The night fell and the light of the moon rose through the window on to the bed where Micky lay.  A peaceful moment of calm before the storm that was sure to hit at any minute.  It had been such a wonderful day, spending the whole morning with Davy.  But Mike would be home soon, and all Micky could do was sit and wait for the inevitable.  This night would be spent with Butch...then Mike himself was to have his way.  Micky felt like an old, used rag doll being tossed around from one abusive owner to the next - what an existence.  He couldn't have been more miserable.

Then two points of bright lights traveled across the opposite wall, then merged into one, and then blinked out of sight.  Mike was home.

Micky's plan was to stay still in the dark bedroom and feign sleep as he waited for Mike to come fetch him for the night's activity.  He waited and waited, watching the light under the door for Mike's shadow, but it didn't come.  Instead, all he heard was a bit of murmuring coming from downstairs, not loud enough for him to make out what was being said, but he immediately recognized Mike's voice, and then Peter's.

Suddenly, amid the quiet and peacefulness of his room, Micky heard the sound of angry footsteps clapping hard against the metal of the stairs.  This is it, Micky thought to himself, and he squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see what was in store for him once the door opened.  He didn't know why, but he was so frightened he almost peed in the bed, and his plan of pretending to be asleep wasn't going to work with his body trembling and tensed with adrenaline. He tried to calm himself as he sensed the light hitting him from the opened door.  Then, as he'd expected, the loud slam which made him jump anyway, and he sat up.

"H...Hi, Mike," he stuttered.

Mike said nothing, and busily gathered items from different drawers in the room while Micky sat and watched with growing fear.  If Mike would only talk to him, he would feel better.  "What's wrong, Mike?" he asked, his eyes following every move Mike made - still no answer.  Mike had set out a strange combination of things on the nightstand: needles, ink, a small white cloth, and thin ropes.  Micky couldn't figure out what it was all for.

Mike sat down on the bed near his collection of items and gave his instructions to Micky:  "Get up - and get undressed." he growled.  "I want you face down across my knee."

Micky did as he was told.  There was some confusion in his face, but relief in his mind that maybe the night's plans had changed and there would be no Butch after all.  Lying on Mike's knees wasn't so bad, in fact he could feel himself being aroused by the thought of a good spanking, his hard-on inching between Mike's legs.  However, he wasn't surprised when that good feeling ended - inevitable when one was spending time with Mike, and he felt the stinging sensation of a needle poking him in the ass.  'That wasn't so bad either,' he thought.  'What the hell is Mike doing anyway?'  Then another sting, and another, and then long stretches of painful needle pricks being carefully directed into his skin.  He tried to squirm out of Mike's grasp, only to have his head grabbed by a handful of his curls and his face slammed hard back down into the mattress.

"Mike!  Please...stop!" he cried out, as he struggled to break free.

Without a word, Mike lifted Micky and slammed him back down on the bed in a new position.  He sat on Micky's legs while he tied his wrists together, and then to the headboard of the bed - that was always a great convenience.  Mike had known it the moment he laid eyes on their new bed, and now he had Micky on it helpless once again.  It wouldn't be as easy to burn his design into Micky's flesh, but at least he had a still surface to work on.  He gathered his supplies and continued his artwork where he had left off.

Micky stopped his squirming, but he couldn't stop his body from defending itself.  The muscles in his ass had tightened to a rock hardness, making it all the more difficult for Mike, and more painful for Micky.  For maximum discomfort, Mike was deliberately sinking his needle into deeper layers of skin than needed for the job, and had chosen such a sensitive area of flesh that Micky could feel every needle penetrating deep and slowly as if time had stopped.  He gritted his teeth and concentrated on the form of the design Mike was tattooing on his ass.  It felt huge in size and intricate in detail; his whole left cheek was on fire from the never-ending barrage on pinpricks.  And still, he couldn't understand why Mike was doing this to him.

After what seemed like days, Mike had finally finished.  He set his tools down along with a blood soaked cloth on the bedside table, and he stood back to admire his work: two bold adjoining M's stared back at him.  He smiled at how clever the symbol was.  His very own trademark branded on his best bitch's ass.  No one would dare play with his possession again.

Micky finally moved as Mike untied his wrists; he was sore all over, but his minor aches didn't compare to the stinging burn on his ass.  He had to see what had been done and how bad it looked, so he turned his head around as far as it would go.  Mike laughed and tossed him a hand mirror.  Amid the redness and swelling he could make out the two black M's, and immediately thought: 'Mike and Micky - together forever on my ass,' and he let a slight smile cross his lips.  Could it be that Mike loved him after all?

Mike couldn't help himself from laughing at Micky's pleased expression.  He traced one M with his finger as he explained the true meaning, "That's not M for Mike, and M for Micky," he laughed again, and painfully traced the symbol once more, making Micky wince.  With a strong emphasis on the M's, he continued, "that's M for Master, and M for Mike - got it, bitch?"

"Yes,"  Micky answered with disappointment and hurt in his voice.

"Get dressed,"  Mike ordered, and left the room.

Micky was left alone once again to contemplate his new scar and what it meant.  At first he had thought it was an act of love, strange though it might be, but now that the real meaning was revealed, he knew it was an act of hate.  Why did Mike hate him?  And why a tattoo of 'Master Mike'?  Could he know about Davy?  Micky suddenly felt sick.

Downstairs, Mike waited for Davy to make an appearance.  'Any minute now' he willed, and the front door opened as if by his command.  Mike stood, perfectly still, rage beaming from his eyes, every muscle in his body poised for release on Davy's little body.

"Hey, Mike."  Davy made the mistake of speaking, and the next thing he knew he was on the floor, bleeding from his mouth. Before he could recover, Mike scooped him up by his shirt for a good shot across that cute chiseled face.  Davy's feet dangled helplessly from his own lack of height as Mike came down on him again with a fist to his eye.  He threw Davy against the wall and started toward him for another round - Mike wanted to kill him.

This time though, Davy was ready and leapt to his feet prepared to spring his fist somewhere into Mike.  Davy may have been smaller than his contender, but he was quick, and he delivered a powerful punch to Mike's chest, knocking the wind out of him and forcing him to his knees - and now Davy had him on his level.  He kicked Mike's bent-over frame, his shoe connecting with Mike's chin, the impact flinging Mike backward to the hardwood floor.  Davy stood and watched as the blood flowed from Mike's face, quite pleased with himself that he was able to put the bastard in this condition.  He turned away from the sight and limped to the bathroom.

Mike was lying on the floor, still unconscious from that last blow, when Micky came downstairs dressed in his black leather pants as Mike had ordered.  From the bottom of the stairs he spotted Mike's bloody form and he froze in fear, not able to think or move.  He wanted to go to Mike to see if he was alright, but something held him back.  Slowly, Micky forced himself to walk the distance between them for a better look, but stopped when the body moved unexpectedly.  He heard a cough from behind him; relieved, he decided to investigate it instead of Mike.

He turned from Mike and found the bathroom door ajar and cautiously made his way inside.  The sight before him now was worse than what was on the living room floor.  "Davy..." he said automatically, "What happened?"  He moved closer to the sink where Davy was standing in front of the mirror examining the damage done to his face .  'Davy's beautiful face' Micky thought, 'My lover's beautiful face', and he leaned down to kiss Davy's shoulder, then wrapped his arms around the small body while he lowered his face into the nook of Davy's neck.

"I'm alright, Micky,"  Davy tried to reassure him as he checked a loosened tooth.

Micky raised his face to look at Davy in the mirror, "You don't look alright."  The huge black bruises along his jaw and cheekbone were obvious, even after the blood was cleaned off and looked very painful to Micky.  "Why did Mike do this?"

"I don't know, but something tells me Mike found out about our little afternoon date." 

Micky's eyes grew wide.  He didn't want to believe it when he thought the same thing, but Davy's confirmation was too hard to let slide.  "How?!  What are we gonna do?  He'll kill us both!"  The panic in Micky's voice worried Davy more than the questions he asked - but Davy already had a plan simmering.

"Calm down, Micky.  Everything will be fine - just let me take care of it."  He went to his room for a clean shirt, Micky following close behind, then he headed for the front door, stepping over the motionless body in his way.  He turned back, "C'mon, Micky, before he wakes up."

Micky remained on the other side of what seemed like a fortress to him.  "He could be dead," he said simply, looking down at the swollen face covered in blood.

"'e's not dead," Davy tried to convince him and offered an outstretched hand to help Micky to the other side. "He'll be fine - now, come on."

"Where?"

"Away from 'ere,"  Davy said, with that same sincere look in his eyes, the look that got Micky into his bed in the first place - and now it worked again.  Micky took his hand and stepped over his master to leave with Davy.  Davy could feel the trembling in his friend's hand as he made that step, and he knew that Micky had no idea what he was about to do.  He would do anything Davy told him to right now, but Davy didn't need to prove anything like Mike did.  He could take better care of Micky and keep him away from Butch.

And so, out the door they went with Davy leading the way, dragging Micky by the hand down to the beach. They walked quickly along the shoreline, occasionally looking behind them for any followers.

"Why are we on the beach?" Micky asked, "Wouldn't it be easier to take the street?"

"Yes, but it would also be easier for Mike to find us."

"Where are we going?"

"To a friend's place - it's just a few miles away."

"Miles?!"

Micky was not pleased with the prospect of having to walk miles on the beach, and Davy couldn't help thinking what a big baby he was being.  They had just escaped a terrible situation and no real plans for the near future, and all Micky could think about was the long walk.  Davy just shook his head, not quite believing that Micky could be so ignorant of what was happening to them.

But Micky didn't see it that way.  His leather pants were rubbing painfully against his sore left cheek.  'If only Mike would allow me to wear underwear,' he thought, 'then it wouldn't hurt so much.'  The pain started to run down his leg with each step and was becoming unbearable.  He couldn't walk miles like this.

Davy wasn't faring much better.  His head ached from Mike's punches and he just knew he would lose that tooth which was now starting to throb painfully.  'Just a little further,' he told himself over and over.  Davy wasn't stupid; he knew he got lucky back there with Mike, and he also knew that Micky was right, if Mike found them, they were dead. But he needed to rest as much as Micky, so they stopped far enough from the pad and settled among some tall rocks that hid them away from everything but the ocean before them.

Davy sat while Micky remained standing, leaning against the rock.  "Sit with me, Micky - we're safe 'ere."

"I can't."

"What you mean you can't?"

"I can't sit."

"What's wrong, then?"

"Nothing..."

"Did that bastard do something to you?  Let me see."

"No.  I'm OK."

"C'mon, Micky, let me take care of you."

"You're the one that's hurt.  I should be taking care of you."

"All right then, take care of me, but I have first go."  Davy reached up to unbutton the leather pants and peel them down while Micky hissed through his teeth from the pain it caused.  Micky turned toward the rock and allowed Davy to inspect Mike's handiwork.  "Bastard."  It looked terribly swollen and had started bleeding from the abrasive leather rubbing against it.

Micky slumped his head down into his arms to hide his face and cried from embarrassment and hurt.  Davy reached up to pull his needy friend down to him on the sand and gave him a hug.  "It's OK, Micky.  He won't hurt you again." And he gave him a gentle kiss on his forehead, hoping it would make Micky feel safe.  He took off Micky's shirt and wrapped it around his waist. "The silk should make it feel better and help keep the sand off." he explained as he tied the long sleeves in a knot.  "Lie on your right side, Micky - give it a chance to heal."  Micky complied, but shivered from the cold ground against his half-naked body.  Davy did his best to warm him up with his arms wrapped around him and offered his shoulder to sleep on, but he wished he could do more than that.  He wished he could give Micky the love he had showed him just that afternoon, but his mouth was too painful now to be giving blowjobs, so he settled for a soft kiss on Micky's lips.

"Mike's gonna find us," Micky whispered.

"Don't worry about Mike - I'll take care of 'im."

"How?"

"I think I did a pretty good job tonight - I can do it again."  He leaned over Micky for another kiss and wrapped his arms around him.  "Why are you trembling so much?  Its not that cold."

"I don't know"

"Shit.  You need a fix, don't you?"

Micky simply nodded his head and pulled Davy down to him for some more warmth.  This only made things more complicated.  Now Davy had to worry about finding some dope for Micky before he started getting sick.  "You should've stayed away from that stuff, Micky.  Now what we gonna do with you?"

"I never had a choice, Davy.  Mike just gave it to me, and besides…it felt good."

Davy understood completely.  That was how Mike kept such perfect control over Micky; it was the drugs.  He felt sorry for Micky all over again, as he watched those sad almond eyes look up to him for strength.  What could he do for him?  He ran his hands along Micky's bare chest and leaned down for a series of kisses and licks.  It didn't stop Micky from trembling, but maybe he could make him forget all his pain for a little while.  He lightly moved his hand down to his bruised thigh, forgetting how large the swollen area had become, and then quickly removed it after Micky winced.  He was so afraid to touch any part of him.  God only knew all the things Mike had done to Micky's body.  But he tried again, this time touching only the swollen cock that was apparently left uninjured, and he was determined to give Micky the best hand-job he'd ever had.  He reached into his pocket for the small, take-along sized tube he always carried and warmed some gel in his hands.  He got up on his knees and worked Micky with both hands, slowly and with a gentle touch, while his mouth sucked on the long delicate neck and hard nipples that he knew drove Micky so wild.

Micky's trembling became worse, and Davy began to think that maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all, but he couldn't stop now, so he concentrated on bringing Micky over.  His hands held a firmer grip and their motion became faster, massaging every inch of sensitive flesh with the perfect rhythm of ecstasy.  Strangely, Micky wouldn't come, but he was moaning and wriggling like he would explode.  Davy wasn't one to give up though.  Micky must have too much on his mind, that's all, Davy decided, and he applied a bit more pressure and a regular rhythm - no teasing or playing, just release; that's what Micky needed, Davy knew it.

Finally, Micky's trembling tightened and his body stiffened all over as he came hard in Davy's hands.  He moaned softly as Davy finished him off till there was nothing left, then Davy moved to lie next to Micky and held him tightly in his arms.  Micky's moans subsided into whimpers, then to soft crying, and then he fell off to sleep lying on Davy's chest.

Davy was starting to think that maybe he had bitten off a bit more than he could chew.  Micky was a wreck: physically, mentally, emotionally - what was Davy going to do with him?  He had no idea Micky was this bad off.  And with Mike after them this wasn't going to be easy…unless Mike really was dead.  'If only,' Davy thought to himself hopefully.  The hope could deaden his fear.  A lot of their problems could be solved if Mike were out of the picture.  Davy looked up and prayed aloud: "Please be dead, you bastard!"