IX

9:40 A.M.

"Fox?"
The voice behind him--it made him jump.
"Feel like you're gonna faint?"
Someone had gotten so close...didn't hear anyone. The world lapped,
retreated as he tried to turn his head to see where...where....But the
world was a wave and he didn't know how long it had been.
"Bill, bring a stool over here."
Mulder's legs were numb; he couldn't feel them through the time capsule of
stiff styling mousse and Phoebe's throaty chuckle, through the exhaust of a
London taxicab and dragging, scraping sounds.
Clearing....clearing vision when his ass stung and ached as weight pushed
raw skin and bruises against grainy wood. Jim's warm hands gripped his
bare, goosebumped shoulders while Mulder squirmed to avoid the
downpressure. "Stop it, Fox. Stop it right now." One palm slid over
shivering skin to clamp the back of his neck; the little man's body hot and
solid against his spine as his head was pushed down between his knees. The
heat felt so good but he didn't, couldn't, want it.
"Take deep breaths, Fox--slow ones, okay? He'll be down in another minute
or so."
There were florid purple bruises around his ankles; a dust ball tethered to
the stool's front leg by a stray thread. Hiccuppy gulps of air fighting
black laughter. "Th-that's supposed to make me feel better?"
A leather jacket rustled; the jagged edge of its zipper caught his cheek as
Bill leaned in to rap his ear. "Shut up, meat!"
Jim's grip kept him from falling through the blast of white. Mulder rubbed
at the hurt, ground his teeth against vertigo and hate--finally buried his
face in shaky hands and tried to breathe through gaps between fingers.
The little troll was right. Mulder heard thuds on wooden steps, thuds down
to concrete. The Master was back after what seemed a forever, after what
was too soon. Closer and beside him and Mulder's stomach chilled. "James,
what's wrong with our charge?"
Above and behind him, Bill's voice burned slow. "I didn't do anything."
"Did I ask you?" The Master's tone raised just perceptibly. Mulder felt
Jim's body jitter; heard Bill retreat toward the back of the chamber.
"James, what's happened here?"
The squeezing grip on Mulder's shoulder and neck became a brief, gentle
massage before going the hell away. "He didn't hurt the patient, sir. Mr.
Mulder just got woozy."
"Yes. Well...I empathize."
Scarecrow legs squatted. Another hand pulled his own from his face while
the English voice ordered, "Look at me, boy." He wouldn't until fingers
hooked his chin and hoisted until eyes met eyes. The Master's face was
white--hand white, too, holding a small ziplock bag of ice cubes to the
side of a swelling mouth and chin. Blood had clotted brown on his shirt
front and Mulder nearly smiled satisfaction. He'd gotten one good punch in,
anyway--hurt this man a little in trade.
"Do you understand what I'm saying? Answer me."
Resentful. "Yes."
"Good. I find I must alter my plans for today, Mr. Mulder. We must do some
serious work together." The sudden crack of finger joints made Mulder
startle, grimace. His captor twisted on ankles to glare past him into the
dungeon's dark. "William!" Voice stern, then guided modulation. "William,
go fetch my strap. I left it in the infirmary." Mulder heard a mumble, then
a funnel-cloud shadow passed to his right, reformed as the tow-haired man
with his shoulders hunched beneath the hall's incandescent light.
Mulder watched the Master's eyes close momentarily as his assistant's
ascent battered the staircase, then cold-water blue again staring right at
him. "Do you understand me, lad? That it must be a different lesson today
than it might have been?"
"It doesn't matter." Mulder dropped his gaze, tried to sink his chin, but
the Master wouldn't let him. Nails dug into Mulder's jaw to keep it aloft.
A forced "No difference" from between his locked rows of teeth.
"But there is a difference, Mr. Mulder," the Master chided, loosening his
pinch. "I want you to understand it: I knew you to be a strong man and
well-trained to defend yourself. But I didn't know about these panics. For
your sake and ours, we're going to have to wear you down so that you're
easier for us to handle."
"Wear me down?" A surge of anger words spark. "You mean beat the shit out
of me today? Rape me again, too? Maybe with something in a different color
and slightly larger size?"
Mulder saw the Master blink his restraint. "Do not speak again until I tell
you to or you'll earn extra punishment like you did last night." The
Englishman released his chin after a sharp waggle and arose.
Dizzy. Blurred. But Mulder's eyes tracked the Master toward the chamber's
candleflame boundary as hot spots of anger burnt his cheeks and the surreal
statements continued. "I know this seems extreme, Mr. Mulder, but I do
think it will make things easier for you in the long run. You'll understand
the benefits later and be thankful we did this."
Mulder could only shake his head in wonder, watch the Englishman hop up to
sit on the chest of drawers--sideboard--whatever it was. Jack Skellington's
toothpick limbs were an eidetic overlay as the Master crossed his legs,
relaxed in this horrible place. "When we're done today, lad, if you please
me," he lowered the ice pack to palpate the hammered corner of his mouth.
"...If you please me by submission, you'll have jab for the pain and a
better place to rest. Well?" Heavy gray eyebrows raised, seeking agreement.
Mulder ate the curses he wantedneededlonged to shout--tried to swallow
them--force them into his nether reaches. Tried to hold the icon of a
dark-haired girl in a flowered nightgown before his inner eye. Couldn't do
anything else or--or.....Just shrugged.
"Answer me aloud, Mr. Mulder."
"I'll--' He gulped, fighting all the damned words and the soprano trill of
panic. Nodded as his body shivered no no.
"All right, then. Good. Go over there--" Mulder's eyes followed the
Master's gesture past the door of the cell to shapes blacker than the dim,
drooped, hanging--oh...oh, god. He knew what it was. Stared at it, dazed,
lost in the replay of insomniac nights: a hard, aching cock;
wanting--needing--and those scenes in the videos had seemed safe. Someone
else suspended supine; someone else's legs held open as rubber-skinned
fingers forced KY inside.
"Are you still faint?....Mr. Mulder?" Another pause. "Do you need Jim's
help? Remember, lad, it isn't counted against you."
The Master's words--he hardly understood as they were swept away by the
roar of blood.
"Mr. Mulder...?" Then an enlightened "Ahhhh. No, no, my dear boy, that's
not for you today. I want you to go over there by the wall--to that empty
space."
The rush of relief made him sweat, gave him heat to look down, away.
"James, he's frightened himself badly. Do help him to the wall."
Mulder cringed away from the Master's sincerity and Jim's automatic touch.
"I can!...I will," and slowly raised himself to his feet, batting at gold
flecks that danced the periphery of his vision. The assistant gripped at
his elbow again. "No....no...." He sounded vague, even to himself. "I'll do
it."
The short trek was so long but he managed it with one foot careful in front
of the other. He knew the Master watched him walk, saw the limp dangle of
his penis, the sickle-shaped leather burns on his thigh. Knew as he passed
that the Englishman admired the shifting evidence of last night's double
jeopardy. Raw flesh. Bruises that must be livid on pale buttocks.
Mulder's throat tightened. He felt like meat.
Quiet, kind voice. "Good boy. Very, very good. Now put your hands on the
wall and don't remove them. I hear William coming."
In the vague light, the plaster surface was the color of soot, smooth and
cold against Mulder's open palms. He wanted to pound on it with his hands
and with his head. Didn't--Oh god--Didn't want to pretend it was Dad. Shit
oh shit oh fuck. A first memory of hard hands gripping tiny shoulders,
shaking the pacifier out of his mouth; a last, fresh recollection of blood
and brain fluid--his own hands gentle beneath a dead man's head. Mulder's
fingertips danced on the plaster, wanting to strangle the creepings of a
scream.
"Give me the strap, William." He heard Bill clunk up to his master. Saw a
mental image of big, high-top sneakers worn the night before. A perfunctory
"Thank you," denim swished, and the light impact of heels on the floor.
Coming up behind him. Mulder tried to deepen depthless breaths, to brace
himself, to hold himself and hold at bay things that could bind him.
No not today no.
His leg muscles reflected the affront of last evening, were achy and weak
as the first stroke snapped across the width of his shoulders--a long, wide
scald. He bent in, bent at the elbows, too--sharp exhalation shoving a
grunt through the gaps between his teeth. The next stroke stung a little
lower, the next lower still. And Fox Mulder smiled at plaster that could
not mirror him. The sick bastard was methodical as Dad--even when straight
Dewar's had coursed his veins--and he could let the fucker do this. He
could.
He understood the Faith of Abuse, had been raised in the rites. An acolyte
stood still for it; took it--take it now. Picked a snap of the leather band
and concentrated on its stinging line. Felt the next stroke as a partial
overlap distracting him through counterirritance. Switched focus to the
hurt of the second strike; it would be cloaked by the third.
Sensation could be confused, but his strength would still fade. Had started
to already. Sweat trickled down Mulder's face and sides; his breath
quickened and he couldn't slow pants that felt hot when they left his
mouth. Snaps and slaps traveled down to already-punished, clenched buttocks
that could not be mislead. The blows there were like cuts with a dull
knife--made his eyes fill with tears. Mulder squeezed lids shut, let his
forehead rest against the wall, allowing it and palms and elbows to absorb
the force. Sharp wallops continued down the backs of his thighs, making the
muscles spasm, moving to unsound knees, then up again.
Up and down his body. Again. Again. Again. Didn't know how many passes or
how many lashes or how many cries and whimpers he'd made but hadn't heard.
Then, unexpectedly, the pattern was broken--the next blow didn't come and
the last spiked a stinging arc. He sagged and groaned.
"Mr. Mulder, I am going to touch you now."
Instantly, Mulder straightened, tightened. The lock of his jaw made his
neck veins taut like wire as fingers traced across his back, examining. A
breath drew in and expelled close to Mulder's ear, and a slim-fingered hand
reached around to cup his penis and testicles. He felt his balls draw in
and his cock jump with the adrenaline bang.
"You're not aroused?" The words were small, the volume quiet. "I thought
you would be."
Had to. Had to draw one hand back from the wall, make it a fist to slam
against the plaster. A current of pain shot from his knuckles up his arm,
sent more tears spilling down his cheeks and the grip was still warm around
his scrotum. The Master's free hand covered his throbbing fist, kept it
against the cold wall. "No. I don't want you to do that to yourself, Fox."
"Stop calling me that, you fuckers!"
"Why?" Nothing in reply but ragged breaths that stopped, instantaneous, as
the Master's grip tightened and fingers probed the soft sack to snare his
balls--to roll them just enough to make him gasp and squirm. "Why?" the
whisper breath tickled his ear again.
A small, high whine was all he'd give the sonofabitch. Then Mulder yelped
at a sudden squeeze and his chest heaved as his genitals were pulled out
and upward until he could feel the burn of tension in the ligament at the
base of his scrotum. "Tell me. You know you must."
Cold sweat across his upper lip. "I--I don't like it."
"That's not a truthful answer." Pressure around his balls. It hurt more and
more as the Master leaned in, rough Levis pressing into the abraded skin of
his ass; hard pectorals softened only by a cotton coating were hot against
his throbbing back.
A chime note rang his brain as the Master kept him there. Pulling and
squeezing; thumb choking the shaft of his cock. "You don't dislike your
name, Mr. Mulder. It's your paternal great-grandfather's. He fought in the
Great War. You've always been curious about him."
"How do you know that?" Mulder tried to turn his head, but the hand left
his fist for the back of his skull, pushing his forehead against the
plaster.
"No, no. You're not moving. And don't take your hands off the wall or I'll
have to jerk your testicles quite hard, Fox. Now, what's the real reason
you avoid your name?"
Mulder closed his eyes so purposefully that he felt his face crinkle. If he
told him--couldn't tell him--he'd use it to advantage....The Master's sigh
was like a bomb burst--origin so close that lips brushed his ear's
cartilage shell. "You are going to answer me, boy. Do it now."
Gooseflesh everywhere. "No."
The crotch of the Master's jeans ground like sandpaper over screaming
abrasions and Mulder's gasp was glass sharp. Hurt blue ran like smears as
testicles were crushed and yanked. "This is very foolish." The voice was
mutherfucking loud as hips kept swiveling to scour raw skin. "You can stop
this, Fox. It isn't necessary to do this."
Mulder groaned and growled and his fists pounded the wall as he tried to
pull his head back to bash it against the plaster, but goddamned couldn't.
He needed to--needed--but couldn't do it and it kept him weak. "Fox
is--I...." Trailed off into a whimper.
Feather-quiet again. "Good lad. Good boy. I know how hard it is for you. I
know you're trying. Tell me what Fox is."
"Fox is...a little...boy...."
"Yes?"
"Who...who," he swallowed. "He gets hit and spanked."
"Yes. Very good." Mulder shivered as his balls and cock were
loosened--loose--resting on the palm of his captor's hand. "Is Fox a little
boy who can't fend off his father?"
"Yes."
"And what is Mulder?"
Phantom blue faded and tears had to run silent. "A man who can."
"Good boy. Now tell me," the Master whispered as if they often shared a
confidence. "Does Fox deserve to be beaten? Did he--do you--deserve it?"
Mulder sniffed back disgust and the wet trickling from his nose--just
wanted the bastard to let go--no touching, no touching there. Why did they
all touch him down there...? "Are you going to tell me, lad?"
Minuscule. "Yes."
Coaxing. "Go on."
Mulder sounded like a child too young to have sinned. "Fox is bad. He's too
smart. Too nosy. He won't obey. He lost Sam."
"Thank you for helping me understand. We'll move on now."
Mulder trembled again as the Master withdrew. Relief. Relieved that his
penis and scrotum hung flaccid and shriveled and alone. A few steps and the
Englishman crooned, "William, come here. Come here, darling--I'm not angry
with you any longer. Come to me, my boy."
Bill's high-tops didn't thud this time. Mulder could imagine the brightened
eyes and puppy-dog smile turning to a brazen smirk at his own position,
naked by the wall. The vision--the sureness that the little fuck had done
it--made Mulder's fingers curl; his nails bit the smoothness as he listened
to the Master. "I know you were angry; you were very angry that he struck
me and you were trying to protect me. I appreciate that. You know how I
prize you and your loyalty. Just be careful not to damage this patient,
Bill. He's very valuable. You might have cracked Mr. Mulder's head or
broken his ribs. Then the timetable would be ruined and our customers would
have a bad time rescheduling."
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry."
Mulder hated himself and them so much that it almost slipped by, but
somehow snagged and held: Re-SHED-ul-ling. Mulder repeated the word to
himself the way the Master spoke it. Who would have a hard time
re-SHED-ul-ling what? A germ idea burst into a tiny seedling and he snapped
a wide-eyed glance over his shoulder.
The Master was half-turned from Mulder, stroking the concaves beneath the
young man's cheek bones. Further out, Jim sentried by the stool, hands
behind his back. His gaze at the thin, gray-haired Englishman was gauzy
with affection. "Turn around, Mr. Mulder." The order made eyes dart back to
stare at its issuer. One of the Master's hands moved up to smooth the
slicked-down yellow curls atop Bill's head.
"I am sorry, sir. Really." Bill murmured, shoulders relaxing as the Master
stroked him.
"I know you are sorry, darling boy. There's no need to say it again--" Blue
glinted at the corner of his eyes. "Mr. Mulder, I said look at the wall!"
Mulder dragged his own face around to snort and stare down at his feet, to
slap palms against the hard surface once, then twice. He was angry and
aching; the back of his body burned, hurt hurt; his mind churned....
A little sound. Perhaps a kiss. "My arm is tired and I'm going to let you
take over. Fetch a crop from the sideboard....There's a good lad."
Mulder clawed the plaster--tried to mar it. Forgot about everything but
stifling the howl as panic pushed up from his stomach. He heard the little
shithead get the crop, heard the whistle as he warmed up his arm. The
Master made approving murmurs, letting his assistant enjoy the treat that
would convey forgiveness. Mulder wasn't prepared for the first blow. It was
a firebrand across his buttocks that rocked him forward and made him
scream. The second strike came hard on the first across his shoulders, then
the next on his ass. The cracking blows continued fast and random,
absolutely brutal in force. They hit his calves and even his neck at the
hairline. Sharp and awful. Made the air sing and the scrim of the world
tremble.
Through the high, piercing note and a guttural scream, he heard the Master
chuckle. "William, stop! Honestly, you are hopeless. I insist that you crop
Mr. Mulder properly. You'll be able to work off your annoyance and produce
a controlled result. I've shown you how to proceed--I've shown you several
times, in fact. Do it the way I taught you."
A hint of begrudgement. "Yes, sir."
Mulder tensed, cringed. "But do you understand why?" The Master made him
wait. Counseled his assistant--a patient teacher and pupil before a
blackboard. "Remember that we work down and up and lay the strokes one
above the other to know how much the skin has withstood. If you flagellate
Mr. Mulder at random, you won't know if his skin is stressed enough to
break at the next stroke. If our customers don't want scars and we give
them to the patient, then we've committed a serious error."
"Yes, sir."
"Be methodical, Bill," the Master told his minion. "Be professional. Do the
job right. That's why these men are brought to me. It's the skill and
control for which we're paid, not simple violence. Follow Jim's example,
too--one day he'll be a true expert and a very wealthy man. Now, go on."
"Yes, sir."
Mulder heard the permission, braced himself, and had to cry out, even so,
feeling William's anger and resentment channeled through the thin leather
rod that lashed his thighs. The assistant did as he was told, laying neat
stripe after stripe, moving upward, but the razor force left Mulder
breathless and sucking in air with a gaping mouth, head turned, cheek
against the wall. Sweat dripped down his temples and his arms and stomach.
There was no way to distance these sharp impacts; no self-taught method of
distraction. Finally, there was no way to accept the abuse any longer.
Snarling, Mulder spun about and caught the crop by its stinging tail,
yanked it from William and flung it away. A fast grab at William's wrist,
twisting it until the nasty fucker squealed. Could see Bill's pale face,
the whites of eyes bulging, and then two sets of hands had him, pulling him
back, ordering him to let go. "I won't!" he shouted as they pulled him off
William, wrenched his arms behind his back. Felt smooth leather slip
snakelike around his neck and his own eyes bulge when the band snapped
tight.
He struggled. Wheezed as things fuzzed and spangled and yawed and Jim asked
the Master, "What shall we do, sir?"
Vision was subsiding to black. The Master's distant answer--"Hang him up."
He awoke in agony, groaning and twisting, feeling himself sway.
Ohshitshit oh his wrists...shoulders....Lifted a heavy head from a
strained, straining chest--let it fall back to look up, to see
why--where...? Aware. Throbbing all down his back and legs and his breaths
made his ribs so tight.
It took a minute to remember the Master's order. To understand his wrists
were locked in thick, stiff leather cuffs at the ends of a spreader bar,
that twin chains suspended the bar from a ceiling joist. Suspended him. The
hands above the cuffs looked dead--were just floppy, bluish nothings--but
below them--fuckfuck he didn't think he...god, he had to take the vibrating
silver agony--turn it into another groan from low inside him that could
come out and roll away like the sweat down his sides.
Mulder's neck muscles worked to lift his head until momentum rolled it
forward again. Chin pressed against collar bone to close a gaping mouth, to
make air loud through flaring nostrils....Saw, godgodoh, saw the tips of
long toes drifting a few inches off of concrete. He tried to gulp suddenly
plentiful saliva down an airway that felt burned and crushed. Gagged on
rising bile.
The crack was unexpected--slicing pain stunned him. The jerk of instant
paralysis stopped his convulsing throat, made his body swing forward and
back. Colored lights were everywhere in place of a scream.
Something hot trickled down his shoulder blades.
A second crack. Lightning strike across his ass. Jerked and swung again,
hearing a roar, and his scream--the same unended scream--was still inside
him. The third slash knocked him into a blurry twilight and Scully called
out "Mulder!" Her voice was gray like fog...his name gray, too.
The rest of the world was cold.
The new crack deafened him, made him wrench his head to the left as thin
fire flicked his earlobe, cut skin along the curve of his shoulder
diagonally to the opposite hip. Another warm flow--instantaneous traces
coursing down over buttocks, running along thighs and calves. Drops
pattered to the floor. Drops on top of drops, each another lie.
Mulder dangled and watched the pool begin to form. Couldn't lift his head
off his chest, couldn't draw a full breath, couldn't cry out for pity or
for a savior--divine or human.
He didn't feel the next slash. He was gone. Knew nothing.
--Lisby
lisby@earthlink.net
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"Mistress of the Dark Unconscious
Mermaid of the Lunar Sea
Daughter of the Great Enchantress
Sister to the boy in me..." Rush, "Animate"
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