Lessons V Pt.2

Mulder stared up at the ceiling, unblinking, expression vacant as the
gray-haired man walked around the table. "You really have a fine form and a
handsome face," he heard the Master compliment through the sparkle of
nerves as a hand slid along the curve of his ribs. Twitched and winced
through the attenuated quivers as boot heels clicked the floor and
fingertips traced prominent muscle and bone. "Most of my clients don't
appeal to me aesthetically. You are the rare exception, Mr. Mulder," he
told him loversoft. "You are very, very beautiful and I will enjoy my
fortnight with you. You're calmer now, lad. Do the straps soothe you?"
The metal beneath Mulder had warmed, drunk up his body heat, and left him
with the shakes. "Y-yes," he whispered, holding the truth closer. Let the
man think what he wanted.
The Master sounded kind. "We'll tie you down quickly when you panic
again--get you quieted as fast as possible....Jim? Is everything laid out
for Mr. Mulder's lesson?"
"Yes, sir," came the answer. "It's all ready." Mulder's eyes darted from
the ceiling to the origin of the voice--the dark man was across the chamber
in wavering candelight. Couldn't see what else was there as the flame's
brightness caught and held him.
"Good. Then you and William may go and sleep. Sweet dreams, my dears."
"Thank you, sir," "Goodnight, sir," And the men withdrew; footsteps
retreating, sounding on stairs. The candle beacon was cut by the
Englishman's silhouette. There were things on a flat surface.
Rustling--nothing Mulder could fathom until the unmistakable snap of a
latex glove. His stomach knotted, twisted so tight. A little squeak forced
itself from his throat and his heart started to hammer--boom, boom,
boom--pushing too much blood into his head. Vision swam....
....The voice was silk-smooth. "...men...dominate men...dominate you, and
this form of domination is as old as time. Have you ever had anything large
inserted into your rectum, Mr. Mulder?"
"Wh-what?" he stuttered, as he felt the tight leather--as he remembered.
"Have you ever had anything large forced inside you?" Mulder lifted his
head and looked around wildly for what that object might be. Felt the
Master's palm press his forehead, strained his neck muscles to keep from
being forced back down. Useless, but he had to try.... "Keep your head
against the table and answer me. I have a strap in my hand and I will use
it when you don't reply."
The outer edges of Mulder's eyes caught the supple flicker; knew it--had
known it. Struggle died away. "I--no--just...."
"Just what, Mr. Mulder?"
"A finger. The doctor--"
The Master smiled down at him. "Just during a physical, eh?"
"Yes."
"This will hurt very badly, then. But I'll try to loosen you up first. That
should help." Stunned dumb, Mulder watched the Master walk to the foot of
the table. Chilly hands freed his ankles and blood coursed into numbed
feet, raising prickles. "Bend your legs at the knees."
He couldn't even blink.
"I said bring up your legs, Mr. Mulder."
Slowly, Mulder did as he was told--didn't know how but did it--keeping his
knees tight together. Saw the man bend to reach under the table top. A
clang and then he moved to the table's opposite side. Another clang and the
bottom leaf folded, leaving Mulder's ass and heels right on the new edge.
"You're the perfect length, Mr. Mulder. I won't have to adjust your
position all. Very good, then. Spread your legs for me." Mulder shut his
eyelids tight, felt his forehead wrinkle deep in accompaniment. The voice
hardened. "Spread your legs, Mr. Mulder. Now."
"Agghhhh!" Mulder's eyes snapped open and he cried out as the strap struck
him across the pectorals once, then again and again, leaving fiery
stripes--terrible, familiar.
"Do as I say."
Mulder obeyed, blinking against the wet sting in his eyes. "Wider," the
Master ordered. But the open door to the hallway was drawing a draft and
the cold air fingered his genitals and he just couldn't, couldn't.
"Mr. Mulder, I will strap you again."
"I-I'm trying!"
"Do you need my help? You may ask for it."
"No!" He flinched at the imagined touch. "Let me--l-let me....oh god...."
The draft shriveled his cock and his scrotum as he forced his legs far
apart, exposing himself to the man who waited.
"That's it. Very good."
His voice was fragile. "I can't stay this way on my own."
The hand patted his knee. "All right. You won't have to. I'll help." Mulder
heard the clatter of a chain, and a cuff again closed tight around one
ankle. A warm tear rolled down the side of his face into his ear as the
Master buckled on the other cuff. He rolled his head back and forth,
flushed hot and frozen all at once, goosebumped everywhere, and once again
faint.
Mulder jumped and whimpered at the first touch of rubber-gloved fingers to
his anus. Struggled desperately as fingers spread a cold circle of
lubricant around the tightly closed ring of muscle. The tip of one finger
slipped in, the latex resisting, then sliding in, too, pushing the
lubricant inside. Mulder pulled against the leather encircling his wrists,
giving himself purchase to arch his back, arch his neck, pull his hips up
off the table and away. He hissed through his teeth as a strong hand on his
groin pressured him back down and a second finger pushed through into his
rectum.
The fingers massaged, moving the lubricant deeper inside him. He flexed and
fought again when they toyed with his prostate. Mulder felt himself trying
to expel the intruders, muscles clamping and pushing out while he pulled
his hips away once more. Icy sweat again--breaking out all over him--as he
yanked at the leather that tethered his wrists and ankles, rattling and
banging the chains. Suddenly, the Master pulled out, leaving Mulder
gasping. The Englishman moved behind him and there was a click of metal and
a momentary loosening of the pull on his left arm, then a tug so hard it
popped his joints. The same procedure on his other arm left him stretched
to an extreme that seared his limbs and pinned hips firmly to the table,
fire running through drawn tendons and ligaments.
The unwelcome fingers returned, easing in. Mulder tensed and moaned as the
Master pushed more forcefully, stretching his anus until it burned. "Stop
tightening up, Mr. Mulder. You'll only make it worse on yourself," the
Englishman warned. "To feel the least pain later, you need to relax now and
let me in."
Mulder tried to obey. He tried to dissociate, to reach his boyhood hiding
place, but was too unpracticed to run so far on mental legs. The Master's
probing was deeper and the ring of muscle squeezed against the pain as yet
another finger was forced through. "Stop!" Mulder implored. "God, stop!"
"I don't...allow...begging." He heard pauses of exertion punctuate the
Master's reply as the fingers kept fucking and fucking him. "I
suggest...that you don't beg again." Mulder was jarred by another solid
push and a stronger burn. His body felt skewered by pain. He tossed his
head, slinging sweat, and clenched his jaw against his own scream.
"All right." The folded strap stroked Mulder's inner thigh, close to his
balls--raised up the hair on his arms and legs. "You're as ready as you'll
let me make you." Slowly, the fingers withdrew, leaving Mulder feeling
open. Torn. Saw the Master strip off the glove and drop it on the floor,
then step away. Mulder lifted his head again, craned his neck to see where
his abuser had gone.
The Englishman stood in the candelight buckling something around his waist
and over his jeans. "Put your head down, Mr. Mulder, and don't raise it.
This is your second warning. If you disobey again, I'll punish you."
He tried to do as he'd been told, but how the hell could he? The Englishman
paused and tapped his fingers on the flat surface. When he moved, it was
very fast. Mulder saw a blur of downward motion, heard a snapping sound,
and a line of fire blistered the inside of his thigh where the strap had
caressed. Reflex tried to lift him but burning muscles could not raise his
hips. Another strike hatched the first, stinging and bruising and making
his head ring. It happened again and again, until Mulder was trying to push
forward, to spread the pain over a larger area of skin--groaning and unable
to bear more lashings in the same place.
When the strap dropped to the Master's side and the man returned to the
candle and the shapes around it, Mulder turned his wet, puffy eyes to the
ceiling. His thigh was scalded, but the pain was so damned familiar. He
hadn't felt it in twenty years--the raw, hot, swollen feeling that would
turn into a leaden throb and companion pulse to the welts across his chest.
But the pain was something familiar to hang onto, if only for a moment.
He heard the Master's footsteps, felt a touch on his knee. Let his eyes
slide down from the ceiling beams to find the Master standing between his
open legs. Mulder knew what the bastard was about to do, tried to stop his
instinctive tensing, understanding with his brain what his body did not:
that this was going to tear him open unless he yielded to it. The tip of
the thing was already pushing into him, blunt and hard and slow. It
thickened as it entered, spreading his anus open increment by increment,
sending sharp ripping pains along with a duller, horrid, bruising burn.
Mulder gasped and crunched his eyes shut, tipped his chin up so high he
felt the choke of skin across his Adam's apple. Snapped his head
forward--crushing chin against collar bone--hissed and watched the Master's
thin form lean forward to push the long, thick dildo deeper inside him.
"Take it, Mr. Mulder. Take it. Don't fight." Mulder's answer was a
gravel-throated groan--louder with each inch of intrusion. When the base
finally reached his flesh he was grateful--very grateful--that it could go
no further. Rectal and pelvic muscles were clamped in protest. His
sphincter felt ripped, bloody, on fire.
Before Mulder could take a full breath, the dildo was drawn out and thrust
back in. His guttural shout of astonishment and agony rang off the ceiling.
The pistoning continued, ramming shocky, automatic cries from his throat,
tearing and bruising hidden muscles. A hand cupped his scrotum, making his
head jerk up to watch as the Master rolled and softly squeezed the
testicles inside the soft pouch of skin. "God! No! Don't!"
The thrusting stopped--godthankyou--as the Master looked at him and
frowned. "This is your second warning about begging, Mr. Mulder, and your
third about lifting your head. Do as I've told you. Do it now."
Mulder let the back of his skull thunk on the metal surface, rolled his
head back and forth. The dildo lanced inside him again and again, forcing
cries but also sparking treacherous warmth. The thrusting was growing
faster now, in and out, in and out, the warm sensation growing, the
pressure on his testicles becoming more intense. His rectum was filled up
and emptied, the anal muscle pushing in and out with each repetition, while
the fabric of the man's jeans and the leather of the harness chafed the
strapped skin of his inner thigh, kept the fire fresh and alive.
"Oh no...no...." Mulder shut his eyes tight, mortified and sick as he
realized that he was erect--understood the sick mutherfucker had been
waiting for it. The rhythm of penetration slowed and the thrusts grew
shallow. A taste of relief, then dark eyes flew open when a warm, wet
tongue caressed the head of his phallus, increased its painful hardness.
"No!" he shouted, fighting with futility against the wrist and ankle cuffs.
"I won't--I won't--"
The Master pulled his lips and mouth back from Mulder's rigid, aching penis
and looked up. "No what? You won't come for me? But you will, my boy, and
in just a moment."
"I won't--I--!"
But the mouth had captured him again and sucked hard, lashing the tip of
his cock with its tongue. A finger traced Mulder's anus, around and around
where muscle met the dildo. It was too much. Too much. Mulder threw back
his head, his shoulders--electric heat up his spine as his ass went tight
and he could not make a single sound through his open mouth as the orgasm
jolted him, shook him to his core.
Fresh, deep thrusts speared him while the spasms receded. "God!" he shouted
against the pain and the shame that was thick in his chest. The harsh
motions slowed and stopped. Through tear-blurred eyes, Mulder watched the
Master spit semen into a handkerchief and wipe palms along trembling,
wide-spread thighs. The warm ejaculate cooled on Mulder's skin as his
captor eased the dildo out, leaving the scorch and the ache behind in his
anus and rectum and pelvis.
The harness clattered on the floor and the Master was leaning over him. The
words were very soft, very close. "We need to discuss the difference
between lessons and punishment, Mr. Mulder. I'm sure right now that's how
you view your lesson, but it wasn't. Lessons lead to correction and a
happier state of being; punishment is for disobedience's sake alone--for
fighting correction. Do you understand the difference?"
Mulder ground his teeth into his lips, turned his face away. Fingers
pinched his into jaw and dragged his face back. "I told you before that you
will answer me when I ask you a question. Now, do you understand the
difference between correction and lessons?"
He didn't want to answer; knew he had to answer--closed burning eyes and
swallowed down a dry, rough esophagus. Nodded enough to satisfy. Tried to
turn his head again but hands wrapped around his face, twisted him back
toward blue eyes that made him wince. "You disobeyed me during your
lesson," the English voice was neutral. "I punished you for it. That is
what happens in this house. But you kept on disobeying. I told you the
rules, Mr. Mulder. You know I have to."
"Ohm'gd...." Mulder's pupils went wide as he whispered words slurred by the
press of the Master's palms against his cheeks. He felt a panic surge, felt
his face heat, felt arms and legs jerk violently against the cuffs,
surprise sending the Master backward a step as he shouted, "No! You've done
enough to me tonight, you sonofabitch! Get away from me! Leave me alone!"
"Silence this moment!" Angry eyes above a sharp, thin nose. "Silence or
your punishment doubles." Mulder gulped and swallowed his furious,
frightened curses, not wanting...not wanting...it was so hard to hold it
in. He watched the Englishman walk to the foot of the table--clipped, neat
words nearly lost under the acrimonious tide of his breathing. "I'm going
to lift the lower leaf and turn you flat on your stomach. I'd let you do it
yourself, but I know you can't. The first lesson is the most upsetting for
all my patients."
The hinges were silent, but the bolts shrieked as they locked. Mulder was
red-faced, still pulling and pushing against the straps when, suddenly, a
rub of metal against metal and an abrupt end of tension let his left foot
kick out, pulling slack chain with it through some sort of guide. Leg
muscles cooled, but as he groaned in relief the Master's fingers dug
between the cuff and his skin. He heard the stretch of leather as the
Englishman pulled his leg out straight and he resisted, trying to draw it
up instead.
"Stop fighting, Mr. Mulder. You can't win and you will be punished more
severely," the bastard scolded him.
Mulder knew he had to stop, had to let him....He lifted his head and
slammed it back against the metal table. The deep gong and the edgeless,
heavy hurt soothed his desperation. His heart pounded in his ears but he
heard the metallic sound when his leg was locked down. Tracked the Master
around the table to watch and feel him break the tension still holding his
right leg, then yank the limb out straight and to the side--up against his
left. Another click and the two cuffs were hooked together.
Panting through his nose, fighting for stillness, Mulder's eyes followed
the Englishman to the top of the table, tipped his head back and watched
upside-down as his captor repeated the process on his arms, leaving him
restrained diagonally across the white surface. A few footsteps and
suddenly Mulder gasped and tried uselessly to curl as hands brushed dark
pubic hair and a limp cock to grab the bone of his hip. "Mr. Mulder, calm
yourself...I'm rolling you over."
The table was warm and wet when the skin of his abdomen and genitals
touched it, cooler under his cheek when he turned his face to the side,
searching for the Master--finding no one. Behind him, a hand suddenly
pressed down firm between his shoulder blades and he gasped again and knew
what was coming. Across the dining room table. It had happened all the
time.
His nails clawed the hard, slick enamel as the strap whistled and snapped
and burned his ass. "Two...three...four...five," the English voice counted
as the strap raked him, but there was another voice behind it on a carpet
of scotch and long-ago Winstons and his nose twitched from the tang of
citrus polish. "Ten...eleven...twelve...." Mulder turned his face to the
table again, eyes spilling tears he wouldn't let the bastard see, taking
the impact of "eighteen...nineteen...twenty" in his aching hips, choked on
the screams of "twenty-eight...twenty-nine...thirty" until the strap fell
silent and kind words made him shake.
"Very good. You've been a brave lad, Fox. Now let's get you cleaned up and
bedded down for the rest of the night."
Cleaned up and bedded down. Like a race horse run its course under crop and
spurs. Mulder moaned as cuffs were undone and hands helped him get his feet
on glacial concrete, then slipped beneath his armpits to draw him up to a
crouching stand. A hard-muscled arm slid under his own, across his back, to
embrace the opposite shoulder. He kept trying to pull away, despising the
assistance, but his legs, his hips....Hurt....Couldn't carry him alone to
the Master's destination. Couldn't admit that to himself.
The walk lasted forever. Finally, a doorway and the Master threw a switch
and Mulder's retinas stung as they contracted from the light. The floor of
the little room was the same rough arctic stuff, walls covered in a drab
cream tile. Pinpoint pupils stumbled over an antiquated toilet, pedestal
sink, a showerhead, taps, and a drain. No enclosure--the floor was just
tilted toward the drain to sluice out the water. The Master's lithe figure
bent to turn on the faucets. Voice pleasant. "Wash yourself, Mr.
Mulder--there's soap in the holder. Empty your bladder and your bowels,
then come back out into the dungeon. Will you obey me?"
A near transparent "Yes."
"Excellent. Good boy."
Retreating footsteps and Mulder hung onto the wall as he maneuvered himself
under the showerhead's flow. His knees were shaking badly and he was afraid
of a sudden drop onto cold tiles but he hadtohadto get clean. Shooting
nerve pains hissed silver through hands that fiddled with the taps, hoping
to heat the tepid water running over shivering skin. His pelvis ached in an
intense, awful, crampy way he'd never felt before and deep inside him--he
couldn't think about that pain --and his ass and chest and thigh pounded
and burned.
Mulder's teeth chattered as he rinsed the slime from between his legs. KY
and feces and semen and blood. Just a little blood. It hadn't torn him as
much as he'd thought. His forehead tipped to rest against the wet tile. The
sob that was caught in his throat finally inched up and broke free.
Another...more. They shook him to his bones, left him hiccuping, unable to
breathe through congested, running sinuses.
It was so cold....Mulder wanted to be far away, to rest in a place of warm,
restful sunlight. Wanted to be there, safe. He could almost make it real.
But it was a fantasy that made the dungeon all the colder when he shut off
the water, used the toilet, and dragged himself back into the dark.
Found the Master tidying up his toys. The rankness of rubbing alcohol and
his own body's odors made Mulder's nostrils pinch. He hugged his wet,
shaking shoulders as the Englishman led him back to his cell. A thin
section of egg-crate padding had been unrolled on the floor. It looked like
a little strip of paradise. He wanted to lie down, wanted to sleep and have
no dreams. If he couldn't have sunshine, he wanted nothingness...wanted not
to be Fox Mulder any longer.
He sank to his knees and hands and wilted across the padding. Felt the
needle touch of coarse wool as a pale green blanket was tucked around him.
Heard clothing rustle when the Master sat down. Mulder turned his face
toward the wall. He just wanted to sleep, wanted the bastard to go.
"Mr. Mulder, you did well," the Englishman praised him. "I recognize how
hard you tried." Mulder stared at the dirty, cracked plaster, blinked
against thrumming pain. "It won't be so bad in the future," the Master
added solicitously. "The sphincter gradually stretches out. You'll begin to
enjoy the sensation when I penetrate you. You'll look forward to being
fucked."
It was out of Mulder's mouth before he could think to stop it. "Go to hell!"
The Master laughed softly and a hand patted Mulder's ass, made him jump and
try to squirm away. "I'll let it pass this time. Tell me, what do you know
of pain, Mr. Mulder?"
"Quite--a lot--right n-now," Mulder's jaw knocked. He pulled the blanket
tighter around himself, holding the hemmed edge under his chin while he
curled his body, drawing his knees up toward his chest.
"Pain other than now, Mr. Mulder. For instance, that horrid scar on your
upper thigh--what is that from?"
"I was shot--"
"Speak up."
"I was s-shot."
"By whom?"
Mulder didn't answer until a hard slap on scorched buttocks made the words
vital. His eyes watered from the sting. "I--I--he...It was a pissed-off
s-serial murderer."
"And the damage?" The voice remained kind.
Silent, twin tears rolled sideways down his face and dropped onto the
padding. "The b-bullet severed my f-femoral artery."
"And that fresh scar on your shoulder?" the Master asked, his hand now
petting Mulder's shivering ass.
Mulder curled tighter, desperate to avoid the awful touch. Pinched the
flesh of his neck as hard as he could. "I was s-shot by m-my partner."
"You don't do yourself justice. You were about to avenge your father's
murder and Agent Scully stopped you in this rather unhappy way." Mulder's
breathing quickened, body stiffened with surprise. "I feel you tensing, Mr.
Mulder. Yes, I know all about Dana Scully, too. All about your partnership.
You're very close, aren't you? So, how was it then--when Dr. Scully shot
you?"
He said nothing, just pinched hard, hard, until a warning tap on his
buttocks triggered the answer. "S-something just hit me, then--then it was
l-like my bones were on fire. That stopped once I'd lost enough blood. I
d-didn't feel anything then."
"I'm sorry to hear it, Mr. Mulder. Pain can be such an ennobling
experience. My patients--my voluntary patients--find it so. And I do,
myself, in helping them to it. Do you search for pain, Mr. Mulder--don't
answer yet--because from what I know of your history of abuse, you should
need pain to feel any emotion deeply. Now, answer my question truthfully or
I'll fetch the strap."
"I--" Mulder gulped. "I don't know. I'm--t-telling you the truth. I really
don't know."
"Does pain arouse you?"
Mulder had frozen up again.
"Mr. Mulder, answer me."
He couldn't curl any tighter.
"All right. I should punish you, but I'll refrain and leave the this topic
for now. Were you trying to hurt yourself out in the dungeon, Mr. Mulder?"
He lifted and turned his head to look at the Englishman with big-eyed
surprise. The Master smiled as again Mulder felt his cheeks blush with
shame. "Ah, you were. And you're doing it again right now-I see the
fingernail marks there on your neck. What else do you do, Mr. Mulder? Do
you scratch yourself?"
"No."
"Bruise yourself?"
Mulder let his head fall back. "Yes."
"Cut yourself?"
"When things get bad." Mulder couldn't filter the sadness, the resignation.
"When I have to get--to get through a situation."
"What kind of situation?"
"One that m-makes me look at myself."
He felt the Master rub a slow circle of approval between his shoulders.
Loathed the approbation. "An honest response, Mr. Mulder. And you feel
disgust for needing the pain, am I right? You hate yourself for a good many
reasons, lad."
Mulder didn't answer. Wrapped his hand around his throat and crushed the
sobs he would not share. Heard the movement as the Englishman rose. Holding
his breath and holding the sobs, Mulder looked up, watched him walk to the
light fixture, pluck a fresh handkerchief from the back pocket of his jeans
and use it's protection to unscrew the hot, bright bulb. "I'll see you in
four or five hours, Mr. Mulder."
Darkness. Boots. The sonofabitch was going. Mulder heard the thick door
nestle into its jam and the drag of the bolts sealing him in. He lay in
silence, in darkness that was a mirror for his own reflection, until the
trapped air burst from his lungs, tears following the explosion in a second
wave. And as he wept he wished--just a safe, small wish--that Scully sat
there beside him.

-Lisby
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"Somebody back East is wonderin' 'Why don't she write?'"
-wagon driver, 'Dances with Wolves'
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