7. Katya
CHAPTER 7
KATYA
Franco drives me to some seedy club on the other side of town in a district you don’t go to unless you’re looking for trouble. Spray paint covers the brick face of the building, and bars cover the windows. As we pull up, he tenses, clearly not comfortable here either. That makes me even more nervous. He spoke with such assuredness, but seeing his hand shake as he opens his door doesn’t sit right.
He puts me in the chair and wheels me to the door. He knocks, and a burly doorman with a scarred face opens it. He looks between the two of us for a minute without speaking.
“Are you going to let us in?” Franco finally asks.
“Her?”
“Yes, her.”
“I’m not so sure. Wait here.”
He gives me one last doubtful and disgusted look before he drops the door and leaves us both on the sidewalk. How the hell am I going to have some money left at the end of this if the doorman won’t even let me prostitute myself? I wanted a way to avoid this, but it’s a knock to my ego that I’m truly not good for anything.
A few minutes later, he reemerges with a mean-looking woman in her late forties. She looks me over with an even less impressed expression than the doorman gave me.
“Can she walk?” she asks in Russian.
Franco is clearly out of his depth.
“Can she walk?” the doorman translates before I can say anything.
“Of course. She’s a good one, I swear. A little banged up, but a prima ballerina, and she’s a virgin.”
“If she walks, maybe I’ll believe she’s a virgin.”
Franco nudges me under my arm, meanly forcing me onto my feet.
“Can I have my crutches, please?” He goes to hand them to me.
“I said can she walk, not can she hobble on crutches.”
Before the doorman can translate, I slap the crutches away and take a couple of steps forward. I would love a way out of this, but I’m accepting now that I don’t think one exists. Nervous energy races up and down my spine, warning me that I better behave.
I’m also certain Franco won’t take kindly to having his time wasted. I’m just as afraid to leave with him as I am to go inside. None of my options are free from consequences. The intensely desperate energy coming off him is so far from what I assumed of him when he was my director. I think he’s into some serious shit and owes these people money. That nervous sweat in February says a lot.
Her eyes snap to mine as she realizes I understood her. There’s a flash of irritation and possibly something else. Maybe that makes this harder on her, but as we head through the hours-long preparation process for this miserable fucking auction, I realize I was too quick to give her any credit.
It’s almost over. It’s almost over. It’s almost over , I chant to myself as I hobble down the hall naked with nothing but my hand on the wall to support my body weight. I’m not sure if I mean this miserable and degrading process or my life that’s morphing into something closer to a nightmare than the dream I once thought I was living.
Fingers snap behind me, impatiently urging me forward. I take the last step and collide with the steel bench rather than sit on it. The impact echoes deep into my hip, and I curse at the pain, but it’s nothing compared to the searing agony in my legs. Franco stands against the opposite wall. He hasn’t left, and I suppose his reason, ensuring his merchandise, made enough sense for this bitch not to argue.
He stares at my naked body, and if he were closer, I would spit on him for what he’s gotten me into.
She was right behind me the whole way, pinching and prodding when I didn’t move fast enough, and now that I’m seated, she takes no time dropping to her knees in front of me. I gasp and try to shove her out of my personal space. It’s so much like what Scott did. My throat constricts twice as tightly as if they’re both about to touch me.
Her expression is missing his ravenous hunger, filled with disgust and irritation, but Franco in the corner has enough interest to make up for her. My eyes shoot past both of them to the tiled wall. My chest heaves as I try to force myself to breathe evenly.
Grime covers every inch despite how easily the material wipes clean. Do they ever hose off this bench like she did to me? Literally hosed me and scrubbed me with a long-handled brush. Sincere doubt has me terrified of it touching my naked skin. This is one of many opportunities to catch a disease as a result of thinking I could escape this situation, of thinking that Franco wanted to help me when it’s so clear now he has a problem.
I haven’t even had a chance to catch my breath from the pain when a harsh voice snaps in Russian, “Spread your legs.” She doesn’t wait even a half measure before smacking my thigh hard enough to imprint the shape of her hand on my skin and give me goose bumps. I curse again.
Before the accident, I didn’t hate anyone, but now there’s no shortage of people I despise, and she’s currently topping my list—though Franco is a close second, and Scott is neck and neck in third.
My body shakes with chills from her “properly cleaning me,” and while I’ll give her the credit that I was filthy, there wasn’t a cause to viciously peel a layer of my skin off.
Her scouring includes the wounds on my legs, which burn and feel ripped fully open. That weakness in my bones sinks deeper and deeper, leaving me with the impression I’m about to snap the semi-healed breaks right open. To consider this filthy fucking bench a mercy is the last straw for my self-respect.
Thankfully, she allowed me to put my braces back on once she finished with me. Though she’s not some kind and gentle soul, I simply couldn’t walk on my own if she didn’t. It’s worse than the shower at Natalia’s by a million, but I’m left with a similar effect: my skin is wet, tacky, and without proper bandaging.
“Spread your fucking legs,” she repeats. My eyes drop to the blond witch in front of me. She may actually be in her fifties, but it’s hard to tell with all the Botox. She’s pretty, though, and I wonder if they keep her around because she’ll handle women like livestock and look good doing it. “The fuck are you looking at?”
I grit my teeth and hold my position. She can slap me all she wants. She’s done it about five times already, and frankly, it’s keeping me attentive when I feel like drifting off. There’s definitely something wrong with me, but not so much that I’d agree to this. I’m not spreading my legs for her. She didn’t pay shit to fuck me.
Standing against the wall, Franco is the closest thing I have to a debt outside of the hospital, but what are two miserable days in a freezing basement really worth? I don’t look at him for long, though. I can’t stand to meet his eyes. Why did I believe he would help me?
“Spread your legs, you dumb whore.” I guess the insult is true enough, given where I am right now, but it still stings when it matches my own thoughts so entirely.
“Why? You want to fuck me?” I argue back in Russian, far more outspoken than normal with my nerves frayed and pushed to the edge of snapping.
“These pigs out front won’t even want to fuck you.” This time, she pinches the inside of my leg—hard. “I won’t say it again.”
“Ow, fuck.” I don’t look at Franco. I gave up on the idea he would make sure I was treated humanely around the second smack and the delousing.
“What are you going to do?”
She pretends she doesn’t understand me as she pulls on a pair of gloves. I’m in a similar state of denial, refusing to understand what she wants in asking me to spread my legs while putting on gloves, especially with Franco standing against the wall. He’s seen every side of my naked body now, but my spread pussy seems like much more than either of them need.
“She’s going to make sure the money will come through, Katya. No one is going to believe you’re a virgin if she doesn’t check.”
I decide then that Franco should pay for this and not make money. But there isn’t a damn thing in my life I have control over now, and I don’t get to decide my own fate, let alone what other people deserve.
With a lot of effort, I spread my legs, unable to physically stomach the pain of another slap without vomiting. I gasp when she spreads my labia.
“Stop it! Stop touching me!”
No one has ever done this to me before, and to call it an invasion feels like an understatement. I stare at the yellowed ceiling rather than her hands on me or Franco watching. Her plastic-coated fingers make my skin crawl, and though I agreed to this situation, this feels very much like an assault.
“Please stop.” A tear gathers in the corner of my eyes as she crudely spreads my opening.
“Tip your hips up. I can’t see.”
“You don’t need to see!” I shout at her. More shouts are poised on my tongue, but she raises one of her hands in a threatening gesture, promising yet another smack. But this time, she’s wearing the glove still covered in my own pussy, and I decide I’d rather comply than face that particular debasement, especially with an audience.
She jabs her fingers around, looking at my pussy in a cold and clinical way. Maybe I’m actually afraid of something because I keep my mouth shut as she handles me.
“Her hymen is intact,” she concludes.
“Virgins break their hymens on horses, and others don’t break even after the first time. Who the fuck cares about my hymen?”
Franco snorts from his position against the wall like I said something ridiculous.
“Men are stupid,” she finally condescends to respond to me. Is this the equivalent of an after-sex cuddle? “They’ll spend a lot more money for that. You might actually be worth something after all.”
“What did she say?” Franco asks. He hasn’t needed to say much to her, nor she to him, but I’ve served as a fine translator for the two pieces of shit.
“My hymen is intact.” I don’t say the second part because I’m personally not convinced it’s true.
In the first bit of mercy she’s shown me, she roughly snaps my legs shut for me. These boots have proven such a point of degradation. Every breath I take flirts with humiliation, and that longing for death that welled up on the stairs bleeds all through me. Death would be such a kindness compared with the rest of the indignities I’ll have to suffer today.
Whatever my buyer wants from me, he’ll get it, and somehow, these two haven’t paid a cent and have gotten so much. What will the spectators of this affair take from me who never spend anything on me?
There was nothing to do in that basement other than think about what’s about to happen and pray for any other option, yet nothing has presented itself. My head is cloudy, and it’s hard to think. The last thing I want to do is open my damn legs for another person after this experience, and this wasn’t even sex.
As she removes the latex gloves and drops them in the trash, I’m pretty sure I was a coward to have ignored my surest option—suicide. I should have died in that basement. At least then, I would have had some traces of my dignity left.
The wheelchair is stuffed off in a corner somewhere, and I’d kill to be able to sit in it for the auction, but I know that’s not an option either. It’s been made very clear that no one will want me if I can’t walk, but I’m fearful I’m headed toward never being able to walk again from permanent damage beyond what’s already been done.
She opens a closet and rifles through a series of dresses, lingerie, and costumes. She stops on a blue-and-white dress that reminds me of something a Victorian babydoll might wear if she were slutty. There’s even a little bow on the low scoop neck. She pulls the much too short dress off the hanger and shoves it at me.
“Panties?”
“You don’t need them.”
“This is too short to wear without panties. Someone is going to see my vagina.”
She doesn’t answer, and Franco doesn’t understand our conversation anyway. I’m an inch from tearing my hair out of my head just to ruin the sale. The fear that they would make me pay with a real beating is what stops me.
“Get up. I don’t have any more time to waste with you or your creepy watchman.”
I don’t want to waste any more time with my creepy watchman either, but when I look at the spot where he was standing, I see he’s already gone. I wonder where he’ll be waiting while they decide how much it’s worth to fuck me. I also wonder how I’ll get my money...
I force myself back to my feet, sure that I’m destroying myself for life. They told me I would never dance again, but with consistent physical therapy, I would likely have a normal gait. I don’t have consistent meals, let alone physical therapy. The only hope I have is that when all of this is over, I’ll have a little bit of money. I wish more than anything I could be the old me—elegant, graceful, alive.
My vagina and ego sting as I stand. Never once in my life did I think it would come to this, but nothing has turned out the way I planned. Searching the piles of lace, I finally find the opening and pull it on over my head. It’s as scratchy as hell without a bra or panties, and while I don’t have a mirror to confirm, a quick glance down tells me I’m dressed like an overexposed doll.
The skirt is so full from the lace it barely covers the front, and my ass cheeks are on display. A hint of cold air snakes up my skirt, telling me just how close to exposed I am. I say a quick prayer that the intention isn’t to actually flash the audience my body while I’m on stage. A chill ripples through me at the thought.
“Your parents proud of what you do?” I spit, trying to inspire some guilt. Does this bitch even have feelings?
This entire experience has been the worst of my life, even worse than what Scott wanted to do to me, though I guess I can thank him for this too. Whatever happens tonight will be far from what I want, but somehow, this woman is worse. She’s not doing this because she’s some horny freak with a hard dick. She’s evil.
“Are yours?” she shoots back.
“Mine are dead, but if they were alive, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Whatever you say.” She doesn’t even offer me a fake “sorry for your loss.”
With a manicured hand, she pulls open a drawer and removes a bottle of nail polish. She snaps at me again until I place my hand in hers. Her skin is warm and soft, but it feels so sinister to touch her. She paints my nails a soft pink, and while her polish application is exact, it leaves my skin crawling.
“Don’t smudge them,” she commands as she screws the lid back on and tucks it away. “You’ve wasted enough of my time today.”
Tears gather at the corner of my eyes as she styles my hair. The last person to do it was my mother before she passed away when I was a teen. I’ve always done my own hair since, for every show and date. To have someone doing it again, but for such a terrible reason, has me sick to my bones. My mother would roll in her grave if she could see me now.
I try to force away the thoughts of my disgrace, what’s coming next, my own naivety, and how many ways this could go wrong for me. She finishes styling my hair with ribbons that match the polish.
I guess this is the look men like when they’re going to fuck you for the first time. The tiny skirt and lack of panties with a baby doll ensemble? I’m glad there’s not a mirror.
A loudspeaker crackles overhead, just an old school system that hasn’t been replaced in years if the feedback is any evidence. Three English words follow a long stream of Russian. Instructions on where to pay and collect your winnings when the auction concludes. Winnings . I shiver.
“Take your seats.” The speaker goes quiet, as does everyone in the immediate area. The shuffle of people moving to their seats and chattering reaches me. As a ballerina, the normal sounds of a crowd have filled me with a thrill for as long as I can remember. Now, they fill me with the sickest dread.
“Try to look appealing,” she says, stepping back to take one last doubtful look at me. Her eyes linger on the casts, which she informed me earlier will cost a lot of money.
Pietro , my heart screams.
I nearly break at the thought of how deeply I’m betraying his memory, but what can I do?
He left me undefended—he died protecting me.
I force a watery smile, and she raises her lip in disgust at my attempt. I have a feeling I’m far from the best she has to work with. Maybe my appearance will reflect poorly on her. But I don’t let myself care after the way she touched me. Nothing matters anymore, not without him, but I fucking hate her, and I’m surprised at how strong of an emotion it is.
I think about Scott and Natalia. What must he be doing to her for her to act the way she did after he attacked me? Where are the decent people in the world? The strong ones who are willing to help the weak. They aren’t there for her, and they’re not here for me. No one on earth is here for me.
She gives me back my crutches, and I’m so grateful I almost thank her before I remember I would rather die than thank this bitch for anything. She leads me down the same hall I’ve passed through all afternoon, but this time, we head in a different direction.
“You’ll give them back before you go on stage.”
Fine, whatever. It helps for now.
The noise gets louder and louder as we approach, and my legs scream in pain. Hot and cold flash all over me, and sweat slicks my skin. I’m not sure I can make it. The other girls stand in a line, and I realize my place is among them. I’m almost there, but I’m not headed to a chair. We’re all standing as we wait.
I lean against the wall and pant, not sure how much more I can take before the mending bones snap again. The soft tissue damage is already worse.
One girl goes in. I stand behind the next, wondering once more how the hell my life has come to this. I pray as hard as I can that God takes me right now. Leave them a corpse to deal with and my soul free, but once more, he doesn’t oblige me. There is no peace for me.