The Incomprehensible Corruption of Innocence

And that was pretty much what it had been like for the last three weeks, and he knew it had been three weeks, because his OCD made him count and recount the sunrises and the sunsets, and what ‘meals’ were served, and when, and when his body voided . . . or more appropriately, was allowed to void.

He’d been released from the bed on the third day, though they’d kept a rope around his neck, and dragged him everywhere they’d gone, though, if they gave him an order, he was beaten with whatever they had handy – whether it was their fists, an electrical cord, or even his own leash, until he followed it. His back was marked with numerous cuts, welts, and whip marks, while the rest of his body was covered in bruises of varying depths and colors, while he was certain that one of his fingers was broken . . . or at the least, dislocated.

Of course, that wasn’t the only way they punished him. Sometimes they forced him to go two or three days without anything to eat, and only one cup of water to drink. Sometimes, they made him drink water mixed with their semen, and sometimes, when he was particularly stubborn, and if he vomited, he was made to clean it up . . . with his tongue.

The men’s sexual appetites had been voracious, and they had been at him, (sometimes one of them, sometimes all of them) every day, although, on most occasions, two or three times a day, and no matter how he tried to fight them, no matter what he said, or what he did to try and fight them or refuse them, they always took him in some manner.

If they weren’t pounding him in his body, they were shoving themselves into his mouth, and they even found ways to make him use his hands on them. And then there were the times they actually took some time with him, and forced him to respond in arousal, and made him participate in his own rape. As time went on, and his ‘training’ continued, they even tried to get him to call them ‘Master’. He’d fought against that until the psycho had broken a tooth when he’d punched him in the jaw for not saying it, and Ryan wasn’t really sure when they’d stopped calling him at least ‘Wolfe’ or ‘Pig’, and started calling him simply ‘Whore’, and expected him to answer to it.

There were only two small mercies they granted him: one was that they always wore a condom, and two, they usually used some form of lubrication . . . and if he was really what they called ‘good’ they actually used the lubrication that was recommended for such a purpose.

He’d tried, desperately, to remain defiant, and wait for Horatio and the others to figure out where he was, but he knew from his police and CSI experience that the more time that passed, the colder the trail would become, and the colder the trail, the more unlikely his disappearance and eventual murder would ever be solved; not that he doubted his friends’ abilities, far from it, but the statistics were stacked completely against him.

Up to that point, though, his pain, combined with the endless humiliation, the constant rapes, and the punishment for whatever mistake, no matter how minor, he’d made, had all taken their toll on his body, his will, and it was starting to work on his mind. He looked up at the ceiling from his usual position (tied onto the bed, arms roped to the bedposts, his legs bent, and his butt in the air) and he knew that his fighting days were over.

He had nothing left to fight with.