The Flesh Cartel - Episode #4: Consequences

He
    hunched over his lap, but no, that clearly wouldn’t work. Scooched back instead, eased himself first
    onto his hands and knees and then down onto his belly. Propped on his elbows, nearly prostrate.
    Hadn’t Nikolai used that word? Well, fine, here he fucking was. Are you enjoying this, you sick
    fuck?
    He craned his neck like Madame had taught him, right over the bowl of broth. Closed his eyes,
    inhaled deep. God , it smelled like heaven . His mouth watered so hard he almost drooled. Hesitantly, he lowered his face until he was hovering right over the bowl, fragrant steam rising up over his nose
    and cheeks and forehead and chin. Poked his tongue out, let it sink into the broth. Moaned at that first taste, salty and savory and oh-so-good. Pursed his lips and slurped it up.
    It wasn’t easy going. He remembered from some far off bit of trivia that cats and dogs had
    tongues made for lapping up liquids this way. Not so much human beings. But he managed it. Out of
    sheer force of will and desperation and outright hunger, he managed it. Slurped it all up, licked the
    bowl clean in his hunger, then set in on the milk. By the time it was gone, he was full enough to be
    sleepy and just a little uncomfortable.
    And he was still alone. Still alone in this strange room, with that command of explore hanging
    over his head, knowing that whatever he found, it would be another test, crueler and more humiliating
    than the last. His horrible and newly creative imagination gave him all sorts of ideas about what kind
    of things he might be expected to do to himself voluntarily. What if he found a plug to put in himself?
    A gag? A blindfold? A battery with alligator clamps, like the one he’d almost used on Mat?
    A noose to hang himself.
    A key to unlock his door.
    Unlikely as it was, what if he found Mat ?
    He could just go to sleep, but even that was a test in this room. Bed or kennel? If anticipating his
    master’s desires meant debasing himself, his answer was obvious. The kennel had a cushion, at least,
    and it was relatively man-sized if you curled up in the fetal position. Definitely bigger than the one
    they’d shoved Mat in the night they’d been snatched.
    He could use the bed but strap himself in as a compromise, but then he risked the chance of
    waking up with someone in bed beside him.
    Or on top of me.
    The kennel, then. He’d sleep in the kennel. At least then he could sleep soundly, knowing nobody
    could join him in it. They’d have to wake him up and pull him out before they raped him.
    What if they lock me in?
    Alone. He’d be alone.
    He hated that the possibility no longer filled him with relief.
    In the end, thoroughly humiliated and so terrified he wanted to die, he crawled underneath the
    table, hoping that at least the scrape of chairs would warn him of anyone’s approach. He put his back
    to the wall, pulled his knees to his chest, and closed his eyes.
    Sleep, damn you, he commanded himself, and surprisingly, he did.

    Nikolai watched his new pet intently through the four video feeds on his flatscreen TV: one from
    the bathroom, two from the bedroom, one from the closet Douglas hadn’t even opened yet. This boy
    was smart, no question about it. Possibly the smartest he’d trained in years, definitely the most
    educated in relevant fields. Surely he was drawing on his knowledge, his case studies, his academic
    expertise to protect himself from Nikolai’s influence. But what the boy didn’t know was how
    different the classroom was from the real world. The classroom was safe, controlled, an intellectual
    exercise. The real world was real pain, real fear, real pleasure, real needs and desires and thoughts
    and feelings.
    It was clear the boy knew he was being watched, despite Nikolai’s lie about going directly to
    tend his brother. Equally clear he thought he was being judged , each action weighed, consequences assessed. He’d shaved as carefully as if he were meeting a crush for a first date. Brushed and flossed
    his teeth, then gargled with mouthwash. Combed his hair. Spent several long moments staring at his
    reflection in the glassless mirror. Studying the bags under his eyes, perhaps? Or perhaps something
    deeper—trying to reconcile the image he saw with the man he was becoming. That would take time,
    likely many months. But it would haunt him from the beginning. Nikolai would use that to his
    advantage.
    The boy’s reaction to the covered tray was even more useful. Madame’s brutes