Thirteen
Blake
Muscles screaming, I open my eyes and blink as I take in the room I’m in.
I don’t recognize any of it, and as I gain more consciousness, I realize I can’t move my legs and arms. I’m hogtied.
Rocking from side to side, I try to scream but my mouth is gagged.
All I can recall before this moment was turning up to meet the agency who contacted me about the Calvin Klein shoot.
Everything in between is fuzzy, not fully coming into focus in my brain.
There was a man there I think. He . . . he was wearing a black ski mask and matching clothes.
Panic sets in and I fight against the restraints to no avail.
My sounds continue to be muffled and I close my eyes, suppressing tears.
Crying will get me nowhere. I’ll be stuck in this predicament no matter how many tears I shed.
Though they sometimes help release a tight pressure in my chest.
“Crying means weakness. Wipe your fucking face clean or ill scrub it for you, and you won’t like the marks I leave behind.”
My dad’s not here but his words still follow me.
It’s why I hate when rooms get too quiet and empty.
Opening my eyes, I glance around again. Hay covers the ground I’m lying on and the smell of animal shit hangs in the air.
A metal bucket with a rope tied to the handle sits two feet away and there’s also a bottle of water.
I try to wiggle my way closer, not getting very far and only adding to the ache in my bones.
My throat is so dry, and nausea curls inside my stomach, threatening to crawl up when I scream into the gag.
Where am I and why was I brought here? That email didn’t match the one I’d been in contact with before because it wasn’t the agency.
It was someone else. I bang my head on the ground, frustration rising inside me at my own ignorance.
I needed a distraction, and was so desperate for one I ignored the warning bells in my head.
I also needed another reason to tell Hayden no.
To not be available for him. To not be available for my dad or anyone else I can’t stay away from unless something forces my hand.
This will definitely do it. How long have I been down here? Hunger cramps join the sick feeling in my gut. Has it been hours? Not days because I’m not covered in my own shit and piss yet. Of course thinking about it reminds my bladder how full it is.
Oinking sounds cut through the red metal walls.
I’m in a barn. A ladder is inches from the bucket.
Metal scratches metal, creating a harsh clanking sound.
The sound of footsteps close in on me and the ladder shakes as I hear the soles of boots come into hard contact against the wood.
I’m met with the same mask from earlier. The man stands over me.
He’s dressed in all black again, tilting his head as he kneels to the ground. Inching forward until he’s within arms reach, he yanks the cloth over my mouth down to my neck and he stares at me. His eyes are dark blue, pinning me in place.
“Who are you?” My voice trembles.
His head tilts again and he leans closer.
“Are you going to speak, or are you going keep sitting there like some fucking creeper? Why am I here?”
He straightens his stance and pulls something from his pocket, tossing an apple into my lap. My gaze travels to the water and then the bucket. He turns his head, looking where I do, and lowers himself to retrieve the bottle.
“Please. I’m so thirsty. I couldn’t get to it, and even if I could, my hands are behind my back. I need to pee too. You don’t want me to soil myself, do you?”
He shakes his head and then pauses as if thinking over my question. Fishing in his pocket for something, he lifts what looks like a notebook and uses the pen attached to scribble in it. My chest tightens when he shows me what he wrote.
“It is what pigs do, though. Shit and piss themselves.”
He flips it around to a new page before placing it closer to my face. “And that’s what you’ll be while you’re here. My little piglet.”
My stomach plummets and a high?pitched sound slides up my throat. “What? Why would you . . . Who are you?”
Sighing loudly, he writes another message. “I’m about to be everything you need to survive.”
“Why did you call me that? Why would you bring me to this barn? Are you going to kill me?”
The pen comes in contact with the paper again and I swear he smiles with his eyes. “So many questions. Farm animals aren’t supposed to speak, and you’ll be good to remember that.”
“How am I supposed to tell you what I want?”
“You’ll figure out a way,” he writes. “The rest of the animals around here have.” He lets out a deep laugh and I don’t recognize it.
It comes off as over performed, like he’s making himself sound different on purpose.
He doesn’t want me to hear the real him.
My blood goes cold. Is it because I know him?
“I’m not a fucking pig,” I shout with conviction.
He rips out a sheet of paper after responding and lays it next to my face. I shift my eyes to read it, backing away enough to get a better view of all the words.
“You lay with them and meet them at water towers. So I’d say you’re guilty by association.”
My harsh breaths scratch at my throat. “You mean Logan? Is that who you’re referring to?”
He nods curtly.
“Hayden?”
He doesn’t move.
“Is that you?” I press my lips together, breathing sharply through my nose.
“No. That doesn’t make sense. Why . . . You may be an asshole but you’re not a kidnapper.
” I flit my eyes up at him. “Unless . . . unless this is you fucking with me for not participating in the flyer bullshit. It was fucked up and you know it.”
He huffs but still doesn’t speak or write anything again.
“Hayden, if that’s you, I’m sorry, okay. Just untie me and I’ll do what you want.”
Nothing. Him standing there quietly is more nerve-racking than when he writes on that stupid pad.
“Please.”
Finally, he shakes his head. Not the answer I want, but it’s a fucking response, and I’m more satisfied with it than I should be. He’s not letting me go, but here I am feeling more at ease by watching him move again after playing lifeless mannequin for what felt like forever.
“Hayden.”
He stomps a foot on the ground and the bucket tips over.
“Can I at least have some water?”
Nodding, he grabs the bottle, twisting the cap and pouring it over me. I maneuver my head, trying to catch as much as I can with my mouth, and I choke on the last bit, triggering a coughing fit.
I lower my head, swallowing my sobs before he can hear them. “The floor got more than I did. Can’t you untie me and let me have some the normal way?”
He glances down at the floor and me, shaking his head slowly.
“Because pigs don’t drink from water bottles?” I scoff.
He gives me a thumbs up and kicks the metal bucket closer to me before undoing my pants.
“Wait. What are you . . .” My words stop when he wraps his fingers around my cock, pointing my piss hole toward the opening of the bucket.
I take a breath, closing my eyes, and my muscles relax enough when I pretend to be on a camping trip where I’ve had to do something similar. My bladder empties itself, the fast stream hitting hard on the metal. When I’m done, he gives me a shake, and tucks me back into my underwear.
“If you untie me, it’ll be less work for you.”
Lifting the bucket, he turns away, and lowers it to the ground with the rope before looking back at me. Then he picks up the empty plastic bottle and steps back down the ladder after tucking it into his back pocket.
Light shining through the windows starts to fade as I lie here, waiting for him to come back. I’m starving but also tired. So tired. But I’m scared to close my eyes because I don’t know what I’ll wake up to next.
It didn’t seem that he liked me calling him by his name. Is that because I got it wrong? He knew about the tower and who I went there to meet. He knew about Logan. Logan.
No. It’s not him. He wouldn’t have been able to refer to himself as a pig so easily.
He hated the term. That was very clear the last time I used it on him.
I can still feel the marks left behind from his fingers.
What I’d give to have his hands on me again.
It would mean I wasn’t here if they were. And I’d be free.
But also, Logan’s hands are like fucking magic.
Those gloves touching my dick when my captor was here were rough on my skin, and I was scared of where it might lead to.
Nothing inappropriate happened, though. He didn’t want me that way, with how clinical he was—the way someone would be at a hospital with a patient.
Am I angry about that? The fuck? It’s just me being delirious from lack of food and feeling in my limbs.
I drag my body closer to the apple he left behind, sinking my teeth into the fruit and spitting when I almost swallow a mouthful of hay.
Eating around the hay?covered areas is too much of a challenge, so eventually I give up.
Eyes heavy, they flutter closed, and I lose the fight to stay awake, worrying as I slip away that I’ll regret not trying harder.
A creaking sound and metal hitting metal has my eyes flashing open.
I watch as the ladder jumps and a different ski mask from before appears—blue, with a smiley face where the mouth opening should be.
He has the same gloves on and similar clothes, and he’s holding the same bucket from earlier.
He sets it next to me and separates my ankles from my wrists, leaving them tied up.
The stretching of my muscles feels good, but also weird with the sandy sensation in my feet from them falling asleep.
“Did you bring more food?” I ask with my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth, and he drops two sticks of celery. On the fucking hay. Being everywhere, it’s hard to avoid, but couldn’t he bring me a plate?
Pigs don’t eat from plates.
My thoughts are speaking for him now.
“Will I ever get any real food?”