Page 2 of Lily

She held her breath again, knowing where he would aim next.

He tapped her nipple. “These tits are delightful, too, Lily,” he praised as if it were totally normal to comment on a woman’s breasts. “The small dark tips attract a lot of attention on the dark web.” He bent down next to her and took several pictures. “I like the way they hang—just a handful. If I could keep you for myself, I might consider doing so. I’d love to pierce those tiny buds and hang bells from the hoops so I’d always hear you coming.”

She tried not to react to his words. If she let that glass fall…

He circled to her other side and stroked the leather flap over her other nipple. “I want to see these harder, Lily. I’m going to fondle them until they’re so tight they could cut glass.” He reached a hand under her, pushed her breast to make it sway, and then thumbed her nipple.

She pursed her lips again. She didn’t want to moan. She hated how he could make her body react to his touch. It was so humiliating. A piece of her died inside every day as he trained her body to react to his demands and the attention to her private parts.

“Good girl. Don’t let that glass fall, little cunt. I’m going to check your pussy in a moment. I want to find it wet.” He leaned in closer to her ear and whispered, “You’re so responsive. You were born to be a sex slave.”

She swallowed. She wanted to block out his words. The psychological abuse was almost worse than the physical. He and his men spent a lot of time pointing out to her why she was meant to be a sex slave.

Roselia wasn’t sure she could hold this position much longer, but she needed to. She craved the illogical comfort of the cot where she slept at night. She willed him to finish this lesson, strap her spread wide to the cot, and cover her with the scratchy wool blanket.

For the first few weeks, she’d spent the nights in horror, unable to fall asleep with her arms and legs stretched out, her private parts exposed, and the nasty scent of the blanket. Exhaustion had won out eventually, and after a long day of training, she’d found herself grateful for the few hours no one would bother her so she could rest.

Master J rounded to her backside again. He squatted down closer to her feet and stroked a finger around her globes and down lower. When he tapped her clit, she nearly let the glass fall.

“Hold your table position, Lily, or we will start over again. Girls need to learn to control their slutty urges. I know your pussy is begging for my touch, but you’ll control yourself. You will not come.” He said all this in his weird, calm voice as if he were telling her how to make a grilled cheese sandwich.

She wanted to scream when he dragged his finger between her labia.

“Mmmm. So wet for me. See? Slavery suits you. This tight little cunt will please your buyer greatly. You must be trained, though. Strict discipline is necessary to make sure you behave.” He continued to stroke through her folds.

She started panting. She had to in order to get enough oxygen. She hated herself for reacting to his vile touch. She hated her body for its betrayal.

“Five more minutes, little slave. Show me how much you enjoy my touch.” He continued stroking her with one hand while he held his camera nearly upside down between her legs with the other hand to snap dozens of pictures.

He parted her labia and continued before pulling the camera back and flipping through the photos. She could watch him from this position. She even took a risk and let her forehead rest on her arms for a moment. It wasn’t allowed, but she might collapse if she didn’t do so. Her neck was stiff.

“Excellent photos, Lily. Such a lovely cunt. I can see your honey dripping out of you. When we’re done here, I’ll upload these pictures to the web. I bet I’ll have a dozen more men bidding for you by morning.”

Ignore him. Don’t think about it. Focus on something more pleasant.

While Master J rose to saunter around her body, his focus on the mortifying pictures he’d taken, she closed her eyes and thought about the only person alive who could possibly have cared she was missing.

Marco Gallo. He worked for her employer. He was head of security. He’d always been so nice to her. She’d been nothing but a cleaning lady, but he’d smiled at her and said kind things every time he’d seen her.

The truth was Roselia had had a crush on Marco. Ridiculous since he was more than twenty years older than her. But she’d developed the silly crush three years ago when she’d started cleaning for Mr. Santo.

She’d just turned eighteen and graduated from high school. She’d had aspirations of going to college, of being the first person in her family to attend a university. But since it was just her and her mother, her mother had insisted she needed to get a job and start working. She hadn’t seen the value in Roselia getting an education.

Esmeralda Moreno had worked cleaning houses all of her life. She’d been with Mr. Santo for ten years, and she’d been so excited when she’d gotten Roselia a job in the same estate that she’d celebrated by taking the two of them out to a diner for dinner.

Roselia had always been a good girl, was well-behaved, and had never gotten into trouble. Defying her mother hadn’t been an option, so she’d relented and gone to work with her mother, cleaning Mr. Santo’s house.

She’d meant to save her money and eventually talk her mother into letting her attend night classes at the local junior college, but it hadn’t happened. And then, her mother had died unexpectedly from a stroke, leaving Roselia alone in the world.

She’d been stuck. After taking just three days off work, she’d been grateful Mr. Santo had kept her on his cleaning staff. She’d had to let her dreams of going to school slide to the far back burner. Expenses had been tight. She’d worked long hours and still struggled to pay the rent and utilities.

The only excitement in her life had been her time with Marco. He’d made her smile. He’d truly cared about her, looking her in the eyes and listening to her when no one else had. He’d even come to her mother’s funeral and brought flowers. He’d hugged her and told her to let him know if there was anything he could do.

Marco was Italian. He was built and tall and so handsome. She figured he was in his mid-forties, but he still had a full head of brown hair. His eyes were kind and wrinkled at the corners when he smiled, and he didn’t do so often. Mostly, he was a serious man with a furrowed brow. Had she imagined that his face had softened and relaxed only for her? The idea was ludicrous.

When he’d bumped into her in the house—which had happened more frequently than she’d thought reasonable—he would stop and say something kind, open a door for her, carry the vacuum or mop bucket.

Roselia had thought he was flirting with her, but maybe she’d just been a stupid girl with a crush. It didn’t matter now. She was a trained sex slave about to be sold. She would never see Marco or his kind eyes again, but she would always remember him and picture him when times were bad.

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