Page 7 of Volatile Waters

Kirill’s stare raced to the nervous handler as he pulled a gun from the back of his pants. Within seconds, a gunshot rang through the air. I jolted then watched the guilty handler collapse to the ground. Besides one slave, who died from a mishandled breath play training session, this was the first dead person I had seen since my mother. Momentarily, I was in too much shock to hear the children screaming, struggling in the remaining handler’s grips, all staring at the body.

I would like to say Kirill killed due to being disgusted by the child rapist, but that would be a lie. Father, Uncle, the other handlers, and I all knew the kill was out of pure jealousy.

I would like to say Father kicked the dead man on the ground out of disgust, but he was hollering about the loss of his деньги.

A free, and alive, handler retrieved the hysterical and damaged girl from Kirill and waited for instructions.

Father, exasperated from kicking the dead handler, growled, “She is to go to the factories.”

Factories. That is what we called the lower end of human trafficking.

Lowest bidders, a.k.a. Scrappers, collect all the leftover scraps they can cheaply get their hands on, drug them, then line the bodies up in spaces as degrading as fields of tall grass to condemned apartment buildings. Men know where to find these lowlifes, hand over an inexcusably cheap rate, and have sex with whatever half-conscious girl or woman is available. Hence Factory. These girls entertain approximately twenty to thirty-five men a day.

My family somehow thought we were much better than Scrappers by taking pride in our assets, believing we cared highly for our slaves. In truth, we gave them medical care, trained them to react accordingly, and dressed them in gold before selling them to the richest of clients.

With the next crying child strapped down, Uncle continued to search for ‘Money.’ As a grumble escaped him, we all knew what it meant. This child had already been stripped of her worth. My father groaned slut, “шлюха,” in Russian.

The brunette couldn’t have been older than twelve, hardly the age of already acquiring many lovers. It was most likely the case of incest, a perverted family member, or an adult in regular contact with the child. This, in turn, made her an easier target for us to begin with. An abused child is already confused and in need of affection and love. Trained abductors pretend to care, to be different from the rest, through texts, messaging, or other means of communications, truly exploiting a need and luring in victims.

Social media, chat rooms, and technology have made all children reachable. All. Teenage girls sneak out of their bedroom windows or skip school, believing they are soon to meet the young man who ‘understands’ them, ignorant of the fact that the man or woman who has been talking to them for weeks is a predator. Naïve teenagers slip into a car, expecting Prince Charming, but are greeted by a trafficker, and are never seen again by family and friends. They are drugged and taken to what most consider ‘underground.’ But they are truly just under our noses.

In every respectable profession, there are predators. Our clients ranged from Law Enforcers to men with more money than they knew what to do with. We practically owned the police department due to clients and money.

Kirill wiped his drooling mouth, knowing he was soon to reap the rewards of the child with no hymen. Reluctantly, Father nodded to my perverted cousin, who was already unbuckling her legs. “Yes. Have her, but leave no marks. I need to recoup some cash from the whore.”

Brown hair whipped through the air as she was hoisted over the Kirill’s shoulder with no more care than a butcher carrying his piece of meat. Kirill casually remarked, “You can start filming me.” Uncle and Father both recoiled. Kirill shrugged, his shoulders lifting the girl. “Keep most of my face off-camera to not get caught. Film live or make the video viewable. With the proper software to hide an IP address, we can enter the Dark Web and make money.”

“Is this true?” asked my now intrigued father.

Kirill patted the crying child on the ass. “You think one of these once in a while is enough? No. I pay for live viewing of fucks and watch pre-recordings daily.” Massaging his growing erection, he eyed a cellphone in a handler’s hand. “Have him film me now with that burner. We can download it later.” He held up his hand and rubbed his fingers together to represent cash. “An easy way to recoup money.”

Father caressed his chin while deep in thought. “Technically, I would be profiting twice.” He tapped his lips. Once a decision was made, he told a handler, “Tie your child down to be examined, then go with Kirill.”

And the imaginary production conveyer belt continued.

A terrified blonde child was presented to Uncle and forced to lay in the examining chair. Once confined, the handler followed a happy Kirill into an abandoned office. The windows had been broken long ago by previous owners or vandalizers, so it was easy to hear pleas for help as Kirill laid her on an old dirty desk, the handler videoing the removal of clothing.

Appearing disturbed by the sounds of his son raping a child in the background, Uncle reached his large hand between tiny struggling legs, clueless of how one action was no less horrific than the other. A pitiful squeal echoed in the warehouse from the blue-eyed doll of a child, only to be overshadowed by a cheer. “Money!”

It seems, by the age of eight, this child had been spared… until we got a hold of her.

Father joyfully slapped his hands together. “Excellent! This night keeps improving.” Certain color traits are of more value in certain countries. The kidnapped blonde child would bring thousands of dollars.

While the brunette screamed through her violent assault that would soon be shared through the Dark Web, the blonde’s coming times were being determined. “Training?” asked Uncle. Father approached the table and eyed her from head to toes. “Very pretty.” He twirled strands of hair around his finger. “I say invest.”

To training she was to go.

Grunts of pleasure from Kirill almost applauded Father’s decision. Soon, the little blonde girl would experience terror, just like the one presently underneath Kirill.

A ruckus at the entrance to the warehouse had us all turning our heads and handler guns being pulled from holsters. A handler was being challenged by a red-headed woman fighting back, unlike the scared children. When she heard the cries due to Kirill having his way, she began to struggle more fiercely, screaming in Russian, “You filthy pigs. May you and my husband rot in Hell!”

Father chuckled as he put away his piece, moseying over to the enraged woman. “So, the debt has been paid by you.” He avoided her snapping jaws while trying to run his fingers through her red hair. “Do you have fire,” he reached for her core, “everywhere?”

She spit in his face.

He smiled.

Wiping his cheek with a silk handkerchief, he toyed with her. “It will be a pleasure to… break you. Then sell you.”