Slaves of the Billionaire (3 page)

The car stopped.

“Get out. You disgust me. Walk all the way home. No taxis. No subways. You look like a whore. Do you know that? You look like a filthy whore who sucks cocks in the backs of cars. Get out.” He pulled me up by my hair and pushed me out the door. He threw my purse into the street. The car door slammed and Trent pulled away.

I walked home, teetering in my heels, wondering when I would see Trent again. The two weeks I had waited to see him were painful. I wanted to be in his grip again. I wanted to be his slave, his slut, his girl to punish. I wanted to be his.
Always.

The following day, Alexia came into the Vogue offices. She was signing a contract with the finance department. She passed by my cubicle and stood in front of my computer.

“How is it?” Alexia’s lips were full. It always looked as if she were pouting.

“What?”

“Trent.”

“How…”

“I know who his slaves are. Listen, I don’t care. He can have his slaves. But you will never have him. Do you understand that? He’s mine. He can punish any woman he wants, but he is mine. Know your place.” She stalked off with a flick of her long hair.

That evening I was restless. I went to a bar and ordered vodka and tonic. It was a dive bar and Journey was playing on the jukebox. I looked up when a muscular man in a maroon t-shirt walked in. He had several tattoos on his arms and his head was bald. He
was good looking in a rough way. He nodded in my direction and sat two seats down from me.

“Whiskey,” he hollered. The bartender poured him a glass and the man placed money on the table. He took a long drink.

He turned his gaze on me. “Why are you staring?”

I blushed.
“Didn’t realize I was. Sorry.”

He finished off his drink, stood and then sat next to me. “Another whiskey,” he told the bartender. He touched my hand. “You’re a pretty girl. Why are you here?”

“I wanted a drink.”

“In this dump?
What are you looking for?”

I grabbed the whiskey that the bartender set before him and I swallowed in one gulp.

“Are you brutal?” I asked. His eyes grew large and then narrowed.

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes.” The whiskey made me bold.

“Hey, Cruz,” the man yelled.

The bartender turned. “Yeah?”

“Is that back pool room empty?”

“Yeah. Nobody has been back there.”

“Thanks.” The man smiled. “Follow me.”

The pool room had a door and the man closed it and locked it. I stood touching the green felt on the pool table. He grabbed my hair and pulled me down onto my knees.

“Is this what you want? To be treated like a whore?”

“Please.”

The man yanked me up and started whacking my buttocks. His hand was strong and it stung. I whimpered and yelped. He then dragged me on top of the pool table and yanked off my pants and panties. I was sprawled and gripping the edges. He stuck a finger in me, then two, then three, then four. The pain was intense, but exciting. He moved his four fingers in and out.

“Your hole is mine.” He then balled his hand into a fist and began trying to shove it inside me. He twisted and turned his hand then pushed. He kept repeating that. I felt like I was being split open but it felt wonderful in a strange way. I was crying, panting, moaning and groaning. I knew the patrons in the bar could hear me. The man was egged on by my noises and he kept twisting, turning and pushing.

“My fist is in you,” he said quietly. I pushed myself up and saw only the edge of his wrist and his hand. His fist was deep inside me. I collapsed onto the pool table and felt a powerful orgasm course through by body. My vagina clamped tighter over his fist.
This is what ecstasy is
, I thought.

A week later, I got an invitation from Trent. It came through the mail. The paper was thick and blue. It was handwritten in an elegant script.

You are invited to my dungeon on September 10th. Wear black. Make yourself beautiful. You will be meeting my other slaves.

             
I placed the invitation on my kitchen table and wondered what pleasures I would experience.

I have a criminal record. That’s what you should know about me. I grew up in the Bronx. My Dad was an alcoholic dependent on social security disability checks. He had broken his back at a construction site and developed chronic pain. I knew his drinking was a way of coping with the pain, but he got aggressive when he was drunk. He would yell at me. I was called a cunt and a bitch several times a day starting at age eight.

“
Carice, you stupid cunt! Clean up this mess,” he would yell.

I tried to ignore my D
ad, but sometimes the words wormed their way in and made me cry.

“You’re garbage
, Carice,” Dad would yell. 

Dad was also violent. He liked throwing punches. He would hit my arms, my legs, my stomach and sometimes my face. I would get bruises. Sometimes a teacher would ask what happened and I would tell them I got into a fight with someone in the neighborhood. They didn’t question it further. I was rough, poor and defiant. If I said I got into a fight, they believed me.

In high school, I started smoking marijuana, drinking and having sex. The first time I had sex I was drunk. I can’t remember who I lost my virginity to. I have a vague memory of the smell of Twinkies from the boy’s breath and the feel of fine stubble on his chin. I got a reputation in high school. If a boy wanted his dick sucked or wanted to have sex, they went to me. They lured me with marijuana, money and sometimes food. There was rarely food in my home, so promises of Big Macs and fried chicken swayed me and got me to open my legs.

When I was fifteen, I was charged with delinquency. Six months later, I was charged with possession of marijuana. When I was sixteen, I spent time in a detention facility for violating probation. This pattern continued for several more years until I turned eighteen. I got married to a neighborhood boy because I got pregnant. We went to a justice of the peace and we both got tattoos instead of getting rings. I got Chinese script inked onto my back. It was a quote by Confucius:
Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall
.              

Two months after I was married, I miscarried. Rocco, my husband, was angry.

“What the fuck did you do, Carice?”

“Sometimes these things happen,” I explained.

“Only if you’re a cunt.” He left our tiny apartment and didn’t come back until the next evening reeking of booze and pussy. I could smell it on his face.

“Whose pussy did you bury your face in?”

Rocco collapsed on the couch. “Carla.”

“That Italian bitch!”

He fell asleep and started snoring.

I got a job as a cocktail waitress at a small hotel off the Long Island Expressway. It used to be a Howard Johnson’s, but the corporate family theme had devolved into a trucker’s paradise. The bar had orange, ratty booths and each night the lounge filled with long distance drivers, local riff raff looking for cheap drinks, loud music and drug dealers pushing their stash.  One night, in the middle of August, I met Drake. I had stepped outside to smoke. The night was steamy and I could hear the sound of crickets causing a ruckus in the wooded lot next to the hotel bar.

“Can I have a smoke?”

I turned. “I don’t have anymore.” I went back to blowing circles.

“You got a full pack stuck in your pants.”

“What makes you think I want to share them with you?”

“I’m Drake.” He extended his hand.

“Nice to know,” I said.

“What a tough girl.”

“Got to be in this world.”
I eyed him. He was around 5’7” and had a tattoo of a serpent crawling around his neck. He had curly brown hair and blue eyes. He was average looking, but better looking than Rocco. I winced. Rocco had left me five months prior. He stole most of the furniture while I was at friend’s home and left me with two months unpaid rent. I moved into a residence hotel in Hicksville and then found the job at the hotel bar. I was saving for a little place of my own in Queens.

“So true,” he said. He stuck his hands in his pockets and started whistling.

“I have to get back.” I ground out my cigarette on the ground.

“Can I take you out?”

“What?”

“Can I take you to dinner?”

“Listen…”

“Drake.”

“Drake.
I’ve got baggage.”

“We’ve all got baggage. Maybe I could carry some of your baggage for you.”

I sighed. “Why not.”

“Dinner?”

“Sure.”

Drake took me to an Italian restaurant near
Cantiague Park.  We shared a Caesar, ate lasagna crammed with ricotta and spinach and drank two bottles of red wine. Drake was a talker. He liked telling stories and he had plenty to share. He had just been discharged from the Marines after spending a year in Afghanistan. His war stories were rich with detail and I got drawn into them the way I never could with a book. Drake had a daughter, who lived with his father in Plainview.

“I love her. She’s the reason I wake up in the morning.”

“Can I see a picture of her?”

Drake took out his phone. His daughter was blue eyed with lank blonde hair. She had a pointy chin and freckles.

“She’s pretty,” I said.

“Her name’s Darlene. She takes after her mother.”

“Where’s her mother?”

“Don’t know. She packed up her belongings and left. I filed a missing person report. The police told me that some people just want to disappear.”

I knew that. I had spent every day since I was a child wanting to disappear.

“You’re a special girl,
Carice.”

“I’m not.” I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. Drake stroked my hand.

Two months after the first date, Drake invited me to meet his daughter and father. The home was a white clapboard with a well-tended lawn. There was a child’s pink bike lying on the grass and when Drake and I walked up the driveway a little girl ran out with a chocolate smeared face.

“Daddy!”
Drake swooped her up and kissed her all around her face.

“You have chocolate on you,” I told Drake.

He leaned over and kissed me. “Now you have chocolate on you.”

Drake’s father, Jon, had been a police officer in Queens. His wife had died five years prior from breast cancer, shortly after Darlene was born. Drake’s father was tall,
well-built and had a full head of silvery hair. He hugged and shook Drake’s hand and then stared at me with, what I instantly recognized, as disgust.

“Come in,” he said. His voice was polite and cold.

After dinner, Drake took me home. Drake was in a good mood and was talking about Darlene’s school recital that he had gone to on Friday.

“Drake.”

“Yeah,” he looked at me and smiled.

“Your father doesn’t like me.”

“Nonsense. He’s just guarded. He doesn’t want Darlene hurt.”

Three weeks later, I got a call from Jon.

“I think you better come over here.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” I thought something had happened to Drake.

“You’re a whore, that’s why. Get your ass over here.”

My hands were shaking as I steered the car towards Plainview. When I got to the house I rang the bell. Jon opened the door. He was wearing a bathrobe.

“Follow me.” He led me down into a basement. He then took a key from a small box on a tool table. He opened another door and flicked on the lights. There was a bed and array of dildos and vibrators sitting on a bookcase, a free standing wardrobe with costumes, and hanging from the ceiling were numerous ropes, chains and belts.

There was a mirror above the bed. I could see that the blood had drained from my face.

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, you don’t? I figured you as trash when I first met you. Take off your clothes and shut up. Here,” he handed me a tight, orange latex prison uniform with ‘Inmate 000’ stamped on it. “Put this on. I did a little checking on you. Big
juvie record and a few other crimes a few years back. I smelled the filth of jail on you.”

I stood holding the costume.

“Put the fucking thing on.”

I started crying, but I took off my clothes and pulled the prison uniform on.

“Lay down on the bed.”

He took a large, brown belt off a rack. Jon then lashed me with it. I screamed and hollered and he hit me more and more. He whacked my buttocks and the back of my thighs.

“This is your punishment for being a criminal. This is your punishment for being trash,” Jon yelled.

Jon stopped hitting me. “Do you want more?”

I was sobbing.

“Do you want more?”

My throat felt constricted.

“Do you want more?”

“Yes,” I screeched.

He raised the belt and hit me twenty more times.

“You like it don’t you. This confirms you're worthless. Get up.”

I sat on the edge of the bed. He walked to the bookcase and retrieved a large black dildo.

“Open up,” he said. He put the dildo in my mouth. “Get it wet. Real wet. It’s going in your ass.” I choked, but he only laughed. “Get on your hands and knees. I want your ass in the air.”

I obeyed. I thought he would ram it in, but instead he eased it in, an inch at a time. I could hear him breathing heavily. I knew he was excited.

“Did any of the guards at the jail rape you? Did they want you to suck their cock for drugs?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“One of the guards wanted me to blow him. I wanted some marijuana. So he told me to suck his cock and he would get me a joint.”

“Was it a big cock?”

The dildo was deep inside my ass. “Yes, he had a big cock.”

Jon started panting. “Fuck, that’s hot.” He moved the dildo in and out. “I used to arrest hookers and promise to release them if they licked my balls. You want to lick my balls, trash?”

“Yes.”

He pulled the dildo out. “Get over here.” I got up and stood before him. “Get on your knees.” He lifted his hard cock to expose his full balls. “Lick them like the dog you are.” His balls were cleanly shaven. I licked hungrily. I was a dog. Not a delicate kitty lapping at a delicacy. I was a dog attacking meat. This is what I am, I thought. A dog. Drake is kind and sweet, but I never had an orgasm with him. He was too gentle. Too considerate. I needed something harder. Something awful and delicious at the same time.

Jon was moaning and
I felt power spreading through me. I was being degraded and it caused pleasurable heat to course through me.

“You like that?”
I asked.

“Oh, I like it very much. Take off your uniform. Let me see your breasts.”

I complied. Jon smacked my breasts and bit my nipples. I yelped and moaned.

“Such a bad girl.
Fuck, you’re hot. Your breasts are huge. Naughty puppies. I want them bruised. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, oh yes.”

Jon pushed me on the bed, squeezed my breasts together and then slid his cock between them. He thrusted a few times and then came over my chest and chin.

I dressed and didn’t look at Jon. I went to the door to leave.

“Here,” he said. He put money into my hand. “It’s two thousand dollars. Leave my son and granddaughter alone. You’re good enough to beat, but you’re not good enough for my son. Leave Hicksville. Don’t come back here. Get on with your life.”

I grabbed the money. A lump formed in my throat and I couldn’t speak. I found my way out of the house and noticed the pink bike on the lawn.

“Bye, Drake and Darlene,” I mumbled.

With the money, I moved to Queens and got a job as a stripper at Silver Snatch. Every stripper there had a theme.
DeeDee posed as a little girl and brought out giant suckers on the stage to lick while she swished in her white stockings and pigtails. My theme was vampiric. I called myself Vanessa Vampire. I dyed my hair black, wore blood red lipstick and dark latex. I wasn’t popular. My biggest draw, as the owner told me, was my “big floppy tits”. He scoffed at my routines and outfits.

One night, I was dancing to electronic pop and noticed that none of the men in the audience wer
e watching me. Men not paying attention meant no tips. I got frustrated and stomped off to the dressing room. I took a pair of scissors from my dresser table. I then went back on stage and cut myself. Not deep, but blood bubbled up. The music had died. I looked up and noticed I was finally being watched. I licked the blood and then wiped my arm across my breasts. I flung the scissors and jumped onto the stripper pole. The music started again and I finished my routine. A strange thing happened when I cut myself. I felt sexy. Cutting myself released the frustration and the blood made me conscious of my body. My routine was no longer mechanical. It had become sensual. I got a smattering of claps and a grandpa type gentleman in a golf shirt stuck a twenty dollar bill in my G-string. That was my first tip in two weeks.