~ The Adversary ~
Part Two
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Beautiful pic by Mika Please read the warnings on Part One. It gets even worse for Mulder in this chapter. The
Adversary Charles pays me a visit later that afternoon. I have Emilia standing by but for the first time ever in our long acquaintance, it would seem that it is me he has come to visit and not any of the trainees. He looks a little the worse for wear – almost as if he’s been drinking as he’s ushered into my salon. I don’t like alcohol – I never touch the stuff myself. It dulls the senses and turns otherwise interesting, lively people into rambling idiots – or worse, self-pitying, morose bores. Charles can handle his liquor well but even so it’s obvious that he’s in a bad mood. I offer him a cigarette from my silver case, which he takes. I light it for him with a matching silver lighter, and he takes a drag as if he’s a drowning man. I dislike tobacco as well. It fills the body with pollution, just like all those cars outside in the street, spewing their filth into our lungs. It makes me shudder. "What can I do for you, Charles?" I ask him smoothly. He stares into the fire moodily. His shirt is undone at the collar, and his tie is slightly askew. "I want to know how you're progressing with Mulder," he says bluntly. I raise an eyebrow in surprise. "I’ve only had him for a couple of days. Progress is…satisfactory." I incline my head. "Is he broken yet?" He asks eagerly, and I’m afraid I laugh out loud. He turns his head to stare at me, unblinking, like a snake considering his prey, and my laugh dries in my throat. I must never forget what a very dangerous man he is. "No, of course not, Charles," I say in a conciliatory tone. "It can take days or even weeks to break someone – months sometimes, in the case of your delightful assistant for example." "Months!" He snaps. "We don’t have months. I don’t think you understand how dangerous this situation is, Laurence." "I wasn’t made aware of any danger," I reply in a soft voice. "What are you referring to, Charles?" "Mulder is an FBI agent – they’ll pull out all the stops looking for him. You might not have long, leisurely months to spend with him. He’s different – you knew that." "Yes I did. All the same I wasn’t made aware of any time limit when you gave him to me. You mentioned he had a week’s vacation…and he wouldn’t be missed until after then." "That’s right." "And I hardly think that anyone, not even the FBI, will dare to question the Syndicate – I thought you had people in place in high offices to prevent just that." "We do," Charles snaps. "But Mulder has friends, people who won’t take our orders. Agent Scully and Assistant Director Skinner are unlikely to just give up on him, even if ordered by the Director himself." "Ah. They’re fond of him." I can understand that. He’s very easy to be fond of. I frown, a thought occurring to me. "Agent Scully I can understand – she’s his partner and I’ve heard that these police people become very attached to their partners. It’s understandable really, working out in the field in life or death situations must make people become very close. However, Assistant Director Skinner is Mulder’s boss, isn’t he? Explain to me why he would risk his career for his subordinate." "I don’t know, but he’s done it before," Charles replies in an annoyed tone. "When I first met him I thought he was going to be easy to sit on – he’s a bureaucrat, with ambitions to climb the greasy pole. Unfortunately he showed an irritating tendency to want to think for himself." "Most regrettable," I murmur, pouring myself a glass of water and pondering this. "All this is in the files I gave you." Charles waves his hand in the direction of my desk, where Mulder’s files are still stacked, unread. I shrug, and take a sip of my drink. I have no intention of explaining the intricacies of my training techniques to this man. "How is he doing?" Charles asks unexpectedly. I raise an eyebrow. "Is he resisting?" Charles edges forward eagerly, his eyes alight with curiosity. He is not an unattractive man – in his youth I can imagine he was very attractive indeed. He’s very tall, very focused…in fact he reminds me a little of the man I have tied up in the Delivery Room right now. Both committed to their causes, both sharply intelligent, and there is even a certain similarity of looks. How intriguing. I gaze at Charles for a while, wondering what has been unsaid, and then resolve that whether I like it or not, those files might make interesting reading – but for entirely different reasons than he imagines. "Resisting? Yes, in his own way," I reply to his question, my mind still worrying away at this new little problem. "What the hell does that mean?" Charles asks. He isn’t a man who explodes. He just goes very quiet, and even more dangerous, like a snake about to strike its prey. "It means that he’s different. I knew he would be and he is. His idea of resistance is to try to out-think me, to try not to give too much away." "But he tried to escape?" Charles is looking at the bruise on my neck, and that gives me a flood of the most delicious warmth. I press my fingertips gingerly to the surface of the mark, surprised by how much I enjoy displaying it to him. "Yes, he made a futile little attempt to hold me hostage here. It failed, needless to say." "But he did try – he struggled, he kicked, and fought?" Charles’s interest in knowing the details is almost sickening. His eyes are glowing, and he’s utterly captivated by the notion of Fox Mulder resisting his breaking. "Yes." I nod pleasantly. It would take too long to explain the intricacies of it all to him. I don’t think he really has the kind of mind that would understand. "I’d like to see him," he says, taking the wind out of my sails completely. "I couldn’t allow that. The breaking process is very finely tuned and balanced. During this time it’s important that I’m his main focus and point of contact – I wouldn’t want him distracted." "I don’t want to talk to him," Charles says impatiently. "I want to see him - just to see him." He sounds very desperate. I wonder why he wants to see Mulder stretched out, naked, in pain. It’s intriguing. "Very well. I believe he’s sleeping right now. We’ll go down to the Observation Room and you can look at him." Charles nods, and takes another deep drag on his cigarette, as if it’s some kind of lifeline. I get to my feet and call ahead to the Observation Room that they should expect us. Then I open the door and usher Charles through, with a polite, false smile on my face. I’m rendered uneasy by this. It’s unexpected, and even apart from that this is my show. None of the Elite has ever interfered before, although there was that one occasion, when James delivered that young lady he was so enamored of, the one who’d refused his advances. Breaking her was delightful, but his constant need to know when she’d be ready was wearying. I think he was a little disconcerted when he did finally get to enjoy her, by how easily she also went to all the other Syndicate members. That’s the downside of the breaking process, of course. He wanted her to be broken just for him – and I could have done that, but it would have been a misuse of Syndicate facilities. All the trainees are shared – that’s one of the ways of avoiding petty jealousies and squabbles of the kind that can ruin even the most self-disciplined of organizations. Charles doesn’t say a word during our walk to the basement, but his shoulders are more hunched than usual. I really wish he’d straighten up, and walk tall and proud – I hate slovenliness, and bearing is so important to the impression a person makes. I’ve often had to drum that message home to my newly broken trainees. We reach the Observation Room and I unlock the door – it’s always kept locked, even when it’s occupied. The dutyman inside gets to his feet and stands at attention, and Charles and I take up residence in the two armchairs. "How is he?" I ask the dutyman. He shrugs. "Talking to himself mainly, and humming," he says. "Oh really? Anything interesting?" I glance through the window but the Delivery Room is in darkness and I can just barely make out the outline of Mulder’s body on the table. "The humming or the talking?" The dutyman asks nervously. They do so hate riling me up, and they know how very precise I am. "Either," I chuckle. "Well, the talking was mostly something about wanting to sleep. Sounded like he was having an argument with himself about it. The humming was driving me crazy so I’m glad he won the sleep argument," he grins. "How amusing," I glance at Charles and smile. "I can’t see him," Charles says in a low, urgent tone. He isn’t like me. He doesn’t understand that it’s more interesting to have a context, which is why I asked the dutyman for an update before viewing Mulder. "We’ll turn the lights up." I reach out and slide a switch on the control panel, and the lights in the Delivery Room brighten. Not too much – I’d prefer not to wake him if he is sleeping, and even beneath the blindfold he might sense a change in the lighting. Finally he’s revealed in all his glory. Charles takes a sharp intake of breath. Mulder is lying where I left him – he has no choice because he’s tied too tightly to move. His open legs are directly in front of us, the flesh of his inner thighs looking particularly raw and red but otherwise he’s fairly unmarked from this angle since he’s lying on his back. "What’s been done to him?" Charles asks in a low, strangulated tone. "Well he’s been penetrated of course. Several times. And beaten." "On his thighs?" Charles looks a little green around the gills. "Yes. It’s a very painful area. He’s in considerable pain right now. It’s necessary at the beginning." "What else?" Charles asks. "Nothing else," I reply in surprise. What on earth was he expecting? "He and I have had some cozy fireside chats though. He’s a very interesting man." "What has he told you?" Charles fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette, and I get there first, offering him my little silver case. "A good deal – but we’ve only just begun. He has a lot more to say." "Does he speak of his mother at all?" Charles asks. What an intriguing question. I glance at him, framed as he is in the outline of cigarette smoke. "Not to any great extent yet. He will. Is there anything in particular I should be asking?" I put my head to one side and consider him. He swallows, and shakes his head. "No. I just wondered. What about his father?" It was just a little too casual, a little too throwaway, the inflection a little too high. It’s the one question he has wanted to ask since arriving here, and he’s just dropped it in where he thought I wouldn’t notice it, but I always notice. It’s my job. "No, although I sense something there." I sit back and watch him expectantly. "I knew his father. Bill Mulder…" His voice trails off. "A good man. One of our best." "Which is why you sent your assistant to kill him," I smile. He looks at me sharply. "Oh, Alex told me when he was last here. He told me everything. You did send him for Remedial Treatment after all, and it’s necessary to get them to talk during such sessions to see where their training might have gone wrong. You know that nothing goes beyond these four walls. I’m the soul of discretion." "Yes, you are," he mutters, stubbing out his cigarette as if he wishes the ashtray was my face. "Bill Mulder was having second thoughts. He was becoming a danger to all of us. It was necessary." "You don’t have to explain anything to me." I shrug. "I only concern myself with my recruits and trainees – I leave the important work to people like you, Charles, people who understand and are prepared to make the tough choices and perform the hard tasks so that I don’t have to." He gives a slight grunt. "Did Mulder have an easy relationship with his father?" I ask, offering him another cigarette. He takes it, and lights it. Only an expert would notice the slight shaking of his hand as he looks at the man lying motionless on the table in the next room, like a dead body on a slab, his genitalia and ass so humiliatingly on display. I am an expert. "No. They weren’t close. I used to visit the family…Bill was besotted with his daughter. She was a real daddy’s girl. Mulder wasn’t exactly…" He shrugs, and his eyes narrow. "I don’t think Bill really knew what to make of his son. His little girl, Samantha, was the spitting image of him; very dark hair, the same shaped face. Mulder, well, he always was different. You’ve spoken to him. You know how he can be." "I’m finding him delightful. You know…" I'm taking a wild guess, feeling a spark of excitement running through my veins. "I’m surprised his father didn’t appreciate him. He’s a fine man. You’d think any man would be proud to have such a son." There it is. Just a slight tautening of his jaw, and a flick of his finger on the cigarette he is clutching. He makes no reply, but his expression is bleak. Ash builds up on the cigarette as he sits motionless, gazing at the violated young man in the next room. I smile to myself. Oh, how interesting. What kind of man would offer up his own son to this kind of torture? And you have the audacity to ask me how I sleep at night, Charles? I wonder at his motivation. I had already surmised that he had invested a great deal of himself in Mulder’s breaking process. He’s identified himself with his son, and one part of him wishes to be proud of the boy’s defiance. He likes to think that comes from him – that his son has inherited his own strength. Another part of him wants the boy to be broken, and made to show the deference and respect to his father that Charles could never claim by right of birth because, for whatever reason, he could not tell the boy the true nature of his parentage. This way he gets the respect without the paternal obligations that go with it. This is a darker and more complex manifestation of what I call 'old stag' syndrome. The young stag has locked horns with his father, and the older combatant refuses to give way. One of them must emerge the victor, and Charles is not a man who likes to lose – even to the extent of offering his boy up to this. Ah, the human heart in all its glorious complexity is a wondrous thing indeed! Mulder is silent. He might very well be sleeping, or dozing at least – perhaps dreaming of his handsome young lawyer of so many years ago. I must say that whole love affair intrigues me. In particular the difficulty he has in using the memory to masturbate. As he said, the affair was a long time ago, so why should it be so painful in the here and now? I could understand it if the object of his affection was still around, serving as a reminder of what he had once had but which was now forever out of reach…I can understand why that would make it painful…hmm. I can see more work must be done on this topic. "I want you to speed the process up." Charles gets to his feet, signaling that the meeting is drawing to an end, and I shadow his movement, rising myself. "I want him broken quickly." He looks away from the sight in the Delivery Room. I think he might even be a little sickened by what he’s done. He’s like a small boy with an insect that he thought would be fun to kill – only the insect keeps on crawling, refusing to die, and now instead of being intrigued by the process, he just wants it over so that it doesn’t keep reminding him what a bastard he is. "I can’t." I shrug. "It takes as long as it takes. I can’t speed it up." His face twists angrily, but he does at least accept that I’m telling him the truth. "The other members of the Elite wish to…" He pauses, his Adam's apple betraying an inner conflict, "they want him brought to our offices to entertain. They want him available. Several of them have expressed an interest – he’s pissed many of them off over the years." It’s common practice for a new trainee to be sent over to the Syndicate’s main building for recreational purposes. It’s an important part of their training to be introduced to their duties in such an environment. When the Syndicate is having a big meeting I’ll often send over as many as two dozen. When the talking is over, the Elite like to unwind in a willing mouth, pussy, or ass. There are usually two or three trainees over there at any one time just to be on hand should one of the Elite require some sexual relief. They mainly prefer to visit here of course, where they can be assured good food, a private room, and their pick of the trainees on offer, but I make sure there’s always at least one boy and one girl over at the main building for executive stress relief, day and night. That’s trainees though – not unbroken recruits. The latter can’t be trusted out of my immediate supervision at any point during the breaking process. "I’ll bring him when he’s broken." "They might not be prepared to wait," Charles says implacably in that slow drawl. "If I send him before then his responses might be…unpredictable. We might be able to get him to the stage where he at least doesn’t fight, but if he isn’t broken it’s unlikely he’ll collude to the extent of giving pleasure without my presence. He’ll require constant threats and encouragement and I’m the only one he’ll respond to before he’s broken." "Then you can bring him," Charles orders imperiously, a glint of malice in those silvery hazel eyes. He grins, nastily, clearly having got the measure of me, then gestures impatiently to the dutyman to unlock the door, and, with one last glance at his son, sweeps out of the room. I remain behind, watching his back as he goes, my heart plummeting to my shoes. Damn him! I clench my fists, and feel my chest tighten. It’s all I can do to slump back into the armchair in order to regain my composure. A trip outside…how I hate going outside. I glance at the man sprawled out on the table in the other room. It would seem that the stakes in our little game have been raised, and he doesn’t even realize it. Poor boy. Poor dear boy. If I’m to avoid a trip away from the salon then I must break him and send him alone. If I cannot, then I will have no choice but to accompany him out into the big bad world. How extremely unpleasant for all concerned. It is impossible for me to take my afternoon nap in the circumstances, and with the game altered thus I decide I might as well pile on some more pressure. It’s a little less calculated than I had hoped for, but he won’t know that. I nod to the dutyman to continue his observation, and unlock the door to the Delivery Room. Mulder must be asleep because he makes no move. I cross over to where he is lying and gaze at him for a while. He looks so very young when he’s asleep. Even bound, his body has a kind of exotic grace. I have more or less dispensed with the cock cage - he shows little sign of becoming aroused without considerable coercion. It's a problem we'll work on together, and I'm sure that the cock cage will come in useful again when we release his inhibitions. I unfasten his blindfold but he doesn’t wake. He’s exhausted, poor lamb. Looking at him now, I wonder that I didn’t realize earlier who his father is. He looks very much like Charles. I’m almost certain that he doesn’t know the true nature of his parentage as well, which gives me an important weapon to hold over him and which might well speed the breaking. Damn, but I wanted to go slowly! I wanted to break him with infinite care, and attention. I wanted to give him rest, and time, wanted to savor the full brilliance of his sparkling mind, but now I have been robbed of that. However, there still may be more time than Charles imagines. I cannot believe that this Skinner will really have the audacity to beard the dragon in his own lair, so to speak. Even if he suspects our involvement in Mulder’s abduction, he will be stonewalled at every turn, and fed enough misinformation to keep him searching for months. We’re good at that. No, this unnecessary haste merely boils down to certain members of the Elite being desperate to get their hands on Mulder’s fine ass, and while I can both understand and sympathize with that, they’ll find it a lot more enjoyable to pump into a willing, acquiescent, subdued body than one that is spitting and fighting them all the way – especially when that body belongs to one of their oldest enemies. Short sighted idiots! It will be all the sweeter to drink from a submissive cup and know that a thorn in their side has been well and truly plucked. Well, I will just have to do the best I can. I stroke Mulder’s face lovingly until he comes to, blearily, and blinks at me. "Wha…?" He screws up his eyes. "Time to wake up, dear boy," I whisper softly. "You said you’d let me sleep," he moans accusingly. "You promised. You said you’d let me sleep." "And I have. You’ve had three hours. That’s more than enough." I stroke his face again, my other hand fondling his nipples, watching as the stimulus brings him fully awake. "Need more," he mutters petulantly. "More isn’t on offer." I fasten his hands to his belt, attach the chain to it, and then release him from the table and drag him to his feet. He’s slow, a dead weight on the end of the chain, and in pain from the chafing of his thighs as he tries to walk. He also has a thick layer of stubble on his chin, which really is most unattractive. He smells a little as well. "I’m going to give you a choice. A cold hose down here, or a nice warm bath with me - which would you prefer?" I ask him. "Oh, decisions, decisions," he says in a mocking tone. "You know what, old man, I think I’ll go for the cold hose down." Such delicious defiance! I reach for his whip, and his eyes widen. It’s the work of a few minutes to have him writhing and sobbing on the floor under the lash. "Let’s try again shall we?" I crouch down beside him, and pick up the chain again. "The cold hose down, or the warm bath? If you choose the former I’ll be extremely rough, if the latter then very gentle. If you choose the latter I’ll also dress your sores, and apply cream. You’ll be allowed a painkiller. If you opt for the cold hose down you will receive none of these. If you choose the bath, I’ll get in with you, naked, and I’ll play with you – you’ll submit with every indication of acquiescence and pleasure. What is your choice?" "The hose," he says immediately, his expressive hazel eyes never leaving my face. "I’m not very good at acting. I don’t think I could feign the degree of ‘acquiescence and pleasure’ that you require." "You’ll soon learn," I tell him, bending him roughly over the table, and tying him down where he stands. A cursory examination reveals that he’s healing inside. I unhook the hose and check that the temperature is cold before spraying him with it, dousing his head deliberately in the flow so that he can barely breathe. He’s panting and gasping before I turn the hose on his body, and he makes whimpering noises as I spray the water over his sore flesh. Finally I stick the nozzle into his anus, holding it there, so he cries out and struggles against me. When I finish he tries to squat, but can’t because he’s tied. I leave him shivering and tied over the table, and fetch the pot, guiding him onto it. He’s never seen me watching him urinate and defecate before, and his skin is flushed but he has no choice but to obey the needs of his body. I stand over him the entire time, much to his obvious chagrin. As soon as he’s done, I praise him for his performance, and pet him briefly as a reward, before I tie him to the bar, and apply shaving foam to his face. I shave him very slowly and carefully, holding his head as I work. He looks at the razor, and I know he’s considering jerking his head and trying to sever an artery on the blade, but he isn’t suicidal just yet; it’s clear from the expression in his eyes that he’s decided to save that thought for another, more desperate time. When he’s been cleanly shaved, I hose him again, front and back, all over his body and face, with the spray set on ‘high’. This hits him hard, and if I hold the hose in the same place for long enough it hurts – especially where he has been whipped. I go slowly, drawing out the agony, and by the time I’ve finished, the shower has taken an hour from beginning to end, and his teeth are chattering, his lips tinged a pale blue. He’s hanging by his wrists from the bar, his legs lifeless. "Next time, maybe you’ll see the wisdom of choosing the bath," I tell him harshly, taking a fistful of his hair, drawing his head back and kissing his lips savagely, biting down on the one I opened earlier until I taste blood. I release him with a nonchalant toss of his head and it flops back and then forwards, and hangs down between his shoulders. I circle him, enjoying the view. He’s very pale, and the red marks of the whipping stand out on his back and buttocks, and on the inside of his thighs. Poor dear boy; the bath would have been so much more fun. I pick up the whip again, and he regards me with wide-eyed apprehension. I smash it against his chest, and he screams, then curses himself for his uninhibited response, and tries to regain his composure. A whipping on wet skin is always particularly painful. I can see that he’s shocked that I’m whipping the front of his body, but there’s no part of him that I won’t whip, as he’ll find out in time. "You seem angry, Laurence," he says, in that drawling, almost inflectionless voice. Amazing how like Charles he can be. "Either you must have really been looking forward to that bath or someone else has pissed you off. I don’t think I’ve done anything to make you this angry." I pause in my next stroke, and give it some consideration. Is that true? Have I allowed Charles to rile me to the extent where I’m no longer thinking, coolly or rationally? No, of course not. I’m a professional, and he’s just one more soul to be broken. "On the contrary, Mulder. I’m simply applying what it is necessary for you to receive. There’s no emotion involved – if anything I’m a little bored, but it’s in your best interests to experience the lash as frequently as possible, so it’s a tedious little duty that I have no choice but to perform." "Oh please, don’t put yourself out on my account," he says, and I smile, and raise the whip, bringing it down hard across the front of his thighs. His scream is music to my ears. "Oh, it’s no trouble," I murmur, soothing him with one hand as I draw back with the other to deliver the next stroke. "No trouble at all." It’s a harsh whipping. He refused my request to bathe, but I’m determined to make him subdued, biddable, and quiescent for our tete a tete in the salon. He’s gasping for air by the time I’m done, tears running down his face. "Oh dear. You’re all sweaty again. Time for another shower I think." I lift the hose and spray him again until he’s cooled down, and then leave him hanging there. "You'll be escorted to the salon shortly," I inform him. "You might like to give some thought to how co-operative you intend to be. If you’re not talkative then I’ll bring you straight back down and whip you again. Think about it. Personally I think you’re in no condition to take another whipping, but it’s entirely your choice." "You’re too kind, Laurence. A total gentleman," he murmurs, his defiance becoming more and more uninhibited as the pain levels increase. This is often the case – at first people think they can hide their stubbornness, but when you take them down to their basic core, it’s clear what is an act, and what is real. He is really digging his heels in – and he’s hanging on to his self-esteem by a thread. "I am kind, dear boy, very kind, and please do try and remember to call me ‘sir’. It will be so much easier for you if you do." The slap of my hand across his jaw is much more intimate than the whip. I enjoy it so much that I slap him again, higher up, across the cheekbone, and his skin reddens most pleasingly, splitting a little under the force of the blow. I draw his sopping, freezing body close, and tenderly kiss the marks I’ve just made, and then I leave him hanging there, and wander along to the kitchens to see what the chef has prepared. All this physical exertion has made me a little peckish. I retire to my lair with a plate of food, and flick idly through Mulder’s files. I don’t want to know everything, just a few bits and pieces. Charles’s visit has rather intrigued me. I have the dutymen bring Mulder up a couple of hours later. He’s clearly waning – they untie him, remove his blindfold, and drop him in the middle of the room, where he sinks to his knees, unable to stand. One of his eyes is half closed from swelling caused by my blow to his upper cheek – I hadn’t realized I’d hit him so hard but there’s a nasty bruise, and a cut that’s oozing blood. I must say that it gives him a very attractive quality; like a boxer who has been hurt in a fight. I like that look. "Bruises suit you, Mulder," I murmur, placing one finger under his chin and lifting his head to view them more clearly. I turn his face to the light and he flinches as I run a finger over the bruise. "See what defiance gets you?" I ask him but he has no response. He’s shivering badly, his body going into shock from cold and the beating. "Where do you want to sit for our chat?" I inquire. "Here, beside me, or in your usual chair." He looks at me from behind that half closed eye, and then, slowly, with as much dignity as he can muster, he gets up and walks pointedly to the chair. "I’d rather sit with a boa constrictor," he says, as if the point needed any further laboring. "Sir." I can’t help but laugh out loud. This is a Mulder who is very easy to love. I said that pain peels back the layers, and takes us to our most basic selves. And Mulder, at his most basic, is stubborn, smart, and wildly independent. He’s also self-destructive. "Please do eat - the food is delicious. The chef has quite excelled himself," I inform him, nodding at the bowl of soup and slices of bread beside his chair. "What is this? Lunch? Supper?" he asks. He has no idea what time it is so I could easily lie to him, and I expect I will at some point, but not at this moment in time. "Supper," I tell him with a smile. It’s late in the evening, and it’s been a long, and tiring day, but now that the pressure is on I see no reason to let up on him. I might manage a breakthrough by hounding him for the next few hours. He looks at the soup for a moment, and then slowly lifts the bowl, and sniffs it. "Leek and potato. Delicious." I take a spoonful myself, blowing on it to cool it down. He picks up a slice of bread and dunks it eagerly into the soup, and then eats. He’s clearly made up his mind not to starve himself as promised yesterday. That’s a very wise decision. I do hate it when my recruits opt for hunger strikes. If they’re stubborn enough it can take all the fun out of breaking them as it becomes a race against time whether I break them first or they faint away from malnutrition. Of course once they’re broken they eat, without complaint. I even served up one recruit’s most hated foods every mealtime for a week and ordered her to eat them just to reinforce the message of her breaking. It was a singularly successful strategy. She ate without complaint, and finished everything I gave her, even though she looked a little ill afterwards, and retched once or twice. Mulder eats, and you can almost see the soup visibly restoring his strength. He really is looking battered this evening, and his skin is almost translucently pale. The soup has warmed him a little but he’s still cold. The hairs on his skin are standing upright and he’s covered in goose bumps. If he continues to sit over at the far side of the room then it won’t be long before he starts to shiver, and his teeth start to chatter. That’s all to the good. I’ll have him sitting next to me before too long. I’m looking forward to it. "So, what do you want to talk about this evening?" I ask him. "How about sleep?" He offers facetiously. Sometimes I wonder if he’s learned what is and is not appropriate behavior in the salon. "You can sleep later. Now I want to talk. I was rather hoping for a nice long cozy session." I snuggle into the recesses of the couch, and watch him. "I feel as if I’ve been talking for days," he whispers. "What else is there to say?" "Oh, a great deal. We’ve hardly begun really." "How long have I been here?" The action of eating has opened the little cut on his lip, and a drop of blood drips into his soup. He stares at the tiny red droplet as it mingles with the yellow of the soup and finally dissipates. "Not as long as you think. Time loses meaning, doesn’t it? I expect it seems like several days to you. Maybe you even think that the week is up, and your friends will be searching for you soon, but I’m afraid there are several days yet before that happens." "My friends?" He moistens his lips with his tongue, and then picks up the soup-spoon and stirs his food. "Yes. You never did answer my question. Who do you want to rescue you? Agent Scully maybe? Or Assistant Director Skinner?" His head jerks up at that last question and I smile, blandly at him. His eyes flash with annoyance as he realizes that he’s given something away – but what? "Right now I’d settle for the superintendent of my apartment block showing up on a white horse," he parries. "Anything to get away from you, Laurence." "Tell me about your father." I shoot the question at him and watch his reaction to the unexpected path the conversation has taken. "What’s to tell? He and I weren’t close." "Why is that?" "I don’t know. He was busy. He had to work. He didn’t have much time for me." Mulder shrugs, endearingly. "But he had time for your sister, didn’t he?" Mulder stiffens, and his face is drawn with pain – emotional this time, not physical. "She was cute. Everyone had time for Sam." "Except you," I guess, accurately I suspect. He swallows hard, considering his answer, but I’ve touched a nerve. "I loved her," he whispers at last. He concentrates on his soup, as if he thinks he’s immune from questioning while he eats. He isn’t. "Yes but you resented her as well, didn’t you? You couldn’t figure out why your father loved her so much more than he seemed to love you." "That’s not true." His protest sounds false, and hollow. "No lies in this room please, Mulder, or I’ll draw this meeting to an end, take you back downstairs, and administer the punishment you know you deserve." He’s silent. "You do know you deserve punishment, don’t you, Mulder?" "For what?" He mutters sullenly, for all the world like a sulky teenager. "For so many things, beginning with the fact that you were unkind to your sister." "I wasn’t." He drops his head, and raises a spoonful of soup to his mouth, his fingers trembling. "Yes you were. You resented your father’s affection for her so you used to snipe at her when nobody was watching. Just little things. A word here or there to dent her confidence, a tug on her braids." "We squabbled. We were no different to most brothers and sisters." He shrugs, but I note that he’s unable to swallow the mouthful of soup pressed to his lips. The spoon just hangs there, quivering in time to his shaking fingers until most of the fluid has dropped back into the bowl. "But you were unhappy and you teased her more than most brothers would because of that fact," I tell him, sure of my ground. He rallies, and tries to sit up straight in his chair. "We were just normal kids. We argued occasionally." He slurps on his soup, and resumes eating, trying to cover the fact that my questions have unsettled him. "Your father was a cold man." "No." He gulps the soup down as if he’s desperate to get it into his body before I ask him something else that might distress him. "Not to your sister, or even your mother, but he was cold to you." "NO!" He bangs down his empty bowl with a thud, and the spoon goes flying into the air. We both watch it arc gracefully across the room and land by the fire. "You tried very hard to impress him. You always got the best grades at school, you studied hard, you were good at sports, but nothing ever made him proud, did it – nothing you did at least." A flicker of pain crosses over his face. He’s starting to shiver, as I predicted. "He didn’t love you, Mulder," I tell him. It’s very probably the truth. Bill Mulder must have known he was raising Charles’s son – for whatever reason. Samantha was almost certainly his own flesh and blood but my poor dear Fox was not. "He wasn’t very good at showing his emotions," Mulder corrects me in an unsteady voice. "Men of his generation – your generation," he adds pointedly, "generally aren’t very good at that. It doesn’t mean he didn’t love me." "Although he had no problem showing his affection for your sister," I point out. "She was a girl. It was easier for him," he mumbles, grasping for straws, and knowing it. "No, he just didn’t love you," I correct him. "Why wouldn’t he?" He asks. "I tried…very hard. Why wouldn’t he love me?" "I think you know the answer to that, Mulder," I tell him gently. He looks up at me, with one open hazel eye, and one half closed. He looks like some small woodland creature, shyly peeping out. His whole body seems to have shrunk under this line of questioning. "No, I don’t. But you clearly think you do," he whispers. "Yes, and I suspect you’ve wondered as well. You’re too smart not to have wondered. Did you ever ask your mother?" "Ask her what?" He snaps, clenching his fists. "Ah, I see you have. What was her reply? Did she tell you the name of your real father?" "He was my father. He was the man who brought me up. He took me out in the woods, showed me how to make camp fires." "He went through the motions. Maybe he was even fond of you. But you weren’t his son, and he didn’t love you." He bows his head, struggling with the tears, and shivering convulsively. "He was a good man. He tried to love you, but he failed." "No." His voice is a whisper. "Is that what attracted you to your lawyer? Are you drawn to father figures, Mulder?" "He wasn’t that much older than me. Not a father figure." "Come now. Semantics again. Your lawyer was older than you, and he had a good job. He had the aura of success that surrounded your own father. He was sure of himself, strong, and capable. You’ve told me about large hands, and a broad chest. You were attracted to his strength." "Not just that. He was a good person, and he loved me." "And that filled a void, didn’t it? He loved you in a way your father didn’t – couldn’t - because he wasn’t really your father." He’s trembling at full force now, his whole body shaking. "You’re cold; come and sit by the fire." I pat the couch next to me, and he gazes at me warily but his teeth are chattering, and he must know his condition will deteriorate if he doesn’t come close to the fire. "You can’t talk when you’re so cold, and if you can’t talk then we must go back downstairs," I tell him pointedly. He takes a ragged intake of breath, and weighs it up, agonizingly, in his mind. Finally, he gets up, and takes a step towards me, and then another. He’s slow – his legs are sore, and he’s weak from lack of sleep and food, to say nothing of the trauma his body has undergone these past few days. He staggers to the couch, and perches, gingerly, by the fire, pointedly not touching me. "You poor unloved boy. What a difficult childhood, growing up in such a house." I put my hand on his naked shoulder, and rub, tenderly. "How you must have longed for strong arms around you, for the comfort of a father’s love." He’s staring into the fire, soaking up the warmth, and his body is responding to my touch, the hard, tense muscles loosening as he stops shivering. "Don’t touch me," he says in a low, intense tone. "I’m afraid that if you sit here then you must tolerate me touching you," I tell him with a little laugh, gently stroking his hair. "Please, by all means return to your armchair if you wish though." "I’ll fucking hit you if you touch me," he snarls. "Well you could, but then my dutymen would be forced to overpower you, take you downstairs, and beat you senseless. I expect we’d have to penetrate you as well, as part of your punishment." He rests his head on his arms, not responding. "Silence isn’t allowed in here," I remind him softly. "Tell me about your sister." "I loved her." He raises his head and looks at me desperately, as if it’s important that I believe him. "I’m sure you did." I fondle his shoulder, tracing the line of a welt down to his waist. He gulps a sharp intake of breath but doesn’t protest. "But maybe you were just the teeniest bit pleased she was taken away from you? Maybe you thought that now your father would have to love you, with your sister out of the way." "No." Almost silent. "You were 12 years old. It would have been understandable. Was he angry with you that she had been taken? You were supposed to be looking after her I believe?" "Someone’s been doing his homework," he sneers, and his eyes flicker to the files on my desk. He has already surmised what they are. "You make a fascinating study. Quite the most fascinating study we’ve had in here since…" I smile to myself, remembering the joys of breaking Charles’s beautiful green-eyed assistant. "Since?" Mulder questions. "Since I broke Alex." I reach for my glass of water. "He was extremely enjoyable. Up until you he was the high point of my career." "Alex." He repeats the name blankly, and then some kind of recognition enters those hazel eyes. "Alex," he murmurs again. "You did this to Alex Krycek?" "You know him of course. He told me about you when he was last here. Yes, I broke him. He was very stubborn and almost distractingly beautiful when he suffered. He didn’t suffer quite as well as you though. You take suffering to sublime heights, dear boy." He sits, ruminating on this for a moment, while I place both my hands on his shoulders, and stroke them. He submits to this, so I take it a step further, and pull him back against my chest. His body is still cold, and although he’s stiff, he comes, unresisting. In fact, he surprises me by resting his head against my shoulder, and allowing me to pet him. I kiss the back of his neck. "There, see, that’s what you wanted. That’s what you needed," I croon, delighting in this new evidence of trust. He’s quite still beneath my hands. "Tell me about Alex," he asks in a low voice. It’s so good having him here like this that I don’t want to disturb him by returning the conversation to his father. I decide to indulge him for a moment or two, to lull him further into a sense of security with me. "Alex was barely 19 when he was first brought here. He was orphaned when he was 15 and lived rough on the streets for a while. There was nobody to miss him – he was ripe for the plucking." "Another virgin?" Mulder whispers. "Sadly, no. His years on the streets had mainly been spent in prostitution. He was such a spitfire." I chuckle at the memory. "Did you enjoy breaking him?" Mulder asks, his head heavy and relaxed on my shoulder. "Oh yes. I enjoyed it very much," I whisper, nuzzling his hair. "It took some time, and occasionally he is still returned to me for a little correction, which I'm always happy to give him. He's another lost soul who hasn’t been loved enough, just like you, Mulder. I was happy to welcome him into my heart, and take care of him. He was looking for a father figure just like you, in a way. A pair of strong arms to comfort, and hold him. Wouldn’t you like to be held, Mulder? To be comforted? I can do that for you. You’re tired, and you ache. I could soothe you. Wouldn’t you like that? Yes?" His eyes are hungry with need, and he struggles with himself for a moment. "There’s no pain here, in my arms. You can rest. Nobody will hurt you. You want peace don’t you, Mulder? You just want to be held, and loved, but you won’t let anybody do that for you. I could do it. Let me take care of you, dear boy. Come into my arms." "You won’t hurt me?" He asks in a whisper. "No, I’ll just hold you, and take care of you, the way your father couldn’t. Come on." I push him forward and he turns, and then slowly, and very deliberately, lies down, places his head on my lap, and looks up at me with an expression of absolute trust in those hazel eyes. It’s adorable. I wrap my arms around him and hug him close, delighting in the moment. His eyes are also misty with tears. It’s so beautiful I could stay this way forever. "How long did it take you to break Alex?" He asks. "A little while," I admit. "He was a very difficult boy – not in the same way you are. You’re just skittish, and your mind makes too many of your decisions. You should trust your heart more. Alex is the opposite. He roars from emotion to emotion. Your mind needs to be more still. It distracts you from getting what you want, what you need." "Which is?" His lips are so beautiful that I have to touch them with my fingers. "Love. Affection. Now you have no choice but to accept those things. I’ll make you accept them," I croon. "After you broke Alex, did you still love him?" He asks, in a dreamy tone. "Of course. I love every single one of my recruits," I reply with a smile. "Where do they go when you’ve broken them?" "They stay in the lounge for a while, serving clients. As they grow older, if they show initiative, or attract the patronage of one of the Elite, they can actually progress to becoming operatives in their own right. That’s what Alex did." "I see. Did you miss him when he was gone?" "Not really. There are always new recruits to break and train." "So the breaking is the only part you really enjoy?" "It’s my job." "Don't you find their unquestioning love and obedience just a little tiring? Maybe even boring? There must be something so challenging about figuring out someone’s weaknesses, and bending them to your will, but then when that's done…it’s an anti-climax – kind of like the day after Christmas." I look down on him sharply, but he’s still got that faraway look in his eyes as if he isn’t really concentrating. I wonder if there's more going on here than meets the eye. He's asking the questions, and I've been happy to go along with that for now, since we're just getting intimate but I think the time has come to break it up a little and return the discussion to him. He distracts me just as I'm thinking this by reaching up and touching my neck, and I’m astonished – I hadn’t expected such an overt display of affection so soon. Usually that only comes after breaking. His fingers find the bruise he gave me yesterday. "I hurt you. I’m sorry," he whispers. "Did it feel good though, Laurence? Do you also enjoy being wrapped in a pair of strong arms? Being overpowered, and helpless? You’re always so in control. Wouldn’t it be nice to just let go…or are you too afraid? Too afraid that nobody will love you, or want you – afraid that you can only get what you need by violence, and coercion. Do you know, deep in your heart, that you’re unlovable, Laurence? That only by breaking people can you get any affection, and when you get that affection you know it’s worthless, because it was all of your own making. Is that it, Laurence? Is it? Is that why you have so little interest in your recruits once they're broken when you profess to love them so much?" I’m nursing a viper in my lap. He fooled me, lulled me into a false sense of security with his deceitful displays of trust. He’s been lying to me, accepting my caresses but waiting like a fox in the night to steal from me when my back is turned. My fingers close around his neck, and he’s laughing at me, those hazel eyes alight with the power of knowledge. "You can rape me, Laurence, and you can hurt me, but really you just want me to love you of my own free will and you know I never will. You know this is the only way." I place a hand over his mouth where he lies in my lap, shutting out the sound of that spiteful voice speaking such vicious lies. "It’s a pretty mouth, Mulder," I hiss, one hand holding him down, while I keep the other firmly across his lips. "And I think I know a way to keep it better occupied." I’m aroused by the fear I see reflected all too clearly in his good eye. He’s goaded me too much, and he’ll suffer for it in a uniquely appropriate way. "Take him back down," I order the dutymen, pushing him off my lap like the dangerous, wild animal he is. He lands awkwardly on the floor, and they grab him, quickly fastening his hands to his side. "Does the truth hurt, Laurence?" He asks. "No, but what I’m about to do to you next will," I promise, and he smiles in triumph as they blindfold him, and drag him away. I have to stay behind to compose myself. I pour a glass of water and down it in one gulp. Damn, but he’s clever. I knew he was, but I shouldn’t have been seduced by his lies, and taken in by his displays of tamed behavior. He’s as vicious, feral, and unprincipled as his namesake fox, and every bit as cunning. Still, he’s in my power, and I’ll make sure he suffers for his words. That pretty mouth will pay for the lies it just told. ***** Mulder's feet barely touched the ground as he was dragged back to his room. He knew, deep inside, that he was about to pay for what he'd said and done, but he didn't regret it for a second - it felt good knowing that Laurence had a weakness, and he was sure, judging by the other man's reaction, that he had hit some kind of raw nerve. The difficulty would be in exploiting and exploring that without paying too high a price for the knowledge. Somehow he had a feeling that was going to be a very real difficulty. When the guards threw him back into his room, they unfastened his hands, only to tie them again immediately - behind his back this time. He was forced down onto his knees, and the manacles were then tied to the wall behind him, leaving Mulder immobile. His knees hurt on the stone surface and he wondered how long he'd be tied in this position. He had lost the ability to follow the track of time, but it felt like an eon, although it was probably only a few hours, maybe even less, before he heard the door opening, and footsteps crossing the room to where he knelt. A finger lifted his bowed head and he looked up into the darkness of his blindfold. He knew it was Laurence though - the other man's scent was becoming as familiar to him as his own. "That was foolish," Laurence said in a soft, sibilant whisper. Mulder shuddered. "And more than that it was hurtful. You've upset me." Mulder gave a short, bitter bark of laughter. "I'm so sorry," he replied, without remorse. "You're not, but you will be." Laurence sounded different. The voice was still urbane, but some of the teasing had gone from the tone, to be replaced by a flat, ruthless inflection that made Mulder's stomach churn. "I had so hoped not to put you through this, especially at this early stage of our intimacy, but I can see that it's necessary. It's a shame, as I had no wish to share you so liberally with others before I got to know you properly myself, but punishment is required - as is a period of reflection. I'll provide you with both at the same time. First though…" Mulder felt fingers press against his lips, caressing them. "First we must punish this mouth of yours. Who would have thought something so sultry, so sensual, so beautiful, could talk so filthy? We must cleanse it, and fill it more appropriately so you learn what is and is not proper use for such a mouth." "If you put your cock in my mouth it's the last damn thing you'll do with it. I'll bite down as hard as I fucking can," Mulder snapped, jerking his head away from the other man's hand. Laurence chuckled. "Ah, Mulder, do you think I've never encountered this problem before? I have, many times, and I've come up with a very good solution to it. You'll suck my cock, dear boy, and you'll suck the cocks of the two dutymen who brought you here. You'll open your mouth and suck whatever is put in it, because if you don't you'll suffer more than you ever thought possible. Let me show you." Mulder waited, listening, and he heard the sound of something being pulled over - something on wheels. He shivered, his mind supplying him with unwanted, horrifying suggestions of what it could be. Then he felt fingers on his nipples, squeezing and teasing them into points, followed, almost immediately, by a streak of pain that made him scream out loud. "Hush, dear boy. Those are just little clips. Admittedly they're somewhat tight, but we need to be able to get a good current, and a little discomfort is a small price to pay for that," Laurence said, fingers gently stroking Mulder's hair. "C…current?" Mulder felt the beads of sweat break out on his forehead. Both of his nipples had now been encased in what felt like two clothespins, and the pain was agonizing. "Yes, they're attached to a little machine I have here, capable of sending anything from a mild electric current to an almost lethal dose. Now hold still, I haven't finished yet." Mulder felt his penis being lifted, and because he anticipated what would happen next before it even occurred, he began screaming. A split second later a clamp was attached to his penis, causing another dizzying wave of pain to sweep through him. "There, all done. I'm going to give you a demonstration of how it works, and then you can decide whether you want to use those fine white teeth of yours after all." Mulder braced himself, trying to prepare for whatever came next, but nothing was any preparation for it when it happened. At first he heard a fizzing sound, and then a shock wave of pure, raw, jagged pain sliced into his right nipple and his cock, making him scream. The sensation stopped in the right nipple, only to transfer to the left. "Never the two at the same time. We don't want to shock your heart, do we?" Laurence murmured. "That's set pretty low. We can go much higher. I'm not sure your cock would survive the highest voltage. Some of the tissue might be irrevocably burned. However, as I've said before, your cock, pretty though it is, isn't actually vital to us. Our clients are generally more interested in where they can place their own cocks, than in pleasuring the recruits. We do have female clients as well, but we'll train that tongue of yours to be entertaining for them also, in due course. Now, in a minute you're going to open your mouth, and accept my cock into it. If I feel so much as the tiniest trace of your teeth then I'll just activate this…" A short, sharp burst of pain invaded Mulder's genitals, and flicked from nipple to nipple, and he arched his back involuntarily. "If you make a conscious decision to try to maim me then you stand to lose exactly the same as I do. Understood?" Mulder knelt, panting, trying to think through the pain. In his heart he knew that rebellion was useless. It would only serve to make him feel better for one split second, and then he would be hurt beyond endurance. It wasn't sensible, but that didn't make it any easier for him to accept what he had been ordered to do. "I asked if you understood." A crackle was heard, and the electric current passed from the clips attached to his body into his flesh. He licked his lips, still unable to accept his predicament. It was one thing to be invaded against his will, without the ability to stop it, as had been the case during the rapes, but to calmly open his mouth and accept this man's cock…the idea filled him with revulsion. He had only sucked one man's cock in his life, and that had been such a beautiful experience for both of them that this travesty of that act made him feel physically sick. "I'll take your silence as a yes then," Laurence said. Mulder heard the sound of a fly being unzipped, and then felt legs against his cheeks. A hand lifted his bowed head again. "Open your mouth," Laurence commanded. Mulder kept his lips resolutely shut. "I said open." Another fizz of electricity made him shudder, but still he would not open his mouth. "Your defiance, although misplaced, is very arousing. You're making me quite hard. I'll enjoy relieving the ache inside your pretty mouth," Laurence whispered in his ear. Mulder shivered. He felt something warm and hard nudge against his cheek, and knew it was the other man's cock. Another second later a buzz of electricity coursed through his body again. This time he knew the current had been adjusted higher, and when it finished he slumped forward, the chains on his wrists biting into his skin where they held him up. "We can keep going like this for a very long time, but we both know that in the end you'll open your mouth. You see, I'm a very patient man, Mulder, and I have all the time in the world. You will do as I say." "Go to hell," Mulder ground out, and almost instantaneously the electric current was back. The shock was longer this time, until he felt as if his cock was being burned from the outside in. When it finished, he could no longer hold himself upright. He felt warm hands under his armpits, and he was lifted and maneuvered into an upright position once again. "Open your mouth," Laurence said. "Fuck off." He doubled over before the pain hit, unable to even slump onto the floor in his agony because of the tight confinement of the manacles. His nipples felt as if they were on fire, and he couldn't even touch them, to smooth away the pain. Again he was lifted to a kneeling position. Again the order was given. "Open your mouth." He shook his head mutely, and once again the pain shot through every nerve fiber in his body. He screamed, and twitched in his bonds. Again, with infinite care and patience he was lifted into a kneeling position, and again the command was given. This time he didn't have the energy to say anything. He just knelt there, mouth firmly closed, his mind hazy with pain. The following shock was longer and more painful than the previous ones, and he spent several minutes screaming before he was lifted once more. "I told you I'm patient, but for your sake I hope you won't put yourself through this for much longer. Your nipples must be fried by now." A light chuckle. "So, will you come to your senses, Mulder, or do we have to keep on doing this all night? I'm happy to do that. It isn't causing me any pain and your suffering is most diverting. I could sit and watch you scream forever I think - it's a beautiful sight." "Bastard," Mulder managed to whisper. "No, I think we
established just a little while ago that you are in fact the bastard."
Laurence grabbed a handful of Mulder's hair and pulled his head back,
then traced a line down Mulder's throat
with his finger. "I'll be kinder though and give you the correct, less
colloquial term: illegitimate. That's you, Mulder. It's an interesting
word. It implies there's something not proper about your very existence,
as if you're an abomination, an aberration; something that shouldn't be,
something without a place. You're a boy who should never have been born,
a burden on the man who gave you his name, and a silent reproach on the
mother who gave birth to you; a living
reminder of a mistake, something wrong. You don't belong here, Mulder.
You're out of time. You greedily took your chance at life, and forced
your way into this world, and now you don't like what you see, and
you're screaming at the injustice of it all. That's foolish. It's clear
that you're just getting what you deserve, what lies in wait for those
who have no place. You're dispossessed. Your real father clearly didn't
want you any more than poor Bill Mulder did. Nobody wants you Mulder -
nobody except me. Now open your mouth and let me prove that to you. You
do still have some worth even if it's just to provide pleasure to your
betters. Open." "You know you want to. You know you want to make the pain go away. You want to be good, deep inside. You always wanted to be good, didn't you? As a boy, trying to please the man you thought was your father, studying so hard, doing your best to make him proud of you. You couldn't succeed in that, dear boy, but you can succeed in making me proud of you. Your efforts to be good, to be pleasing, won't be wasted on me. Now open up, just open up. There, go on…you know you want to." Mulder felt his lips opening of their own volition. He felt hands stroke the sides of his face, and then his hair was seized, and something hard and greedy was rammed deep into his mouth. He choked, and gagged, but he couldn't move, or expel the intruder. It tasted of skin, and salt, and smelled of lavender water and something else, something bitter that he couldn't identify. "Good boy. Oh this feels so good. These pretty lips were made to suck, dear boy. If you never did anything else in your entire life but make your mouth available for this purpose then that would be enough. It's beautiful. One thing I want you to remember…I still have my finger on the machine. One scrape of teeth and there will be punishment. Now, I know it's too much to expect you to pleasure me on our first attempt at this, so I'm just going to take charge." Mulder felt his hair gripped tighter by that fist, and then the thighs against his face moved, fucking that cock in and out of his mouth at a slow, leisurely pace. "This feels so good," Laurence crooned. Mulder wanted to retch, but couldn't move, couldn't do anything but accept that cock into his mouth, and suffer it slamming into the back of his throat, over and over again. "I'm delighted that you've chosen to allow me the pleasure of coming in your mouth, dear boy. It's something I wanted from the moment I set eyes on you, and it's a dream come true for me to be here now, doing this with you. You're a very sweet boy to humor me so." Mulder closed his eyes and tried to escape, but the pressure in his mouth was too distracting. A series of deep thrusts made him gag, and want to throw up, but that wasn't an option as the manacles and the hand in his hair kept him firmly anchored where he was. "Nearly there…I told you we'd find a better use for this pretty mouth than telling lies and making people unhappy. Instead you can use it to make me feel good - and also to make the dutymen feel good. When I'm finished I'm going to hand you over to them. You should see them, Mulder. They're very turned on by what I'm doing to you. One of them has his cock out and is stroking it already, in preparation for his turn. You're going to love his cock, Mulder. You're going to love tasting that in your mouth. Oh…!" Mulder tried to twist his face away, to lean back, but it was too late. He felt warm, salty come spill onto his tongue, and trickle down his throat, and his battered body slumped in defeat. Laurence withdrew his cock from Mulder's mouth, and Mulder leaned over and retched up the contents of his stomach onto the stone floor. "Ah, poor boy. Such a rich feast after so many years of abstinence," Laurence sighed. "You'll become used to this feasting though, Mulder. We'll see that you get fed daily from now on. Now on your knees again - the dutyman wants his turn." Mulder felt himself being lifted, and then another hard cock was nudged into his mouth. "NO!" He tried to close his jaws and scraped flesh, and the next thing he knew the intruder had been withdrawn and a shockwave of electricity was sent through his body, convulsing him. He was lifted again, and this time he opened his mouth, and sought the escape he had found whilst being raped the other day. He was walking in a park with his lover in the summer. They were talking. "I'm intrigued. Why psychology?" His lover had a way of looking directly at him when asking questions that made Mulder's heart pound in his chest. "You think it's a soft science, like sociology?" Mulder accused. "I didn't say that." "You didn't need to. Sometimes I feel like I'm on the witness stand when you ask me questions." "Sorry." His lover raised his hands, his white teeth shining in his tanned face. "Occupational hazard," he laughed. "Really, I'm just interested. You're one of the smartest people I've ever met, and, well, in my experience the smart people go into the smart professions." "Like law?" Mulder asked. "I suppose." His lover shrugged. "Or medicine. Where the hell do you think psychology will take you?" "Does it have to take me anywhere? Can't I do it for the love of the subject?" Mulder riposted. He loved these question and parry sessions with his lover. Nobody had ever excited him so much on an intellectual level while dazzling him so much on a physical one. "Of course. I mean I love the law, but what is it you love about psychology?" "Figuring out what makes people tick doesn't fascinate you?" Mulder asked. "You've cross examined people - you know how interesting it can be figuring out motivation." "Agreed, but where does it go from there? What use is it?" "I'm not sure. Maybe one day I'll find out…" Mulder gagged on more semen, and retched again. They allowed him only a few seconds respite before he was lifted back onto his knees, and the pressure of two thighs on the side of his face convinced him of the wisdom of opening up and taking another cock into his mouth. His lips felt stretched, and swollen, and his jaw ached. "Let's not talk. Let's fuck," he said to his lover. "What? Here?" The other man looked around the park. It was mid morning and few people were there. "Motivation - the excitement of discovery makes the moment more erotic and arousing." Mulder dragged his lover under a tree, and knelt in front of him, opening his fly. "You're crazy, you know that?" His lover looked torn between running away and allowing Mulder to suck him. The pleasure of the latter instinct won out. Mulder put his hands on his lover's firm buttocks and pulled him close, devouring his lover's beautiful cock. It felt so good. The tip was like velvet, and the shaft hard under soft flesh. Mulder looked up and saw that his lover's eyes were closed, his mouth curved into a dreamy smile, his hands gently stroking Mulder's hair. He felt warm fluid trickling down his throat, sweeter than honey. "Good boy. All done," Laurence said, breaking into his dream. "But I think you left us again, dear boy. We really will have to work on keeping you here with us. Now, as you've shown yourself to be so duplicitous, I'm going to curtail our sessions in the salon until further notice. I don't want to hear anything else you have to say for now. Instead you can be taken to the Recreation Room for the enjoyment of the dutymen and any clients in the mood for some silent, captive entertainment. And in order to keep today's events in mind, I'm going to ensure your silence in a special way. Open again." Mulder smelled rubber, and something hard, thick, and long, was forced into his mouth. As it slid home and straps secured it around the back of his head, Mulder realized it was a gag fashioned with an insert the same shape and size as a cock. He struggled against it, trying to swallow and breathe around the rubbery length. "It's easier if you keep calm, and remember to breathe through your nose," Laurence advised him. Mulder tried to calm down but the gag frightened him. It was so large and unrelenting. He could feel the tip nudging the back of his throat, and he swallowed convulsively around it. Even as he was trying to deal with this new evidence of his captor's cruelty, he found himself being untied. The clamps were removed from his body, causing a pain as sharp as when they had been applied, and then he was dragged from the room, and along a corridor. Another room was unlocked, and he was taken inside, and bent over some kind of padded beam or seat. He offered no resistance, still trying to breathe around the gag. His knees were being pushed forward and down, and his arms stretched out and forwards. There was a plastic support under his chest. He felt his wrists being strapped into place, and then his ankles were tied. A wide strap was fastened across his torso, and another over his neck. The hands left him, bound and immobile. He wasn't in an uncomfortable position, but it was deeply humiliating. He was almost sitting, as if on one of those orthopedic chairs, his weight resting on his knees. His upper body was forced forwards, lying at a slightly tilted angle, and his legs were wide apart, leaving his ass open, and exposed to the room. Something cold was fastened around his cock, trapping it. "Not that I think you're likely to become aroused, but it's better to be safe than sorry," Laurence murmured, fastening the cage tightly, so that his cock couldn't move. "I wouldn't want you to come while you're here. The whole purpose of this room is that you learn that it's our clients who must enjoy themselves, not you. You don't matter." Mulder moaned softly around the gag, and Laurence stroked his hair. "Good boy. I'm hoping that after a little time to cool your heels in here you'll be much more amenable to our chats in the salon." Fingers brushed over his face, and lips kissed his forehead. He could make no reply. "Nothing is required of you here, Mulder," Laurence whispered. "Nothing save your acceptance. Just lie there and receive your visitors." A sudden realization shot through Mulder, and he struggled hard against his bonds, filled with renewed energy after the trauma of the past few hours. "Hush. It'll be good for you in the end. You can't see, and you can't talk. You can't move, or respond; you can only lie here and allow your body to be penetrated. You'll soon grow to look forward to receiving your visitors, as they'll be the only company you have, the only thing to distract you from your own thoughts. I'm going to be very kind to you and insist that your visitors use lubrication to smooth their way; I do so abhor tearing - it slows down the breaking process, and limits my creativity while we wait for you to heal. Hush now, dear boy. It's all a learning experience. And when you return to the salon you'll be so good, so obedient. You'll have learned to treasure conversation and human interaction, and you won't be so hateful to me anymore. Hush." He heard footsteps, and the sound of a door closing, and he knew that he was alone. He had no idea what kind of room he was in, and it was eerie, being tied, naked, his body exposed in this way. He shivered, still trying not to fight the gag. With this monstrous intrusion in his mouth he couldn't even hum, and humming had helped provide a rhythm to escape to before. Now he only had his own thoughts. How many days had passed since he had been abducted, he wondered? Would they have started looking for him yet? Another thought was nagging him though - even if he survived this process, and was somehow rescued, would he ever be the same again? After all that had happened to him could he ever be the same? He knew enough about the human mind to understand that in just a short while he had undergone enough trauma to keep him in therapy for a lifetime. If he had imagined he was damaged before, then what was he like now? Mulder was denied even the comfort of deep breathing, unable to do more than inhale slowly through his nose and around the edges of the gag. He had grown used to the many pains in his body, but the ache inside was hurting him more now. Rescue…who do you want to rescue you, Laurence had asked, and he knew. He knew he wanted warmth, strength and the comforting oblivion of his lover's arms, a lover who had not held him for 18 years. He thought of Scully finding him like this, and had to struggle against the sense of panic that this image engendered. He couldn’t panic. If he panicked he would hyperventilate and then he wouldn't be able to breathe around this vicious gag. He didn't want to think about Scully in any case, or her reaction to his current predicament. He cared about her too much to inflict this on her. He didn't want her to see him like this, didn't want anyone he loved to see him so degraded, didn't even want to know the depth of his own very real, very human misery. He hungered for an escape of the mind, and longed, with equal need, for his own oblivion. Not death - he wasn't ready for that yet, just peace and the touch of loving, careful hands on his body. Just the rest of not being harmed, not experiencing a rush of adrenaline followed by the inevitable draining aftermath of its loss, just the peace of not living in fear of pain, and the sheer relaxation of not having to be on his guard, not having to stay alert, and keep his wits about him in case he missed something that might be his ultimate salvation. He didn't want to have to watch every word, and think through each guarded sentence, in case he was giving too much away. A sound behind him broke into his reverie and he tensed as someone came into the room. He waited to hear Laurence's taunting voice, but whoever it was didn't speak. Hands caressed his buttocks, and then pulled them apart, and cool lube was spread inside him on the tip of a finger. He realized what was going to happen, and that was when he remembered that even the empty joy of screaming was denied him. He felt the burning pain of a cock demanding entry into his anus, and was alone with the sounds of the faceless man raping him. He could hear the panting timed with each thrust, could feel clammy, sweaty hands pawing his ass, and he could do nothing to stop it, not even voice a protest, or a cry of defiance. It was over almost as swiftly as it had begun and he was reminded of one of those wildlife programs where chimps endlessly mounted each other, satisfying themselves with a brief coupling, and then continued with what they had been doing before as if nothing had happened. Mulder fought to stay rational. He wasn't the piece of meat Laurence was trying to turn him into. He was more than this. The man came, withdrew, and left. He hadn't said a word the entire time. Mulder lay, struggling for breath, wondering what kind of man could even be aroused in these circumstances. What kind of a person, coming into this room, would think of rape, rather than rescue? If he had been confronted with the same sight, he knew he would have felt nothing but compassion, and a very real and very human need to help. He would have untied the helpless victim, called paramedics - done something to help as much out of empathy for a fellow human being as anything else. His mind, detaching itself from the horrors being inflicted on his body, found memories of books on the Holocaust that reminded him that human nature was not always compassionate. Perhaps in this place a climate had been created by which this was the norm - it was acceptable behavior. That reminded him of something else, something he'd said to his lover as they had argued, in a playful way, about a case in the papers. "I can understand him
doing this but not her," his lover was saying, reading out the salient
details of a particularly horrific triple murder case, "I mean this guy
is clearly a psychopath. He was tearing the wings off flies when he was
barely out of diapers, but his girlfriend was just a normal woman. She
even seemed kind of nice. Why would she help him do this? Why did she
help him lure the victims to their deaths, and even join in the
torture?" "I do not, and anyway, you say that as if it's a bad thing," his lover bristled. "No." Mulder crunched on his toast thoughtfully. "No, it isn't. In fact it's a good thing. It's why you could never be like that woman in the paper - but you're more unusual than you think, and she's more common than any of us would like to believe." "Explain." His lover quirked an eyebrow, in his famous impression of the expert lawyer in cross-examination mode. Mulder grinned. He loved him like this! "Well, let me tell you about an experiment I came across in one of my psychology textbooks." His lover sighed, and Mulder's grin widened. He was always citing experiments at his lover - it was the only way to play the other man at his own game, as he was constantly blathering on about legal precedent and case studies when he had the chance. "There was an experiment in which students were asked to press a button on a box. When they did, someone in the next room cried out. They were told that this was fine - nothing to worry about, and to just continue. You'd be surprised how few people refused to do so - and how many seemed to actively enjoy pressing the button. Of course there was nobody really being hurt in the next room - it was just an experiment." "And your point?" Mulder grinned. There always had to be a point. "My point is that people like to be given orders. If you tell them it's okay to do something, no matter how horrible, or how much pain it might be causing someone else, then quite often they'll do it, as long as you reassure them that it's okay, and as long as someone authoritative enough gives the order. For the most part people don't like to think for themselves. Humans like to exist in a hierarchy - and to be told what to do by someone in charge. They don't like to stand out, or be different, because if you do that then you could be the one they turn on next." "A-ha." His lover mused on this. "Now, you're different in that you want to be the one giving the orders rather than following 'em blindly," Mulder teased. "And you're different in that you want to be one of those standing out, even if that means they turn on you next," his lover pointed out. "Hmm." They both considered that thoughtfully for a moment. "Just don't ever tell them to pick on me when you have all that power you're aiming for," Mulder said, quirking up his mouth. His lover's competitiveness was a joke between them, but the other man was always able to laugh about it. "Can I pick on you though?" His lover asked, coming over to sit next to him on the couch. He leaned over and reached inside Mulder's boxer shorts with a raised eyebrow and a knowing smile. "Anytime you like," Mulder grinned, giggling as he disappeared under the weight of a solid, attractive body. Time passed. He slept a little, and endured, as he had no choice, the frequent visitations from faceless men. Not all of them were silent, although he was sure they were supposed to be - that Laurence had ordered it that way. He wasn't sure which he despised most - those who tiptoed in here, and used him in silence like a piece of meat, or those who needed to talk to him in order to get aroused. "Ooh, pretty baby, yeah. This is good. Are you enjoying this? Oh yeah, take it, take it. See, it's big, it's hard, and it's all for you. Do you feel that? Hmmm?" "My girlfriend won't let me do this…up the ass…it's always been a fantasy of mine…" That last said almost apologetically. "I wouldn't get the chance normally, so it's good you're here." Like he was some kind of public service. Then there were those who were violent, slapping and biting his ass, calling him names. "Motherfucker, whore. I'm going to give it to you good, you brown nosed faggot. I'm going to fuck your ass until you scream, you fucking queer…" They would have made him laugh if he could. He longed for the gag to be gone, longed to point out to them what twisted, perverted psychos they were, but he had been denied voice, or humanity. He was just a piece of meat. Nameless, his suffering was irrelevant. They had made him the 'other' that his lover had predicted all those long years ago, and projected onto him all their insecurities, all their loathing, and all their hatreds. He was nothing. They untied him at regular intervals, dragged him back to his room, and removed his gag, only to stick a feeding tube down his throat. If they'd given him a moment to speak he would have told them it wasn't necessary, that he would eat, but maybe this was all part of the punishment for daring to try and get inside Laurence's head, the way his torturer was attempting to climb into his. After feeding he was tied, with his hands behind his back, and attached to the damn electricity machine that he had grown to fear more than anything else for the way it could reduce him to a quivering mass of agony within seconds. He no longer fought the oral rapes. He just closed his eyes, and disappeared into his dreams. His lips were permanently chapped and sore from both the gag and the fellatio but he had grown too used to pain to care. As they thrust into his mouth the back of his head banged against the wall. Once, twice, over and over again, and he let it happen. Sometimes only the sharpness of pain reminded him that he was still alive, that he hadn't died and gone to hell. Sometimes Laurence was there, but often he was not. Mulder had the feeling that the other man was ignoring him on purpose, and, much to his surprise, he found that he missed those touches on his hair, the soothing little whispers and gentle caresses. He had always hated them, but they were the only kindness he had been shown in this place. It was the kindness of the one person who was inflicting the most of his pain, but it was all he had, and he hated himself for needing it. After they were finished with his mouth they always tied him to the post and whipped him. He wasn't sure if it was a daily event, because he didn't know what time had passed, but it always happened in this order; first the feeding, then the oral rape, then the beating. As he hung from the post, barely conscious, they gave him his enema, before hosing him down, washing away all the dried semen from his mouth, and ass, and thighs and gagging him again. Then it was back to the Recreation Room, where he was tied in the same position each time, and was visited by a succession of faceless men. He lost count of how many, or how often. Sometimes he was alone in the dark, with his thoughts, for what seemed like a very long time, and he almost feared his own mind during those times. If he was lucky he escaped into exhausted sleep, or the past, but more and more frequently he was not so lucky. Shapeless demons, the leftover bogeymen of a child's nightmare, haunted his semi-conscious moments instead. And then, one day, Laurence was back. He smelled the other man's unmistakable scent as he was untied - that foul combination of lavender and something bitter, and unidentifiable. He was dragged back to his room, and the hated gag was removed from his throat, leaving him, as it always did, with the foul taste of rubber in his mouth. He was fed, orally raped, beaten, given an enema and hosed down as usual, but then, instead of gagging him again, they pushed him down on his knees, and he felt fingers stroking his hair. "There, my dear boy. Did you miss me?" That urbane, familiar, almost blessed voice asked him. "Y…yes," he replied, beyond lies, not used to speaking. "I knew you would. Now that you've seen how cruel I can be you appreciate the kindness I showed you before," Laurence purred. "You took it for granted then - the cozy fireside chats, the affection, the good food." Mulder nodded, because it was true. He tried to form a word but the effort was too great. "I've missed you as well but it doesn't need to be this way. We can be together, reunited, can't we?" Gentle lips on his forehead, and tender arms wrapped around his shoulders. "Please don't send me back to that room," he managed to gasp, his mouth feeling strange, the sound of his voice even stranger. "I'd prefer not to. I'd much prefer to resume our previous discussions, but how can I tell if you're in the right frame of mind to continue?" "I'll try." Mulder rested his head on a bony shoulder, not caring. He would try because the alternative was the dark insanity of that room…not the grotesquely misnamed 'Recreation Room' but the Raping Room, as he had christened it. If he had to go back there he knew that he would lose his mind. "Well, I'm sure you think you mean that, but I need to have some proof of your intent. Tell you what, why don't you answer me one tiny question, and if you do that, I'll know you're acting in good faith, and I'll allow you back to the salon. Hmm?" "Wha…what's the question?" He asked, his mouth sore, and uncertain. Lips touched his, and a tongue found its way inside. Mulder accepted it, acquiescent and still under fondling, caressing fingers. Then the kiss ended, and a voice spoke into his ear. "What was the name of your lover?" Mulder opened his mouth, wordless, and let his misery scream into the world, in a silent miasma of refusal. "I don't…" he hung there, his head resting against the other man's shoulder. He saw a world in which he told this truth and could not live in it, knowing what questions might follow and what part of himself he might give away in just the two small words of a name. "…remember…" he finished, facing the void again. Laurence dropped him abruptly, and he fell to the floor, hitting his head on the stone surface. "Take him back to the Recreation Room." The voices talked to him in the dark now, in that room. They talked to him as unseen hands silently pried his buttocks apart, and countless hard cocks thrust into him. He spoke to his mother at some length - he could see her just over to the left, just past his shoulder. She was always dressed in a plain white blouse, and her hair looked nice, as if she'd just had it done. Sometimes Scully came, but not often, and when she did she always scolded him about something. It was usually something silly, something small, like whether he'd remembered to pick up his suit from the dry cleaner. He liked that. He liked listening to her scolding. Sometimes it was his father, Bill Mulder, the man who had raised him, but Mulder didn't want to talk to him. He didn't know what they had to say to each other. How could he face his father knowing the truth anyway? Knowing he wasn't really his son? Mulder turned his face away when his father visited. Then sometimes it was his lover. His lover always stood just out of sight in the shadows, his face hidden. Sometimes Mulder only knew he was there because he caught a glimpse of his red shirt. He talked to his lover at length but it didn’t go anywhere. Often he ended up shouting but afterwards he couldn't remember why, and his lover never said much anyway, just listened, and waited, and listened. It was infuriating. No wonder Mulder ended up yelling. He could hear the sound quite clearly in his mind, although he was gagged. Sometimes Laurence visited him in the Recreation Room now. At least he thought it was Laurence. The man talked to him in Laurence's voice. No, he knew it was Laurence because the gag was removed, and that never happened with any of the others. "Why do you protect him, hmm? Why does he matter? He dumped you didn't he?" "No." "That isn't what you |