That first night of torment, spent in excruciating agony without relief, was a sign of the miserable existence that was to come for Spike, as Siron’s slave.

Despite the torturous punishment of that night, Spike still tried to fight the next day, when the demon came into the room again, removed the weight, and tried to maneuver his weakened body from the floor, up onto the bed. Siron’s earlier words had given him enough warning to know what to expect -- and he had no intention of allowing it.

Of course, in the end, he had had no choice.

Siron had bound him face down to the bed, his wrists tied tightly to the posts at the head of it -- his useless legs left alone for the moment. He had shouted and cursed and threatened, though it was increasingly obvious that his words of protest were meaningless. When he refused to be silent upon Siron’s command, the demon general had gagged him.

And in the end -- none of his struggles, his protests, had mattered.

Spike’s humiliation had been completed, as Siron had his way with him, viciously taking his pleasure of him in the most degrading and painful of ways. Taking vindictive pleasure in Spike’s helplessness, the general had employed various means of torture, brutalizing him as punishment for daring to struggle at all.

“It’s useless to fight me, Spike,” he had said softly before leaving, running a surprisingly gentle hand down the vampire’s tear-stained face. Spike jerked away from his touch, not wanting him to see his shameful tears, but was unable to avoid the piercing despair that accompanied his words. “I’ll do what I want with you, regardless of what you do, Spike. If you struggle, or try to stop me -- I’ll just make sure that it’s that much more painful for you. It’s really in your best interest not to fight.”

But the next time he came to him -- Spike *did* fight.

And the time after that -- and the time after that.

And every time he fought, he was severely punished for his useless efforts.

Before long -- it began to feel like nothing more than going through meaningless motions, as Spike began to become convinced that escape was not going to be an option. He was always bound, helpless to defend himself against Siron’s unwanted attentions -- and he was always kept under lock and key, or heavy guard, never allowed a moment alone in which to devise some way of escape.

Not that he could have escaped, anyway.

As long as he was still attempting to resist his new master’s control, Siron did not yet see fit to allow his legs the blood they needed to heal.

So, Spike decided to try another tactic.

All at once, he stopped struggling when Siron would come to him. He did his best to obey every command, to keep from resisting, even when the worst humiliations and degradations were forced upon him, and to all appearances, genuinely tried to please his master.

Oh, as Siron had warned him, he was still violated on an almost daily basis, still tortured for the mere amusement of his master and whatever demonic guests he might happen to be entertaining any given evening -- but his submission *did* seem to lessen the frequency with which he was abused.

Gradually, the amount of blood he was allowed each day was increased, and his injured legs began to slowly heal.

“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Siron said, a few days into Spike’s “Plan B”. “I told you things would go easier on you if you’d just submit. Now aren’t you glad you did?”

Though he’d nearly choked on the words, Spike had kept his head submissively bowed as he had replied quietly, “Yes, Master.”

Once his legs were strong enough to support his weight again, his world was no longer restricted to the small bedroom chamber in which he had been kept since his capture – he had no idea how long ago it had been. Days had blurred into weeks, and those weeks felt like an eternity.

The simple relief he felt just to be allowed out of that tiny room was incredible.

The fact that he wore a leather collar on his throat, and little else, and was led at his master’s side on a leash, did take away considerably from the thrill of it, but he did his best to remain passive and obedient -- simply biding his time, paying careful attention as he was given a rather limited tour of the penthouse apartment in which Siron lived.

The demon general actually dwelt in a very human style of living, actually -- if one ignored the triple locks on the inside *and* outside of the front door, and the necro-plated glass that made it safe for his vampire slave to move about inside. For all his submission, Spike told himself that he really had no interest in such amenities; he was merely waiting for the right opportunity to make his escape.

Struggling had proven useless, when he lacked the strength to make his struggles effective.

But if he could lull his captor into a false sense of security, make him believe that he had broken him -- well, that could make all the difference in the world.

Spike tried not to think about how naturally that submission seemed to come these days. He told himself it was all part of his plan, nothing more, when he automatically bowed his head and averted his eyes as his master walked into the room; or when he lay down on the bed without being told to, when he knew what Siron planned to do to him. He tried not to think about how much easier submission seemed than resistance at this point, or about the constant flutter of fear that seemed to permanently inhabit his stomach whenever Siron was near him.

The only reason he had not yet attempted to escape, was that he had not yet been presented with a sure enough opportunity, he insisted to himself.

They had *not* broken him -- and they wouldn’t.

He would get away before they could.

One afternoon about two months into his captivity -- though Spike had no idea how long he had been there by that point -- Spike was in what had become his usual position, on his knees on the floor near the feet of his master, as Siron held a rather casual council with several of his higher level associates. The demons were seated around his lush parlor area, quietly discussing some plan of theirs.

Spike had long since started tuning out such conversations, as half of what was said was usually in code, anyway, and none of it seemed particularly relevant to his situation. He simply waited in silence for some command from his master, in case he was needed -- which he usually wasn’t, not during these meetings.

After a couple of hours of quiet but serious conversation, Siron rose to his feet, followed by the other demon officers.

“I’m hungry,” he announced with a predatory grin at the others, who suddenly seemed more like a rowdy group of friends than like the sober, intellectual group they had been only moments before. “Feel like a hunt?”

A chorus of assents was his response, and he led the way toward the door, calling over his shoulder sternly, “Stay put, Spike. Don’t move. I’ll be back later.”

Spike looked up in surprise to watch the group of demons make their way out the front door of the penthouse, shutting it firmly behind them -- leaving him alone. He glanced a bit nervously around the room in which he had been left, aware that he was most likely not actually alone in the penthouse. There were several other rooms, and Siron had several other servants as well -- but this was the first time he could remember since being here, that he had been left alone in any room.

And that was not the best part.

He had not heard the soft sound of the triple locks on the outside of the door.

He waited what felt like an hour before cautiously rising to his feet; glancing around to see if anyone was around to see him rising, against the orders of master, Spike edged toward the door. Taking a deep, unnecessary breath, he slid it open just a crack, looking down the deserted corridor that led to the elevator -- and the building’s exits. He listened closely for a few moments, for any trace of sound to indicate that Siron and his men were still nearby -- but heard nothing but silence.

*They’re gone!* he thought with a sense of elation. *They actually left, and forgot the lock! This is my chance -- gotta make it good…* he decided as he swiftly opened the door and headed out into the hallway.

It was a trap.

He made it into the elevators, and all the way down to the ground level, already breathing a sigh of relief as the doors opened, already able to taste his impending freedom…

But then, the doors opened to reveal Siron standing there, a cold, grim smile on his almost human face, a cruel glint in his impossibly dark eyes, surrounded by his cronies, some of whom were quietly crowing with victory.

“Told you,” one of them gloated to Siron. “What did I say? He’s not broken yet -- far from it.” Turning to another of the demons who was grumbling under his breath, he held out his hand and demanded, “Pay up!”

“No,” Siron shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving the stunned, trapped expression on his slave’s face as he responded to his friend’s initial observation. “Not all that far from it, really. In fact -- he’s almost there.”

The exchange took seconds, longer than it would have taken Spike to recover enough to call out for help, or to attempt to get past them -- not that either approach would really have done him any good. The humans at the front desk -- who were probably more than they appeared to be, anyway -- would not have stood a chance against Siron, if they had tried to help him; and there was no way he could get past all of them in his weakened state.

Still -- he had to try.

As Siron reached forward to place a heavy hand on the shorter vampire’s shoulder, Spike yanked out of his grip, drawing back his fist to land a rather impressive blow to the demon’s face, followed by another to his stomach that doubled him over with pain. In fact, he made it through the first few demons that came at him, managing to get past them -- but there were simply too many.

In less than a minute, two of Siron’s cronies had managed to grip his arms, pinning them, and yanking him back into the elevator, with Siron and the rest of his friends, swiftly taking them all back up to the penthouse, and away from any curious eyes that might be watching from the lobby -- though no one appeared to have paid the little scene any notice.

*Yeah,* Spike thought flatly. *Definitely not your average humans working here…*

Once Spike had been dragged back into the penthouse, forced to his knees, his arms bound tightly behind his back, Siron had sharply dismissed his men, turning his full attention on his wayward slave. He simply stared at him for a long moment, his calm face studying Spike’s downcast expression, before finally speaking in a soft voice of command.

“Look at me.”

Spike hesitated, but then obeyed, slowly raising defiant eyes to glare up into those of his captor.

“You can’t keep me here forever,” he ground out the words, his voice low and warning, nearly a growl.

Siron laughed softly, almost silently, shaking his head in weary amusement, though his eyes were dark and angry. “Yes, Spike -- I actually can,” he argued quietly. “And I’m going to prove it to you.”

Without another word of warning, he suddenly gripped the hair at the back of Spike’s head and yanked him painfully to his feet, his other hand firmly gripping Spike’s bound upper arm and leading him forcefully from the parlor, down the hallway, toward a door that Spike knew by now to fear the sight of.

As they reached it, he struggled desperately, aware that once he was in this room, he was not likely to escape it without brutal punishment -- but Siron was simply stronger, and had the benefit of the use of his hands. He easily maneuvered his struggling slave into the room, slamming the door forcefully behind him and locking it with an audible click.

As Spike still tried to pull out of his master’s grasp, Siron’s large hand suddenly gripped his throat, jerking him back against him to snarl softly in his ear, “You’re only adding to your own punishment, Spike. You’d best submit. *Now*.”

Spike’s body was tense, rigid against Siron’s for a long moment, as he debated what he should do. He knew, deep down, that it was a futile struggle. He was bound, unable to defend himself, and fighting right now was only delaying the inevitable. It was best, he decided, to bear what Siron had to dish out, and continue biding his time, waiting for a genuine opportunity.

But what he could not know in that moment, was that this night was not going to be just like all the other nights.

This night was going to irrevocably change him -- forever.