Slaves of the Billionaire (5 page)

“On the wall Marcus,” said Trent.

“Righto.”

A few seconds later, the man swished the cane through the air and then cracked it on my ass. I didn’t scream. I didn’t yell. I bit my lower lip and took it. The man hit me several times. He then yanked my head up by my hair.

“You’re not crying. You want some more slave? Hmmm. You’re very pretty. Very pretty girl. I like your ass. It’s all red now. Such a sweet girl. I really want you. I want you for my own.”

“No,” said Trent.

“I’ll get you. When he’s done with you, and he will eventually be done with you, I’ll get you and make you mine. My sweet idiot slave.”

“Did you fall in love, Marcus?” It was one of the other men.

“I know special when I see it.”

“Sounds like love,” said Trent.

“Fuck love. I want something harder and more exciting. I want this bitch as my slave.” The man let go of my hair and my head flopped down.

“Well, since you want her so much I think I’m going to mark her.” It was one of the men. I heard his feet shuffle.

“Sit up, and hold out your arm,” he said. I did as told and kept my eyes down. I was being careful not to make eye contact. The man cut me with a scalpel. It felt like a paper cut. It wasn’t deep but the blood formed a river down my arm.

“She licks blood.” Trent puffed on a cigar.

The man holding the scalpel walked away, threw the knife on a table and sat back down.

“Lick the blood,” said the man, the man who wanted me, my tormenter. I did as told. “Fuck, that’s hot.” He reached down and squeezed my breasts and nipples. He yanked on them like he was milking them. He pulled too tightly on one and I yelped. This made him more excited though. He got the cane again.

“Back on your hands and knees.”

He whacked me again and again and demanded to know if I liked it. “Yes, I love it.”

Again and again, the cane swished. At some point, I collapsed and was breathing heavy and groaning. Sister Light came in and gave me a robe. Trent wrapped it tight around me and put his arm around me.

“You did
good, Carice. You did good.”

I looked back at the men. One had nodded off and one was huffing on his cigar. One man was standing, watching me. His eyes were bright and his handsome face looked both amused and lustful. I glanced down and saw the leather shoes he made me lick.

I served no one, but Trent for two months. There were no more group parties. Trent tied me up, beat me and penetrated me with the zeal of an owner testing out a new toy. Trent moved me from Queens and put me in an apartment near Times Square. He never came there. I only saw him at the Pit.

After a month in my new apartment, I got a note in the mail on thick blue paper. It read:

Your appearance is requested at The Darkest Pit on September 10th. Wear white. Make yourself beautiful. You will be meeting my other slaves.

             
I set the note down. I felt a sinking feeling. I didn’t know he had other slaves. I thought I was it. His lump of dismal rock that he turned into a diamond.

              I busted balls as a child. I grew up in North Hollywood, in a Spanish colonial situated in a cul de sac. There were lots of children in the neighborhood and I ruled them all. Most of the neighborhood children were boys. If they looked at me weird or for too long, I punched them in their balls. If they didn’t follow my rules, I punched them in the balls. If they wanted to play something that I didn’t, I punched them in the balls. I gave them warning. They knew what I would do.

             
“If you touch my bike one more time, I’m going to sock you hard,” I would say. There were always fools who defied me. They would run up quick, pull my hair and then skip backwards laughing. I was fast though. I chased them and whacked them. Hard. I didn’t hit like a girl. I hit them as if I was defending my life.

             
My Mom got complaints.

             
“You need to control your kid,” said one mother from the neighborhood.

             
Mom sighed. “What did she do?”

             
“She punched my son in his privates. If you don’t control her, I’m calling the police and Child Protective Service. Your daughter needs help. What she does isn’t normal.”

             
“I’ll take care of it.”

             
Mom closed the door. “You need to stop this, Dresden. If your Father finds out…”

             
I suddenly got scared. “Don’t tell him, mom. Just don’t.”

             
Mom pushed up the sleeves of her shirt. Her arms were riddled with bruises. Makeup was covering the marks on her eyes and cheeks.

             
“I would never do that to you, Dresden. I don’t want this to happen to you.” Mom pointed to her bruises.

             
Dad was an animator at Disney. He worked long hours and got paid well. When he was home, he was the king. He was in control and his family were his objects. He wanted me and Mom to be dressed immaculately. He wanted us quiet and waiting for him. He wanted a hot dinner ready when he got home from work. If anything in the house was out of place, he raged like a monster. One time I left crayons on the table.

             
“What is this? Why are there crayons on the table?” Dad’s voice was low and calm, but Mom and I knew what was coming. I started crying.

             
“Hush, Dresden.” Mom tried to console me, but she was as scared as I.

             
“Come here, Joanna.” Mom pushed me away. She was trying to protect me.

             
“Yes, darling.” Mom was trying to placate him. “I’ll pick up the crayons.”

             
“You will pick up the crayons. You will.” Dad pulled off his belt and rocked back on his feet. He grabbed Mom by her arm and lashed her. He had no mercy. Mom fell to the ground crying as Dad whacked her several times. He was out of breath and heaving with anger. He saw me, standing in the center of the living, pale as a wintery cloud.

             
“You’re next,” said Dad. I ran. I was quick. Dad chased me up the stairs and punched out my door. I cowered in the corner of the room. There was no escape from him. The belt seared my skin. I wanted the pain to end. I wanted Dad to disappear. I wanted him to die.

             
Mom committed suicide when I was thirteen. She hung herself from the ceiling fan in the dining room. Dad had brought me home from soccer practice. I was sullen. My team had lost the game and Dad had berated me for not winning.

             
“You’re mediocre at best. You can’t do anything right. You don’t play like a champion.”

             
When Dad pulled into our driveway, I hopped out before he stopped the car. I charged into our home and called out for Mom. I heard Dad’s footsteps behind me. I knew he was going to hit me. He didn’t like it when I demonstrated my anger and frustration.

             
I could see Mom’s feet. The dining room was connected to the living room and when I ran into the house I could see Mom’s feet dangling. One of her ballet flats had fallen off. The dining room table had been pushed to the side. I’m still not sure how she moved the table. It was solid oak and practically immovable unless you had a few strong men. I stood staring at her. She looked like a rag doll. Her head lolled to the side and her tongue protruded.

             
I heard Dad’s footsteps. I turned. “She’s ugly.” Dad didn’t say anything. He just stared. Closed mouth and grim looking. “She’s ugly in death,” I said.

             
“Damn stupid woman,” yelled Dad.

             
The funeral was three days later. Mother had no family other than me and Dad. She had been a foster child for years. She had been removed from her drug addicted mother and her father had been killed during a prison riot at San Quentin. Mom also had no friends. She took care of me and Dad and didn’t socialize. I actually don’t think Dad allowed her to have friends. It was too easy to spark jealousy in him. The funeral was sparsely attended and brief. I threw dirt onto her coffin and promised myself that I would never be a victim. I would not grow up to be like my Mom. I would not be beat like a dog. I would not kill myself.

             
Dad grew docile after Mom died. He no longer fumed, berated or beat me. I wasn’t sure why for a number of years. It wasn’t until I started packing up my belongings to attend the Pratt Institute in New York City that I understood why. Dad was disinterested in me. I was an object he had discarded long ago. He had no use for me. When the taxi came to take me to the airport I told Dad I would call, but he waved me off and went back to staring at his laptop. There were no goodbyes. He was done with me.

             
Pratt and New York City was overwhelming, at first. I was studying architecture and living in campus housing. There was too much to see, do, experience and learn. I crammed my day with classes, study groups, museum tours, soccer practice and exploring. I slept very little. I eventually called my Dad a month after arriving in New York City. He didn’t answer his cell phone, so I left him a message. He never called me back. After Thanksgiving break, I received a called from the LAPD.

             
“Ms. Moore?” asked the police officer with a shaky voice.

             
“Yes?”

             
“This is the LAPD. Your father is Robert Moore, right?”

             
“Yes.” I was tightly gripping the phone.

             
“I’m sorry to tell you, but your father was found dead in a motel in Hollywood last night. It was a suicide. He used a gun.” The officer sniffed. He sounded sad.

             
“Where in Hollywood?”

             
“Excuse me?”

             
“You said he died in Hollywood. Where?”

             
“Uh, let’s see. The Shalimar Heights motel.”

             
I was quiet. I couldn’t picture my Dad in that disgusting motel. It was popular with Sunset streetwalkers. Every room had a TV that streamed free porn 24/7 and the front desk sold condoms. I knew about it from Prom Night, when my date took me there to “become a woman” as he described it.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said the officer.

“Don’t be. He was a fucker.”

I didn’t attend his funeral. My uncle, whom I hadn’t seen since Mom’s funeral
,

had
arranged it. He also took care of selling the house, furniture and settling all the financial matters. At Christmas, my uncle sent me a check for $350,000. It was enclosed with a holiday card that read, “Use this wisely and take care.” 

             
In February, I fell behind in my classes. I was sleeping too much and not finishing assignments. Eventually, I stopped getting out of bed altogether. Life felt heavy, boring and dismal. I couldn’t draw, write, read and, as my roommate pointed out, bathe. Campus police came to speak with me after several days of inactivity.

             
“When was the last time you ate something?” The police officer was blonde and sweet looking.

             
“I can’t remember.”

             
“What’s wrong, sweetie?”

             
“I don’t know.”

             
“Don’t worry. Everything will get sorted out. We’re going to call some people to help you. OK?”

             
I nodded because speaking was too tiresome.

             
The paramedics came and I was taken to the hospital and placed in the psych ward. I was put on medications and closely monitored. I was on red status, which was for patients who had risky behaviors and risky history. Having two parents who committed suicide was considered dangerous for my current mental state. I was attended to by a model-looking psychiatrist, Dr. Hayworth. She looked far too glamorous for a psych ward. She prescribed lots of pills and tried talking to me about pain, grief and loss.

             
“I’m numb, Dr. Hayworth. I don’t feel pain.”

             
“You feel too much pain.” She was sitting tall in her chair.

             
“No. It’s like when you get a bad tooth pulled. You keep feeling around the hole, but you don’t feel anything. Just numbness. Blankness, really.”

             
“You need to be constructive with your pain and anger.”

             
“But…”

             
She held up her hand. “I know, you don’t feel anything. But when you do finally feel something, be constructive.”

             
I left the hospital two days later. I went back to classes and focused on getting up to date on lessons and coursework. I swallowed pills every day and made time to run in Central Park. I was focused, diligent and deluded. When I failed to secure an internship at an architectural firm, I cursed out the employee who told me I didn’t get it, destroyed my room and some of my roommates belongings, and started a physical  fight in the library with a girl who moved my water cup accidentally. I ripped a clump of her hair out and kneed her in the groin. Campus police were called. I was escorted to headquarters and handcuffed. The school had a hearing and I was to be expelled for a year.

             
“You’re all assholes,” I yelled at the hearing officers.

             
I had to move out of the dorm. I found a new roommate, Morgaine, in mid-Manhattan. She was an artist who specialized in found art. She was petite and completely Goth. Morgaine seemed unconcerned that I had been kicked out of Pratt.

             
“It happens. Besides, you don’t need a degree to be an artist.”

             
“You do if you want to be an architect.”

             
Morgaine shrugged. “Find something else to do.”

             
I didn’t know what to do. I started applying for jobs, but no one wanted to hire a 19 year old unless it was to clean toilets at Central Station or serve up hamburgers at Burger Heaven. One evening, after having dinner at Joey’s Diner, I picked up the Village Voice. I was looking for the movie reviews, but went too far and landed in the sex ad section. Above a ½ page ad for a strip club was a notice. It read:

Do you like inflicting pain?

Call 369-4899

I laughed, but ripped the page out. I called the next day. I didn’t know what to say, so I just gripped the phone and stared at my white bedroom wall.

“Hello? I am disconnecting in 5 seconds if you do not respond.”

I exhaled. “I saw an ad.”

“About inflicting pain. How can I help you?”

“What’s this about? I’m looking for a job.” I was starting to feel very

uncomfortable.

“Do you like inflicting pain?” The woman’s voice was silky.

“What kind of pain?”

“The pleasurable kind.”

“Can I have an interview?”

The woman gave me an address. It was an old office building in the Lower

Eastside. I showed up in jeans and a t-shirt. I knew I was underdressed, but I really didn’t care. I was more curious about the ad. I had resigned myself to not being hired and living off the settlement check I got from my uncle.

             
The door to the office was engraved with the words “High Power Industries”. I walked into a virtually empty office. There was a desk and a chair pushed against the far corner. I didn’t see anyone.

             
“Hello?” I called out.

             
“Coming.” Two people emerged from what I assumed to be a kitchen. They were holding coffee cups. One was a tall, old man in a green suit and the other was a plump woman with short curly hair.