#set 3

He answers it, not realizing it’s a video call, and nearly passes out right there when Whumper’s face fills the screen. His fingers itch to end the call immediately, but he feels paralyzed to his bones, staring into the eyes of the man who ruined his fucking life. He almost forgets that this is from Caretaker’s number.

“--Whumper?” Whumpee gasps out, eyes widening. He thinks maybe it’s a hallucination, that this is just his brain playing tricks on him and Caretaker will bring him back to reality, but Whumper’s voice breaks that hope.

“Oh my, using my name? You know a pet should always refer to its owner as Master.” Whumper tsks, his cold, icy blue eyes pierce into Whumpees skin. Whumpee grits his teeth, heart hammering against his chest.

He’s behind a screen, there’s nothing he can do to you.

“I’m not your pet, anymore,” Whumpee says, shakily, reaching into the depths of his shattered mind and struggling to bring a coherent sentence back. Somehow, he manages. He’s not even sure if he believes it himself, and his hand subconsciously moves up to check that there isn’t a collar on his neck either.

“Oh really? What if I told you to get down on your knees? Position four, Whumpee.”

He can’t even manage to take a breath of relief when he finds his neck is bare.

Whumpee is shaking, the words hurt to hear again, and his hands wander to clasp onto his knees just to make sure they don’t betray his brain’s protest. It’s ingrained into him so far he has to fight the response that his body is trained to do like second nature. He closes his eyes, and breathes in, reminding himself of Caretaker’s mantra.

I am not to be owned. I am not to be owned. I am myself and I live for me.

Whumpee swallows the lump in his throat and forces his eyes to meet Whumper’s before changing the subject. “Why...mm-- How are you calling me from Ca-caretakers number?” He asks, voice not sounding as calm and collected as he’d hoped, but he didn’t follow the command, and he comforted himself by thinking that Caretaker would be proud.

“I can see the gears turning in your head Whumpee, or, should I say, Pet? I know you remember your positions should be done immediately. You’ve become such a bad pet, but we can fix that later.” Whumper taunts, a smirk dancing across his lips at Whumpee’s distress.

Whumpee tries to fight the tears. He remembers, of course he fucking remembers. The positions and rules run through his mind every day like they belong there. They burrow and they burrow and they never allow him to dig them back out, no matter how hard he tries. His hands are gripping his knees so hard that his knuckles are turning white. He is glad Whumper can’t see them.

“A-answer my question…”

“Oh! I forgot to introduce you to our guest! Though I’m sure you guys are already well acquainted.” Whumper says deviously, reaching toward the camera and panning over slightly to reveal… Caretaker, sitting on a chair with his hands tied in front of him.

Whumper walks back into frame, behind the chair, one hand clamped on Caretaker’s shoulder, the other snaking up front, holding a knife to his throat. “Now smile for the camera, love.”

Caretaker’s hair is dishevelled and there is a length of tape over his mouth that wraps around his whole head. Whumpee quickly notices that he is only in his boxers. Caretaker looks at him fearfully and solemnly in such a way that makes Whumpee’s blood feel more rigid than it already did.

“Caretaker!?” Whumpee crumbles, fighting the urge to scream as his chest tightens and constricts. Caretaker’s lack of clothes does nothing to help calm him. The implications are not lost on him even in his panic.

“Let’s get back on topic. Since little Whumpee wants to act all tough, I figure you can help get my point across, Caretaker. You are much smarter than him, yes?” Whumper says, ignoring Whumpee’s anguish. He moves his hand to Caretaker’s jaw and grabs tightly. Caretaker grunts, and the knife at his neck glints in the light at all the movement.

“Whumper! Don’t hurt him, please.” Whumpee pleads, a tear finally slipping from his eye. He’s surprised it took him this long to cry. His limbs feel limp like putty, and it felt so much like how it did after Whumper passed pills through his lips, except this time, he can register everything-- almost too much. He can nearly feel Caretaker’s helpful advice slipping out from under his grasp already.

“I’m not in the mood to do you any favours, Whumpee. I’m not too happy with you since you decided you were too good for me.” Whumper shakes his head, “Caretaker, on the other hand, seems like a fresh canvas, if you will.”

Whumper roughly grabs him by the hair and yanks him to his feet. Caretaker lets out a groan from underneath his gag. Whumpee watches with breath caught in his throat and tears streaming down his face.

Whumper kicks away the chair, it clambers to the side and out of frame, the loud noise making Whumpee jump. Hands push down on Caretaker’s shoulders until his locked legs finally give and his knees land on the carpet below with a quiet thud.

"Has Whumpee ever shown you how good he is with his tongue, Caretaker?" Whumper asks, hand still tight in Caretaker's hair, forcing him to stare at Whumpee on the screen in front of them. On his face, Whumper wears an expression that Whumpee knows all too well, a glint in his eyes that makes him sick to his stomach.

Whumpees eyes widen, while Caretakers narrow in confusion. Embarrassment burns on the former’s skin.

Caretaker doesn’t know about any of that. Out of everything, Whumpee kept this close with lock and key. He’d never not be ashamed of the filthy things he'd done- been forced to do- by this man.

"I taught him exactly how to do it, and now seems like the perfect time for you to learn it too." Whumper smiles. He grabs a piece of the tape on one side of Caretaker’s mouth, ripping downward until it tore all the way through. He peels it back until he reaches the other side of Caretaker’s lips, repeating the same process and leaving the excess tape around his head.

"Whumpee," Caretaker breathes when the gag is gone. He looks exhausted. Whumpee wonders how long he’s been held, and what might’ve happened before this call was even made.

Whumpee lets out a sob, hands coming up to his face, "I’m sorry Caretaker, I’m so sorry-- This is all my fault!"

"It’s not-" Caretaker begins, always keeping his calm sweet demeanour with Whumpee, changing though when the grip in his hair harshly tugs his head back and up to face his aggressor.

"Get the fuck off of me." He growls, bucking backward.

Whumper scoffs, extends his foot to pivot slightly and swiftly delivers a hard punch to Caretaker's face. "We’re definitely gonna have to fix that mouth of yours," he says over Caretaker’s gasp of pain.

"What? Fuck yo-" Caretaker grunts as Whumper yanks his head up again. Whumper grabs the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, along with his underwear, just enough for what he wants. Caretaker cant see it, but Whumpee can, and Whumpee goes rigid.

“Please, Whumper-- Please don’t,” He cries. He feels so helpless; all he can do is cry and beg, to no avail because of the sadistic monster on the other side of his screen.

Whumper laughed, “Naive little Whumpee… You never really learned, did you? Such a bad little pet. Hopefully, this one will be better."

The words go in one ear and out the other as Whumoee watches Whumper practically slam Caretaker’s face to his crotch. He shuts his eyes, releasing shaky breaths that quickly turn into retches when he hears gagging noises and struggling from the phone’s speakers. He drops the phone on the coffee table and plugs his ears with his fingers.

He just wants to hang up and pretend this isn’t happening, but it is, and even though the gross noises send shivers down his spine and memories into his head, it’s Caretaker who this is happening to- not Whumpee.

And it’s Whumpees fault.

If Whumpee hadn’t met Caretaker, started living with him-- escaped in the first place-- then this wouldn’t be happening to him right now… Whumper would have never known of him.

If Caretaker has to have this happen to him because of Whumpee, then Whumpee should have to watch.

He pries his eyes open and looks back at his phone through a blurry sheen of tears, not even seeing Caretamers face for a full five seconds before he keels over the couch and empties the contents of his stomach onto the floor. He forces himself to look back again.

This is your fault, stupid Whumpee.

"Ah, fuck-" Whumper leans his head back, pulling Caretaker’s head flush to his body, stuffing himself as far as he could go. He groans, bucking his hips forward frantically until finally, he slows, shaking as he lets out another loud moan.

By the stark change in Caretaker’s face, Whumpee could tell Whumper had finished.

The hand nestled tightly in Caretaker’s brown curls tightened more than he thought they even could, any more tugging and he have bald spots to remember this by. Whumper held Caretaker against him still, even as he struggled. When he finally let him go, Caretaker pulled away as fast as he could, coughing and sputtering.

Caretaker slides back slightly and turns, falling forward and catching himself with his bound wrists. He keeps choking, spitting out as much of Whumpers remnants as he can.

Whumper watches from above with a look of disapproval, he doesn’t try to hide the arousal underneath at the sight though.

"Shame," He mocks, kicking his boot to Caretaker’s side, raising his eyes up to meet Whumpee's, "Whumpee would’ve swallowed it all without even being told," he smirks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Stop." Whumpee mumbles, defeated, curling into himself. His cheeks turn red, and he avoids Caretaker’s eyes, even though he’s probably worried about different things.

Caretaker’s face is crestfallen, but the fire in his eyes stays- brightens even- seeing the humiliation on Whumpees face. He falls over when Whumper kicks him again.

"Oh but it’s the truth, isn’t it? You loved it."

Whumpee frowns, "No. I didn’t- you- you made me!" He shouts exasperated. This is all too much for his brain, it feels like it's going to burst or just shut down completely. He's starting to question the things he's saying. Maybe he did like it..? He's supposed to be a pet, he's supposed to like it. Caretaker isn't.

No, no no no. He isn't a pet. Caretaker told him that. Caretaker wouldn't have lied to him, and he doesn’t hurt him like Whumper did.

"...I d-didn't want to-- you hurt m-me if I didn’t- you brainwashed me!" He cries again, voice cracking. He remembers the beatings he used to receive for stuff like that, beaten until he couldn't stand and then fucked until he couldn't feel. It was easier to just submit, less painful to just swallow and try not to taste, less painful to listen and do what he was told.

"I don't care whether you wanted it or not. Pets don’t get that luxury," Whumper spits.

"What did you do to him, you sick fuck?" Caretaker growls out, struggling to get back on his knees. Pain and disgust course through him, mangling together into anger. He doesn’t think about what happened to him, only about what Whumper must’ve done to Whumpee.

"Oh, you want to know what I did?"

Whumpees breath catches in his throat as he watches Whumper walk closer and pans the camera so it is facing more toward the bed.

Whumpee blanks with panic at the sight.

Whumper stalks back toward Caretaker, firmly grabbing his bound wrists. He flinches at the touch.

"Let go," Caretaker mumbles, trying to yank his arms back to his chest. Whumper only tightens his hold and laughs.

"Like you can do anything about it," he smirks. Caretaker’s threats are just empty words to him. Whumper pulls him up anyways and roughly shoves his back to the bed, straddling him when he tries to kick out. Whumper wrestles him down as he shouts countless obscenities, quickly managing to force his arms above his head and secure them tightly to the bedframe with a length of rope.

The visual in it of itself is deeply disturbing to Whumpee, even if he hadn't witnessed the earlier violation, or knew the upcoming one. He didn't like seeing Caretaker so vulnerable, so easily overpowered, so… helpless. He wasn’t supposed to be like that.

"At first I tied him up, just like this, and I did whatever I wanted. If he fought or refused, he got punished." Whumper starts. Underneath him, Caretaker snarls. "Then he learned his positions, like position seven,"

Whumper pushes Caretaker’s legs apart and up so his knees are bending and his feet lay flat, "And the same process continued."

Caretaker tries to pull his arms down again to stop Whumper when he starts to pull at his boxers, the rope catches them and rubs his wrists raw. His eyes blow wide, staring at the intruding hands and he gasps, “fuck-- don’t. Please, god-- don’t,”

Whumpee feels bile rise up his throat again. He used to beg just like that in the beginning. He feels like he’s watching himself.

But when Whumper forces himself in dry, moaning out, and a strangled cry is released from the person trapped below him, it's all the more clear that he isn’t watching himself-- and it’s so much worse.

Whumper reaches into the pocket of his paints, hanging low on his waist. He pulls out a knife and flips it open; black at the hilt, Whumpers initial inscribed on the bottom. A dragon wraps itself around, red with each scale beautifully carved down to the details. The blade is silver, slightly curved with little swirls indented across the top.

This is a knife Whumpee knows well. It has melded with his flesh more times than he can remember, leaving only crimson blood in its wake. It is one with him, like an extension of his own body, and it controlled him, at Whumpers command.

"Come pet, position four."

Across the room, the pet sets down the dish it’s washing and immediately skitters toward its Master, eyes trained to the floor. It falls to its knees, a practiced, graceful motion, at his feet, turning its head to look at him obediently.

"Then I made sure he knew his place," Whumper says, leaning closer to Caretaker’s face. Caretaker flinches backward, barely noticeable, but he holds his glare to Whumper. Whumper has taken so much from Whumpee, and from him now that he can’t let the man break him; not even as he gets rocked hard into the bed frame with each thrust, leaving disgust festering in his chest.

"My pretty little pet, I think you have proved yourself ready for something special," Whumper says smoothly, reaching down to fondly run his fingers through the pet’s hair; the pet leans into his hands, like it’s supposed to, "I want you in position twelve for me."

The pet doesn’t know what’s so special about position twelve on the floor, it doesn’t question it though, and follows the command anyway. The tile feels cold on the pet’s back, but it stays still, its legs stay slightly spread, and its arms stay by its sides perfectly. The positions come naturally to it now, no limb out of place; so perfect it could be pictured for a diagram of the pose itself.

Its master straddles its waist, hands moving to rest on its bare skin, "Got any guesses?"

The pet slowly shakes its head. It doesn't know if it’s supposed to know or not, "D-do you want to feel good..?" It asks timidly.

"Of course I do," Whunper chuckles, caressing skin with one hand, reaching back to grab his favourite knife from his pocket, moving it where the pet could see, "but that’s not the special thing."

Whumper places the tip of the blade above Caretaker’s heart, barely an inch away from touching, "Made sure he knew who he belonged to, like you will."

“Don’t-” Caretaker chokes out, trying to suppress a moan he doesn’t want to let loose, flinching as Whumper moves to press in. He hates himself for this- for being broken down in front of Whumpee like this.

Whumper holds him down by his shoulder, “Don’t move too much, unless you want me to mess up, pet.”

“I’m not your- agh!” Caretaker goes to protest, cutting himself off with a yelp when the blade digs into him. He tosses his head back in pain and unwanted pleasure all at once.

The pet stares into its master’s eyes. These are the times it hates the most; when its master makes it sit in anticipation of what’s to come. It watches as the blade moves to hover its chest, right over its heart. The other hand rubs circles into its arm.

“You’ve been with me for a while now, and now that you really know how to behave, I think it’s time to make it completely official. So anyone can see when looking at you.”

The pet nods along, sucking in a deep breath and closing its eyes. When it feels the knife pierce skin it doesn’t dare make any noise, doesn’t dare cry without permission from its master, even as it feels the tug of steel through its flesh, even as it feels the blood drip down its side. It is a good pet, It does what it’s supposed to.

“This will mark that you are mine, from now till’ forever, my little pet,” Whumper coos, fully concentrating on the brand he is giving. The knife glides in precise motions.

The pet stares at the knife when it’s in view. Lets itself get lost in it, the beauty of the details. The dragon helps it ground itself. It can’t make any noise, doesn’t want this 'special gift' to turn into punishment.

Somewhere deep inside it though, the last shred of humanity cries in pain.

Whumpee doesn’t snap out of his stupor until another cut is made into clean skin, doesn’t realize he isn’t watching himself until the scarlet dribbles down unscarred flesh to pool into the towel underneath.

When he sees that it mirrors half the scar sitting upon his chest, it finally fully dawns on him what’s happening. Whumper wants to replace what he lost in Whumpee… with Caretaker.

Oh god, he’s got to stop this.

None of his pleas had worked earlier- they never ever did- but this was so much more important.

The scar burns and burns as he watches another line cut in Caretaker’s flesh. Watching hurts worse, worse than anything else. In his moment of desperation, he thinks of one thing that might work.

A thing that scares him, hurts him too, but it’s the only thing that he can come up with. His throat feels raw and rigid, but he pushes, crushing his fingernails into his legs as he works the courage to do what he’s about to do, he gets over it quickly though. He has to do this before the brand is finished.

"Stop!" He shouts, "Whumper, stop! Take me-- ill come back-- Master… please don’t do this. I’m sorry! I’m your stupid pet and I deserve to be punished, not him, please. I’m so sorry," he sputters, dropping to his knees on the floor, phone angled so Whumper can see him grovelling, eyes downcast.

"Hmm?" Whumper stops dragging the blade through Caretaker’s skin, interest sparkling in his eyes like a dog to a piece of meat, "Say that again Whumpee, and look at me, I want to see your pretty little face when you do."

"No- Whumpee don't!" Caretaker yells, but Whumper clamps a hand over his mouth tightly, silencing him through his struggles.

Whumpee follows immediately. His thoughts are not his own anymore, he’s accepted it. Caretaker is not supposed to be a pet. They should not share the same brand. Whumpee is a pet, there’s no more denial to be had… this is what he has to do.

"Master," he begins, tears spilling from his eyes as he looks from Whumper's to Caretakers worried ones and back, "I've been a bad pet, I've forgotten my place and I- I need to be punished."

Caretaker had saved Whumpee's life, helped him when he had escaped, helped him remember his worth. He’d given him a roof over his head and sweet affection; he’d made Whumpee feel safe. Whumpee could never show how much he appreciated him for it. He loved Caretaker, and he’d give up his life for him. He’d go back to everything, all the pain just to save him.

So he did.

He stared into Whumpers eyes, straight into the beast, "Please, take me back. I'll be your pet... ill be good, just… just don't hurt him. Let Caretaker go."

Caretaker struggled under Whumpers hold, tugging against the ropes anchoring him to the bed. Whumper didn’t budge though, so the protest went ignored.

Every muffled shout he made pulled at Whumpees heart more, both of them were crying. Whumper enjoyed every second of it.

Whumpee gives Caretaker a sad smile, tasting salt when his tears roll over his lips. He doesn’t take back his words when Caretaker shakes his head as much as he can, not even when he screams for him to take it back as loud as possible.

With an accomplished smile, Whumper rolls his hips one more time into Caretaker, groaning, “Lovely," Underneath him, Caretaker slumps, body shaking with sobs as Whumpee hands himself over to a monster, "That’s all I needed to hear.”

Whumpee crumbles again.

Taglist:

Somehow we end up at her place, the past hours nothing more than a thrilling blur of hands, teeth and kisses, of sweat and heated skin, of pain, fight and lust becoming one.

Madeline's bedroom is large yet cozy, dark wood, soft light, tasteful accents with colorful fabrics. She's rich, obviously, but what intrigues me most is the small assortion of elegant knives on her nightstand. As I reach over, she slaps my hand away and rolls on top of me. "Not for you, Stephen", she chides, as her fingers trail one of the long scratches she has left on my back, sending ripples of pain through me. I groan, pain and disappointment mingled in one.

"What for then?", I ask.

She pushes me back into the cushions, her teeth grazing over my chest, while her hand wanders down over my stomach. I feel heat build up under my skin once again. "Wouldn't you like to know?", she purrs. Her hand gently closes around my cock and I can't help but moan.

"I can't", I mumble, shaking my head. She's relentless. "I'm done."

"Giving up already?" She bites down on my nipple, once, hard, and I yelp helplessly. What is it with this woman, that doesn't fail to captivate me?

"No", I groan. "Never. Just -" A soft noise interrupts me, almost like a muffled knock. Not from us, but... close. "What... Did you hear that?"

"Shhh." She shakes her head without looking up, soft hair brushing over my chest, tingling over my skin like electricity, and I let my head fall back. "Don't deflect."

Her grip around my half hard cock tightens and she takes up slow strokes.

I hear it again. A soft thump, coming from our right.

I push her back and she drops to her side with an angry hiss. When I swing my legs over the side of the bed and get up she doesn't try to stop me, though. I feel her gaze on my back as I step over to her large built-in wardrobe and pull open the doors.

I don't know what I've expected.

Not this.

There's a girl in the wardrobe. A young woman, mid twenties, I assume, with shoulder-long white hair, tall and well-muscled, swaying on her toes. Her arms are suspended over her head, to a hook in the ceiling that looks like it was build to serve exactly this purpose. A fitted blindfold covers her eyes, large headphones are sitting on her ears. She's dressed in nothing but a short silken nightgown, shivering in the sudden draft. Her muscles are tense, probably hurting like hell in this position, and her brown skin is littered with shallow cuts.

The knives. Not for me. I get it, now.

"Mistress?", the girl whimpers. Her voice is raw. "I'm sorry, Mistress, forgive me."

I feel like I can't breathe. She's beautiful. A perfect piece of art. Her body. Her pain. Her devotion.

Behind me, Madeline has slipped into a nightgown and stepped in. "You may touch her", she says quietly. "She's very responsive."

I reach out, almost reverently, rest my hand on the girl's neck, her soft, warm skin, trembling under my touch.

"Mistress", she rasps. "Is that you? Please, this isn't you, is it?"

Her breath quickens, almost panicked, but she doesn't move as my hands roam over her body, follow the lines of her scars, wander down her chest, rest on her perfect little breasts.

"Who are you?", she pleads. "Please, don't do this."

I pinch her nipple through the thin silk, and the pained moan that escapes her lips is utmost perfection.

"Who is she?", I mumble to Madeline. "She was made for this, wasn't she?"

"Please, go away!" The girl's voice is becoming desperate, her hands tugging at her restraints with unexpected strength. Of course, it's still in vain. Her mistress seems to know exactly what she's doing.

Madeline's hand reaches past me, gently strokes the girl's cheek. It seems to calm her, instantly, and Madeline smiles softly. "You don't mind me having her?", she asks me. "Some people tend to get overly judgemental."

I shake my head, biting my lip, while my fingers still fondle with the girl's breast. "May I...?"

"Fuck her?", she asks with a cheeky grin. "After you've told me you can't any more, with me? I rather think I'll use her, and let you watch."

She pushes me aside with her shoulder, slides back the girl's headphones. "I'm here, Ira, baby", she mumbles. "All is fine."

"Mistress", the girl says, voice broken with a sob. I suck in a sharp breath. She's delightful.

Madeline casts me a short, knowing glance, before she leans in to kiss the girl's lips. She replies instantly, melting against Madeline, clinging to her with both fervor and despair. "I've missed you so much", the girl weakly mumbles into the kiss. "I didn't want to anger you, I'm so sorry."

"You can make up for that, baby", Madeline whispers, and pulls down the blindfold. "Mistress has a friend over today, and I think he likes you."

The girl squints against the soft light, blinking several times, before her gaze wanders over to me. Her eyes are a fascinating mixture of green and gold, wide with fear, and the slightest bit unfocused. She must be in horrible pain. "Sir", she whispers and casts down her eyes again in a gesture of perfect submission, the only possible, in a position like hers. "At your service."

Madeline has stepped behind me, allowing me to take in the view of the girl fully. I startle, when I feel her fingers close around my cock once more. "Ah, there you are again", she mumbles and kisses my shoulder. "I hoped for just that reaction, honestly. Just keep some of that up for our next round, will you?"

Something is slipped into my hand, cool, ornate metal. As I look down, I recognize one of the knives from the nightstand, silver handle formed of delicately wrought flowers, blade perfectly sharpened.

"Really?", I whisper.

"Mmmhh", Madeline hums and settles on the bed, hand slipping between her legs. "Go on. I've always wanted to share."

The girl in the closet has closed her eyes. A tear is running down the side of her cheek. She's controlling her breath, flat and steady, with the slightest little flutter to it.

"Hello, darling", I say softly, as I step in and carefully rest the blade against the soft skin at the inside of her arm, parallel to a barely healed scar.

The knife cuts into her, easily splits her skin, and the broken little cry that it elicits is all I could've hoped for.

Behind me, I hear Madeline moan. "Go on", she murmurs. "Cut deeper. She can take it."

I lift the knife, adore the small trickle of blood running down the girl's arm. She holds back a sob, trembling underneath my gaze. "Gladly", I mumble.