Hollow Man
Title: Hollow Man
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Heroes
Characters/Pairing: Peter Petrelli, the Haitian, Arthur Petrelli, Maury Parkman, Peter/OMCs
Rating: NC-17 for sex
Word Count: 4,634
Spoilers: Through the end of S3
Warnings: Slash, memory loss, underaged sex, toys, D/s, spanking, dubcon/noncon
Disclaimer: Heroes is owned by Tim Kring, NBC, et al.
Notes: Written for brighteyed_jill's day of power as CEO at heroes_exchange. [Edited Aug. 18th, 2009 to make the betrayal better and Peter's confusion more angsty.)
Summary: The Haitian knew Peter would remember what had been done to him. Peter only knew he needed to be used.
“Peter.”
Peter jumped in alarm when he heard someone speak his name. No one was supposed to know him here; he’d come here in a roundabout way purposefully so no one would be able to follow him. He certainly had enough practice in getting to Carla’s House unseen, a good ten-plus years’ worth of practice. No one needed to know that Peter Petrelli frequented a bondage and domination club. God knew he’d managed to disappoint his family in nearly every other way, and with the tentative peace they’d regained since Sylar’s death, the last thing he wanted to do was rock the boat.
“Peter, it’s me.”
The second time the man spoke, Peter recognized the accented voice. The Haitian. He’d been attempting to clean up the mess left behind by the death of Baron Samedi while everyone else had been getting up to their ears in trouble. It was no reason he’d probably delayed his return to the States until everything had calmed down.
In the darkness of the alley, Peter had to squint to make out the Haitian’s shadowy form. A dark hand beckoned, and Peter warily checked for watchers before joining him.
“Are you all right?” Peter asked. He hadn’t heard anything from the Haitian, directly or otherwise since they’d parted company in Haiti.
“I would ask you the same question. Are you well?”
Peter furrowed his brow in confusion, mostly to cover panic.
“I’m doing ok,” he said evasively.
“Why are you here?”
A jolt of adrenaline hit Peter’s system. He knew. The Haitian knew. Peter didn’t know how, but he did-.
“I-.”
“You don’t know, do you? You don’t know why you come to this place. You don’t know why you ask to be tied and masked, told what to do, used. You don’t know why, do you?”
Peter actually felt faint, and put a hand up to the grimy brick wall to stop himself from collapsing.
“How do you know?”
“You remembered everything, even after I took it from you in an attempt to protect you from yourself. I fear you will remember this too, in time. I want you to know the truth, but it is harsh. Do you want to hear it?”
Numbly, Peter nodded. He’d spent weeks in Ireland not realizing what was happening to him, and the not knowing was perhaps the hardest thing he’d ever had to endure. There’d been enough secrets in his life.
“Your father was a cruel man. Nathan already fit into his plans for the future of the Company. In his eyes, you did not. He wished to make use of you for the Company’s goals.”
“How?” Peter asked faintly, nausea roiling in his gut.
“It started when you were sixteen.”
---------------------------
“That boy is too pretty for his own good. Looks more like a girl than anything else. No use even trying to put him politics, even if he had the stomach for it. No, Maury, I have to get some use out of Peter somehow. The agents need their rewards, and I’m loathe to use prostitutes.”
Maury shrugged as he looked over the photographs, fixing them in his memory. “I can make them look like whatever you want. Who’s up first?”
Arthur sighed. “I can’t give him to those who need him most, not at first. We’re going to have to work him up to it. Start with something familiar. There are enough agents with a taste for the vanilla to make this work.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peter opened the door to his bedroom quietly, just barely wide enough for Sonya to slip inside, and then shut it firmly. The moment he had it locked, Sonya smiled, crushing her lips to his, one hand sliding across the front of his pants in a move that never failed to get a rise out of him. Holding her gently, kissing every inch of skin he could reach, Peter slowly moved her to the bed.
Sonya never was a girl to waste words. She said everything Peter wanted to hear in the surge of her body against him. She just wanted him, to hold him close, to have him inside her. To listen to the things he said to her. Sonya never criticized him, never told him to work harder if he was ever going to get into Harvard, or looked down at him for his modest ambitions. She didn’t even go to his school, so his parents would hopefully never find out about her. Maybe this wouldn’t last beyond graduation, but Peter knew Sonya and him would care for each other as long as they could.
---------------------------
“If he was… if he was…” Peter couldn’t say the words “pimping me out,” just swallowed and moved on. “I would have noticed! Sonya would have noticed. You weren’t…?”
“No, I did not join the Company until later. It was not me. It was Maury Parkman.”
“What about Sonya? What about me? Did he make me imagine her sometimes?”
Did my father have Maury impersonate my girlfriend just so some of the damned Company agents could get their rocks off? The very idea seemed too bizarre, too strange to take in all at once, even with Peter’s wide range of experience with strange. Even knowing the depths of his father’s cruelty and betrayal as he did, Peter hadn’t realized there might have been unplumbed depths to which Arthur Petrelli would sink.
“Peter, there never was a Sonya. She never existed. Sonya was the form Maury had the agents wear when they came to your room.”
The bottom dropped out of Peter's stomach, and he felt a roaring in his ears.
“Why?” Peter cried, when he could finally speak. He felt his throat choking shut, and tried to slow his harsh, ragged breathing. Could his father be that cruel, to have made Peter’s first romance, his first time, be nothing more than a trick of the mind?
“You wish to know everything?”
Peter’s fingernails scraped at the brick wall, and he looked over his shoulder at the half-hidden entrance to Carla’s House. He’d started to come here halfway through his freshman year at college, needing something he didn’t dare explain to a stranger, not with Sonya (there never had been a real Sonya) gone to college in California.
What else had his father done to him? How else had he betrayed him? For that explanation, Peter would give anything.
“Yes,” he said. It came out almost in a sob, and the Haitian looked at him with pity.
“Arthur used the agents hidden by Sonya to mold your own needs. She slowly changed what she wanted, what she wanted you to do, until you were ready for what the Company really wanted.”
--------------------------
“Peter, sweetie, you want to try something a little… different tonight?” Sonya asked, pulling her mouth from Peter’s.
“Like what?” Peter asked, running his hands through her hair.
Sonya slid her hand down his back to his ass, giving it a playful squeeze. “I have a few ideas…”
---------------------------
Peter listened to the Haitian’s explanations with half an ear, realizing what he’d thought had been high school experimentation and recklessness was actually cold-blooded training. His father and Maury Parkman had watched it, choreographed it, directed Peter’s most intimate personal experiences like it was a cheap pornographic film.
---------------------------
“You want my ass?” Peter asked, laughing nervously.
Sonya brushed her short dark hair out of the way, smiling mischievously. “A little play, to see how you like it. Just touch you there, right inside. It’d feel so good…”
-----------------------------
Peter felt a hot blush of shame on his cheeks, remembering. He’d been surprised at how much he’d liked it, even through the initial discomfort. He’d let her go farther and farther each time, from fingers, to beads, even to plugs. Peter had enjoyed submitting to Sonya’s suggestions, to the “degradation” of it, even if he hadn’t felt ashamed. It had been one more way to make her happy, and to defy his father, to refuse to be the perfect little hyper-masculine Petrelli family clone.
Had Arthur laughed at him? Been disgusted at what he’d done? Or had he been secretly relieved that Peter liked it, so he didn’t have to feel so bad? Peter mentally shook his head, anger suddenly mixing with his shame. His father hadn’t felt bad about it. Arthur Petrelli had never felt bad about doing anything he felt was necessary. Even if it was turning his own son into a submissive whore.
------------------------
Peter grunted as Sonya worked the plug out of him, biting his lip to keep the random little spikes of pleasure from making him come. He wanted this to last, to be special. It was their graduation night, after all, and they’d probably never see each other after tonight. Sonya was going to college across the country, and Peter knew he was going to get disowned as soon as he declared he was going to become a nurse. That meant no extra money for California plane tickets.
Instead Peter had used the plug all day in preparation for tonight, knowing that no matter how much his father’s absence from his graduation had stung, he would have this memory to hold onto.
Peter gasped as the plug came free, and felt something at his lips. This part made him nervous, but he knew what he had to do. They’d talked about this for weeks, that Sonya was going to take him tonight. He wanted it, wanted to both give her this and take himself so far away from his father that he’d never be hurt again…
Peter closed his lips around the end of the dildo Sonya was going to use on him, taking it down his throat to warm it up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Amazing. I’d swear he’d done this before if I hadn’t known better,” Arthur mused philosophically. Beside him, Maury simply watched avidly, holding the illusion of touch and scent, sound and sight and taste over the agent that had been promised Peter’s virginity.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“All ready,” Sonya whispered in Peter’s ear, and moved around behind him. Peter shivered as he heard her strap on her harness, and sighed when he felt the intensely warm and wet head the dildo against his stretched opening, slick with lube.
“Please, Sonya,” Peter begged as he felt her push in. A touch more, so much warmer and softer than he’d thought a dildo could be, and the head was inside. A gasp, and the shaft began to relentlessly push in, stretching comfortably inside Peter’s ass. “More, please!”
Sonya shoved in all at once, pleasure and pain together, and Peter shouted, tears in his eyes. When she pulled out and began to set up a punishing rhythm, Peter was there, pushing back at every stroke, needing to take her deeper, farther, harder. He was so close… Sonya reached around and began to pull at Peter’s achingly hard cock, and he was suddenly lost, giving himself up to everything she gave him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Arthur watched dispassionately as Peter finished saying good-bye to his “girlfriend” and collapsed on the bed.
“About fucking time,” he muttered in irritation. “The agents were getting tired of play-acting up to his specifications. Maury, I won’t need you for this anymore.”
“Arthur, he’s going to remember-,” Maury pointed out tentatively, eyes flicking from Peter’s slim frame back to his boss’ face.
“No.” Arthur’s tone was final. “I’m going to use the Haitian. If the boy will go to college in New York, then he shouldn’t be surprised when he occasionally gets drunk and can’t remember all the crap he got up to the night before.”
-----------------------------------
“After that, when you were at college, he used me to hide the memories of what the agents did to you,” the Haitian continued relentlessly. “You wondered why you were so tired at least three times a week, no matter how early you went to bed? You wondered at your soreness, why you kept toys in your bed?”
Peter gritted his teeth, a hundred oddities from his college days suddenly becoming clear. Arthur had abruptly cut him off when Peter had decided to become a nurse, and still didn’t have a single qualm about twisting Peter’s desires at least three times a week. He must have been laughing at Peter every time he came back home for a mandatory holiday. Laughing at and despising his son for being everything Arthur had ever wanted him to be.
-------------------------
Peter groaned as his alarm blared to life. Why was he so damned tired? He’d gone to bed at eight last night, and he’d set his alarm for six a.m. That should be more than enough time to get a good night’s sleep, even considering tossing and turning. If tossing and turning was what he was doing. Stretching under his covers, Peter felt the hard form of a dildo pressing against his leg, and covered his face with his hands.
It was getting worse. Ever since Sonya had moved to California, Peter hadn’t been intimate with anyone. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to explain everything that he needed to a potential partner, and definitely didn’t want to burden anyone he cared about with his long list of kinks. Reluctantly, Peter had had to turn to satisfying himself, at least to keep the urges at bay. Otherwise he couldn’t sleep. Like last night, apparently. Peter had heard of people sleepwalking before. He’d read medical literature of people doing all sorts of things in their sleep, from talking to eating to even driving a car. Peter apparently used toys on himself while he slept.
He couldn’t explain it any other way. His door was locked from the inside; there were no strange stains, empty vodka bottles, or mysterious bongs around to explain his weird behavior. He never went to frat parties, studied hard, and kept his head down. No one mentioned strange people going into his room in the dead of the night. There was no possible way someone could be doing this to him, so he had to be doing it to himself.
Peter didn’t dare go to the sleep clinic, for fear of what a stranger might see. And he didn’t think he could handle recording himself with a camcorder or webcam. Hard evidence meant he’d start having to conceal it. God knew he already had several strikes against him for being the poor little rich boy who had thrust away his family to be a self-sacrificing nurse. He didn’t need to be labeled a deviant as well. He wanted his friends to think well of him.
Biting his lip, trying to ignore a faint shiver of pleasure from the ache inside him, he got up to take a shower.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“No problems?” Arthur asked.
The agents shook their heads, holding onto Peter so firmly he couldn’t escape. He’d been fighting them since they’d impossibly appeared in his room tonight, grabbing him and whisking him away to this unfamiliar chamber. How they’d gotten him here, he couldn’t explain, only that it had seemed instantaneous. Had he been drugged? And why was his father here? He hadn’t seen him in weeks, since Christmas…
“Dad, what’s going on?” Peter cried, struggling harder. Fear was starting to kick in through his grogginess and disorientation. One of the agents tried to tighten his grip, and Arthur glared at the man.
“Damn it, Anderson, don’t leave bruises! Daniel isn’t here tonight and I don’t want Peter to start questioning things.”
Arthur didn’t even acknowledge him as a person, and Peter felt a sudden cold in his stomach. He always knew his father wasn’t fond of him, but what the hell was this? Was this some kind of whacked-out intervention? And Daniel? Daniel Linderman? What did he have to do with any of this?
“Just get him on the table and prepped. Rodriguez, Kincaid, and Harrison are all up tonight, and we don’t have much time.” With that Arthur turned and left out of the opposite door. Peter’s mouth dropped open in shock and dismay. His father couldn’t leave him here. His father just couldn’t leave him here. The agents hanging onto Peter’s arms began to manhandle him to a padded bench, heedless of Peter’s outrage. Paddled shackles dangled from the arms and legs of the bench, looking heavy enough to chain an elephant.
Fear and adrenaline spiked in his system, and Peter began to scream. The two agents overpowered his frantic struggles and forced him down on the bench, cuffing his arms and legs. One of them forced a mask over his face, rendering him blind, and the other was cutting off his clothes. Feeling the blades of the scissors so close to his skin, Peter froze. Trying to get himself out of this nightmare didn’t include getting himself stabbed.
“Fina-fucking-lly,” one of the agents said, sounding exasperated. “As many times as you’ve done this before, you think you’d stop fighting us.”
“W-what?” Peter asked in shock, his voice muffled through the mask. God, this had to be a nightmare. Please, just let me wake up! Peter pleaded.
“Never mind. You never remember. I know your body does though.” The other agent had spoken up, and settled one hand over the naked curve of Peter’s ass. That freed Peter from his frozen shock, and he began to thrash in his bonds again, desperate to free himself. The agents didn’t even hesitate, just pinned down his hips, and, with no preamble at all, one of them shoved two lube-slicked fingers inside him.
Peter’s body let them slip easily past the ring of muscle at his entrance, and Peter flushed with shame and confusion, too shocked to speak. Why was this happening to him? Were these people the reason for Peter’s inexplicable night “play?” And why in God’s name was Arthur letting them do this to his son? He couldn’t possibly hate Peter that much, could he?
The agents liberally slicked him up inside, twisting and scissoring his fingers with such a thorough knowledge of what precisely what Peter would do to himself (at least those nights he remembered doing it) that he gasped. Without hesitation, the fingers rubbed over a sensitive spot deep inside, and Peter squeezed his eyes shut as he felt himself swell and harden.
“Please, don’t,” Peter begged. “Don’t do this! Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, please.”
Peter’s words were sincere and frantic, but the rest of his body was inexplicably refusing to listen. His frantic thrashes were slowly transforming into a purposeful rhythm, starting to rock back on the agent’s fingers. He hadn’t had anyone do this for him since Sonya had left for California, and he couldn’t deny that he wanted it badly. But not like this, God, not ever like this. What the hell was wrong with him? He couldn’t stop, he just couldn’t make himself stop…
“There ya go,” the agent said in a more soothing tone.
“Don’t…” Peter moaned, flushing red. The pressure on his hips let up, and Peter used the extra freedom (not that there was much), to shove back harder, in complete defiance of his brain’s commands. He couldn’t want this, couldn’t be letting himself be molested, couldn’t be helping his captors (his father’s men) ready himself to be used. It was like there was a disconnect between his body and his mind, like a wanton stranger was in charge of his muscles, and the stranger craved what was going to happen.
The door opened and closed, and Peter heard the clank of a belt and the rattle of a zipper. Fear shot through his gut even as Peter felt his cock harden and begin to throb.
“Agent Rodriguez, he’s all yours.” With that, the fingers disappeared, and Peter whimpered involuntarily at the loss.
Agent Rodriguez took two steps forward and gave Peter’s ass a firm smack. The sound startled him, but not as much as his reaction. The brief pain and spreading warmth sent a bolt of pleasure down his spine, like this was something he’d done and enjoyed many times before. Except Peter was absolutely certain this was the first time anyone had ever spanked him since childhood.
And he found he loved it. Peter closed his eyes and moaned in shame as his stranger-body seemed to quiver for more.
“No, please!” Peter cried, and bit down on the bench as Rodriguez ignored him, and struck him again.
Peter kept his eyes squeezed shut as Rodriguez rained down blow after blow on his cheeks, furiously trying to deny the fact that he was arching up into each strike, whimpering for relief and trying desperately not to come. He’d been captured; his father was letting this happen to him, he couldn’t be enjoying this… Crying in shame and arousal, Peter dropped his head flat on the bench when Rodriguez finally stopped hitting him, lightly caressing his ass instead.
“Get up. Come on, get that ass up!” Rodriguez barked, and Peter felt his legs moving before his brain could intervene. There was a rattle of foil, a sound of latex, and suddenly a thrusting pressure within him, a wonderful thick shaft filling him up. It felt fantastic, better than Sonya, despite the hideous circumstances. Peter clutched the edges of the bench the best he could, tears soaking his mask as he shoved back again and again, tiny cries of pleasure being forced out of him.
“No, no, no…” Peter whimpered at every thrust, his voice letting his choice known, even if his body wouldn’t obey him.
His rebellious flesh obeying the shouted commands, Peter found himself letting go, feeling somehow like he’d just come home. And he hated himself for it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peter felt the mask finally slip from his head, and blinked in the dim light. He slowly let his hands relax their grip from around the legs of the bench. Harrison had finally finished with him, having held Peter’s legs up so he was entirely helpless to however hard and deep the agent had wanted to thrust. Peter had come so hard from that he’d grayed out for a minute, coming to with someone carefully sponging him off.
He was utterly limp with a combination of betrayal as well as an incredible lassitude from the very thorough, shamefully knowledgeable fucking from every possible angle. These men that he’d never seen before, men that had to be in Arthur’s employ, had known exactly what to do to hit kinks Peter hadn’t even known he had. They’d known Peter’s body better than he’d known himself.
Now that the mask was off, Peter looked around wearily, seeing only the two agents that had been in charge of him before, as well as a bald, black man he didn’t recognize. He wanted to protest his treatment to them, but was too tired even to sigh.
“We took him at nine p.m.,” one agent said, pulling clothes over Peter’s limp body. The clothing was, Peter vaguely noted, exactly like the ones they’d cut off him earlier. The black man nodded silently and put his hand on Peter’s forehead.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Waking up later that morning, exhausted and sore, Peter looked at himself in the mirror. This sex thing was starting to reach a critical mass. This morning, his ass had been incredibly sore, but he also felt curiously sated. If he didn’t find some safe way to handle it himself, Peter had the vague notion he was going to end up hurting himself by accident.
------------------------------
Peter gasped as a hundred forgotten memories of being the Company plaything bloomed into the cracks and crevices of his mind. When he’d found Carla’s House not long after that day, it was no wonder Carla herself had taken one close look at him, and said she’d test him herself, as he wasn’t exactly sure what he wanted. It was no mystery, now, why he’d found himself aroused by being tied up, gagged, and masked. Why he liked being spanked, slapped, clamped or even flogged. Why he needed to feel utterly helpless, completely spent and used by anyone who’d touch him. Why he was so willing to kneel, to submit to any hand that offered mastery.
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask the Haitian why he hadn’t tried to stop it, why he hadn’t tried to help. But Peter didn’t ask. What the Haitian had done to him was almost a mercy, and in the long history of the Company sordid secrets, what had been done to Peter was a drop in the bucket. The Haitian had been asked to do much worse, Peter was sure.
“Thank you for telling me,” Peter managed, his voice strangled and thick.
“I am sorry, though that forgives nothing,” the Haitian said quietly.
Peter only nodded as the Haitian slowly walked away. Still clutching at the wall, Peter turned his head to look back at Carla’s House. He didn’t have to go in there tonight. He knew what was wrong with him now. He needed therapy, not another domination session. He needed to go someplace and meet someone he could love. He needed to try-.
Another memory intruded, this one not one of his newly unsurpressed ones, but still something that he hadn’t thought about in a while. Almost two years ago, when he’d just barely started dating Simone, he’d sat down with Carla to talk about maybe stopping going to her place, now that he was branching out into dating again.
--------------------------------
“Honey, I have to tell you, you’re a very needy young man,” Carla explained to him. “You need a very firm master, probably more than one. You’re just one of those people that needs to give away everything he has, and can’t be satisfied until he does. That’s a lot of ask of any one person. If you have someone you love, and he or she isn’t in the scene, then honestly you need to keep coming here. I’d hate to see you try to get what you need from an amateur. You need professionals if you’re going to stay safe out there. Otherwise… Peter, sweetheart, the wolves are going to eat you alive, and you’ll break the heart of anyone not strong enough to handle that.”
Peter thought of Simone, of her break-up with Isaac, of her dying father, of his own recent strange experiences and chronic strange needs, and nodded in acquiescence.
--------------------------
Now Peter looked at Carla’s House and thought of Simone, of Caitlin, of everyone he’d ever let down. He thought of everyone who’d betrayed him, who’d try to form and mold him into an image he’d have never been on his own. His life had never been his own; he was the sum of every person who’d ever known him, for better or for worse. He had people counting on him now, Nathan, his mom, Noah Bennet, Claire, Matt, Mohinder, and so many other specials. They needed him, and they needed him at the top of his game.
Feeling a hollow emptiness inside from every slice of himself he’d given away to them, to every person who’d ever needed him, from Company agent to his own father, Peter knew he needed to filled. He needed to be mastered, controlled, to submit himself and take himself to a place where he wouldn’t have anyone depending on him. A hundred new memories were playing endlessly behind his eyes, and tonight Peter knew he needed something no single person could supply. No one person could give him love and submission and control and betrayal, not after everything that he now knew had happened to him. Wrapping his arms around his middle, knowing his body and mind were now in synch, he headed for the door of Carla’s House.
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Heroes
Characters/Pairing: Peter Petrelli, the Haitian, Arthur Petrelli, Maury Parkman, Peter/OMCs
Rating: NC-17 for sex
Word Count: 4,634
Spoilers: Through the end of S3
Warnings: Slash, memory loss, underaged sex, toys, D/s, spanking, dubcon/noncon
Disclaimer: Heroes is owned by Tim Kring, NBC, et al.
Notes: Written for brighteyed_jill's day of power as CEO at heroes_exchange. [Edited Aug. 18th, 2009 to make the betrayal better and Peter's confusion more angsty.)
Summary: The Haitian knew Peter would remember what had been done to him. Peter only knew he needed to be used.
“Peter.”
Peter jumped in alarm when he heard someone speak his name. No one was supposed to know him here; he’d come here in a roundabout way purposefully so no one would be able to follow him. He certainly had enough practice in getting to Carla’s House unseen, a good ten-plus years’ worth of practice. No one needed to know that Peter Petrelli frequented a bondage and domination club. God knew he’d managed to disappoint his family in nearly every other way, and with the tentative peace they’d regained since Sylar’s death, the last thing he wanted to do was rock the boat.
“Peter, it’s me.”
The second time the man spoke, Peter recognized the accented voice. The Haitian. He’d been attempting to clean up the mess left behind by the death of Baron Samedi while everyone else had been getting up to their ears in trouble. It was no reason he’d probably delayed his return to the States until everything had calmed down.
In the darkness of the alley, Peter had to squint to make out the Haitian’s shadowy form. A dark hand beckoned, and Peter warily checked for watchers before joining him.
“Are you all right?” Peter asked. He hadn’t heard anything from the Haitian, directly or otherwise since they’d parted company in Haiti.
“I would ask you the same question. Are you well?”
Peter furrowed his brow in confusion, mostly to cover panic.
“I’m doing ok,” he said evasively.
“Why are you here?”
A jolt of adrenaline hit Peter’s system. He knew. The Haitian knew. Peter didn’t know how, but he did-.
“I-.”
“You don’t know, do you? You don’t know why you come to this place. You don’t know why you ask to be tied and masked, told what to do, used. You don’t know why, do you?”
Peter actually felt faint, and put a hand up to the grimy brick wall to stop himself from collapsing.
“How do you know?”
“You remembered everything, even after I took it from you in an attempt to protect you from yourself. I fear you will remember this too, in time. I want you to know the truth, but it is harsh. Do you want to hear it?”
Numbly, Peter nodded. He’d spent weeks in Ireland not realizing what was happening to him, and the not knowing was perhaps the hardest thing he’d ever had to endure. There’d been enough secrets in his life.
“Your father was a cruel man. Nathan already fit into his plans for the future of the Company. In his eyes, you did not. He wished to make use of you for the Company’s goals.”
“How?” Peter asked faintly, nausea roiling in his gut.
“It started when you were sixteen.”
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“That boy is too pretty for his own good. Looks more like a girl than anything else. No use even trying to put him politics, even if he had the stomach for it. No, Maury, I have to get some use out of Peter somehow. The agents need their rewards, and I’m loathe to use prostitutes.”
Maury shrugged as he looked over the photographs, fixing them in his memory. “I can make them look like whatever you want. Who’s up first?”
Arthur sighed. “I can’t give him to those who need him most, not at first. We’re going to have to work him up to it. Start with something familiar. There are enough agents with a taste for the vanilla to make this work.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peter opened the door to his bedroom quietly, just barely wide enough for Sonya to slip inside, and then shut it firmly. The moment he had it locked, Sonya smiled, crushing her lips to his, one hand sliding across the front of his pants in a move that never failed to get a rise out of him. Holding her gently, kissing every inch of skin he could reach, Peter slowly moved her to the bed.
Sonya never was a girl to waste words. She said everything Peter wanted to hear in the surge of her body against him. She just wanted him, to hold him close, to have him inside her. To listen to the things he said to her. Sonya never criticized him, never told him to work harder if he was ever going to get into Harvard, or looked down at him for his modest ambitions. She didn’t even go to his school, so his parents would hopefully never find out about her. Maybe this wouldn’t last beyond graduation, but Peter knew Sonya and him would care for each other as long as they could.
---------------------------
“If he was… if he was…” Peter couldn’t say the words “pimping me out,” just swallowed and moved on. “I would have noticed! Sonya would have noticed. You weren’t…?”
“No, I did not join the Company until later. It was not me. It was Maury Parkman.”
“What about Sonya? What about me? Did he make me imagine her sometimes?”
Did my father have Maury impersonate my girlfriend just so some of the damned Company agents could get their rocks off? The very idea seemed too bizarre, too strange to take in all at once, even with Peter’s wide range of experience with strange. Even knowing the depths of his father’s cruelty and betrayal as he did, Peter hadn’t realized there might have been unplumbed depths to which Arthur Petrelli would sink.
“Peter, there never was a Sonya. She never existed. Sonya was the form Maury had the agents wear when they came to your room.”
The bottom dropped out of Peter's stomach, and he felt a roaring in his ears.
“Why?” Peter cried, when he could finally speak. He felt his throat choking shut, and tried to slow his harsh, ragged breathing. Could his father be that cruel, to have made Peter’s first romance, his first time, be nothing more than a trick of the mind?
“You wish to know everything?”
Peter’s fingernails scraped at the brick wall, and he looked over his shoulder at the half-hidden entrance to Carla’s House. He’d started to come here halfway through his freshman year at college, needing something he didn’t dare explain to a stranger, not with Sonya (there never had been a real Sonya) gone to college in California.
What else had his father done to him? How else had he betrayed him? For that explanation, Peter would give anything.
“Yes,” he said. It came out almost in a sob, and the Haitian looked at him with pity.
“Arthur used the agents hidden by Sonya to mold your own needs. She slowly changed what she wanted, what she wanted you to do, until you were ready for what the Company really wanted.”
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“Peter, sweetie, you want to try something a little… different tonight?” Sonya asked, pulling her mouth from Peter’s.
“Like what?” Peter asked, running his hands through her hair.
Sonya slid her hand down his back to his ass, giving it a playful squeeze. “I have a few ideas…”
---------------------------
Peter listened to the Haitian’s explanations with half an ear, realizing what he’d thought had been high school experimentation and recklessness was actually cold-blooded training. His father and Maury Parkman had watched it, choreographed it, directed Peter’s most intimate personal experiences like it was a cheap pornographic film.
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“You want my ass?” Peter asked, laughing nervously.
Sonya brushed her short dark hair out of the way, smiling mischievously. “A little play, to see how you like it. Just touch you there, right inside. It’d feel so good…”
-----------------------------
Peter felt a hot blush of shame on his cheeks, remembering. He’d been surprised at how much he’d liked it, even through the initial discomfort. He’d let her go farther and farther each time, from fingers, to beads, even to plugs. Peter had enjoyed submitting to Sonya’s suggestions, to the “degradation” of it, even if he hadn’t felt ashamed. It had been one more way to make her happy, and to defy his father, to refuse to be the perfect little hyper-masculine Petrelli family clone.
Had Arthur laughed at him? Been disgusted at what he’d done? Or had he been secretly relieved that Peter liked it, so he didn’t have to feel so bad? Peter mentally shook his head, anger suddenly mixing with his shame. His father hadn’t felt bad about it. Arthur Petrelli had never felt bad about doing anything he felt was necessary. Even if it was turning his own son into a submissive whore.
------------------------
Peter grunted as Sonya worked the plug out of him, biting his lip to keep the random little spikes of pleasure from making him come. He wanted this to last, to be special. It was their graduation night, after all, and they’d probably never see each other after tonight. Sonya was going to college across the country, and Peter knew he was going to get disowned as soon as he declared he was going to become a nurse. That meant no extra money for California plane tickets.
Instead Peter had used the plug all day in preparation for tonight, knowing that no matter how much his father’s absence from his graduation had stung, he would have this memory to hold onto.
Peter gasped as the plug came free, and felt something at his lips. This part made him nervous, but he knew what he had to do. They’d talked about this for weeks, that Sonya was going to take him tonight. He wanted it, wanted to both give her this and take himself so far away from his father that he’d never be hurt again…
Peter closed his lips around the end of the dildo Sonya was going to use on him, taking it down his throat to warm it up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Amazing. I’d swear he’d done this before if I hadn’t known better,” Arthur mused philosophically. Beside him, Maury simply watched avidly, holding the illusion of touch and scent, sound and sight and taste over the agent that had been promised Peter’s virginity.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“All ready,” Sonya whispered in Peter’s ear, and moved around behind him. Peter shivered as he heard her strap on her harness, and sighed when he felt the intensely warm and wet head the dildo against his stretched opening, slick with lube.
“Please, Sonya,” Peter begged as he felt her push in. A touch more, so much warmer and softer than he’d thought a dildo could be, and the head was inside. A gasp, and the shaft began to relentlessly push in, stretching comfortably inside Peter’s ass. “More, please!”
Sonya shoved in all at once, pleasure and pain together, and Peter shouted, tears in his eyes. When she pulled out and began to set up a punishing rhythm, Peter was there, pushing back at every stroke, needing to take her deeper, farther, harder. He was so close… Sonya reached around and began to pull at Peter’s achingly hard cock, and he was suddenly lost, giving himself up to everything she gave him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Arthur watched dispassionately as Peter finished saying good-bye to his “girlfriend” and collapsed on the bed.
“About fucking time,” he muttered in irritation. “The agents were getting tired of play-acting up to his specifications. Maury, I won’t need you for this anymore.”
“Arthur, he’s going to remember-,” Maury pointed out tentatively, eyes flicking from Peter’s slim frame back to his boss’ face.
“No.” Arthur’s tone was final. “I’m going to use the Haitian. If the boy will go to college in New York, then he shouldn’t be surprised when he occasionally gets drunk and can’t remember all the crap he got up to the night before.”
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“After that, when you were at college, he used me to hide the memories of what the agents did to you,” the Haitian continued relentlessly. “You wondered why you were so tired at least three times a week, no matter how early you went to bed? You wondered at your soreness, why you kept toys in your bed?”
Peter gritted his teeth, a hundred oddities from his college days suddenly becoming clear. Arthur had abruptly cut him off when Peter had decided to become a nurse, and still didn’t have a single qualm about twisting Peter’s desires at least three times a week. He must have been laughing at Peter every time he came back home for a mandatory holiday. Laughing at and despising his son for being everything Arthur had ever wanted him to be.
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Peter groaned as his alarm blared to life. Why was he so damned tired? He’d gone to bed at eight last night, and he’d set his alarm for six a.m. That should be more than enough time to get a good night’s sleep, even considering tossing and turning. If tossing and turning was what he was doing. Stretching under his covers, Peter felt the hard form of a dildo pressing against his leg, and covered his face with his hands.
It was getting worse. Ever since Sonya had moved to California, Peter hadn’t been intimate with anyone. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to explain everything that he needed to a potential partner, and definitely didn’t want to burden anyone he cared about with his long list of kinks. Reluctantly, Peter had had to turn to satisfying himself, at least to keep the urges at bay. Otherwise he couldn’t sleep. Like last night, apparently. Peter had heard of people sleepwalking before. He’d read medical literature of people doing all sorts of things in their sleep, from talking to eating to even driving a car. Peter apparently used toys on himself while he slept.
He couldn’t explain it any other way. His door was locked from the inside; there were no strange stains, empty vodka bottles, or mysterious bongs around to explain his weird behavior. He never went to frat parties, studied hard, and kept his head down. No one mentioned strange people going into his room in the dead of the night. There was no possible way someone could be doing this to him, so he had to be doing it to himself.
Peter didn’t dare go to the sleep clinic, for fear of what a stranger might see. And he didn’t think he could handle recording himself with a camcorder or webcam. Hard evidence meant he’d start having to conceal it. God knew he already had several strikes against him for being the poor little rich boy who had thrust away his family to be a self-sacrificing nurse. He didn’t need to be labeled a deviant as well. He wanted his friends to think well of him.
Biting his lip, trying to ignore a faint shiver of pleasure from the ache inside him, he got up to take a shower.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“No problems?” Arthur asked.
The agents shook their heads, holding onto Peter so firmly he couldn’t escape. He’d been fighting them since they’d impossibly appeared in his room tonight, grabbing him and whisking him away to this unfamiliar chamber. How they’d gotten him here, he couldn’t explain, only that it had seemed instantaneous. Had he been drugged? And why was his father here? He hadn’t seen him in weeks, since Christmas…
“Dad, what’s going on?” Peter cried, struggling harder. Fear was starting to kick in through his grogginess and disorientation. One of the agents tried to tighten his grip, and Arthur glared at the man.
“Damn it, Anderson, don’t leave bruises! Daniel isn’t here tonight and I don’t want Peter to start questioning things.”
Arthur didn’t even acknowledge him as a person, and Peter felt a sudden cold in his stomach. He always knew his father wasn’t fond of him, but what the hell was this? Was this some kind of whacked-out intervention? And Daniel? Daniel Linderman? What did he have to do with any of this?
“Just get him on the table and prepped. Rodriguez, Kincaid, and Harrison are all up tonight, and we don’t have much time.” With that Arthur turned and left out of the opposite door. Peter’s mouth dropped open in shock and dismay. His father couldn’t leave him here. His father just couldn’t leave him here. The agents hanging onto Peter’s arms began to manhandle him to a padded bench, heedless of Peter’s outrage. Paddled shackles dangled from the arms and legs of the bench, looking heavy enough to chain an elephant.
Fear and adrenaline spiked in his system, and Peter began to scream. The two agents overpowered his frantic struggles and forced him down on the bench, cuffing his arms and legs. One of them forced a mask over his face, rendering him blind, and the other was cutting off his clothes. Feeling the blades of the scissors so close to his skin, Peter froze. Trying to get himself out of this nightmare didn’t include getting himself stabbed.
“Fina-fucking-lly,” one of the agents said, sounding exasperated. “As many times as you’ve done this before, you think you’d stop fighting us.”
“W-what?” Peter asked in shock, his voice muffled through the mask. God, this had to be a nightmare. Please, just let me wake up! Peter pleaded.
“Never mind. You never remember. I know your body does though.” The other agent had spoken up, and settled one hand over the naked curve of Peter’s ass. That freed Peter from his frozen shock, and he began to thrash in his bonds again, desperate to free himself. The agents didn’t even hesitate, just pinned down his hips, and, with no preamble at all, one of them shoved two lube-slicked fingers inside him.
Peter’s body let them slip easily past the ring of muscle at his entrance, and Peter flushed with shame and confusion, too shocked to speak. Why was this happening to him? Were these people the reason for Peter’s inexplicable night “play?” And why in God’s name was Arthur letting them do this to his son? He couldn’t possibly hate Peter that much, could he?
The agents liberally slicked him up inside, twisting and scissoring his fingers with such a thorough knowledge of what precisely what Peter would do to himself (at least those nights he remembered doing it) that he gasped. Without hesitation, the fingers rubbed over a sensitive spot deep inside, and Peter squeezed his eyes shut as he felt himself swell and harden.
“Please, don’t,” Peter begged. “Don’t do this! Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, please.”
Peter’s words were sincere and frantic, but the rest of his body was inexplicably refusing to listen. His frantic thrashes were slowly transforming into a purposeful rhythm, starting to rock back on the agent’s fingers. He hadn’t had anyone do this for him since Sonya had left for California, and he couldn’t deny that he wanted it badly. But not like this, God, not ever like this. What the hell was wrong with him? He couldn’t stop, he just couldn’t make himself stop…
“There ya go,” the agent said in a more soothing tone.
“Don’t…” Peter moaned, flushing red. The pressure on his hips let up, and Peter used the extra freedom (not that there was much), to shove back harder, in complete defiance of his brain’s commands. He couldn’t want this, couldn’t be letting himself be molested, couldn’t be helping his captors (his father’s men) ready himself to be used. It was like there was a disconnect between his body and his mind, like a wanton stranger was in charge of his muscles, and the stranger craved what was going to happen.
The door opened and closed, and Peter heard the clank of a belt and the rattle of a zipper. Fear shot through his gut even as Peter felt his cock harden and begin to throb.
“Agent Rodriguez, he’s all yours.” With that, the fingers disappeared, and Peter whimpered involuntarily at the loss.
Agent Rodriguez took two steps forward and gave Peter’s ass a firm smack. The sound startled him, but not as much as his reaction. The brief pain and spreading warmth sent a bolt of pleasure down his spine, like this was something he’d done and enjoyed many times before. Except Peter was absolutely certain this was the first time anyone had ever spanked him since childhood.
And he found he loved it. Peter closed his eyes and moaned in shame as his stranger-body seemed to quiver for more.
“No, please!” Peter cried, and bit down on the bench as Rodriguez ignored him, and struck him again.
Peter kept his eyes squeezed shut as Rodriguez rained down blow after blow on his cheeks, furiously trying to deny the fact that he was arching up into each strike, whimpering for relief and trying desperately not to come. He’d been captured; his father was letting this happen to him, he couldn’t be enjoying this… Crying in shame and arousal, Peter dropped his head flat on the bench when Rodriguez finally stopped hitting him, lightly caressing his ass instead.
“Get up. Come on, get that ass up!” Rodriguez barked, and Peter felt his legs moving before his brain could intervene. There was a rattle of foil, a sound of latex, and suddenly a thrusting pressure within him, a wonderful thick shaft filling him up. It felt fantastic, better than Sonya, despite the hideous circumstances. Peter clutched the edges of the bench the best he could, tears soaking his mask as he shoved back again and again, tiny cries of pleasure being forced out of him.
“No, no, no…” Peter whimpered at every thrust, his voice letting his choice known, even if his body wouldn’t obey him.
His rebellious flesh obeying the shouted commands, Peter found himself letting go, feeling somehow like he’d just come home. And he hated himself for it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peter felt the mask finally slip from his head, and blinked in the dim light. He slowly let his hands relax their grip from around the legs of the bench. Harrison had finally finished with him, having held Peter’s legs up so he was entirely helpless to however hard and deep the agent had wanted to thrust. Peter had come so hard from that he’d grayed out for a minute, coming to with someone carefully sponging him off.
He was utterly limp with a combination of betrayal as well as an incredible lassitude from the very thorough, shamefully knowledgeable fucking from every possible angle. These men that he’d never seen before, men that had to be in Arthur’s employ, had known exactly what to do to hit kinks Peter hadn’t even known he had. They’d known Peter’s body better than he’d known himself.
Now that the mask was off, Peter looked around wearily, seeing only the two agents that had been in charge of him before, as well as a bald, black man he didn’t recognize. He wanted to protest his treatment to them, but was too tired even to sigh.
“We took him at nine p.m.,” one agent said, pulling clothes over Peter’s limp body. The clothing was, Peter vaguely noted, exactly like the ones they’d cut off him earlier. The black man nodded silently and put his hand on Peter’s forehead.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Waking up later that morning, exhausted and sore, Peter looked at himself in the mirror. This sex thing was starting to reach a critical mass. This morning, his ass had been incredibly sore, but he also felt curiously sated. If he didn’t find some safe way to handle it himself, Peter had the vague notion he was going to end up hurting himself by accident.
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Peter gasped as a hundred forgotten memories of being the Company plaything bloomed into the cracks and crevices of his mind. When he’d found Carla’s House not long after that day, it was no wonder Carla herself had taken one close look at him, and said she’d test him herself, as he wasn’t exactly sure what he wanted. It was no mystery, now, why he’d found himself aroused by being tied up, gagged, and masked. Why he liked being spanked, slapped, clamped or even flogged. Why he needed to feel utterly helpless, completely spent and used by anyone who’d touch him. Why he was so willing to kneel, to submit to any hand that offered mastery.
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask the Haitian why he hadn’t tried to stop it, why he hadn’t tried to help. But Peter didn’t ask. What the Haitian had done to him was almost a mercy, and in the long history of the Company sordid secrets, what had been done to Peter was a drop in the bucket. The Haitian had been asked to do much worse, Peter was sure.
“Thank you for telling me,” Peter managed, his voice strangled and thick.
“I am sorry, though that forgives nothing,” the Haitian said quietly.
Peter only nodded as the Haitian slowly walked away. Still clutching at the wall, Peter turned his head to look back at Carla’s House. He didn’t have to go in there tonight. He knew what was wrong with him now. He needed therapy, not another domination session. He needed to go someplace and meet someone he could love. He needed to try-.
Another memory intruded, this one not one of his newly unsurpressed ones, but still something that he hadn’t thought about in a while. Almost two years ago, when he’d just barely started dating Simone, he’d sat down with Carla to talk about maybe stopping going to her place, now that he was branching out into dating again.
--------------------------------
“Honey, I have to tell you, you’re a very needy young man,” Carla explained to him. “You need a very firm master, probably more than one. You’re just one of those people that needs to give away everything he has, and can’t be satisfied until he does. That’s a lot of ask of any one person. If you have someone you love, and he or she isn’t in the scene, then honestly you need to keep coming here. I’d hate to see you try to get what you need from an amateur. You need professionals if you’re going to stay safe out there. Otherwise… Peter, sweetheart, the wolves are going to eat you alive, and you’ll break the heart of anyone not strong enough to handle that.”
Peter thought of Simone, of her break-up with Isaac, of her dying father, of his own recent strange experiences and chronic strange needs, and nodded in acquiescence.
--------------------------
Now Peter looked at Carla’s House and thought of Simone, of Caitlin, of everyone he’d ever let down. He thought of everyone who’d betrayed him, who’d try to form and mold him into an image he’d have never been on his own. His life had never been his own; he was the sum of every person who’d ever known him, for better or for worse. He had people counting on him now, Nathan, his mom, Noah Bennet, Claire, Matt, Mohinder, and so many other specials. They needed him, and they needed him at the top of his game.
Feeling a hollow emptiness inside from every slice of himself he’d given away to them, to every person who’d ever needed him, from Company agent to his own father, Peter knew he needed to filled. He needed to be mastered, controlled, to submit himself and take himself to a place where he wouldn’t have anyone depending on him. A hundred new memories were playing endlessly behind his eyes, and tonight Peter knew he needed something no single person could supply. No one person could give him love and submission and control and betrayal, not after everything that he now knew had happened to him. Wrapping his arms around his middle, knowing his body and mind were now in synch, he headed for the door of Carla’s House.