~Rio de Janeiro, Brazil~
~May 16, 2080~
He slowly lifted the demitasse of fragrant espresso to his full, perhaps slightly pouting, lips as he leaned on the railing of the balcony that overlooked the vast estate known as O Paraíso—the haven. Eduardo St. George, blue eyes so dark they almost appeared black, scanned the horizon, midnight brows, drawn together in a thoughtful scowl. He was the second tai-youkai of South America, and he called these lands his home. Back in the day, he’d stood in the same spot, took in the same landscape with a smile, with the unabashed naivete that came with the idea that every day was beautiful, that the ugliness that lingered in the darkened corners of the world at large had yet to come to roost here—not in his domain.
He was wrong.
‘Almost . . . two months . . .’
It felt like an eternity. Almost two months since the last communication, and that . . . worried him . . .
Not for the first time, he had to wonder if he hadn’t made a colossal mistake. He wouldn’t have agreed to it, though, if he hadn’t insisted—if he wasn’t entirely certain that it was something he needed to do. Even so, Eduardo couldn’t help but to ask himself over and over again if he hadn’t been a little too fast to allow him to go. Maybe he should have waited, tested him, made more of an effort to make him understand just what he could easily be walking into . . . Sending in someone who admittedly had very little in the way of experience in this kind of operation . . .
But he hadn’t had a choice, either, and he knew that, too.
“I will not lie. It will be difficult—perhaps impossible . . . When you come back—if you come back . . . do not delude yourself into believing that you will be the same man. Something of this nature could take months—years—if you’re successful. If you’re discovered, we won’t be able to get to you fast enough to save you, to pull you out of there, and . . . It may be too much to ask of you . . . Are you certain that it’s a chance you’re willing to take?”
The expression on his face hadn’t changed during Eduardo’s briefing. The determination on his face, the fire that burned behind his gaze . . . The South American tai-youkai had to appreciate that, damned if he didn’t. Living up to his pedigree, as it were, he supposed . . .
“I know the risks,” he replied. “I’ve considered this since the day I heard of it. That video you sent of the girl—Korin . . . It cannot be allowed to go on. I don’t expect that it’ll be easy, and I don’t think that it’ll be fun. But . . .”
Shaking his head, Eduardo started to rise to his feet. He just needed to move. He thought better when he was in motion. “I . . . I will send one of my hunters in. This whole idea . . . I cannot guarantee your safety, and—”
“You can’t do that. That’s why you mentioned it, to start with. The last time you tried, they found out, and that guy . . . Well, he never came home, either. We both saw what happened to him . . . Your hunters—even your newer ones—are known to them, and tying even one of them up in this indefinitely? You can’t do that. You already said so yourself.” Gaze shifting to the side as he slowly blinked, he stared out the huge window that had been retracted back into the wall, allowing the fresh air, blowing off the ocean, to fill the airy space. “What they’re doing . . . It’s wrong. It’s wrong on every level. It’s . . . It’s evil . . . Upon the honor of my family, I cannot in good conscience sit back and pretend that I never heard of it.”
“And your family?”
“What about them?”
Eduardo leveled a look at him. Bravado and a certain level of belligerence weren’t going to convince the tai-youkai. “Do they have any idea that you’re here? That you want me to allow this?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I talked to the ones who matter,” he said. “They may not agree with why I want to do this, but they understand the need.”
Wandering over, filling two glasses with scotch—he figured that they both needed it right now—Eduardo handed him a glass before stepping back around the desk again. He’d showed him that video—the one that he’d half-hoped would convince him not to take on what could easily be a suicide mission, and yes, he’d watched as he’d flinched, scowled, looked almost sickened at the contents of that video, but in the end, all it had done was to reinforce his conviction that he had to help put a stop to it all . . .
“It’s because of the ones I care about,” he said, the rich timbre of his voice taking on a more thoughtful lilt, a quiet sense of contemplation. “If . . . If I can do something to eliminate this kind of thing? If I can ensure that there is one less nightmare, lurking in the dark . . .? Then it’s worth it to me—even if I never come back.”
“You’re a good man,” Eduardo said with a slow nod. “I pray you’ll still be a good man when you walk away from all of this, too—that you’re able to walk away from it all . . .”
Setting the empty demitasse on the thick porcelain saucer in his hand, he let out a deep breath, ignoring the ocean breeze that flipped his long, dark brown, almost black, bangs into his eyes. That day over eight years ago tended to replay in his head at least once a day, sometimes more. The sense of foreboding that he’d felt at the time had slowly grown, magnified . . . and he continued to ask himself if he’d made the right decision, allowing him to go . . .
And now, it had been two months—two months since he’d dared any kind of correspondence . . .
“I’m guessing that you’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”
Letting out a deep, almost defeated, breath, Eduardo nodded, but didn’t turn to look at his mate. So lost in thought that he hadn’t sensed Chelressa’s approach, he ought to be berating himself for allowing such a lapse. He had bigger things on his mind, though. “I am,” he admitted.
Chelressa uttered a commiserating sort of half-sigh as she stepped over to lean against the railing beside him. “You’re considering sending in someone to get him out, aren’t you?”
Sometimes, she knew him a little too well, didn’t she? Of course, being married to someone for over four hundred years . . . It would be a little strange if she didn’t know him like she knew the back of her hand, wouldn’t it? “If he doesn’t make contact by the end of the week . . .”
She smiled at him, her brilliant violet eyes, sparkling, as she caught the long strands of her ash-blonde hair in one hand and laid the other against his forearm. “Don’t sell him short, Ed. As much as you might want to think otherwise, he would not have taken it upon himself to go in if he didn’t feel that he was capable of seeing the mission through.”
“Hubris can get you only so far,” Eduardo insisted quietly. “It’s one thing to think that he knew what he was walking into. I fear . . . I fear that he didn’t. How could he? He saw those damned videos, yes, but . . . but if he made the mistake of thinking that that was only something done to a spy . . .? If they’ll do that to a spy, just what the hell would they do to one of their own? You and I both know that . . . that it isn’t something he could do without absolute commitment: mind, body, soul . . .”
Chelressa sighed softly. “You’re thinking about her again, aren’t you?” she asked, but it didn’t sound like a question. “About the things she told you . . .”
He didn’t deny it. The first videos . . . ‘Korin . . .’
He’d found her, wandering the streets near O Paraíso, and something about her . . . So lost, so fragile, and so very afraid . . .
“I . . . I don’t exist, do I? On paper, on anything that matters . . . I’m nothing . . .”
“Nothing is a harsh term. What’s your name?” he asked, frowning at the waif of a girl. Lost in the folds of a nondescript tan dress that hung around her small frame like a sack, she shivered slightly, rubbing her bare arms. The temperate breeze blowing off the water stirred her hair—hair that was probably a beautiful shade of red, but was so matted and grimy from the days and days of wandering alone that the color was all but masked . . . She was one of the lucky few. She’d been bought by a master who had seen fit to remove her collar, to set her free when he lay on his death bed—he had emancipated all fifteen of his slaves. Eduardo didn’t know where the others had gone. Neither did she . . .
She seemed confused by his candid question—a question that should have been easy enough to answer. “I . . . I don’t have one,” she said. “My master . . . Sometimes, he called me Korin . . . He said I looked like a Korin . . .”
Eduardo’s frown deepened as he shrugged of the light jacket he wore and stood to drape it over her shoulders. She shot him a quick, scared look, and he managed a little smile to reassure her as he sat back down in the small and quiet café near the water. “That’s a pretty name,” he told her. “Korin . . . Yes, very fitting . . .”
For some reason, his statement only seemed to further her acute distress. “I . . . Could you . . .? Can you take me back?”
“Take you back? Back to where? Your master . . . He’s dead, is he not?”
She shook her head, ducking her chin a little more. “No, I mean . . . Can you take me back to the camp? They could resell me or . . . or . . .”
Eduardo sighed, reaching for the glass of gold cachaça. “I’m sorry . . . I will not return you to that place.”
He could sense her vast upset, her disappointment, and it bothered him that she would rather return to a place like that than to have her freedom to do whatever she wanted . . . “I . . . I would rather be there than here,” she whispered, scrunching up her shoulders as she frowned at the platter of food before her. She hadn’t touched a thing. Eduardo suspected that she wouldn’t, either. “I . . . I don’t understand anything here . . . And the sounds, and the smells, and . . .”
“It’s all right,” he assured her, reaching across the table, patting her hand gently. She choked back a sob, drew a tumultuous breath. “Don’t worry, Korin. I’ll . . . I’ll help you . . .”
Reaching up, laying a gentle hand against his cheek, turning his face toward hers, an ocean of concern, churning in her eyes, Chelressa tilted her head to the side, and she tried to smile. It was thin and weak and not at all one of her heartfelt expressions, and he grimaced. “You weren’t wrong,” she told him softly. “That place . . . He’s your best chance to get the information you need—your best chance to put an end to it, once and for all.”
“I feel as though I sent him in there . . . to die,” Eduardo admitted. “He’s strong, but . . . I cannot begin to fathom the perversity that lives there. How much can a mind—can a soul—take . . .? How far can you bend a good man before he breaks . . .? It’s been over eight years, and the way he says things in his communications . . .”
“Have faith, Ed. God loves him. You said so yourself, that if anyone could walk in there and survive to walk out again, that he could. You said it was there, in his eyes—and you have never been wrong on things like this. You have the gift to read others—to see what lies below the surface. Trust your instincts. You’ve never been wrong before.”
He tried to smile back at her. He knew he failed when she sighed softly, and he turned his gaze back out across the horizon once more. “I hope you’re right, Chelly . . . I hope you’re right . . .”
~The Isle of Virgins~
~Off the Coast of Venezuela~
~May 18, 2080~
Striding into the dark but opulent office of the isolated mansion, Caipora, as he was called, shot a cursory glance at the unwelcome visitor, already settled in the severe, straight-backed desk chair behind the heavy obsidian structure. Deliberately ignoring the interloper as he stepped over to the wet bar to pour a glass of cachaça, he sniffed it for any sign of drugs, then slugged it back before refilling it.
Paulo Castelo chuckled, kicking his feet up on the desktop as he leaned back in the black leather chair with his fingers knitted together behind the back of his neck. “As pleasant as always, Caipora . . . All right, no greetings. I’ll just cut to the chase, then. I need to know if you have any of the girls ready.”
“Depends on what you mean by, ‘ready’?” he countered, tossing back the second drink and setting the emptied glass down with a heavy thud as he pivoted on his heel to face the python-youkai.
Brow furrowing—he didn’t have eyebrows—Paulo made an exaggerated show of his mock-surprise. It was always like this with the little bastard. Paulo liked to think that he was above him on the food chain, but Caipora didn’t quite think so. On the other hand, Paulo also knew better than to push too far. He’d learned not to try to intimidate Caipora the hard way, after all . . . “I think it’s a pretty clear-cut question,” he said. “I’ve got a buyer who wants to forego the auctions—and he’s offering a very pretty sum in order to gain our compliance.”
“What’s he’s looking for?” Caipora remarked, reaching behind him, pressing the button hidden on the underside of the bar. Exactly fifteen seconds later, the office doors opened, revealing fifteen naked girls, all of them around the age of fifteen or sixteen, who padded into the room in silence, their eyes downcast, their backs, straight and proud. Unlike some of the younger ones, these girls didn’t wear the leather collars—collars that were embedded with sutras that would purify them instantly if they tried to remove them. They didn’t need those now, however. Now, they each had been injected with a microchip that kept track of them, no matter where in the world they were. The only way to rid oneself of that tracker was to die. So tiny they were undetectable, they were injected under the skin in the right breast, but the saline solution that they were suspended in allowed for the tracker to migrate over time, and where they ended up in the body was anyone’s guess. Those same trackers also carried a second use, as well. If the girls ever tried to escape, a lethal shock could be dealt from any computer with access in the world, and all with the simple click of one button.
“Blonde,” he stated, waving a hand to indicate that any of the slaves that did not meet that criteria could go. Most of them turned and filed back out of the room once more, leaving behind only four of them. Hauling his feet off the desk, the soles of his boots, hitting the bare, black marble floor, hard, Paulo stood up, wandered over to the girls, taking his time as he grasped breasts as though he were weighing them, ran his hands up and down their bodies, searching for any hidden imperfection, any flaws in the silkiness of their flesh, pinched nipples hard with cold precision to see if they would flinch, slapped them across the face, bending them over to inspect them from all sides—denigrating them, always. Three of them passed the examination without a change in expression. The last one—an egret-hanyou—758949—gasped when he grasped her breast a second time and squeezed hard, before she managed to bite back the sound. Paulo instantly retaliated by slapping her soundly with the back of his hand, hard enough to send the girl, sprawling to the floor.
He started to unfasten his belt, his meaning clear—to punish her for her perceived error. Caipora was faster, stepping past the purveyor, grabbing a handful of 758949’s hair to haul her to her feet and to shove her out of the room and into the hallway. “I’ll deal with her later,” he growled, narrowing his eyes on Paulo in warning.
Apparently satisfied that he’d keep his word, Paulo grunted, turning his attention back to the other three girls who hadn’t moved—hadn’t even flinched. “This one,” he said, grabbing the girl in the middle by the arm and yanking her out of the line. Stooping over just far enough to shove a hand crudely between her legs, he stuck a finger up into her, checking her hymen to make sure it was still intact. Satisfied that it was, he finally grinned at Caipora. “And she is done with her training?
“She’s completed the final phase, yes,” he replied.
“Good. Have her readied. I want a demonstration of her skills before I take her with me.”
He watched the slender little youkai as he turned and strode out of the office. Before he crossed the threshold, however, he turned his head, his smile taking on a menacing kind of lilt. “Watch your ass, Caipora.”
Caipora didn’t respond, waited until he was out of sight before giving the girls one curt nod. “You,” he said, stopping the one who had been selected. “Report to the bathhouse.”
She said nothing, her eyes still downcast, her golden hair, catching the stingy light, but even in the dimness, he could discern the hint of a blush on her cheeks.
Leaning back, crossing his arms over his broad chest, he watched her go with a scowl. Left alone in the quiet of the office, he let out a deep breath, rested his elbow on his forearm as he slowly rubbed his forehead. ‘Watch your own ass, Castelo . . .’
The Virgin House.
He had heard of it—at least, legends and rumors, but he hadn’t believed it entirely, not until almost a year after he’d come to work for the organization, but he hadn’t set eyes on the place until last year when he’d gotten word that he had been summoned to see a man they called only Anhanguera—the Brazilian devil—a dragon-fish-youkai that few had ever seen, let alone spoken to. Yet, he’d called for him specially . . .
“They tell me that you are someone I should be aware of,” Anhanguera said, lazily sitting back in the mud-brown chair, resting his ankle on his propped knee, folding his hands together over his stomach. The rich chocolate of his skin seemed to glow in the dimmed room—a room where all the curtains were drawn, where only a single lamp on the far side near the door was lit. Even then, he didn’t remove the smoky glasses that hid his eyes, and when he smiled, the double row of sharp, pointed, jagged teeth, showed. He was old—deceptively so—dressed like an old-fashioned plantation owner—a gentleman from a time long past, yet he possessed the audacity to ignore the edict to hide one’s youkai nature from prying human eyes . . . “Sit with me.”
He stared at him for a long, long moment before slipping into the chair across from him, but he didn’t speak.
“They say you are cold and calm, efficient and controlled. They say that you neither lose your temper nor do you allow transgressions to go unmarked. How many have you subjugated?” The youkai chuckled at his own joke. Then he waved a hand in dismissal. “Tell me. Do you like your job?”
“I do my job,” he corrected, his voice, low, gravely. “No more, no less.”
“So you do,” Anhanguera mused. “I’ve seen men walk in, become complacent. Then they grow slack or they grow tainted. You . . . You’ve worked for me for almost seven years now, yet your actions show no trace of the mental degeneration that ultimately leads to perversion. How is this possible?”
He shrugged, unsure just what the old man wanted to hear. “I do my job,” he repeated, as though it explained his actions.
“Invariably, I must kill them all—even you when the time comes,” Anhanguera remarked in as casual a way as though he were discussing the weather. “When their brains devolve to the point where they cause more harm than is necessary . . . Cherenga . . . in the last year alone, he has cost me five slaves—five of them. Do you know how much money five slaves are to me?”
Shaking his head, he frowned but remained silent.
Anhanguera sighed. “For a well-trained slave—a male—I can easily sell one for a million. He cost me five of them—maiming them, damaging them beyond what is useful to me. He outright killed a couple of them by snapping their necks like twigs. Cherenga’s rage took him over. That will no longer be a problem.” He smiled, but there was no humor in the expression. “Dursal is now in his position.”
His frown darkened. Dursal had only been with the establishment for a few of years, if that, and had only been promoted to the Gauntlet a few months ago. And now, he was the overmaster of the facility?
Anhanguera chuckled, almost as though he’d figured something out about him. “Your name is Diego, they said. Is that right?”
The old man nodded slowly. “No, it’s not. Names are not important to our operation—not common ones, anyway. Only a select few graduate to possess a name that instills fear—instills awe . . .” Brows furrowing as though he were narrowing his eyes, Anhanguera was silent for several moments. “Caipora, that cunning and wily bunch that bewitch and lure the disillusioned to their ends . . . You . . . You shall be their leader. Henceforth, you shall be Caipora.”
He nodded. He’d heard rumor of this before, that this man—Anhanguera—that if you were honored to receive a name from him, that you were special—blessed, even. No one that he’d met in the organization so far had been bestowed with such a dubious honor.
It turned his stomach, even as he slowly nodded. “Thank you.”
Anhanguera lifted a hand, crooked two fingers to draw him forward. Ignoring the sense of trepidation that crept up his spine, he stood, strode over to stand before the old man, hands clasped behind his back—the proper way to present oneself to his betters in this place. Anhanguera leaned forward, unzipped his pants, pushed them down his thighs. “Very good . . . Nice length, incredible girth . . . What a magnificent display of raw male power,” he approved, grasping Caipora’s cock, his balls, and massaging them gently. “I suppose the other enforcers are dying to get a taste of this . . .”
Gritting his teeth as blood flooded into him, he kept his gaze fixed over the man’s head at a point on the wall, hating the part of him that simply could not ignore the intimate touch, regardless of who it was, doing the touching . . .
Anhanguera nodded, settling back in the chair, flicking his hand to indicate that he could pull his pants up again. “Perfect . . . perfect . . .”
Anhanguera chuckled. It sounded rusty, disused: stagnant. “You are a fine looking one: perfect for the new position I will give you: overseer of the bathhouse in the Virgin House. In time, if you please me—and you will please me, my Caipora—you shall become overmaster.”
He frowned. “The Virgin House?”
“You’ve not heard of it? I thought it was legendary amongst my ranks. The Virgin House is just as it sounds. It’s where we train them—teach them all they need to know. You . . . You will train them . . .”
“I’ve heard of it,” he said, grimacing as he stuffed his erect penis into his pants once more and forced the zipper up over it. “Overseer of the bathhouse? How is that a promotion? I’m minor master here . . .”
“It’s a promotion, believe me . . . Unless you are content to remain where you are?”
“Thank you,” he forced himself to say, reminding himself that he dared not argue with this particular man. He was the top—the head of the snake . . . and he wanted desperately to chop that head off . . .
And he’d been here for almost a year since that day. In that time, he’d worked his way up and out of the bathhouse and into the role of trainer.
Shaking off the lingering memory, he yanked the thin leather strap affixed to a stout wooden handle, wrapped in black leather, coiled up and hanging from a loop on his belt, free. When he looked up again, it was to find 758949, kneeling on the floor, hands folded in her lap, chin tucked to her chest just inside the doorway.
Deliberately blanking all of it out, he felt his feet move forward as his mind disengaged, almost seemed to hover above him, as though he were looking down upon what was happening through a certain separation. His fingers, uncurling just enough to let the end of the lash fall. Drawing his arm back, snapping the lash down over 758949’s skin . . . Observing through the veil of mental removal as the thin stripe of blood welled up, the heady scent punching him hard in the gut as he drew back for the second strike.
Ten lashes, all totaled: ten streaks of blood, dripping down the slave’s slender back. 758949 didn’t make a sound as he rolled up the lash and snapped it onto his belt once more, waiting for her to get to her feet.
“The bathhouse,” he commanded, his tone as dull as his eyes. “Have them treat your wounds, then report to the kitchen. See if they have a use for you for the rest of the day.”
758949 didn’t flinch, didn’t utter a sound, but simply bowed. Then she turned and slipped back out of the room once more.
His brain didn’t return to him as he watched her go. Several long minutes ticked away, drowning out the sound of his own thoughts that were more like whispers in the dark than concrete ideas. When his mind finally resynched itself, he was drinking a glass of cachaça, and he closed his eyes for a long moment. It was the only way, wasn’t it? The only way to keep from slowly, methodically, losing his mind . . .
As long as he could keep it together, maybe he stood a fighting chance . . . maybe . . . But as long as the evil that lived here, died, then he could count it all as acceptable loss . . .
He didn’t know how long he’d been staring at that insular spot on the far wall just beside the row of windows that overlooked the sun, setting over the sea. He’d been sitting here in the same spot as his mind floated out there, somewhere on the horizon, but an entirely mechanical voice in the back of his head whispered to him that it had been long enough, that ending it would be acceptable now.
It was maddening, wasn’t it? The same disassociation that helped him to keep control of himself—everything about himself—was the same sense that lent an unreal quality to everything that he knew.
The girl—759548—had already demonstrated most of her skills—the dancing she’d been taught, her ability to play the piano well, the skill with which she could serve refreshments while demonstrating the appropriate demeanor of a virgin slave. She’d pleasured another woman, had established her ability to give a full body massage, and everything else she could be asked to do as par for course. She was showing her ability to give a hand job and then a blow job now. The only thing left . . .
As the ice of winter would thaw on a shallow and beautiful pond, the sensations that returned to him did so in a slow gush. Gritting his teeth for a moment, he steeled his body for a moment before shoving 759548 aside, not roughly, not gently, the suction of her lips, breaking as she stepped back, caught herself, his penis springing from her mouth with a sloppy kind of squelch. “Move on.”
759548 wiped her lips with the back of her hand and stepped toward him, crawling onto the sofa, straddling his lap. He heard the squeak of Paulo Castelo’s chair, felt the approach of his repulsive youki as he slowly circled the sofa, beady little eyes drinking in everything as he jotted notes on a tablet in his hand. Perverted little bastard watched as 759548 spread her ass cheeks, as she positioned herself over Caipora’s cock before slamming herself down on him hard, her anus, opening wide to him, without a change in expression, without a sound, other than the slight elevation of her breathing in the quiet. Even with the distraction of the slave, bouncing up and down on his dick, he could smell the precum, dulled by Paulo’s sensible slacks, and that smell made his stomach lurch unpleasantly. He was getting off on watching, and it was anybody’s guess as to whether he was turned on by the slave or by Caipora himself . . .
The rigid tightness of the girl’s ass made him bite down hard on the soft skin of his cheek. The instant pool of blood on his tongue rioted through his stomach in a vile and unraveling kind of way. The act that should repulse him, simply because of the perversity of the action, and yet, he grew harder, thicker as her ass tightened and released around him, pulsing with a cadence that rattled straight to his brain . . .
“What do we teach them? What’s the point?”
“We teach them everything—everything . . . They learn from us, all the ways of the carnal flesh—everything, same as the Gauntlet, but the pussy is off-limits . . .”
759548 pumped herself up and down on him, bouncing on the balls of her feet, braced on the sofa cushions on either side of him. Skin flushed, high and pert breasts upthrust, she bit her bottom lip to keep from moaning, but it was too much for her as the first of her whimpers echoed in the room. As if by rote, Caipora reached up with one hand, wrapped around her throat, gave it a squeeze, and the whimpering stopped as she increased the pace.
The act felt like something twisted, broken, yet the pleasure that shot through his body was real. As often as he’d tried to separate his brain from the act at times like this, he couldn’t. She wrung the very essence of him, milked him for all she was worth. Her body spasmed, tightening around him with a death grip, and he let his head fall back, forgetting for the moment that the little troll was still watching with his hand rubbing idly at the front of his pants. The hold she had on him bordered on painful, and, with a loud grunt, he grasped her hips, bringing her down so hard that she gasped as his flow surged out of him, deep into her, hard and fast, thick and burning . . .
She stood up well before he had recovered himself, but she held her composure well despite the sound of her pulse that he could still feel in the reverberations of her youki. Forcing himself to sit up, he glanced over at Paulo. “Are you satisfied?” he asked, his tone much emptier than he felt. He’d learned how to control that long ago—it was one of the first things he’d taught himself.
Clearing his throat, Paulo nodded once, his eyes trained on 759548, who was merely standing there, chin to her chest, her hair falling over her face since it had escaped from the soft braid while she fucked him. “Very good,” the little vermin said, sounding a little too much like the geeky kid in school who had one too many juice boxes before recess. “I’ll call and make arrangements. Have her ready to leave within the hour.”
“Bathe yourself,” Caipora said after Paolo had strode out of the presentation room. “Tell them you require a transport robe.”
The girl left the room without a word, leaving him alone at last, and he let out a deep breath. On the one hand, the training he was to oversee had been grossly interrupted by the intrusion of the acquisition agent. On the other?
No, he really didn’t have the energy to put the girls through their paces, not right now. Besides, it wasn’t unheard of to postpone lessons for a day when Paulo or one of the other purveyors showed their ugly mugs here. Even so, it wouldn’t do to let the girls have free time. As they were, they didn’t know what to do with such a luxury, anyway.
Glancing up as a very young girl slipped into the room, bearing an ornate wooden tray with a pitcher of water, an empty bowl, and a stack towels, she glided over the floor, extremely graceful in movement, only to stop beside him, settling the tray on a short table nearby.
She took her time, pouring warmed water into the bowl, in submersing a fluffy white cloth into the water as the fragrance of herbs perfumed the air.
He frowned. He’d heard that there were a few new girls arriving today. It was the first time he’d seen this one, though. If she was any older than ten, he’d lick his own ass. Small, ridiculously delicate, with healthy rosy cheeks on alabaster skin—pale blonde hair—almost a bluish white—that curled just slightly in tendrils that had escaped the serviceable braid that hung down her back . . . He couldn’t see her eyes since she kept them lowered, as was customary, but something about her . . .
She didn’t look like the rest of the slaves, did she? The ones that were bred—slaves from the start . . . They tended to be a little more robust, tended to have coloring more similar to the region. This child . . . She wasn’t born in the breeding village . . .
If she noticed his acute interest as she wrung out the cloth and stepped over to wash him, she gave no indication, and she didn’t hesitate as she washed him gently, carefully using the cloth to clean away the lingering traces of the sexual encounter. She turned around, inadvertently sending a wave of her scent directly to him—light, gentle . . . innocent . . .
She set the used cloth aside and dampened the next one, squeezing the cloth in the water exactly ten times, just as she’d been taught.
She repeated the process—washing him thoroughly, discarding the cloth, reaching for a new one, wetting it down—five times. When she finished, she bowed, the oversized slip she wore ballooning out around her tiny frame. It was a simple gown, the same as all girls wore if they were under the age of twelve when they started their real training in the Virgin House—simple white cotton without embellishment that was more of a slip than an actual dress. Around her delicate neck was the stark and startling black leather collar—the one that would kill her if she tried to escape . . .
As she started to gather the tray again, he stopped her. “Number,” he said, wondering vaguely why it bothered him more than usual.
She hesitated for only a moment. “428355.”
She gave a barely perceptible nod.
“How old are you?”
“Ten . . . almost . . .” she replied.
“Do you know who I am?”
Again, she gave that hesitant nod. “You’re . . . You’re a master,” she said.
He nodded and reached out, catching her chin with gentle fingers, lifting her face so that he could see her eyes: pale blue eyes, shades darker than her hair, ringed in a navy blue that faded into the lighter shade . . . Startling eyes . . . Bewitching eyes . . .
She flinched, obviously uncomfortable with lifting her head, even though she hadn’t had a choice in it. He let go, let his hand drop away from her, and she ducked her chin immediately.
“Can you deliver a message for me?”
She bit her lip. “I . . . I think so . . .”
He nodded as he stood, as he pulled on the robe he’d discarded for the demonstration. “Tell the head of the kitchen to put the girls to work. I’ll resume their lessons in the morning.”
The girl gave one curt nod, then retrieved the tray and hurried out of the room.
Caipora frowned at the empty doorway for a long, long time.
Anhanguera: In Brazilian folklore, Anhanguera is the equivalent of the devil.
Caipora: in Brazilian folklore, the caipora are jungle spirits that lived in trees, but came out at night to haunt those who were lost.
Cachaça: a distilled spirit made from sugarcane juice. It is also informally referred to as canha, caninha and pinga.
== == == == == == == == == ==
Final Thought from Eduardo:
The dull scratch of the ball point against the paper offered him a strange sense of comfort, even as he ignored the cramping in his fingers, wrapped around the warmed metal barrel of the pen in his hand. He paused long enough to flick his wrist, to frown at the time.
It was late—early—however one wanted to look at it. For some reason, that thought reminded him of the difference between an optimist and a pessimist and how each would view a half-glass of water. That idea—the relative innocence of taking the time to mentally debate such a mundane thing—brought to mind a fleeing flicker of memories of a life that felt so long ago—that he’d left behind willingly, and for what . . .?
He had precisely twenty-one minutes before he had to meet his agent for his semi-annual delivery. This time, however, he had a favor to ask of the one they’d sent.
He had to hurry.
‘No further contact from the dragon-fish-youkai known as Anhanguera. Am hopeful that he will have need to meet with me soon as I have noticed certain, subtle changes in the Overmaster’s behavior. However, I have since learned how to hack the cameras, so I’ve been able to cull some of the recordings into files I will send along with this. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’
Letting out a deep breath, dropping the pen and raking his hand through his long, dark brown hair—hair that held a color that was, by design, wholly forgettable—a shade that was neither bright nor enviable, and that was fine, too. Hair color and eye color had been easy enough to alter. His face, however—his accursed face . . . It drew entirely too much attention—the wrong kind of attention . . .
Reading over the page letter, satisfied that he’d said all he meant to, he rolled it closed, holding it loosely as he stuck the end of the black wax stick into the candle’s flame on the desk top. Allowing it a few minutes to melt, he smeared it over the open edge before pressing the front of his index finger claw into it. A moment later, the hazy golden glow of his youki bonded with the fibers of the paper and wax. There was no way anyone could break it—no one but the intended recipient, anyway . . .
Standing up, he strode over to the wide bed, bathed in the light of the full moon that tumbled through the skylight high overhead. He ignored that, kneeling down to reach up under the wooden frame, feeling along the bottom of the box spring until he found the gap between pins the held the fabric over it. Using his knuckles to slide the thin card out of the gap, he pulled it out, held it in the dim light, turning it over in the palm of his hand.
The card contained hours of video footage—random days, arbitrary moments that were pieced together to create an overall decent depiction of the day-to-day operations of the Virgin House. It had taken him weeks to cull the clips that would work best, to give the best impression without having to sort through hours of nonsense. Pushing himself to his feet, he stowed the card in the pocket of his rumpled jeans and reached for the thin black leather jacket that had been carelessly tossed on the foot of the bed.
He took the time to make sure that his door was locked. Normally, he wouldn’t bother. There wasn’t a soul in the place who could harm him, anyway. Tonight, however, it was more of a precaution to make sure that no one realized that he was going to slip out . . .
Satisfied that the outer door was, indeed, locked, he headed back through the antechamber and into the bedroom without pausing, striding toward the balcony, pausing just long enough to force a good dose of his youki into the pillow—enough to fool anyone who happened past into thinking that he was sleeping. Fascinating trick, really: one that he’d learned a long time ago . . .
The night air was brisk, carrying with it the salt of the sea when he stepped out onto the balcony, closing the door behind himself. He hesitated long enough to scan the area, to make sure that no one was watching.
He bounded over the short railing, landing with a dull thud in the soft sand. The Virgin House, like the rest of the other specialized camps, was built on a small island. The other islands surrounding it were roughly the same size. Four of the other compounds were situated on them, and the group of islands was located far enough out and inhabited by quite a number of various sharks that made escape virtually impossible.
He’d seen that the first week at the breeding camp—his first assignment years ago. Waking up one morning to the terrified shrieks, he’d been the first one on the beach and could only watch in horror as a small woman—one of the breeding stock—flailed around, not more than twenty yards offshore. He watched her body as it was ripped to shreds, her blood staining the waves as three sharks tore her limb from limb . . .
She’d tried to escape—a foolish and futile thing to do. The overmaster of the compound had only grunted when he was briefed—grunted and muttered something about the waste, given that the deceased was almost five months pregnant at the time. He hadn’t missed a bite as he’d kept eating.
It had taken a long time to get that image out of Caipora’s head. Every now and then, he remembered it in the depths of his dreams . . .
Dropping to a brisk stride as he stepped into the cover of the dense foliage, he kept his eyes moving. He couldn’t afford to get caught. If he could forego these little liaisons every six months, he would. Unfortunately, it was a necessity, and no amount of consideration could change that.
‘You know, all it would take is for you to say you’d had enough . . .’
Blinking as the jarring sound of his youkai-voice spoke to him, he stopped abruptly for almost a full minute, though his eyes didn’t stop moving despite the moment of almost predatory suspicion that attested to the idea that he hadn’t heard that particular voice in a very long time. ‘What do you want?’
The voice sighed. ‘You can’t blame me, you know. You’re the one who thought it would be easier if you shoved me down, repressed me into the darkest corners of your psyche. Can’t you . . .? Can’t you just . . . just tell them that you’re done?’
He snorted inwardly and started moving once more. ‘I’m not done, and you know it. If you’ve only piped up to bitch at me about it, then do me a favor and lock yourself up again, will you?’
‘But the evidence you’ve got on that card . . . That should be more than enough. When he gets that, he can issue whatever orders he needs to, and—’
‘And I fucking just told you, I’m not fucking done, so do me a favor and just shut the hell up! Anhanguera . . . He’s the one I have to get. This won’t end if he’s not taken down. Even if they were able to break up the camps, Anhanguera has the means to just start over again somewhere else . . .’
His youkai uttered a terse grunt, but fell silent once more.
For some reason, as welcome as the stillness was, he had to grit his teeth as the overwhelming sense of being completely alone assailed him once more.
How long had it been? he wondered. How long had it been since his youkai-voice had fallen silent, leaving him entirely alone . . .? Funny how he hadn’t realized, just how much he tended to rely upon that voice. Funny and a little pathetic . . .
But that voice . . . He’d silenced it, hadn’t he? That night so long ago—the night he’d truly realized, just what kind of hell he had willingly walked right into, when he was still Diego, well before he had become Caipora . . .
“You’re the newbie? Diego, right? They call me Franco. I—”
Glancing up from the ledger that he’d been told to keep, he gave one terse nod before dismissing the chameleon-youkai who was lounging in the doorway. Idly tapping a pair of thin, brown leather gloves against his thigh, he chuckled. It was an arrogant, borderline nasty, kind of sound, as though he were trying to annoy him. Maybe he was. “I don’t care,” he stated flatly.
“Sabatini wants to see you,” Franco said, ignoring Diego’s terse response.
Snapping the ledger closed, he stood up. Franco stopped him with a hand to his chest, only to chuckle again when Diego very pointedly lowered his gaze to stare at the offending limb. He didn’t move his hand, though. “It’s a test.”
Diego knocked Franco’s hand away without a change in expression. “What kind of test?”
“Interested, are you?”
“Not especially,” he replied, stepping around the shorter youkai, the heels of his heavy boots, echoing in the corridor like claps of thunder in the dark.
“If you fail, you die,” Franco commented, sounding as though he were relishing the idea of Diego’s imminent demise.
He said nothing as he continued down the hallway.
Franco sighed. “Choose death,” he muttered, quickening his pace as they neared the end of the corridor. “If you choose to knock her up, he’ll think that you’re only here for the cheap thrills.”
Diego wasn’t entirely sure he trusted Franco’s words—not that it made much sense to him, anyway. It was little more than a poorly constructed riddle, and if there was one thing that Diego knew, it was how to interpret far more complex riddles than that.
Sabatini stood in the center of the wide foyer—the white marble, shining, polished. Behind the overmaster of the breeding camp stood a woman—a hanyou woman—a fruit-bat-hanyou. She was a pretty little thing with hair as black as night, her skin, a beautiful, tawny shade . . . She stood with her arms straight at her sides, but even at a glance, he could see the slightest trembling in her fingers . . . Her chest rose and fell with the cadence of her breathing, her small but well-formed breasts, her chocolate-shaded nipples, constricting in the cool air of the room. She was staring down at the floor, her chin touching her chest, and if she was aware of the things going on around her, Diego couldn’t tell . . . Standing against the far wall were the rest of the enforcers. Franco strode over to stand beside them, crossing his arms over his chest, his gaze unnaturally steady, as though he were willing Diego to remember what he’d said. The others whispered to each other, passing money, hand to hand, obviously taking bets on the outcome.
Sabatini regarded Diego, his murky black eyes not blinking as he strode toward him. He didn’t smile, but he seemed almost amused. “It’s time for your initiation,” he said. “I have two rules for the enforcers that work in this camp. The first one, when I summon you, you will run. I am too busy to wait for the likes of you. Before we discuss the second rule, I want to offer you a choice.” Turning at the waist just far enough to hold a hand out in the hanyou’s direction, he slowly turned his face back to narrow his gaze on Diego. “As a part of your initiation, I will allow you to fuck that. However, if you do, you will impregnate her.” He chuckled. It was a repugnant sound. “Don’t worry. You’ll be reimbursed for your . . . trouble.”
“What’s my second option?” Diego asked. In that moment, he realized that what Franco had said was true. The enforcers weren’t there for the simple sport of it. They were there to make sure that he either killed or was killed. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the flash of metal—a sword, hanging from one of their hips—then another . . . and another . . . ‘Kill or be killed . . .’
“If you choose not to fuck her, then you will kill her. It’s as plain as that.”
‘Wh . . .? What are you doing?’ his youkai voice asked when he stepped past Sabatini and approached the woman. ‘This is insane! You can’t make that kind of a choice! You—’
The voice went silent, even as the clash of will collided with the rational part of him. They warred in the strangest kind of lightspeed battle: that part of him that revolted against the taking of an innocent life versus the innate knowledge—the understanding—that he’d asked for it when he’d said that one damning word: yes . . .
“If you’re discovered, we won’t be able to get to you fast enough to save you, to pull you out of there . . .”
Somehow, though, his mind seemed to snap away from his body as he reached out, grabbing the girl who hadn’t made a sound—not even a gasp. Without hesitation, he grasped her head, gave it a violent twist. She crumpled to the floor, her eyes still wide open, but vacant and empty and dull.
“Do I pass?” he demanded, pivoting on his heel to level his blanked gaze on Sabatini.
The overmaster stared at him for a long heartbeat before slowly, slowly, breaking into a wide smile as the sound of the enforcers, exchanging money, registered in Diego’s mind—and was dismissed just as quickly. “The second rule is that you—your ilk—are not to fuck the breeding stock. They aren’t here for pleasure. They’re here to make money.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw as Franco slipped over, disappeared through the doorway off to the side of the room.
The overmaster was still staring at him, though, his strange smile growing a little more menacing, a little . . . darker. “Quick!” he called, without taking his eyes off of Diego. “Fetch our new enforcer some wine!”
Blinking away the remnants of that memory, knowing what had come after, he ground his teeth together and glanced around once more before ducking into the small alcove on the north side of the island.
He was a little early, he supposed. The agent he was to meet wasn’t there yet. Slipping back into the deepest shadows in the back of the alcove, he dragged a hand over his face.
He hadn’t thought about that night in a long, long time, and yes, he was pretty sure that it was the last time his youkai-voice had spoken to him. Then again, maybe not . . . No, maybe not . . .
Still . . .
But he couldn’t push aside that one moment, that horrible visage . . . The hanyou slave girl’s eyes . . .
They were green.
The flash of pale blue light drew Caipora’s attention. To anyone else, it would likely have appeared to be a shooting star—a meteor. It zipped into the darkened alcove, and he watched in silence as the youkai’s body solidified. A solemn face—one that he’d known a lifetime ago—stared at him for a long moment. Then he nodded once. “You look good.”
“That’s a lie.”
He shrugged, but he didn’t try to deny it, the strands of his long, black hair, catching the stingy light. Even in the semi-dark, his bright amber eyes seemed to glow, and he looked like he wanted to say something, but in the end, he sighed instead. “Here,” he said stepping toward him as he dug a small bottle out of his jacket. “Six months’ worth . . .”
“Thanks,” he muttered, taking the bottle, shoving it into his pocket. “Learned a new trick, did you? Blue?”
The man smiled, but even in the dusky dark, he could see the underlying concern. “Seemed like a better choice . . . How . . .? How are you? Really?”
He didn’t try to smile. He rather thought that he just didn’t know how to do that anymore. “I’m right as rain,” he said without batting an eye to the contrary.
He sighed. “But you’re . . . safe . . .?”
“I’m holding my own.”
That answer didn’t seem to please him, either, and he opened his mouth to say something.
Caipora nodded slowly. “I have a message. You’ll deliver it for me, won’t you?” he asked, cutting him off before he could say whatever was on his mind. It didn’t matter, anyway. Caipora already knew what it was he wanted to say . . .
He nodded and took the memory card, the scroll. Again, he looked like he wanted to say something, but he grimaced instead. “Be careful,” he admonished, his voice a little gruff, a little tight.
Caipora nodded. The agent stared at him for another minute before turning on his heel, stowing the missive and card into the inner pocket of his jacket, his body disintegrating before the movement was even complete.
A moment later, and he was gone, and Caipora was alone again.
Digging the bottle out of his pocket, he shook out one tiny pill and swallowed it. Technically, he still had a few more days, maybe a week, before he had to take another one, but it wouldn’t hurt him to take it now. These pills . . . He didn’t dare bring this into the house. Besides, one of them lasted almost a month, so he hid the bottle under a hollow he’d carved out of a nearby boulder. Once the rock was put back in place, no one would ever find them.
The journey back to the Virgin House didn’t take long. Even so, he didn’t really stop, didn’t really breathe, until he was safely back in his room once more. Everything was exactly as he’d left it, and he yanked off the jacket, tossed it toward the sofa near the vacant fireplace on the way to unlock his door. The slaves would arrive in the next couple hours to draw his bath, to ready his clothes for the day.
He was too restless to lie down, to try to sleep. It invariably happened on nights like tonight. Seeing someone from his past unsettled him so much more than he ever wanted to admit. If he could talk them into delivering once a year, he would. They wouldn’t agree to that, though, given that it was enough for them, to reassure themselves that he was all right, that he was still in one piece.
But . . .
But he wasn’t all right, and he knew that, too. The only way he was able to function was to put his mind on auto-pilot, and it was working. Trouble was, he wasn’t entirely sure that was a good thing . . .
Slipping back over to the balcony doors, he opened them wide, stepped outside. The fresh air helped—a little bit.
‘You’re . . . You’re killing yourself, you know. The parts of you that are decent, good . . .’
He frowned. ‘Those parts of me are already dead. They died a long time ago.’
‘Green Eyes . . . That wasn’t your fault. You really didn’t have a choice . . . Even if it wasn’t a set-up, you couldn’t have risked it. To father a child here of all places? A child that would have ended up, being sold to the highest bidder, and if that child had looked like you . . .? And . . . And what happened after that? You know that wasn’t your fault, either—there was nothing you could have done . . .’
‘I already know all of this,’ he snapped, opening and closing his fist around nothing but air. ‘I knew it then; I know it now. Go back to being silent. I . . . I don’t need you . . . and I don’t want you here.’
His youkai sighed. ‘But you know I’m a part of you . . .’
He scowled at the moon. ‘No . . . You . . . You’re a part of him . . . and he’s . . . long dead.’
Caipora let out a deep breath, hating the memories that still lingered, just below the surface—things that he never wanted to think about again, and maybe that was the real price of the things he’d done.
The thing was, he wasn’t entirely sure when that part of him had truly died. It was easy to think that it was that night—the first night he’d killed anyone, and that he’d done it with a vicious cold that he hadn’t realized before that he even possessed . . . or maybe it was what had come to pass after that . . . or . . .
And yet, he had a feeling that his true death hadn’t happened until almost six months later, in the night—the blackest night . . . That one moment when everything had gone so very, very wrong . . .
“Where are you going?”
Glancing over his shoulder at Diego, Franco masked the hint of guilt behind a smile full of bravado. “I didn’t see you there,” he said, glancing right and left as he slowly shuffled over to him. “Don’t suppose you’d pretend you didn’t see me . . .?”
Arching a dark brown eyebrow, Diego crossed his arms over his chest. Somehow, in the weeks following his initiation, he’d become friends with Franco, even if he did, at times, want to thump him a good one when he did things that could only be considered stupid. But he owed him, and, even though they never spoke of it, Diego knew instinctively that the hell he’d endured that night would have just gone on and on if Franco hadn’t intervened when he had . . .
He sighed. “It depends. Where are you going? You’re not going where I think you are, are you?”
Franco grimaced but didn’t deny it. “Just . . . pretend you didn’t see me. That’s all.”
Diego opened his mouth to argue. Franco quickly shook his head. “I’d cover for you if you wanted me to . . .” He glanced around again, made sure there was no one else in earshot. “You know that they talk about you, right? The things those women want to do to you? I’d be jealous, you know, if . . .”
He snorted. “Go to bed,” he growled, stomping off to his room and slamming the door hard while Franco’s laughter sounded behind him.
It just figured. Leave it to him to do something as potentially foolish and entirely stupid as sneaking out to the women’s quarters, just to see one of the women who was completely off-limits. One of these times, he was going to get caught, and if he tried to do what he’d hinted before—tried to get her off the island, to set her free, to run away . . .?
“Impossible,” Diego muttered, flopping onto his bed, closing his eyes . . .
And when the pounding on his door roused him from a dead slumber a few hours later, Diego rubbed his sleep-grainy eyes as he opened the door, only to find Sabatini himself standing there . . . “What do you want?” he growled as the clang of warning bells in his head started to toll.
The overmaster narrowed his eyes. “I have a job for you, enforcer. Come.”
Letting out a deep breath as he reached over to snag a shirt off the chair beside the door, he followed the overmaster out of the room and down the corridor. In his mind, he figured that maybe some slave had been stupid enough to try to escape. It seemed like some of the women went a little crazy when they were breeding, thinking that they could escape for the sake of their unborn children . . .
But Sabatini led the way down the hall and through the great room—the room where he had been forced to kill. He said nothing as he waved a hand at the slaves, standing on either side of the great doors that led to the portico beyond.
Stepping outside into the torch-lit night, a low groan echoed in his ears as his eyes flared wide, as his gaze lit upon the body of his friend, shackled to the punishment table that was already soaked in his blood. Ten feet away, the slave girl that he’d sneaked out to see was hanging by her shackled hands, a foot off the ground, bound by a thick rope that was suspended from the rafters of the portico.
It was something out of a nightmare, a tableau that was almost gothic in deviation. As he stepped closer, he had to bite down on his cheek to keep from retreating in revulsion.
Franco’s face was beaten beyond recognition: swollen and bloodied and bruised and misshapen. He managed to open his eyes, tried to lift his head, but whether he actually realized that he was there, Diego didn’t know. There was a jagged cut traversing Franco’s chest, but it wasn’t deep enough to kill him—just deep enough to bleed a hell of a lot. Stretched out on the table, bound in place by sutra-enforced shackles around his wrists and ankles, he groaned again, his head falling against the stone table with an unsettling thump. An unpleasant flash of memory surged through Diego’s brain—a memory that he shook off as quickly as it had come: being chained to that table, laid open and bare, bleeding and . . .
Sabatini stepped past Diego, slapped Franco’s cheek hard. Franco tried to bite back the groan, but he couldn’t quite manage it. “You have broken the sacred law of this house,” Sabatini said calmly, evenly, leaning in so that Franco could better hear him. “However, as overmaster, it is within my discretion, what your punishment should be. Now, normally, I’d just kill you, wouldn’t I? But . . .” Trailing off, he smiled at Diego in such a way that it sent a shiver up his spine. “But Diego, here . . . You’re his friend, aren’t you? And I’m not as heartless as all that. So, I will give you a choice—for Diego’s sake. Are you listening, Franco?” he asked, his tone almost a purr as he slapped Franco hard once more.
“S-Sir . . .?” Franco managed, his voice thick, as though something in his throat was broken.
“I will let you live,” he said. “All you have to do is survive until daylight. Oh, and she will die if you choose to live . . . or you can . . . sacrifice yourself for her . . . Do you love her? Is she your mate?”
The girl whimpered. Sabatini strode over to her in two steps, punched her hard, low in her gut. The scent of her blood bloomed in his nostrils, and Diego —Caipora—watched in veiled horror as a gush of blood poured from the girl’s crotch. Satisfied with his handiwork, he turned back to the table once more. “So, Franco, what will it be? Who will live? You? Or her?”
Franco uttered a harsh sob—an ugly sound—a bubble of blood rising over his cracked lips, only to pop and rain down on his broken face.
“Make your choice, or I’ll make it for you,” Sabatini growled, grabbing Franco by a handful of hair and shaking him before letting go, slamming his head against the table once more. A terrible crack echoed in the portico, and for a moment, Diego thought that maybe the overmaster had managed to kill Franco. Tightening his fists, absently ignoring the sting as his claws pierced the palms of his hands, Diego ground his teeth together, struggling to remain impassive.
“Her!” Franco half-sobbed, half-screamed. “Let her live!”
“Franco! No!” she sobbed.
Sabatini strode over, slapped her hard with the back of his hand—hard enough to snap her head to the side—hard enough to send her small body, waving, teetering, almost spinning . . . “Shut up, you stupid cunt! If you dare speak out of turn again, I’ll break your fucking neck.”
Sabatini jerked his head at Diego. Pulling a ridiculously ornate dagger from his pocket, he handed it to Diego and stepped back. “So, you do really love her . . . Isn’t that sweet . . .?”
Just why did he sound so . . . so happy . . .?
“We’ll start with the hands,” Sabatini said. “Cut them off.”
And it was an order that he dare not defy. With one deft stroke, Diego severed Franco’s right hand. The man’s shrieks were loud enough to send a gaggle of birds from the nearby trees. Before he could hesitate, before he could think about what he was doing, Diego stepped around the table and lopped off his left hand, too.
“You . . . You said you would kill me!” Franco blubbered. “Kill me, damn you! Kill me!”
Sabatini chuckled, gliding over to sit in an overstuffed wicker chair, content to observe—and to command. “Cut him open.”
“Wh—What?” Diego blurted before he could stop himself.
Sabatini chuckled again. “I want you to cut him open. Split him open, and let his bowels drag the ground.”
Diego stared down at his friend’s chest, at the already stunted breaths that wracked his body. The logical part of his brain revolted—the decent part of him that screamed at him, told him that enough was enough. But even as the thought occurred to him, he dismissed it just as fast. Stopping now would accomplish nothing in the end—nothing but ensure his own death, too . . . His brain seemed to short circuit itself as a sudden and complete blank in his emotions broke over him. His hand was oddly steady as he lifted the dagger, as he cut into Franco’s stomach, deep enough to open him up, not nearly deep enough to kill him. Even the sounds of Franco’s anguish were dulled, muted. He was still screaming when Diego reached down, gave his intestines a vicious yank, let them fall out of his hands as they unfurled over the side of the table and onto the ground.
Sabatini scratched his chin thoughtfully, his gaze alight with a crazy kind of glow. “Cut off his cock and balls,” he said.
Diego heard the demand, his mind rebelling, even as he reached down, grabbed Franco’s cock and balls, and lopped them off.
He’d thought that Franco’s screams couldn’t get any worse. He was wrong. Shrieking so long and so loudly that his face started to mottle blue, it was just a matter of time before he passed out, which was just as well. The blood pouring from his body was going to kill him, anyway. Maybe it was best if he passed out, drifted away . . .
And then, Sabatini stood up, strode over, grabbed a rack out of a nearby cabinet, grabbed a plastic wrapped blood transfusion kit. He hooked Franco up to the IV before grabbing a pint of blood off a nearby table that Diego hadn’t noticed before.
‘He . . . He means to keep him alive longer . . .? But why . . .?’
Then he grabbed a torch, took his time, searing all of the wounds—cauterizing them in such a crude way. Franco was unconscious for most of it—until Sabatini poured a bag of rock salt into the gaping chest wound . . .
Blubbering, crying, sobbing, begging, pleading . . . It was all Diego could do to keep himself from plunging the dagger deep into Franco’s chest; to end his suffering, but if he did that—if he acted against the overmaster . . . Somehow, he stood still—silent and impassive.
“And you . . . He wants you to live,” Sabatini said to the slave girl who had no name, just a number branded on the bottom of her foot. She whimpered softly, struggling not to make a sound and failing. Sabatini grasped her chin, shook her roughly. “Do you want to live? Hmm?”
Quickly, she nodded, her eyes wide, terrified.
It was the answer that Sabatini wanted, and he smiled. “Bring me her lover’s dick and balls,” he commanded.
Curiously again, Diego complied with an efficiency of movement that no hesitation.
“Feed it to her.”
‘Do . . . What . . .?’
Grasping the girl’s cheeks and squeezing hard until she opened her mouth as she balked and tried pathetically to struggle, Diego shoved Franco’s severed penis between her lips.
“Bite it. Chew it. Swallow it, or you die,” Sabatini hissed in her ear.
“L-Leave . . . her . . . alone . . .” Franco managed. “For the . . . love of God . . . Diego . . .”
The girl choked and sobbed and tried to do what Sabatini ordered her to do. Then she retched, vomited. Sabatini barely stepped back in time to avoid it, and he punched her in the face, her nose cracking with a horrendous snap as the bone around it gave way.
“You filthy, disgusting whore!” Sabatini spat. “Fuck her,” he demanded, turning on his heel and stomping away as Franco’s sobbing grew louder. The girl was mercifully unconscious. “Fuck her hard; fuck her as her lover there watches.”
“Will you disobey me?” Sabatini growled, flashing over, grabbing Diego by the front of the shirt, yanking him down till he was nose to nose with him. “You’ll do it. You’ll do it now—or you’ll die with him,” he said, yanking his head toward Franco’s prone body.
“No!” Franco screamed. “Diego, you bastard! I saved you! I saved you, and you—”
“Do it!” Sabatini hissed, dealing Diego a rough shove. He stumbled back a couple steps, his boot coming down hard on Franco’s squelching entrails. Franco unleashed an ungodly screech.
A haze of black ringed his vision as he stepped toward the girl, who had regained consciousness in the moments that had passed. Moaning, crying, bleeding, she wouldn’t even open her eyes as he yanked his pants open and shoved them down, gritting his teeth as he grabbed her legs and lifted them, pulling them open without any resistance at all. Sabatini’s nasty chuckle echoed in his ears when he realized that Diego had no issue at all in getting a boner. The sight of the blood dripping from her pussy, the overwhelming stench of it that filled the air, both hers and Franco’s . . .
He yanked her toward him, burying himself deep inside her as she screamed in pain. Franco babbled behind him—cursing him, berating him, condemning him to a million deaths—as he held onto her legs, fucked her hard, biting down on the inside of his cheek as her blood flowed over him, covering him in the sticky blackness.
And as vile as it was, the curses, the swears, he grunted, claws digging into the back of her knees as his orgasm shot out of him, deep into her. As the scent of his come reached Franco, the chameleon-youkai broke down in tears, praying in Spanish for death to come take him, babbling his apologies to the girl that Diego kept fucking.
She kept screaming, over and over again, the sounds growing rough, hoarse. Sabatini had apparently heard enough. He stalked over, wrenched her mouth open, cut off her tongue in a flash of his claws. Then he laughed as Diego gritted his teeth, swallowed the bile that rose high in his throat as the overmaster walked casually over to Franco to stuff his beloved’s tongue into his mouth.
“Don’t stop,” Sabatini insisted, taking up his seat once more.
Diego did as he was instructed, hating himself just a little more with every murky stroke.
He lost count of his orgasms. He had no idea what time it was, either. The sun was coming up over the ocean when he came one last time, as the already weak and thready strum of her heart stopped. Stumbling back as he let go of her, breathing coming in harsh little gasps, he turned to face Sabatini, covered in her blood—covered in his come. “She’s dead,” he said in a monotone.
Sabatini nodded slowly, his eyes glowing with a demonic sort of light. “Good. Kill him. Kill him and leave their bodies. I want them left to be examples of what happens when you break my laws.”
I'll update this story when the mood strikes me. Enjoy Vivication till then!
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Monsterkittie ——— moongal850 ——— GoodyKags
Final Thought from Diego/Caipora:
That’s what he remembered, long before any other thought or feeling kicked in: nothing but darkness.
The searing pain that ripped through him a moment later, however, expelled that darkness as his eyes flashed open, as a scream was ripped from him before he could stop it: the guttural response to the feeling that he was being split wide open. Face down on something hard—a table—with his legs spread wide but flat on the ground, shackles around his ankles, arms outstretched over his head as the cold metal restraints dug into his wrists, he couldn’t move, grunted loudly when a heavy body collapsed against his back, as the pain in his ass increased, as the tearing, almost ripping made him bite back another scream.
He tried to buck his hips, his body, grimacing as the aggressor’s cock sank even deeper into him, only to withdraw a little and to slam back into him hard—painfully hard. Cock slamming his ass while his hip bones smashed against the unforgiving table . . .
“He’s awake! He’s awake! Flip him over!”
“Not . . . yet . . .” the one atop him grunted. “Almost . . . there . . .”
A riot of laughter as the crowd closed in around him. How many were there? He didn’t know, but everywhere he looked, every time he tried to turn his head, there were more faces, more hands, reaching out to touch him—an eerie and horrifying wash of limbs, of faces, of penises, slapping against the unforgiving table that he was chained to . . .
The one invading him threw his head back, thrusting his hips forward as hard as he could as an unearthly howl issued from him. Diego grimaced, feeling the man’s come, hot and frothing, as it flowed into his body.
Someone shoved the man back roughly, his dick popping loose with an obnoxious sound, his come, squeezing out of Diego’s body, only to drip down his balls, snake down his shaft . . .
They unfastened his ankles and roughly flipped him over. He grunted in pain as his arms crossed, held so tightly in those shackles that it felt as though they were going to pop out of their sockets. More arms grabbed him, hauled him up on the table, and the ankle shackles snapped closed once more as he lay prone, uncovered, naked, bleeding . . . A strangely sharp pain in his bicep . . . He craned his neck in time to see an empty needle syringe sticking out of his arm . . .
Another man climbed up over him, a maniacal smile twisting his lips. He thought that he recognized him, but he wasn’t sure how or why. A slow haze seemed to wrap around his brain, but it wasn’t enough to block it all out . . .
Shoving his legs up as far as they would go—not far, actually, and not that it mattered. That lunatic’s grin only widened as he drove his engorged dick deep into Diego—so hard, so painful, that he rose up as far as he could, another scream, wrenched from his lips, only to be choked off when another man lunged onto the table, burying his cock deep in his mouth to silence the scream.
He choked, heaving against the chains, ignoring the white-hot flashes that erupted around the restraints, like a million prickles of fire that numbed his hands, his feet, but could not numb the rest of his body, his soul, his mind . . .
Furiously thrusting into his mouth, the one riding his face squeezed Diego’s cheeks to keep his mouth open—to keep him from biting down, maybe—he grunted, laughed, his balls, slapping against Diego’s nose, nearly smothering him whenever he ground his pelvis against Diego’s face.
He couldn’t breathe, almost wished that he could pass out, gagging when the bastard hit the back of his throat time and again as his stomach contracted, lurched. Vomit rose, thick and bitter, and he choked. He couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t dislodge the man who held his head in place, as it rose up, as it burbled out around the bastard’s cock. It burned as he breathed it back in when it dripped into his nose. The smell of it was enough to choke him again as his stomach rebelled for the second time.
The pain in his ass was negligible in comparison to the very real fear of dying, of choking on his own vomit. He grunted, groaned, blew out as hard as he could, sending sprays of vomit into the air, all over the fucker who dared to molest him.
He reacted in kind, punching Diego hard with a balled-up fist—so hard that Diego nearly passed out—as the bastard ground his cock as deep as he could, his steaming come filling his mouth where the vomit had been. He yanked his dick free, slapping his hands over Diego’s mouth. “Swallow it, bitch!” he commanded. Somehow, Diego did.
Mouth falling slack as he dragged in lungfuls of air, the jeering around him was growing louder, wilder. Another man hopped onto the table, grabbed a handful of Diego’s hair, lowering his face within a few breaths. “You’re going to suck my cock, and you’re not going to bite. If you bite, I’ll kill you. Got it?”
Diego didn’t respond. Still half-dazed—he didn’t know why—still unsure how this happened, he could only grunt when that one shoved his dick—bigger, thicker than the last one’s—deep into his mouth.
The one raping his ass groaned, exploding deep within him amidst the cheers and laugher of his buddies. He stumbled off the table as another climbed up to take his place.
“Look! He shit himself!” someone hollered, setting off another round of raucous laughter.
“Is he loose yet?” someone else called out.
The one on the table between his legs made a fist and shoved it up inside him. Diego shrieked around his mouthful of dick, tears of pain squeezing out of the corners of his eyes. If it felt like someone had ripped him in half the first time, this was so much worse. It felt like the bastard was trying to rip his entrails out as he opened his fingers wide, deep in him, drawing another stunted scream. Over and over again, he balled up his fist, stretched out his fingers, and with every flex, every tightening of the muscles in his arm, Diego wondered if he weren’t going to die. Every muscle in his body retracted, his mouth snapping closed on the dick choking him. The man grunted, hissed in pain, before pounding him hard in the head from both sides until his jaw slackened once more. Body shaking—Diego couldn’t control it—he uttered the smallest whimper that was muffled by the pounding cock between his lips as the man yanked his hand free from his entrails.
Body barely having time to react to the sudden release, he tensed, shrieked once more as the bastard shoved both his arms up to his elbows up Diego’s ass. He kept screaming, feeling himself rip, feeling himself tearing, fiber by fiber, muscle by muscle. The one humping his face slapped him, kept on slapping him, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t control it, couldn’t do a thing as the screams reached an apex where sound didn’t exist. He choked when come shot out of the dick in his mouth, as the screams drew it into his lungs, fighting between coughing and screaming as spit and come dripped out of his mouth, as jeers and taunts rolled right off of him in the midst of his pain . . . Finally, he yanked his arms free as Diego braced his heels on the table, tried in vain to fight his way free . . .
Squeezing his eyes closed, Diego tried desperately to blank his mind, to escape the pain, the absolute humiliation, the only way he could think of. It wasn’t working. There was no calm, no reprieve, not for him, and when the fister and the one he’d called Redmon somehow managed to penetrate Diego’s ass at the same time, he could only groan.
But this time, it didn’t hurt—well, not like it had when he’d shoved his fists up in him. There was a strange tingle as they pumped his body—a feeling that was painful and somehow bordered upon . . .
“Oh, my God! He’s got a fucking boner!” one of the men hollered.
The laughter and the jeers and the taunts grew louder, louder, echoing in Diego’s ears as someone jabbed something, deep into his bicep—another shot of something. He had no idea, what. Mouth-fucker gurgled, grunted, shot his come down Diego’s throat—a white burn that he had no choice but to swallow. Somewhere in the middle, the swallowing was undone as another wave of vomit shot up, filling his mouth as he turned his head, as it oozed out of him like a toxic purge . . .
With every thrust, Diego’s sense of rage grew—rage that they would dare do this to him—to him . . . Rage that they were able to pull this over on him, in the first place . . . Rage that . . .
Another man shoved his cock between Diego’s lips, pummeling him hard against his already raw and aching throat . . . Try as he would, he couldn’t ignore the trills and tingles that were invading his body—sensations that had no business in him, given what was happening. “No!” he shrieked, jerking his head to the side, gasping for air, willing his body to get under his control again.
It wasn’t working.
The angry growl as the one who wanted a blow job was accompanied by another head rattling punch. Then he yanked Diego’s head back where he wanted it, plunging his dick in deep once more.
The tingling in his body seemed to converge as the two fucking him grunted, panted, sweat rolling off their bodies, dripping onto Diego . . . With a guttural groan, the fister came, pumping his squirt up deep inside him. A minute later, Redman did, too.
They were both pushed aside by another man—a very large black man who wore an eyepatch. He stared Diego up and down, his lip curling back in obvious derision at the mess he was left with. Yanking free the lash that he wore on his belt, he turned it over, jammed the foot-long handle up Diego’s ass. He screamed, but it was only half from pain. The other half . . .
With a vicious abandon, the huge man fucked Diego with the handle of his flail. Over and over, a repetitious motion . . . Ignoring the cock pumping into and out of his mouth, he fought hard—so hard—to control the unwelcome pleasure that coursed through him. Something about the deepness of that stroke . . .
The man straddling his face pulled out his dick, shot his come all over Diego’s face. Diego didn’t care, barely noticed, and, with a grunt, a groan, a horrified sense of shame and, yes, rage, he felt the rise of his own orgasm—an orgasm the likes of which he’d never felt before. Surging up from deep inside himself, it exploded into a high and humiliating arc, only to rain down on him with the burn of shame, the brand of something so dark, so ugly, that he couldn’t put a name on it . . .
The laughter was like a tornado. Vaguely, Diego realized that the man had yanked the whip free, was riding him like there was no tomorrow, and, to his horror, he felt himself harden again, only this time, the erection bordered on painful, as though every last drop of blood in his body was trapped there, and every jerk, every bounce, every motion . . .
It was hell.
Over and over again, the rhythmic pounding, the reverberations that shot straight to his cock. He didn’t care if another man had hopped up, was fucking his face for all it was worth, the tremors in his body, all centered around his rent and torn ass . . . The man who was fucking him now, let out a loud bellow, humping him harder, faster, like a half-crazed bull, and Diego winced as another earthshattering orgasm rattled through him, out of him, the arc of come flying even higher than the first one—and it wasn’t nearly enough. The bull didn’t stop, and neither did the shaking, the slapping, the undulating . . . Diego squeezed his eyes closed, willing away the painful swell of a third orgasm in such short order . . .
Suddenly, though, his mind jerked free, almost as though it had separated entirely from his body, only to hover over the scene, like a macabre movie—maybe a music video . . . Someone stepped over, jamming a needle deep into his arm, shooting him up with something—he didn’t know what, and he didn’t really care—another dose of . . . whatever. He saw himself, trussed up on that table, watched himself as different men mounted him, used him, laughed and tormented him. He was drenched in come—theirs and his own. He’d come seven times in fairly quick succession, and if he were honest with himself—really honest—he’d have to admit that he . . . that he liked it. They had taken the consent from him, and as angry as he was, he hadn’t had a choice? But . . .
The stench of his vomit, the metallic and mineral smell of semen . . . Some of the ones who had already fucked him were coming back for more. Some of them were growing more daring, laying on top of him, fucking him like he was a lover, kissing him deeply as they rode him, as they used him. A couple of them even jacked him off, made him come, time and again as the utter humiliation of it all flowed and surged with the pulse of his orgasms . . .
And the rage that filled him was somehow tempered, as though he were somehow removed from it, maybe angry on principle? He didn’t know . . .
The doors burst open, and he scowled when he saw Franco stride outside, pushing people out of the way—many of them with rather stupid expressions. They’d been shooting up, too, some of them were smoking cigarettes and other things. All of them were drinking. Franco glowered at them all, shoving the man who was trying to cuddle Diego off him, off the table. “Get the hell out of here! What are you doing? You’ve had your sick fun! Go sleep it off!”
Staring at Diego for a long moment, he slowly shook his head, found the keys to the shackles that held him in place as the men finally, blessedly, stumbled away. “Fool!” Franco grumbled as he unfastened the first shackle. “Why the hell would you drink something they gave you?”
“Wh . . .?” Diego muttered, unable to coherently form words. His voice was so hoarse, it didn’t sound like his own.
Franco sighed. “I thought you’d have realized not to take a drink from anyone you don’t trust, and you shouldn’t trust anyone here,” he scolded. “They drugged you. They call it, ‘initiation’ . . .”
Waking with a start, heart hammering painfully against his ribcage, Caipora sat straight up, grimacing at the sweat soaked sheets—grimacing at the fresh semen on those sheets. There was a lot of it. Leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands dug deep into his hair as he squeezed his eyes closed, as he willed that particular memory away.
That happened just after he’d killed the girl offered to him. He’d realized afterward that the drink that the overmaster had ordered had some kind of sleeping powder in it, and that was how they’d managed to subdue him . . .
Letting out a deep breath that echoed in the quiet room, Caipora tossed the sheets aside and stumbled out of the bed, over to the balcony doors, unmindful—uncaring—that he was still very naked. The air in the room was stifling—too full of smells that hurt. Fumbling with the handles, he shoved the doors open impatiently, staggered out into the night.
The air was balmy but welcome, carrying a thick perfume of flowers and earth and trees and water . . . Dragging a shaking hand over his face, he sighed. He’d . . . He’d be all right in a little while . . . All he needed to do was to breathe . . .
Settling back in the thickly cushioned chair behind the wide desk, Eduardo propped his elbow on the armrest, let his lips, his chin, lean against his long, curled fingers. Scowling at the video, playing back on the computer screen, he watched in silence. Footage from what they called the Virgin House—a mansion compound built on an insular islet located off the shore of Venezuela . . . The footage on the video he’d sent along with his missive was horrifying—girls, ranging from just small ones—eight?—ten?—years old to some girls in their mid-teens . . . There were splices from what looked to be some kind of training sessions—girls, made to learn of the carnal pleasures of the body: everything . . . Everything except vaginal intercourse . . .
A girl, naked, on the floor, scrubbing at the already shining marble. She upset the small pail of water and almost instantly, a man closed in behind her, yanking a wicked-looking flail from his waist. He dealt her twenty-five lashes, leaving the girl’s back, bloody and bruised. She said nothing, didn’t even cry that he could tell, and when it was over, all the man said was, ‘bathhouse’ . . .
On and on it went: girls, slapped in the face if they struggled while giving a blow job, girls, tossed to the side, sprawling on the floor for whatever perceived slight . . . Girls, being reprimanded for crying out in pain during their introduction to anal sex . . . Girls, being fitted with butt plugs, probably to stretch them out, to make it easier for them to accommodate a youkai cock . . .
It was enough to make his stomach turn—especially his, given that he’d been raised to believe that love in any fashion was a beautiful thing . . . These girls . . .
And . . . And just what was it doing to him . . .?
Letting out a deep breath as he continued to watch the footage, his frown darkened. He’d hoped—prayed—that what had happened to Lorenzo Varela was just the exception, not the norm, but, as he watched a vulgar display of what looked to be what he called ‘enforcers’, getting into a tussle that ended with one of them, ripping off the other’s clothing and mounting him from behind, he had to wonder . . . The fleeting reminder of the video that he wished he’d never seen: those they called enforcers, surrounding the table where Lorenzo’s body was shackled . . . Those inhuman tools . . .
“Puta merda,” he muttered under his breath.
“I woke up, and you weren’t there . . . You work too much, Ed.”
Quickly closing the video file, he turned his chair far enough to smile indulgently at the tousled and bedraggled visage of the beautiful snowy-egret-youkai, Michel as he stumbled across the floor, eyes still sleepy, slow, despite the slight smile on his face. The young man hadn’t bothered with clothing, not that he needed to. His body was absolute perfection—every angle, every plane, every curve, every nuance . . .
He was one of Eduardo’s many lovers. Male or female did not matter. He really didn’t think in terms of something as base as that. No, it was more of a psychological connection that drew him to certain people, but the one thing that they all knew was that Eduardo, as much as he loved to spend time with them all, there was no one in his life that he could truly call his mate. He had a wife, of course. That was what was required to produce an heir, but they both knew that they weren’t true mates—were, in fact, more of just friends, albeit with the occasional benefit . . . Chelressa did not begrudge him his pastimes, and he did not interfere with hers. It was a good arrangement for both of them, especially when they managed to find someone who pleased them both . . .
Which, of course, was neither here nor there. Michel was staying with him on this night, but Eduardo had been far too restless to sleep after making exhausting love with the young man . . .
“I think I’ve caught my second wind,” Michel whispered, leaning down, his breath misting Eduardo’s ear with a delicious tremble.
Eduardo chuckled, but his smile didn’t quite reach his lips as Michel slowly reached over his shoulders, running his hands down his chest, back up again, kneading, touching, trembling . . .
“I was going to do a little more work in here. Why don’t you go on back to bed? Don’t you have an early call tomorrow?”
Slipping around the chair, letting his fingertips drag over Eduardo’s bare shoulders, Michel leaned down, kissed him long, deep, his tongue stroking Eduardo’s lips, slipping into his mouth, tracing the contours of his teeth, his fangs as a tumultuous shiver ran up and down the tai-youkai’s spine. “I do,” he murmured between kisses. “But we’re running a love scene, and I need some practice . . .”
“Oh? And how graphic is your play, meu lindo?” Eduardo asked, lifting a hand, grasping Michel’s cock and balls, gently massaging them, only to squeeze his shaft as he hardened and moaned.
Slowly opening his eyes, gaze burning in the depths, he groaned as Eduardo stroked him with a teasing lethargy. “It’s more realistic with the fucking,” he said, his voice husky, raw. “Besides, Ramon has such a huge cock . . .”
“How big is that?” Eduardo whispered, pulling Michel into his lap, his cock sliding into the young man with incredible ease. He shivered, and Michel uttered an uneven chuckle as he flexed and released, as Eduardo’s hardened dick thickened with every pulse. “Do you come, Michel?”
“I . . . Yes,” Michel breathed, his eyes drifted closed as his head fell back against his shoulder, as Eduardo reached around, grasping his cock with both hands, slowly, methodically, stroking him as he fucked him . . . Moaning softly, shivering when Eduardo’s lips brushed over the back of his shoulder, Michel steadily increased the pace, grinding his ass down on Eduardo. He could feel the young man’s orgasm rising up from deep within. He was close—so close.
Wrapping an arm around Michel’s waist, he rose to his feet, let him fall over the desk. Michel groaned with every thrust, reared back to meet him time and again. “Come in me, Ed,” he breathed, bracing his hands on the desk, flexing his ass around him. Eduardo moaned, unleashing his orgasm deep inside, holding onto Michel’s hips even as the snowy-egret reared back, reaching over his shoulder, cradling him close.
It took a minute for Eduardo’s body to relax, and, kissing Michel’s shoulder again, he gently pulled out of him. Turning him gently, his mouth seeking out the supple and soft lips of his lover, he kissed him deep, kissed him long, savoring the taste of him as Michel rubbed his body against him.
Breaking the kiss, Eduardo smiled at him as he dropped to his knees, as he drew Michel’s cock, deep into his mouth . . .
Dragging his body through the warm water under the light of the pale moon, so high in the sky, the myriad of stars that winked and glimmered, Caipora slowly felt himself relax.
He had no idea what time it was. He didn’t know how long he’d stood on the balcony, struggling to regain a semblance of himself after the nightmare that came all too frequently. ‘No,’ he corrected himself, diving under the water, flipping himself over, propelling himself across the quiet lagoon. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was a memory—one that he despised.
After that night, he’d become friends with Franco: Franco, who had taken him down to the beach to clean himself—to soak away the remnants of everything he’d gone through, who had kept up a steady stream of inane chatter, and it had registered in Caipora’s addled brain that he was trying to distract him. It had worked some, anyway.
His entire body had hurt—ached—from somewhere deep within. His head thumped, no doubt from whatever drugs they’d shot him up with. His throat was raw, swollen, never mind the pain in his face, ankles and wrists were raw and chafed, and his ass . . . Everything hurt . . .
“I didn’t realize that they—well, I knew they’d try . . . I thought you’d be smart enough not to accept their drinks,” Franco said. “If I’d known . . .” Then he grimaced. “Then again, I didn’t accept their drinks . . . Ten of them against one of me? It was a little unfair . . .”
Caipora scowled. “They did it to you, too?”
Franco shrugged, setting back against the darkened rocks. “They do it to everyone. Next time, you’ll have to join ‘em . . .”
“You didn’t,” he pointed out.
Franco sighed. “Yeah, I know. Chances are good I’ll have to watch my own ass for a little while . . .”
For some reason, Franco’s admission bothered him. He didn’t like joining in on their perverted version of Reindeer Games so they’d go after him?
“Anyway, you can’t let them do that to you again,” Franco remarked as Caipora stared up at the sky, settled against a rock wall that rose up, high above him to a tall cliff. Caipora kept cupping handfuls of water, swishing it around his mouth, spitting it out again. “If anyone comes at you, you show ‘em who’s boss: bend them over, make them pay for what they did to you. Around here, you’re either dominated or you’re the dominator. You want to be the dominator. Trust me.”
Those words, spoken so long ago, had stuck with him. It had become his mantra—his creed. No one had ever managed to subjugate him since—no one except the overmasters, who he dared not fight. He’d learned fast, how to fight back, how to reverse the positions with whomever thought to accost him. He’d gained a reputation for being brutal, for turning a deaf ear against cries of fear or pain, and he never relented until he was sure that the attacker would think twice before ever trying it again. But there was always someone else who thought they could best him . . . As he’d gained notoriety, the encounters had come with a shocking frequency, almost daily, or so it seemed, but it was the late-night summons to the overmaster’s chambers that he’d learned to despise . . .
Letting his feet down on the wet sand below him, Caipora let his head fall back, staring up at the skies. As much as he tried not to dwell upon the past, there were isolated moments when he couldn’t quite help it . . .
Wading back toward the shore, he let out a deep breath. He hadn’t even stopped to think about it until halfway through his impromptu swim that he was still very naked, that he hadn’t bothered to grab any clothes in his haste to escape the claustrophobic room.
It didn’t matter. He didn’t really care. He’d already fucked most of the slaves on the island—anally, anyway—had had his dick sucked by most all of them, too. As for the other enforcers and trainers? Well, he’d already dominated most of them, too. One way or another, most of the occupants of the Virgin House had seen each other naked and sweating and moaning . . .
Striding back toward the flagstone path that led to the mansion proper, he heard a sound just behind him, and he deliberately slowed his pace. How it was that these pathetic youkai didn’t realize that he could feel their foul youki, could smell their rancid odors, he didn’t know, and he didn’t care, either. As long as it gave him the upper hand, it didn’t really matter . . .
A hand reached out, grabbed his arm, meant to try to force him down. With a very loud growl, Caipora spun around, grasping his arm hard, his face registering none of his seething rage, but his eyes did. The man gasped when Caipora snapped his free arm out, catching his windpipe with the edge of his hand, knocking the wind right out of him. As quick as that, he had him down, tore the ass of his pants open as he sheathed himself completely in one fluid motion, gritting his teeth against the dry entry, the near-painful friction.
The man gurgled, grunted, tried in vain to buck him off. It only served to deepen his penetration, and he groaned loudly in the calm night. Caipora caught his other wrist, slammed them down against the small of his back as he fucked him as hard as he could. A sudden surge of adrenaline as he pounded the man’s ass, over and over again, ignoring the gasps, the grunts, the pained groans . . .
It was a heady and repulsive feeling: the tingling in his balls, the ragged quality of his breathing. The man was whimpering, and he . . . God help him, he was reveling in the brutal pleasure of it all . . . Slamming himself in, balls-deep, he grunted as the first shots of come burst out of him—hot and wet and sludgy, deep in places that he’d never considered before stepping foot in the breeder camp all those years ago. But he wasn’t done; not by a long shot. His come had provided a wicked lubrication as he continued to rut the bastard.
Pausing long enough to reach down, he grabbed the bullwhip off his would-be-attacker’s waist, he made quick work of looping it over his hands, around his wrists, deftly securing him before dragging the length of the lash up and over his head, using the remaining bit of it to gag him soundly before knotting the lash together behind his head. Satisfied that he wasn’t going anywhere, Caipora drove into him hard—hard enough that the bastard shrieked once more. For some reason, the sound of it only goaded him harder, drove him deeper, unsheathing himself almost completely before slamming his cock in as hard and fast and deeply as he could . . . Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the cries, smelled the tears, and retaliated by fucking him so hard that the sound of his hips, slapping against the bastard’s bared ass cheeks cracked like thunder in the dark. Uttering a terse grunt, grabbing his hips to yank him against him with all the power he could muster, he felt himself come, gushing deep and dark and incredibly hard.
Sparing a long moment to breathe, to regain a level of control, Caipora pulled out of him, hauled him to his feet to spin him around so that he could finally get a look at the one who would dare try to assault him. He recognized him instantly—the little fucker known as Pablo—one of the overmaster’s bitchboys. Eyes full of fear, he tried to speak around the makeshift gag, but couldn’t—begging, maybe? Caipora didn’t care.
Dragging him over to a nearby bench, Caipora shoved him down on his stomach, his legs sprawled on the ground behind him as black blood seeped into the light fabric of his rent pants. The crying started in earnest this time as Caipora shredded the remnants of those pants, let them fall off his body as his pathetic little dick sprang free, straight and pathetic. Turned on, he was, and Caipora broke into a nasty little smile, entirely devoid of real humor, as he tore a scrap of the ruined pants free and looped it around the base of Pablo’s sad little balls and yanked the scrap tight. “Forget it,” he growled when Pablo uttered a muffled scream. “You’re not getting the satisfaction of shooting your fucking come anywhere near me,” he growled, flipping him back over and yanking Pablo’s ass high in the air to drive deep into him again.
“Thought you’d sneak up on me, you fucking cunt? I’ll rip you in half and shit down your throat!” he hissed as the sobs grew louder, more frantic. Head down on the bench, hands trussed behind his back, he couldn’t do a thing to stop Caipora, and he knew it.
“Eez,” Pablo burbled. “’Od, eez!”
“Shut up!” he growled, slamming into him so hard that Pablo’s head bounced off the bench, thumping down, over and over, as he buried his cock, deep in his ass, as he rode him hard and fast.
And yet, the more Pablo blubbered and cried, the harder Caipora could feel himself growing. So hard, so tight, that it hurt as Pablo’s sphincter quivered and squeezed and released, despite the come that oozed out around him with every stroke.
The little bastard uttered a half-sob, half-scream, but nothing came out of him, as his legs twitched and seized—a dry orgasm. Caipora drove into him a few more times, then yanked himself free, grabbing a handful of Pablo’s hair, jerking the makeshift gag out of his mouth before wrenching his head down over his cock. The heat of his mouth was enough to send Caipora over the edge, and he gritted his teeth, shoving Pablo’s head down hard enough that he hit the back of his throat and kept going with an almost painful bend. His orgasm was intense, harsh, seeming to go on forever as he pumped surge after surge of come down Pablo’s throat, as the little shit wheezed and choked and tried to retch, but Caipora’s cock was buried too deep . . .
Then he shoved the little fuck away, hard enough to send him, sprawling in the dirt. Staring down at the pathetically broken man-child, Caipora felt nothing—no revulsion, no disdain, nothing at all, except a sense of grim satisfaction. Bleeding from the rectum as swirls of Caipora’s semen mingled with the dark, sweet blood . . . trails of vomit and come, dripping from the side of his lips, down his cheek as he lay there, sobbing. Caipora turned on his heel and walked away, leaving him, trussed up by his own whip. Whoever found him in the morning could help him.
Rounding the corner of the mansion, he was almost to the space below his balcony, but before he could spring off the ground, the smallest sound, barely a whimper, made him stop, made him scowl as he carefully scanned the ground. Drawing a deep breath, he smelled her moments before he saw her.
Huddled half-hidden behind a Brazilian red cloak bush was the girl—the little girl who had come to clean him the night that the little fucker had come to take one of the virgins for sale. “Why are you out here?” he asked.
She shifted slightly, another little whine slipping from her, though he had the feeling that she hadn’t meant to make a sound at all. When she moved, however, the scent of blood—her blood—assailed him, and, with a softly uttered curse, he carefully, gently lifted her, holding her against his chest like he’d hold a tiny baby, and he hopped up onto his balcony.
Stepping into his room that was only lit with a couple lamps that were turned down to provide the barest hint of light, he strode over to the sofa and set her down gently. Ugly, angry bruises dotted her arms, some as large as his fist. She scooted into the corner, her head hung low.
He reached out, lifted her chin, saw the dried blood at the corner of her tiny mouth, the deep red welt that had just missed her eye. “Who did this to you?” he demanded quietly, hunched forward, listening for her to speak.
She whimpered again.
“Tell me,” he said.
She didn’t want to tell him, probably afraid of reprisals. “They . . . They say I’m clumsy,” she admitted, ducking her head once more. “I . . . I didn’t mean to break the plate! I was drying them, but someone knocked my arm, and it fell . . .”
He sighed. “And they punished you.”
She gave one terse nod.
“Why aren’t you in your quarters?”
She choked a little, and he smelled the fresh salt of tears, the panic in her youki as it spiraled higher. “They . . . said I wouldn’t be useful if . . . if I wasn’t a virgin anymore . . .”
He shot to his feet, grabbing the closest pair of pants he could find and tugged them on. “You can sleep over there in the corner tonight. I’ll . . . I’ll talk to the overmaster in the morning.”
She slowly lifted her chin, just enough to peer up at him through her long, spiky lashes. When he caught her looking at him, she quickly nodded, scooting off of the sofa and over to the corner that he’d gestured at.
He didn’t really stop to think about it. Stalking over to the tall closet, he yanked out a blanket and dropped it over her. Settling down, her good cheek on her bent arm, she seemed to snuggle a little deeper under the blanket as her eyes drifted closed. She was asleep almost instantly, and Caipora frowned, scratching the shallow vale in the center of his chest with his bent knuckles.
Jealous that she was so different, jealous of her already apparent beauty, he supposed. They were right that ruining her virginity would make her useless in the Virgin House. Even so . . . But why should that bother him? It shouldn’t, not really. A slave was a slave was a slave, and yet . . . And yet, that’s why he was here, wasn’t it? To save little girls—children—like her from a lifetime of pain and suffering that they only received because the hands of fate were capricious, at best, bitches at worst . . .
He stood there for a long, long time, frowning at the form of a sleeping little girl . . .
Puta merda: Brazilian. (lit: Fuck shit) Fuck.
Meu lindo: my handsome. Term of endearment.
== == == == == == == == == ==
Final Thought from Caipora:
… What am I going to do about her …?
“Stop. Wait here,” Caipora commanded as he walked the four intermediate slaves toward the open area of the island where they were made to run daily. The girls did as they were told, lining up, shoulder to shoulder with their backs straight and their arms down to their sides, chins lowered to their chests. Satisfied that they were going to do as instructed, he turned on his heel and strode over to the overmaster, who had just stepped out of the mansion. The tall and foreboding jaguar-youkai named Domajin carelessly flipped a long strand of light brown, almost orange, hair over his shoulder, yellow eyes scanning the area as he casually sipped a cup of coffee, ready to make his rounds, to survey the training on the grounds.
A surge of absolute revulsion, bordering on complete loathing, even contempt, was covered as quickly as it roiled through him as he headed straight for the overmaster without a change in his impassive expression.
“Ah, Caipora . . . I saw your handiwork this morning,” he remarked with a deep, dark chuckle. “He’s in the bathhouse if you’d like to have another go at him.”
“It wasn’t recreational. He tried to attack me,” Caipora growled. “That aside, I found 428355 in the bushes below my balcony last night. She was beaten and threatened. I kept her in my room for the rest of the night. She needs to be removed from the slave quarters. They threatened to ruin her.”
“Did you get numbers?” he asked, arching an eyebrow at him.
“She’s been here, what? A few days? She doesn’t know numbers,” Caipora pointed out, “and they don’t tattle on each other. Even at her age, I’m sure she knows that, too.”
Domajin nodded slowly as he assessed Caipora’s words. “Threatened to rape her, you’re saying.”
He gave a curt shrug. “There are other ways to ensure that she’s missing the virgin marker than resorting to that, given that they’d also realize that they’d be signing their own death warrants in the doing. It’s not my problem. I thought you ought to know.”
Domajin sighed, looking more than a little irritated that he’d have to demean himself to play referee between the slaves, which was basically what it boiled down to. “Send her back to her quarters,” he said. “Warn them that if they do such a thing, the price will be their lives. And have her fitted for a lock.”
Caipora shook his head. “A lock?” he scoffed. “Do you think that we have one small enough for her? Because I don’t. Even the smallest ones we have would fall right off of her . . . and at the risk of speaking out of turn, I wonder if you know which girl we’re talking about. She’s not slave-born. She’s not from the breeder camp. She’s tiny, delicate, and she’s covered with bruises all over her arms and legs—probably her entire body, but I didn’t look to verify it. She’ll easily be worth double the standard virgins we train, and if she’s ruined, there won’t be any way to fix her once the damage is done.”
Domajin seemed surprised, and rightfully so, given that it was one of Caipora’s longer speeches. Even so, he did think it over as he emptied the coffee cup and set it on a nearby table. “Bring her to me.”
Satisfied that Domajin finally understood the gravity of the situation, Caipora turned on his heel, started away. “She’s in my room,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m late in getting these to the exercise yard.”
It was a calculated risk—one that played out in his favor. Though he’d figured that Domajin would opt to see to the slave girl and not take exception to the perceived brush-off he’d just been dealt, a small voice in the back of his head warned him not to become too complacent at his tiny victory. He could celebrate in the morning—if he wasn’t summoned to the overmaster’s chambers tonight . . .
“Come,” he said, leading the slaves toward the exercise yard. They fell into step behind him, and once they reached the yard, they all started running around the perimeter in a very close pack. If anyone fell behind, she’d feel the sting of the lash, and they knew it.
Yanking the whip from his belt, letting the coils fall free, he stood back, watched the girls with a disinterested eye. These girls all fell into the thirteen-to-fourteen age group—slaves who had just recently begun their training in sex.
When the younger girls came to the island, they were occupied most of the time in lessons on deportment, learning above all else to keep quiet at all times, no matter what—to show no emotion, not ever. They also were tested and then taught in whatever skills they leaned toward. For some, it was dancing. Others learned musical instruments, even singing. They were taught the proper way to serve tea and coffee, to see to their owners’ every perceived need. The virgins were considered to be the house entertainment in every sense of the word, even more so than the regular sex slaves.
They were also made to sit in on training sessions, to quietly observe the training they would one day be taught, too. But none of the girls were touched by the trainers in any kind of way sexually, not until they were at least thirteen, sometimes twelve, depending on the girl. They’d found over time that it was easier to train the girls if they had at least a base understanding of what would be expected of them. The system worked well . . .
These girls were older, many of them having just started their real training. Since the virgins tended to be kept from the real labors that entailed an everyday slave’s existence, they were made to endure daily runs instead—runs that could last anywhere from an hour to four hours, depending upon the trainer. Caipora himself tended to only keep them moving for a couple of hours at a time. It was nothing they couldn’t handle, but when the days of summer could be uncomfortably muggy and hot, the chance of overexertion was also a very real thing.
After exercise, the girls would report to the bathhouse to be cleaned. It wasn’t something they were allowed to do for themselves, either. The attendants—usually the newest enforcers sent to the island—were tasked with meticulously washing and oiling every part of their bodies. It was where Caipora had started, too. If they found any injuries, they were treated, too, and only after they were clean were they ready to go above to the training rooms.
There had been incidents before—enough of them that the rule was created—where girls who didn’t want to be sold as virgin slaves might actually tear their own hymens to avoid it, and many of those who did that had done so in the bathhouse. After girls had done that often enough, they were all made to wear chastity belts of sorts—sturdy leather straps that affixed a metal plate over their vaginas—and those belts were locked on and only removed when they finally graduated to the end phase of their training: anal sex.
The virgins were given no clothing, either, just like the sex slaves at the Gauntlet. It was easier for the trainers and enforcers to see any signs of abuse on their bodies that way—and cheaper if they didn’t have to worry about providing clothes, too. In the Gauntlet, it was also used to keep the trainers in a heightened sexual state—something that Caipora had learned to loathe when he had ended up being the target of those frustrations more often than he ever had before or since. Like last night, however, he was damn good at evading those attacks and turning them around on the would-be attacker, but the emotions that came with those encounters were ugly and unnatural—even if he had come to accept them, to a point.
One of the girls stumbled, and Caipora automatically flicked the whip. She made no sound, but she did flinch when the lash cut deep into the smooth, soft skin of her ass, drawing a thin line of blood but nothing that wouldn’t be completely healed in an hour or two. She didn’t falter, though, and that was good enough for him.
Sucking in a sharp breath as the bite of the lash flashed across his back and up over his shoulder, Caipora bit off the sound almost as quickly as it had come. Taking small consolation in the idea that it wouldn’t much longer, he tried to will away the inconsequential pain of the lashes he’d already been dealt.
He’d lost track after fifty.
Arms outstretched, bound in ofuda-enhanced chains, legs as far apart as they would go, secured by more of the reinforced chains hooked to his ankles on the thick metal contraption affectionately known as The Rack. It was normally used to punish slaves. The overmaster, Domajin, however, liked to use it on anyone under him that he could, slave, trainer, enforcer . . . Whoever he chose as victim to lord his power over them. Caipora had been summoned after he’d dismissed the slaves he was training for the night—punishment for daring to gainsay Domajin earlier in the day.
He dared not disobey the overmaster, as much as he’d have liked to. To do so would have raised too many suspicions, and the last thing that he needed to do was that. After all, he’d already seen what happened to anyone suspected of having ulterior motives for entering the services of the organization . . .
So, he’d had no real choice as he stripped down without argument when ordered to do so, had stood quietly one of the enforcers had bound him to the rack. This whole scenario had played out too many times to count since he’d been assigned to the Virgin House. Right now, Domajin, bastard that he was, was sitting in a chair across from him with a very smug grin on his swarthy face, dark eyes little more than pinpoints of light as he waited for any sign that Caipora was ready to break.
As if he’d ever give him that satisfaction. No matter what he did to him, Caipora never broke, never cried, never screamed. The best he’d ever gotten out of him was a few groans, a moan or two. It had become a kind of sick game to the overmaster, and Caipora was the prize . . .
“Enough,” Domajin barked after another handful of lashes fell on Caipora’s back. The burning sting was nothing in comparison to the rage that he felt, but refused to show. “Leave us.”
He didn’t move until the enforcer left, snapping the whip on the way out the elegant doors. Then he stood, wandered over to Caipora, his smile disappearing as his arm shot out, backhanding him across the face. His head snapped to the side as blood pooled in his mouth, but he didn’t make a sound. Reaching up, Domajin grabbed the top of The Rack frame and yanked it down till it locked into place, bending Caipora over at the waist and effectively exposing every last bit of him to the whims of the overmaster.
He was completely bared—a feeling that he loathed—which really didn’t matter in the end, not when he knew what was coming.
Taking his time as he disrobed, the overmaster’s lust was a palpable thing. It seethed in his malignant youki, brushed over Caipora like a warning—or a sick and twisted promise. Caipora could only hope that the man was hornier than usual, that he’d get the whole humiliating thing done fast.
“I’ve considered it, and I’ve decided to leave the girl with you. You’re no more interested in women than I am,” Domajin said rather nastily. It wasn’t entirely true, but Caipora wasn’t about to disabuse him of that idea, either. “And if anything happens to her while in your care—anything at all? You’ll pay for her with your body—with your soul.”
Gritting his teeth, knowing damn well that Domajin, in his perverse little brain, was actually hoping that something would happen to her, Caipora said nothing as he watched Domajin remove his boots—and then, his pants.
He didn’t even flinch a minute later when Domajin grabbed a handful of hair, yanked his head up to stare into his eyes. “You’re going to suck my dick. You’re going to suck it like you love it. You’re going to make me come. If you don’t make me come . . .” Trailing off with a rancid chuckle, he looked entirely amused as he stroked his long, thick cock. “If you don’t make me come, I’ll give you to the enforcers for the night—and I will watch until you break.”
Swallowing hard when Domajin let go of his head with a rough shove, he closed his eyes, ignored the bitter burn that ignited, deep in his belly—a hatred so thick, so cloying—that he had to tamp it down to keep from biting the bastard’s penis off.
Lapping at the head of the cock that was slapped against his lips, tasting the salt, the bitterness of the pre-ejaculate that coated the head of his penis and attested to just how horny the bastard truly was, Caipora willed his mind to blank, to let him act on base memory as he sucked Domajin’s dick between his lips, his saliva tinged with a bitter bile, tainted with the lingering tinge of his own blood, taking him in deep—deeper as Domajin’s hands sank into his hair, as he fucked his mouth with the precision of a lover . . .
His already thick dick thickened even more as he groaned, grunted, quickened the pace of his fucking. So close to coming—Caipora could feel it in the exaggerated hardness of his shaft, in the pre-come that oozed out of his dick—as he jerked and twitched between his lips, hitting the back of his throat, and Caipora willed away the urge to puke . . . Suddenly, though, the overmaster whipped his dick out of his mouth, his breath coming in harsh wheezes. “My balls. Suck those! And don’t you dare make me come yet!”
God, he hated those disgusting, hairy things. Choking back his own revulsion, he gently sucked the overmaster’s sack into his mouth, rolling his tongue around them as they expanded even more. Pointing his tongue, flicking the tip over his nuts time and again, the grimaced inwardly as the overmaster’s body quaked. With a loud grunt, the overmaster reared back, came hard, his semen splattering all over Caipora’s face. A second later, a harsh slap, a hard rake of claws over the already rent flesh of his back drew an involuntary gasp from him as that damned fucking dick slipped between his lips once more.
And he had no choice as he sucked the last of the bastard’s come out of his dick, swallowed it as he tried desperately, not to think about just what he was doing. The wet and slurpy sounds of that cock, sliding into and out of his mouth echoed in his ears in a horrible, disgusting, depraved kind of way, and all the while, Domajin keened, groaned, caressing Caipora’s head, alternating between those almost tender touches and grasping his hair, shoving his face down hard on his cock.
The rocking motions continued, the lurid sounds, echoing in the quiet chamber. “Suck it . . . Yes . . . Oh, God . . . You love my cock, don’t you, you dirty little bitch . . .? Harder . . . Harder!”
It was almost laughable, in a really morbid kind of way. He had no control at all over the power of Domajin’s thrusts. His dick was throbbing in his mouth as he sucked and released, sucked and released, ignoring the metallic tinge on his tongue—the bile he couldn’t swallow—as saliva mingled with traces of his blood, dripped around Domajin’s dick, down his balls . . .
With a loud growl as Domajin threw his head back, as he arched his back, thrusting his cock deep down Caipora’s throat, he came again, hard and fast, so much come that it burbled around his dick, filling Caipora’s mouth, dribbling from his lips, down his chin, his throat . . . He thrust deeper once, twice, before allowing his vile dick to slip out of him at last. It took everything within Caipora to swallow, knowing that spitting the semen out on the floor would not end well . . . The last time, Domajin had made him lick it off the marble. It was not something he wanted to repeat, even if his entire body wanted to puke in the worst way . . .
Domajin hit a button on the panel by the door. It lowered a huge, plate glass mirror from the ceiling, and Caipora bit down on the inside of his already rent cheek, unleashing a fresh stream of blood, filling his mouth—overwhelming the taste of come. He knew this game, too—it was one of the things that Domajin loved—to watch himself fuck Caipora—and to make Caipora watch, too.
Striding over behind him, he spared a moment, splitting open Caipora’s ass cheeks as he slowly rubbed a handful of oil onto his still-hard dick. Then he slammed himself into Caipora as deep and hard as he could, grabbing a hold of Caipora’s hair, forcing him to watch his own defilement. Unable to look away as his face flushed as much from passion as from anger and humiliation. One emotion fed the next in a vicious and vile circle . . .
The sudden and complete sheathing unleashed something deep within him—that vile lust that he couldn’t help as his own cock sprang to life. Seeing that was enough to make Domajin chuckle. It fed his lust as he rode Caipora hard, as The Rack groaned under the strain of the brutal fucking. Caipora’s cock bounced, smacking against his stomach, against his thighs, and the pleasure-pain was brutal—and as much as he hated it—entirely welcome. The burn around his asshole only served to fuel the raging passion, however misguided, and for the first time since he’d walked into this chamber hours ago, he groaned, shuddered, unable to stop himself as the bastard riding him smiled in an entirely predatory sort of way. Pre-come dripped from the head of his cock, the violent bouncing sending it, splattering on him, on the floor, as high up as his chest and as low down as his ankles . . .
Domajin chuckled again, leaning toward the side, giving Caipora’s dick a rough squeeze. It was enough to set off the shockwave explosion as his own come hit the floor in a series of dull plops. Held as he was, he had no choice but to watch as Domajin lifted his hand, covered in his come, to his lips, as he licked it off of his fingers in a perverse show of pleasure. Banging against him as hard as he could, Domajin was still sucking Caipora’s come off his hand when he shot his load deep inside him. That didn’t stop him as he continued to fuck him, harder and harder, deeper and deeper, as a second explosion of his own shot come all over his stomach . . .
“Beg for me, my Caipora,” he said, leaning down, hissing his words, his body sticking to Caipora’s bloodied back in a burning slick as the wounds that were just beginning to heal over were rubbed open once more.
“P . . . Please,” he growled, unable to summon the meek tone that Domajin desired.
He started to withdraw, leaving only the quivering head of his dick just inside Caipora. His entire body shuddered in revolt, in the hateful knowledge that as much as he despised it, he desperately wanted it, too. “Beg,” he demanded once more. “Beg for my cock.”
“If I don’t, will you . . . stop . . .?”
He didn’t know where those words came from, but they were enough to set Domajin off, and he couldn’t control the scream, as much from sheer pleasure as from the pain as the overmaster slammed into him so hard that Caipora’s teeth rattled. The orgasm that shot out of him was instant and intense, leaving his legs weak, his body shaking—and his face flushed in a disgusting sheen of absolute need.
He had no idea how long it went on, orgasm after intense orgasm until the entire room reeked of nothing but spent semen. It dripped off of Caipora’s body like sweat, dripped out of his ass in a rancid trickle. Filled with so much come that his bowels literally hurt—ached—and then, finally, with another lion’s roar, Domajin orgasmed—and so did Caipora—and, at last, the overmaster pulled out of him, stumbled back a few steps, as semen and other things slid down his legs unchecked, relieving the pressure in his bowels, and for once, he really didn’t care, felt no real humiliation at what he’d been reduced to.
It still wasn’t quite over. Shuffling around to face him once more, Domajin grunted. Caipora’s lips parted without argument, taking the man’s stinking and putrid dick into his mouth, sucking him clean as he told himself furiously, over and over, not to puke, as the stench of his own body overwhelmed his senses, both taste and smell. He had no choice, and that was the worst part of it . . .
Domajin rasped out a wizened-sounding laugh—full of triumph as he deluded himself into believing that he’d won this round, too. One last orgasm to choke down, the bitter and metallic taint on his tongue, the stench that was trapped in his nose, in his mouth, the conflict of his rising bile, the will to force it down, anyway, and Domajin chuckled unsteadily when he finally stepped back.
“Good, good . . . Very good. You’re learning, Caipora. I’m your master.” He bent down, face to face, his gross visage twisting into a sneering grin. “I want you to say it, my pet.”
Caipora swallowed hard, concentrating more on not vomiting than he was on what the arrogant bastard wanted to hear. ‘Just . . . Just say it . . . Who cares if you mean it . . . Who cares if he’s fucking delusional or not . . . Just . . . Just say it . . .’ his brain told him. “My . . . master . . .” he rasped out.
Domajin laughed. “That’s right . . . And you . . . I have a special treat for you. Consider it an honor. I’m going to take you with me to the overmaster meeting.”
“The . . .?”
He seemed overjoyed by his latest idea, even as Caipora’s brain struggled to catch up. “Oh, I’m sure your past overmasters will enjoy getting to see you again, don’t you think? To see you . . . to humble you . . . We’ll pass you around like a fuck doll, Caipora . . . and you will kneel before me and call me master . . .”
Caipora remained silent, even as every synapse in his brain balked at the idea . . .
She wasn’t sure what woke her.
It was late, but she didn’t know what time it was. The antechamber of the master’s room was completely dark: shadows atop shadows, vague forms with no real definition. Was it the dull thud she’d heard somewhere in her dream? Was it a sudden sense that something had changed . . .? Or . . .
The door opened with a low groan of the hinges as he shuffled into the room, moving so slowly, so heavily, so unlike the master who had found her last night, huddling in the dark behind the bush. A strange scent assailed her nose, or maybe it would be simpler to say that it was a bunch of smells, all muddled together: murky, dark . . . and somehow . . . She smelled blood—that, she could identify easily enough. The other smells, though—those confused her. She’d smelled things like that before—part of it, anyway—but . . .
His youki was ragged, tattered, and somehow, almost by instinct, she realized that he did not want her to see him, did not want her to be awake. How she knew that, she wasn’t sure, but she lay completely still, until he had passed by the little pallet she lay on and into his room.
He didn’t close the door behind himself, left it open just a crack. A dim light flickered to life in the room, and, against her better judgement, her heart hammering hard against her ribcage, she sat up, scooted closer to the cracked door, and slowly, cautiously, peered inside.
He was naked, his body covered with splatters of stuff that was slowly drying, but it was the sight of his back, covered in so many lacerations that she couldn’t count them all, that made her cover her mouth with her tiny hands. He was a master, wasn’t he? Then why . . .?
He just stood there for a long, long time. He didn’t move at all. She didn’t know what had happened, why it had happened, but there was something about the way he stood there . . . It was almost as though he were caught up in a trance . . .
Biting her lip, she winced. She didn’t know what to do. She was a slave, and she knew that. She didn’t dare to a thing without being told. She’d learned that long, long ago. Thinking for herself always got her into trouble, even if she had good intentions. She didn’t know how many times she’d been disciplined for acting out of line. Do what you were told and nothing more, she’d been lectured so many times. But . . .
‘He’s . . . He’s not okay . . .’ a little voice in her head told her.
‘I . . . I know, but . . .’
That voice sighed. ‘Maybe . . . If you just made him a bath, maybe that would be okay . . . That’s not something out of your orders. Strictly speaking, you have to make him a bath in the morning, and . . . and maybe it’s close enough now . . .? And you’re supposed to tend to his needs, aren’t you? Right now, those cuts on his back . . . Those need to be cleaned and tended . . .’
Before she could talk herself out of it, she stood up, squeezed through the crack, skirting the edge of the room in an effort to draw as little attention as she could. Once inside the bathroom, she had no choice but to flip on the light. It was way too dark to see otherwise. The sound of the flowing water made her grimace as she hurriedly adjusted the taps, and with every moment that passed, she braced herself to receive his ire.
But it didn’t come.
She gathered towels from the linen closet behind the partition—there was no door on the bath area—just a stone partition that did not reach the ceiling and probably was only waist high next to the master . . .
She set the towels out, frowned as she tried to decide whether or not she should prepare his toothbrush. Somehow, she didn’t think that he would want that at the moment. Even so, she did it anyway, carefully spreading the toothpaste, filling a glass of water for rinsing, meticulously adding the mint and rosemary drops to it, and, as she shut off the water, she bit her lip as she carefully dipped out two buckets to set next to the in-floor tub, as she carefully added some rose essence from a heavy amber vial to the bucket for rinsing. Then she filled a small earthenware basin, adding aloe and tea tree oil to the mix. Those tasks only took so long, however, and now that she’d taken it upon herself to do what she’d done, the idea of actually approaching him frightened her. It wasn’t that he frightened her. He didn’t, though she wasn’t sure why that was so, but he . . . He was still one of the masters, and masters weren’t kind . . .
When she made herself step out of the bathing area, she frowned. He still hadn’t moved, not at all, and maybe that was the reason she was able to shuffle forward, made herself stand before him, her chin to her chest, her eyes on his feet. “Master, if you please . . . I . . . I made your bath,” she said, her voice, a whisper in the quiet.
And then, she waited, trying not to fidget, for the proverbial gauntlet to fall . . .
But it didn’t.
He said nothing, just turned and shuffled off to the bathing room.
She blinked, turning her head just far enough to stare at the empty opening. She could hear him as he stepped into sunken tub, could hear his hiss of pain as his rent back touched the water. It was that noise that drew her forward, hesitant, unsure, her bare feet whispering against the cold marble floor.
Peering around the divider, she frowned. He was sitting upright in the tub, kind of slumped forward in a defeated kind of stance, but again, he wasn’t moving. The sense that he really wasn’t okay nudged aside her anxiety, and she quietly stepped forward, peeling off her dress before slipping into the tub behind him.
He didn’t even flinch when she gently dabbed at his back with a damp wash cloth that she’d rinsed in the basin of aloe and tea tree water. The dried blood washed away, and she was relieved to see that the cuts weren’t nearly as bad as they had appeared, that some of them were already closed and others were healing well. The closed ones left behind pinkened lines, but those would fade in a day or two. He said nothing, but he did lean forward, exposing more of his back to her. She cleaned it, too, and set aside the soiled cloth before reaching for the small bucket to wet his hair.
His eyes were closed as she tilted his head back, washed his hair thoroughly. He let her do what she would without word, without complaint, without emotion. She rinsed his mud-brown hair, then poured the bucket of rosewater over his head.
He still didn’t open his eyes as she washed him well, and she bit her lip as she pushed herself out of the tub and quickly dried off with a rougher towel. She was tugging her slip back on when his voice came to her—low, tired . . . exhausted . . .
She blinked, stood still as stone, her eyes widening, her skin paling, an almost panicked kind of feeling ricocheting through her. She had to have heard him wrong. Masters didn’t ever thank a slave . . .
When she dared to look at him, though, his eyes were closed again, and, for a moment, she almost thought that he was sleeping.
Swallowing hard, unsure if she really ought to push her luck or not, she drew a deep breath and plunged in, before she could stop herself or talk herself out of it, shifting her weight from one foot to the other a few times, wringing her hands a she slowly shook her head. He didn’t see it. “Shall I dry you?” she finally asked.
He grunted. “No. Just . . . turn down my bed and go find yours. I . . . I didn’t mean to wake you.”
She still had no idea, just what to think, but she did as she was told, carefully turning down his blankets, fluffing his pillows . . . Then she hurried back out of the room and closed the door before feeling her way back to her pallet, where she lay back down with a sigh.
‘He . . . He’s different from the other masters,’ she thought as she closed her eyes. ‘I don’t know why, but . . . but he is . . .’
And she was still pondering that as she drifted back to sleep, curled up on her side, her hands tucked up under her cheek.
Final Thought from Caipora:
Overmaster meeting …? What the hell is that …?
“Bathhouse,” Caipora said, dismissing 815435 as he reached for his pants. The girl gathered up the towels and basin that she’d used to wash him off after her lesson and quietly left the room. Making a face as he dropped the pants to grab the thick blue terrycloth robe instead and shrugged it on. Given that he was done for the day, he’d much rather have a bath, and he picked up his clothes and strode out of the training room, veering to the left—toward the stairs.
His room was empty, but his food was arranged on the coffee table, and he tossed his clothing to the side as he sat on the sofa and slowly inspected the meal. Normally, he wouldn’t eat it unless he saw the slave bring it in. He’d learned that lesson long ago: not to eat or drink anything if he couldn’t verify that it was all right.
He heard the sound of bare feet, whispering on the floor. Glancing back over his shoulder, he spotted 428355 as she shuffled toward him, only to stop beside him, chin down, staring at the floor. He frowned thoughtfully. “Did you bring this in here?” he asked, nodding at the food.
She shook her head. “No, master.”
“Did you see who did?”
She shook her head again. “No, master.”
He sighed. On the one hand, he was hungry. On the other? He made a face. It was Saturday night, and considering it was Saturday night, then he knew better than to take anything at face value—not when the sounds of the night’s entertainment was already filtering through the opened balcony doors. It was the same on every one of the islands—at least, the ones where he’d been assigned. The only one he hadn’t worked on was the Isle of Children, and that was just as well.
Saturday nights, though . . . It was the enforcers’ one night of cutting loose, of allowing the ridged codes to fall away. Down in the area that was normally used for exercising the slaves, they were gathering, forming their makeshift arena. Grudges were settled, oftentimes to bloody effect, domination was tested and determined. Bets were made and lost and won, but by the end of it all, it was normal for the entire thing to degenerate into a perverse kind of orgy—man on man where nothing was ever taboo . . . Caipora rarely attended what they, ‘affectionately’ deemed The Games. More often than not, The Games came to find him, anyway, though rarely on Saturday nights . . .
“Come,” he said, ordering the girl closer.
He gestured vaguely at the food arranged before him. “I want you to taste everything—everything.”
She seemed confused, but she did as she was told, taking tiny, tiny bites of all the offerings.
“Draw a bath,” he told her. If anyone had tampered with his food, it would take a little bit for it to kick in. He didn’t think it was poisoned, of course—he’d have just thrown it all out if he suspected that, and he certainly wouldn’t have allowed the slave girl to taste it for him—but, given that he still remembered his initiation a little too well, he wasn’t about to take any chances that someone could have tried to dose him with sleeping powder again . . .
Her tiny footfalls shuffled off toward the bathing area to do as instructed. Reaching for the bottle of Deadman whiskey—it was still sealed—he yanked it open and drank it straight, ignoring the glass that had been provided.
By the time the girl returned to him, he’d polished off almost the whole bottle, which he really shouldn’t have done, given that it was nearly a hundred-eighty-proof, and given that being drunk here in this place was an entirely stupid thing to do. She stood by, waiting for him to notice her.
“Are you feeling all right?” he asked, not really as concerned with her overall well-being as he was in making sure that he could eat his food.
“Yes, master,” she replied, her small voice so soft in the quiet despite the underlying revelry drifting through the balcony doors.
Satisfied that she was telling him the truth, he made quick work of wolfing down the food—now, half-cold. At one time, it used to bother him, sitting there, eating while the slaves hovered nearby. He didn’t give a second thought now, however. They were fed well enough, anyway—not the food that he got, certainly, but it was enough to sustain them. It had become par for course . . .
Standing abruptly, he stalked past her toward the waiting bath. The scent of relaxing herbs and oils drifted to him well before he rounded the room partition. He hadn’t told her to prepare a soaking bath, but he couldn’t say that he was unhappy about it, either. Stripping off the robe, he settled into the tub with a sigh.
The girl slipped into the room, started to remove her dress. He held up a hand to stop her. “I’m going to soak for a while,” he told her. “Just take care of the dishes and prepare my bed.”
“Yes, master,” she said, shuffling out of the bathing area. A minute later, he heard the soft clink of the dishes as she gathered them together.
Slipping down far enough to allow his head to rest on the edge of the tub, he closed his eyes, savored the feeling of the healing herbs and oils as they soaked into his skin. It was a rare moment for him, allowing himself to cautiously relax. Maybe it had something to do with the booze; he didn’t know and didn’t care at the moment.
The steam rising off the water created a hazy mist around him: a lazy kind of dim reality where he lingered just outside of the inner sanctum where memories coexisted with a strange sort of detachment, free for him to view at will, even if none of it belonged to him anymore. That lifetime was so long ago, the echoes of the innocent laughter, the sweetest voices that murmured somewhere in the hidden dark, and if he listened closely, he could hear them—the ones he’d stepped away from. Had he realized at the time, just what time could do? Did he understand when he’d left them that it might easily be for the last time . . .?
It was stupid, wasn’t it? Stupid and maybe a little bit naïve. He’d honestly thought that nothing could really touch him; that he was above such atrocities; that he would do what he had to do because he had to do it to bring about the greater good: the downfall of an empire, and that none of it could touch him. He was better than that, wasn’t he? A lifetime of righteousness that had all fallen by the wayside . . .
His mind flashed back to that fateful day: the one that had changed his path forever. Whether for good or ill still remained to be determined, and he wondered, didn’t he? The video that had been dropped off . . . the sense of foreboding that he’d gotten as he’d held it in his hand, as he’d stared at the unassuming white label. ‘Korin,’ it had said—just that—and somehow, he’d felt compelled to watch it . . . If he hadn’t seen that video—if he hadn’t felt that consuming sense of righteous indignation . . .
“What’s your name?” a soft female voice off camera asked.
The small woman, lost in the copious folds of a thick white robe, shrugged her shoulders, bright coppery hair shining in the harsh, forced light of the small cinderblock room. Huddling on a cold metal folding chair behind a rickety card table, she gnawed on her already raw bottom lip, her gaze flicking to the camera for only a moment before skittering down and away. “I’m 359156—but . . . but now, I go by Korin . . .”
“And . . . you were a slave, Korin?”
One jerky nod, her hair falling over her face. “I . . . Yes,” she whispered. “Y-Yes . . .”
“You were sold to Cassius Deonopoly, correct? Owner of the Deonopoly coffee plantation in Venezuela? And he set you free when he died.”
Another jerky nod. This time, she didn’t speak.
“He set all of you free, didn’t he? His household staff. You were his, uh, his sex slave?”
She winced, but nodded again. “Y-Yes . . .”
“Can you tell me about the place where you came from? What they, uh, did . . . to you . . .?”
Korin’s hands were shaking when she reached out, lifted the mug of steaming coffee, cradled it in those hands as though she simply needed something to hold on to. “I . . . I was bred there,” she replied, her tone indicating that she unsure of exactly what the woman wanted to know. “We all were . . . Born there in the breeding camp . . . taken and raised on the Isle of Children. It was strict, but they weren’t . . . weren’t unkind . . . As long as you did as you were told, they didn’t do anything to you . . .”
“When you were a child,” the interviewer reiterated. “And then?”
Korin sighed. “When you’re nine, maybe ten, they gather you together. They inspect everyone—every last part of you—you understand?—and they separate you. If you’re not so pretty or if you’re male and not very tall, they send you to the Meat House—umm, where they train the regular slaves. If you’re pretty enough or a promising male, they send you to the Gauntlet—the sex slave training compound. If you’re exceptionally pretty, though, they send the girls to the Virgin House . . .” She winced. “I was not pretty enough for that,” she said. “I . . . I wasn’t valuable enough . . .”
The woman cleared her throat. “Can you . . .? Would you tell me about your . . . your training . . .?”
Korin flashed the interviewer a nervous, almost frightened, look, but she nodded, drawing a deep breath, her fingertips leeching white as she held on tightly to the mug in her hands. “When you go there—to the Gauntlet—you’re divided up by size. I am not so tall, so I . . . I was not as valuable there, either. For the first two years, you are only to observe training of the older slaves. You watch so that you will know what is expected of you—what you will learn, too. Then, you’re not afraid. You see sex for what it is: an expression of the body. You also must see to the masters’ needs. The older slaves are more important—they must focus on their training. We were made to assist in the cleaning and other household tasks. If you weren’t fast enough, if you were clumsy, the house slaves would beat you, kick you, spit on you . . . but when you were old enough to be trained, they couldn’t do that anymore—you were of value then . . .”
“And they taught you how to . . . have sex . . .?”
Korin winced. “Yes . . . sometimes for hours at a time, master after master, but we weren’t to come too much—it was sloppy and selfish, they said. Only a master or a mistress was allowed that luxury. If you . . . If you broke this rule, they would put a clip on you, and that hurt, so . . .”
“So, you’d be in pain instead of having an orgasm.”
She nodded . . .
And the video had gone on and on: sickening details of the things these ‘masters’ would do under the guise of training. The whipping—never hard enough to cause permanent damage, but on youkai or hanyou bodies, it was still brutal enough . . . The punishments for disobeying that ranged from slaps on the face to whippings . . . She alluded to other forms of punishment but had no real knowledge aside from rumors and innuendo—whisper amongst slaves . . . She’d seen male slaves being forced to submit to anal sex with stallions, with bulls . . . They said that it prepared the males since no youkai cock was as large as that . . . It was enough to horrify him—He, who had been raised in such a very different world—a world where things like that simply did not exist, who had only known the discipline of parents who thought that taking away his phone for a week was suitable punishment for talking back . . .
Caipora frowned. He wasn’t sure if it was worse, these things that Korin had reluctantly detailed in the confines of a safe room, or the things he himself had witnessed and even committed that were far, far worse . . .
He’d started out in the breeding camps—everyone did once they gained the trust of someone in the organization—keeping the women in order, doling out punishment when the need arose. It wasn’t horrible once he grew accustomed to it—at least, on the slave side of things—and maybe that would have continued to be bearable, too, but . . .
“Come on. It’s our turn to monitor the birthing house.”
Glancing up from the practice mannequin that he had been pummeling for the last hour, Diego frowned. “The birthing house? I thought the older guys did that.”
Offering a nonchalant shrug, understanding that ‘older’ in this instance just referred to those who had been in the organization longer, Franco adjusted the whip on his belt. “Guess they consider you to be trustworthy enough now,” he said, leading the way as Diego fell in step beside him. The chameleon-youkai sighed. “Fuck . . . I hate having to go in there . . .”
“They have attendants to watch over the births,” Diego pointed out as they strode across the compound: the neatly arranged shelters where the breeding women lived. “We just have to make sure that none of the women try to fight to keep their babies, right?”
Franco grunted. “It’s a little more involved than that,” he muttered. “Well, you’ll see . . .”
The stench of the birthing house hit him well before they drew near the doors. As if every foul, malignant thing lived in there, it took everything within him to force himself to approach it. Franco didn’t seem to notice Diego’s very real reluctance, and he reached for the door handle and yanked it open.
The God-awful reek that hit him was dark and fierce, very nearly bringing him to his knees as he furiously told himself not to vomit. The stink of blood and darker things was oppressive. The place wasn’t anything more than an open room with low metal fencing that divided the place into human stalls that likely contained ofuda that was closer to a barn than a sanitary place to give birth. Blood and other body fluids soaked the sand covered the floors, the sounds of groaning, of moaning, of sobbing filled the air.
Only four of the twenty beds were occupied. Franco muttered something under his breath about it being a slow day as they stopped and stepped onto a raised platform in the center of the building under a garish and harsh overhead lamp.
The woman in the closest bed was deep into delivery, clamped to a steel table as she bore down hard. With one last push, the baby slid free. From his vantage point, he couldn’t see what it was, and it didn’t really matter. The woman shrieked when the attendant handed the newborn off to another one, only to turn back, to jam her hand up inside her, wrenching the placenta free.
The attendant spent more time, checking the placenta than he did, making sure that the woman who had just given birth was all right. Satisfied that the placenta was intact, he gestured off to the side, at the darkened corner that Diego hadn’t yet noticed. A buzz and a scrape, and he blinked, watched as a male slave was dragged forward. Tall, broad, he could have easily fought back against the handler who dragged him forward by a chain, looped through the collar around his throat. It didn’t even seem to occur to him, though, as he was shoved into the pen with the woman who had just given birth.
Diego watched in horrified silence as the slave was secured to the steel table. He didn’t need any instruction, either. Climbing up onto the steel gurney, he mounted the woman who had just given birth, rutted away on her as she sobbed . . .
“They don’t waste time around here,” Franco muttered. “As long as the placenta is all out . . . Well, that’s how they make their money . . .”
Diego stepped forward as the attendant with the baby hurried toward him. “What?”
The attendant shoved the baby into his arms, a disgusted expression contorting his features. “It’s no good,” he said, turning on his heel, heading for the next stall—the next woman in labor.
Frown deepening as he glanced down at the squirming and writhing baby in his arms, Diego looked away a moment later, stomach twisting in a contorted sort of revulsion. The baby—a boy—looked completely fine until he turned his head. The whole side of his tiny face seemed to be caved in, contorted—missing. A birth defect? Likely from the overbreeding that the women were forced to endure . . .
The woman who had just given birth had somehow managed to yank one hand free, and she was screaming, raking at the slave who was still on top of her, still humping away. Franco started past him, and Diego caught his arm. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he growled, gesturing with the infant still in his arms.
“Kill it,” Franco said as he strode away.
It took a minute for Franco’s words to sink in. It took another minute for his own brain to really grasp what was said. ‘K . . . Kill . . . it . . .? Him . . .?’
It occurred to him that the child wouldn’t have a chance, but that thought did little to alleviate the absolute disgust of what he was being forced to do. Even if he tried to get out of it, someone else—Franco probably—would just step in and do it, and if he refused to do a job they asked of him . . .
The woman’s shrieks thumped through his head. “Give me my baby! Give me back my baby!”
As if in answer to his mother’s cries, the infant whined, body stiffening as he tried to roll toward her. As long as the child lived, that woman would fight. It was instinct, he supposed, and, in this place where instinct seemed to override reason, it made sense, even if the idea of doing it rose against everything he’d ever believed . . . Tightening his grip on the slippery infant, Diego gritted his teeth, understanding on some level that he had no choice—hating himself at the same time for it, too . . . Adjusting the squirming baby in one arm, he grasped the infant’s head and twisted hard.
The baby went limp almost instantly. The mother seemed to realized a second later, too, and her shrieks increased as she swung wildly while Franco tried to catch her arm, to subdue her without injuring her.
As Diego stared at the dead infant in his hands.
“Would you like for me to wash you now, master?”
Snapping out of his reverie, unsurprised at the ragged quality of his breathing, Caipora sat up, shot the girl a quick look. “No, I . . . I’ll wash myself,” he replied.
His answer seemed to distress her as she wrung her hands over and over in the folds of the slip she wore. She obviously thought that she’d done something to displease him, and the anxiety that sparked in her youki was instant and intense.
He sighed, wondering vaguely why he noticed—why it bothered him. “Tell me, have you always been a slave?” he asked her, more to make conversation, to get her to stop mauling her slip than out of any real interest.
She blinked, her body going stock-still for a moment. “Yes,” she said. “I mean, I think so . . .”
“So, you were raised on the Isle of Children,” he mused. “I see.” Glancing at her, he frowned when he noticed the harsh red mark on her cheek. “You didn’t have that before,” he said, gesturing at her face. “What happened?”
She didn’t look like she wanted to tell him. She seemed as though she were trying to decide how much trouble she’d be in if she refused. In the end, though, she must have realized that she simply could not say that to a master, and she winced. “The ones in the kitchen said I was underfoot,” she whispered. “They shoved me out of the way, and I slipped and hit my head against the doorway.”
He nodded slowly. The other slaves weren’t necessarily kind to the virgins. Most of them harbored some degree of ill will, if not outright hatred, for them. Given that they were treated a bare step above the way the domestics were, it wasn’t surprising, especially when they virgin in question was just a little girl. It happened often enough that it bordered on normal, even if he wasn’t very pleased by it. There also wasn’t much he could do about it, not without inadvertently singling her out, making her more of a target than she already was.
“Come here. Let me see that—make sure there’s no permanent damage.”
She did as she was told, kneeling down in the edge of the bathtub while he sat up a little more, turned toward her, fingers gentle as he held her chin to inspect the damage. It wasn’t more than trace bruising, and it didn’t clip her eye. Satisfied that she’d live, he let go of her and slowly shook his head. “Be more careful next time,” he warned her.
She nodded quickly. “I will, master.”
“So, you have no idea where you’re from,” he mused. It was more of a statement than a question. He shrugged. “Well, you weren’t born in the breeding camps; that much I know.”
She slowly lifted her chin, her eyes awash with her questions. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to speak, but she thought better of it, her expression registering a certain resignation.
“You can ask,” he said, a little curious to hear what she was thinking.
She transferred her weight from one foot to the other in an anxious little dance. “How . . .? How would you know that I wasn’t born here?”
“You can tell by looking at you,” he replied. “You look nothing at all like the breeding stock, and I’ve never seen a thunder-youkai amongst them, either.”
She considered that for a long minute. Even as she stood, chin down as she stared at her hands, he could tell that she was processing that, though what conclusion she ultimately drew was anyone’s guess.
He sighed again. “428355 . . . That’s too long. I’ll call you Five, all right? But you have to answer me when I do.”
“Five,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Because it’s my last number, master?”
He grunted. “Yes. It’s easier than remembering the whole string of them, and since you’re assigned to me, I shouldn’t have to be bothered in remembering the whole damn thing.”
She nodded, seeming almost . . . happy . . .? He didn’t dwell upon that, though, as he sank back down in the water once more, in no hurry at all to get out of the bath. She hopped up, set herself about readying his toothbrush, his shaving items.
He watched her with a frown. In the morning, he was leaving with the old bastard for the annual overmaster meeting at Anhanguera’s private island. Because of that, Five was going to be under the charge of the kitchen staff, even though she would still return here to sleep at night, and he made a face. “Try not to draw their attention, especially for the next couple days. You’re going to be under the kitchen staff’s supervision. Make sure you’re still in one piece when I get back. Understand?”
She nodded again. He could tell from the expression on her face that she was curious to know where he was going. Too bad he didn’t even want to think about it, let alone to discuss it with a little slave girl.
Taking a break from posting until February 19th. Happy Valentine's Day!
== == == == == == == == == ==
Final Thought from Five:
It’s like I have a name … kind of!
He was going to go mad.
Strapped into the seat of the helicopter with a blindfold over his eyes and earphones secured on his head so that he couldn’t hear or see where they were going, Caipora couldn’t tolerate the feeling of absolute helplessness inspired by these kids of trips. It did no good to know that, beside him, Domajin was in no better position than he was. Anhanguera insisted upon such measures—absolute secrecy regarding the location of the compound that he called home—the actual nerve center for the rest of the island setups.
It was the first time that Caipora had been invited, albeit, dubiously and not actually by choice. He was only being brought along as Domajin’s toy, little better than an actual slave for the duration of the annual meeting.
He had no choice in it, and that did little to make him feel any better about what he knew was coming. The only thing worse than being strapped to Domajin’s rack was being trussed up on one of those damned things for all of the overmasters to molest and abuse.
It also did no good to remind himself that he was in this situation entirely of his own free will; that he had ultimately chosen to do what he was doing. He’d known the stakes, and now, it was his game to win or lose. After all, he’d seen what happened to spies. Eduardo had made sure of it before he’d allowed him to go in. He’d sat him down in the comfortable office, had made him watch the video he’d received: a video that had arrived, along with Lorenzo Varela’s cock and balls, in a package delivered via special courier to the South American tai-youkai’s doorstep . . .
The young hunter, naked, stretched out on The Rack in a nondescript gray room, and he was calm, perfectly calm, telling the enforcers that circled him, over and over again that he knew nothing, that he didn’t know what they were talking about, trying to laugh off the whole thing as simply a misunderstanding.
The overmaster stepped forward—Caipora didn’t recognize him. “Your father is that damned hunter—Rafaello, they call him.” Striding forward, he grabbed Lorenzo’s raven hair, yanked it back, bending him over as far as The Rack would allow. “Do you deny it?”
“You . . . You’re mistaken,” Lorenzo said, and even in the video, the young man’s unease was easy to discern.
“No . . . I’ve seen your father before. He hunted my father—my father!” the overmaster hissed, jerking on Lorenzo’s head to emphasize his words. “I remember . . . I remember . . . He came to the door, dragged him outside, told him that he was accused of killing humans—stupid, pathetic, weak humans . . . My father did nothing—nothing—and you reek of that bastard!”
The lash that he retrieved from a nearby closet was not one that Caipora had ever seen before. Ten thin lashes, all braided together in one long flail; bits of razor embedded down the length of those strips. It was created with one purpose only: to inflict pain—massive amounts of pain . . .
Drawing his arm back, he brought it down hard with a flash of glinting silver. It fanned out over Lorenzo’s back, the ends, wrapping over his shoulders, around his sides, and he hissed out a groan of pain, body jerking involuntarily, as blood dripped from the lesions left behind from the embedded razors.
The second strike made Caipora grit his teeth. Sending a fine spray of blood into the air where the lashes intersected the ones from the first strike, Lorenzo’s breathing was stunted, punctuated by screams, moans, that grew louder and louder with every falling hit.
The crack of the flail grew louder, faster—the overmaster had gotten his hands on a second one. Time and again, the rain of those straps fell until Lorenzo shivered, shook, sobbed between shrieks that he couldn’t hold back . . .
Yet, he stubbornly refused to admit to anything, just stood there, as silently as he could, tears streaming down his face, enduring the blistering punishment being doled out, crying out when the pain was too much, as his skin was systematically shredded off of his body, some of it falling like confetti onto the concrete floor . . .
Frustrated that the flogging was getting him nowhere, the overmaster turned, barked something at the enforcers that Caipora didn’t understand at the time. He knew it now; damned if he didn’t. “Shred him,” he said. “Shred him till he confesses.”
The enforcers crowded the closet, murmuring amongst each other, but it was impossible to see what they were doing. The creak of The Rack as it was lowered, locked into place, bending Lorenzo over, and if the hunter realized, just what was about to happen, he gave no indication as he watched his own blood drip onto the floor . . . Then, the camera panned over, revealing one of the enforcers, naked, except for the leather tube covering his penis—a leather sheath with inch-long metal spikes protruding out all over it . . .
“Oh, fuck, no,” Caipora muttered, unable to look away from the video, though he wanted nothing more than to do it. Seconds later, the enforcer slammed his cock in, balls deep, as the high-pitched shriek was torn from Lorenzo’s lips—a sound the likes of which Caipora hadn’t heard before or since—as blood spurted, splattered, and trailed down his shaking, crumpling legs. The enforcer grasped Lorenzo’s hips, brutally shook the hunter’s ass to and fro as hard as he could, eliciting another harsh cry: this one longer, slower, darker . . .
“Are you a spy? Did the St. George send you?” the overmaster demanded, grasping a handful of Lorenzo’s hair, forcing his head back with a roughened shake.
“N . . . No,” Lorenzo rasped out, squeezing his eyes closed, trying to staunch the tears that still seeped out of the seam.
The overmaster glanced over Lorenzo’s head. The enforcer shoved against Lorenzo then brought him back in so hard that The Rack creaked and groaned, only to be drowned out by another of those gut-wrenching shrieks that went on and on until the overmaster slugged him in the face a couple of times.
“Did the St. George send you here?” he demanded once more, shaking Lorenzo’s head roughly, his hand jerking free, taking with it, a handful of hair.
“Yes!” Lorenzo screamed, tears streaming down his face as another shriek escaped him—another thrust of the enforcer’s dick.
The overmaster’s fist slammed into his face again, shoving him back, only to be caught by the shackles that held him tight as he whimpered and screamed. Turning toward the camera, he smiled nastily. “You have no one to blame but yourself, Your Grace . . . I hope you enjoy the show.”
He moved out of the frame as another enforcer, also wearing one of those spiked cocksleeves stepped forward, grasping Lorenzo’s head—his face so grossly contorted by the overmaster’s overzealous fists—forcing his screaming mouth down onto his dick. The screaming stopped, only to be replaced by guttural, choking, rasping cries as he was literally ripped apart from the inside out. With a loud howl, the one fucking his ass slammed into him as brutally as he could, pitching him forward even further onto the one in his mouth, the bastard behind obviously caught up in the thrall of his own orgasm as Lorenzo’s eyes rolled up, rolled back into his head, as his body went limp.
Jerking his dick out of Lorenzo’s ass, the enforcer stumbled back, only to be replaced by another. The blood that poured from him, that streamed down his legs in scarlet ribbons was mixed with spidery trails of come as a great glob plopped on the floor, streaked with crimson . . . Caipora frowned as he leaned a little closer, as he tried to make out, just what he was seeing. The new enforcer also wore a cocksleeve, but it was white and almost glittered in the light—rough looking, but not nearly as sinister as the spiked one—unless . . .
‘Salt . . .?’ he realized, eyes narrowing as the enforcer shoved his dick in deep, ignoring the come, the blood, the shit, already dripping from Lorenzo’s ass. Caipora’s suspicion was confirmed a moment later as Lorenzo started to scream, but choked on the dick in his mouth. That guy shot his load down his throat, and when he pulled out, he brought away many of Lorenzo’s teeth, embedded between the metal spikes . . .
Yet another enforcer stepped forward, and he wore a salt sleeve, too, but before he could assume the position, he knelt before Lorenzo, leaning down to do something to Lorenzo’s limp dick. From the angle of the camera, however, Caipora couldn’t tell, just what he was doing. Whoever was filming, though, moved over, knelt down to zoom in for a closeup.
The enforcer had slipped a pressure sleeve over the tortured man’s cock. The tighter it squeezed, the greater pressure would build—kind of like a blood pressure cuff—a really perverted one, anyway. The built-up pressure would result in an erection, but . . . But the cup that he’d fastened over the head of his dick was full of metal spikes, too. All of this, Caipora hadn’t realized at the time. He’d never seen anything like that before. Now, though, he knew. He’d seen the same thing in action one time, used on a male slave who raped one of the women back in the Meat House—the regular slave training facility. That device was built for one thing, and one thing only: to completely shred a man’s penis . . .
The enforcer made no bones about jamming his cock down Lorenzo’s throat. He was nearly beyond the ability to scream, but the misery, the agony, radiated from him in jagged and awful waves. With every thrust from both sides, that pressure sleeve tightened. Within minutes, blood poured from the metal head cup, and Caipora had to swallow hard to keep from puking.
Lorenzo hung on much longer than Caipora would have thought possible. Time after time, he was mounted on both ends, quite literally being ripped to shreds. Some of the skin on his back, on his chest, hung off of him in loose and bloody ribbons from the flogging while other bits tore free, joined the rest of it that littered the floor. Portions of his intestines hung in macabre streamers from his ass, tatters of his tongue, falling from his mouth—his lips, gone, drawing his toothless mouth up in a gaping red gash of a ghastly grimace—onto the floor. A huge puddle of blood covered the floor between his feet, dripping in a steady stream from Lorenzo’s painfully erect and brutalized dick. How he managed to still be alive was something that Caipora couldn’t comprehend, and the amount of blood was staggering. Every time Lorenzo passed out, they used the salt cocksleeve on him, prolonging his torture, over and over again.
And still, Caipora made himself watch it, from start to finish, despite the churning in his stomach, the bile that rode high in his throat. As though forcing himself to watch the entire thing could possibly vindicate the hunter, to alleviate some of the shame, some of the agony that he’d had to endure alone . . . And in the end, the overmaster yanked The Rack upright as Lorenzo hung there, balancing on the cusp between life and death, beyond tears, beyond screams, the room, silent as a grave.
The overmaster grabbed his cock and balls hard, took his time as he used a dagger to slice through them a breath at a time. Lorenzo gurgled, his body stiffening despite the ravages he’d already suffered. When the overmaster finally finished severing his penis and testicles, he tossed the dagger aside. “Leave him here. He’ll die soon enough.”
The rest of the video was on time lapse, but the stamp in the corner said it all. Lorenzo hung from the rack, slowly dying for nearly twelve hours before he mercifully passed on . . .
Then the video and Lorenzo’s shredded cock and balls were boxed up and sent to Eduardo as a warning—or a threat, and Caipora knew—knew—that if he were ever discovered, his death would make what happened to Lorenzo Varela look like a day at the beach.
Caipora stumbled slightly as he was herded toward the bathhouse with the rest of the toys that had been brought along from the other islands. Eyes still adjusting to the painfully bright light of day, he relied on his sense of smell to tell him everything he needed to know.
The light inside the bathhouse was a little easier to deal with. Blinking rapidly as he struggled to make his eyes focus, he had to squelch the base instinct to fight back when one of the attendants—a very large tapir-youkai—grabbed his arm to pull him over to one of the marble stalls. The urge to bolt surged through him once more, mostly because he was familiar with this particular setup already. The stall had a two-foot-tall divider that he had to step over, but the other three sides were enclosed. The four-inch opening in the floor wasn’t covered by a grate, and high overhead and suspended from the ceiling was a pair of metal handcuffs. Caipora bit back his emotions, started to step over the short wall, but before he could, the man stopped him.
“No one is allowed to be presented to Anhanguera without thorough cleaning,” he said in a flat voice. “Remove your clothes. Put them in here.”
Glancing down at the basket that was sitting on a small stool just outside the stall, Caipora bit down the urge to walk right back out of the bathhouse, but reached for the buttons of his black blouse instead. The other toys were being made to do the same thing in their perspective areas. For some reason, though, those others didn’t seem to mind at all. A couple of them were even grinning. ‘Stupid little fucks . . .’
He did as he was told, however, dropping his clothing into the basket along with his cell phone—it only contained the barest necessity of numbers, anyway, and not one that should have been on his phone—whip, and boot knife, as well. The man took the basket, closing the top, and held it out to Caipora to press his thumb against the identilock. A moment later, a soft beep announced that the print had been accepted. He set the basket aside once more and gestured at the stall.
Stifling the urge to sigh since he knew damn well what was coming, it didn’t actually make him want to cooperate, so when the tapir-youkai leveled a look at him, Caipora stared right back, but didn’t move otherwise. Shaking his head, he grasped the shackles and yanked them down before clapping them on Caipora’s hands. Even though he was otherwise cooperating, he’d promised himself long ago that he would never willingly aid someone in shackling him, ever again.
Stepping out of the stall for a moment, the man hit the button on the outside wall. It pulled the shackles upward, but he stopped the chains before Caipora’s arms were stretched up completely, allowing him a little bend in the shoulders—very likely the only concession he was going to get since he was a problem child, as it were.
“Spread your legs.”
Seeing no way around it, he complied with that request, figuring that he might as well get this over with. In the realm of things that he’d been dealt over his time with the organization, this one, while humiliating, wasn’t really that huge of a deal. Grimacing and gritting his teeth when the cool tube slid up his ass, he scowled at the far wall, doing his best to ignore just what was going on. When the warm, herb-and-oil-soapy water started to flow into him a minute later, he had to grind his teeth together. He clenched his jaw, doing his best to ignore the discomfort as his bowels stretched under the unwelcome influx of liquid. This kind of thing had only actually happened to him a couple of times before, but he’d had to administer enemas often enough when he’d worked in the bathhouse. It did little to lighten his mood, knowing that the attendant didn’t actually enjoy this process any more than the one getting the treatment did. Nope, it didn’t really help at all . . .
Just when the discomfort hit a point where it teetered on the line between annoying and painful, the water stopped, and the tapir-youkai quickly and neatly whipped the tube out, only to replace it with a butt plug.
That done, the bastard stepped out of the stall, leaving Caipora entirely trussed up, as he picked up the basket with his belonging and hurried over to stick them in the locker near the doors.
By the time he returned nearly forty-five minutes later, Caipora was leaning heavily against his bicep, eyes closed, sweat pouring down his face, down his body that had already passed its tolerance threshold. With a deft and practiced motion, the attendant finally, blessedly, pulled the plug and managed to retreat just in time to avoid the stream as Caipora’s body expelled the noxious flow. It felt like forever as he gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, tried not to feel the hot wetness that coursed down his legs, around his feet, down the drain beneath him, tried not to breathe too deeply since the stench of the sickeningly-sweet-smelling water along with the reek of his bowels created an even worse stink overall.
Steeling himself, knowing the protocol only too well, he managed to endure the next two rounds of the liquid invasion. By the time the third purge was released, he was tired, sore, as though he’d put in a full day of manual labor, just from standing there, his body pushed beyond all limits.
The flow of warm water was a welcome sensation. The attendant took his time, washing Caipora from the waist down. All too soon, however, he shut the water off then pushed the button to bring the restraints down so that he could unfasten them. Caipora couldn’t control the soft groan when his arms dropped back down again. He’d stood there for the better part of nearly three hours, after all . . .
Something about the enemas seemed to have dulled his will to resist. Following the tapir-youkai out of the stall and over to the long tables nearby, he didn’t even think to argue as he lay down, stretched his arms over his head, simply waiting for the inevitable . . .
It seemed to Caipora that the tapir-youkai took an inordinately long time in applying the wax and ripping it off his body. It was annoying, yes, but the only actual pain was when he got to the pubic hair. But even that was done in fairly decent order, and the only thing that he really didn’t like was the completely bare feel of his skin, including his face that he wouldn’t have to shave for a little while, at least. Funny, really. Caipora wasn’t very hairy, to start with—or he hadn’t thought so. Now, however, there was an overwhelming sense of vulnerability, and that was a feeling that he could not stand.
Off of the table and down the short corridor into the room where the huge bathtub was filled and waiting. Before he was allowed to soak, he stood, arms out to the sides, feet parted, while the attendant scrubbed him down from head to foot with a miscellany of brushes, some softer, some rougher, until his skin tingled almost painfully. Hair drenched in a combination of oils and systematically washed three times, he was showered down again with another hose, thoroughly rinsed before he was finally ordered into the tub.
When he finally sank into the huge and steaming bath, he grimaced. The water was treated with oils and herbs, with salts and scents, designed to relax him after the stress his body had just been subjected to. He was allowed to sit there, to soak, for a while, eventually joined by the other toys—now scrubbed clean, devoid of body hair, too. After a good half hour or so, the tapir-youkai motioned him out of the bath. He stood silently while the man took his time, applying some kind of vaguely spicy oil all over his body. Grinding his teeth together, concentrating on not popping a boner when the man fondled and stroked and oiled his balls, his cock, he managed to contain himself, albeit, barely.
Down another hallway and into a chamber with shelves and shelves of different clay jars, glass bottles, an array of decanters, he wrinkled his nose at the slightly dusty smell. The attendant motioned to a spot directly under a very bright light where Caipora stood, waiting.
The attendant made quick work of pouring various powders into a stone mortar before grinding the contents with the stone pestle until he was satisfied with the result. When the man strode over, mortar in one hand, a feather brush of sorts in the other, Caipora closed his eyes, allowing him to paint on the golden dust—gold dust mixed with other things—all ingestible, of course. He didn’t stop until every last inch of Caipora’s body was covered with a thin, shimmering layer including his hair.
Caipora didn’t move as the man painted his lips with a shimmering gold balm, lined his eyes with the same. Finally, he snapped a thick golden band around the base of his balls followed by another one around the head of his penis. Those two bands were connected by a golden chain that jingled with every step he took, drawing even more attention to him, to his body—to his cock . . .
Grimacing since the rings and chains added a weight that, in turn, added an unwelcome friction, leaving him in a state of near-arousal, he was led down the hallway once more, only to be stopped at a door on the far end to await the other toys.
The talking in the large and cavernous chamber dwindled and died out as the toys were led into the room. They didn’t look anywhere but straight ahead toward the five little golden pedestals arranged under overhead spotlights. Caipora took his spot, as did the others. Staring stonily straight ahead, he willed his mind to take him somewhere else—anywhere else—anywhere other than the cold and dark room where he and the others were very prominently on display.
“Diego,” he heard one of them whisper, very obvious appreciation in his tone. He knew that voice. It made his skin crawl . . .
A breathy, deep chuckle rattled in his ears as his awareness spiked. ‘Anhanguera,’ he thought, his inner rage sparking, igniting, shifting his gaze without moving his head.
Still dressed as the southern gentleman, the formidable dragon-fish-youkai who fancied himself to be the devil let his veiled gaze roam over the assembly of toys. He stared at Caipora for a long moment—Caipora felt it, unable to discern the youkai’s eyes under the cover of the smoky glasses. The richness of his darkened skin—brown just before it bled into black—seemed all the starker against the pale grey suit. Despite the wan light where Anhanguera stood, Caipora could make out his face—not the most compelling face, maybe, and yet, there was something about Anhanguera’s bearing—his demeanor . . .
“Hmm . . . You gentlemen outdid yourself this year,” Anhanguera remarked, addressing the overmasters before turning, wandering toward the pedestals, his heels thumping against the floor in a deafening clatter. Taking his time as he made his way around each of them, sizing them up, maybe . . . or . . .
“This one? Who brought you?” he asked the first one.
“I did,” the overmaster of the birthing camp called from the darkness. In the harsh shadows cast by the candles arranged on the squat table, Caipora couldn’t see his face, though he remembered the youki well enough. Garza—the first bastard to take a turn during his initiation on that night so long ago—the one who had said his name just minutes ago. Caipora still had a score to settle with him . . .
“Good thing you’re not getting fucked by him,” Domajin sneered. “Where’s his pecker?”
The other overmasters laughed. Caipora was inclined to disagree since, from his recollection, Garza himself had nothing really to brag about, but he remained silent, stoic, staring straight ahead at nothing.
Anhanguera moved down the line, circling slowly around the next toy on display. “Whose is this?” he asked at length, turning to face the overmasters once more.
“Mine,” Mendoza called. Caipora only knew him by his reputation. They said that he was the biggest bastard of the overmasters, opting to terrorize his enforcers more than most and entirely too often. The toy he’d brought with him shifted uncomfortably on his pedestal. Without turning to look, Caipora heard the very distinct jingle of his cockchain as he shifted under the close scrutiny.
“Do you not wish to be here, in my house?” Anhanguera crooned, turning his attention back to the spooked toy.
The man remained silent, obviously trying not to draw the ire of his overmaster . . .
When he got no answer, Anhanguera chuckled and moved on. Casually strolling around this one, he spared a moment to touch shoulders, to run his fingertips along his broad back. Stepping around the front, he reached out, grasped the toy’s balls, rolled them on the open palm of his hand . . . “Whose is this one?”
“Mine,” another voice called out from the silence—Dursal from the Gauntlet—the regular sex slave training facility. “Beautiful, no?”
“Definite promise,” he mused before moving on. Eyeing the next one, he slowly nodded, carefully appraising the enforcer—the toy—before him. “Very nice . . . Not too bulky, very well defined . . . You must be Ybarra’s prized toy . . .”
The toy said nothing, keeping his gaze focused before him, dead ahead, at the wall behind the overmasters.
Ybarra, overmaster of the Meat House, chuckled. “He’s a moaner,” he supplied.
“Good, good,” Anhanguera intoned in a rich, silky voice.
That left Caipora—the last to be assessed. It seemed to him that it took Anhanguera an inordinately long time as he slowly circled him, hands reaching out to touch him, to brush over his flesh with the tenderness of a lover. Gritting his teeth as he felt his cock stir, he tried to will himself to ignore the touch, but when Anhanguera’s hand slipped up, cupped his balls, gently massaged them, he couldn’t help the violent shiver, the uncomfortable stretch as his cock hardened, thickened, restrained by the rings as the chain stretched out taut.
“As you can see, he’s always ready,” Domajin remarked to the amusement of the other overmasters. “He’s a master trainer, but an even better fuck.”
Willing down the angry flush that rose under the layer of powder and paint, his body tensed—a coil ready to snap—and it took everything within him to keep from launching himself at the demented overmaster—to keep from wiping that arrogant smile off of his face.
“Be calm, Caipora,” Anhanguera whispered to him, his voice carrying no farther than his intended recipient. “You are better than them.”
Biting down hard as he struggled to control his body’s reaction, Caipora drew in a ragged breath and closed his eyes for a moment.
Anhanguera chuckled, finally releasing him from his grip. Stepping forward, back toward the overmasters, the dragon-fish-youkai held out his hands, paced the floor like a grand orator . . . “Gentlemen, I welcome you to my home, and, while we are here to discuss the past year, to target things that we can improve upon, to streamline the process, as it were, I would be remiss if I did not provide entertainment, hmm?”
He clapped his hands, and the doors opened—the same ones that the toys had been led through. A woman was led forward, via a stout chain fastened to the black collar around her neck. Her hands and feet were all shackled together in one long gold chain that allowed a minimum of movement. She was blindfolded, and she was fitted with a gold ball gag, as well, and she stumbled but caught herself. She, like the toys, was powdered and polished in the same gold dust, the same gold paints, and her nipples were clamped into tiny but ornate gold rings, the chain dipping down by her smooth belly. She, too, had been waxed, her bare and powdered pussy glimmering, glowing in the thin haze of light. He knew from prior running of the bathhouse that they’d likely painted her pussy, too, since the powder tended to wear off—or be eaten off—quickly enough. The darkness of her hair lent a shadowy, mysterious quality to her, but the anger, the outrage, in her youki was thick and harsh.
A second man wheeled out an elaborate gold version of The Rack. It sank into braces embedded in the floor with a very loud click. Then the two of them secured her to it, spread eagle, waiting, defiant.
“This slave tried to rebel against her betters, inflicting some damage to a couple of the enforcers here. They are being reprimanded for their inattentive actions, but I thought it important to remind this one of her place. So . . . which of your toys would be best for this?” Anhanguera asked.
“Let Diego have her,” Garza drawled.
The other overmasters murmured amongst themselves. “Hmm, yes . . . He’s fascinating, isn’t he? Let’s see what he can do . . .” Mendoza added.
“Well, I wouldn’t want him to be too tired for tonight,” Domajin murmured. He was trying to cover the irritation in his tone, but he failed.
Ybarra laughed. “Afraid he prefers pussies over cocks?”
Domajin forced a tight smile, a dry chuckle. “That is not an issue,” he replied. “I am his master—he admits it. He lusts for me.”
Gritting his teeth as he attempted to let the bawdy talk roll off of him, he stared stonily at the blank space over the seated assembly. If he could, he’d be happy to disabuse Domajin of that notion. Reminding himself yet again that he dared not do a thing that might ultimately raise suspicions, he willed his mind to ignore it, to let go of it, even as he filed it away in the back of his mind, just in case the opportunity presented itself . . .
“Then it is settled,” Anhanguera decided, turning to face Caipora once more. He gestured for him to step forward, and he did. “Do what you will, but do not allow her an orgasm—not one.”
Caipora narrowed his eyes on the self-professed devil, but he nodded.
He didn’t remove her blindfold as he stepped up behind her, letting the surge of his youki subdue hers instead. It was a silent battle of wills, and she tried to resist him as an electric hush fell over the overmasters. Slipping his hands up under her arms, over her chest, he grasped her breasts, manipulated them with a slow precision as he flicked the pads of his thumbs over her already distended nipples, kept hardened by the nipple clamps, the drag of the thin gold chain that hung between them. She jerked, as though she were trying to escape his touch, even as the first shift in her scent wafted to him. When she uttered a low, almost outraged kind of sound, he grasped the chain, wrapped it around his hand, gave it a rough yank. The sound she’d been making shifted into a groan as a shiver slammed through her.
He moved away from her long enough to step on the hydraulic plate that raised The Rack. Usually it was used to adjust for the different heights of the hapless fools who were strapped to it. In this case, he used it to pull her off of the ground. She gasped as her feet were lifted under her, wiggling her toes as though she were trying to hang on to solid ground. Her emotions were palpable to him. She was frightened, even if she were loath to show it, but under that, there was a subtle charge—a hint of passion that she fought to hide. He had to grit his teeth, knowing deep down that what he was doing was fundamentally wrong, yet unable to do anything about it—his only choice was to go along with it—to encourage the charade that he couldn’t yet escape . . .
Reaching up, he yanked the top of The Rack to the midway position, effectively bending her at the waist as he squelched the memory of the humiliation of that pose, his mind taking on a curious sense of logical order. Bend her over, get her where he wanted her . . . tease her just enough to get her wet . . . Fuck her . . . Then he released the last of the locks that held The Rack frame upright. She gasped as the entire thing pitched forward, leaving her effectively hanging in the air at about a forty-five-degree angle.
Striding around her, he caught one of her hips, steadying her as she writhed and struggled against the restraints. The gag kept her from making any real sounds, but she tried in vain to jerk away from him.
Bringing his hand down hard on her ass, she gasped as the sound of it rang out in the mesmerized silence. She stopped fighting for a moment as Caipora grasped his already ridiculously hard shaft, slowly rubbing the head of his cock over her swollen pussy lips. She tried to jerk away from him, but she had nowhere to escape to. Body shuddering as much from indignant outrage as it was because of her own rising desire, she burbled around the ball gag, but nothing she tried to say made any sense at all. Methodically rubbing the head of his dick along that little seam, letting the engorged head push those lips apart as he stared down at the blushing split, he shivered slightly, anticipation growing around him, swelling inside him as the scent of her unwanted arousal settled deep in his nose . . .
She was already wet, ready. He knew that from her smell alone, but the feel of her body’s readiness was almost enough to make him groan. Just that quickly, her body’s response invited him, her hips moving, seemingly of their own accord, and he flicked a claw just barely right over her clitoris, wringing a gasp, a squeak from her as her body bucked. It was a calculated risk, really. Wound so tightly, she was already on the cusp of orgasm . . .
Mostly to give her a moment to drift away from that physical cliff, he dipped his thumb, deep into her pussy, only to withdraw it again, to rub it slowly around the pucker of her asshole. She gasped, bucked against him, and he closed his eyes for a moment when his thumb sank into her with startling ease. How long had it been since he’d allowed himself complete freedom with a female body? He didn’t want to think about that; not really. Even while training, he did not allow it—could not allow it. That required a certain level of control. This one—this slave—this number . . .
He pulled his thumb out of her, slammed his cock deep into her with a near brutal force, holding firmly to her hips as the carriage of The Rack aided his every stroke. She screamed, the sound muffled by the ball gag, her pussy quivering around him, her body answering his with the inundation of her juices, slick around him—so very intoxicating after so long of fucking nothing but dry asses . . .
Pounding her hard, he gritted his teeth, trying to remember that he didn’t dare allow her to come. Gritting his teeth since he was ridiculously close to losing it, he felt the tell-tale tremors around him, her pussy convulsing around him, gripping him so tightly, as she tried to buck her hips against his. Ignoring the demands of his own body that screamed at him in silent unison, he pulled his dick free, smothering a groan when the cooler air of the staid room hit him hard, right in the cock and dripping balls.
Grasping the frame, he gave it a yank, flipping her upside down as she moaned, almost cried. With a deft tug, he yanked the ball gag free, and she gasped, only to choke a moment later when he shoved his dick in her mouth. She stared to gag. He swatted her breast hard. She groaned, shivered, greedily sucking his dick as he pumped against her. It only took a few thrusts for his orgasm to hit, and, with a savage groan, he unloaded, shoving his dick down deep, ignoring the ache as it bent at an unnatural angle. She choked, swallowed, gurgled, moaned as he fucked her throat hard. His second orgasm followed so closely behind the first that he shivered, his knees suddenly weak, but he kept his stance, slowing the pace enough to give him a moment to recover without ending the show too soon for the bastards who were so intently watching—and for the other toys, who were all trying valiantly, not to stroke themselves . . .
When he finally felt as though he could proceed without losing his footing, he flipped the frame over again, driving deep into her drenched pussy once more, the crack of her body colliding with his, echoing in the cavernous chamber—echoing in his head. The sound of her—the greedy suck and pull as he fucked her hard, warred with the little puppy pants that she couldn’t control. She strained against him, making no bones about how much she was enjoying her punishment. She struggled, tightening her pussy over and over again to keep him from pulling out of her while he bit down hard on his cheek, reveling in the feel of her velvet pussy walls. As she neared her orgasm once more, however, he pulled free of her, only to sheathe himself, deep in her ass in one fluid stroke.
Her scream echoed in the chamber, half-pleasure, half-pain. A moment later, he smelled the salt of the tears he wrung from her with every pulse of his thickening cock. He could tell by the crazy-mad tightness of her ass that she wasn’t used to anal sex. Even so, she seemed to be catching on a little too quickly for his liking as the panting resumed, as she surrendered to the pleasure-pain he gave her so freely. Leaning back slightly—the swinging of the frame did the thrusting for him, he met her with a slap to her ass. Her body quaked around him, inviting him—begging him.
Satisfied that she wouldn’t come immediately, he switched holes again, groaning loudly as the welcome wetness of her pussy squelched under his assault. Time and again, he led her right to the brink of pleasure. Time and again, he denied her as he filled her pussy, her ass, with come. The smell of his orgasms colored the air. In a vague sort of way, he could smell the overmasters’ arousal. A couple of them had their dicks out, were idly touching themselves as they sat, riveted, entirely focused upon the debacle of Caipora and the unnamed slave.
He’d long given up, trying to mask his own pleasure. Remembering to withhold the same release from her was hard enough to do. His groans, his growls, his stunted breaths were loud, shockingly so, as he yanked out of her, flipped the frame, only to jam his dick down her throat yet again. She sucked him hard, sucked him dry, swallowing his load as though she were starving. She writhed, she moaned, she whimpered, and in the silence, she murmured one word: “Please . . .”
Whipping her over once more, he fell against her back, fucked her hard, fucked her deep, unleashing the slippery squelch of every thrust. She keened quietly, begged for her own release. He drove her close—insanely close, only to take it away at the very last moment.
She screamed when he invaded her ass yet again, his come exploding from him before he managed to sheathe himself completely. He used her body without shame, without reservation, savoring her pussy juices that drenched his skin from the waist down, reveling in the sensation of such deep penetration as another orgasm climbed high, thick, heavy . . .So lost in his own orgasm, in his own perverted pleasure, he didn’t pay attention to the heavy footfalls, coming closer.
He gasped, grunted as he was yanked away, shoved to his hands and knees. Before he could think, before he could comprehend, he screamed in absolute bliss as the hot, fat cock invaded his body with a vicious slam that jarred his teeth as he reared back, as he fucked his assailant hard. The shock of it was so shockingly harsh, so startling brutal—so disturbingly welcome—he couldn’t control himself as his body convulsed, as his come shot out of him, splattering him, his arms, the floor, as Domajin’s claws dug deep into his hips, as he fucked Caipora for all he was worth . . .
Uploaded just because I wanted to … LOL! Feel free to leave me some love!
In case you missed it, I'm taking a short posting break. I'll return February 19th on a regular schedule. I might post before then, but don't count on it in case I don't. Happy Valentine's Day!
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Final Thought from Caipora:
Caipora’s head snapped to the side with the force of the closed-fisted blow—just one of many that he’d already taken. Kneeling on the floor in the middle of Domajin’s room, his wrists shackled to his ankles, he’d lost count of just how long he’d been punished already—slapped, kicked, punched, quite literally, yanked by the cock and balls by the chain he still wore . . . Yelled at, berated, verbally, physically, and mentally demeaned, and all because he’d dared to enjoy, fucking a woman . . .
He hurt all over, damn it. Forced into submission so many times that he felt like he’d been bulldozed after Domajin had dragged him out of the assembly room and up here, only to be trussed up and violated over and over again . . . He knelt in a puddle of come and vomit and blood—body spent, sore, drained. Stomach roiling as he fought back the need to purge yet again, he couldn’t control the uneven, harsh breathing that rattled out of his raw and aching throat.
The overmaster had flown into a blind rage over something that wasn’t even Caipora’s fault, and he’d told himself that he didn’t dare to put the bastard in his place. He could have before all of it had really started. It would have been easy enough for him to deal Domajin a dose of smackdown, but that voice in the back of his mind had reminded him, over and over again, that he didn’t dare; not if he wanted to stick to the overall plan—breaking the slave ring wide open. So, he had no choice, but to allow the half-crazed bastard to shackle him, and that had been his first mistake.
After the initial lust of rage had been assuaged, fucking Caipora so hard, so deep, that he’d thought that he was going to die, after all, Domajin had decided that Caipora needed yet another reminder of his dominance, and that’s when the beatings had started.
“You will not humiliate me in front of the other overmasters!” Domajin growled for the hundredth time since he’d slammed the door and locked it tight, backhanding Caipora yet again for added emphasis. “How dare you! I chose you for this honor! I chose you!”
Struggling to breathe as the overmaster balled up his fist and punched him hard in the side of the head yet again. Caipora slowly brought his head back up straight, ignoring the explosion of curiously dulled pain, the blood that trickled from his mouth, down his chin, down his neck, down his chest, and he swallowed hard, forcing the pooling blood down his throat despite the unwelcome lurch as bile rose, high and fast again, his expression entirely impassive as he willed his mind away. It registered somewhere deep down that Domajin was acting like some kind of jilted lover. The realization did nothing to him, one way or another.
“You are mine—mine!” Domajin hissed, rage igniting an unnatural fire behind his yellow eyes, dark brows drawing together in an angry slant, light orangish-brown hair seeming to stand almost on end as the static of his youki stung Caipora. “Say it!”
Caipora remained silent, opting to take another strike than to admit to anything of the sort.
His fury grew, no doubt tweaked by the idea that Caipora did not seem to care, Domajin leaned down, grabbed a handful of his hair, stuffed his putrid cock between his lips again. “Fuck me,” he growled, slapping Caipora until he complied. Closing his eyes, drawing him in deep, allowing him full access as the jaguar-youkai thrust again and again and again, hammering against Caipora’s raw and aching throat. Domajin laughed, but it was tinged with a bitterness that went bone-deep. Caipora ignored the sharp thud—cock slamming into the back of his already swollen throat—sucked him hard, flicked his tongue over the head of the overmaster’s engorged cock, all the while, trying his damndest to make the bastard come, if only to stop the onslaught, just for a little while . . .
“You want it, don’t you, you little bitch?” Domajin hissed, pummeling Caipora’s face with his dick, with his balls. “You love it . . . love it . . .”
Caipora choked back the urge to gag, clamping his lip-wrapped teeth down on the ridge at the base of his cockhead, eliciting a roughened growl from the overmaster. “Swallow it, bitch,” he hissed, yanking Caipora forward so hard that he almost fell, jerking him deeper and deeper as he shot another searing spurt of orgasm down his throat . . .
Staggering to his feet again, his eyes flared when Caipora pitched forward slightly, vomiting up the come and other brackish things. The slimy, filmy purge ran down his body, and Caipora didn’t care. It occurred to him in a detached kind of way that the entire tableau had to look so much more awful than it even felt—his bruised and bloodied body, contorted on the floor in such a wasteland of blood and come and vomit . . . and he wheezed out a soft, humorless laugh at the absolute absurdity of it all . . .
Drawing back to slap him yet again, enraged that Caipora would dare to laugh during his punishment, Domajin stopped, mid-strike, when the curt knock sounded on the door. “Go away!” he snapped, drawing his hand back once more.
“It is I, Anhanguera,” the voice called, his youki seeping around the door, and the underlying threat that surged in it was undeniable. Caipora wondered why he would be agitated, but it took too much concentration for him to hold onto the thought, so he let it go, instead.
Uttering a string of dire invectives under his breath, he spared another moment to slap Caipora once more before he turned on his heel and stomped over to unlock the door, the overmaster barely managed to contain his show of temper when the door opened, revealing the unruffled head of the organization.
Caipora paid no attention as Anhanguera slipped into the room, as he glided past Domajin and completely dismissed him. Kneeling before Caipora instead—kneeling in that fetid mire of body fluids in his impeccable suit, his ridiculously expensive shoes—and that absurdity made Caipora want to laugh, too—Anhanguera gently grasped his chin, turned his face to frown at him before pulling off his darkened glasses, revealing his strange, milky white eyes—eyes that had no pupils. He shifted his gaze upward to meet Domajin’s without relinquishing his hold on Caipora’s chin and without turning his head. “One should take care of one’s toys, lest one have one’s toys taken away,” he said in a strangely casual tone, despite the irritated flare in his youki. “Unlock him.”
Domajin didn’t reply, but he did hurry to unlock the shackles. They fell away, and Caipora slumped to the side, nearly at the reach of his limits. After everything he’d endured in the last few hours, it was just a moment too much. He felt himself losing consciousness, a strange sense of light-headedness washing over him, and he tried to fight it—desperately sought to regain his composure—and ultimately lost. As his eyes slipped closed, seemingly of their own accord, he thought that he felt someone catch him.
But he wasn’t sure.
The sound of dripping water: a rush, a trickle, registered in his ears well before he opened his eyes—well before his mind had a chance to kick in. It made no sense to him, and yet, he knew those sounds, what they meant. But he couldn’t comprehend it at the moment. Something warm on his face . . . soft and infinitely careful, bringing to mind a whisper of a memory—of other hands, just as gentle, just as tender . . .
“Be more careful, my darling . . . It took nine months to bake you, and we cannot replace you . . .”
That voice . . .
“Ah, you’re awake . . .”
Eyes fluttering open, it took a moment for him to discern anything in the semi-darkness. “Wh—?” he started to say, shaking his head in an effort to ward off the fuzziness that just wouldn’t let go, pushing himself up on his elbows, a disjointed sense of fight or flight—a subtle warning—forcing him to move . . .
Gentle hands pushed him back again; a soothing, a shushing, as though he were little more than a small and frightened child . . . “Now, now, just lie back. You’re fine now, you know. You’re safe . . . I apologize, my Caipora. I should have come for you sooner . . . I thought that he’d get it out of his system after a simple fuck or two, but he did not. I should have known . . .”
“A . . . An . . . Anhangue . . . ra . . .” Caipora rasped out, blinking slowly, the edges of the man, fuzzy, almost glowing—entirely whimsical, which was even more bizarre.
The dragon-fish-youkai chuckled, the sound incredibly warm, settling back on his haunches beside the chaise lounge that Caipora was stretched out upon. He didn’t remember coming in here—had no real idea where, ‘here’ even was. They were alone, he could tell, but that was all he really knew. “Where . . . am I?” he whispered, unable to summon the strength to speak out loud.
“Water,” Anhanguera said, as though he hadn’t heard the question at all. Turning to retrieve a bottle of water, complete with a white straw, off the small table, he scooted closer, reached behind Caipora to help him sit up enough to sip the water. “My physician said that you suffered a mild concussion,” he went on in a very conversational tone. “Rest is what you need . . .”
“D-Dom . . . ajin . . . I—”
The softest touch of his hand against Caipora’s cheek . . . “I will speak to him—remind him that he needs to take better care of his . . . toys . . .” Anhanguera assured him, his deep voice, dark and smooth, glided over Caipora. “He will not trouble you again tonight . . . You’ve bewitched him,” he said simply, gravely, leaving Caipora to figure out just what he meant. “If you were a slave, then it’d be an issue. Jealousy is such an ugly emotion, especially when a slave is involved. Domajin fancies himself in love with you. You’re an employee, though, and that makes all the difference. Tell me, Caipora . . . Why do you suffer his wrath? You could just walk away. You do not need to accept his petty rages. It’s clear that you don’t feel the same as he. Or am I wrong? Do you enjoy it . . .?”
“I . . . need the money,” he rasped out, voice strained, hoarse, from the fucking he’d given—and received. It was the reason he always gave whenever anyone asked. It worked about as well as any other, he supposed.
Anhanguera nodded slowly, as though he finally understood. “So . . . You sold your soul to me for the money . . . I suppose that is not an uncommon reason. Let me guess: a poor family? An ailing sister? A gambling father? Tell me, my Caipora . . .”
“It’s . . . personal,” he mumbled, closing his eyes, trying to defy Anhanguera the only way he dared.
“Everyone possesses their own demons,” he allowed. He reached over, ran the back of his curled knuckles against his cheek. “You will stay with me tonight. If you will sleep, then sleep. If you have need for anything, there is a button next to the door. If you buzz them, one of the slaves will come, will see to your needs. One of them will come to you shortly, help you relax—see that you have a more thorough cleaning—much better than my paltry attempts at being your nursemaid have proven to be.”
“Where . . .? Where am I?” he asked again as the boss rose to his feet, as he slipped the dark glasses back over his eyes.
Anhanguera chuckled as he strode toward the door. “You’re in my chamber—where no one would dare molest you. Now, rest. I will be back after the meeting concludes.”
He stared at the doors as they closed behind Anhanguera, his confusion growing with every passing second. The strange undercurrent, delineating everything that the dragon-fish-youkai had said . . . the tenderness in his touch . . . the pensive look in his eyes . . . He had no idea what any of it meant, and understood even less, why . . .
Why his heart was hammering so hard against his ribcage as he stared at the closed doors . . .
Settling into the plush chair in the center of the guest chamber that still stank of the cleaners and harsh compounds used to scrub away the mess left behind from the unpleasant business of punishing one’s inferior, Anhanguera accepted the delicate cup of tea from the Virgin House overmaster.
“My . . . My apologies, sir,” Domajin said, making a low bow from the waist in deference to the old youkai. He didn’t actually sound sorry in the least . . . “I lost my temper . . .”
Anhanguera waved off the apology, mostly because it didn’t actually sound sincere, was more of a perfunctory thing that he felt that he had to say, gesturing at the chair across from him instead. “It happens,” he allowed, pasting on a tolerant little smile. “In the future, I suggest that you take care not to inflict lasting damage on him . . . He’s only yours for as long as I allow him to be.”
The overmaster stopped, mid-squat, his expression registering his displeasure at the subtle warning. “Y-Yes, of course,” he managed to say.
“You were angry because the others selected him to discipline the slave girl . . .? Or was your rage piqued because he so obviously enjoyed his task of punishing her? Is Caipora your weakness, overmaster?”
A flash of emotion flickered to life in his face, but he masked it quickly enough—not quickly enough to hide it from Anhanguera—a man who had spent his life, studying the psychology of others in order to exploit it all for his own benefit. The fool truly did fancy himself in love with Caipora . . . “He’s a good fuck; that’s all.”
“A very good fuck, apparently—good enough that the other overmasters are chomping at the proverbial bit to have their time with him, too. He could make you a lot of money tonight, couldn’t he? Unless . . . Unless money is of no interest to you . . .? Unless Caipora himself is the prize you seek . . .”
“I’ve seen the videos,” Anhanguera went on as though he were speaking of the weather, the sunrise, the sunset. “Hours and hours that you’ve taken from him—fucked him until he’s weak and exhausted—but never quite broken, now is he?”
The overmaster shifted uncomfortably. Not much was ever hidden from Anhanguera, and he ought to have known that—but he apparently didn’t. “He . . . He will,” Domajin insisted, unable to mask the hint of belligerence in his tone.
“I wonder . . .”
Anhanguera chuckled. “He is very proud, my Caipora . . . Brute strength alone is not nearly enough to sway him. You dominate him because he allows you to do so—because you are overmaster. He has bested every comer—every last one—except, of course, for those in positions above his own. I have been watching him for a very, very long time. He forgets you the moment he walks away from you. Your problem is that you want him too much.”
Domajin grunted, but let the subject drop as silence fell over the room—an uncomfortable and lingering thing that Anhanguera knew from experience tended to break lesser men. It only took a few minutes as Anhanguera quietly, calmly sipped his tea before Domajin shifted uncomfortably, first once, then a few times as the stillness grew louder, far more profound—far harder to break . . .
“Are you here to . . . to punish me?” Domajin finally forced himself to ask.
Anhanguera’s eyebrows rose above the rim of the darkened glasses, an exaggerated show of surprise. “Why would I do that?” he countered mildly, lifting the cup of tea again.
“I . . . I thought you might have believed that I took his punishment a step too far,” Domajin grumbled, reaching for his cup, but setting it back down almost immediately.
“Any farther would have been too far. You inflicted a minor concussion on him—don’t worry. He will remain in my protection until you leave my island,” Anhanguera remarked calmly. “I can understand, of course. My Caipora . . . He is magnificent . . .”
He did not miss the way the overmaster’s jaw tightened at the casual and intentional slip of the possessive word. He nearly chuckled out loud. Men like Domajin were easy to manipulate—all too easy, actually. All it took was ferreting out his weakness . . . and, luckily for Anhanguera, Domajin’s weakness was most certainly Caipora, that beautiful enigma, like a stallion that would never truly be tamed . . .
Not that he could rightfully blame him. It hadn’t taken Anhanguera long to figure out that there was something about that one in particular—something that compelled them all. Everyone who saw him wanted to possess him. Maybe it was the unbroken nature of him, the unbridled passion that simmered just below the controlled façade or perhaps a baser lust based upon the strange and compelling beauty of him . . . Anhanguera had seen enough of it to know that it wasn’t a fluke or an isolated incident. He possessed a rare magnetism that was made all the more desirable, given that Caipora had no idea, the unmitigated power he already held in the palm of his hand . . . Something about that beauty of bone and body, those mesmerizing eyes, the devils that lingered in the darkness of his gaze . . . In time, he would grow to be a force to be reckoned with, and Anhanguera? Well, he had big plans for Caipora . . . very big plans . . .
“I have a task for you, Domajin. Do it well, and you shall be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams.”
The man’s head snapped up at that, his simmering outrage quickly draining away. “What is that?” he asked, obviously intrigued. Narrowing his eyes behind the cover of the smoked glasses he wore, Anhanguera could see right through him—the reward he wanted was, of course, Caipora.
Anhanguera broke into an enigmatic smile, and he took his time, refilling his cup and settling back with it once more before he deigned to answer. “It’s quite simple—and you might even enjoy it.”
“I told you, it’s simple. I want you to break my Caipora.”
Eyes flaring wide, he slowly shook his head, stared at Anhanguera as though he couldn’t rightfully make sense of what he’d just said. “But . . .”
“Break him—his will—his pride,” he stated once more, this time, his tone, flat and even. “Try, anyway. Whatever you have to do, do it. Encourage your enforcers, your trainers: dominate or be dominated. Strap him to The Rack every fucking night. Fuck him till he begs for you to stop, until he cries tears of blood. Do whatever you have to do, Domajin—however you must do it.”
A slow, nasty smile surfaced on the overmaster’s murky countenance as full comprehension of what he’d been ordered to do took root in his mind. “You’d have me declare open season on him, then.”
Domajin chuckled nastily, yellow eyes taking on a demonic kind of glow—the look of a predator who had spotted his prey. Too bad Caipora was as far from a weak and pathetic little jackrabbit as he could possibly be, and sometimes—sometimes—the arrogant hunter could easily be thwarted by the iron resolve of the quarry that was determined to survive . . . “Absolutely . . . Watching him being subjugated would almost be as good as breaking him myself . . . It’ll be my pleasure.”
Anhanguera smiled, too, allowed the man his moment of gloating before he leaned forward, as though he were about to tell the overmaster the secret of life and death. Maybe he was. After all, Anhanguera had a feeling—a very deep feeling—that sooner or later, Domajin was going to end up being his own worst enemy, especially whenever Caipora was involved. “There’s just one thing, Domajin.”
The overmaster blinked, his amusement dying on his lips. “Sir?”
Anhanguera’s smile widened. “Do not kill him. If my Caipora dies, then you die, too.”
Caipora awoke with a start, unsure what, exactly, had disturbed his rest. The room was quiet and empty, just has it had been when he’d fallen asleep, to start with. After the servant had come to administer a bath, to give him a full-body massage, using herb tinctures, oil extracts in a sultry and erotic rubdown that encompassed every last inch of his battered and bruised body, he’d eaten just a few bites of the delicious food that was brought to him before stretching out on the chaise and drifting off to sleep again. The food tray had been whisked away, but on the small table nearby was a large bowl of fruits and nuts along with a very large ice bucket with bottles of cachaça and wine and water and some other various drinks.
Sitting up slowly, he worked his jaw back and forth. Surprisingly, it was the only part of his body that still ached just a little, but not nearly as badly as it would have, had he not been given that massage.
The nap had helped, too. He’d rather forgotten what it was like, to fully relax, even in slumber. It always seemed that some part of him was fully aware, always monitoring his surroundings, waiting for any sign that something wasn’t right—a hint or a whisper or a movement in the darkness . . .
Something about the absolute stillness of this place was comforting, even if Caipora wasn’t entirely sure, why that would be. There was a sense of security, of constancy, that he didn’t feel very often, not here in this world. Everything in this room was in shades of black and gray, to the point that even the stingy light took on the almost dingy hue. That didn’t bring to mind, the places that he remembered. No, it was more of an overall feel, a heightened sense of civility, perhaps . . . Maybe it was that the overwhelming sense of a certain familiarity in the surroundings was present here that was lacking at the slave islands . . . Some small part of this place reminded him of . . .
Deliberately pushing that thought aside—memories of things that were best left in the past were harsh and bitter and so hard to reconcile—Caipora rubbed his face as though to brush away the pleasant languor that made him feel a little slow, a little sluggish, just a little off of his game.
He leaned over and retrieved a handful of grapes, was sitting back, slowly chewing one of them, when the doors opened, and Anhanguera stepped inside. Not for the first time, Caipora noticed just how easily the man moved, almost seemed to glide across the black travertine floor. He’d changed at some point out of the light gray suit he’d worn when he’d stepped in to stop his punishment at the hands of the enraged overmaster. The white suit he wore now over a starker white and rather nondescript shirt reminded Caipora of the suit he’d worn on that day when he’d first encountered the enigmatic owner of the slave ring. The white only served to highlight the contrast of his mocha skin—his sharp and high cheekbones, the broad but strong curve of his nose . . . Very strong features—wide forehead, brushed with ebony strands of softly shining hair, slanting ebony eyebrows, wide, full lips . . . The concave angles of his sunken cheeks . . . The jawline that neither bulged nor narrowed too sharply . . . Not a handsome face, per se—not in the classic sense, anyway, but a captivating one, nonetheless . . .
Spotting Caipora, lounging but leaning up on his elbow as he casually popped another grape into his mouth, the slave boss chuckled softly, the sound of it, filling the chamber despite the overall softness of the sound. There was a warmth in it, a genuine sense of affection. It didn’t serve to put Caipora on edge. Quite the opposite, really . . . “You look like you’re feeling much better,” he remarked, apparently pleased at the marked change in Caipora’s physical appearance. He pulled a grape from the stem and casually slipped it between his lips. “Did you eat the food I had prepared for you?”
“Some of it,” Caipora allowed, his eyes trained to the dragon-fish-youkai in a wholly predatory kind of way. “I fell asleep before I could finish it.”
Anhanguera nodded slowly. “Of course . . . If you’d like, I can have them bring you something else to eat? If you’re still hungry . . .”
Caipora shook his head. “I’m fine,” he replied, unable to shake the trace wariness that lingered in his tone. After so long in the organization, he supposed that it was second nature.
If Anhanguera had heard it, he ignored it as he smiled. “The other toys are enjoying some free time by the pool before their evening assignments, though those assignments are subject to change. It really depends upon you. Would you join them?”
Caipora shrugged. “I’d rather not,” he said. Here or there didn’t really matter. The only difference was that in here, he only had Anhanguera to deal with. Out there? He’d be surprised if they didn’t try to gang up on him . . .
Anhanguera smiled, as though Caipora had pleased him, which hadn’t been the intent, but he didn’t bother to disabuse him of the notion, either. “Will you remain here with me for the night, then? Or would you rather be returned to your overmaster. I believe he’s had requests for you—offers of favors or money . . . Domajin stands to make a small fortune off of you tonight—if you want to help him in that regard, anyway. If you don’t—” he paused, slipping off the glasses with his long and elegant fingers. A sudden and entirely unsettling image of those fingers, wrapped around his cock made Caipora grit his teeth as he watched Anhanguera toss the glasses carelessly onto the table beside the fruit bowl, “—I won’t tell him.”
“You mean, I get a choice?” Caipora challenged before he could stop himself, unable to repress the bitter edge from his voice, deliberately forcing that mental image right out of his mind.
Anhanguera chuckled. “Ah, my Caipora . . . You always have a choice.” Taking his time as he shrugged off his jacket, loosened his tie, he slowly paced the floor. That jacket had hidden his body well, Caipora realized. Lean, yes, but broad of shoulders, his chest tapering to a very trim waist, the sinewy strength that he wore like a second skin seemed to permeate every part of the room, from the high rafters against the vaulted ceiling to the deepest corners, bathed in shadows. The richness of his youki was an electric thing, and, for the first time, Caipora caught a glimpse of the absolute power that Anhanguera possessed in spades . . .
“Not really,” Caipora heard himself saying, somehow unaware that he’d started speaking at all. “One does not challenge the might of the overmaster and come out . . . alive.”
Anhanguera nodded. “Usually. There are certain circumstances, though I suppose I shouldn’t tell you about that. You know, in case you were ever tempted to challenge his authority on a whim.”
“I don’t do anything on a whim,” Caipora replied, slipping another grape into his mouth.
“Don’t you? Do you truly possess that kind of control? Is your will truly that strong? You realize, don’t you, my Caipora . . . Domajin seeks to own you.”
“He can do what he wants,” Caipora muttered, irritated by the nonchalance in Anhanguera’s voice. “He’ll never be my master.”
Anhanguera chuckled once more, obviously amused by Caipora’s show of bravado. But he opted to drop that line of conversation, at least, for the moment. “Tell me how you like the Virgin House.”
“It’s all right,” Caipora replied slowly, watching as Anhanguera wandered toward him. “It’s a job.”
“May I?” he asked, gesturing at the space beside him.
Against his better judgement, he nodded, mostly because he knew damn well that he really couldn’t deny Anhanguera, even if he were being exceptionally congenial . . . Even as he had to wonder why it was so . . .
“As for your job, be truthful with me?”
Caipora frowned as he tried to get a better read on the head of the organization. He really couldn’t tell if the man was that good of a liar or just that incredibly glib. “All right,” he replied, having no intention of keeping that sentiment if the questions proved to hit too close to home.
“You don’t enjoy the virgins? Training them? Watching them perform their . . . duties . . .?”
“Training is not the same as fucking,” he pointed out. “You have to remember all the time, what the goal is. They learn to fuck me. I don’t fuck them back.”
His answer amused Anhanguera, and he chuckled pleasantly. “Then today is the first pussy you’ve gotten in a long time, no?”
Caipora nodded once, leaning forward for another handful of grapes. “Since I left the Gauntlet? Yes, but that . . .”
“And you did not enjoy that, either?” Anhanguera challenged, amusement exposing the sharp, tiny teeth—horrifying . . . and somehow, compelling, too . . .
“Some of them became fairly skilled,” he allowed. “It was still very impersonal, more like performing because it’s what you have to do.”
“And the difference today? The slave girl? You enjoyed her. We all felt . . . your pleasure . . .”
He didn’t look away. As though it had become a battle of wills, he gave a careless shrug. “It was different. You gave me freedom to do whatever I wanted as long as she did not come.”
“That makes sense,” Anhanguera allowed, nodding slowly as he considered Caipora’s answer. “Would you like for me to send for one of my slaves? Do you prefer blonde? Red head? Brunette? I’m sure we have one that would strike your fancy . . . You can do what you will with her, and whether or not she is allowed to orgasm? That would be entirely at your discretion.”
“I’ve had enough sex for one day,” he muttered. “Thanks, anyway.”
“So you have . . .” he mused. Staring at him for a long, long minute, Anhanguera seemed to be trying to see right into Caipora’s soul, those pearly white eyes glowing just a little brighter. Slowly, he reached over, took a grape from Caipora’s hand, and even slower still, he lifted that grape, ran his tongue over the delicate skin, pierced it with those razor-sharp teeth. Caipora watched, unable to look away, as Anhanguera held up the fragile fruit, watched as a few drops of juice oozed out of it . . . Caipora stared, too, unsure why the image held so strongly in his mind—the tiny droplet that quivered on the hazy, dark flesh, holding on so desperately as it slowly swelled and then rolled down the side, disappearing between the deep but stingy crevice where Anhanguera’s finger held the grape . . . Anhanguera repeated the process, producing that small and crystalline droplet, and Caipora watched in silence as he slowly reached out, outlining Caipora’s mouth with the pierced grape, gently squeezing it, allowing more of the juice to drip out of it onto, his lips as an involuntary shiver ran straight down Caipora’s spine . . . Anhanguera chuckled softly, huskily, slipping the grape between his slack lips, in deep enough to let his thumb caress Caipora’s tongue as he slowly, slowly withdrew it, all the while, staring into his eyes in an almost mesmerizing sort of way, letting his fingertips brush over Caipora’s as he took another of the grapes from his hand . . .
“Everything about you,” Anhanguera murmured, giving his head just the slightest shake as he popped the second grape into his own mouth, as he slowly, thoughtfully, chewed. “That’s why they want you, my Caipora. Your lips that quiver and sigh—so plump, so lush—more seductive than any other lips that I have ever seen . . . Your body that could easily be a sculpture in the most renowned museums the world over—hard and sleek—and magnificent . . . That defiant bearing that you wear like a second skin, leaving women, wanting to be possessed by you—leaving men, wanting to possess you . . . Those eyes that burn and glow like fire, like ice, with your demons and your devils—and your angels . . . The way you look when you orgasm—your pure ecstasy, your emotions that you cannot hide . . . That insular moment of transcendent torment so fierce that it burns you, boils you in your own skin—the exquisite pain—and the absolute pleasure . . .” Trailing off, he narrowed his eyes slightly, still refusing to remove his gaze, even as he sought to see into his soul. “What is it you want, my Caipora? What do you search for? What is it that you desire . . .?”
Caipora wasn’t sure what kind of answer he was expected to give. He didn’t rightfully know what kind of answer he wanted to give. A tiny voice in the back of his mind screamed at him, reminding him, over and over that he dared not fall into the devil’s trap—that Anhanguera was the monster in the darkness—the one that Caipora wanted to bring down . . . That voice yammered on, yet Caipora . . . Caught up somewhere between bemusement and longing and a lingering sense of wariness that he simply couldn’t quite shake, he said nothing—nothing at all . . .
And yet, it seemed so natural, so normal, as Anhanguera crawled over him, between his legs, supporting his weight on his straightened arms, the fabric of his clothing, dragging so maddeningly over his half-erect cock, unleashing a tremor, a thunder—a deluge: a lust so powerful, so shocking, that Caipora was left, stunned and reeling as Anhanguera leaned in, closer, closer, the heat of his breath, fanning something deep inside him. Stopping just shy of kissing him, his gaze dropping to his lips, Anhanguera uttered a sound—not quite a groan, not quite a sigh—something in between . . . “Do you want me, my Caipora? Do you understand how much I want you . . .? If you say the word . . .”
‘He . . . He’s leaving it up to . . . me . . .?’
The thought flickered to life, and he winced inwardly. Something deep inside him felt as though it were winding, tighter and tighter, almost painfully so, as another warring sensation felt like a spindle, wound too tightly, as it snapped and broke and spun away at a frightening speed . . . Yet he held back, knowing instinctively that giving in, that giving up . . . The very last scraps that remained of his soul . . .
He could almost taste the grapes that still lingered on Anhanguera’s tongue, on his own lips, the crazy sweetness that condensed on Caipora’s skin as he flicked out the tip of his tongue to lick it away. The taste was enough to wrench a groan from him—a low, soft groan full of the tormented and wicked desire to give in, just this once—the compulsion to be owned—something he’d never wanted before—a shocking and terrifying and . . . and thrilling thing . . .
Anhanguera leaned in, brushed his lips over Caipora’s in a sinfully tender caress. “We’ll stop . . . if you . . . just . . . say . . . the word . . .” he murmured, his lips whispering against his, over and over again. “No reprisals . . . no possession . . . Your choice . . . my Caipora . . .”
Caipora’s answer was nothing more than a quiet half-moan as the kiss deepened, the stroke of tongues, a gentle thing, as a need the likes of which Caipora had never felt before surged through him in violent, jolting waves. Suckling on Caipora’s tongue, the dragon-fish-youkai brought up a hand, grasped his cock with a burning, but tender touch, slowly pumping him up and down as Caipora’s head fell back, as he gasped, as painful, awful throbbing made him feel as though he were coming undone.
He let go of his dick, and Caipora bucked his hips, unable to control himself as those hands flattened against his chest, stroking, kneading as his skin seemed to jump to meet his fingers, the fans, the torturous caress . . . The simple touch was enough to send sparks and spirals of need, straight through him, straight to his already throbbing cock, and he groaned . . .
Anhanguera slipped against him, the roughened fabric of his clothes, chafing Caipora’s bare skin. Settling between his legs, the master of all grasped his dick in both hands. Caipora started to raise his head, to look down to see what he was doing, but the absolute heat, the moisture of his mouth as it closed over his cockhead wrung a cry from deep within him as his hands wrapped around the sides of the chaise, claws digging deep into the cushions . . . Anhanguera worked him slowly—so slowly, drawing his tongue up the length of him, back down again, over and over in agonizing and excruciating lethargy, turning his head, kissing his way up and down his painfully hard shaft, only to slip his mouth, lips rolled over his teeth, down the throbbing length of him in one fluid stoke . . .
Sucking him deep, pulling back slowly, time and again as pleasure and pain collided, as his orgasm floated, just out of reach, and as the speed increased, as Caipora panted, groaned, nearly whined, he could feel the precome seeping out of his cock. Anhanguera lapped that up, too, swallowing as though it was little more than water, and he was a man, dying of thirst, as he worked his body with an expert precision. Want and need warred with the sense that he shouldn’t want it, shouldn’t need it, shouldn’t crave it, and yet . . . and yet . . . dear God, he did . . .
The suction of it released with a loud pop as Anhanguera pulled back, only to flick his tongue over his head with maddening speed as he pumped his cock, up and down, squeezing, releasing . . . Letting one hand go, only to feel the heat of his nimble fingers wrap around his balls, Anhanguera kneaded them, tortured them, pricking them gently with the tips of his claws, unleashing an intense rush of shivers, up and down Caipora’s spine, wrung a deep growl from the depths of his soul.
Pleasure so intense that it bordered on pain, lingering there on the cusp of a powerful orgasm, Caipora lifted his hips, tried to convey his need when words failed him, and just when he thought that he couldn’t take any more, Anhanguera opened his lips, drew him back in, swallowing his cock so deep, so incredibly deep, that he could feel the dragon-fish-youkai’s swollen lips against his engorged and agonizingly tight balls.
Throwing his head back, unleashing a cry that echoed in the chamber around them, Caipora lifted his hips hard, his orgasm swallowed as fast as he came. The pulsations seemed to go on forever, beat after beat, unleashing a steady stream of come as he rasped out harsh breaths, as he implored God and the devil and every entity in between, unsure whether he wanted his pleasure to go on or to stop. Anhanguera drank it down until Caipora felt as though he were wrung dry—spent—and yet . . .
Lifting his head, Anhanguera smiled at him, and Caipora blinked, tried to grasp just what had happened—what was still happening . . .
And why he wanted so much more . . .
== == == == == == == == == ==
MiReinaPura ——— xSerenityx020
WhisperingWolf ——— Monsterkittie
AvinPhi ——— cutechick18 ——— lovethedogs
Final Thought from Anhanguera:
Narrowing his eyes as the girl fidgeted before him, he crossed his arms over his chest and slowly shook his head. “Lift your chin,” he ordered. She did, albeit, reluctantly. He scanned her face carefully for several seconds. “Arms up.”
She did as he commanded.
She did that, too.
He finally nodded. “All right,” he allowed, satisfied that nothing bad had happened to her during his absence. “As you were.”
She let her arms drop back to her sides. “Would you like a bath, Master?”
He shook his head. “No, but since you look fine, am I to assume that the kitchen slaves were nice to you?”
She shuffled her feet. He’d thought before that it was a nervous quirk. He was starting to wonder, however, if she weren’t just that fidgety. “They didn’t beat me,” she replied.
He figured that was good enough. He turned to say something to her, but stopped, sniffing once, then again as he crossed his arms over his chest and quirked an eyebrow at her. “Tell me why you reek,” he demanded dryly.
The girl scrunched up her shoulders. “I . . . I don’t like the bathhouse, Master,” she whispered.
He rolled his eyes. She didn’t see it. “And why don’t you like the bathhouse, Five?”
She grimaced. He only saw a trace of it, but he felt it more in her youki. “It hurts,” she grumbled, then quickly shook her head. “Um . . . it hurts, Master.”
He made a face, shook his head. “The scrubbing, you mean?”
She nodded miserably.
He sighed. “And you’re telling me that you’ve avoided the bathhouse since you arrived here?”
She nodded again, this time, having the grace to at least pretend as though she were contrite for the gross oversight.
Common sense told him that he ought to send her to the bathhouse right now. Watching her slumped shoulders, her obvious distress at the idea of being made to endure those scrubbings, especially when those same things were still so horribly fresh in his own mind, he sighed again. “All right. Go draw yourself a bath,” he said, jerking his head toward the bathing area of his room. “You can take one in here this time, but you’re going to get used to the bathhouse sooner or later.”
She shot him an incredulous look before she remembered that she was not supposed to look him in the eye unless instructed to do so. Before he could reprimand her, however, she took off toward the bathing area, and Caipora pivoted on his heel, moments before he actually smiled. It wasn’t a big smile—was just a trace. It was more than he done in a very long time . . .
He waited until he heard the water taps shut off before following her into the bath area. She was standing in the bath tub, using one of the pristine white cloths to lather herself well, and he knelt on the edge, leaning forward to pluck the cloth out of her hand. “M-Master?” she squeaked, whirling around to face him, looking like she expected to be punished for whatever she must have done wrong.
“Turn around,” he told her. “You can’t reach your back, now can you?”
She did as he instructed, pulling her hair over her shoulder, twisting it around and around while she waited for him to finish scrubbing her back.
He finished and handed her back the cloth and was about to get up, to leave her there, until he realized that she probably couldn’t wash her hair without help, too. So, he helped her with that before dumping a bucket of clean water over her head. She gasped and sputtered, rubbing her eyes with balled-up fists. Satisfied that she was finally clean, however, he dried his hands and braced himself on his knees to push himself to his feet once more. “Clean out the tub when you’re finished,” he told her. “Next time, you’re using the bathhouse.”
“Y-Yes, Master,” she said, drawing a deep breath before sinking under the water to rinse herself clean.
Shaking his head as he strode out of the bathing area, he grabbed the leger off the desk and moved over to the sofa to scribble down the morning’s training notes.
They’d gotten back to the mansion around nine, and he’d strode away to resume his duties before Domajin could get any weird ideas in his head, though Caipora didn’t even try delude himself into believing that he wasn’t going to be summoned when the night came. He knew it from the time he’d stepped out of Anhanguera’s mansion with his own clothing on. Everything had seemed fine as he’d strode toward the helicopter—at least, it was until Anhanguera had stepped up to see them off, pulling Caipora aside, locking him into a ridiculously wanton kiss that had left Caipora with the boner from hell and that had set Domajin’s ire, spiraling thick and ugly . . .
That rage had only grown and festered on the trip home. Blindfolded and headphoned again for the return trip didn’t matter. Caipora had felt the malignance in Domajin’s youki multiply and spread.
That kiss . . .
He’d tried not to think about it on the flight back to the Virgin House. He was trying not to think about a lot of things. The mind-numbing blow jobs, the lingering kisses . . . the whispered endearments and caresses that had gone on all night long as Anhanguera had touched him—soft, fleeing touches . . .
And yet, aside from the blow jobs, there hadn’t been anything else, and Caipora wasn’t sure if he were more angry or disappointed that Anhanguera had been good on his word. By the time the morning had broken, Caipora was a raw bundle of nerves with swollen lips and balls so tight, so painful, that he thought that he was going to die . . .
So, he’d spent a good hour in the shower, jacking off over and over again, hating himself for feeling disappointed that his choice in the matter hadn’t been taken away; hating himself for being unable to swallow his pride and ask for what he’d so desperately wanted—needed . . .
He’d just gotten himself back under control as it was when he’d headed for the helicopter, and that stunning, shameless kiss had very nearly brought him to his knees . . .
It wasn’t until they had lifted off, were flying away from the undisclosed island that bitter realization surged over him, left him feeling empty and raw and . . . and angry as hell . . .
Anhanguera . . . Somehow, in those hours of his lust-induced stupor, he’d managed to forget, hadn’t he? Anhanguera was the one man he was sworn to bring down, and if he wanted to put an end to the slave organization . . .
He’d have to kill him.
685482 keened softly, trying to keep from uttering too many noises as she rocked against Caipora’s cock. He sat without moving, slumped back slightly in the comfortable chair in the clinically empty room that he used for these training sessions. Her body seemed to undulate around him as she bounced on him, taking him in deep with every grind of ass against hips. When she started to whimper, he reached up, hand on her throat in silent warning, and she choked the sounds down.
“Longer strokes—deeper strokes,” he said, his voice little more than a monotone.
685482 complied immediately, altering her efforts, and he gritted his teeth, willing himself not to come yet. Her harsh breathing echoed in his ears, and he tried to block that out, too. Trying desperately, not to think about the night before, about the things that did and did not happen, wasn’t helping, and it seemed like the more he tried not to remember, the sharper those memories became.
With a grunt, a groan, he yanked her down hard, coming in her with an uncanny force. Her body constricted around him, pumping him, draining him completely as the moisture from her virgin pussy smeared against him.
He let her stay where she was for a few precious seconds before gently but firmly pushing her off. She staggered just a little before catching herself, and she was still breathing deeply when she poured water into the basin to clean him.
Off to the side, 435578—an earth-youkai that had already had a turn—sighed. Caipora noticed that the scent of her arousal had yet to subside, but he chose to ignore it.
“Bathhouse,” he told the two girls— 435578 and 685482. They gathered the basin and the wash bowl as well as the soiled cloths and filed out of the room. 435578 shot him one last, long look before she left, and he sighed. “You all: kitchen,” he commanded at the novice girls who were sitting along the wall in silence. Five was one of them, but she filed out behind the others without a sound. It was almost time for them to deliver the trays of food to the collective masters’ rooms—which meant that Caipora likely didn’t have much time before Domajin summoned him for whatever perversities he had in mind for the evening.
Yanking his pants on, he glanced in the small mirror on the wall, frowning when he spotted the overmaster, lingering just outside the doorway. He’d been watching the session, which wasn’t exactly unusual. That he’d apparently opted to do so from the shadows, however, was . . . Their eyes met for a brief moment in the reflection of the mirror. Then Domajin turned on his heel and moved away.
Caipora frowned at the overmaster’s rather odd reaction. He didn’t care to sit there and analyze it, though, and he left the room, pulling his shirt on as he headed for the stairs.
Truthfully, after the last couple days and training today, Caipora really didn’t want much more than food and his bed . . .
He’d just reached the sanctity of his bedroom when Five hurried in with his dinner tray.
“Did you make that?” he asked pointedly since he’d instructed her as well as the kitchen staff that only she was to make his tray and that only she was allowed to bring it to him. It saved him a good amount of worry on that front.
Five nodded. “Yes, Master.”
“Good,” he said, flopping down on the sofa as she set the tray down and started to unload the various plates. Plain rice . . . a bowl of very fragrant and hearty pork stew . . . a bowl of fresh, green salad . . . a few other small things, and a sealed bottle of cachaça . . . Standard fare.
He made quick work of devouring his meal and drinking the entire bottle of booze. Given that he hadn’t had much, aside from a few bites of food and a couple handfuls of grapes in the last couple days, it wasn’t surprising that he was damned near starving. By the time he was finished, he felt much better than he had all day, and that was a plus. He was also feeling pleasantly drowsy, though he didn’t dare lay down yet. The drink, he reasoned, would help him to cope with Domajin later, and, given his current state of mind, that was probably for the best, too.
Five gathered up the dishes, set the back on the tray, and shuffled out of the room to take them back to the kitchen. Watching her go, he frowned, tugging the whip from his belt, pulling off his shirt and emptying his pockets on the desk before sitting down to remove his boots and socks. Considering what he knew was inevitable, it was easier to leave these things here.
He needed to sneak down to the cove soon—needed to take a scent tab before the effects of the last one wore off. He didn’t dare chance it now, but it was something he couldn’t afford to neglect, either. With any luck, Domajin would get all of it out of his system tonight, and maybe, despite the idea that he really, really hated it, Caipora might do well to eat a slice of humble pie and just go along with whatever twisted scenarios that the overmaster might have in his head just to get it over and done with sooner rather than later . . .
When the curt knock came on the door less than ten minutes later, though, he wasn’t at all surprised. Striding through the bedroom and into the antechamber, he let out a deep breath, knowing in his gut, just what was awaiting him . . .
Gritting his teeth, wishing that he could go back in time, could have warned himself about the stupidity of showing the overmasters the true abilities of The Rack, Caipora ground his teeth together as Domajin used the swinging motion to drive his dick into Caipora’s ass harder and faster than he ever had before. Uttering a low groan caused more by the jarring thumps as his body wrecked against Domajin’s than because of any misplaced sense of pleasure, the overmaster chuckled nastily.
“This is better than that old, flaccid bastard, isn’t it?” he muttered, yellow eyes glowing with an almost manic kind of light. “I’m not going to stop till you scream—till you yell at the top of your fucking lungs that you love—my—cock!”
Wincing despite the effort not to do so since the last words of Domajin’s statement were punctuated by bone-jarring thrusts, Caipora stubbornly refused to open his mouth, refused to acquiesce to the bastard. On his back, as it were, he could feel every nuance of the overmaster’s movements so much more intensely than he ever had before. This position, however, also made something else entirely possible—something that Caipora had already come to despise in the brief time that he’d experienced it so far: Domajin could easily reach Caipora’s cock, too, and his flesh burn that felt like sandpaper on the sensitive skin was damn near killing him. As if he could read his thoughts, though, the miserable bastard leaned forward, rubbed his hand in a viscous glob of come, grasping Caipora’s dick once more, jacking him off with a furious abandon that hovered somewhere in the veil between pleasure and torture, but the added fluidity of it after so long of the pain side of it being so magnified, was horrifying—and so, so welcome . . .
Yet despite that—or maybe because of it?—Caipora had come more than he ever had before, which, in turn only fed the fires of Domajin’s already overinflated ego. Damned if his body didn’t crave the release as he grunted, moaned, his own orgasm, splashing down on his chest, his stomach—his face.
“Beautiful Caipora . . . even more beautiful, covered in come,” Domajin murmured, his voice a throaty rasp, his hands rubbing over his body—as much of it as he could reach—with a ghastly sort of tenderness. Seconds later, he growled, hissed, rutted hard, blowing even more semen, deep inside Caipora.
And still, he showed no sign of stopping, grasping Caipora’s legs to stop the rocking, pistoning him away and back again with his arms. “You love my dick!” he snarled like he was trying to dictate Caipora’s emotions, claws digging into his legs. “Say it, damn you!”
Caipora grimaced and tried to block out the pain, tried to ignore the uncomfortable pressure in his bowels that had taken about as much as they possibly could without some sort of reprieve. He still refused to speak. Somewhere along the line, it had become a battle of wills—a battle that Caipora refused to concede . . . Retreating once more into the memories of the night before, where he’d found a level of fantasy, Caipora concentrated on the kisses, the touches, the caresses that he’d loved and, in turn, loathed.
Nibbling kisses, along his collarbones, down the vale in the middle of his chest . . . the scrape of dangerously sharp teeth . . . the shivers and sighs and moans as every nerve in his body seemed to swell and to shatter . . . Anhanguera had no reservations, held nothing back as he went down on him, time and again in the night. Kissing, stroking, the velvet feel of his tongue on Caipora’s cock, over and over again . . . and he’d so desperately wanted to say those words—the invitation that Anhanguera had desired . . . but it was the last shred of dignity, the very last of his pride that he clung to, instead—a small victory when, for the first time ever, he’d wanted the utter and complete violation, the violent orgasms that he’d only found in the arms of men . . .
Rising up, kissing him so deeply, the taste of his own semen, thick in Anhanguera’s mouth, on his lips, his teeth, his tongue, and that had only served to feed the passion, the need . . . Rolling him over, pinning him against the mattress of the huge bed, Caipora had kissed his way down Anhanguera’s dark body, savoring the hard planes, the rough but sleek skin—the vague taste of salt, lingering on his tongue . . . Anhanguera’s harsh breathing, his near-panting as Caipora drew in him completely, fucking him with long and slow strokes—rhythmic, controlled—fondling his balls in a gentle hand . . . Feeling them tighten as his nearly purple cock, the dusty, darkened pinkness of his penis head thickened between his lips at the same time . . .
He felt Anhanguera’s orgasm rise up through his shaft, moaned in pleasure as his mouth filled with the hot gush. The bitterness was tempered by the spiraling passion that goaded him as he swallowed once, twice, as he kept on fucking, his only thought, his only goal, to hear his name, tumble from Anhanguera’s lips . . .
“Ah, my Caipora . . . You’ve learned your lessons well . . .” Anhanguera purred, reaching out, stroking his cheek with gentle fingers.
His answer was a renewed effort, a frenzy in his fucking as he drew him in as deeply as he could . . .
Caipora felt himself coming again, sprays of semen burning his skin, dripping down the head of his dick, down his shaft onto his balls, sprays dribbling onto his chest, his stomach, falling onto the marble floor with splattering noises that echoed in his ears . . . The same come that Anhanguera had devoured with a voracity that shocked him—thrilled him . . .
Domajin’s frenetic laughter snapped him out of his mental space. “Tell me! You want me, not that old freak! The next time you see him, you’ll tell him you don’t want him! You tell him that or I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you right now! Do you hear me?”
Caipora said nothing, retained his stubborn silence despite the warning whispers in his mind: the ones who told him that he was treading on very thin ice . . .
“Say it!” he screeched, letting go of one leg in favor of lunging forward, grasping him by the throat, his claws digging in deep.
Caipora choked, feeling his blood, dripping down his skin around those claws as they dug a little deeper. A red haze started to bleed into the ring of his vision as the light dimmed slightly, as he gasped and wheezed—and just as the thought that he was about to die registered in his fogged mind, he shivered, shook, convulsed as another orgasm—an intense and painful release—shot out of him with a force he’d never felt before—an all-consuming-might that blocked out the claws that were slowly choking the life out of him . . .
Gasping suddenly, dragging in as much air as he could when those claws abruptly released, Caipora couldn’t control the harsh and rasping near-wheezing as he struggled to breathe.
Domajin stepped back, his dick springing free, and suddenly, he was there, leaning over him, stroking his cheeks with trembling fingers . . .
“You stupid little fuck! Look what you almost made me do! I would have killed you—killed you! But no, you couldn’t just say what I wanted you to say!” he snarled, his voice, his tone, completely at odds with the oddly tender way he was touching him.
Caipora managed to pin the overmaster with a reproachful glower as late coughing rattled through him, forcing the dripping from his ass to shoot out in torrential falls with every cough contraction. He didn’t care. He was past the point of humiliation. Whether Domajin realized that he’d pushed his game just a little too far or if he really did understand that he’d very nearly lost control completely, Caipora didn’t know and didn’t rightfully give a great goddamn, either.
As long as he was finished, then Caipora didn’t care about a thing . . .
Leaning against the wall, feeling the cool stone beneath his temple, breathing still labored and painful, throat aching like something had been crushed, even though he knew better, he couldn’t quite muster the energy to open his door.
He was just bone tired—a weariness—an exhaustion—that had been building over the last eight-plus years, and sometimes, it was easier to deal with—to ignore—than at others.
Grabbing him by the arm, yanking him around to face him, the overmaster glowered at him. “Don’t make me do something like this again, Caipora . . . You will tell Anhanguera that you will not be his pawn,” Domajin hissed, pinning him with what should have been an intimidating look. To Caipora, it reminded him of a petulant child who hadn’t gotten his way. “And whatever you’ve been doing during training with those virgins? Watch yourself.”
“During . . .? What the fuck are you talking about now?” Caipora snapped, voice barely more than a rasping whisper, well past his point of diplomacy for the night.
Lip curling back in a snide sneer, Domajin chuckled nastily. “They’re hot for you. You don’t know? So, whatever you’re doing to encourage it—stop it. If you ruin them, it’ll be the last thing you do . . .” Reaching out, slowly stroking Caipora’s face, his cheek, a look of mock devotion that made Caipora’s stomach churn . . . “Don’t make me kill you, Caipora . . . Or, what did Garza call you? Diego . . .”
He sighed, rubbing his face, noticing absently, just how shaky he really was. Nerves shot, done with that crazy bastard . . . He didn’t know where Domajin was getting his delusions, but it only put more pressure on him. He hadn’t been doing a thing with those virgins—nothing but training them like he had every other one that had come before. As far as he was concerned, Domajin was teetering on the edge between arrogance and insanity, and it was a very precarious place to be . . .
Ludicrous, if the overmaster truly believed that he’d done a thing to draw attention from any of the virgins, anyway. They were nothing but a task to complete: a box on a form that needed to be checked. Little more than afterthoughts, weren’t they? And yet . . .
And yet, that shouldn’t be, either. Wincing as another thought occurred to him, he closed his eyes for a moment. Those virgins—those girls—those slaves . . . They were the reason he was here, weren’t they? They were the souls that he was trying to save. So, why was it so easy to forget them—to scoff and to scorn them for things that they’d learned in their lifetimes of mistreatment? Why was it that he simply spared them no thoughts? Dismissing them as quickly as the lessons were over, thinking of them only when they stood before him . . .
It could be as simple as the idea that, even back in his prior life, girls like these shy, timid creatures, held no fascination for him. He’d always preferred girls who knew who they were, what they wanted, and the ones here were the polar opposite, no matter what camp you were in, no matter how you tried to spin it. The women here were cowed into submission—the male slaves were, too, for that matter, though in an entirely different way. The males were trained in a much different fashion—much more brutality, much more force. Either way, they were all used to a life of being abused and mistreated, the spirit had been beaten out of them well before they were even old enough to leave the Isle of Children . . .
Letting out a deep breath, he pushed himself away from the door frame. As much as he wanted a bath, he wasn’t willing to wait for one to be filled. The need to get some much-needed sleep superseded the filth he wore. Come, puke, shit, piss . . . at some point, it all ended up on him . . .
The antechamber was empty, and he scowled. The tiny pallet on the floor was arranged neatly with her one blanket stretched out and turned down, but Five . . .?
Striding across the antechamber—he hadn’t realized he could move that fast right now—he threw open the bedroom door. The girl was in the middle of turning down his bedclothes, and the resounding thud of the door hitting the wall and bouncing back startled her.
Jumping back, she shot him a wild-eyed look, instantly dropping the pillow she’d been fluffing up, chin smacking down against her chest, arms snapping down against her sides, she waited wordlessly.
Late worry made him clutch at the wall, leaning heavily against it for a moment before pushing himself away, staggering the few feet of space between it and the high backed wooden chair nearby, he let out a deep breath and scowled at her. “Why aren’t you in your bed?” he snapped, his flare of temper having more to do with the instant and intense worry that she’d somehow disappeared.
“I . . . I made you a bath, Master . . . I woke up, and you weren’t back, so, I—”
He grimaced. “Slow down, Five,” he chided. “A bath, you say?”
He didn’t wait to hear more. Stumbling off to the bath area, he didn’t stop as he stepped into the pool and sank down. He was in such a hurry to get out of the overmaster’s chambers that he’d forgotten to grab his pants. Then again, he wasn’t about to go back in there to retrieve them, and he’d emptied his pockets, left the whip he always carried here in his room before he’d opened the door. The loss of a pair of jeans? Negligible, as far as he was concerned.
The quiet splash of water drew his attention, and he glanced over his shoulder in time to watch as Five very carefully damped a washcloth in the small bowl she’d set aside for such things. She was in the water with him, ready to wash him down. He leaned forward, allowed her to carefully scrub his back. The motion untwisted a knot deep in his muscles, and he groaned softly.
“I’m sorry!” she blurted, misinterpreting his reaction. “I’m sorry, Master!”
“You’re fine,” he assured her, letting his head fall back, allowing her to wet his hair down to wash it. Her tiny fingers were infinitely gentle, and when he sighed softly, she slowed her movements, as though she realized that he was deriving some measure of pleasure from her careful ministrations.
“Master?” she asked at length. He could tell from the tone of her voice that she’d had to gather her scattered courage to force herself to speak at all.
“They . . . They say you’re the overmaster’s pet. What . . .? What does that mean . . .? Is it because you’re a dog-youkai?”
“Wha . . .? Uh, no,” he replied. “Who said that?”
She looked distinctly nervous about being put on the spot like that. “Just, umm . . . The other masters,” she blurted quickly. “I . . . I don’t know their names . . .”
He made a face, sat up as he turned to look at her. “It just means that the overmaster . . . likes to make me play his games.”
His explanation only seemed to confuse her more. “But I thought games were supposed to be fun,” she ventured. “But you don’t sound like you think they are—Master.”
He grunted. “Five, some people in this word enjoy using or . . . or hurting other people. Ones who do that are bad . . .”
She frowned, her eyebrows drawing together, wrinkling her little nose. “Then the overmaster is . . . is bad . . .?”
“No, the overmaster is . . . He’s just selfish, and selfish people do really . . . hurtful things . . .”
She seemed to understand that well enough, and she took her time, lathering up a fresh cloth so that she could scrub the rest of him. She worked in silence for several minutes, but he could tell from the expression on her face that she was thinking.
“All right, what is it?” he finally demanded, but his tone was gentle, soft—maybe softer than he’d meant for it to be.
She shot him a quick glance, a nervous kind of look. “If you’re his pet, does he hurt you?”
He looked away, unable to help the way his expression darkened, the impassive anger that filtered into his thoughts. “No, Five . . . He . . . He cannot hurt me . . .”
== == == == == == == == == ==
Monsterkittie ——— Bonnie ——— TheWonderfulShoe
Nate Grey ——— lovethedogs ——— curechick18
Final Thought from Five:
The overmaster’s … pet …?
“Master? What are they doing?”
Glancing down at the overly-inquisitive slave girl standing next to him on the balcony, he followed the direction of her gaze to the wild revelry that was already underway, even if it was a little early for the onset of the Saturday night festivities. Not for the first time, he wondered if allowing her to speak more than the other slaves was a good thing. She seemed to realize that she shouldn’t do that with any of the other masters, so he supposed it was all right. Even so, there were moments when her natural curiosity wasn’t exactly a good thing, and right now was one of those times.
“Do you remember when I told you that you’re not to leave this room on Saturday nights?” he asked her.
“Those masters down there . . . They’re getting drunk, and when masters get drunk, they tend to get stupid, too. Chances are that they wouldn’t do anything to you, but if you went down there, you’d probably see things that you wouldn’t understand, either.”
She shot him a probing kind of look that he felt more than saw since he was still frowning at the unfolding debacle. “But if you were with me, then they wouldn’t touch me, right, Master?”
“I’m not taking you anywhere near them,” he told her flatly, curtly. “Not now, not ever. You’ll stay away from it or I will beat you with the whip. The things they do there aren’t for tiny slave girls, understood?”
She frowned, trying to figure out how serious his threat really was, he supposed. He could see the question before it came out of her mouth, and he wasn’t at all surprised when she voiced it, too. “Like what, Master?”
“What part of, ‘things you wouldn’t understand,’ did you not get, Five?” he countered, holding up his index and middle fingers on both hands to affect the air quotes at her. She had the nerve to giggle at him, and he snorted. “You’re not allowed to giggle at your master, either,” he informed her.
She blinked, her pale blue eyes staring up at him in the filmy darkness. “I’m not?”
He sighed. It occurred to him that he really wasn’t very good at arguing with her. “No,” he said, trying to look stern. “You’re not.”
Her little face scrunched up in an exaggerated show of trying not to be amused, and he rolled his eyes. “Forget it.”
“Forget what, Master?”
He sighed again. “Just don’t make a habit out of laughing at your master,” he said.
She giggled again. He slowly shook his head. “All right. Your work’s done for the day. Turn down my bed and go find yours.”
The giggle turned into a distinct pout. “I’m not sleepy, Master . . . Can you . . .? Would you . . . tell me the story about the puppies again?”
Glancing at the desk—the unfinished letter than he needed to complete soon, Caipora slowly shook his head. “Not tonight, Five. I’ve got some things I have to do—and I told you then, it’s not my job to entertain you. You should be entertaining me—showing me what you’ve learned in your lessons. Stuff like that.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like to dance,” she complained. “Master’s mean, too . . . If I can’t get the steps right, he smacks me with the flail.”
Though it was a common enough punishment for small trespasses, the idea that the person in charge of Five’s lessons would take a lash to her, even a small one, bothered him. “Get it right next time, and he won’t do that,” Caipora said instead, tamping down the irritation—and the desire to find her dance master and smack him with a flail a time or ten . . .
She considered her options and tried to give him her most pathetic look. “I’ll go to bed,” she slowly drawled, an obvious attempt to play on his sympathies. He could tell from her tone that she was hoping that he’d relent—probably because he’d done it before, and he might have this time if he didn’t have to finish that letter—and didn’t have to sneak out to meet with the agent again . . .
She turned down his bed then gave The Look one last shot. He crossed his arms over his chest and slowly shook his head no. So, she heaved a very dramatic sighed and shuffled out of the room.
He managed to wait until she closed the door before he broke into the barest hint of a smile. ‘Precocious’ didn’t even begin to describe her, and, not for the first time, he had to wonder, just what her life might have been had she not ended up in the Isle of Children camp . . .
Then he strode over to the desk and sat down, reaching for the pen as he considered exactly what he needed to say. There wasn’t much to update. Mostly it was just to reassure St. George that he was still alive and to send along another short video card that he’d managed to compile here and there whenever time and opportunity coincided, which wasn’t very often, at all.
It had already been six months since the last correspondence was sent—six months since he’d met with the agent in the cove. Many things had happened in those six months, and yet . . .
And yet, not much had changed, either . . .
The only thing that Caipora had really noticed was the ferocity of those who had foolishly thought to dominate him had steadily increased. The attacks weren’t really occurring more frequently, but the last few times, they had been in groups of two, which hadn’t actually made much of a difference. The only change in the outcomes were the discovery of two poor fools in the morning instead of just one since he usually left them, trussed up with their own whips, naked, bleeding and crying by the time he was finished. During a few of those hapless attacks, he’d spotted Domajin, lingering in windows and doorways, watching the whole thing, and he was invariably summoned the next evening, subjected to more fucking since watching just didn’t seem to be the overmaster’s style . . .
But Domajin had also taken to sitting in on Caipora’s training session with the virgins. He said nothing at all, just sat in the back of the room, watching, always watching. More than once, Caipora had realized that certain virgins seemed to be a little more into the lessons than others. There wasn’t much that he could do about it. It should have been quite obvious to the demented overmaster that Caipora wasn’t doing a thing to encourage them, and really, he had no control over them—not in that way, anyway . . . Domajin seemed to believe otherwise, though, which made their encounters even more unpleasant than usual . . .
On the plus side, he hadn’t been summoned to Domajin’s den of iniquity for a few weeks. On the other? He had a feeling that the late summons was coming the very next time he managed to draw the overmaster’s ridiculously watchful eye . . .
And then, there was Five . . .
He wasn’t sure when he’d allowed her to start speaking out of turn. He supposed that it might have started that night, when she’d greeted him with a bath after Domajin’s attempt to strangle him. It started gradually enough: a curious question here and there. Now, however, the little girl had no qualms at all in asking him anything and everything, and, as long as they were in the privacy of his room, he allowed it. Maybe he shouldn’t. He really should have stopped it before it became a thing.
Still . . .
Something about her—about her quiet sense of wonder, even knowing that she was, quite literally, doomed to a life of misery and servitude, of being used and abused by those who perceived themselves to be her betters . . . She . . . She reminded him of a time and a place that he . . .
‘Don’t think about that.’
Gritting his teeth as he deliberately slammed the door on those particular thoughts, Caipora scrawled a few lines onto the paper—nonsense about being fine, not to worry, that he was still making steady progress, that it was all a matter of time and soon enough . . . He winced.
It was all lies.
Time, however, was an interesting thing. It had a habit of putting things into better context, allowed a certain level of circumspect reflection. He’d discovered that over his years of service to the organization—years that originally, he’d so arrogantly thought would be, at most, a few months. A few months, he had though, he’d been convinced—was all it would take him to infiltrate and destroy, to bring freedom to the masses, to right the wrongs, the terrible injustices that they had been made to suffer . . . And what a fool he had been at that time—an idealistic, naïve little fool . . . But that same sense of time had given him more ability to discern things, too, a sense of removal that allowed him to think, to process, and ultimately, to formulate an action plan on how to deal with certain things . . .
Things like that night with Anhanguera . . .
He was the enemy, plain and simple. If Caipora wanted to bring the whole operation, crashing down to the ground, Anhanguera was the key—the kingpin, as it were. He could not afford to allow his judgement to be clouded by that man—that devil. He’d worked too long, sacrificed too much of himself, to allow it all to fall away because of some imaginary connection that was forged in the fiery bowels of hell . . . What happened that night never should have, and he knew that, too. It only happened, he concluded, because of the instability of his mind that night—the minor concussion, the emotional drain he’d been living in for so long. For that matter, he still existed there, and more and more often, he’d come to realize that there were precious few times when he really, truly felt alive . . . Those times? When he was dominating some ignorant fool who tried to get the jump on him . . . and when he was alone with Five . . .
Staring across the short distance that separated them, he said nothing as he stared at the being—the agent—that had been sent this time. He wasn’t sure why it surprised him. Surely if he’d thought about it, he’d have realized that it would eventually come to this. Unable to find the words that filled his head but would not leave his mouth, he sighed, his gaze dropping off to the side, at the whispering tide that floated in and out of the small cavern.
“Your family . . . They miss you,” he said, the commanding lilt of his voice, purposefully subdued. Standing with his back to the sea, outlined in the generous light of a very full moon, he seemed to glow like some kind of vengeful angel, and the only feature of his face that Caipora could make out were the unnaturally illuminated eyes that did not leave his face, even after his own gaze had fallen away.
“They . . . They’re well?”
He gave one slow nod. “As well as can be expected when a piece of their heart is missing.”
Grinding his teeth together, willing away the bone-deep ache inspired by his words, Caipora opted to ignore that, digging the scroll out of his pocket along with the tiny video card and holding them out. “Saturdays are dangerous,” he said. “You, um . . . You need to go.”
He reached out, took the scroll and card, stowed them in his inner breast pocket before holding out the small vial of pills. Caipora reached for it, but he was faster, grasping Caipora’s wrist, smashing his index and middle fingers against the soft flesh just above the joint. A searing pain erupted as a flash of green light filled the cavern. Jerking his arm away with a sharp hiss, smashing his hand over the burn, he gasped, grimaced, sank to his knees as he furiously tried to control his mind, to will away the residual pain.
“You know what to do,” he said, his voice the same calm, quiet, yet no less commanding tone. Leaning down, he tucked the bottle of pills into his pocket, and when he slowly straightened his back, he let his fingertips drag over Caipora’s cheek, just for a moment.
And then, he was gone.
Grimacing as he stumbled to his feet, Caipora shook his hand that still burned, tingled, digging the bottle of pills out with the uninjured limb. Opening and closing his fist a few times as the last of the sting faded, he let out a deep breath and made quick, if not slightly clumsy, work of shaking out a pill and swallowing it. Then he hid the bottle under the boulder and hunkered down, scooping up a few handfuls of water to rinse his face. After a couple splashes, he let his hands dangle between his spread knees, scowling at his reflection on the distorted surface. A black figure, barely discernable against a blackened cave . . . the shimmer of moonlight that came close on the water, but did not touch him. Close, but not nearly enough to save him . . .
The irony of the thought, of the image, was enough to make him grimace. He’d already thought that so many times before, but something about the reflection . . . It drove it home in such a horrible and painful . . . and final . . . way . . .
Turning his arm over, holding it down to catch the light, he wasn’t at all surprised to see that there was nothing at all, visible to the naked eye. There didn’t have to be, Caipora knew. ‘He . . . He did it . . .’
Pushing himself to his feet, he slipped out of the cavern and into the night once more. Sticking as close to the darkest shadows as he could, he made the return trip to the compound. By the time he slipped into the crowd of enforcers and trainers—most of them, already inebriated beyond what was wise, in Caipora’s estimation—his arm had stopped throbbing even if he still hadn’t quite shaken off the overwhelming sense of loss inspired by his reflection on the water.
Slipping out of the trees that surrounded the open field on the outer reaches of the light cast by the huge bonfire in the center of the yard. Built high, built wide, that fire would burn well into the morning—or until someone was made to put it out. Over near the portico were coolers and tables, set with booze, with some food—a weekly gift from Anhanguera, and, not for the first time, Caipora wondered if he knew that things like that only served to fuel the wanton, the wild, the frenetic displays that were the hallmark of the Saturday night debacle . . .
Just after he’d arrived at the Virgin House, a couple of female slaves—kitchen staff, he’d heard later—had inadvertently ventured outside just after the merriment had commenced. It was a little earlier than they normally got started, but for those slaves . . .
They’d spent the night, being passed from man to man. Their initial fear had shifted into passion, but that passion was spent long before the men were finished with them. In the morning when he’d woken up, stepped outside of the bathhouse, he saw their bodies, discarded in the yard like they were nothing at all, left near the still-smoldering bonfire, their bodies askew, every orifice violated in every way possible . . .
He started to skirt around the gathering, trying to block out the underlying thrum that was so incredibly hard to ignore. It felt like a heartbeat, punctuated by someone’s stereo speakers, hooked up over on those tables, steadily blaring out hot, heavy music as full of aggression and raw anger as the air around him. He knew from experience that the magnetic draw was hard to resist, even from the distance of the balcony of his room. There had been many Saturday nights when he’d been drawn outside, only to stand there, watching the games below, feeling the seduction of so many bodies as anger and aggression had shifted and grown into something frightening yet wholly captivating. He’d stood there, hands gripping the railing or claws, digging into the hardened wood—or, if he were feeling particularly weak against the onslaught of the senses, with his cock in his hands . . .
He’d known that leaving his room tonight was not a good idea. Being this close to the madness was too compelling, too inebriating, even without adding booze to the mix. No, it had more to do with all the bodies, all the men in attendance. Somehow, the overriding excitement, anticipation—unspent passion—melded together, spun an invisible web of misplaced and overblown arrogance, even as it stripped away layers of convention, the innate knowledge of right and wrong, leaving behind a raw lust with no real outlet except to turn on one another as their games meant to establish their dominance became something baser, headier, and far more persuasive.
The smells that colored the air, though, seemed to reverberate in his head. All manner of ugly things lived here Saturday nights, and the malignant draw of those things seemed to thunder through Caipora’s body, up from the ground up as the reek of come, of blood, of other visceral odors unleashed the ache for those base taboos—the things that he inherently struggled to deny . . . It didn’t help that he was surrounded by naked men. It wasn’t the men, per se, but the overwhelming draw on the will to dominate, to prove that he stood above them all. Nudity, however was an unwritten rule of this game. Why ruin clothing for a bit of sport? The booze flowed, the excitement was rife, and all around him was the lure—the ugly and seductive lure of the game . . .
The games had already degenerated beyond grudge matches and tests of strength and skills. It always did. What might start as a simple face-off between adversaries did not remain upon honorable grounds, not when drink and smoke and drugs fed that underlying tension, simply added to the mix. Something about the whole thing . . . Maybe it was just the nature of the entire operation, like a level of civility had been stripped away, and the longer one stayed, the more bestial one became until the very idea of things like domination, submission, got dragged into the mix in a disturbingly high level of reactionary inhibition . . .
A loud cheer rose up around him as one combatant in the center of the makeshift ring wrestled the other to the ground, as a grunt and a moan, the scent of passion and dominance filled the air with an allure to him that Caipora fought against. The tang of fresh sweat, the panting and groaning that rang in his ears, the dark draw wrapped around him so tightly that he could feel his pulse rising, his breath growing shallower, harsher, his cock stirring as the blood in his body flowed hot . . .
The dominated enforcer threw his head back, unleashing a guttural scream, body shaking, muscles taut, quivering as he gave himself up to absolute pleasure, his semen squirting onto the sand. The one riding him laughed as he basked in his triumph, fucking him harder, faster, deeper. Caipora watched, unable to move, as though he were being held, spellbound, as he felt his cock thicken, harden, straining against the confines of his jeans . . . The ignoble truth of it all hit him in the face. He didn’t avoid these things because he didn’t want to be threatened. He avoided them because if he didn’t . . .
Hands suddenly latching onto him as the others around him drew away, a cheer rising up as another match started over on the other side of the fire, Caipora hit the ground hard as a blur of movement pummeled against the small of his back before he could roll over. Grunting loudly as the aggressor tore frantically at his pants, Caipora bucked his hips, managed to contort his arm far enough to grab a handful of cock and balls, and with a savage growl, he dealt them a vicious yank and twist.
His victim howled, falling to the side as Caipora shot to his feet, rage surging nearly out of his control as he kicked off his boots, shredded his own clothing in his haste to be rid of them. Falling onto the bastard who had tried to waylay him, he made quick work of flipping him over, face down in the sand, pulling his ass cheeks apart as he slammed himself into him, sheathing himself entirely as he threw his head back, unleashing a deafening shriek of unadulterated victory. The force of his thrust sent them both pitching forward.
A tiny flash of metal caught the corner of his vision as the man swung at him wildly. Catching the hand, wrenching the syringe full of something clear out of his grip, Caipora narrowed his eyes. The bastard had meant to dope him up?
Jamming the needle into the idiot’s spine, ignoring the agonized shriek as Caipora depressed the plunger, he leaned down, claws digging deep into his shoulder. “Trying to drug me, motherfucker?” he growled, ramming him harder, deeper, faster. “Is that the only way you could beat me?”
The man sobbed in earnest as Caipora leaned back, yanking the empty syringe free and tossing it away. He didn’t stop pumping him, either, grabbing the man’s hips, yanking his ass up as he kept hammering him with every bit of rage that consumed him. His reward was the sound of the bastard’s pained and fearful screaming as he pounded him, over and over again. Fucking him hard, deep, he ignored the pathetic pleas, the begging for mercy. Enraged that he would have the audacity to try to attack him from behind, that he would try to drug him, there was no finesse at all to his first orgasm—just an impatient need—the will to dominate—as he bashed him so hard that sprays of come shot out around his cock.
The would-be assailant tried to turn his body, waved a pathetic arm in a wild attempt to gain some kind of leverage for a second time. Caipora’s lips curled back in a vicious snarl as he caught the arm, twisted it, gave it a solid shove forward, up toward the poor bastard’s shoulder as Caipora pumped his ass—as the sound of shattering bone, the feel of the shoulder coming unseated, mingled with another scream of abject agony.
The voices around them congealed into a messy kind of buzz that Caipora summarily ignored. He felt the splatters on his back, raining down on his head—the others were getting off on the whole thing, jacking off, unleashing their come all over the two of them. He didn’t care as he fucked the nameless enforcer under him, who was still sobbing, whimpering, arm lying at sickening angle, limply on the ground, even as the bastard unloaded a pathetic orgasm into the sand below him.
A couple more thrusts, and Caipora growled, yanking the guy’s hips back as hard has he could, his orgasm coming in wave after painful wave—so much of it that it oozed out around his cock, dripping down the defeated one’s balls, disappearing into the thatch of dark and roughened hair. With one last grunt, one last thrust, he paused for just a moment before shoving the man away. He landed in a pitiful, sobbing heap.
It didn’t stop another one from jumping on him. The sobbing escalated as the newcomer penetrated him, humped him for all he was worth. Just as suddenly, the sobs cut off as someone else jammed his cock down the bastard’s throat.
Staggering to his feet, Caipora panted, wiping his face with his forearm as he slowly shifted his eyes around, silently daring anyone else to step forward. Someone shoved a fifth of whiskey into his hand. Caipora downed it without blinking before tossing the empty bottle aside. The flames of the bonfire in the center of the makeshift arena cast rollicking shadows, gamboling flickers of light, and still, no one stepped forward. Biting back his disappointment—yes, it was disappointment—he started to turn, to retrieve his boots.
“We’ll take you,” a voice called out—one that Caipora didn’t recognize. Turning his head, he frowned when he spotted the one who had spoken, standing across the ring of light. An elk-youkai, he realized. Beside him, another stepped forward—a mirror image of the first. Brothers, obviously—maybe even twins . . .
They weren’t huge by any means, just slightly shorter than Caipora. Bodies sleek, smooth like their animal kin, they slowly stepped toward him, moving away from one another, obviously trying to gain the upper hand.
The babble around them grew louder as bets were laid. Even the contenders who had been fighting, stopped to watch the unfolding drama. Caipora’s name was near legend here in this shameful place, and since he normally declined to participate in the Saturday night spectacles, it was a rare treat, of sorts.
Backing away as the laughter rose up—they thought he was retreating—Caipora ignored the hisses, the jeers since escape had not crossed his mind. The problem with those two—they were young, they were fit, and, if they were on this island, then they couldn’t possibly be ignorant of just what they were stepping into. Maybe they fell into the category of the foolish who thought they’d try to make a name for themselves in a hurry by challenging one that they really should stay away from. Whatever the reason, Caipora didn’t care. Reaching down, retrieving the shreds of his pants, he yanked his whip free and cracked it in the sand, sending up a huge cloud of dust.
Satisfied that Caipora wasn’t trying to escape, the crowd continued on, placing their bets, murmuring amongst themselves. The heat of the fire rose in waves, distorting the surroundings as the ring of men thickened, as they moved in closer from the other side of the fire, trying to gain a better view.
“Who are you?” Caipora demanded as they circled around him, looking for an opening.
“They’re pussy dance masters,” someone in the throng called out to a riot of laugher.
Caipora’s eyes flared wide, a flash of memory whispering in his ear.
“I don’t like to dance . . . Master’s mean, too . . . If I can’t get the steps right, he smacks me with the flail.”
The two lunged at him from opposite sides. The one who had issued the challenge managed to catch him, to knock him off his feet, slamming his hands together over his head in the sand as his whip slipped out of his grasp. The other one grabbed his feet, shoved them together and dropping them as he straddled Caipora’s legs, grasping his hips to flip him over. It was a stupid, stupid move.
Kicking his legs out in both directions, he swept the elk’s feet out from under him as he dug his hands deep in the sand, sent it flying into the other one’s face. Rolling to his feet, he fell on the one he’d brought down, grabbing his whip, wrapping it around the elk’s wrists and ankles, knotting it tight before turning to face the other, who was still shaking his head, rubbing his eyes, trying in vain to see through the sand he’d had thrown in his face.
He didn’t even try to hurry as he strode over, grabbed the elk’s arm, twisting it and shoving it up behind him. Someone in the crowd tossed Caipora a second whip, and he caught it, lashing his arms together, as well, as the sheer volume of the jeering grew louder and uglier. They’d hoped for a better struggle than that, hadn’t they? But Caipora was too far beyond toying with the pair to worry himself about giving the onlookers a good show.
He marched the one over to the other. “He your brother?” he growled, giving the elk a hard shake as he kicked the one on the ground, who was fighting, struggling, against the whip.
“Y-Yes,” he replied. “My twin . . . Apollo.”
Caipora grunted. “And you are?”
“Antonio,” he said. “You . . . You win, yeah?”
Caipora chuckled nastily as a pair of pale blue eyes flickered before his face in the shadows of his mind. Those eyes held sway, drawing out more anger, more rage than he could credit . . . “Not yet, I don’t . . . But I will.”
Kicking the one in the sand over onto his back despite his groans and whimpers as his arms and legs took the brunt of his weight, Caipora uttered a derisive grunt when he spotted the man’s dick, hard and trembling, almost purple, it was so engorged. Then he pushed Antonio, face first into the sand beside him before striding around him. Grabbing a handful of hair, Caipora jammed his cock between his lips, using his hair to set the pace as he thrust deep into his hole, down his throat, the sand that had covered him, thick in the bastard’s mouth, raking Caipora’s cock in a pleasure-pain hiss and groaning cacophony. . . Antonio gagged as he was forced to deep-throat Caipora. Caipora slapped him hard on the cheek. “If you puke, you’ll be sorry,” he warned the first time that he felt that familiar lurch, his voice almost mild despite the barely contained brutality—the force of the thrusts. “Suck it, you bastard,” he commanded. Antonio grunted, burbled, but his tongue wrapped around Caipora’s dick, a slithering, clumsy attempt. “Pathetic,” he growled, jerking his penis out of Antonio’s mouth. The elk-youkai whimpered, his gorgeous face, contorting, which only served to fan the flames of his simmering anger. Grasping his dick in his hand, he jerked it a few times—long enough to unleash a spurt of come on the dancemaster’s pretty face.
Striding back around him again while ignoring the catcalls, the jeers aimed at the defeated brothers, Caipora grabbed his hips, yanked him back hard, sheathing himself completely as Antonio’s scream split the night, as his brother renewed his anemic struggles beside them
, his upper arms and legs stretched almost to their limits as he keened and whimpered and whined. Driving into Antonio’s ass, a cold little smile, quirking his lips as he felt the tell-tale tremors in his body, heard the slap of the elk’s dick, smacking against his stomach, his thighs in time with the fucking he was being dealt.
Caipora didn’t let up, pummeling him, harder and harder, waiting for the first signs, the twitching, the gasps and groans . . . It happened faster than he’d expected, and he leaned forward, slipping his arms under Antonio’s waist, hauling him to his feet without pulling out of his ass. He walked him over to his brother, grasped Antonio’s swollen dick as he leaned to the side, far enough to see, as he jammed Antonio’s cock up his twin brother’s asshole.
The shriek was tremendous, rising above the pitch of the cheering crowd. It reverberated from Apollo’s body, up through Antonio’s, straight through Caipora’s cock, sending him right over the edge as his climax exploded out of him, as he slammed into Antonio so hard that the poor fuck screamed yet again. Apollo’s groans, whimpers, grew louder, as his breathing hitched and faltered, as he panted and moaned . . .
One of the others stumbled out of the crowd, grabbed a hold of Antonio’s head, shoving his fat dick in his mouth. Moaning loudly as he fucked his face, trails of Caipora’s semen, still wet on Antonio’s face, stretching out in a few gossamer strands in the ghastly light of the dancing fire, connecting the two, as his balls slapped against Apollo’s face beneath, it took him all of three strokes to come as he jerked back, as he shot his load all over the brothers’ faces. He was still moaning, groaning, when he was roughly shoved aside, only to be replaced by someone else.
Apollo grunted, groaned, cried as he came hard, all over his brother’s stomach, which proved to be a little too much when Antonio, sobbing even louder, the sounds muffled by the cock deep in his throat, came, too.
Gritting his teeth as the feel of the brothers’ bodies, sliding against each other, aided by the mucous layer of come, created even more of an erotic motion, more of a stroke, more of a glide, and Caipora tried to hold off. It didn’t work. Unleashing a low, long growl, Caipora’s orgasm rattled out of him in a florid and violent gush.
Stumbling back, his dick sliding free, Caipora struggled to breathe. Antonio kept fucking his brother, much to Caipora’s undisguised disgust. He didn’t know, didn’t realize—didn’t care—that he was fucking his own brother—his twin—his mirror image . . . He was past the point where he could stop himself, even if he wanted to, he supposed. In the morning, when he remembered—if he remembered—the loathing, the self-hatred was going to eat him alive . . . Another man stepped past Caipora, burying himself in Antonio’s ass, balls deep, groaning loud as Caipora’s come made the penetration that much easier, and that, in Caipora’s opinion, was fine, too.
Staggering forward, Caipora fell onto the lump of writhing flesh, drove his cock into the vulture who had sought to take his spot. He grunted, moaned, bucking his ass against Caipora’s plundering dick. He wasn’t trying to throw him off—he welcomed the complete incursion, reveling in the intensity of fucking, of being fucked, of the voodoo of the Saturday night that held them all, that stripped away the last vestiges of civility, that gave way to nothing more than visceral need, of urges, dark and unholy . . .
But the ass that held him so tightly was impossible to ignore—the overwhelming sense that reason had already lost to madness. The unearthly tightening in his cock, in his balls, the quivering mass of undulating flesh under him . . . The orgasm that rattled through him, out of him, was as vicious and demanding as a lover. Someone else down in the pile rasped out an impassioned cry, too, the seething, writhing mass of bodies feeding the frenzy as Caipora kept on thrusting, grinding his teeth together, enslaved by the dark allure of the flesh as completely as the others were. Head falling back, eyes closing as he kept pounding, hands reaching up, covering his face, letting his fingers trail down his own skin, savoring his own caress for a long, long moment before grasping the man’s hips, bearing down hard, furious, tight and fast, deep and long . . .
His orgasm was a painful rush, a complete reckoning of sight and sound and feel, of the most primordial sensation. The throbbing bordered upon mind-numbing ache, the scorch of his come as brilliant, as inebriating, as the call of the pulsing crowd.
Caipora stumbled back, his body tingling, almost achingly so as he drew in lungful after lungful of stinging air . . .
Someone else thrust a bottle of cachaça into his hand, and he drank it down without a second thought. Turning around to toss it away, ready to look for another comer, his gaze scanning over the area, he stopped short, eyes narrowing, as he uttered a harsh swear under his breath. Standing there, on the balcony, hands gripping the railing like a ghost in the darkness, the one face that he didn’t want to see . . .
“Five . . .”
Emy ——— xSerenityx020
Final Thought from Caipora:
Caipora stood back, arms crossed over his chest, slowly shaking his head as he watched Five’s antics as she splashed and played in the huge bathtub.
“So, they wanted to hurt you, and you had to show them that it wasn’t okay?” she said, not looking at him as she concentrated instead on building a hill out of soap bubbles.
“Yes,” he said. He wasn’t sure how she’d actually react to what she’d seen last night in the yard. So far, however, she seemed to be satisfied with his answers.
He wandered over, tapping the water control with his foot. A second later, all six water spouts opened, flowing into the tub in an invigorating burst. As soon as the stream hit the surface, a new surge of bubbles welled up. Five giggled happily, lunging at the new little cones of bubbles, scooping around them with her skinny arms, dragging them toward her. He let the water flow for a few minutes until the surface was almost level with the sides, then he turned them off with another tap of his foot. The new bubbles were enough to distract her for a few minutes, anyway. He’d hoped that it’d last a little longer, but he’d take what he could get, he supposed . . .
“It’s like the lessons,” she went on, having not given up on the current topic of conversation. “Like what you do with the older girls?”
Frowning, since no, it wasn’t even close to being the same thing, he considered what he really ought to tell her. On the one hand she was a slave; it was something she’d figure out sooner or later. On the other . . .? “Sometimes, you have to do something to make sure that others know that you won’t allow them to do it to you,” he said, hoping that she’d be satisfied with that.
She looked thoughtful for a moment, those eyes of hers shifting to stare at him as though she were trying to figure something out. “And you . . . liked it, Master? I could tell . . . It was like I could . . . could feel you . . .”
“Uh, Five . . .”
She shrugged. “Will I learn that one day, too?”
He wasn’t entirely sure what he should say to that. For her to learn what he had felt last night? No, he thought. He didn’t want that, at all . . .
She smiled at him, her pretty little dimples flashing wide at him from the angelic little face she hid behind. “So, you’re really strong!” she decided. “You were the one at the top, right? Do you do that to the overmaster, too?”
Letting out a deep breath, he shook his head, opting to ignore that question entirely. “You need to get out of there,” he finally said. “I thought I told you that you were going to have to start bathing in the bathhouse.”
That blood red, Cupid’s-bow-mouth puckered into a pout. “I’m scared of the bathhouse,” she whispered.
He rolled his eyes. No doubt about it, she’d figured out, quickly enough, just how to manipulate him. Trouble was, she really wasn’t trying to do any such thing, and that just figured, too . . .
Striding out of the bathing area, he sat down, slipped off his boots, his socks. It was almost ten, and he was exhausted. Having spent most of the day, working with slaves who were just being introduced to anal sex? Not his favorite thing to do . . .
Five padded out of the bathroom, her hair still damp, but her skin glowing softly, she hurried over to his bed, quickly turned down the covers and fluffed his pillows.
“You can go on to bed if you want,” he told her when she picked up his boots and padded over to the small chest where he kept his supplies for cleaning them. “They’re fine.”
“But it’s my job to polish them for you, master,” she reminded him.
He rolled his eyes, removing the whip from his belt—he’d retrieved it from the bathhouse this morning, which was where the brothers had been taken after being left, trussed up where they’d been fucked until the others grew bored of them. Emptying his pockets before raising his hands over his head to stretch, he yawned wide, shaking his head as a slow sense of lethargy crept over him. “I’m tired, and you’re keeping me up,” he told her. “Worry about those tomorrow night, okay?”
She nodded and set the boots aside neatly. Then she skipped out of the room and into the antechamber.
He sighed. Reaching for the buttons of his shirt, he stared out the balcony doors, idly wondering if St. George had gotten his letter yet, if he’d watched the videos. It was all well and good to document the things on this island, sure, but even now, after nearly nine years . . . and the main target—the one he needed to take down to put an end to the entire operation . . .
‘Anhanguera . . .’
He stripped off his clothes and was stretching out in bed when the knock thudded on the door, and he sat up with a frown. Heaving a disgusted breath, he tossed the blankets back, not bothering to mess with grabbing clothes since the only time anyone ever knocked at this time of night was when he was being summoned by the overmaster, and if that were the case . . . Well, it was safe to assume that clothing wasn’t necessary, anyway . . . ‘Fucking perverted old bastard . . .’
Five didn’t move when he strode through the antechamber, but he could feel her ever-curious eyes on him, watching him as he unlocked the door. “What do you want?” he demanded, pulling the door open far enough to see two of the trainers, standing there, impatiently waiting.
“Domajin wants to see you,” the one said, a rather nasty smile spreading over his face.
Before he could respond, the two of them reached out, slapping shackles over his wrists and dragging him out of the room and down the hallway in the opposite direction of where they ought to have been taking him, herding him toward the stairs. His first instinct was to fight them, regardless of the mention of the overmaster’s summons. Casting a quick glance over the railing, however, stopped him. All of the enforcers, all of the masters were there—well, the brothers were conspicuously missing—standing in a makeshift circle around a god-forsaken frame . . . and Domajin, seated comfortably in a chair, patiently waited for him . . .
Caipora groaned softly as the bright light of day stabbed him in the eyes.
He didn’t know when he’d passed out. He didn’t know what time it was now. Judging from the position of the sun that streamed through the open doors at the back of the wide room, he figured it might well be around three, which meant it had been a few hours at least since the last time he’d woken up . . . At some point after the first few hours of the unending assaults last night, he’d managed to disengage his mind enough that the things being done to him didn’t really matter anymore. The entire thing was little more than white noise in his mind. It was fine that way.
The blur of faces, the jeering masses . . . The cocks, the come, the slaps, the punches, the hiss and snap of the flails, and the blood . . .
It turned out that Domajin had seen the episode in the yard. Something about it had set him into a blind rage, and he’d sat in that chair all night long, watching as Caipora was raped over and over again. Drained—completely drained—physically, emotionally, and the strange thing was, he really didn’t care. Chained to The Rack in the middle of the mansion proper—the great room—he hung there while the day-to-day tasks passed him by—a scarecrow on display—or a living sex-toy . . .
Trainers, enforcers, they’d all fucked him, and those who hadn’t gotten a turn in the night stopped by whenever they had a break for a quickie, never mind that the virgins were being led here and there—all of them pausing, casting him curious glances under the precarious cover of their lowered heads. He could feel their eyes upon him—their curiosity—their pity . . .
It was almost laughable, in a really twisted way. Five wouldn’t even glance at him, but he felt the turmoil in her youki—felt it, was torn by it—because she was scared—because she didn’t understand. Weak, exhausted, bordering upon passing out once more, and yet, for the briefest of moments, he allowed his youki to unfurl, to touch the girl, to reassure her that he was all right as he balanced on the edge of oblivion yet again. For a dizzying moment, he thought that he’d smelled the salt of tears coming from her, but even then, he couldn’t be sure. Nose still inundated by the reek that was him, he couldn’t quite discern anything as well as he might have liked . . .
A whisper of movement drew his attention. Lifting his chin just enough to shift his gaze, to look for the new creeping threat, he blinked, frowned, unsure what he was seeing when he spotted one of the virgins, hovering in the shadows near the high archway that led to the kitchen.
He couldn’t tell what was in her hands. His vision was slightly blurred, but whether it was from the mental exhaustion or from the blows to his head that he’d endured, he didn’t know.
But she slowly crept forward, head lowered, even though she seemed to be looking around cautiously, ready to turn tail and retreat if she had to. Slowly, painstakingly so, she shuffled toward him, her feet barely a whisper against the floor, until she finally stood before him.
The virgin—984152—leaned up on tiptoe, held up her hands—were they wet?—and pressed something cool and damp against his lips. His gut reaction was to jerk away. She persisted, her outward calm masking the heightened beat of her heart, and he realized after a moment that she was . . . giving him water . . .
Opening his cracked and bloodied lips, he let her slip the corner of the drenched cloth into his mouth. He sucked on it hard, straining to get as much moisture out of it as he could. The water was a balm on his swollen tongue, his raw and aching throat . . . When he could get no more out of it, though, she pulled the cloth away gently, her chin still lowered, most of her face, hidden by the curtain of her shining sorrel hair, and when she spoke, he had to strain to listen. “I . . . I’ll bring you more if I can, Master,” she murmured.
“N-No,” he rasped out, the effort to speak, ridiculously difficult. He fought it, however, unwilling to allow her to take such a stupid risk, not for him. “Don’t . . . Don’t be stupid . . . You . . . You’ll be caught . . .”
Whether she heard him or not, she hurried away. He hoped that she had, hoped that she’d listen, even as his body cried out for more water . . . Licking his lips, he watched her until she disappeared back into the hallway once more, leaving him, hanging there, alone again . . .
The burn of the whip cut through the oblivion that had cosseted him, drawing Caipora upright with a pained hiss as his shoulders and arms protested the incursion of conscious. He could feel fresh blood, trickling down his back, and he opened his eyes slowly, locking first upon Domajin, mustering as much venom, hatred, as he could as he glowered at him. This time, maybe for the first time ever, he allowed the bastard to see the hatred, the contempt, he felt for him without any base attempt to hide it.
Domajin saw it, laughed at it, his amusement tinged with a barely contained venom. Caipora turned his head slightly to thwart a cramp that went deeper than bone, grimacing when his hair pulled against wounds that had bled into it, tearing the lacerations open once more.
There were only a couple enforcers in the room with them. Caipora was past the point of caring. Over twenty-four hours on The Rack and counting, and he was finished with this round of this game long ago. Head throbbing, body bordering on shock from lack of food and water, even his youki felt thin, weak. Such a sorry state, really, he thought with a rather vague and grim satisfaction. Allowing himself to be put through this . . . How much of it was it really worth? The pain, the humiliation as his humanity was stripped away, layer by layer . . . and the only thing he really had left was the tattered remains of what was left of his pride.
Domajin stepped toward him, the heels of his boots, cracking like thunder, echoing in the cavernous space, Caipora refused to lower his gaze, refused to give an inch, despite his compromising position. Flicking his hand at the enforcer with the whip, Domajin grasped Caipora’s chin, shook him roughly, did not let go. “You . . . You demean yourself by throwing yourself to those vermin in their perverted weekly displays of debauchery and mayhem?” he growled, addressing Caipora for the first time since he’d been so kindly escorted into the hall last night.
Caipora grunted. “You don’t really have the moral fortitude to preach to me about perversion, do you, overmaster?” he muttered. “What do you call this?”
The crack of flesh as he backhanded Caipora echoed, loud and sharp. “You may not talk to me with such insolence! I am your master! Your lover! And you seek to humiliate me!” he roared.
Slowly turning his face back, Caipora narrowed his eyes. “You aren’t my lover . . . I don’t belong to you,” he countered softly, no less forcefully. “You might be my superior, but you don’t own me—and you never will.”
For a second, he thought that maybe he’d pushed Domajin too far, and, for some reason, that idea amused him. The spike, the surge in his youki dug at Caipora’s, the anger that issued from him, as thick and real as a cloud of smog—of miasma—if he had been a stronger youkai, that was. He backhanded Caipora ten times in rapid succession from both sides. Ignoring the hamburger that was the inside of his mouth, Caipora forced down the mouthful of blood, unwilling to allow Domajin even that much.
The rage that surged, unbidden, unchecked, was a malignant thing, and Domajin leaned in close, his face mere breaths from Caipora’s. “You will break,” he promised from between gritted teeth. “Tonight, I’ll break you. You will cry, and you will beg. You will cower and plead for mercy, and I . . .” He chuckled, but there was no humor in it—only a tortured loathing, deep in his eyes. “I will be your god!”
Stepping back, flicking his hand, he strode away, grabbing a huge bottle of cachaça off of a nearby table. Those bottles—easily six inches in diameter, a foot long from bottom to the base of the neck . . . He tore it open, ripped the cork out of it, slugged it back as the rain of lashes began.
Gritting his teeth, Caipora refused to make a sound—his only concession to the pain, a momentary closing of his eyes. Time after time, that lash rose and fell. Time after time, he swayed, held in place by The Rack, by the shackles that held him tight. Over the skin of his back, over his buttocks, the end of the whip, slipping around his thighs, cutting deep into the flesh of his penis, of his testicles . . .
Still, he managed to keep it in check, to smother any sounds before they slipped out of him. Willing his mind away, seeking the dissociation once more, digging deep for a calm that surpassed the momentary flashes of white-hot pain . . .
And as the beating went on, the more agitated Domajin grew. Well into the third bottle of cachaça, he strode over, dumped the remaining alcohol over Caipora’s head. Grinding his teeth together so hard that they groaned in his mouth as a million stabs of unmitigated pain erupted everywhere the liquor invaded, he bore the anguish, locked it away, clinging to the last bit of pride he had left.
He could see it on the overmaster’s twisted countenance: he’d had enough. Grabbing the top of The Rack, he jerked it down, bending Caipora over once more into the position that he was entirely too familiar with already.
“Get out of the way!” Domajin screeched, shoving the enforcer to the side as he stepped around Caipora.
Mentally prepared for the latest round of rape to begin, Caipora said nothing—refused to give an inch—refused to concede the only thing he had left.
But the scream that Domajin wrenched from him echoed off the walls, off the ceiling, off the floor. He couldn’t stop the growl that was forced out of him as the bottle in the overmaster’s hand—the six-inch-diameter, foot long monster of a bottle, was shoved in his ass, up to the bastard’s hand where he gripped the skinny neck. Domajin pummeled it into and out of him, backed by all the seething anger he possessed, and every thrust morphed into a new adventure in pain—pain the likes of which Caipora had never felt before—pain that he managed to stifle somehow. Even on that night so long ago—the night of his initiation into the organization—the one who had double fisted him hadn’t hurt like this. The bottle was wrapped in a decorative faux netting of molded plastic that caught and tore at the depths of him, and, while living flesh always retained some measure of give, the cold glass bottle did not.
Squeezing his eyes closed, biting down hard as he stifled the screams of pain, he couldn’t staunch the small puffs, the little grunts that slipped out of him, the tears that squeezed out of the corners of his eyes—only a couple—and they were masked by the sweat that dripped off his face . . .
Cursing every god he knew, every god he’d ever heard of, he tried to retreat into himself, struggled to will himself away from the torment of the flesh that he simply couldn’t reconcile. In those moments, he couldn’t quite recall, just why he was there, why he’d ever chosen this, why he needed to stay, to absorb the pain, to endure it . . .
The flash of pale blue eyes, ringed in a midnight hue . . . of silvery hair that shone blue in the moonlight . . .
‘F . . . Five . . .’
And somehow, the simple thought of her, the child doomed to a life of this hell, was enough to bolster his fleeting resolve, even as Domajin twisted the bottle hard, unleashing a whole new jolt of pain that ripped another scream from his lips . . .
Uttering a frustrated growl, Domajin grasped the bottle’s neck, wrenched his hand to jerk it free. If Caipora had thought that it couldn’t get worse, he was wrong—so very, very wrong. The neck snapped off, around the flare of the bottle. The sharp edges cut in deep. Rearing upright as far as he could, a blood-curdling scream tore from him, on and on as the pain shot straight to his brain, so much, so intense.
And then, his body went limp as he pitched forward, only to be caught by the shackles, as a welcome blackness engulfed his mind, his body . . .
Five awoke with a start as the antechamber door smashed wide open. Two of the enforcers stumbled in with Master hanging unconscious between them, his arms slung over their shoulders as they held onto his hands. She gasped, hands flying up to cover her mouth. Bloody from the waist down, leaving a smear of blood in a trail, he didn’t make a move or a sound. The two didn’t even spare her a second glance as he maneuvered Master through the bedroom door and across the marble floor, only to drop him unceremoniously onto his bed.
Skittering away from the doorway as the two youkai strode past her, she blinked, frowned when they slammed the antechamber door again, but didn’t dwell upon it as she hurried into the bedroom, over to Master’s side, grunting and tugging to get his legs up on the bed.
He was a big man.
Gnawing on her lower lip, she wrung her hands as she tried to figure out what to do. The first thing, she figured, was to get him cleaned up—to see where he was bleeding . . .
She ran to the bathing area, her hands shaking as she filled a large bucket with water, dumping in more aloe and tea tree oil than she should have, but she was shaking so badly that she couldn’t properly measure it out. Glancing at the tub but discarding that idea just as quickly, she grabbed a huge stack of cloths, dropping them into the warm water in the bucket, hurrying back as carefully as she could.
Blood was already seeping into the pristine white sheets, and she uttered a soft moan as she wrung out a cloth and tried to find the source of the bleeding. It didn’t take her long to find it, but when she did, she frowned, unsure exactly what she could do . . .
It was coming from inside him—inside his butt, she thought . . .
In the end, she did the only thing she could, rolling up the cloth, gently pressing it into his butt crack over the rectum. It took an hour and all the clean cloths she had to clean the blood off his legs, his back, his hips, his thighs. If he was injured on the front of his body, there wasn’t much she could do about that. She didn’t have the strength to turn him over, and even if she did, she was afraid that she’d make him bleed all over again.
Frowning at the pile of soiled cloths, she bit her lip. To get more, she’d have to go to the bathhouse—the one place she feared.
Glancing at Master again, though, she turned, forced her feet to move. He needed her, didn’t he? Needed her because . . . because he, like she, had no one else . . .
Negotiating the place at night was daunting at best, downright frightening at worst. Even so, Master needed her, didn’t he? And that thought was enough to bolster her wavering resolve as she crept down the stairs and through the great room where Master had been shackled to that evil looking contraption . . . It still stood there, eerie in the quiet. The putrid and vile mess on the floor, left forgotten, blood, some of it dried, but the biggest puddles of it, still damp in the middle . . . shards of amber glass that glittered in the moonlight, spilling through the windows, the doors . . .
None of it made any sense to her. ‘Master . . .’
He was different from the others. She’d sensed it from the start. He was tough, he refused to allow a negative behavior to slip past unmarked. But he was also kind, wasn’t he? Never had he doled out punishment that was not deserved. Never was he excessive or brutal . . . She knew these things about him. What she couldn’t understand was what he could have possibly done to have deserved what had happened to him. She’d never seen a slave, brutalized to that extent, and for it to have happened to Master . . .?
She’d crept out of the room last night. She didn’t know why she’d felt compelled to see him. Almost as though something inside her—a voice or a wicked urge—she had scooted closer and closer to the landing that overlooked the great room—the voices and the laughter and the jeers . . . The malignant mix of youki that she didn’t fully comprehend but that she knew . . .
‘Master . . .’
Trussed up on that evil contraption that she’d seen a few times before, stripped naked, and yet, he stood, straight and proud, sucking in a sharp breath only as the hateful lash in one of the enforcer’s hands snapped over his bared skin. She flinched with every strike, unsure when the tears had first filled her eyes, slipped over, unchecked, rolling down her cheeks. Master made no sound aside from the occasional hiss of breath. The whip wrapped around his sides, his butt, his thighs. A ribbon of blood that dripped down, snaking around his penis, horrified her as she gripped the spindles of the railing, rested her forehead against the cool wood . . .
And then, they’d yanked The Rack down, bending Master at the waist, and the things that they’d done to him . . . She flinched. It was kind of like the lessons she’d been forced to watch, and yet, entirely unlike them, too. The one who had whipped him looped the lash over his head, around his throat, forcing his head up, using the whip as leverage as he drove his penis deep into Master’s rear, over and over again. Master choked, groaned, his body shaking, a strange kind of energy rising off of him, reaching her where she knelt, unable to look away. Again and again, his body trembled as another of the trainers stepped forward, forced Master’s mouth open, only to force his penis in deep.
It was the strangest thing—an almost animalistic kind of measured brutality, and as terrible as it was to behold, she could also sense Master’s underlying pleasure, too, but it was a strange sort of emotion, almost as though he were being forcibly made to enjoy something that enraged him. She blinked, frowned as the pleasure seemed to peak, as Master’s entire body stiffened, as a deluge of ejaculate jettisoned from his body and onto the marble floor. The jeering grew louder, crueler, more wanton as the scent of it hit the assembly hard. It made no sense, really, as the others peeled off their clothing, as many of them stood back, stroking their penises as they watched Master’s humiliation . . .
Even so, something about the act, about what she saw, unsettled her. Watching as the men switched places, over and over again, their faces, little more than masks of brutality, the grimaces as they, too, reached their pleasure, as they used Master’s body, she gripped the rails so tightly that her fingertips had leached white, her claws digging into the wood with a soft and groaning shiver. Squeezing her legs together as Master uttered a ragged groan, as more of that strange white substance that she’d smelled before but hadn’t seen, shot out of him—as that strange mix of euphoria and anger, of torment and pleasure appeared on his face . . .
Brushing aside the lingering memory that she still didn’t really understand, she shook her head, slipped out the doors and into the night. It was chilly outside without the sun shining down. Ignoring the goosebumps that rose up on her skin, she rubbed her upper arms as she darted down the flagstone path to the darkened bathhouse.
She stepped inside, eyes slipping around quickly. A man—one of the attendants—stepped out of one of the stone stalls, shot her a dismissive kind of glance, only to look right back, dropping whatever he’d had in his hands as he hurried over to her. “What happened to you?” he growled.
Only then did she realize that she had blood all over her slip—Master’s blood . . . “I’m fine,” she said quietly. “Master is . . . is hurt . . . May I have more washing cloths?”
“Master,” he echoed thoughtfully, scratching his chin as he considered her claim. “Caipora, right?”
He sighed. “I had the bleeding stopped when they hauled him out of here,” he complained, more to himself than to her as he strode over to a huge cabinet to retrieve a stack of cloths and towels for her. Staring at her thoughtfully for a moment, he also grabbed a fresh slip for her. “Wait here,” he told her, handing her the stack.
He strode off, disappearing down a long, darkened hallway. A few minutes later, he returned with a small amber jar that he handed to her, too. “That’s salve. It has to be applied to the inside of his rectum three times a day until it heals,” he told her, handing her a paper package of long cotton swabs. “Can you do it?”
She nodded, but she must have looked uncertain because he grunted, his irritation obvious. “Take one of those,” he said, poking a finger at the package of swabs. “Dip it in there,” he said, moving his finger to point at the amber bottle. “Make sure that the cotton is completely saturated. Then you take the swab, stick it in his rectum, and rotate it around as far up as it will reach and all the way down to the bottom. When you can apply it, and there’s no blood on the cotton, then he’s healed enough that you won’t have to do it again. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
This time, he must have been satisfied that she understood because he strode over to the door and held it open for her.
She ducked her head a little lower and slipped back outside into the night once more.
By the time she slipped back into the chamber, she felt a little better. That attendant had seemed decent enough. Of course, he could easily be the exception and not the rule. She left the bottle and the swabs on the stand beside the bed and put away the towels and cloths, keeping a few of them to finish cleaning up Master. Then she changed out of her soiled slip.
A low groan drew her attention, and she grabbed the cloths and hurried back to his bedside. Slowly, so slowly, he opened his eyes, but the look in those eyes frightened her. So dull, so dim, like he wasn’t really there, he started to push himself up, only to choke out a sound that was almost akin to a sob—a choking sound—a roughened pitch, like a dog that had been kicked in the side—as he dropped back onto the bed once more. A few moments of measured breathing, he finally opened his eyes once more, but he seemed to have trouble, focusing on her face.
“Master?” she said, unable to summon more than a whisper.
“Water,” he rasped out.
She hurried over to the small refrigerator and retrieved a bottle of water and a straw out of the drawer beside it. Snapping open the cap, she dropped the straw into it as she slipped across the room once more to gently nudge the straw between his lips. He didn’t open his eyes, but he slowly, steadily drank.
By the time he was finished, his eyes had taken on that same expression that she remembered from that night so long ago, when he’d stumbled in, had just stood there beside the bed . . . It was a painful expression because there was nothing at all behind it, almost like he simply wasn’t there anymore . . .
“Master?” she said, the terrifying feeling that he was somehow gone, even though his body was right there, gripping her, that somehow, she felt so entirely alone again . . .
Long minutes ticked by. Throwing away the empty water bottle, fetching a fresh one to set on the nightstand in case he should want it, she settled to work, gently wiping his back, cleaning the wounds as carefully as she could . . . He made no sound, didn’t move, eyes open wide as he stared off into space at nothing at all.
A flicker of a memory sparked to life in her head as she meticulously cleaned the lacerations. She was small, then, she didn’t know how small, but one of the older boys had gotten caught, sneaking an extra roll at dinner. It seemed to her that there had been other incidents, but she didn’t know for sure. They’d dragged him outside, tied his arms around a stout pole, and they’d whipped him with a long, thin flail . . . Over and over again, wordlessly, and no one helped him as he sputtered and cried . . .
They were made to watch his punishment, a warning that most of them were too young to really grasp, herself included, outside of the base idea that it hurt him . . . That night in the long, squat building that the children had lived in, his cries and moans had lingered well into what should have been the quietest hours . . .
She remembered her overwhelming confusion, understood even back then that she dared not get up, dared not do anything to try to comfort the hurting boy. But he wasn’t the same after that, either, like something deep down in him had been broken, snapped . . . Gone.
But she never really understood, why.
Physical pain, she knew in spades. It was sharp and harsh and easy to comprehend. It came with the lash, it came with the hand, with the blank looks and the empty stares, the apathy of men who neither cared nor worried about any of their well-being outside of the basic necessities of food and shelter and work . . .
Emotional pain was different, wasn’t it? She hadn’t understood that, not before—not before being taken in by Master . . . Master, who let her bathe in his tub; Master, who hated the idea that anyone should strike her. Maybe he didn’t say that out loud, but it was there, in his eyes, when he so carefully looked her over, searching her for signs of abuse that he would not allow . . . Master, who answered her questions without the reminder that she dare not speak . . . Master . . .
“Master?” she tried again, her panic rising despite her best efforts to shove it down, to lock it away. It choked her as she swallowed hard, and as the surges of fear the likes of which she’d never known before—the fear of being alone again—the fear of being shoved back down into that space where her mind was no longer her own . . . The years of being taught to say nothing but the basest of answers, but only when asked . . . The fear of the reprimand that was never more than a hand-strike away . . . The fear of the sight of that wicked, wicked lash as it bore down on her while she was powerless to stop it . . . The fear of lying awake at night when the shadows moved and reached out to hurt her . . .
The fear of losing Master . . .
And the desperation that rose so thick and heavy inside her clawed at her stomach from somewhere deep down, tore at her in such an ignominious way that left her cracked, bloody, torn down to the quick of her soul—if a creature like her even possessed a soul . . . If she lost him now, she understood on some level that, returning to those things she had grown to expect . . . She couldn’t, could she? Because Master . . . He’d taught her that she didn’t have to exist in darkness, in fear—even if it was a lesson he’d never intended to give her . . . Lifting her quivering hand, knowing that she was about to do something for which she would be punished—should be punished—because it wasn’t a slave’s place to have emotions, and it wasn’t a slave’s place to become attached to a master or later, a mistress . . . But the awful realization that, as much as he was there, his mind was not . . .
Fingers trembling, she touched him, laid her hand upon his cheek, unsure just what she was trying to do—only knowing deep down that if she didn’t try—if she couldn’t reach him . . . “Please, Master,” she choked out, her voice squeaking, breaking, harsh, her eyes burning, but dry because she’d been taught so long ago that she was never allowed to cry . . . “Don’t . . . Don’t go away,” she whispered.
A sudden sound shattered the quiet—a harsh reverberation that tore her open somewhere deep down, even as she struggled to understand why. Something had hurt him—this, she understood—not just physically, but mentally, too . . .
A choked sob as tears broke free, running down Master’s contorted face . . . Sob after sob, as though something inside him was breaking, crumbling, tearing apart as it shattered on the cold marble floor . . . She understood that, didn’t she? Understood it because . . . Staring at him, her eyes blurring over though no sound came from her, unable to reconcile the rush of fear, of consuming panic . . . a melancholy so deep, so vast that she could feel it, dragging at her, just as it engulfed Master, too . . .
Five winced, shook her head, unable to grasp just what could possibly have happened—what could have hurt him so deeply, so terribly . . . and it was that inability to grasp those things that drew her up on her knees, leaning against the side of the bed, wrapping her slender arms around his head as best she could, huddling over him, trying in her own clumsy way to protect him from those things that she could not see, could not feel, could not comprehend . . .
But . . . But Master . . . He did . . . and that frightened her even more . . .
AvinPhi ——— xSerenityx020
Monsterkittie ——— Goodykags
Nate Grey ——— lovethedogs ——— cutechick18
Final Thought from Five:
Five grimaced and jerked back with the long swab doused in the antiseptic crap that the attendant from the bathhouse had given to the girl, just to torment him, he was sure.
Because it wasn’t bad enough that he’d been chained to The Rack for over twenty-four hours straight with no reprieve. It wasn’t bad enough that he’d had a goddamn bottle shoved where no bottle should ever, ever be, either. It wasn’t bad enough that the fucking bottle broke off and couldn’t be removed without causing even more pain on top of what he was already suffering . . . It wasn’t bad enough that, in order to remove the damned bottle, they’d literally had to smash it while it was still inside him. It wasn’t bad enough that they’d had to use a weird, cranking device to hold his asshole wide open while they spent hours, digging those shards of glass out of him. It wasn’t bad enough that he’d been laid up for the last four days, unable to do anything—couldn’t even lay on his back—except to shift himself over a bedpan when he had to take a piss, and shitting? That was just not happening, as far as he was concerned—also not a problem since he hadn’t eaten anything solid since the whole thing had happened.
Nope, none of that stuff was bad enough. He had to be tormented with that damned swab three times a day by a ten-year-old slave girl who didn’t complain, but couldn’t possibly think that it was a fun thing to do . . .
In fact, the only positive about the entire situation, as far as Caipora was concerned, was the ridiculous amount of time that he’d had to do nothing at all but to lay around and think. Since that incident, he hadn’t seen Domajin even once, and, to be fair, he could do without ever having to look at that bastard, ever again, which, of course, was nothing more than wishful thinking.
But if he thought that he was ever getting anywhere near Caipora’s ass again? Well, he had another thing coming if he really was stupid enough to think that . . .
As far as he was concerned, he’d earned the right to decline the overmaster. There was a huge difference between the occasional whipping that he healed from in a night or two and what he’d done. Maybe he hadn’t meant for the bottle to break, but that didn’t really matter. No matter what the provocation was, he’d crossed the line.
Even so, his rage still boiled, just below the surface—rage at every last one of them that had participated in the whole thing, and if he ran into one of them in the dark? God help them.
Finally, blessedly, satisfied that she’d properly swabbed his ass, Five threw away the swab and offered him an entirely apologetic kind of look. “There wasn’t any blood this time, Master,” she told him.
“Good,” he grouched, rolling over, dragging the sheet up over him. Still achy, which he supposed was understandable, given the extent of the injury. “Then you can stop swabbing my ass, morning, noon, and night.”
She wrinkled her cute little nose. “Does that mean you’d like some dinner, Master?”
He opened his mouth to say that he would, but decided against it. He’d give it another day or so to make sure everything was healed up enough that having to use the facilities wouldn’t damn near kill him all over again. “Not tonight,” he told her, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. It was almost six. “You need to get down there and eat,” he told her.
She didn’t look like she wanted to comply. “I’m not—”
“Go eat, Five,” he told her sternly. She might talk more now, but if he gave her a direct order, she never tried to argue with him. Well, except for her bathing in the bathhouse, anyway . . .
She shot him a pouting look, but did as she was told, slipping out of the bedroom and, a moment later, out of the antechamber without a word of complaint.
Letting out a deep breath at finally being left alone, he sat up slowly—it hurt, but not nearly as much as he’d been afraid of—and swung his legs off the bed, frowning at the strange sensation under his feet of the cool marble tiles. It was like his body had forgotten what it felt like, to be upright, which was nothing but crap, really, given that he hadn’t been laid up that long.
He got a rush of lightheadedness as he cautiously stood up. His legs felt a little wobbly, and it took a moment for his equilibrium to right itself again. His body ached quite a bit, he realized as he forced himself to move off toward the bathing area. He figured it was safe to bathe now if everything was really healed for the most part. For the briefest of moments, he’d considered making his way to the bathhouse, but his mind nixed that about the second it had occurred to him. Even if he weren’t subjected to an enema—which was really not happening—the waxing and scrubbing was a little more than he could tolerate right now, too. The healing bath was the only thing that he’d actually considered since it tended to work wonders on general aches and pains. In the end, however, it simply wasn’t worth the trouble. Nudging the panel to turn on the flow of water, he idly scratched the back of his neck as he waited for the tub to fill.
The bathhouse, he’d learned, was a law unto itself. The attendants that worked them on all of the islands weren’t exactly the same as the regular enforcers and trainers. The reach of the overmaster didn’t extend to them, he’d discovered—at least, not in the same way since the bathhouse attendants usually didn’t leave the confines of that building unless they were after food, and even then, Caipora had gone days at a time sometimes without having to venture out of the bathhouse when he’d been the one in charge. Slaves brought meals to them in their rooms, just like they did in the mansion. Since they were a little farther removed, the real law in there was the overseer, and if the current overseer was anything like Caipora was when he was in charge? He’d have told the attendants that everyone—slave, master, enforcer—even Domajin—gets the same treatment—the full treatment—if they stepped into the bathhouse . . .
It didn’t take long to take a quick shower to wash off the filthy feeling he’d carried around for days. It was true that Five had given him a number of sponge baths, but they hadn’t done a lot to alleviate the feel that he was dirty—something that he really wasn’t okay with. Unfortunately, nothing could be done about that until now, anyway. Taking his time as he scrubbed his hair, his body, he could feel himself slowly coming back to himself again. By the time he’d finished, his mood was improved—at least, as much as it ever was.
Sinking into the tub—it was a little more than half-full—he let out a deep sigh. He could have messed around with the herbs and oils but he figured at this point that a simple hot soak would be good enough.
“Oh! Master!” Five gasped as she skittered into the room. She looked entirely aghast as she gathered up the bottles of herbs and oils. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”
“It may surprise you, but I am fully capable of self-bathing,” he told her calmly, if not rather dryly. “I’ve done it for years without a problem.”
His reassurance did nothing to quell her upset that was thick in her aura. “I should have known that you would want a bath! I should have—”
“Did you eat?” he countered before she could work herself up any more.
She quickly nodded.
“Good. Now, stop worrying. You’re not in trouble,” he told her.
She didn’t look like she believed him, but she nodded once as she dropped a bit of oil, a sprinkling of herbs, into the water and plunged her hand in to swirl it around.
He frowned as he watched her—as she hurriedly gathered the things she thought he’d need. It occurred to him that he ought to tell her that he’d already washed—she really should have been able to tell on her own since he didn’t stink any longer. It occurred to him, however, that she viewed her care of him as her most important task.
A vague kind of vision flickered through his mind, but he wasn’t entirely sure if it was a memory or just a darkly fanciful thought. Five, kneeling beside the bed like a child saying nighttime prayers . . . her aura so thick, so heavy, and he could feel her upset, her fright . . . The depth of her emotions was hard to fathom. How could a child so young suffer such misery, such despair . . .? But she . . . She hugged him, didn’t she? As though she wanted to comfort him . . .
But his mind had been too thick with whatever drugs they’d shot into him in the bathhouse just before they’d set about, breaking and extracting that damned bottle. So much of what happened directly after that was veiled in such mist that he really didn’t know how much of it his overactive imagination had filled in, and Five, unfortunately, was one of those things . . .
Catching her hand before she could scurry over to retrieve wash cloths, he frowned at her. “Tell me something, Five.”
She blinked, her eyes clear, her sweetly rounded cheeks flushed slightly, her deep pink Cupid’s bow of a mouth pursing in a sweet little moue. “Yes, Master?”
“Were you . . .? Were you scared? When they brought me back?”
He saw it in her eyes: she wanted to lie. He shook his head, and she scrunched up her face in a little scowl. “A . . . A little . . .”
“You don’t have to lie to me, Five. In fact, I forbid it. You’ll never have a reason to lie to me. Do you understand?”
She wouldn’t look at him as she jerked her head once in a nod. For a minute, he didn’t think that she was going to answer him, and when she did speak, it was in a whisper that he had to strain to hear. “You . . . You weren’t here,” she said.
His frown shifted into a confused sort of scowl. “I wasn’t here?” he echoed. “But . . .”
She shook her head, balling her tiny hands into fists in the skirt of her slip. “There was . . . nothing in your eyes, Master . . . but I . . . I didn’t want you to . . . to leave me . . .”
He sighed, winced, let go of her to drag his hands over his face as he let his head fall back against the edge of the tub. “Oh, Five . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you . . .”
“But you’re okay now, right, Master?” she ventured cautiously, finally daring to peer at him.
He forced a small smile, just for her. “I’m fine,” he told her, reaching out, brushing her hair out of her face. “I’m . . . I’m fine . . .”
“Well, well, well . . . So, you’re not dead, after all . . .”
Caipora didn’t slow his pace as he continued through the great room, heading for the back doors. He’d woken up this morning, his body ridiculously stiff and sorer than before, and he’d known that he had to get up, had to get moving. Narrowing his eyes on the sneering face of the enforcer who leaned against the wall, casually drinking a cup of coffee, he dismissed him just as quickly as he pushed the door open and strode outside.
“Not the overmaster’s favorite little bitch anymore, huh? Does it piss you off, Caipora?” he persisted, following him, raising his voice as a few others, who were outside, doing God only knew what, looked over to see what was going on.
He ignored that, too, heading down the path that led to the enclosed practice field. Domajin had moved on? He snorted under his breath. He should be so lucky . . .
Pulling out his cell phone, he hit the keypad to unlock the high gates. It creaked open for him, and he strode through. The area was kept locked at all times simply because of the weapons that were kept here for training. The slaves weren’t taught to fight, but even an untrained youkai could cause significant damage if they had a mind to. Locks like those were also about the only reason he carried his cell phone. After all, the only ones who might use that number weren’t really people he ever wanted to talk to . . .
Foregoing the weapon locker, however, he strode over to the Wing Chun Muk Jong, taking a moment to center himself before moving into the hand exercises to start with. Slowly, just to reacquaint himself with the seven basic positions of his hands, then slowly gaining speed as it all came back to him. The steady clack of the arms as he hit them was crisp and clear in the morning air. There was something rather soothing about it—the increasing rhythm as he moved through the positions . . . It had been years since he’d practiced in such a way. It felt good.
“Hitting a wooden stick isn’t really that impressive, you know,” the enforcer remarked, casually leaning against the support that ran through the dummies.
“And you are . . .?”
“Samuel Alonzo,” he replied, in a tone that indicated that the name should be one that Caipora already knew. He didn’t, nor did he really care.
“I assume you have a reason for trying to speak to me,” Caipora asked without taking his gaze off of the jong’s center line.
The tarantula-youkai chuckled, his black eyes slowly roaming over Caipora from head to foot and back again in a slow, assessing kind of way. “I’ve heard your legend. They say you’re unbeatable. Didn’t look so invincible a few days ago, now did you? Screaming like a bitch . . . Everyone heard you; did you know? But you were a pretty good fuck—when you weren’t passed out, anyway.”
Caipora didn’t miss a beat as his hands flew at the practice dummy. “I assume you don’t know shit about The Rack, do you? Guy like you? You just bend over and spread your ass cheeks, right? Samuel, was it . . .?”
He saw the movement seconds before he connected with his punch. Anger was most certainly his enemy, and Caipora countered it, blocking him with one hand as he cracked the heel of his hand into Samuel’s nose. The spider let out an angry howl as he stumbled back, doubled over, hands smashed over his broken face.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Caipora slowly shook his head. “If that’s the best you’ve got, you’re not even worth my time. Get the fuck out of here before I decide to show you the real meaning of domination.”
Sniffling loudly, he straightened up, the expression on his face registering his barely contained rage. Wiping his bloody nose with the back of his hand, he tried to circle around Caipora, as though he believed that he could somehow gain the upper hand.
It wasn’t surprising when he lunged at him—and missed. Dodging him was as simple as stepping out of the way. Uttering an outraged snarl, he sprang at Caipora, his impatience a palpable thing.
Caipora, however, didn’t feel like toying with the idiot. Catching him roughly by the throat, he slammed him onto the ground and held him there, his claws digging into the tender flesh of his neck, his expression deliberately blanked completely. “I don’t know what you think you’re trying to prove, but I’m going to say this one more time—only one more time. You need to get up and walk away—now—before you piss me off—and if you’re stupid enough to think that the overmaster is going to help you? Save you? Then you’re even dumber than I thought, and, if you ask me? Dumb deserves to die.”
He was about to let go of the ignorant fool, ignoring the surface sting as Samuel furiously dug at his hand with his claws in a vain attempt to get Caipora to loosen his grip. “Y-You,” he rasped out in a harsh wheeze, his eyes flaring wide as though he recognized—something—as he renewed his efforts to regain his freedom. “I . . . know . . . who . . . you are . . . Really are . . . One of them—one of—”
“If you know that much, then you know that you’re going to die,” he growled back, low—just loud enough to be heard by the man on the ground. Claws tightening, cutting off the youkai’s air, Caipora didn’t hesitate as he gave one hard squeeze, feeling the delicate bones of the spider-youkai’s neck collapse as though they were made of little more than paper. Samuel choked, wheezed one time as his eyes rolled back in his head. Turning his head just in time to avoid the blast of fabricated wind, of the dank cloud of black ash that exploded in the air, Caipora blocked his face in the crook of his other arm until the wind died down, faded away.
Standing up slowly, Caipora let out a deep breath, unsure exactly what he needed to do now. He hadn’t been downstairs enough in the last few days to know if Samuel had made friends, if there might be any chance that he’d told someone else what he thought he knew . . .
No, it stood to reason that he hadn’t—or that maybe he hadn’t realized a thing, not until he’d thought to pick a fight. That momentary flash of recognition . . . Maybe that was all there was to it, and even if he had been spending time with Domajin, Caipora was reasonably sure that Samuel hadn’t told him a thing. If he had, then today never would have happened.
If he had, then Caipora would already be dead . . .
Standing back against the wall with the rest of the trainers, Caipora didn’t look around, kept his eyes trained straight ahead. The slaves who were deemed ready were going through a final check by the purveyors who had showed up a few hours after his altercation with Samuel in the training yard. Paulo Castelo had even taken the time to send Caipora a smug little grin that Caipora had summarily ignored.
Over to the right stood the youngest slaves—Five and the others her age. As was common, the young girls were made to watch all of the official actions in preparation of what was to come for them one day, too. The rest of the slaves were in their various lessons or busy doing chores in the kitchen or the yard, maybe in the bathhouse where they were made to scrub down everything on a daily basis.
It was rather disturbing, in Caipora’s estimation. He’d thought it before, but it never failed to disgust him. The various facilities were treated almost like weird and perverted schools, segmented into time slots for training or work . . . Everything had a time and a place, which seemed like such a strange concept for what they were made to do. That was really not important now, though. Right now, the ready virgins were being examined for the big virgin auction—something that occurred twice a year . . .
Domajin stood over near the high-backed chair he’d occupied during Caipora’s time on the rack, but if he was watching Caipora, he was doing a damned good job of hiding it which was just fine with Caipora. If he had his way about it, he wouldn’t have to deal with that bastard for a long, long time . . .
The eighteen virgins were still, calm—at least, on the outside. On the inside, they might have been quaking and afraid, but they didn’t show it. So far, over half of them had been checked and had passed the virgin screening, and considering they were all checked every morning, he didn’t have reason to think that it wouldn’t be so now.
They had reached 435578, the earth-youkai who seemed to like her anal sex lessons with Caipora a little more than she ought to. One of the purveyors—the one who was checking the girls—suddenly stood up, motioned to Castelo, only to lean in, to whisper something to him that no one else heard. Castelo leaned down, jammed a hand up between the slave’s legs, only to straighten up a moment later, grabbing her arm roughly, dragging her out of the line as he turned toward Domajin, dealing 435578 a shake to emphasize his words. “Ruined!” he yelled, propelling 435578 forward with a harsh shove that sent her sprawling on the floor. “She’s ruined!”
“What?” Domajin hissed, striding forward, over to the girl, who he yanked to her feet. “Who ruined you?” he demanded. “Who?”
435578 didn’t answer, her quiet sobs filling the quiet. Beside him, he could feel the other trainers shifting, heard them trying to whisper to one another without being overheard or drawing undue attention.
She screamed when Domajin backhanded her, sending her, sprawling onto the floor once more. “Do we assume you did this to yourself?” he growled, the edges of his youki, harsh and abrasive. Her answer was more sobbing—louder, her fear spiraling thick in the room. “Answer me!” he bellowed, dealing her a harsh kick in the stomach, another in the face.
Caipora stiffened, trying to control the urge to intervene. Standard practice normally resulted in a flogging, but nothing severe enough to permanently maim her. As annoying as the loss of funds would be, she would still be easily trained as a common sex slave in the Gauntlet. Something was not right with the way Domajin was treating her. Too brutal, too angry, too . . .
She yelped again when Domajin grabbed a handful of her hair, yanked her off the floor like she was little more than a rag doll. Dragging her over to the row of enforcers on the opposite side of the room, he tossed her at their feet. “Put her on a rack,” he commanded, turning on his heel and stomping over to the chair once more.
One of the enforcers—Pablo, the one who had tried to waylay Caipora just after Five’s arrival—jerked 435578 roughly to her feet and dragged her off, down the hallway that led to the punishment room. Her wails echoed loudly in the cavernous space, and only when she’d been led away, after the thump of the heavy door closed, did Caipora relax his stance.
Glancing over at Five, he was relieved enough to see that she stood there in the appropriate way: in silence, chin down, staring hard at her feet. Her little hands were balled into fists at her sides, though, and he grimaced inwardly. As much as she tried not to show it, things like this frightened her, and he had very little doubt that she would be subdued, quiet, tonight . . .
The rest of the inspection finished without any more incidents. After that, the virgins were herded out the door and into the bathhouse to be readied for the transport to the auction, and by the end of the week, the younger girls just behind these virgins in training would be moved up to start learning anal sex, the last of the arts they had to know.
“So, what do you suppose happened to her?” one of the instructors murmured to another as the crowd started to disburse.
“Stupid thing. She was afraid of being sold,” another scoffed.
“Domajin’s pissed as hell,” the first one remarked. “Seems like he’s been in nothing but a bad mood lately, ever since . . .”
Trailing off, as though he just realized that Caipora was still leaning casually against the wall, he smacked the other instructor in the arm, and the two hurried past, whispering as they moved away. Caipora didn’t care.
Domajin spotted Caipora, his expression darkening as he stood up, as he made no bones about marching straight toward him.
Reasonably sure that the overmaster wouldn’t be dumb enough to try something now, Caipora didn’t move.
“You! You little bastard . . . Did you do it? Did you ruin her?” he hissed, managing just barely to keep his voice low.
Caipora shrugged. “I didn’t do a thing,” he replied evenly.
Domajin’s face contorted in a mask of the blackest rage. “She has a fascination for you, and you have a fascination for anything that you can throw in my face. Where were you this morning?”
Using his shoulder to lever himself away from the wall, Caipora started to brush past him. Domajin caught his upper arm, and he very pointedly glanced down at it before carefully shrugging his hand off. “Not that I owe you an explanation for where I am when I am not working, I can tell you that I was in the training yard where I was attacked by some dumb bastard named Samuel.”
“And Samuel can verify this?”
“If you can find all of his pieces and put them back together again, yes,” he replied. With that, he strode away, leaving Domajin there to fester in his own rage and frustration.
The crack of the whip drew another moan, another scream from the slave girl—the ruined virgin—435578—shuddered and shook.
Domajin held up a hand to stop the enforcer, Pablo before he could raise the whip again. Striding over, planting himself before her, he grabbed the girl’s face roughly, squeezing her cheeks hard as she sniffled and choked and tried not to cry. “Now you’ll tell me who did this to you,” he growled, his claws digging into her face.
She still didn’t answer him. It didn’t surprise him, considering he’d been here for the better part of an hour, trying to get her to speak. Either she’d done it to herself—a truly foolhardy thing to do—or she was protecting someone . . . “If you don’t answer me, I’ll strip you out of your skin and toss you down to the breeding camps,” he snarled.
The girl choked out a small sob, tried to shake her head, tried her best to convince him that she had no idea, just what had happened. Her feigned innocence only served to fuel Domajin’s rage, his seething anger. The idiot girl was going to cost him dearly. If Anhanguera blamed him, then the loss of revenue could easily be passed on to him . . . or worse . . .
Pablo cleared his throat. “Sir, if I may . . . You know that some of the slaves have a certain . . . fascination for Caipora, don’t you?”
Just the mention of that name was enough to make the blood boil in his veins. Caipora, that beautiful bastard . . . Without a second thought, he let go of 435578’s face and backhanded her. “Is that right? Did he do this to you?” he demanded, unbridled rage, seething, roiling as the memory of his magnificent Caipora, fucking the hell out of the slave girl at Anhanguera’s meeting shot to vivid life in his head, only the girl on the rack wasn’t the proud golden goddess, no . . . It was this . . . this slave, head still turned to the side, hair spilling over her face, who cowered and sobbed before him.
“N . . . N . . .” she moaned.
Grabbing a handful of her hair, forcing her to look him in the eye, he leaned in close. “You will tell me the truth! It was him, wasn’t it? He did this!” Letting go of her hair, shoving her away, only to jerk back when the tightness of the chains caught her, held her, he turned on his heel, paced the floor that was sprayed with 435578’s blood. “He’s trying to ruin me—to get me in trouble for that incident,” he muttered, talking to himself, ignoring the others in the room. “That’s all this is! He ruined her so that I would be blamed for the loss of a virgin! So that he can report to Anhanguera . . .”
“Overmaster,” the other enforcer in the room interrupted. “Caipora hasn’t been out of his room since you—Uh, since then—not until today, and . . . and I saw him, heading toward the training yard this morning.”
He pivoted, glowered at the enforcer, Kato. Normally a man of few words, he rarely spoke unless he had to. Narrowing his eyes, Domajin started toward him. “And you’d swear your life on this?”
Kato didn’t hesitate as he nodded curtly. “About that incident, though . . .”
Gnashing his teeth together as his anger spiraled even higher, unsure if he just wanted a reason—any reason—to punish Caipora again—or maybe he simply wanted to see his face . . . “What about it?” he growled.
Kato frowned, as though he were trying to make up his mind about something. “That day when he was on The Rack,” he began. “He was given water.”
“Water? That’s hardly—”
“A slave, overmaster. A slave gave him water. 984152 . . . She gave him water.”
The last strands of reason seemed to stretch and then snap. Striding back over to Kato once more, he narrowed his eyes. “984152 . . . gave him water, you say . . .?”
Kato nodded. “It’s in the surveillance footage from the great room.”
Domajin uttered a low, fierce growl. “You,” he said, pointing at Pablo. “Bring this one outside on The Rack, then fetch 984152. You,” he added, turning his attention to Kato again. “Bring Caipora to me.”
Wing Chun Muk Jong: traditional wooden practice dummy often used in Chinese martial arts training.
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xSerenityx020 ——— Paola
Monsterkittie ——— Amanda Gauger ——— Bonnie
Nate Grey ——— cutechick18
Final Thought from Domajin:
Standing on the balcony as the sun sank on the horizon, Caipora frowned, arms crossed over his chest as he breathed in deeply, slowly, trying to figure out just why he felt as though something . . .
‘Something’s coming . . .’
It was that sense of something, lurking just out of view. It was the same sense that he’d felt before at different times. He’d learned to trust that feeling. Time and again, it had proven to be true. The trouble was that he never really knew what the warning entailed . . .
Despite that, he lingered, letting his gaze roam over the horizon: a horizon that looked so very peaceful, so normal. It was deceptive, wasn’t it? The sky would look the same, regardless of the good or ill that took place under its blanket, and the irony of that was not lost on him.
Letting out a deep breath, he started to turn, to go back inside. The evening air was picking up a bit of a chill—not entirely surprising at this time of year—but the sound of the doors over to the side and around the outcropping in the rear of the mansion drew his attention. From his vantage point, he couldn’t see anything, but he could easily hear the shrill sounds of crying—the scent of fresh blood that assailed him a moment later. His eyes widened as instant understanding kicked in. ‘435578 . . .’
The pounding on the antechamber door made his head snap to the side. In the bedroom, Five scurried around the divider from the bathroom where she’d been prepping his bath. She started to reach for the inner door handle. “Stop,” he told her as he slipped inside, closed the balcony door. He wasn’t entirely sure why he felt such a sense of urgency, but he did, and he didn’t ignore it. “You can use my bath—play for a while, if you want,” he said. “And then, go to bed—straight to bed . . . and don’t open the balcony doors.”
Frowning as he knelt down, he grasped her spindly arms, scowled fiercely into her face. That strange sense that something just wasn’t right was spiraling higher, and, given what he already knew . . . He had to make her understand. “Five, you have to listen to me. Take your bath, and straight to bed. Got that?”
She nodded slowly, but seemed confused by the brusque and flat tone of his voice, but she didn’t argue with him as her eyes sparkled in the dim light of the room. “Yes, Master,” she said.
He sighed, pushing himself to his feet once more. Sparing a moment to cast her a little smile that he was far from feeling, he ruffled her hair and stepped past her, into the antechamber to answer the incessant pounding.
“Domajin wants you to report to the portico,” the enforcer known as Kato said, stepping back to allow Caipora to pass.
Caipora said nothing, pulling the door closed before falling into step behind him. With every step he took, that sense of trepidation grew until it loomed, large and menacing, unseen yet entirely palpable. Just as he’d thought, that fell wind . . . This was what it was warning him about, wasn’t it? But . . .
Kato said nothing as the two of them made their way down the stairs and through the great room. Through the bank of windows and the panes of the glass doors, he saw the blazing torches that lined the portico. The flames bent and swayed in the wind kicking off the water, and in that flickering light, he saw the rack with a beaten and bloodied 435578 hanging from it. Her sobs hit him, full in the face as he stepped out of the mansion, but it was the second rack—this one empty—that made him narrow his gaze. If that demented old bastard though that Caipora was going back up there without a fight, then he was sadly mistaken . . .
But Domajin broke into a malignant little grin that added a hard glint to his eyes. He started to open his mouth to speak, but the opening of the door again cut him off as Pablo strode outside with 984152 in tow. 984152—the one who had brought him a drink of water while he was trussed up on The Rack in the great room . . . “Kato, fetch the Toy Box,” he commanded instead. The enforcer nodded, but remained silent as he pivoted on his heel and headed back inside.
“What’s going on? What are you doing?” Caipora asked, forgetting for the moment that he really ought to try to not sound so contentious when speaking to the overmaster.
Domajin chuckled, closing the distance between them, laying a hand on his cheek like a lover. “Caipora, put her on The Rack,” he commanded.
Caipora knocked Domajin’s hand away. He didn’t know what Domajin was apparently set to punish 984152 for, but he wasn’t sure he ought to ruin the overmaster’s strangely happy mood, either. He frowned at the overmaster for a few moments before striding over, grasping 984152’s arm to pull her over to the second rack. She stood, allowed him to fasten the shackles around her wrists, as he stuck his foot between hers to kick them apart. When he was done, he turned to scowl at Domajin.
“Whip her, Caipora,” he commanded.
“What did she do?” he asked, stepping behind her, tugging his whip free. The severity of her transgression would dictate the number of lashes she’d be dealt . . .
The overmaster’s chuckle was downright nasty. “It has come to my attention that she has a bad habit of acting of her own accord,” he replied easily. “But you know all about that, don’t you, my pet?”
Caipora managed to keep his expression blanked despite the rush of surprise that he felt inside. Somehow, he ought to have realized that Domajin would find out about that simple drink of water. The place was rigged with cameras, he knew. He also knew roughly where all of them were located. There were at least three of them in the great room. That Domajin knew about the slave’s reckless action wasn’t really as amazing as the idea that he’d waited this long to punish her for it was . . . Unless . . . ‘Unless he was waiting till I healed . . . Petty bastard . . .’
“How many?” he asked, figuring that he wasn’t going to get a numerical answer.
Domajin sat down in a stout wooden chair. “Until I tell you to stop,” he growled, his patience starting to wear a little thin. “Longer if you keep questioning my authority.”
Biting back the retort that had been forming on his tongue since the only thing he’d manage to do would be to prolong the slave’s torment, Caipora gritted his teeth as snapped the whip, as 984152 sucked in a sharp breath, but made no sound otherwise.
He measured the strength behind his strikes, careful not to hit her hard enough to cause any real or lasting damage. It was a practiced art that he’d had plenty of time to perfect. Hard enough to draw a little blood, not nearly hard enough to be cruel . . .
Domajin gave Pablo a curt little nod, a lifting of his fingers. The lash in Pablo’s hand snapped loud, whizzed through the air as it came down on 435578’s already abused back. She screamed in pain as her blood splattered in the air, misting over Pablo, who had the audacity to look like he was enjoying his task.
Kato pushed the rolling black cabinet outside, kicked the brake stands on the wheels to secure it. Domajin grinned, a demonic light in his glowing gaze.
“Kato, Pablo, you are done here. Wait inside. Caipora can handle the rest.”
They said nothing, though Pablo cracked his whip in the air one last time before rolling it up and securing it to his waist once more. It didn’t escape Caipora’s notice that it was the same whip that he’d used to truss the little fucker up when he’d tried to ambush him . . .
They disappeared back into the mansion. Caipora kept whipping 984152, grinding his teeth as he let the lash fall. It occurred to him that somehow, the entire thing had boiled down to a battle of wills—Domajin silently daring Caipora to question his authority while Caipora locked his jaw, refusing to worsen things for the girls on The Racks. The balance was precarious, at best, and Caipora knew better than anyone, just how volatile Domajin could be when he thought that he was being coerced. Time after time, the lash fell, and as much as he tried to stunt the blows, there was only so much that he could do. Ribbons of blood streaked down her skin, flowing from one laceration to another in a webbing of marred skin and quiet sobs.
“That’s enough,” Domajin said after a good hour of whipping. 984152 was crying softly, her back a network of rent flesh. Rolling up the whip as he stepped back, he thought that he was finished. After all, it was the standard protocol. They’d both been punished enough for their perceived misdeeds. 435578, while not able to be sold at the virgin auction, was still valuable enough to be sent to the Gauntlet to complete training as a regular sex slave, and 984152 . . . Maybe she shouldn’t have done what she did, but considering it would take a few days for her to heal from the flogging she’d been dealt? Caipora figured that she would think twice before doing anything on her own again.
“Gear up, Caipora.”
Blinking in confusion, in disbelief, as he shot the overmaster a questioning look, he shook his head slightly. Domajin jerked his head toward the black cabinet.
For some reason, a sense of foreboding crept up his spine as he stepped toward the closed cabinet. He wasn’t sure what was waiting inside it, but he knew—knew—that it wasn’t going to be good. The air seemed to thicken around his legs as a heaviness set in, and that heaviness was only compounded by the quiet whimpers of two slave girls who had already suffered quite enough, as it was.
Pulling the doors apart, he stepped back, blinked, stared in horror, in complete incredulity at the assembly of unholy things that should never, ever have been used or even deemed as necessary. An assortment of cocksleeves hung on one side: those same black leather ones with the metal spikes, ranging from small spikes that would hurt but wouldn’t do nearly as much damage to longer, nastier spikes . . . and to his horror, the inch-long ones he’d already seen on that damned video weren’t the longest—not even close. Ugly, shining, two-inch spiked ones glinted at him from the darkness of the cabinet. On the other side? Nipple weights that pierced the nipples with adjustable weights that systematically dragged them down, clitoris clamps to clip over the clitoris to prevent orgasm, trading pleasure for unimaginable pain—or so he’d been told—penis stranglers meant only to shred one’s cock as one grew harder and harder, crotch buds—a metal rod that released razor sharp petals with the simple push of a button . . . Four petals were bad enough, but the chrysanthemum version, with its countless tiny petals, was so much worse . . .
“Choose your poison, Caipora—or I’ll do it for you,” Domajin growled.
Snapping the cabinet closed, he turned to face the demented overmaster. “I refuse,” he said. “They’ve both been punished enough.”
Domajin moved in a blur, shooting out of the chair and across the portico, grabbing Caipora by the throat, bearing him back against the cabinet so hard that the cabinet shook, groaned. “You’ll do it, my pretty pet—or they will do it to you. We’ll see how much the slaves like training with you when you have no goddamn lips on your face!” he hissed, eyes flashing with an insane light. “This is your fault, you know—all your fault. They’re in love with you, did you know? And you . . . you get off on that, don’t you? Brainwashing them into doing whatever you want them to do? Well, I will not have it! I am overmaster! Everything in this godforsaken place, including you, belongs to me!”
Shifting his gaze to the side, spotting Pablo and Kato, standing just inside at the windows, watching, waiting, Caipora narrowed his eyes when he looked back at Domajin once more. “Then do it if you have the guts. Kill me. Go ahead.”
“You want to die?” Domajin scoffed, bringing his hand up, caressing Caipora’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “Now, that would truly be a waste, my pet. Would you really sacrifice yourself for a couple of worthless slaves? Slaves who will live out their entire lives as little more than animated objects . . .? Make no mistake: these slaves will die—these whores, drenched in their own wetness as they dream a million times about fucking you . . . Ruining themselves—trying to ruin me—all because of you! So, if you live, if you die, you won’t be a martyr, Caipora. You can die with them—or you can live. I leave it up to you.”
“You will rot in hell,” Caipora ground out, knocking Domajin’s hands away.
The overmaster chuckled again, the raw sound of it, grating on his nerves, cocking his fingers at the window, drawing the two enforcers outside again. “Kato, help Caipora take a seat over there so he can watch the show. I’ll deal with him later. Come, Pablo. You shall assist me.”
Uttering a terse growl as Kato grabbed his arm, walked him over to the vacated chair, Caipora sat down, struggling to figure out, just how he could intervene without being killed—how he could possibly save those slaves from a fate worse than death . . . In his mind, he saw that video, saw what they’d done to Lorenzo, and as horrifying as that was, to have forced himself to bear witness to that, to be able to do nothing but watch as the same thing was done to these girls, and for what? He gritted his teeth as Kato snapped shackles around his wrists, around the armrests of the heavy wooden chair . . .
He watched as Domajin and Pablo stripped down, as that miserable Pablo stroked both of their dicks, as he got them both hard. Unable to do a thing but watch as they donned those godawful cocksleeves, Caipora narrowed his eyes. Pablo wore one with three-quarter inch, flared spikes, but Domajin . . .
He meant to make it last as long as he possibly could, Caipora realized. The miserable bastard had chosen a sleeve with clusters of short spikes with two long, nasty impaling spikes that stuck out a good two inches past the head of his malignant cock. It was designed to rip up the punished slowly—horribly slowly—brutally and terribly, until they were begging for death, to rip up the uterus—or the bowels . . . or the throat . . .
It spoke volumes to Caipora that Domajin chose to brutalize 984152, the sorrel-haired virgin that had taken pity on him, that had brought him the water-soaked rag. Gritting his teeth as Domajin stuffed a ball gag into her mouth, fastened it behind her head, and yanked the rack down, ignoring her whimpers, her cloying fear—fear that brought on the rise of bile as Caipora was forced to sit and watch.
435578’s blood-curdling scream pierced the night first as Pablo jammed his dick home deep, the gush of blood from her, immediate and intense, squeezing out around Pablo’s dick, running down her legs in shocking strands of crimson. The bastard threw his head back, laughing so loudly he almost drowned out her piteous shrieks as he pumped her hard, as her blood splattered everywhere . . .
Domajin, however . . . Positioning himself carefully, he paused, met Caipora’s gaze as a maniacal smile twisted his features, as he slowly, methodically, pushed into 984152. Her moans that should have been screams were stifled by the gag. Inch by agonizing inch, he pulled her hips back against him as she tried to pull away, as she struggled and fought—and sobbed.
“Puta merda,” Kato muttered, his voice registering his revulsion at what he was witnessing. He looked like a man, caught somewhere between nightmare and dawn, the listless inability to perceive what was real, what was truth, and what was merely illusion . . .
Domajin stopped for a second as the spikes on the end of the cocksleeve reached the natural barrier of her cervix. From where Caipora sat, he saw the bastard grasp her hips harder, bracing for a split second before slamming his dick home.
She screamed around the gag, her face mottling a deep crimson, eyes bulging out as he ripped his dick out, only to slam it home again. Despite the distance between them, he could hear her flesh being torn, the sickening squelch of Domajin’s dick as it drilled into her deep . . .
435578 had her mouth wide open, face contorted in a mask of agony, and no sound came from her. Screaming so forcefully that it had lost all voice, her body shook, her knees buckled, and all the while, Pablo rode her like she was some kind of macabre prized bull.
Caipora fought against the shackles, ignoring the incessant burns as the ofuda within them activated, blistering his youkai-blood, singing him bone deep. “Stop, damn you! Stop it!” he screamed. “Kill them if you want to kill them, but stop this!”
“These bitches don’t deserve to live!” Domajin shot back as he kept humping her, stabbing her from the inside with those spikes. “Caipora will never be yours!” he shrieked, his jealousy, his seething hatred, so thick in the air that it lingered like an invisible mist.
All of it, everything, all based upon the jealousy of one very unbalanced youkai . . . The thought of it was enough to make him want to puke. He managed to choke it back, though, unable to staunch the roughened growl that issued from deep in his throat. “Unlock me,” he said, whipping his head to the side to glower at Kato, who was staring at the entire thing in the most horrified way without blinking, rooted to the spot. He looked as though he were almost catatonic. Caipora spit at him to gain his attention. It didn’t work. “Kato!” he screamed, jerking on the shackles, ignoring the searing burn as the ofuda within activated, trying to lunge at him. “Damn you! Unlock me!”
It did no good.
Pablo let out a high-pitched whoop, slamming into 435578, a gush of blood rising up, splattering him in the chest as he came in her. With every pump, she shrieked, a guttural cloying sound. Smashing his dick into her a few more times, grinding his pelvis against her, he looked like a man possessed. “You like that, don’t you, bitch?” he growled. Then he ripped his dick out of her—covered with blood, with come as pieces of her plopped onto the ground, he repositioned himself at her asshole and slammed himself in deep to the tune of her renewed shrieks, her voice shredding, breaking, her bloodshot eyes curiously dry, as though the pain was so bad that the tears could not form . . .
Domajin laughed, a long trail of spittle dripping from his bottom lip onto the torn flesh of her back. “Domaji-i-i-in!” Caipora screamed, recognizing that look on his face from the innumerable times he’d seen it up close. His madness was taking over, his cruelty crossing the line between brutality and sheer insanity . . . “Stop!” he shrieked. “Damn it, stop!”
If his words reached the crazed overmaster, they only served to fuel the fire. With every thrust of his dick, he was ripping 984152 to shreds. Whipping his cock out of her wrecked pussy as a flood of blood and flesh poured from her, plopping on the ground with a series of sickening, gut churning squelches, Domajin slammed into her ass, spikes first, the pain drawing her up as far as she could, body taut, eyes rolling back in her head as her body released, slumped over as he literally impaled her over and over again . . .
“Kato! Goddamn it! Listen to me!” Caipora screamed, wincing as another jolt from the ofuda jarred painfully up his arms. He wanted—needed—to put a stop to it—for their sakes as much as for his own. It was too much—way too much—too much that he’d seen, that he couldn’t block out, that he couldn’t separate himself from . . . “Unlock me! Do you hear me! Unlock me!” scooting around in his seat, he managed to reverse kick Kato, his heel connecting with his shin. With a startled little scream, Kato blinked, wild gaze coming to rest on Caipora. “Unlock me,” he said again, willing his outrage to make Kato understand. “Unlock me so I can put an end to this!”
Kato didn’t seem to think to argue. Fumbling with the keys in his hand, it took him a few tries to manage the first shackle. It fell away, hitting the side of the chair with a dull clatter as Caipora yanked the keys away and unbuckled the other wrist himself.
He didn’t really know what he was doing. Some sort of understanding reminded him that he dare not just run over there, to kill them in a more direct way. If he did, Domajin would make good on his threat, and yet, he couldn’t allow it to go on any longer, either . . . Body moving as though possessed by some other entity that was simply using him as a vessel, he stripped off his clothes, strode over to the cabinet as he deliberately stroked his cock. Scanning the awful things, he chose the worst one he could find—one that had two-inch spikes and a long, almost drill-like cone on the end. Slipping it on, tightening the straps, he blocked out everything that seemed to buzz around his brain.
Stepping before 435578—she looked up at him, and through the haze of her misery, two fat tears squeezed out of her eyes. She couldn’t speak, but she didn’t have to. Begging him to end it—to end her, and he thought that he nodded. Closing his eyes, he grasped her head, shoved her down as he thrust forward as hard as he could. She started to scream, to burble around the wicked contraption as the scrape of the metal spikes against all the surfaces of her mouth rattled through the metal, straight into him, an unsettling and appalling sensation that hardened his cock even more. Yanking on her head as he gritted his teeth, as the sound of splintering bone, of sinew and muscle and . . . and other things echoed in his head, louder than the screams and the cries and the garbled pleas for mercy.
435578’s body tensed for a moment, then suddenly released as the mercy of death settled over her.
Grinding his teeth together, Caipora had to jerk hard to free himself—to loosen the spike that had pierced the back of her throat—had severed her spinal cord. Reaching over her limp body, Caipora dealt Pablo a hard shove—hard enough to send the bastard flying. He hit the wall twenty feet away, his head cracking soundly with a deafening thud. He crumpled to the ground, and whether he was dead or just knocked out, Caipora didn’t rightfully care as he turned and strode over to Domajin—and 984152.
He said nothing, looking into her hazed over eyes. She was in much worse shape than 435578, but, for a moment, her gaze cleared, and the misery in her eyes seared itself into his brain. Glaring over her at the demented overmaster, Caipora narrowed his eyes. Domajin—the brightness in his stare, the trace smile on his face . . . He thought that he’d won.
Caipora braced his stance, forced 984152’s mouth open wide. Taking a deep breath, he grimaced, jamming himself in deep as he simply repeated the process. She didn’t die from the first thrust, but her body did go into a fit of spasms—a seizure. Wrenching the spike free, he thrust harder the second time. This time, the spike severed her spinal cord, and he looked up, locked eyes with Domajin, as he jerked out of her throat. Staring at him for several moments—moments that felt like minutes, like hours—Caipora refused to back down, refused to look away.
Finally, though, Domajin started to laugh—a slow chuckle that escalated into a mad screech. He really did think that he’d won the war when, in reality, he’d won nothing at all.
Turning his back on the overmaster—at the carnage that was left behind—he yanked the sleeve off and tossed it to the side, before striding over, snatching up his discarded clothes as he stomped inside and headed to his room . . .
Show me some love, guys!
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*not loading, can’t get the nicks … sorry…
Nate Grey ——— lovethedogs ——— cutechick18
Final Thought from Caipora:
He’s lost his fucking mind …
“Master . . .? Ma-a-a-aste-e-e-er . . .”
Uttering a terse grunt as he rolled over and buried his face deeper into the pillow, Caipora tried to ignore the persistent little bird that kept pestering him.
“Master . . . It’s time for breakfast!” she said, tugging on his blankets as he waved a hand to shoo her away.
It didn’t work. Worse yet, she giggled at him.
“What have I told you about laughing at me?” he muttered, stubbornly refusing to open his eyes.
“But you have to get up,” she told him earnestly. “If you don’t, your breakfast will get cold, and I made your bath . . .”
Heaving a sigh since he had the feeling that the little monster girl wasn’t going to give up until he got out of bed, he tossed back the covers and stood, wincing a little since his back was inordinately sore.
She danced around him and hopped onto the bed to shake out his sheets. “I’m not bouncing!” she announced since she usually got reprimanded for getting sidetracked and always ending up, jumping on the bed.
“I can hear you, you realize,” he pointed out dryly, lumbering off toward the bathroom and ignoring the breakfast that he rarely ever ate.
He’d barely gotten into the bathroom, grabbed his toothbrush and glanced up, just in time to see her little head, bouncing up and down, and he sighed. “Five . . .”
She squeaked. A moment later, he heard a slightly louder thump as she landed on her butt on the mattress. “I’m not bouncing!” she insisted as she skittered into the bathroom.
He spared her a very suspicious look as he jammed the toothbrush into his mouth.
In usual fashion, she hopped up on the counter, hands folded in her lap, and watched as he brushed his teeth. How it could possibly be interesting enough to warrant daily watching, he didn’t know, but she invariably did as she held onto his rinse cup. Then she handed that to him when he was ready.
“You can go eat my breakfast if you want it,” he told her—also not an unusual thing since he’d never been big on food first thing in the morning. He didn’t remember when that first started. She’d argued with him at the time, saying that she’d already had her meal, which she had—a small bowl of bland porridge and a glass of water. He’d caught her, staring longingly at the arepa stuffed with chicken and avocado and some fruits along with coffee and a glass of juice, and, while he drank the coffee, that was about as adventurous as his morning habits went, so he’d told her that she could have it, and she’d argued until he’d ordered her to eat it . . .
“Okay!” she agreed easily enough, hopping off the counter and skipping out of the room. He watched her go, shaking his head just a little, wondering once again, how a small slave girl could be so perpetually happy . . .
Having brushed his teeth, he slipped into the tub, grimacing slightly at the very hot water. Another Saturday morning, but today was slightly different. Today he had no lessons for once. Since the last virgins had left yesterday, the new ones hadn’t been moved up just yet. What it meant for him was that he had nothing to do today.
It was just as well, as far as he was concerned. In the two days since that awful incident with the virgins, Caipora wasn’t inclined to want to be near them just yet.
Common logic told him that what he’d done, he’d done because he couldn’t stand to see it, going on and on. That was of small comfort when, in the depths of his dreams, he was made to relive it over and over.
Something deep inside him had shifted, too—something that had started the night with the bottle. The delicate balance that he’d existed upon for so long was tilting, and, while he knew that he dared not resist the overmaster, no matter what kind of monster he truly was, he couldn’t stomach the idea of submitting to him, ever again, either . . .
Or maybe it was just the words that Anhanguera had whispered to him that night that felt like a lifetime ago.
“Ah, my Caipora . . . You always have a choice . . . There are certain circumstances, though I suppose I shouldn’t tell you about that. You know, in case you were ever tempted to challenge his authority on a whim.”
‘What . . . did he mean . . .?’
Even so, he had to wonder, just how many virgins did Domajin have to destroy before Anhanguera intervened? The loss of profits alone had to be staggering, even from just one virgin. 435578 could have easily been taken to the regular sex-slave camp, which was what Caipora had assumed at the beginning, and, had there not been the odd whispers of his involvement, then she would have been—whipped, perhaps, but that healed quickly enough . . . She may not have commanded the price that she would have as a virgin slave, but she would still have been very valuable, just for her face, alone, and 984152? There was no way around that. The only reason she’d been made to suffer was because she dared to give him a drink of water. Domajin had hidden that behind the guise of her acting out of orders, but anyone would realize the truth of it.
As if that weren’t bad enough, Caipora had found Kato yesterday down by the beach, half in the water, having torn his own throat wide open. His blood was soaked into the sand, his eyes open and still full of that shock, that horror that Caipora knew first hand, never truly went away. Kato hadn’t been able to reconcile what he’d seen that night. He’d taken the easy way out of it . . .
Letting out a deep breath as his head fell back, as he closed his eyes, he tried to will away the questions. Maybe Kato had taken the easy way out, sure, but then, if he were honest, truly honest, with himself, wasn’t he just a little jealous that he couldn’t do that, too? It was easy to try to say that he was stronger than that; that he could bear the burden of everything he’d seen and done since arriving here in this place, but how much truth was there in that, really? Maybe the true strength lay in the ability to remove oneself from the hell, to never allow oneself a chance for redemption—if there really was such a thing . . .
The soft little thuds of tiny feet coming closer made him turn his head, crack his eye open. Five stripped off her gown and slipped into the tub with her little cloth to wash his back. He leaned forward, resting his upper arms on his raised knees, letting his head fall forward as she diligently scrubbed him clean.
“When I grow up, will I be chained to one of those racks, too?”
Head lifting abruptly, he turned to stare at her. Five was leaning on the side of the tub, wiggling around as she struggled to reach the bottle of shampoo. “Why would you think that?” he growled, unable to repress the irritation that shot to the fore; the idea of the little girl, trussed up on one of those monstrosities.
Frowning as she concentrated on squeezing a glob of shampoo out of the bottle, she shrugged offhandedly. “You were on one,” she pointed out. “435578 was on one . . . Was she bad because her skin tore?”
“No, she . . .” Trailing off, hating the idea of lying to the child—unsure why he even cared at all when he’d already told so many lies and intended to tell so many more . . .
She shrugged again. “Then the master would beat me?” Her eyes opened round, a strange sort of light aglow—a light that Caipora did not want to understand. “Would you beat me on it, Master?”
It felt like the breath was knocked out of him. Staring back into her startling, with such a frank and frightening expression—a morbid curiosity—banked in those eyes . . . “I . . . No,” he said, swallowing hard, hating the lie that he was telling her. Or . . . Or was it . . .? “I wouldn’t . . .” He grimaced. “Just . . . Just be a good girl, Five. Do whatever the masters tell you, and . . . and don’t argue with them, okay?”
Her frown deepened, turned more introspective. “If I’m good, I won’t get beaten? I won’t get put on The Rack?”
“I-I-I . . . Uh . . . N-No,” he heard himself say, brushing aside the many times that the slaves—that he—was shackled to The Rack when they hadn’t done a damn thing wrong, either . . . A sudden flash—a grown up girl with hair so blonde it was almost white—hair that carried a slightly bluish tint, eyes downcast, trying in vain to restrain her fear, her cries, when that lash came down—when she was violated in every way that was possible . . .
And he grimaced because that was the reality for a slave like her . . . The ugly, ignoble reality . . . Slaves lived, and slaves died, and no one gave a great goddamn . . . and it was something that not even he could save her from . . .
‘Five . . . I can’t . . .’
“We’ll refuel and stuff. We’ll be ready when you get back.”
Nodding quickly, Caipora turned, quickly hurried away from the helicopter as it slowly wound down.
It was the first time in . . . In a long time that he’d been sent into Maiquetía . . . The last time was when he was still stationed at the Meat House. That time, he’d been sent to deliver a slave to one of the purveyors at a ratty old bar near the ocean. This time, he was picking up a shipment of necessities. All he had to do was to sign on the dotted line, basically. Then he’d be free to do whatever he wanted while they loaded the helicopter and got it ready for the return trip.
He located the shipping yard easily enough. They were arranged by letters surrounding the small landing pad. After a couple minutes of checking to make sure that he was who he said he was, they allowed him to sign for the cargo, promising that they’d have it loaded before two.
For a brief second, he considered, simply staying around, getting the hell out of there again, but he did rather need to get a few pairs of pants since his seemed to keep getting ruined. Besides, he was the boss on this little venture. The helicopter would wait for him.
The city was a curious mix of old and new, of rich and poor. The area where the shipping office was located was one of the more ramshackle areas with tired-looking little shops interspersed with homes that looked like little more than hovels on the packed and narrow streets, many of them, stacked up in such a way that he wasn’t sure how they stayed erect. Yet, there was a certain warmth that seemed to live there, too.
He could have easily gone deeper into the city, but he didn’t rightfully care as long as the pants he found fit—and these shopkeepers needed the money more than the flashier big stores farther inland.
It only took him about half an hour to buy ten pairs of pants and a few shirts—mostly black since that was the color most of the trainers wore. Checking his watch, he realized that he had a ridiculous amount of time to waste, so he found a small café that was more of a couple rickety old tables set out on a small and dirty veranda. It didn’t matter, anyway.
He was drinking a cup of very strong coffee, watching as the children ran down the street, playing with a ratty old ball that looked like it might have been older than him, a small smile, toying at the corners of his lips. Those children—normal children—had no idea the ugliness that lived so close.
The sudden image of Five flashed through his head—of her curiosity, of her brilliant smile . . . Staring at the playing children, his smile faded. For a moment—only a moment—he saw what it would have been like, if she were one of those dusty but happy children. Her laughter would have trailed out behind her, her bare feet, grayed with the dirt of the street, and she’d spend her days, playing ball and tagging along with her friends . . .
But just as quickly as the image had come to him, it faded, only to be replaced by another one—a darker one—of a grown up Five, strapped to The Rack . . .
He willed away the imagery. Better to try to focus on other things because there was no comfort in those thoughts at all . . .
Digging out his cell phone, he frowned. It had occurred to him that he could easily call Eduardo away from the confines and cameras and perpetual spies. Even so, this phone was issued to him when he’d started working for the organization, and, while he didn’t know if it was bugged, he couldn’t really take that kind of a chance, either . . .
Dropping some money onto the table, he slipped back onto the street, blending easily into the milling crowd until he came to a small shop that sold cell phones, it said. There was a good chance that the phones were illegally obtained, but he didn’t much care. He only needed it for a few minutes, anyway.
He paid a lot more money for a cheap and ridiculously basic phone, but it was prepaid, so he figured that it was good enough. Wandering down to the beach, weaving between cheap metal houses with just enough space to squeeze through sideways, he was satisfied enough that no one was near. Most of the people who lived here were busy, trying to hustle to make a living. On that beach, there was a small outcropping of rocks that hid a tiny strip of land—at least, until the tide came in.
Dialing the number, he leaned against the rock, careful to keep monitoring the area for anyone or anything. The call connected after the third ring.
“Eduardo St. George.”
“Hey,” he said. “It’s me—uh, Diego.”
“Diego,” he repeated, the squeak of his desk chair loud in the background. “What are you—? How are you—? Did something happen?”
“No,” he replied, letting out a deep breath, irritated that he had to reassure the South American tai-youkai. “I’m . . . running an errand. Going to throw away this phone when I’m done, and I don’t have a lot of minutes on it. Just wanted to touch base with you—and I wondered if you could, uh . . . If you could do me a favor?”
“Anything, anything . . . Whatever you want.”
“I need you to contact them. Tell them that every six months isn’t working. Tell them to deliver a year’s worth next time.”
“A year’s worth? But they won’t agree to that. They want to see you—to know that you’re alive. You know this.”
Dragging a hand over his face, he grimaced. “I know,” he replied. “You’re wrong. They don’t want to hand over a year’s supply because they want to keep thinking that I’ll walk through the doors any time. You’ve got to understand, there are cameras everywhere out there. I risk everything, every time I go there to meet with them. I’m being watched. Everyone is.”
He snorted. “Because Domajin’s a sick fuck, that’s why. Anyway, please. Just . . . Just convince them. I’ve got to go.”
He hung up the phone with a heavy sigh, stared at it for a long moment before bracing his stance, drawing his arm back to launch it into the sea. Suddenly, though, he stopped, lowering his hand slowly, staring at the device as another thought occurred to him—one he really hadn’t considered before—and before he could talk himself out of it, he flipped the phone open, dialed another number.
Waiting, listening as the phone rang on the other end, he swallowed hard, willing away the dizziness that swept through him. It had been almost nine years since he’d called this number. It could have easily been changed at some point . . . The dread and the fear—fear?—mingled with a sense of unmistakable excitement, even as the voice in the back of his mind berated him for doing something so incredibly reckless.
“Hello?” the cheerful female voice answered. She paused, waited, as his grip tightened on the phone, as a pain so deep, so dark, spiraled through him, as he swallowed hard, blinked fast, wanted to open his mouth, to reply, but knowing that, despite his desire to answer her—he just couldn’t do it . . .
“Hello?” she repeated, her voice taking on a hint of confusion. “Hello?”
“Who is it?” he heard the masculine voice in the background.
“I . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a wrong number . . .” she said, her voice muffled, as though she were holding her hand over it. “Hello?”
All too soon, she sighed, ended the connection. Caipora let out a deep, shaking breath, closing his eyes as he snapped the phone closed, held it tight for only a moment before he launched it out into the sea.
Sinking down in the sand as the lick of the harmless little waves pulled in close beside him, he covered his face with his hands, positive now that the one moment of weakness was a huge mistake. The cavernous emptiness that surrounded him was harsh, ugly. He hadn’t felt this way in so long, and as terrible as it was, there was something almost comforting about the idea that anything could touch him so profoundly . . .
The dull pain that resonated with every beat of his heart took a long time to subside. As welcome as they were, they had the power to hurt him, too, and it wasn’t really something that anyone would understand. After all, it was his choice, wasn’t it? His need to play hero . . .
“Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
Packing just a few things into a black leather backpack, he slowly turned to stare at her. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. I have to do it. It doesn’t really have a thing to do with, ‘want’ . . . That’s not something that even makes sense.”
“It’s so dangerous, and you . . .”
“Lots of things are dangerous. It doesn’t mean that it isn’t necessary.”
The sadness in her aura as she ducked her chin, wrapping her arms around her stomach, as though she simply needed someone to hold her . . . After a moment, though, she lifted face, a gentle smile brightening her aura. “Just come home safe, okay? Even if it takes a while, just promise me that you’ll come home.”
Letting out a deep breath, he stepped over to her, hugged her tight. “I will. I promise.”
She nodded, blinking back tears that gathered in her eyes. “See that you do.”
Brushing away the memory—something he didn’t often allow himself—he gritted his teeth as the ache in his chest reached a new level of pain. On that day so long ago, he’d really thought that it would be such an easy thing, that he’d be back home before he knew it. Thinking about that day—about the naivety that he’d carried around with him back then . . . It was a terrible feeling. Giving in, calling her . . . It only served to remind him, and that reminder was painful. It was the first time since he’d left that he’d heard her voice, but as much as he hated the overwhelming sense of loss, a part of him couldn’t be sorry. Hearing that voice—those voices—after such a long time . . .
It reinforced the reason why he was there—why he was subjecting himself to all of it . . .
Even if he couldn’t keep that promise . . . Even if he knew deep down that he could never could go home again . . .
The sun was sinking over the ocean when Caipora stepped into his quarters after spending the bulk of the afternoon, getting the helicopter unloaded, inventorying the stock items and putting them away. Dropping the bags onto the sofa, he heaved a deep sigh and shrugged off his jacket.
Five skittered over to him, taking his jacket and carefully brushing it off with her hands before stowing it into the heavy wardrobe. “Master! I missed you!” she chirped, careening around on her heel, she took off to go fetch his supper before he could stop her, tell her that he wasn’t really hungry.
He pulled the clothes out of the bags, tossing them into his laundry bag for the next time the slaves gathered the wash. He was in the middle of stuffing the empty bags together into one of them when she returned with a very healthy tray of food as he pulled a smaller bag out of his satchel. “Did you do well in your lessons?” he asked her, reaching for the cloches, frowning at the food.
“I didn’t get smacked,” she told him, sinking onto her knees beside him—her customary spot while he ate.
“And did you eat your dinner?” he asked her, dropping the covers and reaching for the sealed bottle of cachaça.
She nodded. “We had a big, fancy meal with lots of bread and meat and fruit . . .”
“You’re not supposed to lie to your masters,” he reminded her mildly.
She sighed, her face shifting into a very pronounced pout. “I wish it wasn’t,” she muttered.
He very nearly chuckled at her flip response. He didn’t, but he did smile the tiniest bit. “If you’re hungry still, eat this,” he said, waving a hand at food arranged on the coffee table. “I ate in the city.”
She shot him an incredulous look, probably because it was a lot of food. “Really, Master?” she breathed almost reverently.
He rolled his eyes and stood up, wandering over to the balcony and opening the doors. “Eat what you can, Five,” he told her.
She didn’t have to be told twice.
Frowning as he surveyed the twisted merriment going on so far below, he grasped the railing, steeling himself against the unholy draw—the music, the aggression, so rife in the air . . . The angry yells, the heady sense of absolute abandon that carried even to him where he stood . . .
The screams, the grunts, as the matches shifted into a show of ultimate domination . . . He wasn’t as affected by it as he usually was, and that was a relief. He wasn’t sure, but he thought that maybe it had something to do with just hearing those voices, even if he couldn’t answer them.
In the hours that he’d spent, sitting on the beach, just thinking and trying in turn, not to think, he’d realized in a vague sort of way that what he’d gotten from that call was something that he’d so sorely needed, even if they’d never know. The will to continue when he’d felt as though he were simply being carried along, as he’d lost focus on the ultimate goal, even if that hadn’t been his intention . . .
Unfortunately, he knew, too, that there really wasn’t a way to rush anything. All he really could do was to bide his time until an opportunity presented itself. Anhanguera was the goal—the prize. Unless or until he was summoned to him again, Caipora had no choice but to wait . . .
“I ate too much,” Five groaned, shuffling out onto the balcony beside him.
Dragging his gaze off the debacle below, he cocked an eyebrow when he saw her, tiny hands braced on her lower back, sticking her non-existent belly out. “Wow . . . Did you eat it all?”
She heaved a sigh, shook her head sadly, undoubtedly because she wanted to, but simply could not.
He ruffled her hair. “Take the dishes to the kitchen. I have something for you when you come back.”
She looked truly befuddled by that: not surprising, given that she’d never been given anything before. He could see the questions forming in her gaze, and he raised an eyebrow in a silent reminder that she needed to obey him. She wrinkled her nose but hurried away to remove the tray of food. He watched her go for a long moment before turning and heading back inside, too.
She returned so quickly that he had to wonder if she hadn’t run the whole way, and he shook his head. “Did you get in trouble for running?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “Everyone’s outside,” she told him. “Well, the masters are, anyway . . .”
He shook his head since she was probably entirely right. “Wipe off the table, then you can have your surprise,” he told her.
Her little face scrunched up in a thoughtful sort of expression. “What’s a surprise, Master?”
He wasn’t sure why her question caught him off guard. It shouldn’t have. Slaves were never given anything at all—nothing in the way of anything that could be considered to be a luxury. In truth, he didn’t know why he’d bought what he had. He supposed that it had just been a whim. Even so . . .
He picked up the small plastic bag, dug into it, only to bring out a thick coloring book and a box of twenty-four crayons that he promptly set on the table before her. She blinked, stared, her eyes going wide as she leaned from side to side, inspecting the items from all angles. “Is . . .? Is this for me?” she whispered, turning that wondering gaze on him for a few moments before she looked back at the book and crayons once more.
“You can’t take them out of this room,” he warned her. “I’ll put them in the wardrobe. You can color if you want to.”
She carefully reached for the book like it was the most precious thing on earth, and something about that . . . It bothered him, too. She didn’t seem to notice the scowl on his face as she studied the book from all angles, setting the crayons aside for the moment, simply content to turn page after page, to look at the images—the outlines in black ink, printed on the thin, fibrous paper.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh . . . I’m picking the prettiest picture . . .”
Flinching inwardly at the sound of those voices that had come, unbidden, into his head—the voices of a long-forgotten memory—he pulled out a book that he’d bought for himself, cracking it open to read. Five kept leafing through the pages, taking such a long time as she stared at the pictures.
Posting this because I am probably going to be out of town a little bit—a week, maybe two. My mother’s been ailing, and I’m going to go take care of her until she’s better able to do for herself (I hope) … She’s suffering congestive heart failure. Her heart is functioning at around 25 percent. If it drops to around 20 percent or lower, then she’ll receive hospice care, but since she wants to come home from the hospital now, she needs someone who can help her. It’s a really tough time for me. I hope you can understand. I’ll update when I can, but no promises. Until I return, thanks for reading!
== == == == == == == == == ==
Final Thought from Five:
But there are so many pictures …
Caipora shifted his gaze to the side, watched in secret as Five worked on her nightly ritual of looking at every page in that coloring book for hours. Once she finished doing that, she’d carefully get the crayons out of the box and stare at those, too, but she refused to actually color anything, even though she’d had the book for two weeks already . . .
“Five . . .”
She didn’t even lift her head. “Yes, Master?”
He made a face that she also completely missed. “Are you going to color any of those pictures?”
The absolute conflict in her aura was immediate and intense, and he supposed that he could understand that. A child like her, who had never been giving anything in her life . . . On the one hand, she really didn’t want to waste her crayons, did she? On the other . . .?
On the other hand, she desperately wanted to color, he could tell. Whether it was the idea that, once she did, she’d eventually run out of pages or the idea of ruining those pristine crayons, he didn’t know. It bothered him, didn’t it? That she would be so unsure about something that shouldn’t even be a big deal . . .
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? It was one of those things that he’d been thinking more and more often of late. The more time he spent with her, the more he was forced to think, and some of those thoughts just weren’t pleasant, and the worst thing about it was that he knew deep down that she . . . She was entirely too smart, not to realize the same exact things, even if she never said as much out loud.
The girl was bright enough to realize that her living situation with him was not exactly normal. He knew, too, that it could end at any given moment. All it really took was one slip, one oversight, one moment of inattention, where he let himself react before he could stop to think . . . If anyone started to think that maybe there was more to his feelings than the simple idea that he was keeping Five from the threat posed by other slaves . . . And as the days ticked away, as time kept moving, she was drawing closer and closer to an age when her real education would begin, and then . . .
He sighed, deliberately pushing those thoughts aside, as though he could believe that it wouldn’t happen if he just didn’t think about it, which was about the most childish thing he’d thought lately. “If I told you that I’d buy you more crayons when you use those all up, would you color in your book?”
That seemed to get her attention quickly enough. Biting her bottom lip as she so carefully got the crayons out of the box, she opened the book to the first page.
He figured that she’d start coloring right away. He was very, very wrong. Now, she sat there, staring at the picture, then looking at the crayons, over and over again so much that he could fairly feel the wheels turning in her head. “Five?”
“What’s the matter now?”
She sighed. “Grass is green,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
Her little face contorted into a thoughtful scowl as she turned her head to look at him. “But I have two green crayons,” she told him. “This one is green like leaves, but this green is green like spring . . . Which green should I use?”
‘Leave it to her to think of something like that . . .’
“You can use whatever color you want,” he told her. “So, maybe use one of the greens on this page, and you can use the other green on grass on another page.”
Her eyes rounded, and so did her little mouth. “Oh! You’re really smart, Master!”
He didn’t chuckle, but he did nearly smile as he opened the book he’d let close on his finger.
It was getting way too comfortable, wasn’t it?
That thought had occurred to him before. Doing his job was one thing, and he could do it while he shut himself down, acted by rote. It was the day-to-day dealing with Five that was more akin to playing with fire. She, for the most part, was very good at remembering who she was outside of the confines of his chambers. He, on the other hand . . .
It was entirely too easy to forget, and therein lay the problem. A couple of days ago, she was walking with the other novices, and whether one of them pushed her, tripped her, whatever, or if she simply slipped on her own, she fell, and he’d seen it. When he’d smelled a trace hint of her blood on her skinned knee, he’d very nearly forgotten, had almost run to her to make sure she was all right, and that . . .
That would have been bad. Given that he was under the constant watch of the overmaster, if he’d done something as foolish as that? Just what would a twisted bastard like Domajin have thought? And Caipora knew instinctively, the one who would have suffered for it would have been Five . . .
He’d asked her before if she knew her birthdate. Most of the slaves did, only because it was considered to be important information. She had said hers was June 29, 2070, which meant that she’d be eleven in a few months. At twelve, the girls were first introduced to female oral sex, and that meant that time was ticking down. The trouble was, the more time went by, the less Caipora wanted to see her end up in the training sessions . . . but there was no way to keep that from happening, either—not until he managed to get to Anhanguera . . .
Shifting his gaze, only to find her, staring so intently at her carefully aligned crayons as she mulled over what color to use next, he frowned. She didn’t belong here, this little girl . . .
And something about it hit him hard: the sight of her, so studiously trying to decide on a color for a picture that didn’t really matter . . . A girl her age ought to be outgrowing such things, ready to leave childhood behind, even if the parents weren’t quite ready for that step just yet . . . A stab of guilt brought him up, brought him to his feet, dropping the book on the sofa. Throwing open the balcony doors, drawing in a deep lungful of the crisp February air, he closed his eyes, grasping the railing, willed away the sense that he should have put a stop to the whole operation by now, he swallowed hard.
Get in deep, no matter what, he’d thought at the beginning. Infiltrate it so that he could reach the head of the snake. Grinding his teeth together as the uncomfortable knowledge assailed him, he winced inwardly.
If he had just kept his wits that fateful night not so long ago . . . If he had just thought to kill Anhanguera then, all of this would be over now, and Five . . .
But regrets and what should have been were easy to see when one looked to the past. It didn’t do him any good now . . .
Turning abruptly at the sound of her voice, Caipora willed way the lingering misgivings as she shuffled out onto the balcony. It was February, sure, but the night was still fairly warm—much warmer than most places, anyway. Even so, he frowned at her bare feet, at the slip of a dress that used to hang so much lower on her little body . . . She was already starting to develop—not much, but it was there if someone had a mind to look at her more closely. He’d have to remember to stop by the bathhouse, to get a larger dress for her before anyone else watching her noticed it, too. Hiding her—what she would soon become—was the only real option he had . . .
To his horror, as he looked at her, those great, blue eyes filled with tears, and she held up her hands before herself—showing him the two distinct pieces: the red crayon, and the tip that had been snapped off. The smallest sound escaped from her—the tiniest whimper.
“Five,” he murmured, dropping to his knees, he pulled her against his chest, holding her in such a way that he could smooth the hair back out of her face. “It’s . . . It’s just a crayon,” he told her, his voice gruffer than he intended, grimacing over her head as her tiny body shook, as she dampened the shoulder of his shirt with her silent, miserable tears. “It’s okay . . . You’re not in trouble.”
She didn’t reply, only cried some more, and he sighed. “You can still use the crayon,” he said. “Or . . . Or I can sharpen it for you. Okay?”
“I’m sorry,” she squeaked, her voice muffled by his shoulder. “It rolled off the table . . . I c-couldn’t catch it . . .”
“It’s all right,” he assured her. “Now, stop crying . . . It’s just a crayon, and crayons can be replaced eventually.”
She sniffled and leaned away, swatting at her eyes and looking like the moisture she came away with somehow offended her. “I can use this one,” she told him, but her deep breath was stuttering and stilted.
Folding his forearms on his propped knee, he reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear once more. “You want to show me your picture so far?”
She considered that, nodding slowly, eyes still uncannily bright in the darkness.
Satisfied that crisis had been averted for the moment, he let out a deep breath as he stood up and followed her inside, closing and locking the doors behind him.
Down on the ground, under the balcony, the solitary figure looked thoughtful, pensive, calculating . . . And then, he smiled . . .
“Bathhouse,” Caipora said, dismissing the three girls he’d just finished training. They filed out of the room without a word, leaving him to get dressed, and he sighed, yanking up his jeans, pulling on his boots, foregoing the shirt for the moment as he wandered over to stare out the bank of windows that overlooked the quiet and peaceful shore.
He really, really hated the first training sessions with the newest group of virgins. He had to wonder if the wasn’t invariably stuck with them because of some perverse twist of fate. Even the tougher girls were likely to cry, which always led to having to discipline them, too. After all, a slave was not allowed to cry. It showed that they had feelings, and the very last thing a potential owner wanted was that kind of display . . .
They were started out with varying sizes of butt plugs that gradually got larger throughout the six months or so that they were forced to wear them. The theory was that it would stretch them out, which might be true, but then, no one ever really took into consideration, the size of the different trainers. Caipora, it had been said, though never by him, was likely the largest of them when he was erect and ready to go. If that really was the case—he couldn’t say he’d ever actually set out to find out if he was, indeed, larger than the other trainers, anyway—then it seemed rather stupid that he’d be one of the first ones that the virgins were sent to for practice . . .
Turning on his heel, he snatched his shirt up and strode out of the room, passing the slaves that were waiting to clean it without a second thought.
He strode down the hallway and into the great room. He’d almost reached the stairs when Domajin called out to him, and he smothered a sigh since the overmaster was the last person he wanted to deal with at the moment.
“Caipora . . . just the man I wanted to talk to.”
“Oh?” he said, shrugging on his shirt, wishing he would get on with it.
The overmaster smiled—an expression that Caipora figured was his effort to win back Caipora’s acquiescence. It didn’t. “I need someone to help me with a new . . . project . . .”
“If it involves me anywhere near your pecker, you can forget it,” Caipora shot back, crossing his arms over his chest as he narrowed his eyes on the overmaster.
Domajin chuckled, but his smile was tight. “No . . . No, it’s a special request that Anhanguera sent a message about. It seems that one of his better customers is interested in procuring something a little . . . different . . .”
“So, what does this have to do with me?”
“As minor master—”
“I’m not,” he cut in, arching an eyebrow, shaking his head.
Domajin waved a hand dismissively. “Maybe not in official capacity, but . . . you have dominated everyone who has come at you, have you not? Well, everyone but me . . .” The nasty chuckle came again. “The other men look at you as a . . . mountain they must climb . . .”
“Hardly amusing,” Caipora grumbled.
“Anyway, I cannot possibly go see to it myself, so I’m going to send you in my place. I’ve already sent word to the Gauntlet to expect you tomorrow afternoon. You’re to inspect the slaves they present and choose the best one . . . looks count, of course, but there are certain other criteria. Choose one who is slender, maybe not as tall, though the ones at the Gauntlet tend to be taller.”
“Why am I doing this? What’s the point?”
Domajin waved a hand, walking Caipora toward the stairs. “I told you, it’s a special request from a man that has bought many of our slaves through the years. He’s asked for a transgender—a she-male—the best of both worlds, I suppose you could say.”
Stopping dead in his tracks, Caipora couldn’t quite help the incredulous look he shot the overmaster. “A . . .? What if the slave doesn’t want to be—?”
“Since when do they have a choice?” Domajin hissed, all traces of his good mood disappearing in a flash in the face of the trainer who dared to question his superior. “You will do as you’re told, Caipora—no more, no less. Don’t think that, because I’ve allowed you to do as you will that you’re allowed to question me when it comes to an official order. Do you understand?”
Glowering at the overmaster for a long heartbeat, Caipora narrowed his eyes. “Of course,” he bit out though he couldn’t repress the sarcastic snarl in his tone. “Tomorrow afternoon, right?”
Satisfied that Caipora wasn’t going to keep beleaguering the point, Domajin abruptly turned away, striding off down the hallway.
Caipora watched him go, unable to wrap his brain around the latest bit of perversity, even if it wasn’t something of Domajin’s warped and twisted imagination . . .
Stomping up the staircase, he slammed into his chambers without a second thought. So wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice Five’s absence at first. In fact, he didn’t notice at all until he tossed his shirt into the laundry bag and turn around, only to realize that dinner was not waiting for him.
In a world where anything was possible, he wasn’t entirely sure why the idea of a forced transvestite would surprise him—and appall him—as much as it did. It horrified him, actually. It was one thing to want to do something like that to yourself, he reasoned. In the normal world, people did that because they felt as though they belonged to the other gender, and, while he may not understand it since he’d never actually felt that way, he wasn’t averse to those people undergoing the procedures to change their genders. That was a far cry from a male slave being forced to do the same, simply to entertain an owner who wanted a being with both dick and breasts . . .
Plopping down on the sofa to kick off his boots, he sighed. Why did it seem like, just when he thought that nothing could surprise him, something like this came along to prove that he was wrong . . .?
The door opened, and he glanced up, only to do a double take when Five slipped into the room with the tray of food, but that wasn’t what got his attention. Horrible, livid bruising on the girl’s upper arms did it—bruises that wrapped all the way around her tiny limbs. “Five, what happened to you?” he asked. Common logic told him that she was simply punished for something—albeit, more roughly than he was okay with. Still . . .
She kept her chin ducked and said nothing as she slipped the tray onto the stand and slowly, shakily, moved the dishes to the coffee table.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she muttered, still refusing to lift her chin. In fact, she ducked it a little more, her hair falling like a curtain so that he couldn’t rightfully see her face at all.
He’s eyes narrowed. “Why isn’t your hair up in a braid?” he asked suddenly.
She shook her head quickly, but the misery—the fear—in her youki was impossible for her to hide.
Reaching across the table, grasping her wrist firmly but gently, he tugged her around to stand before him, letting go of her long enough to lift her chin. “Who did this?” he demanded in a sharper tone than he intended. Anger flaring instantly at the sight of the rapid discoloration around her swollen eye, her round little cheek, he turned her face from side to side as she kept her eyes cast down. “Who did this to you, Five?” he demanded again when she refused to answer.
She uttered a choking sound, struggling so hard not to cry. Lips quivering, nostrils trembling, yet she stubbornly held back the tears.
As if on instinct alone, he started to pull her into his lap. She couldn’t help the harsh little squeak that was forced out of her, her tiny body stiffening, and, with a growled curse, Caipora yanked her dress up.
A blackened surge of sheer rage shot through him as he stared at her—at the welts on her stomach, on her back—at the ugly bruising on her hips—bruises that looked like they might well be the exact shape and size of a man’s hands—the bright pink of her knees like she’d fallen—or was pushed down . . . The only thing—the only thing—that saved him from losing himself entirely was that he couldn’t smell any trace of actual penetration violation on her. Her crotch, her ass both looked relatively unscathed. There was no blood, no reek of come, and it was a trace relief.
Letting go of her dress, not daring to say a thing, he gently picked her up, carefully strode over, put her in his bed and pulled up the covers to her chin. “Who did this to you?” he asked again, struggling for a calm that he was far from feeling, struggling to block out the consuming fury.
The sight of the silent tears, coursing down her cheeks, was almost too much for him to take. She slowly shook her head, but the fear that he could feel so thick around her held her tongue.
Getting a name from her would make it simpler. It wasn’t the only way he could find out. “Go to sleep,” he told her, sparing a moment to ruffle her hair, hoping that she’d understand that she wasn’t in trouble. Then he turned on his heel, strode out of the room, pulling the whip from his belt as he followed her trail.
Fourth floor—the enforcers’ floor—the second door to the right. The smell of her fear lingered there—sharp, pungent—hurtful. He’d managed to get a handle on his anger, managed to shove it down enough to keep it from flowing freely around him. Balling up his fist, he smacked the door once, fist tightening around the handle of the whip.
Pablo opened the door with a snide grin, as though he had been expecting Caipora. If he had any common sense, then he would have realized that Caipora wasn’t about to let this go. Dealing the miserable bastard a hard shove, sending him careening back against the far wall, Caipora strode inside, kicked the door closed. Before he could shrug off the daze from the impact with the wall, Caipora had his wrists bound tight with Pablo’s own whip. Then he unleashed his whip with a fierce crack, right across the bastard’s face.
Pablo’s screech of pain echoed off the walls, and Caipora didn’t care. The memory of a sweet little face, smiling so happily at him as he ruffled her hair seemed to linger before his eyes as he drew the whip back, let it fly, over and over again, shredding Pablo’s clothing as he screamed and cursed and cried.
It was only after his initial fury had been quelled slightly that Caipora deigned to speak to the slobbering, quivering mass on the floor. “Did you try to rape her?” he growled, grabbing a handful of Pablo’s hair, yanking up and back hard.
Pablo’s face was bruised, bloody. He’d lost one eye to the rage of Caipora’s whip, and the other was swollen shut. Pablo choked out a harsh, rasping chuckle, as though he couldn’t really grasp just how precarious a position he was in—or maybe, he simply didn’t care. “I was going to shove my cock up her tight little ass,” he burbled, lips drawing back, exposing a few spots where he’d lost teeth. “But you’ve already done that, haven’t you, Caipora? You have her all to yourself . . . But I know the truth . . . I know the truth!”
“You know nothing,” Caipora spat, yanking his head back before shoving it down, letting go as his face smashed against the unforgiving marble. Ignoring his howl of pain, Caipora stood up, glowered down at the miserable excuse for a youkai. “You’d ruin her? All for what? Are you that stupid?”
The pained gasps shifted into a maddened laugh that then morphed into an outraged howl. “She bit me, the stupid little bitch! I stuck my dick in her mouth, and she bit me!”
Something about those words were enough to unleash what was left of Caipora’s scorn. Striding over to him, jamming the unforgiving wooden handle of his whip up Pablo’s ass, he ignored the fresh bout of screams, the echo of pain that melded into one loud, long wail. A parade of memories only served to goad him further as he shoved the handle in deep, over and over, ignoring the horrid and rancid smells, the screams, the ragged rage . . . Those memories seemed to jumble together, one upon the next—the night he’d thought he could jump him, the look on 435578’s face as he systematically ripped her to shreds, the pleading in her gaze as she silently pleaded with Caipora to kill her . . . the face of the little girl who was scared and alone where Caipora had left her . . .
“Get off me, you crazy bastard! Get off me or I’ll tell everyone what I heard! Babying that slave! Who’s ruining her, huh?” Pablo shrieked. “I did her a favor—a favor! I—”
Words cut off when Caipora yanked his head back again, when he shoved his cock down his throat—he’d yanked his pants open while the idiot had been having his tirade—he ground his teeth together, his rage forcing his hand as he used his grip on the bastard’s hair to hammer the back of his throat time and time again. Seconds later, he grunted, unleashing a surge of scorching come down Pablo’s throat, shaking Pablo’s head back and forth, feeling him as he tried to vomit but couldn’t.
Jerking his still-hard dick out of Pablo’s mouth, he slammed his face down on the floor again, scowling at the blood, soaking through the fabric of his jeans and stepping back just in time to avoid the surge of vomit as Pablo heaved.
Yanking the whip handle out of his ass, Caipora fell on him, grasped his hips, jerked him up to meet him halfway, burying his cock deep in his ass as he gurgled and grunted, his harsh breaths, bubbling in the puddle of vomit on the floor.
Lips curling back in a grin that was as devoid of humor as it was full of disgust, Caipora kept fucking him as he leaned forward, grasped Pablo’s erect penis, his balls. Giving them a vicious twist, his deranged little smile widened as the bastard screeched in pain. “You’re not coming, you stupid fuck,” he growled, slamming into him hard enough to make Pablo’s head bounce off the floor. “You’re never coming again.”
He had no idea if Pablo heard him or not, and he honestly didn’t care. Riding him harder than he’d ever done before, he filled his ass time and again. When he finally pulled out of him, watching in a detached way as his semen dripped out of Pablo, he started to stand up, to push himself to his feet.
Suddenly, Pablo laughed—a dazed and insane laugh that rankled Caipora’s nerves. “Too . . . late . . .” he muttered. “It’s too late! Do you hear me, oh mighty Caipora? Too late!”
The fury that he’d thought he’d quelled shot back through him with unmitigated force. Vision darkening around the edges, he fell to his knees once more, balled up his fist, smashing it deep into Pablo’s bowels. The youkai shrieked as Caipora tunneled his fist into him as far as he could—up to his elbow—nearly up to his shoulder. Then he forced his hand open, dug his claws in deep, raking through him, feeling his flesh rip under the assault of his claws, only to ball up his fist once more, jerking his arm, turning it slightly as he hammered it in again, only to open his claws, shredding through the other side. This time, he yanked his hand free, flicking the come, the blood, the shit off his hand, all over Pablo.
He was wheezing, groaning, unable to form coherent words as Caipora stood, shoved him over onto his back.
Then he reached down, grabbed his dick and balls in one hand, dug his claws in as Pablo shrieked, gurgled, shrieked again, pelvis arching up off the floor, body twisting in agony, as Caipora wrenched him hard, twisting them—severing them with a vicious yank of sinew and skin and tearing muscle in a macabre sound of oozing and tearing flesh that he felt more than heard over the ridiculous din of Pablo’s anguished shrieks. And then, nothing as the pain overcame him, as he slumped lifelessly on the soiled marble floor.
Staring at the penis, at the testicles in his hand, Caipora felt the rage draining out of him, leaving behind a nothingness—an emptiness—as he tossed Pablo’s parts down on his unconscious body.
And he turned and walked away.
He tried to be quiet as he pushed the antechamber door open, as he closed it and locked it behind himself. Five was close—he could feel her—and as the last few hours fell away, he sighed.
Having spent the last hour in the bathhouse, opting not to allow Five to see him—to smell the things he’d done—he’d endured the scrubbing, the works, minus the enema treatment. That didn’t mean they didn’t try, but given his state of mind, they must have thought better of it, and that was fine with him.
Sparing a moment to peer down at her, he let out a deep breath before heading off to brush his teeth, satisfied that she was sleeping. Tiny body lost in the folds of the blankets, she slept so soundly—a small consolation after what she’d been subjected to. Even in the moonlight, streaming through the balcony doors, he could make out the angry bruises. His rage surged once more, but it was dulled a little with the knowledge that Pablo . . . Well, he wouldn’t be hurting anyone, ever again . . . Glancing at himself in the mirror, only to do a double take, he winced. There was so much nothing in his gaze, it was hard to even recognize himself. He’d spent all of his emotion, hadn’t he? All for a little girl—for a single life that he was trying to protect . . .
By the time he’d finished brushing his teeth, he was relieved to see that some form of expression was slowly returning, even if that form was overall disgust, of anger that still seethed just below the surface. When he’d left Pablo’s room, he was still alive. Whether he was now, Caipora didn’t care. He would be useless outside of the realm of enforcer, if he survived at all.
But he couldn’t say that he’d care if the bastard died, either.
A quiet little whimper drew him out of his dark thoughts. As he exited the bathing area, he glanced at the clock. It was only two in the morning. It felt much later than that.
He didn’t think twice as he slipped into bed with Five, didn’t consider how inappropriate it might be, to allow a slave to sleep in his bed. It never crossed his mind to put her on her pallet. After everything she’d been through, heaping one more indignity upon her was just beyond his reach.
He stretched out with a heavy sigh. A moment later, she curled toward him, as though she were seeking some kind of solace, and, with a sad little smile, he held her tight, gently kissed her temple as he tried to drive away the upset that still lingered in her aura.
Maybe she’d think it was all a bad dream in the morning. He could hope, couldn’t he?
A bad dream . . . and demons that lingered in the daylight . . .
Final Thought from Caipora: