|janecarnall (janecarnall) wrote,|
@ 2008-10-20 12:27:00
|Entry tags:||games, keptverse|
The Games: Part Three
This story is fanfic written in poisontaster's Keptverse. Further explanation and links here, as well as Part One and Part Two. There is the beginnings of a cast list here.
Sam set the glasses down on the table between them, and pushed the one with a single finger of bourbon in it towards Kimble. He lifted his own, and drank: Kimble took a cautious mouthful. The charcoal-molasses taste rolled back over his mouth before the burn hit his throat and filled his sinuses. This was stronger than anything he’d drunk in prison, stronger than anything he’d drunk in years. He hadn’t drunk anything in the arena. No one did, unless they’d made up their mind to die. Sam was cradling his own glass, three fingers full, between his hands and watching Kimble with a kind of appraising curiosity.
Kimble looked back at him for a moment, and dropped his eyes to the glass. He’s my owner. He wants me to drink it. I can’t get that drunk on this much bourbon. Even if I did… He looked up at Sam again. I’m his property. It’s not my problem. He raised the glass to his mouth, and took another sip.
The glasses were both empty. “We’re going to bed now,” Sam said. Kimble nodded. He didn’t think he was drunk. He didn’t think Sam was drunk. But when Sam put an arm around his shoulders and steered him upstairs, he knew he should be more afraid, but it all seemed far away, behind a fog of bourbon and tiredness.
“This is your room,” Sam said. He opened the door and they both went in: it was small and bare, a cell with mattress and commode, a small window high up on the wall, the light switch and the lock on the other side of the door. “You can sleep here whenever you want. But tonight, you’re with me.”
A couple of doors down the other side of the hall: a large comfortable room, with a big bed, a bathroom off it. Sam was showing him round like a guest: Kimble’s head seemed to click into focus. He hasn’t done this before. He was sure of it suddenly, that Sam had never before used a slave for sex, and that he could take control of the situation. The brief glimpse he’d had of Sam’s cock before when they were both pissing hadn’t looked impossible. Kimble turned, dropped to his knees, and put his hands to Sam’s groin, feeling for the zip, gently groping. Get Sam’s cock out, go down on it, get him hard… make him come if he could, but get him excited enough to come fast if not –
“Richard,” Sam said. The warning note was back in his voice. Kimble stilled. Glanced up. Sam’s face was unreadable, but he didn’t look pleased.
“Richard. On your feet. Get your clothes off.”
In the muddle of being shown round, Sam had pointed out a laundry basket. Sam was stripping himself, briskly and unerotically: Kimble thought he caught a glimpse of a holster as Sam pulled his shirt off, but if so, no gun. Kimble was jolted out of his brief moment of confidence: he took his clothes off quickly, trying not to look at Sam, trying not to think about it.
Sam took hold of him and put him down on the bed, lying on top of him, his hands pinning Kimble’s arms and his weight holding Kimble down. Kimble wasn’t hard: he could feel Sam’s erection pressing against his stomach. Sam’s face was close to his. “You can’t fight me,” Sam said, quietly. “There’s no point your fighting me. I’m not going to hurt you. We’re going to have sex, and then you can go to sleep.”
Without ever letting go of him, Sam turned him, quickly and with frightening efficiency: now they were lying with Sam’s front against his back, Sam’s cock hard against his ass, Sam’s arm solid across his chest just below his throat. Kimble grunted, all his muscles tense. He knew there was no point fighting this. He felt Sam’s hand at his groin – cradling his limp cock.
I can’t wasn’t something a slave could say Or please use lube. Being fucked without lube hurt, and meant bleeding for a couple of days afterwards. Kimble tried to relax, and got out “I could give you a blow-job.”
“Don’t want one right now,” Sam said. He sounded thoughtful. His hand went on moving, gently, on Kimble’s cock. He didn’t do anything else. “Spread your legs,” he added, after a moment, and as Kimble obeyed, he moved a little, sliding his erect cock between Kimble’s thighs, till the head was jostling Kimble’s balls. It was not what Kimble had expected. Sam’s hand was coaxing him to erection, skilled and inexorable. Kimble’s hands clenched together in front of him. “Let me – ” he said out loud: let me go, let me turn round, let me do something, let go of me.
“Shut up, Richard.” Sam’s voice was breathlessly harsh, close to Kimble’s ear. He was thrusting, and his arm clenched hard around Kimble’s chest, but his hand never stopped, and he got Kimble to come in a helpless pour of pleasure, before he jerked once and groaned in Kimble’s ear and flooded his own hand and Kimble’s groin with come.
“Now go to sleep,” Sam said, but Kimble was already drowning in darkness, still held, but unable to stay awake.
He was rolling down the stairs clutching a man whose prosthetic arm was hard against his chest. He was yelling “That man took everything from me!” He was shouting at police officers, with the hard authority of a wealthy man in his voice, not knowing how his life had changed, “You find that man!”
“We can't find the guy,” the police officers said, hard disbelief in their voices.
He was sitting in the driver’s seat of a car, someone he must not look at next to him. He could hear her voice and smell her, the faint familiar perfume. He was driving through the city’s night.
If he looked, she would be gone. It was her last night. I’ll wait up for you. It was their last night. Her voice, amused and lovely. I know you hate these things, but God, I love looking at you in a tux.
He was back on the stairs, throwing himself at the man, helplessly knowing in the dream that this was the worst thing he could do, knowing he should lock the house down, he should let the staff out of their locked quarters, he should stop the man getting out, he shouldn’t try to fight him –
You can’t fight me. There’s no point in fighting me.
The man’s arm, hard against his chest, and the two of them struggling as they rolled down the long flight of stairs.
Kimble woke, his heart hammering in his chest: he wasn’t in the arena dorm, he wasn’t in the cell: he wasn’t home, though for a horrible lurching long moment after waking he had thought he might be sleeping in the guest room.
Sam was holding him, still: but Sam was asleep. The clock on the bedside table said that it was almost half an hour to shift change: at the arena, he would have been getting up, showering, dressing in his work clothes, eating a food bar. The others in the dorm were doing that now. They weren’t allowed to talk to each other in the dorm, a rule enforced by gagging anyone who disobeyed and whoever was spoken to, but they would have noticed he was gone. They would assume he was dead, as Kimble had assumed others who vanished were dead.
He could be dead before shift change, if he tried. There must be knives in the kitchen downstairs sharp enough to cut through to the femoral artery, and then there would be no risk of being saved – he could bleed to death in less than half a minute. All he had to do was get out of bed without waking Sam, find the kitchen and the knives, and be a couple of minutes alone. Judging by last night, Sam had no intention of leaving him alone for even a few minutes.
The bed was warm and comfortable, aside from his owner’s arm over him. Sex last night there’s no point in fighting me might have left Kimble full of despair, but it hadn’t hurt – Sam had promised not to hurt him…
No. Sam had made clear he got no sexual charge out of causing pain. That was all.
That was all.
Kimble shifted himself cautiously out from under Sam’s arm: he lay on the edge of the bed as Sam rolled over with a sleepy grunt, but he didn’t seem to wake. Kimble sat up, slowly, cautiously, and moved his legs till he was sitting on the edge of the bed, and Sam didn’t stir or speak. Kimble counted, clenching himself, waiting for a minute, then two, then three, realising at last that he had to stand up and go or he never would.
The bedroom door was closed. The sound of the catch clicking open seemed noisy in the silent room, the silent house, but didn’t wake Sam. Kimble didn’t stop to close it. Walking quietly, slowly, he went downstairs, following the route he just remembered. The kitchen was dim and filled with the ghostly smells of yesterday’s food and coffee. There was no knife block: a magnetic strip above the counter had no knives. The obvious drawer held cutlery, with steak knives not quite sharp enough – Kimble tested one against his thumb, and set it down again. The bread knife might work, if there was one in the bin –
He hadn’t heard Sam follow him, but he was standing in the doorway, naked as Kimble, not armed. There was no bread knife in the bin. Before Kimble could reach the steak knife, Sam was there, gripping his arms. There was a moment when Kimble could have kicked him, could have struggled, and didn’t. He saw it pass in Sam’s eyes.
“Are you going to fight me, Richard?”
Kimble shook his head.
“I said last night there’s no point in fighting me. You know why?”
“I don’t think you do. There is no point because you can’t win, and if you want to try, today’s your only day to try.” Sam let go of Kimble’s arms and stepped back. “Pick up that knife if you want to use it. I’ll take it away from you. I know you beat your wife to death, I know you shot her. I don’t intend to ever let you do that to me. But if you’re going to try and fight me, try it, Richard. Now.”
It was cold in the kitchen. They were both naked. Sam didn’t look defenseless; he was standing light on his feet, balanced, looking like a fighter, looking like an arena survivor. Even in the military Kimble had never felt like much of a fighter: he could not imagine, in cold blood, taking a swing at someone, trying to beat him – and to win against his owner, Kimble would have to beat him half to death, beat him unconscious, kill him. And what would he win, if he did that? The chance to find a knife, to kill himself.
Kimble went down slowly. The floor hurt his bare knees. He put his hands behind his back, and shook his head.
Sam didn’t move. “Say it, Richard. Yes or no. You going to fight me?”
“You going to try a stunt like this again?”
“I think you’re lying, Richard.” Sam didn’t even sound angry. “You pull any stunts on my kids, I will send you back. You pull these kind of stunts on me, I will have you locked up. I don’t want any shit from you, is that clear, Richard? Get up off your knees.”
Kimble got up. He felt dazed and cold.
“We’re going back upstairs to get dressed,” Sam said. “It’s too goddamn cold standing around here. Ground rules can wait till I’ve had coffee. Ground rule number one, Richard, I’m always in a fucking bad mood till I’ve had coffee. Go on. Get moving.”
“I didn’t kill my wife.”
Sam’s eyes glanced away from Kimble an instant, and he grinned a private, sarcastic smile, for that brief moment. His gaze fixed Kimble again. “I don’t care. Move.”
to Part Four