The Flesh Cartel #2: Auction

by Rachel Haimowitz

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  About The Flesh Cartel

  Nikolai

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Nikolai

  Also by Heidi Belleau

  Also by Rachel Haimowitz

  About the Authors

  Riptide Publishing

  PO Box 6652

  Hillsborough, NJ 08844

  http://www.riptidepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Flesh Cartel, #2: Auction

  Copyright © 2012 by Rachel Haimowitz and Heidi Belleau

  Cover Art by Imaliea, http://imaliea.deviantart.com/

  Editor: Sarah Frantz

  Layout: L.C. Chase, http://lcchase.com/design.htm

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at marketing@riptidepublishing.com.

  ISBN: 978-1-937551-69-8

  First edition

  November, 2012

  ABOUT THE E-BOOK YOU HAVE PURCHASED:

  We thank you kindly for purchasing this title. Your non-refundable purchase legally allows you to replicate this file for your own personal reading only, on your own personal computer or device. Unlike paperback books, sharing ebooks is the same as stealing them. Please do not violate the author’s copyright and harm their livelihood by sharing or distributing this book, in part or whole, for fee or free, without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner. We love that you love to share the things you love, but sharing ebooks—whether with joyous or malicious intent—steals royalties from authors’ pockets and makes it difficult, if not impossible, for them to be able to afford to keep writing the stories you love. Piracy has sent more than one beloved series the way of the dodo. We appreciate your honesty and support.

  Sublime service, made to order.

  The Flesh Cartel: an international, multi-billion-dollar black market that trades in lost souls. Or more specifically, their bodies.

  Highly organized and frighteningly efficient, the Flesh Cartel could teach even the KGB a thing or two about breaking a human mind. Fortunately for their ultra-rich clients, they’re just as skilled at putting people back together again—as perfect pets, well-trained and eager to please.

  No matter what your secret tastes or dark desires, the Flesh Cartel—for the right price, of course—will hand-design the plaything of your dreams.

  In episode two of The Flesh Cartel, the dark purpose behind Mat and Dougie Carmichael’s abduction is revealed. Though Dougie is protected from the worst of the guards’ brutality, he’s disgusted to find himself halfway to broken—despairing of escape and terrified of pain. Mat holds onto hope despite repeated rapes and beatings, but threats toward his brother teach him well to lay aside his pride and pick his battles carefully.

  Worn down by days of unrelenting fear and abuse, Mat and Dougie are packaged and marketed with the same ruthless efficiency as any consumer product: Dougie the prettyboy twink, Mat the rabid pit bull. They are led to the auction block as the showpiece of the house’s collection.

  Mat would rather be beaten to death than play the role of obedient slave for sale, but Dougie, desperate not to be separated from his brother, strikes a deal with the pitiless Madame who runs the auction house and controls both their fates. It might just be enough to keep them together—slaves, but together—assuming Mat even wants to be after Dougie fulfills his end of his deal with the devil.

  This title is part of the The Flesh Cartel serial story. New to Riptide Publishing’s serial fiction? Visit http://www.riptidepublishing.com/faq/all-about-serial-fiction to learn all about it.

  To everyone who stood up for the right to decide what they can and cannot read.

  The auction in New York had been a bust. Complete waste of a plane ticket. The promising thug he’d gone for had turned out to be a blubbering mess, big in body and small in spirit. His client had tasked him with finding and training a very particular new pet, and Nikolai wasn’t going to disappoint him with a sorry slave that fit those requirements in appearance only.

  Back to the drawing board.

  And by the drawing board, he meant the national auction listings. Hours upon hours sifting through photos of snotty-nosed slaves, watching videos of them being beaten and fucked and fucked and beaten, and sometimes both at once. Choose another processing facility. Go through the motions again.

  Nothing promising in Washington. San Jose then. The Madame there had always run a classy house, and their next auction was less than a week out. Perfect, because he was starting to feel pressed for time. He hadn’t trained an unbroken slave in years; he couldn’t predict how long it might take before he could turn over a (reasonably) safe product in that condition. Quite possibly more than the usual three to four months.

  And his client was not a patient man.

  Sixteen new recruits this month: seven women he dismissed immediately as not germane to his needs, and nine men. A bit of a slow take for a region as large as Madame’s, but it spoke to the selective standards she enforced with her stock.

  And looking at the photo thumbnails, it showed. Lovely, lovely, gorgeous, stunning, and then—a man with a bruised face, glaring murder at the camera, like a mugshot. He clicked on the photo, opening the man’s bio page. Twenty-nine. Pro MMA fighter—perfect! He’d know how to take a beating then. Know how to keep getting back up over and over and over again, long past the point of stupidity. Full of endurance, too.

  He kept reading, daring to let himself hope. Parents dead—par for the course. One sibling, a younger brother, also procured this week. Interesting.

  He clicked through to the extended photoset. More glaring pictures. Lean, tanned, muscular, covered in welts and bruises. Big uncut cock. Hair so dark it was almost black, and striking blue eyes so full of fury Nikolai felt a chill right through the screen.

  But it all came down to the videos. He couldn’t tolerate training a slave who suffered badly, who made annoying noises. And this slave, especially, needed to have a bit of fight. Couldn’t cry at the drop of a hat. Couldn’t bend too easily. Couldn’t break at all.

  And yet still had to be trainable. Controllable, somehow. A fine, fine balance, that. No wonder his client had come to him; he didn’t know another trainer in the Western world who could manage it.

  Two videos—Madame’s standard. One was always exactly six minutes long. The other varied from recruit to recruit—sometimes barely two minutes, a rare few ten or more. This one’s was just over eight-and-a-half. Nikolai took that as a good sign—a fighter indeed. He’d struggle even against the clutches of exquisite pleasure. Wouldn’t lose himself to either extreme, if handled with care.

  Well, Nikolai was nothing if not careful.

  He opened the eight-minute video. Oh, yes. This one . . . this one was transfixing. Fighting his pleasure as surely as an opponent in the ring. Glaring daggers at the camera, his expression screaming, Fuck you, dirt, you don’t deserve to see me, let alone touch me. So apart and aloof and powerful. But, ah, he’d lost himself
there for a moment, fallen beneath the onslaught. Hit the mat but then gotten right back up.

  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 t
he 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.