The van begins jostling around, and I can feel we are on a dirt road. More sunlight seeps into the van, and after about ten minutes, it starts to decelerate, coming to a complete stop.
My heart is in my throat. Full-blown panic. This is it. Our final destination where we find out what is about to happen to us. How we disappear like Archer said to me. I shiver all over.
After a minute, the van turns off, and the back doors of the van swing open, and there are about five men, all dressed in black, waiting for us.
Our tattoo artist jumps out first and vanishes from sight with his equipment. He couldn’t get out of the van fast enough. He didn’t look at any of us, just scurried away like the rat he is.
One of the drivers that had transported us commands, “I will hand you a girl. Frankie and Jon, you’ll have two. Bring them inside to the green room.”
We are roughly pulled out of the van by our upper arms. I actually trip while being manhandled, and the man who is in charge of me lets me go down, falling on my face in the dirt. I land hard on one of my knees and can feel the scrapes and stinging start. Stunned by the sudden pain, I just lay there, trying to get my mind to speed up on what to do next. I lift my head up somewhat and try to take in my surroundings.
He throatily laughs at my predicament. I can tell he’s a smoker because his voice is raspy. He kicks me in the ribs and shouts, “Get the fuck up!”
I groan from the pain on my side and rollover. The wind is knocked out of me, so as I struggle to breathe, he wastes no time and kicks me again. “You dumb bitch. I said get up!” he yells.
One of the other men, who must be above his pay grade, roughly pushes him and yells, “Don’t fuck up the property.”
He frustratingly grunts and yanks me up by the collar of my shirt. I’m sucking in air and sweating profusely from the pain on my side. It must be the adrenaline that has me on high alert because I know I should be passed out right now with low to no energy. We start walking—more like being dragged—toward this two-story building. It looks exactly like an old warehouse, and there is nothing else out here. I look around in every direction and see no trees or anything else, probably for miles. There are just some gravel roads that look frequently used surrounding the place. The grass that is there is dead and unattended to.
Even if I’m able to escape, it looks like I won't be able to find help for a while. Knots begin to form in my stomach as the hope of getting out of here dwindles. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten anything, and my guess is it will be a while before we’re fed. They probably want to keep us weak throughout this process, so there is less chance of us fighting back, and if we do, we won’t have the energy to make a significant impact.
I try to commit everything I’ve seen to memory, even though it's hard when your stomach is empty and you’re mentally, emotionally, and physically drained. I mentally catalog the names I’ve heard, the details, and the windows that I can see on the outside of the building. This is the only thing that is keeping me remotely sane so I don’t spiral or zone out like the rest of the girls.
As we approach the building from a side entrance, a guy in front of us holding on to one of the girls uses his finger and presses down on a keypad. He types in what looks like a four-digit code, and the sliding glass door slides back like a pocketdoor. While walking into the building, I notice two heavily armed guards. They both appear to be well-equipped, as if they are in the military, wearing bulletproof vests, boots, headsets, and multiple weapons strapped to their bodies.
The security in this place looks insane and unnecessary. There are cameras in every corner, as well as a body scanner. The amount of money it must take to run this place, let alone have been doing it this long undetected, is something I can’t wrap my mind around.
We immediately walk through the body scanner, and I’m quickly cleared. Then, we make a left turn and walk down a hallway. It smells and feels like a hospital hallway. Disinfectant floods my nose, and I can’t help but scrunch it; it’s so overpowering to my senses. Whoever owns this place must like the color white; the floors and walls are all the same color, and it goes on for what looks to be a few football fields in length. The floors remind me of the ones you see at a hospital: the shiny white, with tiny blue and red dots scattered throughout. Perhaps it’s fear that's making me imagine things, but this place is definitely larger than a typical warehouse.
After passing about three doors with small, clouded windows featuring small black numbers on top, we finally approach another keypad, and again, the man ahead of me types in a four-digit code. I try to make out what it is, but he does it so fast it is hard to keep up.
Inside the room, an armed guard is stationed to the right, and in the center of the room are approximately twenty cots, each equipped with a simple white pillow and a brown blanket. The cots sit about six inches off the ground. It looks like some kind of prison. The room is white and also smells like disinfectant.
When all of the women that were in the van enter the room, the door slams shut automatically, and a lock clicks loudly. Ishudder at the thought that we are locked in here and don’t know what is going to happen next.
I recognize the driver, who seems to be in charge, as he throws what appears to be light blue and white hospital gowns on top of one of the cots and beside them, a black empty duffel bag.
“Strip. Everything you are wearing, even hair ties and any jewelry that may have been missed in the bag, and put on one of the hospital gowns.” He practically yells at us wickedly.
My eyes bug out of my head, questioning if he’s serious right now.
He pulls out a handgun and cocks it. “You have 3 minutes.”
Tripping over each other, we basically throw off the T-shirts that were put on us at the fraternity house. Some of the women have piercings or hair ties that were missed, so they remove them with an insane amount of speed. None of us has shoes.
All of the men are gawking at us, not giving us any privacy; some even lick their lips, eyeing us deviously. There is no time to be embarrassed, though. I don’t want to find out what happens after three minutes, and apparently, the other women don’t want to either. The driver seems like a ‘gives zero fucks’ kind of guy.
As I yank off my T-shirt and fumble with the hospital gown, trying to secure the ties, he walks right up to me and smells my hair while dragging the gun across my temple.
“I wonder what you taste like between those sexy legs of yours,” he growls. “Spread your legs.” He points the gun right at the side of my head.
I freeze, shaking all over, knowing I have to do this. It must be some kind of scare tactic to get us all to fall in line. Well, it’s working because I’m scared shitless about what is going to happen next.
All of the women change silently, everyone on full alert about what is happening. Their eyes are bulging to the point where they look like they might fall out of their heads.
Taking a huge gulp, I look him in his eyes, grinding my teeth with anger written all over my face, and spread my legs. He takes two of his fingers and spreads my pussy lips and pinches my clit.
I yelp. “Don’t fucking move,” he growls at me. I whimper, and silent tears form in my eyes. He shoves two fingers into me roughly and curls them just right, hitting my G-spot. Fighting with myself, I can't help but whimper again, and a moan slips out that I try to bite back. He gets my pussy wet and shoves another finger in, fucking my pussy with his fingers without easing up. Then he takes his fingers out and shoves them in his mouth, moaning while he licks every last drop. My legs are shaking at the intrusion, and I’m shivering all over.
