The Flesh Cartel - Episode #4: Consequences

time with Nikolai’s hired men. Not the
    first delivery he’d received with these particular injuries. He suspected someone on his team had a
    penchant for ill-prepared fisting. How barbaric.
    This wouldn’t do at all. Not if he intended to keep Mathias on the right side of that fine line.
    Nikolai wet a finger and circled it round the swollen flesh without penetrating. “So much for
    your vaunted pride,” he said, pressing just a little, just enough to make Mathias whimper. “You can
    let go now, hole . Your brother sated me well enough. I’d take you with a dildo, but this meek
    subservience is a side of you I’d care to nurture. So consider my mercy a reward for your self-
    preservation. ”
    Mathias’s shoulders slumped, head and hands dropping to the mattress in utter despair. Knowing

    he’d lost this round— But no. Stiffness, stubbornness , returned. Not as close to the line as Nikolai had feared, then. Good. He was pleased.
    “Can’t get it up, huh? Well, take your ‘mercy’ and shove it, asshole. This isn’t self-preservation.
    It’ll never be self-preservation. I’m doing this for my brother .”
    With a sigh and a shake of his head, Nikolai turned to fetch the dildo.
    By the time he’d finished with Mathias, he was woefully behind schedule. He hadn’t meant to
    leave Douglas unattended for quite so long, not when there was important debriefing to be done about
    what he’d observed through the cameras. This boy questioned everything in his own head. Nikolai had wondered since he’d seen Douglas’s file how different it might be—how much of a challenge it might be—to train such a knowledgeable psychology student. But in the end it might turn out to be
    easier; Douglas might end up doing half his work for him.
    He found the boy still under the table, curled up tight and sleeping deeply enough not to wake at
    the opening of the door. Roger—what a good little pet he was, always anticipating Nikolai’s needs—
    had left a tray in the hall: toast with jam, applesauce, a glass of orange juice. Nikolai picked it up, carried it in. Set it on the table above Douglas’s head.
    Ah, that woke him. A little gasp. A snuffle. Then silence, stillness. Like a teen in a slasher movie
    hiding under the bed, praying not to be seen.
    Nikolai fitted on his best smile and crouched down beneath the table. “Hello there,” he said.
    Douglas blinked at him from his tight little huddle. “H-hello, sir.”
    Nikolai held his smile. “You don’t look very comfortable under there.”
    Another blink. Another. Debating the value of the truth? Wondering if he’d be punished for
    complaining? Finally, he tried, “It-it’s not so bad, sir.”
    Nikolai held a hand out. Douglas flinched but then caught himself, unwrapped his arms from his
    knees as if afraid he might startle a cobra at his feet, and hesitantly laid his hand in Nikolai’s.
    “Come now, let’s get you comfortable.” Nikolai gave him a gentle tug, helped him unfold
    himself. Debated for a moment, then guided him into one of the table’s two chairs. He didn’t want to
    teach him it was permissible to eat at a table without his master’s consent, but the bed seemed too
    loaded now; Douglas would spend all his time worrying about being taken, rather than focusing on
    Nikolai’s questions.
    Though the way Douglas sat down in the chair, wary and delicate, all the way on the edge, made
    it clear he thought that was loaded, too.
    “Relax,” Nikolai said. “You have pleased me very much this afternoon. I brought you this”—a
    gesture to the tray—“as reward.” Douglas’s eyes widened as he took in the tray, pupils dilating
    slightly. He wanted it, but he refrained, waiting for permission. “Yes, that’s very good, Douglas. You must always wait for permission. And now you shall have it. Eat. Enjoy yourself.” At Douglas’s
    desperate, torn gaze toward the toast, he added, “You may use your hands. This time.”
    The boy practically attacked his tray.
    “Now tell me,” Nikolai said as Douglas finished off the first slice of toast and reached for the
    second, “why you chose to sleep under the table when you’ve a perfectly lovely bed?”
    Maybe he’d phrased that a little judgmentally, because Douglas immediately stopped eating, eyes
    wide with fear. “I . . . sir, it’s a nice bed. It’s a very nice bed. I appreciate it, I promise. I’m grateful.
    You just . . . well, you didn’t give me permission to sleep