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Twenty-six

It had been so long since Gilbert had had the motivation to deliver real pain, pain that went beyond whips and the occasional slap or chokehold, that Arthur realized his body had actually started to forget how much it could be made to suffer. After everything he'd been through, he didn't think that that could even be possible. But it was.

It wouldn't have hurt so much otherwise. In his wrath, Gilbert was tearing Arthur's old limits to shreds, ripping out the stitching that held them together with violent, reckless abandon and reopening four-year-old scars. He was beating Arthur back into shape, and Arthur was being forced to, once again, relearn his own place.

It had taken all of five minutes for Gilbert to discover the tattoo after Arthur returned. Hangover effectively taken care of, he'd wanted a quick fuck that afternoon, something extremely tame in comparison to his usual tastes. But once Gilbert had had Arthur on his front on the bed, shirt off, he'd frozen, taking in the sight of the tattoo with uncharacteristic silence. And then everything spiraled downward from there.

How could he have been so deliberately stupid, obstinate, unseeing? Why did he go ahead with his decision when he already knew Gilbert's inevitable reaction?

Had he thought someone would save him — or had he somehow assumed that knowing Elizaveta's secret would protect him by giving him one over Gilbert?

Had he done it because he needed the pain that only Gilbert could give him?

Arthur didn't want to think about it. He was sure that if he looked too hard, he would find the answer. And that would truly be his undoing, because he knew it was already too late.

This time, Gilbert hadn't bothered with a proper gag. Once he'd finished stripping Arthur of his clothes, he'd gotten out his stash of worn ropes, twisted two together into one braid, and tied that around the back of Arthur's head. Then he'd left the room after lashing Arthur's ankles to the bedposts and knotting his wrists behind his back. The bristles on the ropes in his mouth jabbed Arthur's tongue and sliced into his gums; he had to fight to keep his sudden burst of terror in check. Gilbert had never used the ropes on him like that — he'd always had more control. He'd always been mindful of the fact that Arthur couldn't entertain customers with a ruined mouth.

Is he done with me? Arthur thought blindly. Is he going to throw me out? Is he going to kill me?

After a few minutes, Gilbert returned with an opaque plastic bag full with equipment, a discreet-looking black case, and an unmarked tube of something that resembled lubricant. His face was coldly furious as he deposited everything on the floor next to the bed. There was absolutely no doubt in Arthur's mind now that the big guns were being brought out — and he couldn't help but remember with sharp clarity that he was nothing if not expendable.

Because no one would miss a dead whore.

Arthur wanted to beg for mercy. Not because he thought it was something that Gilbert would want to hear, but because he truly needed it. He was terrified — more terrified than he'd been in a long, long time, his blood freezing in his veins, his breaths coming harsh and fast and stilted. He had spent the past four years consciously and subconsciously longing for an end, for death; he never truly understood how much the prospect of it chilled him to the core until that moment.

It was no longer a fancy, or a harmless point of speculation. It was no longer something he thought about to offer himself some sort of twisted comfort. It was no longer a faraway, dreamlike concept.

It was a very real, very concrete possibility. And it was entirely beyond his control.

Gilbert had connections. Gilbert would have planned ahead on how he would dispose of Arthur's body, and he would have received more than adequate help if he looked for it in the right places, from the right people. He would leave no evidence that would point to his guilt. He would know exactly what he was doing; Arthur's death would be nothing more than a insignificant setback to him. That said, he would take his time killing Arthur, savoring each snapping bone, each desperate shriek until he'd bent and broken and silenced Arthur forever. Then he'd clean up the mess, and —

Gilbert's hand on Arthur's throat wrenched him out of his thoughts. Arthur looked up, eyes wide, suddenly unable to breathe at all. Gilbert stared at him for a moment before his mouth twisted in disgust, and he drew back his hand, curled his fingers, and struck Arthur across the face. Hard. It wasn't so much a direct punch than a backhand blow with the side of his fist; the pain actually blinded Arthur in one eye for several seconds. When his vision came back, it was unbalanced and blurred. The choking feeling inside him mounted. He turned his head back to center, desperate to see the light, to confirm that the darkness wasn't permanent and that he was still holding on.

"You cunt." Gilbert struck him again. Arthur's head swam. It took longer for his sight to return this time, and when it did, warped spots dotted what little he saw. "You stupid fuckin' cunt. Keep your eyes down."

Arthur didn't make the mistake of looking at Gilbert again. He kept his face turned to the side, his gaze trained on the sheets, the innocuous edge of the bed. His cheekbone throbbed.

He heard the quiet plastic sound of a cap being unscrewed, but didn't dare look. He knew it was the tube he had seen Gilbert bring in; he didn't know what it contained, though. All of the bottles of lubricant Gilbert bought were usually marked clearly. This one had been thin, battered, and gray, more like a tube of ointment than anything else. Arthur had never seen Gilbert use it before.

Cold fingers crammed themselves between his legs, up inside him, stretching his opening to impossibly painful lengths. Arthur's thighs quivered, but he still had some control over himself, despite the fear. He could feel the gel-like substance on Gilbert's fingers smearing along his inner walls. It wasn't lube — it was greasier, thicker . . . hotter? Something inside him contracted at the sensation, and Arthur bit down on the ropes as he shook. What? What was Gilbert putting inside him?

Gilbert tugged his hand free and quickly wiped it with a tissue. Arthur caught his grimace out of the corner of his eye. Could it . . . ? Then he lost all capability of thought, because it began to burn.

It started mildly, almost numbly. Then it felt as if boiling water had been poured into his rectum — Arthur thrashed, yanking against his restraints, panicking, even though every movement only exacerbated the hot, swelling pain. A whimper broke free from him, muffled by the crude gag. He couldn't stay still. He could feel his internal temperature climbing. He didn't know if it was from the substance inside him or from the agony, but sweat began dampening his skin, and it continued to burn, continued to flare in intensity until tears leaked from his eyes and dripped into his hair.

"Please, please, make it stop," he tried to plead. Nothing got past the ropes in his mouth except another pathetic keen.

Gilbert ignored him. He was shaking the hand he'd been cleaning off like he'd been burned, muttering, "Ow, goddamn ginger-infused shit," under his breath. Arthur heard him, and managed to latch onto the word "ginger." Ginger . . .

He thought wildly, Ginger burns. Ginger is an aphrodisiac. Just an aphrodisiac. That's all. And he clung to the knowledge that ginger wouldn't cause any severe, lasting injury to his insides, however much it hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut. Bucked again when the pain came back in another wave.

He felt a hand on his semi-hard cock, fitting something onto him, around the base of his shaft, around each of his balls, suddenly pulled tight until the thin, sturdy straps of leather dug into his skin. It felt like one of Gilbert's more complex cock rings. The kind he hardly bothered with, because they usually took up more time than he was willing to waste to actually put on, but Arthur had worn them a handful of times over the years and was familiar with how they felt, how they chafed against him and made his privates feel warm and bulging and sickeningly over-sensitive.

He was still adjusting to the cock ring when a shock — almost electric — shot through his left nipple. Arthur's eyes popped open, and he almost turned his head before he caught himself at the last second. His right nipple experienced the same sudden pain a second later. Clamps.

His body now throbbed and stung and burned at three points, a masochistic triangle. He couldn't see. The tears were coming faster, but he wasn't sobbing or crying or even weeping . . . they were being forced out of him, involuntary, a mere side effect.

Very distantly, he heard the sound of latches clicking open. Gilbert, he thought dimly. Opening the black case. He didn't know what was in it, and he didn't care — he only wondered whether or not it would bring him more pain. But knowing Gilbert and knowing his own offense, Arthur had no doubt it would. He had no doubt it would be an elaborate, exquisite kind of torture.

In the back of his mind, he was faintly surprised that Gilbert hadn't tried to carve the tattoo off him yet. Was that what he was going to do now?

Gilbert's hand closed around his dick again. Though he barely felt it, Arthur shuddered; he was reeling, sick, nauseous on the endorphins that his body was no longer producing. But he was dragged out of his haze by the feeling of cold metal being pressed to the tip of his cock. Being pressed into the tip of his cock, invading the fragile, private tissue —

Arthur really did scream then, a mangled sound that skinned his throat raw. It went unheard.

What are you doing to my body?

He was being stretched. He was being stretched. It hurt — oh God please no — the sensation drilling deep into his pelvis, heavy and unrelenting — am I tearing no stop — as Gilbert slid the rod in, let gravity pull it down and sink it farther and farther in until — no no what is he doing what is he — there was no more room for it and Gilbert pulled his penis down, angled it, and suddenly the instrument continued its path inside without resistance — NO STOP — without any resistance at all — PLEASE I'M BEGGING YOU STOP — Gilbert's fingers around his neck again, cutting off his air, shutting him up even though he was barely making a sound —

He couldn't breathe, though his lungs tried to expand, tried to function. Eventually, his mind began to wind down and blacken, and the harsh twist in his stomach changed from panic to relief. The feel of Gilbert's hand fell away; the concentrated pain that was strung through him diffused, each point of anguish — his insides, his cock, his nipples, his wrists, his throat, his face — winking out like a tiny light until all of them had gone. Until the pain had retracted its claws from his flesh and finally let him go.

The last thing he heard was something like knocking . . . knocking on the door . . . Too late, was the last wraith-like thought that went through his head. Then he was lost in blissful, neutral darkness, where he no longer had anything to be afraid of.

A/N: Please, please do not try sounding (inserting rods, catheters, dilators, or other objects into the urethra) at home unless you and your consenting partner are both open and knowledgeable about the subject and understand the risks associated with it. That said, please do not try any form of "deviant" sexual activity mentioned in this fic without all the necessary preparations and precautions.

By the way, if any of you are ever wondering what I'm up to or why I'm taking so long to update, just go to my profile - I usually post updates to the statuses of my WIP stories and my current personal status there, along with the date.