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His maker was weak, he learned.
In his bondage, he had quickly learned that he could not die. He could only temporarily wound himself. It was not his creator's beatings that he feared then, but simply his cruelty.
When his captor came to beat him, he snatched the instrument away and turned it on him. A blossom of rich crimson bloomed to stain his shirt, and the creator looked like he could scarcely believe his own mortality.
When the maker raised a hand, he grabbed it, his hold iron-clad. Curiously, he leveraged a finger backwards. His jailer began to cry out, and it was like music to him after the brutal nights in which his own cries had left his maker unmoved. He clamped his large hand vice-like around his creator's finger and palm, forcing the digit to its limit. With a satisfying snap, it gave up its function and drooped limply. The creator howled and screamed.
This is how he learned that his maker was weak. His wounds did not heal. He began, then, to understand why the creator put him in chains and seemed to delight in causing him agony. Because he was unbreakable and his captor was so very fragile. And so he understood fear, his first lesson.
All longing for softness- patience, care, consideration, love- was gone. He now felt nothing, except a demanding urge to destroy. But he knew, learning that his maker was so weak, that he could kill the wretched thing easily. So, ironically, he learned his second lesson: gentleness. He tempered his strength in the way he grabbed his captor by the hair and pulled him close, held him to his body so that his will could not be his own. It was a grotesque parody of that first night, when he had thought his maker could love him.
He shook one long arm before his jailer's eyes, hoping to draw his attention to the manacle that held him. He grunted.
Gasping under the hand around his throat, the creator pulled from his clothes a key, which, with trembling hands, he maneuvered into the manacle to open it.
He clapped the manacle closed on his maker's arm, locking it the way he had observed. Then he snatched the key and freed his other hand, transferring the bonds again to his creator.
Justice, his next lesson.
He beat his creator first with open hands. Held his face, slapped it, tried to find in it a shred of mercy or an inkling of love. Nothing. The creator was an empty thing.
He howled, cries of agony to rival his most brutal torments, and those pained cries his maker wailed now, under his hands and the justice they delivered. How could such a hateful wretch hold the power to create? Why was he cursed with such a loathsome progenitor? A rage swelled in him hot enough to burn the world. He wanted to snap the creator in half over his knee but if there was anything, anything worse than his horrible maker, it was the silence of isolation.
He lifted his creator and threw him upon the slab where he had conducted his cruel inspections. Now the maker was the subject, and he- Creation- the surgeon. He continued to beat his creator, retrieving the crude metal bar used so often to batter him into submission.
He ripped away the maker's clothes, landed stinging blows upon his exposed body that shook and tried to cower.
“Give me your leg!” He echoed his captor's words. He beat the leg. His eyes caught on the mounds of the buttocks, the sensitive muscle between them. He yanked the legs toward him, causing the chains to go taut, his maker's arms pulled to an extreme.
The creator cried pitifully as the legs were forced open. He reached underneath, roughly grabbing the genitals and yanking them with unbridled strength until his subject screeched in pain. Then he set the metal rod to the hole. He forced it in slowly. It took an unfathomable restraint not to impale the creator on it fully, stab it with all his might as deep as it would go, until it emerged out of him somewhere else.
His subject wailed, sobbing. He shoved it as deep as he dared, and then withdrew it. It emerged blood-stained. He thrust it back in. Screams continued to erupt as he worked the rod with little mercy, but he held the penetration shallow. He could see that his subject wished to writhe in agony but strained to keep still, lest the unforgiving metal do irreversible damage to his delicate insides.
When he extracted the instrument this time, a gush of blood followed. He feared he may have gone too far, so he discarded the rod. It was then that he felt the pressure in his own genitals, and saw that his appendage was inflamed. It throbbed uncomfortably.
“Please, enough, please, I beg you-”
He smacked the back of his subject's head, making the face bounce off the stone slab, leaving a blood stain. The subject whimpered dazedly.
He mounted his subject, straddling the slab. He wrenched open the gluteus, exposing the bloody hole to the cool air and watching it contract, seeping. He stabbed it with his rigid member, disappearing into it. He gasped, feeling tight, wet heat that exalted his body. He moaned in surprise.
The sensation possessed him, being inside, having penetrated the fortress of his cruel captor, destroying it from within. Inside it was soft, softer than anything he would ever feel, and perhaps he finally found a kind of acceptance, a warm and yielding core inside the stony facade of his jailer.
His subject sobbed, choking wetly on its own secretions. His hands began to mold his subject, forcing its back to arch to lift its pelvis and let him dive deeper. He held its legs in place, he pulled the hair to make it cry out sharply. As he used it he felt bliss, an intoxicating power. Now it was his, his creation, and he the master.
He battered the fragile core, forming it to his will, shaking its walls and breaching its innermost chamber. He pulled back to ram forward again, harder, harder. He felt more bones break under his demands; an arm finally snapped, pulled loose by the taut chains, ribs cracked as he held the subject down, pelvis splintered as he pounded it mercilessly with his own.
The wailing of the subject reached a fever pitch, and then abruptly subsided. It had succumbed to its agonies. He pulled the hair, slapped the face, forced it to wake. It came to, screaming as it faced its torture afresh. He hammered his phallus into it, making its cries hitch and vibrate. The sobs were wet, and the wretch spit up blood.
He pulled free from the buttocks finally, member dripping blood, and dismounted. His subject gasped, sighed, hoped for relief. He rounded the slab, pulled back its head by the hair. He forced the mouth open with his fingers. Then he fed his girth into the mouth. Fully seated, he held the head in place and thrust forcefully, reaming the throat.
The choking sounds made him shiver. When the throat constricted, trying to reject him as he held it immobile, he felt his member pulse and testes tighten. He thrust harder, held the head tightly, smothering the subject against his skin, deeper, deeper, please-
Bile spewed forth as he plumbed the throat, again and again, a torrent of it. He held the neck so tightly, the subject could not break free. He roared in newfound pleasure, frenzied, fucking the throat. A sensation swept him up, like a wave carrying him off, like air beneath his wings, things of which he had no conception, but still, in this moment, he knew.
He pulsed deep into the throat. There was heat and the bile issued forth again, coating his member and pooling around his feet. He continued to fuck the throat in a daze, still trying to reach ever deeper, asphyxiating his subject. When he finally retreated, his subject retched again, and gasped, and sobbed.
“Stay,” he told his prisoner. “Stay there.”
The subject, a mess of blood and tears, spittle, and vomit and greyish semen, looked up at its master.
The master touched his own chest. “Victor,” he said, with a faint smile. “I'm Victor.”