The Flesh Cartel #5: Wins and Losses

with sex and violence and violence and sex and burning shame filling his dreams—he’d woken up three separate times to a tray of food on the table, miraculously appeared, with no sign of who’d delivered it. So he wasn’t to be starved or deprived of water, like before—and he damn well ate it like a normal human being because clearly nothing he did or didn’t do would end his torture and he needed to feel like a person at least sometimes. He had light to go with his food and water, and his hands and his mouth free and a whole big room to pace in, and yet it didn’t seem any better than that horrible time in his dark little tomb. God, was Nikolai trying to make him lonely and horny enough that he just . . . gave in?
    Would it work?
It scared him that it actually might. Truth was, he was sick of being alone. Sick of being ignored. Sick of waking up in fucking wet patches on the mattress like he was a twelve-yearold boy again—and how that was even happening, he had no fucking idea, because he was sure he wasn’t pissing himself in his sleep, and he certainly wasn’t getting hard in that cage. He was so sick of the pain in his cock and balls, the need coiled tight in places he’d never even known before being kidnapped, sick of his misery and his traitorous body and the endless humiliation and shame and those awful, terrifying thoughts that kept seeping in through the silence. Through the doubt. Through the cracks in the life he’d once felt so sure of.
He was going crazy. Abso-fucking-lutely insane. Felt like . . . like he was melting, reducing into some lump of desperation and fright and hatred and animal need, and he knew with horrified certainty that Nikolai, when the moment was right, would come and shape him back up into whatever he wanted him to be. Something that looked like Dougie on the outside, but . . .
Gritting his teeth against another wave of torturous, toecurling pleasure, he dragged himself to the door and lay down right in front of it. Now, if anyone came, they’d have to wake him up. They’d have to give him at least a little bit of human contact.
Just one problem: when they finally did, what would Dougie do? And was he being a fool to think any contact was better than none? What if they hurt him? Punished him for blocking the door?
Raped him again?
Fuck, they’d made him so desperate he almost wanted that.
He groaned as he curled onto his side on the floor, feeling something leaking from his cock, thicker than piss, but not cum, either. He squeezed his eyes shut, riding out the shudder.
It didn’t matter. He’d do what he had to.
Anything to end this.
    Dougie woke to fingers on his nipples. At first he thought he was still dreaming—more torture, more of Nikolai’s horrible, unwanted touches and his own horrible, unwanted need—but then he realized he was curled on the floor in his makeshift nest, lying in front of the open door to his prison, and Nikolai actually was crouched down beside him, stroking his ni—
    The open door. The open door.
“Don’t bother,” Nikolai said, and pinched Dougie’s nipples so hard his eyes watered. He was so sensitive all the time now, so touch-starved and needy, even that pain seemed somehow sweet. “Where would you go?”
“Stop,” Dougie gasped as Nikolai pinched him again. Gentler this time. Terrible. His ass clenched against the plug, his cock once more trying to swell in its cage. Everything from the waist down hurt and burned and wanted so much, and now Nikolai was adding kindling, setting Dougie’s chest alight as well.
Those fingers were relentless. Dougie arched beneath them, squirmed, moaned. Tried to push Nikolai’s hands away, but Nikolai just straddled him, trapped Dougie’s wrists beneath his knees and went back to tormenting him.
“I could end your suffering, Douglas. Remove the plug, remove the cage, make love to you.”
Yes. Please, God, yes. Nikolai settled back on his haunches, ass pressing warm and firm onto Dougie’s trapped cock. Fine wool and pressure and heat and oh God I’m going crazy please let me out of this thing.
“All you need to do is ask. Say it, Douglas. Say you want me to make love to you. I won’t even make you beg.”
“No,” Dougie moaned. He shook his head, squeezed his eyes closed; a tear tracked wet and cold down the burning skin of his left temple. “No.”
“Still proud?” A pause in which he could feel Nikolai’s eyes on his. “No, on second thought, I wouldn’t call it pride.