The Flesh Cartel, #10: False Gods

suffer the pain, take Nikolai’s cock and Nikolai’s teeth and Nikolai’s cum. Do that enough times and he’d be new again, the broken toy repaired in Nikolai’s image. No more pain, then. No more pain.
    But that wasn’t what happened.
    “Throw it all in the fire, Douglas, and kneel there until it’s burned away. I want you to watch my gifts to you crumble into nothing but ash and smoke. And as you watch, I want you to think of the life you worked so hard to build for yourself here, and how you almost made ash and smoke of that too, and of how saving what’s left of it will mean reaching into the fire—willingly thrusting your hands into cleansing flame. You can save it, though. I’ll help you to save it. I’ll help you to rebuild, because I love you and I would never fail you, never disappoint you, never leave you dangling alone in the world. Because you are worth more to me than these clothes—my gifts, my love—were to you .”
    No! Dougie wanted to protest. I do love you, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, you’re everything to me, oh God .
    But he didn’t. He didn’t because he didn’t feel it anymore, not really, not like he used to in his heart and his gut and the rawest, most primal centers of his brain. He only knew that he should. That he once had. That he needed to— desperately needed to—again.
    Wanted to, even. Felt the singed edges of it, the remnants of this ruined night. Burning hot to the touch, but he’d cling to it, drag it back, take it in. He would . He just needed . . . he needed . . .
    “Punish me, Master.” He gathered his tattered clothes in his arms, crawled over to the fire, threw them in. A strange erection throbbed between his legs, hungry for something he’d never wanted before. “ Please. ”
    Nikolai shook his head. “Oh Douglas, I do intend to. But not in the way you want, because that wouldn’t teach you anything at all.”
    The clothes caught slowly, as if the fire were just as reluctant to destroy the evidence of Nikolai’s love as Dougie was. He shook his head. He didn’t need to be taught, to learn, because that involved thinking. He needed to stop thinking.
    Then do. Trust Nikolai. He’ll fix this. He’ll make it right.
    Oh, how easy it was to think that, how naturally it came, how right it felt. For the first moment since he’d climbed into Roger’s car, he was beginning to believe he could have that again, do that again, trust like that again. It wouldn’t be easy. But maybe . . . maybe it’d be worth it.
    A silhouette, framed by the doorway. Roger, ever the perfect slave, not entering the room without an invitation.
    “I’m ready for him now, Master.”
    I’m ready too.

    This room was new. Not that Dougie had seen many down here in Nikolai’s basement, but so far he’d been spared the sort of harshness that lay beyond the door Roger led him to and then through. Like a dungeon, all raw cinderblock and concrete, irons dangling from the ceiling and bolted to the walls, rack upon rack of implements purpose-built to inflict pain. He’d experienced a few, but not many. Some he couldn’t even identify.
    And there, in the corner, strapped by his wrists, hips, and ankles to the iron frame of a twin bed without a mattress, lay Mat. Still gagged, glaring up at the ceiling as he struggled and pulled against the fat leather straps. Beside his bed stood another, empty, and Dougie assumed that was for him. After all, if he was meant to share Mat’s bed—to rape his brother—Nikolai would be here to watch.
    Except Nikolai wasn’t here, and Dougie couldn’t decide if that was for the better or the worse. Part of him wanted Nikolai, craved him—needed his master to give meaning to the suffering he knew would come, to care enough to oversee his punishment, to watch his penance and see the moment when he’d at last repent and mean it. Hold him after. Welcome him home.
    But the rest of him—the part his stupid fucktard of a brother had shaken so forcibly awake tonight—was sickened by that thought. Terrified of its sheer inevitability. Maybe if Nikolai wasn’t here, Dougie could keep his head, not give in, suffer without letting it change him.
    No purpose to this pain.
    No. Dougie didn’t want that, either. He liked order and meaning and rules and cause and effect, and Nikolai gave him those things, and maybe the price was worth paying. Besides, he wasn’t like Mat, wasn’t strong enough to endure and endure for nothing, for ever. He’d held on