Home · Quick Search · Advanced Search · Submissions · F A Q · Contact
Extreme Measures (3/?)
by Sagittarius325
Title: Extreme Measures - Chapter Three
Author: Sagittarius325
Email: Sagittarius325@hotmail.com
Part: 3 of ?
Season: Five - Post The End/Pre Fight the Future
Spoilers: Deep Throat, Tooms, Ascension, Apocrypha, Little Green Men, Memento Mori, Pine Bluff Variant, Folie a Deux, Patient X, The Red and The Black, The End, Fight the Future, any Krycek episodes
Rating: NC-17 most definitely
Pairing: Mulder/other, Mulder/Krycek
Warnings: This fic depicts extremely graphic m/m interaction, rape, non-consensual sex, violence and bad language. If any of these subjects offends you, if you are underage or the laws of your country prohibit you from reading such material, then go no further!
Summary: When interests converge, the Consortium goes to extreme and horrifying lengths to destroy Mulder.
Disclaimer: The characters Mulder, Krycek, Scully, Skinner, Cancer Man, Well Manicured Man etc are the properties of CC and other fortunate people. No infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: For those who have just come in from Chapter One, Mulder has been stripped of his memories and given to a man named Hans Brueller, a Consortium ally who, eek! raped him.
CHAPTER THREE - New Life...
Bright, early sunshine filtered through the open patio doors, bringing with it a light, pine-scented breeze. Outside, a horse cantered through the grounds of the estate, its coat sleek and shining from the morning run, its rider tanned and fit and confident in the saddle.
Looking out onto the picturesque scene, Hans Brueller, Dutch expatriate and late of South Africa, sipped at his coffee, the business section of his paper lying tucked and idle on the table beside him. Such mundane matters could wait, he mused, as his mind replayed the delicious images from the night before.
Fox Mulder, lying naked and spread beneath him, whimpering as Brueller took him, finally staking a claim on the obsession that had tormented him for so long a time.
Of course, the man still sleeping like an exhausted child in Brueller's bed wasn't quite the same as the Fox Mulder he had met a few years previously. Them, the lanky young agent had been attending a reception at the British Embassy, his patron, one Senator Matheson, having gained him an invitation.
At the time Brueller had no way of knowing Fox was a Federal Agent, had instead saw Matheson, whose own predilections for handsome young men was known in certain circles, and simply assumed. The agent had been dressed in a tuxedo, somehow managing to look boyishly charming, yet exuding confidence as he interacted flirtatiously with the other guests. Brueller watched him for a time, felt the familiar surge of want and desire, and eventually inquired as to the identity of the mysterious man.
Fox Mulder was not as young as Brueller had surmised. Nor, it seemed, was he some pretty, clueless piece that was there merely to decorate the Senator's elbow. Manoeuvring skilfully around the ballroom, Brueller managed to position himself in order to make an introduction.
Lips, full and sensual and begging to be plundered, moved as the agent gave his name as simply Mulder.
Do your lovers call you Fox? Brueller longed to ask, but refrained. It was too soon.
Hazel eyes sparkled with a sharp intelligence that gave even the Dutchman pause. The man standing before Brueller was a predator of a kind and it was the work of but a few discreet enquiries to find out what prey the pretty Fox was hunting.
Ghosts.
At first, Brueller wanted to laugh, but the earnest expression in those beautiful eyes dampened his humour. He set his own countenance to that of polite interest and was rewarded by a passionate, rapid-fire reel of facts and figures concerning the paranormal. Over the years, varying staff and dignitaries at the embassy had reported a ghostly apparition stalking the halls and the dedicated young man was hoping to interview some of the more open minded guests as to their experiences.
Brueller would have been only too happy to fabricate his own personal encounter with a spectre if it meant he could spend more time in the fascinating company of Fox Mulder. Though there was certain imperfections to the physical beauty of the younger man, such as a nose a little too large, a square jaw that prevented the features from a poetic prettiness, they seemed only to accentuate the more enchanting attributes. He felt he could while away hours simply watching that ripe mouth move, the generous lower lip that lent a sulky, petulant expression to the striking features. Brueller was visualising his cock sliding between those carnal lips when Senator Matheson appeared to rescue his oblivious young charge.
"Ah, there you are Fox," Matheson had said, lightly.
Brueller felt an irrational stab of envy at the casual use of the charming, curiously apt first name. And frustration as Fox's intent stare left his and fixated on the Senator as if Matheson was the latest bright and shiny object to capture his attention.
"Will she...?" Fox began.
"She will," Matheson interrupted, firmly. "Go speak with her now, before her husband changes her mind."
And just like that, Fox Mulder was walking away, his tall, graceful frame gliding elegantly between mingling guests. Brueller found himself staring appreciatively until the man was out of sight, then felt Matheson's gaze on him.
"Hans," Matheson said, coolly. "I wasn't aware you were here in Washington."
"Situations change," Brueller replied, taking the opportunity to lift a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. Then, with a glance in the direction Fox had vanished, "He is beautiful."
"Yes. He is."
The reply was short, deliberately with inflection and Brueller smiled. "You must be losing your touch, Richard," he murmured, casually, taking a sip of his drink, relishing the cold buzz.
Matheson stiffened slightly, then affected a politician's smile; bright, charming, patently false. "He's not so inclined. Besides, he's an FBI Agent. So whatever it is you're planning, forget it."
FBI? Brueller searched for the lie, yet found nothing but contempt in the Senator's face. "He said he was looking for ghosts."
Matheson was already nodding. "He's part of the X-Files division. Investigating unsolved cases with a paranormal, supernatural slant."
Brueller frowned and pressed a finger to his lips thoughtfully. He had heard a rumour from his business associates that the FBI had once again taken an interest in such affairs. An interest which could compromise their security. But he had discounted it as boardroom gossip, post-meeting stress and the never ending paranoia that owned such men.
"Before that, he hunted serial killers," Matheson continued, this time with a meaningful stare.
Ah, so that was the reason for the keen, raptorial intellect. "He looks barely old enough to be out from the academy," was all Brueller had remarked.
Matheson had seemed satisfied that the Dutchman had been warned off and Brueller had allowed him the illusion. The fact that Mulder was so untouchable made the thought of possessing him all that much more desirable. And no one denied Brueller for long.
But for his part, the Dutchman never attempted contact with the young agent again. Instead, he listened and learned as his associates came to speak more and more of the delectable Fox Mulder. They spoke in frustration of his relentless crusade in search of the truth, all that energy and focus and determination pitted against men whose insane power extended over the known regions of the planet. And they were afraid.
Brueller himself had no time for their petty conspiracies, their clumsy handling when things spun out of their control. To him, they were purely a business requirement, an unfortunate but necessary means to an end, more so now that he had moved his seat of power to the West. Both sides profited of course, and as Brueller finished his coffee and settled back in his chair, he reflected on one benefit the alliance had wrought, in the form of Fox Mulder gracing his bed.
It had required vast amounts of self-control for Brueller to refrain from taking the younger man during the ride home from the airport. Drugged senseless as he was, Fox was possessed of an entrancing beauty, an aching, sensual quality that made Brueller long to plunder the slack body.
But waiting for those hazel orbs to open and look about with lucidity had made the wait all the more worthwhile. In truth, it would have been difficult for Brueller to determine the colour of Fox's eyes had he not had the earlier reference to go by, for they were as mercurial as the man that owned them. Upon wakening, they had appeared pale and grey, deepening into the hazel shades Brueller recalled so well. And when naked before his new master, Fox's eyes had turned a deep and penetrating green, before intensifying to black as Brueller bedded him.
The chink of cutlery drew Brueller's attention away from his thoughts and back to the present, to where Daniel was setting down breakfast.
"Leave it for now," the Dutchman ordered. "Attend to Fox."
Daniel nodded and obediently left his side.
*My new pet will be hungry,* Brueller mused, slicing open an orange and sucking on the flesh inside. As am I.
Drapes were pushed back with ruthless efficiency and intense sunlight invaded the room, startling Fox into a groggy awareness. At first he was content to lie where was, a lump of pleasantly aching flesh, snug and cosy beneath the covers. Then the first twinges of pain reminded him, the scent of sex still heavy in the air, and the events of the previous night flooded back with shameful clarity.
To his dismay, Fox found he could recall every detail, every sordid moment and he clutched at the sheets for dear life as his stomach lurched and threatened to rebel. He had been raped, deliberately and methodically, victimised by the man who now owned him, who would probably do the same every night he wished.
Without warning the covers were drawn back, pulled out of Fox's death grip, exposing his body to the cool air of the room. Daniel loomed over him and Fox slid backwards in alarm, wincing in discomfort. It seemed Brueller's manservant understood for he stepped back, giving the younger man much needed time.
Finally Fox gained his feet and allowed Daniel to lead him wordlessly into an adjoining room, a large, bright bathroom where he was steered into a clear-glassed shower stall. The hot water felt good against his aching muscles, the pounding spray cleansing, the soaps and shampoos erasing the undesired smells from the night's activities as he furiously scoured his body. After what seemed like an eternity of washing, he reluctantly allowed Daniel to tug him back out and wrap a towel around his waist.
The shower had steamed the room and Fox scrubbed a fist against the mirror, clearing its surface until his own image stared back at him. He shied away from the haunted eyes of the stranger before him, instead concentrated on the mundane task of finger-combing his hair into place.
Daniel had already laid toiletries out for his use; a razor, comb and toothbrush waiting by the sink, along with other sundry items - including a tube of antiseptic cream. Fox blushed at that, realising its significance. The servant had disappeared, so he quickly made use of the salve, wincing in discomfort, wondering whether he was badly torn. He was relieved when his exploratory fingers came back free of blood. Even though it had hurt when the large man took him, Brueller had obviously been careful.
Fox flushed cold again at the memories, then shook them off by turning his attention to the rest of his body. It felt like that of a stranger's, alien, anonymous. His fingers tentatively traced an ugly scar on his thigh, wondering what had earned him such a wound, then glanced into the mirror for a closer look at the similarly damaged tissue of his left shoulder. He had the strangest feeling his previous owner had caused this last one, but why?
Minutes later he wandered back into the bedroom, finding a set of clothes Daniel had laid out for him. The attire was casual; loose jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers, and he dressed, grateful for being allowed some measure of modesty in the house. Then the dark manservant was suddenly back to take him downstairs and into his first morning with the man who owned him.
Brueller folded the newspaper and tossed it aside as Daniel entered, a rangy figure trailing reluctantly behind. For a long moment Brueller was content merely to drink in the sight of Fox, hair damp and tangled, those eyes tracking everything with such open curiosity, lips still swollen from so much unaccustomed use put to them. Stripped of his suit and badge, the aura of confidence and experience, Fox appeared so much younger than his thirty-odd years, much the same as when Brueller had first set eyes on him. Fox's attentive gaze finally found his master and the younger man blanched.
"Come Fox," Brueller said, with a smile. "Sit."
He gestured to the chair at his side and Fox clearly hesitated, before obeying, awkwardly taking his seat. Brueller examined his stilted movements closely, then decided it was simply shyness rather than any serious internal injuries that was making the young man skittish. Upon waking with the sleeping Fox still wrapped in his arms, Brueller had been concerned his night time passions had been too rough, too soon. But while his pet continued to sleep, lines of fatigue etched into the pretty features, Brueller had examined the pliable body and found little damage.
"I expect you are sore," Brueller continued, and was rewarded with a crimson flush, the hazel eyes flitting away. "I also expect you are hungry, thirsty."
Fox looked up through lowered lashes and nodded, and Brueller thought he detected the faintest sign of relief. Did Fox think he was going to be starved? Mistreated? While Brueller might be a ruthless taskmaster in the boardroom, the bedroom was an entirely different matter, and he would never take for granted his pet's health. He knew that, with time, Fox would come to realise how much he was desired, how much Brueller wanted to take good care of his newest possession.
But instead of voicing such platitudes, Brueller nodded to Daniel to serve breakfast. No sooner was the freshly squeezed orange juice poured, than Fox was gulping it down, parched from the drugs and the unusual demands put on his system.
Brueller frowned, reaching out to brush damp bangs from his pet's forehead. "If you ever need anything, Fox, you only have to ask," he said, refilling the now depleted glass himself. "Everything here at my home is for your use and pleasure."
Taking the second glass, Fox slid a curious look his way, then lowered his eyes once more. "Thank you."
The words were mumbled, muted, lacking genuine gratitude, but Brueller smiled anyway, patting the younger man's thigh, before reaching for a plate. The kitchen staff had outdone themselves for Fox's first morning home, he noted, taking a piece of sliced sausage and brining it to the other man's lips.
Fox eyed the food first, then Brueller, before dutifully opening his mouth and allowing his master to feed him. Brueller's fingers lingered long enough to be caught by the succulent lips, then withdrew, reaching for another small delicacy.
As he continued to hand feed his hungry prize, Brueller found himself growing aroused. Understandably, for the erotic sensations of Fox's mouth around his fingertips were almost too much to bear, and he wondered what those lips would feel like when he parted them with his cock. It was only the fact that the young man needed nourishment of a more practical kind that stayed Brueller from pulling that beautiful face down to his aching groin.
"My home has many pursuits for you to enjoy," he said, distracting himself with light chatter, pleased by the sudden interest in Fox's face. "I know you enjoy running and there are many trails about my estate for you to explore. There is a swimming pool for your use. And of course, there are my stables. I have many horses, they are something of a hobby of mine, though I do not ride myself." *Not horses at any rate,* he added silently. "But if you wish to visit there, I only insist that Daniel accompany you, my pet, as it may be unsafe."
In truth, there was little danger with the horses. Though many were highly strung thoroughbreds, they were well ridden in order to keep their spirited temperaments in check. A little like the Fox that was now seated tamely at his side, Brueller mused. No, the danger lay in the men who worked as hands on his estate. Though he trusted them to care for his animals, he could not trust any of them with Fox alone. Such men were apt to take advantage, even if they knew to whom his pet belonged.
"There is also my vineyard," he continued, plucking a grape from its stalk and popping it into Fox's mouth.
Fox chewed for a moment, then swallowed. "I feel like you're giving me the fifty cents tour here," he said, easily, unthinking.
Brueller stilled. The flippant tone had sounded so much like the old Fox Mulder that, for a moment, he feared the memories were returning.
Fox sensed his unease and nervously glanced up, the silence stretching uncomfortably. "I'm sorry," he blurted, suddenly, sounding lost and bewildered.
Relieved, Brueller quickly reached out to calm his pet. "It is alright, Fox. I am not angry. In fact, I enjoy hearing you sound happy and relaxed."
He felt a surge of delight as the fearful look left Fox's face, then took a chance and lowered his mouth to cover the younger man lips, just enough to taste their sweetness, before drawing back. Fox watched him with large, uncertain eyes, the green pigment nearly swallowing the brown.
But the Dutchman was nothing if not patient and he smiled at the confused look Fox shot him when he withdrew.
"I'm afraid I must be leaving you soon," he announced, tossing down his napkin and rising, gesturing for Fox to follow, leaving the bright, airy room for the more sombre ambience of the study. "I had not wished to leave you untended, Fox, but it is unavoidable. I will be gone for much of the day."
Brueller unlocked the wall-safe and began to gather his papers together, sliding them into his leather briefcase, permitting Fox time to peruse the well-stocked bookshelf. Much of the reading matter was nonsense of course, books bought on impulse, or received as gifts, but Fox seemed interested nonetheless, his eyes lighting up in a way Brueller found fascinating to observe.
"If there is anything you wish to read," he said, with a careless, magnanimous gesture, "then take it."
Fox glanced at him, then nodded seriously, his finger toying with one thick volume. A book of psychology, Brueller noted, catching the obscure title. Curious.
"Is there anything in particular about that book?" he enquired, keeping his voice deceptively mild and unassuming. The files he had been given on Fox stated the younger man had studied psychology as a student, but were unclear on whether he still held an avid interest in that area.
"I thought that..." Fox began, then trailed off, not meeting the other man's eye.
And Brueller suddenly understood. "You thought it might explain your memory loss," he summed up, then prepared himself. He had been expecting questions, but not so soon. And the timing was bad. "I think it would be best..."
"Hysterical posttraumatic amnesia," Fox said, suddenly, lost in some inner focus, his expression faintly clinical. "A traumatic past event that can disrupt the storage and recall of memory." He paused and frowned, rubbing at his forehead as if in pain. "I think I remember something...bad happening."
Brueller had been warned it might not be possible to suppress the more prominent memories entirely, the eidetic function of Fox's brain fighting against the procedure. But while Fox still possessed certain fundamental personality traits, it was the more significant aspects of his life that needed to be fully subjugated.
The Dutchman silently cursed the damned upcoming business meeting that meant he had to be in New York by eleven, before replying, "The doctors said it would be best if you never recalled that event." Which was true enough.
He watched as Fox continued to finger the book, wishing he had never made the offer. So it came as something of a relief when Fox pulled back, empty handed, and turned his full attention to Brueller.
For a moment, the Dutchman was captured by the unfathomable depths in the intense, green eyes, and wondered if this was the look all those serial killers had witnessed years before as they were brought down by Agent Mulder. Then Fox blinked, breaking the moment, his eyes returning to their more normal shade of hazel. The emotions that crossed his face were all-too easily read now; unease, discomfort.
Brueller reached out and caressed the young man's face, wanting to ease the strain on the beautiful features. "I will be back tonight," he promised Fox, turning to take his briefcase, then leading them from the study.
Fox trailed behind his new master like a lost puppy as Brueller made his way along the hallway, though the Dutchman knew it was more out of curiosity that any loyalty or affection he felt for his owner. Those could come only with time.
Brueller paused at the entrance, looking out to see his chauffeur and bodyguard, Eugene, waiting patiently by the limousine, then glanced back to his forlorn pet. Thoughts of the impending meeting flew as, on impulse, Brueller brushed his mouth against Fox's, cupping the jean-clad buttocks with one hand in heated promise.
"Tonight," Brueller repeated, with a significant, lustful look, releasing his flustered pet.
Then the Dutchman was heading purposefully out and down the steps, straightening his tie before slipping into the back of the car. Hans Brueller, whose business stratagems were as ruthless as they were famed, wondered how he was going to deal with the meeting ahead while thoughts of Fox Mulder spun through his mind.
Fox opened his eyes at the sound of the car pulling away over gravel. He pushed away from the wall where he had slumped and reached up to touch his wet lips with a wondering hand. Orchards and stables and good food, and all his in return for letting his master fuck him.
*No, no let,* Fox corrected himself, scornfully, as he moved to take a careful, wincing seat on the porch steps. Hans Brueller was his owner, could treat him any way he damned well pleased, taking what he wanted, when he wanted. And the night before, Brueller had done just that, carefully and deliberately to be sure, but uncaring of such things as consent.
Fox had been prepared to hate the man, his rapist in all but name, but when presented with Brueller's suave, attentive veneer at the breakfast table, he found his resolve wavering. It had appeared as if his master did care about his needs, his wellbeing, treating him tenderly and urging Fox to enjoy his new life. It was surreal.
Then Brueller had promised a night similar to the one before, regardless of Fox's wishes, reminding him he was nothing more than another man's chattel now. So it seemed that Brueller would allow Fox certain freedoms and comforts, as long as his new slave was sexually available for his usage.
Fox placed his hands on his knees and stared out at the driveway. Further along the tree-lined avenue was an iron wrought gate, guarded by a pair of faceless, uniformed figures that allowed Brueller's car to pass unmolested. And beyond that, beyond the hedges and the manicured lawns, was nothing but trees, a colourful, vibrant, yet lonely landscape.
And even if he could just simply leave, Fox thought, giving silent voice to the subdued, illicit notion, where would he go? He had no money, no means of support. Would he end up selling what Brueller took, just to survive? Assuming that anyone else would want him like his master so obviously did.
He had no family, no friends, at least no one he remembered, and no one had come forward to claim any such ties. There had been the red-haired woman who had been his mistress, but Brueller had said she had sold him, tossed him aside for monetary gain. Strangely, that thought hurt, his chest aching with an almost tangible pain. He felt...betrayed by her dismissal, yet could not recall why. Perhaps he had come to care for her, had even loved her. Fox wondered if he would ever feel the same way with his new master.
He was chewing on his lower lip and contemplating a bleak future, when a discreet noise made him jump. He threw a glance over one shoulder to find Daniel watching him.
"Is there anything you require?"
It was the first time Fox had heard the dark man speak and simply stared, before the manservant was forced to repeat the question.
"I don't..." Fox began, uncertainly. Brueller had suggested he make use of the estate and one idea the older man had presented to him was curiously appealing. "I want to go for a run."
Standing on the patio, Fox limbered up carefully, stretching muscles, wondering what innate longing urged him to this. He was wearing shorts now and running shoes that fit suspiciously well. When he had voiced this last thought aloud to Daniel, the servant had simply replied that Meneer Brueller was always well prepared for sudden arrivals.
With that ambiguous reply in mind, Fox left the house and set out in a loping pace across the grounds, the discomfort from between his buttocks an unwelcome reminder of what he was running from.
Brueller's estate was verdant and spectacular in its vastness. Running along the bed-rows with no thought of where he was going or why, Fox allowed his long legs to eat up the distance, his mind falling into some middle space where nothing existed, no Brueller, no house, no memories of a rape to disturb or distract.
He let his body take him where it wanted to go, with no input from the grey matter, and so it was some time later he found himself stumbling and sweating along a dirt track, the roof of Brueller's house a dark sliver between the trees. Muscles trembling with strain and hard use, Fox slowed to a lurching halt, bending near double to catch his breath, cursing the stitch in his side no doubt caused by the rich food Brueller had fed him with.
With that thought in mind, his stomach decided enough was enough and promptly expelled all contents. Fox found himself vomiting on the side of the grassy verge, struggling to keep standing, wondering what the hell he was going to do.
Get back to where I belong, was the obvious thought, and he tasted that phrase, finding something as bitter in its flavour as the bile that had flooded his mouth.
Still, there was little else he could do, unless he was prepared to hop the wall that threaded alongside the estate and take his chances on the outside. That was if Brueller was actually prepared to let his little catamite go. Security had kept a low, unobtrusive presence, but he sensed they were there, watching him.
So instead of making a bid for freedom, Fox turned away from the temptation and made his unsteady way back towards the house.
His second shower of the day felt scalding and decadently pleasant and Fox took his time, planting his hands on the tiled wall before him and bowing his head under the assault of the spray. He had felt Daniel's dark eyes boring into him as he passed through the house, leaving him no doubt that the manservant would report his little trip outside the estate's immediate grounds to his employer.
*Well fuck him,* Fox thought savagely, unsure which man he was referring to. He turned off the shower, grabbed a towel and stalked into the bedroom. The bedside clock alerted him that it was midday. Only another eight or nine hours till his master came home. Only ten or eleven until he was sharing a bed with Brueller once more.
Looking at the dark, four-poster, Fox saw himself sprawled across the pale sheets, crying out in pain as Brueller took him, used him...And felt an irrational urge to tear the bed apart with his bare hands, erasing the memory of his violation.
Instead, he slumped down on its edge and fell limply backwards, flopping a hand over his blurring eyes and trying not to think, not to feel, as he waited for the next endless hours to pass.
END OF CHAPTER THREE
If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Sagittarius325
|
Home · Quick Search · Advanced Search · Submissions · F A Q · Contact |
|