Delivering His Heir

by Jesse Jordan

  The room isn't that big, about twenty feet across and maybe thirty feet long. On three sides of the room, away from the double door that looks like it's solid steel are cages just like mine. Most of them are filled from what I can see, some of them girls like me, naked and just standing or sitting on their scraps of carpet. Some of the cages have girls that look like they're not so much sleeping as they're knocked out. Most of the cages are too small for them to even be laid out properly, their arms and legs just stuffed in at uncomfortable angles.

  What happened?

  I try to think back, and all I get are fuzzy, swimmy images. I was on a beach.... somewhere with a lot of old buildings.... a man, offering to buy me a drink..... a nightclub.....

  I feel like it's starting to come back to me, but it's still so jumbled, and I'm still not sure what the hell's going on. I remember a little bit more about myself, like the fact that I'm American, and I just graduated from Rutgers in December.... I came to Europe for a vacation... but there's still so much...

  A thick, fearful moan comes from my right, and I notice for the first time the men that are in the room. One look, and I can see that they're criminals of some kind, their upper bodies covered in crude but distinctly patterned tattoos, twisting and interlocking over their chests, arms and even for some of them on their hands and necks. For most of them, their skin is swarthy, almost with an interior shine that at first glance you'd think would be sweat, but seems more likely to be oil. It's really far too cool to have anyone sweat, even if they're sort of clothed and I'm as naked as the day I was born.

  The moan comes from the girl at the end of the line, one of two cells that're maybe slightly larger than the rest because they make up the bottom of the U-shape in the cells. She's awake but looks groggy, not fully aware of where she is. Then again, I'm not too sure of where I am.

  “What's wrong, baby? You were loving it last time,” one of the thugs down on the end say in a heavily accented voice. If I were to make a guess, I'd say the Middle East, but I'm no master of languages. Well, at least I don't think I am. For some reason I think I like chemicals, whatever that means.

  “No.... I said no..... last time too,” the girl futilely protests. “I don't want....”

  “Don't you get it yet? You don't get to decide what you want any more,” the same thickly accented thug says before smacking one of his compatriots on the chest. “Hassim here's never had a Canadian girl before. It'd be impolite to say no. You fuck him good, you get better owner for later. We put in good word for you, you get kind owner who pays big money for you. Big money owners take care their slaves, don't want to lose their investment.”

  “Really?” the girl asks miserably, and the thug nods. I can tell that he's lying, I can hear it in the mocking tone of his voice, but this girl is too dulled to notice, or maybe she's too broken down to think clearly and she believes the lie. Instead, she nods, her spirit broken as she backs up the few feet that her cell gives her. Hassim opens the cage door, already reaching for the belt on his filthy, crusted work pants, and even here, halfway down the line, I can see the disgust on the girl's face as she sees whatever it is he pulls out.

  “Don't worry, it look bad but feel good,” the English speaking thug says as Hassim takes the girl and pushes her to her knees. “It's just a scar, not a disease.”

  I can't watch any more, I'm too horrified even though maybe there's a lesson in this that I can use. Instead I turn away, forcing my eyes shut but unable to block out the sounds of the girl's cries of pain.

  “Hey, new girl.... hey, the tag says Jessica.”

  Jessica, that's right. My name's Jessica, Jessica Prince. I open my eyes to see another thug outside my cell, an amused smile on her face. He's not the same one that was speaking before, he's skinnier, and while he's still thuggish, his accent's different, and he looks slightly more intelligent. “You look like you don't like the fun and games. What, are you some stuck up tight cunt?”

  “It's fucking disgusting,” I reply, staring at his hideous face. “That's not fun and games. She's getting raped.”

  “And it won't be the first time. It sure as fuck won't be the last,” the man says, laughing. “You new, so let me explain. This is the slave pens, where we gather our shipment to send to our customers. I hope you like hot, because you're going to be very, very hot in a few months in your new home.”

  “Fuck you,” I growl, spitting at his feet. “I'm an American citizen, you can't do this to me.”

  “Ooooh, an American citizen!” the thug taunts, stepping back and raising his hands as if he's afraid. “Hey guys, we got a real American citizen here!”

  A few of the other thugs, hearing their compatriot's laughing jibe, turn, intrigued in the new entertainment as apparently Hassim raping the Canadian girl has gotten boring. About half of them, four or five, peel off to come over, their eyes drinking me in greedily as they look me over from head to toe. As they do, they make comments like I'm some sort of animal at a 4H Club show.

  “E un culo fabuloso!”

  “She real woman, not girl.”

  “Pretty face... very pretty face.”

  “She's a ride and a half!”

  There's other comments, but I can't understand them, or perhaps the language or accent is too strong for me to pick up. All I know is I can feel their eyes roaming over me, and it disgusts me.

  It's not that I'm naked. I'm proud of my body, and they're right, I am a real woman, more woman than these fuckwits can handle. What disgusts me is that they think that they're able to handle me. They think that I'm nothing more than big tits, a good looking face, and a sweet ass. They think that I'm easy to deal with.

  Wait, where the hell is all this coming from? Doesn't matter, I'm not gonna stop.

  “You limp dicks look like you couldn't last two minutes with me,” I taunt back, feeling my anger rising. I see one of them that I couldn't understand, but I can understand the look in his eyes and way he's licking his lips. “If you even got a chance. What'd you last there, Mushmouth? Thirty seconds, if you even got it in?”

  The men, those who understand English at least, laugh. It seems I'm entertainment. The man I taunted is needled by his friends in another language. I can tell pretty much what they're saying. Hey man, she's punking you out. You gonna take that?

  “You get ready, bitch. I start you training, show you real man,” Mushmouth says in broken, angry English, going to my cage door. He shrugs off his shirt and takes off his belt, I guess he doesn't want to waste any time. Whatever. One of his buddies opens the cage door and I back up the little bit I can, I don't want him anywhere close to his friends when that door closes. “Yeah, that what I thought. All talk, no....”

  More of my memories sort themselves out, and I know all my fight knowledge comes from Steet-Fu, but I've seen the 'pimp slap' a hundred times in my life. I roll with it, taking it close to my neck instead of across the mouth before I kick across with my left leg, stomping the thug on the inside of his knee. His leg buckles, his head pitching forward into my rising elbow. His nose blooms red, and he staggers back, groping for the cage door to be let out by his compatriots. More of my brain clicks back into place, and I realize where I get my attitude from.

  “All talk, no bite? Try you all talk, and no balls. I'm from Jersey, bitch. Step to me, you gonna find out. How you doin'?” I growl, pissed. My accent only gets really bad when I'm pissed. It's like the angrier I get, the more I sound like I'm from the Shore.

  The thugs harass and laugh at the now angry Mushmouth, who's still holding his nose. He wipes the blood away from his lip, sneering, spitting something in his native language which the leader laughs at and points before translating for me.

  “You need big training,” he says, smirking. “That's fine, we have ways of breaking even the most hard headed.”

  Mushmouth crosses the room, opening a metal locker that's near the door and takes out a black object I can't see very well until he turns around, letting the coils droop to the floor, and
I shiver, this time in real fear. A whip. No, oh Jesus above no.

  The lead thug sees my reaction and chuckles. “You had your chance,” he says as Mushmouth cracks the whip, which is easily as thick around as my wrist at the base before tapering to a split tip, the very ends glinting with pieces of metal. “You have no chance now.”

  The cage door opens again, three of the thugs swarming me before I can do anything. I try and fight, kicking and twisting, but they overwhelm me, one of them hitting me above my left eye, sending stars shooting across my vision and stunning me while they drag me to the middle of the room. There's a bar there with rough steel shackles on the ends, and even though I try, there's too many of them, and I find my hands locked in, with my ankles soon following even though I didn't see the shackles down there at first.

  The thugs back away, the leader going over to a crank on the side near the steel cabinet and hoisting the bar up above my head, stretching me until I'm just on my tiptoes and he stops, looking around at the other girls. Those who are awake, at least those I can see, are all watching, and I see that a few of them are looking at me with terror, while another few are looking at me with mute pity and acceptance.

  “All you bitches, listen up!” the thug leader yells, looking around. “Here's the facts: you will be put on The Sultan's boat, you will be sold to the markets, and then to your owners. There, they know what a woman's role is, and if you give them any lip like this stupid bitch, you will get punished, even worse than this dumb cunt!”

  “What are you going to do?” some girl asks, she's got a British accent, although she's behind me. “Kill her?”

  “That'd lose us money. None of you bitches are that much of a pain in the ass. No.... but a good whipping and then me and my boys running a train, that won't be too much of a problem at all,” the leader says almost with a laugh before turning to Mushmouth. “Make sure there isn't too much scarring. Oh, and I get first crack at her asshole, you want that, you go second.”

  Mushmouth nods, grinning. “No... I want to see her blood. See her cry. Pussy just fine for me. No big scars.”

  “Then have fun. I'll just watch,” the thug says, and the other men laugh, backing away into a circle as Mushmouth flicks his hand, the tip of the whip cracking the air near my face but not actually hitting me. Mushmouth laughs, blood dripping and staining his teeth as he does.

  “Fun times.”

  Rodrigo

  “Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” I say, the words familiar and oddly comforting in my mouth as I kneel in the confessional, even though I know the man I'm confessing to is hardly one to judge my morality. While Parrochia del Carmine isn't the closest Catholic church to my villa, it is the only one in Caccamo that has a priest who's both fluent enough in English to listen to my confessions, while at the same time 'safe' in the eyes of my superiors in Il Rete, or The Network. Father Giacomo has a brother who works for The Network, and while I'm not too sure how he balances his duties to God with his duties to The Network, that doesn't disturb my sleep any. Just the act of confessing helps enough sometimes.

  “Of course you have, Rodrigo,” Giacamo says with a chuckle. He spent fifteen years living in the United States, ministering to mostly Hispanic churches in the Arizona and New Mexico area before coming home to Sicily, so his English is relaxed, with a little bit of accent that reminds me of home. “You come by confessional at least twice a week having sinned. Although I sometimes think you just use my confessional as a decent halfway stopping point on your runs. What is your confession?”

  “I... I have deep unrest about my duties to my brothers today,” I admit. “The girls are being taken. From what I understand, roughly two dozen women will be taken to the markets.”

  “And so you have two conflicts,” Giacamo says. “Loyalty to those you've sworn fealty towards, and a feeling of pity for these women.”

  “As always,” I whisper, bowing my head. “These women, almost all of them do not ask for what will happen to them. And you know the type of men we're sending them to. They're animals.”

  “They would say the same about you, Rodrigo. And while I do not like your choice of customers, you must remember, the Bible gives very clear rules on slavery. It does not condemn the act. So taking and selling the women, there is no conflict with the Bible. As for what their new owners do with them, that is something that they must settle with the Lord in their own time,” Giacamo says, his voice placating while at the same time grating. I hate when he's full of shit. “Still, do not think me heartless, I understand. Even the Church itself would have reservations about your business today. Then again, Joseph was sold as a slave, and look what happened to him. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  “So what should I do, Father?” I ask, closing my eyes and leaning my head against the wall of the confessional. It's cool and slightly rough, and I wonder for an instant how many thousands of foreheads have been pressed against the same spot on the old wood. “Whom shall I serve?”

  “In all matters my son, you should serve the Lord. And to the Lord, you have sworn an oath. That is paramount.”

  “My penance?” I ask, knowing that Giacamo isn't going to offer me any comfort today. Not in this matter. Then again, when you have The Network making sure you and your family all live quite well, I guess comfort is a relative term.

  “For doubting your own oath, one Our Father. Actually, make it three, and three Hail Marys, just to cover yourself on what I'm sure you aren't telling me about,” Giacamo says. Despite his... unique perspective on the Church and on doctrine, he does have a good sense of humor, and in a lot of ways I like him. Not today, but most days. “Try not to indulge in your baser nature too much between now and Sunday. Now go.”

  And sin no more is omitted, as Giacamo always does. There's no point. I quickly leave the confessional and kneel at the main altar, getting my penance out of the way before getting up and leaving, pausing at the offering box to put a hundred euro note in. Maybe it's blood money, but maybe not. I'd like to think that the offering box at least is used to help Caccamo's poor and needy.

  I leave the church, pausing to roll my ankles out and put my headphones in before I start running again. Caccamo, Sicily is a hilly town, dominated by the thousand year old Castello de Caccamo, an ancient Norman design from when those people swept through this island of conflict and war stretching back into antiquity.

  I keep up my run, leaving the main portion of Caccamo and jogging past the carabinieri station, giving the Italian police a proper finger as I do. Even after three years, I find it hilarious that the national police have a commando station less than a half mile from my destination. In fact it's at the station that I turn left, off of the provincial highway and onto the secondary road that leads me towards my destination, the property known within The Network as The Farm, for it's where the seeds are planted, and where the harvest is taken.

  I pause at my truck, a nod to my heritage in that it's one of the few American trucks in town, an emerald green Ram crew cab that can more than handle the travel from The Farm to my own private villa and anywhere else I want to go. It's not the sexiest of the vehicles in The Network in Sicily, but it is the one I prefer for 'work.' In the back, I open the toolbox in the bed to pull out my towel, letting the relatively cool mid-winter air play over my skin as I wipe off. In Caccamo, even in the middle of winter, it doesn't get anywhere near cold during the day, although it's still a pretty good idea to wear warmer clothes at night. Finishing my toweling, I take a quick sniff before deciding that, at least for the rest of the day's work, I don't fucking need to worry about it.

  “You know Rodrigo, you keep stripping for me, I'm going to take that as an invitation,” a lilting Greek accented voice says behind me, and I turn to see one of the other members of The Network, Larissa 'The Dryad,' watching me with a smirk on her seductive face. She and I have traded sexual taunts and other jokes for two and a half years now, ever since I got to Sicily, and it's become sort of a game. We both know that neither o
f us wants, or could afford, to get involved with the other, even for fun. Inter-office romances would be stupid within The Network, and especially with a seductress and assassin like Larissa. Besides, for some reason I just like her more in a friendly way than in a I want to fuck her senseless way.

  “Larissa, there's a dozen men on The Farm who would be more than happy to accept your invitation,” I joke, changing my mind and grabbing the can of Axe I keep in my truck kit and giving my armpits a quick spritz. “I'm just the only one smart enough to not get caught in your web.”

  “Which is why you're about the only man on The Farm I respect,” Larissa says, her seductive teasing immediately shutting off. It's one of the unique things about her that took me a while to get used to, but now I appreciate. She can go from flirty to professional in a single second. “How was your training run?”

  “Decent. Father Giacamo was his normal self. You know, before I went into confession he asked if you were going to come to church soon. I didn't have the heart to tell him that you've probably never been inside a church. You're Greek Orthodox, right?”

  Larissa laughs, her distinctive violet eyes crinkling at the corners in good spirits. “I am, but oh, I've been in a Catholic church, and a few times, the Church has been inside me. Work is not always unpleasant. As for Giacamo, I'd go to confessional more often if I didn't have to listen to him jacking off in his side of the booth while I tell him what I get up to. As it is, it's just a game for me.”

  I laugh, taking out the short sleeved denim workshirt I wanted for today. Moving days are the day I like least at The Farm, and so I treat it like real work, in a real work shirt. Larissa doesn't turn away or even smirk as I pull my shorts off and pull on my black jeans before changing from my running shoes to the boots that I wear for The Farm. When I'm done, I brush off my hands and put my workout clothes in my toolbox, ensuring the smell of my sweat doesn't stink up the cab of my truck. Closing the lid, I turn around again and see Larissa smirking, shaking her head back and forth slightly, the long black hair that I know has bewitched many a victim, some fatally, swaying.