.

Chapter 14

Surrender

Dinner had been slightly less humiliating than lunch. He still was not permitted to feed himself, but he was not desperate with hunger and managed to maintain a bit of dignity. Allowing pity from the young man was bad enough. When the heartless healer showed up again, he thought he might lose his temper and make a fool out of himself, ranting or resisting when he had no power or authority of any kind. She was tolerable this time, never as much as touching him, and so he endured. When the healer wasn't pissing him off by showing false compassion, something about the woman made his skin crawl. It was as if he was not looking at a human being at all, but some dark creature wearing a human disguise.

He pushed aside thoughts of the healer in the face of another indignity, the simple need to relieve himself and the inability to do so without assistance. Throughout the meal and the tending of his wounds, he had been trying to ignore his body. He could hold out, wait for the prince to return. A moment of shock as he examined that thought. Why would he feel better about shitting in front of a man who had molested him, rather than the fairly harmless Hanataro, who flinched satisfyingly at when he scowled?

Oh, never mind. The fact remained that he had a need and it would not wait.

"Hanataro."

An armful of gauze and ointment went rolling in all directions as the young man jumped with a small squeak.

"Oh, you can talk!"

That was stupid. He had spoken to the healer, yelled at her. Hanataro had been two inches away from him at the time. He rolled his eyes.

"I need the bathroom."

"Huh? Oh, of course, let me help you."

The man kicked some of the medical supplies in his rush to the bed, reaching toward him, apparently forgetting a rather important fact as he sat at the edge of the bed and put an arm around him to help him up.

"Hanataro. The chains."

He was trying to decide if the healer's apprentice was distracted because he was intelligent and always thinking, or, more likely, simple minded or just incompetent. After a few minutes of him running around, flustered, Hanataro returned with the small silver key and started with his hands. He watched, debating asking for the cuffs to be removed, as well. Best not push his luck. He had already talked to the man, which he had been trying not to do until he could ask permission.

At least he managed to convince Hanataro that his help getting to the bathroom was enough, and he was left alone, though knowing the man was just outside the bathroom door. There was nothing here that would help him, anyway, not unless he decided to drown himself, or perhaps break a mirror and try to use a shard as a weapon. Uh-huh, attack the bumbling apprentice, run, more accurately stumble and fall, out into the hall of a palace in the middle of a hostile city in the middle of a deadly desert. With a piece of glass.

He sighed and at least enjoyed washing a bit with fresh water, softly scented soap, and a damp towel. The young man was making noises of concern over how long he was taking, or he might have tried to draw a bath. As it was, he was dizzy, unsteady on his feet, and might succeed in suicidal drowning by accident. He chuckled at his reflection, and leaned heavily on the counter as he made his way to the door.

By the time Hanataro half dragged his failing body back to the bed, he didn't even have the energy to protest the return of the chains. He could think now, almost normally though moments of fatigue and confusion still lingered, not to mention the annoying way his body would cooperate just enough to get him to rely on it, then completely shut down on him. So, he thought.

He began to wonder if it would be better to just stop thinking at all. After all, he would spend minutes or hours trying to predict various scenarios and how best to respond to them, he would agonize over whether to fight or surrender, he would plot ways to turn things to his advantage, and in the end, nothing was asked of him. None of his careful plans meant a damned thing as his body took over, taking any authority away from his mind, discarding rationality in favor of newfound pleasure.

Perhaps this was why whores existed, why otherwise intelligent people like Rangiku and Yumichika ended up flat on their backs. Perhaps they, too, wanted escape but found their will repeatedly subjugated to carnal desires every time they were touched, like a defect of birth, a disease of the soul. Perhaps he was born to be a whore and nothing more, and this was simply his fate finally sinking its claws into him.

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

He was glad Renji had left after dinner, replaced by the thankfully quiet Chad. Bad enough dealing with the women, he was quite sure he would have ended up killing someone if he'd had to endure Renji's teasing on top of it all. Really, it was just a ceremony, one that had been planned for well over a year. He supposed maybe the last-minute excitement was because they all figured he'd die before they were able to have their fun.

Fun? What the hell was fun about it? He'd learned to enjoy some of the glamour and pageantry of the court, at least the effect of it, the way it made underlings beg to be demeaned. The oldest families still held themselves apart, prowess and power were the only gifts they brought to grace a royal party, and it was enough. But the newer nobility were entertaining. Some worked their entire lives to secure the right to spend their fortune on finery and gifts, then throw themselves at the foot of the throne, counting themselves lucky to leave destitute for they had been in the presence of greatness. It would be disgusting if it weren't so hilarious.

That thought got him through the worst moments, with his father's mistresses and their favorite ladies all clucking and chirping and shooting venomous glares at one another. The wedding would be a good deal more formal than the ascension. Those who had not beggared themselves to attend the one would be broken by the other. He would receive even more valuable goods than at his ascension. And he would not be the only one benefiting.

Ichimaru Gin, for example, would be profiting heavily from the event that cost so many other nobles. The man had been selling his influence to secure invitations from the king for those who could not count on receiving the honor on their own merits, with his father's full knowledge and approval, of course. His escorts would also be highly sought after by those without presentable mates, with the favored position of his establishment as the king's and the prince's bordello of choice. No doubt other, shadier deals were made to profit the royal favorite, and some of the other high nobles would make out like bandits through similar arrangements with their less influential peers.

So it was that his thoughts were dark throughout the bright and joyful prattle about decorations and seating arrangements, his garments and his words, which parties of guests deserved his eye contact, which earned a nod, which should be graced with actual speech, who's family would have the best suites, how many servants needed to be brought in temporarily, all the bullshit that had been decided months ago but now must be rehashed at top volume, for no reason at all. It did not help his mood when his future father-in-law, the only other sane person in the room, trampled on custom within 5 minutes and left with a glance filled with utter horror at the ladies.

Just a couple more days and it would be over. A couple of days after that and he would be riding free over the dunes. At least consolation was available in between, and some of his anger drained away as he made his way back to his rooms where he would relax, take care of some correspondence, and then remind himself of the finer rewards of his position. In fact, he had put up with quite enough in the last few hours since seeing his pet. He decided that correspondence could wait, and he dismissed Chad, hurried through a quick wash and decided to skip clothes altogether, leaving his bed unused for a second night.

Slipping into the dark room through the private entrance, he quickly noted that the little mouse had departed for the day, showing enough sense and independent thought to not wait around until nearly midnight for his return. The room was clean and neat, his treasure secured in bed with water and a cord to pull for service within easy reach. All was well. The heavier curtains were drawn back on all sides, allowing clear moonlight from the high arrow-slit windows to filter through the lace and down onto the sleeping form, once more slightly curled on his right side, one leg drawn up, arms loosely stretched in front of his chest. Though most of him was tucked under a sheet and a thin blanket, he paused to admire the peaceful face, silver-lit under the soft, ghostly locks.

Bright eyes were darker in the dim light, almost cobalt as they blinked open in response to movement. He slid under the covers, adjusting a pillow and moving to be close, to fit himself to that curve, head a bit above the white hair, arm draped over waist and bent to rest his hand on the warm chest. His pet held perfectly still, not even tensing, only the speed of his breaths and the stirring of long lashes giving away that he was awake at all.

Tucking his head closer, he breathed in the clean scent, missing the floral vanilla that had faded and washed away. Warm, silky skin greeted him as he worked his hand through the folds of the robe, and he petted downward, to the end of delicate ribs until he reached the restriction of cloth and worked to untie the sash. There was no response at all and a touch of anger returned before he realized how unreasonable it was to expect a welcome of his advances. Toshiro had done so well, had been so responsive, that he had forgotten the details, how short a time it had been, how the boy was not prepared for this life, and most importantly how the drugs had made his body more susceptible while hindering his mind.

His own need had taken control for the moment, the frustration and irritation he had felt needing a release. Someday, if he was patient and fortunate, Toshiro may be a source of that release, a comfort as much as a pleasant diversion, perhaps even a confidant and comrade. Or, if the boy proved deceitful or too defiant, he would provide a different type of release, the pleasure of breaking. For now, he needed to remind himself that there was work to be done here, as well as pleasure to be had.

He relaxed, leaving the robe loose under the covers, letting his hand stroke gently along thigh, hip, down to navel and back up again. Like calming a kitten, though, oddly, the boy was showing no signs of fear, resistance, not even the flinches that spoke of his effort to move away and his effort to comply warring with one another. And that was his first hint that something had changed. Testing his instincts, he brought his hand up the back of the smooth thigh. When his hand reached the gentle curve, fingers pushing between skin and trailing up, the only reaction was a sharp intake of breath, no startled yell, no attempt to move away.

What was it? Had his pet given up, talked himself into total surrender? That wasn't right, not at all in keeping with the spirit he had seen even when heavily drugged. He didn't want a fight, but he did want to win over his pet, the one he thought he had seen. He wanted to show that intelligent, passionate, beautiful pet his own worth as a lover and master, earn his pet's surrender with the boy's pride intact. It was too early for victory, something else was going on here.

Either the boy was indeed a spy, now clear-minded and playing his games, or was it possible he had broken the boy's will already, caused him to shut down in the face of misplaced shame? He had been gentle, considerate. But his pet was not typical. Not raised a slave to be so compliant. Not raised in a place where sensuality was worn like a crown, where sex was a weapon, a reward, a prize. It was an additional challenge, to try to understand what the boy was thinking, and how to direct him when in many ways they did not speak the same language. And that gave him an idea.

His hand returned to even gentler strokes along leg and side. He raised his head a bit, elbow under him, hand in white hair with short, soft pets.

"When you first came to me, pet, your hair smelled of something so sweet. What was that, do you know?"

A slight lifting of the chin.

"Vanilla and sakura blossoms, master."

No hesitation in calling him master. What was going through that head?

"It suits you, a rarity."

The white brow moved, pinching in thought.

"A rarity?"

"Mm-hmm. Growing trees in the desert, trees that do not produce significant food or wood, is a luxury. The water and the soil, all to create something useful only for fleeting pleasure, sakura is a valuable rarity. One could trade for it, of course, though there are still many respectable families that would never do so."

"Why is that . . . master?"

"To trade does not bring dishonor as it used to. Time was, if your family could not create what it needed, and could not conquer those who created it to procure it as spoils of war, then you simply did without. Now, we have grown soft and addicted to our luxuries. Purchasing fine things is acceptable now, jewelry, cloth, even scents that serve no purpose but to please."

"You sound as if you approve of this change, master."

There. Intelligence, and his curiosity was starting to show. He knew he had been right about his gift's mind.

"I do, pet. Our people still live harsh lives. The desert will never be tamed, never be an easy home. But we have succeeded in carving our mark into the wastelands. It is time to enjoy the rewards of civilization. I know very little about your home. Is Seireitei a harsh place or a land of plenty?"

Now his pet tensed, obviously surprised and discomfited. Thoughts of home were painful? He would miss it, of course. What had he gained coming here but pain and fear? He waited, slowly petting hair, hip, and leg.

"It is a land of plenty. Few want for food or shelter, and most have enough to feel secure. The sea provides much, the land is fertile and water is everywhere."

He chuckled a little, earning a startled glance from the corner of those beautiful eyes. This seemed to be working, waking the boy up from whatever stupor he had fallen into.

"My mother read me tales. Often, they were as harsh as the desert, tales meant to warn and instruct. But she had a gentle heart, and sometimes they were fanciful stories of happy princesses and brave princes questing through dark forests. Places where people were friendly and worried about things like true love and justice. I always pictured the trees, for some reason, great trees that touched the clouds and grew so thick that they blocked the sun. In my childish brain, trees came to represent prosperity and security; even if they might hide ogres, the brave prince would slay them and rescue the princess."

"I . . . I like that. There are forests like that, where you can walk at noon and it seems like dusk. I used to play in a wood not quite that wild, for hours . . .."

The quiet voice trailed off, a hint of sadness.

"I've never seen a sea, but I've heard of it. One of my tutors called it a desert of water."

A little huff of breath in amusement, not enough to tease out a smile. His pet shifted a little, drawing his arms in a bit.

"I have amused you?"

"I'm sorry, master. I did not expect such poetry."

"I understand. Hueco Mundo is not known for its artists, after all. But the desert breaths poetry. You will see, someday, this land is beautiful in its savagery."

"The sea is like that. It can be still and as mild as moonlight. And it can swallow hundreds of sailors leaving no trace behind. But something about it draws men to it, evokes a sense of adventure and romance even in the danger. For those that risk it, the sea provides food and riches greater than any land."

"And have you been on the sea, pet?"

"Only twice, master, on the big ships that travel out so far that you cannot see the coastline. I did not live near the coast, but I visited the beaches several times, to fish, to gather clams, or just to swim."

His pet certainly came from a different world. Even wealthy children did not travel much here. Other than war and business, possibly staying in touch with family, there were few reasons to travel. The little slave had seen more than some nobles he knew.

He bent his head down, kissing just below the dainty ear and whispering.

"That is a lovely image, you diving into the sparkling water. Did you take your clothes off, pet, to be closer to the sea?"

Now there was a reaction, the distracted youth suddenly blushing and the calmed breathing picking up pace once more.

"N-no. Generally, one swims in shorts or pants."

"How disappointing."

He sucked on the reddened earlobe, then let his tongue drift around the edge, back down the inner shell, and still his hand drifted slowly up and down.

"There is an oasis a day's ride north, not big enough to support a village." He laid a few kisses on the flushed cheek. "Few know of the hidden cave nearby, with an ancient waterfall that has carved a great lake of the clearest water you will ever see."

His hand dragged the sheet and blanket down as it moved, and his lips moved down to the pale neck, slipping over the lovely marks they had left earlier in the day.

"There is a rift in the roof of the cave, letting the sunlight spill in and light the water ablaze with gold and red. If I took you there, would you swim naked through the fire for me? Would you let me join you in the embrace of the water?"

The lithe body shuddered as he dragged his tongue back up along neck, jaw, returning to where he began. Once again, he did not expect a response to his questions. Once again, he was delightfully surprised. The white-crowned head turned to look him in the eye, body leaning back against him, so close their noses nearly touched.

"Of course, I would, master."

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

Plans ruined again. Just as his owner's touches had destroyed his weak attempts at resistance, the words he heard ended his resolution to give in to fate, to be nothing but a plaything. The glimmer of a sharp and interesting mind was almost irresistible. Add to that the hint of life, the implied promise that someday he would see and know the desert, followed by the seemingly sincere wish to take him elsewhere, somewhere with water and sunlight, he had not stood a chance.

So, he turned toward his captor, his tormentor, and he looked into dark eyes that held so much more than the arrogance and viciousness he had expected. He recalled Rangiku's words, his own determination to make something of this life. He let the stroking hand on his hip remind him that, so far, nothing unbearable had happened to him. In fact, quite the opposite. He imagined the scene the prince had painted, swimming in bright waters, being held against a warm chest as cool liquid swirled across his bare skin.

Something inside him broke. No, more like part of his will gave way, softer and less damaging than a breaking. All this fighting with himself, this vacillation, one-minute standing by his pride, the next playing some kind of game to conquer his captor, and then falling into apathy that could easily swallow him whole. He would forget it, move past it. He would not give up who he was, not blind himself to the risks and rewards, but he would stop this pathetic indecision and move boldly forward.

"Of course, I would, master."

And, at least at that very moment, he meant every word, even the last.

His lips were kissed, a quick movement, then kisses were laid all over his face, tickling and tingling, little pecks on his nose, up and down his cheeks, even his eyes as they fluttered shut. Then they opened wide as he heard himself giggle. It was quiet, and he cut it off as soon as he realized it. He was horrified, such a silly, girly, childish sound in such a situation. His startled gaze caught the wide smile, the expression that had first made him think that there was some good in the fearsome killer he had been given to, and he held his breath through another bevy of kisses.

"My darling Toshiro, have you ever been kissed?"

At some point in this playful frenzy, he had been pulled and hadn't even noticed that he was now facing the man, bodies touching almost everywhere. He ducked his head away from the kisses and the bright smile.

"And what were you just doing, master?"

A light chuckle and a hand cupped his cheek, thumb sliding under his chin to make him look up again. The voice was amused, no hint of reprimand in the tone for his cheeky response. But the next words were firm, not to be evaded.

"I think you know what I'm asking, pet."

"There was a girl I knew, we spent a few days together. Yes, we did kiss."

The slow caressing resumed, now his other leg, the right hip and side receiving the attention.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Of course, I did. It was awkward at first, but nice."

"You did a lot of kissing, then. Did you have sex with her?"

"No." He realized he'd nearly snapped the word, but again, his owner seemed to ignore any offense.

"You touched her, though. Here?"

The hand slid up to his chest, over the loosened robe. He held back a sigh at the feeling of the silken material brushing across his skin, fingers pushing a bit to graze his nipple. Why that should cause tingling all the way up to his scalp, all the way down to his groin, he couldn't fathom. Did it feel like that to her when he had fondled her breasts, when he had circled his fingers around her nipple just like that?

"Yes."

The robe was pushed back over his shoulder, cloth slithering across his back. Fingers trailed across his waist, to circle his navel and his skin warmed. He stared at the broad chest before his eyes, and did not recall telling his hand to move, to rest his palm on even warmer skin. His hand was so pale against the dark bronze in the night, the thin silver chain and bracelet catching faint light, an even more alluring contrast.

"What about here, my pet?"

"Yes."

He bit his lip, knowing, anticipating, the firm touch over his hip again, down his thigh, turning, up along to soft seam of his legs.

"And here, sweetheart? Did you feel how different she was? How soft?"

There was nothing soft about what those wonderful fingers were feeling, he was embarrassed to note. What started as autonomous arousal in response to those long, tender pets had quickly gotten out of control. He could practically feel the blood rushing south, the flesh swelling even more to meet the massaging touches.

"Did you feel her cum from your touch?"

"Nnnn . . . no. I did not . . . oooh . . .."

Letting go of embarrassment, letting go of the memories, of the soft girl, as it was meant to be, a woman beneath him, moaning at his touch, not a man making him twist closer, making him want to push his hands up the hard, flat chest to strong shoulders. He had nothing against two men being together. He had seen it often enough, and knew of his uncle's secret love. But it was not a possibility he had considered for himself, not a desire he had thought he was inclined toward, until now. And now, oh, how that was changing.

"Tell me, pet. Have you ever been kissed? Have you ever felt the world spin around you, felt this," a quick push against the sensitive head of his cock, and he moaned, "from just a kiss?"

All this talk, this damned talk, wasted breath, wasted time. So close, why did he not just kiss him?

"Never."

That dazzling smile. Didn't that mouth have anything better to do?

"Well then, sweet one, shall I teach you something new?"

The hand teasing his erection had backed off entirely, loose fingers, his hips shifted, trying to renew friction with little success. His temper flared, beyond irritated at this denial, and without thought he let go of his role, his careful submission, along with everything else.

"Goddammit!" He pulled on those strong shoulders, tilting his head as he closed the distance.

Those lips were smirking, he could feel it, and he considered biting out of frustration. Then, so soft, so warm, lips guiding his like a dance. Nice. Not sloppy and hurried like his own efforts. Gentle opening and closing, a little tug of his lip. Nice. But not the great revelation he'd been promised.

They parted, his eyes locked on those lips, licking his own by reflex. Nice enough that he had forgotten to breath, and he sucked in air just in time.

A new step in the dance, a little more firm, soft again. Then, his bottom lip being sucked on, the hand brushing into his hair somehow complementing the movement. His mouth opened immediately when he felt the insistent push of lips parting his, the wet warmth taking the time to stroke his upper lip before slipping in between his teeth. He met that tongue with his own, but passively, wanting to feel what his owner would do, holding back his own instinct to push forward.

He remembered his own kisses, unsure but trying to please, the girl squirming and shying away. This was nothing like that, not rushed, not uncertain. The smooth muscle petted his, wrapping lightly, tugging as confidently as it had licked his neck, his cock. The tip flicked against the roof of his mouth, sudden tingling, as it had against . . . oh, yes! The world not spinning, but tilting quite madly as he gasped for air between assaults, wondering how it could be so different from what he remembered.

Another pause, gulps of air, he realized he was lying on his back now, large, hard body above him, one long leg in between his. Pressure returned where he wanted it most, the palm circling, making him spend a breath on a shameless cry, then sliding slick down his length as any new cries were lost in another kiss. His hands moved from shoulder to clasp behind neck, chains annoyingly trying to come between their skin.

That tongue trailed against his, dragging to his tip and retreating between open lips. And again. He followed instinct, followed the tongue. How clever, teasing and leading without words, getting him to chase that tongue into the larger mouth, taste not quite foreign after all the sharing of saliva and heat. He was the one to break away, to steal a second of sanity before pushing into his owner, his lover. There, the bridge crossed, and so much easier now to let lust have its way, guide his tongue to explore, to try to tease the way his lover had teased, to give pleasure instead of only getting, taking.

And all the while, the hand pumping his length, gently, slowly. He found that his legs would respond, he could push up, not strongly but enough to encourage, but he was denied, the hand pausing instead of complying each time he tried to speed the rhythm. He tried to play along, distracted now by the tension, heated kisses, the need for more as the prince took back control of his mouth as his entire body ached to get closer.

He drew his leg up, the right one not pinned under heavy muscle, first bending the knee and using the leverage to thrust. Again, he was refused, the hand stilling until he stopped trying. So, he lifted his foot and wrapped his leg as far around the man as he could, pulling them together. Lips broke away from his with a deep groan, and he nearly came at the sound. His lover, his owner, had given few such obvious signs of pleasure, and it brought him nearly as much heat and want as the deep kisses. He tried to buck his hips again, feeling the greater length of his lover's erection trapped now with his own, and he contorted, rubbing to the side and up, seeking to bring the two closer. Where the stroking hand had gone, he neither knew, nor cared.

"Oh, god . . . please! Please, more . . . I . . . Ahhh! Faster!"

The missing hand grabbed just below his knee, pulling. He resisted, but still his muscles were weak and the man was so much stronger. His leg was not forced away, just repositioned, not wrapping as high, trailing around the long thigh. And he soon learned why, the hips freed to flex, to grind into him, and what might have been a scream was silenced as he fought for breath, the sudden rush of sensation taking air, vision, thought, everything except the almost painful knife-edge of bliss.

A motionless moment, a heartbeat that lasted an eternity, and that hard cock was sliding down his, pressure lightening, then returning with fast force as hips snapped forward with a rush of hot breath. Again, blessedly faster, and his hands tightened, pulling, panting mouths finding each other. Messy, sloppy this kiss, delicious in a new way, broken by moans and grunts and the force of their bodies straining against one another.

A wave of bliss from a harsh thrust tightened his muscles, his head stretching back again, and his eyes caught the dark mirror above. His lover's back, rippling with tension and effort, rounded ass thrusting, long legs tangled with his own. The curving lines, the synchronicity of movement . . . beautiful. So very beautiful.

He didn't know how he had lasted this long, but still he was suspended there a breath away from release, every moment delectable torture.

"Master . . .," almost a plea.

"Toshiro . . .," a sweet moan, drawing his nerves past the breaking point.

A flood of warmth, pulsing ecstasy as he clung to the source, the beauty and he knew his voice was loud, his body was shaking, and he did not care, not even a little. When the body above him pushed harder, quicker, it only made the pleasure sharpen, and he cried out again when he felt the increased heat and damp, the face so close to his suffused with the same feeling that ruled his senses. Fascinated, his eyes devoured that sight, and for the first time he felt it, the power that this man had hinted at.

That thought he tucked safely away to enjoy ebbing waves of bliss. This time, drugged fatigue would not drag his awareness away, and he reveled in the full body contentment, every part of him sharing in the rewards of discarding inhibitions. He moved his leg, rubbing, his hands unlocked, caressing, the body above him still lost in pleasure, still recovering conscious thought. Brown eyes opened, locked onto his eyes, and then he was locked into another kiss, breathless and hot, languid, undemanding. Nice.

"So sweet, my pet. So good." A whisper against his lips, and he hummed in response.

The large body, held by knees and one arm all this time to keep weight off him, turned and his lover settled on his back, pulling him along willingly to rest against his side. He adjusted his head on the slightly sweaty shoulder, his arm across the stomach wet, growing cool and sticky, his leg still trying to stay wrapped up with the other.

To hell with propriety. To hell regrets for a life lost, fears of a life to come. To hell with everything but this.