InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Anhanguera ❯ Cat and Mouse ( Chapter 3 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

~~Chapter Three~~
~Cat and Mouse~

 

~o~

 

Darkness.

That’s what he remembered, long before any other thought or feeling kicked in: nothing but darkness.

The searing pain that ripped through him a moment later, however, expelled that darkness as his eyes flashed open, as a scream was ripped from him before he could stop it: the guttural response to the feeling that he was being split wide open.  Face down on something hard—a table—with his legs spread wide, but feet, flat on the ground, shackles around his ankles, arms outstretched over his head as the cold metal restraints dug into his wrists, he couldn’t move, grunted loudly when a heavy body collapsed against his back, as the pain in his ass increased, as the tearing, almost ripping made him bite back another scream.

He tried to buck his hips, his body, grimacing as the aggressor’s cock sank even deeper into him, only to withdraw a little and to slam back into him hard—painfully hard.  Cock slamming his ass while his hip bones smashed against the unforgiving table . . .

“He’s awake!  He’s awake!  Flip him over!”

“Not . . . yet . . .” the one atop him grunted.  “Almost . . . there . . .”

A riot of laughter as the crowd closed in around him.  How many were there?  He didn’t know, but everywhere he looked, every time he tried to turn his head, there were more faces, more hands, reaching out to touch him—an eerie and horrifying wash of limbs, of faces, of penises, slapping against the unforgiving table that he was chained to . . .

The one invading him threw his head back, thrusting his hips forward as hard as he could as an unearthly howl issued from him.  Diego grimaced, feeling the man’s come, hot and frothing, as it flowed into his body.

Someone shoved the man back roughly, his dick popping loose with an obnoxious sound, his come, squeezing out of Diego’s body, only to drip down his balls, snake down his shaft . . .

They unfastened his ankles and roughly flipped him over.  He grunted in pain as his arms crossed, held so tightly in those shackles that it felt as though they were going to pop out of their sockets.  More arms grabbed him, hauled him up on the table, and the ankle shackles snapped closed once more as he lay prone, uncovered, naked, bleeding . . . A strangely sharp pain in his bicep . . . He craned his neck in time to see an empty needle syringe sticking out of his arm . . .

Another man climbed up over him, a maniacal smile twisting his lips.  He thought that he recognized him, but he wasn’t sure how or why.  A slow haze seemed to wrap around his brain, but it wasn’t enough to block it all out . . .

Shoving his legs up as far as they would go—not far, actually, and not that it mattered.  That lunatic’s grin only widened as he drove his engorged dick deep into Diego—so hard, so painful, that he rose up as far as he could, another scream, wrenched from his lips, only to be choked off when another man lunged onto the table, burying his cock deep in his mouth to silence the scream.

He choked, heaving against the chains, ignoring the white-hot flashes that erupted around the restraints, like a million prickles of fire that numbed his hands, his feet, but could not numb the rest of his body, his soul, his mind . . .

Furiously thrusting into his mouth, the one riding his face squeezed Diego’s cheeks to keep his mouth open—to keep him from biting down, maybe—he grunted, laughed, his balls, slapping against Diego’s nose, nearly smothering him whenever he ground his pelvis against Diego’s face.

He couldn’t breathe, almost wished that he could pass out, gagging when the bastard hit the back of his throat time and again as his stomach contracted, lurched.  Vomit rose, thick and bitter, and he choked.  He couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t dislodge the man who held his head in place, as it rose up, as it burbled out around the bastard’s cock.  It burned as he breathed it back in when it dripped into his nose.  The smell of it was enough to choke him again as his stomach rebelled for the second time.

The pain in his ass was negligible in comparison to the very real fear of dying, of choking on his own vomit.  He grunted, groaned, blew out as hard as he could, sending sprays of vomit into the air, all over the fucker who dared to molest him.

He reacted in kind, punching Diego hard with a balled-up fist—so hard that Diego nearly passed out—as the bastard ground his cock as deep as he could, his steaming come filling his mouth where the vomit had been.  He yanked his dick free, slapping his hands over Diego’s mouth.  “Swallow it, bitch!” he commanded.  Somehow, Diego did.

Mouth falling slack as he dragged in lungfuls of air, the jeering around him was growing louder, wilder.  Another man hopped onto the table, grabbed a handful of Diego’s hair, lowering his face within a few breaths.  “You’re going to suck my cock, and you’re not going to bite.  If you bite, I’ll kill you.  Got it?”

Diego didn’t respond.  Still half-dazed—he didn’t know why—still unsure how this happened, he could only grunt when that one shoved his dick—bigger, thicker than the last one’s—deep into his mouth.

The one raping his ass groaned, exploding deep within him amidst the cheers and laugher of his buddies.  He stumbled off the table as another climbed up to take his place.

“Look!  He shit himself!” someone hollered, setting off another round of raucous laughter.

“Is he loose yet?” someone else called out.

The one on the table between his legs made a fist and shoved it up inside him.  Diego shrieked around his mouthful of dick, tears of pain squeezing out of the corners of his eyes.  If it felt like someone had ripped him in half the first time, this was so much worse.  It felt like the bastard was trying to rip his entrails out as he opened his fingers wide, deep in him, drawing another stunted scream.  Over and over again, he balled up his fist, stretched out his fingers, and with every flex, every tightening of the muscles in his arm, Diego wondered if he weren’t going to die.  Every muscle in his body retracted, his mouth snapping closed on the dick choking him.  The man grunted, hissed in pain, before pounding him hard in the head from both sides until his jaw slackened once more.  Body shaking—Diego couldn’t control it—he uttered the smallest whimper that was muffled by the pounding cock between his lips as the man yanked his hand free from his entrails.

Body barely having time to react to the sudden release, he tensed, shrieked once more as the bastard shoved both his arms up to his elbows up Diego’s ass.  He kept screaming, feeling himself rip, feeling himself tearing, fiber by fiber, muscle by muscle.  The one humping his face slapped him, kept on slapping him, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t control it, couldn’t do a thing as the screams reached an apex where sound didn’t exist.  He choked when come shot out of the dick in his mouth, as the screams drew it into his lungs, fighting between coughing and screaming as spit and come dripped out of his mouth, as jeers and taunts rolled right off of him in the midst of his pain . . . Finally, he yanked his arms free as Diego braced his heels on the table, tried in vain to fight his way free . . .

“Redmon!  C’mere!”

Squeezing his eyes closed, Diego tried desperately to blank his mind, to escape the pain, the absolute humiliation, the only way he could think of.  It wasn’t working.  There was no calm, no reprieve, not for him, and when the fister and the one he’d called Redmon somehow managed to penetrate Diego’s ass at the same time, he could only groan.

But this time, it didn’t hurt—well, not like it had when he’d shoved his fists up in him.  There was a strange tingle as they pumped his body—a feeling that was painful and somehow bordered upon . . .

“Oh, my God!  He’s got a fucking boner!” one of the men hollered.

The laughter and the jeers and the taunts grew louder, louder, echoing in Diego’s ears as someone jabbed something, deep into his bicep—another shot of something.  He had no idea, what.  Mouth-fucker gurgled, grunted, shot his come down Diego’s throat—a white burn that he had no choice but to swallow.  Somewhere in the middle, the swallowing was undone as another wave of vomit shot up, filling his mouth as he turned his head, as it oozed out of him like a toxic purge . . .

With every thrust, Diego’s sense of rage grew—rage that they would dare do this to him—to him . . . Rage that they were able to pull this over on him, in the first place . . . Rage that . . .

Another man shoved his cock between Diego’s lips, pummeling him hard against his already raw and aching throat . . . Try as he would, he couldn’t ignore the trills and tingles that were invading his body—sensations that had no business in him, given what was happening.  “No!” he shrieked, jerking his head to the side, gasping for air, willing his body to get under his control again.

It wasn’t working.

The angry growl as the one who wanted a blow job was accompanied by another head rattling punch.  Then he yanked Diego’s head back where he wanted it, plunging his dick in deep once more.

The tingling in his body seemed to converge as the two fucking him grunted, panted, sweat rolling off their bodies, dripping onto Diego . . . With a guttural groan, the fister came, pumping his squirt up deep inside him.  A minute later, Redman did, too.

They were both pushed aside by another man—a very large black man who wore an eyepatch.  He stared Diego up and down, his lip curling back in obvious derision at the mess he was left with.  Yanking free the lash that he wore on his belt, he turned it over, jammed the foot-long handle up Diego’s ass.  He screamed, but it was only half from pain.  The other half . . .

With a vicious abandon, the huge man fucked Diego with the handle of his flail.  Over and over, a repetitious motion . . . Ignoring the cock pumping into and out of his mouth, he fought hard—so hard—to control the unwelcome pleasure that coursed through him.  Something about the deepness of that stroke . . .

The man straddling his face pulled out his dick, shot his come all over Diego’s face.  Diego didn’t care, barely noticed, and, with a grunt, a groan, a horrified sense of shame and, yes, rage, he felt the rise of his own orgasm—an orgasm the likes of which he’d never felt before.  Surging up from deep inside himself, it exploded into a high and humiliating arc, only to rain down on him with the burn of shame, the brand of something so dark, so ugly, that he couldn’t put a name on it . . .

The laughter was like a tornado.  Vaguely, Diego realized that the man had yanked the whip free, was riding him like there was no tomorrow, and, to his horror, he felt himself harden again, only this time, the erection bordered on painful, as though every last drop of blood in his body was trapped there, and every jerk, every bounce, every motion . . .

It was hell.

Over and over again, the rhythmic pounding, the reverberations that shot straight to his cock.  He didn’t care if another man had hopped up, was fucking his face for all it was worth, the tremors in his body, all centered around his rent and torn ass . . . The man who was fucking him now, let out a loud bellow, humping him harder, faster, like a half-crazed bull, and Diego winced as another earthshattering orgasm rattled through him, out of him, the arc of come flying even higher than the first one—and it wasn’t nearly enough.  The bull didn’t stop, and neither did the shaking, the slapping, the undulating . . . Diego squeezed his eyes closed, willing away the painful swell of a third orgasm in such short order . . .

Suddenly, though, his mind jerked free, almost as though it had separated entirely from his body, only to hover over the scene, like a macabre movie—maybe a music video . . . Someone stepped over, jamming a needle deep into his arm, shooting him up with something—he didn’t know what, and he didn’t really care—another dose of . . . whatever.  He saw himself, trussed up on that table, watched himself as different men mounted him, used him, laughed and tormented him.  He was drenched in come—theirs and his own.  He’d come seven times in fairly quick succession, and if he were honest with himself—really honest—he’d have to admit that he . . . that he liked it.  They had taken the consent from him, and as angry as he was, he hadn’t had a choice?  But . . .

The stench of his vomit, the metallic and mineral smell of semen . . . Some of the ones who had already fucked him were coming back for more.  Some of them were growing more daring, laying on top of him, fucking him like he was a lover, kissing him deeply as they rode him, as they used him.  A couple of them even jacked him off, made him come, time and again as the utter humiliation of it all flowed and surged with the pulse of his orgasms . . .

And the rage that filled him was somehow tempered, as though he were somehow removed from it, maybe angry on principle?  He didn’t know . . .

The doors burst open, and he scowled when he saw Franco stride outside, pushing people out of the way—many of them with rather stupid expressions.  They’d been shooting up, too, some of them were smoking cigarettes and other things.  All of them were drinking.  Franco glowered at them all, shoving the man who was trying to cuddle Diego off him, off the table.  “Get the hell out of here!  What are you doing?  You’ve had your sick fun!  Go sleep it off!”

Staring at Diego for a long moment, he slowly shook his head, found the keys to the shackles that held him in place as the men finally, blessedly, stumbled away.  “Fool!” Franco grumbled as he unfastened the first shackle.  “Why the hell would you drink something they gave you?”

“Wh . . .?” Diego muttered, unable to coherently form words.  His voice was so hoarse, it didn’t sound like his own.

Franco sighed.  “I thought you’d have realized not to take a drink from anyone you don’t trust, and you shouldn’t trust anyone here,” he scolded.  “They drugged you.  They call it, ‘initiation’ . . .”

Waking with a start, heart hammering painfully against his ribcage, Caipora sat straight up, grimacing at the sweat soaked sheets—grimacing at the fresh semen on those sheets.  There was a lot of it.  Leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands dug deep into his hair as he squeezed his eyes closed, as he willed that particular memory away.

That happened just after he’d killed the girl offered to him.  He’d realized afterward that the drink that the overmaster had ordered had some kind of sleeping powder in it, and that was how they’d managed to subdue him . . .

Letting out a deep breath that echoed in the quiet room, Caipora tossed the sheets aside and stumbled out of the bed, over to the balcony doors, unmindful—uncaring—that he was still very naked.  The air in the room was stifling—too full of smells that hurt.  Fumbling with the handles, he shoved the doors open impatiently, staggered out into the night.

The air was balmy but welcome, carrying a thick perfume of flowers and earth and trees and water . . . Dragging a shaking hand over his face, he sighed.  He’d . . . He’d be all right in a little while . . . All he needed to do was to breathe . . .

 

-==========-

 

Settling back in the thickly cushioned chair behind the wide desk, Eduardo propped his elbow on the armrest, let his lips, his chin, lean against his long, curled fingers.  Scowling at the video, playing back on the computer screen, he watched in silence.  Footage from what they called the Virgin House—a mansion compound built on an insular islet located off the shore of Venezuela . . . The footage on the video he’d sent along with his missive was horrifying—girls, ranging from just small ones—eight?—ten?—years old to some girls in their mid-teens . . . There were splices from what looked to be some kind of training sessions—girls, made to learn of the carnal pleasures of the body: everything . . . Everything except vaginal intercourse . . .

A girl, naked, on the floor, scrubbing at the already shining marble.  She upset the small pail of water and almost instantly, a man closed in behind her, yanking a wicked-looking flail from his waist.  He dealt her twenty-five lashes, leaving the girl’s back, bloody and bruised.  She said nothing, didn’t even cry that he could tell, and when it was over, all the man said was, ‘bathhouse’ . . .

On and on it went: girls, slapped in the face if they struggled while giving a blow job, girls, tossed to the side, sprawling on the floor for whatever perceived slight . . . Girls, being reprimanded for crying out in pain during their introduction to anal sex . . . Girls, being fitted with butt plugs, probably to stretch them out, to make it easier for them to accommodate a youkai cock . . .

It was enough to make his stomach turn—especially his, given that he’d been raised to believe that love in any fashion was a beautiful thing . . . These girls . . .

And . . . And just what was it doing to him . . .?

Letting out a deep breath as he continued to watch the footage, his frown darkened.  He’d hoped—prayed—that what had happened to Lorenzo Varela was just the exception, not the norm, but, as he watched a vulgar display of what looked to be what he called ‘enforcers’, getting into a tussle that ended with one of them, ripping off the other’s clothing and mounting him from behind, he had to wonder . . . The fleeting reminder of the video that he wished he’d never seen: those they called enforcers, surrounding the table where Lorenzo’s body was shackled . . . Those inhuman tools . . .

“Puta merda,” he muttered under his breath.

“I woke up, and you weren’t there . . . You work too much, Ed.”

Quickly closing the video file, he turned his chair far enough to smile indulgently at the tousled and bedraggled visage of the beautiful snowy-egret-youkai, Michel as he stumbled across the floor, eyes still sleepy, slow, despite the slight smile on his face.  The young man hadn’t bothered with clothing, not that he needed to.  His body was absolute perfection—every angle, every plane, every curve, every nuance . . .

He was one of Eduardo’s many lovers.  Male or female did not matter.  He really didn’t think in terms of something as base as that.  No, it was more of a psychological connection that drew him to certain people, but the one thing that they all knew was that Eduardo, as much as he loved to spend time with them all, there was no one in his life that he could truly call his mate.  He had a wife, of course.  That was what was required to produce an heir, but they both knew that they weren’t true mates—were, in fact, more of just friends, albeit with the occasional benefit . . . Chelressa did not begrudge him his pastimes, and he did not interfere with hers.  It was a good arrangement for both of them, especially when they managed to find someone who pleased them both . . .

Which, of course, was neither here nor there.  Michel was staying with him on this night, but Eduardo had been far too restless to sleep after making exhausting love with the young man . . .

“I think I’ve caught my second wind,” Michel whispered, leaning down, his breath misting Eduardo’s ear with a delicious tremble.

Eduardo chuckled, but his smile didn’t quite reach his lips as Michel slowly reached over his shoulders, running his hands down his chest, back up again, kneading, touching, trembling . . .

“I was going to do a little more work in here.  Why don’t you go on back to bed?  Don’t you have an early call tomorrow?”

Slipping around the chair, letting his fingertips drag over Eduardo’s bare shoulders, Michel leaned down, kissed him long, deep, his tongue stroking Eduardo’s lips, slipping into his mouth, tracing the contours of his teeth, his fangs as a tumultuous shiver ran up and down the tai-youkai’s spine.  “I do,” he murmured between kisses.  “But we’re running a love scene, and I need some practice . . .”

“Oh?  And how graphic is your play, meu lindo?” Eduardo asked, lifting a hand, grasping Michel’s cock and balls, gently massaging them, only to squeeze his shaft as he hardened and moaned.

Slowly opening his eyes, gaze burning in the depths, he groaned as Eduardo stroked him with a teasing lethargy.  “It’s more realistic with the fucking,” he said, his voice husky, raw.  “Besides, Ramon has such a huge cock . . .”

“How big is that?” Eduardo whispered, pulling Michel into his lap, his cock sliding into the young man with incredible ease.  He shivered, and Michel uttered an uneven chuckle as he flexed and released, as Eduardo’s hardened dick thickened with every pulse.  “Do you come, Michel?”

“I . . . Yes,” Michel breathed, his eyes drifted closed as his head fell back against his shoulder, as Eduardo reached around, grasping his cock with both hands, slowly, methodically, stroking him as he fucked him . . . Moaning softly, shivering when Eduardo’s lips brushed over the back of his shoulder, Michel steadily increased the pace, grinding his ass down on Eduardo.  He could feel the young man’s orgasm rising up from deep within.  He was close—so close.

Wrapping an arm around Michel’s waist, he rose to his feet, let him fall over the desk.  Michel groaned with every thrust, reared back to meet him time and again.  “Come in me, Ed,” he breathed, bracing his hands on the desk, flexing his ass around him.  Eduardo moaned, unleashing his orgasm deep inside, holding onto Michel’s hips even as the snowy-egret reared back, reaching over his shoulder, cradling him close.

It took a minute for Eduardo’s body to relax, and, kissing Michel’s shoulder again, he gently pulled out of him.  Turning him gently, his mouth seeking out the supple and soft lips of his lover, he kissed him deep, kissed him long, savoring the taste of him as Michel rubbed his body against him.

Breaking the kiss, Eduardo smiled at him as he dropped to his knees, as he drew Michel’s cock, deep into his mouth . . .

 

-==========-

 

Dragging his body through the warm water under the light of the pale moon, so high in the sky, the myriad of stars that winked and glimmered, Caipora slowly felt himself relax.

He had no idea what time it was.  He didn’t know how long he’d stood on the balcony, struggling to regain a semblance of himself after the nightmare that came all too frequently.  ‘No,’ he corrected himself, diving under the water, flipping himself over, propelling himself across the quiet lagoon.  It wasn’t a nightmare.  It was a memory—one that he despised.

After that night, he’d become friends with Franco: Franco, who had taken him down to the beach to clean himself—to soak away the remnants of everything he’d gone through, who had kept up a steady stream of inane chatter, and it had registered in Caipora’s addled brain that he was trying to distract him.  It had worked some, anyway.

His entire body had hurt—ached—from somewhere deep within.  His head thumped, no doubt from whatever drugs they’d shot him up with.  His throat was raw, swollen, never mind the pain in his face, ankles and wrists were raw and chafed, and his ass . . . Everything hurt . . .

“I didn’t realize that they—well, I knew they’d try . . . I thought you’d be smart enough not to accept their drinks,” Franco said.  “If I’d known . . .” Then he grimaced.  “Then again, I didn’t accept their drinks . . . Ten of them against one of me?  It was a little unfair . . .”

Caipora scowled.  “They did it to you, too?”

Franco shrugged, setting back against the darkened rocks.  “They do it to everyone.  Next time, you’ll have to join ‘em . . .”

“You didn’t,” he pointed out.

Franco sighed.  “Yeah, I know.  Chances are good I’ll have to watch my own ass for a little while . . .”

For some reason, Franco’s admission bothered him.  He didn’t like joining in on their perverted version of Reindeer Games so they’d go after him?

“Anyway, you can’t let them do that to you again,” Franco remarked as Caipora stared up at the sky, settled against a rock wall that rose up, high above him to a tall cliff.   Caipora kept cupping handfuls of water, swishing it around his mouth, spitting it out again.  “If anyone comes at you, you show ‘em who’s boss: bend them over, make them pay for what they did to you.  Around here, you’re either dominated or you’re the dominator.  You want to be the dominator.  Trust me.”

Those words, spoken so long ago, had stuck with him.  It had become his mantra—his creed.  No one had ever managed to subjugate him since—no one except the overmasters, who he dared not fight.  He’d learned fast, how to fight back, how to reverse the positions with whomever thought to accost him.  He’d gained a reputation for being brutal, for turning a deaf ear against cries of fear or pain, and he never relented until he was sure that the attacker would think twice before ever trying it again.  But there was always someone else who thought they could best him . . . As he’d gained notoriety, the encounters had come with a shocking frequency, almost daily, or so it seemed, but it was the late-night summons to the overmaster’s chambers that he’d learned to despise . . .

Letting his feet down on the wet sand below him, Caipora let his head fall back, staring up at the skies.  As much as he tried not to dwell upon the past, there were isolated moments when he couldn’t quite help it . . .

Wading back toward the shore, he let out a deep breath.  He hadn’t even stopped to think about it until halfway through his impromptu swim that he was still very naked, that he hadn’t bothered to grab any clothes in his haste to escape the claustrophobic room.

It didn’t matter.  He didn’t really care.  He’d already fucked most of the slaves on the island—anally, anyway—had had his dick sucked by most all of them, too.  As for the other enforcers and trainers?  Well, he’d already dominated most of them, too.  One way or another, most of the occupants of the Virgin House had seen each other naked and sweating and moaning . . .

Striding back toward the flagstone path that led to the mansion proper, he heard a sound just behind him, and he deliberately slowed his pace.  How it was that these pathetic youkai didn’t realize that he could feel their foul youki, could smell their rancid odors, he didn’t know, and he didn’t care, either.  As long as it gave him the upper hand, it didn’t really matter . . .

A hand reached out, grabbed his arm, meant to try to force him down.  With a very loud growl, Caipora spun around, grasping his arm hard, his face registering none of his seething rage, but his eyes did.  The man gasped when Caipora snapped his free arm out, catching his windpipe with the edge of his hand, knocking the wind right out of him.  As quick as that, he had him down, tore the ass of his pants open as he sheathed himself completely in one fluid motion, gritting his teeth against the dry entry, the near-painful friction.

The man gurgled, grunted, tried in vain to buck him off.  It only served to deepen his penetration, and he groaned loudly in the calm night.  Caipora caught his other wrist, slammed them down against the small of his back as he fucked him as hard as he could.  A sudden surge of adrenaline as he pounded the man’s ass, over and over again, ignoring the gasps, the grunts, the pained groans . . .

It was a heady and repulsive feeling: the tingling in his balls, the ragged quality of his breathing.  The man was whimpering, and he . . . God help him, he was reveling in the brutal pleasure of it all . . . Slamming himself in, balls-deep, he grunted as the first shots of come burst out of him—hot and wet and sludgy, deep in places that he’d never considered before stepping foot in the breeder camp all those years ago.  But he wasn’t done; not by a long shot.  His come had provided a wicked lubrication as he continued to rut the bastard.

Pausing long enough to reach down, he grabbed the bullwhip off his would-be-attacker’s waist, he made quick work of looping it over his hands, around his wrists, deftly securing him before dragging the length of the lash up and over his head, using the remaining bit of it to gag him soundly before knotting the lash together behind his head.  Satisfied that he wasn’t going anywhere, Caipora drove into him hard—hard enough that the bastard shrieked once more.  For some reason, the sound of it only goaded him harder, drove him deeper, unsheathing himself almost completely before slamming his cock in as hard and fast and deeply as he could . . . Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the cries, smelled the tears, and retaliated by fucking him so hard that the sound of his hips, slapping against the bastard’s bared ass cheeks cracked like thunder in the dark.  Uttering a terse grunt, grabbing his hips to yank him against him with all the power he could muster, he felt himself come, gushing deep and dark and incredibly hard.

Sparing a long moment to breathe, to regain a level of control, Caipora pulled out of him, hauled him to his feet to spin him around so that he could finally get a look at the one who would dare try to assault him.  He recognized him instantly—the little fucker known as Pablo—one of the overmaster’s bitchboys.  Eyes full of fear, he tried to speak around the makeshift gag, but couldn’t—begging, maybe?  Caipora didn’t care.

Dragging him over to a nearby bench, Caipora shoved him down on his stomach, his legs sprawled on the ground behind him as black blood seeped into the light fabric of his rent pants.  The crying started in earnest this time as Caipora shredded the remnants of those pants, let them fall off his body as his pathetic little dick sprang free, straight and pathetic.  Turned on, he was, and Caipora broke into a nasty little smile, entirely devoid of real humor, as he tore a scrap of the ruined pants free and looped it around the base of Pablo’s sad little balls and yanked the scrap tight.  “Forget it,” he growled when Pablo uttered a muffled scream.  “You’re not getting the satisfaction of shooting your fucking come anywhere near me,” he growled, flipping him back over and yanking Pablo’s ass high in the air to drive deep into him again.

“Thought you’d sneak up on me, you fucking cunt?  I’ll rip you in half and shit down your throat!” he hissed as the sobs grew louder, more frantic.  Head down on the bench, hands trussed behind his back, he couldn’t do a thing to stop Caipora, and he knew it.

“Eez,” Pablo burbled.  “’Od, eez!”

“Shut up!” he growled, slamming into him so hard that Pablo’s head bounced off the bench, thumping down, over and over, as he buried his cock, deep in his ass, as he rode him hard and fast.

And yet, the more Pablo blubbered and cried, the harder Caipora could feel himself growing.  So hard, so tight, that it hurt as Pablo’s sphincter quivered and squeezed and released, despite the come that oozed out around him with every stroke.

The little bastard uttered a half-sob, half-scream, but nothing came out of him, as his legs twitched and seized—a dry orgasm.  Caipora drove into him a few more times, then yanked himself free, grabbing a handful of Pablo’s hair, jerking the makeshift gag out of his mouth before wrenching his head down over his cock.  The heat of his mouth was enough to send Caipora over the edge, and he gritted his teeth, shoving Pablo’s head down hard enough that he hit the back of his throat and kept going with an almost painful bend.  His orgasm was intense, harsh, seeming to go on forever as he pumped surge after surge of come down Pablo’s throat, as the little shit wheezed and choked and tried to retch, but Caipora’s cock was buried too deep . . .  

Then he shoved the little fuck away, hard enough to send him, sprawling in the dirt.  Staring down at the pathetically broken man-child, Caipora felt nothing—no revulsion, no disdain, nothing at all, except a sense of grim satisfaction.  Bleeding from the rectum as swirls of Caipora’s semen mingled with the dark, sweet blood . . . trails of vomit and come, dripping from the side of his lips, down his cheek as he lay there, sobbing.  Caipora turned on his heel and walked away, leaving him, trussed up by his own whip.  Whoever found him in the morning could help him.

Or not.

Rounding the corner of the mansion, he was almost to the space below his balcony, but before he could spring off the ground, the smallest sound, barely a whimper, made him stop, made him scowl as he carefully scanned the ground.  Drawing a deep breath, he smelled her moments before he saw her.

Huddled half-hidden behind a Brazilian red cloak bush was the girl—the little girl who had come to clean him the night that the little fucker had come to take one of the virgins for sale.  “Why are you out here?” he asked.

She shifted slightly, another little whine slipping from her, though he had the feeling that she hadn’t meant to make a sound at all.  When she moved, however, the scent of blood—her blood—assailed him, and, with a softly uttered curse, he carefully, gently lifted her, holding her against his chest like he’d hold a tiny baby, and he hopped up onto his balcony.

Stepping into his room that was only lit with a couple lamps that were turned down to provide the barest hint of light, he strode over to the sofa and set her down gently.  Ugly, angry bruises dotted her arms, some as large as his fist.  She scooted into the corner, her head hung low.

He reached out, lifted her chin, saw the dried blood at the corner of her tiny mouth, the deep red welt that had just missed her eye.  “Who did this to you?” he demanded quietly, hunched forward, listening for her to speak.

She whimpered again.

“Tell me,” he said.

She didn’t want to tell him, probably afraid of reprisals.  “They . . . They say I’m clumsy,” she admitted, ducking her head once more.  “I . . . I didn’t mean to break the plate!  I was drying them, but someone knocked my arm, and it fell . . .”

He sighed.  “And they punished you.”

She gave one terse nod.

“Why aren’t you in your quarters?”

She choked a little, and he smelled the fresh salt of tears, the panic in her youki as it spiraled higher.  “They . . . said I wouldn’t be useful if . . . if I wasn’t a virgin anymore . . .”

He shot to his feet, grabbing the closest pair of pants he could find and tugged them on.  “You can sleep over there in the corner tonight.  I’ll . . . I’ll talk to the overmaster in the morning.”

She slowly lifted her chin, just enough to peer up at him through her long, spiky lashes.  When he caught her looking at him, she quickly nodded, scooting off of the sofa and over to the corner that he’d gestured at.

He didn’t really stop to think about it.  Stalking over to the tall closet, he yanked out a blanket and dropped it over her.  Settling down, her good cheek on her bent arm, she seemed to snuggle a little deeper under the blanket as her eyes drifted closed.  She was asleep almost instantly, and Caipora frowned, scratching the shallow vale in the center of his chest with his bent knuckles.

Jealous that she was so different, jealous of her already apparent beauty, he supposed.  They were right that ruining her virginity would make her useless in the Virgin House.  Even so . . . But why should that bother him?  It shouldn’t, not really.  A slave was a slave was a slave, and yet . . . And yet, that’s why he was here, wasn’t it?  To save little girls—children—like her from a lifetime of pain and suffering that they only received because the hands of fate were capricious, at best, bitches at worst . . .

He stood there for a long, long time, frowning at the form of a sleeping little girl . . .

 

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A/N:

Puta merda:  Brazilian. (lit: Fuck shit) Fuck.
Meu lindo: my handsome.  Term of endearment.

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Final Thought from Caipora:
… What am I going to do about her …?

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Blanket disclaimer for this fanfic (will apply to this and all other chapters in Anhanguera):  I do not claim any rights to InuYasha or the characters associated with the anime/manga.  Those rights belong to Rumiko Takahashi, et al.  I do offer my thanks to her for creating such vivid characters for me to terrorize.

 

 

~Sue~