The Flesh Cartel, #10: False Gods

miserable body as he watched, watched, watched Dougie’s feed.

    They hadn’t taken him outside in a day. Dougie hurt with the need to piss. He looked at the door, looked at the men sitting at the table playing cards, looked at the door again. Whined aloud.
    “Shut up, dog,” Luke snapped.
    They always took him outside. Once in the morning, once before bed, maybe a couple times more in between. They took turns, and whoever’s turn it was would walk him a ways from the cabin, tell him to get on with it, and Dougie would. No shame left in him; he’d squat like an animal while they watched, and then he’d be led to the pump to wash if they decided he needed a wash, and then it would be back into the house again.
    But nobody was walking him today. Snowflakes swirled outside the window, and none of the men wanted to venture out into the cold. Dougie didn’t want to, either, but he wasn’t allowed to use their toilet, so he needed to. Badly.
    He whined again.
    “Shut up, dog, or so help me I will shut you up.”
    Dougie cowered. Nikolai had never denied him this way.
    When he finally gave in and pissed himself, Colin rubbed his nose in it, repeating “Bad dog!” over and over again until the words were stamped on Dougie’s brain, until it didn’t seem unfair at all that he had to lick up his mess, that they beat him until he made a new one and had to lick that up too. Bad dog. He was a bad dog. And bad dogs didn’t deserve their master’s love.

Luke was the one to say he thought it was kind of disgusting to piss in a dog’s mouth and then fuck the same hole. Unhygienic.
    Graham was the one who suggested they clean Dougie’s mouth and throat with the scalding kettle water.
    They had him on his knees, a man on either side restraining his arms, one behind him holding his face tipped up and his mouth open, and overhead was the kettle from the fire, the one Luke had to use an oven mitt to hold, steam pouring from its spout, and Dougie was fucking howling with fear, knowing that the moment it tipped, that would be it for his throat and tongue, he’d never speak again, but maybe that was what he deserved, to be a dog for the rest of his days, reduced to whines and yelps and grunts.
    A quiet knock sounded from the front door.
    “Shit!” Luke said. “Is it that time already? Shit, shit, shit!” He backed off, the kettle disappearing from Dougie’s line of vision.
    Dougie cried with relief, but there was no stopping the hyperventilation, his heart thrumming like a hummingbird’s, his chest heaving as he gasped for air.
    “Roger,” Luke said.
    Roger, Roger, oh thank God, thank you, thank you oh Master, Roger. If he’d had a tail, he’d be wagging it now too fast to see.
    The men surrounding him all fell back, letting Dougie collapse into a heap on the floor. When he found the strength and coordination to raise his head, Roger was standing in front of him, looking down on him with an unreadable expression.
    “C’mon guys, fun’s over,” someone said, but Dougie didn’t care who.
    He was too busy raising himself to his knees, lifting his chin, posing prettily. For the first time in ages, his cock swelled and rose between his legs, as happy as the rest of him. He nosed at Roger’s crotch, whined plaintively in the back of his throat. Please. Let me taste you, suck you, make you feel so good. I love you. I love you. Let me show you. Please.
    Roger looked . . . not like a man who wanted a blowjob, that was for sure, although his cock had gone erect too, tenting his soft, fine trousers. He looked sad, and happy too? And sad again. His smile wobbled, and his fingers carded through Dougie’s hair, so, so gentle. “Oh Douglas, poor Douglas,” he said, and cupped Dougie’s cheek. “You don’t have to do that. Not for me, my sweet little boy.” Roger’s hands slid down further still, to the collar, which he unbuckled. “Come on, time to bring you home.”
    Dougie swelled with such joy he could have died. He pressed his face into Roger’s hands, rubbed and nuzzled and wished he could crawl right inside Roger he was so happy. Home. Yes. Where he could be a good boy again. Not a bad dog. Not a dog at all. Never again.
    “Yes,” Dougie said, because he wasn’t a dog anymore, and then, “Please.” Softly, so softly, because he hadn’t used his voice in so long, and he smiled up at Roger through his falling tears. Roger smiled back, and Dougie nuzzled him again, cheek so close to Roger’s cock and