by Anthology
With nothing else to do, I settled into a couch and picked up a magazine. It was in a language that was either Russian or looked a lot like it. The subject of the magazine was hard to guess, but there were a lot of beautiful women inside doing everything from shooting guns in skimpy outfits to washing dishes in nothing at all.
Weird.
By the time I’d flipped to the back of the book, the secretary had returned with a large man in tow. His shaved head gleamed under the fluorescent lights.
“Come with me,” he said. He sounded different than on the phone, but I thought I recognized the voice of the man who’d called me. He turned and walked down a hallway, barely looking to see if I followed.
“Thank you for this opportunity,” I said, trying to spark a conversation.
He grunted and didn’t look back, so I left things the way they were. I couldn’t think of what to say to a man who wouldn’t have been out of place playing a thug in a James Bond movie.
The hall opened onto a big open space that once may have been a warehouse. Now it contained a few stages set up with lighting and cameras. One had a large bed on it and looked like a bedroom while one was a living room. A stage on the far side had a couple cages and a rack that held whips and chains.
What the hell?
“Ah, there she is.” A short man with a considerable paunch stood by another set with a few chairs placed around a coffee table. “Paul said you were beautiful, and I can see he wasn’t lying.”
This man had no discernible accent, which was a refreshing change.
“Oh, thank you so much,” I said. “Are you the photographer?”
“Anton Scaleto, that’s me,” he said with a wink. “Don’t worry if you’ve never heard of me, I work in circles a little further away from New York high fashion most of the time.”
His voice was easy and open, the kind that invited you to relax and unburden yourself. My guard came down from where it had risen since I’d arrived.
“This place was a little scary to walk into,” I said. “And what’s with all the sets?”
“I won’t lie to you,” Anton said. “Most of the time this space serves as a porn studio, but that’s not why you’re here—unless you want to try it out. Just a matter of making sure the studio gets used to its fullest.”
The dungeonesque set made a lot more sense with the explanation. “Porn?” I shivered a little. The thought had occurred before—it seemed like easy money, and I loved sex, but I didn’t want to expose my sexual being to millions of people on the internet and never have control over it ever again. “No thanks. I’m just a model, and porn is strictly off-limits for me.”
“Not to worry, not to worry.” Anton smiled and gestured toward the set he was standing beside. “We have clothes for you to put on and you’ll pose around here while I take pictures. Easy peasy for someone with your looks, and then you’ll be on your way with a big cheque in your pocket. How’s that sound?”
I smiled. It was hard not to for Anton, he was like a blustery uncle. “That sounds more like it. Where are these pictures going?”
“Oh, just in a couple magazines in Russia, you wouldn’t have heard about them. As much as America loves to ignore it most of the time, it’s a big market over there that isn’t being satisfied, and you can make a lot of money if you play your cards right. Now, let’s get you into your first outfit and we’ll get started.”
The stolid Russian who had called me and led me into the warehouse had disappeared, and Anton showed me over to a change room set up off to the side of the big space.
When I saw the clothing he’d left me, my heart dropped. With his pleasant manner and easy attitude, I’d hoped the job would be to model actual outfits. There was no mistaking the small slips of fabric for anything other than underwear.
I wavered. I could still pull out and leave, it wasn’t too late—it’s not like I’d signed anything.
What did you think you would model? You can’t just give up because they want you to pose in lingerie. Hell, you’ve already done that with Stephen and now thousands of people have seen that advertising campaign. It’s a little late to be ashamed of your body.
Still, it had been different with Stephen. I hadn’t been modeling the lingerie so much as posing for him. Trying my hardest to get him turned on, make him break so he could no longer control himself.
This will be what your life as a model is like. Wearing underwear, bikinis, dresses that show off your body. That’s the whole point.
I took a deep breath. This was what I wanted, and what I wanted to do.
It didn’t take long to change into the skimpy outfit. It was even more revealing than what Denise had designed—it was a challenge to keep my nipples from busting out of the bra Anton had left me.
“There you are!” Anton said as I walked back to the set. “Don’t you look just magnificent.”
His manner hadn’t changed, which relieved one worry I’d had. Once a woman was barely wearing anything in front of them, even the nicest guys had a tendency to turn into animals.
I took the first pose Anton requested, and we got to work. The nerves refused to leave, and my stomach fought me the entire time. I tried to imagine it was Stephen behind the lens, beyond the bright lights, but it was hard to keep up the fiction.
The worst part was knowing the nervousness would show up in the shots. I felt unnatural, like my limbs wouldn’t sit the way they should.
“Let’s take a break,” Anton suggested after a few dozen shots. “Why don’t you have a drink, take the edge off?”
The glass he handed me smelled potent, but I needed the fortification so I knocked it back.
“Isn’t that better?” he asked.
I shook my head and tried to clear my throat—there was a cloying aftertaste I didn’t expect. The liquor did its job. I could feel lightheadedness start in behind my temples.
“Ugh. What was in that? It went straight to my head.”
“Just a house concoction. It always does the trick.”
The sensation intensified and turned into dizziness so rapidly I had to sit down on the edge of the stage so I wouldn’t fall over. Grayness rushed in from the edges of my vision, enveloping my sight.
That wasn’t alcohol.
Blackness followed the gray and then there was nothing.
Chapter Thirteen
When my eyes opened, the only thing in front of them was a whitewashed concrete wall.
Where am I? What happened?
Fog clung to my thoughts like a spiderweb, slowing everything down and making it difficult to access memories.
I sat up, gingerly cradling my head as a pounding headache threatened to split it in half.
The room was small and contained nothing but the single bed I woke up on. The mattress was only a couple inches thick, barely a pad on top of a metal spring frame. A window let in bright sunlight and had iron bars bolted onto it; the lower pane sat cracked open, letting in a light breeze.
A toilet sat through a simple wooden door on one end of the room and a large metal portal sat closed on the wall next to the bed.
It looked like a prison cell.
Oh, my God. What the fuck is going on?
It would have been sweltering if I hadn’t been almost naked.
I struggled to get to my feet, stumbling the two steps to the door and latching onto the handle to keep upright. I took a couple deep breaths to steady myself and then gave the handle a yank.
Nothing.
I tried harder, pulling with everything in my weakened body and failing to wrest the door open.
Come on!
“Let me out of here!” I screamed. “Why am I here?”
The door refused to answer. I hit it, my knuckles cracking on the hardened steel. Pain raced through my arm, and I cried out as I cradled my hand and collapsed back onto the bed.
I was supposed to have dinner with Stephen last night. Then what happened?
I didn’t remember eating with him. I must not
have gone.
Why not?
A Russian voice rose from the fog surrounding my memories.
That’s right. The photoshoot.
I went to do a shoot last minute. That explained the clothing, it was the same thing I had been wearing during the shoot.
Anton gave me something to drink.
It must have been drugged. It was the only explanation.
Why would they do that? What will happen to me?
When I’d first moved to New York, I could never have imagined a more lonely feeling than not knowing a single soul in such a massive hive of humanity. The bustle of the city was entrancing, but also frightening. My first night in the tiny studio apartment had been spent in sorrow, convinced I’d made a mistake and should move back home.
The loneliness of that night was nothing compared to the panic I felt rising within me. Tears came to my eyes, and I bit back a sob.
I’d been drugged, locked into a cell, and who knew what would happen. It was surreal, like it should be a scene out of a movie, not happening in real life.
There was a scratching at the door, then the grating of metal on metal.
“Hello?” I called. “Who’s there?”
The door swung open, revealing a big, beefy man carrying a small tray. His face was expressionless, betraying no thoughts of the man within. He could have been the brother of the thuggish man from the night before.
I pushed back from the door, closer to the wall. “Who are you?”
No response. The man set the tray down on the floor and turned to leave.
“Wait!” I called. “Why am I here? What’s going on?”
The door slammed shut, leaving me alone in the small room once more.
Hunger burned a pit in my stomach, reminding me I’d skipped dinner the night before. The tray held a bowl of stew, a spoon, a glass of water, and that was it.
It took hardly any time to scarf down the stew and drink the water, then there was nothing to do but wait.
Fortified with food, some of the nausea and dizziness went away, enough that I felt strong enough to give standing another try. I wanted to look out the window.
“Uh, oh.”
The view wasn’t what I’d expected. There was no hint of the train yard or the Hudson. Instead, the window opened onto a scruffy-looking field and the city noises I expected weren’t present.
This is bad.
The only thing that had prevented a full-fledged panic was the assumption I was still at the warehouse. I knew there was a better shot at rescue if I remained there—there must be a way the police could track down where I went.
I didn’t even know if I was still in New York, or even America.
This is bad.
The gears in the door turned once more, the poorly maintained metal screaming in protest. I turned toward the door and backed into the far corner, adrenaline pumping as I waited to see what this new development would bring.
My jaw dropped as Paul strolled into the room, accompanied by the big man from earlier.
“Paul?”
He smiled. It was amazing how an expression others used to portray joy and happiness could be so twisted and perverse.
“Why Liberty, how sweet of you to drop by and visit. Are you enjoying your stay in my fine establishment here?”
“You son of a bitch!” I rushed forward but before I could claw the eyes out of that smug, self-satisfied face his bodyguard pushed me back and held my arms, keeping me captive.
“Now that’s no way to treat your owner, Liberty. Didn’t your mother ever teach you that politeness and good manners always pay off?”
He reached out and slapped me in an almost casual manner, but the impact rocked my face back and would have sent me to the floor if Paul’s thug hadn’t held me up.
“Owner?” I couldn’t think straight through the pain, and I couldn’t even touch my face to assess the damage thanks to the man restraining me.
“Don’t worry, I’ve slapped enough women that I know how to send a message without leaving a mark.” He sounded proud of the fact. “And yes. I own you, Liberty. Not for long though. With a body and face like yours, there will be many interested buyers. I’m sure you won’t hang around for too long.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s simple.” Paul spoke like he was explaining how the weather worked to a simple-minded child. “People are commodities like any other, and that is my business. Some people are worth more than others, but everyone has a price.” He pulled something out of the hallway and tossed it on the bed—another set of lingerie. “You’ll wear this so you can better show off your assets and fetch a higher price. Your future owner may even be watching right now.”
Paul pointed to where the corner of the room met the ceiling. A small black orb hung there, undoubtedly hiding a camera.
The truth was becoming clear. The terrible, horrific truth.
“You’re going to sell me? As what, a sex slave?”
“Now she gets it!” Paul clapped for a couple seconds, then stopped and brought his face close to mine. “This is what you get when you fucking cross me and embarrass me in public, you little bitch. I’ll make sure you end up with the foulest, cruelest brute of a man possible. If I’m lucky I might even get him to send me videos of the things he does to you.”
A blinding pain hit the left side of my face—a slap I didn’t even see coming. It swamped my senses with pain, and this time I was allowed to slump to the floor. By the time I recovered, the door to the room had slammed shut once more.
I curled up into a ball and rocked where I was. Tears streamed down my face, and I did nothing to stop them. What was the point?
I can’t believe this is happening. This doesn’t happen to people.
How long I cried for—I didn’t know. Minutes. Hours. Until there were no more tears to cry. The reasons for crying cycled from fright to sadness to rage and back again, over and over.
I wish that rotten piece of shit had never walked into Dorgo’s.
If he hadn’t, I would never have met Stephen. But while that relationship was a bright spot in an otherwise hard struggle of a life, it wasn’t worth the cost of the rest of my life spent in slavery.
When I couldn’t cry any longer and my butt was sore from sitting on the concrete floor for so long, I got up. The lingerie Paul had left was higher quality than the set I already had on.
I should throw it out the window just to spite him.
The thought sparked an idea.
Not wanting to give any potential observers more than they deserved, I ducked into the bathroom. I stripped off the clothes I wore and slipped into the new ones.
Leaning against the wall to hide my actions from the camera, I used the old red bra to tie a knot around the bars in the window and let the piece of negligee dangle out so it fluttered in the breeze. Then I bunched up the pair of panties and threw them as far as I could.
The slip of fabric turned in the wind and drifted out of sight.
Everything done I could think to do, I lay back on the bed and waited.
Chapter Fourteen
The grinding of the door woke me.
It had been two days of absolute boredom, passing the time by sleeping and planning all the delightful ways I would torture Paul if I ever got the chance. The only breaks in the monotony were the two times a day the door opened and the voiceless thug delivered what felt like the bare minimum amount of food needed to keep me alive.
“Rise and shine,” Paul’s voice cut through the residual sleep haze.
My eyes snapped open.
“Today’s your lucky day—I’ll be auctioning you off in a few hours.” He leaned against the wall at the foot of the bed, his eyes daring me to break down in front of him so he could humiliate me even more.
I didn’t give him the satisfaction even though my throat constricted at the prospect of the bleak future ahead. “Don’t you have a business to run or something? I can’t believe a man who glo
ats he’s worth four hundred million dollars wastes his time in a dump like this running a human trafficking ring. What’s the point?”
“You’re assuming I do this for the money,” Paul said. “It’s more of a hobby, something I enjoy. And in your case, I personally wanted to oversee the process to make sure you get everything you deserve.”
“You’re one to talk, you creep. I can’t think of a single person the world would be better off without than you.”
Paul scowled. “You will spend the rest of your short, miserable life wishing you’d never refused me at the bar. If you’d just been a good little slut like you should have been, none of this would have ever happened to you.”
I’d had two days to come to terms with the realities of my situation. Two solid days of painful reflection over my life and all the mistakes that had led to this point. Calling out Paul at the bar was not one of them, and that belief gave me the strength to continue to at least make him angry for as long as I could.
“I doubt you could even show a slut a good time, you scumbag. I bet you resort to doing this because you’re so worthless in bed that no women would ever willingly sleep with you.”
“How dare you,” Paul said. He walked to the bed and grabbed my legs, pulling me to the edge. “I’ll show you how wrong you are, you worthless bitch.”
I struggled as he tried to pin me down and open his pants at the same time. The panties I wore weren’t much protection against a rapist, something I was all too aware of.
“Get off of me!” I shouted. I flung all my limbs up at once, hoping that something would fend him off.
My right foot connected with something, the contact so hard it felt like it would bruise later.
Paul toppled over, falling to his side on the floor, hands in between his legs. My kick had gotten him right in the testicles.
“You bitch,” he wheezed. So little air was left in his lungs that it was barely audible.
He had left the door cracked when he’d entered the room. I leapt up and swung it open, sticking my head out into the hall and looking either direction.
