by Sean Michael
Then, he sat and closed his eyes, making himself breathe slowly and calmly as he waited.
Doctor Trip's little sub commed him, the soft voice unmistakable. “Sir? Trip says your patient is here. He has been heavily sedated and is on IV fluids and antibiotics. Are you equipped for that?"
"Yes, I am. Just make sure the details are on his chart. I am a fully licensed surgeon.” He took another breath, his heart trip-hammering. “Have any of his injuries been attended to?"
Trip came on the comm. “It looks as if triage bandaged his open wounds, Lutrell, and that's about it."
"All right. I should be able to handle everything else. I will comm you if I need help. Send him up."
He knew Dent would be delivered on an adjustable stretcher, and so he would do his work in the back room, not wanting to have Dent associate his playroom with actual surgery and doctoring as opposed to the sexual variety.
He got out his bag and set up his instruments, making sure his suturing and burn kits were complete and easily accessible. Of course, those were just the injuries he knew to expect. Then, he went to the door, anxious for Dent to just be here already.
Dent was rolled in, mummy-wrapped on the stretcher, Mal and Trip pushing him, Ghost, Trip's companion, carrying bags.
Lutrell felt a calm come over him. Dent was here. He was home. And now Lutrell could get to work, could do something.
"Bring him to the back room,” he directed.
"Do you have everything you need, Lutrell?” They rolled Dent back down the hall, careful not to knock the stretcher against the walls.
He followed them, eager to unwrap Dent, to begin. “I believe so. I will comm you if I need anything. Has he woken at all? Said anything?"
Mal's pale eyes met his. “He asked for you."
"Oh.” He nodded, head going up. Yes. Dent knew what he needed, was desperate enough to ask for it. “Excellent. That is a very good sign."
Mal agreed. “He was dazed. He didn't recognize me. He just muttered and panicked and called out."
"Well, when he comes out of the sedative, he'll see me and know he's been rescued.” His lips actually twitched, it felt so good to have Dent back with him. “Although he may believe he's gone from one captor to another, I at least am the one he knows.” The one he wants.
Ghost blinked up, stared at him. “You aren't a captor. You're his home."
"Oh.” He did laugh softly then, the first he'd laughed in weeks, so long. “Thank you, Ghost."
Ghost nodded, smiled at him, so dear. “You're welcome, sir."
Trip beamed and put his arm around Ghost's waist, giving the sweet young man a hug as soon as Dent's stretcher was locked in place beneath the lights.
"You call me if you need assistance,” Trip told him. “Or more of anything. There's a package of the antibiotics he's on there under the stretcher. Kestrel said you'd already brought in everything else you'd need. You know where to find me if something comes up."
"Yes, Trip, thank you. Thank you."
He was so glad to have their help, to know that should he need anything there would be someone here at the Glove ready to step in. Now, however, he needed everyone to go. He needed to unwrap Dent and check to see for himself how bad things were.
"Trip? Love? Lutrell needs us to go.” Ghost tugged at Trip, at Mal, the lad fearless and sure. Such insight for one so young.
Lutrell nodded. He would make no apologies for his need for them to leave. He knew they would understand.
They left him with Dent, silent and still and sedated, skin dark against the sheets.
He went to the small sink and washed his hands carefully, using plenty of soap. He grabbed a pair of sterile gloves and the surgical scissors and began to slowly remove the bandages from Dent's body.
"It is me, my dear. Lutrell. Your Bertoli."
Dent's mouth moved as the gaunt body was slowly exposed to Lutrell's eyes. Lacerations, hematomas, one slice brutal and infected—but Dent was not dead. Not dying. Gaunt. Like himself. It wasn't something he had ever desired to see in Dent.
But not dead. He repeated that to himself. That was the important thing.
He stroked Dent's face, fingers softly touching the skin where it wasn't damaged. “I'll get you all fixed up, my dear. From top to bottom and inside, too."
Dent was feverish, heated to the touch, eyes rolling behind his eyelids.
"Easy, my dear, easy. You remember how we always start, yes? I shall clean you. Something a little stronger than just soap and water, I think."
He wet a cloth from a bottle he'd prepared earlier, antibiotics and a gentle cleanser mixed together to clean and disinfect Dent's skin. He began with the familiar face made strange by loss of weight and drugs. The heavy beard and hair had been shaved—undoubtedly to get rid of the bugs and filth. At least there were no burns on Dent's face. Cuts, bruises, but no burns.
Lutrell made soft noises, not really talking to Dent, but wanting the man to hear his voice, to know that he was free, that he was home.
He washed Dent's face and then his neck, working carefully over an angry burn mark, knowing it would be painful but that he must clean it to battle infection. “I'm sorry, my dear. If I had my wish, the only pain I would inflict would be for the sake of giving you pleasure."
Dent whimpered softly, pulling away, eyelids fluttering. “Ber..."
"Yes, yes, my dear. It is your Bertoli.” Yes, no one had ever called him that but Dent. He liked it when Dent called him by his first name. “And I am sorry for this pain. I must clean you. I must remove the filth and disease those animals left you in."
"Home...” Dent started shifting, trying to wake up.
Lutrell stroked Dent's cheek. “Yes. Home, my dear. You are home.” He wasn't sure if he should allow Dent to wake, but he could spray each wound after he cleaned it, dull the pain. And when it came time to work on the nasty cut on Dent's thigh, he could numb the leg completely.
"I am washing you. You remember that, my dear? Remember how we always start our time together? Nice and clean, the two of us, yes? Like this for me or a shower for you. We are well matched, I think."
Dent made another deep sound, answering him, or trying to.
He hummed, almost laughing, he was so pleased to have Dent responding to him even this much. He sprayed the burn on Dent's neck with the numbing antibiotic agent and then moved on, taking a new cloth before beginning to clean Dent's shoulders, reduced to nearly nothing but skin and bones.
"What have they done to you, my dear? So thin. I will need to fatten you back up. Only one of us should look like a skeleton."
There was a bite mark above one of Dent's nipples, deep and ugly, parallel to another burn across the concave stomach.
A bite.
A bite on his Dent.
What had they done to Dent?
The bite was badly infected. Lutrell poured his concoction straight onto the wound, taking care in cleaning it. He doused a cotton swab with more of the disinfectant and carefully made sure each tooth mark was cleaned out. It made him want to growl and he only did not because the only one here was Dent and it was not his fault.
"Do ... don't. H ... h ... home."
"Yes. Yes, my dear. You are home. It's me. Yes? Bertoli."
He pressed a soft kiss to Dent's lips and then returned to his cleaning, spraying first the bite with the numbing agent and then taking a new cloth and working the burn on Dent's belly clean. He sprayed it once it was clean, fingers lingering on Dent's stomach, mourning the loss of the man's lovely muscles. It was going to take time and care to bring Dent back to his former self.
Dent's vulnerable balls were swollen, bruised, a single welt on his heavy cock.
"No.” Lutrell shook his head. “This body is mine to pain, to pleasure. How dare they?” Growling now, unable to stop, surprising himself by his possessiveness, he carefully cleaned Dent's abused cock and balls, handling them carefully.
Dent moaned, pulling away from him.
"Oh, m
y dear. I'm sorry. It isn't meant for you. I'm just so angry at what they did to you. At what they did to my Dent.” He bent to kiss Dent's lips again, licking the dry, broken skin. “You are mine."
Dent sobbed, gasping, hands tugging at the remaining bandages. “Home."
He grabbed Dent's hands in his own, holding them. “Yes. Yes, Dent. You are home. You mustn't touch anything. I'm cleaning you. You remember our ritual, right? How we begin? Always?"
"Clean.” Dent's hands wrapped around his, squeezing painfully.
"Yes. Yes, my dear.” He laughed softly, the sound almost broken. But how could he not express his joy at Dent's words? He pressed another kiss to Dent's lips, this one less soft, tongue sliding for just a moment into Dent's mouth.
Dent's eyes flew open, panicky and shocked, dazed.
Lutrell broke the kiss, squeezed Dent's hands. “Dent? It's Bertoli. It's okay. You're home. We're cleaning, yes? The ritual.” He needed to stick with what Dent knew. Kissing was for once they were finished with the cleaning. And Dent's poor body needed the medical care, needed to be disinfected, washed, and then given the antibiotics to help fight infection. “You don't need to speak. You don't need to do anything, my dear. I have you."
Those eyes watched him, stared at him.
"Yes.” He smiled and managed another soft giggle for Dent. “It's me. Let me get your legs. It's how we always start, and I haven't finished them yet.” Not to mention he had to do something about that nasty gash on Dent's leg. It was going to need stitches, but it had to be cleaned first.
Dent blinked, starting to breathe faster, hands opening and closing. He didn't want to have to sedate Dent, for reasons both selfish and not, but if the man could not find some measure of peace from this, he would have to do it.
"I'm almost finished, my dear. Just your legs. Fix this little cut in your thigh. Such things they did to you. You remember your safeword, my dear? You remember you're safe here?"
"Hurts."
"I know. I'm sorry. I'm fixing that as fast as I can.” He looked up along the abused body. “I could sedate you..."
"No. No more. No more. No. No. I ... I can't remember. Safeword? No."
Lutrell frowned. “Nightlight. Your safeword is nightlight. No more pain? Or no more drugs?"
Dent was in shock, his mind trying to protect him from what he'd been through. Lutrell knew he had to tread lightly to keep Dent's mind from going into deep hiding.
"No more. No more drugs."
He patted Dent's shoulder. “Good man. No more drugs. I'll work as quickly as I can."
He continued his work, getting the burns and bruises cleaned up and sprayed, leaving the horrible gash for the last.
"Hurts. Hurts. Bertoli. There's bugs in my leg. I can feel them. Bugs. Please."
"I'm cleaning them now, my dear. Getting rid of the bugs. I have a special soap this time. I made it especially for you."
He cleaned between Dent's toes, almost whimpering when he realized there was a burn between the first and second toes on Dent's right foot. He sprayed it, then moved to the infected cut.
"This one is quite bad. I need to stitch it closed. I need to clean it first. It's going to hurt a lot, Dent."
Dent moaned. “No. Please. No more."
He shook his head. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” He poured the antiseptic on Dent's thigh, knowing it would burn like mad. The best he could do was make it quick.
Dent screamed, body convulsing, heels thrumming on the stretcher, eyes rolling back into his head.
Lutrell had to blink back tears. He nearly gave in and sedated Dent, but instead poured more liquid into the wound and deftly used a cotton swab to clean the horrid wound. One more shot of the cleanser, and then he was spraying it with the antibiotic numbing agent. “There. There. I still need to stitch it, but you shouldn't be able to feel it now."
Dent sobbed, grey and panting. “Home. I wanted to come home."
"And you did, my dear. Here you are. Safe. With me.” He stroked Dent's shoulders, looking down into Dent's eyes. “Home. Mine."
"Home. Don't let them back in."
"No one is allowed in, my dear. It is just you and me. Safe. Home.” He cupped Dent's cheek, holding it still as he bent to kiss Dent softly.
"S ... safe. So sorry."
"Sorry? Yes, me, too.” He gave Dent another kiss. “I must stitch up the cut on your thigh now. And bandage the worst of your wounds. It shouldn't hurt. Not anymore."
Dent nodded, sighed, eyelids closing. “Better."
"Oh, good. Good.” He gave Dent's mostly uninjured shoulder a light squeeze before moving back to Dent's leg, shaking his head at the wound. What kind of animals would do this to a man and just leave it to fester?
He pulled on a new pair of gloves and pulled open a sterile package of needles and surgical thread. Then, he began the process of sewing the wound closed. He used small, careful stitches, hoping to keep the scarring to a minimum. Dent would have reminders enough of his ordeal.
He left the wound slightly open at the ends and in the middle, just enough for seepage, knowing he would have to keep an eye on it, make sure it didn't get infected.
It was only when he had bandaged the wound on Dent's thigh, that he took a look at the large hands, gasping when he realised they were burnt and torn and scratched and bruised. It looked as if Dent had fought back hard, the nails on his fingers torn, a nasty gash on one palm.
"Oh. Oh, my dear. Such a brave, strong man."
Dent nodded, relaxing further. “I fought."
"I can see that. And more importantly—you survived. Came home to me, my dear."
He took a new cloth, soaking it through, then grasped Dent's hand between his own, carefully cleaning.
"Did you know?” Dent's fingers curled, head lolling as the adrenaline faded.
"Did I know what?"
"I ... Uh...” Dent frowned, blinked slow. “That I ... Where I was?"
"Oh, no, my dear. I don't know where you were.” He stroked Dent's forehead, wanting that frown gone. “I thought you were just gone, but they told me a week ago that you'd been taken. Hush, now. Let me fix up your hands and then we'll see if you can't get some real sleep, and maybe we'll see if you can keep a bit of water or broth in your poor body."
"Did you kill the bugs? I don't want them on me...” Dent's voice trailed off into random mutters and incoherent words.
"The bugs are gone, my dear. No more bugs.” He shivered, hoping Dent didn't mean real bugs. Just one more horror to add to the list of terrible things that had been done to the man. Lutrell shuddered to think about it, to imagine that they might have raped ... but then, even if they hadn't physically penetrated Dent, they'd raped his mind as cruelly as any form of sexual assault..
He hurriedly finished with Dent's other hand, coming to the point where he needed to hold Dent, to be done with cleaning the scum from Dent's body.
All he had to do was Dent's back. Damn. This was where another set of hands would come in handy. There was no way he could get Dent rolled over on the stretcher without risking him falling off the other side onto the floor or opening up the stitches. Of course, if he rolled the stretcher into his room, lowered it to the level of the bed, he could maybe turn Dent out right onto the bed. The sheets were clean, fresh, just waiting for them.
He nodded to himself and put the supplies he'd need on the bottom of the stretcher where there was a little shelf just for that, then started wheeling Dent out into the hall.
Dent moaned slightly, but didn't move, didn't open his eyes, lips moving restlessly.
"I'm taking you to my room. You never did sleep there, did you?” He considered taking Dent into the living room instead. His couch was soft and comfortable. For one. Or two snuggled closely together. But it was no place for a sick man.
He reached his room and got the stretcher right up next to the bed, lowering it until it they were at the same height. “There we go. All right, are you ready to move, my dear? Lie in a real bed?"
&
nbsp; "Clean bed?"
"Oh, yes, my dear. It wouldn't do to clean you and then put you in a dirty bed! I chose the sheets myself. They're soft, cotton. I'm going to roll you over so you're lying on your stomach. Any help you can give me will help.” He pulled the covers back and got one hand beneath Dent's shoulder, the other beneath a hip. “Ready?"
"Ready.” Dent moved, groaning low and shuddering, a pained cry sounding as he landed.
Lutrell fussed, hands stroking Dent's head, fingers running through the shorn hair as he murmured. “There, it's done now, it's all right. You can stay right where you are until you wave again."
As Dent settled, Lutrell steeled himself and looked down at the wide-shouldered back and at Dent's ass. Bruised and beaten and scarred. Dent's back looked like a map.
"Oh, my dear. You know, I've seen backs this bad before. From the whips, the floggers. But somehow ... it's knowing it wasn't asked for, wasn't wanted. That you didn't have a choice...” His last words had faded into whispers and Lutrell had to shake himself, make himself get to work cleaning Dent's back.
"Do you think you could manage a bit of a drink when I'm done?” Lutrell asked as he worked.
"Juice?"
"Oh, that would be lovely. I have some limal juice. Fresh. Tart and sweet both.” It was juice from the fruit Dent had always seemed to like the best.
Dent nodded, moaning low. “Please."
"I'm almost finished here. Finished with our ritual, yes. Just like every time. Nice and clean.” He sprayed Dent's entire back, then took the covers and laid them over the man. “You wait right here and I'll be back in no time with the juice."
"Don't ... Don't let them in. Close the door."
"I won't be long, my dear. And I won't let anyone in. Not anyone."
And he wasn't, taking the stretcher out with him and leaving it in the back room before quickly getting a large glass of juice, a few pieces of fruit and some crackers and cheese.