Tight

by Alessandra Torre

  It was hot in there. I wondered how long I had been unconscious, my T-shirt stuck to my back, the sweatpants claustrophobic in their heavy nape.

  A line of sweat trailed down my back. I listened hard, but heard nothing.

  Brett won’t fuck up. He’s being perfect, attentive at dinner, thoughtful at dessert, his typical dominant sex-god-self when we shut the door and are alone in the room. And at 1 AM, when I couldn’t sleep - he rolled over and began rubbing my back. A slow trail of fingers across the bare skin, feather light, the scrape of occasional nails just enough to keep the skin from getting itchy.

  I swallowed. “I have got to get to that work tomorrow.”

  “That’s fine, just let me know when you want to work on it.”

  I kicked a foot out from underneath the covers. Let the cool air hit it. “It doesn’t really matter. Do you have meetings tomorrow?”

  His hand never paused in its delicate journey over my skin. “I don’t need to go, we can do whatever you want.”

  Don’t need to go? I frowned. Not that I wanted to encourage drug-running, but didn’t the main guy have to be present at these things? And this was my weekend to figure this out, to step closer to this man or break everything off. A decision I couldn’t make if he changed his entire MO this trip.

  “No, please.” I forced a playful lilt into my words. “Please get out of my hair for a few hours and let me knock this stuff out. I can get room service for dinner and call you when I’m done.”

  “I don’t want to abandon you this weekend. Are you sure?” His voice was closer, his hand moving around my side, the settle of his body against my back so perfect that I sighed, looping my fingers through his and holding them to my chest.

  “I’m sure. Trust me.”

  Trust me. Part of me wished he did. The other part of me was grateful he didn’t.

  Tonight, I will be sold. I repeated the line over and over again. I would not be rescued, I would not escape. I would be sold and become the property of a new man. And the chances of freedom would be further reduced.

  As much as I hate to say it, He was right. I would, if I presented myself correctly, be more valuable to buyers. And I had to imagine that, the more a buyer paid, the higher the investment, the better I would be treated. And vice versa - the more worthless I was, the less kindness and care I could expect to receive.

  So... I should behave. Act subservient, act broken. Become valuable. Sell for a high price and invest in my future. Pray for the type of owner who is kind to his sex slaves. An impossible prayer yet I whispered it anyway.

  Tonight, I will be sold.

  Turns out repetition of the phrase doesn’t make it any less painful.

  ***

  Tonight I would get answers.

  Everything started to fall into place around nine, after a long dinner, then drinks. My foot jiggled under the table, I barely touched the food, and I checked my watch so many times that Brett signaled for the check. “I’m sorry babe. Do you need to get to that work? They can cork the wine.”

  I glanced at the wine, freshly opened, a bottle worth more than my car, and hated to nod, hated to throw away the wine - and the moment - of which there’d, most likely, never be another. I nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  He grinned. “Don’t be. I hate to see you stress. And I’ll be drinking all night with the clients. It’ll be better if I stop now. Keep my wits about me.”

  I returned the smile and studied the lines of his face, the loose freedom of his posture, the compliment he gave the waiter as he scribbled a generous tip on the bill. I just didn’t see it. Maybe I was blinded by love but I couldn’t picture Brett engaged in an illegal drug ring. Or arms trafficking. Or questioned over missing drug mules. Despite the red flags, despite all the evidence to the contrary, he felt innocent.

  Or was it just that I didn’t want to see the truth? Was I just so blinded by love and the thought of love that I washed over anything to the contrary? I watched Brett shake the waiter’s hand and stand, pulling out my chair.

  Can’t be. No way.

  We walked back to the room, he stole a kiss in the elevators, pinning me against the wall. “Time for a quickie before your work?”

  Not this man. Not Brett. Anyone else.

  “I can’t baby. But when you get back,” I promised, smiling at the glaze of his eyes, a glaze of arousal that wouldn’t wait till later, a hypothesis proved when he lifted me over his shoulder and carried me to our room, tossing me on the bed, his fingers quick, cock ready, the access of my dress making his first thrust easy and incredible.

  I am wrong. I will prove it tonight. I will follow him, and watch him sell a boat. Woo a perfectly legitimate client. Be the man that I desperately want to believe that he truly is.

  I rolled off of him, moving to the bathroom, running the shower before unzipping my dress and stepping in. “That’s not fair,” he groaned from his place in the doorway, his hands busy at his cuffs, the rest of him in perfect place except for his hair. I watched him pull on his jacket and shot him a grin, stepping into the shower and wiggling my fingers at him. “Go. Sell your little boats.”

  I kept my hair out of the spray and ran a bar of soap quickly over me. Wasn’t the slightest bit surprised when the door opened and Brett’s hand stole in, caressed the soap bubbles on the closest breast.

  “I can’t leave you without a kiss.”

  I stepped forward, rinsed the soap off and turned the knob. Waved off the steam and stepped out, into the fluffy towel that he held open. Blushed as he wrapped the terrycloth around and rubbed me down, lingering over his favorite places and finishing the process by tugging at my hair tie, his eyes smiling as my curls bounced free, his mouth coming down soft and sweet on my own. I smiled against his mouth. “Happy? You got your kiss.”

  He stole another. “Completely,” he whispered.

  I am mistaken. There is nothing wrong with this man.

  I heard the door click behind him, and sprang into action.

  I had a secret weapon in my pursuit of Brett: My iPod Touch, a mini MP3 player that had one awesome feature - the ability to be found via the Find a Phone app. I slipped the iPod into his jacket before sex. Watched him walk out the door and I pulled up the app. Checked his location *the lobby* while jerking on my black jeans, tight sweater and superhero boots. I left my hair down - then, remembering Brett’s eyes on my curls, the fascination he had with their bounce - I twisted it into a low knot. Stuck a room key in my pocket and jogged down the hall and back to the rear stairwell. Thank God we were on the fourth floor and not the twenty-fourth. I hit the ground floor running and burst out the side, coming out in the loading zone, a flash of yellow taxis visible around the side of the building.

  More jogging, the low heel of the boots thudding across the empty space, the last taxi in line spotting me early and jerking into reverse, skidding its way into a tight U-turn and pulling up to the side curb.

  “Please pull through the front,” I called out to the man, slumping down in the seat. “I want to see if my friend’s out front.”

  He nodded as if he understood and pulled another U-turn. Bounced into the portico and slowed down. Too slow. If Brett was standing there he’d be... my app refreshed, Brett’s dot on the screen moving, and I saw him ahead, on the curb, speaking with a group of men.

  Thank God. His clients. I let my head fall back against the seat. I was crazy, he was innocent. I opened my purse, ready to pull out some cash and let the cabbie go when one of the men turned my way and I saw his face. Shit. I ducked in the car. “Pull out,” I said urgently. “Anywhere. Just move.”

  I had seen the man before. In Brett’s house in Fort Lauderdale, huddled, like they are now, around Brett. Four men, the same four men. Brett’s ‘friends.’

  I told the cabbie to pull over and park. I spun in the seat, watched Brett’s foursome, and waited. It didn’t take long. A line of three black SUVs pulled up tight to the curb, the men all piling into the first one. Then, the convoy moved
, a pack of shiny black, pulling off the curb and onto the street. “There.” I pointed when they passed us. “Follow them.”

  I shouldn’t have followed them. I should have paid the cabbie, gotten out, and walked back into the lobby. Taken the elevator up to my room and waited for Brett. You see, here is where my story ends.

  My new cell was a motel room, one on the end, with windows that didn’t open and a rotten smell that wouldn’t stop. I felt dawn when we arrived, saw bits of light along the edge of my blindfold. He dragged me backwards by my cuffs into the ground floor room, my blind feet tripping over the curb, my entrance inside made in a clumsy heap of restrained limbs.

  He lifted me onto a bed and I slept for some time, the mattress so soft compared to the trunk, compared to my cell’s mattress. I woke when he ripped the tape off. The handcuffs were removed next, and I rolled my ankles and wrists for a while before walking to the bathroom.

  It had been so long since I’d looked in a mirror that I’d forgotten what I looked like. I leaned forward and gingerly touched my cheeks. Saw the stranger before me do the same. The stranger with the faded black eye. The stranger who looked stronger than I ever did. Who stood straight and glared into the mirror and dared me to criticize her scars. I stepped back. Used the restroom, washed my hands with the bar soap, then glanced at him. Got permission and opened the makeup bag that sat on the counter with trembling fingers.

  I pulled out the contents and lined them up, in a neat row on the counter.

  Revlon Photoready 3D Volume Mascara: Black

  Maybelline Instant Age Rewind Eraser Concealer: Light

  Revlon ColorStay Pressed Powder: Light/Medium

  Revlon Super Lustrous Lipstick: #680 Temptress

  The wrong colors for me, but I didn’t care. They were used cosmetics, which bothered me more. Who had they belonged to? Where had they come from?

  “It would be in your best interest to look nice.” He spoke from the doorway, a few steps away, and watched me. I wished for a door between us, some privacy in this moment. I reached for the concealer, applied it generously, painting the bruises white, the black eye pale. I used every trick my mother had ever taught me. Took my time with my brows, applied mascara with a shaky hand and lined my lips carefully before applying the color. Finger-combed through my hair and wished for a curler, something to tame the wild mess it had become.

  Then, I laughed. I couldn’t help myself, the sound bubbled out of me, as foreign in my throat as his cock. What was I doing? Why was I trying? I wanted a curler? There I was, hours from being sold, and I was worried about my looks. About making a good impression. I stared at my reflection and had the sudden desire to slam my head forward, into the glass. Had a mild moment of pleasure at the idea of him trying to sell me then, a bloody-faced girl with glass in her hair.

  Instead I turned, like a good little slave, and faced him.

  “What am I going to wear?”

  “There’s a dress hanging in the closet.” He touched the edge of my elbow as I passed, my entire body jerking to a stop at the contact. “You look very nice,” he said quietly.

  “Thank you, sir.” I intoned, my head down.

  The dress was plain, a short black number, Ross tags still attached. I slid it on and stepped in front of the mirror.

  “Perfect,” he murmured from behind me, his eyes critiquing every inch of the look, his hand tucking in the tags, smoothing out the fabric.

  I kept my eyes down and forced a smile.

  ***

  I don’t think that there has ever been a moment in my life where I knew, with absolute certainty, that my entire life was about to change. I didn’t realize it the night I was abducted. Didn’t realize it, as a baby, the night of my birth. But this night, I knew it. I knew that every action I took would have some form of consequences for the rest of my life. One wrong glance, one misstep... and it could end in death, or worse - a lifetime of torture.

  I broke every rule I’d ever made for myself and cooperated. Let him cuff my hands. Stepped from the room and through the parking lot and didn’t scream. Saw my first sky in unknown years and stared. Took a seat in the front seat of a car I had never seen next to a man that I wanted dead. Quietly sat while he drove me through a city whose name I didn’t know. The car stopped, started, accelerated, slowed. Turned twenty-odd times before pulling down a street and stopping.

  I’d been down streets like this before. Cobblestoned paths that led between buildings centuries old. I walked down a street like this with Brett before. He bought a flower from a street kid and tucked it in my hair. Pulled me into an alley and kissed my mouth, put his hand up my dress and caressed my thigh.

  I shouldn’t have thought of Brett. The man who used to give me strength—just that slight thought of him broke my veneer. Made my hands shake and my stomach twist. I always thought, in the confines of that basement, that he would find me. Now, hours from that home, in a city I didn’t recognize, where I would be sold to a real Master, not some psychotic slave researcher... he’d never find me. Not him, not my father, not the police. I would be lost, I would be a statistic, like so many I had heard about over the course of my training.

  The car settled into park and I looked at my hands. Felt the brush of his palm on my bare shoulder and fought the urge to recoil.

  “I’ve been very impressed with you, Kitten. Maybe you are smart enough to keep this up.”

  I wished he would just shut up. Find a bridge in this country and jump off of it. I stared at my hands and waited for him to come around, open my door, lead me to slaughter.

  When we entered the room we were greeted by a voice. I stared at the shoes of the man speaking, shiny and perfect, and wondered if he had a wife who polished them. Polished them and straightened his tie, kissing his cheek before waving goodbye. I wondered if this man beat her or if he treated her like a queen. I wondered, not for the first time, at whether my keeper had someone, a wife or girlfriend who he feigned affection and forced smiles for. I wondered if he carried around a clipboard and bugged her with questions all day.

  “There are fifteen buyers here tonight. The rest of the group is in the main room. You only brought her?”

  “Yes. And I’m also looking to purchase.” I could hear the eagerness in his voice, a nerd wanting to sit at the cool kids’ table.

  “Oh.” Polished Shoes shifted. Ha. I smiled to myself. He heard it too. “Have you been here before?”

  “A while ago. We spoke then. I’m surprised you don’t remember.”

  “Then you already know the house rules. Please wear these two pins, they’ll indicate that you are both buying and selling. I suggest you make Buyer 43’s acquaintance. He’s always looking for American girls to purchase, though he typically breaks them himself.”

  “He’s here? I’ve heard his name before.” I could practically hear him quiver with excitement. This was it. What his months of research, his stacks of journals had led to. I hadn’t had a chance, begging for my life a few days earlier. This was a moment he’d been waiting for, planning for, for a very long time. I’d just been the stupid girl who had given him a key to the city.

  “He rarely misses a sale.”

  “Well, let’s go in.” He put pressure on my arm and I stepped forward, following his lead, the two of us following the shiny shoes through the doors.

  In the entryway, my head down, listening to the conversation of my keeper and the greeter, I wanted to raise my head, look around. See what I was walking into. But, stepping down a wide hall, I suddenly didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to know. Heard, before us, screams of women, cries of terror and desperation. I slowed my steps, felt his hand close on my wrist and tighten. A warning.

  My steps increased in speed, my chest hammering as I blew a shaky breath out. Tonight, I would be sold. The further we went, the more my ears understood. There were two groups of sound before us, a division of order and chaos, and when the hall ended, I tilted my head right, raising my eyes enough to see a hallway, th
e screams of women coming from that direction. To my right, a quiet hum mixed with delicate strands of music.

  “Kitten, look at me.”

  I lifted my eyes, then my chin, looking into his face.

  “Can I trust you to make the right choice?” He held up a handcuff key. Moved his gaze right, then left. “I can take you either place. Two different groups of buyers. It’s up to you.”

  I swallowed. Fought the urge to glance right, one woman’s long howl cutting a path through my composure. I held up my wrists. “I will be good, Master. I promise.”

  He smiled. Worked the cuff’s lock open as I dropped my gaze. I saw his hand, long fingers that have yanked my hair, slapped my face, violated me...slip the cuffs into the pants pocket of his suit. A suit. I missed that detail, too absorbed in my own fate. Is that the proper outfit to wear when shopping for a soul?

  “Ready, Buyer 214?” Polished Shoes had moved left, to the door.

  “Please. Lead the way.”

  When the door opened, it brought with it the smell.

  tight (tīt)

  (adj.) very firm so as not to let go

  “a tight grip”

  The smell was of men, a raw animal scent of domination and want. Of competition, them all just a few steps short of beating their chests and howling. We stepped forward, my hands clasped together, head down, the room a quiet roar of conversation, male voices stacked upon male voices, in the background, the clink of metal and glassware, small bits of feminine voices sprinkled in. I listened for screams, but heard none. Relaxed slightly and felt his hand on my back, guiding me through the crowds. Saw Polished Shoes’ departure, the handshake that passed between the two vultures, a bit of cash exchanged in the clasp.