InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Anhanguera ❯ Presentation ( Chapter 7 )

Caipora's head snapped to the side with the force of the closed-fisted blow—just one of many that he’d already taken.  Kneeling on the floor in the middle of Domajin’s room, his wrists shackled to his ankles, he’d lost count of just how long he’d been punished already—slapped, kicked, punched, quite literally, yanked by the cock and balls by the chain he still wore . . . Yelled at, berated, verbally, physically, and mentally demeaned, and all because he’d dared to enjoy, fucking a woman . . .

He hurt all over, damn it.  Forced into submission so many times that he felt like he’d been bulldozed after Domajin had dragged him out of the assembly room and up here, only to be trussed up and violated over and over again . . . He knelt in a puddle of come and vomit and blood—body spent, sore, drained.  Stomach roiling as he fought back the need to purge yet again, he couldn’t control the uneven, harsh breathing that rattled out of his raw and aching throat.

The overmaster had flown into a blind rage over something that wasn’t even Caipora’s fault, and he’d told himself that he didn’t dare to put the bastard in his place.  He could have before all of it had really started.  It would have been easy enough for him to deal Domajin a dose of smackdown, but that voice in the back of his mind had reminded him, over and over again, that he didn’t dare; not if he wanted to stick to the overall plan—breaking the slave ring wide open.  So, he had no choice, but to allow the half-crazed bastard to shackle him, and that had been his first mistake.

After the initial lust of rage had been assuaged, fucking Caipora so hard, so deep, that he’d thought that he was going to die, after all, Domajin had decided that Caipora needed yet another reminder of his dominance, and that’s when the beatings had started.

“You will not humiliate me in front of the other overmasters!” Domajin growled for the hundredth time since he’d slammed the door and locked it tight, backhanding Caipora yet again for added emphasis.  “How dare you!  I chose you for this honor!  I chose you!”

Struggling to breathe as the overmaster balled up his fist and punched him hard in the side of the head yet again.  Caipora slowly brought his head back up straight, ignoring the explosion of curiously dulled pain, the blood that trickled from his mouth, down his chin, down his neck, down his chest, and he swallowed hard, forcing the pooling blood down his throat despite the unwelcome lurch as bile rose, high and fast again, his expression entirely impassive as he willed his mind away.  It registered somewhere deep down that Domajin was acting like some kind of jilted lover.  The realization did nothing to him, one way or another.

“You are mine—mine!” Domajin hissed, rage igniting an unnatural fire behind his yellow eyes, dark brows drawing together in an angry slant, light orangish-brown hair seeming to stand almost on end as the static of his youki stung Caipora.  “Say it!”

Caipora remained silent, opting to take another strike than to admit to anything of the sort.

His fury grew, no doubt tweaked by the idea that Caipora did not seem to care, Domajin leaned down, grabbed a handful of his hair, stuffed his putrid cock between his lips again.  “Fuck me,” he growled, slapping Caipora until he complied.  Closing his eyes, drawing him in deep, allowing him full access as the jaguar-youkai thrust again and again and again, hammering against Caipora’s raw and aching throat.  Domajin laughed, but it was tinged with a bitterness that went bone-deep.  Caipora ignored the sharp thud—cock slamming into the back of his already swollen throat—sucked him hard, flicked his tongue over the head of the overmaster’s engorged cock, all the while, trying his damndest to make the bastard come, if only to stop the onslaught, just for a little while . . .

“You want it, don’t you, you little bitch?” Domajin hissed, pummeling Caipora’s face with his dick, with his balls.  “You love it . . . love it . . .”

Caipora choked back the urge to gag, clamping his lip-wrapped teeth down on the ridge at the base of his cockhead, eliciting a roughened growl from the overmaster.  “Swallow it, bitch,” he hissed, yanking Caipora forward so hard that he almost fell, jerking him deeper and deeper as he shot another searing spurt of orgasm down his throat . . .

Staggering to his feet again, his eyes flared when Caipora pitched forward slightly, vomiting up the come and other brackish things.  The slimy, filmy purge ran down his body, and Caipora didn’t care.  It occurred to him in a detached kind of way that the entire tableau had to look so much more awful than it even felt—his bruised and bloodied body, contorted on the floor in such a wasteland of blood and come and vomit . . . and he wheezed out a soft, humorless laugh at the absolute absurdity of it all . . .

Drawing back to slap him yet again, enraged that Caipora would dare to laugh during his punishment, Domajin stopped, mid-strike, when the curt knock sounded on the door.  “Go away!” he snapped, drawing his hand back once more.

“It is I, Anhanguera,” the voice called, his youki seeping around the door, and the underlying threat that surged in it was undeniable.  Caipora wondered why he would be agitated, but it took too much concentration for him to hold onto the thought, so he let it go, instead.

Uttering a string of dire invectives under his breath, he spared another moment to slap Caipora once more before he turned on his heel and stomped over to unlock the door, the overmaster barely managed to contain his show of temper when the door opened, revealing the unruffled head of the organization.

Caipora paid no attention as Anhanguera slipped into the room, as he glided past Domajin and completely dismissed him.  Kneeling before Caipora instead—kneeling in that fetid mire of body fluids in his impeccable suit, his ridiculously expensive shoes—and that absurdity made Caipora want to laugh, too—Anhanguera gently grasped his chin, turned his face to frown at him before pulling off his darkened glasses, revealing his strange, milky white eyes—eyes that had no pupils.  He shifted his gaze upward to meet Domajin’s without relinquishing his hold on Caipora’s chin and without turning his head.  “One should take care of one’s toys, lest one have one’s toys taken away,” he said in a strangely casual tone, despite the irritated flare in his youki.  “Unlock him.”

Domajin didn’t reply, but he did hurry to unlock the shackles.  They fell away, and Caipora slumped to the side, nearly at the reach of his limits.  After everything he’d endured in the last few hours, it was just a moment too much.  He felt himself losing consciousness, a strange sense of light-headedness washing over him, and he tried to fight it—desperately sought to regain his composure—and ultimately lost.  As his eyes slipped closed, seemingly of their own accord, he thought that he felt someone catch him.

But he wasn’t sure.

The sound of dripping water: a rush, a trickle, registered in his ears well before he opened his eyes—well before his mind had a chance to kick in.  It made no sense to him, and yet, he knew those sounds, what they meant.  But he couldn’t comprehend it at the moment.  Something warm on his face . . . soft and infinitely careful, bringing to mind a whisper of a memory—of other hands, just as gentle, just as tender . . .

“Be more careful, my darling . . . It took nine months to bake you, and we cannot replace you . . .”

That voice . . .

“Ah, you’re awake . . .”

Eyes fluttering open, it took a moment for him to discern anything in the semi-darkness.  “Wh—?” he started to say, shaking his head in an effort to ward off the fuzziness that just wouldn’t let go, pushing himself up on his elbows, a disjointed sense of fight or flight—a subtle warning—forcing him to move . . .

Gentle hands pushed him back again; a soothing, a shushing, as though he were little more than a small and frightened child . . . “Now, now, just lie back.  You’re fine now, you know.  You’re safe . . . I apologize, my Caipora.  I should have come for you sooner . . . I thought that he’d get it out of his system after a simple fuck or two, but he did not.  I should have known . . .”

“A . . . An . . . Anhangue . . . ra . . .” Caipora rasped out, blinking slowly, the edges of the man, fuzzy, almost glowing—entirely whimsical, which was even more bizarre.

The dragon-fish-youkai chuckled, the sound incredibly warm, settling back on his haunches beside the chaise lounge that Caipora was stretched out upon.  He didn’t remember coming in here—had no real idea where, ‘here’ even was.  They were alone, he could tell, but that was all he really knew.  “Where . . . am I?” he whispered, unable to summon the strength to speak out loud.

“Water,” Anhanguera said, as though he hadn’t heard the question at all.  Turning to retrieve a bottle of water, complete with a white straw, off the small table, he scooted closer, reached behind Caipora to help him sit up enough to sip the water.  “My physician said that you suffered a mild concussion,” he went on in a very conversational tone.  “Rest is what you need . . .”

“D-Dom . . . ajin . . . I—”

The softest touch of his hand against Caipora’s cheek . . . “I will speak to him—remind him that he needs to take better care of his . . . toys . . .” Anhanguera assured him, his deep voice, dark and smooth, glided over Caipora.  “He will not trouble you again tonight . . . You’ve bewitched him,” he said simply, gravely, leaving Caipora to figure out just what he meant.  “If you were a slave, then it’d be an issue.  Jealousy is such an ugly emotion, especially when a slave is involved.  Domajin fancies himself in love with you.  You’re an employee, though, and that makes all the difference.  Tell me, Caipora . . . Why do you suffer his wrath?  You could just walk away.  You do not need to accept his petty rages.  It’s clear that you don’t feel the same as he.  Or am I wrong?  Do you enjoy it . . .?”

“I . . . need the money,” he rasped out, voice strained, hoarse, from the fucking he’d given—and received.  It was the reason he always gave whenever anyone asked.  It worked about as well as any other, he supposed.

Anhanguera nodded slowly, as though he finally understood.  “So . . . You sold your soul to me for the money . . . I suppose that is not an uncommon reason.  Let me guess: a poor family?  An ailing sister?  A gambling father?  Tell me, my Caipora . . .”

“It’s . . . personal,” he mumbled, closing his eyes, trying to defy Anhanguera the only way he dared.

“Everyone possesses their own demons,” he allowed.  He reached over, ran the back of his curled knuckles against his cheek.  “You will stay with me tonight.  If you will sleep, then sleep.  If you have need for anything, there is a button next to the door.  If you buzz them, one of the slaves will come, will see to your needs.  One of them will come to you shortly, help you relax—see that you have a more thorough cleaning—much better than my paltry attempts at being your nursemaid have proven to be.”

“Where . . .? Where am I?” he asked again as the boss rose to his feet, as he slipped the dark glasses back over his eyes.

Anhanguera chuckled as he strode toward the door.  “You’re in my chamber—where no one would dare molest you.  Now, rest.  I will be back after the meeting concludes.”

He stared at the doors as they closed behind Anhanguera, his confusion growing with every passing second.  The strange undercurrent, delineating everything that the dragon-fish-youkai had said . . . the tenderness in his touch . . . the pensive look in his eyes . . . He had no idea what any of it meant, and understood even less, why . . .

Why his heart was hammering so hard against his ribcage as he stared at the closed doors . . .

Settling into the plush chair in the center of the guest chamber that still stank of the cleaners and harsh compounds used to scrub away the mess left behind from the unpleasant business of punishing one’s inferior, Anhanguera accepted the delicate cup of tea from the Virgin House overmaster.

“My . . . My apologies, sir,” Domajin said, making a low bow from the waist in deference to the old youkai.  He didn’t actually sound sorry in the least . . . “I lost my temper . . .”

Anhanguera waved off the apology, mostly because it didn’t actually sound sincere, was more of a perfunctory thing that he felt that he had to say, gesturing at the chair across from him instead.  “It happens,” he allowed, pasting on a tolerant little smile.  “In the future, I suggest that you take care not to inflict lasting damage on him . . . He’s only yours for as long as I allow him to be.”

The overmaster stopped, mid-squat, his expression registering his displeasure at the subtle warning.  “Y-Yes, of course,” he managed to say.

“You were angry because the others selected him to discipline the slave girl . . .?  Or was your rage piqued because he so obviously enjoyed his task of punishing her?  Is Caipora your weakness, overmaster?”

A flash of emotion flickered to life in his face, but he masked it quickly enough—not quickly enough to hide it from Anhanguera—a man who had spent his life, studying the psychology of others in order to exploit it all for his own benefit.  The fool truly did fancy himself in love with Caipora . . . “He’s a good fuck; that’s all.”

“A very good fuck, apparently—good enough that the other overmasters are chomping at the proverbial bit to have their time with him, too.  He could make you a lot of money tonight, couldn’t he?  Unless . . . Unless money is of no interest to you . . .?  Unless Caipora himself is the prize you seek . . .”

“It’s not—”

“I’ve seen the videos,” Anhanguera went on as though he were speaking of the weather, the sunrise, the sunset.  “Hours and hours that you’ve taken from him—fucked him until he’s weak and exhausted—but never quite broken, now is he?”

The overmaster shifted uncomfortably.  Not much was ever hidden from Anhanguera, and he ought to have known that—but he apparently didn’t.  “He . . . He will,” Domajin insisted, unable to mask the hint of belligerence in his tone.

“I wonder . . .”

“Sir?”

Anhanguera chuckled.  “He is very proud, my Caipora . . . Brute strength alone is not nearly enough to sway him.  You dominate him because he allows you to do so—because you are overmaster.  He has bested every comer—every last one—except, of course, for those in positions above his own.  I have been watching him for a very, very long time.  He forgets you the moment he walks away from you.  Your problem is that you want him too much.”

Domajin grunted, but let the subject drop as silence fell over the room—an uncomfortable and lingering thing that Anhanguera knew from experience tended to break lesser men.  It only took a few minutes as Anhanguera quietly, calmly sipped his tea before Domajin shifted uncomfortably, first once, then a few times as the stillness grew louder, far more profound—far harder to break . . .

“Are you here to . . . to punish me?” Domajin finally forced himself to ask.

Anhanguera’s eyebrows rose above the rim of the darkened glasses, an exaggerated show of surprise.  “Why would I do that?” he countered mildly, lifting the cup of tea again.

“I . . . I thought you might have believed that I took his punishment a step too far,” Domajin grumbled, reaching for his cup, but setting it back down almost immediately.

“Any farther would have been too far.  You inflicted a minor concussion on him—don’t worry.  He will remain in my protection until you leave my island,” Anhanguera remarked calmly.  “I can understand, of course.  My Caipora . . . He is magnificent . . .”

He did not miss the way the overmaster’s jaw tightened at the casual and intentional slip of the possessive word.  He nearly chuckled out loud.  Men like Domajin were easy to manipulate—all too easy, actually.  All it took was ferreting out his weakness . . . and, luckily for Anhanguera, Domajin’s weakness was most certainly Caipora, that beautiful enigma, like a stallion that would never truly be tamed . . .

Not that he could rightfully blame him.  It hadn’t taken Anhanguera long to figure out that there was something about that one in particular—something that compelled them all.  Everyone who saw him wanted to possess him.  Maybe it was the unbroken nature of him, the unbridled passion that simmered just below the controlled façade or perhaps a baser lust based upon the strange and compelling beauty of him . . . Anhanguera had seen enough of it to know that it wasn’t a fluke or an isolated incident.  He possessed a rare magnetism that was made all the more desirable, given that Caipora had no idea, the unmitigated power he already held in the palm of his hand . . . Something about that beauty of bone and body, those mesmerizing eyes, the devils that lingered in the darkness of his gaze . . . In time, he would grow to be a force to be reckoned with, and Anhanguera?  Well, he had big plans for Caipora . . . very big plans . . .

“I have a task for you, Domajin.  Do it well, and you shall be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams.”

The man’s head snapped up at that, his simmering outrage quickly draining away.  “What is that?” he asked, obviously intrigued.  Narrowing his eyes behind the cover of the smoked glasses he wore, Anhanguera could see right through him—the reward he wanted was, of course, Caipora.

Anhanguera broke into an enigmatic smile, and he took his time, refilling his cup and settling back with it once more before he deigned to answer.  “It’s quite simple—and you might even enjoy it.”

“Sir?”

“I told you, it’s simple.  I want you to break my Caipora.”

Eyes flaring wide, he slowly shook his head, stared at Anhanguera as though he couldn’t rightfully make sense of what he’d just said.  “But . . .”

“Break him—his will—his pride,” he stated once more, this time, his tone, flat and even.  “Try, anyway.  Whatever you have to do, do it.  Encourage your enforcers, your trainers: dominate or be dominated.  Strap him to The Rack every fucking night.  Fuck him till he begs for you to stop, until he cries tears of blood.  Do whatever you have to do, Domajin—however you must do it.”

A slow, nasty smile surfaced on the overmaster’s murky countenance as full comprehension of what he’d been ordered to do took root in his mind.  “You’d have me declare open season on him, then.”

Anhanguera nodded.

Domajin chuckled nastily, yellow eyes taking on a demonic kind of glow—the look of a predator who had spotted his prey.  Too bad Caipora was as far from a weak and pathetic little jackrabbit as he could possibly be, and sometimes—sometimes—the arrogant hunter could easily be thwarted by the iron resolve of the quarry that was determined to survive . . . “Absolutely . . . Watching him being subjugated would almost be as good as breaking him myself . . . It’ll be my pleasure.”

Anhanguera smiled, too, allowed the man his moment of gloating before he leaned forward, as though he were about to tell the overmaster the secret of life and death.  Maybe he was.  After all, Anhanguera had a feeling—a very deep feeling—that sooner or later, Domajin was going to end up being his own worst enemy, especially whenever Caipora was involved.  “There’s just one thing, Domajin.”

The overmaster blinked, his amusement dying on his lips.  “Sir?”

Anhanguera’s smile widened.  “Do not kill him.  If my Caipora dies, then you die, too.”

Caipora awoke with a start, unsure what, exactly, had disturbed his rest.  The room was quiet and empty, just has it had been when he’d fallen asleep, to start with.  After the servant had come to administer a bath, to give him a full-body massage, using herb tinctures, oil extracts in a sultry and erotic rubdown that encompassed every last inch of his battered and bruised body, he’d eaten just a few bites of the delicious food that was brought to him before stretching out on the chaise and drifting off to sleep again.  The food tray had been whisked away, but on the small table nearby was a large bowl of fruits and nuts along with a very large ice bucket with bottles of cachaça and wine and water and some other various drinks.

Sitting up slowly, he worked his jaw back and forth.  Surprisingly, it was the only part of his body that still ached just a little, but not nearly as badly as it would have, had he not been given that massage.

The nap had helped, too. He’d rather forgotten what it was like, to fully relax, even in slumber.   It always seemed that some part of him was fully aware, always monitoring his surroundings, waiting for any sign that something wasn’t right—a hint or a whisper or a movement in the darkness . . .

Something about the absolute stillness of this place was comforting, even if Caipora wasn’t entirely sure, why that would be.  There was a sense of security, of constancy, that he didn’t feel very often, not here in this world.  Everything in this room was in shades of black and gray, to the point that even the stingy light took on the almost dingy hue.  That didn’t bring to mind, the places that he remembered.  No, it was more of an overall feel, a heightened sense of civility, perhaps . . . Maybe it was that the overwhelming sense of a certain familiarity in the surroundings was present here that was lacking at the slave islands . . . Some small part of this place reminded him of . . .

Deliberately pushing that thought aside—memories of things that were best left in the past were harsh and bitter and so hard to reconcile—Caipora rubbed his face as though to brush away the pleasant languor that made him feel a little slow, a little sluggish, just a little off of his game.

He leaned over and retrieved a handful of grapes, was sitting back, slowly chewing one of them, when the doors opened, and Anhanguera stepped inside.  Not for the first time, Caipora noticed just how easily the man moved, almost seemed to glide across the black travertine floor.  He’d changed at some point out of the light gray suit he’d worn when he’d stepped in to stop his punishment at the hands of the enraged overmaster.  The white suit he wore now over a starker white and rather nondescript shirt reminded Caipora of the suit he’d worn on that day when he’d first encountered the enigmatic owner of the slave ring.  The white only served to highlight the contrast of his mocha skin—his sharp and high cheekbones, the broad but strong curve of his nose . . . Very strong features—wide forehead, brushed with ebony strands of softly shining hair, slanting ebony eyebrows, wide, full lips . . . The concave angles of his sunken cheeks . . . The jawline that neither bulged nor narrowed too sharply . . . Not a handsome face, per se—not in the classic sense, anyway, but a captivating one, nonetheless . . .

Spotting Caipora, lounging but leaning up on his elbow as he casually popped another grape into his mouth, the slave boss chuckled softly, the sound of it, filling the chamber despite the overall softness of the sound.  There was a warmth in it, a genuine sense of affection.  It didn’t serve to put Caipora on edge.  Quite the opposite, really . . . “You look like you’re feeling much better,” he remarked, apparently pleased at the marked change in Caipora’s physical appearance.  He pulled a grape from the stem and casually slipped it between his lips.  “Did you eat the food I had prepared for you?”

“Some of it,” Caipora allowed, his eyes trained to the dragon-fish-youkai in a wholly predatory kind of way.  “I fell asleep before I could finish it.”

Anhanguera nodded slowly.  “Of course . . . If you’d like, I can have them bring you something else to eat?  If you’re still hungry . . .”

Caipora shook his head.  “I’m fine,” he replied, unable to shake the trace wariness that lingered in his tone.  After so long in the organization, he supposed that it was second nature.

If Anhanguera had heard it, he ignored it as he smiled.  “The other toys are enjoying some free time by the pool before their evening assignments, though those assignments are subject to change.  It really depends upon you.  Would you join them?”

Caipora shrugged.  “I’d rather not,” he said.  Here or there didn’t really matter.  The only difference was that in here, he only had Anhanguera to deal with.  Out there?  He’d be surprised if they didn’t try to gang up on him . . .

Anhanguera smiled, as though Caipora had pleased him, which hadn’t been the intent, but he didn’t bother to disabuse him of the notion, either.  “Will you remain here with me for the night, then?  Or would you rather be returned to your overmaster.  I believe he’s had requests for you—offers of favors or money . . . Domajin stands to make a small fortune off of you tonight—if you want to help him in that regard, anyway.  If you don’t—” he paused, slipping off the glasses with his long and elegant fingers.  A sudden and entirely unsettling image of those fingers, wrapped around his cock made Caipora grit his teeth as he watched Anhanguera toss the glasses carelessly onto the table beside the fruit bowl, “—I won’t tell him.”

“You mean, I get a choice?” Caipora challenged before he could stop himself, unable to repress the bitter edge from his voice, deliberately forcing that mental image right out of his mind.

Anhanguera chuckled.  “Ah, my Caipora . . . You always have a choice.”  Taking his time as he shrugged off his jacket, loosened his tie, he slowly paced the floor.  That jacket had hidden his body well, Caipora realized.  Lean, yes, but broad of shoulders, his chest tapering to a very trim waist, the sinewy strength that he wore like a second skin seemed to permeate every part of the room, from the high rafters against the vaulted ceiling to the deepest corners, bathed in shadows.  The richness of his youki was an electric thing, and, for the first time, Caipora caught a glimpse of the absolute power that Anhanguera possessed in spades . . .

“Not really,” Caipora heard himself saying, somehow unaware that he’d started speaking at all.  “One does not challenge the might of the overmaster and come out . . . alive.”

Anhanguera nodded.  “Usually.  There are certain circumstances, though I suppose I shouldn’t tell you about that.  You know, in case you were ever tempted to challenge his authority on a whim.”

“I don’t do anything on a whim,” Caipora replied, slipping another grape into his mouth.

“Don’t you?  Do you truly possess that kind of control?  Is your will truly that strong?  You realize, don’t you, my Caipora . . . Domajin seeks to own you.”

“He can do what he wants,” Caipora muttered, irritated by the nonchalance in Anhanguera’s voice.  “He’ll never be my master.”

Anhanguera chuckled once more, obviously amused by Caipora’s show of bravado.  But he opted to drop that line of conversation, at least, for the moment.  “Tell me how you like the Virgin House.”

“It’s all right,” Caipora replied slowly, watching as Anhanguera wandered toward him.  “It’s a job.”

“May I?” he asked, gesturing at the space beside him.

Against his better judgement, he nodded, mostly because he knew damn well that he really couldn’t deny Anhanguera, even if he were being exceptionally congenial . . . Even as he had to wonder why it was so . . .

“As for your job, be truthful with me?”

Caipora frowned as he tried to get a better read on the head of the organization.  He really couldn’t tell if the man was that good of a liar or just that incredibly glib.  “All right,” he replied, having no intention of keeping that sentiment if the questions proved to hit too close to home.

“You don’t enjoy the virgins?  Training them?  Watching them perform their . . . duties . . .?”

“Training is not the same as fucking,” he pointed out.  “You have to remember all the time, what the goal is.  They learn to fuck me.  I don’t fuck them back.”

His answer amused Anhanguera, and he chuckled pleasantly.  “Then today is the first pussy you’ve gotten in a long time, no?”

Caipora nodded once, leaning forward for another handful of grapes.  “Since I left the Gauntlet?  Yes, but that . . .”

“And you did not enjoy that, either?” Anhanguera challenged, amusement exposing the sharp, tiny teeth—horrifying . . . and somehow, compelling, too . . .

“Some of them became fairly skilled,” he allowed.  “It was still very impersonal, more like performing because it’s what you have to do.”

“And the difference today?  The slave girl?  You enjoyed her.  We all felt . . . your pleasure . . .”

He didn’t look away.  As though it had become a battle of wills, he gave a careless shrug.  “It was different.  You gave me freedom to do whatever I wanted as long as she did not come.”

“That makes sense,” Anhanguera allowed, nodding slowly as he considered Caipora’s answer.  “Would you like for me to send for one of my slaves?  Do you prefer blonde?  Red head?  Brunette?  I’m sure we have one that would strike your fancy . . . You can do what you will with her, and whether or not she is allowed to orgasm?  That would be entirely at your discretion.”

“I’ve had enough sex for one day,” he muttered.  “Thanks, anyway.”

“So you have . . .” he mused.  Staring at him for a long, long minute, Anhanguera seemed to be trying to see right into Caipora’s soul, those pearly white eyes glowing just a little brighter.  Slowly, he reached over, took a grape from Caipora’s hand, and even slower still, he lifted that grape, ran his tongue over the delicate skin, pierced it with those razor-sharp teeth.  Caipora watched, unable to look away, as Anhanguera held up the fragile fruit, watched as a few drops of juice oozed out of it . . . Caipora stared, too, unsure why the image held so strongly in his mind—the tiny droplet that quivered on the hazy, dark flesh, holding on so desperately as it slowly swelled and then rolled down the side, disappearing between the deep but stingy crevice where Anhanguera’s finger held the grape . . . Anhanguera repeated the process, producing that small and crystalline droplet, and Caipora watched in silence as he slowly reached out, outlining Caipora’s mouth with the pierced grape, gently squeezing it, allowing more of the juice to drip out of it onto, his lips as an involuntary shiver ran straight down Caipora’s spine . . . Anhanguera chuckled softly, huskily, slipping the grape between his slack lips, in deep enough to let his thumb caress Caipora’s tongue as he slowly, slowly withdrew it, all the while, staring into his eyes in an almost mesmerizing sort of way, letting his fingertips brush over Caipora’s as he took another of the grapes from his hand . . .

“Everything about you,” Anhanguera murmured, giving his head just the slightest shake as he popped the second grape into his own mouth, as he slowly, thoughtfully, chewed.  “That’s why they want you, my Caipora.  Your lips that quiver and sigh—so plump, so lush—more seductive than any other lips that I have ever seen . . . Your body that could easily be a sculpture in the most renowned museums the world over—hard and sleek—and magnificent . . . That defiant bearing that you wear like a second skin, leaving women, wanting to be possessed by you—leaving men, wanting to possess you . . . Those eyes that burn and glow like fire, like ice, with your demons and your devils—and your angels . . . The way you look when you orgasm—your pure ecstasy, your emotions that you cannot hide . . . That insular moment of transcendent torment so fierce that it burns you, boils you in your own skin—the exquisite pain—and the absolute pleasure . . .” Trailing off, he narrowed his eyes slightly, still refusing to remove his gaze, even as he sought to see into his soul.  “What is it you want, my Caipora?  What do you search for?  What is it that you desire . . .?”

Caipora wasn’t sure what kind of answer he was expected to give.  He didn’t rightfully know what kind of answer he wanted to give.  A tiny voice in the back of his mind screamed at him, reminding him, over and over that he dared not fall into the devil’s trap—that Anhanguera was the monster in the darkness—the one that Caipora wanted to bring down . . . That voice yammered on, yet Caipora . . . Caught up somewhere between bemusement and longing and a lingering sense of wariness that he simply couldn’t quite shake, he said nothing—nothing at all . . .

And yet, it seemed so natural, so normal, as Anhanguera crawled over him, between his legs, supporting his weight on his straightened arms, the fabric of his clothing, dragging so maddeningly over his half-erect cock, unleashing a tremor, a thunder—a deluge: a lust so powerful, so shocking, that Caipora was left, stunned and reeling as Anhanguera leaned in, closer, closer, the heat of his breath, fanning something deep inside him.  Stopping just shy of kissing him, his gaze dropping to his lips, Anhanguera uttered a sound—not quite a groan, not quite a sigh—something in between . . . “Do you want me, my Caipora?  Do you understand how much I want you . . .? If you say the word . . .”

‘He . . . He’s leaving it up to . . . me . . .?’

The thought flickered to life, and he winced inwardly.  Something deep inside him felt as though it were winding, tighter and tighter, almost painfully so, as another warring sensation felt like a spindle, wound too tightly, as it snapped and broke and spun away at a frightening speed . . . Yet he held back, knowing instinctively that giving in, that giving up . . . The very last scraps that remained of his soul . . .

He could almost taste the grapes that still lingered on Anhanguera’s tongue, on his own lips, the crazy sweetness that condensed on Caipora’s skin as he flicked out the tip of his tongue to lick it away.  The taste was enough to wrench a groan from him—a low, soft groan full of the tormented and wicked desire to give in, just this once—the compulsion to be owned—something he’d never wanted before—a shocking and terrifying and . . . and thrilling thing . . .

Anhanguera leaned in, brushed his lips over Caipora’s in a sinfully tender caress.  “We’ll stop . . . if you . . .  just . . . say . . . the word . . .” he murmured, his lips whispering against his, over and over again.  “No reprisals . . . no possession . . . Your choice . . . my Caipora . . .”

Caipora’s answer was nothing more than a quiet half-moan as the kiss deepened, the stroke of tongues, a gentle thing, as a need the likes of which Caipora had never felt before surged through him in violent, jolting waves.  Suckling on Caipora’s tongue, the dragon-fish-youkai brought up a hand, grasped his cock with a burning, but tender touch, slowly pumping him up and down as Caipora’s head fell back, as he gasped, as painful, awful throbbing made him feel as though he were coming undone.

He let go of his dick, and Caipora bucked his hips, unable to control himself as those hands flattened against his chest, stroking, kneading as his skin seemed to jump to meet his fingers, the fans, the torturous caress . . . The simple touch was enough to send sparks and spirals of need, straight through him, straight to his already throbbing cock, and he groaned . . .

Anhanguera slipped against him, the roughened fabric of his clothes, chafing Caipora’s bare skin.  Settling between his legs, the master of all grasped his dick in both hands.  Caipora started to raise his head, to look down to see what he was doing, but the absolute heat, the moisture of his mouth as it closed over his cockhead wrung a cry from deep within him as his hands wrapped around the sides of the chaise, claws digging deep into the cushions . . . Anhanguera worked him slowly—so slowly, drawing his tongue up the length of him, back down again, over and over in agonizing and excruciating lethargy, turning his head, kissing his way up and down his painfully hard shaft, only to slip his mouth, lips rolled over his teeth, down the throbbing length of him in one fluid stoke . . .

Sucking him deep, pulling back slowly, time and again as pleasure and pain collided, as his orgasm floated, just out of reach, and as the speed increased, as Caipora panted, groaned, nearly whined, he could feel the precome seeping out of his cock.  Anhanguera lapped that up, too, swallowing as though it was little more than water, and he was a man, dying of thirst, as he worked his body with an expert precision.  Want and need warred with the sense that he shouldn’t want it, shouldn’t need it, shouldn’t crave it, and yet . . . and yet . . . dear God, he did . . .

The suction of it released with a loud pop as Anhanguera pulled back, only to flick his tongue over his head with maddening speed as he pumped his cock, up and down, squeezing, releasing . . . Letting one hand go, only to feel the heat of his nimble fingers wrap around his balls, Anhanguera kneaded them, tortured them, pricking them gently with the tips of his claws, unleashing an intense rush of shivers, up and down Caipora’s spine, wrung a deep growl from the depths of his soul.

Pleasure so intense that it bordered on pain, lingering there on the cusp of a powerful orgasm, Caipora lifted his hips, tried to convey his need when words failed him, and just when he thought that he couldn’t take any more, Anhanguera opened his lips, drew him back in, swallowing his cock so deep, so incredibly deep, that he could feel the dragon-fish-youkai’s swollen lips against his engorged and agonizingly tight balls.

Throwing his head back, unleashing a cry that echoed in the chamber around them, Caipora lifted his hips hard, his orgasm swallowed as fast as he came.  The pulsations seemed to go on forever, beat after beat, unleashing a steady stream of come as he rasped out harsh breaths, as he implored God and the devil and every entity in between, unsure whether he wanted his pleasure to go on or to stop.  Anhanguera drank it down until Caipora felt as though he were wrung dry—spent—and yet . . .

Lifting his head, Anhanguera smiled at him, and Caipora blinked, tried to grasp just what had happened—what was still happening . . .

And why he wanted so much more . . .