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Disclaimer: All characters and events in this story are fictitious, and any similarity to a real person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and unintended by the author. "The Pretender" is a protected trademark of MTM Television and NBC and the characters of that series are used herein with no mean intent or desire for remuneration. It is, instead, a tribute to innovative television, that rare and welcome phenomenon.
Rating: NC-17 (male/male sexual situations, B&D, NC)
The Third Highway Series Part 16:
The Blackroom
Chapter 1
Witch1
Mr. Parker's office
The Centre
Blue Cove, Delaware
He stood up as she entered and leaned across his massive desk for the requisite air kiss. "Good to see you, my dear," he told her. "Sit down--this will only take a short while, but you might as well be comfortable."
But she continued to stand. He'd noticed that she seemed to find it difficult to relax at all lately. The last few times he'd seen her she'd been pacing with a sort of unconscious ferocity.
He tossed the file across the desk toward her. Her eyebrows raised before she'd even touched it: it had the embossed, red-lettered seal of the Centre's eyes-only security level boldly stamped on its front.
"The five-thousand series?" she questioned as she picked up the heavy file. Its only identifying mark was the number '5485' on the tab at its top. "Did one of Raines' little wind-up toys run amok?"
He snorted in delight. "Precisely, my dear: 'run amok', indeed! You must be psychic."
She hadn't opened the file yet, and he noticed her frown.
"Daddy," she began with careful hesitancy, "surely cleaning up Mr. Raines' messes isn't the reason I was trained by the Centre--"
"You were trained to do your job," he responded, shortly. "Whatever that may include."
She returned his cool glance until he looked away. Just for a moment he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up--it had happened a few times in the last months, that his daughter had turned the full menace of her gaze on him. She'd never done that before. He wondered if his unexplained absence--and Lyle's sudden, temporary vault to power--had destroyed her respect for him. Or perhaps simply lessened her fear. Whatever it was, he didn't like it. Which was all the more reason to get her safely focused on a new project.
She leaned over and flipped the file open on the edge of his desk and began skimming the contents.
"Oh, this one sounds like a real winner," she offered. "'Sociopathic tendencies, 'dangerous and unpredictable', 'clearly homicidal'"-- she read.--"and this was when he was nine!" She looked up impatiently. "Please don't tell me this monster was ever let outside the Centre's maximum security wing," she demanded coldly.
"Mr. Raines assured us that he could be controlled," he replied steadily. "Normally, subjects this deeply disturbed are of course neutralized at a young age--"
"'Neutralized'?" she asked. He was surprised by the shock on her face.
"Of course, 'neutralized', my dear: what did you think we did with our rejects and failures?" But he immediately regretted his candor. Frankly, she'd never needed to know anything about such matters, and he wished he hadn't brought it up this time. It was her obvious hostility that was to blame--it was distracting him. He fought down his anger and regained control over his tone of voice. "But that is of no concern. What is of concern is that 5485 is out there, and is quite out of control. The file explains the pertinent data--" he didn't tell her, of course, that a great deal had been removed from the file before he had handed it to her--"and will orient you."
"You want me to bring in this freak?" she asked. "Don't I have enough to do chasing Jarod all over the country?"
Mr. Parker glared silently at his daughter--prepared for the stare-down, this time--and was pleased to see her bite her lip and visibly back down. She even sat down, in the chair across the desk from him.
"This should take you no time at all," he said smoothly, shifting gears effortlessly and adjusting the cadence of his voice to resonate with unctuous sincerity. "A minor inconvenience. Perhaps a pleasant diversion from the Jarod situation."
She leaned forward and flipped through the pages in the file again. "What has the little monstrosity done?" she asked. He heard the confusion in her voice and noted it: his unpredictability was a tool he could use to good affect to disarm her temper. It had always worked with her mother, too.
"He was assigned a simple project," Mr. Parker replied smoothly. "The Centre had a contract with a corporation that was about to introduce a revolutionary new piece of software. They wanted their only real competitor, who was working on a similar product . . . distracted. It was suggested that a harmless kidnapping of the rival CEO's young son--"
"'Harmless kidnapping'?" she spat out. "With this psycho involved?"
"You see the problem," he replied calmly. "Raines assured me that 5485--"
"Doesn't he have a NAME?" she asked disgustedly.
"Oh, yes." Mr. Parker turned the file toward him and leafed through it quickly. "There: 'Richard Phillips' is what he was called during this period. Although he took on this other persona . . " he found a plastic sleeve in the back of the folder containing several computer disks and handed her one. "An online persona, as it were. 'BlackDom', I believe. Very melodramatic. The disk contains his downloaded website--quite graphic material, I'm afraid. He seemingly became obsessed with medieval dungeons, torture, executioners, that sort of thing. HOW these people can function well enough to blend into the real world amazes me," he mused. "One would think someone this disturbed would simply be locked up immediately, by the first law enforcement professional that encountered him. In a perfect world such individuals would never be allowed to integrate into the general population--or harm any normal person. But--no--this 'BlackDom' person instead managed to create this massive website, with games and inter-active video clips--" he snorted in obvious amazement at the idea--" which promptly became one of the Internet's most popular sites. And which it still is, I might add--you'll need to check it's newest version, I've been told he's 'upgraded' it with even more filth." He cleared his throat to signal the level of disgust he felt. Sadism, he believed, belonged in it's proper place: the corporate world. Set loose as recreation, it was no longer useful: it became a waste of energy and therefore needed to be eliminated. "Most of this only came to our attention after the project had already collapsed, of course," he added.
"Of course," she acknowledged with an distinct edge of sarcasm in her voice. "How inconvenient for the Centre."
"No reason to get snappy, my dear," he corrected her. "You see, our client," he continued, "quite without telling us--had begun negotiations for a joint venture with his competitor. It was all market manipulation, of course: both of them were simply trying to boost their stock's value. Which would have worked perfectly, except that when we contacted our operative--'BlackDom', if you will--he had already moved forward with the kidnapping. Although he was supposed to await our signal."
Miss Parker was by this point nodding--she'd recognized the story from the news accounts as soon as her father had begun filling in details. "Steve Wachsman's son. The boy was killed," she said. "Brutally, horribly killed. Raped. Beaten to death, I believe--or whipped, more correctly."
"Yes," Mr. Parker answered. "Yes. So he was. Quite as you say. And the merger never fully took, since Wachsman immediately retreated into a sort of self-imposed exile in his new, high security estate. He has remained there ever since, with the remainder of his family--behind walls. He has made no public announcements, but of course his actions have had disastrous consequences. Meanwhile, as you know, the police have begun investigating our client's possible involvement in the kidnapping--which of course will yield absolutely nothing. But the public attention has been less than beneficial. Stocks of both companies have plummeted--and have continued to hover well below their real value, by anyone's estimate, dragging the entire NASDAQ down with them. The perfect opportunity to buy, of course: except we are already IN. Regrettable, all the way around."
"'Regrettable'?" she asked in disbelief. But he missed the note of horror in her voice entirely.
"Yes--of course, 'regrettable'! The Centre was deeply invested in both companies--that's the whole point of insider information, my dear. And I took a personal loss, as well, if I may say so. Highly regrettable. So--you see why I've asked you in on this. We want this BlackDom, Richard Phillips, 5485--whatever--returned to the Centre without any further delay. The police, typically, seem quite at a loss to connect him to the murder. But of course our client is very unhappy. We need to show good faith by cleaning up the situation. You'll find all you need in the file," he assured her, and stood up by way of dismissal.
She stood as well, and held the file out at arm's length in disgust.
"At least tell me I needn't be particular about the condition in which this creature is returned," she asked.
"Oh--that's completely at your discretion, of course, my dear. We will have no further need of his services."
She smiled grimly, but exchanged another faux kiss with exquisite politeness before she left.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Parker Residence
4 hours later
She was standing at her front door with the key already in the lock when she noticed the figure standing in the shadows watching her. She drew her pistol with practiced ease in spite of the sudden rise in her heart rate and the check in her breathing.
She was quite sure it was Jarod.
But it wasn't. The figure moved only inches to the side and its face was caught in the porch light's glow. It was Laura.
"Jarod isn't here," she assured Parker. "Do I have to put my hands up or can we do this cliché-free?"
Parker kept the 9 millimeter Smith and Wesson targeted at the other woman's chest. She took a deep breath. "What do you want?" she asked evenly.
"Help," Laura replied.
Parker looked in her eyes and slowly lowered the gun. "If this is a trap, I swear I'll kill you," she told her.
"Sure," Laura answered with a shrug. "Wouldn't fucking blame you if you did."
They stood and stared at each other for a few moments.
"It's cold," Laura said, finally.
It was--spring hadn't fully arrived yet, and the plumes of their breathe hung in the bitterly chilled and damp air between them.
Parker sighed and opened the door.
"Forgive me if I don't offer you a drink," Parker said, "but I'm sure you'll understand why I'm being less than hospitable."
"Your anger should be directed at Jarod--who jerks you around--and not at me," Laura reminded her. "I've never done anything to hurt you."
"What is this about?" Parker demanded.
But Laura was calmly slipping out of her coat. "Why NOT a drink?" she asked. "I've been on a jet for hours and I could sure as hell use one."
Parker sighed and took off her own coat, grabbing Laura's and draping them both over a chair. She went to the bar, turning on dim lights in the living room, and brought a bottle of scotch and two squat glasses over to where Laura had ensconced herself in an over-stuffed chair.
She slammed the bottle down on an end table, poured out a shot and tossed it back in one swift gesture. Laura picked up the bottle. "Single malt, and you're doing shots, girl? Geez, you need to relax a tad."
"Why . . . are . . . you . . . here?" Parker demanded, carefully emphasizing each word.
"Does this mean anything to you?" Laura asked. She fumbled in the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. She unfolded it carefully and held it out for Parker to read beneath the lamp.
It said: '5485'.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Somewhere near Queets, Washington
Jarod didn't so much wake up as rise out of unconsciousness into a world of pain. He opened his eyes with difficulty, partly due to the pounding of his headache, partly because his eyelids were stuck shut with what he guessed was his own dried blood. He tried to move and was hit with a massive spasm of agony that started in his shoulders and shot up through his arms and down and around his torso at the same time. He breathed in as deeply as he dared, trying to gauge and minimize the pain in his chest.
He couldn't recall much at all about where he'd been just previous to waking up at first. Then slowly he remembered the bar, and the stranger who had responded to the open invitation his clothing had offered. Jarod had spent days on research and been pleased that he'd had immediate success. The Levi's 501 button-fly jeans, the Doc Marten boots and black tee-shirt, and of course the coded signals he'd carefully added to what he thought of as his 'S/M costume': the keychain clipped to his right rear pocket, the black bandanna partly protruding from the same pocket, along with the gold hoop in his right earlobe. The further his research had taken him, the more amazed he'd been by the ritualistic, deeply insular nature of the world he planned to infiltrate. He'd had no idea such a separate universe co-existed with what its regulars called the 'vanilla' world. It was, he decided, all quite remarkable: a fascinating bit of insight into the extremes of human nature.
He remembered leaving the bar with the other man, and getting into his car. He'd considered this part of the evening to still fall into the category of research, and had been prepared for the negotiation of their activities, the ritual of consent and agreement that he understood should come next. He'd planned on a emotional admission that this would be his 'first time', and hoped that the man who had chosen him would be kind and understanding. He'd been prepared to bolt immediately if that did not turn out to be the case. He needed a deeper level of research before continuing the sting, which was far from wanting the real and total experience, and, in spite of the signals expressing his wish to be dominated, he fully planned on remaining completely in control.
Jarod had even chosen a 'safe word'--the signal that things had progressed too fast or too far, that would command his companion of the evening to stop immediately. 'Refuge', he'd decided, had been his 'safe word' for a long, long time. He just had not known, until this pretend had begun, it's full sadomasochistic implications, or that such words of release were commonly used anywhere other than the Centre. He savored the irony of the fact that soon he would use it again, and that this time the word would be understood by both persons to be a way for him to end an act of sadism being performed on his body. He doubted that Sydney would ever admit that it had always been just that.
Vaguely, he recalled that the man he had left the bar with had startled him by reaching out for him immediately, as soon as he got in the car beside him. He'd sensed something and they'd struggled. Jarod recalled that he had tasted the bitterness of fear, realizing that the other man had planned this and had him at a distinct disadvantage. And then the memory went completely blank. He suspected, from the evidence of his pounding headache, that he'd been hit over the skull, hard.
He tried to clear his mind and begin processing whatever information he could collect from his present surroundings.
The room was dimly lit, from what source he could not tell. He was aware of the cool air against the surface of his skin and realized he was naked. Moving even slightly tore at the muscles in his upper arms, and he understood that he was restrained by his wrists, pinned up against the wall with his arms out to his sides. A more serious attempt at movement caused both more pain and the distinctive rattle of chains.
He tried to move his legs and found a distinct lack of freedom there, as well. He'd pried open his left eye entirely and his right partly and looked down to see wide black cuffs of what he guessed was leather around his ankles, secured with yet more chains to massive steel eyelets that protruded from the wall.
He realized suddenly that it wasn't his vision that was flickering, but the light in the room--he presumed a fire of some sort even before he lifted his head--as bolts of white-hot agony shot through the cramped muscles of his neck and shoulders--and saw a large, open fireplace against the wall across the room from him. A small fire smoldered within its massive maw. Now that he was aware of it, he could smell the smoke, as well.
He tried another, tentative tug at his arms. Once the worst of the pain had passed, he accepted that his wrists were bound, as were his ankles, in cuffs that were chained to the wall. That explained most of the pain, of course: he'd been hung there unconscious, with all of his weight dragging down on his arms and shoulders. Realizing that, he tried flexing slightly at the hips, pushing his upper back into the wall, redistributing his weight. He found he could move his legs enough to spread his feet wider, into a less painful stance. It helped--he felt a bit of relief as the over-stressed muscles were allowed to relax, although even that slight movement also caused a sickening moment of dizziness.
But with the slight benefit the changed position brought came another unpleasant discovery. In front of him, between himself and the wall with the fireplace in it, stood a massive structure of wood, built like a cross lying on its back at about table-height from the floor. There were chains looped through cylinders of wood at each end. He'd seen an apparatus much like it as a child during a simulation of a prisoner of war escape. Sydney had told him it was a torture devise as ancient as the Inquisition, and then explained that episode of human history very briefly. Even in a few short sentences, the awareness had been chilling.
Jarod jerked at the chains again, this time completely heedless of the pain. All he cared about at that moment was escape.
Rating: NC-17 (male/male sexual situations, B&D, NC)
The Blackroom
Chapter 1
Witch1
Mr. Parker's office
The Centre
Blue Cove, Delaware
He stood up as she entered and leaned across his massive desk for the requisite air kiss. "Good to see you, my dear," he told her. "Sit down--this will only take a short while, but you might as well be comfortable."
But she continued to stand. He'd noticed that she seemed to find it difficult to relax at all lately. The last few times he'd seen her she'd been pacing with a sort of unconscious ferocity.
He tossed the file across the desk toward her. Her eyebrows raised before she'd even touched it: it had the embossed, red-lettered seal of the Centre's eyes-only security level boldly stamped on its front.
"The five-thousand series?" she questioned as she picked up the heavy file. Its only identifying mark was the number '5485' on the tab at its top. "Did one of Raines' little wind-up toys run amok?"
He snorted in delight. "Precisely, my dear: 'run amok', indeed! You must be psychic."
She hadn't opened the file yet, and he noticed her frown.
"Daddy," she began with careful hesitancy, "surely cleaning up Mr. Raines' messes isn't the reason I was trained by the Centre--"
"You were trained to do your job," he responded, shortly. "Whatever that may include."
She returned his cool glance until he looked away. Just for a moment he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up--it had happened a few times in the last months, that his daughter had turned the full menace of her gaze on him. She'd never done that before. He wondered if his unexplained absence--and Lyle's sudden, temporary vault to power--had destroyed her respect for him. Or perhaps simply lessened her fear. Whatever it was, he didn't like it. Which was all the more reason to get her safely focused on a new project.
She leaned over and flipped the file open on the edge of his desk and began skimming the contents.
"Oh, this one sounds like a real winner," she offered. "'Sociopathic tendencies, 'dangerous and unpredictable', 'clearly homicidal'"-- she read.--"and this was when he was nine!" She looked up impatiently. "Please don't tell me this monster was ever let outside the Centre's maximum security wing," she demanded coldly.
"Mr. Raines assured us that he could be controlled," he replied steadily. "Normally, subjects this deeply disturbed are of course neutralized at a young age--"
"'Neutralized'?" she asked. He was surprised by the shock on her face.
"Of course, 'neutralized', my dear: what did you think we did with our rejects and failures?" But he immediately regretted his candor. Frankly, she'd never needed to know anything about such matters, and he wished he hadn't brought it up this time. It was her obvious hostility that was to blame--it was distracting him. He fought down his anger and regained control over his tone of voice. "But that is of no concern. What is of concern is that 5485 is out there, and is quite out of control. The file explains the pertinent data--" he didn't tell her, of course, that a great deal had been removed from the file before he had handed it to her--"and will orient you."
"You want me to bring in this freak?" she asked. "Don't I have enough to do chasing Jarod all over the country?"
Mr. Parker glared silently at his daughter--prepared for the stare-down, this time--and was pleased to see her bite her lip and visibly back down. She even sat down, in the chair across the desk from him.
"This should take you no time at all," he said smoothly, shifting gears effortlessly and adjusting the cadence of his voice to resonate with unctuous sincerity. "A minor inconvenience. Perhaps a pleasant diversion from the Jarod situation."
She leaned forward and flipped through the pages in the file again. "What has the little monstrosity done?" she asked. He heard the confusion in her voice and noted it: his unpredictability was a tool he could use to good affect to disarm her temper. It had always worked with her mother, too.
"He was assigned a simple project," Mr. Parker replied smoothly. "The Centre had a contract with a corporation that was about to introduce a revolutionary new piece of software. They wanted their only real competitor, who was working on a similar product . . . distracted. It was suggested that a harmless kidnapping of the rival CEO's young son--"
"'Harmless kidnapping'?" she spat out. "With this psycho involved?"
"You see the problem," he replied calmly. "Raines assured me that 5485--"
"Doesn't he have a NAME?" she asked disgustedly.
"Oh, yes." Mr. Parker turned the file toward him and leafed through it quickly. "There: 'Richard Phillips' is what he was called during this period. Although he took on this other persona . . " he found a plastic sleeve in the back of the folder containing several computer disks and handed her one. "An online persona, as it were. 'BlackDom', I believe. Very melodramatic. The disk contains his downloaded website--quite graphic material, I'm afraid. He seemingly became obsessed with medieval dungeons, torture, executioners, that sort of thing. HOW these people can function well enough to blend into the real world amazes me," he mused. "One would think someone this disturbed would simply be locked up immediately, by the first law enforcement professional that encountered him. In a perfect world such individuals would never be allowed to integrate into the general population--or harm any normal person. But--no--this 'BlackDom' person instead managed to create this massive website, with games and inter-active video clips--" he snorted in obvious amazement at the idea--" which promptly became one of the Internet's most popular sites. And which it still is, I might add--you'll need to check it's newest version, I've been told he's 'upgraded' it with even more filth." He cleared his throat to signal the level of disgust he felt. Sadism, he believed, belonged in it's proper place: the corporate world. Set loose as recreation, it was no longer useful: it became a waste of energy and therefore needed to be eliminated. "Most of this only came to our attention after the project had already collapsed, of course," he added.
"Of course," she acknowledged with an distinct edge of sarcasm in her voice. "How inconvenient for the Centre."
"No reason to get snappy, my dear," he corrected her. "You see, our client," he continued, "quite without telling us--had begun negotiations for a joint venture with his competitor. It was all market manipulation, of course: both of them were simply trying to boost their stock's value. Which would have worked perfectly, except that when we contacted our operative--'BlackDom', if you will--he had already moved forward with the kidnapping. Although he was supposed to await our signal."
Miss Parker was by this point nodding--she'd recognized the story from the news accounts as soon as her father had begun filling in details. "Steve Wachsman's son. The boy was killed," she said. "Brutally, horribly killed. Raped. Beaten to death, I believe--or whipped, more correctly."
"Yes," Mr. Parker answered. "Yes. So he was. Quite as you say. And the merger never fully took, since Wachsman immediately retreated into a sort of self-imposed exile in his new, high security estate. He has remained there ever since, with the remainder of his family--behind walls. He has made no public announcements, but of course his actions have had disastrous consequences. Meanwhile, as you know, the police have begun investigating our client's possible involvement in the kidnapping--which of course will yield absolutely nothing. But the public attention has been less than beneficial. Stocks of both companies have plummeted--and have continued to hover well below their real value, by anyone's estimate, dragging the entire NASDAQ down with them. The perfect opportunity to buy, of course: except we are already IN. Regrettable, all the way around."
"'Regrettable'?" she asked in disbelief. But he missed the note of horror in her voice entirely.
"Yes--of course, 'regrettable'! The Centre was deeply invested in both companies--that's the whole point of insider information, my dear. And I took a personal loss, as well, if I may say so. Highly regrettable. So--you see why I've asked you in on this. We want this BlackDom, Richard Phillips, 5485--whatever--returned to the Centre without any further delay. The police, typically, seem quite at a loss to connect him to the murder. But of course our client is very unhappy. We need to show good faith by cleaning up the situation. You'll find all you need in the file," he assured her, and stood up by way of dismissal.
She stood as well, and held the file out at arm's length in disgust.
"At least tell me I needn't be particular about the condition in which this creature is returned," she asked.
"Oh--that's completely at your discretion, of course, my dear. We will have no further need of his services."
She smiled grimly, but exchanged another faux kiss with exquisite politeness before she left.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Parker Residence
4 hours later
She was standing at her front door with the key already in the lock when she noticed the figure standing in the shadows watching her. She drew her pistol with practiced ease in spite of the sudden rise in her heart rate and the check in her breathing.
She was quite sure it was Jarod.
But it wasn't. The figure moved only inches to the side and its face was caught in the porch light's glow. It was Laura.
"Jarod isn't here," she assured Parker. "Do I have to put my hands up or can we do this cliché-free?"
Parker kept the 9 millimeter Smith and Wesson targeted at the other woman's chest. She took a deep breath. "What do you want?" she asked evenly.
"Help," Laura replied.
Parker looked in her eyes and slowly lowered the gun. "If this is a trap, I swear I'll kill you," she told her.
"Sure," Laura answered with a shrug. "Wouldn't fucking blame you if you did."
They stood and stared at each other for a few moments.
"It's cold," Laura said, finally.
It was--spring hadn't fully arrived yet, and the plumes of their breathe hung in the bitterly chilled and damp air between them.
Parker sighed and opened the door.
"Forgive me if I don't offer you a drink," Parker said, "but I'm sure you'll understand why I'm being less than hospitable."
"Your anger should be directed at Jarod--who jerks you around--and not at me," Laura reminded her. "I've never done anything to hurt you."
"What is this about?" Parker demanded.
But Laura was calmly slipping out of her coat. "Why NOT a drink?" she asked. "I've been on a jet for hours and I could sure as hell use one."
Parker sighed and took off her own coat, grabbing Laura's and draping them both over a chair. She went to the bar, turning on dim lights in the living room, and brought a bottle of scotch and two squat glasses over to where Laura had ensconced herself in an over-stuffed chair.
She slammed the bottle down on an end table, poured out a shot and tossed it back in one swift gesture. Laura picked up the bottle. "Single malt, and you're doing shots, girl? Geez, you need to relax a tad."
"Why . . . are . . . you . . . here?" Parker demanded, carefully emphasizing each word.
"Does this mean anything to you?" Laura asked. She fumbled in the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. She unfolded it carefully and held it out for Parker to read beneath the lamp.
It said: '5485'.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Somewhere near Queets, Washington
Jarod didn't so much wake up as rise out of unconsciousness into a world of pain. He opened his eyes with difficulty, partly due to the pounding of his headache, partly because his eyelids were stuck shut with what he guessed was his own dried blood. He tried to move and was hit with a massive spasm of agony that started in his shoulders and shot up through his arms and down and around his torso at the same time. He breathed in as deeply as he dared, trying to gauge and minimize the pain in his chest.
He couldn't recall much at all about where he'd been just previous to waking up at first. Then slowly he remembered the bar, and the stranger who had responded to the open invitation his clothing had offered. Jarod had spent days on research and been pleased that he'd had immediate success. The Levi's 501 button-fly jeans, the Doc Marten boots and black tee-shirt, and of course the coded signals he'd carefully added to what he thought of as his 'S/M costume': the keychain clipped to his right rear pocket, the black bandanna partly protruding from the same pocket, along with the gold hoop in his right earlobe. The further his research had taken him, the more amazed he'd been by the ritualistic, deeply insular nature of the world he planned to infiltrate. He'd had no idea such a separate universe co-existed with what its regulars called the 'vanilla' world. It was, he decided, all quite remarkable: a fascinating bit of insight into the extremes of human nature.
He remembered leaving the bar with the other man, and getting into his car. He'd considered this part of the evening to still fall into the category of research, and had been prepared for the negotiation of their activities, the ritual of consent and agreement that he understood should come next. He'd planned on a emotional admission that this would be his 'first time', and hoped that the man who had chosen him would be kind and understanding. He'd been prepared to bolt immediately if that did not turn out to be the case. He needed a deeper level of research before continuing the sting, which was far from wanting the real and total experience, and, in spite of the signals expressing his wish to be dominated, he fully planned on remaining completely in control.
Jarod had even chosen a 'safe word'--the signal that things had progressed too fast or too far, that would command his companion of the evening to stop immediately. 'Refuge', he'd decided, had been his 'safe word' for a long, long time. He just had not known, until this pretend had begun, it's full sadomasochistic implications, or that such words of release were commonly used anywhere other than the Centre. He savored the irony of the fact that soon he would use it again, and that this time the word would be understood by both persons to be a way for him to end an act of sadism being performed on his body. He doubted that Sydney would ever admit that it had always been just that.
Vaguely, he recalled that the man he had left the bar with had startled him by reaching out for him immediately, as soon as he got in the car beside him. He'd sensed something and they'd struggled. Jarod recalled that he had tasted the bitterness of fear, realizing that the other man had planned this and had him at a distinct disadvantage. And then the memory went completely blank. He suspected, from the evidence of his pounding headache, that he'd been hit over the skull, hard.
He tried to clear his mind and begin processing whatever information he could collect from his present surroundings.
The room was dimly lit, from what source he could not tell. He was aware of the cool air against the surface of his skin and realized he was naked. Moving even slightly tore at the muscles in his upper arms, and he understood that he was restrained by his wrists, pinned up against the wall with his arms out to his sides. A more serious attempt at movement caused both more pain and the distinctive rattle of chains.
He tried to move his legs and found a distinct lack of freedom there, as well. He'd pried open his left eye entirely and his right partly and looked down to see wide black cuffs of what he guessed was leather around his ankles, secured with yet more chains to massive steel eyelets that protruded from the wall.
He realized suddenly that it wasn't his vision that was flickering, but the light in the room--he presumed a fire of some sort even before he lifted his head--as bolts of white-hot agony shot through the cramped muscles of his neck and shoulders--and saw a large, open fireplace against the wall across the room from him. A small fire smoldered within its massive maw. Now that he was aware of it, he could smell the smoke, as well.
He tried another, tentative tug at his arms. Once the worst of the pain had passed, he accepted that his wrists were bound, as were his ankles, in cuffs that were chained to the wall. That explained most of the pain, of course: he'd been hung there unconscious, with all of his weight dragging down on his arms and shoulders. Realizing that, he tried flexing slightly at the hips, pushing his upper back into the wall, redistributing his weight. He found he could move his legs enough to spread his feet wider, into a less painful stance. It helped--he felt a bit of relief as the over-stressed muscles were allowed to relax, although even that slight movement also caused a sickening moment of dizziness.
But with the slight benefit the changed position brought came another unpleasant discovery. In front of him, between himself and the wall with the fireplace in it, stood a massive structure of wood, built like a cross lying on its back at about table-height from the floor. There were chains looped through cylinders of wood at each end. He'd seen an apparatus much like it as a child during a simulation of a prisoner of war escape. Sydney had told him it was a torture devise as ancient as the Inquisition, and then explained that episode of human history very briefly. Even in a few short sentences, the awareness had been chilling.
Jarod jerked at the chains again, this time completely heedless of the pain. All he cared about at that moment was escape.
