When in Rome…
Miami Beach, Florida
Fight Night
I t was like dragon’s breath on her neck. Hot and lava like, she could feel the heat as well as the stench of pastrami with every breath the large man took. Revolting. With her small, delicate hands planted firmly in the soft leather sofa and her back arched to soften the powerful blows, she heard him as he grunted, sounding like his soul was stretching as he stretched her womb.
I just want to escape, she thought to herself as she winced.
In a quiet fit of rage, she glanced from the fixed point she had zeroed in on, a piece of wadded up paper on the hardwood floor, over to the gigantic television hoisted up above the fire place across the room. There was a big boxing match in Las Vegas tonight, one of whom happened to be her favorite, Klenchvenko.
If she had been back home, she would have been watching the fight with her brothers and eating Tula gingerbread snacks. But she was here in this place rotting away.
As the camera panned across the front seats of the arena filled with celebrities and the ultra-rich, she thought that she saw her brother, Anatoly.
A zinger shot through her body. Could it really be him?
Squinting her bloodshot eyes, she tried to focus on the man on the screen, but with the constant jerks behind her as the john prepared to come to the climatic end of his one-hour session, she was unable to confirm it was Anatoly.
The stranger on the television bore significant resemblance to her brother, even though she had not laid eyes on him in years. They had the same ice blue pensive eyes, the same golden blonde hair, the same angular nose and square jaw, but her judgement couldn’t be trusted. It could have easily been anyone.
Maybe she thought she saw Anatoly because she always thought of him now. Absence always made the heart grow fonder. Regrettably, the last time that she had spoken to him six months prior, they had argued. Hoping to appeal to his senses, she had preached the Word at him, accused him of being a monster, an evil man who sold guns and ruined countless lives for the almighty dollar.
What she wouldn’t give to take those words back.
This place and these people had taught her the meaning of evil. She had stared in its face for months. And one thing that was true was that Anatoly was no monster.
She didn’t know a lot of things, then – a lifetime ago – when she was safely back in Russia naive to the world. It was only after she was dragged here to this place kicking and screaming that she realized that Anatoly had only tried to love and protect her. He had been the only father that she had ever known, the only person willing to kill for her, maybe even die for her. And like a fool, she had pushed him away.
He without sin cast the first stone. The words whispered in her ear.
She missed her Bible, her church and her old life. This place didn’t have a Bible, and she was scared to death to ask for one. Instead, she tried to remember her favorite verses and write them in a notebook she had found hidden in her room. At night, when she was finally left alone, she would pull out the tattered composition book and read them in the moonlight, hoping to draw enough strength to make it through the next day.
When the verses didn’t help, she had other ways to cope. While the men here didn’t believe in providing an abundance of food, they did believe in providing drugs.
Her drug of choice was heroine.
During the time that she was abducted, the man who had stolen her, had used his needles mercilessly on her until, without being prodded, she begged for it. Now, heroine was her only friend. It numbed reality and made her lifestyle bearable.
After a few primo hits tonight, she was high as a kite and ready for whatever they threw at her. Her only hope was that she wouldn’t start hallucinating again.
Just last week she hallucinated so badly until she thought that her mother was there in the room with her, even though Alexandria had been dead and buried for years. She had crawled up on the sofa beside her, put her head on her lap and inhaled her scent. It wasn’t until the woman spoke that she realized it was just one of the girls who had been enslaved with her in this place…this wicked, dirty place.
All she wanted in the world was to get out of here, but she knew that running away was not an option. There were too many guards, too many security systems, too many obstacles in front of her. They had made it impossible to even dream of leaving. And for the ones who dared do more than dream, for those who tried to leave, they made a terrible example of them in front of everyone.
No, she simply must try to stay alive. She couldn’t deny that the thought had crossed her mind a hundred times to end her own life, but the Christian in her rebuked the idea. Killing herself would be a mortal sin and this place was hell enough. Eternity would be too great of a sentence.
If she died here, it would have to be at someone else’s hand. It probably would be before it was all over. Just a few days ago, a girl she had become quite close to, died of an overdose in the bathroom on the toilet while another girl showered a few feet from her. No one even noticed as she slipped from this plane to the next. They found her slumped over, discolored, lips blue and eyes glossed over. A strap was still tied to her battered arm and her kit sat on the countertop of the sink.
When Anastaysia heard the news, moments later, after screaming and crying erupted upstairs, she remembered feeling envious of her friend, but their captors didn’t seem to value life. The men in charge simply discarded her body and ordered the other girls back to work.
Work was a very precarious word here. She had worked her entire adult life for a wage, and this was no honest work. They were condemned sex slaves, bound to the perverted will of men who overpowered them. Their jobs were to please men in the most depraved ways all for a dollar that they would never see.
“That’s right, you fucking worthless bitch. Make daddy cum hard!” the man yelled, nearly picking her up from her doggy-style position.
The fat Italian man behind her squeezed her hips as he finished, climaxing clumsy both inside of her womb and on her buttocks. She could feel his hot semen spew over her body, drenching her with shame. He was loud, this one. Old enough to be her father and fat enough to be hospitalized. He grunted and cried out in Italian, thrusting wildly into her, jolting her entire body as he slammed his heavy, hairy gut into her small orifice.
She closed her eyes and let him finish, gripping the leather cushion as tight as she could for balance. In the process of his orgasm, he had leaned all the way over her back, even though she was certain that he knew that it took everything she had to support him. As he finally pushed up off her, she took in much needed air, grateful for the shift in weight and for his finish. He was a mean man, who never gave her the least bit of thought. Snatching the busted condom from the top of his short, thick shaft, he threw it over to the small waste bin behind them, but missed. The latex landed on the floor, wet with his essence and hers.
“Tell your boss that the cheap ass condom he gave you ripped open,” he growled. “You need to take one of those morning after pills or something, because I’m not paying for some whore’s kid.”
“He takes precautions,” she assured, glad that that wasn’t a lie. They had all been outfitted with long acting reversible contraceptives by a male OBGYN who bartered his services for private parties from time-to-time.
“Good. Well, in that case, I’ll stop using them all together.” He eyed her, hoping for a reaction. There was no doubt in his mind that these girls were slaves and forced to do what they did. Some might even call what he had just done rape, but that didn’t matter to him. As long as he paid in full, his conscience was clear.
“You’ll have to make arrangements like that with the gentlemen who own this establishment,” she answered without blinking. Her eyes burned through him knowing that he might not fear her, but he definitely feared them.
Standing up beside the sofa, he pulled his pants up, zipped them and fastened his belt, while she reached over to the end table for her pack of cigarettes. She had never smoked before this, but who would blame her. Lung cancer was the least of her worries. Besides, just the sight of his was nauseating.
“Were you pleased, my love?” she asked as she had been taught. She made sure to give the best fake smile that she could, all the while hurting between her legs from his roughness. Inhaling the cigarette smoke, she hoped it would mask the taste of his body from her tongue.
“You were a good fuck as always,” the man said without looking at her. He rifled through his wallet and breathed heavily. Pulling out several $100 bills and threw them on the coffee table. “See you next week. Keep that pussy tight for me.” He wiped large bulled-sized sweat from his forehead with his hand and then flicked it onto the floor.
“You know I will.” Her eyes watered as she digested his words. How could a human being be so disgusting? It literally felt like he had just shit on her. All she wanted was a bath after being with him, but no matter how many baths she took, she knew she would never be clean after this place.
Klenchvenko’s body hit the ring floor on the television, pulling the man’s attention from Anastaysia. He watched as the referee counted down. When the fight was called for the other boxer, he chuckled and then turns and left the room.
Finally, a moment of peace.
His absence allowed oxygen to reenter the room. It always left when he was around. Because he was rich, he didn’t feel the need to be kind. In fact, he was downright cruel. Sometimes he would pinch her. Sometimes, he would spit on her. Other times, he would call her names and hurt her intentionally when he took her. And no matter how bad of a lay she tried to be, he always came back weekly for his one hour of “fun”.
She took a deep breath and wiped the hot tears that defiantly streamed down her cheeks. Tears would get her in trouble. She had to pretend always that she enjoyed it or else.
The stench of his body had transferred to her skin along with the smell of their mingled sex. Sticky and wet, she stood up and grabbed her red lace thong that had been yanked off by him and thrown on the back of the sofa. Thank God, this time he had not pushed them into her mouth like last week.
Baby wipes awaited her on the end table. Carefully wiping herself as best she could, she threw the used wipes into the bin and picked up the used condom. Ugh. Vomit wanted to rush into her mouth, but she had learned through torture how to keep it down.
She didn’t want to put the underwear back on, but she still had a few hours before she could take a break and shower. The rules were clear. Five johns. Five hours. Minimum toilet breaks. Use the perfume and baby wipes in the room. Don’t leave. Don’t test them.
Her legs trembled as she slipped on her panties. One leg and then the other. Pulling them up to her skinny legs to her hips, she felt the elastic slap against her skin. Straightening her disheveled hair in the mirror, she sprayed on the expensive perfume to cover the odor of whoring and applied more lipstick.
After she was presentable, she walked to the entryway of the large den where the bodyguard was sitting. Clover was a former semi-pro football player with a large, wide body and deadly grimace. He had blankly watched the entire transaction from beginning to end. She gave him the money that the fat Italian left on the coffee table and watched him count it out.
“It’s all there,” she said, angry that she had to watch him demoralize her even more. It wasn’t enough to be a strung-out whore for these monsters, they had to insinuate she was a thief as well.
He put the money in a leather zip bank bag and then called down the hall the bodyguard on the other end. “She’s ready. Send the next one.”
These bastards wouldn’t even give her a break to drink a glass of water. She hoped they all burned in hell on judgement day, and she prayed God gave her a glance of it.
The next man came walking down the long hallway toward her. It was Russell, the computer tech. In a pair of khakis that were at least two sizes too big for him and a wrinkled golf shirt, the pimply, balding man entered the room with a bright smile on his face.
“Hello Sasha,” he said, not bothering to hide the erection that prodded from his pants.
She hated that name. “Hello, Russell,” Anastaysia said, putting out her cigarette.
At least Russell was nice. He never cursed her or used harsh language, but that didn’t make up for what he did to her. This brothel was for specialty acts – fetishes that were borderline illegal. The men paid well for the high-end prostitutes and for their services, but it was still a stain on humanity.
Going over to the closet across the room, she pulled out a black tarp and rolled it out over the floor. Watching him as he undressed, she felt her stomach turn flips. He was giddy tonight. He fumbled with his pants as he pulled them off and laid them carefully over the arm of the sofa.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he said, sitting down to pull off his white socks.
She raised a brow, but didn’t speak.
“I drank a gallon of water before I got here, so we’re going to have some fun tonight.” He looked over at her for approval. He always wanted that, to make sure that she enjoyed herself as well. But how could she? Russell was sick in the head and his choice for pleasure only solidified it more. He should have been locked in a mental institution, not working on computers and free to roam the city.
Even the all-seeing Clover rearranged his seat so that his back could be turned for this session. Everyone had their limits. Golden showers weren’t something that most people could watch voluntarily.
“Well, let’s get started,” she said, pulling her hair up in a ponytail and laying on the tarp. The quicker they began, the quicker it would be over. Plus, his kind of kink didn’t last an entire hour. Sometimes, just watching what he did to her sent him over the edge in a few minutes, especially if she gave him some encouragement.
Russell walked over to her completely naked with a large cup in his hand. His brown eyes had transitioned from a cool shade of brown to a dark shade of black as the deviant in him emerged hungry for release. “I’ve got a new idea,” he said, stroking himself with the other hand.
Anastaysia might have protested, but she knew that while Clover couldn’t see them, he heard everything. If she turned down a john’s request, he would interrupt the session, take her upstairs, beat her like a dog and bring down another unfortunate whore to take her place. Then their master, Ryan, would come visiting to teach her a lesson later, and no one wanted that. He was the devil incarnate.
So instead of protesting, she sat up and listened as he detailed the Internet porno he had watched earlier that evening and what he wanted her to do as a result. Feeling her heart lurch, she nodded obediently when he asked if she would “do it.”
God, please save me, she prayed quietly. Save me before I give up.
***
Kapotnya District
Moscow, Russia
Six Months Ago
Just after dark, Anastaysia got off the transit bus with her purse and work bag thrown over her shoulder, nearly running to her destination. Despite, her best efforts to get here on time, including skipping lunch and working at a mad woman’s pace, she was still late. It was nothing that could be helped. After pulling a double shift at the hotel cleaning rooms all day, she had to run as fast as she could across town after her manager let her off. Her first mind told her to just go home and get the information from her friend later, but she had promised that she would be here. So, now she was.
The large white cathedral was only a few hundred feet away from the bus stop. She could see the lights inside of it glowing through the stain glass windows. Walking carefully over snow that had turned to ice in her worn down snickers, she clung to her winter coat as she passed the homeless vagabonds outside begging for food on the corner.
“Can you spare something? Please, I’m starving,” one of the men begged, voice broken from the chilling winds. He looked up at her, trembling and weak with glassed over eyes.
And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. The words made her stop in her tracks.
The stranger had not asked for money, specifically, which most of those who were seeking drugs and alcohol seemed to do. Instead, he asked for something. Believing it was a true call for help, she gazed over at the cathedral and then back to the man. What was one more minute of her time? Her wispy blonde tendrils danced in the air as she contemplated how much of the money she had left after paying bills earlier in the week, she could spare.
“I don’t have much,” she said apologetically, talking more to God than the man. For Anastaysia, everything in life was a test, even the smallest of things, like a man asking for help on a cold winter’s night.
“What you have will be enough,” he said, hopeful. Stretching his hands out toward her, he waited.
The look on his face was one of pure misery. True, she might have been poor, but not as poor as him. She reached into her coat pocket and felt for a few rubles. This was all that she had until next payday, but she could give him a little. Pulling a small bill from the wadded-up money in her grip, she passed it to him.
“Bless you,” he said, grateful for her kindness. The small gift brought the man to tears. He had been begging for hours as people passed him to go to the church, but none had bothered to help.
“Bless you,” she said, walking away with a smile tugging at her thin lips. It felt good to help others in their time of need, even if she didn’t have money to spare. She was certain, even as she gave her gift, that one day if she was ever in need someone would help her as well.
Pulling open the large door to the church, she felt the warmth of the heater against her face. She dipped two fingers in the fountain and made the sign of the cross across her body then entered the main cathedral. Snatching off her skull cap, she glanced up at the crucifix hanging over the vestibule and felt the day’s anxiety began to fade. Alas, she was home.
A small group had gathered on the first few pews listening to an American man with a congenial smile on his face. Standing a thin six feet tall with dark brown short curls around his tanned face, he wore gold wire rimmed glasses, a plaid dress shirt and khakis and clutched a leather-bound Bible.
His assistant passed Anastaysia a pamphlet as she sat down beside her friend, Mary, and pulled off her coat. She scanned it as she listened.
“This is an opportunity of a lifetime,” the man promised. “Mission work in Haiti is on the rise, because there are so many loss souls and even fewer who are willing to walk away from their daily lives to do the work. We’re in the process of building new schools for the children, a new sports ministry and several new churches.” Pictures of the Haitian children playing soccer, people working at construction sites and people working in food lines flashed on the television behind him as he went through the prompts. “We also are building new homes for those who have been displaced and developing new sustainability projects.”
Anastaysia’s eyes widened at the prospect of going to Haiti and being a part of something so magnificent. She had dreamed of leaving Russia and exploring the world to spread God’s word. It was all that she and her church friends talked about. Confined to Kapotnya for the whole of her life, all she had ever known was here. Few chances had come her way to experience something different, but she was ready now to take this chance and be greater than she had ever been before.
Times were getting harder here, and she felt herself drowning under the financial pressure of just keeping her little apartment on her meager salary. This new career change would mean a change of scenery and a chance to do something meaningful while getting paid.
“You’ll be well taken care of as a part of your mission work. We’ll provide food, clothing, shelter and a modest stipend for your six months of service,” the man promised.
“How modest?” a woman in the pew behind Anastaysia asked.
“For those who sign up tonight, we’ll give a $500 bonus. That’s American dollars.” The man saw the group’s eyes light up.
“Cash?” another woman asked.
“Cash,” he answered, knowing that in itself would persuade many. “And a monthly stipend will be paid of $2,000 while you are in Haiti. Now, we do ask that you sign up for at least six months, but most of our missionaries have been with us for years.”
Anastaysia had never been paid that kind of money in her entire life. Oh, what she could do with $2,000 a month. Her heart began to race with ideas. If she did well in Haiti, maybe they would ask her to go to other places. Many people had made a lifelong career of being a missionary. Who was to say that she couldn’t do the same.
“When would we leave?” Anastaysia asked, pushing to the end of the seat.
“You came in late. What’s your name?” the man asked.
“Anastaysia ,” she answered.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Anastaysia Fedrov. I’m Robert Ashbrook with the Power of Healing Global Ministries.” With his hand held gently against his heart, he dramatically shook his head. “She really touches my heart.” He noted quietly that she was still wearing her baby blue maid uniform. “Coming in from work, tired and hungry, asking how and when she can answer the call of the Lord.” He nodded toward her. “Well, Anastaysia, we will leave in the next week.” He raised a hand to silence the whispers. “I know it’s soon, but after the recent tropical storms there is so much work that we need to do. Our benefactors have given us a deadline. We have to take the people who can go now.”
“Will there be other opportunities?” another woman asked, disappointed in the short timeline.
“I’m not sure,” Robert said with a shrug. “We have recruiters all over the world. We may not be back to Kapotnya.”
For Anastaysia that was enough. If it were possible that she’d never get this opportunity again, she’d take this one and not look back.
Robert finished giving his presentation and then closed the deal. “Who’s with me?” he asked, raising a hand full of volunteer forms.
Only a few hands raised at the end of his presentation, but it was more than he had expected. His quota was for five women, however, eleven were interested. At $10,000 per body, he’d make a killing when he got to Haiti and put the women on the auction block. Russian girls were always high in demand, especially Russian girls who looked like Anastaysia. He had sold over forty girls from the Eastern bloc in the last year. As long as they had no real ties back home, no family with any influence and no children, he could make them disappear in a matter of hours once they were out of the country.
“Count me in,” Anastaysia said, taking one of his forms as he passed them out. “I’m ready to serve.”
“We’re ready to have you,” Robert said with a wink.