By: Tara Crescent

We were both sad for a moment, our shared grief binding us together. Just as Lucien and I had planned. Then she reached out and placed her hand on mine. Not a sexual touch, though there was always an outside chance that she would want me that way. I’d prepared for that scenario as well, but this touch was motherly. A simple gesture of comfort.

For an instant, I was almost undone. My mother had rarely touched me that way. Mrs. Olusola had offered me comfort and caused me pain with the same hand. When Lucien touched me, my body was only a weapon to be trained and moulded to his exacting needs. I wasn’t used to simple gestures of humanity.

“We usually require references or recommendations, my dear, but I’ll make an exception in this case. Of course, you’ll have to pass an evaluation at the hands of two of our trainers.”

Again, her words were not a surprise. When we had discussed this in our planning session, Lucien had given me a hard look. “I trust you’ll be fine, Ellie?” I knew he was referring to that night in Paris, two years ago, when I’d kneed him in the groin before running away. An instinctive response of fear and panic.

I tried not to think of what had happened after. I tried to forget the beautiful man who had touched my body and made me feel whole and complete and cherished. I didn’t have room in my life for that. I didn’t have room for Marc.

“Of course,” I said in response to Madame Lorraine’s question. My eyes were locked on my fingers, unseeing as the memories of the past threatened at the worst possible time. “I understand that an evaluation is expected. But I’d prefer that there be no penetration.”

No cock in my throat until I choked and gagged. No dick or fist in my pussy or in my dry, unlubricated ass. That was in the past.

And in the present was Madame Lorraine, who looked askance at the idea that her trainers would do such a thing as uncouth as have sex with a slave destined for the auction block. “Of course not,” she chided in that prep-school accent that seemed so odd every time I heard her speak. “You do not surrender your right of consent in this auction. We will test your obedience and skill. You will be penetrated, but it will be by dildos, not dicks.”

Dildos not dicks should have been the name of a band, I thought wildly. I was trying not to remember the many days when I’d been given as a prize to all of my Master’s bodyguards. I was trying not to remember the horrific pain of that first day when all five of them had brutalized my body.

But my photographic memory was unrelenting. The images flashed in my head, one by one, in a movie-reel of unending terror. Ivan striking my ass with his doubled-up belt until it was black and blue when I’d gagged around his cock and my teeth had grazed him. Sam, who had slapped my face so hard that my mouth had been filled with blood. Cocks painfully thrust into my raw sore pussy. Into my dry unprepared ass.

“When would you like to do the evaluation?” While my voice was the perfect mix of nervousness and anticipation, my hands were clenched into fists as I fought back the memories of the past. Not now, Ellie, I told myself angrily. Not when you are so close to revenge.

Madame Lorraine eyed me with concern. “Are you alright, my dear? You seem flushed.”

“I’m fine.” I’d become so skilled at lying. “I’m sorry, Madame Lorraine. It’s hard for me not to think about Alicia.” It took an effort, but I let the tears form in my eyes once again, pushing back the memory of Mrs. Olusola whispering to me the first night. This will be easier if you forget how to cry, girl.

“In that case,” she said gently, “how about right now? After all, the life of your sister depends on how you do.”


Lucien had changed everything six years ago.

I am a frightened twenty year old huddled in a small house in the outskirts of Lagos, waiting to be raped by the three men who have just purchased me. Though my desire for revenge runs hot in my blood, the reality is that my body is frail. I can’t fight. I can be held down with pathetic ease. I can’t defend myself from attack from someone who weighs a hundred pounds, let alone these big, burly, well-armed men.

I hate myself at this point. I hate how weak I am.

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