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My ego would have me ignore him; he’s a little pissant, nothing more than an irritant. He’s not worthy of my attention. But my id knows better. It scents a possible threat to the ecosystem that’s feeding it. And it demands to be satisfied.
“Our seven novices are right on time.” I tap the screen and enlarge the image. The cameras at the marina aren’t of the best quality, but I’m able to make out the gluttonous leach boarding the vessel. Slicked back hair. Tailored suit. Too much jewelry. Classic ghetto chic. I scoff. He watches too many movies. “And so is our friend.”
Donovan loads a round into his gun. “Should I shake him up a bit?”
It wouldn’t be a bad idea; make the pick-up more interesting. Let him believe he’s truly making his mark on my territory. “Have the boys send him a greeting,” I say, panning the camera to the boat. “But make sure he sets up at the warehouse on time. I want to stay on schedule.”
Donavan collects more ammunition, then sets off.
When the first girl is carted off the boat, I feel a stab of regret. I’m always there to greet my girls. I inspect all merchandise and oversee the branding personally. Exceptions must be made, however. My current circumstance prevents my participation.
I zoom in, getting a glimpse of my signature on the girl’s thigh. My hands tighten on the device. I don’t like doing things out of order. Having my routine disrupted. But I’m willing to accept this detour from my original objective to achieve my overall goal.
A panicked shout sounds from the back. Of course, there’s still plenty of hands-on work to be done here.
I trace my finger over the screen, along each young face, giving my beauties a farewell before I kill the link to the camera feed. I set the tablet down, take a swig of bourbon, then make my way toward the back room.
The desperate pleas and screams become louder the closer I get. I’ve just unlocked the door and entered, and already one is clinging to my leg.
“Por favor!” she wails. “Por favor déjame ir!” Her fingers claw at my pants.
“Her nails need to be trimmed,” I tell Micah as I lean down and grip a handful of her hair. I drag her aside. No kicking her away—I don’t want to bruise my girls before they’re displayed.
She curls into a ball in the corner, covering her nearly naked body with her arms. I’m not heartless. I grab one of the blankets and then settle near her. “Déjame ver.”
She shakes her head, ratty hair concealing her face. I’m pressed for time. I don’t have the patience to soothe her feelings. “I said, let me see.” I yank her leg out from underneath her and turn her so I can see the brand along her hip.
“Very nice.” I toss the blanket at her, then turn toward Micah. He’s running a handheld torch over the branding iron. Only the best for my girls; none of that electric heat nonsense.
The tip of the iron glows like a beautiful molten ember.
I step over the bound girl on the floor, hover near her head. “Relax,” I say, smoothing her hair back. She’s quivering like a tautly strung bowstring, her muffled sobs just audible through the tape covering her mouth.
Micah prepares to place the iron, and I lift her head so she can see it coming. Fear seizes her body. She struggles against the restraints. “Hold still. Don’t want to mess up your brand. We’ll have to do it again on the other leg.”
I lean in close to her ear. “And you don’t want to know the method for removing a botched branding.” I lick her earlobe.
Tears leak from her eyes. And despite the searing pain attacking her body, she composes herself rather well. Oh, she’s going to make me a lot of money.
My id is pleased.
I stand and move slowly through the room, checking shackles on wrists. Inspecting brandings. Yes, I’m pleased.
“They need a good scrubbing.” I sniff at the air. They stink of urine. Filthy whores. “But we’re nearly ready to go to auction.”
I unshackle the petite brunette I’
ve come to favor. She’s learned not to fight or beg. She’s smarter than the rest; I see it in the way she watches the other girls. Observes me. Examining what will earn a punishment, what gets rewarded.
She trails my lead to the bathroom where I begin filling the tub. I pat the edge of the porcelain, and she timidly sits, tucking her hands between her thighs.
She plays the part of innocence well. I let an easy smile grace my lips.
“We become different people around others,” I say, letting my hand slip into the water to test the temperature. “We listen, we adapt, we project. Sometimes, we have to shave off the sharp edges when we need others to receive us as softer.”
I nod to her dirty tank top and panties. She obediently discards them.
“We’re also blessed with the ability to thicken those edges, sharpen them into a fine point. It’s more than our survival instincts—it’s the id. You remember I explained this to you?”
