The Flesh Cartel, #10: False Gods

rest against his thighs. He hadn’t fucked anyone in forever, and God but it felt good —amazing, even, as Dougie expertly worked him with his muscles—and that more than anything drew out Mat’s scream, his struggles, he couldn’t let this happen, couldn’t let his body like it, he’d die if he came in his brother’s ass, he had to stop it, had to be stronger than this, better, fight harder, break free, stop it—
    Dougie planted his hands on Mat’s thighs and began to rock, moaning like a cat in heat. Mat’s whole body shuddered with revulsion, and he cried openly as pleasure streaked up his groin and pooled low in his belly.
    It’s not him, it’s not him, he’s not my brother anymore, he’s not my Dougie, he’s not the kid brother who followed me on my runs, he’s not the brother I bought beer for, he’s not the brother whose knees I put Band-Aids on, he’s not, he’s sick, he’s sick, he’s sick, he’s trapped somewhere inside his body and this isn’t his fault and I’m going to find the real him in there and save him but not yet, not tonight, tonight he’s gone, he’s sleeping, he’s gone and he’s not my brother and the faster I come, the faster this ends; he can’t rape us on a soft cock.
    Dougie shifted position, throwing his head back against Mat’s shoulder and locking his arms around Mat’s neck, and now Mat could see over him, down his body, to his cock bouncing hard and eager against his stomach in time with his ass bouncing on Mat’s lap. The tears flowed fresh then, so hard they obscured his vision—thank God for small mercies—and he closed his eyes and tried to forget absolutely fucking everything—where they were, who was on his lap, who was watching—tried to strip it down to mechanics, to make all the parts work as efficiently as possible. But he wasn’t a machine, and he couldn’t shut it out, it was too fucking big for that, and the bitter irony of it all didn’t escape him: the more he wanted to hurry things along, the more upset (“upset,” hah) he got, and the more upset he got, the more distant any hope of orgasm became. He was trapped in some hellish limbo of just enough arousal to stay hard, not nearly enough to end the torture.
    And Dougie showed no signs of tiring, no signs of stopping. No signs of guilt or even conflict. God help him, they’d be at this all night.
    “Who wants to touch him?” Nikolai asked, and for one sick, twisted moment, Mat thought—hoped—that Nikolai meant him . That maybe a second rapist might help to end this nightmare sooner. But no, he was pointing to Dougie, to his flushed, leaking cock, and a smarmily handsome Hispanic man and what he assumed was his smarmily pretty wife raised their hands like they were in fucking school or something, but then another voice rang out.
    Mat’s buyer. “No. Nobody touches him. Let him come from his brother’s cock. Let big brother know that his cock can bring his slutty little brother off.” No. Stop talking, please stop talking. “Let him live with that. Let him picture that every time he orgasms for the rest of his miserable life.”
    You sick fucker. Why are you doing this? Isn’t this cruel enough for you already?
    Meanwhile, Dougie bounced and moaned, even turned his face until his tongue was running sloppy lines of saliva over Mat’s cheek and the corner of his mouth, some disgusting porn-like approximation of kissing, and Mat wasn’t sure whether that was better or worse than a real kiss.
    Better. At least this way, when we’ve escaped this place and put it all behind us, I just might have a chance in hell of not thinking of this moment every time I kiss someone for the rest of my life.
    “Can he do it?” Mat’s buyer asked, looking up over Mat’s shoulder, to Nikolai. His hand was fisted tight around that slave’s hair again. How had he not come yet? Or suffocated the guy between his legs? “Can your slutty little pup come just like that?”
    “Of course he can,” Nikolai said, all proud father again. “Show him, Douglas. Come for him now.”
    It wasn’t an instantaneous thing, but it was as close to coming on command as Mat had ever seen. Dougie moaned, utterly wanton, fingers tangling in Mat’s hair as his hips sped up. The sound of flesh slapping flesh filled Mat’s ears, the feeling of Dougie’s muscles milking him drowning out everything else.
    A hole. Not your brother. Just a tight hole. A tight hole. A tight hole. A tight hole. Nothing