The last touch I feel before it happens are his fingers on my virgin sex, and as they perfunctorily stroke my entry, his fingers freeze unexpectedly. He stands incredibly still, and I’m suddenly confused at the stall. With each passing second, my mind registers what has happened: he’s found my unexpected wetness, and I’m suddenly humiliated. Moments later, his fingers explore me farther, stroking lightly over my opening again before thrusting inside quickly. I gasp a shocked breath at his touch. When he withdraws from me, I can perceptibly hear his own breathing just slightly louder than before. He snaps the lid of the tube quickly back into place before setting it unused on the table next to my hand, very intentionally within my line of sight. I hear the condom packet being torn open, and then he places his hand next to mine on the table, still very intentionally within my sight, and I can see the glistening wetness left on his fingers from my body.

The blunt, and what I can only assume is “impressive,” head of his penis nudges my entry and the wetness there as my heart quickens and borders on panic, and with one last very audible exhalation of his breath, he thrusts hard into me. The pain is instantaneous and swift, and I cry out loudly and inadvertently. The pain that radiates through my insides would nearly bring me to my knees were his hips and penetration not holding me firmly in place. I can barely breathe at the feel of his body within mine. His hips are square against my bottom, and he is holding perfectly still. The invasion is complete, and as I pray for the searing pain to subside quickly, he starts to pull from me. This launches another wave of pain through my womb, and I can feel the tears start to prick at my eyes.

I will myself desperately not to cry in front of him, but I’m fighting a losing battle. As his length leaves my body, the first of my tears runs down my cheeks. But he can’t see my face, and I hope against hope I can get out of this with my dignity intact. This is not a man who will let my weakness go unnoticed, and that, above all else, is what terrifies me about him. He starts to enter me again, slowly this time, and every millimeter he moves is a piercing invasion of my tight sheath, but he is relentless and pushes to his hilt slowly and surely until he is buried completely within me again.

The next thrusts come fast and hard. He moves against me over and over, and as his movements go on ceaselessly, the pain eventually dulls to a deep ache. My tears continue to escape from my eyes, more now from the shock of the experience than anything else, and as he continues plunging and retreating over and over, my head drops between my shoulders and so, too, do my tears to the table in front of me. I’m powerless to stop them or hide them from this man, and as he sees the effect of this first, most brutal experience in the small teardrops that fall to his table, he abruptly pulls himself from my body with a growl deep in his throat. He stays panting behind me, his hand still on the table by my side before raging in my ear, “Get the fuck out!”

And I do. As he moves away from my body, I run, pulling my skirt down as I go. Once back in my room, I collapse against the door. I stay there crumpled on the floor for many minutes, but I don’t want to move. I don’t want to do anything at all except run away from this place and run away from this man. I’ve given my life over to a man who hates me, all for a five-year paycheck that will set me free from the men who will hunt me down and kill me if I fail to deliver on a debt that is not my own. My life reeks of unfairness, and I want to curse myself, curse him, and anyone else that stands in my way. But instead of yelling at Derek or myself, I slowly move to the bathroom and run a bath.

I hurt, and sitting on the side of the tub is uncomfortable, but the pain dulls my anger. It’s over. It’s done. I’ve given myself to a man who hates me. This isn’t what girls dream of when they grow up. They imagine falling in love and giving themselves to men whose love matches their own. I’ve just lost any last shred of that dream that existed in my mind, not that there was ever much chance of love for me. I am, after all, just an orphaned nobody that is destitute and desperate. But I don’t hate Mr. Pennington for what he’s done to me. I hate myself.

As I sink into the warm water, the sting of my raw skin stills me. I cry out again, unable to stifle the pain, and as I do, my eyes find the blood-streaked spot on the side of the bathtub where I was just sitting. Once settled into the water, the warmth of it starts to soothe my sensitive and painful sex. My body relaxes more and more with each passing moment, and as it does, I start to cry again. I sob endlessly, hugging my knees to my chest, and it isn’t until I’ve pitied myself for well over an hour that I finally decide to crawl from the bath.

I quickly dry off and look myself over in the mirror. My eyes are puffy and red, my face streaked by the many tears that have fallen today. I look ugly and splotchy, and as I regard myself with hatred, my anger starts to build again. I collapse against the bathroom door, sinking to the floor once more, and as my rage at the unfairness of life hits me like a ton of bricks, I curse loudly and slam my elbow against the door. The pain shoots up my arm instantly, and I cry out from it. But I welcome the pain as it pushes the anger away so effectively.

I look up to the ceiling and I see the darkened dome of the camera, remembering for the first time since Liz has left me that I’m never truly alone here. I’m sure he’s not watching. Why would he? It’s now late, and I’m just the unwanted new whore he’s been forced to take in. He can’t stand me, and in some absurd way, that is painful to bear. I could accept this pain from a man who cared about me, but this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I make no move to cover myself as I return to the bedroom and collapse onto the bed. Before I drift off, the last thought that passes through my tired, hazy mind is, perhaps sleeping on the streets was better than this. Then I’m gone into my deeply troubled dreams.

Chapter 4

I wake to the room phone ringing, and as I reach over to answer it, I realize my elbow is more than bruised; it’s swollen. The administrative office of Trimbles is calling to let me know I’m expected in the lobby at noon to go for a fitting at the tailors, and then to the gynecologist for an exam and birth control. I wonder, not for the first time, if I will ever adjust to hearing people speak to me in such blunt terms about my body and sexual health, and I have to remind myself I’m just a commodity now. Bought, sold, gambled, traded, and God knows what else.

I’ve slept late, and it is nearly ten. While I wish for nothing more than to hide from the world, the call of caffeine pulls me out of bed. I throw the white sundress back on and head for the common room. Every step is a reminder of just how sore I am between my legs. I feel swollen and tender, and every ache I feel flashes memories, not of the pain as much as the hate-filled expression on Mr. Pennington’s face and the loathsome tone of his voice. I pause briefly outside the door to the common room to psych myself up for what lies ahead. I will myself to walk normally, act cool, and, most of all, show no fear. However, when I enter, I realize I’ve just walked into the beautiful women’s convention, and every ounce of self-determination I had built up melts in a moment.

All seven of my housemates are sitting around the dining room table, talking animatedly to one another, and as Liz looks up and sees me, she hushes the table with a quick, “Oh, here she comes!”

As I approach the table, my leeriness no doubt obvious in my expression, I’m greeted with warm smiles and the random comment or two. “Oh my, she’s so small,” spoken by a tall brunette with freckles and a cute upturned nose, followed by, “But she’s so cute, and I would kill for those curls.” This was spoken of course by an Asian woman with dark silken hair that is straight as a board. If she only knew what she was asking for…

Every woman at the table is watching me and smiling broadly at me. I’m offered a chair and coffee, and I sit, looking around the table at the warm faces of the women who smile gently back at me. Okay, I can handle this. As coffee is poured, my mood lifts instantly. There is nothing better than meeting my good friend coffee in the morning. Even I can afford coffee, and the caffeine staves off hunger when there is no food to be found. As I sit with my good friend in my hand, I try not to let anyone see the discomfort that sitting is causing me as my swollen and painful vagina aches at the hard surface of the chair.

The women watch me, instantly interested in their new neighbor, and, within moments, the questions start. Everything from “where did you come from” to “have you fucked Mr. Pennington yet?” But Liz rescues me and silences the table quickly. Instead, she introduces the women, and I try my best to remember names, though I’m certain to forget more than half. There is a Teresa, a Veronica, a Shelby, an Abigail, a Claudia and an Angela or Emily—I don’t recall which—and then, of course, Liz. She beams at me the whole time, genuinely happy to see me. They each radiate beauty and charm, and they make this life look tolerable. They seem happy and healthy and really okay with themselves, and I wonder if I will be okay someday too.

But as the memory of the night before floods back into my mind, my optimism fades quickly. The experience was painful and terrifying, and, worst of all, humiliating. And I’m already dreading the next time I see Derek.

With luck being always against me, the next time happens with that thought. He enters the room and walks casually toward the kitchen. He’s again dressed impeccably in a pair of extremely expensive looking pants and a button-down dress shirt. His collar is unbuttoned, and he makes business casual look so damn good. My body is instantly flushed from head to foot as memories flood my brain. I can so easily remember his knuckles trailing up the back of my thighs, the sound of his breathing, and his glistening fingers beside my own. And while he caused my body an incredible amount of pain that is still fresh in my mind as well, the shiver running through my body is hardly in memory of that.

As he approaches the table, Liz offers him a good morning, to which he responds in kind, glancing up to her with unfaltering impassiveness. But at seeing Liz, he catches sight of me sitting beside her and freezes mid-stride, locking his eyes on mine as his lips part slightly. Perhaps he’s surprised I’m still here and haven’t jumped ship.

I suck in a quick breath as I become powerless to look away from him. The memory of his hard arousal invading me the night before suddenly pushes out all other thoughts in my head, and as I look at him, my body tingles. He holds my eyes for too long before his jaw visibly clenches and he moves on toward the kitchen. Yep. He still hates me. He grabs a tin of tea from a cupboard before turning and leaving the common room.

I don’t breathe until he’s left, and when he’s gone from the room, the comments start.

“Well, you’ve obviously fucked him.” From Angela or Emily—to be determined.

“And you obviously made an impression.” From Claudia, the beautiful Asian woman with the shiny, jet-black hair.

“Honestly, what the hell was that? I’ve never seen Mr. Pennington speechless before. Not really in his nature.” I think … yes, that was from Teresa.

I say nothing at all, knowing they have no idea what truly lies behind this bizarre encounter, but all continue to eye me speculatively. If they only knew how truly humiliating my first experience was with Derek, they wouldn’t be nearly so intrigued. Let them be intrigued. It’s far better than the reality of the matter. When my coffee is finished, I stand to leave for my room to get ready for my noon appointment with the tailor and gynecologist. As I stand, Liz does too, and she follows me from the room. She walks me to my room and enters after me.

She asks how I am, worry crossing her face, and I assure her that I’m fine. As I start setting out jeans and a T-shirt, she stops me cold. “You can’t wear that!”

“Why? I mean I’m just going to the tailor and the gynecologist. Do I really have to wear a dress to see a vagina doctor?”

She laughs at my sarcasm before continuing. “In fact, you do. You fuck for a living, dear Ashton, so yes, you wear dresses. They keep you easily accessible…”

“So I’m expected to sleep with the tailor and the gynecologist?” I blurt out incredulously.