by Addison Cain
It wasn’t.
According to the solitary porthole in her room—a porthole too small to climb through and too high above the lake to survive the fall should she dislocate a shoulder and squeeze out—Eugenia had measured two days.
Time to recover from dehydration, most of it spent sleeping, drinking, eating food that was delivered by the no-nonsense Joan. Using an honest to God toilet when her taxed kidneys continued to do their job.
A porthole with a bird’s-eye view of the cliff face that concealed the ship from any wandering travelers brave enough to dare the seemingly endless, decaying wood.
Dogs howled each night, the familiar, dreaded sound sending her to her feet, heart in her throat as she reached for a knife that wasn’t there. As she scrambled to hide. Only to find herself blinking in the dark. Confused. Protected by inches of solid steel.
No stray pack was getting at her there. Something worse would try.
Her gut never lied.
And it wasn’t like she hadn’t been in a similar position before. But always in a ruin, a hut, a pen, a ditch in the ground. Never a massive ocean liner with working electricity and flushing toilets.
New situations required a new perspective. Her body required rest.
She’d die without water.
And water was delivered aplenty, with ice clicking against the side of the glass. They had ice machines, for fuck’s sake! They had guns, which meant they probably had the ammunition to fire them.
They had resources to feed what had been deemed a slave, and the luxury of time to allow that slave to be more than… what she’d seen so many other women turned into.
Bland food three times a day, mostly stew, brought to her like she was some princess in a tower. Yet no morsel ever served with any sort of utensil—heaven forbid she try to make a weapon out of a freaking spoon. Only a bit of crusty bread that, in itself, was so rare she gobbled it down despite the brick in her stomach.
They had ovens. They had stoves. They made bread.
No one, save Joan, entered her room. No men came jeering at the door. There were no squabbles in the halls over who got to fuck her first.
When she yelled for answers or threw her weight against the door, no soul took her bait.
Another stark reminder that this was very different compared to all her other situations of capture in the past.
Two days turned to three before her solitude was broken by more than a tray and congenial older woman. Joan arrived with orders.
First, a shower overseen by Eugenia’s overpolite taskmaster. Joan, standing over her, making certain every inch was scrubbed clean of filth, that stray body hair was removed. Joan scrubbing caked mud from red curls when Eugenia’s shampooing skills were apparently under par. Joan slathering her locks with conditioner to take out the snarls, pulling a comb through Eugenia’s wet mane until it felt like half her hair had been ripped from her skull.
Tsking, shaking her head at another errant tangle, Joan complained, “Young lady… you had three days to wash, and I have to be the one to come in and make you? Do you have any idea how you smelled?”
Well excuse the fuck out of her. “How was I supposed to know that water was safe?”
And why on earth would Eugenia want to wash off her filth and potentially grow appealing to the things that crept around this place?
Under her breath, the older woman continued to fight a knot that would probably need to be cut out of her hair. “Can’t have washed this mop in years.”
It was less that she was naked in front of a stranger, and more that the stranger’s snark was really getting on Eugenia’s nerves. “Oh yeah, every chance I get, I trot right up to the Four Seasons and book the presidential suite, followed by a day at the spa. How long has it been since you’ve been out there, lady? Let someone get a glimpse of the goods and you’ll end up on a whore ship, shaving your legs and armpits in front of a stranger. Oh, and there will be a man with his back to you, two feet away in case you try to use the safety razor to attack Madame Joan, wrangler of unwilling women who’d would really like off this boat.”
That earned a smirk, Joan’s silver bob better suited to a business meeting than stranger scrubbing. “But you owe a debt now. Food, water, two nights’ board. Oh, and those clothes you so kindly refused to wear. Don’t get me wrong; the men would love to see the new girl naked on her first day, but let’s take things one step at a time.”
“How the hell did you even come by clothes like that out here?” Lacy panties. A plaid, pleated mini skirt. A shirt designed to tie under her breasts and leave her belly exposed. “This is a stripper’s version of naughty Catholic schoolgirl outfit… and I’m not a whore.”
“No, you’re not. They won’t be paying you.” Joan didn’t mince words, which Eugenia had to admit was somewhat appreciated, considering the circumstances. “They won’t be paying you for your time. You, young lady, are an indentured guest.”
Fancy language was a tool smart people used to confuse stupid ones. Leaving Eugenia with a don’t even try it smirk as she said, “My mom used to call me ‘young lady,’ but only when I was in trouble.”
“You have been a bit of trouble, but that’s nothing a few weeks’ hard labor won’t wear out of you.”
“Or, and hear me out.” Raising her hands and not at all concerned that the bodyguard was listening, Eugenia gave her most winning smile. “All the women can mutiny, poison the men, and take over the boat. We could christen this ship New Amazonia. Eh? Good idea, right?”
“It takes a crew of three-hundred strong men to keep this ship running, to gather food, to manage maintenance and power, to make repairs, to fight off invaders, and run trade. Sorry, young lady, but I’m comfortable… and you will be too once you accept the world isn’t what it was.”
“It’s not my fault all you older idiots voted for the wrong president! I wasn’t even eighteen when that potato stole his first term. You killed this world, and now I am expected to whore in it?” There was no question of the bitterness hanging tight in Eugenia’s heart. None at all, when she added, “Thanks, but no.”
Bitterness it didn’t seem practical ol’ Joan shared. “From the stories circulating, that John fellow said you whored plenty.”
“Yeah, well John is a lying sack of shit.”
“You’re not the first girl brought here by their beau. Just be glad you’re not chained down in the engine room like he is. He’ll have to slog at least six months before he’s given an option to win tickets. You get all of this.” Gesturing around the tiny bathroom and the adjacent cubicle with the twin bed, Joan knew the same thing Eugenia did. This was actually… fine living these days.
A shower, a mattress, the world’s sluttiest outfit—and that was not an exaggeration. The world did not make clothes like that anymore. As far as where these men scrounged up lace panties, Eugenia could not even begin to guess. “What are tickets? I thought you said no one got paid.”
Tiny scissors snipping through overgrown hair, Joan went from detangling to barbering. “Consider them currency. Men win or trade for tickets that get them up to Level 15, to enjoy the company of ladies.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. A raffle for pussy. And I will be getting paid. So… back to the statement where I refuse to whore.”
“There are rules, missy.” Apparently, her sass wasn’t as funny as it had been. Barking at the guard to move doors, Joan pocketed the safety razor. A razor Eugenia strongly suspected all the women shared.
Which had to be commented upon. “Sharing that razor could lead to a spread of hepatitis just so pits and legs might be smooth for some greased-up dirtbag. It’s a tiny virus and only takes one nick. But hey, were all just slaves here.”
“Don’t want to slave? Earn your ransom. It’s the only way any female steps off this boat.”
So there were more options than attempting an escape out of the ship’s only exit... several floors down, through man-infested halls? “How many tickets? How do I get them?”
“How many is up to the captain. Each girl has a different price. As far as earning those slips of paper, you trade for them.” The woman dared shove lacy panties and the slutty Halloween costume right into Eugenia’s chest. “You trade the one commodity you got.”
Incentive for a slave to think she might actually buy her way out. The psychological mind fuck was… epic. But Eugenia had not planned to specialize in psychiatry. “And let me guess. The price goes up with each offence.”
That earned her a snide smirk. “You are as smart as you seem.”
“Anyone ever paid it?” Because there was no way the game wasn’t horribly rigged.
Pride shown in an honest smile. The pride of a free woman who lived in luxury. “I did.”
Jaw hanging, Eugenia shook her head. “But… you’re still here.”
“By choice. I can walk out that door anytime I wish, take a walk by the lake. Visit City.”
Growing angry, feeling her color rise, Eugenia grit it out again. “But you’re still here!”
The indomitable Joan madamed by choice. For air conditioning and comfort. “The ship is a haven, but we all must do our part.”
“Such as try to convince the new girl to shave her public hair.”
“I let you keep it. Don’t think it will keep them off you. You’re a novelty for now. Expect lots of offers. Earn your tickets while you can. Exuberance is always encouraging.” And with that final statement, Joan put a hand to the guard’s back and shut the door.
The lock clicked, Eugenia standing wrapped in a white towel, holding lacy sin.
***
“Every girl is assigned a table.”
“Every woman,” Eugenia corrected, gnawing her cuticle as she inspected the ship's festive version of the lido deck. A striped awning covered six cushioned booths. Booths which would each seat five men—two ladies assigned to entertain the table with witty banter and smiles. Other ladies serving food. All women on rotation each night.
That meant thirty men out of three hundred had the opportunity to be entertained by sixteen women each night. Oh, and there were no nights off. Not unless one began to menstruate, in which case they were given the length of their womb’s monthly cleansing to rest.
How gallant the captain’s rules were.
Wearing a different though equally inappropriate costume, the woman who’d been assigned Table #2, Brooke, threw Eugenia a look. It was anything but mean. More of an I get it; believe me, I do look. “Every night before dinner is served, a game is set up to entertain our guests in the hall. The winner pulls the ball that decides which women are selected for the end-of-dinner cleanup.”
“Which means?” Because scrubbing the floor didn’t sound half bad.
“It means that the girls from that table have to stand still as the men dump all their uneaten food and leftover beer on us while they laugh and we… take it.”
“You’re joking…” Not only was the concept of uneaten food beyond grasping, but why on God’s green earth dump it on poor, captive women?
With a sigh, her tablemate tossed glossy, dark hair over her shoulder. The pin-straight strands swung, as she continued, “As you’re new, the game will be rigged. They’re going to call #2, and you and I will be tonight’s dumpster.”
“None of this is making sense to me.”
“It will. There’s a reason for all of it. I’m two-hundred thousand tickets away from getting out of here, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t cause trouble and up my price.” Pretty, Korean-American, petite, and perfect, Brooke plumped her breasts and adjusted her skirt.
“Jesus.”
“You nailed it.” Brown eyes far too old in a face so young held hers. “We didn’t pick this world, but we’re stuck in it. But us girls should stick together.”
Eugenia opened her mouth, only for the petite beauty to interject. “If you correct me one more time, newbie, you’ll lose the only ally you have tonight. Girl? Woman? It doesn’t matter. All that matters to me is getting off this boat.”
“I’m sorry.” And she truly was. It seemed no one was here by choice, save Joan. And Brooke had already worked this life for over a year. “I won’t cause you trouble.”
“Thank you.” Brown eyes darting side to side, Brooke leaned closer to whisper, “Which is why I’m going to warn you there will be glass shards in your food. Don’t eat it.”
“What?” Swallowing shards of glass might puncture the stomach and require immediate surgery that did not exist in the shithole new world! “You’re joking, right?”
“Not all the girls are happy you’re here. More competition for tickets, favors, comforts… you know?”
And though she’d had three days to think it over, to recall how close she had been to the reaper on that stone bridge, Eugenia felt reality sink deeper than any witty tenacity. “I’m going to die on this boat.”
“Probably. So make the best of things. Lift up your skirt and just take it, as many as you can before they are bored of you.” And with that final proclamation, the doors opened, and the guests arrived.
Boisterous and loud, they poured in. The cleanest group of men Eugenia had seen since the bombs fell. Hair combed, shirts pressed. Scrubbed, smiling, and aware of the system, they found their seats with little trouble—their prize for saving and hard work achieved.
And though not every last one of them was staring right at Eugenia, the majority were.
At red curls that fell without frizzy tangles. At skin too fair to withstand sun. At defiance.
She met their intrigue with a sinister curl to her lip. Because fuck tickets.
That game was for the desperate. Which of course she was. But she was also smart. Top of her class. Knew where every last artery pulsed and the exact amount of time it would take a man to bleed out from a minor puncture wound.
And it burned to know that she would have made an amazing pediatric surgeon yet never would achieve that attainable goal. Not in this world where women shared a razor and the lord only knew how many STDs were spread each night at these parties.
A bony elbow nudged her ribs. “Smile, goddammit.”
No. There was nothing here to smile about. But Eugenia did it out of solidarity.
The smile of a stray warning off a pack of hungry wolves.
Chapter Three
Rules, rules, and more rules. Turns out there was more to the captain’s way of things than just winning the chance to be serviced by the ladies. There was rank in the order the men arrived. In seat placement. In the absolute absurdity of the baking sheets two men waved to signal they were the hosts to their hostesses.
Booths that sat five large men—men grown strong on regular feedings and hard labor—had no room for the women. So, where did the ladies go? On the cookie sheet, on the men’s laps. Preventing the inevitable erection from gaining purchase where it was not yet welcome.
Because rules.
“I’m supposed to sit on that?” It was all too silly to grasp. She wasn’t a pastry.
“Yes. You’re very pretty. My name is Neil.” Broad of shoulder and tall enough to be intimidating, a man in his early thirties patted the cookie sheet with a kind smile. “Come on now. I won’t bite.”
“To be clear”—because burly men were approaching and a scene would not help her cause, Eugenia bit down on her pride and hopped on that lap—“I’m not having sex with any of you.”
Neil seemed so gentile as he put a hand to her bare belly and spread his fingers. “It’s your first night. And you’re lucky you got placed with such an upstanding group of men. We don’t bend the rules. Unless you give us permission or take reward, your company is pleasure enough.”
Pulling her to rest against his chest, finding resistance, the hand on her stomach didn’t move up toward a breast or down to tuck into that insanely short skirt. Planted, it did nothing but be. Despite her tension, her wide eyes, her desire to elbow him right in his nose.
“No need to brace. We can touch what clothing doesn’t cover. I just
want to hold a girl against me for a few hours.”
Which sounded so reasonable, like such a trick, that Eugenia wasn't falling for it.
Cleaned-up Cookie Sheet Guy wasn’t bad-looking. The opposite, in fact. Fair-haired, sun-darkened skin, polished, no rancid reek of sweat. He was even funny as he conversed with his comrades. One of whom had Brooke in a very different embrace. A familiar cuddle, a cuddle requiring he place tickets on the table to expose her breasts and palm her lace-clad rump.
Fucking carnival tickets. The red ones that came on a roll.
Women had all been reduced to a sideshow game prize.
Dinner was served. The men dined on mouthwatering grilled meat so fragrant Eugenia salivated. Steak? How in the hell did they have steak? Raising cattle required land, feed, a skill in animal husbandry. It required lots of water...
Her clay bowl of slop was nothing in comparison. And Brooke’s warning was, in fact, true. There were shards of glass buried in chunks of God only knew what.
Managing to eat with one hand, as if moving his digits from her belly might make her run out of reach, Neil held up a fork of perfectly cooked, dripping ribeye. “Would you like to share?”
Unsmiling, she kept her gaze forward. “No, thank you.”
“It’s just one bite. It won’t cost you much.”
Yeah, she was going to die on this ship. Probably from starvation and stubbornness.
“Treat me like a whore again and I’ll break your nose, Neil.” At that, she turned to meet his kinda-pretty blue eyes. “I might not know all the rules, but I know full well that when a boy says ‘it won’t cost you much,’ he’s full of shit.”
“Man,” Neil corrected, taking that perfect bite with a smile. Chewing with his mouth closed, clearly happy to enjoy the robust flavors, he swallowed before adding, “Half my steak for one kiss on the mouth.”
Boy did these idiots underestimate just how expensive survival off this ship had been. “I don’t know where you’ve been. And as tempting as your pretty steak is, I’d rather save my skin from herpes, syphilis, chlamydia, gonorrhea. This pit must be a cesspool of disease, all the cross contamination, the—”
