He followed Nikolai down a hallway, through a sitting room. The house was beautiful, looked comfortably lived in for all its impeccable neatness. No time to study it, though; Nikolai moved quickly, never looking back, as if one hundred percent confident that Dougie was following behind. Obeying. Good dog. Heel.
It made Dougie sick.
Or maybe that was just how hungry and thirsty he still was.
Nikolai unlocked a door and led him down a long flight of stairs. Into the basement—how fitting. It still felt like a house, though—not that cold, industrial sterility of Madame’s facility, like a hospital or a prison or some sick mix of both. Hardwood floors. Richly colored, tastefully painted walls. Artwork, even. No blood. No screaming.
Locks on all the doors, though. Nikolai opened one for him and led him into . . . a bedroom suite? There was a double bed made up immaculately. A dresser. A little table and two chairs. Tastefully appointed. Nice, actually. Like a fancy hotel.
Well, except for the straps on the bed. And the dog kennel in one corner. And the total absence of windows. Okay, a fancy hotel for weird perverts.
No sign of Mat.
“Normally,” Nikolai said, and the sound of his voice startled Dougie into falling to his knees, “I would take this first meal with my pet. But normally, my attentions aren’t stretched so thin as they are with you and your brother. And I’ve left your brother unattended for long enough, I’d say. So I’d like you to wait here for now. Someone will be by with food and drink for you. In the meanwhile, please”—a sweeping gesture that encompassed the large bedroom, the two closed doors Dougie assumed were to a closet and bathroom—“this is your space. Everything in here is for your use. For you to groom yourself to the highest standard in service to your master. For you to stay fit and clean and healthy. Feel free to explore it. To use what calls to you.”
Food. Toilet. Sink, hopefully toothbrush. Bed. That was all Dougie wanted at this point. Maybe a book. God, he’d give his left leg to be sitting around bored out of his mind and trying to read academic articles now.
Nikolai turned and left before Dougie could ask any questions. But that was okay—he’d interpreted Nikolai well enough. Get clean. Brush your teeth. Shave. Look your best for me. Anticipate your master’s desires.
Not that he gave a fuck about his “master’s” desires. But it’d feel good to scrape this scruff off his face—he couldn’t grow a beard in evenly anyway—and he had no intention of giving Nikolai any excuse to punish him. Especially since Nikolai wasn’t asking anything outrageous of him right now.
He found what he needed to shave and brush his teeth in the bathroom, and did both after gulping down what felt like half a gallon of water straight from the tap. There was a shower tub, too, but even if he hadn’t just had a bath, he probably wouldn’t have used it. He just couldn’t stomach the thought that maybe, somewhere, Nikolai might be watching. He might have to walk around naked 24/7, but that didn’t mean he was going to jump at the chance to let the man watch him soap himself up. Which was possibly the most pointless distinction he’d ever made in his life, but here, it was all he had.
By the time he was finished with what he could stomach to do in the bathroom, a covered tray was waiting for him in the main room.
On the floor.
Dougie was stooping to pick it up with the intention of carrying it over to the table when he realized . . . What if it was on the floor for a reason? His stomach churned. He was so fucking hungry. He didn’t have the time or inclination to agonize over this.
Anticipate your master’s desires. If I were a sick fuck on a power trip, would I want my victim to eat at a table like a normal human being?
So why provide a table at all? some naive, dignified part of him replied.
It’s a test. It’s all a test. This whole fucking room. He’s watching from somewhere. Waiting to see what I’ll do. I’m a rat in an electrified maze.
He sat on the floor in front of the tray. Cast a gaze around the room, searching out the camera so he’d have somewhere concrete to look at and try to say telepathically, See, asshole? I’m a good dog. Eating on the floor just like you hoped.
But there were no cameras that he could see, and he was fucking starving, and his telepathic message seemed like something that would earn him the ominous “consequences.”
Whatever was on the tray smelled amazing. And maybe he hadn’t seen any cameras, but he was sure they were there, somewhere, and he planned to behave accordingly. He turned his attention back to the tray. Stared at it like the puzzle it surely was. Innocuous. Plastic cafeteria tray with an opaque plastic lid.
He pulled the lid off. Revealed two cereal bowls and nothing else. One held what was almost certainly milk. The other a thin soup—mostly broth, with some very small bits of vegetables and chicken, and saltines crumbled at the top. No more than a cup’s worth in either bowl.
No spoon. There was a nice linen napkin, though.
No spoon. Was he supposed to pick the bowls up and drink from them?
Of course not. You’re a dog. His “pet.” You eat on the floor like any other pet would. With your mouth.
“No.” Dougie shook his head, tore his eyes from the soup, the milk, tantalizing as they both were. “No.”
Yes. And by the way, you’re talking to yourself.
Well, hardly any surprise to be going crazy under circumstances like these. He wished he knew what Nikolai wanted of him. Wished he’d been given clear instructions to follow. Bad enough he had a master; it hardly seemed fair that he’d be punished because he’d failed to anticipate the desires of a man he’d just met. The thought made him queasy, panicky; he was breathing too fast, heart pounding painfully against his ribs. This was fucking ridiculous—he was having a panic attack over how to eat soup.
Fuck it. He wasn’t taking any chances, and he wasn’t going to let his pride get in the way of the first meal he’d had in days—or more like a week, actually, if all that patchy hair he’d shaved off his face was anything to go by. Or the pain in his gut, clenching and churning as if digesting itself. 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 r
elatively 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 had put the fear of God into him for sure. Nikolai gave half odds his new pet would pick up the bowls to drink from them, but in the end, he fell on the side of caution and fear and did what he assumed Nikolai would expect: chose of his own accord the most humiliating, debasing, difficult approach.
Oh, yes, this one would be easy. And a pleasure, too. The irritation Nikolai had felt at having to pay so much for him to procure his brother was already starting to fade.
Speaking of the brother . . . He’d be less easy. Much less of a pleasure. For both of them. Nikolai checked his watch—a little over five hours since the last injection. Eleven hours now spent in the worst kind of hell even Nikolai knew. If that didn’t make him malleable . . . Well, then Nikolai would simply have to try harder.
He unlocked Mathias’s door, and opened it to find the man exactly as he’d left him: torso and one leg on the floor, the other leg still strapped to the foot of the bed, toes pointing to the ceiling. Mathias curled onto his side with a groan as he caught sight of Nikolai, putting his back to the bed. The effort clearly cost him, pale and sweaty and shaky as he was, but he didn’t stop there. He started to inch away. Until the chain caught and he could go no further. Then he just curled up tight.
Interesting.
Nikolai crouched down beside him, and Mathias flinched, tucked into himself as best he could with one leg dragged out. Blinked, slow and heavy, eyes wet with tears. His cheeks were stained with them too—and the vestiges of Nikolai’s cum they hadn’t washed away—face red and puffy. He looked as if he’d been crying for hours. Then again, most men did under the influence of the serum.
Perhaps Mathias was finally ready to have a civilized conversation. Best to settle in for that. Nikolai turned around, put his back to the bed and sat. Stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. Slid his hands in his pockets.
Mathias cringed. “Please.” A rasp, barely audible, tumbling past cracked lips. “Not again. Please.”
Even more interesting. What had set him off?
Oh, yes. Hands in pockets. He pulled them out, and Mathias cringed harder, tears leaking from squeezed-shut eyes as he rasped, “I’ll do anything, please . . .”
Pushed too hard, then—the man had broken. Oh, he wouldn’t stay that way for long, but this wouldn’t do. Nikolai couldn’t risk it. He’d have to avoid the serum for a good long while, reserve it for attempted harm against his person and perhaps a rare special occasion.
“It’s all right, Mathias. My hands are empty. No more serum today.” A kindness, something to draw the man out before he got trapped in his terror. Moving carefully, Nikolai reached across the bed to the strap that held Mathias’s ankle in place. Freed it. “Would you like some water?”
Mathias cracked one eye open and slowly, distrustfully, allowed his muscles to relax a fraction. He had to be beyond exhausted; perhaps this was merely need taking over. “Wh—” He had so little voice left Nikolai needed to lean in and place his ear to Mathias’s lips. “What do I have to do for it?”
Mathias huffed a laugh. “Nothing, little mastiff. I can see you’ve learned your lesson today. We can move on to the next; no anger, no hard feelings.”
“Please,” Mathias grunted out. “No more lessons today.” He swallowed hard, as if trying to work moisture into his mouth. Squeezed his eyes shut again—the serum clearly hadn’t worn off yet, by the lines bracketing his eyes and mouth and his shallow panting. “I just . . . can I just sleep?”
“I’m afraid not. But food and water, I can do. And a trip to the toilet, maybe?” He cupped Mathias’s head in one hand, ran a thumb across his eyebrow, the neat little row of black stitches bisecting it at a rakish angle. Mathias squeezed the one eye tight, but didn’t pull away. “And it’s time to take these out, I’d say. I’d imagine you’d like them gone.”
Mathias nodded, his momentary urge toward protest obviously gone. Swallowed by pain and the fear of pain. That wouldn’t do at all. Nikolai needed his fighter back.
“Very good. You’ll be glad to hear that I haven’t had need to take these sorts of measures with your brother.” Brief thankful relief, like in that singular instant Mathias could just sit up and kiss him. Now to drop the other shoe. “On account of the fact that he was, shall we say, much more cooperative than you.”
Right on cue, Mathias’s face contorted—not in pain, but in animal fury, like the fighting dog he was. “You fucker! Don’t you fucking dare tell me you . . . you . . .” His voice cracked again, clenched fists relaxing. Out of strength.
“He was quite willing, I assure you. I didn’t have to resort to any kind of violence with him at all. He has a keen sense of self-preservation . . . unlike you.”
Mathias’s body jerked, but without direction, more a spasm than an attack. Then he stilled again. The anger passed in favor of . . . tears? No, not quite. Just a shining in his eyes and a wobbling at the corners of his mouth. “Please. Please, sir. I’ll suck you from now on. I’ll do a good job. You’ll love it. You can have my ass, too. Don’t make Dougie do what you want from me.”
Nikolai thought on that for a moment—Mathias’s fear had returned, but fear for his brother or fear of the needle? Both, most likely. A fine line indeed he was walking. The trick would be discovering how to keep him there, hateful but pliant, without pushing him too far again.
He reached out, stroked the flat of his palm ever so gently over Mathias’s buzzed hair. Like petting a cat, almost. A decidedly pleasant sensation. Mathias even held still for it—so still he’d stopped breathing.
“What I want from you and what I want from Douglas are two very different things, I’m afraid. And neither of you can provide f
or me what the other can.” Stroke, stroke. “I know you cannot conceive of this now, Mathias, but you must learn to let your brother go. You cannot care for him anymore; his fate is out of your hands.”
Ah, now Mathias jerked his head out from beneath Nikolai’s hand. Eyes narrowed, teeth clenched. “You have no idea what it means to love someone, do you,” he spat, though the effect was rather lost to his rasping whisper.
“Of course I do. But your brother will be letting you go. This I promise you.” Nikolai stood, fetched a cup of water from the en suite, brought it back and held it just out of Mathias’s reach. “You’d do well to learn from his example.”
“His example,” Mathias echoed, although it sounded much more ominous the way he said it.
“Yes. Look out for yourself. Serve me to save yourself.”
“Fuck you,” Mathias said, but it lacked venom. He was too tired. But that was all right; even from the floor, he was swinging.
“Sit up or I’ll fuck you.” Not a threat, merely an . . . encouragement. It did its job. Mathias spent the next minute or so peeling himself off the floor and climbing onto the bed.
“There’s a good boy.” Nikolai handed him the water. “Drink this. I’ll have Roger remove your stitches and bring you food. You must keep your strength up these next many weeks.”
The water was gone in three seconds. He could see Mathias fighting not to ask for more, not to hold the glass out. Well, the sturdy plastic cup. He’d be a fool to give Mathias anything he could use to slit his own wrists.
“You can ask for more. You’ve suffered so much already; do you really wish to continue suffering for your pride?”
“Pride’s all I have,” Mathias replied, purposefully tossing the cup aside. Nikolai watched it roll under the bed. “Pride, and Dougie. And you can’t take either of those away from me.”
Nikolai laughed, patted Mathias a little too hard for comfort on one cheek. “That’s good, Mathias, that’s very good. Never stop saying that. Of course . . .” He bent over, hooked his arms in Mathias’s armpits; the man was far too weak and tired to struggle, knew better than to try in any case lest he accidentally harm Nikolai. Nikolai dumped him face-first over the edge of the bed, pressed a hand to the back of Mathias’s neck to hold him in place, and unzipped his pants with the other. “. . . What you say and what you believe may end up being two very different things. So tell me, Mathias. Will you spread those beautifully muscled ass cheeks and offer me your hole, or will you face the consequences?”
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