5
Violet
T he moment the first girl is hauled onto the stage directly in front of me, Blaze appears from behind a curtain, dressed to impress in his signature black suit.
His pressed shirt is so white it’s blinding and perfectly contrasts his tanned skin. I wondered many times about his heritage. There’s no shadow of an accent when he speaks, but those dark, foreboding eyes, and his always-tanned-looking complexion hint he might have a drop of Latin blood.
What I wouldn’t give for a bit of melanin so I could blend in.
Blaze saunters toward my table—our table—greeting me with quick eye contact as he sits. I’ve been a prisoner in his house for six months, but we rarely talk.
Not unless he’s iterating for the nth time the rules I’m required to follow whenever a limo or armored vehicle arrives at his doorstep to pick me up for a twenty-four-hour trip.
Blaze is meticulous about the timeframe. He sells my company for four twenty-four-hour periods a month. I’m either taken straight after the auction or picked up on the Saturday afternoon to come back Sunday.
Twenty-four hours with the highest bidder. Not a second longer. He doesn’t care how far away they take me. Whether I spend six hours in the car or twenty minutes. The rules are set in stone and Blaze starts a stopwatch the second I’m in the car.
Cassio was late delivering me back on time once. Not by much. Barely three minutes. He lives in Columbus, and we were stuck in traffic on the interstate, waiting for the emergency services to clear the road after a truck flipped over. We set off with plenty of time to spare, but the accident made us late coming back.
Three minutes cost Cassio thirty grand in penalties.
Ten grand for every minute I was late.
The word spread quickly. Since then, I’ve never been back less than an hour before the deadline.
“Your hands are shaking,” Blaze notices, covering my palm with his. He ignores how I jerk back, well aware I hate male hands on me. He pumps his fingers around mine, examining my face. “What’s wrong?”
I moisten my throat with champagne before answering. “New jewelry... it has loops.”
Using the slow, lazy nod of his head as distraction, he takes a moment to process my words.
He does that a lot.
Instead of asking for further explanation, he dissects every word, turning its meaning over and over, then reading between the lines as he looks for an answer. He’s constantly trying to prove he’s the smartest man in the room.
I never met him before my first auction, so I have no comparison, but I heard rumors... His men say that night changed Blaze. When his house was raided and Hailey was stolen, he took it very personally.
Octavius Grey—the man without whom Blaze’s business would have no chance of success—arrived the next day, screaming the house down.
I didn’t understand why they were so interested in Hailey. Why Blaze killed Darius for shoving her under the rug in the ballroom. Why he carried her out of there in his arms like a princess.
I didn’t understand until Damon let it slip that Hailey knew the whereabouts of some major stash of incriminating evidence. He didn’t elaborate further when I asked, just huffing “I shouldn’t have told you that” under his nose.
The only other thing he said—which wasn’t hard to figure out if you paid attention to Blaze—was that he considers losing Hailey his biggest failure.
He takes all precautions imaginable to ensure he never again finds himself in a similar position. He became much more self-aware that night. Stopped gambling, partying, and drinking, and he’s narrowed his focus to growing his empire.
His men whisper between themselves about the daily parties they miss. Whenever Blaze is out of town, they organize get-togethers, blasting music in the ballroom and getting drunk beyond comprehension.
Whenever he is home, they watch TV and shuffle around the building all night, unable to sleep.
“It’s for your own good,” Blaze finally says, eyes on the girl standing on stage. “I hear Vincent’s eager to bid tonight. It doesn’t mean he’ll win, but just in case, I had this...” He runs his fingers along the belt at my waist, “...made for you. You should insist on wearing it at all times.” He gives my hand another squeeze before letting go.
He’s an odd man... he doesn’t mind selling me every month, knowing damn well I’ll be raped, beaten, and humiliated, but he acts concerned whenever any temporary owner takes things too far.
I scoff internally.
He’s just making sure his merchandise remains intact for next time. Last time Vincent had me I spent two weeks healing, and the men who’d booked me weren’t happy with my state.
I guess the complaints made Blaze reconsider my treatment. I guess I should be fucking grateful for the belt. Maybe it’ll save me acquiring any new scars.
“Sold!” the auctioneer yells, pounding the gavel.
Every time it hits the wood I jump in my seat. I marshal my body, purposely tensing my muscles to stop the involuntary reaction, but even those twitches don’t go unnoticed.
“This is it,” Blaze tells me. “The highest bidder tonight gets to keep you for good.”
My head whips toward him, nausea climbing my throat. Fear unlike anything else seizes my mind. It’s one thing being used four times a month and something entirely different being at the beck and call of whoever buys me.
What if Vincent wins? He’ll suspend me from the ceiling in his lavish penthouse and fuck me until I die.
I turn around, scanning the dimly lit room. So many familiar faces sit at the small, round tables. So many cruel, deranged men.
I spot Vincent at the back, his grubby hand at his face, scratching his beard. He’s fifty yards away, but I still see the sweat beading at his sparse hairline. He’s short and chubby, a perfect representation of the stereotypical, stupid mafia men in the movies. Big, red nose, bloodshot eyes, sweaty, smelly, and nearing his sixties with a belly that looks like he swallowed a workout ball.
A cruel, arrogant smirk twists the corner of his chapped lips, partly hidden beneath a thick mustache, when he catches me staring.
I quickly look away, scanning the rest of the crowd and wondering who will bid on me tonight.
Amadeus might... he bought me a few times. He has a particularly disturbing kink—sticking different objects in my pussy and seeing how quickly each gets me off.
Seeing me orgasm is the biggest turn-on for this guy, but some of the toys he used were atrocious.
He has a room in the basement of his house covered in red carpets. One wall is lined with a long metal table covered with hundreds of sex toys.
The first night he took me there, he made me come so many times I passed out. He spilled on the bed at least ten times while watching me writhe and beg for it to end.
I don’t think I’d survive long with him. He made sure I drank enough water but kept me in bed for sixteen hours without a wink of sleep.
“I sent for Cassio,” Blaze whispers, leaning closer. So close the citrusy scent of his cologne invades my senses. “I figured you’d like him best.”
I close my eyes, breathing in the stuffy air.
Cassio might be the one who spoils me most with dinners, champagne, and gifts, the one who takes care of me like I’m precious... but that’s only while we’re in public.
Once the door to his mansion in Columbus closes behind us, his dark side comes out to play... He treats every bruise on my milky skin like a trophy. While he doesn’t beat me up, he marks me every time.
I guess bruises are better than ropes tearing bloody gashes in my skin or being orgasmed into unconsciousness, spattered in cum. At least Cassio takes me out to fancy restaurants and showers me with little gifts. He promised he’d take me to Italy one day. I’m his prized possession by day and dirty whore by night. That’s every man’s dream, right?
An angel outside, a dirty slut inside.
“He’s not here,” I whisper back.
“He shouldn’t be long. His auction ended half an hour ago,” Blaze explains.
Ah, that’s right. The Auction.
Just like Noretto, Cassio hosts regular auctions. Though instead of selling people into sex-slavery, he sells art worth more than my mind can comprehend. More than normal people earn in three lifetimes.
Raising the flute to my lips, I take a slow sip as another girl is dragged onto the stage.
I’ve been in the audience for five of these events. You’d think it’d get easier, but it doesn’t. Not even when the girls on stage look like their dream is coming true, not even when they smile genuine, thrilled smiles while the price for their... well, their pussy, skyrockets.
I hate everything about this ordeal.
No woman should live in such fucking poverty that she considers selling her body a Godsend.
My sister and I lived on the streets of Bratislava for two years, stealing food and dumpster-diving for scraps, yet the idea of fucking a stranger for cash never entered my mind.
It entered Nina’s, though. She dragged me to America with her, lying through her teeth. She said we’d work as waitresses in a mafia-owned strip club. It sounded plausible. In fact, it sounded like salvation.
A fresh start, and in America of all places.
She said the boss would provide a halfway house for a few months until we got up on our feet. She rambled on about opportunities and American passports.
It’s the dream, right?
It would’ve been if Nina wasn’t lying.
“Sold!” the auctioneer yells again, pounding the gavel and grinning at a man two tables away. The same one who bought my sister and whisked her away to his brothel in San Francisco.
I don’t know what’s worse: her situation or mine.
Probably mine. The girls who get sold only have to work for a year, then they get a passport and are free to do as they please. Blaze says it keeps his business model in demand and the brothels stuffed with fresh blood. Apparently, the regulars get bored of the same old faces after a while and demand new girls.
Everybody wins...
Everybody who knows up front what they’re getting into. The one thing I can’t fault Blaze for is truthfulness. The girls who arrive in his mansion every month know exactly why they’re there.
They choose this life.
This chance to live the American dream.
I didn’t get the benefit of truth. Had my sister told me we’d end up selling ourselves I never would’ve got in the shipping container.
Now that I’m here, with no way out, I wish I wasn’t so... unique looking. My albinism has always been a curse. It’s even worse now because my looks are the reason I don’t get to walk the same path as my sister.
I won’t get a passport. I won’t be allowed to leave. I’ll most likely die at the hands of whoever pays the highest price tonight.
No, I won’t, because Blaze has a point... Cassio would be the best choice. He won’t kill me. He’ll hurt me, but he’ll soothe the pain and kiss the bruises. With him, the nightmare will partially end...
When I stood on the stage six months ago, I quivered like a two-day-old puppy sniffling for food. Tears streamed down my face and Damon had to gag me so I’d stop begging everyone to let me go.
The auction started and sums were yelled one after another. Ten, twenty, fifty thousand. It didn’t stop there. Men were battling one another, guns were drawn, threats were made, and, amidst the chaos, Blaze watched with a cunning smirk on his handsome face.
He stopped the auction when the price reached three hundred thousand dollars.
Three hundred thousand dollars for me...
It was Cassio’s bid, but it wasn’t the money that forced Blaze to change the game. It was the gunshot that cut the air.
No one died. Blaze told me later that Vincent Darmoros—the fat sleazy boss who loves to watch me bleed and cry—simply ran out of money and fired a warning shot to scare everyone off.
It didn’t work.
“Change of plans, gentlemen,” Blaze denoted, dollar signs shining in his eyes as he addressed the room. “Since all of you want a piece of this, I’m introducing a brand-new scheme. Rent-a-whore. Four slots every month. Four highest bids get this fine piece of ass for twenty-four hours. Sounds fair?”
He wasn’t done talking when men started bidding again and the auctioneer scrambled to halt the bids so Blaze could finish explaining.
He raked in over a million dollars that night, selling me to four different men. The following month, another million, because Cassio wasn’t backing down, determined to secure two days with me.
Most interested men had me once and never bid again. I guess I didn’t live up to their expectations. Maybe they thought my pale skin and purple eyes would somehow alter my pussy to be... I don’t know... tighter? Wetter? Sweeter?
I guess they were sorely disappointed when they realized I’m perfectly ordinary between my legs and most never raised their paddles again. Most , but not all.
A few kept bidding.
Cassio kept bidding.
Last month he secured all four spots and there wasn’t much other interest.
I guess Blaze has realized this cow’s been milked enough and now he just wants me gone. One last big paycheck before the rent-a-whore scheme is done.
This auction reaches an obligatory break after the first fifteen girls are sold. Blaze immediately stands to mingle with the crowd and Damon takes his seat beside me, snapping his fingers at a passing waitress.
“Is Cassio here yet?” I ask, clutching a fresh flute of bubbly in shaking hands. “I can’t see him anywhere.”
“Not yet, but he should be here any minute.”
An unpleasant chill slithers down my spine when Vincent stops beside us, a glass of vodka on the rocks in one hand, cigar in the other. His tongue darts out, moistening his chapped lips as he looks me up and down until his eyes stop on the belt around my waist.
“What a waste of cash. I prefer you without it.”
“No one cares about your preferences, Vincent,” Damon grits out, shooing him away.
“Don’t get used to it.” He purposely ignores Damon. “Once you’re mine, you’ll never wear a collar or a fucking belt again.”
Damon chuckles, actually chuckles , and it sounds like he’s genuinely amused.
“You think you’ll buy her outright? That’s cute. Took you three months to set aside enough for a second night.”
Vincent’s face grows red. Damon must’ve hit a nerve. “We’ll see about that.”
I have the urge to bang my head on the table.
Why is he even interested in me? Is my albinism that much of a turn-on? Or is it just because other people want me?
Men like this guy enjoy having things others desire. I bet that sick mentality is the only reason he wanted me in the first place. That, and the ability to show off that he can afford however much I fetch tonight.
The bitter laugh sounding in my head almost makes it out. How sad is it that I’m so resigned, so used to being treated like an object, that it fails to even raise the hairs on the back of my neck?
I loathed this a few months ago. I still do, but I no longer feel like I’ll burst into tears. There are two girls living inside my head. One’s a true pessimist, resigned to this new reality. To being nothing more than a warm hole for flaccid dicks.
The other girl refuses to roll over and die already. She has hope... even if it’s severely crippled now Blaze has changed the rules again.