Deep in the ocean, dead and cast away
Where innocence is burned in flames
A million mile from home, I'm walking ahead
I'm frozen to the bones, I am...
It always hurts. But pain is one thing a Vulcan can handle with silent grace, and it has been so long it has become almost easy to sequester this pain into a corner of his mind and leave it locked there. He lies still, his cheek pressed against the sheets, his bony knees spread far apart and sinking into the too-soft mattress, shoulders lurching with each of Khan’s savage thrusts. Spock's mind is locked down, but even through the walls he has so carefully built, Khan's lust bleeds through.
Khan rarely tries to make it good for Spock. More often he actively makes it painful.
It’s better this way, Spock thinks.
It's better-- anything is better-- than when his master takes an interest in his slave's pleasure.
At first, Khan is amused.
"What, you don't like me?" he purrs.
It's been less than a day since Khan purchased the slender Vulcan and now he is lying next to him on his bed, half-spent from making heavy use of his new toy.
Spock is lying silently on his back, nude but for a thin silver collar encircling his throat. His limbs are limp, lifeless and askew. He hasn't moved since his master rolled off of him, hasn't bothered to stop the greenish blood seeping from gashes left by cruel fingernails or to nurse his bruising skin. There will be time for that later, and he wants to see how this new master reacts when Spock bleeds on his sheets. He wants to see if the punishment will be immediate and volatile, or if it will come later, premeditated and cold.
Khan doesn't seem to care about the blood, at least for the moment. His focus is elsewhere. He props himself up on one elbow and reaches to trace a finger across the base of Spock's flaccid cock.
"Not good enough for you, was it?" he asks. It's a tease, not an actual question. Spock keeps his eyes trained blankly on the far wall and doesn't answer.
“Should I try harder next time?” Khan purrs, his hands deceptively gentle as he strokes Spock’s thighs. His mouth twists in a wry smile.
But Khan's amusement does not take long to turn to annoyance, and finally to anger. It doesn't matter how Vulcan physiology works; Khan dreams himself King of the Universe and imagines himself the exception to every rule, and when nothing stirs between his slave's legs, it is a personal insult.
Spock pisses blood for weeks.
He winces in memory, a reflex he can't control quite in time, and immediately shoves the thought away. On top of him, his master makes a pleased grunt; Spock's quiver did not go unnoticed. Khan reaches for a handful of dark hair and yanks his head up, stretching his Vulcan's neck, then latches onto it, teeth digging into the exposed skin, biting down hard.
Spock closes his eyes and wills his body to relax.
His master has other pets, other toys, but he always drifts back to his Vulcan. He gets a certain sadistic satisfaction, knowing no matter what he does his pet will stand there silently and take it. And though thin and undernourished, Spock is tall, strong, hardier than he appears. Vulcan physiology makes him a better match for his augmented master: a harder toy to break.
And Khan is good at breaking toys.