The next thrusts come fast and hard. He moves against me over and over, and as his movements go on ceaselessly, the pain eventually dulls to a deep ache. My tears continue to escape from my eyes, more now from the shock of the experience than anything else, and as he continues plunging and retreating over and over, my head drops between my shoulders and so, too, do my tears to the table in front of me. I’m powerless to stop them or hide them from this man, and as he sees the effect of this first, most brutal experience in the small teardrops that fall to his table, he abruptly pulls himself from my body with a growl deep in his throat. He stays panting behind me, his hand still on the table by my side before raging in my ear, “Get the fuck out!”
And I do. As he moves away from my body, I run, pulling my skirt down as I go. Once back in my room, I collapse against the door. I stay there crumpled on the floor for many minutes, but I don’t want to move. I don’t want to do anything at all except run away from this place and run away from this man. I’ve given my life over to a man who hates me, all for a five-year paycheck that will set me free from the men who will hunt me down and kill me if I fail to deliver on a debt that is not my own. My life reeks of unfairness, and I want to curse myself, curse him, and anyone else that stands in my way. But instead of yelling at Derek or myself, I slowly move to the bathroom and run a bath.
I hurt, and sitting on the side of the tub is uncomfortable, but the pain dulls my anger. It’s over. It’s done. I’ve given myself to a man who hates me. This isn’t what girls dream of when they grow up. They imagine falling in love and giving themselves to men whose love matches their own. I’ve just lost any last shred of that dream that existed in my mind, not that there was ever much chance of love for me. I am, after all, just an orphaned nobody that is destitute and desperate. But I don’t hate Mr. Pennington for what he’s done to me. I hate myself.
As I sink into the warm water, the sting of my raw skin stills me. I cry out again, unable to stifle the pain, and as I do, my eyes find the blood-streaked spot on the side of the bathtub where I was just sitting. Once settled into the water, the warmth of it starts to soothe my sensitive and painful sex. My body relaxes more and more with each passing moment, and as it does, I start to cry again. I sob endlessly, hugging my knees to my chest, and it isn’t until I’ve pitied myself for well over an hour that I finally decide to crawl from the bath.
I quickly dry off and look myself over in the mirror. My eyes are puffy and red, my face streaked by the many tears that have fallen today. I look ugly and splotchy, and as I regard myself with hatred, my anger starts to build again. I collapse against the bathroom door, sinking to the floor once more, and as my rage at the unfairness of life hits me like a ton of bricks, I curse loudly and slam my elbow against the door. The pain shoots up my arm instantly, and I cry out from it. But I welcome the pain as it pushes the anger away so effectively.
I look up to the ceiling and I see the darkened dome of the camera, remembering for the first time since Liz has left me that I’m never truly alone here. I’m sure he’s not watching. Why would he? It’s now late, and I’m just the unwanted new whore he’s been forced to take in. He can’t stand me, and in some absurd way, that is painful to bear. I could accept this pain from a man who cared about me, but this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I make no move to cover myself as I return to the bedroom and collapse onto the bed. Before I drift off, the last thought that passes through my tired, hazy mind is, perhaps sleeping on the streets was better than this. Then I’m gone into my deeply troubled dreams.
Chapter 4
I wake to the room phone ringing, and as I reach over to answer it, I realize my elbow is more than bruised; it’s swollen. The administrative office of Trimbles is calling to let me know I’m expected in the lobby at noon to go for a fitting at the tailors, and then to the gynecologist for an exam and birth control. I wonder, not for the first time, if I will ever adjust to hearing people speak to me in such blunt terms about my body and sexual health, and I have to remind myself I’m just a commodity now. Bought, sold, gambled, traded, and God knows what else.
I’ve slept late, and it is nearly ten. While I wish for nothing more than to hide from the world, the call of caffeine pulls me out of bed. I throw the white sundress back on and head for the common room. Every step is a reminder of just how sore I am between my legs. I feel swollen and tender, and every ache I feel flashes memories, not of the pain as much as the hate-filled expression on Mr. Pennington’s face and the loathsome tone of his voice. I pause briefly outside the door to the common room to psych myself up for what lies ahead. I will myself to walk normally, act cool, and, most of all, show no fear. However, when I enter, I realize I’ve just walked into the beautiful women’s convention, and every ounce of self-determination I had built up melts in a moment.
All seven of my housemates are sitting around the dining room table, talking animatedly to one another, and as Liz looks up and sees me, she hushes the table with a quick, “Oh, here she comes!”
As I approach the table, my leeriness no doubt obvious in my expression, I’m greeted with warm smiles and the random comment or two. “Oh my, she’s so small,” spoken by a tall brunette with freckles and a cute upturned nose, followed by, “But she’s so cute, and I would kill for those curls.” This was spoken of course by an Asian woman with dark silken hair that is straight as a board. If she only knew what she was asking for…
Every woman at the table is watching me and smiling broadly at me. I’m offered a chair and coffee, and I sit, looking around the table at the warm faces of the women who smile gently back at me. Okay, I can handle this. As coffee is poured, my mood lifts instantly. There is nothing better than meeting my good friend coffee in the morning. Even I can afford coffee, and the caffeine staves off hunger when there is no food to be found. As I sit with my good friend in my hand, I try not to let anyone see the discomfort that sitting is causing me as my swollen and painful vagina aches at the hard surface of the chair.
The women watch me, instantly interested in their new neighbor, and, within moments, the questions start. Everything from “where did you come from” to “have you fucked Mr. Pennington yet?” But Liz rescues me and silences the table quickly. Instead, she introduces the women, and I try my best to remember names, though I’m certain to forget more than half. There is a Teresa, a Veronica, a Shelby, an Abigail, a Claudia and an Angela or Emily—I don’t recall which—and then, of course, Liz. She beams at me the whole time, genuinely happy to see me. They each radiate beauty and charm, and they make this life look tolerable. They seem happy and healthy and really okay with themselves, and I wonder if I will be okay someday too.
But as the memory of the night before floods back into my mind, my optimism fades quickly. The experience was painful and terrifying, and, worst of all, humiliating. And I’m already dreading the next time I see Derek.
With luck being always against me, the next time happens with that thought. He enters the room and walks casually toward the kitchen. He’s again dressed impeccably in a pair of extremely expensive looking pants and a button-down dress shirt. His collar is unbuttoned, and he makes business casual look so damn good. My body is instantly flushed from head to foot as memories flood my brain. I can so easily remember his knuckles trailing up the back of my thighs, the sound of his breathing, and his glistening fingers beside my own. And while he caused my body an incredible amount of pain that is still fresh in my mind as well, the shiver running through my body is hardly in memory of that.