He presses one very fat finger into my vagina as I gasp at the intrusion. My expression, if my emotions are reaching my face at all, must look absolutely disgusted. His finger fills my entry and distends the skin of my hole. It’s uncomfortable, and the sight of his finger in my body makes me want to vomit. He slides his finger in and out of my entry as the men regard the sight of me being finger-fucked by him, and as I look up, I catch Derek’s tongue pass quickly over his bottom lip as he focuses on my penetration. But whatever thought passed through his mind is gone in an instant as he catches me watching him, and the look of abject hatred firmly returns to his face.

The ugly man finally finishes with my body and thankfully moves away from me as I breathe a desperate sigh of relief. He looks at Derek and comments, “She’s tight as hell. Not sure what’s not to like about that cunt.”

Derek returns the comment, not taking his eyes off mine. “How about the fact that that cunt has never been fucked? I don’t have any interest in virgins, least of all those with small tits that look more like a boy than a woman.”

He watches me as humiliation floods my body. I can feel my cheeks flush, and the first twitches of impending tears hit my eyes as I try very hard to restrain the emotion that threatens to boil over and leave me sobbing in front of these men. I cannot allow that to happen.

Mr. Grayson dismisses Derek’s comments as he stands to leave, and as he reaches the door of the room, he turns back to me once more, still sitting with my legs spread wide and my fingers on my vagina. “It was good to meet you, Ashton Monroe. Can’t wait to get into that tight little pussy of yours. Once Derek’s broken you in, I think I’ll make him watch as I fuck you.” And with an evil wink, he exits the room.

The moment he’s gone from the room, I right my body, close my legs, and clasp my hands in my lap in a pathetic attempt at modesty. With Mr. Grayson gone, ugly Aaron speaks to Derek first. “Don’t know why you’re pushing back so hard on this one. She’s gonna feel like a fucking vise grip when you fuck her.”

Derek returns the comment with his irritation and anger still showing. “Like I said, she doesn’t belong here. She’s a fucking virgin.”

“Well, if you do your damn job, by tomorrow, she won’t be, and not all men prefer experienced, voluptuous, loud sluts. Some of them actually like a docile whore.”

Derek bites back at that comment. “Yeah, the type of men who like to dominate women.”

Now it’s Aaron’s turn to retort. “Like you? Like every other man who walks through our doors. Is there suddenly something wrong with dominant men around here?”

In a voice just a bit too loud for the room, Derek responds, “The type of men that will be attracted to her are not the type of clients that we want. She’s too small, and she’s not the least bit feminine. She’s shy, she’s quiet … hell, she practically looks like a child. She will attract men that want to victimize and humiliate her. Our other women are bold, brazen, and slutty as hell. They are the very definition of a whore, and they can take care of themselves.” Nodding a disgruntled head in my direction, he adds in an even louder voice that borders on yelling, “She can’t!”

“Well then, I guess you’ll just have to do your job and look out for her.” This comes from the quiet man who hasn’t spoken a word yet and has been sitting benignly by watching the events unfold.

“I have better things to do with my time than babysit a child.” He gives me one more disgusted look and a shake of the head before leaving without another comment.

I’m left sitting naked in the room with ugly Aaron and quiet man. Ugly Aaron gives me one final appraising look before exiting the room. Quiet man decides now is the time to make his introduction. He is brown-haired, tall, and easy to look at. His eyes are soft and gentle, and his voice is calm and pleasant. The look in his eyes reassures me that he means me no harm. He hands me my folded clothing, asking me to dress.

As I take the clothes and start pulling them back on, so thankful for the security they bring, the man speaks. “My name is Frederick. Welcome to Trimbles, Ashton. I’d tell you Derek will warm up to you, but he doesn’t really do warm. But regardless of how he behaved today, you should breathe easy for the time being.” I watch and listen to Frederick as I hastily dress. “As you may have noticed, Derek and Grayson have a past … they don’t particularly like one another. In fact, it’s probably more than fair to say they despise one another. The reason behind that is of little consequence to you, and as you may have also gathered, Mr. Grayson absolutely used you to get at Derek. Derek wants nothing to do with you, and I’m sorry for that. He can be … difficult; but, for all of Mr. Grayson’s scheming, he failed to realize that he put you in exactly the place you need to be. You’re in good hands with Derek, even if that may be difficult to see. He’s fair, and he’ll look after you … whether he wants to or not.” He gives me one final nod before standing to exit. As he reaches the door, he turns to me once more. “You know, Derek’s right. You’ll attract attention. Whether it ends up being the right kind of attention remains to be seen. He might have been harsh in making that clear to you, but it’s a fact you need to understand.” And with that, he’s out the door.

* * *

As I sit in the room alone waiting for whatever will happen next, I replay the events of the last week. Tumultuous and terrifying ordeals are not new to me at this point. When the men, thugs for all intents and purposes, caught up to me at the waitressing gig I had just landed a mere two weeks prior, I bolted out the back door. Don’t get me wrong, waitressing was not my forte, and within the first week alone, I’d managed to spill a drink in a man’s lap, forgot to turn in a customer’s order, and served countless people countless wrong meals. It was not my calling. So, perhaps I should have been happy to see the men, the mysterious strangers who always seem to catch me off guard when I least expect it. But I’m never happy to see them. They come with heavy fists and threats, and they are never a welcome sight.

Granted, being a lousy waitress wasn’t making me any decent money whatsoever. So, they were no doubt unhappy I couldn’t make the payments they so undeservedly expected me to pay for my father’s debt—as though it’s my fault my father gambled away every last cent he ever earned before becoming indebted to the tune of five million dollars plus. When our little meeting turned into a business proposition, I will admit I was shocked. Usually, our “meetings” turned into me being used as a punching bag for ten minutes or so, followed by me promising to try harder to make my payments, yada, yada, yada. Oddly though, this meeting was actually just that, and while it started with me kicking and screaming and them cramming me in the back of a car with overly darkened windows, it ended in a decidedly different manner—and I without a bruise on me. Well, that was a first.

The proposition was simple enough. I would become a gentlemen’s escort. I almost laughed at the idea, but fortunately managed to rein in my tongue, which does manage to get away from me at times. They were dead serious, and I was equally shocked. I’m not escort material. I’m five feet two when I’m not slouching, I’m pale, and I burn rather than tan, and while my skin is even and flawless, it looks childish and immature given my lack of cosmetic know-how. My best feature is my hair, and while other women look at it enviously, they have no idea what a nightmare natural ringlets can be. I keep my hair long, if for no other reason than it allows me to pull it back easily. My locks are auburn, and I ignore them as much as possible. We don’t get along, and when I pay too much attention to my oh-so-enviable curls, they tend to rebel, and I end up looking like a scarecrow. The rest of me is easy to miss. I have a slight build, which I think means not the least bit womanly whatsoever—at least according to my new boss. It shows in my small boobs—an A cup when I stick my chest out—my small hips, and the fact that I weigh barely over one hundred pounds after a big meal.

So, when Derek insulted me by telling me that I looked like a boy, he really was just telling me the same thing I’ve always known, and, quite frankly, have heard before in my long and depressing twenty-two years on this earth—I’m not beautiful enough for any man to desire. I get it, loud and clear, thank you, mean man with dark eyes, who hates my guts and will now be forced to have sex with me! But it doesn’t stop me from feeling a certain degree of relief anyway.

When the men approached me with the business proposition, I might have nearly laughed at them, but I have to admit, I was intrigued. The women work three to four evenings a week for five to six hours at most, and they make ridiculously good money. So good in fact, that, if I could pull it off, I could be free of the thugs in five years’ time. There was also the fact that they live in luxurious apartments at Trimbles, the gentlemen’s gaming hall on the Upper East Side of Manhattan where the women work as escorts. How this translates to me: no more sleeping in dirty old hotels or, worse, on the streets when I can’t afford a roof over my head. The past five years have been filled with nothing but my constant search for food, money, clothing, shelter, and security. And Trimbles provides all of that on top of a handsome salary. I just have to sleep with men for a living. How hard can that be? It can’t possibly be more difficult than sleeping on the streets, can it?

It’s not as if my life has always been so disastrous. Five years ago, I had parents, a home, an education, clothes, even friends, but that was all lost in an instant. While the secret of how it was all lost will die with me to protect my own well-being, I will also fight tooth and nail to free myself from the proverbial ties that bind me to my well-kept secret. I’ve been left with an exorbitant debt, not my own, payable to ruthless animals who would see me dead before they see me fail them. But it is these very thugs who have recommended Trimbles as a way out for me. They see money, but I see security, safety, a warm, dry bed, and, perhaps at long last, freedom.