Page 9 of Unorthodox
Still, I keep fighting. I keep trying to scream. But when we get to the door that leads to the stairs of the basement, his hand on my mouth goes to my throat, pinching around both sides, stealing the breath from me. When he opens the door, I hear Max call out, “I’ll see you tonight, Addison,” before Ben shoves me.
I’m free falling, then everything explodes into pain. Pain, and darkness.
* * *
That night,I’m drugged again.
And Max is good to his word.
He comes. And he’s gentle. His whispered words aren’t, but his hands skim my back softly. He applies something that’s cool, then warm and tingly against the parts of my flesh that aren’t open wounds. He caresses me, and he kisses the side of my face, and through the haze of the drugs, I almost forget he did this. Just as much as Ben, he did this.
But then he whispers against my ear, “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, love. If you do as you’re told, you won’t get hurt. I can promise you that.”
And I remember Ben is his doing. Every ache and bruise on my body is his doing. And when he rubs my back until I fall asleep—not hard to do with whatever is coursing through my system—I try to remember that as gentle as his hands are tonight, he’s got my blood on them all the same.
The secretto breaking a girl has nothing to do with violence. It has its place, of course, but violence breeds resentment. Resentment makes for disobedience, and disobedience…well, disobedience cannot be tolerated.
Not in my line of work.
Addison London thrives on disobedience.
But violence wasn’t the answer to fix that flaw.
My secret wasn’t hitting her, not that I wouldn’t. Hitting women was never a thing I was taught not to do. In fact, the opposite is true. It wasn’t until I moved to the States with my brother—both of us taken by my mother, who was hit more than a few times in my presence, once so hard a tooth flew from her mouth—that I learned people don’t like to hit women.
Or rather, they like to say they don’t like to hit women.
Then they do it in secret. Sometimes right after church. I once observed a man straight off the heels of Sunday mass hit his mistress with a closed fist and a rosary wrapped around his knuckles.
In America, things aren’t civilized. They’re just disguised.
When I led Addison to her room a week ago after her mind had been dulled enough to follow instructions, showing her the adjoining bathroom, television, and closet with enough clothes to get her through the next few weeks, I was in disguise then too.
I wasn’t overly friendly, because I never am. But I didn’t touch her. Or yell at her. Or say a single harsh word to her.
Even when the drugs wore off and she screamed at me. Even when she cried. Even when she lunged for me and I wanted nothing more than to beat her senseless.
I didn’t lift a finger.
No.
My secret?
I let Ben do all of the dirty work.
Ben is a slave trainer.
I’ve never exactlytraineda sex slave in my life, but I’ve used my fair share of them. I lost my virginity to one when I was twelve, and my father held a gun to the girl’s head until I was able to get an erection. Prior to that, I hurt them when my father forced me to, or I watched my brother pay the price.
But despite my dealings with slaves, I never found much joy in the training. It’s thankless work, breaking a slave in, male or female. They talk back, bite, hit, scream and spit on you.
It’s like training a dog.
I’d much rather sell the obedient product than be the one getting them to behave.
Ben does the hard work, and he’s paid well for it. One week isn’t enough time to create a perfect sex slave. Not even really a good one. I don’t need that; her owner will train her how she sees fit.
What I need is her cooperation.
