Authors: Rachel Haimowitz and Heidi Belleau
PO Box 6652
Hillsborough, NJ 08844
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Flesh Cartel, #2: Auction
Copyright © 2012 by Rachel Haimowitz and Heidi Belleau
Cover Art by Imaliea,
Editor: Sarah Frantz
Layout: L.C. Chase,
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [email protected]
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The Flesh Cartel: an international, multi-billion-dollar black market that trades in lost souls. Or more specifically, their bodies.
Highly organized and frighteningly efficient, the Flesh Cartel could teach even the KGB a thing or two about breaking a human mind. Fortunately for their ultra-rich clients, they’re just as skilled at putting people back together again—as perfect pets, well-trained and eager to please.
No matter what your secret tastes or dark desires, the Flesh Cartel—for the right price, of course—will hand-design the plaything of your dreams.
In episode two of The Flesh Cartel, the dark purpose behind Mat and Dougie Carmichael’s abduction is revealed. Though Dougie is protected from the worst of the guards’ brutality, he’s disgusted to find himself halfway to broken—despairing of escape and terrified of pain. Mat holds onto hope despite repeated rapes and beatings, but threats toward his brother teach him well to lay aside his pride and pick his battles carefully.
Worn down by days of unrelenting fear and abuse, Mat and Dougie are packaged and marketed with the same ruthless efficiency as any consumer product: Dougie the prettyboy twink, Mat the rabid pit bull. They are led to the auction block as the showpiece of the house’s collection.
Mat would rather be beaten to death than play the role of obedient slave for sale, but Dougie, desperate not to be separated from his brother, strikes a deal with the pitiless Madame who runs the auction house and controls both their fates. It might just be enough to keep them together—slaves, but together—assuming Mat even wants to be after Dougie fulfills his end of his deal with the devil.
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To everyone who stood up for the right to decide what they can and cannot read.
The auction in New York had been a bust. Complete waste of a plane ticket. The promising thug he’d gone for had turned out to be a blubbering mess, big in body and small in spirit. His client had tasked him with finding and training a very particular new pet, and Nikolai wasn’t going to disappoint him with a sorry slave that fit those requirements in appearance only.
Back to the drawing board.
And by the drawing board, he meant the national auction listings. Hours upon hours sifting through photos of snotty-nosed slaves, watching videos of them being beaten and fucked and fucked and beaten, and sometimes both at once. Choose another processing facility. Go through the motions again.
Nothing promising in Washington. San Jose then. The Madame there had always run a classy house, and their next auction was less than a week out. Perfect, because he was starting to feel pressed for time. He hadn’t trained an unbroken slave in years; he couldn’t predict how long it might take before he could turn over a (reasonably) safe product in that condition. Quite possibly more than the usual three to four months.
And his client was not a patient man.
Sixteen new recruits this month: seven women he dismissed immediately as not germane to his needs, and nine men. A bit of a slow take for a region as large as Madame’s, but it spoke to the selective standards she enforced with her stock.
And looking at the photo thumbnails, it showed. Lovely, lovely, gorgeous, stunning, and then—a man with a bruised face, glaring murder
at the camera, like a mugshot. He clicked on the photo, opening the man’s bio page. Twenty-nine. Pro MMA fighter—perfect!
He’d know how to take a beating then. Know how to keep getting back up over and over and over again, long past the point of stupidity. Full of endurance, too.
He kept reading, daring to let himself hope. Parents dead—par for the course. One sibling, a younger brother, also procured this week. Interesting.
He clicked through to the extended photoset. More glaring pictures. Lean, tanned, muscular, covered in welts and bruises. Big uncut cock. Hair so dark it was almost black, and striking blue eyes so full of fury Nikolai felt a chill right through the screen.
But it all came down to the videos. He couldn’t tolerate training a slave who suffered badly, who made annoying noises. And this slave, especially, needed to have a bit of fight. Couldn’t cry at the drop of a hat. Couldn’t bend too easily. Couldn’t break at all.
And yet still had to be trainable. Controllable, somehow. A fine, fine balance, that. No wonder his client had come to him; he didn’t know another trainer in the Western world who could manage it.
Two videos—Madame’s standard. One was always exactly six minutes long. The other varied from recruit to recruit—sometimes barely two minutes, a rare few ten or more. This one’s was just over eight-and-a-half. Nikolai took that as a good sign—a fighter indeed. He’d struggle even against the clutches of exquisite pleasure. Wouldn’t lose himself to either extreme, if handled with care.
Well, Nikolai was nothing
if not careful.
He opened the eight-minute video.
This one . . . this one was
Fighting his pleasure as surely as an opponent in the ring. Glaring daggers at the camera, his expression screaming,
Fuck you, dirt, you don’t deserve to
me, let alone touch me.
So apart and aloof and powerful
But, ah, he’d lost himself there for a moment, fallen beneath the onslaught. Hit the mat but then gotten right back up.