Page 2 of Immoral

Everything becomes a blur. I'm ordered to shampoo and condition my hair, wash my body, and dry off. The men lead us to a changing room where another group of women is waiting.

These women aren't naked. I beg them to help me, but they avoid making eye contact. One of them blow dries and styles my hair. She puts more makeup on me than I'm used to wearing. One of the men orders me to put on a pair of stilettos. He fastens a collar with a leash around my neck and shoves me out of the room.

I go through the same door Uberto went through. The man forces me up the stairs and down a long hallway. The sound of men talking and laughing fills my ears. Cigar smoke wafts in my nostrils. We stop in front of a curtain. He fists my hair and tugs it so harshly, pain flares through my neck.

"Ow!" I blurt out.

He points a gun at my head and snarls, "Go on stage. When you're ordered to turn, you obey. Whatever you're told to do, you do. Understand?"

My pulse races so fast I get dizzy. I don't reply.

"Answer me," he barks.

I jump. "Y-yes."

He separates the curtain and pushes me forward.

The lights are bright. I stop, blinking to focus my vision.

He growls, "Move to the X!"

I take a few steps and stand on the taped X. When I look up, I'm horrified. The room is full of men sitting around, drinking alcohol, and smoking. Some of the men have naked women on their laps. Scared expressions stare back at me. The same type of collar I have on wraps around their necks.

I cover my breasts and lower body, but there's no hiding. A man in an expensive-looking suit stands several feet from me. He holds a microphone and orders, "Raise your arms to the side."

I freeze.

He steps closer and reiterates the same thing, only this time, there's a warning in his voice. "Raise your arms to the side."

His demeanor scares me, so I do what he says. Tears fall fast and drip on the floor.

"Cara Serrano. Forty-one. Educated in New York. Spent quite a while in Europe. Speaks several languages," he rattles off.

My heart beats harder against my chest cavity. My knees wobble, but my situation only gets worse.

"Starting bid, $100,000," he proclaims then demands, "Spin."

Unsure what to do, still foggy from whatever Uberto drugged me with, and not wanting to get killed, I turn around.

Men start shouting out numbers. I squeeze my eyes shut, wanting all of this to be over, wishing I had listened to Gianni and stayed away from Uberto when I had the chance.

The announcer slaps my ass, and I jump. He orders, "Bend over and grab your ankles."

Humiliated, I obey.

More numbers get shouted into the air until someone yells, "Ten million."

The room turns silent. Blood pounds so hard against my ears, I wonder if they can all hear it.

"Going once. Going twice. Sold."

The room erupts in applause. A dark-haired man with a scar across his cheek comes on stage, grabs me by the shoulder, and steers me through the curtain. I'm still weak from the drugs, but I try to push away from him.

"Stop fighting me, or you'll make it worse for yourself," he warns.

"Please," I plead, but he doesn't even acknowledge it.

He takes off his suit coat, puts it around me, then opens a door.

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