The Flesh Cartel #1: Capture

cupping his face, stroking it, using his thumb to stop the fall of a tear. “You’re going to make someone very happy, you know. You should hold on to that.”
    The doctor, for all the horrible things he’d done, had been consummately professional until now, remote and precise and unmovable. But for the first time, there was something else in his eyes. Lust? Hunger? No. This was nothing like the faces of the men from the van. Something much more sophisticated than those animal urges. Admiration? Dougie was usually pretty good with people—he had half a Ph.D. in reading folks—but it was so hard to see around his own fear, to think around the pain, to be anything close to rational right now. Still, whatever this was, maybe he could use it.
    “I . . .” His throat was clogged, his voice reedy and shot through from screaming. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I could make you happy? If you help me?”
    The doctor held his gaze for a long, frozen moment . . . then threw his head back and laughed . He patted Dougie’s cheek like some favored nephew and returned to the camera. “Sixty seconds,” he said over Dougie’s shoulder. “Make them spectacular .”

    Mat screamed. Screamed again. No more thoughts of pride, of resistance, not even of hate—nothing at all in his head but oh sweet Jesus stop you’re killing me I can’t please stop stop stop—
    He sucked in a huge, watery breath when the current shut off and just hung there, legs given out, wrists burning in the steel cuffs almost as bright and terrible as his cock and balls beneath the contact pads the heavies had stuck there.
    “That’s lovely, thank you, gentlemen.” The doctor. The sick fuck clicked off the video camera, popped open a compartment and pulled out the memory card. “I have everything I need now. Perhaps you’d like to fetch three or four of your associates before you try to bring him to his cell?”
    The wry insult toward the heavies wasn’t lost on Mat, half out of his head as he was.
    “And bring him here first. His wrists need bandaging before he scars. I hope Madame’s had a good talk with the Vegas procurement team about their use of such . . . inelegant restraints.”
    The cuffs around his wrists snapped open and he fell straight down, like a marionette with its strings cut. Which wasn’t too far from the truth, really. He felt like his arms had been pulled from their sockets, and his legs, despite not being misused the same way, weren’t much better. It was like his knees and ankles were made of jelly.
    The heavies got him under each arm and dragged him to the exam table, where they hoisted him up and tossed him onto his back, the impact with the lightly cushioned surface making him scream with fresh pain. He was done fighting. Just . . . absolutely done.

    The doctor arranged him on his front, rubbing some kind of cool ointment on the hottest parts of his skin. Dougie groaned quietly, so exhausted and all cried out and he wished he could just go to sleep right here, with the doctor’s hands rubbing him down and his head pillowed on his arms, just drift . . .
    A finger brushed over the indent of his hole and his eyes snapped open. A steadying hand pressed into the small of his back.
    “Shhh, shhh.”
    Cool gel there, too, soothing the hours-long stinging burn. It was such a relief , and such a tiny kindness that meant so much in the context of the last few hours and . . . Apparently Dougie still had tears left, after all.
    “Be still. There’s just one last thing. I’m afraid you’re not going to like it, but I think you’ll thank me in the long run.”
    The fingers that had been tracing hypnotic circles around the rim of Dougie’s hole were replaced with something else, something blunt and lukewarm with leeched body heat. It pushed. Pushed again. Popped into him, his hole snapping closed around a narrower base. A small plug. It probably wouldn’t even hurt, if not for what he’d gone through since being taken, but as it was, it was uncomfortable and almost itchy .
    He instinctively tried to push it out again, but was met with resistance when the doctor pressed against the base. “Ah, ah, ah. No no,” he chided, pushing a little harder, making Dougie moan.
    A tug. A pinching sensation. Leather bands, like a jockstrap, up his groin and ass crack and around his waist, being tightened and fastened, pulling the plug deeper. Keeping it in place.
    Dougie moaned again.
    “You’ll wear this for the next