Page 5 of Servitude to Serpents

I can’t help but flinch as a loud voice booms overhead. It’s not loud in tone, but authority, the way the principal speaks over the intercom—they aren’t yelling, but everyone shuts up to listen all the same. “She’s lovely. I’ll check back on this one in two weeks. Her background check mentioned she’s a pianist. Ensure no damage comes to her hands.”

That response seems to please the men in the room. They mumble to themselves, oblivious to my shivering and sobs. They don’t spare me another glance as they pile out of the room, one hanging back to take pictures of me, polaroids. He orders my legs apart, his boot slamming into my side when I refuse. Sobs echo in the room, bouncing back at me like a taunt as I spread my legs wide, letting him snap pictures of my vagina. I buck as his fingers tease the small hole behind it, forcing me to roll up to spread my cheeks. My fingers and toes go numb, and soon enough, he leaves too. Even then, I don’t dare continue my pleas.

Eventually, even the threat of water isn’t severe enough to keep me quiet. On the second day, my brain seems to turn off the fear of water long enough to let some survival and logic slip through. By the third, I’m told why I’m here, mypurpose. I think I’d rather drown.

Turns out, when you’re starving, there’s a lot you’ll do for food.

It took me two weeks before the revulsion bled out of me. At least, I think it has been that long. I only get twomealsa day, if you can call them that, and it’s always dark. It only took two weeks of the never-ending darkness, of one piece of plain, stale white bread and nothing else, to cave. Two weeks in the water, water I still sometimes think I feel rattling in my lungs. I thought I’d rather die, but they had worse things in store for me. I quickly figured out that, like my parents, like my grandmother, they think I’m worth something. I have potential they wish to exploit, and they’re willing to inflict whatever they deem necessary to get what they want.My obedience.My arms and legs have long gone numb—I’m not sure if it’s the cold or the unnatural angles they’re often tied up at.

Dread fills me at the sound of metal sliding against metal, a sound I now recognize as the lock on the outside of the door. When one of the nameless men, the wiry, lanky one, enters the room, my breath halts in my lungs. They’ve asked for nothing, given me nothing to bargain with. No answers, no relief, no matter how I beg. They come, sometimes only one, sometimes together. They beat, feed, drown, and… touch. They pinch, flick, and stroke meeverywhere, from my core to my nipples, their hard cocks straining in their pants as they leave. The first day, their touches made vomit surge up my throat; the second, they made me scream, screams that sounded more fitting of a dying animal than a human. Maybe that’s what I am, a dying animal. If that’s the case, I only wish they’d get on with it. Eventually, though, quicker than it should’ve, their touch became just another thing happening to me. I didn’t…feelit, not any more than the gnawing hunger, the kicks, slaps, and water burning my lungs. My body doesn’t share my resolve, trembling as I shift on my bloody knees beside the cot I was given at some point. I don’t use it. Seems too much like an invitation.

Today, I don’t let him command me. I don’t give him the chance. His thin lips stretch upward in approval as I crawl toward him. My raw knees, raweverything, scrape across the rough, unfinished concrete floor until I come to a stop at his feet. My hair hangs in stringy, dirty curtains over my face as I look up at him. I don’tfor long. Soon, that approving smirk bleeds into disgust. My scream doesn’t have time to leave my throat before his fist connects violently with the top of my head, punching it so hard my face bounces off the concrete floor, light bursting behind my eyes.

“You will not look directly at a Mistress, Sir, or Master unless you are being addressed.”

I groan, the copper taste of blood seeping into my mouth.

“Back to your knees.”

My arms tremble with effort as I wrench myself off the floor, knowing better than to take my time, despite the world tilting out of focus.

“Look at yourself,” he commands, and I do.

My head tilts toward what I now know to be a two-way mirror on the far side of the small room. Disgust and misery that go bone deep fill the space in my chest, overflowing and leaking out toward my gut at what I see. My body is gaunt, my ribs standing out in a ghastly way with each breath. My blood is smeared across swollen, cracked lips. The bruises form a roadmap of agony, different shades and sizes, like shitty art someone would pay billions for in a gallery. My nudity isn’t pretty like this. Formerly soft blonde hair is damp and oily. Once familiar brown eyes are hollow and wild.

“What is your name?”

I swallow, turning my head back toward him before the booming snap of his voice forces a yelp from me.

“I did not instruct you to look away!”

My head snaps back toward the mirror. “Chlo-“

Something cracks down my back, my scream vibrating the impenetrable walls. I gasp, clawing at the floor. I’ve been opened up, I’m sure of it. But my eyes find nothing but an angry red strip of flesh in the mirror.

“You have no name, no title, until one is given.”

But my name is Chloe.

I don’t know if I can call what comes out of me a sob. My hands flutter up to wrap around my gnawing belly. I try to force my resolve back into me, but itdoesn’t come.

“What is your purpose?” He demands. Something tickles along the angry, throbbing slash on my back. I can’t bring myself to look directly at it. My eyes have gone unfocused in the mirror as I gasp out each stale breath.

“I don’t know.”

Another blinding strike assaults my back, sending me bowing. I barely hear him repeat his question.

“You never told me!” I scream into the concrete, my nails bending against the rough surface.

The flurry of strikes leaves me heaving, my body pressed tightly to the floor, as if I could escape the torrent, snot bubbles and tears clog my throat. The pain is blinding. I don’t feel the chill of the room anymore. My back is on fire, and again, I swear I’m opened, cut and gashed wide. Today is different from the other days, when there were only taunting touches, no words muttered, silence met with my begging. Today, there are expectations, and I’m failing to meet them.

I’m disgusted I even want to.

“Back to your knees.”

This time, when I try to shove off the floor, my arms are jelly. My teeth chatter loudly in my skull. I edge myself up by my shoulder when everything else fails me. Whatever limp position I wiggle and scrape myself into seems to appease him enough. I’m grateful for it.

That hits me nearly as brutally as whatever it is he’s striking me with. I’m grateful…

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