FicWad

Our smell is rich and thick, the slick sweat mixing, the only barrier between our bodies. My jaw aches from chomping down on the bitter, rubber ball my mouth, and I'll have deep, red marks on the sides of my face where the straps of the gag chafed. I'm straining to see anything but pitch black past the heavy blindfold around my eyes, as pointless as that is. Sensory deprivation: James can't get enough of it, subjecting others to it, that is.

You'd think that it's far more scary to actually see the weapon in a person's hands, see what it can and is doing to you, rather than just feel the blade edge slip and scurry over your moist skin...

He's been inside me for probably an hour, but that's not the unusual thing. Normally he takes what he wants from me and I take whatever I can from him while I have the chance; he can be stingier than a Romulan when it comes to reciprocating.

But right now he's taking his time, holding himself off with his hand tight around my cock, and he's going to let me enjoy myself if it kills me. This time I won't have to beg for the privilege of climax (not that he'd understand anything I'd say with the gag in my mouth), because I've already earned that luxury.

I've killed for it.

His teeth nip at my throat, the point of his tongue snaking along every hollow, along the bones, and I'm gasping for hard won breath. If I hadn't have cracked my other gag, the one with the breathing holes in it, with my over excited jaws last week, I'd probably be wearing that right now.

But it's better this way, anyway. Even now he's taunting me for loving this, asking me over and over if I like being taken like this, being helpless and violated. Do I like being filled up by him? Do I love it when there's nothing I can do about it?

Just like every other time he asks me these egotistical questions, I nod and give him a little sound that does as much for his ego as his rough thumb is doing for my dick, but I hold back my enthusiasm. I don't want him to know how much I mean it. If I weren't gagged, I'd tell him to go fuck himself, but carefully. I've gone so long training myself to know exactly what to say to him, and how.

He may not realize that he has freed me by gagging and binding me like this. With the foul tasting rubber ball filling my mouth, I can't say anything to him, I can only moan and drool and grunt and greedily suck in air through my nose. But I can also scream out "Yes, God yes, make me your slut!" through the ball and he would not hear it. I can howl the most pathetic, self-indulgent things when he strokes me or pushes deeper into me and he'd just think I was growling at him.

James knows that I will do anything he says and I'll surrender anything to him, physically that is. He knows that because he's the captain, he has the right to do anything he wants to any of us. Ever since I got here he's used me for sex and I've let him think that sometimes I might even like it.

But that's a vicious, twisted lie. I love it. He thinks I'm tugging at the rope around my wrists because I'm desperate to get away. While that's partly true, if I weren't bound, I'd put both my hands over James' on my cock and go to town and buck myself back into him while I'm at it. And when he bites my throat, I writhe and try to shove him off with my shoulder, when all I really want to do is open my neck up for him even further.

It's alright to get hard for him, even better to come when he commands, but if I let him know just how much this gets me off, he'll destroy me. The term playing with fire doesn't even cover it.

He didn't even let me shower before hand, because he didn't think I needed to. But I did. I can still smell the blood on my fingers, even though I wiped them on my pants obsessively all the way here. O, but that's what he wants, isn't it? It's not enough for him to watch me slice up that prisoner and see the blood spray all over my uniform and soak my hands, even my face, but he wants to smell it, too, long after the fact.

I didn't know the man, that is my only consolation. I've never been forced to torture someone I actually cared about, but then again, as far as anyone on board knows, I don't care about anyone but myself.

I've "questioned" people so many times before it's second nature to me now. There are more torture devices than medical supplies in Sick Bay, for God's sake. I don't remember them all, but there are those few that stand out and haunt me long after. It's not that I care so much about killing them-most of them were worthless ensigns anyway, indispensable as tissues-but the look in their eyes when they stare up at me and finally realize I'm not going to help them gets to me.

But I got a thrill out of this one. The feeling of throwing morals to the wind, like being in a dream where you can do whatever you want. It doesn't matter, because it's not real. I saw the look in his eyes, I heard his pleading, but I kept going. Feeling the captain's presence behind me as I cut the poor bastard to ribbons for him was a powerful motivator.

At first it was just a show for the captain. He had a yeoman bring his dinner up to the bridge for him, and then got ill. Naturally, he suspected that yeoman of poisoning him, so naturally, it was my job to find out why.

His screaming insistence that he didn't seemed honest to me, not just inspired by fear and pain. By then his face was ashen from the spilling blood, and he was gasping wetly. Pins secured his limbs and dragged them apart at the push of a button: a slightly modified version of the rack.

I knew he didn't do it, and I could have ended it right then. It was, as it's always been, my call when to end it. But I didn't. Already I could imagine the captain's hands on me, rewarding me for disposing of another potential assassin. I was fulfilling the amoral, snake-like image he has of me and loving it.

With the black cloth around my eyes, I don't even have the wall to stare at and erase the images from my head. I see the blood, dark and almost black under the heavy light searing the man's eyes when I feel the captain's wet tongue graze up my vertebrae. Bile rushes up my throat as he pounds against my prostate mercilessly and I remember that wet, squishy sound of the man's skin when I peeled it back.

Am I that much of an animal, that'd I'd do anything to get off? It's been too long since I've been allowed any pleasure from either of my superior officers, so I'd ignore a man's screams for mercy just to get a cheap fix?

"You'd do anything for me, wouldn't you, whore?"

I bite holes in the rubber and almost tear out of the wrist binds as the orgasm rips and claws its way out, with the smell of the blood on my hands adding to it. My memory of the man's raspy howling echoes my own desperate, muffled moans, and I'm shocked into a stupefied, deathly state. I'm being penetrated by the very man that forced me to torture a man to death, and I've never been so turned on. I would have been "rewarded" if I'd had just half-assed it and saved the victim's life, but I chose to let him die. Every slice of the scalpel more than necessary was for James' pleasure; I knew when I'd gone too far but kept going. At the very last minute, with the scalpel hovering over the man's jugular, one look at the captain's face told me that the whole thing was a farce, and still I made the fatal cut.

I grunt and tense up against him, but he laughs dark and raspy in my ear. Even I can't hide the truth from him this time.