Angelo sighed and recrossed his legs for the fifth time since he had been seated-- rather forcefully-- in the interrogation chamber. He knew Marcello was keeping him waiting deliberately. It was nearly midnight on the evening of the Sabbath, the weekly day of rest when the Templars were occupied with nothing save worship, meditation, or study. Most of the Templars anyway; Angelo had been occupied at the bar in Simpleton until two of the other Templars had arrived on Marcello's orders to fetch him. These same two still stood by the doorway, guarding him, while Marcello himself had likely spent the entire evening shut up in his chambers, reading or writing.

How boring, Angelo thought as he idly polished his signet ring on his pants leg. No wonder he gets such a thrill out of punishing infidels-- it's probably the only excitement in his life.

That made Angelo wonder just what his punishment would be this time for his dalliance in Simpleton, but before he had mused on it long, Marcello finally appeared. From where he was seated at the rough wooden table, Angelo had his back to the door of the interrogation chamber; however, he recognized the measured tread of Marcello's boots as the Templar captain stalked into the room between the two guards. Angelo felt an unwelcome twitch of nervousness in his chest, though he made no outward movement to acknowledge his half-brother's presence.

Marcello walked into Angelo's line of vision, but the captain was facing the barred window of the torture chamber which was attached to the interrogation chamber. As was often the case, he seemed to wish to avoid the very sight of his younger brother. Angelo stifled a sigh and looked away himself, taking the opportunity to study his immaculate white boots instead of watch Marcello.

"How old was she?" Marcello asked abruptly. Angelo jumped slightly at the sudden sound of his harsh voice; thankfully, Marcello was still looking away and did not see. The other two Templars had probably seen though, and Angelo cursed their presence-- not that most of the Abbey hadn't seen him being dressed down by Marcello before.

"How old was who?" Angelo returned in a tone of disinterest.

"The nobleman's daughter whose honor you were attempting to sully." Marcello was less skilled than Angelo at feigning indifference, and his voice had a snapping note of disgust to it.

Angelo rolled his eyes. "I wasn't attempting to sully anyone's honor. If you're referring to the young lady who came here on a pilgrimage with her family yesterday, I believe she is eighteen. But--"

Marcello cut him off by spinning to face him and slamming his gloved hands down on the table's surface. "This is the third Sabbath you've snuck off to the bar and been seen in the company of young girls, and you expect me to believe that you aren't seducing them?"

A familiar feeling of anger rose in Angelo's throat, and in spite of his vow to himself not to let Marcello upset him, he gripped the table's edge in fury. "I go to the bar to play cards! I certainly don't mind the company of whatever ladies might be there, but--"

"So the fact that this particular young lady slipped away from her parents and met you there is merely a coincidence?"

Angelo shrugged. "I might have mentioned to her yesterday that I would be there tonight. However, it was entirely up to her whether or not she came there as well." He folded his arms and slumped back in his chair belligerently. "And anyway, nothing untoward has ever happened there. I buy drinks for the ladies and perhaps socialize a bit, but other than that--"

"Even if you aren't lying to me, which I doubt, that is more than enough!" Marcello growled, his voice rising slightly. "Not only are you drinking and gambling-- and cheating, no doubt- but now you're fraternizing with women on the Goddess' holy day as well! Your sacrilege makes you a disgrace to the abbey and the Templars!"

It was a charge Angelo had heard many times before, yet it still hurt a little, all the same. By now, though, he could hide the pain well; his reply did not even sound angry, only faintly exasperated. "Marcello, you're so utterly boring. And here you wonder why I prefer girls' company to yours."

For some reason, these words struck a nerve where Angelo's retorts in the past had not. Marcello stared at him, his vibrant green eyes widening slightly as his lips parted. Then his mouth closed again in a grim line, and he spun on his heel and stalked back to the door. Angelo was startled at his half-brother's reaction and even more surprised when he heard Marcello's footsteps fade as the captain left the interrogation chamber. Marcello had never terminated a "conference" so abruptly before.

But he must not be through with me yet, Angelo realized. He didn't dismiss the guards. He was left to await Marcello's return, again. However, this time, he didn't have to wait nearly as long. No more than five minutes had passed when Marcello stomped back into the room.

"Leave us," Angelo heard him snarl to the two guards.

Oh Goddess, Angelo thought with another roll of his eyes even though there was no one facing him to see the action. He must have something big planned.

He heard the guards shift nervously, but they left the room anyway; none of the Templars save Angelo ever dared defy Marcello's orders. Marcello slammed and lock the door to the interrogation chamber then stalked over to stand in front of Angelo.

"Get up," he ordered. Angelo looked him over doubtfully; his older brother held in one hand a sack from which protruded what looked suspiciously like the handle of a whip. Still, Angelo had a feeling it was just for show, for Marcello had never whipped him or administered any form of corporal punishment. Angelo assumed this was because Abbot Francisco had forbade Marcello to lay a hand upon him; however, he doubted that the Abbot, as kind as he was, realized that the verbal and psychological trauma the brothers inflicted upon one another was more painful than any physical blow could be.

"Get up," Marcello said again in a deadly voice when Angelo did not immediately obey. Angelo reluctantly got to his feet, still eying the sack. There was more in it than a whip judging from its shape.

Marcello opened the door leading into the torture chamber and gestured for Angelo to go in first. Marcello followed him in, then locked that door as well. Again, Angelo felt a nervous flutter in his chest as Marcello threw his sack on the floor, then tucked his keys into his pocket and folded his arms.

"Remove your jacket and shirt, and face the wall."

The blood drained out of Angelo's face, leaving his cheeks cold with prickles of sweat. He is going to whip me, Angelo thought with dismay. For an instant, he considered resisting, but he dismissed the thought almost immediately. He knew that Marcello was stronger than he and that there was no escape from either chamber without the keys Marcello held. Furthermore, there was no one to help Angelo whether Marcello broke the Abbot's rules or not; even if one of the other Templars had been willing to cross Marcello, none would be able to pass the locked doors to come to Angelo's aid, if they could even hear his call for help.

It can't hurt any worse than being beat up at the bar, and that's happened to me often enough, Angelo tried to assure himself as he began unbuttoning his jacket. And even if it does hurt, I won't give him the satisfaction of showing weakness. He felt better after thus rallying his courage, and he pulled off his gloves and tossed them aside with some aplomb. Once they were off, he removed his caped jacket, then unbuttoned the plain white shirt he wore beneath it. He glanced once at Marcello, but the captain was staring resolutely at the floor. Angelo untucked his shirt from his trousers, then pulled it off and dropped it on the floor on top of his jacket. He turned to face the wall with a deep breath to calm himself.

"All right," he said coolly. "Now what, Captain?"

He heard the hiss of Marcello's indrawn breath, then felt a sudden shove in the middle of his back as Marcello pushed him forward. Caught off guard, Angelo stumbled and fell against the wall, bracing himself on his hands. He recoiled at the feeling of the damp, gritty stones and mortar beneath his hands, but Marcello shoved him back against the wall with what felt like his forearm pressed against Angelo's back. Marcello grabbed Angelo's slender left wrist and yanked his arm upward until it rested within one of the several manacles mounted on the wall above their heads. It felt like an icy bracelet as it closed over Angelo's wrist, even colder than the wall against which Angelo's almost hairless chest and right cheek were pressed.

Marcello pinioned Angelo's right wrist in another manacle, then stepped back. Angelo was able to move his body a scant two inches away from the wall, not far enough to escape the wet coldness that radiated from it. He shivered, cursing his body for its fragility.

I'll be warm soon enough once he starts lashing me, Angelo thought with grim amusement. He was unable to tell what Marcello was doing; he heard only the intermittent scuffs of Marcello's boots on the stone floor and the rustling of cloth. Every time he heard a noise, he flinched involuntarily, expecting the lash of the whip at any moment. That horrid, unfulfilled anticipation was worse than knowing Marcello was going to strike.

But Marcello did not strike at all. Angelo didn't even hear him approach until his brother was already right behind him, his gloved hands reaching around Angelo's waist to unbuckle his belt. Angelo cringed in surprise at the touch, having expected pain instead.

"What--?" he breathed when he realized that Marcello was removing his belt. "What are you doing?" His shock and visions of what Marcello might be planning made Angelo forget his vow to show no weakness, and now he pulled at the manacles, trying to free himself. Is he going to strip me naked before he whips me? he wondered. Or maybe he wants to do something worse, like castrate me. 

Maybe he thinks that would put a stop to my meeting girls. Despite his fear of what promised to be very real pain whatever Marcello had in mind, Angelo found that thought darkly amusing.

Still, Marcello didn't answer him. No part of him touched Angelo except his hands, which had stripped away the younger Templar's his belt and were now unbuttoning his pants. Angelo gritted his teeth as he felt his brother's gloved fingers moving from button to button down his abdomen. When the buttons were freed, Marcello grasped the waist of Angelo's trousers and yanked them down, leaving Angelo in his thin underwear, which did little to stop the chill of the damp basement room from seeping into his body.

Marcello left Angelo's pants about his calves and crouched at his feet. The captain began to unfasten the long row of buttons on Angelo's left boot; Angelo looked down at his brother's bent head with that same grim amusement. Who would ever have thought that he'd deign to remove my boots? Marcello finished with the buttons and pushed roughly at the back of Angelo's left knee, forcing him to bend his leg and lift the sole of his foot from the floor. Marcello swiftly pulled Angelo's boot and stocking from his foot, then let his leg drop. Angelo hissed at the coldness of the dirty floor on his bare foot; by the time the stone had warmed under his skin, Marcello had removed his other boot and stocking as well.

When Angelo's boots were out of the way, Marcello pulled off the younger Templar's pants as well, leaving Angelo in only his undergarment, hair ribbon, and earrings. Angelo shivered again, feeling goosebumps break out on his bare arms and legs as Marcello stood and backed away from him.

"Well?" Angelo snapped. "Are you going to do it, or are you going to let me freeze to death?"

"Do what?" Marcello said in a flat voice.

"Are you going to whip me?" Angelo felt that breaking the tension by asking was in itself a show of weakness, but he couldn't stand not knowing.

"No," Marcello answered immediately. "I will not whip you."

As much as Angelo had dreaded the whip, this answer frightened him. Forcing his voice not to shake, he said as indignantly as he could, "Well, what then? Get on with it!"

He heard a rustle as Marcello stepped towards him again, then he felt his brother's gloved fingers grasp the hem of his underwear and pull it downward. Angelo drew in his breath sharply in surprise at finding himself suddenly naked, and despite the cold, his cheeks grew fiery hot. In over ten years of humiliation and punishment at the hands of the Templar captain, Marcello had never seen him naked. No one had in the Abbey-- or elsewhere, despite what everyone thought about Angelo and the girls at the Simpleton bar.

"Since you enjoy the company of girls so much," Marcello said in a low, tight voice, "you are going to spend the rest of the night dressed as one."

In spite of everything and entirely without meaning to, Angelo burst out laughing. "What? You're going to make me wear a dress as a punishment?"

"It isn't a dress." With that cryptic remark, Marcello knelt at Angelo's feet again. This time, Angelo couldn't bear to look down; as he closed his eyes tightly instead, he felt his brother pick up each of his feet then begin to move something up his legs.

Is he putting knickers on me? Angelo wondered, again amused despite his embarrassment. If so, they were extremely form-fitting knickers, he realized as Marcello stood once more, sliding the garment up past Angelo's thighs. The younger Templar gasped as his brother pulled it over his hips and groin; he had never worn anything so tight before. He finally looked down to see his abdomen encased in something dark red and slightly stretchy. It wasn't a pair of knickers but a strapless leotard with lacy ruffles around each leg opening.

"Marcello, what--" Angelo began, then broke off as he felt like the breath was being choked out of him. Marcello had pulled the garment up completely and was tying its laces tightly across Angelo's back. Angelo drew in a ragged breath with the sensation that his lungs were being compressed, then squirmed as he realized that wasn't the only organ being compressed: the leotard was bunched most uncomfortably between his legs.

"Agh!" Angelo panted, pulling desperately on the manacles that held his wrists.

"What's the matter?" Marcello said snidely, his voice finally shifting from that terribly flat tone to the smug sound with which Angelo was most familiar. "Don't tell me that it's too revealing, the way you like to flaunt your looks."

"It's-- it's pinching me," Angelo finally managed to spit.

"Oh, my apologies if I tied the laces too tightly for your tastes," Marcello retorted.

"Not-- that." Angelo squirmed again. "If you want to castrate me, you-- could at least be-- humane about it!"

". . . oh." The way Marcello said it told Angelo that it hadn't been intentional, but at the moment, Angelo didn't really care.

"Unlock-- one of my hands!" Angelo panted. "Please."

Marcello didn't reply. Angelo heard him approach, but instead of reaching up to unlock one of the manacles, Marcello put his gloved hand on Angelo's left hip, then to Angelo's alarm slid his fingers inside the leg opening of the leotard. He pulled his hand away from Angelo's body, loosening the fabric of the garment a moment; Angelo nearly collapsed from relief. He let out his held breath, then drew it in again sharply when Marcello's fingers withdrew and the tight fabric encased him again. This time though it did not pinch, only pressed tightly against his body in a feeling almost pleasant.

When Marcello crouched beside him once more, Angelo forced himself to watch what he was doing. The captain had picked up a silk stocking, and he proceeded to pick up Angelo's left foot and slip the stocking over it. Angelo watched in agitation as Marcello pulled the stocking up his leg. It reached midway up Angelo's thigh, and once it was in place, Marcello placed his hands around Angelo's ankle and slowly slid them up his leg, smoothing the silk. Angelo's breath caught in his throat as Marcello's hands reached the top of his stocking, encircling his thigh. His brother's touch was deceptively gentle, reminding Angelo that this was the most physical contact Marcello had had with him since the day Angelo arrived at the Abbey.

He was almost disappointed when Marcello let go of his thigh, but the captain repeated the process with Angelo's other leg. Angelo stared at his brother's gloved hands moving upward. When Marcello had arranged the right stocking to his satisfaction, he leaned over and took something else from the bag, from which he had presumably produced what Angelo now wore. The new item, to Angelo's dismay, was a frilly garter which directly found its way onto his left thigh.

Marcello stood then, leaving Angelo facing the damp wall, feeling as if nearly every inch of his body was constricted in the tight garments. How do women stand it? he wondered as he resisted the urge to squirm.

Marcello had taken something else from the bag, then returned to him. He reached up and unlocked the manacle holding Angelo's left wrist, but any hope Angelo had of being freed was futile. Marcello kept a tight hold of his wrist as he slipped something over Angelo's hand: a long black glove that reached up past his elbow. The captain locked Angelo's left wrist back in its manacle, then placed another glove on Angelo's right arm through the same process.

When Marcello stepped away this time, Angelo rested his forehead against the wall, trying to cool his burning face against it. So much for being cold, he thought sardonically.

"Now what?" he muttered, feeling his lips brush the wall. "Are you going to parade me in front of the other Templars?"

"I haven't finished." Angelo could only wonder what the crowning touch was as Marcello plunked something down on his head. However, Marcello had thought of everything; he produced a hand mirror and held it up. With a feeling of dread, Angelo turned and regarded his reflection, only to find that he was wearing a set of bunny ears.

". . . you dressed me up like a bunny girl," Angelo said dully, then returned his forehead to its place on the wall. "Goddess."

An instant later, he squawked as Marcello jerked on his ponytail hard enough to make his eyes water. "You will not take the Goddess' name in vain-- this has nothing to do with Her!"

"It certainly doesn't." Angelo turned his head to look over his shoulder at his brother. "Where did you get this thing, anyway? Do you keep a private bunny girl for yourself or something?"

"Someone apparently thought it would be amusing to place this iniquitous costume in one of the Abbey's donation boxes," Marcello growled in a low tone. "I had been trying to think of a way to sell it without drawing attention to the Abbey-- but now it seems I've found a better use for it."

"And that use is what?" Angelo mumbled to the wall.

"That, I haven't decided." Marcello jerked on Angelo's ponytail again, forcing his brother to turn his head and look at him. "I should take you back to that bar and let the men there treat you the way you treat the girls."

"I seriously doubt that they'd be interested," Angelo pointed out. "As it is now, you're not going to fool anyone into thinking I'm a girl."

"With enough drinks in them, I'll wager they wouldn't care."

Angelo curled one side of his mouth in a sarcastic smile. "Why, Marcello, I had no idea you were even conscious of such things. The illustrious captain of the Templars shouldn't think thoughts like that, my dear brother--" Before he had even finished speaking, Marcello's gloved hand darted out and slapped Angelo's across the mouth.

"I am not your brother," Marcello snarled, pulling Angelo's hair again when the younger Templar tried to turn his face away and press his stinging cheek to the cool wall. "I deny every drop of the blood we share."

"Deny it all you like," Angelo retorted. "One-half of our parentage is the same, and that makes us brothers no matter what you say. What difference does it make anyhow? Are you afraid you'll feel too guilty to punish me? Or worried that you'll start to care for me? If those are your concerns, you have nothing to fear-- I don't think you'll ever harbor a tender thought for me. Or for anyone."

Marcello did not reply; his anger seemed to have dissipated, and his face was composed when he turned away from Angelo. Only his vibrant green eyes held any emotion, but Angelo couldn't tell just what that emotion was.

The captain returned to his bag one last time. Turning his head to look over his shoulder, Angelo saw him produce what was indeed a whip. At first, he thought that Marcello had lied about not whipping him. However, Marcello instead unlocked Angelo's wrists while holding the leather-wrapped handle of the whip between his teeth. He again kept a firm grip on his younger brother's arms, but Angelo did not try to struggle. He had even less of a reason to try to escape now considering how he was dressed.

Marcello wrapped the tail of the whip about Angelo's wrists and used it to drag him towards a garrote stationed in one corner of the room. For a horrified moment, Angelo thought that Marcello actually intended to torture him to death, bunny suit and all, but Marcello himself sat sideways on the garrote's bench. Apparently, he had merely wanted a place to sit.

"From your attitude, it's obvious that simple embarrassment is not sufficient to make you repent of your actions," Marcello announced, still holding Angelo captive with the whip. "And unfortunately, I doubt that Abbot Francisco would look very favorably upon my turning you over to the tavern's patrons."

"Yes, that is a pity," Angelo said with another roll of his eyes.

"Since you constantly insist on behaving so immaturely," Marcello growled, the anger in his voice just barely constrained, "I've decided to give you a more fitting punishment, what you should have received many times over years ago."

Before Angelo could speak again, Marcello pulled hard on the whip. Dragged by his wrists, Angelo stumbled forward and bumped against his brother's legs. Marcello put his hand on the small of Angelo's back and shoved him forward, forcing Angelo to fall forward across his lap.

Oh Goddess, Angelo thought, his cheeks flaring with heat again. Apparently, Marcello had decided to break whatever injunction was held against corporal punishment, and he brought his gloved hand down hard against Angelo's backside.

It was the first time Angelo had ever been spanked; as a child in his father's house, neither his mother nor the servants had been allowed to punish him. That made it especially embarrassing to receive his first spanking at the age of twenty, and he actively resisted, trying to pull away from Marcello. However, Marcello still had his wrists pinioned with the whip which he gripped tightly, preventing any escape.

Angelo gasped as Marcello swatted him again. There was little pain save a sharp sting when Marcello's hand came in contact with him, so Angelo gritted his teeth and resolved to take it. Perhaps Marcello would let him go sooner if he didn't resist.

Marcello paused after a moment, and Angelo thought he might already be finished until he saw Marcello's gloves drop to the ground near his feet. A second later, he felt Marcello's bare hand come in contact with the backs of his thighs in a hard slap. That stung worse than the gloved smacks to his backside, and Angelo cried out involuntarily.

"Ahh!" He struggled again but only succeeded in getting his brother's elbow pressed in the small of his back to keep him still while Marcello continued to hit him with his other hand. After a few more swats to his legs, Marcello began spanking him again. The sting lessened due to the protection of the thin fabric stretched over Angelo's hips. . . but that led to the thought that but for the flimsy garment Angelo wore, his brother's bare hand would be coming in contact with Angelo's flesh. Angelo drew in his breath sharply at that realization. The next blow felt more erotic than painful, and a faint moan escaped his lips. After that, he bit his lower lip to keep silent as Marcello spanked him even harder. The captain's body was heaving with his ragged breaths, which only served to make Angelo more excited. He tried to shift positions, but Marcello snarled at him and held him in place.

"You aren't going anywhere," Marcello panted breathlessly. "I should whip you, you insolent little scoundrel." He paused then brought his hand down hard just above Angelo's thighs, making Angelo yelp in spite of himself. "But I don't think I'd enjoy that nearly as much." The last words were spoken barely above a whisper, and Angelo wondered if Marcello had even meant for him to hear them.

And I'll wager I'm enjoying it every bit as much as you are, Angelo thought in between instances of dizzying pleasure each time Marcello spanked him. But why? We're both men, and worse. . . even if we've never lived as brothers, we're still related. I shouldn't feel like this-- And maybe that, he realized, was why Marcello tried to deny that they were brothers.

Marcello finally stopped, still panting for breath after the exertion. Angelo's backside and thighs now stung fierily, but even so, he wished Marcello hadn't quit. That wish was granted when he shifted slightly on his brother's lap

"Be still!" Marcello shouted at him, bringing his hand down one final time with a painful smack.

"M-Marcello!" Angelo moaned before he could stop himself. His hands clutched of their own volition at his brother's pants leg.

"Quiet!" There was a note of desperation in Marcello's voice, and for a moment, Angelo felt his brother tremble slightly beneath him. Then Marcello abruptly pushed Angelo off his lap, and the younger Templar fell to his stockinged knees on the stone floor. Marcello stood and turned his back on Angelo without even glancing at him.

"Return to the wall," the captain ordered. Angelo weakly got to his feet and walked shakily back to the manacles to stand facing the wall.

"No," Marcello corrected. "Face me."

Once more, the blood drained from Angelo's face. "No."

Marcello snarled and grabbed Angelo's hair with a hard yank. "Turn around!"

Angelo turned then stared belligerently at Marcello. Marcello, however, did not meet his gaze, only forced his right wrist back into the manacle and locked it.

"You're not going to leave me here all night!" Angelo protested, trying to pull away from the wall. Marcello grabbed his left wrist and pinned it back against the wall. When Angelo still struggled, the captain threw his whole body against his younger brother's.

Angelo ceased his struggles immediately. Even through Marcello's heavy uniform, Angelo could feel the heat from his brother's body in stark contrast to the icy wall at his back. Marcello was still breathing heavily, and Angelo was conscious of every breath in the broad chest pressed against his own. However, he was most aware of Marcello's thigh pinning him between his legs, and his own thigh trapped between Marcello's. Marcello stood there a moment, motionless save for his labored breathing, then he lifted Angelo's wrist up to the empty manacle. As he did so, Angelo turned his head, pressing his smooth cheek against his brother's roughly shaven face.

Marcello locked Angelo's wrist in the other manacle and stepped back. He met Angelo's gaze for a moment, still with that unreadable expression in his green eyes. Maybe, thought Angelo, it was desire. Then Marcello turned away from him and stalked to the door, leaving Angelo's clothes and the whip behind. Marcello let himself out of the room, relocking the door behind him. Angelo caught one glimpse of him through the barred window as Marcello left the interrogation chamber, then he was gone.

Angelo wasn't sure how many hours passed, but it was the longest night of his life. He spent it drifting in and out of consciousness, the feeling long gone from his pinioned arms as he slept and woke what felt like a hundred times. Twelve hours or even an entire day might have passed before the scraping of a key in the lock of the interrogation room door woke him from fitful slumber.

He jerked his head up, resulting in a sharp pain of protest from his stiff neck. He was terrified that Marcello had sent one of the other Templars to release him and to be witness to his attire. However, it was Marcello himself who opened the door to the torture chamber and stepped inside. Judging from his face and eyes, he had slept about as well as Angelo had.

Angelo lowered his head again tiredly as his brother came to him without speaking. The younger Templar wouldn't have been surprised if Marcello had come up with some new ingenious form of torture, but Marcello only reached up and unlocked the right manacle from Angelo's wrist. Angelo hadn't realized how exhausted he was or that the manacles were bearing most of his weight. As soon as his wrist was released, he slumped forward limply.

He braced himself for pain when his full weight pulled on the left manacle, but it never came. It took him a moment to realize that Marcello had caught him and that he was draped against his brother's chest and left shoulder. Marcello unlocked the left manacle, and Angelo collapsed against him.

Marcello closed one arm around his brother's back, then crouched and scooped up Angelo's legs with the other. By now, Angelo thought he was capable of standing, but he feigned weakness and near unconsciousness to see what Marcello would do. The captain carried him back to the garrote and set him down on its bench, not letting go until Angelo was slumped against the device's iron pole.

"You may dress and leave when you are ready," Marcello said quietly in a voice that sounded unusually hoarse. "I would advise that you do so sooner rather than later, for I am leaving the doors unlocked. . . unless of course, you want to be found here."

Angelo only opened his eyes after Marcello's footsteps had receded completely and he was alone. He got up and removed his costume as quickly as he could, then redressed in his own clothes. Marcello had taken the whip but left the sack he had brought the costume in; Angelo stuffed the garments and bunny ears into it quickly. Of course, there was still the matter of what to do with the outfit, but he could worry about that later.

He left the interrogation room nervously and tiptoed up the stairs to the main floor of the Abbey, praying that he wouldn't see anyone. His prayers were answered; in fact, even the main floor was strangely quiet when he emerged from the basement.

Where is everybody? Angelo wondered. He slipped to the door leading out into the courtyard then eased it open, not wanting to attract anyone's attention. To his amazement, the sky outside was dark. No wonder there was no one about; it was the dead of night.

Did he keep me in there a full day? Or longer? Angelo frowned, then he made his way stealthily to the Abbey's library, where a daily calendar was kept. He brought the calendar out into the hallway where he could read it by the dim light from the lantern hanging there. It still bore the Sabbath's date. Unless someone had forgotten to change it, Angelo had only been in the torture chamber a few hours.

He replaced the calendar, then went quietly to his own chamber. When he looked out the window, he saw the faintest of light in the east, signaling the coming dawn. Angelo looked down at the bag he clutched in his hand, then shoved it under the bed before sinking down upon the mattress and removing his boots. He would have time for an hour or so of sleep before he had to get up and wash for morning mass.

Only a few hours. . . four at most, Angelo thought as he lay down. Of course, "only" four hours chained to a wall was hardly trivial, but coming from Marcello, it was surprisingly lenient. Bunny suit and spanking aside, of course.

Angelo sighed and closed his eyes. Better not to think about it too much either way. He had a feeling that neither of them would ever mention the incident and that it wouldn't be repeated. . . and maybe that was a pity.

Maybe he should keep the costume, just in case.

The End