Chapter 29

Scene 2: Sol and Andy’s quarters.

Rafael wakes up hot and sweaty all over again, a sweet moving pressure between his legs, a hard length rubbing back and forth against his own. He grinds back with thoughtless enthusiasm before his mind catches up to him—he can’t, he’s not allowed—but the small, heavy body in his arms keeps moving, shuddering, panting roughly against his throat, until it finally goes still with a long, soft sigh.

Damnation. Well… that’s done it. They’re not allowed to come on their own, there’s punishment for that. Even for a boytoy too new for Carraway to want to turn over his punishment to Sandgren, there’s spanking, straps, cock-cages, days of slow sadistic teasing and toying and one application after another of drugged lotions that turn the body against itself, that dissolve the mind into nothing more than need. Rafael still can’t quite manage to stop hitching his hips against the man in bed with him, needy and wanting and weak.

It takes all his addled, flagging willpower to pull himself away from his companion, and get enough space to catch his breath and collect what remains of his wits. Sol murmurs in drowsy satiation—of course it’s Sol, and damn the man, his beauty and the soft parting of his lips, the swell of muscle as he rolls over and pillows his head on one arm, sleepily unaware of the provocation of the pose and the terrible mistake of his pleasure—

Rafael pulls himself back with a terrible effort, gets to his feet and stares wildly around the room; Sol and Andy’s dormitory, sunlight flooding through the window. Andy is gone, so at least he hasn’t borne witness to—any of whatever happened—but at that very moment the door opens and Rich wanders in with a bowl of grapes. He looks brightly pleased to see Rafael up for a moment, before he takes note of Rafael’s expression and his heavy red eyebrows rise in concern and alarm.

“What’s wrong? What do you need?” he says immediately, putting the bowl down on the nearest dresser.

“Sol—we were asleep, he didn’t mean to,” Rafael says, nerves alight with panic. “It was an accident, we—you know, in sleep, it happens, he didn’t mean to. We need to clean him up, we can—we can hide it. I don’t want him to be—”

“Shit, yeah,” Rich says—is already saying, soft and hurriedly, moving into the room and closing the door behind him. “Fuck. I’ve had a couple accidents too, especially after I get all doped up on those stupid sex drugs. But Carraway always knows somehow, isn’t he gonna…?”

“He’s got a lykoi’s nose, decades of experience denying his captives their satisfaction, and a keen eye for guilty consciences,” Rafael says. “And you’re not exactly the most graceful master of deception I’ve ever encountered. Of course he’s always known when you made a mistake.” He forces himself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. His own unmet need aches at him, throbbing hot and tight and insistent against his thigh, but he ignores it with well-honed skill.

“But he’s not likely to call for Sol today, after last night’s excesses,” he goes on, “and if we can clean up and trust Andy to hold his peace, the scent should have faded and the eagerness of his—his pleasure, should be returned by the time Carraway has reason to encounter him.”

“Okay. Right. That’s—good, yeah, Sol’s just about the only thing keeping Andy afloat around here, Andy’s not gonna say a damn thing.” Rich goes over and shakes Sol’s shoulder, then frowns and shakes him more firmly when that gets only a sleepy grumble. “Damn, he’s out of it. I’ll go and give him a wash, you handle the sheets.”

“Yes. I—yes, I can do that, alright.” Rafael sets to his task with a frantic, fumbling urgency, and is only halted when Rich puts a warm hand on his arm, then drops a kiss to the crown of his head.

“You’re a good friend, Raf, thank you,” he says, and is gone before Rafael can collect himself.

It’s easier to do what needs to be done after that. Rafael strips the sheets, changes the new ones, folds the old set small and takes them halfway down the hallway before remembering the state of his own pants, soiled across the front, and races back to the room to steal a new pair from Sol’s dresser. Then it’s off to the laundry room, which he wouldn’t have been able to locate a week ago, to bury all incriminating evidence deep in a hamper, and then back to Rich’s room for a long, cold shower of his own.

His dick finally softens under the icy spray, but it only drives the hunger back inside him, gnawing and unsatisfied. His very veins glow with heat and need, and he wants—Sol in his arms, awake and free, his beautiful mouth shaped into a smile, his strong square hands roaming over Rafael’s body and finding it good. Between his legs, opening him up, biting the back of his neck far more gently than Carraway ever did and holding him open for Rich, murmuring in that haughty Manhattan accent, “Think you can take him, lover boy? Think you can give him half as good a time as I did?”

God, Rafael wants to. He’s half-hard again by the time he’s toweled dry, and well past that by the time he tries to dress. It takes several wincing attempts to zip and button his pants, and even the discomfort does little to ease the damned wanting. Whatever he was given at last night’s party must be partially to blame, but even without it, this is what’s been made of him. Now that the absent, depressive fugue state he’s spent so many years in is abating, now that he’s had food and fresh air and good company enough to come alive again, he’s recalling how intently his body has been remade for pleasure, and how it demands it with uncompromising exigency.

He makes his way out of the bathroom, seething with frustration, and has only just sat on the bed and reached for his book, hoping for a distraction, when Rich finds him.

“Hey, babe, there you are,” he says. “Are you doing okay? You looked really freaked out.”

“I’m alright, I’m well, now,” Rafael manages. “Is Sol…?”

“Yeah, he’s…” Rich blows out a sigh, faintly pink, and rubs the back of his neck. “He’s good, he’s… clean. Real clean. Are you, uh… Do you need…?”

His eyes linger unsubtly between Rafael’s legs. Rafael chokes on a small, breathless sound and sways toward the man, then masters himself with a groan.

“Yes,” he says, thin with frustration. “For all the thrice-poxed good it does either of us! I just—can’t stop thinking of…” he falters for a moment, trying to hold the words back, knowing it for foolishness even as he says it, led stupidly on by Rich’s wide, green eyes and Rafael’s own hunger, despite his good sense. “Sol said he could have you, take you. I want that. I want you, as he did, I want—”

“Oh,” says Rich, and his face floods with a deep rosy flush, his eyes darken. “You don’t gotta… you’re great, you do plenty, and it’s a lot. I know some guys don’t like that, it’s fine if you don’t.”

“Perhaps I didn’t like it as well before he caught me,” Rafael acknowledges, and pushes stubbornly on before Rich can open his mouth to argue. “But I’ve been changed, Rich, you know how he changes us. I do like it, now, regardless of why, and it would please me to have the changes he made to me turned willingly to our mutual pleasure, and not only to his.”

“Yeah,” says Rich quietly, and huffs out a sigh. “No, yeah, I guess I get that.” He steps closer, reaches out and touches Rafael’s face, down to his throat so sweetly, eyes falling savoringly over his body. “It takes some work though. I’ve had guys hurt themselves trying to take me too fast, y’know, I’m not gonna let you just hop on as soon as you think you’re good.”

“I know you won’t hurt me,” Rafael smiles. “And you know I’m not afraid of a little hard work, to keep up with you. To keep you.”

“Oh,” says Rich, so low and hoarse his voice throbs like an engine, and licks his lips hungrily. “Yeah. Fuck, then we can definitely… yeah.”

“Assuming, of course, that he’d ever give us leave,” Rafael adds reluctantly, and reaches up to lay a hand gently on Rich’s chest as he starts to lean in.

“Shit,” Rich says, brought back to the realities of their situation, and gives a rumbling groan in his chest. “Right. Shit. Can’t even reel a fuckin’ fish in—” He drops his head back on his bull neck, throat working, and then looks back down at Rafael and squares his shoulders.

“Carraway might let me if I ask real nice,” he says slowly. “He likes makin’ me stick it to people, as long as I’m not about to—” he grimaces, a caught shudder tensing his shoulders. “…Break anybody. He might let me start working on it, anyway?”

“He… might?” Rafael allows, confused and wary with it. “Perhaps, if you petition him at the office tomorrow—”

“Uh-huh,” says Rich, and pulls up a screen, brow furrowed and mouth thinned with determination.

“He might…” Rafael trails off. “What, ah. What are you doing?”

“Sendin’ a message,” says Rich. “I’m not gonna leave you hanging, babe, I’m gonna ask, and see if he’ll lemme take care of you.”

“You what?” demands Rafael, and darts to his feet, wincing as the quick movement tugs unpleasantly. When he hurries around to Rich’s elbow, the man has a messaging app pulled up on the screen, and is typing an earnest and hopeful message, apparently directly to Carraway himself.

“Rich!”

“Huh?” says Rich, who has just pressed SEND.

“Are you mad?” Rafael asks, breathless with shock and horror. “Are you—have you taken leave of your senses, you can’t just pen a missive to the man—”

“Yeah I can,” says Rich, baffled. “Carraway likes playin’ captain, you saw how he got about the books, so I just started y’know. Asking him about stuff.”

He scrolls up, and Rafael beholds in bewilderment a series of messages over the past week.

Richard Merrill, IST: Trying repairs on the groundskeepers lawnmower, might need to ask Mx Sayegh for a new one.
Richard Merrill, IST: Sir, Mr Sandgren says we aren’t allowed to eat the plums, can I post a notice so people don’t get in trouble?
Arthur Carraway, APC: that won’t be necessary, sugar
Richard Merrill, IST: Yes sir.
Richard Merrill, IST: Repaired that lawnmower, sir, I’ll belay the reorder.
Richard Merrill, IST: Sir, Rafael says he wants me to be able to fuck him like I do with Sol. I promise I’d be very careful to follow the rules but could *he* come if I was getting him ready for oversized insertions?

“APC?” Rafael asks, dumbly, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Oh,” says Rich, and gives Rafael a sidelong, flushed glance, a wicked little quirk of a smile on his broad mouth. “I mean, uh. If Carraway ever sees my ID designations, I fucked up typin’ ‘cap’. But if anybody else asks, he’s uh. An Asshole Playing Captain.”

Rafael is still achingly aroused and breathless with fear, but the laugh that startles out of him is genuine.

“I see,” he says. “And, IST—Incredibly Sensual Tease, I assume?”

Rich snorts, inelegant. “Intelligent Systems Technician,” he says, flushed and flattered. “On the Fleet, that’s what I, uh—oh, wait a sec, hon.”

Arthur Carraway, APC: now sweetheart you know you can’t just be indulging your little friends with anything they ask you for
Arthur Carraway, APC: are we going to have to have another talk about your duties?

Rich gives a dissatisfied rumble and raises his screen again. Rafael, looking over his shoulder, watches him type the words sir, I thought you said I was supposed to help him out—before he reaches out and takes Rich’s wrist urgently.

“You mustn’t approach him like that,” he says, in response to Rich’s questioning look. His heart is in his throat, but… Rich has already drawn back the curtain, and the show must go on. Rafael can at least tweak the man’s lines. “Here, say… tell him…”

Richard Merrill, IST: I know, sir, that’s why I thought I better ask.
Richard Merrill, IST: You asked me to fix him up, to get some decent use out of him, instead of being so flat and boring all the time. Fixing him to take my dick would be something interesting to do with him, I think.
Richard Merrill, IST: And you could judge how good I did, when I’m done. Sol was a pretty good show when we got him there, right?

“I wouldn’t say that,” Rich says, looking upset at the words even as he finishes deftly typing them out. “Raf, you know I’m not—”

“I know,” Rafael says, in no little exasperation. “Rich, do you think I don’t know, by now? But Carraway will be delighted to hear some hint of selfish cruelty from you, at my expense. Men of his caliber are forever hungry for the faults and flaws of men better than them. Now please, if we’re to do the damned thing we mustn’t falter now.”

There’s a heartstopping silence after the message is sent. Rafael’s dread has done nothing to diminish his arousal, and he rocks his hips absently and grips Rich’s wrist in silent solidarity as they wait.

Arthur Carraway, APC: i’ve got my rules for a reason, doll. i can’t have my other boys thinking they can cry off to YOU for a soft touch.
Arthur Carraway, APC: can you guarantee to me i wont be hearing from you next week asking for more little treats for this friend or that?
Arthur Carraway, APC: that you’re doing my work, for me, and not getting your own ideas about the way i run my house?
Richard Merrill, IST: Yes sir!! I know the rules, sir, I promise, I work for you.

Another pause. Rich goes to reach for the keyboard again, chewing absently at the pink line of his lower lip—Rafael shakes his head, and Rich hesitates, then nods and takes his hands away again, fidgeting uneasily with his data rings. Waiting.

Arthur Carraway, APC: well alright then sweetheart. as long as you’re clear on who runs this show, i’ll let you get your little shadow ready to ride.
Arthur Carraway, APC: as long as you both stay real clear who the two of you belong to and stay sweet and keen and ready for WORK in the mornings.
Richard Merrill, IST: Yes sir! Thank you sir! We won’t disappoint you.

Rich dismisses the screen and sits back with an enormous, huffing sigh—then turns to Rafael with the beaming delight of a dog who’s just been handed a delicious treat.

“You’re fuckin’ brilliant, Raf,” he says, and scoops Rafael up to kiss him intently, hungry lips against the line of his jaw and down his throat, one hand slipping up the back of his shirt. “Thank fuck, I didn’t wanna just, just leave you like this…” He mouths intently at Rafael’s collarbones where he’s most sensitive, and rumbles in satisfaction at Rafael’s gasp. “We’re gonna get you taken care of…”

He’s as good as his word; Rafael is laid out on the bed like a banquet to be devoured, undressed with savoring care. Rich breaks away from him to fish a small tin out of his dresser, one of the containers of smuggled nanocream he wins from his cousins out in the garrison. A pang of concern goes through Rafael at the sight of it, that Rich might push him so far and fast there will be damage to heal afterward. But Rich doesn’t touch him like a man intending to hurt. He kisses Rafael and nuzzles at his neck and down his chest, sweet touches coaxing the heat back up through his core until he’s fully roused again, and ravenously impatient. When Rich pulls back Rafael moans in disappointment, and thrills at the answering rumble.

“Okay, so,” Rich says, breathing hard, voice rough-edged. “This is gonna take awhile, like I said, this isn’t—a one time prep session, I remember when Liam was helping me get Basil ready, it took like a week. We’re gonna build up to it.”

Rafael shivers eagerly. He’s not at all dismayed at the notion of commanding Rich’s attention like this for as long as it takes, of having those huge, strong fingers reshape him day by day… Rich gets his fingers slicked with the nanocream, then eases one into Rafael and starts rubbing gently, pressing him open in soft, back-and-forth strokes until he can fit in a second finger and thrust. Rafael gasps for breath, arching off the bed, as the hot stretch starts to give way to an aching, eager pleasure.

“Yeah, that’s good, you’re doing so good for me, babe,” Rich murmurs, low as an earthquake, his fingers still mercilessly pulling Rafael open, pressing at one side and then another, not quite too much, too far, too fast. “Tell me when it hurts and we’ll slow down…”

“I can take—I can take more—” Rafael manages, his voice choked to a trembling whisper by the relentless onslaught of sensation, the throbbing ache of being so full, the adrenaline rush of the strain.

“We’re gonna get you to the edge of too much, just as much as you can take so far, then add more nanocream,” Rich says, suiting actions to his words. “Keep things safe, you’ll heal up fast and easy, and we can go at it again tonight, and again tomorrow… fuck, you look so good, babe, I’d keep you on my fingers all day if I could, all week…”

Rafael writhes, gasping for breath. He wants to say he’d stay here gladly, he’d keep Rich’s fingers warm as long as Rich liked, but he can’t speak, words have slipped beyond him now. His arousal is an eager throb dripping on his belly, his legs spread wide for Rich, all of him thrown open and welcoming.

Rich keeps going, steady and deliberate and so careful of Rafael. He makes Rafael wait for another finger until he’s sweating all over, shaking with desperation, and then finally slides it in, and his fingers are so thick, all of him is so massive. His dick is going to feel so huge when Rafael finally gets it in him, and the thought of that moment brings Rafael close enough that when Rich directs his attentions to Rafael’s prostate, rubbing slow, firm, continuous circles around it, rendering it ever more torturously sensitive, the orgasm that’s been taunting him from a distance all this time finally sweeps over him, carrying him away.

Rich still doesn’t let up: he strokes into Rafael smooth and steady through the burning rush of orgasm and out the other side, until every instroke sets off stinging, electrifying cascades of sensation, wave after wave of shuddering aftershocks that leave Rafael addled and begging wordlessly after each rush for the next one. And still Rich works at him, three fingers thick and relentless, pistoning through him as mercilessly smooth as any machine, remaking him. Rafael shakes and shudders, overstimulated tears sliding down his cheeks, come in thick stripes across his chest, dick twitching and dripping against his stomach, well-spent but already stiffening back upright for further use.

“You can take three rounds, right?” Rich murmurs. It’s barely a question; Rafael has, and he will. Rich pauses only for more nanocream, a renewal of slick ease, and then is back inside Rafael, pressing deep, this time, thrusting all the way in until Rafael can feel it as a delicious ache low in his stomach, then retreating, then plunging back in. Long, deep strokes that fill him almost past capacity and then retreat just as steadily, leaving him squirming and whining for more—he almost chokes when Rich starts to toy with his dick, trailing his free hand lightly back and forth along the shaft in delicate counterpoint. He lowers his huge head, and starts to play his tongue over Rafael’s piercings, and that’s it, that’s perfect.

Rafael’s third orgasm lances through him like a lightning bolt, fast and brutal, and the aftershocks barely shake him, blending seamlessly into the throb and ache of need for even more of everything he’s had. He slips down into that thoughtless, animal haze where he’s nothing more than a body, where he can’t think of anything past the confines of his own insatiable hunger for the next climax, and then the one after that…

Rich spends the majority of the tin of cream on him over the next endless stretch of time, and by the time he finishes, Rafael has been brought to climax so many times that he’s lost track of numbers, names, everything. He’s long since been coming dry; everything is too much and not enough, all at once.

When Rich takes his fingers back Rafael feels so empty. He manages a soft, plaintive noise, just on the edge of a gasp, and raises his aching hips for more. But it doesn’t come: instead, he’s bundled into a huge pair of arms, held against a broad, hard chest, and just rests there, tears leaking slowly down his face as he pants mindlessly for air.

“I’ve got you,” murmurs a deep, soft voice, rumbling against his cheek, and a hand strokes up and down his back. “You’re okay, man, you were gorgeous. Just breathe.”

Rafael sniffs and presses closer against him, shivering, then slowly calms, beginning to come back to himself. He takes a deeper breath and blows it out slow, realizing Rich’s shirt has damp spots from his tears, and huffs softly at himself.

“How you feel?” Rich asks, still stroking his back.

Rafael shivers faintly and rubs his cheek against Rich’s arm. “Wrung dry,” he says, wry and amused. “That was… spectacular, Rich. I may need another nap.”

Rich laughs. “Then I guess I did okay, huh? Nothing hurts?”

Rafael shifts slightly, testing, and shivers. It does hurt; a sweet, soft ache, a soreness he well remembers from the days when Carraway made hard use of him with not nearly as much care.

“Nothing to speak of,” he decides, and shifts again with more deliberation, stretching luxuriously. “Mm. Nothing I didn’t eagerly anticipate.”

“Good,” Rich says, satisfied. “That’s good. You were gorgeous, babe, you did so well.”

“As did you,” Rafael tells him, and presses a kiss under Rich’s jaw, then trails his mouth down along the strong, fast pulse of Rich’s throat. They’re lying close together, he can feel Rich’s arousal with delicious clarity, the thick, taut line pressed against his thigh, straining towards him. For him, and soon…

“Easy, hon,” Rich says, voice rough, and eases him away. “We don’t need two accidents in a day.”

“Oh, hell, I’m sorry,” Rafael says, coming abruptly back to his senses. He can’t get Rich off, Rich doesn’t have permission yet. He’s got to wait until at least tomorrow, after the torment of seeing to Rafael’s pleasure for what felt like hours, and Sol even before that…

Rich squeezes him gently, breaking him from guilty calculation. “Hey, don’t look like that. It’s not your fault, and nothing’s gonna fall off.” He gives Rafael a rueful smile. “But uh, I’m thinking maybe we won’t be able to do this quite as often as I was planning. There’s anticipation, and there’s, uh, there’s overkill.”

Rafael considers this with some disappointment, then nods bravely. “I suppose the benefit of that is that I’ll be capable of standing upright and moving under my own power most days, rather than poured across your bed like some indolent slug.”

“You’re a lot prettier than a slug,” Rich says, and kisses his shoulder. “And you’re putting plenty of work in, babe, you get your rest day like everybody else.” He gets up and goes into the bathroom, coming back with a warm wet washcloth, which he uses to gently, meticulously clean Rafael off.

“I wish I could attend you,” Rafael murmurs, around a yawn and an oversensitive shiver, as strong hands work their way along his thighs. “Wish I could bring you to such—to—ah—”

“I’ll be okay,” Rich says. “A couple cold showers and a little patience never killed anyone.”

Rafael wakes from a doze when Rich is redressing himself, and makes a vague, pathetic attempt at wallowing out of bed after him—he’s stopped, and easily, by Rich taking half a step towards him and flipping him back over with one hand.

“But I’m, I should…” Rafael manages, and yawns dizzily. “I should follow you… we’ve errands…?”

“Buddy, if you can spend the afternoon running around after me, I did it wrong,” Rich says from far above him, sounding deeply amused. “I’m gonna get you some juice and some lunch and you’re going to take it easy for a day, alright?”

“Alright,” Rafael sighs, and subsides back against the pillows. He is sore, between the workout this morning and the extended fingering. “Can you get me my book?”

“Nerd,” Rich says, in such affectionate tones it makes Rafael’s face heat.

Rafael wakes up again when Rich hands him a tall glass of fruit juice, setting a tray of lunch on the bedside table for him, and again when Rich comes back to check on him. After that he’s nearly human again, able to at least nibble his way through the stack of dainty sandwiches and stare dreamily at the text of The Merchant of Venice, though his mind’s gone slow and soft. It’s different from the numb, self-negating exhaustion of his habitual depression, though, it’s not ice and silence, it’s a warm golden peace that has him drifting gently in and out.

It’s a beautiful afternoon, a long and lovely stretch of time. Every time Rafael begins to think he should make himself useful again, Rich reappears from whatever task he’s occupied with, offers more snacks and drinks with doting care and firmly chivvies Rafael back onto his nest of pillows.

The sun is beginning to sink low, the light changing out the window, and Rafael is lazily watching a recording of As You Like It on his data rings when Rich comes back looking stressed and anxious and the lovely, endless time is at once brought to an unlovely end.

“Carraway wants us to come up for dinner, at eighteen hundred sharp,” Rich says in place of greeting, and vanishes into the bathroom with no further explanation to take a shower that lasts roughly two minutes. Rafael is waiting in the wings by the time he emerges, and makes his own shower almost as brief, cursing softly at his wobbling legs and the way the ache that had been so soft and pleasant has turned hobbling and sore in his haste.

It’s all too reminiscent of the call that threw his entire life into chaos and upheaval less than two weeks ago, and this time he’s awake and aware enough to wonder what’s in store for him. Rafael picks through his drawers, fretting, as Rich dresses with mechanical efficiency and then paces nervy circles of the room.

Carraway has given them very little prior warning. It’s hard to say whether that’s a symptom of the man’s grandly malevolent carelessness, or an intentional attempt to render them off-balance, but if the latter was his intention it’s damnably effective. Rafael catches himself at the threshold of the room, breathless on Rich’s heels, and when he slows and takes Rich’s elbow he’s actually dragged a step before Rich notices him lagging and turns back, eyes wide and near-panicked.

There are a hundred lovely verses about steeling the soul and calming the heart before battle; Rafael hasn’t time or breath for them now. He steps forward instead and firmly spreads his arms, and Rich falters for a moment or two, skittish as a horse deciding whether to balk, and then moves all in a rush and sweeps Rafael up like a landslide, in the desperate, crushing warmth of a tight, silent embrace.

They hold each other for a few seconds, gathering their strength from one another, and then Rich lowers Rafael’s feet carefully back to the floor. Side by side and deliberate this time, they make their way to the wolf’s den.