Oct 222014
 

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?

Apr 242013
 

bloody noseYou don’t have to pretend to even like the idea, but tolerance would have been nice. To know that you tolerated her.

But you didn’t.

She’ll let that cook. It’ll simmer till the rolling boil sets a hiss to the stove. And tears will flow like blood from a busted nose. Then – She’ll  be tolerated. She’ll be more than tolerated. She’ll be heard. ~TSD

There’s always a show. You don’t always have tickets.~Unknown

Jan 082013
 

Cum and ScentShe smelled like cum and naivete. If you turned your head just right you’d catch an easy mingling of her perfume and sweat.

Unforseen wet spots marked battles won and lost across her sheets. She wasn’t ready to get up, but couldn’t find comfort in a place that was so freshly marked.

The wetspots would wash away. The cum would rinse down the drain.

Just don’t forget my name.

May 102010
 

Trust is like a piece of paper, once it’s been crumpled up, it can never be completely flattened out again. It can never be thin and perfect. It can never flutter beautifully and be new. It’s it’s used and creased in a thousand places. Any tiny emotion can hide and fester in the many crevices. Thus begins …The Trust Issue.

I have to wonder if trust will ever stay fully intact (like that perfect sheet of paper) in any kind of real, long-lasting, honest relationship. There are bound to be a few, if even unintentional, dents and dings to it from time to time. It takes strength to stay with someone when the flowers aren’t in full bloom.

It’s often easier to give someone a second chance than to face the fact that once trust is gone, it’s incredibly hard to get back. The question of whether or not you can trust again can come quickly into play. Often, as soon as an incident has occurred and before both parties (especially the offended party) has time to process the incident; and the many emotions relating to it. One has to recover from the incident which caused the dents and dings to begin with.

Cry.

Be angry.

Get some space.

There’s no pressure to commit to jumping back into trusting anyone. Take your time and feel each emotion associated with the incident that occurred. Don’t let anything fester inside you that might resurface later and turn into baggage, poisoning relationships in the future.

Personally, I just need some time to hurt before I can think about giving someone the chance to dent me again. The fact that you can stay after any ding or dent to the trust that’s already been established says that you have confidence in what you’ve built together. It says that you believe that whatever might have happened to cause the dings or dents in the trust that you had originally built weren’t done maliciously and can be forgiven in hopes of better things to come.

I found myself thinking about how one might prevent from subconsciously building a wall there to guard against any bigger damage. How do you not replay and then resent the dings and dents until you find yourself making them bigger? I think taking your time and working through them is the best answer. If you really want something, you have to work for it, right?

It ain’t easy to invest in another person, especially when they’re asking you and really wanting you to say ‘yes,’ and everyone knows that it’s always harder to tell someone ‘no’, regardless if it’s better for you in the long run. Let’s face it, the majority of us tend to think with our hearts. We give in.

Instead, let me ask you this… “Why should I offer anymore of myself into someone who threw away my initial investment?” It pretty much goes against everything I preach to my mirror about self worth and the importance of knowing who you are and what you stand for. Where do you draw the line? Who do you cross that line for?

“Truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.”~ Bob Marley