The Flesh Cartel #2: Auction

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 h e 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 38
    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 Dougie 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 oldschool 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.
    39 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 wallmounted 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.
    40 “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