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DARK SUNSET by Mort Book One : Part Nine
Skinner jerked awake as soon as the door opened and he was already on his feet by the time the shadowy figure stepped into the dim light of the small room that had become his prison. He hadn't been sleeping really, just dozing on the mattress since there was nothing else he could do to break the endless monotony of his solitude and there were only so many hours a day that he could either figuratively or literally bang his head against the walls of his confinement. At least his visitor turned out to be Farrand this time. Skinner had received a number of far less congenial visitors over the last week and a half, so one part of him was pleased to see the only person who seemed to realize he had feelings, but his general feeling of resentment couldn't help from spilling over to engulf the other man. "How long am I going to be imprisoned like this?" Skinner demanded furiously. Farrand crossed the room, clasped an apologetic hand on Skinner's tense shoulder and shrugged. "Try and see it from their point of view, Skinner," he replied quietly. "You allowed yourself to be manipulated by the Consortium before. They have to weigh the benefits of your help against the possibility that you could turn out to be a double-agent. The stakes are far too high to risk any possible betrayal." "Betrayal?" Skinner shouted, shaking free of Farrand's hand and pacing furiously across the narrow cell that had been his home for ten days. The chain around his ankle prevented him from taking more than three strides before he was savagely brought to a halt. Farrand winced as he saw that the skin around Skinner's shackled ankle was red and swollen, suggesting that Skinner had often repeated the fruitless exercise. "After all the fucking drugs they pumped into me during my 'debriefing' I would have thought it was damned obvious that I would rather die than give in to the Albrecx. They doped me so much last time that it knocked me out for hours. I should be out there helping you fight the aliens. Not locked up in here like a criminal." No, my friend. It knocked you out for almost two days and when you find out why you'll wish you were back in this cell, Farrand thought to himself sadly. "I know," Farrand said aloud. "It's just that there is so much at risk. Now you know the location of this resistance cell, you can't be allowed to leave. *No-one* is being allowed to leave. The difference is, that unlike the other people who couldn't be trusted, you're still alive. If you hadn't given the right answers under interrogation you'd be dead now. The fact you're still alive is a compliment." "Some damned compliment. I'm sitting here on my ass, going out of my mind, while god only knows what is happening on the surface. Then there's Mulder," Skinner complained, sinking back onto the narrow bed and burying his face in his hands. He didn't know why, out of all the people that haunted him, Mulder's face wouldn't leave his mind. Like a record stuck in a groove, his memory endlessly replayed the few hours that he and Mulder had hugged each other for warmth and comfort. The last blurry image of the younger man, as Mulder was marched out of that room by the aliens, was burnt into Skinner's mind like a festering wound. "What about Mulder?" Farrand asked carefully. "I left him on that ship. What's happened to him? Do any of you know?" Skinner demanded, dropping his hands to stare almost pleadingly into Farrand's face. Farrand took a deep breath, surprised at the level of pain revealed by Skinner's eyes. So he responded with caution. "He's become a collaborator with the aliens," he told Skinner sadly, then back-pedaled rapidly as Skinner surged back to his feet like an enraged bull-dog. "BULLSHIT!" Skinner howled, launching himself at the other man. Only the chain shackled around his ankle prevented Skinner from smashing a fist into Farrand's face. "He's become the personal fuck-toy of the leader of the aliens himself," Farrand said coldly. "He entertains us on TV several times a day in some form of sick perverted propaganda." "What the hell are you talking about?" "It seems that all the Albrecx actually want from humans is semen. It's like a drug for them. All they are looking for is a few thousand willing sluts and they'll leave the rest of us to starve in peace," Farrand replied. It wasn't a complete surprise to Skinner. He'd received several hints from listening to his interrogators talk among themselves, but this was the first time he'd heard it put so bluntly. Farrand's terminology confused him though. "Sluts?" "Sluts, Whores, take your pick of the term you prefer. The offer is food, comfort and a good style of living for any man willing to spread his legs and take it up the ass with a smile on his face. Believe me, Skinner, your Agent Mulder is proving to be a *very* willing whore. What's most concerning is the number of starving people out there who are beginning to think a dick up their ass might be worth food in their bellies. People are starting to voluntarily turn up at the Albrecx's 'holding farms' in the hope of becoming collaborators too." "I don't believe you," Skinner snarled. "Fuck, Skinner, they are *queuing* to be let in," Farrand spat in disgust. "Not about that. There will always be a small percentage of the population who will look for what seems the easy way out," Skinner stated. "But Mulder isn't one of them. If he's being used by the aliens to perform sexually, you can be damned certain they are holding not only a gun to his head, but a gun to other people's heads too. He's an FBI agent, and one of the bravest, most loyal men I know. Infuriatingly loyal sometimes. If he's co-operating with the aliens it can only be because he is trying to protect others, not just because he's saving his own skin." Farrand gave a cool smile. "We thought you'd say that, so I've arranged for you to watch today's performance. When you've seen Mulder in action, and seen him begging to be fucked, I think you'll change your mind."
Oh god, don't stop, Mulder wailed silently, as the spent Stud withdrew from his battered ass and Mulder's cock withered inside the milking device. He began to thrash on the milking bench, humping his hips in desperation and wriggling his buttocks in shameless invitation. Immediately he felt the blunt head of a fresh penis pressing against his bleeding pucker and moaned with relieved excitement, barely aware of the pain of the new Stud's entry. Despite having already experienced an almost agonizing orgasm, Mulder's cock immediately engorged inside the siphoning mouth of the milking device and began to pump once more. His balls had barely begun to shrink from their swollen state of fullness and he knew from bitter experience that it now always took three studs before he was drained enough to be released from the milking bench. Mulder's ass was now almost as inflamed as his balls. The 'relief' of being serviced was simply a way of substituting one unbearable pain for another. Yet he didn't care how much the fucking hurt his ass; the need to relieve the agony in his balls at any cost was the imperative that now drove his whole body. For the last week, since Krenzl had told the vet to increase Mulder's dosage of the adaptation drug, Mulder could only survive four hours at a time between the milking sessions and since it usually took three studs to drain him at each session, he was being raped by twelve different studs every day at the public sessions and then twice in private by Krenzl. It seemed impossible that he was surviving at all. In his rare lucid moments between milkings, he understood that the alien drugs had obviously changed more than simply his groin. No matter how raw and torn he was becoming, with insufficient time to heal between rapes, he never sustained any life-threatening injuries. It made him wonder whether the necessity for pre-digested food from his master was because his internal digestive system had been as altered as his external body. He wasn't even sure whether he even had bowels or colon anymore to be punctured by the cocks that skewered him. He would have asked Jax, except that he didn't want to reveal to the aliens that he was slowly beginning to understand the Albrecx written language. He knew Jax was unhappy with the way he was being treated because the young Albrecx would curse and mutter every time he desperately tried to repair the worst of the damage between milking sessions. Jax would carry him back to his room as gently as though Mulder was a child, would probe him with infinite care, often hissing angrily as his Hrraus rippled inside Mulder's ass and gauged the level of damage. Oddly, no matter how sore Mulder was, he always welcomed the presence of the alien flesh inside him. He'd come to understand that it was the prelude to being placed in the shower and feeling the warm soothing vibrations of the cleansing device. Mulder rarely slept on his bed any more. He snatched an hour or so of sleep in the shower, on his hands and knees, while the cleansing device worked furiously to heal him, and then he'd be shaken awake and forced to crawl back to the milking room again. At 8am, noon, 4pm and 8pm Washington time, Mulder was serviced with the other Producers in the milking room in front of the Albrecx cameras. Their shame was transmitted to every television set that still existed on the surface below. But, after he'd been cleansed, Mulder spent the remainder of every evening curled at Krenzl's feet. Those few hours were the hardest. He'd be so tired he could barely keep his eyes open, let alone concentrate on the conversations happening over his head. Yet it was only the chance of gaining intelligence in those hours that gave him the strength to keep suffering the almost constant agony of his life. Very few of the other Producers had survived the week since the transmissions had begun. Every time Mulder entered the milking room he saw new faces on the milking benches and he knew that the pain and humiliation of the public milkings was quickly pushing his fellow victims into choosing the madness of the milking dormitory instead. Yet, with an endless supply of replacements available and the apparent success of the transmissions, none of the Albrecx seemed concerned about the rapid turnover of personal Producers. Conversely, Mulder's apparent 'willingness' to tolerate the pain and indignity only served to make Krenzl fonder of him. The Imperator was delighted that his "untamable beast" was obviously so desperate to please him that he'd agree to any indignity in exchange for the rapture of being taken personally by Krenzl every night. So much so that Krenzl was becoming careless about hiding his vice from the other High Castes. It was obvious that no one really believed he was summoning Studs to deal with Mulder's midnight and 4am milkings and Mulder had noticed that Bracx no longer looked at him with distaste but with sly speculation. He was sure that Bracx's secret smiles didn't bode well for the Imperator. The increased adaptation of his testicles meant that despite the public 'shows' Mulder was still capable of fulfilling Krenzl's personal needs in private, but the consequences of the change were that he not only needed to be fucked so often that he was constantly raw, but more importantly, Ken was no longer *his* Stud. Mulder was now being used by a constantly rotating series of Studs, all painfully well-endowed since he himself had taken the time to prove to Krenzl that he 'preferred' his Studs big and mean, and despite the fact that he was often hearing snippets of information in the Imperator's quarters that might be of use to the resistance, he rarely now had the opportunity to pass that information on. Mulder screamed silently as he was breached, as the hard flesh scraped mercilessly through his abraded passage, but then the skilled Stud angled himself and stroked the head of his cock against Mulder's prostate. All thought fled as the sensation laced like liquid fire through Mulder's body in a thundering rush of sheer pleasure that drowned his senses; as the imperative to be milked drowned even his ability to identify pain. He arched his spine upwards to meet the Stud's thrusts, his ass greedily devouring the invading cock and kneading it with an urgency that drew a scream of combined passion and pain from the Stud servicing him. There was nothing now except the stimulation of his prostate, the pumping of his essence into the suctioning vacuum of the milking device. Eyes rolled back in his head, mouth open in a silent scream of ecstasy, Mulder thrashed and writhed under the Stud's skillful assault, heedless of the blood trickling down the inside of his thighs or the whirling camera that sent the image of his abandon to millions of horrified American viewers.
Skinner closed his eyes against the sight and struggled against the unwanted tears that burned treacherously behind his eye sockets. "He's drugged," he told Farrand desperately. "Or brainwashed maybe. Who knows what technology they have? It's Mulder's body, but it's not his mind. Fox Mulder is a shy man, uncomfortable with his body, completely unaware of himself sexually. He can't possibly be doing that willingly." "Really?" Farrand said slyly. "I thought the way he kept wriggling his ass to beg for more was pretty damned conclusive. Shit, he makes porn stars look like celibate monks in comparison. The way he writhes in orgasm, it's no wonder people are queuing to try it for themselves." "Shut up! Just shut the fuck up. You don't know him. I do. He's a good man, the best, and if you or anyone else calls him a slut again, I'll wipe the fucking grin off your faces permanently." Skinner glared at Farrand, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists as his dark eyes flashed a promise of severe punishment for anyone who would disparage Mulder within his hearing. "So," Farrand said, eventually. "Frohike was right, after all." "What?" "He said that even if you saw it with your own eyes, you wouldn't believe it. That's really why he's kept you separate from the others." "What are you saying?" Skinner demanded. "Mulder's working for us," Farrand admitted. "You mean Mulder is doing that on *your* orders?" Skinner yelled, so furious that his spittle splashed Farrand's face. "Yes," Farrand said, allowing a flush of shame to spread over his otherwise placid features. "So why the fuck did you tell me he was a collaborator?" "To check your reaction," Farrand admitted. "It's what *everyone* is saying, because only Frohike, me and a few others know what's really going on and it has to stay that way. If you start defending Mulder, beating up anyone who calls him names, you're going to blow the operation out of cover. It's imperative that no one realizes he's working for us. Think about it, Skinner. He's living with the Imperator himself. He's our best chance for intelligence out of the main Mothership. No one trusts you inside the loop, but outside it you are dangerous to Mulder anyway. All it would take is a whisper of suspicion that Mulder is working for the resistance, and the Albrecx will kill him." "So you're deliberately letting the rest of the resistance think he *is* a traitor?" Skinner asked, the horror evident in his voice. "Grow up, Skinner. You know how it is. We have no way of knowing whether we've been infiltrated by the consortium. They were willing to trade everyone to save their own skins before so they'd obviously do it again. What better way to get a free-pass in to the Albrecx's good books than to reveal the identity of our most important mole?" "But you've told me," Skinner replied, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. "Well, only out of necessity," Farrand admitted. "What necessity?" "We've lost reliable contact with him. We had a guy on the inside, acting as Mulder's stud only, since the TV shows started, Mulder's been adapted to compensate and our man is now only one of many studs who service him. By the time Mulder manages to get any reliable information smuggled off the ship, it's often too late." "So what do you want me to do?" "We've arranged for some of Mulder's studs to make him very uncomfortable. We're going to try and force the Imperator to go back to using no more than one or, at worst, two different studs again. Then, of course, the problem is ensuring that Mulder chooses Studs that work for us." "What do you mean 'chooses'?" "It seems Mulder is viewed as a favored pet by the Imperator," Farrand explained. "His preferences in the matter may well be taken into account." "And my role in this is?" "We need you to make a public announcement, expressing your disgust with Mulder. We want you to make it clear and obvious that you see him as a traitor and a collaborator." "Why?" "Because, it will hopefully undo some of the damage of the propaganda. More than that, though, it will divert any alien suspicion. We can't afford to let it seem that Mulder's need to reduce his "performances" is a deliberate ploy on our part. We've managed to identify a radio frequency that the Albrecx haven't yet blocked. We can use it for maybe five minutes before they catch on and jam transmission. During those five minutes we'll put you on air to say in no uncertain terms that anyone, like Mulder, who co-operates with the Albrecx is a collaborator, a traitor and a coward. We need you to particularly emphasize Mulder's name as an enemy of the resistance." "I won't do it," Skinner snarled. "Not even if it will save his life?" Farrand demanded. "You've seen what he's suffering on that ship. Do you really want his sacrifice to have been in vain?"
Mulder was so sore that he finally lost the ability to even pretend to co-operate. Fortunately for him, and for Krenzl who would have been distressed to be forced to send his pet to the dorm prematurely, Mulder's rebellion didn't happen in front of an audience. It was at their private midnight session just before Krenzl retired for the night. The Imperator pressed his Hrraus insistently against Mulder's ass but instead of impaling himself as usual, Mulder flinched away in terror and then attempted to flee from the Imperator. As he scrambled across the floor in blind panic, Krenzl noticed the blood pouring down Mulder's inner thighs and so rather than being angry, he was concerned. He summoned Jax, who in turn summoned the Vet A hurried consultation with Ronxil resulted in advice that Mulder should only be serviced artificially until his anal passage healed. Already sick with disappointment that he wouldn't be able to extract the essence himself, Krenzl completely refused the suggestion of a mechanical milking. It was bad enough that he'd have to drink the essence out of a tube without it being corrupted by artificial stimulation of Mulder's prostate. "You know it alters the taste," Krenzl growled. The vet nodded dutifully although his personal opinion was that the Imperator was talking nonsense. It was pure myth that a Producer's essence could be affected by the manner it was stimulated. The only thing that altered the taste of essence was the method by which it was transferred from the beast's penis. It was Jax who offered a solution. "Your pet will have to be removed from the milking transmissions anyway, your highness, since it would be counter productive to transmit pictures of a beast in pain." Krenzl nodded. "I was thinking that if you returned to just private milkings, using that big Stud that Mulder never fights, he'd heal more quickly. The Stud is virile enough to drain Mulder by itself at each session, so you'd reduce the number of penetrations, and it's learned to handle Mulder with gentleness despite its size." "Can the Stud perform that frequently?" Krenzl asked thoughtfully. "With a little adaptation," Ronxil agreed. "Summon its handler. We'll see whether my pet will accept its touch." Jax bit his lower lip. "I believe the beast's in too much pain to accept any touch at the moment, your majesty. Why not let me heal it a little first?" Krenzl was offended by the implication that Mulder would accept the touch of Jax's Hrraus despite refusing his own. The fact that the handler might be right only made Krenzl angrier, and so he frowned jealously as he looked down at his trembling pet. "No," he stated firmly. "Mulder needs to be milked now. Send for the stud. If it can't do the job, I'll put it down." He smiled at the look of horrified understanding in his little slut's eyes. A few minutes later, Ken's handler brought the huge Stud into the room. Mulder couldn't even attempt to look at him. He knew that if his eyes caught sight of Ken's grotesque cock, he wouldn't be able to crawl over to the milking bench. And if he didn't, Ken would die. Still, Jax had to help him onto the actual bench. It wasn't just that his balls were so swollen that they made the climb almost impossible; the act of opening his legs wide enough to wrap them around the wings of the bench opened up the scabbing tears on his anus. Ken's own eyes flared with guilty horror as Jax helped Mulder position himself for the milking. It wasn't the first time he'd seen Mulder's ass swollen and torn, but now the skin of Mulder's sphincter had the color and consistency of raw hamburger. He'd been expecting damage, just not so much. It wasn't really surprising that he felt so guilty, since he *had* done it to Mulder himself. Frohike had sent the small vial of chemicals inside his last message. A few drops of the chemical had been slipped into the jar of gel on Mulder's milking bench. It had ensured that every time Mulder had been fucked for the last three days, his passage had been smeared with the drug. Mulder's membranes had immediately swollen in allergic response and so had been rubbed raw by his Studs' cocks, yet within minutes all evidence of the drug had dissipated, leaving only the damaged flesh to be detected by the Albrecx. The Studs themselves hadn't been harmed. As long as they were pre-lubricated before they added the doctored gel, they were protected from its effects long enough for it to be absorbed into Mulder's unprotected tissue. Ken understood the necessity of what he'd done, but sliding himself into the fever-hot passage, trying to ignore the keening mewls of agony from the younger man, was still the hardest thing Ken had ever done. Particularly since his own cock was currently slathered with yet more of the caustic chemical. He established a rhythm quickly, deciding the kindest thing he could do for Mulder was to rapidly push him into the mindlessness of orgasm. Mulder's body couldn't be allowed to heal too quickly so, although he would reduce the dosage slowly, by the time Mulder healed again the Imperator would hopefully have adapted to the idea of Mulder being serviced by a single Stud. When Krenzl had taken his fill of essence from the milking tube he retired to bed. Once a milking session had started, it could be fatal to a Producer to fail to finish to last orgasm, but because of Ken's necessity to service Mulder carefully, Krenzl rapidly became bored of the proceedings. After he'd left, Jax and Ronxil moved away from the milking bench to talk between themselves and Ken had the first chance to talk. "Know a guy called Skinner?" he asked. Mulder nodded furiously. His body was alight with the sensations that Ken was creating inside it, but the name "Skinner" had blasted through his haze of arousal like an explosion bringing him back to awareness. "He got back to the surface and joined the resistance." Mulder nearly blacked out with the shock of the news. Skinner was alive. Skinner was *alive*. For the first time in days, Mulder actually smiled. Until Ken continued. "Seems he's not your biggest fan," Ken murmured. "He's telling the resistance that you're a coward and a collaborator. My contact said that although we obviously need to deny it for your own protection, there'd always been rumors that you were working for us. But Skinner soon stopped them by saying you always had such a hard-on for aliens that you'd probably been the first person who bent over and spread your legs with a huge smile on your face. He said if you really wanted to help us, you'd have either given us some useful information by now or if you really are as useless at spying as your reports suggest, you'd have figured a way to get someone useful like him on board this ship in a position where he could do some good. "Skinner said you were always a pansy-assed coward whose previous sexual experience was restricted to jerking off to porn movies. He added that's it's probably your taste in porn movies that gave you such an advantage as a whore. I don't know if I should tell you this, but I guess we owe you the truth. Skinner didn't just say it to the resistance. We're really sorry, Mulder. I don't know how he managed to do it, but by the time we found out, it was too late. He broadcast it via radio to the whole American continent. So now *everyone* has a name to go with their intimate knowledge of your ass." Tears burned Mulder's eyes. He wasn't sure what hurt more, the realization that Skinner detested him enough to believe him capable of being a traitor or the fake sympathy in Ken's voice as he passed on the bad news. Except Ken isn't a sadist, he's just a guy doing a job; like me Mulder forced himself to believe it, although it was difficult to think coherently with Ken's cock in his ass and the vision of a vengeful Skinner in his mind. So he's not telling me this to just upset me, he's trying to manipulate me somehow. He's expecting me to react to this news in a way that benefits the resistance Even so, when Ken's handler finally dragged him away and Mulder crawled back to the temporary safety of his own room, Mulder lay awake for a long time, imagining the look of disgust on Skinner's face, multiplying it countless million times for the other observers of his shame, and Mulder wept as he realized that if he survived this experience, if the resistance ever won, if there was any way to reverse what the Albrecx had done to him, if there ever *was* a chance to go home, he himself would rather slit his wrists than ever return to face that universal condemnation.
“How long is this going to go on?” Krenzl complained, as he watched Ken carefully thrusting in and out of the still reddened and broken skin of Mulder’s anus. "He's missed the last nine broadcasts now." The truth was that Krenzl didn't give a damn about the transmissions. All that was really eating at him was the fact that every time he'd tried to extract the essence himself he'd barely managed to penetrate Mulder with his Hrraus before the beast had curled up in a protective ball literally vomiting with pain. “We try and keep the chance of infection low,” Jax muttered defensively, “but since you had him adapted to need six releases a day, which is above average for a personal producer, we used too many different Studs. The more Studs you use, the more chance of infection when he tears, and the more the penetration hurts him, the more likely he is to struggle and increase the damage. Now he only has the one Stud he's slowly healing, but it's still going to take time.” Krenzl waited for Mulder to start the tell-tale bucking against the milking device, then picked up the drainage tube and took a sip. The essence burst in his mouth, sweet and heady, but still there was something bitterly unsatisfying about the experience. Jax saw Krenzl's obvious annoyance and his stomach clenched. No matter how fond the Imperator was of his pet, there was only so long that he'd tolerate being deprived of what he really wanted. There were far too many other cattle available as substitutes. Jax closed his eyes, took a deep breath to gather his courage and then spoke. "I remember something similar happening to a particularly favored beast on our farm. He was my mother's favorite. She fed from him constantly, despite the fact we had dozens of beasts to choose from." "Naturally, you mean?" Krenzl asked, with a moue of pretended distaste. Jax gave an apologetic shrug and nodded. "The beast became so damaged that my mother's Hrraus could no longer penetrate it. She tried other beasts but they weren't satisfactory so she decided it was wiser to make a small concession to the beast's frailty than deprive herself of the pleasure of his taste. So my father used to stimulate the beast for her since his Hrraus were obviously so much smaller." "She didn't use a stud?" Krenzl asked. "We never kept any on the farm. We lower caste see studs as an expensive luxury rather than a necessity. It means a higher food bill for the same yield of essence. But, of course a stud *could* have performed the service for her." "As fascinating as I find the lives of the lower castes, I find this topic distasteful," Krenzl lied, dismissing Jax back to his charge with a casual wave. Jax nodded and moved back to the milking bench, hiding a satisfied smile. Krenzl narrowed his eyes. The youngster was right. There was absolutely no reason why he couldn't drink from Mulder directly while the Stud stimulated him. Mulder could be penetrated on his hands and knees while Krenzl's Qwentcha milked him. Except the problem was that he couldn't afford the risk that the Stud might talk about what he'd witnessed. Krenzl rubbed his chin thoughtfully and tried to come up with a good excuse for muting the animal. Again Jax offered a solution. "If I might beg your indulgence, Imperator? I was wondering, since the Stud *only* services your pet whether there's any real need for it to be brought and collected from the barracks six times a day. Couldn't it stay with Mulder permanently?" "Studs can't be trusted alone with Producers," Krenzl reminded him. "Normally," Jax agreed. "But since this Stud is already pushed to its physical limit, I highly doubt it would have either the energy or inclination to abuse your pet between milkings. I'm more than capable of handling both beasts for you and every time the animal returns to its cage there's the chance it could be infected. You know Studs are naturally dirty animals that happily lie in their own filth." Krenzl smiled, and decided that as potentially dangerous as Jax could be to him there were distinct advantages to the handler's sly intelligence. "I suspect you are simply too lazy to keep collecting the stud," he drawled, "but I see no harm to your suggestion. Make the arrangements."
I don't understand, Mulder scratched on his stylus when he and Ken had been returned to Mulder's room. You seem ecstatic about this arrangement. "I am," Ken admitted, with a chuckle. "Your 'Jax' couldn't have done a better job if he'd been actually been trying to help the resistance. The whole idea of getting you serviced by only one Stud was to encourage this idea." What do you mean 'getting me serviced', Mulder wrote furiously. "Your 'unfortunate' problem," Ken replied, waving blithely at Mulder's still swollen anus, "was deliberately caused. We've been doctoring your lubricant." Mulder flew at him in outrage, but his harness made it easy for Ken to dodge the attack. He jumped to his feet and simply stepped away. Mulder glowered at him from his hands and knees, tears of fury filling his eyes at this ultimate betrayal. "Grow up, Mulder," Ken snapped impatiently. "Nobody *wanted* to do it to you. It was necessary, that's all. It worked. It got me in here, didn't it?" It took Mulder a couple of minutes to pull himself together enough to retrieve his stylus and scratch another question. But why? If you don't leave the Imperator's quarters, how will you pass information back? "The game's changed, Mulder. We need a better flow of information. It takes too long to pass the capsule throughout the ship and then to the surface and back. Because you haven't been able to find out the codes yet, we don't have any electronic surface communication but someone's figured out a way to 'bounce' a signal from here down to the surface via one of the alien satellites. A device has been planted *inside* your new Stud. We've tried a few dry runs and are confident that the alien transportation device won't detect or remove the communicator when your Stud beams up." My WHAT? "In a couple of days, once Krenzl has gotten used to the luxury of having you constantly 'on tap' and is likely to maintain the habit of keeping you and your stud permanently together, I'm going to be replaced by your new contact. As soon as I fail to return to my cell today, the news will be passed to the surface to get your new Stud in place. All you have to do is make sure that he's chosen to replace me." What replacement and what's going to happen to you? Ken just gave him an inscrutable stare and turned away, not only refusing to answer but also declining to read any more of Mulder's frantically scribbled questions.
"We need you to do a job for us," Frohike told Skinner. Skinner just grunted and glared angrily at the man who had always seemed so innocuous but seemingly was one of the highest members of Operation X. At least he was the most important Resistance operative that Skinner had met, but he had heard rumors that there were two more floors below the six he was aware of in this vast underground nerve center, and he suspected that all the real players in this game were located there. "I thought I already had," Skinner finally growled, when Frohike remained silent. "Ah, yes. The character assassination of my old friend Fox Mulder," Frohike said, with a look of genuine sorrow. "It was unfortunate, but necessary. There are still a number of people we are unsure of, Skinner. Better to ruin Mulder's reputation than risk his life." "Bullshit," Skinner spat. "Be honest at least. It wasn't to protect him, it was to protect you." "That as well," Frohike admitted, "but the truth is that Mulder is the only person who has potential access to the satellite codes, Skinner. Without communications we can't effectively round up the resistance. Even destroying the satellites and preventing the alien propaganda would be a strike for victory. In the meantime, though, by creating a climate of hate towards the 'collaborators' we lessen the effectiveness of the TV broadcasts anyway, and since Mulder was the most publicly used slut, it is essential that he is seen to be a ..." His words were cut off as Skinner lunged across the desk and smashed a fist in Frohike's jaw. He was immediately restrained and hauled back to his seat by a couple of stone-faced goons, but he regarded the blood on Frohike's face with satisfaction. "Let him go," Frohike told the guards carefully through his split lips. "I'm sorry, Skinner. I shouldn't have used the word Slut. Mulder's a soldier for the resistance, a hero if you like, he's just acting a role." "Don't forget it," Skinner growled, but made no further threatening moves. "So, anyway, the job we need you to do involves you traveling to Wisconsin. There's a resistance base there that we can't contact, despite our underground cable link." "So you *can* communicate with most of the cells," Skinner pointed out. "Of course," Frohike confirmed. "When we designed the resistance network, we ensured that we had underground conduits for old-fashioned telegraph communications. It's inefficient, but then again, it's not affected by the alien technology. Only, we have lost contact with Wisconsin. We need to know if it's due to a mechanical breakdown, an alien weapon or whether the base has been captured. If it *has* been captured, it's possible that the aliens will discover the locations of the other cells." "Why me?" Skinner demanded. "I've spent most of my time here locked in a cell. Why the hell do you suddenly trust me to do this for you?" "Because you're expendable," Frohike replied with an apologetic shrug. It was the seeming brutal honesty of that answer that cleverly prevented Skinner from asking any more questions. The idea of leaving the bunker, seeing sunlight again, was appealing enough in itself to sway Skinner towards agreement. Besides, apart from cruelly slandering a man who was already suffering god only knew what torture at the hands of the aliens, Skinner had done nothing so far to help the resistance to the Albrecx. "Okay, I'll go," Skinner said. Frohike stood up and shook him firmly by the hand. He waited until Skinner had been escorted out before opening the interconnecting door and letting the dark-haired man into the room. "I heard from Ken's contact," Alex Krycek said. "The drug worked. Ken's living with Mulder now and has planted the seed. Let's hope the Fox takes the bait." "I hate this," Frohike snarled. "I'm using one of my best friends like he's no more than a piece of meat, I'm letting the whole word think he's a whore, and now I'm sending one of the best men I know into a trap." Krycek seated himself in the seat Skinner had vacated, lifted his legs up to rest on Frohike's desk and gave a chilling, insolent smile. "Get used it, Frohike. I've spent the last five years working my butt off for the GSRA while everyone thought I was double-dealing scum. I've lost count how many times I've been punched in the gut by Mulder or Skinner for supposedly working for the consortium. Now you're having a taste of what it feels like to be hated by the 'good guys'." "They are though," Frohike murmured. "The good guys, I mean. Why the hell do we always destroy the good guys if *we're* the good guys?" Krycek shrugged. "Speak for yourself, Frohike. Me, I don't worry about good or bad. I'm a patriot. I just do whatever needs to be done."
Ken completely blanked Mulder for the next forty-eight hours. For one thing he was too pre-occupied with ensuring he appeared no more than a dumb beast to the Imperator. Ken's failure to even blink in surprise when Krenzl dismissed Jax from the room and encouraged Ken to service Mulder on the floor rather than the milking bench was met with obvious pleasure by the Imperator. Ken kept his face carefully blank, fucked Mulder with enthusiasm and managed to convince Krenzl that he was too stupid to even notice that Mulder was being milked by the Imperator's Qwentcha rather than by mechanical means. The other reason for his continual silence was that he was too pre-occupied with his own thoughts to give Mulder more than passing consideration. The only way he could face what he was about to do was to distance himself from the situation. His distraction confused Mulder, but delighted the Imperator. "It's a bit simple, I think," Krenzl told Jax on the second day. "The larger Studs often are," Jax agreed blandly, although he had also been surprised by how quiet and easy to handle Ken had turned out to be. "I find this arrangement most convenient," Krenzl confided. "I don't know why I didn't think of the idea before." Jax just smiled at the fact that Krenzl had decided keeping the Stud in Mulder's quarters had been his own idea and left the room so that Krenzl could indulge himself in privacy. Ken also heard the Imperator and an odd feeling of peace descended over him. He slipped into place between Mulder's spread knees and paused to bend over and kiss the middle of Mulder's back. Mulder jerked with surprise and twisted his head over his shoulder to look at him. Ignoring the pleading, confused look in Mulder's eyes, Ken eased gently inside but although he immediately struck a rhythm that would force Mulder to pump into Krenzl's Qwentcha, he deliberately caressed and stroked Mulder's flanks as he rocked. For the first and last time, he didn't fuck Mulder. He made love to him. If everything went to plan, this was going to be his last night on the Mothership and although he'd only fucked Mulder out of necessity, somewhere along the way he'd become remarkably fond of the brave man who he had been forced to abuse so badly. He emptied his seed into Mulder's ass with a bellow of satisfaction, remaining inside Mulder long enough for the younger man's own orgasm to squeeze every last drop from his cock, and then lying his weight down on Mulder's wet back he lay a small trail of kisses down the too-prominent arch of Mulder's spine. "They haven't told him, Mulder. He doesn't know he's been implanted with the device. He's going to be pissed as hell, but Skinner *has* to be the one who replaces me," Ken whispered finally, as his now limp cock slid reluctantly out of its warm haven. "Goodbye," he whispered. "And for what it's worth, I'm sorry about everything." Then he straightened and clenched his teeth together to smash the false tooth the resistance had implanted in him a month or perhaps a lifetime ago. His mouth filled with a bitter taste, and then he was falling into darkness, convulsing as his heart exploded. Then his body collapsed over Mulder's back.
“It's not just the fact he's not performing willingly," Krenzl griped. "There’s been a slight change in his taste." "Even cattle grieve, your highness," Jax pointed out quietly. "It must have greatly shocked your pet when his Stud died so suddenly yesterday." "I have made my displeasure known to Ronxil. It was completely irresponsible of him not to have realized the animal had a severe heart defect. It damaged Mulder when the animal fell on him." "Perhaps *that's* why he's fighting the new Studs," Jax agreed. "But, on the other hand, he may simply be frightened of their unfamiliarity because he became accustomed to having only one Stud. I think the problem is that we've returned to the use of anonymous Studs who don’t know how to satisfy him. Perhaps he even misses the company in his room. If you allow the beast chose a personal stud again there is less likelihood of tearing and that will keep his taste pure." Jax knew
perfectly well that Krenzl didn't answer, but when the latest Stud had finished his task and been led away sporting several deep bruises where Mulder had elbowed him viciously during the milking, the Imperator cleared his throat and addressed his pet directly. “Go with
your handler to the Stud pens,”
Krenzl ordered, as Mulder detached his depleted cock and crawled back off the
milking bench.
“I have decided you may personally choose your own permanent Stud.” Mulder forced himself to stay calm. He knew that this was an unprecedented attempt at kindness by his master, even if it was only to keep his taste ‘pure’. Sure, go pick out your own regular rapist, why don’t you? he asked himself bitterly. Still, this was what the resistance wanted. Hell, it was the opportunity that Ken had sacrificed his own life to create. Mulder couldn't refuse to co-operate, if only out of respect for Ken. So instead
of moving to Jax, he crawled forward
to the Imperator and hugged Krenzl’s
legs, rubbing his hair against the alien’s Qwentcha in the way he knew
Krenzl secretly adored. He made his expression humble and beseeching as he
looked up cautiously into Krenzl’s face. “What is it, little pet?” Krenzl asked tolerantly. “Would you prefer *not* to have a personal Stud of your own?” Mulder shook his head and keened miserably. “Then why don’t you want to go with Jax?” Krenzl said in confusion. Mulder scratched at the ground, mimicking writing. “Fetch the beast a stylus,” Krenzl ordered one of his personal guards. Mulder pretended to struggle with the alien writing device, wanting to suggest that his grasp of the Albrecht’s written language was still tenuous. Stud not here Krenzl looked at the stylus in bemusement. "I don't understand." My Stud Krenzl looked at Jax and shrugged. "Your Stud died, little beast. Don't you understand that?" Jax asked cautiously. No. MY Stud. Mate. Jax's face cleared. “Are you saying you already *have* a Stud? You have a mate? Back on the planet?" he asked. Mulder nodded frantically, then rubbed his groin against Krenzl's Qwentcha before looking at the Imperator with his best impression of a wistful look. He couldn't quite manage to come up with tears, so he just widened his eyes and quivered his lower lip dramatically for added effect. "You wish for your own mate, little beast? Is that what you are trying to say? Is that why you have been fighting your Studs?” Krenzl asked, quite enchanted by Mulder's pleading face. Not to mention the way Mulder had begun to rub his cock suggestively against him. Mulder nodded. “These ‘humans’ are primitive beasts, Imperator. But they DO seem to form strong attachments to each other,” Jax said. Krenzl smiled broadly. At last he understood why his beloved pet was being so unreasonably stubborn. He could see some serious advantages to having Mulder's original mate on board. It was unlikely that the Stud would damage his pet, definitely more likely the animal's presence would increase Mulder's enthusiasm for being milked and, most importantly, under the circumstances the new beast could be trained to service Mulder in the way Krenzl preferred without even knowing there was anything 'wrong' about his preferences. “It may not still be alive, little pet,” Krenzl felt compelled to admit. “But if it is, it may become your Stud.” Mulder closed his eyes and prayed that Skinner wouldn’t kill him himself as he wrote the name Walter Sergei Skinner, former AD of the FBI on the stylus.
Go To Part Ten
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