Subject: Lessons 24 REPOST
Date: Wed, 19 Aug 1998

*XXIV*

10:30 A.M.
Fucking yellow. Flannel underneath and the spindle figure looming above.
Mulder sucked in a quick, scared breath and tried to slide away. A few
inches of success, then leather creaked and snapped at his wrists and
ankles as the restraints caught and held him, naked and woozy and spread.

"Can you hear me, Fox?" the Master asked. Mulder groaned, rubbed his face
against the sheet, and turned his head to squint at the gray-haired man.
"Answer me, Mr. Mulder."

Needed water. A hair-shirt swallow and a little whisper. "Yeah."

"Good." Mulder watched the Englishman tear the ribbon edge from a foil
packet. Felt fingers trace down his back to his ass, sparking tiny inroads
of pain. "Now, lie still for me."

"Ohm'god!" Mulder cried, startled and scared, as fingers pried him open.
His sphincter knotted in one fast contraction as a slick little bullet was
pushed inside--drawn up--he felt it moving up his rectum. "Oh, fuck--fuck!"
he cursed his surprise--couldn't stop cursing until the Master crouched
beside him and clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Hush, boy! Enough. That was an aspirin suppository. You've been running a
fever all night." Must have read the lost look, felt the slacking jaw under
his palm. "I gave you morphine--remember?--and you've been sleeping--I let
you sleep quite late. Now, it's time for you to face the day."

Mulder swallowed again, said nothing when the Master took away his hand,
then he buried his face against his arm.

"Look at me, Mr. Mulder."

No, he didn't want to, didn't want to. Mulder heard a sigh and footsteps,
then felt the drag of the smooth narrow strap across his buttocks. "Look at
me, boy. I won't repeat myself."

Dread was like sludge in his veins, but he winced into the blue stare. "All
right. I'm going to release you and let you use the bathroom, then I'll
feed you. You need to eat."

Acid etched the back of Mulder's mouth. Bile. Stomach muscles clenched so
tight. "I-I don't w-want...." he stuttered.

"I shan't allow you to starve yourself, Fox. That won't help you. If you
can eat, you should do so."

"I-I can't. I won't."

"'Won't' again? It's just as well, then, that I ran an IV into you while
you slept."

Mulder felt his face pale, dropped his eyes to scan for the needle mark and
found it in the pocket of an elbow--purple-black stain beneath the skin and
a tiny red hole. Stared at it. Dim. The Englishman was stroking the bangs
off his forehead and speaking softly. "You must eat, Fox. This is only your
fourth day here. You have ten days to go."

"No. I won't eat."

The strap tapped the man's leg, marking seconds. It sounded so damned loud.
He trembled. Then it stopped and the Englishman was touching him
again--stroking again. "You must eat. I'm not going to return you to Dr.
Scully as a skeleton."

"Don't mention her name!" Mulder snapped. Watched a flicker of annoyance
cross the Englishman's face and the strap thudded against his rear--light,
without any real sting. Just enough to remind.

"I realize that you feel unwell, Fox, but I will not tolerate backtalk.
What is the second rule of my house?"

Oh fuck, not that again. But the Master insisted. "Say it, or you earn five."

It took him a moment to gather himself. He hated the quaver of his answer.
"D-don't speak unless I'm spoken to."

"Good. And...?"

"Answer right away, spread my fucking legs, and then don't beg you to stop
ramming the rotorooter up my ass. There. Happy now?" A crazy sneer pulled
his lips back.

The pain was loud when the strap fell, and he sensed the Master counting.
Then he heard someone's weak moans and saw the concerned seawater eyes,
peering. "I'm not doing this because I want hurt you, Mr. Mulder. If you
could give up your obstinate ways we could move on. You're not here to be
tortured. You're here to learn how to listen when you're told not to touch
hot objects."

A pain tear--a rage tear--dripped off the bridge of Mulder's nose. "I-I'm
n-not a fucking child!"

"Then don't act like one." The edge of a woolen sleeve dabbed at liquid
anger while a hand at the back of his head held him still. "You continue to
meddle and poke even when you're warned off. At times, you're no better
than an intemperate brat. I want to treat you well, be kind to you, and you
won't let me. You force me to hurt you. You know you'll be corrected again
today, but do you really understand why?"

Cold fear, but he was pleased that his voice sounded dull. "You'll beat me
because you want me to obey. You want me to simply give up and do what I'm
told."

The Master nodded. Straightened up so that all Mulder saw were the man's
denim-clad thighs, and the imperious voice came from above his head. "It's
a lesson most of us learn in childhood, Fox. Learning it at your late age
hurts all the more. Now--once again--you need to be corrected. Do you
understand why?"

"Because you...AHH!" The strap snapped down on the back of his knee and his
leg jumped against the cuff.

"Why?"

Brilliant sting. "B-because I f-fought," he stuttered. "I hit you and I ran."

The sharpness of the burn faded, and the sharpness of the Master's tone.
"That's good, lad. That's part of it. You should not have hit me, but you
did tell me that you're a fighter. I understand that. But you disobeyed me
when I told you to stop and you must learn to obey me implicitly--without
fail and without delay. And you must learn to tell me when you cannot do
so, rather than by lashing out and panicking."

"You were going to rape me again. What did you expect?" Mulder jerked
against the force that kept his cheek to the mattress. In response, the
pressure grew.

"Rape?" the Master scoffed. "Mr. Mulder, you understood what would happen
in this house. You agreed to it willingly. If you did not know explicitly
what would happen, it is because you chose not to. You knew I would have
the right to use you sexually when you agreed to come here. This is not a
guesthouse. I never misrepresented what this was."

Oh Jesus, a hand suddenly stroked the inside of his thigh, ran up to his
balls and cupped them, squeezing gently. The Englishman spoke above that
Other Person's gasp and squeak. "Do you really wish to tell me that you did
not know this could happen to you when you came here? The truth, Mr.
Mulder. Now."

Mulder tried. He didn't want to be hit again. The warm hand squeezed his
scrotum, rolled his testicles between fingers--gently, not trying to hurt
him. He tried to force the words out. Managed a choked mutter with no real
meaning. The hand petted his balls and let them go.

Languid sigh from a mouth he couldn't see. "I know. I know," the Master
sounded understanding. "You knew, but you didn't want to know. You did,
though. Denying it won't help, Mr. Mulder--you knew what you agreed to. And
you knew, even as you did it, that you would be punished for lashing out,
didn't you?"

The question demanded an answer. "I know that you'll punish me for what I
did yesterday." He heard a frustrated grunt and the strap tapped
impatiently against his thigh. Mulder held his breath, waiting.

It didn't come. No explosion of agony--just another sigh. "All right. You
and I both understand that you DO know what you're being punished for. But
this is my bedroom, and I dislike administering corrections here. If I
release you now, will you fight me?"

"I...I don't know. I don't want to fight," Mulder bit on his lip. "But I
don't want to be hurt again."

"I commend your common sense, lad. Give it rein more often."

The pressure left the back of Mulder's head and he turned his face into the
sheet as hands worked at one ankle, then the other. Freedom. Mulder turned
on one hip, drew his legs up, gritting teeth against the ache of muscles
stretched and held so long.

Click. A chain leash was clipped to his collar--a fucking dog chain. He
glared at his captor, who looked down, cool. "I'm going to free your hands
now, Fox. If you fuss, I'll have to pull you up harshly. And your
correction will be doubled." The Master unclipped one brass hook from a
wrist cuff, then Mulder felt the pain of weight as the Englishman leaned
across his shoulders to undo the other. Pulled his arms in, wincing as he
knelt back and up, taking deep breaths with the relief of liberty.
Goosebumps as his captor stroked his hair and neck again. When Mulder
finally glanced at him, the Master nodded toward the bathroom.

The boards were sun-warm under bare feet, and then cool tile, hard and
smooth. While he pissed into the toilet, Mulder watched the Master through
the open door. The prissy sonofabitch was tucking away the straps, fluffing
up sun-colored pillows. Mulder's legs trembled. He looked away. Turned and
staggered to the sink to scrub his hands and face, but all the soap in the
world couldn't make him clean. In the mirror, he saw the dirty bruises,
lascivious cuts. Thought about the carnal traces inside him, and bit his
lips against how that made him feel.

Footsteps drew Mulder's eyes to the reflection of his captor in the
doorway. "It's time, lad. Let's get this done." Slowly, Mulder
straightened, turned. Thin mouth and eyes burning dry. Carbon eyes. The
Master stepped towards him and he moved away a step, then two, shaking his
head.

"Don't do this to yourself, lad. Submit to me." The Englishman reached out
gradually to capture the dangling leash. Mulder watched the long fingers
wrap round it and pull with a slow, deliberate motion. The force and ache
at the back of his neck bent his head forward, but he dug his heels in and
braced.

"If you make me call James and William, I'll allow William to administer
your correction. He would very much like to do that, after what you did
yesterday."

"Bastard." The hiss was rewarded with a sharp yank on the leash. Mulder
fell forward a step, then grabbed onto the chain to ease the pull and let
him lift his head. The Master glowered. "Enough. I've let you have too much
room this morning, I can see that."

Mulder held his ground, staring back, "What you can't see is that you--"
Whistle and blur and the strap slapped Mulder's face. He tasted blood
before he felt the burn, and turned his head back very slowly to glare at
the Master, who was breathing hard with restrained anger.

"Hands behind your back, Mr. Mulder. Do it now, do not say a word, and do
not anger me further," the man's voice was hard, and he held the strap
ready to strike. Mulder's cheek throbbed like a toothache. His indecision
was settled by the pulsebeat pain, and slowly, deliberately, he put his
hands behind him. The scabs on his ass felt stiff and hot against his
knuckles.

"Good. Now turn about and stand there."

Mulder let his head tilt back, gathered himself, then turned to fix
unblinking eyes on the meeting of ceiling and walls. Leather and fabric
rustled as the Master stepped away. He heard footfalls, then the sound of
the armoire opening. The Englishman returned quickly; his callused hands
touched Mulder's wrists, and with the clip of metal around metal he was
prisonered again. Another rustle, a quick snap, then the blue silk
blindfold was snug across his eyes, knotted behind his head.

Mulder felt a brush against his belly as the Master picked up the leash.
This time, he walked with the tug, not wanting to fall and feel those
sinewy arms lift him up. Heard the creak of old hinges and bathroom tile
gave way to hall floorboards. Followed the pull. Felt his scabs crackle.

Another door opened and a second set of footsteps joined the Master's. "Did
he give you any trouble this morning?"

Jim.

"A little," the Englishman replied. "He's cranky and balking me--aren't
you, colt? We'll need to work on that....Now here we are, Fox. Stand
still."

Mulder stopped. Breathed through his mouth in quick little gasps, turning
his head, listening for some tiny sound that would tell him where he stood.
Hands around his arms urged him forward. They were flanking him, pushing
him up against what felt like a wooden bar. Mulder heard his own panting as
one of his arms was released, then a pinching grip at the back of his neck
bent him double over the wide, hard shape. The pressure kept his head down,
steadying him and growing harder at resistance. On his opposite side,
another hand was firm on his hip.

There was a fast whistle and a ringing slap and Mulder screamed at the
lightning strike up his vertebrae. The strap sung again, laid into the same
tender skin right at the tops of his thighs. From behind him: "Thank me,
Mr. Mulder."

Another jolt of glittery agony and he drew a quick, sobbing breath. "F-fuck
you, you sonofab--" The strap's next white deliverance cut him off.

"I'm giving you twenty-five strokes, Mr. Mulder, instead of the usual one
hundred. You will thank me for each and every one or you will receive one
hundred." Another singing crack.

He tried to snarl, but a pathetic, froggy croak emerged. The strap lashed
him and his stomach rolled with the pain, but he managed to say it.
"Th-thank you!" Another blow. "Thank you!" Another. "Thank you!" Another
"Thankyouthankyou...." The tops of his thighs were cinnamon hot.
"Thankyouthankyouthankyou..." Raw and it hurt so much and he squirmed
helpless as the strap landed. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou...."

He was weeping and ashamed, his nose full of mucus, but it was almost
twenty-five--almost over. The final impact was the most brutal, and
Mulder's cry was silent and the world inside his head filled with
disjointed images.

"Say it now, Fox."

His voice was faint. "Th-thank you."

"Good boy."

"It's done now. Come on, let us help you." Jim's voice, and Jim's hand
released the back of his neck, then braced under his shoulder to lift him
upright and steady him.

"There, there." Mulder's cheek was petted while he wobbled and sniffed.
"Good boy. It's all over. You were brave and I'm pleased. Very good boy."

A firm grip on his elbow suddenly turned him, moved him forward. Then a
grip on the opposite arm, too, and Jim's voice warned, "You've got to step
down now. We're going down the stairs. Trust us. We won't let you fall.
Just trust us."

A giggle bubbled in his chest, the next-door neighbor of a new sob, and
there was a hard moment's temptation to launch himself headfirst down the
stairs, taking them with him. Mulder struggled for the strength to do it,
and for a reason not to. Took one step down, then two, three....Sam's voice
was screaming "Fox!" in his memory and it wasn't enough. Four, five, six,
and he stopped, feeling their hands firm around his arms, hoping they
couldn't hear his thoughts.

"Mr. Mulder?" The voice was gentle, coaxing.

He was seeing Scully's face--her smile when he woke up in the Arctic. "No."
Mulder heard the thin echo of his own voice from a high ceiling, a big
room, a long way down. He couldn't do that to her. Couldn't make her deal
with the mess he'd leave behind. And he couldn't leave her. Not yet.

"It's all right, lad. We won't let you fall."

Fuck him--fuck both of them and the Mystery Men they rode in on--and he
wanted to laugh and sob and scream because he would have to live through
another day, but instead he just stepped down, down, and down until carpet
met his feet.

The hands were guiding him again, tugging him along. Felt warm wet down the
backs of his legs--not much, just a prickle. Bleeding. Heard echoes of his
own hoarse breath--then they muffled for a moment before returning, not as
strong. Another room with a lower ceiling. Now Mulder smelled an acrid wood
fire--felt its heat. It woke sweat on his skin and a horrible fear. He
danced skittish.

"No, no, Fox," the Master's voice was kind in his ear while the pressure
grew around his biceps. "The stove is for warmth. I promised I would not
burn you with fire. You needn't fear it. No fire."

Muscles gave, and he sagged between them, his mouth shaping a tiny
childlike "Oh."

"Yes, lad. Be calm. It's all right." No doubt the Master was smiling, and
Mulder tasted shame.

He let his head hang when they released him, told him to stand still. A
soft cloth blotted the backs of his thighs, sticking as it came away. There
was simultaneous fumbling at his wrists and the cuffs were unlocked and
unbuckled--thumped when they landed on the floor. Heard a bonejoint crack
as the man knelt to remove the bands around his ankles. He hoped the collar
would follow, but it remained. Even so, Mulder fought back another 'thank
you.'

"There. Now sit down." The Master's hand was on his shoulder, then he felt
the needling of wool and solid hotness as his captor embraced him from
behind and half-guided, half-lowered him. They pushed him back against
smooth wood, Jim asking, "Comfortable? Or would you rather have another
chair?"

Mulder couldn't bring himself to much care, or to answer Jim. The chair was
only a momentary resting place on his return to the basement--and to that
table, or maybe the sling. The panic came in a big fuzzy wave and he had to
focus on the hurt of the flat, smooth wooden seat against his cuts and
bruises. Jesusfuckingchrist, he was shaking and this was not what he'd ever
wanted. They'd tracked his subscriptions, his video rentals. A little bit
of genetic bait and...consent. He had consented, but this wasn't right.

There was scuffling--moving around. He couldn't stop himself from reaching
for the blindfold, but his wrist was caught and firmly pushed back down to
the armrest. Suddenly, a thick, soft band wrapped around his forearm,
pulled snug. "What the hell? Let me go!" he roared, but it was too late.
They were already pinning down his other arm--the ligature looping in
place, tightening. He pulled in hard and it came off again with a sound
like a zipper. Velcro--it was fucking Velcro!

He bucked forward until the leash yanked sharply, jerking him against the
doweled seatback. Choking, he tried to kick, to hook a foot and take down
the person in front of him. Connected with a shin and heard a groan, and a
burst of satisfaction spurred him on.

"William! Marta!" The Master's call brought running feet and more hands to
pin him down as his arm was rebound and another thick band encircled his
chest, just above the nipples, to fix him to the chairback. Cursed and
howled when they grabbed the bends of his knees to yank his legs open and
apart, yelled useless "no"s as they pulled his ankles back to the
crossbraces on the sides of the chair, and Velcro strips secured them
tightly. Someone gripped his hips, jerked him forward, dragging his ass
across the wooden seat with a squeak. He was choked from the pain as they
bound his thighs to the uprights that held the armrests, leaving him
perched on the edge of the seat. Immobile. Exposed.

Over his own sobbing breaths he could hear the people around him, smell
perfume and aftershave, sense them moving. Fingers combed through his hair.
"Enough now. You can't move and you can't pull free." The Master didn't
sound angry, just in control. High on it. "Marta, would you put on some
Bach? William, I won't be needing you for several hours, so you're free
until later this afternoon. James, could you bring the equipment we
discussed?"

"Yes sir." The footsteps herded, then scattered, and the music began--a
lovely, sedate melody. Mulder bit hard at his lip, made flickering turns of
his head as he tried to hear anything from beyond the silk. With each
breath, the band around his chest stretched tight, kept him panting
shallow, even when he'd gained control of his tears.

"All right, Mr. Mulder. Today, we have a very simple job ahead of us."

The sound of the Master's boots was oddly crisp on the carpet. Mulder
turned his head in that direction. "Wh-at are you talking about?"

"It's very easy. You needn't be afraid. Not unless you lie to me." There
was a creak--a spangle of springs. "Here, Marta. Tug from the heel, girl."

"Yes, sir." A pause, then she grunted. He heard a thud and a laughter from
them both.

"You have a very pretty bottom. Careful not to bruise it."

A giggle. Another grunt and more rustling. "Good. Yes, those....Thank you,
my dear. Now you may go back to your work."

"I'll check on you in a bit, sir. See if you need anything."

"Thank you, darling girl."

Marta's footsteps came towards him, paused in right front of him. He
thought he could feel the warmth of her body and the chill of her thoughts.
With a swish of fabric and light motion, she moved on.

Heat played across Mulder's skin, and in his mind's eyes, he saw the
undulations of sunlight through clouds. Somewhere a clock was ticking.
Counted with it. Counted for two minutes, thirty-one seconds when a touch
to his throat made him jump and gasp. Lips brushed his skin and stopped to
suck, to leave a wet coolness over his pulse.

"I'm curious, Mr. Mulder." Whisper words in his left ear and Mulder
flinched away as far as the bonds would allow. "How many male lovers have
you had?"

"What?"

"Were any of your lovers male?" A finger traced the inside of his right
thigh. Oh shit, he couldn't move, couldn't move....Gone. God. Oh good, it
was gone.

Across the room, the fire popped and hissed, and the voice was dead ahead
this time. "Answer me, boy. Do you need to repeat the rules of the house?"

"No." Mulder took a shaky breath, tried to calm himself. "I know them."

A draft sent gooseflesh along his balls as the Master asked, "Well?"

"No male lovers."

"I see." A finger touched the tip of his penis and he jumped again, then
held very still. "What do you fantasize about Agent Scully?"

Nothing in his throat. His voice was missing.

The burn of the strap shocked him--seared the soft, smooth skin inside his
thigh, close to his balls....By the time he could scream, the need had
passed.

"What fantasies do you have about Dr. Scully?" The Master was on his left
now and fingers tweaked the corresponding nipple.

"Ah! Stop! I don't want--" The strap cut him off, burning the other thigh,
and he sobbed outright. "All right! All right. I fantasize about her."

"What do you fantasize?"

"I hurt so much, I can't think. Please, I can't rememb--!" He gasped as the
tip of a tongue squirmed along his shoulder.

"Don't lie to me. Tell me the truth."

"I-I....No--!" Another scorchline above his right knee. Mulder let his head
drop back as he cried out, felt his Adam's apple stand out stark.

Someone was coming down the stairs. Heavy footfalls. One of the men.

"We'll come back to this, Mr. Mulder. You'd best recall your fantasies when
we do." The Englishman's voice was not so close and to the right. He heard
cloth against cloth, and focused, trying to gage where the Master would
strike from next. Then a small metallic thud. "Thank you, Jim."

"Do you need anything else, sir?"

"Hmmm. Yes. Best bring the thermoscan. And my kit."

For a moment, there were too many sounds: walking, cloth rubbing, snapping
sounds like a briefcase's locks popping, more thuds and clicks, and fucking
Bach.

He heard the Master sneaking up, even though the man was trying to be so
quiet. "Perhaps this will help you speak your mind, Fox." The whisper lent
a chill.

A sharp, nettle sting up his chest, broken only by the band that held him
to the chair. Crackling and a hollow sound like an old alarm clock run
amok. It was over almost as soon as it started, and a hand traced the shape
of his throat while he hissed, "Shhhiiit!"

"Tell me about your sister."

"Wh-what?" Then a wordless cry as the jelly-fish sparkle played up the
bottom of his foot, made the muscles of the arch twitch. "St-stop it! What
the h-hell is that?"

"It's delicious, isn't it?" Tin ringing and sparks on the back of Mulder's
right hand, pain squeezing the air out of him. He could hear the chair's
joints creak as he thrashed. Then it stopped--all at once. Only a tiny,
warm spot on his hand told him where the pain had been.

"What...the hell..." harsh breathing broke words his apart, "What the
hell...is that?"

"It's called a violet wand." The voice circled him. "A modified Tesla Coil.
The sensation is quite intense, wouldn't you agree?"

"If you like it...so much...you should use it...on yourself." The band
around his chest pulled tight with each quick, thin breath. When the touch
came, he jumped before realizing it was only flesh on flesh, a palm
smoothing the back of his neck.

"I have tried it, Mr. Mulder. But that's not my role here. You need to be
taught and you need the pain. You know you're alive when it hurts."

"You're fucking cra--AHHHH!" The strap this time, dead on across his stomach.

"You know how to answer me. I will not tolerate impertinence or lies. It's
true, though, isn't it? You seek the pain because it tells you you're
alive. Pain and fear."

"No. It's not true. If you want to hurt me, you'll have to do it honestly."

"I don't want to hurt you. I want to help you." Now the hand stroked his
hair. "Tell me about your sister."

Mulder tried. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Didn't want to be hurt,
but there were too many words. He shook his head, feeling dizzy in the dark
behind the blindfold, and waited for the strap. Couldn't hear the
Master--no sound of cloth or breath or step--only Bach and the ticking
clock, but the smell of Bay Rum overpowered him. Mulder felt the clock's
rhythm in his heart, in his pulse. One, two, three....His breathing was
ragged and his thighs ached from the grip of the bonds as he helplessly
tried to pull his legs together, to hide.

The whisper came from behind him. "Tell me what she was like."

He whimpered from sheer frustration. The voice didn't repeat the question,
and Mulder snapped his head back and forth, trying to hear a sound that
wasn't there. His neck ached. He ached everywhere and it was growing worse.

A warm stirring of air on his face and the Master's lips barely brushed his
own. "Answer me, lad."

"Why?" he countered, half-breathless. "Why are you asking me about
Samantha?...You said you knew her."

He heard the leather whistle before it hit--high on his thigh again,
nipping his scrotum, and his cry sounded raw.

"How old was she when you saw her last?"

"Eight! Shhh-she was eight." The fire in the wood stove sparked and spat
again. He twitched.

No sound. Nothing....Nothing.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Oh god, oh Jesus, the pad of a thumb was caressing his glans, and he
smelled coffee as the Master murmured in front of his face, "So young. Did
she have any pubic hair?"

"What?" Disbelief. Mulder gasped as fingers gave his nipples a quick twist.

"I asked if your sister had pubic hair, Mr. Mulder. Answer me."

"How the hell would I know?"

Nothing struck him, but the skin between his shoulder blades crawled.

At last, the voice came from his right. "You would have known, Fox.
Children are curious--and you were created unnaturally so. Children examine
everything, show themselves to each other. Did your sister have pubic
hair?"

Mulder swallowed. Cringed away from a touch that never came. "I don't know.
I wouldn't know."

"You're lying to me. You watched your sister."

"She was a baby! Sam was four years younger!"

"But she played doctor with you." Mulder snapped his head to the left,
where the voice hung beside him. "And your father beat you for it, didn't
he?"

Froze, frozen, as if that could save him. Felt himself staring blind while
fingers trailed up his jaw. "Tell me. Tell me now. He found you and he hit
you."

"How do you know this? A cheat sheet or a lucky guess?" Mulder bit his lip
and waited for the lash and the glass in this throat when he screamed.

The pain didn't come. Just a soft, concerned question. "But she handled
you, didn't she? And he beat you when he found out."

"He was so mad. He...." His words stumbled to halt.

"Don't stop. Keep telling me. I want to hear all of it."

"He didn't hurt mnnn--" A finger across his lips.

"Don't lie to me. Don't lie to yourself and don't lie to me."

Mulder nodded slowly. The finger trailed down his body, over his stomach,
playing in the curls above his cock. He swallowed again, tried to blink
against the blindfold.

"Fox, how old were you when you first watched your mother and father make love?"

Stunned again, and he hesitated too long. Sparklefire on a collarbone as
the wand touched him, and his convulsive start rocked the chair. A firm
hand steadied it. He knew he shouldn't, but shouted anyway. "Don't do that,
you mutherfucker! Leave me the hell al--" Then the strap cracked like a
gunshot and Mulder screamed. It kept cracking, burning his inner thighs.

"I asked you a question." An order, sharp-edged.

"I was four!" He threw his answer out to drive away the strap. It worked.
It stopped. His skin throbbed and prickly tears filled his eyes. He was
weeping again and why couldn't he be a man?

The Master stroked him--his hair, his throat and shoulders. "Tell me, Fox:
How did it happen?"

The clock ticked and the blindfold was wet, stuck against his face. "How?"

A door slammed somewhere.

"Yes. Tell me now."

Shit, he didn't want to be hit again. He didn't want to be here. "It
happened....It happened the way it always happens. I was scared, and I was
hiding in Mom's closet." Mulder's breath caught, remembering the smell of
shoes and Chanel and wool. Squirmed as old pain echoed in the ache of his
ass.

"Why were you scared?" Words above last, lingering notes and the Bach
stopped. He heard the click and pause as the machine found a new disk and
another concerto began. The clink of china on china and he knew that the
Master was waiting.

"You hid like that," he offered. "You know."

A dry chuckle from in front of him. "But why were YOU hiding?"

He let his head drop back, trying to find ease against the hard wood. "I
can't remember why. There was something I'd done...."

"Tell me what you saw."

Mulder rolled his head to the right, where the voice had migrated. "You
know what it looks like. Was that when they started hitting you?"

"I don't allow flippancy, Mr. Mulder. What did you see?"

"You know. Did they hit you often?"

The slap across his face was loud, shocking. It buffeted his head, raised a
few stars. "Which one of them liked to hit you so much--Mom or Dad? Or was
there a Dad?" His voice was still thick from tears, but he managed to keep
his words even and whole.

No reply. Just music and the clock and the warmth from the stove and the
sun. Mulder waited, felt sweat on his chest and sides trickle to the seat
beneath him. The concerto went on and he squirmed at the salt sting and
waited for a voice or a blow.

Couldn't remember hearing the clock chime, but the music changed again to
Haydn's strings and still nothing happened. He flinched and his cock jumped
at every breeze and every tiny sound and nothing happened. Mulder twisted
numb hands and feet, chafing his skin; the crossbars of the chair hurt the
insides of his ankles, and the tendons and ligaments in his legs blazed.

Suddenly, distantly, someone spoke and someone else laughed. Then heels
rapped on wood, coming down the stairs, coming closer, clashing with the
rhythm of Haydn and the clock, until the steps muffled on carpet. Male
steps. Mulder wriggled, couldn't find any give in his bonds. The footfalls
came up front of him and stopped.

He tried to steady his breathing, feeling dazed, a little giddy. Then soft
thuds came around him in a circle. The UNSUB stopped dead ahead again and
Mulder waited with a cold lump in his throat.

A rustle of cloth made him squeak in surprise. Big hands on his beaten
thighs and he almost screamed as lips and a tongue captured the head of his
cock, suckled him hard. He felt his blood surge and stiffen him, and
groaned when the mouth took him deeper.

Paralysis like his flesh gone crystal--everywhere but his dick. He couldn't
stand to be touched, couldn't stand it, but it felt so good. The hot, wet
caress took him--dragged him--closer to a shatter, then just fucking
fucking let him go.

When the footfalls receded, he wept again. His stiff, wet cock was cooling
and in the air and he was alone with Haydn. Might have been alone with the
Master, too, but there wasn't a sound. Goosebumps crawled over skin and his
back was cool. Imagined the sun slipping behind clouds.

It was still so quiet.

--lisby@earthlink.net
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"Do you want fries with that?"

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