tight (tīt)
(adj.) allowing little or no room for free motion or movement
The man who kept me had an accent, a thick coating over every word, something I might have found sexy in another life. Now, in this one, I wanted to cut out his tongue and never hear another of his affected syllables.
He sat before me, my hands again tied, this time to the lower cuffs, a more comfortable position. My bare ass sat in the wooden chair, my ankles secured to the legs of it. I tried to fall over, tried to rip the chair, but only succeeded in wrenching my opposing arm practically out of socket.
Now, my bones tired, throat sore from screaming, I sat and tried to block out the words that he spoke.
“Do you know that in the UK a sex slave ring of 1,400 victims was just discovered? It’s the fifth one of its kind, led by Muslim men, that has been found. I find it fascinating that they target white women, such as you. Do you know why, Kitten?”
I didn’t respond, my eyes avoiding his, focusing on the pad of paper he held on his lap, his pen tapping the surface with a quick rat-a-tat-tat that was driving me crazy.
“They say that if the ethnicity of the victim and abuser are different, then the crime seems less severe. It’s a mental Band-Aid, really, to the victim. That’s why I was so pleased to get you, Kitten. To see if I felt less empathy for you. Now, I’m wondering if it works in reverse. If you feel less empathy and connection to me, as your Master.”
“You’re not my Master.” The words spilled out before I could contain them, and I watched his pen as it stopped its tap and swiveled upright.
“Well then, what would you call me? The majority of sex traffickers in the United States are prostitution rings, in which the Master is called ‘Daddy.’ Would you prefer that name, Kitten?”
I looked up from his pen, into his eyes. “No. And I’m not Kitten.”
He chuckled, the corner of his mouth drawing up as if pulled by a thread, his eyes tight on mine like he found me fascinating. “I use the nickname to help you forget your old life. Also, it is a form of endearment. Most slaves embrace their new names.”
“How many have you dealt with?” I asked the question quietly, unsure of his reaction, my hate of this man one-upped by my fear of him.
“Well ... just you so far. If you don’t give me what I need, then I’ll have to get another. Which takes me to the second part of today’s training.” He set his clipboard aside and my breath stalled, my chest tightening as I prepared for the unknown.