Chapter 5

We arrive at Derek's house twenty-five minutes later. It's large and Elizabethan in style, the dark brown of the framework standing out against the whitewashed walls that peek through thick layers of ivy. The three-story mansion sits well back from the road with access through an elaborate wrought iron gate, down a long winding drive lined with tall pines on either side. The estate looks ancient but it has the most high-tech security system I have ever seen. Cameras (normal, night-vision and infrared) keep a constant electronic watch over the grounds. Heat and motion detectors are scattered throughout the elaborate, well kept gardens. Invisible laser beams randomly criss-cross the driveway, a special encrypted code from the sensor in my car allowing me to approach without setting off the alarms. The sensor alerts the guardhouse to my arrival and I proceed down the torch lit drive.

I'm worried about the tightness of my jeans and hope Derek won't notice my present state of arousal. At least there's no incriminating stain. He has me well trained and I can't have an orgasm without his permission even if my life depends on it.

I'm met at the curved drive at the front of the house by Derek's chauffeur, Miles, a distinguished looking gentleman in his early seventies, his hair gray(almost white) and his face and hands lined with wrinkles. Even at midnight he is dressed in full uniform, a black suit and top-hat with a crisply starched white shirt and spotless white gloves. He opens my door, not sparing even a brief glance at the covered body in the back seat. I could have a box of books in there for all the interest he shows. Derek is very big on his employees knowing only what they need to fulfill their various duties. There's very little unnecessary interaction between members of the household and definitely no gossiping.

"Sir requests you take the package directly to the second-floor guest-room. He is waiting for you in the parlor." Guest room? The last thing I expect Derek to treat Mulder like is a guest. But then again He is the Master and i'm just his humble slave.

Miles opens the rear door without realizing the "package" is secured to it. Nodding my understanding of Derek's instructions, I squat down to cut the ropes with my Swiss Army knife. Mulder tenses at my touch and instinctively kicks out as soon as his feet are free. He connects with my stomach, sending me rolling back onto the ground, winded but unharmed. I should have expected it but my reflexes seem to be elsewhere at the moment. Oh well, no harm done, I think to myself as I rise and dust myself off.

I climb into the back seat, my full weight on top of him as I loosen the ropes around the seatbelt and his hands. He's still struggling but the paralyzing toxin hasn't completely worn off yet so there's not much he can do. Okay you're probably wondering about the antidote I told him had to be injected within half an hour. I confess. I lied. There is no antidote. The nerve toxin breaks down pretty quickly with no lasting side-effects. The second injection was nothing more than sterile saline solution. I needed him to think he would die a slow, painful death if he didn't co-operate. Derek would be most displeased if I deliver Mulder to him with even the smallest scratch or bruise.

I check that the hood is still firmly in place and then lift him so that he's sitting with his bare feet on the cold pebble-covered drive. With a hand on his head so he doesn't hit the doorframe, I pull him upright. My other hand is tight around his upper arm right over the injection sight, knowing that it will hurt if he resists, which he does, and I tighten my grip as a warning to obey. He settles straight away, a fast learner.

"Come on," I say as I steer him towards the front door. My voice is rough and short. I don't want to betray my true feelings in front of Miles or the camera that covers the entry. I can't show Mulder any sort of kindness or affection for I know that Derek is watching my every move.

"Take it easy here. There's five steps leading upwards." He's shuffling along at my side, not trusting that I won't let him collide with one of the massive stone lions that sit on either side of the steps. He pokes his left foot forward, feeling for the step, preferring to trust his sense of touch rather than me. Once he locates the first step, he takes the rest with the sort of confidence I've always admired in him.

Without knocking, the massive front door is opened and we move inside, the night butler closing it behind us and then walking off without a word to resume his duties. Mulder flinches when his bare feet hit the cold marble of the entry and I wrap one arm around his waist in support. We move quickly up the curved staircase to our left, one of two that lead out of the foyer. The other leads downward to places I hope I only ever visit again in my nightmares.

The door to a small bedroom is open off the hallway to our right and I snatch the note taped to it as I guide Mulder inside and over to the queen-size four-poster that takes up most of the space. I gesture for him to sit with a firm push on his shoulder and he does. I'm pleased that he is still obeying me and silently pray that he continues to do so. He sits still as if he knows it's useless to try to discern anything about his location with most of his senses out of commission.

The note is in Derek's distinctively English script, all curved letters drawn from the ink of an expensive fountain pen.

Alex,
Use your imagination to prepare Fox.
You know what pleases me. But he is to remain
hooded and in restraints.
Then join me in the parlor to discuss your reward.

My cock tingles in anticipation and I rush to prepare Mulder for my Master's pleasure (for OUR pleasure, I'm hoping). His note doesn't leave me much room but I'm sure I can come up with something. I look up into the corner of the room where I know the camera is located and smile. My Master is pleased with me. He will reward me well. I'm sure of it.

I strip Mulder quickly down to his Speedo, cutting away his sweatshirt so that I don't have to uncuff him. He shivers at my touch -- more so once he is almost naked due to the fan switched on medium speed hanging from the ceiling above the bed.

The sight of him standing in front of me, dressed in only skintight bathers, his arms pulled behind his back emphasizing his well-toned abs and firm biceps, the pillowcase covering his head which is held high, not slumped in submission and defeat, almost causes me to faint. So much beauty and strength and desire in one amazing body. I circle him once, taking in the smooth, unblemished back, the narrow hips, the perfectly shaped ass. Inspiration strikes and I part his firm buttocks with my left hand and pull the lycra of the Speedo tight against his crack so that it disappears into him, is devoured by the plump cheeks of his backside.

Instant G-string.

All of a sudden he whirls around, sweeping outwards with one leg trying to knock me off my feet. I react quickly and grab the leg on its downward arc. He loses his balance and falls heavily to the floor, his head connecting with the hard polished boards. Another inch to the left and he would have landed on a thick rug that lies between the bed and door. I guess it really isn't Mulder's lucky day. He's not moving and I'm scared shitless that he's badly injured or worse. The hood would have afforded him absolutely no protection at all.

I roll him over and feel at his throat for a pulse, a wave of relief flooding me when I find a strong and steady beat under my shaking fingers. I know I should remove the hood and check for a head wound but Derek was explicit in his orders. Mulder is to remain hooded and bound until further notice. There's no blood on the floor and none on the hood that I can see so he should be okay.

I lift him onto the bed and settle him on his side, a pillow behind his back so he doesn't roll onto his shackled hands. He'll wake up with a hell of a headache, but it was his fault. He shouldn't have attacked me, even if it was in defense of his virtue. I know Derek won't tolerate such an outburst, so Mulder might as well begin learning that there is no place for defiance in this household.

I clear away his clothes and leave the room, the door locking automatically behind me. Only Derek knows the combination needed to open the electronic lock, so there's no way Mulder can escape. But I know he'll try and some deep, dark part of me wants to see him attempt Mission Impossible, well aware of the punishment that Derek would swiftly dish out.

I detour to my own room down the hall to freshen up and change into something more comfortable. Ten minutes later I'm heading down the stairs dressed in loose gray sweatpants and a tight muscle shirt that I know Derek likes to see me in, the key to Mulder's cuffs in one hand. I've cleaned up, inside and out, lubed and plugged myself in eager anticipation of a night of mind-blowing sex at the hands of my Master.

Derek is sitting in his armchair in front of the ever-burning fire, a half-filled brandy balloon in one hand. He doesn't look my way as I enter so I stand just inside the doorway awaiting further instructions. He's watching the TV, much the same as he was yesterday when he gave me my assignment with the same detachment as if he was sending me to the local market. From my position I can't see what's showing on the screen, but I can tell by his body language that he doesn't like what he sees.

One click of his fingers and I'm by his side in an instant, kneeling at his feet. I reach out to slide his right foot free of its velvet slipper, when what feels like a brick connects with the side of my face. My head whips sideways, blood and a tooth flying in opposite directions. Before I can even think about recovering, another slap comes from the opposite direction, sending me crashing to the floor. He grabs my hair, lifting me to my knees and turns my swelling, bloody face to the TV. A five-second scene is playing over and over, in a never-ending loop of black and white pixels. Fox losing his balance and his head hitting the floor with enough force to cause it to bounce about a quarter inch off the wooden boards. Over and over and over, until I'm certain I'll see that scene every time I close my eyes for the rest of my now shortened life.

My Master rings a little bell and before I know what's happening, two of his bodyguards, who look like rejects from World Series Wrestling, have me sandwiched between them and we're following Derek out into the foyer and towards the stairs that lead down to the....

"No Master! Please!" I shout out in a desperate plea for mercy. I struggle between my twin captors, all to no avail. Knowing what lies at the bottom of the stairs only separated by a short hallway makes my blood freeze to absolute zero. Two chambers of horror, the only difference being the level of technology contained within as instruments of torture. On the left is the Spanish Inquisition and Salem Witchtrials combined into one. On the right is a room straight out of a Billy Gibson novel by way of the Marathon Man that Darth Vader would be at home in.

"SILENCE!!" The sound of his command echoes throughout the house, rattling windows and shaking doors. Even his bodyguards flinch at the sound. I have never heard such anger in his voice in the five months of serving him. Sure he's lost his temper before, but he's never raised his voice as he did just then.

I'm dragged down the narrow staircase that is lit only with small black candles. He stops before the solid oak door on the left end of the corridor and punches a five-digit code into the pad on the side. His thugs shove me through the doorway and I'm in the dark stone chamber for the second time.

One lets me go and moves to the corner to light a torch, the bright orange flame dancing in the dark, creating shadows, highlighting things I don't want to see and keeping other items hidden in the inky darkness. A second torch is lit and placed in a rusty iron holder on the far wall. The room is still half in shadow and I can only imagine some of the things that are hiding there.

Torch-lighter returns and I'm taken to the wooden frame that stands silent and empty in the middle of the room. Without a word from Derek my handlers grab my arms, stretching them above my head and securing my wrists in cold iron shackles, my feet soon receiving the same attention. They know the routine. I'm sure I'm not the first to feel the effect of Derek's wrath and I don't think I'll be the last.

The bodyguards are dismissed, moving to each side of the room out of my line of sight. Derek is behind me. I can smell the hundred-year-old brandy on his breath as he leans in close. His hands are on my waist, light as a feather. He slides my sweats down, uncovering my ass and legs, dragging a nail against my thigh hard enough to draw blood. My cock is at attention, hard and ready, already leaking milky colored droplets onto my balls and the floor. One thick finger pushes against my anus, forcing the plug deeper inside me. He twists it in me, pressing it against my prostate, sending shivers of sweet pleasure surging through my body. God, if this is his idea of punishment, then maybe I should misbehave more often.

As I'm riding a wave of arousal that feels a hundred feet high, a sharp biting crack across the back of my legs brings me crashing back to earth. The pain is indescribable, the exact opposite of the ecstasy I was feeling just seconds before. If not for the restraints I would fall. I tense up, waiting for the next blow but it never comes.

Derek has moved around in front of me. I want to be able to touch him, to have him take away the pain and the shame from having failed him. But he remains teasingly just out of reach. He lifts my slumped head with the end of the crop and I can see drops of bright red blood on its surface. My blood... shed because I sinned... shed because I failed to carry out my duties to my Master's liking. I look him in the eye, pleading forgiveness, knowing that I don't deserve it but silently asking anyway.

He wipes a solitary tear off my reddened cheek with a touch of his thumb that is completely gentle, almost maternal in its nature. He then places his thumb in my mouth in an exact recreation of my actions with Mulder earlier.

Then it hits me.

He did see what I did in the car. He saw me touching something that wasn't mine to touch. That is why he is punishing me, not for allowing his goods to be damaged, but for touching those goods in the first place without his permission.

When I look at him, he is smiling, secure in the knowledge that I realize the source of his displeasure. He raises the crop to my swollen lips and I lick it clean of my blood and sweat with quick swipes of my tongue.

"Now, Alex. I want you to think about what you did wrong tonight and how you might appease me in the morning." He turns and walks away toward the door. He presses a button on the wall and the stone floor beneath me drops away, revealing a deep, dark pit. The frame I'm bound to is being lowered into it, like a slice of fresh bread into a toaster.

"Please, Derek. No!" I'm begging him not to do this, like I've never begged anyone before. "You promised! You swore you wouldn't..."

"Alex, you've left me no alternative." My Master's voice is calm and controlled and utterly emotionless, without feeling and I know there will be no escape from this. "You need to be reminded of your place in this house and how to fulfill your duties to my satisfaction."

A gut wrenching feeling of fear immediately envelops me. He knows my phobia of tight, dark places and has threatened me with it before, but I never thought I would anger him enough that he would actually use it as a punishment.

The slot in the floor is so narrow I can feel the cold, moss covered stone against my back and chest, the slimy algae clinging to my arms and legs. I can already feel the panic start and this is going to be the mother-of-all-panic attacks. Then the floor, which is now the roof of my prison, slides back into place, rubber seals stopping even one photon of light from slipping in around the heavy chains. I hear Derek's voice before he leaves me alone in my own private Hades; something he swore he would never do to me. He's rescued me once before and I want to believe he will come to my rescue again.

I need to believe.

Otherwise I fear that he will be releasing an empty body, alive and breathing but vacant of mind and soul.

"Just remember that you love me, Alex. That I'm all you need."

"NO! I trusted you, you bastard. You gave me your fucking word!"

My words echo around me, over and over in a never-ending loop and I can still hear them even after they have faded beneath normal hearing range. I vow to remember them for the rest of my life, never to forget this ultimate betrayal from the one person I willingly trusted with my life.

I have no way of keeping track of how quickly or slowly time and the world above is passing me by. Time has stopped as far as I can tell. My throat is raw, my voice hoarse from my phobia-fuelled screams and I expect the roof to slide back and the frame to rise, taking me out of this hellhole any second now. I can feel thick, warm blood mixing with cooling sweat and dripping down my arms from a futile attempt to pull my wrists out of the manacles.

I close my eyes in a useless attempt to relax. My heart is thumping in my chest at a million miles an hour and I'm finding it almost impossible to breathe. I know if I can just get a bit of control over my fear, then I've won half the current battle and will survive another day to fight the next one.

My mother taught me to imagine a nice, safe place to go to in my mind during the many times my bastard-of-a-father locked me in my bedroom closet as punishment for crying and waking my sisters when he would come to my bed and then, in later years, to stop me protecting my sisters when he went to their beds. She knew she could not stop our father abusing us, so she did her best to limit the impact by teaching us games to play to take our young, impressionable minds off the things he did.

I can hear her soft, lilting voice, so quiet that I have to strain to hear it over my thumping heart. I can almost feel her tiny hands and nimble fingers stroking my face, calming and soothing me like she did when I was a child, when I was her little Andre, her brave little boy. I'm not feeling very brave right now, though. She's counting to me, her voice sweet and melodic in the native tongue of her homeland. My father forbid her to speak French in his house, even English was not good enough for his children. But she secretly taught my sisters and I when she could and that is what I'm hearing now. It's almost making me cry.

"Un."

"Deux."

"Trois."

By three I'm back in my childhood home, in the kitchen while my mother is making pastry and baking bread. The twins are chasing our puppy around the dining area. Mother's favourite opera is playing and music and laughter fills the house as it always did when Papa was away with his comrades, planning god-knows-what to help stop the decline of his beloved Russia into western decadence.

"Quatre."

By four my heart rate and breathing have slowed to the point that I think I will survive this ordeal with at least some of my sanity intact.

"Cinq."

On the count of five, I swear on my mother's grave that I will no longer be Derek's lap-boy, his willing, submissive slave eager to please and serve him. The trust I had in him is destroyed, his oath of protection not worth a dime.

All the previous times he has betrayed that trust and I forgave him come rushing back to me in a deluge of memories and emotions. The coping mechanisms my mother taught me are no defense against the flood that is starting to overwhelm me.

One stands out in particular, an experience that I thought I had managed to block from my mind permanently. There's nothing I can do but go along for a ride to hell.

END OF CHAPTER 5