There's the tramp of more boots from the hall, moving quickly, other guards alerted to the commotion.
“What in the world happened?”
“Indian got uppity,” Answers the warden, pushing Haytham face down on the pallet, the man's eager hands working at the drawstring of his prisoner's trousers. When rough hands touch Haytham's bare skin he moans into the mattress, hips bucking of their own accord against the friction and cruel laughter erupts from the knot of guards.
Someone is less than amused, however. “Sir, we have our orders,” Someone says, the young one that the others had called Whitney.
“His Majesty will understand,” The warden says. Well, that was new; those under control of the Apple thinking for themselves, defying orders. Perhaps—just perhaps—Washington's power isn't as all-encompassing as previously supposed. The two wounded men are assessed. The one is still unconscious, eyes rolled back in his head even as blood pours from his broken nose at an alarming rate. The other grimaces and hisses as a third man prods the wound at his cheek, making worried sounds.
“Get them out of here,” The warden orders.
“Stop this!” Connor gasps, and Haytham can't bear to look his way, his skin crawling despite the fire that's raging beneath his skin. He knows what he'll see; Connor's bloodied face contorted in horror and rage, chest heaving. He can't do this, he can't, not with so many watching, not with his own son in the same room. But yet again he doesn't have a choice in the matter. His body wants it, even if his guts are roiling with disgust and hatred, and he is in no position to argue. His cock is still stupidly, absurdly hard, against all reason. I asked for this, brought this on myself, He thinks, dizzily, I wouldn't let him throw out that damned tea...
“What's wrong, sweetheart? You can have him back when we're done, we're just borrowin' him for a spell.” One of them says, laughing.
“Jealous,” Another says, “Probably thought 'e was gonna keep the slut all to hisself.” Of course they would think that. They probably assume Connor is as vile and lecherous as the rest of them.
“Not even an animal would stoop so low.” Connor seethes and he jerks as one of the men strikes him in the ribs.
“I've had enough of his lip. Gag him,” The warden says and Haytham can hear the rustle of fabric as the man undoes the front of his breeches. The man grabs Haytham's ass like he's checking the ripeness of a melon and the sensation shoots heat up his spine. He hikes back his hips and moans like a whore when the guard fingers him open. His hand is slick with something cold, oil or grease perhaps—obviously the man had intended to fuck him all along, perhaps considering it recompense for the small gift of alcohol and bandages the night before.
Haytham trembles. Not from fear, though. He has no fear. Not even when he feels the warden press against him, feels the slickness of the man's cock against his ass, the hand stinging the barely-healed wounds of his tender back. There's no room for fear, not with the disgust and rage that fill him. Quickly, far too quickly to be anything close to comfortable, the man positions himself, presses in, and Haytham gasps and writhes beneath him, focusing on the blunt ache in his guts that is too strong to be called pleasure. The warden seats himself to the hilt with a satisfied grunt and Haytham twists his head, lets his tangled mess of hair fall over his face the better to obscure the tight set of his jaws and the murder in his eyes. How dare they? How dare they do this to him, to his son? What gives them the right to humiliate him like this?
If only he were not so weak. If there's one thing that Haytham despises most of all, it's weakness... No. No, he was not weak, he tells himself. Damn it, stop. It's too easy to be the victim. What in the hell had he become? He wasn't some cringing, broken slave, wasn't a wanton whore—those were merely the projections of his enemies, circumstances beyond his control. He's Grandmaster Haytham Kenway, son of one of the most feared and respected pirates to have ever sailed the Caribbean, father to one of the deadliest Assassins ever produced.
These men, they were the weak ones. They are nothing. Small, petty cowards who try to compensate for their own powerlessness by preying on those who were even more defenseless than themselves, violating him because they knew there would be no consequences. He thinks on this, grips his hate tight to him as the man behind him pulls back and then plunges forward again, establishing a quick rhythm, his hands burning Haytham's hips, his hold lining up with the dark purple bruises left by Hickey's fingers.
He groans in response, giving them what they want to hear, his hips churning, all the while thinking, letting his mind wander, trying to distract himself from the pleasure that is even more vile and insistent than the pain. His mind. That was what Washington wanted. The man had only achieved victory through the intelligence and ambitions of other men.
He'd been able to resist Washington's power by sheer force of will. It was that stubbornness and will that had forced Washington's insidious power out of his soul, his resistance that had enraged the man to striking him again and again until Haytham had collapsed on the throne room floor in a bloody heap. His body may have atrophied, had been maimed and mistreated, but his mind is as keen as ever. Reginald Birch had not seen fit to elevate Haytham to Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite because he could leap across rooftops or wield a blade—It was Haytham Kenway's cold, calculating intelligence that set him apart from other men and made him truly dangerous. Was that the point of all this? To torture, abuse, and humiliate him until he breaks? To crack open Haytham's mind so that Washington can peruse it at leisure like a book in a library?
Well, he can't have it, Haytham thinks feverishly, gritting his teeth, That bastard can take everything else from me: my freedom, my strength, my dignity, but he can never have my mind—
But he can hear Connor's sharp, furious breathing between the slap of flesh on flesh, and suddenly he's not so sure.
“Get over there, lad,” The warden growls and for one improbable and horrified moment he thinks that the man means Connor, but Haytham peeks out through his curtain of hair and sees the youngest guard shift uncomfortably from side to side.
“I-I don't think it wise,” He stutters, unsure, but definitely tempted.
“No? Why not? Look at him, he's practically begging for it,” Another guard says. “Go on with ya.”
The lad wavers, debates with himself, but in the end he steps forward and unbuttons his breeches with shaking fingers, quickly pumping at his half-hard cock. He seizes Haytham by the hair with forced bravado and pulls him up to eye level with the boy's flesh.
“Suck me,” He commands loudly, the force of his words diminished by the way his voice cracks on the first syllable. Haytham takes him into his mouth, trying not to cringe at the acrid taste of piss or the way the flesh feels like a firebrand against his lips. The boy's moan is high and girlish when Haytham lathes at the underside of the head with his tongue and his hips buck helplessly into Haytham's mouth. Pathetic.
Well, go right ahead, lad, He thinks, delirious with sensation, Help yourself. Have your pleasure while you can. Your cock will be the first thing I take from you, when I get you alone. I'll shove it down your throat before I spill your guts to the floor like swine in an abattoir.
He had taught Charles that there was more than one way to kill a man. The obvious courses of action were to target the brain or the heart, of course, or slit the throat or slash at the soft underbelly. Men such as Haytham and Charles are much more acquainted with the workings of the body than the average man. Few are aware of just how comparatively little pressure it takes to snap a spine, how delicate the kidneys are, how much blood runs under the arm pits. Or how much blood runs through the groin, for that matter. He still has his teeth—men are such fragile things, no one knows this better than he, it would only take a few pounds of pressure—
The warden hits that something inside him that makes his limbs tremble and forces a startled gasp from his throat. Again, and he hikes his hips, pushing back—again and he moans, embarrassingly loud around the flesh in his mouth, pleasure and pain washing together and overlapping until he's not sure which is which. The man's breathing has become erratic, labored, fingers embedded in Haytham's skin. Haytham is close himself, cock hard and weeping with precome, bobbing obscenely with every thrust, throbbing with the beat of his heart. The warden's hips still and Haytham recoils at the awful sensation of the man's release.
The warden sighs contentedly, patting Haytham on the ass almost fondly, as if he were a horse or a dog that had pleased him. “Atta boy,” He croons and pulls out. Haytham feels a fresh hot mess slide down the insides of his thighs but before he can even process how disgusting he feels there's another man taking the warden's place, seating himself in one cruel thrust that makes him cry out and clench his fists in the fabric of the mattress. The boy before him sputters and groans, his fingers tangled in Haytham's hair, forcing Haytham's head to and fro. The others laugh, make vulgar jokes or, worse, trade small-talk as if there isn't a man being speared at both ends before them. As if they aren't waiting their turn to do the same. All of them making meaningless noise. Except for Connor, of course. Somehow his silence is the worst of all. He can't even begin to imagine what the boy must be feeling. Hopefully the boy has shut his eyes. Not that it helps, he's sure. Doubtless the boy is helpless to block out the slap and squelch of flesh on flesh, flesh in flesh Haytham's moans and the sighs and grunts of the two men using him—
Haytham comes with a surprised grunt, spraying the mattress below him. It's the least satisfying orgasm he's ever had, more like the spasm of a cramping muscle than the glorious release that he requires. He's still frustratingly hard, his skin is still aflame, balls aching and he moans plaintively around the cock in his mouth. The boy gasps at the sensation and spills. Haytham gags, sputters, and coughs, some of the mess ending up down his chin and stains the buff fabric of the boy's breeches. One of the guards notices and guffaws. If Haytham's face wasn't flushed before it most certainly is now. As soon as the boy removes himself, cursing at the state of his clothes, another man comes to take his place, pumping his thick member, grinning. Haytham inwardly grimaces.
“Wot th' 'ell is going 'ere?” A man shouts. Hickey. It must be. Haytham'd know that absurd cockney accent anywhere.
The man approaching Haytham suddenly looks bashful, like a child caught stealing a cooling pie from a window sill. Equally, the man at his backside pauses.
“What business is it of yours, Hickey?” Someone challenges him.
“It's the fuckin' King's business—an' that's Captain to you, gobshite.” A pause. “Well. Now I see why it's taking so long to feed 'im 'is food,” Hickey says, his words droll but his tone serious.
“We was just havin' a spot of fun,” One of them says.
“You got any idea what 'appens to little worker bees that disobey?” Hickey growls menacingly, “They get squashed. Get 'em to the throne room. Now.”
FILL ---------12 of ? -------Enthralled
“What in the world happened?”
“Indian got uppity,” Answers the warden, pushing Haytham face down on the pallet, the man's eager hands working at the drawstring of his prisoner's trousers. When rough hands touch Haytham's bare skin he moans into the mattress, hips bucking of their own accord against the friction and cruel laughter erupts from the knot of guards.
Someone is less than amused, however. “Sir, we have our orders,” Someone says, the young one that the others had called Whitney.
“His Majesty will understand,” The warden says. Well, that was new; those under control of the Apple thinking for themselves, defying orders. Perhaps—just perhaps—Washington's power isn't as all-encompassing as previously supposed. The two wounded men are assessed. The one is still unconscious, eyes rolled back in his head even as blood pours from his broken nose at an alarming rate. The other grimaces and hisses as a third man prods the wound at his cheek, making worried sounds.
“Get them out of here,” The warden orders.
“Stop this!” Connor gasps, and Haytham can't bear to look his way, his skin crawling despite the fire that's raging beneath his skin. He knows what he'll see; Connor's bloodied face contorted in horror and rage, chest heaving. He can't do this, he can't, not with so many watching, not with his own son in the same room. But yet again he doesn't have a choice in the matter. His body wants it, even if his guts are roiling with disgust and hatred, and he is in no position to argue. His cock is still stupidly, absurdly hard, against all reason. I asked for this, brought this on myself, He thinks, dizzily, I wouldn't let him throw out that damned tea...
“What's wrong, sweetheart? You can have him back when we're done, we're just borrowin' him for a spell.” One of them says, laughing.
“Jealous,” Another says, “Probably thought 'e was gonna keep the slut all to hisself.” Of course they would think that. They probably assume Connor is as vile and lecherous as the rest of them.
“Not even an animal would stoop so low.” Connor seethes and he jerks as one of the men strikes him in the ribs.
“I've had enough of his lip. Gag him,” The warden says and Haytham can hear the rustle of fabric as the man undoes the front of his breeches. The man grabs Haytham's ass like he's checking the ripeness of a melon and the sensation shoots heat up his spine. He hikes back his hips and moans like a whore when the guard fingers him open. His hand is slick with something cold, oil or grease perhaps—obviously the man had intended to fuck him all along, perhaps considering it recompense for the small gift of alcohol and bandages the night before.
Haytham trembles. Not from fear, though. He has no fear. Not even when he feels the warden press against him, feels the slickness of the man's cock against his ass, the hand stinging the barely-healed wounds of his tender back. There's no room for fear, not with the disgust and rage that fill him. Quickly, far too quickly to be anything close to comfortable, the man positions himself, presses in, and Haytham gasps and writhes beneath him, focusing on the blunt ache in his guts that is too strong to be called pleasure. The warden seats himself to the hilt with a satisfied grunt and Haytham twists his head, lets his tangled mess of hair fall over his face the better to obscure the tight set of his jaws and the murder in his eyes. How dare they? How dare they do this to him, to his son? What gives them the right to humiliate him like this?
If only he were not so weak. If there's one thing that Haytham despises most of all, it's weakness... No. No, he was not weak, he tells himself. Damn it, stop. It's too easy to be the victim. What in the hell had he become? He wasn't some cringing, broken slave, wasn't a wanton whore—those were merely the projections of his enemies, circumstances beyond his control. He's Grandmaster Haytham Kenway, son of one of the most feared and respected pirates to have ever sailed the Caribbean, father to one of the deadliest Assassins ever produced.
These men, they were the weak ones. They are nothing. Small, petty cowards who try to compensate for their own powerlessness by preying on those who were even more defenseless than themselves, violating him because they knew there would be no consequences. He thinks on this, grips his hate tight to him as the man behind him pulls back and then plunges forward again, establishing a quick rhythm, his hands burning Haytham's hips, his hold lining up with the dark purple bruises left by Hickey's fingers.
He groans in response, giving them what they want to hear, his hips churning, all the while thinking, letting his mind wander, trying to distract himself from the pleasure that is even more vile and insistent than the pain. His mind. That was what Washington wanted. The man had only achieved victory through the intelligence and ambitions of other men.
He'd been able to resist Washington's power by sheer force of will. It was that stubbornness and will that had forced Washington's insidious power out of his soul, his resistance that had enraged the man to striking him again and again until Haytham had collapsed on the throne room floor in a bloody heap. His body may have atrophied, had been maimed and mistreated, but his mind is as keen as ever. Reginald Birch had not seen fit to elevate Haytham to Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite because he could leap across rooftops or wield a blade—It was Haytham Kenway's cold, calculating intelligence that set him apart from other men and made him truly dangerous. Was that the point of all this? To torture, abuse, and humiliate him until he breaks? To crack open Haytham's mind so that Washington can peruse it at leisure like a book in a library?
Well, he can't have it, Haytham thinks feverishly, gritting his teeth, That bastard can take everything else from me: my freedom, my strength, my dignity, but he can never have my mind—
But he can hear Connor's sharp, furious breathing between the slap of flesh on flesh, and suddenly he's not so sure.
“Get over there, lad,” The warden growls and for one improbable and horrified moment he thinks that the man means Connor, but Haytham peeks out through his curtain of hair and sees the youngest guard shift uncomfortably from side to side.
“I-I don't think it wise,” He stutters, unsure, but definitely tempted.
“No? Why not? Look at him, he's practically begging for it,” Another guard says. “Go on with ya.”
The lad wavers, debates with himself, but in the end he steps forward and unbuttons his breeches with shaking fingers, quickly pumping at his half-hard cock. He seizes Haytham by the hair with forced bravado and pulls him up to eye level with the boy's flesh.
“Suck me,” He commands loudly, the force of his words diminished by the way his voice cracks on the first syllable. Haytham takes him into his mouth, trying not to cringe at the acrid taste of piss or the way the flesh feels like a firebrand against his lips. The boy's moan is high and girlish when Haytham lathes at the underside of the head with his tongue and his hips buck helplessly into Haytham's mouth. Pathetic.
Well, go right ahead, lad, He thinks, delirious with sensation, Help yourself. Have your pleasure while you can. Your cock will be the first thing I take from you, when I get you alone. I'll shove it down your throat before I spill your guts to the floor like swine in an abattoir.
He had taught Charles that there was more than one way to kill a man. The obvious courses of action were to target the brain or the heart, of course, or slit the throat or slash at the soft underbelly. Men such as Haytham and Charles are much more acquainted with the workings of the body than the average man. Few are aware of just how comparatively little pressure it takes to snap a spine, how delicate the kidneys are, how much blood runs under the arm pits. Or how much blood runs through the groin, for that matter. He still has his teeth—men are such fragile things, no one knows this better than he, it would only take a few pounds of pressure—
The warden hits that something inside him that makes his limbs tremble and forces a startled gasp from his throat. Again, and he hikes his hips, pushing back—again and he moans, embarrassingly loud around the flesh in his mouth, pleasure and pain washing together and overlapping until he's not sure which is which. The man's breathing has become erratic, labored, fingers embedded in Haytham's skin. Haytham is close himself, cock hard and weeping with precome, bobbing obscenely with every thrust, throbbing with the beat of his heart. The warden's hips still and Haytham recoils at the awful sensation of the man's release.
The warden sighs contentedly, patting Haytham on the ass almost fondly, as if he were a horse or a dog that had pleased him. “Atta boy,” He croons and pulls out. Haytham feels a fresh hot mess slide down the insides of his thighs but before he can even process how disgusting he feels there's another man taking the warden's place, seating himself in one cruel thrust that makes him cry out and clench his fists in the fabric of the mattress. The boy before him sputters and groans, his fingers tangled in Haytham's hair, forcing Haytham's head to and fro. The others laugh, make vulgar jokes or, worse, trade small-talk as if there isn't a man being speared at both ends before them. As if they aren't waiting their turn to do the same. All of them making meaningless noise. Except for Connor, of course. Somehow his silence is the worst of all. He can't even begin to imagine what the boy must be feeling. Hopefully the boy has shut his eyes. Not that it helps, he's sure. Doubtless the boy is helpless to block out the slap and squelch of flesh on flesh, flesh in flesh Haytham's moans and the sighs and grunts of the two men using him—
Haytham comes with a surprised grunt, spraying the mattress below him. It's the least satisfying orgasm he's ever had, more like the spasm of a cramping muscle than the glorious release that he requires. He's still frustratingly hard, his skin is still aflame, balls aching and he moans plaintively around the cock in his mouth. The boy gasps at the sensation and spills. Haytham gags, sputters, and coughs, some of the mess ending up down his chin and stains the buff fabric of the boy's breeches. One of the guards notices and guffaws. If Haytham's face wasn't flushed before it most certainly is now. As soon as the boy removes himself, cursing at the state of his clothes, another man comes to take his place, pumping his thick member, grinning. Haytham inwardly grimaces.
“Wot th' 'ell is going 'ere?” A man shouts. Hickey. It must be. Haytham'd know that absurd cockney accent anywhere.
The man approaching Haytham suddenly looks bashful, like a child caught stealing a cooling pie from a window sill. Equally, the man at his backside pauses.
“What business is it of yours, Hickey?” Someone challenges him.
“It's the fuckin' King's business—an' that's Captain to you, gobshite.” A pause. “Well. Now I see why it's taking so long to feed 'im 'is food,” Hickey says, his words droll but his tone serious.
“We was just havin' a spot of fun,” One of them says.
“You got any idea what 'appens to little worker bees that disobey?” Hickey growls menacingly, “They get squashed. Get 'em to the throne room. Now.”