velvet mace


The first time it happened Havoc had actually been scared, but the experience proved to be somewhat anticlimactic. Embarrassing, revolting, disgusting, but not actually uncomfortable. Not really anything at all. If it weren't for the weight against his back, and the way his face rubbed against the sheets, he could almost pretend it wasn't happening at all.

From the waist down, his body might as well belong to someone else anyway. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing that someone was getting some enjoyment and use out of it, because Havoc sure the hell wasn't.

The second time it happened he'd actually become snarky. "Why don't you just use a blow up doll, sir."

That had earned him a back handed blow that stung for hours. In the end, he was treated to the same rough hands pulling him over onto his stomach and five minutes of insistent rocking.

The third time he knew better. The military was paying for his hospital. They could have just as easily discharged him, but he remained on their payroll, month after month, and he certainly wasn't giving anything back to the organization.

And it didn't hurt. The man could sodomize him into next Tuesday and it still wouldn't hurt. There was no pleasure either, which was just as well. At least the man had the decency to keep his hands off from the waist up where Havoc could actually feel it.

The nurses knew all about these interludes, of course, but it was not something they could do anything about. They tended to him afterwards. Once one of them remarked that he'd been torn a bit. Havoc hadn't noticed. She'd cleaned the blood efficiently and used some cream on him to prevent infection, then placed his diaper back on and helped him dress him for a wheelchair ride around the grounds.

By the tenth time it had grown to such a routine that Havoc himself tucked the pillow under his own hips. That had earned him a brusque, "Good soldier." Havoc listened to the radio playing its insipid songs and considered the wording of a letter to his mother. When the man left, Havoc praised himself for his ability to tune the whole degrading activity out.

Mustang visited as frequently as he could. He was a busy man, and it touched Havoc to know that he still took time out to come and see him.

"Is everything fine?" Mustang asked.

"Sure thing, sir," Havoc responded back.

"Up to anything interesting while I've been gone?" Mustang asked.

"No sir. Nothing interesting at all. Therapy. Same old same old."

"Ahem," came a voice from the door, and they both looked over. Havoc felt his heart sink, Mustang looked surprised.

"Fuhrer!" said the Colonel. "Were you looking for me?"

For a moment the Fuhrer didn't say anything, as though he were collecting his thoughts, then he said, "Mustang, I need you to see my secretary. Tell her to give you the Segram report. I'd like your opinion on it ASAP."

Mustang nodded. "Sorry, " he said to Havoc. "I have to go. I'll be back soon."

"That's fine," said Havoc, wondering if the Segram report was anything of importance. Probably not.

The Fuhrer, of course, stayed behind. "He doesn't know then?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"Have you told anyone?"

"No, sir."

That pleased the man. Havoc hoisted himself over onto his belly and grabbed the pillow.

"Just as well," said the Fuhrer. "It wouldn't make any difference."

Actually, it would, Havoc thought. But not a good difference. It would tear Mustang apart, and what would be the point in that? No, it was better to just keep quiet, let it go on. There was no need for anyone but himself to endure this abuse. Havoc could carry the weight on his own.

After all, it's not like it hurt.