Page 7 of The Seller

I stand back, as confused as I am annoyed.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I don’t know, Mr Human Trafficker, why don’t you tell me?”

There is a sneering judgement to her tone which makes me want to smack the smirk right off her face. She thinks she’s better than me, and maybe she is, but I don’t take attitude from women, not even women who are probably undercover officers.

“Get out of my car. Now.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’m going to drag you out and whip your bare ass with my belt.”

“Is that part of your accidental kidnapping service?”

Fuck. She’s actually funny, and to tell the truth, on some level I am enjoying this back and forth which I don’t usually get with my captives. Goddamn, I need to get rid of her. All she has to do is leave and I’ll never bother her again. At this stage, I’m getting even more certain that this girl is connected. I’m going to have to sell the bloody house, get rid of this car, basically burn this entire portion of my life.

I didn’t think I’d be planning my immediate exit from this line of business today, but strangely enough, I find that I’m not that angry about it. The truth is, as many girls as I’ve taken and on-sold, I’ve been ready to quit for a while. This has become something like cigarette smoking to me, a bad habit I can’t quite quit.

I tell myself I’m not that bad. I like to think I’m a humane trafficker. I don’t hurt my girls. I don’t get them addicted to drugs. They’re princesses while they’re in my care and they go to their new owners ready to be of service. The men I sell to know better than to mistreat them too. I’ve broken limbs and on one occasion, taken a life for what was done to my girls.

I am a monster, but one with ethics. Anyway, I’m getting too old for this shit. I’ll be forty this year. Maybe this is the sign that it’s time to get out of the business.

“This is your last chance. Get out, or this is going to hurt.”

She doesn’t move, and I’m done asking. I’m not going to be treated like a punk by this girl. I reach in, take her by the upper arm and pull her out of the car.

I expect flailing and screaming, but as usual, she subverts my expectations and just lets me do what I want. What the fuck is happening, I wonder to myself as I push her down over the hood of the MG and start working at the buckle of my belt.

This is a pretty private road. I’ve trained girls out here before, made them walk naked and barefoot down the grassy side of the path, exposed to the elements and what they think are they prying eyes of people in the distance. It’s a good way to instill obedience even in the face of shame, but I don’t know if this girl is capable of shame.

Siri’s ass is up high, presented adorably in that yellow summer dress which clings to her waist and hips like it was made for her. It’s the work of a second to flip it up and expose her bare ass. Goddamn. She’s got skin like cream, and that taut little peach nestled between her cheeks and thighs is ripe for taking.

If she’s law enforcement, she’s going to report this as part of her investigation. I should stop. I need to get control of myself. I need to…

“The safe word is pineapple,” she says, taunting me again.

She thinks this is a game? She thinks there are limits to what I can and will do to her? She’s so fucking wrong.

WHACK!

I bring my belt down against her ass in one hard, oh so satisfying stroke. I don’t give a fuck if I spend the next year tied up in legal shit. It’s worth it just to see the bright red stroke flare across her ass.

She lets out a shriek of shock and pain. I don’t think she was expecting that. She thought she had the upper hand. She’s fucking wrong. I grab the back of her dress and use it as a tether to keep her in place as I whip her ass with my belt, landing harsh stroke after harsh stroke until she is crying out the way she should have been the first damn day we met.

In this regard, she is like every other girl I’ve ever trained. Her ass colors up the same way, her skin blooming red, the belt leaving hot pink marks across her upturned cheeks. Oh fuck yes. This is how it is supposed to be. This is what control feels like, having a writhing young lady dancing over the hood of my car.

I want to fuck her. It’s not just her ass and pussy on display. It’s the tight little hole of her anus too. It’s that smaller, darker hole that draws my attention now. It would serve her right if I were to grab the lube I always keep in the glove box, smear it on that tight little ring of muscle, and fuck her in that hot, tight hole.

“Has anyone ever had your ass?”

“What!?” She gasps. “No!”

“I’m going to,” I growl, lashing the belt down across her bottom one more time. I’m going to leave marks. I’m going to make an impression. She’s going to regret whatever little game it was she decided to play with me.

“No! Please!”

She’s safe for the moment. As private as this road is, I’m still not so reckless as to break her in anally right here in front of the world at large. That will happen elsewhere, but it will happen. There’s not going to be a part of her that isn’t mine.

---