Page 113 of Taken Off Camera
His touch repulses me, each point of contact leaving trails of disgust across my flesh. He shoves the tank higher, exposing my chest to the chill air. My body betrays me with a shiver, and Travis interprets it as excitement.
“See how responsive he is?” He speaks to the camera now, a salesman showcasing his wares. The gun remains pressed to my side, hidden from the frame. “Premium grade Omega. Young, healthy, already proven fertile with regular Heats.”
The words slice through me. This isn’t just an assault, it’s an auction. My pulse races as the full horror sinks in. With Saint tied up and the ear comm gone, I could disappear into a trafficking networktonight, sold to the highest bidder while the Rockfords search in vain.
“Turn,” Travis commands, rotating me by the shoulders to display me from another angle.
I comply, mind racing beneath the mask of submission. The desk lamp sits within reach, its base heavy metal, but Travis remains too close, and the gun never wavers from my side.
“Full range of services,” he continues, licking his lips. “Trained in pleasing clients. Excellent online following. Minimal physical correction needed. You could put him to work right away to bring in a revenue stream.”
My throat constricts around bile as Travis trails fingers down my spine, coming to rest at the waistband of the satin shorts. The pressure of his hand threatens to tug them down, to expose more of me to the hungry lens.
“Come on, Elliot, why are you so stiff?” Travis uses a remote in his free hand to zoom the camera closer. “Show them how much you want this.”
The camera inches forward on its motorized track, lens adjusting with a soft whir. My breath comes in shallow gasps as Travis’s fingers hook into my waistband. One tug, and what little protection the thin fabric offers will be gone.
I stare at the tripod head I loosened earlier, but it’s taking longer to unbalance than I thought it would. If I can make the floor vibrate...
Travis’s hand slides lower, beneath the waistband, to grope me. “Perfect specimen,” he tells the camera. “Responsive to touch, compliant under Command.”
I shift my weight, a small movement disguised as discomfort. The board beneath the throw rug creaks, and the camera wobbles, its image blurring for the viewers.
Not enough.
“Stand still,” Travis hisses, removing his hand to grip my hip. “Don’t ruin the shot.”
“Sorry,” I whisper, playing up my fear to mask my intention. “I’m nervous.”
His posture softens. “You don’t need to be nervous, Elliot. You’re a natural performer. Show them what you showed me all those nights.”
His confidence screams delusional. He really believes we had private shows instead of just being one of hundreds in my feed.
I rock forward, onto the balls of my feet, then back to my heels. The floor vibrates under the subtle movement, and the camera’s image wobbles more noticeably this time.
Travis curses, attention diverted to the equipment. “What the hell?”
He steps away, just enough to check the feed on his laptop. His eyes narrow at the screen. “Why is the image is shaking?”
I hold my position, muscles coiled. Not yet.
“Cheap piece of crap,” Travis mutters, setting the gun down on the edge of the desk to free both hands for the camera.
As he turns his back to me, fingers working the tripod, my heart stutters in my chest. This is my chance.
The camera shifts again as Travis adjusts it, the movement more prominent as he jiggles the connections. “Hold on,” he tells our viewers. “Technical issue. We’ll resume in a minute.”
His back remains to me as he leans in to examine the tripod head, his attention on figuring out the problem. The gun lies on the desk, within reach but too far for a safe grab. The lamp, however...
My hand twitches at my side. One movement. That’s all I need. One surge of courage to seize this moment before it vanishes.
“There’s nothing wrong with this,” Travis grumbles, frustration evident as he checks eachconnection. He shakes the tripod, and the camera wobbles again. “What the hell is causing this?”
Now or never.
I inhale, gathering my courage. Saint would fight. Sebastian would fight. And so will I.
Travis curses again, his shoulders hunched forward as he leans in, blocking the lens with his body as he examines the connection point.
