                                              Chapter seven


The Mercy of The Pack


                                                                                 ‘It’s the worst thing in the world.’
                                                                                                          George Orwell 1984





 What finally wakes him a few hours later, is the smell of food. It’s been so long since he’s eaten anything solid, the very smell of it is enough to bring him awake almost instantly.

Peragrine opens his eyes to see the captain standing next to his bunk, he has a large covered tray in one hand and a folding chair in the other. He is dressed in his street armor again, his helmet hanging from a clip on his belt.

 "Good rest?" The captain asks, and then laughs when Peragrine's stomach gives a loud rumble.

 "Yes, actually it was. How long was I out?" Peragrine yawns and stretches, then hops up and takes the folding chair from the captain, setting it up for him opposite the bunk.

 "Thank you. You slept for about five hours, my shift is over." Captain Darcy settles himself into the chair and hands Peragrine the covered tray. "First you eat, then I'd like to do a little quid pro quo with you, okay?"

 Peragrine looks at him sharply. "What's that?" He asks suspiciously.

 "Just questions and answers in equal portion, I'm not propositioning you." The captain sounds amused and Peragrine's cheeks flame as he remembers the last thing the captain had said to him as he had left.

 Furious with himself and with the captain, he swears softly under his breath.

 "What was that?" Johan didn't like the sound of that mumble, Peragrine remains silent. "Answer me, what did you just say?" His voice becoming cold and deadly, he is not a man one refuses easily, or safely.

 Peragrine looks up, his eyes watery lilac-blue, glittering with misery, lips compressed pinkish white, he speaks with the throbbing tones of hopelessness. "I said, I'm not a whore! I'm not. I don't know what’s happening to me." He is suddenly crying softly, the words rushing out in a breathy whisper.

 "Everyone keeps wanting me to do things and I just can't stop myself. Oh god, what is this? What is happening to me, why can't I stop myself. I'm not like them, I don't want to be like that, I don't." His voice breaks and he bends over, pressing his forehead to the domed lid of the tray that he holds white-knuckled in his lap.

 His voice is barely audible as he continues on, forehead pressed hard to the smooth warm metal. "I was never like this before, Never! I don't even like people to hug me. I hate it, it makes me feel strange, out of control. I'm just a kid, just like anybody else, I'm just a normal kid! I hate this, I hate wanting it, needing it. I wish I was dead!"

 "Bullshit!" The captain's voice is sharp as a whiplash, and he is satisfied to see Peragrine's shoulders twitch sharply as he says it, it means the boy is listening "It's bullshit and you know it.  I already know you’re smarter than that. You always wanted this, you always knew you were different, you just never had a name or a face for it until you came of age."

 Johan reaches forward and carefully unwinds Peragrine's clenched fingers from the handles of the tray, and placing the tray across the toilet seat. “Isn’t that just a little closer to the truth? Hmm?”

 "You have a choice to make, is it going to control you or are you going to take charge and learn to control it." The captain's hands are ungloved and he leans forward, sliding his fingers through Peragrine's hair, pressing the calloused tips into the planes and contours of the boy's scalp.

 He is surprised at the clinging silken texture of the boy's hair, it seems to creep and twine among his fingers with a will of its own. 

 The boy is completely folded over now, head pressed hard against his knees, arms completely wrapped around his thighs as he perches on the edge of the bunk.

 Johan's fingers find the tender nape of his neck, pressing and kneading the knotted muscles there.

 "All those poor people dead, all my fault. How am I supposed to live with that, how am I supposed to live with this monster inside of me?" Peragrine finds himself suddenly unable to go farther, unable to speak more of the terrible wolf thing inside of him.

 His throat closes up tight and he is suddenly fighting to breathe, throwing himself upright, jerking away from the kindness of the captain's quiet hands and clawing at his throat, eyes rolling in alarm.

 Seeing the boy's eyes suddenly go round with fright and realizing that he is in a full blown panic attack and choking, Johan does the first thing that comes to mind, he gathers him into his arms and kisses him.

 It is a hard bruising kiss, full of fury and demand, drawing even more of the air from his lungs, then suddenly filling them, forcing him to accept the captain's warm breath.

 And with a kind of wonder, Peragrine's hands slowly creep upward, tracing the neckline of the captain's heavy breastplate, finding the corded muscles of his throat, touching and stroking the scarred plain of his scalp, his body slowly melting to find and hold to the curves of the man's powerful, armor clad body.  

 Peragrine's tongue darts lightly forward, teasing and tasting the man's mouth, his tongue, his teeth. Inhaling the essence of him, filling his lungs with the offered strength.

 Johan's hands roam freely, exploring the gently curving landscape of Peragrine's body, finding limpid sweetness wherever they go.

 The boy's breath is like incense, his hair and skin smell of musk and wildflowers, hidden copses of cool moss and wild violets, so easy to lose himself in.

 The soft pads of his fingers, stroking and touching Johan’s temples, are like a sensual benediction, a physical mingling with something like godhead. It is simply too much for the man  to take.

 With a heavy groan, Johan thrusts the boy away from him, pushing him back on the bunk. Peragrine lands with a startled squawk, staring at the captain.

 Darcy feels confused, not by what he’s done, but by his own sudden reaction to it. It’s obvious to him that the boy had wanted it as much as he did, so why had he pushed him away?

 Peragrine was thinking much the same thoughts. What was the man afraid of? This sex thing is frightening and exciting and so terribly, terribly confusing, so damned complicated.

 "You know, you did kiss me first. Was my response wrong, would you prefer I struggled?" Peragrine’s voice is low, husky, his eyes calm violet pools of shadow, languid with passion, his lips and cheeks flushed dusky pink, the former panic has evaporated in the face of this new hungry heat.

 He wants very much to feel those hard hands moving on him again, they felt safe and strong and good on his body, so very, very, good.

 Johan’d had no intention of letting something like that happen, and God-Damn it, he'd gone ahead and done it anyway. The boy was like some fabulous drug, easy to get addicted to, dangerously easy, he has to keep his mind on the mission.

 "I can't have this conversation right now." He growls under his breath, and stops pacing, stops stone still, looking down at the boy, his cold gray eyes glittering, piercing into Peragrine's very heart, ignoring the invitation he finds in the boy's calm eyes. "Eat your dinner, I'll come back in an hour or so for the tray. We'll either talk then or in the morning. I just don't want to talk about this right now. I need to think."

 Peragrine meets his gaze steadily. "Alright." The simplicity of his answer seems to please the captain who nods briefly and sweeps out, the door automatically opening for him.

 Staring at the closed panel of the door, Peragrine sighs, certainty coming with a sudden rush like pre-cognition, he knows in his heart that the captain will kiss him again.

 A bond has been forged between them, what it will lead to he isn't at all sure, but he knows that there is much unfinished business between them, much to do and much say.

 Dinner, it turns out, consists of two large plastic squeeze bottles of pear nectar, his favorite, a trio of thick sandwiches, piled with meat and cheese and a hunk of carrot cake the size of his whole hand spread out.

 With a moan of pleasure he wolfs down the first two sandwiches in almost no time flat, devouring them in huge half chewed mouthfuls, washed down with the juice.

 The natural result of this gluttony, all this food forced into a stomach vastly shrunken by days spent on an intravenous diet, is that he is immediately, violently sick.

 He only barely makes it to the toilet in time, clinging to the seat for support as he retches up the contents of his stomach. 

When finally he feels he has control of himself again, he stands shakily up and takes off his shirt and sweater, then washes his face and wets his hair in the little sink that is above the toilet, rinsing his mouth again and again until he feels somewhat clean.

 "Self control, that's what the man said, you can control it or be controlled. Fuck, what a life." Peragrine rarely speaks aloud to himself, disliking his thoughts to be overheard by others, but this seems as good a time to indulge himself as any. And frankly, he’s gotten to a point in which he really doesn't care, at least for now. "He wants you, you want him, but he can't handle it. Well then it's really his problem, isn't it?" He sighs, running his slender fingers through damp, tangled curls.

  "He's right you know, you are acting like a slut, all you can think about is fucking him. You should be thanking your lucky stars, you’re not gonna die. No date with the happy hosts of the execution channel." Peragrine shudders thinking about all the possible deaths that might have awaited him on that dreadful network.

 Executions are set up like game shows, where the contestant's compete for quick merciful deaths. Strangulation or beheading, fast relatively painless ways to go, rather than roasting or acid or being torn to pieces by animals, or any of a myriad of other creative barbarities.

 The worst show is called 'The Huntsman’, it is particularly cruel in that it holds the illusion of freedom. The 'contestant' is released into unfamiliar country side and given a five minute head start, after which a pack of tan and white boar-hounds is released, then the huntsmen on their horses. If the runner can elude them for a full hour, his death sentence is commuted to life on a planetary penal colony, Peragrine has only seen it happen once or twice.

 It is a show that held an awful fascination for him for a long time, every time he saw it he felt as if it were him that was being chased, he hated it but couldn't seem to stop watching. Praying desperately that the runner would make it this time, watching helplessly as he or she was pulled down by the hounds and finished off by the lead huntsman, usually with a knife thrust to the heart.

 One of the only times his father has ever really struck him was about six months ago, when he came home early and caught Peragrine watching that show, he'd flown into a rage, breaking the television and slapping Peragrine over and over, screaming at him that he must not ever watch that again, never. Telling him he was better that that, he had to be better than that.

 Confused and badly frightened by his father's behavior, he had promised to obey and had not watched the show again, he's kept that promise despite the sore temptation to break it. 

 Now here he is, thanking his lucky stars not to be the starring attraction in that fatal program.

 After a little while of quietness, Peragrine's stomach re-asserts its insistent need to be filled. So acting with care and taking only small bites and tiny sips, he manages to eat the last sandwich, about half of the carrot-cake and all of the other bottle of pear nectar without any further incidence of nausea. He was just considering going back to sleep when the door slides open.

  To his disappointment it is only a trustee in prison gray, come to collect his tray. "Will captain Darcy be coming by soon?" Peragrine asks as the man loads the tray onto his cart. 

"I don't know anything about that." The man's tone is brusque, 'don't bother me with your stupid questions' it says, and the trustee leaves without another word. Peragrine assumes that the captain must have decided that he doesn't want to deal with him. And for some reason, this thought wounds him deeply.

 A few minutes later the lights snap off, plunging the little cell into a total darkness that is broken only by a dim circle of light which rings the toilet seat. “The better to hit the target with my dear.” he murmurs and laughs softly, but the laugh sounds brittle in the little plastic jail cell.

 Feeling around the head of the bunk, he locates his folded shirt and sweater, he doesn't want to muss them up by sleeping in them, so he decides to use them for a pillow instead. 

 Slipping off the wonderfully soft kidskin shoes and rolling his socks into little balls, he pushes them into the toes of his shoes and then lying on his back with his fingers laced behind his head, Peragrine prepares himself to sleep until they wake him for the transport. And then he is dreaming.

 He dreams of horses, thousands upon thousands of them. The herd is so vast, that he cannot see the edges of it, they are all running and he must run with them if he is not to be trampled.

 He cannot see where they are going or what they are running from, he only knows that they are afraid and that he fears with them.

 Every beast of the herd is black or white or some shade of mottled gray, the grass they run upon is hoarfrost white, the ground itself is black and frozen hard as iron.

 They are huge beasts, sleek with subcutaneous fat and thick with powerfull muscle, their shining hooves seeming at war with the earth upon which they tread, tearing great gouges in the frozen ground as they run.

 He runs with the horses as he could never run in waking life, his legs devour the ground in long swimming strides, his lungs pumping like effortless bellows, filling him with oxygen. Somewhere behind he can hear horses screaming.

 In the dim distance he can just make out a rising chorus of howls, the belling cries of hounds, the cries of hounds and the horns of huntsmen.

 Spurred on by the wild howls, the horses redouble their efforts and fear lends flight to their thundering hooves.

 Peragrine finds that he is falling further and further back in the herd, the beasts are beginning to leave him behind.

 The hound's cries grow closer by the moment, but try as he might he cannot seem to turn his head to see them.

 The further back in the herd he falls, the more the ground is torn and rutted, and the harder it becomes to run with the herd at all.

 Directly behind him a horse shrieks in agony and terror as it is caught and dragged down, the snarls and yelps of hounds drowning its equine screams as Peragrine runs on.

 With a sudden creeping horror Peragrine feels steamy blasts of hot breath on the back of his calves. Skin prickling with terror he redoubles his efforts and leaps ahead, but soon the hot breath is there again.

 His lungs are burning now, laboring for every breath he takes and the hounds grow closer with every step, with every gasping breath.

 The pain, when it comes, is that strange hollow awfulness which one only experiences in dreams, but for all of that it is no less terrible.

 The hounds are upon him, teeth sunk deep into his arms and legs, he goes flailing to the ground. All he can see is the heaving silver gray shoulder of the beast which has his shoulder in its shining fangs.

 The hounds no longer tear at him, they simply hold him taut in their great ivory fanged maws.

 He can hear new horses approaching now, these ones come with the ring and jingle of bridle and saddle. There is a leathery creak and a thud as someone dismounts, strong hands take hold of his shoulders as the hounds are whipped away by others.

 "This one will make a fine feast for the Master." someone says.

 He is lifted and flipped onto his back, turned to face the one who has hold of him, it is his father, it is Gideon who raised him, who now raises him up.

 His father's face is cold and distant as the stars, he is cloaked in deepest black, his features a white mask of ice, his eyes dead-cold and soulless, empty of either warmth or pity.

  "Father!" He cries. "Father, help me, it's me, it's Peragrine!" His cries go unheard as his father unsheathes a gleaming blade of Damascene steel, it is a hunting knife he has seen on the mantel of his father's forbidden study many times, impressed by its great beauty he had never considered the reality of its purpose.

 "Remember lads, you start at the breastbone, working outward from there." The blade lowers, gleaming, mellow light flashing from its hungry razor edge.

 "No Father! Please don't do this! Don't you know me, I'm your child, you raised me. " Still the blade descends, Peragrine screams as his father makes the first long ripping cut that begins the process of skinning and gutting.

 Peragrine screams as a hand presses him to the bunk in the blackness of his cell, it takes him the longest moment to realize that he is awake now, that what went before was only a terrible dream, this is real.

 The hand is broad and warm and hairy, pressing him down against the bunk, holding him still. "Captain Darcy? Is that you Sir?" But he knows that this is wrong even as he asks.

 "No boy, not the captain. It's just me, your old friend Detective Baylor." There is a rumble of white toothed laughter. "I kind of got the idea you might be lonely, that was a hell of a dream you were having there. You wanna' tell me about it? Hmmm?" The detective sounds anything but concerned and Peragrine finds that he is suddenly shivering.

 The hand lifts from his chest and a match is struck, illuminating the blunt wrinkled muzzle of the barchuk detective, his eyes are shining rings of yellow-gold in the match-light, the pupils very small.

 "Half-undressed already, you must have known I was coming. Heh, heh, heh, very thoughtful." The cigar he lights is strong and sweet smelling, expensive. He puffs on it for a moment then drops his hand back onto the naked expanse of Peragrine's chest, the tips of his sharply curving claws teasing the boy’s small pink nipples into reddened  hardness.

 "Not feeling very talkative, huh? That's okay by me, we didn't really come here to talk anyway." He laughs again and this time there are others who laugh in the darkness as well.

 Peragrine shivers and moans at the sound. "Please, please don't do this." His voice is a ragged whisper, all of its force is bled away by fear. "Please Detective Baylor, I don't want this."

 There is more laughter from the black shadows of the little cell. "Begs real pretty, don't he?" Someone says from the darkness.

 "Oh yeah." Baylor answers, "He's gonna be begging real sweet before were finished, somebody light a torch, I wanna' see what I'm fucking."

 One of the others clicks on a flashlight and sets it up on the floor in the corner. It fills the small cell with a brooding amber light, throwing crazy shadows across the walls, revealing the gathered assembly of participants, clustered around the edge of the bunk. 

 The tiny cell is positively crowded with hot eyed men, counting Baylor, there are seven in all, mostly human, but not all.

 There is Baylor, and there is another, a huge brooding figure hidden in the ambered shadows, eyes gleaming a muddy yellow in the dim light. Though they are young and old, light skinned and dark, human and otherwise, their hard bodies and identical expressions of saturnine lust make them seem as brothers.

 With the cell lit he is fully exposed to their hungry stares, and they laugh and whistle appreciatively as he tries to cover his naked chest with his hands, desperately wishing this too were a dream he could wake from.

They are out of their armor, dressed in heavy black coveralls, close fitting, covered with pockets and pouches, most have white t-shirt collars visible at their throats, Baylor however, is still in the same rumpled, shapeless, panama suit.

 One of them, a hard looking man in his mid-fifties, comes around and sits at the head of the bunk, gently lifting Peragrine's head and removing the folded shirt and sweater, and in a strangely thoughtful gesture, putting them on the floor under the bunk where they'll be out of the way. 

  “Damn Jack, you weren’t kidding when you said he was pretty!” The man says, stroking Peragrine’s face with his fingertips, his hand is coarse with calluses, the soft of scrape of them on his skin making him shiver. “Little boy, you are a very sweet piece of work, this is going to be really nice.”

 Peragrine feels paralyzed by the war that is now going on in his body and mind. The sane part of him is crying with cold outrage at what these men propose, but another part of him, a sly and whispering part, smiles slowly and says, why not?

 This newborn part of him glories in these attentions, welcomes them, craves them like food and air. This part of him is hungrily determined to be fed no matter how the very idea of being touched by them sickens him.

 The whispering thing in his head that has grown louder and louder as since he first entered adolescence, is becoming more and more difficult to ignore.

 He knows that there is nothing he can do to prevent this, these men are determined to have at him and they will, he can only hope they will not leave him too badly injured when they're finished.

 A tall slender man of thirty or so with a blonde brush-cut, reaches down and begins unfastening Peragrine's pants, and still frozen with indecision, he lies passive as the man takes hold of both underwear and pants and slides them right off of him.

 The sudden feeling of his naked bottom smacking down on the cool yielding plastic of the bunk wakes Peragrine up like a splash of ice-water, and he decides to fight. Riding, fencing, and swimming have lent the boy's slender frame a wiry strength that is surprising for his small size.

 He strikes out without making a sound, just gathering his legs swiftly to his narrow chest and lashing out at the man who’s just removed his trousers. Catching him in that sensitive place just below the ribcage, feeling his stomach muscles collapse inward as the air rushes from the man's lungs and he folds up around Peragrine's bare feet, then is thrust away gasping.

 At the same time, Peragrine twists his torso sharply away from Baylor's hand, his teeth bared as he pushes himself into a crouch. Knowing it is futile to attack the barchuk barehanded, he throws himself to his left, at the older man who is sitting at the head of the bunk.

 They both tumble to the floor, Peragrine's hands sliding across the surface of the man's coverall, seeking anything he might wrench away and use as a weapon. He has a flashlight through a loop at his waist, iron-clad, long, slender and very heavy.

 In Peragrine’s small hands it is a worthy club. The boy is on his feet in a moment, backing toward the door, the flashlight held ready to strike. 

 Without a word spoken between them, they come at him all at once, some high and some low, and he strikes out blindly but with good effect.

 He gets in at least a dozen solid blows, the heavy steel torch whirling about in his hands like a baton. He cracks knuckles and knees with equal effect in holding them at bay, he even manages to smash the flashlight solidly into the side of someone’s head before it’s finally wrenched from his hands.

 Stark naked, and left with only his hands and feet for weapons, he fights as hard and viciously as he possibly can, and it is a valiant effort, the element of surprise had given him some slight advantage, but it is a small cramped cell and these are fighting men, soldiers case-hardened by the violent lives they lead.

 Within a moment he is pinned to the floor, knees crushing into his shoulders, thighs and spine. All of them are breathing hard, most of them are scratched and bruised. The man he kicked in the solar-plexus, still gagging and gasping on the floor.

 "Oh, you sweet little fucker, if you wanted to dance, you should have said so. I do like a little struggle in my meat." The chuk's face is even more wolfish now, his grin full of sabers, his lip badly split where Peragrine caught him in the mouth with the heavy head of the flashlight, teeth full of his own blood.

 With a smooth and deliberate gesture he lifts Peragrine from the floor by his skinny white arm and lashes out, catching him full across the mouth open palmed, sending him flying onto the bunk. The boy’s mouth is suddenly full of blood, his vision blurred and full of bright sparks from the heavy blow, he can only lie groaning there as the chuk advances on him.

 He looks very like TheWolf just this moment, but in truth not so frightening and in some way, not nearly so beautiful, but he is at least a living thing, living flesh, living blood.

 "That was genuinely fun, but I don't think we want to be worrying about you getting out of line again, now do we?" Baylor looks around at his companions and is answered with an affirmative growl from the waiting circle.

 It's the hounds again, the thought races through Peragrine's mind. I'm at the mercy of the pack, at the mercy of those who know no mercy at all.

 Baylor strips off his shirt and jacket, unlacing his belt from the loops in his trousers and pressing the steel buckle into his palm, wrapping the thick leather strap several times around his hand. “Time to warm you up a little my pretty friend, a nice tenderizing to improve your attitude some.”

 “Please. Please don’t hit me any more, I’ll be good.” Peragrine has pushed himself back against the wall, blood trickling from the corner of his split lip, eyes huge with terror as he stares at the coiled belt in Baylor’s hand. “I promise I’ll do what you want me to.”

 “Too late sweetcheeks, you drew first blood, not us.” Baylor grins evilly through his brightly bloodied teeth. “And personally, I want to thank you for that, cause now we get to play the game my way.”

 There is another soft run of laughter among the assembly, they are enjoying this greatly. That little scuffle was actually a good deal of fun.

 It would have been disappointing for all of them if the boy had simply submitted like a rag doll. Though they hadn’t anticipated such a sudden and spirited fight, but the excitement of the struggle has their blood up now, whetting their appetites for what lies ahead. 

 Eyes bright with pleading desperation, Peragrine pushes himself up onto his knees, shakily forcing himself to move closer to the wolfish detective, one hand upraised in supplication.

 “Please Sir, please, I promise you. I can be very nice if you’ll just let me.” His small white hand comes to rest very lightly upon the silky furred chest of the barchuk. “Let me be good for you, please, just don’t hurt me anymore.”

  “Hhhm, very tempting.” Baylor murmurs as the boy’s fingers rise to caress his heavy jaw, feeling Peragrine flinch and shiver as he lets the belt fall softly against the boy’s thigh.  “Why don’t you give me a little kiss and show me just how nice you can be.” He says, slipping his free hand around Peragrine’s lily slender waist and pulling him close.

 The boy’s arms rise slowly to encircle Baylor’s thickly furred neck, pressing his small pink mouth shakily against the detective’s silken muzzle. “I c,c,can be very nice, very good.” He breathes huskily, moving his mouth nervously against Baylor’s lips, he’s never imagined kissing such a being before and he is unsure how to go about it.

 Peragrine starts slightly as he feels the lycanthrope’s form begin shifting. Jack’s pointed muzzle is changing, becoming flatter and broader to accommodate the act of kissing without accidentally biting a chunk out of the boy’s soft mouth. The sharp claws of his hands withdrawing somewhat so that he may grip Peragrine’s soft flesh without slicing into him.

 And though his muzzle is no less furry nor stiff whiskered, he is now able to fully claim the boy’s small sweet mouth with his own and he does so with aggressive abandon. Thrusting his tongue into Peragrine’s mouth, biting his tender lips with merciless hunger until they bleed, growling softly as he suckles the blood from the boy’s wounded mouth.

 Peragrine has never experienced anything like this breathless terrified pleasure, it is like being possessed by a force of nature. He can feel the belt buckle digging into the back of his scalp as Baylor grabs a handful of hair, dragging his head painfully far back, the thick leather strap of the belt dangling free against his spine. An indelicate reminder of what he is trying to avoid.

 The chuk’s free hand is busy exploring the rounds of his buttocks, gripping and grasping his tender flesh with bruising firmness, making him gasp and moan.

 He feels himself quickly stiffen against the chuk’s hairy belly as a finger finds the small crinkle of his bottom, pressing inward, testing the hot tightness of him, making him shudder in pain as it pushes dryly in. “Gods, you’re as hot as a furnace!” Baylor hisses, shoving his finger deeper into the boy’s tight cavity, deeper into the near scalding heat of him.

 “You gonna’ be good for me? You gonna’ make me feel good, hmm?” Baylor growls against his throat, raking his razored teeth lightly across the boy’s delicate skin, almost but not quite drawing blood. 

 “Yes.” Peragrine hisses softly, his senses swimming with sensation as he unconsciously pushes back against the invading digit. “Yes, I’ll be good, I promise.”

 “Tell me you want it, tell me you want to be good for me.” The chuk murmurs into the boy’s mouth, pushing his middle finger deeper into the tightness of the boy and slowly twisting it about, loosening him up. “Make me believe it.”

 “I w, want it, I want to be good for you.” Peragrine shivers as he says it, disgusted with himself, not for having to say it, but for almost meaning it.

 “Tell me you want to be fucked, say ‘I want you to fuck me any way you want to’.” Baylor tells him, grinding his swollen bulge against the boy’s soft belly.

 “Please don’t make me say that.” He begs softly, crying out as the chuk tightens his grip on Peragrine’s scalp, making his eyes water in pain.

 “Say it!” Baylor snarls into his face, his silky muzzle wrinkling back to bare his ivory fangs. “Now, and make it good!” He hisses, hooking his finger deep into the boy’s bottom, pulling him upward until his knees can barely touch the bunk.

 “I want you to fuck me!’ The boy cries, gasping in pain, yet suddenly more achingly erect than he has ever been. “I want to feel you inside of me, fucking me any way you want to.”

 “Nice, very nice. Now say ‘I’m just a little whore-slut and I want you to fuck me as hard as you can, please Jack, please fuck me hard.” Baylor whispers mockingly into his ear, nipping his throat with razor fangs.

 “I’m not a whore.” Peragrine sobs brokenly. “Please, I’m not a whore, I’m not.”

 “If you’re not a little whore.” Baylor runs his tongue along the boy’s delicate jaw, licking away the freshet of salty tears he finds there, and whispering against his ear. “Then why are you still fucking yourself back against my hand?”

 With a sudden moan of horror, Peragrine realizes that he has been doing just that. This whole time, he’s been pressing himself back against the invading digit with lubricious hunger, grinding against Baylor’s hand in a fog of shameless, unthinking passion. It was true, everything the captain had said, everything that Baylor said, all of it.

 “Now say what I told you like a good little slut and Daddy will make you feel real good.” Baylor murmurs against his throat, pressing a second finger into him alongside the first, making him moan soft and hopelessly. “Say ‘fuck me, Daddy Jack’.”

 “Fuck me, just please fuck me.” Peragrine sobs into his chest. “Please just do whatever you want to me and get it over with.”

 “Say ‘Fuck me, Daddy Jack.” The chuk insists, running his muzzle against the silk of the boy’s pale curls. “Tell me where you want me to fuck you. Tell me you want me to fuck you in your little boy-pussy.”

 Shuddering in defeat, the boy finally complies. “Fuck me Daddy Jack, please fuck me. I’m nothing but a whore and I need so bad for you to fuck me hard.” He cries, shaking with self-disgust and aching, growing need.

 Hate himself for this he may, but all he can really concentrate on now is the painful, delicious grinding of the fingers inside of him, stretching him open, making him want to find out what it would be like to take more.

 “Fuck me in my mouth and my b, b, boy-pussy, please Daddy Jack, please fuck me as hard as you can.” The boy moans, his voice gone low and husky, breathy with desire. “I want you Jack. I need this. I want your cock inside of me, I want to taste you in my mouth.”

 Then Baylor’s mouth is on his again, invading him, staking claim with lips and tongue and teeth, drawing the very breath from his lungs as he thrusts his thick fingers in and out of him.

 Peragrine’s body grows fever hot against him, the boy kissing him back with equal passion, moaning steadily into his mouth, his pale face sweat soaked and fever-flushed. 

 He grinds the length of his swollen little shaft against the chuk’s silk furred stomach muscles, pushing himself against the thick hardness in the chuk’s loose white trousers.

 Defeated, Peragrine has surrendered himself into the barchuk’s terrible hands, surrendered to his own craven need to be taken and used, utterly dominated by the passions of another. Knowing that he has no choice only makes it so much easier.

 “Mmm, very good, good boy.” Baylor pulls his fingers from Peragrine’s bottom, leaving him suddenly empty. “Sweet and clean, gotta’ love those pseudo-pods, they sure do clean you out.” He says running his fingers under Peragrine’s nose, they are entirely clean but for a tiny streak of blood from where one of the detective’s rough nails has scratched him.

 With a small smile playing across his stiff whiskered muzzle, Baylor draws the boy from the bunk, drawing him to his feet and over to the corner by the door, kissing him again, long and deeply.

 Then he pulls back and looks down at him, stroking the sweat-dampened, silvery strands of hair out of his face. “That was very nicely done, now tell them the same.” He smirks, spinning Peragrine about to face the assembly of other men.

 They are lined against the opposite wall, smoking, drinking from flasks and cans, watching quietly as the boy’s resistance is broken away, his self-control shattered.

 Peragrine blushes furiously, twisting his face aside, eyes clenched shut, the color staining his cheeks obvious, even in the dim and brooding light. Lips tightly compressed, tears glittering in the silver of his lashes, he remains silent. He had been so caught up that he’d entirely forgotten about the others, forgotten they weren’t alone.

 Now the dreadful reality of it comes crashing back in on him, he must submit to all of them, be used by all of them, he is nothing to them but a hollow vessel for their spend.

 “Peragrine.” Baylor murmurs, using his given name for the first time, his voice dark and resonant with command, but calm, almost reasonable in tone. “You’re already half way there.” He whispers in the boy’s ear, sliding a great hairy hand down the front of Peragrine’s smooth belly, grasping his tightly wrinkled sack and rolling it lightly between his fingers, making the boy moan softly. “The hard part is almost over. All you have to do now is tell them how much you want them to fuck you, how bad you need it and then we can get the party rolling, Okay?”

 “P, p, promise?” Peragrine is shaking like a leaf under the chuk’s big hands, dizzy with awakened passion, simmering almost to point of boiling over. Baylor is right, there is no point in prolonging the inevitable.

 “Cross my heart and hope to die.” The chuk detective whispers, nipping his ear.

 Still shaking, but determined, urged on by the agonizing pleasure of Baylor’s claws plucking and tweaking his sensitive nipples, Peragrine does as he has been bid. He begs them to rape him, to use him any way they want to, to do anything they want to him.

 His voice is low and soft and he rarely lifts his gaze from the molded plastic floor as he speaks, but when he does his eyes are gas-flame blue and just as hot, and not a man in the room doubts that fucking him is going to be memorable.

 When he is finished, Baylor turns him around and kisses him again, feasting on his small pink mouth until he is near to swooning for lack of breath.

 “Oh you pretty little thing, that was so good, you make me so hard for you.” The chuk takes his hand and presses it to the thick bulge under his trousers, making him squeeze and fondle it, forcing him to caress the heavy length of his turgid shaft. “Now I want you to go bend over the bunk with your ass in the air. Keep your legs apart and pull your balls forward, I’m going to whip you now.”

 “But you promised!” The boy cries, twisting out of Baylor’s hands, backing away from him, his face twisted with outraged desperation. “You promised you wouldn’t!”

 “I never said I wouldn’t beat you, and besides you did say we can do anything we want with you.” The big chuk smiles down at him, his face a mask of sadistic pleasure. “And what I want just now, is to hear you scream for me.”

 Peragrine is given no opportunity to protest again, a hard smack across the mouth silences his protest, sending him spinning away, tumbling to his hands and knees. A fresh trickle of blood leaking from the split in his lip.

 The boy stares wide-eyed at the man-beast, panting hard, looking left and right as if to seek some escape, finding only the hungry stares and hard eyes of the other men.

 “I’m getting tired of fucking around with you little boy!” Baylor growls, advancing on him, tightening the heavy strap of the belt around his hand. “Now bend your ass over that bunk and be quick about it. If I have to tell you again, I’m gonna’ use the buckle on you instead of the strap, and I swear I’ll have your blood all over these walls.”

 One look at the chuk’s stormy countenance convinces Peragrine that he absolutely means what he says, and though he is terrified of the coming pain, he does as he is told. 

 Rising to his knees, the boy bends his delicate frame over the side of the bunk, cupping his testicles in his hand and pulling them as far forward as he can, flinching as Baylor uses a boot tip to kick his knees apart.

 “That’s right Sunshine, you spread those pretty thighs for me, good girl.” Baylor laughs softly, then cocks his arm back and sends the heavy leather strap crashing across Peragrine’s naked buttocks.

 The shock that runs through his body at this blow is hot and heavy, the white stripe of flesh momentarily numbed so that for a moment the loud smacking sound is actually worse that the discomfort of the stroke.

 But as the blood comes rushing back into that place, it is like a narrow avenue of liquid fire. The only thing that is worse is the next stroke.

 Despite the terrible pain, Peragrine finds that he has become possessed of a perverse urge to remain silent, to stubbornly deny Baylor the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. 

 And for the first few strokes he is successful, only hissing sharply at each cracking blow across the soft mounds of his buttocks. But Jack Baylor is an old hand at this game and he has more than one card up his sleeve.

 Cocking a deep brown eye at the place he is aiming for, the chuk takes a step backward and draws his arm fully back, the air singing softly through the long silky fur of his arm. Then he lunges forward, bringing the heavy leather strap whistling down, slashing across that sensitive crease where buttocks become thighs.

 And Peragrine shrieks aloud, hips crashing against the molded plastic edge of the bunk, forehead pounding against the yielding surface of the plastic mattress, a frantic negation of the searing agony that has enveloped his bottom.
 
 “There we go, I knew you could sing for me.” Baylor laughs, and the others laugh with him. “But don’t you worry darlin’ that was just a little love tap, now we get down to business.”

 Blow after blow, like a rain of fire and thunder, the agony is too great for him to respond in any way except to scream over and over until the small chamber is filled with one long howl of pain and hopelessness.

 It isn’t only his buttocks that are targeted, his shoulders, calves and thighs all take their share of Baylor’s lustful wrath. The entire back of his body has become a column of fire, one massive burning hurt. He shrieks and howls shaking his head violently from side to side and still the blows descend.

 Baylor beats him for nine straight minutes, eyes narrowed in concentration, grunting softly with each hard stroke, breathing hard and smooth.

 He beats him until the muscles of his arm are hot and singing, varying his strokes according to the desperate thrashings of the boy’s body. Striking to the left and right as the boy desperately flinches away from each well placed blow, forcing him to remain centered against the bunk.

 The backs of his narrow arms, the soft swollen mounds of his round white buttocks, sensitive skin inside of his thighs, the delicate skin of his narrow waist, no place is safe from the hungry kisses of the leather strap.

 This is Baylor’s favorite part of the game, the sex afterwards almost anticlimactic to the pleasure of breaking a virginal youth to the kiss of the strap. Regretfully, he realizes that it is time to stop. Though he knows in his heart that the boy can take so much more, he also knows that it would be best to leave something for the others.

 This is likely the only opportunity that any of them will have to play with such an exquisite toy. He knows that soon enough, that bastard knight, Capt. Darcy will be snatching the boy away to the Baron and he’ll likely never see him again, never get to truly plumb the depths and breadths of the boy’s sensuous nature.

 He also knows that he is the one who will be held accountable for this night’s work, gang-raping a prisoner isn’t precisely against the law, not when that prisoner is an unmastered slave.

 Until the Baron’s approval is specifically given for the boy’s noble origins to be acknowledged, he will exist in a kind of legal twilight zone, an unclaimed slave with no master to protect him.

 But Baylor knows that while he cannot be held legally accountable for what they do with the boy, he will still likely catch holy hell for abusing him. The temptation of being able to play with such a rare beauty was just too great to resist, so the least he can do is to get as much fun out of him as possible.

 And, there’s something else as well, something indefinably delicious about the boy’s scent, and his shimmering blue eyes. Something that makes Jack want to crawl all the way inside of him and sleep there, something that makes him almost not want to do this thing, or at least not want to share.

 Whatever it is, it makes sharing him out and getting the kid out of his system a really good thing, to do otherwise would be an unacceptable loss of control of himself. It would be showing a weakness that he can’t afford to own, not in his line of work.

 With no warning, he stops, breathing hard and heavy, studying the plum and cherry colored welts that stain the length and breadth of the boy’s narrow back and legs.

 Panting and gasping for air, sobbing brokenly like a small child, the boy doesn’t move an inch from where he is collapsed against the bunk. He simply lies there shuddering and crying.

 Peragrine’s entire being feels shattered, his body hot and heavy and glowing like a living coal, one massive hurt. And yet, somehow, in some bizarre and indefinable way, he feels more at peace than he ever has before. As if some broken part of him has been made whole at last.

 “Hey Jack, is he okay?” The speaker sounds not so much worried for the boy’s health, but for whether he’s going to be any fun to fuck if he’s passed out.

 “He’s fine, just a little tired, ain’t cha’ boy?” Baylor says, planting a shoe tip against Peragrine’s hip and kicking him over onto his back. Peragrine falls over, eyes closed, moaning loudly as his bruised flesh strikes the cool molded plastic of the floor, his arms falling to his sides, revealing the silky white seed that fills his cupped palms, where he has unconsciously spilt himself as he came again and again under the merciless rain of blows.

 “Like I said.” Baylor smirks, seeing this incontrovertible evidence of the boy’s whorish nature. “The kid’s just fine, all he needs is a little pick-me-up. You think you could help us out with that Burke?”

  "I’ve got something right here, make him feel real good, real friendly." The speaker is almost as dark skinned as the shadows he’s been standing in. Broad and very tall with the thick joints of ogreish descent, definitely not a pure strain, but certainly a mix.

 You never see full blooded ogres in the tech zones, only the hybrids. the pure ones are just too nuts to control themselves amongst a civilian population.

 But hybrids, well they’re almost as common as cat-shit. Maybe a fifth of Thermian cops are some kind of mix-breed, they’re considered well adapted to the work.

 The creature’s skin bristles with a harsh pelt of stiff black hairs like boar's bristles. His lower jaw is massive, set with a boulder range of crooked yellow teeth that look strong enough to crack stones, and he is holding a syringe.

 "Hold him still," He croaks, his voice is a low rumbling purr, like distant thunder. "And give me his arm."

 Baylor bends and scoops the boy up from the floor, depositing him on the bed and holding out his arm for the one called Burke.

 The needle in the hybrid’s hand gleams like a silver spear, drawing Peragrine’s gaze and holding him there in a kind of fatalistic trance. A syrupy pink droplet hanging from the tip. Caught by the dim light, it glows like a tropical sunset.

 Without warning, Peragrine explodes into action again, twisting and heaving as hard as he can, trying desperately escape Baylor’s grip. But it's useless, the chuk is simply too large and too strong, he is used to dragging down much bigger prey than teenage boys.

 He is crushed to the bunk, Baylor kneeling on his elbows, his left arm stretched out taut.

 The needle descends, gleaming silver-gold in the muddy amber light, it shines like a daggers edge, like a hunting knife, his eyes are pools of hopeless darkness begging some quarter, and still the needle descends.

 It is so fine he hardly feels it pierce his skin, the plunger is depressed and liquid heat rushes into his limbs like a warm tide.

 "See, gentle as a newborn lamb." They all laugh, low and nasty. The others gather round to study him, their faces look strangely distorted, watchful as so many golden eyed foxes, eager for any sign of fight still left in him, but there is none. He is vanquished at last, floating in a sea of molten honey, fully awake, fully aware, but very, very relaxed.

 "Hey Randy, you want first dibs on his mouth." Randy is apparently the name of the one he kicked. Having finally caught his breath, the man is eager to get some action from the little prick who dropped him.

 "Yeah." Randy growls. "Pass him over here." Peragrine is lifted up and passed to the foot of the bunk where the slender blonde man is standing. He has unzipped his black coverall and below a long expanse of smoothly muscled chest and stomach, he sports a furious hard-on and a chiseled face of self-indulgent cruelty.

 There is also a rapidly shadowing bruise over his solar-plexus and Peragrine notes with vague satisfaction that it is almost the size of a dinner-plate.

 "Get on your knees, on the floor." He uses both hands to take a double handful off Peragrine's silver blond locks, twining his fingers through the clinging strands, he wrenches Peragrine from the bunk, flinging him to his knees with bruising force, sending shocks of hot agony through the heavy layer of welts that cover his back and thighs.

 Randy's cock is bobbing right in front of his face, leaking a thin stream of transparent slime.

 "If you even think of biting me, I'll cut your nuts off and make you eat them, you hear me?" He looses Peragrine's head and then slaps him hard to emphasize his point. "Answer me, fuckwad!"

 The others are clustered around, watching closely. "Yes, I hear you, I won't bite." Peragrine's voice is slurred and muzzy, but he speaks loudly enough to be heard and understood.

 Holding his cock in one hand, the man grabs a handful of the boy’s silky white-blond hair with the other and starts rubbing his slimy cock-head across his pale face. Smearing his eyelids and cheeks with its slickness, pressing and bruising the spongy dome of it against the lush ripeness of the boy’s pink lips.

 The growled order to open his mouth obeyed with a soft shudder of defeat, the mouth he plunges into is hot and wet and tight as a glove. The laughter and joking that runs around the little cell low, ugly and thoroughly mean.

 With tears of misery staining his cheeks, Peragrine takes the man into his mouth, into his throat, swallows the length of him fully. Some dim part of his mind notes with faint surprise that the man’s shaft does not gag him.

 Both of the young officer’s hands are in his hair now, twining and kneading like a happy tom cat. Moaning in his throat as plunges his hips back and forth, fucking the boy’s soft mouth.

 The man groans and there is a collective sigh throughout the cell. The kid sucks cock like a professional, but with far more passion. Peragrine’s hand slips between the man's thighs, grasping the silky, wrinkled nutsack and rolling the testicles between his fingers. 

 He lifts his head from the cockshaft and suckles first one ball then the other into the hot recesses of his mouth, his fingers pressing and kneading the man's swollen dick in his slender fingers.

 "Aaww fuck!" The man is grinding his teeth with pleasure as Peragrine takes him into his throat again, raising and lowering his head, swallowing him deeper and deeper, gently scraping his teeth along the sensitive shaft and glans. All this he does with a kind of trancelike concentration and grace that is a pleasure to look upon.

 Baylor and the others watch with undisguised lust, until at last the big detective finally loses patience, grabbing Peragrine around the waist.

 "Hey, you greedy fuck, I'm not done yet!" Randy cries as the boy is yanked off his aching dick.

 "Don't freak out, I just wanna get him in a better position. The mouth is yours, but first dibs on his ass is mine. I found him, I get his cherry." Peragrine is roughly deposited on the bunk and prodded up onto his hands and knees.

 "You hear me baby-doll, I'm gonna fuck you till' you scream for me." His growl is hot and wet in Peragrine's ear. Randy's dick is in his face again, the man's hands grip his head, guiding his mouth back onto the throbbing shaft.

 He whimpers deep in his throat as he feels Baylor's hands close on his buttocks, thumbs roughly prying him open, feeling a thick gob of spit splatter against his puckered hole and both thumbs go plunging cruelly into him, forcing the tight muscles to yield, to surrender.

 Without warning, something thick and hotly blunt is stabbing at his hole, tearing him open. Shocked by the unexpected pain of this vicious invasion, it takes all of his powers of restraint not to bite down against the pain. The one he suckles would not be very understanding if he did.

 This is nothing like the sleek, cold entry of The Wolf or the cool alien slickness of the octopus like probe that installed his collar. This is hot and cruel and horribly demanding, forcing him further and further open.

 Fucking him hard and fast, a few strokes take him all the way to the base of Baylor's thick shaft.

 Randy is moaning steadily now, holding Peragrine's head in his hands and fucking his throat with long smooth strokes, he is close to cumming, he can taste it.

 The orgasm, when it comes, is so shattering that it makes the man scream and jerk out of Peragrine's mouth, gripping the base of his cock, sending half a dozen long ropey streams of cum across the boy's gaping mouth, his eyelids, his hotly flushed cheeks. Barely finished cumming, he is shunted aside, another immediately taking his place. The hairy black knuckles of the ogre hybrid are before Peragrine's face. 

 "My, my." It rumbles. "Don't we look a mess? Let's just clean you up." Burke’s hands are each almost as large as his head, with fingers as thick as sausages and nails like yellow claws, snaggley and rough.

 But with surprisingly gentle dexterity the hybrid uses his fingers to scrape the sticky white goo from Peragrine’s features, softly urging him to eat it from its fingertips.

 He complies with grace and passion, even as he is being thudded hard from behind by Jack. Licking and nibbling every salty slick trace from the big fellow's fingers, even going so far as to use his teeth to carefully scrape under the hybrid's horny nails.

 "Precious, just precious. Pretty as a picture now, aren’t you? Just sweet as honey too." Burke growls, unzipping the front of his coveralls, the uncut expanse of purple-black cock-meat that flops out is terrifying in both breadth and length. It rapidly expands to swollen tumescence, throbbing and covered in thickly ridged veins.

 "Oh man, Burke, you gonna kill 'im with that thing!" A couple of the men are laughing. 

"Fifty bucks says he passes out before he gets it halfway in 'im." More laughter, the dull slapping sound of men jerking their own meat, bets being exchanged, plenty of backslapping and jocularity all around.

 He is being pounded hard and deep, with mean fast strokes. But he is also fucking back just as hard against his invader, moaning steadily, yelping with every pounding stroke. 

 Peragrine bites down, trapping the two hairy, cum soaked fingers in his mouth, rolling his tongue against them, sucking them into his throat, swallowing and swallowing. The big creature grunts deep in its chest, a happy sound.

 With a hand like a vise, Burke forces Peragrine to relinquish his fingers, replacing them with the broad head of his swollen cock.

 It is clearly impossible to swallow this monstrous thing, it’s almost three inches across the blunt mushroom head, just a little thinner along the shaft. But Peragrine attacks it with dogged determination, laving its vein ridged surface with the slick heat of his tongue.

 The testicles in their wrinkled black sack are as large as boiled goose eggs and he can only just manage to suckle each one into his mouth.

 Thick spatulate fingers stroke his hair and face, urging him to greater efforts. Thumbs pry gently at the corners of his mouth, forcing his jaw wider and wider, the thick cock-head being brought to bear again.

 The hands which steady Peragrine's head suddenly become an iron vise, as inch by inch the thick mushroom head is forced into his mouth, stretching his jaw until he can feel the tendons creaking in protest.

 It is so immense and stuffs his mouth so thoroughly that he cannot help but scrape his teeth along the blunt head. But Burke doesn't seem to mind, he just shoves slowly forward until the blunt swollen head of his cock finally forces itself all the way into boy's sweet mouth and locks in place behind his teeth.

 Baylor is fucking him even harder now, his furry belly making a rhythmic slap, slap, slap, as he pounds his cock deep into the boy's tight ass. His thick grunts stopping cold as he freezes into a moaning rictus of pleasure, spewing stream after stream of hot spunk into the kid's guts.

 Peragrine is surprised at how hot the cum feels as it floods his intestine, filling him and leaking down his thighs, dripping off his tightly wrinkled testicles.

 Baylor thrusts away from him, panting hard, immediately replaced by someone else, someone whose cock isn't nearly as thick as Baylor's but at least as long, stabbing and prodding at his cumslick hole, plunging in hard and fast, fucking at him like a rabbit.

 With a grim and steady determination, Burke forces yet another inch of his enormous dick into Peragrine's mouth, beginning to stretch the entry to his throat. Peragrine plants his hands against the hybrid's thick hewn thighs, attempting to halt this choking progress, but just as well to battle a pneumatic vise as to break free of Burke's powerful slab-like hands.

 It's becoming harder and harder for him to breath around the shaft which now fills every bit of his mouth, making his cheeks balloon out in an almost comical fashion.

 The man who is now fucking him comes quick and hard, pulling out in time to spurt his load across the boy's buttocks and back, sighing loudly as he does. Another man moves in to replace him but Peragrine hears Baylor stop him. "I got an idea, just wait a sec."

 With the help of two others Peragrine's body is grasped and lifted, they slowly rotate him until he is belly up and then lower him onto the bunk again.

 His mouth is still essentially locked on Burke's impossibly thick cockhead, so the great creature lowers himself to his knees when Peragrine is laid back down, keeping his great shaft aligned with Peragrine's mouth and throat.

 "There you go Burke." Baylor growls. "Now you got his throat all lined up for a straight fuck."

 "I thank you very much, Jack." The hybrid smiles lazily. "I believe this will do very nicely. Very nicely indeed." Peragrine has been laid so that his head is hanging off the foot of the bunk, positioned thus his mouth and throat are almost perfectly aligned.  

 Peragrine's body is full of fire, helpless to stop this assault, he has given himself over to it completely. When his knees are pushed up to his chest and another man is inside of him, he grasps that man's buttocks with his heels urging him on, raising his hips to meet him. Anything to distract him from the agony of his overstretched jaw.

 The hybrid's hands are on his head, steadying it, he is rocking slowly back and forth, each smooth thrust forcing another half inch of his massive cockshaft into Peragrine's poor swollen throat. Each time he pulls back Peragrine is able to take a quick breath through his nose, each time he pushes in, Peragrine’s throat swells obscenely around it's monstrous invader.

 To the great surprise of those who had laid bets, the skinny little seventeen year old does not faint when the thing is halfway down his throat, in fact he does not faint at all, he is careful to hoard both his energy and his oxygen.

 In the space of twenty minutes, Burke has managed to get testicle deep in the boy's swollen throat, and is slowly, brutally, throat fucking him. Pushing into him until his hairy black balls are bouncing against the boy's nose and then smoothly withdrawing until only the thick cockhead is still locked behind the boy's teeth.

 The others laugh and guffaw as he fucks the kid's mouth, long and slow. Peragrine has lost track of who is in his ass, whether they are fast or slow, rough or gentle. All of his attention is concentrated on the blunt mass which fills his raw and aching throat, the membranes of which are so stretched and torn that it will be a week before he can speak above a raw whisper and more than a month before he can swallow without any pain.

 A sudden change in Burke's rhythmic tempo alerts him that the hybrid is getting close to climaxing, Burke is fucking his throat faster now, his testicles slapping Peragrine's forehead with a meaty smack, smack, smack, his slab-like hands holding Peragrine's head still.

 The big hybrid is puffing like a bellows and even the man who has invaded the boy's reddened, swollen bottom has stopped to watch the big fellow shoot his load.

 Burke's speed and the power of his thrusts are increasing by the moment, Peragrine has to work hard to snatch what breath he can, and then breath is lost to him completely. 

 Burke freezes, he has pulled the boy all the way onto his massive cock and now he is coming. Spurt after spurt of fiery joy fill him, as he empties himself into the boy's throat and stomach, his orgasm is nearly a minute in length, the convulsions of the choking boy's throat around his huge shaft only spurring him to greater heights of pleasure.

 When he finally pulls out, still just as hard as he was going in, he pulls himself out accompanied by a rush of thick milky slime.

 Peragrine is seeing black and red spots, his first gasping breath draws a quantity of salty cum into his lungs and he thrusts himself away from the man who is still fucking him, gagging and choking and desperately gasping for breath.

 His mouth and nostrils are clotted with the stuff, it runs from his ragged throat in a milky stream streaked with blood, and he is only barely able to catch his breath when Baylor is before him, yanking him onto his hands and knees. The detective is hard again, prodding at his mouth, using two hands full of his hair as reins to guide his big cock into the kid's raw throat.

 The man who was fucking him, jams back inside him with a vengeful jab, grabbing his hips and fucking him as hard and deep as he can, punishing him for having pulled away before. He feels the man add more heat and wetness to the semen that already coats his buttocks and thighs, then someone else moves to replace him.

 Baylor hoards the pleasure of the boy’s mouth for himself, as man after man fucks the boy’s still incredibly tight ass until finally Burke is behind him, forcing his massive shaft into Peragrine’s already torn and abused bottom, opening his hole more than would be thought possible and still the party rolls on and on. 

  By the time they have finished with him he has been fucked in both ass and throat almost two dozen times.

 They have bitten him, beaten him, and even showered him in their piss. He has been burned with cigars and forced to thank them over and over, he has been debased in almost every way their dark imaginations can conjure.

 Baylor even heated his police academy signet ring with a little pocket torch and branded its shield into the furrow of his bottom, signifying that his ass should forever belong to any cop who wants it.

 He is a barely conscious wreckage when they finally file out at around two in the morning, leaving him moaning in a pool of blood and cum, piss and cigarette butts. And it is in this state that the captain finds him about four hours later.


                                                               +*+*+*+*+


 The captain touches his shoulder and carefully turns him onto his back.

 "No." He croaks, barely audible. "Please, no more." He coughs and a little blood and cum leak from the corner of his bruised and torn mouth.

 Johan Darcy has come in civilian garb, intending only to talk to the boy for a few moments and to bring him a light breakfast, the sweet roll and apple now forgotten in his pocket. He’d planned to come back in the evening as he’d promised, but had gotten distracted doing research on the case.

 The man's fury at the boy’s state is cold as ice, he knows that Baylor has got to be responsible for this outrage and he intends to make him pay in blood. But now is not the time, and technically the bastard detective has done nothing illegal. The boy is still classified as a slave and until he is officially set free or given the protection of a master, he is fair game for anyone who has the power to use him. 

 "Shhh, it's only me, Captain Darcy." The boy is crying, his shoulders quivering with weak sobs, one of his slender hands rises, attempting to push the man away, trying to stave off further assault, murmuring wordless protests.

 Slipping off his dark wool cloak, the captain scoops Peragrine into the softness of its folds, gathering the boy's fragile frame against his broad chest and carrying him from the filth and wreckage of his little plastic cell. 

 Peragrine is conscious now only of warmth and safety, secure in the rich masculine scent which rises from the warm wool surrounding him, the heavy thudding of the captain's strong heart and the rich timber of his voice as he swears under his breath, the smell of his clean sweat and musky cologne. 

 "God's fuck boy, I'll make that bastard pay for this." Johan growls as the boy curls tighter against his shoulder. The captain continues to grumble violent imprecations against the detective all the way down to his car, stopping at the sign-in desk only long enough to take care of the paperwork necessary to sign the young prisoner into his personal custody. 

 Peragrine is fast asleep by the time the car lifts out of its cradle and into the sky, he does not wake again for two full days. 


