The Flesh Cartel #3: Choices by Heidi Belleau Page B

but he woke up feeling more rested than he had since before this whole nightmare had begun. And feeling surprisingly sane for all that he was locked in a dark silent icebox of a closet. His jaw was killing him, and the second he thought about that, he realized how thirsty he was— so thirsty, thirstier than he’d ever been—which led to him realizing how badly he had to piss. Thankfully there was a toilet in here somewhere, and his hands were free. He just had to find it . . .
Ah, there. His hand bumped chilly porcelain, and he crawled forward another inch or two on the padded floor, feeling out the contours of the toilet in the dark. He leaned over the bowl and sniffed cautiously. Nothing—not shit, not bleach, just water. He didn’t even hesitate to thrust his cupped hands in it and bring them to his mouth.
The ball gag had holes in it for breathing, like a Wiffle ball, and the cold water trickling inside was the sweetest he’d ever tasted, so good he didn’t care where it’d come from, so perfect and soothing he could practically feel the shriveled tissue in his mouth and throat expanding again. He drank more. More. It spilled up his nose and down his chin and cheeks and chest and set him to shivering, but he didn’t care. More, until even his toes and fingers seemed to rehydrate, and at last he slumped, sated, against the chilly porcelain, roused himself just enough to use the toilet as it was intended, and then fell back into the blackness of sleep.

    It took a long time for Mat’s conscious mind to emerge from the haze of pain he’d been floating through. When it did, he found himself lying on his front on the doctor’s examination table, arms restrained behind his back, a hand on his neck pinning him down flat.
    “. . . no serious internal lacerations,” the doctor said, and Mat vaguely felt gloved fingers slide out of his hole. “So as far as I’m concerned, if the client puts that . . . thing back in, he’d be liable for any damage caused to his own property, not us.”
    “Instructions were to debase as we saw fit,” someone said. “I kind of like that thing. Got him so loose I could probably shove my whole forearm up there.”
Jesus fucking Christ, you fucking sicko . Mat’s stomach cramped, and he clenched his ass reflexively.
“Three days until pickup. If you’d like, I can give him a laxative and an enema, flush him out completely. Client wants him fed, but the flush-out will give you time to . . . indulge your kink.” Mat could hear the doctor’s raised eyebrow on that last bit. Struggled, though he didn’t know why he bothered. Couldn’t escape, would never escape, and all it earned him was pain—the hand on his neck tightened, and something heavy and sharp lashed across his ass. Again, and again. Someone’s belt, maybe. His gut cramped again. His ass still hurt beyond all reason, outside now as well as in. He couldn’t believe Dougie had done that to him. That Dougie had had to. Had been able to. Was torn between thinking God, the poor kid and Jesus, I don’t know him at all.
Mostly the first, though. He knew the second wasn’t fair, but anger was rarely rational. Dougie had just done what he’d thought was necessary to keep them together. But God, he wished that when Dougie made those tough, terrible decisions, it wasn’t his body suffering the consequences.
His little pity party got interrupted by the hand on his neck shifting to his biceps. He was hauled upright by his bound arms to sit on the edge of the exam table, pain flaring sharp enough in his wrists for him to notice it over everything else.
“Drink this.” The doctor thrust a pint-sized plastic bottle full of chalky-white liquid to his lips. Mat’s jaw clenched automatically, but then one guard grabbed his head in both hands and another jabbed the pressure points on his jaw to force his mouth open, and another hand pinched his nose closed as the doctor poured the foul liquid down his throat. It was swallow or