Our Truth

Our Truth (Part 2/3)
By Eline

Request fic: For subtextshowing, who wanted VallewidaXEvan.

Characters: Durer, Vallewida and Evan

Rating: NC-17 for adult content and Durer being his usual abusive self.

Warnings: Non-consensual elements, humiliation, pistol rape, implied violence and grievous bodily harm--this fic will eventually contain everything and the kitchen sink.

Spoilers: Tiny, tiny spoilers here and there but none in this part.

* * * * * * * * * *

Evan had seen a lot of things while chasing the latest scandals. Political scandals, sex scandals, scandals of high society and various other naughty things that people got up to in their spare time. He thought he had seen it all--the very worse of what people could be. Then he had been thrown into this hellhole of a prison where the dregs of society were incarcerated--the murders, thieves, rapists and con-men.

Then he had met Durer. And he learned that while the inmates of the prison were the social equivalent of what one got from scraping the bottom of the barrel, there was a pit beneath that metaphorical barrel where the demons in human form were found.

Durer did not relish the physical aspect of deviant sexual acts, Evan realised as his gorge rose, as much as he relished the power he had over the lives of the prisoners he ruled over. He wanted to cause pain and inflict it on as many people as he could.

Which was why he was still in that cell, staring into the depths of depravity that were Durer’s eyes.

Evan had never been a violent person. He trusted in his height and size to keep the other prisoners at bay and if that did not work, he was handy enough in a fight. He also possessed enough sense to know that Durer would kill them without batting an eyelash if they tried anything. Vallewida already looked half-dead. And Evan could not--would not--leave the other man in the hands of a psychopath.

He had been disgusted and angry when Durer had insinuated that he would screw his friend. He had been even more horrified when the head guard had revealed the extent of Vallewida’s injuries.

But this was something else all together.

Grabbing Vallewida by the hair, Durer all but flung him at Evan's feet. "I want him up and ready in five minutes or I'll string you up by your hair!"

"Don't . . ." Evan trailed off, horrified. He would have backed away, but there was only the cold impenetrable wall behind him. Perhaps he had never really understood what it meant to be stuck between a rock and hard place until now.

“No.” Vallewida’s voice was muted but clear in that confined space. “Don’t . . . I’ll do what you want--just leave him out of this--”

“You’ll do as you’re ordered!” Durer thundered.

He could have told Vallewida that pleading with a raving lunatic was fruitless. Even now, Durer was raising his arm to deliver another blow.

But Vallewida was faster. It should not have been possible for anyone in his condition to move like that, but Vallewida had caught Durer’s arm as it descended--not to ward off the blow but to restrain the head guard. “Go! Evan--go now!”

“How dare you!” Durer was livid, but Vallewida held on with the last of his strength, effectively hampering him from moving.

Knowing that either way he would hate himself for this later, Evan hurled himself out of the cell door. He turned back, hoping that there was some way that he might be able to extract his friend from this mess, but Durer was pushing his way to the door, Vallewida a deadweight on his arm.

“You’re not going to get away with this--” Durer was howling as he tried to shake Vallewida off by throwing him at the cell door. But Vallewida had grasped the edge of the door and allowed the momentum of Durer’s force to propel it shut with a deafening clang.

Outside the cell, Evan heard Vallewida and Durer's raised voices from within. He could not hear what was said, but a moment later, the sound of flesh striking flesh was unmistakeable.

“Vallewida!” Evan tugged on the door frantically. Self-preservation be damned, this was too much--

Drawn by the louder than usual commotion, a pair of guards turned the corner carefully. They knew that their superior frequented this corridor.

“Oi you!” one of them barked. “What are you doing here? It’s past ten!”

“I--” Evan was saved from lying by the cell door bursting open beside him.

“Sir!” The pair snapped to attention saluted a red-faced Durer as though they had been electrified. Durer in one of his moods could result in nasty accidents.

When Durer spoke, it was in a low level voice that did nothing to mask his anger. “Take the prisoner back to his cell. And make sure that no-one else comes by tonight. I do not want to be disturbed until the morning. Make that the afternoon.” He did not even look at Evan as he was hauled away by the pair of petrified guards. “I have . . . pressing business to attend to here. A matter of discipline I intend to see to personally.”

The door slammed shut again. Evan had not been able to see Vallewida in the dim light. What was happening now? He had some fairly good ideas about what Durer’s idea of discipline was.

Dumped unceremoniously in his own cell by the guards, Evan heard the door latch shut and kicked the bed frame in a rare fit of pique. By the time morning came, Vallewida might be dead.

It was the same every time--the uncertainty of whether one of their number would be alive come the morning.

* * * * * * * * * *

The waiting was usually the worse part. The anticipation that ate at him until he could barely remember to smile and be jovial. But he always got through somehow.

Morning came and went without any news of Durer or Vallewida. No-one had been allowed to go through the corridor outside Vallewida’s cell.

Evan took to finding excuses to walk past the infirmary every few hours. His efforts paid off around dinner time when the infirmary staff on duty were heard to be griping about the extra work. “Extra work” turned out to be Vallewida. Evan successfully inveigled his way in on the pretext of getting a bandage and was drafted immediately on the account that he looked like he could do most of the heavy lifting.

“I hope you’ve got a strong stomach . . .” one of two staff on duty warned him. Evan assured them that he had insides of steel and almost proved himself a liar when he saw what was waiting for them on the rickety gurney.

Vallewida’s face was a swollen and bruised mess. The rest of him . . . what the rags of his clothes did not cover up--Evan felt his gorge rise as he surveyed the damage.

“Well, let’s do this,” the surgeon said briskly with the air of someone who was used to this grisly business. “Broken bones--apparently none. Wait . . . the jaw’s possibly fractured. Lacerations, a whole lot of them . . . Du--someone was feeling generous last night . . .”

Evan listened to the list in horror. Mistaking his pallor for just queasiness, the other staff whispered to him that they dealt with that sort of thing every day and if he had seen what had been left on their doorstep last month . . .

Tuning out the morbid recollections of the infirmary keeper, Evan concentrated on not losing his dinner over their leather aprons. Then the surgeon turned Vallewida over.

He managed to find a bucket first--Evan did not know how he had found the presence of mind to find one, but he did and was heartily sick into it.

The surgeon and his helper raised their eyebrows ever so slightly and merely asked him to dispose of the bucket after he boiled some water and helped to get the patient on the table.

Pulling himself together, Evan got the water boiling and without throwing up, transferred Vallewida’s limp body to the surgeon’s table. The surgeon--a former army sawbones--cleaned off most of the blood and told Evan to consign the ragged remains of Vallewida’s clothing to the fire. Bandages were brought and applied to the affect areas--that was to say almost every inch of skin.

“Well,” the surgeon looked down at his handiwork, “that’s the best I can do with limited resources. Perhaps we could spare him some morphine for when he wakes up.”

“We’re out of morphine and down to the last bottle of syrup of poppies,” his helper informed him.

“Then give him the syrup of poppies,” the surgeon said, stripping off his apron. “Is it nine already?”

The infirmary staff were in an obvious hurry to be gone. Evan was given one brown glass bottle with a dark residue at the bottle and instructions for its dilution. The two men were out of the door before Evan could ask about the frequency of dosage.

“Well, that was helpful,” he said to no-one in particular.

Alone in the infirmary with his unconscious friend and unhelpful medical advice, Evan settled down to wait until the guards came along to hustle him back to his cell at ten.

In the relative quiet of the infirmary the next evening, Evan looked down at Vallewida’s bandaged jaw and the compress over his right eye. He was breathing evenly, but appeared as dead to the world as he was last night. The silence was deafening and if there was one thing that got Evan depressed, it was the lack of any intelligent conversation.

“Good evening, it is another bright and sunny day here,” Evan was compelled to say after a while. “You have missed out on another exciting day of . . . wait for it--making shoes!”

His voice in the room sounded forced and forlorn, but Evan persevered.

“The foreman has announced that come next week, we will go on to making boots. The excitement just might kill me.”

Evan would have rambled on if a movement from the bed had not caught his attention.

One grey eye peered up at him in--and Evan could hardly believe it of a man who had been almost thrashed to death--concern. Vallewida was trying to say something. Evan had learned a little about reading lips in his line of work, but Vallewida’s cracked and bruised lips barely moved.

“Wo--worried? You were worried?” Evan said in amazement. “Durer flayed the skin off your back and you were worried?”

A pained nod and some attempt at speech again.

“Stop trying to talk--your jaw could be fractured,” Evan said, moving to the table to retrieve the medicine bottle. “I don’t suppose they bothered to give you your medicine in the morning . . .”

Head shake, abortive hand gesture. No.

“Are you sure?” Evan was no doctor, but he was positive that Vallewida was in pain from his multiple wounds.

Nod. Yes.

“All right, but if you need to, just . . . just do something to get attention. I’ll be back after dinner.”

Over the next week, Evan made daily visits to the infirmary. He brought books fromt he library and read them aloud there, watched by one attentive eye. Vallewida recovered enough to speak properly, mainly because, or so he claimed, that he could not stand watching Evan talking to himself like a mad man.

Of the events that had precipitated this current state of affairs, they did not speak of them. There were some things that would remain unsaid by mutual agreement and if his jokes sounded a little too artificial and Vallewida’s replies were muted, they said nothing about it.

* * * * * * * * * *

In retrospect, Evan should never have let his guard down. Durer was not the type to let a grudge go. But under the circumstances, Evan had no way to anticipate or prevent what happened two weeks after Vallewida was discharged.

It had been an ordinary--ordinary for the prison at any rate--evening. He had gone to pick up Vallewida’s books to be returned to the library. Outside the ex-soldier’s cell, he suddenly scented a whiff of cigarette smoke. Had Durer been around? The head guard had been sparing with his attentions after Vallewida had emerged from the infirmary. Some other new arrivals had taken up his time and attention--or so Evan had hoped.

Dreading to find the aftermath of another of Durer’s perversions, Evan looked in and found the cell to be in a disarray. Various small items had been scattered on the floor and he had been mistaken in his assumption that Durer had came by and left.

The mattress had been dumped on the floor and Durer sat on one end of the bed frame, stubbing out a cigarette. “You certainly took your time. Your friend and I were waiting ever so long for you,” he said, tangling one hand in Vallewida’s hair in a mockery of a caress.

Vallewida made a choked-off noise of protest--he had been gagged with a scrap of material torn from his shirt. Durer had used his handcuffs to fasten his wrists to the bedframe. Bent over the foot of the bed, he was naked from the waist down.

“I was a little rough with him the last time and I was . . . told that I couldn’t play with my toys so hard,” Durer said softly. “But I get so impatient of waiting for my orders to be obeyed. A few weeks ago I ordered you to fuck the slutty little cunt and I’m still waiting.”

“You can keep waiting,” Evan said, barely restraining himself from adding you sick fuck.

“Do I have to repeat myself?” Durer asked, standing up and walking over to Vallewida. “Are you deaf? Just stick your cock in here and you’ll have the best thing next to a woman!”

Evan shook his head. This was getting out of hand . . .

"Or perhaps we should do it this way . . . Raise your hips up, slut!" Durer snapped, grabbing hold of Vallewida’s shirt and pulling his torso up. "Higher!"

Vallewida complied, his long hair obscuring his face as he was forced to display his buttocks and thighs.

"Now what shall it be today?" Durer mused, his hand idly stroking the scarred flanks of his victim's body. "What about my pistol, hmmm? We’ve had good times with that before . . . It brings me back to the first time you had this up your hole. I had just received my promotion and we had our own private celebration . . ."

To Evan's horror, Durer drew out his pistol, cocked it and positioned it between Vallewida's buttocks. When he started pushing the barrel in, Vallewida gave a soft whimper that finally broke Evan's paralysis.

"Stop it! You could kill him!"

"Shhh---quiet, I get jumpy at loud noises," Durer said, malice practically dripping from his smile. "My finger might slip."

"I'll do it--just stop!" Evan blurted out.

“Oh? You don’t seem ready to me,” Durer leered, eyeing Evan’s crotch in a way that made his skin crawl. If Vallewida had to face this every day, it was no wonder that he thought he was going mad.

“Well?” Durer barked, pushing the pistol in deeper.

With a curse, Evan undid his trousers and grasped his cock. As he stroked himself, he imagined that he was strangling Durer. This did absolutely nothing for him and merely made Durer impatient.

“Did you forget how to get it up?” Durer demanded. “Now that wouldn’t do at all . . .”

For once in his life, Evan hoped for temporary impotency as Durer fondled Vallewida openly.

“It's hotter and tighter than any woman you've been inside,” Durer whispered as his gloved hands gripped the soft flesh of Vallewida’s rear.

The way Durer licked his lips as he spoke was obscene, but Evan felt the blood rushing to his face at the jailer's crude words. Unbidden, he watched mesmerised as Durer's hand stroked the curve of Vallewida's buttocks.

The sight of those pale limbs was arousing. It was an entirely inappropriate reaction given the situation and the horrible scars that Vallewida bore.

"That's more like it," Durer said and Evan was mortified at how fast he had become hard. "Looks like we don't get to play with this today."

Durer seemed almost disappointed as he pulled the pistol out from Vallewida's ass. Vallewida himself seemed to relax--the tension draining out of his bowed form like a bowstring going slack. Evan wondered if he could have lasted as long without wetting himself in fear.

"Your friend still doesn't want to do you," Durer said to Vallewida and stripped off the gag. "Why don't you ask him to?"

"No." Vallewida's voice was barely a whisper in that tiny cell.

"What was that again?" Durer asked sharply.

"No. I--I want you to . . . I want you inside me."

"Saaa, you'll have to live with a substitute today--if he can keep it up long enough." Durer beckoned imperiously. “Hurry up and do it!”

The head guard was not in a mood to be trifled with--his glare threatened more consequences. Evan spat on his fingers, desperately wishing for a way to make things less painful for Vallewida who had already been cruelly used that night. Evan stretched him as much as he dared before pushing his way in slowly.

And being inside Vallewida was, God help him, as hot and tight as Durer had said. It was everything he had remembered about sex and more.

As Evan eased himself forwards, Vallewida stifled a pained moan. He froze, afraid that he had done even more damage.

"It's all right," Vallewida murmured from under him. "Just get it over with, Evan."

“But you’re—”

“Just do it and we might both live.” Vallewida’s ultimatum reminded him of the men who had disappeared and never came back. The sound of the door closing on the sounds of screams and blows.

“I’m sorry,” Evan said as he started to move.

He let his instincts take over--God alone knew it had been a while and his hand was not always a good substitute. And the body underneath him . . . the feeling of warm flesh tightening around him--it was so intoxicating that he temporarily forgot that he was violating a friend at Durer’s order.

And so he pounded into that body, desperate for relief. When it came, his climax ripped its way out of him, draining him dry and leaving him weak at the knees.

When his head cleared and he found himself slumped over Vallewida’s back, Evan saw the scars again and he immediately disgusted at himself and what he had done.

“Good, wasn’t it?” Durer said and any residual enjoyment of the act shrivelled up and died inside Evan. Leaning against the door of the cell, Durer was lighting a cigarette.

“Perhaps I should start charged a fee . . . Four sous for a ride?” Durer continued. “Or is that too much for a whore? Was it worth even two?”

Furious with himself and the instigator of the affair, Evan held his tongue as he pulled his trousers up.

“Nothing to say? Well then, get lost,” Durer said languidly. Apparently the night was not over for one of them. Evan could only stare at the guard in disbelief.

“I said get out.” Durer stood upright, suddenly menacing in the dim light with his wreath of foul cigarette smoke. Slumped over the end of the bed, Vallewida stirred and lifted his head.

“Go, please,” he said. There was no emotion in Vallewida’s voice, just a hollow demand that for all its flatness, drove Evan out faster than his pleas had a month ago.

“Yes, it is easy to disobey when you’re not the one getting punished for it,” Durer whispered, his mad eyes intent on Evan’s.

There were no curses or expletives for what Evan felt as he stumbled out of the cell. There were no words to describe the utter hopelessness of the situation. For once in his life, Evan was at a loss for words.

* * * * * * * * * *

Note for the day:
Evil bastards are easier to write : Durer is the kind of character that, when written as the biggest prick in the universe, becomes more in-character with every atrocity. Evan and Vallewida are more challenging to keep in character because they are inherently nice decent people in a nasty situation.