Well, at least they weren’t girls. No pigtails and miniskirts and shirts too small for their boobs to contend with. He’d seen straight porn, he knew what guys like that were into. Sick.
The door to his room opened. Roger. The guy who’d driven him here. His not-ally.
“He’s ready for you,” Roger said, with all the emotion of the receptionist who called people from a doctor’s waiting room.
Mat ran his hands down his chest, smoothing the leather of the jacket. “How do I look?” he asked, not even sure why he had. He was a bundle of fucking nerves, that was why. Terrified. Desperate to see Dougie—it’d been so long he’d lost all track of just how long—but simultaneously not wanting to see him at all, knowing what seeing him would mean. He wanted to stall.
“Like a former twink in denial.” Roger’s reply was cool, but not angry or impatient. Almost good-humored. Mat had no idea whose side Roger was on, only that he felt some kind of kinship with him that he just couldn’t shake. He wanted to like him. Wanted to trust him.
“Did you—did you see my brother? Is he okay?”
Roger shook his head, and for one horrified moment, Mat thought he meant, No, he’s not okay. But then he said, “The master’s escorting him personally. And if I were you, I’d be worrying about your own ass. Sir’s sweet on your brother, he won’t let him get hurt too bad if you behave.”
Did he tell you to say that? God, Mat didn’t know. He didn’t know anything at all anymore. It was all one long mindfuck and he was falling so far behind that no amount of running could ever catch him up.
“But you . . .” Roger shrugged, looking mildly sympathetic but none too bothered by any of it. “Well, let’s just say I’m glad I’m not in your shoes. Now, come on.”
Mat’s feet froze for a second, but then Roger tossed him a look that somehow said, Move it, asshole and Please don’t make me have to tell the master you misbehaved all at once, and again there was that strange sense of kinship and . . . and not trust, not exactly, but enough to make him think that Roger was looking out for him as much as his loyalty to Nikolai would allow. Mat found himself able to move again. He followed passively, stood silent and fidgeting when they came to a heavy steel hall door Roger had to unlock, and stepped into a new room when Roger gestured him inside.
Stopped dead as he took the room in. Bunk beds with football sheets. Posters everywhere—basketball players Mat didn’t recognize, some has-been hair band, even a couple of pinups of women in one-piece bathing suits with haircuts straight out of the seventies. It was like some fucking nightmare porno set out of “Daddy’s” childhood. Had he designed it himself, with care, or had Nikolai just scraped up whatever he could find in secondhand shops?
“Go on.” Mat startled at the voice behind him, but it was just Roger. “Go sit on the bed. Unzip your pants and take your cock out. Don’t get undressed. Don’t take the jacket off. Get hard.” He checked his watch. “You have about five minutes. Good luck.”
Mat sat numbly on the bottom bunk of the bed, wishing he could scratch out the eyes of the poster girl hung over it so she couldn’t watch.
That’s crazy. She’s just a poster. She probably has grandkids by now and a house in the suburbs. It’s the fucking cameras you should be worried about.
The door closed and locked. He was alone. He wanted to just curl up under the covers and sleep—strangely enough, felt quite sure he could, felt . . . not quite here somehow, like this was all too fucking nightmarishly surreal to accept—but he hadn’t forgotten Nikolai’s threats. Nikolai’s orders. His fingers shook as he unzipped his jeans. Pushed the jock strap aside. Pulled his flaccid cock through his fly. There was no fucking way he’d be able to work himself into an erection in five minutes or fifty minutes or five fucking hours surrounded by this creepy fucking sideways time capsule of a bedroom.
Well, if he was going back in time anyway . . . He spat into his palm, wrapped his hand around his shaft. Closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and pictured his high school boyfriend, the way his smoking had looked so sexy and cool and tempting to Mat, who’d been treating his body like a fucking shrine since he’d been nine years old, who would never have dared it himself but loved to just watch, the way Jonah’s lips had looked wrapped around the end of a cigarette, the way his cheeks hollowed out when he sucked.
It was enough. Mat hissed half in pleasure, half in relief. Now all he had to do was keep his eyes closed until the creepy pedo fucker came for him. Maybe even then. After all, Nikolai hadn’t told him he had to watch.
“Mat!”
Mat jolted out of his memories, cracking his head on the underside of the top bunk. No time even to touch the tender spot before Dougie had flung himself against him, and despite Nikolai’s warnings, Mat’s arms wrapped around Dougie’s bare, shaking shoulders before he could stop himself.
“Mat, Mat, oh God, Mat, you’re alive, you—” Dougie broke off into sobs and hiccups, smearing wet trails back and forth over Mat’s shoulder, and it was all Mat could do not to sob Dougie’s name back, to wrap him up and smother him and protect him and show him all the love he’d been holding so tight for so long . . .
Push him away.
You have to push him away.
“Dougie,” he croaked. “Douglas. Look at me.” He grabbed Dougie by the shoulders, harder than he’d ever even considered back in their old life, and pushed him back far enough that they could look each other in the eye.
It was the first time he’d seen his brother’s face since the auction, however long ago that had been, and he looked . . . actually, he looked okay. Crying and snotty, but no bruises or anything like that. Not too skinny, either. In better shape than Mat was, that was for damn sure. Had Nikolai been telling the truth?
You can’t ask. You can’t let him think you care about his welfare now.
“Listen to me.” He wanted to choke on the words, wished he could just die on the spot rather than speak in this cold voice. Dougie looked at him with perfect trust and patience, hands curled gently over Mat’s forearms, hanging on his every word. Like he’s always done. And needs to stop doing if he’s going to live through this. He wasn’t dressed up like Mat was. Not quite naked, either. Just socks hiked up mid-calf and a pair of adolescent-looking tighty-whiteys, the kind your mom would write your name on the waistband of before sending you to summer camp. Mat wondered if the sick fuck had that kind of attention to detail. “There’s a man coming into the room soon.”
Dougie sniffed, nodded. “I know. A buyer. Nikolai told me. He’s going to buy us together, Mat. Are you okay? Has he hurt you?”
“I’m fine,” Mat said, and the lie came so, so easy it shamed him.
Dougie nodded, clearly relieved, then seemed to finally realize what Mat was wearing, looked him up and down with wide, questioning eyes that lingered just a moment too long on his cock, gone flaccid again, hanging out of his jeans. He blinked, wiped at his nose with one hand. “He said, um, he said there were no cameras in here. To . . . to give the man privacy. He said to be good and do what the man said and then maybe he’d buy us both and . . . And why is your dick hanging out?”
He looked on the verge of laughing, like he was beyond everything, on the outside looking in, able to register the absurdity of this situation rather than the terror of it.
Maybe he really was okay.
Or maybe he’s more messed up than you thought.
“They told me to take it out. Sorry. Maybe you should get off my—”
“What in God’s name is going on in here?” a man’s voice bellowed.
Mat’s first urge was to guiltily push Dougie off his lap, but instead he just hugged him closer, glowering over the top of Dougie’s head at the man who’d entered.
He was wearing a suit. Some objective part of Mat’s mind registered that he didn’t look as good or as comfortable in one as Nikolai did. He wasn’t ugly or fat or anything, he just looked like the kind of guy more likely to wear a golf shirt and khaki shorts.
But he’d clearly chosen the suit for a reason, along with a fedora and a briefcase. Full-on Leave It to Beaver. Dad coming home from work. All he had to say was Honey, I’m home!
Except he didn’t look happy to see them, he looked . . . he looked furious. Mat’s stomach flip-flopped.
“I asked you a goddamn question, Mathias. What are you boys doing? Why’s your little brother in your lap in his skivvies?” He took three large, aggressive steps into the room, grabbed Dougie by the shoulder and yanked him right out of Mat’s lap and onto the floor. Dougie yelped, going limp like an animal playing dead. Thus discarded, the man ignored him for a second, instead staring at Mat’s cock hanging out his open fly, and his face turned so red Mat seriously hoped he might bust something. “Mathias Robert Carmichael,” he growled, low and dangerous and how the fuck did he know Mat’s middle name? Oh God, he knew everything, they all knew everything, the chip, his file, the background check.
“I—” Mat stuttered, but then forced himself to say it. “Dad, I—”
Yes. Call him that. Keep him distracted. Keep him away from Dougie.
The “D” word pleased the sick fuck. The fake anger faded for a second, overshadowed by eyes falling closed, a flush across his brow, a tentative lick of his lips.
That’s right. Eyes on me, you sick creep.
He went to stand, making a show of trying to tuck himself away, which seemed like the most sensible thing to do, if this were real. “Dad, I can explain—”
The man slapped him hard enough to knock him back to the bed. “No, no. Allow me. I know what this is. I’ve read about it. Experimenting together, is that it? You two jerk off together a lot? I didn’t know I’d raised a couple of little perverts.”
His eyes were wandering to Dougie again. Dougie, lying on the floor in his underwear, visibly shaking. The perfect fucking victim.
“You have anything to say, Douglas? Was this your big brother’s idea?”
“Yes!” Mat shouted, but the man only turned his attention to him long enough to hit him again, splitting his bottom lip with the wedding band on his finger, before turning back to Dougie.
He squatted down beside Dougie, touched his shoulder. “Tell your dad the truth, and I’ll buy you an ice cream. We’ll forget all about it.”
Dougie lifted his head, looking to Mat. He didn’t know what to say. Oh God, he didn’t understand what was going on. Had Nikolai told him anything?
“Tell him, Dougie,” Mat said. “Tell our dad it’s all my fault.” The emphasis did the trick. Dougie’s eyes widened in understanding. The tears were already starting again.
He’s not okay at all he’s not okay he’s not okay. He’s as fragile as wet fucking tissue paper and I know him, I know he’s not like that, what has Nikolai done to him, what did he do?
The man’s grip on Dougie’s shoulder tightened, tightened, until the skin went white and Dougie cried out. “I asked you a question, son. I expect an honest answer. Unless you’re too ashamed, is that it? Maybe it wasn’t your brother’s idea. Maybe it was yours and he’s just trying to protect you.”
“No!” Mat cried at the same time Dougie cried, “Yes! Okay? Yes! I’m sorry, Dad, I was just curious, I . . . please don’t split us up, Dad. Please don’t make us take separate rooms, we won’t do it again, I swear!”
Please don’t separate us.
You clever bastard. Even scared out of his mind, half-hysterical, thrown in blindfolded to the most fucked-up end of the pool, Dougie’s mind was still sharp enough to play along. Pride swelled through the fear. He loved Dougie so fucking much it hurt.
The man shifted his grip, grabbed Dougie by the arm so hard he’d no doubt leave finger-shaped bruises, dragged him to his feet and tossed him over the bottom bunk, ass up, feet on the floor. Mat he grabbed by the ear and hauled to the ground. “You know what I think? I think you two need a little lesson.” He smacked Dougie hard on the ass, barked, “Stay,” and began unbuckling his belt.
No. No, this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. No, stop this. But he knew how helpless he was, knew how helpless he had to be. His promise to Nikolai. The consequences—for them both—if he disobeyed. He couldn’t afford to intervene, could only try to distract.
“You’re right, Dad,” he said. “But Dougie’s the one lying to protect me. I made him touch me. I’m the little pervert. Punish me.” He sat up, crawled the yard to the man’s feet, hugged his legs and leaned his head against his thigh. “I . . . I think I might be gay, Dad. I don’t want to be gay. Help me not to be. Please?”
He’d asked his real father that. Remembered sitting at the kitchen table and crying it out. So afraid that everyone would hate him, that no one would want to wrestle with him again, that the guys at the gym wouldn’t shower with him, wouldn’t talk to him, would make fun of him, gang up on him. That he’d never be able to fight pro if word got out he liked guys. That he’d never be happy again.
His dad had said, “I love you, Mat, but I can’t do that. I can’t help you be anything other than what you are.”
This man said, “No wonder you think you’re gay, what with such a slut for a little brother tempting you all the time. What did he do, did he come in here, get you to ask him to suck your cock?”
“No! I made him . . . I made him take off his clothes, Dad. I told him to suck me. I said I wouldn’t tell. I told him if he didn’t, then I would . . .” He struggled for words. A story. He’d never been an actor, and he was fucking terrified, but this was Dougie on the line. He had to make it good. Had to protect Dougie.
“You’re lying,” the man said. “Can’t even tell a lie. He’s got your head all mixed up, son. Well, let me straighten you both out.” He pulled his belt from its loops, and Mat held out hope for just one second that he’d move right to the rape and skip the beating. But then he folded the belt in half, planted one knee in the small of Dougie’s back to hold him still, and said, “You’re going to count for me, son. And when I think you’re sorry enough for being such a disgustingly unnatural little offense to God Himself, I will let you get up and kiss this belt and thank me. Do you understand?”
Mat heard Dougie swallow from five feet away. Dougie turned his head to face Mat, met his eyes, curled his fists into the blanket—steeling himself, he’s steeling himself—and said, “Y-yes, Dad.”
Mat steeled himself too, hardened his expression and looked away.
The first crack of leather on skin was as loud and awful as Dougie’s shouted, “One!” Mat could feel Dougie’s eyes on him, desperate, searching, aching for connection, for borrowed strength. And he wanted to give him all that, wanted it so bad he felt sick with it. But he couldn’t. Helping Dougie now would only hurt him more in the long run. He had to be strong enough to let him go. Strong enough to push him away.
Two. Three. F-four. Five. Yes, Dad. Six. Seven.
Every strike, Mat flinched. Every strike, he wished he could jump up and punch the fucker in the kidneys and kick him while he was down. Smother him with the pillow from the bed. They were alone in here. No cameras. No guards. No Tasers. Just the two of them and that fucker. Mat could kill him. Hold Dougie, comfort him, prove he still loved him before—
Before Nikolai showed up and tortured them both.
Be strong. It’ll be over soon. No matter how long this sick fuck could beat Dougie before he tired out, it still wouldn’t be half as long as the serum would last.
“Please!” Dougie cried instead of seventeen. “Please, Dad!” And then he sucked in a ragged breath and counted again—eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one—even though it hurt, even though he was crying. The perfect slave. “Please, Mat! Ah, God, twenty-two! Help me, make him stop, please!”
Mat stared steadfastly at the opposite wall and covered his ears with his fists.
But the beating went on, and the screaming, and the counting, and the begging, and no matter how hard he pressed his hands to his ears he could still hear Dougie sobbing his name in between the numbers—so high, God, they were cli
mbing so fucking high he was afraid to look at Dougie, to see him bruised and bleeding, he’d been through this, he knew how bad it hurt. But it would end soon. It had to end soon. The man was panting hard. Clearly a sadist. Mat would bet money he was so turned on by Dougie’s screams he was starting to blueball. Eventually he’d have to stop beating him and start fucking him.
And Jesus, what kind of life were they living that rape was the kinder, gentler alternative?
Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. At thirty-four, Dougie screamed but didn’t count. Probably couldn’t count. He was already hoarse. Sobbing like a child. He’d called Mat’s name and “Dad’s” name and “stop” and “please” so many times they’d lost all meaning to Mat’s ears. Probably to Dougie’s own as well.
A break in the beating. The man gasped for air, partly exertion, but also no doubt partly arousal, and said, “Have you learned your lesson about lying, then, son?”
“Yes!” Dougie sobbed. “Yes, Dad, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, I promise, I promise.”
“Mathias.” Mat opened his eyes, forcing himself to look at the man. Then look at Dougie, his ass still up in the air, the tighty-whiteys hobbling his thighs. His ass was swollen, welted red and purple and— Stop looking, just look at the sick fuck who did this. Look at him. He was sweaty and red-faced, and he’d taken his suit jacket off. His white shirt was soaked under the arms. His tie was rumpled. But he had a cruel, pleased face, the face of a man who’d thoroughly enjoyed his exercise—as amply demonstrated by the erection tenting his suit pants—no matter how exhausting it had been. “Mathias. Do you think your brother has learned his lesson?”
God, what the fuck was he supposed to say to that? Yes, he wanted to say. Yes, so please stop hurting him. But what would Nikolai think? Would that be seen as helping him or interfering? Maybe he could straddle the line somehow.
“I . . . I want to say yes, Dad, but . . . But you’re our—our father and you know best.”
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