Page 4 of Retribution
He obeys, showing off the gleaming bricks within. Moving faster than he can see, I drop the gun into the footwell and push the door open, swinging out and landing on top of him in a tackle any NFL player would be proud of. Pulling out the syringe I had hidden in my pocket, I flick the cap off with my thumb, then inject it into his arm. His struggles weaken and his eyes glaze as the pure heroin takes effect.
You really can get anything on the web.
Jumping up, I drag him to his car, sitting him in the driver’s seat, shifting it into a reclining position. His breaths are coming rapidly...short, shallow puffs of air as he struggles to take in a proper breath. Pressing the syringe into his hand, I make his fingers curl around it before closing the door and stepping back, watching. I’m a patient man. He coughs twice, eyes going wide as the vomit races up this throat, gurgling and retching as he chokes on it. It takes only minutes and is over quickly, the light in his eyes slowly fading to a dull blue.
I do a quick search, making sure nothing is left behind. Swiping up the syringe cap, I tuck it into my pocket, tossing my mask onto the passenger side as I swing into the driver’s seat. Peeling out of the parking lot, a wide smile stretches across my face as I make my way back towards Flagstaff.
I want to be back in time to log in to Rebecca’s afternoon session. I’ve been trying to be online most days, her presence soothing me in a way that’s foreign to me. It won’t be long before I put my plan into action, and finally,finally, after all these years, getting what is mine.
Soon.
Chapter 2
Rebecca
Shutting the cameras off with a sigh, I flop back onto the bed, arms strewn above my head, eyes closed as I sort through the emotions swirling through me, letting my breath slowly come back to normal, my racing heart quiet.
Although they don’t bring in as much money as the in-house clients do, Papa still makes a healthy profit from the live camera shows. I fucking hate doing it. Being ordered to humiliate myself by faceless perverts hiding behind their screens is degrading and wears on me.
I’ve received an adequate education in my time living here. Papa believed that giving us such would ensure that we could hold intelligent conversations with the judges, lawyers, senators and other esteemed members of society we were forced to spend time with. I must play many roles in the differing arenas I am forced to perform in—whore, therapist, hostess, confidant. Papa would never allow his reputation as the purveyor of only the finest, most beautiful, most obedient of women to be questioned or repudiated.
This can come in handy during the webcam shows. It’s amazing how many lonely men out there just want someone to talk to, who are willing to pay for a fantasy for a brief time.
Most hide their faces; the screen kept black, only their voice coming through to order me.Turn this way. Squeeze your breasts. Whip your cunt.DaddyG69, for example. Always hiding away, but one of the more sadistic examples. He regularly fantasizes about lighting droplets of oil placed around my body on fire. Thinking of him draws a shiver of revulsion from deep within.
Some don’t care; they want me to see them, to watch them back as they jack off to me.
And others wear a mask.
I play my part, being what they want me to be. I’ll wear an apron and gorge on cakes. I’ll talk dirty and fuck my fingers. I’ll be their girlfriend.
The ones that just want to talk are the easiest; all they want is the illusion of intimacy, of thinking—even if just for a little while—that someone in this cruel world cares about them.
A new client started a few weeks ago. At first, he kept the screens dark, hiding himself as he asked me questions about myself. He kept coming back, day after day, and for the first time in my life, I found myself growing curious. Who is this man that acts as if he wants to actually know me? Who isn’t looking for a fantasy?
It took a week of gentle persuasion, but I finally got him to open up a little about himself. He told me that he is recently out of a long-term relationship, that she left him for two other men.
He speaks of a childhood of abuse and neglect. Of never being seen.
His screen name, TheUnseen1, begins to make sense as he tells me more about himself. I listened, filing away the little things he told me, finding myself intrinsically drawn to him, to my shock and dismay. Men are users; abusive, vile, disgusting.
And yet—something draws me in. Is that strange? Unnatural? How is it that I can feel connected to someone that I have never seen? The black screen seemed to mock me, taunting me with my own uncertainties.
Until one day, while discussing deeper topics like the meaning of life and our role in the universe, the blank screen flickered to life. My back had straightened, hopeful to finally get a glimpse of the mystery man that fascinated me so.
Instead, I was confronted with a view of hundreds of white roses, spilling across the tabletop and draping from windowsills. His voice, deep and resonant, slid like silk out from the speakers, promising that he will come for me—the roses are his covenant, his vow to me.
I could easily fall asleep to that voice. In between sessions I forget the power it seems to have over me, like he’s the Pied Piper, pulling my soul from me, wrapping it around himself until I see and hear nothing but him.
It can take hours for my head to clear from our time together, to pull myself back into the reality of what my life really is. Torment, humiliation, fear, agony. And then I remember that I’m no one special. I’m not a princess trapped in a tower, waiting for her prince to rescue her.
I’m just a whore, forced to serve at men’s pleasure by a man that by all accounts should be roasting in the fiery depths of hell.
A small, secret part of me keeps that tiny scrap of hope alive though. Maybe he means what he says. Maybe he will come, and my sisters and I will be safe.
Or, perhaps, I’ll need to find a way to do it myself. Free me and my sisters from the monsters that surround us, snapping and biting, herding us into a prison of their making.
Pulling myself up from the bed, I scrub my hands over my face. It feels like I’m the only one doing any work around here lately. Momma has an extensive chore list made up for me, and now that I’ve finished the webcams for the day, it’s time to do some housework.
