The Flesh Cartel, #10: False Gods by Rachel Haimowitz, Heidi Belleau Read Free Book Online

pushing back against him. He was so focused on pleasing Colin that he didn’t even realize someone had come up behind him until a lubed-up cock breached his hole, no warning, no prep, no pause for comfort, just shoved right in and off to the races. Dougie took it, trying not to think too hard of Nikolai’s plugs, of his master taking him slow and easy, owning his ass but not hurting him, not unless the hurt was the point of the act. Even giving Dougie pleasure while taking his own. Nothing like that here. Dougie hadn’t come once in six days. Not even close. Maybe he wasn’t allowed, and the men here knew that. Or maybe they just didn’t fucking care.
    But that was okay. Bad dogs didn’t get to come. Coming was a privilege, an honor, a sweet reward for best behavior. He knew that now, right down to his bones. Knew he might never deserve to come again, not the way he’d behaved, the way he’d spat on Nikolai’s generosity and kindness and thrown it right back in his master’s face. Nothing could ever make that right. He could never do enough, lick enough, suck enough, be fucked enough to be forgiven for that.
    But he’d try. He’d die trying. And be grateful for the second chance.
    The man behind him finished, came in his ass with a grunt. Someone else took his place. Not just a cock, either. Fingers, too. Spreading him wide, splitting him open. He whimpered into Colin’s ass, eyes clenched tight against the pain. But he wasn’t complaining, and didn’t stop rimming. Wouldn’t dare.
    “So loose, doggie. Not sure if the master will even want you back, now.”
    No mistaking the distress in Dougie’s whimper at that. The man was lying. Had to be lying. He’d be so good. He’d make himself tight again. The master would take him back. He would .

    Mat jerked awake to the too-familiar bite of the stun gun. “Eyes on your brother, dog!” his guard barked. God, how long had he been sitting here subjected to this? His wrists and ankles were chafed raw and bloody. He was fairly certain he had pressure sores on his back and ass. They let him up three times a day to eat and piss and exercise, but then it was always back to the chair, even to sleep. But only when Dougie slept—which wasn’t, as it turned out, very much—because God for-fucking-bid he missed a single moment of his brother’s agony. Eleven men in that cabin and every single one of them took at least one turn a day. Didn’t leave Dougie much in the way of free time.
    But the worst of it—worse than the hard metal chair and the chafing bonds and the cattle prod and the sleep deprivation and Dougie’s endless suffering—was how obvious it was where this was heading. How eager Dougie had clearly become to endure—even to enjoy —the abuse. How deeply he was sinking into himself, into this world Nikolai had created. How far and fast he was slipping from Mat’s fingers. What few remaining traces of the smart, passionate, ambitious young man Mat had once known were crumbling to dust beneath a steady stream of beatings and rapes and humiliations. It didn’t take a genius to know that soon there’d be nothing left of that young man. Nothing left at all but what Nikolai would step in to put there.
    And if Mat wept at that, well, there was no shame in mourning a brother’s death.
    No, not dead. Just buried. Just hang on. Hang on, and one day you’ll have the chance to find him again.
    Mat clung to that thought with every cell in his miserable body as he watched, watched, watched Dougie’s feed.

    They hadn’t taken him outside in a day. Dougie hurt with the need to piss. He looked at the door, looked at the men sitting at the table playing cards, looked at the door again. Whined aloud.
    “Shut up, dog,” Luke snapped.
    They always took him outside. Once in the morning, once before bed, maybe a couple times more in between. They took turns, and whoever’s turn it was would walk him a ways from the cabin, tell him to get on with it, and Dougie