{CHIARA}
I don't belong here.
The harsh, bright lights shone down against my clammy skin as I sucked in a shaky breath, wishing I could wake from this nightmare. Men wearing expensive business suits filled the dark room, their chilling stares sailing over my lingerie-clad body like I was a piece of meat.
They're nothing but sick hunters searching for their next victim. Tears of humiliation lingered on my cheeks as fear and rage pound through my veins like a lethal cocktail, threatening to take me out. And for the first time in my life, I wish it would.
A thick, black harness decorates my body, starting at my throat like a choker. It travels over my shoulder and to my tits, making geometric shapes across my skin. Bands strap around my ribs then down to my waist, connecting to my thighs like suspenders. I wear a matching thong with my long golden hair pulled back into a tight pony to complete the look.
If it weren't for the messed-up situation I was in, I might even consider buying something like this for myself. But wearing it in front of all these strangers makes me feel like a used whore.
The first night as their captive, they threw me into a cold, dark cell, and eventually, the distant cries of other prisoners lulled me into an uneasy sleep. I started awake hours later to a bucket of ice-cold water thrown over my head, and as I screamed for help, a group of men stripped me from my work uniform. Their hands were all over me, scrubbing me clean and cataloging my every scar, tattoo, and piercing.
Presently, standing here this cage as a pawn in their sick game, I realize this is only the beginning.
There are at least four or five other girls I can see, each of them locked in identical cages around the room and dressed just like me–hooker heels and dark makeup–under the watchful eye of the asshole in charge.
I don't know his name, only that he has the most sinister stare I've ever seen, watching us like a hawk, his sharp gaze missing nothing.
The room is like some kind of underground warehouse
decked out with a bar and dirty couches. Men linger in every available space, their gazes sailing over the caged women with interest. Their designer suits and expensive Rolexes warn me that these are the type of men who are not used to the word no.
Some are older, probably looking for a girl to suck their dicks because their wives won't anymore. In contrast, others are younger, mid-thirties with sickening stares. The new generation of business rapists who purchase women like it's an elite sport and boast over a glass of whiskey just how hard he hit it.
Is this what my life is going to be? A bought whore for a sinister man?
Glancing at the other girls, I see them looking around, just as I am, with nothing but defeat in their eyes. We all know the likelihood of getting out of here is non-existent. And I hate to say it, but if I got free somehow, l'd take off at a million miles an hour, never looking back.
It's every woman for themselves.
A filthy old man steps up to my cage, his sickening gaze trailing up and down my body as his eyes fill with hunger, a nearly empty glass of whiskey resting in his hand. He must be well into his seventies, old enough to be sporting wrinkly balls and leaky cock. He carries himself with an air of importance, and I bet he's the CEO of some bullshit Fortune 500 company, raking in billions of dollars. He's probably got countless sexual assault charges against him from all the secretaries he's abused, though I'm sure each case is mysteriously resolved before seeing a courtroom.
His wife probably got fed up with the embarrassment of it all and told him to go purchase himself a whore. I wonder if this is what the old bitch had in mind.
"What's your name, girl?" he rumbles, his deep tone
making my skin crawl.
I fix him with a dead stare and indicate the nameplate on the top corner of my cage. "What? Don't you read?" I
question.
The old man's gaze shifts up to the nameplate, probably not used to having a young woman speak to him in such a tone. "Misty?" he says with a scoff. "You and I both know that's not your real name. Who are you?"
A grin pulls at my lips, and I let him see exactly what kind of woman he'll be dealing with if he doesn't fuck off and leave me alone. Gripping the bars, I lean in close, watching the way his eyes fill with hesitation. "I'm your worst fucking nightmare."
Without warning, something flashes in his eyes, and his hand shoots through the bars and grips my throat. "You want to put up a fight, little girl? I'll give you something to fight about."
My heart races, fear filling my veins as my airway narrows, but there's no way in hell l'm about to let this asshole get the best of me. My arm snaps out, my fingers knotting into his thinning hair, and with every last bit of strength I possess, I yank him hard toward me, his nose crushing against the iron bars of the cage.
He roars out in pain, and as blood gushes from his nose, he releases me to clutch his face. "You bitch," he spits, gaining the attention of the men around him. Some of them who'd disregarded me before now watch me with keen interest.
The old man reaches for me again, but I spring back out of the way, my back slamming against the bars of my cage. He goes to say something when the big burly security guard from the door shoves him back, stepping in front of the cage and blocking my view. "You know the rules," he grumbles, in a thick accent I can't place.
"Touch the girls before purchase, and you'll lose your right to bid."
"She broke my fucking nose," he argues. "What am I supposed to say to my wife?"
"Tell her you're a handsy fuck who got his ass beat by some bitch," he says, shoving him back. "You want to touch, you pay up first."
"I want her punished," he insists, making my back stiffen.
"Not my fucking problem," he growls. "Purchase her first, then do whatever the fuck you want to her. Until then, keep your hands off."
With that, the security guard gives him another shove, pushing him deeper into the crowd, leaving me to the slew of men who probably have some fucked-up rape fetish.
These are the kind of guys who get off on beating women. I know their type from years of working at the bar. Holding down a woman and taking what they want makes them feel big. These are the type of men who play sick games when they think no one is looking, but I'd rather die than be one of their toys.
Another man approaches, maybe mid-fifties, and while he doesn't look as wicked as the last, there's definitely
something poisonous in his eyes. "You know how to fuck, girl?" he questions, his gaze narrowing as he glances at my body.
I scoff. There's no way in hell l'm entertaining this line of questioning. "Why don't you go home and fuck your wife?"
His gaze narrows as he lifts his chin, making some kind of assumption about me. "Virgin then?"
Ah, this man has particular tastes. Why am I not surprised to find it is virgin kinks in here? He's definitely looking in the wrong place if that's what he thinks he'll get from me. I like cock. Big ones, small ones, angry, and pierced. But the ones with that slight curve, goddamn, they're my favorite. I wouldn't call myself a slut exactly, but I'm not known for being shy when it comes to asking for what I need.
Though, there's no way in hell the men in this room will ever know that.
Glancing away, I let him make up his own mind about me, and when he scoffs in distaste, I find myself looking back.
"You're just a common whore, aren't you?" he says, almost sounding disappointed. "What about your ass? Ever had someone claim that?"
Realizing he won't stop until he knows just how many cherries I've popped, I step right into the bars, letting my tits squish up against the cold metal. "You're right. I'm nothing but a common whore, the perfect little slut. I've had more cocks buried in my ass than you could imagine," I tell him. "I'm not the sweet little innocent bitch you're looking for."
He watches me for a moment longer, and when he finally steps away, I feel a weight dropping off my shoulders. As he walks away in disappointment, I realize my mistake. I should have played the part of a little angel. He would have purchased me, taken me home, and fucked me until I bled, but then it would have been over. He would have been done with me. I would have been thrown aside and he'd be out searching for the next innocent girl. Instead, one of the
other sick men will own me and use me until there's nothing left to give.
While it would have been the worst moment of my life, it might have been my only chance at freedom.
Glancing around the room, my gaze sweeps past the bar to find the asshole with the broken nose, his lethal stare locked onto mine, and I know without a doubt he's not going to let this go. He'll be bidding on me tonight, and he won't stop until he wins.
Swallowing hard, I try not to let my hands shake, but it's like asking myself for the impossible. My heart races erratically, pounding in my ears and drowning out the sounds of the underground warehouse.
I need this to be over. I need to get out of here.
Gripping the bars again, I try not to cry. I've been doing
what I can to fend these assholes off, but in doing that, I'm only forcing their attention on the other girls in the room.
The nasty tone and bite in my words aren't real, and it will only be so long until one of those assholes sees right through my facade to the scared little girl hidden within.
Time seems to slow, and I feel as though I've been standing here for hours. With everyone confident about where they want to place their bids, most of the men in the room have resigned to talking shit between themselves while sipping on their drinks, leaving us girls in peace.
However, that doesn't change the fact that I've felt their sickening stares on my body all night long.
My feet ache in these heels, and I'm on the brink of passing out when a loud static squeal of a microphone tears through the warehouse. My blood turns cold as an auctioneer takes his place on a pedestal overlooking the crowd.
"Gentlemen, if I could kindly have your attention. Tonight's event is about to commence.".