InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Anhanguera ❯ Display ( Chapter 6 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
~~Chapter Six~~


He was going to go mad.

Strapped into the seat of the helicopter with a blindfold over his eyes and earphones secured on his head so that he couldn’t hear or see where they were going, Caipora couldn’t tolerate the feeling of absolute helplessness inspired by these kids of trips.  It did no good to know that, beside him, Domajin was in no better position than he was.  Anhanguera insisted upon such measures—absolute secrecy regarding the location of the compound that he called home—the actual nerve center for the rest of the island setups.

It was the first time that Caipora had been invited, albeit, dubiously and not actually by choice.  He was only being brought along as Domajin’s toy, little better than an actual slave for the duration of the annual meeting.

He had no choice in it, and that did little to make him feel any better about what he knew was coming.  The only thing worse than being strapped to Domajin’s rack was being trussed up on one of those damned things for all of the overmasters to molest and abuse.

It also did no good to remind himself that he was in this situation entirely of his own free will; that he had ultimately chosen to do what he was doing.  He’d known the stakes, and now, it was his game to win or lose.  After all, he’d seen what happened to spies.  Eduardo had made sure of it before he’d allowed him to go in.  He’d sat him down in the comfortable office, had made him watch the video he’d received: a video that had arrived, along with Lorenzo Varela’s cock and balls, in a package delivered via special courier to the South American tai-youkai’s doorstep . . .

The young hunter, naked, stretched out on The Rack in a nondescript gray room, and he was calm, perfectly calm, telling the enforcers that circled him, over and over again that he knew nothing, that he didn’t know what they were talking about, trying to laugh off the whole thing as simply a misunderstanding.

The overmaster stepped forward—Caipora didn’t recognize him.  “Your father is that damned hunter—Rafaello, they call him.”  Striding forward, he grabbed Lorenzo’s raven hair, yanked it back, bending him over as far as The Rack would allow.  “Do you deny it?

You . . . You’re mistaken,” Lorenzo said, and even in the video, the young man’s unease was easy to discern.

No . . . I’ve seen your father before.  He hunted my father—my father!” the overmaster hissed, jerking on Lorenzo’s head to emphasize his words.  “I remember . . . I remember . . . He came to the door, dragged him outside, told him that he was accused of killing humans—stupid, pathetic, weak humans . . . My father did nothing—nothing—and you reek of that bastard!

The lash that he retrieved from a nearby closet was not one that Caipora had ever seen before.  Ten thin lashes, all braided together in one long flail; bits of razor embedded down the length of those strips.  It was created with one purpose only: to inflict pain—massive amounts of pain . . .

Drawing his arm back, he brought it down hard with a flash of glinting silver.  It fanned out over Lorenzo’s back, the ends, wrapping over his shoulders, around his sides, and he hissed out a groan of pain, body jerking involuntarily, as blood dripped from the lesions left behind from the embedded razors.

The second strike made Caipora grit his teeth.  Sending a fine spray of blood into the air where the lashes intersected the ones from the first strike, Lorenzo’s breathing was stunted, punctuated by screams, moans, that grew louder and louder with every falling hit.

The crack of the flail grew louder, faster—the overmaster had gotten his hands on a second one.  Time and again, the rain of those straps fell until Lorenzo shivered, shook, sobbed between shrieks that he couldn’t hold back . . .

Yet, he stubbornly refused to admit to anything, just stood there, as silently as he could, tears streaming down his face, enduring the blistering punishment being doled out, crying out when the pain was too much, as his skin was systematically shredded off of his body, some of it falling like confetti onto the concrete floor . . .

Frustrated that the flogging was getting him nowhere, the overmaster turned, barked something at the enforcers that Caipora didn’t understand at the time.  He knew it now; damned if he didn’t.  “Shred him,” he said.  “Shred him till he confesses.”

The enforcers crowded the closet, murmuring amongst each other, but it was impossible to see what they were doing.  The creak of The Rack as it was lowered, locked into place, bending Lorenzo over, and if the hunter realized, just what was about to happen, he gave no indication as he watched his own blood drip onto the floor . . . Then, the camera panned over, revealing one of the enforcers, naked, except for the leather tube covering his penis—a leather sheath with inch-long metal spikes protruding out all over it . . .

Oh, fuck, no,” Caipora muttered, unable to look away from the video, though he wanted nothing more than to do it.  Seconds later, the enforcer slammed his cock in, balls deep, as the high-pitched shriek was torn from Lorenzo’s lips—a sound the likes of which Caipora hadn’t heard before or since—as blood spurted, splattered, and trailed down his shaking, crumpling legs.  The enforcer grasped Lorenzo’s hips, brutally shook the hunter’s ass to and fro as hard as he could, eliciting another harsh cry: this one longer, slower, darker . . .

Are you a spy?  Did the St. George send you?” the overmaster demanded, grasping a handful of Lorenzo’s hair, forcing his head back with a roughened shake.

N . . . No,” Lorenzo rasped out, squeezing his eyes closed, trying to staunch the tears that still seeped out of the seam.

The overmaster glanced over Lorenzo’s head.  The enforcer shoved against Lorenzo then brought him back in so hard that The Rack creaked and groaned, only to be drowned out by another of those gut-wrenching shrieks that went on and on until the overmaster slugged him in the face a couple of times.

Did the St. George send you here?” he demanded once more, shaking Lorenzo’s head roughly, his hand jerking free, taking with it, a handful of hair.

“Yes!” Lorenzo screamed, tears streaming down his face as another shriek escaped him—another thrust of the enforcer’s dick.

The overmaster’s fist slammed into his face again, shoving him back, only to be caught by the shackles that held him tight as he whimpered and screamed.  Turning toward the camera, he smiled nastily.  “You have no one to blame but yourself, Your Grace . . . I hope you enjoy the show.”

He moved out of the frame as another enforcer, also wearing one of those spiked cocksleeves stepped forward, grasping Lorenzo’s head—his face so grossly contorted by the overmaster’s overzealous fists—forcing his screaming mouth down onto his dick.  The screaming stopped, only to be replaced by guttural, choking, rasping cries as he was literally ripped apart from the inside out.  With a loud howl, the one fucking his ass slammed into him as brutally as he could, pitching him forward even further onto the one in his mouth, the bastard behind obviously caught up in the thrall of his own orgasm as Lorenzo’s eyes rolled up, rolled back into his head, as his body went limp.

Jerking his dick out of Lorenzo’s ass, the enforcer stumbled back, only to be replaced by another.  The blood that poured from him, that streamed down his legs in scarlet ribbons was mixed with spidery trails of come as a great glob plopped on the floor, streaked with crimson . . . Caipora frowned as he leaned a little closer, as he tried to make out, just what he was seeing.  The new enforcer also wore a cocksleeve, but it was white and almost glittered in the light—rough looking, but not nearly as sinister as the spiked one—unless . . .

‘Salt . . .?’ he realized, eyes narrowing as the enforcer shoved his dick in deep, ignoring the come, the blood, the shit, already dripping from Lorenzo’s ass.  Caipora’s suspicion was confirmed a moment later as Lorenzo started to scream, but choked on the dick in his mouth.  That guy shot his load down his throat, and when he pulled out, he brought away many of Lorenzo’s teeth, embedded between the metal spikes . . .

Yet another enforcer stepped forward, and he wore a salt sleeve, too, but before he could assume the position, he knelt before Lorenzo, leaning down to do something to Lorenzo’s limp dick.  From the angle of the camera, however, Caipora couldn’t tell, just what he was doing.  Whoever was filming, though, moved over, knelt down to zoom in for a closeup.

The enforcer had slipped a pressure sleeve over the tortured man’s cock.  The tighter it squeezed, the greater pressure would build—kind of like a blood pressure cuff—a really perverted one, anyway.  The built-up pressure would result in an erection, but . . . But the cup that he’d fastened over the head of his dick was full of metal spikes, too.  All of this, Caipora hadn’t realized at the time.  He’d never seen anything like that before.  Now, though, he knew.  He’d seen the same thing in action one time, used on a male slave who raped one of the women back in the Meat House—the regular slave training facility.  That device was built for one thing, and one thing only: to completely shred a man’s penis . . .

The enforcer made no bones about jamming his cock down Lorenzo’s throat.  He was nearly beyond the ability to scream, but the misery, the agony, radiated from him in jagged and awful waves.  With every thrust from both sides, that pressure sleeve tightened.  Within minutes, blood poured from the metal head cup, and Caipora had to swallow hard to keep from puking.

Lorenzo hung on much longer than Caipora would have thought possible.  Time after time, he was mounted on both ends, quite literally being ripped to shreds.  Some of the skin on his back, on his chest, hung off of him in loose and bloody ribbons from the flogging while other bits tore free, joined the rest of it that littered the floor.  Portions of his intestines hung in macabre streamers from his ass, tatters of his tongue, falling from his mouth—his lips, gone, drawing his toothless mouth up in a gaping red gash of a ghastly grimace—onto the floor.  A huge puddle of blood covered the floor between his feet, dripping in a steady stream from Lorenzo’s painfully erect and brutalized dick.  How he managed to still be alive was something that Caipora couldn’t comprehend, and the amount of blood was staggering.  Every time Lorenzo passed out, they used the salt cocksleeve on him, prolonging his torture, over and over again.

And still, Caipora made himself watch it, from start to finish, despite the churning in his stomach, the bile that rode high in his throat.  As though forcing himself to watch the entire thing could possibly vindicate the hunter, to alleviate some of the shame, some of the agony that he’d had to endure alone . . . And in the end, the overmaster yanked The Rack upright as Lorenzo hung there, balancing on the cusp between life and death, beyond tears, beyond screams, the room, silent as a grave.

The overmaster grabbed his cock and balls hard, took his time as he used a dagger to slice through them a breath at a time.  Lorenzo gurgled, his body stiffening despite the ravages he’d already suffered.  When the overmaster finally finished severing his penis and testicles, he tossed the dagger aside.  “Leave him here.  He’ll die soon enough.”

The rest of the video was on time lapse, but the stamp in the corner said it all.  Lorenzo hung from the rack, slowly dying for nearly twelve hours before he mercifully passed on . . .

Then the video and Lorenzo’s shredded cock and balls were boxed up and sent to Eduardo as a warning—or a threat, and Caipora knew—knew—that if he were ever discovered, his death would make what happened to Lorenzo Varela look like a day at the beach.


Caipora stumbled slightly as he was herded toward the bathhouse with the rest of the toys that had been brought along from the other islands.  Eyes still adjusting to the painfully bright light of day, he relied on his sense of smell to tell him everything he needed to know.

The light inside the bathhouse was a little easier to deal with.  Blinking rapidly as he struggled to make his eyes focus, he had to squelch the base instinct to fight back when one of the attendants—a very large tapir-youkai—grabbed his arm to pull him over to one of the marble stalls.  The urge to bolt surged through him once more, mostly because he was familiar with this particular setup already.  The stall had a two-foot-tall divider that he had to step over, but the other three sides were enclosed.  The four-inch opening in the floor wasn’t covered by a grate, and high overhead and suspended from the ceiling was a pair of metal handcuffs.  Caipora bit back his emotions, started to step over the short wall, but before he could, the man stopped him.

“No one is allowed to be presented to Anhanguera without thorough cleaning,” he said in a flat voice.  “Remove your clothes.  Put them in here.”

Glancing down at the basket that was sitting on a small stool just outside the stall, Caipora bit down the urge to walk right back out of the bathhouse, but reached for the buttons of his black blouse instead.  The other toys were being made to do the same thing in their perspective areas.  For some reason, though, those others didn’t seem to mind at all.  A couple of them were even grinning.  ‘Stupid little fucks . . .

He did as he was told, however, dropping his clothing into the basket along with his cell phone—it only contained the barest necessity of numbers, anyway, and not one that should have been on his phone—whip, and boot knife, as well.  The man took the basket, closing the top, and held it out to Caipora to press his thumb against the identilock.  A moment later, a soft beep announced that the print had been accepted.  He set the basket aside once more and gestured at the stall.

Stifling the urge to sigh since he knew damn well what was coming, it didn’t actually make him want to cooperate, so when the tapir-youkai leveled a look at him, Caipora stared right back, but didn’t move otherwise.  Shaking his head, he grasped the shackles and yanked them down before clapping them on Caipora’s hands.   Even though he was otherwise cooperating, he’d promised himself long ago that he would never willingly aid someone in shackling him, ever again.

Stepping out of the stall for a moment, the man hit the button on the outside wall.  It pulled the shackles upward, but he stopped the chains before Caipora’s arms were stretched up completely, allowing him a little bend in the shoulders—very likely the only concession he was going to get since he was a problem child, as it were.

“Spread your legs.”

Seeing no way around it, he complied with that request, figuring that he might as well get this over with.  In the realm of things that he’d been dealt over his time with the organization, this one, while humiliating, wasn’t really that huge of a deal.  Grimacing and gritting his teeth when the cool tube slid up his ass, he scowled at the far wall, doing his best to ignore just what was going on.  When the warm, herb-and-oil-soapy water started to flow into him a minute later, he had to grind his teeth together.  He clenched his jaw, doing his best to ignore the discomfort as his bowels stretched under the unwelcome influx of liquid.  This kind of thing had only actually happened to him a couple of times before, but he’d had to administer enemas often enough when he’d worked in the bathhouse.  It did little to lighten his mood, knowing that the attendant didn’t actually enjoy this process any more than the one getting the treatment did.  Nope, it didn’t really help at all . . .

Just when the discomfort hit a point where it teetered on the line between annoying and painful, the water stopped, and the tapir-youkai quickly and neatly whipped the tube out, only to replace it with a butt plug.

That done, the bastard stepped out of the stall, leaving Caipora entirely trussed up, as he picked up the basket with his belonging and hurried over to stick them in the locker near the doors.

By the time he returned nearly forty-five minutes later, Caipora was leaning heavily against his bicep, eyes closed, sweat pouring down his face, down his body that had already passed its tolerance threshold.  With a deft and practiced motion, the attendant finally, blessedly, pulled the plug and managed to retreat just in time to avoid the stream as Caipora’s body expelled the noxious flow.  It felt like forever as he gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, tried not to feel the hot wetness that coursed down his legs, around his feet, down the drain beneath him, tried not to breathe too deeply since the stench of the sickeningly-sweet-smelling water along with the reek of his bowels created an even worse stink overall.

Steeling himself, knowing the protocol only too well, he managed to endure the next two rounds of the liquid invasion.  By the time the third purge was released, he was tired, sore, as though he’d put in a full day of manual labor, just from standing there, his body pushed beyond all limits.

The flow of warm water was a welcome sensation.  The attendant took his time, washing Caipora from the waist down.  All too soon, however, he shut the water off then pushed the button to bring the restraints down so that he could unfasten them.  Caipora couldn’t control the soft groan when his arms dropped back down again.  He’d stood there for the better part of nearly three hours, after all . . .

Something about the enemas seemed to have dulled his will to resist.  Following the tapir-youkai out of the stall and over to the long tables nearby, he didn’t even think to argue as he lay down, stretched his arms over his head, simply waiting for the inevitable . . .

It seemed to Caipora that the tapir-youkai took an inordinately long time in applying the wax and ripping it off his body.  It was annoying, yes, but the only actual pain was when he got to the pubic hair.  But even that was done in fairly decent order, and the only thing that he really didn’t like was the completely bare feel of his skin, including his face that he wouldn’t have to shave for a little while, at least.  Funny, really.  Caipora wasn’t very hairy, to start with—or he hadn’t thought so.  Now, however, there was an overwhelming sense of vulnerability, and that was a feeling that he could not stand.

Off of the table and down the short corridor into the room where the huge bathtub was filled and waiting.  Before he was allowed to soak, he stood, arms out to the sides, feet parted, while the attendant scrubbed him down from head to foot with a miscellany of brushes, some softer, some rougher, until his skin tingled almost painfully.  Hair drenched in a combination of oils and systematically washed three times, he was showered down again with another hose, thoroughly rinsed before he was finally ordered into the tub.

When he finally sank into the huge and steaming bath, he grimaced.  The water was treated with oils and herbs, with salts and scents, designed to relax him after the stress his body had just been subjected to.  He was allowed to sit there, to soak, for a while, eventually joined by the other toys—now scrubbed clean, devoid of body hair, too.  After a good half hour or so, the tapir-youkai motioned him out of the bath.  He stood silently while the man took his time, applying some kind of vaguely spicy oil all over his body.  Grinding his teeth together, concentrating on not popping a boner when the man fondled and stroked and oiled his balls, his cock, he managed to contain himself, albeit, barely.

Down another hallway and into a chamber with shelves and shelves of different clay jars, glass bottles, an array of decanters, he wrinkled his nose at the slightly dusty smell.  The attendant motioned to a spot directly under a very bright light where Caipora stood, waiting.

The attendant made quick work of pouring various powders into a stone mortar before grinding the contents with the stone pestle until he was satisfied with the result.  When the man strode over, mortar in one hand, a feather brush of sorts in the other, Caipora closed his eyes, allowing him to paint on the golden dust—gold dust mixed with other things—all ingestible, of course.  He didn’t stop until every last inch of Caipora’s body was covered with a thin, shimmering layer including his hair.

Caipora didn’t move as the man painted his lips with a shimmering gold balm, lined his eyes with the same.  Finally, he snapped a thick golden band around the base of his balls followed by another one around the head of his penis.  Those two bands were connected by a golden chain that jingled with every step he took, drawing even more attention to him, to his body—to his cock . . .

Grimacing since the rings and chains added a weight that, in turn, added an unwelcome friction, leaving him in a state of near-arousal, he was led down the hallway once more, only to be stopped at a door on the far end to await the other toys.


The talking in the large and cavernous chamber dwindled and died out as the toys were led into the room.  They didn’t look anywhere but straight ahead toward the five little golden pedestals arranged under overhead spotlights.  Caipora took his spot, as did the others.  Staring stonily straight ahead, he willed his mind to take him somewhere else—anywhere else—anywhere other than the cold and dark room where he and the others were very prominently on display.

“Diego,” he heard one of them whisper, very obvious appreciation in his tone.  He knew that voice.  It made his skin crawl . . .

A breathy, deep chuckle rattled in his ears as his awareness spiked.  ‘Anhanguera,’ he thought, his inner rage sparking, igniting, shifting his gaze without moving his head.

Still dressed as the southern gentleman, the formidable dragon-fish-youkai who fancied himself to be the devil let his veiled gaze roam over the assembly of toys.  He stared at Caipora for a long moment—Caipora felt it, unable to discern the youkai’s eyes under the cover of the smoky glasses.  The richness of his darkened skin—brown just before it bled into black—seemed all the starker against the pale grey suit.  Despite the wan light where Anhanguera stood, Caipora could make out his face—not the most compelling face, maybe, and yet, there was something about Anhanguera’s bearing—his demeanor . . .

“Hmm . . . You gentlemen outdid yourself this year,” Anhanguera remarked, addressing the overmasters before turning, wandering toward the pedestals, his heels thumping against the floor in a deafening clatter.  Taking his time as he made his way around each of them, sizing them up, maybe . . . or . . .

“This one?  Who brought you?” he asked the first one.

“I did,” the overmaster of the birthing camp called from the darkness.  In the harsh shadows cast by the candles arranged on the squat table, Caipora couldn’t see his face, though he remembered the youki well enough.  Garza—the first bastard to take a turn during his initiation on that night so long ago—the one who had said his name just minutes ago.  Caipora still had a score to settle with him . . .

“Good thing you’re not getting fucked by him,” Domajin sneered.  “Where’s his pecker?”

The other overmasters laughed.  Caipora was inclined to disagree since, from his recollection, Garza himself had nothing really to brag about, but he remained silent, stoic, staring straight ahead at nothing.

Anhanguera moved down the line, circling slowly around the next toy on display.  “Whose is this?” he asked at length, turning to face the overmasters once more.

“Mine,” Mendoza called.  Caipora only knew him by his reputation.  They said that he was the biggest bastard of the overmasters, opting to terrorize his enforcers more than most and entirely too often.  The toy he’d brought with him shifted uncomfortably on his pedestal.  Without turning to look, Caipora heard the very distinct jingle of his cockchain as he shifted under the close scrutiny.

“Do you not wish to be here, in my house?” Anhanguera crooned, turning his attention back to the spooked toy.

The man remained silent, obviously trying not to draw the ire of his overmaster . . .

When he got no answer, Anhanguera chuckled and moved on.  Casually strolling around this one, he spared a moment to touch shoulders, to run his fingertips along his broad back.  Stepping around the front, he reached out, grasped the toy’s balls, rolled them on the open palm of his hand . . . “Whose is this one?”

“Mine,” another voice called out from the silence—Dursal from the Gauntlet—the regular sex slave training facility.  “Beautiful, no?”

“Definite promise,” he mused before moving on.  Eyeing the next one, he slowly nodded, carefully appraising the enforcer—the toy—before him.  “Very nice . . . Not too bulky, very well defined . . . You must be Ybarra’s prized toy . . .”

The toy said nothing, keeping his gaze focused before him, dead ahead, at the wall behind the overmasters.

Ybarra, overmaster of the Meat House, chuckled.  “He’s a moaner,” he supplied.

“Good, good,” Anhanguera intoned in a rich, silky voice.

That left Caipora—the last to be assessed.  It seemed to him that it took Anhanguera an inordinately long time as he slowly circled him, hands reaching out to touch him, to brush over his flesh with the tenderness of a lover.  Gritting his teeth as he felt his cock stir, he tried to will himself to ignore the touch, but when Anhanguera’s hand slipped up, cupped his balls, gently massaged them, he couldn’t help the violent shiver, the uncomfortable stretch as his cock hardened, thickened, restrained by the rings as the chain stretched out taut.

“As you can see, he’s always ready,” Domajin remarked to the amusement of the other overmasters.  “He’s a master trainer, but an even better fuck.”

Willing down the angry flush that rose under the layer of powder and paint, his body tensed—a coil ready to snap—and it took everything within him to keep from launching himself at the demented overmaster—to keep from wiping that arrogant smile off of his face.

“Be calm, Caipora,” Anhanguera whispered to him, his voice carrying no farther than his intended recipient.  “You are better than them.”

Biting down hard as he struggled to control his body’s reaction, Caipora drew in a ragged breath and closed his eyes for a moment.

Anhanguera chuckled, finally releasing him from his grip.  Stepping forward, back toward the overmasters, the dragon-fish-youkai held out his hands, paced the floor like a grand orator . . . “Gentlemen, I welcome you to my home, and, while we are here to discuss the past year, to target things that we can improve upon, to streamline the process, as it were, I would be remiss if I did not provide entertainment, hmm?”

He clapped his hands, and the doors opened—the same ones that the toys had been led through.  A woman was led forward, via a stout chain fastened to the black collar around her neck.  Her hands and feet were all shackled together in one long gold chain that allowed a minimum of movement.  She was blindfolded, and she was fitted with a gold ball gag, as well, and she stumbled but caught herself.  She, like the toys, was powdered and polished in the same gold dust, the same gold paints, and her nipples were clamped into tiny but ornate gold rings, the chain dipping down by her smooth belly.  She, too, had been waxed, her bare and powdered pussy glimmering, glowing in the thin haze of light.  He knew from prior running of the bathhouse that they’d likely painted her pussy, too, since the powder tended to wear off—or be eaten off—quickly enough.  The darkness of her hair lent a shadowy, mysterious quality to her, but the anger, the outrage, in her youki was thick and harsh.

A second man wheeled out an elaborate gold version of The Rack.  It sank into braces embedded in the floor with a very loud click.  Then the two of them secured her to it, spread eagle, waiting, defiant.

“This slave tried to rebel against her betters, inflicting some damage to a couple of the enforcers here.  They are being reprimanded for their inattentive actions, but I thought it important to remind this one of her place.  So . . . which of your toys would be best for this?” Anhanguera asked.

“Let Diego have her,” Garza drawled.

The other overmasters murmured amongst themselves.  “Hmm, yes . . . He’s fascinating, isn’t he?  Let’s see what he can do . . .” Mendoza added.

“Well, I wouldn’t want him to be too tired for tonight,” Domajin murmured.  He was trying to cover the irritation in his tone, but he failed.

Ybarra laughed.  “Afraid he prefers pussies over cocks?”

Domajin forced a tight smile, a dry chuckle.  “That is not an issue,” he replied.  “I am his master—he admits it.  He lusts for me.”

Gritting his teeth as he attempted to let the bawdy talk roll off of him, he stared stonily at the blank space over the seated assembly.  If he could, he’d be happy to disabuse Domajin of that notion.  Reminding himself yet again that he dared not do a thing that might ultimately raise suspicions, he willed his mind to ignore it, to let go of it, even as he filed it away in the back of his mind, just in case the opportunity presented itself . . .

“Then it is settled,” Anhanguera decided, turning to face Caipora once more.  He gestured for him to step forward, and he did.  “Do what you will, but do not allow her an orgasm—not one.”

Caipora narrowed his eyes on the self-professed devil, but he nodded.

He didn’t remove her blindfold as he stepped up behind her, letting the surge of his youki subdue hers instead.  It was a silent battle of wills, and she tried to resist him as an electric hush fell over the overmasters.  Slipping his hands up under her arms, over her chest, he grasped her breasts, manipulated them with a slow precision as he flicked the pads of his thumbs over her already distended nipples, kept hardened by the nipple clamps, the drag of the thin gold chain that hung between them.  She jerked, as though she were trying to escape his touch, even as the first shift in her scent wafted to him.  When she uttered a low, almost outraged kind of sound, he grasped the chain, wrapped it around his hand, gave it a rough yank. The sound she’d been making shifted into a groan as a shiver slammed through her.

He moved away from her long enough to step on the hydraulic plate that raised The Rack.  Usually it was used to adjust for the different heights of the hapless fools who were strapped to it. In this case, he used it to pull her off of the ground.  She gasped as her feet were lifted under her, wiggling her toes as though she were trying to hang on to solid ground.  Her emotions were palpable to him.  She was frightened, even if she were loath to show it, but under that, there was a subtle charge—a hint of passion that she fought to hide.  He had to grit his teeth, knowing deep down that what he was doing was fundamentally wrong, yet unable to do anything about it—his only choice was to go along with it—to encourage the charade that he couldn’t yet escape . . .

Reaching up, he yanked the top of The Rack to the midway position, effectively bending her at the waist as he squelched the memory of the humiliation of that pose, his mind taking on a curious sense of logical order.  Bend her over, get her where he wanted her . . . tease her just enough to get her wet . . . Fuck her . . . Then he released the last of the locks that held The Rack frame upright.  She gasped as the entire thing pitched forward, leaving her effectively hanging in the air at about a forty-five-degree angle.

Striding around her, he caught one of her hips, steadying her as she writhed and struggled against the restraints.  The gag kept her from making any real sounds, but she tried in vain to jerk away from him.

Bringing his hand down hard on her ass, she gasped as the sound of it rang out in the mesmerized silence.  She stopped fighting for a moment as Caipora grasped his already ridiculously hard shaft, slowly rubbing the head of his cock over her swollen pussy lips.  She tried to jerk away from him, but she had nowhere to escape to.  Body shuddering as much from indignant outrage as it was because of her own rising desire, she burbled around the ball gag, but nothing she tried to say made any sense at all.  Methodically rubbing the head of his dick along that little seam, letting the engorged head push those lips apart as he stared down at the blushing split, he shivered slightly, anticipation growing around him, swelling inside him as the scent of her unwanted arousal settled deep in his nose . . .

She was already wet, ready.  He knew that from her smell alone, but the feel of her body’s readiness was almost enough to make him groan. Just that quickly, her body’s response invited him, her hips moving, seemingly of their own accord, and he flicked a claw just barely right over her clitoris, wringing a gasp, a squeak from her as her body bucked.  It was a calculated risk, really.  Wound so tightly, she was already on the cusp of orgasm . . .

Mostly to give her a moment to drift away from that physical cliff, he dipped his thumb, deep into her pussy, only to withdraw it again, to rub it slowly around the pucker of her asshole.  She gasped, bucked against him, and he closed his eyes for a moment when his thumb sank into her with startling ease.  How long had it been since he’d allowed himself complete freedom with a female body?  He didn’t want to think about that; not really.  Even while training, he did not allow it—could not allow it.  That required a certain level of control.  This one—this slave—this number . . .

He pulled his thumb out of her, slammed his cock deep into her with a near brutal force, holding firmly to her hips as the carriage of The Rack aided his every stroke.  She screamed, the sound muffled by the ball gag, her pussy quivering around him, her body answering his with the inundation of her juices, slick around him—so very intoxicating after so long of fucking nothing but dry asses . . .

Pounding her hard, he gritted his teeth, trying to remember that he didn’t dare allow her to come.  Gritting his teeth since he was ridiculously close to losing it, he felt the tell-tale tremors around him, her pussy convulsing around him, gripping him so tightly, as she tried to buck her hips against his.  Ignoring the demands of his own body that screamed at him in silent unison, he pulled his dick free, smothering a groan when the cooler air of the staid room hit him hard, right in the cock and dripping balls.

Grasping the frame, he gave it a yank, flipping her upside down as she moaned, almost cried.  With a deft tug, he yanked the ball gag free, and she gasped, only to choke a moment later when he shoved his dick in her mouth.  She stared to gag.  He swatted her breast hard.  She groaned, shivered, greedily sucking his dick as he pumped against her.  It only took a few thrusts for his orgasm to hit, and, with a savage groan, he unloaded, shoving his dick down deep, ignoring the ache as it bent at an unnatural angle.  She choked, swallowed, gurgled, moaned as he fucked her throat hard.  His second orgasm followed so closely behind the first that he shivered, his knees suddenly weak, but he kept his stance, slowing the pace enough to give him a moment to recover without ending the show too soon for the bastards who were so intently watching—and for the other toys, who were all trying valiantly, not to stroke themselves . . .

When he finally felt as though he could proceed without losing his footing, he flipped the frame over again, driving deep into her drenched pussy once more, the crack of her body colliding with his, echoing in the cavernous chamber—echoing in his head.  The sound of her—the greedy suck and pull as he fucked her hard, warred with the little puppy pants that she couldn’t control.  She strained against him, making no bones about how much she was enjoying her punishment.  She struggled, tightening her pussy over and over again to keep him from pulling out of her while he bit down hard on his cheek, reveling in the feel of her velvet pussy walls.  As she neared her orgasm once more, however, he pulled free of her, only to sheathe himself, deep in her ass in one fluid stroke.

Her scream echoed in the chamber, half-pleasure, half-pain.  A moment later, he smelled the salt of the tears he wrung from her with every pulse of his thickening cock.  He could tell by the crazy-mad tightness of her ass that she wasn’t used to anal sex.  Even so, she seemed to be catching on a little too quickly for his liking as the panting resumed, as she surrendered to the pleasure-pain he gave her so freely.  Leaning back slightly—the swinging of the frame did the thrusting for him, he met her with a slap to her ass.  Her body quaked around him, inviting him—begging him.

Satisfied that she wouldn’t come immediately, he switched holes again, groaning loudly as the welcome wetness of her pussy squelched under his assault.  Time and again, he led her right to the brink of pleasure.  Time and again, he denied her as he filled her pussy, her ass, with come.  The smell of his orgasms colored the air.  In a vague sort of way, he could smell the overmasters’ arousal.  A couple of them had their dicks out, were idly touching themselves as they sat, riveted, entirely focused upon the debacle of Caipora and the unnamed slave.

He’d long given up, trying to mask his own pleasure.  Remembering to withhold the same release from her was hard enough to do.  His groans, his growls, his stunted breaths were loud, shockingly so, as he yanked out of her, flipped the frame, only to jam his dick down her throat yet again.  She sucked him hard, sucked him dry, swallowing his load as though she were starving.  She writhed, she moaned, she whimpered, and in the silence, she murmured one word: “Please . . .”

Whipping her over once more, he fell against her back, fucked her hard, fucked her deep, unleashing the slippery squelch of every thrust.  She keened quietly, begged for her own release.  He drove her close—insanely close, only to take it away at the very last moment.

She screamed when he invaded her ass yet again, his come exploding from him before he managed to sheathe himself completely.  He used her body without shame, without reservation, savoring her pussy juices that drenched his skin from the waist down, reveling in the sensation of such deep penetration as another orgasm climbed high, thick, heavy . . .So lost in his own orgasm, in his own perverted pleasure, he didn’t pay attention to the heavy footfalls, coming closer.

He gasped, grunted as he was yanked away, shoved to his hands and knees.  Before he could think, before he could comprehend, he screamed in absolute bliss as the hot, fat cock invaded his body with a vicious slam that jarred his teeth as he reared back, as he fucked his assailant hard.  The shock of it was so shockingly harsh, so startling brutal—so disturbingly welcome—he couldn’t control himself as his body convulsed, as his come shot out of him, splattering him, his arms, the floor, as Domajin’s claws dug deep into his hips, as he fucked Caipora for all he was worth . . .

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Uploaded just because I wanted to … LOL!  Feel free to leave me some love!
In case you missed it, I'm taking a short posting break.  I'll return February 19th on a regular schedule.  I might post before then, but don't count on it in case I don't.  Happy Valentine's Day!
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Final Thought from Caipora:
Blanket disclaimer for this fanfic (will apply to this and all other chapters in Anhanguera):  I do not claim any rights to InuYasha or the characters associated with the anime/manga.  Those rights belong to Rumiko Takahashi, et al.  I do offer my thanks to her for creating such vivid characters for me to terrorize.