The Flesh Cartel - Episode #7: Homecoming

merry-go-round of recrimination and self-loathing he was riding. Every so often, he’d escape it long enough to think about the safety razor in the bathroom. Maybe he could break the blade free somehow. All eighth of an inch of it. Yeah, fat lot of good that’d do him.
    He must’ve slept at some point; he woke to the door opening, soft footsteps on the hardwood floor. Not Nikolai—no click of dress-shoe heels. He kept his eyes closed. Couldn’t be bothered to look.
    The bed dipped under someone’s weight. A gentle hand brushed across his shoulder above the blanket. “I brought food. You should try to eat.”
    Roger. Mat didn’t deserve the sympathy in the man’s voice, in his touch. He lurched away, didn’t bother to stifle the moan of pain at the motion.
    “At least take these?” A hand appeared near his face, three little white pills cupped in an open palm. “Tylenol with codeine. You’ll feel better.”
    Mat snaked one arm out from under the blanket and knocked Roger’s hand away.
    “Hmm.” A thoughtful noise: half sympathetic, half disapproving. “The master said you might feel that way. I’ll just leave them right here in case you change your mind.” A soft tap—the sound of the pills being placed on the nightstand. Roger stood, disappeared into the en suite. Ran some water. Came back a moment later. Another soft tap—probably a cup of water. The man was babying him, for fuck’s sake. He didn’t deserve to be babied.
    Roger sighed. “All right then. I’ll come check on you again in a little while.”
    Mat ignored him some more.
    “Try to eat,” Roger said again, then left, shutting the door softly behind him.

For the first time in a long time, Dougie drifted lazily into wakefulness, like sleeping in until past noon on a Sunday. He shifted inside his cocoon of warm covers and cool sheets, sighed, stretched . . . and remembered .
    That horrible man.
    Mat, standing by and doing absolutely nothing.
    For the first time in his life, Dougie woke up in a world where he was alone.
    No. He had Nikolai now.
    Nikolai . Last night . . . yesterday . . . when had it . . . No, it didn’t matter. Before he’d gone to sleep, he and Nikolai had . . . They’d kissed. Dougie had been a good boy for him. Pleasured him. Pleased him. Nikolai had been good to Dougie in return. Not just good. Had loved him.
    Love seemed to come so easy to Nikolai; why was it so hard for Dougie? He’d felt it for a moment last night, he was sure of it—an instant of clarity, transcendence, his heart light and full. And yet now it was just . . . gone. Slipped away.
    He’d found it once in Nikolai’s arms. Maybe he could find it there again.
    The last time he’d been a good boy for Nikolai, he’d woken in those arms. And this time? He reached out, searching by feel, not ready yet to pull back the covers and actually face the light of the outside world.
    The bed was empty.
    Alone, then.
    But why? Hadn’t he been good enough? Had Nikolai sensed he was a fraud? Nikolai had promised to help Dougie be who Nikolai wanted him to be. He’d promised . Dougie couldn’t do this without him, he knew that now, just as surely as he knew he couldn’t not do this and stay alive in this place. Strange how he felt no more fear about that, no more fear about changing, becoming something else—though the lack of fear itself did frighten him a little. But what frightened him most was the possibility that Nikolai had lied. That he wouldn’t help. That Dougie would be thrust back to the dark days of endless pain and need and terror and uncertainty and never, ever get to be at peace again.
    Had it all been another mindfuck, one he didn’t yet comprehend? God, what was about to happen here?
    Regardless, he couldn’t stay under the covers much longer, because this wasn’t a lazy Sunday. Lazy Sundays were for free men. Not their pets. Not their slaves. He should get up. Do something. Show Nikolai he deserved to be a cherished pet, not a kicked and broken one. Trust that this wasn’t a mindfuck—that Nikolai had meant all the things he’d said—or that if it was a mindfuck, it was all for the best.
    Trust Nikolai. Be the person Nikolai wanted him to be. Which started with waking up.
    Except the room spun when he threw the covers back, and his limbs felt strange, heavy, not quite under his control.
    “Easy, easy, it’s all right, Douglas. Don’t get up.”
    Nikolai. Soft voice, then softer hands at Dougie’s shoulders, urging him