Chapter 28: Trafficked Part 3

The caravan of motorcycles and pickup trucks formed a ring off the side of the highway, centered around that desolate well, its stone rim cracked and weathered like old bones under the fading sun. Some men hauled up buckets of water, the ropes creaking, while others hammered stakes into the dusty ground, pitching tents that flapped like ragged flags in the hot wind. The sun dipped low, painting the sky in bloody streaks of orange and purple, shadows stretching long across the scrubland, turning the camp into a circle of flickering silhouettes. Carlos shoved me toward the well, his hand rough on my shoulder, nails digging in. ‘Go clean up,’ he barked, voice gravelly from cigarettes and dust. ‘I want you to be clean for tonight’s entertainment.’ Then he laughed, a low, guttural sound that slithered down my spine. ‘You’ll probably get filthy again by the time we’re done with you.’

I stumbled over on wooden legs, my muscles still numb and protesting from the trailer’s confines, each step sending jolts up my calves. Dirt and sand and sharp rocks bit into the soles of my feet, grinding against the tender skin, drawing tiny beads of blood that mixed with the grime. A man—stocky, with a bandana tied around his sweat-slicked forehead—passed me a bucket sloshing with water, the surface rippling under the dying light. I dipped my face in first, the coolness shocking my overheated skin, washing away the crust of dried tears and snot. It was surprisingly clean, clear and crisp, not the muddy sludge I’d braced for. ‘There’s an underwater river here,’ he said, noticing my wide-eyed surprise, his voice casual like he was sharing weather talk. I cupped handfuls and splashed it over my body, the water cascading down my tanned skin, tracing the curves of my implants, pooling in the dips of my tattoos—’Whore’ on my cheeks stinging as it rinsed the salt from my face. I savored the chill against my piercings, the heavy rings in my nipples clinking softly, the flesh tunnels in my labia swaying with the motion. I rinsed my dry mouth, the forked tongue flicking out to lap at the droplets, resisting the desperate urge to gulp it down, knowing better than to beg for more.

After washing, I felt more alive, the fog in my head lifting just enough to sharpen the edges of my hunger. I walked over to Miguel, who was unloading crates from the pickup, his arms flexing under a faded bandido patch. ‘Is there any food?’ I asked, voice hoarse, my stomach twisting in knots. ‘I’m starving.’ I thought he’d be kinder—he’d given me the meth, after all—but he just grinned, wolfish, and pointed down at his crotch. ‘Have some sausage.’

I dropped to my knees without a word, the dirt warm and gritty under me, and fumbled with his zipper. His cock sprang free, thick and veined, already half-hard from the camp’s tension. I wrapped my lips around the head, sucking greedily, the salty tang of sweat filling my mouth as I bobbed, my forked tongue swirling along the underside. Some men stopped their tasks—hammering paused mid-swing, ropes dangling—and wandered over, boots scuffing the ground, eyes hungry on my bald head bobbing in Miguel’s lap. Carlos strode up then, his shadow swallowing me, and kicked me away hard, boot slamming into my ribs with a thud that cracked like thunder in my chest. Pain exploded, white-hot, sending me flying a few yards, tumbling into the dirt, rocks scraping my elbows raw.

‘Save it for later, slut,’ he snarled, looming over me. ‘I know you’re hungry for dick—you’ll get plenty of it soon.’ He yelled at the men, voice booming across the camp, ‘Hurry up and set up camp, then you can play!’

There was a blur of frenzied activity—tents snapping into place, fires crackling to life—as I slowly picked myself up, ribs throbbing with each breath, and sat down near the well, the stone cool against my ass. The sun sank faster now, the horizon swallowing it in a blaze that turned the sky bruised purple, the first stars pricking through like distant warnings. The men finished in record speed, the camp settling into a tense hum of anticipation. Carlos came to me, smirking, his eyes raking over my wet, shivering body. ‘I can see why the Hells Angels kept you—you have an effect on men.’ He unzipped his pants then, beckoning me with a crook of his finger. I got up, legs shaky, but he drew a knife from his belt, the blade glinting in the twilight, and I froze, heart slamming against my ribs.

‘On your hands and knees, slut,’ he ordered, voice low and lethal. ‘If I see you on your two feet, I’ll chop them off. You don’t need your feet to fuck.’

I dropped instantly, palms hitting the dirt, knees following, the rocks jabbing sharp into my skin. I crawled to him, elbows scraping, the ‘Slut’ tattoo on my forehead grinding against the ground with each inch. His cock waited, thick and demanding, and I took it into my mouth, sucking deep, throat working around him as he gripped my bald scalp, thrusting until tears streamed down my cheeks. He came hard, hot spurts flooding my mouth, and I swallowed every drop, the bitter salt coating my tongue.

Then he took a length of rope, coarse and fibrous, dividing it into five strands with quick knots. ‘This will help,’ he said, his tone mocking as he bent my arms at the elbows, forcing my hands to touch my shoulders, binding forearm to upper arm on both sides—the rope biting deep, fibers rasping against my skin like sandpaper. He did the same to my legs, pulling my feet to my butt, lashing lower legs to thighs, immobilizing me completely. Now I could only crawl on elbows and knees, the gravel and rocks cutting into the soft flesh there, drawing thin lines of blood that trickled warm down my arms. He wrapped the remainder around my neck like a noose, the loop loose for now, but with a sharp tug, it tightened, squeezing my throat until air starved my lungs. I struggled, body bucking uselessly, face turning bright red, veins bulging on my bald head, pounding like war drums, breath burning fire in my chest, vision spotting black. My head felt like it would pop, pressure building until stars burst behind my eyes. Then he let go, and I gasped, ragged and desperate, air rushing back in a whoosh that left me dizzy.

Miguel came over, holding out a small baggie, and gave me a bump of crystal meth, the powder sharp and chemical on my tongue. ‘To help you through tonight,’ he said, almost gentle, but his eyes were hard. The rush hit fast, an electric surge flooding my veins, sharpening everything—the pain in my ribs, the cuts on my elbows, the hunger gnawing deeper.