Chapter One
Viktor
My dick is raw. It’s chafed at the sides, bright red and screaming, yet it’s still standing. Unsurprising. They pump enough Viagra into us here to kill a small dog, making sure our cocks stay upright no matter how much we want to die.
I sit on the floor and shove a spoonful of the cold, unappetizing blob into my mouth. It’s a mix of chicken, meat, and whatever other blended leftovers they throw together to maintain the muscle. People have this image of a sex-trafficked man—they think we’re small, emaciated things. I’m the fucking opposite. These bastards make sure of it. That’s my selling point: the big, muscled brute who can’t say no.
I swallow the last of the sludge, fighting a gag at the fishy odor clinging to the bowl. God knows what the fuck is in this. Scratch that—God doesn’t know about anything in this hole. He forgot us a long time ago.
My dick feels like it’s about to fall off. The skin burns, but I still have one more client. Some "high-profile" woman. It shouldn't surprise me anymore. Monsters from all walks of life visit here, each one with weirder, sicker kinks than the last.
I haul myself up from the floor. My muscles ache, heavy and useless. I move into the small bathroom connected to the bedroom. This room isn't mine. We’re only seen as deserving of a bed if a client is already on it; otherwise, even if we’re in here, we’re required to sit on the floor like dogs.
I make quick work of brushing my teeth and scrubbing the grime off my face. I look in the mirror. I see the appeal—why I’m highly requested by the women here, and sometimes the men too. My biceps are huge. I have abs that look like they were carved out of stone. My eyes are hazel, my skin pale, and my Russian origins are clear as day.
I miss my small town in Russia. I was dirt poor there, but I was fucking happy. Nineteen years old, a soldier in training, thinking I was meant for more. Like a fool, I thought luck was finally on my side when I was offered that high-paying security firm job.
Instead, I was sex-trafficked. Sold for a cheap high everywhere from Paris to London, and now this humid hellhole in Miami. They sent me money, a contract, pictures of the people I’d be guarding. They were just waiting for me to take the bait. And like the idiot I am, I took it.
Instead of a career, I got captured. They made me strong, all while knowing there’s nothing I can do to escape this hell, no matter how much muscle I grow. I'm just a bigger piece of meat for them to sell.
The door handle turns. Time to work.
The drawer on the side of the sink taunts me as I slide it open to grab a condom. The eighth one of the day. Rolling the latex onto my cock feels like Satan himself is licking my dick with a tongue made of fire. I hiss, my teeth grinding together so hard they might shatter. If I stay like this for much longer, the skin is going to turn black and fall off.
Ten years of this shit. Ten years, and I still surprise myself by being alive. The human body is more resilient than anyone can guess; it’s a curse. If I were weaker, I’d have been dead in Paris.
A feminine throat clearing pulls me away from the sting. I force my feet to scurry out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.
The woman is polished. Her hair is long, reaching all the way to her butt, and her eyes are an empty blue. Like almost every client I’ve had since being transferred to Miami, she looks like a doll. They all look the exact same here—it’s uncanny. They’re so beautiful that nothing about them feels human. No scars. No wrinkles. Not even a single fucking mole. Everything has been plucked, tucked, and erased.
I swallow the bile rising in my throat, approaching her with my dick pointed out. Is it because I find her attractive? Hell no. Do I even want to fuck her? Fuck no. Fucking something so perfect feels like fucking a blank sheet of paper. Add to that the fact that I’m being forced into it, and it’s enough to make me want to vomit all over her expensive heels.
But I need to do this. Or else.
She sits down on the edge of the bed, her huge tits bouncing as her ass makes contact with the mattress. Her eyes rake over me, almost like she’s analyzing me.
"Sit," she says, tapping the bed next to her.
My naked ass makes contact with the sheets. I sit stiffly, waiting for her next command exactly like I’ve been conditioned to do. She pulls out a small notepad and starts writing, her lip caught between perfect rows of white teeth.
My brows pull together. What the fuck? Am I about to discover some new kink?
I hear her hum as she writes. "Muscular... nice." Her pen scratches against the paper, marking what looks like a checkmark. "Gruff, but handsome..."
Huh?
With a little giggle, she scribbles again. "Big dick."
The urge to cover myself is so strong I nearly flinch, but I dig my nails into my palms until I draw blood to stop it.
"Oh, you’re going to be a hit," she says with a smirk, looking at me like I’m a prize horse she’s about to put on a track.
She reaches into her designer clutch and pulls out a card. It’s pitch black, with gold foil lettering that looks too elegant for a place like this.
"My name is Melody," she starts. "And I think you’re far too 'high-end' to be rotting in a hole like this. How would you like to get out of here?"
She flips the card between her manicured fingers. What the fuck is happening?
