by Brook Wilder
“Why are you getting sold back?” Sharon asked tentatively, surprised by the foggy grumble in her voice. “This time, I mean.”
The redhead shrugged. “My last owner was behind on some debts, so they took me, and put two bullets in his head. Shame. He was one of the good ones.”
Sharon was blown away by the girl’s casual tone.
The redhead shook her head. “Trust me when I say that there’s nothing you can do. These guys will do their thing and get away with it. It’s scary, it’s gross, it’s whatever. I just hope that whoever buys me this time has some good drugs.” She reached into her bra, angry red tape marks crisscrossing her slender forearm and pulled out a tiny plastic bag of white powder.
She scooped out some the powder with her long, manicured pinky fingernail and snorted it. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them, her face settled into a pleasant expression.
Sharon was sad for the redhead that had clearly accepted that this was how she to spend her life. High, out of her mind, getting sold from owner to owner, never finding love, happiness or fulfillment in life.
Oh god, Sharon thought. Is that what’s going to happen to me?
“What… what do they, um, buy you for?” Sharon asked, dreading the answer.
The redhead giggled, the pupils of her pretty hazel eyes dilating. “To fuck, what else?”
Sharon’s stomach officially couldn’t drop any further. “Well, what if I’m a… uh… virgin?” she stammered, her voice shaking with equal parts terror and embarrassment.
The girl laughed harder. “Don’t let them find out.” With that statement, she peeled off the straps of her little dress and wriggled out of the shimmering, body-hugging material.
Sharon stared at the girl’s body, with its slender limbs and small breasts tightly hugged by a bra that seemed to be made entirely of lace. She wanted to cover herself, despite still being clothed. Well hey, she thought, maybe no one will buy me since I don’t look like a supermodel or this girl.
“Why shouldn’t I let them find out?” she asked.
“Virgins are a hot commodity here,” the girl said, fluffing her hair and preening in the full-length mirror. “They’re rare, they’re tight and they’re just begging for one these bastards to ruin. You might just be tonight’s bestseller.”
Sharon was speechless.
The crying girl had been listening to the whole exchange through wide, unbelieving eyes finally spoke up. “This is insane! Are we really just going to sit here and—”
Before she could finish, the other sell-back spoke up. “Yes, yes we are.” She was blunt, unsmiling, clearly not as excited about the process as her veteran counterpart. “Do you know what they do to break you for work on the streets? Do you have any idea how much worse this can get?”
The crying girl stared back in disbelief, seemingly unable to find words.
“Yeah, I thought so.” the girl nodded, full of spite. She untied the straps holding up her halter dress and stepped out of it. The airy fabric drifted to the floor and pooled around her stiletto-clad feet. She had big, full breasts with pert, dark nipples straining against a prison of sheer mesh.
Chapter 9
Sharon
Once again, Sharon felt a pang of insecurity, followed closely by a tiny glimmer of hope. Certainly, with competition like that, she wouldn’t have anything to worry about, right?
She continued to stand there, dumbfounded by the turn of events that had put her in this room. The sassy girl in lace assessed her defeated posture.
“Well, Virgin, better get those jeans off,” the redhead said.
“I don’t have… sexy… underwear like you guys though,” Sharon stammered, still in shock that that had become an issue.
Without asking, the redhead walked right up to Sharon, pulled on the hem of her purple NYU sweatshirt and lifted it right up. Sharon felt naked, exposed and sloppy as the girl assessed her body.
“Jesus, girl,” she said, full of sass, condemnation and very probably cocaine. “You’ve got a body, but what is that bra?”
“It’s comfortable” Sharon said defensively of her plain nude bra.
The redhead pulled the sweatshirt right off over Sharon’s head. She cupped Sharon’s right breast.
Sharon shifted uncomfortably under the girl’s touch.
“Yeah, you’re a little bigger than they usually bring in,” she told Sharon. “Let’s see what we got.” She crossed the room to the racks of trashy lingerie that hung there.
Sharon was a little hurt. Sure, she was a bit fuller-figured, but she was also barely over five feet tall. It wasn’t like her weight had a lot of places to go. And her mom had always told her she had an hourglass figure. Wasn’t that supposed to be a good thing?
“Yeah, it doesn’t look like anything’s gonna fit you,” the redhead said as she tested the elastic on a thong that looked like it was made of black dental floss.
“I’m fine in my own underwear,” Sharon said, a little defiantly. She wriggled out of her dirty jeans and stood in just a pair of cotton undies, her apparently unsatisfactory bra, and white socks poking out of the tops of her sport shoes.
“Oh, honey,” the other sell-back said with a blatantly judging look. “You can not wear those shoes. Everyone will really know you’re a virgin then.”
Bitch, Sharon thought but didn’t say out loud. Reluctantly, she removed her shoes and socks. She folded all her clothes and put them in a neat little pile.
“I’m not getting naked,” the crying girl stated, crossing angry arms over her modest chest.
The redhead shrugged. “They’ll get you naked then.” she warned coldly.
The room was chilly. Cold air nipped at Sharon’s bare body and raised goosebumps all down her arms. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. She couldn’t believe she was here, that she was going along with this, that she was about to walk out in front of a bunch of men in her laundry-day panties when she had barely gotten undressed in front of boys she actually liked before. She wouldn’t think further than that, she couldn’t. Her hope for salvation, although wholly unjustified, hadn’t quite died.
The lock on the door clicked and pushed open. A line of girls, mostly dressed like the two sell-backs and sporting flat, dead eyes, marched into the room in a line, their hands neatly bound in front of them with trimmed white zip ties.
Several men entered the room, holding a handful of fresh ties, wielding scissors and nasty grins. Both the sell-backs held their hands in front of them obediently as the men zipped their forearms together. Sharon shook nervously as they tied hers, wincing as the rough plastic dug into her raw skin.
She watched the crying girl as she obliviously stared through the now-open door. Still clothed, the crying girl stuck out in the room filled with bare bodies. Sharon knew she was planning to make a break for it and she braced herself as the girl leapt towards the door.
“Not so fast, bitch.” the taller man snagged her by her arm and whipped her back. He tossed her roughly to the ground, straddled her midsection and pinned her down.
The girl let out a whimpering cry of pain.
“Why are you still dressed?” the man asked in a taunting voice. Once he’d forced her arms together and bound them so tight her puckered skin turned pink, he began cutting off her clothes with the scissors.
She groaned in protest, trying to kick out, as he tore her outfit to ribbons. When he finished, scraps of clothing hung off her body like toilet paper off a vandalized tree. Her face was red and her breathing ragged, but she seemed to have accepted her defeat.
Sharon admired her gusto—useless as it was.
“Alright, ladies,” The men addressed the dozen or so girls packed into the tiny room. “The show’s about to start! Good luck to all of you. This is going to be one hell of a night! We’ll come get you when you’re up for bidding.”
The man left and slammed the door behind them. The lock clicked again and Sharon felt the air crush out of her lung
s.
She was trapped.
Chapter 10
Vittorio
The BMW coasted smoothly across the bridge into Brooklyn, bumping only on the ragged asphalt on the curb as they came to a stop. The Anafestos’ club was a rundown old burlesque joint named “Tipsy’s”. The Y in the pink neon sign was a martini glass with a pin-up curled in it, legs kicking out back and glowing nipples proudly on display.
Vittorio and Marcello loped up to the door, where they came face-to-face with a nasty looking bouncer. He was bigger than Vittorio, had a shaved head, pockmarked cheeks and an underbite like a bulldog. He crossed his hugely swollen arms over his barrel-like chest.
“Name?” He growled.
“Are you looking to die? Don’t you know who this is?” Marcello gestured his hand at Vittorio.
Marcello wasn’t a big guy but the hardened set of his jaw and narrowed eyes made him look like someone you didn’t want to fuck with. Vittorio liked Marcello. The man knew his place within the organization and didn’t overstep his bounds or beg for respect like so many of the other bootlickers did. He worked hard, did what Vittorio told him without second guessing. He understood his role and what he was supposed to do. He and Vittorio had been friends before Vittorio’s sudden “promotion” and, naturally, Vittorio had brought the efficient, trustworthy man up with him.
Loyalty was an important trait in Vittorio’s game.
The grizzly bouncer gave them both a skeptical once over. But when he finally recognized Vittorio’s face, the grizzled expression slipped off his face and became an appropriately fearful one. He gestured for them to enter.
“Apologies, Don Contarini. I was just—” the man stammered to apologize.
“Doing your job.” Vittorio said coolly. “But look closer next time before you pull this hardass bouncer shit again.”
Vittorio never got tired of that feeling: the force of his reputation coupled with his family status that inspired instant fear and respect in the eyes of anyone that knew who he was.
The inside of the old bar was just as seedy as the outside. The walls were decked out in cheap crimson velvet wallpaper. Photos of scantily clad women in playful poses were scattered everywhere in tacky gold frames. Sticky tables were arranged in a horseshoe around a catwalk stage that had definitely seen better days. The scent of rich bourbon, illegal cigars and the expensive cologne worn by the men packed into the tables made the venue smell almost oppressively masculine. Vittorio could practically taste the testosterone in the air around him. His finger twitched, itching for a fight.
A young woman, maybe twenty years old, approached Vittorio and Marcello with a cheerful smile. “Looks like we’re about to get started, gentlemen. We’ve only got one table left, right back here.” She led them off to a corner table; indeed the only empty one in the bar. She wiggled her hips as she walked, accentuated as they were by the tight confines of her little maroon skirt.
“Can I get you guys anything to drink?” she leaned down and asked, her fluttery blue eyes beaming right at Vittorio.
“Lagavulin 16, neat.” Vittorio said, ignoring her gaze with a disinterested air.
As she stood back to take his order, he clamped his hand around her wrist. “Oh, by the way. When you address a Don, you say sir.”
He released his hand and she quickly pulled back. There was no need for him to play the Don card, but for all he knew, she could be an eye for the Anafestos, and he had a reputation he needed to keep.
After she had scurried away to retrieve the drinks, he turned to Marcello. “Who specifically are we here to look for?” Vittorio asked.
Before Marcello could answer, a microphone screeched over the surround sound as it came to life and a deep, masculine voice boomed throughout the bar, “Good evening, gentlemen! Welcome to our first auction of the new season!”
The man was really trying for that auctioneer enthusiasm, but his demeanor had him sounding more like a carnival barker.
Vittorio rolled his eyes. These Anfestos sure love their theatrics. Seasons? Fucking overdramatic assholes, he grumbled to himself.
The announcer was directly across from Vittorio, at the very base of the scuffed old stage. Vittorio had seen him before but couldn’t immediately recall the man’s name. He was comically overdressed in a plush purple coat with a ruffled silk scarf at his throat. His mustache was combed into a smooth little line over his wet red lips, which were curled in a used-car salesman’s smile.
“I hope you all came ready to buy, because we’ve got some real lovely beauties this evening. Let’s give a big round of applause for our first lot!” The announcer bellowed.
Chapter 11
Vittorio
A skinny girl was chided onto the stage. She wore a black mesh bra, matching panties and heels. Her long brown hair was stringy, dirty and unkempt; the dead look in her plain brown eyes a definite indicator that the she’d been drugged. Her hands were zip tied together in front of her, which was customary with prospective buys.
She dragged her heavy stilettos down the catwalk on weak, wobbly legs. Her blank face didn’t even flinch as the bright white spotlight rolled over her face and down her body, showcasing her like a piece of meat.
Vittorio didn’t recognize the girl. There was nothing he could do for her.
“Our first eager contestant of the evening,” the announcer boasted. “Stands at about five-foot-seven and weighs in about one-hundred-and-twenty pounds! Perfect for those of you who prefer the slim-figured types…”
The happy little server girl returned with his scotch that swirled against cut-crystal tumblers. Vittorio spared her a quick glance and the thought quickly crossed his mind that on another day, she could easily be one of the women up on stage. Wonder if she ever thinks about it? From the blank, happy look in her round eyes, she did not. Vittorio waved her away, hoping that would keep her out his hair for a while. He took a sip, relishing the sweet burn sliding down his throat.
“This contestant is a broken-in, experienced young lady with a history in the industry. We’ll start bidding at our traditional used price of ten thousand dollars!”
Ten thousand dollars for a used up, drugged up pair of legs was highway robbery. Greedy bastards. Vittorio shook his head. He understood that sex was the most lucrative part of illicit income, but he never found it particularly appealing. There was too much liability involved, too high a risk, and each deal always left him with an unpalatable taste in his mouth.
After his father had passed, he’d minimized the exploitation of women in the Contarini Family business. Besides, there was plenty of money to be made in drugs and cars, two things Vittorio was very good at.
As overdressed men hiding in the dark behind sunglasses and clouds of cigar smoke started bidding, Marcello nudged Vittorio from the side. Under the table, he handed him a slip of paper with three names written on it. These three women: a wife, sister and daughter respectively, were the three missing women he was meant to keep an eye out for. Vittorio nodded his thanks at his right-hand man.
“SOLD! To number 368, there in the back, for a hearty twenty grand! You may collect your prize as soon as the auction concludes. Let’s bring out the next contestant!”
The girl’s face dropped. Despite the drugs she was on, she was still disgusted and disparaged at the thought of her fate. She turned and dragged herself back towards the stage exit. Her frail shoulders slumped forward.
The auction continued in a predictable patter: each sad-eyed women would shamble down a sticky catwalk to be bought. They always started with the “recyclable” girls, the ones who had already been broken in by previous owners—owners who had been killed or forced to sell them back to cover debts.
These girls were spiritless, broken, and resigned to their fate. Prostitution and slavery were all they knew. Most were addicted to whatever drugs they could get their hands on, and they were wholly dependent on men who valued their life less than they valued that of a dog.
A redhead girl walked on
to the stage, clad in an enticing ensemble of lace. Unlike the others, she actually looked… excited. Her pupils were wide, her hair was teased and her eyes were expertly made up. She swished her hips as she walked down the catwalk and smiled as each of the prospective bidders called out higher and higher numbers. She was sold off to a member of the Giovinni Family—a fat old man who used to be a feared capo in his younger days—and she tossed him a salacious wink as she sauntered off the stage. The man smiled, puffed on a fat cigar, and gave her a suggestive little nod.
“I’m gonna have some fun with that one,” Vittorio heard him boasting to his buddies.
Course you are, buddy. Vittorio took another sip of scotch. If you can still find your dick under your belly.
