An: So after much deliberation (not really) I decided to give this new story the go-ahead. I have to thank LittleCandyMan's Taming the Giant Blonde Shemale for some of the inspiration. If you have no idea what the hell I'm talking about, I suggest you either read that amazing story or disregard it completely. Anyway in regards to this story, it will be relatively dark but full of Charah from the very beginning. I'm delving into some uncomfortable issues—human trafficking, torture, rape, Stockholm Syndrome, PTSD and everything else I can possibly throw into the mix. The time period takes place from 2002 (flashbacks) to the present which is the spring of 2003. Be mindful of that.
As I have no beta, all my mistakes are my own. Whether that'd be spelling, grammatical, terrible attempts at foreign languages, or anything else is up to be determined.
Now please enjoy and review if you'd like! I'm counting on positive feedback to determine whether I continue this story or not!
Chapter One: Fear & Loathing
"At first sight, they have changed eyes,"—Shakespeare, the Tempest.
Sarah Walker had plenty of stamps in her passport and this was just the latest addition to her ever growing collection. As a spy, traveling was just a necessity of the job, which usually meant she was never in one place for too long. She'd be off somewhere entirely new the instant a mission was over, success or failure. There was no time in between destinations. Her briefings occurred mostly in transit to the next location. This was usually was very demanding, and rarely fulfilling. Sarah figured she'd get used to it eventually. It'd be awfully selfish of her to complain about any of these trivial inconveniences. The CIA was paying for the expenses—the mode of transportation, hotel fees, a wardrobe if necessary. The fact of the matter was that she had been given a choice: go to prison, or be a spy. She picked the latter option of course, now enjoying a glamorous and adventurous lifestyle for five years and counting. If she couldn't escape the law, she might as well join and learn to embrace it. The price for her chosen path was to go on these missions abroad; either to thwart the plans of a terrorist organization, or oust a crazy dictator from a position of power. She frequently had to force herself to believe that the perks definitely outweighed the sacrifices, her Red Test notwithstanding.
It had been several months since the final exam, which she had passed with flying colors. It was the last step in what was a painstakingly long and arduous process to begin with. She was a real, certified spy now. It was a title that sparked certain resentment. The implications for what she had done to earn her position in the CIA were horrific. The Red Test in particular. She had murdered someone in cold blood. Someone with a name, a family, loved ones and a life. The mark she killed had everything Sarah didn't. She robbed that poor woman of that, and left her corpse on the streets of Paris.
Sarah realized that even though this part of her life was now behind her, it was too still too early to forget it. Yet it was too late to dwell on the outcome. What happened, happened. But no length of time could lessen the pain inflicted upon her by the memory itself. The guilt haunted her dreams which were then transformed into reoccurring nightmares. It was impossible to block those images of that cold and fateful night, and they seemingly had made a permanent residence in the dark recesses her brain. Regret and shame. These emotions were foreign to her. Then again, emotions in a general sense were always strange and unfamiliar ground.
She was usually so in control. Not much fazed her. So how could she explain the remorse she felt? The hopelessness? Sometimes she feared she'd drown in the suffering if it became too overwhelming. It was borderline pathetic. Sarah knew she needed to reconcile with her actions and move forward. The problem was she didn't know how. There was no one to talk to. She lacked the emotional availability to open up anyway. It was common knowledge that the CIA offered psychiatric counseling, but Sarah didn't want to discuss her innermost feelings with a random stranger. Nothing would get accomplished other than her being worse off than before. Thinking she was insane or something.
There was another option. It was a long shot though. Sarah had friends, or whatever the spy equivalent of friends was. They made up her team: the Clandestine Attack Team, abbreviated as the CAT Squad. Sarah remembered rolling her eyes when Graham first introduced her to the squad. It was a silly name for the so-called best female agents in the business. But aside of a questionable acronym, the CAT's were her sisters. They were just like her. So they had to understand what she was going through. Then again neither of them were much 'talkers' rather than 'doers.' Chances weren't in her favor if she did decide to tell them of her nightmares and guilty conscience. They'd brand unsuitable for field work. Emotionally compromised. Weak. The list would go on…
It just wasn't a good idea to talk. Period. The last thing Sarah wanted was to have her team question her performance. To doubt her judgment. To think she wasn't cut out for this. She was a spy whether she liked it or not. Maybe to get beyond this rough patch she had to roll with the punches. She had to immerse herself in work. Then after enough missions where her body count would rise, and her reputation would grow, there could be a possibility that the Red Test would fade into the background like it never happened.
Until then, Sarah forced her mind back to the present. There were more pressing matters to tend to. She had to put her personal issues on hold. Be on top form. With a sigh, she cut her inner musings short. Tonight was the night. It was a new place, a new mission, a new distraction.
It was just another new stamp in her passport.
She gripped the straps of the harness as the compartment gave another lurch. Knuckles bled white. Face had long gone pale. Teeth clenched together. Her entire body prepared for impact. The seatbelts fastened diagonally across her chest had been useless to prevent her from being battered around. All of this turbulence was rough and unexpected. She tried withstanding the nauseating effects with eyes shut tight. Waiting until the plane would descend to its designated altitude.
The entire flight from Washington DC to Rio de Janeiro had been rocky and especially terrifying. It was predicted to be a smooth ride for the majority of the trip. However the pilot discounted for the torrential downpour that formed the instant they approached the Atlantic Ocean, crossing the furthermost corner of the fabled Bermuda Triangle. Fortunately the weather improved. The storm had calmed down significantly. There was no trace of its destruction save for the violent winds and slight drizzle of rain. Passing over the equator had lent in part to their survival. The plane was now hovering somewhere above in the Brazilian skyline. The night was virtually cloudless and crisp, the perfect conditions for freefall.
Sarah glanced out of the window and assessed the clear skies herself. Thank god for erratic weather…
The pilot shouted over the intercom: "We're at fifteen thousand feet. This is where you ladies get off!"
Sarah braced herself again. The emergency exits automatically flung wide open. A vicious airstream then circulated throughout the plane's compartment. She could feel the forceful winds trying to suck her out into suspended space. All that kept her stabilized was the seatbelts presently digging into her ribcage.
"Alright I can see Rio in its entire splendor," announced one of the CAT's dryly. They were all dressed identically so Sarah wasn't sure who spoke. She assumed it was Carina by the sarcastic tone. "When we jump, don't deploy the chute till about five thousand feet. Aim for the coastline so there's no chance anybody will see us when we land."
The two other CATs nodded diligently. It was Zondra and Amy. Sarah also acknowledged the instructions with a lame attempt at giving the thumbs-up. She was the youngest member of the squad though she sometimes it didn't always appear that way. Nevertheless, this was her first attempt at skydiving solo. She did it plenty of times back at the CIA training facility. That was practice. This was real. A sudden lightheadedness overcame her when Sarah staggered to an upright stance. She hated altitude sickness.
"You doing ok, Walker?" asked Carina. Despite the black attire she wore, her blue eyes sparkled with amusement.
"I'm fine," grumbled Sarah before she was attacked by a bone-crushing hug. Amy held her in the fierce embrace, which accounting for her petite stature was an impressive feat.
Amy reassured her above roar of the wind. "Sarah, don't worry. Everything will be fine! Look, we'll go first and then you just follow what we do exactly!"
It was Zondra who lost her patience first. "Amy, will you let Walker go? We're wasting time here."
After the small blondee spy released Sarah, she dutifully returned to Zondra's side. Carina simply rolled her eyes. Meanwhile Sarah adjusted her harness as a blush creeped into her face. Luckily no one could see it because of the outfit. Good thing too since she didn't think she could handle anymore embarrassment.
"Let's get this show on the road," spoke Zondra.
Carina hung by the opening in the plane. Her gloved hands planted firmly on either side of the door. She faced the CATs, her back to the expanses of the sky. "See yah on the flipside, girls!" Once she vanished into the darkness, Zondra followed suit. Then Amy, who gave Sarah a final comforting look, tumbled off the plane as well.
"Well here goes nothing," mumbled Sarah. Inhaling a mouthful of oxygen, she took a running start and proceeded to fling herself into the air before plummeting towards the ground far below.
The city of Rio de Janeiro was alive. It was like everyone had abandoned their little corners of the world to be there. Both locals and foreigners alike occupied the streets. There was music and parades of all kinds. People were dressed in their native garb, dancing on the sidewalks, the roads, everywhere. Space was virtually nonexistent. Partygoers were shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart. The festivities brought upon such an incredible diversity. It was beautiful chaos and a sight to behold.
This was Carnival and Sarah had never seen anything quite like it before. She had taken the liberty over the course of the flight to do some research on the annual celebration. It was Brazil's most famous holiday, dealing with the farewell of past misfortune and the rebirth of new, bright beginnings. The notion of redemption struck at chord in Sarah. It made her hopeful for some odd reason. Maybe coming onto this mission wasn't a mistake after all.
After the CAT squad safely landed onto the sandy beaches of Rio, they had stripped from their combat attire and harnesses into something a bit more comfortable. Sarah had remarked how the entrance was a bit unnecessary. Carina pointed out that with the commotion caused by the festivities; it was the perfect distraction for the jet to fly over unnoticed and for a safe insertion into the country. This was to be a covert mission. Nobody should be aware of their presence.
Zondra further impressed the nature of the assignment. There was a short time frame; twenty-four hours at most if the transaction didn't unfold in a timely manner. The objective was the simple run of the mill procedure. A terrorist group known as the Gentle Hand had surfaced in Rio, Brazil. Their intention was to steal government weapons, usually in Latin America, to then sell them to the highest bidder on the Black Market. They were glorified arms dealers but the leader of the Gentle Hand, Augusto Gaez, had just acquired nuclear components from Costa Gravas. If sold to the wrong person, the implications could be catastrophic. That was reason enough for Director Graham to put the CAT squad on the job. Sarah would pose as a potential buyer and then convince Gaez to follow through with the deal. There was already a meeting set between the two at the club the Gentle Hand used as a front for their terrorist activity. Once she finalized the agreement and the weapons were intercepted, hopefully along with the arrests of Gaez and his men, then they'd be extracted that following day.
Carina had said, "It'll be a piece of cake."
And Sarah was inclined to agree with her.
The Baronetti was the name of the fancy, popular nightclub. After bypassing the crowd, the CAT's arrived to the establishment to find it packed; a cluster of those who waited nearby, eager to enter. The line snaked down the length of the street and around a corner that emptied into another alleyway. Carina assessed this with justified distain while Sarah and the others remained mute, totally caught off guard by the sheer mass of people.
"I'm not going to wait in line all night," said the redhead.
Zondra raised a brow. "What do you think we should do then? Beat the guards unconscious and take the side entrance?"
Amy smiled brightly at the idea. "Let's do it!"
"That would attract too much attention in case we're caught and make a scene," spoke Sarah pragmatically. She was eyeing the front entrance. It was blocked off with red velvet ropes and a giant man who was undoubtedly the bouncer. "Since I'm the one undercover, I have to get inside at all costs."
The CAT's were reluctant to agree.
"How do you propose you'll do that?" asked Carina. She wasn't happy about her role being reduced to just back-up. Zondra and Amy appeared to concur with her sentiments.
"I guess I'll have to work my magic then," shrugged Sarah.
"Don't get cocky," warned Zondra.
Sarah just gave her a dazzling smile. "Trust me, I've got this."
The three spies accepted this and retreated towards the back of the line. This left Sarah alone and at the outskirts of the nightclub. She gauged the bouncer for a moment and mentally prepared herself to seduce him if necessary. She needed access inside and if it meant acting a little suggestive, then so be it.
"Hello," she greeted flirtatiously. "I believe that I have prior engagements with the owner tonight."
The bouncer narrowed his gaze, undeterred. "Give me a name, or get to the back of the line….miss."
Sarah inwardly huffed, asshole. "My name is Sarah Walker and I'm here for Augusto Gaez. May I please go inside?"
"Let me check if your name is on the list," replied the bouncer. He lifted the clipboard up to his eyes and began skimming the long list of attendees.
Sarah waited impatiently for the illiterate bouncer to find her name. It was there. If Gaez had remotely any interest in their deal, and upheld his agreement to a meeting between them on this very night, then she was on that damn list.
Please, please don't let this be some cruel trick. She found herself praying when the bouncer flipped to the second page. I will officially be the worst spy in the world if I can't get past a stupid bouncer into a nightclub.
Her internal monologue was interrupted when she felt somebody knock into her. A voice snapped: "Manter em movimento!" (Keep on moving!)
Sarah unconsciously touched the spot on her shoulder where she had been hit. She whirled around and saw a man dressed in a standard guard uniform pulling another by a medium-length leather rope. She had to give a double take to make sure she wasn't imagining things. But what she saw before her was abundantly clear. The guard (who was definitely one of Gaez's men) had stopped in front of Sarah, cutting in between her and the bouncer. They began exchanging conversation in quick Portuguese. Sarah chose to ignore the dialogue since Portuguese wasn't a language she was fluent in. She focused on the younger man standing a mere foot ahead of her instead.
Sarah couldn't get a decent look at him. He had his head bowed, eyes downcast. Shaggy brown hair fell over his face to cover his despondent gaze. He smelt strong of sweat and blood. She had the terrible realization that the blood was his own. It made her stomach curl in disgust. He wore clothes that were too big for him, odd since he was extremely tall but his lanky frame couldn't compensate for the wide-set shirt and pants. It hung off of him like excess skin. The only article of clothing that looked moderately acceptable was the pair of Converse shoes. The material was faded somewhat with crusted droplets of blood that tainted the white soles, but it was in better shape than anything else he wore.
What caught her attention (and disdain) the most was the collar the young man wore strapped around his neck. Its leash was in the guard's firm grasp. With every tug, the collar acted like a choker. It forced the poor boy to comply with the guard's commands; reminiscent of how a dog would act to an abusive owner. He lifted his head slightly and Sarah finally caught a brief glimpse of his appearance. He had been beaten severely and how he was standing upright and conscious was a mystery to her. The black eye and split lip filled Sarah with unbridled rage. When she heard his shallow and uneven breaths she knew he was barely holding on, hardly alive.
The boy noticed Sarah staring at him and he craned his neck just so he could meet her gaze. He looked at her with such awe that it made her heart twist into knots. She had remembered seeing this same depressing scenario before in Thailand. The boy was a slave. It was acknowledged that Brazil had a problem with human trafficking for the last twenty or so years. Such a terrible issue was left unresolved or dealt with. It bothered Sarah to consider the unusualness of the Gentle Hand, a terrorist group, involving itself with the slave trade. Why would they incorporate this into their repertoire? It both confused and terrified her to contemplate what the reasons might be.
The boy hadn't quit staring at her. Sarah feared that she wouldn't be able to forget his face. It would be another burden to weigh on her already heavy conscience. First the nameless woman she had killed in Paris, and now him. She frowned, lip trembling in recollection. The boy observed her dramatic change in countenance with sorrowful eyes. His brown orbs reflected hers. They were memorizing and Sarah suddenly found herself conjuring a wonderful smile that would accompany his gorgeous eyes.
If he'd only smile, she mused softly. But why would he? Sarah frowned, deep in thought. She was too preoccupied to notice that the boy was giving her the strangest look. When fixing him with another glance, she saw the mix of disbelief and slight amusement overcame his features. Sarah merely blushed and averted her gaze. Why was she so fascinated by him? From the corner of her eye, she saw the boy had gotten equally flustered and busied himself with something on the ground.
Then the stern voice of the guard broke them apart. "Oi, vamos!" (Let's go!) He snarled and the boy nearly jumped into the air with fright. Sarah watched as he received a sharp tug of the leash, causing him to gasp when the collar tightened around his throat. He gave her a final, pleading look before he was dragged from the vicinity, disappearing into the nightclub.
She was too stunned to realize that the bouncer was addressing her. "Miss Walker, I found you on the list. Sorry for the delay, got sidetracked."
Blinking furiously, Sarah leveled her gaze to the burly man. He didn't seem too apologetic. "It's alright, no harm done," she almost whispered.
The bouncer nodded. He unclipped the velvet rope that blocked the doorway and motioned for her to enter. Sarah wordlessly crossed into the threshold of the club, feeling spacey and uncoordinated. Her mind was clouded with thoughts about the boy. Rather than wanting to locate Gaez for their meeting, she preferred to track down the curly-headed stranger instead.
Despite being forcefully dragged inside the nightclub, the boy was able to catch a second glimpse of the woman. She had followed him and the guard past security and into the crowded dance floor. He presumed that she was in Rio to celebrate Carnival as was most of Latin America, if not a big chunk of the world. He also bet that his broken appearance was what piqued her curiosity, or disdain, as well as the collar/leash combo his kidnappers used to restrain him. Neither was much of a fashion statement nor were they inconspicuous. He looked like he'd just gone three rounds with a heavy weight boxing champ, and felt like a dog with mange. The locals would usually ignore him because of this. Or on occasion they'd acknowledge him with looks of shame or disgust. This woman had surprised him however. Her perfect features contorted in an expression he hadn't seen in nearly a year. It was of concern and…pity?
That'd be a first, he thought bitterly. The black eye that the guard had given him stung terribly. Even blinking caused for a wince; the afterimage of the bronze-knuckled fist colliding with it his face burned fresh. Now he felt himself trembling at the memory. I must've taken a worse beating that usual if I'm delusional enough to think that someone like her could possibly care about me. Nobody cares here. They're too afraid to.
The distance between the boy and the mysterious blonde stretched until he was on the far end of the club floor. She stood amongst the masses; a stark contrast to those who surrounded her. Florescent lights hung from the ceiling and filtered below, enveloping her in spectrum of color. She seemed so divine among the dreary locals. Her porcelain skin shimmered as did the purple halter dress she wore so effortlessly. The boy had trouble taking his eyes off of her. It was like he'd fallen under a spell. Most of those with a Y chromosome (and even a few women) were allured by her presence as well. She did not walk in any mortal way. Slow and sensual, she parted the crowd as if it was the Red Sea. Her golden curls bounced with the slightest sway of her hips. As she approached the boy, he gradually lost his bearings on reality. All the while, he began to wonder how she could make his heart burn, and then beat so furiously.
While he was mesmerized by her beauty, the boy was unaware that he had been ignoring the guard for some quite time. The leather collar strapped around his neck continued to tighten, digging into bare skin until droplets of blood trickled from a shallow cut in his throat. Uncontrollable throbbing followed by a frightening choking sensation wasn't anything new. It served mostly as a brief distraction. Only when a pair of sapphire eyes settled on him like crosshairs was he left completely breathless. His entire world suddenly came to a screeching halt on account of her. They held gazes for a second time and it felt like an eternity before breaking contact.
"Eu disse para passar! Agora!" (I said to move! Now!)
He felt another sharp tug of his collar, so hard that he fell onto his hands and knees. Even with music blaring, he could hear the surrounding bystanders laugh at his expense. The guard cackled, "Veja, você pertence no chão como o cachorro que você é." (See, you belong on the ground like the dog you are.)
The boy's morale had been shattered, and so he acquiesced to the guard's ridicule. He knew his place in this unforgiving, godforsaken place. To survive, he had to endure all sorts of abuse: physical, mental, and verbal. Sometimes all at once if his kidnappers were feeling particularly malicious. He was pretty much living in the equivalent of hell on earth. No exaggeration. He couldn't fight back, so most of his responses would consist in grudging silence. Speaking without permission often resulted in severe beatings. Defiance was what got most of the slaves killed. He'd been lucky (or unlucky depending on the point-of-view) to just have been unconscious for a couple of days with multiple contusions and broken bones that would mend eventually. His fractured ribs were still healing from his last unfortunate confrontation. The boy should've learned by now to just keep his mouth shut, but being stubborn was an inherent trait.
"Levanta-te, vamos lá!" (Get up, let's go!) The guard commanded, pulling the leash so the boy had no choice but to obey. Nails dug into the tiles as he struggled to push upward. His mind conjured a plan of escape while his body was in a state of panic. Fight or flight. Was it possible to subdue the guard and make a run for the exit?
He doubted it. It was a great risk but worth a shot if he was to succeed. The probability of death was high and any chance of freedom was unlikely. A few months ago, a fellow slave tried to escape. She managed to get outside into the jungle terrain but in the end was unable to hop the fence that led to the city. After she was tangled in the barber wire, the guards had caught up to her. A hail of gunfire ripped her body to shreds. Then they left her corpse there as a warning to anyone else who contemplated leaving. She was only thirteen, a child. Her death was just another visual ingrained into his memory. It was one that he desperately wished to forget.
The memory paralyzed him with fear. It was recent enough to prevent him from escaping. The thought of suffering in the same manner as the girl was a terrifying picture to paint. His only ray of hope came in the form of the woman who waded in the sea of people, like an oasis in the midst of a desert. If he were to reach out to touch her, would she disappear? She hardly seemed real. It wouldn't surprise him if he were imagining her existence. All of these beatings he withstood should have fucked him up by now. Why he hadn't gone completely mad was beyond him. Maybe he had and never realized it?
Then the blondee goddess standing right in front of him was an apparition devised by his broken psyche.
She wasn't real.
It reminded him of when his sister would visit his cell every night. She'd comfort him with soft spoken words. Promising him that someday he'd be saved. He would go home. To live again. She would even hold him as he cried himself to sleep. By daybreak there would be no trace of her existence. She was a hallucination and he was alone once again.
So was this woman; a beautiful twist of his imagination.
At least my brain is creative, He mused idly. I've never seen someone so gorgeous before. Even my dreams aren't this vivid. She's an angel—
Suddenly, the swift and hard impact of the guard's steel toe to his chest (then the sickening crunch of his ribs) caused the boy to cave mid-thought. His angel with the golden tendrils blurred till a faint halo hovered above her head. Then his vision betrayed him completely. When an agonized scream tore from his throat, the club's music was drowned out by his cries. He eventually doubled over and finally collapsed onto the floor.
For several moments there was only silence. Then the music resumed; booming with the live performance from a local band and of course, more senseless laughter. The boy came to with the sound of ridicule assaulting his eardrums. He was curled in the fetal position, gasping for air. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. Blood trickled from his split lip when he accidentally bit his tongue. The warm metallic taste was nauseatingly familiar. He spit a mouthful of blood on the tiles which garnered a groan of disgust from the crowd. The boy was punished with a second kick to his lower back. He coughed up more blood and then almost passed out altogether.
This was it.
Just one last well-placed kick and he'd be a goner.
Please don't leave me like this, he pleaded. He knew how his kidnappers' favorite pastime was to beat him within an inch of his life. They wouldn't kill him outright or treat his injuries. He'd simply be left to suffer. It was the worst kind of torture; to realize he was too helpless and weak to save himself. Not again. I can't. Let this. Happen again…
His thoughts became clipped and fragmented. Even his brain was too exhausted to formulate a coherent sentence. Consciousness was beginning to fade. He felt his body no longer ache. It slid into comfortable numbness instead. The boy was ready to welcome the darkness with opens arms.
It was at that moment time seized again. When she spoke, unearthly voices sang in unison. "What are you doing?"
It was fierce and demanding. The boy was alerted by the delightful, yet terrifying sound. When his eyes drew apart, he saw his angel approach the guard. "How dare you treat him like this? He's a human being for god's sake! What gives you the right? You're disgusting!"
The boy silently marveled. She's real then…? It was unbelievable to hear somebody actually defend him. After a year of constant humiliation and abuse, any semblance of kindness was a ridiculous notion. No one respected a slave. They were the lowest of the low. Inhuman. Scum. That was common logic. Although logic didn't seem to apply to her.
"Ma'am," the guard spoke in broken English. "I apologize for offending you. I am only doing my job and this piece of filth deserves to be mistreated. We had found him taking advantage of an underage girl, so I was only doing my duty as—"
The woman never left him finish. "Bullshit," she spat. "Regardless what this man has supposedly done, he does not deserve to be treated so inhumanely. It's not your duty to strap collars on people like they were animals or beat them senseless just for your own cruel amusement."
It didn't come as a great surprise when her brashness had the guard drop all pretenses. His eyes narrowed, he replied matter-of-factly. "This isn't America. We don't coddle the scum that invades our country. Get used to it."
Her reply was cold. "I hope your boss knows what you're doing won't be tolerated."
The guard rolled his eyes. "My boss won't give a shit what you think."
"Lopes!"
The boy shivered at the voice. He did not need to see the man's face to know exactly who it was. Master, he thought fearfully. His heart began to race, causing his wounded ribs to rattle painfully in his chest.
The woman folded her arms as she watched the arrival of his Master with a cool demeanor. Her eyes flickered briefly to the boy. When he stared at her blankly, her features softened a touch. He still couldn't fathom why she hadn't disappeared in a puff of smoke or in blinding rays of light.
The nicely dressed Latino man strolled across the club floor with almost as much command as the woman had. When he came between the boy and his angel, the guard saluted him.
"What is going on here?"
"I was on my way to our meeting, Mr. Gaez," the woman interjected. "But then I stumbled upon one of your men beating this poor boy. Maybe I'm just old-fashioned, but this is hardly acceptable."
Augusto Gaez nodded. "You are right, Lopes was off the reservation. I am deeply sorry you had to see that...ah Miss Walker, is it?"
Miss Walker didn't seem convinced by the halfhearted answer. She nodded absently, still focused on the guard, Lopes. "The least you can do is help him up."
The guard shot her a dirty glance but obeyed nonetheless. He grabbed the boy by the waist and heaved him up to his feet. Body shaking, he lifted his gaze to Miss Walker and gave her a questioning look. She spared him a slight smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Miss Walker, it is a pleasure to finally meet you in person. Now that we seem to have that out of the way," Gaez resumed in his professional tone. "We have some business to attend to. Do we not?"
"Yes we do," she agreed. Her eyes never left the boy even as they began to walk towards the private VIP rooms. "But I prefer if you'd call me Sarah, we're pass formalities now."
Even though it was his Master who acknowledged Sarah's request, the boy had a feeling that she was addressing him personally. The corners of his split lip twitched into the makings of a smile. This was the first time he felt something akin to happiness since the initial kidnapping. It melted the despair gripping his heart, the warmth filling him with some semblance of hope.
The guard watched the boy levelly. He noticed the change in his countenance and gripped the leash and yanked it roughly. The boy tipped forward and nearly fell for a second time. Fortunately he recovered his balance, but not before the guard could pull him so fast that he suffered from whiplash.
He gagged as the collar dug into his neck. Now a safe distance apart from Miss Walker and his Master, the guard brought the boy close to him. He whispered into his ear, "Don't think for one second that just because this bitch is around, she'll save your worthless ass. Once she's gone, things will return to the way they were. So don't get too comfortable, meu amigo."
The boy gave a small nod. His expression throughout the threat remained stoic and unflinching. Lopes accepted this and diverted his attention elsewhere. While he was too busy ogling at the exotic dancers, it gave the young slave a moment of reprieve.
Maybe he was losing his mind. Never before did he feel so reinvigorated, so hopeful. It had to be the angel's doing. Miss Walker, the boy corrected himself, Sarah. He truly believed that she was sent here with the purpose to find him. To save his life. She was going to get him out of here. He'd be free.
He'd finally be able to go home.
An: So….what did you think? It's obvious who the slave boy is. But how did get himself into this terrible predicament? Don't worry since I have the answer to all your questions! Beware since this story borderlines Mature for violence and *some* sexual content that hopefully won't be to explicit. I'm not here to offend anyone….
Here are some notes: The Brazilian Carnival is a real event. The nightclub Baronetti is real as well (yay for research!) but I don't know Portuguese and I doubt that Google Translator does as well. Please forgive me Portuguese readers. I spent a lot of time researching the issue of global human trafficking, so expect some *interesting* tidbits in future installments. The quote at the beginning of the chapter is from Shakespeare's last play, The Tempest. I had to read it for my Core Humanities course at the university and actually enjoyed it. Basically, it means love at first sight. Finally, I love kinky things, and slave!Chuck is one of them. Deal.
I also cannot impress the importance of reviewing. It is my lifeblood. They are the souls to my Castiel, if you will. Only I won't degenerate if I engulf too many...although my ego might inflate just a tiny bit…