Bad Karma

Okay, I did this over a couple of days, so I'm not pretending it's perfect, but it was written to make deadline for fma_fuh_q for the month of May on lj.

Bad Karma

My arms ache.

I have no idea how I’ve gotten here or where here exactly is, but I know without doubt that my arms were in excruciating pain. They are restrained over my head, far too touch, as though someone knows exactly what I am. At the very least this person can have the decency to restrain me the way the military did, my hands in front of me, rather than above my head so that after this amount of time, all blood has drained out of them. I guess I’ve been hanging quite a while for that to be the case, but how long exactly, I’m not sure. I shuffle my feet, which touch the ground only enough to ease some of the weight from my already strained shoulders and arms.

I have already struggled to open my eyes, only to find the darkness of a blindfold. Once again, I wiggle my feet finding that they are also chained apart, leaving me spread eagle, hanging from restraints. And though it is warm in the room, as I move, I become obviously aware that the blindfold is the only piece of fabric on my body.

I try to move, grunting, as I test the strength of the binding around his wrists, hearing the rattling of chains. Despite the pain in my arms, I try a few times to bring my hands together, to transmute something, anything into a weapon, even at the risk to my own safety. Unfortunately, whoever bound me had done so well.

“So, we are awake.” The voice that speaks now is low, undoubtedly male, and with just the faintest hint of a tone that I am certain I recognize as a slight eastern accent.

“Who are you?” I demand, shaking against my restraints in fury. “Where am I, you son of a bitch?”

“Long ago, you considered me as someone of no importance, so I have no desire to tell you my name.” Suddenly, I feel hands on my head, a finger tracing an X over my forehead, as though that is supposed to mean something. “You are here. You need to know no more.”

I can feel the sweat tickling, itchinly rolling down my body, making it all the more obvious that there are no clothes obstructing the path of the sweat as it moves down my body. I am nude, trapped, and have no idea where I am or who my captor even is.

“So tell me, how does it feel to be totally helpless and at someone else’s will?” The man is very close, I can feel his warm breath on my cheek, followed by the hot puffs of the definite chuckle. “You do not need to answer. I can see exactly how you feel.”

A large hand cupped over my cock, and like it or not, there’s no hiding that I’m semi-hard. “You sick shit, get away from me!” I am quite proud, despite the situation, that I only remotely sounded like I was begging.

The hand moves over my member, actually grabbing hold and sliding down the length, the friction of the un-lubricated, calloused hands causing a strange mix of pain and pleasure that I’ve grown accustomed to in the last few months. Hard as I try, I cannot stop as my hips buck directly into my captor’s hand as it moved down, cupping my balls and rolling them around with such skill it’s little wonder I’ve become fully hard.

Still, I try not to respond, and I refuse to get off on the pleasure, hell even the pain. Not helping to keep my mind from enjoying this are the multiple scenarios running through my head of how I plan to torture Archer. Sick bastard colonel has turned me into a masochist, and yet as I imagine finding ways to ensure he never makes it to another birthday, the idea of tormenting him this way is making me harder still.

“I had not anticipated this reaction,” the voice says, that massive hand continuing to stroke me, and I feel another behind me, prying apart my ass cheeks.

I struggle in vain to move away from that hand. Getting off to a man who is giving me a hand job that meshes perfectly with my most pleasurable desires is one thing, but I’ll be damned if I let this man rape me without some sort of fight. And I’m not going to beg. I refuse to beg for him not to touch me. I feel that man’s massive finger swirling around my crack, near something I’d never considered an entrance until I became the dog of Amestris’s number one sick freak. There is no lubrication on his finger, and I can only begin to guess how painful this will be. Twisted as he is, the colonel always uses some kind of lube, for his own sake more than mine, not to mention that Archer’s fingers are long and sli, not thick and calloused like this man’s.

It starts to hurt, to burn, and I thrust my hips forward to get away from the inquisitive hand behind me, pushing my member through the pleasantly painful friction of the hand at my front.

“If I had any intentions of taking you, I can already tell you would not be unfamiliar to the sensation. I can already tell you are no virgin.” One of the fingers in the back pushes through the ring of muscle, and against my own will, I cry out in pain. “You are rather loose. I had always been told that a man should be tighter than a woman unless they are regularly used. I would never have anticipated that one of the great heroes of Ishbal would become someone else’s whore.”

Ishbal? Shit!

I regret nothing I did in that war, but I certainly regret that I am now in the presence of an Ishballan that I am incapable of attacking.

“Tell me, do you remember each of those you have killed or tortured, or do they remain nothing more than a good bomb to you?”

“I hardly remember voices,” I spit out, then grut as the finger becomes two that press insistently at my insides.

“Do you wish to know my face?”

“I would be nice to see the man who plans to kill me?”

“You assume I am going to kill you? You were ever so kind to allow me to live.”

Shit again. Whoever this man is, I’ve tortured him and left him for dead.

“I can remove the blindfold,” the man says.

I wish with every fiber that it would be the hand behind me to move to take off that blindfold, but instead, it is the one in front, the only one offering me some sick pleasure.

The piece of fabric falls to the ground, and with a few blinks, my eyes are able to adjust to the darkness. I see before him a man I don’t instantly remember, but all Ishballans look the same, red eyes, dark skin. So this one has steely gray and blond hair, big deal. He steps closer, to give me a better look, and the instant I see that scar, I cannot fight the smirk to my face or the words from my mouth.

“You’re the Ishballan who tried to defend his brother. I don’t remember many, but I remember you.” With those words, a third finger enters me, not slowly, but roughly pushing past my anus and into my body alongside the other two. Still, my mouth is uncontrollable, and though my mind is screaming at me to stay quiet and be done with this, I seem incapable of listening. I glance down to see the man’s right arm, the one that had been pumping me earlier. “And I remember that arm. It was your brother’s wasn’t it?”

“A sacrifice from him for what you took. It is both a blessing and a curse,” he says, placing his hand against the wall next to him, finally removing the other hand from my body, thank the God I don’t believe in. In awed horror, I watch as the wall disintegrates as the arm’s symbols glow. I inwardly curse myself at the sick thrill that comes with the realization that that same hand had just moments before been on my member. Then said fear kicks in that the hand might return.

“Ah,” he says, turning back to me, “I see the understanding in your eyes. You see, I actually do intend to allow you to live, and I will even promise you just a bit of pleasure tonight before I return you to your troops.” That hand does return as I’d feared, grasping my once again limp member—it sure as hell isn’t going to be hard after what I’ve just seen. It was pumping it with ferocity, that slowly, against my will, is getting me hard once again. The other hand moves to my thin chest, tweaking and twisting at my nipples, tickling over my ribs. I don’t want to get pleasure from this, and I close my eyes, willing myself not to get hard, not to think about the thrill or the binding. I desperately try to ignore the sensations around my sex.

“You may fight all you want, but you are enjoying this.”

“No,” I say strongly, though inside I want to whimper like a beaten dog.

The dangerous hand never stopping, the other grabs hold of my face harshly. “Pretend if you must, but I suggest you enjoy your final moments of pleasure. I assure you what I’m about to do won’t change either way.” That damned hand moves down to my balls, squeezing, and a gasp slips past my lips unchecked. He got a reaction from me, and so he continued to try to get me off. The other hand, the one I was apparently wrong to fear earlier moves once again to ram a few digits into me, now far enough inside to brush my prostate and have me bucking into the deadly thing in front of me.

I am so near my release now, so against my will, and as I feel my orgasm moving through my body, I only half notice the red glow through my half-lidded eyes as that hand, my personal hell, makes one last thrust before grabbing me firmly. The light intensifies, just as I climax, and everything becomes a blur.