Trafficking: Inside the Ring (excerpt)
Most of the excerpts I publish here focus on the erotica elements of my novels and short stories. We all know Medium is full of pervs … ya nasties!
In a total departure from the norm, there isn’t a lot of that going on my latest masterpiece, Lady Cosa Nostra: Victoria’s Secrets … I saved the salacious shenanigans for the sequel.
Book one is chock full of pain, trauma, and dark themes, as evidenced by this here snippet:
They call it organized crime for a reason. In this arena, even the most abominable operations hummed with both rhyme and reason. The 15 females were instructed to stand with their bare heels against the yellow line painted on the floor, leaving approximately a foot of space between them. Much of their imprisonment had been spent hanging in suspense, wondering what would become of them after being abducted from their respective lives. That suspension of fate continued to linger as they waited, gag-free, though under the watchful supervision of two armed thugs.
The room’s sniffle and sob-filled silence was abruptly filled with the clunk-clonk of platform heels clashing against the floor. “Well hello, ladies.” Stefani addressed the flock of females with a warm smile, her chipper resolve eerily unorthodox in these dire circumstances. “I know you’ve already been told but allow me to reiterate … keep your fucking mouths shut. Interrupt me, and I’ll personally see that you pay for it later.”
Stefani’s outfit was more concordant to her tactless language and gritty persona. An elaborately woven red straw hat distorted any facial recognition, her eyes hidden beneath the shade of its wide-brim design. Her petite, curvaceous frame fit into a stretch-knit red midi dress slit along a naked thigh layered in sheer pantyhose. The flexible spaghetti straps were strategically adjusted to tease the imagination, flashing just a hint of cleavage and outlined nipples.
Stefani reached into the burgundy leather purse hanging across her forearm and fished out a box of cigarettes. Per ritual, she prepped her smokes by tapping a knuckle against the bottom of the box. Following a dramatic selection process, she placed the perfect cancer stick between her ruby painted lips and set it afire.
“I’d like to welcome you to your new life. Yes, you heard me right. Everything you’ve ever known … family, friends, boyfriends … it’s all a distant memory now.”
The long awaited reveal was punctuated by an unintentional heckler, Number 10, according to procedure. Frizzy auburn hair and matching freckles atop snowy white skin marked her perspective purity. An ideal casting for the role of girl next door, she balled her heart unto the neighboring shoulder of Number 9.
Stefani tugged the cigarette filter and marched forward, her demeanor unchanged. She blew a cloud to the side of her, then stopped a foot short of the two girls. Though still restrained at the wrists, they huddled together, seeking consolation in one another, nudging foreheads and drippy noses. Fucking adorable!
“It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna get through this.”
Number 9 loomed as the strength of this duo. And while she had been stripped down to the unmentionables of dignity, there was no dissevering the rebellious visage she spent years engineering. The remnants of charcoal lipstick complemented the routine dye-job that gave her braided pigtails their signature synthetic gloss. Number 9 covered a large portion of her upper body in artistic ink. Knifed skulls seamlessly branching into dusky tombstones coordinated on either shoulder. A bleeding heart, stitched in the center and outlined in black splooge inked across her left breast, and partially exposed beneath a ripped Pink Floyd shirt. This tattooed imagery not only represented the darkness swirling within her, it symbolized the blight that seemed to shadow her at every turn.
Stefani puffed her cigarette above folded arms, studying the pair of girls who continued to nurture one another, all the while ignoring her in the process. After one final drag, she stomped the burning butt beneath a defiant heel and resumed orientation.
“I’m a sucker for loyalty, so I’ll let this …” Both girls looked up just as Stefani gestured with a pointy finger. “This little display … I will let slide. Don’t worry your pretty freckles, darling.” Stefani gently stroked Number 10’s face with the bare knuckles of her right hand. Then she lurched back and leaned into an unsuspecting Number 9, gashing her with the loaded knuckles on the left.
Jamie, AKA Number 9, was no stranger to violence. There had been a total of six fights in the long and illustrious history of Desert Blossoms Academy, one of the most prestigious private schools in Vegas. Jamie participated in three of those scuffles before finally being expelled during her junior year, when school officials determined enough was enough. She stood out as the misfit among preppy, pampered princesses, which attracted flack by the scores. Over time, she amassed the reputation of “that Goth Girl”. A straight-laced bitch who barked back at authority and never backed down from a challenge.
None of that past glory mattered now. Jamie literally bit her lip, fighting back the urge to dig an even bigger rift for both she and Number 10, with whom she bonded over the past 48 hours. The diamonds on Stefani’s fingers ripped into her flesh, leaving behind what would be a permanent reminder of disciplinary action. She responded with seethe, chest heaving, blazing a metaphorical crater through the tyrannical vixen before her.
Confident in her emphatic display of authority, Stefani proceeded to pace back and forth along the line of petrified prisoners. “This situation is not ideal. But it is what you make it. If you make it what it is … simple … straightforward … it’ll be manageable. Make it hard, then it will be hell. Unimaginable suffering. Not just for you, but your loved ones.” She paused in front of Number 3, the youngest of the group. “Mama didn’t come home. Poor little Dylan might not be able to handle it should something happen to Grandma … or Auntie Lynn.”
Hearing the names of family, particularly her son, roll so brashly off the lips of this ruthless bitch, was another level of fraught. Number 3 buckled at the knees, spasmodic trembles rippling through her body.
Overcome by disgust and empathy, Stefani motioned towards security. “Get this piece of trash out of here! Get ’em all ready for processing!”
The captives ranged from 14 to 23 years old. Still a sophomore in high school, Bonita hadn’t been a mother for a full six months when she decided to creep out of her bedroom for some fun on a school night. But like her counterparts of misfortune, things went awry. A block away from her destination, she turned the corner, only to be snatched and gagged by the predator lurking in the shadowy bushes. When the blindfold came off, Bonita saw a dank, dark room. Nightmare fodder for claustrophobics, the disturbing atmosphere of the cramped, sordid and unsanitary space was only matched by its designated watchdogs. A pair of pit bulls, restrained by chains that provided generous range before snapping back towards their wall tether, yapped at her presence. Their mouths frothing hungrily, eager to chomp into her flesh.
The mass kidnappings culminated in consolidation, with each victim transported to an official intake shipping facility. Via processing, the girls would be stripped and cleaned, hosed by a team of three masked and uniformed women. From there, they were given random clothing before being escorted to a small room and forced to endure yet another waiting period. A different troop of armed goons would manifest roughly thirty minutes later; for the victims, marking their final moments together. At this point, they had been formally leased into the seedy world of human commodity. Their very livelihood owned and managed by the soulless cretins who profited from their suffering.
Contel Bradford is a mystical and complex individual. You can attempt to unravel some of the mystery by visiting his author site at countkrewpublications.com.
