Some nights, a few guards would sneak from their shifts to get some extra entertainment. They slipped into his cell and took him to the empty room at the end of the hall. He fought, he always did, but they made sure he stayed silent. They smashed his head into the wall, slapped him, threatened him, but they never gagged him. No, they liked to hear his cries once he was in the room.
It only started about a month into his captivity, once he was thin from starvation, no longer able to recuperate between beatings, conditioned to comply.
Not that he didn't rebel. He tried to escape, twisted out of their tight grips, kicked, scratched, and bit whenever he could. Even if his hands were cuffed behind him.
Still, they always won in the end.
He was thrown into the wall and forcibly kissed. His head was smashed into the concrete when he tried to pull away. He was pushed down to his knees, his hair grabbed and mouth forced open. Then, they took their turns shoving themselves down his throat. He choked on them and they didn't let him breathe, just pulled him closer. When they wanted more, he was pushed to the ground. They always beat him before the next part, to be sure he didn't fight back. Once he was bruised, bleeding, and disoriented, they flipped him onto his stomach. Straddled him. His shorts were pulled down and, without warning or preparation, one was inside him. He hated that it always made him scream. They all took their turns. Sometimes, it was a fist. They felt inside him. Felt what could change his groans of pain to moans of unwilling pleasure. They reached around under him and grabbed him, forcing his body to react to their ministrations. Said, if he didn't want it, why did his body say otherwise? They made him beg for more.
When he was brought back to his cell, thrown in with his hands cuffed behind him, he shivered in pain and disgust. His first cellmate, an American like him, always had his hands cuffed in front of him, and never chained. He went to the injured hitter and made him feel more comfortable, tending to his wounds and fixing his hair and clothing.
One night, the American came to him and did the same as usual. This time, though, his touches lingered. Each touch was lower and lower. When the injured man questioned it, his cellmate shushed him.
"I've helped you when you're hurt. You owe me. I know you want it," He cooed. "Look." He took hold of his cell mate's manhood. "See? You want this." When the trapped man protested he was shushed again and his cellmate covered his mouth to keep him quiet. "You know you want it."
His cellmate used him, but he manipulated him, too. Made him feel like he should give himself willingly, like he deserved it. The American began backhanding him, punching him, beating him every time he cried out or spoke out of turn. Then, he gave up the act. He was really just one of the captors. He wasn't a captive; he was a traitor.
Eliot hated himself for succumbing to abuse on top of torture.
That was when Akbhan started visiting him personally.
He did things to Eliot that he would never be able to forget.