Warming him up (Slave Verse 1, Chapter 2)
Sylar took only a moment to enforce his will on the dealer. He had no intention of leaving a paper trail the president’s men could follow, so he pushed the thought that they’d already finished the transaction and the paperwork had been filed properly.
Peter had followed him out of the cubicle after a slight delay. Now he said to him curtly, “Come,” and walked towards the exit. Peter followed him at first, then lagged a bit and finally stopped. Sylar took several more steps before realizing his pet had strayed off his leash already. He turned slowly, eyes smoldering at the defiance.
Peter was looking back after the dealer, who was walking away. The lanky young man looked back to Sylar, worried, then back to the dealer. Sylar sighed - this wasn’t defiance, which made it less potentially pleasurable to punish him for it. He could see what Peter would be confused about. The dealer owned him and he was supposed to do as he said, but Sylar was clearly leaving with him and just as clearly hadn’t actually bought him. So what was a good slave to do?
“Come with me, pet,” Sylar said clearly, his voice carrying. He had abilities that could compel obedience, but he preferred to just use his voice on this one. Peter took one step towards him and shot a last look in the dealer’s direction, who had by now entirely disappeared back into the hall that led to his office. Abandoned by the dealer, Peter seemed to come to a decision and turned to follow Sylar.
Sylar immediately wheeled and strode off, gratified to hear Peter jog for a while to catch up with his long strides. He shoved open the door to the outside and made no attempt to hold it open for his new acquisition. He headed for the curb and the vehicles that waited there for emerging customers like himself.
Again, Peter lagged. And this was understandable too, as the sudden noise and bustle of the outside world was often overwhelming to recent victims of deep memory erasure. They had no context to understand it and everything was new. Their reactions could range from fear and panic to fascination and awe. Peter merely looked bewildered and lost to be outside of the comfortingly familiar environment of the slave market. It was the only world he knew, even if that memory only extended a few days into the past.
Sylar felt he’d been patient enough already. He hit the remote, which was still set at 6 and was pleased to hear Peter yelp and then trot after him. Sylar flagged down a vehicle and climbed in the back seat. Peter hesitated at the door. Sylar’s thumb hovered over the button, but Peter was getting in before he had pressed it, so he held off. Peter gave him a dirty look, but it wasn’t much, as dirty looks went, and Sylar was more amused by it than offended.
Sylar gave directions to the driver and closed the partition between the passenger compartment and the driver. He turned to Peter, intending to address him, but Peter had his back to him entirely, face plastered to the glass, staring at the world outside like he could devour it with his eyes. Sylar dialed the remote back down to 4 and hit it for a second.
Peter jumped and whipped around, eyes darting. He looked between Sylar’s face and the remote, then around the compartment, then back to the remote and up to Sylar. His eyes narrowed as he failed to process what he’d done to warrant punishment.
Sylar said, “I want you to pay attention to me. I am the most important thing in your world, pet.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed further and he smirked. His face said, Yeah, right. Then he let his eyes travel down Sylar’s body as possessively and lecherously as Sylar’s had Peter’s own only a few minutes before. It wasn’t a look Sylar wanted on his slave’s face. He dialed the remote to 8. Peter looked at that, but didn’t react with the same alacrity that he had before. He was beginning to doubt Sylar would hit him with anything that high.
This was as good a time as any to dispel that doubt. Sylar hit the button. Peter threw his head back and cried out, thrashing in the small compartment and kicking the back of the driver’s seat several times in his convulsion. The vehicle swerved a little. “What the hell are you doing back there?” the driver yelled.
Sylar left the implant buzzing away in Peter’s head while he convinced the driver to mind his own business. Then he lifted his thumb and was pleased to hear Peter’s shaky, shuddering breaths fill the otherwise silent compartment. Sylar reached out and lifted his chin. Peter didn’t resist. His eyes were dull. Sylar told him, “Do you remember what I told you to do?”
Peter’s eyes widened as he tried to figure out which command Sylar meant. He nodded uncertainly.
“Good boy,” Sylar said. He released him and looked out the window as if disinterested. Peter sat up slowly and watched Sylar continually, and even if his eyes were sliding out of a focus a little by the time they arrived at their destination, he was at least still paying attention.
Sylar paid the man and they debarked inside the secure underground drop off area. Another round of presenting credentials was required at the elevators - they’d needed the first for the taxi to get into the drop off area in the first place. Peter’s eyes were back to darting around everywhere, even at something as mundane as a parking garage.
The elevator doors opened and Sylar stepped inside. Peter didn’t join him right away, although he glanced inside. Sylar had stepped into a funny-looking closet. There was no need to follow him in there. He jumped slightly at the departure of a vehicle belonging to some other resident of the exclusive, high-security apartments Sylar called home. He turned to watch it zoom away.
Sylar grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him into the elevator with him. Peter yelped again and flailed, off balance. Sylar tossed him in the corner where Peter stumbled and caught himself on the hand bar. The door shut and, as Sylar’s authorization had been processed before the elevator ever opened, it immediately whisked them to the right floor.
At the sensation of falling, Peter bolted to his feet and looked around in wonder, as if expecting something. He looked so intently at Sylar that the taller man felt a little creeped out. The feeling strengthened when Peter stepped closer to him and reached out to touch him. He looked at the touch and Peter looked from it to Sylar’s face, looking for something. They arrived with a sudden deceleration. Peter smiled, pinching and almost tugging at Sylar’s sleeve. Sylar shook him off and walked onto his floor. Peter followed.
Sylar had the entire penthouse level to himself, an extravagance that put him on certain people’s radar, but those people had the sense to mind their own business as long as Sylar wasn’t disrupting their plans. Generally there was enough to do in the wide world for Sylar to stay away from their little portion of it.
Just inside the door, Sylar picked up a gun-like device. Peter reacted to that. He knew the shape and when Sylar started to walk behind him with it, he wheeled to face him. Sylar grabbed his shoulder and shoved him at the wall. Peter caught himself against it and Sylar put his right hand in the center of Peter’s back, holding pressure on him. “Stay,” he said. He applied the gun and pulled the trigger.
“Ow!” Peter barked at the sharp pain. He tried to twist away and Sylar let him, reaching into his pocket for the remote. Peter was trying to reach the spot where Sylar had inserted a subdermal tracking and identification device. His fingers came back with a small spot of blood - nothing serious - but before he could ask about it Sylar had pressed the button. Peter’s legs folded under him and he went down, cracking his head hard on the marble tiled floor.
Sylar let up immediately and pushed Peter aside with his foot. He knelt and ran his fingers across the wounded tile. It was cracked, which really hacked him off. He looked at the remote, which was still set on 8. He looked at Peter, who was still on the floor, eyes flying between the tile, the remote, and Sylar’s face. He looked angry, yet afraid. Sylar liked that look on him. Peter was beginning to fear him. Good. After a suitably threatening, pregnant pause, he dialed the remote back to 6. He hadn’t meant to use that high a setting again anyway. He put it away without using it.
“Get up and avoid breaking any more of my things.”
Peter hastened to obey, but he still glared at him. Sylar turned to face down that look and Peter snapped his eyes downward immediately. His expression didn’t otherwise change. Sylar smiled. This was going to be fun.
He led him in the bathroom and pointed at the shower. “Undress. Clean yourself. Thoroughly.” Sylar went over to the vanity and pulled out the chair there, sitting on it and propping up one foot on the side of the Jacuzzi. He put the remote on his thigh.
Peter was looking around the bathroom much like he had at the parking garage. He jumped at the mirror, catching sight of himself in it. He walked towards it slowly. As interesting as the self-discovery might have been, Sylar was not a patient man. However, he could understand Peter’s confusion, at least intellectually even if he had no similar personal experience. He dialed the remote down to 2 and pressed it.
Peter jumped - again - Sylar loved watching him do that - and went over to the little room Sylar had pointed at. He went inside and started to shut the door.
“Leave that open.”
Peter did, looking around the semi-enclosed space. Sylar waited, his finger hovering over the button. But Peter remembered what he’d been told to do. He took off his jockstrap and held it, looking around some more. Finally he dropped it on the built-in seat. He seemed to realize the shower wasn’t going to turn on by itself and he examined the controls for it. He fiddled with them fruitlessly. He pulled on the handle-shaped knob. He twisted. He pulled and twisted. He looked around for different controls.
Sylar heaved a sigh and got up. Shocking him again wasn’t going to help with this, so he walked over, reached in and turned on the shower for him, pressing the knob and turning. The sudden jet of water was a surprise and Sylar smirked. It was almost worth it, though he’d have rather enjoyed that little jump from the comfort of his chair. He sat back down and put both feet up now.
Peter stood in the water for a little bit apparently doing nothing. Sylar realized he was drinking it. His lips thinned. He’d intended to be able to hold water, in addition to food, out of Peter’s reach unless he abased himself. But Sylar hadn’t really thought about the shower and Peter probably hadn’t either - at least not in the context of thwarting him. All Sylar had considered was that Peter smelled like a slave stable and there was no telling who had handled him since the last time the dealer had him washed.
Peter took down a bottle from the caddy in the corner and examined it. Sylar sat up a little, paying attention because this was important. He hadn’t intended this either, but it was something he needed to know. Peter examined the bottle of conditioner. He appeared to read the label. He put it aside and took down the next bottle, of body wash. He seemed to read that label too and it too was put aside. The last bottle, of shampoo, he opened, dispensed some, and applied it correctly to his hair.
Sylar leaned back and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Peter could still read, and he understood the contextual meaning of the words. You could never tell with deep memory erasure. To take out every meaningful memory sometimes stripped out basic life skills as well. In severe cases it took out language. These could all be relearned, but it was tedious and took months. Sylar had been worried after he couldn’t figure out the shower, or, apparently, the elevator, but at least he was still literate.
He washed his hair, used conditioner and then body wash, all appropriately. And he washed thoroughly, though he turned himself away from Sylar when he did his crotch. Sylar rolled his eyes. He was going to be fucking the man within a half hour and they both knew it. This was hardly the time to be shy. But he didn’t order him not to turn away. Let Peter had some shred of modesty. He’d rip that out of him along with everything else.
Peter took a few last drinks of shower water and rinsed his mouth. He glanced between the controls and Sylar a couple times. Sylar didn’t move, so Peter puzzled over the knob a bit and figured out how to turn it off on his own. He stood there dripping, then leaned out of the shower looking around for a towel. Sylar telekinetically threw him one.
“Thanks,” Peter said automatically, the first articulate thing he’d said since the exchange in the cubicle. Sylar took in a deep breath and considered his options. He decided on the side of pain and dialed the button up to 6 and hit it. Peter jerked, slipped on the wet floor and barely managed to grab the shower frame to avoid going down. “What the hell?” he said as soon as the pain stopped. Sylar rolled his eyes and hit it again, this time holding the button down for several seconds instead of only one.
Peter was silent when it stopped, his knuckles white where he gripped the shower frame. He looked between the towel, the shower, Sylar, the remote, the floor and himself. He held himself tensely, every muscle knotted. His hands shook a little. After several beats, he began to slowly towel himself off, staring straight at Sylar. It wasn’t defiant - just hyper-alert. Sylar rolled his eyes again and Peter clenched more, if that was even possible, bracing himself for the inevitable.
“Sir, or master,” Sylar ground out. “When you address me, you will say sir or master. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir.” Peter relaxed, the knowledge of why he’d been punished taking away his fear. He let out his breath and shot Sylar a sullen look. Sylar zapped him for a fraction of a second for that, but did no more. Peter jerked and looked away from him, then turned his back on him and finished drying off.
When it seemed he was taking rather longer at it than he needed to, Sylar yanked the towel away with telekinesis, hanging it up. “Come here.” He put his feet on the floor and sat up. “Put your foot here.” He indicated the side of the Jacuzzi. When Peter went to comply he slapped his shin. “Other foot.”
Peter made a noise in his throat like he very nearly spoke, then swallowed it and put his other foot up. Sylar looked at him and said, “Come closer. Do it again.” He pointed at exactly where he wanted Peter’s foot. Peter did it, although it put his groin within easy reach of Sylar. His knee brushed Sylar’s.
Sylar bent forward and took hold of Peter’s scrotum. It was shaved and still carried greenish bruising from the vasectomy. Peter tensed and said nothing. He looked away. Sylar tugged it to one side and then the other, examining the incisions. “You’ve been cleared for sex?”
“Yes sir,” Peter said in a voice that was almost lifeless. Sylar brushed his hand over Peter’s penis. The darker haired man’s eyelids fluttered and he turned his face further away, swallowing hard. Sylar opened his slacks and pulled himself out. Peter glanced over discreetly at the motion, then looked away again.
“Get me hard.”
Peter looked back at him, narrowed his eyes and looked between Sylar and his dick. Sylar took the remote into his hand. “Yes sir,” Peter said in the same dull voice. He went to his knees on the hard tile and reached out to take hold of him. Sylar batted his hand away.
“Use your mouth.”
“Yes sir.”
Sylar grabbed his hair, jerking his face up. Peter grunted and glared at him, before remembering himself and jerking his eyes down. He didn’t look happy about where that put his gaze. Sylar told him, “I don’t want to hear anything from you unless I’m asking you a question.” He didn’t bother to tell him not to bite him. It would hurt, but he could regenerate and it would be fun taking revenge on him for the attack, if it came. He also wanted to know if there would be an attack. Peter had been defiant thus far, but not violent. He let him go and spread his knees a little more.
Peter swallowed and leaned in, taking Sylar’s half-hard cock into his mouth. He sucked it in with short moments of suction, swirling his tongue under it and pulling it in. Sylar grunted. Peter knew how to do this too. He wondered how complete Peter’s memories were of his lovers - attachments, relationships and locations were the primary things they tried to erase out of a slave’s mind.
He’d said he couldn’t remember anyone before… but obviously he could remember something. He bobbed his head up and down, using his lips to advantage, dragging the ridge of the glans with his teeth in an intentional motion that was followed by rapid licking and twisting his head over the tip.
Sylar groaned. He was good. Damn good. Peter did something with his throat and angled his head down, taking him deep, his throat spasming around the head of Sylar’s cock. It wasn’t just a momentary thing either. It went on second after second until Sylar though he would come from that alone. “Ah!” Sylar panted and pushed Peter away. Peter blinked up at him, a hanging thread of saliva still connecting his mouth to Sylar’s organ.
“I’m hard. That’s enough.” Sylar breathed hard and eyed Peter suspiciously. He stood up and phased out of his clothes. The expression on Peter’s face told him his suspicion was right - he’d been trying to avoid sex by getting him off with his mouth - an interesting tactic, but a failed one.
Chapter 3: game-byrd.livejournal.com/1286.html