Bound and Bent: Ten Tales of Serving Him
Page 4
The first time his government-appointed therapist mentioned the collar, Blake flipped his chair and walked out. They didn't see him for two and a half weeks.
The therapist didn't mention the collar again, and neither did anyone else.
Once they'd determined that it wasn't some kind of explosive or tracking device, everyone seemed content to leave well enough alone. If Blake wondered what people were saying about him behind his back, he never let on. Blake's head of station, Lambert, had been eyeing the form sitting on his desk for a few weeks now. Without Lambert's signature, Blake could not be released for active duty.
"It's ridiculous," Lambert said to his boss, the chief of staff. "He's pacing the halls like a caged animal. His talents are wasted here."
The chief drummed his fingers on Lambert's desk. "But you're not willing to stake your reputation on the fact that he's stable."
Lambert sighed. "There's the problem of the..." he made a vague gesture towards his own neck. "...you know. He won't take it off. He won't even talk about it. I can't even imagine what kind of trauma he must have been through, so I don't want to push the issue, but can we really assume he's healthy as long as he insists on wearing it?"
"He may never be what you call 'healthy' again," the chief replied. "You have to be prepared for that eventuality."
Lambert sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. "What are you suggesting, Tom? We can't put him out to pasture. Not now."
"I'm not suggesting any particular course of action at all. But I know you and Blake go back a long ways, and I don't want your personal feelings to stand in the way of your best judgment."
These words ran through Lambert's head as he sat alone at his desk, after Tom left. He was dreading the day Blake would walk into his office, asking to be reinstated to active duty. He knew it was only a matter of time. Every time he was injured or kept off duty for any amount of time for any reason, he always got antsy.
Then again, he was a different man now. It hurt Lambert's head to even try and comprehend what Blake might have been through. He was in a position to give him a job reassignment, to put him somewhere he'd be able to handle, in spite of the trauma - but there was nothing in the world that could make him whole again.
***
The road was bumpy, and the old wound in his shoulder still ached.
Randal Blake leaned back in the seat of the ATV and closed his eyes. Some things never changed.
He'd been slightly worried when Lambert called him into the office to talk. He had a feeling he was going to be asked about returning to active duty, and that wasn't a conversation he was ready to have. Thankfully, though, Lambert didn't seem ready to broach that topic either.
"Randal," he'd said, making Blake wince. It was never a good sign when Lambert used first names. "How are things?"
"Fantastic," Blake had intoned, tapping his index finger against one of the little silver balls that hung from the Newton's Pendulum that Lambert kept on his desk.
"The boys in the field have got a new plane they've been testing out. It's at a base in Afghanistan. Supposed to have all sorts of smart technologies. Thought you might get a kick out of being one of the first test pilots. If you're feeling up to it."
As usual, Lambert's tone had left little room for negotiation. He never gave direct orders, so much as requests to which one was obligated to never say anything but "yes, sir."
Blake had pretended not to notice Lambert's eyes constantly drifting down to the collar he still wore. He'd just smiled to himself. That's right. It's such a novelty, isn't it? It's not like you people would slap a collar on me, if you could...
So that was how Blake found himself riding in a convoy through the desert, bored out of his skull. The soldiers sitting on either side of him weren't exactly riveting conversationalists. So Blake ignored them, and let his mind wander.
Whenever he closed his eyes, there was only one face that appeared in the darkness. There was only one voice that he remembered, just like he'd heard it yesterday. He'd resisted at first, but eventually gave up the fight, growing used to the idea of being lulled to sleep or coaxed to orgasm by his memories of a ruthless criminal.
His agency had been investigating Sarceda ever since he got back. They were floored, of course, that they'd never heard of the man. That he'd somehow been able to build himself some sort of minor criminal empire without once attracting their notice. They found that he had ties to the drug trade, but he seemed to be in business for himself. He appeared to be operating mainly in a region that was already tightly controlled by another ruthless cartel, which made the whole situation all the more strange. He'd escaped from custody, of course - which they half-expected after they took him. They were still in his territory, and he had a lot of powerful friends.
At this point, the intelligence analysts were waiting with bated breath for a huge, bloody coup. But Sarceda seemed to be biding his time. What he was waiting for, no one could quite figure out.
Nobody ever asked Blake. He could tell that they wanted to, desperately, but no one was sure about his mental state. They didn't want to trigger some memory that would make him go berserk, or curl up in the fetal position, or come back with a machine gun and mow them all down. He could see it in their eyes. The edge of fear, the way they all walked on eggshells around him.
Everything was supposed to be confidential, but the stories still went around. Blake lost count of the number of times he walked up to a group of his co-workers and they suddenly fell silent. He knew they were speculating on what had happened to him - why he'd been found curled up in bed with Sarceda, not restrained, not fighting him. Just sleeping peacefully, like they were lovers.
Normally, the first thing Blake did when he got back from a difficult mission was hit one of his favorite bars and pick up the first girl who batted her eyelashes at him. It was soothing - grounding - and sometimes, occasionally, they were nice enough to keep around for a while. This time, it didn't even occur to him. He'd been celibate since he came back. When he thought about sex, he thought about Sarceda - his mouth, his hands, the way his fingers felt when he stretched Blake open and -
Suddenly, Blake was jolted back to reality by the unmistakable sound of shots being fired. The soldiers were scrambling, jumping out of their seats with their weapons at the ready. Blake stepped out of the ATV after them, drawing his gun, but slowly.
He was pushed from behind, falling face-first in the dirt, a knee digging into his back. He struggled to breathe. He was dragged back to his feet, his arms restrained, and a bag came down over his head.
In the hot, pitch blackness, the sound of his own breaths was deafening. He was pushed forward, forward, always forward, stumbling on rocks and bushes. Wherever he was going, he was getting further and further away from the skirmish. The barrel of a machine gun poked into his lower back. He walked faster.
After a indeterminate period of time, a terse voice behind him said: "Climb up."
Blake leaned forward, feeling the edge of something dig into his knees. He stepped up and forward, getting up onto whatever platform was in front of him. A loud, metallic noise came from behind him - the sound of an overhead truck door being rolled down? An engine roared to life, confirming his suspicions moments before the floor lurched forward under his feet.
They drove for some time. When the door opened again and Bake was dragged out, his first impression was that they were somewhere where the air was cool. He was frog-marched for a while longer, then finally pushed into a chair.
He had to close his eyes when the bag came off; there was a blindingly bright light shining from somewhere above him.
A hand rested on the side of his neck, the fingers curling slightly around the leather of his collar. Stroking it lightly. Goosebumps rose on his skin, his heart hammering in his ribcage.
He swallowed reflexively.
And that's when he heard the voice.
"Hello, pet. Did you miss me?"
His whole
body shuddered at the sound. He opened his eyes, slowly.
Sarceda was smiling.
"Like a hole in the head," said Blake, softly, his voice cracking from disuse.
Sarceda dropped to his knees, bringing himself eye to eye with Blake. He searched Blake's face, like he was trying to read all of the secrets of the past few months.
"I'm sorry," he said, at last. "I had to let them take you."
"Of course you did," said Blake.
"Don't worry." Sarceda's fingers stroked his cheek, gently. "I'm not letting you out of my sight again."
He stood abruptly, sliding two fingers between the collar and Blake's neck, tugging lightly, as if testing to see if it needed to be tightened. After a moment, he made a satisfied noise and stepped back. He dug into his pocket, eventually producing a small key.
"Stand up," he said. "Turn around."
Blake obeyed, and he heard the scrape of the key sliding into the lock of his handcuffs. He kept his head slightly bowed as Sarceda walked around to face him again; when Sarceda brought his hand under Blake's chin and began to lift his head, Blake lashed out and grabbed his other arm, twisting it as far and as quickly as he could.
Sarceda reacted immediately, throwing the weight of his body to counter the move and trapping Blake's arm against his side. He aimed a jab at Blake's stomach but the spy evaded, just barely, slipping free of Sarceda's grasp and kicking him squarely in the shin.
Sarceda didn't react, grabbing Blake around the throat and slamming him up against the wall. He tried to kick out, to connect with any part of Sarceda's body that might actually slow him down, but his body was too engrossed in the struggle to breathe. He could feel his face grow hot, his eyes widening as Sarceda choked him.
Finally, with a burst of desperate strength, he was able to get a jab in to Sarceda's stomach. The drug lord stumbled back, his balance thrown off just enough for Blake to use the weight of his own body to push him all the way over, onto the floor. He lay on top of Sarceda, pinning his arms down with every bit of strength he had in him.
Sarceda was laughing. "Pet," he panted. "I already said I was sorry. What more do you want?"
Blake snarled. "I know ten different ways to kill you with my bare hands."
Sarceda shifted under him, and Blake pretended not to notice the hard, insistent press of his cock. He swallowed, feeling himself throb and realizing for the first time that he was just as aroused.
"And I know a hundred ways to make you come so hard you'll think you're dead," Sarceda purred. "Which of those sounds like more fun to you?"
"When they catch up with you this time, they're not going to take you alive," said Blake. "You know that, don't you?"
"Don't worry about me," Sarceda replied, rolling his hips just enough to grind their cocks together. Blake closed his eyes.
There was a moment of hesitation, somewhere in the back of his mind, but he couldn't help but give in to the feeling. The warmth of Sarceda's body was seeping through both of their clothes. Blake let out a frustrated noise and fumbled with his zipper, releasing one of Sarceda's arms in the process. He undid his own fly and freed his cock, grabbing Blake's before he knew what was happening and pressing the two of them together. He stroked firmly, gripping them both tight, and Blake's eyes actually rolled back in his head.
"Fuck," he hissed, as the sensitive underside of their cocks rubbed against each other. "Fuck you."
He had let go of Sarceda's other arm without even realizing, and Sarceda reached up and grabbed his collar tightly. "That's not very nice," he murmured, stilling his movements. "I think you ought to be punished for that."
He sprang up suddenly, and Blake's lust-fogged brain didn't even react quickly enough to stop him. He tumbled over onto his back as Sarceda got on his feet, grabbing Blake by the collar and yanking him up into a kneeling position.
"I thought we could have a nice reunion," Sarceda said. He grabbed his dick and pushed it towards Blake's face; pre-come beaded at the tip. "But you had to get cheeky, didn't you?"
Blake glared.
"I know what you're thinking," said Sarceda, grabbing him by the jaw and squeezing, forcing his mouth open. "But if you so much as graze me with your teeth, you'll regret the day you were born."
In a moment his mouth and throat were full of Sarceda's cock. He choked and tried to relax, his eyes tearing up at the corners as Sarceda grabbed the back of his head and thrust deeper. All he could do was try to accept what was happening - Sarceda was fucking his face, fast and relentless, hitting deeper and deeper in this throat every time. Blake had to time his breaths to the split second when Sarceda pulled back, before his airway was blocked again. Under any other circumstances, he would have been panicking, his body straining to get enough air, but instead he was overtaken by a sense of calm. He relaxed his throat and let it happen. His eyes fell closed.
At the end of one particularly brutal thrust, he felt the tip of Sarceda's dick swell against his tongue, and then his mouth was flooded with hot, bitter seed. He almost choked on it but Sarceda's fingers tightening on the back of his neck told him he was supposed to swallow. He did, breathing harshly through his nose.
He sagged for a moment when Sarceda stepped away and let him go, although his own dick still throbbed painfully. He was struck with the sickening notion that Sarceda perhaps intended for him to stay this way for quite some time.
Suddenly, he was brought back to the moment with a sharp slap on the side of his face. He looked up, dully.
"Say 'thank you' when I'm done using your mouth, whore."
The anger in Sarceda's eyes might have been real or put-on; it was impossible to tell. All their times together, he'd never spoken to Blake like that.
All their times together. Blake was actually analyzing it like they were in some sort of relationship.
"Thank you," he said, thickly. There was no use in being impertinent, not now.
Sarceda shot him a look of disgust. "My men are going to escort you to your cell now. Make yourself presentable. Unless you want them to see what a sad, wanton mess I've turned you into."
Blake couldn't make sense of the sudden change in Sarceda's behavior. He was pretty sure he'd given a decent blowjob, considering it was his first time. Not that he'd been given a chance to do anything except sit back and take it. There was nothing to do now except play along, so he tucked himself back into his pants and tried to calm down.
By the time the guards came in and grabbed him by both arms, his erection had mostly subsided, but there was a frustrating ache in his solar plexus that didn't feel like it was going anywhere.
The men dragged him into a small windowless cell at the other end of the complex, with concrete walls, a tiny cot, and a metal toilet and sink. They dropped him on the thin mattress, slammed the door behind them, and left without a word.
Blake sat there in the heavy silence for a long while, until the sound of his own breathing was like thunder in his ears. He didn't understand. What had he done wrong? Why was he being punished?
He leaned his head back on the cold concrete. The memory came back to him of how he'd fought Sarceda, how he'd tried to take him down; it felt like it must have happened years ago, it was so distant. Why had he done it? He knew he had no chance of escaping. If he got the better of Sarceda he didn't even know what he would do. It had been an instinctive reaction, like a dog chasing a car. And a stupid one. If he was going to come out of this alive, he'd need to be a lot more thoughtful.
Sarceda seemed genuinely angry - genuinely hurt, perhaps, by Blake's lashing out. He was expecting the docile sex slave he'd known before, as if Blake wouldn't have changed while they were apart. It was ridiculous, but now that Blake knew, he could at least play to Sarceda's expectations.
He'd kept the collar on. Wasn't that enough?
He'd been back home for weeks before the thought even occurred to him - he could take it off. He could be rid of it. But when his fingers played with the buckle, they never actually managed to connect.
Eventually his hands would drift away, and he would do something else. He would forget. But not really forget - he knew it was there, he was always aware of it. It would be more accurate to say that he forgot it was optional. Most of the time, it felt like a part of him, and he found it convenient not to examine why.
I'm not letting you out of my sight again.
Was that intended to be a threat, or a promise?
While Blake was sitting here trying to read Sarceda's motives and emotions, Sarceda was somewhere trying to do the exact same thing with Blake. What did he think was running through Blake's head? Did he think he was broken? Ever? Still? Did he think Blake was in love with him?
His reading of the situation would determine his actions. And Blake's actions would, at least to some degree, influence Sarceda's reading.
He had to be careful.
Blake stretched out on the cot and closed his eyes. There was a strange feeling lodged in his chest; a sick, sad ache that he typically would have tried to drown out with good malt liquor. Robbed of that option, there was nothing for it but to lie alone with his thoughts.
***
Counting by the number of meals they silently pushed under the door, Blake was left alone in the cell for three days. When he finally heard the latch of the door open, his heart leapt in his chest. But it was just a few guards, removing him from the cell just to drag him across the hall and lock him in a bleak, tiled room with flickering lights and several shower heads lining the walls. There was a towel and a pile of clothes sitting on a stool in the corner. Blake stripped and showered, gladly washing off the grime of the last few days and closing his eyes as he let the tepid water run over his face. When he was done, it took him a few moments after he'd shut off the water to sense that there was someone else in the room.
Blinking a few droplets out of his eyes, he sauntered over to his towel and picked it up.
"I thought you were angry with me," he said.
Sarceda was pretending to be very absorbed with something he was holding in his hands. He looked up, slowly, sliding whatever-it-was back into his pocket. "I just thought it might be wise to remind you of your place," he said. "Before you get any ideas."