Chapter 11
Ayla
This isn’t the first time I’ve been tied down, knowing what’s coming, but despite understanding my fate, it still doesn’t keep my heart from racing the second I’m restrained. Raul wanted to know about the fight left in me. He was worried I couldn’t sell my fear. He shouldn’t be concerned.
It’s moments like these that I actually get to be exactly who I am.
I don’t have to draw on sad childhood memories for the tears to start flowing. My childhood was amazing. Until I lost my parents, I really had nothing to complain about.
The jump in my heart rate is a product of understanding what’s coming, not because I’m psyching myself up any other way.
Even though I know he’s being forced to do this as much as I am, I still hate the man standing beside Pirro.
I can’t explain the double standard. Maybe it’s a holdover from entitled views I had before being abducted; the ones that said men were supposed to be chivalrous like my father had always been.
That man would’ve sacrificed all he had for my mom, Alani, and me.
The man standing on the other side of the room may have something just as valuable to lose as I do, but deep down, I have this fucked-up idea that he should forfeit whatever it is rather than doing what he’s expected.
Turning my head, I watch as he and Pirro speak. I can see the hatred the man has for Pirro, but I also know how this ends. Even if the man refused, someone would still step up to make the video. They’d never let the promised money from the client slip away.
I try to plead with my eyes, telling the man it’s best if he just agrees. I’m still going to be hurt today, and I rather get it over with than have to watch him die before it happens.
Looking back up at the ceiling, I draw in deep breaths, but it doesn’t calm my racing heart. It doesn’t stanch the tears already streaming down my face.
Not that it’s ever been my thing, but I fully understand having a kink that includes being tied down.
The whole consensual non-consent isn’t all that surprising, and honestly, even facing what I am, I’d never judge someone for having a rape fantasy.
To each their own and all that, but this goes beyond that.
This isn’t fantasy, and I think that’s the appeal to whoever paid for this scene.
I have no doubt the man with the cash on the other side of the video connection knows this is real on some level.
The number of people who pay to watch shit like this is unreal. I’m fairly certain those with just the fantasy are the ones watching prerecorded videos and getting off to those. The ones paying for a live action scene are the real monsters.
I test the strength of my restraints once again, knowing all it’s going to do is upset me even more. There’s no escape for me right now just like there’s no escape for me later, no matter how close I walk to the front door.
I fight the urge to look back over at him, but I know the effort is wasted.
I watch as he’s handed his mask. The scowl on his face is something new.
As many times as I’ve done this, it’s never been by someone other than one of the employees.
They never have to be convinced to participate.
They’re always so very eager, considering this is one of the perks of their jobs.
They get as excited to hurt women as one might be to find out their medical insurance is paid for by the organization. It’s fucking disgusting.
I don’t know what Pirro tells the man, but I know the second he makes up his mind. As much as I despise him for it, I’m also grateful to get this shit started so it can end just as quickly.
I pull my eyes away when he starts to walk closer, knowing they had to have given him something to cause the erection bobbing at the center of his body.
His injuries, the dozens of cuts to his skin, are too extensive for the man to actually get horny on his own.
It also means that it’ll take him longer to come, giving him more time to hurt me and extending the clients tipping window, but whatever makes Raul Cortez more money, right?
I chance a final glance in his direction, wanting to claw at his skin, my hands forming fists even though I’m tied down at the wrists.
“Not yet,” Pirro growls, his voice echoing through the room. “Client isn’t fucking online yet.”
The man freezes, his back to the main camera, but I know other cameras are capturing the looks on both of our faces.
I try to beg him with my eyes, wanting him to be better, wanting him to refuse even though I know the day ends the same way for me. I want proof that some people still have an ounce of humanity in them.
“I’m going to fuck you until you scream, bitch.”
I jerk at the digital voice echoing around the room. It takes me a long moment to register that the fucking client is going to be the one to dictate what happens in here. Just the thought of it makes it more of a violation than I originally considered it to be.
The man’s jaw clenches, his hands tight fists at his sides. I don’t know how to read the way he rolls his neck on his shoulders, a popping sound meeting my ears as he cracks his neck. Is this the way he would prepare for a fight? Is he still on the fence about his level of participation?
He looks to the side, and I know that Pirro is still sending cues on the teleprompter for him, because whatever he sees makes him take a step forward.
“Please don’t,” I beg, and the man actually falters.
“Going to fuck you bloody.” It’s only the second time he’s spoken, but I want to call the client a complete pussy for having his voice altered in an effort to avoid being identified.
If he’s brazen enough to pay to have people hurt each other, he should at least have enough balls to do it with his real fucking voice.
“Look how scared you are. I could come just watching your ragged breaths and the way they make your tits rise and fall. Too bad I’m going to leave bruises all over these perfect tits. They feel so good in my hands.”
The man stands on the side of the bed, frozen, the blank look on his face telling me that he’s not really seeing me. He’s distant, lost somewhere in his head, as if disassociating from this entire event.
“They feel so good in my fucking hands,” the client growls, repeating his prompt.
I open my mouth to beg him to just do what the fuck he’s told, but I hear the sound of a gun being cocked. It makes my entire body tremble, my head working out the scenario of him being shot and how the blood will coat my skin. It wouldn’t stop the next guy from stepping up and following through.
I jerk another plea on my lips when a cold hand rises to my left breast.
The man still isn’t looking at me, despite his grip on my skin.
Sympathy for him swims in my gut, but no matter how hard I try to shake the feeling, I just can’t get it to release me from its clutches. I can’t think of anyone but Alani, and the fact that he somehow has the ability to make me lose focus, angers the hell out of me.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” I rage, jerking against the ropes at my wrists.
Fire runs up my arms, and I don’t have to look to know I’ve caused my own injuries.
His eyes snap down to mine.
“You sick fuck. Get your hands off me.”
I want to puke at the sound of the cha-chings echoing around the room. I hate that the fucking client likes how I’ve acted.
“I’m going to fuck the fight right out of you, little girl.”
I force the bile down once again, swallowing against the burn in my throat as heavy breathing fills the room along with the unmistakable sound of someone masturbating.
A growl draws my attention back to the man, my eyes following him as he circles to the end of the bed, more than likely another prompt on the screen hanging across the room.
I know this guy isn’t a monster. Well, I’d gamble he isn’t a monster in the way they’re making him into one, but he’s still going to be one of the many monsters in my life.
I lift my leg, ready to kick him in the face as he climbs on the bed, but he clamps his palm against my shin.
I freeze, noting the tremble in his touch.
He’s weak, and with the extent of his injuries, it’s expected.
I could probably kick him off if I really tried, but there’s a pleading in his eyes I just can’t get past. It’s an apology and a bid for forgiveness all in one.
His throat works on a swallow, telling me there’s a very real chance he’s trying not to gag as hard as I am.
“Get your fucking hand off me,” I spit, but only jerk my leg a little, enough to let the client see the fight, but not enough to actually dislodge him.
His jaw clenches once again, telling me that he’s well aware that I’m not putting in the full effort. He doesn’t seem happy about it at all.
“Spread your fucking legs like the whore you are.”
The man at my feet stiffens with the implied command given to him, but he presses his other hand to my right leg.
I have to look away as I comply. I know he’s being forced.
I know his erection is chemically induced.
I’ve been where he is, most recently, only a couple of days ago when he was the one tied to the bed.
Knowing all of that doesn’t make it any easier.
I jerk, my chin quivering, when I feel the brush of his fingers at the center of my body.
He pulls back, forcing me to look down at him. Jesus, if he breaks character and the client is pissed, we’ll both be punished.
I watch as he rubs his thumb against his index and middle finger, wanting to explain the slickness on them, but I can’t.
Fighting is all I’m supposed to do. I can’t tell him that I used bottled lubrication because I didn’t want to end up more injured than I had to be.
I knew what was going to happen in here.
Just like I know that this probably won’t be the only time I’m used tonight.
Suffering extra pain doesn’t hurt anyone but myself.
Telling Pirro I’m too sore to do what he asks will only make him mad.
There’s no compassion where that man is concerned.
The man looks utterly disgusted, as if he made some very wrong assumptions about me.
For the first time since being brought here, I want to cry because of how someone perceives me rather than feel shame for not being strong enough to tell them no, even after they threaten Alani.
“You slick fucking whore,” the client growls. “I knew you fucking wanted this.”
He wipes his fingers on my inner thigh as if he’s beyond disgusted with what he found. He shifts his knees, walking further up the bed to settle between my thighs.
His eyes dart away, looking in Pirro’s direction rather than the teleprompter. I don’t know what he sees, but he looks like a broken man when he faces me again.
My lip trembles, every cell in my being wanting to tell him I understand.
“I fucking hate you,” I spit instead.
I’m so sorry, he mouths.
The uncontrollable tremble starts in my chest, making its way out to the tips of my fingers. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get warm again.