The Flesh Cartel #2: Auction

the paddle.
    Two with the cane. One with the TENS unit. Most slaves lasted three or four strikes from the paddle
    before they broke down crying, and the cane had them begging for their lives or offering sexual favors to stop the pain. Many passed out on the first electric shock to the genitals. Not this one. He didn’t even acknowledge the paddle. The cane knocked noise from him—lovely noises, if you were into such cruelties, fighting free through iron will and clenched teeth. He suffered beautifully . So masculine. So strong. Even when screaming through the shocks, the man’s power was undeniable.
    3 The poor bastard seemed perfect for his client’s needs.
    Nikolai felt sorry for him already—to be denied the gift of culture, of devotion, of joy and peace in service. To be doomed to a life of suffering and misery, to—
    Really, Nikolai, already thinking like you’ve bought the boy?
He shook his head, smiled to himself. He did have a whole auction to get through, after all. He might lose. This fighter alone would likely go cheaply—too much bother for most other trainers, too much risk, too little return. Breaking him would ruin everything about him that was beautiful and unique.
    But he wouldn’t be sold alone, damn it all. To be auctioned with brother. See file M-36-526.
    Nikolai sighed. He never trained two at once. His methods were boutique, not assembly-line. Still, maybe he could buy them both and sell the brother back to Madame at a discount, or on to another trainer. He clicked open the brother’s file.
    Or maybe I’ll just keep him.
    Gods, was he ever beautiful, even considering Nikolai’s exacting standards. The same blue eyes as his brother, the same brown-black hair. But slimmer, shorter, several years younger. And so sad. The curve of his mouth, soft and sensual, a mouth for reciting poetry with his head in his master’s lap. And a mind for it, too. A master’s degree in social work. A year into his Ph.D. in clinical psychology.
    He’d be thoughtful and well-spoken. Delicate.
Expensive.
Then again, Nikolai never had gone for cheap stock.
    When you trained only three or four slaves a year, you trained the most promising of the lots. And Madame clearly 4
    saw this one’s promise too: he was the closing piece in the auction, the very last recruit to be sold.
And oh , look how he blushed and trembled and wept.
    As exquisite in his fearful submission as his brother was in his anger. No, more so—though perhaps that was merely Nikolai’s own tastes at play. The boy orgasmed in under three minutes. Already obeyed every command.
    Nikolai sighed again. He’d be lucky to acquire his fighter for less than seven figures with this perfect little brother tagging along.
5

chapter
one
    at was done fighting.
    M When they lead him out of the exam room, he went willingly, head down, mouth shut. Good dog. It sickened him how pliant he’d become, but he recognized the irrationality of that feeling. Coach Darryl had spent the last twelve years teaching him to be patient, pick his battles, go on the defensive when he needed to and strike only when the right opportunity arose. He was in no shape to fight right now— tased twice, beaten repeatedly, stuffed into a tiny cage for ten hours . . . not to mention the actual three rounds he’d gone in the ring before this clusterfuck had gone down. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Was so thirsty it hurt him as much as his cuts and bruises. He’d be good to no one if he got himself killed.
Besides, what if they were taking him to Dougie?
    They didn’t, though. Just an empty cell in a long line of them —twenty or thirty, maybe—though who knew if the other ones were empty or not. He dug his heels in instinctively at the narrow door with its little arrow-slit window at head height, the tiny cell no bigger than a walkin closet, closed in on three sides with solid, padded walls and a padded floor. No bed. No sink. No toilet.
    No way to kill yourself.
    Like some third-world prison cell or backwater mental institution. For one horrifying moment, he couldn’t let them shove him inside. Couldn’t.
    6
    The blow to the kidney was so vicious he saw spots. He must’ve screamed, could feel the echo of it scraping in his throat.
    “Mat!” Dougie, oh God.
    He threw himself forward against the closing door, but too late. Locked in. “Dougie? Dougie ! Are you—” Okay? How patently fucking ridiculous. Of course he wasn’t okay.
    “Are you hurt?