Page 6 of Volatile Waters

CHAPTER THREE

The Curse

As my lessons became more powerful, the hint of the monster in me developed. The more I craved control over my own life, the less I was given. Part of my training was to be demoralized and rebuilt to certain specifications. Ironic, seeing how that is exactly what we did to sex slaves.

My life was a never-ending boot camp that became more gruesome as time passed. By age twelve, puberty was in full swing, and I was growing into a young man. Most children were in school, oblivious and naïve to the nearby dangers of the world. I was still home tutored—for my protection against retaliation from competing organizations—and being trained for Father and Uncle’s booming business of ruling over abducted victims and profiting from their loss of human rights. For the past four years, their torture being our gain was ingrained into all my thoughts. Human decency was against the belief system being shoved down my throat. In fact, I was raised to not view these humans as anything other than the means of success.

Uncle’s son, Uffe, had ceased engaging in the profession he was once a part of. He was to take over the family’s growing empire, but his wife threatened to leave him. I overheard that she was not “fond” of him having sex with young women to lure them back to Russia. So, instead, Father and Uncle put different talents of his to use. He was a wizard with false documents. It would be years until I was to see him again, but paper deliveries arrived, often, for Elite transports.

It was believed that Kirill would be next in line to rule, but his perversion had stooped to the point of no return. He was not able to put out the flame Father had warned me about years ago, so Uncle kept Kirill’s appetite sated to keep him from the deep end of his presumed insanity.

Once the decision for me to take over someday had been made, Kirill began to carry ill feelings toward me. I had no time to fear his jealousy. I was soon to learn what I would be in charge of.

Going into the basement for the first time took some guts and a sturdy shove from Father. It was nowhere as luxurious as the mansion above, but that is not what I found terrifying. It was the crying. The way the sadness clung to the grey block walls. I had a hard time believing these slaves wanted this treatment like Uncle claimed. Upstairs, slaves had their emotions in check. Downstairs, they were taught to ignore their fight for survival and accept the fact that they were now completely owned. Their wants, or needs, were no longer a concern. What we wanted, against their will, was to be their only goal.

The basement consisted of two cold concrete hallways with many doors. Behind each door were ridiculously poor excuses for bedrooms. Behind other heavily bolted doors were training rooms that resembled deviant torture chambers. Chains hanging from the ceiling, with leather cuffs dangling from the ends, were to both restrain a slave and serve as suspension bondage. Whips and canes of many different fabrics—wood, plastic, and other semi-flexible material—hung from hooks on the walls. Cabinets were full of items ranging from butt plugs to heinous strap-on dildos and sex toys that resembled, to most, torture devices.

The only positive thing in this scenario was that Father refused to train children here. Young men were now on the menu, as supply to a demand, but Father and Uncle were not enticed by little girls or boys. This is not to say they didn’t sell them. It is only to say that Father nor Uncle would fuck them; therefore, they were trained at different facilities.

Keeping children from our home was also a safety factor, for little girls were Kirill’s weakness. He became bored with raping women and men, much to the disappointment of Uncle. But, for the love of making money, Father and Uncle used this perversion to their advantage. Kirill was willing to do anything when it came with the promise of little girls’ bodies. If Father and Uncle needed someone taken out, Kirill would go and kill. He became a dangerous weapon for our enterprise.

The game of survival continued, and I eventually became accustomed to the cries in the basement. The sounds finally blended into my life like a family who had a dog who barked too often. At times, it was a nuisance, but I learned to shut it out, just like my emotions. If we were low on supply, and there were no cries, it would catch my attention more than the pleas for help.

I no longer shuddered when walking past a room and getting a glimpse of Kirill having his way with the youngest male or female slave he could find in our collection, or Uncle teaching a slave how to torture the male genitalia; some men enjoyed their slaves trained to cause pain. The more I witnessed and experienced, the more desensitized I became, hence the exposure and Father and Uncle’s overall goal. In fact, down the hall from my bedroom, when I heard a woman wailing one day, begging for mercy, I could find no sympathy in my heart. In my already twisted young mind, I could only be curious. I wanted to know what could bring someone such agony. I wanted to understand why her cries made me yearn for more.

Father and Uncle were cursing and shouting their frustrations as I entered a guest bedroom. The pregnant woman, screaming from the mattress, “Something is wrong!” was not only holding my interest due to her suffering but because she was the one who’d had me first.

Months earlier, Uncle and Father had felt it was time for me to step into manhood, with a woman to lead the way. They were not referring to a son in the kitchen with his mother baking a cake. No. It was between a woman’s thighs where they felt I would learn most. My lesson took place on the very mattress from which the same woman was now screaming.

They had watched when I was forced to lose my virginity. The leaders of my family drank cocktails while Uncle smoked his cigar, and they laughed as I fumbled my way through my first sexual experience, which happened to be with a sex slave. It was against her will, of course, as she had recently been introduced into the trade of human trafficking. The red-headed Russian was merely an exchange for a debt. Her husband’s gambling addiction became her demise in every thinkable way.

Memories of her arrival are forever burned into my soul.

I met her late one evening while in one of our family’s makeshift warehouses. We never spent much money on these establishments because it was a bad investment. Relocating often was a must for us in the human trafficking industry. So, using a fake name to protect our personal living space-slash-headquarters, we purchased abandoned warehouses in poor parts of town. We used them until some crusader would get wind of our presence and attempt to shut down our production.

During this time, Father was still building his number of staff, employees beyond family members who could be trusted on the streets. We had ‘recruiters’ and ‘handlers.’ Recruiters did just that; they recruited soon-to-be slaves. Handlers helped with transport, containing slaves, and all-around protection; they were guards. At first, these employees were only reached by burner cellphones and never invited to our home. Therefore, our main headquarter location could not be located if they were arrested or tortured for details by competitors. But, once they were involved with us for a certain amount of time, in deep and no longer abiding by laws, their status would change.

Not being able to find a doctor who was willing to join our party of madness, Uncle was still the doctor to examine bottom-level entries—freshly abducted victims. This particular night, the ‘shipment’ consisted of four young girls who were ushered in from the dark night by handlers, all with tears wetting their scared faces. Each child, purposely dressed in easy-access old T-shirts, appeared to be of a different nationality and clearly did not understand our Russian language. That didn’t stop the recognition in their eyes when they caught sight of another child in the room. Me. Hope lit their faces as bright as a full moon. They assumed I would call for help.

They were wrong.

I had already been corrupted. I had already found pleasure in the control we possessed over the slaves at my home. I was the true product of an environment created by greed.

These unlucky girls needed to be internally inspected for the ultimate money maker: their virginity.

A handler released the little oriental girl to Kirill. Kirill didn’t miss a beat, or grope, as he laid her on top of an old examination table. The terrified little girl shook as he strapped each leg into a stirrup. As if examining a herd of cattle, Uncle reached between trembling thighs for his inspection. As the other three girls huddled together, knowing they were next, the first child cried out for help. She was ignored.

Standing next to me, Father questioned over her wails, his demanding voice booming, “The verdict?”

Uncle held up dry fingers and beamed. “деньги!” Money.

Without Elite training needed, the oriental child would soon be handed over to a client who only wanted to rob her of her innocence. If she survived the act, and once her owner lost interest, her future was unknown. She could be resold (for a lesser price, of course), kept for guest entertainment, handed down to employees, or killed.

Kirill, appearing disappointed, unstrapped the child and gave her back to her handler. The handler’s next job was to deliver the ‘product’ to the one who had already paid a hefty deposit for such innocence.

Uncle motioned the handler for the next child to be brought to Kirill, so she, too, could be examined. I couldn’t help but notice the nervousness of this particular handler as he handed over the Hispanic child with ivory skin. Kirill also appeared suspicious as he strapped down the child, eyeing the handler.

As soon as Uncle stepped between her thighs, he cursed. “Blood. Fresh.” She was too young to have started her menstrual cycle. There was only one other option.