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For one second, one blissful second, Arthur was gone.
The shouts and yells were beginning to grow fainter and fainter behind him, and even as his vision swam and blurred, he could see familiar landscapes beginning to form in front of him. The path that led back to camp, where the others would be waiting. Where he would finally be away from O’Driscoll territory, away from the cellar and the stench of his own blood. There it was, closer, and closer, and—
And then, in the next second, he was flying.
The sound of a gun going off and the shriek of his own horse didn’t register until after he slammed into the ground. Between his own spotty vision and the pitch black dark of midnight, he couldn’t see— he could only hear the sound of hooves galloping into the distant tree line and approaching laughter. With every second that passed, the hope that had begun burning in his chest slowly smoldered away, rising away like pieces of ash into the night sky. He felt cold.
That was that, then.
He couldn’t even tell if it was him or his horse who had taken the bullet; his own body throbbed so badly he wouldn’t be surprised if he was bleeding out into the dirt. Again.
If the option was between dying right then and there or going back to the O’Driscolls, Arthur would happily take the former.
It wasn't long before rough hands grabbed him, the barrel of various guns pressed into his skin, and rope was tied around him so tightly he began to lose circulation. The burned bullet wound in his shoulder throbbed with a heartbeat of its own as they rolled him over. Subconsciously, he could hear them throwing out taunting words, but it sounded like he was listening to everything with his head dunked underwater.
One hand wrapped around his shoulder, the thumb digging directly into the wound, and Arthur couldn't help the agonized yell that ripped out of his throat. Another round of laughter rang out above him. Despite the pain and exhaustion, his body thrashed in a primal kind of instinct to just get away, to keep fighting.
Have faith, son. Don't you trust me?
"Dutch," he gasped, without even really meaning to. "Dutch—"
When unconsciousness finally came calling his name, Arthur welcomed it.
-Ⅹ-
“There he is,” Colm smiled, putting his arms out as he walked down the stone steps. Arthur didn’t bother looking up.
Colm’s footsteps echoed around the cellar as he approached. “I have to say, I’m always impressed with you, Arthur. A valiant effort, really— I can see why Dutch loves to parade you around. You’re the prize stallion, still so wild.”
When Arthur still didn’t acknowledge him, the man seemed to lose his patience. His fingers knotted a fist in Arthur’s hair and pulled, forcing his neck to bend back. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and held back every pained nose that threatened to escape through his teeth.
“I always respected your loyalty, kid, don’t get me wrong,” Colm continued, getting so close Arthur could feel his warm, rancid breath ghosting over his ear. “But it’s gettin’ sad, Arthur. Real sad. I mean— I really thought I had the golden goose, taking you. Dutch’s favorite, I always heard.”
Against his better judgement, Arthur allowed his eyes to squint open. Colm met his gaze with a sympathetic smile.
“Five whole days later, and I’m starting to think Dutch ain’t comin’.”
The words should’ve brought him a sense of relief, Arthur knew. Since arriving, his mind had been fixed on escaping in order to warn Dutch and the others about the trap, praying that none of them were dumb enough to throw their safety away on his behalf.
There was no way it would’ve gone unnoticed, and it couldn’t be written off as a hunting trip or a job— Arthur could see Micah ignoring his absence at meetup point, but not Dutch.
Most likely, Hosea had managed to talk some sense into Dutch and convince him not to go waltzing into a trap. The two of them would bicker as they always did, but they would work some strategy out together. Charles would be able to track something back to the O’Driscoll camp, and they could scope out the situation from the tree line. All of that would take a good while to put together, maybe even five days.
Still, Arthur couldn’t scratch the itch of doubt in the back of his mind.
The one that said no one is coming for you. They left you to die. They know you aren’t worth the risk.
“Good,” Arthur said aloud.
Colm’s expression twisted into a teasing pout. “No need to hold back tears on my account, Arthur. How many years of loyalty, and the man doesn’t even bother trying? I’ve gotta say, not even I was expecting that.”
“And what, you think this is the way to convince me to leave him?” Arthur rasped, spitting a glob of bloody phlegm onto the floor. “Buncha’ fuckin’ thieves and murderers, ‘s all any of us are.”
His eyes were too bleary to get a proper look at Colm’s fist before it was already slamming into his nose. Everything fizzled out into static with the exception of his own heartbeat, thudding with every throb of pain. He could feel his own blood pouring, smearing across his chin and into his mouth and down his neck.
By the time the world was beginning to focus, Colm’s ugly mug reappeared right in front of him, hissing and spitting in earnest.
“That’s not a nice way to talk to ‘yer host, boy. I’m the only reason you you’re alive, ‘cause it just so happens that you’re more useful alive than dead. I took care of that septic, wasted good medicine on you, made sure you weren’t goin’ belly up. Right now it looks like I’m doin’ more to keep you alive than your daddy!”
A hand roughly grabbed his jaw, squeezing his cheeks and mouth together.
“Do you get it, Morgan? You ain’t Dutch’s son. You’re his workhorse, his dog, his bitch,” Colm enunciated every word with a fist to Arthur’s gut. “He ain’t got you loyal, he’s got you on a goddamn leash!”
Arthur’s knees buckled beneath him and immediately the metal cuffs stringing him up from the ceiling began biting into the skin of his wrists. Every breath felt wheezier than the last.
Finally, the assault ended, and Colm took a step back.
The older man grinned. “Can’t let that medicine go to waste, now, can I?”
Arthur coughed, still trying to catch his breath. He could feel blood spattering out of his mouth with every breath. “If he ain’t comin’,” he croaked between heaves, “why go through the effort?”
“Like I said. The boys have been overworking themselves,” Colm mused. “I think they deserve to let off some steam.”
The words promised more beatings, senseless torture, but there was an underlying tone of something even darker. Arthur squinted, wincing as the muscles in his face ached. With his arms bound he had even less of a chance to find something to free himself with.
At least Colm had slipped— taking care of the sepsis meant he wasn’t wasn’t willing to risk Arthur actually dying, and although that certainly didn’t mean anything but pain in the meantime, it also gave the others more time to figure something out.
They would come.
“Bobby,” Colm yelled. “Come pull him up higher and bring the stocks in."
One of the O’Driscolls who had presumably been guarding the top of the stairs hurried down, face lighting up at the sight of Arthur. His smile was all teeth, eyes as black as a shark. “‘Course, sir,” Bobby said. “Is it time to celebrate?”
Arthur groaned as he felt the ropes around his arms tighten and pull, forcing his entire body up. His feet stretched out, trying to get some footing on the filthy ground, but eventually even his toes weren’t able to scrape the floor. Gravity stretched him, pulling at the crusted wounds covering his shoulder.
“Not yet. I eat first.”
“'Course, C-Colm—“
”The stocks, boy.”
Bobby scurried out without another word, and Arthur held his breath as he realized the gate hadn’t even been locked behind him. Either they were getting lazy, or— the more likely option, he thought— they simply knew he was past the point of escaping. Even if he had the mental presence to do so, he was physically done.
Even if they let him drop to the floor, Arthur realized, his heart sinking. He wasn’t sure he would be able to make it to his feet.
“Dutch gets awfully possessive,” Colm tucked a cigarette between his lips as he approached. Arthur tensed, preparing for another blow, but jerked when the only thing he felt was the palm of a hand against his stomach.
Smoke blew directly into his face and he twisted away in a coughing fit.
“That woman, he got real upset over her,” Colm continued. His hand trailed across Arthur’s bare chest, strangely gentle, and it made Arthur feel ill all the same. A shudder ran down his spine as Colm dragged a hand over his ribcage. “You was just a boy then, barely came up to my waist.”
“Annabel never did nothin’ to you,” Arthur growled.
“No,” Colm agreed. “Dutch did. That’s why I killed her, n’that’s why I have you here right now.” His hand settled around Arthur’s throat, gripping it without applying any real pressure. “I considered killing you, stickin’ your head in a box and mailing it to ‘im, but I’d rather see his face when he realizes you’re mine.”
The utter indignation he felt must’ve been visible on his face, because Colm laughed out loud.
”That’s right, Arthur Morgan. You’re an O’Driscoll bitch now, and you’ll already be broken in if and when Dutch ever comes lookin’ to collect his things.”
The hands roaming around his skin suddenly felt like daggers, like snakes, more uncomfortable than any blows could be. Arthur shifted, mind racing as he debated whether or not he had enough strength to kick out with his leg.
“It ain’t like that, Colm,” he muttered, refusing to let his voice waver.
“Oh, but it is, Arthur,” Colm purred. “Believe me, you ain’t the prettiest girl I’ve ever picked up from the saloon, but at the end of the day a hole’s a hole.”
Nausea knotted itself in the back of Arthur’s throat, and he was sure that if he opened his mouth, he would vomit. The taste of stomach acid and bile was already rising, and it was everything he could do to keep it in.
Dutch had never touched him like that. He and Hosea were the ones who kept bad men from touchin’ him like that, when he was young. He also knew Dutch and Hosea definitely had an… unusual relationship, but he’d never minded. People could talk all they wanted— they were both his fathers. And being on the road, well. Shit, Arthur had known more than a few fellas who hadn’t had a woman around and had to work it out with what they had. There was nothin’ wrong with that.
But Colm wasn’t looking for that.
As far as the man in front of him was concerned, Arthur could’ve been a horse or a slab of meat.
“Don’t do this,” he wanted to say, but the words got tangled and caught in his throat. His mind was racing too fast to think of a way out— he couldn’t tell if Colm was just trying to intimidate him, scare him a bit, or if he actually intended on following through with his word. Sexual violence, harassment, rape— that was something Arthur protected people from. That was something the girls talked about amongst themselves in camp, a shared experience of survival and pain.
He had never actually considered being on the receiving end of it.
“You wanna rethink my offer of seein’ the light?”
Arthur clenched his jaw shut, refusing to let himself even consider the possibility. He was a lot of things; an outlaw, a criminal, a gambler, but he wasn’t no rat. Not to Dutch.
Colm chuckled. “Alright, then. Don’t say I never gave you the chance t'say no.”
-Ⅹ-
Arthur kept his eyes closed during the brief moments of peace that followed. It didn’t last long— Bobby returned with two other O’Driscoll lackeys, all of whom were hauling in a wooden set of stocks.
One of the newcomers looked eerily similar to Bill, and Arthur had to look away. The other didn’t look a day over twenty five, but he was taller than anyone else by a good five inches and had an unapologetic, hungry smile that stretched from ear to ear. Mason, he caught Bobby call them. George and Mason, respectively.
“He’s pretty,” Mason said, putting his hand against Arthur’s jaw. He rubbed his thumb over his lip, and as soon as he tried to worm the digit in between his teeth, Arthur snapped, only barely missing the finger as his jaw clamped shut. Mason burst out laughing, and ruffled Arthur’s hair as if he was petting a dog.
Maybe that’s all he was. He was sure acting like one.
“Why don’t you just take him out to the saloon, first,” George grunted from his place against the wall. “Buy him flowers, ask for his daddy’s blessing?”
Colm appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and Mason hurried back to join the others.
“Well? What are you bastards waiting for? Get him down and in those cuffs!”
As soon as the ropes dropped him, Arthur knew he didn’t have a chance in hell. It was his one opportunity to make a break for it, or fight, but his legs crumpled to the floor and knocked the wind out of him as his the bullet wound and cracked ribs were jostled in the fall. White hot pain blinded him, unable to move past it as hands grabbed him and hauled him off the ground.
The stocks weren’t much better. His toes could make contact with the filthy, cold ground, and his wrists were no longer holding his entire weight, but the awkward position was even worse than hanging. The stocks were low and wide, trapping his head and hands low in front of him, bent awkwardly over a rounded leather bench that held his abdomen.
“Grab his ankles,” Bobby said, and Arthur quickly realized he wouldn’t even have his footing— there were two adjoining metal rails where his ankles were tied at a parallel height to his hips.
He couldn’t move at all.
Like a breeding bench for animals, he thought. He felt cold.
”That’s more like it,” Colm sneered. “All trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, hm? You look like a natural. How many times has Dutch spread you out like this and let the whole camp have their fun? Is that why he loves you so much, boy?”
”Go to hell,” Arthur grunted.
“You still holding out hope for your daddy?” Colm took out a pocketknife and began cutting away the union suit, from waist to ankle, until their truly was nothing left. The fabric fell limply to the ground, and Arthur shivered. He was entirely naked, bound, seemingly held in midair. “You sure you want him to see you when we’re done? You want him to know you’re an O’Driscoll whore?”
Arthur flinched as something slapped sharply across his ass, and his ears burned at the round of jeers and laughter that followed.
Anything but this. Anything but this.
He wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse that the thick piece of wood wedged over his head kept him from seeing anything that went on behind him. It made every touch worse— unpredictable, with no way to tell who was doing it or where they planned to move to next.
One hand ran across the back of his thigh, inching dangerously inwards, and Arthur grit his teeth as he tried to squeeze his thighs together. It was useless; his ankles were tied on opposite ends of the beams, and he couldn’t even touch his knees together. Mason laughed by his ear.
“Don’t be shy, Arthur.”
”Don’t touch him,” Colm snapped. “He’s mine, first. Get the hell out of here until I come out.”
Arthur wondered if there was a way to pass out through sheer will. He would do anything to be unconscious.
Mason sounded disappointed at the order. “Can’t we watch, at least?”
”Why do you want to watch?” George retorted. “You was always a goddamn deviant.”
“Shut up!”
Arthur tuned out their arguing. His arms and thighs were trembling, cold sweat running down his spine. He blinked rapidly, imagining how far away the others could possibly be. Dutch was coming. He would come.
You want him to know you’re an O’Driscoll whore?
No. Fuck. It wasn’t happening. None of this was happening.
The next wave of nausea that rolled over him didn’t relent, no matter how harshly he tried to swallow it down. His body shuddered before he tilted his head down and vomited onto the floor.
The argument paused in front of him.
Colm gripped his hair at the scalp and ripped it up, spitting in Arthur’s face. “You try that one more time I’ll get you licking it clean on your hands and knees.” The man turned to Mason. “You wanted to stay and watch, queer? You can get on ‘yer knees and clean that up while I break him in.”
Apparently, that was all the planning they needed. Mason muttered curses as he mopped up the bloody vomit, which was truly not much more than that, while George and Bobby stepped out.
“Don’t,” Arthur blurted out as soon as he heard Colm undoing his own buckles.
Colm huffed. “You can stop this at any time, boy, you just need to give me Dutch.”
It was almost worse, to give him the choice. Arthur’s eyes burned as hands slapped his ass, pinching and spreading them wide. He couldn’t give them Dutch. He had already decided that, years ago— he would die for Dutch, for Hosea, for their cause. They were family. They were everything he had.
“No? Startin’ to think you want this,” Colm said. “Say ‘please’ and I might treat you nicely.”
Arthur knew he wouldn’t, regardless.
He felt Colm settle between his thighs, one hand steadying himself on Arthur’s leg. There was the sound of a bottle uncorking, oil being spilled across the floor, and then something burning hot prodded at Arthur’s ass, and every muscle in his body tensed as his mind short circuited.
It couldn’t be happening. There was no— it wasn’t, these things— no, no. No.
“Last chance to hold your pride, Mr. Morgan.”
Arthur closed his eyes.
It felt like fire, when Colm shoved himself inside.
Raw heat, piercing agony across every nerve in Arthur’s body, sending lightning up the base of his spine. Arthur screamed through his teeth, hands balling into fists against the stocks and thrashing as much as he could in the restraints.
But it just kept going. It felt like it would never end, pushing into him, going deeper than he thought was even possible, ripping his entire body in half.
Even if he had managed to hold his emotions in a cage, the physical agony of the act was enough. Hot, furious, ashamed tears dropped down his face as Colm fucked into him, unable to do anything more than lie there and take it, deeper and deeper until he felt Colm's balls flush against his ass.
"Be easier if you relax,” Mason told him from where he was watching against the wall, looking thoroughly amused.
Arthur couldn’t reply with anything more than a pained grunt as Colm pulled out and began the process all over again. He could feel blood dripping down his thighs, smearing across his skin with every movement the older man made.
“Dutch’s bitch for twenty years and you’re still so damn tight,” Colm huffed, whistling lowly. “I see why he keeps you around.”
He shoved himself back in, picking up speed and force as the oil and blood began slicking them together. There was nothing left in his stomach to vomit up, but Arthur dry heaved all the same. He felt like dead weight, swinging and jerking with every thrust, grunting every time it felt like the air was getting punched out of him from the inside.
Colm slapped his ass cheek, over and over until the skin felt like a burning poker and the hits came down like a whip. “Not too bad,” Colm grunted, “you like that? Suckin’ in my cock like you’re beggin’ for it.”
The thrusts slowed, going deeper than before, but the man seemed to be taking his time. Relishing every moment. A low sob tire itself out from Arthur’s lungs as Colm’s cock pressed back in, filling him up in his entirety. He could feel the rim of his ass tight against flesh, opening up wider and wider like an invitation.
He wanted to die.
Death would be a mercy. Arthur had always fought for his life, fought for the tiniest sliver of hope that luck would be on his side and he would live to see another day. He hadn’t given up all the while they tortured him, even if he had begun to doubt Dutch would come.
But this? Arthur didn’t want to live, after this. He knew he wouldn’t be able to look any of them in the eye, if they ever knew.
“Fuckin’ take it,” Colm seemed to lose all control, fingernails sinking into Arthur’s thighs as he jackhammered himself in, so fast that Arthur could feel his own cock swinging below him, could feel his head hitting the back of the stocks with every push, sweat dripping down his neck. Colm’s balls slapped his taint with the motion, and the sounds of wet, slick, slapping was enough to make him heave once more.
The fiery pain felt like a swarm of bees, buzzing angrily, running across his ribs and ass and face and shoulder and everywhere while his body jerked this way and that like a piece of meat, sweaty and dripping blood. He was disgusting.
He cried out as Colm packed him balls-deep, pulling his hips down on his cock and holding them together like some twisted version of lovers, connected in the most intimate of ways.
“Don’t,” the word escaped Arthur in a tiny, trembling gasp.
Colm laughed. And Arthur retched, because he could feel Colm’s cock twitching and pulsing inside of him, swelling hot and heavy before the dam finally broke. Burning liquid gushed into him, stretching him even further with no where else to go. Colm groaned tightly behind him, giving short, quick thrusts as he finished himself before pulling out with an obscene wet popping sound.
There was the sound of come spilling on the floor, flooding out of his own ass and dribbling down his taint, and Arthur could only sob voicelessly into the dark, unable to stop his hole from clenching and unclenching around the sudden emptiness.
His entire body flinched as Colm rubbed the head of his cock against the mess, chuckling as he smeared the semen around. He traced the puffy, reddened ring of Arthur's anus.
“God, you’re pretty like this. Little Arthur Morgan, ass gaping and full of my seed. Tsk, what would Dutch say, f’he saw you like this? He don’t mind gettin’ sloppy seconds, if he had the chance. Yeah? You wish it was your daddy, fucking you like this?”
Arthur stared numbly at the concrete beneath him. He could see the blood, semen, sweat, tears, and remains of bile all mixing together in the damp, rippling as tears continued dripping off of his chin.
“I’m gonna fuckin' kill you,” he whispered hoarsely.
He could hear Colm tucking himself away, but still flinched when the man’s face suddenly appeared in his vision. The slap across his face that followed was sharp and biting.
”That’s no way to talk to 'yer master, bitch,” Colm sneered. “What do you say?”
He looked back at the floor.
Another slap. He felt the inside of his cheek slice open against his molar.
No.
“What do you fucking say to me, you dirty whore?”
No.
''You say thank you. Thank me, Arthur Morgan, for fuckin’ you right. Say thank you.” Arthur spat the blood out, and expected the third slap, when it came. Colm’s eyes glinted dangerously in the candlelight. “Say it before I put you out on a real breeding bench and let the horses have their way with 'ya.”
No.
There was a very real danger that he would follow through with the threat, and after everything that had just happened, it seemed meaningless to hold on to something so small. Arthur had no pride left to hang on to, not when he had come and blood smeared across his thighs. Another slap. The humiliation of the blow hurt far more than the actual sting. Arthur gritted his teeth together until they felt like they would crack, but he shook his head even as the room spun around him.
He refused to comply. They could break him however they wanted, but he wouldn't ever thank them for it.
"Bring in the boys," Colm suddenly snapped, addressing Mason. "I want him drooling on the floor by the time you're done."
Mason grinned, rubbing his crotch. "It'd be my pleasure, boss."
Colm lit a cigarette and sat down in the corner of the cellar, still palming himself through his pants. He smirked when Arthur made eye contact, looking beyond pleased with himself. Letting his eyes rake over Arthur's spread naked body like it was a prize he had conquered and won.
-Ⅹ-
The three other men, as Arthur quickly picked up on, weren't planning on taking turns.
Colm had been trying to prove a point, at least, for the most part— but Bobby, Mason, and George seemed like they had volunteered for their own pleasure. The three men came down the stairs and jeered at the sight of him. Arthur looked down and focused on his own breathing, face burning with humiliation as they gathered around and began touching and making comments.
Like Colm, none of them debased themselves by taking off clothing; they simply unzipped their dicks and let them hang out from their pants. Despite himself, Arthur still felt his mouth go dry when he glanced up and saw George. He could count on one hand how many dicks he had seen in his life, but he immediately could tell the man was well-endowed. His cock was flushed dark, as wide and long as a bottle of whiskey.
"You scared?" George laughed, pumping himself with one hand as he noticed Arthur's attention. Arthur forced his eyes back to the ground even though it felt like his head was being stuffed with enough cotton to explode. His ears wouldn't stop ringing.
Mason was the first to step up. He stroked Arthur's face, ran his hands along his spine, traced the lines in the soles of his feet. Arthur thought he might've hated Mason even more than Colm. At least Colm had the decency to torture him, to make it hurt. Mason's touch was as gentle as a lover.
And he fucked him like a lover.
Arthur sobbed into the stocks as Mason stuck two fingers into him, slipping past the rim and digging. At first, the sensation was nothing but uncomfortable and mildly painful, but then his fingertips brushed something and Arthur's world went white.
"There it is," Mason purred.
"Fuck," Arthur gasped, back arching painfully against the sensation. But Mason wasn't finished— once he had found the bundle of nerves, he didn't let it go. Over and over, Mason pressed into it, massaging the area until moans were tearing themselves out of Arthur's mouth against his will. It felt like being stuck with a lightning rod, foamy spit filling his mouth as he lost himself entirely.
Eventually, the feeling gave way to agony once more, but Mason continued, rubbing and rubbing until Arthur was clenching against him and screaming like a dog.
When it all became too much and he finally crested over an orgasm, it was anything but pleasure. Arthur choked on his own tears as his dick dribbled beneath him. Some part of his mind recognized when Bobby began lazily fucking into him, but his body was busy twitching in the aftershocks of the assault, entirely overstimulated, and too exhausted to feel much of anything by the time the man filled him with hot spunk.
"Glad you enjoyed that," Mason teased. "You're up next, George."
Arthur wondered he could goad the men into beating him unconscious. He tried to imagine he was anywhere but that cellar, somewhere in the open air by himself. Listening to a nearby creek and the siren calls of elk instead of flesh slapping against flesh.
The halfhearted daydream was shattered when George forced his way inside of him.
"Oh," he grunted, clamping his mouth shut as strangled sounds escaped him. Pain flared, but also a sickening sense of satisfaction as his body wrapped around the tight intrusion. The friction was eased by slick, as George pounded two other loads of come deeper inside. "Oh, oh, oh—"
The cock impaling him was so long he could feel it nudging at his insides, could feel the way his stomach was distending with every thrust. It was brutal, a thorough, loveless, animalistic fucking.
To Arthur's complete horror, the physical pain was ebbing, and his body responded in suit.
Fuck, fuck, fuck—
It felt good.
A long, miserable whine pulled itself from his mouth and he threw his head back, desperately thrusting his hips into the empty air beneath him, every muscle trembling as the stimulation grew unbearable. His cock flared, throbbing and weeping but receiving no real relief. It was overwhelming, all-consuming, so close to being pleasurable and yet completely agonizing.
"Say please," Mason purred, rubbing the tip of his cock around Arthur's lips.
"Please," Arthur gasped, nearly crying at the pressure. It was too much. His mind was getting fuzzier and fuzzier, short circuiting all his thoughts to please please please please please while his body shuddered and writhed. In that moment, they could've done anything to him. He needed it so badly. If it meant release, he was a whore, Colm's filthy basement whore, and he didn't care. "Please, fuck, please" he repeated, without even being asked. His voice was breathless, "please, please, hgnhhh..."
"Please what?"
"Fucking," Arthur slammed the back of his head against the wooden beam, frustration mounting. He couldn't think of any words, let alone form them in his mouth. His hips jutted, desperately pushing back against George's cock, eyes rolling back as the length slammed into his prostate. "More," he managed to spit. He glared at Mason, but the effect must've been lost with the way his mouth hung open, bloody and drooling.
"More what?" Mason asked, smiling playfully. He tilted his head, looking almost fond. "Come on, sweetheart. Tell me what you need."
George made a noise of disgust at the term of endearment, but continued pounding his own dick into Arthur's ass, grunts beginning to grow quicker as he sped up. Arthur's chest shuddered and he sobbed, sagging into the stocks, feeling wholly exhausted. Mason's cock stroked his cheek, tapping lightly over his eyelids. His balls slid across Arthur's lips. It was disgusting. It was filthy.
Miserable tears ran down his face as he simply laid there and took it all, unsure whether he hated the O'Driscolls or himself more.
"Let me h-have another go," Bobby's complain rang out behind him. "At least grab a pail n'let me underneath to share!"
"Share what, dumbass?"
"Don't have a pussy," George agreed flatly, voice tight. He smacked the back of his hand against Arthur's inner thigh. "Unless you're plannin' on putting him in your throat, you fuckin' sodomite."
You're the one with your dick up a man's ass, Arthur thought, feeling more than a little hysterical. George's moral hypocrisy wasn't something he necessarily felt like he could point out, seeing as he was the ass in question, but Bobby seemed to have no qualms himself.
"He don't need no pussy. Bein' through so much cock, s'gotta be loose by now."
"Course this ass is loose, I'm in it!"
Arthur blearily looked up at Mason, who was looking away from his two companions with a growing smile that filled Arthur's chest with cold dread. Mason winked at him with an air of conspiratorial camaraderie.
"That what ya meant, Arthur? You dying for another O'Driscoll cock up your cunt?"
Too dizzy to fully comprehend what any of them were talking about, Arthur simply whined and rocked helplessly against the rope. It wasn't until the thrusting slowed and he felt Bobby crawling up beneath him that he vaguely realized something else was happening. He was sandwiched between George and Bobby, unable to properly see either of them past the wooden beam, but the second he felt another stiff length rubbing against his thigh, he felt his stomach bottom out with horror.
"Whats'sa—" he twisted, eyes widening.
His body tensed, and George let out a loud string of curses. "Fuckin' bitch went tighter than a damn noose!"
"Thought you'd loosened him up," Bobby snarked.
"You clearly didn't the first time 'round."
All the air felt like it had been sucked from Arthur's lungs as it finally dawned on him what they intended to attempt. The blood on his thighs from Colm's violation hadn't yet dried— and yet there Bobby was, preparing to press himself in while George was fucking him. He shook his head weakly, breathless as he tried to beg, plead, threaten, anything, anything in order to make them stop.
"I can't, I can't, I can't," he frantically told Mason. "It won't fit— no, no no please, I can't—"
They didn't stop.
Bobby tried to push in with nothing but pressure, and Arthur wailed as he was forcibly stretched even further. He didn't bother holding the sounds back, straining his vocal chords until they were hoarse. George cursed, too, clearly finding the tight fit to be uncomfortable, and eventually the pair decided on a slower process.
George pressed his fingers in alongside his cock, starting with two and slowly fucking in four. At that point Arthur's voice was gone, too broken to do more than a croaky wheeze as Mason stroked and tugged on his hair.
And then Bobby pushed in, and to Arthur's simultaneous relief and horror, the cock slipped in beside George's, slick with copious amounts of oil and pre-come. It was still far more than anything he had taken before, and Arthur whimpered, choking on a moan as the two men bottomed out inside of him at the same time. He was stuffed and dripping.
"Fuck," George groaned.
"That's so damn... my God..."
They couldn’t, but they did. His spine flared with pain as they sank deeper, plowing through his insides and carving out something entirely new.
“God,” he heard his own breathless voice say. Bobby’s cock gently rubbed against his prostate and the pain gave way to waves of overwhelming pleasure. “Oh, oh, fuck, please—“
Some part of his mind told him that he was begging, actually begging for them to fuck him, but the mortification wasn’t stronger than the way his ass was currently gaping.
"I've heard a lot about you, Arthur Morgan," Mason suddenly said, as if it was the perfect time to have a conversation. "Dutch van der Linde's favorite son, the outlaw, the muscle, the man. All that glory, all that power, and yet here 'ya are, getting fucked by two O'Driscoll cocks at the same time. Your gang killed my brother, several years back. Bet'cha didn't even think twice."
Arthur panted stupidly beneath him, trembling. Mason ruffled his hair.
"Seeing you like this, just a dumb whore drooling and bleeding all over the ground in front of me," he said, "it makes me happier than you could ever know, Arthur. A little bitch, put in his place, dicked down and moaning. That's all you are. You're no outlaw. You're nothin' more than a wet, loose cunt for these boys to fuck and empty their balls into.”
The lightheaded, fuzzy feeling was returning in full force, and Arthur could only bounce helplessly as painful arousal took over.
Mason reached into Arthur's mouth, worming his thumb between his jaws. The two cocks in his ass slammed against his prostate again, pumping in together and Arthur's entire face burned as an obscenely wanton moan pulled itself from his chest. All three men burst out laughing, but the fucking turned into something hard and ruthless and with every thrust cockheads were filling him entirely, rubbing against that spot, sending sparks of lighting across Arthur's eyes and leaving him blank and dumb, jaw open and tipped up in ecstasy.
"Say please," Mason said.
"Please," Arthur slurred.
Mason slowly pushed his dick into Arthur's slack mouth and rested the length along his spit slick tongue. "Show me what those cocksucking lips can do, Arthur Morgan." Arthur's head bobbed on his member with every thrust from behind, and slowly, he closed his lips around the intrusion, wincing at the taste.
It could hardly be called a proper motion— he was more of a cockwarmer than an active participant, but that seemed to be enough for the man in front of him. Mason grunted, thrusting in until Arthur was gagging on him.
"I want you to remember this," he said, and pushed forward until Arthur’s nose was buried in wiry pubic hair and testicles were resting across his jaw. His throat constricted uncomfortably around the cock, bringing tears to his already-wet eyes.
And then Mason spilled, deep into his throat.
His dick pulsed, and within seconds Arthur's mouth was coated in hot, thick ropes of salty white seed. He struggled to breathe around the slick and the force of the two erections still pounding into him, but Mason held his mouth shut until he had no choice but to swallow.
The come settled heavily in his stomach, warm and full, just above the area that was still being battered by cocks.
They were everywhere, inside of him and out.
He cried out as the fucking became unbearable, George and Bobby's hips slamming into him like their lives depended on it. They went in and out of sync, never settling into a comfortable rhythm, jackhammering his prostate again and again and again until Arthur's vision whited out in a wave of cresting agony as he finally found release.
There— oh, fuck—
His swollen penis swung beneath him, shooting out come across the stone flooring while he moaned without restraint. His body tensed with the orgasm, tightening painfully around the two members still within him, and before he even realized it, the two men behind him were moaning just as loudly, pushing in as far as they could go and spilling together.
"God, fuck," Arthur gasped, "fuck, please," and his eyes rolled back into his skull at the sensation.
There was a hand on his neck, holding him back, nails digging into his thighs and then the slow, torturous ache as both men pulled out of him. Gluey come drained out of his hole with them, concrete evidence of all that had happened. Arthur felt stretched wide, still, asshole opening and closing as it felt the gaping emptiness that followed. His whole body twitched with aftershocks, cloudy and light.
A palm slapped at his balls and Arthur barked out a high noise of pain, totally and completely overstimulated. Every touch felt like needles.
"Christ, look at you," a voice murmured. He subconsciously recognized it as Colm, but his ears were ringing and his vision was still blurred. "What a fuckin' slut, all sloppy and used up."
Arthur shuddered as he felt cold, damp fingers tracing his hole, scooping out come and sliding it back inside of him.
"What do you say?"
"Th'ng," he mumbled. Colm smacked him and gripped his hair, pulling him up from his slumped position. Arthur groaned.
"What's that, now? Speak up, bitch."
"Thank you," he rasped.
It was defeat. After a night that felt like it had gone on for years, Colm's footsteps grew fainter, and Arthur was left alone, left to hang and drip from the restraints in the darkness of the cellar. For a moment, it seemed like it was finally over.
But then:
"Free hole in the basement," he heard Colm's voice call out, followed by an echo of cheers and laughter from the camp. Colm turned back to him from his position at the top of the stairs, grinning. "Keep those legs spread, boy. This night ain't anywhere near over."