The Flesh Cartel #2: Auction Read Online Free

took him back to the doctor’s white-tiled domain. Everything in there scared him, but he went willingly enough—what would fighting get him? Where could he run in this place? The doctor looked up from his computer screen and smiled when the guards shoved Dougie through the door. “You’ll be good for me, boy?” he asked.
    Dougie sniffled, resisted the insane urge to cover his nudity with his hands. “Y-yes, sir.”
    He was, too. Up on the table as ordered, legs in the stirrups. The doctor removed the plug, let him use the toilet, cleaned him gently, and smoothed more salve across his burning flesh. Put the plug back in, prodded clinically at the worst of his bruising, seemed to be pleased with what he found. “You’ll heal fast, I think,” he said, and then, surprising Dougie, “There’s a toothbrush and paste in the cabinet over the sink. Use it.”
    Dougie wasted no time scrubbing the taste of cum from his mouth. He rinsed, then filled the little paper cup again and drank. And again, and again, and again. God, he was so thirsty .
    The doctor, eyes on his computer screen, said ever-so-casually, “Did I say you could do that, boy?”
    Dougie froze, hands clenching in fear, the little paper cup crushing between his fingers. “N-no sir, but I—”
    “Quiet.”
    Dougie clamped his jaw shut so fast he bit his tongue. He wanted to explain, wanted to beg. Didn’t dare.
    “I’d take a cane to you again, but Madame’s made clear the marks are bad for business with you, and they wouldn’t disappear in five days.”
    Five days? What was in five days? And what business? Why wouldn’t anyone tell him anything?
    The doctor pressed a button on the phone beside his terminal and said, “Bring in M-36-527.”
    That number sounded familiar. Wasn’t that the new “name” the doctor had given him when he’d . . . what, processed him? No, different somehow. Off by one?
    Mat. He means Mat.
    “Sir, please —”
    “I said quiet , boy!” The doctor stood, advanced a step. Dougie fell back a step, hating himself for it. He was a coward. A complete and utter coward .
    He couldn’t even bring himself to hold his brother’s desperate gaze when they brought him in and beat him for Dougie’s mistake.
     

     
    They dumped them back in their cells. Fed and watered them at what Mat assumed were regular intervals, though time seemed as fuzzy here as it often did in the ring—passing unnoticed sometimes, like after a too-hard hit to the head, but mostly slowing down, crawling , an endless morass of frozen seconds beneath the always-burning fluorescent lights. He tried to sleep, as much to pass the time as to escape his body or because he flat-out needed the rest. It was hard, though. The cell was freezing, and constant anxiety made any minutes he managed to slip under shallow and fretful, and it seemed like he’d earned a reputation among the guards as a favorite punching bag. Apparently, word about those two teeth had spread, and every fucking asshole with a nightstick in the place was looking to collect his pound of flesh.
    He got pretty familiar with the guards over those following days and nights.
    They worked in pairs, spread out over three shifts. The afternoon guard (or at least the shift he’d decided felt like afternoon), the one he’d knocked the teeth out of, was always the worst, in an unsophisticated brutal bully kind of way. At least he was fun to taunt, because he invariably got worked up, and if he managed to knock Mat out as a result, all the better. His partner must have been straight, because whenever he made the rounds, nobody got touched. All-male wing , Mat figured, and filed that information away just in case. It was an assumption, the straight thing, but it made a hell of a lot more sense than thinking the guy had the morals not to rape his prisoners. Yeah, right.
    The morning shift preferred Dougie. So did the night shift. Actually, they all did, including the fucking janitor. His cell door was