Innocence Shed

by Chibimom

timjhaas@comcast.net

Fandom: Witchblade

Summary A story about sexual dawning

Rated: R

Category Angst/Drama

Warning: contains some disturbing violence

Please read and review. This is my second FF. "Solitaire" was my first. I really would like reviews to see if my stories are any good. Thanks.

Disclaimer: All characters are owned by Top Cow, WB, TNT, etc.

This dream was different.

He felt a stirring, a deep down warming ache which was very pleasant. He had this dream to himself; Iron was not in it. Irons made his dreams uncomfortable and he was glad Irons was elsewhere. The warming engulfed his entire body. No images, just feelings. Heavenly feelings of wispy breezes lingering, caressing his face, his chest, his legs.

Ian woke up. The morning light was just starting to filter into his room. He had not drawn the heavy tapestry drapes last night. The pale gray sheers caught the warm summer breeze and billowed out, covering the upholstered chair beside the window. He slept, naked, with just a sheet covering him, and his body glistened with a light sweat. This morning, his body felt different.

Pulling back the sheet, he moved his hand down to touch his firm erection. He toyed it with his fingers, letting the desire teach him. The pressure emanating was, in a way, uncomfortable but he couldn't stop. Suddenly his body jerked in heated waves of shocking pleasure, and the sticky aftermath filled his hand. More of the viscous fluid was on his legs and abdomen. He was unsure what had just happened, but it felt wonderful.

He went into the bathroom, turned on the shower and adjusted the spray to softly caress him. He shampooed his long onyx hair and washed his body, still reveling in what had happened. The thick towel off the warming bar felt wonderful.

He quickly dressed in a long sleeve black tee shirt, underwear, his black jeans and of course his black gloves. He was just finishing tying his black cross trainers when Irons called him from downstairs.

"Ian, come down for breakfast." Iron's voice was stern, but no more than usual.

It took every ounce of self control for Ian to keep from running full speed down the stairs and into the dining room. He tried to remain calm and focus his mind on the carpet in front of him. He stood behind his Master, hands behind his back, head down waiting for the invitation to sit.

"Come Ian," Irons gestured to the open place setting and Ian sat down. Irons was reading something in the paper, and took no notice of him as he ate. After a few moments, Irons laid the paper down and looked up.

"What's wrong, Ian?" He asked casually, but his blue eyes narrowed and couldn't see Ian's face; the boy's long dark hair hung down nearly covering his plate as he ate his toast. "Ian, look at me." Irons' voice was unreadable.

Ian was embarrassed. He looked up at Irons, but quickly averted his eyes.

"Look at me," Irons said, controlling his anger, but pulling his hands together, his chin resting on the tips.

Ian raised his eyes and looked at Irons' through the hair that hung down in his face. "Nothing is wrong, Master."

"Something is wrong," Irons reached out and caught Ian's wrist, behind his glove and held him still. "I want this hair tied back so I can see your face." Releasing Ian's arm he pulled out his linen napkin, ripped off a long piece and threw it at him.

Ian tied his hair back and returned to staring at the table. Irons stared intently at Ian's face, but could read nothing there.

"Tell me!"

Voice quivering, expecting to be hit, "Master, nothing is wrong." His haunted, hazel eyes again averted Irons', not knowing what to say, but knowing he could not tell the truth. "I had a nightmare."

"Oh? Why would you not say so?" Irons was skeptical. He took a sip of his tea.

Ian' mind raced, not hearing the ire rising in his Master's voice. "I don't remember much, but it was about the Witchblade. It was dark, I couldn't see, and men in armor were chasing me. I couldn't get away." Would Irons buy this?

Irons looked at him sternly. He did not think this explanation was complete, but was satisfied for the moment.

Irons picked up his paper, "Finish your breakfast."

Ian ate quickly, but not too quickly. When finished he asked to be excused. Irons waved him on without looking up from his paper.

2

It was Saturday, no lessons today. Ian moved among the flowers in the garden reaching to pick an especially beautiful tea rose when Michael smacked him on the butt. Face red, he turned to find the gardener, looking up at him, trowel in hand. Michael was about 30 years old, 5'6" tall, and very deeply tanned Years in the sun had aged his features so he looked older than he was. Working for Irons for the past nine years also added lines to his face.

"No picking the roses, you know how Mr. Irons feels about his roses. You want to get me in hot water?" Michael stood up brushing the dirt from his knees. He had been around to see Ian grow up, to see the how Irons treated him. To see the way Irons mistreated him. At 6 feet, Ian towered over him, but the boy had been taught to respect everyone around him, even the help.

"I'm sorry," Ian said quietly. He knew he wasn't allowed to pick any of the flowers. They were for Irons' pleasure.

He walked over to the wrought iron patio furniture and sat in one of the brightly cushioned chairs and took off his tee shirt. The sun felt good on his face and chest; why did it matter-the flowers-Irons seldom came into the garden. It was going to be another hot day and he understood why Michael was getting his outdoor chores done early. He could spend the rest of the day in the greenhouses tending to the prize winning orchids and hydroponic vegetables which graced the mansion's dinner table.

The sun rose high in the sky and Ian's skin turned pink. Time had gotten away from him. He usually didn't burn but quickly put his tee shirt back on. Michael had packed his tools into a wheelbarrow but he was not in the garden. Ian walked over and picked up a pair of sheers looking at them calmly. He wanted a couple of damn roses.

The largest, most beautiful buds caught Ian's attention. Carefully avoiding the thorns, he cut off four of the white variety, deeply inhaling their spicy scent. He removed the thorns, replaced the sheers, and went inside.

There must be a vase in here somewhere. Scrounging around the kitchen, he found a lovely, very expensive looking bone china vase. He filled it with water and his roses and walked through the Great Room to go upstairs.

Irons reached out of nowhere and grabbed the hand that held the vase. Ian would have dropped if not for Irons' tight grip.

"What are these?"

"Roses," Ian answered spitefully. He couldn't believe that come out of his mouth.

Neither could Irons. He looked at the boy incredulously, temporarily speechless. His blue eyes raged.

"What did you just say?" His face was now just centimeters in front of Ian's.

No possible retreat now. He had stepped across the line.

"The roses were at their peak and I wanted a couple for my room." Ian said testily, his hazel eyes glared directly into Irons' blazing blues.

Irons had never felt so enraged at anything or anyone as he did at Ian right now. The vase dropped and shattered as Irons' clenched fist smashed into the boy's face. Blood trickled from Ian's nose and mouth. Another blow across his cheek would have sent him sprawling, but Irons had him by the hair, ripping it out of the linen tie. A blow across his other cheek split Ian's skin. Letting loose of his hair, Irons punched Ian in the stomach and he crashed into the wall. He started to get up, but only made it to his hands and knees. Another kick to the ribs sent him sprawling again.

Ian couldn't move. His body was trembling with pain and blood was dripping from his face. Irons yanked him to his feet by one arm.

Irons' hot breath whispered in his ear, "Were they worth it?"

3

Tuesday morning Ian lay in his bed allowing the warm morning air to drift over his body. He seldom used the air conditioning, preferring the fresh summer air. He slept in his jockey shorts and the warm air teased delightfully over the shiny wrapper of sweat covering his body. It was hot and he had tossed the top sheet aside sometime during the night. His hair was damp and he pulled it up over his pillow. It spread out like a long black fan.

Flat handed, he began to rub his already semi-erect penis through the cotton of his shorts. It grew firmer as he continued; as he learned what felt good and what hurt. He reached down and slid out of his shorts, allowing him complete access to his throbbing penis. He closed his hand around it and tightened his grip. A few drops of liquid escaped from the tip and he swirled it around with his thumb. Nothing had ever felt like this before. He found the ridge underneath and ran his fingers up and down it. His breath caught as his hips pushed upward. Pressure slowly built in his groin and his breathing quickened. Sliding his closed hand up and down quickly now, the pressure built until he felt like he would explode. The almost painful, but ecstatic feeling nearly made him stop, but he couldn't. His orgasm exploded and he shuddered uncontrollably as his semen spurted over himself and the bed. A wonderful warm flush flowed from his groin to engulf his entire body all the way to his brain. Moments later, his breathing began to slow.

"IAN!"

The leather strap sliced through his chest, ordering his consciousness back to the present. He instinctively covered his face with his arms before the second lash hit him, and rolled off the bed onto his hands and knees. His hair fell over his face, protecting it from the whip. Irons hurled the strap with tremendous strength cutting into his back and buttocks. Ian was momentarily in shock, his mind searching for a reason for this whipping. Fear filled him. The fifth and sixth blows landed, cutting deeper still into his flesh. He tried to close his mind to the pain, but he could not bury the fear. Ian screamed a silent scream deep inside.

After an uncountable number of blows across his back and buttocks, blood trickled in fine rivulets on their way to the floor, pooling on top of the richly napped carpet. The strap was thin which bit deeply into his skin but didn't rip out large amounts of flesh. Ian staggered from all fours and crashed onto his elbows. Several more fiery lashes landed before Irons threw the bloody whip to the floor.

Ian dared not move, could not move. His body trembling with pain. Irons reached down, grabbed a handful of hair and pulled him to his feet.

"Did you forget there are surveillance cameras everywhere? EVERYWHERE! Do you not think that I can see you at any time? Watch the filthy things you do? The way you play with yourself. Look at you. You are disgusting!" He pulled the boy's chin up and stared into his terrified eyes.

Ian struggled, in vain, for something to say . . . for something that would explain.

"I . . ."

Irons' fist backhanded him hard across his face. He stayed on his feet only because Irons was holding him up by his hair.

"Silent!" He backhanded the boy again, this time releasing him. Irons threw Ian into the wall hitting his head. He didn't get up.

Irons' rage enveloped him like Satan's own hot, fetid breath. He crossed the distance between himself and Ian in two long steps and kicked him hard. He didn't respond and Irons kicked him repeatedly. Still, no response. He yanked him to his feet by one arm. The boy's head lolled from side to side as Irons shook him but he was unconscious.

Irons screamed an unintelligible, long, guttural, primal howl which had its origins in the depths of Hell. Irons flung the boy's body to the floor. Pulling out his cell phone, he waited a moment as he calmed his breathing then dialed the extension.

"Immo, get this wretch out of here before I kill him."

4

Ian lay in a coma in the infirmary for five days with a concussion. Immo was worried. Irons had never beaten the boy like this before. Immo had never seen him so enraged, so maniacal, so insane. All because the boy had jerked off. God! To nearly kill the boy after you've investing so many years and dollars, was unimaginable. If the boy couldn't wear the Witchblade himself, as Irons hoped, then he would control the true wielder through Ian. Ian was the Protector; the DNA of all past Protectors ran through his veins. Immo knew that was all the boy meant to Irons. The best he could do was to keep Ian alive until that day came.

He looked back at the boy resting peacefully on his stomach in the hospital bed. There wasn't much he could do except dress his wounds, provide fluids and feed him antibiotics intravenously to fight off infection.

______________________

Irons had not inquired about the boy or spoken to Immo since exacting punishment on Ian all those days ago. He spent more time than usual in his offices at Vorschlag Industries, mainly getting on everyone's nerves. His secretary of 12 years was teetering on quitting. She was fed up with his unearned verbal abuse and time demands. It was 10:20 p.m. when she took a tall stack of papers into his office and placed them in his in-basket.

"I'm going home, Mr. Irons, and I won't be in tomorrow. With all the extra hours I've put in this week, I'm taking my daughter to the zoo." She turned, not leaving Irons any chance to object.

Hell, let her go. Even with his huge ego, he knew he would have a difficult time finding someone like her who would put up with him and observe his strict rules and necessary confidentiality. He took ten $100 bills out of his locked bottom drawer and put them in an envelope. He wrote her name on it and took it out to her desk. She deserved the bonus.

Walking back to his office, he stopped and stood, gazing out of the glass into the night. New York's skyline was magnificent during the day, but it was nearly magical at night. Magical. That was what Ian had called it the first time he saw it at age six. His vocabulary had always been beyond his years. Ian . . . Irons tried to wipe the image from his mind. The image of the little boy watching the skyline in wonderment was replaced with that of the broken teen laying at his feet five days ago. He could not allow Ian the pleasure of satisfying his sexual urges. He could not be allowed to 'jerk off.' He hated that term. But he had nearly beat Ian . . . he broke off the thought and closed his eyes. Was it fair? He knew it wasn't, but Ian could not be allowed to have sexual distractions.

Irons turned and went back to his desk, reached for his palm pilot and looked up a phone number. He quickly entered the speed dial number and was rewarded with ringing on the other end.

"Kenneth here. Have you eaten? (pause) Yes, well, would you like to catch a late drink? (pause) Yes, I would love to drop by . . . (pause) Say, half an hour?"

He hung up the phone and called Security to fetch his driver.

Susan didn't require a lot of conversation; a lot of foreplay. Irons closed his eyes as he drove off in his black limo. But, God, she could drive all other torments a man had to the ends of the earth. He desperately needed to have his demons exorcized, if only for the night.

5

Ian woke with a stiff neck. He tried to push himself up in the bed, but the I.V. lines hindered his effort. Dropping back down he saw Dr. Immo sleeping on a cot a few feet away.

"Dr. Immo," his words came out in a dry croak, but it was enough to wake the doctor.

Immo jumped up and rushed to Ian's bedside.

"Ian how do you feel, do you have a headache?" Immo helped him turn over on his back, moving the I.V. stand to the other side of the bed. The boy was slightly flushed, but his fever was gone. The bruises on his face had nearly faded and the single whip lash across his chest was closed but a dark red line remained.

"My head doesn't hurt, but my back stings a little. Can I have something to drink?"

Immo got a small bottle of apple juice out of the refrigerated medicine cabinet. Snacks were always keep there, but his main meals came from the mansion's kitchen. He put a straw in it and put the juice on Ian's tray while pushing a button on the bed to raise the upper half. When the bed was upright, Ian began to drink his juice.

When Ian was finished, Immo had him lean forward so he could check his back. Removing a few bandages revealed mostly healed skin beneath. Healed, but a mish mash of tangled red marks remained. Ian's bottom had healed quickly with no marks; the lashings there had barely broken skin. Immo removed the rest of Ian's bandages and the I.V.

Once awake, Ian quickly regained his strength. His altered genetics healed his tortured body. But what of his soul? Immo sighed.

Ian's cheeks grew red as he remembered Irons' brutal words. 'Dirty', 'disgusting'. How could the wonderful feelings be so wrong?

Immo sat next to Ian's bed. He could tell Ian was wrestling with something.

"Ian," he said softly, "what happened to you was a natural and normal response to your body. But Mr. Irons doesn't want you to be 'normal.' You know he expects more; you've been trained to be more. This is another area of self control you'll have to learn." He checked Ian's pulse and brushed his hair back from his face.

Ian looked into Immo's eyes but said nothing. He dropped his gaze as the doctor continued to check him over.

After about an hour, Ian was ready to get out of bed and Immo ordered a light meal from the kitchen and insisted the boy eat before getting up. While they waited, he made a phone call.

"He's awake, Sir."

6

"I have to go," Irons whispered as he gently brushed Susan's cheek with his lips. She murmured something, but continued sleeping.

He quickly showered and shaved using the toiletries Susan kept for her male guests. He did not delude himself into believing he was her only lover. That's what made her so appealing, besides her beauty and wealth; no strings, no commitments, and God forbid, no talk of 'love.' Looking at himself in the full length mirror, he checked his appearance. He wanted to be sure no hair was out of place and not a visible wrinkle showed on his suit. Using his cell phone, he called for his limo which waited for him all night in the building's parking garage. He made a mental note to have flowers delivered to Susan later that day and left. The elevator ride down was a long one and by the time he exited the front door, his limo was waiting.

Once home, Irons went directly to the infirmary. Ian was eating his meal and did not see him enter the room.

"Ian, we will continue your education in one hour. I expect you showered, dressed and waiting for me in the Great Room. Pull that hair back." Irons turned and left, not waiting for a response.

Ian nearly choked on his mouthful of scrambled eggs and quickly set his fork down.

"You're not going anywhere until you finish your breakfast." Immo's voice was firm and steady. " You're almost done and it won't take you very long to get ready for Mr. Irons."

"Sir, I'm really full, and my stomach is a little queasy anyway. I think I'd better go get cleaned up."

At the doorway, Ian turned to Immo, "Thank you, Sir, for taking care of me." He was gone before Immo could say anything more.

7

Ian was in the Great Room 20 minutes before the hour was up, standing by the fire, head bowed, hands behind his back. The hearth always had a fire blazing, summer or winter. He wasn't told what to wear, so he chose his sweats, long sleeve white tee shirt, black cross trainers, and of course his black gloves. He so hoped he had made the right choices, and this was to be an informal meeting. Just in case he chose wrong, he laid out his dress clothes on his bed. He could change in five minutes, not counting time for his punishment for choosing wrong.

Irons entered the room exactly on time and sat in the leather wing back chair that faced the fire. He studied Ian for a moment, angry that he had chosen to dress casually. But since he had not been specific, he would let Ian's appearance pass.

"Come and stand before me."

Ian complied, positioning himself two feet in front of Irons, head down, hands behind his back.

He was getting so tall, Irons thought to himself. He must be 6' and . . . so beautiful. His face was finely chiseled with high cheek bones and full lips. And those eyes . . . a beautiful hazel flecked with amber and emerald, surrounded by lush black lashes. Women would gather around him like bitches in heat. Irons sighed. He had his work cut out for him.

"Ian," He began, "though this is a serious matter we will be discussing, I want you to ask any questions you may have. I will be open and frank and I expect the same from you. This is one time there are to be no misunderstandings, and I will allow you to ask for clarification on anything you do not understand. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Master," This was new. In the past Ian was always expected to understand everything Irons wanted of him. Questioning Irons was an insult to his ability to provide clear and concise information. Ian had learned that early in life as well as the submissive stance he continued to hold.

"Do you know what you did to make me so angry with you?" Irons asked calmly and evenly. He was determined to keep his temper under control no matter what Ian said.

"I think so," Ian whispered

"You are allowed to speak up, Ian. I want to be able to hear you." Again, calm, cool.

"When I woke up that morning there was a warm breeze coming in my window. I was damp with sweat and the air was blowing over my chest and I felt something different, and . . . it felt . . . nice."

"Yes, warm breezes caressing your chest do feel delightful, but can lead you into forbidden touching."

Though he had permission to speak freely, he wasn't sure Irons really meant it.

"I wasn't fully awake. My hand just . . . ." He indicated his groin. "It . . . felt different . . . firm . . . and so good to . . ." His voice became too soft to hear.

"The proper term for a firm penis is an erection. When a man strokes his erect penis it is called masturbation. That is what you were doing. Masturbation is very pleasurable, that is why men and women both do it. Nevertheless, it is wrong! Especially for you. I can't have these dirty little acts interfering with your true purpose in life."

Irons gave Ian a few moments to digest what he had said. He saw no change in Ian's expression so he asked, "What are you thinking? You may ask questions."

"I . . . Master, what about girls?" Ian blushed. He knew Irons brought ladies home for dinner and other entertaining, but he was seldom allowed to meet them. And Irons always had him locked in his room during the many parties held at the mansion. The walls of the mansion were extensively insulated and he never heard anything Irons didn't want him to hear.

Irons clenched his fist, but Ian couldn't see him with his head bowed so low. Girls? Girls indeed! Ian had never been around girls! Just the frumpy housekeepers; hired mainly because they were frumpy. Ahh . . . television. Irons would have to remove Ian's T.V.

"Your life holds no place for girls. The world does not want little freak Nottinghams running around. Your destiny does not include many earthly pleasures and certainly not sexual ones. For you, such thoughts must be unwelcome. Sexual pleasure will destroy your mind, your body and your destiny as the Protector of the true wielder. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master." 'Little freak Nottinghams', his stomach knotted at the words. Is that what Irons thought of him?

"Your fortitude will be tested at every turn." Irons continued to drill the point home.

"Your keen abilities which make you special will be destroyed if you allow your animalistic urges to control you. You must deny these urges. And you will not masturbate. It is a filthy, shameful act."

"How do I make an erection go away?" Ian asked quietly, innocently.

"You can ignore it," Irons began, "use your mind to make it relax, or take a cold shower, if that option is available and prudent. Whatever you do, do not play with your penis. That is shameful. If you ignore your erection long enough, it will become soft again. It may not be pleasant, but that is what you must do. Discipline is paramount"

"Now," Irons stood and lifted Ian's chin so he could look into his eyes. "There will be consequences if you disobey me. I want to be very clear. If you are ever caught masturbating again, I will punish you. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

"Yes, Master," Ian met Irons' stern gaze. This sounded too easy; controlling his penis shouldn't be that difficult. He already controlled his body in many other ways. He would keep his hands away . . . his body stirred as he thought of the pleasant feelings, but he did not become fully erect.

"Another problem, Ian" Irons' voice grew very icy. "I will not tolerate rebellious behavior." referring to the roses. "If you do anything like that again, you will end up in the infirmary . . . again."

Ian's gaze quickly dropped.

"Master Sun will be here at 1pm for your lesson. I will inform him to give you a light workout today."

"Yes, Master."

"You are dismissed until then."

Without a word, Ian went upstairs to his room.

8

Irons invited Susan for dinner. The housekeepers were running around making final preparations; making sure there was nothing amiss with which to incur Irons' anger. Everything was in its place.

Ian was to attend and he felt nearly giddy. Irons himself had chosen the boy's attire for the evening and Ian was glad he did not to have to decide. He dressed in the tailored navy blue suit with a matching shirt and light blue tie Irons had selected. Standing in front of the full length mirror, he pulled his hair back and fastened it with several elastic bands into a tight club. A bit of gel held the shorter strands away from his face.

He went downstairs. Irons was already waiting, dressed in an impeccable silk suit of pale blue which set off his silver, blonde hair and his piercing blue eyes. Ian wished he were as handsome as his Master.

"Ian, let me look at you." He motioned the boy to turn.

Ian turned around slowly so Irons could check him over. Evidently he was pleased with Ian's appearance.

"Very nice, young man." The compliment was sincere.

Ian blushed. Compliments were extremely rare and he drank this one in deeply.

Irons' guest had arrived and he greeted her at the doorway to the Great Room. The maid showing her in, quickly turned and left.

"Susan, how nice of you to come. You look beautiful." Irons stepped forward and kissed her outstretched hand.

She was dressed in a full length emerald silk gown. The strapless, low-cut bodice revealed beautiful wide shoulders and the roundness of full breasts. The gown was hugged her waist and hips as it flowed to the floor. A slit up one side nearly reached her . . .

Ian quickly looked away. He had been staring, dumbly, rudely.

Irons took notice, smiling to himself. "Susan, meet my ward, Ian Nottingham."

Ian stepped up and took the lady's hand. He kissed it then blushed as he looked up into her face. "An honor to meet you, Ma'am." He stepped back behind Irons and took his subservient pose.

"What a delightful boy. You didn't tell me how handsome he was, Kenneth." She flashed a bright smile at the boy, as Irons handed her a glass of wine.

Ian blushed, hotly. He felt a stirring, and he shifted uncomfortably.

"Yes, I am almost jealous." Irons voice teasing the boy.

"I think dinner is ready. Shall we?" Irons led Susan into the master Dining Hall. Three place settings had been set at one end. Irons sat at the head with Susan and Ian on either side.

Ian caught himself staring at Susan several times during dinner. Once, Irons had shot him a glaring look and he quickly averted his eyes.

Susan found Kenneth quite charming and was enjoying their light conversation. Every time she laughed, and she laughed a lot, her breasts threatened to come out of their captive bondage. Her animated red lips sent shivers down Ian's spine as he tried to eat nonchalantly. What would a kiss feel like? He felt himself harden at the thoughts. He wiggled slightly, trying to adjust his slacks. Irons looked at him again and his eyes commanded Ian to sit still.

Dinner was over too soon for Ian; he knew Irons would dismiss him to his room. But, what a wonderful dinner. Not the food. Susan.

"It has been a pleasure to meet you, Ian." Susan reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek and smiled.

Ian turned bright red and mumbled something close to 'thank you', and ran upstairs when Irons dismissed him.

After he was gone, Irons filled her wine glass again and they sat down on the settee.

"Hormones," Irons said disgustedly. I hope I never acted like that when I was his age."

"Were you ever his age?" Susan inquired, raising one of her exquisite eyebrows.

Both laughed, Irons in a more knowing way.

He reached over and took her wine glass and set it on the cocktail table. Reaching for her he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close. She resisted only slightly, amusement in her eyes. Irons smiled and gently kissed her lips, stroking her shoulder length hair.

"Here?" She murmured, leaning her head back so he could kiss her neck.

"No one will intrude." He kissed the proffered neck and descended to the tops of her breasts. His tongue busied itself as he unzipped the back of Susan's gown. Pulling it down, he released her beautiful breasts. He tongued them and she gasped, running her hands through his fine hair.

Irons stood up and stripped himself of his clothing. Susan bit her lip as she took in his well muscled, trim body. She reached for him, but his arms snatched her up and carried her to the fur rug in front of the fire place. The rest of the gown flowed softly off her hips. She was not wearing panties and his hand carefully, gently spread her legs. Finding what he was searching for, his hand elicited deep throaty moans as her head thrashed about. He touched his own erection and moaned softly.

Susan tried to pull Irons away . . . she wanted him . . . wanted him inside her . . . But at this moment he was in control. She reached for his swollen sex but he pushed her hand away. "Kenneth, I need you . . ." her voice trailed off. He kissed her all over her abdomen and down her thighs, his hand never retreating from the warm, wet place between her legs. Susan raised her hips to him nearing her climax. Irons removed his hand and pulled her hips to him and positioned himself between them. Her wetness left him no doubt that she was ready. He slid into her and waited, while she gasped deeply. Holding her hips, he began to ride her. Susan's arms stretched out and held onto his hips as if to help him reach deeper into her abyss. She reached her peak and shuddered, her inner contractions sending Irons' over the edge to his own orgasm. He continued to move inside her until he was fully limp, then withdrew. They lay there, each caught up in their own passion. Susan turned to kiss Irons deeply on the mouth. He smiled.

"Aren't you glad we didn't wait until we were upstairs?"

She moaned, not wanting to speak. He held her in his arms, softly stroking her gorgeous body.

He never looked up, but he could feel the voyeuristic hazel eyes from above. Well, Ian, did you like what you saw? He smiled.

Susan began kissing him again. Irons closed his eyes as her tongue trailed down his chest, lower and lower until . . . As he inhaled deeply, he opened his eyes to see Ian in the shadows above, his mouth agape with wonderment.

9

The next morning, Ian awoke with an erection. He had been half awake, dreaming of Susan . . . of what Irons did with her. He reached down and fumbled with his shorts to adjust a painful pinch, when he came. God, the feelings were wonderful. He slowly got out of bed and stood there for a minute. He was wet and sticky. Did he really have to tell Irons? Telling meant punishment. Ian went out his doorway and walked to the top of the balcony overlooking the Great Room. Irons and Susan weren't there. Slowly he walked to the door of Irons' bedchambers and heard soft music coming from inside. Could Irons really know what just happened?

Ian went back to his room and decided to shower. He had more time to think about it that way. As the warm spray engulfed his body, Ian's thoughts drifted to Irons and Susan entwined, on the fur rug. He felt a warming glow as he grew firm again. She was writhing in ecstasy as Irons . . . well . . . fucked her. Wasn't that what the garage mechanic called it? He visited the garage sometimes when the limo needed service. Seemed like that was the only word the mechanic knew. Fuck this and fuck that. Ian knew what fuck meant. The word rolled off his tongue. "Fuck." He soaped himself and took his aching erection into his hand and began to stroke. "Fuck . . ." Susan's breasts were firm and pink. His breath grew shallow at the sight in his mind. "Fuck." He came and quickly washed off.

He walked back into his room and froze.

"Good morning, Ian." Irons dressed was casually in a sweater and poplin slacks. He was sitting in one of Ian's upholstered chairs, legs leisurely crossed.

"Sir," was all Ian could get out. Irons eyes burned through him like blue lasers.

"I believe we have much to discuss this morning. Dress." He waved to the clothes laying across the bed.

Terrified, Ian swiftly dressed in the dark chinos and white button up shirt. He tied his cross trainers and remained on the edge of his bed, waiting for Irons to speak.

"Did you enjoy the show last night?"

Ian stared at the floor; he had been caught, or had he been trapped? He remained silent.

"Come on, Ian, I saw you watching. I never dreamed my innocent Ian would engage in a little voyeurism." Irons' kept his tone light, but his eyes spoke otherwise.

Ian knew trust wasn't a big part of their relationship so he sat quietly, submissively, not daring to speak.

"What visions danced through your mind while you were stimulating yourself in the shower?" Irons' tone was still light, too light.

"Can't I have any fucking privacy in my own bathroom?" The words spewed out and couldn't be retrieved. Ian shot up off the bed, standing with his head down and hands behind his back, his body trembling. What was wrong with him? There was a time when he'd never dare speak like that. Would never dream to speak like that. Unfamiliar feelings raged within him.

Irons stood, tilting his head to one side, clenching his jaw. The fire in his face seemed to be turning his hair red. He walked around Ian trying to control his fury. It wasn't working.

"Not only do you have no privacy, you have no life except what I allow you to have." Out of nowhere, Irons added, "Why is your hair loose?"

"Father, Master, I haven't left my room. That was the rule." The tone was still defiant.

The cane came at Ian quickly. It was just a blur before Irons rammed into his stomach. He fell to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. The cane smashed across the boy's shoulders, knocking him to the floor. Ian struggled back to his knees and the cane struck him across his cheek, knocking him flat on his stomach. Enraged, he hit Ian again and again with his cane. Ian defiantly struggled back to all fours, until the pain finally stopped him.

The beating ended.

"Do not get up," Irons warned, holding the cane high.

Ian had no problem complying. His cheek was bleeding, but he didn't think anything was broken. He curled up in a ball with his eyes closed, trying to be still.

Irons reached down, grabbed a handful of hair and pulled the boy to his feet. With the other hand, he reached down and yanked Ian's sweats and shorts down to his ankles. Then he ripped the shirt from his torso. He let go of Ian's hair and stood back glaring at the naked boy.

Ian was still terrified but didn't dare move. Standing there naked in front of Irons was the one of the hardest things he had ever endured. Worse than being beaten. With his head bowed, all his hair fell forwards over his shoulders to his waist covering his face.

Irons moved his cane toward Ian's genitals. He touched the silver head to the boy's penis and testicles. Ian shivered. Belying the threatening suggestion, Irons lightly traced the cane up Ian's abdomen and chest, resting it under his chin, lifting his head.

"Women will never want you. Shall I bring you a whore so she can laugh at your feeble attempts in the acts of satisfying a woman? You better get used to it. Women will leer at you, despise you as you should despise yourself. If you cannot learn to control your cock, yes, your cock, you cannot serve me or the Witchblade. If you cannot serve the Witchblade, you are useless to me. You know what I do with useless animals."

Ian remembered the day Irons' beautiful chestnut racehorse, Jupiter, quit winning at the tracks. Rather than selling him as a stud to some other farm, he had him shot. He had no use for the non winning horse, so no one else would have him either. Ian remained silent, but goose bumps teased his skin.

"You will not speak to me like that again. If you do, I will not keep my temper."

Ian swooned slightly, but remained upright. What would Irons have done if he had lost his temper?

"After you clean yourself," indicating the blood, "you will go to the gym and complete a three-hour workout. Perhaps, those raging hormones will be quieted there."

Before he allowed Ian to go, Irons went into the bathroom and returned with a pair of scissors. He pulled one side of Ian's hair out away from his face and cut it off to chin length. He lifted the hair hanging on the other side and whacked it off. The cuts were uneven, but Irons made his point. With both hunks of hair in his hand he threw them in Ian's face. Some strands clung to his sweaty, bloody body. No further words were spoken; none were needed.

____________________

Ian worked his battered, aching body hard for over three hours. A hundred push ups, 150 stomach crunches, plus two hours at the bag--assaulting it with kicks, jabs, and all the other moves he came up with. He then worked with the free weights, trying to push his pain out of his mind. A twenty minute cool down helped stretch his tight muscles. During the workout, he kept focused on the training and nothing else entered his mind. Exiting the back door into the pool room, Ian removed his sweaty clothes and dove into the pool for a few laps. The warm water felt good and allowed his abused muscles to loosen up even more. After 20 laps he toweled off, squeezed the excess water from his shorter hair and tied the towel around his waist.

He picked up his clothes and walked back through the gym and went upstairs. He laid down on his bed for a few minutes before showering. Standing, he went into the bathroom. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he saw the purple bruises and uneven lengths of hair framing his face. Irons had missed some strands of the original length. Ian had loved his long dark mane. He often wore it in a braid like his Eastern tutors did, like Mr. Sun. The only trimming Ian ever had was to keep the ends free of splits. The bruises would fade quickly but the damage to his hair was more permanent. Irons had viciously cut it as a reminder to Ian of his total humiliation.

10

A week later, after dinner, Irons allowed Ian to sit and read with him in the library. This was a privilege only occasionally bestowed. And Ian relished it. So many books filled the ceiling to floor cherry bookcases that choosing just one was nearly impossible. However, he was only allowed to remove one book at a time.

One of his favorites was "The Black Stallion" by Walter Farley. He had read it many times and never grew tired of it. The idea of being alone on a deserted island with an animal like The Black was intoxicating to him. To be free of demands and rules, free to do what he wanted to, was difficult for Ian to imagine.

Irons' huffed at Ian's choice of literature. He didn't know why he allowed such fluff to remain on the shelves. But he left Ian alone and returned to his report on markets in China. Vorschlag Industries was already established in China, but Irons wanted to be sure no other companies were stalking his clients.

Ian's mind began to drift as the hour grew late. He finished his book earlier; it was an easy read, especially if you've read it 10 times already. He got up to replace the book when his penis grew hard and erect. What had he done for this to happen? Ian knew he wasn't thinking about girls. The snug jeans rubbed him uncomfortably as he put the book back. He stood facing the shelves as if looking for another book. All the willpower he could muster didn't help. His erection would not go down. Could he get out of the library without Irons finding out? The feeling in his groin was intense, needy, achy.

Standing behind his Master in his subservient stance, he asked, "May I be excused to my room, Sir? I'm through reading." He couldn't help the slight quiver in his voice.

Irons looked up from his reports, picking up on Ian's distress.

"Come here."

Ian's stomach knotted up as he turned and faced Irons. Irons immediately saw the bulge in the boy's pants and stood up. He pulled Ian's head back with his left hand and icily glared into his eyes.

"What is this?" Irons used his other hand to grab the boy's crotch, his eyes never wavering from Ian's.

Ian tried to step back in pain, but Irons' hold on him prevented it.

"Make it relax and you will not be punished."

Ian tried. He tried to will it away. But with Irons' hand on his crotch nothing worked. Even his fear of Irons did nothing.

"A disciplined mind can make it relax. Remove those filthy thoughts from your mind and it will relax." Irons continued to hold the boy's crotch.

"I can't," Ian groaned softly.

Irons picked up his cane, but thought better of it and put it back against his chair. Ian closed his eyes, but stood still as Irons released his grip on his head and his crotch.

"Take off your gloves." Irons' voice was deceptively cool.

Ian did as he was told, placing the gloves on the arm of Irons' chair.

"Put them, palms down, on the desk." Irons followed Ian as he walked to the desk, kneeled and complied.

He traced his finger around the boy's large but delicate fingers. Ian willed himself to remain still, wishing Irons would get it over with. Whatever he was going to do.

Irons pushed down on Ian's right hand to hold it securely on the table. With his left hand he pulled Ian's index and middle fingers up and back until they snapped. The fingers remained upright, looking like a horror movie monster's hideous claw.

Ian screamed, unable to hold it inside. Irons turned his attention to Ian's left hand, holding it down as the boy writhed in pain. He toyed momentarily with Ian, pushing back, slightly, on his fingers, then let them drop back to the desk. Ian's screams continued until Irons slapped him.

Looking down at Ian's crotch, Irons found the boy's erection gone.

"Pain works." Irons voice was still cool and impassive.

11

Many, many months later, Irons sat in front of the fire sipping brandy. Ian's rebellious nature hadn't reared its ugly head in quite some time. Also, his sexual urges seemed to be under wraps. Irons had provided many opportunities to test Ian' control. He had even bought Ian a young woman to sexually arouse and tease him. Irons smiled as he recalled. The woman was so cool and professional. Ian thought Irons was rewarding him for his improved behavior. Of course he had not dissuaded the boy. It took less than 15 minutes to humiliate Ian and make him hate sex and himself. Not wanting to waste the expensive evening, Irons took her for himself. She was . . . very good.

A boy without Ian's physical genetic enhancements might not have survived the abuse laid on him. More scars and broken bones as reminders of wrong doings. Slowly, Ian regressed into the 'good' boy who never spoke up, who never allowed sexual feelings to show; the Ian who would grow to adulthood. The Ian who would be the perfect . . . pet. Swirling the snifter, another smile crossed his lips.

Dinner would be ready soon and Irons poured himself some more brandy.

Upstairs, Ian was getting ready. He had trained outside with firearms today. They still did not feel as comfortable as swords and katanas. Fully automatic pistols didn't have the same honor as swords. You did not meet your enemy up close. Killing was accomplished from afar. It didn't seem right. It was not befitting an honorable warrior.

Ian showered. His muscles were developing as his body gained mass. In the past months he had also grown four more inches. He needed new clothes every couple of months. Fine curly hair covered his body and he now shaved his slightly stubbled chin and upper lip.

Ian washed his hair. With the help of Irons' stylist, it had been evened up and had grown back to shoulder length. He took the bottle of shower gel and pumped a large amount into his hand. The hot water felt so good. His muscles ached tonight and the water was very relaxing. Ian rubbed the gel smoothly over his chest and arms and as much of his back as he could reach. He reached down to wash his feet and legs, massaging his calf muscles for a few moments. He pumped more gel into his hands and massaged his thighs. As his hands worked their way upwards, he began to stir and grow firm. Not again! He hadn't even touched his penis. This hadn't happened to him in a long time. The ability to squelch these urges was learned months ago. Learned by beatings. Learned by self-control. He never allowed himself to think of anything arousing and it was working.

Angrily, he grabbed his genitals and squeezed hard. The shower walls were spinning around him as he doubled over in pain. The loud spray of water covered his cries as he spun around and landed on his butt. He continued to cry in pain and humiliation as he sat believing there would be no end to this torture. His body had a mind of its own, and he would continue to be punished for its never-ending indiscretions. He would never be in total control-never safe. He sat, motionless except for his sobbing.

It was 7:10 and Irons was livid. Ian knew the consequences of being late for a meal. He went upstairs searching him out for dinner. Ian was still sitting in the shower, his arms clasped around his knees, when Iron's found him. The water striking Ian was now cold and goose bumps covered his body as he shivered uncontrollably.

Irons turned off the water and pulled Ian to his feet. He was ice cold. His eyes were fixed in a distant stare and Irons couldn't get him to respond. He wrapped the boy in a towel off the warming rack, rubbing him vigorously. Irons threw that towel aside when it was no longer warm and grabbed another one.

"Ian . . . Ian," "What were you doing?" Rage filled him as he shook the boy and continued his vigorous toweling. Only HE was allowed to abuse this body. How long had Ian been sitting in the freezing water?

"Sir," Ian tried to speak, but his voice was choppy from the vibrations of Irons' rubbing.

Irons held Ian still so he could speak.

"Sir, I will never be free of my primal urges. You can never trust me. I cannot control these filthy . . ." He indicated his genitals. Teeth chattering, he began to shiver again.

Irons picked him up, carried him downstairs and laid him on the thick fur rug in front of the fire. He dropped to his knees and continued to rub the towel over the boy's body and head. Slowly, Ian's color returned.

"I can't even wash myself without . . . bringing shame," Ian continued, tears running down his face. "My body hates me and will never give up its desire to punish me."

Slowly, he rolled over on his back and held out his genitals to Irons. He hesitated, then cried out, "Can't you have Dr. Immo cut off my testicles?" His voice choked. "If they're gone, I can't have 'Little Freak Nottinghams.' My penis won't do this to me anymore, if my testicles are gone? . . . and . . . I can serve you and the Witchblade without distraction. They did that in China. Father . . . make Dr. Immo cut . . . me . . . Please."

Irons' face turned as white as his hair. How could Ian say such a thing? He was willing to be castrated if Irons' wished, if that's what it took to conform. Ian was handing him his body and soul. Had he taught Ian this depth of self sacrifice? No, it must come from the boy's fear of him. He felt Ian wrap his arms around him. No, it came from somewhere else . . .

Irons held Ian close; the boy's body was warm now and his heartbeat thumped against Irons' chest. He rocked back and forth holding Ian tightly.

The shouting and crying brought the attention of Dr. Immo and Irons' head of security. They watched in wonder from the other end of the Great Room.

Irons looked over at them. This time he didn't care what they thought. Dr. Immo would be called upon for drug therapy to help repress Ian's sexuality until he could fully control it himself. It had to be done for the boy's own good and for the good of the Witchblade. But there would be no more talk of castration. No more punishments.

Irons combed his fingers through Ian's wet hair. Ian's waist length hair had been one of the boy's few pleasures. Hair grows back, but slowly. It would serve as a constant reminder to Irons of everything he had taken from Ian. And he would remember.

He held Ian close and tucked his head against his chest. Ian opened his eyes and slowly realized Irons was rocking him. He said nothing, but buried his head deeper into Irons' chest. Irons continued to hold him close. The reassurance of two heartbeats filled Ian's soul again.

END