InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Anhanguera ❯ Helpless ( Chapter 9 )

“Master?  What are they doing?”

Glancing down at the overly-inquisitive slave girl standing next to him on the balcony, he followed the direction of her gaze to the wild revelry that was already underway, even if it was a little early for the onset of the Saturday night festivities.  Not for the first time, he wondered if allowing her to speak more than the other slaves was a good thing.  She seemed to realize that she shouldn’t do that with any of the other masters, so he supposed it was all right.  Even so, there were moments when her natural curiosity wasn’t exactly a good thing, and right now was one of those times.

“Do you remember when I told you that you’re not to leave this room on Saturday nights?” he asked her.

She nodded.

“Those masters down there . . . They’re getting drunk, and when masters get drunk, they tend to get stupid, too.  Chances are that they wouldn’t do anything to you, but if you went down there, you’d probably see things that you wouldn’t understand, either.”

She shot him a probing kind of look that he felt more than saw since he was still frowning at the unfolding debacle.  “But if you were with me, then they wouldn’t touch me, right, Master?”

“I’m not taking you anywhere near them,” he told her flatly, curtly.  “Not now, not ever.  You’ll stay away from it or I will beat you with the whip.  The things they do there aren’t for tiny slave girls, understood?”

She frowned, trying to figure out how serious his threat really was, he supposed.  He could see the question before it came out of her mouth, and he wasn’t at all surprised when she voiced it, too. “Like what, Master?”

“What part of, ‘things you wouldn’t understand,’ did you not get, Five?” he countered, holding up his index and middle fingers on both hands to affect the air quotes at her.  She had the nerve to giggle at him, and he snorted.  “You’re not allowed to giggle at your master, either,” he informed her.

She blinked, her pale blue eyes staring up at him in the filmy darkness.  “I’m not?”

He sighed. It occurred to him that he really wasn’t very good at arguing with her.  “No,” he said, trying to look stern.  “You’re not.”

Her little face scrunched up in an exaggerated show of trying not to be amused, and he rolled his eyes.  “Forget it.”

“Forget what, Master?”

He sighed again.  “Just don’t make a habit out of laughing at your master,” he said.

She giggled again.  He slowly shook his head.  “All right.  Your work’s done for the day.  Turn down my bed and go find yours.”

The giggle turned into a distinct pout.  “I’m not sleepy, Master . . . Can you . . .?  Would you . . . tell me the story about the puppies again?”

Glancing at the desk—the unfinished letter than he needed to complete soon, Caipora slowly shook his head.  “Not tonight, Five.  I’ve got some things I have to do—and I told you then, it’s not my job to entertain you.  You should be entertaining me—showing me what you’ve learned in your lessons.  Stuff like that.”

She wrinkled her nose.  “I don’t like to dance,” she complained.  “Master’s mean, too . . . If I can’t get the steps right, he smacks me with the flail.”

Though it was a common enough punishment for small trespasses, the idea that the person in charge of Five’s lessons would take a lash to her, even a small one, bothered him.  “Get it right next time, and he won’t do that,” Caipora said instead, tamping down the irritation—and the desire to find her dance master and smack him with a flail a time or ten . . .

She considered her options and tried to give him her most pathetic look.  “I’ll go to bed,” she slowly drawled, an obvious attempt to play on his sympathies.  He could tell from her tone that she was hoping that he’d relent—probably because he’d done it before, and he might have this time if he didn’t have to finish that letter—and didn’t have to sneak out to meet with the agent again . . .

She turned down his bed then gave The Look one last shot.  He crossed his arms over his chest and slowly shook his head no.  So, she heaved a very dramatic sighed and shuffled out of the room.

He managed to wait until she closed the door before he broke into the barest hint of a smile.  ‘Precocious’ didn’t even begin to describe her, and, not for the first time, he had to wonder, just what her life might have been had she not ended up in the Isle of Children camp . . .

Then he strode over to the desk and sat down, reaching for the pen as he considered exactly what he needed to say.  There wasn’t much to update.  Mostly it was just to reassure St. George that he was still alive and to send along another short video card that he’d managed to compile here and there whenever time and opportunity coincided, which wasn’t very often, at all.

It had already been six months since the last correspondence was sent—six months since he’d met with the agent in the cove.  Many things had happened in those six months, and yet . . .

And yet, not much had changed, either . . .

The only thing that Caipora had really noticed was the ferocity of those who had foolishly thought to dominate him had steadily increased.  The attacks weren’t really occurring more frequently, but the last few times, they had been in groups of two, which hadn’t actually made much of a difference.  The only change in the outcomes were the discovery of two poor fools in the morning instead of just one since he usually left them, trussed up with their own whips, naked, bleeding and crying by the time he was finished.  During a few of those hapless attacks, he’d spotted Domajin, lingering in windows and doorways, watching the whole thing, and he was invariably summoned the next evening, subjected to more fucking since watching just didn’t seem to be the overmaster’s style . . .

But Domajin had also taken to sitting in on Caipora’s training session with the virgins.  He said nothing at all, just sat in the back of the room, watching, always watching.  More than once, Caipora had realized that certain virgins seemed to be a little more into the lessons than others.  There wasn’t much that he could do about it.  It should have been quite obvious to the demented overmaster that Caipora wasn’t doing a thing to encourage them, and really, he had no control over them—not in that way, anyway . . . Domajin seemed to believe otherwise, though, which made their encounters even more unpleasant than usual . . .

On the plus side, he hadn’t been summoned to Domajin’s den of iniquity for a few weeks.  On the other?  He had a feeling that the late summons was coming the very next time he managed to draw the overmaster’s ridiculously watchful eye . . .

He sighed.

And then, there was Five . . .

He wasn’t sure when he’d allowed her to start speaking out of turn.  He supposed that it might have started that night, when she’d greeted him with a bath after Domajin’s attempt to strangle him.  It started gradually enough: a curious question here and there.  Now, however, the little girl had no qualms at all in asking him anything and everything, and, as long as they were in the privacy of his room, he allowed it.  Maybe he shouldn’t.  He really should have stopped it before it became a thing.

Still . . .

Something about her—about her quiet sense of wonder, even knowing that she was, quite literally, doomed to a life of misery and servitude, of being used and abused by those who perceived themselves to be her betters . . . She . . . She reminded him of a time and a place that he . . .

‘Don’t think about that.’

Gritting his teeth as he deliberately slammed the door on those particular thoughts, Caipora scrawled a few lines onto the paper—nonsense about being fine, not to worry, that he was still making steady progress, that it was all a matter of time and soon enough . . . He winced.

It was all lies.

Time, however, was an interesting thing.  It had a habit of putting things into better context, allowed a certain level of circumspect reflection.  He’d discovered that over his years of service to the organization—years that originally, he’d so arrogantly thought would be, at most, a few months. A few months, he had thought, he’d been convinced—was all it would take him to infiltrate and destroy, to bring freedom to the masses, to right the wrongs, the terrible injustices that they had been made to suffer . . . And what a fool he had been at that time—an idealistic, naïve little fool . . . But that same sense of time had given him more ability to discern things, too, a sense of removal that allowed him to think, to process, and ultimately, to formulate an action plan on how to deal with certain things . . .

Things like that night with Anhanguera . . .

He was the enemy, plain and simple.  If Caipora wanted to bring the whole operation, crashing down to the ground, Anhanguera was the key—the kingpin, as it were.  He could not afford to allow his judgement to be clouded by that man—that devil.  He’d worked too long, sacrificed too much of himself, to allow it all to fall away because of some imaginary connection that was forged in the fiery bowels of hell . . . What happened that night never should have, and he knew that, too.  It only happened, he concluded, because of the instability of his mind that night—the minor concussion, the emotional drain he’d been living in for so long.  For that matter, he still existed there, and more and more often, he’d come to realize that there were precious few times when he really, truly felt alive . . . Those times?  When he was dominating some ignorant fool who tried to get the jump on him . . . and when he was alone with Five . . .

Staring across the short distance that separated them, he said nothing as he stared at the being—the agent—that had been sent this time.  He wasn’t sure why it surprised him.  Surely if he’d thought about it, he’d have realized that it would eventually come to this.  Unable to find the words that filled his head but would not leave his mouth, he sighed, his gaze dropping off to the side, at the whispering tide that floated in and out of the small cavern.

“Your family . . . They miss you,” he said, the commanding lilt of his voice, purposefully subdued.  Standing with his back to the sea, outlined in the generous light of a very full moon, he seemed to glow like some kind of vengeful angel, and the only feature of his face that Caipora could make out were the unnaturally illuminated eyes that did not leave his face, even after his own gaze had fallen away.

“They . . . They’re well?”

He gave one slow nod.  “As well as can be expected when a piece of their heart is missing.”

Grinding his teeth together, willing away the bone-deep ache inspired by his words, Caipora opted to ignore that, digging the scroll out of his pocket along with the tiny video card and holding them out.  “Saturdays are dangerous,” he said.  “You, um . . . You need to go.”

He reached out, took the scroll and card, stowed them in his inner breast pocket before holding out the small vial of pills.  Caipora reached for it, but he was faster, grasping Caipora’s wrist, smashing his index and middle fingers against the soft flesh just above the joint.  A searing pain erupted as a flash of green light filled the cavern.  Jerking his arm away with a sharp hiss, smashing his hand over the burn, he gasped, grimaced, sank to his knees as he furiously tried to control his mind, to will away the residual pain.

“You know what to do,” he said, his voice the same calm, quiet, yet no less commanding tone.  Leaning down, he tucked the bottle of pills into his pocket, and when he slowly straightened his back, he let his fingertips drag over Caipora’s cheek, just for a moment.

And then, he was gone.

Grimacing as he stumbled to his feet, Caipora shook his hand that still burned, tingled, digging the bottle of pills out with the uninjured limb.  Opening and closing his fist a few times as the last of the sting faded, he let out a deep breath and made quick, if not slightly clumsy, work of shaking out a pill and swallowing it.  Then he hid the bottle under the boulder and hunkered down, scooping up a few handfuls of water to rinse his face.  After a couple splashes, he let his hands dangle between his spread knees, scowling at his reflection on the distorted surface.  A black figure, barely discernable against a blackened cave . . . the shimmer of moonlight that came close on the water, but did not touch him.  Close, but not nearly enough to save him . . .

The irony of the thought, of the image, was enough to make him grimace.  He’d already thought that so many times before, but something about the reflection . . . It drove it home in such a horrible and painful . . . and final . . . way . . .

Turning his arm over, holding it down to catch the light, he wasn’t at all surprised to see that there was nothing at all, visible to the naked eye.  There didn’t have to be, Caipora knew.  ‘He . . . He did it . . .’

Pushing himself to his feet, he slipped out of the cavern and into the night once more.  Sticking as close to the darkest shadows as he could, he made the return trip to the compound.  By the time he slipped into the crowd of enforcers and trainers—most of them, already inebriated beyond what was wise, in Caipora’s estimation—his arm had stopped throbbing even if he still hadn’t quite shaken off the overwhelming sense of loss inspired by his reflection on the water.

Slipping out of the trees that surrounded the open field on the outer reaches of the light cast by the huge bonfire in the center of the yard.  Built high, built wide, that fire would burn well into the morning—or until someone was made to put it out.  Over near the portico were coolers and tables, set with booze, with some food—a weekly gift from Anhanguera, and, not for the first time, Caipora wondered if he knew that things like that only served to fuel the wanton, the wild, the frenetic displays that were the hallmark of the Saturday night debacle . . .

Just after he’d arrived at the Virgin House, a couple of female slaves—kitchen staff, he’d heard later—had inadvertently ventured outside just after the merriment had commenced.  It was a little earlier than they normally got started, but for those slaves . . .

They’d spent the night, being passed from man to man.  Their initial fear had shifted into passion, but that passion was spent long before the men were finished with them.  In the morning when he’d woken up, stepped outside of the bathhouse, he saw their bodies, discarded in the yard like they were nothing at all, left near the still-smoldering bonfire, their bodies askew, every orifice violated in every way possible . . .

He started to skirt around the gathering, trying to block out the underlying thrum that was so incredibly hard to ignore.  It felt like a heartbeat, punctuated by someone’s stereo speakers, hooked up over on those tables, steadily blaring out hot, heavy music as full of aggression and raw anger as the air around him.  He knew from experience that the magnetic draw was hard to resist, even from the distance of the balcony of his room.  There had been many Saturday nights when he’d been drawn outside, only to stand there, watching the games below, feeling the seduction of so many bodies as anger and aggression had shifted and grown into something frightening yet wholly captivating.  He’d stood there, hands gripping the railing or claws, digging into the hardened wood—or, if he were feeling particularly weak against the onslaught of the senses, with his cock in his hands . . .

He’d known that leaving his room tonight was not a good idea.  Being this close to the madness was too compelling, too inebriating, even without adding booze to the mix.  No, it had more to do with all the bodies, all the men in attendance.  Somehow, the overriding excitement, anticipation—unspent passion—melded together, spun an invisible web of misplaced and overblown arrogance, even as it stripped away layers of convention, the innate knowledge of right and wrong, leaving behind a raw lust with no real outlet except to turn on one another as their games meant to establish their dominance became something baser, headier, and far more persuasive.

The smells that colored the air, though, seemed to reverberate in his head.  All manner of ugly things lived here on Saturday nights, and the malignant draw of those things seemed to thunder through Caipora’s body, up from the ground up as the reek of come, of blood, of other visceral odors unleashed the ache for those base taboos—the things that he inherently struggled to deny . . . It didn’t help that he was surrounded by naked men.  It wasn’t the men, per se, but the overwhelming draw on the will to dominate, to prove that he stood above them all.  Nudity, however was an unwritten rule of this game.  Why ruin clothing for a bit of sport?  The booze flowed, the excitement was rife, and all around him was the lure—the ugly and seductive lure of the game . . .

The games had already degenerated beyond grudge matches and tests of strength and skills.  It always did.  What might start as a simple face-off between adversaries did not remain upon honorable grounds, not when drink and smoke and drugs fed that underlying tension, simply added to the mix.  Something about the whole thing . . . Maybe it was just the nature of the entire operation, like a level of civility had been stripped away, and the longer one stayed, the more bestial one became until the very idea of things like domination, submission, got dragged into the mix in a disturbingly high level of reactionary exhibitionism . . .

A loud cheer rose up around him as one combatant in the center of the makeshift ring wrestled the other to the ground, as a grunt and a moan, the scent of passion and dominance, filled the air with an allure to him that Caipora fought against.  The tang of fresh sweat, the panting and groaning that rang in his ears, the dark draw wrapped around him so tightly that he could feel his pulse rising, his breath growing shallower, harsher, his cock stirring as the blood in his body flowed hot . . .

The dominated enforcer threw his head back, unleashing a guttural scream, body shaking, muscles taut, quivering as he gave himself up to absolute pleasure, his semen squirting onto the sand.  The one riding him laughed as he basked in his triumph, fucking him harder, faster, deeper.  Caipora watched, unable to move, as though he were being held, spellbound, as he felt his cock thicken, harden, straining against the confines of his jeans . . . The ignoble truth of it all hit him in the face.  He didn’t avoid these things because he didn’t want to be threatened.  He avoided them because if he didn’t . . .

Hands suddenly latching onto him as the others around him drew away, a cheer rising up as another match started over on the other side of the fire, Caipora hit the ground hard as a blur of movement pummeled against the small of his back before he could roll over.  Grunting loudly as the aggressor tore frantically at his pants, Caipora bucked his hips, managed to contort his arm far enough to grab a handful of cock and balls, and with a savage growl, he dealt them a vicious yank and twist.

His victim howled, falling to the side as Caipora shot to his feet, rage surging nearly out of his control as he kicked off his boots, shredded his own clothing in his haste to be rid of them.  Falling onto the bastard who had tried to waylay him, he made quick work of flipping him over, face down in the sand, pulling his ass cheeks apart as he slammed himself into him, sheathing himself entirely as he threw his head back, unleashing a deafening shriek of unadulterated victory.  The force of his thrust sent them both pitching forward.

A tiny flash of metal caught the corner of his vision as the man swung at him wildly.  Catching the hand, wrenching the syringe full of something clear out of his grip, Caipora narrowed his eyes.  The bastard had meant to dope him up?

Jamming the needle into the idiot’s spine, ignoring the agonized shriek as Caipora depressed the plunger, he leaned down, claws digging deep into his shoulder.  “Trying to drug me, motherfucker?” he growled, ramming him harder, deeper, faster.  “Is that the only way you could beat me?”

The man sobbed in earnest as Caipora leaned back, yanking the empty syringe free and tossing it away.  He didn’t stop pumping him, either, grabbing the man’s hips, yanking his ass up as he kept hammering him with every bit of rage that consumed him.  His reward was the sound of the bastard’s pained and fearful screaming as he pounded him, over and over again.  Fucking him hard, deep, he ignored the pathetic pleas, the begging for mercy.  Enraged that he would have the audacity to try to attack him from behind, that he would try to drug him, there was no finesse at all to his first orgasm—just an impatient need—the will to dominate—as he bashed him so hard that sprays of come shot out around his cock.

The would-be assailant tried to turn his body, waved a pathetic arm in a wild attempt to gain some kind of leverage for a second time.  Caipora’s lips curled back in a vicious snarl as he caught the arm, twisted it, gave it a solid shove forward, up toward the poor bastard’s shoulder as Caipora pumped his ass—as the sound of shattering bone, the feel of the shoulder coming unseated, mingled with another scream of abject agony.

The voices around them congealed into a messy kind of buzz that Caipora summarily ignored.  He felt the splatters on his back, raining down on his head—the others were getting off on the whole thing, jacking off, unleashing their come all over the two of them.  He didn’t care as he fucked the nameless enforcer under him, who was still sobbing, whimpering, arm lying at sickening angle, limply on the ground, even as the bastard unloaded a pathetic orgasm into the sand below him.

A couple more thrusts, and Caipora growled, yanking the guy’s hips back as hard has he could, his orgasm coming in wave after painful wave—so much of it that it oozed out around his cock, dripping down the defeated one’s balls, disappearing into the thatch of dark and roughened hair.  With one last grunt, one last thrust, he paused for just a moment before shoving the man away.  He landed in a pitiful, sobbing heap.

It didn’t stop another one from jumping on him.  The sobbing escalated as the newcomer penetrated him, humped him for all he was worth.  Just as suddenly, the sobs cut off as someone else jammed his cock down the bastard’s throat.

Staggering to his feet, Caipora panted, wiping his face with his forearm as he slowly shifted his eyes around, silently daring anyone else to step forward.  Someone shoved a fifth of whiskey into his hand.  Caipora downed it without blinking before tossing the empty bottle aside.  The flames of the bonfire in the center of the makeshift arena cast rollicking shadows, gamboling flickers of light, and still, no one stepped forward.  Biting back his disappointment—yes, it was disappointment—he started to turn, to retrieve his boots.

“We’ll take you,” a voice called out—one that Caipora didn’t recognize.  Turning his head, he frowned when he spotted the one who had spoken, standing across the ring of light.  An elk-youkai, he realized.  Beside him, another stepped forward—a mirror image of the first.  Brothers, obviously—maybe even twins . . .

They weren’t huge by any means, just slightly shorter than Caipora.  Bodies sleek, smooth like their animal kin, they slowly stepped toward him, moving away from one another, obviously trying to gain the upper hand.

The babble around them grew louder as bets were laid.  Even the contenders who had been fighting, stopped to watch the unfolding drama.  Caipora’s name was near legend here in this shameful place, and since he normally declined to participate in the Saturday night spectacles, it was a rare treat, of sorts.

Backing away as the laughter rose up—they thought he was retreating—Caipora ignored the hisses, the jeers since escape had not crossed his mind.  The problem with those two—they were young, they were fit, and, if they were on this island, then they couldn’t possibly be ignorant of just what they were stepping into.  Maybe they fell into the category of the foolish who thought they’d try to make a name for themselves in a hurry by challenging one that they really should stay away from.  Whatever the reason, Caipora didn’t care.  Reaching down, retrieving the shreds of his pants, he yanked his whip free and cracked it in the sand, sending up a huge cloud of dust.

Satisfied that Caipora wasn’t trying to escape, the crowd continued on, placing their bets, murmuring amongst themselves.  The heat of the fire rose in waves, distorting the surroundings as the ring of men thickened, as they moved in closer from the other side of the fire, trying to gain a better view.

“Who are you?” Caipora demanded as they circled around him, looking for an opening.

“They’re pussy dance masters,” someone in the throng called out to a riot of laugher.

Caipora’s eyes flared wide, a flash of memory whispering in his ear.

“I don’t like to dance . . . Master’s mean, too . . . If I can’t get the steps right, he smacks me with the flail.”

The two lunged at him from opposite sides.  The one who had issued the challenge managed to catch him, to knock him off his feet, slamming his hands together over his head in the sand as his whip slipped out of his grasp.  The other one grabbed his feet, shoved them together and dropping them as he straddled Caipora’s legs, grasping his hips to flip him over.  It was a stupid, stupid move.

Kicking his legs out in both directions, he swept the elk’s feet out from under him as he dug his hands deep in the sand, sent it flying into the other one’s face.  Rolling to his feet, he fell on the one he’d brought down, grabbing his whip, wrapping it around the elk’s wrists and ankles, knotting it tight before turning to face the other, who was still shaking his head, rubbing his eyes, trying in vain to see through the sand he’d had thrown in his face.

He didn’t even try to hurry as he strode over, grabbed the elk’s arm, twisting it and shoving it up behind him.  Someone in the crowd tossed Caipora a second whip, and he caught it, lashing his arms together, as well, as the sheer volume of the jeering grew louder and uglier.  They’d hoped for a better struggle than that, hadn’t they?  But Caipora was too far beyond toying with the pair to worry himself about giving the onlookers a good show.

He marched the one over to the other.  “He your brother?” he growled, giving the elk a hard shake as he kicked the one on the ground, who was fighting, struggling, against the whip.

“Y-Yes,” he replied.  “My twin . . . Apollo.”

Caipora grunted.  “And you are?”

“Antonio,” he said.  “You . . . You win, yeah?”

Caipora chuckled nastily as a pair of pale blue eyes flickered before his face in the shadows of his mind.  Those eyes held sway, drawing out more anger, more rage than he could credit . . . “Not yet, I don’t . . . But I will.”

Kicking the one in the sand over onto his back despite his groans and whimpers as his arms and legs took the brunt of his weight, Caipora uttered a derisive grunt when he spotted the man’s dick, hard and trembling, almost purple, it was so engorged.  Then he pushed Antonio, face first into the sand beside him before striding around him.  Grabbing a handful of hair, Caipora jammed his cock between his lips, using his hair to set the pace as he thrust deep into his hole, down his throat, the sand that had covered him, thick in the bastard’s mouth, raking Caipora’s cock in a pleasure-pain hiss and groaning cacophony. . . Antonio gagged as he was forced to deep-throat Caipora.  Caipora slapped him hard on the cheek.  “If you puke, you’ll be sorry,” he warned the first time that he felt that familiar lurch, his voice almost mild despite the barely contained brutality—the force of the thrusts.  “Suck it, you bastard,” he commanded.  Antonio grunted, burbled, but his tongue wrapped around Caipora’s dick, a slithering, clumsy attempt.  “Pathetic,” he growled, jerking his penis out of Antonio’s mouth.  The elk-youkai whimpered, his gorgeous face, contorting, which only served to fan the flames of his simmering anger.  Grasping his dick in his hand, he jerked it a few times—long enough to unleash a spurt of come on the dancemaster’s pretty face.

Striding back around him again while ignoring the catcalls, the jeers aimed at the defeated brothers, Caipora grabbed his hips, yanked him back hard, sheathing himself completely as Antonio’s scream split the night, as his brother renewed his anemic struggles beside them, his upper arms and legs stretched almost to their limits as he keened and whimpered and whined.  Driving into Antonio’s ass, a cold little smile, quirking his lips as he felt the tell-tale tremors in his body, heard the slap of the elk’s dick, smacking against his stomach, his thighs in time with the fucking he was being dealt.

Caipora didn’t let up, pummeling him, harder and harder, waiting for the first signs, the twitching, the gasps and groans . . . It happened faster than he’d expected, and he leaned forward, slipping his arms under Antonio’s waist, hauling him to his feet without pulling out of his ass.  He walked him over to his brother, grasped Antonio’s swollen dick as he leaned to the side, far enough to see, as he jammed Antonio’s cock up his twin brother’s asshole.

The shriek was tremendous, rising above the pitch of the cheering crowd.  It reverberated from Apollo’s body, up through Antonio’s, straight through Caipora’s cock, sending him right over the edge as his climax exploded out of him, as he slammed into Antonio so hard that the poor fuck screamed yet again.  Apollo’s groans, whimpers, grew louder, as his breathing hitched and faltered, as he panted and moaned . . .

One of the others stumbled out of the crowd, grabbed a hold of Antonio’s head, shoving his fat dick in his mouth.  Moaning loudly as he fucked his face, trails of Caipora’s semen, still wet on Antonio’s face, stretching out in a few gossamer strands in the ghastly light of the dancing fire, connecting the two, as his balls slapped against Apollo’s face beneath, it took him all of three strokes to come as he jerked back, as he shot his load all over the brothers’ faces.  He was still moaning, groaning, when he was roughly shoved aside, only to be replaced by someone else.

Apollo grunted, groaned, cried as he came hard, all over his brother’s stomach, which proved to be a little too much when Antonio, sobbing even louder, the sounds muffled by the cock deep in his throat, came, too.

Gritting his teeth as the feel of the brothers’ bodies, sliding against each other, aided by the mucous layer of come, created even more of an erotic motion, more of a stroke, more of a glide, and Caipora tried to hold off.  It didn’t work.  Unleashing a low, long growl, Caipora’s orgasm rattled out of him in a florid and violent gush.

Stumbling back, his dick sliding free, Caipora struggled to breathe.  Antonio kept fucking his brother, much to Caipora’s undisguised disgust.  He didn’t know, didn’t realize—didn’t care—that he was fucking his own brother—his twin—his mirror image . . . He was past the point where he could stop himself, even if he wanted to, he supposed.  In the morning, when he remembered—if he remembered—the loathing, the self-hatred was going to eat him alive . . . Another man stepped past Caipora, burying himself in Antonio’s ass, balls deep, groaning loud as Caipora’s come made the penetration that much easier, and that, in Caipora’s opinion, was fine, too.

Staggering forward, Caipora fell onto the lump of writhing flesh, drove his cock into the vulture who had sought to take his spot.  He grunted, moaned, bucking his ass against Caipora’s plundering dick.  He wasn’t trying to throw him off—he welcomed the complete incursion, reveling in the intensity of fucking, of being fucked, of the voodoo of the Saturday night that held them all, that stripped away the last vestiges of civility, that gave way to nothing more than visceral need, of urges, dark and unholy . . .

But the ass that held him so tightly was impossible to ignore—the overwhelming sense that reason had already lost to madness.  The unearthly tightening in his cock, in his balls, the quivering mass of undulating flesh under him . . . The orgasm that rattled through him, out of him, was as vicious and demanding as a lover.  Someone else down in the pile rasped out an impassioned cry, too, the seething, writhing mass of bodies feeding the frenzy as Caipora kept on thrusting, grinding his teeth together, enslaved by the dark allure of the flesh as completely as the others were.  Head falling back, eyes closing as he kept pounding, hands reaching up, covering his face, letting his fingers trail down his own skin, savoring his own caress for a long, long moment before grasping the man’s hips, bearing down hard, furious, tight and fast, deep and long . . .

His orgasm was a painful rush, a complete reckoning of sight and sound and feel, of the most primordial sensation.  The throbbing bordered upon mind-numbing ache, the scorch of his come as brilliant, as inebriating, as the call of the pulsing crowd.

Caipora stumbled back, his body tingling, almost achingly so as he drew in lungful after lungful of stinging air . . .

Someone else thrust a bottle of cachaça into his hand, and he drank it down without a second thought.  Turning around to toss it away, ready to look for another comer, his gaze scanning over the area, he stopped short, eyes narrowing, as he uttered a harsh swear under his breath.  Standing there, on the balcony, hands gripping the railing like a ghost in the darkness, the one face that he didn’t want to see . . .

“Five . . .”