Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9579776.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Hetalia:_Axis_Powers
  Relationship:
      America/Russia_(Hetalia), Canada/Russia_(Hetalia), Cuba_(Hetalia)/Russia_
      (Hetalia)
  Character:
      Russia_(Hetalia), More_to_come_-_Character
  Additional Tags:
      Sex_Trafficking, Kidnapping, Lolicon, Sexual_Abuse, psychological_abuse,
      Piss, Slavery, Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-02-05 Updated: 2017-10-01 Chapters: 3/? Words: 6831
****** Seventy-Five Thousand Dollars ******
by Ramona3x3
Summary
     Ivan Braginsky doesn't exist. A continuation of a work by Merry Goat,
     in which Ivan becomes a captor after he, himself is kept by Alfred
     and Matthew, with all events preceding his "freedom".
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
  This work was inspired by
      His_Little_Angel by MerryGoat
***** Absentia *****
"In most common law jurisdictions a missing person can be declared dead in
absentia after seven years," wikipedia, the gospel, declares.
It had been twelve years.
He used to think missing persons weren't forgotten.
That they were remembered, looked for, their face immortalized and thought of.
After that, there was a period of time where he thought they all died shortly
after capture, their lives delicate and eager to end to make someone else
happy, to free up the executioner for the next job; he thought that he wouldn't
be long for the world before it all stopped in pitch-black purgatory.
Then, he caught eyes with a police officer at a gas station. Shortly.
Ivan Braginsky ceased to exist, an unrecognizable face. A fairy tale.
His name was Victor Arlovski. His hair was dyed brown about a year ago. The
still-dark strands hung limply in his face, his soft blondeness at the roots
hidden behind a black knit hat that also served to shield his ears from the
whipping air rushing in through the open window. The sound of cars outside
along the highway beat by like beautiful boats against the waves. A coastal
breeze gave arms around the shoulders, coming out of the driver's seat to
cradle and to rock, sitting on a Florida beach in the morning rather than
plowing through wintry night air on the highway. For no good reason.
It would be time to drive back soon, the girls would be awake. How easy would
it be to conduct the risky maneuver of a U-Turn on that ragged, rusting
motorcycle? Easier than in a van that still stank of must, rather than cologne
and plastic that one part of this ordeal to smell like. It would be so lovely
to be reminded...
He turned the car using the shoulder of the highway, illegally, but there was
hardly another car now to see it, and he was driving the other way in no time.
The radio began to fuzz back to life, singing mutedly, the stereo in the van
blown out before it had even been traded for the final time. Out of nowhere, he
felt his eyes grow itchy, his face warm, taking a few trained breaths to bury
it all, a talent of his. There wasn't time for tears. One of the girls would be
picked up today. As he did them all the favor of granting them new names, this
one was lovingly named "Daisy", for her round eyes and beautifully thick
eyelashes. Her soft thighs, her short legs, her long torso... she wouldn't age
well, as kids never did.
Just fucking kids. Surely, he wouldn't miss the lack of shame she had on
shitting wherever she may be, as everyone preferred a child who was more chaste
in dumping their wastes... It still wasn't easy to hose out a basement, when
the scene was truly blood stained. In the same breath, it wasn't easy to slip
in virgin blood every time you wanted to tend to the ones who were still
living.
Dawn hadn't intruded by the time he came back to the little single story house,
the little place he finally had to his own. Light wasn't a part of the equation
yet, as he unlocked the door, the house still quiet. Another lock sat on the
stairs, and he unlocked the combination, slipping downward with light feet,
hearing only one murmur. She called "Maria, Maria... he's coming." He knew who
it was, the little chatterbox. Penny.
"Penny, shut your fucking mouth." He whispered equally as sweetly, coming up to
the separate little cage he made for each of them, out of chain-link dog lots
weighted by concrete poured into hollowed tires, on top of plastic tarps to
keep the poured concrete from damaging the polished concrete floor. He
squatted, throwing his hat off towards the stairs, smiling to her. Penny
wouldn't bear a lot of money. Her face was splotched in the kind of discolored
orange freckles from sun damage, her piss-blonde hair thin and stringy without
a wash. Her face itself was ugly, her nose long and knobby. At least his had a
point, a purpose, something to break. It was cute for a boy to be a ruffian.
Not a girl with a long face, a shrill cry, and a low sob. Not her.
She could be used for something else. She looked back at him with fear in her
eyes, shocked and stunned. She thought they were friends, with the way he spoke
to her after school, and gave her little gifts when they met in the park. She
thought they were friends, especially when he took her to Walmart to buy her
mom a birthday present. She loved it. Tommy took her out again, even after
meeting her mother, to go get a toy... and she didn't know where she was
anymore. It felt like so much longer... so much longer... and she wanted to
know where her mommy was. And Tommy wouldn't ever tell her. He just looked back
at her, his teeth nubby, just like her baby teeth... he felt like her, but a
grown-up...
He opened the cage and picked her up by the armpits. The small girl hanging
limply in time for him to shove her over her shoulder. She knew that trying to
escape was fruitless, being dropped on her head, thrown onto furniture, having
her head beat against the floor again, and again, and again, until she lost
consciousness...
Her name wasn't even Penny. She knew that, still.
He turned on the camera resting there in the open after turning on a desk lamp
pointing towards the floor, dropping her in the limelight. His mask came on,
the black ski mask with the mouth cut off, more like a hat with eye holes. He
sat behind her, pulling her into his lap, pulling that pretty pink sundress
with the hibiscus flowers up to show off her soft, bald pussy.
Tapping her leg to make sure she held them open, he started to kiss the side of
her face, even though she started to cry. He rubbed her stomach, without
touching her tiny clit yet, using his broad hand to run over her skin and rub
those animalistically warm feelings into her skin. It was here that he was most
comfortable with himself, even if he could never be able to stand seeing his
own face on film. Even if, he unzipped his own pants, rubbing himself to
erection while her tiny blue eyes watched.
Penny watched it rise like a serpent ready to strike, sinking farther behind
her own eyes the heavier his hand came down on his penis, those ashen blonde
hairs at the base straight and coarse. Watching the head grow glossy as precum
spread across, touching himself with minimal lubrication at all, his left hand
still holding onto her stomach. The effect he looked for was having her tiny,
precious fold visible to the side of the pulsing cock, artfully contrasting. He
kept her to the side just to be sure it would be visible- what's child
pornography without the child? Just his old stuff... ten years too late to be
profitable.
He spoke close to her ear, training his voice to sound higher, just like their
happy talks in the park.
"You're such a good girl."
You're such a good boy.
"You're so pretty, Penny."
You're so hot, Ivan.
And, he finished on her stomach, seething... and she started to whimper again.
He turned the camera off before using the bottom of his shirt to wipe it away,
cradling her. His grip constricted as her tiny hands pushed the other way, and
then crawled up to her neck. Wordless.
"Be grateful. I was going to give you a candy."
By the neck, he lifted her up, tossing her back into the cage and locking her
back up, while she crawled around the floor to find the corner with the doggy
bed in it. By then, the other two girls were awake, cowering, sharing a cage
together. Confident in having enough time, he let them cower, disappearing back
up the stairs, turning on a few overhead construction floodlights... just
enough to illuminate the cages, but not the walls, or the stairs.
The door closed on them. He moved to the kitchen, where he kept close to
nothing other than pasta, cereal, and soup, even if he had learned how to cook
properly. The cabinets held Papov in plastic jugs, the drink of choice around
the clock. It was breakfast, poured into a coffee mug stolen from an iHOP and
sold at a secondhand store. He drank it alone at the table, pulling out his
phone and waiting for nine to come. It was seven.
Daisy had an outfit to leave in, surely. White tights, white shoes, a white
dress, frilly panties. White ribbons for her hair. He would brush it, with a
tiny baby brush, taking care of her rich chocolate hair with just a gentle
wave. He did it like a farmer would wash their produce, or a florist would trim
the stems of their roses. Like normal. It seemed so casual...
To sell a person.
***** Rent-to-Own *****
Chapter Summary
     The reason behind Ivan's final years with his fathers, and the birth
     of Maxim.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The first change was his balls. They were definitely bigger, and the mockery
around them circled into a fixation. When he was spanked, his less-tiny scrotum
was targeted, hit with the folded belt or the crop or the small paddle. They
were cupped in Alfred's hands, squeezed, pulled, pinched apart... Every touch
seemed to make them more sensitive. They held differently in little bitch
panties, falling out of the sides. Matthew didn't comment on them, which might
not have been unusual, but it carried an ominous air. And then, there was the
hair. Ashen, blonde, straight, and alien. On a whim, Ivan plucked the first few
out, finding them under the overhead light of the basement, ripping them out
quickly and putting them to the floor. And they grew back. So, he plucked them
again. And as they moved, so did he, marking his white skin in little red
flakes, irritating and growing ingrown hairs, plucking them out around his
taint, his ass, his balls, and his stomach. He tore hair out of his face, from
around his ears. Eventually, Matthew suggested mittens, just like a baby who
scratches its own face in marks. It only made Ivan's attempts more frantic.
Every hair risked his life, keeping him from being cute. Cute was alive,
precious meant that the next day was at least a reasonable expectation. Nothing
was promised, but as long as he was cute and young, he could have another
chance to please Alfred and Mattie. He could stay with the family he'd been
placed in, and keep what comfort he'd trained himself to find.
They were his family, now. They were what made the house he wanted to be a part
of. All the cuddles, the praises, the loving touches were his and the dogs'. He
thought this was his life now. Ivan was a pet to have sex with, and a
companion. Every stroke of his hair was a stroke of color, a blob of paint to
give him new life after being erased. Everything Alfred and Matthew did re-
created who Ivan was, and his paint was never dry. A dick in his ass was the
wire in the clay to hold him upright.
Ivan did fantasize about growing up. He thought to himself about getting
bigger, being a man and remaining who he was... big, quiet, and different, but
all too much the same. He would dream about it, about being big and on his
knees, like some of the adult pornography he had been exposed to. Like being
himself, on his hands and knees, big enough to run away... but he would never
dream of the outside. He'd wake up and wipe the red-hot itch dribbling down his
cheeks, only understanding that his goal was impossible. It wasn't possible. In
that day, he'd wake, service, eat, and sleep, only to think the same thoughts,
dreaming the same dreams, holding his growing genitals in his hand as he laid
curled, to give the comfort of protecting them.
He was speaking to himself the first time his voice cracked, and then he
started speaking higher, quieter, less, to keep it from happening again.
Whatever changes were trying to age him, it was his job to hold it inside.
Alfred continued plummeting into his ass, and Ivan was yet a protege in sucking
dick.
"Come on, baby. Why won't you tell me what you want?" A playboy bunny costume
or a girl scout uniform was what Alfred held to his face, each outfit needing a
shoot, but one needing to go first. Ivan sat naked on the floor, his lips
pursed, his blonde hair swinging out like a carnival swinger when he shook his
head.
"You don't get a fucking choice whether or not to answer. Speak up, Louise." It
was the movement of his new Adam's apple when he swallowed that gave Matthew
the hunch.
His height brought him to Alfred's armpits, chronic underfeeding stunting him
there. His feet grew, and little girl's shoes no longer fit him, even at the
largest sizes they could come in. His face grew in of itself, his eyes
comparably smaller, but still that rare, beautiful shade. Ivan's hair grew, cut
a few times with a pair of kitchen scissors, remaining that beautiful tow shade
of his boyhood. A little fringe across his forehead remained.
He was growing from a big shota to a lovely blonde twink.
"Ivan, I want to ask you about changes in your body." Matthew was told to talk
to him about this, sitting right in front of Ivan.
Sticking to the status quo, and Ivan finally looked up to meet eyes. "I... I'm
sorry." That was the first thing he could think to say, using that high, sweet
voice that was safe.
"I know you don't talk like that. Even when you were little your voice was
deeper. Cut the bullshit. I think you're going through puberty."
"I know."
"That's not good. How long have you known?"
"A long time."
A year, Ivan could try and guess at, full of that beautiful combination of
hair-ripping, silence, and plenty of new nervous habits when the sun went down.
It wasn't good, Matthew said; Ivan knew he was right. He held back the tears to
trade for a crushing pain, reaching from his neck to both shoulders, stretching
down his stomach.
"Why did you keep it from us?" Ivan kept his silence, bowing his head. Matthew
let him, and Alfred came back with a little bit of dinner that Ivan still
wanted none of, always the irregular eater. Back down in the basement that
night, Ivan froze in waiting for that door to close on the upper level of the
house, for both of his captors to be in their bedroom together.
After that, he started to wring his hands, and form a plan. The next day, he
took out his new flaccid cock during lunch, crawling right back up to Alfred
with it out. And, when he did his next shoots with even more effort, moved his
hips during anal, begged to take both men at once. He gyrated his hips right.
He did cute little shy-whore things, like lip biting and always appearing to
have a slight pout, as if a cock got ripped from between the soft folds of his
lips. He acted like a little whore, looking like it was orgasmic to piss on the
lawn. Like every meal aroused him. Like there was nothing more in the world
that he wanted than to have both ends filled. It was close enough to the truth.
With every plunge, he could be recreated, in red and black and candy-Barbie,
slutty Mattel pink.
It was a few weeks of that before he was waiting patiently in the living room,
overhearing one of those sitcom adult talks in the kitchen, with the pretty
country countertops and the shining Kenmore stand mixer that Matthew got for
the previous christmas. In front of that blind God above who never did anything
substantial, nothing to stop anything. He was already too late to start,
anyway.
"He's getting big."
"He'd be bigger if he ate."
"He's going to get bigger."
"Yeah... what do you think?"
"We gotta get rid of the kid."
Ivan couldn't see faces, nor understand what everything meant precisely,
blindly hearing. He felt he knew what he had to know when it had happened, deaf
to anything else, a loud cacophony of tuning and beating and blowing in an
orchestra filling his ears. Heat swam to his face, and air flew away in a
massive flock of unperceivable v-shapes of wind.
Both hands wrapped around his mouth, he swallowed the nerves again, holding his
eyes open to stifle any tears, on an issue that wasn't his business at all. He
crawled back over to the corner of the living room, where he was supposed to be
patiently waiting.
The fall of his knees on the floor came quietly, and he sat on his side, knees
together, shoulder leaning on the wall in the absence of a caring hand. The
sad, sad melody of Romantic period cherubic hymns, playing while a little bitch
suffered her great melancholy in the corner.
Ivan chose this as his moment to have his release, for himself, keeping stoic
with his chest crushed by the weight of his own life, keeping clean of the sin
of sadness when he heard footsteps behind them.
"There he is! How cute- waiting for me?" That face, that blonde face that
smiled at him from behind a camera, the glasses perched on his perfect nose,
with those beautiful blue eyes that never ceased to analyze and capture. Every
kid had their bias between a mommy and a daddy, and Ivan's was staring right
back at him, face enveloped in a grin. That hair that bounced, the face that
never seemed to get tired, staring right back with a smile, and Ivan struggled
so hard to match it, to even come close and look sweetened. Alfred didn't want
a kid. He never wanted a kid. He wanted a fleshy, unintelligent ray of sun,
silver glimmers running in the playground after one P.M. Alfred didn't want
these bastard tears, these stupid feelings, these insignificant worries. He
wanted Ivan's ass. Ivan wanted his ass to feel wanted, too.
It fit in just perfectly, by itself. Now, if only Alfred could still pick Ivan
up like this, if he hadn't already grown too heavy.
"How about you sleep in the bed with us tonight. Would you like that?" He'd
always like that, his head bobbing, nodding away every last feeling of common
sense.
Later, it was dark; he was curled in bed between the couple, facing Alfred,
leaning on his shoulder, light eyes pointing faraway, that corner with rising
waves of worry swirling over and drowning the heart deeper into the chest
cavity. Ivan lifted his head to the level of Alfred's face, sensing that he was
half asleep, and Ivan chose a chance.
"Fuck me, daddy. Please, fuck me."
"Ivan?"
"Fuck me. Please."
Ivan wasn't horny at all, whispering so softly to hide the need to otherwise
speak falsetto, his head resting calm and his underwear left without a tent.
Ivan didn't want sex, but he thought that Alfred's libido might support it,
might remember the only thing Ivan was good for, and might feel differently
about him come the morning light. Ivan wanted to please, as if acting like a
rabbit in heat for the past few weeks since he became hyperaware of his body
was doing nothing. Fuck, it wasn't doing anything at all to help. And yet, Ivan
had the most nauseating sink in his stomach, the glass elevator in him falling
through all of his organs, cracking at his pelvis... the sly thought that Ivan
couldn't change a thing.
But Alfred wouldn't say no.
The coagulated blob of undulating bodies, Ivan getting it in the ass that was
far less tight than it had been, Matthew growling awake and presenting his
cock. Ivan was mechanical in giving the handjob, changing his hand position,
gently teasing, changing moving upwards with a hint of a twist in his wrist,
versus simply going up and down.
Ivan knew how it worked, and that kind of security was so comforting. The
pattern of Alfred cumming, Matthew's seme dribbling onto Ivan's hand... baby
wipes came out of the nightstand to clean off Ivan's pale skin, dragging across
like a satin blade, the flat metal brushing it's chill across the meat of
fingers and the roundness of his ass. Ivan sighed slowly, complacent, wiped off
well while Matthew grumbled distantly about needing to change the sheets.
Then, Ivan was back where he started, but Alfred held onto him, his warm breath
a veil of safety on Ivan. Tomorrow could be guaranteed. Favor had been met. His
ass was wanted.
It was an agonizing week later, his elbows being positioned side by side for
his arms to be tied, complacent and still, his legs parted and fasted with a
few hitches trapping a metal bar in the bends on his knees. Ivan could only
kneel, on the basement floor, the rope on his hands having snuck upward to his
first knuckle, restraining his hands to two fists pressed together in a heart
shape. On request, his lips fell open, a fistful of pantyhose shoved into
Ivan's mouth. Then, a tight black silk scarf to hold it in was fastened over
Ivan's mouth. The drooling was reflexive, making the tights turn tacky to the
tongue. With a blindfold, the BDSM set was complete. Before, he saw the camera
on a tripod a short distance from him, but a pool of dread began to fester as
he was turned, presumably against the wall.
In Alfred's hand rested a leather crop. The camera light turned red, rolling,
taking in sound through a microphone resting on the floor to take in the echo
of the noisy, but gently strike of the crop on Ivan's skin. Ivan did what every
sub is supposed to do, emitting a keening sound, a whine to warm up. Speaking
of warming, Ivan was coming to realize that these little hits might be teasing
at a greater summit- he knew that Alfred and Matthew were speaking of getting
rid of him, and now it seemed that Ivan knew what they were talking about.
Being let go was out of the question, and Ivan would be disposed of. Finally,
killed, buried in the yard, his rancid body fed on by the gigantic dogs, their
fur dripping with darkened blood-
By the second strike, Ivan had begun to sob. Normal, but not when a muffled
scream came through the gag. Alfred kept going anyway, as Ivan's small body
erupted in heaving cries, his voice twisted lower than usual, his sobs guttural
and his screeching nonstop and desperate. The strike of a leather cat (switched
as Alfred thought the crop might have been too painful, the skin not yet warmed
up), came down softly, as Ivan was inconsolable, the sound of heaving inward
breaths filling the room, faster and faster.
The red light on the camera flicked off, the scarf fallen to the floor as well
as the bundle of wet hosiery. Alfred snatched up the fifteen year old disaster,
still braying like a donkey in ugly, tearing, ripping sobs, turning him to face
the room, the blindfold clumsily flipped off of his head. Matthew stared at
Alfred, who stared at Ivan, who cried to the floor, his hands raised as if
begging. His throat closed spasmodically, unable to utter a word, crying in
phrases of vowels like a baby. Fat tears flew down his face, eyes and face
erupting in swollen heat. Matthew was the one to distract from that mesmerizing
state, hearing Ivan's second vagitus rebound off the concrete walls.
He gestured to the stairs.
Alfred nodded, looking at Ivan but unsure what to do with him, leaving him tied
up. Matthew picked up the tripod, and Ivan looked up to see them leave, unsure
whether or not to be relieved or even more afraid. Are they going to get the
gun? Are they going to leave him to rot alone, unable to close his legs, hardly
able to feel comfortable? Yes! Yes! They were going to leave him to die alone.
The door to the upstairs slammed closed. Ivan thought he heard it lock.
His chest quivered from the inside out, extreme in his stressed shoulders that
shook like a rickety house in a hurricane. The bound weight of his hands
pressed against his face, stomach burning from the power of his diaphragm
exploding upwards. To lower them would rip him in half, his body reeling in as
it felt it's own cries. Ivan turned himself over, landing sharply with his head
hitting the floor with a crack, unable to use his hands to support himself, or
his legs to lower him gently. The shrill tinnitus made his noise mute, his
mouth open, dripping onto the hard floor.
There was nowhere to move, no way to get to the dog bed for shallow comforts.
His skin grew cold frighteningly quickly on the floor. His vision swam with
specs of light that faded to black so quickly, the bottom of his vision
greying, then creeping up into sleep.
He woke up in the pitch blackness, in a puddle of piss.
-
It was two days before anyone came back down into the basement. The light from
the stairs shone first, Ivan's eyes burning with the sudden re-introduction of
light. The past two days were spent in silent agony, longing, turning inside
out with ache, his face burning, his legs burning in the puddle of urine. His
legs stuck to the floor once it dried, difficult to remove. Without water, Ivan
had weakened, without his fathers, Ivan didn't have a reason not to feel weak
and alone, wishing for them to come back and shove something too big into his
ass, so he could tear, just to be touched by someone.
Alfred came down the stairs with a bucket of water, a pocket knife, and a small
bottle of dish soap in his pocket. He turned the overhead light on as he
approached, moving Ivan's head and torso into his lap, offering comforts of
touches that Ivan turned his head towards, whimpered for, whining to have...
Wordlessly, Alfred used the rag to deliver clean water into Ivan's mouth,
letting him suck it off of the rag. Once Ivan had some, Alfred moved Ivan
towards the convenient drain in the floor before sloshing some water onto his
legs, putting some soap on the rag and gently wiping away the rashy peel of the
skin, gently washing away the stink of old ammonia and urea.
"Did you miss me?"
"I love you, please... please... I love you..." Ivan croaked out, desperate to
be held and touched. An ungranted wish, he felt, meaningless, another whisper,
coo, cry into the darkness.
Alfred brought out his knife, cutting the ropes now that Ivan was mostly clean,
spreading his legs to pull naked, still unfresh, Ivan fully into his lap,
cradling their overgrown cummy boy.
After a few gentle kisses, soft rubs, and cooing, Ivan felt better, his
interpubescent genitals out for display, soft and laying in position. Alfred
glanced to them; they certainly weren't terrible, especially when he would
still be growing. The start of ashy pubes, the light heft of two relatively
symmetrical balls, and a good cock without too much of a curve or a curl
upwards.
"Would you like to come upstairs for a real bath, and dinner?"
It was the finest evening Ivan had ever experienced.
-
A few more days had passed, and the wound couldn't rest closed. Ivan was called
into the living room, only to be held and fed a glass of milk steadily, like
once when he was small. More neutrality was taken for his treatment, letting
IvAan recover, bouncing back to becoming placid and calm again. He needed to be
nursed back to trust, weaned onto it. Steadily, through holds and soft touches,
shoulder pats and brief hugs, Ivan felt secure enough to act normally. Just
more trust, more illusioned safety, more days promised to him until the idea of
sudden death had all but left him.
One morning, he was being bathed. Alfred's fingers scraped through his scalp, a
wide toothed comb brushing through the suds in his hair, thickening only to
drip down his shoulders in white, soapy sludge. Alfred lathered up Ivan's face
and scraped at the first buds of facial hair that had grown while Ivan had
stopped picking them away. Matthew took a rag to Ivan's back and his arms,
scrubbing them clean, to polish the exfoliate and clean the oil away. Finally,
Ivan was clean smelling and pink, Alfred stretching forward to give a cheek
kiss.
"I am so proud of you, my sweet, sweet angel." The first time Ivan would ever
get that nickname, and he melted into a smile.

A blink later, and he's sitting on the floor wearing a clean polo shirt tucked
into short khaki shorts, a cheap brown belt, soft gray socks and brown loafers,
like he had an overprotective mother in that house (he did, and his name was
Alfred). He was sitting there with a dark haired man, nose packed as if it had
been broken with gauze taped to the bottom of his nose. He looked over Ivan
with interest, even more once Ivan was told to peel his shorts and underwear
down.

"Show your pretty little dick to Mr. Jett, Ivan." And it hung there, still
growing, not yet full like a man's, but the ashen blonde hairs certainly
appeared to please the man in front of him. Ivan looked back to Matthew, who
was stony and silent. Alfred looked excited, not even looking at Ivan's face,
which was anything but reassured by what he was looking at.
"Be a good boy and suck on his dick just like Daddy's. We promised him you were
the best."

It was a sample that tasted rather than tasting the sample, in the middle of
the living room, taking in the alien curl of this man's pubic hair, the
uncircumcised girth of his penis. No teeth, the alien position of a hand
holding his head differently, the heel of the hand secure on Ivan's blonde
hair. And, the man was pleased.

"Ivan, swallow it." Matthew was quick to command, watching as Ivan swallowed it
with the cock still in his mouth, before the man himself had a command. "Lick
it clean, will ya?" He had an accent.
He pulled his own spit-covered penis back into his pants, looking at Alfred and
Matthew. "I'll give you sixty five."

"Ninety, motherfucker." Alfred chuckled, taking a sip of the coke can on the
table.

"He's not as young as you said."

"I told you that two years ago. He's fifteen."

"Mm... he'll get big."

"He's well trained. We want ninety."

"Seventy."

"Eighty."

"Seventy-five?"

Matthew and Alfred looked at each other. Matthew was mouthing something, his
eyes solid, shaking his head slowly. Alfred appeared to interrupt. "Sounds
fucking great, Jett."

Ivan was silent, kneeling on the floor with the taste of this stranger in his
mouth, feeling a great wave of nerve rise up on him, but he was still unable to
question. Dogs don't speak, the only ones that barked were outside. After the
first few nights sleeping outside, he'd failed to make a noise. But, the walls
had already begun to move in, as the men broke up. The dark haired man, Jett,
went out to his car, bringing back a backpack. Alfred went into the kitchen for
a soda, Matthew followed. Ivan couldn't figure out what they were selling.

-

The ride in Jett's car was numb, Ivan leaning against the door, blinking slowly
in the backseat in hopes of his eyes re-absorbing what was trying to come out
of him. Still dressed like a white kid in the suburbs, he was buckled in and
quiet, Jett smirking in the front seat.

"Look, kid. Your name is Max. Ivan sounds like some kind of a forty year old
bloke driving a cab. I'm Master Smith. Not your daddy, not mister. I'm Sir. Do
you understand, you spoiled piece of overpriced shit?" Yet, he said it with a
smile of satisfaction.

"Yes."

"Yes, Sir."

"Yes, sir."

"Next time, I'll beat your ass."

-

"We agreed on eighty thousand."

"She's..."

"I don't give a fuck, Barry. Give me eighty, right fucking now. She's fucking
tight, cute.... She's the best one I got."

"Yeah... alright. You drive a hard bargain. You take checks?"

"Don't scam me. You have the cash."

"I got your money in the back of the car. And whom do I owe the pleasure to?"

"Call me Max."
-
"How could you just do that?"
"Do what? You were the one who offered to sell him first, dude, don't even fuck
with me. We're getting five hundred 'k' for this, and we need the money from
him from some cost. It sounded great when you popped it, Mattie, are you having
misgivings?"
"Hey, he was your pet. He just gave better blowjobs than you did."
"Aww, so he is upset!"
"Look-"
"No, no, I know. I'll miss him terribly, but I have a deal with Jett. If he
ever decides to get rid of Ivan within three years, he'll call us first and we
can buy him back. After three years... he'll be eighteen anyway. But, I doubt
he's going to make a lot of money. He didn't age well- his nose can hold two
tampons without a bulge. Hell, so can Jett's- it actually is right now!"
Chapter End Notes
     WHOOOO! Finally, a second chapter up! So, any new thoughts?
***** Gritty *****
Chapter Summary
     Jett Smith makes a bit of money off of the newly proclaimed Max, but
     Max isn't Jett's only cash cow.
Daisy looked so sweet in her white dress, the buttons on the back lining up
well with her, jiggling gently when she shivered. Ivan held her seated with his
legs around her, pressing her down, and his presence was tall enough that he
had very few problems surrounding her. She sat still because of fear, and he
combed her hair out very gently. Some strawberry Suave detangling spray, cheap
vanilla-esque perfume from the bargain shop, and she smelled delightful. Her
hair was conditioned freshly, washed, and softened, and Ivan had dried it
carefully with the low settings of a hair dryer, careful not to burn her skin.
Then, he sectioned it off and began to plait it in a very simple braid, banding
it off and tying a ribbon snugly around the bottom. She looked so precious, in
her little white shoes and socks, with the ruffle accent on the end. Her face,
although thinner than when he first knew her, was still light and soft, her big
eyes complimented.
He sighed for a moment, and he was suddenly again aware at the other girls
watching him through the chain-link of their cages. They were jealous, he
thought to himself. The little fools all wanted to be as pretty as Daisy.
Perhaps some filming would be done this afternoon while he had all the hairbows
and the dresses laid out.
He looked to make sure all of the cages were locked before plucking up some
rope, taking Daisy's arms and tying them to her torso, then tying her feet
together more gently. With a blanket also in his arms, he picked her up,
turning off the light before going up stairs, then locking the basement door.
Daisy went out to the car in a blanket bundle, and he belted her into the car
seat with a few literal belts, then buckled her in for safety. It would be a
three hour drive to the next state, and he would make the deal at the man's
house. What a fucking idiot. Ivan would obscure his license plate once he was
there. But, for then, Daisy was loaded up into the car. About an hour down the
road, Ivan chose to make a stop for a drive through, pulling the blanket up
Daisy's ropes. "If you're quiet, you'll get a happy meal, and I'll help you eat
it."
One girl's happy meal and a double quarter pounder meal later, he was going
down the road with a chicken nugget in one hand, letting her slowly take them
in her mouth. As a last measure, he unwrapped her My Little Pony doll and set
it in her blanketed lap for her to look down at. She could have it in the house
with her, her new owner permitting. They just kept forward, silently in the
van, hearing the wheels turn and the pavement move by.
-
He rode in the car with Jett, and it never seemed to really end. The rest of
the boys were all in a brothel of a sort, a crackhouse where someone else was
pimping them out and giving Jett "all" the money. The van arrived, and the
other boys loaded into it, pulling out a few cheap fleece blankets from under
the seats to sleep with. There wasn't any speaking, just folding over, some
curling against each other, others shrinking away under their blanket to sleep
and avoid any exposure or touch... There were about five other boys that he
could see around him.
Ivan knew his name still, and sat back in the seat in his preppy clothes, his
arms cold against the plastic interior of the van, and he let his head loll
against the cold glass that shimmered with city lights, bands of orange halogen
light streaking faces as they rode down the road. It wasn't like his basement
that became his home, or the bed that he was getting way too big to share with
two other men. It wasn't where he thought he could stay, as stupid as that
sounded. He wanted to get fucked, and now he had what he wanted... but Ivan
still hungered for that particularly fruity smell on their shirts, the blonde
hair and blue eyes that looked at him with those eyes full of such miraculous
jest to cast him off so easily. He craved that single pancake he got on special
occasions, and the milk with a load of semen in it that was still sort-of cold
by the time Ivan drank it. The sticky syrup that was warm and pleasant in his
mouth, but itchy on his skin. Yet... he wanted that life back, and what contact
it gave. But it was over, and he even felt bad that he didn't feel like crying
over it. Not now.
It went on for a few days, silently riding off into the distance with the other
boys, and murmurs were heard between them. Although the outfits didn't match at
all, and they sat like animals against each other, chicken carcasses in a
chilled pile, you could see the workings of a society of boys. Those two were
friends, that one was a big brother to the other one although they looked
nothing alike. Then, there was the smallest one, sitting between Ivan and
another boy, who had begun resting his hand on Ivan's arm ever so gently, a
brief sign of acceptance into the dog pack. Altogether, Ivan counted three days
before they were shuffled into a different house out in the nitty gritty of the
shitty city, somewhere in Buttfuck, California, in the south where the dammed
and drained Colorado river made almost everything else around it that had once
been green a dry, desertifying prairie.
an
Ivan was led into a room all his own, the door locked behind him, he thought.
He didn't know, but he didn't feel like checking. He was in the middle of
smelling himself (showers were also not common to come by, it seemed) when a
man entered the room, his hot hands and cold sweat too familiar to Ivan, and he
did what he did best.
"Your name's Max?"
"Yes, sir."
"Come here... let's take these off."
Ivan noticed for the first time that he was as tall as this new man, some dude
with a mustache, aviator-shaped bifocals, and some coarse Lee denim on, peeling
down Ivan's shorts and taking in those ashy pubes, dropping balls, and flaccid
cock. He played with them, even giving a few uncomfortable pinches, before Ivan
did what he had to do and let his hips bump up another man's. It felt wrong to
present his ass to anyone but Alfred or Matthew, and it felt like a sin.
((A/N: I pressed the wrong button. Please be patient with me while I finish the
rest of this thing a bit slowly!))
End Notes
     A million credits to MerryGoat, the author of the piece that inspired
     this one, "His Little Angel." Thank you, Goat, for being the reason I
     go to hell in a handbasket.
     As always, what did you think of this chapter? What would you like to
     see? What does this make you think of? Leave a comment, a bookmark,
     or kudos!
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