For an outsider, there’s not much to see, but, even after not being in the club for over a year, it tells me plenty.
May 29—Russians Only
Kitten Prize—A Virgin
Champion challenger bid stands at 175,000 U.S.
Bets via secure channel or in person
In person, I think grimly. Bloodsport bets are usually done electronically, but when there’s a caged girl as part of the prize, men can go to the club to inspect her. Certainly a rich man who puts a champion under contract to fight, in the hopes of winning the pot and the kitten, would want to see the girl in the flesh.
The image icon at the bottom of the screen waits, like a wrapped present. A prize in the kitten cage means there’s a woman who’s willing to be a sex slave for the right price. A month’s servitude usually goes to someone who wants more than the bed-play his own mistress or even call girls will provide. The girl from the golden cage will be owned like a pretty pet, one that can be forced to submit in darkly sexual ways. There’s a small sliver of my soul that would like to own a girl that way, provided it was the right girl. I wouldn’t want a street-hardened addict or working girl with a desperate need for cash. But a beautiful woman who would enjoy being dominated in bed? Yeah, that appeals to me.
My finger lingers over the image key, and I finally click. I expect to see a nearly naked woman, the way they’re displayed on fight night. Instead, it’s only a woman’s beautiful face, and I recognize it.
No.
My muscles tighten, and my heart beats with a slow thud. Baba Yaga’s breath is back.
Natalia.
So Polasky or perhaps Egorov did something I couldn’t; they found her again.
And somehow they lured her into a cage. She wouldn’t have made the choice easily, not considering the way she took off from the house Egorov rented.
There are no marks on her face, and she looks healthy. If someone’s been abusing and intimidating her, it doesn’t show. Although, who says the picture is recent? Maybe it’s from months ago.
Closing the laptop’s lid, I lean back in my chair.
The fucking Bloodsport Club.
Looking at the scars on my knuckles, I frown. Occasionally broken teeth cut my skin deep enough to leave permanent marks. Once I cracked a bone in my hand and had to fight on. Striking the other fighter felt like a knife going into my hand over and over. The pain radiated up and down, into the knuckle of my fourth finger and to my wrist. After it healed, I was stiff for months. I worked on it every day until full range of motion was recovered. Now I never notice a problem with my hand. The problems come from the memories. Or rather, from one in particular.
Natalia is for sale. I have the money to bid if I want to enter myself as a fighter.
Fighting professionally shouldn’t be clouded by emotions though. Closing my eyes, I dig deep. Am I over my hatred and resentment at the way I was tricked into fighting to the death? A spike of adrenaline answers for me. No, I’m not over anything.
But, once again, the club has things that can’t be found elsewhere.
I want the girl.
CHAPTER2
Alexei
I stand and get a jacket from the closet. Outside, rain drizzles down, the light from the lamp posts glowing. My front step has been washed to a pure white, like the skin of a certain virgin.
Suddenly I can’t resist the fantasies of the pretty innocent under me, pinned down and helpless as I drive my hard cock into her soft, tight pussy. My thoughts turn me hard, the way thoughts of Natalia never fail to.
Normally, I don’t think virgins are meant for a man like me, but circumstances with this one are different. She’s going to be sold to someone anyway, I reason. Why shouldn’t it be me?
I don’t bother to get my car from the garage. Instead, I hail a cab and go to the district that houses the club. When the cab’s gone and I’m alone in the alley, I ring the bell.
I open the email on my phone and hold it up to the camera lens.
A heavy bolt is turned, and the sound of the metal crossbar sliding back fills the air. I step aside as the door opens. The glossy black paint on the walls and red lightbulbs make going down the stairs feel like descending into hell.
Following the middle-aged doorman, I keep my gaze level until the main room comes into view. The stands are empty of course, as is the center ring. The faint scent of bleach mingles with the underlying ones of blood and sweat.
