The Flesh Cartel #6: Brotherhood

his eyes, forcing himself to look at the man. Then look at Dougie, his ass still up in the air, the tighty-whiteys hobbling his thighs. His ass was swollen, welted red and purple and— Stop looking, just look at the sick fuck who did this. Look at him. He was sweaty and red-faced, and he’d taken his suit jacket off. His white shirt was soaked under the arms. His tie was rumpled. But he had a cruel, pleased face, the face of a man who’d thoroughly enjoyed his exercise—as amply demonstrated by the erection tenting his suit pants—no matter how exhausting it had been. “Mathias. Do you think your brother has learned his lesson?”
God, what the fuck was he supposed to say to that? Yes, he wanted to say. Yes, so please stop hurting him. But what would Nikolai think? Would that be seen as helping him or interfering? Maybe he could straddle the line somehow.
“I . . . I want to say yes, Dad, but . . . But you’re our—our father and you know best.”
Why didn’t you say yes? Dougie’s expression demanded, his mouth open slightly, his face sweaty, too. He looked so hurt, so betrayed. At last, he squeezed his eyes shut—sending two more tears streaking down his cheeks—and turned his head away.
That’s it, Dougie. That’s it. Give up on me. I’m not worth it. Give in.
“Good answer, son. I knew you were a good boy. So here’s what I think. I think your brother has learned his lesson about lying, but I don’t think he quite gets why being queer is wrong, why trying to seduce his own family is so wrong. What do you say, should I teach him?”
God, he wants me complicit. Not just a mute observer. He wants me to help.
Dougie turned back to him, just briefly, too afraid to shake his head but the No was there in his eyes. Begging. Hopeful. Even after all that, still so certain Mat would fight for him.
Mat swallowed hard—it was that or puke all over the guy’s shoes—and ripped his gaze away. Back to the man. “Yes, sir.” His voice was so flat he sounded dead. Hopefully the man wouldn’t mind; he couldn’t do any better than this. “You’re his father. If you don’t teach him, who will?”
“Yes. Very good. You’re right. But you have a lesson to learn too, don’t you? So I want you to watch very carefully. I’ll show you both how wrong it is to be gay. How filthy. How awful. And you’ll never doubt your sexuality again. Would you like that?”
“Yes, Dad,” Mat said as Dougie moaned “No,” hurting too much—or maybe just too upset—to play along anymore.
“Do you know how fags have sex, Douglas?”
“No,” Dougie moaned again. Somehow, Mat didn’t think it was in answer to the man’s question.
“Up their asses. Like this.” He leaned forward, using an elbow to pin Dougie to the bed, and shoved three fingers of the opposite hand into Dougie’s ass.
Dougie buried his face in the mattress and screamed.
It was muffled by the blankets, but Mat knew what he was shouting.
Mat.
He was shouting Mat’s name.
Still begging for Mat’s help.
“And that’s just my fingers, boy. But don’t you think you’re fooling me, acting like that hurts. Don’t you think I don’t know what a little fag slut you are? I bet you’ve had a dozen cocks up this loose fag hole of yours. And maybe you’re perverted enough to like it, but your brother’s not beyond saving, boy. And you know what, neither are you. You just need the right lesson.” He pulled his fingers from Dougie’s ass, pointed at Mathias. “Son, go get me your bat.”
“My what?”
“Your baseball bat, Mathias. You always leave it leaning against the end of the bed, even though I tell you to put it away in the garage. You never listen. Or maybe you do, and your slutty little brother brings it up here at night to fuck himself with. Either way, it’s coming in handy now. Go on, be a good boy and fetch it for your father.”
No, God no. Even Mat couldn’t take something like that, and he’d been fucking for years. Dougie had been a virgin before all this. He couldn’t possibly—
“If I have to go get it, boy, I will beat you both with it, do you understand me? And then I will use it to teach your little fag brother a real lesson.”
Mat swallowed down the urge to vomit again as he levered to his feet, looked around the bed—everywhere but at Dougie, don’t look at Dougie—and spotted the bat, thankfully on the near side, where he didn’t have to walk past Dougie to get it.
He walked over, picked it up. An old wooden