Chapter 1

"I want you to do something for me, Alex." He says while holding me on the edge of release for what has felt like hours, bringing me to the edge only to pull back cruelly at the critical moment, over and over. He knows how to torment me, torture me like this for as long as he pleases, safe in the knowledge that I would do anything, obey his every wish and darkest fantasies in order to please him.

"Anything you want, just please let me come...please Derek..."

My lover, no, Master would better describe him, just laughs and once again tightens the solid silver choke collar around my neck until everything turns gray and foggy. His hand furiously pumps my bruised, tender cock, rock-hard from long sessions in his expert grip, broken only by short intervals when he takes me deep into his throat. He has come multiple times in the last few hours, but never gives me the same pleasure. I am under no illusion as to my role in this very one-sided relationship. I am only alive to serve him, never to expect anything in return or ask for anything beyond what I can do to please him. If my death brings him pleasure then so be it. I'm just grateful that he seems more interested in keeping me alive for now, though how long it will last I have no idea.

I come awake sometime later, not sure how much time has elapsed. My back and ass are on fire and I can feel the blood and semen trickling down my legs from the fresh welts and thorough ass-fucking he inflicted after drugging me into oblivion.

There's a few deep scratch marks on my arms, chest and thighs, obviously made with that woman's ridiculously long manicured fingernails, but there is no sign of her now. A trace of expensive perfume hangs in the air, Chanel No.5 or something similar. It's not the first time there have been hints of a third-party involved in our fucking sessions. I'm curious as to who she might be but have no real inclination to ask Derek about her. It obviously makes Derek happy to have her with us and what makes my Master happy makes me happy, not that I really think Derek cares all that much about my feelings any more.

In the early days and weeks of our relationship I thought he cared a great deal about me and genuinely wanted to rescue me from the streets and out of the garbage-filled gutter I had called home since fleeing the smoker's clutches. But that all changed when she arrived and things haven't been the same since. Occasionally I still glimpse the old Derek, the kind-hearted stranger with the phoney British accent who had climbed out of his warm, dry limousine into a raging blizzard and wrapped his fur-lined coat around my feverish, rag-covered body, drawing me into the warmth of the leather interior, not minding the mud and vomit-scented odor that dirtied the seats and tainted the pot-filled air. But those glimpses are now few and very far between, her sadomasochistic tendencies influencing his behavior and treatment of me even when she isn't in the country, let alone in his house and sharing his bed with me relegated to my life-long role of plaything and abuse victim.

I never dreamt that I could ever feel that safe and protected, not after the hellish childhood I had endured at the hands of an alcoholic, wife-bashing father and especially not after spending just 6 months as the smoker's bed-warmer and errand boy. I remember running full-steam into the wrinkled, nicotine stained hands of my prayed-for savoir and his associates, certain that I had escaped a life not even the scariest of horror writers could have imagined, only to end up trapped in an existence that would scare the horns off the devil himself.

Offered entry into Quantico, something I knew that my father's background as a Cold-War subversive should have ruled out, I jumped at the chance to get as far away from the hell-on-earth that was my home and bruised and battered family as was possible. I accepted the package the smoker offered without questioning what the fine print might entail. Even now I have no idea what truly lies beneath the surface of a New York men's Club made up of faceless, nameless men of numerous nationalities where the air was thick with smoke and the conversations heavy with ominous sounding warnings about the future of mankind and some kind of mysterious merchandise.

I can't recall the exact time when I knew I had to get away from the smoker and his Project, I just knew that I would rather die than carry out the deeds he ordered me to perform. It wasn't my duties in his bed and the beds of others he lent me out to that turned my stomach and had me buying anti-nausea medicine by the carton. My body had never truly been my own, only something that other people had used and abused without regard to my wants and needs and you can't miss what you never had, right?

Perhaps if he hadn't pulled strings to get me assigned to that sleep-deprivation case as Mulder's partner, things may have turned out differently. Maybe I would have climbed the ladder in the Project to a safe height, out of reach of the wandering hands and ancient cocks of the smoker and his cronies. But his command of seduction and surveillance of Mulder, who during my training at the Academy grew from unknown to crack-pot (he believed in UFO's and little green men, for Christ's sake) to leading-man in my nightly jerk-off fantasies (all the more desirable because he was straight, or at least I thought he was, but still whispered about by both male and female cadets) was the beginning of the end, I suppose. The final straw was the smoker's reaction when he found out that I had failed to engineer Mulder's death-fall from the gondola as he valiantly tried to get to his partner before she could be whisked away from the top of Skyland Mountain.

He was calm and in control that morning when he summoned me to my car in the dark undercover parking lot and I tried to pump him for information without it appearing too obvious.

"Skinner's expecting my report on the Duane Barry incident. What do I tell him?" I had asked him after he stubbed out an ever-present cigarette and pushed the butt into the formerly spotless ashtray. I tried not to stare at the scrap of evidence that I could leave behind for Mulder for fear of showing my traitorous intentions. I had wanted to disappear as soon as this meeting was over, not wanting to stay in the company of monsters I detested even more than myself, though not by much at that point. But I knew that I could not vanish without giving Mulder some tiny chance at finding Scully and the men behind her abduction. In all likelihood, he would blame me for what happened to Scully and I couldn't really blame him for coming to that conclusion. I did pass on Scully's location to Duane Barry and I did my level best to stop Mulder from following and rescuing her. But only because I was scared shitless about what would happen to Mulder should I have disobeyed my masters and sabotaged their plans.

"The truth."

The truth??? He wouldn't know the truth if it came up and bit him on the ass. I'd pity anything that would have to come that close to any part of that man's anatomy. Unfortunately, I speak from personal experience, way too personal for my liking.

"What do you mean?"

"Confirm Mulder's version of events. You've earned his trust, the object now is to preserve it."

"For how much longer?" Had I misread the smoker's plans for Mulder? Had he not been in mortal danger at all? Then why kidnap Scully, especially in a way that fed into Mulder's worst nightmares and paranoia about alien abduction? I had read the dossier on Mulder and knew all about his sister vanishing without a trace when they were both kids and for the first time realized that I wasn't the only one to have had a fucked-up childhood.

"Until your assignment is complete."

And what would completion entail in this case, I had wondered? Some how I didn't think it would end up with me and Mulder walking off into the sunset hand-in-hand. More likely my assignment would end with a funeral, either mine or his or perhaps both. That thought sent a chill down my spine and I knew then that I would get out no matter what. I had just needed to confirm Mulder's role in all this.

"If Mulder is such a threat, why not eliminate him?"

"That's not policy."

It was policy according to the gentlemen in that smoky New York club when I had been told to prevent Mulder reaching Scully no matter what method I chose to use. None of this "stop him, but don't kill him" that old Smokey was spouting. I had to make sure I was hearing him correctly. I had a feeling that there was dissension in the ranks of the Organization, that Smokey's policy was not Project policy, that he was not the leader but rather just another spoke in the wheel, just like me but much closer to the central hub of power.

"It's not? After what you had me do?"

"Kill Mulder and you risk turning one man's religion into a crusade."

Aha, that's what he's afraid of then. That Mulder in death would become even more powerful than he is alive. It sounded like he thought Mulder was the next Jesus Christ and that his death would have people mourning in the streets and wearing sackcloth and ashes.

"What about Scully?" I had been determined to get as much information as possible to pass on to Mulder, though I hadn't yet figured out how I would accomplish that miracle for I was as watched as Mulder was, perhaps more so.

"We've taken care of that."

Christ! Getting information out of the old geezer was worse than pulling teeth, again speaking from personal experience and no you don't want to know any more. Trust me.

"How?"

"We tell you only what you need to know."

That had been a standard answer to many of my questions. Why had I thought that he would open up then and tell me the secrets of the universe according to Smokey? Nevertheless I pushed ahead, knowing that I risked further punishment for behaving above and beyond my place in the scheme of things.

"I think I have a right to know."

"You have no rights, only orders to be carried out. If you have a problem with that, we'll make other arrangements."

Of course I had no rights. People and even animals have rights, but not me. I was merely property, his property, to be used at his whim, to be programmed and execute said programs according to his wishes. I was well aware of what "other arrangements" meant and I was not willing to screw up my one last chance at freedom just for a bit of information about Scully that Mulder could uncover any way with that spooky brain of his running at even half pace, which was a damn sight faster than most. He would need something to occupy his time, a mystery to solve, a reason to live. I had seen him between cases, bored and almost lifeless, like a finely honed thoroughbred put out to pasture because of injury. And that was when he still had Scully around to meet clandestinely in dark garages and park benches.

Back in the present again and sticky cum congeals on the satin sheet below my now limp cock, my once swollen balls feeling lighter, almost empty. Derek had finally given me the relief I had begged for, but only after making sure I wasn't in any state to enjoy it. To make her happy, I suppose. Looking around I see him sitting alone in his favorite chair, a massive black leather Chesterfield in front of an open fire, his feet perched on an ottoman the color of blood. The large screen TV is on and he is engrossed in the images it displays, a glass of vodka in one hand, the remote control in the other. He seems to be watching a short scene over and over, becoming ever more aroused.

Derek must have sensed my movement as I turn over to sit up and without taking his eyes off the screen, commands me to join him with a click of his fingers. I roll off the low bed and walk over to him, kneeling by his slipper-clad feet, trying to ignore the pain that accompanies even the slightest movement. I know better than to raise my head; instead I remove his velvet slippers and begin massaging his feet, placing satin soft kisses from heel to nail combined with long licks that envelop his sensitive toes.

"I want you to bring me something, Alex." He says in a soft, husky voice, his right hand ruffling my hair, almost patting me as one would a pet, which is what I am to him.

"What do you need? A fresh drink? Something to eat?"

His next words cause me to gag and I accidentally suck one of his toes too hard. I pray I haven't left teeth marks, not that he needs any reason to flog me.

"I want you to bring me him," he replies, grabbing a handful of hair and tilting my head up, forcing me to stare at the TV. What I see takes my breath away and for the first time since I began serving him, I want to decline, to say no and suffer the consequences.

Fox Mulder is frozen on the screen, only a slight flicker of the image telling me that Derek has paused the tape. Mulder stands by a pool, his svelte, muscular body dripping water onto the ground, dressed only in red Speedos, a white towel and goggles around his neck. The date stamp on the video reveals it is only a couple of days old and he is looking even more magnificent than I remember. A certain part of me is very aroused by the fact that I won't have to rely on my fading memories any longer, that I'll have the flesh and blood version in my grasp and in my bed (if I had one) very soon. I don't even consider that Derek most probably has less than altruistic motives for wanting Mulder in his household. It doesn't even cross my mind that he may be planning to hand my Fox over to the bitch-from-hell, even though she receives everything she demands from Derek whilst I have to beg for every scrap of food, clothing and even affection. In my post-coital madness, I am sure that Fox is to be mine; a pet of my own, to be tamed and trained to my needs and desires and fantasies.

The video footage evokes very pleasant memories of watching him swim laps in the FBI gym, his sleek, toned form gliding effortlessly through the crystal clear water. Admiring him as he pulled himself out of the pool, wishing I had a camera or his renowned eidetic memory to preserve the sight for eternity. I knew I had a message to deliver, one that would ultimately lead to his worst nightmare becoming true. I did not want to deliver it, but I knew the consequences too well to disobey.

Derek's voice brings me once more back to the present.

"I want him here tomorrow. You will collect him for me." His hand moves down to my mouth and I open it automatically to allow his long fingers access, sucking and licking them, knowing what he likes.

After a few minutes he withdraws his hand and walks over to the bed, shedding his black silk robe.

"I thought you were going back home soon. That we were going together..." I ask as he lies back on the bed and beckons me over.

"We are. You will bring Fox to me and together we will go to Fonthill."

Fonthill. It is a word that stirs up a hundred and one images, a hundred and one fantasies and more than a few nightmares. It is spoken with such reverence and awe by the many servants that Derek has in his employ that I had often wondered if it did indeed exist. From what I have heard, it sounds like a place that belongs in a fairytale, in a time and place far more sweet and innocent that this harsh, violent world that is my life. A world where time doesn't exist once you pass beneath Entrance Lodge and enter into its splendid gardens and magnificent buildings.

Derek has an oil painting of the former Abbey in his den that he has shown me numerous times. He told me beautiful stories of his idyllic childhood, something I could never relate to. He also told me that based only on the mutterings of an old Gypsy woman his eccentric ancestor bequeathed his estate to any future descendent who could meet certain criteria. Derek never did reveal what that criteria was, lending even more mystique to my lover and his shadowy past.

I knew that William Beckford's diaries and journals were an enormous influence in Derek's life. Within a week of arriving, I knew more about Beckford than I did about my own father. I recall Derek's lengthy lectures as he showed me around his estate, pointing out features that he had created to mirror the real Fonthill Manor that stands in ruins in the English countryside and that he claimed as his life's work to restore to all its former glory.

"Few men attained greater celebrity during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries than William Beckford, the wealthiest man in England. With enormous wealth as his Aladdin's lamp, he decided to make his Arabian dreams come true. By the time he died at the venerable age of 84, he had built the loftiest domestic residence in the world, had assembled a virtual harem of boys, had his own militia to protect his Fonthill estate of 6,000 acres, had written the first Oriental-Gothic horror novel in English literature, and had become the most scandalous connoisseur of hedonism in the modern world. His society bemusedly tolerated most eccentrics, even nouveau riche ones but they chose to ostracize this remarkable personality, dubbing him 'The Fool of Fonthill.'

"One day it will be restored and we will live there as William lived, in our own world, without a care for the narrow-minded bigots that turn their noses at our chosen lifestyle," Derek promised me.

I had thought of reminding him that my role in his life, and the lives of all of my abusers before him, and even my sexuality was hardly chosen voluntarily, but he laid me down beneath a giant oak tree and made love to me so tenderly that I would have swam across the Atlantic ocean just to be by his side when he claimed Fonthill Manor as his birthright. I had even envisioned being named his heir and inheriting his vast wealth and, most cherished of all, my freedom upon his death.

Derek's thick cock penetrating my still-sore backside gets my attention, tearing me away from memories of how he used to actually make love to me rather than just fuck me. The speed and force of his thrusts could wake the dead but I'm used to it by now and it's a novel experience to actually be conscious whilst he's fucking me. I'm almost certain that he won't let me come. Twice in one day on top of the good news about my pet's imminent arrival would be way too much to hope for.

"But Mulder hates me. He'll shoot me as soon as I poke a toe inside his door." I begin to cover his chest and throat with feather-light kisses, concentrating on his nipples, working to bring them to life beneath my tongue. I can't tell him that I would give my left arm just to be in the same room as my former partner. I know never to show too much eagerness for anything I want as that only means I have to hand over more of my body and soul to get it, even if he does own every square inch of me already.

"I don't care how you do it, Alex, just as long as you get him here."

He comes explosively, pulls out and turns away from me, dismissing me without a word or second glance. I stand up and hurry to my room where I shower and dress quickly, already formulating a plan. I take a hypo and two small vials from Derek's private pharmacy, nothing deadly, just something to subdue my prey, making him easier to handle, to transport to his new home. I am already having visions of training and taming my wild Fox, bending and breaking his body and will to MY specifications, not those of my Master and his bitch.

Yes! There is a God!!

END OF CHAPTER 1

AUTHOR NOTES: The dialogue between Krycek and CSM is from Ascension with my interpretations of Krycek's actions and motives.

William Beckford is a real historical figure and more information about him and Fonthill Manor can be found at:

Rictor Norton, "William Beckford: The Fool of Fonthill", The Great Queens of History, updated 16 Nov. 1999 http://www.infopt.demon.co.uk/beckfor1.htm.