Wasteland
by Becca Abbott
Part 2
They found the transport driver dead in the street, face blown out by a large caliber gun. The transport was empty. Twenty-four hours after being notified of the hijacking, Katze had retrieved five of the six missing boys, but the sixth, by far the finest, was still missing.
The boy was special, meant to go to an executive in a neighboring town who was in a position to do Iason a favor. The Blondie was not going to be happy to hear about this. Fuming, Katze picked up the phone and mobilized his troops.
Someone was coming. Guy wet battered lips and tried desperately to summon a bit of strength. Heavy breathing at his back, leather that cut sharply into wrists and ankles, all had become a constant of his universe, presaging the rough hands that seized his striped buttocks to pull them apart.
He was taken again, feeling the surge of hot, hard flesh through his torn opening. Guy had no voice left, his cry little more than an anguished puff of breath. Tears slipped, unheeded, down his face. No one would see in the dark, no one would care if they could. He was a mongrel whore and, worse than that, a mongrel whose jealous rage had killed his lover and who deserved every bit of this.
The unseen ravisher withdrew, panting and Guy was alone again. Bent over the table, arms and legs bound to it, he waited for the next customer. Again the door opened. He drew a hitching breath.
Unexpectedly, the straps on his wrists and ankles came loose. Without the strength to remain upright, Guy slid helplessly to the floor and huddled there.
"Get up, mongrel."
He lifted his head. Through tear-filled eyes, he saw height and golden hair. Iason! Oh, please, no! Trembling, he bent his face to the floor, expecting absolutely anything.
"I said get up!"
He tried. Limbs trembled and failed. "I can't, damn you," he whispered, but it was unlikely that Iason heard or cared.
Riki...
Hands in his hair yanked him to his feet, sent him reeling back against the table. The brothel's brutal conditioning made Guy lie back on it and open his legs. But it seemed that wasn't what Iason wanted either, the Blondie dragging him back to his feet and swearing.
Not Iason. Guy blinked, swaying. Another man stood there, hair long and wavy, not quite as pale.
They faced each other, nameless Blondie and mongrel whore. Guy began to shake, no strength in him to stay on his feet as the Blondie obviously wished. He hung in the tall man's grasp, reality fading in and out. He could feel his blood running warm and wet down his thighs.
"So, your stupid mongrel plans failed. How typical."
"Fuck you," whispered Guy. He was suddenly flung away, crashing against the wall with a force that made everything grey.
"Be grateful Jupiter chose to resurrect Iason," came those cold Blondie tones, "or this would seem the purest pleasure."
The words came to Guy in echoes. It was hard to see. He watched the tall form take a step nearer and despair crashed through him. There was nowhere to retreat. The Blondie would do what he chose. Guy could not stop him, could not defend against him. So he waited for pain and wished he were dead.
Raoul hadn't expected to find the creature so damned appealing. He'd heard that Iason had finished with the mongrel, that the boy was serving in one of Midas' brothels. Remembering his rage and grief upon hearing of Iason's death, he decided he would see this punk for himself. Yet, now that he was here, Raoul found himself strangely drawn to the trembling creature. Perhaps it was the anguish in that bruised face, or the promise of defiance under all the pain and fear. Raoul stared at the long-limbed, muscular form and had a sudden and most inappropriate reaction.
He swore, fingers itching to touch the bruised flesh. Lifting a hand, he brushed his thumb over a swollen lower lip. A tremor ran through the naked mongrel. Eyes fringed by impossibly long, dark eyelashes closed tightly. Tears glittered there, but the man made no sound. Instead, he opened his mouth, not resisting as Raoul thrust his thumb into it. His tongue caressed the digit, chest rising and falling in frightened, shallow breaths.
As if hypnotized, Raoul found himself leaning forward, hand leaving Guy's mouth to slide down the mongrel's chest. He touched Guy's nipples, raw and puffy, and saw them react at once to his touch. Covering the captive's mouth with his own, he swallowed a soft, despairing moan. Raoul tasted blood and something indescribable that made him want more.
Abruptly coming to his senses, the Blondie flinched back and stared into wide, desperate eyes. Anger rose in him, both at this cur and his own weakness. Did he really want to fall into the same trap as Iason? He knew what lay down that path! He was a Blondie, one of the Elite. Turning on his heel, he left the cell.
Iason's arm around Riki's shoulder was a familiar, welcome weight. The dark-haired man sat, watching the show, glad to be here instead of on the stage where two beautiful pets fought for dominance. None were mongrels like himself, of course. The stronger of the two had pale brown hair. The other boy, who went sprawling under a punishing blow from his opponent, had hair the color of Katze's.
The brunette, sensing victory, threw himself on the redhead, knee forcing long legs open. Around the stage came murmurs of excitement and approval as the first boy managed to get the redhead's wrist bands locked behind his back. It was defeat, and the redhead went limp, weeping softly.
Riki swept the audience with a curious gaze. A well-dressed man nearby was scowling. The pet's owner, most likely. Riki felt sorry for the boy who would almost certain pay for disappointing his Master. Right now, however, he paid the immediate consequences, lifting his ass and crying out as the victor sank a stiff, ready cock into it. Through the low buzz of conversation and clink of glasses, Riki looked away from the show, but he could not shut out the soft grunts of pain.
The show had aroused Iason. The Blondie leaned toward him and one hand slid down between Riki's legs to rub at his cock through the fabric. Riki trembled, feeling the familiar heat wash up from his groin. Then, abruptly, Iason straightened. Breath ragged, Riki didn't know whether to rejoice or curse. A moment later, he saw Raoul approaching.
"I'd like to talk to you," said Raoul. "Privately."
Iason shrugged. He straightened. "Got get me a drink," he said softly against Riki's ear.
Riki got up and went to the bar. He stood, waiting while the bartender went for the wine Iason liked and watched the Blondies. Raoul was talking, expression intense. Whatever he said seemed to amuse Iason, who finally shrugged and nodded. Raoul bowed slightly and walked away. The bartender handed Riki the goblet and Riki took it back to his Master.
"What did he want?"
"A favor," replied Iason with a tiny, secretive smile.