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Mother. Fucker.
Chapter 11
Ayla
This isn’t the first time I’ve been tied down, knowing what’s coming, but despite understanding my fate, it still doesn’t keep my heart from racing the second I’m restrained. Raul wanted to know about the fight left in me. He was worried I couldn’t sell my fear. He shouldn’t be concerned.
It’s moments like these that I actually get to be exactly who I am.
I don’t have to draw on sad childhood memories for the tears to start flowing. My childhood was amazing. Until I lost my parents, I really had nothing to complain about.
The jump in my heart rate is a product of understanding what’s coming, not because I’m psyching myself up any other way.
Even though I know he’s being forced to do this as much as I am, I still hate the man standing beside Pirro. I can’t explain the double standard. Maybe it’s a holdover from entitled views I had before being abducted; the ones that said men were supposed to be chivalrous like my father had always been. That man would’ve sacrificed all he had for my mom, Alani, and me.
The man standing on the other side of the room may have something just as valuable to lose as I do, but deep down, I have this fucked-up idea that he should forfeit whatever it is rather than doing what he’s expected.
Turning my head, I watch as he and Pirro speak. I can see the hatred the man has for Pirro, but I also know how this ends. Even if the man refused, someone would still step up to make the video. They’d never let the promised money from the client slip away.
I try to plead with my eyes, telling the man it’s best if he just agrees. I’m still going to be hurt today, and I rather get it over with than have to watch him die before it happens.
Looking back up at the ceiling, I draw in deep breaths, but it doesn’t calm my racing heart. It doesn’t stanch the tears already streaming down my face.
Not that it’s ever been my thing, but I fully understand having a kink that includes being tied down. The whole consensual non-consent isn’t all that surprising, and honestly, even facing what I am, I’d never judge someone for having a rape fantasy. To each their own and all that, but this goes beyond that. This isn’t fantasy, and I think that’s the appeal to whoever paid for this scene. I have no doubt the man with the cash on the other side of the video connection knows this is real on some level.
The number of people who pay to watch shit like this is unreal. I’m fairly certain those with just the fantasy are the ones watching prerecorded videos and getting off to those. The ones paying for a live action scene are the real monsters.
I test the strength of my restraints once again, knowing all it’s going to do is upset me even more. There’s no escape for me right now just like there’s no escape for me later, no matter how close I walk to the front door.
I fight the urge to look back over at him, but I know the effort is wasted. I watch as he’s handed his mask. The scowl on his face is something new. As many times as I’ve done this, it’s never been by someone other than one of the employees. They never have to be convinced to participate. They’re always so very eager, considering this is one of the perks of their jobs. They get as excited to hurt women as one might be to find out their medical insurance is paid for by the organization. It’s fucking disgusting.
I don’t know what Pirro tells the man, but I know the second he makes up his mind. As much as I despise him for it, I’m also grateful to get this shit started so it can end just as quickly.
I pull my eyes away when he starts to walk closer, knowing they had to have given him something to cause the erection bobbing at the center of his body. His injuries, the dozens of cuts to his skin, are too extensive for the man to actually get horny on his own. It also means that it’ll take him longer to come, giving him more time to hurt me and extending the clients tipping window, but whatever makes Raul Cortez more money, right?
I chance a final glance in his direction, wanting to claw at his skin, my hands forming fists even though I’m tied down at the wrists.
“Not yet,” Pirro growls, his voice echoing through the room. “Client isn’t fucking online yet.”
The man freezes, his back to the main camera, but I know other cameras are capturing the looks on both of our faces.
