This story won four Purple Hearts in the 1998 MTA awards for:

Best Psychological Muldertorture

Best First Person Story

Best Mulder/Skinner story

Best Series

It was also joint winner in the 1998 Whammy slash awards for best sex scene and best series.

Thanks to Holmes for the advice, practical help, encouragement, and excellent beta.

Subterfuge
By Xanthe

            The blood running down my jaw isn't as distracting as the smell of vomit—that makes me retch.  I pound uselessly on the door for a while, asking to be transferred to a cell that doesn't have a pile of puke in one corner, or at least for them to come and clean this one up, but instead I just get shouted at to shut up.  Which is fair enough, I suppose, in the circumstances.  They're busy and I'm just another Friday night drunk who's been involved in a brawl.  Only I'm not, drunk, that is, and as for the brawl—it really wasn't my fault.  Explaining that might just prove to be a little difficult, though.  Not for the first time, I wish I'd done the paperwork first, and started the investigation second.  Ass first again, Mulder.  Scully will be furious—if I'm lucky.  It's when she doesn't care that I get worried.  All the same, I'm concerned about Lenny, and I have to get out of here soon—even apart from the puke, and the blood, and the way my jaw hurts, there's definitely something going down, and Lenny's been a good informant.  He might need some back up if my identity is revealed.  Which is why I didn't take my gun or my ID to that club, and which is also why nobody here believes me when I tell them I'm with the FBI, although the desk sergeant does agree (grudgingly) to phone my boss to check.

            "Name?" he asks wearily.

            "Fox Mulder."

            "No.  Your boss's name.  You've already told me yours," he sighs.

            "Oh.  Skinner.  Assistant Director Skinner."  Now I'm the one sighing.  This is one of those moments in life when you really wish you'd done things differently.  It's 3 a.m. or near enough.  If Skinner is actually at home, sleeping (do the undead sleep?), then he's not going to be happy to be dragged out here to pick me up.  Lying to them by saying Scully is my boss is a tempting thought, but really I'm in enough trouble right now without making it any worse—and Skinner's going to find out about all this at some point, anyway. 

            So, back to the vomit hellhole, ensconced between two drunks and an exceedingly butch leather queen who keeps smiling at me in a way that I'm starting to find threatening.  He's not drunk.  I'm beginning to wish he was, especially when he comes over, sits down next to me, puts a hand on my knee, and stares deeply into my eyes.

            "I saw you at Krypton, didn't I?" he asks.

            "Not necessarily."  I'm torn between keeping my cover and decking him to save my chastity—although he's pretty big and I'm definitely feeling the worse for wear.  My head hurts, the cut on my jaw has started to bleed again, and the room occasionally swims around like Esther Williams on speed. 

            "Oh, yeah.  You were there.  I noticed you.  You were with Lenny."  His hand moves up my leg and rests, proprietarily, on my thigh.  "Now, Lenny's a sub and you're a sub, so you two boys can't be involved," he leers, his other meaty arm going around my shoulder.  Not again.  I've had enough of this for one evening.

            "A sub?  No way.  Not me."  I try to sit up and look mean, but my head hurts too much to carry it off convincingly.  I can kick ass with the best of them—I'm a trained FBI agent, for God's sake, but I'm not at my best right now.  I'm not dressed as a dom, but then it suited me to be ambiguous on this initial foray into the sado-masochistic, homosexual underworld.  Maybe I was naive.  And under prepared.  Yes, I accept that—I made a couple of mistakes.

            "Yeah.  You are," he grins, his fist ending up in my hair, pulling my head back.  I have to admit that I yelp, and the room is still swimming alarmingly or I'd fight back.  "I've been on the scene for 30 years, son.  You're a sub, even if you don't know it yet."

            "Let go."  I'm feeling very threatened here! 

            "Why?  Is the touch of a strong guy turning you on too much?"  That hand on my thigh moves up and rummages around in my crotch.  I can assure you that it finds nothing incriminating.  I am not turned on by this, just feeling very, very sorry for myself, and promising that if I get out of this cell alive, I'll file 302s, complete forms in triplicate, accept five burly agents in back-up, and brief Skinner on every trip I so much as take to the washroom on my next mission.  I am just about to get felt up by Mr. Butch when salvation arrives.  I've called him my beacon in the night before, but trust me, this time he is.  Butch Daddy Two looms in the doorway and saves me from Butch Daddy One. 

            "Mulder."  He stands there and looks at us both expressionlessly for a moment.  "I got a call," he murmurs, his eyes fixing Mr. Butch with that cold glare he usually saves for agents who haven't filed their reports on time.  Mr. Butch locks stares with him, and I feel like I'm involved in some sort of ancient rutting ritual between two stags or something.  Finally Mr. Butch backs down (let's face it, he was never going to win), and he grins, releases my hair, and removes his hand from my groin.

            "Looks like your Master's come to reclaim his property," he chuckles.  "Let's just hope he doesn't punish you too bad when he gets you home.  He looks pretty pissed.  Maybe he didn't give you permission to be out pulling other guys this evening." 

            This is just so embarrassing, and I get to my feet and lurch towards the door to escape.  The stench of vomit is overpowering, and I'm really feeling ill—that's my excuse, anyway. 

            "You lied to me, pretty boy!" Mr. Butch calls after me.  "You shoulda said someone already owned you." 

            I notice a slight tightening around Skinner's mouth, and his glare intensifies.  Turning, I see that Mr. Butch is looking less butch by the second. 

            "I don’t want any trouble," he moans, holding up his hands towards Skinner in surrender.  "I was just playing.  He didn't say he belonged to someone already.  I didn't know." 

            I'm impressed.  Skinner's got this guy fooled and he's hardly even said a word.

            The room is still swimming, and I crash into Skinner as I pass.  He doesn't move, but his blank, threatening stare is now fixed on me, and suddenly I know why Mr. Butch was so scared.  I stagger out into the corridor quickly.

            "He one of yours?"  The desk sergeant nods his head in my direction as we head for the exit.

            "Yes."  Skinner fixes me with a speculative, faintly irritated stare, and then sighs.  "He is."

            How small am I feeling at this point?  Oh, pretty small, not far off the ground, to be honest.  Skinner escorts me to his car, and gets in without saying a word, and I slink in beside him.  He angles the car out onto the road, which is empty of traffic at this time of night, and then clears his throat.  I wait for it.

            "I'm sure you have a very good explanation for this, Mulder," he says neutrally.  "Would you like to give it to me back at the office now, or later on tomorrow after you've had a chance to rest up and…" he considers my blood-stained clothing with distaste, "change?"

            "Now," I reply firmly, thinking about Lenny.

            "Did they take you to the Emergency Room first, Mulder?  I'm concerned about your face," he says, not taking his eyes off the road.

            "Officer Stevens didn't seem to think it was bad enough to do any long-term damage to my dating prospects," I grin, trying to lighten him up, and failing.  "So they didn't take me to the E.R.  Don't worry—I've washed the blood off a couple of times, it isn't as bad as it looks.  We should go back to the office—there's a whole lot of stuff I need to tell you." 

            He glances at me thoughtfully with just a hint of an unspoken 'better late than never' in that stare, but he doesn't say anything, and I know he won't until I've explained myself.  That's the enigmatic Walter S. Skinner for you—when you expect him to chew you out, he's trying to take you to the hospital as if he's your mom, and then, when you least expect it, he's raking your ass over the coals about something.  We don't speak for the rest of the journey.  I need to get all this straight in my head, and he's obviously thinking that if we start now, he'll end up succumbing to his own version of road rage, and crash the car. 

            The light is on in his office, and his jacket is over the back of his chair.  I notice that he's still wearing his dress trousers, and a shirt and tie, so I guess I didn't wake him.  What is it he finds to do at 3 o'clock in the morning?  And I thought I was a workaholic! 

            "Sit down."  He gestures to a chair, and I clutch my handkerchief to my cut jaw, which has started bleeding again.  It isn't much use as the cloth is already soaked with my blood.  Skinner disappears for a moment, then reappears with a cup of water and a medical kit.  He perches on the desk in front of me, dips a cotton ball into the water, and, taking my chin in his hand, he starts cleaning up the wound. 

            "I have no 302 filed, I don't recall giving you a case involving gay nightclubs, and there is no record anywhere of your intention to work undercover on an investigation this evening," he says as he works.  "I'm presuming this has nothing to do with your social life, or at least I hope not—I do not expect to be called out to rescue my agents from every drunken brawl they get involved in after hours.  I'm also assuming that the fact that you took neither your gun, nor your ID with you to this club was not just one of your little Mulderesque oversights, along with the complete absence of any backup.  I'm sure that you have very good reasons for all these actions, and I expect to hear them outlined to me in full just as soon as I've finished here."

            He's speaking in a low, even tone, and he doesn't seem too pissed off.  His fingers are actually gentle as he washes off all the blood and surveys the cut underneath.

            "You were right.  Looks worse than it is," he tells me, smearing something on it, then snapping the medical kit shut and going to sit down at his desk.  He leans back expectantly in his chair.

            "It's about these ritualistic cult murders of gay men," I begin. 

            He frowns.  "Mulder—there haven't been any cult murders," he says.

            "Yeah, there have."

            "Are you talking about the men who were mutilated and dumped in the Potomac?" he asks.  "I don't recall anything about that being 'ritualistic'.  And, anyway, we have a team working on that case.  I assigned them myself."

            "Yeah.  I know."  I have the grace to flush a bit, then charge on.  "But Agent Roberts showed me some of the photos a couple of days ago and something about the way they were mutilated—it just stuck in my head.  I couldn't work it out until yesterday.  That's when I called Lenny."

            "Lenny?" he frowns.

            "Lenny's into the S/M scene in D.C.  He used to be an informant for me before I worked on the X Files.  He's a nice guy."

            "A purely professional opinion, I take it?"  

            One raised eyebrow.  Is he making a joke?  Surely that's never happened before—I ought to get the moment taped or something.

            "Yeah.  Lenny's not my type," I smirk and there is just a trace of knowing amusement in those dark brown eyes before they go all grim again. 

            "What was it that caught your interest?"  He leans forward, genuinely wanting to hear my insights on this case.  It always surprises me how broad-minded he can be.  Despite his tedious obsession with following the letter of the law and orthodox procedures, he'll take that leap of faith if I can give him enough hard evidence to warrant it.  Flukemen spring uneasily to mind.

            "The mutilations weren't random—they were specific.  A specific symbol.  It wasn't noticed because the symbol is fairly obscure, and there were so many other cuts on the bodies.  Here."  I take a pen and sheet of paper, and draw the symbol for him.

            "What is it?" he frowns, picking up the paper.

            "It's an astrological symbol representing the star sign Taurus—the bull.  I checked with Lenny—all the men who were killed had at some point been on the S/M scene here in D.C.  They all disappeared some weeks before they were killed.  Or at least, some weeks before we found their bodies."

            "So the killer has a knowledge of new age symbolism.  That necessitated you going to this nightclub why?" he asks.  It's a good question.

            "Oh, no reason.  I just wanted a walk on the wild side," I answer flippantly.  He frowns.  I sigh inwardly—that one brief joke of his was obviously an aberration.  "All of the guys who were killed were part of the Mithras ring."

            "Mithras?"  Never let it be said that he allows anything to pass unquestioned.

            "It's the name of an ancient cult religion—the worship of a bull god in an exclusively male environment, and a particularly popular cult amongst ancient Roman soldiers, probably for some fairly obvious reasons." 

            He's giving me a 'skip the classical history lecture and get on with the facts' look. 

            "Okay, it's also the name that a fringe group of sadists have adopted for their secret society.  They're a scary bunch, but so far as we know, they haven't stepped outside the law before.  They're also very select—you need to be a high level player to get in, and most of the guys at Krypton last night would have given their right arms for the honor, or their left ones—if you'll forgive the joke."  I grin, thinking of Krycek; it’s just the sort of place he'd feel at home.  Skinner gazes at me quizzically for a moment, and then almost breaks into a smile, but catches himself just in time. 

            "Krypton's pretty way out, as these S/M places go.  It attracts a certain kind of clientele.  Lenny said that some of the Mithras tops occasionally cruise Krypton looking for suitable slaves to drag back to their lair.  Only the prettiest and most subservient need apply, I gather.  I thought that I might be able to check them out.  If Lenny could point them out to me, I could do some research on them, and…"

            "Wait a moment." 

            Oh, shit.  Now it's coming.  He's furious.  When did that mood swing take place? 

            "Are you telling me that you went to this nightclub on your own, without telling anyone, without even sharing any of these insights either with me or anyone working on this case?  That you put yourself into a potentially life-threatening situation, where you knew it was possible you could bump into a serial killer with a penchant for the sort of men who hang out in that place, and you still didn't deem it necessary to take any backup?"

            "I wasn't going as bait!" I protest.  "I didn't intend to be picked up or anything!"

            "Mulder, judging by the attitude of that man in the cells when I arrived to bail you out, bait is exactly what you were, whether you consciously knew that or not.  I'm not being personal here, but if 'Mithras' was cruising for new recruits, they would have found you an interesting proposition.  If you can't see that, then you're kidding yourself, and I think you're smarter than that.  Now, I'm interested in the angle you have on this case, and I'd like to assign you to the team, but first of all I want to make one thing clear."  He pauses for a moment, then fixes me with a grim, almost life-threatening stare.  "No more maverick tactics.  I have no idea what the hell you thought you were doing, but don't let it happen again.  Tonight's escapade was foolhardy and stupid.  Your complete lack of regard for FBI procedures can be very tiring, Mulder.  Now I've tolerated, to a certain extent, your methods of investigation on the X Files, but while you work on this case, you'll do as I say.  And I mean that this time.  Oh, hell, I mean it every time, but this time you'll report directly to me.  Do I make myself clear?"

            Oh, yeah.  Very clear. 

            "Yes, sir," I mutter.  Damn.  I hate teamwork—I always end up shooting my mouth off and upsetting everyone.  I thought I might get a head start on this one that would prevent me having to listen to the slow thought processes of my fellow agents.  I don't mean to sound superior, but sometimes I get way ahead of myself and I just have to run with it.  I can't stop, and that really pisses people off.  Skinner's understood that in the past, but he's reining me in right now and I suppose I can't blame him, under the circumstances.

            "Now, none of this explains what you were doing at 3 a.m. in the drunk tank," he points out.  I was sort of hoping he'd forgotten about that.

            "It was nothing.  Just a little misunderstanding.  A tiny brawl, the police were called."  I shrug.  Nice try, Mulder, but Skinner's one of those 'no stone left unturned' guys—it's probably how he got this far in the Bureau.

            "Since I'll have to file a report on this whole incident, I think I'd like it explained to me in full," he says, tapping his pen on the desk impatiently.  I'm blushing as I take a deep breath, and then plunge right in.

            "I was being…um…pestered by someone.  Lenny explained to me that sometimes it's better to take along a top to…protect you from unwanted advances—Krypton's that sort of place.  I told you, it's on the far side of weird.  So after a while, we…we…"  This isn't easy!  "We decided I'd act like I was Lenny's top, so that we could get rid of this guy."  I stop.  There is silence.  Skinner waits.  I realize that there is no way out.  "All right, the guy didn't buy it.  In fact, none of them did.  Apparently, I do not make a very convincing top."  There, I said it.  One of his eyebrows is nearly leaping off his face in a 'you don't say?' expression.  "It was a tense situation.  I think I was accused of being a 'tease,' giving off some mixed signals.  People were drunk, it got out of hand, punches were thrown, the police were called, you know the rest."

            I think he wants to laugh.  I really think he does.  In fact, I think that if he could, he would throw himself around the room and howl hysterically, but that masterly self control kicks in and he just sits there for a long while, staring at my head impassively.  I sense he's fighting an inner battle.  He wins.

            "Right."  His tone is a bit low and choked.  "I think that about covers it for now.  You need to go home and get some rest."  I open my mouth and he fixes me with a cold stare.  "That's an order, Mulder."

            "But what about Lenny?" I say quickly.  "He wasn't arrested and neither was that other guy who was bothering us.  I don't know what happened to Lenny, but we did sort of draw attention to ourselves.  If anyone found out I was FBI, or if that other guy is still mad at me, then Lenny might be in trouble."

            "Do you know where Lenny lives?" he asks me.

            "Yes."

            "Then I suggest we go and check out whether he got home safely.  After that, I'll make sure that you get home safely."

            "Yes, sir."  I'm not sure if he's being sarcastic here, but it doesn't seem wise to argue.

*                       *                       *

            So I find myself knocking on Lenny’s door furiously an hour or so later, with Skinner standing forbiddingly behind me.  There’s no reply, and I'm on the verge of drawing my gun when finally Lenny opens the door and gazes at me sleepily. 

            "Yo!  Mulder!  You okay, buddy?"  He peers at the cut on my chin.  "I was worried about you."

            "I'm fine, Lenny.  I was just checking up on you."

            He stands aside to let me in and then catches sight of Skinner—and you can just see him going weak at the knees as his eyes travel over and devour every inch of my boss's large frame.  I've never seen such naked lust—and directed at my boss, as well.  It startles me.

            "Who's the big guy?" he asks me coyly, simpering a bit.

            "Assistant Director Skinner.  FBI.  My boss," I tell him.

            "Lucky you."  He purses his lips. 

            Skinner clears his throat.  "You're Lenny?" he asks.

            "Guilty as charged."  Lenny flirts outrageously, and I wonder how Skinner will take this, but he just fixes Lenny with what is nearly a smile, and Lenny melts.

            "I'd like to thank you for your help this evening, Lenny.  Agent Mulder has told me all about it.  I think your input on this case will be valuable to us.  Would you call me tomorrow and arrange a time to come in and advise us?  I'll see to it that you're…reimbursed for your time," Skinner says, handing Lenny a card with his number on it.  Lenny accepts it as if it's his invitation to heaven.  He's pretty—blond curly hair, blue eyes, a bit thin and not very tall.  I have no idea why people weren't convinced that I was a top, but he'd have been even less successful in the role than I was.

            "Oh, I'll call!" Lenny gushes. 

            At that moment, there's a sound from his bedroom, and a man staggers into the room, looking around blearily.

            "Lenny—where'd you go?" the man calls.  Then he sees me, straightens up and a murderous look leaps into his eyes.  "You!"

            It's the guy who started the brawl, the one who was pursuing me and wouldn't take no for an answer.

            "Lenny how could you!" I murmur reproachfully.  Lenny shrugs and grins.

            "Well, once you were out of the picture…" he mutters, not even having the grace to look remotely abashed.

            The guy is advancing on us menacingly.  "I've still got a score to settle with you," he tells me, looking mean. 

            I can handle myself, but I've already lost one fight with him tonight, my head aches, my jaw hurts, and I'm really not in the mood for another brawl.  I only back up a little way before I find myself bumping into Skinner.

            "We don't want any trouble.  Why don't you and Lenny just go back to…bed and we'll be leaving," Skinner says smoothly.  Lenny's belligerent lover gives Skinner a speculative look, and then nods, backing down.

            "Come on, Lenny."  He pulls Lenny back in the direction of the bedroom, and with one last, lingering look at my boss, Lenny goes. 

            What is it with Skinner and these dom guys, I wonder to myself as we leave the apartment in silence.  Is it the physique?  I mean, I'm just as tall as he is and they don't all back down when I stare at them.  Is it that grim-faced, unsmiling look?  Maybe I'll have to work on that.  Or the bald head?  The air of authority?  Whatever it is, so far this evening he's out-topped two experienced tops, so it's pretty convincing.  I feel a vague pang of envy.  I wish I had this knack—it would come in useful in everyday life and might stop me getting screwed over by so many people.  Oh, you know who I mean—Cancerman, the whole Consortium, even goddamn Krycek.

*                       *                       *

            Lenny is looking his winsome best for the meeting the following afternoon.  Jeans, cowboy boots, blue denim shirt—this is his "on the range" look.  He wouldn't know one end of a horse from the other, but Lenny's not one to let reality stand in the way of a good image.  It's wasted on Skinner, of course, who it's aimed at.  My boss is his usual terse self.  He briefly outlines my recent investigation to the team, and Roberts shoots me a reproachful glance.  I guess Skinner's already chewed him out for letting me see those photos.  However, they're all interested in the conclusions I've come to.

            "What happens next, sir?" Roberts asks.  "Is Mulder going back to the club?"  He looks questioningly at me, then at Skinner, and finally at Lenny, who winks at him.  Roberts blushes. 

            "Well, this Krypton place seems to be our best way of locating the main players in the Mithras circle, so, yes, I suppose another trip to the club is warranted.  This time with proper backup."  Skinner shoots me a cool glance, and Lenny grins at me, and nudges me with his foot.  I wish he'd stop giving everything a sexual context, and I especially wish he'd stop casting me in the role of fellow gay sub lusting after my boss.  It isn't true, and it's distracting.

            "We'll need to take Lenny's advice on how best to avoid an occurrence of last night's debacle," Skinner says.  Lenny smiles delightedly.

            "Well—I did try and warn Mulder about Krypton," he says and I sigh inwardly.  Go ahead, Lenny, throw me to the lions.  "Krypton's pretty far out, as these places go.  It's for the more possessive types.  There's some posturing—the doms try to steal other men's subs—it's part of the fun.  It's a kind of macho thing.  The tops who go to Krypton are a bit over-blessed with testosterone," Lenny grins.  "They like to show how powerful they are.  And the subs that go are really into being owned and having men fight over them.  So it's the way out end of the scene, like I said.  I'd suggest that next time Mulder goes as a sub and takes a top with him.  And they both dress appropriately!"  He smirks at me, and I have a vision of myself in full collar and chains, being dragged around at the end of a lead.  Trust me—this vision does nothing for me.

            "Right.  That makes sense—it will also give us two men in the club.  We'll have others on standby outside."  Skinner nods.  "Agent Kendall, I suggest that you accompany Agent Mulder inside and…"

            "With all due respect, sir."  Lenny rolls that "sir" over his tongue as if he's making love to it.  "And nothing against Agent Kendall, who I'm sure is very strong, and tough and all."  He smiles at Kendall, who is a lean, wiry guy with a moustache.  It's his turn to blush now.  "But I think you underestimate the sort of thing that goes on in Krypton.  That's the mistake Mulder made last night.  And if you do get as far as being accepted within the Mithras ring—that is your aim, isn't it?"  He looks at Skinner inquiringly.  Skinner nods.  "Well, then you're going to need someone who can really pull the role off, sir.  Or Mulder could find himself in big trouble." 

            "That won't be a first," Roberts mutters, and someone splutters.  Skinner silences them with a glare.

            "All right.  I'm well aware of the delicate and embarrassing nature of this investigation," he says to the room at large.  "But however personally distasteful or uncomfortable you find it, there have been five men killed, and we have a job to do.  So forget the sniggering, gentlemen, please."  He glances around and everyone nods solemnly.  "If any of you have a problem with the particular nature of this investigation, I suggest you say so now."  He regards the assembled agents impassively, and of course nobody says anything.  "All right, then.  What are you suggesting, Lenny?" he asks.

            "I think you should be Agent Mulder's top on the mission, sir," he says.  "I think you're the only one here who could really, well, carry the role off." 

            A dreadful silence falls over the room.  Everybody suddenly feels an urge to examine their ties.  I don't.  This amuses the hell out of me, and I give Skinner a wide grin, which he studiously declines to take any notice of whatsoever, and of course after his last little speech, Lenny has thrown him right in the big middle of it.  He thinks about it for a moment, then nods. 

            "Very well," he agrees.  Not that he really had much choice.  No point bringing Lenny in and asking his advice if you don't take it.

            "Goody."  Lenny claps his hands together.  "I have the perfect outfits for both of you.  Oh, and you'll need me along, too.  I'll be able to point out the Mithras guys to you.  It'll give you more kudos, as well."  He grins at Skinner, who raises an inquiring eyebrow.  "Two boys in your harem!"  Lenny smirks.  "And both of us quite adorable, if I do say so myself!"

            "Lenny…" I can see Skinner considering his words carefully, "this is an undercover investigation—not real life.  It could be dangerous, and it could also blow your cover as an informant if these people suspect that we're FBI.  In addition, we have a dangerous serial killer at large.  I don't think you've really considered the implications of your involvement.  Now I'd be grateful for your help in the club, but you could very well be putting your life at risk.  Please think very carefully about that."

            "Well, technically speaking, Mulder and I aren't at any risk from the serial killer, are we?  I mean, you will be, but not us."  Lenny looks slightly confused.

            "What do you mean?" I ask, glancing at the other agents in the room.  Everyone is looking at Lenny with puzzled expressions.

            "Well, the serial killer...  I mean—those guys whose names you ran by me."  Lenny looks at me, and then at everyone else.  "I don't think I've got anything wrong here, have I?"  He points to the file on Skinner's desk, gets up, and plucks out a couple of the photos.  "I knew a couple of these guys, and I'd heard of the others.  Sean Flynn, George Redman, Phil…"  His eyes get watery, and he seems choked.  "Phil," he murmurs.  "They're all tops—all these guys who were murdered were tops.  Did you think they were subs?"

            He glances around the room, and takes in our stunned silence.  "It's amazing how easy it is to stereotype, isn't it?  Aggressive, sadistic men who like tying up and beating poor defenseless boys—how easy for one of them to go too far and end up killing.  Right?"  Lenny looks as if he's about to get on his soapbox, which, for someone so empty-headed and vacuous, is quite an achievement.  "Well, sorry, folks, but life's not that simple.  I don't know much about these murders, but I don't see how they could be the result of a scene going too far.  All the tops I've known have been very safe—I'm sure there are some psychos out there, but I've never been with one.  And nothing ever happens to me that I don't want to happen."  I'm sure he's going to get on a chair and scream, "I'm submissive and I'm proud of it!" but luckily Skinner cuts him off before he reaches a crescendo.

            "That's very interesting, Lenny.  Thanks for pointing all this out to us.  It strikes me that perhaps our perceptions are colored by a lack of understanding of the rules of this particular… er…subculture.  Before we go back to Krypton, I think you had better make sure that we have a full understanding of them so that we can avoid any reoccurrence of last night's fiasco." 

            Ah, any excuse to get in a dig at me; I didn't even see that one coming.

            We spend an embarrassing couple of hours going through the "rules of this subculture" as Skinner so elegantly words it.  As far as I can figure out, this means that Lenny and I get to simper and flirt, so long as we do as we're told and ask permission to breathe, while Skinner gets to wander around looking menacing and snarling orders—so no big change for him, then. 

            Finally we're all sent off on our separate ways with orders to meet up again at 11 p.m. to prepare for another visit to Krypton.  Skinner's outlined the plan down to the last detail—I'm not surprised, but I am impressed, as I usually am, by his meticulous attention to planning.  His methods really are the complete opposite to mine.  I usually like to improvise, make things up as I go along, play it by ear, but he doesn't like surprises and of course he has the safety of his agents to think about, which adds a dimension to his work that I don't have to worry about. 

            We're all going to be wearing wires, and the backup team will be sited in a van outside the club, so there's little possibility of us coming to any serious harm.  At this point, it's all still a joke to me.  I know there's a serious element, but, let's face it, the situation is absurd and highly amusing.  I'm sure Skinner must think so, too.  I'm even looking forward to it.  Undercover missions are exciting and scary and it's amusing to pretend to be someone else for a while—must be the thwarted performer in me.  I know some guys have been murdered, but maybe I'm not taking this as seriously as I might if it were an X File.  It all just seems so absurd, and it is at least a vacation from mutants and aliens—although, frankly, not all that much different, judging by those rules that Lenny ran by us.

*                       *                       *

            At 11:00, Lenny turns up with a whole trunk full of clothes.  Skinner takes one look at the tight leather trousers and chain mail vest that Lenny has picked out for him and shakes his head.

            "Lenny, I don't question your judgment," he says smoothly.  He doesn't?  I do!  It's clear that Lenny is just itching to get Skinner dressed up in his favorite fantasy outfit.  Lenny is enjoying all this far too much.  "But from what I've heard about the Mithras club, they're not this obvious, are they?  They're select?  Elite?"  He glances at me, and I nod.  "So I need to look like I'm a real player—not just someone who's looking for some action on a Saturday night.  Right?"

            Very well played, Skinner.  Shame about the leather trousers and chain mail, though—I could have taken photos and used them for blackmail purposes next time he questions something I do with the X Files.

            "I suppose," Lenny says sulkily. 

            "So what would you suggest—from your expert knowledge of these people?"  Skinner's diplomacy can be breathtaking, sometimes.  Lenny is easily mollified.

            "Something low-key," Lenny muses.  "But totally dom.  Black—obviously." 

            He rummages around in his trunk again.  I don't believe this—Skinner is going to get away with dressing like some elegant matinee idol, and I just know that I'm going to end up in something skimpy and humiliating.  I'm right—Skinner is soon attired in black chinos, a black polo neck, black suede waistcoat and his own pair of shiny black shoes.  His only real concession to being masterful is the pair of handcuffs that Lenny makes him wear hanging from his belt, and the dog lead he attaches to the buckle. 

            "Just in case," Lenny says.  In case of what, I wonder?  In case we find a stray dog?  Still, he looks elegant, but threatening—quite the part. 

            I get to wear a pair of shiny PVC pants, and a revolting, itchy mesh vest.  The vest is also see-through—did I mention that?  Oh, and I suppose I ought to add that Lenny buckled a collar around my neck as well, just to finish off my total humiliation.  Lenny has chosen for himself a black leather chest harness and a pair of tight leather shorts.  Yes.  Shorts.  Still, he's used to it—I'm just glad he didn't suggest them for me.  So, suitably attired, we set off. 

            "I still think you should have brought that riding crop," Lenny grumbles at Skinner as we arrive at the club.  For someone who labels himself 'submissive,' he has a knack for making demands.  I'm revising my opinions of this 'subculture.'  Clearly it's not the tops who have all the power, clearly there is a good deal of manipulation that goes on.  Lenny has been trying to get Skinner to bring the riding crop for the past two hours, and you can see that he still hasn't quite given up on the idea.  If I were Skinner, I'd have yelled at him to shut up about it by now, but Skinner remains steadfastly unmoving in his decision which he has explained once, and refuses to discuss again, leaving Lenny to complain snidely at every opportunity to no avail.  In fact, I think he's rather enjoying the struggle, pointless though it is, but if he's hoping to provoke my boss into a display of erotic bad temper, he's wasting his time; Skinner is scrupulously polite to him.

            The club is even more packed than last night, but I have to say there is a huge difference in the way I am treated.  I still get ogled constantly, but Skinner's presence seems to ensure that nobody actually makes an approach, and he isn't even behaving any differently from the way he behaves in real life, which is alarming.  He buys us all drinks, although he won't let us have anything stronger than a coke, not even Lenny, who pouts a bit about this.  I think this is Lenny's standard technique with men he finds attractive—he just wants to provoke them into being masterful.  He'll have a long wait with Skinner—he hasn't even been terse with Lenny yet. 

            Nothing much happens for a while.  Lenny flirts a bit, then someone takes a liking to him and asks him to dance.  Lenny looks at Skinner, who says quietly: "I don't think so," which sends Lenny into paroxysms of delight until Skinner explains to him in an undertone that he doesn't want Lenny getting out of sight on the bustling dance floor—it isn't wise for us to be separated at this point.  Lenny pouts.  Again.

            "Don't you feel…threatened in this place?" I ask Skinner, as yet another guy brushes too close to me and fondles my butt.

            "No," he replies, then the faintest flicker of a grin crosses his face.  "Although if I was dressed like you are, I might." 

            "Thanks."  I find myself pouting and stop quickly.  It must be catching.  Skinner is watching everything that goes on, but without the smallest trace of shock or distaste, as if he's seen it all before.  Maybe he has.  Maybe after Vietnam, and a long career in the serious crimes division of the FBI, nothing surprises him.  I must admit to feeling faintly alarmed myself, though, as a ‘side-show’ is announced.  A cage is lowered to the floor, containing a nearly naked young man.  Another man, dressed from head to foot in rubber, opens the cage door and cracks a horsewhip around.  The submissive crawls from the cage and licks the other man's shiny boots.  He's hauled to his feet and tied up to a post. 

            "Shit, I can't watch this," I murmur. 

            Lenny shakes his head, grinning at me.  "Oh, relax, honey!  This is just for show.  The real stuff is going on in the upstairs rooms," he says.

            "What real stuff?" Skinner asks.

            "You know."  Lenny winks.  "Should be starting just about now."  He glances at his watch.  "You want me to show you?"

            "Yes."  Skinner nods, and I find myself following them both up the stairs. 

            It's a relief to be away from the noise of the dance floor, but there are different noises up here that worry me.  The thud of something on human flesh, for example, although there isn't much screaming, just some grunting.  Lenny ushers us into a room where a man is strapped to a bench, a gag in his mouth—which explains the lack of screaming.  He's being soundly beaten with a strap, but he doesn't seem to be in any distress.  I assume it's consensual. 

            Skinner frowns.  "Recognize anyone from Mithras?" he asks Lenny. 

            Lenny looks around. "Not yet.  I'll keep an eye out." 

            Skinner and I watch the beating without speaking.  I don't think either of us knows what to say, to be honest.  It doesn't turn me on, and he looks as expressionless as ever—I never know what he's thinking, anyway.  I don't think it's exactly his scene, either, though.  Something makes him look around.

            "Where's Lenny?" he asks me.

            "Oh, shit." 

            Lenny has disappeared.  We go back out onto the gallery, and looking down on the dance floor, I see Lenny gyrating with the guy he was talking to earlier.

            "Not very obedient, is he?" I wisecrack to Skinner.

            "Oh, I'm used to that," he deadpans back meaningfully, nearly making me choke.

            "Do you want to go down there, sling him over your shoulder and bring him back?"

            "Not really," he shrugs, and then he notices the man watching us.  His eyes skim over my shoulder and I see him stiffen.  "Remember what you were saying about being bait?" he asks.  I nod.  "Well, I think the time's come, Mulder.  Why don't you go downstairs and rescue Lenny, and we'll see what happens."

            I'm not sure what he's seen, but I nod, feeling curiously enlivened by this exchange, my heart thudding in my chest.  At last—action! 

            I set off, conscious of being watched, and just get to the bottom of the stairs when a tough-looking guy with a scar down one cheek blocks my way.

            "We want a word with you," he says.

            "With me?"  I start to back up, only to realize that another man is blocking the stairwell.  I'm trapped.

            "Yeah."  Without warning, the guy behind me licks my neck, which disgusts me, and without even thinking about it, I turn around and take a swing at him.  My arms are grabbed by Scarface before my fist makes contact, and I'm thrown over the banisters.

            "Looks like you've already been in some trouble," Scarface murmurs, running a finger over my bruised jaw.  "You don't want to get into any more." 

            "What's going on here?"  I'm relieved to hear Skinner's voice.

            "Nothing.  Stay out of our way!" Scarface snarls. 

            "I don't think so."  Skinner pulls me off the banisters.  "You okay?" he asks, and I nod.

            "Don't interfere."  Scarface puts his face too close to Skinner's, invading his personal space.  "We've taken a liking to Hotlips here." 

            Hotlips?  Ugh.

            "Well, you can't have him," Skinner says firmly.

            "Why not?" Scarface asks menacingly, obviously expecting Skinner to back down.

            "Because he belongs to me."  Skinner puts a hand on my shoulder to further illustrate the point.  All right, this is the weird, creepy bit—that whole exchange sends a shiver down my spine.  I relive that 'because he belongs to me' moment several times in the next ten seconds, and each time it makes me tingle.  I have no idea why.

            "Oh, does he?" Scarface grins.  "Well, I think it's time to negotiate a change of ownership, don't you?"  He puts out a hand to take my arm, but Skinner grabs his wrist before he can touch me.

            "No.  I don't," he says firmly.

            "Looking for trouble?" Scarface asks.

            "No.  But I'm willing to hand it out, if need be."  Skinner out-machos the man, and there's a sense of stalemate for a while.  Scarface seems to consider this, then finally he nods and stands aside grudgingly to let us pass.  I'm heaving a sigh of relief as we do so, when suddenly I find my arm grabbed by Scarface's accomplice, as Scarface swings his fist towards Skinner's stomach.  Skinner seems to be ready for this and side-steps the man neatly before swinging his own fist into his opponent's abdomen and kneeing him efficiently in the groin.  The whole exchange takes place in nearly total silence and is over so quickly that I hardly have time to register it.  Scarface lies moaning at Skinner's feet and I elbow the accomplice in the ribs and step over Scarface's body to catch up with my boss.

            "Mission accomplished," he murmurs, glancing up at the gallery.  I notice the two men watching us silently.

            "You know—I think you're actually having fun," I comment as we cross back over to the dance floor to get Lenny.

            "Are you kidding?"  He almost grins.  "This is the first time I've been out from behind that desk in months.  I don't usually get the chance to dress up and assume a cover.  Of course I'm having fun.  Hotlips."  And with that, he charges onto the dance floor and recovers the hapless Lenny.  I'm left standing there, speechless.

            "You know, Lenny," Skinner says thoughtfully as he ushers back our wayward friend,  "I'd be grateful if you could stay where Mulder and I can keep an eye on you.  There's something going down here tonight and it could get rough.  If you're with us, then we can look out for you."

            "You can look out for me anytime," Lenny purrs seductively. 

            Skinner smiles indulgently for a second, and then the grin fades, and he reaches out swiftly and wraps his hands in Lenny's harness, lifting him off the ground.

            "Just do as I say, Lenny," he growls, "and then everything will be fine." 

            "Y-Yes, sir."  Lenny's eyes are wide with awe-struck lust as Skinner puts him back on the floor, and I'm completely startled.

            "Okay, you're enjoying yourself entirely too much now," I murmur to my boss as we walk over to the bar.

            "Not at all," he replies in a brisk undertone.  "Lenny's a loose canon—but if I treat him in the right way, then I'm sure he'll do everything I say.  That way we can keep him safe.  I don't want any civilians endangered in the course of this investigation."

            "That's your excuse, anyway," I murmur, feeling somehow pissed off.  Don't ask me to explain my emotions at this point—I don't have any understanding of them myself.

            A tall blond guy approaches us as we stand by the bar again.  I tense myself for another proposition, but this guy ignores me completely and instead flings himself theatrically at my boss' feet.  I think that for a moment, for just one second, Skinner is fazed.  He glances at Lenny, who pokes the blond guy with his foot.

            "All right.  You've got his attention.  What is it?" Lenny asks. 

            Blondie looks up and smiles, flashing a set of glistening white teeth.  "Master, I've come here looking for a new owner.  Would you accept me, please?" he asks. 

            I splutter into my coke, and Skinner shoots me a grumpy look, which turns into an almost malicious semi-grin.  I'm startled for a moment until I see that we are still being watched and he's obviously trying to play his part as well as he can.  He leans back and looks Blondie up and down, as if seriously considering the proposition. 

            "What can you offer me?" he asks. 

            Blondie edges forward eagerly, his hands going to my boss's belt.  "Let me show you," he says. 

            Skinner knocks his hands away.  "No, you'll tell me.  Do you usually try to touch without being given permission first?  I don't think your last master had you very well trained."  He glances at Lenny over Blondie's head.  Lenny gives him a surreptitious thumbs up sign.  I can hear Roberts and Kendall dying of laughter in the van through the wire I'm wearing.

            "Forgive me, Master."  Blondie hangs his head in mock shame.

            "You've blown it," I remark, gesturing with my head that he should withdraw, and nudging at him with my knee.  Blondie looks appealingly at Skinner, who frowns at me and turns his attention back to the man at his feet.

            "I'm happy with the subs I have right now—I don't have the time or inclination to take on anyone new," he remarks.  "However, if that situation should change…."  He shoots a meaningful glance at me and Blondie smiles and nods, then gets to his feet and, with a sneering, smug smile in my direction, pushes past me to return to the dance floor.

            "Very good!"  Lenny claps his hands together gleefully.  "I'm impressed.  You've really got some flair for this!"

            "A compliment to die for," I comment sourly, still feeling out of sorts for no reason I can put my finger on. 

            Skinner glances at me, then grabs hold of my arm and walks me off to a quieter corner of the bar.  "Agent Mulder, is there some sort of problem here I'm not aware of?" he hisses in an undertone.  "Because we really need to be convincing in these roles if we want to find out anything more about this Mithras group.  If you can't handle this, can I suggest we call in a replacement?"

            "No.  I'm fine.  It's just this place makes me nervous," I reply.  "I'm tired of getting looked at like I'm a piece of meat."

            "It's just a front, Mulder," Skinner tells me, his dark eyes surprising me with their understanding.  "You've been on dozens of undercover missions before—this one is no different.  Is it?"  He glances at me questioningly, and I shake my head. 

            "No.  Sorry.  Of course not."

            "Good.  I think the men we're looking for will approach us soon.  We seem to have done enough to draw attention to ourselves."  He jerks his head at the two men who have been watching us from the gallery, and I have to agree with his assessment of the situation.  From all that Lenny has told us, there is nothing we can do to infiltrate the Mithras group except interest them in some way.  Nobody approaches them—they make all the moves. 

            At that moment another side-show is announced, and the theme music from the Superman films blares out.  A well-muscled, over-endowed man makes an entrance onto the catwalk, clad in a skin-tight Superman outfit. 

            "Superman returns to the planet Krypton," a voice announces.  It's so cheesy that I have to laugh my head off.  Soon 'Superman' is being fawned over by a troupe of dancing slave boys, and I'm so engrossed in the absurdity of this spectacle that I lose concentration for a moment, and am surprised when Skinner nudges me and murmurs, "Ready, Mulder?"

            I look around and see a well-dressed man approaching us.  He doesn't look like any of the people here—no leather, no chains—he isn't even dressed in black.  Instead he's wearing a plain gray suit, and behind him are the two men who have been watching us from the gallery all evening.

            "Ready," I nod.

            The well-dressed man reaches us, and smiles.

            "Let me introduce myself.  I'm Aaron Saunders," he says in a cultured English accent.  He holds out his hand, and Skinner takes it. 

            "Walter Skinner."  He nods.  We did discuss assuming different names, but decided against it.  We have, however, placed some fake IDs in the system, so anyone running a check on us is not going to find out that we are FBI agents.

            "We have business to discuss," Saunders tells him. 

            Skinner nods.  "Yes.  I think we do," he murmurs. 

            Saunders leads us off to an upstairs room, which is relatively quiet, and the door is shut behind us.  I'm glad of the wire because I'm feeling rather vulnerable without my gun. 

            Saunders waves Skinner to an armchair.  No notice is taken of me whatsoever, and no chair has been provided—it's clear that I have no status with these people.  I look around for a moment, wondering what to do, and then Skinner makes a brief, irritated gesture to the floor, and I hunker down beside him, going with the role and taking the opportunity to study Saunders in more detail.  He's not a particularly tall man, but he has a meaty look, which shows that he can take care of himself if need be.  He has a long, hooked nose, and is good-looking in a sharp, hawk-like way.

            "We were interested in the way you've handled yourself here tonight," Saunders says.  "We have a proposition that might interest you."

            "Really?"  Skinner raises a polite eyebrow.

            "You've heard of the Mithras Brotherhood?" Saunders asks.

            "Of course."  Skinner nods.

            "We first noticed the sub last night—he drew attention to himself."  Saunders isn't looking at me, and it takes a while before I even realize he's talking about me.  "He was playing games—a bit dangerous in this sort of place."

            "Yes.  I think he learned his lesson," Skinner remarks, his eyes flickering over the bruise on my jaw.

            "We were curious—we found him interesting, but what's another pretty submissive?" Saunders shrugs.  "They're easily come by, after all.  Just take a look at the dance floor down there."  He grins.  "However, when he came back here again with you this evening—that was more interesting to us."

            "Why is that?" Skinner asks.

            "Mithras isn't just some tedious forum for macho posturing.  We have specific rules—and we tend to view ourselves as 'lifestyle' doms.  Our subs are the same.  They belong to us in every real sense of the word—dull rules about safe words and negotiation aren't a feature of our society.  If a submissive belongs to you, he's yours to do as you want with—so long as you're strong enough to keep him."

            "Isn't that just a bit dangerous?" Skinner asks.

            "Danger is the ultimate thrill, isn't it?" Saunders counters.  "How much of a player are you, Mr. Skinner?  You have no credentials—we've never seen or heard of you on the scene before.  And as for this…creature…"  He casts a disparaging eye over me.  "He really shouldn't have been allowed out alone."

            "He wasn't," Skinner remarks.  "I took care of it.  Believe me."  He sounds so cool and hard that I'm impressed. 

            "A man who can't control his submissive has no place in our organization."  Saunders frowns.

            "Fox?"  Skinner's hand twines itself in my hair, pulling my head back just like my cellmate last night did—which is where he obviously picked up the idea.  "Tell the man about our little game."

            Oh, thanks!  He's obviously pissed off with doing all the work here.  I think fast.

            "My name's Fox," I mutter.  "Sometimes my master likes to hunt me.  He gives me a head-start around the bars and clubs, and then he comes after me.  If he catches me with another man, he can be very cruel.  I like to leave a trail—sometimes I like to be caught.  Last night I think I made too much of a commotion.  My master had to bail me out from the police station.  He wasn't very happy about that." 

            In an absurd sort of way, this is partly true.  Maybe that's what's so weird about all this pretending.

            "How entertaining."  Saunders is clearly taken with this whole idea.  Maybe I have a flair for this as well.  I almost wish Lenny were here to congratulate me. 

            Skinner takes his hand out of my hair and flattens it down again.  I find myself leaning into him like a cat or something, wanting to be fondled.  You could put it down to trying to keep our cover as convincing as possible, but I have to say that I don't do it consciously.  Perhaps I'm starting to absorb the 'rules of this subculture' by some sort of osmosis. 

            "He's an amusing piece—classy, Mr. Skinner," Saunders muses.  How flattering.  "We don't see many like him.  I'm sure a lot of our other members would be interested in him."

            "He's not available," Skinner says warningly.  "He belongs to me."  Again, that strange flicker inside me.  It unsettles me.

            "And that isn't negotiable?" Saunders asks.

            "No.  Absolutely not," Skinner says firmly.  Saunders's eyes light up.  He looks satisfied by this information.

            "And the submissive?  What does he say?  Is he happy in his current situation?" Saunders asks, looking at me.  I open my mouth to speak, but Skinner knocks his knee against my shoulder and interrupts me.

            "He's happy if I say he is," he replies. 

            Saunders raises an eyebrow.  "Are you sure?" he asks.

            "Yes."  Skinner nods. 

            "And if another man were to take an interest in him—you'd fight for him?"

            "Yes."  Skinner nods again. 

            "Then I think you might find our organization to be just the sort of challenge you'd enjoy."  Saunders smiles.  He hands Skinner a business card.  "Call me tomorrow to arrange the details—if you think you're up to the challenge, that is.  It may be out of your league, Mr. Skinner, although…I don't think this particular submissive would still be with you now if that were the case.  I think you've got the potential to be a very interesting player, Mr. Skinner.  I look forward to hearing from you."

            And with that, Saunders gets up and leaves the room, his two flunkies following on behind.

            "A hunt around bars and clubs?" Skinner mocks with a raised eyebrow when we are alone.

            "I was improvising!  You left me hanging out there."

            "Well, it was inspired—Saunders really bought it."

            "Good.  Does that mean we can leave now?"  I make a face.

            "And there was I thinking you were having a good time." 

            I'm sure that's what he says, although he's walking out of the room as he talks, so it's possible he says something else.  I'm seeing a whole new, disturbing side of him this evening.  Or is it a disturbing side of myself I'm seeing?  He seems to be simply playing his role as well as he can—staying alert, making all the right moves to get the information we require.  I, on the other hand, have been freaked out by my reactions to being in this whole role-play scenario with him.  I've pouted, become—what?  Jealous? —sulked, brooded, and felt some very strange sensations in my gut.  I feel seriously worried about all this, and take it out on Lenny. 

            "We're leaving."  I grab him and drag him off the dance floor where he has resumed diddling with his leather-clad friend. 

            "All done, then?" he asks, looking surprised by my manner.

            "Yeah.  Trap set." 

            "A trap for who?  Them or you?" he pouts and that makes me even more bad tempered for some reason.

            "Just get a move on, Lenny.  Skinner's waiting for us."

            "And we wouldn't want to keep our master waiting.  Who knows how he'd punish us."  Lenny begins flippantly. 

            Something inside me just goes ballistic.  I reach out and grab Lenny's arm.

            "Just shut up!  Shut up about all this stuff.  I don't care what sort of fantasy you're creating about Skinner, but none of it is true.  He's not gay, he's not a dom, he most certainly is not into this whole alternative lifestyle stuff, and you stand no chance whatsoever of becoming his house-boy, or slave boy or whatever else you've gotten into your head.  Understood, Lenny?"

            Lenny is staring at me.

            "I was just fooling around, Mulder," he says quietly.  "I can tell the difference between real life and a sex game.  I think you're the one who has trouble with it."

            "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" I turn on him angrily.

            "Oh, Mulder, you're not that stupid."  Lenny says with a shake of his head.  "I've watched you with Skinner—you do your damnedest to draw attention to yourself.  You behave badly, or brilliantly, or both, and you just push and push at that guy.  He must have the patience of a saint to put up with you.  He must be tempted to just throw you over his knee and spank you sometimes!"  Lenny grins. 

            "Are you saying that I have some sort of sick fantasy about my boss?" I demand furiously.

            "Who are you calling sick?  I think you'd be sick not to have some sort of fantasy about that walking hunk of testosterone.  He's got the soul of a top, even if he doesn't act it out—the fact that he isn't into this stuff is partly what makes him so attractive.  The best tops are demanding and strict, but they're protective and caring as well.  The divine Skinner just exudes these qualities and he's not even role-playing.  Why wouldn't you respond to that?"

            "Because I'm not fucking gay!  I'm straight!" I explode, pushing Lenny against a wall, my fingers clenched tightly around his arms.

            "Some things are just primeval.  All that alpha male stuff.  You're into all this clever psycho-crap, Mulder.  You figure it out."  Lenny is shivering.  "Please, Mulder, you're hurting me," he whimpers.

            "Well, why not?  You like to be hurt, don't you?" I say nastily, slamming his head back into the wall. 

            "Not like this.  Not by you.  This isn't like you, Mulder."

            "You don't know anything about me.  You're wrong about me," I snarl, digging my fingers into his wrists even harder.  Suddenly I feel two hands descend on my shoulders, and I'm propelled back forcibly away from Lenny.

            "Gentlemen.  Time to be going," Skinner says urbanely, ushering us both towards the exit, a hand on each of our shoulders. 

            I don't know what he overheard, or what the guys in the van have made of this exchange, and I don't much care at this point.  All I want to do is get out, get away, run as fast as I can, find an X File, grab Scully, and put a lot of distance between me and this whole scenario.  I can't do any of these things, so I sink into a grim sulk instead, just daring anybody to talk to me.  They get the message and the ride back to the Hoover Building takes place in a tense silence. 

            Skinner decides to defuse the situation slightly by dropping Lenny off on the way, but there's no escape for me.  We have to debrief—there's no getting out of it, so I struggle to push all this turmoil to the back of my mind and concentrate on what we have to do to catch the killer.

            "Why don't we get changed and meet in my office in about half an hour?" Skinner suggests quietly, addressing me as we enter the building.  I nod tersely and disappear to the basement, relieved to be alone. 

            Scully's left me a message:  

Hope you and the boys had fun on your night out.  Think of poor me, sitting at home writing a report on my laptop — next time make it a case a girl can join in on!

            It should cheer me up, but it doesn't.  I don't think anything would right now.  I screw it up, and throw it at the wall, savagely.  Attention-seeking behavior?  Moi?  I resist the implications of what Lenny said to me and pull that revolting vest over my head, then shoulder myself into my nice, normal shirt.  Real Life settles back around me; familiar, comfortable, safe.

            "I can tell the difference between real life and a sex game.  I think you're the one who has trouble with it."  Lenny's words echo endlessly in my head.  Lifestyle doms, Saunders called the Mithras circle—with lifestyle subs in tow.  "You're a sub even if you don't know it yet," that guy in the drunk tank said.  I don't want this going on in my head, I don't want these feelings stirring inside me.  Have I manipulated my relationship with Skinner to give me a rush without even knowing it?  Have I really been pushing him all these years just to get some perverse sexual thrill?

*                       *                       *

            "Mulder.  It's been an hour.  You didn't answer your phone." 

            Skinner is standing in the doorway looking at me with some concern.  I didn't even notice that the phone had been ringing. 

            "What's going on, Mulder?" he asks, coming into the room.  "You've been on edge all evening.  Are you brewing some masterstroke of analysis that will help us catch this killer?"

            "I wish I was,"  I sigh.  At least he's given me a simple motive for my behavior.  Has he noticed the way I've been behaving since I've known him, though?  Has he ever read anything more sinister into it?  I feel self-conscious, like I've been put under a spotlight and I'm analyzing every move I make now.  It's inhibiting.

            "What is it, then?"  His concern is touching.  "You've seen worse places than that club, surely?" he asks, perching himself on the edge of my desk.

            "What?  Well, you gotta admit that place was weird." 

            "True."  He shrugs.  I wonder suddenly if he's overheard the tape of my conversation with Lenny and I can't stop myself flushing. 

            I notice that he's changed back into his shirt and tie, and I can see why Lenny was attracted to him.  I feel as if my eyes have been opened, as if I've been fighting something that's been in my head for as long as I've known him—maybe something that's always been inside me, but that I've denied for a long time.  Lenny's lifestyle doesn't appeal to me at all, but the idea of belonging to Skinner, the memory of his hand in my hair, kneeling at his feet—why does that all seem so right, all of a sudden?  This realization is matched almost immediately by the knowledge that it doesn't matter if Lenny is right because Skinner is not going to be interested.  If he knew what was going on in my head, he'd be revolted, disgusted.  As I am.  I hate myself.

            "I was thinking it all through," I say briskly, shrugging off this introspection.  "We have to find these Mithras guys.  We have to infiltrate the group and…"

            "Not so fast, Mulder.  I think that's far too risky.  We've come up with some facts on Saunders, which the team is going through right now.  I'd rather go and knock on some doors in the time-honored fashion than throw either you or me into the lion's den."

            "You won't find anything," I tell him, sure that I'm right.  "Every single one of these Mithras guys will be clean—not so much as a driving violation.  And they'll go very quiet on you, clam up completely.  They'll close down, ship out, and then this will start all over again somewhere else a few months down the line.  But by then we'll have lost our leads."

            "You seem very sure of that."  Skinner frowns. 

            "I am.  It's just a hunch.  My hunches aren't usually wrong," I inform him. 

            He sighs, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes tiredly.  I realize he has probably had as little sleep as I have in the past 24 hours.  "Well—I'm in no condition to make this decision tonight," he informs me.  "I'll leave the team working on it and think about it tomorrow.  I suggest you go home and get some rest as well.  If we do end up having to continue with this charade, then we'll need our wits about us.  I've a feeling that our Mr. Saunders will prove to be a fast worker."

            He nods to me and leaves the room, and I just gaze after him, wondering if I'm crazy or stupid, or both, to suggest continuing with what he calls ‘this charade’.  A charade that is having a serious effect on my mental well-being, a charade that has revealed to me a darkness inside that I never even suspected existed before.  I should be running away from it as fast as I can, but instead I'm throwing myself right into the middle of it.  I can't keep doubting myself and second guessing my motives all the time—he's right, I need some rest. 

*                       *                       *

            By the following afternoon I've convinced myself that none of it ever happened.  I can do this occasionally.  It's my burying-my-head-in-the-sand trick and I save it only for the most distressing circumstances.  Hell, you know me—normally I'm more of a 'dig it up, rip it up and tear it down before I know why it was put there in the first place' kind of guy, but this time it's different.  I want to bury these memories as quickly and deeply as I can.  I just want to get through this case and then lie low for a long, long time. 

            Skinner is already at work, sitting at his desk as usual, presiding over another team meeting and, much to my dismay, Lenny has been invited back.  He isn't dressed up today—instead he's in an old pair of jeans and a faded sweatshirt and—most noticeably—he isn't flirting with anyone.  He looks pale and tired.  He gives me a wary look as I enter the room and I try a forced smile, which he bravely tries to return but without much heart; Lenny never was one to bear a grudge.  I feel a wave of guilt about the whole thing and long to apologize, but it isn't appropriate right now.

            Skinner gives me a reproving glance for being late and I almost miss the nudge of glee that Lenny would have given me yesterday. 

            "Thanks for giving up your time to help us again, Lenny."  Skinner smiles, and Lenny gives a graceful little nod of acknowledgement.  Both Skinner and Lenny could be from a completely different species compared to the men I was with at the club last night.  Skinner is businesslike, Lenny is withdrawn, and as for me, well, I don't change, I guess—maybe that's the problem.  I certainly start out intending to behave well.

            "I've been reading your report about the ancient Mithras cult, Mulder."  Skinner glances at me.  "And I find it disturbing.  In your initial briefing with me, you neglected to mention that the cult held an initiation ceremony that involved being drenched in bull's blood."

            "Well, it did in Roman times," I object.  "There's no reason to suppose that Saunders' gang does the same.  You don't see that many bulls roaming around D.C., after all," I point out flippantly. 

            "No.  You don't."  Skinner stares at me for a long moment.  "However, I still find the ritualistic element disturbing."

            "You aren't going to follow up on Saunders' offer, are you?"  I wish that didn't sound like an accusation, like I disagree with his decision, but the truth is that I do. 

            "I have no intention of placing you, or, for that matter, myself, in the hands of these people without having some more information." 

            "You won't get any more information unless we go in there," I object.

            "It's not up for general debate, Mulder," he states tersely.  "Lenny has been filling me in on the sort of organization we are dealing with and the sort of treatment that we, or more specifically, you, can expect if we take this cover any further.  I am not satisfied that I could ensure your safety."

            "Like Lenny said, you'd be the only one at risk," I point out, and immediately wish I hadn't.  It's like accusing the man of cowardice, and I can honestly say that there isn't any question of that ever being true about him.  He may have his faults, but being a big wuss isn't one of them.  A tense atmosphere has descended on the room and Skinner gives me another of his cool stares.

            "Mulder, I've made my decision," he says firmly.  "I am unable to assess the risk to myself in pursuing this venture, but the risk to you is obvious.  Saunders told us that these people do not operate on a system of consent.  Have you thought the implications of that through?"

            He's right—I haven't thought this through.  I just want to solve the case, to leap in as usual and think later. 

            "So, how are we going to proceed?" I demand. 

            "I've spoken to Saunders and…"

            "You've called him already?" I interrupt accusingly.

            "Yes, Mulder.  I've called him already," Skinner raps back tersely. 

            Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Lenny watching me quietly, and I feel angry with myself, and with him, without knowing why. 

            "I asked him if we would still have a deal if you weren't part of the equation."

            "And he said no," I predict, accurately enough, although I'm stunned, but not surprised, that he'd walk into the lion's den alone.  A spasm of annoyance at the situation passes across Skinner's face.

            "That's right."

            "Look, it's no big deal here.  We go in, we take a van-load of backup, and we're wired.  At the first sign of any trouble, you give us the order to pull out.  I don't see the problem." 

            "Lenny."  Skinner gestures with his hand, and Lenny darts a glance at me.

            "Nobody knows where the Mithras circle meets.  Nobody ever talks about what goes on within the circle, but one thing I do know—these guys are rich, and they're smart.  They'd have the wires off you in nano-seconds.  And if you take any back up they'd detect it, check you out, and blow your cover before you even get anywhere near their base.  If you go in, you go in alone," Lenny warns.  "And, honestly, Mulder, I wouldn't recommend it.  You really, really don't want to end up as one of their boys.  Trust me—even I wouldn't like it, and that's saying something.  I think they're borderline crazy, which is fine for them, but I like my risks just a little more calculated."

            "So do I," Skinner says grimly, "and my decision is final, Mulder."  He sees me open my mouth to protest and glares at me.  I close it again.

            "Mr. Skinner is right, Mulder," Lenny says softly.  "Try something else.  There must be another way of nailing this murderer."

            "I can't think of one."  I shrug. 

            "We'll just have to find one," Skinner says, addressing the room at large.  "Lenny, thanks for coming in again."  He holds out his hand, and Lenny takes it quietly.  He looks at Skinner with silent respect, none of the drooling adulation of yesterday.  That's when I notice the bruises on Lenny's wrists, the ones I gave him last night, and I'm angry with myself, and Lenny, and, irrationally, with Skinner, too.  Lenny leaves the room and I know I can't leave it like this, so I make an excuse and follow him out.

            "Lenny!" I call him back—he's fast disappearing down the corridor.  He turns and stands there defensively, looking apprehensive.

            "I don't want any trouble, Mulder," he says nervously.

            "I just wanted to say I'm sorry.  About last night.  That place just gave me the creeps.  I don't know what came over me.  No hard feelings?"  I hold out my hand, and he ignores it.

            "Oh, Mulder, you just go ahead and dig your own grave.  I don't want anything to do with it," he says.

            "What's that supposed to mean?"

            "Don't follow this up, Mulder," he tells me quietly.  "Because if you do, you'll find out things about yourself that you don't want to know."

            "You're wrong about me, Lenny."  I shake my head.

            "No, Mulder.  You're wrong about you," he murmurs in an almost regretful tone, and finally takes my still outstretched hand.  "Good luck, buddy.  You're going to need it."  He smiles sadly and turns to leave.  I have no idea what it is he thinks I'm going to do.  I have no intention of disobeying Skinner, so I'm sure he can't mean that. 

            I watch, puzzled, as he walks off down the corridor.

            I don't have any time to think it, through, because at that moment Kendall charges into the corridor, closely followed by Roberts, and they both push past me.

            "What's going on?"  I turn around to find Skinner following behind them, walking briskly.  I trot to keep up with him as he strides down the corridor.

            "Another murder.  A floater," he mutters grimly.

*                       *                       *

            This is the first time I've actually seen one of the corpses and believe me, it isn't a pretty sight.  The guy can't have been in the water long—the corpse isn't bloated or discolored enough, but he's still a gut-churning spectacle.  He's covered in bruises and he has the same symbols carved into his flesh as the other murder victims had.  He's also had his genitalia removed, which makes me feel sick.  I've seen a lot of unpleasant sights, but I don't suppose there's a guy alive who wouldn't wince when faced with evidence of such a brutal and total castration.  I ask Skinner to let Scully perform the autopsy, because, frankly, I've never met anyone who knows their way around a dead body better than she does, and he agrees, obviously sharing my opinion on that one.  Also, of course, it gives me a good excuse to hang around the morgue while she's working, to catch any of her insights.

            "Cause of death?"  I linger, gazing at the pale corpse, his brown eyes wide open and fixed, wondering what was the last sight that he saw. 

            "Blood loss."  She looks straight at me.

            "Blood loss?"  I glance down at the body.  There aren't any obvious wounds apart from the superficial cuts and missing genitalia. 

            "He was castrated before death," she informs me bluntly.  "He died from the bleeding.  It might have taken some time.  He'd have been in agony, poor bastard."

            "Shit." 

            I had assumed that the mutilation of the body had taken place after death, as part of the crazed ritual the killer was carrying out.  However, Scully's findings indicated that all the physical injuries—the bruising, carving, everything, had taken place while the man was still alive.  This sickened me—it seemed so calculatedly evil, designed to inflict the maximum amount of pain on a man who was going to die, anyway.  The killer could have put him out of his misery and shot a bullet through his head, or strangled him.  To just leave him to die in this way was chilling.  I know this whole investigation has been a joke to me in a way, but now that's changed.  Now I just want to catch the killer and put him away for a very long time. 

            I return to my apartment to have a warm shower, to wash off the smell and chill of the morgue, but when I get there I find I have a visitor.  Aaron Saunders is sitting in one of my chairs, drinking a cup of coffee out of one of my cups, and reading one of my books.

            "Interesting."  He holds the book up as I enter cautiously.

            "How did you get in here?"

            "Without too much trouble," he says with a satisfied smirk.

            "That figures."  I've lost count of the number of times my apartment has been broken into over the years.

            "You have a number of books on psychology, Fox."  He puts the book down.

            "I'm doing a postgrad in it," I tell him, wondering whether it's worth lying as he might have already figured out the truth.  But I don't think so.  He's still looking at me like I belong at someone's feet.  I'm sure that if he knew I was FBI, he'd be taking a different approach.

            "You're a student, then?"  He's looking at me keenly.

            "Yeah."

            "So—clever as well as pretty.  And how do you pay for all this?"  He glances around the apartment.

            "I have a…patron," I smile.

            "Ah, the delightfully protective Mr. Skinner."  He muses on that for a moment, still looking at me. 

            "What do you want, Saunders?" I ask him bluntly.

            "I had a conversation with your master earlier today."

            "Yeah.  So?" I shrug, picking up the coffee cup and returning it to the kitchen, chucking the remains of the drink away.

            "You're not interested in what plans your master might have for you?" he asks, remaining seated, manipulating me into returning to the other room.

            "No.  He can do what he likes.  He's in charge," I reply laconically.

            "Very good.  Although I sense that you're not that easily controlled.  Don't get me wrong—I like subs with attitude.  The fact that you think so highly of your master shows that he must be very, very good at handling you."

            "Yeah, he has his moments," I grin, putting the book Saunders was reading back into its rightful place on the shelf.

            "Did you know that he turned down an opportunity for you to join us?"

            I stiffen, wondering what sort of a game he's playing. 

            "Ah, you didn't know, then," he murmurs, misreading the signals. 

            "No." 

            "Poor, sulky boy.  You're put out now," Saunders purrs at me. 

            I decide to play along.  "Well, I found your proposition last night interesting."  I perch on the couch and do my best to look tempted.

            "I'm sure you did.  Your master, however, had reservations.  He's a very interesting man.  We did some digging on him."

            "Oh, yeah?"  The fake I.D.s we arranged were sophisticated enough, and he hasn't had much time to do too much digging, but even so, I wouldn't put it past this guy to have found the truth.

            "Yes.  A wealthy businessman with a taste for fine wines and antiques.  Almost a cliché."

            "Oh, there's nothing clichéd about him.  He's unique." 

            "Which is why we wanted him to join us.  However—although I'll admit he's our first interest, we do also have an interest in you.  We'd have preferred to have the two of you as a package, but we'd be sorry to lose both of you."

            "What are you suggesting?"

            He beckons with his finger.  "Why don't you come here?"

            I hesitate for a second, but then obey, kneeling at his feet, which is where he's pointing.  He looks down at me for a long time, running his finger along my face, down over my nose, lingering on my mouth.  It feels strange to be submitting to this in my apartment, to be pretending to be someone, something else, when all my everyday life is sprawled around me, but I want to find out what he has planned and it doesn't hurt me to put up with this light caress.

            "You're hot.  Wanton."  He grins, pushing his finger inside my mouth a little way.  I'm tempted to clamp my teeth down on it, but instead play along, sucking on his finger, teasing him with my eyes.  He smiles, then his mood changes abruptly and he lashes out, knocking me backwards.  He grabs hold of my hair and pulls my head back so that my neck is exposed. 

            "Mr. Skinner isn't the only who can keep you satisfied, Fox," he whispers, his finger scratching at my throat.  I struggle to breathe.  "Join us.  We'll make you very happy.  This is the only choice you'll ever have to make.  After that, you'll be owned as you never have been before.  Unable to resist, unable to say no.  We'll punish you hard and reward you well.  Don't worry—the only danger you'll be in will be from your own desires.  We'll take care of them.  Daily.  How does that sound?"

            "Pretty…good,"  I manage to rasp out, while I'm shrieking, Frigging sick, weirdo! inside my head.

            "I thought so."  He lets go of my hair, sits me up, and strokes me fondly.  "Come with me, Fox.  Come with me now."

            "Now?"  A dozen thoughts are rushing through my mind.  I'm playing for time.

            "Now.  Or never."  He gives me a pleasant smile.  "If I give you time, you'll call your master and he'll talk you out of it.  So it's a one-time offer.  Come with me now or you'll never hear from me again."

            I weigh this.  I believe him.  If I turn him down, he'll disappear back into the sewers as rats have a tendency to do.  I know Skinner said that we shouldn't go in, and I remember Lenny's advice, the way he seemed so sure I'd ignore Skinner's orders.  I know it's stupid to go, I know it's dangerous and I could end up getting badly hurt.  I know all this, but even so, I find myself nodding.  I can't think about all the reasons why I shouldn't go.  All I can think about is that poor murdered bastard, bleeding to death from his own castration wounds.  I know Saunders has something to do with all this—I'm convinced of it.  I'm not sure that he's the killer by any means, but the answer lies within the Mithras Brotherhood—of that I'm certain.  As I get up and follow him out of my apartment, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I am in deep shit, and that if Saunders or one of his friends don't kill me, then Skinner sure as hell will.

            So, I'm a walking corpse as I follow Saunders out to his car.  He has a chauffeur, of course, and the windows of his limo are heavily tinted.  He opens the door, courteously, and I slip into the luxurious depths of that car, knowing that I'm going into a place where I'll be far more of a victim than I ever was at Krypton.  The words he spoke last night come back to me; no negotiation, no safe words.  I'm regretting my decision already.

            "Don't worry."  He smiles at me, sensing my apprehension, and reaches forward to touch my knee affectionately.  "We love our submissives very much, Fox.  You'll be taken care of.  This is going to be beyond your wildest dreams."

            More like my worst nightmare, I think to myself, wondering, not for the first time, if I've got a death wish.

*                       *                       *

            The drive takes a couple of hours, but I can't see where we're going through the tinted glass.  Saunders engages me in a little light conversation, and then ignores me completely, taking out a brief case and working his way through some business papers.  I feel like a kid out in daddy's big car, watching important daddy do his work.  Saunders is probably in his late forties or early fifties, and I notice the hard, toned flesh under his shirt—the same look that Skinner has.  That thought makes me uncomfortable, and I loosen my tie and undo the top button on my shirt collar.

            "You're dressed formally.  We'll see that you change into something more comfortable when we arrive," Saunders smiles.  If this is meant to be reassuring, it backfires.  I spend the next half an hour wondering if 'more comfortable' means naked, or trussed up in a leather thong, or something equally humiliating.  I can't believe that I've been this stupid, and on several occasions I'm on the verge of screaming at him to stop the car, but I sense it's already too late for that.

            We finally pull up, and the door is opened for me.  I blink, expecting sunshine, but instead find myself in what appears to be some sort of mineshaft.

            "Welcome to The Bat Cave," I murmur, feeling uneasy.  "Look," I turn to Saunders, "I think I might have changed my mind."

            "Nonsense."  He smiles at me.  "Come on, Fox.  It's all been decided now."  He puts a hand around my shoulders and ushers me towards a dark, musty smelling corridor.  "Besides, how will it look to your master if you've already left before he shows up?"

            "What?"  I twist in his grasp to stare at him, and he laughs.

            "Well, of course I left him a message telling him to wait in your apartment.  I'll send a car to pick him up when he calls me.  Why so surprised?"  He closes my open jaw with his hand.  "This is your normal modus operandi, isn't it?  You like to be hunted, he likes to hunt.  You run off, he finds you and punishes you—you told me so last night.  You can't really think that you're our main interest.  Submissives like you are easily found, pretty and amusing though you are.  No, Mr. Skinner is the fish we want to catch, and you're the perfect bait to bring him to us.  Thank you, Fox."  He laughs again and my heart sinks. 

            I've been a bigger idiot than usual.  Whatever danger I am in is nothing compared to the jeopardy Skinner’s going to be in if he follows me.  He might not—he's not stupid, he must realize it'll be a trap…but even as I think that, I know he'll come after me.  It's just who and what he is.  I think of that man we found in the Potomac, then I think of Skinner washed up, dead and mutilated because of me, and my stomach churns so much that I want to throw up here and now.  I promise myself that I'll get him out of here safely, no matter what it costs me and what I have to endure.  I have to work hard to hold onto that thought during the next few days.

            Saunders takes me to what he charmingly refers to as ‘the slave-pen’.  This whole place seems to have been dug out of a series of caves, although once we reach the main nexus of the structure, the corridors are brightly lit and more welcoming than The Bat Cave.  The slave-pen is a big room, containing bunks and several half-naked young men.  Saunders beckons one over and kisses him affectionately.  The man gazes back adoringly. 

            "Nick, this is Fox.  Get him washed and dressed properly, and then bring him along to the library after dinner.  We'll want to have some fun with him later." 

            Fun?  I don't like the sound of that. 

            "Fox—Nick is my own personal slave.  He'll take good care of you."  Saunders smiles at me, tousles my hair, and then leaves. 

            Nick hands me soap and a towel, and shows me over to an adjacent room containing some showers and urinals.

            "You're his personal slave?" I ask, and Nick gives a wide, proud smile.  He's tall and dark-haired, with a sharp, angular profile and stunning green eyes.

            "Yeah.  Do you have a master or are you going to be communal property?" he asks, which is probably one of the most surreal questions I've ever been asked in my life.

            "Um, no, I have a master." 

            "You won't sleep down here, then, I expect.  I don't usually—only when Aaron's away.  When he's here, then I'm allowed to sleep at the foot of his bed."  He gives a weird, dreamy smile, as if this is the height of slave boy ambition.  Maybe it is—what the hell do I know?

            I notice that all the men in the slave-pen are dressed only in tight, faded denim jeans, and nothing else.  They're barefoot and bare-chested, and after I've washed up, that is what Nick presents to me by way of clothing. 

            "Everybody dresses like this?" I ask Nick. 

            "Nearly everybody,"  he grins.  "Except for those whose masters have special costumes for them, and those in the Zone."

            "The Zone?"  I pull on the jeans, noticing, without surprise, that underwear doesn't seem to be part of the outfit.  I hate being dressed like this.  It makes me feel like such a bimbo.  I want to walk around with my arms crossed over my bare chest—and is it really necessary for these jeans to be so tight-fitting? 

            "The punishment zone.  You don't want to know what goes on in there," he smirks. 

            "Tell me."  I catch hold of his arm urgently.  I need to find out all I can about this place before Skinner shows. 

            "Don't even begin to think about the Zone as being somewhere you want to end up."  Nick makes a face.  "When we first get here, most of us think it sounds…well, you know, appealing.  Trust me, it isn't.  If you're good, then they'll whip you nicely and you'll enjoy it.  If you're bad, they'll take you to the Zone and torture you half to death.  Most people don't feel the need to disobey them again.  There is nothing erotic about the Zone.  It's a threat—pure and simple—to keep us in line.  Now, you do as you're told, serve them well and let them do whatever they like with you, and you'll be fine.  Hey—that's not so hard," he grins, noticing the worry in my eyes.  "We like serving, after all.  It's why we're here, isn't it?"

            "Yeah."  I can't even force a smile.  I find myself facing the very real possibility that I might be raped before the night is through.  Skinner was right—I shouldn't be here.  He was right.  I was wrong.  Simple as that.

            Nick gives me some food, which I can barely touch I'm so freaked.  Then I'm escorted to the library, which is a huge room with plush armchairs.  All the men here are dressed soberly, normally.  In fact, if you ignore the cavernous appearance of the place, and the huge post with manacles hanging ominously from it in the center of the room, you could almost imagine that you were meeting with the Consortium, or any other group of power-crazed weirdoes.  Shit, how many organizations like this are there out there? 

            The men are all sitting around drinking cups of coffee and flicking through newspapers or books. 

            There's a huge, old oak table in the room, and there aren't any other slaves here.  My entrance doesn't attract much attention, either.  I stand there helplessly for a moment, abandoned by Nick, who's been told to leave.  After a few minutes, Saunders finally rescues me, beckoning me over, and waiting expectantly until I realize that I'm supposed to kneel.  I'm not eager to make an acquaintance with the Zone just yet, or with that whipping post, so I do what's expected of me.  Saunders looks around the room and clears his throat.

            "Gentlemen.  We have a new recruit.  This is Fox." 

            People glance in my direction, and a couple of the men venture over to take a closer look, like we're at a cattle auction or something.  I fully expect them to peel back my lips and inspect my teeth, but for the most part they seem content with just looking.

            "Very pretty.  Who does he belong to?" someone asks.

            "Well," Saunders leans back with a cruel smile on his lips, "at the moment, I would say that, technically, he's a communal slave—available to anybody, although we are hoping that his true master will be along to reclaim him shortly, aren't we, Fox?"  He kneads his hand into my neck in some revolting approximation of a massage.

            "Yeah."  I shudder, hoping that if he does come after me, Skinner has brought the whole team with him, fully armed to the teeth with the most sophisticated modern weaponry the FBI budget can purchase.  Hell, nukes wouldn't be too much to ask for under these circumstances, would they?

            "I think you'll find Fox here...intriguing," Saunders murmurs in that clear cut English accent of his.  There's always an English guy in these secret organizations, isn't there?  The Consortium has one, too.  I just hope Mithras doesn't also have a guy chain-smoking his way through some Morley's.  Then I'll know I'm in trouble. 

            "Bring him over here," a voice from the other side of the room commands.  Saunders gives me a little shove, and one of the other men leans forward and grabs hold of my arm, pushing me across the room.  I'm on the verge of taking a swing at him when I catch sight of that whipping post and change my mind.  I'm pushed down on my knees next to a pair of shiny riding boots, and look up to find myself face to face with this saturnine-looking guy who could have come straight from a day's hunting.  That makes me shiver when I remember my story about the "foxhunt" last night.  He's got short, cropped, dark hair, and a flat, boxer's nose that has clearly been broken couple of times.  He's wearing jodhpurs and a poloneck and, most alarmingly, he's got a riding crop in his hands.  I stop struggling and suddenly go very still. 

            "Your name is Fox?"  He puts the tip of the riding crop under my chin and makes me look at him.  "How amusing."

            "My mom thought so," I shrug.  I don't even see the riding crop move, but I sure as hell feel it land on my bare shoulder.

            "Don't talk without permission," he hisses, and I lose it and throw myself at him, hardly feeling the next blow of the crop as he fends me off.  Someone grabs my shoulders, and I find myself lifted up and thrown down on the huge oak table.  I'm wriggling around, trying to fight, but there are too many of these guys and I'm soon a panting, struggling wreck. 

            "Really, Fox," Saunders's voice.  "I know I said I like subs with attitude, but this is taking things a little too far.  There are serious penalties for striking one of your masters, you know."

            "He isn't my master," I growl.  "None of you bastards are.  Now let me go." 

            Someone takes hold of my hair and crashes my head down on the table. 

            "Manners, Fox," Saunders says.  "You'll address us as 'sir' at all times.  Or Master.  I can see it's going to be fun breaking you in.  Now, Matt, he's new to us, so I don't think you need be too severe."  He nods his head at the riding crop guy, and my arms are suddenly pulled out in front of me.  I can feel someone holding my legs down, and the next thing I know there's a hissing sound, and a blaze of fire runs down my back.  I can hear myself scream and curse, but it doesn't do any good, and another few blows from that riding crop rain down on me.  It hurts like hell and he doesn't let up, crashing that crop down on my shoulders hard, several times.  I'm not giving in, though—I'm still trying to struggle, and they're having a hard time holding me down.

            "Fantastic," Matt murmurs.  "Look at the way he moves.  Look at that ass."  I feel his hands caressing my butt, and now I'm totally freaked out, screaming at the top of my voice.

            "If you touch me, you bastard, I swear I'll kill you!  Just fuck off!  Fuck off, or I'll fucking murder you!"

            Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Saunders glancing at his watch and then at Matt. 

            "If you want him, Matt, then by all means take him," Saunders smiles.  "He is very tempting.  That ass, as you say."  Saunders strokes my head fondly.  "Matt has taken a liking to you, Fox, and in the absence of your master, you have nobody to protect you from his attentions.  I suggest you keep still and submit." 

            He nods at Matt and I go ballistic, struggling so hard that I finally manage to get free, sliding onto the floor and making a run for the door.  Matt grabs me by the waist and slams me back down over the table, bending me over it, his hands on my jeans, tearing at them to undo them.  Nobody else is interfering now—it must be another of the quaint rules of this place.  This is between the charming Matt and myself, and they're all enjoying the show except Saunders, who has disappeared in the direction of the door. 

            There is no way I'm going to make it easy for this bastard who's trying to rape me.  With one hand, I manage to keep my jeans closed, and with the other I'm kicking out at him.  He's having trouble holding me down, and he seems to have dispensed with the riding crop, for which I suppose I should be grateful.  I can feel his hands pawing at my shoulders and the weight of his body pinning me onto the table, when suddenly a strange silence descends on the room, followed by a hiss of anger and a snarl of rage.  Matt is jerked off me and I hear the satisfying sound of his face being mashed by someone's fist.  A big hand grabs me by the neck and swings me under a muscular arm, shielding me from any further attacks. 

            "What the fuck is going on here?" Skinner bellows.

            It was a set-up.

            "Congratulations, Mr. Skinner, on your timely arrival," Saunders says smoothly, helping the bleeding Matt to his feet. 

            "Don't play games with me, Saunders."  Skinner is angrier than I've ever seen him before in my life, and the arm he's got around my neck is nearly strangling me.  "I told you last night—he's mine.  Nobody touches him."

            "Quite so.  And if you recall, I asked you if you'd be prepared to fight for him.  Oh, I know, you put on a little show at Krypton, but I needed to make sure that wasn't an act," Saunders smiles.  "I wouldn't want to waste our time otherwise.  Some men enjoy watching other men with their slaves—it turns them on.  Such men have no place in Mithras.  We're a different style of organization.  We just wanted to be sure that you'd fit in.  Although I have to say that we hadn't anticipated the attachment your slave would show to you, or the fight he'd put up to preserve himself for your exclusive use.  That was most touching."

            Saunders gives another of those creepy smiles and reaches out a finger to touch my face.  Skinner knocks it away, hissing again, but this only serves to make Saunders's grin even wider. 

            "Welcome to Mithras, Mr. Skinner.  We're delighted to have you."  Saunders holds out his hand, which Skinner ignores.  "I'm sure that once you've settled in, you'll come to enjoy your time with us," Saunders says, seemingly oblivious to the insult.  "In the meantime, please let me show you to your room."

            Skinner keeps his hand on my neck the whole way along those corridors.  He doesn't let go until Saunders has opened the door to our room and informed us that breakfast is served at 10 a.m., and a slave will be sent to show us the way to the dining room tomorrow morning.  Then Skinner shoves me into the room, slams the door shut and kicks it hard with his foot.  I've never seen him so out of control before and, frankly, it's scary.  Both of us hear the click as a key is turned in the lock and we realize we are trapped.

            "Fucking bastards!" Skinner storms.  He stands there for a moment, breathing heavily, struggling to get himself under control.  I'm not sure what to say under the circumstances, but I open my mouth to make some smart comment, anyway.  He fixes me with a glare.

            "Mulder, unless the next words that come out of your mouth are 'sorry for disobeying you, sir,' I suggest you keep it closed," he growls.  I shut my mouth again, and he rolls his eyes, and shakes his head.  "You are unbelievable, Mulder.  Unbe-fucking-lievable." 

            We both glance around the room, taking in the comfortable furnishings, the door to the en-suite bathroom, the double bed.  Last, but not least, our eyes travel at the same time to the open door of a cabinet full of whips, chains and other strange and mysterious devices whose uses I can only guess at. 

            "Like I need the goddamn temptation," Skinner snarls, going over to the cabinet and slamming the door shut to hide the contents.  "All right, Mulder."  He takes a deep breath and runs a hand over his head, exhaling loudly.  "Fill me in."  He sits down on the end of the bed, and looks at me expectantly.

            "Well, I arrived back at my apartment to find Saunders already there," I begin.  He looks up sharply.

            "You were kidnapped?" he asks hopefully.  It's tempting.  I mean, really, really tempting, but I'm strong and resist.

            "Well, not exactly, no." 

            He sighs.  "No.  How stupid of me.  Go on."

            "He told me they were interested in me.  He said that they didn't need you." 

            "How flattering.  And you believed him?"

            "Yes.  Sorry.  I didn't realize it was a trick."

            "And what?  He asked you to come here, and you just agreed?"

            "I suppose so, yes," I murmur, trying to keep the sullen tone out of my voice.  "It all made sense at the time.  And I'd just come back from the morgue—Scully told me about how that guy died.  I wanted to find out what was going on here.  I didn't mean for you to be dragged in after me.  I, um, don't suppose there's backup on the way?"

            "No."  Skinner shakes his head.  "Scully tried to call you.  When she couldn't get a reply, she went to your apartment and found that note from Saunders.  I called him and he sent a car to pick me up.  The driver lost the tail I put on us and changed us into a different car halfway along the route.  We're well and truly on our own, Mulder.  Shit, what happened to your clothes?"  My clothing, or more accurately, my lack of clothing, finally dawns on him.

            "Oh, guess."  I make a face.  "This is what all the best dressed slave boys about town are wearing."

            "Stunning.  Are the bruises the latest in slave boy fashion accessories as well, or did you manage to upset someone already in the few hours of your stay so far?"

            "That was Matt."  I realize that my shoulders are covered in some nasty welts.  "He was the guy you plastered to the carpet.  Thank you for that, by the way."

            "Yes, well, standing by and watching people being raped never was a favorite hobby of mine.  Particularly agents in my charge," he mutters.  I notice he's flushing slightly as he remembers his reaction to my earlier jeopardy, and I wonder what that's all about.  Perhaps the whole thing embarrasses him.  I remember the way he was practically spitting with rage, and the feel of his arm around my neck as he protected me from those guys.  It's an embarrassingly pleasant memory.  I wish closing my eyes would shut it out, but it doesn't, it just makes me remember all the little details—the ones I hardly had time to register while he was, quite literally, saving my ass.  The sound of his breathing, the incoherent rage in his eyes, the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, and the smell of him...  Shit. 

            He's getting up, taking a look around the room, and I suddenly wish I had more clothes on.  I also realize, for the first time, that my shoulders damn well hurt.

            "Well, now we're here, I suppose we'd better find out what's going on," he says with a sigh.  "I suggest we continue with these roles, with that in mind."

            "Okay," I murmur, and begin by checking out the bathroom, which has a huge bath big enough for two, and a shower as well.  A large supply of condoms and lubricant are stashed in a cupboard, which isn't surprising.  There's also a first aid kit next to the towels, which, given the contents of that cabinet in the bedroom, seems like a sensible item to find.  I'd like to put some gel on my shoulders, but I can't reach, and there's no way, no way I'm asking him to help.  I don't want him touching me—God knows how I might react.  That's the freaky thing about all this—not knowing what I'm feeling or what I want.  I could kill Lenny for putting these doubts in my head.  I return to the bedroom and sit down on the one armchair in the room.

            "Mulder."  Skinner undoes his tie, and starts unbuttoning his shirt.  I try and find something fascinating in the room to look at, but there just isn't anything more fascinating than the sight of him undressing.  I try to reason that, hey, we're guys, and guys always just undress without giving a damn about other guys seeing their bodies, but it doesn't work.  I want to see his body.  I want to see if it arouses me.  He carries on, matter-of-factly unbuttoning, totally oblivious to my interest.  "I'd appreciate it if you could keep your temper under control and stay out of trouble.  I can't rescue you every five minutes, and I can't keep tabs on you 24 hours a day.  Don't do something stupid as soon as my back is turned.  I, um, really don't know how I'd react if they...  Oh, shit.  You know what I mean.  Please don't provoke them, Mulder."  He takes his shirt off and puts it away tidily in the wardrobe.  "And please remember your status here.  Remember all those rules and codes that Lenny taught us, and just live the part.  I'll do my best to do the same.  That way we might at least stand a chance of getting out of here alive.  Remember what the alternative is."

            "Yeah—you end up at the bottom of the Potomac and I end up as communal property in the slave-pen," I murmur.

            "Exactly."  He sits down on the end of the bed and undoes his shoes, slips them off, then removes his socks which he neatly rolls into a ball and slips inside his shoes.  He reaches for his belt...  Shit! 

            "There's something I haven't told you," I blurt, attempting to distract myself.

            "Yes?"  He glances up, unzipping his fly.  I try to keep my eyes fixed firmly on his face.

            "I was just the bait they used to attract you here.  They're not really interested in me.  Saunders as much as told me so.  Which means..."

            "That the Potomac beckons?  Yeah, I'd kind of figured that out for myself."  He shrugs, slipping his trousers off and hanging them up tidily in the wardrobe. 

            "Shit.  I'm sorry," I say wretchedly, finally having found something to drag my attention away from his long, tanned legs and plain black cotton briefs, which do not do a very good job of hiding what he's got packed away inside.  Guilt is my constant companion through life—I usually find it can distract me from almost anything.  "I really didn't think he was planning on luring you here.  I thought I could..."

            "Mulder," he interrupts, sounding tired, "I've long since come to the conclusion that you don't actually think at all.  I've accepted this as the downside to your unusual abilities.  The fact is that your instincts, hunches and sheer improvisational qualities usually more than make up for any lack of coherent planning, but on this occasion, I must say that my belief in that is stretched to its limit.  However, we have a difficult situation to negotiate which will require all our skill.  We have a murderer to catch and we need our wits about us just to stay alive.  I can promise you that when, and you note my use of the word when and not if," he smiles at me grimly, "when we get back, we will have a long discussion about your continued flouting of my orders.  In the meantime, we're a team and we've both got a job to do, so I suggest we get some sleep.  You can have the chair."  He throws me a blanket, and I nod.  It's only right he should have the bed after the stunt I've pulled today, although I do have to say that the chair chafes against my sore shoulders, and it's impossible to get comfortable.

            I lie under the blanket, watching him as he pads over to the bathroom, listening to him pee, clean his teeth, splash water around as he washes.  I pretend to close my eyes as he returns to the bedroom and snaps off the light, but I'm watching him through my eyelashes, noting the movement of muscles under skin, the sheer size of him, the small scars that I can see on his back, the way he takes off his glasses and places them on the bedside table.  I close my eyes firmly and pull my knees up to my chest, trying to get comfortable, trying to figure out what I'm feeling, and failing. 

            He's asleep within minutes.  It's astonishing—probably a trick he picked up in Vietnam.  I'm sure he'd bore me with a story about how you have to grab sleep when and wherever you can, even when it's in the pouring rain up to your ears in mud after another day in the jungle.  Then I wish he would bore me with such a story because it wouldn't be boring, it would be fascinating because he hardly ever talks about Vietnam, and I'd like to know more about him.  Then I think about how much my shoulders hurt, and of all the things I'd like to do to Matt if I could get my hands on him, which leads me to the sickening subject of all the things he'd like to do to me if he could get his hands on me, and at that point I give up even trying to sleep. 

            I tiptoe across the room to the "weird" cabinet and peek inside.  This is better than counting sheep—count strange sex aids instead.  The various whips, handcuffs, chains and buttplugs are easy enough to identify, but some of the items mystify me.  I find a long leather thing with buckles on it, and a huge steel pole with cuffs on each end.  Then there's some small, clamp-like devices.  I can guess a use for them that makes me wince.  Skinner rolls over and sighs, and I retreat with the mystifying items into the bathroom to see if I can figure out what they're for.  Shit, I've watched enough porn in my time, but nothing with anything that looked like any of this stuff in it—and definitely no gay BDSM porn! 

            The leather thing fits nicely on my wrist, but I sense it doesn't really belong there—it doesn't seem to be a very erotic usage.  And the pole is beyond me.  The little metallic devices are obviously designed for use on the nipples, but I don't test them on that area of my body—I'm not that screwed up.  However, I can testify that they hurt like hell when attached to my little finger so I dread to think what they do to your nipples.  And I would like to point out that I'm not just playing around like a kid in a sex shop.  I'm also mulling over the events of the day, the details of the case, and something about my conversation with Skinner in the office earlier on (was that really today?  It seems like a lifetime ago) is bugging me, but I can't figure out why or what it is.  Something I said, something he mentioned, something…

            I'm musing on this, trying to pin it down, absently deciding that the leather thing would work well as a hat and trying to strap it on over my head, when there is a knock at the door, it's opened, and Skinner glances in at me.

            "The light's been on in here for ages.  I wondered if you were okay," he mutters, double-taking the headgear.

            "I couldn't sleep.  I was thinking," I murmur.

            "And you do that better with a ball-gag on your head, do you?" he asks.

            "Oh, that's what it is?  Yeah, of course it is."  I take it off hastily.  "Call me naive, but I just don't have any idea what some of this stuff is used for.  How do you know so much about it?" Did I really say that?

            "I spent some time working in Vice," he says quickly.  Too quickly?  "What were you thinking about?  Have you figured any of this out?"  He comes into the bathroom and leans against the basin, looking at me intently.

            "I'm not sure.  It's something to do with the way those men were murdered.  Maybe the blood loss.  And something you said...but I can't quite put my finger on it.  Damn—it's there if I could just get the picture straight in my head." 

            "You're tired," he says softly.  "Look, Mulder, I said you should get some sleep and I meant it.  I know you're tense about this—shit, I am, too—but we're safe for tonight, so I think we should make the most of it.  Who knows what they've got planned for us tomorrow."

            "I know.  You're right.  That armchair was hurting my shoulders and..."

            "Shit.  I'm sorry.  I should have thought.  Here."  He goes over to the first aid kit and gets out some gel, then sits me down on the edge of the tub and soothes some onto my shoulders, making me jump as the cold liquid comes into contact with my hot skin.  "Fucking sickos," he mutters to himself. 

            I wish I knew what to think or feel.  I'm just aware that one of his hands is on my shoulder and the other is gently massaging that gel into my back, and it hurts, and is cold and hot and tingly all at the same time.  And I don't want him to stop.  I like the feel of his hand, of his gently caressing fingers.  I wonder what it would be like to feel him lean down and kiss the back of my neck, and that makes my hair stand up on end and gives me goose-bumps. 

            "It's a huge bed," he remarks, totally without embarrassment.  "We'll share, then both of us might get a good night's sleep.  Don't worry—I promise your chastity will be safe with me," he grins. 

            He doesn't smile very often, and I'm not used to seeing him without his glasses, either.  I stare at him, fascinated, but he doesn't notice.  Instead he just ushers me back into the bedroom, slips down into the bed, waits for me to get in beside him, and then turns the light off. 

            I lie there rigidly still for several minutes, waiting for my heart to stop pounding inside me.  I can sense that he's totally relaxed next to me, one arm slung across the bed, his body sprawled out.  Probably another trick he learned in Vietnam; how to sleep next to men without giving any sexual signals or being remotely embarrassed by proximity.  Then, on the other hand, of course, he hasn't got all these weird, lustful thoughts rampaging around in his skull.  He's probably thinking through the details of the case, or running over the baseball league scores in his head.  Finally I hear him snoring and start to relax. 

            I can't resist leaning over a little way to smell him—yeah, I know, but I'm going crazy here.  I want to remember the way he smelt back in the library, the anger in his body.  I wish I could rest my head on his shoulder and feel his arms go around me again.  I want to feel the hardness of his chest as it presses against my back.  Shit.  I try and distract myself by thinking of women with enormous breasts, which usually works well enough, but not this time.  Since when did I ever lust after men?  Consciously, at least.  Subconsciously?  As all this goes around in my head, I finally fall asleep. 

*                       *                       *

            I wake up boiling hot and stiff.  These jeans are far too tight to sleep in, but since the alternative was sleeping naked next to a man who's beginning to attract me in a powerful and disturbing way, it was by far the better option to keep the jeans on.  The heat radiating from Skinner (the man is a furnace), combined with the heat from my sore shoulders, is too much for me to bear.  I slip out from under the sheets, grab the blanket from the chair and then settle myself down at the foot of the bed.  That's when Nick's words come back to me, about sleeping at the foot of your master's bed.  Sick, Mulder.  Sick!  I don't move, though.  Just getting into the role, like the boss ordered.  That's my excuse, anyway, and I can't be bothered to fight it anymore.  Skinner's right; we need to just concentrate on getting out of here alive and who cares if I let slip something I shouldn't, or if he finds out that I've spent the whole night sleeping next to him with a hard-on?  I just hope that we both live long enough for me to be embarrassed about it when we get back to the office.  I'll have plenty of time to worry about my sexuality then. 

            We didn't get to bed until after one, but all the same, we're both awake by seven.

            "Comfortable night?"  He looks surprised by my choice of sleeping location.

            "Yeah, well…it got a bit hot," I mutter.

            "Oh, shit.  Sorry about that.  Sharon used to make me sleep on the couch half the summer.  She said that I had a metabolism most women would die for and made some dig about hooking me up to a generator to cut down on heating bills.  I didn't notice her complaining on cold winter nights, though."  He grins. 

            This is weird.  Being locked up in this room all night with him, both of us half naked, him talking about something personal for maybe the first time ever without the threat of a murder charge being used as leverage against him.  I guess I never really saw him as a fully rounded human being before.  I wonder about Sharon.  I know they're divorced and I wonder why.  Not that I'm thinking it's even remotely possible that has anything to do with him having suddenly discovered that he's a bisexual top who wants to throw his most irritating special agent to the floor and screw him senseless.  No way.  Well, only slightly.

            I do a good job of not watching him get up and go into the bathroom, and of not listening to him having a shower, and of not wondering what it would be like to get in beside him.  Then it's back to not watching him again as he prowls into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, the water glistening in his chest hair.  I have to move fast when he starts to take off his towel to dry himself, though. 

            Not watching him being totally naked would be beyond my endurance.  So I disappear into the bathroom to get washed myself, throwing myself under ice-cold water and attempting to jerk myself off at the same time—an exquisite form of self-torture.  Maybe I am a masochist, after all.

            Waiting for 10 a.m. is like waiting for an execution.  We sit there, he on the end of the bed, me in the chair, counting the minutes.  He clears his throat and looks at me.

            "Remember what I told you, Mulder," he says in a low, soft voice.  We've already been through this twice in the past hour.

            "Sure."  I shrug and make a face as my shoulders remind me how they're feeling.

            "No, really.  I know what you're like.  Do as I say, keep your eyes down, and for God's sake, don't provoke anybody."  He gets up as we hear footsteps in the corridor, but they pass by and he sits back down.

            "I can do that."  I shrug a second time and then make a mental note not to shrug again for the next few days.

            "Good.  It's just an act.  Remember that.  We're playing a part.  It's not real.  It doesn't matter what they say to you.  Just keep your eyes down and do as you're told.  For once."  He gives me a warning look.

            "I will, I will!" I flare. 

            He rolls his eyes.  "See.  You can't even manage to keep hold of your temper in here, without any provocation.  Out there is plenty of provocation, Mulder.  Now just keep yourself under control.  Remember what you are to these people."

            "I'm a goddamn amoeba to these people," I fume.  "I don't think I'll forget that, and if I do, I'm sure they'll remind me pretty damn fast."

            "Or I will," he sighs, and then he glares at me.  "You have my apologies in advance for anything I might do or say, Mulder.  But if you look like you're going to fuck up, then I'm going to behave exactly as they expect.  Our lives are on the line here and even if you forget that, I certainly won't."

            "How reassuring," I murmur.

            "Yeah.  Ain't that the truth," he laughs - then his face becomes serious again.  "It's just for show, Mulder.  We're just playing along," he says.

            If that's the case, how come he's so good at it? I wonder to myself as a key is turned in the door and we're allowed out.

            The dining hall is just another big cave, like the library, but it also has that same air of rough-hewn elegance.  There's another huge oak table and several of the tops are already seated.  I wonder who owns this place, and where it can be, but before I go any further with that contemplation, I'm distracted by the sight of the slaves waiting on their masters.  There's a side table covered in the most mouth-watering food, and a few young men in jeans are hanging around waiting for orders.  I'm starving, and wonder if I'll be allowed to eat here, or whether I have to go back to the slave pen for that. 

            Saunders gets to his feet and beckons Skinner over, pointing him to a spare chair.

            "Please, Mr. Skinner.  Do join us."  He smiles that creepy smile of his.  Nick appears with a plate full of food and sets it down in front of Saunders, then pours him a glass of orange juice.  "Nick—show Fox what to do."  Saunders waves me away, and turns his attention back to Skinner.  I can't hear what they're saying—something polite about sleeping well and the comfort of the room I think.  Nothing heavy just yet. 

            "He's your master?"  Nick stares at Skinner with considerable interest.

            "Yes."  I find myself staring at Skinner as well. 

            He's dressed in yesterday's clothing, but he looks as cool and neat as ever.  The tiny fringe of hair at the back of his scalp is still wet from his shower.  He seems to be relaxed, but I can tell that he isn't.  His muscles are poised, tensed, like a cat about to pounce.  He's on edge. 

            "Aaron told me about how you struggled with Matt," Nick whispers.  "I can see why now.  No wonder you wanted to keep yourself for such a master."

            "Um.  Yeah."  Which at least means I'm not a total pervert.  I mean, all these sub men are attracted to Skinner so he must exude pheromones.

            "Did he punish you for running off and coming here?"  Nick looks at the welts on my shoulders.

            "Um, no.  Not yet."  I struggle with the two levels I'm living on—three if you count the one in my head.  "Matt did that to me.  I think my master was just pleased to have me back.  He did threaten to punish me later, though."  That's no more than the truth!

            "Aaron said he missed me while he was away."  Nick smiles.  "I was worried he'd brought you back to replace me when he brought you in yesterday.  You're just the sort of sub he likes, and I keep thinking he'll get bored with me.  He's such a good master, so strong."  Poor Nick.  He's really got it bad.  "I'm glad you've got someone of your own, someone powerful, just like Aaron," Nick tells me. "Now, what would your master like to eat?"

            "Eat?" I repeat stupidly, looking at the table of food.

            "Yeah—what does he normally have for breakfast?"  Nick is looking at me expectantly.  How the hell should I know what Skinner's eating habits are?  I reason that I might as well take him something of everything, just to be safe.  I pile a plate full of food, bring it over and put it in front of him.  He ignores me, continuing his conversation with Saunders, some of which I catch.

            "I don't take kindly to being locked in against my will," Skinner is saying, his tone reasonable but firm.

            "Just a precaution.  We don't know you that well yet, but you're our guest.  I'm sure we'll be able to dispense with locks and keys soon," Saunders replies, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin.  I retreat and find a jug of orange juice, then return with it, and pour my 'master' a glass.

            "Just how long were you anticipating we'd stay?" Skinner is asking.

            "Who knows?" Saunders replies evasively.  "That'll be up to you.  Most of us choose to stay for quite some time on our first visit.  When we're sure of you, and when you've agreed to our terms, you'll be allowed to leave.  You'll have to be initiated and agree to a sum towards our costs.  Obviously you can't stay here indefinitely, however appealing the idea—your business doesn't run itself after all.  After your initiation, you can come and go as you wish—and take advantage of the facilities and challenges we offer here."

            "Challenges?" Skinner asks sharply.

            "Yes."  Saunders smiles.  "You'll see."

            "And I suppose you aren't going to tell me any more about this 'initiation,' either?" Skinner questions. 

            Saunders smiles and shakes his head.  "All in good time, Mr. Skinner.  All in good time." 

            "Fine."  Skinner imbues that word with considerable displeasure, implying that it's not fine at all.  "But if that's the case, then I'd like a change of clothes.  I can't wear these indefinitely."

            "Of course."  Saunders nods.  "We've taken care of that already.  There'll be clothing in your room by the time you return.  And a laundry service is provided as well.  Just leave your clothes in the basket provided, and they'll be returned to you the following day."

            I'm standing helplessly at Skinner's elbow, feeling like a spare part, and my stomach suddenly rumbles loudly.  Saunders laughs at me. 

            "I do hope your master allows you to eat soon, Fox," he smirks.  "You look as if you need feeding up."

            "Well, I wasn't exactly hungry last night," I reply, and then wish I hadn't.  I wasn't given permission and he wasn't asking me a question.  I sense that I've made a mistake, and the anxious glances the other slaves in the room are darting at me confirm that.  Skinner's jaw tightens as he takes in the atmosphere in the room and he frowns at me. 

            "Kneel down," he hisses and I obey, quickly.  Then he backhands me casually, but not particularly hard, across the jaw.  "Now keep quiet," he says.  This seems to meet with everybody's approval, and people go back to what they were doing.  I hate this place.  The smallest thing upsets these weirdoes and I'm not very good at keeping quiet and being obedient. 

            "He's very spirited, isn't he?" Saunders remarks, cutting up a slice of melon and feeding a piece to Nick, who's kneeling at his side.

            "Hmm," Skinner snorts.

            "Do you think you discipline him enough?"  Saunders' eyes meet mine and I flush furiously. 

            Skinner takes a long drink of orange juice and appears to be seriously pondering this question.  "I don't know," he muses.  "Fox, what do you think?"  He stares at me, his eyes quite serious.

            "Well...um...I think that maybe sometimes my master is too kind to me, considering how I behave," I reply.

            "Yeah," Skinner grunts.  "But you see, Saunders..."  He turns back to our host.  "I like him this way.  I wouldn't want him broken.  He's more fun to play with like this." 

            "I can see that might be the case.  However, I should warn you that we aren't very tolerant here."  I get a sinking feeling in my stomach as he says this, my burning shoulders reminding me what not being "very tolerant" might mean.

            "Don't worry.  He knows who's in charge," Skinner says.  "And I have no trouble at all keeping him in line.  He's always obedient with me.  Completely.  Isn't that so, Fox?"

            "Yes, master," I mutter.  It's hard to believe that he's not enjoying himself with this, despite all that talk about acting a role. 

            I watch, enviously, as Saunders feeds Nick a slice of toast.  I'm starving.  Then I stiffen as Matt comes in.  He catches my eye and grins at me, the grin of someone who totally expects to get exactly what he wants before too long.  And it doesn't take much to work out what it is he wants. 

            He's got this poor kid on a lead, and the boy (he can't be more than twenty) is covered in welts and bruises, and looks totally miserable.  I realize with a pang of guilt that Matt had to take out his humiliation last night on somebody.  The kid scurries off to get breakfast, and on his return, kneels beside Matt, his head down.

            "You hungry?" Matt leers at the boy, who nods, licking his lips.  Matt grins.  "Here."  He puts some food on a plate, places it on the ground and sits back in his chair to watch.  "Eat," he commands.  The boy puts his hands out, but Matt stops him with his foot.  "No hands.  Use your mouth."  The boy nods and puts his head down to the plate, eating like a dog.  Matt grins again, and his eyes meet mine.  The expression on his face is vicious, savage and salacious.  His eyes rake over my body, the desire in them undisguised.  I feel myself reacting, my muscles tensing.  I want to crush his breakfast all over his stupid, battered face, but Skinner has seen the exchange, senses my mood and distracts me. 

            "Breakfast, Fox," he murmurs, handing me a slice of bread, his hand brushing my wrist as he gives me a warning glance.

            "Thank you, sir." 

            "You can use your hands," he says, his remark directed pointedly at Matt, at whom he's glaring across the table, not me. 

            "Yes, sir." 

            If it's not acceptable for me to sit up at the table and eat like a normal human being, then at least I retain some dignity this way.  Skinner sees that I get as big a breakfast as he does—handing me bite sized pieces of bacon and sausage to lessen the indignity of having to eat messily with my fingers.  I use the opportunity to take a good look around the room.  There are about fifteen tops, and the same number of subs, but whether that's the sum total of people here, or just the first people to have arrived for breakfast, I can't tell.

            After breakfast, Saunders shows us around this strange, sprawling underground complex.  In fact, he shows Skinner around and I just trail along behind, digging my fingernails into the palms of my hand to remind myself not to talk, and not to ask questions.  This is tough—I'm naturally curious and although Skinner asks most of the stuff that occurs to me, there are a couple of times when he doesn't, and I'm burning to open my mouth and start firing.  I only forget myself once and Skinner treads on my bare foot in time to stop me.  It's amazing how much of a distraction a bruised toe can be.

            The complex has a swimming pool, gym and sauna, as well as an extensive relaxation area.  In addition to the library and dining hall, there are several other meeting rooms, including one with a large pool table in it where a few slave boys are hanging around, aimlessly playing pool.  They snap to attention when Saunders enters the room and I notice a couple of them looking speculatively and appreciatively at Skinner.  I also have to admit that I watch him to see if he's looking equally appreciatively at them, but he isn't.  He doesn't even spare them a glance.  Well, why would he?  It's not as if I'm eyeing all the tops, after all. 

            Finally, Saunders takes us into a huge, bare, empty cavern with sand on the floor. 

            "What's this for?" Skinner asks, and I'm equally mystified.

            "Oh, you'll see.  Later on this evening," Saunders replies, before taking us through the cavern into a much smaller room.  At one end there is a huge stone altar, and above that hangs a mural depicting a battle between a man and a bull.  The bull is definitely losing.  There are some wooden benches on either side of the room and it has the air of a chapel.

            "A place of worship?" Skinner asks, one eyebrow raised in semi-disbelief.

            "You could say that.  If you pass certain...challenges, then this where you will be initiated into the Brotherhood," Saunders replies, his face deadly serious. 

            I want to get out of here as fast as I can.  We're in crazy-religious-cult territory, and that's even worse than being in lunatic-secret-sadist-society territory.  Put the two together and you're in such deep shit you might as well stop breathing and wait to be measured for your coffin.  Except it's more likely Skinner's coffin, and my virginity.  I bet there are guys here who'd just love to "break" me in.  Right now Skinner is all that's standing between them and me, but that's not the only reason I want to keep him alive.  There are truckloads of other reasons as well—not least the fact that if any man is going to get his hands on my cherry, then I'd prefer it to be him.  That's something I don't want to think about, so I'm relieved when Saunders starts to take us back towards the huge cavernous room we came through to get here. 

            I notice before we leave the "chapel" that there is another door at the end—a door he hasn't led us through.  Skinner points at it, an inquiring look on his face, and Saunders shakes his head.

            "You don't want to go in there," he says quietly.  "Trust me."  Shit, it's like Bluebeard's castle.  I wonder if there's trussed up corpses in there, or dismembered heads on sharpened sticks.  I wouldn't be surprised.

            We return to the gym where Saunders suggests that Skinner works out. 

            "Slaves can use the facilities at certain times of the day."  He glances at me.  "During the rest period before dinner, for example.  As long as their master has given them permission." 

            "What about fresh air?" Skinner asks.  "I noticed that Matt was dressed for riding.  I assume that wasn't just a costume?"

            "Of course not."  Saunders shakes his head.  "Later, when you've been initiated, you will be allowed full use of the complex, including the outdoor facilities.  Until that time, please keep yourself confined to those areas I have shown you, Mr. Skinner.  I don't like to make threats, or indulge in pointless posturing with another top outside the Arena, but you should be fully aware that the penalties for ignoring my instructions are severe."  I don't have time to wonder what he means by the "arena" because suddenly his gaze falls on me.  "Your sub should also be aware of those penalties.  In fact, in view of his somewhat...temperamental nature, perhaps there is another place I should show you."  He gestures that we follow him again. 

            He takes us down a series of dark, dimly-lit corridors, going in a distinctly downhill direction until we end up in a dungeon area, with locked gates.  He takes out a key and opens the door, showing us inside. 

            "This is the Zone," he murmurs, and I exchange a look with Skinner.  I told him about the Zone last night.  "I believe there is only one occupant at the moment." 

            Saunders opens another door and I walk in, then stop short, recoiling in horror.  I back up, ending up tight against Skinner's chest as he tries to enter the cell behind me, not having seen what I have.

            "What is it, Fox?"  His hands find my arms and he pushes me to one side, then I feel and hear him take a deep breath.  There's a guy in here who's been stripped naked and manacled to some sort of upright rack.  His body is covered with whip marks from head to toe, back and front, and there's some sort of contraption attached to his genitals, weighting them down, that looks so painful I want to vomit.  His mouth is forced open and transfixed by a wad of metal that is so tight it's given him sores around his lips.  His eyes open as we enter and he looks at us in mute despair and pleading, flinching as if he expects some new torment.  I find myself shivering, and suppress a strangled yelp as I see that there's something up his ass as well.  I don't want to know what; I don't want to see any more.  I want to be sick.  I can't think or breathe, and I'm aware that I'm hyperventilating badly.  Skinner's hands close more tightly around my arms and he's pressed so close behind me that I can feel the shudder that goes through his body.  His chest is solid and reassuring against my back, and then suddenly, unexpectedly, he moves his arms around my chest and holds me tight.  We stand there for a moment, eyes closed, taking what comfort we can from each other to avoid looking the true horror of our situation in the face.  Then the moment passes, Skinner pulls me back out of the cell without a word, and pushes me quickly out of the Zone, not waiting for Saunders, who is locking doors behind us.

            "How long...?" Skinner asks when Saunders rejoins us in the gym area.

            "How long has he been kept like that?  Two days."  Saunders shrugs.  "He's untied for  half an hour every six hours to urinate, defecate, eat and drink.  When he's re-tied, he's also whipped again.  He's learned not to look forward to the freedom and the food—knowing that it also means more pain and the discomfort of being reattached to certain...devices."

            "And how much longer?" Skinner asks. 

"That depends.  He wasn't being very obedient."  Saunders glances at me.  "And his master isn't very happy with him right now.  So, another day minimum.  Then we might see how eager he is to serve his master again.  If he can convince us, then we'll consider letting him return to normal service."

            "It seems like a tough punishment," Skinner remarks. 

            "We are tough."  Saunders shrugs.  "I told you, Mr. Skinner, there are no limits here.  No safe words.  The subs like the danger as much as we do.  They don't want us to be soft.  They like to know that there are ultimately some very cruel sanctions."

            "Supposing it went too far?  Supposing someone died?"  I hold my breath as Skinner asks this question, but Saunders doesn't seem to suspect anything.

            "It doesn't."  Saunders replies.  "And none of our subs has died.  That would defeat the object.  We want them obedient, but warm—it’s no fun fucking a corpse, Mr. Skinner."

            "Crudely put, Mr. Saunders," Skinner responds smoothly.

            Saunders chuckles loudly, and his gaze lingers on me again.

            "You know, a spell in the Zone might do wonders for his attitude," he murmurs.  I can't help the incoherent choking sound that escapes from my throat. 

            "I wouldn't agree to that," Skinner says firmly, moving between me and Saunders.

            "If he breaks certain rules, then you'd have no choice,"  Saunders informs us with what sounds like a note of anticipation in his voice.  "We accept your authority over him to a certain extent, and as long as you keep him under control there shouldn't be a problem with you punishing him any way you see fit, and I trust you do see fit on occasions.  He certainly needs it.  However, if he were to break any serious community rules, then the matter would be out of your hands.  As, indeed, would be the case if you were to break any such rules yourself."

            "We understand."  Skinner nods, exhaling a deep breath.  "Don't we, Fox?"  I'm surprised to feel his hand on the back of my neck, digging into my flesh savagely. 

            "Yes, sir," I mutter.  If anything could keep me quiet and obedient, it's the thought of the Zone.  I'm feeling pretty subdued as Saunders shows Skinner where he can find clothing suitable for a work out.

            "You should take this opportunity to use the gym," Saunders states.  "You must keep in good shape in order to succeed in the 'challenges' I mentioned earlier." 

            We both watch as Saunders leaves us, going in the direction of the pool.  I don't even see Skinner move so I'm surprised to find myself thrown against the wall, his hands digging into my shoulders as he looks into my eyes.

            "Don't do anything to upset them," he warns me urgently.  "I mean it, Mulder.  I'll whip your ass myself, if it'll stop you.  Anything rather than let them get their sick hands on you."  His fingers are rough and he's hurting me, but right at this moment I don't care.  I'm not surprised he's lost control after what we witnessed.  He's scared of standing by helplessly and having to watch them hurt me, and I'd feel the same way if our situations were reversed.  His part of this deal is just as hard as mine.  Harder, maybe.  I just nod, shakily.

            "It's all right.  I'm not stupid," I tell him, staring into his eyes, trying to will him back into control of himself because he's right on the edge.  "It's okay."  I put my hands over his, and gently loosen them from my shoulders.  He takes a deep breath and nods, then lets me go and runs an open palm over his bald head as if smoothing away imaginary hair. 

            "Okay.  Yes.  Okay," he mutters to himself, unbuttoning his shirt so savagely that he pulls a couple of buttons off.  He hangs it up neatly—I think being neat is some reflex action for him.  He just seems to hate mess and he's using these rituals of tidiness to keep himself sane right now.  "Okay," he's still muttering as another top enters the changing room with a sub in tow.  I watch in envy as the sub helps his master to change, then some sort of instinct takes over and I go to where Skinner is sitting, kneel in front of him and help him into his sneakers, putting them on his feet and tying up the laces.  He lays a hand on my shoulder and touches me softly as I do this.  It's an apology for his roughness, for losing control, and I want to stop what I'm doing and let him caress me all over, to reassure him that I know his anger wasn't directed at me but at them.  Then the moment passes, and he gets up and I follow him into the gym. 

            Watching him exercise is more absorbing than I could ever have imagined.  Forget tracking down alien bounty hunters and sparring with Krycek—this is far better.  He's got all this negative energy and he's just bursting to take it out on something.  Rowing machines, pec-decks, cross trainers, treadmills and ab crunchers all take the strain of his mood.  I'm not required to do more than stand by with a towel, which he needs to use every few minutes to wipe the sweat off because he's going at such a furious pace.  He works out in a grim-faced silence for fully two hours, doing hundreds of repetitions before he's finally worked off some of his anger.  Then he grabs the towel from me, and informs me that he's going for a swim. 

            "Stay at the poolside—I want you in sight the whole time," he instructs and I nod, only too happy to oblige. 

            Watching him swim is good as well.  I'm so absorbed in the sight of that bald head bludgeoning the water into submission as he butterflies through it, that I don't notice Matt until he's pressed up close behind me, one arm around my chest, the other insinuating itself down the front of my jeans.

            "Don't move, brat," he whispers.  I tense up and I'm on the verge of pushing him away when I remember the Zone and the expression on Skinner's face as he held me against the wall in the changing room.  I try consciously to relax.  Skinner has just turned and has his back to us as he powers down another length.  If Matt wants to do anything, he's got less than forty seconds before Skinner makes his next turn. 

            "I'm going to fuck you one day," Matt whispers in my ear.  "I don’t think your master has much between his legs.  I think you're just panting for a real man to take you, hard and fast.  Isn't that what you'd like, Fox?"

            "Don't touch me," I say through gritted teeth.  His hand is around my cock, stroking it.  I close my eyes and try to concentrate on holding my temper in check.

            "I'll win you," he whispers.  "I'll show you what a real man feels like.  I'll bend you over and fuck you, and then I'll beat you so hard you'll be begging me to touch you, not refusing me.  Begging, brat.  Begging.  Anything to stop my whip tearing your flesh from your bones.  If I'm feeling kind, I might even listen, but I don't often feel kind."  He gives a staccato little laugh.  I open my eyes and search the pool for Skinner, feeling sure that he'll have turned and seen what's happening, but there are too many people in the pool and I've lost sight of him.  I fight down a rising sense of panic, itching to deck this guy, but knowing that the penalty for that is likely to be a lot worse than the few stripes across the shoulders I took last night. 

            "You see," Matt's breath is hot against my cheek, "I like someone who needs to be subdued.  I like to take a sub with fire in his belly and show him who's boss.  Sometimes you don't act like you've been trained at all, brat.  You're just waiting for someone strong to take charge of you.  Skinner isn't that guy.  He doesn't hurt you enough—you're not scared of him enough.  You'd be scared of me, though."  He licks my ear and I shudder. 

            "If this is your idea of talking dirty and turning me on, you can forget it," I whisper, fixing my eyes pointedly on my cock, which is still limp despite his vigorous efforts at arousing me.  "You wouldn't know where to begin with me, Matt."

            "Sir."  He squeezes viciously and I choke, only barely able to hold onto my temper and howling silently in pain.  At that moment, Skinner emerges from the pool, shaking his body like a dog, soaking the subs at the poolside in droplets of water.  Nobody complains.  Matt removes his hand from my jeans and straightens up, smiling at Skinner in an unthreatening way as my boss comes over.

            "I've been watching you.  There's something not quite right about you two," Matt murmurs to me.  "He wants to punish you, but he holds back—I've seen it.  And you want to serve him, but you hold back as well, and you clearly aren't under control.  If you were mine, you would be.  I'd see to that."  He pushes past Skinner and dives headfirst into the water, causing a huge splash and soaking us all again. 

            Skinner has heard the whole of that last part of our conversation and he looks grim as he starts to dry himself.  I step up to him and take the towel out of his hands and he stiffens as I start to dry him. 

            "Time for a good show.  He might be onto us," I whisper in his ear, wishing that I wasn't using this as an excuse to run my hands over his body.  He nods and relaxes, allowing me to rub him dry, drawing admiring gazes from some of the other subs, who are devouring the sight of his naked body.  None of the swimmers are wearing any trunks.  I guess it's just not that sort of place, but I manage to keep my eyes from staring at my boss's impressive cock with too much salacious curiosity.  I've never been attracted to a man before.  At least I don't think so.  Not like this.  Is it just this place with its rules and the atmosphere of lust and sex?  Or is it the way we've been thrown together in this dangerous, life-threatening situation?  That can happen.  People bond very quickly in these kinds of circumstances.  Does he feel anything for me beyond his usual protective concern for one of his agents, combined with his desire to see justice done, to solve a difficult case, to uphold law and order and bring a murderer to trial? 

            I draw him away to the relaxation area and gesture to him to lie down on one of the massage tables.  Three other men are also being massaged, and I watch as Nick dips his fingers in oil and rubs his hands along Saunders's meaty calves.  Nick's eyes are half-closed and his tongue is sticking out between his lips in rapt concentration as he works.  He's been at it for some time, judging by Saunders' smoothly glistening skin and the relaxed state of his muscles.  Nick finishes and kneels obediently by the table.

            "Does Master require anything else?" he asks in a soft, adoring voice.  Saunders opens a lazy eye.

            "No.  Thank you, Nick.  That was very nice."  Nick sighs with pleasure and Saunders smiles, and turns over onto his back.  "Here."  He pulls Nick close, unbuttons the slave's jeans, slides his hand inside and finds Nick's bulging cock.  He fondles it lazily, his eyes fixed on Nick's panting face, which is lost in an expression of rapture, his eyes tightly closed.  Nick is quivering, on the verge of coming, when Saunders stops his caress.  Nick's eyes fly open, the disappointment etched in them, stark and hungry and needing. 

            "Finish yourself off.  I'll watch." 

            Saunders lies back, placing his hands behind his neck, and now Nick grins, a wicked, sly grin.  He pushes his jeans down and delights in showing off his erect cock—not just to his master, but to all of us.  And everyone in the room is watching, of course.  It's impossible to tear your gaze away from the sight of Nick, his hand wrapped around his hard cock as he pumps himself dry, twisting his butt teasingly as he works, the sweat soaking into his dark hair, his tongue moistening his lips.  Saunders has a wide grin of proud ownership on his face, and his eyes occasionally flicker around the room, enjoying the interest we are taking in his sub.  A sub we can look at but can't touch—so we know what we're missing, so that we can see what Saunders gets to enjoy and keep to himself, safe from any other man.  You can tell that turns Saunders on, and I'd lay bets that if any of the other tops in the room reached so much as a fingertip to Nick right now, Saunders would kill them with his bare hands.  Finally, Nick comes, his back arched, feline and feral, and a collective sigh goes around the room before the subs return to their massaging activities. 

            Skinner is lying on his front on the massage table, so I have no idea whether Nick's little display aroused him at all, but it sure as hell aroused me.  Most of all, I was aroused by the look that passed between master and slave.  The rhythm between them, two people totally in sync with their desires and needs, each able to give the other exactly what he wants, fitting together like a hand and glove.  And there was a moment when I envied them that. 

            With Nick's display in my mind, and Matt's words still ringing in my ears, I get some oil and rub it over my hands before placing them carefully on Skinner's back.  He's not very relaxed, but I don't suppose I can blame him for that.  Frankly, I've never been exactly famous for my massage technique, but then, my life has never depended on it before, and after what Matt said, I sense that something skilful is now required from me.  And of course it's not like I don't want to run my hands all over his naked body.  I've stopped having that internal struggle with myself. 

            I put my heart and soul into this massage; I want him to relax, I want to savor every last stroke that my hands can legitimately give to all that solid, muscular, honey-colored flesh.  I want to worship him under the guise of this role.  He won't know, he'll just think I'm doing my best to save both our asses, but that isn't the truth.  My hands are firm on his flesh, caressing it, making love to it in a way I can't do in everyday life.  I've never touched a man's body like this before and I'm not familiar with it, but it doesn't matter.  What I lack in skill, I make up for in my sheer fascination for his flesh and my desire to atone in some small way for forcing him to risk his life by coming after me.

            I'm not even aware of the rest of the room as I work—my whole being is centered on him, on smoothing away the tension in his neck and making his body relax under my hands.  I start with his back and then move on to his arms, taking one in my hands and rubbing it smoothly, shaking it until it's loose, rotating it, and finally massaging each finger between my own, very slowly.  I love having my own hands massaged and he loves it, too; I can tell by looking at the expression on his face.  His eyes may be closed, but I can still sense what he likes and dislikes.  I lose myself in his body, in the role, and time stops for me.  I don't even think about it as I raise his fingers to my lips and kiss each one, and he doesn't open his eyes or object, or even stiffen.  Then I move on up his arm, covering his body in tiny kisses, and he just lies there, accepting it as his due, as a master should.  I kiss a line down his back, even over his ass, all the way down his legs to the soles of his feet, and he has my whole heart as I do this.  It's the most erotic moment of my life and if he asks me about it later, I can hide behind the role, behind my concern of being found out, behind my fear of the Zone.  And of course, he can do the same.  Maybe it won't be a lie for him, as it is for me.  Maybe. 

            I massage him all over, back and front, and finally dip my fingers in the oil one last time and massage his scalp.  I've never touched a man's bald head in this way before, if at all.  There is something more sexual about a naked skull than anything else, and my fingers burn with the ecstasy of this moment.  I can almost feel the electricity that oozes from them as I smooth gentle lines across his head, finding bumps and dips I hadn't expected, like the topography of a landscape.  He left his glasses behind in the changing room and he's lying on his back, his face calm and composed under my ministrations.  I allow my fingers to gently brush his cheek and soothe down the side of his neck, watching him, fascinated by his proximity, his nakedness, by seeing him, someone I am so familiar with, in this unfamiliar way, stripped of our every day selves, of our working life; away from offices, and reports, and endless arguments about procedure, and 302s and lines that shouldn't be crossed.  This is one line I want to cross.  I know that now.  I'm sure of it.  Leaning forward, I press my lips against his forehead and kiss him softly, with all the certainty of this new found affection.

            Then it's over.  My fingers just stop and I sit back, noticing for the first time the silence that has fallen on the room.  Looking up, I see that we have been watched, that my loving massage was the focus of as much attention as Nick jerking himself off.  Saunders is lying on his stomach, gazing at me, transfixed, and Matt has come into the room and is leaning against the wall, a jealous frown on his face.  Nick is smiling at me with a look of recognition, one sub to another, acknowledging and sharing a devotion to our respective masters.  Skinner seems to notice the atmosphere, too, and his eyes snap open and he glances around.

            "That was beautiful, Fox.  Thank you," Saunders murmurs.  "I think now we are able to see why your master tolerates your sometimes less than desirable behavior.  You are a man to be envied, Mr. Skinner."  He smiles that smile of his at Skinner, who clears his throat and grunts something incoherent.  "I'm sure you'll show your appreciation of that fine display," Saunders adds. 

            "Of course," Skinner says.  His eyes meet mine and we're both transfixed for a moment, remembering how Saunders rewarded Nick.  I do not want Skinner to start jerking me off in public—the thought of it brings me out in a cold sweat—but he does something much more touching instead.  He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the massage table and takes hold my face between his hands.  Then he kisses my forehead, my nose, and finally, softly, my lips.  It's not a sexual kiss—just a light touch on my mouth, nothing that we won't both be able to live with later, but all the same it sends streaks of lightning up and down my body, and my legs start to shake.  Saunders seems satisfied with this, as does the rest of the room, and once again normal service is resumed. 

            Matt, for one, seems to think the whole tone of the place has become unforgivably mushy.  He beckons to a sub and throws him over one of the massage tables before proceeding to ‘take’ him in the most perfunctory and brutal way, his eyes fixed on me the whole time with an expression of hate.  It's not hard to imagine whom he's metaphorically fucking inside his head.  Skinner gets up, wraps a towel around his waist, and draws me away.  I'm relieved to follow him, leaving the sounds of Matt impaling his conquest behind me.

            There are three other tops in the changing room when we return there.  Skinner pulls on his briefs and pants, and reaches for his shirt, but I get there first.

            "Master should allow me," I murmur, holding it open for him.  Then I button it up slowly, and fasten his pants for him, and do up his belt.  He submits to this, flushing slightly, and once again I kneel down and help him into his shoes, and his hand plays almost idly with my hair as I tie up his laces.  Finally he's dressed and we walk along the corridors without speaking. 

            I’m so lost in the fantasy of serving him and adoring him that it feels almost as if he's punched me in the stomach when, upon reaching the sanctuary of our room and closing the door behind us, he turns to me and says:

            "Mulder, we've got to get out of this place.  And soon." 

            It's not that I don't want to get out of this madness, but that it seems like a rejection of the experience we just went through together.  Maybe this shows on my face because he stops the pacing he's started and stares at me for a moment.

            "You're in danger," he growls.  "From Matt, from Saunders, from all of them.  And we should find out whatever it is he's keeping in that room we can't go in.  Somewhere along the line, we have a murderer to catch."

            "I know that," I snap back at him.  "It was my goddamn idea to look for him here, wasn't it?"

            "Yeah, and it was your goddamn idea to disobey every goddamn order I damn well gave you," he spits, balling his hands into fists.

            "Yeah, well, when you start giving sensible orders, then I'll damn well start obeying them," I yell.

            "You wouldn't obey any order, even if it was to keep breathing, which, incidentally, I'm trying to damn well keep you doing," he snarls back.

            "I don't need your help staying alive; I've managed it myself for well over thirty years."  I can feel my voice breaking with the sexual tension, the arousal, the danger.

            "Yourself?  Yeah!  Right!  Like Scully and I didn't have something to do with that!" he throws back. 

            "I don't need you, or Scully or anyone else.  I was doing just fine until you showed up."

            "Nearly being raped by that broken-nosed bastard is what you call 'doing fine'?"  His tone is low and savage. 

            "Oh, I'm used to being screwed over.  Screwed by him, or you, or the FBI, or the Consortium.  What fucking difference does it make to you?"

            "I'll tell you what fucking difference it makes to me!"  He strides over to me and slams me against the wall.  "You—always trying to get my damn attention; that's the fucking difference it makes to me.  You're always flicking, and flirting, and hissing like you're a cat that wants to be petted.  Like a proverbial goddamn tease.  I ignored it at first because it soon became as clear as hell to me that you flirt with everyone, but you couldn't leave it alone with me, could you?  You're always showing off, always challenging me to do something, anything, to get hold of you and..."

            "And?" I ask coolly, breathing too fast, looking into his dark, angry eyes, seeing the frustration in them and something uncontrolled—something sexual.  Realization floods back in, and he lets me go, flings himself down on the armchair and takes a deep breath.

            "Nothing.  Forget I said all that.  This place is getting to me, that's all.  We're buying into the mentality of these people too much.  I didn't mean anything.  Ignore it." 

            "No.  I want to know what you meant by all that."  I come and stand in front of him, confronting him and he looks up, his eyes flashing behind his glasses.

            "All right.  I meant what I said.  You wanted my attention and now you've got it, Mulder.  Finally.  After all this time.  Question is, can you handle it?"  He sits up in the chair and reaches out to grab me, pulling me over with one big hand around my waist, somehow forcing me down onto my knees, and then he wraps his hand in my hair, pulls my head back and kisses my throat.  Hard.  "Is this what you wanted, Mulder?" he murmurs, dipping my head back so that he can take more, biting my earlobe, my neck.  I hang there for a moment, wanting to say "no".  Wanting to tell him that he's wrong, to knock his hands away and act the affronted agent, but my body betrays me.

            "Yes," I whisper.

            "I know."  His other hand is rough on my body, finding my nipples and caressing them with firm fingers.  "I've always known," he says.

            "How?  I didn't.  Not until Lenny."

            "Yeah.  I heard that tape," he growls, his hand still keeping my head forced back.  "I guess you didn't know—that the behavior was subconscious.  No wonder you were so mad with Lenny.  That sort of knowledge must have come as a shock."

            "It did.  How did you know?  How long have you known?" I ask, my hands flailing wildly as he pushes me further back, forcing me off balance.

            "Years.  Since the time you ran off to that goddamn observatory in Puerto Rico after I told you to stay put and work on those surveillance tapes.  At first I thought you were just an insubordinate jerk, but it was the way you handled all those quests of yours.  The way you'd flare up like a firework, making a loud noise and a pretty display.  I couldn't figure out who it was you wanted to watch you for a while—I could hardly imagine that it was me.  Not until you started talking about your ass the whole time."

            "My ass?"  His fingers are burning lines of fire down my chest, claiming me.

            "Yeah.  Every time we had a conversation, you managed to get some mention of your ass in somewhere.  We had asses being kicked, asses being hauled off, asses in slings, asses all over the goddamn place.  Either you were trying to draw my attention to your ass, or you had an unhealthy obsession with your own butt.  So, yeah, I started to notice your ass, which was presumably what you wanted."

            "I thought you were straight," I whisper.

            "You thought you were as well."  He sucks on my neck, drawing up the blood like a vampire.

            "I don't know what I am, anymore."  I can feel myself drowning under his teeth.

            "Yes, you do, Fox."  He draws back and grins at me, a feral grin.  "You're what you always have been.  What you've always wanted to be."

            "What's that?" I ask.

            "Mine," he replies.

            I hang there for a while, staring at him, knowing inside my soul that this is the truth I've denied for so long, wanting to fight it, struggling to comprehend it, and failing to do both.  It's a fact of my life and it has always been with me.  I just never knew it before.

            "What are you saying?  Real life has been our subterfuge and finally, here, we are who we really are?"  My mind tries to wrap itself around this concept and fails.  The way his hands and lips are roving all over my body isn't helping matters.

            "Don't mistake me for one of these sick bastards," he growls.  "I'm nothing like them.  And they're right—you're way too disobedient to make a good goddamn sub.  Now you've started something here, Fox.  Do you want me to finish it?"

            He stands up, powers me over to the bed and pushes me onto it, one big hand on my chest, holding me down as he leans over me.  "I can still stop.  We can pretend this never happened.  Is that what you want?"  His eyes are darker than ever, burning with a kind of weird energy, as if he's holding on with the last ounce of his will power, and I know that if I say "no," he'll pull himself back from the brink and collect himself.  He'll be true to his word and not speak about this again. 

            "Yes."  I pull his head down and kiss him hard. 

            He growls again and straddles my body, holding my arms down on the bed.  "You've never done this before," he says.  It's not a question.  He just knows.

            "No."

            "I'm rough."  He slams my hands down again as if to illustrate that point.  "When I'm like this—I'm rough.  Can you handle that?"

            "Yes."  I nod, trying to move my arms, to put them around his neck, but his grip is like a vice.

            "Don't move," he warns.  I can't believe he's the same Skinner.  He seems transformed, trembling with sexual desire, lost in it in a way I'd never have believed.  It's frightening.  "I've had to keep myself under control for a long time with you.  I knew I couldn't exactly just throw you over my desk and show you what you didn't even realize you wanted," he hisses.  "I had to rein myself in.  When I lose control, I'm different.  It might be more than you bargained for.  Do you trust me?"

            I can feel my cock hardening in my jeans.  Him, pinning me here like this, is the biggest turn-on I've ever had.  And his cock is stiff against my abdomen, I can feel it digging into me.

            "Yeah, I trust you.  I trust you with my goddamn life.  Just fuck me," I plead.

            "No," he says, his breathing shallow with desire.

            "What?"  I struggle in his arms again, but he's too strong for me and he thumps me back down onto the bed, squeezing my wrists too hard. 

            "Not when I'm like this.  Not for your first time.  I'm too damn big, and I'm going to be too out of control to go slowly.  I'd hurt you."

            "Then hurt me!" I moan with frustration.  "Just fucking well fuck me!"

            He stares down at me, still breathing heavily, struggling with himself.  Then he gives in to it and becomes a frenzy of action.  He grabs my head and kisses my lips, biting them.  His head dips lower, his teeth find one of my nipples and he bites down hard, one hand holding me down as I moan and squirm under this savage caress.  Another bite on the skin over my ribs hurts like hell.  His mouth goes up to my shoulder and he bites again, harder than before, making me scream.  He holds me down, his fingers rough. 

            "Don't move.  Don't struggle.  It makes me worse," he hisses, his hands slapping mine away as I try to roll to one side, to get out from under him.  "Submit, Fox.  Submit."  He smells of something raw and primal, and the scent of his sweat overpowers me, making me feel dizzy.  He grabs my jeans, pulls them open and disposes of them, tossing them onto the floor.  His fingers run over my swollen cock and I moan and thrust into his hand.  "Don't come," he hisses, squeezing, pumping me, making me gasp with pleasure.  "Don't fucking come, or I swear I'll use one of those whips in that cabinet on your disobedient ass." 

            The way he's talking, the way he's touching me, reduces me to a quivering heap of Jell-O.  I've never been turned on like this before.  His strength, the animal quality in him, is making me crazy.  And he's telling me not to come?

            "You must be out of your fucking mind," I groan, thrusting up again and then I yowl in pain as he slaps my cock, hard. 

            "I'll tell you when."  He gets hold of me by the waist and throws me bodily off the bed.  "Get the condoms and lube.  Quickly!" he barks and I'm into the bathroom and back out again in under four seconds.  He's got his shirt off and is unbuttoning his pants. 

            "I'll do it." 

            My hands are shaking as I open them up.  He's said he's big and I want to see just how big he gets when he's aroused.  I could see he wasn't exactly small when he was in the pool, but the size of him erect takes my breath away. 

            "Still so sure you want me to fuck you?"  He pulls me tight against him, his erection digging painfully into my thigh, brushing against my own.  I nod, unable to breathe when I can feel the width and length of him so close to me. 

            "Just do what you want to me.  Fuck me, hurt me, I don't care.  You've done this before, haven't you?  With a man?" I ask, trying to find him again, trying to see into his eyes, to find my calm, controlled, rational boss, but he isn't there.  The sexual fury I've unleashed has gone too far.  I'm not sure he could turn back now, even if I did refuse him.  He's a different man, wild and abandoned, but I can't complain that he didn't warn me. 

            "Yes.  I've done this before.  With a man.  You see," he's running his fingers along my back, scratching me with his nails, "I can only really let go like this with another guy.  Too well brought up, I guess."  He gives a barking laugh.  "I was always taught to be respectful to ladies.  I hold myself back with women, but with men, that's different.  I can be rough, out of control.  You're strong, young, you can take it.  Hell, you want to take it.  You want it.  You want me."  He says that with a sort of pride, and I can feel his erection hardening even more against my leg. 

            His lips pound on mine again, sucking me dry, making my mouth bleed.  Then he grasps me even closer, imprisoning me in his arms, holds my head against his neck and bites the side of my throat, thrusting against me like a rutting stag.  I can't do anything but go limp in his arms, allowing him to use my body the way I want it to be used, the way he wants to use it.  He draws back and tosses me down on the bed on my front, his hand slamming against the back of my neck, holding me still.  Then I can feel his lips on my back, biting on my shoulder blade.  A hard bite like before, wringing a scream from my lips and making me struggle.

            "I told you to keep still," he hisses.  "You don't know what it does to me when you move." 

            I'm reminded of a cat holding down a mouse, just keeping it there with one paw, lazy and idle while the mouse remains quiet, but turning vicious as soon as the mouse tries to escape.  That's what he's like now and I do my best to just lie there and accept the savagery of his assault.  My cock is hard, aroused by his strength, and his tongue finds my butt.

            "Ah, the famous ass," he mutters, licking me there, his tongue entering up my crease and making me sigh.  I can feel his weight shifting as he puts one hand on the top of my thighs, the other on my spine. 

            "Don't move or I'll break you in two."  He pauses, and then I feel his teeth biting down on one of my buttocks, and I'm screaming as that bite goes on, and on, and on, claiming me, marking me as his while he holds me down.  Then, finally, he loosens his teeth, licks at the bite mark he's made, and I lie there whimpering.  "Fox...?"  His hand brushes my hair.  "You still with me?"

            "Yeah."  My response is muffled by the pillow, which I've got between my teeth.

            "You're right, Fox.  Your ass is worthy of my attention.  I'm glad you were kind enough to point it out to me."  He laughs, a low, bass, rumbling sound that I don't think I've ever heard before. Then he has his hands on my balls, stroking them, licking them.

            "Don't bite me there or I'll die," I mutter, and he laughs again, petting me like I'm a dog or rabbit. 

            "Wait 'til you feel my cock up your ass.  You just might die." 

            His big hands seem to be on every part of my body simultaneously, including my cock and inside my ass, and I can't stop myself thrusting again, needing the sweet release of orgasm, but he won't give it to me. 

            "Please," I moan pathetically.

            "Don't talk."  He's everywhere, like some inescapable force, some elemental power, blowing my brains out and taking my breath away.  "On your knees."  He picks me up and holds me.  My knees are on the bed, my back pressed against his chest, his arms holding me tight so that I can feel his cock pressed up against me.  It's wet and slippery, and I realize he's already put a condom on it, and lube.  His fingers press further inside me, slick and cool with the lubricant, and unerringly find my prostate, making me gasp out loud. 

            "It gets better than that," he growls, rubbing insistently, working me open with his fingers.  "Open up for me, you have to take more than a couple of fingers."  His voice is like silk, cool and sensual, and I do as he says, thrusting back, trying to swallow his whole hand, to feel even more of him inside me.  After several long, blissful minutes, his fingers withdraw and I moan in disappointed frustration. 

            "Who do you belong to?" he asks me, his cock nuzzling between my butt cheeks, teasing and hard.

            "You," I groan as his fingers wrap themselves around my cock and pump again.

            "Louder."  His voice is in my ear, in my head.

            "You.  Fuck you.  You, you, you!" I scream, wanting release, wanting my orgasm. 

            "Don't come," he growls, his hand leaving my cock, making me sweat with the disappointment of it, wringing a moan of anguish from me.  His fingers are on my thighs, holding me tight, pushing me forward.  One hand is around my waist, and, without warning, he suddenly thrusts into me, hard.  I've never felt anything like this before.  First it hurts like hell as he breaches the ring of muscle in my ass, slamming forward with his thighs, holding me up with his hand so I can't escape the initial thrust.  Then he smoothly rocks forward, ramming me hard, and at the same time seizes my cock once more.

            "Shit..." I moan.  He's quiet and all I am right now is a mess of sensation.  I can feel the hardness of him inside my ass, and hear the sound of his breathing.  His head is next to mine, his breath warm and hungry on my neck.  I fall silent, stilled, becoming used to this new sensation, accustomed to the hard size of him inside me.  It's as if we're welded together there, me accepting him within me, he waiting, holding himself inside me, unmoving.  We're joined, one, our breathing the only sound we make, the rise and fall of our chests our only movement. 

            It's the calm before the storm, because then he suddenly growls and thrusts and it's exquisite, like nothing I can describe—it hurts so much, but feels so goddamn good.  With each thrust of molten pain, he pumps my cock until my nerve endings are a confusion of messages.  Some are telling me I'm having the best time of my life, others telling me I'm on fire with pain in my ass, and still more telling me I'm about to damn well die of pleasure.  He draws back, rough and slick, then thrusts again and again, each time stroking my cock hard. 

            "Son of a goddamn bitch," I moan, putting my head back, trying to remember to breathe, feeling my sweat running down my face.

            "Yeah," he laughs.  "Yeah.  And you're mine.  Don't forget that."  And then he loses it completely and rams into me hard, fast, over and over again until I'm crying out, unable to stay on my knees anymore, relying on his big hands to hold me where he wants me, to keep me from toppling over.  One of his arms is around my waist, gripping me tight to his chest, the other is working my cock in time to his thrusts and I'm helpless, transfixed.  I can feel my ass muscles constricting around him, struggling against him, but this doesn't stop him.  He's too strong, too fast, and too far gone. 

            "Accept me, damn you."  He pushes harder, rougher, taking what he wants where my body won't give it up freely, and I find myself opening up more of my body to that insistent hardness.

            His mouth lingers against my neck, his teeth nipping at my skin.  I can feel myself about to burst and he senses it, too. 

            "You can come," he whispers.  "Now.  Come now." 

            And on cue I do, spurting out in wave after wave, more than I've ever come before.  Then I'm spent and the sensation in my cock is gone. 

            He removes his hand and places it flat against my abdomen, drawing me even further onto his erect penis, grinding his thighs into my butt.  "I haven't come yet.  I'm not ready yet.  How much longer can you stand this, can you bear me in you?" he breathes against my ear.

            "I don't know," I whimper.  "Hurts."

            "Yeah."  He thrusts, angling up against my prostrate, making me gasp.  "And it feels good, too, doesn't it?"  He draws back again, thrusts again.  "Well?" he asks.

            "Yes.  Feels good, too," I pant. 

            "Mine."  He seizes my hips and pulls me so tight against him that his cock is thrust even deeper inside me.  He's so hard, so big, that I'm losing my bearings.  It's just me and his arms holding me up, his cock within me, claiming me, filling me, owning me.  Then he reaches a frenzy, tossing me around like I weigh nothing, pulling and pushing at me, sliding deep inside me, then drawing out, pushing back in so fast I don't have time to catch my breath.  I hear him shudder, and then he roars as the orgasm claims him, holding me tight against his chest again, his sweat mingling with mine, his stubbly cheek rough against my own.  It's a primal roar of sheer sexual release.  A sound of victory, ownership, triumph, pleasure. 

            We kneel there for a long time, he holding my body tight against him, kissing my neck, nuzzling me, his arms wrapped tight around me. 

            Then he just drops me.  He doesn't say a word, just withdraws from my battered, sated body, and goes to the bathroom.  I feel empty, drained, and totally and absolutely fucked; fucked all the way up my ass, and all the way down into my soul.  I've never felt such emotions before, never experienced something so raw, savage and entirely without mercy.  I've never surrendered myself to anything so completely, or, paradoxically, felt so safe.  It just felt right, but him leaving me doesn't.  I want his kisses and his reassurance.  I don't want to feel like I was just a body to him, someone on whom to take out his anger, sexual frustration and his need to possess.  I can hear him washing himself, as if he wants to get rid of the scent of me.  He's gone a long time and when he returns to the bedroom, his face is hard and closed and he's wearing a long robe, hiding himself from me.  He goes and sits down in the chair, a long way from me, not even looking at me.  I feel as if I'm an object of disgust. 

            "Sir?"  I can't stand it.  I feel lost, alone, when moments ago, during that frenzied coupling, I felt as if I belonged to someone and was part of something.  He flinches when I go and touch him.

            "Don't." he hisses,

            "Why not?  Shit, why the fuck not after what we just did?" I ask, feeling hurt. 

            He shakes his head.  "I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have done that.  I hate it when I...when I lose it like that."

            "But I wanted you."  I take his face between my hands and kiss him on the lips.  "I really wanted you, Walter."

            "Fox."  He attempts a smile at our first-name terms.  "Did I hurt you?  I'm sorry.  I knew I wouldn't be able to hold back.  Shit, I should have said 'no'.  I shouldn't have got us into this."

            "I told you to go ahead.  It was...unbelievable."  I exhale heavily. 

            "But I hurt you," he says wretchedly.  "I never wanted to do that.  If I hadn't lost control, it could have been gentle.  You would have enjoyed it more."

            "Walter, believe me, I couldn't have enjoyed it much more than that."  I shake my head.  "I suppose I wanted to make you lose control.  I wanted to be taken, owned like that, in that way.  Raw, no holding back.  Naked lust, total abandonment.  It was a turn on."  I shrug and wince, bites now vying with welts for their place on my pain threshold.

            "Shit."  He puts his arms around me and kisses my hair, then buries his face in it.  "Shit, this just makes it worse."

            "Why?" I ask, pulling him up and leading him back to the bed.  I push him down and wrap myself around him, facing him, looking into his eyes.

            "Because now I really won't be able to stand to let them touch you.  It was bad enough before, but now you're mine, really mine, no pretense.  Now I'll have to work even harder to keep myself under control."

            "Well, you've always been good at self-control.  Unlike me," I laugh. 

            He grins.  "Yeah.  Never your strong point.  Unless I can beat some sense into you."  He wraps me up tight in his arms, his muscles hard against my flesh. 

            "I'm yours, Master," I tease.  "You can do what the hell you like with me."

            "Don't think I won't," he grunts, kissing me gently.  "Don't damn well think I won't, Fox."

            He falls asleep.  I think I'd like to talk, but he just wraps his arms around me, sprawls a big thigh over my leg, and within seconds he's asleep.  He's heavy, but I don't want to push him off—I've only just gotten used to having him this close.  I relax and breathe in the scent of him, re-living the way it felt to have him holding me up, having him whisper, "Mine," in my ear, owning me.  I've always been a free spirit.  I hate being tied down.  I never thought I might have the need to belong to anyone before.  This makes no sense, and I'd like to believe that it isn't true, but he's left irrefutable evidence of it on my body and seared into my mind. 

            I try to rationalize this weird turn of events, but it's hard.  There's nothing rational about this.  I'm Fox Mulder, the FBI's most unwanted, a thorn in the side of the man who's lying next to me.  I've been a pain in the ass to him from the moment I was assigned to him.  My methods of investigation are too unorthodox, my choice of cases makes him despair, and he hates signing off my reports.  I've pushed him too far, too often, but the psychologist in me can see this as a cry for attention, a way of forcing him into controlling me, and dealing with me—of getting physical with me.  No wonder he was so angry earlier.  Five years of self control, five years of being cool, of restraining me every time I got some fucked-up paranoid fantasy in my head.  Five years of saving my ass, clearing up my mess, watching as I danced around trying to get him to notice me.  And five years of me wanting him to lose that control, but never realizing it.  Wanting to provoke him into doing something, anything, to show me what I was and give me what I wanted.  No wonder he thought I was a tease.

            I don't think it was an accident that on those occasions when I lost it, it was to Skinner I directed my subconscious cries for help.  When I was freaking out on hallucinogenic tap water, spiked courtesy of the Consortium, he was the one I took a swing at, not Scully, not any of the Lone Gunmen, and not any of those irritating suits at the FBI who always hassle me and mutter "Spooky" as I pass by.  No, him.  I wanted him to save me then, and again many times after that.  That time when I thought I was going crazy, seeing monsters, and drew my gun—he was there.  He was the one I wanted to rescue me, to make me sane again.  And of course I wanted to save his butt as well, not that he ever thanked me for that, ungrateful SOB. 

            I can't handle being labeled.  I don't like labels of any description, but I'm having an especially hard time with the homosexual, gay, even bi, labels.  So I'm not even going to think about that.  Oh, God, if there's one thing I want to think about even less than the gay label, it would have to be the submissive label...the one that stamps "Property of Walter Sergei Skinner" all over my psyche.  There's no way I can get around that one, either.  I just know that, now that my eyes have been opened, I don't ever want them to close again, and I damn well hope he feels the same.  At some point during all this turmoil, I fall asleep. 

*                       *                       *

            When I wake up, he's already showered and dressed and is wearing some of the clothes Saunders provided for him, clothes I know he'd never wear in his normal life—a pair of black pants, a black cotton shirt, open at the neck, no tie.  He looks different; stunning, satanically imposing and generally inspiring the adoration of lesser beings at his feet. 

            "You're awake."  He glances over at me.  "I've been thinking."

            "Me, too," I murmur, but it turns out that he's been thinking about something else entirely.

            "However crazy this place is, there is nothing going on here that has so far made it obvious who our murderer is.  We have no evidence that a crime has been committed on these premises—although I'm not sure that we couldn't make a case for assault in regard to that man in the Zone.  Still, the mural depicting that bullfight, the presence of those bull symbols on the dead bodies, and the clearly cultist and ritualistic elements of this community are enough to convince me that our murderer is here, somewhere.  More likely than not, Saunders ordered the murders.  It is highly probable that there are many others here, Matt, for example, who have helped him conspire to commit murder and have executed his orders.  We must face the possibility that, at the very least, all of the members of the Mithras Circle may be guilty of aiding and abetting the cover-up of these crimes.  We need to find out more about them.  Even though our team wasn't able to tail us, they're definitely going to be working on tracking us down.  They know Saunders, so they'll be able to get some good leads from that alone." 

            He's stabbing his fingers into the air as he makes all his points, his mind totally focused on what he's saying. 

            "It may be enough for us to just sit tight, find out as much as we can about this, and wait to be rescued.  Since we're being watched, and the penalties for being discovered where we shouldn't be are...unthinkable, I don't see that we have any choice but to keep our eyes and ears open, and hope that we don't have too long to wait.  Any questions?"  He gazes at me expectantly.

            "Just one.  When are we going to have sex again?" I ask, because frankly that's the only thing on my mind.

            He's still for a moment, staring at me coldly. 

            "Come here," he says finally.  I shiver at his tone and scurry to obey him, kneeling down naked at his feet without even thinking about it.

            "You'll get all the goddamn sex you can handle," he growls, his hand kneading my shoulder as he looks into my eyes.  "Just don't let it interfere with your judgment or your ability to keep yourself alive.  I need you to do your job here as well, Mulder.  Indulging in erotic fantasies when you should be trying to solve this case will seriously piss me off.  Your sex life does not, I repeat, not get in the way of your work.  Understood?"

            "That's not going to be easy," I murmur, and his fingers tighten on my neck.  His eyes are fierce and irritated.

            "Well, I've been exercising self control for five years so I think you can attempt it for five minutes," he says.  "Work—play.  Two separate things.  Screw up on that, and I'll make you regret it big time.  The gloves are off now, Fox," he adds.  "I've had to conduct myself in a professional manner due to our working relationship.  Shit—I always knew that if I ever lost it with you and treated you the way you wanted, hell, the way you seemed to crave, that I'd be thrown out of the Bureau on a harassment charge.  Now, however, things are different.  There are certain things I just won't tolerate.  And don't pout—it doesn't work with me.  Get up, get washed, and get dressed.  We have a job to do."

            "So—no more sex?" I ask, and he growls and cuffs me playfully in the direction of the bathroom.  Just my luck.  I discover I like something and then find it's only going to be doled out to me by someone else on their terms.  Typical. 

            The shower washes away the sweat and blood and the scent of sex, but not the memory of that primitive, raw coupling.  Nothing could erase that from my mind.  I find the bite marks on my chest and ribs and finger them, remembering how they were inflicted.  My fingers cautiously seek the bite mark on my butt, which is so deep that I can make out the edges and contours of it without being able to see it, and I can feel myself becoming hard as I recall the sensation of being held down and marked by his teeth.  Shit, not again.  I turn the temperature of the water down to lukewarm (I can't face freezing cold), but it's not enough to dampen my erection and I have to jerk off again.  That's three times in one day.  I hope this isn't going to become a habit or if we ever do get back to real life, then I'll need to find excuses to visit him in his office every few hours.  What was it he said about not letting sex interfere with work?  I'm not sure I have his willpower.

            It's late—I think we missed lunch, but dinner is being served in the main hall.  Saunders glances at us as we enter, and then does a double-take, looking at us more keenly.  I can see his eyes raking approvingly, almost lustfully, over the bite marks on my body and my bruised lip.  I find myself taking an absurd pride in the way he's looking at me.  I love the fact that Skinner has marked me, that there is visible evidence of our wild sexual frenzy on me, and that he's made the status of our relationship clear and plain for them all to see.  For his part, Skinner has noticed Saunders looking as well, and he straightens up, flexes his arms subconsciously, and grabs my shoulder.

            "Go serve," he grins, and I run off to join Nick and the other slaves, bringing over the meal.  We have more confidence in these roles now, both of us.  Matt was right about us holding back, but not anymore. 

            I bring him his food, see that his glass is kept filled, and kneel obediently next to his chair, waiting to be fed.  Not that this is exactly the way I see myself conducting our relationship if we ever get home (trust me, it isn't!), if, indeed, we have a ‘relationship,’ but it doesn't feel so humiliating anymore. 

            "I'm glad to see that you eschew alcohol, Mr. Skinner," Saunders comments smoothly.  "You'll need a clear head for later."

            "Why?  What happens later?" Skinner asks.

            "Eleven p.m.  In the arena—you remember, the large room with the sand on the floor?" Saunders says.  "Bring Fox.  There's been quite some interest in him after his little display in the massage room earlier today."

            "I told you before, nobody is going to touch him."  Skinner puts a hand on my head and strokes my hair softly.

            "Then you'll have to make sure of that, won't you?"  Saunders allows his eyes to travel over me, once again lingering on the bite marks on my body—particularly the one over my nipple.

            After dinner, coffee is served in the library.

            "Watch your back," Nick whispers to me as we follow behind the tops.  "They like to have some fun with us after dinner.  If you don't like the idea of that, make sure you don't screw up."

            "Thanks."  I nod, grateful for the warning.  Skinner takes his seat in a plush armchair, and I immediately sit down on the floor beside him, determined not to move for the duration of the evening.  Nobody is going to have an excuse to do anything to me.

            "Gray, I believe you are on duty this evening."  Saunders nods towards the whipping post and Gray, a thin, sinewy man with wispy dark hair, smiles and takes up position next to a cabinet.  He opens it up to reveal a huge array of whips. 

            "Are there any punishments scheduled?" Saunders asks. 

            "Yeah.  Brad was slow helping me get changed earlier."  Matt is sitting with his feet up on the huge oak table.  Saunders looks coolly at Matt for a moment, and I sense a tension between them.  It's hard to pinpoint exactly what it is, but I realize that Saunders despises Matt and I suspect it's for the same reasons that Skinner does.  Saunders has shown himself to be smooth and cultured.  I have no doubt that he can also be cruel and ruthless, but so far I haven't witnessed him indulging in any acts of brutality—unlike Matt.  I sense that Saunders comes from a very different school of sadists.  It's not a value judgment, I hate both the bastards.  In fact, in some ways Saunders is the more frightening because of that civilized veneer.  At least Matt's brutality is obvious and unsubtle; you know where you are with him. 

            "Very well."  Saunders nods.  "Nick—go and find Brad.  Bring him here for punishment." 

            Nick runs off, and a few moments later he returns with the hapless Brad.  I'm surprised to see that Brad is shivering and appears to be afraid.  I'm not sure of the dynamics here; are they supposed to enjoy this or what?  Is it a 'scene'?  Is Brad getting off on pseudo-fear or is he genuinely afraid?  Brad kneels down in front of Saunders, his head bowed.

            "There's been a complaint," Saunders says, stirring his coffee.  "About your service earlier today.  Do you wish to speak?"

            "No, Master."  Brad looks up, glancing at Matt with real fear in his eyes.

            "Very well.  Ten, I think.  The crime wasn't too serious."  Saunders waves his hand, and Brad looks relieved.  A light of anticipation has appeared in his eyes, so I guess he isn't that worried after all.  Gray beckons him over and gestures him to undress, then ties him up to the post, fastening a cuff on each of his wrists. 

            I bury my face in the side of Skinner's knee and refuse to watch.  I don't know if Brad is going to enjoy this or not, but I sure as hell won't.  Yeah, call me a big wuss, but this stuff scares me shitless.  It wasn't so bad witnessing this sort of crap at Krypton, but here the threat is implicit and real, and I don't know how far it will go or how bad it might get.  Skinner puts a hand on my head and smoothes my hair, rubbing my head and neck constantly with a firm, gentle caress.  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Saunders watching me with an intrigued and amused look on his face.  Brad screams after each lash, and I can feel myself flinching in time with the blows.  Skinner's hand never leaves my head. 

            Finally, it's over, and Brad is allowed down.  I find myself staring at the lash marks on his back and buttocks with a fascinated horror, but it doesn't escape my notice that he's been turned on by the whole event. 

            "You can return to the pen now, unless anyone wants to use you, Brad."  Saunders looks around the room questioningly, and one of the tops steps forward and gestures Brad over, drawing him away to the other side of the room.  I try not to watch.  I'm distracted instead by Nick, who has gone to get Saunders another cup of coffee.  He's crossing the room when Matt puts out a foot to trip him.  Nick goes flying, and the coffee ends up splashing over Saunders's shoes.  He yelps, and looks around crossly.  Matt sits back in his chair, a malevolent grin on his face. 

            "Looks like Goody Two Shoes has slipped up," he remarks.  Nick's face is anguished.  He grabs a cloth from the tray and wipes the coffee off Saunders's shoes.

            "Sorry, Master," he mutters, and I'm surprised to see that he has real tears in his eyes.  The dynamic between Saunders and Nick is a complicated one, but I think it's based more on service than punishment.  I sense that Saunders relishes his power over his slave, and the fact that it derives less from fear or sexual role play than from love, and of course Nick gets off on his obedience.  He genuinely wants to serve Saunders and he doesn't want his master to be angry with him, for whatever reason. 

            There are no marks on Nick's body—I sense that Saunders rarely finds it necessary to punish him.  Saunders shoots another cool glance at Matt, realizing who has been behind the incident, but there must be some rule I don't know about in play because despite clearly not wanting to punish Nick, I know he's going to, anyway.

            "Nick," Saunders says softly, "I want you to go to the cabinet and bring me an implement.  Any implement you want." 

            Nick nods, swallowing convulsively, and nobody could miss the wide grin that is plastered all over Matt's features.  He notices me staring at him and the grin becomes a leer.  It's hard for me to resist an impulse to just get up and leave, or to shout out and tell them what a bunch of frigging psychos they are.  I find myself sitting up, about to point out the inherent absurdity of this ludicrous society, when Skinner's fingers dig into my neck warningly.  I glance at him and he shakes his head, almost imperceptibly.  Doesn't he see it, too?  Doesn't he want to stand up and say: "Hey, a cup of coffee got spilt.  No big deal here!"?  Maybe he does.  His fingers are stroking my neck urgently, trying to distract me, to calm me. 

            The whole room watches with interest as Nick selects a strap and returns to Saunders' chair.  He unbuttons his jeans and slides them off, before kneeling once more, and then puts the strap in his mouth and offers it to Saunders, who takes it and gestures to his knee.  Nick arranges himself over his master's knee and now I can't stop myself smiling because it looks so absurd!  Shit, it makes me want to scream with laughter, but my grin soon fades. 

            For someone whose heart isn't in it, Saunders certainly delivers a hard enough beating, and Nick is swiftly reduced to tears and a series of strangled sobs.  Perhaps I'm wrong, perhaps they're both enjoying themselves.  Perhaps Matt is a valued member of the community for creating little diversions and thinking up excuses for mass punishments.  Perhaps I'm missing the point in all this—they're probably all grateful to the bastard.  Oh, fuck, I don't know.  I don't understand the rules, and I feel helpless at the mercy of these people.  I just want to go home.  I want to be alone with Skinner, in my apartment or his, and I want to feel his hands on my body making love to me again.  I want to explore this new relationship in a less threatening environment.

            The beating seems to go on forever and I want to turn my face away, but something keeps me watching in horrified fascination.  Nick's buttocks are now covered in dark welts and I don't even realize that I'm trembling until Skinner suddenly gets to his feet in the middle of the beating and clears his throat.

            "If you'll excuse us," he murmurs.  He clamps a hand on my shoulder, which stills my shaking, and gestures me to follow him, which I do eagerly. 

            Saunders stops mid-stroke and looks at us.  "You have an hour, Mr. Skinner," he says.  "Your presence in the Arena at 11 p.m. is not optional."

            "No.  I'd sort of figured that out."  Skinner nods.  "I'll be there, but in the meantime, if you have no objection, I'd like to rest."

            "Of course,"  Saunders murmurs, but his eyes have a glint of some knowing amusement.  I realize that he thinks we've both been turned on by the evening's activities and are returning to our room to enact our own version.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Even my newly insatiable desires have been dampened by the events I've witnessed. 

            "Thank you," I whisper to Skinner when we reach the safety of our room.

            "It's all right.  I didn't like it much, either."  He is silent and subdued, and sits down on the bed with a sigh.  I go and sit beside him, and we stare at the floor glumly.  Then he turns my face to his and kisses me with an infinitely tender softness.  "I'm not like them," he murmurs in a strangulated tone.

            "Hey, it's all right."  I can sense a very real misery in him.  "I'm not like them, either, in case you hadn't noticed.  Not like Nick or Brad or any of the other 'slaves'." 

            "Yeah, thank God," he grins.  "I don't think I could stand all that fawning all the time.  And I've always hated ‘yes’ men.  I like people to have minds of their own to keep me interested, and let's face it, you sure as hell have a mind of your own."

            "Oh, yeah.  Nobody could argue with that."  I wish we could stay in this room forever and not face all that craziness again, but I know we can't.  "Are you worried—about what will happen in the Arena?" I ask him. 

            "No.  Apprehensive, maybe, but I don't think it takes an Einstein to figure out what will be expected of me tonight."

            "No.  Now please tell me that you regularly attend those FBI self-defense refresher courses."

            "Yeah," he grins.  "Although, frankly, I think that an offensive strategy will be more useful than a defensive one this evening."

            "You think they fight dirty?"

            "I'd lay bets on it.  Not that it matters."  He shrugs.  "I can fight dirty, too."

            "I never doubted it for a second.  Scully told me that you once took on an informant of mine—X, and you won.  That impressed me.  I took a swing at him once and wished I hadn't.  He was one mean son of a bitch."

            "The information I required on that occasion was...an incentive."  He smiles softly and touches my face.  "But not as much of an incentive as there will be tonight.  Don't worry, Fox.  I won't let any of them so much as lay a finger on you."

            I shake my head.  "I can fight my own battles."

            "Not against this mob," he says wearily.  "Remind me how we got into this again?"

            I look up, opening my mouth to splutter another apology, or a protest, only to find that he's grinning at me.  He grabs me and pulls me down onto the bed.  I rest my head on his chest and he strokes my back, and we neither of us says a word as we lie there for the next half an hour, relishing the peace, the company and the comfort.  Finally I feel him glancing at his watch over my shoulder and he gets up, disengaging me. 

            "Once more into the lion's den," he murmurs, stretching like a cat.

            "My hero."  I grin slyly and kiss him hard on the lips.  "Just so you remember what you're fighting for," I tell him when we come up for air.

            "I won't forget.  Trust me.  After all, it could be worse."  His mouth twitches in wry amusement.

            "How's that?"  I try to think of any way in which our situation could be worse than this.

            "Well, if we hadn't reached our, uh, new understanding earlier this afternoon, then I could be about to do all this fighting without even the hope of getting to enjoy the spoils."  He looks me in the eye, completely stone-faced. 

            "Spoils?" I pout. 

            He puts a finger over my lip and grins.  "You're starting to look like Lenny!" he says, and then runs for the door, getting there just in time to evade the pillow his outraged piece of property has thrown at his retreating back. 

*                       *                       *

            The Arena has been lit by flaming torches of real fire, which give it a demonic, gladiatorial glow.  All the subs are here, and there's quite a crowd of them.  I count at least thirty, which is double the number of tops.  They're standing in a circle, eerily lit by the flickering torches.  There's an ominous wooden post sunk deep into the sand at the far end of the circle.  Saunders saunters over to us and smiles at me in that patronizing, creepy way he has.

            "Fox—go and join Nick," he orders.  I hesitate and glance at Skinner—a gesture that isn't lost on Saunders, whose face reflects a slight flicker of annoyance.  Skinner nods.  I see Nick standing at the far end of the room and go to stand beside him. 

            "You okay?" I murmur. 

            "What?"  He glances at me, confused, and I gesture with my head in the general direction of his butt.  "Oh, that.  Yeah, I've had loads worse in my time," he grins.  "I bet you have, too.  Your master doesn't look like the sort to take much crap."

            "He doesn't beat me," I say softly.

            "What, never?"  Nick looks surprised.

            "No."  Fuck the pretense.  I want to inject some normality into this place.

            "You ought to ask him to one day, then," Nick grins.  "The pain of a whipping can be intensely pleasurable.  Mind-blowing."

            "I'll take your word for it.  You didn't look like you were having such a good time earlier, though," I remark.

            "I wasn't."  Nick sighs.  "How can I describe the difference to you if you really don't know, Fox?"  He stares at me, looking genuinely perplexed.  "Aaron can do what he likes to me, whenever he wants.  He's earned that right.  I'll submit to the worst beating in the world if he wants to deliver it.  That's just symbolic of my service to him—I won't necessarily enjoy it, but that doesn't matter.  Once, early on, he whipped me so hard for so long that I thought I'd die, but it was just his way of making me understand who I belonged to.  I wasn't so obedient then—I was trying to play games with him, make him jealous.  I never tried that again, believe me.  But," he pauses and his eyes go dreamy, "there are times in private when he'll make it a pleasure.  He knows the way my mind works, and how to get me in the mood.  Then it's like nothing on this planet, Fox." 

            "What about Matt?" I ask, seeking a distraction from this fascinating, but to me, inexplicable conversation.  I search the Arena for my nemesis, my eyes sweeping around the room.  "He set you up this evening.  How do you feel about him?"

            Nick hesitates, clearly not sure how to reply.  "Matt likes to enjoy himself with us," he answers at last, in an even tone.

            "He's a fucking bastard," I respond, seeing no reason to collude in his neutrality.

            "He can be harsh," Nick agrees.  "But one or two of the subs here have a thing for him.  Some people like their pleasures raw and at the outer limits of painful."

            "What about Aaron?" I ask.  "What does he think of Matt?"

            Nick hesitates again, biting his lip thoughtfully.

            "Matt has challenged Aaron a couple of times," he tells me.  "Not because he wants me, but because he finds Aaron's strength a threat."

            "And who won?" I ask, finding this whole subject as compelling as it is weird.

            "Aaron, of course."  Nick gives a small shrug of pride.  "Nobody's ever defeated him in any of the challenges.  And Matt isn't as good a fighter, anyway.  He's too much of a bully, not enough of a strategist.  It angers him that Aaron's the only man here he hasn't defeated."

            We're distracted in this bizarre conversation by Saunders stepping into the center of the Arena.  He holds up his hands and a silence falls onto the room. 

            "We have a new player."  Saunders beckons Skinner forward.  "You know Mr. Skinner and his slave, Fox."  Nick nudges me to take a step forward and I find myself being stared at by the assembled company.  "For the sake of Mr. Skinner, I'll go through the rules."  He turns and looks at my boss with a sly grin.  "There are no rules!" he laughs, and a ripple of mirth travels around the room, but there is a grim, anticipatory hunger to the sound. 

            I'm disturbed by some of the looks I'm getting—predatory and lustful.  The flickering of the flames makes the atmosphere even more threatening, and I sense a mood of collective insanity descend on the Arena.  Normal rules of behavior have ceased to apply; I'm in the sewer with the rats now, abandoned in the heat and sweat of the jungle, feeling like a sacrificial victim. 

            "The Arena is open for one hour," Saunders says, waving his arms around like a showman.  "Each fight is to end only when one or other of the combatants surrenders.  Let anyone challenge as they so desire." 

            He grins at me, and I glance around, holding my breath as I catch sight of Matt in the shadows, but he doesn't move.

            "I'll challenge." 

            A slender, wiry man walks into the Arena and I release the breath I've been holding.  The challenger is at least five inches shorter than Skinner and doesn't have his bulk.  He doesn't stand a chance.

            "Whom do you challenge?" Saunders asks.

            "Skinner."  Surprise, surprise. 

            "Can anyone be challenged?" I ask Nick.  "I mean it's not just Skinner who has to fight, is it?"

            "No," Nick whispers.  "But to be honest, Fox, you've drawn attention to yourself and caused some interest.  I think you'll find a fair amount of the challenges going to Skinner.  And of course tonight's just the beginning.  There's another session in the Arena scheduled for tomorrow night."

            "How many..." I begin, but I'm interrupted by Saunders beckoning me forward.  Another sub is also entering the arena.  I cross to where Saunders is standing.

            "Go and help your master prepare," he orders, and I notice the other sub is stripping the shirt off his master and rubbing him with some sort of oil.

            "What's the oil for?" I ask Skinner, doing the same, following the other sub's lead. 

            "My guess is to make us slippery—harder to wrestle with.  Plus, I suspect that making our bodies glisten adds yet another unnecessary touch of melodrama to these proceedings," he grunts sourly.  "Shit, you can smell the fucking testosterone can't you?"  Our preparations are being watched by hungry eyes that devour our every movement. 

            "How do you feel about that rules crap?" I whisper, taking a liberal handful of oil and smoothing it over his body until he's gleaming.  Damn, but he looks good shiny.

            "Fine.  There weren't any rules in 'Nam, either," he replies with a shrug.  "I can hit below the belt with the best of them." 

            He's starting to snarl and I'm surprised by the darkness in his eyes and the way he's breathing, until I realize he's psyching himself up for this.  I hope he can come down easily afterwards.  I don't relish the idea of calming some wild, rampaging, adrenaline-soaked bull in our room when this is over.  Bull...hmm, the analogy is apt given the ritual associations of this cult.  And of course you'll notice I have no doubts as to the fact he'll be successful this evening.  We will be going back to our room together when this is over; I refuse to contemplate any other outcome.  Skinner takes off his glasses and hands them to me.

            "Can you see without them?" I ask.

            "I can see better without them than I can with them smashed into my face."

            "Good point."  I slip them into my pocket.  "Shoes aren't allowed."  I notice the other sub divesting his master of his shoes as the man glowers at Skinner, flexing his arms theatrically.  Skinner sighs, and shakes his head.  I kneel down, undo his shoes and peel off his socks, while he engages in some he-man stuff with the other guy, both of them staring each other out.

            "Shit, you don't suppose we have to fight butt naked, do you?" he asks.  "That would be too sick even for these guys, wouldn't it?  Please tell me it would, Fox."

            "Fuck, I don't know.  I wouldn't put anything past them.  But, no, I think you might be spared that indignity."  I glance at the other top.  "He doesn't look as if he's taking off any more clothes."

            "Thank God for that."  He breathes in deeply. 

            "You won't have any problems with him.  He's too small," I murmur, trying to bolster his ego.  I make a silent vow to work on my mindless adoration skills later.

            "Yeah—but he might be fast.  I'm, uh, not really." He grimaces. 

            "But you've got amazing stamina—right?"

            "Oh, yeah.  Hell, I've put up with you for five years, haven't I?"

            "That's my boy."  I grin, and wipe the rest of the oil off onto my jeans.  "Kick ass, boss." 

            With all the preparations over, I'm ordered back into the center of the Arena again.  Saunders grabs my wrist, and before I know it, I'm wearing a leather cuff, which he fastens to the post at the top of the circle.  I can feel my face flaming in anger and humiliation, but there's nothing I can do, and my situation is not any worse than Skinner's is right now.  The other sub is fastened next to me, and he grins at me—a greeting I don't have the heart to return.  God, I hope I don’t look as stupid as he does right now, but I suspect that I do.

            My fellow captive is still grinning at me, as if to say, "Aren't we just too cute for words?" Yech.  We're a couple of trussed up, half dressed babes, the spoils of war, on display, and to the victor goes all...  Wait!  To the victor goes all?  What a revolting thought.  I glance at my fellow captive with renewed interest.  Does this mean that Skinner gets to keep him if he wins?  Over my dead body.  Still, I suppose it's only fair that if Skinner stands the chance of losing ‘possession’ of me, then his challenger has to put up something of equal value.  It's so exquisitely, crazily sick that I want to laugh hysterically at it, and I would if the danger weren't so very real and immediate. 

            I try and think back to how it's possible that I'm standing here, half-naked and tied to a post, while my boss is having to fight for me.  Whatever happened to aliens, UFOs, conspiracies and all the normal lunacies of my life?  When did this new madness take their place?  Is it me?  Do I attract insanity like some sort of loco-magnet?  Hey, it's Mulder, throw some crazy alien shit at him.  Yeah, okay, now some genetic freaks.  Yeah, that's the ticket, but it's getting boring.  Hey, how about a wacko bunch of sado-masochistic fruitcakes who want to get a piece of his ass?  Yeah—and while we're at it, throw in a steamy love session with his boss to really screw around with his head.  Thanks, guys, whoever you are—you omnipotent, fate-fixing jokers are having some cosmic-sized fun at my expense.  I owe you fuckers, big time.

            "Let battle commence."  Saunders smirks at his own crass cliché and withdraws from the Arena.  I find that I have a ringside view of the proceedings, and hold my breath as Skinner and the other guy circle each other warily for a few moments.  Then the other guy launches himself at Skinner, who side-steps him easily and lands a good body punch.  Skinner is right, though—this guy is quick, and he's soon dancing around, stabbing these little punches at my boss and then darting back before Skinner can retaliate.

            Skinner takes a few hits to his chest and face, and then starts to get really mad.  The next time the guy comes towards him, Skinner feints a left, and then snarls and launches himself bodily at his challenger.  He throws the guy to the floor, sits on him and pounds his fist into the man's face a couple of times.  A satisfied gasp goes up from the assembled crowd as it becomes obvious that Skinner has won. 

            "Over," the other guy gasps, trying to wriggle out from under Skinner and failing.  "Over!" He taps Skinner's thigh with one of his fingers.  "Challenge over." 

            Skinner gets up triumphantly, and I find myself sagging against the pole in relief.  Skinner and I exchange a wordless glance—the whole thing was wrapped up in less than four minutes.  Quick work, boss. 

            Nick appears beside me, unties the other sub and leads him to one side before coming back to release me.  Then Saunders moves to the center of the circle once more.

            "Any other challenges?" he asks. 

            A tall, slender, black guy moves like a dangerous panther into the Arena.  I'm instantly at Skinner's side bringing him some water, thinking the whole nightmare must be nearly over, but in fact it's only just begun.  The black guy makes a show of examining the available slaves—I think it's all part of the psyching out process that these freaks indulge in—and then he strides up to Skinner and points.

            "You," he hisses and the whole thing starts up all over again.  Skinner gets oiled down, I get tied to a post with some other poor bastard, and then we watch as these two grown men slug it out over our half-naked, slave-boy bodies.  Just another hard day at the office.  Skinner wins this one, and the next one, but by this time I'm getting anxious. 

            "This isn't fucking fair," I complain to Nick.  "Is he supposed to fight everyone here?  It's not a challenge, it's a goddamn free for all."

            "Like Aaron said, there are no rules."  Nick shrugs, but he's frowning as well.  "To be honest, Fox, we've never had a challenge evening like this one before.  Usually the fighting is very mixed—Aaron once fought three people in one session before, but that was the highest number of challenges that one top has fought.  I told you that you'd drawn attention to yourself.  The tops all want to try you.  You've got to admit that you've shown off.  First, all the insubordination, then that sublime massage.  I'm not surprised that they're itching to subdue you, and then be on the receiving end of your loving attention."

            "This is my fault?"  I stare at Nick open-mouthed.

            "Well, it sure as hell isn't your master's fault, is it?"  He grins at me.  "Don't worry about him.  He's fighting well.  He can keep going."

            "He's only goddamn human."  I stride over to Skinner with some more water.  He's got a bruised jaw, but luckily his eyes are unharmed.  I can see some bruises starting on his ribs, but Nick's probably right; he can keep going—but for how long?  I remember what Saunders said—something about the Challenge lasting an hour. 

            "We're about half way through," I tell Skinner.  "Can you keep going for another half an hour?"

            "Re-phrase that in a way that makes it sound like I have a choice," he grunts, wincing as I wash some blood out of the cut on the side of his face.

            "Feeling in need of a pep talk, are we?  Well, let's see.  You've fought off half these guys already.  You're bigger, fitter, smarter, stronger and a lot better looking."

            "Yeah, all right."  He shakes his head wryly.

            "And I bet you've got more packed away where it counts as well," I continue.

            "Hmmm—this flattery is working."  He breaks into a grin.  I slap some more oil onto his body, and return to the post once more with a heavy sigh.

            Two more fights take us to nearly five to midnight.  I cross my fingers, hoping they'll end it there.  Skinner is breathing heavily, and I'm not sure he can take any more.  A mood of menace has fallen over the Arena.  Skinner is like a bloodied bull, weak, and open to attack.  Nobody could have fought better or longer, but he's vulnerable right now.  None of these guys are exactly useless with their fists, either—he's taken some heavy body blows.  I can feel the way the pack is baying for his blood, wanting to see him defeated, wanting to see me slung into the sand and made to submit, to be visibly subdued, to be punished for my attitude, my arrogance and my temper.  The torches have burned down, making the room darker and more threatening than ever.  I can barely see the next challenger as he walks into the center of the Arena and challenges Skinner. 

            "Last one," Nick whispers to me as he unties me.  "Tell him that.  The last one."

            Skinner is breathing far too heavily for my liking, and he looks a mess. 

            "Nick says it's the last fight of the evening."  I take his head in my hands and try to get him to focus on me. 

            "Yeah," he manages a weak grin.  "But have you seen who it is?"

            "Who?" I turn, and my heart sinks.

            "Matt," Skinner murmurs. 

            Matt is being oiled up, his pristine skin unmarked by the bruises that now liberally adorn Skinner.  He sees me looking at him and smirks.

            "The bastard waited until now before challenging—he knew he didn't stand a chance against you when you were fresh."  I'm seething, and about ready to go over there and take care of Matt myself when I catch sight of Saunders.  Before Skinner can stop me, I find myself grabbing Saunders' arm and turning him around to face me. 

            "This is a fucking set-up," I snarl.  "Skinner's taken all the challenges this evening.  It isn't fair."

            "Life isn't, though, is it?"  Saunders smiles and then glares pointedly at the hand I have on his arm.  I find myself removing it.  "You really don't want to anger me, Fox," he says dangerously.  "I'm quite satisfied with the slave I have already, but I might decide to make a pitch for you myself one of these days.  How would you like that?"  His face is angled to one side as he regards me keenly.

            "I don't belong to anyone but Skinner," I tell him evenly.  "And this 'challenge' is a heap of shit.  Stop it now, Saunders."

            "I can't," Saunders says with a lazy wave of his hand.  "Matt issued the challenge before the hour was up.  Skinner has to respond.  It's the way Mithras functions at its most basic level, Fox.  If a man has a particularly desirable slave, he has to be strong enough to keep him, even if that means having to do a lot of fighting.  Of course I can see why you'd be concerned."  Saunders flashes me that creepy grin and glances over my shoulder at Matt.  "I would be, too, if I were you.  You really shouldn't have upset Matt so much when you first arrived.  He's just itching to get his fingers on you.  He's been polishing his crop all evening.  Cross your fingers, Fox—because if Matt gets his hands on you, then I'd hazard a guess you'll be one docile slave by tomorrow morning.  Docile—and well marked.  I look forward to seeing those marks at breakfast tomorrow.  That's if you can still walk."  He laughs out loud at his own macabre sense of humor.  "Of course, Matt is an exhibitionist so it's possible that he'll throw you in the sand and take you immediately upon his victory with all these witnesses.  I do hope he does.  I enjoy watching."  Saunders chuckles again at my outraged expression and then turns his back on me. 

            I return to Skinner, seething inside at the injustice and the way we are being forced into accepting every piece of shit these people hand out to us.

            Skinner is getting his breath back; he takes a long, deep drink and does some stretches.

            "I'm not finished yet, Fox," he says.  "Don't write me out of this contest before it starts." 

            "You could beat him with one hand tied behind your back," I state in a feeble and transparent attempt at showing a confidence in him that I'm not sure I feel. 

            "No, you're the one that gets to have all the tying up shit done to you," he grins.  "I get to have my brains beaten to a pulp by mindless wackos while you just have to stand around looking pretty.  Some guys get all the luck." 

            "Kismet," I grin back.  "I was born prettier than you, so I get the slave boy option."  I'm trying to joke, but somehow I don't think it's a good idea to mention to him at this point that the only top here who has beaten Matt is Saunders.  That wouldn't be a good psychological place to be coming from in a fight like this.

            I return to the post once more for another session with the handcuffs, only this time I'm even more scared shitless than before.  I really don't want to watch Skinner getting the crap beaten out of him, but I'm only human and at least some of my concern is saved for myself.  I don't want to be raped, and I don't want another taste of Matt's riding crop.  I can't see how Skinner can be expected to defeat Matt after all the fighting he's done tonight.  My fingers are crossed and my heart is pounding in my chest as the two men begin to circle each other.  Matt is about the same height as Skinner, but not as broad; however he is sinewy and obviously well toned.  He's clearly a formidable opponent. 

            Matt feints forward, drops back, and then repeats the move again and again, making Skinner snarl with angry frustration.  Finally Matt follows through, taking Skinner by surprise and landing a solid blow to my man's jaw.  Skinner just shakes his head and keeps moving.  He's like a goddamn ox, charging on regardless.  Matt goes through the same dancing, darting crap as before, wearing Skinner out even more before landing another good punch to Skinner's ribs.  Skinner lashes out and manages to get a blow to Matt's face before Matt skips out of reach, but even so, it isn't a very convincing shot.  Matt is definitely ahead on points.  The whole circle can see that Skinner is tired.  A low humming sound starts, full of menace, repeating one word with a pounding rhythm: "Kill." 

            It's whispered over and over again, and the sub tied up with me to the stake backs up against me, his eyes wide and scared.

            "What's happening?" he whispers.  I recognize him from breakfast—he's the kid Matt made eat from the plate on the floor.

            "I don't know."  I find myself reaching out with my free hand to comfort him, and we both stand there looking dazed and scared.  The crowd has turned ugly.  They want Matt to win; they want Skinner to drop, to finally be defeated.  They want one of their own to be the victor, to bring this outsider down and trample him into the sand.  Then they want to see me raped, subdued, and finally brought into line.  Buoyed up by the sound, Matt shrieks a war cry and launches himself at Skinner, bringing him down with one blow to the midriff.  He strikes him another on the face, kicks him hard in the shins, and then pins my boss to the ground with his body.  I see Skinner glance at me over Matt's shoulder, and I close my eyes, unable to watch. 

            When I open them again, Matt is delivering one final, decisive punch to Skinner's head.  My boss, my lover, falls back onto the sand, out cold. 

            "Yes!"  Matt stands up, raising his arms in the air, a look of triumphant glee on his face.  He turns towards me, and I actually hear myself whimper.  He's looking at me with those Nightmare-on-Elm-Street eyes of his and I know that I haven't got a chance.  He's crazy, full of bloodlust, and it's me he wants to vent it on.  I tug blindly, frantically, at the cuff around my wrist, trying to escape, knowing it's hopeless, twisting to get as far away from him as possible. 

            He grins and pursues me, grabs my shoulders and pulls my head against his for a sweaty, revolting kiss.  I kick him, pull away, and duck under him, but he just grabs me again, his hands closing around my neck as he yanks me back up.

            "I'm going to share my victory with you all!" Matt yells, putting one arm around my chest while he holds onto my neck with his other hand.  "Watch and enjoy!" he laughs, his free hand moving down to the front of my jeans, as he starts to unbutton my fly.  His breath is hot against my flesh and my stomach is heaving so much that I think I might puke. 

            At that moment, I feel him forcibly wrenched from me and I twist around just in time to see Skinner headbutt Matt across the bridge of his already crooked nose.  Matt lets out a squeal of pure pain, and Skinner lands another satisfying punch to Matt's stomach and then, standing up straight, he takes aim and kicks my assailant squarely in the groin with as much force as he can muster.  Matt curls up and whimpers in agony.  Skinner stands over him, takes a fistful of his dark hair, and pulls his head back.

            "I don't believe I said that the challenge was over," Skinner growls.  "Did I?" Matt shakes his head, still whimpering.  "So.  Your.  Victory.  Celebration.  Was.  Premature."  Skinner punctuates each word with a savage punch to Matt's body.  "Wasn't it?!"  He shakes Matt bodily as if he's a rat.

            "Yes!" Matt manages to pant out.

            "And the words you're looking for are?"  Skinner waits patiently, his fist drawn back.

            "Challenge over," Matt gasps.  "You win, Skinner." 

            Skinner nods and smiles, and starts to put the bleeding man down, and then casually, as if in afterthought, delivers one last brutal punch to Matt's face.  When he flings Matt back into the sand, the guy doesn't even move.  Skinner stands up stiffly, glaring around the circle, and I see the grudging respect in the eyes of the other tops. 

            Skinner walks slowly over to Nick and holds out his hand.  "Give me the key," he says.

            Nick stares at him blankly, still lost in the drama of the moment. 

            "I said, give me the goddamn key!" Skinner snarls, and Nick snaps out of it and obeys.  Skinner comes over to me and undoes the cuff. 

            "What is it with you and last minute rescues, anyway?" I hiss under my breath.

            "Nag, nag, nag."  He shakes his head.  "Didn't your mom teach you any manners?  Like when to say 'thank you,' maybe?"

            I don't have a chance to reply because Saunders is coming over, a look of immense approval on his face.

            "So, Mr. Skinner—you've turned out to be a worthy addition to our little circle."  He smiles.  "I do hope you enjoyed yourself this evening."

            "Enjoyed…?" Skinner looks dumb-struck.  Saunders nods—he's quite sincere.

            "The roar of the Arena, the smell of the fight," he murmurs, his face almost orgasmic with pleasure.  "There's nothing like it, is there?"

            Skinner puts his glasses back on and nods thoughtfully.

            "No.  I can honestly say it's like nothing on this planet," he agrees with a sidelong glance at me that suggests he thinks that Saunders is definitely one french fry short of a Happy Meal. 

            "And of course you deserve your reward," Saunders grins.  "I hope you still have some energy left to enjoy it, Mr. Skinner."  He clicks his fingers and a troop of subs is ushered over.  I recognize them as my various companions-of-the-post.  "All yours," Saunders smiles.  "You won them, fair and square."

            "All of them?" Skinner casts his eyes over the little huddled crowd of be-jeaned slave boy specimens.

            "That's right."  Saunders grins.

            "Don't even fucking think about it," I murmur to Skinner under my breath.

            "Hmm," Skinner pauses and peers at the assembled subs with a show of interest, and I'm pretty close to landing another punch on him to add to the ones that he's already taken this evening.  "I guess I'll have to take a rain-check," he says at last with a regretful sigh.  "I think I've got my hands full with the sub I've already got.  I don't need any more trouble."

            "Wise move, boss," I mutter.  "All right, guys—back to the pen or wherever you sleep.  He's mine, and he doesn't want you, so get lost.  Now!"   They back off, startled by my tone, and I notice Skinner is starting to sway.  "Come on."  I take his arm and sling it around my shoulder.

            We make our unsteady way out of the Arena, and back to our room.  As soon as we get there, he collapses onto the bed.

            "You stupid, crazy, bastard."  I disappear into the bathroom and start filling the man-sized tub with hot water.  "Playing dead like that.  Nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack." 

            I return to his side and start easing his clothes off him gently, undressing him like he's a kid.  I can't resist kissing him all over as I do so.  He's so weak and pathetic right now that he can't protest, even if he wanted to.

            "Well, I knew I wasn't going to beat him in a fair fight," he mutters, leaning against me as I undo his pants, his head heavy on my shoulder.  "Matt's greedy and he's got a giant-sized ego.  I knew that if I made it look like he'd floored me, he'd go straight over to claim you.  I just had to time my recovery to make sure that I had the element of surprise.  If I'd gotten the timing wrong, he would have had me."

            "Well, he nearly had me instead," I mutter, pulling off his pants and his briefs so that he's naked.  "Oh, shit, listen to me.  I'm an ungrateful bastard.  I was just so damn worried.  I wasn't sure how badly you were injured.  I couldn't even see if you were still breathing.  Damn, I wish you'd let me in on your plan." 

            I pull him up and half walk, half carry him into the bathroom.  I help him into the bath and take off his glasses as they steam up.  He leans back, his eyes closed.  I get my jeans off and slip in beside him, pulling him over so that he's reclining between my legs, his head resting on my chest while I kiss his scalp.  I find the soap and gently rub it over his chest and down to his groin, and then run my fingers along his cock because, frankly, I can't resist. 

            "Yeah, like I have the energy for that," he mutters.

            "I'm not asking you to do anything."  I nibble at his ear.  "I'm just playing.  I have to make the most of it when I have you vulnerable and at my mercy, don't I?  It doesn't happen that often."

            "Good point."  He smiles, his eyes still closed, his face etched with weariness. 

            I hold him, stroking him, whispering to him, and kissing the side of his face for nearly an hour until the water starts to get cold.  He's like a baby in my arms, totally relaxed and zoned out, just enjoying the caressing and attention. 

            Finally, I haul him out of the tub, wrap him up in a towel, and walk him back into the other room where he lies down on the bed.

            "I'm just tired.  I'll be okay," he whispers, seeing the anxious look in my eyes as I hover over him. 

            "I'll put something on your injuries.  God knows they've provided us with a big enough first aid kit." 

            I get the kit, return to the bedroom with it, and smooth some cold gel over the bruises and cuts on his body.  His face isn't too badly marked, apart from that cut on the side of his jaw and a couple of bruises.  I'm grateful for that much—and for the fact that he managed to duck out of the way of the couple of punches that would have damaged his eyes.  His knuckles are grazed and bruised and look pretty painful so I put a light dressing on them.  He submits to my clumsy medical attention and then rolls back under the sheets.  I slip in beside him and cradle him to me, loving the feel of his ass against my thighs, my ankles draped over his, his muscular back pressed tight against my chest. 

            "Did I say thank you?" I murmur, feeling his breathing deepen and his body relax.

            "Do you ever?" he answers.

            "What do you mean?  Of course I...  What are you talking about?" I bristle.

            "Well, there was getting beaten up in a stairwell over that stupid DAT tape.  There was taking delivery of a known felon and storing him for you in my apartment—to say nothing of all the 'there goes the guy who likes handcuffed young men' gossip that abounds in my apartment block as a result.  There was rescuing you from faraway locations—on more occasions that I can even begin to think of right now.  There was deciding not to suspend you despite numerous instances where it was the only sane thing to do."

            "Yes, all right, I get the point.  Did I forget to thank you on all those occasions?"

            "Mulder, you never thank me," he points out, his speech slurred and drowsy.

            "I could make up for it now." 

            I disappear under the sheets and find his cock.  I've never done this before, but how hard can it be?  Yeah, I know he's tired, but too tired for a blow job?  I know I never have been.  I'm right—a few licks and nibbles and he hardens and starts thrusting into my waiting mouth, and I decide that Fox Mulder, slaveboy, does actually have some talents after all.  This is fun!  His cock tastes of bath water, salt and essence of Skinner, and I'm just dying to see what his come tastes like, which may be sick of me.  I don't know.  I don't know anything anymore—all my certainties are gone.  Anyway, he comes soon enough under my expert mouth and tongue and I like the sensation of swallowing him down.  Mmmm!  Yep, finger-lickin' good, that's what he is.  I don't allow so much as a single droplet to mess up the bed, and I lick him clean afterwards.  Slut-Mulder, that's me, the fastest tongue in the west. 

            "How was that?" I ask, returning to my former position behind him and drawing him close again.

            "Well, that took care of the DAT tape thing, but you still owe me for the rest of it.  Somehow I think it's going to take you a long time to pay off your debt.  Looks like indentured servitude is in your future for some time to come." 

            "Aw, shucks," I grin, nuzzling him shamelessly and he lets out a small barking laugh. 

            "What?" I ask.

            "You.  For the last five years, you've been dancing around like a prissy kid making me admire you from afar, always skipping just out of reach—and now you can't keep your hands off me."

            "Why stop at hands?"  I stick my tongue in his ear, and he waves me off, feebly. 

            "Mulder, let me sleep.  Please," he says beseechingly, and with some reluctance, I do as I'm told.  See, I can be obedient.  Sometimes.

            I don't go to sleep.  Instead I wait until I'm sure he is sleeping, and find myself gazing down on him.  He looks like a battle-scarred lion, bloody, bruised and unbowed.  I suppose I know what I'm going to do.  Maybe I've known since my conversation with Nick earlier this evening, when he told me that there's been another challenge scheduled for tomorrow evening.  How long can Skinner keep taking this kind of punishment?  I know he said to stay put, to find out what's going on and wait for the team to rescue us, but I don't have a lot of faith in the prowess of the team.  I guess I'm just used to relying on myself. 

            I get up and get dressed quietly, borrowing a pair of black pants and one of his black shirts from the wardrobe, put on his sneakers, and then slip over to the door.  I try the handle, but somebody has clearly visited while we were in the bathroom because it's locked.  I get a wire coat hanger and twist it around before inserting it into the keyhole.  This is a talent I picked up during my misspent youth, and that's all you need to know about it.

            It takes about five minutes to pick the lock, and all the time I'm holding my breath in case he wakes up.  Somehow, I know he won't approve of this—maybe I'm psychic.  When the lock finally gives up the ghost, I go back to the bed and kiss him gently.  With any luck, I'll be back with help before they even notice I'm missing.  I slip out into the corridor and head off in the direction of the Bat Cave, but I'm soon lost.  When I was there last, I had more important things on my mind than the layout of the place, so my memories are hazy at best. 

            Unsurprisingly, somewhere along the line, I take a wrong turn and end up outside the slave-pen.  I tiptoe past as quietly as I can, head down to the end, and turn into yet another corridor.  Damn, but they all look the same.

            I hear someone laughing and duck into a side passage, holding my breath as one of the tops walks by, his arms loosely wrapped around a giggling sub.  When they've passed, I edge out into the main corridor again, and along to another dimly lit passage.  The corridors are becoming more rough-hewn now, which is how I remember it.  Finally I end up in a dark cavern, completely unlit.  I remember the musty smell – it’s the Bat Cave!  I feel my way along and then slip, tumbling head first down some roughly hewn stairs carved out of rock.  I make one hell of a racket, and hold my breath as well as I can, considering that I'm winded, but nobody comes to investigate.  I manage to find where the cars are stored—there are about 10 cars here, all big limos, neatly parked.  The exit is covered by a solid metal sheet and I run my fingers all over it, trying to find the garage door opener.  At last I locate a switch mechanism to one side, and press it and…holy shit!  All hell breaks loose.  A bright light comes on, a siren begins to sound, and literally, within five seconds, I find myself face to face with a guy holding a gun. 

            My stomach is churning as I'm pushed along the corridor at gunpoint.  The guard stops outside a door and knocks on it.  It's opened by Nick, who takes one look at me and then his eyes pop out of his head.  He opens the door wider, and goes to wake Saunders.  It's fair to say that I'm starting to quake by this time.  Saunders is definitely not a happy camper about being woken up at this hour.  He gets up, allows Nick to help him into his robe, and then comes over to look at me.  He grimaces at me as though I'm something he's stepped in.

            "So, Fox.  Trying to abscond?  And after we showed you such hospitality as well," he murmurs.

            "Yeah, right.  You're a bunch of frigging fruitcakes," I splutter.  Call me unwise—it's been done before and not as politely, so I'm used to it.  Saunders is clearly torn between hitting me and laughing.  Luckily, for me he does the latter. 

            "This is what always amuses me about you, Fox," he says.  "No matter how bad your situation, you still try to fight it.  Nobody could ever accuse you of being a quitter."

            "Oh, I'd be happy to quit.  Believe me," I tell him. 

            His mood changes abruptly.  "Does your master know that you're loose?" he asks.

            "No.  He's still asleep," I reply quickly, desperately hoping that we can keep Skinner out of this.

            "Well, let's take this conversation to him, shall we?"  Saunders smiles.  That forlorn hope of mine is therefore dead in the water.

            Saunders and the guard usher me along the corridor and back to our room.  Saunders politely knocks on the door, and then enters when there is no reply.  He turns on the light, and Skinner sits up blearily.  He runs his hand over his eyes as he takes in the situation.

            "Oh, shit," he mutters.

            "It would seem," Saunders smiles, "that we have a little discipline problem, Mr. Skinner."

            "Yes.  I'll take care of it."  Skinner gets out of bed wearily and pulls on his robe.

            "That isn't acceptable," Saunders says.  "Community rules have been broken.  We take the matter of runaway slaves very seriously.  The punishment is quite