I'm disturbed by some of the looks I'm getting—predatory and lustful. The flickering of the flames makes the atmosphere even more threatening, and I sense a mood of collective insanity descend on the Arena. Normal rules of behavior have ceased to apply; I'm in the sewer with the rats now, abandoned in the heat and sweat of the jungle, feeling like a sacrificial victim.
"The Arena is open for one hour," Saunders says, waving his arms around like a showman. "Each fight is to end only when one or other of the combatants surrenders. Let anyone challenge as they so desire."
He grins at me, and I glance around, holding my breath as I catch sight of Matt in the shadows, but he doesn't move.
"I'll challenge."
A slender, wiry man walks into the Arena and I release the breath I've been holding. The challenger is at least five inches shorter than Skinner and doesn't have his bulk. He doesn't stand a chance.
"Whom do you challenge?" Saunders asks.
"Skinner." Surprise, surprise.
"Can anyone be challenged?" I ask Nick. "I mean it's not just Skinner who has to fight, is it?"
"No," Nick whispers. "But to be honest, Fox, you've drawn attention to yourself and caused some interest. I think you'll find a fair amount of the challenges going to Skinner. And of course tonight's just the beginning. There's another session in the Arena scheduled for tomorrow night."
"How many..." I begin, but I'm interrupted by Saunders beckoning me forward. Another sub is also entering the arena. I cross to where Saunders is standing.
"Go and help your master prepare," he orders, and I notice the other sub is stripping the shirt off his master and rubbing him with some sort of oil.
"What's the oil for?" I ask Skinner, doing the same, following the other sub's lead.
"My guess is to make us slippery—harder to wrestle with. Plus, I suspect that making our bodies glisten adds yet another unnecessary touch of melodrama to these proceedings," he grunts sourly. "Shit, you can smell the fucking testosterone can't you?" Our preparations are being watched by hungry eyes that devour our every movement.
"How do you feel about that rules crap?" I whisper, taking a liberal handful of oil and smoothing it over his body until he's gleaming. Damn, but he looks good shiny.
"Fine. There weren't any rules in 'Nam, either," he replies with a shrug. "I can hit below the belt with the best of them."
He's starting to snarl and I'm surprised by the darkness in his eyes and the way he's breathing, until I realize he's psyching himself up for this. I hope he can come down easily afterwards. I don't relish the idea of calming some wild, rampaging, adrenaline-soaked bull in our room when this is over. Bull...hmm, the analogy is apt given the ritual associations of this cult. And of course you'll notice I have no doubts as to the fact he'll be successful this evening. We will be going back to our room together when this is over; I refuse to contemplate any other outcome. Skinner takes off his glasses and hands them to me.
"Can you see without them?" I ask.
"I can see better without them than I can with them smashed into my face."
"Good point." I slip them into my pocket. "Shoes aren't allowed." I notice the other sub divesting his master of his shoes as the man glowers at Skinner, flexing his arms theatrically. Skinner sighs, and shakes his head. I kneel down, undo his shoes and peel off his socks, while he engages in some he-man stuff with the other guy, both of them staring each other out.
"Shit, you don't suppose we have to fight butt naked, do you?" he asks. "That would be too sick even for these guys, wouldn't it? Please tell me it would, Fox."
"Fuck, I don't know. I wouldn't put anything past them. But, no, I think you might be spared that indignity." I glance at the other top. "He doesn't look as if he's taking off any more clothes."
"Thank God for that." He breathes in deeply.
"You won't have any problems with him. He's too small," I murmur, trying to bolster his ego. I make a silent vow to work on my mindless adoration skills later.
"Yeah—but he might be fast. I'm, uh, not really." He grimaces.
"But you've got amazing stamina—right?"
"Oh, yeah. Hell, I've put up with you for five years, haven't I?"
"That's my boy." I grin, and wipe the rest of the oil off onto my jeans. "Kick ass, boss."
With all the preparations over, I'm ordered back into the center of the Arena again. Saunders grabs my wrist, and before I know it, I'm wearing a leather cuff, which he fastens to the post at the top of the circle. I can feel my face flaming in anger and humiliation, but there's nothing I can do, and my situation is not any worse than Skinner's is right now. The other sub is fastened next to me, and he grins at me—a greeting I don't have the heart to return. God, I hope I don’t look as stupid as he does right now, but I suspect that I do.
My fellow captive is still grinning at me, as if to say, "Aren't we just too cute for words?" Yech. We're a couple of trussed up, half dressed babes, the spoils of war, on display, and to the victor goes all... Wait! To the victor goes all? What a revolting thought. I glance at my fellow captive with renewed interest. Does this mean that Skinner gets to keep him if he wins? Over my dead body. Still, I suppose it's only fair that if Skinner stands the chance of losing ‘possession’ of me, then his challenger has to put up something of equal value. It's so exquisitely, crazily sick that I want to laugh hysterically at it, and I would if the danger weren't so very real and immediate.
I try and think back to how it's possible that I'm standing here, half-naked and tied to a post, while my boss is having to fight for me. Whatever happened to aliens, UFOs, conspiracies and all the normal lunacies of my life? When did this new madness take their place? Is it me? Do I attract insanity like some sort of zhaiyuedu.com? Hey, it's Mulder, throw some crazy alien shit at him. Yeah, okay, now some genetic freaks. Yeah, that's the ticket, but it's getting boring. Hey, how about a wacko bunch of sado-masochistic fruitcakes who want to get a piece of his ass? Yeah—and while we're at it, throw in a steamy love session with his boss to really screw around with his head. Thanks, guys, whoever you are—you omnipotent, fate-fixing jokers are having some cosmic-sized fun at my expense. I owe you fuckers, big time.
"Let battle commence." Saunders smirks at his own crass cliché and withdraws from the Arena. I find that I have a ringside view of the proceedings, and hold my breath as Skinner and the other guy circle each other warily for a few moments. Then the other guy launches himself at Skinner, who side-steps him easily and lands a good body punch. Skinner is right, though—this guy is quick, and he's soon dancing around, stabbing these little punches at my boss and then darting back before Skinner can retaliate.
Skinner takes a few hits to his chest and face, and then starts to get really mad. The next time the guy comes towards him, Skinner feints a left, and then snarls and launches himself bodily at his challenger. He throws the guy to the floor, sits on him and pounds his fist into the man's face a couple of times. A satisfied gasp goes up from the assembled crowd as it becomes obvious that Skinner has won.
"Over," the other guy gasps, trying to wriggle out from under Skinner and failing. "Over!" He taps Skinner's thigh with one of his fingers. "Challenge over."
Skinner gets up triumphantly, and I find myself sagging against the pole in relief. Skinner and I exchange a wordless glance—the whole thing was wrapped up in less than four minutes. Quick work, boss.
Nick appears beside me, unties the other sub and leads him to one side before coming back to release me. Then Saunders moves to the center of the circle once more.
"Any other challenges?" he asks.
A tall, slender, black guy moves like a dangerous panther into the Arena. I'm instantly at Skinner's side bringing him some water, thinking the whole nightmare must be nearly over, but in fact it's only just begun. The black guy makes a show of examining the available slaves—I think it's all part of the psyching out process that these freaks indulge in—and then he strides up to Skinner and points.
"You," he hisses and the whole thing starts up all over again. Skinner gets oiled down, I get tied to a post with some other poor bastard, and then we watch as these two grown men slug it out over our half-naked, slave-boy bodies. Just another hard day at the office. Skinner wins this one, and the next one, but by this time I'm getting anxious.
"This isn't fucking fair," I complain to Nick. "Is he supposed to fight everyone here? It's not a challenge, it's a goddamn free for all."
"Like Aaron said, there are no rules." Nick shrugs, but he's frowning as well. "To be honest, Fox, we've never had a challenge evening like this one before. Usually the fighting is very mixed—Aaron once fought three people in one session before, but that was the highest number of challenges that one top has fought. I told you that you'd drawn attention to yourself. The tops all want to try you. You've got to admit that you've shown off. First, all the insubordination, then that sublime massage. I'm not surprised that they're itching to subdue you, and then be on the receiving end of your loving attention."
"This is my fault?" I stare at Nick open-mouthed.
"Well, it sure as hell isn't your master's fault, is it?" He grins at me. "Don't worry about him. He's fighting well. He can keep going."
"He's only goddamn human." I stride over to Skinner with some more water. He's got a bruised jaw, but luckily his eyes are unharmed. I can see some bruises starting on his ribs, but Nick's probably right; he can keep going—but for how long? I remember what Saunders said—something about the Challenge lasting an hour.
"We're about half way through," I tell Skinner. "Can you keep going for another half an hour?"
"Re-phrase that in a way that makes it sound like I have a choice," he grunts, wincing as I wash some blood out of the cut on the side of his face.
"Feeling in need of a pep talk, are we? Well, let's see. You've fought off half these guys already. You're bigger, fitter, smarter, stronger and a lot better looking."
"Yeah, all right." He shakes his head wryly.
"And I bet you've got more packed away where it counts as well," I continue.
"Hmmm—this flattery is working." He breaks into a grin. I slap some more oil onto his body, and return to the post once more with a heavy sigh.
Two more fights take us to nearly five to midnight. I cross my fingers, hoping they'll end it there. Skinner is breathing heavily, and I'm not sure he can take any more. A mood of menace has fallen over the Arena. Skinner is like a bloodied bull, weak, and open to attack. Nobody could have fought better or longer, but he's vulnerable right now. None of these guys are exactly useless with their fists, either—he's taken some heavy body blows. I can feel the way the pack is baying for his blood, wanting to see him defeated, wanting to see me slung into the sand and made to submit, to be visibly subdued, to be punished for my attitude, my arrogance and my temper. The torches have burned down, making the room darker and more threatening than ever. I can barely see the next challenger as he walks into the center of the Arena and challenges Skinner.
