These Monstrous Deeds

by T. J. Hamel

  Just seconds later, a gavel comes down and the man yells into the speaker, “Sold!”

  More applause.

  The owner is called up. There’s the sound of chain link, reminding Carter of his time in the dark. He thinks about the new collar they had secured around his throat earlier. He hadn’t been able to explore it before his hands were restrained, but he has a feeling it must have one of those metal loops like the one from before. Carter’s cheeks flood in humiliation as he realizes the people buying them are going to leash them like animals. That’s the only explanation for the sound of the chain link.

  For the first time, Carter’s thankful he’s blindfolded. He hated that his captors had put something over his eyes before taking him out of the darkness, had been devastated at the realization he still wouldn’t get to see any light, but now, as tears form in his eyes, Carter is glad they’re covered. These people don’t deserve to see him cry.

  The slaves go one by one. There’s a surprisingly large amount of them. More than he had thought when they were corralled onto the stage earlier. Some go for just a few thousand dollars. Some go for unbelievably high prices that stun Carter speechless.

  Then Carter is hearing his brother’s name, and the crowd is jeering and yelling expletives. He realizes the words are all for him. Terrible. Taunting. Threatening. These people despise his brother for some reason, and they’re more than happy to transfer that hate onto Carter.

  Carter wants to shout at them. He wants to tell them his brother is just a soldier. One of the many soldiers in this country. Whoever they think Maison is, they must be mistaken. There’s no other explanation.

  Carter just doesn’t understand.

  The auctioneer starts the bidding with an impossible price. It climbs quickly.

  75

  100

  150

  200

  300

  600

  700

  800

  It’s then between two men, one sounding high pitched and angry, the other alarmingly low and calm. Carter’s not sure who sounds like they’d be a better owner.

  850

  900

  A long, stretched out silence. Then a meek, “950.”

  And a low, soft, angry chuckle. “You know what? 2 mill.”

  The gavel falls before the other person gets time to respond. There’s clapping. Laughter. Carter hears the auctioneer speak off mic. “That was entertaining.”

  The same calm, low voice that had been bidding on him says, “No. This will be.”

  Then a hand is on Carter’s left ass cheek, a warm, heavy presence settling behind him, and Carter is panicking again.

  “Please don’t,” he whispers, praying the man will be kinder if it’s just the two of them speaking. Maybe if the crowd can’t hear them, he can convince this man to show mercy. To not rape him. Not yet. Not here. Not like this.

  Carter gasps as fingers run from his ass cheeks up his back and down his arms, not stopping until two hands are settled over his own. The man leans forward, his body covering Carter’s. His clothing feels scratchy on Carter’s sore skin, but he’s warm, and Carter has to say it feels very nice to be warm.

  Lips brush the shell of Carter’s ear as the man speaks to him, his voice surprisingly soft and kind. “Just breathe, sweetheart.”

  Keep calm.

  Breathe.

  Pay attention.

  Wait.

  Keep calm.

  Breathe.

  Pay attention.

  Wait.

  Just wait.

  Carter whimpers when the anal plug they had put in his ass is tugged on. He starts to tremble, curling his hands into fists to try and gain some control back. The man told him to breathe, but he can’t. He can’t fucking breathe. Oh god, he can’t breathe.

  “Shhh.” The man nuzzles behind Carter’s ear, making him whimper again. This time it’s for an embarrassing reason. That’s one of the most sensitive spots on Carter’s entire body. He hates himself for the way he shivers. For the way his cock twitches in the tight plastic cage they’ve locked it in. Bile burns his throat.

  His plug is gently pulled from his hole before cool lube is drizzled over his opening. Carter jerks in his restraints, earning a round of cruel laughter from the crowd. He goes perfectly still as a finger is pushed into him.

  “Come on! Fuck him hard!”

  “Make him scream!”

  “Ruin that ass!”

  “Don’t listen to them,” the man orders in that same soft voice as before, his lips finding Carter’s ear again as his finger stroke Carter’s prostate. “Just focus on me, sweetheart. You’re mine now. All mine. I’m going to take care of you. Breathe for me. Relax for me. Forget about them. Focus on me.”

  Not sure if he should trust this man – but also not sure if there’s much of a choice – Carter listens. He takes a deep breath and forces his muscles to relax. The action earns him a low, rumbling, “Good boy.”

  It does things to Carter’s mind, fucking him up. The man isn’t supposed to be kind. He isn’t supposed to care about Carter breathing and relaxing. He isn’t supposed to care about Carter at all. Carter is supposed to just be an object. A possession.

  What game is this man playing?

  And, more importantly, how can Carter survive it?

  ◆◆◆

  Nathan watches the boy beneath him in a trance as he slides a third finger into him. Everyone in the crowd is yelling for him to get on with it. To fuck the boy. To make him scream. To make him cry. Every time a particularly angry or sinister comment is yelled out, Carter shudders and tries to curl in on himself. It takes everything in Nathan not to just free Carter from the bench and run off with him.

  When one of Nathan’s own men yells from the front to hurry the hell up, Nathan grins and flips him off. “I’m not going to ruin his ass! I have a nice long flight home. Need him usable, don’t I?”

  Everyone laughs. Carter deflates. The boy’s reaction kills Nathan. Damn near destroys him.

  What makes him feel even worse is that he’s hard when he lubes his cock and lines it up with the boy’s drenched hole. He took a pill earlier, knowing he’d need the help, but that doesn’t ease his guilt. Not in the least. How can it, when arousal is pooling hot and heavy in his gut?

  “Please,” Carter whispers. He’s trembling gently against the bench, his cheek resting on the padding, his blindfold soaked with tears. “P-please be – be gentle.”

  Nathan’s chest goes tight.

  “Okay, sweetheart. It’s okay.” Nathan smooths a hand over the boy’s hip, stroking him gently. He leans forward to speak to him again. “Just breathe. It won’t hurt so much if you breathe.”

  A sob makes its way past the boy’s lips. Nathan hangs his head, closing his eyes for a second. Then he forces himself to get his shit together, his grip tightening on Carter’s hips as he pushes into him slowly. The crowd roars in celebration, but it’s not loud enough to drown out the wrecked sound Nathan’s cock forces out of Carter.

  Staring at the adorable little freckle on the small of Carter’s back, Nathan zones everything else out and focuses on coming. He thinks of the last person he fucked. A guy. Willing. Eager. Pinned down beneath him moaning and writhing, begging for more.

  It’s over quickly, Nathan’s memories driving him over the edge, but not quickly enough. He can tell as he pulls out that Carter is destroyed. His breathing is too slow. Too calm. His muscles are lax. His body is lifeless. His ears are deaf to all the calls from the men. He doesn’t even twitch when Nathan slides the anal plug back in his hole.

  There’s a chance he broke the boy already, before ever even seeing him face to face.

  There’s no hope.

  Nathan Roarke is going to hell, and he’s taking Travis down with him.

  Chapter Four

  Carter is pulled from a safe, fuzzy place inside his head when he’s suddenly picked up by someone, his body apparently no longer strapped down to the bench from before. He clin
gs to the person’s shoulders as he’s carried off the stage, his mind spinning as he tries to remember the man finishing with him. He decides quickly that he doesn’t care enough to worry about it. He just wants to go back to being fuzzy again.

  Fuzzy is safe.

  Fuzzy doesn’t hurt.

  “Sir, would you like your slave prepared for transport?” someone asks.

  “No,” the man holding Carter says firmly. “I’m transporting him myself.”

  “Are you sure? It’s been a long evening. We will deal with him for you. Clean him. Water him. Prep him. Plug him. He’ll arrive in his cage at your compound in the morning.”

  No trace of the soft, kind man from before is left when the man speaks. His tone is cold. Dangerous. “I do not repeat myself.”

  “Of course! Yes. So sorry, sir. Is there anything we can do for you, then?”

  “Yes. Get out of my fucking sight,” the man growls. Carter sinks in on himself, burying his face in the man’s neck at his anger. The man adjusts him in his arms and hushes him. “Not mad at you, sweetheart. You did so very well for me up there.”

  Sweetheart.

  He keeps using that. Why? Is it part of his game?

  Who the fuck is this guy? What does he want? What does he plan on doing to Carter?

  Something heavy brushes Carter’s bare arm, startling him. He’s hushed again, the thing leaving his arm before coming back less heavy. It’s not until the mystery item is spread out to cover his entire curled up body in the man’s arms that he realizes what it is.

  A blanket.

  This man has given him a blanket.

  It’s warm. Soft. The sensation on his skin is so phenomenal that it brings fresh tears to his eyes beneath his blindfold. He hasn’t been given a blanket once since being kidnapped. No pillows. No mattresses. No clothing. Just cold concrete.

  God, he had forgotten how good it felt to be cocooned in a blanket. His entire body shudders with the pleasure of it, an appreciative sigh falling from his lips. He feels himself sinking into that fuzzy safe place again.

  The man seems to notice. “That’s it, sweetheart. Just rest. Let me take care-” whatever else the man planned on saying is cut off abruptly, his movements halting as well. Every muscle in his body goes tense.

  Then someone says, “Roarke.”

  “Henley,” the man holding Carter replies.

  “Congratulations.” The person – Henley – laughs. The man holding Carter does as well. Carter feels the rumble against his body. “I know you’re leaving, but I’d love to set up a meeting for this following week. We need to discuss Miller.”

  “Ah, yes. Miller.” Carter shivers at the utter disdain in the man’s voice when he says the name Miller. “I’ll have Benny get in touch with you.”

  “Perfect. Enjoy yourself.”

  “Oh, trust me. I will.”

  Carter doesn’t like the sound of that.

  At all.

  He knows he should be listening to Casey’s advice now that he’s being transported. He should be paying attention to every detail. He should be ready for his moment. Instead, he just wants to sleep. He’s so fucking exhausted. It’s been an eternity since he last slept well. Probably not since they drugged him when he was initially captured. Adding the blanket isn’t helping. The only thing that could make this better right now would be some food to alleviate the ever-present ache in his body.

  At the thought, Carter’s stomach grumbles. A man laughs. There’s no rumble against Carter’s body, so he knows it wasn’t the man holding him. He doesn’t get a chance to appreciate that before Henley is saying, “Sounds like the slut is hungry.”

  “He’ll have to beg if he thinks I’m going to feed him.” Carter sags in defeat at the cruelty in the man’s words. He just wants to curl up and cry for days on end. This man doesn’t make any sense to Carter. He hushes him and calls him sweetheart, but he rapes him. He covers him with a soft blanket, yet he’s going to make Carter beg for food.

  God, Carter doesn’t know if he has that in him tonight.

  He’s so fucking tired.

  But he’s so fucking hungry, too…

  “Sir, the car is ready.”

  “Thank you,” the man that’s holding him – who Carter thinks is Roarke but he’s not sure – says. Then they’re moving again. A door opens. Fresh air wafts over Carter. He gasps, his eyes flying open beneath his blindfold. He jerks in the man’s arms as Casey’s voice yells at him to take this chance. Scream. Fight. Run.

  But Carter’s arms are tangled in the heavy blanket, and he can’t see a damn thing. He opens his mouth to yell for help, but a hand clamps down on it before sound can escape. Carter is dropped so his bare feet hit the cement, the hand on his face keeping his head pinned back against the man’s chest, the man’s other arm holding him around the waist. Refusing to waste this moment, Carter kicks and bucks as he screams into the man’s hand. The man hoists him up into what he assumes is a vehicle, shoving him forward, so his bare knees scrape against the rough carpet. The blanket falls off. Carter swallows a sob at the loss.

  The door is slammed behind Carter, the sound harsh inside the small space. Carter holds very still as he waits to see what will happen to him now. He doesn’t even know if the man is in the vehicle with him or if he’s been abandoned.

  Just as he’s wondering if he should take his blindfold off, someone touches his cheek. He sucks in his breath and holds it.

  Then the blindfold is being removed for him.

  Carter immediately closes his eyes, suddenly unsure if he wants to see the man who just raped him on a stage in front of who knows how many people. The soft touch to his cheek comes again. He fights the urge to lean into it, refusing to embarrass himself despite his desperation for human contact.

  “Open those pretty eyes for me,” the man says in that same voice he had used when on stage with Carter. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

  Not wanting to get punished, Carter forces himself to obey. He hasn’t used his eyes in so long that they hurt the moment the dim lighting in the vehicle registers. Carter hisses through his teeth, reaching up to rub the ache away. His hands tremble with fear and exhaustion, with pain and hunger. Then they’re taken by two much larger, warmer ones. The man’s scotch breath falls over his face. “Take your time, sweetheart. Breathe.”

  Carter squeezes his eyes, tears falling down his cheeks. He tries to breathe. Tries to relax. He’s still trembling, but the man doesn’t let him go. He just holds onto Carter and waits patiently.

  Finally, Carter manages to blink his eyes open and keep them that way. It takes him a moment to get past the sudden shock of seeing things again. Then he realizes that the thing he sees right now is the man who bought him. The man he’s been wondering about for a very long time now. The man he and Casey spent time fantasizing about.

  They stare at each other, both holding their breath.

  Carter starts to catalogue the details bombarding him, unable to help himself when some are kinder than they should be.

  For example: gorgeous.

  The man seated before Carter, staring down at him with flushed cheeks from their struggle, eyes nearly black, jaw strong and locked, dark blonde hair mussed, is fucking gorgeous.

  He’s also large. Much larger than Carter. He’s not a beefcake by any means, but he fills his tailored black suit well, and he’s undoubtedly a few inches over six feet. Carter will have a hard time if he ever tries to overpower him. In fact, with his situation in mind, he probably has no shot in hell overpowering him. If Carter wants to escape, he’ll have to go about it differently. This isn’t something he’s going to be able to fight his way out of.

  There’s a gun in the man’s waist holster. That could be an option, though Carter is so inexperienced with weapons that he’d probably end up shooting himself on accident.

  The man’s black bowtie is crooked. Carter wonders if that happened when they struggled. He’s clean shaven, but if Carter squints, he can see a shadow along hi
s strong jaw.

  After staring down at Carter for a moment longer, the man drops Carter’s hands and lifts his chin to look at the driver of the vehicle. “Benny?”

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “Swing through a fucking McDonalds or something.”

  The driver – Benny – chuckles. “Sure.”

  When the man looks at Carter again, his expression is soft. “Think of what you’d like to eat. Nothing too heavy. Your stomach will need adjusting.”

  Carter just stares at him in confusion and awe.

  McDonalds?

  Carter forgot McDonalds even existed.

  Could he call to the person in the drive thru window? Try to get help? Is it worth the risk? Will this man keep the food from him if he tries and fails? Does the man even plan on feeding him at all, or is this just a mind game? A tease? A punishment for trying to fight just now?

  “In the meantime, come here. I’d like to take a look at you.”

  Uncertain if that’s some sort of code for I’m going to fuck you again, Carter shuffles forward with caution. He stops when he’s kneeling between the man’s legs and forces himself to look up. The man is upset. Carter sinks in on himself, unsure what he did wrong now, but the man’s hand is surprisingly gentle when he cups Carter’s jaw and angles his face so he can see Carter better. His thumb brushes along the edge of where Carter fell face-first on stage earlier, when his arms were bound so he couldn’t break his fall. It had been bleeding, but it’s dry and tacky now. The man frowns, but says nothing.

  The hand moves to Carter’s shoulder next, his thumb pressing into the joint there. Carter winces, clenching his teeth to keep quiet. The man’s eyes flick up to meet Carter’s. “Hurts?”

  Carter doesn’t know the right answer. His eyes start to burn, his throat going tight. He settles for lying. The guards that kept watch over them always hated when they complained. He thinks it’s safe to assume this man won’t be any different. Carter shakes his head no, then holds his breath as he waits to see what will happen.