A Continuing Saga by Kevin Robnett
He awoke slowly, the drugged filled dreams releasing their hold slowly. A groan escaped from his lips, caused more by the aching in his head than the stiff position of his body on the floor. It took a moment for his eyes to focus, and even more time to struggle to his feet. It didn't help his hands were bound behind his back -- handcuffs he assumed. His body complained at each movement as he forced his booted feet under himself, finally climbing to his feet.
It was dark in the small room, only a single lightbulb overhead. Shadows were cast everywhere, filling the corners with mystery. The smell was what finally gave him a clue to his location. Vanilla. She always liked vanilla. It was time then.
His breath slipped out of his chest noisily, a sigh of regrets and lost hopes. It was too soon, he wanted to argue. He had barely begun his life. A sharp pain shot up from his wrists as they fought the unyielding metal. He should better. He did know better.
It was unnerving, waiting in the center of the cell. She would be watching. She would see that he was awake. It was only a matter of time....
The door clicked open, an ominous sound he had learned to dread. That had always meant something new was about to happen. And new usually meant more in some way. More strenuous. More humiliating. More painful. Change in this place was never 'good'. And 'better' depended on who you were.
The overpowering smell of vanilla grew stronger, as colder air circulated about the room. Long ago he had learned not to look. But she was here. It could be no other. Not with him. Honed senses felt her circle him, a hand caressing his jean-clad ass. Flinching would be a mistake. Still, her touch caused muscles to clench and release.
As soft as a lover, her hand examined him, tracing the contours of his muscles through his shirt. A quick grope brought a blush to his face, and a gasp to his lips. She only laughed and squeezed again, testing and measuring. His eyes were focused on the floor, but he could see the delicate fingers working around his groin. Without intent, he shuddered under her touch. Her laughter signaled approval.
The hand traveled up his stomach, fingernails scraping lightly across his pectoral to tease the small amount of hair his open shirt revealed. Each button was slowly opened, her examination of his newly revealed skin taking longer than he ever imagined. It was arousing him, like she had done to so many others. He had watched her work on occasion, not quite understanding the ritual. It seemed so strange. Now he knew. He knew so many things.
Her fingernails searched the exposed hair, brushing his nipples until they hardened with desire. His lips parted, breaths coming in gasps as he fought against her hand. He jerked the cuffs again, but they were as unyielding as the woman he faced.
Once inside his shirt, her hand slid along his skin, touching every part of him. Her body pressed closed as she reached around to his back, her bosom crushed against his body. She must have felt his trembling, and she would relish it. Her hand slid back to the front, and was joined by the second. Both ripped his shirt completely open, baring his body for her inspection.
He knew he must be a sight. Hard, aroused, aching for her touch and yet, a little scared and frightened. She would take all that in, and judge him accordingly. The soft cloth slid off his shoulders, falling around his waist, leaving him exposed.
"Nice." He had been judged, and found suitable.
His chest heaved with short breaths, the warmth of the room and the situation causing a light sheen of sweat to cover his skin. Her fingernails traced a light circular path over his chest and stomach, and he shuddered again. "Pleeeaseee......"
The hand stopped, perilously close to a nipple. All five of the claws drew across his pectorals, not enough to draw blood, but enough to mark him, both physically and in his mind. "You knew I would find you again." Reminding him.
"Yes...." His voice was soft and low, unsure. Her fingernail pressed under his chin, the pain forcing him to raise his head and look at her. Finally. The glint in her eye was force enough to drag the rest from his lips. "...Mistress...." The word fell off in a hiss.
"Your...companion is not having an easy time of this," she informed him, snapping him back from the erotic fog he had hovered in. "He's fighting it."
The mental picture was enough to make him shuffle on his feet. What could she be doing to him? She waited, the silence begging to be filled. "He's...he shouldn't be a part of this. I'm the one...."
The hand clenched his jaw, tight. "I warned you there would be interest. And he certainly interests me."
He had no reply, no answer for that. His head lowered when her hand fell away, his shame doubled now that his friend had been dragged into this. It had been his fault. His stupidity. And they both would suffer dearly.
Her hand rested lightly on his belt, drawing him closer to her. "My poor little Richard. It's time to pay your debts, my young friend." She walked around to his back, pulling him into a hug, her arms crossed over his bare stomach as she whispered in his ear. "I'm sure two handsome studs can work it off fairly quickly."
He stumbled into the room, his hands trapped behind his back. The floor was solid and it hurt as he landed, his bare skin scraping along the cement. The door shut with a bang, a perquisite in this place. Richie groaned, straightening out on the cold floor. Too much had changed, bringing too many old memories.
The small cell was sparsely furnished. A small mat in the corner was for the occasional moment of sleep. In the corner was a combination toilet/sink. Her favorite humiliation was watching how the new ones handled the combination. Here, you adapted or.... Well, the alternative was too graphic to imagine.
In one of the shadowed corners was probably a hidden camera. The thought that she was watching -- or that others were eyeing him made him want to cover up. She had stripped off his shirt, which now hung in tatters around his waist. But bound as he was, all he could do was pull it all the way off. He couldn't even wash his face -- just soak it in the toilet and wait for it to dry. Definitely her style.
God, he had to go to the bathroom. Her stimulation had only drawn out the need for relief, which caused a whole different ache. But his bladder was once again reminding him he hadn't done anything about the large soda he had had at lunch, so many hours ago. Hours? It could have been days. In this place, there was no time like days or dates. Only hours that stretched unimaginably long or blessedly fast.
He knew the screaming he heard in the background shouldn't bother him. He wasn't in that position -- yet. But Duncan was somewhere, being stubborn. Here that could get you killed. He laughed. It made being Immortal worse. You couldn't escape her by dying.
The cold, the nakedness, the despair at his situation: something caused him to tremble. He tried hard not to let the walls crumble, but here, before, the walls had been breached and decimated. His legs buckled, his body falling to his knees as the hopelessness overtook him. And he was twelve years old again....
Mercifully, he was no longer cold. Even though the room was dark and shadowed, it was warm. Unlike the alley he had come from. Where he had been found. They led him here, telling him to wait. And so he waited.
The woman came in, dressed...well, not like any lady he had ever seen before. She was calm and nice to him, asking him about where he was from, why he was sleeping in the alley. At first, he wanted to lie, but she somehow knew. She never touched him, never forced him, but somehow he told her everything. Running away, the uncaring foster parents. There was no way he was going back to the orphanage, so that left only the streets. He had done well his first few nights, but it was getting harder to find food, to find shelter. And it was getting colder.
She would let him stay, give him food and shelter, new clothing. He would have to work for her, here in this place. Without knowing quite what he was getting into, he agreed. Nothing could be worse than the streets, to a twelve year old boy. Nothing he could imagine.
He learned how limited his thinking was....
It took a bit to work his legs through his bound arms, threading past the handcuffs so his wrists were no longer trapped behind him. He wasn't as thin or as wiry as he had been before, or as dexterous. Immortals and thieves do not have similar workout regimes.
He was hungry, he was tired. Only one of those needs he could satisfy. The light remained on, always, so that anyone could watch him, at any time. There might have been a point in his life that he had been less than thrilled at the way his body looked. Since becoming Immortal, he hadn't cared, as long as it didn't fail him. So he lay down on the mat, not caring who was watching. Right now, it would be better to care only about himself.
There was nothing he could do for Duncan. Nothing to trade with her for leniency with his friend. Nothing to offer she didn't already possess in exchange for the Highlander's release. Only a moment to whisper a prayer at whatever god might protect the Scot to give him the strength he would need. There was no chance of MacLeod bowing to her whims, and no way she would not receive the obedience she desired. One or the other would break, and she held all the cards.
His thoughts were of Duncan as he drifted off to an uneasy sleep. Of Duncan and himself, and how he could ever be so stupid.
She must have come in while he was asleep. His wakeup call was a kick to the side, a blinding pain that woke him instantly. It took a moment to realize he had company, but his sleep-shrouded brain knew what he must do without conscious thought. Assume the position.
He twisted to his knees, spreading them as wide as his jeans allowed. She would always expect full access to his body. Head down, staring at his cuffed hands. He was unable to cross them behind his back like she wanted. He tried to calm their movement, and straightened his back. She hated sloppy posture.
"You remember incorrectly," she admonished him, adding a mediocre kick to his hands as they covered his crotch. Enough to cause pain in his wrists and lightly crush his groin. A reminder, only.
It was almost twice as hard to reverse the moves, straining to get his powerful legs between his arms, but finally he was positioned like she wanted. In half the time. Knees and wrists and head and back. Drawing in air noisily at the exertion. And he could feel the first wetness of perspiration at his armpits and stomach. That should help -- she always enjoyed a sweaty body.
"Better," she told him, running her hand through his short hair. "I liked it longer." Therefore it will not be cut. She raised her boot, running the point up and down the bulge in his jeans. "You've grown up. Not my little Richie anymore, are you?"
"No, Mistress," he whispered, ashamed at how he let her control him.
"Up," she commanded, a jerk in his hair helping him rise to his feet. "Decided you hated shirts?" she asked running her hands over his bare skin, teasing him. Taunting him. Giving him the opportunity to appease her or anger her. Either she would enjoy. Only one would keep him from the pain.
"You...it...I thought it displeased you."
Her hand rested on his skin, the fingernails digging in. "You thought?"
Oh, god. "I...I wanted you to see how well my body had turned out...Mistress."
Her hand resumed it's path. He could almost feel her smile. "You like showing off for me?"
His wrists jerked against the cuffs. He was aware how it made the muscles in his chest and arms flex. Anything to satisfy her. "Yes, Mistress."
Both her hands came to rest on his pectorals, framing the muscles. He looked down, aware at how little she was wearing. Her hands squeezed, testing the firmness. "You've done well. You should be proud of your body. It is a pleasing gift to me..."
Oh, no, Richie thought. Please, no.
Her hands moved up, trailing through his chest hair until they reached his neck. They stroked the bare flesh under his chin, tickling almost. She moved around him, massaging as she went, following tendons and veins. It was almost relaxing, if the results weren't so horrible.
The cold leather against his skin almost made him jump, and only the knowledge of her punishments kept him still. It encircled his throat, wide and thick. Enough so that it was impossible to keep his head lowered. The collar was tightened, almost to the point of choking him, but before it turned deadly, it was buckled into place. A constant reminder he was no longer anything but hers.
Her hand ran through the short hair on his head, ruffling it as he looked toward the ceiling. His eyes misted, the memories meshing with the reality. She gently lifted his wrists, sliding up his back, until they were resting between his shoulder blades. High enough to make his shoulders ache. "I'm not ready to see how much of a contortionist you've become," she added as something was clipped both to the cuffs and his collar. Something that kept his wrists in place. There would be no relief for him, no tricks to ease the restraints.
She moved around to his front, stroking his body all the way, almost as if she was reacquainting herself with his form. Almost like a lover might do. "You are a special gift, Richard," she whispered as she touched him. "A fitting canvas for what I have planned for you."
His knees wanted to shake so badly, and his strained position was already starting to hurt in several places. But he was frozen, unable to move, caught like a fly in her web of horror. "Yes, Mistress," he answered, knowing that it wasn't just the bright light shining in his face that cause the tears to well up in his frightened eyes.
"Your first assignment is tomorrow," she informed him, giving his chest one last brush before leaving. She was gone before the first tear coursed down his cheek. It was too difficult to remain standing as his body shook. He fell to his knees, the sharp pain of landing on cement lost among the other agony. His body wanted to fall forward, to curl limply into a fetal ball and forget that there was anything other than his pain. But the restraints kept his torso upright, leaving him no other choice but the position she wanted. His chest heaved as his body was wracked by the sobs, each breath painful and short.
This was only the beginning.
It was hard to do anything in the painful position she had left him in. Even crawling on his knees over to the toilet for water was almost impossible. Getting his head inside the bowl without using his hands, or wrenching them so far up his back his arms broke, was futile. He looked down at the clear water, unable to slack his thirst.
He made it back to the mat, his knees hurting as they scraped across the floor, even with denim covering them. By the time he managed to lie down fully on his belly, he was exhausted. His first breath was strained, his second even worse. Within a minute, he found it impossible to get any air. He used his legs to flip himself over and instantly regretted it. A sharp pain exploded behind each shoulder. The collar was jerked back, so far his neck felt like it was being pulled off. And his hands started going numb.
Frightened and in agony, Richie tried to turn over again, but the triangle of his head and shoulders made too stable a base. He was trapped -- and choking! Mentally, he reviewed the small number of options he had. There was only one he could try.
About to pass out, he spread his legs apart for leverage. He crunched his abs, trying to pull his torso off the ground using his stomach muscles alone. It felt like hours, each inch pulling his hands higher and jerking his neck further back. At one point, desperate for oxygen, he found his lungs no longer worked. His legs began trembling at the strain, and his abdominalsl screamed at the abuse.
Over and over, he kept telling himself one more inch, one more inch, praying desperately for something to end his suffering. His muscles gave out, and he felt himself falling back onto the mat. He couldn't feel his hands, he couldn't breathe, his whole body was awash in pain and sweat. Unconsciousness darkened his icy blue eyes, and he knew he was dying. And he welcomed it. Anything to get away from this hell.
He awoke naked and unrestrained. The collar still choked him, and his neck, arms and stomach were sore, but he was alive. Not knowing anything else to do, he curled up into a ball, pulling his knees into his chest and wrapping his arms around them, trying to give himself a little comfort. That's how he finally fell asleep.
The door made a loud noise as it opened One that echoed in the small, enclosed cell. Richie looked up from the mat he was sleeping on, aware too late he was tempting fate. If she had been standing there....
But it was only a small boy, trembling in fright, holding a tray of food.
"That's all right," the man told him, adding a smile. Richie wondered how anyone could smile here, especially one of them. "You can set that over there." He pointed near the mat on the floor. Richie hurried over, not caring how much soup he spilled. The only thing necessary was delivering the food and getting away.
The man stood in front of the door when Richie turned around. It wasn't a hostile action, but it made the youngster's heart beat even faster. "What's your name, boy?" the man asked him, drying his hands on what looked like the remains of a shirt. That was the only article of clothing in the room, save what Richie himself wore.
"Ri...Richie..."
"I'm Jacob," the man told him. "You're new." It was a statement, not a question.
"I'm not supposed to talk to you," Richie pointed out. Or any one of *them*. Even though he was almost a teenager, there were still some rules he thought it would be best to obey.
Jacob settled onto the mat, sliding the food tray closer. "You won't be punished," he replied, as if he could read the boy's thoughts. "Even though she watches us, she won't care if we keep it simple. And quick. A boy like you, scared and alone, needs someone to talk to."
The accuracy of Jacob's statement caused the fear to overwhelm what little guard Richie had over his emotions. "I've got to go," the boy stammered as he ran for the door, not pausing to look back at the guard who locked the cell and laughed.
"It's all right," Richie said, keeping his voice low and calm. "Come on inside a little." The young boy responded, but his eyes shifted about, scanning the empty cell. "I see you brought me some food."
Reminding the lad of his task must have centered him. He quickly walked over and handed the tray to Richie, almost dumping it in his lap. That would have been a disaster. Hot soup, no clothing for protection. It took a second to set the tray on the floor, and by the time Richie had looked back, the boy had dissappeared and the cell door closed.
"First day on the job, kid?" he asked the empty room. Richie couldn't blame him though. He knew how terrifying working here could be.
Richie panicked when the guards came barreling into his cell, powerful and sudden. Instinctively, he reacted, kicking out. But even his MacLeod-trained skills were no match for three beefy guards looking for insubordination. They wrestled him to the ground, not caring how much they hurt him. They had a job, and they would do it, with or without his cooperation.
It wasn't until they were dragging him down the hall that he calmed down enough to stop fighting them. One guard pulled on the chain connecting his manacled hands, another tugged at the leash they had attached to his collar. A third walked behind him, giving his rump a kick every time he slowed down. Wherever he going, they would make sure he arrived. If he didn't fight them, it might even be painless.
He was placid as they chained his wrists and ankles to two pillars, stretching him between the stone columns. Bright spotlights kept him well lit, all his secret places exposed in that position. They left him alone, shutting the iron door without comment.
The guards' footsteps faded into silence, leaving the young Immortal alone with his own demons. Waiting was never one of Richie's strong points, and having no choice but to hang there and do nothing was getting on his nerves. He wiggled, as much as his bondage allowed. There was a little play in the chains, enough so that his feet rested comfortably on the floor, but soon even that small amount of weight and his restlessness caused his shoulders to ache.
Pain just made the time pass even more slowly.
He might have been dozing. When he heard the key in the lock, his head snapped up. It hurt where the collar had been digging into his skin. His kept his eyes downcast, focused on the cement floor as he relaxed in the chains. It was cold here, and goosebumps dotted his pale skin. His nipples crinkled into tense little nubs and his toes tingled.
It was impossible to tell who owned the high-heeled boots as she walked in, until her fragrance, vanilla, invaded his brain. He felt himself harden as he breathed deeply. She had come, and his body was responding to her presence.
When he opened his eyes again, after drinking deeply of her smell, he noticed the other pair of boots. Black, shiny leather and big, the kind a man wore. She was not alone. Both pairs of feet moved closer, with not a sound uttered in the room. The new boots belonged to a pair of muscled thighs encased in straining black leather. The pants also bulged at a well-packed basket, a sure sign on the person's gender. As the man stepped closer, Richie noted the defined abdomen and the smooth, hairless chest. Not a weightlifter, but an active and toned man. After working at the dojo, it was easy to spot the signs.
They visually examined him in silence, both walking around him. He felt the leather of her riding crop caress his back in lazy circles. "What do you think?" she asked. Richie didn't imagine she was speaking to him.
The man stopped in front, running a hand over the Immortal's stretched chest. "Better than some of the ones you've gotten recently." A thumb brushed repeatedly over Richie's taut nipple, causing him to gasp uncontrollably. His reward was a painful pinch and jerk on the same piece of sensitive flesh. He bit his tongue to refrain from moaning, but he was transparent to the man. "Horny as a hound dog, too. What alley did you drag him from?"
"He wasn't homeless," she replied behind him, but all Richie could focus on was the man's fingers as they continued to torment his tits, badgering him into responding. Only the salty taste of blood in his mouth muted the sensations flooding into his brain. Erotic sensations, despite the sharp agony. He could see how hard he was, unable to control his body's reactions.
Richie almost cried with relief as the man exchanged places with her. It was short-lived, however. The Immortal found himself aching with need as he gazed shamelessly on her body right in front if him. Her hand was gentle and soft as it stroked a path across his pectorals. The man was behind him now, fingers sliding through his short, dirty-blond hair.
Her fingernails teased small circles over his naked abdomen, tracing the muscles that stood out because of his stretched position. "Richard is...a special case."
"Richard? Thinks himself a king, does he?" the man asked. There was a jerk on Richie's collar, choking him and pulling his head back. He blinked at the suddenness, blinded by the bright overhead lights that revealed every nuance of his body.
Her hand brushed lower, stroking the hair around his navel. His groin clenched under the caress. Her voice was soft as well, chiding the man. "No, he's fully aware of his place here. Aren't you, slave?"
There was no special emphasis on the last word, but it still caused Richie's breath to catch in his throat. He felt the light searing into his brain as he looked upward, afraid to close his eyes, but also afraid of the tears that were starting. "Yes, Mistress" was his choked response.
Hands dug into his buttocks, squeezing them like melons. The shock made him jump forward, straining against the cold, steel restraints. The hands followed, gripping harder. His rear would be sore, though it wasn't as painful as the whippings he remembered from the orphanage. "Nice ass," the man commented.
"Nice everything," she replied, as her hand finally claimed his treasure, wrapping tightly over his inflamed manhood.
His lungs pulled hard as he gasped for air. The sensations were overwhelming. Without thinking, he exhaled, the words "...oh, God..." escaping his lips. The hand on his cock stopped, her fingernails digging deep into the pulsating flesh. Pain exploded as his head was jerked back again by his hair.
"You'd do better to pray to *me*, you stupid *fuck*," the man whispered angrily in his ear. The last word was punctuated by a dry finger thrusting into his most private place, forcing itself past a protesting ring of muscle and deep into his ass.
Richie cried out at that, his mind screaming wordlessly at his body's violation. He rose to his toes, as far as his stringent bondage would allow. Metal dug into sore wrists as he pulled himself up, trying to use his chained hands to protect himself, protect his assaulted rear. Fingernails dug deeper into his cock as he struggled to pull out of her grasp, to lift off the offending finger.
He was trapped, helpless. His position gave them full access to his body. Hands unable to cover, to fight away, legs incapable of closing. They subverted his will, dominated him. The word "no" was no longer part of his vocabulary. There was no "he," only a body they could deal with as they pleased.
When what little energy he had left ran out, he relaxed fully, whimpering. The finger wiggled deeper, exploring its new home. His breaths came in ragged gasps, the pain from his ass mixing with the pleasure as her hand started slowly milking his softened penis. Tears poured down his cheeks, mixing with the sweat coating his body. For a second, he caught a glimpse of her as his head fell forward, but another deep push by the finger drove all thoughts but red, throbbing pain from his mind.
"Nice," the man commented again. Richie found he couldn't even blush anymore. "Tight," was added as an afterthought. The finger continued to explore, ferreting out the dimensions. Her hand pulled harder, and despite the price, he welcomed it.
It had been so long, almost a week since he had even jerked off. A month since real sex. That and the stimulation recently at her hands had given Richie a bad case of blue balls. Even though he felt humiliated at being finger-fucked, her hand was stroking him, teasing him. Her fragrance surrounded him, clogging his nostrils. He thrust his hips, not so much to escape the finger but to drive his cock harder into the warm hole her hand made.
She chuckled, enjoying his erotic writhing held in check by the bondage. "Stop," she commanded, and both the finger and her hand froze where they were, leaving him hanging on the brink. His mind rebelled, needing release and lost without it. He had no control left.
"Nooooo," he whined. He felt his legs trembling as he tried so hard to push into the hand. It followed with him, never moving an inch on his hard shaft. "Pleeease." In desperation, he pushed back, hoping the finger would drive deeper, anything to send him over the edge. But they denied him that as well. Whatever he had left fought against the chains. If he could just touch himself, stroke himself, brush against a nipple, feel cool lips against his skin, anything, he would find release.
Her warm breath blew softly over his chest hairs, sending his skin tingling, bringing him one tiny step closer to the abyss. "What have you left to give me, Richard? What bargain will you strike that you would uphold? Have you turned trustworthy somehow? What will you do for me this time, Richard? Will you be mine? Forget you ever had a life outside this place? Give yourself fully to me, slave? Give up yourself, forever?"
His teeth had cut into his tongue, and still that sharp pain didn't finish it, only brought him so close he knew he'd go mad in seconds. "Anything," he breathed, tasting the salty tang of his blood as it flooded his mouth.
She raked one fingernail over the sensitive flesh just under his cockhead, rather hard. Sharp agony so overwhelming it was a blast of pure pleasure filled him, and he came. He could feel his body shaking in the chains, writhing as he felt his testicles shoot their load. He was shouting at the top of his lungs, gargling on his own heated blood as his muscles contracted as much as they were able.
He must have passed out. The collar choked him, cutting off his breathing, so he lifted his head. They were standing at the door, gazing on him as he hung limply in the chains. "We could get a pretty penny for a virgin ass like that," the man said. Richie didn't care. The torment was over, for now, and he could step back and examine what had happened, what they had done to him. And how he felt about it.
"There's already a few prospective clients lined up. I thought you'd want a crack at him first, though." Even sated, her voice did things inside of him, things both shaming and wonderful.
The man laughed, sending chills down Richie's bare spine. "I'll get my chance. When does he start?"
"Two days."
They left him hanging there, alone in the silence to ponder what had happened and what was to come. He was freezing, his sweat and other juices drying on his body. Limp as a doll, unable to do anything but ache at the remembered moment of orgasm. He had promised her anything, and everything. And he found that he had meant it, this time. This time he went in with his eyes fully opened, and his soul fully claimed.