The Homecoming

Three weeks after Domino's departure, things had moved on. He was woken early with a kick to the backside. ; his mother and sister were already dressed. They announced they were all taking a trip.

The journey was a nightmare of confinement and uncertainty. Eamon lay on the floor of the Rover, the heavy blanket smothering him, turning the air thick and stale. His hands were cuffed behind his back, his legs hobbled at the ankles, and a ball gag filled his mouth, making each breath a conscious effort. The world outside was a muffled symphony of engine noise and the indistinct, cheerful chatter of his mother and sister. They talked only to each other, their words a meaningless drone that underscored his complete isolation from their lives. He was cargo, being transported to an unknown destination for an unknown purpose.

The drive lasted for what felt like an eternity. The smooth tarmac gave way to an unmade road, the car jolting and bouncing, each jolt sending a fresh wave of pain through his restrained body. The final half-mile was the worst, his body thrown against the hard floor as the wheels churned through mud and puddles. Finally, the car stopped. He heard the doors open, the crunch of gravel under their shoes. Their voices mingled with another, deeper voice, but the words were lost to him.

Light and air flooded in as the blanket was yanked away. Eamon blinked, his eyes struggling to adjust. A face loomed over him, framed by the open car door. It was a woman, short and chubby, with a wild mess of grey hair escaping from a loosely tied scarf. Her cheeks were a ruddy, country red, the colour of someone who spent their life outdoors, in all weathers. Her hands, calloused and strong, reached down. They took his chin, her grip like a vice, and maneuvered his head from side to side, her eyes appraising him with the cold, dispassionate interest of a farmer inspecting livestock.

She pulled the blanket away completely, leaving him exposed on the car floor. She leaned on a gnarled walking stick, then, with a casual, almost curious movement, she poked the steel cage encasing his cock with it. He flinched, a muffled groan escaping the gag. She nodded, a grunt of approval rumbling in her chest.

"All week?" she asked, her voice rough and earthy. She was looking over the roof of the car at Elizabeth.

"If you could," Elizabeth's voice replied, smooth and polite. "Miriam and I are going on a well-earned break."

"Any limits?" Doris asked, a hint of amusement in her tone.

"No," Elizabeth said, her voice chillingly final. "Just need him alive and no need for urgent medical attention."

Doris let out a bark of a laugh, a sound like stones rattling in a tin can. "No promises."

While Elizabeth and Miriam went into the farm cottage for a cup of tea, a large man appeared at the car door. He was built like an ox, his face a slab of meat with small, large, dangerous eyes. He grabbed Eamon under the arms, his grip bruising, and dragged him unceremoniously from the car. Eamon's legs, still hobbled, buckled beneath him. The man grunted with effort and half-dragged, half-carried him to an old wooden hand cart. He dumped Eamon onto it, his back hitting the splintery wood with a thud. A thick leather strap was thrown across his chest and tightened, crushing the air from his lungs. The man pushed the cart over the bumpy cottage forecourt, around the back, and stopped before a large, dilapidated shed.

The doors groaned open, revealing a space that was dark and damp, smelling of soil, rot, and something else, something metallic and vaguely animalistic. The man, Derick, untied the strap and hauled Eamon upright. A single, bare bulb hung from a beam in the ceiling, casting long, dancing shadows. Derick expertly tied a rope to Eamon's cuffs and threw the other end over the beam. He pulled, hauling Eamon's arms up behind him until he was forced to bend forward at a painful angle, his shoulders screaming in protest. His head hung low, his face inches from the dirt floor.

The man left without a word, the heavy doors slamming shut, plunging Eamon into near-total darkness. The only light came from a faint, dusty glow through a high, grimy window. He shivered as the cold seeped into his bones, the dampness a constant, oppressive presence. He was alone, suspended in the dark, a forgotten piece of meat waiting for the butcher. The fear was a living thing inside him, coiling and uncoiling in his gut. He had no idea what these people were, what they wanted. He only knew it would be a very long week.