The Flesh Cartel #1: Capture

was four inches shorter and probably six inches narrower across the chest, but it still would’ve been torture for him to be stuck in here for more than a few minutes. “Oh well, you’ll have to live with it. It’s only an eight-hour drive, isn’t it?”
    “Ten if we hit morning traffic,” someone else corrected conversationally.
    Just the thought made Mat’s body throb. As if it hadn’t been throbbing already.
    “Ten hours,” someone said. “Fuck, I could get off five times in ten hours. Might as well start now.”
    A thud—quite distinctly a body hitting the floor against its will—followed by a short, sharp shout from Dougie. Another thud as the van doors slammed shut and the garage doors opened. “No!” Dougie cried, and then someone must’ve covered his mouth because the next No was muffled, a wordless, desperate plea that hurt Mat more than anything he’d ever endured in the ring, more than anything he’d endured so far at these men’s hands. More sounds of scrabbling as the van backed out of the garage and onto the street, more muffled No s, and then a grunt, and a scream, an honest-to-God being-killed-by-an-ax-murderer fucking scream , and Mat hurled himself against the cage, fought the zip-ties until his wrists bled and banged and banged and banged until he’d worn himself down into a bruised, bleeding, panting puddle and gotten no closer to free. But at least, for a little while, it’d drowned out the awful cries and moans and whimpers, the steady slap slap of flesh on flesh, and the satisfied grunts of one man after another as they took their sick pleasures from a bound frightened boy in the back of a goddamned rape van.

They left him lying sprawled on his back on the rubber floor of the van, panting and weeping and oozing a slow dribble of cum.
    Done using him for now, they ignored him, talking amongst themselves and pointedly not looking at him, like he was a dog who’d shit the carpet. Even Mat had turned his head away at some point, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Not that Dougie could blame him.
    It must have been horrible to watch. Dougie, crying and begging and twisting while they pinned him down and all took a turn. Up until the last two, that was, who’d given him a few impatient slaps to get him up and moving into the position they wanted—one underneath him on his back, one looming over him face-to-face—and pushed into him together , two big horrible cocks tearing him open, moving out of sync inside him, lubricated by leftover cum from everyone who’d fucked him before.
    But it was over now. He rolled onto his side and curled in on himself, irrationally protecting his belly, as if that were the most sensitive part of himself. At his back, Mat moaned like a man dying of fever. Dougie wanted to comfort him, but, God, he couldn’t—he couldn’t turn his back on their captors, even if for now they seemed sated.
    He wished he could talk to Mat, wished he could at least whisper Mat’s name, or touch him, just let him know somehow that he was okay, not to worry, they’d get through this. He couldn’t stand the thought of Mat being so distraught on his account. But he was afraid that any attempt to get Mat’s attention might draw the men’s as well. So far, Mat had gone mostly unscathed, and Dougie would let them rape him a hundred times over to keep Mat that way.
    So he stayed quiet, and soon his sobs slowed until all that was left was a silent trickle of tears.
    He hated them. Hated that he was crying like some little kid, no matter how awful the circumstances. What he needed was to think , not wallow. Mat always said he was the brains of the family—he was working on a Ph.D. in psych, for God’s sake—so why did he feel so fucking stuck right now?
    Trauma. Shock. It’s too big, too fresh to be real yet.
    Had he asked their kidnappers what they wanted? He couldn’t remember.
    Aside from your “tight virgin hole,” you mean?
    But that couldn’t be all there was to it, could there? And why him instead of Mat? If they’d planned to take him hostage to get to Mat, then why take Mat too? Why not just leave him unconscious on the living room floor? Or dead, God forbid. And what had they meant by earning their commission? He wanted to ask—wanted to ask that and a million more things—but the kidnappers’ eyes were elsewhere, distant and sated, and oh God what if he pulled their attention back to him, back to . . .
    He swallowed down a surge of nausea and tried