My mistake from the night before was turning out to be more far-reaching than either Derek or I could possibly have known. And it is suddenly so clear. Mr. Grayson has been working with these men to ensure I make them money, and that means, if I screw up, they will know instantly. And a fact I’ve known all along comes bouncing into my mind. Mr. Grayson is no friend of mine. That bastard!
The man is not finished with his speech, and he continues. “Now, Mr. Grayson has advised me that you had some problems doing your job last night, and as a result, Trimbles lost a client. Please understand, Ms. Monroe, that will not happen again. Mr. Grayson may be a simpering fuck of a man, but he serves his own purpose to me, so, as you can guess, I have a vested interest in the profitability of Trimbles. I’m in the business of making money, and making good on the money that is owed me.” I’m still nodding.
Part of me is relieved that no one is hitting me yet, but part of me is also chilled to the bone. I’m not nearly as safe at Trimbles as I’d thought I was. It never occurred to me in a million years that Trimbles’ interests were monitored, and even controlled by these men, the very men who own my life, and quite frankly, the man I hate more than any other in the world.
As this man continues to look at me, he continues speaking, and his next words have my heart racing and my hands pulling and straining against the handcuffs. “In the past, I’ve given my men free rein to divvy out your punishment as they saw fit. I’m sure you remember.” He gives me an evil wink. Of course I remember—a broken nose, cracked ribs, black eyes, cuts, endless bruises, and pain—God-awful amounts of pain. “But you’re a working girl now. We can’t very well mar that beautiful skin of yours, now can we? I mean … we want you working. If you’re not working, you are no good to me.” He’s smiling gently at me, but menacingly. He’s a monster. The glint in his eye is all the confirmation of this fact I need. “So what can be done to drive the point home? No pun intended. I mean you are a whore after all. Let’s face it. It’s your job to get fucked. So, I was thinking, and hear me out … I know we’ve never gone down this path with you.”
He’s still taunting me and mocking me as he scratches his chin in mock contemplation. He’s torturing me with his words, and the tears in my eyes are impossible to contain. “Angus here,” indicating a nearby brute that looks like a toad, “he’s an ass man. And he would love nothing more than to fuck that ass of yours. I mean, let’s face it, you obviously need some remedial training in that area if I’m being informed correctly. Then there’s Jonathan. He’s not much for the ass, but he would fuck the hell out of your pretty little pussy.” Now he’s indicating a tall, plain-looking man on his other side. “There’s really more than enough of you to go around. Right?” He’s looking around at his men as they snort derisively at his comment.
I’m in full panic mode. My hands are strained tight against the cuffs. I’m crying, and I’m pleading. Pathetically pleading. Begging with every ounce of my being, and as I beg, he kneels in front of me. With a torturous hand creeping up the inside of my thigh, he watches my terror build and my pleas continue. My legs are tied to the legs of the chair, and I can’t close them to his invading touch. When he reaches my naked sex, he runs a finger between the cleft of my lips as I sob.
He looks to my eyes, and he finishes his perfectly executed torture. “Maybe I can give you one more chance to be a good girl, yeah?” I’m nodding as his hand slowly withdraws from me. “I have no problem making a whore work, so please know I’m dead serious when I say you will do your job, or I will feed you to the wolves. They need a treat every once in a while.” I’m still nodding as my tears stream down my cheeks. He stands, looks down to me, and gives me one final word of advice. “If your manager, Mr. Pennington, can’t keep you in line, I’ll see to it he’s replaced. I’m sure one of my men here would be more than happy to be the newest house manager at Trimbles. Mr. Grayson doesn’t like the man, and I have no doubt he’d love to see Mr. Pennington disposed of. Please understand, Mr. Grayson means nothing to me, nor does Mr. Pennington, so while I don’t want to kill Mr. Pennington, I’ll see to it if I need to. If he’s going to be a problem for you, he’ll need to be removed. It’s just business, baby!” He’s smiling now, but a whole new wave of tears streams down my cheeks. And these are for Derek.
As the man walks from the room, he looks back over his shoulder to the other men and says, “You know what to do with her.” And with this final command, he looks to me once more, and winks his evil wink before speaking his last words to me. “Sorry, doll. I can’t let you leave completely unscathed. It’s just a bit of battery acid. Not concentrated enough to kill you. It will leave a mark, I’m afraid, but we’ll keep it small and well hidden. Have fun.”
My panic returns as I start to again struggle and fight against the restraints that have me so tightly held in place, and as a man carrying a glass vial with a dropper enters the room, I start begging and pleading. The men ignore my every word. They ignore me, in fact, as though I’m not even in the room. They couldn’t care less about me. They have no feeling whatsoever about what they’re getting ready to do, and I continue to fight and beg in vain.
A man uncuffs my right hand, pulls it across my body, and recuffs it on the opposite side of the chair back. He then pulls a knife from his pocket and reaches for my side that is now vulnerable. I pull away and toward the side of my body that is secured to the chair, but a man behind me swiftly grabs my shoulders and pins them firmly square with the chair back. I keep struggling, pleading, begging, but it is no use, and as the knife pierces the fabric of my favorite gray dress, he pushes too deep and it gouges into the sensitive skin of my side. I cry out uncontrollably, but he doesn’t care as he pulls the knife up to the armpit of my dress. My entire side from above my waist to my armpit is now exposed, and I can’t move. I can feel a small amount of blood trickling its way down to the waist of my dress, pooling at the wide black belt, but as soon as I see the dropper being pulled from the clear glass container, I forget the cut on my side, and I start to scream.
When the liquid touches the skin of my side, a couple of inches below my armpit, my screams turn desperate and blood curdling. The pain is worse than anything I’ve ever experienced. It singes, it burns, it eats at my body, and it is grotesquely unrelenting. I want to die. My screams diminish as my voice fails me. I’m screaming as loud as I can, but no sound is coming out anymore. I want it to be over in a way that would welcome the end of my own life willingly. It is more unbearable than I ever imagined pain could be. I can feel the burning liquid run down my side, but the man is quick to wipe it away, and after watching it eat my skin for many, long torturous seconds, he flushes my side in water, quickly washing away the residue. I’m left gasping and panting, sobbing and cursing, as they continue to rinse my side with cold water.
I feel my consciousness fading with the unrelenting pain. While the cool water offered a moment’s reprieve from the pain as soon as the poison was washed away, the remaining nerves in the burning, deteriorated skin are left in agony to send sharp, painful messages to my brain that I am hurting. My fading mind is left wavering on the edge of sanity. When I fade out, I welcome the darkness, but moments later, I’m brought back to the here and now. I’m being moved, and every time I come to, I’m in some different place—being dragged through the house, being dragged across the dirt lawn, being pushed into the back of the car, and finally slumped against the back seat of the car, framed by two ogre-like men. But they must be taking me home…