Page 43 of Delivered to the Devil

CHAPTER 20

“Soulless Existence”

by Lorna Shore

Rebecca

Two weeks, maybe two months, pass in this self-deprecating, empty pit. Time has become irrelevant. I don’t even try to keep track of it anymore. There’s no point. I’ve stopped hoping for a day when all this ends because I can’t imagine it. I’m not sure I want to. The end will surely involve a black void in one sense or the other, and it seems I’m headed straight for it.

Everything is meaningless. When I’m at the check-out counter, mumbling my Hungarian phrases and glancing at the woman with the dead gaze, it’s like looking in a mirror.

I used to be a good-looking woman—not exuberant, but there was always a spark in my green eyes. Maybe even some kind of innocence that carried a certain charm. But now my eyes are empty. The radiant color is matted, like a photo with a gray filter. If, for once, there’s more to find in them, it’s exhaustion and hopelessness.

The fight is gone, and when two suit-clad men pay me a visit for the fifth night in a row, I step into the middle of the room like a mannequin to let the scrawny man tear off my clothes.

He throws me onto the bed with unnecessary force and pins me in place with a leg on my back. With my lungs compressedunder his weight, I can barely breathe, and when he presses a hand to my head, my nose and mouth become trapped in the mattress.

I can’t breathe.

My lungs work to pull in air, but I remain still, making no effort to aid my struggling organs. Part of me hopes the hand will keep up the pressure when my reflexes set in and reveal my lack of air. But I know he’s not supposed to smother me, so when the need for air becomes urgent, I try to subdue my reflexes so he won’t notice.

But that’s not how reflexes work. As the rest of my body catches up, figuring out something is very wrong, I start twitching and grappling at the sheets.

My mind blurs. In a moment or two, I’ll pass out. If he just keeps the pressure a bit longer, I won’t wake up to live through another devastating night.

The twitching turns into jolts, but my body is so disconnected that the reflexes never fully manifest. No flailing arms or kicking legs.

Hastened strides break through the silence as someone moves through the room. Then there’s a thud, maybe a fist hitting a face, and the pressure disappears. My face slips up from the mattress, just enough for air to pass through the corners of my mouth. My lungs heave dryly, thirsty for the air they’ve been deprived, but I don’t move to aid them. Black dots dance in my already blinded vision, and I welcome the darkness.

But luck is never on my side. A new set of hands, this time strong and big, pull me onto my side, up against a pair of solid thighs. The same hands pull my mouth wide open. Air floods my lungs with a painful gasp, and I’m as disappointed as relieved.

The hands start moving over my body like they don’t know what to do. Palms splay gently on my stomach, fingers dig into my skin, then onward to squeeze my arm and up tostroke my head. The restlessness seeps into my veins like an infectious disease. I can’t take it. It wants to stir up something dormant inside me—the fight to live, maybe. Or any emotion at all. Sadness, relief, longing, betrayal. I don’t know. I should probably scream, cry, or beg, but I’m too paralyzed. I just lie there, numb on the outside, desperate on the inside. The only movement is my heaving lungs.

Finally, the hands cease their nervous search and make swift work of placing me in the recovery position. Then they disappear, and no one touches me for a long time.

***

A foreboding sound intrudes upon my senses. I think it’s the sound of a door, maybe steps.

Then hands are on me again. This time, they’re long and smooth, stroking my body with the softness of a lover’s touch. If it weren’t for the ominous crackle in the air, it would be nice. But even though I’m capable of fooling myself into all kinds of things these days, I can’t dismiss the threat these hands pose.

They turn me onto my back, and my listless arms fall awkwardly over my chest and face. The new man shoves them aside to explore my breasts. He starts with featherlight strokes, which turn into broad movements before they become hard squeezes. I don’t react to any of it.

Finally, these hands leave too, and I’m alone again, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“I’m in the mood to watch,” Gabor announces, a broad, soulless smile palpable behind his words. “Would you like to have a go at her, Janos?” The question hangs unanswered in the air until the same voice adds, “Maybe in the ass?”

A primal grunt is accompanied by a “No.”

“Come on,” Gabor entices. “You usually love a good ass fuck.”

Silence hangs thick in the room. Then someone moves across the floor, and the sound of a long zipper fills the air. The crackle of latex gloves rouses a mix of pleasure-filled anticipation and trembling fear, and my mind doesn’t know which one to latch onto.

A latex-clad hand shoves me onto my stomach and pulls my legs apart. I shut my eyes to the world as the mattress dips and someone jumps up between my legs. I know it’s him—the man I’ve been yearning for with all my desperate heart. But now that he’s finally here, I don’t feel a thing. I just want to get this degradation over with.

Another latex-covered hand tells me I’m right not to be relieved. Janos always leaves one hand uncovered, letting me feel his skin on mine. His two gloved hands speak volumes, and his touch is cold and clinical as he smears lube between my ass cheeks. I barely perceive it. I’m so paralyzed it hardly matters how he proceeds.

But when the first finger slides in, something awakens inside me. It’s only a spark, but it’s something. I don’t want it, and I try to force it down. But when Janos adds a second finger and presses against the tight rim of muscle, my nerves start prickling, my skin humming. And as he presses on, stretching and massaging, my lower body awakens. I squirm as a dull energy builds within me. The sensation is restless and frustrating, but more vibrant than anything I’ve felt for a long time.

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