The Flesh Cartel #2: Auction by Rachel Haimowitz and Heidi Belleau

edged away, hid behind the arm of the couch, ridiculous and ineffective as he knew it was.
    The guards, dressed all in black today, simply stalked around the couch and scooped him up. He went limp when they touched him; they’d put him where they wanted him with or without his cooperation anyway, and he’d just as soon avoid new bruises.
    He was bracing himself to be bent over the couch or thrown over the table, but instead they just walked him to the door opposite the one he’d come through.
    A backstage area, bustling with people in black. Moving props, going over cues. He recognized it for what it was: some kind of elaborate play or performance, dozens of people with dozens of interconnected responsibilities.
    And I’m the performer.
    No lines. No rehearsals. No understudy. Just him on the stage, alone, with nothing but Madame’s words to guide him.
    Do everything they ask or I’ll never see Mat again.
    He wanted to say he wasn’t ready, but maybe he was. They had prepared him, in their own way. From that very first night in the shower. Debasement. Humiliation. Pain. Wearing him down day after day. Teaching him. He already averted his eyes when they looked at him. Already knelt when they entered a room. Already gave them his body without struggle when they fucked him. And now, the last piece to ensure his compliance, the one thing they’d had on him since the very beginning, since he’d practically begged Mat to lick that filthy spunk from his ass: His love for his brother. His fear of ever facing the world without Mat. His fear of what might happen to Mat if he were gone.
    The guards had led him just offstage. One foot to the left, and he’d be in full view of whatever audience was waiting for him. He looked out across the stage, which was empty except for a fainting couch, a hanging set of chains, and a podium. A man stood behind the podium, fiddling with some kind of tablet computer. Madame was on the stage too, dressed in what had to be a couture black evening gown and a choker of pearls. Classically beautiful and put together as she was, he’d have died for her attention in his old life. But now . . . She was walking toward him. One of the busy stagehands in black rushed up with a dog leash made of polished leather and hooked one end to Dougie’s collar in perfect time to hand the other end to Madame on her arrival.
    “Do not look at me,” Madame whispered. “Do not look at the audience. Keep your head down like a well-beaten dog. I’ll bring you to a stage marker. Kneel on it in the form you’ve been taught, with your neck extended like you did when I gave you that fudge. Do not speak unless spoken to.”
    This close up, her makeup was a bit smudged. Sweaty. She was sweaty.
    He nodded, then stumbled when she jerked the leash.
    “Heel,” she said, obviously amused with herself.
    She yanked him out onto the stage, and suddenly he was blinking back blindingly bright spotlights. No wonder Madame was sweating. He would be too, soon enough.
    And the audience? Head down, he peeked out of the corner of his eye as she walked him across the stage. A sea of black clothes and horrible white faces. Masks. At least fifty, maybe a hundred. All the same. Plain white masks. Expressionless. Indistinct. He’d been steeling himself for leers and catcalls. Laughter. Applause. Groans.
    What he got was so alien and horrible he couldn’t process it. So he looked at his feet.
    Madame addressed the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests all.” She was wearing a mic somewhere, maybe one of those tiny flesh-colored ones pop stars wore. “May I present to you the jewel of the night’s collection.”
    There was an X on the floor, marked out in electrical tape. That was where he needed to kneel. Three feet away. Two feet. One foot. He knelt.
    “I’m sure you’re all well familiar with his particulars from this month’s catalog. If not, they will be on your personal screens now. As you can see, he isn’t yet