This Game We Play by theeventualwinner

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

Hands caress his delicate neck, stroking, winding, soft and lascivious as snakes ghosting across his flesh.

Shirtless, clad only in doeskin trousers, shadows flutter over his collarbones, stark against pale white skin. Muscles flex and relax with every shallow breath, slide over the gentle hollows of his ribs, defined like scripture written in the forbidden tongue of angels.

“My lord”, he breathes, kneeling before the throne, a mesh of sculpted metal writhing in wraithlike tendrils toward the sky; beautiful, obscene. Flaming torches drip cobalt wax across the floor, casting a dim glow about the room, as shade gnaws macabre at the guttering light. 

The hands move slowly upwards, singed grey wandering snow-white tundra. One cups his chin, force his gaze gently towards the fluted ceiling, where velvet drapes and iron metalwork strive for mastery, flint greys crossing midnight black. Obsidian walls stand in silent witness, hung with tattered flags of enemies vanquished, crumpled stars sullen against battle-stained white.

A nail traces from sternum to chin, sending shivers crawling across his skin. Every nerve sparks alive at his master’s touch; at once burning and abhorrent and wrong, and yet so deliciously right. Something carnal stirs, something base growls its lust, inhaling, unfurling; slavering beast so barely restrained howls in its shackles, straining to the critical point, crisis engine of desire.

One finger traces his jugular, pulse so vividly beating, fluttering through his skin. And he moans, low and quivering through gritted teeth, shudders leaping through vertebrae, lancing through muscle, craving so long repressed but now breaking free.

“My lord, I…”

But his speech is stopped, one slender finger taps his lips, pressing hard enough to hurt. It drags downwards, parting them, a longing breath exhaled, lingering soft and shaking.

One hand moves around his throat now, enveloping, encircling, predator grasping its prey. Bones undulate under flesh, ephemeral shadows dance, such fragile structures so easily destroyed with one swift twist. Tendons ripple through taught muscle, anticipating the vital lunge, the final severing of life so brutal and so perversely welcome. He waits, the moment static.

Infinite.

And he exhales a breath he didn’t know he had held, and his eyes flicker upwards, catch his master’s stare and hold it, ((I dare you)), silver challenges molten gold. And behind those brilliant eyes, something smiles.

Nails dig into his skin, piercing, droplets of blood form like rubies flecked on marble, pure and dark and throbbing crimson. He hisses, gasping breath drawn knife-sharp through a clenched jaw, the pain exquisite, his agony made ecstasy. The sudden intake makes ligaments jump, striking bold under his master’s hand.

Blood drips through his master’s fingers, slow rivulets of red running warm and pumping, and how he hated it, a part of himself spilled so crass, so un-mourned.

But how he loved it, this cruelty sublime, some part of him trapped deep down inside uncoiling, awakening, and with claws sheathed in lust ripping up through him, unstoppable, unleashed. And he lunges, pushes back against those gripping fingers, every fibre of his being screaming to stop, ((do it do it do it)), rising to his feet and he grabs his master, lays impious hands on that which he hold supreme, twining desperate fingers through raven hair, and he kisses him.

Lips meet in devastating war, biting, crushing, his tongue scrapes across his master’s teeth. It burns, such reckless passion devours, flames run wild as his master softens, jaw shifting to receive his servant’s gift. Like leviathans spurred to devastating battle they fight, tongues twining beautiful and jarring, white-hot heat tearing through his body, amphetamine lust bursting through him. One hand runs down his master’s robe, unpicking elegant knots of ebony silk, skimming down his chest. He traces the lines of his abdomen, slim muscles flexing under his fingers, sensuous hip bones sliding his grip ever lower.

He hears a purr, low and feral. And he pauses, unsure, suddenly afraid that he had overstepped the mark, unwary hunter dares the tiger’s lair. And he stops, lips still locked against the others’, now blistering, now hurting, and he tries to turn, to pull away, but iron hands stop him, gripping his skull with brutal force.

He feels his master shove against him, a maelstrom of passion and greed and chaos overwhelming, consuming, pouring hot and thick down his throat and pulling up his soul. Caught helpless in the ravening he whimpers; his joy turned to pain, vicious and rending, as his master’s blinding frothing seething embrace crashes through him. Defenceless he can only whine, deep in the hollow of his throat, an animal keening, raw and breaking, his master tearing through him, wrenching through vein and artery. The dream-fever rages as his body spasms in failing defences, his lines overrun, the mind-soldiers slaughtered; the rout inescapable. His master smiles, driving ever harder, god collides with angel to wreak the inevitable bloodstained consequence, the haemorrhage spewing entropy fatal.

 

I want to break you.

Skin you alive and hang you dripping vermilion across the floor.

My broken angel, whimpering as blood inches over your ribs, scarlet livid on ivory skin and you’re shuddering, you twist and writhe; sinews snap divine.

And then I would seize you, strike home this brutal desire throbbing to its core, you sobbing beneath me as hips roll savage, I force myself inside of you and you take it, and you gasp and you cry but you can do nothing.

And it can be violent, and it can be twisted, you pinned so tight beneath me, taught muscle straining but you’re caught, little lover, you’re mine.

I will break you, and when you lie shattered across the stones I will remake you. I will stitch you back together, red gore-threads sewing such a fragile spirit, my patchwork servant. Shards of broken love, and lust and hate collide, crushed burning together and forged inseparable, until you don’t know, you can’t know what to feel, you lose a part of yourself in me, some delicious masochistic war waged upon yourself and you don’t even know why. You smash yourself against me, the butterfly’s wings so easily shredded, beating frantic as the venom insidious creeps, animal cravings play visceral.

You will kneel bloody before my throne, tears falling slowly down those precious cheeks, begging for me to stop.

You will plead for mercy at my feet.

And I will only grin.> 

And he pulls back, desperation lends strength to failing muscle. Lips come undone, mottled in red he gasps for air and it tastes like metal. He stumbles, faint, keels over backwards onto the marble floor, black shot through with white. He catches himself hard with his upper arms, partially saving a totally undignified collapse. Panting, he spits blood across the floor, slides his tongue across a livid split in his lower lip, wincing as the sting prickles through his jaw.

His master, smiling sharp and mocking stands, and fear flickers in his eyes. With dread purpose his master descends the throne, iron-shod boots tapping gently on the floor, sending shivers through him with each predatory step.

He starts to rise, clamber ungainly to his feet below his master’s sinuous grace, but he feels a nail tap his sternum, pressing him firmly back to the floor, his spine arching slightly against the acutely cold marble. Real terror wells up inside him, and desperately he fights to muzzle it, remain outwardly impassive as his heart hammers its frantic tattoo. A bead of sweat slides icy down his neck, numb paralysis of foreboding dancing through his veins.

His master kneels over him, faint curls of a smirk playing about the corners of his lips. The prey subdued, helpless. He leans forward, golden eyes boring bright into his servant’s faded silver, and lightning flashes victorious behind them.

And he smiles.

A sneer of sick triumph, all incisors and snarling lips, he smiles. 

“How now, little lover? Are you ready to play?”

---

Chapter End Notes

Author's note: I hope you enjoyed my first foray into real slash fiction. Unlike pretty much anything else I ever write, there will be continuing chapters. Reviews are always treasured, and if you'd like to see anything; a scene, a feeling, a point of view, do not hesitate to ask. I strongly believe in audience participation. 

Chapter 2: A Plaything of Gods

Read Chapter 2: A Plaything of Gods

Light filters slowly through the small, high windows, smeared in grime and soot, sending weird shadows crawling across the obsidian floor. The air hangs heavy, stiflingly hot from the glowering braziers bracketed to the walls, wrought iron smouldering in the gloom. Stones scrape bare and polished across the room, unfurnished but for an ornate bed; ivory posts curving into the darkness, black silken sheets glimmering; and an imposing wooden chair, warped carvings grim and glowing malevolent in the firelight. 

The silence is broken by a whimper. A noise miniscule, half-swallowed, yet reverberated to shock clarity by the smooth glassy walls. Half suspended, his toes just brush the cold floor, each ankle fettered by thick chains riveted into the floor. Manacles encircle his wrists, biting iron cutting into tender skin, bolted each to a metal ring lost in the vaulted ceiling, swallowed by the lurking darkness. Crucified, he dangles helpless, naked chest stirring with each laboured breath, doeskin trousers sticking tight and sweaty to his legs. His arms scream their protest, muscles cramping and ligature ablaze, taught and strained to breaking point. Knots of agony coil in his shoulders, as each tiny movement jostles stressed tendons, striae stretched beyond discomfort, bolts of pain lancing down his sides with each inhalation. A livid scratch curves across his neck, from jaw to clavicle, as he shifts clotted maroon flakes exposing raw flesh underneath, pink and glistening. Rivulets of dried crimson snake down his chest; such gentle marks of his master’s affection.

His master lounges across the chair, one leg draped catlike across its carved, oaken arm. One golden eye flicks open as he lazily appraises his servant. A sickening smile contorts his handsome features, all sneering carnassials and twisted lips, and with languid grace he shifts upright, eyes never leaving his servant’s body splayed so beautiful, so tempting before him. A knife lies across his lap; the thin blade of tempered steel flashes cold, distorted mirages flit across its icy veneer. From a leather-wrapped handle it sings, tapering to a wicked point forged in the black smithies of Angband to pierce armour, to rupture organs. Spells of breaking, of unmaking inscribe its length, delicate Tengwar corrupted by foul and secret languages, hoarse whispers of malice. His master grasps the handle, holding the knife left-handed in a fighter’s stance; poised, feral. Shadows dance down its length, thrown to frantic motion in the guttering light, dead metal coaxed to life. His master steps forward, a leer distorting his face, the curl of his lip belying something sadistic, and gold burns in those brilliant eyes. 

He watches his master, sees the dread blade in his hand, that awful smile. Instantly, he feels his breath quicken, throat constricts as panic floods through him, tendons jumping bold under his skin. He thrashes in his bonds, squirming, desperately trying to twist away, wrench but one wrist free of its biting shackle, find something, anything to cover himself, to protect himself from what is surely coming.

“No, no my lord, please, please don’t do this…”

The words pour from his mouth, such a useless mewling plea.

But his master’s trap is well laid, the iron clasps vice-like around him, arms pulled taught, exposing him utterly to what merciless designs await. He can only hang, a fresh canvas for the next tapestry of his master’s cruelty. And he whimpers, soft and low, freezing still as terror grips him, the tremulous anticipation of pain paralyzing, overwhelming.

Faster than his eye can follow, his master lunges forward. Something primal flinches and he screws his eyes shut, expecting at any moment that slicing piercing breaking agony ((just get it over with)), but the flat of the blade merely taps his lips, parting them ever so slightly.  It hovers, steel ghosting across his flesh, light but cold, chill puissance screaming from the icy metal. His breath steams ragged across the blade, mottling its shine in short bursts of clouded white. His master smiles, tilts the knife so its tip presses into his upper lip, hard enough to hurt, watches the muscles clench in his jaw as he chokes down his surprise, his fear.  The knife drags downwards, over his chin, tracing his jugular, the point teasing the edge of the bloody scratch arching across his neck. He hisses as the sting shoots through him, air drawn sharp through gritted teeth.

The knife plays ever lower, slicing intricate curlicues across his breastbone. White filigree lines bloom in its wake, his blood fleeing capillaries behind its scoring tip, a visceral procession marked pale over his skin. At the base of his sternum its wandering pauses, a sudden moment of horrid anticipation. Then it slowly trails left, circling his pectoral muscle, diameter wide at first but narrowing, spiraling languidly inwards towards his nipple, such an unwilling epicenter. His flesh prickles under its passing, such brutal tenderness exquisite, raw carnality flooding through him, a boiling crush of emotions unleashed. 

The blade finds its apex, tip digging sharp and cold into his nipple. A noise indecipherable, caught between a sigh and a moan tears from his lips, and he arcs his head back, hair plastered sweaty across his cheeks. His chest thrusts forward, pressing the knife harder into him. Droplets of blood well under its edge; the realms of pain and pleasure collide.

His master laughs, a deep and throaty chuckle <oh you like this> but moves the knife further down, scoring pink furrows across his flat stomach, curving through the gentle slopes and valleys of his abdomen, muscles flexing and roiling beneath his skin. With his right hand, his master strokes his hip, fingers lingering soft across its swell, toying with the waistband of his trousers, moving one sharp nail in lascivious circles over his pelvis, trailing down his thigh. The knife wanders lower, his muscles tense reflexively as it skates his hips; thrills of delight, of humiliation, of enjoyment, of helplessness crushed together and molded anew, a nameless feeling powerful and bestial races through him.

<You hate this.
You love this.
You’re mine, little lover.
I can make you dance make you sing make you scream and you can do nothing.
You can only hang there and take it>

His master’s hand moves lower, gripping the back of his leg, tight and urgent, forcing him to thrust his hips forward, some small relief from that painful hold. Nails tap his inner thigh, tenderly stroking sensitive skin, sending ripples of arousal running up his spine. The knife’s tip catches the lowest point of his abdomen, pushing rigid into his skin, agonizingly balanced between his hip bones, tempted further downwards by their tantalizing slope. And he shivers, desire crawling like insects across his skin.

And he feels his master’s hand slide across his groin, slyly stroking, and he whines, wanton lust ripping up through him. He throws his hips forward, grinding hard against his master’s palm, face a grimace of drunken abandonment, such flagrant debasement; and a part of him is disgusted, wants to curl up and hide where no one can ever touch him again, but it is drowned in the dark passion throbbing within him, overwhelming, consuming. The need to please, the need to control, the need to be controlled tear through him, and his master sneers, incisors flash predatory as he feels his servant stiffen against his teasing palm, crude desire manifested in flesh. His breath comes quicker now, panting heavy with mounting excitement, and a groan escapes his lips, reckless emotion escaping any semblance of bounds, nothing but the primal beast left slavering below.

His master smiles again, feels his servant’s growing arousal, hardness so poorly concealed by trousers now slick with sweat, senses the movements of his hips angling for his touch, taken utterly in the vicious seething sublime throes of temptation, such careless animal abandon

 “Oh Mairon, when was it that you lost your grace?” 

The abrupt words chill him to the bone, echoes cold and mocking in his ears, and instantly he freezes, blood running suddenly cold within him. And for a split second he remembers, he remembers what he was; once a proud Maia, fair and pure under the dappled light of Valinor but brought now so low, he realizes what he is, what he has become.  Trapped in dungeons of his own designs, where gods and demons play their fickle games, perverse desires carved into flesh, drenched in torment and bloodstained ecstasy. Of his own choice he was corrupted, evil strangling all glimmers of purity, tainting everything in ashen grey. And where he sought freedom he was forever enslaved, forever beholden to the sick demands of his master, abhorred and loved, infernal and divine. But he never asked for this.

And swiftly he recoils, hips arching away from his master’s agonizing touch, shame flooding through him, loathing grapples with the dying shreds of lust, hounding them like mist driven from the raging fire. And he writhes, arms still clenched immobile in those grasping manacles, but he tries, struggles to rock himself away from his master, stop the terrible climax inexorably building, slow and deliberate and inescapable.

“I don’t want this, please, my lord, please I beg of you I can’t…I can’t do this. Just please, please don’t do this to me...”

Time seemed to slow as his master pauses, punctuated only by the dark beating of his heart, rhythm thumping weird and muted through his head. His master regards him, a smug, cloying grin affixed across his face. An eyebrow quirks in comical surprise; lazy and sinister, but molten gold burns livid in his eyes.

“Come, come, little one. Doubts? Misgivings?”

His breath stops in his throat.

“It is much too late for that.”

And with those fatal words still hanging in the air, his master cuts him down, snapping the thick iron chains like they were naught but hollow bones, the sound of rent metal ringing horribly, echoing wild across the walls. He collapses sprawling across the stones, nerves howling as feeling shoots back into his arms, and he whimpers anew at the fresh assault of pain, blazing tendrils seeming to lick beneath his skin. Before he has the chance to rise, his master grabs him, one hand twining through his blonde hair, dragging him bodily across the room, throwing him roughly backwards onto the bed, his hands scrabbling for purchase amongst the silken sheets. He twists, another attempt to rise, but his master flips him over, hands of unyielding steel pushing him mercilessly down, one forcing his head face down into a black pillow, still twisted in his disheveled hair, the other riding the swell of his hips, knife still balanced in slender fingertips. The blade slashes down his left leg, his leather trousers parting under its tip, a raw scratch darting down the length of his thigh, blood seeping through his skin. He moans, shock warring with the last remnants of hot desire still running through his veins. His protesting cries are gagged by the pillow, and he shakes, desperately twisting and bucking beneath his master, some last hopeless stand against the crushing inevitable, futile rebellion so easily stamped out.

It will always be useless in the end. 

He feels his trousers ripped off, flung aside, himself suddenly, painfully naked, pinioned under his master. He hears the knife clatter to the floor. His heart races, he knows what is coming, and he writhes again, but it is gentler, less purposeful, pointlessness of resistance numbly setting in. He knows, with dread certainty he knows his master’s intent, iron grip forcing him to submit, nails biting into his skin. He feels his master unclasp his own robe, arousal plain, left hand slamming his servant’s face and chest further into the bed-sheets, hips raised slightly as his back arcs in reflex, while his right strokes himself harder. He feels his master shift slightly, position himself, and the muscles in his back knot in horrid anticipation, so weak, so deliciously helpless under the raw power of his master.  

Time seems to congeal, what gasping breath he can draw heavy, thick, caught in some nightmare viscosity, trying to run but he’s stuck, he’s trapped. And the monster behind him growls, senses the prey weakening, but it waits, and it watches.

It has all the time in the world.

One hand caresses his neck; the other firmly grasps his hip, pulling him closer.

“You can scream if you want, little one. No one will hear you. No one’s coming to save you. No one will care.”

He shuts his eyes, teeth gritted tight, fingers tense grabbing handfuls of sheets and he waits for the first strike, cold nausea clawing through his innards, shudders coursing through his spine.

“And this is going to hurt.”

And with that, his master slams his entire length into him, one savage thrust that punches the air from his lungs.

And he screams, pain exploding through him. And he sobs muffled into the pillow, tears rolling down his cheeks as his master slakes his lust, violent and ripping within him. Feared lieutenant he is no more, commander of armies, betrayer of worlds. He is but a toy, something common, something debased, to be used, abused at the whim of a faithless god. Not an angel, not a person, just a thing. 

Just a thing for humiliation.

For pain.

Endless, exquisite pain.

 

Lessons

Mairon's mistakes lead to some very public lessons...

Read Lessons

The great hall throngs, noise of the amassed denizens bouncing off of the carved pillars. Murmurs, chatter and growls meld into a cacophonous din reverberating from the black marble walls, shreds of sound rising dissonant into the high arching ceiling. In the fading sunset the hall bathes in arterial red, washed in the final embers of the sun sinking bloody behind the mountains.

Jaws gnash, teeth warped and grotesque snap and laugh; ugly, crooked grins split across ruined faces. Limbs of all shapes, sizes, some mangled and deformed, some lithe and deadly tangle with reeking leather and chainmail armour, sweaty and stained from a days combat training. Blade hilts glimmer red in the baleful light, vicious steel scimitars jostle alongside rusted gutting-hooks, riveted crossbow bolts rest in quivers of hide and bone, every crude weapon proudly displayed, splattered in blood and ichor. The crush swells, every soldier, every watchman, every servant of Angband pressed into snarling proximity, cramming into every inch of space. The commanders defend the first few rows, closest to the great iron throne of their master, a sculpted work of fluted metal writhing tortured towards the shadowed ceiling, inset with wrought gold and pale filigrees of ivory. They clear a swathe of space around the throne and its dais, revealing a splintered wooden framework standing grim to its right, sturdy beams of oak scored and flaking along their surfaces, flecked with stains of thick, dark fluid. Chains hang ominous from the upper corners of the stockade, sprayed in the same liquid as the wood, peeling maroon from the broad, heavy links.

Fiery swords force the encroaching rows of soldiers back a few paces, Balrog commanders hulking and fearsome in the gloom. Flames drip from their armour, sizzling in oily, viscous droplets on the floor. The militia mill behind them, squat orcish figures a riotous tumble of diversity, but all glancing towards the throne, all called for the same purpose, all awaiting the same exhibition.

The evening’s entertainment.

Suddenly, the great doors of the hall are flung open, riveted metal squealing on rust-worn hinges, and a shadowed figure stands silhouetted against the crimson light. Raven hair frames a handsome face, beneath a crown of sculpted iron set with three blazing gemstones, searing white and dazzling.  Golden eyes coolly survey the now silent masses, and they part before him, melting a path from door to throne. He strides forward with lazy confidence, black overcoat snapping in his wake. His servants stand awestruck before him, such dispensable little lives to be spent, to be thrown away. Reaching the base of his dais, his commanders incline their heads in solemn respect before their master; fires subdued, tendrils of flame licking softly along their crafted metal helms, flickering down shining broadswords.

Their master ascends to his throne, one finger tracing along a strand of iron metalwork along its arm, casually regarding the thronging populace before him, standing hushed and so deliciously expectant.    

“Bring him in.”

From the spread of the great doors, two figures appear, one held firmly in the talons of a Balrog chieftain. Clad only in a simple black tunic and leggings, he is dragged forward into the hall, one fiery hand clasped around his upper arm, singeing his sleeve, the other gripping his opposite shoulder. Barefoot he is marched through the ranks of soldiery, hands bound tightly behind his back with thick, coarse rope. Grim he passes through them, face kept carefully impassive, but his heart hammers hard within his chest, cold nausea coils in his stomach. His blonde hair hangs disheveled across his face, plastered with sweat across his cheeks and neck, brushing a livid bruise high on his cheekbone; crisis rose of purpling flesh to mar his usual pallor. He stares bleakly forward, eyes focused on nothing, not daring to look at his master, at his audience; in those piggish, slanting eyes something sick glimmers, some sadistic urge flexes. Sneers curl subtle across horrid faces, perverse anticipation of the revel to come.

He is hauled up the steps, viciously pushed towards his master sitting upon his dread throne. With his hands bound he staggers, balance thrown off kilter, and for one horrifying moment he thinks he might fall, in front of all of these slaves he might fall, but hurriedly he rights himself, standing awkward yet neutral before the throne, the rapid rise and fall of his chest the only outward signs of his nervousness.

His master’s eyes catch his own, gold bores into faded silver, and a flicker of a grin twists over his lips <you know why you are here>. His master rises, steps towards him like a predator stalks its prey. One slender finger trails across his collarbone, and he gasps, a gentle touch so craved, yet so abhorrent, sending shudders crawling across his skin. Fingers dig into his shoulder, sudden and piercing, spin him around to face his audience, thousands of glittering eyes watching with glee every move of their lethal dance. He stares at the floor, pulse jumping in his throat, and he hears his master purr:

“Mairon, Mairon, how could you let this happen? You, my most trusted of servants.

I expected better from you.

It was so simple, Mairon. Observe, detail and report, that was all. Yet ever you overstep your authority. You ordered an attack, and for your arrogance ten of my commanders perished. Ten lives gone, all because you wanted to play your little games. Perhaps now you will understand the cost of losing.”

His master turns to his assembly, golden eyes glowing malevolent, and in a voice mocking yet stern, coy yet commanding entreats:

“Come now, my faithful servants of Angband, let us taste the price of little Mairon’s disobedience. Ten lives lost, ten lashes rewarded. Maybe then your lieutenant may remember to whom his loyalties lie.”  

With a nod, two commanders step forward, one seizing him about the shoulders, the other slicing through the rope binding his hands. Together they drag him to the wooden frame, ignoring his faint struggles. They pull his arms roughly apart, stressed muscles howling in protest, and snap his wrists into the biting manacles, pressing hard into tender skin. With one mighty tug, his tunic is ripped off, flung aside, leaving him dangling half-naked before the court, cold air rippling over his skin. His master gestures, and with a flourish a coiled whip is placed in his hand. From a handle of polished bone, knotted thongs of oiled leather spring, thin and menacing, strung with tiny shards of metal at each stinging tip, cruel blades to cleave deep through skin and muscle. His master unfurls it, admiring its length, turning it slowly in his hand, metal slivers glimmering infernal in the blood-soaked light.

He hears his master ready himself behind him, arm raised for the first brutal stroke. The muscles in his back clench in dread anticipation, twisting under his skin. Time seems to congeal, marked only by the wild thumping of his heart, throbbing warped and muted through his head. He stares at the floor, hair falling in a tangled mess over his face, some small mercy shielding him from the brutal gaze of his audience, vicious smiles played across each cruel face; all here to witness his punishment, his humiliation, their feared lieutenant torn apart before them. Shivers run up his spine; they were all assembled, all of them here to revel in his disgrace, to watch him break, like parasites squirming joyous through a festering wound. But he’s not going to scream, whatever happens he’s not going to scream, he wouldn’t give them the pleasure, he’s not going to…

CRACK

White lines of fire rip across his back, and desperately he forces down the shriek clawing up his throat, moaning choked and ragged through gritted teeth. He writhes, some frantic reflex trying to tear himself away, but the iron manacles grip him tight, and he can only struggle futile in their dread grasp. He hears the first stifled sniggers, tiny ripples of laughter from his savage admirers, shame curling hot inside him, and he fights back the tears that suddenly prick in his eyes. He clamps his jaw shut, stares resolute at the marble floor and…

CRACK

Sparkles of light explode across his vision, the impact punching the air from his lungs, hissing through his teeth. His back arcs, and his feet scrabble across the floor, trying to force his trembling legs to remain standing as he staggers, dragging sharply on his wrists as the chains bruise against his skin. And he hears his master croon, voice dripping with bitter tenderness:

“Oh Mairon, I thought you could take it. I thought you were stronger than this. Would you disappoint me again, little one?”

And humiliation runs cold within him, and he shuts his eyes, face contorted in a grimace of pain, and he fights so hard to breathe, the air sticking in his throat, pulse fluttering frantic through his veins and he…

CRACK

Seven more times he endures, each lash searing across his back, a raw, bloodied mess of flayed skin. Every miniscule movement sends fresh bursts of agony shooting through him, grappling with the hovering blackness at the edges of his vision, threatening to drag him down into merciful unconsciousness. He barely registers his audience; caught enraptured in his performance, eyes fixed on every lash of the whip, every contraction of his muscles sliding pale beneath his skin; tongues lick lascivious across teeth as he gasps, as he whines. Agony defines his universe, radiating in burning tendrils from his ruined back, defines it in brutal strokes and throws him into it, cradled in strands of crude, throbbing pain wrapped strangling around him.

With the final strike, he sags, exhausted body hanging limp in the chains, only his chest stirring faintly with each laboured breath an indication of his being alive. Faintly, as if in a dream, he feels rivulets of blood inching down his legs, lukewarm streams tracing down the backs of his thighs, soaking through his leggings. At his master’s gesture, the two commanders step forward, swiftly unlocking the manacles about his wrists, and he collapses to the cold floor, slick with droplets of his own blood, and he whimpers, waves of pain crashing through him anew. The audience chuckles, drinking in his destruction, in each pair of midnight eyes sick joy blazes, transfixed on the spectacle unfolding before them.        

Slowly he rises, shakily picking himself up off of the floor, wincing as every movement sends jolts of pain shooting through him. He stands before his master, blood trickling down his legs; a deadly pause in the game of cat and mouse as his master regards him, eyes sly in the failing light. His master steps forward, one slender hand cupping his chin, raising his face until their stares meet, gold drilling into silver.

“Now, Mairon, have you learned your lesson?”

And with his master’s condescending, biting words something defiant flares in his eyes, last tiny shreds of rebellion showing themselves bold. Instantly, his master recoils, snarl of disgust twisting his features, and backhands him viciously across the face. The sudden impact splits open his lip, sends him spinning across the dais, one hand clasped to his cheek already purpling from the blow. A dread silence settles across the hall, mutters die in hollow throats, all eyes fixed in sadistic surprise towards the stage. He freezes, hand still resting on his throbbing cheek, and for one terrible moment he knows, with dread certainty he knows he has overstepped the mark, challenged his master one hurdle too far. It stops the breath in his lungs; quivering anticipation looming over him, paralysis of foreboding squeezing so tight, hurting more than the whip’s lash ever could.

His master walks over to where he stands, still calm, still collected, but something burns livid in his eyes, and his words cut down to the bone.

“It seems you still need a lesson in humility, my servant. I would be happy to oblige, to… further your education.”

The black overcoat is shrugged off, falling to a crumpled heap on the floor. Clad in a black shirt and trousers closed with ornate gold filigree, his master stands imposing before him; majestic and terrible, a god of rage and desire and obsidian glory.

He toys with the lacing of his trousers, fingers teasing the silken threads resting between his hips. And he looks at his servant, black lust smouldering in his gaze, and smiles.

“Ah, Mairon, how lucky are you to have such an audience? After all, you have such a flair for theatrics. Now, get on your knees.”

And for a second he hesitates, failing to grasp his master’s meaning, confusion flickering over his face.

“On. Your. Knees.”     

He sinks slowly to the floor before his master, knees hitting the cold marble lacquer, creeping horror of the intent forming obscene in his mind. Trembling with degradation, he looks pleading up at his master, standing so powerful over him.

“Please don’t. Please, please my lord, not here, not in front of them; I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…just please don’t do this. And I will do anything you want of me, anything, but just please, please not here…”

But his wavering speech is stopped, one iron hand gripping his jaw, nails digging hard into his cheeks, bolts of pain lancing from his already raw skin.

“Get on with it.”

With shaking fingers he reaches up, slowly unlacing his master’s trousers, feeling his master already stiff beneath the soft leather; and a hot flush of embarrassment runs up his neck, pink blush mottling his pale skin. The first sniggers break throughout the crowd, half-stifled chuckles from smirking mouths echo in quiet susurrus, but in his ears it’s like they were screaming, ringing hollow as humiliation floods through him, clawing through every vein, every artery, dripping from the wounds across his back to pool on the floor beneath his knees.

He shuts his eyes, one shuddering breath inhaled as he steels what brittle resolve he has, and he parts his lips for his master. He runs his tongue from the base of his shaft to its tip, slowly bobbing his head up and down his master’s length. From above him he hears a smug sigh, and he grabs his master hard around the backs of his thighs, gripping him in some nameless desperation, as shame and horror wage savage war within him.

With a growl his master thrusts his hips forward, pushing himself hard down his throat, and he gags, struggles to propel himself backwards, freeing his airway. But his master’s hands hold his head firm, fingers twined unyielding through his blonde hair, pressing him further down his length, until his nose almost touches the flat, lean muscles of his master’s abdomen. He chokes again, thin ribbons of saliva dripping from his lips, but his master ignores him, pushes him down, roughly forcing his shaft further down his servant’s throat with each shove. He moans, still struggling in his master’s grip, snatching what small gulps of air he can as he master withdraws slightly, only to slam violently forward again. Ripples of half-smothered laughter spread amongst the crowd, such abhorrent delight at their lieutenant’s humiliation, subjugated totally before their fell gaze. All eyes fix on his bleeding back, their master’s hands wound so tightly through his hair, standing triumphant as he continues to thrust savagely forward, ramming his shaft hard in brutal rhythm as his lieutenant writhes beneath him with each gagging impact; nothing but a toy to be used, to be abused.

Their master surveys the room with a grin; a snarl of hunger, of something dark and salacious and twisted, and his golden eyes gleam demonic. He chuckles deep and low in his throat, and like a dam burst under the pressure of the river his servants howl; jeering, raucous laughter exploding across the hall.

Their mockery rings shrill in his ears, and to his horror he feels hot tears begin to run down his cheeks, marks of his shame tracing silver lines across his aching jaw. And he wants to run, to run away and hide where no one can ever hurt him again, where no one would ever find him, he could curl up with his misery and they would all just leave him alone; but his master’s hands grip his skull, slamming himself roughly down his throat, muscles in his master’s abdomen clenching with each roll of his hips as he neared climax.

With one final thrust his master comes, hot seed spurting down his throat, dripping thick and white from his lips. One hand twisted in his hair, his master pushes him away, throws him discarded down on the marble floor. Pain racks through him as his back arcs, splattering droplets of fresh blood across the stones. He reaches one shaking hand to his lips, tears shining on his cheeks, retching as his master’s taste lingers across his tongue, and hears his efforts rewarded. Cackling, hysterical laughter stabs through him, every denizen of Angband rocked with evil mirth cracked across their ugly faces; ripping their pleasure from his failure, his humiliation. And for one horrible, crushing moment that seemed to last an eternity he drowns beneath the weight of his disgrace; spluttering like a gutted fish left forgotten and dying on the floor.

Slowly he staggers to his knees again, sitting small and defeated as the wave of brutal noise smashes unstoppable down around him. Hardly daring to look up at his master already composed and smirking from the iron throne, in a quavering voice barely audible amidst the ravening he whispers the fatal question:

“Why?”

“Why what, little one?”

“Why do you do this to me? Why do you make me do these things? Do you…do you hate me that much?”

“Hate you? Oh Mairon, no, nothing so spiteful.

I do it because I love you.”

And the words punch through him, stopping the breath in his lungs. His master doesn’t know, he doesn’t understand, ((you couldn’t ever understand)) not hate, not hate but love; cruel warped violent broken love bleeding out across the floor.

((That makes it so much worse.))