Page 75 of Devour
“Wow…. thank you.” Looking down at the meal. “They really go all out with the food.”
“They feed us well,” she replies.
They’re fattening us up for slaughter, I think, but keep the words to myself. No need to ruin the illusion for her.
I push the food around on my plate in small bites, not having much of an appetite. To distract her from noticing I’m not eating much, I ask, “So… how did you get here?”
“My father sold me,” she says simply.
I want to press for more, but I don’t. It’s clearly a painful subject. Still, she continues, like getting it out might lighten the weight on her chest.
“His company’s going bankrupt. And he sees his fat daughter as a way to make enough money to save it.”
I place my hand gently on hers, offering comfort the best way I can. “You shouldn’t say that about yourself. You’re not fat—you’re curvy, sexy, and beautiful.
When you start believing the worst about yourself, that’s when people can really hurt you.” She gives a small shrug.
“I’ll be happy if I get a rich master at the auction. At least then I won’t have to worry about being sold again.”
She’s so naive. I want to tell her it doesn’t work like that—that a rich master doesn’t guarantee kindness. What if she ends up with someone cruel? But I keep my thoughts to myself, and we fall into silence after that.
“You didn’t eat much,” she eventually says, eyeing my barely touched tray. She sees right through me.
“The food just isn’t to my liking.”
She looks surprised, like I’ve just rejected a five-star restaurant breakfast. “I just prefer home-cooked meals.” She nods in understanding.
“I miss those too.”
As we’re returning our dirty dishes, a voice calls out from the doorway.
“Ladies, be at the training room in five minutes.”
Then she vanishes back through the door, happy shriek echoing in her wake. Are these girls being serious, they’re about be sold and they are excited
Few minutes later, we enter a room that, to me, looks like a torture chamber. Leather whips, restraints, paddles, cuffs and things I don’t recognize are lined up neatly, like tools in a twisted museum.
The scent of leather and cold steel fills the air and leaves a sick feeling in my stomach. I can’t help but wonder what they plan on doing with all this equipment. I don’t like this place; this room in particular gives me the creeps.
I finally notice the woman standing at the front of the room, almost at the same time the rest of the girls do.
They all stop murmuring and face her. Her posture alone commands attention. She looks to be in her early forties—tall and slim, with sharp cheekbones and wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. She stands perfectly straight, almost military-like, her expression unreadable.
“Ladies, welcome to your first training lesson,” the woman says, her voice crisp and authoritative, laced with a French accent.
“You may call me Mistress Tilly. I will be teaching you everything you need to know to properly please your future master. You have one week to master everything I teach you.”
She gestures to the array of items hanging on the walls.
“As you may have noticed when you entered, this room is filled with tools. I will teach you the names of each one and howthey’re used. Your future master might be into BDSM—bondage, discipline, dominance, submission, sadism, and masochism, and you must be prepared to please him, whatever his tastes may be.”
She begins describing the equipment, and I can’t hide the disgust on my face when she holds up a butt plug and explains its use. I don’t understand why anyone would want something shoved up there.
“Do I smell?”
The voice snaps me out of my daze. I look up—Mistress Tilly is standing right in front of me. “What?” I stammer, caught off guard.
“I said, do I smell?”
