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Original Fiction
ZERO TOLERANCE

Part 5

"So, here you are again," the square-jawed doctor hurried towards Simon reaching out his hand. Amiable as always - well, wouldn't he be - it was not that his practice was thriving. But Simon liked the man - mostly for that enthusiasm of his at whatever Simon wanted him to do. "What brought you today?"

Last time they'd met when Simon had to have his shoulder bandaged. The trip for another portion of the stuff had attracted someone's attention. Simon broke the neck of one of the obtrusive companions but the other had time to slash his shoulder before Simon wrestled him down and wrung out of him who sent him. He promised the man to leave him alive but crushed his throat instead - slowly, looking in his dulling eyes.

"Not me today," Simon flashed a smile and gave Peter a push. "I want the holes for these little thingies."

The 'thingies' were anything but little, of course - heavy steel rings nearly 3" in diameter - but that was what Simon liked about them. He had spotted them in a fine art shop one day and rolled the idea of them in his mind until the proper use came to him. It would look great.

And another good thing was that Peter would hate it..

For a while Simon played with the thought of making the holes himself but doing so without the correct instrument could ruin the picture. Besides, his slave going to the surgery for it could be additional fun. He saw a flash of Peter's eyes as he looked at the rings - one didn't have to be a wise man to guess what they were for... Well, Peter looked as if he was going to be sick.

"Heavy!" the doctor weighed the rings and chuckled. "He has small earlobes."

"It's not for his earlobes," idiot, Simon thought. Still smiling - but his gaze must've been fierce enough for the doctor to nod hastily, turn away and start preparing the instruments - taking and putting away needles, trying to find one thick enough.

"Take off your sweater."

He expected Peter to resist - some indignant refusal - and kind of enjoyed the thought of breaking him once more, right here, in front of the doctor; but when Simon met his eyes they/which had such grim determined expression in them that he knew - Peter understood what Simon wanted... and wasn't going to give him such pleasure.

Well, you'll pay for that, too, bitch.

Peter's nipples were still tender and bright, some customer having a thing about them, for all Simon knew, spending hours just sucking on them - and for some reason Peter took it worse than even a night of vigorous fucking, looking nauseated and mute after that. Now, as Simon watched the doctor's blunt gloved fingers touch one of the nipples, he couldn't deny that seeing it handled brought a little twinge to his cock.

The piercing machine hissed as the needle struck and came out from another side. Peter was biting his lip - as always - with his nostrils fluttering. And his hands moved, too, of course - clenched - how well Simon knew all these gestures.

One day he would get bored with them. But not yet.

The bleeding started the moment the doctor tried to push the ring through the hole - and by the time he managed it, his gloves were painted red. He let the ring go. Fuck... it looked heavy enough to tear out. He saw Peter look at his chest - no more able to wander with his eyes - and his expression was exactly as Simon wanted to it to be: disgusted... and desperate.

"I think it'll hold," the doctor said contently.

It'd better hold, you asshole, or you'll have one big problem on your ass, Simon thought grimly.

The arousal was gone. Suddenly - he didn't know at what moment - maybe, it was blood - he didn't feel the pleasant tugging in his bottom belly any more. He thought he should be angry with the doc - or, rather, with Peter for doing something wrong and spoiling the things for him.

The hiss of the other needle was soft - and in a minute or two everything was over, the heavy rings dangling against the trickles of blood that leaked over Peter's chest.

It had to hurt. Simon noticed it when the doctor stepped aside and Peter shifted his shoulders slightly. Every movement was going to hurt. At least for a while, until the holes were going to scar.

"That's look... yummy," after some pause he heard the doctor's voice - and was amused with hoarseness of it. He saw the doctor reach out his hand, as if going to touch the rings - and not daring - the slave was someone else's property, wasn't he?

"Treat yourself," Simon said. "Can I?" he picked up Peter's sweater and reached for one of the doctor's scalpels.

"Sure," the doctor seemed barely to notice - fumbling with his pants, showing Peter to get down on his knees.

Simon didn't look. He could hear everything all right. And he was busy - cutting through the resilient textile.

"Yeah, yeah, take it, bitch," he heard the doctor and chuckled inwardly. The 'bitch' doesn't hear you all the same. The doctor made a moan when coming - and pushed Peter away.

"Dress," after Peter had returned from the sink where he washed his mouth, Simon tossed him the sweater.

The kid still kept moving with this special awkwardness that came from trying to spare himself. Bleeding started again at every harsh movement. He kept silent when pulling the sweater on - whatever it cost him. And then Simon reached for the rings through the slashes on the sweater he had cut there.

"Perfect!" the gaps were wide and long enough not to hide the stripes of white blood-smeared skin. And surely not to hide Peter's swollen, painfully erect nipples, pulled down with the weight of the rings. "That's the only way I want to see you from now on."

Later, in the evening, he took Peter out to the balcony, to watch the lights go out. The balcony was Simon's favorite place in their apartment - and he also knew that Peter hated it for some reason. Afraid of heights? The little bastard turned out to be a walking bunch of phobias. Or, maybe, standing on the balcony just reminded him how easy it was to finish everything, Simon thought sarcastically - and that despite everything he still continued to live.

Well, it didn't look like Peter was about to do anything mad now, anyway. He looked near exhaustion - and kept shivering, which didn't surprise Simon, taking into account the open gashes on his clothes. Get used to it, bitch, not that it's ever going to change. He had had fun time watching Peter as they were returning home from the surgery, all this little comedy of trying not to react to the stares of others.

However, the truth was that Simon didn't feel like gloating at the moment. The dulling light always put him in a melancholic mood and he just let his hands run free over Peter's body, groping and tweaking everywhere he wanted to.

Peter might be cold but the place between his legs, the fine fur of his groin and silky softness of his cock and balls were warm. Resilient and unresponsive to Simon's touch. He could make him respond, of course. He had done it before. There were times when he made Peter play with himself - and the bitch obeyed - but in perverted defiance tried to do everything so awkwardly to eliminate any chance to get hard.

But when Simon wanted and tried to do it himself, with his own hands - there was no way for the little bastard to resist. Yes, Peter tried - probably reminding himself every moment that it was *Simon* whose fingers he felt up his ass, rubbing the sensitive spot there. But it was like hydraulics - it did work.

Yet Simon was not sure it was what he wanted now. He kept fingering the underside of Peter's balls, the soft place of his perineum - he taught the kid to part with his habit to flinch away a long time ago - and mostly Peter just took it, with a thoughtful expression as if it was not him it happened to.

But he was too edgy today and Simon knew the rings kept bothering him - harmless things Peter seemed to be unable to stop thinking about. I like to crack your defenses, whatever it takes, Simon thought with such satisfaction that it surprised him.

He felt generous suddenly, almost like saying that he would make it up for him - he would say it if Peter wasn't facing him and couldn't read his lips. But what he did was to take out a small carved box where he kept the stuff for his own use and put one jelly in his mouth. Then he took one more and pushed it between Peter's lips.

Simon was not using. Well, from time to time when the Commander invited him to these special events where his trustees were treated with the stuff - then he had to take a dose or two. But alone, for himself - he tried very hard not to do it; at least not as often as he could. On Aben kids had their brains burnt out with cheap drugs by the time they became teens... it could happen to him if he hadn't got to the Academy in his time. He didn't want drugs in his system - not if he could help it.

But now and then... and the evening was lovely... Gosh, every evening was the same in the Sphere! The idea of loveliness of the evening must've already come with the melting jelly in his mouth. He looked at Peter and saw a blissful and unhappy expression in his eyes. No wonder - he must've still remembered how wonderful the stuff had made him feel - or how he had fucked up and got branded as a slave because couldn't resist taking a dose.

"Why did you do that?"

For a moment Simon was taken aback; it was not often he heard Peter's voice now - still less often when he was not allowed to speak.

"What?"

"That," yeah, the stuff was working fast and hard on Peter - deleting his mask of indifference, making his voice sound as disturbed as he must've felt, his motions abrupt and clumsy as he pointed with both hands at his chest. "That's ugly."

"That's cool," Simon said. He already felt strange - sensed the huge beating in his head but it was not painful, rather pleasant.

"I didn't do anything like that to you," Peter said and it made Simon laugh.

"It's your neglect."

The cupola above them was completely dark by now, the yellow lights glimmering beneath, in the streets, and in the buildings around, the silhouettes of people black and clear.

"You don't want to do that to me, right?" Peter was talking too loud and Simon grabbed him, pulled him inside the apartment. Crazy bitch... 'Don't want to?' Simon did exactly what he wanted! "Please take them off."

Now he didn't expect that - Peter getting agitated instead of soft and pliable - especially didn't expect him to start tugging at the rings. He must've felt numb, not sensing pain, looking almost in amazement at blood that started trickling over his chest.

"Please take them off!"

His head dangled when Simon slapped him - but otherwise he didn't seem to feel it - and Simon, with a strange choking mixture of anger and sorrow, seized his wrists. He felt Peter thrash some more - he couldn't overpower Simon, no way - but the sensation of him struggling made Simon feel the flood of long-waited arousal.

"Come here, stupid bitch."

The bed was behind Peter and Simon pushed him on it, falling over him, holding Peter's wrists in one hand and bending his head to the young man's chest, catching a trickle of blood on his tongue.

"That looks cool. And that tastes cool," he whispered knowing that Peter couldn't read his lips now - licked again, circling his tongue around the swollen nub.

His cock was hard; he pressed it against Peter's thigh and rubbed slightly. He suddenly thought he could make Peter hard now, too - sliding lower, opening his pants, taking his cock in his mouth.

Yeah, Simon could be nice to him. Or he could turn him face down and shove his cock up to his ass - as usual - let it end intensely and swiftly as sex under the influence of the stuff often was. But Simon did neither. He got up and took off his clothes, looking down at Peter who watched him with dazed and doomed eyes.

"Undress. Don't make me do it."

He saw Peter get up and follow the order, his movements awkward but no more hysterical, and stand waiting for the next Simon's wish.

"Come on, get over me," Simon lay on the bed, caressing his upright cock absent-mindedly. "Take it up your ass."

Peter usually demonstrated disgust at this... as much as he could without getting beaten immediately. But he was too gone now. He just did what he was told - squatting over Simon, guiding Simon's pole up his anus.

Look at this - what a proper little whore he'd made out of the League family man. Taking all of it without even wincing! But the truth was that somewhere in the back of his mind strange uneasy emotions hovered, making his gloating taste flat . What he felt though was the enveloping warmth around his cock. And smooth strained thigh muscles of Peter who straddled him.

The kid didn't need an order to start moving - and my, my, didn't the bitch learn a few tricks to help it finish as soon as possible? But as soon as possible was not what Simon wanted to - not this time.

"You look fuckin' great like that," he caught himself on whispering it - before he knew why he was saying it. The stuff... it always made him too talkative. "I like your lips when you bite them and they get puffy. And I like your tits when they're so big and tender. But there's something else I'd like to see - your hard cock. You know how to do it. Change the angle."

He saw a small frown fluttering between Peter's brows, his eyes very intent as always when he had to decipher a long speech even though the signs Simon made turned it into an easier task.

"I can't."

"I can't... what?"

"I can't, master."

"Oh yes, you can. Do that."

He put his hands on Peter's thighs, pulling him slightly forward. Of course, Peter could do it. More than that - he knew how easy it was. And Simon knew - could read it in his eyes - that in a way he wanted to do it.

He wrapped his hand around Peter's cock and waited - until it twitched against his palm. He helped - enjoying in a weird, smug way the sight of the hardening shaft. Yes, Peter was doing what Simon expected from him. And the best thing was that once he started doing it - he would be hardly able to stop.

Not with his consciousness slurred with the stuff.

"Faster," Simon said. "Do it faster. I know you want to."

He remembered the rhythm that worked for Peter - why, he'd learned it in the most intimate way - and looking at Peter he wondered if the kid knew it, too.

Peter started making small gasps, with every stroking of Simon's hand over his cock, with every downward movement as his ass touched Simon's pubis - and Simon felt wetness of pre-cum spread over his palm making the motion smoother.

"What am I doing to you? Say that," he saw that Peter understood - pretended not to - and repeated more insistently. "Say that you are fucking yourself on my cock."

"I am fucking myself on your cock."

"...master."

"Master."

"Say that you like it. You can't lie - you like it, you shit... you pretty shit," a small squeeze on his cock, confirming that.

"I like it... master."

"You feel my cock up to your sorry ass - and you are getting off on it."

"I feel your cock... up to my ass... and I'm getting off on it."

"Say that you are my bitch."

Silence. Was it where he drew the line? And did he still have enough presence of mind to draw the line?

Simon could hurt him so easily but his hand just continued to slide over the incredible silkiness of his cock - changing the tempo until it became so swift it was rough. But he knew it was all right because his hand just followed the speed Peter was taking riding on his cock.

"Say it now."

He looked in the dark eyes over him - staring, not shut, not even clouded any more - sober and with huge pupils - suffering eyes - because Peter knew his own body was betraying him. And then - yes, yes - jaggedly - maybe, with the fierce motions of Simon's hand over his shaft - or squeezing every word out of himself:

"I am... your... bitch."

And you mean it, kid, don't you? Not because I made you say that. But because you are coming on my belly right now, with my dick buried to the hilt in your ass.

And at this moment Simon felt powerful, almost tormenting orgasm wash through his own body.

Weird, wasn't it? When everything was over - nothing seemingly changed, they even were in the same position - but everything changed, too. And he knew Peter knew it. Whatever pleasure there was - whatever delusion - it was gone - and only the consequences stayed - of what he had said, what he had done.

Simon thought he should've felt content with it - why, everything that made Peter's life more miserable, whether it was what Simon did to him or what he did to himself, must've made him happier. But somehow he felt almost regret that everything ended - almost wish to make it keep going.

He put his hands on Peter's upper arms and pulled him near to himself on the bed. He felt his softening cock slide out of the slick warm opening of Peter's ass - and his cum cool around his cock-head the same as Peter's cum was getting sticky on his stomach - and suddenly he wanted to switch off the light and, maybe, the darkness would mend something.

Well, at least he wouldn't have to see Peter's withdrawn, self-hating look then. Simon thought he knew somehow what would be next. He could expect some crazy thing from the kid tomorrow - something deliberate and destructive that would make Simon punish him - but in fact it would be the way for Peter to punish himself. To pay for what he let happen tonight.

But it will be tomorrow, suddenly he wanted to say, just let yourself go till then. Was it so bad for him to feel Simon's warm solid shoulder against his - and Simon could pull the blanket up if he wanted to be covered?

Was it so good for Simon to feel the lithe compact body of Peter, so vulnerable and unyielding, pressed to him? Didn't he want it too much - just to lie together, to fall asleep like this? It was not the right thing to feel about Peter - his former master, the little bastard of the League - one of those who destroyed everything that Simon had had.

Oh but why did he need to remind himself about it in so many words? Suddenly Simon felt a bitter chuckle escape his lips. He reminded himself how he had been hurt not to stop hating his slave... just like Peter hurt himself not to stop hating his master.

For a moment Simon thought that the truth opened to him - the truth he didn't want to admit - and wouldn't admit, God help him. Their roles could be reversed. But they still were on the ends of the same chain.

He completed this thought - and expelled it forcefully out of his mind. Because it was not what he needed here. The Sphere - another chance - was not given to him for that.

Well, and why to wait till tomorrow? If Peter wanted to be punished, wanted to pay - he could do it now.

"Get up," the sign he made in front of Peter's face was abrupt but clear. And when Peter obeyed, "on your knees - at the wall."

He watched Peter's expressionless face with the long strand of hair falling over his eyes as he sank down to his knees.

"Cross your arms on your chest."

Kneel here. Get cold. Suffer.

Well, now he could switch off the light and go to sleep.

* * *

//"Why don't I ever see you in the bathhouse, Mr. Kewlene?"// later Peter recalled this conversation, between Simon and some man he met in the street; probably a member of the City council... or just some business partner, Simon had lots of them during last time. //"Do come. You'll like it there. And take your slave, of course."//

He didn't know how long time passed since then - a couple of weeks, maybe. Sometimes Peter felt he was losing the track of time. There was no change of seasons in the Sphere, every day the same - the ugly routine of serving Simon, being fucked by Simon, being fucked by the bar clients. It terrified him - how easily he got used to all this. Just a few months - and he somehow had problems to remember his past life.

Did he remember the conversation he had with Dario, his cousin, once? That slaves must have a different cast of mind - something wired in their brains unlike how it is for normal people; that's what makes them reconcile and even enjoy their position.

"A slightly altered part of the human race. What do you think - the great migration didn't happen for nothing. Some planets were doomed from the beginning..."

It made sense then.

He didn't know where they were going when Simon told him to get ready - not that Peter expected him to inform him. The route they took was a new one and the building they reached didn't have a sign but when they got inside, he surely understood what the place was. At last Simon had decided to follow the advice and visit the bathhouse.

The baths of the League were more a thing for health - hot, small and dry - nothing like this spacious hall with white tiles and water running in swift currents on the floor and overfilling the huge tubs here and there. And lots of people, all naked, walking, lying on the benches, talking.

Some of them noticed Simon at once and hurried towards him. As usual. His master enjoyed a kind of popularity - even respect. Well, the day when you think about it with pride will be your last day, Peter thought sarcastically. Or when you think how impressive he looks - he watched Simon's muscular dark figure towering over most of his companions.

He was left alone - nobody paid attention to him - so, he just walked around, enjoying warmth. It looked like the bathhouse was one a few places of the City where it wasn't cold.

He was not the only slave here - he could see brands - although he was the only one who sported the nipple rings this huge. He still was aware of them even though the holes didn't bleed any more and hardly hurt. The slaves eyed him warily but none of them approached him - and he suddenly thought about Seth - who couldn't be here, of course - but who talked to him - wrote him these silly notes... gave him these candies. The warmth and sweetness of honey mixed with icy bitterness of lemon - sometimes he dreamed about this taste, for no reason.

He felt a look on himself suddenly and turned back. Simon. Talking to the men and looking at him, sable eyebrows raised as if questioningly.

What was it about? With sickening feeling Peter thought that he knew what. He was probably for another fuck now, wasn't he? By these guys. Not that there was a reason why they would fancy him - they had their own slaves - but, maybe, it was some rite for the newcomers or something.

He didn't get surprised when Simon came up to him and took him by the upper arm. He just wondered where he was going to be led. Not in some separate room. Right in the middle of the hall - and the men sat on the benches around, watching him - talking about him, this much he could understand.

Uh oh. You still didn't expect it would be so bad? You should've. He just wondered how exactly it would happen. Warm water swirled around his ankles and he thought he would just look at this water and think about nothing else.

He nearly fell as Simon pushed him hard - twist him around to look in his face:

//"Pay attention, you stupid bastard. Don't you dare to disgrace me!"//

He didn't quite understand how he had to pay attention - there was anything hardly said - and, anyway, he couldn't hear it. Then suddenly Simon let him go and stepped away, to the benches - and when Peter who turned to look at him, looked back, there was another man in the middle of the hall, approaching him.

A very young man - maybe, twenty-two or twenty-three, slim, wiry, with dark short hair and skin of light gold. Another naked man. A slave.

Peter looked at the black square brand on his forearm - letters too small to read them - and then at the man's face again - and at that moment the man jumped forward and hurled his fist in Peter's face.

Oh fuck! He felt his mouth fill with blood as black and white stars danced in his eyes - and the man hit him again, sending him on the floor on his hands and knees, spitting a mouthful of blood.

He didn't think - it happened almost by itself - the man raised his foot to kick him - and Peter caught his ankle, pulling him forward. The fall was spectacular - water splashing around - and as Peter looked up, wondering what would happen now, whether he broke some rules - he saw strange sparkles of excitement among the men. They were saying something - shouting - but not something angry.

He didn't break the rules. In fact, he followed them.

//"Fight him!"// that was what they shouted - suddenly he understood it.

He didn't have time to think more - because the man was over him, his thin muscular arms clutched around Peter's ribcage as the man flipped him on the floor. He butted at the man's chin - and felt how the man's teeth clicked on something pliable - tongue? - felt a splatter of blood from the man's mouth on his face. The man hit him - his fist sank again and again in Peter's belly, his other hand clasped on Peter's hair as he tried to slam his head in the tiles.

Fight him!

It was not the men screaming - he couldn't hear them. But he heard *this* voice all right.

He kneed the man in the groin - getting a moment of slack and twisting from under him - and saw his huge dark eyes glare at him in pain and fury. He reached for Peter and didn't get him - and Peter kicked him in the face, making him fall.

He knew that the audience probably went wild. He had time only for a short look and saw them applaud and rise from their places. It was fun for them! Well, wasn't it what that guy told to Simon? "You'll like it there."

The man jumped on him again, his blood-smeared face just in inches from Peter's - and Peter wondered suddenly how long it was going to go. Till death? The man fought as if Peter was his mortal enemy.

He gasped as the fist slammed in his solar plexus - and for a few moments he just knew that he was being battered, couldn't do anything about it. He lay in the water and the man straddled him, his fists rising and falling, his bloodied teeth bared as he seemed to be saying something. Didn't Peter know what?

He didn't notice the moment when pain left him. There was only hatred for his opponent - and it made him numb. He caught the man's fist and sank his teeth into the knuckles, tasting blood. He saw the man's eyes go round and wild with pain - and the next blow went wild - which was all Peter needed to get free.

Fuckin' bring him down - bring the bastard down, don't let him rise again!

He hit feeling resilient flesh and hard ribs under his fists, first just showering the man with blows and then, when the resistance slightly subsided, choosing the places to hit - where it would hurt more, where it would bring more damage. He still couldn't turn the man over, they kept struggling against each other, kneeling.

Then a sharp, hot pain pierced him - and he saw the man's hand clutched on his nipple ring, yanking it savagely. He felt his skin ripping as the ring was torn out, quick trickles of blood running over his chest.

You'll feel pain later. Now don't stop.

He sent all his weight on the man, toppling him over - pressed him face down to the floor, smashed his fist into the man's kidneys. Peter thought that he probably was damaging him seriously - but he couldn't make himself worry about it. He wanted to damage him. Not only to make it all stop. He simply wanted it.

He didn't know how long it took him to stop punching. The man didn't turn to him now - he tried to crawl away. Peter thought that if he let him do it, it would start all over again. He plunged forward and grabbed the man's hair - too short to get a grip - locked his hands on the man's nape instead and shoved him face into the floor. For a moment he was vaguely surprised how easy it was - the man almost didn't resist. The streak of blood on the tiles was thick and long - and Peter knew the man's nose was broken. He watched the blood melt into water slowly - and saw the man roll his forehead on the floor - probably moaning - reaching his hands to his face blindly.

Peter grabbed the other's head again and sent him face down once more. This time the impact was half-soft - against the hands - but half-hard, too - where the man's forehead slammed into the floor. The hands went slack, falling, and nothing prevented Peter from one more blow. Now the man stayed prone and motionless - face in the circle of dissolving blood.

I killed him, he thought. And another voice answered almost immediately: good, he's dead. Good.

He wasn't - a moment later Peter saw his sides move taking in breath - and clenched his teeth not to groan in sickening relief and strange dissatisfaction. The numbness was leaving and he felt pain again - knew how he was hurt... how the man hurt him... saw his own blood mixing with the man's.

Perhaps you should've killed him, Peter.

He looked up and saw the faces around - but there was no completed, sate expression on them. As if nothing was over. He saw mouths move but for some long moments he couldn't read what they said. He sought until he found Simon's face - an expressionless, smooth face of a savage tribal chief - just with the thin lines of grey contouring his nostrils - and the black flame of content in his eyes. And when Simon repeated what others were saying, Peter understood:

//"Fuck him. Fuck his ass. Fuck the shit out of him."//

The man lay face in the water, too weak even to move - just his ribs were fluttering in the hitching breaths he took. His narrow hard ass with black down outlining the crack was the highest point of his prostrate body. And suddenly Peter knew that he wanted to do it. Man, he was hard - probably had been from the moment he felt he was winning.

He would do it to you, Peter. It could be you - snorting your own blood on the floor now.

He grabbed the man's hips and tugged him up a little, setting his ass in a more convenient position. He saw the man's hand scratch on the tiles slackly but otherwise he didn't try to fight. Well, the fight was over... the rules were the rules.

He settled between the man's legs and drove his ass-cheeks apart. He didn't need to bother with any lubrication - there were enough fluids on them. He placed his cock against the dark small round spot of the man's anus and slammed in.

So tight! Well, somehow he knew it was not so tight - it was a slave, after all, and Peter didn't need any special efforts to get in. But the enveloping, almost shocking warmth of the soft passage clinging to his cock was so overwhelming that he lost his breath. For a few moments he could just stay like that, looking at the flexible line of vertebrae on the man's golden-skinned back, at his own cock buried almost balls deep in the man's hole. It had never felt like this when he had fucked slaves or whores... shit, it had nothing to do with how it felt.

He looked up again and saw the men around smiling approvingly - and saw some men sporting very obvious hard-ons - other slaves who knelt in front of their masters to take care of their erections. He saw Simon nod barely perceptibly - and despite himself nodded back.

He started fucking the man in long, furious thrusts, clenching his hands on the man's hips so hard that his knuckles went white, devouring every slight tremble of the man's body, every ragged breath, every fluttering of the man's rectum around his cock.

"Fuckin' take it, bitch..." he was saying it and knew that his voice sounded broken - with almost hysterical laughter that escaped him. "Take it all from me."

He came in the man's ass, thrusting as deep as he could, pulling the man closer by his hips - and the orgasm was so draining that he nearly slumped after that, right over the man's half-curled body.

He made himself get up, though - on shaking legs, once more covered with a wave of pain in his well-battered body. Nobody paid attention to him any more. Some were gone too far into using their slaves - some came up to Simon and said something to him excitedly - as Simon smiled back to them.

Just one man came up to his adversary that still lay on the floor, bleeding both from his face and his ass now - an old man with his face twisted in a grimace of disgust. And almost without surprise Peter saw him kick the slave; not a hard kick - barefoot - but in his groin and the man curled on his side helplessly, his eyes closed.

The last thing Peter saw before Simon took him away was a string of bloody saliva trickling from the corner of the man's mouth as his master stood over him, saying something. Probably cursing him.

It could be you, Peter, and unwilling voice came again. You can't afford to lose.

This night Simon was almost affectionate. They had dropped by the doctor on the way to put a couple of stitches on Peter's torn nipple - and at home Simon ran his hands over cuts and forming bruises on Peter's body - just the tips of his fingers, so lightly that it was almost like warm flow of the air, not a touch.

//"I gather you don't want any more sex today?"// Simon was smiling, almost as if he had a dose; his hands on Peter's nipples, stitched and whole ones, were playful - and, maybe, his voice was playful, too. //"I mean you've already had your fuck."//

It was a joke - that Simon asked about his choice - and Peter knew it - and his usual, only possible reaction to it was silence and withdrawal. But he felt too high - not being able to stop himself:

"Depends on what you mean under sex. Having my ass screwed - thanks no thanks - I can live without it."

He partly expected a slap that would send him rolling on the floor. He didn't expect Simon's thumb raise his chin as the man said, deliberately exaggerating his blunt - Abenian - accent:

//"We can figure out something of mutual interest, little rat."//

It was when Peter got scared. He didn't want anything 'of mutual interest' between himself and Simon - he *didn't have to* want anything like that. And how close he came to wanting it - how easily... What would his father say? The old bastard was silent - for once.

//"Suck it,"// Simon's thumb pressed to his split mouth and slid in. //"Lap on it with your skillful tongue. And I'll..."// he licked his other thumb and ran a trace of wetness over Peter's belly, down to his cock. //"I'll check if I can make you get your flag up again."//

* * *

"I heard you won," tiny letters in the note-book and Seth, smiling, tilting his head awry, as usual, standing in front of him.

So much time passed since their last - their only meeting. And was it true that Peter felt almost too excited when Simon took him along when visiting the Commander? There was no reason to get excited. Certainly not because probably he might meet Seth there; Seth - a silly little slave - Seth who was possibly a cross-dresser and certainly a whore.

Seth who must've been getting mad, always locked in the house - getting intoxicated with every new face. How many visitors does the Commander have? How many of them leave their slaves in the hall?

He felt the smell even before Seth appeared - the recognizable smell he recalled so often. And now Seth stood in front of him and expected his answer - and what Peter felt was a sudden pang of hostility.

"You are pretty well informed."

Who told him?

"I heard your master talking about you to the Commander. Your master is proud with you."

Oh was Simon? How interesting.

//"I am proud for you, too,"// Seth pronounced it, not wrote. //"You are so brave."//

"Don't," did Seth think he would fall for it?

//"Are you angry with me?"//

Silly! Peter wished he could say something - something like 'don't you think too much of yourself for me to be angry with you?' And he wished he could turn away, not to stare at Seth, at his broad lively mouth articulating the words, at his manicured hand writing.

"I don't want you to be angry with me. I missed you.".

Now how easy you can be played...

"I missed you, too."

//"You face is still..."// Peter didn't understand the last word and Seth repeated it reaching his fingers to Peter's cheekbone. //"Bruised. Your face is still bruised."//

Peter thought he should brush the hand off - but didn't - and then Seth's cold long-fingered hand cupped around his cheek, the other arm twined around his neck, pulling him closer. He felt soft warm lips cover his, the bitter-and-honey tongue slide into his mouth - and he gasped, not so much in surprise as trying to get more of this smell, this taste. He didn't want to push away at all; he melted into the kiss that was deep and possessive and intoxicating - and so long that he had time to close his eyes and feel nothing but the kiss and the arm that was embracing him, the willowy hard body pressing into his.

Seth let him go and he sought to say something - and Seth flipped out the tiny note-book again, wrote something awkwardly because his other arm was still around Peter's neck. "Aren't you afraid? I can be leading you on - it can be some test your master tries to pull out on you."

"I know," he said, "I know."

Seth smiled, taking him by the wrist, still not letting the arm around him go - and guided him by the vaguely familiar way through the corridor to the small stuffed room. The door closed shut, leaving barely enough light to see.

They unlocked and stood against each other - and Peter pulled out the note-book from Seth's hand, put it carefully on the shelf among the vials of nail-polish and crude jewelry, and put his hands, trembling but as if burning from inside, around Seth's face - pulled him closer, kissing his lips slowly.

Had he known how much he wanted it?

Seth's hair was rough with dye, wiry - and his scull warm against Peter's fingers plaited through the hair. He kissed Seth's face, not just lips but all of it - cheekbones and fluttering eyelids, smooth forehead and thin brows. He felt Seth touch him and caught his hands, brought them to his mouth, kissed the palms and the backs of them and the scarred stumps of missing fingers - and he was saying something but it took a little while for him to realize what it was - the nonsense that somehow seemed important all the same:

"Please, please don't stop me."

Well, Seth was not going to - a small smile - the smile that Peter kept seeing in his dreams and daydreaming since that first time - and Peter pressed his face into Seth's neck, under his ear, kissing the warm place there - a short darting lick of his tongue that made Seth shiver minutely. He traveled along the arch of Seth's throat as the man tossed his head back - and down to the pit between his collar-bones. Seth was in a short black plastic jacket today, zippered in front, and Peter pulled the zipper down, baring his chest - nothing more under it - the pale hairless skin and pierced brown nipples, sticking hard even before Peter closed his mouth on them, one and then the other, feeling the cold taste of metal on his tongue and warm salty-savory taste of skin.

He tried to be careful, replacing the impetus of his passion with gentleness; and he wanted to be gentle - lick and suck, his fingers barely touching the man's ribs criss-crossed with scarlet traces of whipping.

Peter slid lower smoothly, following the welts with his breath rather than with his lips - and felt Seth's hands lock into his hair convulsively. He looked up, already kneeling, seeing the man look down, his thin wide mouth curve in a slightly wild grin.

Peter found the fly of the skin-tight pants, pulled them down from Seth's narrow thighs - pelvic bones sticking out at the hollow belly - and found the pink hard cock pressed against curly pubic hair - red hair, he saw with a smile.

He had never taken a cock into his mouth willingly. He had seen so many of them during last months, there was hardly anything he didn't know about their curves and shapes and peculiarities - but he always had been forced to do it, no choice. He closed his hand around the pulsing column, licked his lips, softening his mouth, before enveloping Seth's cock-head with it.

The taste was salty and warm - alive beating of blood against his palate and then the back of his throat, as he let it in deeper, no difficulty after all the training he got - easily following the push of Seth's hands on his head. He wrapped his arms around Seth, hands running up and down his back, finding his small ass-cheeks, cupping them. He felt Seth push towards him, deeper into his mouth, the head of his cock butting against the back of his throat - and Peter wanted him closer, as close as he could have him. His fingers ran along the crack of Seth's ass, not touching the anus - he was not sure how hurt the man could be there recently.

He wished with sudden fierceness that he could hear - could catch the little gasps Seth made when approaching his orgasm, maybe, the involuntary words he said. But Seth's hands talked eloquently enough, insistent and still gentle, pulling and playing with his hair - and then freezing on the back of his head as his cock twitched in Peter's mouth spilling the cum against the back of his throat.

He swallowed it, working his tongue around the shaft, and pulled away slowly to get to the cock-head, licked over it until the last drop was clean and lapped gently as the shaft was softening. He felt dizzy. He knew he was gasping - deep, fast intakes that made him too high on oxygen - but he felt faint even without it, so overwhelmed with the sensations, so satiated.

Seth took him by the arms and pulled him up, a shadow of smile still on his face, his mouth twisted as he said something - probably "Thanks," for what Peter could understand - and he wanted to say suddenly that it was his pleasure, he got what he wanted...

Seth placed his arms around his neck and started nuzzling his throat and Peter was lost for words and lost for realization what he really wanted, rubbing his body against Seth's unconsciously, his cock against Seth's, his pierced swollen nipples against Seth's bare chest.

//"Oh God,"// now he understood it as Seth pushed him away slightly, looking at his chest, his brows flying together in a frown - both fascinated and disgusted - and Peter felt like getting away suddenly, making him stop looking. He never recalled about the rings of his since he saw Seth approach him in the hall. He was wearing both rings again - his torn nipple healed enough to bear the weight.

//"Nah, don't worry. I'll be careful,"// Seth let him go but only to take one of the rings carefully - waiting until Peter shushed himself into standing still - and then push it through the gap. Peter raised his hand trying to stop him, muttered:

"Don't," and Seth stopped him with a quick open kiss on his mouth, proceeding the same way with the other ring. He understood what for when Seth pulled up his sweater, leaving him half-naked in the whole ugliness of the huge rings dangling over his chest. Seth started saying something and stopped, groping for the notebook, writing - the difficulty of the communication seeming not to bother him at all. "Don't worry, they're still busy. You'll have enough time for dressing back."

It was not what bothered him but Peter nodded, resigning to what Seth was doing - and as Seth pulled down his pants, taking off his boots in the process deftly, his waning erection rose to life again, making Seth smile triumphantly. Seth discarded his jacket, kicked off his own pants almost indignantly - and led Peter to the messed bed that seemed to be never made.

The sheets smelled with Seth and Peter felt drunk and about to come with this smell only, stifling a whimper when Seth's scrawny body covered his, the angles of his elbows and knees pressing into him, the red-and-black colored head lowering to his chest, warm tongue licking briefly on his nipples.

He should've hated that - some string of willfulness that still was not torn in him made him think so. But at the same time Peter felt that there was some special sweetness into surrendering to what he didn't entirely liked - giving away the control over his body to Seth... Doing exactly what Simon couldn't get from him.

"Don't fuck me," he said and Seth raised his head from his chest, for once serious:

//"I won't."//

And he didn't - sliding down and lapping his tongue in Peter's navel - making him arch in strange languid excitement that seemed to be tickling along his spine - and then he didn't quite remember what Seth was doing - his tongue and his lips and his fingers - and Peter closed his eyes and just let it slip away from him. Until his spilled his cum, apparently in Seth's mouth - because a little bit later he tasted it on Seth's tongue and they lay together in the crumpled bed, arms and legs intertwined and Seth's cold fingers ran over his face just as he dreamed about it - and there were candies and he smiled tasting it.

Some time later Seth got him up, concentrated expression on his face as he was listening to what happened behind the wall, in the Commander's lounge - showed Peter where to wash and then helped him to put on the sweater, his fingers so deft that Peter barely felt as he pulled the rings back into the gaps.

"Everything up to the nines," writing while Peter put on the rest of his clothes.

"Yes," he said, "yes," feeling how painfully something clenched inside him at his unwillingness to go. To go to Simon? Just the same as Seth would go to the Commander as soon as they parted? He couldn't believe the unnaturalness of it - how could anyone have this power over them, what logic was there?

The same logic as there was in you owning Simon...

Will I see you again? He forbade himself to ask Seth about it - it was redundant in case of positive answer, pathetic if Seth was not intended to meet him. After all, who knew how many others were fucked in this never-made bed. He caught Seth's look and suddenly thought that Seth knew what he thought about, could read him somehow. He shook his head angrily, refusing to weaken - and saw Seth tinker with the notebook again. He tore out the page, not showed it but stuck it into Peter's hand and pulled him out of the room, to the hall - pushed him inside and shut the door just a moment before Simon appeared.

Only when Peter was at home, he could straighten the piece of paper and read: "I want to sit with you in the café with glass arcs - and smoke - and drink caramel tea they serve there - and we don't even need to talk, little brother, just let me hold your hand."

* * *

He was in the bathhouse again. With the streams of water running over his feet - and a man in front of him, a man whose face he didn't see. But the face didn't matter, really - he didn't have to care who it was; the only thing that mattered was that he had to fight - and to win. He breathed in deeply, watching the man - whether he was going to strike. He didn't move and Peter thought he would strike first, balled his hands into fists.

He heard the audience cheer and urge them - and somehow it didn't surprise him that he could hear it:

"Come on, beat him into pulp! I put my money on you!"

They didn't call him or his adversary by the names - so, he didn't know whom they cheered. But he looked - and among the men on the benches - excited faces and naked torsos - he suddenly saw his father... and his uncle. Side to side, talking sotto voce, looking at him with distant, cold fascination. The strangest thing was not that his father looked young - just as he was when he died - but that Andre looked young, too - the way Peter hardly remembered him. And for the first time Peter noticed how much the brothers looked alike.

"Fight!" someone yelled - and he dashed towards the man - and as his fist stuck into soft flesh for the first time, as he got a blow in return and tasted his own blood - he somehow could see the identical, almost frozen smile of contentment and unconcern on the faces of his father and uncle.

He woke up still not knowing whom he fought in this dream - and with definite feeling of sickness that this indifferent smile of Guido and Andre brought him.

The bathhouse... the new event in his life - that had intruded unexpectedly... that he had so much difficulty to accept.

Simon took him there six or seven times during last weeks - and every time when Peter understood where they were going, he felt as if he was going to throw up - couldn't swallow a huge lump of panic in his throat. He knew it was wrong to feel it - a man must fight, must prove he's a man... how dared he to be afraid... But he was afraid. He didn't want to go there.

Of course, he never showed anything of it to Simon - to entertain the man like this? - thank you very much. He tried double hard to hide his fear - the fear that held him all the way he spent in the baths, until the moment they left and Peter understood that this time it passed.

He watched other slaves fight - and knew that Simon put money on one or the other - sometimes won, sometimes lost, taking it easy. He didn't even get hard with it, never used Peter to bring him off while the winner was taking advantage on the loser.

Sometimes watching this copulation in blood and water Peter felt sick - sometimes vaguely aroused. But it had nothing in common with the sheer feeling of rage, terror and excitement when he was the one in the middle of the hall.

He fought twice after the first time - and won twice. Thinking about it he almost couldn't believe that it happened - he had never been strong at hand-to-hand fighting. But seeing a man in front of him - a man ready to destroy him - somehow it made him find the strength in himself that he didn't even know about.

And later, topping the helpless man, he felt as never before - maybe, never since his childhood achievements in sex and murder.

His second opponent was a tall slender guy and the third one a blond beauty. The fourth one looked very different from any of the usual fighters - and seeing him Peter felt almost weak in knees for a moment. Not too tall but making up the impression of brutal power with the sheer presence of his bulk - muscular shoulders and arms and bulging belly that didn't seem soft at all. The man's head was shaven smooth and covered in blue tattoos - and his eyes were blue, too - light and measuring as he slid them over Peter... without any interest, whether it was game face or not.

And his cock; it was awesome - a snake of flesh dangling under the prominent belly, so thick that Peter took another look, unable to believe that it could be like that in its soft state. The man caught his eyes and smiled and said something - that made the audience applaud but escaped Peter's understanding.

He looked back swiftly - to meet Simon's eyes - and as Simon nodded, he plunged at the man.

He didn't even understand what happened at the first moment - like he tried to hit a stone wall. And then it felt as if this wall came down on him. He was on the floor, smearing the tiles with his blood - and the man threw himself over him, working him over with both his fists. Peter knew he managed to punch him back - two or three times, splitting his lips and cheekbone - but it didn't stop the guy... what would stop him? He just kept battering - and the only thing Peter could think about, could try to do was to try to scramble away from him.

Just as the man tried to crawl away from him on the first day. He still remembered that - and got terrified with suddenly finding himself in this position. And just as that man he won on the first day - it turned out Peter didn't have any chance. For a moment he managed to get away - the man's hands slid over his chest - nothing to hold on, since the first time he always took off the rings. But then he caught on Peter - and continued to beat - and with horrifying sound of his ribs cracking Peter understood all of a sudden that he couldn't do anything at all - couldn't move, couldn't raise his hand. He just took it; just let himself being beaten.

He will kill me...

He'd better kill you, Peter.

He didn't feel when the man stopped. But he suddenly saw the white ceiling above instead of bloodied wet tiles - and he understood the man flipped him over. It was almost like déjà vu - pain seizing his whole body, so fierce that he couldn't define its sources. Just like after the crash... And he was on his back - and opened - and his broken ribs resounded with heat and pain as the man doubled him, raising Peter's legs on his shoulders.

So, that's how he was going to fuck him! Like a female whore. The thought pierced his mind and he wanted to moan in distress but didn't know if he made the sound or not. He was too dazed - to move, to see. The man's face swam into focus, bright blue eyes very sober and even somehow tranquilly interested. He didn't even need to work himself into fury to cope with Peter.

But other faces - of the men watching them, of Simon - he couldn't see them but he could imagine how they looked - disgusted, contemptuous faces. The lips moving:

//"Fuck him. Fuck the shit out of him."//

He felt the man's wet cock against his anus and clenched in the last attempt to stop the inevitable. The man slapped him but even now Peter could see that he was just amused, not angry. The pain of the cock ruining his resistance was shattering; the man's penis must've been bigger than Simon's or it wouldn't hurt like this. Peter hated the pain - because it distracted him from hating himself - but it was too fierce, too present to ignore it.

The man started thrusting - leaning on Peter with all his weight, just his hips working. Peter felt the sharp edges of the tiles - something he didn't even know about - scratch along his back as he was moved back and forth on every stroke. Breathing was agony, the man was too heavy - and this struggle for breath was even worse than the burning pain in his ass.

The man slowed down and speeded up again - his ability to last a part of entertainment, maybe - Peter really didn't know how long it was going on. He stopped fighting and let himself slip out of consciousness - but was back again - and still saw the man's face above, eyes peering down at him. Once he met Peter's stare he worked some spit in his mouth and without any emotion spat on Peter's face. There was no hatred - just some fascinated gleam to his eyes.

He didn't come in his ass - Peter felt as he pulled out his still hard cock - and, rising, he spilled his cum over Peter's belly. Peter registered his own gasp as the warm creamy liquid hit him, leaked in trickles over his sides and into the water on the floor.

Look at yourself, slut. He couldn't better mark you for what you are.

No, he didn't want to look. At nothing. He wanted to cover his face if he didn't know how pathetic it would look. Or he wanted to fade into unconsciousness - why couldn't he pass out when he needed it? Just not to see Simon approach him, his foot raised for kicking, his mocking, insulted face. "Don't you dare to disgrace me..."

He probably wanted it too much; he blacked out before Simon came up to him.

And he came round already in his bed - *at home* - well, it was his home, he had no other anymore. He was warm and covered and his body felt heavy and not quite whole - but even though it was difficult to breathe, there was no agonizing pain piercing his chest on every inhale. His ribcage was wrapped tightly in bandages, he felt it when raising his hand tentatively and checking.

Someone took care of him.

Simon... sitting on his bed - turning to him as he sensed or heard that Peter moved.

"I am sorry..." he tried to say it before he would see the anger flare in Simon's eyes. Not because he wanted to diminish his punishment. Because he really felt sorry.

Loser... loser in everything...

//"What for?"// there still was no anger. What was it? Anxiety? Peter would say it was if he could believe it. //"Jesus Christ... Nobody can always win."//

He felt his breath caught - trying to figure out with painful efforts if it was some trick Simon tried to play on him, if his mood would change abruptly. He expected a blow when Simon reached to his face - expected it even though there was no cold, measured fury that appeared in Simon's eyes every time he was going to strike. But the fingers only ran through his hair.

//"If you want, we won't go there any more."//

At first he couldn't believe Simon said it - and then he hated himself for the joy that seized him.

Don't you dare! Coward! You can't leave losing, you need to win!

Please, father, don't. Leave me alone...

He saw Simon expect his answer and couldn't say a word - and knew with fear that it would be taken as if he *wanted* to go there.

//"I am not fond of these fights, ya know,"// Simon added suddenly. //"The same thing always. I am not going to waste my time on it."//

Peter thought he knew why Simon was saying it; it wasn't possible to believe - but it was true. Because of what the man read in his face - the fight against himself Peter couldn't win - and somehow, incredibly - Simon spared him.

"Thank you," he whispered brokenly.

He raised his hand and took Simon's - and stopped himself only a moment before he actually did it... he couldn't understand how it was that he nearly... nearly kissed Simon's palm.

The End of Part 5

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