Anew: Book Two: Hunted

by Litton, Josie

  “Don’t!” Incredibly, his partner, still grimacing, hobbles up in time to stop him. “Davos won’t like it if you mark her.” Before I can feel any relief for this small reprieve, he adds, “He’ll want to do that himself.”

  This glimpse into my immediate future sends a bolt of terror through me. I’m dragged to my feet and hauled toward a pair of heavy steel doors. On the other side is a starkly white corridor that looks as though it belongs in a hospital. Hideous visions of operating rooms, dissection labs, and the like hurdle through my mind. In desperation, I dig my bare heels into the utilitarian carpeting but the men don’t even notice. They continue on their way, one on each side of me holding my arms. We stop when we come to another door. Stenciled on it is a single word: Prep.

  “Listen up, bitch,” one of the men says. “Be smart and don’t cause any trouble. If you do, there are plenty of ways to make you regret it that won’t leave a mark.”

  His partner lets this sink in for a moment, then puts his thumb to a biometric sensor. The door opens. I stagger as I’m thrust inside but manage to right myself. The door slams behind me. The sudden contrast to the sterile surroundings that I’ve just passed through is startling. Whatever I expected, it wasn’t this. I’m in a small entry hall, lushly paneled in dark wood with a Persian rug covering the floor. The air carries the heavy, exotic scents of sandalwood and patchouli. In the near distance, music throbs softly.

  I’m alone or so I think until two young women suddenly appear. Rather than the white-coated lab technicians I feared, they are both naked, slim but large breasted with long black hair brushing their bottoms and rose-brown skin. I’m wondering if they could be Polynesian when I notice the collars around their necks and the attached lengths of chain draped low on their hips above their smooth, bare sexes. The women smile and giggle as they gesture for me to come with them.

  Instead, I look around for some way to escape but the only door I can see is the one I came in through. Even if there was a sensor on this side, I wouldn’t be able to get past it. That leaves only one option. Hoping that there’s another exit somewhere, I go with them.

  “Where are we?” I demand, looking from one to the other. “Where are you taking me?”

  Neither responds. They don’t understand me or they don’t want to admit to doing so. Instead, with smiles and gestures, they lead me into a large space that looks as though it belongs in a sultan’s palace. The walls are draped in lush burgundy and gold silks, more thick carpets cover the floors. Crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling cast light across the large, tiled pool where several dozen women are gathered. All are nude or nearly so and each is stunningly beautiful. Every type seems to be represented--blondes, brunettes, redheads with skin from the palest ivory to the richest mahogany As I enter, their gazes turn in my direction. I feel myself assessed and found not wanting exactly but of only mild interest.

  The Polynesian beauties urge me along until we come to a row of small open rooms, each furnished with a padded bench, a dressing table, and shelves holding a variety of lotions, waxes, oils, and the like. What they don’t have are doors or even curtains. There’s no allowance for modesty in this place.

  One of the young women steps behind me and quickly unzips my gown. I catch it before it can fall. A brief tug of war occurs with me on one side and my two--preparers, groomers, whatever they are--on the other. They win. Before I can register what’s happening, I’m standing stark naked under the scrutiny of every other woman in the spa. My instinct is to cover myself but I resist and lift my head instead. I refuse to let anyone see how afraid I am.

  The two young women give me their combined once over. Apparently satisfied with what they see, they nod and smile again. Only the slight bruises on my hips where Ian’s fingers marked me and the pale red lines on my wrists draw a soft tut-tut.

  Thinking of Ian opens a hollow well of pain so intense as to make me gasp. His longing for Susannah hits me yet again. Even beyond death, she is the embodiment of goodness and purity, the person who gave up her last chance to live so that I could instead. And what am I? Nothing like her, that’s for certain. She still calls to the better angels of his nature whereas I’m the woman who will make herself come in an alley for his enjoyment.

  My eyes burn. I hardly notice what’s happening until one of the women drops a transparent length of pleated white silk over my body. It drapes over one shoulder, leaving my other side almost completely bare. One of my breasts is fully exposed, the other is clearly visible through the diaphanous fabric. I’m left feeling even more lewdly displayed than I would if I was fully naked. Worse yet, the gown, if it can be called that, is a decadent version of the elegant garment that Susannah wears in the portrait I have studied so often, seeking clues to her nature and my own. I can’t help but wonder if that’s a coincidence or one more indication of Davos’ perverse fascination with my predecessor.

  Dressed as I am, I can’t escape the realization of what kind of place I’ve been brought to. I’ve been in the city long enough to hear rumors about the sex clubs of every sort that flourish here. I just never expected to set foot in one. That Davos would arrange for me to do so makes my skin crawl. My determination to find a way out redoubles.

  The two women guide me over to the chair in front of the dressing table and urge me to sit down. They go to work on my hair and face, giggling all the while. The traces of last night’s excesses in tangled strands, swollen lips, and faint shadows under my eyes fall to their ministrations. Within minutes, I’m staring at a woman who looks like me but who might as well be a stranger. Her skin is flawless, her eyes wide and luminous, her cheeks slightly flushed, her mouth soft and moist. She appears untouched by the world and everything in it. There are even flowers entwined in her hair.

  My stomach clenches as I realize that I’ve been made to look virginal. The shock of seeing myself like that after what I have experienced with Ian finally pierces the numbness that has surrounded me since I fled the hotel. Turning to the two young women, I say urgently, “My name is Amelia McClellan. Help me get out of here, please. My family will reward and protect you.”

  Once again, neither responds. I try the same plea in Spanish and French with no better results. One of the women gives me a small, apologetic smile. Before I realize what she intends, she scrapes a small knife over the skin on the inside of my arm. Even as the significance of what she has done is just beginning to sink in, she deposits the skin cells she has collected in a small tube. Moments later, the cap of the tube flashes green.

  Dread washes over me as I realize that I have just been subjected to a DNA test, the results swiftly obtained and as quickly transmitted. If Davos has a sample of Susannah’s DNA--and I don’t doubt his ability to have acquired that--any lingering question about who and what I am has been answered.

  My stomach is clenching at the thought of what that means when suddenly a gong sounds. As one, all the women around the pool rise and walk together in the same direction. My two companions urge me to go with them. Beyond the seraglio room is another darkly paneled area containing long wooden racks that hold hooded cloaks in a variety of rich colors. Each of the women takes one and puts it on. Within moments their heads are obscured, their faces cast into shadows. But the cloaks hang open, revealing their bare bodies from the neck down.

  One of the young women guiding me selects a cloak of blazing red, the only one that color, and urges me into it. As with the others, I am at once rendered anonymous yet exposed. The urge to pull the garment closed around me is all but irresistible but before I can do so wide double doors at the far end of the room suddenly open outward. At once, the line of women moves forward.

  I’m held back until all the others have passed, then pushed forward into a large, sumptuous space that looks as though it belongs in an exclusive gentlemen’s club. Tufted leather sofas and high-backed wingchairs seem an incongruous accompaniment to the naked carnality on display. The women quickly doff their cloaks and take up positions around the out
side of a large mosaic circle set into the only part of the floor that is bare of rugs. They all face inward, toward the man standing at the center. His distinctive red mask with its empty eyes and dark chasm of a mouth strikes a chord. I remember him on the float, staring at me.

  For now, the women have his attention. They kneel and prostrate themselves before him. A faceless servant, dressed all in black with even his features covered, hands the man a censure from which scented smoke rises. He waves it over the naked backs of the women, turning in a circle as he does so in a mockery of a religious ritual.

  A hand at my back urges me toward an ornately carved marble pedestal that seems to be a focal point of the room. I’m pushed, carefully but implacably up the steps behind it until I’m standing on display. The avid eyes of the male audience rake over me. With a start, I realize that some of the men look familiar. I’ve crossed paths with them at various social events around the city. I think I may have even danced with one or two of them. For a brief moment, I consider appealing for their help but their presence here, in such a place, deters me.

  I’m grateful that my face is still hidden by the hood of the cloak but the rest of me is blatantly exposed, my vulnerability only heightened by the transparent white silk. Panic rises in me but after a few moments, I realize that no one is making any move toward me, at least not yet. I have no idea how long such restraint will last but I know that I have to make the most of whatever time I have. Quickly, I begin scanning the room for some avenue of escape.

  As I do, the ritual ends. Another gong sounds. The naked women rise as one and fan out among the guests. Some straddle the men’s laps, others are directed to kneel on the floor. I see one man put an arm around a woman’s hips, holding her immobile as he slides a finger between her thighs. She winces but does not resist. Another man pinches a woman’s nipples so harshly that she smothers a cry. He laughs in response. When one of the men pulls out his cock and directs the woman he’s chosen to suck it, I redouble my efforts to find a way out.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Amelia

  I’ve been standing on the pedestal for half-an-hour before I finally accept that there is no obvious means of escape. A columned passageway at the far end of the room may lead to the doors through which the men entered but is it to the right or left? Make the wrong choice and I’ll be trapped. That’s presuming that I can get off the pedestal without being noticed.

  I’m at least reassured that attention has shifted away from me. The pace of debauchery is increasing with each passing moment. I try to look away but there is nowhere that does not contain a scene of sensual abandon. In an effort to deny the terror that threatens to panic me, I tell myself that when--not if--I get out of here, I’ll give every part of me including my eyes a good bath.

  Female heads are bobbing up and down all over the room as several women mount a round platform and begin pleasuring one another, displaying themselves to the men who offer lewd encouragement. Nearby, a woman crawls on all fours between a gauntlet of men wielding riding crops. I wince as she is struck repeatedly on the buttocks and thighs.

  The man in the red mask watches it all from a throne-like chair not far from where I am standing. He sits at his ease, his posture that of regal aloofness. But his legs, beneath the cloak, are spread. When his left hand slips inside the garment, I realize queasily that he is touching himself. Several of the women keep their eyes on him, waiting for a summons, but they might as well not exist. For the moment at least, he seems satisfied merely to pleasure himself as he watches the others.

  Meanwhile, the faceless, black-garbed servants move among the guests, delivering drinks in cut-crystal tumblers along with silver serving dishes heaped high with pharmaceuticals. Whatever instinct for restraint might still be present in any of the men is falling away quickly. Several have already begun to disrobe. The room is rapidly becoming a writhing mass of bodies.

  I can’t wait any longer. Feeling backward with my toes, I find the first step and slowly lower myself onto it. I’m afraid to turn around for fear that would attract notice but if I can avoid making any sudden movements and just--

  Before I can take another step, the room suddenly goes dark. I teeter and only just manage to catch myself. A circle of light appears, surrounding a stage that is rising up out of the floor. At the center of it is a low couch occupied by a beautiful, naked woman stretched out on her side facing the audience. She wears a mask of beaten gold and a sprinkling of gold dust over her skin, nothing else. As the light expands around her, a man steps out onto the stage. He, too, is naked except for a mask and a coating of gold dust. His body is superb--tall, heavily muscled, powerful. His large cock strains upward toward his abdomen. As he approaches the woman, the high, keening voice of a flute rises above the throbbing rhythm of drums.

  The woman spreads her legs and arches her back, blatantly presenting herself to him. At once, he joins her on the couch, grasps her by the neck and, holding her in place, mounts her. Her breathy cries and his grunts form a human counterpoint to the music. His thrusts become faster and deeper, pounding into her.

  The audience cheers as a chant begins, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” The man obliges, holding the woman spread open so that she is displayed to the avid eyes of the watching men as he drives into her. Rivulets of sweat flow over them both, forming trails where the gold dust is washed away. After she appears to come several times, he drags her off the couch and positions her upright with her back to him. His cock juts engorged and glistening. He grips her wrists and pulls her arms behind her, using them for leverage as he thrusts into her again. Her head falls forward. She looks like a rag doll, helpless to stop the relentless pounding into her body.

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

  The powerful muscles of his arms and chest clench as he obeys the crowd’s command. It goes on for what seems like an impossibly long time. The woman’s moans become weak and hoarse as her body clenches and jerks repeatedly. The man no longer seems aware of her. He has become something between a beast and a machine. Bile rises in my throat as I witness this perversion of what has been called, in vastly different circumstances, an act of love.

  At last, the gong sounds. Faceless servants appear on the stage. They move soundlessly, drawing the couple apart and positioning the woman onto her knees in front of the man. Their gazes meet. Something in the way they look at each other makes me think that they are not strangers, thrown together for a night by the depraved vagaries of Carnival. I wonder if they are a couple instead, workers like the woman in the window, fighting to survive and advance in a society that seems more brutal and ruthless to me with each passing day.

  The woman takes the man’s penis in her hands gently. With evident care, she reaches around to undo the latch of a metal ring that I realize belatedly has kept him engorged all this time. A low moan breaks from him as she takes him in her mouth. He grasps her hair, holding her in place, his head thrown back and his eyes closed as he comes at last desperately and convulsively.

  I look away. Their vulnerability is anguishing. They are human beings but their humanity is not recognized by the audience that has turned them into an expression of its own depravity. Everything in me cries out against such debasement even as I confront the very real likelihood that Davos intends for me to experience it myself in some form of his devising. More than ever, I know that I have to get away.

  In the aftermath of the show, the lights come back on, revealing couples, trios, and even more ambitious arrangements arrayed on every table, couch, and chair or writhing on the floor. The smell of sex becomes overpowering. I take another step back, feeling my way down the first step only to freeze when a sudden realization hits me. Every other woman and most of the men are naked. Wearing the red cloak, I will be all too noticeable. Even the transparent silk tunic will draw attention. If I’m not spotted by the faceless servants, I will be by one of the men…or more. That possibility makes me feel ill but so does the thought of staying where I am, waiting helplessly for whate
ver Davos has planned for me.

  My legs are shaking. I’m afraid they won’t hold me upright much longer. I have to act but I remain frozen. Longing wells up in me…to escape this horrible place, to stand in the light again, to live in a world where Davos and his kind don’t exist. But above all is my yearning for the man who awakened me to the world and who has been my sanctuary from it even as he has longed for another woman. I ache for him with every particle of my being.

  Tears burn my eyes. I blink them away and force myself to breathe. As I do, a flicker of movement near the columns draws my attention. Another guest has arrived. Still fully dressed in a darkly elegant business suit, he stands looking out over the scene with cool, aloof amusement. His gaze, hooded and impenetrable, slides past me and does not return.

  I gasp and close my eyes in disbelief, certain that in my terror, I am hallucinating. When I open them again, the clash of relief and panic threatens to overwhelm me. Ian! Here, alone! Any joy I might feel burns away before the realization of the danger he has put himself in. How could he do such a thing? Does he have no regard for his own safety ? If he’s harmed because of me--

  The thought is unbearable but hard on it comes another. I can’t deny that he looks alarmingly at ease in this environment. As I watch, he accepts a drink from one of the faceless servants and makes his way to a vacant club chair not far from where I stand on display. I want to cry out to him but my throat is so tight that no sound escapes. It clenches even further when several women--all beautiful, all naked, swiftly approach him. For a horrible moment, I’m afraid that I’m going to be forced to watch them pleasure him. When he waves them off with a shake of his head, I all but sag with relief.

  The debauchery continues all around us but Ian appears not to notice. He sets his drink aside on a nearby table, shoots the cuffs of his shirt, and stifles a yawn. In the midst of a full-blown orgy, he looks bored. I desperately wish that I could feel the same. The sickness in me continues to mount, made all the worse as I consider more fully the implications of Ian being in such a place. What memories must it evoke of the experience that scarred him so badly when he was still little more than a child?