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“Thank you,” I am finally able to say in a whisper.
“I hope you like curried chicken and rice and peas,” he says, scooping up a forkful, then bringing it up to my lips. My mouth waters. Again, I nod. I open my mouth and let him feed me. I stare at him; try to see his eyes, but he won’t make eye contact with me. He shifts them, almost nervously. Maybe he has a conscience, I think. There is something strangely familiar about him.
I chew, then swallow. “Please,” I beg in a whisper, “let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone. I just want to go home.” I feel myself starting to get choked up. Tears well up in my eyes. “Please…”
“Listen, that’s not gonna happen,” he tells me, dashing any hopes that he might have an ounce of empathy for me, maybe even become an ally. “But if you wanna get outta here alive, then you gotta do what they tell you, understand me?” I nod. A single tear rolls down my cheek, then another.
“Don’t let them do this to me.”
He shifts his eyes again. “No one wants to hurt you,” he offers.
“Then what do they want with me? To rape me? Fuck me all night, what?”
He hangs his head. “To teach you a lesson.”
“A lesson? What kind of lesson can I learn from being tied up like some dog?” He lowers his voice, glances over his shoulder to make sure no one’s around. “Look, I shouldn’t be tellin’ you this, ma. This shit’s almost over. All you gotta do is handle ya business and it’s gonna be over. We gonna let you go as long as you do what you’re told, feel me?”
I nod. “Why you telling me all this?”
He stares at me. “I have my reasons,” he tells me. “Eat it up.” He scoops up another forkful of foo
d, then shovels it into my mouth. He alternates between feeding me and giving me sips of my drink. Although he isn’t willing to help me get out of here or to give me any more information, I appreciate him not manhandling me like the others. I appreciate him saying as much as he has.
When I am finished eating, he tells me that he is going to untie me and let me use the bathroom, take a shower, then put on clean clothes. My mind immediately begins to race, plotting my escape. But, again, my hopes are quickly shot to pieces when he tells me that the bathroom door will be open. That there are no windows in the bathroom, or exit doors with the exception of the one that is chained up so if I have any ideas of trying to escape to forget it. He tells me that there are other niggas upstairs so it wouldn’t be in my best interest to try, or do, anything slick.
“I’m your safest bet,” he adds, standing up and removing the tray table from in front of me. “But I’m warning you. Don’t take my kindness for weakness. We understand each other?”
I nod. “Do I have to suck your dick, too?” I ask.
He shakes his head, walking toward the steps. “Nah, I’m good. I’ll be back to help you get cleaned up.” The way he walks, his body build, is familiar to me. I stare at him. I know this man…I know this man, I think, watching him climb the stairs and disappear behind the door—to freedom, but where?
THIRTY-TWO
It is night out. There is no light coming in through the small window over in the corner. Calm One has been the only one coming down to check on me, uncuffing me, taking me to the bathroom, and allowing me to stretch. He hasn’t said much more than what he’s said to me earlier. I guess he knows he said more than he should have. Still, he can barely keep his eyes off my body. He glances at his watch, then looks over at the door. He whispers, “Yo, ma. It’s ’bout to go down. Keep ya head, aiight? This shit’s almost over.”
I nod, knowingly. The next minute, the door opens and a bunch of loud, rowdy niggas come stomping down the stairs. The moment of reckoning has come. The grand finale, I think, swallowing back my nerves. I count—one, two, three, four, five, six of them. They all have on ski masks. And different color basketball shorts. Easy access, I suppose. They start talking shit, cat-calling and whatnot. I can tell they’ve been drinking.
“Gottttdaaaaamn, this bitch is fiiiyah.”
“Word is bond; she sexy as fuck!”
“Daaaamn, she’s the bitch suckin’ niggas outta they minds?”
“Wooo-ooooh, she got my dick hard already.”
“Yo, she bit the shit outta L. Tried to take that nigga’s balls off, yo.”
They laugh. “Yeah, I heard she had that nigga cryin’ like a lil bitch. She try that shit on my joint and I’ma take her pretty head off.”
“Word up,” they all agree.
“Yo, uncuff that bitch,” the nigga wearing red shorts says to Calm One. “I’m ready to get this party started. He has a blunt dangling from his mouth. “I wanna see what all the hype is about this ho. She got muhfuckas talkin’ like she’s the new Superhead or some shit.”
Calm One walks behind me, squats down, then whispers, “Remember what I told you.” He uncuffs me, then walks over to the other side of the room.
Red Shorts walks over to me, grabs me by the face and puffs on his blunt. He squeezes my face. “Yo, ma, you pretty as fuck. But I will beat you the fuck up if you scrape, cut, or bite my shit, ya dig?” I nod. “That’s what it is. Now let’s see ya work.”
I look around the room, scan the niggas gawking at me, then catch Calm One’s eyes. He nods his head on the sly. Funny thing, I’ve always prided myself on being a phenomenal head giver; on knowing how to take care of a man’s dick—to not only suck it, but to make love to it. To slob it because I love it; because I adore it. There’s something about slobbering all over a dick, twirling my tongue all over it—its slit slick with sweet precum, gliding my lips and mouth up and down its length, engulfing it—that has always made my pussy wet, but not this time. And not under these conditions. I never imagined I’d have to do what I enjoy in order to save my own damn life. Still, if these motherfuckers want a five-star show, then damn it…that’s what they’ll get.
