InsaneJournal

Current mood:	mellow
Entry tags:	games, keptverse

The Games - Part Six
This story is fanfic written in poisontaster's Keptverse. Further explanation and links here, as well as Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four and Part Five. There is the beginnings of a cast list here.

Okay. *whew*.

Part Six

Kimble sat with the fresh icepack against his face for a while, and then Sam walked him round the house – the accessible parts of it. Downstairs that was the hall, and the kitchen and a large lounge with a big TV and a wall that was covered with bookshelves. You could see the wall from the windows, if you looked. Kimble tried not to look.

There were two doors on the other side of the hall, both closed, both locked. One or both must lead to the larger part of the house, the part mostly windowless.

Upstairs, Sam’s bedroom: two other bedrooms, each with their own bathroom – “My kids use these if they have to stay over,” Sam said. “Stay out of them if they’re being used.” – another door off into the windowless part of the house, also locked, and the holding cell.

The holding cell’s small window was so high on the wall of the room that it was impossible to see the outer wall from it.

You pull these kind of stunts on me, I will have you locked up.

In here? There was nothing in here, and Kimble wanted to be shut in here more than he wanted anything. Where he couldn’t see the wall that killed. Locked away from his owner.

Sam lived in a fortress. Alone, in a fortress. Or at least, with only his prisoners for company.

Why did you buy me?

The awful, twisted answer seemed to be: for company. I want to have sex with you might be how Sam put it, even to himself, but maybe it was for the kind of companionship as some of the wealthy parents Kimble had known bought for their children: their own slaves their own age, their very own best friend to be raised with them and whipped instead of them. A pet, friend, toy, companion.

His attention had wavered away from Sam for only a few seconds, as he looked around the holding cell; but Sam was looking directly at him when he looked back at his owner.

“You like it in here,” Sam said. He sounded genuinely surprised.

Kimble stared back at him. The holding cell was fully accessible to his owner, as accessible as Kimble himself: it was only a brief lapse of imagination that had let him think the cell door would keep Sam out.

Sam didn’t ask for an explanation. He looked at Kimble thoughtfully, and rubbed his hand across his mouth and up over his face. “Well, that’s good,” he said, and after a beat, “I guess that’s good.” He gestured Kimble out of the cell, and shut the door.

“Richard. Tell me before you go in there.”

Kimble looked at him.

“If you’re comfortable in your room, if you like it in there, fine, go there. But you can’t get out of there until I let you out, so don’t go in there without telling someone.”

Kimble nodded.

“Okay. I need to get you kitted up. Downstairs.”

There was an untidy desk at the far end of the lounge: Kimble hadn’t looked at it earlier, he had been too busy not looking at the windows. He looked at it when his ears registered the familiar sound of a laptop booting up: Sam gestured at him to come over.

“I figure, you need jeans, two or three pair – what’s your inseam?”

Kimble told him, almost by reflex. He tried to move to see the screen, and Sam moved his chair and set the laptop on the desk, skewed so it was pointed towards him. “Don’t ever try to stand behind me, Richard, I don’t like it.” He pointed at the screen. The logo in the corner was a company that Kimble recalled: Chicago Memorial Hospital had bought clothing for the hospital’s servitors from it. Blue jeans, loose fit: working clothes. “Three pair jeans, or you want a pair of chinos, too?”

Kimble stared. Sam reached out a hand and pulled him closer, till Kimble was standing between his spread knees: and briefly, briskly, his hands marked a circle round Kimble’s waist.”Jesus, you’re thin. Okay, you get a belt, or they’ll fall off your skinny ass. Jeans or chinos?” He dropped his hands, giving Kimble a light shove: as he stepped back, Sam reached for the laptop. “I want to hear a decision now, Richard, don’t keep me waiting.”

“Chinos,” Kimble said after a moment. He was hardly aware of what he was saying.

“Chinos. Okay. Pick a colour.” He pointed at the screen. His eyes were very dark as he looked up at Kimble.

“Brown.”

“Brown it is. Okay.” His fingers tapped over the keyboard. “And you need a couple of sweaters, a jacket, shirts, socks, underwear - ” He laughed suddenly, with genuine surprise. “Hey. Look at this.”

Kimble stared at the screen. This webpage offered a choice of male underwear: boxers, briefs, boxer briefs, jockstraps, thongs.

Sam was still chuckling. “Who the hell buys thongs in bulk for their workers?”

“Brothels,” Kimble said.

That killed the laugh. Sam’s face sobered up in a grim second. He looked up at Kimble, and nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

When he pointed at the screen again, he had reached checkout: “See if there’s anything I’ve missed.”

When Kimble said nothing, Sam looked up at him again. “Come on, don’t be shy.”

Kimble was staring at the list of clothing. He was shaking. He put his hands against his legs, palm flat against the fabric. His owner’s. The cloth, and the flesh under it, and the hands touching it. He was voiceless with too many feelings:

He had been part of a committee meeting a few years ago to sign off the buying contracts of clothing for the hospital’s slave workers: he remembered sitting through the administrator’s argument that it was poor economy to buy from the lowest-price site, they should use this one, the materials were better quality and the clothing sturdier;

Sam’s hands on him, checking his size, dressing him: his possession, for which he bought clothing: a responsible owner, thinking ahead, not just for a day, a week: Sam was planning to dress his slave for months, for longer;

The list of clothing was far more than he’d had to use or think about in five years;

The list of clothing would fit into one drawer in a chest in his old home;

“It’s fine,” Kimble said, and heard his voice come out harsh and shaking. Sam whipped his head round and stood up, quick as a cat.

Don’t fight, don’t flinch, don’t speak, don’t die. Live. Kimble made himself smile, forced himself to say out loud in a better tone: “Thank you, Sam.”

“Okay,” Sam said, his voice curiously even. He was staring at Kimble assessingly. “Okay. Go sit down over there, Richard, I’ll be done here in a few minutes.” He waved at the group of chairs at the far end of the lounge. “Go.”

Kimble walked away, down the room. The chairs and a long couch were arranged around the TV screen, with a low wooden table in the middle. He sat down on one of the chairs. The table was scarred: the marks of hot mugs, a stain that could have been left by spilled wine, a small burn as if someone had spilled hot ash. It was a solid table, good sturdy seasoned oak, and the wood had been polished and repolished since the damage was done. Someone had taken care of it, made sure it stayed looking as good as possible. Kimble reached out one hand and traced the nearest scar with his fingertip. This table had no choice about who it belonged to, either.

The chair was next to one of the bookcases: the lower two shelves were full of DVDs, not quite tidily shelved. After a couple of minutes, it sank in that they looked familiar. Kimble glanced up the room – Sam was still sitting at the desk – and slid one of them out just far enough to see the cover picture.

They were British DVDs. Old editions, imported from before the law changed, from the look of them – anyone who had bought them legally could legally keep them, they just couldn’t sell or trade them. He and Helen had had twenty-three between them, most of them Helen’s, a gift from her parents, to avoid (Helen’s dad had said) leaving them in their will. Sam had well over a hundred. Kimble slid the DVD back and put both his hands between his knees, and sat with bowed head.

The obvious way for an employee of the federal government to have so many British DVDs in his home was by confiscation. If they were taken from someone who meant to sell them illegally, they were supposed to be destroyed, but for someone with federal access, there would be ways round that. Sam obviously thought himself safe enough to have them here, beyond reach of any ordinary police search. A more regular collection of DVDs was stored beside the TV, in the usual storage rack. These were out of sight, even if not hidden, but who’d search the private quarters of a deputy US marshal? These were contraband. Sam owned contraband.

“Richard.”

Kimble hadn’t heard Sam approach. He looked up, and would have got to his feet, but Sam waved him down and sat down on the couch.

“We’ll have lunch, and you’re going to eat it,” Sam said without preamble. “Don’t care how long it takes.”

Kimble nodded.

“You said you could cook, right?”

“Yes, Sam.”

Sam nodded. He caught at Kimble’s hand, and got up, pulling Kimble up with him. “Good. Let’s see what you can do.”



It seemed impossible to put himself through the same mill twice. Handling a knife to chop tomatoes, splitting up a chorizo, Kimble didn’t think about using it until afterwards: Sam wasn’t standing at his elbow this time, but moving round the kitchen fetching materials and ingredients, stacking utensils in the washer.

Shift-change at the arena wouldn’t be for another hour. Staying awake through shift-change, on to the evening, that was going to be the problem.

“This is good,” Sam said approvingly, of the stew. “Woulda been better with cornbread.”

“I can make cornbread.”

“No one from outside Texas makes good cornbread. Don’t tell me you got a Texan-style recipe, I hate that shit.” Sam sounded amused. No, Sam sounded friendly.

Kimble went on eating. Sam had served him a plateful, and a big chunk of bread. He was tired, but he didn’t suppose that Sam had been joking when he said he meant Kimble to finish it. Everything had been clear when he had just wanted to die: but he couldn’t make himself want to die. Mostly, almost against his will, he wanted to live, even when he couldn’t think of a reason why he should want to.

Kill Sam?

Sam was looking at him, frowning, visibly wanting a response.

Kimble swallowed what was in his mouth, and said “Yeah, I – I used to bake cornbread with fresh corn kernels and chiles.” The words came out of his mouth in a shaky monotone.

Sam seemed not to notice. “You did your own cooking?”

“Sometimes. I liked to cook.” His voice was still wavering.

“Yeah, me too. I love to cook. I meet people these days, their parents owned a cook, they want to own a cook, they never spent more than five minutes in the kitchen in their lives. I’m going to make a big pot of stew for the freezer later on today, but once we’re done here, right now, we’re gonna watch a game – I need a rest after this morning, and from the look of you you do too.”

Kimble looked down at his bowl. The Games began at one o’clock, and went on till four. The bloodiest events began about an hour in, when the audience in the area was worked up and baying so loud the staff in the white room could hear them through the walls. Kimble had never thought about the regular broadcasts until five years ago, never caught more than a couple of minutes on a news broadcast, certainly never considered going to the arena –

“Richard.” Sam’s voice snapped.

Kimble looked up, leash tugged.

“I said, we’re going to watch a game. The Redbirds are playing the D-Backs, Busch Stadium. You follow the Cubs?”

Despite everything, that was almost funny. “Not recently.”

Briefly, Sam grinned. “You haven’t missed much.”



Sam sat down at one end of the couch, and patted his leg. “Lie down. Put your head here.”

Kimble folded himself down, tense and awkward. He felt like he should have known this was going to happen: yet he had failed to imagine it. He lay still, feeling himself shudder, as Sam shifted, getting comfortable. “You cold?”

“No, Sam.”

“Relax. We’re not going to do anything.” Sam’s hand patted him on the shoulder, and reached for the remote control.

Kimble couldn’t see the screen from this angle, and Sam seemed to like the volume too low to properly hear the sportscaster. He was trying to stay awake, and knew he’d fail.


After the game, Sam brewed coffee, and – he hadn’t been joking – made about a gallon of beef and vegetable stew, which went into freezer cartons, labelled and dated. It was casual, easy work, but the day was moving down towards evening, and his owner’s bed.

Practically, a prisoner on remand could be raped by the guards or by other prisoners more easily than a slave in the arena could: the arena management preferred slaves to be harmed only in front of a paying audience, and expected the staff to keep them working, not take amusement breaks. But a prisoner might be expected to fight back, even if a guard approached him: there would be some kind of negotiation, even if it were carried out with more threats than promises. A slave was accessible, that was all. Kimble had stood naked in front of arena staff who had argued with each other over whether they had time to use him, and if it was even worthwhile.

Sam’s arm round him, hard against his chest: Sam’s hands on him, inarguable. The hardness and the thrust and the pulsing hot flood of semen, making use of him.

After supper, Sam poured them each another glass of bourbon, one finger for Kimble, three for himself: Kimble drank his share obediently, wishing it was more. Blurred wasn’t enough.

Sam took his arm and walked him upstairs. When they stopped, it was outside the holding cell door. “So, where do you want to spend the night?”

If this was a joke, it …didn’t sound like one. Kimble stared at Sam, knowing what he should say. He nodded, after what felt like a long moment, and started down the hall towards Sam’s room. Sam brought him to a halt with a tug at his wrist.

“No. I want to hear you say it. Where do you want to spend the night?”

Kimble swallowed. “With you, Sam,” he got out, in a monotone.

“Don’t lie to me, Richard. Don’t ever do that.” He unlocked the holding cell door. “Told you, you got a choice. In here, or in my bed, whichever you want.”

“You bought me to have sex with me,” Kimble said.

“Yes, I did.”

“How long are you going to keep me, if I always want to sleep in here?”

Sam pushed the door open, and gestured Kimble in. He wasn’t smiling. “I don’t think that’s going to happen, do you?”



It was her last night. He was climbing the stairs to their bedroom, the rose petals on the stairs a spilled trail, her perfume a memory. At the top of the stairs, she would be gone.I’ll wait up for you. It was her last night.

That man took everything from me!

Fighting a man they said did not exist. We can't find the guy.

The police had called him “Doc”, over and over again, saying in hard voices, disbelief reeking off them, We can't find the guy. He heard them as he fought the man, heard himself shouting, his own voice echoing down the stairs, You find that man!

Then he seemed to have woken up and they were downstairs. He was standing between Sam’s legs, Sam’s hands on him, the roil of feelings inside him that the casual touch woke. “See if there’s anything I’ve missed. Come on, don’t be shy.”

At the top of the stairs, she was gone.

You find that man!

End - tbc

This concludes the first section of this story. The second section, "The Players", should begin tomorrow or Monday: Part one is finished, I'll post it as soon as I've finished part two.

See also: The Network, a standalone story.