Jessica

Where am I?

For that matter..... who am I?

My body feels cold, and I open my eyes to find myself naked, shivering, and lying on a filthy scrap of cardboard in what can only be described as a cage. I can't call it a cell, it's too fucking tiny to be a cell. In fact, as I start to look around, it looks like someone locked me in a dog pound from hell.

The room isn't that big, about twenty feet across and maybe thirty feet long. On three sides of the room, away from the double door that looks like it's solid steel are cages just like mine. Most of them are filled from what I can see, some of them girls like me, naked and just standing or sitting on their scraps of carpet. Some of the cages have girls that look like they're not so much sleeping as they're knocked out. Most of the cages are too small for them to even be laid out properly, their arms and legs just stuffed in at uncomfortable angles.

What happened?

I try to think back, and all I get are fuzzy, swimmy images. I was on a beach.... somewhere with a lot of old buildings.... a man, offering to buy me a drink..... a nightclub.....

I feel like it's starting to come back to me, but it's still so jumbled, and I'm still not sure what the hell's going on. I remember a little bit more about myself, like the fact that I'm American, and I just graduated from Rutgers in December.... I came to Europe for a vacation... but there's still so much...

A thick, fearful moan comes from my right, and I notice for the first time the men that are in the room. One look, and I can see that they're criminals of some kind, their upper bodies covered in crude but distinctly patterned tattoos, twisting and interlocking over their chests, arms and even for some of them on their hands and necks. For most of them, their skin is swarthy, almost with an interior shine that at first glance you'd think would be sweat, but seems more likely to be oil. It's really far too cool to have anyone sweat, even if they're sort of clothed and I'm as naked as the day I was born.

The moan comes from the girl at the end of the line, one of two cells that're maybe slightly larger than the rest because they make up the bottom of the U-shape in the cells. She's awake but looks groggy, not fully aware of where she is. Then again, I'm not too sure of where I am.

“What's wrong, baby? You were loving it last time,” one of the thugs down on the end say in a heavily accented voice. If I were to make a guess, I'd say the Middle East, but I'm no master of languages. Well, at least I don't think I am. For some reason I think I like chemicals, whatever that means.

“No.... I said no..... last time too,” the girl futilely protests. “I don't want....”

“Don't you get it yet? You don't get to decide what you want any more,” the same thickly accented thug says before smacking one of his compatriots on the chest. “Hassim here's never had a Canadian girl before. It'd be impolite to say no. You fuck him good, you get better owner for later. We put in good word for you, you get kind owner who pays big money for you. Big money owners take care their slaves, don't want to lose their investment.”

“Really?” the girl asks miserably, and the thug nods. I can tell that he's lying, I can hear it in the mocking tone of his voice, but this girl is too dulled to notice, or maybe she's too broken down to think clearly and she believes the lie. Instead, she nods, her spirit broken as she backs up the few feet that her cell gives her. Hassim opens the cage door, already reaching for the belt on his filthy, crusted work pants, and even here, halfway down the line, I can see the disgust on the girl's face as she sees whatever it is he pulls out.

“Don't worry, it look bad but feel good,” the English speaking thug says as Hassim takes the girl and pushes her to her knees. “It's just a scar, not a disease.”

I can't watch any more, I'm too horrified even though maybe there's a lesson in this that I can use. Instead I turn away, forcing my eyes shut but unable to block out the sounds of the girl's cries of pain.

“Hey, new girl.... hey, the tag says Jessica.”

Jessica, that's right. My name's Jessica, Jessica Prince. I open my eyes to see another thug outside my cell, an amused smile on her face. He's not the same one that was speaking before, he's skinnier, and while he's still thuggish, his accent's different, and he looks slightly more intelligent. “You look like you don't like the fun and games. What, are you some stuck up tight cunt?”

“It's fucking disgusting,” I reply, staring at his hideous face. “That's not fun and games. She's getting raped.”

“And it won't be the first time. It sure as fuck won't be the last,” the man says, laughing. “You new, so let me explain. This is the slave pens, where we gather our shipment to send to our customers. I hope you like hot, because you're going to be very, very hot in a few months in your new home.”

“Fuck you,” I growl, spitting at his feet. “I'm an American citizen, you can't do this to me.”

“Ooooh, an American citizen!” the thug taunts, stepping back and raising his hands as if he's afraid. “Hey guys, we got a real American citizen here!”

A few of the other thugs, hearing their compatriot's laughing jibe, turn, intrigued in the new entertainment as apparently Hassim raping the Canadian girl has gotten boring. About half of them, four or five, peel off to come over, their eyes drinking me in greedily as they look me over from head to toe. As they do, they make comments like I'm some sort of animal at a 4H Club show.

“E un culo fabuloso!”

“She real woman, not girl.”

“Pretty face... very pretty face.”

“She's a ride and a half!”

There's other comments, but I can't understand them, or perhaps the language or accent is too strong for me to pick up. All I know is I can feel their eyes roaming over me, and it disgusts me.

It's not that I'm naked. I'm proud of my body, and they're right, I am a real woman, more woman than these fuckwits can handle. What disgusts me is that they think that they're able to handle me. They think that I'm nothing more than big tits, a good looking face, and a sweet ass. They think that I'm easy to deal with.

Wait, where the hell is all this coming from? Doesn't matter, I'm not gonna stop.

“You limp dicks look like you couldn't last two minutes with me,” I taunt back, feeling my anger rising. I see one of them that I couldn't understand, but I can understand the look in his eyes and way he's licking his lips. “If you even got a chance. What'd you last there, Mushmouth? Thirty seconds, if you even got it in?”

The men, those who understand English at least, laugh. It seems I'm entertainment. The man I taunted is needled by his friends in another language. I can tell pretty much what they're saying. Hey man, she's punking you out. You gonna take that?

“You get ready, bitch. I start you training, show you real man,” Mushmouth says in broken, angry English, going to my cage door. He shrugs off his shirt and takes off his belt, I guess he doesn't want to waste any time. Whatever. One of his buddies opens the cage door and I back up the little bit I can, I don't want him anywhere close to his friends when that door closes. “Yeah, that what I thought. All talk, no....”

More of my memories sort themselves out, and I know all my fight knowledge comes from Steet-Fu, but I've seen the 'pimp slap' a hundred times in my life. I roll with it, taking it close to my neck instead of across the mouth before I kick across with my left leg, stomping the thug on the inside of his knee. His leg buckles, his head pitching forward into my rising elbow. His nose blooms red, and he staggers back, groping for the cage door to be let out by his compatriots. More of my brain clicks back into place, and I realize where I get my attitude from.

“All talk, no bite? Try you all talk, and no balls. I'm from Jersey, bitch. Step to me, you gonna find out. How you doin'?” I growl, pissed. My accent only gets really bad when I'm pissed. It's like the angrier I get, the more I sound like I'm from the Shore.

The thugs harass and laugh at the now angry Mushmouth, who's still holding his nose. He wipes the blood away from his lip, sneering, spitting something in his native language which the leader laughs at and points before translating for me.

“You need big training,” he says, smirking. “That's fine, we have ways of breaking even the most hard headed.”

Mushmouth crosses the room, opening a metal locker that's near the door and takes out a black object I can't see very well until he turns around, letting the coils droop to the floor, and I shiver, this time in real fear. A whip. No, oh Jesus above no.

The lead thug sees my reaction and chuckles. “You had your chance,” he says as Mushmouth cracks the whip, which is easily as thick around as my wrist at the base before tapering to a split tip, the very ends glinting with pieces of metal. “You have no chance now.”

The cage door opens again, three of the thugs swarming me before I can do anything. I try and fight, kicking and twisting, but they overwhelm me, one of them hitting me above my left eye, sending stars shooting across my vision and stunning me while they drag me to the middle of the room. There's a bar there with rough steel shackles on the ends, and even though I try, there's too many of them, and I find my hands locked in, with my ankles soon following even though I didn't see the shackles down there at first.

The thugs back away, the leader going over to a crank on the side near the steel cabinet and hoisting the bar up above my head, stretching me until I'm just on my tiptoes and he stops, looking around at the other girls. Those who are awake, at least those I can see, are all watching, and I see that a few of them are looking at me with terror, while another few are looking at me with mute pity and acceptance.

“All you bitches, listen up!” the thug leader yells, looking around. “Here's the facts: you will be put on The Sultan's boat, you will be sold to the markets, and then to your owners. There, they know what a woman's role is, and if you give them any lip like this stupid bitch, you will get punished, even worse than this dumb cunt!”

“What are you going to do?” some girl asks, she's got a British accent, although she's behind me. “Kill her?”

“That'd lose us money. None of you bitches are that much of a pain in the ass. No.... but a good whipping and then me and my boys running a train, that won't be too much of a problem at all,” the leader says almost with a laugh before turning to Mushmouth. “Make sure there isn't too much scarring. Oh, and I get first crack at her asshole, you want that, you go second.”

Mushmouth nods, grinning. “No... I want to see her blood. See her cry. Pussy just fine for me. No big scars.”

“Then have fun. I'll just watch,” the thug says, and the other men laugh, backing away into a circle as Mushmouth flicks his hand, the tip of the whip cracking the air near my face but not actually hitting me. Mushmouth laughs, blood dripping and staining his teeth as he does.

“Fun times.”

Rodrigo

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” I say, the words familiar and oddly comforting in my mouth as I kneel in the confessional, even though I know the man I'm confessing to is hardly one to judge my morality. While Parrochia del Carmine isn't the closest Catholic church to my villa, it is the only one in Caccamo that has a priest who's both fluent enough in English to listen to my confessions, while at the same time 'safe' in the eyes of my superiors in Il Rete, or The Network. Father Giacomo has a brother who works for The Network, and while I'm not too sure how he balances his duties to God with his duties to The Network, that doesn't disturb my sleep any. Just the act of confessing helps enough sometimes.

“Of course you have, Rodrigo,” Giacamo says with a chuckle. He spent fifteen years living in the United States, ministering to mostly Hispanic churches in the Arizona and New Mexico area before coming home to Sicily, so his English is relaxed, with a little bit of accent that reminds me of home. “You come by confessional at least twice a week having sinned. Although I sometimes think you just use my confessional as a decent halfway stopping point on your runs. What is your confession?”

“I... I have deep unrest about my duties to my brothers today,” I admit. “The girls are being taken. From what I understand, roughly two dozen women will be taken to the markets.”

“And so you have two conflicts,” Giacamo says. “Loyalty to those you've sworn fealty towards, and a feeling of pity for these women.”

“As always,” I whisper, bowing my head. “These women, almost all of them do not ask for what will happen to them. And you know the type of men we're sending them to. They're animals.”

“They would say the same about you, Rodrigo. And while I do not like your choice of customers, you must remember, the Bible gives very clear rules on slavery. It does not condemn the act. So taking and selling the women, there is no conflict with the Bible. As for what their new owners do with them, that is something that they must settle with the Lord in their own time,” Giacamo says, his voice placating while at the same time grating. I hate when he's full of shit. “Still, do not think me heartless, I understand. Even the Church itself would have reservations about your business today. Then again, Joseph was sold as a slave, and look what happened to him. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“So what should I do, Father?” I ask, closing my eyes and leaning my head against the wall of the confessional. It's cool and slightly rough, and I wonder for an instant how many thousands of foreheads have been pressed against the same spot on the old wood. “Whom shall I serve?”

“In all matters my son, you should serve the Lord. And to the Lord, you have sworn an oath. That is paramount.”

“My penance?” I ask, knowing that Giacamo isn't going to offer me any comfort today. Not in this matter. Then again, when you have The Network making sure you and your family all live quite well, I guess comfort is a relative term.

“For doubting your own oath, one Our Father. Actually, make it three, and three Hail Marys, just to cover yourself on what I'm sure you aren't telling me about,” Giacamo says. Despite his... unique perspective on the Church and on doctrine, he does have a good sense of humor, and in a lot of ways I like him. Not today, but most days. “Try not to indulge in your baser nature too much between now and Sunday. Now go.”

And sin no more is omitted, as Giacamo always does. There's no point. I quickly leave the confessional and kneel at the main altar, getting my penance out of the way before getting up and leaving, pausing at the offering box to put a hundred euro note in. Maybe it's blood money, but maybe not. I'd like to think that the offering box at least is used to help Caccamo's poor and needy.

I leave the church, pausing to roll my ankles out and put my headphones in before I start running again. Caccamo, Sicily is a hilly town, dominated by the thousand year old Castello de Caccamo, an ancient Norman design from when those people swept through this island of conflict and war stretching back into antiquity.

I keep up my run, leaving the main portion of Caccamo and jogging past the carabinieri station, giving the Italian police a proper finger as I do. Even after three years, I find it hilarious that the national police have a commando station less than a half mile from my destination. In fact it's at the station that I turn left, off of the provincial highway and onto the secondary road that leads me towards my destination, the property known within The Network as The Farm, for it's where the seeds are planted, and where the harvest is taken.

I pause at my truck, a nod to my heritage in that it's one of the few American trucks in town, an emerald green Ram crew cab that can more than handle the travel from The Farm to my own private villa and anywhere else I want to go. It's not the sexiest of the vehicles in The Network in Sicily, but it is the one I prefer for 'work.' In the back, I open the toolbox in the bed to pull out my towel, letting the relatively cool mid-winter air play over my skin as I wipe off. In Caccamo, even in the middle of winter, it doesn't get anywhere near cold during the day, although it's still a pretty good idea to wear warmer clothes at night. Finishing my toweling, I take a quick sniff before deciding that, at least for the rest of the day's work, I don't fucking need to worry about it.

“You know Rodrigo, you keep stripping for me, I'm going to take that as an invitation,” a lilting Greek accented voice says behind me, and I turn to see one of the other members of The Network, Larissa 'The Dryad,' watching me with a smirk on her seductive face. She and I have traded sexual taunts and other jokes for two and a half years now, ever since I got to Sicily, and it's become sort of a game. We both know that neither of us wants, or could afford, to get involved with the other, even for fun. Inter-office romances would be stupid within The Network, and especially with a seductress and assassin like Larissa. Besides, for some reason I just like her more in a friendly way than in a I want to fuck her senseless way.

“Larissa, there's a dozen men on The Farm who would be more than happy to accept your invitation,” I joke, changing my mind and grabbing the can of Axe I keep in my truck kit and giving my armpits a quick spritz. “I'm just the only one smart enough to not get caught in your web.”

“Which is why you're about the only man on The Farm I respect,” Larissa says, her seductive teasing immediately shutting off. It's one of the unique things about her that took me a while to get used to, but now I appreciate. She can go from flirty to professional in a single second. “How was your training run?”

“Decent. Father Giacamo was his normal self. You know, before I went into confession he asked if you were going to come to church soon. I didn't have the heart to tell him that you've probably never been inside a church. You're Greek Orthodox, right?”

Larissa laughs, her distinctive violet eyes crinkling at the corners in good spirits. “I am, but oh, I've been in a Catholic church, and a few times, the Church has been inside me. Work is not always unpleasant. As for Giacamo, I'd go to confessional more often if I didn't have to listen to him jacking off in his side of the booth while I tell him what I get up to. As it is, it's just a game for me.”

I laugh, taking out the short sleeved denim workshirt I wanted for today. Moving days are the day I like least at The Farm, and so I treat it like real work, in a real work shirt. Larissa doesn't turn away or even smirk as I pull my shorts off and pull on my black jeans before changing from my running shoes to the boots that I wear for The Farm. When I'm done, I brush off my hands and put my workout clothes in my toolbox, ensuring the smell of my sweat doesn't stink up the cab of my truck. Closing the lid, I turn around again and see Larissa smirking, shaking her head back and forth slightly, the long black hair that I know has bewitched many a victim, some fatally, swaying.

“You know Larissa, you'd have less problems with Giacamo if your confessions didn't sound like The Best of Penthouse Letters,” I joke. “Well, right up until the point you kill them.”

“Ah, but at least they die with a smile on their face. Besides, I've been told I'm the closest a person can come to God, so I just save them a lifetime of disappointment afterwards,” Larissa says with a touch of pride. “By the way, what did you think of my idea this morning?”

“About you giving some of the girls hints?” I ask, and Larissa nods. “Well, I'll admit I had some thoughts about it during my run. Part of me laughed as I thought of the girls killing their new owners if they get pissed at them. The Sultan can brag all he wants about his clients knowing how to handle a woman, but knowing that if they treat them wrong, they could die? How to bring feminism to the Mideast.”

Larissa laughs as we leave my truck. For a while I thought she was a sociopath. But there isn't really a definition for her. I just know that for her, she's probably laughing at the idea of inflicting that much death on a widescale basis. It certainly isn't because she's a feminist. Well, then again since she holds herself equal to any man, and in my estimation she's better than a lot of the men that we both work with, maybe she is.

“Rodrigo, you amuse me, your sense of humor. So rare here, so American.”

“Maybe that's why you keep inviting yourself to my villa,” I point out, and Larissa laughs again. “What?”

“Admit it Rodrigo, you and I will never go to bed together, but you like my company too. I think I entertain you as much as you do me.”

I think about it, then nod. “Perhaps. At least, you're one of the only people I wouldn't shoot on sight for showing up at my place uninvited. Still then... why do it? Why this new idea of becoming some sort of teacher?”

Larissa shrugs. “I can't keep seducing and killing men and women forever, Rodrigo. Besides, it adds a shine to our merchandise, getting us more money.”

“You're hardly old, Larissa. In fact... well, this might be dangerous, but I have no idea how old you are even. I always pegged you for being a little younger than me, say twenty five or so?”

Larissa laughs loudly. “And you say you never flirt with me. No, you and I are about the same age. And I'm not saying I'm ready for the retirement home, not by a long shot. I was thinking more along the lines of danger.”

“That I can understand,” I admit. “Do you think that the girls would be willing to learn?”

“Not every girl we sell is kidnapped, you know,” Larissa responds matter of factly. “I checked with your boss, he said that about twenty percent of the girls he transports are actually volunteers for the life. A lot of it depends on where they go. Russian girls and Slavic girls practically volunteer to go to the Americas, even to South America. Rodrigo, life in America isn't perfect, but some of these girls, especially the Slavic girls... trust me, for them even a Mideast harem is a step up.”

“Careful Larissa, you sound like you're feeling sorry for the girls. I might accuse you of having a heart if you do,” I tease, and Larissa rolls her eyes. “Honestly Larissa, if that's what you want to do, I see no reason to oppose it. I'm sure there's going to be rules put in place so you don't damage The Network's merchandise, but I don't see a reason why The Sultan or Rachmaninoff would object.”

“I appreciate it,” Larissa says. “I know that in The Network you're not quite on their level, but you do have Rachmaninoff's ear as well as working for Scoglitti. A good word from you would be appreciated.”

“Of course, Larissa. For now, we have work to do. The Sultan's men have been preparing the girls for transport, and I don't trust that crew of vipers,” I say.

It's no secret among The Network, while I can work with The Sultan, and have for years... I hate the bastard. We're all criminals, but there's lines you don't cross. The Sultan does all the time though, he's truly someone who doesn't give a single fuck except for money and power. He'd serve his own mother a vial of flesh eating bacteria if it made him enough money. If he didn't have the connections to the Mideast....

“I'm going to speak with Rachmaninoff this evening, he invited me to dinner,” Larissa says, giving me a knowing smile at my comment. She has no fondness for The Sultan too, although considering that Larissa is Greek, and The Sultan a self-described Persian, that animosity is practically in the blood between them, I suspect their ancestors were probably hacking away at each other at Plataea. “By the way, are you open for a visit in a few days?”

“You're going to come whether I say yes or no, so just send me a text message when you plan on arriving,” I wave off, making Larissa laugh. The first time she broke into my villa, I nearly shot her, only her superior position within The Network's hierarchy and her high level of training preventing me from killing her. Now though... well, at least she doesn't damage anything too expensive when she breaks in. Sometimes she offers to pay for it too.

We make our way towards the far side of The Farm, which actually does have some legitimate agriculture on it. It's probably just my biased opinion, but the olive oil that comes from the grove that grows on the eastern rise of The Farm is the best in all of Sicily, and the pigs that are raised to dispose of those things that The Network would prefer to be disposed of make some damn good bacon too... once you get past their diet.

“You know Rodrigo, you're looking tense,” Larissa says as we go down the short hill to the small barn that is where the girls today are being kept. “You really should look at indulging some more. Seriously, nothing better for me than a good orgasm.”

I shrug, not wanting to tell her the truth about my feelings or my sex life as we reach the door. She helped me a little when I was setting up my villa, but since then, she and I haven't discussed the details of that side of my life.

“Either way, let's make sure that The Sultan's men...,” I say, sliding the steel door back on its track. The words die in my throat as I see the men gathered in a rough circle, a girl strung up on the bar and shackles there. “What the fuck are they doing?”

“Girl broke Kahled's nose,” one of The Sultan's men says, pointing across the way. “He's going to whip her.”

I look and see Kahled. Brutish, stupid, and sadistic to an obscene degree, his lower face is sheeted in reddish blood, an angry leer on his face. He flicks his whip, teasing the girl, who's naked and tied up in such a way that I can't see her face. Still, as soon as she opens her mouth, I hear it. New Jersey, maybe the Bronx, but if I had to lay money, she's from northern Jersey.

“Fuck you, ya bastard. You gonna do it, then do it!” she yells. “But the first dick that tries to get in me I'm gonna snap off with my pussy!”

Larissa, who is standing next to me, chuckles. “Well, there's one who's either going to get herself killed or get herself married very quickly. Look at that body.”

I take a moment to look at the girl, and I have to admit, she's got an ass that artists would die to carve. With thick blonde hair that glows even in the dim light of the slave pens, she's beautiful, the sort of woman that I can tell is used to having men beg for a chance to worship her. Even from behind I can feel a surge of desire, in front of me is a real woman, one of a rare and disappearing breed in a world obsessed with fake plasticky 'models' and surgery. Not this woman, she's all natural and I want her, I want to bury my cock balls deep inside her.... and I haven't even seen her face yet.

“Wait!” I call out, my voice piercing the hoots and taunts of The Sultan's men. Kahled looks over, his lip twitching in anger when he sees me. He knows that I'm not his boss' favorite person, but at the same time, I'm nobody to be fucked with.

“Sir, Kahled deserves his retribution,” Leon, the man in charge of The Sultan's men, says in Italian. “She broke his nose when he went into her cell.”

“Then he got what he deserved for being sloppy,” I reply in English. Almost all of the men in The Network can understand English, even if some of the lower ranked ones don't speak it too well. “Besides, I can see it in Kahled's eyes, he's not interested in training. Let me guess.... wanted to dip his wick in the merchandise?”

Kahled's eyes glare at me, and I smirk, he knows I pegged him right. I walk forward, past the girl without looking at her, directly into Kahled's face. “She let you get off with a broken nose, Kahled. Do you think The Sultan will let you get off with marking her?”

“Some like marks on their slaves,” Kahled replies in his hesitant, thickly accented English. He's got a point, I've unfortunately seen over the past three years what some of the owners do to their 'property.'

“Well, let's see if this one is worth marking or not,” I say, holding my hand out. It's a risk, I'm pushing it as it is for some reason, but something in that woman's voice makes me want to push the line. Kahled though tightens his grip, and I know that he's not going to give up his weapon, not without me knocking him the fuck out, and there isn't need for that.... yet. “Fine. But it stays down until I say so. Or else you answer to me.”

I'm not in his branch within The Network, but I do command respect, and I have a reputation of someone not to be fucked with. Kahled nods slightly, and I turn around.

Oh.

My.

God.

The blonde hair still frames her face, which looks like it's been carved by Michelangelo himself, lips that, even if one side is starting to swell from taking a shot, are flawless. Her gray eyes are intelligent, this is obviously no dumb bitch from the Jersey Shore despite her angry words when I came in. They flare with rage and anger, making them even more beautiful.

The rest of her is just as perfect, the sort of woman that any real man should want in his life. Large, generous breasts, a flare to her hips and thighs that makes my cock stir in my pants... but still, it's hard to tear my eyes away from that face. She's scared, she'd be an idiot not to be, but she's got guts, enough to stare down what's now nearly a dozen of The Sultan's men and call them out. It's magnetic practically.

“So what the fuck you lookin' at?” she asks, and I can hear it. She's used to men being intimidated by her, either by her brains, but most likely by her body. I can understand why, it's a body that once you see, let alone touch, is going to haunt your dreams and fantasies for the rest of your life. I know men who would literally sacrifice their lives for a chance with a woman like this, and in this instant, I'm not too sure they'd be that far off. More than that though, this woman knows it.

Because of this though, she's severely disappointed by the world. Never meeting her match, I can read her like a book. She came to Europe because, regardless of whatever excuse she used when she booked her flight out of Newark, her life bored the shit out of her. Even now, facing a dozen of The Sultan's thugs and sailors, she's bored by it.

What she needs... is training. Not the brutal, unthinking training that Kahled wants to inflict, like a child smashing a toy that it cannot fully appreciate.

What this woman needs is real training.

The sort of training that I can provide. The sort of training that so many have begged for, and none have been able to take. The sort of training that only the strongest of women can endure. I need a woman who can endure that training in my life.

But looking at her flawless, voluptuous body, I see my own desires mirrored. I see a woman who needs completion. In the spirit and strength I see in those lustrous gray eyes, I know that what this woman needs.... is me.

“Gentlemen... I believe I have a business proposal for you.”

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