The Flesh Cartel #11: Permanent Record
Mat and Douglas’s time as Nikolai’s wards is finally drawing to a close. Though torn apart by Nikolai’s machinations, their fates are still inextricably entwined: they’ve been sold to the same cruel master, and are united in their desire to go home. But “home” means two different things to the brothers: for Mat, their little bungalow in Nevada, and for Douglas, a swift return to Nikolai and Roger, the only people he believes still love him.
But first they must survive their new master. Smythe Hall is a twisted island paradise where Americans affect British accents and slaveboys dress up as slave girls, all at the whims of the rich and megalomaniacal Allen Smythe-Kennedy.
Meanwhile, FBI Special Agent Nate Johnson can’t let the case of the missing brothers lie. He knows it’s a waste of resources to chase ghosts down a cold trail, but after admiring Mathias “Stonewall” Carmichael ringside and at countless afterparties where he was too shy to say hello, he’s determined to solve the mystery and bring Mat and his little brother home.
Reader discretion advised. This title contains the following sensitive themes:dubious consent, explicit violence
Caution: The following details may be considered spoilerish. Click on a label to reveal its content.
Themes: abduction/kidnapping/hostage (actual), abuse, alpha/alpha, angst, disability / disfigurement, family, hurt / comfort, protection, PTSD, self-discovery / self-reflection, slave / capture (actual), trust issues
Though Douglas’s coming-out party wound down around eleven, Allen stayed well past midnight, mostly toying with Mat while Douglas knelt nearby and drifted, barely conscious of his own body.
When it was all over, when Douglas was alone with Nikolai and Roger again, he began to cry. Weep inconsolably, to be specific. And to vibrate so hard with adrenaline that his teeth chattered.
He knew he should be punished for handling it so badly, but punishment never came. Nikolai murmured to him and shushed him and petted him, and then Roger gathered him up against his hard chest and carried him upstairs.
Again, he drifted, wafting in and out of consciousness, crying all the while. They washed him under the warm, gentle stream of the handheld showerhead. Cleaned him inside, too, until all the filthy cum ran down the drain and he was new again. Drew him a bath. Rubbed his body with soapy, caressing hands. Washed his hair. Kissed him, once or twice, in between his sobs. Toweled him off and carried him to bed.
It felt good to be pressed between them, Roger at his back and Nikolai in front of him, cradling his face in warm, steady hands and kissing at his tears, murmuring “That’s all right,” and “You did so well,” and “Let it out, now.”
When the crying slowed, they fucked him together, two cocks moving in tandem inside him, Roger’s palms tracing tickling patterns over his chest while Nikolai stroked his hair and cupped his neck, and then Douglas turned his face up and the both of them kissed him at once, and kissed each other, too—three sweet, affectionate, lustful tongues tracing each other, and Douglas knew this was where he belonged, and no matter what happened, no matter where he went, he would always have this to keep in his heart and think back on and look forward to, because one day, if he was a Good Boy—maybe not for years, maybe not even for decades—but one day, Nikolai would call him home.
Mat woke to a splitting headache and a whole constellation of soreness and hurts. For one brief, beautiful moment, it was just another post-fight morning, all aches and pains and satisfaction and—if it’d been a particularly good night—a hangover and a temporary bedmate and several thousand extra dollars in his bank account.
But then reality kicked him in the teeth, and the languor vanished in a bright hot burst of pain. Nikolai. Slave. Allen. Dougie. Dougie rap—
He rolled over the side of the bed and retched.
Nothing in his stomach to eject, but that didn’t stop it from trying until he’d managed to wrestle down those nightmare images of him and Dougie—
Wow, Jesus, he really needed to stop thinking.
Word Count: 18,800
Page Count: 74
Cover By: Imaliea
Release Date: 11/02/2013