Choices

by Rachel Haimowitz

  Riptide Publishing

  PO Box 6652

  Hillsborough, NJ 08844

  http://www.riptidepublishing.com

  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.

  Flesh Cartel, #3: Choices

  Copyright © 2013 by Rachel Haimowitz and Heidi Belleau

  Cover Art by Imaliea, http://imaliea.deviantart.com

  Editor: Sarah Frantz

  Layout: L.C. Chase, http://lcchase.com/design.htm

  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 marketing@riptidepublishing.com.

  ISBN: 978-1-937551-71-1

  First edition

  January, 2013

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  Nikolai Petrovic is a man of refinement. He collects fine art, enjoys gourmet cuisine, and trains boutique sex slaves for some of the wealthiest—and most morally dubious—men and women in the world.

  Charged by a wealthy client to buy a man to train but not break—to shape into a skilled, obedient slave who will yield with hatred rather than love in his eyes—Nikolai finds the perfect raw material in Mathias Carmichael. But there’s a problem: he was auctioned off in a lot with his beautiful younger brother.

  Douglas Carmichael is a lovely, trainable thing, but Nikolai never takes on more than one slave at a time. As a master trainer who’s never once failed in his task, he knows he’s up to the challenge, but it will take formidable skill and planning to mold these drastically different brothers into their best selves. And in order to make them obedient to Nikolai and their future masters above all others, he’ll first have to break their greatest loyalty of all: their dedication to each other.

  The Flesh Cartel returns for a compelling second season with “Choices.” Brothers Mat and Dougie Carmichael thought nothing could be worse than being snatched from their home and brutally dehumanized in preparation for sale as sex slaves. But they learn their suffering has only just begun when they’re shipped to their new master’s home.

  Professional trainer Nikolai Petrovic is a master of his trade. His ultra-rich clientele pay him to create perfectly tailored playthings, and Mat and Dougie are the latest in a long line of men who have walked into his remote mountain home as terrified victims and left it permanently altered: subdued and obedient, ready and even eager for a life of service.

  To achieve this, Nikolai must take a drastically different tack with each brother. Dougie, manipulated with affection and denial. Mat, controlled by pain and fear. The one thread in common for both men is choice. Nikolai prides himself on never forcing, but will Mat and Dougie submit willingly to his vision, or will they first need to learn the price of disobedience?

  This title is part of the The Flesh Cartel serial story. New to Riptide Publishing’s serial fiction? Click here to learn all about it.

  About The Flesh Cartel

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  About the Authors

  Together. Madame had kept her promise, they’d been sold together. Every horrible thing Dougie had endured and done on that stage had been worth it for that.

  Dougie held onto that thought tighter than he’d held onto anything in his life, because otherwise the guilt and self-hatred from what he’d just done to Mat would consume him like a fire. Destroy him.

  He’d always said he’d do anything for Mat. Die. Sell his soul.

  Now he really had.

  Men surrounded Mat’s hanging form, blocking him from view as Madame snatched up Dougie’s leash and led him offstage.

  She handed him off to someone in a headset, saying, “Have it prepared for shipment. The buyer has specified how it is to be treated from here on out; instructions are filed. You know what to do.”

  “Of course, Madame,” said the man who took Dougie’s leash. And then Madame was walking away from him. She was walking away from him and Mat wasn’t here and there was no way she could possibly mean to—

  “Madame!” Dougie called. It was easier than finishing that awful thought. “Where’s my brother? You promised! Didn’t I do what you asked? Wasn’t I good enough? Madame! My brother!”

  He hooked four fingers around the front of his collar in preparation for the inevitable choking tug he was about to receive. Madame didn’t answer him, didn’t even acknowledge him. Neither did the man who dragged him away from her.

  From Mat.

  And from everyone else, too. The guard conferred briefly with a stagehand over a glowing tablet screen, too quietly for Dougie to hear, then led him down a hallway he’d never seen before. To what looked like another cell block, and really, how big was this place? They paused before a door that turned out to be a supply cupboard, from which the guard pulled a ball gag that he shoved into Dougie’s mouth—nothing he couldn’t breathe through, but it would make his jaw sore, and if he wasn’t careful it’d trip his gag reflex—and buckled and locked it on. No more talking.

  A cell next, much like the one he’d been living in the past however long. Just as small. Just as cold. But this one had two doors, an inner and an outer like an airlock. And a toilet in the far corner. The padding lining the walls and floor and ceiling was thicker, and when the heavy inner door clanged shut, he realized it had no window.

  At least the guard had taken off the leash and collar before shoving him inside.

  Not much consolation, though. The room was pitch-black. Not even a sliver of light leaking in around the edges. Silent, too, the rasping of his breath through his nose the only thing he could hear.

  No sign of Mat anywhere.

  No sign of anything.

  But he had been bought, hadn’t he? They both had. Together—he was certain of it. Surely they weren’t going to leave him here in the cold silent dark forever? Surely his new owner would come to get him soon, and Mat would be there too, and no matter what else happened, at least they’d have each other . . . right?

  He held on to that thought as tightly as he could as he felt his way to a corner and packed himself into it, huddled down small to conserve warmth. The quiet was as oppressive as the dark, the gag in his mouth a miserable, constant reminder of his stolen senses. He tried to stay alert, to listen for Mat, for guards, for anything—whatever was going to happen, he wanted to be ready. But nerves exhausted him as surely as pain,
and eventually, he couldn’t help it—he slept.

  For a very long time, too, he was pretty sure. Hard to judge the passage of time in the constant darkness, but he woke up feeling more rested than he had since before this whole nightmare had begun. And feeling surprisingly sane for all that he was locked in a dark silent icebox of a closet. His jaw was killing him, and the second he thought about that, he realized how thirsty he was—so thirsty, thirstier than he’d ever been—which led to him realizing how badly he had to piss. Thankfully there was a toilet in here somewhere, and his hands were free. He just had to find it . . .

  Ah, there. His hand bumped chilly porcelain, and he crawled forward another inch or two on the padded floor, feeling out the contours of the toilet in the dark. He leaned over the bowl and sniffed cautiously. Nothing—not shit, not bleach, just water. He didn’t even hesitate to thrust his cupped hands in it and bring them to his mouth.

  The ball gag had holes in it for breathing, like a Wiffle ball, and the cold water trickling inside was the sweetest he’d ever tasted, so good he didn’t care where it’d come from, so perfect and soothing he could practically feel the shriveled tissue in his mouth and throat expanding again. He drank more. More. It spilled up his nose and down his chin and cheeks and chest and set him to shivering, but he didn’t care. More, until even his toes and fingers seemed to rehydrate, and at last he slumped, sated, against the chilly porcelain, roused himself just enough to use the toilet as it was intended, and then fell back into the blackness of sleep.

  It took a long time for Mat’s conscious mind to emerge from the haze of pain he’d been floating through. When it did, he found himself lying on his front on the doctor’s examination table, arms restrained behind his back, a hand on his neck pinning him down flat.

  “. . . no serious internal lacerations,” the doctor said, and Mat vaguely felt gloved fingers slide out of his hole. “So as far as I’m concerned, if the client puts that . . . thing back in, he’d be liable for any damage caused to his own property, not us.”

  “Instructions were to debase as we saw fit,” someone said. “I kind of like that thing. Got him so loose I could probably shove my whole forearm up there.”

  Jesus fucking Christ, you fucking sicko. Mat’s stomach cramped, and he clenched his ass reflexively.

  “Three days until pickup. If you’d like, I can give him a laxative and an enema, flush him out completely. Client wants him fed, but the flush-out will give you time to . . . indulge your kink.” Mat could hear the doctor’s raised eyebrow on that last bit. Struggled, though he didn’t know why he bothered. Couldn’t escape, would never escape, and all it earned him was pain—the hand on his neck tightened, and something heavy and sharp lashed across his ass. Again, and again. Someone’s belt, maybe. His gut cramped again. His ass still hurt beyond all reason, outside now as well as in. He couldn’t believe Dougie had done that to him. That Dougie had had to. Had been able to. Was torn between thinking God, the poor kid and Jesus, I don’t know him at all.

  Mostly the first, though. He knew the second wasn’t fair, but anger was rarely rational. Dougie had just done what he’d thought was necessary to keep them together. But God, he wished that when Dougie made those tough, terrible decisions, it wasn’t his body suffering the consequences.

  His little pity party got interrupted by the hand on his neck shifting to his biceps. He was hauled upright by his bound arms to sit on the edge of the exam table, pain flaring sharp enough in his wrists for him to notice it over everything else.

  “Drink this.” The doctor thrust a pint-sized plastic bottle full of chalky-white liquid to his lips. Mat’s jaw clenched automatically, but then one guard grabbed his head in both hands and another jabbed the pressure points on his jaw to force his mouth open, and another hand pinched his nose closed as the doctor poured the foul liquid down his throat. It was swallow or choke, so he swallowed. And kept swallowing, until the bottle was empty.

  “Shackle him above the drain and come back in a few hours. He’ll be ready for you then.”

  Dougie woke up dead. Dark and cold and silent as a tomb. And as alone, too. He’d been in here for . . . God, ever, it seemed like, deaf and blind and mute and alone, and Mat hadn’t come to visit his grave so he was probably dead too.

  Except dead people weren’t supposed to be able to cry, and he was pretty sure they shouldn’t be so hungry, either.

  Scritch scritch scritch.

  Dougie lurched upright, numb everywhere but his throbbing jaw and the patch of skin near his hip where something had—

  Scritch.

  He scrambled back into a corner, drew his knees to his chest and batted at the floor with both hands. Something skittered across his ankle and he swatted at it—

  Scritch scritch.

  His shoulder this time. His hair. His scalp. Something skittering in the blackness. He swatted again. Again. Stumbled to his feet and stomped and stomped and there was nothing, nothing, the noise on the edge of his hearing had gone as surely as the phantom brushes across his skin. His pounding heart slowly settled as he eased himself, eyes wide but blind, back into a huddle in a corner.

  Jesus Christ help me, I’m going mad.

  But hey, maybe madness wasn’t all it was cracked up (ha-ha) to be. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Better, perhaps, to be insane than to be so aware of how alone he was. And how scared.

  And how very, very screwed.

  It was a miserable few hours—a standout even in days so full of misery Mat could hardly remember a time when life hadn’t hurt. His gut cramped so badly, he seriously began to wonder if he was dying. Emptied him out completely. Then the doctor’s creepy Stepford Wife assistant came in to force an enema in him and scrub him down in that weird freezing shower and bound his hands behind his back again. When all that was done, the doctor lubed up that torturous plug and shoved it back up his ass. At least he didn’t turn the key.

  No—that he left for the guards, who were more than happy to see how far they could push it before they could wrench a scream from Mat, before they could make him beg, before they got him to say Please fuck me, sir, I want to feel all your cocks up my ass at once, because for that they’d have to remove the plug, at least for a little while.

  They took turns for hours. God knew where they’d all come from—this was way more guards than he’d ever seen working any one shift. One at a time. Two at a time. Two cocks plus fingers. Someone’s fist. Two hands, once, though they couldn’t get them both in there no matter how hard they pushed, and when Mat finally screamed himself out they stopped trying and shoved the plug back inside, twisting it open until he keened afresh.

  When they were finished fucking him, he thought maybe they would leave him lying there on the floor of the doctor’s empty office, hands still bound behind his back, but someone nudged him over with their foot, took sated cock in hand, and pissed all over his face. He sputtered, retched. The others seemed to think this was hilarious and gathered around to join in. One enterprising fucker wrenched his mouth open again, and this time, when he’d finished, Mat did roll over and puke. Empty, though—all he did was hock up bile and the fucker’s acrid piss and half a belly full of cum. The guy seemed insulted by it, rolled him over with his booted foot and stepped on his neck and beat him with his belt until Mat stopped struggling.

  He must’ve passed out then, because he came to still on the floor of the doctor’s office, wrists and elbows and shoulders throbbing, ass throbbing even worse, reeking of piss and wishing they would just kill him.

  They didn’t, of course. The lights went out. He slept awhile, woke when the creepy naked assistant brought him water and food that he could barely stomach but that she made him eat anyway. She washed all the cum and blood and piss off him, though fuck-all knew why, because as soon as she was finished, a gang of guards came back and scummed him up again.

  It was like some nightmare Groundhog’s Day from Hell: torture, sleep, food, washing; torture, sleep, food, washing; torture, sleep, food, w
ashing. The only thing that kept him from going stark fucking insane was the knowledge that it was temporary, it had to be temporary, because hadn’t someone bought him? Bought him and Dougie together? Surely they’d come to pick them up soon, and it didn’t escape him how fucked-up his worldview had become when the thought of being claimed by his new owner was something to look the fuck forward to.

  But he did. He did and he clung to it like some fucking lifeline, because this? This was no life worth living, and he’d reached the point where he’d have ended it if they’d let him, even knowing that would mean leaving Dougie behind.

  This time the skittering was real. Dougie was sure of it.

  He opened his eyes wider, but of course it didn’t matter; black was black. Strained his ears, and . . . Yes. He’d heard something. He’d heard something.

  Faint. Footsteps? Yes. Getting closer. He cautiously unfolded from his huddle, used the toilet to help leverage to his feet. His heart was pounding so loud he could barely hear the noise outside his tomb. But it was there. It was there.

  Scraping. He swatted at the invisible tomb-rats—he knew they were just in his head, hallucinatory effects of sensory deprivation, but he still couldn’t seem to ignore them—but no . . . this was different.

  Voices, distant. Scrape of metal on metal.

  Key in lock.

  Someone’s coming.

  He didn’t know how to feel about that. His body had its own ideas, though—sweating, chest heaving, heart pounding, clearly terrified as the sound of the outer door swinging open reached his ears. His mind, on the other hand . . . Anything would be better than being trapped in here, right? And Mat might be on the other side of that door. Mat, come to rescue him, to get him out of here—

  The inner door swung open with a seal-cracking fft, the refrigerator door noise of rubber on rubber being pulled apart, and light rushed in like a weapon cleaving right through his skull.

  By the time the pain eased enough for awareness to creep back in, he was being dragged, blinking and squinting, through a maze of hallways and into a large garage. Into, of all things, a motor home—one of those super fancy expensive ones, big enough to sleep a dozen people. From there, through a false panel of cupboard doors and into a padded, windowless room nearly identical to the tomb he’d just come out of, only half the size.