The Flesh Cartel #2: Auction (2 page)

Until he couldn’t, of course. Until the pleasure was stronger than his will. Until he came up his belly and chest and chin and the shame and humiliation painted his face as surely as his cum painted his torso. But even then . . . even then, he was fierce. Beautiful.

Nikolai clicked the video closed, making note of his straining erection but paying it no other mind. He was a professional. Always in control. He’d satisfy his urges only when his work was done.

On to the second clip.

Six minutes, always the same. The same three implements for the same amount of time. Three minutes with the paddle. Two with the cane. One with the TENS unit.

Most slaves lasted three or four strikes from the paddle before they broke down crying, and the cane had them begging for their lives or offering sexual favors to stop the pain. Many passed out on the first electric shock to the genitals. Not this one. He didn’t even acknowledge
the paddle. The cane knocked noise from him—lovely noises, if you were into such cruelties, fighting free through iron will and clenched teeth. He suffered
beautifully
. So masculine. So strong. Even when screaming through the shocks, the man’s power was undeniable.

The poor bastard seemed perfect for his client’s needs. Nikolai felt sorry for him already—to be denied the gift of culture, of devotion, of joy and peace in service. To be doomed to a life of suffering and misery, to—

Really, Nikolai, already thinking like you’ve bought the boy?
He shook his head, smiled to himself. He did have a whole auction to get through, after all. He might lose. This fighter alone would likely go cheaply—too much bother for most other trainers, too much risk, too little return. Breaking him would ruin everything about him that was beautiful and unique.

But he wouldn’t
be
sold alone, damn it all.

To be auctioned with brother. See file
M-36-526.

Nikolai sighed. He never trained two at once. His methods were boutique, not assembly-line. Still, maybe he could buy them both and sell the brother back to Madame at a discount, or on to another trainer. He clicked open the brother’s file.

Or maybe I’ll just keep him.

Gods, was he ever beautiful, even considering Nikolai’s exacting standards. The same blue eyes as his brother, the same brown-black hair. But slimmer, shorter, several years younger. And so sad. The curve of his mouth, soft and sensual, a mouth for reciting poetry with his head in his master’s lap. And a mind for it, too. A master’s degree in social work. A year into his Ph.D. in clinical psychology. He’d be thoughtful and well-spoken. Delicate.

Expensive.

Then again, Nikolai never had gone for cheap stock. When you trained only three or four slaves a year, you trained the most promising of the lots. And Madame clearly saw this one’s promise too: he was the closing piece in the auction, the very last recruit to be sold.

And
oh
, look how he blushed and trembled and wept. As exquisite in his fearful submission as his brother was in his anger. No, more so—though perhaps that was merely Nikolai’s own tastes at play. The boy orgasmed in under three minutes. Already obeyed every command.

Nikolai sighed again. He’d be lucky to acquire his fighter for less than seven figures with this perfect little brother tagging along.

Mat was done fighting.

When they lead him out of the exam room, he went willingly, head down, mouth shut.
Good dog.
It sickened him how pliant he’d become, but he recognized the irrationality of that feeling. Coach Darryl had spent the last twelve years teaching him to be patient, pick his battles, go on the defensive when he needed to and strike only when the right opportunity arose. He was in no shape to fight right now—tased twice, beaten repeatedly, stuffed into a tiny cage for ten hours . . . not to mention the
actual
three rounds he’d gone in the ring before this clusterfuck had gone down. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Was so thirsty it hurt him as much as his cuts and bruises. He’d be good to no one if he got himself killed.

Besides, what if they were taking him to Dougie?

They didn’t, though. Just an empty cell in a long line of them—twenty or thirty, maybe—though who knew if the other ones were empty or not. He dug his heels in instinctively at the narrow door with its little arrow-slit window at head height, the tiny cell no bigger than a walk-in closet, closed in on three sides with solid, padded walls and a padded floor. No bed. No sink. No toilet.

No way to kill yourself.

Like some third-world prison cell or backwater mental institution. For one horrifying moment, he couldn’t let them shove him inside.
Couldn’t.

The blow to the kidney was so vicious he saw spots. He must’ve screamed, could feel the echo of it scraping in his throat.

“Mat!”

Dougie, oh God.

He threw himself forward against the closing door, but too late. Locked in. “Dougie?
Dougie
! Are you—”
Okay?
How patently fucking ridiculous. Of course he wasn’t okay. “Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?” He pounded the door with both fists. So padded he barely felt the shock of it. “Dougie, answer me, kiddo!”

A pause, and then, “I’m . . .” Was he in the cell right next door? Oh please God let him be as close as he sounded. “I’ll live,” he said finally, echoing Mat’s own typical post-fight reply, minus any hint of the usual glibness. “You? Did they . . .” A hitch, maybe a little sob. His voice sounded sandpaper rough, wet with tears. “. . . make
videos
of
you?”

Mat found himself just as choked when he said, “Yeah.” The thought of Dougie being raped
on camera
, tortured like they’d tortured Mat, and for what? Would they end up on some BDSM porn tube with a bullshit disclaimer that all models were having fun? In some sick old fuck’s private wank collection?

“They microchipped me.”

Fuck.
“Me too, Dougie.”

“Why would they
do
that?”

Mat leaned his forehead against the little slit in the door, let his eyes close for just a moment. That question had been haunting him from the moment the doc had tagged him. “I don’t know, Dougie.”

Another sniffle. A too-long pause. Then, “My arm hurts.”

“Mine too.” And then, even though he knew it was ridiculous, a flat-out lie, “It’ll be all right, Dougie. Just . . . just try to get some rest, okay? Close your eyes. Go to sleep. I’ll—”
Stand guard. Protect you.
More lies. “I’ll be right here, I promise.”

He tried to do like Mat asked. Not only did he sorely need
the rest, he wanted to ease Mat’s anxiety a little, too. Keep him from worrying too much.

To think he’d been about to admit to the plug. He shifted, curled up in the corner with his knees to his chest, and the plug shifted too, making him whine.

“Dougie?” Mat called.

“It’s—it’s fine. Just sat wrong.”

“Did they—” Mat sounded like he was on the verge of tears. The last time Mat had cried was at their parents’ funeral, ten years ago. Dougie had only been thirteen at the time, but he’d never forgotten the horror of it, seeing his older brother—his protector, his idol, the strongest person he knew—break down like that. “Did—”

“Don’t ask, Mat. Just . . . It’s fine. I’m fine.” He wasn’t fine. He’d never been further from fine in his life. He bore down on the plug again. He couldn’t stop. It was reflexive. Push. Push. Push. Still so full. He touched his belly, as if he could feel the plug from the outside. He couldn’t, of course, but he massaged there anyway, imagining the plug moving inside him at his touch.

He tried to curl up tighter, backing up until he’d wedged into the jointure of two walls. It was so cold in here, too bright for his gritty eyes. Why was it so cold in here? He shivered, huddled up tighter. Closed his eyes. He slept, a little, in that half-aware kind of way you slept on buses or trains when you were afraid you might miss your stop. No dreams, thank God, but pain bled into his awareness as he dozed. Everything hurt. The plug wasn’t even the worst of it, not after the beating for the camera.

He jolted awake to the sound of—what? Footsteps? Yes; a man was standing at the door to his cell. Through the narrow, glassless window, Dougie could just make out a black eye and a swollen jaw. Mat’s handiwork, maybe? He hoped so.

“So pretty, sleeping like a little baby. Baby want a blankie?”

“Leave him alone!” Mat shouted from his cell. “You asshole, why don’t you come try it with a real man, huh?”

Dougie clenched his jaw, ignoring the insult.
He’s just trying to draw them away.

It didn’t work.

“What’s that you’re wearing there, pretty boy? Mmm, looks kinda sexy.” A rattling sound signaled a key in the lock to Dougie’s door. It swung open a moment later.

Dougie lurched upright, leaning precariously against his corner on one hip and, for some absurd reason, reaching down to shield his groin.

“Don’t you dare cover yourself up, hole. You’re new meat, so I won’t beat you for not assuming the position, but I
will
beat you for hiding yourself from me, understand? Get it through your thick skull. I’m a man. You’re a hole. You don’t have the fucking right to hide from me because your tiny little cock is
mine
, got it? Mine.” He kicked out, catching Dougie in the thigh. “Spread.”

Beside them, Mat yelled something unintelligible, almost distracting the guard’s attention.
Almost
, but not quite, because Dougie clambered onto his knees and spread his legs, exposing his cock and balls and the plug in its leather harness. He tilted his chin up in defiance.
I dare you to leave me now.

The toe of the man’s boot tapped on the base of the plug, then
pushed
. Dougie winced, toes curling, shoulders hunching, trying to make himself very small.

“That feel good, you hungry slut? No? Well, it will. One day that hole of yours is gonna be so loose and used, you’ll
need
a plug like that. But for now . . .” He gave the plug a little kick and Dougie cried out. “Lucky for you, boy, I don’t really feel like a BJ tonight. But the guys on the next shift might, so watch out. They start at . . .” The guard looked at his watch. “Twelve-oh-one. Oh, but I guess you don’t have a clock, do you? Oh well. I got some unfinished business to attend to with your cocksucker brother next door. Thought I’d punish him through you, but maybe next time. Guess tonight I’ll have to hit him directly at the source.” He patted his nightstick in thought. Turned for the door.

“Leave him alone!” Dougie yelled. He was ignored, of course, and the relief he felt when the guard left his cell made him want to puke. That was his
brother
who was about to get his missed punishment.

By the time he realized he should’ve been braver, more like Mat, should’ve tried to run, his cell door was already closed and locked again. Mat shouted, “That’s right, fucker,” as the guard unlocked the cell next door. “You stick your cock in
my
mouth, you’ll pull back a stump.
I
still have all my teeth left.”

Don’t antagonize him don’t antagonize him don’t antagonize him
,
Dougie thought at the same time he swelled with pride at Mat’s fearlessness.

Mat’s door opened, closed again. “Not my cock I’m sticking in you, hole.”

The nightstick. The way he’d
caressed
it. Oh
God.
“Don’t hurt him!” Dougie yelled. “Please, please don’t hurt him! Mat!”
Don’t give him an excuse. Don’t make him hurt you with that thing.

“Don’t worry, little hole,” the guard called, laughter
in the sick fuck’s voice. “Your big bad brother’s behaving like a beaten little bitch. Aren’t you, big hole.” The unmistakable sound of something hard hitting flesh—the nightstick, or maybe his boot. Mat grunted, but he didn’t curse or yell.

Please don’t fight back. Please just take it. It’ll be over sooner if you just take it.