by Xavier Neal
“Chantal was sold to a man named Jonathan Cobb.”
“Quel figlio di puttana!” Miko shouts at the top of his lungs.
That son of a bitch!
My sentiment is silently shared.
“Almeno posso finalmente ucciderlo.”
At least I can finally kill him.
“Sounds as though you two are more than acquainted,” Shay promptly teases.
“We are,” I politely inform not wanting nor needing to provide her with specifics.
The less ammo she’s directly given to keep us in line the better.
“I’ve wanted to shoot him for years,” Miko mindlessly confesses to her at the same time he leans back in his seat. “Beni said he’d consider it for my birthday.”
“Something tells me, little mouse, that it’ll be Beni making the kill.”
He frowns knowing it’s the truth.
“Especially knowing what Chantal is being subjected to on that island.”
Females are considered…toys. Objects for his pleasure. Objects to impress his friends. Even objects to persuade business deals or social agendas to go more favorably for him. They aren’t always of age and most – like my future wife that’s waiting to be rescued – aren’t willing participants, to my understanding.
I don’t know all of the dark and deranged details.
It’s not my job, and before now, it was never my concern.
Our business relationship has always been simple.
He has an account.
It’s fulfilled the same as it would be for any other client.
However, since he’ll be dead within a day or so, it’s safe to consider it closed.
“I’m not a fan of Cobb myself, but that has more to do with his persistence in trying to buy a pair of my used panties from my maids rather than anything else.”
“E qui ho pensato che non avrei potuto volerlo uccidere di più,” Miko angrily growls.
And here I thought I couldn't want to kill him more.
“Blushing, little mouse.”
My second purses his lips to the side to prevent himself from saying anything else revealing.
“His personal yacht was used to transfer her to Cobb’s private island – the only task the mercs were actually tasked with. From that location, the team was picked up by a helicopter and transported to the nearest private airstrip. Once there, they departed their respective ways.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Yesterday.”
Relief that she hasn’t been in his possession long drops onto my shoulders.
“I’ll be calling back with a time and location for convening. At the meeting, my rescue team will reveal to you a layout of the island, his home, and an extraction plan. I expect you’ll want to participate in the procedure, so I’ll make sure they’re aware of that fact when creating it.”
“Grazie.”
“Mmhm.” There’s a small pause presented between statements. “Little Mouse?”
His refusal to accept the nickname is clear by the glaring he’s giving her, despite the fact she can’t actually see him.
“I’ll have my picture within the hour, or I’ll put a leash on you to help refresh your memory of your place in my life. It worked well for a friend. I imagine it’ll work well for me.”
The small sound of a kiss being blown from her is proceeded by a click.
His grumble is instant, “Non sono un topo.”
I am not a mouse.
“And, I’m damn sure not a little one.” He leans to one side of his chair. “And my dick is-”
“È abbastanza.”
That’s enough.
His eyes drag themselves away from the device on the table.
Once our stares are locked, I proclaim, “I will…I will find a way to get you out of this as soon as Chantal’s home.”
Miko’s smirk is equally soft and mischievous. “There are worse fates to meet, Beni.”
“Than being…a…,” my hand flails around in search of the proper phrase, “schiava del sesso?!”
Sex slave.
“Sì.”
“Miko-”
“You believe the glass to be half empty. Me?” The grin on his face grows wild. “I’m simply grateful there’s whiskey inside.”
Outrage doesn’t hesitate to lunge onto my expression.
“Huh,” he lets go of a small chuckle, “sounds like there’s now two philosofuckers in the family.”
I hastily move to counter the statements he’s made yet am interrupted again.
“What do you say we focus on bringing home our favorite girl, sì?”
His choice of words momentarily pushes away the indignation, which causes me to quietly inquire, “Our?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go auctioning off my dick for anything less.”
It’s my turn to laugh and, to my surprise, it’s louder – as well as longer – than expected.
He happily watches on.
Lets his smile stay plastered bright.
Allows me to indulge in a taste of our old life before reaching to enjoy a taste of what’s melting in his bowl.
When the humor finally fades, I reach for my phone again. “I need to make a call.”
“For?”
“Arrangements.”
His brow crinkles between bites. “That’s my job.”
“It is, but there are some very special people I promised I would reach out to for…aid when the time came.”
Miko’s confusion remains. “She’s providing us with a team. Were you not listening?” He shakes his head on another scoop up of gelato. “That’s also my job. My job is to not listen. Your job is to do extra listening to compensate for it. You’re fucking up our flow.”
I roll my eyes prior to sighing, “Yes, I heard her say she was providing us with a team. I’ll just be providing them with…assistance, so to speak.”
“Assistance from who?”
A few men I know will appreciate the opportunity to avenge one of their own in a rather unique way.
Chapter 5
“Daddy likes red lipstick,” the brainwashed brunette I’ve named “Favorite” announces as she removes the lid off the tube. “He says it’s the prettiest color on his prettiest princesses.”
I don’t know what’s creepier.
Her Stepford way of speaking or his Stepford collection for raping.
It’s only been one full day here, and I find myself contemplating the idea of suicide rather than living like this.
Yesterday was one of those days I wanna forget.
That I pray I somehow learn to.
People picture torture equating to being tied up and beaten.
Punched.
Kicked.
Stabbed.
Electrocuted.
People hear that word and think a day in the life of James Bond.
But what I’ve been enduring?
I’ll be damned if anyone tries to label it anything less.
I was dragged into the house by his security, thrown into a room decorated for what I can only label as an eight-year-old girl, and mauled by his most trusted slaves while he watched in glee from a chair nearby that he had brought in. They ripped, yanked, and tugged my clothes off of me so that he could admire me naked.
Gawk.
Drool.
Stroke himself off just staring at me.
They held me in place, which was impressive considering their petite sizes, and did everything he said without hesitation.
Orders were given to lift my tits. Squeeze them together. Tug at my nipples ‘til they were hard. My lips down below were spread to expose a view of the insides. They turned me around and bent me over the bed to give him a view of everything from behind. I was forcefully rotated through positions, some on my knees, some on my back, others on my feet, and he stroked himself the entire time. He came. Wheezed. And started again. For what felt like hours, I was molested by these women who, at times, appeared to be enjoying it, not because t
hey found it sexually arousing, but because they liked seeing him pleased with them.
Hearing his praises.
I didn’t cry where Cobb could see; however, the minute he left to do…whatever creepy fucks like him do…and commanded the girls follow him, leaving me locked up completely alone, I bawled.
I cried until I threw up and cried some more.
The room – that’s now labeled my room – is vacant to anything fucking useful for killing him or them. It’s pink and purple. Decorated in princess castles and sparkles. The bed is much too tiny for an adult human being, along with the tiny table and chairs for “tea parties”. There are toys – all soft and plushy – that Cobb expects to be played with when I’m physically out of his presence.
I was given a schoolgirl outfit to begrudgingly wear to dinner where he explained his rules and expectations. During the meal, he had one of his “princesses” sit on his lap so he could feed and finger her.
Mortification doesn’t begin to touch on the feeling that hit me while listening to being told that I would learn to, essentially, behave like a literal cock sucking child. Each time I opened my mouth to state my refusal, food was taken off of my plate – not that I was going to eat anyway. The empty plate made using it as a weapon against the maid who tried to force me back into my seat easier, but my escape itself didn’t get past the bulky pair of guards waiting right on the other side of the door. They dragged me kicking and screaming to my room where I was forced to stand naked in the corner by gunpoint until my knees buckled under the weight. Behind me I could hear Cobb moaning and grunting and fucking one or maybe multiple girls, but I didn’t care.
It didn’t matter.
The only thing my racing mind could think of was did I have the strength to get through another day of this.
A single. Fucking. Day.
I fell asleep where I collapsed on the floor.
I was left there until this morning when it was time for breakfast.
Breakfast went similar to dinner – finger fucking and feeding included – except this time instead of bitch slapping a maid to make an escape, I waited until we were finished, and I was to be escorted to “bath time” to try to find somewhere else to hide. I bolted down the hallway, frantically running to anywhere that wasn’t where he was, and was caught shortly after by a member of security.
So far, I’ve counted six different members and met seven different girls.
Part of me fears there are many more of both.
Having more information versus less is the only reason I am considering the escape attempts not to have been futile.
Bath time consisted of him watching this bitch currently putting lipstick on me scrub me down in bubbles while he let the blonde I’ve labeled “Dead Eye Princess” – the one who was at his side at my arrival – suck him off. Somewhere between his grunting and groaning, he promised me, he’d have me, too. That there were just certain measures that had to be followed first.
Claimed sexual shit with him was a “reward” for his “good princesses”.
The idea of drowning myself swiftly became as strong as the one for drowning him.
But, something in the back of my brain keeps nagging me to fight a little longer.
It reminds me that they can touch and torture my frame, but they can’t touch and violate my mind without my permission.
It ensures me that my thoughts and feelings are still sacred.
Mine.
Maybe that niggling is the ghost of Dad reassuring me I’ll make it out of here if I just…hold on a bit more.
Fight a bit longer.
Or, maybe it’s just my heart reminding me that the love of my life won’t stop searching until he has me back in his arms and is protecting me from everyone and everything.
Whatever it is…is what I’m clutching onto.
It’s what I’ve been clutching onto all afternoon as they put my hair in pigtails.
As they forced me into a tiny teddy that the “guests” are going to love seeing me in.
As they paint me like a little doll from head to toe for “Daddy”.
They’ve been rambling like broken records, giggling like schoolgirls, and working on me like their lives depend on it.
Who knows?
Maybe it fucking does.
Being here in Favorite’s room actually helped provide me with more useful information. On our way from bath time, which took place on the second floor near the room I’m currently occupying, to this Barbie dreamhouse that’s located towards the back of the first floor, I was able to spot where the servants’ quarters were – to possibly steal a cleaning solution I can make some sort of makeshift pepper spray out of – and, more importantly, where the keys to the vehicles are hung. And, post my first escape attempt at dinner, I spotted a door that appeared to lead to a garage.
I don’t remember exactly which one, but a general idea is better than nothing.
All I have to do is get a key, hide it, and wait for another chance to make a break for it.
Fuck, I’ll drive until I run out of gas and then live in the wilderness like I’m goddamn Tarzan.
Anything is better than this.
Favorite leans forward to apply the lipstick. “You’re gonna look so-”
I swiftly angle my mouth to the side and sink my teeth into her wrist.
The tube crashes to the ground on a squeak.
“You’re mean!” She pouts during her descent to retrieve it.
Yeah, I’m about to get a whole lot meaner in an effort to get to her en suite bathroom where a couple bottles of hairspray are just sitting out on the counter.
Grab those.
Spray these bitches.
Spray the guard on the outside of the room.
Take his gun while he’s distracted by the unexpected pain in his stare and shoot my way to those car keys.
I’ve got a helluva shot.
Favorite’s face is swiftly assaulted by my knee crashing into her nose. Her squeal of agony is so loud that Russian Princess – the chick holding my wrists down while Polynesian Princess paints my nails – releases her hold. The element of surprise plays in my favor as I predicted. With free hands, I immediately throw a punch into Russian Princess’s face. Her head bobs backwards and her back bumps into the vanity. I strike her again in the abdomen, first high, then low, to make sure she is immobilized for a bit longer – knowing she’s my biggest threat in this room. Groans of discomfort pump out of her while I dodge an attempted grab by Redhead Princess, who was resting on the bed since her task of hair mastery had been completed. Her first swipe at tackling me doesn’t deter from trying a second. Or a third. She keeps coming after me around the room like the Twat Terminator, forcing me to move in a less direct path to my destination. I throw random objects I come across at her face, but unfortunately, most objects are too soft to do damage. Eventually, I stumble upon items that make for better weaponry, which would be amazing if I didn’t have more active attackers. Redhead, Russian, and Favorite create a semicircle as if this is the best way to trap the wild animal they believe I am. Propelled handfuls of dollhouse toys act like grenades. The little pieces are basically shrapnel and their responses are theatrically girly. They squeak. They huff. They swat anyway whatever they can with tiny hits while I continue my advance on the bathroom. With the sanctuary now just steps away, I dart to the threshold, the sweet aroma of achievement wafting through the air.
I slam the door the instant I’m inside, lock it, and bark a taunting, “Ha!”
Before I can make another move, a tiny arm is swung around my neck locking me in place. The unexpected attack is proceeded by a sharp prick to the neck. Polynesian Princess plants a soft kiss on my cheek and whispers, “It’s okay, Princess. Mr. Raven prefers them pretty much unconscious, anyway…”
My eyes fight to stay open in tandem with my body jerking to free itself.
Sadly, in spite of all my efforts to remain aware and attentive and able to reach for something in close pro
ximity to hit her in the face with, the drug claims victory in a short period of time, once more, rendering me absolutely defenseless.
Chapter 6
Roth, head of Shay’s team, plants his hands on the deck table of the yacht we’re using for the operation. “Let’s run through this one more time.”
I’m grateful for the command.
I’m also grateful he’s in command.
Not only does he possess impressive credentials, but he also has no issue maintaining control over his team or mine.
The seven men I called in to assist all once worked with Luther.
One during his time in the Marines, the rest while he was a merc. Reporting his death to them felt like I was making a next of kin call I never saw myself making. I answered questions that they had.
Gave the half-assed explanation that I could.
Listened to them remind me what a damn good man he was.
How he always had a way of making people laugh.
Feel comfortable.
That that was his true skillset.
Each vowed at the end of the call that they would be there to help bring Luther’s daughter home if needed. It didn’t matter the day or time of night. One call and they’d drop everything else for this. They knew vengeance for his wrongful death was something I was already on top of, so the offer to help return his daughter back to where she belonged felt like the second most comparable offering they could conclude.
Miko was ecstatic to have them, not wanting to only rely on the one source.
Shay didn’t seem affected by the additional men.