Billionaire Unloved(3)

By: J.S. Scott



And in a matter of moments, I knew I’d be standing on a stage with plenty of buyers staring at my nude body and trying to decide how much money me and my virginity was worth to them.

My fight-or-flight instincts were screaming at me to escape. Flight would be my only option because I’d never been much of a fighter.

For me, resistance had always meant more pain. After the first few lessons as a child, I’d learned not to fight anymore because it didn’t gain me anything.

At least, it never had until now, but old habits and programmed behavior weren’t going to go away.

However, my panic was making me think I might have to change in a hurry.

I have to get the hell out of here!

I hated the fact that I’d gotten myself into this position because of my own stupidity, but regret wasn’t going to improve my situation. I was going to have to find a way to escape or suffer the consequences.

How had I ever fallen for my kidnapper’s story?

I’d been homeless and desperate when my abductors had offered me a job. Hunger had been a good motivator since I’d ended up accepting the offer because I hadn’t eaten in days.

Because of my bad decision, I hadn’t seen the light of day since I’d gotten into their car that day a few weeks ago. I’d been held in a bug-infested hotel room with barred windows and no chance of escape.

The only good thing about my makeshift prison had been the food. I’d been fed, but the meals hadn’t been given out of kindness or to build my strength to work an actual job. My kidnappers had wanted to fatten me up like a farmer wants to put weight on their cattle to make them more attractive to buyers.

My body was shaking as I was led onto the stage. I wasn’t terrified about being naked, which, in itself, would generally be terrifying. But I had more dire things to worry about, like who was going to bid high enough in this crazy virgin auction to own me, and what their plan for me might be after the sale.

Would I end up chained in the dirt in the darkness of a cellar or basement, never to be seen again?

Maybe there was no one who cared about me in this world, but I sure as hell didn’t want that fate.

I flinched as I was pulled into place on the stage and kept there by the man holding the chain.

The humiliation of being leered at by a crowd of men hit me like a powerful slam in the stomach.

I’d lived with humiliation all my life, and for a few seconds, I flashed back to some of those memories, something I never allowed myself to do. But my terror was out of control, and I had no way to defend myself or to make those images escape my brain.

I couldn’t see every pair of eyes watching me. But I felt the creepy sensation of being watched by many sets of eyes, and it made me want to drop into a fetal position to protect myself.

Don’t panic. Dani said she was going to rescue me.

The problem was, I didn’t really know Danica Lawson well enough to judge whether somebody would come to help me. But her promise was about the only thing I had to keep me going. We’d only met once in person, and talked on the phone a few times. She’d seemed nice enough, but I’d learned early in life that people let me down, and that the only one who really cared about my survival was me.

I lifted my chin, determined not to let anybody know how scared I was. I’d been through bad situations before, and I refused to cower to these people who degraded women for entertainment. Some people got off on humiliating others, and I wasn’t about to give any potential buyers reason to pay more for a woman who would tremble and cry at their feet.

One thing I didn’t do was cry, even when I desperately needed that relief.

Crying gave tormentors power, and I refused to let go of what little dignity I still had left.

I’ll find a way to escape if Dani doesn’t come.

Getting free was my only hope, and because I was fed and rested, I was a hell of a lot stronger than I’d been when I’d been captured.

I tried to relax enough to get me to another place, to let my mind lead me to anywhere else but where I was at the moment. It was a childhood trick I’d adopted when I didn’t want to be aware of what was happening to me because it was too damn painful.

I tried, but I soon realized that escaping inside myself wasn’t going to work this time. So I stared into the sea of faces I could make out in the smoke-filled room.

The lights on the stage were bright enough that I couldn’t see much except the people closest to me in the first row or two of tables. My eyes moved and landed on one face, and for some reason, I couldn’t look away.

My rapidly beating heart tripped as I stared at the man in the front row.

For an instant, I felt comforted as he looked into my eyes, seemingly ignoring the fact that I was naked. Were his eyes trying to say something to me, or was I imagining it because I wanted to think he felt some kind of compassion for me?

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