Page 5 of Savage Desires

That spark of hope flickered a little brighter when I woke up in Kisten's arms. I was terrified, but something about his eyes told me he was no danger to me. He talked softly like I was a wild animal that might run off at the slightest movement or sound. His dark eyes were hard as he questioned me about the man I was with. He looked moments away from violence, but I wasn't afraid. Instinctively, I knew his violent anger would never be aimed at me. It solely belonged to Todd Mallory.

Then Madame came, and reality crashed through my momentary reprieve. I can only pray for mercy at this point. None of what happened tonight was my fault. I know it doesn't matter, though. Someone has to pay, and that person will always be me.

"What happened?" she asks.

"I was brought upstairs for a public scene with Todd Mallory. He whipped me with a bull whip until I passed out. Some guy played the knight in shining armor and tried to give me aftercare until Madame came and dragged me away."

She pulls the blanket away, and I wince. No matter how soft the material is, having it cling to the open wounds on my back hurts like hell. Georgie sighs and moves to the first aid kit that hangs on the wall. It's the only nice thing in the room. The white box with a bright red cross shines even in the dull light from the solitary bulb that hangs from the ceiling. They deny us even the most basic comforts but keep that box full of supplies. It mocks us from where it hangs. A constant reminder of the torture we are subjected to daily.

I watch Georgie take out what she needs to clean up my back. Hopefully, none of the wounds need to be stitched. It doesn't feel like it's that bad, but my tolerance for pain is entirely skewed. Before I was taken, I didn't even know what pain really was. Now, it's my life, and sometimes, the only thing that tells me I'm still alive when I wake up each day. The pain is proof that this isn't just some fucked up nightmare.

Without warning, Georgie pours alcohol over my back, catching the excess with gauze that she will use to clean the worst wounds. I clench my jaw at the stinging pain. She works quietly. When I first got here three years ago, she would give me pretty lies about how everything would be okay, but after two months of endless pain, I made her stop. I know she was trying to help me. I was terrified when they brought me here. I won't say my life was good before Mecca, but it wasn't this bad.

I thought I wanted to escape my previous owner and his sadistic ways. I was laughably wrong about that. Having one man who used me wasn't nearly as bad as this hellhole. I at least knew what to expect from him. Now, each day is a new, fresh level of hell.

It grates on me to allow myself to be beaten and abused in the worst ways imaginable. My dad used to be an MMA fighter before he tore his rotator cuff during a fight. Despite a totally fucked shoulder, my dad still won that fight, knocking out his opponent. Unfortunately, even after surgery, it never healed properly. He switched from fighting to coaching and opened his own MMA gym.

The only thing that keeps me from completely hating myself for becoming a ghost of who I once was is that I fought like hell when I was taken. It took three grown men to take me down. In the end, they had to drug me to get me to comply. I was damn proud when I came to and saw those same men battered and bruised. I broke at least one nose, and two of them had black eyes. The third guy favored his ribs, where I landed a particularly vicious kick.

Dad would've been so fucking proud of his little fighter. A pang of sadness creeps in, and I force myself to ignore it. I don't know what happened after I was taken. I want to believe that Dad continued working at his gym and found a way to be happy without me. I hate the idea of him hurting because of me.

My mom dumped me on his doorstep when I was just two years old, and I became his life. He was known as a playboy and partied with the best of them. Living up the life of a star in the MMA world. He changed entirely once I came into the picture. He didn't even do a paternity test to find out if I was really his. From what I've been told, my mom was… we will call her promiscuous to be kind. She was a party girl and slept with a lot of men.

My dad admitted it was a drunken night, and he barely remembers having sex with her. I asked Dad why he didn't do a paternity test, and he told me he knew I was his from the moment he opened the door and saw me standing there in a frilly pink dress, holding my purple bunny.

Mom didn't even stick around to make sure someone was home. She rang the bell and walked away, leaving me with a small backpack containing a few of my belongings, including my birth certificate, social security card, doctor's details, and list of allergies. She didn't want me, but she obviously took good care of me while she had me.

I don't remember her, and I never tried to look for her. She didn't want me; therefore, I don't want her. My dad was all I needed. He loved me harder than anyone else ever could. I hate that he will never have closure on what happened to me. At first, I thought I was kidnapped for ransom, but that thought was quickly squashed when I was put on the auction block for the first time. I was fucking terrified.

I was sixteen and hadn't even had my first kiss yet. They put me in sexy lingerie and stood me in front of a room full of disgusting old men who looked at me with lust-filled eyes. Silent tears fell from my eyes as the price kept increasing. I'll never forget when the auctioneer shouted, "Sold for two million dollars!". It was a bidding war. Apparently, young virgin girls are a hot commodity.

My first owner snuffed out all my fire. I fought him. I didn't give in easily, but I quickly learned my lesson. Fighting only caused me more pain. When I behaved, I was treated relatively well. I was fed regularly and had a small but functional bedroom. I was allowed to go into the large courtyard once a week when I was good. If I was really good, I got a new book each week.

I learned to behave. Submission did not come easily to me. I'm a fighter to my core, but I learned how to push that part of me down. I let that side of me simmer deep inside myself. Only in the quiet of my room would I allow myself to remember who I really was. I would mentally walk through all the techniques my dad taught me, vowing that someday I would find a way to fight again. Until then, I would survive.

I push all those thoughts away. Dwelling on a past that cannot be changed doesn't help.

"Good news, you don't need stitches. Most of these are just superficial."

I nod in response. I'm too exhausted to do more than that. She puts antibiotic cream on the wounds and helps me lie on my stomach. My eyes close without permission, and I let the blackness take me away. My reckoning is coming, so I need to take advantage of this reprieve.

I'm unsure how long I sleep before being startled awake by our door swinging open and slamming against the wall. Heavy footsteps head my way, and I know what's coming—punishment.

"Let's go, trash," Vlad barks, kicking the edge of my bedding in warning.

The next kick will be aimed at my body. Vlad is one of the nicer ones, even though he won't hesitate to dole out punishments. He doesn't take things too far and doesn't have a taste for the more sadistic things the others do. He never participates in sexual punishments, and that makes him leaps and bounds above the others.

I pull my weak body off the mattress and stumble after him. Georgie squeezes my hand as I pass her as if to let me know I'm not alone. I wish that were the truth. We're all alone here. Even in a room full of people, we are utterly alone. Each of us lost in our own personal hell. Vlad locks the door to our room and leads me toward the torture rooms.

I pray that he takes me to the first room. I can handle the pain. It'll remind me that I'm alive. When he doesn't stop at the first door, I have to bite back a whimper. There are two other doors. One is what we call the rape room. They tie you up and let anyone who wants a turn have you. I've only been in that room once when I first got here. I never want to go back in there, but the thought of complete darkness for an unknown period of time seems worse.

I can't tell you how many times I've been forced to have sex since I was taken. From the time my first owner ripped through my virginity, I've never been asked. I didn't think it could be any worse until my time tied in the rape room. Another piece of me broke that day. I'd be willing to let them break me apart again if it would keep me out of the cage. You know your life is fucked up when you're actually hoping to get raped multiple times by multiple men.

We pass the second door, and this time, I do whimper. Vlad gives me a disapproving look and grabs my arm harshly. My mind is screaming at me to put up a fight, but I know it will only make things worse. Being beaten and then shoved into a cage is terrible. Ask me how I know.

"H-how long?" I ask, even though I should keep my mouth shut.

I'm not surprised when he doesn't answer. The heavy door swings open, and the smell hits me first. Even though they spray down the room with a hose afterward, the smell of body odor, blood, and waste never disappears. I can hardly breathe from the anxiety pouring through my veins. I can just make out the outline of the cage from the hallway's light. I slow my steps, but Vlad squeezes my arm so hard it feels like he could snap it in half.

---