Page 16 of Voracious

ALL PLAYTHINGS MUST BE IN SIGHT

Why do I have to be the fucking plaything? Dima could sit his big ass on the floor instead of me. I’m not a dog who’s going to kneel beside him waiting until I’ve done a trick right to get a treat or a belly rub. I’ve seen the way they all act, the person loses all sense of themselves when they’re forced to be in that position. I’d just have anger to keep me company and I’ll end up stabbing him if I get bored.

There’s no loophole I can take advantage of, and he opens his annoying mouth.

“Or leave the room and I’ll let you know if she’s there.”

I groan, taking my shoes off and accepting defeat as I grumble back so his caveman brain understands.

“If you touch your nasty dick, I’m chopping it off.”

The chair swivels without a retort as I push my jeans off my hips. I’m surprised he didn’t throw up. Marlo always said I was lucky to be training to be a madam, I wouldn’t have made enough to cover expenses otherwise. Jokes on that dumb prick because I got a £500 tip the first time and I was only six.I can taste the chocolate cake I bought with the money. It was the best ninety-nine pence I’ve ever spent, and I got four of them.

The ridiculously short dress covers more of my arms than my body, so I pull my socks up to cover as much of me as possible. All my tattoos are covered and I’m glad he didn’t make me show them to other people.

“Leave them off, come here,” dumbass speaks as I go to put my boots back on.

Each step without them is like walking over gravel, the uneven texture on my soles rubs against the edges of the rug and I push more of my body weight down, liking the feeling. It doesn’t hurt with the tissue having healed but it’s bumpy and the deep scarring has formed ridges.

Dima reaches into a drawer and excitement starts to build at the thought of him pulling out a knife. He’d be a fun opponent; his size and skill would make it harder for me to win and I’d have to work for the kill. It fades as fast as it came when he pulls out a mask. The outside is black, so black it’s a void and I can’t even make out the contours of the material.

The automated countdown starts as the online lobby opens and I shove it over my head at the same time Dima pulls on a ski mask. His looks comfortable but I get the heavy one coveringmy full face. Even my eyes and lips are covered, my breathing is going to make it feel like I’m in a rainforest. I’m going to be bald with how much my hair is falling out again and the stupid straps are tugging against my scalp.

He widens his legs and I recoil as he touches my hips then pulling me to stand in front of him. I don’t trust TRR not to be recording already and bite my cheek while checking I’m not in view of the camera. The urge to kill gets more intense when Dima fuckingcombsthrough my hair with his fingers. There are going to be strands everywhere and he’ll have something else to mock me about. It’s always something, my voice, my looks, my height, how I speak, where I go, anything that can be picked up on, is. With all the dickheads.

The entire world is filled with people like Marlo, they find everyone’s weaknesses and then stick a knife in them, not because they want to kill the weakness, it’s to make it bleed and then show you how easy it was. I didn’t have any of my own, they were all given to me, and I hate it because it reminds me of Marlo and Yulia, the creators of Ana.

But Dima continues arranging the strands until they’re how he wants without saying anything. I’m going to buy him a doll, so he stops fucking petting me. They can’t be that expensive, a couple of dollars is worth never feeling his hands on me again. Even though they don’t go anywhere remotely sexual, there’s possessiveness in his touch as he herds me closer to him and flattens his palm on the center of my back to turn me and make me sit down.

I know why I have the full-face mask when I touch his thigh, it’s to hide my gagging. He looks dumb as fuck in a suit and a ski mask, the sophisticated bank robber. When the countdown ends so do my internal jokes seeing the row of people. The sinking in my stomach is guilt, I’ve been the person who got them ready, laid out their outfits, and done their hair.

None of them look older than twenty-five – the expiry date. Or below fifteen, they’re in that dulled in between before it gets really bad. Right now, they’re lying to themselves, creating a false world to hide in while their bodies are slowly unveiled. They have all their limbs, not Nina, and I deflate. Cool air brushes my ear at the same time as Dima whispers, “They have retina tracking.”

I can see the fucking screen I don’t need his dumbass commentary.

My fingers itch to feel blood as the distorted voice sounds and cold washes over me. It’s not directed at Dima with the sick cunts introducing their special brand of depravity.

“This is a teaser for the few who will be lucky enough to have an invite, each band represents a specialty.”

A pair step forward, demonstrating the announcer’s words as they go through each color. I think it’s Rowan speaking, he always loved being the showman and I can’t imagine him allowing one of the mirrors to speak. I wonder if he lets anyone see his face now, the last time a guard saw him without a mask he took out their eyeballs and tongue.

Fingers wrap around my thigh, rough and squeezing while the corresponding thumb out of sight of the screen gently strokes my skin. Dima’s voice is soft, and his lips don’t move around his whisper. “Just breathe, do you see her?”

I check each little box with the viewers for a woman with a missing limb again, they all have two arms and two legs. Fucking idiots. Where the fuck is she? I’m officially the worst seeker in the world losing a sex-trafficked girl with one arm. There can’t be hundreds of them, never mind thousands, so she should be somewhere.

Lips touch below my ear and I flinch away from them. Dima’s a fucking prick and doesn’t let me move away with his hand going to my nape and the one on my thigh tightening.

“They’re watching everyone, act like you’ve been taught to.”

I want to scream. I haven’t been taught to be in this situation. I’m the hands behind the scenes. The organizer. The person who collects the cheques and scolds the tears. Not the one people touch, or even talk to.I’m the ghost and I’m not meant to be here.

His hand goes further up my thigh, and I can’t stop myself trying to push it away. The dickhead announcer is honed in on us and the dark robotic laugh floats through.

“Room thirteen is in the process of training for those of you interested.”

A sigh touches my neck, we both know what it means, and Dima is a bigger asshole by blaming me.

“See what you fucking did?”

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