I wasn’t like this at the hospital. I felt cooped up and caged, but normal.
Well, as normal as a man raised in this lifestyle can be.
* * *
Idon’t know how long I stay crouched for. It isn’t long enough to dispel the rage tearing me in two, but long enough for Eight to think it’s safe to come in. He fetches up the nightgown Saige left outside my door, dumps it into the laundry basket in my bathroom, then commences straightening out my room.
Although my first thought is to help him, something navigates me to my untouched bathroom instead. I remove the stained nightie from the laundry basket, raise it to my nose, and suck in a lung-filling breath for the first time in months.
“Who is she?” I ask Eight after pulling down the grubby sleepwear from my face and storing it into the drawer he just righted. “Who is K?”
Twenty-One
Sales Docket Number 12574
Ithought being beaten so horrifically, my body resembled an abstract painting of mottled purples, blacks, and blues would be the most painful thing I’d experience while being a sex slave.
It was silly of me to ever believe.
Strangulation hurts so much more.
The bulging of my eyes from his tight grip. The strain on the muscles in my neck when he wrings them to within an inch of recognition. The burn of my lungs as they scream for another breath.
They want to live.
They want to fight.
I don’t want to do either of those things.
I deserve to die.
I broke like I promised I wouldn’t.
I responded to his taunt.
And I’d do it all again just to see my spit slide down Achim’s murderously red face.
For hours on end, he made me watch all the horrible things they did to me. The beatings. The rapes. The humiliation. He played his sick videos on repeat while holding my face an inch from the screen.
The dark comforted me, it kept me sane, then Achim switched tactics.
You can’t scare a captive with scenes of captivity, but you can taunt her with how close she came to freedom. First, it was an orange and a heat lamp that resembled the warmth of a sunny Vegas day. Then, it was freshly picked wildflowers and a pork chop overcooked in too much fat.
His last tactic was the worst of them all.
It was his hand, on me, in an area he’d never touched me before.
Whether with Achim or one of the many men I’ve been forced to ‘entertain,’ our exchanges were never about me. I wasnotto be pleased. I was to give pleasure.
That’s why I couldn’t help but respond when Achim slid his hand into my panties. I should have taken solace in the fact he repulses me so much that if he had found my clit, my body didn’t notice it. There was no buzz of excitement, no euphoria on what might occur. There was nothing but an urgent need to spit in his face, which is precisely what I did when his eyes lifted to check if I were responding to his touch.
His face went red with anger.
I’d never seen him so mad.
He was on me in an instant. He slapped me, hit me, then ripped at my hair. When that failed to startle me, he clamped his hands around my throat. With his face an inch from mine, he told me how much he hated me, how I was ungrateful and unappreciative, and that I’d never be free.
That was a little over two minutes ago.
