The Flesh Cartel #2: Auction by Rachel Haimowitz and Heidi Belleau Page B
Authors: Rachel Haimowitz and Heidi Belleau
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couldn’t afford to drift off like that.
The guard flanking him tugged on his leash and pulled him through an open door to . . . a backstage? He’d seen plenty enough of them on the local fight scene, littered with catwalks and wires and rope and red-gelled flashlights, just like this one. The moaning and crying got louder. Horrifyingly familiar.
Dougie.
He rounded a corner, and suddenly he was within view of the stage. What he saw made his heart stop. There was some kind of upholstered bench on wheels at the center of the stage. And Dougie was lying on it.
All he could see of Dougie was his legs, spread wide and pointing to the sky, ankles swallowed up by huge, grasping hands. Blocking him off was a man in all black, grunting and thrusting. Another stood farther away from Mat, and though Mat couldn’t see him, there was only one explanation for that angle: he was standing by Dougie’s turned head, fucking his face with deep, punishing strokes. The guard was still walking Mat forward, slowly, leash pulled taut. Mat was still playing along, at least for now. But as they got closer to the scene at the center of the stage, Mat realized that although Dougie was horizontal, he wasn’t lying on the couch. He was lying on top of a third man, Dougie’s back to the man’s chest. The man’s hands were wandering up and down Dougie’s chest, pinching his nipples, rubbing and tugging his balls and cock. Two cocks inside his ass . No wonder he was crying.
“Tell the nice people how it feels, hole,” one of the men growled.
The reply was a muffled howl. Sucking sounds.
Mat stared, horrified and frozen, as the cock popped out of Dougie’s mouth.
“Say it.”
“It hurts, sir!” Dougie wailed.
The man laughed— laughed —and squeezed Dougie’s balls until he screamed.
Next Mat knew, he was across the stage, a knee in someone’s gut, a fist to someone’s throat, the heel of his palm driving right through the creepy porcelain mask to someone’s nose. He blinked, breathed hard, stared blankly at the carnage around him. All three of Dougie’s rapists writhing on the floor, broken and bleeding, and poor Dougie huddled up beside them, crying into his knees and shielding his head.
Sound came back into Mat’s world, and he realized the audience—God, what a freak show, everyone in weird white masks and black suits—was applauding.
Fuck them. He’d kill them all. Starting with Madame, perched in a chair like some fucking throne on a dais in one corner of the stage, flanked by a man with an honest-to-God fucking cattle prod. Fuck that, didn’t matter. Mat could take the guy down before he ever managed to hit him with it.
Mat roared, raced toward her. Let them kill him—he didn’t care, he was a dead man anyway—as long as he took her with him.
“Mat, please !”
Dougie. Oh God. He’d just left Dougie on the floor. Hadn’t even—had been so—
He turned. Dougie was still sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, the beginnings of a bruise welting across his jaw. Had Mat accidentally—
Nobody had tried to stop him yet. No shocks from Tasers. The leash dangled impotently from his collar. Madame sat patiently. And Dougie. Crying. Mascara on his cheeks.
“Stop this,” Dougie pleaded. “Please, please.”
Mat snorted at Madame, who was fucking smiling down on him, obviously pleased.
Fuck her. She’s not fucking worth it.
He went to Dougie, crouched beside him. Wrapped his arms around Dougie’s small, shaking shoulders. Gathered Dougie’s head to his own shoulder. Kissed his hair. “Shhh,” he murmured. “Shhh. I’m here now.” And in that moment, the crowd and the guards and Madame and this whole fucking nightmare fell away, and they were together, and it was okay.
And then there were two sharp stabs in his left shoulder blade, and his world filled with convulsive fire, and he screamed and fell away as two men pulled Dougie from his unresponsive arms.
He barely heard Dougie shouting his
The guard flanking him tugged on his leash and pulled him through an open door to . . . a backstage? He’d seen plenty enough of them on the local fight scene, littered with catwalks and wires and rope and red-gelled flashlights, just like this one. The moaning and crying got louder. Horrifyingly familiar.
Dougie.
He rounded a corner, and suddenly he was within view of the stage. What he saw made his heart stop. There was some kind of upholstered bench on wheels at the center of the stage. And Dougie was lying on it.
All he could see of Dougie was his legs, spread wide and pointing to the sky, ankles swallowed up by huge, grasping hands. Blocking him off was a man in all black, grunting and thrusting. Another stood farther away from Mat, and though Mat couldn’t see him, there was only one explanation for that angle: he was standing by Dougie’s turned head, fucking his face with deep, punishing strokes. The guard was still walking Mat forward, slowly, leash pulled taut. Mat was still playing along, at least for now. But as they got closer to the scene at the center of the stage, Mat realized that although Dougie was horizontal, he wasn’t lying on the couch. He was lying on top of a third man, Dougie’s back to the man’s chest. The man’s hands were wandering up and down Dougie’s chest, pinching his nipples, rubbing and tugging his balls and cock. Two cocks inside his ass . No wonder he was crying.
“Tell the nice people how it feels, hole,” one of the men growled.
The reply was a muffled howl. Sucking sounds.
Mat stared, horrified and frozen, as the cock popped out of Dougie’s mouth.
“Say it.”
“It hurts, sir!” Dougie wailed.
The man laughed— laughed —and squeezed Dougie’s balls until he screamed.
Next Mat knew, he was across the stage, a knee in someone’s gut, a fist to someone’s throat, the heel of his palm driving right through the creepy porcelain mask to someone’s nose. He blinked, breathed hard, stared blankly at the carnage around him. All three of Dougie’s rapists writhing on the floor, broken and bleeding, and poor Dougie huddled up beside them, crying into his knees and shielding his head.
Sound came back into Mat’s world, and he realized the audience—God, what a freak show, everyone in weird white masks and black suits—was applauding.
Fuck them. He’d kill them all. Starting with Madame, perched in a chair like some fucking throne on a dais in one corner of the stage, flanked by a man with an honest-to-God fucking cattle prod. Fuck that, didn’t matter. Mat could take the guy down before he ever managed to hit him with it.
Mat roared, raced toward her. Let them kill him—he didn’t care, he was a dead man anyway—as long as he took her with him.
“Mat, please !”
Dougie. Oh God. He’d just left Dougie on the floor. Hadn’t even—had been so—
He turned. Dougie was still sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, the beginnings of a bruise welting across his jaw. Had Mat accidentally—
Nobody had tried to stop him yet. No shocks from Tasers. The leash dangled impotently from his collar. Madame sat patiently. And Dougie. Crying. Mascara on his cheeks.
“Stop this,” Dougie pleaded. “Please, please.”
Mat snorted at Madame, who was fucking smiling down on him, obviously pleased.
Fuck her. She’s not fucking worth it.
He went to Dougie, crouched beside him. Wrapped his arms around Dougie’s small, shaking shoulders. Gathered Dougie’s head to his own shoulder. Kissed his hair. “Shhh,” he murmured. “Shhh. I’m here now.” And in that moment, the crowd and the guards and Madame and this whole fucking nightmare fell away, and they were together, and it was okay.
And then there were two sharp stabs in his left shoulder blade, and his world filled with convulsive fire, and he screamed and fell away as two men pulled Dougie from his unresponsive arms.
He barely heard Dougie shouting his
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