Aftermath

A sharp pain woke Jarrod when his hair was grabbed, his head pulled up abruptly and he realized he must have passed out at some point. He choked when water was poured into his parched mouth and he tried to swallow as much as he could before the canteen was taken away, his head released to fall against the post.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jarrod caught movement and a small flame blossomed at the edge of his vision. A rough grip dragged him to his feet and the wood scraping his chest and the rush of blood back into his legs made him want to scream out loud. But Jarrod maintained his silence, not wanting to give his captor the satisfaction, and clenched his teeth until the pain went away.

With a hard jerk, the remains of Jarrod’s shirt were torn away and he tried not to flinch as the other ran his hand over his back, but he was unable to suppress a shudder of revulsion.

“Such pretty, smooth skin,” his captor murmured. “It’s almost a shame to mark it up. Almost, but not quite.”

This time, Jarrod did cry out at the scorching pain and gagged on the smell of his own burning flesh.

“Not as tidy as a branding iron,” the other informed him as Jarrod bit his lip, tasting blood when his back was seared again, “but it does the trick.”

Jarrod tried to brace himself against the pain, but there was no way to prepare for the agony of the repeated burning with what must have been some kind of iron rod. He remembered the scar one of the Barkley hands carried on his arm from the slipping of a branding iron a few years back and tried not to think of what the hot metal was doing to his skin.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he heard a clang as the rod was tossed to the ground and he sagged against the post in relief. His back still felt like it was on fire, but with no new application, it was bearable. Barely.

But his respite was short lived. Jarrod’s pants were unfastened and jerked down around his knees. The sharp crack of a whip was followed by a thin stripe of pain and Jarrod flinched as the leather bit into his abused back and started a new agony. Stoically, he gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the hot trickle of blood down his back and arms, counting the lashes until the pain clouded his mind at twenty-three and he started to lose consciousness with every new stroke.

Cold water dashed on his face deprived Jarrod of blissful oblivion. “No, no,” the other chided, “I need you awake to appreciate this.”

A hand roughly swiped against his back, sliding over the blood-slick skin. Jarrod tensed and struggled, but his pants around his knees effectively hobbled him as the hand slipped between his buttocks and smeared his ass further with blood.

This can’t be happening, Jarrod tried to tell himself as he felt a hardness press between his clenched cheeks, there’s no way… Then Jarrod experienced an excruciating pain, a white-hot agony between his legs that threatened to rip him in half. He couldn’t stop the whimper from escaping his throat as the other used the slickness of his own blood to force his way inside. He’d felt pain before, but nothing could compare to the hell he was going through at that moment. Jarrod gritted his teeth and tried to pull away as the other impaled him ruthlessly on his cock. He felt fingers dig into his hips to hold him and the other’s hard sex started thrusting viciously into Jarrod’s ass.

“Oh god,” the other groaned as he slammed himself brutally into Jarrod again and again, the hurt growing more intense with each shove, “you’re a better fuck than that whore I had last night.”

Jarrod closed his eyes tightly, powerless to stop it as the rape went on. He was unable to prevent tears from leaking out and forced back the bile that rose in his throat when he felt a pulsing through the pain inside him. He stopped himself from retching at the sounds of pleasure coming from the other’s throat and every short sharp jab of climax stabbed into him with a new agony. He shuddered when the other eventually withdrew and wished he could believe the warmth trickling down the inside of his thighs was his blood and not the something else he knew it had to be.

A hand trailed across his cheek. “And we get to enjoy that again and again, my little whore,” the other crooned. Jarrod struggled for breath when the hand fastened itself around his throat and squeezed. “I’ve heard that the best is to cum inside someone just at the moment of their death. I think we’ll have to try it. Eventually.”

Jarrod slipped back to his knees as the hand released him. He heard the door open and close and this time he was unable to prevent the meagre contents of his stomach from coming back up. His mind threatened to get caught up in a spiral of shame and agony, fuelled by the pain that promised to rip him inside out, but he forced it down and tried again to pull out of his bonds.

Not ready to admit defeat, Jarrod was afraid he might lose his battle against the impending blackness encroaching on his mind when he felt his right hand slip. Glancing down, he saw a rivulet of blood on his wrist from a lash that had caught his upper arm. He pulled and pulled, but the blood and sweat stretching the leather and making it somewhat slick wasn’t quite enough. Then Jarrod caught the inside of his arm on a rough snag of the post he was tied to and caused another trickle of blood to run down his arm. With fresh determination, Jarrod steeled himself against the pain and began rubbing the already tender flesh of his wrist against the snag, making it more slippery as he tried to catch the leather thong as well. He knew there was a chance of tearing an artery and bleeding to death, but whether he escaped or died, either outcome was acceptable. All that mattered was an end to the torment and to make sure the other didn’t do that to him again.

Pain lanced up his arm as Jarrod alternately rubbed and pulled and finally he felt something give with an excruciating snap. He’d been pulling so hard that he fell over backwards and bit back a scream as his abused back and buttocks hit the ground. Jarrod lay on the floor and tried to catch his breath before he crawled to his feet and dragged his pants over his hips. He fumbled with the buttons and tried to ignore the agony in his hand and the smallest finger that just wouldn’t seem to move. Getting the top two fastened was all he could manage before he couldn’t make his fingers cooperate any more.

Finding the remains of his shirt, he tore off a strip and used his teeth to tie it tightly around his right wrist and staunch the bleeding. Jarrod considered untying the leather that dangled from the other side, but didn’t think he’d be able to get the knots undone so he left it alone. With every step a study in pain, Jarrod slowly made his way to the door, only to freeze when he heard movement outside.

Jarrod positioned himself behind the door. He fought down the panic and fixed a goal in his mind; to get out and get home. Preferably by ridding the world of his tormentors at the same time. Wrapping the loose end of the leather strap around his wrist and gripping it as tightly as he could manage, Jarrod waited as the door opened and he heard the voice of his captor.

“Ready to play some more, bitch?”

Jarrod pounced. He threw his arms over the other’s head and twisted the thong around his throat, pulling with all his strength. His tormentor clawed at the leather, clawed at the arms and hands holding it, but Jarrod hung on as his need for vengeance overwhelmed the pain. He managed to hold tight until the other went limp and his body keeled over and dragged Jarrod with it. Jarrod didn’t release his grip until his hand wouldn’t take anymore and opened of its own volition.

He rolled off to look at the body on the floor, at the blue lips and unseeing eyes staring blankly and felt sick. He’d killed men before, in war and to save his own life and the lives of others, but never in vengeance or so personally with his own hands. This was justified, he told himself, and vengeance or not, it was in self-defence.

Jarrod rose shakily to his feet. His head spun, from fatigue, from lack of food and blood loss, but he resolutely put one foot in front of the other and made his way outside. He shivered as the cool night air hit the bare skin of his chest, but it was a blessing against the fire on his back. He briefly considered taking the other’s shirt, but even if he could make himself touch the man to get it off, which he doubted, the fabric against his flayed back would probably make things worse.

Hearing an uneasy snort, Jarrod turned to see a bay horse tethered to a nearby tree. He approached it slowly, murmuring as the horse shifted restlessly at the scent of blood.

“Easy, boy. You and I, we’re going to be friends, all right?”

The horse tossed its head, but held still as Jarrod gathered the reins and painfully pulled himself into the saddle.

As he nudged the bay into a walk, Jarrod began to wonder if riding was such a good idea. The saddle was hard against his abused backside and Jarrod broke into a sweat as the pain intensified. He clutched the saddle horn tightly. Maybe he should get off and walk, he thought more than once and the choice was taken out of his hands a few miles later as he lost his hold on consciousness and tumbled from the horse’s back to the hard ground below.

A/N: reviews are welcomed. The good, the bad or the ugly, all embraced as long as they’re honest.