerfully arresting face I’ve ever encountered in my career, and that makes me even more excited. His nose is a little too long, and his lower lip is quite pronounced, giving him an almost feminine appearance. I like that about him; the faint aura of sexual ambiguity is fascinating. He’s tall – long limbed, and slender. I’ll be able to assess his body better when I’ve undressed him. He’s still dressed in a crumpled work suit with a ketchup stain on his shirt. I do so hate untidiness. It almost offends me. His dark hair is thick, and very attractive – I run my fingers through it, and caress it for several minutes. There is something almost…familiar about him. Maybe it was simply our destiny to meet in this way, and become known to each other. I wonder whether I’ll be able to bear to part with him when the time comes, or whether he’ll bore me eventually, as all the others have done.  

His skin is very soft – unusually so - pale and, I’m sure, very sensitive to the touch, which does not bode well for him. I stroke his cheeks for a while, and then pick up his hands and examine them, kissing his long, expressive fingers. I spend a moment sucking each one, and he tastes delicious; salty but with an earthy, sensuous scent that arouses me even more. This exotic creature shouldn’t be an FBI agent; he should be an artist’s model, or a permanent concubine to some rich patron. I already feel close to this dear, sleeping boy. I can hardly wait to begin, but experience has taught me not to rush, to take each moment slowly, and savor it. I remove his shoes and socks first. Expensive shoes, but very worn, molded by constant use to fit his feet, and be comfortable. His socks surprise me by being mismatched. It’s a small detail – and the differences in shades of navy blue are so slight that a less experienced eye would have missed them. I suspect he has more important things going on in his mind than his socks, although his general appearance shows a good level of self-esteem. He’s well groomed, and possibly even a little vain – he’s certainly impeccably presented apart from the socks. I like that. His suit is expensive, and well tailored, the wool soft beneath my fingertips.  

You can tell a lot about a man by the way he expresses himself in his choice of tie – and what interesting clues Mulder’s tie gives us! It’s sludge green, and most unprepossessing, verging on the ugly. It isn’t a novelty tie, or patterned with imaginative swirls. It’s what I would call a red herring tie; carefully designed to throw the casual observer off the scent. It’s not only asking people not to look too closely at him, it’s consciously trying to repel their interest. He is a man of secrets. How delicious it will be finding out just what those secrets are.  

I undo the tie, and curl it neatly around my fingers, before dropping it into the plastic bag in which I will store his belongings. He’ll need them again one day, but not for many weeks. I move my fingers down to his belt and remove that as well. It's a simple belt, plain, and dark, and most interesting in its almost careful lack of decoration. I curl that into a ball and put it next to his tie in the bag. Then I remove his watch. He won’t need to know the time while he’s here. On the contrary - I don’t want him to know. Time will lose all meaning for him in here. Everything will lose meaning for him except me. I’ll be his only reality from now on.  

I remove his jacket with more difficulty. He’s a considerable weight but I’ve had a lot of experience of undressing the comatose, so he’s no problem really. I doubt he’ll be this co-operative when he wakes up though! The jacket is neatly folded and placed in the plastic bag with his other belongings. After his jacket comes his shirt, each button slowly, and lovingly undone, until finally it falls loose over his slim frame. I push it aside with eager nudges of my fingers, longing to view his chest and torso. He’s very pleasing; wide shoulders, and beautiful pink-brown nipples. I bend my head and suck each one very gently and carefully into little points, and of course he doesn’t stir. Again that delicious flavor, that scent and taste that is the essential essence of Mulder. It almost makes my head swim. I run the back of my hand over his almost hairless chest, feeling the softness, and warmth of his body. Finally I remove the shirt altogether, and survey him again. He has a runner’s body – or maybe a swimmer's. Perhaps both. He’s built for speed, rather than stamina, which will have an effect on the strategies I use for breaking him, as well as for the possibilities of what kind of pain he can best endure. His pectorals are nicely developed – I suspect he works out in a gym the way young people do these days. I’m indifferent to the appeal of muscles per se, but his are pleasingly toned – nothing more. Finally I undo his pants, and strip them swiftly from his body, folding and storing them with his other clothing. He is wearing soft, pale gray cotton shorts underneath, which cling in folds to his body, a cross between briefs and boxers, nicely molding his flesh. Comfort is clearly important to him. I remove the shorts as efficiently as I have stripped him of the rest of his clothes, and then inspect his genitalia. He’s nicely hung – as with his upper body he is neither grotesquely over-endowed, nor disappointingly small. His cock has a smoothness that appeals to me. It really does have a very attractive shape and circumference. His pubic hair is dark, and curls around a set of slightly larger ball sacs than I’d anticipated. Frowning, I bend and inspect his testicles more closely, moving aside his cock to gain a better view. Weighing them in my hands, I discover they are definitely heavier than I had expected, and that rather pleases me.  

He’s still unconscious, and will be for another hour or so, which gives me plenty of time to make my initial examination. I take a step back, and then circle his body, reaching out a finger to touch here or there, and become more closely acquainted with my beautiful new recruit. Of course the body is not as interesting as the mind, but it’s still the tool by which I gain access to the mind, and his body is most arousing. I can feel my penis harden inside my pants, but my own pleasure will have to wait until he’s awake, and able to appreciate receiving me in his mouth, or ass. Certainly the latter to begin with – it wouldn’t be worth the risk of placing myself in his pretty mouth until I can be sure that he fully appreciates the painful penalties for disobedience, and the need for co-operation. Numerous scars, the worst being on his shoulder, and thigh, blemish his body, and yet, far from repulsing me, they add to my appreciation of him. He has a peculiar grace, even during unconsciousness – ungainly, too long of limb, and yet strangely beautiful at the same time. He’s already fascinating me and he hasn’t even said a word yet.

"So this is the dangerous, willful Agent Fox Mulder," I murmur, caressing his penis in the palm of my hand. It hardens a little in response to the stimulus, which amuses me. Of course he won’t be allowed much pleasure to begin with; I need to keep that for a reward – and also as a psychological tool in order to show him how much he is in my power, and how his body responds to me now, and not to the commands of his own mind. That is why the first thing I do is bind his cock, and confine it in a small metal cage. He won’t be able to become erect, even if he should feel aroused. His pleasure, like his pain, is completely at my command.  

It’s time to restrain him in preparation for his waking. I start with his hands, taking each slender wrist, and wrapping it in a comfortable, fleece-lined plastic cuff. Obviously the word 'comfortable' is relative in this instance. The cuff has to be comfortable as he is to be tied in a most uncomfortable position and it won’t be long before he loses sensation in his hands – especially if he struggles. Still the cuffs won’t mark him permanently, which would be a sign of poor handling on my part – very clumsy. When his wrists have been comfortably cuffed, I attach them to the horizontal bar over his chest. They hang loosely, but firmly. He can struggle all he likes but he won’t be able to escape. I turn my attention to his ankles, fastening the plastic cuffs around them, before I reach the fun part. I raise his left leg, and rest it on my shoulder. He weighs a ton, but then I’m not as young as I used to be. I’m sweating and panting before I have his leg fastened where I want it – attached by the cuff to the metal bar above him. I fasten the right leg alongside it, so now the two limbs are spread wide apart, and the most intimate parts of his body are exposed to view. Satisfied, I stand back and survey him again.  

He looks beautiful, like a captured animal – maybe his namesake fox - all long limbs, and revealed flesh. His body is flat on the table, and his arms tied above him. His legs are in a 'V' shape, wide open, and tied high above his waist. If he relaxes into the position it won't be too uncomfortable – but struggling causes chafing around the wrists and ankles. Somehow I feel sure he will struggle. They usually do.  

It’s time to examine him more intimately. I pull on a latex glove and lubricate my fingers, and then insert one into his rectum. Unconscious, he’s unable to resist, and yet the tightness of his anal opening assures me that he’s a virgin. That’s good. I’ll admit that I like it best if they are, both for physical and psychological reasons. The loss of anal virginity affects men profoundly, and can almost be enough to break some men of and by itself. Physically the first penetration is painful, but psychologically it has an even more profound impact, and I always enjoy it for that reason, even more than the sensation of inflicting pain and distress on my recruits, although I’m fond of that as well. Probing, and the addition of an extra finger, leads me to conclude that he’ll find the process of losing his virginity extremely difficult, but that is of little concern. What is more important is keeping him well lubricated, and taking care to stretch but not cause too much tearing. While I don’t mind inflicting a great deal of pain I wouldn’t want him permanently damaged. I take great pride in ensuring that my trainees are all in perfect condition when they are sent to serve the Elite. We’ll stretch Agent Mulder to make him able to take even the largest of his new masters easily, and without injury. It’s an important part of the training process.  

I enjoy probing him for several minutes, stroking his exposed thigh with my free hand while I do so, and then I withdraw, and remove the latex glove, throwing it in the trash. It’s a little stained – he’ll require an enema before his first penetration. With a regretful glance at my watch, I realize that our little 'getting to know each other' time is coming to an end, so I perform my final task before he wakes up – I place a thick, padded blindfold over his eyes. It’s a shame to obscure even a small part of that striking face, and I’m dying to see what he looks like awake, with his eyes open, but the blindfold is necessary I think. I do want his disorientation to be complete when he wakes up.  

Finally, I give his pale, long limbed body another caress, stroking him fondly, and watch him as he moans softly. He still isn’t awake, but he’s clearly starting to come around. I retire from the room, regretfully, and return to the Observation Room where I can watch his reactions as he comes to.  

*****

Mulder opened his eyes…and found that it was still dark. His throat was dry, and his limbs felt heavy. For a moment he assumed he’d fallen asleep on his couch. There was a fog in his head that refused to clear, but it didn’t take him long to realize that something was wrong. Sensation returned to his body in a sudden whoosh, and that was when he became aware that he was tied, and painfully. His arms hurt, and his fingers felt dead. Worse than that, he was naked. He could feel a very slight breeze over his thighs, and knew that he had been stripped, and was being held captive. His first instinct was to struggle – but he fought it. Instead he tried to breathe, and remain calm. He moved his fingers, and then his wrists, to figure out how he was tied, and whether there was any point in fighting the bonds. He soon realized that he was bound far too tightly to make it worth his while making what would only be a token, and exhausting protest. He concentrated on his legs, the blood rushing to his face in horrified humiliation as he realized that they were tied spread open above his body. He tried to close them, but found that impossible. A wave of claustrophobia combined with fear washed over him, and he smelled his own frightened, acrid scent in the air, but still he wouldn’t struggle. He blinked behind the blindfold, and moistened his lips with his tongue. The darkness was pressing in on him, and his mind desperately wanted to panic. Only the strength of his will kept him from giving in to that panic. Somehow he was sure it wouldn’t do him any good. He needed clarity of thought right now. He tried to recall how he had been brought here, searching for clues to his predicament. He remembered the mall, and his car – and something being placed over his face. Even so, he’d be missed. They wouldn’t be able to keep him long. Tomorrow morning at work he’d be missed…Scully would find him. Scully and Skinner. Together they’d find him, all he had to do was stay calm, and co-operate with his captors and they would…his heart sank as another memory came back to him. Nobody was expecting him at work tomorrow. He had a one-week vacation. Nobody would even begin looking for him for a week. A lot could happen in a week. He was acutely aware of his legs being open, his ass exposed to the world, and a low moan escaped from his lips. He wondered for the first time if he was being watched, if his captors were nearby. If so, they hadn’t spoken, and were keeping very quiet. He took a deep breath, and then tried to remain as silent as possible, listening for the sound of another person’s breathing. Nothing. There was no sound at all. He was alone. He let out his breath and concentrated on trying to rub his blindfold against his arm, to loosen it a fraction, but soon found it an impossible task. Exhausted by even that small contortion, he banged his head back on the surface he was lying on, and tried to regroup.  

The silence covered him like a shroud. He could be dead. He might be dead very soon. He had read enough reports of criminally insane behavior to know that he could very well be the victim of a serial killer. Certainly the way he had been tied seemed to suggest that his captor had a sexual motive so it was unlikely that he was being held by one of his enemies. Mulder lay very still, fighting the sheer terror that threatened to overwhelm and paralyze him. This was the worst, the not knowing…at least if he knew… He became used to the sound of his own breathing, and the steady thump of his frightened heart, beating too fast. He could feel goose bumps rising on his flesh – he was a little cold, but he suspected that was more from shock than anything else because the room was pleasantly warm. After a while he decided that he had played this game for long enough – the darkness was pressing in on him, almost hurting him with its intensity, and he needed some relief. He opened his mouth, tentatively, and licked his lips again.

"Why did you bring me here?" he croaked, his throat too dry to form the words properly. He swallowed hard and tried again. "Release me," he demanded. Nothing. Silence for a long time. "What do you want from me?" He tried again but there was still no response. Dispirited, he allowed his head to slump back once again, and tried to remember to breathe as deeply as possible. His continued captivity was starting to make his wrists and ankles ache. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could tolerate being in this position. A thought occurred to him. Supposing nobody came? Supposing he was left here to die? Slowly. Terrifyingly. Surely. Dying in his own excrement and urine…Urine. His cock ached…and he struggled to comprehend why. He couldn’t make sense of what had been done to his cock – it hurt, just a little, and it didn’t feel right. There was something touching it – no, something around it. Damn but if he wasn’t wearing this blindfold…another wave of sweat broke out on his skin as he considered the full horror of not even knowing what had been done to his own body. Not even being able to see what had been done.  

The silence now had an oppressive weight of its own. Mulder gulped for air, but still refused to give in to pointless struggle. He dangled…and waited. His overactive mind processed the information it had access to, and he tried, desperately, to form some kind of hypothesis for what was happening to him. He needed a reason why. It didn’t make sense to him that somebody would tie him in this position and not stay close to see his reaction on waking. Only a sexual sadist would tie somebody like this, and such a person would want to spend time with their victim…maybe they already had. Mulder bit down hard on his lip as he considered how he must have been stripped, and tied…maybe he had already been violated in some way…and yet…most deviants liked to observe their victims, and relish their discomfort, and he could imagine the first moments of waking would be particularly arousing to the kind of sick bastard who would think of tying him like this in the first place.  

"Have you watched for long enough?" He asked, in a normal, everyday voice, not allowing his fear to be evident in his tones. "You have me tied up, and at your mercy. You’ve seen my initial reaction. I’m awake and I know you’re looking at me."  

More silence. He closed his eyes, and tried to compose himself. Sleep was impossible, but intellectually he knew that he had no choice but to surrender himself to this experience. There was no way out. There was no point in fruitless struggle. He had to accept, for now at least, that he was at someone else’s mercy, and that his future was not in his own control. He had to accept that, and remain vigilant, waiting for a hint of weakness, or a chance of escape. He concentrated on his breathing again, dozens of images running through his mind. He could see Scully, smiling at him from the doorway of his office, and Skinner, standing in the cold directing an operation, holding a cell phone to his ear, a distracted look on his face, his warm breath steaming the air. They would find him. They would save him. He would be rescued. They were the only two people in the world that he trusted…and they had sent him on vacation. They had sent him to this…

"No!" He took a deep breath and for the first time struggled against the cuffs that were keeping him bound. A wave of panic overtook him, and he writhed helplessly, his wrists and ankles chafing against their bonds.

"Agent Mulder." A voice beside him made him jump, but there was nobody there. He knew there was nobody there! He could sense no body heat, could hear no breathing, and there had been no sound of footsteps. Damn this blindfold! "Agent Mulder, please calm down. You’ve shown admirable restraint so far. Struggling is pointless."

"Then untie me," he replied quickly. He heard a wry chuckle in his ear, but he could swear there was nobody there. He moved his head, trying to sense another body nearby.

"You don’t give the orders here, Agent Mulder. On the contrary, you obey them."

"You haven’t given me any orders. I’ll do whatever you want, just untie me," he replied.

"Not yet."

"What do you want from me?" He asked. "Why did you abduct me like this? I’ll be missed…" His voice hitched as he said that, none too sure that it was true.

"Will you?" That calm, detached voice questioned.

"I’ll be missed when I don’t show up at work," Mulder argued.

"You're on vacation. You withdrew a sum of money from an ATM earlier this afternoon. You have a history of running off without leaving notes or even informing your partner of your whereabouts. Why should you be missed? They won’t even begin looking for you for a week."

The word 'begin' chilled Mulder to his soul, and another wave of terrified sweat broke out on his naked body. It was true. He had to endure a week before anybody would even know he was missing. And a week of what?

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice croaking in his dry throat.

"Ah, it would be easier if I wanted something tangible, like information, wouldn’t it?" That maddeningly calm voice chuckled. "I’m afraid I don’t want information, Agent Mulder. What I want is you."

"You’ve already got me," Mulder pointed out, clanging the metal rings of his cuffs against the bar above him.

"Physically, yes. I want what’s inside you, Agent Mulder. You’ve been causing the people I work for some…consternation."

"And who would that be?" Mulder asked, craning his neck, longing to be able to see.

"You know the answer to that already. Suffice it to say that they’ve had enough. They don’t want to kill you, Agent Mulder. You’re too valuable, and they have no objection to you continuing to do your work – under our guidance of course. You’ve been allowed to run wild for too long. They’re bringing you in from the cold."
"I don’t know what the fuck you mean," Mulder retorted angrily.

"Yes you do. You are our creature, Agent Mulder. You belong to us. We’re just bringing you in for an attitude adjustment. I’m going to explain a little of what will happen to you, so you can understand what’s expected of you while you’re my guest."

"Guest?" Mulder inquired ironically.

"You don’t like the accommodation?" The voice sounded peeved. "Oh dear. It can be changed – but first we have to see a real commitment from you."

"Go to hell." It was a mindless, pointless protest. He knew that. It didn’t even make him feel better but he had to say it.

"Ah. Well, that’s not quite the commitment I had in mind," the voice chuckled. "All right, Agent Mulder, let me explain things to you. I don’t want anything from you – nothing you can say, or do, will stop your pain, or what will be done to you. There are no magic words, no answers. What is happening is out of your control. You’ll beg, and you’ll even volunteer information that you think will help your case. You’ll plead, and you’ll cry. You’ll appeal to my better nature but you can save yourself the trouble; I have none. There is no easy way out of your current predicament, but there is light at the end of the tunnel. When I’m through with you, then you’ll be released – and you’ll be a much happier man. All the uncertainties will be gone, taken away from you. You’ll be ours from then on. You see, Agent Mulder…"

He heard a door open, and the man’s voice moved from beside his ear to the other side of the room. It was disorienting. He lifted his head in the direction of the soft footsteps.

"We have only your best interests at heart," the voice said, coming close now. Mulder knew that his tormentor was standing right beside him.

"That must be why you’ve got me trussed up like a fucking chicken," he commented.

"That’s right. Nobody said the path to happiness was easy," his captor chuckled. "There is only one significant thing that will happen here in the next few weeks, Agent Mulder, and that is that I will break you."

It was said so simply, and it caused a chill to run up Mulder’s spine, and another wave of desperate sweat to break out on his naked flesh.

"Ah. Goosebumps."

Mulder let out a surprised shout as he felt a finger on his arm, running the length of it from shoulder to wrist.

"I can see that last statement had an impact, Agent Mulder."

"I’m sure that was your intention, wasn’t it?" Mulder growled back.

"No, it was simply a statement of fact. I’ve broken dozens of young men and women, Agent Mulder, and you’ll be no different. You’ll come to love me eventually. They all do. Oh, they're scared of me of course, but they love me as well. You’ll love me."

"I don’t think that’s fucking likely," Mulder spat. "Ow!" He gave a cry of pain as something lashed down on his unprotected thigh.

"This is your whip, Agent Mulder. It’s yours and yours alone. I’ll use it whenever I feel like it, but there are ways you can avoid it. Swearing or cussing at me is guaranteed to make me a little irritated, so you might like to keep that in mind."

"I don’t fucking care what irritates you," Mulder ground out, and flinched immediately, waiting for the next blow.

"You should," that voice purred in his ear. A second later the whip cracked in the air again, and striped him across his chest. He gave a hoarse shout of sheer pained outrage. "Let me explain," his captor said patiently. "The people I work for are great men and women. They have sacrificed themselves, and their happiness, for the rest of us. It is only right, and fair, that they receive something in return. They do lonely work – and need some respite, and the comfort of willing bodies." There was silence for a moment.

"You mean you run a whorehouse," Mulder observed. He didn’t expect the lash and when the whip descended again, this time across his upper thighs, he gasped for breath, sobbing in pain.

"Not a whorehouse, no. I help train boys and girls to take their place in our Syndicate. I have broken each and every one of them, and when I’m done they are much more fulfilled than they were before. They would've led empty, pointless lives without me. I liberated them, Agent Mulder, as I will liberate you."

"By turning me into some kind of prostitute?" Mulder laughed. It was absurd. "Look, in case you don’t know, I’m crap in the sack. I don’t have lovers. The last time I went to bed with someone she was after my blood, not my cock. I’m a lousy lay."

"That’s because nobody has unlocked your potential," the voice purred in his ear, and Mulder felt a wave of nausea in the pit of his stomach.

"I have trouble getting it up," Mulder admitted frankly. "I’ll be useless for what you have in mind."

"When I’ve finished with you you’ll become erect on order – not that it would matter if you weren’t. Your ass will be in great demand among the Elite, and I’ll make sure they all get to try our latest recruit," his captor said in a tone of vicious glee. Mulder shivered.

"Don’t…" he whispered.

"You’re afraid."

"Yes. I’m sane. Any sane person would be afraid," Mulder replied, craning his head in the direction of his captor.

"Well, you do have to endure a good deal before you come to love your captivity," his tormentor said, "so your fear is justified. Don’t worry though, I’ll be here when you break."

"That’s so comforting," Mulder murmured, his whole body convulsing with the need to break free, and escape from this madness.

"Hush." A finger ran down his body, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake. "Hush, hush, hush." Cool fingers caressed his skin, and he tried to twist away, revolted by the caress. "You’re a very intriguing man, Agent Mulder. It will be a pleasure to break you."

"Oh, the pleasure will be all yours, I assure you," Mulder snapped.

"I’m sure you’re expecting some rules, and strictures. There aren’t any. You will simply take what I give until you break, and then we’ll see about releasing you," his captor told him. He felt fingers on his ass, and then they were penetrating him.

"Shit, NO!" He cried, writhing in his bonds.

"Hush, hush…" He was soothed, as if he were a child. "It’s merely preparation, Agent Mulder. I’m not going to penetrate you just yet – I’m saving that for later."

"You fucking bastard!" he screamed at the top of his voice, and the next thing he knew the whip had sliced across his chest, biting deep.

"Be quiet. Here." A cup was placed against his lips and he drank deeply, thankfully, eager to ease his sore, dry throat, but the next thing he knew he was spinning dizzily into the darkness and he knew he’d been drugged.  

He awoke on his front. His arms had been pulled out sideways, and were tied firmly. His legs were still spread but not by the bar this time, by something else, and by tighter bonds. He was completely immobile.

"First of all punishment for disobedience, then the enema in preparation for our first moment of intimacy," a voice said in his ear. He tried to struggle again but he was bound too tightly. He felt the whip rest against his ass, and then it was lifted and brought down to imprint its fiery kiss deep into the flesh on his butt. He gave a hoarse scream, but the whip rose and fell inexorably, and his tormentor took no notice of his cries. Finally, exhausted and dripping sweat, he rested his head on the table, and bit down hard into the vinyl surface. The whipping continued, but he barely felt it. His mind was humming too much with pain. When it finished, he didn’t notice at first, but then he became aware of something hard pressing into his ass. He clenched his buttocks tightly together, and then roared out loud as his captor slapped his ravaged flesh. The enema bulb was pushed deep inside, and he felt warm water flood into his bowels. He had an urge to squat, and expel the fluid. The table was lifted, and he found himself in an upright position. He felt his butt being held against a bowl and he screamed, and tried to fight, but his body was his own enemy, and soon he was defecating into the bowl, all the time screeching his defiance. The process was repeated, and his arms hurt too much in their bonds to struggle. He hung, limply, and allowed it to happen, and then suffered the indignity of being hosed down, as if he were some kind of dog. Finally the table was returned to a horizontal position, and he was dried with a rough towel. He closed his eyes, fighting the humiliation of what was being done…what was about to be done to him, without his consent, against his will.

"All right, you’re clean. Now, I want you to relax, and enjoy what I have planned for you," his captor said and Mulder laughed out loud, a bitter, outraged laugh.

"Enjoy…? You’re going to fucking rape me," he growled.

"Oh no. You and I are going to enjoy a special moment together. I hope you remember this moment as much as I will. I always enjoy the first coupling – it’s the moment when I first get to know my new recruit, to fully experience and taste him or her with complete intimacy. I like the way that feels, and I like the knowledge that they are subdued to my touch, and mastery. It’s a beautiful moment." The voice sounded almost dreamy. Mulder shuddered. He felt something slippery enter his ass, and guessed it was his captor’s finger, probing him. He clenched his muscles around the intruder, and then cried out as his sore ass was slapped once again. "It’s going to happen whether you resist or not," the voice said in his ear.

"Fuck you," he spat.

"No, Agent Mulder. It’s you who is going to be fucked," his captor laughed. "This is a special table – cut away in the center, your legs tied to each separate surface, so I can walk between your outstretched thighs, and have access to your anus. See." He could feel the wool of the other man’s pants on the tender flesh of his open thighs and felt sick as he realized his captor was standing between his legs. "All right, time to begin. Hold still." He could do nothing else, as he felt warm, wet lips on his sore ass, licking, and kissing him. A cold sweat broke out on his back. "Hush."  

The playing went on for what seemed like hours. Little kisses, and nibbling bites, like a lover, but in a twisted parody of any kind of love.

"Beautiful…you’re lovely. I like the way you taste," the other man said. "I might have to taste you more often. A little bite here or there…" he sank his teeth into Mulder’s back and the agent screamed. "Good boy. Let it all out. I’m sure you have a lot to scream about. I’m sure you’ve led a difficult life. We can change that now. Hush…let us become one, and then you can scream some more as you come to understand your new duties. It’s cathartic. Give in to it," the voice soothed, and cajoled, and Mulder ground his face into the surface of the vinyl table, tears running down his cheeks. He heard the sound of a zipper being undone, and then a sigh of pleasure. "Ah, if you could see how hard you’ve made me, Agent Mulder. I knew you would make me hard, but it’s been a while since I’ve been so aroused by a new recruit. I’m very erect, very eager to enter you, and make you mine. Hush."  

He trembled as hands gently pulled his buttocks apart, and he clenched his rectal muscles tightly closed. Nothing happened. He could feel something hard stroking against his inner thigh and bile rose in his throat as he realized it was the other man’s cock. He screamed again, choking on his own vomit, but nothing was happening. His buttocks were being held open, and the other man was just talking to him. Little words - meaningless, soothing. "All right. I’m going to take my time. We’ll wait a moment. I want you to be calmer before I join us together. I want you to fully appreciate the moment. Psychologically speaking it’s very important. If there’s anything you want to say to me while we’re connected then I’ll give it my best attention. Be as vocal as you like – nobody will hear you scream except me."  

Mulder slumped, exhausted again, every muscle in his body aching. He felt detached, dislocated from time and his own body. This couldn’t really be happening to him. He didn’t believe it was happening. Then there was movement behind him and he flinched, and clenched his ass again.

"It’s okay. I’m just going to lubricate myself. I want to glide in easily. This feels good…" He heard the sound of a hand slapping against flesh, and sliding back and forth. "Of course if you resist me then it’ll be harder on you – I do quite enjoy a fight, but you’re tied too tightly to be able to prevent me gaining access to the very depths of your body. I want to discover the treasure that lies there, deep within. I want to find out what part of you resides there."

"It’s my fucking ass," Mulder snapped. "Not a fucking oracle."

"It’s a beautiful ass. Very red. You have a number of welts – and there will be some bruising in the morning," his tormentor told him. "All right, time for our first milestone. Hold still, Agent Mulder while I enter you."

He cried out loud as his buttocks were pulled apart again, and then he felt something hard nudging the entrance of his rectum. He fought it. He fought with all his might, clenching his muscles, and struggling in his bonds for as long as he could, but he failed, just as they had both always known he would. His captor had time. Languidly, he waited for Mulder’s struggles to subside, and when eventually they did, when Mulder put his head down, the sweat liberally dripping from his skin, his captor calmly parted his buttocks again, snubbed his cock into the entrance and pushed. Mulder yelled as that hard cock entered his body. He yelled over and over again but his tormentor didn’t seem to care. The other man paused at regular intervals, until Mulder’s screams had subsided, and then pushed himself in further, just a fraction, going ever so slowly. That first penetration seemed to take forever. Mulder thought he was going to die from the pain as that cock slid inch by inexorable inch into his body until he was sure it could go no further.

"Please stop! Please…take it out…please…" he writhed, crying hoarsely.

"Nonsense. It’s exactly where I want it to be," the other man said, patting Mulder’s ass. "A little further. You can take more, can’t you?"

It didn’t matter that he screamed that he couldn’t, that he begged for that hard cock to be removed from his ass, the other man continued sliding it into his body until he was stretched so wide, and impaled so deeply, that he wasn’t sure he could breathe.

"Ah, this is good. You feel so good, Agent Mulder. I could stay here forever," his tormentor purred. "Hold still. That’s good. Let me adjust…"

Mulder gave a shrill shriek as his captor shifted position, his hips gyrating to gain better purchase, and thrust in a little way further.

"Delicious. Very warm. Very tight. In fact you are excessively tight, Agent Mulder. I’m sure there will be a little bleeding but that’s to be expected. Hold on." A movement of hips backwards, the lessening of that deep, lancing pain, and then it returned, three times as bad, as his torturer thrust his hips forwards. Mulder screamed with each thrust thereafter, until his throat became so dry that no sound came out, only a silent whisper of distress. "I like the first intimacy to take a long time," the man behind him was saying. Mulder blinked into his blindfold.

"It would be easy to come too soon with you. Very easy. You’re so beautiful, trembling and defiant beneath me. However, I know it’s important for you, mentally, to understand the full importance of what I’m doing to you. I know you need this to last for a considerable amount of time in order to appreciate your position. For your sake I’ll hold on for as long as possible, to increase the sensations, and prolong your current discomfort. Please scream all you like. You’ve gone very silent."

Mulder tried to wet his dry lips to reply, but found he had nothing left to moisten them with. He put his head on the table with a throaty moan. The other man was lodged deep inside him. He could feel the pulse of his captor's cock within his ravaged rectum. The other man pounded into him, ruthlessly, over and over again for what seemed like hours, and then, just as he appeared to be reaching a climax, stopped, buried deep in Mulder’s ass, and waited until his climax had receded before starting again. In other circumstances Mulder would have been impressed by his captor’s self control. During these pauses the other man would fawn over him, which he found almost as sickening as the rasping pain of the thrusts. He was shaking uncontrollably, his muscles exhausted by struggling.

"There, this is good. I’m enjoying this. I’m so delighted that you’ve chosen to share your virginity with me, and given me the honor of being the first man you allow into this delicious ass. You have a spectacular body, Agent Mulder. I like the way your muscles move under the skin – very beautiful. And your ass is tight – one of the tightest I’ve encountered, and that feels very good I have to say. We’ll work on you so that you’re more open. What I’ll do, in time, is arrange for you to be visited by a succession of the larger endowed of our clients. I know they’ll appreciate your tightness as I do, but we must make you more welcoming and accepting of your betters. They will wish to use you frequently, I’m sure, knowing your history, and novelty value, to say nothing of your beauty. When you’re trained you’ll just open up for anyone who wants you, but until that time we’ll have to work on you. We need to make this path a little more accessible and easier to travel for even the most casual of visitors, hmm?"

Mulder could smell his own pain it was so tangible. He bit down onto the vinyl of the table again, weeping softly, the tears running down his cheeks.

"It’s not unusual for a new recruit to cry. Please don’t hold back on my account. I enjoy the sound," his tormentor said, sliding back and forth, rocking into Mulder’s body. "Do you understand a little of the bond we’re building here, Agent Mulder?" he was asked, as his captor paused for breath again, his hard cock deeply embedded in Mulder’s body.

No, Mulder wept silently, but it wasn’t true. He was tied face down on a table while another man brutally raped him, and he could do nothing to prevent it. He knew what was being done, and he knew exactly what kind of twisted bond was being built here.

"What’s happening is that you’re beginning to understand what is required of you. It’s a slow process, but you’re an intelligent man. You’ll become used to feeling me inside you – I’ll be penetrating you frequently, and when I am not in the mood one of my men will take my place. You do need to get used to a variety of people touching you, and entering you, Agent Mulder. I am one of many who will enjoy this tight little hole. You’ll learn to accept it, in time. Eventually you’ll welcome it – when I’ve broken you. And I will break you. You do know that, don’t you?"

It was asked almost conversationally, and Mulder stared into a dark abyss.

"No," he replied in a shaky whisper, because he had to, but he feared that might not be the truth. He didn’t know the limits of his own strength, and he didn’t know whether he could withstand the daily diet of torture and rape being outlined to him.

"Yes," his captor said firmly, illustrating the point by a series of vicious thrusts that made Mulder gasp out loud, his fingers opening and closing uselessly as if trying to form a fist to fight with. "At first I find my new recruits very exciting, and can hardly keep my hands off them, so you can expect me to enter you frequently, almost casually for the next few days, maybe even weeks. I do like the intimacy of being part of my new recruit’s body. I like the moments we have alone together, moments of sharing, and deepening our bond. There now, hush. I’ve said you can cry. Cry, Agent Mulder." And he did. He convulsed against the table, the tears falling onto the vinyl surface of the table, and washing salt water over his dried, cracked lips. "There, my dear boy. What a lifetime of sorrow you must have in those tears. Cry it all out. Cry it out."

Mulder gave into the wave of desolation as his captor slowly ground himself into his body over and over again, stroking him as he did so, speaking to him, and comforting him, inflicting the pain and offering platitudes against it at one and the same time. The other man seemed almost excited by Mulder’s tears, and his thrusts grew more urgent until he came, with an energetic grunt of satisfaction. Mulder felt warm semen, or maybe blood, dripping down his thighs, and cried deep into the smooth surface of the table. His captor seemed in no hurry to withdraw, and kept his limp cock embedded inside his prone victim as he leaned over Mulder, licking the sweat from his naked back, and continued stroking his ass and thighs with cool hands.

Mulder cried out as the other man finally withdrew. He felt more warm liquid trickling down his thighs. For all he knew he’d wet himself. He didn’t know what was happening to his own body. He didn’t even know the face of the man who had just savagely stripped him of his dignity and humanity so completely. He lay exhausted on the table, and didn’t even move when his ass was opened again, but he cried out as a cool, lubricated finger was pushed into his sore rectum.

"Hush, my dear boy." His bottom received a pat, and then a suppository was pushed into him, and he felt it melt inside his rectum. "That will help fight any infections. I would give you something for the pain but I really need you to experience your discomfort to its fullest extent right now. Later on I might be more merciful, but you’ll have to earn pain relief, like everything else. I’m going to leave you to get some rest now. I’ll turn the temperature up a little as you’re shivering – you won’t be allowed any material to cover you for now. We must keep this beautiful body on display at all times. It would be a crime to hide it from view."

Another pat on his ass, and then he felt lips on the side of his face but he was too exhausted and traumatized to move away from the lingering kiss. He accepted the vile caress, but it was only when he heard footsteps moving away, the opening of a door, and soft closing of it, that he gave in, finally, to the full depths of his misery. He lay in a silent, choking spasm of distress that was as wordless as it was deep. He choked up his own soul, and found, in the darkness, no solace.  

*****

That all went very well. I love his reactions! The way my new recruits react on first waking tells me such a lot about them, and his veneer of calm, his attempts to stay quiet, to think his predicament through…all speak of a strong will, and a personality that refuses to surrender to the obvious. He is truly beautiful, mind and body. When he did finally struggle, it was with the will and desperation of a man with too much imagination, or maybe knowledge, garnered from his years in the Bureau. He knew what would very likely happen to him and his fear was real, tangible, but never enough to overwhelm that multi-faceted mind of his. I can’t tell you how refreshing I find him. Most of my new recruits have struggled and screamed their heads off upon waking to find themselves naked, and tied, in the Delivery Room. Few have just waited, or attempted conversation with me. He’s going to be such a delight! Honestly, if I were a cartoon character I’d be rubbing my hands together in gleeful anticipation right now. I so long to find out more about him! A less patient man, or one with less experience, would go straight back in there to continue, but that would be a mistake. He needs this time of quiet reflection, to come to terms with what has been so brutally and easily done to him. That, I think, will be what eats at him – how easily the veneer of dignity and liberty can be stripped from a man. With that realization will come the knowledge of how hard an adversary I will be. I took something precious from him without hesitation, or compassion for his suffering. That will prey on his mind. He’ll consider engaging me in conversation, attempting to understand me, in a kind of reverse manifestation of Stockholm Syndrome, but of course it won’t work. I’m too old and too wily for that, Agent Mulder.  

I return to my salon to see to business. Normally I’d take a shower, but you know, I don’t want to wash the delicious scent of him from my body. Instead, I sit at my desk and replay that exciting scene over and over again in my mind. It really couldn’t have gone any better. His rebellion, his ability to answer back, even under duress, the sharpness of his mind, combined with the abject surrender of his body to my will…all excite me. The way he said the pleasure would be all mine, his frank admission of his own impotence…I find that intriguing. Many men would die rather than admit their own sexual inadequacy. He fascinates me. What, I wonder, is at the root of his inability to take sexual pleasure? In fact, what is his sexual orientation? Until I saw him, I just assumed he was another heterosexual G-Man, clumsy and clueless, in need of considerable tuition to make him pleasing to my clients, male and female. What I found was a very different class of recruit. Someone locked inside a body that refuses to respond to stimuli, someone sexually blocked. I’ll enjoy unblocking him. What am I to make of his strange sexual ambiguity as well? He was certainly a virgin and clearly hasn’t lead a vigorous homosexual lifestyle, and yet… I’m getting ahead of myself, but I can’t help it. Imagine his horror, and the profound implications on his psyche, when he discovers that I can bring him to an orgasm that he cannot achieve by himself – when he finally realizes that in this place not even his own body is his to command. Delicious. I was right to eschew the files; unpeeling him layer by layer will be so much more exciting.  

A few hours are all he needs to recover and ponder. I return to the Delivery Room around the early hours of the morning when all the clients have been safely dispatched to rooms with their respective trainees. Fox – such an appropriate name – is lying still on the table. His limbs are long, and white in the dimly lit room, and he’s quiet. He isn’t sobbing, or in any obvious distress. I would have been called if he was – I keep my new recruits under observation at all times. Instead he is just lying where he was left, a little pool of semen mingled with blood smearing his ass and thighs. He isn’t sleeping though. He tenses when I come in, and lifts his head.  

"Ah, you’re awake, Agent Mulder."

"Did you seriously expect me to sleep?" He asks, still defiant.

"It would have been wise. You should sleep whenever you can – we do intend to put you to fairly vigorous use during your breaking, so you’ll need to recoup your physical energy whenever the opportunity presents itself."

"Why are you doing this?" His voice carries such abject despair that it’s heart-warming. I go to his head, gently stroke his hair, and am rewarded when he flinches. I merely continue fondling him, almost feeling the heat of his revulsion through his skin.

"I’m doing this because you need to be taken away from yourself, to start again, with a clean slate. I can give you that clean slate, Fox."

He stiffens at my use of his first name. "You don’t like your name? Or you don’t like me using it?" I ask him.

"Both," he says in a low, tense tone.

"Well I could call you something else – would that help? Agent Mulder is too formal for lovers, I think."

"What?" He chokes.

"Lovers," I purr, pressing my lips to the side of his face, and trailing them down the tear streaked skin. "That’s what we became earlier this evening. Our bodies were joined together."

"That was rape," he states flatly.

"No, my darling, it was a beautiful, delicious intimacy - the first of many - and there was an almost spiritual intensity to it," I murmur. I wet my index finger and thumb, reach under his chest, and gently pinch a nipple between them. "Surely you felt it too?"

"No, I fucking didn’t," he chokes, and I squeeze tight, causing him to tense in his bonds, a cry struggling for release from between his lips.

"We still haven’t resolved the problem of your name." I take the whip down from above the table and stroke his exposed body thoughtfully, raising goose bumps in the wake of my caress. "Did you have a nickname as a child?"

"I don’t fucking remember," he snaps, and my whip cracks down almost immediately over his exposed back. He sobs, gasping for breath. "I don’t remember," he repeats, in a soft, strangulated whisper.

"I’d like to call you by a name you’ve chosen yourself. A name you like." By giving him this choice, he’ll be able to pour all of himself into his new identity, and pretend this isn’t being done to him but to the entity he has chosen to bear his pain and humiliation. This gives me a weapon over him – when I come to the moment of breaking I’ll identify him so irrevocably with his pseudo-personality that the realization will throw him over the edge. Only he takes the wind out of my sails with his next words.

"Call me Mulder. That’s what everybody calls me."

"Even lovers?" I ask.

"I don’t have any lovers," he replies, flatly.

"Mulder is so formal."

"Then call me Fox if you must." His tone is weary. "Names don’t matter. I don’t give a fuck what you call me." And of course I’m forced to whip him again. He screams, his muscles twitching in pain, and when he lowers his head down on the table it’s a gesture of such despair and suffering that I have no choice but to turn his sweaty head and kiss his lips firmly. He gives a low growl, and tries to bite me, but I draw back, sensing his intent, and bring the whip down hard on his body once more. He moans in pain.

"Mulder, I’m going to clean you up. You’ve been lying in this urine, blood and semen for several hours. You look messy," I tell him bluntly.

"Oh, I’m sorry," he says in mock contrition, and then he flinches, expecting a blow from the whip that isn’t forthcoming.

"I like my recruits clean," I tell him, as I adjust the hose. Deciding that a little further discomfort is appropriate, I make sure that the temperature is freezing and then spray him with the water. He gasps, and his back arches as much as it can within his bonds. His flesh turns white, the livid red marks on his back and buttocks standing out pleasingly in contrast. I go slowly, taking great care to wash out his ass as thoroughly as I can, concentrating the spray there, and using my finger to wash inside him. His hair and face are stained with both sweat and tears, so I take some time washing those as well, and after initially turning his head gratefully to quench his raging thirst, he then starts to choke and shake his head to try to escape from the jet of water, but this is merely another indication that he must submit to my training methods and accept that he has lost control of himself.  

Finally, I dry him with a large towel, taking my time, caressing and fondling him. When I’ve finished I inspect his rectum. He’s red and sore, but there’s no real tearing to worry about – I resolve that he must be penetrated again while he’s in an appropriate condition to endure it. I am very careful about tearing as it interrupts the training process, so it’s a matter of professional pride to me to be able to get a penetration just right, and I certainly succeeded on this occasion.  

"All right, Mulder. I’m going to untie you from the table." But first I’m going to ensure his co-operation once he’s free. I fasten a belt around his waist, and attach his wrist cuffs to it, thus preventing him from hitting out. Then I undo his restraints and help him to sit up. He does this slowly, cautiously, and I know he’s feeling considerable discomfort. "Hush, Mulder. That’s it," I say encouragingly, as he hisses in pain. I place my hands on his shoulders and kiss his forehead softly, and he tries to lean away from me, but can’t escape. Then I undo the cage and binding around his cock, allowing his genitals to swing free, which is really very pleasing. "Now, you’ve been very brave, so it’s time for your reward."

"Don’t tell me, you’re letting me go," he says ironically, and I laugh.

"Not yet, no. You aren’t broken yet, Mulder. No, but I am going to take you to a place where there is no pain, and where you can say what you like without worrying about the whip. Come with me."

I attach a length of chain to the belt around his waist, and tug him off the table. He lands awkwardly, unable to see, and not yet able to trust me to lead him. His body has been tied and abused, and he’s in shock, so his muscles aren’t exactly lively either. I give him time to get used to the flow of blood in his legs, and then pull him slowly towards the door.

"You have to learn to trust me, Mulder," I tell him gently. "I promise that I will always lead you carefully and you will never have to be afraid to take the next step."

"Yeah. Right," he snorts, feeling the way with his foot, and I sigh, as if in profound disappointment.

"I mean it. While walking blindfolded, on the end of a chain, you’ll always be guided with utmost precision. You’ll have to allow yourself to trust me." My repetition of the word 'trust' is deliberate. "Now just relax and follow on behind."

He pointedly ignores my injunction, and continues to feel his way with his feet as we walk, but he’ll learn that it’s a waste of energy. I will always guide him safely. I walk him along the basement, up into the main part of the building, and along the carpeted floors to the salon. I guide him inside, and then instruct him to stand still, while I summon my dutymen to stand guard just inside the door, before dimming the light so that it won’t hurt his eyes. That accomplished, I turn back to my beautiful captive, and seat him in an armchair over at the far side of the room. Then I unclip his wrists from his belt, and remove his blindfold. I’ve played with his body – now it’s time to play with his mind.  

*****  

Mulder blinked in surprise as his blindfold was whisked away from his eyes. It took him several minutes to grow accustomed to the soft lighting, and then to take in the details of the room. He was sitting in a tastefully patterned, faintly worn, comfortable armchair. The room was decorated like something from a Victorian men’s club, complete with darkly elegant wallpaper, and plush, burgundy carpeting. There were paintings on the walls, including some that he was sure on closer inspection would prove to be originals and worth a considerable sum of money. Tall pot plants splayed fronds of green leaves against the walls. It was all neat and uncluttered and yet somehow also curiously fussy. Finally his eyes rested on the man sitting on the couch opposite, a couch positioned – deliberately he was sure – by the fire, blocking any of the heat from reaching Mulder.  

The man who sat there was older than he had expected. Exquisitely elegant, dressed in a pale blue shirt with a cravat tied at a precise angle around his scrawny neck. He was tall, and very thin, his fingernails immaculately manicured, his thick, lustrous white hair set with lacquer. But it was his eyes that drew Mulder. The man’s eyes were the most beautiful he had ever seen – deep blue, almost violet in hue, vivid, intense, and chillingly, shockingly cold. Like diamonds: beautiful and yet icily indifferent. Mulder took a sharp intake of breath at finding those dazzling, gleaming orbs fixed so purposefully on him. In another time and place it might have been flattering to be the object of such focused attention, but instead it made him shiver. That was when he became aware, with a wave of sickening humiliation, that his own nakedness was in stark contrast to the fact that the three other occupants of the room were fully dressed. Mulder felt his scrotum contract, as if trying to crawl back inside his body. He covered his genitals with his hands, almost instinctively, and then realized just how futile a gesture that was after the way he had been tied and raped earlier. The action had been almost reflexive, but it was also pointless. Mulder’s eyes flickered over to the two men by the door, and then back again, deeming them unimportant – mere thugs. The only person in this room he needed to worry about was the man sitting on the couch regarding him with such interest from those glittering, inhuman eyes. Mulder hurt. He knew that at some point he would have to deal with what had been so brutally done to him just a few hours earlier, but right now it was his very survival that was in question, and some part of his mind had taken over and was blocking out emotion, panic, and the implications of his own rape, and was just trying to keep him alive.  

"You must be hung