The Flesh Cartel #5: Wins and Losses

1
Chapter 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Chapter 3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
Chapter 4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
chapter one
    I
    said I’d teach you the true value of my kindness.
“Sir!” Dougie screamed, absolutely hoarse. “Sir, please!” He pounded the closed door with both fists. “Sir! Sir, you can’t leave me like this!”
    No answer. Nikolai wasn’t coming back. Dougie fell to his knees.
The plug inside him moved, not just shifting position, but vibrating, fucking shaking, and that horrible wicked curve hit what he now knew was his prostate and sent shudders of humiliation and unwanted pleasure through every inch of him. His moan turned into another raging scream. More pounding on the door. Every time he moved, the plug twitched inside him or drove upward or glanced down, every single motion a new torture.
Inside the so-called chastity cage, his cock swelled up, trying to rise, but was painfully strangled. He’d have been okay in it without the plug, maybe even with a plug that didn’t vibrate, like the one he’d worn at Madame’s. But with this plug constantly stroking him from the inside, buzzing relentlessly against his prostate, there was no stopping it. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since Nikolai had plugged and caged him and he already felt like he was going crazy.
I said I’d teach you the true value of my kindness.
If Nikolai really was trying to teach Dougie some kind of lesson with this latest torture, well, Dougie wasn’t learning shit.
For the hundredth time, he yanked at the belt around his waist, fingers following the line of the straps that looped between his legs, trying to wrench the plug out. But there was no give. And the attempt completely backfired, because the motion of trying to pull the plug free just made everything worse.
Besides, what would Nikolai do to him if he did manage to get it out? Consequences, consequences . . . Nikolai hadn’t hurt him yet, not really—at least not in the more traditional sense—but he had no doubt the man was capable of it.
He pounded the door one more time, then threw himself on the bed and buried his face in his pillow, trying to ignore his screaming nerves. Intellectually, he knew his reactions to the plug were probably normal—he was healthy, male, twenty-three. What else did guys his age think about but sex? But God, how it shamed him to take pleasure from what’d been done to him. To have come twice—once at his rapist’s hand and once, oh God, at his own.
But worst of all? He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he weren’t in this fucking cock cage, he’d touch himself again. Relieve the pressure, the itch, the unbearable want. And surely he must want it on some level, or his body wouldn’t be behaving like this, right? How would he ever look Mat in the eye again? How would he ever look himself in the eye again?
Nikolai was right. He was a coward. Mat probably did hate him. No way Mat came like this, felt these urges, gave in so fucking completely. He probably didn’t even get hard.
Oh God, what would he do if he really was alone now? If Mat wouldn’t speak to him anymore? If the only person alive who’d so much as give him the time of day was Nikolai?
Best not to think about that. Best not to think at all, in fact. O, that way madness lies. Let me shun that.
    Mat started awake to the sound of a . . . power tool? He lurched up in bed and spun toward the noise, saw two men installing a heavy punching bag at the same time he realized his bedroom door was wide open.
    Run.
The thought had barely formed before the doorway was filled with two more men carrying a treadmill, and Nikolai, bringing up the rear, one hand stuffed casually in his pants pocket.
“Good morning, Mathias,” Nikolai said, grinning expansively, as if it really was a good morning.
Mat realized he was on his feet, though he couldn’t remember getting there, and that he was naked in front of a room full of very attractive men in their forties—the kinds of guys you’d see modeling suits in a Macy’s catalog—and that nobody but him seemed to think this was odd in the slightest. He forced himself not to cup his cock as one of the—servants? slaves? seriously discreet delivery guys?—turned eyes on him.
The treadmill guys left. The guys who’d been