A/N - I hesitated to use the Biblical expression 'eye for an eye' as it has been long misinterpreted and maligned as a primitive concept. It does, in fact, refer to an ancient compensatory system whereby a plaintiff is awarded damages equal to the extent or value of his/her loss, and the concept is therefore conversely ahead of its time. It's not meant to be taken literally. Anyway, smart-ass stuff over. On with the tale. Enjoy! XD

Just a heads up here - fifth and final chapter should be up this coming Father's Day w/e.

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Ronon. Buddy. Now's a good time. To rescue me.

John's couldn't disguise the fact he was now shaking so badly, he was inadvertently rattling the gate. No-one else'd had ever had the capacity to do this to him, reduce him to a quivering wreck. Not Kolya. Not even Todd when he was merely Kolya's Wraith pawn. Not even his Taliban captors of some three weeks. At least he wasn't a gibbering wreck. Yet. He couldn't think how to play it. Heck, he could barely think at all. He was still sick, weak, restrained, and in a hell of a lot of pain. Should he keep her talking? Start up an exchange of witty repartee? Play it innocent? Yep, innocent. And keep her talking.

"So, what do you want from me, Sarayah?" That you haven't already taken… Gah! Way to ask a leading question, John!

"Come now. What makes you think I want anything from you that I haven't already taken?"

Whuh?

Sarayah rested her left hand on his bare chest, and ran her fingers over him, twirling his chest hair. She occasionally rested on a scab, rubbed at it absently, scratched at it, then looked up at him dreamy-eyed. She dug a nail under a dark, crusty one just below his collarbone, and picked it off, taking some hair with it. John winced. She was toying with him. He fought against looking away. Under other circumstances, she'd be easy on the eyes, like Sora used to be. Shiana, not so much. That one looked like a goosed turtle in freeze-frame.

"S-Stop that!"

"Stop what?"

Reading my mind…

"I'll stop only when you beg me to, John. You are being punished, remember? You only have to demonstrate contrition."

"Somehow… I doubt that."

"Really?" Sarayah raised the poker, and waved it over his chest, singeing his hair, causing him to flinch.

Shitshitshit! John sucked in his lips, and scrunched his eyes shut.

"Oh, come now. Don't be such a baby. Hair is dead. It has no nerve endings. Unlike other parts of the male anatomy, which I know from experience to be exquisitely sensitive." Sarayah ran her remaining forefinger along the waistband of his boxers from one hip to the other, then back to the middle, pulled it forward, away from his body, lingered a moment, then pinged it, leaving his boxers riding low on his hips.

Please…

John was not about to 'hang eleven'. Not that he would likely have any choice in the matter. She was getting to him, and she hadn't really done anything to him yet. This was - torture.

No shit, Sherlock.

Sarayah frowned at the poker in her handy-dandy pliers.

"I'll be back," she muttered.

You have to be kidding!

Now she was the fucking Terminator.

Sarayah shoved the poker back into the brazier, then turned to look at him with a knowing look on her face.

"The poker radiated away its heat, John. Are you by any chance trying to keep me talking?" she asked as she began to unscrew the pliers. She dropped them into some tote on the floor, and he heard the clang of metal against metal, and the stench of smoldering fabric. What the fuck else was inside the thing? Did he really want to know?

Sarayah sauntered back over to him, and chucked him under his chin with her stump, causing him to grunt. Well, it was more of a right upper cut than a chuck. Trust her to find a fresh area of him to bruise up.

"Quit trying to distract me, John."

"Had to try." He flashed a disarming smile.

"You still expect to charm your way out of this? Distract me until rescue comes?"

"I'm n-not trying… anything. I just - I just wanna… go home." There. He was being honest. At least he didn't beg for release.

"I have until dawn, John. Why don't we find out how much punishment you can take, and how much I can inflict?"

"Why… "

"Because you deserve this." A flicker of a smile crossed her face. "For what you did to me."

"You haven't yet told me… what you plan to do to me. At least… with Sora and Shiana, they both came up with… a finite punishment to fit... my so-called crimes. An eye for an eye." John sucked in a breath. He should never have mentioned eyes.

Sarayah blinked rapidly. That told him a great deal. It gave him his second wind. He stiffened, and as best he could, drew himself up to full height.

So, what is it, Sarayah? Huh? I put a skidmark on your adopted highway? Rain on your parade? Piss in your petunias?" Then something occurred to him. "You set this all up! Just to get back at me!" John rattled his manacles.

Her Mona Lisa smile morphed into a sneer. He was beginning to piss her off. Not good, not good.

"What do you want from me?"

"Whatever you are prepared to give freely. Willingly. To prevent what's coming next."

She turned her back on him, skipped over to her tote, crouched, then rummaged through it. He couldn't see what she was screwing in her slot this time. She leapt up, spun on her heel, and raised her right arm to flash him her latest implement. John did a double take. He knew exactly what or rather who would fit in that crab claw. He could feel a scream building up in his throat.

"Aaagh! Noooo!" He writhed and squirmed, and looked around frantically for a means of escape.

"Yes, John. I see you have correctly guessed the full extent of your punishment. If I can't have you, no-one can," and she snatched up the poker in her left hand.

"Please… " He was begging now. He didn't care. She'd broken him. She'd broken his balls before she even touched them. "Let me go." He was snivelling now.

"Aaand?" She grabbed the waistband of his boxers, and yanked them further down than was decent.

"I'll give you anything you want," he mumbled.

"Louder, John." She hefted the poker at eye level.

"I'll give you anything you want! Bitch!" He should never have called her that. Oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God he should never have called her that.

"Not. Contrite. Enough."

"Jeez… "

John felt shriveling, cold metal near his groin even as he felt the first jab of that poker just below his sternum. He heard a sizzle as his flesh burned, and smelled barbecue. Then another sizzle below that then another below that then another and another down his arrow of hair like a succession of intergalactic gates and she paused at the midway station, thrusting her poker into his belly button as if for the duration of some perverse quarantine and smoke alarms shoulda gone off by now, and now she was on the second leg of the journey aiming below his belt, and Jesus H Christ on a bike, he was fucking screaming himself hoarse -

It stopped suddenly. He looked up at her through pain-filled, sweat-ridden eyes. His legs were shaking and his chest was heaving. If she closed that thing over on him…

"Good boy. Keep an eye on things. There's no-one around to throw cold water over you. All that remains to throw is the contents of the brazier."

She had him. She had him in those claws. Everything he was was now in her clutches. She had won. She owned him now.

"Snip, snip!" She waved her crab claws in front of his face, and clicked the halves together, then aimed for his balls again.

She planned to emasculate him. John's upper brain had sufficient mercy upon him to switch off before the deed was done. It didn't last. Somehow, he was drenched in freezing water rather than blazing coals. He shook off his fugue, and took stock of his lower brain. Li'l Shep and the Boys were still intact. Except now she was tracing a dotted line with the poker either side of his V down towards them, forming an arrow.

"K-Kill me."

"Soon, John." She loosened her inanimate grip on his balls. He sighed with relief, and she stepped back.

"I win, John. I own you. I will always own you."

She was right. She could read his mind. She owned him inside and out. Always had, always would.

"Dawn breaks, John. Have you learned your lesson?"

John nodded furiously. His owner appeared satisfied with his answer. She ripped off his tags and tossed them aside.

"You will never be free of me, not even on the day you die." Sarayah scuttled back to the brazier and the tote. More rummaging. More screwing. Even a little banging and scraping. She faced him, lumbered towards him, waving her pliers now, and a branding iron like Edward Fucking Scissorhands. Sarayah was a walking Swiss Army knife on steroids.

"Why, we might even spend eternity together. On my terms. Is that not a happy prospect? You and I forever."

John let his mouth fall open.

And then she began her assault in earnest.

The only difference between assault above his belt and assault below was that above proffered the incongruous admixture of agony and relief, and below only agony and despair. She pressed the silver dollar-sized brand into his skin right over the Wraith feeding mark, then tossed the iron aside. The clattering sound made him jerk. Just when he thought his nerves couldn't be any more fried, they fired and fired and fired. She then began to wrap his tags around his right wrist, using her pliers to clamp them in place. The bitch'd put them in the brazier. She clearly wanted him to feel the pain of the loss of her own right hand. It distracted him momentarily from his branding. He let his tears flow freely. His pride was shot to hell as much as his body.

"Do you want release, John? I can do that for you. Release you. I can release you. Beautiful release, John," she purred. She let her fingers do the walking along his right flank to his hip, then used the poker marks like stepping stones towards her goal. Her pliers were resting on his ass. He felt his butt cheeks tighten.

How was he supposed to answer that?' Release' as in let him go? Somehow he didn't think so. Still, he couldn't deny his new owner. His could feel his mouth begin to form a yes.

"No."

"You lie. You want me as I want you. Forever. You are just playing hard to get."

She stood before him, gripping him by his hips in one hand, pliers in the other. She played her one hand and her pliers up and down his flanks like he was some living accordion, running her fingers along his heaving ribcage, and even digging her nails into the tender, bruised skin on one side, and pinching it on the other. He prayed she knew nothing whatsoever about wind instruments. She knew plenty about string and percussion, so he wasn't holding out much hope on that score.

"One last chance, John. What is it to be?"

He couldn't give her an answer. As a rescue, it wasn't his place. He kept his eyes and mouth tightly shut, awaiting her decision as to his fate. This was it. Foreplay over. She owned him now. He was hers to toy with.

And that was when she shot him twice at point blank range.

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