The blindfold was cut away and Bridgette stared into dead eyes surrounded by a black leather mask.
“Don’t pass out yet,” he rasped. “You thought I fucked your throat before, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
With endorphins rushing to the site, Bridgette barely felt pain as the man slid his cock into the bloody slit he carved into her throat. She felt pressure though as her cartilage began to crack, bloating as blood and trapped air bubbled. She faded to blackness just as the man pulled out and sprayed her face with loads of blood and semen.
“You got just what you wanted.” He whispered in her cold, dead ear. “And so did I.”
“Thank you, Mr. Black. I trust you enjoyed our pick.”
“Yes, perfect. Well worth the club dues. I sometimes ask myself why I pay so much to be a member and then, well, it’s mornings like these that remind me.”
The phone call ended and the charming man from Trans made a second call. “We need a clean-up crew at 1 Lexington Ave. The client is done.”
The man hung up the phone pleased with himself. He had created another perfect match. He only briefly wondered if the women—the thrill seeking, promiscuous women—, longing for the next high, found it when the client was through. They asked him for the roughest sex imaginable, they played with their lives on a daily basis; would this thrill be enough? Enough loss of control for them? Did his club push the boundaries enough for them? If death couldn’t provide it, then nothing would.
SECOND HAND GOODS
Natalie L. Sin
I acquired Bowie when he was fourteen years old. At least we think he was fourteen. Bowie told me that was how old his father said he was and showed me the tattoo on his right hip as proof: 10-4-91. As far as I was concerned, the tattoo only proved that Bowie’s dad was a bigger piece of shit than I had given him credit for.
If there’s one thing I know, it’s shit fathers. Granted, I never met my biological one. My stepfather was the only father figure I ever had. He used to come into the bathroom while I was taking a bath, grab my hair and shove me under water. I don’t think he wanted to kill me. He got off on watching me think I was going to die. A world class douchebag, no question. Next to Bowie’s father, on the other hand, my stepdad was fucking Mike Brady.
Though I never saw Bowie leave the apartment, I heard him getting beaten all the time. More nights than not, I fell asleep hoping the Doberman across the hall would break into the apartment and tear Bowie’s dad’s throat out. Unfortunately, Winky, the Doberman pinscher, was about as lethal as a hamster. I once saw him run away from a squirrel when he was out for a walk with his pothead owner. Calling the landlord wouldn’t have done anything either. The guy never left the first floor, despite also being the building super. Once a month, I slipped an envelope with the rent in it under his door for the privilege of having to fix my own plumbing and cockroach problems.
If I was younger, or more naive, I would have called the cops. At twenty, I knew better. Assuming any police did show up, it wouldn’t have been happily ever after for Bowie. He would end up in foster care which, based on what I’ve heard, isn’t much better than the situation he was already in. Maybe that was all stereotypes and misinformation, but I wasn’t about to bet on it. Then one day the noise stopped. For three nights straight, I didn’t hear a peep from the next apartment: No beating, no tirades about how Bowie was a fucking waste of skin who was lucky to be alive. Nothing. I figured they moved. Maybe times got hard, and Bowie’s dad didn’t have money to pay the rent. I felt bad for Bowie, and more than a little guilty. When they were in the building, I could tell myself that if things got too crazy I would do something. Having that shred of control let me tell myself I was a decent person. With Bowie gone, all I could do was wonder how much worse life would get for him.
The knocking started on the fourth day. It came from the other side of my bedroom wall in sets of five, with a quick break in between sets. I walked up to the wall, to get the attention of whoever was making the commotion.
“Hello?” I asked.
The knocking stopped abruptly. I waited, but no one said anything back.
“Can you hear me? If you can hear me, knock again.”
One knock. This time I could tell it was coming from somewhere close to the floor.
“Are you all right? Knock once for yes, twice for no.”
I felt ridiculous, like someone in a bad spy movie. Then two knocks came back, loud and firm, and it started to feel a lot less silly.
“Are you alone?” I asked.
One knock. Then two knocks, close to together.
“Does that mean you don’t know?”
One knock. I decided that was enough; I was going over there. On the chance that it was Bowie’s dad, playing some kind of sick joke, I brought my mother’s electric turkey slicer. It was one of the few things she left behind, after my stepdad left and she went after him. That was almost ten years ago, and the checks from the government were still coming in the mail. I considered them the rest of my inheritance.
The door to Bowie’s apartment was locked, but it was a low quality one. The kind that would inspire most people to invest in a dead bolt. Like me, however, Bowie’s dad was cheap. I had the door open in no time, using two flattened soda cans with the ends cut off. The inside of the apartment was eerily immaculate. Everything was spotless, there wasn’t even a stray magazine on the floor, and the whole place had a fresh pine scent. I had passed Bowie’s dad a few times in the hallway and never pegged him for a clean freak.
Bowie was in the bedroom. His wrists were handcuffed behind his back, with the chain between the cuffs looped to a larger chain attached to the heater. Bowie’s mouth was taped shut, leaving only his feet to tap out their rough SOS against my bedroom wall. I could smell urine in the air, though it seemed he was able to refrain from any other bodily functions. Given how skinny he was, it might not have been much of a struggle. He looked scared when he saw the electric knife, so I tossed it onto the bed before I went to take the tape off his mouth.
Bowie said he didn’t know how long he had been there, other than “a few days.” Nor was he sure if his dad had been gone the whole time or if he was punishing Bowie for something.
“This isn’t punishment,” I told him. “This is fucking disgusting.”
I think he fell in love with me right then. I didn’t notice at the time; how do you tell when a fourteen-year-old gives his heart to you? Plus I was a tad distracted with figuring out how to get the handcuffs off. The key turned up in a change bowl, by the front door. Bowie was so light, that I was able to scoop him off the floor and carry him back to my apartment.
I had to keep him. I was afraid what would happen to Bowie, if I sent him away. I told him he could be my roommate, since I didn’t know what else to think of him as. I sure as hell didn’t think of him as my kid and looking at him as a little brother felt creepy. It took forever to convince Bowie that his father wasn’t fucking with him. It was simple science I explained, as weeks went by with no sign of the guy. The human body couldn’t stay chained to a heater indefinitely. Whatever happened to Bowie’s dad, he wasn’t expecting to come home and find his son alive.
Even after Bowie stopped jumping at shadows, there were other problems. Physically, he wasn’t that bad off. Regular meals and a bed to sleep in had him a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier within a year. Other matters required more time and patience: Bowie was completely illiterate, had never attended school, and appeared to have been socially isolated since birth.
I could only do so much education wise. While I did well in school, my parent’s disappearance forced me to drop out and made college a pipe dream. I managed to teach Bowie to read and write, and covered the rest with old National Geographic tapes and a set of children’s encyclopedias that I bought at a thrift shop. Bowie also watched a lot of television. We didn’t have cable, so selections were limited, but he seemed to really enjoy PBS.
