But we barely speak, she practically hates me. She’d keep it quiet just to take more of my space in the room.
Someone. Anyone will notice by now, my tutors, the librarian. Someone will ask about me, right?
“I don’t think I’m meant to be here,” I say louder this time, my chest heaving as I begin to unravel.
She scans me from top to toe, then shakes her head. “Shhh, don’t say that.” She shifts closer to me until she’s a hairsbreadth away from my ear. “They’ll put you up forauction if you’re not willing.” She gestures with her chin to the women in the cage, and vomit makes its way into my mouth. “This is the best option for you; trust me.” I pull back and search her eyes for the truth behind her words. Is this the best option for me? I glance around the room again at the chained women, the fear and tears in their broken eyes, and the reality is: either way, I’m utterly screwed.
Chapter Three
Azrael
One after the other, a variety of strung-out, naked girls are paraded in front of dozens of men. Billionaires, politicians, movie stars, and royalty pay for the services of unwilling women to treat as they wish. Slaves, sex toys, a hole to pump full of cum and dispose of as they see fit, and not a single one of them wants to be here. Not even the ones who smile on command; you can see it in their eyes, something akin to terror is barely masked behind whatever act they’ve been tortured to perform.
My father’s leg bounces beneath the table; he’s delighted with the next round of poor souls about to be led out like lambs to the slaughter. Based on the schedule on the tablet, these suit his select tastes much more. According to the auctioneer, every one of the ten girls on offer for tonight’s exclusive auction has been enhanced to perfection.
There are always ten in each category, with ten categories, giving many options for the night. It also creates enough revenue for the proceedings to take place on amonthly basis despite my father’s insistence on expanding to fortnightly. As of yet, I’ve convinced him the familiar faces prefer a monthly commitment; it’s much more doable in a work-life balance. Every two weeks would bring more attention from the authorities, more security would be needed, along with more stock. More everything.
“Can you imagine this every other week?” Vector beams from ear to ear—I can imagine myself making that grin a permanent one, with my hunting knife.
“It would be virtually impossible,” I state, then take another swig of the Scotch. “Too expensive, and the logistics would be too difficult to manage.”
He scoffs, and it sets my teeth on edge. “Possibly for you to organize, but with the right man behind the job, it would be obtainable.”
My head snaps to the side, my dark eyes set on him, and if looks could kill, he’d be dead on the spot. Unfortunately, they can’t, and he isn’t. His time will come, and if the bastard continues to push me, it will be sooner than he thinks. “Are you saying I’m not man enough?”
Those beady eyes of his dance with delight. He thinks he’s riled me by questioning my manhood, but it’s his insistence on blatantly trying to overthrow my position that really ignites my fury.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re the one who has to take unwilling women because they won’t fuck you any other way,” I say, and because Vector cannot control his emotions, he flies from his chair, sending it toppling to the ground. The commotion causes heads to spin in our direction, and I lift my glass in salute to Vector, then throw the rest of the Scotch back. If I showed any emotion at all, such as a smile, now would be the time to do it, but I don’t. And won’t.
“Enough! We’re in a damn whore auction,” my father declares. “Go find one to fuck.” He waves his hand toward the corridor leading into the lounges and bedrooms, and with a heavy sigh, I push out of my chair and head that way. I’d rather be in the company of whores than them anyway.
The one advantage of this place is the women they bring over from the clubs for the night. There may be a hundred women wanting anything but cock, but there’re another hundred who would willingly beg for it, and it’s those women who send a rush of anticipation through me with each step I take.
I need something to get my mind off the girls on stage, to satiate my annoyance toward Vector, and to grant me a spark of enjoyment only sex momentarily brings.
Every member of staff I encounter bows their head as I approach, and the guard on the bedroom door reserved solely for me is no different.
The moment the door closes, I loosen the tie around my neck and pour myself a Scotch from the bar. Then I grab the glass and bottle and sit in the wingback chair positioned in the middle of the room opposite the four-poster bed while placing the bottle on the table.
The lavish furnishings add to the elegance of the room, but the dark furniture and red walls remind me of a medieval setting—the opposite of my home, where I prefer modern and sleek.
I might like my whores worshipping at my feet, but it’s with a modern twist of submission as opposed to an era of forced slavery.
The door to the left opens, and the unfamiliar female auctioneer leads ten women into the room. They create a line in front of me, each of them with their heads bowed, per my instructions.
“Heads-up,” the auctioneer leading the women says.
In quick succession, like crafted perfection, their heads lift to face me.
“Undress!” she snaps out like a drill sergeant. She knows my instructions well, but where I once loved the thrill of my submissives, boredom has started to take hold, and the thought of me needing something more than this is utterly terrifying. I refuse to become my father, however much he’s attempted to enforce his depraved ways on me. So far, I’ve not succumbed to it, not once.
I take another swig of my drink as the first shirt falls to the floor. Her tits are large, too large for my liking, and the way they sit on her chest makes me think they’ve been enhanced.
What the fuck?
I am not my father, for Christ’s sake.
Did she not read all my instructions?
