He walked over to Blake, stopping very close to him, and staring at his neck. He tugged at the collar a little. "It's irritating your skin," he said. "Why don't you take it off when you shower?"
Blake shrugged, wrapping the towel around his waist. "Most of the time, I forget it's there."
Sarceda let out a short bark of laughter. "If I gave you a bone to carry around, would you keep it with you all the time?"
Blake let his eyes wander up and down Sarceda's body, as if trying to make out the shape of it under his suit. "I'd bury it," he said, grinning suddenly.
Sarceda reached into his pocket and pulled the small object out again; Blake realized it was a pack of cigarettes. His eyes narrowed. Sarceda flipped the box open and pulled out two, sticking them both between his lips and producing a lighter from his other pocket.
"You know," he said, around the cigarettes, "I learned a lot about you in the past few months. When you first stumbled into my territory I didn't even know you existed. You're their best-kept secret, aren't you?" He flicked his lighter and brought it up to his face.
"My agency deals in secrets," Blake replied, his nostrils flaring at the scent of freshly lit tobacco. "Is this the part where you try to tell me that we're not so different, you and I?"
Sarceda laughed, taking one of the cigarettes out of his mouth and handing it to Blake. "I would never insult your intelligence like that," he said, as Blake reluctantly accepted the proffered gift.
Blake's eyes fell closed as he inhaled the first lungful. It had been such a long time. He couldn't restrain the sigh of pleasure that came out as he exhaled a cloud of smoke.
"You people are so severe on yourselves," said Sarceda. "On your bodies. You really ought to learn to indulge yourselves every now and then."
"I indulge myself plenty, thanks," said Blake. "And I have no delusions about my country or the agency that I work for. But at least there's someone holding us accountable. Who keeps you in check?"
Sarceda just smiled. The curve of his lips sent a powerful jolt of desire through Blake's body. He had been suppressing these feelings the whole time he'd been in solitary confinement, unwilling to let Sarceda's sexual hold on him take control once again. But he couldn't stop it. He was horny, God damn it, and maybe Sarceda was right after all. Maybe he had to stop being so severe on himself. His cock was twitching under the towel and he was sure Sarceda would notice soon, if he hadn't already.
Blake took a long draw of his cigarette, trying to maintain a casual stance even as his dick strained upwards. If he tried very hard, he could almost prevent the images and sensations from taking over his mind. But if he let down his guard for even one second, the memories would come back in a flood and he would be helpless.
Then again.
"Helpless" was exactly what Sarceda wanted, wasn't it?
If Blake gave himself over to the desire, if he let himself act like his will was broken and he had nothing left in him except a hunger for Sarceda's body, for whatever pleasure and pain the career criminal was going to deal out, then he would be in an advantageous position indeed.
"Is there something you'd like to say, pet?" Sarceda was eyeing him carefully.
Blake cleared his throat. "With respect, sir, I think I've been punished for long enough."
Sarceda stubbed out his cigarette on the wall. "You think I've been punishing you?"
"Yes."
"Oh," said Sarceda, softly. "I see." He flicked the cigarette butt onto the floor. "If there's something you want, you just have to ask nicely."
"And how was I supposed to ask you while you had me in solitary?" said Blake, irritated. He tacked it on at the end, resentfully: "Sir."
"Don't make me put you there again, and we won't have to find out," said Sarceda.
"So you were punishing me." Blake smiled, triumphant. "I'm sorry I fought you. But you have to understand. I was just falling back on my training. It's instinctual."
Sarceda took a step towards him, closing the distance between them. He plucked the forgotten cigarette from Blake's fingers and tossed it away. "Your training, hmm? Would that be the same training that taught you to follow all orders without question? To be the best little drummer boy for the military-industrial complex that you can be?" He smiled, gentling the harshness of his words. "Your training actually made you perfect for me. You came tamed, trained, and housebroken. All it takes is a little reprogramming to turn you into something else."
"The system is broken," said Blake, softly. "Congratulations. You're the very first person to point that out. And what's your alternative? A cocaine-based economy? As well as that seems to be doing for you and your peers, I think there might be some people falling through the cracks."
Sarceda's fingers closed around Blake's collar. "Be careful," he murmured, "passing judgment on the oppressed who do what they must to survive."
Blake snorted. "Go on," he said. "Keep trying to take a moral high ground with me. We can do this all day."
"Of course," said Sarceda. "I don't expect you to understand. Just know that the privilege that you take for granted was built on the backs of my mother and father, and their mothers and fathers, and all the generations before. I've been watching the streets of my country run with blood since I was a little boy. Just to satiate the boredom of those businessmen and bankers to the north, who would just as soon see us wiped off the face of the earth, as long as they still get their fix."
"What am I supposed to do about it?" Blake said, softly.
"Nothing," Sarceda replied, inches from Blake's face. "I just want you to see things from my point of view." Blake caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath.
He made a sudden movement, yanking the towel off of Blake's waist and tossing it on the ground. "Still so impertinent," he said. "Maybe I ought to throw you back in your cell so you can think about the way you've chosen to speak to me."
Blake bowed his head and kept silent. This was hardly the time to continue arguing. His cock bobbed up towards his stomach, of its own accord, begging for attention.
"Turn around," said Sarceda. "Bend over and put your hands on the wall."
He was referring to the little half-wall that separated the shower area from the rest of the room. Blake followed his instructions, grabbing onto the cinderblock, presenting himself for Sarceda's burning gaze. He had a pretty good idea what was going to happen, and a part of him wished that the anticipation wasn't making his balls tingle. But the larger part of him couldn't even begin to care.
"Pity I don't have my cane," Sarceda said quietly, just before the first smack landed.
Blake grunted. He couldn't help it. The pain was intense, but the shiver of pleasure that went through him was much more concerning. His dick bobbed against his stomach, leaving a smear of pre-come. He gritted his teeth.
Being hit with Sarceda's bare hand was a completely different sensation than the cane, less of a sharp sting and more of a dull, bruising ache. The pain was still intense. He certainly wasn't holding back. It occurred to Blake, dully, as the fourth or fifth smack connected with this flesh, that it must be hurting Sarceda's hand as well. And just like that, a few moments later, he could feel from the slight alteration in the angle that Sarceda had switched to his other arm.
He picked up his pace, spanking Blake relentlessly, alternating between two hands and only hesitating long enough to give the last smack's reverberations a chance to dissipate slightly. Blake was panting, little noises escaping his throat that he couldn't possibly hope to control.
Finally, it stopped.
"Do you want to come?" Sarceda asked, sounding as breathless as Blake felt.
"Yes," Blake rasped, exhaling shakily. His balls were drawn tight against his body and his dick felt ready to explode. Every inch of his body was throbbing with mixed pain and desire. He expected Sarceda to fuck him, or to make him beg. Instead, he felt Sarceda's body pressing up against him, one hand resting on his opposite hip, gently, almost like an embrace. Then Sarceda's other hand reached do
wn and closed around him, stroking him at a maddeningly unhurried pace. Blake's hips jerked, thrusting into Sarceda's hand as it coaxed him slowly to a shuddering, shattering climax. He moaned - a long, broken sound - his knees buckling and his muscles shaking as the pleasure overtook him and his mind went blank.
He sank down on the floor, and once he came back to himself he was surprised to see Sarceda there too, sitting slouched against the wall with his elbows resting on his knees. The mask of authority had fallen, just like it did during their time together before Blake's rescue. He looked tired. He was only human after all, even if his motives and actions were beyond Blake's understanding a times.
"Tell me," said Sarceda, at last. "What's the longest mission you ever ran? Weeks? Months? Years?"
Blake shrugged. "I never went deep undercover. I had some friends who did. I don't suppose I've ever been in the field for more than a few months."
Sarceda's eyes were closed as he rested his head on the wall. He had, Blake thought, an awful lot of faith in his men to do something like that. Or perhaps he inexplicably trusted Blake.
"It must be hell, don't you think?" Sarceda said, after another long silence. "Pretending to be someone else for so long. Just watching and waiting and listening." He pulled out another cigarette and handed one to Blake. "And afraid, always afraid that you'll be found out. Guilt is guilt, even if you know you're doing what is right."
"Some people get lost in it," Blake agreed, unsure why he was having this conversation. "It's a risky proposition."
"I suppose you might wake up one day and look in the mirror, and no longer recognize yourself." Sarceda fumbled with his lighter. "But without that identity you've created, who are you?"
How drunk was he? Blake took the lighter when it was offered, sparking up his own cigarette and keeping one eye on Sarceda.
"I knew a little boy," Sarceda said, abruptly. He plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and stared intently at nothing. "His parents worked in the coca fields. They ran afoul of the cartel somehow, and they were killed. Not just the mother and the father - the little boy's brother too, and his baby sister. They only left the boy alive. He never knew why." Sarceda paused, took a long drag, and continued. "His foster family had to keep explaining it to him. Over and over. He was too young to understand that his family wasn't coming back, even though he saw them all die. But as soon as he was old enough to understand, revenge was the only thing on his mind."
Blake eyed him, sidelong. "Understandable," he said.
Sarceda nodded. "When you find yourself in a position of power, violence is just the cost of doing business. Ordering a hit. Ordering a drone attack. It's all the same. The first thing that comes with power is fear of losing it." His cigarette was dangling, forgotten, in his hand. "The boy understands that now. He's come a long way. He's so close to what he wants, he can taste it. But he's become...twisted. He's lost sight of the person he used to be."
"Perhaps," said Blake, softly, "he wouldn't be so twisted if he hadn't watched his whole family gunned down in front of him."
Sarceda laughed. "But we all make choices. Don't we, Blake?"
"We do indeed." Blake scraped his cigarette on the floor.
When Sarceda spoke again, his voice was so quiet that Blake leaned close to hear him. "Things have been set in motion. If I could stop..." he shook his head, and seemed to come back to himself. "We'll be going on a long trip later," he said. "In my private jet. It'll be quite a nice treat for you." He got to his feet, a little unsteady, smiling condescendingly. "Get yourself dressed and be ready to leave."
As he walked away, Blake contemplated these instructions. What was he supposed to do "get ready," exactly? Pack all of his nonexistent belongings? During his previous time in captivity, Blake was pretty sure he had never seen Sarceda drunk, and certainly not in the middle of the day. He was agitated - upset about something that was about to happen. What had he 'put in motion,' exactly?
"Oh," said Sarceda, stopping and turning back. "When you get on the plane, I want you to be wearing this."
He tossed a small drawstring bag towards Blake, who reached out and caught it. He stretched it open and peered inside.
"Should be easy enough for a spy," said Sarceda. "Just one more thing to hide in your ass." He laughed uproariously as he walked away, and Blake pulled out the small butt plug and eyed it with a sense of vague foreboding.
***
True to Sarceda's word, Blake found himself on a sleek, well-appointed jet that afternoon. He was handcuffed, which the number of armed guards surrounding him at all times made absolutely redundant. But he couldn't fault Sarceda for being careful. If their situations were reversed...
Blake knew it was unwise to try and make sense of a madman's actions, but he kept getting the feeling that he was missing something. Earlier, Sarceda had implied that he was about to do something terrible because he believed he must. In his mind, there was no choice. Of course he had intended Blake to believe that the "little boy" in the story was him, that his actions were justified by a decades-old hunger for revenge. But was it true? Did it matter if it was true?
What horrible thing was about to take place?
As it turned out, it was hard to think straight with a butt plug in.
It had gone in fairly easily. Sarceda had been nice enough to include a small packet of lube in the bag as well, so when Blake had gotten back to his cell, he'd found himself thinking might as well get it over with.
With one foot resting on the edge of the bed, he'd managed to stretch himself wide enough to get the very tip inside the tight ring of muscle that resisted against his efforts, and then...
The guards who were leading Blake pushed him past the first passenger compartment, into a separate seating area in the back of the plane. A sliding door separated it from the rest of the cabin, which Sarceda closed after they passed through it, leaving them alone in the room. Blake tried not to fidget. He'd grown used to the feeling of the plug inside him, but it was sending strange jolts of sensation through his body when he least expected it. Now that he was alone with Sarceda, embarrassingly, the plug's next little shock of pleasure instantly made him half-hard. It was a helpless, Pavlovian response. Sarceda either didn't notice, or pretended not to.
They buckled in for takeoff, sitting side by side in the luxurious white leather seats. Blake kept his eyes on his lap. In a seated position, the plug pressed against him in an almost painfully delicious way. His cock stiffened and strained against the fabric of his pants, but he kept his hands on his lap and refused to react. After they reached altitude, he heard a slight jingling noise and looked up.
"What do you think?" Sarceda asked, smiling. "Should I unlock you?"
Blake shrugged.
"What?" said Sarceda. "You don't care? Surely you'd be more comfortable. This is going to be a long flight."
"Whatever you want," Blake mumbled, because he didn't know what else to say.
"What's that?" Sarceda leaned in closer. "I can't hear you."
"Whatever you want," Blake repeated, louder. It was on the tip of his tongue to add a smart remark, something like why does it matter? You'll just do it anyway. But he didn't.
Sarceda grabbed him by his collar and dragged him out into the aisle. By now, Blake had learned to just go slack and follow his movements when he felt the leather tighten around his neck. Sarceda placed him in the middle of the aisle and just looked at him. His face was open and unguarded, but betraying nothing, simply looking at Blake without the intention of intimidating him. It felt strange. Had he been drinking again?
Blake cleared his throat just to break the silence.
Sarceda smiled. There was no edge of cruelty to it, not really, but he looked...cautious. It almost felt - and how Blake hated himself for thinking this - but it almost felt like that time between meeting a girl and bedding her, the strange in-between moments where the future is anticipated but uncertain. Those minutes that tick by so slowly, giving one the distinct impression that the
whole universe is holding its breath.
Sarceda's expression changed minutely. He reached out with the key, and Blake presented his hands. "You won't make me regret this, will you?" he said, softly.
Blake looked at him for a moment. "Of course not," he said. He meant it sarcastically, he thought, but it came out sounding sincere.
The key clicked in the cuffs and Sarceda unfastened them and tossed them aside, pulling Blake close, hands on his waist. It was the closest thing they'd had to a lover's embrace if you didn't count those few times they spooned in bed, which Blake did not. He had a vision of snapping Sarceda's neck in a sudden burst of strength. But he didn't.
"Strip," said Sarceda. "Get on your hands and knees."
Blake did as he was told, piling his clothes up on one of the seats and finally situating himself on the floor, braced and ready for anything. His dick strained upwards, leaking a little as he listened to the sharpness of Sarceda's breath when he looked at him.
It finally began to solidify in Blake's mind then - he had been understanding it in bits and pieces this whole time, but now, he was really beginning to feel his own power. Sarceda didn't just lock him up, refuse to see him for days or weeks or months, just to punish him. He did it to protect himself. Perhaps he hadn't intended it to be this way, but he'd been intoxicated by his seduction of Blake. Now, faced with the reality of a willing slave, he found himself unable to turn away.
Blake couldn't ignore the worshipful way that Sarceda's hands slid across his body now, almost vibrating with the cautious joy of someone who has tamed a wild animal and finds it hard to believe they don't just snap and bite, and half-expects them to at any moment. Blake arched his back invitingly. For what it was worth, he didn't really intend to hurt him. He intended to keep his head down and see this through, whatever it took - and if they could kill the head of the cartel, who'd been on every government agency's most wanted list for decades now - well, Blake would do whatever he could to help.
Bound and Bent: Ten Tales of Serving Him Page 5
