Dirty Ugly Toy

by K. Webster

  Under normal circumstances, I’d be moaning with delight. But, stupid me, decided to take the offer of a psychopath who just whipped the hell out of me with his belt. Now, as the hot bath burns my raw bottom, I’m fucking miserable.

  But you’re warm. And soon you’ll be clean. And he promised to feed you.

  I set to clawing at the never-ending itch on my thighs and ignore any thoughts where I’m thankful for him rather than hate him. “Where’s my skag?”

  He ignores me as he rinses my hair. I frown at the sight of the water which has turned brown with my filth. I’m a dirty street animal. There was a day in my life when I would have been horrified to have seen such a thing. Now, all morals are thrown out the window. I don’t care about anything or anyone. Life is shitty, plain and simple.

  “I need my drugs, Doob-wa,” I mock with a southern accent.

  He wets a cloth and wipes at my face. His eyes won’t meet mine and stupid tears blur my vision. It’s demeaning as hell to have some beautiful black man wash you as if you’re a dirty animal picked up from the street. He doesn’t want to connect with me—in his eyes, I’m disposable. The thought upsets me more than I want to admit.

  I want to mean something to someone. Anyone.

  “Can you shave your underarms and legs or do I need to?” His voice is all business, deep and rumbly. It picks at the wounds inside of me and I want to scream at him.

  “Why won’t you look at me?” I ask with a sob hanging in my throat. “I’m a human too, you know.”

  His brows furrow and his nearly black eyes meet mine. The corners of his eyes crinkle with sadness. It warms me that he feels something—even for me—some filthy piece of trash.

  “Relax, miss,” he says with a sigh as he finishes cleaning my face. “Mr. Kennedy will take care of you. His methods are. . .”

  I raise a brow in question. “Mean? Abusive? Bastardly?”

  His eyes twinkle and I see him fighting a smile. “I was going to say unconventional. Although it’s cute hearing those insults in a British accent, I’d advise you to keep them to yourself. My boss takes care of his things, you and I being those things, but don’t mistake him for kind. He can be brutal and harsh. So, if you want to enjoy your time with him, I suggest you put a smile on your pretty face and adhere to his rules—no matter how unusual they may be.”

  Dubois’ words are sweet and I can’t help but grin at him. “I’m not really British, but I’ll keep up the façade since you think it’s cute,” I flirt.

  His eyes grow stormy. He startles me when he grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me. “What do you mean you’re not really British?” he demands with a hiss, his strong fingers bruising me in his grasp.

  I frown at him. “I’m from Georgia. I’ve lived here for the past six years. I have learned to adopt the British dialect because of necessity. Bastards around here will take advantage of you if they know you’re American. Believe me, I know.”

  He jerks his head over his shoulder to search for Braxton and when he doesn’t find him behind him, he turns back to me. If a black man’s face could blanch, I believe his would be doing it now.

  “Promise me you’ll never speak of Georgia again. You’re a born and bred British woman. Do you understand?”

  “Actually, I don’t understand—”

  “I’ll throw in fifty more thousand if you’ll please just never speak of it again. Trust me. Mr. Kennedy doesn’t play with Americans. If he knew, there’d be hell to pay. Promise me, Jessica.”

  Hearing my name on his lips brings unwanted tears to my eyes. Despite Rabbit being a made-up last name, I kept my real first name. I’d lost every part of who I was, but I’ll always be Jessica.

  “Fine. I promise,” I tell him finally and jerk the razor from the ledge near me.

  He seems relieved and stands to allow me to finish alone. I didn’t do it for the extra money though. I did it because the overwhelming fear in his eyes picked at a wound deep inside of me. I’d seen a familiar look once before with my brother—a look I never want to see again. If me being compliant for Dubois’ sake is what I need to do for the next six months, then compliant is what I’ll be.

  I close my eyes and my older brother stares back at me, his green eyes matching the exact shade of mine.

  Don’t think about him.

  Think about skag.

  Think about anyfuckingthing.

  “Dubois,” I huff and jerk my eyes open. “I need my drugs.”

  This time, his gaze is no longer fearful. Instead, I find a look of pity. I hate the look in his eyes. “He’ll take care of you soon enough, miss.”

  Once I’m clean, he then makes me shower. The pattering on my wounded butt hurts but it helps cut through the haze of the drugs Brax gave me earlier. I hate the clarity I’m feeling. My mind can focus on all the wrong, fucked up shit in my life. And I hate when it does that. Turning toward the spray, I allow the water to assault me where he’d whipped me. It drags all thoughts about me away and focuses on the pain.

  Focus on the pain, Jessica.

  I’m sobbing by the time the water shuts off and someone wraps me in a soft, plush towel. I don’t have to lift my gaze to know it’s him.

  The abuser.

  The weird one.

  Braxton Kennedy.

  I want to tell him he’s a sonofabitch. That I don’t need his drugs or his money. But that’d be a lie. This is the best opportunity that’s come my way in six godforsaken years. I can’t give up just yet—especially when my mind-numbing heroin is within reach.

  The banana I consumed earlier roils in my belly and I break from his grasp to run for the toilet. As the bile rises, I’m thankful to feel warm hands gathering my clean, wet hair away from my face. The only food I’ve had in days expels from my body and I’m horrified at the sounds coming from me. Brax doesn’t offer any words of comfort or gentle caresses. All he offers is to keep my hair pulled back and me from falling in.

  When I have nothing else to purge, I slink against the cold porcelain. Maybe if I take a tiny nap I’ll start to feel better . . .

  The world spins around me, threating to make me sick again, as he carries me out of the bathroom. A chill settles on my spine and I shiver in his arms. “S-s-s-s-o c-c-old.”

  He grunts his understanding and sets me onto the bed where the covers have been pulled away. I know he probably wants sex, and quite frankly that’s my job, but I’m about to pass out.

  “Heroin, Brax,” I mutter as he settles behind me. His warm body soothes my shuddering one and I allow him to pull me close to him, ignoring the stings on my butt.

  His lips rest against my shoulder and his hot breaths tickle me. “Shh, sleep now, Bunny.”

  I wake with a start and squint at the morning sun shining right in my eyes. Every muscle in my body screams in pain. Hell, even my bones feel brittle and achy.

  “My God,” I moan, “I need something for this pain.”

  The massive arm around my middle only serves to heat my already fiery flesh. I’m going to self-combust at any moment. His heavy breaths indicate he’s still sleeping, so on shaky legs, I slip out of the bed and then head for the bathroom.

  I scramble around until I find what must be his toothbrush in a masculine bag. Not caring that I’m about to use one of his personal items without his permission, I yank it out and swipe some toothpaste on it. Brushing my teeth is yet another luxury that I’ve missed. I had a toothbrush in my bag but I don’t even know where that thing is at this point. Everything is hazy and confusing. While cleaning my teeth, I rifle through the bag to see if he’s hiding any Oxy or Xanax, but much to my disappointment, all I find is ibuprofen. With a frustrated sigh, I rinse and spit, and then turn the shower on.

  Cold.

  I’m drenched in sweat and I need to quell the simmering heat on my skin.

  As soon as I step into the icy spray, I whimper in delight. The cold water chases away the flames and I relish in the way it numbs me to the fabric of my soul. I’m lost in the
blackness of nothing when he curses with a loud bark.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  I drag my eyes open and regard him. My teeth chatter and I realize I can’t feel my toes. The aches assault me again and I nearly collapse. He catches me in his strong arms. The knob makes a squeaking protest as he turns it warmer. When the heat chases away the chill, he pushes down his boxers and walks me back under the spray.

  I’m not sure who the hell this man is but I want him to hold me and promise that everything will be okay. I can barely stand anymore and I’m thankful when he hugs me to him. My arms snake around his muscular frame and I gasp at the sheer thickness of his flaccid cock between us. Awareness prickles through me at the feel of his firm body pressed against mine. I’ve been fucking fat-ass lards and stinky losers for years now. The last time I remotely had anything this nice was when some nice-looking university kid paid me to suck him off. Turns out, he wanted a fiver for the price of one. They took turns gang-banging me, all five of them, not that it really mattered anyway. Each guy was beautiful in his own way despite the ugly words they spewed at me. And when one tossed me the skag I craved, I didn’t give a fuck that I’d been taken advantage of by five motherfuckers.

  It didn’t hurt.

  And I almost came.

  One guy even kissed me.

  When they left, I didn’t complain. Just shot up my bliss and zoned out of reality with my tits hanging out and used condoms littering the floor around me. It was fine. I survived.

  “Bunny?”

  I’m dragged from my past and into my present. Dark blue eyes gaze down at me with concern painting his features. He really is the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen with his angular jaw and proud nose. I want to properly inspect his cock.

  “I hate that nickname,” I grumble. “Can’t you just call me Jessica?”

  His hands splay around my butt cheeks and he squeezes, almost brutally. “Your name is Bunny. Don’t argue with me.”

  I sigh and shrug my shoulders. Five-hundred thousand. Well, technically, five-hundred-fifty thousand now. All I have to do is act more British for the last part. No big deal, I’ll bitch about the Queen and whine for crumpets.

  “Fine, call me Bunny. Now where’s my skag, Br . . .” I trail off, remembering my smarting lashes. “Sir?”

  His eyes darken to grey and for a split second I worry he’ll whip me again. “You got away with it last night. There will be no more chances,” he warns. “And as far as the heroin . . .”

  I hold my breath while I wait for him to tell me where I can get it.

  “There won’t be any, Bunny.”

  My brows furrow as I inspect his face for humor. His features are dead serious—bored, in fact. It boils my blood and I want to claw his stupid eyeballs out.

  “Excuse me?” I seethe.

  He smirks—fucking smirks—at me and it takes everything in me not to explode. “No drugs, doll. You’re done with that shit. My toys are clean inside and out.”

  This time, I can’t control the rage and shove him from me. His back hits the tiled wall and he gapes at me in momentary shock. Not giving him a second to respond, I slap him. Again and again until he wrestles me to my knees. My tits are then smashed up against the wall and his fingers tangle in my wet hair.

  “You have some serious fucking balls, woman,” he snarls, twisting my hair tighter into his fist. “And if you’ll recall, you signed the agreement.”

  Agreement?

  Last night dances in my memory, elusive and vague. What did I agree to? Six months and five-hundred grand I thought . . .

  “You said you’d get me drugs,” I whine.

  He chuckles. It’s dark and humorless. “You’ll learn, Bunny. I’m a liar. A bad fucking man. The monster you feared as a child. You’re my new toy now—to do with whatever the fuck I please.”

  My blood turns cold and worry floods my system. I’ve finally gone and done something so damn stupid that I’ll end up dead. Just like my brother Jude predicted would happen one day when he’d tried to save me from my past long before ever stepping a foot into the UK. Joke’s on me I suppose.

  “No, I want to go home.” That much is truth . . . too bad I don’t have one.

  His thumb caresses my cheek and I almost cry from the intimate touch. “We both know you don’t have a home,” he says, a hint of sadness in his voice. “That’s why you’re coming home with me.”

  He releases me and I curl into a ball at his feet. The tears roll out and I have a good cry, feeling sorry for myself. But by the time the water shuts off, I’m mentally numb.

  While he dresses me in a warm robe, I stare into nothing.

  As he feeds me morsels of eggs and fruit at breakfast, I think of nothing.

  When he and Dubois make whispered plans of what they’re doing next, I hear nothing.

  My life is nothing.

  I want to escape from this world. To go and go and go until I run off the page of the infinite universe. To crawl around in the never-ending, quiet blank nothingness. My own personal heaven. My escape from hell.

  The day turns into night. Night into day. And so on and so on. I cry and scream and beg but nothing takes away the pain that scratches to be released. The only pain reliever I had has been stolen from me. I signed it away with a messy flourish of a fake name. My shitty life was given—for six months—to some monster of a man who doesn’t want his name spoken.

  His cruel hand never returned though. Instead, he retreated further and further away from me, leaving Dubois to the messy work.

  Withdrawals from a drug as powerful as heroin is ugly. Horrific. Disgusting.

  Braxton fucking Kennedy apparently doesn’t have the balls for the shittiness that comes along with the withdrawals. I’ve vowed to make him pay for what he’s taken from me. Because when he stole my sanctity, he shoved insanity back into my face.

  My hate and horrors of my past collided with the present and I’m angry.

  I itch to claw at his pretty face.

  I crave to yank out his tongue.

  I want to hurt him like he hurt me.

  He can whip my ass all he wants but forcing me to face the broken parts of my soul is cruel and evil.

  I might now be considered his toy, but when my mind fully returns to its twisted capacity, I’m going to toy with his whole goddamned life.

  A week later . . .

  “Blood work is clean. No STD’s. She had a sexual infection and her vaginal walls were inflamed but the steroids and antibiotics seemed to have cleared that up. Pregnancy test is negative and the birth control device has been implanted. Her blood sugar is low and her electrolytes are off, but as you know, with withdrawals, that’s to be expected. Keep her fed and hydrated. Other than that, she’s recovering beautifully. In my opinion, she’s more than ready for travel. I’ll leave some medication to help with her nausea, especially for the airplane, and she’ll also have a few more days left of the Methadone to help finish up her detox.

  I nod my head in thanks to the doctor I’ve used sixteen out of the twenty times.

  “Oh, and Mr. Kennedy?” he mutters under his breath. “There was some scarring on her cervix when I examined her—scarring that is typical with previous surgeries and procedures including childbirth. Make of it what you will.”

  I’m curious but this is information for another time. At the moment, we have more important details to deal with. We shake hands briefly and the doctor leaves without another word, knowing his payment of forty grand will be wired to his account by the time he makes it to his car. Dubois types a few things on the app on his phone and I know it’s done.

  “When are we leaving?” he asks after he tucks the phone back into his pocket. As much as I know he’ll do anything for me, I also realize he hates it here. His shoulders relax the moment we drive onto my compound each time.

  I glance over at my toy who’s sitting on the window ledge like a cat with her knees drawn to her chest and her stare on the busy Londoners below.
The grey sweatpants I’d bought her swallow her tiny frame and while the hooded sweatshirt fits her better, she still seems small and fragile in her clothes. I’m frustrated that her detoxing has prevented her from eating as much as she needs to. And what she does eat, she nearly pukes up most of it. This is the stage of the game I hate. Getting them well. I can’t train or play with them until they’re ready—and her fragile-ass is nowhere near ready.

  “Tomorrow. Arrange the plane. Also, buy her something that fits, please. We can’t drag her halfway across the world looking like we stole her.”

  He nods and leaves my side. My gaze drags back over to her and I sigh. Ever since her shower episode when I broke the news to her that she wasn’t getting anymore heroin, you’d have thought I killed her puppy. The stubborn woman hasn’t spoken a word to me since. Not that I’ve tried to talk to her any more. I know she’s pissed but she’ll get over it. Soon, with time, she’ll be begging me to play with her.

  “Are you hungry, Bunny?”

  She shudders at the nickname and shakes her head. I walk closer to her and cringe when I see her roots. I’ve already had Dubois call Cartier. Cart’s been the girls’ personal hairstylist on my payroll since day one. It bothers me that he’s a good-looking guy but the fact that he’d rather bone one of the pool boys than one of my girls is the only reason why I keep him around. Plus, having worked in Beverly Hills before I whisked him away to Washington, he’s one of the best stylists on the West coast. Dubois mentioned that Cartier promised to polish my toy right up. Music to my fucking ears.

  “You have to try and eat something,” I instruct. “I can have room service bring whatever you want.”

  She turns to regard me and her lip curls up in disgust, as if my very sight sickens her. I want to choke the look right off her face. I want to slap the shit out of her ungrateful ass. I want to fuck her so hard she can’t walk for three days.

  Instead, I remain calm. My toy will be here for a while. She’s not going anywhere—no sense in losing my mind during the first week.

  “I said,” she seethes through clenched teeth, “I’m not hungry.”