woyubook.cc 
He grins. "Yeah. Never your strong point. Unless I can beat some sense into you." He wraps me up tight in his arms, his muscles hard against my flesh.
"I'm yours, Master," I tease. "You can do what the hell you like with me."
"Don't think I won't," he grunts, kissing me gently. "Don't damn well think I won't, Fox."
He falls asleep. I think I'd like to talk, but he just wraps his arms around me, sprawls a big thigh over my leg, and within seconds he's asleep. He's heavy, but I don't want to push him off—I've only just gotten used to having him this close. I relax and breathe in the scent of him, re-living the way it felt to have him holding me up, having him whisper, "Mine," in my ear, owning me. I've always been a free spirit. I hate being tied down. I never thought I might have the need to belong to anyone before. This makes no sense, and I'd like to believe that it isn't true, but he's left irrefutable evidence of it on my body and seared into my mind.
I try to rationalize this weird turn of events, but it's hard. There's nothing rational about this. I'm Fox Mulder, the FBI's most unwanted, a thorn in the side of the man who's lying next to me. I've been a pain in the ass to him from the moment I was assigned to him. My methods of investigation are too unorthodox, my choice of cases makes him despair, and he hates signing off my reports. I've pushed him too far, too often, but the psychologist in me can see this as a cry for attention, a way of forcing him into controlling me, and dealing with me—of getting physical with me. No wonder he was so angry earlier. Five years of self control, five years of being cool, of restraining me every time I got some fucked-up paranoid fantasy in my head. Five years of saving my ass, clearing up my mess, watching as I danced around trying to get him to notice me. And five years of me wanting him to lose that control, but never realizing it. Wanting to provoke him into doing something, anything, to show me what I was and give me what I wanted. No wonder he thought I was a tease.
I don't think it was an accident that on those occasions when I lost it, it was to Skinner I directed my subconscious cries for help. When I was freaking out on hallucinogenic tap water, spiked courtesy of the Consortium, he was the one I took a swing at, not Scully, not any of the Lone Gunmen, and not any of those irritating suits at the FBI who always hassle me and mutter "Spooky" as I pass by. No, him. I wanted him to save me then, and again many times after that. That time when I thought I was going crazy, seeing monsters, and drew my gun—he was there. He was the one I wanted to rescue me, to make me sane again. And of course I wanted to save his butt as well, not that he ever thanked me for that, ungrateful SOB.
I can't handle being labeled. I don't like labels of any description, but I'm having an especially hard time with the homosexual, gay, even bi, labels. So I'm not even going to think about that. Oh, God, if there's one thing I want to think about even less than the gay label, it would have to be the submissive label...the one that stamps "Property of Walter Sergei Skinner" all over my psyche. There's no way I can get around that one, either. I just know that, now that my eyes have been opened, I don't ever want them to close again, and I damn well hope he feels the same. At some point during all this turmoil, I fall asleep.
* * *
When I wake up, he's already showered and dressed and is wearing some of the clothes Saunders provided for him, clothes I know he'd never wear in his normal life—a pair of black pants, a black cotton shirt, open at the neck, no tie. He looks different; stunning, satanically imposing and generally inspiring the adoration of lesser beings at his feet.
"You're awake." He glances over at me. "I've been thinking."
"Me, too," I murmur, but it turns out that he's been thinking about something else entirely.
"However crazy this place is, there is nothing going on here that has so far made it obvious who our murderer is. We have no evidence that a crime has been committed on these premises—although I'm not sure that we couldn't make a case for assault in regard to that man in the Zone. Still, the mural depicting that bullfight, the presence of those bull symbols on the dead bodies, and the clearly cultist and ritualistic elements of this community are enough to convince me that our murderer is here, somewhere. More likely than not, Saunders ordered the murders. It is highly probable that there are many others here, Matt, for example, who have helped him conspire to commit murder and have executed his orders. We must face the possibility that, at the very least, all of the members of the Mithras Circle may be guilty of aiding and abetting the cover-up of these crimes. We need to find out more about them. Even though our team wasn't able to tail us, they're definitely going to be working on tracking us down. They know Saunders, so they'll be able to get some good leads from that alone."
He's stabbing his fingers into the air as he makes all his points, his mind totally focused on what he's saying.
"It may be enough for us to just sit tight, find out as much as we can about this, and wait to be rescued. Since we're being watched, and the penalties for being discovered where we shouldn't be are...unthinkable, I don't see that we have any choice but to keep our eyes and ears open, and hope that we don't have too long to wait. Any questions?" He gazes at me expectantly.
"Just one. When are we going to have sex again?" I ask, because frankly that's the only thing on my mind.
He's still for a moment, staring at me coldly.
"Come here," he says finally. I shiver at his tone and scurry to obey him, kneeling down naked at his feet without even thinking about it.
"You'll get all the goddamn sex you can handle," he growls, his hand kneading my shoulder as he looks into my eyes. "Just don't let it interfere with your judgment or your ability to keep yourself alive. I need you to do your job here as well, Mulder. Indulging in erotic fantasies when you should be trying to solve this case will seriously piss me off. Your sex life does not, I repeat, not get in the way of your work. Understood?"
"That's not going to be easy," I murmur, and his fingers tighten on my neck. His eyes are fierce and irritated.
"Well, I've been exercising self control for five years so I think you can attempt it for five minutes," he says. "Work—play. Two separate things. Screw up on that, and I'll make you regret it big time. The gloves are off now, Fox," he adds. "I've had to conduct myself in a professional manner due to our working relationship. Shit—I always knew that if I ever lost it with you and treated you the way you wanted, hell, the way you seemed to crave, that I'd be thrown out of the Bureau on a harassment charge. Now, however, things are different. There are certain things I just won't tolerate. And don't pout—it doesn't work with me. Get up, get washed, and get dressed. We have a job to do."
"So—no more sex?" I ask, and he growls and cuffs me playfully in the direction of the bathroom. Just my luck. I discover I like something and then find it's only going to be doled out to me by someone else on their terms. Typical.
The shower washes away the sweat and blood and the scent of sex, but not the memory of that primitive, raw coupling. Nothing could erase that from my mind. I find the bite marks on my chest and ribs and finger them, remembering how they were inflicted. My fingers cautiously seek the bite mark on my butt, which is so deep that I can make out the edges and contours of it without being able to see it, and I can feel myself becoming hard as I recall the sensation of being held down and marked by his teeth. Shit, not again. I turn the temperature of the water down to lukewarm (I can't face freezing cold), but it's not enough to dampen my erection and I have to jerk off again. That's three times in one day. I hope this isn't going to become a habit or if we ever do get back to real life, then I'll need to find excuses to visit him in his office every few hours. What was it he said about not letting sex interfere with work? I'm not sure I have his willpower.
It's late—I think we missed lunch, but dinner is being served in the main hall. Saunders glances at us as we enter, and then does a double-take, looking at us more keenly. I can see his eyes raking approvingly, almost lustfully, over the bite marks on my body and my bruised lip. I find myself taking an absurd pride in the way he's looking at me. I love the fact that Skinner has marked me, that there is visible evidence of our wild sexual frenzy on me, and that he's made the status of our relationship clear and plain for them all to see. For his part, Skinner has noticed Saunders looking as well, and he straightens up, flexes his arms subconsciously, and grabs my shoulder.
"Go serve," he grins, and I run off to join Nick and the other slaves, bringing over the meal. We have more confidence in these roles now, both of us. Matt was right about us holding back, but not anymore.
I bring him his food, see that his glass is kept filled, and kneel obediently next to his chair, waiting to be fed. Not that this is exactly the way I see myself conducting our relationship if we ever get home (trust me, it isn't!), if, indeed, we have a ‘relationship,’ but it doesn't feel so humiliating anymore.
"I'm glad to see that you eschew alcohol, Mr. Skinner," Saunders comments smoothly. "You'll need a clear head for later."
"Why? What happens later?" Skinner asks.
"Eleven p.m. In the arena—you remember, the large room with the sand on the floor?" Saunders says. "Bring Fox. There's been quite some interest in him after his little display in the massage room earlier today."
"I told you before, nobody is going to touch him." Skinner puts a hand on my head and strokes my hair softly.
"Then you'll have to make sure of that, won't you?" Saunders allows his eyes to travel over me, once again lingering on the bite marks on my body—particularly the one over my nipple.
After dinner, coffee is served in the library.
"Watch your back," Nick whispers to me as we follow behind the tops. "They like to have some fun with us after dinner. If you don't like the idea of that, make sure you don't screw up."
"Thanks." I nod, grateful for the warning. Skinner takes his seat in a plush armchair, and I immediately sit down on the floor beside him, determined not to move for the duration of the evening. Nobody is going to have an excuse to do anything to me.
"Gray, I believe you are on duty this evening." Saunders nods towards the whipping post and Gray, a thin, sinewy man with wispy dark hair, smiles and takes up position next to a zhaiyuedu.com. He opens it up to reveal a huge array of whips.
"Are there any punishments scheduled?" Saunders asks.
"Yeah. Brad was slow helping me get changed earlier." Matt is sitting with his feet up on the huge oak table. Saunders looks coolly at Matt for a moment, and I sense a tension between them. It's hard to pinpoint exactly what it is, but I realize that Saunders despises Matt and I suspect it's for the same reasons that Skinner does. Saunders has shown himself to be smooth and cultured. I have no doubt that he can also be cruel and ruthless, but so far I haven't witnessed him indulging in any acts of brutality—unlike Matt. I sense that Saunders comes from a very different school of sadists. It's not a value judgment, I hate both the bastards. In fact, in some ways Saunders is the more frightening because of that civilized veneer. At least Matt's brutality is obvious and unsubtle; you know where you are with him.
"Very well." Saunders nods. "Nick—go and find Brad. Bring him here for punishment."
Nick runs off, and a few moments later he returns with the hapless Brad. I'm surprised to see that Brad is shivering and appears to be afraid. I'm not sure of the dynamics here; are they supposed to enjoy this or what? Is it a 'scene'? Is Brad getting off on pseudo-fear or is he genuinely afraid? Brad kneels down in front of Saunders, his head bowed.
"There's been a complaint," Saunders says, stirring his coffee. "About your service earlier today. Do you wish to speak?"
"No, Master." Brad looks up, glancing at Matt with real fear in his eyes.
"Very well. Ten, I think. The crime wasn't too serious." Saunders waves his hand, and Brad looks relieved. A light of anticipation has appeared in his eyes, so I guess he isn't that worried after all. Gray beckons him over and gestures him to undress, then ties him up to the post, fastening a cuff on each of his wrists.
I bury my face in the side of Skinner's knee and refuse to watch. I don't know if Brad is going to enjoy this or not, but I sure as hell won't. Yeah, call me a big wuss, but this stuff scares me shitless. It wasn't so bad witnessing this sort of crap at Krypton, but here the threat is implicit and real, and I don't know how far it will go or how bad it might get. Skinner puts a hand on my head and smoothes my hair, rubbing my head and neck constantly with a firm, gentle caress. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Saunders watching me with an intrigued and amused look on his face. Brad screams after each lash, and I can feel myself flinching in time with the blows. Skinner's hand never leaves my head.
Finally, it's over, and Brad is allowed down. I find myself staring at the lash marks on his back and buttocks with a fascinated horror, but it doesn't escape my notice that he's been turned on by the whole event.
"You can return to the pen now, unless anyone wants to use you, Brad." Saunders looks around the room questioningly, and one of the tops steps forward and gestures Brad over, drawing him away to the other side of the room. I try not to watch. I'm distracted instead by Nick, who has gone to get Saunders another cup of coffee. He's crossing the room when Matt puts out a foot to trip him. Nick goes flying, and the coffee ends up splashing over Saunders's shoes. He yelps, and looks around crossly. Matt sits back in his chair, a malevolent grin on his face.
"Looks like Goody Two Shoes has slipped up," he remarks. Nick's face is anguished. He grabs a cloth from the tray and wipes the coffee off Saunders's shoes.
"Sorry, Master," he mutters, and I'm surprised to see that he has real tears in his eyes. The dynamic between Saunders and Nick is a complicated one, but I think it's based more on service than punishment. I sense that Saunders relishes his power over his slave, and the fact that it derives less from fear or sexual role play than from love, and of course Nick gets off on his obedience. He genuinely wants to serve Saunders and he doesn't want his master to be angry with him, for whatever reason.
There are no marks on Nick's body—I sense that Saunders rarely finds it necessary to punish him. Saunders shoots another cool glance at Matt, realizing who has been behind the incident, but there must be some rule I don't know about in play because despite clearly not wanting to punish Nick, I know he's going to, anyway.
"Nick," Saunders says softly, "I want you to go to the zhaiyuedu.com and bring me an implement. Any implement you want."
Nick nods, swallowing convulsively, and nobody could miss the wide grin that is plastered all over Matt's features. He notices me staring at him and the grin becomes a leer. It's hard for me to resist an impulse to just get up and leave, or to shout out and tell them what a bunch of frigging psychos they are. I find myself sitting up, about to point out the inherent absurdity of this ludicrous society, when Skinner's fingers dig into my neck warningly. I glance at him and he shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. Doesn't he see it, too? Doesn't he want to stand up and say: "Hey, a cup of coffee got spilt. No big deal here!"? Maybe he does. His fingers are stroking my neck urgently, trying to distract me, to calm me.
The whole room watches with interest as Nick selects a strap and returns to Saunders' chair. He unbuttons his jeans and slides them off, before kneeling once more, and then puts the strap in his mouth and offers it to Saunders, who takes it and gestures to his knee. Nick arranges himself over his master's knee and now I can't stop myself smiling because it looks so absurd! Shit, it makes me want to scream with laughter, but my grin soon fades.
