Chapter 1: Portrait of a Sadist
“His gentleness was in no way tentative; rather, it was a promise of power known and held in leash; a challenge and a provocation…”
- Diana Gabaldon
Picture, if you will, a heroic figure in the regalia of a military hero, or a gentleman of noble birth. His very bearing speaks volumes of his ancestry; the high, smooth bones of his face set him apart from the peasantry and the newly minted. His smile is small but gracious. His eyes gleam with merriment. On most nights, after all civil company has departed, they gleam with something else.
Perhaps, if you are sharp, you might draw away like a small, fierce, frightened animal. Perhaps, against such better instincts, you find yourself wanting to brush a stray lock of hair from that smooth cheekbone.
It does not matter. You will do what he wants of you.
As for where he wants you: why, on your knees, of course. Not immediately; he takes much of his pleasure in bringing you there. It is not your submission but the fear preceding it that thrills him. By the time you find yourself pressed against him – too late to run, little bird – his sex is hard and curved against your thigh.
He’ll tell you to touch it as the pain begins. To know precisely how it swells with your suffering. You’ll do it, if you want the suffering to stop.
Not all who encounter him learn their lesson as quick.
You hear the things he is capable of. First from the survivors, then for yourself. You hear the screams and groans from next door as he whips some prisoner bloody and thank the gods it’s not you. Having spent his desire for carnage and raw sadism, he comes to you in a less cruel mood and you greet him in the only way you know how: utter subservience and subjugation.
He is quite a magnificent specimen. Captain Jonathan ‘Black Jack’ Randall, leader of the Dragoons, terror of the highlands, cuts a fine silhouette. Far is he from the twisted villainous beast of folk tales: the blackness of his heart has not tainted the smoothness of his fair form. Tall, commanding, a lover of poetry, quoting Milton and Marlowe as he cuts through flesh with a crop.
Any man can be cruel. A rare few can make of cruelty an art. Even fewer can make of it a method of seduction.
On some good nights – if you are fortunate – he’ll be lying languidly in bed after a heavy meal, long dark hair tumbling in a soft mess over his bare shoulders, his lips almost delicate in the flickering firelight. He’ll be sated from the rape of some hapless servant or barn lad and want for nothing more than for you to stroke his sex till it’s hot and hard and then take it in your mouth. (Be sure to swallow every drop, if you know what’s good for you.) He might even allow you to crawl into his arms afterward as his hands caress and pinch and grope you in a leisurely, proprietary manner, as if you need reminding of who you belong to.
Men like him can take their pleasure with all manner of company, their power and position granting them access to ranks high and low. But they almost always have specific preferences. The captain’s ultimate conquest is neither a lady of stature nor the voluptuous housemaids he terrorizes – but a strapping, common lad. Especially those possessed of uncommon good looks. Lads who are straight of back and broad of shoulder, of honest and hearty stock.
In James Fraser he found such a man.
And though one would never guess it, when the captain laid eyes on the brash golden-haired soldier, he would become possessed by a need greater than any he had ever felt.
He did not wish for Fraser to come willingly. No, such a proud spirit must be bent to breaking point, then shattered, then seduced. And he, Black Jack Randall, would be the one to do it.
“…somewhere he struck a spark, and an answering fury of passion and need sprang from the ashes of surrender.”
- Diana Gabaldon
A warrior by calling and by nature, golden-haired James ‘Jamie’ Fraser was a cut above all Randall’s previous trophies. Beneath the proud chest beat a heart that could not be easily subjugated. Each sinew in his limbs fairly bristled with honour and will – the same will evident in the firmness of his jaw, the blazing earnestness of his gaze. Here was a man who could not easily be broken. But also a man young and beautiful and not yet battle-worn.
In his battle with the captain, he was worn down like never before. It was not the capture nor the flogging that weakened his resolve. Even when his back was a ruin of red rivers carved by Black Jack’s feared cat o’ nine tails, he refused to beg. Even as the pain became too much and he slipped into merciful unconsciousness, he refused.
He would not beg. He would not break. Another brute would have settled for crushing his bones as he lay dead to the world and let him wake to abject misery.
But his captor was far from done. He was spared further injury for a reason.
The next time he was at Black Jack’s mercy, he found himself a prisoner – alone with none but the company of the one who had put him there. His wounds had healed by then, but the elaborate crisscross of raised scars would mark him forever. An intricate work of embroidery inflicted by a deranged aesthete.
Its creator ran a hand over Jamie’s naked back admiringly. Lips followed fingers, caressing the flesh like a lover. Jamie gasped as he felt a warm dry palm slide between his legs to do what no other man (and only one woman) had ever done to him.
“For one who fights me so, you rise readily enough.” The low whisper lingered on his ear, his neck. It would stay with him for countless nights to come. “You refuse to bow to the whip; yet you submit to something far gentler. Am I to give you what you please?”
Jamie would not grace him with an answer. But he couldn’t hold back the harsh strangled moan as Randall licked the underside of his cock, which stood immediately to attention. “Dammit!” he finally expels. The captain’s hair, coming loose from its ribbon, tickled the inside of his thigh and reminded him suddenly and painfully of his beloved, Claire. If he but closed his eyes, he could almost imagine the sensitive touch and soft dark waves to be hers.
He sobbed, and Randall smiled.
“The lust is mutual, soldier.” Randall took Jamie’s hand and guided it to his obvious arousal. Moved it forcefully in steady, circular strokes. Jamie hissed and pulled it away.
He realised too late his grievous mistake.
Manhandled and pinioned into a chair by a warden, his hands held fast to a rough-hewn table, his heart pounded as Randall approached with a large wooden mallet.
Jamie knew what was coming, and was helpless to stop it.
Wood collided with flesh. There was a scream and a crunch of bone. The world flashed red, dark and bright blinding all at once, red pain searing itself into his memory.
The mallet came down again several inches lower, claiming fingers that would never again hold a sword perfectly. The only small mercy was that it hurt less than the first blow, which enveloped his senses in a haze of anguish and made him numb to most everything else for a long, long moment.
The next thing he was aware of was a hand at the back of his head pressing his face into the captain’s throbbing erection. He groaned weakly as his still-gaping mouth was forced to take the swollen cock that pushed itself down his throat, gagging and choking him. His pain had made Randall harder than any amount of stroking and foreplay could – that much was evident.
Jonathan Randall was a man skilled at foreplay and the slow burn; in kinder moods he could stroke and smack and tease a partner to a frenzy of stimulation before granting release. But in this moment the only stimulation he cared for was his own. And he moved in Jamie’s mouth and dictated Jamie’s movements in such a way that he hardened ever so gradually, groaning with his sweet little game of self-torment – the denial and delay of orgasm. Once, the soldier dared to resist; to stiffen his neck in rebellion. For this he received a backhand slap so stinging it left him blind for a second.
The blow appeared to quicken his captor’s arousal, however: the cock that slid back into his mouth was raging and hard, starting to spill its seed. He swallowed the hot gush when it finally came (knowing he might lose another hand to the hammer if he spat). The grip on his head loosened, but not before Randall held him close and undulated his hips urgently against the mouth still holding him like a graceful animal in the throes of heat.
Released from his bonds, he felt his body slump boneless and slide form the chair, caught by the captain’s strong arms. Panting and defeated, he mouthed a soundless litany of prayer to the patron saints of his childhood, attempting to quell his devastation at their betrayal and abandonment of his soul to a blackguard as the one who held him now.
“Ah, if only you could behold yourself.” Randall brushed the sweat-dampened curls from his face. “There is beauty in the glory and victory of war; but there is a deeper, more profound beauty, I find, in defeat.”
A kiss anointed his forehead, all the more profane in its chastity. And again his beloved sprang unbidden to mind – and new longing with it. A hand ran over his nipples, teasing them to hardness. The same hand travelled further down to caress his cock and stroke it with such skill that Jamie shivered and moaned in a fit of helpless perverse desire.
“You cannot deny your master for long.” A hand tightened around his chin, forcing him to look into Randall’s dark gleaming eyes, as the other continued its relentless ministrations. “Come now. Who do you belong to?”
Jamie gritted his teeth against his growing ache to surrender. “Not. To. You.”
“Hmm.” The controlling hands left his body. “I beg to differ.”
The brand had been lying in the flames all the while; he had seen it from the corner of his eye and not paid it enough heed. Now he saw it coming for his flesh, and got to his feet with a grunt. But not fast enough – nowhere near.
Jonathan Randall could move like lightning. In a graceful motion he side-stepped Jamie’s clumsy attempt and drove the sizzling iron into skin.
The roar of a twice-wounded beast escaped Jamie’s throat. He knew without looking that he would always bear the mark of his enslaver, a mocking crest to immortalise his fallen honour. Randall’s breath was hot and triumphant on his neck. The ruthless hand was once more stroking his sex so that pleasure followed pain and pain followed pleasure, and the two twisted and mated in a frenzy that ended with him spilling his seed all over his captor’s hand.
Just like that, he was left cold once more, a trembling, degraded heap on the floor. Through the tears welling anew in his eyes he watched Randall recline on a broad armchair – the only item of any luxury in the spartan cell, unadorned and plain but polished to a sheen and with a curving graceful back, fit for the imperious figure occupying it like a king.
A stream of wine issued from a silver flask into a matching goblet. Jamie thought for a moment it would be splashed onto his damaged hand to elicit more screams – at the very least it would help clean the wound. But Randall only glanced up at him occasionally while perusing a well-thumbed novel. The cell was silent save for its prisoner’s harsh breathing and the flicking of pages.
After the goblet was drained, Randall rose and gazed at Jamie with an inscrutable look in his dark eyes before leaving. The door swung shut; the padlock slid into place with a rust-sharpened echo. And Jamie was left to nurse the throbbing, maddening pain all alone.
Hopefully a slightly more satisfying chapter than the preceding 'teaser'. The following one will be a bit longer and continue riding the relentless train to FuckedUpVille.
Chapter 3: A Bed of Roses and Thorns
“I wanted you from the first I saw you – but I loved you when you wept in my arms and let me comfort you.”
- Diana Gabaldon
In the depths of his turbulent slumber, he felt Claire’s voice in his ear, soft yet urgent – she was here, she had him and he had her and everything was alright now. Her arms were holding him the way he had always wanted to be held and never knew it till he met her. The arms that were so steady even when her lips were quivering and her eyes brimmed with tears.
Was she crying now? Surely not; her lashes were dry; her lips were sure and untrembling on his bare shoulders, murmuring words of comfort as well as phrases that were unfamiliar to him. Like a song out of time, sung by a woman from another world.
He was losing her. Blindly he reached out to meet the ghost of her touch. Her scent was being carried away by the wind. Now it was near again. Now it was changing.
“Claire,” he cried, knowing she was not there.
Her fingers traced the curve of his arm, his neck. A trace of lavender hung in the air.
“She’s left you, Jamie.”
They pressed into his skin as if to leave a lasting imprint – sinking into flesh, deep enough to hurt –
“She’s not coming back.”
The captain’s lips were on his before he could fend them off, hard and unyielding at first…then soft, suddenly, confusing him with their skill and sensuous rhythm, sucking and pressing away at his defences. Still weak from being awakened from his sweet, lulling dream, he wanted nothing more than to sink back into its oblivion.
And who else was around to offer it? Someone who held Jamie’s life in his hands, who could offer pleasure or replace it in an instant with pain.
Randall made a soft humming sound as one hand traced the embroidery of raised scars on Jamie’s back. The memory of his whipping – that amalgamation of a thousand red-hot moments and the bit-back screams begging to rip his throat open with their force (yet he had refused to say the words the captain asked of him; and he might yet say them before tonight was over) – sprang fresh to mind as he moaned and shivered under the ardent, soft touches that his body kept arching into despite the nightmares.
“I am as much your prisoner as you are mine,” Randall murmured. “Can you not feel it? I burn for you, James Fraser. You are a man unlike any other.”
He took Jamie’s undamaged hand and brought it to rest against his chest, moving it leisurely down his torso – muscled but in sleek smooth lines, in contrast to the former’s broader build. Not at all unpleasant to behold. His hair was undone and falling in thick waves that brushed Jamie’s lips and neck and nipples in a way that was dizzying. He even smelt good, fresh from a bath, both floral and masculine.
When his hand came to rest on Randall’s cock, his fingers tensed. Only the fear of having them crushed kept him from pulling away. But he could not ease their stiffness as they were forced to cradle and stroke that all-too-familiar curve straining through the fabric. Besides, the latter seemed to thrive on his reluctance, growing ever harder and heated, his handsome face flushed as it seemed he would spill in his immaculate tailored pants.
But he was a master of restraint when the occasion called for it. There were other uses he had for Jamie, and his cockstand could wait while the soldier was arranged in a new position: one that had him bent over a table, wrists tied to the sturdy wooden legs.
Jamie guessed what was coming before the last knot was secured, but he dared to hope the captain would be merciful. Just before his crude loincloth was stripped away and he was left utterly exposed, he half-expected the intricate tapestry on his back might be torn open with a whip to make way for a new work of art.
He felt the oiled finger slide between his legs and up a place no man or woman had ever been. Where he had never even thought of touching himself. He groaned and buckled against the unyielding wood. He cried out when another two fingers breached him – fingers that had no interest in being gentle, that seemed to belong to a different man from the one who had caressed him so sensually just a while earlier.
When the hard cock thrust into him, he cried louder – a strange, hoarse, desperate sound that seemed to strip away the last of his dignity. The physical pain of the rape tailed by the hot humiliation welling up in his stomach made him retch; but he had stomached little else aside from a few mouthfuls of tepid water since the day before, and little else but air and a few drops of bitter bile came up. Tears stung his eyes, poured in warm rivers down his cheeks. He barely noticed when the act was over and the physical hurt began to ebb away and another, more lasting hurt burrowed its way into his gut where it would stay for a long time.
It was the urgent spill of seed inside him that made him beg at last. It was the hot, wet trickle of shame down his inner thighs that made him break.
Or perhaps it was the marriage of six words, whispered into his hair.
“How will she ever forgive you?”
* * *
Hard wood. Soft ropes. Silken things, strong enough to hold him in place but not to chafe his wrists despite the struggles. Black Jack Randall was not one for indiscriminate damage: every cut and burn and bruise was to be inflicted by his hand alone, the methodical orchestration of a masterpiece. When the coarse hemp had begun to burn into Jamie’s skin, he had replaced them with these lengths of luxurious bondage that were no less effective as restraints.
Randall liked their sheen in the dim lamplight. It pleased his inner aesthete, the hedonistic streak that made of each torment a feast for all senses.
He liked also the sheen of the riding crop he wielded, brushing the perfect curve of James Fraser’s firm behind. It was not very well-used and still had that smell of new leather. Randall had not been contemplating horses when he acquired it, this much was certain.
The first blow came down. Sharp, but not cutting. Not yet. A second blow, and a third. They made faint pink streaks on Jamie’s flesh. After the eighth lash, they began to hurt. The pink grew darker. One of them turned to red.
Then their fire was replaced by a different warmth as Randall teased his sex till he was flushed and rigid. He groaned and shuddered and allowed himself to wallow in that warmth.
The crop came down again. On his thighs this time. Five, six, seven, eight. Twelve. Twenty. His breaths coming more rapidly now, Randall stood back and took in the carefully criss-crossing lines, pleased with their symmetry.
He took Jamie in hand again, gently squeezing and stroking, savouring how the warrior had long ceased to fight him. The moans that had been hard-won spilled readily from him now. But Randall stopped short of allowing him to climax, instead leaving him aching for release, crying out in anger, then in frustration. The captain reached down between his own legs and masturbated almost furiously to the sound of Jamie’s sobs.
* * *
An uncertain length of time passed. When Jamie next awoke, he found himself in a soft bed worlds away from the bare slab in his cell.
He did not even recall waking. One minute he was lost in torment, sobbing unrestrainedly; the next he was no longer in pain, and Jonathan Randall’s lips were kissing his forehead.
As his senses fully came to, he registered the surroundings: no longer that of his prison, but somewhere very different. The sheets were soft and smelt freshly laundered. He himself was cleaned up, the broken hand neatly bandaged. Everything was confusing and overwhelming and the captain’s mouth was soft against his skin.
When they slid down to his own mouth, he did not resist. When a startlingly tender hand cradled the back of his neck, he let it hold him and rub soothing circles into his aching muscles.
“Don’t be afraid,” Randall murmured.
“I’m not afraid.”
His legs were being parted, and for a brief moment a fresh chill shot up his spine at the memory of being forcefully, painfully claimed.
But then Randall’s lips were around his cock, which hardened almost immediately. He let out a long low moan.
All fight having fled him, he was left with only the growing heat pooling all around his sex, arching weakly at first then more and more ardently, wave after pleasurable wave filling him until he felt as if he would burst. And then he did – a messy rush of ejaculate that was deftly consumed by that all-devouring mouth. It suckled for a while longer until he was completely sapped, then planted kisses on his thighs in a manner that was almost reverent.
There were a hundred things he wanted to do then. Should, and possibly could, have done. For vengeance or for honour or for self-preservation. All equally worthy reasons.
And among those things clamouring all at once in his bewildered head, one was a seed that planted itself more firmly than the rest.
Chapter 4: Epilogue
The setting sun burns the sky red. Or is it rising? One of the details lost in the fog of Jamie’s memory. Lightly calloused fingers brush his hips. The lithe arms that follow coil around him along with the familiar scent that is floral and woodsy and dark at the edges.
They made love again last night, and the night before. Love that was rough around the edges. Love that was giving and tender and obsessing and controlling. Love that was not love, but something else far more heady like wine downed too fast on a starry night with the biting wind against your back.
His hand is healed now, although his fourth finger is at an odd angle and will perpetually be prone to rebreaking. Restored to full health, he could turn around and crush the man who holds him; a man whose basest desires have been sated not awhile ago, and so is tender and unguarded and unarmed. He knows his strength matches the other’s; nay, is superior to it.
But being able is one thing. And wanting is another.
Tempting is the man who commits the basest of acts and rises from them unsullied. Who for all his ruthlessness possesses a delicacy in the curve of his lips, the caress of his fingers. Who stokes the fire of your imagination with the very whisper of his voice before even laying a hand on you.
In the dead of a peaceful night he inflicts chaos upon you. In the heart of chaos he brings you peace. His very touch conjures a whirlwind of emotions that have you clinging to the one certainty he affords you: pain, and your reward for bearing it.
James Fraser, the golden laird of Lallybroch, turns around and claims his just reward.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“I have held the soul of his manhood; have taken from him what he has taken from me. I know him, as he now knows me. We are bound, he and I, by blood.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~