The Flesh Cartel #6: Brotherhood

wouldn’t talk to him, would make fun of him, gang up on him. That he’d never be able to fight pro if word got out he liked guys. That he’d never be happy again.
His dad had said, “I love you, Mat, but I can’t do that. I can’t help you be anything other than what you are.”
This man said, “No wonder you think you’re gay, what with such a slut for a little brother tempting you all the time. What did he do, did he come in here, get you to ask him to suck your cock?”
“No! I made him . . . I made him take off his clothes, Dad. I told him to suck me. I said I wouldn’t tell. I told him if he didn’t, then I would . . .” He struggled for words. A story. He’d never been an actor, and he was fucking terrified, but this was Dougie on the line. He had to make it good. Had to protect Dougie.
“You’re lying,” the man said. “Can’t even tell a lie. He’s got your head all mixed up, son. Well, let me straighten you both out.” He pulled his belt from its loops, and Mat held out hope for just one second that he’d move right to the rape and skip the beating. But then he folded the belt in half, planted one knee in the small of Dougie’s back to hold him still, and said, “You’re going to count for me, son. And when I think you’re sorry enough for being such a disgustingly unnatural little offense to God Himself, I will let you get up and kiss this belt and thank me. Do you understand?”
Mat heard Dougie swallow from five feet away. Dougie turned his head to face Mat, met his eyes, curled his fists into the blanket—steeling himself, he’s steeling himself—and said, “Y-yes, Dad.”
Mat steeled himself too, hardened his expression and looked away.
The first crack of leather on skin was as loud and awful as Dougie’s shouted, “One!” Mat could feel Dougie’s eyes on him, desperate, searching, aching for connection, for borrowed strength. And he wanted to give him all that, wanted it so bad he felt sick with it. But he couldn’t. Helping Dougie now would only hurt him more in the long run. He had to be strong enough to let him go. Strong enough to push him away.
Two. Three. F-four. Five. Yes, Dad. Six. Seven.
Every strike, Mat flinched. Every strike, he wished he could jump up and punch the fucker in the kidneys and kick him while he was down. Smother him with the pillow from the bed. They were alone in here. No cameras. No guards. No Tasers. Just the two of them and that fucker. Mat could kill him. Hold Dougie, comfort him, prove he still loved him before—
Before Nikolai showed up and tortured them both.
Be strong. It’ll be over soon. No matter how long this sick fuck could beat Dougie before he tired out, it still wouldn’t be half as long as the serum would last.
“Please!” Dougie cried instead of seventeen. “Please, Dad!” And then he sucked in a ragged breath and counted again— eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one—even though it hurt, even though he was crying. The perfect slave. “Please, Mat! Ah, God, twenty-two! Help me, make him stop, please!”
Mat stared steadfastly at the opposite wall and covered his ears with his fists.
But the beating went on, and the screaming, and the counting, and the begging, and no matter how hard he pressed his hands to his ears he could still hear Dougie sobbing his name in between the numbers—so high, God, they were climbing so fucking high he was afraid to look at Dougie, to see him bruised and bleeding, he’d been through this, he knew how bad it hurt. But it would end soon. It had to end soon. The man was panting hard. Clearly a sadist. Mat would bet money he was so turned on by Dougie’s screams he was starting to blueball. Eventually he’d have to stop beating him and start fucking him.
And Jesus, what kind of life were they living that rape was the kinder, gentler alternative?
Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. At thirty-four, Dougie screamed but didn’t count. Probably couldn’t count. He was already hoarse. Sobbing like a child. He’d called Mat’s name and “Dad’s” name and “stop” and “please” so many times they’d lost all meaning to Mat’s ears. Probably to Dougie’s own as well.
A break in the beating. The man gasped for air, partly exertion, but also no doubt partly arousal, and said, “Have you learned your lesson about lying, then, son?”
“Yes!” Dougie sobbed. “Yes, Dad, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, I promise, I promise.”
“Mathias.” Mat opened