Title: Not Far from the Tree
Author: Lyrastar
Contact: lyrastarwatcher at yahoo dot com or www.geocities.com/lyrastarwatcher
Series: TOS
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dark and evil! Non-consensual brutality, psychosexual sadism, rape, death.
Pairings: Khan, Cyrano Jones, m/m, bdsm
Disclaimer: The Star Trek universe belongs to Paramount, but I don't think that this is exactly what they had in mind for it.
Thanks to: Acidqueen for the beta and the moral support.
Summary: Khan/Mudd was taken, so Khan/Cyrano Jones seemed the next best thing. For the Khanfest at http://www.cosmicduckling.com/spirk/khanfest/


by Lyrastar

It gets a little worse every time. The wire whips into your back and you cry out in pain. He beats you harder, perhaps because your cries have displeased him. Perhaps because they please him too well.

This time your legs give way and you fall forward, crushing the delicate tissue of your windpipe against the thick collar that you wear. It hangs suspended from the ceiling by two chains and as your weight falls into it, it swings, then brakes at the limit of the chains, the sinewy hide biting impassively into your neck.
It leaves you breathless. And the hood, which envelopes your head, has twisted in the fall. Your mouth and nose are pressed flat against the soggy leather now. You flail frantically, struggling for life. He must be watching, yet no help comes. You are alone.
Of course he's watching. The only thing that excites him more than terror is death. Why would he walk out on that? Your ears begin to buzz and your hooded non-vision turns to red. And still you cannot regain your feet.
He isn't supposed to let you die. There are far too few of you left on this poor little planet to sacrifice any one just for pleasure. Even his protected position would not be enough to save him from the consequences of allowing the death of one of their own. Even his own father would not allow that. So far he had always remembered the limits and stopped short. But it gets a little worse every time. What if--?

You hear him laugh behind you, but he makes no move to help. He is there! Your death means nothing to him except his pleasure. That's the net worth of your whole existence. Your lungs spasm and you feel your life ebb away. Your body is drained; only your mind has the fuel to rebel, "no!"
The final resistance summons up some formerly unrecognized reserve in your genetically enhanced DNA. At last you find your feet and tremulously push yourself up. You gulp the precious air though the sweaty stink of your hood, but it has never tasted so sweet before. Painfully you raise yourself to a stand and struggle wordlessly back to your assigned position in your collar and chains.

There is no sound except the rough choke of your own breath. But it sounds so good to you.

In the aftermath, you realize that something warm and wet has given way down your leg. Your squirm where you stand in a vain attempt to cover it up, but of course he saw it long before. He chuckles in delight at your discomfiture. At times humiliation might serve as well as terror.

His steps click in your ears as he walks up from somewhere behind you. You feel him press hard and rough against your naked body. Your back burns badly from the whipping you took at his hands and the least touch upon it makes it so much worse. But that seems like a small matter now.

You would shy away if you had any free will left within you to resist. But you don't.

You walked in here today by appointment, under no duress or force, just as you have done for countless days over the countless last few months. Some would have said that you asked for this--that you allowed him to chain you here by your neck and arms and legs. But those others don't understand what it means that he is your Master, for there is no choice. There has not been for a very long time.

The absence of force does not equal the presence of volition. How many dictators have discovered this, to their eternal delight?

He wraps his voice around you like a blanket and covers your body with his. He presses his mouth to the leather. "Do you want to hear about it?" he asks at your ear.
You don't ask what he means. There is only one story he ever tells you and you already know it by heart. It makes you sick and it makes you hard. It makes you wonder just how much like him you have already become.

"I was only a child." he began, "but I remember it all quite clearly."

Only a child. It was two years ago. What does that make him now, you wonder. Where does the line between child and monster begin? Suddenly you are glad for the hood. You don't want to see the perversion of innocence that now dominates your life.
The story he will tell is horrendous, but not one-tenth so frightening as the child-man who tells it with such fervent lust. And you wonder what that makes you to have come to him like this.

"I didn't find him first, you know. Pasquale did, and brought him to my father. By the time I met him he was already gagged and hog-tied on the floor of the common bay. I only know what Pasquale told me about his greeting to my father. He said that he stuck out a big fat hand and said, 'Hello, friend Kahn! Delightful little planet you have here, but a little sparse, isn't it? But this is your lucky day! I've come to show you something to spread warmth and love all over your chilly little world. Friend Khan, have you ever heard of a tribble?' He pulled one out of his pouch and offered it up.

"Pasquale said that my father smiled and petted the tribble through the entire binding and trussing of the man. And that then he squeezed the tribble until it popped, and tossed the dead carcass onto the floor by the fat man's face."

He moves behind you and follows a welt of pain down the angle of your back with the point of his finger. It sears along the trace as he moves. You guess that that lash has drawn blood. He usually saves that for later, but it has been getting a little worse every time.
He continues with his story. "I arrived on the scene to see my father brandishing a length of Ironcane. I think it is his second favorite treasure of our adoptive world. After the worms, that is. 'His iron rose', he calls it. It's hollow when dried, deceptively light and flexible when waved in the air, but thoroughly solid upon contact with flesh. My father loved the way it felt in his hands, dark and smooth as finest ebony from his homeland. Often I would see him in our room just holding it in his hand, polishing and stroking its length as one might a lover.

"But I think it was the sound of it that aroused him most of all. The sweet sound that rang out each time that it met bare skin and the sound it made on its course through the air. The sharp, high-pitched whistle as it switched and flexed at the whimsy of his wrist. As I watched, he gave our guest a fine sampling of the beautiful music of anticipation. And then he cracked it down across his own leg. You've felt its sting enough to know how that must have hurt, but my father gave no indication of anything but his own fierce control.

"The look of horror in the tribbleman's eyes as he heard what the Ironcane could do was worth every pain, I'm sure. My father raised the cane up again, and the fat man wet himself. He quivered and tried to worm away. My father stopped him with his boot. My father raised the cane again, but he also raised his eyes and saw me. He lowered the cane and called me to his side. The fat man whimpered and relaxed, but I could have told him he was better off before, for I had seen the feral gleam that shone in my father's eyes.

"He looped his arm around me and enunciated for the benefit of the room, 'Have you ever taken a man before?'

"'No, Father,' I answered honestly, although we both knew that the converse happened often enough.

"'Then this is your lucky day, my son. You get to pluck your first. And such a--bountiful specimen too. Come, let us watch them prepare him for you.' He walked to his command chair on the elevated dais and made a place for me beside him."

The sweat of his skin cloys to the cold gooseflesh of your back. You wish you could see what he does behind you. Anticipation is always the worst part. You feel his erection rub against you, but there is no sexuality in the touch. This is all about power.

Your Master continues, "You would have thought that my father would want that honor for himself. The first new meat in nearly fourteen years, but no. Penetration was never his goal. He wanted stark naked fear, mindless humiliation, abject supplication, and above all, control over another life. He told me once that there was nothing to compare to that look in a man's eye when he turns his face to you in unabashed defeat and it dawns on him that his soul is at your mercy. And that you have none."

He shoves you then. The chains clink at your neck and you lose your breath again. Your eyes widen blindly within the hood, but suddenly his hands are at your neck and there is light and there is air and you can breathe. You cringe in the unaccustomed glare.

He is smiling and staring past you, well into your eyes. "What do you say we leave off the hood this time?"

He puts his hands on your shoulders and pushes his mouth next to your ear. He gives it a filthy lick, then continues to whisper the sick story into you.

"They had already replaced the gag. In fact, my father's men were all in position, as if they already knew what to do. Perhaps he had told them before, perhaps not. My father can control with so much more than mere words. Before the show started, my father pinched my leg up high. He cupped my nuts and squeezed them through my leggings. 'Make sure you don't lose your erection,' he said. 'I won't have my son embarrass me in front of our own people.' Then he let me go. He clapped his hands and let the games begin.

"So, one by one, the men came up and jerked themselves off over the pale, fat, tribbleman.

"I watched the older men, their cum splashing over his skin. For a while he rocked and squirmed in his bondage on the floor. My father had been correct; that was the best part. But he was too old and pathetic to last long, and after a while he just lay there and took it.

"Something about the absolute passivity stirred the men on faster. I watched all the beautiful cocks throbbing and jerking in front of me. I could almost feel my hand sliding over them, up and down, up and down.

"My breathing was hard and fast. I didn't dare move, for the slightest rub against my pants would have set me off. My father's words rang in my ears and I could still feel his hand on my nuts. I wanted desperately to come or die, but I couldn't do either."

He thrusts his cock between the backs of my thighs, slowly at first, then a little faster. It slides against my burgeoning balls until I want nothing more complicated than to have one hand unchained and loose to touch myself where I wished.

"You know how that is, don't you?"

He tweaks the head of my dick with his finger, full-force. To my shame, that only makes it grow harder.

"The tribbleman was covered all over in splashes of cum. They were almost done. Just two more men to go. Just a little longer. I pressed my thighs together and released, then repeated over to take some of the ache out of my overloaded balls. I could almost breathe again when Karim moved up to the tribbleman's head and removed the gag. The tribbleman was utterly beaten. He didn't even bother to scream.

"Karim knelt down and took that beautiful brown cock of his in both hands. He handled it like a work of art, strumming and playing it like a maestro. He pushed it up to the tribbleman's lips and back. Up and back. I could almost feel the man's wet breath on my cock. I could feel those fat lips touch it and that thick animal tongue lick it over.

"I knew I should close my eyes. I knew I would never make it through this, and my father's wrath was legendary, but I was hypnotized. I tensed my thighs faster and faster, in time to Karim's fingers, until I came all inside my pants.

"I froze. I didn't even breathe. I could only hope my father wouldn't notice my weakness.

"But when I looked over he was laughing! He was laughing at me. He had known that I wouldn't make it and had baited me on purpose. I blushed.

"He clapped his hands twice, just as Karim came all over the tribbleman's face. 'Enough fun. I think our guest needs a little--diversion. A contrast so as to better appreciate the honor of my son's body.'

"And then they brought out the cane."
And so he brings out the cane. You don't hear much after that. You never remember much about the floggings. They seem to start out light and get heavier, but somehow no more unbearable, as the session goes on. Sometimes, like today, the pain will transport you to a place where pain has no meaning and you are simply floating.

But each time there is more blood, and in the back of your mind you know that one day he won't stop. It occurs to you distantly to wonder if today might be that day, but it doesn't matter. You are floating and you can't be bothered to think about details like that now. He is the Master and he has the right to do with you as he will.
When you return, you are on the ground. The chains are gone but the collar is still on, of course. You are still naked, but you are warm and dry. There is blood. You can smell it; you can taste it in your mouth. There is a lot of blood, but his arm is around you and you are alive. But you are so very, very tired.

His dick presses into your backside. You still please him and that pleases you. You arch back against him, but he makes no move for you. He just holds you.

He's been waiting for you to return. He wants to finish his story. More than anything else, he wants to finish this same old story.

As exhausted as you are, your dick stirs too. You know you want to hear the end. After all, everything has to end somehow.

"By the time they let me fuck him, I was so hard it hurt. They were experts at torture, of course. They were careful to keep him conscious for me. I porked him dry, deep enough to make him scream all over again.

"They had him tied down, bent over a table. Klaus kept coming over and readjusting his legs, which were shackled to the base. I realized later it was only to distract me, to help me last longer. Left alone I would have come almost at once. When I looked up at the command chair and saw my father watching me, it was the proudest moment of my life. I came with a force I have never known before or since."
He moves between your buttocks, but still he makes no attempt to enter. He is hot and hard and smells of fiery arousal, but you have heard this all before. You know that this was not the climax.

You feel the chill of the knife etch over your chest and you know the climax is near now. You wonder if you will be alive to hear the end. At least it will soon be over, one way or the other.

"I fell away from the table and my father strode over. He unsheathed his knife and began to cut away the bonds. 'So, Mister Smith, what did you think of my son's abilities?'

"'Jones,' the fat man croaked hoarsely.
"For the first time since my arrival, you could see that the tribbleman thought he had a chance, with the freedom of his limbs and the use of his own name. He stood on shaking feet and eyed my father gratefully. But the thought was short-lived.

"'Smith, Jones--as you like.' And then my father smiled. 'It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be with my son, wouldn't you say? And I think we should keep it that way, Mister Jones.'

"I don't think he had time to process the meaning, for my father's word's cut quick, but the knife cut even quicker and deeper as it carved into his chest. He cried out when he saw the blood. I believe it was not the pain, but the sight of the blood spurting from his own breast that formed that glorious cry.
cf0 One of the many, many things my father taught me.

"My father cut again, deeper this time and wider, through the lung and aorta. This time the tribbleman went down.

"My father straddled over him and watched for the recognition as it entered his eyes. The glorious sight of the man under his boots accepting his own imminent death and utter failure. The final throes of a life driven down in violent defeat. My father undid his pants and stroked his penis over the bleeding muscle of his victim's still-beating heart as it cooled, lying filleted open beneath him on the ground.

"The tribbleman looked down and saw his own heart beating bloody in the open air and his eyes told such a tale that my father had one of those moments that he has always lived for above all others. He plunged himself into the steaming chest cavity and buried himself within the bloody pulp. He huffed in orgasm just as Smith--or Jones--gasped his last."

And so again it ends--for now. He is trembling on your body. He takes a long minute to recover from his climax as your blood and his jism mix between you on your stomachs. He lies with his ear pressed to your bloody chest and you know he is listening to the beating of your heart. It hammers loudly in your own ears; how much louder be its siren call to him?

You are unrestrained now and the knife has landed far from his reach, but still it does not occur to you to do anything but lie there and wait for his next order. You would not know what to do with so much freedom.

The cut he made against you when he came this time was deeper. You feel the blood congealing on your chest. You suppose that one day he will kill you in this manner, but apparently it is not to be today. Today you are safe and warm and dry and you relax into the arms of your Master as your blood dries and crusts over both of your bodies.

~Lyra, December 2003


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