I will fuck you however, and wherever I want.
Lily
Stavros
Lily
I can’t believe I’m hanging here like a piece of beef in a butcher’s shop, naked, exposed. I wonder if just before the cow meets its maker, it has the same thought as I do right now. How could my parents let this happen to me? Little does the cow know its parents were helpless and suffered the same fate, but my parents are literally the perpetrators who sold me to line their own pockets.
I look around at the white walls and high ceilings that have ropes secured by the rafters. My feet are on the floor but only slightly. I have to remain on my tiptoes and the rope is chaffing on my wrists every time I move. The girl beside me is whimpering, mascara is running down her cheeks. She’s not the only one, there are hundreds of girls, and we all have a spotlight on us like a piece of art. Scrawled in marker on my body is my last name, Miller, and where I live, Saskatchewan, Canada.
No matter what happens to me, I won’t cry.
A double door opens at the far end of the room and all eyes turn. Men come spilling into the room. They are of all ages, sizes, ethnicities, but what unites them is the stupid grin on their faces.
What is it with men and helpless women? Grow some balls and earn respect the normal way. I wonder if women had been created stronger than men, would we have raped and pillaged our way throughout history.
I’d like to think not.
But there probably would have been more wars and they would have lasted centuries. The first person I’d wage a war on is my father.
The men are almost giddy, they are high fiving, looking around the room like kids at Christmas, all of them except one. He stands out from the crowd. His eyes are emotionless, and his expression is flat. Most of the men are wearing jeans, but he’s wearing a black dress shirt, with burgundy pants that match his tie.
I guarantee he’s an assassin, those cold eyes have definitely killed before, and I bet he prides himself on efficiency. I don’t know much about the auction, but did overhear that it’s for the mafia.
My attention is abruptly drawn away by two men grabbing my breasts. It wasn’t layed out to us what the men can do, but clearly by looking around, touching is allowed. I freeze, no man has ever seen me naked, and I’ve never been touched. Unlike my sister who went to a private school, I was home schooled, sheltered, neglected is a better term. My parents didn’t think they could have kids, so they adopted me, but when my sister, Julia came along she was their miracle baby.
“They are kind of perfect,” the tattooed muscle head says, groping my breasts.
“They’re a little small for me, but that could be fixed,” a guy with a long scar across his cheek says. I’d like to give him a matching scar.
They continue debating, pawing at my breasts, talking like I can’t hear them. They move onto my ass and one of them slaps me hard. It makes my feet lose contact with the ground, forcing me to swing back and forth. The rope burns and I wince trying to regain my footing but can’t.
“She didn’t like that,” the muscle head says. He slaps me again, and does it several more times and I groan, my body weight is straining my shoulders, my wrists are throbbing. I’d like to ask him if he’d like being treated like a piece of meat, but the official told us that if no man claims us, we’ll end up in a whore house. Marriage to a low-ranking mafia asshole is better than that.
I know they want me to cry, but I won’t.
The muscle head steps close to me and his overpowering cologne fills my nose making me want to gag. I gasp when he runs his fingers roughly between my legs. I try to move but he has a firm hold on me. There’s a surprise on his face when he holds his fingers up to the other guy. “She’s dry. My dick is going to like breaking this one.” He turns to his friend but keeps his hands on my most sensitive spot. “Can I marry a Canadian? He looks around the room at the other women. “She’s prettier than the rest,” he says and his friend nods.
“I’d pick her, but my mom will kill me if I don’t choose a Russian girl.”
The guy shrugs, then pulls out a sharpie and to my horror he writes his name on my body. That is how they claim us, they literally write on us. I’m going to be sick. When I look around the room, girls are crying while guys molest them.
I am going to murder my father if it’s the last thing I do. He will pay for doing this to me.
As the night progresses, it’s clear they can touch us wherever they want, but can’t fuck us or I guarantee they would. One guy even draws a dick on the side of my face, then puts his name beside it. The whole time, his friends are laughing their asses off. Their slimy hands grab my body like they own it, and I’m furious, but it’s how they talk about me that puts me over the edge. My blood boils, but I can’t show it, reminding myself that a whore house is the only other alternative.
They think they’re buying a helpless baby bird who can’t fly yet, but they’re buying a fucking lioness. I will wait, and one day will gain my own freedom. It’s not just my father I’ll kill, I’ll finish them off too.
My eyes return to the same mysterious figure I saw at the start. He didn’t walk around all night, he just sat on a chair in the corner, watching. When our eyes meet, he doesn’t look away and neither do I. Chills run along my body, this isn’t a heart fluttering moment, this man oozes danger.
Sobbing draws my attention away and when I look back, he’s looking elsewhere. The girl beside me is being spanked so hard, she’s crying out for help. She’s swinging back and forth; blood is dripping from her wrists. I probably have a dozen signatures on my body, she has over fifty.
Apparently, Russians are popular. I’m of Italian descent but have no ties to my roots. I don’t even like pasta.
“Five minutes left,” a guy announces over a loudspeaker in a thick accent. I can’t place it, but it sounds European. I knew the plane ride was long, I just didn’t know which direction we went.
The dark mysterious figure in the corner of the room stands up, adjusting his burgundy tie. When he gets closer, I can see his features better and they just keep improving the closer he gets. He has sun-kissed skin, dark thick black hair, and chiselled cheek bones that are to die for. His blue eyes lock onto mine and hold an intense gaze as he approaches me. Everything about his physical features are hot, but something about him is terrifying in a way that no other man here is.
Warning bells are going off in my head, maybe it’s my women’s intuition working on overdrive. In movies, he seems like the dark stranger you’d follow into an alley and he’d either kill you or fuck you. He might even do both.
He stops directly in front of me, but unlike every other guy here, he doesn’t touch me. Is something wrong with me, that that almost scares me more. His eyes don’t roam my body, he looks me dead in the eyes. Then he speaks in a chilling voice, “As my wife you will be my sex slave. I will fuck you however, and wherever I want. Once you’ve show me that you can please me, I’ll kill the man that sold you.”
He writes his name on my shoulder and walks away without another word.
It’s a mic drop moment if I’ve ever seen one.
