Just... Just take it...
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot and the OC's. Supernatural belongs to Kripke and CW and whoever else.
Warnings: Oh God, ok umm: Violence, lotta swearing, violence again, abuse, and graphic rape of a minor.
The paperweight sat cold and heavy in my hand. It was an ugly thing, all twisted metal and sharp edges. Obscure silhouettes were etched across its surface, a clawing arm here, a grimacing face there, like the souls of the damned chasing an absolution that was just out of reach. Every time the outline of a tortured limb caught the light, it sent shivers of unease down my spine. But it was bulky and dense, and would hopefully fulfill the task I had in mind for it. Deliberately, I ran the pad of my thumb over one of the jutting protrusions, metal slick under my touch.
I had parked myself in Cheverill's desk chair, albeit gingerly. Carter had been right when he'd said sitting wouldn't be the most comfortable position. The paperweight was gripped rigidly in my right hand, while my left had been laid across the top of the desk, palm down. The cuff clasped around my wrist winked innocuously at me, pale against dark wood and tan skin. Though I had only been wearing them for two days at most, I could already feel the rawness of the chafed areas beneath. I loathed them. They had become a symbol of my subjugation, and of Cheverill's power over me. They were the obstacle I had to overcome to get out of this hellhole.
My fingers tightened around the paperweight and I lifted it above my head, the corners digging lightly into my palm. I wasn't foolish enough to think I could smash the soldering out of the cuffs' tiny keyholes, not with the tools I had at my disposal, so the hinges were my next best bet. I wasn't completely confident that breaking the hinges would work, but until I came up with something better it was worth a shot. With as much power as I could garner, I brought the paperweight down on the hinges of my left cuff with a clang! that reverberated through my entire arm. My lip twisted in a grimace as I raised my wrist to examine the damage to the cuff. Not even a scratch. Fine, if it wanted to be stubborn. Two could play at that game.
I repositioned my arm and smashed the paperweight into the hinges. Another clang! vibrated around the room. Shockwaves hummed through my bones, making me grit my teeth in discomfort. If the sound of nails on chalkboard could be a sensation, that's what it felt like as I hefted the paperweight again.
Clang!
Once I got the bracelets off, it would be harder to treat the collar to the same, but I was confident I could do it. Even if I'd have to use the mirror in the bathroom to see where I was aiming. It would be cruel irony to be rid of the cuffs, only to suffocate through a crushed windpipe. When they were all off, I would open the window like I had before and simply follow through with my original plan.
Clang!
A mist still clung tenaciously to the boughs of the trees. As soon as I reached the edge of the mansion grounds I would be able to vanish into it without a trace. Although I would need to find a new set of clothes. The stripper costume Cheverill gave me was going to be burned at the first feasible opportunity. I would have already changed clothing if Cheverill hadn't rigged the cuffs to activate when I opened the closet door. I guess he didn't want me making anymore lock picks.
Clang!
My only concern was that someone would spot me making a break for it. Through no stretch of the imagination could I claim that I was in full health. For God's sake, I couldn't even walk straight, what with the pain that flared in my lower back every time I took a step. A confrontation with Carter could only end badly, and if he did catch me I had no doubt that Cheverill would not take kindly to my latest escape scheme. I shuddered as I lifted the paperweight. No, Cheverill would not like that at all.
Surely this damn cuff was close to breaking. It had to be weakening, at least! I slammed the paperweight down yet again, and discovered that no, the cuffs were not weakening. All I had succeeded in doing was pissing them off. A sudden blaze of electricity exploded through them, eliciting a yelp from me before my vocal chords froze and my throat seized helplessly. The paperweight fell from my nerveless grasp and I struggled to stay conscious, liquid lightning clamping down on every muscle and raking them over white hot coals.
I came to slumped over the desk. The neat piles of paper stacked across it had been scattered every which way by my flailing, once-crisp sheets now crinkled and bent. I sucked a tremulous breath into my aching lungs and closed my eyes. Much as I would have loved to believe that it had been a fluke, a random mishap of crossed wires or a short circuit, I knew better. The cuffs were set to activate if attacked like that. How the hell Cheverill had programmed them to know when that was, I had no clue, but it didn't really matter either way.
My eyes snapped open and I pounded a fist onto the desk, a snarl of fury contorting my face. Was it impossible for one thing to go my way? Breathing heavily, I sat and glared at the cuff, wrestling with the part of myself that just wanted to break down and wail. I wasn't that emotionally unstable, goddamnit.
I reviewed the facts in my head. The cuffs prevented me from leaving this room, therefore the cuffs needed to come off. The only way that would happen was if the hinges could be broken, as the soldering prevented me from picking the miniscule locks. And lastly, if I didn't crush the hinges, get the cuffs off and escape, I would be at the mercy of a ruthless lunatic for the remainder of my (probably very short) life. So, I told myself sternly. Stop complaining and get back to it. Sitting here won't do any good at all.
I straightened and picked up the paperweight from where I had dropped it. The indistinct faces pushing out through the metal looked as though they were leering up at me. Creepy thing. Who the hell bought a paperweight like this anyway? I ignored their mocking expressions and placed my arm on the desk, readying myself. I would have to hit it with all I had. I didn't want to endure more shocks than absolutely necessary. I readjusted my hold on the paperweight, and then again as my clammy palms made the crevices greasy with sweat.
Maybe I could find another way, I reasoned to myself as my hand refused to descend. I hadn't really tried to pick a soldered lock before. There was no way it was that hard. Or hey, maybe if I soaked the cuffs for long enough they would short circuit. It was completely irrelevant that they worked after my shower anyway. The shower hadn't even been that wet. Or maybe-
Shut up and hit the damn cuff, you idiot!
My arm jerked down, ending with the loud ringing of metal on metal. I braced myself for the inevitable backlash, but even knowing what was coming didn't prevent the cry being wrenched from my throat as the cuffs burst ardently into life. I could barely feel the chair slipping out from beneath me, spasms running the length of my body. I landed hard on my side on the polished wood floor. One of my kicking legs caught the nearest desk leg, sending a shower of office supplies tumbling down around me. My voice broke on the next yell, and seriously, weren't the people who worked here ever in the least bit disturbed by the constant screams coming from their employer's bedroom?
Blackness was fluttering around the fringes of my vision by the time the cuffs switched off. A line of drool had worked its way down my chin and I wiped it away with a trembling hand, squeezing my eyes shut as the room spun alarmingly. I drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then twice more before I was convinced I wouldn't throw up all over myself. As I rolled over onto my stomach (at least if I vomited, it might as well do some good and stain Cheverill's floor), I decided that perhaps this getaway plan needed to be revised. Heavily.
A hard ridge was poking into my right hip. I shifted irritably, eyes still closed. I was exhausted, both from last nights... activities, and from my emotional paroxysm in the bathroom. It wouldn't be too much of a leap to say that adding high amounts of voltage to the mess might not be too beneficial. I twitched again. What the hell was I lying on anyway? Lazily, my hand drifted down to prod disinterestedly at the offending intrusion. Round, thin, cold. Stupid thing. Couldn't it see I just wanted to rest a minute without it making little jabs at my stomach every time I breathed? I pulled it out lethargically and brought it around in front of my unfocused eyes.
The wood was smooth against my cheek as I blinked dumbly at it, absorbing the miniature hilt and dull blade without a shred of comprehension. Why would he have a tiny sword on his desk? That's silly of him, I thought.
"That would be a letter opener, you dolt," piped a voice from the back of my head, managing to sound condescending and exasperated all at once. God, I'd been hearing way too many disembodied voices lately.
Go 'way, I told it sleepily. 'M not crazy, so I don't hear voices. Only crazy people hear those. Then a thought struck me. Am I crazy? That'd be bad... I'd have to wear those white gowns like in mental hospitals. Dean'd never let me live it down.
For the record, I do realize how nonsensical I was at the time, and how unhinged I would have sounded to anyone listening, had I voiced my thoughts. As it was, it took a few beats for me to pause in my musings to understand what exactly I was holding in my hand. A letter opener. As close to a knife as it was possible to get and, in a nutshell, what could be my ticket out. I dropped it with a clatter and scooted back, shrinking away from it like it would abruptly rear up and attack.
I had never killed a human before, ever, not in all my years hunting with Dad and Dean. Sure, sometimes people died during a job, too often actually, but never by my own hand. It was always a possession gone wrong, or an attack that we couldn't get to in time. You couldn't save everyone. And while I had accepted this hard truth over time, it never made it any easier to bear, knowing that someone had died because we hadn't been fast enough. I couldn't throw all that away, right? My principals were all I had, the only things left to connect me to my family.
But, that same voice interjected. What if it gets you back to them? Would you rather have that connection or actually be with them?
It had a point. I reached out and closed my fingers around the handle of the weapon, laboriously propping myself up to examine it more thoroughly. Like everything else in this house, it was a model for overabundance. The slim, silver blade was inlaid with a faint, looping design, and the pommel glimmered with encrusted blue and green stones. I tested the tip with my thumb and was unsurprised to find it blunter than a pair of safety scissors. It would be a painful and messy way to die.
I staggered clumsily to my feet and lurched over to the windows, muscles still uncoordinated from their recent frying. It was with a sigh of satisfaction that I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, resting my elbows on the frame to steady myself and gazing out over the forest and grounds.
The mist that had prevailed since morning had yet to lift, shrouding the tops of the trees in a ghostly film that left the uppermost branches like skeletal fingers grasping for an unreachable sun. Ephemeral tendrils snaked from the forest edge out onto the groomed lawn, slinking towards the house like curious children. Every so often they would take a quick peek over their shoulders, listening for the shrill reprimand that meant mother had spotted them exploring where they shouldn't and would soon herd them all inside with a flurry of scolding.
My eyes dropped to the letter opener in my hand. I couldn't actually kill a man, could I? Yes, he had hurt me, but he was human. This wasn't the same as some paranormal killer. It wasn't even in the same ballpark.
But then, what was the definition of a monster? Wasn't Cheverill just as bad, only in a different way? Worse even, because he had the choice not to harm anyone, yet he did so regardless? For so many hunts our target had been driven by base instinct and need, unable to stop themselves from killing because they physically could not survive without it as a source of prey, or because their minds had become so warped that they no longer saw why they shouldn't. How was Cheverill any better? I wondered about the other boys he had mentioned; how many had he simply used up, crippled beyond repair and discarded like broken, life-sized dolls? How many bodies had been buried out in the miles of spectral woods, left alone and forgotten with only the darkness and the worms to acknowledge their passing?
I shivered and huddled back from the windows, looking away from the pallid line of unending trunks. The mist was playing tricks with my eyes. As the trees faded in and out, they seemed to advance farther onto the lawn, crooked branches stretched towards me in covetous invitation. Waiting for Cheverill to tire of me and dispose of me like all the others. Waiting for the day that I too would be dumped in a shallow grave, and they would twine their roots around my stiffened corpse and never let me go.
My God, when had I become so morbid? I pressed my palms together, pinching the hilt of the letter opener between them, and feeling the uneven metal bite into my calloused skin. I wouldn't become Cheverill's boy toy, and I sure as hell wouldn't become another nameless victim rotting in an unmarked tomb. Determinedly, I cradled the letter opener and settled down to wait.
I had no idea how much time passed. The sun was sequestered behind layers of woolen clouds, and there was no clock in the room. (The absence of clocks bothered me to no end. Who didn't have a clock in their bedroom? I couldn't shake the thought that Cheverill had removed them expressly because of me, but there was no good reason for it that I could see. Then again, the guy was crazy. Probably. Hopefully. I still hadn't decided.) At what I estimated was around noon, another tray of food was delivered by the mousy woman from yesterday, but for the most part I spent my time sitting by the windows, watching the undulating mist form and reform into distorted figures that wafted apart as soon as they were conceived. I must have changed my mind a thousand times, second thoughts playing a screwed up version of Ring-Around-the-Rosie through my head. One moment I would have grown a spine and resolved to carry through with my plan, the next my backbone would be lying in a melted puddle on the floor as I cursed myself for a coward while I began to put the letter opener away. Then I would think of my family, or Cheverill's groping touch, and the cycle would start all over again.
The light was starting to dim when I finally heard the clack of footsteps heading for my room. As the gloom of the mist receded grudgingly, twilight hurrying forward to take its place, I stood uncertainly from my perch by the windows and slipped over to lurk near the doorway, letter opener clutched in a death grip in my hand and indecision still paralyzing my mind.
"Will you be needing anything, Sir?" a woman asked from right outside the door, halting the footsteps just as they reached it. I wiped my sweaty palms on my too-tight jeans and wrapped my fingers firmly around the letter opener's hilt to subdue their quivering. I would do this.
"No, I don't believe so." Cheverill's oily purr had me frozen in place, nails carving reddened crescent moons into the pads of my thumbs before I could shove the visceral fear aside and remaster myself. "Have no one disturb me for the remainder of the night unless I expressly request it." Well, now that was ideal. Hopefully nobody would intrude while I was stabbing Cheverill in the throat. I swallowed hard. Fuck, I couldn't do this.
"Of course, Sir. Have a good night." The tap-tap of the woman's heels receded down the corridor. This was it. Oh God, I couldn't do it. I had to do it. I couldn't do it. I strove to keep my breathing level. The door knob was turning and my heart was pounding so loudly that I swear it was trying to warn the man of what I was about to do because Jesus fuck since when could one muscle make more clamor than a firing squad and I couldn't do this but I had to because Dean was out there looking for me and what was I thinking attacking a deranged psychopath with nothing but a damn letter opener-
The door swung inward. Cheverill entered, a predatory grace to his stride as he pulled off his suit jacket and tossed it over his desk chair, looking around the room.
"Samuel?" he called, and though his back was to me I was certain his lips were drawn up in a bestial grin. It was as far as he got before my knees unlocked and I rushed him from behind, slamming into the space between his shoulder blades. My momentum carried us both to the floor and I drove my knee into the base of his spine to hold him down. My assumption that he would be too dazed to fight back crumbled to dust as he immediately surged up beneath me in a violent endeavor to throw me off. I seized his shoulders and clung on stubbornly, attempting to keep him still and ready the letter opener all at once. Cheverill bucked again, snarling, and reached around for his bracelet. I saw the movement out of the corner of my eye and lunged forward in a panic. I couldn't let him shock me, or this whole thing was for nothing. I had just forgotten that the fist I was lunging with was holding the letter opener as well.
The tip of the blade pierced Cheverill's hand with unexpected ease, burying itself with a thunk in the floor below and pinning him there like a bug on a display. For a split second we both ground to a halt, each of us equally shocked, and watched a bead of blood well up from where the metal was impaled just below his knuckles. Whoops. Then the pain seemed to register and Cheverill let out a bellow worthy of any rawhead, flinging me away as he thrashed like a dying piece of roadkill.
My senses came back to me and I scrambled to my feet. Somehow, I dodged Cheverill's flailing legs and aimed a kick at his head. He ducked and grabbed my ankle in his good hand, dragging it out from under me so that I crashed heavily onto his chest.
"You little bitch," he rasped, fingers closing around my throat just above the silver collar. I choked and scrabbled ineffectually at the back of his wrist. He was unbelievably strong, and he shook me as easily as a cat would a mouse, my head snapping back and forth. Blindly, I did the only thing I could think of, and felt for the hilt of the letter opener still embedded in his palm. The tips of my nails brushed metal. I clutched at the handle and have it a vicious twist, feeling bones grind against the blade. Cheverill released me with a roar and I wheezed in a greedy breath of precious air. My throat seemed too constricted, and I hastily blinked away the gray spots swimming in front of my eyes. I recovered just as Cheverill swung at me, barely getting my arm up in time to deflect it. The move left him unguarded, and I straddled him high on his chest, my shins pressed down on his biceps to hold him in place.
"What are you going to do then, Samuel?" he sneered, all unctuosity gone from his tone. In answer I yanked the letter opener from his hand, disregarding the gush of blood that spurted from the wound. Cheverill stared as I raised it in both fists. Then, as I was positioning it over the hollow of his throat, he inexplicably tossed his head back and started to laugh. It was harsh and ugly, a mocking sound that set my teeth on edge.
"You really think you can kill me?" Cheverill leered. I adjusted my grip and hovered the point an inch away from his adam's apple. One smooth thrust and I would be free. Cheverill cackled again. "You can't do it, can you, boy? I can see it in your face! You don't have the strength."
"Shut up," I growled. Cheverill's pulse was a delicate flutter above his collarbone and I rested the tip of the blade directly atop it. One stab and this would all be over. And yet I hesitated. I was about to murder a human.
I was so distracted by my damned moral dilemma that my knees had slackened where they pinned Cheverill's shoulders to the ground. Cheverill sensed the vulnerability and rolled sideways with a powerful heave, dumping me gracelessly to the floor and knocking every scrap of air from my lungs as his uninjured fist plowed into my stomach. I curled away instinctively, but his arms were free now and he was reaching for his bracelet before I even recalled the danger.
The cuffs switched on, cutting off my desperate "no!" before it could pass my lips. I bent in on myself as the familiar pain filled me. The letter opener was plucked from my unresisting fingers, and I hardly registered it when my arms were roughly grabbed and the cuffs clipped together behind my back. A hard kick landed on my exposed ribs, almost lost amid the scorching acid chewing its way through each of my veins.
By the time I came back to myself I was whimpering quietly into my knees, curled into a ball as best I could with my arms tied behind me. To my surprise, wayward tears had tracked thick lines across my cheeks, clumping to my eyelashes as I attempted to rub them away with my shoulder. From somewhere close by, the sound of splashing water could be heard. I listened for a moment, trying to pinpoint the source, but before I could the sole of a boot stomped brutally into my chest
"You know what, Samuel?" Cheverill's eyes were wild. His heel ground against my sternum and I groaned. "I was thoroughly enjoying my day. Nothing operose to attend to, no vexatious people to manage. And I was savoring the knowledge that you were here, awaiting my return."
There were so many things wrong with his little monologue that I didn't even know where to begin. I could probably start with the fact that his pretentious manner was back. And that he made it sound like I was a lovesick puppy pining for him. My ass I was 'awaiting' anybody.
"But to ascertain that upon my ingression, you had the effrontery to assault me?" He leaned down and hauled me to my feet, his uninjured hand clamped like a vice around my upper arm. He didn't seem to care that the other was bleeding freely, droplets of red trickling from the gash and spotting the wood beneath him with sprinkles of gore. "You should have known that a nugatory little maggot like you wouldn't have possessed the fortitude to dispatch anyone, let alone myself."
My God, even his insults sounded like... well, like that. "Do you talk like a rejected Dracula extra because you're overcompensating?" I asked. "Or because you know that kidnapping and black market deals are the only way you can get laid?"
Cheverill's eyes blazed. "You won't learn, will you?" he spat, dampening my face with spittle. He wound his bloody hand ruthlessly through my hair and propelled me towards the bathroom, hissing in my ear, "you've given me no choice but to punish you for this. It could have been easily prevented, but you just wouldn't acquiesce." Somehow, I didn't think he was too torn up over it.
The gush of water grew louder as he shoved me into the bathroom and threw me to the floor. I crashed to the tiles, arms useless to break my fall, and watched dazedly as Cheverill bent over the massive bathtub on the far wall. There was a squeak and the sounds of water stopped.
"What're you doin'?" I slurred as Cheverill crouched down and pulled me to my knees before the tub. Its blunt rim dug into my stomach, the rippling water innocently reflecting my wary image as I gazed into it.
Cheverill stroked my bangs out of my eyes and smiled sadly, the fury from seconds ago gone without a trace. "I'm sorry Samuel, but you brought this on yourself. After this, perhaps you'll begin to listen to me." His contrite tone was as false as his expression. It wasn't hard to see that he was relishing every moment of this. His fingers combed tenderly through my hair, almost comforting, until they suddenly clenched in the overlong strands and dunked my head under the icy water.
Taken off guard, I spluttered and yelped, losing about half the air I had managed to gulp down. Cheverill's hold was stringent and unwavering, the edge of the tub now a sharp pain grating into my ribs. I jerked against his grip, water sloshing over my chest and splattering onto the floor, but my fettered arms could do nothing to knock him away. A dull burn was starting in my chest. I needed air, but Cheverill gave no sign of relenting anytime soon. I struggled madly, my bare feet sliding across the sopping tiles with no traction to support me. The burn was fast becoming an unbearable pressure in my lungs and throat and try as I might, I couldn't hold my breath any longer. A host of bubbles clouded around my mouth and nose just before I sucked in a froth of water and started to choke. He's going to let me drown, I thought, terrified. Water was filling my lungs even as my frantic struggling weakened.
Then I was breathing in air, sweet, lovely air, coughing and hacking up streams of water while Cheverill held my head above the surface of the tub, smoothing my dripping hair away from my face and leaving bloody streaks across my skin. "Are you going to behave yet, Samuel?" he questioned. It was all the warning I received before he plunged me back into the water.
He left me for longer this time, long enough that my vision was starting to gray when he finally pulled me out. He didn't say anything, only let me regain some of my breath while he feathered kisses down the side of my temple and over my jaw. "Are you going to behave?" he asked again, once I was done spitting up water.
"You think you're scaring me?" I laughed, my voice a wrecked, gravelly rasp. Okay, maybe he was, a little. Not that I was going to let him know. "You're going to have to do better than that."
Cheverill's answering smile was razor-tipped. "If you insist, dear boy, I'll gladly rise to the challenge. In fact, I'm just getting started."
I jerked against his hand as he lowered me back in, my cutting retort swallowed by the water. And I really had thought it couldn't have been worse than it was. Of course, I probably shouldn't have goaded him like that either, but I've always had a problem with authority. And people drowning me for fun.
He let me squirm for a minute or so, keeping my head submerged and allowing the ache to grow in my chest. Then he made good on his threat and turned on my cuffs. I honestly don't remember much of what directly followed. The water amplified the electric shocks until I was sure my brain would sizzle to a crisp inside my skull and after awhile, the world blurred into nothing more than a haze of water and pain. I don't know how many times Cheverill dunked me either. I have a vague recollection of being lifted from the water and croaking, "stop, please... Please no more..." and Cheverill deliberating for an agonizing moment, finally shaking his head and jeering, "you're going to have to do better than that, Samuel."
When I next became fully aware of my surroundings, I was lying facedown, soft carpet rubbing against my cheek. My arms were still bound behind my back and my throat felt like it had been stuffed with shards of broken glass. I groaned unconsciously, trying to catalogue all the twinges my body was complaining about.
"Excellent, you're awake!" Cheverill's voice came from somewhere to my left, infuriatingly chipper. "I was about to rouse you personally if you took much longer. I even had time to summon one of my personnel to bandage the injury you paid me while you were quiescent."
Oh God, someone help me, I thought, hunching in on myself. Dean, where are you?
There was the sound of a drawer opening, then the clink of metal as Cheverill rummaged through its contents. "Ah, here we are," he said, satisfied, and I cautiously peeked out from under my lashes. I was lying in front of the plush couch of the sitting area, marble table to my back, with the bank of windows making up the wall over my head. All I could see of Cheverill were his shoes and half of one ankle through the gap between the couch and the floor. "This will do nicely," he continued, and his feet disappeared, only for the man himself to step around the couch and squat down next to my head.
"Now, Samuel," he began, reminding me of Dad when he was gearing up for a lecture. "For what we're going to engage in next, you will need to pay close attention. I'll expect you to become highly proficient at it within the next few weeks." He turned me over onto my back and held up what appeared to be a black ring with two straps coming off either side. Looking closer, I saw four thin metal rods also protruding off the ring, bent like the legs of a spider.
"Whatever the hell you're planning to do with that-" I husked, voice raw from all the water I had inhaled. Cheverill cut me off before I could finish, grabbing my jaw and pressing hard on the pressure points behind it until it was forced to open. I made an unintelligible noise of protest and attempted to twist away, but he jammed a knee into my stomach and pinned me beneath him.
"Shh, shh," he crooned, and slipped the bizarre ring object into my open mouth. It lodged itself just behind my front teeth, stretching my jaw uncomfortably wide, with two of the metal rods pressing against the roof of my mouth and the other two slotting in under my tongue. Furiously, I shook my head from side to side, prying at it with my tongue to dislodge it.
"I'll be having none of that, Samuel," Cheverill admonished. He released my chin and reached around to buckle the two straps behind my head, securing the device firmly in place. As he pulled back he gave my cheek an endearing pat with his bandaged hand. I felt a spike of vicious pleasure at the sight; I hoped it hurt like a bitch. "I know you resent it for the moment," Cheverill went on, "but I assure you that you'll soon grow accustomed to wearing it. Moreover, if you comport yourself laudably, I'll only stipulate its use for the first few sessions to expedite your learning."
I glared, prevented from replying by the gag. The edges of the ring were cutting into the soft flesh of my gums, and while I could still breathe through the hole in the center, the position it forced my jaw to take made it impossible to swallow normally. Lines of drool were gathering at the corners of my mouth and had begun to dribble down my chin. Cheverill's lip twitched in amusement as he lifted a hand and thumbed one of the trails away.
"You are going to feel so good, Samuel," he murmured, getting to his feet and unclasping his belt, eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Let's see if your tongue is proficient at anything other than boorish vituperation."
My eyes widened and I wrenched myself away from him, straining at the fastenings clipping my cuffs together. I didn't know what the hell 'vituperation' meant (and seriously, who talked like that? Someone needed to tell this guy that throwing big words into his sentences didn't make him sound intelligent), but I would have had to be pretty thick not to realize what Cheverill was about to do. Giving a blowjob wasn't something I had ever imagined myself doing, and certainly not to some guy at least twelve years my senior with my hands tied behind my back and a sex toy holding my mouth open and ready.
Cheverill finished unbuttoning his pants and pulled himself out, already half hard and leaking. I kicked out at him, horrified and disgusted, as he maneuvered me to kneel before the couch, ignoring my grunts and repeated attempts to break free. Cheverill sat in front of me, exposed crotch mere inches from my face. I balked and almost made it to my feet before his hand clamped punishingly down on my shoulder and shoved me back to my knees.
"Shh, Samuel, shh," he soothed, threading his fingers the hair at the base of my skull. "I won't hurt you. Just relax, that's it."
Fuck that. I squirmed to the side, thrashing, as he drew me closer with unrelenting hands. My breath was coming in short, petrified gasps that whistled through the gag like muted screams.
"Samuel," Cheverill chided, yanking my to head face him. "Enough with this offensive behavior. I told you to relax, and I expect you to comply." I snarled, and he released my shoulder to cuff me impatiently across the side of my face. "I said enough," he snapped, giving me a good shake to punctuate his words. I was too disoriented to lean away as he guided my head down and pushed the head of his cock through the ring and into my mouth. That brought me around. I jolted and bucked in his grasp, but both of his hands were anchored unshakably in my scalp and I wasn't going anywhere soon.
Cheverill slithered in another inch, the taste of salt and urine bleeding across my tongue and bringing back the urge to vomit all over again. The loose skin on the underside of his dick caught nauseatingly on the points of my teeth and I can honestly say that I had never wanted to bite down on anything as much as I did then. His length was hot and throbbing, beads of precum rolling continually from the tip until I could taste nothing else.
"Mmm, you're so pretty like this, Samuel," Cheverill moaned, bumping against the back of my throat as I retched and coughed. "Taking me like the good little pet you are." He tapped the strap holding the ring in my mouth and smiled. "Soon you won't even need this, once you've lost this rebellious streak of yours. Can't wait to feel your pretty lips wrapped around me." He nudged my gag reflex again, grinning at the way I convulsed involuntarily.
Seeming to tire of the slow pace, he thrust forward in earnest, burying himself deep in my throat. I choked, muscles flexing around the intrusion, trying to push it out and breath all at once. Cheverill let out a blissful whine and pulled back, slamming back in over and over while his hands clenched in my hair and satisfied grunts spilled from his lips. His cock was rock hard in my mouth and he hit my gag reflex with every thrust, making my eyes water uncontrollably. How the hell did people like giving these? I couldn't breath, and my windpipe, already abused from all the water forced down it, felt like it was on the verge of tearing.
When Cheverill finally shot his load down my throat, I was faint and dizzy from lack of air. Come filled my mouth and seeped from around the gag, dripping down my chin and onto my chest. At least it had been quick. Cheverill left his softening member where it was, resting on my tongue like a slug as he stroked my hair comfortingly and commanded, "now clean me up Samuel, like a good boy."
I stiffened, wondering how I could tell him to go fuck himself without speaking. If he wanted to wash off he could damn well do it himself. It wasn't like he could shock me with his dick in my mouth, not unless he wanted to share in the experience.
When I mulishly refused to move, Cheverill sighed. "Really Samuel, I would have thought you'd have learned. Fussing like this will gain you nothing." He bent forward and snagged the wire clipping my cuffs together. My breath hitched as he gave it a slight tug, stretching my arms up towards my head. "Have you ever had your shoulder dislocated?" he asked conversationally. I had, once before when a particularly angry spirit had chucked me through a window. Thankfully, the window hadn't been very high, but I could still remember the white knife of pain that came as I felt the bone pop out of joint.
Cheverill lifted my hands higher. I bit down around the gag as my shoulders strained tautly, pulled to the brink of their natural range. "I can desist, if you would prefer," he offered, rolling his hips suggestively. I clamped down on a mewl of pain and remained where I was, defiance written on every line of my body. Cheverill shrugged. "As you wish." I let out an agonized scream as he slowly, slowly raised my arms over my head, my shoulders grating sickeningly against the joint as they ripped out of their sockets. Cheverill let my arms drop back behind me, a moan coming from behind the gag as my tearing ligaments shifted. I squeezed my eyes shut, breathing hard and trying not to focus on the way my arms dangled limply, the burden of their own weight stretching the distorted muscles even further.
"So, Samuel," Cheverill placed both hands on my right shoulder. "Have I persuaded you yet?" With a sharp jerk, he snapped the bone back into place. He did the same with my other side, shushing me consolingly as I cried out and cringed away. "Clean me, Samuel," he ordered again, cupping my cheek.
I wouldn't do it, I wouldn't. I was stronger than this. I shook my head weakly. Cheverill's eyes flashed, and the next moment, my shoulders had separated so fast that I almost didn't realize where the cracking noise was coming from. Then the pain set in. I howled, jaw clenching around the gag as my already damaged tendons buckled. Sweat broke out on my forehead as I shivered, sobbing around Cheverill and his gag.
Calmly, Cheverill clicked each arm into its socket, keeping me upright when I sagged against him. "Shall I continue?" he offered, sweeping my damp hair from my eyes. I let out a strangled whimper. No. I wouldn't do it. He couldn't make me. I clung to that as he hooked the wire between his fingers and brought my hands up over my head.
This time, there was noticeably less resistance to the scrape of my shoulders sliding out of place. Maybe my tendons had all been severed already. It didn't seem likely, but hell, it certainly felt like it. "Come, Samuel," Cheverill coaxed. Bone rasped on bone as he fit the joints together. "I can do this all night if needed."
I closed my eyes, defeated. My shoulders were on fire, and I had no doubt that he was fully prepared to sit there, popping them in and out, until I gave him what he wanted. If it had been Dean here, he probably would've shot Cheverill his arrogant grin and told him to stick his offer up his ass. But Dean wasn't stupid enough to get himself in this situation, and it wasn't him kneeling here with his mouth stuffed with someone else's cock. Just me. And I was no Dean.
Tentatively, I licked at the underside of Cheverill's shaft, lapping at the loose skin until all traces of semen had gone. I kept my eyes shut. I didn't want to see the victorious expression he was no doubt directing at me, and they stayed closed as he pulled out and tucked himself back into his pants. A finger brushed along my cheek and I flinched back, but he only reached around to unbuckle the gag and gently remove it from my face. I opened and closed my jaw, refusing to focus on how it ached insistently. The musky flavor of come was still cloying on my tongue; I wondered if I'd ever be able to forget it.
With one hand, Cheverill reached down and scooped a dollop of come onto his fingers. "In the future," he said, bringing the sticky substance to my lips, "you will swallow everything without needing me to feed it to you." I gritted my teeth. My dignity wasn't so far gone that I would suck his own spunk from his hand like a dog. "Samuel," Cheverill warned as I hesitated, lightly pressing his fingers into the seam of my right shoulder. I chewed on my bottom lip. I could eat it willingly and hate myself, or he would keep dislocating my shoulders until I did, for which I would hate myself anyway. I couldn't win.
I opened my mouth, feeling something splinter in my chest as I carefully licked his fingers clean. When I was done Cheverill petted my hair, rumbling "that's my good boy, Samuel. Such a good boy." I turned my face away, shame burning in my stomach.
Cheverill stood and laid the gag on the table. "I'm going to shower," he told me. "Then maybe we'll see about dinner, if that's agreeable." I didn't answer. I knew he wasn't actually asking for my approval. He turned and vanished into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a hollow snik.
I remained where I was, staring blindly at the floor as I listened to the squeak and hiss of the shower starting up. Numbly, I sat back and attempted to scrape off the drying spit and semen from my chin with my bare shoulder. Cheverill hadn't bothered to free my hands, and my arms were beginning to cramp at the unnatural stretch, nevermind the burning in my shoulders. After a moment I rocked back onto my feet and went over to the windows, watching the nighttime shadows gambol aimlessly through the sinister trees. The lights from the house spilled out over the grounds, the only illumination in a sea of dark where neither the stars nor moon presided. Ominous clouds grumbled overhead, heralding the oncoming rain. Maybe we're in Rhode Island, I thought, leaning against the chilled glass. It always seemed to be raining when we drove through there. Or Michigan, that'd make sense too. I huffed contemptuously. Hell, I could be outside of Seattle for all I know. I swiped my tongue over my lips, remnants of sweat and come clinging to my skin. I remembered the weight of his hands in my hair, the slimy length of his dick forcing its way down my throat, the wet rush of heat as he climaxed.
Unbidden, my thoughts jumped to Dad and Dean. What would they do, once they discovered what I had done? I could imagine the look of repulsion Dean would give me, the disappointment in Dad's eyes as he turned away. I was dirty, used, and it would only be a matter of time for them to realize it. I banged my head against the window once, twice, denying the tears that begged to fall. I had sworn I wouldn't cry again. I bit my tongue to stifle a sob and asked myself, for the first time, whether it would be better if my family never found me at all.
Just on the off chance anyone still wants to review, here are my suggested questions! I'm kinda a review whore, if you hadn't noticed...
1) How is Cheverill's character? If you would like to punch him in the face, that's a good sign, so let me know if you do!
2) How are Sam's reactions to all of this? If you think they should be different, what would you change?
3) What was your favorite part of the chapter and/or was it too violent? Too graphic?
Thanks for your guys' everlasting patience, and to everyone who reviewed!