Page 112 of Taken Off Camera
With trembling fingers, I unfold the lingerie. The blue satin shimmers under the lights. I hadn’t been able to afford anything better than this when I first started. Buying it had meant eating beans and rice for three weeks, but it had been the first step toward independence.
Now, the thought of wearing it for these viewers turns my skin to ice, a violation so deep I may never feel clean again.
“Where should I change?” I ask, stalling for precious seconds.
“Right there.” Travis gestures at the center of the room, within the frame of the main camera. “They’ll want to see everything.”
The creeping horror that filled me when we first entered this room crystallizes. Travis isn’t just planning to assault me, he’s going to livestream it, forcing me to perform as “Elliot” one last time before selling me to whoever’s watching.
“I can’t remove my pants with the ankle ties on.” I gesture down at my still-bound feet.
Travis frowns, then approaches, gun never wavering. He crouches, a knife appearing in his free hand. The blade slices through the plastic with a snap.
“Don’t get any ideas,” he warns, backing away. “Two minutes.”
Blood rushes back into my feet, pins-and-needles crawling up my calves. I roll my ankles, feeling strength return to muscles tensed too long in one position.
“Can I use the bathroom first?” I ask, mind racing toward the only plan that might work. “Please.”
“After,” Travis refuses flatly. “Change now.”
I fumble with the hem of my sweatshirt, lifting it an inch before stopping. “I can’t do this with you staring.”
“You’re a cam boy,” Travis sneers. “This is what you do.”
“Not like this,” I whisper, my throat tightening as tears threaten. “Please.”
Something in my expression must reach whatever humanity remains in him, because he sighs and turns to check a setting on the laptop. I use the moment to search the room again, and the desk lamp draws my attention.
“One minute,” Travis announces, turning back to me. “Last chance before your friend suffers.”
He approaches the main camera, setting it with meticulous care. With his back to me, he peers through the viewfinder and fine-tunes the angle.
“I’ll do it.” As I lift my sweatshirt, my wrist grazes the tripod head. Concealed by the loose fabric, I nudge the quick-release lever open a fraction, just enough to cause the feed to tremble each time the floor vibrates. “I’ll perform.”
Travis bares his teeth in something that passes for a grin, though nothing about it is kind. His finger hovers over the main camera’s power button, waiting until I tug on the lingerie he bought.
“Beautiful. You’re going to be a star, Elliot,” he says, pressing the button. “One last performance before our new life begins.”
The red recording light blooms to life.
30
Istare at the red light, the blue satin lingerie clinging to my skin.
Travis positions himself behind me, his breath moist on my neck. His fingers dig into my hips as he shifts me into the frame, and my stomach knots, nausea rising.
“Perfect,” Travis whispers, the word slithering into my ear. “They’ll love this.”
The ring light burns white spots into my vision, bleaching the colors from the room until everything feels unreal. My bare feet find the thin rug he laid down to mimic my apartment floor. The air reeks of sweat and dust, and every breath becomes a fight to keep from gagging.
“Smile.” Travis’s grip tightens when I remainfrozen. “You know how to perform, Elliot. Do it now.”
My lips stretch in a tight imitation of pleasure, muscles locked so tight they tremble. The camera lens stares back, unblinking, capturing my debasement for whoever sits on the other side of this feed.
Buyers. Traffickers. People who view me as merchandise.
Travis slides his free hand up my stomach, fingers cold on my skin as they slip beneath the tank top. “That’s it. Show them what they’re bidding on.”
