Kapustcha slapped his face. "Shut up, Whore!"

Krycek tried to bring his hand up to protect his face, but Kapustcha
had grabbed it, was pulling on it, prying him free of the suitcase.
"I'm not a whore any more!" he cried as the suitcase tipped over and
he spilled out. He groaned as his legs unfurled for the first time in
ten hours. His skin was reddened and damp from laying in his own
urine. He had to agree that he needed a bath.

"You *are* a whore. A whore and a cum slut!" Kapustcha retorted. "A
cum slut and a toilet so filthy it needs to be scrubbed and
disinfected before it's fit to use!"

Krycek bowed his head, not resisting, but not helping Kapustcha drag
him to the shower stall. It had wooden slats, a single showerhead, and
no walls, just a wooden frame to hold the water pipe, with its gate
valve and diverter handle, upright. The frame itself was tacked onto
the wooden platform. Crude, but effective. He realized he'd seen it
before.

Kapustcha's equipment bag was already sitting to one side of the
platform, opened and waiting. The shower pipes screeched. The taps
protesting as if they hadn't been used in years.

Considering that Jeraldine Kallenchuk had been assassinated in Hong
Kong five years ago, Krycek thought, that probably wasn't far off the
mark.

The first water out of the showerhead was as brown as the sludge in
the bottom of the suitcase. It cleared, but it didn't warm. Krycek
tipped up his head and opened his mouth, drinking the water in as if
it were the sweetest ambrosia. Kapustcha hadn't given him anything to
eat or drink the entire time he'd been in the suitcase. Just facefuls
of chloroform. That would change, soon enough, Alex knew. The reward
for playing along was always a meal, usually delivered in bites like
puppy training treats.

Kapustcha took out a washcloth and anti-bacterial liquid soap in a
pump bottle from his bag. He wet the cloth, soaped it up, and dropped
it onto Krycek's head. "Clean yourself up."

Krycek did as ordered. He knew Kapustcha was too disgusted with him to
willingly touch him but, if he balked and forced Kapustcha to deal
with his shit, he'd pay for it later. Besides, after so many hours in
the suitcase, washing was a relief. In fact, if he knew Kapustcha,
he'd be back in the suitcase soon enough. He wrinkled his nose at the
thought. "Can...may I wash the suitcase out, too, Big Daddy?"

Kapustcha smiled. His Little Whore knew he was going back in the
suitcase at some point, too. Fine. It suited him to have the cunt
clean out his own sty. He cuffed Krycek's wrist to the water pipe, and
retrieved the suitcase, carefully retrieving the leather jacket with
an index finger. He held it under the showerhead, then backed away and
deliberately used Krycek's own switchblade to cut the jacket to
ribbons. He cut loose the six public locker-type keys from the lining,
then tossed the remnants aside.

"We'll have to have a little talk about where the locks to these keys
belong, won't we, Cunt?" he said as he released Krycek's restraints.

Krycek, who had watched the destruction of his favorite possession,
agreed politely and washed the suitcase out thoroughly.

Kapustcha hung the suitcase up to dry.

Krycek returned to cleaning himself up, careful with his tender,
swollen balls, but no less thorough. When he was done, Kapustcha
turned off the tap, lathered Krycek's freshly scrubbed legs up and
shaved them. Then he cuffed Krycek's ankles to the frame and lathered
up his back side and shaved it. Then he had Krycek kneel up so he
could lather and shave his face, armpits, chest, and groin. Then he
rinsed him off.

As there were no second pipes here, he unscrewed the showerhead and
fastened the hose in its place. "On your knees, chest to the floor."

Krycek fell forward into position. Kapustcha wet the nozzle, stuck it
into Krycek's ass unceremoniously, and turned the tap back on. He
reached a hand under Krycek's abdomen and palpatated it until he was
satisfied. "Fifteen minutes," he said, as he stepped off the platform.
"I'll set out your make-up."

Krycek snuffled, but didn't move. As luck would have it, he had
managed to give himself a direct view of his ruined jacket. His
stomach was aching. He hadn't had anything to eat all day, his bowels
had pretty much cleaned themselves out, and, if things followed
Kapustcha's usual pattern, dinner was a long way off, but he couldn't
force himself to care.

The jacket that had been his second skin, his safe, his bank, his
attitude, and his only comfort for the last five years had been rended
before his eyes into so much trash. He had lost the watch transmitter.
He had lost the transmitter inside his prosthetic. He had even lost
the prosthetic. Losing the jacket was the last straw.

No one was coming to rescue him and, one handed, he had very little
chance of saving himself. The worst part was knowing that he hadn't
even had the presence of mind to search his jacket for weapons or
tools to help his escape when he'd had the opportunity. Now it was
well out of his reach, and beyond help or helping anyone but
Kapustcha.

That would teach him to panic.

//You're going to die because you were too fucking sacred to use your
brains. You're a worthless piece of shit. You deserve to die,// Krycek
berated himself.

He vaguely remembered Kapustcha gloating about how  'Chesterfield' had
given him permission to teach Krycek a lesson in how to keep his nose
out of matters that didn't concern him. This just before he'd given
Krycek yet another snootful of knock-out drug.

//I'm doomed. I'm going to die horribly, and no one will care. Mulder
will probably hold a parade when he finds my lifeless body. Between
him and his cancer-riddled 'Daddy Dearest,' they'll declare my death
date a national holiday.//

The thought made him smile. //Fuck a holi*day;* they'll have a Hate
Krycek Month! Marita Covarrubias will petition the United Nations and
make it the world's first Global Celebration. The French, Tunisians,
and Russians will embarrass themselves by voting with the United
States.//

"Nobody likes me/ everybody hates me/ guess I'll eat some
wor-er-erms," he sang softly to himself. "Long, slim, slimy ones/
short, fat, juicy ones/ itsy-bitsy, teeny-tiny worms."

"What's that?"

Krycek jerked with surprise. "Nu-nu-nothing, Big Daddy!" 

Kapustcha grabbed the hose and shoved it up till the nozzle hit the
bowel wall. He could have jammed the hose itself up into the bowel,
but the nozzle was rigid, and it would have punctured the bowel rather
than make the turn into the colon. He shoved it in and out, in and
out, bumping the colon every time, then he ripped the hose out.

Krycek yelped, but didn't spill a drop. 

Kapustcha noted his control with amusement. After a suitably agonizing
interval of watching Krycek's pucker tighten on its burden, he yelled:
"Go!"

Krycek let the enema water spew out. He could tell from the way it
passed his anus that there were damn few solids amongst the fluid. His
guts had been totally cleansed.

Kapustcha brought up Krycek's garrote. He had looped the wire through
one of the ring ends and looped the resulting noose over Krycek's
head, pulling it to the point of tautness, like a choke collar. Then
he released Krycek's ankle cuffs from the platform. "Time to get
dressed."

Krycek allowed himself to be yanked to his feet and walked to the desk
that Kapustcha had moved out from Kallenchuk's office to serve as a
vanity. There was a mirrored door from her private bathroom cabinet
propped atop the desk, and the desk lamp was turned on.

Makeup was laid out on the desktop, along with a wig-form and a wig
that matched the color of Krycek's hair, a five gates of hell cock
ring, and a couple of corsages, one for his wrist, the other for his
bodice. The familiar red dress and stiletto heeled pumps and emerald
green fishnet hose and garter belt and those funny underwear, a slip,
and bra were draped over the desk chair.

Kapustcha let go of the garrote noose in favor of an automatic pistol.
The better to sit back and enjoy the show.

Krycek put on the cock ring first. The first ring slipped over the
base of his cock, the next three rings fit along his penis' shaft,
while the fifth, (hence the name), ring snuggled the space right
behind his glans. It wasn't a hardship to don slack, but once he had
an erection, he'd feel like those rings were trying to tie his penis
into five tiny sausage links.

The underwear had a cloth ring that went around his genitals and
pulled them back between his legs. His poor balls were so tender and
swollen, he thought he'd die before he could get the cloth retainer
around them, nevermind shifting them into position between his legs.
The leather and steel of the cock ring prodding them didn't help
matters, either.

He donned the hose and garterbelt next, then the padded 'Wonder' bra
that shoved up his breasts with half falsies and mushed them together
so it looked like he had a more ample bosom. A silk slip went over
that, then the red dress and heels.

He sat down carefully, in the now empty chair without having to be
told, his legs spread far apart so as not to aggravate his testes, so
Kapustcha could apply his wig and make-up.

Kapustcha cuffed Alex's ankle to the leg of the desk and set the gun
on the table, across the 'dance floor' from the 'vanity' so he could
use both hands.

Alex got to view the results in the mirror before Kapustcha shut out
the light. It wasn't as effective when his lips were swollen and his
face bruised, but he still looked like a damned good-looking woman, to
his un-ending rue.

Then he was uncuffed and led by his garrote leash to the 'dance
floor,' a cleared-out space in the middle of the warehouse. Kapustcha
turned on a portable cassette player with the remote and in his
pocket, and, with one finger wearing the other ring end of the
garrote, he lead Alex in dance after dance.

Krycek, trying not to crush his tender balls, tried to keep his legs
as far apart as he could and still move to Kapustcha's cues, but only
ended up waddling like a bow-legged cowpoke.

He was equally careful to keep his painted face from smudging
Kapustcha's clothing. Only whores laid their heads on their date's
shoulders.

He tried not to react as Kapustcha lifted up his skirt and ran his
hand underneath the waistband of his underwear so he could rub his
hand over the bareness of his groin. Then the hand roved back to his
ass, and the treasure trove poking out from beyond his thighs.

Krycek's balls were larger than usual. More noticeable for their
abuse. They felt different, and Kapustcha found it oddly thrilling.
His hand kept wandering from the exotic smoothness of Krycek's groin
to the rounded mounds of abused flesh below his ass cheeks. Back and
forth.

Krycek bit down on his lower lip to keep from screaming his pain at
having his swollen testicles fondled none too gently by strange
fingers, but he daren't complain. He just concentrated on keeping up
with his dance partner, which was hard to do with sore balls, only one
arm, wearing those damned stiletto heels. He knew he was missing half
Kapustcha's cues, and the fact that he was wallowing about like a
pregnant cow only made matters worse.

Kapustcha didn't fail to notice his clumsiness, either. He finally
stepped back, throwing Krycek's hand down in disgust. "You're
hopeless. Your deformity is ugly and it ruins the mood."

"I'm sorry, Big Daddy," Krycek whimpered, and his head jerked down
with Kapustcha's hand to keep from strangling himself. It made him
look repentant. "I want to do well, I really do." He wasn't lying,
either. For if he couldn't dance, the only activities left to them
were sex and violence.

"On your knees!"

He tugged the leash down even further, and Krycek dropped to the
floor. Kapustcha took the ring off and stomped to the table where he'd
laid the gun. He picked it up, sat in one of the chairs, facing
Krycek, and aimed the gun at him.

"Stand up! Turn around! Now, strip!" 

"I can't tease you like before. Not with a missing arm," Krycek
apologized as he struggled out of the red dress, slip, and bra,
defiantly and deliberately clumsy and inelegant.

"Garter belt, hose, underwear, and shoes, too!" Kapustcha ordered, to
Alex's dismay. If he wanted Alex out of the fancy hose and pumps, Alex
was due for some punishment. "Heel!" Kapustcha pointed to a spot
between his legs.

Krycek padded barefoot wearing only his cock ring and dropped to his
knees in the designated spot.

Kapustcha unzipped his fly and cocked the gun. "Suck me off. And no
biting, or I'll shoot you."

The idea of biting Kapustcha and getting it over with flitted over
Krycek's mind, but Kapustcha was pointing the gun at his right biceps,
not his head or heart. If he bit the man, at best he'd sever an artery
and bleed to death; but it was more likely he'd only suffer a flesh
wound that would render him temporarily incapable of using his arm. At
worst, the bullet would shatter the bones in his arm so completely
he'd be permanently maimed. Not that he'd live that long. The real
problem with depending on a psycho to put him out of his misery was
that, no matter what happened, Kapustcha would have an excuse to
extend his suffering for as long as was humanly possible.

Krycek reached up gingerly and pulled Kapustcha's penis out of his
pants. It was short, thick, and uncut, with a sprinkling of curly,
black hairs on the foreskin, a tiny, pinched looking glans, and a
decided list to starboard. Nothing like the clean, circumcised missile
Skinner was packing. It was the difference between a V-2 and a Saturn
V, a butter grub and a moray eel. He ducked his head to hide his
sudden smile, quickly smoothed his features then, face impassive,
lapped the organ into his talented mouth.

//First you bite their heads off/ then you suck their guts out/ oh,
how they wiggle and squirm.../ short, fat, skanky ones/ soft, Vienna
sausage ones/ limp and squishy, hairy, Polak worms!// he sang to
himself.

Completely flaccid when he drew it out, his careful licks, hums, and
swallows had the organ twitching and swelling to attention in seconds.
If anything, it only exaggerated the difference between the swollen
shaft and tiny head.

Krycek closed his eyes and bobbed up and down on his pink maggot
treat. There wasn't quite enough of it to hit the back of his throat
even fully engorged, so he was in no danger of suffocating, making
Kapustcha's sudden thrusts unthreatening, but it was thick enough to
make his jaws ache. Then Kapustcha was cumming.

Alex swallowed every drop, then he pulled back and suckled and licked
the slit till Kapustcha batted him away and tucked the fat worm of a
penis back into his pants and carefully zipped it out of sight.

"Make yourself hard."

Alex spread his knees and rubbed his cockhead, which was about all
that he could touch due to the five rings. He thought of Mulder and
his cock stirred to life.

"That's my Little Cum Slut," Kapustcha said almost endearingly. He
traded the gun for the garrote ring again. Then he drew the second
plate from across the table.  "Keep yourself hard. Now, open wide."

Alex, at first, allowed Kapustcha to feed him what he would. But,
despite the enemas and going so long without a meal, five bites later
he felt nauseous and turned away from the next forkful.

Kapustcha absently followed his mouth like a mother trying to tempt
her child into eating one more bite. Krycek turned his head the other
way. Kapustcha snagged Alex's chin with his ring hand and pinched.
"Don't you *dare defy me!"

Krycek opened his mouth and accepted another bite. "Please, Big Daddy,
I don't feel well. My stomach hurts and I'm tired. May I go to bed,
please?" Krycek said softly.

Kapustcha snorted. "I out-witted you, so now you're trying to
manipulate me into giving you control again. Well, it won't work!
You'll eat till I say otherwise! And if you have the temerity to throw
up you'll lick your vomit off the floor!" He held up another forkful
of food, which Krycek was quick to accept.

"Please, Big Daddy," Krycek said a few bites later, rolling the latest
morsel into his cheek to join the previous one, "I can't be what you
want me to be. Not any more. Not without my arm. You said so yourself.
I'm ugly. Off-balance. Clumsy. Couldn't you please just let me go?"

"Let you go?!" Kapustcha roared. "Let you go?" He laughed till tears
rolled down his cheeks. Then he snarled and swept his free arm over
the tabletop. Food and dishes went flying.

Kapustcha threw down his fork, drew off the garrote ring, grabbed
Krycek with both hands, and threw him prone onto the table. "You've
gotten me in trouble with my superiors again, and you *dare* suggest
clemency? You're mine, Bitch!"

He pried Alex's cheeks apart to expose the brown rose of his asshole,
then bent down to retrieve the butter. He greased his arm, then
Krycek's hole. Then, with no more preparation than that, he worked his
fist into Krycek's rectum.

Krycek screamed as his sphincter was rudely prodded, but tried to
relax his muscles so Kapustcha wouldn't tear him too badly. The pain
was intense enough to eclipse the ache of his balls. His delicate
tissues burned under the determined assault, even as his sphincter
ached at the preternatural stretching, and he drummed his legs in
agony and screamed for all he was worth in order to express some
measure of his despair. Finally, Kapustcha's hand pushed past the ring
of muscle and flexed in the smooth warmth of Krycek's rectum.

"Who do you belong to?" Kapustcha bellowed.

"You, Big Daddy! You and Daddy! Big Daddy and Daddy own me! Only you!
Nobody else!" Krycek cried as he panted to vent the pain.

Kapustcha drew his fist back then rammed it up to the end of Krycek's
colon. "How many men have claimed you like this?"

"Only you, Big Daddy!"

"How many men will ever claim you like this?"

"Only you, Big Daddy!"

"Up. Up! *UP!" 

Krycek struggled to his knees.

"What are you?"

"I'm your cunt. Your hole. Your bitch. Your whore." Kapustcha twisted
his arm. "Your-- your puppet!"

"Do puppet's have the right to say 'no'?"

"No, Big Daddy."

"Turn around!"

Krycek, carefully pumped up and down as he twisted his body around a
hundred eighty degrees on Kapustcha's fist. Once facing his tormentor,
he kept his eyes down, head bowed. He shivered prettily, and it made
his lashes flutter on his cheeks. His bitten lips were swollen and
inviting.

Kapustcha mashed his lips against Krycek's and fucked his mouth with
his tongue.

Krycek closed his eyes, not wanting the hatred in them to blazon out
and capture Kapustcha's attention.

"Fuck yourself on my arm," Kapustcha commanded.

Krycek lifted his legs and shifted from his knees to his feet, then
raised and lowered himself on Kapustcha's fist, now propped on the
table by an elbow.

"Faster. Harder."

Krycek pumped and pumped till blood coated Kapustcha's arm. At that
point, Kapustcha pushed him backwards. His back smacked the table top,
but he did no more than steady himself with his hand, to ensure he
didn't topple onto the floor.

Kapustcha ran his fingers down one side of Krycek's rectum, not hard
enough to rend the sensitive skin, but forcefully enough to force the
piss out of him when he reached the pelvic floor and pressed down on
the bladder. Then he yanked his hand out and slipped on the garrote
'collar.' "Heel, Cunt!"

Krycek wobbled up and slid to the ground. He crawled after Kapustcha
on hand and knees, following him across the room to the shower. He'd
no more than climbed onto the slats than Kapustcha shoved the nozzle
up his ass, rinsed him out, then shot a douche bulb's worth of
medicated lotion up into the inflamed tunnel of flesh. Finally, he had
Krycek fold himself up into the suitcase. It was only then he took off
the noose/garrote.

He zipped the spy up and locked the zipper in place. "'Let me go',"
Kapustcha mimicked cruelly. He went back to the table and cleaned the
mess up, carefully inventorying every piece of flatware. He wasn't
about to allow his bitch to secrete a lethal weapon on the premises to
use against him later. That duty done, he strolled back to the boat.
Somewhere beyond the gathering fog stars were twinkling. "Fucking
Pussy."

Kapustcha lowered himself into the cabin's lone bunk and watched some
Letterman, jingling the keys that he'd liberated from inside the lining 
of Krycek's jacket in his hand. He couldn't help wondering what sorts 
of treasures a spy like Krycek would keep in such places. Money?
The Palm Pilot that rumor maintained controlled some un-named
Assistant Director of the F.B.I? False ID's? Inside information that
was a spy's only form of life insurance, which could be used to
blackmail the unwary? It might be worth delaying his trip out of the
country to retrieve the contents, not that it couldn't wait for
another day when he was safely off the local police's radar screens.
He drifted satedly off to sleep, dreaming of riches beyond avarice.

###

It hurt to breathe. It was dark. It was cramped. And he was on his
own. He had known it would come down to this in the end. It always
did. But it was hard to concentrate, the state he was in, let alone
plot his escape. It was impossible to maneuver inside the suitcase. It
was all he could do to cup his hand around his aching balls and
comfort his abused asshole with a gentle rub. He didn't want to panic,
but it was hard to stay calm, knowing what was coming, knowing he
couldn't do anything about it.

It was all his own fault for losing his head when he'd had the jacket
in his possession. Not that getting anything in it would have
guaranteed him a clean escape. But still. It was something. It had
been hope. Now, he was hopeless.

He didn't know how much time he had left. How long he could hold out
before the inevitable end. He vowed to be stronger. He was in an
abandoned warehouse. There was trash everywhere. Surely, he could palm
something, a nail, an old box cutter --something that he could use to
escape. He just had to keep his wits. //Yeah, right,// he scoffed at
himself. He'd done such a good job of that, so far.

He wished he still had two arms. He'd have had the confidence to make
a break for it, to grab a two-by-four or pipe --anything--  and beat
Kapustcha's brains out. He wouldn't just hit and run like the last
time, either. He was older, now. Seasoned.... Experienced enough to
know he couldn't beat Kapustcha with one hand.

If he allowed himself to be choked down, it didn't guarantee he'd die,
anymore than if he'd let Kapustcha shoot him. It just meant more
bruises and more injuries. But what else could he do?

He tried to remember where the door was from his position. Tried to
remember anything about the layout of the building whatsoever. He
remembered a pile of lumber to his left.

Maybe some of the boards had nails in them he could use to rip open
the suitcase? //More likely I'll impale myself on a spike and do
Kappy's job for him,// Krycek thought morosely.

Nonetheless, he tried rocking his way to the left. He had to hurl
himself at the suitcase walls, but he finally tipped the suitcase up
onto its side. Then he let himself fall onto his other side. Then it
was heel over onto the other side, easier done with him tipping
towards his knees. And again. And again. And-- he hit timber. It was
damned uncomfortable. And no nails that he could feel through
the rigid canvas cloth. 

//Well....that was a perfect waste of time,// he thought. He tipped
himself back the other way so he at least had a smooth, even surface
to lay on. Then he cried.