Chapter 1

Logan

I’m in the viewing room again. Three rows of seats, stadium style. I’m in the front row, so I have a completely unobstructed view of what’s going on fifteen feet down below us. I’ve been here before and it’s all familiar to me, but not in a way that provides comfort.

But it’s familiar in a way that I know I have to see this nightmare through to the end, even if I’m not sure exactly where it’s going.

While the lights in the viewing room are bright and astringent to my eyes, the room below is dark and shadowy with only the center being visible because of the round surgical lamps surrounding the operating table. And I know it’s an operating table below because I can hear the soft whoosh of a respirator and the faint beeping of the EKG monitor, but mostly because several doctors and nurses clad in scrubs and face masks congregate around it. There are so many of them that they stand with their shoulders pressed against one another, forming a tight ring around the table as they do their work. The circle of medical professionals is so tightly formed that I can’t even see who is on the table.

I lean forward in my chair, getting closer to the clear glass. My eyes narrow and I lean left and right in my seat, trying to get a better look. Trying to see past the surgeons and nurses.

Trying to get just a tiny peek of who is lying on that table.

Maybe if one of them would just move a tiny bit, I could see.

It’s so frustrating, and I’m wondering if I’m the only one in this room having a hard time trying to see what’s going on down below. The seats are filled to capacity, this I know, but I’m not sure who all is here with me.

I turn my head to the right, see a row of people, but their faces are all blurred and indistinguishable.

To the left, it’s the same, but no one is leaning forward the way I am. By their body language alone, none of them appears to be distressed that they can’t see who’s on the table.

I slide my gaze back down to the surgical room below, my nerves tingling with an awareness that I just can’t quite put my finger on. The doctors and nurses work, murmuring words I can’t understand.

Then it happens… the doctor at the very end of the table at the patient’s feet shifts slightly, and then straightens until his spine is perpendicular to the floor. His head slowly turns, lifts, and his eyes come right to me. I can’t see any of his face below said eyes as it’s covered by his mask, but I don’t need to see what’s under that thin, protective covering to know that his lips are flattened in a disappointed grimace.

His eyebrows slant inward and his eyes narrow; I feel the icy disgust permeate every molecule of my being.

Then he moves again… this time turning his body to the right, which creates a slight opening at the end of the table. His gaze is so hostile now that it’s not a chore for me to tear mine away, and I cut it to the operating table.

It’s a small body on the table, covered in a white sheet, the feet not even reaching to the end. One by one, each of the doctors and nurses step away from the table, creating more space for me to observe what’s really going on.

My gaze drifts up the small body that I inherently know is female, covered all the way up to the chest. I first notice the long, dark hair spilled out from under her head, but I can’t see her face as it’s covered with a large mask attached to the respirator.

I’m so frustrated, not being able to quite recognize who it is.

Then a nurse reaches a hand outward to the patient, puts it on the mask, and slowly pulls it away.

My heart rate speeds up with anticipation… dread… near hysteria. I want to look away, but I can’t.

I won’t let myself.

Then I see who it is just as the respirator goes quiet and a long, steady beep emits from the EKG machine.

And I scream, and scream, and scream.

I shoot straight up in the bed, my abs clenched tight from the move, but then my stomach turns to liquid as I come awake. My mouth is wide open, but no sound is coming out. I’m soaked with sweat, trickles running down my temples and down the middle of my bare chest.

My lungs are rapidly expanding and deflating, yet it doesn’t feel like any oxygen is getting in. I swing my legs to the side of the small mattress, the box spring underneath squeaking, and I place my feet on the floor, slightly spreading my legs. Leaning forward, I dip my head down in between my knees as wave after wave of nausea rolls through me. I suck in deep breaths of air, mentally telling myself it’s just a nightmare.

But I’m awake and cognizant enough to know it’s not.

Images flash through my head of the little girl on the operating room table. The vague smell of antiseptic remains in my nostrils so vividly, my eyes water in response.

I swallow hard against the vomit threatening to rise up my throat and fling myself back on the bed. Shutting my eyes tight, I conjure up the most pornographic images I can think of to try to redirect my thoughts. I’ve tried deep breathing, meditation, prescription drugs, illegal drugs, and alcohol. I’ve tried it all before, but nothing wipes my mind clear of the nightmare quite like refocusing my attention to something that is almost antithetical to the pain that particular dream produces.

So I choose to focus my mind on the extreme pleasures of perversion to wipe out the raw desolation of my sorrow.

It always works.

At least, it has for the past year I’ve been a member at The Silo. As long as it continues to be my mental Novocain, I’ll continue to submerge myself into a cloud of sexual haze to keep the insanity at bay.

I think about last night and the amazing sex I had with Rand and Cat.

So fucking hot.

Tiny, frail body under a sheet.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I remember what it was like to kiss Rand… feel his roughened hands on my cock while Cat fingered herself. I call up the memory of Cat commanding me to fuck Rand and the shiver it sent up my spine, knowing that watching two guys get it on was making her hot.

Long, steady beep from the EKG machine. She’s flatlined.

I squeeze my eyes shut harder, forcing myself to recall the image of when I pressed my lube-slicked dick to Rand’s pucker and the way it felt when the head popped through that tight ring. As I slide my hand down my stomach, in between my legs, I almost beg my cock to get hard from the memory, but it doesn’t.

It refuses and that worries me, because I know from having this nightmare many times, I can usually chase away the dredges of horror by jacking myself off to any number of memories I have stored up from my sexual escapades over the past year. I’m usually able to crudely spit in my palm, wrap it around my shaft, and allow the first touch to completely free my mind. By the third stroke, I’m habitually lost to pleasure and I forget all about that little girl lying on the table. Sex is a drug and I’m possibly a sex addict, but it does wonders at keeping my misery at bay.

But even as hot as last night was with Rand and Cat… regardless of the fact I came hard while lodged balls deep in the tightest of asses, my dick stays limp.

“Fuck,” I mutter as I come up to my elbows and look down my body in the early morning light. The memory of last night should do the trick, but I feel nothing but overwhelming guilt and sadness holding my body hostage. For the first time in a long time, I have the urge to get utterly and fantastically shit faced. Drown myself in a bottle of vodka, perhaps preceded by a few Xanax. My palms actually itch, not with the urge to jack myself off, but with the need to shove some pills down my throat or crack open a bottle of liquor.

Not. Good.

I flop back on the small mattress, the sheets all bunched up under me, which is testament to the shitty sleep I had, and breathe out a frustrated sigh. Everything from my mind to my dick seems broken.

Closing my eyes, I wonder what gruesome image will flash before me since I’m utterly wallowing right now, but I’m surprised when a bright and vivid vision pulses before me.

Long hair falling to mid-back… dark as raven’s wings. Large, blue eyes blinking with innocence. A luscious, curvy body with an ass made to be held on to tight while I fucked her.

I groan as I think about the virginally sweet Auralie who has been gracing The Silo the last three days, and my cock starts to react.

And it reacts swiftly.

My balls tingle as I wrap my hand around my increasing length, and I immediately start stroking as I think about the woman who has greatly intrigued me these last few days. In fact, while I was fucking Rand last night, who was fucking Cat at the same time, I was actually imagining I was riding Auralie. It was her face I imagined when I came.

She’s an enigma, and I’m not the only one whose dick stands at attention when she’s around. Her “owner” is a douche-looking asshole who likes to parade her around, letting the men sniff but not touch until he says so. Sometimes, he has her walk around The Silo naked, her large breasts swaying with pert, stiff nipples that make me think she’s turned on by the experience. But that only makes her more intriguing, because the rumor is that she’s a virgin.

That’s not to say she doesn’t have sexual experience, but Magnus—her owner—has insinuated to several of the patrons that her pussy is untouched. Therefore, that makes it even more tantalizingly sweet to all the horny men looking to add a virginal notch in their belts.

Me?

I’ve never cared much for virgins. Too stiff and unyielding, and when I fuck, I don’t want to have to worry if I’m hurting her. I want a woman who begs me to ram my cock into her, who won’t mind the swift bite of pain it might cause. Doesn’t mean I’ll give into that desire, because I find just as much pleasure with a slow, sweet, and tender fuck. It’s all good to me.

But there’s something about Auralie that speaks to me. I don’t care she’s a virgin, and if I were ever lucky enough to get a crack at her, I’d take great care to ensure I didn’t hurt her. I’d make it good her first time, and, when she was ready, I’d give it to her harder the second time if I felt she could take it.

No, that’s not what intrigues me about her.

I can’t put my finger on it, but there is something in her eyes that I recognize. Call it perhaps one soul possibly speaking to the other through our looks, and trust me… we’ve shared plenty of looks each night I’ve seen her in The Silo.

In fact, just last night, I swear we had an entire conversation with each other just through stolen but meaningful gazes. There was a moment last night, just before Magnus picked the lucky bastard who would get a little one-on-one time with her, that she looked at me, and I swear her gaze said, I wish I didn’t have to do this. I wish I could be free to pick who I want. I really wish I could pick you.

And I couldn’t help it. The look I gave back to her said, I’ll help you get out of this. Tell me what you need, and I’ll do it.

But then Magnus gave a big, booming laugh that broke our connection, and he was enthusiastically shaking one of the patron’s hands. My stomach cramped for a moment, thinking that he had “sold” Auralie to this guy… someone I really didn’t know who had started coming to The Silo in the last few months… but then I realized he had merely been chosen for a tiny interlude with her.

Magnus cut his eyes to Auralie and jerked his head toward the man. The chosen patron was older than me by about ten years, which put him about twenty years older than Auralie’s rumored “twenty” years of age. But I suppose he was relatively attractive—not that I really looked at guys that way. I mean, sure… I’ve fucked Rand a few times and he’s fucked me, but that’s really just me looking for new and innovative ways to get my rocks off. It’s all about consuming my mind with the most intense and surreal experiences I can muster, so I don’t think about… other things.

Auralie’s head dropped slightly, and she took a deep breath. She walked up to the man, who was clearly sporting a hard-on against his dress pants, and took him by the hand. And because The Silo is a private sex club that people join so they can express their sexual perversions in an enlightened and accepting atmosphere, showmanship is often the name of the game. It’s why The Silo is nothing more than a round building with glass rooms on the interior, so that no fucking is done in private, but is there for all the other patrons to enjoy and be titillated by.

I watched last night, dreading and anticipating in equal measure, as Auralie led the man over to a set of low-slung, black leather chairs formed in a circle and pushed him down into an empty one. Even though I didn’t want her to be messing with that guy, I was also turned on by the prospect, a feeling that completely baffled me.

Yes, I wanted those pale, delicate hands to be working at my belt the way they were working his. Wanted her to be pulling my cock out. I wanted her to lean over me and have those breasts sway like hypnotic pendulums, just the way they were for him. And Christ… when she opened her mouth and wrapped her lips around his cock—which was nowhere near the size of mine—I swear I almost felt the sensation on my own dick. Even though I’d just fucked Rand not an hour prior—having left him and Cat curled up sweetly together on their bed—I became insanely horny again watching the lovely Auralie give another man a blow job.

I was jealous, turned on, and angry all at the same time. I wanted to tear her away and push her to her knees before me. Wanted to punch the man sitting in the leather chair, his face slackened from lust, and then I wanted to kick the shit out of Magnus, who seemed to take pleasure and pride in pimping out Auralie’s mouth since he wouldn’t let anyone touch her pussy for free.

I watched for a few minutes as Auralie bobbed up and down on his dick, my own thumping in my pants for release. Locking my jaw, I watched, wishing it were me and knowing it would never happen. The “rumor” was that Magnus was going to auction her hymen off to the highest bidder—and I could never afford her on my salary—but for now, he was doing nothing more than guerilla marketing. He was whipping the male patrons into a frenzy by parading her around and letting her suck a few dicks so they could have a little test run first.

I knew I was a goner when, on an upstroke with her cheeks hollowed out, Auralie lifted her eyes and pinned them on me. I read her expression loud and clear, for it said, I wish this were your cock.

Fuck… I was a total goner.

I broke eye contact with her, spinning around and stomping off toward the short hall that led to the outer perimeter hall that circled The Silo. Following it about a quarter of the way around, I chose a glass door that housed “The Orgy” room. It was the best choice because it was always filled with people who were nothing more than a writhing mass of cock and pussy begging to be fucked. Grabbing a condom from a large bowl on a table by the door, I headed toward the center of the mass. I was going to get fucked or sucked, didn’t really care, but I needed release.

And I’d be imagining it was Auralie the entire time.