The Flesh Cartel, #10: False Gods

for real, but I’d prefer not to, and I’m sure Master would understand. You’re putting on a show, after all; I’m sure a little acting is fine. But if you’re worried, we can tell Master tonight, together. It’ll be a secret between the three of us.”
    The three of us. Master and Roger and me. Douglas felt love from his head to the soles of his feet. “Yeah.” He nodded. “Okay.” Impulsively, he stood up on his toes and kissed Roger, square on the lips. “Thank you.”
    Roger chuckled and ruffled his hair (and then promptly fixed it). “Lube up, now. Don’t make us late.”
    The dinner fuck was hard and fast, Douglas on his hands and knees on a little raised platform by the long, formal dining room table, Roger behind him, gripping his hips for leverage and slamming in. Douglas turned his face toward Allen and telegraphed every drop of his discomfort. What pain he didn’t feel, he faked. Truth was, he kind of liked it like this sometimes, rough and mindless. It was almost relaxing, in a way, not to have to do anything—to just crouch there and take it. Plus Roger had stretched him a little before they’d come out, and yes he had a very nice cock but it wasn’t a porn star cock or anything, and he was awfully good at finding Douglas’s prostate with it, so it wasn’t long before Douglas got hard again beneath the barrage.
    The guests ate and drank and watched and commented, and occasionally grabbed one of the outdoor slaves—doubling very nicely as waitstaff tonight, though their civility didn’t fool Douglas, not one bit, and he really, really wished they’d leave—and shoved them to their knees to blow a load down their throats. So strange to see his tormentors used that way—strange and also satisfying, even if they did seem to be enjoying their tasks. Just slaves, no better than him. Their throats and asses just as good for fucking.
    Speaking of fucking, Roger went on forever , fucking like a champion, possibly thanks to the thick leather cock ring he wore at the base of his dick. Mostly, though, he was just that insanely well disciplined, and Douglas knew that Nikolai was using Roger’s prowess to reflect well on all his trainees. Trying to convince Allen, maybe, that Douglas could last that long too. Not that he actually could. But what he could do was enjoy it the whole time, especially when Roger indulged him with a reach-around and teased him to the edge of orgasm and back a dozen times over throughout the meal. By the time the main course had been cleared and Nikolai finally said, “All right, Roger, you can stop torturing the poor boy,” Douglas was incoherent with need, begging for relief, and Roger gave it to him at last, riding Douglas’s orgasm through to his own a moment after.
    The applause this time was slightly more enthusiastic than the predinner offering, but one look at Allen confirmed to Douglas that they hadn’t impressed the one man who really counted.
    What the hell did Allen want , damn it?
    Not a complacent pup. Well, maybe the finale over dessert would make it clear that Douglas was more than just a well-trained fuck doll, more than just a plaything to be tossed around from arm to arm, used until there was nothing left. No, this pup had teeth of his own.

Something was going on upstairs. At first Mat had run for ages on his treadmill, trying to drown out the voices and the laughter, but now he was sitting on his bed, listening attentively for every scrap of sound, hoping for something that would help him puzzle out just what the hell was happening.
    It was strange, actually, that he could hear anything at all. He’d been sure these rooms were soundproof; he’d certainly never heard a peep from outside his own walls in all the time he’d been here. And yet.
    More mindfucks?
    Well, consider him fucked. Many times over. If he hadn’t resolved against suicide, decided definitively to save Dougie and get him out of this hell, well, he’d be dead now, especially after his and Dougie’s last meeting.
    Don’t think about that. Don’t. Just don’t.
    That’d been weeks ago already, had to be, yet at so much as the slightest thought of it, he still felt as raw as if it’d happened yesterday. Could even still feel the physical pain of it, though God knew that was the least of that particular constellation of suffering.
    I said don’t fucking think about it, you fucking asshole.
    Saved by the bell, or rather, the door opening. He perked up just in time to