The Flesh Cartel #2: Auction

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Chapter 4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Chapter 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Nikolai . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 7
nikolai
    he auction in New York had been a bust. Complete T waste of a plane ticket. The promising thug he’d gone for had turned out to be a blubbering mess, big in body and small in spirit. His client had tasked him with finding and training a very particular new pet, and Nikolai wasn’t going to disappoint him with a sorry slave that fit those requirements in appearance only.
    Back to the drawing board.
And by the drawing board, he meant the national auction
    listings. Hours upon hours sifting through photos of snottynosed slaves, watching videos of them being beaten and fucked and fucked and beaten, and sometimes both at once. Choose another processing facility. Go through the motions again.
    Nothing promising in Washington. San Jose then. The Madame there had always run a classy house, and their next auction was less than a week out. Perfect, because he was starting to feel pressed for time. He hadn’t trained an unbroken slave in years; he couldn’t predict how long it might take before he could turn over a (reasonably) safe product in that condition. Quite possibly more than the usual three to four months.
And his client was not a patient man.
    Sixteen new recruits this month: seven women he dismissed immediately as not germane to his needs, and nine men. A bit of a slow take for a region as large as Madame’s, but it spoke to the selective standards she enforced with her stock.
    1
And looking at the photo thumbnails, it showed. Lovely, lovely, gorgeous, stunning, and then—a man with a bruised
    face, glaring murder at the camera, like a mugshot. He clicked on the photo, opening the man’s bio page. Twentynine. Pro MMA fighter—perfect! He’d know how to take a beating then. Know how to keep getting back up over and over and over again, long past the point of stupidity. Full of endurance, too.
    He kept reading, daring to let himself hope. Parents dead —par for the course. One sibling, a younger brother, also procured this week. Interesting.
He clicked through to the extended photoset. More glaring pictures. Lean, tanned, muscular, covered in welts and bruises. Big uncut cock. Hair so dark it was almost black, and striking blue eyes so full of fury Nikolai felt a chill right through the screen.
But it all came down to the videos. He couldn’t tolerate training a slave who suffered badly, who made annoying noises. And this slave, especially, needed to have a bit of fight. Couldn’t cry at the drop of a hat. Couldn’t bend too easily. Couldn’t break at all.
And yet still had to be trainable. Controllable, somehow.
    A fine, fine balance, that. No wonder his client had come to him; he didn’t know another trainer in the Western world who could manage it.
    Two videos—Madame’s standard. One was always exactly six minutes long. The other varied from recruit to recruit— sometimes barely two minutes, a rare few ten or more. This one’s was just over eight-and-a-half. Nikolai took that as a good sign—a fighter indeed. He’d struggle even against the clutches of exquisite pleasure. Wouldn’t lose himself to either extreme, if handled with care.
    2 Well, Nikolai was nothing if not careful.
    He opened the eight-minute video. Oh, yes. This one . . . this one was transfixing. Fighting his pleasure as surely as an opponent in the ring. Glaring daggers at the camera, his expression screaming, Fuck you, dirt, you don’t deserve to s e e me, let alone touch me. So apart and aloof and powerful . But, ah, he’d lost himself there for a moment, fallen beneath the onslaught. Hit the mat but then gotten right back up.
    Until he couldn’t, of course. Until the pleasure was stronger than his will. Until he came up his belly and chest and chin and the shame and humiliation painted his face as surely as his cum painted his torso. But even then . . . even then, he was fierce. Beautiful.
    Nikolai clicked the video closed, making note of his straining erection but paying it no other mind. He was a professional. Always in control. He’d satisfy his urges only when his work was done.
On to the second clip.
    Six minutes, always the same. The same three implements for the same amount of time. Three minutes with