The truth was, no matter what the man had wanted him subjected to after capture, it would have been dutifully carried out, especially for the bounty on his prey's head. Eliot Spencer was notorious in circles like these, and this man happened to be one that the retrieval specialist had ended up crossing. Big time.
The man wanted him to be broken so thoroughly, physically and mentally, that he'd chosen rape as his method of torture.
In all reality, Eliot wasn't new to that method. He'd been in a few hostile prisons and more torture chambers than he cared to recall. He'd left those places with more mental scars than physical ones.
But this was different. This place was made for sexual torture. He faced so much humiliation, strain on his body, and degradation, he'd nearly lost who he was. He wasn't sure if he could speak even if he wanted to. For ages now he'd only uttered growls, groans, moans, whimpers, sobs, and screams. His throat was torn by misuse, dehydration, and abuse.
Every so often his setup changed. One day he was hogtied on the ground, the next he was expertly tied and suspended in the air, the next he was strapped down to a table in a straining position. They used other torture methods to exacerbate this, too. He was left in stress positions for days at a time. His breathing was regulated by a tight collar or chain often. Sensory deprivation kept him disoriented and off balance. They also conditioned him, trained him.
Sometimes he was strapped down to a chair in a dingy room. They forced a rubber mouthpiece between his teeth, then hooked him up to a machine with electrodes and alligator clips. They shocked him if he didn't make certain sounds or perform specific tasks on command. He learned to obey early enough to avoid permanent damage to his brain and nerves.
They were willing to go as far as necessary.
The positions, names, and being forced to obey commands like a dog were degrading enough, but the most humiliating times were when he obeyed out of instinct. They were succeeding in rewiring his mind. On autopilot now, he'd kneel and hold his arms behind his back, tilt his head down, relax all muscles, or wait for a command. He moved with his rapists sometimes, or swirl his tongue around their dicks shoved into his mouth. He often froze when he realized what he was doing, trying to back out, but soon he learned that even hesitation was futile.
He learned.
He learned how to relax around whatever was shoved inside him. He learned to beg, submit, follow one's lead, and even try to please his masters. He learned to grow accustomed to passing out because one of them had his dick shoved down his throat too long and didn't let him breathe. He learned to cum on time and to swallow was he was forced to. He listened, too. He never used his teeth on them, never threw up when he was warned of a facefuck, never even asked for them to stop out of reflex.
Sometimes it was hard, though. He didn't want to rebel, it really wasn't worth it, and he knew he'd never survive an escape attempt; still, sometimes, rarely, the old Eliot Spencer shone through. His eyes would flash a hint of rage, or he'd pull away, or ball up a fist. He was punished for this. It was never because of the pain, or the shame. Just here and there, though, his mind would pull away from his new home, Hell, and he'd remember something. A glimpse of an old time, before all this. A bright smile on a dark face. Dark curls and a whiff of whiskey. Sweet perfume and gentle chiding. Brash laughter and the clicking of a lock being picked.
He never put a face to a flash of memory, or a name to the faces he forgot. He didn't let himself remember. Just these shards of memories made him act like his old self, which he really couldn't afford here.
Whatever he was tuning out, he missed it.
He was strong back then.
Fuck off, I'm still strong, I'm just waiting.
Waiting for what? Eliot argued with himself mentally. A knight in shining armor?
Them. They'll find me. We did that, we found important things and saved them, helped.
Who? What did you do? Who could you help? You're a trained dog, a piece of trash, so used and thrown away every time they-
No. There's someone.
There's no one.
There's me.
And what good is that?
He got lost in his thoughts sometimes. Periodically, he'd realize he was being violated halfway into it because he was so deep in thought. He figured that the only thing he could protect now was his mind, so he kept it in good use.
He counted. Attacks, curses, hits, screams, pats, doors slamming, lights flickering out.
He remembered. Attackers' names, preferences, movements, timing, accents, who trained him to obey.
He feared.
Trembled.
He repeated his name to himself when he was alone. How else would he remember it? With how often he was called fag, whore, slut, mutt, toy, pet, slave, and bitch, what else could he do to keep track of what he really was? He was a retrieval specialist. A hitter. He protected people, precious things, himself.
Not that well, apparently, but it was his job anyway.