Impact Event Ch. 03

The prisoner had no memory of falling asleep. It usually took him a long time. He usually had to quiet his mind by force of will before sleep was even possible. He had a lot to think about after the maid left and thought he might not sleep at all. Soon after, he was sucked down into it, taken there by something that was not himself. It was as though the thick blackness of the room had climbed inside his mind, consuming him with its nothingness. When he woke, one of those creatures was standing beside his bed. He had never seen a man so huge and this was one of two.

He could tell them apart only by a single mole on the neck. They were otherwise identical. He shuddered at the memory of being held by this one. It had taken his head in its hand and he'd thought it meant to crush his skull. They were the largest hands he'd ever come across in his life. The size of those hands could be of use to him. Big hands meant the the muscles in his fingers were big, too. Big muscles telegraphed more clearly. These creatures might be easier to read than most people, if he could just keep his wits about him and focus.

It stood over him, staring at the wall above him. Did it not see that he was awake?

"Hello?" He hadn't meant for it to come out as a question. He wanted it to sound friendly. The beast looked at him, bent over silently and unlocked him from the bed. The thing grabbed him around his rib cage, lifted him into the air and placed him on his feet. He felt like a child. Or a doll. It pushed his back to move him forward and he stumbled before walking. It didn't guide him. It only prodded him roughly if he walked too slowly or it wanted him to change direction. He was thrown to the ground by a couple of those shoves at which point it lifted him in the air again, placed him on his feet and gave him a startup shove.

He was getting the hang of maintaining the right pace, walking with his head angled back enough to see its arm move. If the arm moved, he would need to turn. He could anticipate it, act before it hit him in his back. He briefly wondered if he could outrun it but decided not to take that risk. He was in no shape to run. He was still weak from the prison and his scrotum was sore. At least he could walk. Last night, the pain buckled his knees and this thing ended up dragging him outside to the chariot, knocking his head on the corner at every turn.

He saw the arm come up in his periphery but there was nowhere to turn. He quickened his pace, thinking that was its intention but, instead of an impulse on his back, he felt those huge fingers wrap around his neck, pull him back and slam his face into the wall.

It held him against the wall as it opened a door, pulled him through it backwards and abruptly turned him to face the room. That woman was eating alone at a long, gilded table. The other beast stood behind her. She didn't look up. He was jerked down to her feet, until he was on his hands and knees, facing the floor, the beast on the floor next to him, holding him there by his neck. He concentrated on the hand on his neck, trying to sense any muscle twitches in the thumb. He heard silverware clink against china. He could see the countess' shoes, thick, tight leather laced up the side, and smell her perfume. It was flowery and fresh.

Her hand appeared just below his face, holding a cubic inch of some sort of meat. She left it long enough for him to see it and dropped it on the floor. He felt something in the monster's thumb and, a second later, it shoved his face down so his mouth was just over the piece of dead flesh. The thumb muscle twitched. A nanosecond later, his forehead smacked the marble floor, sending dizzying pain through his brain. His eyes had only refocused when he felt the thumb muscle again. He quickly took the meat in his mouth. The hand tensed a bit but did nothing else. He felt okay, like he had this monster down. He could read it. He felt the thumb muscle again but, before he could realize that he wasn't chewing, his head knocked into the floor again. He chewed, exaggerating the jaw movements for the thing to see, with his eyes closed against the pain in his head.

The whole thing was repeated over and over in silence. He tested his handle on the creature's tell. Waiting for that little muscle to move before responding to his morsels of food on the floor. He pushed it too far once, waited too long after the twitch before moving. He paid for that bravado. Or, to be more precise, his forehead payed for it.

He was beginning to feel sated when she spoke. "I had intended to introduce you to our cook. She's quite lovely. But I have decided against it. It would only bring back painful memories for you."

He thought about this as he chewed. "Memories of what?" he asked. Those talons of hers raked his back. He hissed through his teeth.

"Never address me without calling me mistress."

He thought about that. He was loathe to do it but there was no point in refusing. There was no point in doing anything. He needed some sort of plan. He needed some idea of how to get out of this. Then he could act towards that goal.

"Memories of what, Mistress," he asked.

"Memories of your mother."

"I never met the woman. I'm an orphan." He waited a few moments for her response before remembering. "Mistress."

"I don't believe I've read any novels about orphans."

He suppressed a smile. "I know of a good one, Mistress. It is very old, from long before The Ending War." The clink of her silverware had stopped. "You would like it. It has a cruel and beautiful woman in it. And a prisoner."

"Novels from before The Ending War are illegal." She said after a long silence.

"I hope you won't have me arrested, Mistress." He thought she would hurt him for this but another morsel of food appeared before him, dropped on the floor. Perhaps she had smiled. He longed to see her face, her reactions to his words. His only hope was to make her curious. He knew that even before that maiden had told him there would be a second slave, competition for his life.

He had seen things. He knew secrets. As long as she wanted to know where he'd been, what he'd learned, she would keep him alive.

His head was brought to the food. He took it in his mouth, straining his eyes sideways at the beast.

"I think I will introduce you to the cook, then." Her tone was different. It had been terse. Suddenly, it was light and airy. The clink of silverware began again. "I am quite literate and have no need of a scribe. We need to think of some other way for you to earn your scraps. You'll help the cook until we figure that out." She dropped another on the floor in front of him when she said 'scraps', as if to demonstrate what the word meant. "Do you have any other skills?"

The word 'magic' popped into his head and he almost laughed at how ridiculously dangerous such a revelation would be. He wanted to be outside. What skill did he have that required being outside? He tore through his mind for ideas but only found irrelevant, long ago memories about the outdoors. The way grass feels on bare feet. The sting of a fire ant. Being blinded by the midday sun.

"I'll think of something, then." She said and he knew he had missed his opportunity.

The sting of a fire ant? He suddenly remembered what he had thought about just before falling asleep. He could have enjoyed it, what she did to him in that room. Had he not been so terrified, it could have almost been nice. While she had his penis tied in that leather strap, stretched, and she pinched his scrotum between those pliers, the pain was unimaginable. But, after that, he'd felt so raw, so open, so needy. He had wanted to be in that maid's mouth again. He'd wanted more.

He shook the thought from his mind and ate in silence.

He hated this woman. He needed to focus on that.

When the meal ended, she stood and placed her foot beneath his face, which was lowered until the tip of his nose touched the leather. It wasn't difficult to figure out what was expected. He stuck his lips out and touched the leather with them. He didn't end with the small suck of a normal kiss. This was his secret victory. He pretended such a thing meant something.

Her skirt brushed his naked skin as she turned to leave.

The beast took him outside and washed him brusquely in a brick pond. The sun hurt his eyes but he forced them open. He didn't know how long he would be out, in the fresh air and immersive light. Hair still dripping, the beast dragged him through the castle and threw him into the kitchen. There was a woman in it, in the same cuffs he wore. Her hair was impressive: long, thick, curly, blonde. It hung in chunks like tendrils. He heard a bolt lock on the outside, tried the door and found it jammed shut. There was a second door in the same condition. He turned to the woman who was watching him placidly.

"Done?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I have information for you. Wanna hear it?"

He looked at her cuffs, then her face. "I don't know. Do I?"

"Her men never last. They break down completely. She breaks them." Her words sounded rehearsed.

"I was tortured in prison. I think I'll be okay." He looked around the kitchen, it was large with a huge, marble block in the middle, an island. They stood on either side of it.

"Yeah, maybe." She was rubbing the top of the island nervously. She wanted to warn him without insulting him and he was just making it difficult for her for no reason. Why shouldn't he let her?

"I'm sorry, please tell me what you want to tell me. I would like to know."

"It's just...she does it on purpose. She complains about it to anybody who'll listen but she makes it happen. She'll play with you..." she glanced furtively at his red spotted stomach. "She'll play with you and tell you she wants you to submit to her completely. But, if you do - if you completely submit, she'll get angry. It'll be worse for you than you can imagine."

"Why are you telling me this?" She glanced at him fearfully and he felt bad again. "I just...I mean...why are you telling me this? Why didn't you tell the others?"

"I tell all her toys. I tell every one. First thing." Her words were clipped. Now she was angry. That bothered him more than he could account for.

He squinted at her. "But they break, anyway."

"Nobody ever believes me." She looked at the counter while she drew little circles on it with her finger.

"I believe you." She looked up from the counter and he smiled inwardly. Her eyes looked black. Black eyes and blonde hair, it made her look a bit alien. "I can tell when people are being deceitful."

She looked at him incredulous. "Magic?"

"No. People tell you when they are lying."

"I see," she said blankly.

"Right there. You just lied. You told me you understood when you really didn't."

"That's different," she said.

"Not entirely. You didn't expect me to believe you. You didn't try to make me believe you. So it was easier. Anybody would have known it was a lie. But the same principle applies to all lies. There were certain things your body did that told me your words were untrue. Any time a person lies, their body does things to let you know the words aren't true. You just have to be able to see them."

She wasn't really listening. She was waiting for him to stop talking so she could say, "Don't tell the countess you can do that."

He cocked his head, spoke as much to himself as to her, "I can't read her. Maybe it's because she doesn't care if I believe her or not."

She went to him, put her hand lightly on his arm, "Don't tell her."

Her hand seemed to radiate more heat than normal. It warmed his whole body to have that one palm on his arm. Her breasts were right next to him, perfect teardrops asking to be kissed. It took all his strength not to touch them. This must be why people wear clothes even when it's hot, he thought. "I won't tell her."

She took a long suck of air through her nose as folded her lips into her mouth. "You have to clean the kitchen."

She showed him what to do. It was a spring cleaning. He had to clean anything that was far too labor intensive to clean daily. He spent the day straining to remove tar-like resin from a variety of surfaces and crevices. He didn't know what it was, some sort of grease that dried and blackened, perhaps. It was on everything and it didn't want to come off. He didn't mind. He was grateful to have an opportunity to think, now that he knew what his situation was.

This wasn't a prison at all. If he worked on it, there would probably be a way to escape. If he could get away from the handmen, he could get out. This place wasn't guarded at all. What then? The only thing to do then would be to find Francis. That wouldn't be possible. They would hunt him. If they found him, they would take no more chances. They would kill him and be done with it. And they would surely find him before he found Francis.

He didn't know how to hide. Francis knew that sort of thing. He might come for him so it would be best for him to stay in one place. Francis could find him easier, that way. Francis could get into this place without even having to think about how, he could kill these beasts and every other occupant of this castle. They would have time to run before anybody began chasing them. He would know how to get far away without a single villager seeing them. He knew about running and disappearing. He knew how to be swift and unseen. He knew about killing and dodging and dying.

What do I know? he thought. Words. Numbers. Parlor tricks.

He never understood why Francis was his friend. More than that, Francis actually seemed to admire him. It hoisted his ego but also made him anxious, afraid he'd be caught out. It was just a matter of time before Francis would realize there was nothing to admire. Then he would do what he was best at. He would disappear, leaving his erstwhile friend completely alone. Again.

A different alone, a worse alone, this time he would be alone with. He would be alone with ghosts, alone with memories, alone with somebody to miss.

If Francis didn't come, wouldn't it be better to stay in the castle? He would definitely be caught if he tried to run. If he stayed, perhaps it wouldn't be entirely bad. He would see the cook sometimes and she would be naked. That maid might suck on him again, ride him again. That would be nice. He'd be fed, too. He'd be fed in an odd way but fed is fed.

There would be pain but there is always pain. There would be pain out there alone, pain of a different nature.

Where does it hurt most, the doctor had asked.

I can only treat the wounds I see, the doctor had said.

He decided to stay in the castle for as long as he could take it. If Francis came that would be the best. If he didn't, that wouldn't be the worst.

The cook worked while he did. She made a few loaves of bread. While she kneaded the dough, the long, thin muscles in her forearms danced. That was just as erotic to him as her buttocks, firm and fuzzy, like a peach he wanted desperately to eat. She cut vegetables which she threw into a massive pot. Holding the knife in her right hand, she lifted the whole right side of her body, stood on the ball of her foot, and dropped the weight of it into the cut. It was a silly habit. The vegetables couldn't possibly offer enough resistance to warrant such force. Still, he couldn't stop watching her do it. It was mesmerizing.

She prepared three cold lunch plates which the monster, the one with the mole, took through the door. They continued working until Mole returned the plates and left once more. She suggested they eat what remained on those plates. Scraps.

They took their meal on the floor. She sat with her knees spread, each foot under the opposite knee. She was either unaware or unconcerned that her softest, pinkest flesh was on clear display. He wanted to know how she had come to be at this place but didn't ask. He didn't want any of this time spent telling sad stories. Instead, he asked, "What are those things?" She looked at him quizzically. "Those monsters. The one that brought the plate. And there's another."

She laughed at this. "They're people. They're just people, only bigger. They're really quite sweet, if you come to know them."

"No, they are not sweet."

"That's because you're afraid of them," she picked at her food, putting tiny bits in her mouth.

"Who wouldn't be?"

"That's just it. Imagine if all your life people are afraid of you. No matter what you do, people are afraid of you? Then just don't worry about what they feel about you. It'll be the same whatever you do. I bet they never do mean to you. It's only not being nice. It's only not caring what you feel. 'Cuz what you feel will be bad no matter what." She was right. Alone with him, they were rough but any pain they caused had a purpose. They were simply callous, not cruel.

"You were never afraid of them?"

"No. I knew them before the countess bought me. She was buddied with my old owner. I used to hang out with 'em when she came to visit. The three of us played hide and seek in the garden and the nobles took their drinks together. You should hear 'em laugh. The laugh's as big as they are. It's like the sky's opening up. Like rain's coming."

He thought about that. He tried to imagine it but got stuck on thinking of her running naked in a garden, breasts bouncing, buttocks pumping with each step. He came out of the thought and realized he was staring at her vagina, soft and inviting, warm folds of skin he could wrap himself in and hide from everything. He closed his eyes and concentrated on not becoming erect. He failed. He turned his head away, covered his penis with his hand, "I'm sorry." This would be another reason people wore clothes, he thought.

She laughed again, far more joyfully than before. She looked absolutely delighted. "You're a weird worm! Who apologizes for that? That's what it's supposed to do, silly!" She piled the plates and stood with them. "Back to work," she said, a smile taking her face hostage.

The rest of the day, she would occasionally break the silence with laughter again. He'd look up to see her smiling at him with a mixture of joy and incomprehension, clearly remembering his apology. He was sad to see the day end, the monster arrive to take him away. He felt at such ease in that room with her. It was her ease he felt. Ease with herself, her body, her situation. It filled the room. He could taste it in the air.

But it had to end. Mole came for him as she was plating the dinner.

The creature held him in the air, his arms mashed against his sides, and turned him at angles to look him over. He was covered in grease, grime and sweat. It took him outside and washed him for the second time that day. It was getting dark and this bath made him cold. As it scrubbed his skin, he thought about what the cook had told him. When it finished, he looked the thing in the eyes and said, "Thank you."

"You're very welcome." That was the first he had heard it speak. He hadn't expected articulate.

After his bath, the creature attached his wrist cuffs behind his back and brought him to the dining room where he was fed dinner the same way he had been fed breakfast. The only difference was that his hands were cuffed this second time. He couldn't support his own weight with his hand. Mole was holding his upper body up by his neck alone, making it difficult for him to swallow. She didn't speak to him at all while they ate. At the end of the meal, she pushed her chair back, lifted her skirt, spread her legs and said, "Lick it."

The thing had released his neck for this. Odd that he wasn't trusted to eat his food on his own but he was expected to do this without prodding. He walked his knees to her chair and stretched his neck between her legs. Of his many skills, this was one of the only ones Francis had shared with him. He delicately tickled her clitoris with the tip of his tongue. She laughed so he stopped, thinking he was doing it wrong. She pulled his head back down to her crotch. "My maiden told me she thought you were a virgin. I don't know where she got that idea." It seemed to take forever. His tongue ached and felt on the verge of cramping. He had to give his tongue a few surreptitious breaks, using his nose on her clitoris, hoping she couldn't tell the difference. When, at long last, she came, it was with a single, lightly voiced sigh. He recognized it from the times the creatures serviced her in her room. Her climaxes were always anti-climactic, like they barely happened. She lifted her leg, put her shoe on his chest, kicked him to the ground and stood.