The Flesh Cartel #2: Auction

by Rachel Haimowitz

  No. Don’t think about that. Don’t think it don’t think it don’t think it . . .

  “On your feet, little hole.”

  Easier said than done. The guard lost patience with his pathetic attempts, heaved a put-upon sigh, and hauled Dougie up by one arm. He barely winced at the pain, and briefly thought how proud Mat would be that he was getting so tough. Not the kid who cried when he had his arm twisted anymore, that was for sure.

  He thought maybe he was going to the doctor. That was the only place he ever went when they took him out of his cell. Have the plug taken out. Brush his teeth—but no drinking the water, never without permission. Have his ass checked. Plug back in. Back to his cell. Not so bad, he supposed. The doctor certainly wasn’t a nice man, but at least he didn’t . . . didn’t . . .

  But when they got to the end of the cellblock, they turned left instead of right. Through a guarded set of double doors, and then another. Into . . . a salon? Actually, it was kind of like a marriage of a salon and a dog groomer’s. There were barber chairs and sinks and counters, just like the little place he went to get his hair cut and secretly to get his eyebrows waxed, but the armrests all had leather restraints. No posters or magazines or even mirrors. It was all so . . . impersonal. Clinical. And there were tables, too, like the one in the doctor’s office, stirrups included. More restraints. Shelves, not only of shampoos and dyes and waxes, but of leather straps and steel chains and . . . he didn’t want to look. And along the back wall, three doors, two closed, steam billowing out from the open one on the far left.

  The guard led Dougie to the door in the middle, and he managed to catch a glimpse through the open door on the left of a familiar head of dark brown hair. Mat! He was lying in a bathtub, head lolling on one shoulder. A woman in cartoon-character hospital scrubs knelt at his side, scrubbing him vigorously.

  He’s alive. They wouldn’t give a dead body a hot bath. They were crazy, but they were efficient. They wouldn’t give a dead body a hot bath.

  The thought carried him into his own bathroom, where a man in plain blue scrubs stood waiting, watching the tub fill with water. He had a look on his face like an overtaxed medical assistant. Probably one of those people who went to a college advertised on overnight television. Well, it had gotten him a job.

  The guard stepped outside the door, leaving Dougie swaying on his feet. The assistant squinted at him and said, “You want to get clean or not?”

  Answer direct questions. Show respect. “Yes, sir.” Dougie stumbled forward one step. Two. The assistant stilled him with a hand to his hip, held up his index finger, pulled a key ring from his pocket and unlocked the leather chastity belt. Dougie hissed as the plug slid free, muscles flexing, ass not as sore as it had been but still not at all pleasant. Plus now he felt weirdly empty, stretched, strange, though the plug was really pretty small, two fingers wide at the most.

  The assistant placed the plug on a cart in the corner, piled high with towels and soaps and God knew what else, and held out a wet wipe. Dougie’s mind blanked; bizarrely, he couldn’t figure what he was supposed to do with it.

  “You want to soak in your own shit and lube, or do you want to wipe yourself clean?”

  Oh. Dougie sighed, relieved, and wiped his ass. Knew he should feel embarrassed about cleaning himself in front of someone else, but he just didn’t have that in him anymore. Didn’t even hesitate.

  Something sparked in the assistant’s lethargic gaze as he watched Dougie. What? Dougie wanted to say, but didn’t.

  “Wish I’d made it to your wing this week,” the assistant said. Of course. Why should he be any different from any of the other monsters in this horrible place? The assistant eyed him again, then checked his watch, so casual, as if deciding whether or not he had time to rape Dougie was no more momentous than picking between the tuna and the egg salad at lunch.

  “Ah, well,” the guy sighed. “In the tub with you, then.”

  The water was way too hot. Absolutely scalding, and Dougie wanted to yelp and recoil the minute his toes touched the surface, but he was too scared of attracting the attention of his absent guard. And who knew, maybe if the assistant had an excuse for running behind—little hole put up a fight—he would take it as a chance to rape Dougie, after all.

  So he forced his entire foot in with a hiss, then the other foot, and then sat down hard before his body had time to really register the heat. He didn’t dare ask the assistant to run a bit more cold water into the tub.

  The assistant didn’t give him any time to acclimate, either, before squeezing some fruity-smelling gel onto a sea sponge and scrubbing at the closest handy limb. Not gentle, but not particularly rough, either. Clinical, mostly, if a little impatient. He didn’t seem to be interested in Dougie’s assistance, so Dougie just closed his eyes and leaned his head back, let himself relax. Tried to enjoy it. There were so few pleasures here, after all. The heat was starting to feel good—no, great—soaking deep into sore muscles and weary bones, chasing away the chill he’d suffered since the moment he’d arrived here. However long ago that’d been. Long enough that most of the cuts and scratches on his skin had healed.

  The sponge was only a little rough. Now, if only the guy would stop scrubbing so hard over his bruises. The assistant finished Dougie’s arms and legs, then swiped the sponge across his chest. One of the morning guards liked to twist Dougie’s nipples way too hard, and he was so sensitive now that the touch of the sponge made him gasp, jump, splash water out of the tub.

  He flinched in expectation, but the assistant didn’t strike him, just cupped his closest pec, bent a little, and gently sucked the nipple into his mouth, flicking it with the very tip of his tongue.

  Dougie didn’t dare move, despite the fact that what the guy was doing was riding some horrible undiscovered line between arousal and full-body-shudder disgust and violation.

  “Those brutes abuse you,” the assistant rumbled against his nipple, gave it a little nip and oh God stop please stop I don’t want this. “I’m not like them.” He lifted the sponge, squeezed it over Dougie’s head. The cascade of hot soapy water made him shut his eyes. Before he could open them again, the assistant’s mouth was on his, kissing him sensually, like this was a romantic movie or something instead of whatever the fuck it really was. Still kissing him, the hand with the sponge wandered lower, down to oh fuck no no no oh God—

  Dougie’s eyes flew open as his traitorous cock began to rise, but he forced himself not to struggle. The man cleaned him gently, drifting across his shaft in a dreamy, patient way.

  “Please,” Dougie managed when the guy pulled his tongue from his mouth to breathe, because he wasn’t above begging, not anymore. Then he added, lest the guy thought Dougie was asking for more, “Stop. Please don’t do this, I don’t want—”

  The sponge mashed down hard against his nuts, nausea shooting straight into his belly. “You think you’re better than me, is that it? You think because you’ve got an expensive ass, I’m not allowed to fuck it the same as anybody else?” The man thrust his hand down between Dougie’s legs, swiped the sponge so rough over Dougie’s hole he cried out. “I was trying to be nice to you, hole. God knows why I wasted my time. Turn over.”

  “Please,” Dougie said—sobbed, really, if he were to be honest—though he did as told, turning ass-up in the tub. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, okay? I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m better than you at all. You’re a man. I’m a hole. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  But the man didn’t fuck him, didn’t hurt him again. Didn’t even speak to him again. Just scrubbed his back clean, washed his hair, dunked his head underwater to rinse off the soap and then made him turn around and sit up again. Dougie obeyed numbly, as sideswiped by relief as he’d so often been by fear. Closed his eyes when the man massaged some goop into his hair, something silky and smelling of coconuts and vanilla, then tugged a comb through it. “Leave that. Five minutes,” the man said. “Don’t touch anything.” He stood, revealing a ragin
g erection under his scrub pants. Dougie steeled himself to suck it, but the man just left the room and shut the door.

  A few seconds later, the door to the bathroom on the left opened and closed.

  “You ever fuck an unconscious man’s throat?” the assistant asked as he stormed back into Dougie’s little bathroom a few minutes later. Dougie closed his eyes—don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it. “No, of course you haven’t. Well, let me tell you, it’s more trouble than it’s worth. Head down.” He dropped a heavy hand on Dougie’s shoulder and dunked him, scrubbing a hand through his hair to wash away the cream rinse.

  And scrubbing. And scrubbing. And scrubbing. Dougie knew better than to fight back, but his chest was burning and the man was fucking drowning him in a bathtub and he couldn’t help it, he struggled and flailed and grabbed at the arm pinning him with both hands—

  And suddenly he was free. Breaking the surface, no hands on him at all. Gasping for air.

  The assistant was a few feet back, the guard’s hands wrapped around his wrists. “You pouty fucking queer,” the guard snarled. “You just about flushed our prize item. Just because he didn’t let you fuck his ass? He’s a fucking hole. Bend him over and just fucking do it. Watch this.” He looked over to Dougie. “Hole! Come here and suck my dick dry.”

  Dougie was out of the tub in half a second and on his knees at the guard’s feet not long after. Dripping on the floor, still seeing spots from lack of oxygen, still panting, he reached up, undid the guard’s zipper, and pulled the thick cock out through the opening. He didn’t stop to think about it, just started sucking, licking, bobbing his head, and even moaning a little, more out of desperation than arousal.

  I’m alive. I’m alive because of you. If this is the cost, so be it.

  The guard seemed pleased, groaning out a long “Yeeeeeeah” and combing his hand through Dougie’s hair. Not gripping it or pulling it. Not using it to fuck Dougie’s face. Just . . . touching it.

  He came not long after. Dougie swallowed it down. Every single drop. Made himself smile and lick his lips, beaming right up at the guard like a very good dog. The man hadn’t hurt him. He’d play along for that.

  “See?” the guard said. “Halfway broken in already. If you’re not man enough to rein this kid in, you don’t fucking deserve to get laid. You try to kill any of the stock again, though, and I’ll put you in the cage right next door, you got it? You ain’t good-looking, but you don’t need to be to work a glory hole all day.”

  “I wasn’t gonna kill him,” the man mumbled, sullen, like a spoiled teen. “Just teaching the hole a little lesson, is all.”

  “Well this one’s a prize hole. If you want to teach it a lesson, go get its good-for-nothing brother next time.”

  “I tried—”

  “Shut up.” The guard picked Dougie up off his knees, strangely gentle, grabbed a towel off the cart and rubbed at his dripping skin. “You done here?”

  “Lotion,” the assistant said. He was still pouting.

  “Hurry up. Madame’s waiting.” Then, to Dougie, “Can you stand, little hole?”

  Dougie nodded like a bobble head, though in truth he wasn’t really sure. He just wanted everyone’s hands the fuck off him, didn’t matter that they weren’t hurting him now.

  The guard took him at his word, letting go of him and standing watch while the assistant smeared a frankly wonderful-smelling lotion all over his skin. It had a sort of pearlescent sheen to it, turning his academic pastiness into something shiny and precious.

  After that, he was escorted out to the main room again. No sign of Mat, although there were a few other people sitting in the chairs or lying on the tables. All strapped in. They weren’t struggling. Their eyes were blank, their faces drawn and tired. One woman was crying, annoying the lady doing her makeup to no end as she kept applying foundation to the same cheek. The same practiced sweep, over and over again, immediately cut by a tear trail.

  Crying. Tired. Hopeless. Soulless. Half dead.

  Dougie wondered if he looked like that.

  They strapped him into a chair, cut his hair and shaved his face and plucked his eyebrows, the sulking assistant standing by. Then it was over to a table, where they strapped him down again and waxed him, completely disinterested in his screams. Well, maybe not completely disinterested. The assistant seemed to enjoy them quite a bit, smiling whenever Dougie’s cries got particularly loud.

  Chest, arms, legs, belly, cock, balls, armpits. Anywhere there was hair, it was removed with practiced efficiency. Which meant it didn’t surprise Dougie when he was unstrapped, turned over, and restrapped to have the crack of his ass waxed, too.

  That was when he spotted Mat being dragged out of the bathroom, conscious enough to meet Dougie’s eyes but not to walk under his own power. He looked . . . gone. Glazed over. Totally slack. He was covered head to toe in bruises, bite marks, ugly welts from a belt or a cane or whip or maybe all of the above. God, what had they done to him?

  Mat held his gaze for a second, maybe two, as they dragged him toward a chair. His head lolled when they sat him down. He didn’t fight them at all when they strapped him in.

  Drugged. They must’ve drugged him.

  Someone undid Dougie’s straps again. Helped him off the table, then sat him down in a makeup chair. He tried to peer over his shoulder at Matt, but the assistant grabbed his chin and wrenched his head around so hard he whimpered. From somewhere to his left, the crying woman started up again. He heard someone slap her and say, “Stop that bullshit right now or I’ll give you a reason to cry.”

  She had three holes to fuck. He wondered if that made it worse.

  Just the fact that he was in a mental place to think something like that made him want to gag. He stared straight forward at the blank wall. Strange to be in a chair like this without a mirror, but then, it didn’t matter what he thought about his looks. They could put him in women’s makeup if they felt like it. Like one of the kidnappers had wanted to, that first night. But they didn’t do anything like that. Just brushed some sort of powder over his face, lined his eyes with a black pencil, and ran a mascara brush through his lashes.

  He thought of his friend Jeremy, who did community theater. Stage makeup. Men had to wear it too. It made their features stand out from a distance.

  Somewhere over his shoulder, a razor buzzed, and he knew instinctively that they were shaving Mat’s head. To make him look like a thug. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did.

  “Hey . . .” Mat slurred, and like clockwork came the sound of a fist hitting flesh and a drug-loosened grunt from Mat. Strange time for him to get vain.

  “Hold his head still,” someone said, and then, presumably to Mat, “I’m about to put a razorblade half an inch from your eye, hole. Don’t move.”

  If anything merited Dougie taking the risk of turning his head, it was that terrifyingly ominous statement. The makeup lady seemed to be done with him anyway, so he craned his neck, saw a guard gripping either side of Mat’s face in two giant hands, saw another man with a razorblade leaning in close and oh my God what are you doing to him, stop! Realized to his horror he’d said it out loud when the man with the razor turned to Dougie and said, “Just a little cosmetic surgery, hole.” Then he dragged the razor at a diagonal through Mat’s left eyebrow, and even drugged half out of his head, Mat clenched his teeth and growled and there was blood everywhere, Jesus, why was it bleeding so much?

  But then the man placed the razorblade on a tray near the sink and picked up a wad of gauze and pressed it to Mat’s brow, and someone else cleaned off the blood that’d run down his eye and cheek and chin, and if Mat was still in pain, it didn’t show on his face.

  Dougie realized he was tugging at his restraints, and forced himself to relax back into his chair. Nobody was paying attention to him anymore. That was good, that was the best he could ever hope for in this place. He tried to make himself small and quiet and kept his eyes on his brother, who still had
a gauze pad held to his forehead while someone trimmed his nails and changed the bandages on his wrists.

  The door to the—what, salon?—opened and Dougie shifted his gaze without moving his head, assessing the new threat. The doctor, holding the door open for that woman from the first day, the one who’d almost killed them outside the van, who’d forced Mat to— Who’d tried to make Dougie— Fuck. He couldn’t even say it in his own head.

  And oh God, she was coming straight for him. “Is this one done?” she asked the assistant, waving a casual hand in his direction.

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “Get him up, let me see.”

  Suddenly it was like processing all over again, like when he’d been forced to pose for those awful pictures. Except it wasn’t just Turn left or Smile or Bend over, show me that hole; she was touching him, too, shoving her fingers in his mouth, weighing his cock and balls in her hand, spreading his ass cheeks and prodding at his hole. She made a humming noise that Dougie thought seemed pleased, but when she spoke, it was with almost painful indifference. “He’ll do,” she said. “Collar him and make sure he’s ready to go. One of the attractive collars, if you would. And don’t let anyone touch him.”

  “Yes, Madame,” someone said, and he was strapped into the chair again to wait while the woman who’d cut his hair unlocked a nearby cabinet and started rummaging through it. While he waited, Dougie craned around to see how Mat was. Still drugged to the gills, by the looks of it. The doctor was bent over him, putting stitches in his eyebrow. Three stiff black knots. He poked through a fourth while Dougie watched. Mat’s fingers were curled tight around the armrests he was strapped to, but he didn’t move.

  The woman came up beside Mat, rasped a finger across the light stubble they’d left on his cheek, the heavier stubble they’d left on his head. He looked wiry and mean, fighting fit despite all he’d been through, down to peak weight and rippling with muscle. All the cuts and bruises—and especially the one they’d just made and sewn up—only served to highlight the effect: I’m a badass motherfucker, don’t cross me.