Lex

Three weeks before my twenty-first birthday, I was kidnapped on my way out of the 7-Eleven. Whatever preconceived notions I may have had of being ripped away from the life I was living were all promptly thrown out the window, because what happened after they took me was much worse than anything I’d conjured up, even in my vilest of nightmares.

They shoved me into a cab of a pickup truck in broad daylight. Although people walked in and out of the busy convenience store, nobody cared enough to do anything.

Hands came from everywhere, touching me in places I reserved for invitation only. Initially, I fought to get away. Each time I did, the man with the tattooed face hit me with his closed fist.

After being punched in the face repeatedly, my desire to try and escape dwindled to nothing.

As they drove me to a house in one of Oceanside’s drug-infested neighborhoods, the smell of my own blood amalgamated with wafts of sweat, beer, and the sheer filth that already inhabited the cab of the truck.

Fearing what may happen once inside the shitty rathole they parked in front of, I kicked and screamed in protest, but they dragged me inside the house by my hair anyway. In the distance, I heard a car trying to start. The smell of something burning momentarily replaced their repulsive scent, but it didn’t last.

I heard children talking, but couldn’t see them.

As I tried to dismiss the odor and appearance of the revolting house that they tossed me into, I concluded that the hellish pit could never be considered a home. Now trapped, and at their mercy, I was left to wonder how everything happened to me while so many people looked on.

The beating I got in the truck was nothing compared to what happened inside the house. The man with the tattooed face hit me in the stomach so hard I vomited. Then, he punched me in the face so hard it blinded me. The beating continued until I collapsed on the floor.

I remained still, hoping he would stop, but what came next was worse. There were four of them inside the house, the man with the tattooed face, another man who was short and muscular, and two grotesque piles of filth that looked like twins.

I was pulled to my feet by my hair, and while I was groped by so many hands that I couldn’t keep track of what was happening, the sound of laughing, shouting, and my own crying filled the air.

The man with the tattooed face cut off my shorts, but he wasn’t careful when he did it. The tip of the blade sank into the skin of my thigh as he slashed at the fabric.

I couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t allow me to simply get undressed, but later decided it must have been part of the process of breaking my spirit.

In just moments, I felt like a week’s time had passed. Once again, I was on the floor.

But this time I was naked.

Humiliated.

And incapable of resisting much more.

The filthy twins masturbated on me while the other two men laughed and drank beer. I tried to wipe their release from my skin, but was kicked in the ribs for my effort.

Then, the muscular man forced me to suck his dick.

What begging I had done was met with a quick fist, so I complied, all the while relying on the little strength my prayers offered.

I closed my eyes and wrapped my lips around his flaccid shaft. He didn’t speak English, but through repeated slapping and hand gestures, I realized he wanted me to keep my eyes open.

I couldn’t force myself to look at his dick, or at his face. I fixed my eyes on his hip, and with reluctance, took him into my mouth. As he became more aroused, an obscene scent secreted from his pores. Soon, it seemed to loom over me like a thick cloud.

After he hardened, he pressed his hands against the back of my head and forced himself deep in my throat. With each thrust of his hips, his putrid flesh smashed against my nose. The smell of his cheap cologne mixed with the odor of his existence all but suffocated me.

Each forceful shove made me feel more helpless, less like Alexandra, and, for some strange reason, guilt was overtaking me.

He pounded what little hope I clung to from my grasp.

As much as I continued to tell myself it was okay, it wasn’t. Not even a little bit. It wasn’t sexual, nor was it sensual. I tried to force myself to find a way to accept it, but I couldn’t and I feared I never would.

The forceful blowjob lasted for what seemed like an entire lifetime. It was as if the clock turned at a much slower speed once it all started.

Exhausted, I laid lifeless on the floor. I hoped that it was finally over.

My hope was crushed when the man with the tattooed face snatched me to my feet by my hair. With the barrel of his gun pressed against my temple, he forced me to suck his dick.

With my spirit crushed, and my ability to reason gone, I had no mechanism left to mentally fight against what was happening to me.

So, I complied.

I felt like I was another person, one outside of my body who was watching the former me as she performed these vile acts while the real me was elsewhere.

Somewhere safe.

Surreal wouldn’t come close to describing it.

I may have been scared, but I don’t really know. Not really. I was covered in their cum, their scent, their sweat, and my blood. I don’t remember feeling anything but dirty. It was the kind of dirty that sticks with a person for a lifetime.

The kind of dirty that causes a person to stand in front of the sink and scrub mercilessly in hope of somehow cleansing themselves of the filth that they would later find out had become a part of their very being.

The kind of dirty that soap could never wash away.

I was tossed into a room with windows that were boarded shut, a door that only had a handle on the outside, and a bucket that sat in the corner for seven of us to share as a bathroom.

Other than a few blankets, there wasn’t anything else.

We had no clothes.

No toilet paper.

No tampons.

And, no hope.

The days blurred together. Hope faded, and fear set in. Humiliation followed, but it didn’t last long. A lifetime’s worth of pain replaced it.

Then, the eighth girl joined us. She would be the last.

Somehow, she made it into the room without being sexually assaulted, but had been scared and humiliated to a degree that left her stuttering every time she tried to speak. Later, on the night that she came, the man with the tattoos on his face opened the door and demanded that she come with him.

Cowering in the corner, and in fear of what they were going to rip from her, nine-year-old Marbella clung onto a sliver of hope – and my legs.

Yes. She was nine.

I offered myself in her place, but he only grew angrier.

I offered to suck his cock. When he said no, I insisted on it. I told him I craved it. That I loved feeling him pound himself into my throat. As I spoke to him, I fondled my tits in hope of luring him to accept my offer.

Eventually, he agreed.

While he lowered his pants to his thighs, I knelt in front of him with the splinter of wood I’d pried away from the doorframe cupped tightly in my hand.

As I took him into my mouth, I swung the tip of the wooden spike deep into his thigh.

The butt of his pistol against my skull knocked me senseless for a moment. According to the others, he stumbled away with the promise of returning for Marbella, but that time never came.

Minutes later, there was a gunshot. And then another. I counted fifteen more, and then they stopped.

The bedroom door opened.

A tall muscular man wearing a black baseball cap stood in the doorway.

I glared at him. As the other girls sought shelter behind me, I mentally prepared to do whatever I had to do to protect them from the new monster.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

He knelt on the floor and let out a sigh. I looked at him with jaded eyes, but then a tear rolled down his cheek. It was then that I knew he wasn’t a monster.

“In a moment, you’ll hear a terrible thunder,” he explained. “But don’t be afraid. The men who come with the thunder? They’re angels.”

Ten minutes later, there was a horrendous thunder. A thunder so powerful that it shook the walls and the floor.

Then, one after another, the angels came.