Trey - Shandi Boyes Page 0,78
K?”
Twenty-One
Sales Docket Number 12574
I thought being beaten so horrifically, my body resembled an abstract painting of mottled purples, blacks, and blues would be the most painful thing I’d experience while being a sex slave.
It was silly of me to ever believe.
Strangulation hurts so much more.
The bulging of my eyes from his tight grip. The strain on the muscles in my neck when he wrings them to within an inch of recognition. The burn of my lungs as they scream for another breath.
They want to live.
They want to fight.
I don’t want to do either of those things.
I deserve to die.
I broke like I promised I wouldn’t.
I responded to his taunt.
And I’d do it all again just to see my spit slide down Achim’s murderously red face.
For hours on end, he made me watch all the horrible things they did to me. The beatings. The rapes. The humiliation. He played his sick videos on repeat while holding my face an inch from the screen.
The dark comforted me, it kept me sane, then Achim switched tactics.
You can’t scare a captive with scenes of captivity, but you can taunt her with how close she came to freedom. First, it was an orange and a heat lamp that resembled the warmth of a sunny Vegas day. Then, it was freshly picked wildflowers and a pork chop overcooked in too much fat.
His last tactic was the worst of them all.
It was his hand, on me, in an area he’d never touched me before.
Whether with Achim or one of the many men I’ve been forced to ‘entertain,’ our exchanges were never about me. I was not to be pleased. I was to give pleasure.
That’s why I couldn’t help but respond when Achim slid his hand into my panties. I should have taken solace in the fact he repulses me so much that if he had found my clit, my body didn’t notice it. There was no buzz of excitement, no euphoria on what might occur. There was nothing but an urgent need to spit in his face, which is precisely what I did when his eyes lifted to check if I were responding to his touch.
His face went red with anger.
I’d never seen him so mad.
He was on me in an instant. He slapped me, hit me, then ripped at my hair. When that failed to startle me, he clamped his hands around my throat. With his face an inch from mine, he told me how much he hated me, how I was ungrateful and unappreciative, and that I’d never be free.
That was a little over two minutes ago.
My head is woozy now.
My mouth and eyes are dry.
I can hear the darkness calling me. It’s begging for me to let go, to fall into its safety. The only reason I’m holding on is because I know this tiptoe out of the dark will be my last.
Achim Novak wants to kill me, and I’m ready to let him.
Twenty-Two
Trey
Have you ever felt like you’re being lied to, but you have no clue why people you trust think lying is their only option? That’s the feeling that hit me the instant Eight and Mikhail left my room. They helped me get my room back in order, assured me I’m not going crazy, then exited like I didn’t ask them three times in a row who K really is.
They answered me, they know better than to act ignorant around me, but they lied through their teeth the entire time. I know it, Eight and Mikhail know it, and so the fuck does K.
A whore hoping to claw her nails into the back of a worthless crew leader wouldn’t stir enough interest out of me to make my cock twitch. I doubt I would have given her a second sideway glance, but just the mention of the letter ‘K’ sets off my pulse in my ears. It’s been thudding nonstop the past hour, growing in intensity the longer I stare at the drawer I shoved a grubby nightgown into.
Needing answers, I rip open the drawer with enough force to fully remove it. Anger percolates through my veins when nothing but numerous pairs of boxer shorts reflect back at me.
Concern my almost manic breakdown has me mistaking which drawer I hid it in, I yank open the three below it. Confirmation I’m being lied to smacks into me hard and fast. None of my drawers are housing an almost see-through nightgown. There’s not a single piece of female attire to be found in