Chapter 1 #2
The man finally pulls his hand away from my pussy, but not before giving my clit one last cruel pinch that forces another cry from my throat.
Then, as he backs away, he leans in close, hot, stinking breath crawling over the shell of my ear.
“Congratulations. You just became the most expensive piece of rape-meat this establishment has ever seen.”
◆◆◆
Duct tape seals my mouth, smothering every desperate sound into pathetic, muffled whimpers.
A thick blindfold covers my wet eyes in darkness, while rope bites deep into my wrists, binding them tightly together in front of me.
I’m folded like discarded trash in a large, suffocating duffle bag inside a trunk—knees crushed against my chest, spine curled.
Every shallow breath is a struggle, and my mind spirals into unrelenting panic.
Where are they taking me? Who bought me? What are they going to do?
Nothing can dull the terror engulfing my veins right now.
Then my mind circles back to him… Graham, and what he has done to me.
Four years ago, my father’s worker at his meat factory, dragged me from my warm bed in the dead of night.
Well, that’s what he told me recently—that he worked for my father. But how do I know that's real truth? He was always masked, and his voice was distorted.
Since that night, I’d never really known what was going to happen to me from one day to the next. But it was clear, after some time, I was just currency—a warm, snug hole to be sold and used by the highest bidder.
Graham never touched me. Not like that anyway. In four horrifying years, he never forced himself inside me. Although I started to feel his sick hunger growing every single day.
He kept me in a narrow, wooden box in the damp corner of a basement. The lid was so close to my face I could feel my own stale breath bouncing back against me.
There was no light or sound, except for the occasional creak or the scratching of rats inside the walls.
My body was never allowed to move, my muscles wasted away, and I was only ever dragged out long enough to choke down whatever slop he threw on the floor or to squat over the reeking bucket in the corner.
Or sometimes, if I was really lucky, he'd even wash me down.
More recently though, I’d catch him outside the box at night, and hear that wet, rhythmic sound of his hand pumping while staring at me through the narrow air slit.
He would become strained and desperate, but he always stopped himself from going any further. Thankfully.
I used to lie there for weeks, wondering why he didn’t just kill me. Why keep me alive? Why not just end it? I never dared to ask though.
The one time I whispered a single question through the crack in the lid, his fist smashed through and split my lip open. I tasted my own blood for days while I cried silently in the dark.
Then, a little over a week ago, he finally spilled all beside the open box, while I shivered at his feet.
He said the police had torn the country apart looking for me. I had made national news, and my face was on every channel. There were vigils, hashtags, and prayers, and it seems, for a while, the world actually cared about me.
But Graham waited and let the spotlight die down like it always does. He let the searches grow cold and for the world to forget I ever existed.
“You were hot meat, Flower,” he said, stroking my tear-streaked cheek. “And it was too dangerous to move you sooner. But if you don’t sell this week… I will keep you and finally climb into that box and screw you until you are nothing but a fucked out corpse.”
The words imprinted themselves into my soul.
What destroys me most isn’t the lifetime of rape and torture waiting for me at the end of this car ride. It’s the devastating truth that no one is looking for me anymore.
The investigation is cold, the posters have faded, and the world has moved on and left me behind like yesterday’s heartbreak.
I’m no longer the missing girl. I’m a forgotten doll in a wooden box.
And the sickest part, the part that makes me hate myself more than I hate them, is that some warped piece of me misses Graham’s basement. At least there I knew the shape of my enclosure, at least the horror had boundaries, and at least I was hidden from the rest of these freaks.
Compared to the endless abuse I suffered under my own father’s roof before the kidnapping, Graham’s box almost felt like… mercy.
But he had it all wrong the whole time, and I wasn’t about to correct him.
He thought he was preserving something pure, something untouched. A virgin prize worth sixty million dollars.
Yet I wasn’t pure. I was never pure. I am damaged inside out. My father made sure of that the moment my mom passed.
He had always been abusive to her. Fists in the kitchen, bruises hidden under sleeves, and long nights where her muffled screams leaked through the thin walls. I used to lie in bed wondering if he was the reason she finally stopped breathing.
They called it a heart attack before she fell down those stairs—a tragic accident. But I knew better. He killed her slowly for years, and when she was gone, his violence simply turned to me.
He would come home stinking of that slaughterhouse, the thick, rancid smell of raw meat, blood, and death clinging to his clothes and skin like a second layer.
I still remember it vividly as he forced my small legs apart on my own bed. And the way that stench would fill my nostrils while he drove into me, tearing me open, over and over again until I learned to go somewhere else inside my own head just to survive.
To the outside world, he was a respected man—a very successful meat seller. A typical pillar of our community. Always smiling at church, always generous with donations from the profits of his butchery.
Yet not one single person ever suspected that the same hands that carved up carcasses all day were the ones that touched up his own daughter every other night.
He broke me long before Graham ever kidnapped me and locked me away.
By the time I was taken, I was already a hollowed-out shell—a ghost wearing a little girl’s skin. My father had taken everything that mattered. My innocence, my voice, and my ability to trust that the world wasn’t made of evil beings wearing familiar faces.
And now, here I am.
Graham waited four years to sell ‘untouched meat’ that had already been thoroughly used and ruined.
My new owner paid sixty million for a lie and a body that already knows exactly what it feels like to be treated like nothing but holes and pain.
The car jolts over a bump, and anguish flares across my whipped back, causing me to release a silent wince while fresh tears flood the fabric of the blindfold.
I wish I was back in that damn basement.
At least there, I was left alone. At least there, for some time, I stopped remembering the smell of raw meat every time a man touched me.
I wish I was back in the dark.
God forgive me… I just want to be back in that damn box forever.
By the time the car finally stops, I am a broken mess.
An eternity of jolting darkness has reduced me to this. A trembling, piss-soaked wreck bent up inside a trunk like nothing.
My clothes cling cold and wet against my thighs, the sharp ammonia stench of my own urine mixing with the smell of dread, sweat and engine oil.
I sob into the material of the bag over my head, each gasp ragged and crushing.
I pray one last time anyway.
The words enter my mind in desperate, choking whispers even though I abandoned God years ago. Even though every sermon I ever heard now feels like a punishing joke.
Please. Please, if you’re real, don’t let this happen to me again. Don’t let them have me. I don’t want to hurt anymore.
But the silence is absolute, and no divine hand reaches down, no light breaking through. Just the wind howling and the wet sound of my own pathetic crying.
Then, the trunk pops open, and my body jerks like I’ve been electrocuted, every muscle seizing at once.
A shadow falls over me, and I feel them staring for a moment before strong hands slide under me, and with a low male grunt, he lifts me like I weigh nothing.
The cold night air hits the damp bag as he carries me, each step jarring through my bones before a door creaks open.
Warmth suddenly washes over me, real warmth, from a home, and it feels obscene, like comfort itself is insulting me now.
He steps inside and kicks the door shut behind him with a heavy finality that sinks straight into my gut.
This is it. This is where I disappear. This is where I lose the last shred of myself completely.
My mind spirals out of control with every stride he takes.
As soon as he stops, I’m carefully lowered onto a hard floor. My fists clench tight against my chest, nails digging into my palms until they burn.
“Sixty million.”
The man’s voice above me is flat and clinical, like this is all normal to him.
“Wired?” A second male voice answers from far way, but it’s deeper, calmer, and seemingly younger.
“Already done.”
After that, there’s no more words between them, just the sound of the zip being ripped down roughly on the bag.
Footsteps retreat—heavy boots smacking against the floor until they grow distant. A door opens, then closes with a soft click that might as well be the lid on my coffin.
I lie perfectly still inside the bag, heart hammering hard.
I don’t dare move, and I don’t dare pull this damn blindfold off my face. Because as long as I remain inside this bag, blinded, I can pretend there’s still one thin layer between me and the nightmare waiting for me outside it.
But deep down, in the pit of my empty stomach, I know the truth.
Whatever comes next is going to be far worse than anything I’ve ever imagined.
And no one, absolutely no one, is coming to save me.