The Flesh Cartel #1: Capture Read Online Free PDF

them. Hated that he was crying like some little kid, no matter how awful the circumstances. What he needed was to think , not wallow. Mat always said he was the brains of the family—he was working on a Ph.D. in psych, for God’s sake—so why did he feel so fucking stuck right now?
    Trauma. Shock. It’s too big, too fresh to be real yet.
    Had he asked their kidnappers what they wanted? He couldn’t remember.
    Aside from your “tight virgin hole,” you mean?
    But that couldn’t be all there was to it, could there? And why him instead of Mat? If they’d planned to take him hostage to get to Mat, then why take Mat too? Why not just leave him unconscious on the living room floor? Or dead, God forbid. And what had they meant by earning their commission? He wanted to ask—wanted to ask that and a million more things—but the kidnappers’ eyes were elsewhere, distant and sated, and oh God what if he pulled their attention back to him, back to . . .
    He swallowed down a surge of nausea and tried not to hiss as pain flared hot and slick between his legs.
    The van slowed, veered right. An off-ramp maybe? The turn grew sharper, like a clover leaf; Dougie rolled limply across the rubber floor, face-first into Mat’s cage, rattling it hard. Mat moaned. Dougie still couldn’t meet his eyes—filled with shame just at the thought of it, though who knew why, it’s not like any of this was his fault—but he looked at Mat’s bowed spine, his straining arms mashed against the top of the cage, blood still dribbling from the cuts the zip-ties had left on his wrists. He was far too big for that cage; he actually looked more miserable than Dougie felt. Had to be to have been reduced to vocalizing his pain. He didn’t even do that in fights when he got his ass kicked three ways from Sunday.
    Maybe Dougie could beg the men to let Mat out. Make a deal, a trade. Offer to blow them, like Mat’d done. Surely a willing suck was better than one taken by force?
    No. If they sensed weakness, they’d exploit it. They’d use Mat against him. Better to let them forget Mat existed.
    A toe prodded Dougie’s side experimentally. Stay limp. Play dead.
    “Well this one’s not gonna be much work for Madame. Stick a couple dicks in his ass and he’s like a fucking blow-up doll.”
    “He’s not passed out, is he?”
    “Naw, his little eyeballs are rolling around like a spooked horse’s.”
    “Well in that case . . .” A hand on his shoulder, another on his hip, wrenching him onto his back. Fingers squeezing hard at the hinge of his jaw, a cock at his lips, a body settling between his thighs. He squeezed his eyes closed and opened his mouth. Let his legs fall limp, face burning at his weakness, his acquiescence, at the traitorous, spineless thought screeching through his brain: I’ll give you what you want, just please don’t hurt me anymore.
    The tears started again. He hadn’t realized they’d stopped.
    The men hurt him anyway. Far, far too much, and the begging words in his head began to spill from his lips, over and over and he couldn’t stop them, hated them, hated himself, hated these men more than he’d ever known it was possible to hate.
    “Oh pleeeeease don’t hurt me!” they mimicked in high squealing voices as they pounded into him, singly, in pairs, two in his ass and then two in his mouth at the same time, cutting off his cries. “I’ll be good! Boo hoo!”
    But he clung to the one consolation amidst all the shame, the humiliation, the agony, the misery: At least Mat was okay. At least they were leaving him alone.

    Somehow, Mat fell asleep. Or maybe he just passed out from pure exhaustion, or blacked out from trauma or pain, or whatever the hell explanation made more sense than taking a catnap in a fucking dog cage while thugs were gang-raping his brother. All he knew was one second he was listening to Dougie crying again, throat hoarse from rough use, and the next, he was wrenching awake under a crashing tsunami of