I’ve fucked men I don’t like before. A lot of them. I’ve had sex when I didn’t really want it. But while I never would have done it had I not been hungry and desperate, it still felt like it was partly my choice.
Nell always let us choose from the guys who bought tags for the evening. I never had to fuck the very worst ones.
This is different. This is all the worst ones. All at once. With absolutely none of Nell’s boundaries or protections. Without Trevor and Rick with their bulk and their weapons, ready to step in if things get bad.
This is… hell.
But I’ve lived through everything else life has done to me—from the time I was a toddler and my mom walked out, leaving me with my grandfather.
I can live through this too.
I think of a female duck with her small head, fragile neck, and the muted coloring on her feathers. Closing herself off to the sperm of any duck she doesn’t want. Resisting in the only way she has available.
That’s me.
I am her.
I’m going to survive this—whatever it is—and any avenue I have left to resist, I will.
I have no idea how long we drive. It’s got to be a couple of hours. Maybe longer. The trucks are bogged down by the intensifying rain, so they’re probably driving slower than they normally do.
There’s a lot of grumbling from the men. A lot of dirty talk aimed at me. But I stay curled up the whole time, processing the throbbing ache on my cheek where the one guy punched me and trying to desperately make a plan.
But there is no plan.
There are some situations that, as hard as you try, there’s nothing in the world you can do.
It feels like a lifetime of nothing changing except the rain getting harder and harder. Then the truck I’m in comes to a stop so abruptly I’m propelled against the front edge of the truck bed.
The impact really hurts.
I rub my head where it got bumped with my bound hands, screaming at myself that something is happening so now’s the time to make my move.
But what exactly can my move be? Jumping out of the truck while tied up and somehow escaping a couple dozen brutal men who will chase me down?
There’s a lot of shouting from up front. I do manage to lift my head to see.
The front pickup has somehow plowed into a huge hole in the road. How the hell did they not see it?
“Ambush!”
That’s one word I do recognize. There’s suddenly a whole lot of gunfire and even more screaming. All the guys in the back with me start aiming and shooting.
And I do what any reasonable person would do in my situation.
I huddle back down into the smallest ball I can make myself and hope I don’t get shot.
From the shouting and a few different words I pick up in the chaos, I end up with a general sense of what happened.
The Silver Wolf.
He and his crew must have hit this gang.
Maybe they’re transporting enough food and supplies that it’s a worthwhile target. He usually only hits the militia, but these guys aren’t any better than them, so maybe they’re close enough to be worth attacking. What the hell do I know?
All that matters is that, one by one, the guys in the back of the pickup with me are shot. Killed. One of their bodies almost falls on top of me, and I push back against it with both my bound feet so it doesn’t keep touching me.
I’m still scared. Terrified. I have no idea what the Silver Wolf and his crew will do to me. I’ve never heard stories of them victimizing women, but that doesn’t mean they won’t take advantage of a convenient one.
