The Incomprehensible Corruption of Innocence

Two weeks, five days, and seventeen hours into his captivity, otherwise known as two days previous, he had tried to escape. It had ended very badly, with him caught between an alligator and the men who had gleefully hunted him down until they had found him, and then, to his utter humiliation, had saved him from being eaten by the alligator.

Then, laughing as hard and as cruelly as he’d ever heard anyone laugh, they’d informed him that he’d acted exactly as they’d thought he would have, and told him his ‘escape chance’ had been a total set-up . . . a new wrinkle into the games that they’d been playing with him and his mind over the last few weeks.

Then, without any kind of warning, they stripped, and his eyes widened with horror as he saw they were wearing condoms. They closed in on him, and for the first time since they’d had him, he broke down and cried before they even touched him. He knew what was going to happen, and he knew it was going to happen right then and right there in the filthy swamp.

“Not here,” he’d pleaded, and he couldn’t have stopped himself from doing that if he’d tried. His OCD was completely taking him over, and he knew he’d never be able to get clean if they continued with their actions.

He knew, no matter how long he lived, that he’d always feel the mud and the brackish water on him and getting into every nook and cranny and space on his body. He knew he’d forever see it, smell it, and taste it. He’d also forever taste the sharp tang of his own blood, mixed with the foul smell and even fouler, gut wrenching taste of feces. Not to mention the threat of any and all kinds of diseases from not only the stagnant water and the mud, but also the threat of ecoli from being forced to swallow his own feces along with the swamp water and mud.

However, no matter how he’d begged and pleaded and promised he’d be good, they just got more excited with every word, and forced him to the muddy ground which was covered in at least three inches of water. Then, they took him, again and again, right then and right there. And, as he had feared, they forced him to suck each and every one of them off, and suck them clean.

Afterward, they’d marched him back to the shack, threw him back down on the bed, tied him to it, and then . . . left him. They literally abandoned him for two days to ‘stew in his own juices’ as a punishment for doing exactly what they’d thought he’d do.

And two days later, he was still there, and tears rolled down his cheeks and into his ears. He was close to the brink of being broken, and he knew it. The last thing they’d done was too much for him.

“I’m sorry, Horatio. I can’t do this any more. I’m sorry for being weak.” Ryan whispered, as he stared at the bugs that crawled on the ceiling, and his body trembled uncontrollably.

He squirmed on the filthy bed, as he swore he felt things crawling over and on him, and he wept as his head itched abominably, but there was nothing he could do for it, for once more they had been all too efficient in tying him to the bed frame.

In the first few hours of his abandonment, he’d fought to free himself from the ropes, just as he’d fought almost every time they’d tied him up, and the rope, as always, cut deeply into his wrists and ankles, splattering blood over his body, the rope, and soaked into the mattress under his head and feet.

However, having been abandoned to his own devices for two days, neither the blood nor the swamp residue was all he was covered with; he also lay in pools of his own urine and was smeared with his own feces. He’d tried, desperately, not to give in to either bodily function, until he could hold neither back, and it seemed with their release, his body decided to release his tears also, and when they wouldn’t stop immediately, he’d realized that he couldn’t stop them at all, no matter how much he wanted to.

Finally, the door to the bedroom opened. He turned his head to the door, and gazed with agony, fear, and loathing of both them and himself, he watched powerlessly as his three captors entered.

“Well, Whore,” the psycho said as he knelt down and looked into Ryan’s misery-filled, dull eyes. “I think we’ve taught you a lesson here, didn’t we? How does it feel to know that you’ll never escape, or die, until we let you?”

“Please, Masters,” Ryan suddenly heard his voice, and was surprised to hear that it sounded faint, and far away, as if he was at a distance, and briefly, he hated the fact it sounded so very weak and submissive. “Please I beg you, let me have a bath. I . . . I’ll do anything you want, I swear. Please . . .”

“The whore wants a bath,” one of the others grinned.

“So, let’s give him one,” the last man said, and they untied Ryan from the bed, looped the rope around his neck, and made him kneel before them on the floor. Bucket after bucket of soapy water splashed over him, and rinsed most of the filth he was covered with over the floor, where the water drained down, through the floorboards.

Suddenly, the three of them produced scrub brushes, and Ryan cried out in agony as they scrubbed the brushes over his skin, completely mindless of the broken open wounds, the cuts, the bruises, and all the other marks of torture they’d put on him.

“Are you liking your bath, Whore?” The psycho asked, and Ryan felt himself nod.

“Yes, Master,” Ryan answered dutifully, and his voice seemed even further away than it had the first time, and darkness gathered around the corners of his eyes and slowly oozed toward the middle.

Suddenly, with what little vision he had left, he saw the psycho as he leaned in closer, and studied his eyes. Ryan’s eyelashes slowly closed over his eyes, and when they opened, the only thing reflected in their green depths was a blank stare . . . and the face of the psycho. A slow grin stretched across the man’s face, until it broke open and he laughed long, loudly, and the sound was chilling in its obvious elation.

“We did it, boys!” he announced gleefully. “We finally broke the pig! It’s one hundred per cent OURS now! We can do whatever the hell we want with it, and get it to do whatever we want it to do!”

And that was the last thing that Ryan Wolfe, CSI, heard or saw.

It was true, they had broken him, completely, and they’d left behind nothing more than what they had wanted – a Slave Whore. However, there was one thing they couldn’t make him do, no matter how much they beat him or punished him, and that was to make him speak.
However, for what they wanted him to do to them, and for what they took from him, speaking was superfluous anyway, and not really high on their list of priorities for their Whore Slave.