The Cellar Pig

They didn’t speak at first. One of them simply stepped forward, unzipped his jeans, and unleashed a long, powerful stream of hot piss directly across his chest. The acrid liquid was almost scalding against his freezing skin, running in rivulets down his soft belly, pooling between his thighs and stinging every fresh cut and graze like liquid fire.

The other captor let out a low, wet, phlegmy laugh that echoed off the damp walls.

They brought the first meal immediately — a battered steel bowl filled to the brim with soft, warm human shit, still steaming faintly. The smell hit him like a physical punch. When he jerked his head away in horror, the bullwhip came down hard. Six feet of oiled black leather cracked like a gunshot, tearing bright red lines across his back and ribs. Lash after lash landed methodically, painting his skin in a lattice of bleeding welts until he was sobbing openly, snot and tears mixing on his face.

“Open your mouth,” one ordered flatly.

Trembling, he obeyed. They tipped the bowl slowly. Warm, slimy filth slid over his lip, coated his tongue, and filled his throat with the taste of rot and bile. His stomach rebelled violently, but they waited patiently through each gag, then forced another spoonful past his teeth. When he finally swallowed the last of it, they patted his head like a good dog.