The Flesh Cartel #2: Auction

by Rachel Haimowitz

  By comparison, they’d made Dougie softer and sweeter and more delicate, like something to be handled very carefully. And if the woman’s orders were anything to go by, he actually was going to be handled delicately. For now, at least.

  Both of them had been exaggerated to some strange sexual extreme. Two poles of the same miserable planet.

  Dougie’s attention snapped back to the present when someone fastened something around his neck. Tight, like a choker, but not digging in. Cold, delicate. His hands were untied, so he touched fingers to it, traced some kind of woven chain, heavier than a necklace. At the center was a little round disc hanging off a loop, like a tag on a dog collar, stamped with what felt like one long word. He couldn’t see it, but he’d bet anything it was the number designation the doctor had assigned him at processing.

  Someone was fitting a collar around Mat’s neck as well. Literally a collar—a choke chain, like you’d put on a savage dog. They clipped a little ring to one link to stop it from getting too loose, but it could still be pulled tight. A steel disc hung from his collar as well, an inch across, presumably stamped with his designation too.

  Madame slipped a finger through the ring on the end of the chain and yanked it until Mat’s mouth fell open, hands straining against his bindings. “And this one?” she said. “Is he done?”

  “Just as you requested, Madame.”

  She indicated the straps on his wrists with a careless wave. “Will he bite?”

  “We can gag him, Madame.”

  “No. Let him speak. Stand him up.”

  Mat flopped bonelessly as they unbound him, but for just a fraction of a second, he met Dougie’s eyes, and Dougie saw clarity there. The drug must’ve been wearing off. Which meant he was faking that jointless sprawl, faking his weakness as two guards hauled him to his feet and held him there while Madame circled and poked and inspected.

  Don’t do anything stupid, Mat. Please don’t do anything stupid.

  He didn’t.

  “Take the fighter to the holding pen with the others. As for the brother, I’d like to speak to him alone before he’s brought out. And Clarice, stop worrying over that crying bitch’s makeup, would you? I’ve never seen mascara running down a crying woman’s face lose me money in this business.”

  She swept out again, her entourage following behind.

  As soon as she’d left, one guard turned to another. “I don’t care what she says, that animal needs a fucking gag, so bring one along just in case.”

  Just then, Mat’s fingers drifted briefly, inconspicuously, across the tray on the sink where the bloody razorblade lay. But before he did anything else, he met Dougie’s eyes again, just as briefly.

  No, Dougie thought as hard as he could. No, no, don’t be stupid it’s too risky no no no.

  Mat’s hand fell, empty, to his side.

  They were separated again.

  But God it had been good to see Dougie. A little bit gaunt, but clean and still with light in his eyes, not beaten yet. And not wearing that plug anymore, although Mat wasn’t sure how relieved he was on that point. Dougie was okay. There was still hope for them. They could still get out of this. Live to see the other side. He just didn’t know how.

  He wished he hadn’t put that razorblade down, but to have taken it after Dougie’s emphatic no would have been a betrayal.

  Two heavies frog-marched him down a different hall. Up a flight of stairs. Another hall. How big was this fucking place?

  At last, they stopped in a room whose feel, if not its exact appearance, resembled the changing room before a fight. Except against one wall was a row of tall cages, just big enough for a single man to stand up in. Or a woman. Several of the cages already held an occupant, a placard on each door displaying a string of letters and numbers. A man dressed all in black, wearing a headset and holding a clipboard and a portable scanner, approached Mat when the guards walked him in. No words were exchanged, but clearly this was an old routine, because one of the guards wrenched Mat’s left arm out to the side and held it there while Clipboard Guy passed the scanner over the microchip buried beneath his skin. The man nodded, checked something off on his clipboard, and said, “Cage fourteen.”

  They dragged Mat to an empty cage, unlocked it, and shoved him inside. It was tiny—no bigger than a shower stall at a public gym—and barred on all four sides. The cage to his right held a beautiful girl, naked like all the people in cages, and so young he felt sick with fury just looking at her. He hoped like fuck she was eighteen, but then, what did age of consent matter in a place where consent didn’t matter? The cage to his left was empty.

  He noticed one of his guards handing Clipboard Guy a bit gag on their way out. Well, at least they hadn’t forced it on him yet.

  “I’m Leslie,” the girl to his right said. She was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, staring him right in the eye. She had an intense look about her for someone so young. It made a mockery of the pigtails they’d done her up in. “I just wanted you to know that. Then at least somebody does.”

  He nodded solemnly. “Mathias. Carmichael.” The exchange seemed too weighty, too significant, to give her his nickname. “Do you know what they’re going to do with us?”

  “Kill us, hopefully.”

  Mat swallowed back sudden tears and the urge to scold, to tell her not to talk like that, not to give up. Who was he to decide what someone else could or couldn’t bear? “How old are you?” he asked instead. He didn’t know why. He didn’t want to know.

  “Not old enough for this shit.” And then she smiled. “I turned nineteen in August.” No tears in her eyes. They were hard, resigned. She shrugged, laughed humorlessly. “I spent the last two months hooking, anyway. Aged out of the system. Maybe this is God’s way of punishing me for all the shit I’ve done. But at least here I get three square meals and a roof.”

  Aged out of the system. A cold chill chased down Mat’s spine.

  It had to be a coincidence.

  “No bed though,” she said, in a tone like she was just talking to herself.

  Things were quiet after that. Between them, at least, though he heard murmurings now and then from some occupants. Others kept to themselves, afraid or ashamed, huddled and averting their eyes.

  Slowly, the remaining empty cages began to fill. Mat kept waiting for Dougie to appear, but it kept not happening. The cage to his left, the one he’d thought—hoped—would be Dougie’s, was taken by a too-pretty Asian twink who met his gaze and then quickly looked away. Early twenties maybe, black hair spiked with gel, eyelids painted a sparkling metallic green. Not a bruise on him, at least not that Mat could see. None on Leslie, either. Maybe Mat was just fucking special.

  Or maybe he was the only one stupid enough to keep fighting when the match was rigged.

  Maybe he should’ve kept that razorblade, after all. Maybe Leslie would’ve thanked him for it. Maybe she really would be better off dead.

  No. Don’t think that way. She’s someone’s daughter, sister, cousin, friend. Someone must love her.

  Aged out of the system . . .

  Maybe not, then. And yet he loved her. Fiercely and irrationally and undeniably. He thrust a hand through the bars of his cage, wanting to touch her, needing it, to confirm they were still human somehow, still held the power to love, to connect, to make choices. “Leslie,” he croaked, voice thick and choked, and she lifted her chin from her knees to look at him. Eyed his hand for a long moment, as if contemplating what he wanted from her, if he’d hurt her, if he’d take from her like everyone else had. But then she met his eyes, and he smiled, and her whole face seemed to unfreeze, come alive, just for a moment, and the pain in her eyes was so raw and naked he could barely stand to see it. Knew, with certainty, that his eyes reflected the same.

  She climbed to her feet, reached through the bars, and took his hand.

  They took Mat away from him. They took Mat away from him and left him with a guard. One who, the minute they were alone in the hallway, pushed Dougi
e against a wall, twisted his arm behind his back, and rutted against his unprotected ass, fucking between his thighs and along his cleft.

  “Gonna miss you, pretty baby,” he growled, coating Dougie’s inner thighs in cum. At least he hadn’t been bold enough to penetrate him, but it didn’t make it any less humiliating.

  Wait, miss him? Where was he going? Was the guard going somewhere? Was Dougie?

  The guard used a handkerchief—an honest-to-God old-school monogrammed handkerchief—to wipe up his mess, then balled it up and stuffed it into Dougie’s mouth. “Suck it clean for me, little hole,” he instructed as he zipped his pants.

  They resumed their walk, Dougie chewing on the mouthful of fabric and trying not to gag.

  A flight of stairs later, and they were in . . . a sitting room? There were two couches and a coffee table and a wall-mounted TV and a spread of mouthwatering food. Sliced fruit and veggies and rolled deli meats and a tray of fudge squares.

  And then Dougie was alone. Completely alone for the first time since he’d been here. The guard had taken back his handkerchief and locked Dougie in from the outside, and he was here with these couches and this food and . . . oh God, it had to be some kind of test.

  He went to a corner as far from the food as possible, and knelt by one of the couches. On the floor. He hadn’t ever been specifically told not to use furniture here, but it’s not as if there’d been much furniture to use, and he knew better anyway. He was a hole, not a man—he’d been told that over and over again—and holes didn’t get to sit on comfortable couches. Which seemed to be the right choice, because a moment later, Madame bustled in, flanked by two assistants: one with a clipboard and a headset, the other chasing after her with a makeup compact and a brush. Her eyes glanced rapidly across both couches and finally landed on Dougie where he knelt, and she smiled.

  “Well don’t you look lovely, my prize pet.” She wandered over to the buffet table, plucked up a strawberry, and ate it with cruel deliberateness. Watched him watching her eat.

  He waited very patiently and didn’t say a word. Spread his knees apart a little where he knelt, like the guards had taught him.

  When she’d collected a plate of food, she went to one of the couches and took a seat. Her two assistants vanished.

  “I wanted to talk to you alone,” she announced, after he’d been waiting for what felt like an hour. “Come.” It was only a yard or so to reach her, so he shuffled on his knees, trying not to wince at the rug burn.

  She held out half a fudge square between her perfectly manicured finger and thumb. Just out of reach. “Go on, take it,” she said when he didn’t act. He reached out, earning a stern frown. “Not with your hands. You must never touch your betters with your hands, not unless ordered or directed.”

  With my mouth. She wants me to eat out of her hand.

  He didn’t want to. Not even the temptation of the fudge was enough, even after God knew how long eating nothing but bland lentil stews and dry salads and drier whole grain bread. But she was looking at him, and he knew that look, knew it would end in violence—and maybe not just for him but for Mat also—so he sucked it up. Stretched his spine and neck. Tilted his chin. The fudge grazed his lower lip. He took it delicately, trying to touch as little of her fingers as possible.

  It was heavenly. Ambrosia. It was all he could do to keep from groaning aloud.

  “As I was saying, I wanted to talk to you personally,” she said. “As you’re about to make me an indecent amount of money. Just how indecent will depend on your behavior over the next little while. And lest you think you have no stake in this yourself, understand that when I sell you— Yes, sell you,” she said to the shock Dougie could feel on his face, “you may be sold with or without your brother. I’d like you to remember that.”

  No. No. The fudge stuck in his throat and he couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe. Without Mat? She couldn’t, she wouldn’t . . .

  I’d die without Mat. Shrivel up and die and if I didn’t then I’d just kill myself because I can’t do this wi—

  Madame chuckled and touched her palm to his hair. “Oh, pet. You won’t die, and you certainly won’t have the opportunity to kill yourself.”

  Oh, God, had he spoken aloud? He stared at her in horror, waiting for a blow that never came. Instead, “Calm yourself and listen, pet. Your brother has been . . . trying for me. And I wonder if I should have just killed him, as I’d initially planned. He’s not exactly easy to market, since my clientele are hardly the target audience for such a product. However, I think there’s . . . a loveliness to him that you bring out. A hidden value. But I also know that as surely as you could elevate him, he could drag you down. Make even you undesirable. Taint you with his presence, or his influence, or both. It’s a gamble, and you are a very, very costly wager.”

  She plucked another fudge square off her plate and nibbled thoughtfully at one corner. He couldn’t help it; he followed it with his eyes, though God knew how he could be thinking about food when Madame was so casually talking about taking from him the last thing he had. Taking from Mat, too—taking them from each other. Just one more way this place had warped him.

  “Please, Madame . . .” He ducked his head, wished he knew the right thing to do here to make her listen, make her receptive to his pleas, make her not hurt them like this. He couldn’t just suck her cock, after all; even if she had one, he didn’t think she’d want that. He pressed his forehead to the ground before her feet, instead, stayed there, prostrate and begging. “Please, tell me what I have to do, Madame. Tell me how to make this right, how to—” Money, she’d talked about money. “How to make your clients want me. Want Mat. Want us. Together.”

  Silence, long and terrible. He didn’t dare look up, though it tore at him, not being able to read her face.

  “I suppose you could begin by promising to do everything the auctioneer says. Follow his every instruction, even if it means giving a sample suck to twenty prospective buyers.”

  “I promise,” he said before he’d even processed what she’d said. “Yes, Madame. I promise.” But then he ran her words back in his head. Twenty cocks shooting down his throat? He’d puke.

  And then he’d lick that puke up off the floor again if it meant he’d get to stay with Mat.

  “All well and good, pet, but not good enough.”

  Her fingers carded through his hair as his breath froze in his throat. What else could he promise? He had nothing left to give but his obedience.

  “You must ensure your brother’s compliance as well.”

  He couldn’t breathe again. Couldn’t breathe and he was going to be sick, he was going to die right here on this floor because how could he, how could he possibly promise something like that when he knew Mat, when even she had to know enough about Mat to know that was impossible? “I can’t,” he moaned, tear-choked and terrified anew. “I’m sorry, Madame, but I can’t promise that, he’s so stubborn and I don’t know how—”

  The fingers in his hair tightened, pulling him upright, nails pricking his scalp. “You can and you will. I saw you with him on the loading bay floor. A word and a look was all it took to bring your stubborn brother to his knees to lick an entire procurement team’s cum from your hole.”

  He shuddered at the reminder, nausea surging. But it was true. She was right. He’d gotten Mat to do that. Just like he’d gotten Mat to put down the razorblade without even so much as shaking his head. Maybe he could make Mat behave out there after all. Maybe he did have it in his power to save them.

  He’d thought he’d lost Mat once, all those years ago when they’d sent him into foster care, when Mat had been “unfit,” and it had been like all the light in the world had gone out, all happiness and meaning drained away like blood down a sink. And now, here, with everything else gone from them, possibly forever . . . He drew the pad of his thumb up the vein on the inside of his wrist, tracing the unbroken line. Never again. “You’re right, Madame. I’ll find a way. He’ll be good. We’ll b
oth be good. I promise.”

  She popped the last of the fudge square into her mouth and dusted her hands. “All right then, little pet. You have yourself a deal.”

  One by one, the other captives around Mat were taken from their cages and led through a door to God-knew-where and not returned. Sometimes it took a long time before someone came in to get the next person. Sometimes it only felt like a minute or two.

  It seemed pretty soundproof in here, but every once in a while, when the door at the end of the long room opened, Mat thought he could hear the sound of anticipation—a crowd’s worth of murmuring, charged excitement, like he’d hear from the changing room before a fight.

  Then as now, the wait was interminable, never mind that he didn’t know what he was waiting for. Didn’t know if he wanted to know.

  But as long as he could, he held Leslie’s hand.

  When they came to take her away, Mat gripped tight as her fingers slipped from his. Clipboard Guy had to slam the edge of his clipboard into both their hands to make them let go.

  He waited alone then, huddled on the floor of his cage, knees drawn up tight for lack of space, nursing his throbbing hand and trying not to think about what would happen next. He thought it’d be his turn then—they’d taken the others out in order so far—but when the guards returned, Clipboard Guy leaned in to whisper to them, and they walked right past Mat’s cage and took the Asian twink instead.

  “Hey, you assholes! What about me? Where are you taking all these people? Where are they going? Hey! Hey! Look at me, damn it!” But they all ignored him, going about their business with organized single-mindedness.

  That left Mat alone in a sea of empty cages. Had they changed their minds, then? Were they not taking him with the rest? Would they kill him now?

  And where was Dougie?

  His stomach flip-flopped, terrible scenarios running through his head like HD movies. Maybe Leslie was right. Maybe they were killing them all. Making them fight to the death. He’d heard of stuff like that, underground rings where the fighters were unwilling, debased and dehumanized, pumped up with drugs and fed dog food until there was nothing left of them but rage and violence. Maybe this was something like that. He’d heard that sometimes the fights devolved into sexual violence, too. Men raping their unconscious opponents in pure animal victory, or using rape as another way to hurt each other. Maybe this was an arena where that was the point. To watch the weak beaten into submission and taken by the strong.