The Flesh Cartel #3: Choices

later it drew to a stop, and the sleepy guard roused and poked him.
The other two joined him a moment later, and they unstrapped him and dragged him to his feet. His not-ally came out a moment later and left the RV. The guards—and by extension, Mat—followed.
Somehow, Mat was both horrified and not at all surprised to see his not-ally walk up to the waiting man and sink to his knees at his feet.
The waiting man flashed him the briefest of smiles, stroked an idle hand through his hair, and dismissed him with a gesture. Then he turned his focus to Mat.
Sharp gray eyes set in an equally sharp face. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Almost but not quite model handsome—high cheekbones, full lips, elegant brow, shortish brown hair styled back— but closed off somehow, too mighty for scrutiny. Something about the force of his gaze discouraged Mat’s own; Mat found himself looking down at his own bare feet.
Then his new “owner” turned and went back into the house.
The guards weren’t holding him anymore, just standing close, one on each side and the third behind. What was Mat supposed to do? Wait here? Follow? Go back to the RV? No, if anybody wanted him back in that RV, they’d have to fucking drag him. He didn’t want to stand out here with the heavies, either. He’d rather follow this new man, even if it was off the edge of a cliff, than stay with the guards one second longer. So he balled his fists against the pain of the plug, set his jaw, and walked.
Besides, Dougie might be in there. They had been sold together, after all, hadn’t they? And there’d been no sign of him in the RV. Maybe they’d sent him off ahead.
God, what could they have used that time for?
Something in him boiled over. “Hey! Hey you!” He stormed toward the house, shouting, “Where the hell do you think you’re going, man? Where’s my fucking brother? I’m talking to you, you rich pervert!”
If the guards weren’t on his ass yet, they would be now. He ran up the stairs toward the massive front door the man had disappeared through. Managed to get in and lock the door behind him before the guards could converge on him. That was as far as he got, though. The second he turned the deadbolt, a lance of pain shot through his abdomen and right down his ass, so painful he fell to his knees. Clinging to the doorknob was the only thing that kept him upright.
The fucking plug.
He’d been so angry he’d forgotten it was inside him, although God knew how he’d managed that. And now—
He wrapped his arms around himself, clutching his gut, his moans half drowned out by the guards banging on the locked front door. He couldn’t sit, so he fell to a crouch, back to the door, and held himself. Another cramp. Another lancing, tearing pain.
Get it out .
He reached down between his legs with both hands, fumbling around for the base of the plug. Wrapped trembling fingers around it and gave a horrible tug. Screamed. Finally had the presence of mind to turn the key, his hands shaking so badly it took several tries and several misses for every single turn.
Twelve turns and he could finally yank it out. He tossed it and watched, crouching and hugging himself again, hole gaping , as the plug skittered across the extravagant tile floor of the entryway, shaking off pink drops of don’t-fucking-think-about-it as it spun.
That was how his new owner found him.

    Nikolai couldn’t have been more pleased.
He paced into the grand foyer, the heels of his dress shoes echoing satisfactorily off the marble tiles. He stooped to pick up the steel pear—delicately, by the key, between the tips of two fingers— and turned his gaze on his new charge. The man—Mathias—was slumped against the front door, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around his stomach, leaned to one side so as not to put pressure on his no-doubt aching hole. “That was quite a show.”
Mathias turned his head when Nikolai spoke. It looked like it took whatever dregs of reserve energy he had left. “Fuck you,” he grumbled. Always classy, these untrained beasts. “Where’s my brother?”
Nikolai studied him a moment longer: pale, drawn, sweating, trembling. The hired brutes had no doubt come in through the side door by now, would be waiting in the next room—gorillas indeed, but well-trained ones; he’d used them before—but something told him he wouldn’t need them. Not just yet. Not ever , if he’d gambled right.
And he always had been a winner.
Mathias let his head thunk