Travis came back to consciousness with more embarrassment than fear. Being drugged and kidnapped was something he associated with fools and civilians. Being drugged and kidnapped on Fargone was like being ambushed by a flock of sheep.

He tried to open his eye. Nothing. For a moment he panicked, and then realized that they'd blindfolded him. That was traditionally a good sign: it suggested that they intended to release him alive. But on Fargone, where Travis saw no real danger of them doing otherwise, he found it merely irritating.

The Fargoneans were farmers and merchants, the very essence of civilians. As far as he could determine there was less action in the entire spaceport than he'd seen in individual bars in Federation territory. And there was no comparison at all with places like Space City. He had no idea why the Supreme Commander had seen fit to drag him here: whatever her other defects she normally had less tolerance for boredom than he did.

Not that she seemed bored. She disappeared for several hours each day, explaining that she was "conferring with planetary leaders." When he did see her she was in such a good humor that it worried him. His suggestion that he accompany her to these conferences had been rebuffed with a giggle. The only things Travis knew of that could put Servalan into such a sunny mood were intrigue, sex, and violence, preferably in combination. He couldn't imagine this backwater planet being able to satisfy her in that respect, but neither could he believe she was spending her time watching the corn grow or whatever Fargoneans did for entertainment.

Ordinarily on missions like this he could at least entertain himself by bullying the locals. Ideally, he provoked anti-Federation elements into coming out in the open where they could more easily be assessed for later action. At minimum, he could usually goad some hothead into throwing the first punch and allowing Travis to provide a humiliating lesson in the perils of fighting the Federation. No such luck with Fargoneans. Despite diligent efforts to insult and intimidate, the closest he'd come to success had been reducing a restaurant worker to tears. He'd actually been embarrassed: apparently trying to get these people to fight was like trying to flirt with a mutoid.

His present situation was, in a way, an improvement, but he doubted it would turn out to be much of a challenge. A sheep was a sheep, even if it was equipped with props from the Interrogation Division.

"Back with us, Space Commander? Good, we want you conscious for the next bit." A woman's voice. He was fairly sure he had heard it before, but he couldn't identify it.

"What the hell is going on here?" he barked.

"We're disconnecting your prosthetic," the voice explained composedly.

"Leave my arm alone!"

He tried to move, only to discover that he was strapped down. They had removed his uniform. And when he tried to fire his lazeron crystal he found that that circuit had already been disabled.

"Stop struggling. This is very delicate work, and if you thrash around like that we might damage something."

"Who are you and what do you want?" Travis kept his voice harsh, to conceal from his captors just how much the sensations they were causing in his stump bothered him. The pain was negligible, but he loathed the feeling of being helpless and seen to be so. So some of them, at least, did know how to hit back, and without any nonsense about fair fights.

"If we wanted you to know who we are, we'd scarcely have bothered with the blindfold. As for what we want: well, some of the remarks you've made in public about Fargone's lack of 'real' men led us to suppose that you'd be willing to provide us with a sperm sample."

"Is that all? I'll be glad to fuck every bitch--ahh!"

"I did warn you about thrashing around. No, that's not all. You've made yourself quite thoroughly unpleasant in the course of a brief visit. A textbook case, really, of the consequences to males of too much of the wrong kind of discipline and not enough of the right kind of sex."

Travis caught his breath in surprised relief as the twinges in his stump subsided. They were not only detaching the arm, they were fitting a protective covering on the exposed interface. But if their surgical mechanics were that knowledgeable, they also must realize that the interface was a torturer's dream. If they knew their business they could inflict excruciating pain on him, without any of the limits ordinarily imposed by endorphins or unconsciousness or the need to avoid leaving marks.

"Since the Supreme Commander will be here for another several days, we decided that we needed to take steps to help you with your problem. Several men have volunteered to give you a good, vigorous fucking. While that won't entirely offset the effects of a bad upbringing, it should at least make you more tolerable for the duration of your stay."

"I'll kill you for this," Travis promised, straining at the straps that held him. So it was to be rape instead of torture. Typical of civilian amateurs to think it was an either/or choice.

"You will make no further threats unless you want tapes of this entertainment sent to the Supreme Commander."

"You'll do that anyway."

"What cynicism! No, you haven't offended us quite that much." She stroked his hair and he jerked his head away with a snarl. "However, if you keep fighting we may have to punish you physically."

"What can you threaten me with?" Now, surely, they would mention the interface. "You don't dare kill me."

"Kill you? Of course not. But an enema and a spanking might do wonders for your attitude."

Travis cursed, and felt a moment of exhilaration as the straps gave way. But they had been released, not broken, and there were several sets of hands on him, rolling him onto his side and holding him there.

"You do like to make things difficult for yourself," the woman sighed. The teasing false regret in her voice reminded him of Servalan. "The enema, then, since you insist."

Travis couldn't decide how many people were holding him down. He heard mutterings that sounded male, and then someone parted his buttocks and began smearing something cold on his anus.

"Relax." A man's voice, this time. Travis clenched his muscles as tight as possible, feeling the hard plastic of the enema nozzle nudging him.

Someone took a firm grip on Travis' testicles. "I said, relax." Like all Fargoneans the man had an accent Travis identified as Alpha or high Beta, but the command voice was the sort he associated with noncommissioned officers.

The threat was obvious, and Travis reluctantly allowed them to work the nozzle into him.

"We won't stop, but we will slow down if you ask us nicely," the woman told him.

"Go to hell," Travis grunted as liquid began to rush into his guts. He was determined not to cry out, no matter how bad it got. It hurt, and he knew that it would be easier if they would slow down, but he refused to give them the satisfaction of asking.

"Mmh, if he wants it rough maybe we should give him a second bag. Cold water, for some really painful cramps."

"No," Travis found himself saying.

"That's 'no, please'" the woman told him.

Someone was massaging his abdomen, gently, a silent reminder of their power to make things easier for him. He was no stranger to interrogators' games of pain and respite. They might actually do what he asked at this point, depending on their strategy. He could find out without feeling he had given up too much.

"No, please," he muttered.

"Very good. You've talked your way out of the second bag. But we'll proceed with the rest of your attitude adjustment."

To Travis the word "spanking" connoted silly and infantile sex games. He wondered contemptuously if they expected him to respond as if they had threatened him with a beating or a flogging. A few slaps on the butt would be far less painful than his current condition, and no more humiliating.

Nothing more was flowing into him, and he waited for them to remove the nozzle. Instead, he felt it move slightly and then another male voice said, "Right, that'll keep you sealed up until we're ready to let you lose it."

"Get him on his feet," said the woman.

Travis didn't put up a struggle as they helped him off the table. Not only would he be facing at least three opponents, he felt as if he might burst if he made any sudden movements. One of his captors kept a firm grip on his arm while others buckled a harness around his chest and shoulders. It didn't constrict his breathing but it was tight enough to provide a solid handhold for someone on his amputated side.

"Just ten, I think. These Federation types often bruise easily and we don't want to mark him. Hold him steady."

The first blow startled a yelp out of Travis. It came not from a naked hand but from a flat paddle of some sort.

"Count them out, Space Commander. I'm sure you understand the rules of the game."

"One," said Travis grimly. He did understand: a blow he didn't acknowledge would not be counted toward the total. He braced himself for the second blow, but instead one of his tormentors kneaded the flesh of his buttocks, reactivating the pain that had begun to subside.

"He could easily take twenty or thirty--he's not fragile."

"You don't want to knock the fight out of him before we can enjoy him, do you?"

Only then did the second blow land.

They took their time about it, pausing occasionally to inspect their work and make sure both cheeks were getting equal attention. Finally Travis said "ten."

They half-helped, half-dragged him a short distance. Then someone deflated the miniature balloon that had kept the enema nozzle in him, removed it, and shoved him down on what felt like a toilet seat that tilted backward so that his knees were higher than his ass. Travis could hear water running, and as he expelled the enema it seemed to be flushed away immediately. As that discomfort eased, he became more vividly aware of how sore his buttocks were. The fact was further driven home by a spray of warm water that rinsed his ass.

"Very nice. All clean and tenderized. Have you been fucked before, Travis?"

"None of your damned business." He waited for a blow or at least verbal abuse in retaliation. Perhaps they weren't sheep. But if they were unwilling to mark him or take advantage of his electronics, then he was certain he could take more punishment than their squeamishness would allow them to deliver.

Instead, there was laughter. Not merely gloating, but amusement so genuine that Travis found himself wondering what he'd said to provoke it.

"Do you suppose that means he hasn't, or just that he's no good at it?"

"Doesn't matter, we'll keep working on him until he gets it right."

They got him up and walking to another location. Travis wished his captors had chosen to wear masks instead of blindfolding him. He found it difficult to believe that Fargoneans knew enough captivity psychology to have done it deliberately, to increase his sense of helplessness and dependence. They certainly weren't doing any of the other things that went with that strategy: instead, they allowed him to keep his balance and walk at a comfortable pace.

Given their plans for him, he thought it was more likely that they were afraid he might notice identifying physical characteristics other than the facial.

Someone held him from behind. He was approximately Travis' height, but broader. Some of the bulk was fat, but Travis discovered when he tried to pull free that the underlying muscle was quite solid.

"This is not a good time for you to be annoying people," the woman warned him.

He was certain it was her hands he felt palpating his genitals.

"Well, that's adequate if not especially impressive," she remarked as she fingered him. "Don't worry, Space Commander. If we wanted to hurt you, you'd be on the floor screaming by now."

"You haven't the guts," Travis sneered.

"You think a simple twist and squeeze would require courage on my part?" Instead of being angry at his defiance, she sounded like someone making an amused effort to follow the thought processes of an idiot. "Or perhaps you want to be hurt, so that you won't enjoy being used?" Travis refused to answer, but he was less successful in suppressing his physical response to her handling. "My, you are excitable. Almost as eager as my men, and you won't even have the fun of watching." Travis yearned to knock the smile out of her voice. Unfortunately the urgency of his desire to do so only made him more erect. She put something that felt like a thin plastic sheath around his penis, and secured it with adhesive at the base. "We'll just make sure your semen goes where it's wanted."

Without warning, Travis' legs were kicked out from under him. He expected to go crashing to the floor, but instead strong hands caught and held him at an awkward angle from which he had neither balance nor leverage.

"Don't resist and you won't get hurt."

To his surprise, they kept their side of the deal. Quickly and efficiently they put him on his knees, his legs spread but not painfully so. His lower legs were strapped down, and then they bent him forward and cuffed his hand to--what? Travis couldn't tell if the fixtures that held him were part of the floor, or if he were on a raised platform of some sort. There was definitely padding under his knees. Someone shoved something--a bolster? under his bad shoulder, allowing him to hold himself solidly on all fours.

"Open your mouth, Space Commander."

Instinctively Travis lowered his head and locked his jaws.

Something cool and hard brushed his lips. He jerked away but the touch followed, light as a caress.

"Do you feel that? That's the dilator we're going to use to loosen you up. Do you want it to go in dry and cold, or do you want to warm it up first?"

Reluctantly Travis opened his mouth, expecting them to ram it in hard enough to gag him. Instead they held it steady, forcing him to lean forward to get his mouth around it.

Meanwhile, another of his captors was working on Travis' buttocks, rubbing his anus with lubricant. After his experience with the enema nozzle Travis made no attempt to resist.

"Sensible. We don't want to tear you up, and you don't want to be torn."

They inserted the dilator carefully. Travis wished they had simply forced it: sharp pain would be easier for him to endure than the slow, inexorable violation of his body. When they began to expand the device, he thought he could feel each separate ring of muscle surrender.

"Don't let him orgasm too soon," the woman cautioned. "We'll get more production out of him if he has to wait for it."

They withdrew the dilator quickly enough to cause him pain, although he managed not to show it beyond a gasp. Then one of the men seized his hips and penetrated him.

It didn't hurt as much as Travis expected. Even when the man began thrusting, the discomfort was tolerable. In fact, the rhythmic stimulation of sensitive tissues gradually became pleasant. When the man groaned and went slack, Travis felt almost triumphant.

The next man slid into him more quickly and began thrusting more vigorously. The sensations were different this time: still pleasant, but now both more intense and less satisfying. Travis couldn't quite stifle a moan, and the man laughed and reached down to fondle Travis's penis. Travis thrust into the encircling hand, but the man's touch was too light to bring him any relief through the plastic sheath.

"Harder, damn you," he growled.

"Beg for it," the Fargonean directed him. Travis hadn't heard this voice before: he was older than Noncom, perhaps the Fargonean version of a senior officer. No viciousness in his tone, only matter-of-fact authority.

Travis snarled at the idea of begging, but he struggled against the restraints to make the Fargonean's stroking hit him where he needed to be stroked. The frustration of being almost there was intolerable.

"Last chance, Travis. Ahh . . . too late. Better luck next time." He took his time about withdrawing, running his hands teasingly over Travis's back and sides and reaching under to rub his nipples. Travis cursed him and the rest of the planet with as much energy as he could spare.

"Shut up," Noncom told him briskly. "Unless you want an ice dildo next, and deep-heating gel on your balls."

Travis subsided, although he was almost desperate enough to find such penetration appealing.

"Head down, ass up," Noncom ordered. He removed the bolster that made up for Travis' missing arm, put a hand on the back of the Space Commander's neck, and shoved. Travis yielded, allowing himself to be pushed down until his face rested on a plastic pad which was too thin to be really comfortable, but at least seemed to be clean.

"Let's see how much self-discipline you have," said Noncom. "If I come first, you'll be rewarded. If you do, you'll be punished. Understand? Good."

With that, he pushed all the way into Travis and began pumping hard.

Travis didn't care what the Fargoneans thought of his discipline, he wasn't afraid of any punishment they were likely to dream up, and he had no interest in doing anything to accelerate the pleasure of the man fucking him. The only thing that concerned him was the possibility that he might not earn the punishment.

He pushed back. "You haven't got what it takes," he taunted.

"Oh, so you can beg," Noncom laughed, increasing the speed and force of his thrusts and giving Travis's penis the rough stimulation he wanted.

"Weakling," Travis spat. He was close, but taking no chances. "Coward."

Then he cried out as the most intense orgasm he'd had in months tore through him. Perhaps more than months. He couldn't remember the last time he'd shouted like that.

The Fargoneans were laughing and some of the bastards were even applauding, but he was too sated to mind. Noncom thrust a few more times and achieved his own release.

He leaned forward to pant in Travis' ear "I wish we could play with you for days instead of just hours." No immediate response suggested itself to Travis, and he decided it wasn't worth the trouble.

The Fargoneans released the restraints and stretched him out on his back. Although the change of position was welcome, he winced when his buttocks came in contact with the floor.

"It's been some time since your last ejaculation, hasn't it?" said the woman as she removed the penis sheath. "No wonder you're so ill-tempered."

Travis squirmed, trying to get some of his weight off his ass. Whoever was holding his ankles pulled his legs straight, allowing no give. Someone else put a booted foot on his belly and pressed down.

"In a few moments you won't even notice that," said Noncom. "Remember, I promised you punishment."

"I'm terrified," Travis sneered.

"Oh, I hope not," said Officer. "You're so much prettier when you're arrogant."

Travis didn't want to think about the implications of that remark, and the cool fingers fastening something around his scrotum offered a distraction. "What are you doing?"

He had always wondered why prisoners under interrogation asked stupid questions like that: it wasn't as if they'd be kept long in ignorance, or like the answer when they got it. He consoled himself that at least he hadn't sounded as frightened as they usually did. Arrogant, then? Pretty? Damn.

"We're going to help you develop self-control, Space Commander. Hold this."

Something approximately the size and shape of a gun butt, but made of a more yielding material, was put into his hand.

"Get a good firm grip on it," Noncom instructed him. "That's right. In case you haven't noticed yet, it's wired to the device on your balls. If you release it, or squeeze it too tight, you'll get some nasty shocks. The other thing that will set it off is a change of position: if you try to sit up or roll over, you'll regret it. Understand?"

The foot on his stomach, the hands tugging his ankles, the grip on his shoulder harness, all vanished. He wondered if they were simply going to wait for his hand to cramp. They would be in for a long wait: aside from the soreness in his backside he was reasonably comfortable. He felt oddly disappointed.

Then someone pinched both of his nipples, and the suddenness of it caused a reflexive tightening of his grip. Although he didn't scream as the shock hit him, he wasn't able to keep entirely silent.

"The next shock will be more intense, and the one after that will be even worse, and so on."

Travis bit his lip as they continued to torment his nipples. It would have been far easier had he been tied down: having to lie still and allow himself to be hurt was much more difficult than simply enduring the pain. The clamps hurt worse than the pinching and twisting, but after the clamps had been in place for a few minutes the sensation began to dull.

"Starting to get numb, Travis? That means loss of blood flow. We won't let it go on long enough to damage you, of course. But when I take the clamps off, and the blood comes rushing back, it will be quite a bit more painful than having them put on in the first place. Didn't want to surprise you."

"How very considerate," Travis said through clenched teeth.

"You're right, he is pretty when he's being arrogant."

Someone drew a finger lightly up the bottom of Travis' left foot. He flinched uncontrollably, but his hand remained steady.

"No, let's not tickle him. That would be cheating."

But apparently pinpricks were not cheating. Nor were ice cubes. The goal, he knew, was to make him forget and move or slap at the irritating sensations.

Travis' memory flashed back to an ambush he had laid on Auros. He had waited in the swamp for hours, hip-deep in slime, with insects stinging him and sucking his blood. There had been no way to swat them without giving away his position, and he had not given away his position. He bared his teeth.

"You're wasting your time," he told the Fargoneans.

"Are we? Well, mustn't do that."

Travis gasped as they tightened the clamps, then twisted. It was humiliating for something so unimportant to hurt so much.

Then they removed the clamps. They had warned him about the pain, but not about the rough massage that would increase it.

Pure animal reflex caused him to drop what he held in his hand and try to defend himself. But then the shock to his testicles made the pain in his chest unimportant. Screaming, he fumbled for the device and endured two more shocks before he had it back in his hand, his grip correct and his body flat. Unable to buck and struggle as he needed to do, he lifted his head and slammed it down hard. But before he could do it again, someone put their hands under his head and caught him. The agony decreased to endurable levels.

"Easy, Space Commander. Punishment's over." They removed the trigger from his hand, and forced him to remain on his back as they ran a quick check of his vital signs.

"Fucking bastards." Travis meant to shout, but it came out hoarse and unsteady. The cessation of pain left him feeling as drained and exhausted as he had after orgasm, and the similarity between the two sensations worried him. He had suffered pain before, and it had never affected him like this.

"Exactly," said Officer, running his hand through Travis' sweat-drenched hair. Travis was too tired to resist the caress, and the other man lifted his head and put a glass to his lips. "Drink. It's only water."

Cautiously Travis took a sip. It tasted like water, which of course meant nothing. But if they wanted to drug him, he could hardly prevent it anyway.

"No damage," the woman reported as she finished removing the shock device. Travis breathed a little more easily.

"Have we worn him out?" asked a voice to which he had not yet assigned a name.

"No," said Noncom, sounding astonished at the idea. "We've scarcely warmed him up. Check for yourself."

A whimper of protest rose to Travis' lips, but he stifled it ruthlessly. He couldn't quite repress a flinch as another set of hands began to explore his genitals. Hard hands, although their touch wasn't deliberately cruel: a farmer's hands rather than a tech's.

Farmer noted the recoil and chuckled, patting Travis' flank as if calming a skittish animal. "Do you know what a cockstrap is, Travis?"

"No." Actually, he thought he did, but he didn't want to discuss it under these circumstances.

Noncom snorted softly. "Did I say days? I meant weeks."

"He's probably lying," said Officer dismissively.

Farmer ignored this and spoke directly to Travis. "It goes around your cock and balls while you're soft, like this. Snug, but not too tight. It will let the blood flow in, but not out, so once you're hard you'll stay that way. And since the skin can't move the way it normally does, you'll probably be extra sensitive."

"It's also decorative," added the woman. "It's a pity you can't see yourself, Space Commander. Black leather harness suits you."

Travis noted that they took it for granted that he would have another erection, despite what they had just put him through. He found himself torn between his desire to frustrate his captors and his satisfaction at their evaluation of his potency. The feel of the strap was actually rather pleasant, but he was determined not to make it easy for them. He countered Farmer's fondling with thoughts of cold and boredom.

The fingers went away, but to Travis' astonishment they were replaced by lips and tongue.

It wasn't that he'd never been fellated before. But that had taken the form of being serviced by inferiors. He had enjoyed thrusting deeper and faster than they could take it, watching their eyes water as they choked and struggled to please him.

There was no possibility of that now. Farmer had his hands on Travis' thighs, holding him immobile while making a leisurely investigation of sensitive spots. Travis abandoned any hope of resisting arousal, and concentrated on not whimpering for more.

Then it stopped, leaving Travis half-erect and frustrated.

"He is responsive, isn't he?"

"Finish it," said Travis, hoping it sounded more like a demand than a plea.

"Later, perhaps," Farmer told him. "If you deserve it. Are you ready to be cooperative?"

For a moment Travis was tempted to say yes, and then he remembered who and what he was. "No," he snarled, and waited for punishment.

Officer chuckled approvingly. "Good boy. Fight as hard as you can--you'll enjoy it more that way. And so will we."

This was so far from what Travis expected that he was confused into speechlessness, but not too confused to struggle as they spread his legs and lifted them.

"Now, this shouldn't be too uncomfortable for a physically fit man like you," said Farmer. "And I can watch your face as I slide . . .all the way . . . into you." Travis grunted and squirmed and finally yielded to his impalement. Either the position allowed deeper penetration, or Farmer was the largest man to have used him thus far.

It was, Travis realized, ridiculous to have preferences among the various positions in which one was held down and raped. But this one left him feeling exposed, not only to the man who was fucking him but to the others (how many others?) who were watching. That the fucking was slow and gentle only made it worse. He tried to find some leverage that would let him resist, if not enough to deny his assailant then at least enough to irritate him.

Farmer began to nuzzle Travis' nipples, soothing but at the same time making clear the potential for painful nips. Travis surrendered, for the moment, and wondered when Farmer would return his attention to Travis' cock. There was enough indirect and incidental contact to bring it fully erect, but nothing was being done about it.

"Our time is limited," Officer pointed out politely.

"Mmh," Farmer conceded, and picked up his pace.

Travis cursed in frustration as he realized that he was not going to be allowed to reach orgasm. They weren't even offering him a chance to beg or humiliate himself for it.

Farmer climaxed and withdrew. Travis expected another man to take his place, but instead they let Travis' legs down and pulled them together.

"What do you want from me?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"What you're giving us, Space Commander. You're performing quite well."

They wouldn't tell him the nature of the game, only that they were winning. Travis opened his mouth and then closed it again as he realized with astonished horror what he had been about to say: That's not fair.

Now they did touch his penis, but with the light squeezes and fingertaps of a shopper checking a piece of produce for firmness and ripeness.

"Yes, he's ready."

Travis agreed heartily, but the sensation of something cold being spread on his aching organ reminded him that the Fargoneans did not necessarily share his agenda. Before he could imagine more than half a dozen grisly possibilities, the woman explained "Lubricant, Space Commander. We don't want you getting chafed."

They moved his arm away from his side, but Travis didn't entirely believe what was happening until he felt another man kneel astride him. Carefully, but smoothly, the man lowered himself onto Travis's penis and began to ride.

It was a strange sensation. Technically Travis was the one doing the fucking, but he was as helpless as he had been before. The other man was supplying all the motion and pleasing himself, and if the sensations were also pleasant for Travis, they still underlined his lack of control. He was being used like a living dildo. He caught his breath as the other man's internal muscles tightened and relaxed.

Perhaps, despite the damned strap, he could--the hope expired as the man's semen spattered him.

Travis thought that the man required some help to get up--not as much as he'd need if I had been free.

"Turn me loose," he said, "and I'll fuck you through the floor." Good, it did sound more like a boast than an offer of cooperation.

"Shut up," said Noncom. "You'll do as we please, and so will we." He spoke without anger, as if Travis' words didn't even register as meaningful defiance.

They wiped off his face and chest, and applied a cold, wet cloth to his penis as well. He couldn't tell if that was intended as torture, or merely a nod to the fastidiousness of the next man in line.

Travis wondered how many men there were in line. Were the Fargoneans who had had him before now taking their turn this way, or did each man have only one opportunity with him? And were there others who only watched?

He wasn't sure how much more he could stand. He wasn't some teenager who thought blue balls were fatal, but he could feel himself starting to lose focus. With no visual input, he was being swamped by tactile sensations. His body was turning traitor. He cursed Noncom, hoping to provoke a slap or a kick. Even verbal abuse might help.

Instead, his penis was once again enclosed in warm, tight flesh. He realized he was uttering little noises with each downstroke, and he forced himself to stop for fear that they would turn into babbling. Someone (the man on top of him, or one of the others?) began to knead his chest rhythmically, working the sore nipples as if to encourage him to cry out. The pain should have cut his arousal down to a more bearable level, but instead the two sensations seemed to build on each other.

The man on top of him ejaculated and got up. Travis tried desperately to pull his arm free and attend to his throbbing cock, but he was held too firmly. The only part of his body he could move at all was his head, and when he tried to vent some of his frustration by slamming it on the ground, someone held it still.

They began to clean him up.

"Let go of his legs for a moment," said Farmer.

As soon as the hold was released Travis kicked out in a vain hope of hitting one of his captors.

"Don't do that," Farmer said mildly. He ran a finger down Travis' overstimulated penis, eliciting a whimper. Then his hand moved lower, and rested on Travis' thigh. He said nothing and exerted no pressure, only waited.

If only Farmer would make it an order, Travis thought, he would find the strength to disobey. But the Fargonean didn't allow him the luxury of focussing on an external adversary.

Travis spread his legs. That wouldn't be enough, he thought: they would want him to plead and degrade himself, and when he heard the specifics he would recover his will to resist. He wasn't surrendering, merely maneuvering.

Farmer rubbed Travis' anus gently, giving him an opportunity to protest. Then he inserted two fingers, examining him internally. Travis tried to move, to fuck himself on the fingers, but Farmer put a heavy hand on his belly and held him still. Then, moving his fingers delicately, he found a spot that made Travis moan in frustrated misery.

"Do you want to come, Travis?"

Travis' ordinarily adequate supply of sarcasm and irony didn't extend to a negative response. "Bastard, yes!"

"Not badly enough, it seems." He pressed the spot again.

Travis knew that no matter what it felt like, he would not actually die or go mad from frustration. But he suddenly realized that there was a very good chance he would begin to cry, and that was worth almost anything to avoid.

"Please," he muttered. Then, desperately, "Please!"

"Ah," Farmer crooned, "now that's different."

He withdrew his fingers and lifted Travis' legs. Travis let his limbs be arranged, let himself be penetrated. When Farmer had sheathed himself fully, he removed the cockstrap.

Travis lost focus completely. The universe consisted only of the powerful reaming of his ass and the rough root-to-tip pumping of his cock. He had to have more, and didn't know if he only thought the words or shouted them aloud.

His penis spurted in the Fargonean's hand, but the orgasm seemed to continue as the other man kept fucking him. When Farmer finally finished and withdrew, Travis' whole body felt as limp and spent as his penis. He thought that even if they removed the blindfold he might not have the strength to open his eye.

He tried to swallow and was surprised at the dryness of his throat. Apparently he had been screaming again.

Someone lifted his head and put a glass of water to his lips.

"Don't let him have too much," the woman cautioned. "We'll need to knock him out as soon as his heart and respiration get closer to normal."

There was a disappointed murmur, but none of the men tried to argue.

Travis recovered enough to ask hoarsely "Why?"

"So that we can clean you up, reattach your arm, and put you back where we found you without any unfortunate incidents."

If they were going to free him, they must consider that they had accomplished what they set out to do. Prudence dictated that he play along and seek vengeance later. It was no different than playing dead after a surprise attack.

Yet somehow Travis couldn't do it. "You haven't won," he told the woman.

She laughed. "Travis," she said in the tone one reserves for children and pets who have just done, with great seriousness, something delightfully cute. Then she kissed his forehead.

Before Travis could come up with a proper response to this outrage, an injector jabbed his arm.

"First paralysis, then unconsciousness. The first phase may be a trifle upsetting, but you'll wake up without even a hangover."

Even as she spoke, Travis could feel his extremities becoming leaden and unresponsive. He remembered reading reports from the interrogation Division about the use of induced paralysis as an immobilization technique during torture. It worked quite well in creating a sense of panic and helplessness in the victims--afterwards, when offered a choice between a repetition, and more severe pain under conventional restraints, they almost invariably preferred more pain. As Travis' consciousness became a prisoner of his body, he understood completely.

"We'll take good care of you."

He couldn't even begin to sort out the possible layers of irony in that statement. He only hoped that his inability to respond would limit their efforts to entertain themselves.

He was lifted by several sets of hands and put on what felt like a table. They handled him carefully, and the only discomfort they inflicted was the purely mental one of being helpless. Then the table moved, apparently on wheels. It stopped at some new location and they removed his chest harness and blindfold. Then they began to rub him all over with warm wet cloths and something his sense of smell told him was soap.

Travis could hear water running, and the air was warm and moist. Some sort of showering area, he supposed. That opinion was confirmed as he was moved under a spray of warm water and rinsed. Someone protected his face from the spray, keeping soap out of his eye and water out of his nose. He supposed it was the same person who washed and rinsed his hair.

Although a fastidious man, Travis found himself irritated by these attentions. If the Fargoneans had released him reeking of sweat and sex, he could have bathed and felt he was in some sense freeing himself of them. But what could he do to wash away cleanliness?

They rolled him onto his side to scrub his back. His anus stung as it was soaped and rinsed, and then something was inserted into it.

"Just a suppository. It will make sitting down tomorrow uncomfortable instead of impossible."

Travis supposed one more violation of his body scarcely mattered, and the suppository was the smallest and softest thing they had put into him yet. But the fact that he couldn't even twitch as they did it made it just as humiliating as being fucked. He tried to use his anger to keep himself conscious as the injection began to take its promised second effect. If he could only maintain his awareness until they restored his lazeron to him, and a few nerve impulses would be all he needed to fire and kill . . . But even as he struggled to hold the goal in his mind, he could feel it shifting into a dream, and he was no longer awake.

Travis returned to consciousness. He kept his eyes closed and his body motionless while he took inventory: he was reclining, his artificial arm was attached, he was clothed, and he could feel no restraints. He listened for breathing or other signs that he was not alone. Hearing none, he opened his eye and took in the familiar interior of his spaceport hotel suite. He lay on the bed, dressed except for his boots.

He could almost believe he had been dreaming, except that his most erotic dreams had never left him this sore. He got to his feet and moved around the room looking for clues as to who had brought him here. He noted that the keypad on the door showed that the suite was locked--from the inside.

"Very tidy," he said aloud. It certainly was preferable to being dumped naked in a garbage receptacle somewhere. And, from their perspective, it served notice that they had access to him at any time.

He considered setting up a few booby traps, just to even the odds a bit. The difficulty would be doing so without Servalan's knowledge.

In a perfect universe, thought Travis, the Supreme Commander would order the obliteration of a provincial port in which a Federation officer had been treated with disrespect. He was glumly certain, though, that Servalan would want full details of the "disrespect" before she would even allow him to execute randomly chosen Fargoneans. And she would enjoy hearing about it. She would never let him forget it, and that would be the best-case scenario.

Given her strange behavior since they arrived on this planet, he couldn't entirely rule out the worst case: she might listen to his story, note that the Fargoneans had said their actions were motivated not by hostility to the Federation but by irritation at Travis' behavior, and choose to take no action at all. He could, of course, lie to her about that, but aside from the risks inherent in lying to Servalan under any circumstances, there was the fact that the Fargoneans had apparently taped their session with him.

No, telling Servalan would amount to making her a retroactive participant in the rape. He had a sudden mental picture of himself standing at attention before her and hearing her say "Lower your trousers and tell me again how you were brought to orgasm against your will."

He shook his head, reminding himself that he hadn't really broken. He had told them they hadn't won, and they had let him go anyway. Any prisoner of his who attempted such last-ditch defiance would have had cause to regret it bitterly and at length. Unless, of course . . .

Travis considered the possibility that he had been tampered with. There had been no time for anything like mindwiping and the implantation of false memories, but they could have planted some sort of monitoring device on him. That wasn't an important concern: he had to assume that he would be under surveillance on Fargone in any case. Once he got back to Federation space he could have a security scan done for any other stray items that might have been installed under his skin or within his prosthetic.

He supposed they might also have indulged in the traditional tricks played on the unconscious: tattooed him or something of that sort. It didn't really fit with what he had seen of their ideas of entertainment, but the possibility made him uneasy enough to send him to the loo, shedding his clothing as he went.

When he had first checked into the suite, Travis had been half amused and half disgusted by all the mirrors in the lavatory. It was like being in Servalan's dressing room. Right now, however, he conceded that the ability to view himself from all angles was useful.

No tattoos or body painting or other corporal vandalism. No real bruises, either. If a few body parts were still a trifle swollen and tender, he still didn't look like a victim. Travis' vanity had never taken the form of considering himself handsome, but he always wanted to look, and be, dangerous.

It's a pity you can't see yourself, Space Commander. Black leather harness suits you.

Travis snarled at the memory. It was bad enough to be seen as a sex toy rather than a killing machine. But she hadn't even used him as a sex toy. She had behaved as if she were a veterinarian and he was an appealing but badly trained domestic animal. Travis had occasionally relished being called a beast, but being treated like one was entirely different. She would have to pay for that.

He hoped she wasn't a trained fighter. If she had no skills that way, he wouldn't bother to tie her or even hit her hard enough to disable her. It would be pleasant to allow her to flail at him ineffectually, and gradually panic as she realized that there was nothing at all she could do to stop him.

His penis twitched at the idea. He began to stroke it as he thought about what would happen next, closing his eye and inventing a face and body for her. Less elegant than Servalan, softer than that alien of Blake's. Brunette, or perhaps redheaded. Would she break down, cry, offer to do anything as long as he didn't hurt her? No, he preferred to imagine her continuing to fight even while he mounted her. She wouldn't start to cry until he'd been in her for awhile. It would be the right sort of payback to make her come. But how could he be certain she wasn't faking it? Would forcing her to fake it be as satisfying?

No, this wasn't working. It wasn't enough, somehow.

Abruptly the fantasy shifted. He was still fucking the Fargonean woman, but one of her men was on top of him, fucking his ass and laughing with the woman about what they would do to him if he failed to satisfy them both.

Travis was uncertain about the practicalities of the position, but his cock sprang to life at the thought of their combined efforts to make him reach orgasm and be punished. He stroked himself harder. He was sore, but not enough to want to stop.

He wouldn't win. Perhaps the other man would come before he did, but not the woman. Then he would be forced to watch while the man attended to her with his mouth and hands, and then they would both turn their attention to him and--he didn't know what. His body demonstrated that he didn't have to: he came knowing only that they would do something.

For a moment he wondered if the Fargoneans had succeeded in driving him mad. But it was only a fleeting thought: Travis had had his sanity questioned (sometimes even to his face) too often not to have developed a rather precise idea of what madness was. He was sane if he understood what he was doing and why. Although confirmation from other people was not essential, Travis had noticed that even those who condemned his brutality and ruthlessness had never claimed to have any difficulty understanding what he was about. As he cleaned himself up and dressed, he decided that he could understand what had just happened.

The Fargoneans had given him the most intense orgasms he'd had in years. They'd caused him pleasure in ways that astonished him. It made sense that they would appear in his fantasies. And it made sense that his usual rape scenarios didn't work with them in the cast: as helpless victims, they couldn't surprise him. (Also, he admitted to himself, he wasn't likely to surprise them. At least, not enough to generate real terror as well as pain.)

If Travis knew where he was and how he got there, he was not lost. But it didn't follow that the place was one where he wished to remain. He did not, he assured himself, want to be dominated. The desire that one's partners do all the work of providing one with new pleasures and screaming orgasms did not indicate submissiveness, as anyone acquainted with Servalan could attest. He needed some different experiences as fantasy fodder. He needed to have the people who had made him come against his will, make him come harder when their lives were in his hands. Travis didn't even rule out letting them survive.

He walked out of the room, pondering how his goal could be achieved. His surroundings were much more interesting now that he knew he was in enemy territory. In fact, he felt better than he had since landing on the planet. He was no longer bored. There was information to absorb, conspirators to catch, revenge to be taken. All he needed was to see one smirk, or catch one remark made not quite out of earshot. Then a quick but enjoyable interrogation, and he would be on the way to capturing the people who had assaulted him.

Travis prowled the hotel, trying idly to figure out how they had gotten him back to his room without attracting attention. For all he knew the place was honeycombed with secret passageways, with the place he was held located in a sub-basement. It really wasn't important: he would find his answers from people rather than from architecture.

The woman had mentioned that sitting down would be "uncomfortable." So was walking. And he hadn't anticipated that his clothing would feel quite so rough on his sore nipples. Pain ordinarily made him want to lash out at any available target, but these aches didn't produce the usual, hateful sense of vulnerability. Instead they were almost soothing, a reminder of body parts present and functional.

Suddenly he realized that he was hungry. There was no particular reason not to patronize one of the local restaurants: it wasn't as if there was anyplace else in the spaceport he could regard as safe. The habits of a lifetime led him to sit with his back to the wall and a clear view of the door, but he sensed no actual danger. He attracted no more than the usual curious stares.

The meal seemed unusually good. Travis had the traditional Space Command contempt for gourmands, and all he asked of food was that it keep his body operating and not be so unpalatable as to be distracting. The dinner he ordered was simple enough, but somehow the tastes and textures were more pleasant than he expected them to be. He was startled when one of the waiters smiled politely at him, and he realized that the man was responding to his own expression.

Jerking off to fantasies about being perversely violated was one thing, but looking pleasant to civilians was a more serious lapse. He definitely needed to get his hands on those Fargoneans.

He might have to find some way to get them off planet--he hadn't worked out the details yet. There would be time to fine-tune his plans: it would probably take a few days before they got careless. But his kidnapping and return must have involved at least the cooperation of a sizeable number of people. Too many for all of them to resist the temptation to gloat, unless the whole spaceport was staffed by disciplined intelligence operatives. Travis could be patient until they slipped up.

His odd feeling of sensual well-being stayed with him as he walked back to the hotel. He watched the Fargoneans and offworld travelers on the street speculatively. Would his kidnappers prove to be attractive, when he finally saw them? He guessed that they would be ordinary looking: not so beautiful that they were accustomed to pleasing by their looks rather than their sexual talents, but not so unattractive that they lacked opportunities to polish their skills.

This train of thought came to an abrupt halt as he entered the lobby of the hotel and saw a familiar but unexpected figure in white.

"Ah, there you are, Travis," said Supreme Commander Servalan. Her tone said and about time, but what she actually said was "I was just about to call you."

Travis repressed an impulse to check his chronometer. He knew damned well that her appearance was a good three hours ahead of schedule, and he wasn't some decorative staff officer to apologize as if her being early was the same as his being late.

"Supreme Commander. I'm surprised to see you back so soon."

"I've just received a message from headquarters. I shall have to cut this visit short and return. Collect your things; we leave in two hours."

Travis did not scream "What?!" because he understood that the Supreme Commander could not explain the details of what sounded like a crisis while standing in the middle of a hotel lobby. He also noticed that she seemed decidedly annoyed about it. But it was a near thing, and he could not forbear saying tightly, "I'm sorry to hear that."

She gave him a look that suggested disbelief and irritation, as if her truncated holiday was his fault. "Oh, you should be pleased enough. It has to do with Blake. I'll brief you after we're aboard ship."

Blake. "Pleased" wasn't quite the right word for Travis' emotions. What he felt for Blake went beyond hatred and vengefulness: he needed to kill Blake the way he needed to breathe. He could hold his breath for awhile, but ultimately the need was stronger than his will or his reason. Compared to that, nothing else mattered. Only when Blake was dead could other things begin to be important again.

As he went to his room to pack, he passed a group of Fargonean men playing a board game of some sort. They fell silent until he was some distance away, but not so far that he couldn't hear their murmurings.

"It seems we needn't have bothered--he's leaving."

"But aren't you glad we did? I'd hate to have missed--"

"Shh!"

Travis paid no attention to them at all.