InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Anhanguera ❯ Dissension ( Chapter 18 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Five grunted, face screwing up in an expression of heavy concentration as she carefully dragged the heavy bag of laundry down the stairs and through the great room.  The sunshine was warm as it streamed through the long row of huge windows that overlooked the back gardens behind the mansion.  It was a little warmer today that it had been recently, and when she stepped outside under the portico, she couldn’t help herself as she unconsciously turned her face up slightly, eyes fluttering closed as she breathed in the slightly salty scent of the water, of the brisk air . . .

Master had said that she was old enough—big enough—to start washing his laundry.  It was hard, heavy work, but it made her happy.  Doing things just for Master were things she’d come to relish.  To make herself of value to him . . . That’s what she really wanted to do . . .

The only downside to washing Master’s clothes was that it meant that she had to venture into the bathhouse.  So far, though, the attendants didn’t pay her any real attention, so she wasn’t as frightened of it as she used to be.  At this time of morning, the bathhouse was fairly empty other than the attendants who always watched her like hawks.  But they left her alone when they saw her laundry bag.

The laundry washing area was behind the bathhouse, but the only way to the small, enclosed yard was through the building proper.

Settling down beside the washing tub—a large metal tub that they used to soak the clothes in the wash water, she carefully pulled things out of the bag, one garment at a time, giving them all a thorough inspection, looking for anything that might need to be scrubbed first.  It wasn’t that difficult, actually.  Since all of Master’s clothes were black, there wasn’t really much to worry about.

It didn’t take too long to get everything into the basin to soak along with a scoop of the prewash powder that the couple bathhouse slaves made.  Five didn’t rightfully know what was in it, but she’d had to help from time to time in the bathhouse on the Isle of Children.  She knew that it was some kind of stone that could be found easily along the shores of the islands, that they then took the stones and ground them up in mortars with pestles.  It was taxing work, and she’d always hated it.  Sitting down, doing nothing all day but grinding up rocks until they were nothing but a fine powder was really hard on her arms . . .

She had to let the prewash soak for at least half an hour before she could scrub the clothing out.  The trick was, she had to at least look like she was doing something constructive while she waited, just in case one of the attendants stepped outside.

Scrambling to her feet, she scooted over to retrieve the long and heavy broom that was almost twice her height, but she stopped, pull her hand back, as the strange palpitation of a foreign youki touched her.

It wasn’t the youki that distressed her, though.  Biting her lip as she backed slowly away from the wall, she wrung her hands.

The sadness in that aura . . . strong enough to penetrate the thick stone wall . . . And it was sadness, wasn’t it?  Sadness so deep, so overwhelming, that it stung her . . .

She didn’t really stop to think about what she was doing.  Slipping over the flagstone portico, back to the doorway that led to the inner bathhouse, she followed that aura, frowning when she realized that, whoever it was, was behind the first door on the right . . . She expected that it would be locked when she reached out, grasped the handle.  To her surprise, it wasn’t, and the door slowly opened with a dull click.

Curiosity drew her forward as she quietly stole into the darkened room.  A thin, burnt orange curtain hung over the small window, casting it in a hazy sort of surreal light, and the youki was so much thicker in here . . .

Brows drawing together as she crept forward, intently watching the woman, sitting on the edge of the bed, chin down, a thin sheet pulled over her hips, she seemed so utterly defeated . . . Something about her aura, though . . . Something felt . . . strange . . . Despite the sadness that seemed to roll off of her in waves—the desperation, the melancholy . . . There was something else—something Five didn’t really understand . . .

It occurred to her that she probably shouldn’t be in here—that she’d likely be in trouble if anyone caught her . . .

“Are you . . . okay?” she asked, careful to keep her voice low, quiet.

She sniffled, choked back her tears, ducking her head to wipe her face on her shoulders.  Her arms were behind her . . . “Who . . . are you?”

Five frowned at the lower, almost husky tone of the slave’s voice.  “Are you sick?” she asked before she could stop herself.  “Why are you chained up?”

“Because I want to die,” she growled, glowering at Five.  “Go away, brat.  Just go away.”

Balling her fists around handfuls of her dress, Five shook her head.  “But . . . why?  Why would you want that?”

“Why don’t you?” she snarled, head flashing to the side, eyes, little more than pinpoints of light in the dusky room, and the anger, the outrage—the hatred—was thick, almost a physical thing.  Five had to steel herself against the nearly overwhelming urge to turn tail and run, even as the slave’s head drooped again, as her face fell back behind the curtain of bedraggled hair that hung like a protective barrier, blocking her from Five’s curious gaze.  “You’re a slave, just like me, and one day, if they decide that they want to use you—to make you into something . . . Something disgusting . . . They’ll do it to you, too, little girl! So, just shut up and go away!”

Five bit her lip, forced herself to slowly creep forward.  “Did they . . .?  Did they do something to you?”

Her head snapped up again; she glowered at Five.  And then, she slowly stood, letting the sheet fall away, and Five blinked, mouth dropping open, as she quickly shook her head.  She . . . wasn’t a she, at all, was she?  No, she . . . was a . . . he . . .?  “Who . . .?  Why?”

He snorted, flopping back down on the edge of the bed, the rattle and clank of the chains that secured him, a harsh and grating exclamation as he glowered off to the side at nothing—or maybe, at everything . . . “The overmaster,” he muttered, his voice, thick with another surge of wrath, shaking as his impotent rage spiked.

Five flinched at the wild and savage surge of youki.  “Master?  But he . . . He’s kind, and he wouldn’t—”

“He chose me for this!” he hissed, as though her rebuttal hurt him.  “Called it an honor!  An honor!”

“But—”

“Go away, you pest!  Go away before—"

“Five, what do you think you’re doing in here?”

Whipping around on her heel, she gasped as she came, face to face with Master, who was standing in the doorway, looking entirely displeased to have found her here, of all places.  Narrowing his eyes just a little at her, he jerked his head, his meaning clear, and Five quickly ducked her chin and skittered past him, out the door and around the corner, back onto the portico to work on his laundry that she had so easily forgotten.

Her hands were shaking—her entire body was shaking—as she reached for a shirt, slapping it against the scrub board that was affixed to the side of the tub.  She shouldn’t have gone in there, shouldn’t have gone looking for the source of that aura . . . Master . . . Was he going to be angry with her?  Would he punish her for what she’d one?  If he did, she’d deserve it.  She knew better.  Even so . . .

“He chose me for this . . .! Called it an honor!  An honor!”

Gnawing on her lower lip, Five shook her head, unable to grasp just what the slave had meant—just what he’d accused Master of doing . . . It made no sense, did it?  What that slave had said . . . But Master . . . Master wasn’t like that, was he?  He . . . He was gentle, and he was kind . . .

So, why . . .?  Why would that strange slave believe that Master had done . . . that . . . to him . . .?


The room was silent—maddeningly so.  Settled on the small pillow that he’d put there for her, Five kept her chin down, concentrating solely on her coloring book.  She’d done it ever since she’d finished taking his dishes to the kitchen and drawing his bath.

It might have been the normal, comfortable silence, too . . . but it wasn’t.  Simmering just below the surface, he could feel the questions lurking—questions that she had yet to ask, but they were coming.  He’d heard enough of her exchange with the male slave to know that she had to wonder, just why the slave blamed him for it, and, on one hand, he probably ought to punish her for venturing where she had no business being.  On the other?  He hadn’t actually told her that she couldn’t go in there, either . . .

Standing up, he headed for the bathing area.  Normally, Five was fast on his heels, insisting that it was her duty to see to his bath.  She wasn’t following him this time, and he told himself that it was fine.

Stripping off his clothes, he let out a deep breath as he sank into the steaming-hot water.  She’d tossed in some herbs and oils, and he closed his eyes, allowing himself to relax as he tried not to think about just what was going on in that child’s head now . . .

He didn’t really try to convince himself that she wasn’t going to want answers.  She’d heard too much, was too confused about what she’d seen . . .

He felt her presence well before he heard it.  She didn’t say a thing as she slipped into the tub with him, as she started to lather his chest with a sudsy washcloth.  Opening his eyes, he frowned at her.  She kept her gaze down in customary fashion, but even as she worked, he could feel the unrest in her youki, though whether she was thinking about the male slave or if she was wondering if he was going to punish her, he didn’t know.

After a few minutes of it, though, he sighed, sat up, took the cloth from her as he leveled a serious look at her.  “All right, Five,” he said when she still refused to speak.  “Out with it—whatever’s on your mind.”

She blinked, shot him a very quick look, her cheeks coloring slightly as she hurriedly dropped her gaze once more.  “I . . . I’m sorry I disobeyed you, Master,” she blurted, scrunching up her shoulders, twisting her hands together before her.

He grunted.  “And why did you wander off when you were there only to do the wash?”

She gnawed on her lower lip, looking like she was weighing her answer.  “Well, I . . . I felt her—him, Master . . . It was this . . . This sadness . . . But it was also really . . . angry . . .”

“I see,” he replied, and somehow, her response didn’t surprise him in the least.  “You were concerned, weren’t you?”

She jerked her head once in a nod.  “Yes, Master.”

“You need to be careful, Five.  If one of the attendants had found you in there—if that slave had managed to get himself free . . . He would have hurt you, maybe killed you, and if he had done that, then I would have had to kill him for it.  So, your curiosity could have hurt both of you.  Do you understand?”

She looked shocked, those eyes of her flaring wide, even as the color leeched out of her skin.  “I’m sorry, Master!” she blurted, and he had very little doubt of her utmost sincerity.  “I just . . . I wanted to help him . . .”

He grimaced.  “Five, you have to listen to me.  That slave . . . I don’t know if you could help him, even if you want to.  He’s . . . He’s angry and confused and . . . and sometimes when people feel the way he does, they do things they wouldn’t normally do.”

She frowned.  “But he said . . .” Trailing off, she grimaced, but he had a feeling that it had more to do with the idea that she really didn’t know how to put into words, what she wanted to say and less to do with her very real questions.

“And he told you that I chose him for . . . for this, and you want to know if it’s true,” Caipora relented, knowing that it was probably the question she wanted to ask the most.

Nodding slowly, she seemed sadder than she was upset.  “But . . . But, why, Master?  Why did she—he—? Why did he have breasts?”

Caipora sighed, resting his elbow on the edge of the tub, propping his head on a curled fist.  “There’s a buyer—a special buyer . . . He requested a special type of sex slave—a male with . . . with a woman’s . . . features . . .”

That didn’t make sense to her, but then, it didn’t really have to, either.  She’d seen enough to know just what he meant, hadn’t she?  “He . . . He said that you’d do it to me if you were told to,” she whispered.  “Then I’d have a penis, too, wouldn’t I?  And then, I’d . . . I’d be angry at you, too?”

“It wasn’t something I wanted to have done to him,” Caipora said, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that told him he was saying too much.  “There are some people in the world who believe that they’re born into a body that isn’t the right one, and . . . and these people often go through a process where their bodies are altered to be the opposite gender.  But that’s something that they want—that they choose to do . . . What’s happening to that slave . . . He’s not going to be entirely changed . . . and it’s not something that he wanted, either.”

“And you chose him to do this?”

He gritted his teeth for a long moment as he counted to twenty very slowly, trying in vain to push away those feelings of overwhelming guilt.  Regardless of whether or not he’d been ordered to find the right one, to bring him back after okaying the horrific breast implant surgery on a cold stone table in a communal bathhouse . . . “I . . . I didn’t have a choice, Five.  Domajin ordered me to take care of it.”

“Will they want to do that to me one day, too?”

Managing a vague half-smile that was entirely for Five’s benefit, he shook his head.  “No, they won’t . . . and even if they did, I wouldn’t let it happen; not to you.”

She finally dared a look at him, peering up through her eyelashes, as though she were weighing, whether or not he was telling her the truth, and that realization bothered him even more than the current discussion . . . “You . . . You won’t?”

“No, Five . . . I promise, I won’t.”

The change in her was immediate and almost shocking.  Her expression didn’t change that much—she was still pondering what he’d told her—but her youki seemed to stretch, to lighten, and, at the moment, he’d take what he could get . . .

“Master?”

“Hmm?”

She retrieved the washcloth—he was still holding it in his other hand—and took her time, lathering it well before she resumed her scrubbing of him.  “If you don’t like it, can’t you un-do it?”

He sighed, leaning forward so she could wash his back.  “I can’t,” he told her shaking his head.  “Even if I did . . . It wouldn’t help him.  His, uh . . . His brain . . . It’s already been hurt too badly.”

“But you were okay again after Overmaster hurt you . . .” she mused.

He grimaced.  She didn’t see it, and that was fine, too.  If she never knew how close to home her questions really came, he’d be thankful, wouldn’t he?  Because he . . . He understood 452157 a little more than he really wanted to because it didn’t really matter in the end, that he’d chosen this path, that he was here for a reason.  Over the course of time that he’d willingly submitted to this . . . There was no going back for him, either, was there?  Not in the end, no matter what the outcome ultimately was . . .

“Five . . . Sometimes, when your brain . . . when your brain gets hurt . . . Certain things stay with you forever, change you forever . . . and even if you could go back to the way things were before . . . The damage . . . The hurt . . . Your brain’s hurt so badly that . . . that you can’t ever go back again . . .”


“What’s going on here?”

Two of the trainers turned to stare at him as he strode over, scowling at the small pen—at the tall male slave, strapped to The Rack, bent at the waist.  A ruckus of thumping hooves, of angry grunts and high-pitched squeals, sounded against the high metal enforced wooden gate directly behind the slave.

“Are you kidding?  You’re just in time for the show!” one of the trainers remarked, nodding at the restrained slave.  “You’re new here, right?  You come from the Meat House?”

Diego nodded once but offered no other information.  He wasn’t there to make friends, anyway, but he couldn’t quite believe that they were set to do what he was pretty sure he was about to see, either . . .

Another trainer stepped over to the slave with a glass jar—like an oversized Mason jar—and a long-handled rag brush.  He dipped it into the jar before slathering—whatever it was—all over the slave’s ass.

Caipora—Diego back then—frowned.

The trainer gave the slave one last slap on the ass with the brush before hurrying over to climb out of the pen.  “All right!” he yelled, settling himself atop the railing.

The other trainer chuckled as he caught Diego’s scowl.  “Have to get him nice and smelly,” he remarked, raising his voice to let it carry to Diego.  “They swab the cows’ holes—flush ‘em out with water a few times.  Pour a little of that love juice on the poor fucker’s ass, and it’s all she wrote . . . It encourages him . . .” he said, nodding at the bull.

The gate shook and groaned, then snapped open as a huge black bull charged out, his head tilted upward, mouth ajar, tongue lying flat, with his upper lips curled back.  Diego watched in silence—in masked horror that did not show on his face—as the bull closed in on the slave, as he mounted him, plunging his penis in deep . . .

The slave’s scream was terrible, so full of fear and pain . . . It caught in his head, echoed so deep and dark.  The bull rutted a few times, his huge dick, impaling the slave—a hideous invasion of a nearly forty-inch long, almost two-inch in diameter penis, and, while the girth wasn’t the problem, the length had to feel akin to having one’s entrails yanked out in the most excruciating way imaginable . . .

Those shrieks grew louder, thicker, more terrorized with every passing moment, even though it only took a few seconds for the bull to reach his climax.  By the time the bull was pulled back by a couple of the handlers, the slave was in tears, earnest tears, as the animal’s semen dripped from his ass . . .

“Just wait,” one of the trainers, leaning on the fence, said.  “They’re getting the boars ready, and those bastards . . . They come forever!”

“Why are they doing that?” Diego growled, shaking his head as another trainer aimed a water hose at the slave’s wrecked ass.

“Are you kidding?  It makes them more receptive to the training,” the other trainer said.  “That one, there?  He tries to fight it.  Thinks he’s too good to take a little dick.  A few days of this, though, and he’ll be begging for normal cock.  Animal therapy . . . That’s all it is . . .”

Awaking with a start, Caipora gasped as he sat straight up, hooking his arms around his legs as he dropped his forehead against his slightly skewed knees.

He didn’t know what, exactly, had triggered that dream, though, he supposed, it likely had something to do with the outer limits of what was somewhat acceptable and what crossed the line into a deeper level of perversion . . .

And he’d thought that he’d seen everything, hadn’t he?  He should have known better.  If there was one thing that he’d learned over time, it was that he really shouldn’t believe that, ever.  He’d thought, in the beginning, that the video he’d seen of the torture of the hunter that St. George had originally sent in was the worst, and, in a way, it was—or so he’d believed until the night of his initiation . . . the day he’d had to kill the infant because he was born, imperfect . . . The savagery of everyday life and survival, of having to look over his shoulder, just in case someone was trying to sneak up behind him . . . The night he’d had to kill his only friend here . . . and the list went on and on, and every last one of those things had chipped away at him, ate away at him, until the only thing left was . . . Was what he had become . . .

He supposed that, in some ways, the ultimate perversion of what was being done to 452157 really wasn’t as bad as some of the things he’d witnessed.  The thing that bothered him the most, though, was that, unlike those in real life who opted to be sexually reassigned, 452157 didn’t want that, at all, and just how Caipora was supposed to train him out of his basic wish to rip himself to shreds?

Letting out a deep breath, he raked his hands through his tangled hair—a knot of muddy brown locks that he hadn’t bothered to brush out before crawling into bed.

The thing was, he really had no idea, just what to say or do to convince 452157 that dying wasn’t the answer, but he also couldn’t really do much of anything with him unless or until he resigned himself to his ultimate fate because Caipora had no doubt at all that the second those shackles were removed, he’d try again to rip those breast implants right out . . . and, to be entirely honest?  Caipora wasn’t entirely certain that he could really blame him for it—or punish him for trying . . .

No, the only thing that he really could hope for was that the hormone replacement therapy would somehow manage to soften his overall resistance—maybe.

The sound of a very childish kind of yawn interrupted his thoughts moments before Five’s head popped up over the foot of the bed.  Eyes half-closed, her face lingering in that sleep-slow state, she rubbed her eyes with a balled-up fist as she broke wide into another yawn.

He sighed, managing a near-smile as he watched her sleepy antics.  “Go back to sleep, Five,” he told her softly.

She leaned forward, rested her cheek against the end of the bed, her eyes drifting closed as she yawned again.

He shook his head, that near-smile quirking the corner of his lips.  She really did just look so entirely sweet, so innocent, and he . . . “Come on,” he said, leaning forward, reaching over to tousle her hair.

She managed to half-open her eyes, stretched her arms up, like a toddler, asking to be picked up.  Caipora caught her under the armpits, pulled her gently onto the bed.  She snuggled close beside him, nestled under the sheets without waking, uttering the sweetest little sigh as she drifted off to sleep once more . . .

And he smiled.