InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Anhanguera ❯ Overmaster ( Chapter 4 )

“Stop.  Wait here,” Caipora commanded as he walked the four intermediate slaves toward the open area of the island where they were made to run daily.  The girls did as they were told, lining up, shoulder to shoulder with their backs straight and their arms down to their sides, chins lowered to their chests.  Satisfied that they were going to do as instructed, he turned on his heel and strode over to the overmaster, who had just stepped out of the mansion.  The tall and foreboding jaguar-youkai named Domajin carelessly flipped a long strand of light brown, almost orange, hair over his shoulder, yellow eyes scanning the area as he casually sipped a cup of coffee, ready to make his rounds, to survey the training on the grounds.

A surge of absolute revulsion, bordering on complete loathing, even contempt, was covered as quickly as it roiled through him as he headed straight for the overmaster without a change in his impassive expression.

“Ah, Caipora . . . I saw your handiwork this morning,” he remarked with a deep, dark chuckle.  “He’s in the bathhouse if you’d like to have another go at him.”

“It wasn’t recreational.  He tried to attack me,” Caipora growled.  “That aside, I found 428355 in the bushes below my balcony last night.  She was beaten and threatened.  I kept her in my room for the rest of the night.  She needs to be removed from the slave quarters.  They threatened to ruin her.”

“Did you get numbers?” he asked, arching an eyebrow at him.

“She’s been here, what?  A few days?  She doesn’t know numbers,” Caipora pointed out, “and they don’t tattle on each other.  Even at her age, I’m sure she knows that, too.”

Domajin nodded slowly as he assessed Caipora’s words.  “Threatened to rape her, you’re saying.”

He gave a curt shrug.  “There are other ways to ensure that she’s missing the virgin marker than resorting to that, given that they’d also realize that they’d be signing their own death warrants in the doing.  It’s not my problem.  I thought you ought to know.”

Domajin sighed, looking more than a little irritated that he’d have to demean himself to play referee between the slaves, which was basically what it boiled down to.  “Send her back to her quarters,” he said.  “Warn them that if they do such a thing, the price will be their lives.  And have her fitted for a lock.”

Caipora shook his head.  “A lock?” he scoffed.  “Do you think that we have one small enough for her?  Because I don’t.  Even the smallest ones we have would fall right off of her . . . and at the risk of speaking out of turn, I wonder if you know which girl we’re talking about.  She’s not slave-born.  She’s not from the breeder camp.  She’s tiny, delicate, and she’s covered with bruises all over her arms and legs—probably her entire body, but I didn’t look to verify it.  She’ll easily be worth double the standard virgins we train, and if she’s ruined, there won’t be any way to fix her once the damage is done.”

Domajin seemed surprised, and rightfully so, given that it was one of Caipora’s longer speeches.  Even so, he did think it over as he emptied the coffee cup and set it on a nearby table.  “Bring her to me.”

Satisfied that Domajin finally understood the gravity of the situation, Caipora turned on his heel, started away.  “She’s in my room,” he called over his shoulder.  “I’m late in getting these to the exercise yard.”

It was a calculated risk—one that played out in his favor.  Though he’d figured that Domajin would opt to see to the slave girl and not take exception to the perceived brush-off he’d just been dealt, a small voice in the back of his head warned him not to become too complacent at his tiny victory.  He could celebrate in the morning—if he wasn’t summoned to the overmaster’s chambers tonight . . .

“Come,” he said, leading the slaves toward the exercise yard.  They fell into step behind him, and once they reached the yard, they all started running around the perimeter in a very close pack.  If anyone fell behind, she’d feel the sting of the lash, and they knew it.

Yanking the whip from his belt, letting the coils fall free, he stood back, watched the girls with a disinterested eye.  These girls all fell into the thirteen-to-fourteen age group—slaves who had just recently begun their training in sex.

When the younger girls came to the island, they were occupied most of the time in lessons on deportment, learning above all else to keep quiet at all times, no matter what—to show no emotion, not ever.  They also were tested and then taught in whatever skills they leaned toward.  For some, it was dancing.  Others learned musical instruments, even singing.  They were taught the proper way to serve tea and coffee, to see to their owners’ every perceived need.  The virgins were considered to be the house entertainment in every sense of the word, even more so than the regular sex slaves.

They were also made to sit in on training sessions, to quietly observe the training they would one day be taught, too.  But none of the girls were touched by the trainers in any kind of way sexually, not until they were at least thirteen, sometimes twelve, depending on the girl.  They’d found over time that it was easier to train the girls if they had at least a base understanding of what would be expected of them.  The system worked well . . .

These girls were older, many of them having just started their real training.  Since the virgins tended to be kept from the real labors that entailed an everyday slave’s existence, they were made to endure daily runs instead—runs that could last anywhere from an hour to four hours, depending upon the trainer.  Caipora himself tended to only keep them moving for a couple of hours at a time.  It was nothing they couldn’t handle, but when the days of summer could be uncomfortably muggy and hot, the chance of overexertion was also a very real thing.

After exercise, the girls would report to the bathhouse to be cleaned.  It wasn’t something they were allowed to do for themselves, either.  The attendants—usually the newest enforcers sent to the island—were tasked with meticulously washing and oiling every part of their bodies.  It was where Caipora had started, too.  If they found any injuries, they were treated, too, and only after they were clean were they ready to go above to the training rooms.

There had been incidents before—enough of them that the rule was created—where girls who didn’t want to be sold as virgin slaves might actually tear their own hymens to avoid it, and many of those who did that had done so in the bathhouse.  After girls had done that often enough, they were all made to wear chastity belts of sorts—sturdy leather straps that affixed a metal plate over their vaginas—and those belts were locked on and only removed when they finally graduated to the end phase of their training: anal sex.

The virgins were given no clothing, either, just like the sex slaves at the Gauntlet.  It was easier for the trainers and enforcers to see any signs of abuse on their bodies that way—and cheaper if they didn’t have to worry about providing clothes, too.  In the Gauntlet, it was also used to keep the trainers in a heightened sexual state—something that Caipora had learned to loathe when he had ended up being the target of those frustrations more often than he ever had before or since.  Like last night, however, he was damn good at evading those attacks and turning them around on the would-be attacker, but the emotions that came with those encounters were ugly and unnatural—even if he had come to accept them, to a point.

One of the girls stumbled, and Caipora automatically flicked the whip.  She made no sound, but she did flinch when the lash cut deep into the smooth, soft skin of her ass, drawing a thin line of blood but nothing that wouldn’t be completely healed in an hour or two.  She didn’t falter, though, and that was good enough for him.

Sucking in a sharp breath as the bite of the lash flashed across his back and up over his shoulder, Caipora bit off the sound almost as quickly as it had come.  Taking small consolation in the idea that it wouldn’t much longer, he tried to will away the inconsequential pain of the lashes he’d already been dealt.

He’d lost track after fifty.

Arms outstretched, bound in ofuda-enhanced chains, legs as far apart as they would go, secured by more of the reinforced chains hooked to his ankles on the thick metal contraption affectionately known as The Rack.  It was normally used to punish slaves.  The overmaster, Domajin, however, liked to use it on anyone under him that he could, slave, trainer, enforcer . . . Whoever he chose as victim to lord his power over them.  Caipora had been summoned after he’d dismissed the slaves he was training for the night—punishment for daring to gainsay Domajin earlier in the day.

He dared not disobey the overmaster, as much as he’d have liked to.  To do so would have raised too many suspicions, and the last thing that he needed to do was that.  After all, he’d already seen what happened to anyone suspected of having ulterior motives for entering the services of the organization . . .

So, he’d had no real choice as he stripped down without argument when ordered to do so, had stood quietly one of the enforcers had bound him to the rack.  This whole scenario had played out too many times to count since he’d been assigned to the Virgin House.  Right now, Domajin, bastard that he was, was sitting in a chair across from him with a very smug grin on his swarthy face, dark eyes little more than pinpoints of light as he waited for any sign that Caipora was ready to break.

As if he’d ever give him that satisfaction.  No matter what he did to him, Caipora never broke, never cried, never screamed.  The best he’d ever gotten out of him was a few groans, a moan or two.  It had become a kind of sick game to the overmaster, and Caipora was the prize . . .

“Enough,” Domajin barked after another handful of lashes fell on Caipora’s back.  The burning sting was nothing in comparison to the rage that he felt, but refused to show.  “Leave us.”

He didn’t move until the enforcer left, snapping the whip on the way out the elegant doors.  Then he stood, wandered over to Caipora, his smile disappearing as his arm shot out, backhanding him across the face.  His head snapped to the side as blood pooled in his mouth, but he didn’t make a sound.  Reaching up, Domajin grabbed the top of The Rack frame and yanked it down till it locked into place, bending Caipora over at the waist and effectively exposing every last bit of him to the whims of the overmaster.

He was completely bared—a feeling that he loathed—which really didn’t matter in the end, not when he knew what was coming.

Taking his time as he disrobed, the overmaster’s lust was a palpable thing.  It seethed in his malignant youki, brushed over Caipora like a warning—or a sick and twisted promise.  Caipora could only hope that the man was hornier than usual, that he’d get the whole humiliating thing done fast.

“I’ve considered it, and I’ve decided to leave the girl with you.  You’re no more interested in women than I am,” Domajin said rather nastily. It wasn’t entirely true, but Caipora wasn’t about to disabuse him of that idea, either.  “And if anything happens to her while in your care—anything at all?  You’ll pay for her with your body—with your soul.”

Gritting his teeth, knowing damn well that Domajin, in his perverse little brain, was actually hoping that something would happen to her, Caipora said nothing as he watched Domajin remove his boots—and then, his pants.

He didn’t even flinch a minute later when Domajin grabbed a handful of hair, yanked his head up to stare into his eyes.  “You’re going to suck my dick.  You’re going to suck it like you love it.  You’re going to make me come.  If you don’t make me come . . .” Trailing off with a rancid chuckle, he looked entirely amused as he stroked his long, thick cock.  “If you don’t make me come, I’ll give you to the enforcers for the night—and I will watch until you break.”

Swallowing hard when Domajin let go of his head with a rough shove, he closed his eyes, ignored the bitter burn that ignited, deep in his belly—a hatred so thick, so cloying—that he had to tamp it down to keep from biting the bastard’s penis off.

Lapping at the head of the cock that was slapped against his lips, tasting the salt, the bitterness of the pre-ejaculate that coated the head of his penis and attested to just how horny the bastard truly was, Caipora willed his mind to blank, to let him act on base memory as he sucked Domajin’s dick between his lips, his saliva tinged with a bitter bile, tainted with the lingering tinge of his own blood, taking him in deep—deeper as Domajin’s hands sank into his hair, as he fucked his mouth with the precision of a lover . . .

His already thick dick thickened even more as he groaned, grunted, quickened the pace of his fucking.  So close to coming—Caipora could feel it in the exaggerated hardness of his shaft, in the pre-come that oozed out of his dick—as he jerked and twitched between his lips, hitting the back of his throat, and Caipora willed away the urge to puke . . . Suddenly, though, the overmaster whipped his dick out of his mouth, his breath coming in harsh wheezes.  “My balls.  Suck those!  And don’t you dare make me come yet!”

God, he hated those disgusting, hairy things.  Choking back his own revulsion, he gently sucked the overmaster’s sack into his mouth, rolling his tongue around them as they expanded even more.  Pointing his tongue, flicking the tip over his nuts time and again, then he grimaced inwardly as the overmaster’s body quaked.  With a loud grunt, the overmaster reared back, came hard, his semen splattering all over Caipora’s face.  A second later, a harsh slap, a hard rake of claws over the already rent flesh of his back drew an involuntary gasp from him as that damned fucking dick slipped between his lips once more.

And he had no choice as he sucked the last of the bastard’s come out of his dick, swallowed it as he tried desperately, not to think about just what he was doing.  The wet and slurpy sounds of that cock, sliding into and out of his mouth echoed in his ears in a horrible, disgusting, depraved kind of way, and all the while, Domajin keened, groaned, caressing Caipora’s head, alternating between those almost tender touches and grasping his hair, shoving his face down hard on his cock.

The rocking motions continued, the lurid sounds, echoing in the quiet chamber.  “Suck it . . . Yes . . . Oh, God . . . You love my cock, don’t you, you dirty little bitch . . .?  Harder . . . Harder!”

It was almost laughable, in a really morbid kind of way.  He had no control at all over the power of Domajin’s thrusts.  His dick was throbbing in his mouth as he sucked and released, sucked and released, ignoring the metallic tinge on his tongue—the bile he couldn’t swallow—as saliva mingled with traces of his blood, dripped around Domajin’s dick, down his balls . . .

With a loud growl as Domajin threw his head back, as he arched his back, thrusting his cock deep down Caipora’s throat, he came again, hard and fast, so much come that it burbled around his dick, filling Caipora’s mouth, dribbling from his lips, down his chin, his throat . . . He thrust deeper once, twice, before allowing his vile dick to slip out of him at last.  It took everything within Caipora to swallow, knowing that spitting the semen out on the floor would not end well . . . The last time, Domajin had made him lick it off the marble.  It was not something he wanted to repeat, even if his entire body wanted to puke in the worst way . . .

Domajin hit a button on the panel by the door.  It lowered a huge, plate glass mirror from the ceiling, and Caipora bit down on the inside of his already rent cheek, unleashing a fresh stream of blood, filling his mouth—overwhelming the taste of come.  He knew this game, too—it was one of the things that Domajin loved—to watch himself fuck Caipora—and to make Caipora watch, too.

Striding over behind him, he spared a moment, splitting open Caipora’s ass cheeks as he slowly rubbed a handful of oil onto his still-hard dick.  Then he slammed himself into Caipora as deep and hard as he could, grabbing a hold of Caipora’s hair, forcing him to watch his own defilement.  Unable to look away as his face flushed as much from passion as from anger and humiliation.  One emotion fed the next in a vicious and vile circle . . .

The sudden and complete sheathing unleashed something deep within him—that vile lust that he couldn’t help as his own cock sprang to life.  Seeing that was enough to make Domajin chuckle.  It fed his lust as he rode Caipora hard, as The Rack groaned under the strain of the brutal fucking.  Caipora’s cock bounced, smacking against his stomach, against his thighs, and the pleasure-pain was brutal—and as much as he hated it—entirely welcome.  The burn around his asshole only served to fuel the raging passion, however misguided, and for the first time since he’d walked into this chamber hours ago, he groaned, shuddered, unable to stop himself as the bastard riding him smiled in an entirely predatory sort of way.  Pre-come dripped from the head of his cock, the violent bouncing sending it, splattering on him, on the floor, as high up as his chest and as low down as his ankles . . .

Domajin chuckled again, leaning toward the side, giving Caipora’s dick a rough squeeze.  It was enough to set off the shockwave explosion as his own come hit the floor in a series of dull plops.  Held as he was, he had no choice but to watch as Domajin lifted his hand, covered in his come, to his lips, as he licked it off of his fingers in a perverse show of pleasure.  Banging against him as hard as he could, Domajin was still sucking Caipora’s come off his hand when he shot his load deep inside him.  That didn’t stop him as he continued to fuck him, harder and harder, deeper and deeper, as a second explosion of his own shot come all over his stomach . . .

“Beg for me, my Caipora,” he said, leaning down, hissing his words, his body sticking to Caipora’s bloodied back in a burning slick as the wounds that were just beginning to heal over were rubbed open once more.

“P . . . Please,” he growled, unable to summon the meek tone that Domajin desired.

He started to withdraw, leaving only the quivering head of his dick just inside Caipora.  His entire body shuddered in revolt, in the hateful knowledge that as much as he despised it, he desperately wanted it, too.  “Beg,” he demanded once more.  “Beg for my cock.”

“If I don’t, will you  . . . stop . . .?”

He didn’t know where those words came from, but they were enough to set Domajin off, and he couldn’t control the scream, as much from sheer pleasure as from the pain as the overmaster slammed into him so hard that Caipora’s teeth rattled.  The orgasm that shot out of him was instant and intense, leaving his legs weak, his body shaking—and his face flushed in a disgusting sheen of absolute need.

He had no idea how long it went on, orgasm after intense orgasm until the entire room reeked of nothing but spent semen.  It dripped off of Caipora’s body like sweat, dripped out of his ass in a rancid trickle.  Filled with so much come that his bowels literally hurt—ached—and then, finally, with another lion’s roar, Domajin orgasmed—and so did Caipora—and, at last, the overmaster pulled out of him, stumbled back a few steps, as semen and other things slid down his legs unchecked, relieving the pressure in his bowels, and for once, he really didn’t care, felt no real humiliation at what he’d been reduced to.

It still wasn’t quite over.  Shuffling around to face him once more, Domajin grunted.  Caipora’s lips parted without argument, taking the man’s stinking and putrid dick into his mouth, sucking him clean as he told himself furiously, over and over, not to puke, as the stench of his own body overwhelmed his senses, both taste and smell.  He had no choice, and that was the worst part of it . . .

Domajin rasped out a wizened-sounding laugh—full of triumph as he deluded himself into believing that he’d won this round, too.  One last orgasm to choke down, the bitter and metallic taint on his tongue, the stench that was trapped in his nose, in his mouth, the conflict of his rising bile, the will to force it down, anyway, and Domajin chuckled unsteadily when he finally stepped back.

“Good, good . . . Very good.  You’re learning, Caipora.  I’m your master.”  He bent down, face to face, his gross visage twisting into a sneering grin.  “I want you to say it, my pet.”

Caipora swallowed hard, concentrating more on not vomiting than he was on what the arrogant bastard wanted to hear.  ‘Just . . . Just say it . . . Who cares if you mean it . . . Who cares if he’s fucking delusional or not . . . Just . . . Just say it . . .’ his brain told him.  “My . . . master . . .” he rasped out.

Domajin laughed.  “That’s right . . . And you . . . I have a special treat for you.  Consider it an honor.  I’m going to take you with me to the overmaster meeting.”

“The . . .?”

He seemed overjoyed by his latest idea, even as Caipora’s brain struggled to catch up.  “Oh, I’m sure your past overmasters will enjoy getting to see you again, don’t you think?  To see you . . . to humble you . . . We’ll pass you around like a fuck doll, Caipora . . . and you will kneel before me and call me master . . .”

Caipora remained silent, even as every synapse in his brain balked at the idea . . .

She wasn’t sure what woke her.

It was late, but she didn’t know what time it was.  The antechamber of the master’s room was completely dark: shadows atop shadows, vague forms with no real definition.  Was it the dull thud she’d heard somewhere in her dream?  Was it a sudden sense that something had changed . . .?  Or . . .

The door opened with a low groan of the hinges as he shuffled into the room, moving so slowly, so heavily, so unlike the master who had found her last night, huddling in the dark behind the bush.  A strange scent assailed her nose, or maybe it would be simpler to say that it was a bunch of smells, all muddled together: murky, dark . . . and somehow . . . She smelled blood—that, she could identify easily enough.  The other smells, though—those confused her.  She’d smelled things like that before—part of it, anyway—but . . .

His youki was ragged, tattered, and somehow, almost by instinct, she realized that he did not want her to see him, did not want her to be awake.  How she knew that, she wasn’t sure, but she lay completely still, until he had passed by the little pallet she lay on and into his room.

He didn’t close the door behind himself, left it open just a crack.  A dim light flickered to life in the room, and, against her better judgement, her heart hammering hard against her ribcage, she sat up, scooted closer to the cracked door, and slowly, cautiously, peered inside.

He was naked, his body covered with splatters of stuff that was slowly drying, but it was the sight of his back, covered in so many lacerations that she couldn’t count them all, that made her cover her mouth with her tiny hands.  He was a master, wasn’t he?  Then why . . .?

He just stood there for a long, long time.  He didn’t move at all.  She didn’t know what had happened, why it had happened, but there was something about the way he stood there . . . It was almost as though he were caught up in a trance . . .

Biting her lip, she winced.  She didn’t know what to do.  She was a slave, and she knew that.  She didn’t dare to a thing without being told.  She’d learned that long, long ago.  Thinking for herself always got her into trouble, even if she had good intentions.  She didn’t know how many times she’d been disciplined for acting out of line.  Do what you were told and nothing more, she’d been lectured so many times.  But . . .

‘He’s . . . He’s not okay . . .’ a little voice in her head told her.

‘I . . . I know, but . . .’

That voice sighed. ‘Maybe . . . If you just made him a bath, maybe that would be okay . . . That’s not something out of your orders.  Strictly speaking, you have to make him a bath in the morning, and . . . and maybe it’s close enough now . . .? And you’re supposed to tend to his needs, aren’t you?  Right now, those cuts on his back . . . Those need to be cleaned and tended . . .’

Before she could talk herself out of it, she stood up, squeezed through the crack, skirting the edge of the room in an effort to draw as little attention as she could.  Once inside the bathroom, she had no choice but to flip on the light.  It was way too dark to see otherwise.  The sound of the flowing water made her grimace as she hurriedly adjusted the taps, and with every moment that passed, she braced herself to receive his ire.

But it didn’t come.

She gathered towels from the linen closet behind the partition—there was no door on the bath area—just a stone partition that did not reach the ceiling and probably was only waist high next to the master . . .

She set the towels out, frowned as she tried to decide whether or not she should prepare his toothbrush.  Somehow, she didn’t think that he would want that at the moment.   Even so, she did it anyway, carefully spreading the toothpaste, filling a glass of water for rinsing, meticulously adding the mint and rosemary drops to it, and, as she shut off the water, she bit her lip as she carefully dipped out two buckets to set next to the in-floor tub, as she carefully added some rose essence from a heavy amber vial to the bucket for rinsing.  Then she filled a small earthenware basin, adding aloe and tea tree oil to the mix.  Those tasks only took so long, however, and now that she’d taken it upon herself to do what she’d done, the idea of actually approaching him frightened her.  It wasn’t that he frightened her.  He didn’t, though she wasn’t sure why that was so, but he . . . He was still one of the masters, and masters weren’t kind . . .

When she made herself step out of the bathing area, she frowned.  He still hadn’t moved, not at all, and maybe that was the reason she was able to shuffle forward, made herself stand before him, her chin to her chest, her eyes on his feet.  “Master, if you please . . . I . . . I made your bath,” she said, her voice, a whisper in the quiet.

And then, she waited, trying not to fidget, for the proverbial gauntlet to fall . . .

But it didn’t.

He said nothing, just turned and shuffled off to the bathing room.

She blinked, turning her head just far enough to stare at the empty opening.  She could hear him as he stepped into sunken tub, could hear his hiss of pain as his rent back touched the water.  It was that noise that drew her forward, hesitant, unsure, her bare feet whispering against the cold marble floor.

Peering around the divider, she frowned.  He was sitting upright in the tub, kind of slumped forward in a defeated kind of stance, but again, he wasn’t moving.  The sense that he really wasn’t okay nudged aside her anxiety, and she quietly stepped forward, peeling off her dress before slipping into the tub behind him.

He didn’t even flinch when she gently dabbed at his back with a damp wash cloth that she’d rinsed in the basin of aloe and tea tree water.  The dried blood washed away, and she was relieved to see that the cuts weren’t nearly as bad as they had appeared, that some of them were already closed and others were healing well.  The closed ones left behind pinkened lines, but those would fade in a day or two.  He said nothing, but he did lean forward, exposing more of his back to her.  She cleaned it, too, and set aside the soiled cloth before reaching for the small bucket to wet his hair.

His eyes were closed as she tilted his head back, washed his hair thoroughly.  He let her do what she would without word, without complaint, without emotion.  She rinsed his mud-brown hair, then poured the bucket of rosewater over his head.

He still didn’t open his eyes as she washed him well, and she bit her lip as she pushed herself out of the tub and quickly dried off with a rougher towel.  She was tugging her slip back on when his voice came to her—low, tired . . . exhausted . . .

“Thank you.”

She blinked, stood still as stone, her eyes widening, her skin paling, an almost panicked kind of feeling ricocheting through her.  She had to have heard him wrong.  Masters didn’t ever thank a slave . . .

When she dared to look at him, though, his eyes were closed again, and, for a moment, she almost thought that he was sleeping.

Swallowing hard, unsure if she really ought to push her luck or not, she drew a deep breath and plunged in, before she could stop herself or talk herself out of it, shifting her weight from one foot to the other a few times, wringing her hands a she slowly shook her head.  He didn’t see it.  “Shall I dry you?” she finally asked.

He grunted.  “No.  Just . . . turn down my bed and go find yours.  I . . . I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She still had no idea, just what to think, but she did as she was told, carefully turning down his blankets, fluffing his pillows . . . Then she hurried back out of the room and closed the door before feeling her way back to her pallet, where she lay back down with a sigh.

‘He . . . He’s different from the other masters,’ she thought as she closed her eyes.  ‘I don’t know why, but . . . but he is . . .’

And she was still pondering that as she drifted back to sleep, curled up on her side, her hands tucked up under her cheek.