Fic, Silk and Steel, Part 8
Jul. 7th, 2008 08:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fredbassettAuthor : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Characters : Leek, Lyle, Lester, Ryan, Stephen, Cutter, Ditzy
Rating : 18
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue
Spoilers : None.
Summary : Lyle’s plan reaches a painful and dangerous conclusion.
Warning : Slave!fic with added violence. Really not very nice at all and getting worse. You have been warned!
A/N : With thanks to munchkinofdoom for helping to plot this AU.
Lyle heard the door slam behind Ryan and Ditzy. There’d be hell to pay when his captain wised up to exactly what he’d done but right now, he had more pressing worries. Like Leek running his sweaty hand down over his arse, and breathing heavily in his ear.
Christ, the bastard had to have come, hadn’t he? Lyle had been certain that if he’d held out long enough before yelling, he’d manage to tip the slimy little git over the edge and get him to make a mess in his posh suit. If he was wrong about that, life was going to take a turn for the worse, for sure. In spite of the fact that his back had been ripped to shit, and at least one nipple had been split open, Lyle started to laugh.
He had more adrenaline pumping round his system now than he’d ever had in combat, and if he wasn’t bloody careful, his body would start sending out the wrong signals. Not something he wanted to have happen, especially not when this was hopefully all being captured on camera by Connor’s sneaky little program that should have cut in when Leek had switched off the main feed.
Lyle coughed and spat blood.
Leek’s hand slithered over his flesh. It felt like being groped by a dead fish. Shit, this was not going according to plan.
“No fucking chance,” he panted. “There’s no fucking way you can get it up again ….bet your dick’s as limp as your wrist ….”
“Not sensible, lieutenant, really not sensible ….”
Lyle coughed again and hawked more blood onto the tiled floor. “Indenturing myself to a corrupt fucking government wasn’t fucking sensible, but it didn’t stop me. Would’ve thought twice about it, if I’d’ve known I’d run up against slimy little bastards like you. Go on, fuck me, that’ll look good on the security tapes ….”
“What security tapes, lieutenant?” Leek’s hand ran down his hip in an obscene caress. He sounded confident. Very confident.
“You can’t turn the fucking cameras off! Only Lester can do that …….” There was something in Leek’s calm certainty that raised just a tiny prickle of unease in Lyle’s chest. Did he know about Connor’s little bag of tricks?
The hand continued to slide over his over-sensitised skin and Lyle shuddered.
“Wrong, Lieutenant Lyle. Very wrong.”
And then Lyle felt it. The wooden handle of the whip pressing hard between the cheeks of his arse. He jerked against the restraints which held his hands and feet in place and strained forward, doing his best to get away. He failed. The leather straps bit into his already damaged wrists, drawing a whine of pain from his bloodied mouth. Maybe this whole thing hadn’t been such a good idea, after all.
“Not so cocky, now, Lyle ….”
“Fuck you!”
“That mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble, one day,” purred Leek, and then he leant forward, driving the whip handle into Lyle. The lieutenant let out a low moan of pain, and sagged down in the restraints. “Don’t you go passing out on me, lieutenant, I haven’t finished with you yet ………”
The drag of the wooden handle leaving his body was almost as painful as the entry had been. Lyle shuddered, his breath exiting in one long, ragged exhalation. He heard the creak of a tap being turned on, then a jet of water from a hose hit him full on in the ruin of his back.
He yelled and promptly lost consciousness. The next blast of spray caught him in the face and he came round, spluttering and coughing and feeling worse than he ever remembered feeling in his life. Lyle was starting to feel an icy knot of fear forming in the pit of his stomach as the adrenaline rush started to ebb.
Leek laughed and shut the water off. Then pain flared again, low and deep, and fear fought its way up through the adrenaline rush and started to take hold. They should have been here by now. Shouldn’t be taking this fucking long. Somebody should be doing something.
He felt Leek’s hand, warm, wet and clammy, running down over his hip, the fingers slick with blood. Lyle’s blood. He knew he couldn’t take much more of this without irreparable damage, and it very much looked like there’d be no cavalry riding to the rescue. Not this time.
The hand pawed at him and Leek leaned in closer. Through a haze of pain, Lyle was aware of Leek’s hips pressing against his thigh and even in his state, the soldier knew that his tormentor was getting aroused again. Shit, this was not in the script! He’d reckoned on the whip handle. Hell, his entire fucking strategy had been based on that, but getting buggered by Leek was not high on his list of things to do for fun on a Saturday evening. Nor was getting ripped to shit in a flogging, for that matter, but he’d made his choice, and there was no point in whining about that now.
The whip handle jabbed in again. Agony tore at him and through it, Lyle felt the slither of Leek’s cock against his thigh. Jesus H. Christ, the little pervert was humping his leg. Sickness hit Lyle with the force of a sledgehammer in the guts. He felt vomit burning a trail up his throat and exploding out of his mouth as the wood twisted and pressed inside him. His muscles clenched, sending fresh waves of agony through every nerve in his body, then he was coughing and retching, blood and vomit streaking his chest.
Then a waft of cold air disturbed the fetid heat of the Punishment Room, cutting through the stench of blood and other bodily fluids like a knife.
In a tone that would have frozen Hell, Lester drawled, “Do put that away, Leek, there are ladies present.”
And with the most profound feeling of relief he’d ever experienced, Jon Lyle slid gratefully into oblivion, finally letting go of the pain that he’d been using to anchor himself to consciousness for what had seemed like an infinite amount of time.
A mere twenty seven minutes had passed from start to finish.
The most painful twenty seven minutes of Lyle’s life.
* * * * *
As he emerged from what felt like the end of a long, pain-filled tunnel, Lyle heard Lester snap coldly, “My office, Leek, one hour from now. Captain Ryan, kindly ask one of your men to accompany Mr. Leek to his own rooms while he makes himself presentable and then have him escorted him to my office.”
A wet cloth was wiped gently over his face and mouth, and a voice said, “Easy, Jon, we’ve got you,” followed by, “stop fucking struggling, you berk.”
Ditzy. No-one else had hands that cold.
Lyle spat, tasting sour vomit in his mouth. He hated being sick at the best of times, and this wasn’t the best of times. Not by a bloody long chalk.
Then through the haze of background noise, he heard one voice raised about the rest, the words, “I’ll fucking kill him,” echoing off bloodstained tiles.
“You’ll do no such thing,” remarked Lester, in an almost conversational tone. “Cutter, kindly restrain your assistant, or I’ll have one of the soldiers do it instead. Miss Maitland, Ms Lewis, might I suggest you spare Lieutenant Lyle’s blushes and avert your eyes?”
“Past fucking caring,” muttered Lyle, incoherently.
He felt a hand grabbing his, and another voice, raw with emotion said, “You stupid bastard, Jon!”
Lyle managed to drag the ghost of a grin out from somewhere, “Sorry, sweetheart, it’s hand jobs only for a while,” and before Stephen Hart had the chance to say anything else, Lyle took the line of least resistance, and promptly passed out again.
Ditzy shook Stephen’s arm roughly, ignoring the naked pain in the other man’s eyes. The guy was going to go berserk when he found out what had really happened, but that could wait. The medic knew he’d no doubt have Ryan and Lester to face first. “Come on, I want him in the infirmary on a drip, and I want him there now! Move it, all of you!”
“My office in two hours, Owen,” said Lester, stepping back and letting them roll Lyle onto a stretcher. “In the meantime, kindly keep Lieutenant Lyle alive. I’d hate to be deprived of the opportunity to make my views known to him in person.”
“Yes, master,” said Ditzy, studiously avoiding all eye contact with a clearly incandescent Ryan.
“Captain Ryan will be joining us,” said Lester, smoothly.
At that moment, a Japanese pearl diver would have been needed to retrieve the medic’s stomach from the depths it was rapidly plumbing. Apart, they were bad enough, but together? Ditzy, otherwise known as Dave Owen, reckoned he’d rather face a flogging any day, than experience Lester and Ryan joining forces to deliver a bollocking.
He threw a weary salute at both men, then gave his full concentration to the job in hand.
The need to keep Lieutenant Jon Lyle alive.
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Date: 2008-07-08 06:04 pm (UTC)