Chapter 7
Ayla
“For you,” the man says, sitting on the side of the bed holding out two one-hundred-dollar bills.
“That’s not necessary,” I tell him as I reach for the money. “But thank you.”
Getting tipped for what boils down to sexual assault gives me fucking hives.
I fought this man, begged him to stop, because it’s what he wanted. It’s what he paid for. Tipping isn’t necessary, but Pirro would hurt me more than this man did if I turned down the money. It’s not that I get to keep it. The cash will be pocketed by someone else. We have no need for money.
Everything you’ll ever need is provided.
I’ve heard it too many times to count, as if human decency and a right to choose are too much to ask for because it’s never on the list of things given by these animals.
The man smiles, his lips curling up even higher when his eyes scan his handiwork. The bruises he left behind won’t take long to heal. He isn’t one of the men who hurts me as much as he probably could. How fucked up am I in the head to be grateful that this piece of shit only hurt me a little?
“I’ll be able to make my way back here in a few weeks,” he says, licking his lips. “I can’t wait to see you again.”
“It’ll be my pleasure,” I lie, the words burning in my throat, because attacking him would only lead to me receiving exactly what I deal out or more.
He nods, liking the way I step back as he stands to get dressed.
I don’t think he’s a bad man. I think he has a certain kink and this may be the only place he’s been able to find to satisfy it. I have very little doubt he knows that I’m not exactly as willing of a participant as he thinks.
Guys like him are few and far between. Most of the men who come here get hard just knowing that we’ve been abducted and are working against our will, despite the show we put on to meet the customer’s needs.
I resist the urge to step closer and ask him for help. All it would earn the man is a bullet in his head before he walked out of the house. I’ve heard whispers of others trying it, for it to only lead to more punishment for both parties involved.
He winces as he pulls on his shirt but it quickly transforms into a knowing smile.
I wonder just how devious he is. If he knew that his rape fantasy was real, would he stop?
Would it turn him on even more if he discovered that he was actually doing what he fantasized?
If he knew my begging was real, that the scratches on his back were there because I was really fighting, would he keep going?
Would he offer to help save me? Would he fuck me harder?
“Have a good night,” I tell him as I walk toward the door instead of asking him any of those questions.
I hate men like him, but at the same time, being able to fight the men who hurt me is the only time I’m allowed to take any of the anger about my current situation in life out on anyone.
It calms the voices inside of me that want to speak up in every other situation.
It gives me back a little power, and some days, I think it’s the only thing that keeps me going.
I don’t startle at the sight of Pirro standing right outside the door. I nod one last time to the customer before closing the door behind me. My nemesis stands there, his hand out. Of course he was watching on camera, or maybe the guy has been here before and is a notorious tipper.
I drop the cash into his hand, praying that it’s going to be a slow night and he’ll tell me to go back to my room and wait for instruction.
Pirro smiles down at the cash. I know making him happy will ensure Alani’s safety. Even with my body aching from what just happened, it feels like a pretty even trade at the moment.
“I need you to shower and get down to room six,” he instructs, his hand wandering down my arm.
He bites at his lower lip when I whimper as he presses a rough finger into one of my fresh bruises. My first instinct is to jerk away, to make the pain stop, but doing so would only end up costing me more.
“Don’t take too long,” he says, releasing me and walking away.
In order to get to the room I’ve been given, I have to walk down one set of stairs, across the foyer and up another set of stairs that gets me there.
I don’t know why I torture myself every damn day, but I lock my eyes on the front door as I walk past it.
Every single time, I imagine opening the front door and sprinting away.
Maybe it’s nature that has me reliving that fantasy a handful of times a day.
I bet the damn thing isn’t even locked. Those of us who are allowed to walk alone in the house would never leave.
Physical restraints aren’t what keep me here.
I want to sob as I climb the stairs leading to my room.
I can feel my will slipping every single day, and I know that eventually I’ll cave.
I’ll beg for death, even knowing what it means for Alani.
There’s only so much someone can take before they’re so utterly broken that death is the only thing that will bring peace.
I don’t let my eyes roam as I pass each open room. Every door in this hallway has been removed. It’s a power play for the men who work here. We have no privacy because the door to the bathroom has been removed as well.
Nudity is no longer a concern for me as I walk through the house, which is saying a lot because I was always the one who people side-eyed in the dressing room at work because I’d carry my things into one of the bathroom stalls to change.
As a nurse, I’ve seen more parts of people’s anatomies than I ever imagined I would before I started nursing school, but I wanted to keep my own modesty.
I was never proud of the pooch in my lower stomach I obtained in high school and fought so long to rid myself of it.
It’s gone now. The near-starvation diet the Cortez clan has all of us on took care of that within weeks.
I’d give anything to get it back if it meant not going through this shit every day.
I never believed the it could get worse saying, but now I know, no matter how bad it is for me, it’s always worse for others.
My mind drifts back to the man I stitched up last week. I haven’t been sent to take care of any more of his wounds, so I can only conclude that he died from his injuries or infection.
My shower is quick because I’ve experienced the repercussions of taking too long, and after the first client of the night, I know I won’t be able to handle much more violence.
My hair is still damp, but I’m not concerned about fixing it.
Room six is one of the live recording rooms, and the men that pay top dollar for those aren’t as picky as you’d think they would be.
They won’t care if my hair is wet or dry, up or down.
They’ll be staring at the most intimate parts of me.
I test myself as I walk back down the stairs, but I fail, my eyes once again going to the bronze doorknob as I walk past. My skin is covered with gooseflesh as I enter room six. I know it’s due in equal parts to my anxiety as well as the cool temperature of the room.
The camera equipment puts off a lot of heat, so they keep the temps down. What do they fucking care if I’m freezing? If anything, the goosebumps make it look like I’m afraid. It adds to the thrill that the person paying for a scene is seeking.
I pause beside Pirro, waiting for instruction, and I fight looking at the man tied down to the table, as much as I did looking at the front door, and with this I also fail.
I hate that it’s the same man I doctored, a mask covering most of his face.
I hate the sight of his wounds, some of the stitching peeled away, his wounds oozing.
It tells me that Pirro has once again worked him over.
I’m torn between hoping the monster has at least been giving him injections of antibiotics and thinking it would probably be better for the man if he wasn’t being treated for the infections.
“It’s a paid live,” Pirro says, the finger of one hand tapping out a tempo only he can hear on his opposite forearm. It makes me wonder how many lines of cocaine he snorted while I was taking a shower.
“What’s the theme?” I ask, rather than making the mistake of assuming just from looking at the setup.
“Male victim, female seductress,” Pirro says, his eyes finding mine as if he’s living for whatever reaction I may have.
He hands me a mask. It’s one I’m familiar with because I wear them often enough.
It’s more than likely at the request of the customer because these guys aren’t concerned about my anonymity.
I’ve learned not to cringe, not to beg for a break. Pirro loves nothing more than forcing someone to do something they don’t want. He lives for the moments he gets to prove he has more authority over everyone when Raul is gone.
“How far?” I ask, my eyes darting back to the man splayed out on the bed.
“Full fuck,” he responds, and my rejection is on the tip of my tongue.
I’ve had to suck a guy off that didn’t want it. When I did it to this man, he wasn’t the first, but I’ve never had to fuck a guy that wasn’t interested.
I’ve done all sorts of fetish shit. I’ve pretended to be asleep. I don’t know how many times I’ve had to gag around calling someone daddy. I’ve been forced to eat pussy while the girl cried and begged me to stop, but never once have I had to have full blown sex with someone.
My hands are trembling as I nod, knowing he’s just waiting for me to argue.
“What if he hurts me?”
Pirro looks from me to the man, before responding. “He’s tied down pretty good, and he’s pretty fucking worked over, but the more he fights, the better for the client. Pay attention to prompts.”
He steps out of the way so I can get closer to the man.
I hate that his eyes lock on to me the second I get within a few feet of the bed.
Instead of trying to calm his fears, I look toward the teleprompter so I know exactly what the customer wants.
Everything in me is telling me to fight this, to try and run from the room.
It’s a feeling that’s more familiar than it ever should be, because I’ve been expected to do so many fucking things that I’d never even consider if I were free and living my own life.
His eyes are heavy, but even if he passes out, neither of us can avoid this. His cock is thick, albeit not quite fully erect, and I know he’s been given some sort of drug to make him that way.
I know from experience that most men are willing and ready no matter what the situation is. But I highly doubt this man wants to get fucked while he’s covered in wounds, after having undoubtedly been tortured every single day since he arrived at the house.
He tenses as I climb on the bed, my throat working on a swallow as I obey the teleprompter.
START AT HIS CALVES AND LICK YOUR WAY UP HIS BODY.
I wish I could convey that the bile threatening to choke me and make me puke is more about what I’m being forced to do and has little to do with my disgust in him as a person.