The Flesh Cartel #1: Capture

one guy’s cum, not five. Pretend those copper smears are . . .
    His imagination failed him at the same time the woman’s patience failed her. “Forget it,” she said, and Dougie cried “ No! ” and Mat cried “Wait, I’m sorry!” and stuck his fucking tongue out.
    That first taste, that first thought —my brother Jesus Christ this is my brother—set him gagging so hard he reared back, gasping for air, clawing desperately at what remained of his self-control. No good—he had cum smeared all over his face, in his nostrils, in his mouth, bitter and bloody and oh God I can’t—
    He turned his head to the side and puked. Water and bile—he never ate before a fight, couldn’t eat after, too jittery, too queasy with delayed adrenaline—but apparently it was enough to send the boss-bitch into a fury.
    “Some brother,” she said, crouching and grabbing Dougie by the chin. She turned his face back and forth, pouting in a grotesque parody of pity. “Can’t give up his scruples, even to save your life. And what about you? What will you do to stay alive?” She stood again and dusted her hands. Turned to one of the guards. “ You . Give this hole your nightstick to beat his brother with. Hole, punish your brother for being a stuck-up coward. And for puking on my immaculate floor.”
    Mat curled up against said floor, spitting leftover vomit, hiding his shameful face. Braced himself for the pain. He deserved it. Dougie should do it. Wouldn’t want to, but he was stronger than Mat about things like this, about knowing when to follow your head instead of your heart and gut.
    The blows never came. Dougie was standing over him, swaying on his feet but resolute, the nightstick clenched in one fist. “I won’t,” he said, voice cracking but brave—so, so brave.
    “What?” The woman’s voice was smooth, completely unruffled, and Mat got the sense that Dougie’s disobedience had played exactly into her hands.
    “I won’t hurt him.” The nightstick clattered to the floor. “You’ll have to kill me, I guess.”
    “Fine,” she sighed, and before Mat could react, shout No! , kill them all and get Dougie the fuck out, she added, “It’s good enough. Get them out of here.”
    Mat gasped for air, gulping down momentary relief that they’d be allowed to live—before remembering what they were being kept alive for . He stole a glance at Dougie, at the pained resignation on his face, the terror, the disgust, the relief—all of it mirroring Mat’s own.
    “Just hose them down and get them processed before I change my mind.”

It was fucking evil, what he’d done to Mat. What he’d asked Mat to do to him . Far more evil than he could make up for with that too-little-too-late gesture with the nightstick. How could he have asked Mat to do that? How could he—
    We’re alive.
    Hopefully, Mat understood. But how could he? Mat was principled. Willing to die and leave what was left of their dignity intact. Dougie was a fucking coward. His hands weren’t even tied anymore, and what did he do as they dragged Mat away to God knew where, kicking and spitting like a fucking wildcat despite his bound and bleeding wrists and the thugs landing one body shot after the next? Nothing , that’s what. He stayed right where he was like some fucking rabbit in a wolf’s sights, quaking and whimpering, too afraid to remain standing. He dropped to his knees instead and waited for his punishment, open and exposed like some fucking cum-stained invitation from a five-dollar whore.
    He just wanted to go home.
    Hands grabbed at his biceps, hauled him off the floor. He almost whimpered Don’t hurt me again, but managed to bite it back. Like it’d have mattered worth a damn anyway. Hadn’t yet. They actually seemed to like it when he begged.
    “Careful, oafs. You’ve already done enough, don’t you think? And where do you think he’s going to go, exactly?”
    “Sorry, Madame,” one of them said, and the grips on Dougie’s arms gentled, just a little. He tried to make his legs work when they nudged him forward, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop thinking about the white-hot ball of hurt between his legs—which at least drowned out the matching one in his heart when he thought about Mat, about what he’d begged him to do, about what might happen next.
    About what had happened already.
    They dragged him along a clean white corridor that smelled faintly of bleach. Artificial lighting, no windows.