“Sweet boy…come here.” Lysander Shepard jolted awake at soft calls coming from his ‘master’. Shamul the batarian pirate and his self-proclaimed owner shambled into the bedroom they shared, drunkenly victorious from pillage, beckoning his pet for a taste. Lysander rose and went to him, tugging his collar unconsciously. Shamul shuffled to his large bed, kicking off his bloodstained boots as he went, and flopped onto the mattress, soaking it in blood and other things. Lysander wordlessly crawled from his dog bed on the floor and came to stand before the intoxicated batarian, pulling off his own tunic and shucking his pants. Shamul’s cloudy eyes filled with a male heat as they wandered over his body.

“Mm, such a lovely, sweet boy… Come! Tend to your tired master.” Without waiting for the boy to move, Shamul pulled him to the bed, laying him on the filthy mattress, and covering him in soft kisses. Shamul was already out of his trousers, his meat protruding from the top like a sturdy brown pole. The batarian moaned, tugging Lysander’s curls with one hand, circling his bruised hole with the other. “Today was a splendid day, my pet.” He mumbled between kisses, “So many resources for our ships, not to mention the mountains of credits… Your master has become an even more wealthy batarian. I may tell my men to refer to me as the Hegemony!” He moved between Lysander’s thighs, flicking the boy’s nipples as he went, pulling minute whimpers from him, and ran his precum slicked cock up and down the boy’s crack, teasing his entrance. “I will create a new order in the stars, sweet boy… I will be a King with a travelling throne!”

He gazed down at the aroused mess he’d made Lysander and pulled the boy’s arms over his head. “And you,” he growled, pushing his tip against Lysander’s hole. “Shall be my faithful pet… I think I’ll find you a nice little jeweled collar… I’ll even let you sit at my feet, curled up on a little pillow. Doesn’t that sound lovely, sweet boy?” Lysander allowed himself to hear none of the batarian’s monologue. He closed his eyes and made himself think of his family’s faces. Remember their voices, the accent that found its way out when Pa had too much to drink, or was overly emotional. Something… Anything, to keep himself from- Lysander was ripped from his memories when Shamul spun him around to his feet. Lysander stumbled, trying to find his balance as Shamul seized his hips. Lysander grabbed at the air and uttered a strangled cry when Shamul entered him. The batarian’s speed varied, one thrust followed a slow, drawn out pull, each sensation driving Lysander closer to orgasm. Shamul suckled at his neck, sliding his thick fingers up and down the boy’s cock. Lysander gripped the sheets, hating his traitorous body. The sound of wet flesh hitting flesh resonated throughout the room; each slap proceeded by Shamul’s deep growl. “Oh, sweet boy, sweet sweet boy… To have you this way is to truly be in heaven.” Shamul whispered against the back of Lysander’s head, almost lost in his curls. Lysander bit down on his lip, willing himself to remain silent, and not give an inclination to the immense arousal within him. But with Shamul’s cock hitting straight against Lysander’s prostate, he felt himself losing his private battle.

“Come on, my sweet boy… Give yourself to me; you’ve fought hard enough, don’t you think? Surrender, and lose yourself!” Lysander heard a soft tear, barely audible from the sounds of their lovemaking and Shamul’s hissed words of affection, and felt blood trickle into his mouth. He gasped, realizing he’d bitten his lip through, and then moaned long and loud as he’d unknowingly filled his lungs with the appropriate amount of air. Shamul grumbled victoriously, and increased his thrusts.

“It’s happening more and more often now, isn’t it, sweet boy?” He said happily, “Your body belies what you really want from your loving master. No need to fret, my dear pet your attentive master will service you tonight!” Shamul lifted Lysander from his feet, holding him fast against his body, letting the boy drop on his swollen length again and again, all the while hissing words of love through his clenched teeth. Lysander’s hands scrambled around, grasping at empty air, moaning and crying out helplessly as waves of pleasure crashed within him. Shamul’s thrusts became uneven, his hand was a dark blur on Lysander’s hard cock, “I’m going to feed you, sweet boy, urgh… Give you your nourishment… We’ll do it together, as one, my little pet!” Lysander cried out as he came defenselessly with Shamul, seizing the batarian’s arms; he raked his nails down the coarse flesh, head lolling back into the crook of Shamul’s shoulder as the batarian cackled. “I have you now, my fiery little pet.”

Lysander felt as if he were floating, voices heard, but not fully registered seemed to pass him by, each less significant as the last. He didn’t want to wake; he knew if he did, he’d awaken next to the smug self-declared king of the batarians. Self-loathing and shame swashed around his mind and body as he recalled his actions from the previous night. Lysander rolled on his side, tears falling from his shut eyes. He’d given in… He’d voluntarily given the sick son of a bitch pleasure, and he hated himself for it. Lysander squeezed his eyes shut, willing sleep to pull him back under.

Finally, an earth shattering BOOM wrenched him from any pretense of rest. He sat up slowly, instinctively glancing to his right to peek at Shamul, only to find an empty space. Another crash shook the entire room and sent Lysander scrambling from the bed and into his tunic and pants. The red glow from the locked door suddenly buzzed and turned orange, a sign someone who didn’t have access was trying to get in. Lysander dove under the bed as the lock glowed green and the door hissed open. He squirmed to the middle, and watched four sets of booted feet enter. His heart raced as he observed the owners of the feet begin what looked like a search of the room. “Look at this, sir! Either this bastard owned a varren, or he’s one sick SOB…”

Humans! Lysander’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized human voices. He clamped a hand over his mouth to keep from making noise as another pair of feet marched into the room, toward the owner of the voice. “Good god… That’s something I won’t be able to un-see…” The feet moved around the room, discovering more and more of Shamul’s hidden caches, both weapon and otherwise. “Son of a-! Anderson! Look, this fucker has pictures!” The boots Lysander assumed were this Anderson fellow made a beeline to the man standing in front of Shamul’s ‘gallery’. Anderson’s boots stumbled away; Lysander twitched as he fell back to the mattress. “Rhodes… Is that…?” Rhodes’ voice was heavy as he responded to his commanding officer, “Yes sir… It’s a kid.” Anderson sighed, “We can only hope the poor child didn’t survive too long. I’d hate to imagine the horrors he had to live through with these sick creatures.” A rumble of agreement sounded throughout the room.

Lysander was torn; he wanted more than anything to run into the arms of what he could only assume would be his saviors, but living under Shamul’s regime had been difficult on his mind. He and the other ‘Pets’ were constantly given chances to run, windows of opportunity to escape, only to be hunted down like animals, and punished harshly when returned to their ‘owners’. Freedom always seemed so close, but whenever he would reach to touch it, Lysander was burned.

His instincts did battle with one another as Anderson heaved himself to his feet, only to drop what looked like a hat. As he leaned down to grab it, Lysander was snapped back into the present and a small squawk escaped his mouth. He watched, paralyzed with fear as Anderson dropped to his knees and peered under the bed. “What the-? Hernandez!” Anderson caught a flashlight and shined it under the bed, illuminating the terrified boy. “The boy! The one from the pictures! He’s here!” Anderson called.

The bed was suddenly flipped on its side, and Lysander was fully exposed. Blood rushing past his ears deafened Lysander as he sprang to his feet and cowered against the wall. The man called Anderson was an older black man, smaller than some of the men, taller than others, all the while maintaining an aura of command. He was obviously the man in charge of the operation. Anderson raised his hands slowly, picking up on Lysander’s terror, “Easy, son… No one here is going to hurt you; we’re from the Alliance, heard of them?” Lysander scratched at the wall at his back, wishing he could phase through, all the while he kept his eyes on the floor, averted from the men surrounding him. “

We work with the human government; we came here to get rid of the batarian pirates.” Lysander gasped at that and looked at the man called Anderson. “You-you came here t-t-to…” He lowered his head in a new wave of self-loathing, living with the emotional and mentally torturous ‘masters’ had given rise to a terrible stutter. He gritted his teeth, squared his shoulders, and tried again. “Y-You came here to h-help us?” He croaked, feeling vaguely proud of himself. Anderson smiled, Lysander wanted to look away, knowing it would turn into a lecherous one before long, but made himself maintain eye contact. “That’s right, son.” He waved a hand around at the group of men and women forming the semi-circle that faced him. “I and this fine group of individuals are here to help you.” The people in the formation smiled good natured smiles or sounded positive remarks. Lysander allowed a tiny grin in return. Anderson spoke again, “What’s your name, son?”

“L-Lysander…”

“Got a last name, Lysander?”

“S-S-Shepard, L-Lysander S-Shepard…”

“Where did they steal you from, Lysander Shepard?”

“M-Mindoir…”

A soft cry broke out among the ranks of soldiers and Anderson’s face turned stoic. “I saw the aftermath of Mindoir… You survived that hell?” Lysander nodded, suddenly feeling hopeful. “Th-There’re others! Other s-survivors! If you h-hurry… Why are you shaking your head?” Anderson’s gaze was heavy with remorse. “When we took this vessel… The batarians panicked or got angry. The scared ones gave the nozzles of their guns a kiss, the angry ones…” He shook his head, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry, Lysander… The angry ones decided we couldn’t free dead slaves.” Lysander felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice cold water on him. He slid to the floor, his gaze blurring. “S-So they’re all…?” “Dead. I am so sorry, Lysander…” A crazy giggle escaped Lysander’s mouth, causing Anderson and his soldiers to look alarmed. “They w-were freed in the end…” His pulled his knees to his chest as hot tears rolled down his face. “My name is David Anderson, and I would like to come over to where you are, if that’s alright, Lysander.” Lysander’s rising hope and courage flickered. He looked down at his feet, “Err…” Anderson seemed to understand and raised his hands again.

“No need to worry, son, I promise none of us will do anything to you.” The boy slowly lifted his gaze back to the man standing patiently with his arms above his head. “Umm… I d-don’t… W-Well… Okay… Just um… D-Do one thing for me?” Anderson nodded, still smiling, “What’s that, son?” Lysander felt a mad giggle catch in his throat, which he promptly clubbed to death before continuing. The last thing he needed was these people thinking him insane.

“P-P-P-Put your h-hands down? I d-don’t have a g-gun.”

The soldiers laughed at that, Lysander found he was laughing with them, pushing back the fear that always followed a joke at the expense of someone bigger than him. Anderson chuckled and lowered his hands, “Point taken! Alright, here I come.” Anderson slowly stepped forward and stopped a yard away from Lysander and reached out a hand. “This is a sinking ship, son, what’s say you and I get out before we down with it?” Lysander broke into a full blown smile and cautiously took the outstretched hand. “Y-Yes sir.” Anderson nodded and gestured to the soldiers around them.

“Form up and move out!”

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