"Just how long were you anticipating we'd stay?" Skinner is asking.
"Who knows?" Saunders replies evasively. "That'll be up to you. Most of us choose to stay for quite some time on our first visit. When we're sure of you, and when you've agreed to our terms, you'll be allowed to leave. You'll have to be initiated and agree to a sum towards our costs. Obviously you can't stay here indefinitely, however appealing the idea—your business doesn't run itself after all. After your initiation, you can come and go as you wish—and take advantage of the facilities and challenges we offer here."
"Challenges?" Skinner asks sharply.
"Yes." Saunders smiles. "You'll see."
"And I suppose you aren't going to tell me any more about this 'initiation,' either?" Skinner questions.
Saunders smiles and shakes his head. "All in good time, Mr. Skinner. All in good time."
"Fine." Skinner imbues that word with considerable displeasure, implying that it's not fine at all. "But if that's the case, then I'd like a change of clothes. I can't wear these indefinitely."
"Of course." Saunders nods. "We've taken care of that already. There'll be clothing in your room by the time you return. And a laundry service is provided as well. Just leave your clothes in the basket provided, and they'll be returned to you the following day."
I'm standing helplessly at Skinner's elbow, feeling like a spare part, and my stomach suddenly rumbles loudly. Saunders laughs at me.
"I do hope your master allows you to eat soon, Fox," he smirks. "You look as if you need feeding up."
"Well, I wasn't exactly hungry last night," I reply, and then wish I hadn't. I wasn't given permission and he wasn't asking me a question. I sense that I've made a mistake, and the anxious glances the other slaves in the room are darting at me confirm that. Skinner's jaw tightens as he takes in the atmosphere in the room and he frowns at me.
"Kneel down," he hisses and I obey, quickly. Then he backhands me casually, but not particularly hard, across the jaw. "Now keep quiet," he says. This seems to meet with everybody's approval, and people go back to what they were doing. I hate this place. The smallest thing upsets these weirdoes and I'm not very good at keeping quiet and being obedient.
"He's very spirited, isn't he?" Saunders remarks, cutting up a slice of melon and feeding a piece to Nick, who's kneeling at his side.
"Hmm," Skinner snorts.
"Do you think you discipline him enough?" Saunders' eyes meet mine and I flush furiously.
Skinner takes a long drink of orange juice and appears to be seriously pondering this question. "I don't know," he muses. "Fox, what do you think?" He stares at me, his eyes quite serious.
"Well...um...I think that maybe sometimes my master is too kind to me, considering how I behave," I reply.
"Yeah," Skinner grunts. "But you see, Saunders..." He turns back to our host. "I like him this way. I wouldn't want him broken. He's more fun to play with like this."
"I can see that might be the case. However, I should warn you that we aren't very tolerant here." I get a sinking feeling in my stomach as he says this, my burning shoulders reminding me what not being "very tolerant" might mean.
"Don't worry. He knows who's in charge," Skinner says. "And I have no trouble at all keeping him in line. He's always obedient with me. Completely. Isn't that so, Fox?"
"Yes, master," I mutter. It's hard to believe that he's not enjoying himself with this, despite all that talk about acting a role.
I watch, enviously, as Saunders feeds Nick a slice of toast. I'm starving. Then I stiffen as Matt comes in. He catches my eye and grins at me, the grin of someone who totally expects to get exactly what he wants before too long. And it doesn't take much to work out what it is he wants.
He's got this poor kid on a lead, and the boy (he can't be more than twenty) is covered in welts and bruises, and looks totally miserable. I realize with a pang of guilt that Matt had to take out his humiliation last night on somebody. The kid scurries off to get breakfast, and on his return, kneels beside Matt, his head down.
"You hungry?" Matt leers at the boy, who nods, licking his lips. Matt grins. "Here." He puts some food on a plate, places it on the ground and sits back in his chair to watch. "Eat," he commands. The boy puts his hands out, but Matt stops him with his foot. "No hands. Use your mouth." The boy nods and puts his head down to the plate, eating like a dog. Matt grins again, and his eyes meet mine. The expression on his face is vicious, savage and salacious. His eyes rake over my body, the desire in them undisguised. I feel myself reacting, my muscles tensing. I want to crush his breakfast all over his stupid, battered face, but Skinner has seen the exchange, senses my mood and distracts me.
"Breakfast, Fox," he murmurs, handing me a slice of bread, his hand brushing my wrist as he gives me a warning glance.
"Thank you, sir."
"You can use your hands," he says, his remark directed pointedly at Matt, at whom he's glaring across the table, not me.
"Yes, sir."
If it's not acceptable for me to sit up at the table and eat like a normal human being, then at least I retain some dignity this way. Skinner sees that I get as big a breakfast as he does—handing me bite sized pieces of bacon and sausage to lessen the indignity of having to eat messily with my fingers. I use the opportunity to take a good look around the room. There are about fifteen tops, and the same number of subs, but whether that's the sum total of people here, or just the first people to have arrived for breakfast, I can't tell.
After breakfast, Saunders shows us around this strange, sprawling underground complex. In fact, he shows Skinner around and I just trail along behind, digging my fingernails into the palms of my hand to remind myself not to talk, and not to ask questions. This is tough—I'm naturally curious and although Skinner asks most of the stuff that occurs to me, there are a couple of times when he doesn't, and I'm burning to open my mouth and start firing. I only forget myself once and Skinner treads on my bare foot in time to stop me. It's amazing how much of a distraction a bruised toe can be.
The complex has a swimming pool, gym and sauna, as well as an extensive relaxation area. In addition to the library and dining hall, there are several other meeting rooms, including one with a large pool table in it where a few slave boys are hanging around, aimlessly playing pool. They snap to attention when Saunders enters the room and I notice a couple of them looking speculatively and appreciatively at Skinner. I also have to admit that I watch him to see if he's looking equally appreciatively at them, but he isn't. He doesn't even spare them a glance. Well, why would he? It's not as if I'm eyeing all the tops, after all.
Finally, Saunders takes us into a huge, bare, empty cavern with sand on the floor.
"What's this for?" Skinner asks, and I'm equally mystified.
"Oh, you'll see. Later on this evening," Saunders replies, before taking us through the cavern into a much smaller room. At one end there is a huge stone altar, and above that hangs a mural depicting a battle between a man and a bull. The bull is definitely losing. There are some wooden benches on either side of the room and it has the air of a chapel.
"A place of worship?" Skinner asks, one eyebrow raised in semi-disbelief.
"You could say that. If you pass certain...challenges, then this where you will be initiated into the Brotherhood," Saunders replies, his face deadly serious.
I want to get out of here as fast as I can. We're in crazy-religious-cult territory, and that's even worse than being in lunatic-secret-sadist-society territory. Put the two together and you're in such deep shit you might as well stop breathing and wait to be measured for your coffin. Except it's more likely Skinner's coffin, and my virginity. I bet there are guys here who'd just love to "break" me in. Right now Skinner is all that's standing between them and me, but that's not the only reason I want to keep him alive. There are truckloads of other reasons as well—not least the fact that if any man is going to get his hands on my cherry, then I'd prefer it to be him. That's something I don't want to think about, so I'm relieved when Saunders starts to take us back towards the huge cavernous room we came through to get here.
I notice before we leave the "chapel" that there is another door at the end—a door he hasn't led us through. Skinner points at it, an inquiring look on his face, and Saunders shakes his head.
"You don't want to go in there," he says quietly. "Trust me." Shit, it's like Bluebeard's castle. I wonder if there's trussed up corpses in there, or dismembered heads on sharpened sticks. I wouldn't be surprised.
We return to the gym where Saunders suggests that Skinner works out.
"Slaves can use the facilities at certain times of the day." He glances at me. "During the rest period before dinner, for example. As long as their master has given them permission."
"What about fresh air?" Skinner asks. "I noticed that Matt was dressed for riding. I assume that wasn't just a costume?"
"Of course not." Saunders shakes his head. "Later, when you've been initiated, you will be allowed full use of the complex, including the outdoor facilities. Until that time, please keep yourself confined to those areas I have shown you, Mr. Skinner. I don't like to make threats, or indulge in pointless posturing with another top outside the Arena, but you should be fully aware that the penalties for ignoring my instructions are severe." I don't have time to wonder what he means by the "arena" because suddenly his gaze falls on me. "Your sub should also be aware of those penalties. In fact, in view of his somewhat...temperamental nature, perhaps there is another place I should show you." He gestures that we follow him again.
He takes us down a series of dark, dimly-lit corridors, going in a distinctly downhill direction until we end up in a dungeon area, with locked gates. He takes out a key and opens the door, showing us inside.
"This is the Zone," he murmurs, and I exchange a look with Skinner. I told him about the Zone last night. "I believe there is only one occupant at the moment."
Saunders opens another door and I walk in, then stop short, recoiling in horror. I back up, ending up tight against Skinner's chest as he tries to enter the cell behind me, not having seen what I have.
"What is it, Fox?" His hands find my arms and he pushes me to one side, then I feel and hear him take a deep breath. There's a guy in here who's been stripped naked and manacled to some sort of upright rack. His body is covered with whip marks from head to toe, back and front, and there's some sort of contraption attached to his genitals, weighting them down, that looks so painful I want to vomit. His mouth is forced open and transfixed by a wad of metal that is so tight it's given him sores around his lips. His eyes open as we enter and he looks at us in mute despair and pleading, flinching as if he expects some new torment. I find myself shivering, and suppress a strangled yelp as I see that there's something up his ass as well. I don't want to know what; I don't want to see any more. I want to be sick. I can't think or breathe, and I'm aware that I'm hyperventilating badly. Skinner's hands close more tightly around my arms and he's pressed so close behind me that I can feel the shudder that goes through his body. His chest is solid and reassuring against my back, and then suddenly, unexpectedly, he moves his arms around my chest and holds me tight. We stand there for a moment, eyes closed, taking what comfort we can from each other to avoid looking the true horror of our situation in the face. Then the moment passes, Skinner pulls me back out of the cell without a word, and pushes me quickly out of the Zone, not waiting for Saunders, who is locking doors behind us.
"How long...?" Skinner asks when Saunders rejoins us in the gym area.
"How long has he been kept like that? Two days." Saunders shrugs. "He's untied for half an hour every six hours to urinate, defecate, eat and drink. When he's re-tied, he's also whipped again. He's learned not to look forward to the freedom and the food—knowing that it also means more pain and the discomfort of being reattached to certain...devices."
"And how much longer?" Skinner asks.
