Tall man tugged me by my hair toward the chair.
“Sit down. After you’re tied to the chair, we’re making a video for your daddy. Let him know we’re serious because if he doesn’t pay...”
Releasing my hair, he shoved me toward the chair and I tumbled forward.
I gripped the crusty metal back of the old kitchen chair to steady my balance. My arms and legs quaked. The deli sandwiches had satisfied my hunger until I would wake from the churning in my stomach. After the first food delivery, I ate slower and was able to keep it down.
Looking down, the metal frame was covered in corrosion and grunge, and the seat’s vinyl covering was rough and torn, exposing what was left of the dingy cushioning.
“He’ll pay,” I said, standing tall with as much confidence as I could muster.
Short man laughed. “Thing is, princess, Daddy may be outbid. It turns out that you’re a hot commodity. There’s a bidding war and once we send out the video you’re about to make, your price is going up.”
A bidding war?
Tall man took a step toward me; his eyes through the holes in the mask were cold. “I said to sit.”
The crunchy, ripped vinyl was painful to my skin as I sat. Although my skin was drying, my hair continued to drip around me.
The tall man came closer, now carrying the rope.
“If you fight me, I’ll make you pay.”
With the proximity of his face, I was thankful for the hockey mask, blocking what I imagined was his rancid breath. It would seem that after four days, I’d be accustomed to their other offensive smells—their body odor and their nauseating scent of stale cigarettes.
As my nose scrunched, I knew I wasn’t.
And I didn’t want to be.
Tall man’s fingers showed no signs of gentleness as the rough rope abraded my skin. He began by wrapping it around my waist and securing me to the back of the chair. Taking the ends, he crisscrossed the length over my chest, forming an X between my breasts and over my shoulders, until I was pulled upright and my neck was straight. Next, he secured my arms behind the chair. The long rope was then wound multiple times from my wrists to my elbows, putting excessive strain on my shoulders. The pressure caused my back to arch forward, pushing my breasts and tender skin against the scratchy ropes. As if this wasn’t enough, next he secured my ankles to the front legs of the chair, and pulling my knees apart, he wrapped the rope securely around each lower leg until I was unable to close my legs. The position left my core fully on display.
“Who will see this video?” I asked as a wave of terror and modesty mixed within me.
“Everyone.” The tall man laughed. “You, princess, are going on the dark web.”
The middle-sized man pulled a phone from his pocket. “Just in case anyone looks away from your tits or pussy, be sure to smile pretty for the camera and tell Mommy and Daddy what we want you to say.”
The tall man stood behind him with a leather belt in his grasp.
Short man spoke, “I suggest you cooperate, or instead of the closet, you’ll sit right here and we might just let some of our friends come meet America’s princess.”
Tall man ran the length of the leather over his dirty palm in a menacing fashion. “After we punish you. Have you ever had your pussy whipped?”
I lifted my chin. “I’ll talk and you won’t hurt me. If you do, my family will be your worst nightmare.”
“Says the girl with her pussy on display for the entire world.”
“You know,” short man said, “Boss thinks we could get even more if you’re a virgin.”
Tall man came close again and ran a dirty finger from my cheek down between my breasts and to just above my core. “There’s one way to find out.”
I stiffened as he lowered his finger.
“I check for your hymen.”
My jaw clenched.
He looked away from my core to my face. “Tell us how many dicks you’ve entertained in that warm cunt.”
I gathered all the saliva I could and spit it his direction, aiming for his eyes. “Go to hell.”
Tall man reared back, ready to strike me with the belt.
As I braced for impact, short man stopped him. “After the video. You heard the boss.”
Tall man mumbled under his breath, “Bitch,” as loathing radiated from his nondescript eyes.
Yes, I’d stayed relatively unharmed so far, but as all three men stared at me, a renewed sense of terror stirred deep within me.
Greyson
The low bass of the music reverberated through the speakers as the smoke filled the air in the Wasteland, an old pub in San Diego. This wasn’t a place frequented by tourists. When most people visited this city, they posted pictures of the zoo or beach on their social media. The reality of where I was sitting was that no one took a photo in here and lived to tell about it.
The guarded door kept the unknowing, the people with a death wish, or simply those with morbid curiosity from entering. This hole-in-the-wall was one of the places where faces were recognized, while at the same time anonymity was expected. Its only accessible entrance was a singular unmarked door found inconspicuously in a back alley. The patrons who frequented here were well aware of what transpired beneath the surface, the dirty deals and the sketchy transactions.
With my eyes downcast, I swirled the remaining amber liquid near the bottom of the glass and waited. Over the past few years I’d made a presence and a place for myself on the West Coast. I was a man for hire. Give me a job or an assignment and have confidence it would be performed.
I waited, knowing that an offer would come.
When it did, I’d do it.
It didn’t matter what it entailed.
My options were limited at best.
In the fog that was my life before and as it crumbled around me, I’d been granted my continued existence. As time maintained its constant move, I wasn’t confident that the gift of my life wasn’t more of a curse. And yet I was still here.
Upon the presentation of my life not being taken, I was told that there wouldn’t be a bull’s eye on my back. I found that difficult to believe. Perhaps it wasn’t visible, yet I felt the target’s weight growing heavier by the day as the glow of its neon sign radiated like a beacon.
The advice I was given was to keep low and under the radar. It was my ticket to success—my ticket to continued life. If I chose not to heed that guidance, the granter of my life was no longer responsible for the outcome. She’d supplied me with what she could. The rest was up to me. Heed her advice or suffer the consequences of my choices.
Throughout my lives, I’d made bad ones.
However, even the bad choices were made for a reason, with a goal in mind and an imagined acceptable outcome. I’d envisioned the fucking brass ring, the blue ribbon, hell, the victor’s cup. I had it in my hands, my fingers ready to squeeze.
The fact I’d escaped with my life and a stipend was my gift.
I was told to use both wisely.
That advice could have meant I should turn over a new leaf, settle down with some mundane and legal venture. I could use the money to buy a nice house with a fence or even an upscale apartment in a skyline.
There were flaws with those options.
First, I no longer existed. My identity died in a car accident seven years ago. There was a time in between when I was an heir apparent to a kingdom. That was ripped away the minute I was given the option to continue to breathe.