The Flesh Cartel, #10: False Gods

halfway through the night that he was far too warm and cozy to venture out of his nest of blankets to use the toilet, so once again Dougie found himself standing in as a urinal. The man who slept in the bunk above Graham—Colin, Dougie thought his name was—must’ve woken to Dougie’s retching swallows, because he patted his mattress and whispered, “Here, doggie doggie,” and waited for Dougie to climb up and swallow his piss too. Then he fucked Dougie’s mouth, came all over his eyes and nose, smeared it into his skin and then scolded him for it— Filthy dog, you’re disgusting, get out of my bed. Didn’t even let him climb down the ladder, just shoved him right off the edge, and Dougie hit the hardwood floor with a very doglike yelp and a jarring thud that woke the other four occupants in the bedroom. Which meant no more sleep for Dougie that night as they passed him from bed to bed, pissing in him and fucking him and complaining about how dirty and disgusting he was. Which meant, in turn, that he got tossed out the front door to wash himself at the ice-cold water pump under the light of the moon and stars.
    He took the opportunity to vomit up every nasty fucking thing they’d shoved down his throat over the last couple hours.
    To think Dougie had ever been happy to see the night sky.
    When he was finished and shivering with cold again, he came up to the door—which stood ajar—and nosed it open wide enough to crawl through, then gently shut it behind him.
    Just snores greeted him, thank God. He knew he should probably go back down to his sad little pallet in the root cellar now that nobody wanted to use him again tonight, but he just couldn’t bear the thought of more cold dark silence, and unlike Nikolai, these men would beat him one way or the other, no matter what choices he made. So he went to the mat in front of the fireplace, curled up like the dog he was, and slept.

    The first day he’d been here, Nikolai had presented him with bowls of food placed on the floor and the problem of how to eat them. Back then, he’d chosen to eat them like a dog, to debase himself for Nikolai’s pleasure and entertainment, although by now he realized that Nikolai didn’t want or need that from him. Just wanted loving submission, had only ever wanted such.
    So it seemed like he was coming full circle now to be under the thumb of a man who did desire that debasement, and fed Dougie a metal bowl of dog food— actual dog food, reeking and lumpy, wet and dry mixed—to prove it.
    He thought back to Nikolai, to the carefully prepared food on that very first tray, to all the goodness and happiness and love Nikolai wanted for him. Thought of what he’d lost because he’d been unable to let go of the past, because he’d made the terrible mistake of trusting Mat over his own master . Thought of the consequences of his choices—ice-water baths and brutal fistings and six men’s piss in his gullet. Thought of the life he’d end up living if he couldn’t be worthy of Nikolai’s love again.
    And ate the dog food.

    Mat sniffed back horrified tears and closed his eyes, just for a moment, because he couldn’t bear it anymore and surely his guard wouldn’t notice—
    Pain lanced through his shoulder, so acute he screamed, and he opened his eyes again because he knew damn well the guard’s ability to shock him would far outlast his own ability to endure being shocked. It was a fine balancing act, walking the line of least agony. Sometimes that meant letting the fucker torture him. Sometimes it meant watching Dougie being tortured by some dozen other fuckers instead. And sometimes, if he was really, really lucky, it meant blacking out for a while. But he always came to strapped to the same fucking chair in front of the same fucking monitor with the same fucking command ringing in his ears: Behold the consequences of your choices.

    Six days. Six days in this special brand of Hell, and Dougie knew because he’d been counting the sunsets, counting the trips outside to bathe in the icy water, counting the very fucking seconds until his master decided he’d suffered enough, learned his lesson, was ready to come home. And oh God was he ever ready. Or felt ready, anyway, felt it in his head and his heart and right down to his fucking toenails , which throbbed and ached just as surely as the rest of him from the unending abuse of Nikolai’s buybacks. But he knew just as surely that he wasn’t ready, not really,