Sold into Slavery (8 page)

For a moment Leah was afraid she was in for another beating. But instead of producing a whip, one of the men filled the sink with hot water and dropped a washcloth into it while Alex rubbed a thick, creamy paste under Leah’s arms. She tried to stay very still as he used a razor to scrape away any stubble.

When he was done, he knelt in front of Leah and began to snip away her pubic curls with a small pair of scissors. He rubbed her mons with a damp cloth and then smoothed more of the shaving cream over her sex. Leah closed her eyes, her face burning with humiliation as the man shaved her pussy while the implacable guards stared down at them. Alex was gentle and careful, still appearing completely disinterested in what he was doing, as if he were peeling a piece of fruit or washing one of the household pets. The objectification was at once unsettling and a relief.

Apparently satisfied, Alex eventually moved on to her legs, shaving them smooth. His touch was careful and expert, as if he’d done this many times before. When he was finished, the guards led her to a padded stool in front of a mirrored counter and had her sit, Alex following behind.

On the counter were several large trays filled with all kinds of makeup, including numerous bottles of foundation, blush, lipsticks, eyeliners and mascara, as well as a dozen hairbrushes and combs. Alex selected a round brush and produced a blow dryer from beneath the counter, with which he proceeded to dry Leah’s long, thick hair.

As he worked, Leah stared into her own large, frightened eyes in the mirror. There were blue smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes and her skin was mottled with sunburn from having spent the morning out in the kennel. Her lips were reddened and chapped and her mouth was pinched with fear.

She looked away.

When Alex was done with her hair, he pulled it back into a hairclip and pivoted the stool so she was facing him. He began to apply makeup, something Leah almost never wore. He started with foundation, using a small makeup sponge and moving it in circular sweeps over her throat, cheeks and forehead. He added blush, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara and lipstick, taking a long time on her eyes. Leah imagined herself being turned into some kind of absurdly over-painted whore.

But when he spun her back around to release the clip from her hair, Leah was startled at the transformation—the blue smudges were erased, the sunburned smoothed to a dewy glow, her lips a soft, inviting pink. The blue of her eyes was set off by kohl blue eyeliner and sparkling silver eye shadow.

Finally, using a small brush dipped into a pot of rouge, Alex painted Leah’s pink nipples to a dark rose color. Next, she was led to a large wardrobe set against the far wall of the bathroom. A white silk robe, so sheer it was see-through, was draped over her shoulders.

“The steward will inspect you for flaws. If you please him, he may invite you to dine with him. If you displease him…” The guard trailed off, and Leah almost thought she saw him shudder.

This involuntary action, more than anything he could have said, caused an icy rivulet of terror to trickle along Leah’s spine. She had a horrible feeling her punishment would go far beyond just being denied the chance to share a meal with this steward person. She knew she’d damn well better please him, whatever it took.

In fact, she was certain her very life depended on it.

Chapter 6

“I tell you, Reg, I’m worried sick. I think something’s happened to her.”

After another fruitless visit to the local police, Devin called his longtime friend, Reggie Smith, who had lived in Thailand for the last decade and owned a string of convenience stores that specialized in British and European goods. They agreed to meet at a local pub that was a favorite among the British expats in Pattaya. Reggie had ordered lunch for them both but Devin had no appetite.

As Devin began to relate the story of the missing Leah and his suspicions that there was foul play afoot, Reggie joked, “I know you’re god’s gift to women, Dev, but could it be the lady found a better offer? Did that even enter your egotistic mind?” He quickly sobered as Devin filled him in on the details, including the fact Leah had now been missing for at least twenty-four hours.

“Wait a minute. Which hotel did you say it was?” Reggie asked, narrowing his eyes.

“The Pattaya Gold. I’ve been staying there while I closed a beachfront deal.”

“The Pattaya Gold, huh?” Reggie squinted at the ceiling, pursing his lips. “That name rings a definite bell. Let me just check something.” He pulled out his smart phone and busied himself for a few moments while Devin stared at the untouched food on his plate.

Reggie looked up from his phone. “I thought so. That’s the one that was in the news last year. An American woman by the name of Jane Erwin disappeared from that very hotel. Caused a big stink in the international community. She’d checked in alone—her husband was to join her later in the month, once he’d finished up some business or other—but she apparently checked out four days after she’d arrived, according to the staff. Disappeared without a trace. The local police, notoriously corrupt, couldn’t find a single lead. The husband, at his wits end, hired a local private investigator who I happen to know, but I don’t think the guy made much headway either. Odds are pretty good she was sold off to one of the sex rings that run rampant in this country. Either that or she’s dead.”

“Oh my god. Do you think that’s what happened to Leah?” Devin heard the panic in his voice.

Reggie leaned forward, his expression serious. “These sex traffic rings are insidious. They mostly focus on local girls—girls who won’t be much missed, or whose families need the money so badly they just hand them over like chattel. But every once in a while you see a story in the paper about a European or American disappearing. Probably for every one that makes the news, there are two dozen others never reported.

“I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to find her! The police—”

“I wouldn’t waste any more time there,” Reggie interrupted. “I have a better idea. You should contact that PI I know—see whatever happened with that case. Maybe he could provide some direction.”

“What’s his name?”

“George Sirir-something or other I could never pronounce. Wait a second.” Shifting, Reggie reached into his jacket and extracted a long, narrow wallet. Opening it, he rummaged for a few moments. “Aha. Here it is. I have his card. He did some surveillance work for me in a couple of my stores where some employee theft was going on.”

Devin took the business card and read it:
George Siriratsivawong: Investigations. Discretion Assured.
“I won’t even try to pronounce that,” Devin said.

“We just call him George S.”

“I recognize that as a Thai surname, but George?”

Reggie shrugged. “His mother’s British, father is Thai. I’m afraid he’s more Thai than British when it comes to having his palm crossed with silver for information. I know he got pretty heavily involved in the investigation for a while there. No doubt the money, and hence his interest, dried up before anything came of it. Still, it’s a place to start. Just make sure you bring plenty of cash.”

Devin looked at the card again. “There’s a phone number but no address.”

Reggie nodded. “Yeah, he does a lot of bar girl checks. Discretion is the name of his game. He vets anyone before letting them get too close.”

“Forgive my ignorance, but what are bar girl checks?”

“A lot of guys who fly in regularly from abroad meet girls in the go-go bars. Most of these dancers are hookers on the side, which is where the real money is. Some of these blokes like to have one special girl when they come to town. They will pay for the girl’s rent and other stuff in exchange for a promise that she doesn’t step out with other guys for money while he’s away. But you know,” Reggie gave a broad wink, “once the cat’s away, the mice will play, especially when there are mouths to feed. These losers get suspicious and hire George to check out their bar girl’s story. They want to make sure they’re keeping their legs closed.”

“That sounds pretty sleazy to me,” Devin said.

Reggie shrugged. “Hey, this is Pattaya, not London. You want to find Leah, you’re gonna have to get down into the trenches with people who have connections and know the local scene.”

Devin already had his mobile out, more than ready to get down into the trenches if it meant finding Leah.

~*~

The room was elegant but austere, with a dark, shiny hardwood floor and pale gray walls with white trim molding. The space was windowless, lit by tall brass floor lamps. The only furniture in the room was a single chair made of black, shiny teakwood, and a circular raised dais covered with a black mat set directly in front of it.

Sitting in the chair was a tall, angular man with a shaved head and a black goatee and mustache. He wore a single, large diamond stud in one earlobe. His fingers, long and slender, were tented just below his chin, lending him a contemplative air. He was staring at Leah as she was brought into the room, his eyes dark and glittering, his expression inscrutable.

The guards lifted her onto the dais and stepped back a respectful distance. Leah stood on what she would have described as an auction block in front of the steward, feeling both frightened and ridiculous.

“Drop the robe and lift your hands behind your head.” He spoke in the same cultured, British accent as the man they referred to as Master, though there was more of a hint of what Leah guessed was his native Arabic in the guttural turn of his vowels and the way he rolled his r’s.

While Leah’s rational brain, which was highly sensitive to linguistic nuance, was busy identifying the man’s accent, it took a moment longer to process what he had just ordered her to do. Aware she had no choice in the matter, Leah let the silky robe fall from her shoulders. Lifting her arms, she clasped her fingers together behind her neck.

The man’s eyes moved slowly over her bare body, resting a while on her breasts before moving in a sweep over every inch. Leah felt thoroughly violated by his relentless gaze. “Turn to the right,” he ordered, and then, “Now to the left.”

Leah’s stomach burbled audibly and she felt suddenly light headed from hunger.
If you please him, he may invite you to dine with him.
Leah refused to contemplate the second half of the guard’s promise, or, rather, his threat, instead focusing her mind on the hope of food. If she pleased this man, this steward, she would get to eat. That was what mattered now—she had to get some food in her body to keep up her strength while she figured a way out.

“Turn completely around,” the steward ordered. He spoke in a quiet, almost lazy way, for some reason recalling to her mind
The Jungle Book
animated movie she’d loved as a child, when the evil snake Kaa had hissed, “trussssst in meeee,” to the unsuspecting Mowgli.

Leah turned, bringing the ever-present guards into her line of sight. The guards were standing with arms folded, like statues on either side of the door, their eyes straight ahead.

“Bend over and grab your ankles,” the steward ordered. Leah felt her cheeks flaming, but she did as she was told, reminding herself this was a means to an end, a way to stay alive.

In spite of her resolve to get through this, her legs and arms had begun to shake, fear, hunger and exhaustion taking their toll. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could maintain this embarrassing position and was greatly relieved when the steward said, “Stand and turn again to face me, arms at your sides.”

With relief, Leah straightened and turned slowly until she was again facing the steward. He sat back and tilted his head as he continued to scrutinize her. Leah wasn’t sure she could hang on much longer, being stared at as if she was an animal or a piece of furniture he was considering buying.

Finally he spoke. “Though imperfect, you are passable. With some work and training, you might be acceptable to the Master.” He stood, adding, “Put on your robe. I am going to break my fast. Would you care to join me?”

Leah had a sudden, vivid fantasy of whipping out a Samurai sword, like Uma Thurman in the movie,
Kill Bill.
She would leap from the dais, sword swinging, and lop off this arrogant man’s head. Then, whipping around, she would skewer both guards, running them through with the sword and pinning them, like shish kebob, to the wall.

Focus on what you can control. Food. He is offering food.

Bending down, she reached for the silk robe, pulling it over her shoulders and wrapping it around her body. “Yes, please,” she managed in what she hoped was a submissive tone. She cleared her throat, forcing herself to add, “Thank you, sir.”

The steward nodded slightly in the direction of the guards. Leah was lifted from the dais. The guards flanked her on either side as they followed the steward through a door that led into a second room.

Leah’s senses were at once assailed with the smell of roasting coffee. Sunlight was sparkling through a large window that faced the water. A circular table covered in white linen, like the one in the Master’s bedroom, was set for what looked like afternoon tea, or, in this case, coffee. There was a plate with peeled oranges and another piled with finger sandwiches filled with various pastes and vegetables. Beside them was a tray of what Leah recognized as baklava, a delicious pastry of filo dough, honey, cinnamon and walnuts. Next to the food sat two small china cups and a brass samovar Leah assumed held coffee.

There were two chairs, one on either side of the table. The steward sat down. Nearly faint with hunger, Leah started to sink into the other chair, but a firm hand pushed hard on her shoulder, forcing her to her knees.

The steward regarded her, lifting an eyebrow. “Untrained, impertinent American. Slaves never sit on furniture uninvited. You may kneel on the cushion.”

Fuck you, you arrogant prick!

Leah tried to keep her face impassive, aware by the man’s sudden frown that her anger had probably been obvious. She couldn’t fuck up now, not when she was so close to being given food. She scooted toward the flat silk cushion she now noticed on the floor beside the steward’s chair, taking small comfort that at least she wasn’t being required to kneel on the hard wood.