3
Violet
C lasping the collar at the back of my neck, I run my shaking hands down the silver chain connected to the matching belt around my waist. The harsh, uneven edges leave red marks on my alabaster skin.
They’re not as prominent in the dimmed bedroom lights, but once I enter the bathroom, where clinical white bulbs illuminate my skin, I look broken.
Like a tortured, abused doll made to look the part. A Barbie stolen by a cruel older brother and used for experiments, then dressed in pretty clothes.
The black negligee hugging my body leaves little to the imagination, but I’m used to showing so much skin. Even locked in my bedroom, I’m only allowed to wear the bare minimum.
The peaks of my nipples strain against the mesh fabric, the perfectly groomed triangle of violet hair between my legs peeking out of the slit in the middle with every step.
Violet isn’t my natural hair color, obviously. White is.
I was born with hair so light it looks artificial. Almost see-through. I hated it for years, mainly because everyone pointed at me in school, so, when I was twelve, I washed my hair in my sister’s purple shampoo. Her hair’s dark blonde, but she always bleached it to platinum, using the purple shampoo to tone out the yellowness.
There was no yellow in my hair, so the purple dye turned it a washed-out violet. It matched my eyes and for the first time I didn’t mind my albinism... until I arrived in America six months ago at the back of a shipping container.
I immediately became the center of Blaze’s men’s attention. They all wanted to fuck me, as if my condition made my pussy different somehow.
Idiots.
My hair color gets refreshed every few weeks and the narrow strip of pubic hair receives the same treatment whenever I’m waxed.
Gripping the bathroom sink with both hands, I drop my head, inhaling deep, measured breaths. After months of living this nightmare, tears no longer spring to my eyes. What’s the point in crying? Tears don’t change anything. They simply make me weak.
I can’t escape.
There’s nowhere to hide.
And even if I could run, where would I go?
I’m alone in a foreign country I’ve entered illegally. I have no documents, no money, and no friends. My sister’s gone, sold to a brothel in San Francisco, and I’m stuck here... obeying every order just to stay alive.
Sometimes I wonder why I cling to life so much. It’d be so much easier to die, rather than living from one day to another... being used and abused and raped and beaten.
But, there’s a part of me left that still dreams of better days. A part that grew so much bigger last week when I spotted a familiar face in the new, elegant club Cassio took me to.
Hailey. The girl who got away.
The girl who Blaze, like prince charming, carried from the ballroom in his arms, cooing in her ear and promising to keep her safe. The girl who was stolen from his mansion the night I was auctioned.
I remember the terror seizing Blaze’s features when his bodyguard leaned over the back of his chair and whispered in his ear. I remember the screamed orders, dozens of drawn guns, and the rush of footsteps scrambling out of the auction room.
But despite sending a small army back to defend the mansion, Hailey was taken.
Rescued.
During the following weeks I heard so many stories, so many rumors about that evening, and two names were whispered over again: Hailey and Carter.
Seeing her last week gave me hope. She looked beautiful. Healthy, happy, sitting in the VIP area with a drink in hand and bodyguards watching her every move...
Not the way my bodyguard stares at me. It was clear Hailey’s security was there to keep her so safe that not one hair could fall from her head.
My security’s job is to keep me from dying if the beatings get out of hand.
This nightmare can’t last forever, can it?
Yes it can . And it will , the scared, scarred, hopeless part of me screams.
I shove it down, silence that side of me because nightmares end. Everything ends at some point. And the part of me with unfounded hope knows I just have to stick it out. That this will end. It ended for Hailey, so it will end for me. I’ve endured six months... if this hasn’t killed me, nothing will.
Lifting my eyes to my reflection, I run both hands through my arrow-straight hair. It’s naturally a little wavy. Not curly, but not as straight as the hair straightener I’m ordered to use every day leaves it. Add the slutty outfit, high heels, enough bling to rival the Queen of England, purple lips, and a matching smokey eye peeking between my long white eyelashes and I look just as I’m supposed to: a whore.
A unique, expensive, exotic whore.
Thankfully, this negligee is not what I’ve been ordered to wear tonight. An elegant but skimpy black dress hangs off the hook on the bathroom door, ready for the evening.
I glance at myself again, wondering if the collar and leash were supposed to go on top of the dress...
Probably.
Ugh... I should’ve realized earlier.
In my defense I was running on autopilot, dressing in the exact same order I have for months. But this is a new contraption. The others I’ve worn religiously every single day haven’t had belts. Just chains that act like a leash.
Grinding my teeth, I exit the bathroom and cross the large bedroom, my heels loud against the parqueted floor before a round rug in the middle mutes their click.
My knuckles rap the hardwood door three times and I step back, patiently waiting for my personal bodyguard to shove a long, old-fashioned key into the lock.
Yes, he stands guard outside my door all the livelong day. Though he’s not here to protect me from harm—proven by the bruises, some purple and fresh, some now faded to green, on my wrists, neck, and every other grabbable inch of my body.
No, Damon trails behind me like a putrid shadow to ensure I’m not stolen. As if I’m some prized fucking possession like a priceless gem that requires armed security.
A small frown mars my forehead. Maybe he’s not here for me... maybe he’s only guarding the diamond-studded collars I’m required to wear. After all, he has to take them off for me.
Given how easily he locates me whenever I’m brave enough to wander the sprawling garden—the little freedom I’m allowed once a day—I guess the collars have some sort of trackers.
Not only that. The collar sent electricity coursing through my neck to my brain one time I ventured too far from the mansion. It stopped when Damon caught up to me, so I suspect he’s got some gadget on him to keep it dormant when I’m in range.
It’s just a theory. Valid, but unconfirmed because one shock was more than enough. I haven’t had the guts to test it. There are lab rats braver than I am.
“What is it?” Damon asks, shoving his curly head through the door. “Why aren’t you ready? We’re leaving in five minutes, Viera.”
I swallow hard, my name carrying unpleasant echoes of hearing it being grunted, hissed, and growled while I’m getting fucked every which way.
It’s amazing how quickly you come to despise your own name, your own identity, when you’re taken against your will.
There are days when I dream of changing absolutely everything about me just to draw a line between the girl trapped here, and the girl I could be one day.
I’ve become a master at shutting my brain off whenever I’m full of dick. My body’s there, but my mind’s not. It’s like I’ve split my personality in two. Some days, I really believe we’re no longer the same person, me and the girl locked in this gilded cage.
She’s broken, an utter mess, a shadow of a human.
Pathetic. Violated. Beyond repair.
Yes, she’s as good as dead, but I’m doing better. I’m holding on, still believing there’s light at the end of this pitch-black tunnel.
“I fastened the collar...” I motion to my neck, then to my waist. “But now I think the belt’s supposed to go over the dress, not under, so I need you to open it again.”
Damon cringes. He always cringes when I open my mouth. I’ve been practicing English, reading aloud all the books in my room, but no matter how hard I try to roll my r s, faking a convincing American accent is impossible. Anyone with decent hearing can tell I’m Slavic, and Damon hates hearing me speak.
I think he hates that I breathe, too.
If I rolled over and died already, he wouldn’t have to babysit me. I doubt he enjoys standing outside the door listening to me faking moans to help my rapist finish quicker.
“Turn around,” he orders, one hand twitching toward the gun holstered by his belt, the other raised, his finger pirouetting in the air.
Pulling my hair forward, I do as I’m told, visibly shuddering when he steps closer. It’s involuntary now. After six months of this nightmare I shudder whenever any man comes near me.
I can’t help it.
Not even with Damon, the only man I trust not to force his dick inside me the moment I turn my back on him.
The fear is ingrained so deep it’s no longer rational. It’s a fucking reflex. I doubt it’ll ever go away.
I hate being touched, but while I’m locked in this beautiful bedroom, sleeping under satin sheets and on silk pillows, I don’t have a choice. All I can do is grit my teeth and push through.
I don’t get beaten up so bad if I play ball. If I flirt, smile, and act the part, it doesn’t hurt as much.
The collar clicks, falling straight into my open palm. Damon moves his hands lower, their warmth hovering down my spine to stop at the belt. With a quiet click, it unclasps and falls away, too.
I guess belt isn’t the best word to describe this contraption around my waist. I’m not even sure what purpose it serves other than tasteless decoration. Sure, the leather part’s studded with gems, but it doesn’t seem to have any point. My dress for this evening doesn’t need any help following my hips.
Unless...
I quickly step away from Damon, disappearing into the bathroom. I hear the door close with a quiet click, but I’m too busy examining the belt to make sure he’s really gone. My throat runs dry as I hook my fingers in the many loops. At first, I thought they were just for decoration, but... maybe they’re suspension ropes.
Bile climbs up my throat. A few months ago I lived through a hardcore BDSM evening and I still wake up stiff, aching, and in tears. That time I didn’t have one of these belts with loops... I didn’t have a... harness .
He just used a rope. It wasn’t fit for purpose.
I was buck naked and the rope bit into my flesh, leaving long, red marks. Some of the knots broke my skin, leaving blood dripping over me for the entire two-hour session. That was the last time I cried while being used as a fuck doll. The last time I showed fear and pain.
Because the more I cried and begged him to stop, the rougher he was.
There’s nothing more disturbing, humiliating, and petrifying than hanging from the ceiling, unable to move, bleeding and crying, gagged and helpless.
Tears well in my eyes as I pinch the metal loops between my fingers, picturing the horror I will undoubtedly live through tonight. Swallowing the lump forming in my throat, I swat the tears away, inhaling a shaky breath.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?
I wish. It seems there’s not much strength left in my body, but whatever remains is my lifeline against the darkness. Among the monsters I live with.
Turning toward the door, I snatch the dress off the hook and shimmy into it, taking the little wins—it fits like a glove and the soft fabric feels divine against my skin. It’s a short, bodycon number so at least I don’t have to worry about reaching the zip.
With the dress on, I clasp the belt and collar back in place, taking care with the intricate chain connecting them at the front. I made the mistake of twisting a chain-like collar while getting dressed once... it cost me a split lip because it wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t perfect.
And I must be or else I pay.
There’s nothing perfect about me. Not my looks and, after six months here, definitely not my psyche. Even if I weren’t a sex toy, six months of this constant noise would drive any sane person mad.
It never stops. Not even during the night. There’s always loud music playing somewhere in the house, or a TV blaring. The floorboards groan and creak under heavy boots, wind howls through the windows, and the pipes heave and gurgle whenever the water runs. It’s an old building, though refurbished to look modern and drip in luxury.
In the rare moments there’s no music playing, I’m gagging, faking moans, and listening to panted grunts. Sometimes the bed squeaks and creaks, sometimes I’m face down on the floor, ass up, sometimes my head hits the wall with every harsh, powerful thrust...
I’m just a hole at this point.
The rest of me doesn’t need to exist, really. Well, save for my tits. But I don’t need a face. I don’t need hands or legs. The only touches I experience are brutal, harsh and concentrated on my pussy, ass, and nipples. No lingering touches, no kisses, no tenderness. No warmth other than the burning heat of shame.
A loud knock shakes the bathroom door, severing the long line of self-destructive thoughts.
I didn’t turn the lock. I’m not allowed to, so the hardwood leans inward as Damon steps in. The knock wasn’t a courtesy.
It was a warning.
Five-seconds to cover my small boobs if they’re on display, because he doesn’t even get to look, let alone touch. He’s my bodyguard and if he weren’t so crude, I’d feel safe with him.
Oh who am I kidding?
I do feel safe with him.
He’s the only one who leaves me an ounce of dignity. He doesn’t shove me to my knees, doesn’t kick my ribs, doesn’t yank my hair. He simply uses his hand on the small of my back as guidance while leading me out of the house or helping me into the car.
“Time’s up,” he grits out, jaw working in small circles. He hates conversation and he’s no good at it, though his skills get considerably worse whenever it’s time for another vile evening. “Move.”
Jutting his chin toward the bedroom, he steps aside to let me pass. I take small, measured steps, swaying my hips the way I was taught, and stop in the middle of the room.
Damon circles me like a hawk, eyes sliding down my body, scrutinizing my outfit, make-up, hair, and the beautiful gem-studded collar around my neck. As always, he touches the clasp at the back, making sure it’s secure.
I’m not allowed to leave the room without the collar. At first, I wore it twenty-four-seven, but the jewelry bruised and cut my neck—and marks can only be there if left intentionally, by someone other than me—so Damon was ordered to start taking the collars off when he locks me in.
With visible exasperation, he tucks a few stray locks over my left ear then steps back again, twirling his finger. I give a pirouette and bend over, touching my fingers to the pointy tips of my stiletto heels. It’s the same ordeal every time I leave this room. Whether I’m off to get fucked or shown off, Damon makes sure I look the part.
“Alright, you’re good,” he denotes, walking around me while I straighten up, leaving my last few shreds of dignity on the floor. “We expect a lot of A-class guests at the auction tonight. Behave yourself. If I see your chin quiver, we’ll have a fucking problem. Is that clear?”
I nod, following him down the marble stairs, the clicks of my heels echoing around the grand foyer. I hold on to the intricate, iron-wrought railing until we’re downstairs. Two armed men stand ground by the front door, earpieces in their ears, black suits hugging their tall, bulky frames. They gape as I walk past, two steps behind Damon.
They bow their heads slightly before the one on the left opens the door, letting us out. The breath of warm evening air fanning my face almost feels like freedom... but there’s no fooling my brain.
A long black limo waits on the graveled drive, the chauffeur dipping his hat to Damon while opening the back door.
“In,” Damon snarls, every bit stiff and calculated.
I slide along the soft leather seat, accepting a glass of champagne from him seconds later when he joins me.
Here, while it’s just the two of us, my manners don’t matter. The partition separating us from the driver is closed, so I down the bubbly liquid in one, audibly swallowing and making Damon cringe once more.
Bubbles relax me more than any other alcohol, so I’m always offered it en route to our engagements.
The city blurs outside the window while my palms sweat, and goosebumps crawl up my neck.
I’m a pig going to slaughter.
A willing, nicely dressed pig.
The only consolation is that the auctions always have a well-stocked bar. I’ll sit and watch for a couple of hours, sipping champagne and pretending I’m normal... that I belong among the nicely dressed people and their stuffed wallets. Pretending I could be part of the elite while I watch the auctioneer pound the gavel.
Twenty minutes and two champagne flutes later, the limo comes to a practiced, smooth stop. The driver exits the car to open the back door, letting Damon out first.
With the sophistication of a much wealthier man than he is, he steps onto the red carpet that leads inside the historical building and holds his hand out for me.
It’s tiny moments like this when I can purposely fool myself into thinking I’m important.
There’s no doubt in my mind: any passive observer would consider me important. Someone on par with the rich crowd I’ll be sitting among for a while.
“Where is—” I ask, but one stormy, harsh look from Damon shuts me up quickly.
Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.
The only place this rule doesn’t apply is the relative sanctuary of my bedroom.
“He’s inside,” Damon says in a hushed tone, taking me aback. I didn’t expect an answer after speaking out of turn. “Last-minute changes. He got word of some unexpected, and uninvited, guests.”
I bob my head, taking the arm he offers and sliding mine into the crook of his elbow. I could be mistaken for a movie star beside this man. Despite his awful social skills he’s the kind of man women stop and stare at. Tall, tattooed, handsome... he could easily pass for a rock star.
Even with the diagonal scar running from his left eyebrow to the right corner of his mouth, he’s a feast for the senses. Many would deem the ragged line ugly, but I find it fascinating. Any time I try and ask how he got it, he just huffs in response and leaves the room.
My only meaningful conversations over the past six months have been with Cassio.
He’s a gentleman through and through... in public. He takes me out to nice restaurants, feeds me at the table, kisses my neck, and parades me around like I belong to him, like he cares about me and my safety...
He doesn’t. Not in the slightest, but it’s nice to pretend I’m something more than a hole to him.
The idiotic fairytale bursts whenever the greedy brutal monster deep inside him comes out to play. Cassio loves marking my body, gouging his fingers into my flesh so hard he leaves painful bruises.
Damon pushes me forward another few steps and stops by the bouncer. The man takes one look at us, then bows his head respectfully and swings the tall, wooden door open.
“Enjoy the night,” he mutters as we pass.
Music fills the dim-lit room, seeping from strategically placed speakers. The acoustics are perfect, the soft jazz sounds ricocheting off the tables, chairs, and art-adorned walls, creating a mellow symphony.
A waitress with a tray of bubbly balanced on the palm of her hand steps into our path, a dazzling but fake smile stretching her lips. Damon snatches a flute, shoving it in my hand without a care.
“Sip, don’t gulp,” he orders in the shell of my ear. “Straighten your back and smile. Chin up.”
I marshal my body, instantly obeying all commands as we promenade toward the front of the room. My heels leave little dings in the red carpet, barely visible in the faint glow of the crystal chandeliers above our heads.
The room isn’t far off bursting at the seams. Dozens upon dozens of suited men stand in smaller groups, toting champagne flutes or crystal glasses, and the low hum of their chatter grates my nerves.
Too many men in one small space.
Ignoring the fear knotting my stomach, I glance at the auction block and flinch at the sight of the gavel.
I hate the pounding.
I hate the memories every “Sold!” brings back.
Damon ushers me along, choosing a small table by the stage. It’s set for two, no paddles for bidding. Every other table has them, but not this one.
No wonder. You don’t bid on your own merch.
“Sit and wait,” Damon orders, pulling the chair out for me. “Look around, make eye contact and smile.” He points to the left. “I’ll be right there.”
With a nod, I sip the champagne, waiting for the bubbles to kick in. Three flutes are usually enough to loosen my knotted muscles, but tonight I’m reeling every time my gaze falls to the harness cinching my waist.
I really don’t want to end up hanging from the ceiling again. Petrifying fear hits me whenever I think about it, burning through the alcohol at lightning speed.
Ignoring Damon’s order about sipping—which will cost me later—I gulp the whole flute, wiping the corner of my lips with the tip of my index finger while holding the gaze of a wealthy-looking man at a nearby table.
Those who have more money than sense are easy to spot in the crowd. Everyone here’s rich, but a few could buy half the goddamn world for sure. They stand out because they don’t try to prove anything to anyone. They mostly keep to themselves, eyes on the prize, heads in the game.
Another flute lands on my table, Damon’s narrowed eyes speaking louder than his words. “Slow the fuck down,” he hisses. “Remember what happened last time you numbed yourself a little too much?” He cocks an eyebrow, smirking when the blood drains from my face. “Exactly.”
“I... I can’t feel anything,” I whisper back. “I’ve had three, but it doesn’t feel like I’ve drunk a drop.”
“Because you’re stressed. You keep chewing your lips.”
There’s less disdain in his voice right now than there was a second ago. He scooped me off the floor after the last rope-play episode, so I bet he knows what’s making me so nervous.
That night was the only time Damon showed any sort of humanity—he dressed my wounds, helped me in the shower, tucked me into bed.
He even held his cringe at having to touch me at bay.
“You’ll be fine, Viera. It won’t be as bad as last time now you have the belt. And I’ll be right outside the door.”
But he won’t intervene. He can’t.
Not unless I scream my safe word, and I’m only allowed to do that if my life is threatened... like the time I had a gun to my head and a knife to my throat.
Damon’s probably the closest to a friend I have in this hellhole. Which is ironic considering he can’t fucking stand me.
“We’re about to begin. Chin. Up ,” he hisses and only when I comply does he turn around to take his spot by the long red curtains on the right of the stage.
The chandeliers go out, basking the room in complete darkness for a second before the wall fixtures flicker on. The auctioneer appears from the left, black bowtie perfectly straight, hair slicked back.
A round of applause thunders all around, accompanied by a few whistles from the back. With a broad smile the auctioneer grabs the gavel, pounding it three times.
I flinch with every thump.