Vulnerability
Arkin's neck was too stiff to move, his head bowed like an anvil. It felt too heavy to lift and that's all the thief felt. An inescapable, claustrophobic weight crushing every part of him, inside and out. His fingers were numb and he hadn't felt his toes in a good while. Even his hair seemed to pull at his skin in an uncomfortable clawing manner. With what seemed to him a superhuman effort he managed to open his eyelids enough so he could glance at his bound wrists. The cuffs were too tight and the metal had already cut deep enough to leave lasting scars. Every time he moved in the slightest the cuts reopened and at this point the lesser sting, comparable to the other various forms of torture he was forced to endure, was almost welcomed. At least it was dependable, safe in its consistency. He knew what to expect from that zinging ache. Arkin desperately wished he could say the same about his captor.
The Collector disappeared off somewhere and Arkin could honestly say he didn't mind the respite. He had no idea how long he'd been hanging there, bound by his wrists from a meat hook fitted to the ceiling, but it must have been close to double digit hours. If he had to hazard a guess, The Collector was probably off finding new specimens for his insane collection and he knew first-hand how much careful preparation the psycho put into his extracurricular projects. If he was stalking an unfortunate family then Arkin could expect the maddening solitude to stretch for a few days. His limbs were already limp due to the cut circulation and he was vaguely aware of an acute hunger spreading through his gut. Maybe this was The Collector's final act of torture. He would leave Arkin to starve or die from sleep deprivation, perhaps dehydration while his every inhalation was pure agony. Some of his ribs were surely broken. That offhand realization seemed so trivial it almost made him laugh but the act wasn't worth the agony.
Arkin had been The Collector's play thing for a few weeks or days, time had little relevance in this madhouse, and he felt himself breaking at the seams. When he'd been shoved into that fucking red box for the first time he'd vowed not to break. He'd sworn to himself and any god bored enough to listen that he wouldn't give this sicko the satisfaction of taking his humanity away. It looked like this was yet another promise he wouldn't be able to keep. What else was new? He knew he was losing the plot because he was no longer thinking of escaping the way he should have been. His mind was becoming more and more lethargic and complacent, settling for brief respites from the anguish rather than actively seeking for a way out. If The Collector opened the exit door for him right now and told him to crawl out Arkin wasn't sure he would. That scared him more than any unholy plan the killer had for him. He wanted to be free but he didn't trust himself to reach for it and he was smart enough not to hope that someone else would help him.
Arkin's eyes snapped open and the sudden flood of florescent light was like needles pushing into his eyeballs. He must have dozed off due to sheer exhaustion and an unexpected noise startled him. He momentarily forgot where he was and he jerked towards the noise only to be reminded seconds later by the intense pain spreading through him. He groaned and stilled his body as best he could but the small tremors were enough to elicit another pained noise from his throat. The sound he'd heard was that of a door open and close. It was behind him and he wasn't dumb enough to try turning again so Arkin laid there, shivering, as he listened to the heavy footsteps. He recognised The Collector's slow and steady approach, surely taking immense pleasure in the anxiety his every thunderous step caused his paralyzed victim.
It took the man twenty-two steps to reach Arkin and when he finally stopped the thief felt an odd sense of peace run through him. He attempted to mentally steel himself for the next round of beatings but he was just too tired. If The Collector hurt him now, and hurt him he surely will, Arkin knew he would shatter. He was too defenceless and raw to fight this time and he had an inkling the other man knew it. There was something incredibly intimate in the way The Collector could read him, like he'd known Arkin all his life, and he'd used this against him time ant time as he stripped the ex-con of his defences. He knew exactly where his body was most sensitive and which scars would bring back the most trauma from his past. He knew when to stop so he didn't break his toy too quickly and when Arkin was ready to endure once more. It was uncanny.
This time too, The Collector seemed to read his mind and somehow understood that his victim couldn't handle a stick, at least not before some carrot to fortify his defences some. Arkin felt large hands on his back, agonisingly gentle, and he jerked away from the touch. It hurt but so did the caress. His bare skin, caked in dry blood and sweat, was hypersensitive after being starved of any sensation for so long. The Collector didn't do anything for a minute and Arkin was starting to wonder if he was hallucinating and he was alone after all. Then he heard the heavy footsteps behind him and he realized he wasn't that lucky. The Collector stayed just out of his line of vision as he moved things around and Arkin heard water splashing into a container but he couldn't figure out anything else. He chose to close his eyes instead and let what may come. It wasn't like he could resist anyway so why bother pretending he wasn't dangling on the precipice of complete annihilation?
When he felt the killer's hand on his back again he didn't flinch. It was steadier than before and Arkin just let himself absorb the heat before a wet cloth began trailing down his open cuts. The water was cool on his burning flesh and The Collector washed his back carefully. The juxtaposition of someone capable of immense acts of cruelty being so considerate towards him sent Arkin's mind reeling. He didn't know how to begin processing it so he didn't try to. He had one aim and that was to survive. He knew this was just another sick game to the killer but he couldn't turn away an act of kindness, even when it came from the very hand which hurt him in the first place.
The Collector seemed content with his back and began moving up his arms. Arkin hissed in discomfort when his limbs were moved in the slightest and the numbness was disturbed. When it happened again he whimpered and The Collector stopped, as if considering Arkin's feelings before putting the cloth down. He heard the jingle of keys and felt pressure on his wrists but Arkin dared not hope. Was The Collector really removing his binds? Even if it was temporary, Arkin felt immense gratitude swell in his chest and he was too beaten down to realize how fucked up that was. When the cuffs snapped open, Arkin collapsed like a rag doll, his legs too lifeless to support his weight. Fortunately The Collector caught him before he flopped to the dirty ground in an embarrassing splay of limbs. Another noise reverberated through him as The Collector easily moved his body to a nearby worktable. It wasn't like the thief offered up any resistance as he was places, far too gently for his liking, on his back. There were still open wounds there but they were barely a distraction.
The Collector put his hand on Arkin's forehead and pushed it down softly until the thief was lying flat on the metal. It was cold, especially on his burning skin and it felt nice. Arkin considered fighting back for a split second but the idea disappeared from his mind like smoke in the palm of his hand. He simply didn't have it in him to care, at least not right then, and unless The Collector planned to physically hurt him he was fine with it all. He focused his dwindling attention on the roof fixtures and the dozens of chains melodically clinking from time to time as The Collector resumed running the wet cloth down his chest. He shivered a few times but managed to stay still otherwise because he knew on an instinctive level that his captor kindness would radically change if he didn't.
Arkin blinked when the other man finished cleaning his torso but continued to run his palm over his bruised plains of muscle. He understood the killer didn't really see people as people. He recalled reading something about a sociopath's brain being wired different and the part of their mind capable of empathy was all fucked up. The way this man looked at people was the same way cats looked at mice. They could provide nourishment but usually it was the trill of the chaise which captured their full attention. It was a game they loved to play because it was always rigged in their favour and they couldn't lose. A lucky fly could escape from a spider's web but a trapped mouse had little hope of escaping a cage of claws. Arkin had been lucky once and from his personal experience the universe was rarely kind enough to offer second chances. No, if he had a snowball's chance in hell then he would have to rely on smarts, not luck. Right now the smart thing was letting The Collector believe he'd broken him. He needed the man to drop his guard for long enough to make a calculated escape because it would be his last. If Arkin got caught a third time death would be the best reward he could hope for.
The Collector paused in his ministrations long enough to remove his leather gloves and when he touched him again Arkin hissed at the sudden skin on skin contact. Fingertips prodded at some of his larger bruises, namely the ones across his ribs turning an ugly shade of purple and he grit his teeth not to show his discomfort. At long last the killer seemed satisfied enough to move on and Arkin couldn't help flinching back when he felt fingers pry his dirty jeans down. They were ripped and bloodied, covered in grime and dirt but they were the last line of defence he possessed. He shuffled back on the table, trying to get away from the larger man before he realized his mistake. Seconds later those same hands grabbed his legs and dug in painfully as he was pulled back down. He yelped at the vice-like grip and tried to push the hands away before a sudden slap across his cheek rattled his entire body. The whiplash from the blow snapped his head to the side and it smacked into the metal hard, dazing him for a moment.
It took him a few blinks to return back to himself only to realize he was naked now. Arkin felt his entire body tense and withdraw into itself but he wasn't dumb enough to try running away again. One slap was positively loving coming from The Collector's boundless arsenal of brutality so Arkin returned his concentration back to the ceiling and let the killer touch him as he saw fit. His legs were pushed slightly apart and the cloth returned to his skin. Now it felt slimy and sloppy like a slippery snake slowly trailing up his flesh. Whatever comfort he's derived from the juxtaposition of gentle to cruel or from finally shedding a layer of grime was gone and once more The Collector managed to make his every action a veiled threat. It didn't help that every inch of him was being paid attention to, every inch, and despite his lack of restraints there was still noting Arkin could do to fight back. Once more he was just a plaything on The Collector's board.
The thief felt his legs being lifted and folded towards his body and a short burst of pressure against the insides of his thighs let him know he was to keep his limbs there. Arkin felt his flesh heat up but there was nowhere for him to bury his face so he settled on biting the inside of his cheek, focusing on the sting, as he replaced The Collector's hands with his own. He thought pain was a hard thing to get used to but the utter humiliation of exposing himself to the sick bastard was a whole new ordeal. He felt bile rise up his throat as fingers began focusing on his buttocks, touching the muscle before spreading it apart. The thief knew what was coming but it still tore a whimper out of him when those same fingers began working their way inside him. The Collector was gentle and matriculate and Arkin was so touch starved it didn't take long for the horror to subside and a strange sense of ease to replace it. He was doing everything he knew he shouldn't. He was giving in and he kept telling himself it was all an act to get around The Collector's vigilant defences, but his traitorous body told a different story.
Arkin dug his blunt nails harshly into his own skin as The Collector noticed his hardening member and decided to give it some special attention as well. The calloused hand was large and as it moved over the sensitive flesh Arkin couldn't help recalling that same hand pulling out his teeth, running knives across his skin, clenching into fists and striking at his ribs until the bone snapped and all of those traumatic images did nothing to stop the tendrils of pleasure run through his body. Seriously, something was really messed up with him and a tear squeezed down Arkin's cheek at the inescapable realization.
'Shhhh.' Arkin bit back a sob at the warning and The Collector rewarded him by licking up his abdomen, all the way to his chest. He fought it briefly, but it didn't take long before Arkin was arching his back to get closer to the other man. He felt his considerable bulk settle across him and his legs returned down by his side, the knees dangling off the edge of the table as The Collector kissed up his throat. Arkin should have denied him access but he did the exact opposite, turning his head so the masked killer could lick up his jugular. He didn't even stop to think how fucking stupid that was. The man could snap his jaws closed and kill him in an instant but some self-destructive part of his brain told him to trust the man who abused him on a regular basis. The Collector wouldn't kill him. Surely if he wanted to do so he could have a million times over by now but there was still fun to be had with his pet. He was still of use and that simple fact was the only thing keeping him alive but Arkin knew he wasn't irreplaceable either. If he pushed his captor too far then he'd use him up, grind him to dust and release his ashes to the wind.
Arkin felt the nudge of The Collector's cock against his entrance and he tensed before he forced himself to relax, as much as he could under the circumstances. The way his captor hovered uncomfortably close above him, his lips inches away from his own and his eerily white contacts boring holes into his terrified blue ones, was intimate. Arkin couldn't remember the last time he'd been this intimate with Lisa, a thought which should have sent him screaming for the nearest trap so he could hurl himself towards a hasty demise, but instead he wrapped his arms around the solid mass to draw the madness into himself. The first push was slow and Arkin drew in the other's man breath in a reverberating gasp as The Collect's eyes searched his. There was no telling what he saw there but it seemed to please the crazed killer and he bit the thief's lower lip, stopping just before he drew blood.
However, this was still The Collector and his capability for kindness was short lived. At his core he was such a successful monster because he was selfish and only capable of self-gratification, a lesson Arkin had been foolish to forget temporarily and which he had to relearn all too soon. With no warning whatsoever The Collector reared back, breaking Arkin's weak grasp on him and began setting a punishing pace intent on pleasing himself and hurting his victim. Arkin cried out at the sudden change and put his hands up to try and push the source of his hurt away but his arms were slapped away viciously. Arkin wriggled like a fish on a hook but there was no getting away from The Collector. He begged, oh god how he begged, but it only added fuel to the sadist's fire. His mind was quickly becoming disorientated, forced to jump from one extreme to another and able to understand none of it. There was only so much the human psyche could take even one as stubborn as Arkin's.
Another slap across his face sent the teeth rattling inside Arkin's skull. He was stunned into complete silence for a second and when he dared a glance up at The Collector the motherfucker was smirking, clearly loving the confusion on his little fly's face. A spark of anger ignited inside Arkin's chest and he was so grateful for it he started crying all over again, though this time it was tears of triumph. He wasn't broken yet. He could still feel something else other than despair and he held onto that tiny yet massive hope inside him like his life depended on it because it most probably did. Mistaking his sobs for self-pity, The Collector fucked into Arkin harder, getting off on the thief's supposed mental break. He pulled out long enough to flip the body around, shoving Arkin's face into the cold metal with a resounding bang.
When The Collector picked up his pace again, ploughing into Arkin with enough force to move the entire table, the thief was secretly happy. He could hide his bloody grin and he relished the agony every stab of the killer's cock brought him. This, humiliating as it was, he could deal with. Pain he could ride out and it would not break him. The mock kindness had been a far more effective weapon but someone as self-centred as The Collector wasn't capable of such subtleties, not for long enough to break Arkin anyway. In the end he would always reverberate to the brutal animal he was and Arkin could rely on that sparking anger to remain ignited. So he laughed, a low guttural sound which could and was mistaken for a growling noise. The Collector smacked his head into the table again, cutting his cheek and blood pooled in his mouth, flowing freely down his chin. Arkin was sure he looked positively deranged, grinning with a mouthful of bloody teeth as he was fucked mercilessly by the man he secretly swore to kill.
He even felt himself reaching a climax of sorts at the thought of his revenge rather than the limited pleasure his captor brought him. He felt The Collector's pace become more erratic once again and he knew the man was close so he trying to find some relief of his own as well. He moved his body as little as he was able, trying to case some friction between his leaking member and the far too harsh surface of the table. He wished he could get his hand in there but there was simply no space and he knew The Collector would be pissed if he realized Arkin was actually finding some brief pleasure in his punishment. He had to rely on his mind instead and when his body bowed because he felt heat shoot up inside him, he concentrated on the fantasy of plunging a knife in The Collector's heart. Arkin gasped as sticky cum shot up his abdomen before collapsing into a dead mass of limbs, waiting for the killer to ride his own high and refocus his sadistic tendencies back on him. He was tired, far too tired, but he was still riding the wave of that miniscule anger inside him and he was satisfied.
It seemed a small eternity before The Collector drew back from him and pulled Arkin's boneless body to his feet, dragging him back across the floor back to his waiting cuffs. He was manhandled back into them and he was happy enough to let himself go limp, his feet barely touching the floor. He was naked and shivering as fresh cum dripped down his thigh while The Collector studied him with what Arkin could only describe as smugness. Arkin felt like smiling again but he couldn't quite get his lips to do his bidding. The fucker could be smug now but he'd change his tune when Arkin would be the one on the other end of the knife. His day would come.
The Collector ran his thump up Arkin's neck and along his jaw, tracing his lips before pushing it inside. He drew it out coated in fresh blood and grinned before grasping the nape of Arkin's neck and holding his head into place. He stared deep into his eyes, pinning him there with his strange gaze, silently claiming him before leaning in for another one of those confoundedly gentle kisses. Arkin kept his lips stubbornly shut before a tight squeeze on the fine hairs at the base of his skull forced a gasp out of him. The Collector was convinced Arkin was his, every part inside and out belonged to him but he had no knowledge of that flickering flame. That belonged to Arkin and Arkin alone. Not even someone as insidious as The Collector would strip him of it. He let the monster claim his mouth, the tongue mapping out his teeth because there was no point in fighting a losing battle. When he was satisfied, The Collector pulled away to stare Arkin down one more time before giving his messy hair a comforting pat. Arkin wished he didn't find the patronising gesture as comforting as he did but he didn't have to worry too much about it because he felt a sudden jab in the side of his neck before the world faded to black.
'Shhhhh.' It was the last thing Arkin heard before he passed out, lost in a maze of nightmares and bloody fantasies. It was a final kindness from The Collector, an uninterrupted sleep, and Arkin almost thanked him for it.