Page 14 of The Beast Who Bought Me
“Here?” I look around at Jesse watching with amusement, at the team of strangers.
“Merchandise doesn’t ask questions.”
They’ll see the bruises the Giuliano left on me. Not much I can do about that, though, so I unbutton my shirt. Each piece I strip off feels like a further surrender, a betrayal of everything my Family ever built.
Instinctively, I try to cover myself. One of the men pushes my hands aside without expression. “Full visibility is required for assessment.”
So I stand there, exposed under the lights, as hands run over me without comment or care. They note the bruises on my arms, but whatever they say about them, they say it in Russian. Jesse gives me a speculative look as my clothes are folded and bagged, along with my backpack.
“Where are you taking those?” I demand. I can’t afford to lose the few possessions I have.
“Merchandise doesn’t ask questions,” the same woman as before tells me.
“Answer me.”
There must be something dark in my voice, some echo of my grandfather, because her eyes widen slightly and she does as commanded. “To be returned or disposed of, depending on the buyer’s preference.”
They lay me out on a padded trolley and begin. Waxing first. I’m not particularly hairy, but they want me smooth all over, and at times the pain that comes when they rip away the strips makes my eyes water. I clench my teeth tight, refuse to cry out.
Nonno Lou once made me watch as he tortured to death a man who had stolen from us. The man screamed, begged. “See how pathetic weakness is?” my grandfather scoffed.
I was seven. The lesson stuck. I learned to endure, and now I fix my gaze to a spot on the ceiling and try to dissociate as they work on me. Jesse pours himself a second glass of champagne, watching everything avidly.
A hand lands between my legs, and I jerk away with a hiss of warning.
“Measurements,” the man tells me. “Just keep still.”
It’s detached. Impersonal. But my body still responds, because apparently my dick didn’t get the memo about dignity. A handler makes a note about it. I stare at the ceiling and fantasize about arson.
One of the men approaches with a nozzle attached to a bag full of water.
“No,” I say firmly.
“Non-negotiable,” he says. “Merchandise must be thoroughly prepared.”
Jesse smiles. “Relax. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Not here,” I say flatly. If I’m doing this, I’m not going to do it in front of Jesse, who pouts as the handler relents and leads me into a private bathroom. I’m very careful not to catch my reflection in the mirror. Because if I see myself, this will be real.
After that low point, there’s a full-body wash-down that I’m apparently not trusted to do myself, followed by a manicure, pedicure, hair trim—though they leave it longer than I used to wear it—and a makeup job focused on making my eyes look enormous and my cheekbones like razors. Jesse directs from his chair like an auteur. “More mascara. Accentuate the eyebrows. Bronzer.”
I hate him. I hate myself more. But beneath the hatred, something else is keeping me afloat: the promise of revenge. The more these people humiliate me, the more they will regret it.
One day, I will pay them all back.
At last, they declare me finished. And then three black velvet cases are brought out, opened with reverence, and the head stylist taps his lips thoughtfully as he contemplates them.
I stare at them in horror as understanding dawns.
“Only premium merchandise earns the gold,” he says, selecting the third box.
The cock cage gleams under the lights, deceptively pretty, a filigree sheath. And next to it, a flared plug of the same smooth gold.
Jesse watches from his chair, champagne flute dangling between his fingers. “I got stuck with silver,” he says sourly. “You’re lucky.”
Lucky. I almost laugh.
The fitting doesn’t hurt. The handler works carefully, ensuring nothing pinches as he slides the cage onto me and locks the gold trinket around the most intimate part of my body. A tiny key is placed in a sleek black box with the Obelisk insignia.
