Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Yes Master, My Master ❯ Chapter 2 ( Chapter 2 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Spider_Queen 
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): / Hentai / Drama / Angst | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 12.20.2001 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.2K | Visits: 985 | Status: Completed
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): / Hentai / Drama / Angst | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 12.20.2001 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.2K | Visits: 985 | Status: Completed
Quatre hung semi-consious by his wrists, his head dropping forward, blond locks scattered unnoticed across his face. He had been hanging for too long-for what must have been days, though there was no light, no clock, nothing in the dungeon-like room that gave any indication of the time or day. His arms had long ago stopped aching, and now he couldn't even feel them-which was a most unpleasant and disconserning feeling. His hunger and thirst had finally abated, and he had grown used to the dryness in his mouth. He was even past the point of exhaustion, as he simply hung there.
At first, the thought of being left alone, even if he was forced to stand, was wonderful, but that had quickly faded. It was painful in a numbing sort of way that, in some ways, was just as bad as the other torture that had been inflicted upon him.
He no longer wondered about the other pilots-he had forced all thoughts of Trowa and the others out of his head. He knew that they wouldn't find him-he couldn't hope for anything. If he hoped, he expected, dispite himself, and the people who held him would certainly probe his expectations deeply, rub his disapointment in his face as yet another way to break him.
A grimy tear slid down Quatre's face, leaving a trail of wetness down his cheek before dripping off his chin. No! He scolded himself madly. He would not cry! Not for his friends, not for himself-he had to keep a mask, he had to keep strong.
The weak boy struggled to stand taller, getting a little feeling back in his arms as he did so. He couldn't wipe the tear streak away, but he could-and he did-assume the emotionless mask that Trowa wore more often than not.
It was then that he realized he wasn't alone in the cell.
When he had entered, Quatre didn't know, but leaning lightly against the wall, nearly invisable in the gloom, was the man who had swore to be Quatre's "Master." Quatre's aquamarine eyes focused on his, and a bit of surprise slipped momentarily onto his face, before his wiped it away with stoniness.
The tall man stalked towards Quatre, lythe and catlike, wearing the very small smile that suited his thin face best, and revealed his sadistic nature. "I was wondering when you'd notice me," he said when he'd reached a spot a scant five feet or so from the naked boy.
A movement caught Quatre's eyes, and his eyes flicked down to where the man's pale hand hung, fingering something. A whip. A leather whip with a split "tail."
Quatre had to force himself not to flinch. So he would be getting more torture. By a whip. Well it could be worse, the part of his mind that remained optimistic reminded him dully-he could be using a chain again...
The shadow stalked up to him, locking his cold eyes on Quatre's fear-filled ones. He looked like he was going to speak, his mouth opened slightly, but he said nothing.
With no more warning than that, the shadowy man's arm came back. Quatre heard the whip's crack before he felt the sting. He bit his lip to keep from crying out-one hit, one time was more painful with this man than the other's. The shadow was obviously skilled in this.
A second crack, and another red welt rose on Quatre's chest. He looked down the a few tears in his eyes. The two marks crisscrossed over his bruised ribs, the palce where they connected was slowly oozing blood.
Another hit-this time more on the boy's stomach-caused Quatre to cry out. He tried to hold it back-he bit his lip so hard he drew blood, yet the strangled sound escaped his throat anyway.
The shadow was smiling-not laughing as the others had, but smiling, his eyes twinkling with horrable glee. He drew the whip back a forth time.
Quatre tensed up, but he still wasn't ready for the blow when he came, crossing his genitalia. He yelped, tears leaking from his eyes, which he squeezed shut tightly, and nearly collasped against the chains. Much more skilled....
The other man didn't pause, landing rapid slashes to the young arabian's thighs and legs.
Quatre quickly lost count of the number of times the whip cracked against his naked flesh-it was all a blur of pain and tears. He passed must have passed out at some point, because when he next opened his eyes, the shadowy figure had stopped and was regarding him from a distance, arms crossed over his black-clad chest, whip still in one hand.
Quatre tasted blood, and his spit weakly-he had bitten deep into his own lip. His eyes burned from the hot tears he had shed, yet he still peered down at his body, which stung and hurt as though he'd been burnt, then dipped in a vat of pure alcohol. He was red-huge welts crisscrossed from the edge of his vision down to his knees.
Slowly, the boy raised his tear-filled eyes to meet those of his tormentor. "Why do you do this?" he asked, in a shaky voice, trying his hardest to keep those tears in check.
The dark demonlike man walked forward, his black eyes still focused on Quatre. Quatre tensed, expecting to feel the crack of the whip once again, and his eyes squeazed shut. But he felt nothing, just the warmth of the other man's breath as he spoke.
"Because, little prince," the voice was once again the seductive whisper that had been used when the other man first addressed Quatre. "You are so strong-you could truly be one of us,"
Quatre opened his eyes, puzzlement and surprise evident in their depths. The pale skinned face of his tormentor was only inches away from his own tear streaked one, the dark eyes bearing into his own.
"One of you...?" he repeated almost silently, no where near sure what the sadist meant, and not certain that he wanted to know.
His vowed master faintly, bringing his head even closer to the helpless boy's. "One of us." he repeated, his left hand finding a welt on Quatre's chest and running down in, putting painful pressure over the entire thing. Quatre sucked his breath in and stiffened with the faint pain as the other man followed the bruises down until his nails were resting lightly on Quatre's innner thigh.
"You'll learn more soon enough," he promised, digging his nails into the tender flesh half-heartedly. Quatre winced, expecting the return of the torture.
The other man dropped the whip, and, while the left hand worked back up to paw at Quatre's penis, his right hand snaked up and unlatched one of the manacles.
Quatre's eyes were wide, as the dark man forced him roughly to turn, then relocked the metal cuff around the poor boy's wrist. He felt the tall man press up against him, his erection poking at Quatre. "My name is Gabriel, little prince," the elegant man told him, then thrust into him, in a tearing, painful way that caused tears to rise in Quatre's eyes once again, and a picture of gentle Trowa to be conjured in his pain-addled mind.
At first, the thought of being left alone, even if he was forced to stand, was wonderful, but that had quickly faded. It was painful in a numbing sort of way that, in some ways, was just as bad as the other torture that had been inflicted upon him.
He no longer wondered about the other pilots-he had forced all thoughts of Trowa and the others out of his head. He knew that they wouldn't find him-he couldn't hope for anything. If he hoped, he expected, dispite himself, and the people who held him would certainly probe his expectations deeply, rub his disapointment in his face as yet another way to break him.
A grimy tear slid down Quatre's face, leaving a trail of wetness down his cheek before dripping off his chin. No! He scolded himself madly. He would not cry! Not for his friends, not for himself-he had to keep a mask, he had to keep strong.
The weak boy struggled to stand taller, getting a little feeling back in his arms as he did so. He couldn't wipe the tear streak away, but he could-and he did-assume the emotionless mask that Trowa wore more often than not.
It was then that he realized he wasn't alone in the cell.
When he had entered, Quatre didn't know, but leaning lightly against the wall, nearly invisable in the gloom, was the man who had swore to be Quatre's "Master." Quatre's aquamarine eyes focused on his, and a bit of surprise slipped momentarily onto his face, before his wiped it away with stoniness.
The tall man stalked towards Quatre, lythe and catlike, wearing the very small smile that suited his thin face best, and revealed his sadistic nature. "I was wondering when you'd notice me," he said when he'd reached a spot a scant five feet or so from the naked boy.
A movement caught Quatre's eyes, and his eyes flicked down to where the man's pale hand hung, fingering something. A whip. A leather whip with a split "tail."
Quatre had to force himself not to flinch. So he would be getting more torture. By a whip. Well it could be worse, the part of his mind that remained optimistic reminded him dully-he could be using a chain again...
The shadow stalked up to him, locking his cold eyes on Quatre's fear-filled ones. He looked like he was going to speak, his mouth opened slightly, but he said nothing.
With no more warning than that, the shadowy man's arm came back. Quatre heard the whip's crack before he felt the sting. He bit his lip to keep from crying out-one hit, one time was more painful with this man than the other's. The shadow was obviously skilled in this.
A second crack, and another red welt rose on Quatre's chest. He looked down the a few tears in his eyes. The two marks crisscrossed over his bruised ribs, the palce where they connected was slowly oozing blood.
Another hit-this time more on the boy's stomach-caused Quatre to cry out. He tried to hold it back-he bit his lip so hard he drew blood, yet the strangled sound escaped his throat anyway.
The shadow was smiling-not laughing as the others had, but smiling, his eyes twinkling with horrable glee. He drew the whip back a forth time.
Quatre tensed up, but he still wasn't ready for the blow when he came, crossing his genitalia. He yelped, tears leaking from his eyes, which he squeezed shut tightly, and nearly collasped against the chains. Much more skilled....
The other man didn't pause, landing rapid slashes to the young arabian's thighs and legs.
Quatre quickly lost count of the number of times the whip cracked against his naked flesh-it was all a blur of pain and tears. He passed must have passed out at some point, because when he next opened his eyes, the shadowy figure had stopped and was regarding him from a distance, arms crossed over his black-clad chest, whip still in one hand.
Quatre tasted blood, and his spit weakly-he had bitten deep into his own lip. His eyes burned from the hot tears he had shed, yet he still peered down at his body, which stung and hurt as though he'd been burnt, then dipped in a vat of pure alcohol. He was red-huge welts crisscrossed from the edge of his vision down to his knees.
Slowly, the boy raised his tear-filled eyes to meet those of his tormentor. "Why do you do this?" he asked, in a shaky voice, trying his hardest to keep those tears in check.
The dark demonlike man walked forward, his black eyes still focused on Quatre. Quatre tensed, expecting to feel the crack of the whip once again, and his eyes squeazed shut. But he felt nothing, just the warmth of the other man's breath as he spoke.
"Because, little prince," the voice was once again the seductive whisper that had been used when the other man first addressed Quatre. "You are so strong-you could truly be one of us,"
Quatre opened his eyes, puzzlement and surprise evident in their depths. The pale skinned face of his tormentor was only inches away from his own tear streaked one, the dark eyes bearing into his own.
"One of you...?" he repeated almost silently, no where near sure what the sadist meant, and not certain that he wanted to know.
His vowed master faintly, bringing his head even closer to the helpless boy's. "One of us." he repeated, his left hand finding a welt on Quatre's chest and running down in, putting painful pressure over the entire thing. Quatre sucked his breath in and stiffened with the faint pain as the other man followed the bruises down until his nails were resting lightly on Quatre's innner thigh.
"You'll learn more soon enough," he promised, digging his nails into the tender flesh half-heartedly. Quatre winced, expecting the return of the torture.
The other man dropped the whip, and, while the left hand worked back up to paw at Quatre's penis, his right hand snaked up and unlatched one of the manacles.
Quatre's eyes were wide, as the dark man forced him roughly to turn, then relocked the metal cuff around the poor boy's wrist. He felt the tall man press up against him, his erection poking at Quatre. "My name is Gabriel, little prince," the elegant man told him, then thrust into him, in a tearing, painful way that caused tears to rise in Quatre's eyes once again, and a picture of gentle Trowa to be conjured in his pain-addled mind.