I look around to find my discarded bra, skirt, corset, and torn thong, a lost cause, folded neatly on the table. I pick up the skirt only to have it torn from my hand. The man hands me his discarded boxers and dress shirt. “Put these on.”
“Thank you.”
Thinking about the man going commando underneath his tailored dress
pants, I can’t help but grin as I step into his boxers.
“Don’t worry, Trevor will have proper clothing for you when we get to the
hotel.”
I nod my head, wondering who the hell Trevor is and how he would know to
have clothing for me. Nervously, I begin to wonder again who this man is and if he was involved in my kidnapping.
Taking his shirt, I do up all the buttons, roll up the sleeves, and tuck the tails into the boxers, rolling the waistband to make them stay on. I pull out the shirt slightly, and I try to make myself look somewhat put together. At least I don’t feel too naked. I grab my strappy sandaled heels that are on the floor by the table, and sitting on the chair, quickly put them on. My wet hair is a hopeless mess. I quickly towel dry it and attempt to comb it with my fingers, before
twisting it into a long ponytail.
I look over to see the man dressed, wearing his t-shirt under his suit jacket.
His blood-red tie dangles out from the breast pocket. He is tearing the room apart looking for who knows what. Turning over lamps, looking underneath tables, and standing on chairs to look in air vents.
“How are we going to leave?” I wonder out loud; how he will possibly take
me with him.
“Through the fucking front door. Now come.” I quickly move toward him, unsure of how I should feel. Should I be excited to be escaping this nightmare I’d somehow found myself in? Or was I entering into another?
When I’m within touching distance, he grabs hold of my arm and wrenches
the door open with his other hand. The footman is still standing there. The man pushes past him, pulling me along, and I’m awkwardly forced to follow his long strides.
“You can’t take her,” the footman sputters from behind, chasing after us.
“Yes, I can,” the man states resolutely, not even bothering to stop and address the little man directly.
We are soon making our way down the grand staircase and into the lobby.
There we are met by the overseer and are forced to stop.
“Sir, I am sorry, but you cannot take her. I get you more experienced girl, you like better. On the house.” The overseer tries to placate the man, and I take a deep breath, fearful of what his response will be.
“No,” he states, and I relax as he pulls me closer to his side.
“Sir, I have very important client coming. I keep her here for him as special favor. I only let you have her because he wanted her used before he arrived.”
As the overseer unwittingly answers the question that has been circling my mind all night, I feel much more confident leaving with this man finally knowing for sure that he was no way involved in my kidnapping.
“My other clients do not want to fuck girls like her, they get them free at home. He come soon for her, so now you must go,” the overseer continues.
“Who is your client?” The man growls out his question.
The lobby is beginning to fill with other men, girls, and the hired muscle of
the house. The ones who laughed as they beat me. I shudder at the sight of them and inch my way closer toward the man.
“What’s going on?” the man’s pudgy friend asks loudly in French, stepping
forward as he disentangles himself from one of the women.
“She is not here by choice. So I’m taking her home,” my man responds in the
same language, and the other scowls angrily, nodding his head slightly in understanding.
“Who?” he demands loudly of the overseer, returning to English.
“Sir, I can’t tell you,” the overseer replies haughtily.
I gasp in fright as the overseer reaches behind his back and takes out a gun
from the waistband of his pants and points it at the man, saying, “Step away from girl and leave. Driver take you to hotel, you not welcome back.”
“No,” the man says lazily, taking one large step forward and disarming the overseer by executing a move straight out of a Jason Bourne film, where suddenly he’s now holding the gun. I’m not even sure if Matt Damon could have performed such a perfect move. The rest of the room collectively gasps, while I exhale the breath I’ve been holding.
Suddenly the house’s muscle all pull out their weapons. It’s now my turn to
gasp in fright as they point them at us. I stand there stupidly, wanting to do something but completely at a loss as to what.
