"That depends. He wasn't being very obedient." Saunders glances at me. "And his master isn't very happy with him right now. So, another day minimum. Then we might see how eager he is to serve his master again. If he can convince us, then we'll consider letting him return to normal service."
"It seems like a tough punishment," Skinner remarks.
"We are tough." Saunders shrugs. "I told you, Mr. Skinner, there are no limits here. No safe words. The subs like the danger as much as we do. They don't want us to be soft. They like to know that there are ultimately some very cruel sanctions."
"Supposing it went too far? Supposing someone died?" I hold my breath as Skinner asks this question, but Saunders doesn't seem to suspect anything.
"It doesn't." Saunders replies. "And none of our subs has died. That would defeat the object. We want them obedient, but warm—it’s no fun fucking a corpse, Mr. Skinner."
"Crudely put, Mr. Saunders," Skinner responds smoothly.
Saunders chuckles loudly, and his gaze lingers on me again.
"You know, a spell in the Zone might do wonders for his attitude," he murmurs. I can't help the incoherent choking sound that escapes from my throat.
"I wouldn't agree to that," Skinner says firmly, moving between me and Saunders.
"If he breaks certain rules, then you'd have no choice," Saunders informs us with what sounds like a note of anticipation in his voice. "We accept your authority over him to a certain extent, and as long as you keep him under control there shouldn't be a problem with you punishing him any way you see fit, and I trust you do see fit on occasions. He certainly needs it. However, if he were to break any serious community rules, then the matter would be out of your hands. As, indeed, would be the case if you were to break any such rules yourself."
"We understand." Skinner nods, exhaling a deep breath. "Don't we, Fox?" I'm surprised to feel his hand on the back of my neck, digging into my flesh savagely.
"Yes, sir," I mutter. If anything could keep me quiet and obedient, it's the thought of the Zone. I'm feeling pretty subdued as Saunders shows Skinner where he can find clothing suitable for a work out.
"You should take this opportunity to use the gym," Saunders states. "You must keep in good shape in order to succeed in the 'challenges' I mentioned earlier."
We both watch as Saunders leaves us, going in the direction of the pool. I don't even see Skinner move so I'm surprised to find myself thrown against the wall, his hands digging into my shoulders as he looks into my eyes.
"Don't do anything to upset them," he warns me urgently. "I mean it, Mulder. I'll whip your ass myself, if it'll stop you. Anything rather than let them get their sick hands on you." His fingers are rough and he's hurting me, but right at this moment I don't care. I'm not surprised he's lost control after what we witnessed. He's scared of standing by helplessly and having to watch them hurt me, and I'd feel the same way if our situations were reversed. His part of this deal is just as hard as mine. Harder, maybe. I just nod, shakily.
"It's all right. I'm not stupid," I tell him, staring into his eyes, trying to will him back into control of himself because he's right on the edge. "It's okay." I put my hands over his, and gently loosen them from my shoulders. He takes a deep breath and nods, then lets me go and runs an open palm over his bald head as if smoothing away imaginary hair.
"Okay. Yes. Okay," he mutters to himself, unbuttoning his shirt so savagely that he pulls a couple of buttons off. He hangs it up neatly—I think being neat is some reflex action for him. He just seems to hate mess and he's using these rituals of tidiness to keep himself sane right now. "Okay," he's still muttering as another top enters the changing room with a sub in tow. I watch in envy as the sub helps his master to change, then some sort of instinct takes over and I go to where Skinner is sitting, kneel in front of him and help him into his sneakers, putting them on his feet and tying up the laces. He lays a hand on my shoulder and touches me softly as I do this. It's an apology for his roughness, for losing control, and I want to stop what I'm doing and let him caress me all over, to reassure him that I know his anger wasn't directed at me but at them. Then the moment passes, and he gets up and I follow him into the gym.
Watching him exercise is more absorbing than I could ever have imagined. Forget tracking down alien bounty hunters and sparring with Krycek—this is far better. He's got all this negative energy and he's just bursting to take it out on something. Rowing machines, pec-decks, cross trainers, treadmills and ab crunchers all take the strain of his mood. I'm not required to do more than stand by with a towel, which he needs to use every few minutes to wipe the sweat off because he's going at such a furious pace. He works out in a grim-faced silence for fully two hours, doing hundreds of repetitions before he's finally worked off some of his anger. Then he grabs the towel from me, and informs me that he's going for a swim.
"Stay at the poolside—I want you in sight the whole time," he instructs and I nod, only too happy to oblige.
Watching him swim is good as well. I'm so absorbed in the sight of that bald head bludgeoning the water into submission as he butterflies through it, that I don't notice Matt until he's pressed up close behind me, one arm around my chest, the other insinuating itself down the front of my jeans.
"Don't move, brat," he whispers. I tense up and I'm on the verge of pushing him away when I remember the Zone and the expression on Skinner's face as he held me against the wall in the changing room. I try consciously to relax. Skinner has just turned and has his back to us as he powers down another length. If Matt wants to do anything, he's got less than forty seconds before Skinner makes his next turn.
"I'm going to fuck you one day," Matt whispers in my ear. "I don’t think your master has much between his legs. I think you're just panting for a real man to take you, hard and fast. Isn't that what you'd like, Fox?"
"Don't touch me," I say through gritted teeth. His hand is around my cock, stroking it. I close my eyes and try to concentrate on holding my temper in check.
"I'll win you," he whispers. "I'll show you what a real man feels like. I'll bend you over and fuck you, and then I'll beat you so hard you'll be begging me to touch you, not refusing me. Begging, brat. Begging. Anything to stop my whip tearing your flesh from your bones. If I'm feeling kind, I might even listen, but I don't often feel kind." He gives a staccato little laugh. I open my eyes and search the pool for Skinner, feeling sure that he'll have turned and seen what's happening, but there are too many people in the pool and I've lost sight of him. I fight down a rising sense of panic, itching to deck this guy, but knowing that the penalty for that is likely to be a lot worse than the few stripes across the shoulders I took last night.
"You see," Matt's breath is hot against my cheek, "I like someone who needs to be subdued. I like to take a sub with fire in his belly and show him who's boss. Sometimes you don't act like you've been trained at all, brat. You're just waiting for someone strong to take charge of you. Skinner isn't that guy. He doesn't hurt you enough—you're not scared of him enough. You'd be scared of me, though." He licks my ear and I shudder.
"If this is your idea of talking dirty and turning me on, you can forget it," I whisper, fixing my eyes pointedly on my cock, which is still limp despite his vigorous efforts at arousing me. "You wouldn't know where to begin with me, Matt."
"Sir." He squeezes viciously and I choke, only barely able to hold onto my temper and howling silently in pain. At that moment, Skinner emerges from the pool, shaking his body like a dog, soaking the subs at the poolside in droplets of water. Nobody complains. Matt removes his hand from my jeans and straightens up, smiling at Skinner in an unthreatening way as my boss comes over.
"I've been watching you. There's something not quite right about you two," Matt murmurs to me. "He wants to punish you, but he holds back—I've seen it. And you want to serve him, but you hold back as well, and you clearly aren't under control. If you were mine, you would be. I'd see to that." He pushes past Skinner and dives headfirst into the water, causing a huge splash and soaking us all again.
Skinner has heard the whole of that last part of our conversation and he looks grim as he starts to dry himself. I step up to him and take the towel out of his hands and he stiffens as I start to dry him.
"Time for a good show. He might be onto us," I whisper in his ear, wishing that I wasn't using this as an excuse to run my hands over his body. He nods and relaxes, allowing me to rub him dry, drawing admiring gazes from some of the other subs, who are devouring the sight of his naked body. None of the swimmers are wearing any trunks. I guess it's just not that sort of place, but I manage to keep my eyes from staring at my boss's impressive cock with too much salacious curiosity. I've never been attracted to a man before. At least I don't think so. Not like this. Is it just this place with its rules and the atmosphere of lust and sex? Or is it the way we've been thrown together in this dangerous, life-threatening situation? That can happen. People bond very quickly in these kinds of circumstances. Does he feel anything for me beyond his usual protective concern for one of his agents, combined with his desire to see justice done, to solve a difficult case, to uphold law and order and bring a murderer to trial?
I draw him away to the relaxation area and gesture to him to lie down on one of the massage tables. Three other men are also being massaged, and I watch as Nick dips his fingers in oil and rubs his hands along Saunders's meaty calves. Nick's eyes are half-closed and his tongue is sticking out between his lips in rapt concentration as he works. He's been at it for some time, judging by Saunders' smoothly glistening skin and the relaxed state of his muscles. Nick finishes and kneels obediently by the table.
"Does Master require anything else?" he asks in a soft, adoring voice. Saunders opens a lazy eye.
"No. Thank you, Nick. That was very nice." Nick sighs with pleasure and Saunders smiles, and turns over onto his back. "Here." He pulls Nick close, unbuttons the slave's jeans, slides his hand inside and finds Nick's bulging cock. He fondles it lazily, his eyes fixed on Nick's panting face, which is lost in an expression of rapture, his eyes tightly closed. Nick is quivering, on the verge of coming, when Saunders stops his caress. Nick's eyes fly open, the disappointment etched in them, stark and hungry and needing.
"Finish yourself off. I'll watch."
Saunders lies back, placing his hands behind his neck, and now Nick grins, a wicked, sly grin. He pushes his jeans down and delights in showing off his erect cock—not just to his master, but to all of us. And everyone in the room is watching, of course. It's impossible to tear your gaze away from the sight of Nick, his hand wrapped around his hard cock as he pumps himself dry, twisting his butt teasingly as he works, the sweat soaking into his dark hair, his tongue moistening his lips. Saunders has a wide grin of proud ownership on his face, and his eyes occasionally flicker around the room, enjoying the interest we are taking in his sub. A sub we can look at but can't touch—so we know what we're missing, so that we can see what Saunders gets to enjoy and keep to himself, safe from any other man. You can tell that turns Saunders on, and I'd lay bets that if any of the other tops in the room reached so much as a fingertip to Nick right now, Saunders would kill them with his bare hands. Finally, Nick comes, his back arched, feline and feral, and a collective sigh goes around the room before the subs return to their massaging activities.
Skinner is lying on his front on the massage table, so I have no idea whether Nick's little display aroused him at all, but it sure as hell aroused me. Most of all, I was aroused by the look that passed between master and slave. The rhythm between them, two people totally in sync with their desires and needs, each able to give the other exactly what he wants, fitting together like a hand and glove. And there was a moment when I envied them that.
With Nick's display in my mind, and Matt's words still ringing in my ears, I get some oil and rub it over my hands before placing them carefully on Skinner's back. He's not very relaxed, but I don't suppose I can blame him for that. Frankly, I've never been exactly famous for my massage technique, but then, my life has never depended on it before, and after what Matt said, I sense that something skilful is now required from me. And of course it's not like I don't want to run my hands all over his naked body. I've stopped having that internal struggle with myself.
I put my heart and soul into this massage; I want him to relax, I want to savor every last stroke that my hands can legitimately give to all that solid, muscular, honey-colored flesh. I want to worship him under the guise of this role. He won't know, he'll just think I'm doing my best to save both our asses, but that isn't the truth. My hands are firm on his flesh, caressing it, making love to it in a way I can't do in everyday life. I've never touched a man's body like this before and I'm not familiar with it, but it doesn't matter. What I lack in skill, I make up for in my sheer fascination for his flesh and my desire to atone in some small way for forcing him to risk his life by coming after me.
I'm not even aware of the rest of the room as I work—my whole being is centered on him, on smoothing away the tension in his neck and making his body relax under my hands. I start with his back and then move on to his arms, taking one in my hands and rubbing it smoothly, shaking it until it's loose, rotating it, and finally massaging each finger between my own, very slowly. I love having my own hands massaged and he loves it, too; I can tell by looking at the expression on his face. His eyes may be closed, but I can still sense what he likes and dislikes. I lose myself in his body, in the role, and time stops for me. I don't even think about it as I raise his fingers to my lips and kiss each one, and he doesn't open his eyes or object, or even stiffen. Then I move on up his arm, covering his body in tiny kisses, and he just lies there, accepting it as his due, as a master should. I kiss a line down his back, even over his ass, all the way down his legs to the soles of his feet, and he has my whole heart as I do this. It's the most erotic moment of my life and if he asks me about it later, I can hide behind the role, behind my concern of being found out, behind my fear of the Zone. And of course, he can do the same. Maybe it won't be a lie for him, as it is for me. Maybe.
I massage him all over, back and front, and finally dip my fingers in the oil one last time and massage his scalp. I've never touched a man's bald head in this way before, if at all. There is something more sexual about a naked skull than anything else, and my fingers burn with the ecstasy of this moment. I can almost feel the electricity that oozes from them as I smooth gentle lines across his head, finding bumps and dips I hadn't expected, like the topography of a landscape. He left his glasses behind in the changing room and he's lying on his back, his face calm and composed under my ministrations. I allow my fingers to gently brush his cheek and soothe down the side of his neck, watching him, fascinated by his proximity, his nakedness, by seeing him, someone I am so familiar with, in this unfamiliar way, stripped of our every day selves, of our working life; away from offices, and reports, and endless arguments about procedure, and 302s and lines that shouldn't be crossed. This is one line I want to cross. I know that now. I'm sure of it. Leaning forward, I press my lips against his forehead and kiss him softly, with all the certainty of this new found affection.
Then it's over. My fingers just stop and I sit back, noticing for the first time the silence that has fallen on the room. Looking up, I see that we have been watched, that my loving massage was the focus of as much attention as Nick jerking himself off. Saunders is lying on his stomach, gazing at me, transfixed, and Matt has come into the room and is leaning against the wall, a jealous frown on his face. Nick is smiling at me with a look of recognition, one sub to another, acknowledging and sharing a devotion to our respective masters. Skinner seems to notice the atmosphere, too, and his eyes snap open and he glances around.
"That was beautiful, Fox. Thank you," Saunders murmurs. "I think now we are able to see why your master tolerates your sometimes less than desirable behavior. You are a man to be envied, Mr. Skinner." He smiles that smile of his at Skinner, who clears his throat and grunts something incoherent. "I'm sure you'll show your appreciation of that fine display," Saunders adds.
"Of course," Skinner says. His eyes meet mine and we're both transfixed for a moment, remembering how Saunders rewarded Nick. I do not want Skinner to start jerking me off in public—the thought of it brings me out in a cold sweat—but he does something much more touching instead. He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the massage table and takes hold my face between his hands. Then he kisses my forehead, my nose, and finally, softly, my lips. It's not a sexual kiss—just a light touch on my mouth, nothing that we won't both be able to live with later, but all the same it sends streaks of lightning up and down my body, and my legs start to shake. Saunders seems satisfied with this, as does the rest of the room, and once again normal service is resumed.
Matt, for one, seems to think the whole tone of the place has become unforgivably mushy. He beckons to a sub and throws him over one of the massage tables before proceeding to ‘take’ him in the most perfunctory and brutal way, his eyes fixed on me the whole time with an expression of hate. It's not hard to imagine whom he's metaphorically fucking inside his head. Skinner gets up, wraps a towel around his waist, and draws me away. I'm relieved to follow him, leaving the sounds of Matt impaling his conquest behind me.
There are three other tops in the changing room when we return there. Skinner pulls on his briefs and pants, and reaches for his shirt, but I get there first.
"Master should allow me," I murmur, holding it open for him. Then I button it up slowly, and fasten his pants for him, and do up his belt. He submits to this, flushing slightly, and once again I kneel down and help him into his shoes, and his hand plays almost idly with my hair as I tie up his laces. Finally he's dressed and we walk along the corridors without speaking.
I’m so lost in the fantasy of serving him and adoring him that it feels almost as if he's punched me in the stomach when, upon reaching the sanctuary of our room and closing the door behind us, he turns to me and says:
"Mulder, we've got to get out of this place. And soon."
It's not that I don't want to get out of this madness, but that it seems like a rejection of the experience we just went through together. Maybe this shows on my face because he stops the pacing he's started and stares at me for a moment.
"You're in danger," he growls. "From Matt, from Saunders, from all of them. And we should find out whatever it is he's keeping in that room we can't go in. Somewhere along the line, we have a murderer to catch."
