DARK SUNSET by Mort

Book One: Part Ten

Leaving the underground bunker that had been his prison for the last seven days, Skinner was immediately aware of the changes that had been wrought by the alien occupation. 

His first sight of Baltimore had been of a city decimated by warfare. Buildings on fire, many so ravaged by the Albrecx weapons that they were little more than charred skeletons. Yet the city had still stood, albeit in ruins.  Now the city was no more than smoldering ashes.  Here and there, in the melted puddles of what once had been brick and metal, he could see bloated, half-devoured corpses. Bodies ripped apart by the starving teeth of scavenging dogs.

At least he *hoped* they had been eaten by dogs.

From the age of the bodies, and their state of decay, it was obvious that these were not people who had survived the first attack on the city. They were refugees who had fled the certain death of their own homes only to die alone and unmourned in the wasteland that once was Baltimore.

As he wheeled his bicycle gingerly over the congealed mass of fused metal and concrete, slipping and sliding on the smooth shining surface of the now solid remains of a molten flood, he was uncomfortably reminded of volcanic lava and couldn't help wondering how many thousands of people had been melted inside the fiery heat that had now become a cold black tomb for buildings and bodies alike.

The thought made his skin crawl.

The only redeeming feature of his long, painful trek towards the city limits was that the savage winds that rippled through the almost flat landscape, whipping him with such fury that they almost swept his feet out from under him, usually managed to hide the smell of decay from the rotting flesh.

Strangely silent, the wind seemed to come from all directions at once. It bit through his clothing, gnawing at flesh already chilled from shock, stinging his eyes so that he couldn't tell whether his eyes were bleeding tears or simply watering.

He staggered onwards through the savage, flat alien moonscape, reaching black on black as far as his eyes could see. It was like a nightmare come to life, its bitter tragedy punctuated by the swirling, silent wind.

And then it began to rain.

The storm came from nowhere, silent still, as though even the heavens were shocked mute by the desecration of the planet below.  The ground became slick and treacherous beneath his feet as the rain swept away layers of ash until he was walking on a black mirror.

He made the mistake of looking up into the sky, allowing the rain to strike his unprotected eyes, only to find that it burned like diluted acid against his skin and he realized belatedly that it was not water alone that fell from the sky but all the tiny particles of dust and ash that clogged the atmosphere over the city like a heavy shroud.

Black the rain fell, black as night, black as death, and as it struck the surface and became a flood rushing over the smooth, black ground, it caused the scattered corpses to writhe in its wake like rag dolls.

Far off in the distance, the solidity of the black rain shroud was pierced by flashes of lightning and finally there was sound within the terrible silence, a low rumbling that rolled through the electrically charged air and struck Skinner with waves of bone-chilling thunder.

It was as though the planet itself was groaning from the pain of the livid black scars on its surface. Wounds that had once been a civilization.

And then, as quickly as it had come, the rain stopped and was replaced again by the eerily silent wind that now ripped through Skinner's sodden clothing with cold, ravaging teeth and on the far horizon the sky lightened a little as the heavy dust was pushed aside by clouds pregnant with snow.

Within minutes the wind became a blizzard of blackened hail, a relentless attack of ice chips that stung his skin like a hoard of angry wasps. The silence was replaced by a deafening cacophony of hail striking the ground, bouncing and shattering on the solid skin of once molten rock.

And again, the storm passed as quickly as it had come.

This time with the returning silence came a cloying, oppressive heat. Waves of warmth so humid that the immediate rising stench of rotten flesh stole Skinner's breath.

In the midst of the insanity that had once been a city, Skinner choked back a bitter laugh that the planet itself had gone mad, too grievously wounded by the Albrecx weapons that had ripped whole continents apart.

And he understood, finally, that no matter whether the Albrecx left, whether the resistance succeeded, for the few survivors of the alien holocaust, life would never be the same again.

It took him three days just to leave the city behind. No matter that the city was flattened, its mangled corpse was obstacle enough. It was impossible to traverse the slick surface mounted on the bicycle, the wind alone was enough to sweep the wheels from under him and the constantly changing weather turned the ground from flood, to ice-rink and then to an almost painful heat in an insane, unpredictable cycle.

He was exhausted. There was no shelter, no possible way to protect himself from the storms, no way to rest at all, let alone sleep.  He simply staggered onwards, his faltering footsteps as driven by mindless despair as the urge to escape the trap of the melted city.

And when he finally reached the broken ground where city and suburb merged, the jagged blend of rock and scalded earth became a new trap, one that ripped his flesh as he half-staggered, half-crawled through a quarry-rough landscape that was no longer purely alien and yet was more nightmarish for the familiarity of the occasional half-melted car or skeletal frame of a still-standing house.

It was in one of those twisted cars that he finally rested, after dragging out the bleached, rag covered bones of its previous occupant.  Curled up in a ball for warmth, he lay on the broken back seat of the vehicle and slept through the violent hail storms that battered the thin metal roof for almost two days.

By the time he finally dragged himself back to consciousness he was fevered and dehydrated, his bones locked so tightly together in that confined space that he screamed as he attempted to unfurl himself, and his cries ripped the scabbed skin around his mouth so savagely that he could barely put his canteen to his lips to ease his ravaged throat.

I'm going to die, he realized, and although some part of him actually welcomed the idea, a deeper anger refused to listen to the temptation to simply close his eyes and accept the peace of death. How could he give up when the landscape was already scattered with the bones of the dead?

So he found the strength to burrow into his knapsack for the anti-biotics and painkillers that Frohike had so thoughtfully provided, and as his mouth twisted with distaste at that thought, the anger inside him became hotter and clearer, honing itself on the memory of Frohike saying "you're dispensable".

"Well, fuck you, Frohike," he grunted, and although the words were barely more than a croak from his swollen, dehydrated throat, they still had the power to put a small, satisfied grin on his face. "I've already died *twice* you bastard, and I'm still here. Do you hear me? I'm still fucking here."

The outburst exhausted him and he sank back in the car seat gasping for breath, but his eyes were bright with more than fever now. They were hot with determination and although he sank into unconsciousness again, his sleep this time was easier as the medicines struggled through his blood stream and the last of his supplies began their slow burn in his stomach to fuel his healing.

He woke when the car was again assailed by the deafening rattle of hail, but this time he merely reached into his bag for the map Frohike had given him and carefully worked out the route to the first 'safe house' that was indicated by the line of a fat red marker.

Walter Skinner was not a stupid man. As soon as he felt the all too familiar tingle of the alien transporter device, he knew he'd been set-up.

Well, if he was perfectly honest with himself, he'd already begun to feel decidedly suspicious from the moment he had first arrived at the "safe-house" that had been indicated on his map and had seen a definite furtiveness behind the welcoming smiles of his hosts.

Not that he'd been prepared to act on his instinctive distrust of the Mullanes. It wasn't because he'd been told that these people were "safe" and part of the resistance, it was simply that he had been so tired by the time he had reached the edge of the city and then had cycled the seventy kilometers to their house that he wouldn't have cared if he'd been booked to stay at the Bates Motel. He wasn't getting any younger, and the enforced inactivity inside the Baltimore shelter had allowed his usually honed body to become a little complacent.

Despite his relief that he could finally use the bicycle that he had dragged over the city ruins, cycling the route that the Resistance had mapped out for him had taken him up and down enough hills that his calf muscles were screaming in protest, and he had been more than ready for a hot meal and a bed.

His hosts had introduced themselves as John and Sue Mullane and had fed him the best meal he'd eaten in weeks while all the time apologizing for the plainness of the food. The Mullanes had an old-fashioned AGA that not only cooked the food but heated the water in their tank. Skinner had found himself relaxing in a steaming bath, his belly pleasantly full, and his mind on over-time as he tried to figure out exactly what it was about the friendly Mullanes that made all his internal alarm bells ring.

Fox could have figured them out. Profiled them, he told himself sadly, then wondered when exactly he had started to think of Agent Mulder as Fox. At about the time he had discovered his bright, brilliant young agent was being repeatedly gang-raped on an alien starship, perhaps. By thinking of the old Mulder as 'Fox' and the new, victim Mulder as 'Mulder', he was somehow able to separate his happier memories of the Agent from his current horror of what was happening above his head.

Nothing felt real.

It wasn't only the destruction of Washington and Baltimore that he had witnessed, or the senseless death of the billions of people in Australia, Japan and South America. It was the fact that 'nothing' he had ever believed in was true. If the resistance could be believed, even the United States hadn't existed for nearly thirty years. This GSRA, whatever it was, didn't seem real to him, didn't seem like home.

How was it possible to be a patriot, when you didn't even know the identity of your own country? In a situation like this, when the enemy were aliens from another planet it was enough, possibly, to simply be a patriot to the whole human race.

Except, Skinner didn't actually *like* a lot of the humans that he knew. As individuals as lot of people left a lot to be desired. Like the Mullanes, with their wide smiles and shifty eyes.

He hadn't questioned the fact that they hadn't invited him to join them as they watched the evening broadcast from the aliens. Unaware that Mulder's injuries had meant he was no longer involved in the transmissions, Skinner couldn't face the idea of seeing Mulder's humiliation, let alone listening to complete strangers calling him names, so he was completely oblivious to the fact that it was his own face that was being broadcast every thirty minutes with a promise of a substantial reward to anyone who handed him over to the Albrecx.

Still, he wasn't surprised either when he felt the tingle of the blue transporter. He was, however, completely pissed that he was still in the bath at the time.

Skinner arrived in the reception room of the Mothership, retching and naked as previously, but this time he was both alone and already soaking wet so the intense chill of the room bit mercilessly into his bones. Worn out by his vomiting, huddling his arms against himself for warmth, he barely had the energy to look up when the doors opened and three Albrecx walked in.

"*This* is my pet's mate?" Krenzl asked, his eyes wide with surprise.

"Yes, Imperator," Bracx told him with a wide grin of satisfaction at his relatively quick resolution of the Imperator's demand that he found the Mulder-beast's 'mate'.

"It looks a little old to me," Krenzl stated, "and not very impressive for a stud. Particularly given Mulder's preferences."

"It's the cold," Jax said hurriedly. "It causes them to appear less-endowed."

"Ah," Krenzl replied, waving vaguely. "Take it to the barracks and teach it its duties. Perhaps if you start with a beating, it will quickly learn obedience. I do not wish my pet to be distressed by his mate being disciplined in front of him. Ensure the beast knows how to behave *before* it is brought to the milking."

"I thought you were planning on keeping it with Mulder, as you did his last Stud," Jax protested.

"Yes," Krenzl replied. "It's far more convenient. Still, it won't hurt for it to experience the Stud Pens first. It will give it some appreciation when I *do* move it in with my pet."

Bracx grinned at the Imperator's words. Jax just dropped his eyes to the floor and shuffled uncomfortably.

Skinner glared malevolently at the aliens. He had no idea of what they were saying. Their language sounded like little more than guttural grunts to him, but it was obvious that he was the subject of their discussion and although it was hard to be sure, given their peculiar pronunciation, it *seemed* that they had mentioned Mulder's name several times and he was beginning to get an instinctive gut feeling that his capture had been no coincidence.

"If I may suggest something, Imperator?" Jax interrupted humbly.

"What?"

"Your pet may also be distressed to see the 'marks' of discipline on the beast and being a mere animal himself, he will be confused if you provide his mate but then separate him from the creature. Perhaps the best thing would be to allow your pet to explain the situation to his mate himself. It may hasten the process of understanding and moving it into Mulder's quarters will allow you to dispense with the temporary Studs sooner."

Krenzl frowned thoughtfully then shrugged.

"You're the beast trainer. Deal with this beast as you wish. All I want is for my pet to resume his duties properly. The current situation is intolerable."

"According to Ronxil, the Mulder-beast is still badly torn," Bracx pointed out. "Why don't you simply replace him? Besides *this* beast seems even more defiant than its mate. Look at its eyes. It's wild. I suspected as much when you said the beast was one of the original government, and our transporter records have just confirmed it. This is one of the cattle that was originally brought on board but then sent back as breeding stock. You know yourself that Studs like this are untamable."

"That's what you said about Mulder," Krenzl smirked. "I will enjoy proving you wrong yet again."

Bracx just gave a tight smile and bowed his apparently reluctant acceptance of Krenzl's decision. Internally, however, he was ecstatic.  Yet again he had offered Krenzl the opportunity to save himself, and the idiot had refused.  He'd known the Imperator would dismiss his arguments, but at least Jax would be a witness that he had tried. He couldn't afford for Stelgar to suspect that he had deliberately allowed her husband to destroy himself.

It wasn't that Bracx gave a damn about either the pet or his mate, but that Krenzl's refusal to simply put Mulder into the milk dorms when he became too damaged to be a satisfactory Producer, as any 'real' Albrecx would have done, had convinced Bracx that Krenzl was becoming dangerously unstable. 

He had sent a message to that effect back to the Homeworld and had been assured that Krenzl's wife would be arriving shortly with the ships that were due to collect the first harvest. She would make her own assessment of the situation and her temper wouldn't be aided by the fact that they were still far from able to fulfill the first quota. Stelgar was the daughter of the Albrecx Emperor herself. She was presumably already dissatisfied with her arranged marriage. It was the only explanation Bracx could think of for Krenzl's appointment to this mission. With a little persuasion, Stelgar might take this opportunity to declare her husband unfit and take him home with her in disgrace.

Which would make Bracx the new leader of the Harvest.

It wasn't just that Bracx wanted command himself, he hated being the second-in-command to an idiot. This harvesting of "Earth" was turning into a fiasco and he was determined that the entire blame for the poor harvest would land on Krenzl's shoulders alone.

A little reverse psychology worked wonders. The more Bracx criticized Krenzl's decisions, the more determined Krenzl was to prove him wrong, if only because the Mulder-beast was sluttishly encouraging the Imperator to continue his sick practice of taking the essence 'naturally'. Something that Jax presumably was well aware of, so the trainer would be a useful witness for Bracx in more ways than one.

Unless, of course, Stelgar caught her husband in the act itself.

That was a delicious thought. Such a tempting idea that Bracx had deliberately blocked all communication with the incoming vessels. He didn't want Krenzl forewarned of his wife's arrival. With any luck, Stelgar would walk in and observe her husband's illness first hand. 

By encouraging Krenzl's obsession with his little pet, Bracx was merely oiling the wheels. He didn't want to run the risk of this 'Mulder' falling out of favor before Stelgar had seen her husband's unhealthy obsession for herself. 

"Go prepare my pet. I'll feed him early tonight so he has some time alone with his mate," Krenzl told Jax, then turned to Bracx. "Can I trust you to deal with this Stud without marking it?"

"Of course, your highness. I will take it to Ronxil and then bring it back to your quarters unharmed."

As much as Bracx struggled to mentally put himself in the place of cattle, he was damned sure that the 'Mulder' beast would become unruly if his own mate was mistreated, so it seemed wisest to treat both animals carefully until Stelgar's arrival.

Krenzl beamed happily at his second-in-command.

"Excellent. Take it directly to Mulder's room when it's been examined and prepared."

Bracx saluted and was careful not to let his expression of distaste descend until Krenzl had walked out of the room.

"Get up, beast," he snapped at Skinner in heavily accented English. "Your mate is waiting for you."

"My mate?" Skinner asked, completely dumbfounded.

"The 'Mulder' beast," Bracx clarified, then paused, a little worried by Skinner's shocked expression. "He IS your mate, is he not? He said he was."

Skinner just looked even more confused.

Bracx stared at the Stud with increasing concern. If the Mulder beast had lied, even Krenzl might finally lose his temper enough to consign the producer to the milk dorm, and with Stelgar due any day, Bracx couldn't afford for Krenzl to come to his senses yet. He reached pointedly for the handle of his weapon.

"If you *aren't* Mulder's mate, you will be put down," he told the Stud bluntly.

Skinner swallowed heavily, the blood rushing to his temples as he tried to control his temper.

"Yes," he snapped. "I am."

Bracx just gave a knowing grin but released his weapon.

I'm going to kill him, Skinner decided, as Bracx attached a collar and chain around his neck and led him naked into the corridor of the ship, and he wasn't referring to the alien.

His mind already strained by the humiliation of being led like an animal through the crowded ship, Skinner's first vision of the Stud barracks convinced him he'd arrived in hell. Row after row of small cages, each containing a naked human male, most of whom were bearing bruises and welts that suggested unbelievable cruelty. 

He began to struggle as he was dragged towards an empty cage, only for Bracx to prod him in the back with a short stick that sent a bolt of agonizing pain coursing through his whole body.

The agony was beyond his comprehension, it felt as though all his nerve endings were being fried simultaneously. He was barely aware of losing control of his bladder, he was too busy collapsing to the floor on legs that had turned into rubber. By the time his eyes had stopped rolling in his head, he was inside the cage and the door had been slammed shut.

Bracx looked at him in disgust.

"I do not wish to mark you, beast," he growled. "Force me to use stronger discipline and you will regret it most severely."

Leaving the threat hanging in the air, Bracx marched off to find Ronxil.

Skinner couldn't have answered anyway, he was too busy gasping for breath from lungs that had emptied so rapidly that his ribs ached. His heart was hammering in his chest so loudly that he thought it would stop.

"Count yourself lucky," a voice whispered from the cage on his left. "They usually apply that to your balls. You end up pissing blood for a week."

"How long have you been here?" Skinner asked, when he finally caught his breath.

The stranger shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe a month. Hard to tell in here. Not many last this long," he added. "They weed the fighters out early."

"Maybe death is preferable to most people," Skinner snapped back.

"Yeah?" the stranger laughed bittery. "Well, I guess we're the lucky ones to have that option, but its still not an easy one to take. It's hard to simply give up hope. Besides, without Studs the Producers are facing a fate *worse* than death. When you look at it that way, we're doing the poor bastards a favor."

Before Skinner could ask for an explanation of the cryptic comment, Bracx returned with the vet.

"This is the beast," he announced.

The vet peered at Skinner and then shrugged.

"They all look the same to me," he admitted. "Still, if it will make the Imperator's pet behave it's worth a try."

"You'd better check it for infections. I'll tell Krenzl he'll have to use another Stud for tonight, and I'll bring this one after you've finished. That way the beasts will have a few hours to talk before the pet's next milking session." Bracx looked at Skinner's furious glare and smirked. "I have a feeling it's going to be necessary."

"Letting cattle talk to each other, " Ronxil grumbled. "Everything's going crazy around here. No wonder the harvest is falling behind schedule. Next thing we'll be expected to 'ask' the cattle whether they'd mind going to the milking dorm."

Bracx just grinned, and made a mental note to ensure that Stelgar spoke to the vet about her husband's eccentricities.

Skinner's cage was opened and he scrambled out gratefully. It was only as he was led into a room that contained something suspiciously reminiscent of a dentists chair with gynecological stirrups that he decided the cage had been a less humiliating prospect. Bracx's gesture with the prod toward his groin swiftly cancelled Skinner's impulse to run.

Despite his fury and panic, two eight foot aliens, one equipped with a cattle prod, were a sufficient deterrent to pointless posturing, so Skinner climbed into the chair with trepidation and felt his ankles and wrists immediately restrained by blue, electrical forcefields.

"What are you doing to me?" he demanded.

"Gag," the vet said, and another energy band materialized over Skinner's face. "I can't hear myself think when they start screaming," the vet commented casually to Bracx.

Gagged and bound, Skinner was helpless to prevent the vet's examination. The first probes were painless, simply electronic sensors that were run over his skin.

"There's a slight genetic defect in his heart," the Vet said. "It will affect his performance."

"Can you mend it?" Bracx asked worriedly.

The Vet sighed impatiently, but nodded. "Why bother when there are millions of healthy beasts down there?" he grumbled.

Skinner watched in horror as a fine long needle was pressed against his left nipple. It sank into the flesh with the biting heat of a laser. Just the realization that it was aimed at his heart was enough to almost make him pass out. Then the Vet pressed a switch on his console and a burst of agony flamed through his whole chest. Skinner choked against the gag, convinced that his heart would explode from his torso, then the needle was withdrawn and he was left with nothing more than a dull ache.

He had barely recovered from the shock when he felt his legs raised and opened to expose not only his genitalia but his anus too. The reason for the latter became obvious as the vet inserted a narrow, greased probe up his anal passage. Somehow, the clinical disinterest of the cold metal was almost more humiliating than a sexual invasion would have been.

"This beast *is* a natural stud, at least," the vet confirmed. "There's no evidence of any penetration."

Bracx gave a relieved sigh. Ever since he had begun to suspect that the Mulder-beast had lied about this being his mate, Bracx had been harboring a vague worry that this beast might not even *be* a stud.  He reached out and grasped Skinner's balls, twisting them thoughtfully, completely oblivious to Skinner's muffled roar of outrage.

"It's not as big as most of the Stud's that the Imperator's pet prefers," he said, in confusion. "Is it going to be able to perform satisfactorily?"

The Vet frowned.

"Possibly not, since the Producer has been so greatly adapted. I'd better make an adjustment to this beast to ensure it's up to the job."

"Can you do that?" Bracx asked in genuine amazement. He'd never considered that there were ways to increase a Stud's performance since it was easier to simply replace the Stud.

"I did it to Mulder's last stud too. It's based on the same drug that adapts the milking cattle, " the Vet explained. "Obviously it doesn't have the same effect overall, it simply enables a Stud to maintain an erection for far longer and more frequently. It is sometimes necessary on the longer trips between Harvests because people like to keep their pets until the last possible moment and we don't want to carry needless baggage in the form of Studs. We choose a few prime Studs to keep and adapt them, then we put down the rest. Saves considerably on maintenance costs. Surprised you never realized."

"I never gave it much thought," Bracx admitted. "But it sounds a good idea for this beast."

"If it keeps the Imperator happy," the Vet grumbled, "who are we to argue?"

"Who indeed?" Bracx smirked. 

He was *really* looking forward to the arrival of the Princess Stelgar.

By the time the vet had finished 'adapting' him, Skinner's balls were so black and swollen that he thought they would rupture. Ronxil had actually laughed at the tears of pain that had run freely down Skinner's face.

"Count yourself lucky you aren't a Producer," he chuckled.

Skinner just looked at him blankly, but Bracx obviously saw the humor in the statement because he roared with laughter and snorted "or a milk beast."

Ronxil smiled.

"That's why we don't take milk-beasts this old," he told Bracx, as he put away his instruments. "Past forty, the scrotal sac simply rips if you try to expand it. It's one of the problems of trying to Harvest a wild crop like these humans. They are technologically advanced enough to have a large proportion of older cattle, and the older beasts are the ones most likely to be picked up in the sweeps. We're putting down thousands of these useless creatures every day but are well behind on our quota for filling the milking dormitories."

"I see," Bracx murmured. He added the fact to his growing list of ideas for speeding the Harvest. Ideas he had no intention of implementing until Krenzl had been deposed.

He reached forward and grasped the stiff, weeping cock of the Stud.

"It seems ready to perform," he stated.

"It will find servicing the Producer painful for a few days," Ronxil said, "but the urge to relieve the pressure in its balls will overcome the discomfort. Since it *is* a wild beast and unpredictable, I've taken the liberty of inserting a slow-release capsule of the aphrodisiacal drug in its thigh. By the time the Imperator's pet is ready to be milked, it will be more than sufficiently motivated to perform."

"How long will the drug last?"

"The capsule will last seven days. If it still hasn't settled down by then, bring it back and I'll give it a new dose."

"Oh, seven days should be more than enough time," Bracx replied cryptically. 

Ronxil just gave a confused smile and began to unfasten Skinner from the chair. Then he waited until Skinner was standing unsteadily, his cock rearing painfully against his abdomen, before taking hold of the swollen groin so that Skinner rose to his toes and then sliding a long, thin dildo into the Stud's still lubricated ass.

"That will keep him distracted enough to be placid while you lead him to the Imperator's quarters," Ronxil explained with a grin.

Skinner staggered after the huge alien.  Every step he took made his thighs slap against his scrotum and wrenched a gasp of pain from his throat. Yet, conversely, the movement of the thin rod the vet had inserted in his anus sent a corresponding shiver of arousal through his rigid cock.

Tears of humiliation stung his eyes as he was dragged by the neck through the ship, his cock bobbing stiffly in front of him in denial of his complete embarrassment. A fire was raging in his groin, so white-hot that was beginning to drown his awareness of anything else and even as at some level he remained aware of who he was and the indignity of the situation, he couldn't prevent himself from surreptitiously rubbing a hand against his aching erection as he walked.

Bracx noticed the beast's furtive strokes and grinned. As Jax had pointed out, now the beast was warmer its cock was *far* more impressive and the slightly glazed expression in the angry dark eyes suggested that the creature was affected enough by the aphrodisiac that he was going to prove an adequate Stud for the Imperator's pet after all. Still, he made a point of slapping the beast's hands away from its groin and was rewarded by a deep flush of shame staining its cheeks as it became aware of its own actions.

He led Skinner through the outer doors of Krenzl's chambers and down the corridor to Mulder's room. 

The Mulder-beast was lying on his mattress, his lush tail spread out behind him as he curled sleepily around a pillow, his eyes so cloudy with the after-effects of being fed that he just blinked stupidly at the entrance of his so-called 'mate'.

Skinner, in turn, gave a low growl of disbelief at the sight of his Agent sprawled out naked like a shameless harem-boy, although the drug racing through his bloodstream made his cock run with excitement as he took in the long-limbed legs and the obscenely fat plug that forced Mulder's butt cheeks apart and emphasized the firmness of each pale globe.

Bracx wasn't sure whether the Stud intended to rape the Producer or batter the stoned expression off his face with his fists. From the confused play of emotions over the Stud's face, it was clear the beast wasn't sure either. Still, Bracx simply unsnapped the chain from Skinner's collar and left the two beasts to themselves. It was Jax's responsibility to ensure the Stud didn't damage the Pet, not his.

As soon as the door closed behind the alien, Skinner strode forward, grabbed Mulder by the shoulders and tried to pull him to his feet. It took him a moment to realize that Mulder was harnessed too tightly to do more than kneel, and by that time the pain of the chains wrenching against his cock-ring wiped a lot of the drugged confusion from Mulder's face.

He blinked back his tears of pain and looked helplessly into Skinner's furious face. 

"You fucking little BASTARD!" Skinner howled. "What the fuck did you do THIS for? They told me you said I was your mate." 

Mulder flinched. Ken's warning had prepared him mentally for Skinner's outrage, but meeting it face to face, was ten-times worse than he'd imagined. It didn't help that the harness that kept him permanently in a crawling position made him feel so damned vulnerable to Skinner's fury. 

He reached for his stylus, ducking quickly when Skinner reacted to his movement as though it was an attempt to escape. It took several frantic gestures before he managed to convince the furious man that he was unable to talk and needed the stylus to communicate.

Can't talk. No tongue.

Skinner blanched and some of the anger seemed to drain out of him at Mulder's note. He rubbed his face and willed himself to ignore the growing pressure in his angry cock that for some reason had increased as soon as he'd understood the extent of Mulder's helplessness in the cruel harness.

New contact. You. For the resistance.

"The resistance? This was Frohike's idea?" Skinner roared, as suddenly everything made a terrible kind of sense.

Mulder just nodded, then dropped his eyes from Skinner's furious expression.

"Why? Why like this? Why the fuck didn't they talk to me? What the hell good can I do here like this?" he demanded.

Only way to get you on board. 

"How the fuck am I supposed to do anything locked up like an animal?" 

I belong to the Imperator, Mulder scratched onto the stylus.

"I know that Agent Mulder. The whole fucking *world* knows you're his slut. Most of his broadcasts are accompanied by the sight of you being buggered senseless. The whole world is intimately acquainted with the sight of your cock and ass. Speaking of which, what the fuck happened to your balls, Mulder? They're the size of oranges." 

Skinner hadn't noticed the adaptation when he had witnessed Mulder on TV because the cameras had concentrated on Mulder's ass and its temporary visitors. Being led into Mulder's room, he had been forcibly struck by three things. That Mulder wasn't living in a fucking cage like the Studs, that Mulder was wearing so much jewelry that you could barely notice the cruel harness that kept him on his hands and knees, and that Mulder's balls were obscenely huge.

Freak, Mulder wrote in agreement

"You can say that again," Skinner spat nastily, then flushed in shame as Mulder's face filled with obvious self loathing. He tried to soften his voice."Look, whatever has happened to you wasn't your fault, Mulder. I'm sure you've done the best you could under the circumstances. But why the fuck did you get me locked up in here too?"

The Imperator indulges me. He will move you into my quarters for convenience and eventually you will be able to move about more freely. No one pays any attention to Studs. I can't walk about alone. I can't walk at all in this fucking harness. But as a Stud you won't even be questioned as you walk about. They will assume you are just following someone's orders. You can find out things I can't. Like the codes.

"So you're saying I'm an "it", too low to even be noticed?" Skinner demanded.

Better than being a slut like me, isn't it? Mulder challenged bitterly.

"But I have to fuck you, don't I?" Skinner demanded, now understanding the reason the vet had injected him with whatever substance it was that had turned his cock into a fiery hell that was insisting it could only be quenched inside his subordinate's ass.

Yes, Mulder wrote

"How often?"

Every 4 hours.

"I hate to tell you this, but no matter what they've injected me with, I can't get it up 6 times a day," Skinner snarled.

You can use things. You can use your fingers or dildos, They don't care how you fuck me. The imperator won't let any other Stud use me because he's worried about infections. So you HAVE to do it.

"I've seen you, Mulder. How the fuck do you stand it?"

I can't give in, Sir. There's a chance for us, for everyone. It's not just the codes. Krenzl treats me like I have feelings, like I matter, and he's the leader here. If I can make him see me as a person, maybe all the aliens will stop seeing us as animals, maybe the killing will stop.

"You're just his fix, Mulder. You just taste good. That's all. He indulges you because you are a pet. Don't kid yourself its any more than that."

Mulder shook his head in denial.

I can make a difference here, I know it

"He's so impressed by your intelligence that he had your tongue cut out, Mulder. They are the enemy, and semantics aside of whose actual dick is in your ass, you are sleeping with one of them," Skinner accused. "You're just using this as an excuse for being a collaborator."

As soon as he said the word, he was ashamed of himself. He'd only been on the Mothership for three hours and already he knew no-one could defy the Albrecx and survive, and he knew Mulder well enough to know that he *had* only chosen survival in an attempt to help the Resistance. 

What was really maddening him though, was the hand of the resistance in his own capture here. Somehow the bastards had managed to convince Mulder to ask for him and since they hadn't bothered to give Skinner any instructions, it was highly unlikely that they seriously thought he could do any good as Mulder's Stud. 

So as far as Skinner could see it, he'd simply been sacrificed by the Resistance in an attempt to keep Mulder co-operative by offering Mulder a familiar face as his rapist rather than a stream of strangers.

The saddest thing was that Skinner could understand why that might be a comfort for the shell-shocked, abused Mulder and had Frohike suggested the plan to him, he might even have agreed. Eventually. Having been thrown in like this with no warning, however, he simply couldn't keep his temper in check, and although it was Frohike he was angry at rather than the hapless Mulder, he couldn't prevent himself from lashing out at the only available target for his rage.

Fuck you Mulder scratched angrily on his tablet. What the hell do you know about it?  About what I've been through. I've been kept here, raped and abused while you swanned around in freedom.

"Is that why? Did you bring me here to punish me for calling you names, Mulder? Are you that pathetic?" Skinner snapped, only to wish he could take the vicious words back as Mulder's eyes filled with tears. 

Bastard he wrote. I'm trying to do something. With or without your help. Do you think I want you to fuck my ass?

Skinner colored.

"I can't," he said quietly. "I'm not gay, Mulder. I can't do it."

Mulder shrugged. 

You will, he wrote. You'll have to or they'll kill you and the resistance will just replace you with someone else. Makes no difference to me who rapes me, anyway.

"What the hell has happened to you, Mulder?" Skinner asked, his own eyes tearing up as he read the bitter words.

I can't help it. They did something to me to make me produce more sperm and I have to be 'milked' regularly.  That's where you come in. You have to make me cum.

"What if I can't?"

You get whipped and I get a different cock shoved up my ass instead Either way I get milked. The only question is whether or not YOU get beaten or even put down.

Skinner considered the blunt words solemnly. He didn't know whether to be impressed by Mulder's fatalistic attitude or to curse him for it. Instead he simply asked the obvious question.

"What happens if you don't get 'milked'?"

The resistance don't get the codes, oh, and I die but neither of us are going to lose sleep over that, are we? Mulder wrote, then tossed the stylus down in disgust. He couldn't even start to defend himself to Skinner, so he didn't know why he was even trying.

"Even if I *do* get the codes, how the hell do we get them to the resistance?"

Implant. In you. Communicator.

"Where?" Skinner demanded. "How?"

Mulder just gave a helpless, disinterested shrug and turned away.

It wasn't *his* fault that Frohike had chosen Skinner, but nothing on the older man's face suggested that he understood Mulder was as much a victim of the resistance as he was. He was beginning to bitterly regret involving Skinner in this at all. 

Looking at the angry frightened man in his room, Mulder had a horrible feeling he'd let Ken talk him into the biggest mistake of his life.

Go To Part Eleven