*******

It was a beautiful night. Moonlight spilled across the immaculately manicured lawn of Nicolai Kugarin's Russian mansion, silvering the landscape and lending a dreamlike quality to the surroundings.

Passepartout sighed as he looked out of his bedroom window at the illuminated lawn. Even the beauty of his surroundings --- in what was to be his new home --- couldn't erase the ache in his heart.

He still couldn't bring himself to believe what had happened. After everything he and Phileas Fogg had been through together, after all of Fogg's professions of love, his master had gambled with him like a .... a *thing* that he could throw away without a second glance. As though Passepartout's love had, in the end, meant nothing to him.

//He was thinking he could never be losing,// Passepartout thought bitterly. //Thinking he knew too much to lose. And where is that leaving me?//

He turned from the window and began preparing to go to bed. //But I was also thinking that Master Fogg could not lose. Telling him to be betting the Aurora --- and me. Is my fault as well as his,// the valet berated himself. //We were both being too careless. And we will both be regretting it for a long while.//

His thoughts turned to Kugarin, the man who was now his master. //Master Fogg says that he is not a bad man. Maybe is not being so bad. After all, it is only being for a few .... years ....// His heart sank as he contemplated the long years ahead --- without Phileas.

Passepartout stepped out of his trousers and folded them neatly on the back of a chair, along with the rest of his clothes. He pulled back the covers and slipped naked between the cool sheets .... and was filled with such a wave of longing that he very nearly sobbed aloud.

How would he get through the next few years without Phileas beside him at night? How would he survive without Phileas' love, without his master's arms around him, holding him, keeping him safe and making him feel more loved than he had ever felt in his life? How could he bear the years away from the only person he had ever truly loved?

And worst of all, how would things stand when this was over and he was free to go back to Phileas? Would Phileas even want him back? Would he not want to be reminded of the love they had shared? Would Phileas have .... found someone else?

Passepartout brought his hands to his face in a vain attempt to hold back his tears, then rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, trying to muffle the sobs that he could no longer keep back. His heart was breaking; and if he had ever at any time in his life felt more miserable, he could not remember it.

//It has taken me so long to find love. And now I am to be losing it.// The thought brought fresh sobs. //I will only be having my memories of him. And the memories will not be holding me and loving me. My life is .... empty.//

Exhausted physically and emotionally from the horrible day he had just endured, Passepartout cried himself to sleep.

*******

He was awakened by a large hand pressing over his mouth, choking back his cry of surprise. The two men bending over his bed didn't look like any servants that Passepartout had yet seen at Kugarin's estate.

A horrible thought struck him. //Maybe they are being .... thieves? Assassins?// The thought froze his blood. //What are they wanting with me? Why are they here?//

One of the men hauled Passepartout roughly to his feet, twisting one arm painfully behind the valet's back. Passepartout made a sound of protest, muffled behind the hand that still covered his mouth. "Get up and come with us," one man growled. "Master Kugarin is wanting you."

//In the middle of the night?// Passepartout thought. //What is going on?//

He made an ineffectual grab for his clothes with one hand as he was pushed across the room. One of the men let out a laugh that was nearly a snarl.

"You will not need to be worrying with clothes tonight," he informed Passepartout. "Kugarin wants you .... as you are."

Passepartout was starting to have a very bad feeling about this situation. Kugarin wanted him in the middle of the night? Stark naked? Phileas had said that Kugarin was not someone who would be approving of their .... relationship. Could it be that his master had been wrong about his friend?

The thought that Kugarin could possibly want him for sex was terrifying. No. It couldn't be. Phileas could not be that mistaken about a man who had been his friend for years. These men must be making a joke, trying to frighten him. Well, it was working. He was definitely frightened.

Passepartout was half-pushed, half-dragged through the mansion. Within a few minutes, he was hopelessly lost. The corridors they traversed did not look familiar to him in any way. At one point, when Passepartout thought they were on the ground floor, they reached a steep flight of stone stairs going downward, and he was pushed down the steps, the hand still firmly clamped over his mouth.

The grip on his arm hadn't lessened; he winced as the man's fingers tightened painfully, digging into his flesh. //I will be having bruises in the morning. If they are meaning to be hurting me, they are very good at it.//

The long, twisting stone staircase seemed to go on forever, but they finally reached the bottom. //This must be underground .... is it being some kind of dungeon?// Passepartout thought as he was "guided" through more winding corridors.

//If I were to be screaming, no-one would be hearing me, from down here,// he thought. //What is this place? Why are they bringing me here? What is happening?//

Within another few minutes, Passepartout was pushed into a dark room lit only by a few guttering candles. He was literally thrown to the floor by his captors, catching himself on his hands and knees. He arose shakily to his feet and looked around.

Kugarin was leaning against the back wall of the small room. Was he mistaken .... or was the Russian actually *leering* at him? Passepartout met the man's eyes with a defiant stare.

"Ah. You have spirit. Excellent. I'd not have expected Phileas to settle for anything less than magnificent," Kugarin laughed. "Phileas has always had very discerning taste, both in servants and in .... pleasures."

Passepartout gulped. Did Kugarin mean what it *sounded* as though he meant? Surely the man didn't mean --- no. Phileas Fogg would not have divulged the details of their relationship to this man.

Passepartout resisted the urge to attempt to cover his nakedness. He couldn't help blushing as Kugarin's eyes roamed appreciatively over his body. The Russian's gaze was almost .... predatory.

"Phileas is finally learning what it is like to have something he loves taken from him," Kugarin sneered. "I have waited a very long time to teach him such a valuable lesson. He places such a high value on things that belong to him, it gives me a great satisfaction to take his possessions and do as I please with them, knowing that Phileas cannot stop me."

Passepartout was angered at Kugarin's remark, though he managed not to let his ire show on his face. Phileas had *never* been so dismissive of him! Of course, though in a way he *did* "belong" to Fogg, Phileas had never acted as though Passepartout were merely a "possession". Kugarin's attitude of casual ownership was infuriating.

"However, you belong to me now," Kugarin said. "And as such, I believe it is my duty to set my seal upon you."

Passepartout cringed inwardly. What did that mean? Did Kugarin intend to .... mark him physically in some way? Whatever the Count's comment meant, it did *not* sound as though it would be pleasant.

Kugarin shoved himself away from the wall and crossed the room, stopping in front of the valet and regarding him with a slight smile quirking the corners of his mouth. The Russian count was the taller of the two by a few inches, and he looked down his aquiline nose at the Frenchman, who drew himself up to his full height and met Kugarin's fixed gaze before dropping his eyes.

//I cannot be challenging him,// Passepartout thought. //Whether I am liking it or not, he is my master now. I must not be angering him. I do not know what he will do.//

"Kneel," Kugarin commanded tersely. "At my feet, slave."

Passepartout had to keep his gaze on the floor so that Kugarin could not see the anger that burned in his dark eyes. Though Fogg sometimes ordered him about, his former master would never have considered referring to him as a slave.

But this was not Fogg. This was someone new, unknown .... and, for all he knew, it was dangerous for him to disobey. He would just have to bear the indignity of the address.

Passepartout knelt in front of Kugarin, gasping as his knees made contact with the cold stone floor. He sensed the presence of the two guards behind him, and half-turned his head to glance over his shoulder. One of the guards dealt him a stinging slap on the cheek that snapped his head around and brought tears to his eyes. The other wrenched his arms behind his back, forcing a cry of pain from the valet.

The two men bound Passepartout's wrists behind his back with rough ropes, making sure that the knots were too tight to allow their captive to loosen his bonds. Passepartout couldn't move; the ropes chafed his skin raw when he furtively attempted to loosen the knots. The bonds were cruelly tight. There was no way he could escape.

"Now, to seal my ownership," Kugarin sneered.

Passepartout's eyes widened in disbelief as the Russian's hands moved to his trousers and began to loosen his belt. No .... he couldn't mean .... this wasn't happening .... What on earth was the Russian doing? Surely not what it appeared ....

"No," Kugarin said suddenly, his hands stopping their quick movements. "I think it would be a better lesson if *you* did this." His cruel laughter rang out in the small stone room, reverberating off the damp, dank walls. "And it will teach you not to be too defiant of my wishes."

Kugarin twined his fingers into Passepartout's dark curls and jerked the valet's head upward, forcing the kneeling man to meet his eyes.

Passepartout gritted his teeth to keep back a cry of pain as Kugarin's fingers moved through his hair and yanked his head back. His dark eyes met the Russian's pale ones, and Passepartout realized with a sickening lurch of his heart that what he had feared was actually happening. His new master *did* expect what he was unwilling to give.

"You will pleasure me, slave," Kugarin ordered. "Until I permit you to stop." His laughter was a sharp bark cutting through the still air of the tiny chamber. "And if you do not please me, you will be well punished."

Passepartout hesitated, unsure of what Kugarin intended him to do. He couldn't use his hands to remove the Russian's trousers and undergarment; was Kugarin going to take them off himself? How was he expected to remove the barrier between them?

As though he read the Frenchman's thoughts, Kugarin shook his head. "No. Not with your hands. With your mouth."

Passepartout felt the colour draining from his face. He felt as though he might be violently ill at any moment. He could not do this! It was a cruel violation of everything he had shared with Phileas Fogg, a travesty of an act that should only be done with love and desire.

But he had no choice. //Better to do it now, quickly, and have it being over with.//

Passepartout tugged at the buttons of Kugarin's trousers as best he could with his teeth, until the Russian's pants fell down around his ankles. He wore no undergarment, giving the valet full access to his already half-erect member.

With a grimace, Passepartout gingerly took the pulsing cock into his mouth, sucking rather gently at first, then harder. Kugarin's hands tightened their grip in his hair, holding Passepartout against his groin.

Passepartout squeezed his eyes tightly shut and kept sucking, praying that this ordeal would be over quickly. He had never felt so repulsed in his life. He had done several things in his lifetime that he'd had cause to regret, but he had never been forced to commit an act that had made feel so .... unclean.

When Kugarin finally came, it was a blessing. Passepartout swallowed the bitter fluid, longing to spit it out, rinse his mouth, be sick .... anything to get that foul taste out of his mouth. But the Russian count kept his hands twined in the valet's hair, not letting him move away.

Kugarin finally sighed and released his hold on Passepartout's hair. The Frenchman drew away, tears escaping from under his lowered eyelids. The Count regarded him stolidly, a sneer twisting his lips.

"So, you did not like that, slave?" he intoned in a deceptively soft voice. "Then I have doubts that you will like what is to come next any better."

Passepartout had forgotten about the guards. Both men grabbed his shoulders, hauled him to his feet, and threw him face down on a cot in the corner of the room. He sprawled on his stomach over the bed, trying not to fall to the cold stone floor.

He was pushed face down on the narrow bed, a pillow pushed under his hips to lift his ass in the air. With his hand bound behind his back, it was a less-than-comfortable position; Passepartout felt horribly exposed, helpless.

Passepartout cried out as he felt rough hands forcing his thighs apart, spreading his legs wide. He tried to struggle against his captors, but a blow to the back of his head stunned him. He lay there, dazed, desperately trying to deny what he knew would be done to him.

//No. This is not happening. I am not being here. Any minute I will wake up being on the Aurora, safe with Master Fogg. This is being a .... a bad dreaming. Not real. Not happening.//

But what was happening was all too real.

Kugarin knelt on the bed between Passepartout's spread legs, one knee pressing against the valet's testicles, large hands stroking his thighs, cupping his buttocks. Passepartout let out an outraged cry. Phileas Fogg was the only man who had the right to touch him like this. How *dare* Kugarin suppose he had the right to fondle him? Master or no, this was .... unseemly.

Kugarin cuffed him across the temple, hard.

"Be quiet," he ordered. "Lie still. You are my slave. You must submit to me .... quietly. You have no choice in this matter."

Passepartout's reply was another soft cry, as Kugarin's large hands squeezed his buttocks. The Count laughed, slipping his cold fingers between Passepartout's buttocks, massaging his anus. The valet moaned; Kugarin's knee was nearly crushing his testicles.

Kugarin gestured to the two guards, who came forward eagerly. They seemed to be enjoying what they were witnessing, Passepartout thought bitterly. As though his violation were a kind of entertainment.

"Gag him," Kugarin ordered. "It is unlikely that anyone in the house will hear his cries, but he must be taught discipline. And respect."

Each guard pulled a long length of cloth out of his pocket. One cloth was stuffed into the valet's mouth, the other tied between his lips and knotted at the back of his head. Passepartout couldn't make a sound, other than a soft moan in the back of his throat. He was effectively silenced.

Kugarin's lips brushed against his ear as the Russian leaned forward to whisper to him. "It is a shame that you cannot learn to be silent when it is appropriate. I would have liked to hear your cries as you were taken. I will have to avail myself of the pleasure of making you scream at a later date."

Passepartout choked. He could feel Kugarin's hard cock pressing against his buttocks, the Count's fingers rubbing hard against his anus. It was only a matter of moments before Kugarin would enter him, take him. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, trying vainly to block out what was happening.

To his utter shame, Passepartout felt himself growing hard. He was disgusted that the unwanted caresses could elicit such arousal from his body. He did not want to be aroused by any touch other than Fogg's.

Kugarin moved one hand between Passepartout's thighs, his fingers closing around the Frenchman's cock, relentlessly rubbing against the sensitive ridge just below the glans. A finger was probing into Passepartout's ass, working its way in and out. Passepartout writhed, the combined stimulation at the head of his cock and his anus becoming nearly unbearable.

Kugarin smiled as he felt Passepartout writhe beneath him and heard the soft whimpers muffled by the gag. He increased the speed of his movements, drawing a soft cry from the man under him.

"It feels good, does it not?" he whispered to his victim. "It is not my intention for you to be pleasured, however."

Kugarin removed his hand from Passepartout's cock, his fingers spreading the valet's buttocks. Another finger joined the one probing Passepartout's ass; the Russian slid his fingers in and out until he was satisfied that the Frenchman was opened and ready for him.

Passepartout couldn't stop his body from writhing in ecstasy as those fingers probed him. Unwanted or not, the impalement felt delicious; the driving need to be filled from behind was almost overwhelming. He didn't *want* Kugarin to fuck him; but his body *needed* it.

//Please for this to be over with quickly. If only it is stopping soon, I am being all right.// A thought struck him. //Maybe I can be pretending it is Master Fogg fucking me. If I can be thinking of him, of his hands, his cock, then it is not being so bad.//

Without warning, Kugarin thrust into him.

Passepartout's body twisted against his bonds; a scream tried to force its way from behind his gag. Kugarin's cock was much larger than Fogg's; and he had not lubricated himself or his victim. The pain was incredible. Passepartout thought he would be ripped apart with each thrust of the Russian's hips. It was like being fucked with sandpaper. Each hard thrust was agony.

Passepartout let out a muffled scream each time Kugarin's cock thrust into him. The pain was like a starburst in his mind, growing larger, exploding into an arc of blazing white-hot agony. Kugarin grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper.

It was a mercy when he felt the Russian erupt inside him, even as Kugarin's bitter seed burned into the raw wounds of the rape. Kugarin collapsed on top of Passepartout, panting for breath. After a few moments, he withdrew his cock, to be replaced with his fingers, again impaling Passepartout's ass.

Passepartout writhed under Kugarin, but this time in pain, not pleasure. Each movement of the Russian's fingers inside him was agonizing. He had not thought he would feel so .... raw.

"The better to keep you open." Kugarin moved his hand faster, inserting a third finger inside Passepartout. "I believe I will want to have you constantly impaled. A very large leather phallus, to be removed only by me. And to be replaced with my own when it is removed. Yes, I like that idea very much."

The thought terrified Passepartout. It was true, he loved the feeling of being impaled; he loved feeling Fogg's exquisite hardness sliding slowly in and out of his ass, filling him until he could take no more; loved the sensation of Fogg's thick, hard cock moving inside him, fucking him. But the thought of having a phallus shoved into his ass and kept there sickened and frightened him. He had no doubt that Kugarin would follow up on his threat.

Kugarin's fingers thrust harder and deeper into Passepartout's ass, eliciting a groan from the valet. "Yes, I like the idea. A very large, very thick phallus. To keep you properly opened and ready for my pleasure."

Kugarin chuckled. "I also have decided to use you as the entertainment for my next .... gathering. The phallus is a novel idea; I will see what certain of my more .... discerning friends think of it. It will be an interesting evening. I will see how well the phallus does its work, and you will be well-used for the pleasure of my .... circle of friends."

A cruel light shone in Kugarin's eyes as he continued. "Several of my friends are quite .... vigorous. You will not only be used from the rear, my lovely little French whore. Your beautiful body will provide us with many delights. I am looking forward to the future with great anticipation."

Kugarin turned Passepartout on his back, his fingers finally withdrawing from the valet's ass. He met Passepartout's terrified gaze with a smirk, knowing that his threatening words had done their work well.

"You are quite tender now," he mused. "I will have to make sure the phallus is ready to begin its work soon. Within the next two days, I think. It will make you stronger, so that you will not bleed from the many penetrations you will endure."

He leaned down closer to Passepartout. "I have already decided what will occur. You will be as you are now, gagged, with your hands tied behind your back, so beautifully helpless. You will kneel in the center of a raised table, your face against the table so that your lovely ass is raised in the air for us all to admire. Your legs will be spread, to allow a good view of your splendid asshole, and for all to see how well the phallus has opened you."

Kugarin had taken Passepartout's cock in one hand, and was relentlessly squeezing down on the sensitive glans. Passepartout screamed behind his gag as the pressure on the head of his cock grew more intense with each savage squeeze.

Kugarin continued, warming to his topic. "As you kneel, you will be fucked from behind by all manner of instruments. I have a friend who enjoys penetrating with very large, thick stone rods. He will insert the rods very slowly, and you will be well-punished if you are not very still and quiet during the process. Then he will manipulate the rods until he chooses to give you release. I have known him to use a slave for an entire day and night without granting climax."

Passepartout whimpered, wishing that he could block out Kugarin's horrible words.

"Your magnificent cock will be used, as well," the Russian continued. "You are very large; that is good. After we have had our fill of using you from behind, we can replace the phallus and turn you on your back, to take our pleasure of your cock. You will be sucked dry, many times.

"And as for these ---" he fondled Passepartout's balls, tugging gently until the valet gave a soft, strangled sob "--- they will also be well-used. My friends and I know of many ways to make use of these exquisite balls."

As if to prove his point, Kugarin suddenly dove between Passepartout's spread thighs, taking the valet's balls into his mouth and sucking hard. Passepartout's hips jerked forward; he was on the very verge of orgasm when Kugarin stopped sucking and sat up.

Passepartout's cock was rock-hard and throbbing insistently; Kugarin slapped the valet's stiff member with the flat of his hand. Passepartout yelped; his hips jerked again.

"It is not seemly for a slave's cock to be hard in the presence of his master," Kugarin said sharply. "You will have to be punished. The phallus is indeed a good idea. I will have it fashioned of abrasive material, to ensure that it will not overly pleasure you, but instead cause discomfort. And it will have to be *very* thick indeed. So you will not bleed when you are taken."

Passepartout knew that he was bleeding from the vicious rape; Kugarin's pubic hair was matted with semen, and his blood. He doubted that he would be able to walk out of this room. If only they would all go away, and leave him to tend to his wounds as best he could. If only they would leave him to cry, to assuage the pain in his heart as well as the pain of his body.

"Now, there is the little matter of you being overly defiant," Kugarin said softly. "A slave must not defy his master. You need to be taught respect. What shall I do to show you who is master here, eh?"

Passepartout shook his head, closing his eyes against the tears that were already spilling down his cheeks. //Please. No more. I am not defying your mastery again. I am promising this. Please, do not touch me. Just leave me alone.//

"I think you need to feel the lash," Kugarin mused. "Many lashes, that will take time to heal, so that you will not soon forget your place. Many strong lashes that will mark your body for a long time, so you will know that you are mine."

Passepartout moaned and shook his head more violently. //No! Please, do not .... no more .... I will not defy you! Please, do not hurt me!//

"Yes, the lash." Kugarin nodded. "I myself will administer all of the blows." He rubbed his hands together. "The more completely to mark you as my possession."

Passepartout's wrists were untied, then bound again in front of him. He was pulled off the bed, then dragged, stumbling, to the center of the small room. A hook descended from the ceiling. He could only wonder what its uses had been. Had it always been used to torture slaves? he wondered. No matter; that was its use now.

The ropes that bound his hands were secured to the hook above his head. His ankles were shackled to large iron rings set into the floor, placed a few feet apart. The placement of the rings was awkward; his legs were spread apart so that it was hard for him to keep his balance.

When Passepartout was secured in place, Kugarin moved around him, checking the bonds to make sure he could not move. Passepartout made a sound of protest deep in his throat as Kugarin's cold fingers pressed into his asshole, massaging the recent raw wounds. Kugarin chuckled.

"You are open," he said in a satisfied voice. "Good. I may decide that I have not finished with that part of your lesson yet."

Passepartout went pale. Good Lord, what could the man mean? Hadn't he already done enough? What else could he possibly do that would be worse than the indignity of rape?

Kugarin moved in front of Passepartout, cupping the Frenchman's cock with one large hand, the other hand reaching between his legs to cup his testicles. Passepartout moaned; he knew that the fondling would make him grow hard, though it *was* against his will. Kugarin laughed again, the sound hard and grating.

"Yes, you are aroused," he chuckled. "I knew that you would be hard when I touched you. Though you try to pretend that you do not want the touch, you cannot hide your true nature. You are not only a slave, you are a whore. And you shall be treated as the whore you are."

Kugarin was grasping Passepartout's penis just below the head, between his first two fingers and his thumb. He squeezed the sensitive glans savagely; Passepartout threw back his head and screamed against his gag. His body twisted as he tried in vain to escape the pressure.

"I believe this whore needs to be disciplined more than usual," he remarked to the guards. "Give me the clamps."

One of the guards placed two small gold clamps in Kugarin's palm. Both rings had what looked like heavy gold weights attached to them by short, thin gold chains. Kugarin attached one golden clamp to Passepartout's left nipple, and the valet shuddered as a quicksilver flash of pain seared through his body, to be replaced by a tugging sensation.

Kugarin repeated the process on Passepartout's other nipple, then stood back to look at his victim. He reached forward and tugged cruelly on one weight, smiling as Passepartout writhed in pain.

Passepartout could only moan against his gag. The weights pulled at his tender nipples with every breath. //Mon Dieu, it *hurts*. If only it is over soon ....//

"Only if you keep still will the weights not bring pain," he said. "Every movement makes them pull at the nipples. It can be quite excruciating."

He turned back to the guards. "Now. For the lash. Which one shall be used on this whore, do you think?"

"The black braided lash, I think," one guard suggested. "It leaves deep welts. And the handle is long and can be used for .... other things."

"Yes," Kugarin agreed. "The black braided lash it is. The welts will be deep; this whore's body will be well-marked. He will be taught subservience --- or he will suffer the lash again."

"I would think this whore needs to suffer the lash much more than once," the other guard sneered, his eyes moving up and down Passepartout's helpless body insolently. "He has shown far too much defiance to you, Master. He should be lashed repeatedly."

"Yes, I believe you are right," Kugarin laughed. "This will only be his first taste of my whip."

"Shall it begin?" The first guard's eyes shone with anticipation. His voice was shrill, unsteady.

"You are looking forward to this, are you not?" asked Kugarin. "You will enjoy seeing this whore whipped."

"Yes," whispered the guard. "Please. Lash him. Make him scream."

"Yes," Kugarin agreed. "I, too, enjoy lashing. Especially with so lovely a victim." He stepped to his captive, running his knuckles along the valet's cheek. "I will so enjoy marking his body."

Kugarin stepped back behind Passepartout and raised his arm. Passepartout heard the swish of the whip as Kugarin raised it ---

--- and then an explosion of excruciating pain across his shoulders.

He held back his scream with difficulty. He would *not* give these monsters the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

The second blow arced across his buttocks. He could feel the welts rising on his tender skin, the white-hot agony spreading down his legs.

The next blow caught him by surprise, as the whip snaked between his legs and wrapped around the front of his thigh --- dangerously close to his cock. He couldn't hold back a soft cry. At least his gag muffled the noise; he couldn't scream loudly if he had wanted to.

The fourth blow undid him.

The whip whistled through the still air, the blow landing between his buttocks --- lash cracking hard against his anus. This time Passepartout could not hold back his scream of pure agony. He twisted against his bonds, each movement bringing horrible pain to his weighted nipples. Passepartout nearly lost consciousness; the bright arc of pain was too much for his senses to take.

The next blow landed in the same place. The white-hot pain between his buttocks was almost too much for Passepartout. He could feel himself losing consciousness.

//So much for the better,// he thought hazily. //If I am not being conscious, then I am not knowing how much it is hurting ....//

There were other blows. Across his shoulders, his back, his buttocks, the backs of his legs; then Kugarin stepped in front of him, and the lash savaged his belly, his chest, his thighs. More than once the cruel lash curved around his legs, leaving red welts on his inner thighs. And for one terrible instant, the whip curled around his testicles, leaving pain so insistent that even the loudest scream from the depths of his soul would not have expressed it.

The whip arced across his nipples, bringing a burst of pain so bright that Passepartout felt as though there were fireworks searing through his body. Each lash raised a new welt on his skin, or reddened a previous welt already administered.

Passepartout screamed as the lash cracked against his belly. The blow had landed a hair's- breadth away from the head of his shamefully hard cock. The next blow curled up between his legs, the end of the lash snapping loudly against his anus.

Another blow between his legs; a loud crack and a burning rush of pain at his entrance. He felt himself losing consciousness again; he could not endure this torture much longer.

Finally, the volley of blows stopped. Kugarin stood panting, the whip dangling on the floor. His eyes roved up and down his victim's body, savouring the sight of the red welts that crisscrossed his skin.

Passepartout slumped in his bonds, not moving. He had never felt such pain in his life; it was as though every pore of his body had opened and his life was pouring out of him. Yet he knew that this would not kill him; he would not die of his wounds, not yet. Kugarin would not let him die until he had savaged his body to his satisfaction. Damn him.

Kugarin stepped behind Passepartout, the whip still in his hand. His other hand reached around the valet's body to grasp his cock.

"Take his gag off," he ordered the guards. "I want him to be able to speak."

Passepartout gasped as the gag was removed from his swollen lips. It was an effort not to sob with each breath.

"Now. You will tell me that you have learned obedience," Kugarin hissed in his ear.

He poised the whip handle at Passepartout's anus; then slid it inside, as deeply as it would go.

Passepartout screamed. He was already raw; the abrasive leather of the whip hurt much more than the cock that had abused him earlier.

Kugarin thrust the whip deep into the valet; then he pulled it out, leaving only an inch or so of the braided leather inside.

"Will you obey me?" the Russian whispered into his victim's ear as he thrust the whip with all his strength.

"Yes," Passepartout gasped. If only the torture would stop, he would say anything that Kugarin wished to hear. //Just make it stop. Please.//

"You will not defy my wishes again?" Another hard, deep thrust.

"No," Passepartout cried. "No, I will not ....please ...."

"Do you accept my mastery of your body?" Deep thrust, and a twist of the whip. Passepartout's scream echoed off the walls.

"Yes," the Frenchman gasped.

A slow, deep thrust, then another. Kugarin grinned; he was enjoying this.

"You will accept the phallus?" Kugarin inquired as though he were asking Passepartout for the time. He was now thrusting the whip handle slowly, in and out, each thrust deep and hard.

"Yes," Passepartout cried. "Please ...."

"I do not please." Kugarin continued with the slow, deep thrusting of the whip.

Passepartout sobbed and writhed in his bonds, wishing he could faint, die, anything to stop the relentless torture. His arms and legs were stretched taut; his muscles were beginning to cramp painfully. Kugarin moved his hand from Passepartout's cock to his nipples, pinching each one cruelly.

"You are struggling," he admonished the valet. "Slaves are not allowed to struggle against their master's wishes. I will use your body in any way that I choose, slave. You will remain still when I am touching you. Do you understand?"

Passepartout nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. Kugarin smiled with satisfaction, his cold fingers continuing to maul Passepartout's nipples. He drew the whip nearly out of his victim, and Passepartout breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe it was nearly over.

"You will not struggle against me again?" This time the whip thrust twice, twisting, drawing another scream from Passepartout.

"No," Passepartout cried. "You can be doing whatever you wish with me. Please .... stop ...."

"Very well." Kugarin thrust the whip inside his captive one last time, then pulled it out and threw it to the floor. "You will remember that you have said this."

Passepartout was unable to hold back the tears that poured down his face, the soft, whimpering sobs that caught in his throat. He had faced beatings and cruelty from past masters, but never the kind of torture that Kugarin seemed to revel in.

Kugarin pointed to the whip. "Wash and oil that. I want it to be ready for the next time I decide to discipline this French whore."

One guard saluted smartly, picked up the whip, and exited the room. The other guard removed the gold clamps from Passepartout's nipples, unchained his ankles, and untied the ropes that bound his wrists. Passepartout collapsed against the guard, his legs unable to hold him up.

"Take him to the doctor, and have those welts salved," Kugarin ordered. "Then to the overseer. Tomorrow, he will work with the other slaves, to clear the forest. He will be brought to me again in two days, for the insertion of the phallus."

The guard holding Passepartout saluted smartly and dragged the Frenchman out of the room.

Kugarin turned to the other guard. "You must be sure this room is prepared for another session in two days."

The guard wore an eager expression. "Will I be allowed to bring him and watch, Master?"

Kugarin studied the guard. "You have done well tonight. Yes, I believe I will allow you to watch when the phallus is inserted. It will need some thrusting, of course, to determine how deeply the penetration is to be. I may even allow you to assist in this."

The guard breathed a sigh that sounded like pleasure. "I think the penetration should be the utmost possible, my Master. Only then will the French whore learn discipline."

Kugarin laughed. "It would please you to see him disciplined, would it not?"

"Yes, Master," the guard whispered. "I would like to discipline him myself. Both with the lash and the phallus."

"Very well," Kugarin said. "I may allow you to do so. We will have a private session with the phallus and lash before my gathering. To see that the whore is properly disciplined before my friends."

"Very good, Master." The guard paused. "And thank you. I promise that I will discipline the whore very well."

"If you do the job well, I will allow you to discipline the whore with your cock," Kugarin said. "I trust you will enjoy that?"

"Oh, yes," the guard breathed.

"It will be quite pleasant for you. And I believe I should like to watch him being fucked." Kugarin shrugged. "His ass will be quite tender, which will only add to the pleasure of my friends."

"I will fuck him to the best of my ability, Master," the guard said. "When is the gathering to be?"

Kugarin considered. "Not for a few weeks, at least. I want to be sure that he is excruciatingly tender before he is used. To make his screams more palatable to my friends." He paused. "He will have to be brought to me again two days after the insertion of the phallus. After tonight's marks have begun to heal."

The guard laughed. "So you can put new marks in their place?"

Kugarin's smile was icy. "Precisely."

*******

At least he could still walk without screaming.

Last night had been agony. The rape, the cruel beating, then the doctor rubbing cool salve into his wounds. He was able to walk, but not without pain. If he could only get through the day .... maybe it would become easier.

//And if pigs were having wings, they would be flying,// Passepartout thought bitterly. //I should be dying. If only there was being a way to die, I would take it. Maybe he is beating me so badly that I die from it. At least then it is being over.//

"Hey! You there! Keep working!"

Passepartout winced at the overseer's shout. Too late, he heard the swish of the long whip the strutting, pompous little man carried with him, and felt its sting across his back. He had to bite into his lower lip to keep from screaming; the whiplash, even through his clothes, cut into his flesh. He was afraid that last night's wounds would reopen, bringing even more fresh pain.

"Get back to work, slave!" The overseer let out a loud, braying laugh. "Unless you would like to become better acquainted with my whip!"

Passepartout suppressed a groan and bent to pick up another large rock. He didn't mind working, not really; he had done much more strenuous things than moving rocks around. But after last night, he could barely move without wanting to crumple to the ground and writhe in agony.

He wondered how long it would be before his abused body refused to take any more punishment and collapsed. Not long, he thought; many more nights of torture and his body would be too weakened to survive. He only hoped the end would come quickly.

//Even if I was escaping and finding my way back to Master Fogg, he would be having no use for me when I am scarred,// he thought sadly. //I am having no reason to go on.//

A cloud of dust on the road made Passepartout look up from his labours. Was it his imagination --- or was that ---

Fogg's carriage!

His heart quickened. What was Fogg doing here? Had something happened? Was he --- Passepartout's heart leapt into his throat --- was he coming back? Had he found a way to make things ... the way they were?

//Oh, let him be coming back for me!//

Passepartout didn't stop to think. He ran.

*******

It was over.

He was back in London, in Phileas Fogg's house, safe. The Count was gone; the terrible tortures he had suffered at Kugarin's hands would soon become a dim memory. Passepartout fervently hoped he would be able to erase everything about his night with the Russian count from his memory as though none of it had ever happened.

He only had one concern now. What would Fogg say when he saw the raw, red welts that crisscrossed Passepartout's body? Would he be disgusted, unable to look at his former lover? Would Fogg send him away, repudiate their relationship?

Passepartout lay in his bed in the Savile Row house, his heart aching as much as his abused body. He had attended to his wounds as best he could, but the healing salve he had applied to the whip marks could not heal the ache in his heart.

What would Fogg say? Would he cast Passepartout away, unable to bear seeing the evidence of his own folly that was clearly written on his lover's body? Passepartout was terrified that Fogg would be shamed by his own part in the terrible events in Russia. So shamed that he would cast Passepartout out of his life rather than have to deal with more guilt.

//But he may not be feeling that way,// he told himself desperately. //He may not even come to me tonight. He has lost a friend. He may not need to be having me in his bed tonight. He may be wanting to be alone with his own thoughts.//

But it was not to be. Passepartout heard the door to his room opening slowly, steadily. Heard Fogg crossing the floor to his bed, the soft sound of his master's silken dressing gown falling to the floor. Fogg lifted the quilted coverlet and slowly slid into bed beside his manservant, putting his arms around Passepartout and drawing the valet close against his warm body.

At any other time, Passepartout would have turned toward that naked body with joy and pleasure. He would have wanted to feel his master's hands, his lips, his tongue, his cock. But not tonight. His wounds --- emotional as well as physical --- were still too recent, too raw. He couldn't bear to be touched --- not even by the man he loved more than life.

Passepartout had to bite into his lips to keep back a cry of pain as Fogg's body pressed against his back. //Maybe he is just wanting to be close,// he thought hopefully. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed that Fogg would not expect more of him than warmth and comfort. It was not possible for him to give anything more, not even to his beloved master. Not tonight.

Fogg's hand moved down, cupping Passepartout's buttocks; then down further, spreading his thighs as he gently turned his lover over onto his stomach. Passepartout groaned inwardly; Fogg wanted to make love to him. He would have to tell his master to stop --- and then it would all come out.

At that moment, the clouds that had obscured the moon parted, and a shaft of clear, bright light shone through the window onto the bed. The welts on Passepartout's back were clearly illuminated in the brilliant moonlight.

Phileas gasped. "Passepartout .... there are .... welts .... on your back." He pulled the covers down further. "Oh my God ...." He choked.

Passepartout buried his face in the pillow and tried to keep from bursting into tears. It was all going so badly.

"What .... what was done to you?" Fogg asked in a strangled whisper. "Did .... Kugarin .... do it? Did he .... strike you?"

Unable to force words past the huge lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, Passepartout could only nod.

"If he wasn't quite out of my reach already, I would kill him for this," Phileas ground out between clenched teeth, his voice rough and uneven. His slender hands balled into fists. "And to think that I have for years called that bastard a friend."

Fogg pulled his manservant into his arms, his hands gentle on Passepartout's skin. "Are you all right, my Passepartout? Did I hurt you?" His voice was breathless with concern.

Passepartout shook his head. "No, Master. I am being all right. You did not hurt me."

//Much,// he amended in his mind. //It is being worth the hurt to be in his arms again.//

"Oh God, Passepartout ...." Phileas buried his face in his valet's shoulder and pulled Passepartout even closer against his body. "This is all my fault .... I am so dreadfully sorry .... please forgive me .... I never thought that you would be made to suffer...."

Fogg gave way to tears, great wracking sobs that shook his body. Passepartout embraced his master, leaning his cheek against Fogg's soft salt-and-pepper hair.

"Sshhh, Master," he soothed. "No, please, do not cry .... I am being all right .... is not your fault .... sshhh ...."

Fogg's tear-bright smoky eyes lifted to lock gazes with Passepartout. "I love you, Passepartout. If I had known ...."

Passepartout shook his head and laid a finger against Fogg's lips to silence him. "Does not matter. It is being over now. Everything is being all right. We will be forgetting this."

Fogg nodded, trying to smile through his tears. He lay down against the cool linen sheets, pulling Passepartout down beside him. Passepartout snuggled into Fogg's arms, his arms around his master's waist, his head tucked beneath Fogg's chin. He felt some of the tension begin to leave Fogg's body, and let himself relax in the warm circle of his lover's arms.

//Is done,// he said to himself. //Is over. Now we can be forgetting what happened and be going on with our lives together.//

He drifted off to sleep ....

.... to be awakened by Fogg's fingers stroking the curve of his buttocks. Passepartout had to force himself to lie still, praying that his master would only stroke him and not want to do anything more. The touch was tentative, gentle; Passepartout could tell that Fogg would pull away at the least sign of discomfort from him.

But his hopes were in vain. Within moments, Fogg's fingers were slipping into the crack of his ass, stroking his entrance. He could feel Fogg's arousal, and wished he could respond with an equal fervor. But not tonight.

Passepartout's heart sank. He had hoped not to have to tell Fogg of the brutal rape; now he would have to. He knew that if his master attempted to make love to him now, it would damage them both. He would have to refuse his lover, though he hated himself for doing so. The knowledge that this would cause Fogg even more guilt wrung Passepartout's heart; he was on the verge of tears again.

Fogg's fingers became more insistent, massaging his entrance, first one finger, then two. At any other time, the probing would have felt delicious; he would have spread his legs to welcome his master's cock inside him. He would have wanted nothing more than the fusion of their bodies, to feel himself impaled, filled, fucked. But he was so raw after his rape that the only sensation those warm fingers probing his ass engendered was pain.

Passepartout clenched his teeth to keep back a moan of pain. Immediately, Fogg's fingers withdrew; he wrapped his arms protectively around Passepartout, enfolding the Frenchman into his embrace, cradling the valet's slender body in his arms. Fogg gently cupped Passepartout's chin with one hand, lifting his lover's face to his.

Passepartout couldn't meet his master's gaze. //I cannot be telling him what his friend was doing to me. Is too shameful.// He tried to hide his face in Fogg's shoulder, but Phileas was having none of it.

"Passepartout .... he didn't ...." Fogg's face had drained of all colour. His voice shook; he had trouble forcing his words past clenched teeth.

The valet nodded, once. He closed his eyes, expecting his master to push him away in disgust. //He will not be wanting me now; I am damaged goods. Better for him to be rejecting me now, to have it being over and done.//

Passepartout had to force back a sob. If only it could have been different ....

To his amazement, Fogg didn't push him away. He felt his master's arms tighten around him; felt Fogg's lips soft and warm against his hair, heard the deep, husky voice murmuring comforting words.

"Sshhh, my Passepartout .... it's all right .... I'm here now. You're safe, my love .... I'll not let anything happen to you again, my heart. I swear it. No-one will ever hurt you again," Fogg whispered. He pulled Passepartout even more tightly against his body, wanting to assure his lover of the truth in his words. "I swear."

"I am .... sorry, Master," Passepartout managed to whisper through his sobs. "Sorry that you are having to know."

"He .... used you, didn't he, Passepartout?" Fogg whispered into his manservant's dark hair.

"Y-yes." Passepartout's voice broke on a sob. "It w-was .... awful, M-Master." He couldn't go on; tears choked his throat.

//And what he would be doing to me if Master Fogg had not come back for me would be even worse,// Passepartout thought. //I would not want to be still living.//

"It's over now, Passepartout," Phileas Fogg whispered. "We can put this behind us and go on with our lives. He will never trouble either of us again, my sweet love. Forget about him."

But would it ever be over? Passepartout did not think so. He would always remember the horror of the night passed in Kugarin's dungeon. And his beloved Master would always feel the guilt on his soul for allowing it to happen.

How long would it be before he could let Fogg make love to him again? And how long would it be before either of them could repair the damage done to their souls on that night in Russia?

"We should both try to be sleeping, Master," he said finally. "It is being morning soon."

"Yes." Fogg lay down against the cool sheets, pulling Passepartout down beside him. His smoky grey eyes met his lover's dark ones, and Passepartout could read the agony that had been seared into Fogg's soul as clearly as if it were written in calligraphy on clean white paper in large black letters.

"I love you, Passepartout," Fogg whispered. "Please never forget that. I love you."

"I love you too, Master," Passepartout answered. "I am never forgetting."

//No. I am never forgetting that he loves me. And that I am loving him so very much. That will be lasting long after I am forgetting last night.//

Wrapping that comforting thought around him like a soft, downy comforter, Passepartout drifted into dreamless, healing sleep wrapped in his lover's arms.

*******