The Warehouse

She was barefoot. The busty brunette thrashed at her handlers. Her sandals flew off her feet when she kicked. She was through the back of a strip-mall office and into an empty warehouse.

They pushed her against a dark, dusty van and frisked her thoroughly. A man’s hands wove around her. They dove beneath her clothes. He handed off her keyring, cellphone, and sunglasses. She had a small change purse that held $13.67, Sunshine Kissed lip gloss, and her driver’s license. They took that, too.

She was Lucy. Lucy Bernard.

She screeched in protest. Pressure on points of Lucy’s body and odd holds on appendages competed with her adrenalin. She succumbed to them physically, after they conquered her fight or flight mode. She was a mess of herself. Lucy was on her knees, her arms pulled up behind her back. Her head bent forward like a P.O.W. She cried, her hair stuck to her face and her nose ran. She promised she’d be still.

The men who wrangled her kept a tight hold. They pulled her up into an awkward walking position. Her wet face streaked it’s way down the dusty van. They shoved her in the back, releasing her into the dark body of the dirty cab.

They made stops. They picked up more girls. Most of the women were drugged, unconscious, or barely lucid. The vehicle came to a halt. The women inside rolled towards the cab of the vehicle. Lucy was the first one in. She’d wedged herself between the hump in the back of the van, and the back of the cab. She tucked her knees under her chin. With every stop, the number of women grew. She pulled her arms inside her shirt and curled up, full of dread and fear. The bodies piled in.

The back of the van doors opened. Lucy was momentarily blinded by the harsh florescents. Some of the girls exited the filthy vehicle on their own. They wobbled and stumbled out, their mind’s muddied. Some women fell out and onto each other. They all cried out, either in fear or pain. Some had to be pulled into their new hell. A bald man dove in by the waist to drag out the terrified women.

The bald man was short and wide. His fat was hard. It was thick. His thin comb-over was a joke. He smelled of cigars and piss. Hair easily found every part of him except the top of his head. His entire body was covered with thick, hairy sweat. A gritty filth.

Lucy scooted out of her hole with the intention of exiting on her own. The circulation in her legs disagreed with her. The familiar feeling of pins and needles ran up her legs. Just as her ass lifted, it fell. Her ankle became prey to the fat man’s onslaught. The wife-beater he wore was rolled-up over his big belly. He drug her down the length of the van. He juiced Lucy’s bare leg with his thick, hairy sweat. It left a sheen of stink to set into her already dirty skin.

The scrambling and falling of bodies kicked up the dirt on the ground. When her ankle was free, Lucy fell, too. She landed hard, on her hip. Before she could get off a reactionary rub, a metal cuff came to a grinding lock across her wrist. A fog of men in dirty workman’s uniforms pulled the women up and cuffed their wrists over a long horizontal pole made of thick metal. It ran the length of the warehouse.

Every few feet were sectioned off with three walls of wet concrete and drains in the bottom. The men cut off their clothes. Protests fell on deaf ears. There were women who cried. There were women who begged not to be touched.

The women were sent down the line. The warehouse men had different responsibilities. There were two in front of the line, and two behind. Four of them cut away clothing. Women were sent further on to be hosed down. Each of them were sudded-up. Their hair, inside their ass cheeks, cunts, feet, in between their toes. The men took no sexual liberties with the women. They might as well have been putting together cars. It was a job. The women were all rinsed clean. The men unlocked their cuffs. A warehouse man allowed Lucy and the others to towel dry at gunpoint.

The women were given clean grey sweatpants, sweatshirts, and flip-flops. As they dried off and changed into the clothes, the bald man read a list of all their names. Like roll call in school, each woman answered “here” or raised their hand when their name was called.

“Lucy Bernard!” The bald man yelled out over the mumbling.

Lucy tentatively raised her hand.

Once he was finished with the list, the bald man grinned.

“Ok, ladies… listen up. In about 15 minutes, a few SUV’s are going to arrive to take you to your new owners. I don’t get the rest of my money until all orders have been delivered! So you bitches sit down and shut-up,” he announced.

Lucy was on the third knot of the sweatpants, trying to keep them on her hips. She paused momentarily, listening.

Owners…

We were ordered?

Cleaning Property

The sun lifted and beamed through the two small windows in the room. It penetrated her face in some spots more clearly than others. When she tried to open her eyes, one wouldn’t. It was too swollen closed. The other had an inflamed cut across the eyebrow. She had limited vision. He had punched her in the face.

Her hands automatically went for her eyes. She found her wrists bound, along with her ankles. They were shackled to the small, iron bed she was laying on. The thin mattress that she was laying on was as naked as she was. She wondered if it was as dirty too. The side of the bed pressed against the long wall.  All she had to do was look down the foot of the bed to see him leaned on his shoulder, up against the doorway.

He must have heard the chains rattling. “Morning, pet.” She just lay there, in silence, frozen, and determined. The tension was in an elevator on it’s way to the penthouse.

“Don’t do it.” He shook his head, took his baseball cap off, raked his nails through his hair then re-positioned his cap. It was a habit she recognized. He shook his head again, looking at the floor and talking with one hand, the other still tucked under his arm.

“Are you going to try that thing where you cut yourself off emotionally? Because I think we both remember how well that worked out for you last time.”

“No,” her voice came out like a horse whisper; so she lay her head back, cleared her throat and tried again. “No. I’m just… trying to figure …everything out, and I’m tired and hurt.” She wasn’t in any physical or mental shape to earn his ire.  She didn’t know what was coming next, either.

He swaggered into the room and took a seat on the mattress beside her, then looked to the only other piece of furniture in the room which was a St. Andrew’s cross. He looked back at her.

“This used to be my playroom. Now, this is your room, but I don’t have room for that anywhere else in the house. You want to take a shower, get something to eat, maybe let me look at that eye?”

She warily nodded. He unlocked her feet first and then moved to her hands. She squeaked out an expression of gratitude. Before he unlocked her left wrist her stopped and let his elbows fall to her knees, and his face to the floor. “Thank you… what, pet?”

Her stomach sank. She hoped that by omitting that one word she hadn’t undone herself and his willingness to be gentle, even for as long as it would last.

He flipped her over. The jerk to her body almost jammed her one still chained wrist. One of his hands seemed to put his entire body weight on the side of her face. She could barely breathe. She felt the springs against her cheeks. His other hand slapped her ass until she finally got it high enough for his liking.

She screamed the word “Master,” endlessly. She felt something smooth enter her pussy and she lifted her ass for it. She spread her legs for it. Everything else hurt, but her cunt felt good. He said nothing the entire time, but pulled out before she could finish.

Just like she knew him, he knew her. He let her head up and covered her eyes with his hand, pushing whatever he’d fucked her with into her mouth. She could obviously taste her own juices.

“Clean it.”

She did. He uncovered her eyes.  He held the length of his hunting knife in his hands, inspecting how well she cleaned the butt of it.

She cried.

They Don’t Run

He stopped the car in the middle of the winding road, and her in mid-sentence. It was dark, and the forest loomed over them on either side. His headlights, alone, chased the shadows away. He told her to run. Her face read shock as he slowly unlocked the doors. She slowly exited the car, silent, and with a head full of trepidation. Having never taken his eyes off the road, he didn’t start now, “If I catch you, I’m going to hurt you. Run fast, little girl.”  That last part he had used a little sing-song voice, which was only a bit terrifying.

She wasn’t sure if it was the “woosh” of the car speeding away, or if the door shut by her own hand. She was still in spin mode. The high trees of the forest promised him to be a liar, but in an instant, her own fear took over. Her boots hit the few feet of pavement that she had left. She bolted. He grinned as he watched her from the rear view mirror.

He could smell her, even as he left her standing there. With the open door, he could smell the moisture in the air, and feel the coolness of the evening. She had on a thick sweater, jeans, and boots, but glancing in the backseat sunk his entire face into a frown. He wouldn’t be able to let her run as far as he wanted.  He parked, straightened his jacked, and headed right for the deep woods.

She tore through the woods like a pixie/linebacker hybrid. Never had she been so light on her feet, yet taken such big, tumbling hits as this. She was going for distance. He had figured. She wasn’t the hiding type. He listened to her coming for almost thirty seconds before he broke into a full force run in her direction. The noise that he was making was overridden by hers. He wrapped her up when he hit her, full force, from the side. The impact sent them both tumbling.

After the two of them had stopped moving, he stood up and moved over her. She was making a sad attempt at crab-crawling backwards and mumbling with that fat lip she had scored. Her only weapons were the dead leaves she’d kicked up while trying to stand. He wasn’t smiling. He was grinning. He circled around her, closely.

Her mumbling became louder and it developed into a begging sob, lowering back down to her knees, as if to say that he’d physically beaten her. Her nose was pink and running. She tried to scream, but her throat was raw, from the huffing and puffing of running and falling.

She smelled so perfect for him. He just couldn’t understand what this one lacked. What to do?!  What to do?!  His fingers tightened into tight fists and he slammed one against his head. He took a deep breath, and then he remembered…

I don’t like it when they don’t run.

I don’t like it when they don’t play.

Pack it away for another day.

With a few deep breaths and a good straightening to his coat, he became much more controlled. Every move became more calculated. Every step seemed pre-planned. She wondered if she’d ever even had a chance.

His hands wrapped around layers of denim and boot leather, pulling her a bit at a time across the forest’s floor. Her head bobbled up and down with each little bump or lump. He chucked to no one about how agreeable and less opinionated she had suddenly become; but chloroform will do that to a girl.

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Tiptoe

I don’t have a call. I don’t have a sign. There is not a moonlight reminder. Monsters come when they come. And you know this is more then you can take.

Still – His scent can’t be ignored. Tiptoe if you don’t want them to notice. ‘Cause they know. You always want what you’re running from. They love they way you cry. They love the way you want to. For them.

If you wander across a Monster, and you decide to dance, then a little cut will turn his head. A Monster loves his prey. He will eat you. He will break you. He will take you. Apart. Do you love it? Do you want it? Do you need it? Does  it make it impossible to tiptoe?

Sultry Saturday