The Flesh Cartel #3: Choices

screwed.

    It was a miserable few hours—a standout even in days so full of misery Mat could hardly remember a time when life hadn’t hurt. His gut cramped so badly, he seriously began to wonder if he was dying. Emptied him out completely. Then the doctor’s creepy Stepford Wife assistant came in to force an enema in him and scrub him down in that weird freezing shower and bound his hands behind his back again. When all that was done, the doctor lubed up that torturous plug and shoved it back up his ass. At least he didn’t turn the key.
    No—that he left for the guards, who were more than happy to see how far they could push it before they could wrench a scream from Mat, before they could make him beg, before they got him to say Please fuck me, sir, I want to feel all your cocks up my ass at once , because for that they’d have to remove the plug, at least for a little while.
    They took turns for hours. God knew where they’d all come from—this was way more guards than he’d ever seen working any one shift. One at a time. Two at a time. Two cocks plus fingers. Someone’s fist. Two hands, once, though they couldn’t get them both in there no matter how hard they pushed, and when Mat finally screamed himself out they stopped trying and shoved the plug back inside, twisting it open until he keened afresh.
    When they were finished fucking him, he thought maybe they would leave him lying there on the floor of the doctor’s empty office, hands still bound behind his back, but someone nudged him over with their foot, took sated cock in hand, and pissed all over his face. He sputtered, retched. The others seemed to think this was hilarious and gathered around to join in. One enterprising fucker wrenched his mouth open again, and this time, when he’d finished, Mat did roll over and puke. Empty, though—all he did was hock up bile and the fucker’s acrid piss and half a belly full of cum. The guy seemed insulted by it, rolled him over with his booted foot and stepped on his neck and beat him with his belt until Mat stopped struggling.
    He must’ve passed out then, because he came to still on the floor of the doctor’s office, wrists and elbows and shoulders throbbing, ass throbbing even worse, reeking of piss and wishing they would just kill him.
    They didn’t, of course. The lights went out. He slept awhile, woke when the creepy naked assistant brought him water and food that he could barely stomach but that she made him eat anyway. She washed all the cum and blood and piss off him, though fuck-all knew why, because as soon as she was finished, a gang of guards came back and scummed him up again.
    It was like some nightmare Groundhog’s Day from Hell: torture, sleep, food, washing; torture, sleep, food, washing; torture, sleep, food, washing. The only thing that kept him from going stark fucking insane was the knowledge that it was temporary, it had to be temporary, because hadn’t someone bought him? Bought him and Dougie together? Surely they’d come to pick them up soon, and it didn’t escape him how fucked-up his worldview had become when the thought of being claimed by his new owner was something to look the fuck forward to.
    But he did. He did and he clung to it like some fucking lifeline, because this? This was no life worth living, and he’d reached the point where he’d have ended it if they’d let him, even knowing that would mean leaving Dougie behind.
    This time the skittering was real. Dougie was sure of it.

    He opened his eyes wider, but of course it didn’t matter; black was black. Strained his ears, and . . . Yes. He’d heard something. He’d heard something.
    Faint. Footsteps? Yes. Getting closer. He cautiously unfolded from his huddle, used the toilet to help leverage to his feet. His heart was pounding so loud he could barely hear the noise outside his tomb. But it was there. It was there.
    Scraping. He swatted at the invisible tomb-rats—he knew they were just in his head, hallucinatory effects of sensory deprivation, but he still couldn’t seem to ignore them—but no . . . this was different.
    Voices, distant. Scrape of metal on metal.
Key in lock.
Someone’s coming.
He didn’t know how to feel about that. His body had its own ideas, though—sweating, chest
    heaving, heart pounding, clearly terrified as the sound of the outer door swinging open reached his ears. His mind, on the other hand . . . Anything would be better than being trapped in here, right? And Mat