“It’s just one of those things,” he said.
“One of what things?”
“Ya know… Well… never mind, I guess I just don’t know what I want,” he said.
“Well you can’t keep them all.”
“I know, but I can’t make up my mind,” he said.
I just shook my head. In my mind, I couldn’t figure out why a simple decision like that could be so hard. We stood there looking at them for about 20 minutes. Each woman was on their knees, naked, blindfolded, and bound at the ankles and wrists – their hands tied behind them. Usually, I don’t treat them so poorly, but this bunch had conspired against me so I had to keep a tight watch on them.
I stood by as he walked around each of the four ladies. He touched their hair, stroked the tears from their cheeks, once in a while he would grab both breasts of a woman and weigh them in his hands as if he were weighing or measuring the weight of a melon of some sort. This guy, though he seemed gentle and almost scared, was different from most.
This guy seemed more like he wanted someone to love and someone who would love him in return, like a pet but not so much in the sexual way. Most of my other clients just want a fresh victim to rape time and time again until they have rendered them useless…or the product has died.
Yes, product. I sell merchandise. I can’t look at them as anything other than product. I can’t think of them any other way. I harvest them, I prepare them, I sell them. That is it. No refunds, no returns.
“I want to hear their voices,” he said.
“What would you like to hear?”
“I don’t know,” he almost whispered looking down at his feet, “I love you?”
I went to each of the women, one by one placed my hand on their shoulder, and gave permission to speak. I liked to have a variety of product for my clients to view. Usually, I mix up the colors a bit also. On this day, I had a thin, white woman with a clear but quiet, little voice, a chunkier white woman (seemed the colored folk liked them better than their own kind) with an attitude that I should have knocked out of her before I let her speak, a pretty little Asian with a voice like the sweetest peach in the land, and a nicely built black lady with a gruff, butch voice. She was the trouble maker- the one who tried to start an uprising. I knew he couldn’t handle her and I wouldn’t have sold her to him if she was his chosen.
Finally he settled on the thin, white woman. He said something about how she reminded him of his ma. Seemed creepy to me, but who was I to judge? He backed his van into the drive and under the shelter of the night darkness, I carried his cargo out for him and sent him on his way. Once I could no longer see his brake lights, I returned to the cellar and put the remaining product in their individual cells, injected them with my “quiet cocktail”, fastened them to their beds, and returned to my home upstairs.
I couldn’t tell you how I got into the business. Really, I couldn’t. It just happened. I had a girlfriend when I was a teenager who liked it rough. There was never any tenderness from her, everything was about getting beat, getting hit, bite me this, fuck me that. She wanted to be abused and I learned to abuse her. It wasn’t too hard since I had been abused as a young’n, but I did have to learn. Turned out that I had gone overboard one day and beat her pretty bad.
I had gotten home from my crappy job, pissed off, and took the wrath of the world out on her. At first she liked it, but now, thinking back, I remember the fear in her eyes just before I slammed her head into the cement. She laid there, lifeless for quite some time. I actually called one of my buddy’s over to help me figure out how to hide the body, but he told me she wasn’t dead. He said he’d take her off my hands and out of no where I gave him a price. He wanted something that was mine. Even damaged goods have a price. I had heard from him days later that she died and the only thing I said before hanging up the phone was “No Refunds, No Returns”.
It took about a month before I picked up another girl. By then, I had lost all emotional feeling for anyone so it was easy to prepare her for sale. The way I see it, I am saving a stray from the streets and giving her a good home. It took years to perfect my system, but I finally started feeling like it was easy peasy within the past few years.
Harvest them from the streets, prepare them by breaking down their egos, train them to obey their owners, rough them up quite a bit so they know what to expect, then when I feel they’re ready, I put them on the market. It’s not an easy job, but it’s better than being under the bright, incandescent lights of an office stuck in a cubicle all day.
It took only a few weeks before the weird one who bought the thin, white girl called again.
“I think she’s dead,” he said with a quiver.
“You want another?”
“NO! What do I do?!” he screamed.
“Figure that out yourself, that is not the business I am in.”
“I want my money back!” he cried.
“Sorry, no refunds, no returns.”