"Oh, that was only the beginning, Brys." I look away. "I was a virgin until that day. I'd never even held a girl's hand. My life had been very sheltered, you see. Isolated and lonely. No friends, no sports, just my nanny and my tutor and my lessons, all day every day, until Mother and Father died and my cousin stole my inheritance. Miss Amy's friend, she…Miss Amy left us alone. She took me to the bedroom—my bedroom. There was no pretense of it being anything else. She instructed me to take off my clothes and…she…she just…admired me, for a moment. And then she touched me. My body responded—I was sixteen. She played with me. It wasn't…it wasn't really about sex for her. She didn't want me to do anything to her that first time. She wanted someone she could…toy with. Order around. Have control over. She made me…her favorite game was edging me. Get me to the point of orgasm and then stop. She would take a phone call. Step out of the room. If I failed to control my release to her satisfaction, Miss Amy would withhold food from me until the next time. Not all food, just enough to drive the point home. I had to have enough strength to perform, you see. I'm sure it was a delicate balance to strike—enough hunger to punish without leaving me too weak to function.
"She would slap me. Not for the infliction of pain—she was a tiny, weak woman. Even at sixteen, I could have snapped her like a twig. But the specter of the streets, of hunger, of eating moldy bread and begging for coins? No, I dared not. I obeyed. I let her slap me. I let her slap my face, my buttocks, my penis."
"She slapped yourpenis?"
"That was her favorite thing to do to me as punishment—as a test. I couldn't protect myself, couldn't flinch, couldn't cover, couldn't make a sound. If I didn't, she would 'reward me'," and here I use heavy emphasis for sarcasm, "with pleasure. Everything was a game to that woman—a game of power and manipulation."
"Oh, Jakob."
"For a while, it was just her. And then soon it was a different friend, in addition. This friend had different tastes. She wanted me to make her feel all the things her husband couldn't or wouldn't. She would make me perform cunnilingus until my jaw gave out. There was no talking. Just service. Again, and again, and again. This wasn't a by-the-hour thing. They had me for as long as they wanted. There were no rules other than not leaving visible marks on my body—no damaging the merchandise. They could do whatever vile sins their depraved minds could conjure, as long as my body was left unblemished.
"And then there was a third friend. She was unremarkable, and my favorite client for that. She just wanted to be fucked hard and frequently. She otherwise left me alone as long as I serviced her well.”
Brys's eyes burn and shimmer. "Jakob." My name catches in her throat.
I have to look away—I cannot tolerate her compassion. It cuts deeper than any razor blade.
"I began to suffer after a few months of this. I couldn't sleep. I had nightmares. It was impacting my performance, so MissAmy had to find a fix. The fix came in the form of a little white pill. Just half of one at first, and eventually the whole pill, and then a whole pill every few hours. It took away the nightmares. Took away the nausea that would leave me in agony on the floor before a client. The world was brighter. Sensations were…different. Sharper. More intense. The pills were the only way I could get through a client session. But the more pills I took, the more I needed. And then the pills stopped working, no matter how many I took, and that's when she introduced me to the needle. The rush was…god, I still remember the way that first hit felt, Brys. There is nothing like it on Earth. But the price you pay?" I close my eyes, shake my head. "I pray to every god there is that you never know, Brys."
Several minutes pass in awful silence before I can continue.
"The needle was how I coped, after that. It allowed her to sell me not just a few times a week, but a few times aday. As long as I was doped up, I would do whatever was asked of me." I close my eyes. "I made her a wealthy woman. She already was, but I…I was her golden goose. She put me up in a loft in Tribeca. She would come by every day with my medicine. She would tie the tube around my arm and put the needle in my vein, and her clients would arrive, and I would service them. Men, women, couples, throuples, I did it all. Why? Because she proved quite effectively what would happen if I complained. It only happened once, the first time she sold me to a male client. I protested. I didn't want to do it—even drugged, I didn't want that. Well, it didn’t matter what I wanted. When he was done with me, she threw me out. Changed the code and the locks, and left me out on the street on my own for two weeks. The craving, the hunger, thirst, the withdrawal? It’s every worst kind of misery you can imagine, all at once."
She can only shake her head, eyes dewy with unshed tears. "How did you get free?"
"A car accident, of all things. Miss Amy was crossing the street and was struck and killed by a distracted cab driver. I…" here, I trail off, breathe, start over. "This is a truth I have never spoken aloud. I was with her. We were returning to her condo for an appointment—some of her high-status clients preferred to meet me there rather than at my loft. I…I saw the cab coming. I saw that Amy was distracted by a billboard or someone down the street, I don't know, don't remember." I swallow hard. "I was high. I was always high. I don’t remember deciding. I just…the cabbie wasn't looking, Amy wasn't looking. I tripped. Bumped into her. And she…she toppled into the street, and the taxi hit her and killed her instantly. I saw—I saw her go flying like a rag doll. Saw her land, saw her limbs snap, her head explode. I went to her. Pretended to be upset, but in reality, I was stealing her keys. I slipped away in the chaos as the police, fire, and EMS arrived. I let myself into her condo, and I tore it apart looking for the medicine." I shake my head, laughing derisively. "Medicine. I knew I was addicted to drugs, but I never knew what it was she gave me. I just knew I needed it. I ransacked that place, Brys. I tore open every cushion, every pillow. Looked in the toilet tanks, inside HVAC vents. I never found it. I had no money. I sold as much of her stuff as I could to pay for my drugs, but eventually I ran out of her jewelry, purses, and shoes. I tore the condo apart again, searching. This time, in a fit of craving-induced rage, I smashed a hand-carved wooden jewelry box. Which is how I found her Rolodex of clients. I knew, even in the state I was in, the value of that client list. I also knew I was in no state to do anything. I knew the demon of the drug was killing me. So I decided to quit."
Brys recoils in horror. "Jakob. People havediedfrom heroin withdrawal."
"I know that now. I didn't then. Remember, I was a very sheltered child. I pawned her stereo and stocked up on waterand food and barricaded myself in with a stack of books." I shudder, which hurts. "The tunnel, Brys? With the rats and the spiders. Was that real?"
She nods, tears spilling down as a shudder wracks her. "Yes. All too real."
"That is an excellent picture of heroin withdrawal. Spiders in your skin. Centipedes crawling down your back. Rats chewing on your toes. Except on the inside. Every worst nightmare made real. I vomited until I didn't even have bile left. I clawed myself bloody. I didn't eat for days and days. Forced myself to drink just so I didn't die of dehydration. I should have died, going cold turkey like that. It is a miracle I did not, and it is no credit to my constitution or willpower. Merely luck…or some higher plan, perhaps, if you believe in such things."
"Dear lord in heaven."
"If there is a god, he or she or they did not deign to visit me in my detox. I suffered alone. When I emerged on the other side, I was a skeleton. My skin was like parchment. I had not eaten for weeks and had been subsisting on just enough fluids to keep my kidneys from giving out. But I had Amy's client list. I just…her clients paid for an impressive male specimen, not a frail, gaunt, withered ghoul covered in my own vomit and feces."
She covers her face with both hands. "My god. My god. What did you do?"
I am silent for a long while, summoning the courage to speak. "It was meant to be a stopgap measure until I could entertain clients myself. It was…Fortuitous, I suppose, is an accurate enough word. I stumbled across an emaciated teenage girl in an alley, begging for food."
Brys's expression changes. "Oh, Jakob. Youdidn't."
"Oh, Brys, I did." I harden my heart against the hate that will soon be all she feels for me. "Hold your judgment, however. The worst is yet to come." I breathe, steel myself. "I was evictedfrom Amy's condo and the Tribeca loft, but not before I found the keys and title to her Mercedes, which I was able to sell for enough for a deposit on a walk-up in Astoria. I brought the girl to the apartment. I clothed her. Fed her. I did to her what Amy did to me. Used hunger as a whip. But I…I was smarter than Amy. Instead of one girl operating out of my apartment, I leased several apartments across various neighborhoods and boroughs throughout the city and put my girls up in them. They worked out of their home. I checked on them. I kept them off drugs because I could never, ever do that to anyone. I would not wish heroin detox on anyone, not even Pugli."
Her gaze is troubled. "God, Jakob." This utterance is different. Harder, sharper—bubbling with acidic judgment.
"Yes," I whisper. "Now you see. But wait—I have not finished. There is worse to come."
"No," she breathes.
"I made alotof money in a very short amount of time. That is where I differed from Amy. I diversified. I bought a laundromat. The laundromat was profitable enough that I bought a gas station, and then a car wash. I hired managers to run them for me hands-free, as it were. And every time I got a new stream of income up and running, I freed one of my girls. I bought them a condo and got them a job, if they wanted. Some didn't—some stuck with the sex work."
"Why?" she asks. "Why would they keep doing that?"
I shrug. "I have often wondered that. I told you of the brothel I run in my club—Hel. Every girl who works there does so because she chooses to. They are not beholden to anyone, and they are not addicts; they choose sex work for their own reasons, which are none of my business."
