The Flesh Cartel #2: Auction

by Rachel Haimowitz

  “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.

  “You owe me two teeth, hole.”

  No. No no no no no.

  A brief scuffle, another grunt, the sound of a body hitting a mat. At least the floor’s padded. “Stay down, hole. Madame doesn’t even want you; you think she’ll care if I fuck you up?”

  Silence for a moment, or at least no sounds that carried. Dougie strained his ears, half hoping he’d hear nothing, half desperate to know what was happening. “Open,” the guard said, and Mat must not have, because a slap rang out, and then “Open!” again, much more demanding this time. “That’s it, now suck.”

  Oh God, now Dougie really wished he couldn’t hear. Mat was gagging, his shouts muffled by—what? A cock? The nightstick? “You fight me, you’ll break your teeth. You want that, hole?” The nightstick, then. Dougie couldn’t decide if that was better or worse than the guard’s cock down Mat’s throat. “Suck it real good, hole. This is all the lubrication you’re going to get.”

  Oh, God. No. You can’t do that, you can’t . . .

  “Please don’t hurt him!” Dougie cried. He got up despite the pain it caused. Threw himself against the door, pressed an eye to the little window, though he saw nothing through it but blank hallway. “Stop this! Why are you doing this?”

  The guard grunted in disgust. Or was it Mat? Were they—?

  “Shut the fuck up, hole. Shut the fuck up, or after I fuck your brother with this, I’m gonna bring it to you to polish. Got it?”

  “Just be quiet, Dougie. It’s okay, okay? I’m—”

  He cut off on a scream.

  If Dougie was still making a scene over there, breaking Mat’s fucking heart, Mat didn’t hear it. Didn’t hear the taunts of the guard, either, as he crushed Mat’s face to the floor with a punishing grip on the back of his neck. Bad dog.

  Because that very big nightstick was forcing its way into a very small space, with nothing but a glaze of his own spit to keep it moving. He howled through gritted teeth, body bucking, trying to reject it, keep it out keep it out keep it out. Bottoming didn’t thrill him at the best of times. But being raped? With a hard unyielding weapon forced so deep up his ass his gut cramped? The pain was un-fucking-real. The humiliation might’ve been worse.

  The guard pulled it back, all the way, until the tip came free of him, and then rammed it back in again. Another howl—Dougie would hear him screaming, he knew that, but he just couldn’t help it—clawing at the soft floor, writhing beneath the weight of the guard straddling his thighs. He knew at least a dozen ways to knock the fucker off him, pin him down, see how he’d like being raped with a fucking nightstick, but what would it get him but a moment’s reprieve? How many guards would come in to assist their pal? Take out their anger on him? Or worse, on Dougie?

  So he lay there like a good dog and took it.

  Another dry thrust, pain like nothing he’d ever known. He cried out again, half a Please buried in there somewhere before he managed to cut it off. He’d knocked out two of this guy’s teeth, blackened his eye and his jaw and his pride and maybe his standing in his boss’s eyes; no way would he give a fuck what Mat begged for. Would probably get off on it, truth be told. Was certainly getting off on ramming the nightstick up Mat’s ass, if the animalistic growls and grunts coming from him were any indication.

  “Not so tough now, are you, hole? Moaning like a little bitch.” He was, kind of, wasn’t he? But at least Dougie had gone silent. That was all that mattered right now. He’d take ten fucking nightsticks if it would keep Dougie safe just a little bit longer.

  Another thrust, more brutal than the last. Another scream to go with it. The wetness in his eyes overflowed, dripped down his cheeks. It was like a fucking dam breaking; suddenly he couldn’t stop it.

  “You’re gonna taste this in the back of your fucking throat, hole.”

  He believed it. This would be the end—this would kill him. There was no way anything could hurt this much without ripping him up inside.

  “Your brother’s pretty quiet over there. Think he’s jerking off to all this screaming you’re doing? You think if I go over there right now, I’ll see him giving that little dick of his a tug? Mmm, yeah. Let’s not disappoint him.”

  Through the haze of pain, Mat felt fingers at his hole, realized with growing horror where this was leading. One hooked inside him beside the nightstick, then a second. Pulled, stretching him until he screamed again. “That’s it, hole. That’s the sound I wanna hear. Makes my dick hard. See?”

  The guard’s legs wedged between his own and wrenched them wide, and a second after that, as the nightstick torqued up at a terrible, blinding angle, the guard drove his cock in right beside it.

  This time, Mat did beg. Couldn’t help it. Don’t and Please and Oh God stop you’re killing me, tear-choked and desperate and he didn’t even recognize his own voice, couldn’t stop the words from spilling out, too loud and too awful and oh God Dougie’s listening . . .

  The weight lifted. Droplets of cum hit his lower back, like the start of a rainfall. Drop. Drop drop drop. He shuddered with relief, the coolness of the cell soothing his gaping hole. Rubbed his face against the padded floor to wipe away the wet stickiness there.

  The guard knelt over him, his presence a shadow now instead of a physical weight, but no less terrifying. He touched the nightstick to Mat’s back lightly, as if contemplating whether to strike him with it again. But the hit never came. Instead, the guard rolled the stick back and forth through his cooling cum, then shoved it into Mat’s ass again without warning. Mat sank his teeth into the soft padded floor and wrestled his scream into a whimper.

  “There. Now everything’s in its proper place. And just so you don’t forget too quick, I’m gonna leave that nightstick to plug my cum up your slutty ass. I’ll leave a note for the guys who come on next, so you better make sure it’s still there when they come by. I don’t like being made out as a liar, you understand?” He twisted the nightstick. Jiggled it to make sure it was secure. “Keep your ass on display so they know which cell to open. I’d hate for them to open your brother’s by mistake.” And then, a little louder, “What time does shift change again, little hole?”

  “M-midnight,” Dougie replied instantly.

  He’d been listening in. Intently. Mat felt queasy with the thought.

  The guard checked his watch. “Wow, so long? Enjoy your evening, hole.”

  A hard pat on the back of one welted thigh, a final cruel twist of the nightstick, and Mat lay perfectly still as his cell door opened and closed and locked again, holding his breath until the guard’s footsteps faded down the hall, away from Dougie’s door.

  Eventually, Dougie slept.
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br />   For a while he just hunched in his corner, silently listening to Mat’s ragged cries. The second time he’s cried today. He’d tried to speak up, say some word of comfort, but each time, Mat interrupted him with a distraught, humiliated, “Just go to sleep, Dougie!”

  So he gave up, for the sake of Mat’s dignity. Pretended to sleep, until suddenly it wasn’t pretend anymore.

  He woke up to Mat screaming again. Tired as if he’d never slept and aching in places he hadn’t known it was possible to hurt. Whatever they were doing to Mat, he couldn’t stop it, and though it shamed him to his toes to think it, left him hollow and queasy inside, he just huddled in his corner and kept his mouth shut, praying they wouldn’t come for him next.

  They didn’t. Mat wouldn’t tell him anything, just, I’m okay. Go back to sleep, Dougie.

  He slept. Woke up next to his door unlocking, a pair of guards, two forced blowjobs and a hard kick to the belly after he’d swallowed down their cum. And when they took him from his cell, he didn’t ask where they were taking him. They wouldn’t have told him anyway. Mat raged at them, face pressed to the window of his cell door, voice carrying down the hallway as they dragged Dougie off—Where are you taking him! Take me instead! Hey, get back here, you dog-fuckers, leave him alone!—but they paid him no more mind than they paid Dougie.

  They took him back to the doctor’s white-tiled domain. Everything in there scared him, but he went willingly enough—what would fighting get him? Where could he run in this place? The doctor looked up from his computer screen and smiled when the guards shoved Dougie through the door. “You’ll be good for me, boy?” he asked.

  Dougie sniffled, resisted the insane urge to cover his nudity with his hands. “Y-yes, sir.”

  He was, too. Up on the table as ordered, legs in the stirrups. The doctor removed the plug, let him use the toilet, cleaned him gently, and smoothed more salve across his burning flesh. Put the plug back in, prodded clinically at the worst of his bruising, seemed to be pleased with what he found. “You’ll heal fast, I think,” he said, and then, surprising Dougie, “There’s a toothbrush and paste in the cabinet over the sink. Use it.”

  Dougie wasted no time scrubbing the taste of cum from his mouth. He rinsed, then filled the little paper cup again and drank. And again, and again, and again. God, he was so thirsty.

  The doctor, eyes on his computer screen, said ever-so-casually, “Did I say you could do that, boy?”

  Dougie froze, hands clenching in fear, the little paper cup crushing between his fingers. “N-no sir, but I—”

  “Quiet.”

  Dougie clamped his jaw shut so fast he bit his tongue. He wanted to explain, wanted to beg. Didn’t dare.

  “I’d take a cane to you again, but Madame’s made clear the marks are bad for business with you, and they wouldn’t disappear in five days.”

  Five days? What was in five days? And what business? Why wouldn’t anyone tell him anything?

  The doctor pressed a button on the phone beside his terminal and said, “Bring in M-36-527.”

  That number sounded familiar. Wasn’t that the new “name” the doctor had given him when he’d . . . what, processed him? No, different somehow. Off by one?

  Mat. He means Mat.

  “Sir, please—”

  “I said quiet, boy!” The doctor stood, advanced a step. Dougie fell back a step, hating himself for it. He was a coward. A complete and utter coward.

  He couldn’t even bring himself to hold his brother’s desperate gaze when they brought him in and beat him for Dougie’s mistake.

  They dumped them back in their cells. Fed and watered them at what Mat assumed were regular intervals, though time seemed as fuzzy here as it often did in the ring—passing unnoticed sometimes, like after a too-hard hit to the head, but mostly slowing down, crawling, an endless morass of frozen seconds beneath the always-burning fluorescent lights. He tried to sleep, as much to pass the time as to escape his body or because he flat-out needed the rest. It was hard, though. The cell was freezing, and constant anxiety made any minutes he managed to slip under shallow and fretful, and it seemed like he’d earned a reputation among the guards as a favorite punching bag. Apparently, word about those two teeth had spread, and every fucking asshole with a nightstick in the place was looking to collect his pound of flesh.

  He got pretty familiar with the guards over those following days and nights.

  They worked in pairs, spread out over three shifts. The afternoon guard (or at least the shift he’d decided felt like afternoon), the one he’d knocked the teeth out of, was always the worst, in an unsophisticated brutal bully kind of way. At least he was fun to taunt, because he invariably got worked up, and if he managed to knock Mat out as a result, all the better. His partner must have been straight, because whenever he made the rounds, nobody got touched. All-male wing, Mat figured, and filed that information away just in case. It was an assumption, the straight thing, but it made a hell of a lot more sense than thinking the guy had the morals not to rape his prisoners. Yeah, right.

  The morning shift preferred Dougie. So did the night shift. Actually, they all did, including the fucking janitor. His cell door was opening and closing all day long, though they all complained about not being able to fuck him. One of the morning shift guards could be called away if Mat taunted him long enough, but the other one never rose to the bait. Even advised his partner not to once, huffing and puffing and saying, “Don, you moron, don’t you get it? He’s trying to call you off this one. You fall for it every fucking time.” But Don was obese, with a dick that nearly disappeared under his gut, and blindingly insecure about it, so despite the warnings, he was easy to manipulate. His partner, not so much, but it was comforting to know that while Don kicked his ass, it was one less dick for Dougie.

  Dougie had long since stopped trying to protect Mat the same way. Good, Mat told himself. He could take the punishment. Was a fucking pro at it. But Dougie . . . Dougie was just a kid, an academic, soft and sensitive and sweet. Whether he’d still be when they got out of here . . . How many times could you rape a boy, beat and humiliate and taunt him, before you just . . . broke him?

  Someone was heading over there now. A night-shift guard, he thought, someone whose name he’d never learned but whose face (and fists and cock) would likely haunt him for years.

  “Hey,” Mat called. He couldn’t really shout it, not anymore, after so many days of rough use and screaming, but he knew the guard could hear him. He shifted, winced, levered himself to his feet with the help of both hands and the wall. He hurt so bad he could barely think, but it wasn’t his mind they were after, now was it? “Hey,” he tried again as the sound of a key in a lock carried back to him. “I’ll make it good, yeah? I’m not all plugged up. You can fuck me. I’ll ride you. Whatever you want.” Just the thought of something (or worse, several somethings) going up his raw ass again made him want to cry, but fuck it, it was better than listening to Dougie cry.

  Or worse, not cry, which he’d started doing more and more the last however many days. Just mumbled acquiescence and the noises a person made when their mouth got fucked. Sometimes a little groan of pain when he moved around. It had to be the plug he was wearing. Mat had no idea how big it was, but it didn’t matter; even something the size of a baby carrot would make you miserable if you wore it long enough. Mat didn’t envy him, though his own situation probably wasn’t any better.

  They didn’t talk through the walls anymore. There was nothing to talk about. What would they do—compare notes on their individual suffering?

  The guard next door didn’t take Mat’s offer, so he switched tacks, launching himself into the usual string of abuse, the same blistering insults as always, shouting and shouting until his voice gave out.

  When it was over, when the guard had grunted, “Yeah, swallow it, pig” and gone again, Dougie’s voice sounded through the wall, so soft and scratchy that Mat had to strain to hear.

  “Please stop,” he said. “Please
. . . please just stop that. Trying to get them to hurt you. It doesn’t work. It just makes things worse. Not just what they do to me, but because I can t-tell how . . . how . . .” He dropped to a whisper. “Scared you are.”

  And then he went quiet.

  Didn’t cry.

  This time, they came for both of them. Lots of footsteps in the hall, and the sounds of keys in both doors. Dougie hadn’t been sleeping. Felt like he hadn’t slept in years. Maybe he hadn’t. Hard to with a belly full of cum and a plugged ass and a body wracked with chills and aches and a fear so pervasive he hardly noticed it anymore. His door swung open. He didn’t try to hide himself from them. They’d just make it worse if he did.

  Outside stood one of the guards, but something told him it was the wrong time of day for him to be here. Not that he had a clock or a window or anything to track the passage of time, but still. There was something off about this.

  Something was different.

  “Up you go, little hole,” the guard said, and Dougie dragged himself to his knees, shuffled forward, let his lips part just a little so the guard knew he wouldn’t fight him.

  Next door, he heard shuffling footsteps, a sound like an electric discharge, and Mat cried out and then went silent.

  The guard grabbed a handful of Dougie’s hair and shook him. “You stupid slut, you think I’m here to get head from that filthy mouth of yours?” Dougie’s attention snapped back to the guard, though his mind was fighting hard to follow the sound of a body being dragged up the hall.

  Is he dead? Did they finally put him out of his misery?