InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Anhanguera ❯ Insanity ( Chapter 8 )

Narrowing his eyes as the girl fidgeted before him, he crossed his arms over his chest and slowly shook his head. “Lift your chin,” he ordered.  She did, albeit, reluctantly.  He scanned her face carefully for several seconds.  “Arms up.”

She did as he commanded.

“Turn—slowly.”

She did that, too.

He finally nodded.  “All right,” he allowed, satisfied that nothing bad had happened to her during his absence.  “As you were.”

She let her arms drop back to her sides.  “Would you like a bath, Master?”

He shook his head.  “No, but since you look fine, am I to assume that the kitchen slaves were nice to you?”

She shuffled her feet.  He’d thought before that it was a nervous quirk.  He was starting to wonder, however, if she weren’t just that fidgety.  “They didn’t beat me,” she replied.

He figured that was good enough.  He turned to say something to her, but stopped, sniffing once, then again as he crossed his arms over his chest and quirked an eyebrow at her.  “Tell me why you reek,” he demanded dryly.

The girl scrunched up her shoulders.  “I . . . I don’t like the bathhouse, Master,” she whispered.

He rolled his eyes.  She didn’t see it.  “And why don’t you like the bathhouse, Five?”

She grimaced.  He only saw a trace of it, but he felt it more in her youki.  “It hurts,” she grumbled, then quickly shook her head.  “Um . . . it hurts, Master.”

He made a face, shook his head.  “The scrubbing, you mean?”

She nodded miserably.

He sighed.  “And you’re telling me that you’ve avoided the bathhouse since you arrived here?”

She nodded again, this time, having the grace to at least pretend as though she were contrite for the gross oversight.

Common sense told him that he ought to send her to the bathhouse right now.  Watching her slumped shoulders, her obvious distress at the idea of being made to endure those scrubbings, especially when those same things were still so horribly fresh in his own mind, he sighed again.  “All right.  Go draw yourself a bath,” he said, jerking his head toward the bathing area of his room.  “You can take one in here this time, but you’re going to get used to the bathhouse sooner or later.”

She shot him an incredulous look before she remembered that she was not supposed to look him in the eye unless instructed to do so.  Before he could reprimand her, however, she took off toward the bathing area, and Caipora pivoted on his heel, moments before he actually smiled.  It wasn’t a big smile—was just a trace.  It was more than he done in a very long time . . .

He waited until he heard the water taps shut off before following her into the bath area.  She was standing in the bath tub, using one of the pristine white cloths to lather herself well, and he knelt on the edge, leaning forward to pluck the cloth out of her hand.  “M-Master?” she squeaked, whirling around to face him, looking like she expected to be punished for whatever she must have done wrong.

“Turn around,” he told her.  “You can’t reach your back, now can you?”

She did as he instructed, pulling her hair over her shoulder, twisting it around and around while she waited for him to finish scrubbing her back.

He finished and handed her back the cloth and was about to get up, to leave her there, until he realized that she probably couldn’t wash her hair without help, too.  So, he helped her with that before dumping a bucket of clean water over her head.  She gasped and sputtered, rubbing her eyes with balled-up fists.  Satisfied that she was finally clean, however, he dried his hands and braced himself on his knees to push himself to his feet once more.  “Clean out the tub when you’re finished,” he told her.  “Next time, you’re using the bathhouse.”

“Y-Yes, Master,” she said, drawing a deep breath before sinking under the water to rinse herself clean.

Shaking his head as he strode out of the bathing area, he grabbed the leger off the desk and moved over to the sofa to scribble down the morning’s training notes.

They’d gotten back to the mansion around nine, and he’d strode away to resume his duties before Domajin could get any weird ideas in his head, though Caipora didn’t even try delude himself into believing that he wasn’t going to be summoned when the night came.  He knew it from the time he’d stepped out of Anhanguera’s mansion with his own clothing on.  Everything had seemed fine as he’d strode toward the helicopter—at least, it was until Anhanguera had stepped up to see them off, pulling Caipora aside, locking him into a ridiculously wanton kiss that had left Caipora with the boner from hell and that had set Domajin’s ire, spiraling thick and ugly . . .

That rage had only grown and festered on the trip home.  Blindfolded and headphoned again for the return trip didn’t matter.  Caipora had felt the malignance in Domajin’s youki multiply and spread.

That kiss . . .

He’d tried not to think about it on the flight back to the Virgin House.  He was trying not to think about a lot of things.  The mind-numbing blow jobs, the lingering kisses . . . the whispered endearments and caresses that had gone on all night long as Anhanguera had touched him—soft, fleeing touches . . .

And yet, aside from the blow jobs, there hadn’t been anything else, and Caipora wasn’t sure if he were more angry or disappointed that Anhanguera had been good on his word.  By the time the morning had broken, Caipora was a raw bundle of nerves with swollen lips and balls so tight, so painful, that he thought that he was going to die . . .

So, he’d spent a good hour in the shower, jacking off over and over again, hating himself for feeling disappointed that his choice in the matter hadn’t been taken away; hating himself for being unable to swallow his pride and ask for what he’d so desperately wanted—needed . . .

He’d just gotten himself back under control as it was when he’d headed for the helicopter, and that stunning, shameless kiss had very nearly brought him to his knees . . .

It wasn’t until they had lifted off, were flying away from the undisclosed island that bitter realization surged over him, left him feeling empty and raw and . . . and angry as hell . . .

Anhanguera . . . Somehow, in those hours of his lust-induced stupor, he’d managed to forget, hadn’t he?  Anhanguera was the one man he was sworn to bring down, and if he wanted to put an end to the slave organization . . .

He’d have to kill him.

685482 keened softly, trying to keep from uttering too many noises as she rocked against Caipora’s cock.  He sat without moving, slumped back slightly in the comfortable chair in the clinically empty room that he used for these training sessions.  Her body seemed to undulate around him as she bounced on him, taking him in deep with every grind of ass against hips.  When she started to whimper, he reached up, hand on her throat in silent warning, and she choked the sounds down.

“Longer strokes—deeper strokes,” he said, his voice little more than a monotone.

685482 complied immediately, altering her efforts, and he gritted his teeth, willing himself not to come yet.  Her harsh breathing echoed in his ears, and he tried to block that out, too.  Trying desperately, not to think about the night before, about the things that did and did not happen, wasn’t helping, and it seemed like the more he tried not to remember, the sharper those memories became.

With a grunt, a groan, he yanked her down hard, coming in her with an uncanny force.  Her body constricted around him, pumping him, draining him completely as the moisture from her virgin pussy smeared against him.

He let her stay where she was for a few precious seconds before gently but firmly pushing her off.  She staggered just a little before catching herself, and she was still breathing deeply when she poured water into the basin to clean him.

Off to the side, 435578—an earth-youkai that had already had a turn—sighed.  Caipora noticed that the scent of her arousal had yet to subside, but he chose to ignore it.

“Bathhouse,” he told the two girls— 435578 and 685482.  They gathered the basin and the wash bowl as well as the soiled cloths and filed out of the room.  435578 shot him one last, long look before she left, and he sighed.  “You all: kitchen,” he commanded at the novice girls who were sitting along the wall in silence.  Five was one of them, but she filed out behind the others without a sound.  It was almost time for them to deliver the trays of food to the collective masters’ rooms—which meant that Caipora likely didn’t have much time before Domajin summoned him for whatever perversities he had in mind for the evening.

Yanking his pants on, he glanced in the small mirror on the wall, frowning when he spotted the overmaster, lingering just outside the doorway.  He’d been watching the session, which wasn’t exactly unusual.  That he’d apparently opted to do so from the shadows, however, was . . . Their eyes met for a brief moment in the reflection of the mirror.  Then Domajin turned on his heel and moved away.

Caipora frowned at the overmaster’s rather odd reaction.  He didn’t care to sit there and analyze it, though, and he left the room, pulling his shirt on as he headed for the stairs.

Truthfully, after the last couple days and training today, Caipora really didn’t want much more than food and his bed . . .

He’d just reached the sanctity of his bedroom when Five hurried in with his dinner tray.

“Did you make that?” he asked pointedly since he’d instructed her as well as the kitchen staff that only she was to make his tray and that only she was allowed to bring it to him.  It saved him a good amount of worry on that front.

Five nodded.  “Yes, Master.”

“Good,” he said, flopping down on the sofa as she set the tray down and started to unload the various plates.  Plain rice . . . a bowl of very fragrant and hearty pork stew . . . a bowl of fresh, green salad . . . a few other small things, and a sealed bottle of cachaça . . . Standard fare.

He made quick work of devouring his meal and drinking the entire bottle of booze.  Given that he hadn’t had much, aside from a few bites of food and a couple handfuls of grapes in the last couple days, it wasn’t surprising that he was damned near starving.  By the time he was finished, he felt much better than he had all day, and that was a plus.  He was also feeling pleasantly drowsy, though he didn’t dare lay down yet.  The drink, he reasoned, would help him to cope with Domajin later, and, given his current state of mind, that was probably for the best, too.

Five gathered up the dishes, set the back on the tray, and shuffled out of the room to take them back to the kitchen.  Watching her go, he frowned, tugging the whip from his belt, pulling off his shirt and emptying his pockets on the desk before sitting down to remove his boots and socks.  Considering what he knew was inevitable, it was easier to leave these things here.

He needed to sneak down to the cove soon—needed to take a scent tab before the effects of the last one wore off.  He didn’t dare chance it now, but it was something he couldn’t afford to neglect, either.  With any luck, Domajin would get all of it out of his system tonight, and maybe, despite the idea that he really, really hated it, Caipora might do well to eat a slice of humble pie and just go along with whatever twisted scenarios that the overmaster might have in his head just to get it over and done with sooner rather than later . . .

When the curt knock came on the door less than ten minutes later, though, he wasn’t at all surprised.  Striding through the bedroom and into the antechamber, he let out a deep breath, knowing in his gut, just what was awaiting him . . .

Gritting his teeth, wishing that he could go back in time, could have warned himself about the stupidity of showing the overmasters the true abilities of The Rack, Caipora ground his teeth together as Domajin used the swinging motion to drive his dick into Caipora’s ass harder and faster than he ever had before.  Uttering a low groan caused more by the jarring thumps as his body wrecked against Domajin’s than because of any misplaced sense of pleasure, the overmaster chuckled nastily.

“This is better than that old, flaccid bastard, isn’t it?” he muttered, yellow eyes glowing with an almost manic kind of light.  “I’m not going to stop till you scream—till you yell at the top of your fucking lungs that you love—my—cock!”

Wincing despite the effort not to do so since the last words of Domajin’s statement were punctuated by bone-jarring thrusts, Caipora stubbornly refused to open his mouth, refused to acquiesce to the bastard.  On his back, as it were, he could feel every nuance of the overmaster’s movements so much more intensely than he ever had before.  This position, however, also made something else entirely possible—something that Caipora had already come to despise in the brief time that he’d experienced it so far: Domajin could easily reach Caipora’s cock, too, and his flesh burn that felt like sandpaper on the sensitive skin was damn near killing him.  As if he could read his thoughts, though, the miserable bastard leaned forward, rubbed his hand in a viscous glob of come, grasping Caipora’s dick once more, jacking him off with a furious abandon that hovered somewhere in the veil between pleasure and torture, but the added fluidity of it after so long of the pain side of it being so magnified, was horrifying—and so, so welcome . . .

Yet despite that—or maybe because of it?—Caipora had come more than he ever had before, which, in turn only fed the fires of Domajin’s already overinflated ego.  Damned if his body didn’t crave the release as he grunted, moaned, his own orgasm, splashing down on his chest, his stomach—his face.

“Beautiful Caipora . . . even more beautiful, covered in come,” Domajin murmured, his voice a throaty rasp, his hands rubbing over his body—as much of it as he could reach—with a ghastly sort of tenderness.  Seconds later, he growled, hissed, rutted hard, blowing even more semen, deep inside Caipora.

And still, he showed no sign of stopping, grasping Caipora’s legs to stop the rocking, pistoning him away and back again with his arms.  “You love my dick!” he snarled like he was trying to dictate Caipora’s emotions, claws digging into his legs.  “Say it, damn you!”

Caipora grimaced and tried to block out the pain, tried to ignore the uncomfortable pressure in his bowels that had taken about as much as they possibly could without some sort of reprieve.  He still refused to speak.  Somewhere along the line, it had become a battle of wills—a battle that Caipora refused to concede . . . Retreating once more into the memories of the night before, where he’d found a level of fantasy, Caipora concentrated on the kisses, the touches, the caresses that he’d loved and, in turn, loathed.

Nibbling kisses, along his collarbones, down the vale in the middle of his chest . . . the scrape of dangerously sharp teeth . . . the shivers and sighs and moans as every nerve in his body seemed to swell and to shatter . . . Anhanguera had no reservations, held nothing back as he went down on him, time and again in the night.  Kissing, stroking, the velvet feel of his tongue on Caipora’s cock, over and over again . . . and he’d so desperately wanted to say those words—the invitation that Anhanguera had desired . . . but it was the last shred of dignity, the very last of his pride that he clung to, instead—a small victory when, for the first time ever, he’d wanted the utter and complete violation, the violent orgasms that he’d only found in the arms of men . . .

Rising up, kissing him so deeply, the taste of his own semen, thick in Anhanguera’s mouth, on his lips, his teeth, his tongue, and that had only served to feed the passion, the need . . . Rolling him over, pinning him against the mattress of the huge bed, Caipora had kissed his way down Anhanguera’s dark body, savoring the hard planes, the rough but sleek skin—the vague taste of salt, lingering on his tongue . . . Anhanguera’s harsh breathing, his near-panting as Caipora drew in him completely, fucking him with long and slow strokes—rhythmic, controlled—fondling his balls in a gentle hand . . . Feeling them tighten as his nearly purple cock, the dusty, darkened pinkness of his penis head thickened between his lips at the same time . . .

He felt Anhanguera’s orgasm rise up through his shaft, moaned in pleasure as his mouth filled with the hot gush.  The bitterness was tempered by the spiraling passion that goaded him as he swallowed once, twice, as he kept on fucking, his only thought, his only goal, to hear his name, tumble from Anhanguera’s lips . . .

“Ah, my Caipora . . . You’ve learned your lessons well . . .” Anhanguera purred, reaching out, stroking his cheek with gentle fingers.

His answer was a renewed effort, a frenzy in his fucking as he drew him in as deeply as he could . . .

Caipora felt himself coming again, sprays of semen burning his skin, dripping down the head of his dick, down his shaft onto his balls, sprays dribbling onto his chest, his stomach, falling onto the marble floor with splattering noises that echoed in his ears . . . The same come that Anhanguera had devoured with a voracity that shocked him—thrilled him . . .

Domajin’s frenetic laughter snapped him out of his mental space.  “Tell me!  You want me, not that old freak!  The next time you see him, you’ll tell him you don’t want him!  You tell him that or I’ll kill you!  I’ll kill you right now!  Do you hear me?”

Caipora said nothing, retained his stubborn silence despite the warning whispers in his mind: the ones who told him that he was treading on very thin ice . . .

“Say it!” he screeched, letting go of one leg in favor of lunging forward, grasping him by the throat, his claws digging in deep.

Caipora choked, feeling his blood, dripping down his skin around those claws as they dug a little deeper.  A red haze started to bleed into the ring of his vision as the light dimmed slightly, as he gasped and wheezed—and just as the thought that he was about to die registered in his fogged mind, he shivered, shook, convulsed as another orgasm—an intense and painful release—shot out of him with a force he’d never felt before—an all-consuming-might that blocked out the claws that were slowly choking the life out of him . . .

Gasping suddenly, dragging in as much air as he could when those claws abruptly released, Caipora couldn’t control the harsh and rasping near-wheezing as he struggled to breathe.

Domajin stepped back, his dick springing free, and suddenly, he was there, leaning over him, stroking his cheeks with trembling fingers . . .

“You stupid little fuck!  Look what you almost made me do!  I would have killed you—killed you!  But no, you couldn’t just say what I wanted you to say!” he snarled, his voice, his tone, completely at odds with the oddly tender way he was touching him.  

Caipora managed to pin the overmaster with a reproachful glower as late coughing rattled through him, forcing the dripping from his ass to shoot out in torrential falls with every cough contraction.  He didn’t care.  He was past the point of humiliation.  Whether Domajin realized that he’d pushed his game just a little too far or if he really did understand that he’d very nearly lost control completely, Caipora didn’t know and didn’t rightfully give a great goddamn, either.

As long as he was finished, then Caipora didn’t care about a thing . . .

Leaning against the wall, feeling the cool stone beneath his temple, breathing still labored and painful, throat aching like something had been crushed, even though he knew better, he couldn’t quite muster the energy to open his door.

He was just bone tired—a weariness—an exhaustion—that had been building over the last eight-plus years, and sometimes, it was easier to deal with—to ignore—than at others.

Grabbing him by the arm, yanking him around to face him, the overmaster glowered at him.  “Don’t make me do something like this again, Caipora . . . You will tell Anhanguera that you will not be his pawn,” Domajin hissed, pinning him with what should have been an intimidating look.  To Caipora, it reminded him of a petulant child who hadn’t gotten his way.  “And whatever you’ve been doing during training with those virgins?  Watch yourself.”

“During . . .?  What the fuck are you talking about now?” Caipora snapped, voice barely more than a rasping whisper, well past his point of diplomacy for the night.

Lip curling back in a snide sneer, Domajin chuckled nastily.  “They’re hot for you.  You don’t know?  So, whatever you’re doing to encourage it—stop it.  If you ruin them, it’ll be the last thing you do . . .” Reaching out, slowly stroking Caipora’s face, his cheek, a look of mock devotion that made Caipora’s stomach churn . . . “Don’t make me kill you, Caipora . . . Or, what did Garza call you?  Diego . . .”

He sighed, rubbing his face, noticing absently, just how shaky he really was.  Nerves shot, done with that crazy bastard . . . He didn’t know where Domajin was getting his delusions, but it only put more pressure on him.  He hadn’t been doing a thing with those virgins—nothing but training them like he had every other one that had come before.  As far as he was concerned, Domajin was teetering on the edge between arrogance and insanity, and it was a very precarious place to be . . .

Ludicrous, if the overmaster truly believed that he’d done a thing to draw attention from any of the virgins, anyway.  They were nothing but a task to complete: a box on a form that needed to be checked.  Little more than afterthoughts, weren’t they?  And yet . . .

And yet, that shouldn’t be, either.  Wincing as another thought occurred to him, he closed his eyes for a moment.  Those virgins—those girls—those slaves . . . They were the reason he was here, weren’t they?  They were the souls that he was trying to save.  So, why was it so easy to forget them—to scoff and to scorn them for things that they’d learned in their lifetimes of mistreatment?  Why was it that he simply spared them no thoughts?  Dismissing them as quickly as the lessons were over, thinking of them only when they stood before him . . .

It could be as simple as the idea that, even back in his prior life, girls like these shy, timid creatures, held no fascination for him.  He’d always preferred girls who knew who they were, what they wanted, and the ones here were the polar opposite, no matter what camp you were in, no matter how you tried to spin it.  The women here were cowed into submission—the male slaves were, too, for that matter, though in an entirely different way.  The males were trained in a much different fashion—much more brutality, much more force.  Either way, they were all used to a life of being abused and mistreated, the spirit had been beaten out of them well before they were even old enough to leave the Isle of Children . . .

Letting out a deep breath, he pushed himself away from the door frame. As much as he wanted a bath, he wasn’t willing to wait for one to be filled.  The need to get some much-needed sleep superseded the filth he wore.  Come, puke, shit, piss . . . at some point, it all ended up on him . . .

The antechamber was empty, and he scowled.  The tiny pallet on the floor was arranged neatly with her one blanket stretched out and turned down, but Five . . .?

Striding across the antechamber—he hadn’t realized he could move that fast right now—he threw open the bedroom door.  The girl was in the middle of turning down his bedclothes, and the resounding thud of the door hitting the wall and bouncing back startled her.

Jumping back, she shot him a wild-eyed look, instantly dropping the pillow she’d been fluffing up, chin smacking down against her chest, arms snapping down against her sides, she waited wordlessly.

Late worry made him clutch at the wall, leaning heavily against it for a moment before pushing himself away, staggering the few feet of space between it and the high backed wooden chair nearby, he let out a deep breath and scowled at her.  “Why aren’t you in your bed?” he snapped, his flare of temper having more to do with the instant and intense worry that she’d somehow disappeared.

“I . . . I made you a bath, Master . . . I woke up, and you weren’t back, so, I—”

He grimaced.  “Slow down, Five,” he chided.  “A bath, you say?”

She nodded.

He didn’t wait to hear more.  Stumbling off to the bath area, he didn’t stop as he stepped into the pool and sank down.  He was in such a hurry to get out of the overmaster’s chambers that he’d forgotten to grab his pants.  Then again, he wasn’t about to go back in there to retrieve them, and he’d emptied his pockets, left the whip he always carried here in his room before he’d opened the door.  The loss of a pair of jeans?  Negligible, as far as he was concerned.

The quiet splash of water drew his attention, and he glanced over his shoulder in time to watch as Five very carefully dampened a washcloth in the small bowl she’d set aside for such things.  She was in the water with him, ready to wash him down.  He leaned forward, allowed her to carefully scrub his back.  The motion untwisted a knot deep in his muscles, and he groaned softly.

“I’m sorry!” she blurted, misinterpreting his reaction.  “I’m sorry, Master!”

“You’re fine,” he assured her, letting his head fall back, allowing her to wet his hair down to wash it.  Her tiny fingers were infinitely gentle, and when he sighed softly, she slowed her movements, as though she realized that he was deriving some measure of pleasure from her careful ministrations.

“Master?” she asked at length.  He could tell from the tone of her voice that she’d had to gather her scattered courage to force herself to speak at all.

“Hmm?”

“They . . . They say you’re the overmaster’s pet.  What . . .? What does that mean . . .?  Is it because you’re a dog-youkai?”

“Wha . . .? Uh, no,” he replied.  “Who said that?”

She looked distinctly nervous about being put on the spot like that.  “Just, umm . . . The other masters,” she blurted quickly.  “I . . . I don’t know their names . . .”

He made a face, sat up as he turned to look at her.  “It just means that the overmaster . . . likes to make me play his games.”

His explanation only seemed to confuse her more.  “But I thought games were supposed to be fun,” she ventured.  “But you don’t sound like you think they are—Master.”

He grunted.  “Five, some people in this word enjoy using or . . . or hurting other people.  Ones who do that are bad . . .”

She frowned, her eyebrows drawing together, wrinkling her little nose.  “Then the overmaster is . . . is bad . . .?”

“No, the overmaster is . . . He’s just selfish, and selfish people do really . . . hurtful things . . .”

She seemed to understand that well enough, and she took her time, lathering up a fresh cloth so that she could scrub the rest of him.  She worked in silence for several minutes, but he could tell from the expression on her face that she was thinking.

“All right, what is it?” he finally demanded, but his tone was gentle, soft—maybe softer than he’d meant for it to be.

She shot him a quick glance, a nervous kind of look.  “If you’re his pet, does he hurt you?”

He looked away, unable to help the way his expression darkened, the impassive anger that filtered into his thoughts.  “No, Five . . . He . . . He cannot hurt me . . .”