InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Anhanguera ❯ Outted ( Chapter 14 )

Caipora shifted his gaze to the side, watched in secret as Five worked on her nightly ritual of looking at every page in that coloring book for hours.  Once she finished doing that, she’d carefully get the crayons out of the box and stare at those, too, but she refused to actually color anything, even though she’d had the book for two weeks already . . .

“Five . . .”

She didn’t even lift her head.  “Yes, Master?”

He made a face that she also completely missed.  “Are you going to color any of those pictures?”

The absolute conflict in her aura was immediate and intense, and he supposed that he could understand that.  A child like her, who had never been given anything in her life . . . On the one hand, she really didn’t want to waste her crayons, did she?  On the other . . .?

On the other hand, she desperately wanted to color, he could tell.  Whether it was the idea that, once she did, she’d eventually run out of pages or the idea of ruining those pristine crayons, he didn’t know.  It bothered him, didn’t it?  That she would be so unsure about something that shouldn’t even be a big deal . . .

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?  It was one of those things that he’d been thinking more and more often of late.  The more time he spent with her, the more he was forced to think, and some of those thoughts just weren’t pleasant, and the worst thing about it was that he knew deep down that she . . . She was entirely too smart, not to realize the same exact things, even if she never said as much out loud.

The girl was bright enough to realize that her living situation with him was not exactly normal.  He knew, too, that it could end at any given moment.  All it really took was one slip, one oversight, one moment of inattention, where he let himself react before he could stop to think . . . If anyone started to realize that maybe there was more to his feelings than the simple idea that he was keeping Five from the threat posed by other slaves . . . And as the days ticked away, as time kept moving, she was drawing closer and closer to an age when her real education would begin, and then . . .

He sighed, deliberately pushing those thoughts aside, as though he could believe that it wouldn’t happen if he just didn’t think about it, which was about the most childish thing he’d thought lately.  “If I told you that I’d buy you more crayons when you use those all up, would you color in your book?”

That seemed to get her attention quickly enough.  Biting her bottom lip as she so carefully got the crayons out of the box, she opened the book to the first page.

He figured that she’d start coloring right away.  He was very, very wrong.  Now, she sat there, staring at the picture, then looking at the crayons, over and over again so much that he could fairly feel the wheels turning in her head.  “Five?”

“Hmm?”

“ ;What’s the matter now?”

She sighed.  “Grass is green,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Yes,” he said.  “It is.”

Her little face contorted into a thoughtful scowl as she turned her head to look at him.  “But I have two green crayons,” she told him.  “This one is green like leaves, but this green is green like spring . . . Which green should I use?”

‘Leave it to her to think of something like that . . .’

“You can use whatever color you want,” he told her.  “So, maybe use one of the greens on this page, and you can use the other green on grass on another page.”

Her eyes rounded, and so did her little mouth.  “Oh!  You’re really smart, Master!”

He didn’t chuckle, but he did nearly smile as he opened the book he’d let close on his finger.

It was getting way too comfortable, wasn’t it?

That thought had occurred to him before.  Doing his job was one thing, and he could do it while he shut himself down, acted by rote.  It was the day-to-day dealing with Five that was more akin to playing with fire.  She, for the most part, was very good at remembering who she was outside of the confines of his chambers.  He, on the other hand . . .

It was entirely too easy to forget, and therein lay the problem.  A couple of days ago, she was walking with the other novices, and whether one of them pushed her, tripped her, whatever, or if she simply slipped on her own, she fell, and he’d seen it. When he’d smelled a trace hint of her blood on her skinned knee, he’d very nearly forgotten, had almost run to her to make sure she was all right, and that . . .

That would have been bad.  Given that he was under the constant watch of the overmaster, if he’d done something as foolish as that?  Just what would a twisted bastard like Domajin have thought?  And Caipora knew instinctively, the one who would have suffered for it would have been Five . . .

He’d asked her before if she knew her birthdate.  Most of the slaves did, only because it was considered to be important information.  She had said hers was June 29, 2070, which meant that she’d be eleven in a few months.  At twelve, the girls were first introduced to female oral sex, and that meant that time was ticking down.  The trouble was, the more time went by, the less Caipora wanted to see her end up in the training sessions . . . but there was no way to keep that from happening, either—not until he managed to get to Anhanguera . . .

Shifting his gaze, only to find her, staring so intently at her carefully aligned crayons as she mulled over what color to use next, he frowned.  She didn’t belong here, this little girl . . .

And something about it hit him hard: the sight of her, so studiously trying to decide on a color for a picture that didn’t really matter . . . A girl her age ought to be outgrowing such things, ready to leave childhood behind, even if the parents weren’t quite ready for that step just yet . . . A stab of guilt brought him to his feet, dropping the book on the sofa as he strode across the room.  Throwing open the balcony doors, drawing in a deep lungful of the crisp February air, he closed his eyes, grasping the railing, willed away the sense that he should have put a stop to the whole operation by now, he swallowed hard.

Get in deep, no matter what, he’d thought at the beginning.  Infiltrate it so that he could reach the head of the snake.  Grinding his teeth together as the uncomfortable knowledge assailed him, he winced inwardly.

If he had just kept his wits that fateful night not so long ago . . . If he had just thought to kill Anhanguera then, all of this would be over now, and Five . . .

But regrets and what should have been were easy to see when one looked to the past.  It didn’t do him any good now . . .

“Master?”

Turning abruptly at the sound of her voice, Caipora willed way the lingering misgivings as she shuffled out onto the balcony.  It was February, sure, but the night was still fairly warm—much warmer than most places, anyway.  Even so, he frowned at her bare feet, at the slip of a dress that used to hang so much lower on her little body . . . She was growing at a startling speed, really.  He’d have to remember to stop by the bathhouse, to get a larger dress for her before anyone else got any ideas about accelerating her training since her age, at some point, would become irrelevant . . .

To his horror, as he looked at her, those great, blue eyes filled with tears, and she held up her hands before herself—showing him the two distinct pieces: the red crayon, and the tip that had been snapped off.  The smallest sound escaped from her—the tiniest whimper.

“Five,” he murmured, dropping to his knees, he pulled her against his chest, holding her in such a way that he could smooth the hair back out of her face.  “It’s . . . It’s just a crayon,” he told her, his voice gruffer than he intended, grimacing over her head as her tiny body shook, as she dampened the shoulder of his shirt with her silent, miserable tears.  “It’s okay . . . You’re not in trouble.”

She didn’t reply, only cried some more, and he sighed.  “You can still use the crayon,” he said.  “Or . . . Or I can sharpen it for you.  Okay?”

“I’m sorry,” she squeaked, her voice muffled by his shoulder.  “It rolled off the table . . . I c-couldn’t catch it . . .”

“It’s all right,” he assured her.  “Now, stop crying . . . It’s just a crayon, and crayons can be replaced eventually.”

She sniffled and leaned away, swatting at her eyes and looking like the moisture she came away with somehow offended her.  “I can use this one,” she told him, but her deep breath was stuttering and stilted.

Folding his forearms on his propped knee, he reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear once more.  “You want to show me your picture so far?”

She considered that, nodding slowly, eyes still uncannily bright in the darkness.

Satisfied that crisis had been averted for the moment, he let out a deep breath as he stood up and followed her inside, closing and locking the doors behind him.

Down on the ground, under the balcony, the solitary figure looked thoughtful, pensive, calculating . . . And then, he smiled . . .

“Bathhouse,” Caipora said, dismissing the three girls he’d just finished training.  They filed out of the room without a word, leaving him to get dressed, and he sighed, yanking up his jeans, pulling on his boots, foregoing the shirt for the moment as he wandered over to stare out the bank of windows that overlooked the quiet and peaceful shore.

He really, really hated the first training sessions with the newest group of virgins.  He had to wonder if the wasn’t invariably stuck with them because of some perverse twist of fate.  Even the tougher girls were likely to cry, which always led to having to discipline them, too.  After all, a slave was not allowed to cry.  It showed that they had feelings, and the very last thing a potential owner wanted was that kind of display . . .

They were started out with varying sizes of butt plugs that gradually got larger throughout the six months or so that they were forced to wear them.  The theory was that it would stretch them out, which might be true, but then, no one ever really took into consideration, the size of the different trainers.  Caipora, it had been said, though never by him, was likely the largest of them when he was erect and ready to go.  If that really were the case—he couldn’t say he’d ever actually set out to find out if he was, indeed, larger than the other trainers, anyway—then it seemed rather stupid that he’d be one of the first ones that the virgins were sent to for practice . . .

Turning on his heel, he snatched his shirt up and strode out of the room, passing the slaves that were waiting to clean it without a second thought.

He strode down the hallway and into the great room.  He’d almost reached the stairs when Domajin called out to him, and he smothered a sigh since the overmaster was the last person he wanted to deal with at the moment.

“Caipora . . . just the man I wanted to talk to.”

“Oh?” he said, shrugging on his shirt, wishing he would get on with it.

The overmaster smiled—an expression that Caipora figured was his effort to win back Caipora’s acquiescence.  It didn’t.  “I need someone to help me with a new . . . project . . .”

“If it involves me anywhere near your pecker, you can forget it,” Caipora shot back, crossing his arms over his chest as he narrowed his eyes on the overmaster.

Domajin chuckled, but his smile was tight.  “No . . . No, it’s a special request that Anhanguera sent a message about.  It seems that one of his better customers is interested in procuring something a little . . . different . . .”

“So, what does this have to do with me?”

“As minor master—”

“I’m not,” he cut in, arching an eyebrow, shaking his head.

Domajin waved a hand dismissively.  “Maybe not in official capacity, but . . . you have dominated everyone who has come at you, have you not?  Well, everyone but me . . .” The nasty chuckle came again.  “The other men look at you as a . . . mountain they must climb . . .”

“Hardly amusing,” Caipora grumbled.

“Anyway, I cannot possibly go see to it myself, so I’m going to send you in my place.  I’ve already sent word to the Gauntlet to expect you tomorrow afternoon.  You’re to inspect the slaves they present and choose the best one . . . looks count, of course, but there are certain other criteria.  Choose one who is slender, maybe not as tall, though the ones at the Gauntlet tend to be taller.”

“Why am I doing this?  What’s the point?”

Domajin waved a hand, walking Caipora toward the stairs.  “I told you, it’s a special request from a man that has bought many of our slaves through the years.  He’s asked for a transgender—a she-male—the best of both worlds, I suppose you could say.”

Stopping dead in his tracks, Caipora couldn’t quite help the incredulous look he shot the overmaster.  “A . . .? What if the slave doesn’t want to be—?”

“Since when do they have a choice?” Domajin hissed, all traces of his good mood disappearing in a flash in the face of the trainer who dared to question his superior.  “You will do as you’re told, Caipora—no more, no less.  Don’t think that, because I’ve allowed you to do as you will that you’re allowed to question me when it comes to an official order.  Do you understand?”

Glowering at the overmaster for a long heartbeat, Caipora narrowed his eyes.  “Of course,” he bit out though he couldn’t repress the sarcastic snarl in his tone.  “Tomorrow afternoon, right?”

Satisfied that Caipora wasn’t going to keep beleaguering the point, Domajin abruptly turned away, striding off down the hallway.

Caipora watched him go, unable to wrap his brain around the latest bit of perversity, even if it wasn’t something of Domajin’s warped and twisted imagination . . .

Stomping up the staircase, he slammed into his chambers without a second thought.  So wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice Five’s absence at first.  In fact, he didn’t notice at all until he tossed his shirt into the laundry bag and turn around, only to realize that dinner was not waiting for him.

In a world where anything was possible, he wasn’t entirely sure why the idea of a forced transvestite would surprise him—and appall him—as much as it did.  It horrified him, actually.  It was one thing to want to do something like that to yourself, he reasoned.  In the normal world, people did that because they felt as though they belonged to the other gender, and, while he may not understand it since he’d never actually felt that way, he wasn’t averse to those people undergoing the procedures to change their genders.  That was a far cry from a male slave being forced to do the same, simply to entertain an owner who wanted a being with both dick and breasts . . .

Plopping down on the sofa to kick off his boots, he sighed.  Why did it seem like, just when he thought that nothing could surprise him, something like this came along to prove that he was wrong . . .?

The door opened, and he glanced up, only to do a double take when Five slipped into the room with the tray of food, but that wasn’t what got his attention.  Horrible, livid bruising on the girl’s upper arms did it—bruises that wrapped all the way around her tiny limbs.  “Five, what happened to you?” he asked.  Common logic told him that she was simply punished for something—albeit, more roughly than he was okay with.  Still . . .

She kept her chin ducked and said nothing as she slipped the tray onto the stand and slowly, shakily, moved the dishes to the coffee table.

“Five.”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she muttered, still refusing to lift her chin.  In fact, she ducked it a little more, her hair falling like a curtain so that he couldn’t rightfully see her face at all.

He’s eyes narrowed.  “Why isn’t your hair up in a braid?” he asked suddenly.

She shook her head quickly, but the misery—the fear—in her youki was impossible for her to hide.

Reaching across the table, grasping her wrist firmly but gently, he tugged her around to stand before him, letting go of her long enough to lift her chin.  “Who did this?” he demanded in a sharper tone than he intended.  Anger flaring instantly at the sight of the rapid discoloration around her swollen eye, her round little cheek, he turned her face from side to side as she kept her eyes cast down.  “Who did this to you, Five?” he demanded again when she refused to answer.

She uttered a choking sound, struggling so hard not to cry.  Lips quivering, nostrils trembling, yet she stubbornly held back the tears.

As if on instinct alone, he started to pull her into his lap.  She couldn’t help the harsh little squeak that was forced out of her, her tiny body stiffening, and, with a growled curse, Caipora yanked her dress up.

A blackened surge of sheer rage shot through him as he stared at her—at the welts on her stomach, on her back—at the ugly bruising on her hips—bruises that looked like they might well be the exact shape and size of a man’s hands—the bright pink of her knees like she’d fallen—or was pushed down . . . The only thing—the only thing—that saved him from losing himself entirely was that he couldn’t smell any trace of actual penetration violation on her.  Her crotch, her ass both looked relatively unscathed.  There was no blood, no reek of come, and it was a trace relief.

Letting go of her dress, not daring to say a thing, he gently picked her up, carefully strode over, put her in his bed and pulled up the covers to her chin.  “Who did this to you?” he asked again, struggling for a calm that he was far from feeling, struggling to block out the consuming fury.

The sight of the silent tears, coursing down her cheeks, was almost too much for him to take.  She slowly shook her head, but the fear that he could feel so thick around her held her tongue.

Getting a name from her would make it simpler.  It wasn’t the only way he could find out.  “Go to sleep,” he told her, sparing a moment to ruffle her hair, hoping that she’d understand that she wasn’t in trouble.  Then he turned on his heel, strode out of the room, pulling the whip from his belt as he followed her trail, unleashing one loud crack that did nothing to pacify his seething ire.

Fourth floor—the enforcers’ floor—the second door to the right.  The smell of her fear lingered there—sharp, pungent—hurtful.  He’d managed to get a handle on his anger, managed to shove it down enough to keep it from flowing freely around him.  Balling up his fist, he smacked the door once, fist tightening around the handle of the whip.

Pablo opened the door with a snide grin, as though he had been expecting Caipora.  If he had any common sense, then he would have realized that Caipora wasn’t about to let this go.  Dealing the miserable bastard a hard shove, sending him careening back against the far wall, Caipora strode inside, kicked the door closed.  Before he could shrug off the daze from the impact with the wall, Caipora had his wrists bound tight with Pablo’s own whip.  Then he unleashed his whip with a fierce crack, right across the bastard’s face.

Pablo’s screech of pain echoed off the walls, and Caipora didn’t care.  The memory of a sweet little face, smiling so happily at him as he ruffled her hair seemed to linger before his eyes as he drew the whip back, let it fly, over and over again, shredding Pablo’s clothing as he screamed and cursed and cried.

It was only after his initial fury had been quelled slightly that Caipora deigned to speak to the slobbering, quivering mass on the floor.  “Did you try to rape her?” he growled, grabbing a handful of Pablo’s hair, yanking up and back hard.

Pablo’s face was bruised, bloody.  He’d lost one eye to the rage of Caipora’s whip, and the other was swollen shut.  Pablo choked out a harsh, rasping chuckle, as though he couldn’t really grasp just how precarious a position he was in—or maybe, he simply didn’t care.  “I was going to shove my cock up her tight little ass,” he burbled, lips drawing back, exposing a few spots where he’d lost teeth.  “But you’ve already done that, haven’t you, Caipora?  You have her all to yourself . . . But I know the truth . . . I know the truth!”

“You know nothing,” Caipora spat, yanking his head back before shoving it down, letting go as his face smashed against the unforgiving marble.  Ignoring his howl of pain, Caipora stood up, glowered down at the miserable excuse for a youkai.  “You’d ruin her?  All for what?  Are you that stupid?”

The pained gasps shifted into a maddened laugh that then morphed into an outraged howl.  “She bit me, the stupid little bitch!  I stuck my dick in her mouth, and she bit me!”

Something about those words were enough to unleash what was left of Caipora’s scorn.  Striding over to him, jamming the unforgiving wooden handle of his whip up Pablo’s ass, he ignored the fresh bout of screams, the echo of pain that melded into one loud, long wail.  A parade of memories only served to goad him further as he shoved the handle in deep, over and over, ignoring the horrid and rancid smells, the screams, the ragged rage . . . Those memories seemed to jumble together, one upon the next—the night he’d thought he could jump him, the look on 435578’s face as he systematically ripped her to shreds, the pleading in the hapless slave's gaze as she silently pleaded with Caipora to kill her . . . the face of the little girl who was scared and alone where Caipora had left her . . .

“Get off me, you crazy bastard!  Get off me or I’ll tell everyone what I heard!  Babying that slave!  Who’s ruining her, huh?” Pablo shrieked.  “I did her a favor—a favor!  I—”

Words cut off when Caipora yanked his head back again, when he shoved his cock down his throat—he’d yanked his pants open while the idiot had been having his tirade—he ground his teeth together, his rage forcing his hand as he used his grip on the bastard’s hair to hammer the back of his throat time and time again.  Seconds later, he grunted, unleashing a surge of scorching come down Pablo’s throat, shaking Pablo’s head back and forth, feeling him as he tried to vomit but couldn’t.

Jerking his still-hard dick out of Pablo’s mouth, he slammed his face down on the floor again, scowling at the blood, soaking through the fabric of his jeans and stepping back just in time to avoid the surge of vomit as Pablo heaved.

Yanking the whip handle out of his ass, Caipora fell on him, grasped his hips, jerked him up to meet him halfway, burying his cock deep in his ass as he gurgled and grunted, his harsh breaths, bubbling in the puddle of vomit on the floor.

Lips curling back in a grin that was as devoid of humor as it was full of disgust, Caipora kept fucking him as he leaned forward, grasped Pablo’s erect penis, his balls.  Giving them a vicious twist, his deranged little smile widened as the bastard screeched in pain.  “You’re not coming, you stupid fuck,” he growled, slamming into him hard enough to make Pablo’s head bounce off the floor.  “You’re never coming again.”

He had no idea if Pablo heard him or not, and he honestly didn’t care.  Riding him harder than he’d ever done before, he filled his ass time and again.  When he finally pulled out of him, watching in a detached way as his semen dripped out of Pablo, he started to stand up, to push himself to his feet.

Suddenly, Pablo laughed—a dazed and insane laugh that rankled Caipora’s nerves.  “Too . . . late . . .” he muttered.  “It’s too late!  Do you hear me, oh mighty Caipora?  Too late!”

The fury that he’d thought he’d quelled shot back through him with unmitigated force.  Vision darkening around the edges, he fell to his knees once more, balled up his fist, smashing it deep into Pablo’s bowels.  The youkai shrieked as Caipora tunneled his fist into him as far as he could—up to his elbow—nearly up to his shoulder.  Then he forced his hand open, dug his claws in deep, raking through him, feeling his flesh rip under the assault of his claws, only to ball up his fist once more, jerking his arm, turning it slightly as he hammered it in again, only to open his claws, shredding through the other side.  This time, he yanked his hand free, flicking the come, the blood, the shit off his hand, all over Pablo.

He was wheezing, groaning, unable to form coherent words as Caipora stood, shoved him over onto his back.

Then he reached down, grabbed his dick and balls in one hand, dug his claws in as Pablo shrieked, gurgled, shrieked again, pelvis arching up off the floor, body twisting in agony, as Caipora wrenched him hard, twisting them—severing them with a vicious yank of sinew and skin and tearing muscle in a macabre sound of oozing and tearing flesh that he felt more than heard over the ridiculous din of Pablo’s anguished shrieks.  And then, nothing as the pain overcame him, as he slumped lifelessly on the soiled marble floor.

Staring at the penis, at the testicles in his hand, Caipora felt the rage draining out of him, leaving behind a nothingness—an emptiness—as he tossed Pablo’s parts down on his unconscious body.

And he turned and walked away.

He tried to be quiet as he pushed the antechamber door open, as he closed it and locked it behind himself.  Five was close—he could feel her—and as the last few hours fell away, he sighed.

Having spent the last hour in the bathhouse, opting not to allow Five to see him—to smell the things he’d done—he’d endured the scrubbing, the works, minus the enema treatment.  That didn’t mean they didn’t try, but given his state of mind, they must have thought better of it, and that was fine with him.

Sparing a moment to peer down at her, he let out a deep breath before heading off to brush his teeth, satisfied that she was sleeping.  Tiny body lost in the folds of the blankets, she slept so soundly—a small consolation after what she’d been subjected to.  Even in the moonlight, streaming through the balcony doors, he could make out the angry bruises.  His rage surged once more, but it was dulled a little with the knowledge that Pablo . . . Well, he wouldn’t be hurting anyone, ever again . . . Glancing at himself in the mirror, only to do a double take, he winced.  There was so much nothing in his gaze, it was hard to even recognize himself.  He’d spent all of his emotion, hadn’t he?  All for a little girl—for a single life that he was trying to protect . . .

By the time he’d finished brushing his teeth, he was relieved to see that some form of expression was slowly returning, even if that form was overall disgust, of anger that still seethed just below the surface.  When he’d left Pablo’s room, he was still alive.  Whether he was now, Caipora didn’t care.  He would be useless outside of the realm of enforcer, if he survived at all.

But he couldn’t say that he’d care if the bastard died, either.

A quiet little whimper drew him out of his dark thoughts.  As he exited the bathing area, he glanced at the clock.  It was only two in the morning.  It felt much later than that.

He didn’t think twice as he slipped into bed with Five, didn’t consider how inappropriate it might be, to allow a slave to sleep in his bed.  It never crossed his mind to put her on her pallet.  After everything she’d been through, heaping one more indignity upon her was just beyond his reach.

He stretched out with a heavy sigh.  A moment later, she curled toward him, as though she were seeking some kind of solace, and, with a sad little smile, he held her tight, gently kissed her temple as he tried to drive away the upset that still lingered in her aura.

Maybe she’d think it was all a bad dream in the morning.  He could hope, couldn’t he?

A bad dream . . . and demons that lingered in the daylight . . .