The Flesh Cartel #1: Capture

as the cum he was covered in, then shut off. He shook his head to clear it from his face, cautiously peeked one eye open, and realized he and the doctor were no longer alone.
    A beautiful young woman, as naked as he was, was coming at him with a scrub brush, and he couldn’t help it—he laughed. What a fantasy this might’ve been—him helpless at the mercy of a nude supermodel while she soaped him down—if only he hadn’t been, oh, kidnapped and gang-raped. That’s what it took to get a woman like this to notice him?
    “A woman like this?”
    Dougie, what the hell is wrong with you? How could he even think of something like that in this place? And even outside of the timing, she was naked .
    Naked. Not like the doctor, not like Madame, not like the heavies who’d brought him here, who were all dressed and all, in their way, in control of what was happening here. This woman, she was naked, just like Dougie was.
    And what if she was like Dougie? Kidnapped, brought here, stripped and abused and—why wasn’t she fighting, or crying, or protesting, or, or . . .?
    But she said nothing as she worked the goo into a lather across his chest, up his arms, down his legs, around his back, through his hair. A little too rough for his tastes, but then, that seemed to be the theme of the fucking day, didn’t it? She scrubbed no more gently when she cleaned his cock and balls, but took pity when she reached the crack of his ass, rubbing slimy fingers there again and again until she was satisfied. The goo fucking stung there, burned almost as bad as when the men had—
    No. He wrenched his mind away from that and just focused on holding still, not freaking out, not letting his thoughts drag him back down into that horror. She was just washing him. He wanted that. Not trying to hurt. Not trying to violate. Getting rid of the marks of other people’s hurt and violation.
    Hah. Not enough goo in the world for that.
    Apparently finished, she stepped back and eyed him critically. Then she nodded, and the shower came on overhead again. No goo this time, but the water was just as cold and miserable as it sluiced the gunk away. She helped it along, running her hands over his skin to rinse him clean. A clinical touch, but warm, and if he closed his eyes and pretended really, really hard . . .
    Fuck. All he saw when he closed his eyes was men looming over him. Leering. He opened them again.
    “Inside too, Pet.”
    Dougie’s stomach somersaulted. He had terrible visions of a bottle brush, like the bristly metal ones they used in chemistry class to clean test tubes. Up his ass. He couldn’t suppress an animal shudder.
    But then the doctor said, “Do be careful; Madame says he came in bleeding.” A moment’s relief at that, until he realized that something was obviously getting shoved up his ass again, or else why the “be careful”?
    Well, at least it’d be a relief not to feel five other guys’ cum dribbling down his thigh anymore.
    And how the fuck could he think shit like that and still be sane?
    The woman circled around behind him, and he craned his neck trying to see her over his shoulder. Her hands had been empty, right? She knelt out of his field of vision, fiddled with something on the floor. Wrong angle—he couldn’t see. God, what was she doing back there?
    “Try to relax,” she said, and God, there was something wrong with her voice , something wrong with the way she spoke, because she was as polite and sweet and detached and as fucking inhuman as the voice on a GPS or an automated phone system but surrounded by so much—so much—and then something cold and hard and smooth was sliding inside him, much smaller and gentler than all the other things that’d been forced up his ass lately and the cold was almost soothing on his abused flesh until—
    OhmyGodwhatthefuckisthat!
    Water, maybe. An enema? What the fuck ? “Stop it,” he gasped, trying to squirm away, but she just slung an arm around his waist and held him as the water flowed in a sickly trickle-spurt like jizz from some rapist-fucker’s cock and he wanted it out out out—
    “If you don’t hold still,” the doctor said, “I’ll pull those chains up. I don’t think you’d care for that at all; I hear it’s excruciatingly painful to hang from your wrists in steel cuffs.”
    His stomach cramped. For a moment he thought it was the doctor’s threat, but then it cramped again, and he felt an overpowering urge to push .
    An urge the doctor