These Children Games
These Children Games
Rated NC-17.
Word count: 5357
Summary: The one where Adam is a prize to be won in a high stakes game of riddles. A sex slave fic. Warnings for off-page non-con and graphic violence.Written for the kinkmeme.
“I know you'd do anything for me, dearest.”
Adam doesn't speak a word, his eyes as cold and fixed on Logan as the guests' eyes are on him. This is a power trip, Adam has been with Logan long enough to be aware of that. He should also know by now how to deal with it, to just suck it up and do as he's told, but tonight he can't bring himself to, and maybe it's a relief. He feels, if not pride, than at least some kind of fondness for his oppressed, mourning heart.
Adam doesn't say 'no,' but the implication of his walking away is telling enough.
*
The invite to the Pas de Chat Ball feels thick and extravagant against Kris's skin as he taps the envelope absently against his forehead. He looks out of the limo window as LA lights stretch into white and gold ribbons, festive as stars, dread swilling unpleasantly in his gut.
It's not that he hates hundred thousand dollar blowouts, he just dislikes them. Kris doesn't begin to imagine what this year's ball will be like. He doesn't even have a date this time, no buffer between him and Mr. Pacelle.
Or maybe that's a good thing. Kris remembers with a twinge of regret when Mr. Pacelle took the hand of the girl he brought last year, kissing it wetly and welcoming her to the “Pas de Pussy Ball.”
She blushed; he blushed; Mr. Pacelle guffawed.
Still, the Pas de Chat is no event to turn down. His father's company benefited tremendously from the connections Kris made last year alone. Kris will take one for the team again. It is his little way of helping out, attending a lavish and decadent party thrown by LA's most hated man.
Kris turns the invitation in his hands.
Logan M. Pacelle cordially invites you, Kris Allen, to the Pas de Chat Ball.
He presses his face against the cool glass, sighing.
It's going to be a long night.
*
Mr. Pacelle greets Kris immediately, drawing him into a tight, uncomfortable hug.
“Kris, my dear boy. Wonderful to see you again.”
“You too, Mr. Pacelle.”
Kris's eyes sweep the dining room. The color scheme is intense white, vivid aquamarine, and the breathtaking expanse of open space between the floors and the glass dome ceiling. It's awe inspiring and immaculate, and studying every dive and decor the room has to offer will be the high point of his evening, Kris is sure.
“My humble abode,” Mr. Pacelle says, looking boyish and eager to please despite his gray hair and pallid, age thinned lips.
“It's amazing,” Kris says, because it's true.
Mr. Pacelle hooks his arm through Kris's and starts navigating through the crowd. He has always been affectionate like that, ever since Kris can remember him. As a young boy, Kris had been drawn to it, considering Mr. Pacelle to be some sort of a grandfather to him.
Now he feels sick being around him, memories of what his father told him tainting his view.
“Don't-don't get too close to Logan. He's a very bad man.” His father had told him one night after Mr. Pacelle had gifted Kris two years of riding lessons and his own palomino.
“But why? I love him.” Kris said, confused.
“I know you do,” His father replied sadly. “but he's a dangerous man and quite frankly, I don't trust you being around him.”
Kris's eyes widened questioningly, distress rising easily at nine years old.
His father exhaled wearily.
“I don't know if you can understand this. See, Logan has a sl-- a boy like you, maybe a few years older, but he doesn't treat him like he should. He's very cruel, and he laughs about some of the things he's done.”
“Can we help this boy? He can live in my room. We can be roommates.” Kris offered, nothing but earnest.
His father laughed, picking him up and holding him close. He kissed his hair affectionately and hugged him.
“Maybe someday we can save them all.”
*
When Adam comes to he feels very cold. His ears are ringing and his body feels heavy, especially his neck and head. Every breath he takes blows back in his face. He's surrounded by darkness.
*
“Up there-- that's where we'll be sitting.” Mr. Pacelle gestures to a balcony overlooking the room. It's almost invisible, the dining space receding into the wall and covered over with a white, gossamer curtain. Kris doesn't feel much like talking, so he simply nods his head, then stops abruptly.
“What is that?” He asks Mr. Pacelle, staring at something in the middle of the room.
Mr. Pacelle follows Kris's eyes.
“Ah,” He exclaims quietly. “That is performance art.”
*
The last thing Adam remembers is that he had upset Logan, disobeyed him. He had been fuck-it-all at first, but then as the gravity of his actions started to sink in, so did the terror. Now he is frightened and blind and deaf, his body barely stirring though his mind was screaming at him to get up and run. Something hot spills from his eyes and over the duct tape on his mouth. He's never been so scared.
*
As Kris approaches what he now distinguishes as the party's center piece, the more uneasy he feels. It's an oval table made of frosted glass, lit dimly from within, and laid on top of it is the prone body of a young man. He's naked except for wrist cuffs holding his arms above his head and a sad eyed theater mask covering his face. There are turquoise feathers and clear strings of beads exploding from the hairline of the mask, trailing down the back of his head like a Mardi Gras themed wig. Chunks of ice, some as big as bricks, have been arranged along his spine, melting frigid water down his neck and the cleft of his ass.
Though Kris has never understood art, he always does his best to try and appreciate it.
This just makes him uncomfortable.
“Are you sure he isn't cold?” Kris asks, not sure what else to say.
“He's definitely cold.” Mr. Pacelle replies simply. “You should see him with clothes on. Always dresses like a school marm, lots of black, lots of layers. Scarves. Which is a shame, because he's got such an exquisite body.”
Mr. Pacelle puts a hand out and rubs it down the man's pale back, coming to rest it on his inner, upper thigh. It's definitely an erotic touch, and Kris's mind races to stories his father told him, stories about Mr. Pacelle and his slaves. A chill goes down his spine.
“But he wants to do this, right? You're paying him, aren't you?” He's already certain of the answer, but he has to ask. The look Mr. Pacelle gives him is conspiratorial, but also somewhat gleeful, as if he has a wonderful secret he wants to share with Kris and only Kris. But then he smiles and nothing more.
“Let's go eat, shall we?”
*
Kris can't eat. He feels queasy sitting across from Mr. Pacelle, staring down from the balcony at the room full of his less honored guests. Kris doesn't even want to know what it means to be considered highly by Mr. Pacelle, nor what the men and women sitting besides him did in order to be held in his esteem.
What Kris himself has done, for that matter.
He keeps glancing down at the slave on the platform.
The man seems to have regained some of his ability to move, because he's sitting up now, his long, lean legs curled beneath him. His arms are shakily supporting himself. Every now and then a guest or two wanders by, drink usually in hand. They pet him sometimes, like he's some kind of exotic animal, which Kris finds upsetting.
He sips his wine in silence.
*
People are touching him. He can't hear and he can't see and he can't speak, but he can feel their hands on him, making him keenly aware of the fact that he is unclothed. At least the ice has slid off him, giving his chilled body a chance to warm up. He wonders what's going to happen next.
*
Simon is a quick witted Englishman, as silver as Mr. Pacelle but with none of the pretenses. Kris trusts him more because of it, not having to untangle truth and bullshit whenever he talks to him.
“What do you think of--” Kris indicates with his glass toward the seated figure of the slave, speaking in a low voice. More people have gathered around him, chattering nonchalantly. Some look like they're appraising him, like he's been carved out of marble; others look on with nothing less than derision. Simon studies the scene for a moment.
“I think it's obvious you haven't been to any of Logan's real parties,” Simon is standoffish, like he doesn't want to broach the subject simply because he does not care.
“So it gets worse than this?”
“This? This is nothing. This position is envied by Logan's other slaves. Put up with Logan a couple of nights a week and you avoid all labor, all the terrible work that goes around here that keeps this place on its feet.”
“Wait-- couple of nights a week? What exactly does this slave do?”
Simon laughs.
“You don't know? You can't recognize a sex slave when he's lying naked in front of you, wearing chains and an idiotic headdress? I'm not even trying to be facetious--”
“Oh my god,” Kris says, feeling disgusted. “that's terrible.”
“I don't particularly like the habit, but he's Logan's slave. He can do whatever the hell he pleases with him.”
“But you say this is nothing?”
“I don't exactly know, I don't really pay attention when Logan has male slaves, which he usually does; but just yesterday this one-” Simon jerks his thumb over his shoulder, rudely. “-upset Logan somehow. Didn't obey when he was asked to do something utterly vile, I'm sure. Most of Logan's close friends are dirty fuckers, and this slave, objectively he's beautiful. I might have even. . .” He trails off, suddenly introspective.
Kris feels rage. It chokes up his insides, constricting vessels and sending blood to his brain, hot and red. He shoves his tongue into his cheek to keep from lashing out.
“So he disobeys Mr. Pacelle, and now he has to do this stunt as punishment? Be humiliated?”
Simon doesn't laugh this time, but a small sorry smile forms on his lips. It's directed at Kris, pitying him for being naive, or petulant, or maybe even for being good.
“You just don't get it. Don't you understand this slave isn't simply for visual stimuli? He's fucking dessert.”
*
Nathan has always been a show off.
Captain of the football team in high school, then incongruously top of his classes at Oxford, and now making seven figures with the prettiest wife on his arm. She's watching him, a suggestive, egging look in her olive pupils. He knows what she wants, and hell, he wants it too. Nathan downs another shot for good luck, then climbs onto the platform where the slave is lying curled on his side. The slaves moves blindly, probably alerted to Nathan's presence by the way the thick glass trembles beneath both of them. The six inch chains on his wrists prevent him from getting too far, so Nathan is only toying with him when he yanks him up by the shoulders and slams him down on his back. If the slave makes a sound, Nathan can't hear it. It's the fucking mask, obscuring his face and muffling any noises he would make.
Too bad. Watching slaves' faces while he fucks them is Nathan's favorite part.
He's starting to get an audience now, people creating a ring around them and shouting encouragements. His wife's eyes are still on him, smoldering with arousal.
Nathan keeps his gaze on her as he drags the slave's leg over his shoulder and unzips his pants.
*
It's a shock when Adam is flipped painfully on his back, his arms wrenching over his head as the metal cuffs bite into his skin. The hands that are on him are brutal, squeezing his biceps with too much force. The pitiful whimper that he makes can't make it past the tape and the rag stuffed in his mouth, so to any onlookers, Adam appears stoic. Someone grabs his leg and hauls it over their shoulder, a man, Adam guesses from the sturdy feel of the stranger's body and the harsh fabric of their clothing. There's a moment of stillness and Adam feels such shame, such humiliation over being so utterly helpless.
*
“Mr. Pacelle, I have a business proposition for you.”
Kris's voice is loud with as much authority as he can pour into it. Some people turn to look, surprise dawning on their faces when they see Kris, meek passive Kris, glaring down at Mr. Pacelle with his palms flat on the table. He's angry, his breath coming in shallow blasts.
Mr. Pacelle primly sets the spoon he was using onto his plate.
“It can't wait until after dinner?”
“I want to buy that slave from you.” Kris says, demands. He has his checkbook halfway out of his pocket when Mr. Pacelle slowly turns to look at the slave below them.
“He's busy.” Mr. Pacelle replies flatly, returning his attention to the food in front of him.
“No!” Kris uses his arm to swipe Mr. Pacelle's place clean, tipping a wine glass over that bleeds dark red on the white table cloth. “I'm buying him now, and I'm taking him now. Money is not an issue.”
“Money is not an issue?” Mr. Pacelle laughs heartily. He even makes a show of dabbing his eyes with a napkin. “Kris, that's pathetic. No amount of money you can offer me will do me any good. I have so much money that I can own the world,” A light sparks in his eyes as he leans closer to Kris. “or better yet, I can own people. That's how much money I have.”
“Fine. Not money then,” Kris struggles for a moment, desperate. “What can I offer you?”
“Nothing you have--” Mr. Pacelle stops, and if the gleam in his eye was eerie before, now it is nothing short of malevolent. “How about we play a little game. A bet, of sorts.”
It's a terrifying prospect- everything he can lose to Mr. Pacelle, but Kris nods.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay. ”
“If you win, I'll regretfully part with my slave. He will be yours. If I win, however, you cook me dinner and put on a show for me.”
Kris doesn't understand.
“That's-that's it?”
Mr. Pacelle bows his head. “Yes, that will suffice. You make me a rack of lamb, roast potatoes and butter, and a chilled bottle of beer for dinner,” He gazes at Kris, his downcast face predatory and hungry. “and for the show, you fuck that slave you want so badly in my bedroom, while I watch.”
The air in Kris's chest leaves. He feels dizzy and horrified.
“I've always admired you, Kris. You have a good head on your shoulders, and a fine body. I've imagined what it would be like to see you, lost in ecstasy. Your muscles taut and shining with sweat.” Mr. Pacelle grabs a champagne flute from across the table and takes a sip, his eyes never leaving Kris's face.
Kris looks away, his cheeks scarlet.
“Want to play?” Mr. Pacelle asks gleefully, then breaks out into a noisy bout of laughter.
A split second and the thought of backing down crosses Kris's mind. Just walking away, but then he catches sight of the slave below, pulling weakly at his restraints as a man with a football player's build climbs off of him. The man strokes the back of his hand down the slave's chest, all the way to his groin as the slave buries his head against his own shoulder.
Almost like he's trying to hide.
“Yes. Yes I'll do it.” Kris says, his mind made up.
Mr. Pacelle grins widely.
“Wonderful,” he breathes.
*
“Do you know anything about sphinxes?” Mr. Pacelle asks, scribbling something on a piece of paper. “They're beautiful cat women who usually guard something of great value, and the only way to make it past them is to answer a riddle.”
He folds the paper in half, licking the bent edge and tearing it in half. One piece is given to Kris; the other to Simon.
“Don't show each other what's written down, now. Keep it to yourself, because those are your riddles.”
“Interesting.” Simon says blandly, reading his piece of paper. “Why are you giving this to me?”
“Because I can't answer my own riddle. That would be terribly unfair to poor Kris.” Mr. Pacelle says, like it's the most obvious thing. “See, the first one to get the riddle right gets to keep the slave. And since you're my closest, most intelligent companion, Simon, I have chosen you to be my proxy.”
“You flatter me.” Simon says, his face smug.
“Simon, you can't do this.” Kris turns on him, appealing. “You don't believe in this, you can't.”
Please, Simon, don't make me go up against you. I'd never stand a chance.
Conflict passes over Simon's face for a moment, but then it disappears behind the years of business experience, the seeking and finding of talented people he can make money off of. Like Logan Pacelle, or quite possibly Kris himself, somewhere along the road.
“I believe,” Simon says softly. “in playing the game.”
It's intentionally ambiguous, but somehow Kris understands completely.
“Fine.” Kris says coldly. “Mr. Pacelle, are there any other rules we need to know about?”
“Yes. You both have different riddles, each of them in two parts. The answer to the first half is some kind of animal; the answer to the second is a color. When the answers are combined the result will be 'purple dog,' or 'violet canary.' As you figure out the answers, you write them on the back of the paper. First one to get the answer correct wins.”
“And I get to take the slave home tonight; we can deal with the paperwork later on.” Kris throws in.
“As sad as I would be to part with Adam, yes, you can take him home afterward.”
“'Adam,' his name is 'Adam?'” Kris asks, and suddenly he is more determined than ever now that he knows the slave's-Adam's-name.
Mr. Pacelle looks taken aback.
“You would go through all this to save a stranger? Someone whose name you only learned two seconds ago? You are far to good for the rest of us.”
“It's fascinating, isn't it?” Simon says drolly.
*
I'm a foe unto myself
My lives all lived in the cold
And the murk
What am I?
As for the second question, the ANSWER IS RIGHT BEFORE you.
Hint: it's easier than you think.
Kris knits his eyebrows together, rereading the paper. He's never been good at word games.
Across the table, Simon makes a note on the back of his paper, whispering a quick, “Done with the first half.” to Mr. Pacelle.
Mr. Pacelle smiles in satisfaction.
Blood fills Kris's mouth as he bites the inside of his cheek, concentrating.
*
There are nails marks on the front of his thighs. They sting as Adam moves, trying to get into a more bearable position. There's someone behind him, pulling him backwards so they can kiss his neck. They smell of perfume. A woman? There are hands spreading his legs now, touching his thighs. It's violating, but it stirs something in Adam.
The need to escape.
They'd kill him, Adam knows that, but he doesn't care anymore.
*
I'm a foe unto myself
My lives all lived in the cold
And the murk
What am I?
As for the second question, the ANSWER IS RIGHT BEFORE you.
Hint: it's easier than you think.
It didn't make any sense to Kris. He's never been exceptionally smart, having to study hard through college, work even harder to keep up with his father's business. Pressure often undoes him, and the rowdy cries of the guests-the rapists-below are making him sick to the heart, his brain racing through theories and jumbled, half formed thoughts.
Simon has already figured out part of the riddle-easily too. Kris can't help but be furious at him, perhaps even more than at Mr. Pacelle, as irrational as it is. He just wishes Simon had been on his side.
“Kris, how are you doing?” Mr. Pacelle asks. He's nursing another finger of champagne, the picture of indulgence.
“Don't talk to me.” Kris mutters through his teeth.
“Rude, Kris. You shouldn't speak to me that way. Haven't I always been your friend?”
Kris doesn't look up, merely scoffs quietly. Two drops of liquid hit the paper in front of him and, dear lord, he's sweating.
“I've been there since you were just a small boy. You were as cute as a button. I bought you a horse, remember? I do. You named him 'Corky.'” Mr. Pacelle smiles reminiscently before a frown creases his brow. “Your father didn't like me. Didn't trust me, I think, though I can't imagine why.”
“You can't?” Kris asks suddenly. “You don't remember being a dirty dog to your workers? Don't remember treating your slaves like shit? My dad was right about you. Is right.”
Like a curtain, Mr. Pacelle's paternal facade drops.
“Well, let's hope your father's right this time, and everyone else is wrong. ” He says incisively. “Especially the doctor's.”
Kris train of thought breaks as he looks into Mr. Pacelle's eyes.
He hates him so much.
“This isn't going to change anything.” Mr. Pacelle says, his tone now soothing. “Don't think I don't know why you're so intent on rescuing my slave.”
“You don't know anything-”
“You can't save your father, so now you're going to save Adam.”
“Shut up! Just-just shut up.” Kris fists a hand in his hair, beyond frustrated.
“You're so stupid, Kris. And so delusional. You should be thanking me for opening your eyes to this fucked up world-”
Kris closes his eyes, trying to focus on the task at hand. To him it literally feels like life or death, but despite the importance of his win, Kris can't keep his mind from drifting to memories of his father. His father singing, his father barbequing, ever the family man despite the monstrosity of a business attached to his name. Then come the recent memories of harsh smelling antiseptic, overbearing in the hospital hallway, and the high pitched whine of machines, the only things keeping his father going.
No matter what Mr. Pacelle says, money can't buy people.
Kris knows this, the hundreds and thousands of dollars he spent on fixing his father's failing body as evidence.
But he can save someone, if he can only get the riddle right.
I'm a foe unto myself
My lives all lived in the cold
What the hell does that even mean? Kris nearly groans, his chest tightening painfully.
His mind retreats to days with his dad, summer ones spent fishing on the lake, catching treasures out of Arkansas' chest.
And the murk
Bottom dwellers. Muddy water. Kris could cry from happiness, because he finally gets it. Gets the multiple lives and the foe line-the answer is a fucking catfish.
He writes it down on the back of the paper with trembling hands, Simon looking at him through slitted eyes. He hasn't made any progress since his early break.
They're even now.
*
Adam can't breathe. The air he does get is teasing, only available for a few seconds before the belt around his neck is tightened again. His tormentors seem to have gotten tired of just sexually abusing him and are now taking things to a physical level. Even though he can't see, Adam is sure there are livid bruises marking his back, wide strips of skin broken and seeping blood. The belt isn't just for strangling, after all. He feels something brush against his fingers, flesh perhaps, and he grabs hold, so sick of everything. Adam's fingers bite in, claw until he can feel a hot gush of liquid over his skin and the belt go slack. He gasps for breath even when something hard collides with his head.
*
The second half of the riddle is proving harder for both Kris and Simon.
Simon scratches his chin pensively.
Kris can't breath except for short, panicked breaths.
The guest downstairs are getting blood thirsty.
Mr. Pacelle sips his ice water.
*
The mask has been broken. It still covers Adam's face, but there's a small crack that permits light to pass through, letting Adam in on the nightmare on the outside.
People-a mob. Their outraged faces.
Hands are holding down his struggling body, forcing him to submit. He'd rather die.
*
As for the second question, the ANSWER IS RIGHT BEFORE you.
Hint: it's easier than you think.
No, it's fucking not easier than I think.
Kris runs a hand over his sweaty face, overloaded. The people downstairs have grown violent, and Mr. Pacelle only reluctantly sent someone to calm them down. So far nothing has changed, the shouts from the animals down below causing Kris to despair.
Mr. Pacelle eyes his watch.
“It's been forty-five minutes and I'm getting bored. At this rate, Adam might expire sooner than your poor, cancer shocked father.”
Kris grinds his teeth, eyes like coals burning into Mr. Pacelle.
“Fuck. You.”
Mr. Pacelle shakes his head and titters. Kris wrenches his gaze away from him, catching sight of Simon staring at his riddle with disinterest.
*
Someone brought a dinner knife. It gleams as bright as any savior in their hand. The cold touch of metal stills Adam immediately, though he isn't exactly sure why. He should just let them kill him.
*
Kris moves like a bolt, climbing across the table and snatching Simon's riddle paper from him. He flips it over to read the chicken scratch of Simon's writing, dodging away as Simon tries to grab it back.
“The answer is right before you! The answer is a Scarlet Catfish!” He shouts. In his frenzy he trips over a chair, falling on his ass.
Mr. Pacelle looks down at him.
And then nods.
“He cheated.” Simon snarls, actually stepping over the table to get to Kris. “The little bugger stole my paper!”
“That's the answer to the riddle.” Mr. Pacelle says calmly. He sinks into his chair, looking exhausted. “You see, Kris only has the animal riddle, while you have the color riddle. Sometimes you have to reach out and grab the things you want that are right in front of you.”
“I won.” Kris says, blinking. He doesn't wait to hear what Mr. Pacelle or Simon has to say before he's stumbling down the stairs.
*
The sharp edge of the knife presses into Adam's shoulder, more effective at restraining him than twenty people. He closes his eyes and swallows, thinking this is the end.
But then the knife is taken away, the cuff on his right wrist removed.
Like a too long pent up bull, Adam lashes out, swinging around to punch the person nearest to him. Contact is made, the sound of someone staggering backwards barely making it to his covered ears. Adam tugs at his other restraint, a bitter sob convulsing his chest. He's crying in earnest now, struggling. Then like water, like healing, fabric covers him over, wrapping around his naked, damaged body. Suddenly everything else is forgotten and Adam curls into it, his head sinking onto his knees, tears falling there. Someone undoes his other cuff, then half walks, half carries him out of Logan's home.
*
Back in the limo, Kris slams the door on one of the most nightmarish ordeals of his life. His heart breaks when he starts to think what it must have been like for the slave--Adam-- who is now modestly dressed in one of Mr. Pacelle's plush table cloths and sitting across from him, body tense and alert.
“Take that off please, the mask.” Kris says without thinking. For some reason just looking at it's features is setting him on edge.
Slowly, reluctantly, and before Kris can realize his mistake, Adam removes the mask. He's about to apologize, but before he can, Kris is stuck by Adam's humanness.
The soft, blue eyes. The freckles.
It's all too tragic.
Kris leans his head back, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Can you talk to me, Adam? My name is Kris, and I kind of need to hear that you're okay.” He says into the limo roof, his voice wobbly.
Adam is silent for a moment, then his lips form words and those words take an eternity to reach Kris's ears.
“You saved me, Kris.” And then, cautiously. “I know who you are.”
Kris feels the burn of tears. He is so ashamed. He's not like those other men, no matter how many times Adam must have seen him at Mr. Pacelle's home. Laughing. Partying.
“I'm not-I'm-” Kris falters, unable to look Adam in the eye.
“When I was young you offered me a ride on your horse, a beautiful tan horse. I couldn't, I wasn't allowed, so I just watched you instead. A man was there, your father I think. He didn't come near me, but he smiled and said, 'My son is a good boy, isn't he?' I remember because it was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.”
And that's it. Kris is crying, stuttering gasps shaking his entire body.
He's also laughing, in relief, in gratitude, but it isn't as apparent.
*
Adam doesn't know what to do with the crying man. His hands clench and unclench in the fabric over his legs, wanting desperately to reach out. But for now, Adam has to protect himself. They sit together in silence, the limo hurtling toward who knows where.
Click for the sequel: Hopscotch and All Like Things
Rated NC-17.
Word count: 5357
Summary: The one where Adam is a prize to be won in a high stakes game of riddles. A sex slave fic. Warnings for off-page non-con and graphic violence.Written for the kinkmeme.
“I know you'd do anything for me, dearest.”
Adam doesn't speak a word, his eyes as cold and fixed on Logan as the guests' eyes are on him. This is a power trip, Adam has been with Logan long enough to be aware of that. He should also know by now how to deal with it, to just suck it up and do as he's told, but tonight he can't bring himself to, and maybe it's a relief. He feels, if not pride, than at least some kind of fondness for his oppressed, mourning heart.
Adam doesn't say 'no,' but the implication of his walking away is telling enough.
*
The invite to the Pas de Chat Ball feels thick and extravagant against Kris's skin as he taps the envelope absently against his forehead. He looks out of the limo window as LA lights stretch into white and gold ribbons, festive as stars, dread swilling unpleasantly in his gut.
It's not that he hates hundred thousand dollar blowouts, he just dislikes them. Kris doesn't begin to imagine what this year's ball will be like. He doesn't even have a date this time, no buffer between him and Mr. Pacelle.
Or maybe that's a good thing. Kris remembers with a twinge of regret when Mr. Pacelle took the hand of the girl he brought last year, kissing it wetly and welcoming her to the “Pas de Pussy Ball.”
She blushed; he blushed; Mr. Pacelle guffawed.
Still, the Pas de Chat is no event to turn down. His father's company benefited tremendously from the connections Kris made last year alone. Kris will take one for the team again. It is his little way of helping out, attending a lavish and decadent party thrown by LA's most hated man.
Kris turns the invitation in his hands.
Logan M. Pacelle cordially invites you, Kris Allen, to the Pas de Chat Ball.
He presses his face against the cool glass, sighing.
It's going to be a long night.
*
Mr. Pacelle greets Kris immediately, drawing him into a tight, uncomfortable hug.
“Kris, my dear boy. Wonderful to see you again.”
“You too, Mr. Pacelle.”
Kris's eyes sweep the dining room. The color scheme is intense white, vivid aquamarine, and the breathtaking expanse of open space between the floors and the glass dome ceiling. It's awe inspiring and immaculate, and studying every dive and decor the room has to offer will be the high point of his evening, Kris is sure.
“My humble abode,” Mr. Pacelle says, looking boyish and eager to please despite his gray hair and pallid, age thinned lips.
“It's amazing,” Kris says, because it's true.
Mr. Pacelle hooks his arm through Kris's and starts navigating through the crowd. He has always been affectionate like that, ever since Kris can remember him. As a young boy, Kris had been drawn to it, considering Mr. Pacelle to be some sort of a grandfather to him.
Now he feels sick being around him, memories of what his father told him tainting his view.
“Don't-don't get too close to Logan. He's a very bad man.” His father had told him one night after Mr. Pacelle had gifted Kris two years of riding lessons and his own palomino.
“But why? I love him.” Kris said, confused.
“I know you do,” His father replied sadly. “but he's a dangerous man and quite frankly, I don't trust you being around him.”
Kris's eyes widened questioningly, distress rising easily at nine years old.
His father exhaled wearily.
“I don't know if you can understand this. See, Logan has a sl-- a boy like you, maybe a few years older, but he doesn't treat him like he should. He's very cruel, and he laughs about some of the things he's done.”
“Can we help this boy? He can live in my room. We can be roommates.” Kris offered, nothing but earnest.
His father laughed, picking him up and holding him close. He kissed his hair affectionately and hugged him.
“Maybe someday we can save them all.”
*
When Adam comes to he feels very cold. His ears are ringing and his body feels heavy, especially his neck and head. Every breath he takes blows back in his face. He's surrounded by darkness.
*
“Up there-- that's where we'll be sitting.” Mr. Pacelle gestures to a balcony overlooking the room. It's almost invisible, the dining space receding into the wall and covered over with a white, gossamer curtain. Kris doesn't feel much like talking, so he simply nods his head, then stops abruptly.
“What is that?” He asks Mr. Pacelle, staring at something in the middle of the room.
Mr. Pacelle follows Kris's eyes.
“Ah,” He exclaims quietly. “That is performance art.”
*
The last thing Adam remembers is that he had upset Logan, disobeyed him. He had been fuck-it-all at first, but then as the gravity of his actions started to sink in, so did the terror. Now he is frightened and blind and deaf, his body barely stirring though his mind was screaming at him to get up and run. Something hot spills from his eyes and over the duct tape on his mouth. He's never been so scared.
*
As Kris approaches what he now distinguishes as the party's center piece, the more uneasy he feels. It's an oval table made of frosted glass, lit dimly from within, and laid on top of it is the prone body of a young man. He's naked except for wrist cuffs holding his arms above his head and a sad eyed theater mask covering his face. There are turquoise feathers and clear strings of beads exploding from the hairline of the mask, trailing down the back of his head like a Mardi Gras themed wig. Chunks of ice, some as big as bricks, have been arranged along his spine, melting frigid water down his neck and the cleft of his ass.
Though Kris has never understood art, he always does his best to try and appreciate it.
This just makes him uncomfortable.
“Are you sure he isn't cold?” Kris asks, not sure what else to say.
“He's definitely cold.” Mr. Pacelle replies simply. “You should see him with clothes on. Always dresses like a school marm, lots of black, lots of layers. Scarves. Which is a shame, because he's got such an exquisite body.”
Mr. Pacelle puts a hand out and rubs it down the man's pale back, coming to rest it on his inner, upper thigh. It's definitely an erotic touch, and Kris's mind races to stories his father told him, stories about Mr. Pacelle and his slaves. A chill goes down his spine.
“But he wants to do this, right? You're paying him, aren't you?” He's already certain of the answer, but he has to ask. The look Mr. Pacelle gives him is conspiratorial, but also somewhat gleeful, as if he has a wonderful secret he wants to share with Kris and only Kris. But then he smiles and nothing more.
“Let's go eat, shall we?”
*
Kris can't eat. He feels queasy sitting across from Mr. Pacelle, staring down from the balcony at the room full of his less honored guests. Kris doesn't even want to know what it means to be considered highly by Mr. Pacelle, nor what the men and women sitting besides him did in order to be held in his esteem.
What Kris himself has done, for that matter.
He keeps glancing down at the slave on the platform.
The man seems to have regained some of his ability to move, because he's sitting up now, his long, lean legs curled beneath him. His arms are shakily supporting himself. Every now and then a guest or two wanders by, drink usually in hand. They pet him sometimes, like he's some kind of exotic animal, which Kris finds upsetting.
He sips his wine in silence.
*
People are touching him. He can't hear and he can't see and he can't speak, but he can feel their hands on him, making him keenly aware of the fact that he is unclothed. At least the ice has slid off him, giving his chilled body a chance to warm up. He wonders what's going to happen next.
*
Simon is a quick witted Englishman, as silver as Mr. Pacelle but with none of the pretenses. Kris trusts him more because of it, not having to untangle truth and bullshit whenever he talks to him.
“What do you think of--” Kris indicates with his glass toward the seated figure of the slave, speaking in a low voice. More people have gathered around him, chattering nonchalantly. Some look like they're appraising him, like he's been carved out of marble; others look on with nothing less than derision. Simon studies the scene for a moment.
“I think it's obvious you haven't been to any of Logan's real parties,” Simon is standoffish, like he doesn't want to broach the subject simply because he does not care.
“So it gets worse than this?”
“This? This is nothing. This position is envied by Logan's other slaves. Put up with Logan a couple of nights a week and you avoid all labor, all the terrible work that goes around here that keeps this place on its feet.”
“Wait-- couple of nights a week? What exactly does this slave do?”
Simon laughs.
“You don't know? You can't recognize a sex slave when he's lying naked in front of you, wearing chains and an idiotic headdress? I'm not even trying to be facetious--”
“Oh my god,” Kris says, feeling disgusted. “that's terrible.”
“I don't particularly like the habit, but he's Logan's slave. He can do whatever the hell he pleases with him.”
“But you say this is nothing?”
“I don't exactly know, I don't really pay attention when Logan has male slaves, which he usually does; but just yesterday this one-” Simon jerks his thumb over his shoulder, rudely. “-upset Logan somehow. Didn't obey when he was asked to do something utterly vile, I'm sure. Most of Logan's close friends are dirty fuckers, and this slave, objectively he's beautiful. I might have even. . .” He trails off, suddenly introspective.
Kris feels rage. It chokes up his insides, constricting vessels and sending blood to his brain, hot and red. He shoves his tongue into his cheek to keep from lashing out.
“So he disobeys Mr. Pacelle, and now he has to do this stunt as punishment? Be humiliated?”
Simon doesn't laugh this time, but a small sorry smile forms on his lips. It's directed at Kris, pitying him for being naive, or petulant, or maybe even for being good.
“You just don't get it. Don't you understand this slave isn't simply for visual stimuli? He's fucking dessert.”
*
Nathan has always been a show off.
Captain of the football team in high school, then incongruously top of his classes at Oxford, and now making seven figures with the prettiest wife on his arm. She's watching him, a suggestive, egging look in her olive pupils. He knows what she wants, and hell, he wants it too. Nathan downs another shot for good luck, then climbs onto the platform where the slave is lying curled on his side. The slaves moves blindly, probably alerted to Nathan's presence by the way the thick glass trembles beneath both of them. The six inch chains on his wrists prevent him from getting too far, so Nathan is only toying with him when he yanks him up by the shoulders and slams him down on his back. If the slave makes a sound, Nathan can't hear it. It's the fucking mask, obscuring his face and muffling any noises he would make.
Too bad. Watching slaves' faces while he fucks them is Nathan's favorite part.
He's starting to get an audience now, people creating a ring around them and shouting encouragements. His wife's eyes are still on him, smoldering with arousal.
Nathan keeps his gaze on her as he drags the slave's leg over his shoulder and unzips his pants.
*
It's a shock when Adam is flipped painfully on his back, his arms wrenching over his head as the metal cuffs bite into his skin. The hands that are on him are brutal, squeezing his biceps with too much force. The pitiful whimper that he makes can't make it past the tape and the rag stuffed in his mouth, so to any onlookers, Adam appears stoic. Someone grabs his leg and hauls it over their shoulder, a man, Adam guesses from the sturdy feel of the stranger's body and the harsh fabric of their clothing. There's a moment of stillness and Adam feels such shame, such humiliation over being so utterly helpless.
*
“Mr. Pacelle, I have a business proposition for you.”
Kris's voice is loud with as much authority as he can pour into it. Some people turn to look, surprise dawning on their faces when they see Kris, meek passive Kris, glaring down at Mr. Pacelle with his palms flat on the table. He's angry, his breath coming in shallow blasts.
Mr. Pacelle primly sets the spoon he was using onto his plate.
“It can't wait until after dinner?”
“I want to buy that slave from you.” Kris says, demands. He has his checkbook halfway out of his pocket when Mr. Pacelle slowly turns to look at the slave below them.
“He's busy.” Mr. Pacelle replies flatly, returning his attention to the food in front of him.
“No!” Kris uses his arm to swipe Mr. Pacelle's place clean, tipping a wine glass over that bleeds dark red on the white table cloth. “I'm buying him now, and I'm taking him now. Money is not an issue.”
“Money is not an issue?” Mr. Pacelle laughs heartily. He even makes a show of dabbing his eyes with a napkin. “Kris, that's pathetic. No amount of money you can offer me will do me any good. I have so much money that I can own the world,” A light sparks in his eyes as he leans closer to Kris. “or better yet, I can own people. That's how much money I have.”
“Fine. Not money then,” Kris struggles for a moment, desperate. “What can I offer you?”
“Nothing you have--” Mr. Pacelle stops, and if the gleam in his eye was eerie before, now it is nothing short of malevolent. “How about we play a little game. A bet, of sorts.”
It's a terrifying prospect- everything he can lose to Mr. Pacelle, but Kris nods.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay. ”
“If you win, I'll regretfully part with my slave. He will be yours. If I win, however, you cook me dinner and put on a show for me.”
Kris doesn't understand.
“That's-that's it?”
Mr. Pacelle bows his head. “Yes, that will suffice. You make me a rack of lamb, roast potatoes and butter, and a chilled bottle of beer for dinner,” He gazes at Kris, his downcast face predatory and hungry. “and for the show, you fuck that slave you want so badly in my bedroom, while I watch.”
The air in Kris's chest leaves. He feels dizzy and horrified.
“I've always admired you, Kris. You have a good head on your shoulders, and a fine body. I've imagined what it would be like to see you, lost in ecstasy. Your muscles taut and shining with sweat.” Mr. Pacelle grabs a champagne flute from across the table and takes a sip, his eyes never leaving Kris's face.
Kris looks away, his cheeks scarlet.
“Want to play?” Mr. Pacelle asks gleefully, then breaks out into a noisy bout of laughter.
A split second and the thought of backing down crosses Kris's mind. Just walking away, but then he catches sight of the slave below, pulling weakly at his restraints as a man with a football player's build climbs off of him. The man strokes the back of his hand down the slave's chest, all the way to his groin as the slave buries his head against his own shoulder.
Almost like he's trying to hide.
“Yes. Yes I'll do it.” Kris says, his mind made up.
Mr. Pacelle grins widely.
“Wonderful,” he breathes.
*
“Do you know anything about sphinxes?” Mr. Pacelle asks, scribbling something on a piece of paper. “They're beautiful cat women who usually guard something of great value, and the only way to make it past them is to answer a riddle.”
He folds the paper in half, licking the bent edge and tearing it in half. One piece is given to Kris; the other to Simon.
“Don't show each other what's written down, now. Keep it to yourself, because those are your riddles.”
“Interesting.” Simon says blandly, reading his piece of paper. “Why are you giving this to me?”
“Because I can't answer my own riddle. That would be terribly unfair to poor Kris.” Mr. Pacelle says, like it's the most obvious thing. “See, the first one to get the riddle right gets to keep the slave. And since you're my closest, most intelligent companion, Simon, I have chosen you to be my proxy.”
“You flatter me.” Simon says, his face smug.
“Simon, you can't do this.” Kris turns on him, appealing. “You don't believe in this, you can't.”
Please, Simon, don't make me go up against you. I'd never stand a chance.
Conflict passes over Simon's face for a moment, but then it disappears behind the years of business experience, the seeking and finding of talented people he can make money off of. Like Logan Pacelle, or quite possibly Kris himself, somewhere along the road.
“I believe,” Simon says softly. “in playing the game.”
It's intentionally ambiguous, but somehow Kris understands completely.
“Fine.” Kris says coldly. “Mr. Pacelle, are there any other rules we need to know about?”
“Yes. You both have different riddles, each of them in two parts. The answer to the first half is some kind of animal; the answer to the second is a color. When the answers are combined the result will be 'purple dog,' or 'violet canary.' As you figure out the answers, you write them on the back of the paper. First one to get the answer correct wins.”
“And I get to take the slave home tonight; we can deal with the paperwork later on.” Kris throws in.
“As sad as I would be to part with Adam, yes, you can take him home afterward.”
“'Adam,' his name is 'Adam?'” Kris asks, and suddenly he is more determined than ever now that he knows the slave's-Adam's-name.
Mr. Pacelle looks taken aback.
“You would go through all this to save a stranger? Someone whose name you only learned two seconds ago? You are far to good for the rest of us.”
“It's fascinating, isn't it?” Simon says drolly.
*
I'm a foe unto myself
My lives all lived in the cold
And the murk
What am I?
As for the second question, the ANSWER IS RIGHT BEFORE you.
Hint: it's easier than you think.
Kris knits his eyebrows together, rereading the paper. He's never been good at word games.
Across the table, Simon makes a note on the back of his paper, whispering a quick, “Done with the first half.” to Mr. Pacelle.
Mr. Pacelle smiles in satisfaction.
Blood fills Kris's mouth as he bites the inside of his cheek, concentrating.
*
There are nails marks on the front of his thighs. They sting as Adam moves, trying to get into a more bearable position. There's someone behind him, pulling him backwards so they can kiss his neck. They smell of perfume. A woman? There are hands spreading his legs now, touching his thighs. It's violating, but it stirs something in Adam.
The need to escape.
They'd kill him, Adam knows that, but he doesn't care anymore.
*
I'm a foe unto myself
My lives all lived in the cold
And the murk
What am I?
As for the second question, the ANSWER IS RIGHT BEFORE you.
Hint: it's easier than you think.
It didn't make any sense to Kris. He's never been exceptionally smart, having to study hard through college, work even harder to keep up with his father's business. Pressure often undoes him, and the rowdy cries of the guests-the rapists-below are making him sick to the heart, his brain racing through theories and jumbled, half formed thoughts.
Simon has already figured out part of the riddle-easily too. Kris can't help but be furious at him, perhaps even more than at Mr. Pacelle, as irrational as it is. He just wishes Simon had been on his side.
“Kris, how are you doing?” Mr. Pacelle asks. He's nursing another finger of champagne, the picture of indulgence.
“Don't talk to me.” Kris mutters through his teeth.
“Rude, Kris. You shouldn't speak to me that way. Haven't I always been your friend?”
Kris doesn't look up, merely scoffs quietly. Two drops of liquid hit the paper in front of him and, dear lord, he's sweating.
“I've been there since you were just a small boy. You were as cute as a button. I bought you a horse, remember? I do. You named him 'Corky.'” Mr. Pacelle smiles reminiscently before a frown creases his brow. “Your father didn't like me. Didn't trust me, I think, though I can't imagine why.”
“You can't?” Kris asks suddenly. “You don't remember being a dirty dog to your workers? Don't remember treating your slaves like shit? My dad was right about you. Is right.”
Like a curtain, Mr. Pacelle's paternal facade drops.
“Well, let's hope your father's right this time, and everyone else is wrong. ” He says incisively. “Especially the doctor's.”
Kris train of thought breaks as he looks into Mr. Pacelle's eyes.
He hates him so much.
“This isn't going to change anything.” Mr. Pacelle says, his tone now soothing. “Don't think I don't know why you're so intent on rescuing my slave.”
“You don't know anything-”
“You can't save your father, so now you're going to save Adam.”
“Shut up! Just-just shut up.” Kris fists a hand in his hair, beyond frustrated.
“You're so stupid, Kris. And so delusional. You should be thanking me for opening your eyes to this fucked up world-”
Kris closes his eyes, trying to focus on the task at hand. To him it literally feels like life or death, but despite the importance of his win, Kris can't keep his mind from drifting to memories of his father. His father singing, his father barbequing, ever the family man despite the monstrosity of a business attached to his name. Then come the recent memories of harsh smelling antiseptic, overbearing in the hospital hallway, and the high pitched whine of machines, the only things keeping his father going.
No matter what Mr. Pacelle says, money can't buy people.
Kris knows this, the hundreds and thousands of dollars he spent on fixing his father's failing body as evidence.
But he can save someone, if he can only get the riddle right.
I'm a foe unto myself
My lives all lived in the cold
What the hell does that even mean? Kris nearly groans, his chest tightening painfully.
His mind retreats to days with his dad, summer ones spent fishing on the lake, catching treasures out of Arkansas' chest.
And the murk
Bottom dwellers. Muddy water. Kris could cry from happiness, because he finally gets it. Gets the multiple lives and the foe line-the answer is a fucking catfish.
He writes it down on the back of the paper with trembling hands, Simon looking at him through slitted eyes. He hasn't made any progress since his early break.
They're even now.
*
Adam can't breathe. The air he does get is teasing, only available for a few seconds before the belt around his neck is tightened again. His tormentors seem to have gotten tired of just sexually abusing him and are now taking things to a physical level. Even though he can't see, Adam is sure there are livid bruises marking his back, wide strips of skin broken and seeping blood. The belt isn't just for strangling, after all. He feels something brush against his fingers, flesh perhaps, and he grabs hold, so sick of everything. Adam's fingers bite in, claw until he can feel a hot gush of liquid over his skin and the belt go slack. He gasps for breath even when something hard collides with his head.
*
The second half of the riddle is proving harder for both Kris and Simon.
Simon scratches his chin pensively.
Kris can't breath except for short, panicked breaths.
The guest downstairs are getting blood thirsty.
Mr. Pacelle sips his ice water.
*
The mask has been broken. It still covers Adam's face, but there's a small crack that permits light to pass through, letting Adam in on the nightmare on the outside.
People-a mob. Their outraged faces.
Hands are holding down his struggling body, forcing him to submit. He'd rather die.
*
As for the second question, the ANSWER IS RIGHT BEFORE you.
Hint: it's easier than you think.
No, it's fucking not easier than I think.
Kris runs a hand over his sweaty face, overloaded. The people downstairs have grown violent, and Mr. Pacelle only reluctantly sent someone to calm them down. So far nothing has changed, the shouts from the animals down below causing Kris to despair.
Mr. Pacelle eyes his watch.
“It's been forty-five minutes and I'm getting bored. At this rate, Adam might expire sooner than your poor, cancer shocked father.”
Kris grinds his teeth, eyes like coals burning into Mr. Pacelle.
“Fuck. You.”
Mr. Pacelle shakes his head and titters. Kris wrenches his gaze away from him, catching sight of Simon staring at his riddle with disinterest.
*
Someone brought a dinner knife. It gleams as bright as any savior in their hand. The cold touch of metal stills Adam immediately, though he isn't exactly sure why. He should just let them kill him.
*
Kris moves like a bolt, climbing across the table and snatching Simon's riddle paper from him. He flips it over to read the chicken scratch of Simon's writing, dodging away as Simon tries to grab it back.
“The answer is right before you! The answer is a Scarlet Catfish!” He shouts. In his frenzy he trips over a chair, falling on his ass.
Mr. Pacelle looks down at him.
And then nods.
“He cheated.” Simon snarls, actually stepping over the table to get to Kris. “The little bugger stole my paper!”
“That's the answer to the riddle.” Mr. Pacelle says calmly. He sinks into his chair, looking exhausted. “You see, Kris only has the animal riddle, while you have the color riddle. Sometimes you have to reach out and grab the things you want that are right in front of you.”
“I won.” Kris says, blinking. He doesn't wait to hear what Mr. Pacelle or Simon has to say before he's stumbling down the stairs.
*
The sharp edge of the knife presses into Adam's shoulder, more effective at restraining him than twenty people. He closes his eyes and swallows, thinking this is the end.
But then the knife is taken away, the cuff on his right wrist removed.
Like a too long pent up bull, Adam lashes out, swinging around to punch the person nearest to him. Contact is made, the sound of someone staggering backwards barely making it to his covered ears. Adam tugs at his other restraint, a bitter sob convulsing his chest. He's crying in earnest now, struggling. Then like water, like healing, fabric covers him over, wrapping around his naked, damaged body. Suddenly everything else is forgotten and Adam curls into it, his head sinking onto his knees, tears falling there. Someone undoes his other cuff, then half walks, half carries him out of Logan's home.
*
Back in the limo, Kris slams the door on one of the most nightmarish ordeals of his life. His heart breaks when he starts to think what it must have been like for the slave--Adam-- who is now modestly dressed in one of Mr. Pacelle's plush table cloths and sitting across from him, body tense and alert.
“Take that off please, the mask.” Kris says without thinking. For some reason just looking at it's features is setting him on edge.
Slowly, reluctantly, and before Kris can realize his mistake, Adam removes the mask. He's about to apologize, but before he can, Kris is stuck by Adam's humanness.
The soft, blue eyes. The freckles.
It's all too tragic.
Kris leans his head back, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Can you talk to me, Adam? My name is Kris, and I kind of need to hear that you're okay.” He says into the limo roof, his voice wobbly.
Adam is silent for a moment, then his lips form words and those words take an eternity to reach Kris's ears.
“You saved me, Kris.” And then, cautiously. “I know who you are.”
Kris feels the burn of tears. He is so ashamed. He's not like those other men, no matter how many times Adam must have seen him at Mr. Pacelle's home. Laughing. Partying.
“I'm not-I'm-” Kris falters, unable to look Adam in the eye.
“When I was young you offered me a ride on your horse, a beautiful tan horse. I couldn't, I wasn't allowed, so I just watched you instead. A man was there, your father I think. He didn't come near me, but he smiled and said, 'My son is a good boy, isn't he?' I remember because it was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.”
And that's it. Kris is crying, stuttering gasps shaking his entire body.
He's also laughing, in relief, in gratitude, but it isn't as apparent.
*
Adam doesn't know what to do with the crying man. His hands clench and unclench in the fabric over his legs, wanting desperately to reach out. But for now, Adam has to protect himself. They sit together in silence, the limo hurtling toward who knows where.
Click for the sequel: Hopscotch and All Like Things