Blue, Part II

Michael O'Shaughnessy

It got cold again that night. It woke Pete up, and he struggled to change sides; the shoulder he'd been lying on was throbbing. He curled his legs up the best he could, trying to create a pocket of warmth.

His movements roused Singahl, who lit another candle. "Stars! It's cold!" Pete heard him mutter. The light came across the chamber toward Pete. Singahl spread out a blanket and covered him. "Why didn't you say something? Brrr! but it's early in the year for this chill." He padded back to the bed, blew out the candle.

Pete went to work on Tz's farm. The days passed uneventfully, taking on a routine. Hot, hard labor during the day, and hot, urgent sex in the night. Singahl nightly invented new ways to drive Pete wild with his hands and mouth and body, and Pete did the same for him. But every night after they'd exhausted each other, Singahl handcuffed him and put the collar on him.

Seven, eight days went by. Then one night instead of beckoning Pete to his bed after the evening meal, he chained him to the wall and left the cave, with no explanation. He seemed distressed about something. Pete's habit of not questioning anything his master did, either Adrian or Singahl, kept him quiet. But he wondered. Then he just fell asleep.

Some hours later Singahl lumbered back into the cavern. He was intoxicated, staggering. His blundering woke Pete, who saw his condition immediately, and so held his tongue. Singahl came and stood over him. He'd lit a candle and he loomed in silhouette, a shiny wooden bat in his hand. Just like Adrian, Pete thought, struggling up to his knees.

With an angry snarl Singahl hit him on the shoulder with the bat, so hard it knocked Pete over. Then like a metronome he beat him. Pete writhed in the sand and tried not to yell. Then, just as abruptly as it began, it was over.

"Ten," Singahl grunted and tossed the stick aside. He stood swaying and glaring at Pete for a couple of minutes before lurching off to bed.

Pete hunched up to sit on his heels and lean against the cool stone wall. Dazed in pain and surprise, feeling betrayed and cursing himself for the feeling. Stupid piece of shit. Must have said something out of line. Must have acted like a real person.

He was still leaning there, sleeping, when the light from outside got bright enough to seep in through the entry. It woke Singahl first. Drunk as he'd been, he wasn't hung over. He woke Pete up, leaving to urinate. When he came back in he went to Pete's corner at once.

"Damn LaPorte," Singahl grumbled. "Now you're scared of me again." He unlocked the manacles and collar.

Pete stayed on the floor, rotating his sore shoulders. He watched Singahl out of the corner of his eye but said nothing.

"Bastard ordered me to beat you once a week," Singahl went on. "Said you need it. The scum. Why would he make me do that?"

"That's why?" Pete said. "Just because Adrian said? Not because I did something wrong?"

"Son of a bitch."

"I told you he likes to hurt me. He must be laughing his ass off, thinking about it. That's really the only reason?"

"Yeah. Had to get drunk to do it."

Pete thought about it. "He really is coming back, isn't he."

Singahl was surprised. "Well of course. Did you think he wasn't?"

"I thought this was just an easy way for him to get rid of me. He's had me for years I guess. I figured he wanted to dump me in some out-of-the-way place where he wasn't likely to run across me again." Here Pete looked ashamed. "I thought he'd looked for a Snubb so he'd know I'd be dead and gone before long. I'm sorry, Singahl. After last night it seemed like maybe the Snubb mentality was stronger in you than you'd let on. If you'd told me... now that I know, it won't be so bad."

"I don't blame you for thinking that. Stars, I hate myself." Now it was his turn to look ashamed. "There's more going on here than you know. LaPorte's order or not, I could never have beaten you if there wasn't something else compelling me."

Pete stared at him.

"Come with me." And he got up and led Pete to the crack at the back of the cave. Behind the rock wall there was a plank door. Singahl ushered him through it. They went down some steps, the passage also carved in the stone, to another door. Singahl opened it, and Pete went through it, coming to a halt just inside.

He reminded himself, I just came out of a cave, lit by candles. He realized he'd held his breath for a moment.

The room they were in looked like a clean, modern, Earthling dentist's office. Light panels in the ceiling lit it with something close to daylight. The floor was some smooth, swirly material like linoleum. Cabinets flanked the wood paneled walls. Cans and jars gleamed on the counter-tops. There was even something like a dentist's chair in the room.

Then Pete's gaze locked on the cart beside the chair, and fear ballooned in his chest. Arrayed in surgical tidiness on the cart were dozens of what looked like what surely must be implements of torture.

"Took every zincelle my father left me to equip it," Singahl was saying. "Took me two years to find the right planet. I left behind everything I had, everyone I knew, fourteen years ago, and I've never regretted it." He looked around the room smiling and then at Pete to see what he thought. "Good Getelemahl, what's the matter with you?"

"What is this place," Pete said, his voice faint. "What do you do here?"

"Oh, stars, I'm sorry, I'm so used to it I don't realize it's not obvious." He smiled wider. "I'm even worse than a lousy Snubb. I'm the Universe's most pathetic of creatures, an artistic Snubb."

"You're an artist? What kind?" The Picasso of Pain?

"I work in several media. Sculpture, paint but my true calling is flesh."

Oh Christ, I knew it.

"What is wrong with you?"

"I thought you said you don't like inflicting pain."

"That's right, I don't. What--oh. I still haven't made myself clear." He went to the cart and picked up a tool that looked something like what Earth doctors used to look into your ear." I create designs on people's skin," he said. "They come to me for permanent adornment."

"Tattoos? You're a tattoo artist?"

"I don't know that word." He flourished the tool. "My equipment is the most advanced there is. It makes application easy, so I can concentrate on the design." He set it down again. "I'm the best in the Sector--maybe in the Galaxy. My designs are living in the Galactic capitals, and in two-man mining ships. I don't make much money, I just about keep even with the cost of the pigments and equipment upgrades. The money Tz paid you bought me some pigment. I have enough; you won't be going back there."

Feeling stupid, like his mind wasn't grasping something that should be obvious, Pete said, "That boy on the beach Adrian was talking to. Is that where he found out about you?"

"Nah. He'd come here looking for me, had heard of me elsewhere. The boy was just giving him local directions."

"So Adrian sought you out. Why?"

Singahl came close to him and took both his hands. "You said you thought he was tired of you. I know that nothing could be farther from the truth. He's been searching for quite awhile for some way to--to manifest what he feels for you. He saw my work somewhere, he asked questions, and he came here to meet me. Once we'd met he said he could tell that if anyone could see into your heart and mind and character, it was me. Only now that I know you better do I realize what a compliment that was."

"You're going to paint my picture?"

"No, Pete. I wouldn't waste my time on paint." He came even closer and took Pete's head between his two huge mitts. He bent down and kissed him. "Your body is my canvas. You're going to be my life's masterpiece."

The room whirled around Pete's brain for a minute. He closed his eyes. Images of carnival freak shows loomed and leered.

"My whole... body? You're going to tattoo all of me?"

It seemed at first as though Singahl had ignored his question. "That's why he left. He couldn't stand the wait, he said; knew he'd be nagging, interfering. I was happy enough to see him go, in that case. But he also understood that I'd have to get to know you. He's given me complete freedom to do whatever I need to do. When I saw your sunburned skin I knew the first thing was with those eyes of yours that you had to get brown from the sun. All over. I shaved your hair off so even your scalp would get brown.

"And the sungrease worked. You haven't seen yourself, have you? Here--" He went to a cabinet and pulled out a mirror. Pete took it and looked at himself. Singahl was right, he had the deepest tan he'd ever had in his life. His brown-gold eyes glowed from within the saddle-brown background of his face. His hair was by now a half-inch long, but it wasn't burr-like. It laid down, still showing some tanned scalp, and it appeared to be coming back in curly rather than straight. He gave the mirror back.

"And the design, the design has come to me as I've grown to know you," Singahl went on, caressing Pete's waist, his back, shoulders. "As I've grown to know your body, and you've showed me your soul..."

My soul? Maybe some, but so much I keep secret, hold to myself, it's the way of a slave--

"I didn't know when he came with this proposition that you would be the pinnacle of my life's work. Only as I came to know you did it become clear what you are, what this could be."

"It won't cover every square centimeter," he went on, at last answering Pete's question. "I don't do color for color's sake; in fact, on you there will be but one color--blue. Darker or lighter, but only one tint. Using your skin as negative space. Oh, Pete, I can hardly wait to start! My fingers are itching."

Pete thought about Adrian. Never a dull moment. You really surprised me this time. "Is he paying you a lot? Seems like a lot of work."

Singahl smiled. "You're my payment--your mouth, your ass, your hands, your cock. And what sweet payment it is. And, this once in a lifetime opportunity to create the perfect work. You were too thin, so I fed you better; too pale, so I browned you; needed muscle, so I worked you. I've prepared the canvas, now it's almost time to start painting."

So I'm really just a thing to him, too. I thought he--

Something showed in his face, for Singahl said, "If you weren't such a lovable creature, Pete, you'd hold no interest for me artistically at all. I'd have doodled a few stock pictures on your hide and sent you and LaPorte on your way. But I knew you'd be something special before I even met you. I saw more into LaPorte's character than he knew. Anyone who so thoroughly entrances that creature has colors and lights and shadows and depths far more interesting than most folks."

"Do you know already, Pete, that I love you? Oh, I know you'll be going once he gets back. And I'll miss you terribly. But for now, and all the rest of my life, I celebrate that I met you. Aside from the art work I'll be making of your body. I celebrate... you."

And I thought at first he couldn't even talk. Now he won't shut up. I'm supposed to say here that I love him, too. But--

"Master Singahl, I don't know what to say. You'd like me to say I love you, too, it's plain. But think of my position. What business does a slave have, loving anyone? My body and my will are yours, for now. Then Adrian will return and I'll be his. The next week, who knows who he'll lend, rent, or even sell me to? Whatever it is you see in me, I'm a creature after all this time of abuse and caprice. If there's an organ inside me that knows how to love, it's locked itself away to save itself pain. All I can say is, I only want to make you happy. You've shown me so much kindness and I'm so grateful. All I can give you, since you already know I'm yours to command, is to obey gladly, if it'll make you happy. I wish I had more to give you, but I've got nothing. I wish I could say I love you, but I don't know how to love any more."

Singahl smiled down at him and drew him up against his rugged body. "I know. I know all that. I don't want any more from you than you can give. It's all right."

Pete sighed. His eyes strayed to the instruments on the cart. "Will it hurt?"

His master released him. "Alas, yes. Your species is unknown to Galactic medicine, I can't even anesthetize you. You'll just have to endure it." He looked into Pete's face, that large single eye earnest. "That brings me back to what we were talking about upstairs. The only reason I'm so careful to obey LaPorte's instructions, the chains, the damn him the beating, is because I cannot allow anything to rob me of this opportunity. He could show up at any moment, to check up on us. I won't give him any excuse to take you away before I'm finished with you. Because of that, I'll beat you though I hate it. For the work, I'll make you suffer the pain, though I hate that, too."

Pete understood. He also thought, I'm glad you said that. Now I don't feel quite so bad about not being able to love you.

The masterpiece took six days to complete. It wasn't the worst pain Pete had experienced, but it was bad enough. The effect was cumulative.

Singahl started with his feet. He strapped Pete into the chair and bade him remain as still as possible. When reflexes overcame Pete's efforts to hold still, Singahl tightened the restraints. Muscles still jumped, but, Singahl told him, he was used to working around that. He worked without speaking. The only sounds were the low hum of his instruments and Pete's breathing, which, as the hours crawled, became harsher, and by the third day erupted into groans. By then the needles were penetrating the sensitive skin of his lower belly.

Singahl took breaks frequently to rest his arm and swab blood from the fresh areas. He'd give Pete water, wipe his sweating face, apologize for hurting him.

The worst was the work on his eyes. They were swollen shut for a day after Singahl did them.

When he'd done all he could with Pete in the chair, they moved outdoors and he staked him out face-down in the sand. He'd envisioned more "negative space" on the back, so that part only lasted two days.

At last he lifted the needle away for the last time. "Done," he said, and Pete wanted to cry with relief. At the same time he heard something deep and moving in Singahl's single word. Untied, he stood up and looked at Singahl's face. By now, he'd learned to read the subtle changes in that creviced, alien face and that deep black eye. He didn't know if Snubbs could weep, but looking at the artist he suspected that if they could, he would be weeping now.

Pete looked down at his hands, his body, now almost as alien to him as Singahl's. "Well? Are you happy with how it turned out?"

"I think so. I think it's good. I'll be able to tell better in a couple of days when the redness and swelling go down. Stars, you humans have tender hides!"

Now that the worst of the pain was past, Pete was inclined to make light of it. "That's what makes us such good lovers," he smiled, and Singahl sucked air in through his teeth. There had been no sex since he'd started the artwork.

At sunset the next day they picnicked on the beach. Singahl said he could see already that his work surpassed his hopes.

"Think Adrian will like it?" Pete asked him.

Singahl gave him an odd smile. "Oh, I think he'll like it all right."

He kept staring, and after awhile Pete laughed and lay back on the sand. "Want to fuck your masterpiece?"

"Do I?" Singahl gasped. He jumped up and took Pete by the arm. "Get in my bed, Pete, I don't like grit with my sex." And he pulled Pete up the beach into his cave.

He lit all the candles he could find. Pete lay back on his bed propped up on his elbows; the most recent tattoos on the back of his neck and shoulders were still tender. Singahl gazed down at him in the mellow ochre light. He pulled off his loin cloth and revealed what Pete already knew. He dropped to his knees on the pallet and put his hands on Pete's ankles, began tracing the lines he'd injected into Pete's skin, with delicate, trembling fingers. They slid up his calves to the insides of his thighs, and Pete sighed and relaxed, opening his legs.

The lines didn't actually touch his genitals, but Singahl did, still with that whispery touch. They both watched breathless as Singahl's sure fingers teased Pete's cock into yearning erection. Then he bent over and took it and his balls into his big mouth, and inside, his tongue began to play. His hands still stroked Pete's body, grazing over the blue markings.

It had been a long time without sex for Pete, too, and after just a few minutes of feeling that tongue sucking and slathering all over him, he cried out, "Oh God! It's coming--" and the sweet electric ejaculations burst out of him. Singahl sucked it in, but while Pete was still jerking with the last few spasms he raised up and rolled him over. Pete looked back and saw him spit into his hand. He groaned and brought his knees up, offering his ass. Singahl smoothed the warm, slick come on him and in him, playing, probing, stretching with his fingers. Pete moaned again. Even though he was spent for the time being, he'd learned to enjoy Singahl's invasions of his body.

This was no different, except that Singahl seemed hotter than ever. He arched over Pete, his breath hissing, harsh, with each thrust. He supported himself on one hand and stroked Pete's body with the other. His breath became near-screams. "Ah slave, the sight of you, the feel, you're so hot inside... You've got my-- you've got it--oh Getel'--hold still, I need to --to--" and he pushed himself up inside ferociously and held Pete tight against him "--explode!" he howled, and Pete felt the wetness inside billow as Singahl's huge cock throbbed.

They stayed on all fours for awhile, like a statue of wrestlers, then Singahl patted Pete's belly and withdrew from his body, gently. Pete collapsed on his side on the bed. Singahl leaned over and kissed him, and sat back at the foot of the bed cross- legged. They were quiet, recuperating, for a long time.

Then Pete said, "You're going to beat me again, soon, aren't you."

Singahl hung his head, nodded.

"Why don't you get it over with? I hate the waiting worse than your beatings. What do you do, count ten?"

"Sure. It's all I can make myself do. But I have to get drunk to do it."

"No, you don't. Please, Master, just do it now. Do it fast, then I won't have to think about it for another week, unless Adrian comes back."

Singahl looked at him in despair. "I want to get drunk, so drunk I can hardly stand up. It's the only way--" He broke off.

"The only way what?"

"It's the only way I can be sure it won't arouse me. See? I can't get rid of all the Snubb in me. When I knew I had to do it the first time I discovered the idea got me excited. I hate that in me."

"If it helps, I don't care, Singahl. Master. Adrian and lots of others like it that way. I'm used to it."

"Just because you're forgiving doesn't make doing it to you right. I feel bad enough hurting you, without the added guilt of enjoying it."

"It hurt when you were putting the tattoo on me. Did that excite you?"

"That was different. I felt bad, but it's my work, it had nothing to do with sex." He got up. "I'll go to the cantina down the beach. I'll come back in an hour, so you know how long. We'll get it over with then."

Pete stopped him. "Hadn't you better lock me up? If Adrian popped in and found me loose, and you gone, it'd be bad."

The next morning Pete's butt and the backs of his legs were splotched with ten bruises. It was hard to stand up. Singahl had him lay face down on his bed and he brought out another clay pot with a different ointment, and he massaged it into the sore areas.

"It didn't work," he told Pete cryptically.

"What didn't work?"

"Getting drunk. I got a flaming hard-on, beating you. Maybe I didn't get drunk enough. Or maybe I shouldn't have talked about it. Should have kept it to myself."

He fell silent and continued rubbing in the ointment.

"That seems to help," Pete offered.

Singahl didn't respond.

Pete said, "You know, Singahl, I think owning slaves does something to a person's soul, even if the owner is otherwise a good person. There always comes a time when the owner has to make a decision: Enforce his will on the slave, whatever it takes, or lose him as a slave. Enforcing may make the slave obey, but it also robs the owner of something; his character, I suppose. For a good person it's an impossible situation."

Singahl gazed at him, troubled. "So what are you saying?"

"I don't think you're cut out to own another sentient being. You never have, have you? This 'opportunity' is costing you more than you bargained for. In order to honorably fulfill your side of it, you have to do Adrian's dirty work for him, beating on me and chaining me, and it's causing you a lot of pain. You're right; what I think of the whole thing is irrelevant. From now on, whenever you think about your 'masterpiece', you'll have to count all of what it cost you, if you're going to be honest about its true value." Pete dropped his head down on his arms again.

"In reality, the reality we're living in, Master, what I just said earns me serious punishment. I've got no business saying those things. If you're angry, if you punish me, I have to agree I've got it coming."

Singahl sighed. "You probably do. But I'm not going to give it to you. I'm too weak -- you've just clarified what's been churning inside me for days. Clarified, but it makes me sick. And more torn than ever. The sooner LaPorte gets here and takes you away, the better off I'll be, but oh Pete, how can I give you back to that monster? If what you say is true, his soul must be as black and rotten as the bottom of a grave. How can you bear your life with him?"

Pete rolled over and held up his arms. Singahl took the invitation to lie down with him, just holding each other.

"You know LaPorte's really two people?"

"Vaguely."

"Himself, he's bodiless. He's captured another of my species for a physical and mental and emotional vehicle. That makes him a lot more complicated. The human's a sadist, he loves to hurt me; the other is incredibly powerful. Things he does seem like magic to me but he says they're just like being able to see certain colors, or curl my tongue--"

"Curl your tongue?"

"Like this, see? Nnn..."

Singahl laughed.

"It's an inherited ability in us. Anyway, the combination of the cruelty and power is terrifying. It keeps me obedient, both for myself and, and for... others. But there's a lot more to both entities than their cruelty and power. The human says he loves me. The other says I delight him. And as the years have gone by, things change. Sometimes they're not so cruel. Sometimes it gets worse. As long as I can remember my my place, I can hang onto my sanity, more or less, and fulfill my end of the deal. Because, you see, I made a bargain with Adrian, too. That's how I got out here in the stars with him. Just be glad yours was so minor."

"Will he never let you go? Until you die?"

Pete thought it would be mean to tell Singahl the truth. "No. He'll never let me go. I knew that when I made the deal. He was very up-front about what my life would be like, too. I'll say that for him."

"Why in the Universe would you make such a bargain? Did you want so badly to see the stars?"

For a moment Pete felt tears burn his eyes, swell in his throat. He took two deep slow breaths and beat back the urge. He took Singahl's face between his hands and smiled at him, and kissed him. "If I still thought Adrian had left me here with you for good, I'd tell you, Master. But as it is, it's not my secret to tell. Can you believe it when I tell you that it was worth it, and I'd still make the same bargain today?"

"No. Nothing could be worth it. But I won't belabor it. We'll just make the best of the time between now and when he returns for you."

It lasted ten more days. Singahl took him on walks through the jungle, far up the mountain, showed him wildlife and scenic wonders. They swam and partied with tourists, and played pointless, hilarious beach games with the kids. At night they made love spurred to red-hot fever by the sense of time pressing in on them.

When it was time for another beating, they went through the ritual without words, and with no more discussion.

Three days later, the idyll ended.