Page 2 of Sold to Her Enemy

Tears well in my eyes as I think of my father and how much he would hate that I’m here. How he would have hated what’s happened to my mother and me in the past twelve months.

My grief is a live wire; not enough time has passed for anger not to come on the heels of the depth of sadness.

I’m angry that I’m here. And even though I’m sad that my father left us, that he didn’t stay to take accountability for what he did, I can’t be angry at him.

But I’m angry that the collection agencies won’t stop calling. Angrier that I spent eight years studying to make my dreams come true, and they were smashed on a sunny Friday afternoon because of another man’s greed.

I guess friendship didn’t count for anything, after all.

My father believed in opportunity, and even if this wasn’t on my fantasy card—something I never thought I’d do in a million years—I’m going to grab this opportunity because it’s a doorway to being able to do better.

I can take the wreckage of our lives and rebuild.

Even if I have to give myself over to a complete stranger.

After leaving work one night, I was approached by a scout who told me about Club Lust’s auction. If I wasn’t so tired from washing dishes, and my head was fuzzy with sadness and grief, I would have ignored him and the offer. But I went through with the process, diligently filling out the application.

Fortunately for me, Club Lust covered the of the physical and testing. I sat through the interview with Edward, the owner of the club, all while I was pretending to be someone else, not quite believing that this was actually happening to me.

The application and the interview for tonight were long and thorough, covering every known kink. It went over our background and asked all kinds of invasive questions. The kink-related ones were easy. I said yes to the tame ones: corporal punishments, impact play, and being used as a slave to orgasm denial and control. I said no to watersports and hell no to blood play, no pet play, kidnapping scenarios, and exhibition play. And no, to the other stuff, I wouldn’t consider like scat play.

I’m wet between my legs, thinking about the possibilities. Of some stranger touching me, degrading me, humiliating me.

I said yes to humiliation and objectification because I have survived the last twelve months, and I can’t think of anything more humiliating than having to drop out of college, our family’s name in the headlines, and my father’s legacy turned to dust. I said yes to face-slapping because what’s a slap against the pain that I wake up with every day?

I’m no stranger to kink. In my college days, when my life was carefree, I was kind of wild.

Not in the sense that I didn’t study; I knew I wanted to be a veterinarian when I was six years old, and I had the money and resources to make that dream happen.

I was wild in that I didn’t think the world could hurt me, and I changed partners faster than I changed socks. I discovered kinks and what I liked doing with a partner–or two–if the mood struck. When I knew what I liked–and what I wanted - I paid for those sexual experiences.

That felt safer than hooking up with classmates who might try to blackmail me or something worse.

I guess karma is laughing because the tables have turned. I’m the one who is offering my body in exchange for the money I desperately need. I couldn’t say no to the 500k.

The make-up artist flutters around my face, applying eyeshadow and reaching for the eyelash curler.

“What a great complexion,” she mumbles.

It’s amazing that my skin hasn’t dulled. I’ve tried to eat as healthily as possible with the tiny budget we’ve been surviving on. I touch my neck, wondering if wrinkles are appearing or if I’m just imagining things.

The make-up artist gently brushes off my touch.

“Sorry,” I say, wiping away a tear.

The make-up artist tuts and passes me a handful of tissues. “It’s okay, I can fix it. Not that I need to fix much.”

My pale green eyes gaze back at me in the mirror, and I smile because, to me, I look sad and haggard, the expression I’ve had ever since my father disappeared.

Since we found out, our gilded life was less secure than I thought.

I have to do this. Washing dishes in the back of the Italian restaurant downtown isn’t covering the bills. I want to sit the NAVLE, the exam you have to write and pass to become a licensed veterinarian.

The exam would have sealed my childhood dream if the Friday before I was scheduled to take it had not changed my life.

“There you’re all set. You could be on a cover.” The hair person gives my hair a spritz of something that smells like pear.

My green eyes are rimmed with brown eyeliner that matches my exaggerated curled lashes. And my hair is in soft, loose waves, falling below my breasts, tied back low.

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