InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Anhanguera ❯ Deception ( Chapter 15 )

Wandering slowly along the line of slaves that had been assembled for his perusal, Caipora flicked his hand at a couple of them to dismiss them since they were a little too masculine in the face to be of interest for the demented project.  Part of him was operating in a level of disbelief that he was actually going along with this.  Creating a monster?  A Frankenstein . . .?  Just what the hell was he doing?  And yet . . . And yet, the rest of him simply couldn’t summon up a single shit to give . . .

Reaching out, weighing penises and balls, jacking them off just enough to get a good look at how aesthetically pleasing their erections were . . . It registered to him in a vague sort of way, just how messed up the whole thing really was.  Then again, either he did it or someone else did, but the bottom line was that, objections or not, it would be done, regardless of his feelings on the matter.  A valued customer wanted this, and whatever the customer wanted . . .

It didn’t help, either, that the entire thing was being handled in much the same way as the virgin inspections for auction.  Everyone who was available was there, watching, whispering amongst themselves, carrying on at a low hum that became nothing more than background noise.  They didn’t know why Caipora was there, looking over the slaves in such a way when he wasn’t one of the purveyors who normally came to collect slaves for auction or private sale.  They didn’t know, but the interest was ridiculously high.

He sighed to himself.  On the list of requirements he’d been given before getting on the helicopter were sexual assessments, too, though those didn’t say if he had to see to that personally or not, so he was taking the liberty of passing the buck on that one.  Apparently, the candidate needed to be pleasing to the eye when in the throes of orgasm, as well . . .

And somehow, it had slowly become a comedy of errors, of sorts, in a wholly disturbing, entirely horrifying kind of way . . .

After narrowing it down to three slaves, three trainers were called forward, ordering the young male slaves to perform their duties on the floor, right there in front of everyone while Caipora walked around them, checked them from all angles.  Down on hands and knees as the trainers fucked them from behind, the slaves took it, chins down, without giving any indication that they were enjoying themselves in the least.  The only indication was the rock-hard boners they all wore—the engorged cocks that slapped almost obscenely against their stomachs, their thighs . . .

Caipora frowned, motioned for Dursal, the overmaster of the Gauntlet.  “This isn’t working,” he muttered to the man that he vaguely remembered from the overmaster meeting on Anhanguera’s island as he handed over the list he was given.  “I need to see their faces when they come.”

Dursal read it over and nodded curtly.  “Stop,” he called out, voice carrying loud over the assembly.

The rush of murmurs grew louder.  It wasn’t something that was normally seen, not here.  The trainers seemed a little slow on the uptake as the stared at their overmaster in varying stages of utter confusion—and more than a little disappointment, too.

The overmaster shrugged.  “Bring three of the slaves forward,” he said, striding over to the slaves that had already been rejected.  “Kneel over there,” he told them, waving a hand at the center of the floor.

The trainers—a couple of them looking a little irritated at the interruption—stood and backed up as the slaves that he was inspecting assumed the dominant position.

The smell of their bodies, of their arousal, was hard to ignore.  Lingering so thick in the air . . . the sweat, the raw scent of bare skin, of thick lust, even understated, was a heady thing.  That arousal was a potent lure that slowly infected everyone watching to some degree or another.  For the most part, Caipora was able to disengage his mind, concentrating on watching the three so prominently on display.

His gaze kept returning over and over to one of the slaves in particular.  Slightly smaller of build than the others, almost willowy in comparison with the softened angles of a far more feminine face . . . If he were over sixteen years old, Caipora would bend over and spread his own ass cheeks for the lot of them, but he was most definitely old enough that he’d remain that sweet-faced boy-child for years—probably decades—to come . . . Try as he might, the slave couldn’t keep his expression blanked as he groaned softly as he thrust deep into the slave before him.  The trainer behind him raised a whip, his intention clear.  Caipora stopped him with a shake of his head, a lifting of a hand.

Even in the space that separated them, Caipora could feel it—the rise of orgasm that the slave couldn’t hide.  Striding forward, he grasped the slave’s chin, lifted it to see his face as he came, his delicate eyebrows—a light brown in color—drawing together over his closed eyes, jaw slackened as he gnawed on his lower lip with his perfectly aligned, pearly white teeth, his pale and satiny skin taking on a light and pretty flush, breathing out the sweetest of tiny moans as his body stiffened for a moment, as he tried hard not to quiver and quake . . .

Letting go, stepping back, Caipora glanced at Overmaster Dursal.  “That one,” he said, indicating the slave that he’d just inspected.  It didn’t really matter how the other ones looked.  That one was perfect for the task . . .

“Take him to the bathhouse,” Caipora commanded, turning on his heel, brushing past the overmaster.  The surgeon he’d brought with him was already there, waiting for the slave to be brought to him.  Domajin had sent orders that he was to be altered before transport since the hormone injections would take too long to be truly effective.  It’d be easier to start the training right away, he’d said.  Caipora was of the opinion that they ought to at least give the slave a week or so to get used to the idea of what was to come, but his opinion did not matter, as far as Domajin was concerned.

Then, he strode out of the great room without another word, heading straight to the bathhouse behind the entirely docile slave.  Stepping into the bright lights of the building, Caipora ignored the attendants milling about as he headed for the surgeon.  He didn’t work strictly for the organization, but he was kept very happy on their payroll.  “How long is this going to take?” he asked.

The surgeon shrugged.  “Not long.  I just need to insert the implants and inflate them . . . Here,” he said, digging into his pocket, producing amber bottle with a dropper lid.  “Ten drops every six hours if you want him to be kept sedated for the first couple days.  It’ll take that long for his skin to adequately stretch and could easily be painful for him . . . If you let the drug wear off, it may take up to an hour before it takes effect again, sometimes more, sometimes less, and if he’s highly agitated, it may prove difficult to give him the oral dose . . .”

Standing back as they brought in the slave—the gorgeous sparrow-youkai—who looked entirely docile despite the heavy trepidation that was rife in his youki.

The attendants stretched him out on a table, secured him without any issue.  The doctor took two more needles out of his kit and shot them both into the slave’s neck.  Whatever was in the one injection seemed to take effect almost immediately, his eyes drifting closed, body going still.  “The first one was just to knock him out while I do this, but it can’t be administered more than once—it could kill him.”

Satisfied that the slave was just sleeping, Caipora stood back, waited for the surgeon to perform the task he’d been assigned.  The grisly tools were arranged methodically upon a blue sterile cloth on a metal tray.  The surgeon made an incision at the base of his pectoral about an inch wide, and Caipora watched, his face giving nothing away of his inner horror, as the doctor took a long, blunt bladed spatula-type instrument and inserted it in the hole, using that tool to scrape back and forth—Caipora could see the very definite outline of it, poking up beneath his skin, his muscle . . .

“I’ve got to loosen him up here or the muscle will crush the implant,” he explained.

Grinding his teeth together, Caipora gave a curt nod.  As much as he wanted to walk away, to wait outside for the procedure to be over, something about it stopped him, as though watching it all could somehow exonerate him for his part in the debacle, and he tried to ignore the tiny voice that told just that what he was observing—overseeing . . .

It was entirely wrong . . .

Striding into the Virgin House with a very long, drawn-out sigh, Caipora headed for the stairs to find Domajin, to let him know that the devil’s errand was all done.  Brushing aside the lingering image of the slave once he’d gotten the breast implants, he gritted his teeth.

The surgeon had dosed him well enough on tranquilizers that he shouldn’t wake up before sometime in the morning.  Seeing the generous rise of the new and beautifully large breasts seemed like such a gross and ignoble thing that Caipora couldn’t stand to look at the gorgeous slave for more than a brief moment . . .

The doctor had remained behind at the Gauntlet.  Apparently, the powers that be had decided that he might as well give all of the employees’ checkups while he was there, which was fine with Caipora.  Traveling via helicopter with a blindfold and earphones was slightly easier to deal with if he wasn’t having to monitor someone else in the cabin, too.

All in all, he really just wanted to go to his room and tip back a bottle of cachaça or two—to chase away those lingering memories that he suspected he’d never really be able to forget—but before he could do that . . .

He gave a solid knock on Domajin’s antechamber door and stepped back to wait, idly fingering the amber bottles in the pocket of his leather jacket.  All he had to do was to let the bastard know that he was back, hand over the tranquilizer and the bottle of hormones that he’d have to be given twice a day, and then, he’d be done.

The door swung open, and the overmaster greeted him, smiling in a strange sort of way that set off alarm bells in Caipora’s head as he narrowed his gaze on the overmaster.  He seemed almost excited, didn’t he?  Not that it made any real sense to Caipora—and not that he particularly cared, either.  Still . . . “The slave’s being put in the basement hold.  Everything’s done, no issues.  The surgeon started him on his first round of hormone therapy.  I’m going to bed.”

“Wait,” Domajin said, his voice almost a purr.  “Why don’t you come in, Caipora?  Have a drink with me . . . Besides, I have a . . . surprise, especially for you.”

“A surprise,” he echoed dubiously.  “What are you up to?”

Domajin laughed softly, silkily, almost a low rumble as he reached out, stroked Caipora’s face with infinitely gentle fingers.  “I think you’ll like what I’ve caught,” he ventured, stepping away from the door, letting his hand fall away as he turned to head back toward his private chamber—the one room that Caipora hated above all others.  “Not even a little curious?” he asked when Caipora didn’t move to follow.  “A little . . . bird . . . told me that you . . . have a certain appreciation for this—for her . . .”

Bowing mockingly as he gave the inner chamber door a solid twist, he gestured at the doorway as it slowly swung open.  All at once, the youki hit him—the frantic and frightened youki he knew so well.  It reached out to him with a desperation—a fear—that nearly choked him.  Struggling to keep his expression blanked, he stepped into the room and closed the door.  ‘Five . . .’

He could feel Domajin’s gaze on him as he brushed past him and into the chamber.  The old bastard was waiting, watching, and the only thing—the only thing—that kept him slightly calm was the fact that he could tell that she hadn’t been violated in any way—yet.  Beaten, yes.  He could smell her blood, thick in his nose, and the scent of that alone was nearly his undoing.  But there were none of the uglier scents present, and for that, he had to be thankful even as a bitter rage licked at him, goaded him.  That Domajin would dare to lay a hand on Five . . .?  ‘Oh, hell no . . .’

She whimpered softly when she saw him, her head lifted just far enough that she could see him.  He didn’t dare extend his youki to her; not with Domajin standing so near.  Every little move he made now would impact her, and he knew it, and as long as Domajin held her, he held all the cards, too.  The bastard was banking on that, wasn’t he?  ‘Five . . .’ Narrowing his eyes at her, giving her the tiniest shake of his head, he could only hope that she understood his warning.

Stretched out on that hateful rack, so tiny that she was suspended in the air, her naked little body stretched out wide, braid falling over her shoulder, down just past her belly button, quivering as she fought so hard, not to cry, as she struggled to retain a measure of calm—an effort that was remarkable for a child her age, and Caipora drew from her calm, using sheer willpower to repress the rage that spiraled through him, thick and ugly and dark.  She still bore the trace bruising from her ordeal the night before, but her composure was enough to humble him—humble him and unlock a powerful ire, the likes of which he’d never felt before . . .

He had to get her off that rack, had to get her out of the room, but the second he showed any sign of concern for her, that bastard . . .

He’d rip Five apart, just to be spiteful, and all because Caipora . . .

‘It’s . . . It’s my fault . . . Five . . .’

“You treat her like a lover—that’s what Pablo said—before you ripped him to shreds, that is.”  Domajin chuckled nastily.  “I must admit, I had my doubts.  After all, you, the great and mighty Caipora, favored above us all . . . You have no weaknesses, do you, my beautiful little fuck?  And yet, you . . . demolished Pablo, didn’t you?  I confess, I wasn’t sure if I should fear you or fuck you when I saw what you’d done, and all for this tiny slave child?  Do you care so much?” he asked, his expression a mask of feigned concern, stepping over to him, standing beside him, his gaze trained on Five, just as Caipora’s was.  “I’m a fair man, you know, and as my favorite pet, then I feel that I should . . . reward you, don’t you think?  So . . . You have two choices.  You can fuck her—show me just how little that girl means to you . . . Or you can take her place on that rack—and I’ll let her walk right out of here, free to return to the . . . safety of your chambers . . .” Trailing off with another dark chuckle, the overmaster leaned in, let his lips brush against Caipora’s ear.  “What will it be, Caipora?  Who will really enjoy a night of pleasure?”

Lip curling back, exposing a very sharp fang, Caipora didn’t answer.  He didn’t have to.  He knew, didn’t he?  Even if Domajin made good on his offer to let Five off that rack tonight, it wouldn’t end—would never end.  He’d do it right now because it would benefit him to do so, and would, in effect, end up making Caipora his very real slave because the next time he felt that itch?  He’d take her, and he’d do it again and again and again, and Caipora . . .? If he thought for a moment that it would save her, then he’d step up right now and take it, but . . .

But the all-too-real images of the girls—435578 and 984152—flashed through his head, and he knew—knew—that doing things Domajin’s way . . . It would only end like that again, only this time . . .

A white-hot flame ignited somewhere deep inside him as Caipora’s brain rebelled against that thought, against that image of Five’s tiny little body, being abused in such a way.  Domajin had already whipped her—not enough to cause her any real harm, but it was enough when the very idea of her skin, rent and torn because of one sick bastard’s fickle whims . . .? Of that demented fuck’s toys—those damned cocksleeves with the metal spikes . . . And in the end, he’d use it on her, wouldn’t he?  On Five’s delicate body . . . On Five . . .

No, Caipora realized, grinding his teeth together hard, there was only one way he was going to put a stop to this, and that way . . .

Domajin started to move away, started to reach for the flail that he’d carelessly left, hanging over The Rack.  Before he could reach it, Caipora stepped forward, grasped Domajin’s arm to stop him.  “Do you want the honor?” he asked as pleasantly as he would if they were discussing the weather, that smug little grin, spreading over his face like a toxic kind of ooze.

“No,” Caipora replied, willing himself to be as convincing as he possibly could.  “No, I . . . I . . . want . . . you . . .”

The overmaster froze, his eyes narrowing suspiciously—not surprising, given how much Caipora loathed him.  The only thing that kept looping through his mind, however, was that if he wanted to save Five—really save her . . . He didn’t have a choice, did he?  He had to . . . to convince Domajin . . .

“She . . . She’s nothing to me—just a slave; that’s all.  But you . . .” He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the hurt that registered in Five’s youki.  It burned against him like fire . . . “I . . . I hate you . . . and I . . . love . . . you . . . and . . .”

Domajin’s eyes widened, as though he finally understood something.  Caipora only hoped that, whatever he thought . . . That it would help him in the end . . . “You . . . You hate that you love me,” he murmured.

Caipora made himself nod—stunted and jerking.  “If you let her down—if you let her go . . . P . . . Please . . .”

It almost worked.  For the briefest of seconds, Caipora thought that he’d do what he asked.  Suddenly, though, Domajin growled, backhanding Caipora with all the strength he possessed—hard enough to snap his head to the side as he staggered back a couple steps.  Biting back a fresh surge of anger, Caipora slowly righted his stance, shifted his gaze to Domajin once more.  “Do you think I’m a fool?” the overmaster growled, advancing on Caipora, who stood his ground.  “The second you get her out of here, you’ll shut down on me again, won’t you?”

Caipora winced, wiped the blood off of his mouth with the back of his hand.  “I won’t,” he promised, steeling his resolve, knowing that everything he did from this point forward was for her—for Five . . .

And it was the hardest thing he’d ever done, forcing his feet to carry him forward, lifting his hands, reaching for the overmaster, pulling in into a kiss—a kiss meant to show him that he was, indeed, giving up.  Domajin held back for a moment—only for a moment—before leaning into him, arms crushing him against him, his mouth slashing down over his with a fervor, a need, that both repulsed Caipora—and shot straight to his cock.  It was a purely physical thing, he reasoned, even as a small part of him cursed himself.  The touch of Domajin’s tongue, invading his mouth, plundering and conquering despite Caipora’s complete and total surrender before it ever began . . .

He uttered a small whimper, deliberately shutting down his emotions as he struggled to convince the overmaster of his absolute sincerity.  Somewhere in the distance, he heard Five’s quiet sobs, and that only served to strengthen his resolve as he allowed his hand to nudge between them, as he rubbed Domajin’s cock through the barrier of his pants . . .

Domajin grabbed a handful of Caipora’s hair, jerked his head back with a vicious abandon.  “If you’re toying with me, I’ll kill you,” he growled.

Caipora stared back at him, gaze dark, almost hooded, despite the severe tilt of his head, his breath, rasping, uneven, and his only answer was a firm grasp of Domajin’s dick.

The overmaster groaned, loud and long, but he let go of Caipora and stumbled back a step.  “I want you naked, Caipora,” he ordered.

Letting out a deep breath, Caipora dropped back on the chair behind him, reached down to kick off his boots.  Furiously trying to formulate the next part of his plan, he winced.  Even if he managed to distract him, it was only a brief reprieve.  Sparing a surreptitious look at the girl, he gritted his teeth.  Tears were running, unchecked down her face—those rounded cheeks that lingered in the cusp between baby chub and something more . . . The sudden trill of her laughter sounded in the darkest recesses of his brain, and he knew, didn’t he?  The only way to keep Five from Domajin’s brand of insanity was to kill him, but killing him in front of the child?  He wasn’t sure he could do that . . .

He started to pull his jacket off.  The heavy thud against his chest reminded him of the tranquilizers that he still had.  “Ten drops every six hours if you want him to be kept sedated for the first couple days.  If you let it wear off, it may take up to an hour before it takes effect again, sometimes more, sometimes less, and if he’s highly agitated, it may prove difficult to give him the oral dose . . .”

Glancing around, he spotted it: the bottle of cachaça on the nearby table—one of those huge, ugly bottles that the overmaster was so fucking fond of . . .

Without stopping to think about it, he stood, strode over to the table.  Domajin was busy, taking off his clothes in a slow and methodical kind of way.  He was, after all, a creature of habit, and fucking was about as ritualistic as one could get, Caipora figured . . .

Quickly upturning two glasses, Caipora sloshed the booze into both.  Then he hurriedly dropped ten drops into the drink before stowing the drug in his pocket once more, swishing them around before making quick work of stripping off his clothes, kicking them aside.  Grabbing the glasses, he strode over to the overmaster, who looked rather surprised when he held out the drugged drink.

He took it from him, slugged it back as Caipora casually sipped his own.  Yanking the glass from Caipora, Domajin drank it down, too, before tossing the glasses aside.  They crashed on the tile, shattering in a thousand pieces . . .

Domajin chuckled, bolstered by Caipora’s uncharacteristic show of affection, and when he leaned down to kick off his pants, Caipora reached around him, grasped his dick, stroked it slowly, smashing himself against Domajin’s back, running his fangs up and down his spine, tracing the path with his tongue . . .

The overmaster groaned, shuddered.  Turning around, he grabbed Caipora’s hair again, forced his head back as he let his voracious mouth fall to his throat.  Pressing his body against Caipora’s, reaching behind to knead his ass-cheeks, Domajin raked his fangs over the roughened skin, uttering a low growl that reverberated against Caipora’s flesh.

Shifting his gaze to the side, he met Five’s horrified eyes.  He knew damn well that she didn’t understand, and as much as he hated her confusion, he couldn’t stop . . .

Running his hands up and down Domajin’s chest, he dropped his head, slowly kissed his way down, over the rises and falls of his body.  Smiling slightly as he felt the wet trail of precome, dampening his skin wherever Domajin’s dick rubbed over him, Caipora slipped his hands up around him, grasping his ass cheeks, opening his mouth, letting himself take in the overmaster’s swollen dick.  He hissed, growled, thrust against him.  Caipora flicked his tongue, ran it up and down the length of him as he fucked him slowly.   Slipping a finger deep into Domajin’s ass as the overmaster increased the pace of the blow job, Caipora sucked harder, deeper, hitting a stroke that caused Domajin to shiver, to shudder, to groan . . .

With a loud roar, Domajin came like thunder, filling Caipora’s mouth, overflowing it as it dripped down his lips, down his chin, down his throat . . . Domajin stared down at him, gently pushing Caipora’s hair back out of his face.  Caipora stared back at him without breaking the rhythm that he’d built.

“Lay down, Caipora,” he rumbled.

He did, trying not to glance over at Five.  Doing all of this in front of the child—Was it really better than allowing her to be violated? he had to wonder as Domajin hooked his arms behind Caipora’s legs, leaning in as he thrust his cock in deep.  The same sort of horror, a different kind of mental damage . . .

Caipora called out, body tensing, arching, reaching.  The penetration was so damn deep, so insanely different from anything he’d felt before . . . Far less pain, so damn much pleasure, he couldn’t control the tremors, the quaking . . . Just the feel of Domajin’s dick so deep inside him was enough to set off the explosion that rocked through him, out of him in a wave of come.

Domajin chuckled, obviously proud of his efforts, increasing the speed, the depth of his thrusts.  Caipora reached down, couldn’t help himself as he jacked himself off, his come, dripping down his hands, adding a sinful kind of slipperiness that heightened everything he felt.  Domajin shoved his hands away, as though he were jealous that Caipora would do such a thing to himself, but his hand wrapped around him, jerking on him with a barely contained brutality that bordered between pleasure and pain in all the right ways . . .

Domajin grunted, ground his hips against Caipora’s ass, flooding his hole with come as he twitched and jerked and moaned.  A moment later, the spastic yanks of the overmaster’s hand pushed Caipora over that edge, too, as he arched his back against the floor, uttering a roughened gasp, groan.

Domajin pulled out of him, shaking his head as though he were feeling a little off.  After a moment, though, he stretched out, gesturing at Caipora to mount him.  Caipora did, positioning himself over him before slamming his ass down hard, ripping a guttural cry from him, from the overmaster at the total and complete sheathing.  Pistoning his body up and down on Domajin’s cock, Caipora closed his eyes, let his head fall back, giving himself up to the reaches of pleasure yet again . . . Such a deep thickness, such a nasty sense of something wild and wanton that had nothing at all to do with Domajin, but had everything in the world to do with the stroke of his cock . . .

Breathing hard, he opened his eyes, looked down at the overmaster as he struggled to regain a semblance of control over his body.  Domajin was unconscious, the drugs sped through his system with the physical exertion.  Gritting his teeth, he stood up, body fluids raining down on the unconscious man without a second thought.

The charade fell away as he frowned at Domajin.  He wasn’t sure how long he had before the bastard woke up, but when he did . . .

Deliberately turning away from him, he stopped short when he caught sight of the horrified fascination evident on Five’s sweet little face.  He gritted his teeth against the things she’d been forced to see, striding over instead to hit the buttons on The Rack—the ones that released the shackles.

He caught her before she hit the floor, holding her close as she quivered, as she suddenly started to cry.  “Shh . . . It . . . It’s okay, Five,” he told her, smoothing the hair that had escaped the braid, trying not to hurt her as he adjusted her on his lap.  “You’re okay, right?”

She nodded, her eyes still locked on the sleeping overmaster.  “Is he . . . dead?” she whispered, fear spiking in her youki once more.

“No, he’s not,” Caipora told her.  “Listen to me, Five.  You have to listen.”

Reluctantly, she dragged her eyes off of Domajin.  “Did he hurt you, Master?”

He quickly shook his head.  “No, he didn’t,” he assured her.

She frowned.  “But you looked like you were in pain,” she replied.

He sighed.  “I’m fine, I promise . . . Now, I need to you listen to me.  Get your dress on and take my clothes.  Go back to my room and lock the door.  Don’t open it for anyone, but me . . . Do you understand?”

She still looked confused, but she nodded.  When he set her down, she carefully made her way over to retrieve her dress, and he grimaced at the network of angry wounds that were slowly scabbing over.  A fresh wave of rage surged through him, and when he called out to her again, he couldn’t contain it.  “Five,” he barked, stopping her in her tracks.  She reacted to his tone, chin snapping down, hands dropping immediately to her sides.  He winced and drew a deep breath before continuing.  “What did he do to you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes as though he were daring her to lie to him.

She shuffled her feet against the floor almost nervously.

“You need to tell me,” he insisted.

Biting her lip, she gave a little shrug.  “He . . . He hurt my . . . my mouth,” she said slowly.

The flash of fury was strangely blunted as he strode over to her, knelt down before her.  “What do you mean?  Did he . . .? Did he force his dick into your mouth?”

She choked a little, jerked her head, ‘yes’.

Caipora couldn’t respond right away.  The all-consuming wave of something thick and black and cloying was too hard to get past.  Hands shaking as he helped her tug her slip over her head, he remained, rooted to the spot as she gathered up his clothes and, sparing him one last, scared look, she slipped out of the room . . .

It wasn’t until she was gone that the numbness that had settled over him broke wide, and only then, did he turn, did he narrow his enraged gaze on the unconscious overmaster.  As though every last instance of humiliation, of torment, had built up to this moment—as the understanding that the malignant youkai had possessed the nerve to touch Five in such a way . . . That he meant to kill Domajin was a given, but . . . but now . . .

Caipora’s eyes narrowed as his fangs flashed in the dim light.  “Now, you bastard . . . Now, you’re going to suffer . . .”

Bringing the whip down for the thousandth time since he’d strapped the overmaster to the rack hours ago, he wondered vaguely, why it was that his rage was nowhere near assuaged.  Even whipping Domajin in his drugged state should have felt at least a little bad to him—should have somehow upset his inner sense of fair play—but it didn’t.  After making sure that Five had gone to their room and locked the door, Caipora had gone on a hunt of his own, looking for and finding the Toy Chest, where he’d helped himself to a few pleasantries for the ever-benevolent overmaster.  He’d lost track of time hours ago, but every time he remembered that stricken look on Five’s tiny face—heard her words in the confines of a memory he would never forget . . . And with every rerun of those words, his rage grew just a little more.  Domajin . . . He wasn’t getting off that rack, not while he still drew breath . . .

“He . . . He hurt my . . . my mouth . . .”

Crack.

“He . . . He hurt my . . . my mouth . . .”

Crack.

“He . . . He hurt my . . . my mouth . . .”

Cracking the whip with a force that he scarcely knew he possessed, this time—this time—he was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath followed by a loud, enraged shriek as Domajin’s conscious returned with a vengeance.  Struggling against the restraints, The Rack creaked and groaned but did not sway.

“You . . .!  You bastard!  Caipora!” Domajin shrieked, struggling hard against the restraints, ignoring the biting burn of the ofuda contained within them.  “I’ll kill you!  Kill you!  You—”

His words cut off abruptly when Caipora let the end of the lash fly again.  This time, it snapped hard against the side of his head, across his ear, leaving it torn and bloodied as he rasped out another loud shriek that hovered somewhere between rage and pain.

“Shut up or I’ll gag you,” Caipora warned, his voice oddly calm despite the fury that delineated his every movement as he stomped around to face the disgraced overmaster.  “Tell me, you sick fuck.  Did you get off on shoving your pathetic excuse for a dick down a child’s throat?  What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Domajin wheezed out a laugh that had more to do with bravado than it had to do with common sense.  “What do you care?” he growled.  “She’s a slave—a slave!  And that’s all she’ll ever be!  She’ll live, and she’ll die, and the only thing she’ll ever, ever know is the pain and humiliation—the—ugh!”

Foul words cut off when Caipora snapped the whip again, bringing it down across the man’s face, his shoulder, his arm, the overmaster gurgled, gnashed out a fierce growl that was sorely misplaced, given the circumstances.

“Shut your hole, or I’ll rip out your tongue,” he warned.

“You miserable—Do you know who I am?” Domajin thundered.

“No,” Caipora growled, grasping Domajin’s face, squeezing his cheeks hard.  “The question you should be asking is, do you know who I am?”

Domajin’s expression registered a momentary sense of fear that he managed to bury a moment later.

“Right now,” he went on, shaking Domajin’s head with every word, “I’m your judge, and I’m your jury . . . so, if I were you, I’d fear the fuck out of me.”

Tossing the whip aside, Caipora reached down, carefully fondling Domajin’s balls.  The jaguar-youkai twitched and jerked, even as his cock stiffened.  He uttered a half-breath, half-smothered-scream as the spikes in the pressure cuff started to dig in.  Caipora stepped back with a derisive snort, grasping the top of The Rack and yanking it down into place.

“Release me, goddamn you!  I order you to release me right now!  I’m overmaster here!  How dare you—”

Cutting him off as he shoved his cock, deep into the overmaster’s mouth, Caipora broke into a grimace when the fool started to bite down.  Hand flashing out, slapping Domajin hard across the face as he glowered at him, Caipora grabbed a handful of the jaguar-youkai’s hair and yanked his head back.  “Do that again, and I’ll knock your fucking teeth out of your head.”

“If you think you’re going to kill me, then why don’t you just do it . . . if you have the balls,” Domajin snarled.

Caipora struck him across the face again, hard enough that his entire body jerked back against the restraints as his head snapped to the side.  “Oh, you’re going to die,” he replied almost stonily.  “But you’re not going to die fast.  You’re going to remember every single time you stuck me up here . . . You’re going to remember every girl you ever tortured, mutilated, killed . . . You’re going to remember every last minute of your perverted existence—and when you’re crying and begging and screaming?  I’ll show you as much mercy as you ever showed anyone else . . . Now, if I’m not mistaken, you’re the one who wanted me so fucking bad, right?  Well, here’s your chance, you sick bastard.”

Domajin grunted when Caipora shoved his head down on his dick once more, choking, wheezing around the forced entry.  The deranged overmaster . . . Who knew what he was thinking, if he was delusional enough to think that Caipora was only after a blow job . . . To Caipora, it was the means to an end as he jammed Domajin’s head down with a barely contained brutality, with a rampant fury that only grew with every thrust.  Domajin gagged on his dick, his body trying to retch, to purge, but the thickness of his cock was enough to force it back, time and again as the rancid reek of the man’s soiled breath fouled the air—the smell of vomit hung thick and cloying—that guttural breath that always came with the vapid purge . . .

Thrusting into him, ignoring the near-whimpers as Domajin choked again, as he was made to bite it back over and over, Caipora uttered a fierce growl as an orgasm as ugly—as welcome—as any other that he’d ever experienced surged out of him.  Thick and steady, it flowed from him, filling Domajin’s gaping maw, dripping from the corners of his distended mouth.  The overmaster choked once more, and Caipora watched in a horrified kind of fascination as the come rose up, leaked from his nose, dripping down over his stretched lips, pooling on Caipora’s shaft, only to disappear into his mouth once more . . .

Shoving the overmaster’s head up and off of him with a rough jerk, Caipora stumbled back a couple steps as a second orgasm shot out of him, splattering all over Domajin’s face as he puked hard.  Ignoring the splatters that hit him, Caipora reached over, yanked the cocksleeve off of the nearby table.  He took his time, slipping it on, tightening the small straps that held it on.  Domajin spotted it, eyes flaring wide.  “N-No,” he croaked out, his voice roughened and harsh from the fucking he’d been dealt.  Yanking against the restraints once more to no avail, he tried, bucking his body, growling, moaning, as the ofuda burned his skin.  He knew what was coming, and the trace fear he couldn’t hide only served to bring a dark grin to Caipora’s face.  “No!”

“Get a good look, Domajin,” Caipora growled, low in his throat, stepping forward, shoving his dick up under Domajin’s face.  “You love these, right?  Loved how they tore those slaves apart . . .?  But this one . . . It’s not made to kill you, is it?  Oh, no . . . It’ll just make you wish you were fucking dead—over and over and over again . . .”

“Don’t you dare!” Domajin shrieked as Caipora stepped away, strode around the rack to take his position behind the overmaster.  “Caipora, don’t you da—!"

His words were cut off when Caipora slowly, agonizingly slowly, started to press his cock into his ass—as the scrape of the half-inch metal studs tore their way into his rectum.  Caipora smiled as he reveled in the sound of the overmaster’s screams.  Those same screams shot straight through him, right to his cock, as he thickened, hardened, ground his teeth together to keep himself from fucking Domajin as brutally as he possibly could.  Inch by painstaking inch, he pressed, only to stop long enough for the pain to reach a plateau, allowing Domajin a moment when he truly believed he could endure it.  Then Caipora pushed again . . .

The sticky-slick feel of the blood that pooled around him, the stench of it in his nostrils, only served to feed his rage, his simmering fury—a fury that wasn’t waning, not even a little—even as the heady feeling tingled in his balls, in his cock.  The blood drenched head, the sensation as that dark and seductive heat and slickness oozed down into the cocksleeve . . . Breaking out in a sweat as he struggled to control the urge to slam himself in deep, he shuddered as Domajin’s righteous indignation melted into whimpering cries as his asshole suffered the brunt of the assault, as his own dick slowly shredded in the pressure cuff.

“Do you like it, Domajin?  This is what those girls felt.  Can you feel every single spike as it tears through your flesh?  As it rips you apart from the inside?” Caipora growled, digging his claws into his hips.  It . . . It still wasn’t nearly enough . . .

Jerking his cock out of Domajin’s ass, scowling in derision as the overmaster’s body quivered, as the blood, dripping from his rectum, ran down his legs in a slow trickle.  Grinding his teeth together, Caipora reached over to grab the next toy off of the small table he’d set up.  Giving the base of the dildo he’d found in the toy chest a good twist, he narrowed his gaze at the overmaster.  The tiny motor buzzed to life, the spikes slowly, methodically spinning around the length of it.  That terrifying thing was a short, fat, nasty-looking creation: roughly three inches long with awful quarter-inch, razor sharp spikes . . . It hadn’t taken Caipora long to figure out just what kind of fuckery this thing would do, and as he watched the twisting spikes, he narrowed his gaze—and shoved it hard, right into Domajin’s ass.

The shriek that was ripped from him was shockingly loud, drowning out the low hum of the toy that was working itself, deep into Domajin’s body in a slow but steady undulation.  Caipora had no idea, how far up inside the overmaster that thing would burrow itself, and he really didn’t care.  The harsh sound of Domajin’s rasping cries only served to fan the flames of rage that would not go away . . .

“He . . . He hurt my . . . my mouth . . .”

Just the memory of those words, that stricken and confused look on her face, was enough to send him spiraling over the proverbial edge, and he grabbed Domajin’s hips once more, shoved the head of his dick into him, drawing a deep breath, only to slam himself in deep.  Domajin shrieked, his entire body stiffening, only to shriek again when the pressure cuff tightened.  The incredible tightness, emphasized by the pooling blood, the vague vibration of the toy that preceded him, made him grind his teeth as he gave up, as he slammed into the miserable bastard again and again and again.  Grunting, growling, unleashing a wave of come that drew another half-shriek from the overmaster, Caipora jerked him back hard, refreshing his grip on Domajin’s hips, shaking him roughly as the spikes dug in deeper.

He rode Domajin fast, hard, every stroke, bringing back a memory of the innumerable times that Caipora had been confined on that damned contraption—of every instance in which the overmaster had sought to break him, to force him into submission for no other reason that sheer, perverted lust.  Bad enough, those memories, those awful, disgusting moments, caught forever, trapped in his head . . . To have forced Five into oral sex?  It was more than he could stand, compounding the consuming wrath that burned so deeply . . .

Unloading orgasm after orgasm, relishing the guttural moans, the simpering groans, Caipora had no pity, gave no quarter, rutting against Domajin without any remorse as yet another orgasm hit him hard—wild, wanton, uncontrolled . . .

Jerking out of the overmaster, smiling in grim satisfaction as the bastard’s entrails hung in shreds, ragged bits of putrid flesh, slipping out of him, littering the floor, Caipora unbuckled the nasty cocksleeve and dropped it, reaching for another one that he’d left, sitting on that nearby table.  This one wasn’t much different from the last, but it had longer spikes.  Striding around the overmaster’s quivering body, he slapped him hard until he opened his eyes once more.

“I think you’ll know what this is going to do to you,” he said, giving Domajin another slap for good measure.  Grasping a handful of hair as the overmaster stared, wide-eyed, at the terrifying instrument of torture, hugging Caipora’s cock, Caipora jerked his head up, forced Domajin to look at him.  Suddenly, though, the overmaster started to cry—great, racking sobs.  Curling his lip up in an angry sneer, Caipora slapped Domajin again.  “Don’t do that,” he growled.  “You don’t get to cry.  Those slaves you tortured—that you killed.  They didn’t get to cry.  Five . . . You raped her—maybe not in the traditional sense, but you raped everything a little girl is.  You . . . don’t . . . get . . . to . . . cry,” he snapped, punctuating his words as he jammed Domajin’s mouth down on his spike-covered dick.

Domajin’s contorted wails echoed in the chamber.  Caipora had no mercy, fucking his face over and over again, just as he’d done to his ass.  When he was close to coming, he drove into him, harder and harder, feeling the head of his cock bend at the slightly unnatural angle, the pleasure-pain mix reaching a crescendo as he grunted, as he unleashed his come, straight down the overmaster’s throat.  He wasn’t done—not by a long shot.  Riding his face in the same way that he’d ridden his ass already, shooting load after load of semen down his wretched throat, forcing him to swallow it or choke—he honestly didn’t care which . . .

And at some point, the overmaster’s cries stopped.  Letting go of his head, staggering back a couple steps, Caipora drew in a few raspy breaths.  Domajin hung there, entirely limp.  Caipora didn’t know if he was dead or just passed out again.  Staring at the torn, bloody, ragged hole that used to be Domajin’s mouth as bits of his teeth fell out of the spikes of the cocksleeve, as he watched in grim satisfaction, as the steady flow of blood where the overmaster’s mangled dick had been popped like an overblown balloon, he couldn’t summon even the basest level of horror at what he’d chosen to do.  The overmaster had pushed him just one step too far, and Caipora had known deep down that the man wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t let it go, would have eventually killed Five if left alone . . .

Domajin’s body stuttered out a shallow and wheezing breath, and Caipora narrowed his eyes.  He was still alive . . .?

Striding back over to The Rack once more, he grabbed the top and shoved it back up once more, bringing Domajin’s torn and bloodied body upright.  His head lolled back and forth, and slowly, slowly he managed to lift his head.  He couldn’t make a sound anymore—his vocal cords had been obliterated by the cocksleeve and repeated face fucking.  Sparing a moment to stare into Domajin’s eyes, Caipora smiled just a little.  Drawing back, balling up his fist, he drove it into his chest, the flesh, the muscle, the sinew, ripping and tearing under the force of the hit—bone shattering, splintering under his hand, giving way to him . . . Opening his fist, grasping Domajin’s heart that beat, weak and thready, in his hand, Caipora held it, cradled it, caressed it like a lover, grasping Domajin’s hair, forcing him to stare him straight in the eye as he wheezed and gasped, gaze dulling slowly, but he was not yet dead . . .

And, staring into his murky yellow gaze, Caipora gritted his teeth, squeezed the bastard’s blackened heart.  It popped in his hand, as the light faded out of Domajin’s eyes for the final time.