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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
Part Two
By Xanthe
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."
Mulder knew that his captor was saying something so vile and vicious
that he should have been able to rationalize it away, but he was too
tired, and he hurt too much, and besides there was something about it
that struck an indefinable chord somewhere deep inside him. He swallowed
hard, and remembered a time when he had lovingly taken another man's
cock into his mouth. It hadn't been too bad then. Laurence seemed to
sense his weakness.
"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?"
"The power of the charismatic personality." Mulder grinned, looking up
from the sports section of the paper. He was sitting on the couch with a
plate of toast resting on his lap, dressed in his boxer shorts, still
sweaty from a vigorous bout of lovemaking. "You're so funny. You never
understand the darkness of the human soul. You're so sure of yourself
and what you believe, and you think everyone is as sane and rational as
you."
"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
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