More Than She Asked For: The Experience

"Yo." Rocket raises his hand in a dismissive greeting. He's sitting casually in a large chair, looking and acting like the movie image of thug.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. O'Neill. Shall I call you Rocket?"

He smiles at me. "Mr. O'Neill be real nice."

Grrrr.

We're in a grungy room in the back of a grungy building. For all I know, this is an abandoned bullding and we're trespassing. I'm standing in front of him, nervous about everything -- him, being here, what I want to do, not knowing if it's even possible. I'm trying to be professional. "The reason I'm here is --"

"Nobody said 'bout you being so young." Interrupting me; the one lamp casts shadows across his face and leaves the corners of the room dark.

I'm 21, which makes me young for a successful first-time author. I'm sensitive about that. "My age is not an issue, Mr. O'Neill."

He looks me up and down, rudely and sexually. "Always an issue, girl."

Why is he allowed to call me girl even though I can't call him boy? "I'm an author, and I've written one very successful book. In my next book, my main character is a prostitute." He dramatically arches his eyebrow at that. "I want to write that character well. So I --"

"You don't need me to write no story." Interrupting me again.

"I'm sorry, I'm not explaining this very well. To research my book, I would like to experience what it's like to be a prostitute."

"A rich white girl wants to be a prostitute. Never heard any of you bitches admit that before."

I realize what I just said. "I'm sorry again, Mr. O'Neill. I would like to, if I could, stay for one week in a house where prostitution occurs. I'd like to observe what happens, and I'd like to speak with other prostitutes. My objective is to understand their life from their point of view."

"Their point of view be lying on their backs." He laughs.

I try to laugh politely at his joke. "You know what I meant. How they think about their lives."

"Hmm. Hmmm." He thinks. "I got the contact. A Mr. Samendez. In the business. He's a Mexican, and he runs a nice whorehouse. I've sent him a few customers." Rocket leers at me. "And sent him a girl once."

I try to gush, "That would be great." I'm really nervous about doing this. But I want to get the character right, so I can have another big hit that the critics rave about. I can't write well about a character I don't understand -- I tried that already, and it came out flat.

"The first problem be if you make trouble."

"I wouldn't make any trouble. I'll be very cooperative, and I won't upset anything. I just need to observe."

"So you be doing what you're told?"

"Yes. I mean, of course."

"No one wants a woman making trouble. 'Specially in a whore house."

Ding. This sexism is exactly what I wanted to learn about. And I'm experiencing it already! "Yes, I understand."

"Good. Then we set on that issue. Next issue be incentive."

Incentive? Oh, that's a euphemism for money. "I would be willing to pay $1000 for the experience. I know that seems like a lot of money, but it would be worth it to me. And I want to be generous."

"$3000."

Ugh, my limit was $2000. "$2000."

"You got money to throw around like that, just to talk to whores?"

"I prefer to call them prostitutes. I don't want to brag, of course, but my first book was very successful, and I'm actually a somewhat famous author."

"$3000."

I've done the math -- it shouldn't cost that much and $1000 was a good price. I already don't like Rocket, but it was hard just to get this far -- I'm kind of lucky one of my friends had heard of him. An extra $1000 isn't that painful. And I don't want to make trouble. And I'm desperate. "Okay."

"Good. Plus expenses. $1000 for expenses."

What? "What expenses?" I'm whining. But this is the way I feel when the car mechanic tells me that some expensive part that I never heard of could break soon and I have to replace it -- he could be telling me the truth, but I always feel like he's just looking at a female he can take advantage of.

"You be using a bed, right? You want your own room. Or else sleep in the same room with a working prostitute." He waggles his eyebrows at me, taunting me -- he's trying to be annoying. He adds, "Food. Protection, so you don't get hurt."

I might get hurt? "Fine," I mutter, agreeing to the extra $1000. The car mechanic always brings up safety.

"If this all come together, when you be starting this experience?" He's mocking me. But yes, I need to live with these prostitutes and watch and talk to them and experience what their life is really like, so I can write about one convincingly.

"I'm eager to proceed forward on this, but I'm receiving a national award at a dinner tomorrow night in Washington. Could I start on Monday?"

"Should be possible. Bring $4000 cash and you get the experience."

"Thank you very much."

He again waves his hand dismissively. I'm guess I don't have to thank him if I'm paying $4000. I ask, "What do we do about a contract?"

He gives me another arrogant smile. "I love contracts. I use contracts for toilet paper." He laughs at his own joke.

"But how can I trust you?" I'm now making trouble, even though I just said I wouldn't. But I can't let him control everything; he seems so irresponsible.

He gives me a really dirty look, like I just insulted him. Oh oh, I don't want him to change his mind. I really have no book unless I get to do this. "Let me explain something, girl." He really shouldn't be calling me girl, but he's not my boyfriend and I'm not here to improve his conduct. He continues, "I live on the street. No contracts. My word is solid. You can ask anyone. Only way to survive."

I was told that about him; that's the only reason I approached him with this offer. "Fine."

He reaches out his hand to shake with me. I was expecting, I don't know, a high five or a fist bump. I take a pen and piece of paper out of my purse -- I always keep those with me -- and write:

$4000 for one week learning about the experience of being a prostitute. Includes all expenses.

I put my phone number on it, so he can contact me. Then I sign it and hand it to him.

He reads it carefully. When he's done, he looks at me challengingly while crumpling my effort into a ball and then stuffing it in his pocket. He's daring me to complain about the disrespect he's intentionally tossing in my face.

Sigh. I guess that's the best I'm going to do for a written agreement. I step towards him and put out my hand, now agreeing to shake. He stands up but then doesn't respond, so my hand just foolishly floats in the space between us. It's another one of his power games -- he wants to punish me for not immediately shaking his hand.

He pretends to suddenly notice my hand, then he pretends like he's thinking. I'm about ready to pull back my hand in disgust and back out of the whole agreement when he smiles at me and reaches out and shakes my hand. His black hand dwarfs my white one.

The handshake goes on a second longer than normal. When I try to pull my hand away, he uses his hold on me to pull me towards him, then he fondles my ass with his other huge hand. Now it's my turn to glare angrily at him.

He just smiles gloatingly at me and lets go of my hand. I step back out of reach. He says, "You got potential, girl."

"You don't, Mr. O'Neill."

He laughs out loud. He doesn't offend easily; I doubt he cares about my opinion.

I should have slapped him. My body is by invitation only.

Potential? Potential for what? Did he actually like my ass? No, he must get to feel better asses than mine. I'll have to go into the bank for $4000 cash. Cash! It seems so thuggish. But I'm already learning about a different world, this is so good.

I have long, honey blond hair which is beautiful, and there's nothing wrong with my face, though it's definitely not beautiful. I'm thin, but not curvy, so I'm surprised he complimented my ass. Maybe he meant I have potential because I let him get away with groping me, but I wish now that I hadn't -- I was too surprised, and he was so intimidating.

Monday

I take a taxi to Rocket's so-called place of business. When I find Rocket, again sitting in his huge chair like he's a king, I put my suitcase on the floor in front of him, unlock it, open it, and take out a large envelope with $4000 in it. I hand it to him, and he puts it in his pocket. No receipt. I want to ask for a receipt, but I don't want to deal with more of his ridicule. So he's already intimidating me, just like last time.  I suggest, "You can count it if you want."

"The bank counts my money." Maybe he can't count. More likely this is just another part of his show -- everything he does seems calculated to demonstrate how strong or clever or disrespectful he is. I close up my suitcase.

He stands, I step away from him and out of his reach, and he offers his hand to carry my suitcase. His ego won't let him walk in public with me carrying my own suitcase. I give it to him, and we start walking to his car.

Who doesn't count $4000? I'm definitely entering a different world. The money's all there -- I counted it three times. But how does he know? He didn't even look to see if that was money in the envelope. My real problem is if he later says it was short -- I have to trust him not to lie about that. Istill  don't like how irresponsible he is.

So I really don't like trusting him. But I don't have a choice if I want to write a good book.

I get in his car, a 12-year-old BMW. He throws my suitcase in the trunk, and we drive to a large parking lot. After we park, he tells me to close my eyes. If this is so I don't know where I am, it's not working -- I can see the Manhattan skyline across the water.

Or this is just part of some drama. Sigh. For $4000, he gives me fake drama. I don't want fake drama, I want to learn about the real thing. I close my eyes and play along with his childish game, which is the only way of getting along with men like him.

He opens my door, holds my hand as he helps me out, and escorts me as we walk. I don't like his hands on me, but I need his help to walk with my eyes closed. To be honest, he's touching me politely. It's the first time he's been polite; I didn't know he could do that. I can now see him as human instead of some stereotype. We go up a few stairs, then we sit down. Are we here?

After about five minutes, we start to move. I open my eyes. "Why are we on a bus?"

This isn't what I expected. Or asked for.

Act I

"Because I say so." He explains, "A prostitute don't walk into her job flashing her money and carrying a suitcase with her nice stuff. A prostitute walks into her job being poor. And riding a bus into the city be very authentic."

This is awesome. "So, my backstory can be that I'm from Kansas, and my father abused me and my mother wouldn't protect me, so I ran away from home. And now I'm arriving in the Big Apple, without a dollar to my name, but full of hopes and dreams of a happy life."

"Yeah, that be good. While you perfectin' that backstory, go to the girls' room and take off that makeup and try to look younger." He points his thumb to the back of the bus.

I can't stop smiling. I jump up and try to take my purse with me but Rocket has his huge hand on it. In the bathroom, I wash off my makeup and rumple my hair like I've been on the bus for a few days. I don't actually look like a high schooler, but I'll look young enough.

I come back to Rocket, sit next to him, and he explains, "You're Amy Lewis. That too hard to remember?"

Amy Lewis. I love it. It sounds so Kansas.

We pull into the terminal. "I'll go ahead, Amy. I'll need to talk to Samendez. Then --"

"Samendez will be here?"

"Mr. Samendez to you, Amy. You stand by the bus. Then when we done talking, he comes up to you and asks 'bout you needing a place to stay."

"This seems so real."

When we get off the bus, Rocket walks off, leaving me alone. The people from the bus trickle away, and I'm left there standing alone. It's what I expect from New York City -- we're in a huge room underground, with no windows, a dirty smooth cement floor, dirty cement walls, and no ceiling, just pipes and ducts showing.

Which makes me feel vulnerable. At the moment, I am a young female, standing by herself, in a grimy bus terminal in New York City. Because I'm just standing around waiting, I look like I have no idea what to do. I look helpless. One of the first rules for a female in New York City is to never look helpless.

The real Amy Lewis probably wouldn't have a wallet full of cash and credit cards; I can pay for anything I want or need, including a taxi-ride back to my apartment. And my fully-charged phone is also power -- I can call a half-dozen friends who will come get me.

But I try to imagine not having enough money for a taxi or a hotel room. Or to buy food for more than a day. That my parents wouldn't let me have a cell phone and I don't know anyone within a thousand miles.

Then I feel even more helpless and vulnerable.

It's a scary feeling. I open my purse to write my feelings down in my notebook.

At first I can't believe what I'm seeing. The only thing in my purse is my wallet and some tissues. No phone. No apartment key. The mace I brought for protection is gone. I look in my wallet, and it has no money and no credit cards -- all it has is a New Jersey license for Amy Lewis with a picture of me.

I shiver in fear. This is . . . really authentic. It's scary. Rocket has no right to take my things, of course, and I'll have to ask for them back. But . . . for this moment, I have no power. None. I wish I could write down notes about how frightening this is. But I'll get it perfect in my book.

Mr. Samendez saunters up to me, wearing a cowboy hat, I suspect to cover his bald spot. A few strands of blond hair are falling onto his forehead. He has a slightly bulbous nose and crooked teeth, but he's smiling at me. "Welcome to New York City. You ever been here before, miss?"

Since I was three. "No. I'm so excited to be here!" I try to imitate a Kansas accent, whatever that is. If Rocket had given me a little more warning, I could have worked on my backstory, but letting me know what's going to happen apparently isn't his style. I'm not pretending to be from New Jersey unless I have to.

"I need someone to wait tables in my restaurant, one of my waitresses left on me. It's good money, and you can sleep above the restaurant until you find your own place. I thought, just getting here in this big city and all, you might want a job and a place to stay."

I gush, "Yes! Oh gosh, I was wondering where I could stay. That sounds perfect."

"Or if she comes back, we'll find something for you to do. There's always work of one kind of another in a busy restaurant. Trust me." He adds, "And you can eat for free there." That's supposed to be the deal clincher.

I love his hustle. If I really was broke and off the bus, I would see a nice man with a friendly face, wearing a cowboy hat, and talking of a job and a place to stay and eat. He would seem like a miracle come true. I would already be so grateful to him.

"Golly, that would be great." Then I try to look downcast and embarrassed. "But I don't have any money to pay you rent up front." The bus pulls away and now it's just us two in this part of the terminal.

His face goes sad. "No money. Oh, that's bad. Really bad. Good thing I happened to need a waitress. I can take it out of your wages when you get paid. Or else you would be sleeping on the street. And a sweet young lady like you, that would be dangerous. There's a lot of low-life out there. You really don't want to do that."

A friendly man selling the naive girl a story of fear and a promise of safety. I can already feel my novel starting to come together.

He takes my wrist in one hand and my elbow in the other, and he starts walking me to the door. I never accepted his offer. But I can see how he tries not to give the girl a choice. It's a good technique for pushing her around. This is so authentic.

It would be very difficult for the girl to escape from his grasp. And of course she wouldn't want to make a scene, especially since the cops would send her home.

I smile at him gratefully. "Thank you. What you're doing for me is so wonderful."

He smiles at me in a fatherly way. "What's your name?"

"Amy. Amy Lewis."

"That's a pretty name. Short and sweet."

A man walks around the corner, sees us, looks around puzzled, then leaves.

He was Mexican.

Oh, shit.

He was Mr. Samendez. This guy, this guy I agreed to go with, this guy I can't escape from, isn't Mr. Samendez. My stomach clenches and I start to shake.

"I changed my mind." I try to pull away, but I can't -- his hands are holding on to me hard and tight. I knew that.

"I need a waitress, Amy." Now he sounds angry at me. I'm afraid of this man who so casually uses his strength against me. We're still walking. "I was nice enough to try to help you, because you looked like a trustworthy girl. But now everyone's gone. Because I talked to you, and you led me on like you were interested, now I don't have anyone else to ask."

I try again to pull away. I can't. "Please let me go." I sound like a young girl from Kansas who's afraid, but now I'm not acting.

"I missed my chance because of you. Don't tell me you aren't coming with me. It's your last chance for a warm bed and a good dinner. You're going to get really hungry out there on the street." He's still holding on to my wrist really tight as he walks me towards the door.

"Let go of me." I try to say this in my confident voice, but it comes out squeaky. Tears are starting in my eyes. He sees that. No one's around and he's not letting go of me.

His voice gets scary. "I don't want to have to call the police and report a runaway." The threat. "But if I have to, I will. I can't let you sleep on the streets alone. A nice guy like me. I wouldn't want someone make my daughter sleep on the street, and I can't do that to you."

I don't want him calling the police on me. Famous author caught agreeing to be a prostitute in New York bus station. I would be ruined. I try to pull against him, but he's stronger. I give up and let myself be pulled. We're almost at the door leading to the street.

I'm being taken to a job as a waitress that will turn into being a prostitute, and I'm afraid of this man, and I don't know what to do and I don't want this to happen. I'm supposed to be smarter than him, but I don't feel smart now. And because of Rocket I have no money and no phone, just fake ID. Fear is taking over my body.

"Yo, Amy."

I look back and see Rocket walking towards us, all attitude. I thought he had left. I never thought I'd be happy to see him, but he's big and strong and confident, and he's on my side. I feel safe now pulling against this man, so he doesn't quite pull me to the door before Rocket gets to us.

"Get lost, nigger. She's mine."

"Sorry, white dude, but she be mine." I'm his? "I brought her to this party. She goes with me." Rocket is protecting me by saying I'm his, that's why he's saying that. Please don't tell me he really thinks I'm his.

"Not a chance. Go blow smoke up someone else's ass."

Rocket opens his shirt a little. Nice chest, but then I see the gun tucked in his belt. He just puts his hand on the gun.

A gun? My knees are shaking. This is too much. It's all too much. I never asked for guns. Or anything like this. I just wanted to observe and ask questions.

Rocket continues, "Let me explain how this be working. I don't steal. And I don't pick fights over a scrawny piece of ass. But I already promised this white girl to someone else." He pats his gun. "I got no choice here. She be going with me."

The Cowboy turns to me and says angrily, "Are you with him?"

I try to speak but can't; I nod my head yes. I'll pretend to be Rocket's if it gets me out of this.

The guy lets go of me. He's not happy about it. He threatens Rocket, "I'm coming after you some day. Count on it." Then he turns around and starts walking away to a further door down.

Rocket shouts at him, "And watch your language, an old white guy like you should know better." The guy gives Rocket the finger without even turning around -- he just keeps walking, his middle finger in the air.

I need this experience to write a good book. But it's just too much.

And I'm glad Rocket saved me, but now he's holding me exactly like that man did, one hand tightly wrapped around my wrist hard, the other hand clutching my elbow. And he didn't ask me if I wanted to come with him. Rocket is taking me to what I asked for, but he's disquietingly similar to what I just was rescued from.

"Who was that asshole?" Rocket's question brings me back to this reality. Is he blaming me for what happened?

I guess it was partly my fault. "He didn't say. He was offering me a job as a waitress."

"Yeah, that wasn't gonna last long. Your future job be lying on your back and sucking a lot of flag poles."

"I knew that." I'm not naive, except for almost letting him take me away and not knowing how to stop him. "Is he really going to come after you?"

"Doubt it. Man was just acting tough. Nothin' personal."

Two men just fought over me. That's a first in my life. But they were fighting over who would own me. No romance there.

This world is so different. I had no idea.

He's still walking me. I inform Rocket, "I need my things back from my purse."

"Those things be stolen so quick you won't have time to blink. I'll take care of them. Part of the service."

Oh. Good thing I have him on my side and he knows what I'm getting into. "Thanks."

"No problem, girl." Arrgh, why does he keep calling me that? Probably because he can read how much that annoys me.

We walk up to the man I saw. Round face, brown skin, and no smile, he just looks stressed. He's not tall, but he looks bulked up. Rocket, the supposedly uneducated thug from the ghetto, starts talking to him in Spanish, which I don't understand. I recognize "Amy Lewis." Then he turns to me and points to the guy, saying "Mr. Samendez."

I give him my best Kansas smile and start to curtsy, then I realize how stupid that looks and I stop. I actually don't know what to do. Air kiss? Fist bump? Snarl? I know the world of prep schools and college, agents and publishers. I don't know this world. I'm the helpless one here.

Samendez says something to Rocket, and Rocket starts taking my purse off my shoulder, without my permission. I struggle to keep my purse -- he's can't just take it away from me like that.

He slaps me. Across the face.

It hurts. A lot.

Plus I'm stunned and hurt by the aggression towards me. I let go of my purse. I'm supposed to just let him take my purse? I can feel the side of my face burning. No one's ever hit me before. My parents didn't even spank me.

Mr. Samendez is studying my reaction. He nods, then Rocket gives my purse to him. He looks inside, like he has permission because Rocket gave it to him. Now Mr. Samendez is acting like Rocket owns me. This is so primitive.

Rocket leans over and says into my ear, "Don't make me look stupid, girl."

"Sorry." I wasn't playing my role.

"You act respectful in front of Samendez, or I slap you again."

He slapped me just to put up a show, just so he could look like he was in control? Right now I hate Rocket and his world. No woman should ever have to live in this world. Ever.

Mr. Samendez is pulling my license out of my wallet. There's no money in my wallet, and no credit cards -- I'm the character I want to write about. Mr. Samendez says my name out loud. "Amy Lewis? 17?" He asks me in a thick Mexican accent, "Middleton, New Jersey?"

I guess New Jersey is my backstory to Mr. Samendez. And I won't be able to buy any alcohol. "Yes."

Rocket squeezes my hand really hard. I look up at him, bewildered. What? He's glowering at me. What did I do wrong? He mouths, sir. I tell Mr. Samendez, "Yes sir."

And I start to cry.

The last thing I want to do is cry and look weak in front of these two men. But Rocket hit me, and everyone's intimidating me and threatening me and controlling me, and they know what they're doing and I don't. I feel like a little girl -- I'm afraid and overwhelmed and, embarrassingly, even crying like a girl.

I feel broken.

I try to remind myself that I'm a famous author doing field research, but I'm too worried about what's going to happen to me. I am, for the moment, emotionally reduced to being Amy -- the girl from Kansas who just got off the bus.

Mr Samendez finishes studying my license. He looks happy. Rocket leans over and says into my ear, "Be respectful to Mr. Samendez. He might not be as gentle as me. I like you, you got on my good side." Gentle about what?

"Place to stay?"

I answer as politely as I can, "Yes, Mr. Samendez."

Mr. Samendez says something to me in Spanish, and it ends in "Senorita Lewis." He offers his hand, I take it, and he starts escorting me to his car.

Rocket grabs my wrist, firmly. I flinch away in fear, but I'm held tight; I turn around to the man who saved me then slapped me; the man with an awesome chest and a gun. Mixed emotions. He says into my ear. "You passed my test, girl. You let me hit you. If you screamed, the whole thing be called off. I gave my word to Samendez that you be good."

I'm glad I passed. I'm glad that he's happy with me. I'm hurt that he didn't trust me not to make trouble. But I guess I did when I struggled to hold on to my purse. The rules are different now.

Rocket releases my wrist, Mr. Samendez takes my arm and starts walking me to his car, Rocket giving me a pat on the butt as I walk by. I think he's just tossing in one more insult to my self-respect. Or he maybe he actually likes my ass.

Or maybe it's another test. I disdainfully ignore him like it never happened. I don't know what else I can do.

I would be anxious enough about what was going to happen if we were walking normally. But Mr. Samendez has one hand firmly on my elbow and the other firmly around my wrist, the same way that Cowboy and Rocket held me. He's lifting me up just enough that I couldn't put my full weight on my feet if I tried to struggle.

I hear a door shut behind me, I look back, and Rocket's gone. The only man here who was on my side. Now my anxiety overwhelms me and my brain screams RUN!

I try not to panic. I know rationally that I shouldn't run -- going with Mr. Samendez is my plan. I asked for this. And I need to do this research, and it was really hard to get just this far and I already paid my $4000.

But. I. Cannot. Handle. This.

I struggle just a little, to see if Mr. Samendez lets me go. He tightens his grip on me. He probably thought I was play acting. But my brain wants to run.

He's a lot stronger than me, and no one's around to hear me shout. If he doesn't let me go, I can't escape. And if I somehow got away, I would be on the streets with no money and no credit cards and no phone. No keys, just fake ID.

If I turned myself into the police. I would probably get arrested for having false ID. And, ironically, they'll think I'm a prostitute and arrest me for vagrancy too. But after painful hours of grilling and disrespect, everything would all be sorted out. Then tomorrow I'll read about myself in the news and my reputation will be destroyed.

A real girl from Kansas would be afraid to turn herself into the police. I can feel her fear, I'm afraid too.

Mr. Samendez is taking care of me. I try to take a calming breath.

I need this experience. The first draft I wrote was flat, and now I know why -- I had absolutely no idea what this life was like. This already is an priceless experience for my book. If I run away now, this will be all I'll ever get -- a great first few chapters, then the rest of the book will be flat.

The primitive part of my brain still wants to run away, but it also doesn't want to fight with Mr. Samendez. I don't want to be slapped by him -- my cheek still feels red from the last time I was slapped. I don't want Mr. Samendez physically overpowering me. I don't want to get to his house of prostitution with him being angry with me.

Anyway, the primitive part of my brain also doesn't want to fight with Mr. Samendez. It wants to give up.

When we get to his car, I look back -- I realize that I'm hoping Rocket will appear from nowhere to rescue me, but of course he doesn't. Samendez walks me to my door, then reaches into his pocket and takes out what is obviously a blindfold. "Senorita?"

It's this stupid male-ego game again. I don't care where I'm going, and I don't know why he cares if I know. More fake drama. Or he wants to feel his temporary control over a woman. I put out my hand to accept his stupid blindfold, but he places it over my eyes and tightens and ties it himself.

I have another moment of helplessness and panic when the blindfold is tied, and I know he won't let me take it off,  I have never felt this powerless in my whole life. Or maybe I did as a child, but now I'm an adult. Except I feel like a child.

Then I calm down a little, but only because running has stopped being an option -- I can't make any dash to freedom blindfolded. I hear the car door open, and Mr. Samendez helps me inside. More hands on me, but they're polite. The door shuts.

I sit, trying to recover as we drive. Calm breaths. Letting my mind go blank.

A man hit me.

I can't believe that happened. I try to clear my mind. Calm thoughts. Calm breaths.

I let him hit me. I can't believe that either. I didn't scream. I didn't even complain. I even passed his test. In his eyes, I was a good girl.

Why? Why did I do that?

I don't know. But this is making my book great. In my book, she won't know why she let her pimp hit her. I try to relax.

Samendez drives me for a couple hours. We talk enough for me to realize his English isn't very good and for him to realize I know almost nothing of Spanish. Honestly, I had a whole weekend to learn as much Spanish as I could. That would have helped. But did Rocket warn me?

Warning me would have been polite. It would have shown respect and been helpful. Of course he didn't warn me. Yes, in my book no one shows her respect. She gets used to being treated like a prostitute. Can she even start to expect it? Yes, she would.

Language is power too. Amy Lewis knows English, but that doesn't help her with Mr. Samendez. Without language, what do we have? Physical power I guess. Once the game comes down to physical power, I lose any battle with a man. There's a good reason we make men use their words.

Mr. Samendez gets a call on his phone and answers it while he's driving. I hear him talking and laughing. Then I feel something pressing against my arm. I reach over and it's his phone.

"H- Hello?" No one knows I'm doing this -- I was too embarrassed to tell anyone. As far as my friends and agent know, I'm on vacation for a week in the Caribbean and incommunicado. I have to remember to get a tan. "Yes?"

"I forgot to say, no trouble with the law." It's Rocket. The only person who knows where I am.

I know that. It would be noble for me to be a crusader, protecting young women and stopping crime. That's in my cultural DNA. But the cruel reality is, if the prostitutes where I am going had something better to be doing, they would be doing it. If they're illegal immigrants and I turn them in to the police, they get shipped back to their country. Their country will be poor, and they probably wouldn't have anything better to do than be a prostitute.

And the men probably pass out bribes so they don't get in trouble with the law. If they do get in trouble, they just shut down and start elsewhere. And even if they were permanently shut down, there will always be men willing to pay for sex, and there will always be women who need money, so there will always be prostitution. It's not exactly a new invention. "I won't make any trouble with the law."

"Let me explain what happens if you make trouble with the law."

"I already said I won't make trouble with the law."

"No one cares 'bout what you says. You supposed to listen."

"Fine. I heard you. I already knew that."

He hesitates. "No police going to be involved in this. But if you bring in police, it costs money to get you killed for revenge. So, rational thing they do, they just ignore you. But they going to be really angry. So don't count on rational. Not likely."

"Okay, I'm not going to get anyone in trouble."

"It be an interesting problem for them. Killing you makes serious trouble with the law. They got other choices, like acid in your face. But those be trickier. I doubt anyone go for tricky, too much trouble."

"Why in the world are you telling me this?"

"Strike some fear into your heart, girl. Anyway, day ago I got a message."

I wait for him to continue, but he's waiting for me to ask. Yet another annoying power game. "What was the message?"

"They told me to tell you something."

Another pause. "They? Mr. Samendez?"

"It didn't say. Important thing be the message."

He annoys me so much, and he does it on purpose. I wait extra long, but he's waiting for me. Finally I give in: "What was this message?"

"If you talk, if they get in trouble, one of the girls dies. You get a newspaper article about her death. That's how it works."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Really credible threat, Amy. It's safe. Costs them almost nothing if the girl be expendable. And you being a rich white girl, they think it work on you."

"That's barbaric."

"No Amy, it just business. Don't take things so personal."

"They kill people?"

"Nobody getting killed, Amy. I'm just passing a message. You be doing the right thing all week, like a good girl. I know that be happening, or I not be doing this for you."

He makes it sound like a favor. I think the price for this now includes feeling grateful. "Thanks." 

"Yo." He disconnects. I can't believe I just had that conversation. Mr. Samendez takes the phone out of my hand before I can recover and offer it back to him.

I jump as there's a loud smashing noise. Mr. Samendez rolls down his window, and I hear a faint clattering sound on the pavement. I think he just broke the phone and threw it away. I bet he saw that in a movie and always wanted to do that.

Or it's just a standard way of doing business in a world on the wrong side of the law. Maybe a disposable phone was part of the $1000 for expenses.

Finally Mr. Samendez slows down, stops, and turns off the car. Am I supposed to take the blindfold off now? Do I wait for him to tell me? I reach up to take it off, because I don't want to look silly just sitting in the car, but he grabs my hand and stops me. He's not holding me gently. So I lower my hand, he lets go of me, and I leave the blindfold on.

I wish he didn't communicate by pushing and holding me.

He shuts the door, comes around to my side. Am I allowed to take my safety belt off? I WISH I KNEW THE RULES. He opens my door and reaches across my chest to unclick the safety belt, brushing his elbow against my breast, perhaps accidentally. Now I wish I had taken it off myself. Then he escorts me out of the car.

I can't see anything, but it sounds like a city. Boston? Syracuse? I have no way to know. For all I know, he drove me in a circle back to New York City. He has his hands on my wrist and elbow as we walk up a sidewalk, then he lets go of my wrist for a second to knock. His hand comes back to me, we wait, then the door opens. He helps me through the doorway.

I'm inside. A real house of prostitution. I can't believe I'm here. Even though I can't see any of it yet.

The door closes and the click startles me, I think because everything today has made me feel so helpless. In my book, the click of the closing door will be a symbol for how her past life is gone. I try to imagine my past life being gone, but of course I can't do it for more than a moment. But it's scary. Especially if I thought I was going into this life.

Act II

I would feel vulnerable just to be walking into a new, strange place where I don't belong; being blindfolded makes me feel ten times more vulnerable. I don't know who's here or who can see me. Or what I've gotten myself into. I wasn't expecting anything that's happened to me so far. If a man reached out to fondle me, I wouldn't even see it coming.

For my mental health, I need to start getting what I expected. To be shown a room and given an opportunity to interact with real prostitutes. No more drama. Please. But I stand motionless, trying to be good.

We wait a few seconds. I start to take off my blindfold, because we're here and I don't need it, but Mr. Samendez bats my hand and I stop. I didnt realize how much a prostitute would be physically controlled.

I hear females talking in the room to my left in some Asian language. From straight ahead I hear a man walking towards us, his shoes thudding on the floor. Mr. Samendez holds out my wrist, and the other man takes it and pulls me to him.

Have I just been passed off? I didn't expect a man to give me away until I got married, and then it would have been just some out-fashioned tradition. These are strange men and it doesn't feel harmless, even though I know it can't really mean anything.

I hear him unzipping my purse and we just stand there for a moment silently, while he presumably looks at my wallet.

The man drops my wrist, and he and Mr. Samendez walk ahead. I can't follow them because I can't see where I'm going. And -- if understand how things work in this world -- he would have pulled me by the wrist if I was supposed to go with them. I hear another door opening, they walk into another room, and then the door closes.

Finally, I'm standing with no men physically holding me or even touching me.I like it. My prostitute can have moments of not being controlled that are normal to everyone else and special to her.

Now am I supposed to take off my blindfold? I'm probably supposed to wait for someone to take it off. Or I'm wrong -- maybe I look really silly standing here with a blindfold on when I could have taken it off.

I don't know. No one is explaining anything to me. Of course. And Samendez is being gentle now, but technically he hit me twice for trying to take off this blindfold.

There could be stairs in front of me. Or anything. I reach out for a nearby wall or chair to steady myself, but there's nothing.

Two men come back to me, I assume Mr. Samendez and that man. I hear a lock in the key, the door opens -- a key is needed to leave? -- and one of the men goes out the door. I hear the same symbolically-ominous click when the door closes again.

The second man shouts something in that Asian language, and I hear a girl running lightly towards me from the living room. She sounds barefoot. She stops in front of me and her small hands remove my blindfold.

Standing in front of me is a young, good looking Asian girl. She has a big, friendly smile on her face. She's wearing a very short, bright aquamarine miniskirt, a very low-scooped pink sweater,  the colors clashing, and indeed she's barefoot. I'm guessing she's about my age and from Thailand, though I really wouldn't know for sure. She looks confident and relaxed.

I look around. I don't see Samendez anywhere. He must have walked out the door.

A young, Caucasian man is studying at me, I think a little scornfully. Why? The Kid has jet black hair, blue eyes, and a firm jaw. And the obvious fact about him is that he's handsome -- he could almost be a model except his jaw's too strong. His body looks good too, but I'm already repelled by his cocky arrogance and unfriendliness.

He has my purse in his hand. He shakes his head once and walks down the hall to the back of the house, taking my purse. There's nothing in it but my new ID, but how does he feel entitled to take my purse without even asking? "Hey," I shout, but he keeps walking.

Is he worried about it being stolen? I try to imagine what it would be like to be a new prostitute here and have a man just take my things without asking. To be left without any possessions of my own except the clothes I was wearing.

Scary. I would feel totally helpless. Like someone else controlled me. My prostitute will experiencce a loss of control. Or she might feel like they weren't her possessions any more. She says goodbye to the remains of her old life as it's taken from her.

I try to shake the feeling off. I'm a famous author, here to observe and learn; I can't be feeling like a helpless female. It's inappropriate; people might feel like they can take advantage of me.

I'm at the entry way of a very large house. There's a kitchen to my right, with a huge table for eating. To my left is a very large living room with a high ceiling, a wooden parquet floor, and couches and chairs and table spread around the outside of the room.

Seven girls are lounging in it, all dressed sexily and showing a lot of legs and cleavage, except one girl is naked. Their clothes are sexy, cheap, and mismatched. In front of me is stairs to the second floor; to the right of that is a hall leading back to other first floor rooms.

I realize that the girls in the living room saw me standing here wearing a blindfold. A blindfold I could have easily taken off myself. They're looking at me with interest, but no one is laughing at me. Maybe in their world, a female standing all by herself with a blindfold on is normal?

The first obvious fact is that these girls are all Asian. I'm still guessing Thai. They're also all young and attractive -- I'm not as pretty as any of them. I'm usually one of the shorter females in the room, but I'm normal in this collection of females.

The girl in front of me says something to me in Thai or whatever her language is. When I obviously do not comprehend, she takes my hand and pulls me up the stairs. Her grip is soft; I could easily pull away from her.

So she's helping me go to the right place, but not physically forcing me; I don't think she's strong enough to make me follow. All of the other girls are still staring at me, like I'm the new girl at school.

So I'm probably the only Caucasian female here. That's not surprising. Some are younger me, and some look my age.

My heart drops. If the girl assigned to help me doesn't speak English, probably none of them speak English. That doesn't fit my plan at all. I can still observe, but if I can't talk to them, I won't get to understand their experience. I'm so disappointed.

Ugh, I should ask Rocket for a partial refund. But I can't imagine getting it -- he knows he can push me around. So it would be just useless begging and more intimidation.

So I've let myself be blindfolded, intimidated, groped, slapped, and almost kidnapped. I've had my money, credit card, phone, and all real ID taken from me. And now I might not be able to talk to any prostitutes. I can feel a tear coming to my eye, but I brush it off and tell my tears to stop.

Maybe I can be introduced to prostitutes who do speak English. Or maybe someone is supposed to translate. That must be it. But that means limited and sporadic access, not the direct one-to-one free conversations I wanted. Oh well, I'll have to find something. The fact is, I'm already learning so much just from how I was treated in coming here.

Upstairs is another long hall with many rooms. Guide Girl opens the door to the first room on the right, and pulls me in. It's a large room filled with clothes -- clothes are on racks on three sides of the room, and there are about 15 dressers. The center of the room has tables for makeup.

My suitcase! We got out of Rocket's car, and I had my eyes closed, and I assumed he had my suitcase. Then I assumed it was stored somewhere on the bus. Then, in all the excitement and abuse and the bus terminal, I forgot about my suitcase. I am so stupid at times. But no suitcase came off of the bus -- it's still in his car. He was making me have an authentic experience. Asshole.

I can get by without my makeup -- actually, I can borrow whatever's here without making a dent in the $1000 I was forced to pay for expenses. But I don't have any clothes except what I'm wearing, and I can't wear these clothes for a week.

This must be a community clothes room. So borrowing clothes wouldn't be a problem if I liked slutty, cheap, mismatched clothes. I don't. I'll wear my clothes for as long as I can; maybe I'll even hand-wash them.

I try to imagine what it would be like to be a new prostitute here. She might have no clothes except what she was wearing. She could feel helpless, unable to choose her own clothes, and dependent on the people here to provide clothes. It would be a loss of freedom. She would feel weak, helpless, and controlled.

And that's pretty much what's happening to me. I can appreciate the realness of my experience, but I'm having trouble fighting off this creeping feeling of helplessness and dependence.

I guess she would too. But for her, it wouldn't be a few hours -- it would be day after day. Maybe she'd try to feel independent for a while, but eventually she'd have to give up.

I start to look around, wondering cynically if they have anything for me to wear while I sleep. But Guide Girl takes my hand and walks me out of the room, down the hallway, past several plain doors, all identical. She opens a door to a room on the right, and gently pulls me in.

It's a really small room, with a king-sized bed practically filling it. I hope this isn't my room for the week.

And then Guide Girl gives me a quick light hug, a quick light kiss on my cheek -- amazing friendliness from a complete stranger, but she pulls it off so naturally -- says something that sounds friendly though incomprehensible, and leaves me standing in the three-foot space between the side of the bed and a wall and door.

This apparently is my room for the week.

I'm going to be cramped for space, except when I'm in bed.

I expect a wave of loneliness, but I get a feeling of relief -- there's no one here to violate my body space. Guide Girl was super-nice about touching me, but she could have held out her hand for me to take instead of just taking my hand. Everyone feels entitled to touch me and physically control me without asking or even looking to see if I object.

I look around at my tiny room filled with a king-sized bed. This is normally a prostitute's room. This must be the only free room they have.

At the foot of my bed is a TV. To its right is a small table, which would be perfect for my laptop except I don't have my laptop and there's no chair. To the left is a small shelf with videos and CDs. On the other side of my room is a dresser for my clothes, except I don't have any clothes. And there's a nightstand that would be perfect for my chapstick, which I also don't have, and a safe place to put my purse, which I also don't have and that anyway didn't have anything in it to steal. 

I would have more personal possessions if I was in prison.

No, the prison would take away all of my own clothes away from me. So I am one outfit better than being in prison.

I would put down my suitcase to mark this plain room as mine, but of course I don't have a suitcase.

And my door is unmarked. I really don't want to be trying to find my room and instead walk into a prostitute's room -- that could go beyond embarrassing. This is too small to even be a dorm room, but I want to mark the door with my name.

But I have nothing to write on. Or write with, Rocket took my paper and pen from my purse, which I don't have. I have backups in my suitcase, which is also gone.

I can look for something to make a sign, but no one else has a sign on their room. I don't want to make trouble. Again, I'm in the strange situation of being afraid to do something without permission, but not knowing how to get permission or if I even need it.

I don't think the prisoners get to post their names outside their cells either. Prisoners are interchangeable pieces with no individuality.

I go out into the hall and count. I'm the fourth door on the right.

Back in my room, I go to lock my door, but there's no lock! What? I play with the doorknob, and that doesn't lock either -- this is an ordinary door knob with no lock on the door!

They gave me a room with no lock? I've been abused enough today, I reallyl have. I do not need this.

I try to imagine being a new prostitute here and living and sleeping in a room with no lock. Frightening. I can feel the loss of privacy. More of this relentless helplessness. A symbol of my availability to anyone who wanted to push through the door.

Only it's not just a symbol, it's real. I don't think anyone's going to walk into my room without my permission. But even the threat -- the fact that someone could -- violates my personal security and makes me anxious and vulnerable.

I lie on my bed, on my back, look at the ceiling, and try to relax even though my room isn't locked.

I didn't react to being slapped by Rocket! I can't get over that. I just let it hurt me. Maybe I was in shock. I remember what Rocket said about a prostitute's perspective and turn onto my stomach.

I should record my experiences, using the pen and paper I don't have or the laptop I don't have. But I don't think I'll forget what happened to me on my trip here -- it was by far the most scary day of my life, not to mention the most demeaning.

I get that wave of loneliness now. I want to call Beth and tell her about my experience. She'd be fascinated, and she'd help me deal with it. And help me know what I should do. And she'd be someone to talk to. Support -- I need her support.

But I don't have my phone. I don't remember seeing any phones downstairs. That's unsettling -- one reason not to have any phones is if the prostitutes are being held prisoner here, so they can't call the police. Are they prisoners?

Unless they have cell phones, these girls might have no communication with the outside world. No contact with family or friends. And their family and friends might be on the opposite side of the world in Thailand in a poor village with no phone reception. I was imagining them feeling helpless and abused; I forgot about them being lonely and having no support.

I try to imagine not being able to call anyone, then remember I'm experiencing it. One more awful thing for me to experience first-hand. It's not really any different than not calling anybody while I spend the week in the Caribbean, except that would have been my choice.

No, I would have called Beth from the Caribbean the first moment I got lonely. I don't think prisoners get cell phones either, so I'm still only one outfit ahead of being in prison.

I turn on the TV on my dresser, even though I don't usually watch TV, thinking that would be better than being bored, but the TV doesn't get any reception. This is not a 5-star hotel, or even a 1-star hotel, it's a room for illegal immigrants from another country. All of the movies have Chinese-looking titles, so I won't understand a word of them. I look at the pictures, thinking I could at least watch them, but they're porn movies.

If I wanted to actually experience being a prostitute, this would be perfect. But I said I wanted to observe them and talk to them. I wanted to know their experience, not have it. In a way, I'm being given a lot more than I asked for. But in terms of comfort, I'm getting a lot less. I have to remind myself of how much I'm learning, so that I don't get so discouraged and depressed.

I imagine being a girl from Thailand, just flown into this country, lying on this bed for the first time. I would see, in my new life, that I live in a room to fuck men in. That would be my role here. My imagination of this is vivid -- I'm looking at that room.

I want to call Bonnie, my agent, and tell her how much I'm learning. She'd be supportive and encouraging; she'd understand how much this awful experience will help my book. But no phone.

I try to imagine a man coming into this room and finding a huge bed, porn movies, and me. That's what my prostitute's life will be like in my story. She would be just one of the sex toys in this room.

I would never have guessed that feeling. The men in a prison don't look around their cell and see home -- they look around their cell and see a room designed to make them who they're supposed to be. Same here, so I'm still only one outfit ahead of prison.

But no one is going to come into my room to have sex with me. So I'm way ahead of that new girl from Thailand. I can't let this room get into my head, that's not good for me. I'm lying on my back again; I turn over onto my side.

I always knew the grossness of the prostitute selling her body for money. I could have put that into my book. Actually I did, in the version that came out flat. But the girls here aren't selling their bodies, someone else is.

In my book, the prostitute has a pimp. I thought of him as being like my book agent, negotiating fair deals for her and taking a cut. Now I can see that the pimp would control her, including physically. I can easily imagine a pimp holding onto the prostitute in the same way all three men today held on to me. And he would control her through threats -- I can imagine a pimp even slapping the prostitute.

The pimp would take her money. He'd have to make sure she got food and clothes and whatever she needed to keep making money, but he might keep the rest. He might even feel like he owned her. Thinking back on Rocket, Mr. Samendez, and The Kid . . . yep, he would assume he owned her.

My rewrite is going to be dark; it's going to feel chillingly authentic. I realize I'm again lying on my back and I still don't like the parallel, so I sit up on the side of my bed, my face three feet from the door.

My door opens, scaring me, and one of the girls walks into my room without knocking. "You have to knock," I say firmly, but she doesn't understand English and she's giving me a happy smile while I scowl at her. She's really beautiful, with delicate bones and a perfect face and a gorgeous smile that looks so happy and peaceful.

Beauty says something to me that makes no sense. Do they expect me to know their language? I guess there was no reason for me to come here unless I knew their language. Maybe there was a mix up. Probably Rocket told them I knew Thai and they'll be disappointed too -- I imagine Rocket annoys everyone, and I take some perverse pleasure in thinking someone else is suffering too.

She reaches out and takes my hand. Her touch is gentle; her hand feels warm against mine -- it's the same way Guide Girl took my hand. She wants me to follow her.

Still holding my hand, Beauty walks me into the dressing room and indicates that I should sit down. Then she sits across from me and starts working on my nails.

She's attentive, with a soft and delicate touch. I can imagine men liking that that touch, liking her careful attention. And when she's done trimming and smoothing my nails, they're perfect and look professionally done. I'm impressed.

Then she starts painting my nails. Which would be fine, except she's painting them a dark red. I wouldn't normally wear this color. I like something more subtle, and usually more natural -- often I use clear.

"Can I have a different color?"

She looks up at me, smiles at me, and shrugs. She has no idea what I said,, of course. She doesn't let go of my hand and she goes back to painting my nails.

I don't want to fight with her, and she's already started with this color. But dark red just looks wrong. I'm going to look garish.

It's the same color as her nail polish. I realize there's been yet another mistake in communication -- she's giving me the color the prostitutes get. Again, I am being forced to experience their life a lot more than I wanted to. In my book, instead of wearing the nail color she wanted, my prostitute had to wear the color that would get the most customers. I never thought about her not even getting a choice.

As I watch Beauty work, I imagine being a new prostitute. When would she start to feel like an object to be decorated?

When Beauty's done, I hold up my hand to look at my nails. The polish is perfect too. I could never do this good of job, it's professional. But still garish -- I kind of look like a slut, which I guess would normally be the point.

"Thank you." She worked hard and did a good job. She doesn't understand me, and she's turning me in my chair and kneeling in front of me and taking off my shoes. Of course.

She does a perfect job on my toenails. It's the same dark red, but no one will see them, unless I decide to wear sandals or something open-toed. But if I was a prostitute, I guess a lot of men would be seeing my toes, so that would be an important detail.

Does she think I'm a new prostitute? Not to be racist, but I don't look Asian. Why would she assume I was a prostitute?

Except . . . I walked into this house wearing a blindfold. Duh, of course she thinks I'm another prostitute.

And I'm in a prostitute's room. She doesn't know I paid for that room.

Or there could have been a mix-up anywhere. It's probably her job to polish the nails of the new prostitutes so that they look perfect.

Strange. In school I was always the good girl. Now something thinks that I'm a prostitute! Me! I say, "I'm not a prostitute." She looks up at me, gives me another really nice smile, and goes back to work.

I could have just watched a real prostitute get a nail polish. That would have been easier, and then I wouldn't have this garish nail color. This is, once again, more authentic. I'm starting to hate that word. But I should try to get my money's worth from this experience. I try to imagine that I really was a new prostitute, getting my nails painted, and that I had no choice in the matter.

I can feel it -- it's a scary thought, full of hoplessness and a loss of control. Honestly, I can't stand the thought, and suddenly I want the nail polish removed.

But I don't think that's one of my choices. I don't actually see any nail polish remover. Maybe they don't need it? I'll try to be patient. I accept that, for a week, I'll have dark red nails.

At least no men are physically abusing and controlling me. I'm starting to feel a sense of safety being around other women instead of men. I wonder if that's part of being a prostitute.

She's done. She holds my hand and stands me up, back to guiding me. "Thank you," I say pointlessly, but she reaches down and unbuttons my skirt. What? I'm stunned, then before I can react appropriately, she unzips me and my skirt falls to the floor.

"What are you doing?" I shout, and she flinches. She's afraid of me. She looks up at me imploringly. I don't know what she wants. She tugs at my panties. She wants me to take them off? That's crazy.

Oh. Of course. There's more to making my body look good than just nails. Especially for this job. I pull down my panties; she points at my blouse and I take off the rest of my clothes, so I'm naked in front of her.

She looks down at my vagina and frowns. Then she looks at a few stray hairs on my breast that need shaving and she frowns again. So I'm getting dissed by a prostitute for how I take care of my body. She takes my hand and leads me gently to a small padded table. I lay down.

I get waxed, tweezered, shaved, and foamed. By the time she's done, the only hairs left on my body are on my head and my eyebrows. Everything else is gone, including my landing strip. Except for my Brazilian wax, this is nothing I couldn't have done by myself if I was obsessive-compulsive with a hair phobia and a free day. But I never did -- I was never this perfectly hairless.

I'm surprised to see myself in a mirror -- she did a really good job on my eyebrows. I am, oddly enough, starting to get my $1000 worth.

I can remove the nail polish. My landing strip will grow back, and I'm glad to lose the rest of the body hair. So her mistake isn't a big problem for me. I can see now, this is a business, the girls are the merchandise, and the merchandise has to look pleasing to the customers.

I start to dress. I smile at her and say, "I can find my own way back to my room." She smiles at me and waits for me to dress, then escorts me back to my room holding my hand. I don't know if she has some strong desire to help me, or if I'm being treated like the child who needs an escort. Or she's following orders that can't be changed because we speak different languages.

More bored laying around. That was another learning experience for me. If I had thought about it, I might have even asked for it -- for the money I am paying, I should have asked to receive some of the same experiences the prostitutes experience. I am going to think of my dark red nails as a privilege.

Eventually Guide Girl opens my door without knocking, startling me, smiles at me even though I'm frowning -- because I'm irritated by her coming in here without knocking -- and indicates that I should follow her. I try to get up and voluntarily follow her so that she doesn't have to grab my hand, but she does anyway.

She brings me down to the large kitchen with the large table, where all the girls are sitting, then to the only empty chair, which I could have found by myself. Finally she lets go of my hand, but as I'm sitting down, her hands are on my shoulders, directing me down.

I am so tired of being physically pushed around and controlled.

Everyone has just started to eat. I look at the food on the center of the table -- mixed leaf lettuce and rice.

That's all? I look at what the girls have on their plates. That seems to be all.

I try not to eat carbs, so I serve myself a plate of lettuce. There's no dressings. I pour myself a glass of water.

I don't think I can eat a whole plate of just lettuce. If I could, I don't think a whole plate would fill me up. So I'm going to be hungry.

I can count the girls now -- 11 plus me. As suspected, I'm the only white girl, everyone else is Asian. I look so out of place here. I imagine someone opening a carton of brown eggs and finding a white one. Everyone else is chowing down on the rice like this is a normal meal. Maybe it's what they're used to in their country.

There's a large candy dish filled with pills. Each of the girls takes one. Odd. I try to get Guide Girl's attention, finally do, and point to the pills. She stands up and mimes being pregnant, and I take a pill; my birth control was in my suitcase.

Of course, this would be a wonderful opportunity for me to ask them questions or just listen and hear what they talk about if I could understand Thai. Without knowing their language, there isn't much to observe -- girls talking.

The curious thing is that two girls are naked. And it's like they don't even realize they're naked -- they don't seem to be self-conscious at all. And no one else seems to notice.

Maybe they've been naked in front of strange men so often that they've lost their boundary. I think we all have a natural desire to protect and hide the intimate parts of our bodies. Maybe that's been taken from them. Sad.

The rest are dressed like sluts. Low-cut blouses. Miniskirts. Sexy cocktail dresses. One girl is in lingerie. I'm the only female here who is dressed normal.

A side door opens and a man walks in. Observation: All the girls stop talking and eating, and they all attend to him. I stop chewing the lettuce in my mouth. He looks at one of the girls, says something to her, and she runs off.

When he goes back through the door, I get a quick peek into another room. About six men, all wearing black dress shirts and khaki pants, are eating in there. I can see a chicken, and there's a lot of food on their table. And they're drinking wine, not water. They all look happy.

Yes, this is a good experience, but I would rather be eating their dinner. I think I should be -- I'm a paying guest here. I ate half a plate of lettuce, but I don't think I can eat any more. Yes, it's nice to see what the prostitutes are given to eat, but I would have been content to just see that.

Is this their idea of letting me observe? Or am I again being given the authentic experience? But I'm still hungry, and, like most of my authentic experiences today, it's unpleasant, degrading, and abusive.

If a male came here to observe, they wouldn't treat him they way they're treating me. He would be in the other room eating chicken. Instead, we're sorted by gender and I'm eating at the females' table. In their eyes, I'm probably just a female. 

I hadn't realized how relentlessly sexist this world is. I assumed that prostitutes weren't given respect because they sold their bodies for sex. But now I'm guessing all females get less respect in this world.

Including me. But I don't know what I can do about it right now. I look around the table. I guess there's nothing they can do about it either. Maybe they were even raised that way.

So this is a good experience, I suppose. But I'n not eating in here tomorrow night.

One girl doesn't eat a lot and looks depressed. That worries me, until I realize I'm being the white girl and worrying about the world and her. It's pretentious that I would think Sad Girl is my responsibility, and I already worked out that I can't help people here. But I still worry.

If they won't let me eat at their table -- and right now it's impossible to imagine them letting me eat there, I would be an intruder in a male world -- I'll go out to eat, or order something delivered.

Shit. I don't have any money. Rocket! I try not to feel helpless, but I am again experiencing the powerless of no money. Maybe one of those men will loan me money? I can't imagine that either. I'm not going to beg, that would be too humiliating -- I'm a published author, not some helpless female that needs permission from a man to eat.

When most of the girls are finished, and I've just started eating some rice out of desperation, one of the men comes out of the other room. He's wiping white sauce off of his face. We all stop eating, and he calls out something in Thai. The girls all stop eating and starting running out the door and up the stairs. They're all very compliant. Or in a hurry.

Maybe they would be punished if they didn't hurry. I don't know. Maybe in my week here I'll see a prostitute being punished? I hope it doesn't happen. But if prostitutes are punished, I need to see that. And try to understand how she feels.

I decide to follow them, making me the last in line up the stairs. It's amazing to see them run so gracefully, like lithe gazelles, making me feel almost clumsy. The guy's now standing at the foot of the stairs, herding the girls up the stairs. As I run past him, he pinches my ass. I give him a dirty look; he just leers at me.

So he's a sexist pig. Why am I not surprised? I should have seen that pinch coming -- Rocket did the same thing. Why does that man think he can treat me that way? Simply because I'm a female? This could be a long, very sexist week. Shit. Usually if there's some sexist man, everyone gangs up on him, including the other males. I don't know what happens if all of the males are sexist. I don't think these prostitutes are going to be any support.

And now we're all in the dressing room, and I'm still hungry. They're all getting dressed while I observe. I realize -- I didn't complain about that man pinching my ass, I just gave him a look. Why? Why? I was in a hurry? I've been abused so many times today that it didn't seem as horrible as it was? I was running with the other girls and I was just part of the herd?

But I was angry when he did it, I just didn't say anything. I resolve to show my anger if that ever happens again. But I ended up letting him get away with it. That sent him the wrong message. I can't let the men here grouping me with the prostitutes -- it they do, I won't get any respect.

I try to count how many people have touched me today without asking. Rocket, Cowboy Man, Samendez, Guide Girl, Beauty Girl, and now the man at the stairs.

Then one of the girls points at me, creating general distress in the room. Because I'm here? But I'm supposed to be observing them. That's the plan. They're supposed to have been told that. They shouldn't be upset.

Are they shy about being naked in front of me? No, they definitely aren't shy about being naked. But something about me is distressing them.

Naked bodies start crowding around me. A hand tries to unbutton my blouse. I push it away, but three hands are already undoing other buttons on my blouse and unfastening my skirt.

I can resist -- when I push away a hand, the girl makes no effort to fight with me. But her hand goes back to pulling down my panties as soon as I try to push away another hand. I don't want to hurt them and I don't want to fight with them -- they're supposed to be helping me understand their experience, so I want to be on their good side. And I'm the stupid one here -- I don't know what's happening. So I let them take off my clothes.

I see a girl throwing my clothes into the dirty laundry. I want to wear these clothes at least one more day, so I run to take them out of the laundry basket . . . but it's a laundry chute.

So my clothes are gone. Shit.

But of course. Clothes belong to the community here. They might not even have thought of them as mine. And why would they expect me to care about dirty clothes?

I'll look for my only set of clothes tomorrow. I hope I find it -- that was my favorite outfit for book signings.

So then we're all naked -- there are 11 brown bodies and mine. And I don't understand what's happening or why.

Then they start getting dressed. Guide Girl is bringing clothes for me to wear, so I don't have to look for my size. Or maybe some of these clothes do belong to specific girls and I shouldn't wear them. Again, I have to do what I'm told, because I don't know the rules. She sets them down in front of me, then starts getting dressed.

These clothes are all cheap. Oh well, I start getting dressed. A thong. How traditional.

A white stretch miniskirt with an elastic waist. Too short, I don't put it on.

5-inch stiletto heels? I don't think so. I tried this high of heels exactly once at a store and promised myself never to do that again. I set them aside.

The bra looks fine. The top fits over my skirt but shows way too much cleavage. I take it off. I ask, futilely, "Can't I wear regular clothes?" They all look at me and try to tell me with their hands that I should dress.

I look around the room. I'm seeing a lot of brown skin -- even the girls who are dressed are showing calves, a lot of thigh, an occasional stomach, and a lot of cleavage. The outfits that cover more area have a lot of slits in them. It's what I would have guessed.

As each girl finishes dressing, she comes to me and starts trying to dress me. Again, hands are all over me, and I can push them away, but they're relentless. I mean, they're trying to help, but they're dressing me to look like a slut. Or, no offense to them, like a prostitute.

I don't need to wear these clothes just to watch, but I'm soon dressed in the clothes Guide Girl gave me. The miniskirt is tight but stretchy, so it doesn't hide any of my normally modest curves. Or much of my normally-covered thigh.

Aha! In my normal clothes, I would stand out. Then everyone would realize they were being observed. People who know they are being observed will behave differently. So this slutty outfit is the perfect disguise. I should have thought of this. I should have packed something like this, only a little less slutty. But I didn't think of that, plus I don't have my suitcase.

So wearing this outfit is a good idea, just with overdone execution. And I can imagine being a new prostitute, being forced to wear these highly sexualized clothes, feeling like a slut. Again, this is no problem to imagine. Scary, very scary, especially since they wouldn't have a choice.

Well, I didn't have a choice either. But it's good, I tell myself it's good. Just really really embarassing to be dressed like this.

My experiences today have been frightening, surprising, painful, abusive, shaming, and now just embarrassing. But I'm learning.

Beauty puts on my makeup. I resent her again taking away my independence -- she didn't ask if I wanted help, she just took my hand and pulled me to a chair and pushed me down and started doing my makeup.

And I can see her good intentions, but she is again treating me like a piece of merchandise. Do the prostitutes feel like merchandise? I don't see how they could avoid that feeling. I look around the room. Everyone is trying to look good, but they are treating this like just a part of their job.

As Beauty is finishing up, I hear a man walking up the stairs. The few girls who aren't fully dressed start frantically putting on their remaining clothes. Beauty rushes a last few touches on me and stands; the other girls are looking at the door.

The Kid walks in without knocking, into a woman's dressing room, and says something. The girls start crowding around the door and the Kid leads them downstairs. I fight my way to the middle of the pack because I can see the same man standing at the bottom of the stairs -- this clumsy gazelle wants the lion to pinch some other gazelle.

I look and the last girl indeed gets a pinch. She doesn't seem to notice. So she expected the pinch and doesn't care. Or there's nothing she can do about it.

They all move into the living room. I had it wrong. We aren't going outside to whatever city we're in. Instead, this very large living room is the bordello. That's great -- I'll be able to observe everything.

Hmm, these girls probably never leave this house -- it's their prison. Chilling. And sad. But I can't really do anything about that to help.

Five Caucasian men, including the Kid, are already downstairs, still wearing their black dress shirts and khaki pants.

The girls sit, lie, or lounge. They aren't in pairs or groups now, they're spaced out and not talking to each other. They look like very sexy room decorations, or like deserts laid out on a desert table. There's a few steps up to a second level on one side of the room. To observe, I go to the second level and stand near the corner of the room.

The guy who pinched me is unlocking the front door with a key. Yep, it's a prison. When he opens the door, three men walk in. The man stays by the door. So he's the door man. Or, from the prostitute's perspective on this side of the door, he's the prison guard.

The customers walk up to a tall, thin blackshirt who's about 40 years old, and they give him money, I think $50 each.

He shouts something in some language that sounded like Russian. The Kid immediately rushes off to do something. So the tall guy is the Manager and the Kid is his assistant. And they speak in Russian. Or something like Russian.

Another blackshirt is just standing around, watching. He looks about 50, and his face is etched with lines that make him look experienced. I'm guessing he gets the assignment of killing one of the girls if they need to. The Assassin looks calm, like he can handle anything, and a little bemused.

The last man, about 25, is huge. I guess he's the Bouncer. He's got a face that could look handsomely rugged or scary dangerous.

The Door Man is now sitting in a high chair next to the door. He looks angry about something. Or he's just mean. These are five guys I would never say hi to in a bar. Or even look at politely if they said hi. When they talk, it's all Russian.

The three customers are still standing by the door, just inside the large living room area, looking around. Glances are flying between the girls, then three girls come forward to each of the men. I'm guessing they tried to read the men to see who each man was attracted to. That's good customer service.

And I get to watch this as it actually happens. I. Am. Thrilled! This is exactly what I wanted. Actually, I thought it would be difficult to watch one girl, and instead I get to see them all, interacting with actual customers. One girl is standing so close to one man that her breasts are touching his forearm. One girl is leading a man to a chair. Beauty is laughing about something.

I wish I could take notes. Tomorrow I'll insist on getting paper and a pen. Someone here must know English. Or I'll just find it myself.

So these girls are valuable -- these customers already paid $50 just to walk in.

They're also exploited -- I assume they don't get paid, and they get fed only lettuce and rice. But they have to look good, that costs money. And those five blackshirts have to be paid, that's not cheap. And there's rent. So the girls have to be sold for a reasonable amount of money just for the owners to break even. But I read that the risk and dangers make this a high profit industry -- only criminals run a prostitution house, reducing the supply.

Two more customers walk in and pay their money. I try to see the room the way they would. Eleven young, attractive Asian girls, sitting around sexily dressed, available to them. It's a sea of long black hair, thighs, and cleavage.

And all of the girls have the same dark red fingernails and the same dark red lipstick. It's very distinctive. Brand identity? That's clever.

Or they save money by having only one color of fingernail polish and lipstick. And just one color is easier for the blackshirts to buy. And the garishness is probably what a man would pick out for a prostitute -- it would fit a man's stereotype.

But the identity branding, accidental or not, is working great -- the dark red nails and lipstick tie these girls together and mark them as prostitutes. I try to hold my hands in a way that my fingernail color isn't obvious.

One man is fondling Guide Girl's breast as he dances with her. So they're allowed to sample the deserts, that's part of the entry fee. And that free sample no doubt incites the men to purchase more. One Asian-looking man is talking to one of the girls; apparently he knows their language? And the third man is now dancing with Beauty. I'm not surprised she was one of the first girls.

I watch. Men are slowly entering the house. They look around, looking at the girls who are available, deciding who to choose. Sometimes a girl will come up to a man first; that one man started dancing with Guide Girl when she offered herself; another man shook his head no at the girl who was offering herself to him and went to find a different girl. So even prostitutes are vulnerable to the vicissitudes of dating -- I have tried making the first move on a guy a few times, and the rejections are painful.

These girls are sex slaves. That's different from what I imagined observing, but it will be good enough for my book. Or I can change that detail of the setting. That might be more realistic than my cheery notion of a woman deciding to work in a house of prostitution just because she likes the money.

Still, I wish Rocket had warned me about this. He's so careless. Or I should have asked him, but he was always so intimidating and disrespectful.

A man appears in front of me! I startle -- I wasn't paying attention, so I didn't see him coming. He's not supposed to be here talking to me. I doubt that I'm allowed to actually talk to the customers, though of course I don't know, maybe I am. I don't want to make trouble, but no one is telling me what I can't do.

"Hey, babe." He's about 35, nicely dressed, average height, black hair. His chin is too weak for him to be handsome, but otherwise he looks fine. I can smell cigarette smoke on his clothes, that's unappealing.

How I'm supposed to handle this situation? "Um, hi?" I think I have to talk to him; I can't just ignore him like he's not there.

"Your English is good."

I've written a successful book. But I think he means I don't have an accent. "Thank you very much."

"And you're beautiful. I love a girl with beauty and brains."

I should be directing him back to the prostitutes, not talking to him. But . . .

This could be a really good learning experience. I wanted to interview customers, but I didn't see how that would be possible. But this is even better than an interview -- he actually thinks I'm a prostitute. This will be authentic; now I'll learn what it's like for a prostitute to talk to a customer.

"So," I ask, "why are you here?"

He bursts out laughing. "And you're funny."

Ah, my question was stupid. I wish I knew what to say or how to act. Is this like flirting?

He adds, "And sexy."

Dressed like this? I probably am. I never thought of myself as being noticeably sexy. Of course, I never dressed like this.

I take a deep breath and pretend that of course I look sexy. I'm trying to fit in with my disguise and not ruin my cover. "And you're so handsome."

"We make a great couple." He puts his hand on my waist.

Um, no. I give his hand a quick stare and I don't smile, the universal signal that I don't want his hand on me. I look, unbelievingly, at his hand still on my waist.

He didn't take his hand off me!

My body is by invitation only. I don't mind a date trying to be physically intimate. I mean, usually I'm looking forward to that first intentional touch. But not this soon, and not him. And I just gave him the signal no.

I offer, as my prelude to ending this conversation, "Oh, I'm not good enough for you."

He laughs. He thinks I'm a prostitute, so obviously I'm not good enough for him -- I'm so much on the wrong page in this conversation. "You're good enough for what I'm thinking." He looks me in the eye, like he's being so sincere with that compliment. I'm supposed to like it, not think it's gross.

I laugh lightly, like I would for a normal compliment if I was flirting with someone. I don't know what to actually say to him, how to regain control of this interaction. "I really --"

His hand is moving up my rib cage. I stand there, momentarily stunned, until the base of his hand is pressing against the side of my breast. I'm not letting him grope me. I push his hand away.

He's stronger than me. He just puts it back. "Playing hard to get?"

I look down. His cock is getting hard. I had one boyfriend who liked me to play hard to get. But we agreed in advance. I had a safe word.

"What's a nice white girl like you doing in a place like this?"

I look up in shock. That was overtly racist, and he has his hand pressed against the side of my breast, and no one's coming to rescue me yet.

"Researching a book." I give up on my plan to look like a prostitute, and tell him the truth: "I'm not really a prostitute."

He laughs? Oh. He doesn't believe me."So I'm going to be in a book?"

"You might." He might. I'm learning too painfully what customers are like. But this is going to make my book sizzle, I have to admit that.
 
He's still laughing at the thought. "I want to be the action hero. James Bond." His other hand goes on my hip.

I look at his second hand. It's not the go-away stare, I don't even have that hope. It's the I'm-amazed stare. His fingers are now on the top of my ass. Both of his hands now have a beachhead on my body.

I don't like his hands on me, and I'm upset that he doesn't have my permission. Yes, this is a wonderful experience for my book, but it ends NOW.

It would be rude to push by him, and I remember the last time I tried to walk past a man and exposed my butt to him. I don't even know if I can push by him, he's stronger than me and he thinks I'm a prostitute playing hard to get.

I look to see how I can slide away, but I positioned myself in a corner to observe. I turn away, but I can't get out of this corner. I see in the mirror

my lipstick is the same dark red as the other girls.

I also look really good, I hadn't had a chance to see Beauty's makeup job on me. I might come close to competing with these girls for looks. Over my shoulder, I see him leering at me.

I turn slowly back to him. I'm physically trapped into talking to him.

And I look exactly like a prostitute.

It seemed clever to be disguised like a prostitute, so I could observe without anyone getting self-conscious. How stupid could I be? Now I'm standing in a bordello looking exactly like a prostitute, and a customer is fondling me. And I don't know how to stop him.

No one foresaw this problem of mistaken identity. If no one else, I should have seen it coming. Instead I was all busy congratulating myself on the cleverness of my disguise. I thought I was clever to pretend I was a prostitute so I could learn what it was like to talk to him. Apparently I gave up all of my rights as a woman when I did that.

I look around the room for help, for someone coming to rescue me, but no one seems concerned about what's happening to me. Maybe they don't see his hands on me.

I have to think of myself as a professional doing research -- he's touching my body without permission, but I get something out of it. I say in my flirty voice, "You would be a great James Bond." I look around; still no one is rescuing me. No, the Manager looks up and finally sees what's happening.

Bond rotates his hand so it's on more of my breast. I try to imagine what it would be like to really be a prostitute and be forced to let him manhandle me all he wanted. I try to get that feeling of being violated and used. That's actually no problem -- I failed when I tried not to get that feeling. His other hand moves to more of my ass. His hands are on the advance.

"I want to be your James Bond."

James Bond never forced himself on a woman -- this customer is role playing the villain. He pulls me close to him. I try to squirm away, but he holds me fast. "Oh baby, I love when you do that."

This is NOT what I wanted. This is not what I paid $4000 for. He's molesting me.

"What's your name?"

I'm thrown off by the casual conversation. His hands have temporarily stopped their advance but are holding their position. "Amy?"

"Nice name. Where are you from, Amy?"

I try to remember what city I'm from, and then just say, "A small town in Kansas." I shrug defensively in the way I imagine someone from Kansas might.

His one hand now moves directly onto my ass. I reach down to push it away but I'm distracted by the other hand moving to the center of my breast. My body is being conquered. I look up to see what the Manager is doing to save me, but he isn't looking at me now and no one is coming to help.

So I have to handle this by myself. I look up to him and say in my iciest voice, "Take your hands off me." But I just get out the first word -- "Take" -- and then his lips are on mine, trying to kiss me even as I'm still trying to talk -- how is struggling not a NO? -- and my words make no sense.

"Do you want to dance?" He lets go of me and I take a step backwards into the wall. He bows, trying to be charming.

Dancing would no doubt be yet one more learning experience, I think to myself dispassionately. But I don't want to feel his body next to mine; I don't want his hands advancing on me. Dancing would just make that easier. I've been observing, I know what happens when a customer dances with a girl. This case of mistaken identity has gone too far. "Um, no thanks, not right now."

He laughs again. "Typical bitch talk. I love it." He grabs my wrist hard -- the fourth man to do that today -- and tries to pull me onto the dance floor. I resist.

He just keeps pulling me! How is resisting not a no? But he's stronger than me.

An insight cuts though me like lightning. The world I normally live is ruled by reason and rationality, and the fact that men are stronger than women means nothing. We are all equal, men and women. But there's another world where men are in charge and have the power. Prostitutes live in that world.

But because of this mistake in identity, I'm a female temporarily stuck in that world. He's not pretending that we're equal. I can't pretend to be as strong as him, because I'm not. I can't pretend to have the same rights as him, because in this world I don't. All I can pretend is that I don't mind his hand exploring my body. But I do.

I could fight harder, but that would be too dramatic, and I promised not to make trouble. And he could fight harder too. So I'm tugging on him, and he's tugging on me hard enough to slowly pull me towards the dance floor, treating this like a game, and I can see his cock staying hard, he really does like me playing hard to get.

But I'm giving the universal signal for help -- a man is trying to physically pull me and I'm a female physically resisting, in an obvious way. The Kid comes rushing up to us. I'm so relieved that this nightmare is going to be over. I never thought I'd be glad to see him, but he's strong and in charge and the second man to save me today. In this world, I'm a weak female who has to be saved by men. He grabs me away from the man.

And slaps me on the cheek. Hard.

I'm stunned with surprise, then the pain floods my cheek. I try not to cry, but tears come into my eyes. He slapped me like I was doing something wrong. Like I was actually supposed to go with Bond even though I didn't want to.

And if I was doing something wrong, he's supposed to tell me. Not slap me. He's supposed to nicely explain to me what I was doing wrong and tell me not to do it again. I look at the Kid; I can't tell if he's angry or bored.

Bond is smiling. When I look at him, he grabs my wrist and pulls me to the dance floor. I'm afraid to fight, and I'm trying not to trip in my super high heels with tears in my eye. The world just betrayed me, and now I have to dance with this octopus. I try to sop up my tears with my sleeve so I don't ruin my makeup.

When we get to the large open space in the middle of the living room, he lets go of me then bows again, like he's this really charming man and we're at the prom. Around us, other men are dancing with other girls wearing dark red lipstick and dark red nail polish and sexy clothes. We fit right in.

I try to smile politely at his gesture. Then he holds out his hands to me in the dance position. I walk into them, one of my hands uncomfortably within his, the other placed uncomfortably on his shoulder.

He puts his arm on my back, establishing a neutral beachhead in easy striking distance of a desirable target. And he starts swaying to the music, his hands on me so I have to sway too.

This is, no doubt, a momentary calm before his hands attack. I'm close enough to smell his cigarette breath. It's disgusting. I never dated a guy that smoked. I don't even have any friends who smoke. I don't belong in this world.

After the Kid slapped me, I looked around the room. The other men were just interested in what was happening and enjoying it. Bond pulls me closer and the smell is disgusting.

I think the girls were worried that I would get angry and shout or fight. Then there would have been a scene and maybe another slap. Bond's hand drops down to my ass. No surprise there, and I've already felt his hand on my ass. Maybe it was smart to not react to the slap. Maybe it was smart to passively follow Bond to the dance floor. But I wasn't being smart, I was just in shock.

The men in the room seemed to think nothing of me being slapped. If this was a grocery story and a male manager slapped a female cashier, everyone in the store would be incensed. Any videos would go viral, and the manger would get fired. Here, that's apparently normal.

But why is the Kid slapping me? I said I wouldn't make trouble, and I meant it. But no one's supposed to be molesting me. I never agreed to a man molesting me and me just accepting it. I have rights!

It doesn't feel like I have rights.

I get pulled so close that my breasts are rubbing against him. So I'm thankful for my bra. Yes, it protrudes my nipples, but it protects too. And without it, he would just pull me closer; I'm thankful not to be a half-inch closer to Bond.

If Bond thought I was a prostitute, then in a way I was making trouble by resisting him -- an unhappy customer. At the money they charge, they want happy customers.

But the Kid could have just explained to him that I wasn't a prostitute. Instead, he's letting Bond treat me like a prostitute. I'm stung with the injustice of how unfairly I'm being treated. Of course, treating females unfairly is their business model.

Bond starts fondling my ass. I've become just a body to him. I'm like a plastic sex doll -- he can put his hands anywhere he wants and do whatever he wants. No, to him I'm better than a sex doll. I'm warm. I have real body fat, which he can feel. I have a real face. I'm an alive, living sex doll. I'm worth paying money for.

But I also have feelings. Disgust. Anger. He's treating me like I have no more feelings than a plastic sex doll. So he's picking and choosing which parts of my humanness he wants to pay money for. The parts of my body.

My body betrays me by reacting with a little pleasure to his touch. But that just makes me angrier.

There's a few good biological reasons for the extra layer of fat on my ass. One is to mark me as female and give me more control over males -- they want me, and they need me. But that isn't how it's working out here.

And I wasn't supposed to get slapped. The Kid was acting like I had no rights. I mean, I'm being treated like I really am a prostitute.

Ding. They didn't dress me this way as a disguise. No one here would know about observer bias, and they certainly wouldn't worry about it. Honestly, I can't imagine those men taking two seconds to think about anything I need or want. How could I be so stupid?

If a male author was doing this, they would ask him what he needed or wanted. But not me. I have been categorized as a female in their minds. In the world I live in, that has minuses and plusses. Here, it's a huge minus.

Bond's other hand is still holding mine, but it's moved up to my rib cage and is now brushing against my breast.

Maybe they're treating me this way to be cruel to me? Nooo . . . the girls weren't following orders. I've seen them follow orders. They expected me to dress like them. They didn't get distressed until they saw I wasn't.

Ding! Everyone here is treating me like I want to actually experience being a prostitute. I look down at my blood red nails and miniskirt. That explains everything. They misunderstood Rocket. Damn him. I'm going to kill him. I really am.

No, I'm not going to kill Rocket, because he has a gun and knows how to use it. I know how to apply mascara and put a five-year-old to bed. I would be afraid to even pick up a gun -- I write about guns, I never actually touched one. Or saw anyone wearing one before today. Today, I was defended by a man threatening to use his gun!

Bond pulls me tight. My breasts are pressed into him. His hard cock occasionally pushes into me. He's treating me like I'm a prostitute; the girls are treating me like a prostitute. The Kid treated me like I was a prostitute. I look around the room. No one looks surprised that I'm dancing with Bond.

Can I leave? Not if the Door Man thinks I'm a prostitute. When he sees me looking at him, he gives me a dirty look. Then he leers at me. He thinks I'm a prostitute. I reallly am locked up inside this house.

I really am a prisoner.

And if I somehow escape out that door, I'd have no money, no phone, no ID, and be dressed like a prostitute? That's not practical.

Mr. Bond kisses me and puts his tongue in my mouth. I can taste beer and cigarettes. It's disgusting.

Can I try to pull away? No -- if everyone thinks I'm a prostitute, I'll just get slapped again. And then I'll get his sickening tongue in my mouth again. I'm trying to do some serious planning while someone's tongue is in my mouth and his hands are all over my body. How do I get out of this?

If the Kid didn't get me out of this, none of the blackshirts will. Even though I'm wearing a miniskirt, I could climb out a window -- I look around, there are no windows. There was no window in my room. There was no window where we ate. I haven't seen any windows.

This is a house people can't escape from. Of course. But that means, if they don't want me to leave, I can't escape from it. I just paid $4000 to spend a week in a prison, where I'm being treated like a female. I'm an idiot.

Bond takes his tongue out of my mouth and pulls away. Then he starts fondling my vagina and my clit.

I have to ignore him and think. What would the real James Bond do? He wouldn't be wearing 5-inch heels, for one. If I could get outside, I couldn't call anyone. No phone. I would be stranded. I couldn't buy any food -- no money -- so I would be hungry. I would be starving, actually, because all I had for dinner was lettuce. That was stupid -- I forgot I was living in a different world. I couldn't get a motel room, I would have to sleep on the street.

Now he lets go of my hand and puts his other hand on my thigh. Because of this skirt, that's bare thigh.

I wouldn't sell myself for sex. but I can understand the practicality. It would be my only way of surviving. I can stay here and let Bond grope me -- that's practical too. All of my practical options involved letting a man use my body.

His hand reaches under my skirt and rubs my ass. That pulls my skirt up so my ass is showing. His hand, on my bare ass, is a shock, and it feels so intimate. I'm used to a man's hand casually touching, say, my elbow at the start of a first date. Not a hand on my bare ass. I feel so helpless when used like this. Another tear comes into my eye.

But the Bouncer quickly comes up and shakes his head no at Bond. Bond pulls his hand out from under of my skirt. I guess Bond's entry fee didn't include the skin under my clothes. My skirt and blouse felt revealing when I put them on, but now they've become my protection, though I wish more of my body was protected.

The Bouncer holds out his hand for more money. So, no, he wasn't protecting me at all, he was just making sure the man didn't get more than he paid for. Or really, they just want more money. To the Bouncer, I'm just merchandise, not someone to protect.

But Bond shakes his head no. My ego is momentarily hurt, then I realize there's nothing wrong with the way my ass felt -- he was smiling and staying hard. Instead, Bond is just cheap. Anyway, I most definitely did not want his hand on my bare ass.

But they're not supposed to be selling my body! Even just for groping. I mean, I never told a man he could feel my ass if he paid me money. But that's what the Bouncer just did. That doesn't make me a prostitute, I think, but still, it's chillingly similar.

They already collected his $50, so in a way they're making money off of me. That's not a part of our agreement. They're taking advantage of me because I'm female. I look around -- that's what they do, it's their business, their MO. Of course they're taking advantage of me.

I try to remember the agreement I wrote and signed, but I can't -- I just remember being angry at Rocket. But I don't care how greedy they are, they can't do this. It's not right; it's not fair.

We dance some more, then Bond finally drops his hands away from me. So he's getting bored with me, or he finally noticed that the other girls in the room are better looking than me. That hurts in an ego way.

But I'm glad my ordeal of shame and abuse and violation is over. None of my friends saw it, and no one will ever hear about it, and I'm going to forget about it the second I'm finished writing my book.

Then he whispers into my ear, "I want to fuck you." He says that like he's complimenting me, the way a man might say, "I like your hair," or, "You're fun to be with." At first I can't even believe he said it, his tone was that casual. But he did.

So my ordeal isn't over -- we stopped dancing only because he wants to escalate. I can say no to men, of course, but they never voluntarily hit the brakes once they get started; I don't think that's in their DNA. The free samples here have to be extremely effective.

I whisper, "I don't want to fuck you." I don't want any of the black shirts to hear me or find out that I said that. I don't want to get slapped or feel like I'm a bad person. But getting fucked definitely will NOT be a part of my experience this week. I absolutely draw the line there.

"I love it when you struggle." He reaches out, grabs my breast, and fondles it like he owns it. He's still leering at me.

Insight strikes again. If we met at a bar, we would be negotiating a two-person relationship. Here, the negotiations were made a while back, the deal was settled, and I wasn't there. He already paid to molest my body. I can only guess how much of me he paid for by what makes the bouncer ask for more money.

And insight clobbers me again. Because he thinks I'm a prostitute, he'll assume my no is really a yes -- my "no" just means I'm playing hard to get but of course yes. There is absolutely nothing I can do to actually tell this man no. All I can tell him is that he has to pay for me, but the Bouncer will tell him that.

The shoes don't complain about being bought and worn, a car doesn't complain about being bought and driven. So I'm not expected to complain about being sold and used.

He grabs my wrist and pulls me with him towards the Manager. Before today, I thought of my wrist as something to put a bracelet on and a place to dab perfume. Now I realize my wrists are a convenient place for men to grab me.

I'm afraid to fight him and I'm not strong enough. And, insight, when I physically resist a man in the world I just came from, it's only symbolic -- I can't actually stop him. But it's a powerful symbol, and he has to stop. Here, everyone will just wonder why I'm acting strange. Unless they decide I need to be slapped again.

He lets go of my hand to get his wallet. Why does he expect me to just stand here? I want to run away, I do. I look around frantically. But the Door Man is guarding the door. I already worked out that I can't escape.

I want to explain to someone in charge that I am BEING A GOOD GIRL -- I'm letting the customer grope me all he wants, even though that's totally wrong, and I'm letting them use me in ways I never agreed to and are completely inappropriate. But of course he can't actually have intercourse with me.

But I don't know if anyone here understands English, and I don't know how to say I am not a prostitute in Russian.

Or that any man will want to protect me.

But when Bond starts taking me upstairs and I fight with him, maybe someone will finally remember that I'm just here to observe. Though I don't know exactly what Rocket told everyone and I suspect Rocket doesn't work hard to be careful with his words. That's another agreement about my body, made by two men when I wasn't there.

Bond hands the Manager a hundred. Bond makes no effort to hide from me that I'm being bought. While I'm appalled that he thinks he can buy me, he thinks that's normal and I'll like the compliment.

The Manager holds his palm up to signal stop, refusing the hundred. He holds up five fingers. $500 to buy me.

"Are you kidding me?" Bond says. "No way."

I am flooded with relief. They are not going to make me have sex with Bond. Yes, I have to let myself be groped. Yes I have to let them use my body to make money for them. But I don't have to have sex. They put my price too high.

The Kid says, "If you want to pay $100, you have to take one the chinks." The Kid knows English. He could have talked to me when I first got here. He could have welcomed me. He could have explained things to me.

"She has small tits. And her face isn't that pretty."

That hurts, it really does. I just have to remind myself that he can talk that way, I'm just an object here to be evaluated and haggled over. I shouldn't take anything personally.

I've never had a guy be that rude to me. I have good legs. My hair is beautiful. A cuter nose or higher cheekbones might help my face, and my cheeks are too round, but there's nothing seriously wrong with my face. And in these clothes -- and thanks to Beauty -- I look sexy tonight. Bond even said that. Breasts are breasts, mine are big enough.

Bond looks around the room. "That one's a looker." It's another one of the girls, the tallest one. Tall Girl is very attractive, maybe the second most attractive here. She has on a long-sleeved pants suit in psychedelic colors with numerous slits displaying a constantly shifting array of skin. Bond pushes past me, heading for her. She's already smiling at him.

So I was groped, slapped, molested, and to top it off, humiliated. I start to think if there's anything I could have done to make Bond like me more, then I remember I didn't want him to like me.

So, I'm apparently available for groping. But I'm going to work a little harder to avoid that.

I look around the room. There are about 15 customer here now. Most are dancing with other girls. Some are looking around, Including at me. I realize with shame how short my skirt is. And I don't know how high it rode when I was struggling with Bond. I was handing our free samples -- probably every man here knows I'm wearing a pink thong. Ugh.

I head back to the hoped-for safety of the corner of the balcony, but I'm still not steady on these heels. I try to slouch so I'm unattractive. I try to hold my hips motionless as I walk, but then I almost trip, so I have to sway my hips a little.

The reality is, I can't turn off the signals that I'm female, especially when I'm wearing these clothes. I'm shorter, I have breasts, I have bigger hips, I have longer hair, I have painted nails and lips. The list is endless. Nature did a great job of identity-branding me as a female. The only reason I exist is that my female ancestors looked attractive to men.

Then my culture augmented the effect, and I finished the job. The only reason I exist is that my female ancestors wanted to look attractive. They wanted attention and approval. Even if they hadn't worked out the delayed consequences.

When I get to my corner, which now doesn't feel safe or defensible, I re-plan my night. I still want to observe the prostitutes and customers, but protecting my own body has a much higher priority. I have somehow gotten into the situation where I cannot defend myself -- the customers think they have the right to grope me, the men in charge let them grope me, and I have no power. Just none.

So there's nothing I can do to stop a man who decides to grope me. I can stand in this corner and try to look unattractive, but it's a little late to have that goal -- everything in my life up to this moment has been so I would look attractive. But I do my best. I slouch; I try to hide my nails. I can try to discourage men if they come to me. And past that, I have to let them feel my body, or else I'll get slapped and then they'll feel my body anyway -- I now know the futility of trying to resist.

Obviously, this isn't fair or right. I want to complain to the teacher, or principal, or someone's parent, or the police. But the authorities here are the blackshirts. I am, temporarily, stuck in a culture where females have no rights. Rocket mistreated me because he wanted to annoy me. But ultimately he cared about what I thought. The blackshirts just care about making money; I'm just merchandise.

I try to imagine accepting this world as normal. I think women did that for thousands of years; they are still second class citizens in some countries today; women are still overpowered and abused in some relationships even in our country. But I can't take that step -- I cannot accept, even for one night, actually being a powerless female in a world where females are used by men.

So, great learning experience, etc. But I have officially reached my fill of learning experiences. That's enough for me. Tonight. For the week. Forever for learning about being a prostitute.

A teenager walks in. He's skinny and I'm guessing just old enough to drive and young enough to still have acne.

After paying his entry fee, he looks around the room at the eleven girls, leering like an immature boy announcing his right to leer, and looking for someone to approach and talk to. And then he will no doubt show his right to fondle her, as if that makes him a man. I went to high school; I remember living through years of those kinds of boys.

No, twelve girls are spread out around the room. I forgot about the 12th girl. When he sees me in the corner, he comes walking up to me. Shit, shit, shit, shit.

As he stares at my breasts he asks, "What are you doing here?" Then he looks up at me, smiling arrogantly.

I don't know what to say. I shrug. Which I realize, belatedly, looks like you know what I'm doing here.That wasn't what I wanted to communicate.

"Do you want to dance?"

I shrug again. "Not really."

He startles. "What?"

"You asked if I wanted to dance with you. I answered honestly -- I don't."

"Huh? I can see why you're standing by yourself."

He walks off. I breathe a sigh of relief. That went well! Maybe I can avoid guys for the rest of the night.

Then I can't breathe -- he's walking up to the Kid. They talk. The teenager is pointing his thumb back at me. I've had customers talk to my boss; it's never good. But I never had a boss who would hit me. I take a gasping breath and put my hand on the wall to hold myself to standing.

The Kid goes to the Manager, they have another conversation, there's more pointing and looking at me, then the Manager breaks it off and starts walking towards me. I can already feel a tear in my eye. He comes up to me and says something in Russian. He takes my hand -- without asking -- and pinches the skin between my index and middle finger, his nails digging into me.

It hurts. I look up at him in bewilderment, and he pinches harder. He's glaring at me, I'm still looking at him. I don't want to make trouble, I don't want to cause a scene, but finally I have to whimper in pain.

He lets go of me then. I didn't want to show weakness, but he wasn't going to stop until I broke. Then he pulls me to the other side of him, and pushes me in the direction of the teenager.

I stumble, right myself, and walk up to him and stand a few feet away. He looks at me, then ignores me. Except for the pain in the skin between my index finger and my middle finger, I'm free.

But the Manager pushes me towards him again. The Kid says commandingly, "Ask him." He adds, ice in his voice, "Nicely."

This is going to be the most humiliating thing that ever happened to me. "Would you dance with me?" The teenager still doesn't look happy. "Please?"

"Nah." He waves me off, making this even more humiliating than I expected. The Manager shoves me in the direction of an empty chair in the living room. He's still angry at me. Because I'm wearing heels, I trip and fall.

I stand up, pull my skirt down, and go sit in one of the chairs. I see the Manager giving the teenager a twenty. Because of me. So he's going to be really angry with me. It's going to take me a long time to get on his good side.

I try to sit so my skirt doesn't ride up. I try to hide my dark red fingernails; there's nothing I can do about my dark red lips.

Or that I'm sitting in a chair in a house of prostitution, as if I'm waiting for a customer to come to me. I want to hide in my corner, but I'm afraid to go there because the Manager pushed me here. I try to slouch, but that just makes it easier for anyone in front of me to look down my blouse. I again give thanks for my bra, that was a kindness.

And this is what I've come to -- I'm grateful to be wearing a bra. I always took that for granted. Sometimes I even resented it.

So, I've been slapped, pinched, pushed hard, and pulled, once really hard. This is what the life of a prostitute is like.

No, not true. The prostitutes in this room aren't getting slapped, pinched, pushed, or pulled hard. Just me.

But I'm partially right -- men here feel entitled to physically punish and control me. The other girls here might have experienced it, they just learned to avoid it. It's probably still a threat to them.

Another man walks up to me, about 50, with big pot belly and a smiling face. Shit. I do not want to be groped, but I really don't want more pain and punishment. And if I try to get away from him, I'll get punished. If I try to discourage him, I can get punished. So there's nothing I can do to avoid being groped.

He holds out his hand, to help me to standing -- there's only one chair next to mine, and it's occupied, so he can't sit by me. I'm grateful for his help -- the main danger in trying to stand by myself is flashing thong, but I also have to worry about showing too much cleavage and balancing on these heels.

When I'm up and standing, he doesn't let go of my hand. I know I'm not supposed to try to pull my hand away, so I don't even make a small hopeful tug to escape.

We talk, him slowly pulling me closer. His other hand occasionally reaches out to gently touch my face, or forearm. I resent the fact that he paid his money and can now touch whatever he wants. My body is still by permission only, but someone else is granting the permission. Selling that permission, really.

I don't do anything to encourage him, but I can't do anything to discourage him, because that might get me in trouble. That's enough for him -- apparently whatever I do or say means yes -- and he asks me to dance. I nod yes and he takes my body to the center of the room.

And we dance, me pressed against his stomach, his short thick fingers slowly but surely explore my body. There are only a few important destinations on the female body -- my ass, my breasts, and my vagina -- and he finds them and fondles them. He doesn't try to go under my clothes -- he's a rule follower. Well, with the blackshirts here, we're all rule followers. But the men just get a head shake when they break the rules. Or a face-up palm waiting for more money.

There are more customers than girls here, creating a problem. The blackshirts need more girls. Are they too expensive to buy more of? The manufacturers are temporarily out of stock? They really should be filling my room upstairs with another prostitute.

Or they think they did. Maybe they decided to treat me like a prostitute because they needed me. I can hear Rocket saying It just business. Don't take things so personal.

Eventually the man leaves me to visit the Manager. I'm afraid to do anything but stand and wait for him. By the time he gets to the Manager, the man has a hundred in his hand. The manager shakes his head no and holds up four fingers, for $400.

I'm going on sale? 20% off? What happened to the plan of pricing me too high so no one buys me for sex?

But it works -- the guy shakes his head no. He looks at me, frowns, and then starts looking around the room. But every girl is taken. I'm afraid he's going to go back to dancing with me, but then a man comes down the stairs, with a girl following ten seconds later. My customer points to her, the Manager takes his hundred, and he walks up to her.

She gives him a weary smile that he probably thinks means she's happy to see him, holds out her hand gently, and leads him up the stairs to her room.

I realize that I got him excited. He groped my body, not hers. Now all she has to do is let him fuck her. I was the prep girl; I was the set-up band, getting the audience in a good mood for the main attraction.

I don't have to fuck a single guy in this room and they're still using me to make money. At least they're not completely wasting that empty room. I can see why they wanted to dress me this way; I can see why they're treating me this way. Women are expected to help -- help clean up, change a diaper, comfort a crying child. Why not expect me to fill in as a prostitute because they're short on girls? All I have to do is stand around and not make trouble. And let men grope my body.

I need to go to the bathroom. There's a bathroom upstairs, but I really don't want to go up there -- I don't want to hear people having sex, and I don't want to see satisfied men walking out of a weary girl's bedroom; I already know what happens upstairs, I don't need to observe that. I'm not going to have actual sex scenes in my book.

People -- customers, girls, and black shirts -- have been walking to the back of the house. I assumed there were porn movies back there, and I know they can buy beers. But probably there's a bathroom back there. The customers would need a bathroom; so would the blackshirts.

The issue is settled when I see a new customer eying me -- I jump up, find my balance, tug down my skirt, and head for the hoped-for-bathrooms on this floor.

When I reach the edge of the living room, I look around. No one looks angry at me. I take a step into the entry way, look back -- still no one's angry or rushing over to grab my wrist or slap me -- so I keep walking. One last look -- apparently I'm allowed to go to the bathroom. It seems like a miracle -- first a bra, and now I can use the downstairs bathroom.

I walk past the kitchen, where a Korean guy wearing a black shirt is selling bottles of beer. The sign says $10. Before I walk far, I see a door with the shape of a man on it. He has a full-color penis. The next door has a figure with long hair, breasts and a full-color vagina. I go in. No windows; I still haven't seen any windows.

I sit in a stall, pee, and enjoy the peace and quiet. There are no men around me, so there's no threat of punishment, fondling, or physical domination. When I'm done, I know I should get up -- the black shirts want me helping with prep. But I sit; I need this mental health time.

The bathroom door opens, and a man's heavy footsteps thud across the tile floor. There's a man in the woman's bathroom?

A customer lost his way? He's drunk? My stall door is closed, so I guess having a drunk customer in here isn't a problem. Anyway, I already know not to complain about it.

My stall door slams open, the door crashing against the wall of my stall and frightening me out of my few seconds of relaxation. I look up at the Bouncer; he glares down at me. I think, Welcome to the ladies room. I say, "Sorry, I'm coming." He grunts something at me in Russian.

I stand up, trying to pull my thong up at the same time. He could look the other way, but he keeps glaring at me. I pull up my skirt and fasten it. I try to walk out on my own before he can grab me, but he grabs my wrist and elbow and escorts me back into the main room, half carrying me.

If they had enough girls working here, I could have stayed a little longer in the bathroom. But they don't. That's not my fault. Except maybe they would have one more girl if I wasn't here, because they wouldn't be giving that room to me. But if that obligates me to help out, they had to explain that to me and get my agreement.

I would happily share that room with another girl if I didn't have to fill in for her down here.

A man is sitting in the chair I had been sitting in. It's an older guy, about 65, in old beige slacks and a plaid shirt. I look around. No other chairs are empty. He leers at me, like a creepy grandfather, and he pats his lap.

I look over and the Doorman is staring at me angrily. There's no ambiguity and no escape -- one of the blackshirts will slap me if I don't sit in Old Guy's lap; if they don't, he'll complain to the Manager and get $20 and I'll still get punished.

I sit down unwillingly in his lap. He puts his left hand around my stomach and his right on my thigh. My breasts and vagina are already programmed into his GPS.

Left hand moves up to pushing lightly against the underside of my bra, but I'm distracted by the man who just walked in. He's Asian, which is common here, probably Chinese, and he looks about 50. He's wearing a suit that costs a fortune. The Manager immediately attends to him.

I feel a right hand on my bare thigh, just below my skirt hem, and lips kissing the back of my neck. I now understand better what it's like to be a prostitute -- to have men's hands constantly on me, all over me, all night. In my book, the prostitute will be fondled and groped so often it seems normal to her.

The Manager shakes the well-dressed man's hand enthusiastically and calls for the Kid.

Scratchy fingers slide across my thigh, stopping temporarily on the inside of my thigh. The hard thing poking into my ass is his cock; his left hand suddenly grabs my breast. He starts trying to fondle my nipple through my blouse and bra. Is he allowed to do that? Thank you once again, bra -- you're not great protection, but you're better than nothing.

The well-dressed Chinese man points at me. Right at me. He says nothing, but we can all understand him: I want that one. I look at the floor so he doesn't see me looking at him. I suddenly feel ashamed to be seen with a man's hands all over me.

The Kid and the Bouncer come over. The Bouncer roughly pulls me to my feet; the old man's hands make one last effort to fondle me as I'm ripped from their grasp. I hear the Kid telling Old Guy, "I'm sorry for this inconvenience, sir, but you'll have to find a better girl."

I've done book signings. I know what it means when someone comes in and is ushered to the front of the line -- that person is important. This important man picked me out, though he probably just wants the white girl.

The Bouncer leads me, ironically, to the corner where I was trying to observe. The Chinese man walks up to me, unintentionally cornering me. I look to see if I can get past him and escape to my room, but the Bouncer is currently blocking the way.

Thoughts are whirling through my brain, spinning in circles. I do NOT want to be slapped. I never said I wanted to experience being merchandise. I do NOT want to be slapped. Why can't I stop this from happening to me? I do NOT want to be slapped. I don't want this experience any more. And I really do NOT want to be slapped. He's important, everything I do will be scrutinized. And if I don't make him happy, I'm going to get worse than a pinch between my fingers.

"What is a nice white girl like you doing in a place like this?"

Do I have that line written on my forehead? I look up at him. With my heels, I'm at his height. He is, ultimately, a man, and I'm a woman. And we are talking. "I'm an author doing research for a book."

"Very sexy." He reaches to me and runs his hands through my hair. I'm the only blond girl, of course, and he obviously likes my hair. So he could have picked me for my hair.

I think it's my job to say some sexy pickup line. I look around the girls in the room, all entertaining men who look happy. I bet they all know one line for the men who speak their language.

But I don't want Chinese Man to actually like me, I just don't want to get punished. So I just look down. He adds, "Your hair is like golden sunlight, streaming down from the heavens."

I giggle -- it's exactly the kind of cheesy simile that people assume authors write. I put my hand over my mouth, and I worry that he'll be upset that I'm laughing at him and I'll get punished, but thankfully he's smiling. He thinks I'm cute.

And I'm giggling like a high schooler. Acting the age on my driver's license. I try to stop laughing and not to show any emotion, even though I know that means yes. Like everything else I do.

He takes a step towards me, holds his hands on each side of my arms, and leans forward and kisses me. His tongue goes into my mouth. My tongue isn't participating, so it's just him entering me.

I will give him this -- he used a mouth freshener and tastes like spearmint. When he pulls away, he says sincerely, "Your lips are like the sweetest honey." I put my head on his shoulder so he can't see my face, in case I burst out laughing.

And I'll give him this. He's sweet. He's running with my line about being an author. He's treating me like I have a brain, though his hands are cupping my ass, so he's still treating me like I have an available body too.

I can play this game. Actually, I did once with three other female authors at a hotel bar. "Your compliments are like cherry blossoms in a summer breeze gently drifting across my delicate skin."

Mr. Poet pinches my ass. Soft cherry blossoms indeed. I bite his neck his neck in anger, but at the last second I hold back.

Damn, that was just a playful bite. I looked like I was flirting.

Then he starts nibbling my ear. I have to admit, I like having my ear nibbled. I missed it when my last boyfriend never nibbled on my ear. One of Chinese Man's hands moves up to my not-big-enough breasts. I try to feel outrage, but I've lost track of how many men today have groped my breasts. They're just breasts.

Being fondled tonight is becoming ordinary.

I think I'm supposed to grind against him now. I'm almost positive that's a prostitute move, or at least it fits the stereotype. I look around to see if any of the girls are grinding against the customers. Yep, Sad Girl and another girl are grinding. Good observation.

But I can't get myself to grind against him; it's too crude. Instead, I play statue. He can grind against me if he wants that -- I've already let one guy do that.

And he gets discouraged -- his one hand drops off of my breast, the other comes off my ass, and he kisses me goodbye. Great! And he says in parting, "You are more beautiful than any sunset."

That's a nice thing to say, even if it is cheesy; no other man has been nice to me today. It fits his sweet nature. I liked him, actually. For a customer, he treated me respectfully. "You are more charming than the powerful sun which benevolently graces the sunset with its beauty."

I wonder which girl he'll try next. Beauty is dancing, but there are a lot of attractive girls to choose from. No, he can probably have Beauty if he wants her.

But when my eyes get back to him, I see him offering a hundred to the Manager.

To be honest with myself, I felt a little rejected when I thought he was rejecting me for one of the other girls. The manager is holding up five fingers. I feel better that he wants me, and it's all safe because that $500 price is still protecting me.

The nice Chinese man pulls four more hundreds out of his wallet like they're ones.

Now I'm worried. I hope the manager raises my price. I hope he tells the Chinese man that he can't have me at any price. I hope he explains that I'm not really a prostitute.

I watch two men deciding what happens to my body.

My stomach drops -- the manger accepts the money from Chinese man and smiles, I think for the first time tonight.

I've been sold. Sold! Like I was a prostitute!

The Manager wasn't supposed to do that. Chinese Man looks back at me and smiles at me. He thinks we're both happy. The plan to not sell me apparently was just my plan; it was never their plan. Or, for $500 they can be very flexible with plans about a female.

RUN! RUN! I try to run, but I can't run that quickly in my heels, but I run down the steps to the main floor as best I can and start running to the stairs heading up. ESCAPE! The Kid sees me and starts racing to catch me. GET AWAY!

The Kid gets to the stairway just after me and pulls me back. I would have gotten away except for my heels. I was handicapped -- part of being a female in this unequal world is wearing heels that make me even slower. That's probably not a coincidence.

The Kid slaps me. It hurts me, a lot, but I'm not surprised this time.

The Manager and Chinese Man have arrived. The Kid is still holding me and I'm crying, "I don't want to be fucked," over and over again. The whole room is looking at us.

And, in this backwards world, the strange thing to everyone is me not wanting to let a strange man fuck me. I'm the curiosity. And why did I think running upstairs would accomplish anything? That's not safety. What was I going to do? Lock my door? Hide on top of my bed?

I should have run for the door -- no, that's guarded. There's nowhere for me to run. Maybe everyone's looking at me because they can't believe I was that stupid.

I feel exposed and completely helpless. My hope that the manager would sell me was just my hope. Now I know in my story to give my prositute hope -- and then crush it.

The Kid says, "I am very sorry, Mr. Zhang. She is very new here and apparently not as cooperative as she should be. We did not take the proper time to train her. We will tie her to the bed for you, if you can just give us a few minutes."

Tie me up? Without my permission? Bolt of insight. When I was a nice, proper girl, I got used to being treated as an equal. Tonight, my goal was to have a man protect me. But they just care about Mr. Zhang and his $500. I'm just emotionless merchandise. 

"I do not want to take her when she is tied up."

"We will give her a roofie. It is no trouble Mr. Zhang. It will take a few minutes to have an effect. Please accept a free drink while you wait."

Giving me a roofie isn't any trouble? What about for me? I would wake up and know I'd been fucked and not remember any of it.

I'm trying not to let those words make me feel so worthless and uncared for. I tell myself I'm just merchandise, I shouldn't take it personally.

"No. No drugs for this special one."

Suddenly I like Mr. Zhang. Is this the Stockholm syndrome? He likes me. He was nice to me. He's well dressed and rich and powerful. He's on my side.

The Manager stares daggers into me and gives the five hundred dollars back to Mr. Zhang. The Manager definitely doesn't like me. The Kid says, "Take any of the other girls, Mr. Zhang. For free, as a token of our shame for inconveniencing you."

"I want this one." He's looking at me. He snaps his finger once. I stop my crying in amazement -- the man he came with leaves a girl and comes running, literally running, to us. Mr. Zhang says something to him, and the gofer reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wrapped wad of hundred dollar bills. The wrapping says $5000. Mr. Zhang gives about half to the Manager and says, "I will be back. If she is willing, the other half is yours. Can you manage that?"

Who carries a pack of $100's around? I don't know anyone with a personal bodyguard. I am SO out of my depth here.

"Yes, Mr. Zhang. Of course." The Kid is staring at the money, I think unbelievingly. So am I.

"No opiates. Her mind is valuable." He likes my mind, but he's treating me like merchandise. Being rich gives him the right to buy me.

Mr. Zhang starts walking to the door, turns around, and says, "She is new?"

"She just got here. This is her first night."

"I will be first."

Then he turns back around and walks out. The other man -- his driver? bodyguard? accountant? -- falls in step behind.

My mind is fumbling in confusion. If I understand him correctly, no one can have intercourse with me until he does. Since he's walking out the door, that's temporarily a relief.

But he wants to have sex with me. But I have to want to? So I can just say no. But obviously the manager and the Kid are going to want me to have sex with them. And they have all the power.  I saw what they were willing to do for Mr. Zhang for $500 -- they were willing to tie me up, so he could rape me, or force me to take a roofie and be raped while I was unconscious. What will they do for $5000?

Whatever makes Mr. Zhang happy, that's what they'll do. My wants and needs have become totally irrelevant. Except they were already.

I look around the room for some comfort. All I see is men who want to use me and women stuck in the same prison I'm in. The Manager says something to the Kid, the Kid says something to the Bouncer and points upstairs, and the Bouncer picks me up and throws me over his shoulder. I fight to escape from him, but I can't; he slaps the bare part of my thigh really hard and I stop struggling. I feel myself becoming passive.

I'm not surprised any more to be slapped -- like groping, I'm getting used to it. But the Bouncer's slap still hurts -- the sharp pain of the slap to a sensitive part of my skin, and the burning as blood rushes back into the area. The shame of knowing my thigh shows a hand-sized patch of bright red.

And a man just hit me, yet no one is defending me. It's the most helpless feeling I've ever had. In fact, they probably think I deserve to be punished.

He carries me into the room they assigned me and gently places me on the bed. It's the first time he's been gentle with me. Maybe he thinks I'm valuable merchandise -- I won't have sex with Mr. Zhang, at least not willingly, but they don't know that, so they might think I'm worth $5000. They might even be impressed by how valuable I am.

The Bouncer reaches down to unbutton the top button of my blouse, but stops when the Kid says something to him in Russian. The Bouncer moves to my feet; the Kid climbs on top of me, straddling me, a knee on each side of me. Then he starts undoing my blouse buttons.

"I'm just supposed to be observing, You know that, right?"

He shakes his head no and smiles. "We were told you wanted to experience being a prostitute. That was convenient for us."

He's finished unbuttoning and starts sliding my blouse off of my arm. The Bouncer has taken off my shoes. He can see my toenails, which are the color he probably expects.

"No, I definitely said I just wanted to observe." It feels odd to talk to someone. It feels odd to have anything explained to me.

He shrugs like he's bored with this conversation. "We have a copy of your contract. It says you want to learn to be a prostitute."

I insisted on a contract and wrote it myself. But I was especially irritated by Rocket at that moment and not paying good attention to what I was writing. I think I said I wanted to learn about being a prostitute. I can see how that might easily be understood as learning to be a prostitute. Especially by someone who wanted to read it that way.

He adds, "We needed another girl here to help out. That is the only reason we accepted you."

The Bouncer is getting something out of my dresser. I assumed my dresser was empty because I didn't put anything in it. One more stupid assumption I made.

I signed that contract. I insisted. Shit, the Kid has a signed contract allowing him to do this. "I'm not a prostitute."

My blouse is off and he's unhooking my bra. It unhooks from the front, so it falls open revealing my breasts. He smiles arrogantly, I think at the cruelty of my exposure and how I can't stop him.

The Bouncer has ropes in his hand and is starting to tie one around my wrist. So the dresser contains things a customer might want to do to me. It was never meant for my clothes.

The Kid shakes his head and smiles. "Do not underestimate yourself, Amy. You are learning fast." He's being intentionally annoying too. My best-selling book didn't contain any men intimidating and controlling females -- the men were all nice and polite to females. Even the villain.

Everyone else assumed I was a prostitute. The Kid knows I'm not. But he doesn't care. I think he's a sadist and likes mistreating me. He pulls my bra out from under my back.

"I mean I'm not a real prostitute. I won't let a man fuck me."

The Bouncer fastened my right wrist to the corner of the bed. Now he's tying a rope around my other wrist.

The Kid moves down to straddling my legs. He unhooks my skirt. "We'll see." He pulls off my skirt, then my thong. This isn't Snow White being undressed by friendly birds chirping a song; this is the female in the woods surrounded by two wolves working together.

The Bouncer has fastened my other wrist to the corner of the bed.

"You can't sell my body."

"I don't think you understand, Blondie. Someone already bought it. Someone very powerful."

Everything I say or do, or complain about, or threaten, it's all is going to get weighed against that $5000. And always come up short. My desires won't even move the scale. I don't even know what I could threaten.

"I need to speak to Mr. Samendez."

The Kid is looking in my dresser. He gets out more ropes and asks me, "The wetback who sold you to us?"

He sold me? Like a piece of property? He's not here? "Yes. Him. Right now."

The Kid throws the Bouncer a rope and they each start tying up one of my feet. Now they can both see my dark red toenails, which in a way marks me as theirs. I pull on the ropes on my wrists. They seem solidly tied.

"He's gone. He sold us to you for a week for $2000. We're expecting you to earn that plus time and expenses. Now you're looking like a big profit."

Samendez was just a middle man. He sold me. A man sold me before I even got here. He collected money from Rocket and then from these Russians. Middle man indeed.

 I ask, "What's my safe word?"

The Kid shakes his head in amazement and I think tells the Bouncer what I just said. The Bouncer begins laughing so hard he can't stand up straight.

The Kid says, "I'll give you a safe word. It's Yes sir."

He laughs at his joke. I get it -- Yes sir gets me out of nothing.

And the owners here were expecting to make money off me. So they had to treat me like a prostitute. Dress me up like a prostitute. Let men grope me like I'm prostitute. With a contract signed by me asking for that.

Which means they had to physically punish me when I didn't do what they wanted.

Now the Kid is standing at the foot of my bed and staring at my naked body. The Bouncer is double-checking the knots and gathering up my clothes.

"Really, I clearly said I was just observing. That's all I'm going to do."

"You were not just observing tonight." He shrugs, like he's not happy with my body but there's nothing he can do about it.

"That was a mistake in communication."

"You seemed to enjoy this supposed mistake. You were letting those men fondle your breasts and vagina." He smiles cruelly. "And anywhere they wanted."

"I didn't enjoy that."

The Bouncer has taken a gag out of the dresser and has it in his hand. The Kid says to me, "Are you going to cry out? We are running a business here, and we were promised you would not make any trouble." He takes the gag out of the Bouncer's hand. "If you might be tempted to make noise, we can make sure that you do not."

"I won't make any noise." The Kid gives the gag back to the Bouncer; the Bouncer isn't happy, but he puts the gag back in the dresser. Where it will be convenient for anyone to use on me. It's like how I keep lip balm in the drawer of my nightstand, except the lip balm is for when I want to use it.

"Good girl. You were a lot of trouble tonight." He kisses me on the lips, but only as a symbol of his power over me. "I do not want that happening again." I don't want tonight to happen again either -- we're on the same page on that.

The Kid turns back to me when he's at the door. "You wanted to come here. We needed to use you. Now we need you to voluntarily have sex with Mr. Zhang."

"I will not."

"What we are going to do to you, Blondie, it is just business."

So I shouldn't take it personal.

Act III

I've hit bottom -- I'm naked and tied spread-eagle on a king-sized bed, controlled by men who want me to do something I don't want to do.

I struggle to escape from the ropes, but of course that's futile. I knew it would be. I'm probably not the first prostitute they tied up; they knew what they were doing.

And now they definitely won't let me leave this house -- they need me to have sex with Mr. Zhang. They also won't let me contact the outside world. I'm a prisoner just as much as the other prostitutes here. The only difference is that they're sex slaves, and I'm a famous author just visiting.

When the week ends, I'll be led out of here wearing a blindfold and I won't even know where I've been. I pull again at my ropes, this time fueled by fear and anger. I doubt I'm the first prostitute to try that either. But unlike the prostitutes here, I can go back to a normal life.

I feel so open and vulnerable. And abused, but there's nothing I can do about it.

I listen. Men coming up the stairs in their heavy shoes. Girls talking to them as they walk. Going to rooms. Having sex.

For me, sex is something special. Sometimes good, sometimes not as good, but even not-so-good sex means something about the guy. For the girls here, it's just a job. When I tried writing my story, I had imagined them on their backs, letting a man thrust his penis in and out of them, and them being angry or ashamed. These girls are probably just bored.

I've had sex with a guy just because it was too awkward to get out of. But I was always agreeing. And I wasn't being sold.

I'm hungry -- I wish I had eaten more dinner.

Downstairs, I knew I was being used. I knew I was being mistreated. But I assumed that at some fundamental level the men here would, if needed, eventually protect me.

I was wrong. I'm a female in a world where females are just merchandise. It never crossed their mind to care about what I want. In their world, my body is a resource. They expect to behave -- or they'll teach me to behave. Like training a dog -- no one asks the dog's permission before training it.

Like with their slaps -- they just need to control me so I do what I'm supposed to do and things work smoothly. They're glad that the slaps hurt.

More sex. Some girls screaming out their pleasure, I'm sure faking it. I've had to fake being excited -- but not all night.

I realize, the Kid knows three languages -- English, Russian, and Thai. This is a battle of physical strength that I'm doomed to lose. But if a battle ever comes down to who's the smartest, I'll probably lose that too.

I doubt that any of the blackshirts are stupid, except maybe the Door man. And they're experienced and know what they're doing, while I'm the newbie. I'm going to win on sheer determination? No, they have a $5000 incentive, and I'm guessing Mr. Zhang would be a bad person to displease. He might even be dangerous.

I'm not dangerous. I was always the good girl in school. I was cooperative and obedient -- that was what I was good at.

One of my advantages interacting with a man has been his desire for my body. That desire has become the danger. I try to reassure myself by remembering that when this is over, I'll go back to my old life and find another boyfriend and write another successful novel.

I'm so bored that I get excited to hear my door opening, even though everything that has happened to me tonight has been bad. In walks Sad Girl. I'm so glad to see her. She smiles at me, then she sees that I'm naked and tied spread-eagle on the bed. She starts to giggle and her hand shoots to cover her mouth, but she's still looking at me and smiling.

She playfully slaps my thigh. What's that about? I'm losing track of how many times I've been slapped today; I can't take notes to keep track because I don't have any paper or pen AND I can't use my hands. But being slapped isn't something I can forget.

Unlike my other slaps, her slap didn't hurt. She touches my shoulder, then sits on my bed next to me and fixes my makeup. When she's done, she holds a wafer in front of my mouth. She wants to put it in my mouth.

I tell her "No," which she doesn't understand, even though that's a pretty basic word. So she must hear no English here. I hold my mouth shut in an obvious way and shake my head no, which I think she understands -- she starts to look really distressed.

She can do a lot of pain to my helpless body. If she does, apparently I'll give in. But she seems sweet and nice, and I can't imagine her doing that. But I'm the stupid one here. She's not strong enough to force the wafer into my mouth. It's nice to be dealing with a female for a change -- I'm so tired of being physically dominated by men.

She sees my stubborn determination, and she's still distressed. She puts her hands in the position of praying. Her eyes are looking at me, and they're pleading too.

Ugh, I understand. They can punish her too. They might slap her, just because she failed, or just because they're angry. And then a man will come and force open my mouth, because he's stronger than me, and he'll put the wafer in my mouth and hold my mouth shut.

I'm in a room with one helpless female and I'm still being physically dominated by men.

I open my mouth. I hear her quick sigh of relief, she smiles, and the wafer is in my mouth and starting to dissolve. She gives me a quick kiss on the forehead, I think to show that she like me, or maybe as a thanks. She watches me for a few more seconds, then she bounces up off my bed, onto her feet, and runs back down the stairs and back to her work.

Maybe she was raised to take care of her fathers and brothers, and that's all she knows about men -- she doesn't seem to have any problems with being obedient and used.

I lie in bed. I feel how helpless I am. I again try to figure out how I could have possibly ended up in this situation. I'm hungry.

Then I hear my door. Again, someone walks in without knocking.

It's Snow White.

She walks up to my bed and starts fondling my body, but now she's a man.

No, he's Snow White. I think I'm hallucinating Snow White and a man really is in my room touching me. No, two men, there's too many hands to be just one man. No it's one man. I think. Then he turns into a flock of birds and flies out my door.

Maybe there was no man and I hallucinated the whole thing. The bastards made me take a hallucinogen.

Then my door opens again, and there's a prince and princess outside my door, and the prince comes in. Then he's looking through a microscope at my vagina. Instead of a bed, I'm lying on a king-sized microscope slide.

Now I can't even control my thoughts. I'm pretty sure men are molesting me, but it's impossible for me to be sure of anything.

Then I'm walking in the desert for hours. Then a small man is ice skating on me and admiring how smooth I am and saying that he wants to skate inside me but he didn't pay to put his finger in my vagina.

Then I'm flying in the sky like a bird, but I can't flap my arms, I'm stuck in the shape of an X. I start to fall, and men are there to catch me but they don't even try and I just hit the ground. And a gorilla walks into my room, and I know it can't be a gorilla, and I hear him say, "A white girl. I can't believe it."

And I say, "Help me escape." Except I'm just speaking nonsense. Or maybe Chinese. The gorilla doesn't understand Chinese. And then he turns into a thin white guy, then he turns back into a gorilla and says, "I'm going to pay the extra $20 to touch her," and he leaves and then comes back and rubs his gorilla paws all over my body.

And then, to my amazement, a policeman walks into my room. I am so relieved I almost start crying. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

He kisses my breast. "Can you untie me?" He keeps kissing my breasts. "Get me out of here. I'm being held captive against my will."

He stops kissing my breasts for a second, looks at me, and says, "Not my problem."

It's not his problem? He's a --

Fireman. He's a fireman, kissing my breasts and now sucking on my nipple. I look again -- he's a sailor. Shit. I have no idea who he is,, my perceptions are worthless.

Eventually he leaves, and I lie there a little longer, then I think The Assassin walks in. Except I know it's probably a customer and I'm hallucinating. Then there's a horribly pain in my foot, and I look down and my foot has fallen off and my leg ends at my ankle. But I still feel tied to the bed. And he says to me, "Practice random kindness," except I know he doesn't speak English.

And I lay some more, and more people or animals come in, but I'm never sure who, or if they're even real, and my body is molested, I think, and there are sounds of sex in the rooms around me, and someone comes to take off my makeup and eventually I fall asleep.

The Next Day

I wake up, at first confused . . . then I realize I'm tied spread-eagled on a bed. That's why I can't move my arms or turn my body in the bed.

Then I remember: I'm on my experience -- observing at a prostitute house. But yesterday turned into the day from hell -- something went terribly wrong and they're treating me like a prostitute.

My stomach sinks -- it's a nightmare, and it's real.

Oh my God! My foot! I remember someone cutting it off. I look down. My foot is fine. Thank God.

But I'm totally naked. And hungry. Really, really hungry. Thirsty too.

I didn't sleep well last night. I had strange, vivid, upsetting dreams. And before that, I remember being awake and hallucinating.

I think, but I'm not sure, that men came in to stare at me or to touch me. I'm going to guess there weren't any animals, those were hallucinations -- there are no gorillas running loose in a city.

I think someone, maybe the Assassin, punished me for telling the policeman I wanted to escape. I might have hallucinated the policeman, but I can't hallucinate that much pain.

I don't know how many customers molested me yesterday -- they took away my knowledge of what was real. For sure the guy at the stairs, Bond, Mr. Zhang, the Kid, the old man, and one other customer I didn't even name because the customers were starting to all seem the same. And I think for sure a hallucinated gorilla, and maybe Snow White, but that doesn't make any sense.

I don't think they made a lot of money on me last night. I had become a cheap piece of merchandise they had to put on sale -- I have a vague memory, or hallucination, of $10 to look at me and $20 to touch me. That's not going to make up for the $2000 they paid for me.

According to the Kid, they paid Mr. Samendez good money for me to be a prostitute here for a week. Do I believe what the Kid said? At this moment, I can't think of any reason why I should believe anything any man tells me. Maybe Mr. Samendez paid them money for me to be a guest here and they decided to use me.

One control I have over my life is knowing reality. I know if someone was nice to me or wasn't; I can learn new skills and from my mistakes. Taking away my sense of reality is just one more way they make me feel helpless.

And when that older Afro-American guy was sucking on my breasts, I should have been angry. But I thought he was drinking milk from a straw. That's what I saw, so clearly. Ugh, the milk symbolism is gross and unsettling.

I can be angry at that man now, but he's gone and it's too late; at the time I couldn't -- I thought he was actually drinking something from a straw while he rubbed my breasts. Or maybe he never existed at all and that was a dream.

I don't remember getting slapped after the Bouncer slapped me on the stairs. There was just that really painful something on my foot. It seemed a lot more painful than a slap. And I don't remember anything going into my vagina. Double checking . . . I don't have any memory of cocks or cigars or bananas; I don't remember any men going into doorways, holes, or tunnels.

That's a relief.

For breakfast, I'm craving eggs and a glass of orange juice. I doubt that's the meal at the females' table; I'll be lucky to get plain oatmeal. But I'm so hungry, oatmeal sounds great and even rice sounds good. How did I get myself into not being able to choose what I eat for breakfast? How could I be so stupid? And ignorant and naive. And make so many wrong assumptions. I feel like such an idiot.

Eventually I hear other girls getting up and coming out of their rooms. They had a late night. Maybe I did too, but I don't know -- I don't have a clock. Not knowing the time is a little disorienting. It's only a small loss of control, but I'm experiencing too many of them -- I have to worry that one of them might break me.

Eventually I hear my door starting to open. I wish they had sent someone sooner to untie me. And I hope it's time for breakfast.

The Doorman comes into my room. I start talking to him, and he puts his finger over his lips signaling me to be quiet. I will not. I start speaking louder to him of my needs. I know he doesn't understand English, but I'm sore and thirsty and hungry. He slaps my bare stomach. It hurts. I can't protect my stomach, it's vulnerable to anyone who wants to slap it. I quiet down, and he leaves.

Before I can finish counting how many people have now slapped me, a man I haven't seen comes in. He's Chinese, but I think he works here because he's wearing a black dress shirt. But he's naked from the waist down.

He's going to rape me.

I would scream and fight, except . . . he's carrying a glass of water. I can't stop staring at the water and I certainly don't want to knock it over and spill any with some foolish resistance that won't help with anything. He sits next to me in bed, his cock only a few inches from my face. Then he holds up my head and lets me sip water from the glass as he holds it to my lips.

It tastes glorious.

After he's let me drink, I assume he's going to rape me. Now I can fight him without having to worry about spilling the water. Bbut he was nice to me and I'm not as determined. But he just leaves.

So I'm not raped and I'm not thirsty. I wasn't even slapped or groped. That was a good visit! Of course I didn't need the close-up look at his cock.

And I'm still really hungry.

One of the girls comes in, I hope to untie me. She says something to me that, by it's tone might be good morning. I say, "Good morning to you to." She smiles and keeps talking while she slaps my arm.

I'm surprised by her slap, but it hardly hurt at all. Chatty girl stops talking for a second to shrug. What does that shrug mean? She's sorry she hit me? But she did it on purpose. She touches my stomach -- I get another shrug from her -- and then she leaves without untying me, still talking as she walks out my door.

I look up at my wrists. Now they're being used to tie me to this bed. Men must think my wrists are very convenient.

One by one the girls come into my room and slap me and touch me. Their slaps are light, like their heart isn't in it. Except one girl slaps me really hard on the top of my thigh. Does she hate me? I didn't do anything to her.

Their touches are innocent, in different places on my body. Except Hate girl's touch is more like a jab.

Sad Girl doesn't slap me, she just kisses my lips. She's a strange one. But I'll take any favors, and it's nice not to be slapped. I think about how many boyfriends I've had and the fact that not one of them ever slapped me or hit me. Now I can appreciate that.

I should write down all of the good things that I just took for granted. Except of course I have no free hands and nothing to write with or on; I always took for granted being able to write things down.

Tall Girl's touch wasn't innocent. After lightly slapping my thigh, she thought about where to touch, then touched my breast. And she was looking at me, I think trying to read me. Then she sighed and left. Maybe she was hoping to excite me?

But no one untied me. So I'm STILL tied. And naked and hungry. I have a lot of problems; my loss of pen and paper is not in the top ten any more.

Then the Assassin walks into my room. I am filled with fear and my left foot starts to hurt, I think with the memory of pain. I have never had a man slap me lightly, they always slap hard. And he's naked. I can't think of any reason for that except to rape me, except the first man didn't. So I don't understand what they're doing to me, which I'm also getting used to.

Because I don't understand, I stay quiet and don't move, trying not to do anything wrong. He pushes my bed away from the back wall, so he can stand behind me. His cock is inches from my face.

And now I thrash around. He tries to hold my head with one hand, but he can't. My eyes are closed, I don't want to see his cock. I also don't want to see the look on his face, whether it's anger or lust or both. I do NOT want him here. I DON'T want to be here. I just --

I smell steak.

My eyes pop open. He's holding a small piece of steak in front of my face. I stop thrashing. He slowly lowers it towards my mouth.

I start to open my mouth eagerly when I realize -- he's teasing me. Bastard. This is their torture. I don't want to open my mouth and give him the satisfaction of knowing he frustrated me. I don't want to get my hopes up and feel that crushing disappointment.

My mouth opens anyway. I'm overwhelmed by my tiny pitiful hope that I might really get the steak -- I close my eyes and hate myself for hoping this man will be nice to me.

And I taste steak. At first I assume I'm hallucinating, but I'm not -- he really put it in my mouth. What did I do to deserve this? I look up. I never thought I would be glad to see the Assassin. He's smiling kindly down at me, looking a little bored, and still keeping his cock close to my face.

I chew it slowly, savoring the pleasure. It's gorgeously, wonderfully delicious. I close my eyes so that I can taste it better. When I'm done chewing it, I open my eyes and there's more water in front of me. His hard cock is touching my ear; the glass is touching my lips. He lets me sip from the glass of water. That too is marvelous. I feel like a queen, being served by a servant. Except a queen wouldn't have a cock in her face, or, of course, be tied up naked.

When I have supped twice, he stops letting me drink. A queen would be able to drink all she wanted. Even a normal person could drink all she wanted, and even the prostitutes here get to drink all they want if they're obedient and compliant. 

His cock rubs against my head as he pulls away. He leaves the room, me looking at his naked butt but thinking only about the water left in that glass behind me and the miracle of the steak.

And then I lie spread-eagled on my bed. Still naked, still hungry, still bored, still waiting for someone to untie me so I can go eat. But not as hungry, and not thirsty. And no one's hitting me hard.

There's no one upstairs. I can faintly hear them downstairs. I think they're eating together. My heart breaks.

No one untied me. I'm being punished. But I really don't know why they're doing this, they didn't even explain that to me. The Kid said it was just business, but they're not making any money from me now.

My bondage goes on all day. Occasionally the girls come back into my room and slap me and touch me. They slap different places and they touch different places. The slaps and touches are perfunctory, like they've been told to do it.

Tall girl touches my breast again, but she doesn't study me any more. I think she knows I'm not Lesbian; she touched my breast this time only for her own enjoyment.

But none of the girls bring any food or water. Really, I hear my door start to open, I get overwhelmed by excitement, and then it's just a girl. They're more interesting than my ceiling, for sure, but the lack of food is always a disappointment.

In walks The Kid. A man! I'm excited already. I don't see any food, which is a huge disappointment, but I didn't see the piece of steak the Assassin was carrying. Ah, he's going to release me -- probably only the Kid and the Manager have the authority to release me.

He stands behind me, just like the Assassin. My breathing speeds up; I go still. I open my mouth.

Nothing happens. He starts to leave. The bastard. I feel like a fool for opening my mouth. I hate that I showed my weakness. And I really wanted a piece of steak. I hate hoping that much and then having my hopes crushed.

Why did he even come in my room? I say angrily, "Let me go or I'll sue."

He stops at the door, looks back at me, and laughs at me. I'm glad he finds me entertaining. Then he comes back and slaps my cheek medium hard. Then he stands over me, I think challenging me to talk again. I don't. He finally leaves.

I get the message -- no complaining.

Girls keep coming by, never with food, but they still break my boredom. Hate Girl comes in again, and my body tries to cringe, but it can't because I'm tied in an exposed position. This young, pretty Thai girl cruelly slaps the bottom of my foot as hard as she can, then looks at me in evil triumph. I never did anything to her -- why is she being so mean to me? Maybe she just doesn't like the white girl. Maybe Mr. Zhang used to choose her. I feel so ignorant about this world.

Then I lose interest in girls coming in just to give me small slaps and to touch me. I let them, but it doesn't distract me from my boredom.

I try to tell Guide Girl that I need to go to the bathroom. She doesn't understand, so I try to point to my vagina and mime pee coming out of me. She nods her head in understanding. Then, rope by rope, she unfastens me from the bed, though the ropes are still tied to my wrist. And I rush to the bathroom.

I slurp water from the faucet, then do my business. When I'm done, I stand up, rush to the sink, and slurp more water.

I feel great -- I'm not thirsty.

I look in the mirror. I'm naked, hairless, with dark red nails, and I have ropes around my wrists and ankles. But I'm not tied to anything, I'm free. It was that easy to escape? All I had to was ask someone?

Guide Girl comes up to me and takes my hand.

Guiding me? To where?

She softly pulls me back into my room and pats the bed for me to lay down. She's going to retie me. That's her plan. But that's not happening. This is my best chance to escape. Maybe my only chance to escape.

I would already be halfway down the stairs except . . . I'm terrified of misbehaving.

Their punishments have done that to me. My natural response now is to freeze. And obey.

Anyway, where would I run? I can't run outside naked. If I could get dressed, I can't get out, because the door to the outside is locked, or else the girls would have all left a long time ago. Any other doors would certainly be locked, and I've seen no windows. Escaping from a prison would be no harder. Easier maybe, these men have a big economic incentive to stop any girl from escaping.

If I don't let Guide Girl tie me, a man will find me. Then I'll get slapped hard, not perfunctorily. Or I'll get that horrible pain that I think I got last night. And he'll pull me back to my room, or carry me, and I'll get tied up. So trying to run would accomplish nothing but more pain.

I'm learning to behave. I bet the dogs do that too.  And my disobedience wouldn't be Guide Girl's fault, but maybe the blackshirts won't see it that way. Or care. So she might get punished too.

I hear a man's footsteps coming up the stairs, and I jump onto my bed as quickly as I can. Guide Girl starts fastening me to the bed, but she doesn't seem to be in any hurry.

The Bouncer walks into my room and one of my hands is still free. So he can see what we did. He watches Guide Girl fasten my wrist in place. Then they both leave.

He wasn't angry at me or Guide Girl. So he knows there's no way for me to escape. He also knows I have to go to the bathroom. He certainly doesn't want the job of tying me and untying me -- he's happy to let females do menial chores. I remember my boyfriends at first making the same assumption.

The Kid walks in. I give his naked cock a quick glance -- I once lived in a world where seeing a strange man's cock was unusual -- but I'm interested in food and water. He stands behind me, his cock dangling in my face, and it's offensive and disgusting, and I'm squishing my mouth shut as hard as I can until I feel something he's trying to put into my mouth and I look and it's another piece of steak.

So I open my mouth, and he puts the steak in my mouth. And I chew it in amazing pleasure. Then I get some more water. He holds my head up gently as I drink.

You have to let me go I want to demand. But I'm afraid to complain.

Then he leaves. I momentarily feel content: I'm being fed by males with cocks.

Korean man walks into my room, but I lose interest when I see he isn't naked. I've learned the pattern. He's going to stand behind me, but nothing's going to happen. He does. He leaves.

Sad Girl comes into my room. She doesn't slap me. That makes me nervous -- she's supposed to be obeying, and I don't want her to get punished. She touches my lips. Then, instead of leaving, she lies down next to me and cuddles into me. And I think she falls asleep.

There's lots of room for her. We're like that for maybe a half hour. At one point I look down and she has her thumb in her mouth. This is the only time I have seen her not looking sad, and once she even smiles.

Then the Kid comes in, naked, holding his cock out for me to see, but he didn't need to -- the first thing I looked at was whether his cock was showing. I'm thrilled to see it. Then he sees Sad Girl in my bed and stops walking towards me.

He grabs her forearm and jerks her out of my bed. I see the fear in her eyes. He has a piece of steak in his hand!

He slaps her backhanded across her cheek, a casual violence. He has the steak in his other hand, so it doesn't fall out when he hits her. She just whimpers -- she's been hit this way before. Because he has to deal with Sad Girl, he still hasn't fed me my steak.

He pulls her out of my room, and I'm worried that he's leaving with my piece of steak; if he does I'm going to be angry at Sad Girl. But he just throws her to the floor outside and walks back into my room still holding the piece of steak. He shuts the door and turns to me. He holds his cock up again.

I don't care about his cock. I don't care what he does with his cock as long as he feeds me that piece of steak. He stands behind me, his cock sitting on my forehead and eye and ending at my nose, and . . . the steak goes in my mouth. It tastes wonderful.

And he leaves. I'm still hungry, a few pieces of steak don't really make up for missing breakfast and lunch, plus I just had lettuce for dinner last night. Tonight at dinner, this white girl is going to gorge on rice like it's the best thing in the world.

Then I hear them eating dinner. It's only one more misery in my day, but it breaks me. I'm not strong like a camel, and missing dinner isn't some little straw -- I'm really hungry, and it hurts that anyone would be this cruel to me. And I was overwhelmed with hope and now I'm overwhelmed with despair.

I give up.

I can't fight, I can't win. I have to just lie here until someone releases me. I try not to exist, but that's too hard and I keep returning to my body and my situation and my suffering.

I just want to stand up. Stand up and walk around. I can't. If I get to go with the girls tonight, I'll be happy, even if it means getting groped. I want to wear something more sedate, but I'll wear kite string if they want. I just want to stand up and walk around and not be so helpless and lonely. It's breaking me.

Then I can hear the girls racing up the stairs, then getting ready in the dressing room. And I'm still here, tied to this bed. So I'm not included in the night's activities. I'm supposed to be observing -- I paid money for that. I'm not surprised they don't care about my rights. But I thought they wanted me to make money for them; I guess not. So only 11 gazelles will be down there tonight.

But at least I won't be groped all night. And if I was down there I might have lost my patience and told a man no and then gotten punished.

Observing them isn't important to me right now -- I have a lot more important problems. I can observe someplace else, in a month or two, where I wear normal clothes and no one confuses me for a prostitute.

No, I won't do this again, not with any amount of assurance or promises.

So it's going to be a boring night.

I hear a man coming up, The Kid shouting something in the dressing room, then all of the girls running downstairs. I miss the excitement and seeing what happens. I really did learn a lot last night about their lives.

I hear a single girl walking up the stairs. That's strange, last night none of the girls came up here alone. Chatty Girl walks into my room and starts talking to me in Thai. She must know I don't understand Thai. I say, "I can't understand a word you're saying." She looks at me in delight, I think because I talked to her. She must really like to talk.

So Chatty Girl keeps talking in Thai while I start telling her about getting an agent for my first book. She slaps me lightly, with the attention of a waitress putting silverware on my table. Then she unenthusiastically runs her finger up the inside of my thigh, which is more intimate than previous touches except for Tall Girl, who I think was not supposed to be touching me that intimately.

Then she starts giving me a one of their wafer-shaped pills, like of course I'll let her put it in my mouth. I learned my lesson last night -- I don't want any of their pills, and I don't want to be hallucinating.

But nothing else has changed from last night. I'm still afraid of getting punished, and I still don't want her getting punished. And if I resist I'll just get an irritated man to replace her. I've already worked through my options, and being disobedient to whatever the black shirts want isn't one of them. They even might stop feeding me! I open my mouth.

She puts the pill in my mouth, still talking to me as it dissolves. Then she smiles at me and turns around, walks out the door, and I can hear her still talking as she walks down the hall.

I lie there, waiting for something, then I start to feel sluggish.

I hear my door opening. Where am I? I try to sit up but I'm tied to a bed. Right, I remember now, I'm having my experience. A man has come into my room without even knocking. Oh right, that's what always happens. I think I'm not hallucinating, but my body feels sluggish. 

He's dressed and I can't see his naked cock, though I can see it's already hard inside his pants. He's a customer, about 40, wearing a suit with his tie loose. I imagine he worked late and has a wife and two kids at home. He says out loud, but not to me, "This is going to be worth every dollar."

His hands start at my feet, and move up my body. While he's fondling my vagina, I decide to ask him for help. To save me. I'm tired of being groped. I'm tired of being sold out to men to put their hands all over my body. Now it's my naked body they get to feel. So this is even worse than last night.

And I'm tired of lying in this bed. And I'm really hungry. The police would feed me -- I wouldn't answer any of their questions until they did.

I'm afraid to say something. Very afraid. But I can't stand lying here. "Can you tell the police that I'm being held captive against my will?"

But it comes out "Mnf oo bell da fomeff ga mm bggg ha caca gasa ba filg?"

It's the pill -- my tongue and lips aren't doing what I want them to do. I try snapping my fingers, and I'm not even close. The man is so intent on my body he doesn't notice anything I'm doing. Or he doesn't care -- why would he care whether or not there's a talking mouth above my vagina? The only thing he cares about above my vagina is probably my breasts.

Making me sluggish is just another way of letting men molest me. Now the blackshirts don't have to be in the room to threaten to slap me. I can admire the cost-efficiency.

He's now running his hands softly on the skin of my breasts. Body betrayal -- that feels a little exciting. I didn't want to become used to strange men groping my breast when it was clothed; now he's touching it naked. Of course, I think men did that last night too.

When he has softly rubbed my nipples, he gently squeezes my breasts, then gets up to leave. Maybe his time was up. Maybe he had achieved his major objectives. I can't understand what's happening to me or why. And it doesn't make any difference -- it's going to happen to me no matter what I do.

I'm so helpless. I would just give up, except I already did. This is just making my helplessness even worse.

After a few minutes, I hear a girl dashing up the steps and running into the dressing room. Then she runs down the hall, and Beauty walks in my door, breathing fast. She quickly slaps me and touches my breast, then opens a box and starts putting makeup on me.

Of course -- I should have makeup to look good for the customers. It isn't a choice I make -- it's something they do to enhance their merchandise. That man wasn't just wondering around lost -- he paid money to touch me. He won't be the last. I'm surprised they didn't put makeup on me before he came in.

Then I notice the bruise forming on Beauty's cheek. She was supposed to put makeup on me.

"I'm sorry," I try to say. But it comes out confused -- "rr rara"

Who did that to you? I want to ask. But it could have been any of the blackshirts. And it doesn't really matter who. I want to clumsily reach out and touch her arm and show her that I care. but of course my arms are tied to the bed.

The cost of not doing what the blackshirts want. All she did was forget. And she got punished.

When she's done, she holds up a mirror so I can see myself. She does good work -- I look beautiful except for the dark red lipstick, which is perfectly done but makes me look like a prostitute.

She smiles at me and claps. I think she's happy with her work and trying to tell me I look good. Then she puts things away, bounces to her feet, and leaves.

More boredom and confusion. Another man comes in, I think Chinese. He puts his finger in my vagina, though I'm dry and he doesn't get too far. I say "Do you speak English?"

It comes out garbled. He rubs my clit, but it's dry too and his rubbing hurts. Then he leaves.

My door opens, another customer walks in. He's white, about 30, and dressed casually, like a service man, but all I can focus on is his naked cock. A wonderful naked cock. He still has his shirt on, but he's holding a donut. A fucking donut. It's glazed! A glazed donut!

What have I done to deserve a glazed donut? Nothing that I know of. Just luck? For donuts I would try to be more obedient and compliant, though that's not easy when I'm tied to this bed.

He sits on top of me, a knee straddling each side of me, and holds the donut in front of my eyes. I open my mouth and he puts something big in my mouth, but it's not the donut -- I can still smell the donut and my mouth is watering just from the thought of it, and he waves the donut under my nose, and I am dying with delight and eagerness. Finally, after a thorough teasing, which drives me crazy with desire, he takes his cock out of my mouth and gives me a bite of the donut.

I smile at him. I try to say thank you, but it just comes out as nonsense. He feeds me another bite of donut. I close my eyes and savor the flavor. I try to pay attention to his hands roaming my body, groping a naked, tied-up white girl, but all I can focus on is the donut in my mouth.

When the donut is gone, I want to say Do you have any milk? Instead I say "Oo oo ab aby be." I jerk my head frantically back to where I hope the water is. He looks confused, I'm SO disappointed, and then he understands. He goes behind me, then I see a glass of water in front of my face. He holds it about a six inches above my head and tries to pour it into my mouth. It makes a mess, but I get some water.

Then he leaves, putting the glass, with some water still in it, on the table by my door. It's torture to look at that water.

A skinny Asian guy comes in. When I see he's dressed, I lose interest in him.

"Why don't I get to fuck you?"

"I honestly don't know," is what I try to say. But of course I just mumble.

"A retarded girl!" he says disgustedly. I want to explain that I'm actually a nationally famous author, but of course I can't talk. So I remain a retarded prostitute to him.

I'm not like the other girls, but now I understand their life well enough to write about it in a powerful way. Actually, I understand their life more than I ever wanted to. I can understand Sad Girl who didn't eat, even though I was happy to suck on a cock if it meant getting something to eat. And I can understand her lying next to me even though she must have known she would be punished -- she needed some pleasure, even if it also meant pain.

"$20 just to feel you?" He's says this out loud. Maybe he's talking to me, but he isn't really asking a question. I shrug, trying to look intelligent. I have no idea what they charge. I would happily pay $20 for him go away.

"Your tits are too small and wobbly." I've learned that. He fondles my nipples, even though he thinks I'm retarded and he can see I'm tied up. "Nice nipples though." Are they? None of my boyfriends ever complimented my nipples. Maybe they just hadn't seen enough nipples to realize mine were somehow good. I try to smile at him.

He looks at my face. "You really should be prettier." I knew that.

He stands up. "I'm going to try to get my money back."

 My self-esteem is being shredded. I'm not really attractive enough to be a good prostitute.

Except of course I'm not a prostitute. Or am I? A man just fondled my nipple because he paid $20. And he treated me like an objectified piece of merchandise -- he said I wasn't pretty enough right in front of me with no thought for my feelings.

No, I never agreed to letting him do that, so I'm not a prostitute. I just have to remember that I am NOT an object, no matter how much or how often I'm treated that way. I wish I had my notepad so I could write down all the things I need to remember.

The door opens and it's the Bouncer. Unfortunately, he's dressed. Even though he often slaps me, I would have been glad to see him naked. He unties me. I remember wishing someone would come and untie me. Now it doesn't mean as much; he could be just untying me so I can go to the bathroom. Actually, I would appreciate that.

When I am free from the bed, I try to get up, but I can't -- I'm too uncoordinated. I don't know if anyone told him that they gave me a pill to make me uncoordinated. I can't explain anything to him, because I don't know Russian plus I can't talk.

He picks me up like I'm as light as a pillow. I kind of just flop in his arms as he walks. We pass a man in the hallway, and he looks at me with interest. A girl is right behind him, and she glances at me but that's all -- a giant man carrying a floppy naked woman isn't out of the ordinary for her?

The Bouncer carries me into the second-floor bathroom. There's another girl coming out of a stall, and she looks at us once and loses interest. Bouncer sets me down on a toilet, and holds me up by the shoulders, my head flopping to the side, while I do my business.

When I'm done, I can't even tell him that. He waits a little longer, then takes some toilet paper and wipes me. Then he carries me back to my room and reties me. And leaves. He was just doing his job.

And I get it -- they don't want me making a mess of this bed, that's why they take me to the bathroom. They don't want me smelling in front of the customers, that's why he wiped me. I can't help but feel grateful to the Bouncer, but it wasn't personal, and he didn't care about me.

After a while, Guide Girl walks into my room. I try to say, "My name is Amy." It isn't understandable, of course, plus she doesn't understand English. I try to point to myself and say Amy, forgetting that I can't point. I'm still a little confused. But not as confused as before.

She holds up another pill to put in my mouth. "No," I try to mumble. She waits a few seconds as the pill dissolves in my mouth, then she leaves.

I wake up and my boyfriend is finger fucking me. No, it's a strange man. Where am I? Not in my apartment, this is my room in the bordello. But I'm right about the finger fucking. One of his fingers is rubbing my clit, apparently making me wet, because a finger on his other hand is going in and out of my vagina.

He's dressed, unfortunately. I feel so disappointed by that. I try to snap my fingers and I'm not even close. I try to say "help" and it comes out "el". So the second pill was to keep me sluggish and uncoordinated.

He's another customer who paid money to touch me. I try to smile at him, but I don't know if my lips are working right, and he isn't looking at my face anyway, he's looking at my vagina with the intent that most people look down a microscope, except of course he doesn't have a microscope.

That's all he cares about. Maybe Vagina Man won't complain about how I'm not pretty enough, or my breasts are too small. Who knows, maybe I have a good vagina, like I have good nipples, though I'm guessing vaginas are pretty much all the same -- they're all just place to pee out of and have a period from, and places for men to enter when we want them to or just if they want to if I'm a prostitute, which I remind myself I am not.

But he might be a vagina connoisseur. I try to imagine his world, excitedly exploring a new vagina with its own unique shape and smell. Learning my personal stats, like how easily I lubricate or how deep he can get or the size of my clit. Was he in my dream about the microscope?

He's still rubbing my clit and putting his finger in an out of my vagina. No, something feels different. I look down and it's two fingers. It's not exciting to me, even if my body is responding.

I don't care. He can do what he wants. I briefly have the image that he'll take off his pants and I'll see his cock and he'll feed me. But he doesn't have any food. I lose interest in him and his fingers and my vagina and my body. I'm hungry. And bored. And my body hurts from being so long in this position.

A light comes on in my confused brain. This is another step in being a prostitute. I can let a man probe and enjoy the most intimate part of my body, and I don't care. It's even boring. Being molested isn't even a semi-momentous event. It's not even a job, because I don't have to do anything. It's just something that's happening to me. He's the fourth man to grope me tonight. Or maybe more, if any men groped me while I was unconscious. But I don't care. Except if someone came to feed me, then I'm really upset about being unconscious.

I didn't want to just tell my readers about being a prostitute, and I didn't want them just reading. I wanted to write in a way that my readers actual felt like they were prostitutes. I wanted them to be so immersed in my story that they experienced being prostitutes.

I'm getting the experience I wanted my readers to have.

Except my readers know it's not real -- they're just reading a story. His fingers are real. My blasé acceptance of his right to play with my vagina, that's real. I could care about it if I tried. I could maybe even feel anger and outrage. I could summon my feminist desire to fight him. But it's not worth it. My readers can put down my book and stand up or make themselves a sandwich. Not me.

Two more men come to grope me. I've making money for the bordello, and all I have to do is lie here.

The Manager comes in. He's dressed. He points at his watch -- the man's time is up. So this man is paying for me by the minute. The customer stands up, reaches into his pocket, and takes out his wallet, and gives the Manager a twenty. The Manager says, "Ten more minutes," and leaves without once looking at me. He wasn't avoiding me, he just never cared enough about me to look at me. Or my naked body.

The customer goes back to playing with me.

"Fuck you," I try to say to him, knowing that it will come out mumbled and I won't get punished. Maybe he thinks I'm retarded too? No, he doesn't even hear me, he's concentrating on my vagina.

And I'm not angry at him. There's nothing personal here. He's not trying to violate me. He just paid $20 for ten more minutes of putting his finger in my vagina. No hard feelings. I watch for a little bit, trying to understand what his fascination is.

Eventually The Kid comes back. "Your time is up." The customer stands. We can all see the stain in the crotch of his pants where he came. The Kid says, "It's an extra $50 to masturbate to her."

The customer says, "I didn't touch myself."

The Kid finally looks at me. He looks at my vagina, I think just to be cruel, then he asks me, "Did he touch himself?"

I shake my head no. He turns to the guy. "Okay, split the difference. An extra $25 for cumming."

"$20."

"$25." The customer gives him another $25. They were bartering over me.

Three more men come in just to fondle me for four minutes. I get another customer complaining that I'm retarded and trying to get his money back.

A customer, a Polish-looking man about 40 with already thinning hair, walks in. When I see he's dressed I lose interest in him and whatever he's going to do. Then I see he has a sandwich in his hand. It looks like ham and American cheese. I'm confused. Is the sandwich for him? That would be unintentionally cruel. Or if it's The Kid's idea, intentionally cruel.

Sudden insight. Just like Eskimos have ten different words for snow, I recognize different types of cruelty -- it's an important issue in this world. Hate Girl is intentionally cruel. I imagine some of the customers are too -- I saw all the girls shying away from one man last night and I didn't understand why. Now maybe I do.

But the men running the brothel here are just instrumentally cruel -- they need to punish and control me, but it's just to achieve a goal, nothing personal.

I'm understanding the world as a prostitute would. I paid $4000 for this. At this level of intimate experience, it's worth twice that. But this is horrible. Right now I would be happy to be writing a romance novel about two vampires attending vampire school.

He starts taking off his pants. I get excited. Now I'm paying attention. When his boxer shorts are off and I can see his cock, he feeds me a bite of sandwich.

I close my eyes and experience the goodness of it all. I'm flooded with pleasure. I try to chew slowly, but eventually I greedily swallow my bite. And I sigh in pleasure.

I open my eyes. He's masturbating while he looks at me. I remember when I would have been horrified and offended if I saw a man masturbating on the street. I would have called the police even though I was just walking by. Now it feels like a snow day off from school -- this isn't as bad as having fingers up my vagina. It's peaceful. This is a treat -- he's doing all the work.

I want to ask him how much this costs him -- I want to know what I'm worth -- but I'm tired of customers thinking I'm retarded. So I don't say anything.

He ejaculates onto my breasts and stomach. I can see the pleasure on his face. I made this man happy. I say "uh uh uh" and open and close my mouth, signaling him to feed me again.

"Oh yeah, I forgot." He gives me another bite of sandwich. I close my eyes. I savor the sandwich. I try to chew slowly. I'm temporarily in heaven. This is not am abstract heaven of finishing a first draft, or finding an agent, or seeing my sales climb beyond anything we expected. This is the heaven of raw physical pleasure.

I open up my eyes when I hear the door. He's leaving with the rest of my sandwich in his hand. He throws it in the trash without thinking -- he's lost all interest in me. That was unintentional cruelty. I hope I won't smell the sandwich from here.

And I look down. He didn't clean up. He left his semen on my body.

Even in my past life I got tired of men not cleaning up after themselves -- dishes, dirty clothes, trash, clean dishes in the dishwasher, junk mail. The list goes on and on. They either expected me to clean up or they didn't care. Even their semen, I'm always the one cleaning up semen. But I can't clean up now, I'm tied in bed.

The next man comes in holding an orange juice! My God! Orange juice! It's in a box with a straw, so he isn't going to just spill orange juice all over my body. He's taking off his pants and his cock is already hard. I know this won't be just groping; I have to do something serious to get fed by a customer.

But I don't care what he does with their merchandise as long as he doesn't fuck me and I get at least one drink of orange juice. And I care more about the orange juice.

He studies my body for a second; I wish I had a better body, but I don't. He says, "Gross."

Oh right. The last man's semen. I was disgusting and inappropriate that he should see another man's semen.

And he leaves. I start to cry as I see the orange juice leave the room. I take wild hope in the fact he didn't throw it away. But it's not my fault! I wanted to clean myself up, but I couldn't.

I bought into his world view! Ugh. The fact that the semen was sitting on my bare skin wasn't an issue to anyone when I was lying here by myself all defiled. We were both worried about him and his feelings and his happiness, not mine.

A girl comes in. She sees me, shakes her head, then leaves. She comes back with a washrag. She give me a perfunctory slap and touch, then wipes the semen off of me. And leaves.

I feel as good as new. I mean, as a piece of merchandise. As a woman? It's one more shred of dignity ripped from me. But I'm mostly concerned about the orange juice. The man doesn't come back. He saw me with semen on me, I guess that ruined me for him.

Which is what happens if anyone finds out what happened to me these last two days. If this becomes public -- if a guy looks me up on the internet finds a story about this -- he won't be able to look at my naked body with anything but disgust. Whatever happens to me here needs to stay a secret.

Ding! That's how a prostitute feels. Wanting to break out to a new life where no one knows her past. If a man knows she was a prostitute, is he really going to want to marry her?

So prostitution is tough to escape from. It's a woman's job, and it can be done with no training. And someone can make money from it, so we're kept alive and in nice clothes. I was set down gently on this bed, allowed to go to the bathroom, and the semen was cleaned off of me.

The next man finally comes in. I think with the same orange juice box. I'm excited already.

He stands at end of my bed, next to my right foot. He studies it, without touching. A foot fetish. I am dying for orange juice and he's just looking at my foot. Looking!

Then he looks at my other foot. The waiting is painful.

Then he starts kissing my feet. One foot and then the other. I want to shout, "TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS." But a few mumbled words reveal that I still can't talk. I want to smile at him, in case they ask if he was satisfied with me on a scale of 1 to 5, but he isn't looking at my face. Or my breasts or vagina. Just my feet. I inwardly scream.

And finally, finally, he starts taking off his pants. And finally, finally, I can see his cock. Which is rock hard.

And he presses his cock against my foot!!!! "NO NO NO!" I scream, but it just comes out mumbled. He looks at me. "Don't judge me, whore."

He misunderstood -- I could care less about his foot fetish. "MY ORANGE JUICE" I try to shout.

I look at him, pleading in my eyes. He's angry at me. I've learned to fear a man's anger. I go quiet; I smile at him. And I point my head at the orange juice on the table? "What?" he says. "Why can't you learn to speak English? Fucking illegal aliens."

I'm easily in the top 1% for language skills, just not tonight. But language is't the issue here. The issue is ORANGE JUICE. I smile at him then jerk my head at the orange juice he set on the table. He finally looks in that direction, sees the orange juice, and startles. Then he picks it up and says, "I was going to give it to you. I was just waiting a little while longer."

Yeah right, all he was thinking about was my feet. He puts the orange juice in my hand.

I try not to scream at his stupidity. I succeed. I smile and shake my head no.

And . . . I'm learning patience for the stupidity of males. I was never able to do that before. So that's good, but I'm never going to be the same person again unless I can undo every lesson I've learned here. No, that's impossible, I'll never be the same as when I opened my eyes on that bus.

My eyes are pleading, I'm screaming on the inside, I'm trying to politely shake my head no, and I can't stand to watch him trying to figure out what's wrong. And then -- blessed miracle -- he takes the orange juice out of my hand and presses the straw against my lips.

I have learned to appreciate the smallest of favors.

I suck greedily, trying to get as much orange juice as I can. Then he pulls it away, my head following it for as long as I can. Some spills on my chest.

And then he moves back to my feet. and he rubs his cock against one foot. Then the other. I watch in a detached way. I don't think I can use this for my book, but it's interesting to see such a dedicated fetish. He says, "I wish you could move your feet together."

I had the same thought a thousand times today. But let's just forget about what I want, the only issue is that he wants to rub his penis between my feet, not have to hold one of his hands on the other side of his penis.

Could he simply ask the Kid to have one of my feet untied? No, he was at the limit of his skills just to realize I couldn't drink the orange juice when he put it in my hand.

I feel him untying one of my feet. I look down and he is. He does not have permission to untie my foot!

Or that tiny y-chromosome gives him permission. He's a man, he does what he wants. He paid money to enjoy me, he doesn't worry about rules.

That y-chromosome gives him a lot of rights. Men and women play two different roles in the world I'm in now. In the world I used to live in, which is starting to seem woefully fake, men and women tried to have the same roles, the same powers, and the same rights.

I shout "uh uh uh" and jerk my head at the orange juice. He looks up at me, angry again. I fear his anger. I say with a soft high pitched voice "mm mm mm" and look at the orange juice.

"God damn prima donna." Was I asking too much? I don't think so. But it isn't his job to take care of the merchandise.

He grabs the orange juice -- THANK GOD -- and comes back to my face, showing no interest in such things as naked breasts, attractive nipples, or available vaginas. The straw goes in my mouth, I start sucking as quickly as I can, and he turns the package upside down.

He wants to feed me everything at once, as quickly as he can. The orange juice is dripping out the gap between the straw and the package and onto my face, and I'm starting to cry because I'm so tired of being abused and no one caring about me. But I'm still trying to drink all the orange juice I can. And then I start to cough, and I can't drink, and it's hard to cough with a straw in my mouth, and I wonder if I'm going to die and how much that will cost him and if he'll still masturbate with my feet even though I'm dead.

But I cough it out, and go back to drinking, though not as quickly, I'm trying not to choke, and the orange juice starts dripping into my eye, which hurts a lot (careless cruelty). And then I don't like the taste of the orange juice, but he's giving me all of it, and I should drink it so I'm not so hungry.

And then it stops coming out. It's gone. I try to open my eyes, but they just sting, and I want to wipe the orange juice out of my eye, but of course I can't. From my one blurry peek, I think he's looking at my feet and never noticed any of my choking or that the orange juice is gone.

Finally he asks, "Are you done?" He could look at me or pay attention to me and see that I am. But I just nod my head yes.

He says nothing. I hear him move to my feet. I feel him put his cock between my feet. I feel his hands, one hand on each of my feet, rubbing my feet on his cock. And rubbing.

Then I hear him moaning and rubbing really hard. It actually hurts my foot, but I would probably get punished if I complained, and he wouldn't listen anyway. And I still can't talk.

The sounds of a man about to cum are obvious. Then I feel semen on my leg.

Then he puts his clothes back on and leaves.

I try to move my leg, and, just like I thought, he left one of my legs untied. Will I get punished for that? It's like, basic courtesy to leave things the way you find them. No, he expects me to clean up after him. It's hard to believe he didn't see the orange juice spilled on my face. He could have at least cleaned that up. I hate men.

The door opens. I hope it's a naked man, and I have to look, but through the orange juice and pain and tears in my eye, I can see it's the Bouncer. Depressingly, he's clothed.

I have my leg where it belongs, hoping he won't notice it's untied. I hear a silence. Is he looking at me? Deciding where to touch me? Or punish me? Does he see that my leg is untied? Maybe, wonderful small favor, he could blot the orange juice out of my eye?

I hear him grunt. He doesn't sound happy. He moves to that corner of the bed where my leg is untied. Then he ties my foot back up. I realize that my ankles are like my wrists -- convenient places on my body to hold me down.

Then I feel his hand wrap firmly around my ankle, holding my foot in place.

This can't be good.

An excruciating pain cuts through the bottom of my foot. My eyes fly open and my body thrashes violently but I can't move my foot out of his grasp and away from the pain. My eyes sting, but the same painful sting I couldn't tolerate a minute before now feels like nothing. The pain in my foot seems to last forever, but when it ends I realize it was only a few seconds.

My tears have mostly washed away the orange juice, and I try to blink away my tears so I can see. I don't want to cry in front of him and show weakness, but I feel so weak. And really, he doesn't care about me, and probably doesn't even notice -- I can cry all I want and not change anything.

He has a box in his hand, and wires are coming out of the box, leading to a flat piece of metal. I'm guessing he pressed the flat part against my foot and gave me an electric shock.

I look at him. I expect him to look at me with menace in his eyes, but he doesn't look at me at all. He looks like a janitor who has to empty the trash -- it isn't a pleasant task, but it's normal and it's his job. Casual punishment for the Bouncer; unforgettable pain for me., 

He's walking out my door, but he stops when he sees the sandwich in the trash. I'm guessing that shouldn't be there -- they want the room to look nice for the next customer.

He looks at me and I freeze in fright. He isn't happy with me for not cleaning that up. Then he looks at the ropes tying me and realizes I couldn't. He looks at his shocker, deciding whether or not to punish me again, and decides not to.

I'm trying to ignore the pain still in the bottom of my foot. Aren't soles supposed to be sensitive? He was cruel to shock me there. But I don't know how to categorize that cruelty. Was it instrumental cruelty? He shocked me in a place no one would see, was that on purpose? No, no one sees a shock, I think. I don't smell any burnt skin though it certainly hurt enough. Casual cruelty? Maybe he just put it on the nearest part of my body.

That wasn't the first time he used that.

This insight feels like getting hit in the stomach with the kickball in gym. The other girls have felt that. They live in permanent fear of that. I was worried about slaps?

I vow to be good. I will be compliant, and passive, and not complain or fight. I'll make everyone happy. Because I do not want to feel that pain again. Ever.

Can I do that? I know I sometimes lose my patience. At places I've worked, at boyfriends, at slow or incompetent clerks. But I can't afford to lose my patience here.

But I got shocked for the man untying me! I can't control that. I do not have enough control over my life to avoid that pain.

My door opens, I am hoping for a naked man, but it's Hate Girl, with another wash cloth. She slaps me hard, tweaks my nipple, then starts cleaning my face, rubbing it as hard as she can. Intentional cruelty. It hurts. Then she sees the sperm on my leg, and softly and gently cleans that off.

Then she returns to my face, and gently cleans that off. I don't understand her gentleness. She feels sorry for me that I had semen on my leg? She must have to experience a lot worse than that.

No, I can smell the semen still on the washcloth. She's wiping it all over my face.

She's thorough. Then she walks out, taking my trash can and the sandwich. I can feel the abrasions on one side of my face from her washcloth. And I can smell the semen gently smeared all over my face. She hates me.

At the start of the night, the men were just looking and touching. Now they are cumming. I realize, once a man cums, he probably goes home. So most of the real sex happens later at night. I can hear the girls in bed, being fucked by men who paid $100 for them.

I calculate that almost $400 was paid for me tonight. That makes me feel a lot more valuable. I can easily earn the $2000 back. Plus there was that $50 entry fee and drinks. I wonder, for a moment, how much they could get for me if I was more attractive. I'm sure customers are charged more for the white girl, but if I was attractive I could make even more money for them.

As the girls get undressed and go to bed, they come to my room and give me a slap and touch me in an intimate place. It's like they're saying goodnight. Frankly, It doesn't bother me -- I'm used to people slapping me and touching me whenever and wherever they want.

I don't see how I can ever unlearn that.

Now it's quiet, and the girls are going to sleep. They can move into different positions and make themselves comfortable. I wonder how many of them avoid sleeping on their back. I know I will just from this experience.

A girl comes in, slaps me, touches me, takes off my makeup, and gives me another pill.

The Next Day

I wake up still spread-eagled on my bed. I have a memory of a man fucking me, but when I think about it, I realize it was only a dream, it didn't really happen. Or a previous boyfriend? He asked if it was good for me, so probably it was a dream about a boyfriend.

And there's another memory of a man cumming as he rubbed my feet on his cock, but I realize that wasn't a dream, that was true.

And I had another dream of sitting around with the other prostitutes and eating rice. I know that didn't happen last night, because I'm STARVING. In the dream, I was Asian and speaking a different language, and I was one of the prostitutes. We were laughing and sharing stories about the men from last night; I was telling them the orange juice story and they were being supportive and sympathetic about my plight of being fed orange juice so fast I choked, but they were laughing with me too.

Then they gave me advice about how to hold and move my feet when someone tried to cum between them so that it didn't hurt. I was the newbie, and they were helping me.

And now I could write a story about what it's like to be a prisoner in prison, sitting around at breakfast with the other prisoners, and feeling that bond between us, a common experience only we share. And complaining about everything, but also trying to survive and be happy so we don't die in prison of despair and depression.

In my story, it would just be some frame up that the hero was prison. But he would be learning what it's like to be a prisoner and be controlled by the guards and getting no choices about his life. Ugh, I don't want to think about it. What a depressing story to tell. Or read.

In another vivid dream, the Vikings had come to our village. Many of the men died. Enough of the men ran away so that they could come back and take care of us after the Vikings left.

A Viking crashed into the house where I was trying to hide, and he found me in the bedroom. I was terrified, and I just froze. He raped me and I let him. I think I didn't fight because I was frightened, I just let him do whatever he wanted. I felt shame for not fighting.

Any women who fought the Vikings got killed. If I could trace my ancestry back 5000 years, I wouldn't find any female ancestors who fought and died rather than being raped. In the dream I had a strong healthy boy with blond hair and blue eyes.

I've always tried to be a strong woman. And independent. And fight for my rights and for respect and to be treated as an equal to any man. But that equality isn't in my DNA.

I have just as many ancestors who destroyed a village and raped the women. But they gave that trait for dominance to their sons. That y-chromosome. Not to me.

The Korean gopher comes in. Dressed, unfortunately.

He unties my legs. then he unties my arms.

I should try to escape. I thought I was just being punished for half a day. I'm being punished and forced to do things no woman should be forced to do. They are destroying my spirit. The Vikings only raped me once; the blackshirts are taking advantage of me over and over again.

But I'm not outrunning or defeating this stronger man. And the front door is locked.

And he might have a shocker. They can't be expensive. Why wouldn't every man carry one? They're worried about us getting too many shocks? Their worried that the men might be unfair? Ha ha.

I'm allowed to go to the bathroom. When I am done, I walk back into my room. He's sitting on my bed, waiting for me. Shit. I hoped I would be allowed to go free. He reties me face down.

Then the Door man comes in, and I turn my head to the door and see his cock. I am filled with hope; it's a wonderful emotion really. I hadn't realized how important hope was to surviving in life. No wonder it makes me so weak when it gets crushed.

He stands where other men have stood behind my bed, but now I am looking straight at his penis, it's only an inch from my face. I watch it getting larger and harder.

And he puts a slice of apple in my mouth. It's stunning. I feel like I have never tasted apple before. Well, nothing like this, the flavor filling my mouth, the whole experience so vivid and pleasurable.

But I start to choke. My head's in a really awkward position. He sees my distress and grabs a pillow and puts it under my chest. So I can hold my head up and eat my apple. I turn my head to make it easier; his now hard cock is right in front of my eyes. I eat three more slices while looking at his cock, then he leaves. He still has more pieces he could feed me, but he doesn't. In a past life I would be furious at him; now I am trying my best not to get angry at males.

My day is the same as yesterday. My dominant memory is being hungry.

My other vivid images are being fed. Cocks are definitely the pattern. No matter how much a man is dressed, if I can see his cock, I get something to eat or drink. Those are the highlights of my day. In my old life, I was comfortable most of the time, but very rarely did I get euphoria. I get that today, over and over again, blasts of pure joy suddenly appearing in my misery.

And no matter how little he's wearing, if I can't see his cock, I don't get fed.

One girl comes into my room stark naked. I try to imagine a penis on her, but she too-obviously doesn't have one. And none of the girls feed me. The girls have become unimportant because they don't have a penis. I read that in some cultures, everyone feels that way and a female baby is a disappointment.

I try to imagine my parents looking at my lack of a penis and being horribly disappointed. I would have been raised to have no self-esteem.

My face down position is popular at first, I get a lot of laughing slaps on my ass. I'm getting spanked, from their perspective. And now the backside half of my body is getting touched. Everywhere. Tall girl puts her finger on my vagina.

Then one of the girls unties me, flips me over, and reties me. Now the touches are a little more intimate, like fondling my nipple. Except for Tall Girl, who must be gay, none of the girls seem interested in me; I think they're just following rules -- there's a lot of very compliant rule-following here. I completely understand.

I can't control when I eat, what I eat, or how much I eat. My only control is whether I eat what they give me, but I'm too hungry to turn down any food. I can't control where I am or what position I'm in or how vulnerable I am. Everyone touches and slaps me all over my body. People give me pills so I can't even control what's going into my body or what's happening to my mind. If I try to fight, someone stronger than me physically dominates me.

It's night. I hear them dressing. Beauty comes in to put makeup on me. I guess it's a learning curve for her too. The The Kid comes to get them, and I hear them going down the stairs, but one girl walks in my room.

Hate girl. Shit.

She has a pill in her hand. She sits on my bed and doesn't wait for me to open my mouth -- she squeezes the side of my jaw so it hurts so I have to open my mouth. She's not quite strong enough to force me to open my mouth, but it's pointless to fight her. She slaps the top of my thigh. Then to touch me, she licks her fingers and touches my lips, another needlessly cruel gesture.

I wait to fall asleep but I don't. I don't like waking up and not knowing what happened to my body while I was sleeping. But sleeping would also be nice -- it shortens the time I spend looking at the ceiling and being hungry and feeling like a butterfly pinned to the bed.

And then guys come in. Some just look. Most paid extra to touch. Some touch a little; some men paid enough to put their fingers all the way up my vagina.

I imagine being a plastic sex doll, lying on this bed. People coming in and doing whatever they want to me. I don't want think of myself as a plastic sex doll . . . but the image fits. The profound helplessness I can't get shake off. Treating me like I am just a body. Being used for their pleasure.

I can look at my body and imagine it's not mine. I can also imagine that it's mine, but that takes more work.

The Bouncer walks in, wearing pants, and releases one of my feet. He has a hot dog in his hand. I don't understand what's happening until the foot fetish guy walks in. He says, "Thanks." He's not thanking me for having feet that gives him pleasure, he's thanking the Bouncer for untying me.

Instead of taking off his pants so I can be fed, he starts looking at my feet, and I try to practice my patience for all of the unintentionally cruel things men do. I try arching my feet and gauging his response. And then I'm moving my feet into the positions he likes, I think pleasing him. Then he's kissing my feet, and I don't know how to make that more exciting. And I want to just kick him to hurry up -- I have a free foot -- but I would get punished by the Bouncer, probably not with a slap.

And then he starts talking off his pants. I'm just staring, staring, and I get the biggest smile on my face when I see his penis. The Bouncer puts the hot dog on my lips, and I open my mouth, and he puts some in, and I take a bite.

I wasn't a hot dog person -- I usually ate better than that. But now I am a hot dog lover. I will probably not unlearn that either, but it tastes delicious. And I get the symbolism -- no bun, just a long hot dog. Yes, I am still capable of feeling shame. That's good to know. But it doesn't make any dent my desire to eat.

Mr. Foot Fetish holds my feet and rubs them against his cock. I try to remember what the girls told me in that dream, but I can't. My feet hurt, but I find one position that makes them not hurt as much.

And I know I should be focusing on his pleasure and what I might do with my feet to make it better for him. But I can only focus on the hot dog, which the Bouncer occasionally puts in my mouth for me to take a bite of.

Two more guys touch me all over and then ejaculate, one on the floor and one on me. A girl comes after to clean up. I guess it's a learning curve for the blackshirts too. Maybe everyone expects the semen to end up inside us; I might be a novelty.

As a guy is trying to put his finger up my vagina, after feeling all over my body, I realize -- I don't care. I just don't. It's one more man with his finger up a well-used vagina. I can dislike his intrusion. I can wish it wasn't happening. But I can also just ignore it. Ignoring it is easy.

Then, when I think everything's over, a black guy walks in. He actually looks at me and smiles. "Hey, white chick." I don't even try to answer. He asks "You drugged up? Mentally disadvantaged?" I nod yes, but then he doesn't know what that answer means.

And he pulls out, from behind his back, a piece of chocolate cake. "I don't know if you can understand me, but they said I was supposed to put this on my cock. Kinky, right? I just want a blow job from a white girl."

"Rff Rff," I say, I wasn't even trying to say words, I have become like an animal. But my desires are torn in two. I don't want to suck his cock. But I want that cake, and it's going to take every bit of my willpower to resist it.

He takes off his pants, which is really exciting because I can see his cock. Then he straddles me, with the cake next to him and his cock in my face. "I didn't believe them when they said they had a white girl. I was expecting better looking, you know, but still --- a white girl." He probes my breast. "These must be real." Explaining I guess why they are small and wobbly.

He takes the cake in his hands and smears it on his cock. He smiles at me and says, "Gross, right?"

I nod yes.

He puts his cock towards my mouth, and I open my mouth, and he sticks his cock in my mouth.

I have never had chocolate cake taste so good, even though I always loved chocolate. I try to suck off as much cake as I can, then use my tongue to get more. I can still taste chocolate, but I've eaten everything I can find with my mouth. If I had been using a fork, I would have licked it clean by now.

He pulls out. I forgot his cock was in my mouth. "You're good. Some girls can't give a good blow job to save their life." He takes another piece of the cake and smears it on his cock. I open my mouth, and he plunges the cake into my mouth.

I'm starving. They're starving me. My body craves the calories. And my mouth craves the taste. Of course I know there's more than cake in my mouth, but I'm just looking to find and lick up all the chocolate cake I can. I am again like an animal in my focus on food and my inability to think about anything else.

And when I've eating all the cake I can find with my lips and tongue, I'm left with a cock in my mouth. But not for long, he pulls it out and smears cake on his cock. I keep my mouth closed this time, choosing not to suck on his cock, but he taps on my cheek for me to open my mouth.

He sticks his cock in my mouth. I've already been sucking on it, so a black cock in my mouth has lost its shock value. And it has cake! I decide to enjoy the experience. I focus on the taste of the cake, which is still delicious. I feel my body accepting the calories it needs, starting to become less desperate and a little more content. I pretend that his cock is replacing the fork. It's still eating cake, just with a different utensil.

When I have gotten everything I can find, I stop. "Oh baby, don't stop." But I'm not sucking some guy's cakeless cock. "Your killing me," he says. He quickly pulls out, smears himself with cake, and forces open my mouth without even asking -- I would have opened it. Then he's back in my mouth.

And I'm Amy Lewis, in the moment, enjoying chocolate cake while I somewhat shamelessly have a cock in my mouth. The taste is suddenly spoiled, and I'm confused, then I realize he's cumming in my mouth. I try to pull away, but he's already holding my head firm and cumming in my mouth. I try not to swallow, but then I start to choke, so I start swallowing his semen and eating the rest of the cake.

We stay in our positions, motionless. I search for any cake I might have missed as his cock gets smaller. I was looking forward to having the taste of chocolate lingering in my mouth, but it didn't work out that way. I am once again confronted by how stupid I am. How did I ever write a book? I hope innocence and naivete weren't my secret writing weapons, because I have lost them.

He's putting his pants back on. He says to me, "What's your name?"

"Amy," I say.

"Amy, you are a superior cock sucker." He takes out his wallet and leaves a $10 bill on my table as a tip.

If that was such a good job, I deserve more than $10. The remainder of the cake is next to me in the bed, but I can't reach it.

I say out loud, "Thank you." So I can talk. I realize, my pill had no effect. I was coordinated all night. I even gave a superior blow job. I had no hallucinations. I could talk, I just never thought to try. That's the thing about giving up.

Why would they give me a pill that had no effect? I guess so my life would be chaotic and unpredictable. That chaos makes it impossible for me to effectively control my life. Then I feel helpless and I give up. Or they're incompetent. I give up on trying to understand why they do what they do.

A girl comes in to clean me. She sees the cake and smiles. She picks up the plate and puts it on the table. She looks on my body for semen, and looks puzzled, then she looks on the floor, then the bed, then on my body again. She puts her finger in my vagina and smells it. Then she opens my mouth and smells the inside of my mouth, trying to solve the problem of the missing semen. It's strangely intimate, this stranger who I can't even talk with is smelling my mouth for traces of semen. She smiles, nods once, and leaves. As she leaves she takes the plate, which has a little bit of cake still left on it, and the $10.

I think she just robbed me. It doesn't really make the top 20 for the outrageous things that have been done to me, I'm just hurt that she would do that. I thought we were all sisters.

A girl comes in and takes off my makeup. Then she offers me a pill. I don't want a pill. I don't want restless, disturbing dreams. I want a good night's sleep. I want to wake up feeling rejuvenating, with the fight back in me.

But maybe it's just another pill that doesn't do anything. It's not worth fighting her; it's easier to hope the pill won't do anything. Maybe they gave me that placebo so I would give up easier when it was a real pill.

I lay in bed until I see a man in my room. I didn't see him walk in. He has a foot-long penis and he's waving it at me. I look for food in his hand, but he disappears. Out the door? My door is a giant vagina.

I don't know if I'm hallucinating or dreaming. I have a restless, hallucination-filled night.

The Next Day

I'm in bed and cuddling with a giant penis and telling him I love him, and the penis is saying he loves me, and it's so wonderful to be with someone who knows English.

Then I open my eyes and I realize it was just a dream. I remember walking naked down Time Square, and my memory is so vivid I can read the store signs. And I wasn't embarrassed at all, but then a policeman wrapped his hand around my wrist and pulled me to his car and put his finger in my vagina. I can still feel his finger exploring me, but I think the memory of a finger is real. But I have a lot of memories of fingers in my vagina, so it's hard to sort them out.

In another dream, this black guy was putting cake on his cock, and I was eating it off. He said I was a good white girl. Or maybe that was true, I don't know -- I want to think I wouldn't do that, but honestly, I'm so hungry right now that I would if I could. I'm ashamed of myself for that.

In another dream, Mr. Samendez was threatening to shock me unless I had an orgasm -- the customer wanted me to have an orgasm. Then we were sitting around at dinner and the girls were showing me a book and asking if I read it. That can't be true, because I know for a fact I never got dinner. But my memory is so vivid I can read my old name on the book cover. I didn't recognize my name in the dream.

I shake my head, and try to separate truth from fiction. Truth: I'm hungry. Truth: It doesn't matter which of my memories are real and which aren't. I give up on memory. Truth: I'm trapped here, and I can't escape and I give up.

I wish I had walked in the door already being the girl they want me to be. Then I wouldn't be tied to a bed and starved and trained like a dog.

The door opens and it's a female, which is always a disappointment, and even worse, it's Hate Girl. With a bag. She slaps me harder than anyone else does, drives her finger into my dry vagina. then sits next to me in bed. She takes an orange out of the bag and slowly peels it.

I don't understand what's happening. I'm pretty sure this is reality, but I don't have any way to know for certain. I stare at her and try to make her disappear, but she doesn't, so I think it's reality. When she's done peeling what I assume is really an orange, she takes a slice and eats it. She looks at me. She enjoys this torture.

Then she reaches into the bag and pulls out a banana. No, I hallucinated that, it's a dildo. Or it's a banana. And she puts an orange slice in my mouth. And I'm flooded with pleasure.

It has to be a dildo -- I don't get fed for seeing bananas.

She takes out some other strappy thing, and I watch painfully as she eats another orange slice, leaving less orange for me. While she's eating, she puts on the strappy thing, then she attaches the dildo. And gives me another slice of orange.

I'm still savoring it when she slaps my face so that I open my eyes. She sits down next to me, turns my head to the side, and tries to put the dildo in my mouth. I fight her, but she's pushing hard and I can taste blood where she cut my lip pressing against it. So I open up, and into my mouth goes the dildo.

Now we sit there. Me helpless, with her dildo in my mouth. It's really strange. When she gets to the last orange slice I watch helplessly as she lifts it to her mouth. Tears are coming to my eyes. 

It's the moment of truth -- does she give the last orange slice to me? She picks it up, again lifts it to her mouth -- and I know she's cruel enough to eat it. But she makes a face. I think she was given instructions to give it to me and she doesn't want to get punished. So I'll get the last orange slice, as a reward for holding the dildo in my mouth. She spits on in and puts it in my mouth, and it tastes glorious. I'm in a heaven of pleasure, and I hear my door shut angrily while I'm still eating.

I can see how they're slowly conditioning me. But I can't stop it from happening, and I can't stop it from working. If there are any frogs swimming in hot water, they should be really frightened by the story of what's happening to me.

That night, after dinner, the Assassin walks into my room. He places a metal patch on the top inside of my thigh, and tapes it on. I have no idea what I'm being punished for, and I'm crying for just the god-damned helplessness of my situation.

But there are no wires attached to this patch. He holds out the box, I recognize the box, it too makes me afraid. But he waves his hands between the box and that patch. No wires.

I get it. They can shock me remotely. It's a threat, and I always have to be good.

I'll be good. That's for sure.

Then he pushes a button on the box and there's an exquisitely searing pain on my the inside of my thigh. I try to double over in pain but I can't. I try to protect myself. But I can't.

It's the electric shock. I look up at him through my tears. He isn't angry at me. He's smiling kindly, like a fatherly serial killer. And he waves his hands between the box and the patch, showing me again that there's no wires.

He shocked me just to show me that. I already knew that, so there was no need to shock me. Unnecessary cruelty.

Or he wanted me to feel that. Instrumental cruelty. Teaching me a lesson.

I'm used to punishments being possible. In school. When I drive, the policeman could give me a ticket. But they were always something I could avoid. No one punished me just to show that they could.

Then he unties my hands, and then my legs. I look up at him, not understanding what's happening.

And he leaves. I'm untied.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do. In a fiction book, this is the chance for the heroine to escape. In this reality, I'm not escaping. I don't even know how long I'll stay untied -- if someone points at my bed, I'll lie there and wait for them to tie me up again. If they want me to sit patiently on my bed for someone to come tie me, I will. Because they can shock me any time.

But a blackshirt untied me. Deliberately. Reading the tea leaves, I think that means I'm actually untied. For now at least. I can go to the bathroom. It's hard to stand. I'm wobbly. And stiff. But not drugged. That feels nice. 

I'm surely being held prisoner, and I'm being controlled and manipulated. But I feel free! I guess everything is relative. I feel broken, compliant, afraid, and obedient. I feel like a blank canvas for someone to write on. But I can walk! I'm so happy. And hopeful. And fearful, I have no idea when everything will be taken away from me.

Act IV

I open my door, and step in the hallway. I don't get shocked.

No one's paying attention to me. I love it.

They're not worried about me escaping. This is a windowless building with a locked front door. The blackshirts would punish me if I just looked like I was trying to escape, and I have no idea how to even look like I was trying.

But I'm still afraid to go downstairs.

Heading down the hall towards the bathroom, I pass by one of the girls coming the other way. I expect her to slap and touch me, but she just smiles, in a friendly but casual way, like I'm one of her sisters here.

I can move around and she didn't violate my personal space. At this moment, I feel like my body belongs to me. It's a nice feeling. Of course, anyone could take it away at any time. My body's like a library book, currently checked out to me on a temporary loan. Yes!

She was naked. I don't know why. I don't think about why, I just admire how she could be so free with her body -- she was walking around naked like she wasn't even aware she was doing it.

Then I realize I'm naked too.

As I'm doing my business in the bathroom, I realize she didn't even wonder why I was wandering the hall by myself. Maybe she knows how things work. Maybe she doesn't try to figure out why things happen. I'm starting to give up on that too.

When I come out, I hear the girls in the dressing room. Is it that time already? I might have overslept. My day is a blur of cocks and soft slaps and occasional pieces of food and touches.

Am I supposed to join the girls or go back to my room? The Assassin didn't tell me to stay in my room. But he didn't tell me I could leave my room either. But there's no need for a remote shocker if I was going to stay in bed. They probably expect me downstairs. Not dressed in more sedate clothes, which was what I once planned.

I go into the dressing room and try to read the girls' expressions. No one would tell them where I'm supposed to be. But they seem unsurprised. I start to wonder if anything would surprise them. Probably a chicken dinner.

Guide Girl rushes to find me an outfit. When she brings it back, I start dressing myself in a very sexy, silver cocktail dress. I get a bright red thong -- reasons unknown -- and 5-inch stiletto heels again. When I'm done with everything but my heels, Beauty does my makeup. The bruise on her cheek is a dark blue now.

And the door opens and The Kid walks in, to a woman's dressing room, without knocking. Yes, I'm back in the excitement of the night. Losing our privacy is symbolic. Or one more assault upon us. Really, The Kid probably never thought about it -- he can do what he wants and we're bodies that he owns, and he needed to enter the room. End of story.

They all stop what they're doing and attend to him, so I do too. He comes up to me, looks at the high heels I haven't put on yet, and gives them to Beauty, who's standing nearby. He says something in Thai and she carries them back to one of the closets.

My dress shows only a thin line of the top of my breasts. He lifts up the hem of my dress and looks at me. Then he reaches down and pulls off my thong.

I wonder what I'm supposed to wear instead. Then he turns and leaves, unbuttoning one of a girl's buttons as he walks by her and telling another something that makes her run back to the clothes, I think to get something different.

No one brings me anything. Everyone else is wearing a thong. It's part of our uniform. This is going to be a serious challenge for me tonight-- if I'm not careful, they see my vagina, not my thong. Without paying.

But I'm not sure I care. Maybe seeing flashes of my vagina is the point. Free samples. Going barefoot is also odd. I remember when I would agonize over why they were doing this to me. But the way to avoid punishment is obvious -- just wear what I was told to wear -- so there's no point in agonizing over anything.

We're all dressed and ready and just standing in line by the door. Door Man comes, opens the door, and we file down the stairs to the living room.

I walk around the room in my bare feet, looking for any food, like a broken piece of pretzel, that might have been left on a table, or on the floor, or in a wastebasket. Nothing. I try to wander into the kitchen to see if I can find some crumbs, but a blackshirt grabs me as I walk by him and pushes me back into the living room. Even though I'm in bare feet, he pushes me hard enough that I stumble and fall.

No one seems to notice. I stand up so I can tug my dress back down into place. Everyone would have seen my thong if I was wearing one.

The customers start filtering in. There's some silent communication between Guide Girl and the other girls, then Guide girl points out two girls to go sit with each of them. Beauty is one of them, I'm not surprised. Guide Girl goes and sits on the third man's lap.

So I'm still sitting by myself. Even though I'm the white girl, I wasn't pretty enough, or sexy enough, to be chosen. I mean, there are only three men, and there's 12 girls, so 9 girls were going to be rejected. So I shouldn't feel too rejected. And the room will fill up with men if it's like that first night, and then we'll all get selected. Well, except maybe not Sad Girl, she wears her unhappiness where everyone can see it.

Still, I don't like sitting here feeling like a reject. I feel like I graduated to downstairs girl, but now I'm just sitting here, useless. I try to think what I did wrong.

I remember -- I shouldn't want men molesting me. But when I think about a strange man fondling my breast without my permission, I can't feel any emotional reaction. The constant molestation has taken away my reactions of anger, shame, and resentment. And I guess even my annoyance and discomfort.

But every time I'm molested, it makes it harder for me to get angry or offended about it. That isn't the woman I want to be. I should try to avoid that, though I don't know how. Or at least feel angry about it.

More men come in. They select the girls they want, and I am rejected again. But eventually a customer comes up to me. Now I try to figure out what I did right, but I was just sitting there. And I remember again I didn't want to be selected, this just means more groping.

He's short, thin, about 30, white, and unsmiling. He holds out his hand. I put my hand in his, and he takes me to the dance floor. We dance the dance of conquest -- we start out just swaying, his hands on my body in the normal dance position. Eventually his hands find the desired targets on my body -- ass, breasts, vagina. When he's done fondling my vagina, he grinds against me for a while. Then he pulls away from me, and I have a momentary pang of rejection, but he's headed to the Manager, I think to try to buy me.

I hope he's not complaining. I can't think of anything I did wrong. And he was breathing fast when he left me. I have to be more attuned to these customers, I should have noticed that right away. How hard is it to notice if a man is excited?

The Manager just shakes his head no. The customer holds out two hundreds, and the manager shakes his head no and calls over the Kid to explain things. They talk for a while. Then the man starts looking around the room for someone else.

So my ego gets fed, because he wanted me and was willing to pay double. He didn't know my normal price, when not on sale, is $500. And he's not fondling me any more; I'm left with just the insult of him leaving me standing in the middle of the dance floor like a discarded candy wrapper. I go sit down in one of the chairs.

He never talked to me. Maybe he thought I didn't know English.

But I didn't say anything either. I forgot that I was able to talk. Being able to talk to customers could be one of my strengths. And I can pretend not to know English if I want to avoid the customer, except I might get shocked. I can feel the pad taped to my thigh.

A man comes walking towards me, and I look up and smile attractively for him. He's an older man, about 65, and he's holding a small piece of steak. It's all I can look at. My mouth is watering and my stomach hurts. I realize he said something to me, but I don't know what. I was going to tell him about me being an author, not a prostitute -- it's harmless, no one ever believes it -- but they might shock me. He says, "Do you know English?"

"Yes." That seems like the safest answer.

"I thought you might. A white girl like you, blond hair and all, it seemed logical."

"You're so smart." It sounds so fake when I say it, but he smiles genuinely so I guess he believed me.

"I love your hair." I hold my head steady, and, as I guessed, he reaches out and runs his fingers through my hair. I should also pay attention what men are excited by, but he made it easy for me.

Why does he have a piece of steak? I desperately want to know. He sets it down on the table on the other side of him. He would probably see a lot of cleavage, but I could reach over and grab it.

Having a remote control shocking pad on my thigh gives me a lot of patience. My God, I almost grabbed that steak! I have to be more careful to just do as I'm told. A lot more careful.

"Did you hear me?"

I shake my head no. I was focusing on the steak.

"Where are you from?"

"Kansas." I try to look down demurely, like a girl from Kansas might do.

"Where in Kansas? I spent some time in Kansas."

Shit, I don't know any cities in Kansas. "Kansas City?" That has to be in Kansas.

"So you're a city girl."

I eagerly nod my head yes. I hope he doesn't have any more questions about Kansas.

He starts asking me another question, but I'm thinking about the steak. I try to focus on what he's saying, and I understand a few words, but then I'm thinking about the steak again. Starving me isn't making me a good listener. He finishes up with, "Right?"

I answer, "Right" as enthusiastically as I can. Then I ask, "Um, what are you going to do with that piece of steak?"

"Give it to you."

"Can I have it now?" I'm pleading.

"I been here more than a few times, truth be told, and I never was given food to feed one of the whores. Do you have one of them eating problems, like anorexia?"

If I had anorexia, I wouldn't want the steak. I shake my head no. "That steak would taste really good in my mouth." I'm practically begging.

"You got a food fetish?" He peers into my pleading eyes. "I can deal with that, if it's your kink."

"I'm just really hungry. What do I have to do to get that piece of steak?" Now I am truly begging him. For a small piece of steak.

"Well, the man said you had to touch me."

I reach out in a flash and touch his arm. My breathing speeds up.

"Wellllll . . . he looks toward the Kid, and the Kid shakes his head no. "There's a little more to it than that."

FOR GOD'S SAKE TELL ME is what I want to scream at him. I say politely, "Yes? There's more? Pray tell."

"You have to touch, um . . ." He looks down at his cock, which is bulging in his pants.

My hand shoots out like a cobra and touches his cock. He looks again towards The Kid, The Kid nods yes, and the man reaches over and, with a normal speed that drives me crazy, picks up the piece of steak. He starts to hand it to me, but I already have my mouth open. I never thought about him handing it to me so I could feed myself. By the time I realize I was supposed to take it with my hand, he's already starting to put the steak in my open mouth.

I'm flooded with pleasure. I try to chew the steak slowly, but it's impossible, it tastes too good. If the man is talking to me, I don't know and don't care.

When I've swallowed it, and done the best to memorize that experience, I open up my eyes and see the kindly old man who just fed me. "You're really nice," I tell him.

"Well, thanks, I try to be nice to everyone. But that was just a bitty piece of steak. Come over to my house some time and I'll feed you a whole steak."

I put my head against his chest. "That would be wonderful. What's your address?"

There's a flaming pain on the skin of my thigh. I try not to shout out in pain, I know that's the wrong thing to do, but a whimper comes out. I try not to cry, but tears start falling out of my eyes.

"Hey, hey, what's the matter, little girl?"

I just got a painful shock for absolutely no reason is what I want to say. "Your kindness was so touching."

"Well, maybe I shouldn't tell you my real address. Plus I live with my kids, so you might just show up at an awkward time."

That's what I did wrong -- I asked his address. He's not supposed to be in the awkward position of turning me down. I'm probably not supposed to know his address -- it would have been a place to go if I ever escaped with no phone or money and looking like a prostitute.

"Did you want to dance with me?"

And have you molest me and make me believe I'm a piece of merchandise? No. "Of course," I gush in my most enthusiastic voice.

And we dance the normal dance of conquest. There's some variation -- he spends time on my hair. I have a monopoly on blond hair here. When he feels my ass, he notices, "No panty line."

"The better to feel me, Mr. Wolf." He laughs. The allusion doesn't really work that well, but no one but me will notice.

His other hand goes to my back. "But you're wearing a bra."

One of my few tiny blessings is what I want to say. "The better to poke my nipples into your chest, Mr. Wolf."

He laughs again and says, "You should be a writer. You're mighty good with words."

"Thank you. The better to enchant you."

He pulls me tight, flatting my breasts against his chest and pushing his cock against me. Then he leaves me on the dance floor and goes to talk to the Manager. I wait, knowing the outcome. He comes back to me. "Sorry, Sugar. They're not selling you tonight. Or you're out of my price range. But don't you worry, I'll be back."

I'll be gone is what I want to say. "I'll be waiting so eagerly for you."

"Glad you enjoyed that piece of steak."

"More than you will ever know."

I find a free chair. He goes up to another girl, talks for 30 seconds, and buys her for sex upstairs. Again, I did the prep work. So I'm contributing here. I feel some White Girl Pride.

I try to sit straight up and cross my legs as attractively as I can. Now I know I might get a piece of steak out it, and I want men's attention. But they are mostly ignoring me or not choosing me -- I'm the least attractive girl here with small wobbly breasts. I can show off my legs, but not my nipples, which I don't know if anyone actually cares about.

But then a guy comes walking up to me, and I'm looking to see if he has anything in his hand. His right hand is in a fist, like he's holding something. I'm so excited! I stand up to greet him, and I touch his cock just in case.

"You're an aggressive one." He opens up his hand to show a wonderful piece of steak, I open my mouth, again forgetting that maybe he would hand it to me -- I cannot remember the last time I fed myself -- and he pops it into my mouth.

It tastes wonderful. I realize that he's fondling my vagina, but that almost seems fair, I already attacked his cock. And I should probably feel violated, but the steak tastes great. I finally swallow it and I'm beaming with pleasure.

I'm now in a good mood, and can't help liking this guy for feeding me. We stand there, just talking, except he's still fondling my vagina. Maybe there's no place for his hand to go once it's reached the ultimate destination. My body is betraying me with enjoyment at his touch, and it's odd to tell him my backstory about coming from Kansas while he fondles my vagina.

He skips the dancing and goes straight to the Manager. There's the head shake no, an offer of more money, and another head shake no. The Kid is called over to explain how no one is allowed to fuck me. I don't know who Mr. Zhang is, but even the blackshirts follow his rule. Maybe men in this world are also controlled by physical threat and violence. But females are on the bottom of the power chain.

The man says something and the Manager shrugs. The Kid looks at me and smiles evilly. The man argues some more, and the Manager nods his head yes.

Yes? The manager said yes?

I don't know what he said yes to or what's happening. But I'll find out soon enough, so there's no point in worrying about it. The man looks back at me; I give him a smile and a little wave, focusing on my job instead of what is going to happen as a result of those negotiations over my body that I wasn't present for.

Everyone's standing around, and the Manager waves me over, and the man puts his arm around me like we're boyfriend and girlfriend. Then the Kid brings a piece of chocolate cake in from the kitchen.

"I hope you aren't teasing me," I say, but I'm ignored, me being female and all. They give the chocolate cake to the man.

I take his hand gently, like the girls do, and lead him up the stairs. It's my first time to do this. It's hard not to run. I open the door to my bedroom, which I is now my work space.

He says, "That young guy said you'd know what to do with this cake."

"Hell yes." I take the cake out of his hand and place it carefully by my bed. Then I push him onto the bed and start taking off his clothes. When he's naked, he's lying on my work bed with his cock standing up like a flag pole.

I then reach over, grab a handful of cake, and smear it on his cock. Then I put my mouth around his cock and start sucking and eating cake. I can hear him moaning.

When it's gone, I take my mouth off of him. "Oh God," is what he says. I grab another piece of cake and smear it on him, and swallow him and suck the cake off. Yep, he's moaning with pleasure. So am I.

So we share our mutual pleasures. He lasts a long time, and on the last piece of cake he cums. I am used to the taste of chocolate cake with semen, and though it will never be my favorite, I can live with it. I am NOT voluntarily spitting out chocolate cake.

He dresses, and I guide him back downstairs. The Manager is already bringing a man over to see me. From the look in his eyes, he's already paid for me. It's the Vagina Man.

I softly take his hand in mine and lead him back up the stairs to my work space. This is only the second time I've done this. The Manager follows. I lay down in my bed, and the Manager ties me spread eagle and leaves. I remember a past life where a guy would have at least looked at my naked vagina before leaving the room.

The Vagina Man has lifts up my dress, his face is shocked, then he takes a step back and grasps his chest like he's going to have a heart attack. But he's still looking at my vagina. 

Oh, I get it -- I have no panties on.

He reaches into his pocket and takes out a magnifying glass. He hold it to his eye and studies every square inch of my vagina. He pushes my outer labia around to get a better view. The scene is too disturbingly close to my dream.

I realize I was sluggish for his last vaginal exam. I don't think Vagina Man cared, or even noticed. I don't think he cares or notices that I'm awake this time.

Vagina Man sets down the magnifying glass. He takes a small jar out of his pocket, and it's filled with a yellowish liquid. He opens the jar, dips his finger into the liquid, pulls it out, and puts it on my vagina.

Then he starts rubbing my clitoris, the oily liquid helping his fingers slide against me.

I realize he's exciting me. For days my pleasure has been just water and food, so at first this pleasure feels unfamiliar.

But I adjust to the unfamiliarity very quickly -- my body is built to like this. I smile at him, but of course he's busy looking at the only part of me that means anything to him. He tries to put his finger in my vagina, and it slides right in. He smiles, but he doesn't look surprised. Usually that's good news for a guy, but Vagina man already knows -- he has a close-up view of me lubricating.

I want to squirm in pleasure, but I don't want him to know he's exciting me -- I don't want him to have a feeling of control over me. So I lie still, but then I have to squirm. I don't think he notices. Why did I think he was paying any attention to me?

Argh, he stops. I hate it when guys stop temporarily, it drives me crazy with desire. He picks up his magnifying glass and examines me some more. I start to calm down.

The he puts the magnifying glass down, and starts rubbing my clit again. It feels even better than before. Then he puts two fingers in me, like last night.

Two fingers is more like a real cock. I try to imagine that it's actually a cock, and I am really having intercourse with a boyfriend. And it's exciting. I actually orgasm.

Vagina Man excites me while I orgasm. Then I feel a pain. He's stopped exciting my clit, and I look and see three fingers going in and out of me. That hurts.

But my vagina was built to stretch. Eventually I do. And he starts rubbing my clit occasionally. Because he want to see me squirm? Just for more lubrication? It's part of his fetish? This is all just an experiment?

But he isn't a boyfriend that I have to try to understand. I'm playing the role of a prostitute. Unlike the role of girlfriend, with all its complications and traps, all I have to do is lie here and let him do whatever he wants.

So I lie there, and just enjoy the sensation, until I feel another dull pain. I look and it's four fingers.

I never get used to that. My vagina hurts. The occasional rubbing of my clit is now just a violation of my personal space, another way he's allowed to touch whatever he wants in any way he wants.

Then he stops. It's nice for the pain to be gone -- removal of pain is a physical pleasure too. I never realized how empty my old world was of physical pleasure.

Then he pulls out a camera. It's huge. I think he could take close ups from 100 yards away. And I don't want him taking pictures of me. That could ruin my reputation.

But his pictures are just of my vagina -- my face isn't in the picture. No one is going to recognize me from just my vagina. It's just strange to have this much attention on it.

He unties my legs. Shit, I could get punished for that. I hope it's only a slap or pinching me between the fingers.

He pulls my knees up, and puts my ankles by my ass, my knees spread. It's a classic fuck-me position. I think he's going to rape me, and I get all excited by the thought of seeing his cock. Then the rational part of my brain realizes he isn't going to feed me, he doesn't have any food. So it doesn't do me any good to see his cock and get raped.

Then he kneels in front of me, his face right in my vagina. I think he's back to studying me, but he tries to put his head up my vagina.

Obviously, he isn't close to succeeding. It's tough enough to push a baby's head through a vagina. He has to know he isn't going to succeed. But he's pushing against me as hard as he can. It doesn't hurt, so he can push all he wants.

Then he gives up. He sits up. And his face is so sad. I can feel his disappointment.

He unties my arms. "Thank you," I say to him for untying me, but I doubt he knows English.

Did he want to get inside my vagina? I'm trying to understand that. It has to be a really strong need when he knew he would fail. And he looked so sad. He's created Vagina World, and maybe that world pulls him in and just becomes stranger and stranger. He can't do that with any normal girl; he needs prostitutes like me to get what he needs.

It's sad.

I guide him back downstairs, and I'm not immediately attacked, so I go stand in the corner where I first observed. I keep my eye on The Kid the whole time; he sees me and just looks away, I think giving me grudging permission.

My vagina was always private. Of course. But tonight, it doesn't feel that way. It's just another part of my body.

A man dances with me and asks about the patch on the inside of my thigh. I tell him that I burned myself. My night becomes a blur of hands, touching, fondling, watching men learn that they can't fuck me, sometimes watching them make other deals. I can clean semen off myself now, that's a lot more convenient for everyone.

Except, after one man squirted his semen all over my breasts, I wiped some off with my finger and put it in my mouth. it wasn't steak, but it was protein and I needed the calories.

Then I realized how gross that looked to him. I looked up at him, and he hadn't noticed anything, thank God. I snuck another taste, trying to hide from him what I was doing.

Then I got disgusted with myself and cleaned myself off so I wouldn't try to eat any more.

Another man tells me that one of the buttons on my dress is a transmitter. That makes sense. I forgot to wonder how they knew I asked for that man's address -- I just knew I did something wrong and it made sense that I would be punished for it.

He buys me for upstairs. I take his hand gently and guide him. I think this is the seventh time I've done this. He takes off my blouse, he lies on the bed, and he positions me over him so he can suck on my breast. It feels good. Then he strokes himself while he does that.

The strange thing was Chatty Girl coming into my room while he did that. She just walked in without knocking, went to my dresser, got something she needed, and left. I guess I'm not supposed to mind her seeing me like that, with a man sucking on my breast and stroking himself. The man noticed her, but didn't seem disturbed. Maybe she's just a whore to him, or just a chink, and she doesn't matter.

The he ejaculates on my sheet. So I have to change sheets. He should have to pay extra for that, but I doubt the Manager sees things the way I do.

One man says to me, "You're a white girl. Can you speak English?"

I say, in my best attempt at a thick Russian accent, "I speak English very good." I realize, I was being myself, not a girl who is afraid of being shocked. I don't want to be myself -- I want to be the girl who is always worried about being shocked and trying to avoid it.

I wait for a shock; I look over at The Kid, and he's laughing.

We are sharing a moment, like two human beings. It doesn't change the fact that he has to shock me and sell my body. And if he was in a cranky mood about something that had nothing to do with me, he probably would have shocked me. Close call.

And things slow down as the night ends, and the Bouncer comes by, says something to a girl, and she walks upstairs by herself. I assume to go to bed. Or do whatever they do when they're off work. When it's just down to me, Beauty, and two girls who are dancing with customers, the Manager comes over to me and nods.

I go up to my room. The bed dominates the room. What I did in this bed tonight infects the whole mood in my room.

Am I supposed to tie myself up? Honestly, I would try to if I was supposed to. But I don't know if I can, and they always sent someone to tie me up. So I think I can go to sleep without being tied up. Another of life's simple pleasures. But I did a good job tonight, so I deserve it.

I take off my clothes and carry them to the laundry chute in the dressing room. I take off my makeup, then walk back to my room, lay on my bed, and sleep on my side. I try sleeping on my back, but I don't like the thoughts that go with it.

And I don't have any hallucinogens, just a shocker taped to my thigh. I'm hungry, but I have that sense of having worked a long day and deserving to sleep. I quickly fall asleep.

The Next Day

I wake up, momentarily confused. I'm lying on my back, spread-eagled on my bed, my arms and legs in their normal positions. But I don't feel tied.

Then I remember I wasn't tied when I went to sleep. I try moving my arm, and I can. I can touch my mouth! I try turning to my stomach, and I can!

What a luxury. This is my first morning here that I have woken up untied. It would be heaven if I wasn't so hungry. I wonder if someone forgot to tie me last night. I hope none of the girls gets in trouble because of me.

I think back on my dreams, and they were normal! No hallucinations. No weird imagery. Just dreams of sucking on guys cocks and letting them fondle me and cum on me.

And I have a memory of last night! If I worked at it, I might be able to count how many men molested me one way or another. And I was fed four times!

I still have the shocker on my thigh. It's just taped on, and I could easily remove it if I had the courage

I don't.

I get out of bed. Oh. My. God! There's a bottle of water in my room. It's a baby bottle, and the water looks clean. I get to drink water? This much?

This wasn't accidentally left over from last night -- someone brought it to me. I pick it up and suck greedily, drinking all of the water. I idly wonder if someone will give me more water, but I'll find out eventually. I'm still starving, but this feels like heaven. If Hate Girl brought me the water, it probably has spit or pee in it, but I really don't care, I couldn't taste it.

Guide Girl comes into my room and softly takes my hand. I never thought I would get so much pleasure from that, but I'm almost nostalgic, it seems like so long since I could walk in this normal way.

She takes me to another room and opens a door.

And I see me on the bed. Not me, of course. I see a girl naked and tied spread eagle to a huge bed. She looks Filipino. Her room is just like mine -- it's tiny, and has a table, a dresser, a TV, videos, and a nightstand.

She looks up at me in fright. I don't know why. But I know what to do -- I touch her stomach, and give the top of her thigh a perfunctory slap.

I wonder why she's here. I didn't see her the first night, so she must be new. What did she do wrong? I tell her, "You have to learn to just obey." But she doesn't understand me. If she's Filipino, she might not be able to understand anyone. Maybe their contact in Thailand isn't working and that's why we're short on girls. And why there was an empty room for me.

I turn around to leave, but Guide girl gives me a shocker. At first I think I'm supposed to shock myself, and I'm already starting to cry because it isn't fair and I did my best last night to make everyone happy and when I did the slightest thing wrong I already got shocked.

But there are wires on this shocker leading to the sole of the Filipino girl's foot. She's like me -- she needs to be broken.

I'm supposed to shock her. I look with horror at the wires leading to her foot, this poor young girl looking at me with terror.

I cannot.

I simply cannot. It's not that I just don't want to. I can hardly understand how someone could shock me. But I can't shock someone else. I shake my head no and give the shocker back to Guide girl.

She slaps me across the face, hard and so fast I didn't see it coming. And I start to cry, because this is nice sweet Guide girl, but her eyes are steely. She's in charge of the girls, and she's in charge of me, and disobedience is never an option here.

She's holding the box up, and I push the bottom for as short of time as I can. I see Filipino girl writhing in pain. I know what that shock feels like.

Guide girl gives a kiss on the forehead as I stand there lost in loathing and regret. Then she carefully takes the shocker off of the girl's foot. Filipino Girl is crying, but I can't tell if that's because there's more pain from pulling the tape off or because she's so grateful. The combination always gets me. Guide girl gives her a kiss on the forehead, then folds up the wires neatly and places the shocker in the dresser.

She looks at my face, sees my pain, then takes my hand and leads me out of the room. When I'm still just standing outside the door, she leads me to my room and sits me on my bed. I like her trying to take care of me. Then she pats my hand, I think saying It will be okay, and leaves.

Filipino girl is going to be okay? Every girl here had to shock her, that's why she was so frightened of me. I was the last one, which means she got 12 painful shocks. In whatever sense of the word is she going to be okay? I mean, she was sold into slavery and now she's here and they're breaking her.

Maybe, in Guide Girl's world she'll be okay. Filipino girl will learn to obey, and follow the rules, and do whatever the blackshirts want. Then she won't get shocked, or at least not as much. And she'll be fed and have a place to sleep. She'll adapt to the life of a sex slave. Everyone else did.

I'm going to be okay? I don't see how. I'll have nightmares about pushing that button. It was an irreversible step from my old world into the one I'm in now. I imagine a checklist for barbarism. Let a strange man grope me. Check. Give a strange man a blow job. Check. Voluntarily swallow semen because I was hungry. Check.

And now the box for giving a girl an electric shock can be checked off. But there's still one obvious open box: Having intercourse with a man who paid for me. I haven't done that. It's ominously the only open box left.

Eventually I recover. I realize, I can finally explore this building. If I'm allowed to leave my room. Am I? No one tells me anything. I could stay in my room all day even though I'm perfectly free to leave. I could walk downstairs and suddenly feel a searing pain on my thigh.

I start with a shower. I take the shocker off of me. I have read enough books to know that I'm supposed to try to wash last night off of me -- the semen, the smells, and the memories.

The memories don't wash off. The feeling that my body will be sold to men for their sexual pleasure isn't washing off. Really, I can't get the feeling that my body is mine.

But I enjoy my shower, that's for sure. I enjoy just standing and moving around. The hot water on my skin is a wonderful physical sensation -- this is probably the most enjoyable shower I have ever taken by myself. It's strange to feel hands touching my body and realize they're my own.

I take a long shower, washing everywhere, so I'm clean and attractive for tonight. When I'm done, I put my shocker back on. I walk out, past my room, to the top of the stairs.

The girls are allowed to go downstairs during the day. I've seen them do that. They were downstairs when I came in. Assuming I have the same privileges as the other prostitutes, I can go downstairs.

I remember expecting to get more privileges than the prostitutes; now I'm hoping to have the same privileges.

So I walk down the stairs. Like before, some of the girls are in the living room, talking. I walk by the front door without testing if it's locked. I poke my head in the kitchen and someone is fixing sandwiches. If there was any place to run, I would steal a sandwich.

That's lunch. Maybe there is no breakfast. Maybe everyone sleeps late because they're up so late. I realize, I haven't seen the time since I was sitting in Rocket's car -- there are no clocks here. It's just one more loss of control and independence.

I take one more longing look at the sandwiches, which just makes me hungrier, but I know I have to wait for lunch, so I leave the kitchen. I walk past the door without trying it, and explore the hallway leading to the bathrooms. There's an office, then the bathrooms. Then the hallway branches, and it looks like bedrooms in both directions. By the spacing between doors, larger bedrooms. One of the bedrooms is empty -- no one is using it.

One of the doors opens. Just in case I'm not supposed to be here, I start walking back towards the living room. I'm just casually leaning against the door to the outside when the Bouncer walks by me. He looks me up and down, then heads up the stairs. Someone is getting a visit from one of the Gods of pleasure and pain. 

So, it's okay that I'm casually leaning against the door. Which means I can't get out. I turn the doorknob, but when I try to subtly pull the door open, nothing happens. No surprise. I turn around to look at it, and I can see a deadbolt in the door. It's locked from the other side, and there's a keyhole on this side. So a key is needed to unlock this door from the inside.

I wave to the girls, they ignore me and continue their conversations, and as I'm walking up the stairs and the Bouncer is coming down, he pinches my ass.

I feel stupid for not seeing that coming. In my defense, all of my recent interactions with men have been from the perspective of me on my back and looking up.

I realize, he pinched my naked ass. I look down, and I'm naked. That's why the Bouncer looked me up and down.

I'm momentarily annoyed that he got to see my body without paying. I look at the girls in the living room. One is naked, which doesn't happen at night when there are customers here; the others are all dressed like prostitutes, even though there are no customers, because that's apparently all the clothes we have.

So it's okay to walk around naked. And I can do it without even realizing.

I walk into the dressing room, like I should have thought to do before going downstairs naked. A thorough search reveals, first, that the clothes I wore here are not here. And second, as I suspected, there are no normal clothes here. So sexy clothes are my only choice, and they're revealing, but not as revealing as being naked.

I opt for barefoot, even though that shows my dark red toenails.

I go back to my room and finally open my dresser. There's a maid's uniform and a nurse's uniform. In addition to ropes, there's handcuffs with keys. I test one handcuff and the key works. There's a paddle and a riding crop. Those could be for me or him. Same for the ropes and handcuffs, I guess. I don't have any of those kinks, but I've had practice accommodating guys in my past life. So I should be able to use those if I need to.

A large feather -- I kind of hope that's for me. A small mask that would just cover my eyes.

And one thing I don't recognize and can't figure out. Ugh. And a Groucho Marx disguise. It's scary to think that might be here for a reason.

In the story I'm going to write, the main character is an FBI agent. He thinks there's a sex slave ring, and his superiors don't believe him, so he starts investigating on his own. There's a parallel story about a girl caught in the sex ring. He eventually saves her, then they have to work together to free the other girls. Eventually he falls in love with her.

But he isn't going to want to marry a whore. It made sense at the time I thought of it, but not now. In reality, he likes her body and her mind and her personality, but he's never going to have a real relationship with her. Instead, she'll get deported.

No, in reality she'd be too afraid to help. She wouldn't easily forget the slaps and shocks that made her obey. She wouldn't go near the men who had shocked her, just out of conditioned fear. The FBI agent wouldn't get any help from her, and he wouldn't understand why.

I hear a chime, then the girls moving to the kitchen. I join them.

I walk into the kitchen and feel like an idiot because I was expecting sandwiches. It's rice and lettuce again. Filipino girl isn't here. My old self would have tried to smuggle her some food. My new self knows that if I try, I might be the one in bed getting shocked by every girl. 

I reach out for some rice. My mouth is already watering. I take the spoon in my hand, dig into the rice, and

get shocked. The pain is horrible, and I'm screaming and the rice is flying all over the table.

And I'm standing there in pain, panting, my leg hurting so much, tears in my eyes. WHAT DID I DO?

I didn't do anything. No, I must have done something wrong. But WHAT?

I was reaching for rice? I can't reach for rice?

Everyone is looking at me. They're distressed, but not surprised.

Door Man walks in. Everyone looks at him. I turn around. "WHAT?" I scream.

A few of the girls gasp. I suddenly realize what's going to happen to me, and there's another searing pain in my thigh, cutting through me.

I can't stand the pain. I'm sobbing into my hands.

I look up at him and make the praying motion that Sad Girl used on me. Please have mercy on me.

He pushes me into my chair. He has a coffee cup in his hand. He reaches into the rice with his coffee cup and gets a cup of rice. He puts it on my plate.

And leaves. I can see coffee on the outside of my rice; he used his own coffee cup.

I want to scream, USE YOUR WORDS. I'm afraid to scream anything.

But they could have used words. The Kid knows English. He could have told me. He didn't, I think because they wanted to shock me. That was their plan. So that I would be forever afraid to reach for my food.

Or he was just too lazy, or he never thought about it. What does he care if I get shocked?

Intentional or not, I'm afraid to serve myself. I want lettuce, and I know I should eat it. But I'm not touching the prongs for serving the lettuce. There's no temptation, no desire, nothing.

I eat my rice. God damn them, they didn't have to shock me.

They want me hungry. So they can reward me with food. Fine, be cruel and barbaric and physically controlling, but just tell me what you want!

The rice is delicious.

I'll never scream again. They are slowly whittling me away. When they're done whittling, what will be left?

Someone who wants to fuck Mr. Zhang, that's who. But I can't imagine that.

No, I'm starting to see how that's possible.

The Filipino girl comes in, and a chair is found for her, which seems like an unexpected kindness. She sits next to Chatty Girl, and the two of them talk. And talk. And talk. I realize, Chatty Girl had no one to talk to because she speaks Filipino. No wonder she liked talking so much to me. Now she looks happy. And Filipino girl looks relieved to have someone to talk to.

I use my finger to dab up the last few grains of rice. I don't want to watch everyone eat. I know I should be observing, but it's too painful.

But I'm afraid to leave the table without permission.

And, stupid observer that I was, I just assumed they all spoke the same language. I look around, and the rest of them do.

Then we're all done eating, and everyone just sits around. Then the Kid comes in, says something, and everyone leaves.

I go back to my room and think. I want to write down my thoughts, but I can't, so I have to just let them fill my head.

I think I now understand being a prostitute. It sounds horrible that I, a woman might suck a guy's cock for money. I would be giving up my dignity as a woman, and I would be doing something disgusting and wrong, just for money.

It's different for sucking the 10th strange cock. I'm not giving up my dignity as a woman. I gave that up a long time ago. It isn't disgusting, it's my normal life. I'm not shamed; I'm just trying to do a good job, and I'm a little bored.

If I could escape here, and I had no money for food, I would be looking for a guy who would pay me to suck his cock. And I wouldn't even be embarrassed.

Of course, he might not pay me. I would really need a pimp. But I would take the chance, and if he didn't pay me, I would look for another guy who might.

A young guy walks in. It's slow tonight, partly because it's still early. I'm not doing anything; a few other girls aren't busy. He pays his money. He stands at the entrance like he doesn't know what to do and he's anxious. Someone else comes in and brushes by him, physically forcing him a little more into the room.

The Kid walks up to me. I'm afraid, but he just says, "Make sure the college guy doesn't bolt."

How am I supposed to do that? "Yes sir." Why is he asking me? I look around -- most of the other girls are busy.

"Piece of steak if you get him to buy a girl."

I would have done my best just to avoid being punished. But this increases my interest a lot.

I go up to the guy. "Do you want to dance?"

"You know English!"

My unaccented English is actually kind of an embarrassment because it's hard to explain. And we're not dancing, even though I just asked. I can feel the wall of nervousness around him. "I'm just here doing research." No one believes that.

"You are? For psychology?"

Okay, he believes it. "No, to write a book."

"Cool."

"So you can't touch me."

"Uh, okay. I wasn't going to touch you."

I was being ironic. No always means yes here. "Unless you paid your $50."

"I had a choice about that?"

"No." I can't get through to him, he's too nervous. He can just reach out and grab my breast or fondle my vagina. I'm the one who's supposed to be nervous, not him.

I thought that whorehouses just sold sex. But we also sell a world where men can have what they want, and they don't have to be polite to women or worry about what women are thinking or feeling. Young guy isn't a Viking warrior. But he's here only because some of his ancestors raped women.

I think I have to sell him that, but I don't know how. The last 10% of being a prostitute is really hard. The first 90% is being young and having a vagina. "For $10 I can give you a tour."

He smiles gratefully. "Thanks."

"No problem. Follow me." I take his hand gently and pull him over to the Kid. I say, "He wants to pay the $10 fee for the tour." I wink at the Kid.

The Kid laughs and takes $10 from Young Guy. And I just earned the house $10. I hold up 2 fingers to the Kid -- now he owes me two pieces of steak. He laughs. Maybe I'll get it. I think The Kid is a good guy. As long as I'm obedient and doing everything he wants and don't expect to have any rights, and I treat him like he's my master, we can get along fine, like two normal human beings.

We walk back to where we were, just past the entrance and on the edge of the dance floor. "Your $50 entitles you to touch any girl, anywhere."

"Wow." He looks nervous.

"Except under her clothes. You have to pay extra for that."

"Got it. No touching under the clothes unless I pay more."

"Okay, lets practice." He smiles. "Touch my leg."

He touches close to my knee -- exactly where a nervous young man might touch. "Now slowly slide your hand up my leg. Stop when you reach my skirt, though."

He does. The Bouncer is watching him in case he goes higher; the Kid is watching us, I think because we're entertainment. I say in my most encouraging voice, "That feels nice."

He still looks just really anxious. He still might bolt, this is still painful to him.

"Okay, as we dance, I want you to slowly move your hand until it's touching my breast. Like you're so stealthy I won't notice."

He puts his hands around my waist; I put mine around his neck. But I stand far enough away so that his hands can go on my breasts.

"Which hand?"

No. One. Cares. If he's going to worry about that, maybe he should bolt. I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. "Are you right handed or left?"

He smiles. "Gotcha." His right hand starts moving across my back as we sway back and forth together. He tells me about being a computer programmer until his hand touches my breast.

He stops. I continue the tour. "Okay, that was slow and easy. Nicely done. Now let's try abrupt. For this, you just place your hand directly on my breast."

"Right hand?"

I hold his right hand where it is, already next to my breast. "Left."

"Okay, here I go." Giving me a warning? "Good luck." I say, trying to hide my sarcasm.

He puts his hand directly on my breast. I explain, "Don't try that at home." He laughs. "But here it's appropriate. You can't put a finger under my skirt, but you can put your hand directly on my breast without asking. Got it?"

He smiles. "Got it."

I gush, "I love quick learners." He blushes. When he looks down I sneak another look at his crotch. He's getting hard. That could be because he likes having his hand on my breast; it could be because he liked the direct approach. But the danger of him bolting has pretty much disappeared. I feel powerful.

I remember when I didn't want a customer grabbing my breast. It's ironic to be encouraging him. Now I just have to keep our momentum going.

"Okay. Do you want to practice on my ass or someone else's breast?"

I'm giving a choice to the man who can't decide which hand to use to touch my breast. But it's hard to figure out what he wants. He thinks. He's still mostly just nervous. I explain, "You can pick out a girl and ask her to dance. When you dance with her, you can slowly move your hand to her breast, or you can just put your hand on her breast."

He's getting harder. I add, "Or, there's still places left to explore on me."

"You." I think I'm the safe choice.

"Try moderate speed this time. No rushing, no secrecy, but move your hand to my ass and squeeze it."

"Which hand?"

I hold on to the left hand on my breast, which is working so well for us. "Right hand."

It slides down me, and he grabs my ass and squeezes it. I'm guessing he likes my breast better. 

"Nicely done."

"Thanks." He's smiling at my praise. He did well in school no doubt, he has that school attitude.

"Okay, let's practice on another girl. Look around the room. Who looks the sexiest?"

"Well, she's the sexiest."

Tall girl. "But she's dancing with someone." So is Beauty. "You can't dance with someone who's with someone else. Pick a girl who's not with someone."

He looks around the room and points. I say, "She's a good choice." Sad Girl. She's probably not a good choice for him, but he's in desperate need of encouragement so I'm not going to criticize his choice.

I feel a hand on the front of my pelvis! He slowly moved his hand off of my ass! I start to breath faster. He has potential. I hadn't seen that in him at all.

"Um, well . . . "

He gives me a victorious grin and moves his hand onto my vagina. "Yes?"

"You're making it hard for me to think."

"I had a good teacher."

"You might be . . . " He starts fondling my nipple. It feels so good. I think none of the last 20 men I danced with actually excited me despite having their hands all over my body.

"Yes?" His hand is fondling my vagina.

"What was the question?"

"How much do I have to pay you to feel under your clothes?"

Right, the tour. "Well . . . " I try to slow down my breathing back to something more normal. "You don't pay me. You pay him." I point to the Kid. I add, "I just let you do whatever you want. If you paid for it. They say no. I don't say no."

He rubs my vagina. "Do you want to say no?"

I say in a small voice, "No." I try to clarify, "I don't." I add, "Want to say that."

"What do I do now?"

I mouth to the Kid, "Help."

The Kid ignores me. I rub my thumb against my fingers, the signal for money. The Kid frowns -- he doesn't like doing things differently -- and comes over.

Young Guy says to the Kid, "I want to buy her."

The Kid waves for me to leave. It's one of their helpless-female games. I go sit down. When I see him paying for me, for I don't know what, I walk over, gently take Young Guy's hand, and escort him up to my room.

We walk in, I face him in the cramped space between my bed and the door, and he says, "What now?"

He's the first man to ask that. "You know what you paid for. I guess you just do it." That's how it always worked before.

He smiles. He puts his hand on my leg, then puts his finger under my skirt. "I've been wanting to do that all night."

I smile and say flirtingly, "I hope you bought more than that."

He answers with his hands -- they unbutton my blouse, they unsnap my bra. Then his hands are on my breast.

"I know they're small and a little wobbly, but my nipples might be nice and . . ."

He's fondling my nipple and I stop babbling, and close my eyes and lean my head back and just enjoy.

After a while, he says, "I bought more."

I say, "The pleasure might kill me."

"This room is really small."

"It has a large bed." I add, "That information is part of the tour."

"Why didn't you lay on the bed then?"

I just answer, "Yes sir," and lie on the bed. Finishing that discussion.

He takes off all of my clothes and starts simulating my clit and vagina. It feels really good. But he also rubs my nipples and touches the rest of my body. So I'm getting the whole package.

I look up at him at one point and see him looking at me. So he's looking at me and seeing what I'm responding to. And I haven't been hiding a thing. How was I supposed to know a customer would pay attention to me? Now he has the road map to exciting me.

Then he stops, I think to switch positions, and I moan because he stopped, and then moan even harder when he starts up again because it feels so good.

And he notices that. And stops twice again just to drive me out of my mind.

And by the time he is done with me, I'm screaming in pleasure and writhing like a mad girl. I orgasm violently, and it feels wonderful. And then I slowly calm down, and open my eyes. He's looking at me and smiling really big, like he just won a big contest.

He says, "I never did that before."

"You . . you . . ." I still can't talk very well. "Not for your girlfriend?"

"I never had a girlfriend."

"Oh my God. You can get all the girlfriends you want. That was outstanding."

"The guy downstairs said I couldn't have sex with you."

"Yeah, someone bought me."

"How can one person buy you?"

"Um, with money?"

"How much money?"

Oh, that. "$5000."

"Wow. You're worth that much?"

No? Yes? "I am now."

He thought I was just a cheap prostitute.

I'm also a priceless human being. But $5000 is a very impressive amount of money just to fuck me.

"So I can do this with any of the other girls?"

They'll love it. "Yes. And it's $100 to have sex with them." And then I get my piece of steak.

"No, I just want to do this with another girl. It's amazing."

"Let me continue the tour." I get dressed, because I can't go downstairs naked when customers are there. I take his hand gently, lead him down the stairs, and see who's available. He had picked out Sad Girl, and she's still available. I thought she might be a bad choice for getting my piece of steak, but now I'm not so sure.

I take him up to Sad Girl and tell him, "Make me proud."

I sit down next to her and hear him say, "Do you want to dance?"

She can't understand him, of course, but she can guess. She stands up and they walk to the dance floor. A Korean guy sits on the couch next to me. Thigh to thigh. He puts his arm around me and his other hand on my arm.

I watch, entranced, as Young Guy slowly moves his right hand up to her breast. Sad Girl keeps glancing at it, probably wondering why he's going so slow. She kisses him once when he finally reaches her breast, I think as a reward for breaking the boredom.

Then she's completely surprised when his left hand just grabs her other breast and squeezes it. I see her looking up wide-eyed at him. The Bouncer is coming over to us and telling the Korean guy no. His hand apparently traveled across my chest, then under my blouse and bra. I should have noticed and stopped him. Now he has his hand on the skin of my breast. Korean guy pulls his hand out.

I look and Young Guy has moved one hand to Sad Girl's ass, but the other is fondling her breast. I don't know what it is about him, but she looks happy, like this is exciting her. The Korean had his hand on my thigh, but now he's standing me up to dance. I think it's hard to get at my vagina when I'm sitting. So he's holding me tight and dancing with me, his hands on my ass, while Young Guy is sneaking his hand around the side towards her vagina while he fondles her breast.

wait for it . . . , wait for it . . .

Yes! Her eyes fly open when she realizes his hand is almost at her crotch. I feel a Korean hand on my crotch too. I shouldn't be ignoring him. "You are so handsome," I say, but he doesn't understand English. Now his hands have found my hair, and I feel him getting harder. So he likes blond hair. And ignoring him means yes. Being a prostitute is not a demanding job.

I missed Young Guy starting to excite her, but I see him stop, which makes her push forward to get more stimulation from his hand. It's the first time I saw a girl excited and trying to get more. He talks to the Kid, money changes hands, and Sad Girl is leading him up the stairs, I think pulling a little harder than we're supposed to.

The Korean guy goes over to the Kid, money changes hands, and I take him upstairs for I don't know what. He points that I should lie on my bed, so I do, but I still have my clothes on. I'm not sure who's taking my clothes off. I put my hand to the top bottom of my blouse and look up to him with questioning in my eye, but he's gesturing for me to turn around. So, when I finally understand him I'm lying crossways on the bed, my head on the edge of the bed nearest the door.

The he masturbates on my hair. Except for pulling an occasional hair, it's easy for me. I think I hear Sad Girl screaming? It doesn't sound fake. The boy might be a natural. Korean Guy cums in my hair, which is really gross and exasperating -- I'm getting tired of men and their fetishes, especially fetishes with a lot of clean-up.

I have to take him back down the stairs, which is embarrassing, and the girl who passes me going the other way on the stairs sees my hair, giggles, and then holds her nose. When he's been escorted back to the living room, where everyone can see me, I can go back upstairs to wash out my hair.

When I get back downstairs, Sad Girl and Young Guy still aren't there, and this short fat guy is asking me what a white girl like me is doing in a place like this. I'm telling him about growing up as an orphan in Kansas when they come down the stairs, Sad Girl holding Young Guy tight around the waist instead of guiding him.

The Kid is walking up to them, I think to punish her, but he just holds out his hand. Young guy puts a $100 in his hand. So he had sex with her.

Yes! Steak for me. The Kid looks at me and I stick my tongue out at him. He shrugs. I'm his entertainment. He likes me!

When I turn around, I get a quick but excruciating shock to the inside of my thigh. It's The Kid, being a prick and staying on the top, in a petty childish way. I hate him. But I'll remember his point -- he always gets respect.

Sad Girl walks Young Guy all the way to the door, then gives him a kiss that looks remarkably like a kiss good-bye. Young Guy is looking jaunty. I can't believe he's the nervous kid who walked in here.

Sex therapy? Maybe for them both. I'm telling the short fat guy about my experience at the bus station when I arrived in New York -- pretty much as it happened -- while he explores my breasts.

The Next Day

I walk downstairs. There's a blackshirt I've never seen before in the living room, and I think he's cleaning up from the day before. He turns around when he hears me, and I realize the blackshirts never pay attention to me just because I enter a room or I'm there.

Then he just stops, frozen, staring at me like he's never seen a naked woman. I'm uncomfortable. I go back upstairs to put on some clothes.

Oh! My! God! My outfit from the first day! Complete, in one of the drawers for my size. Even the shoes are here.

I can wear this. Right now! All day! I don't have to run around naked or dressed like a slut. I can wear NORMAL CLOTHES! Even normal shoes! Shoes that any woman could walk in, not just whores skilled in wearing 5-inch stiletto heels.

A bra, a piece of steak, a moment of kindness, and now this. It's too much. Did I ever feel blasts of joy before this week?

I start dressing myself -- normal panties instead of a thong! A skirt that goes down almost to my knee! A blouse that reveals no more than some of my collar bone!

I feel like I've stumbled upon a time-capsule, preserving something from a distant past. It's even got my pantyhose. Pantyhose that would slow a man down. 

I go back to my room and lie on my bed, but that makes me feel like a prostitute. It's the bed and the room -- the associations are too powerful. I don't want to feel like a prostitute today, I want to wear these clothes and feel like a normal person. I can be a prostitute tonight all they want. The day belongs to me. Carpe Diem.

I want to . . . I can imagine places I want to be outside this house, but I can't imagine actually being outside this house. Inside this house, I wish I could go downstairs and find a room that looks like a library, sit there, and not feel like a prostitute. I doubt they have a library, and I'm afraid to open random doors in the men's part of the house. But my room isn't working for me.

I walk down the stairs. In normal shoes! No danger of tripping!

I hesitate at the bottom, not knowing which way to go. The living room is safe, but I associate that with waiting for men and being groped. The kitchen might work, but that I associate that with eating with the other prostitutes.

The bathroom! I take one more look into the living room, Tall girl sees me and her hands go to her mouth in fright, and I get an excruciatingly painful shock on the inside of my thigh.

"FUCK. SHIT." The remote shocker. "GOD DAMN." I'm crying out for the pain, and for my loss of hope -- I just wanted an hour not feeling like a prostitute. "YOU GOD- --" I get another excruciating shock and I shut up.

I walk up the stairs, tripping once because I have too many tears in my eyes to see. There's a pain in my shin where it smashed into a step. I hope it doesn't bruise, because I don't want to get punished for making a visible bruise on myself. I walk into the dressing room to throw my outfit away in the trash. Then I see scissors, and I cut my outfit to shreds. I hate it.

I don't want the temptation of wearing it. I don't want a painful reminder of a time when I wasn't a prostitute. I throw it away.

I don't want to be that naive Amy Lewis with her foolish hopes and dreams. I want to be the girl who's careful and knows the rules and never does stupid things.

The Bouncer comes into my room and takes off the shocker. I did something right? They had pity on me? They wanted it for another girl? I don't know. Truth: It's gone. They'll have to work a little harder to shock me, that's all.

We're eating dinner and everyone is happy, even Sad Girl, when Tall girl knocks over her glass. She frantically tries to catch it, but it falls to the floor and breaks.

Dead silence. We're all horrified. I feel so bad for Tall Girl. She's starting to cry.

The door opens, and the Bouncer strolls in, a half-eaten hamburger in his hand. He glares at us, and Tall Girl raises her hand. He takes a bite of hamburger and goes around the table to see.

He points to Guide Girl and makes a sweeping motion. She goes running to get a broom and pan to sweep it up. The Bouncer steps on a piece of glass, grinding it into small pieces. That'll just make the clean-up harder. He looks down at the floor, picks up Tall Girl by her arm, and moves her away from the glass.

He points at two girls and me. They jump up, so I do too. They walk over to Tall Girl, so I do too. The Bouncer bends her over, raises her skirt, then lowers her thong, baring her ass.

The first girl gives her a hard slap on the bottom. She steps away, and as she's walking back to her place, the second girl slaps her.

I don't want to slap her hard, I don't want to make her feel pain. But I'm terrified of not slapping her hard enough. Both of her butt cheeks are turning red, so I have to slap her where one of the other girls did. I do my best, but my heart hurts when I hear Tall girl whimper because of what I did to her.

The Bouncer takes another bite of hamburger, then starts pulling up her thong while I go back to my seat. The Bouncer leaves. Tall Girl waits until Guide Girl is done cleaning up. Then she sits down and we all go back to eating.

I wish Tall Girl had been more careful.

A customer walks in, dressed really nicely with a suit coat and even wearing a tie. He goes straight to the Manager, and gives him money and points to me.

No doubt buying me for something; I don't know what, not being a part of the negotiations. I want to please everyone, so I walk up to him as sensually as I can. He's smiling really big at me, so I feel like I'm doing something right.

I take his hand and try to read the Manager. He just turns away like he has more interesting things to do, so I was right to take Mr. Businessman's hand. From the way he follows, I can tell he's been guided upstairs before. Anyway, he looked like he knew what he was doing when he walked in.

We walk into my room, and I let go of his hand and turn to face him. This is his time to look at me, or inspect me, or really do whatever he wants to me except fuck me. No one tells me what's going to happen, of course, but I'll find out.

He walks to my dresser and takes out the ties. So he's going to tie me to the bed. He comes back to me and starts taking off my clothes.

I've stopped feeling like my body belongs to me. I try to remind myself it does, but the feeling isn't there. I'm just standing here, my arms out to the side, while he takes off my bra. He doesn't kiss or fondle my breasts, but that was his choice, not mine. He's pulling down my skirt.

But what about my mind? I feel like it belongs to me. But I spend most of my time thinking about food and avoiding punishment. So they hijacked my mind too.

I walked into the house automatically feeling outrage whenever a man touched me without my permission. They took that from me. I walked in here only sometimes feeling helpless; now I always feel helpless. My personality isn't even mine.

He holds up the ropes and threatens me with them. And says something in Chinese that sounds threatening. So there's some step in his fetish before tying me up. I try moving away from him and cowering like I'm afraid. I see a big smile on his face and his cock starting to get hard.

He's not going to be hard to please. I say, in a frightened, girlish voice, "Please don't tie me up." He obviously doesn't understand me, but his smile gets bigger and he advances on me.

He catches me and forces me to the bed. I fight against him as he ties me to the bed, but I'm careful not to fight hard enough to get away. I whimper and plead, and he's happy.

And then I'm tied to the bed. I say, "Please don't molest me," and his hands attack my body.

Mr. Zhang, who in a way dominates my life even though I only saw him once, likes my mind. But he bought it. They sold it to him; I just watched the negotiations helplessly. My previous life -- best-selling author, having boyfriends, being equal to men and being treated with respect -- is hard to imagine. It's like it stopped existing when the door clicked locked.

I pretend to struggle and cry out when he tries to put his finger in my vagina. Then he's in.

What I can imagine is being Amy Lewis, coming to New York City on a bus from New Jersey, and being tricked into being a prostitute. Dressed up like a slut, letting men grope me, making money for my owners. Being punished when I was disobedient, and being shaped into the merchandise they want. Being happy when they want me to be happy.

He looks me in the eye. I pretend to be frightened some more, and start to struggle. I see him starting to stroke himself, so now I can act like I'm struggling even harder.

They're geniuses, manipulating yet another naive, stupid, helpless female. They invaded my brain, and conquered it. They wiped out parts of my old self, and replaced it with a new self.

And my new self is so vivid! I vividly remember seeing the skyline of Manhattan and my excitement and dreams. I so vividly remember looking helpless and feeling vulnerable, and trusting the man who was going to force me into prostitution. And entering a world of guns and slaps, and trusting the man who actually sold me to a house of prostitution and delivered me here.

His semen actually hits the wall and starts dripping down. The rest falls on me. So it won't be easy to clean up.

It's all so vivid. I don't need a notebook; everything is seared in my mind. My vivid self is a week old. Before that is fuzzy and unimportant.

And my only goal is to please men.

He's untying me. Good, that speeds things up. Now he's being polite and I suspect even apologizing to me, by his tone of voice. And he's kissing my wrists where they were bound. Nice guy. I bet he's married and she's the boss of the house.

The Next Day

When I go downstairs in the morning and sit in one of the chairs. The blackshirt from yesterday is again cleaning up. I sit down.

He sees me and walks up to me. I'm afraid. I don't know what I did wrong. I stand. He's about 30, my height, overweight and unattractive. He says something to me in I assume Russian, then smiles at me holds out his hand for me to shake.

I put my hand in his, expecting him to pull me close and pinch my ass, but instead he gives me a vigorous, tone-deaf handshake. He says something to me again, and he sounds mentally challenged. Then he says, "Menya zovut Vladenko."

I point to myself. "Amy."

"Privet Amy."

"Hello Vladenko."

He gets a big smile on his face. Then more Russian, and he goes back to cleaning.

We're getting dressed, and I'm standing around naked waiting for Beauty to do my makeup. Finally I realize -- she isn't. I look around the room, and she's putting makeup on Filipino girl.

I think I'm supposed to do it myself. So I do.

Then I look around the room, and Guide girl is helping Filipino girl dress. I have to look a little while to find my size, but I do and get dressed. It's not rocket science.

Beauty comes up to me, checks my work, and frowns. She gives me a slap, and it's perfunctory, but it's also fast and hurts. She's telling me I did something wrong and she doesn't like it. I hate that I let her down. She sits me down, rubs off some of the lipstick on my top left lip, and reapplies it.

The Kid is walking up the stairs, and opens the door just as she finishes. I get in line. I would be last, except Beauty had to put on her shoes, so she's last. I let her go ahead of me, and she softly strokes my face, saying thank you. I cover for her, and the Door Man pinches my ass as I walk by last.

"So, where are you from?"

"Russia," I say in my best Russian accent. "Siberia. Too cold there. Come here."

He puts his hand on my breast. "Your English is very good."

"Dank you." I see Filipino Girl start to double over and intense pain flashes across her face. Then she tried to straighten up and not show anything on her face. So she's wearing the remote shocker. I wonder what she did wrong.

The Next Day

I'm sitting in the living room, just sitting on the couch and listening to two of the girls talk Thai. Sad girl is walking down the stairs, and I realize she spends most of her day in her room. That isn't healthy. She doesn't look healthy.

She sees me, then changes direction and walks into the living room and sits next to me. Then she moves closer to me and puts her head on my shoulder. I feel like her Mom. I mean, I don't, it's just that she's kind of treating me that way. So it's like she thinks I'm her Mom. It's touching.

But we can't talk. In a way, she's just using my body, just like everyone else. Which is kind of what a baby does. Fetus too. I have a body intended for everyone to use. Why did I never see it that way before?

Then the Bouncer comes by. He scowls, then comes over and says something harshly to Sad Girl. It's in Russian, but he's obviously telling her not to sit next to me like that. She shakes her head no, which can't possibly be the right thing to do. Even I'm upset that she did that.

He pulls a shocker out of his pocket. Sad girl clutches to me in fear, and the Bouncer shocks her. She cries out in pain and buries her head on my arm.

The Bouncer shakes his head, pulls her off me, and drops her to the floor. Then he walks off without looking back. Sad Girl just sits on the floor, crying, hopelessly lost in her suffering and depression and loneliness. Then she scoots over towards me, and soon she's at my feet with her head against my knee.

The other girls in the room drift away -- they don't want to watch. Eventually the Kid comes by. In a bored voice, he tells her something in Thai. No effect. Then he kicks her, pretty much exactly how a cruel person would kick a dog.

No effect. He takes out his shocker. I want to tell him that it won't work. But he wouldn't listen, he'd just shock me and then shock her. So there's only one person here who knows English, and I'm afraid to talk to him. I wonder how many wives are afraid to talk to their husbands.

It's like rewatching the most horrifying part of a movie. He puts the shocker on her arm, she wraps her arms around my legs, and he shocks her. And now she's wailing, literally wailing, in pain and misery. She's not going to survive here, she's going to die. From self-starvation, or depression, or maybe one day she'll find a way to kill herself. And I can imagine one of the other girls putting a pillow over her head to end her misery and Sad Girl never fighting. And I don't want that to happen, but her life here is just as bad.

The Kid shakes his head. Then he puts the shocker on my arm, just below my shoulder. I'm frozen in terror. Then, in Thai, he explains to Sad Girl that I'll get shocked if she doesn't let go of me or whatever it is he wants her to do. So he's using me as the threat. I can't believe one person could be that awful. On the Strong-Campbell Inventory Test, he no doubt scored highest on brutal slavemaster. But it doesn't work, Sad Girl is still holding on to me.

He shocks me anyway. I want to cry out in pain, but I don't want to get shocked again, so I try to be quiet but instead I'm whimpering.

Sad Girl is looking up at him in terror.

I think this pointless torture is over, but it isn't. The Kid rips open my blouse and slides the shocker under my bra, directly on my breast. Escalating. I've never been shocked on my breast. I can't breathe.

He explains to her the same thing as before. But now she knows it's not an idle threat. I'm panting and can't catch my breath; the room is starting to waver.

He finishes, waits for her, and she shakes her head no. There is a searing pain on my breast. And now I just have to scream in pain. Everyone hears me -- the girls upstairs could run from the sight of this, but not the sound.

I'm trying to decide whether to breath or die, but my body decides for me and I take a long, shuddering breath. Sad Girl is crying uncontrollably.

The Kid pulls the shocker out of my bra. "This isn't over." And the Kid leaves. I notice that he isn't looking back either.

I pet Sad Girl's hair and try to soothe her, even though the pain on my breast is still so strong. She cared about me -- she was horrified that I was shocked. But she didn't care enough to let me go. She let him shock me.

The Kid comes up to where I'm dancing with a customer, pulls me away, and says something to the customer. The customer leaves me to find another girl.

Something's happening.

I'll find out what, all I have to do for now is follow. The Kid takes my wrist and brings me into the kitchen.

Where I am almost knocked over by the smell of turkey. I feel faint, and in my heels I have to lean against the counter not to fall over.

The housekeeper is peeling potatoes. The Kid opens the oven to show me the turkey. It's starting to turn brown, the juices are filling the air, I can see that it's stuffed, and it's the most beautiful sight I've ever seen -- just looking at it makes my stomach spasm.

My mouth is drooling. I reach out to touch the turkey and the Kid bats my hand. He points to the woman and says, "She is making mashed potatoes." He asks if I like wine and waves his hand at a bottle of red wine on the counter.

"Yes please." I like wine.

He says, "Or we have soda or milk." He points to the cutting board and says "Broccoli. With all of the butter you may want."

I would like a lot of butter. "Why are you doing this to me? Why are you torturing me, if that's what you're doing? Why would you give this food to me, if you're going to do that?"

"Nothing is happening yet, Amy. But it could. It could. This could be yours to eat."

My happiness is painful. I look at him with a prayer in my eyes.

"Be a good girl, Amy."

I spend every second trying to be a good girl.

He opens the freezer. It has ice cream. He says, "Would you like to be eating this?"

I tell the Kid, "You are a God."

He smiles gloatingly. Then he takes my hand and pulls me out of the kitchen. I resist a little, because the kitchen smells so wonderful and I like being in here so much. He pinches me hard behind the ear, then he easily pulls me back into the living room.

The room is crowded, but I immediately notice Mr. Zhang sitting in a chair. 

Act V

There's an empty chair next to him. I'm afraid, because Mr. Zhang is the most powerful person I've ever met. He could tell them to punish me and they would. He could tell them to tie me up for a week and they would. He could tell them to hang me outside like a flag and I would be draped from a pole for as long as he wanted.

Or he could tell them that no one can have sex with the white girl, costing them hundreds of dollars. And they would. He did and they did.

And he could be nice. He's capable of it, because he's powerful and can do whatever he wants and sometimes it's nice.

And if I'm good, I get a complete turkey dinner. I'm afraid I'll do something wrong and hate myself for the rest of my life. But I have confidence too -- I'm learning how to be a good prostitute. Plus I'm young and I have a vagina, so my job is 90% done.

I cross the room. I stand in front of him. "Good evening Mr. Zhang."

"You look as lovely as a rose."

I turn on my brain. "A thornless rose; I have only soft smooth skin and a desire for my rose petals to be appreciated." I rub my finger across my collarbone; pretending like it's a rose petal that wants to be touched.

He smiles. I am the Literary Prostitute -- cheesy similes and metaphors will get me a turkey dinner. But the passive construction at the end of that was perfect.

I ask, "Could I have permission to sit here? It would make me happier than being in a warm sauna on a cold winter night." And I point to the empty chair and to his lap. His choice.

He pats his lap. "You would warm my heart like the finest brandy sipped gently from a crystal snifter."

I want to touch his cock for good luck, like I always do. I don't know why I do that -- it's a risky move that doesn't always work -- but it's like a compulsion. I smooth out his lap before sitting it, and get in a touch of his cock that could look accidental. He notices and doesn't object. That's such a good sign I can almost taste the turkey.

He wraps his arms around me. I hug his arms and say, "Being in your arms is more luxurious than any safety belt, making me feel safe and protected."

We sit. I've run out of cheesy similes; maybe he has too. Finally he asks, "How have you been, Amy?"

I think he's trying to have a normal conversation with me. The skill comes back to me slowly; the words feel awkward coming out of my mouth, but I think they're right. "Very good, Mr. Zhang." I can't, of course, tell the truth.

"They are treating you well?"

"Yes." I add, "You were my guardian angel."

He smiles. He likes being nice. I give him a big hug. He also likes being powerful.

"How has your week been, Mr. Zhang?" This is the first time I've had this type of conversation with a customer, even though it's more common than traffic in the world I used to live in. Of course, I haven't seen a car in I don't know how long. A week? I don't know what day it is, that's one more small loss of power.

"Very difficult."

I give him a kiss on the cheek. "Can I make it better?"

"You already have, my dear."

"Just as food conquers hunger, with the hunger only making the food taste better, I want to be the joy that conquers your stress."

He thinks about that, actually hugs me in a loving way, and then puts his hand on my breast.

He's smiling. He's using me to be the joy that conquers his stress. I put my hand on his shoulder and have a moment of peace. I remember when a strange man's hand on my breast was distracting. Now it's a sign of progress and that I'm doing the right thing.

His hand stops fondling -- but it stays firmly on my breast -- and he tells me a story from his week.

As he talks, I softly stroke his face. It's a good choice of a story. It's interesting, and in a way sad, because he ends up firing someone he liked. But I can understand why he had to do that. I can feel his pain, and his kindness, and yet his determination too.

I want to tell him a story too. But every story I can think of is about sex. I try to think of something I might have done during the day that doesn't involve sex, but nothing I do during the day is interesting. But it's my turn. I try, "Some day I want to write a book."

He nods. "What kind of book?"

"Perhaps about a powerful businessman?"

He smiles. "I am not sure that would be an interesting story."

Grisham could make it work, but not me. "Plus I don't know anything about being a businessman."

"You should write about a lovely girl who starts out a prostitute, but finally saves the world."

I can't save the world. I can't even leave this building. I suck on cocks so I don't get shocked. "Good idea. I'll write that book."

His hands still haven't explored my ass or vagina, but that's hard to do in this position. I offer, "An opportunity to dance with you would be like walking on the beach of a tropical island."

"Then let us take that walk together, hand in hand."

I stand up. I softly take his hand, and I let him stand on his own power, but I gently escort him to the dance floor. He puts his arms around me, and we start to sway to the music, but he seems uncomfortable. I ask, "Am I doing something wrong?"

I see a wry look on his face. "I've never danced with anyone."

"Here?"

He looks embarassed. "Ever."

"Ever?" I can't imagine that. He winces, and I realize I shouldn't have said that. But unless they planted a bug on me or he tells the Manager, I won't get punished for that.

"I was too shy in high school. Then too busy with work. It takes utmost dedication to succeed in the business world."

And when he came here, he must have gone straight to sex, because he was afraid to dance. Or just didn't have the time for it. "You're doing great." He smiles and relaxes a little. That was the right thing to say.

"Maybe I'll be the first girl you have sex with?" He starts to say no, but I just giggle and he laughs. "Mr. Zhang, I am honored to be the first woman you danced with."

"I remember the first woman I had sex with."

He can tell stories about sex. "Yes?"

And he tells me the story as we dance. No roaming hands, he's temporarily absorbed in telling his story. I listen carefully and respond in all of the right ways. But I'm not absorbed, and my hands softly touch his face, stoke his arms, and put pressure against the muscles in his back. Sending his body one of the world's most primitive signals.

When we get to my room, I let go of his hand and try to read him. He didn't look towards the dresser, so he probably doesn't want anything from there. He isn't immediately taking off his clothes. He isn't looking at me like should strip for him.

He's just standing there. Lost in a memory, I think. None of the customers ever did that.

Of course, none of them traded similes with me or paid $5000 for me. He's a complicated man.

I sit down on my bed -- he doesn't seem to notice -- and cross my legs to show a lot of thigh. He still doesn't notice. I wait for him.

Finally he comes back to this reality and looks at me. "You are like a flower blooming in the desert."

A hungry flower. I stand up. "I'm too nervous to unbutton my blouse." I plead, "Can you help me?"

"I perhaps can be of assistance." He carefully and deliberately unbuttons my blouse. He slides it off my shoulders, admiring my skin, and I wiggle my arms out of it. We let it fall to the floor.

"Um . . . " I still sound pleading.

"I should help you with that brassiere."

"Females! We're so helpless!"

He smiles at my faux drama and unsnaps my bra. It falls open, exposing my small, wobbly breasts. But they're still breasts and nipples, and he's staring at them. It's easy for me to forget how important they can be to a man.

I offer, "Let me take your shirt off." He doesn't question the small plot inconsistency of my fingers now working well. I sit him on my bed, and stand in front of him and unbutton his shirt. As expected, he begins fondling my breasts, which are almost in his face. When his shirt is unbuttoned, I stand closer and let him suck on me. The pleasure is distracting; I have to stop for a moment and enjoy it.

I think this is working. I put my hands on the waistband of my miniskirt and try to push it down, deliberately failing. I try and fail again. "Sisyphus, with his rock, had more success than I am having with this foolish skirt."

"Let me, dear." He holds the elastic band on my miniskirt and slowly pulls it down. Then he sensually pulls down my thong. Sometimes I'm a fast-food restaurant and my thong is just in the way of a man's pleasure. Tonight I'm a five-star dinner.

He stands up and starts taking off his pants and undershorts -- we've shifted into let's-do-it mode.

And then he's standing there. That's not hard to read. I kneel before him and put his cock in my mouth. I suck on him and fondle his balls until he's about as hard as I think he can get. Most men tap my head if they want me to stop, but his signal is tugging my ear up.

I lay down on my bed, my knees up. If he wants a different position, he'll tell me or move me. But I'm right, Zhang wants face to face. He kneels in front of me and puts his cock into me. My last boyfriend left me suddenly, and painfully, two months ago. My vagina has had more traffic than Grand Central, but it's been a while since I had a man's penis in me. I like how large and smooth it is. When he's all the way in me, he lies on me and presses as far into me as he can go. And he says, "What we are about to do is more ancient than the pyramids."

"Let us make it fresher than the bud of a new flower."

He fucks me.

I'm trying not to eat too fast. Half of the other girls are in the room too, and they're really happy with me -- I feel like a rock star. No one's as hungry as me, but this is about 50 steps up from rice and lettuce. They're eating in shifts, I think.

Oh my God! There's gravy for the mashed potatoes. Real gravy. Not semen.

This was too easy. All I had to was have sex with Mr. Zhang and I get this? Even the broccoli tastes heavenly.

But I did a good job. I know that. Zhang knows that. The blackshirts? They don't know or care -- they got their money and Zhang isn't angry at them. Really, all I had to do was open my legs. I could have made it a lot easier on myself by doing that last week. But Zhang was important. Maybe they did care how much he was smiling when he left.

I try to remember why Zhang didn't fuck me the first time. Oh right, I was resistant. But they could have tied me down. Oh, right, they offered that. Or roofied me. But Zhang wanted me to be willing. I was -- I wanted this meal so much.

I realize, I let a man fuck me so I could have a meal to eat. I think that makes me no different than any other girl arriving in New York City with no money.

So now I'm an official prostitute. I take some of the stuffing, smother it with gravy, and eat it with another piece of turkey. Simply outstanding.

Act VI

Girls are coming into the kitchen and other girls leaving to take their place. My stomach is so sore I'm afraid to stay in the kitchen, so I stand up to help out in the living room.

I sit on a couch, the biggest smile on my face, and a customer sits down next to me. I touch his cock. I want to tell him about getting a turkey dinner, but I don't think he'll understand. As he gropes me, I replay the dinner in my mind.

He pays $200 for me. I take him upstairs, and I try to read him. He wants me to take of my clothes so, I do. He's still taking off his when I'm done, so I lie on the bed.

It's a shock when I feel his penis in me. It hasn't been a long time since I had intercourse with a man. It's actually been less than an hour. But before Zhang, actual intercourse never happened. I got used to blow jobs and being probed and fondled and penetrated with fingers, and getting sperm on me or in my mouth.

Now I'm being sold to be fucked.

I want to say sex with Zhang took my protection away. But Mr. Zhang left me with nothing to protect. I don't feel violated as a woman -- this man is just fucking a prostitute.

I wasn't paying attention -- I didn't realize how close he was to cumming. I can see his face in that grimace, and I cry out trying to sound like I am so excited. I can hear it's fake. The girl in the next room knows it's fake. But he doesn't notice.

He only cares about his own pleasure. That just makes it easier for me.

It's actually easier to clean up. My vagina is a convenient place to catch a customer's semen. Now I know.

The Next Day

I wake up, look around, and . . . I feel like I own this room. I'm not an intruder who doesn't belong here, the room waiting impatiently for me to leave and being annoyed because I don't fit what the rooms wants. This is my bed, my work place, where I sleep.

I like how the door doesn't isolate me from other people. I like how I can go downstairs and sit with girls I know and like. I like how I can feel so comfortable here I can go naked and not even notice.

Guide Girl notices my vagina seems a little red. so she get some cream to rub on. It's strangely caring, or embarrassingly maternal. Or it's just one of the tricks of the trade, I also feel like I'm being mentored.

We're in the dressing room and that feels different too.

I feel like I'm part of the team. I look at what I always see -- 12 brown bodies and one white one. But I also see 13 girls with vaginas that are going to get used.

Honestly, I feel like I'm not a prostitute-in-training; I feel like I graduated. I know what I'm doing. I'm not even the new girl -- Filipino Girl is.

When we go downstairs, there's already a man waiting for me. We talk, we dance, I pass out free samples, and he pays for me and fucks me. When he's done, there's another. And another. It's a busy night for me. Apparently there was a long waiting list for me. It's like an email went out saying that the white girl could be fucked now.

I walk down the stairs, gently holding the hand of my last customer, and see four men waiting for me. I find the Kid, and I say, "Can you have one of the girls prep them for me? So they're already excited? It would save a lot of time."

He slaps me across the face. It stings, then it burns. I don't like being treated this way in front of everyone, like I'm just a body for them to train and use. Except for that, I don't mind being slapped.

But that is the last time I give him advice. Which is what he wanted.

But the men come to me prepped. At least I was right.

The Next Day

I realize . . I was supposed to go home. This was just supposed to be temporary, for one week. I'm almost positive this was longer.

I climb onto my bed, sit on his legs, and start sucking on his cock and fondling his balls.

I'm not complaining. I know what complaining leads to.

Some negotiations were made by men while I wasn't there. Someone forgot. Someone's not following the rules. I'm not even remotely surprised.

I try to count the days. I can't. There's a blur of drugs and cocks and fingers and punishments. It seems like forever.

He starts to cum. I guess he wanted that. I try to swallow it all, my body wants the calories.

I realize . . . how unintentionally cruel Mr. Zhang was. If he had just wanted my body, they could have tied my up or roofied me. It would have been a horrible violation, I would have been furious and hurt, and I would have felt helpless and betrayed. It would have been so traumatic.

He withdraws, turns me over, and enters me from behind, doggie style.

But Zhang wanted my mind. He paid for it, and ordered the specs -- he wanted me willing. So they were forced to take over my mind and create a new person. A prostitute. I didn't like everyone treating me a like a prostitute that first night, but the real line was crossed when I started treating myself like a prostitute.

He pushes into me as far as he can and ejaculates. I cry out like I'm orgasming.

Young Guy walks in! I get aroused just to see him. I'm momentarily between customers, so the timing is perfect.

Sad Girl comes rushing up to him and wraps her arms around him. I can see the look on her face -- they can punish her all they want, she's not letting go. I feel like she stole him from me -- I'm the one who trained him, I deserve to have him first.

I feel a hand running through my hair. I look up and I see a Japanese man, probably with a hair fetish. I stand up so I can see better, and now both of his hands are in my hair. No one's punishing Sad Girl and the Young Guy is giving a check to the Manager. It must be a cashier's check, they wouldn't accept personal checks here.

His hand slides under my dress and onto my bra. I gently pull it out and place it directly on my breast but on my dress. He'll have to settle for that unless he wants to pay more.

And then Young Guy's heading to the door! He's leaving? I missed what happened. Sad Girl is desperately clinging to him, and Japanese Man is squeezing my breast too hard but I'm afraid to do or say anything. I try rubbing my hair on his face to distract him, and that seems to excite him but he keeps squeezing me too hard and it hurts.

The door opens, and they leave! Both of them! It's a moment of transcendent beauty. Something totally going right in this world. She needs that so much. I'm so happy. And she'll make him happy too, I know it.

His other hand is now on my vagina. I throw my head back, close my eyes, and pretend like I'm enjoying it. I get the economics. Sad Girl's leaving opens up a room. If they can find a new girl, she'll make more money than Sad Girl. This is a good deal for the blackshirts.

He's pulling on my wrist to take me upstairs. He must be new here. I point to the Manager, take his hand, and we stop there first.

The Next Day

I'm waking up and coming out of a dream where I'm a butterfly in a butterfly collection. It seems so real, then I realize I'm tied spread eagle on my bed. I try not to get angry or upset.

I don't know why they did that to me. I don't even remember when. It wasn't a customer; I remember being told I was off-duty and coming to bed and falling asleep. Could I sleep through someone tying my arms and legs to the corners of this bed? I must have done something wrong, but I have no idea what. I would remember something that deserved this.

Or they gave me drugs so I wouldn't wake up, but I don't remember taking anything and my mind feels normal.

Guide Girl comes into my room without knocking, slaps me once on my stomach, touches my lips, then releases me. While she's untying me, Hate Girl walks in the door, but she sees me being untied and leaves unhappy.

I go to the bathroom, come back to my room, and Guide Girl is gone. I look around my room for her, but of course there's no place she could be. She's simply not here to tie me up again.

Maybe I'm supposed to be free? I can't retie myself. When I go downstairs, no one shocks me for being out of my bondage.

Maybe my bondage was random cruelty. I don't know, and I suppose I don't care. Truth: I was bound and now I am not. The Prostitute's Prayer: Give me the patience to accept the things I cannot change.

My day is boring. I try sitting in the living room and listening to the girls talk, but I can't understand them. There are no books to read; there's nothing for me to watch that's not porn, and I get enough sex just doing my job. There's nothing more I need to practice, like walking in high heels. I already watched the porno movies for tips and techniques, like how to give a good blow job.

I'm bored.

So I offer myself to Tall Girl. She just nods yes and walks to her room. I follow a little later. She lays me on her bed and takes off my clothes. It's strange to have delicate hands on my body, softly caressing me, gently pushing into my vagina.

I have no experience giving oral sex to a woman, and it's not a skill I need to learn for my job. Tall girl seems happy enough with me, though, and she orgasms, I think. We are both quiet about our orgasms. No one told me I couldn't do this, but that doesn't mean someone won't decide to punish me.

When we are done, I momentarily have the feeling that I have to quick clean myself off and go back downstairs to the next customer. But of course, this is just the daytime and I'm not working. And no sperm were involved, this was an x-chromosome party only.

She holds me in her arms and talks to me. I don't understand a word, of course, but I let her talk and I feel her emotion. I think she's pouring out her heart about what it's like to be here and be the only gay female. And probably missing home. Or it could be anything -- no one would have time in just one day to say all the sad things about being a sex slave in a foreign country.

I like being held; I like talking after sex. It's intimate, but in a nice way.

We don't get caught, or the blackshirts don't care. I wish I had ESP and could know what the rules are. And when they change. I'm sure that, now that Tall Girl knows I'm available, that she'll use me again. I can say no, of course, but I can't think of any reason why I would. I'm too busy repairing torn cuticles?

That went well. It was interesting. For the millionth time I wish I had something to write with. And something to write on. In a fiction story, I would use the scissor to etch a message in the floor for the next girl to have my room. But because I would get punished for that, there is NO chance of that happening.

And what message would I send? Hi? I think I would give the advice Obey -- obeying here is difficult enough. Everything else is so hopeless. Except she won't know English.

I'm bored.

I decide to offer myself to one of the blackshirts.

As I'm walking down the stairs, The Kid is walking up. I try to think how to mime that I'm open to sex with him, then I remember I can talk to him. "Do you want to fuck me?"

He just looks at me.

"On the house." I smile.

He chuckles. I can make him laugh, as long as I'm respectful about it. I'm his entertainment. He's handsome with a great body, and he's smart, and we get along, he's just a sadistic, arrogant asshole.

"Please? I'm so bored." Now I'm begging. That might work on him.

He shrugs. I think that's a yes.

If he wanted to have sex with a normal girl, he would have to take her out, sweet-talk her, be polite, and then only maybe get to have sex with her. I remember being on the receiving end of that.

I'm offering him easy sex. That would be a good deal for him, except I'm just a prostitute. Sex from that hard-to-get-girl would be valuable and meaningful. Sex with me is probably not much different from masturbating -- it's a good feeling, but nothing more. And maybe masturbation is a better feeling, I don't know.

He takes my hand and pinches the skin between my fingers, cutting into me with his nail. I go as long as I can without crying out, and tears come to my eyes, and I look up at him pleadingly, and finally I cry out, finishing my punishment.

I knew he would do that. It's part of controlling me. He takes me wrist and pulls me downstairs to his room. When we get there, he sits on his bed and says something in Thai, I think forgetting that I know English. I've become just one of the prostitutes in his mind.

He realizes his mistake and I think blushes. He just gave away that he has sex with the other girls here. Maybe he can force sex, and he just didn't want it from me? Maybe he has to wait until we offer? Maybe he's not allowed to? I'm not attractive enough?

I don't know why those questions go through my mind. Truth: I'm here. We are going to have sex. He says in English, "Strip tease."

I realize I have, awkwardly, put myself in the position of being evaluated by my boss. But this isn't my first strip. I've stripped for guys, assuming that whatever I did was great. I have stripped for a few customers and learned that isn't true. It's not that hard. I just have to remember that I can't use my body like a buxom woman or a lithe Thai.

I'm also not on stage, even though I'm performing. One advantage I have over the beautiful girl in the porn video is that I can touch. I sit on The Kid's lap and start my strip there by unbuttoning my blouse. So he gets a close up. Then I stand and shrug my way out of my blouse as sexily as I can. Then I kneel where I have thrown my blouse onto the floor, and neatly fold it.

My skirt comes off easily. I throw it over my head to the floor behind me. Then I turn around and bend from the waist to fold it. The blouse folding was just a set up, a basic writing technique. Now he gets a view of my scrawny ass that's not worth fighting for but can be sold for money.

It's hard to have a good image of my body when people are so free to criticize and other girls are always chosen first. But it's hard to have a bad image when men are willing to pay good money for it. So I have a roller-coaster body image.

He pinches my exposed butt -- a classic blackshirt move. I stand up quickly, whip around, and I'm smiling.

Taking off my bra is awkward, because my breasts could disappointment him. So, I try to downplay that part.

Then I remember The Kid is smart, and I entertain him. I start humming a song, and I take off my bra to it. It's funny.

But he's not laughing. He's staring at my breasts. This is actually working.

I go onto his bed and finish my strip, taking off my thong. When I'm done, I put my arms up in a spread eagle position. I have my knees up and my ankles on the back of my thighs. I am available. I am as vulnerable and available as a female can be.

He stands up, takes off his pants, and I can see his hard cock. He still has his black shirt on.

He goes to his dresser, takes out silks, and ties my arms to his bed. He doesn't need to do that -- all he has to do is tell me to leave my hands there, and I would. But I'm not going to correct him, now or ever. Or any man. If tying is his fetish, let him tie. Anyway, even if he liked whatever I suggested, he would punish me.

He uses more silks to tie my legs in their same position. I think I could squeeze out of them, but it's not clear and I have to be careful when I role play struggling so that I don't accidentally escape. But that's a normal part of my job.

Then he goes back to his dresser. This is not a good sign because The Kid seems to be a sadist. Or being cruel is part of his job.

But he pulls out a vibrator. And puts it on his hand, and turns it on, and holds his fingers on my clitoris.

My usual pleasures nowadays, as euphoric as they might be, are usually just relief from suffering. Like getting fed. This is genuine pleasure. But . . . I don't want him to have the power of pleasure over me. So I ignore the feeling.

But it's a relentless vibrator, and I start to feel pleasure even though I try to ignore it. So I think about how my hands are tied to this bed, and he's a prick, and he basically tortured me for three days. And he still shocks me, and he looks like he enjoys it when he shocks me.

So I hate him. That works for a while, then I feel the pleasure again. It's impossible to ignore, and it feels so good, and I give a little wiggle, and he smiles. My body is betraying me.

This place makes it difficult for me to like my body. I would not be here except my body is young and has a vagina. So it's the cause of all of my misery. It's become something someone else sells, someone else enjoys; it's become something I have to constantly clean of semen and keep attractive. My body feels the pain that controls me. And now it opens up, vulnerable, to this sadist.

HE TORTURED ME! The pleasure goes away, then comes back. HE TIED ME TO A BED AND HE --

Another pleasure. Shit. I give up. I close my eyes and just feel the pleasure. And I'm smiling, then clenching my face.

And then it stops. It is SO frustrating. I'm careful not to say anything. I just let him torture me.

I look up at him. I read him. I say, sounding as desperate as I can, "I'm begging you for more. Please." It's easy to sound desperate -- that's how I really feel.

He smiles and places the his vibrating fingers back on my clitoris. I get almost to the point of orgasm, and I try to hide it, so I can orgasm before he knows I'm going to. But he still pulls it away before I can orgasm.

I groan. I can't help it. I look up at him, "You are a . . ." I stop myself in time. I almost called him a bastard. He might have liked that. But he might not have, and I'm not taking that risk.

"I am a what, Amy?"

"God." He smiles.

And he plunges himself into me, and I scream with delight and immediately orgasm. And I thrash and try to maximize my own pleasure while he thrusts violently into me.

And then I'm done, but he's still plunging in and out of me. And I momentarily feel like a Greek God has come to earth to have sex with a mortal.

That thought leaves me, and I am left with a mortal man using me for his pleasure. And I can't move my hands, or my legs, I can just let him fuck me.

At the end, he pulls out of me, strokes himself, and cums all over me.

Then he stands up and starts dressing. "You're good Amy. We're going to start charging more for you." In my best-selling book, my main character was really happy when she got a good performance evaluation. But she was an art designer, and she got the raise, not the company.

I watch him dress. I really like his body. He has a really handsome face. He's smart and dynamic and forceful. I'm starting to get excited again watching him. "Clean yourself up. Don't get any on my sheets. If you do, wash them."

Really, he's sexy. "I'm still tied up."

He looks at me. "Oh, right. I'll be back."

"I eagerly wait for you."

He smiles, winces when he realizes I am being ironic, laughs at my predicament, and leaves.

When he comes back, he sits on the bed and says, seriously, "Tell me what we can do to make more money."

I panic -- the two times I gave him advice, he punished me. I don't want to give him advice and I want to obey. I struggle against my bondage, but that doesn't do any good, I am tied too well, as it turns out, and I can't run from that question.

He puts a shocker just outside my breast, on my rib cage, and shocks me.

Shit, shit, shit, it hurts so much. YOU ASSHOLE! "Uh, uh, let me think, two seconds, please, please." Brand identification, brand differentiation, "You could do brand differentiation."

He shocks me on the other side. OW! "Use words I understand, whore."

"Okay, okay, I can do that, it's like, two more seconds, let me think." Quick, how does that work here? "Well . . . suppose a guy likes to blindfold me, or one of the girls, that's maybe part of his fetish. You know? He likes that. So you could, um, maybe have a girl already in a blindfold downstairs. It would already be exciting him." I add, "Or maybe a guy doesn't even know that's his fetish until he sees her, and he adds a new fetish." Please don't shock me.

He thinks. "Not a bad idea, Blondie." Then he says with ice in his voice, "Don't ever tell anyone you told me that."

"Yes sir." He actually might use that idea. He used my last idea too.

There's a knock on the door -- I cannot remember the last time I heard a knock, but I'm downstairs now -- then a quick exchange of Thai and the Chinese gopher walks in. More Thai, then the Kid walks out. The Chinese guy looks at the semen on me and I think swears. Then he starts muttering, and he's obviously mad at me because he has to be in the same room with a whore who has another man's semen on her.

He leaves, and Vladenko comes in. He is obviously distressed to be seeing my naked body. I think he works in a whorehouse and yet doesn't get to see a lot of naked female bodies. I will probably be starring in his wet dreams for a week.

He releases my arms, and as he's releasing my legs, I wipe myself off. Vladenko is obviously trying not to look at me, and just as obviously he's sneaking peeks at me.

He leaves. I finish cleaning myself off and I dress. As I'm walking down the hall, I see him in his room, the door open. I walk in, and briefly note that his room is bigger than mine. I give him a handjob. I wanted to make him happy. When we're done, I clean up and leave.

I feel a hand on my bare knee. I turn to the chair next to me, where I assume a man has sat down, and I smile at him. His hand moves up my thigh. I put my hand on his. Not very hairy. And he's not talking to me, so I'm going to guess Asian.

Yes, he says something to me in an Asian language. He sounds young. I say sweetly, "I'm sorry, but I only know how to speak English."

His hand comes off my knee. He doesn't want me, or he wants to dance. I paw the air in front of me and find his hand. I take his hand and stand, and he guides me to the dance floor.

Because of my blindfold, all of my physical sensations are magnified. I can feel each finger on my ass. I can feel when my bra is rubbing against my nipple and when it's not. I am acutely aware of whether he's crudely grabbing my vagina, probing for my clit, or pushing his finger into me as much as he can when I have my clothes on.

Then he leaves me on the dance floor. Perhaps to find another girl. Perhaps to talk to the manager. I don't know.

I feel a hand on my breast. I think the man has come back, but before I can feel if it's the same hand, the hand is gone. So someone was feeling the blind girl. I stand a while longer, then a man comes and takes my hand. Same hand, same man.

He starts guiding me towards the stairs, which he's not supposed to do. I already got shocked once for that tonight, and this time I get another shock. Tonight it's small shocks on my arm just under my armpit. I pull on him so he stops, then I try to gesture that I should lead. I fumble my way to the stairs, waving my hand in front of me so I don't run into anything.

When I get to the stairs, it's easier, I can feel along the rail and then the wall to my room.

I can't read him. Nothing happens. He says something, I guess to take off my clothes. So I do a strip tease. My style is more about being seductive than bumping and grinding, seductive works better for my body. Plus I'm the white girl.

Then I stand there naked, my legs spread, my hands up above me. Now what?

He positions me with my hands on the bed and leaning over at a 90 degree angle. I feel something wet on my vagina and clit, and I realize he's giving me oral sex.

Then he stops, and I patiently hold my position. I hear his belt drop to the floor, so he's getting undressed.

Then his cock thrusts violently into me. My vagina is so stretched that doesn't hurt me, but it's still a surprise. I hold my hands on the bed while he violently fucks me from behind.

I guide him back down the stairs. When we are down, I let go of him and he walks away. Then I feel a small hand on mine, a girl guiding me back to an empty chair. I hope it isn't Hate Girl. Halfway across the room, another hand grabs me firmly by the wrist. I stop, the girl pulls lightly on me for the briefest moment, then she stops and lets go.

I turn towards the person holding my wrist. He puts his arms around me and we begin to sway.

"Do you know any English?"

"Yes. I was born and raised in Kansas. Now I'm going to school here. And, obviously, working nights." I smile shyly.

"Why do you have a blindfold?"

Someone put it on me. I'm not allowed to take it off. If I tried, I would be lucky to get just a large shock as punishment, but it never crossed my mind to take it off. Brand differentiation, I think, but I don't want to try to explain that. "Do you like it?"

"It's kind of erotic, you know?"

Trying to read him. "I feel so helpless."

I touch his cock. I can feel it growing. I add, "and vulnerable."

"Yeah. I mean, you shouldn't have to feel that way."

What matter is how he feels.

I say eagerly, "I like feeling helpless and vulnerable." He leaves to find the Manager.

The Next Day

Zen and the Art of Being a Prostitute. By Amy Lewis.

I want to be like Beauty. Yes, she gets distressed and upset and hurt. But basically she's happy and content. I want to have a smile like hers. Or at least be happy like she is.

I think many of these girls grew up in a male-dominated household and a male-dominated culture. The purpose of women was to serve men. They saw their mothers caring for their husband and doing what he said. She too would have helped care for him and her brothers and had to do what they said.

I try to imagine being that person. I don't like it. I don't like that they were treated that way. I don't want to be treated that way.

But I'm the unhappy one here. To be happy, I have to accept my role: To do what I'm told and to please men, and cooperate with other women in the pleasing of men.

So, it's the new me. Happy and content. I can do it.

Except I'm still so afraid of the punishment.

During the day, I practice walking around the room with my eyes closed. Then I practice with my eyes closed and wearing 5-inch heels. They could have said yesterday, Amy, you're going to be wearing a blindfold tonight. Then I would have known to prepare.

But they don't care about me; planning ahead isn't their style. They're men, they just do what they want. Not warning me makes me feel like I have no control over my life.

The Kid comes up to me and before I can stand, he grabs my hair and drags me back to his room, me trying to run alongside him as well as I can because it hurts my hair. He's just a sadist.

Or he likes the image. Him virile caveman. Me cavewoman. At the door, he sets me down and carries me into his room. I get it -- I'm being carried across the threshold. Another romantic moment in my future wrecked by the memory he's creating now. Not that any man would ever want to marry me now.

He takes off my clothes, then I take off his. I still get excited by his body -- he is a sadist with a very sexy body.

Then he hog ties me. I get the vibrator treatment, then he takes me doggie style.

"Do you want to dance?"

"I would love to, but . . . "

I look down at my ankles, hobbled together. "You'll have to carry me."

He smiles "No problem." He picks me up, his hands not worrying where they touch, and carries me to the middle of the dance floor. We can't really dance. But that was never really the point. He wants me open on all sides.

"Do you want to dance?"

"Of course, I'd love to," I gush. I look down at my ankles. "But you'll have to carry me." I add, "I feel so helpless."

"I have a bad back. Are you sure you can't walk?"

"I can try. Can you help me up?"

"I said I have a bad back. Can't you even stand up?"

I suppose. I stand, but as I do, I totter, and I have no way to save myself. I go tumbling to the ground, showing off things the customers are supposed to pay for. I get a short small shock on the bottom of my foot.

I pull myself to sitting and pull down my skirt as much as I can. The man has left. A girl helps me back to my seat.

The Next Day

I wake up. I'm not tied to my bed.

I had a nightmare. I was sucking a man's cock in the living room, and I coughed. Then I got a painful shock. I knew it was coming, but it still hurt so much. Because of the pain, it was hard to keep sucking on his cock, but I did and didn't get another shock.

It had to be a dream; we don't suck cocks in the living room. I would get shocked for sure if I did that. I think none of the other customers want to see some other guy's cock.

Tall Girl comes and sits next to me.

I was trying to avoid her.

I'm not in the mood to give her oral sex. I mean, physically it's not a cock, and the smells are totally different, but the bottom line is that I am sucking her cock just without the cock. And when she touches me, it isn't with the crude desire of a man, it's like she understands what her touches do to me. But she's still just using my body for her pleasure.

I cringe when she sits down, but she ignores that and points her head at her room upstairs. I nod yes and we go upstairs and she uses me for sex.

When I'm back in my room, Beauty finds me, holds out her hand, I give her mine, and she leads me to the dressing room. She gives me the full beauty treatment, including complete hair removal. So I'm good for almost another week. I wonder if she does all the girls or if I'm supposed to learn to do that myself. Which I could, but never as good.

I should observe. But it doesn't seem important. I just notice what happens to me. That's enough to write my book.

The Bouncer comes into the living room, where I'm lounging around being bored during the day, and he picks me up. He could just drag me by the wrist like everyone else. Or just ask, I would compliantly follow. Truth: He's a man, he can do whatever he wants. I'm not complaining. 

He carries me into one of the rooms in the back of the first floor. I guess it's his. He places me on the bed. I lay down on my back, assuming the ordinary, but he sits me up. Then he puts a DVD in the video, and starts it playing.

It's me. I'm putting chocolate cake on a guy's cock and eating it off his cock while I give him a blow job.

I have to smile -- that cake tasted so good.

It's odd to see me in a miniskirt and flashing my thong. Now I always take my skirt off when I give a blow job. It's easier on me, and I think better for the guy. If the customers in a hurry and I'm wearing a dress, I'll leave it on, but it doesn't take long to slip off a skirt. 

Then he's orgasming, and I'm still eating cake. I still don't especially like the taste of semen, but I'm used to it now, and then I was really hungry, not this low level of hunger that I constantly have now.

In the next scene, I'm just laying in bed, naked. My breasts are resting to each side, so they don't protrude at all. I can see why some customers complain. The guy eventually ejaculates his semen onto my stomach. God -- I remember! It was the first night my hands were free, so I didn't have to lie there with semen on me. Yep, when he's done I reach over to my nightstand and get tissue, then I clean myself off.

Then there's a shot of me walking into my room with a guy. He starts taking off his clothes, and when I see that, I start taking off mine. It's nice how I read him. I lay on the bed, he lays on top of me and puts his cock in me, and fucks me.

When he's done, I clean myself up and get dressed. But when I try to lead him downstairs, Chatty Girl is outside my room with another guy. She hands him off to me. Then he strips off my clothes like he's raping me, takes off his pants and drawers, and inserts himself into me and fucks me.

The video cuts to me cleaning myself off, dressing, and walking outside to find another customer outside my door.

I remember! I was pissed off that I had dressed. That was the night everyone came to fuck me.

The it moves forward to him cumming. When he takes himself out of me, I clean myself up and look out the door to see if anyone was waiting. Took me long enough to figure that out! I give Chatty Girl my semen-filled washrags and point to the bathroom. She runs off and comes back with a warm wet washrag.

The next guy already has his clothes off and is in my bed. But I wipe myself off with the warm washrag. God, that felt so luxurious. For one night, Chatty Girl was my assistant. She did a good job, too.

Then I'm rushing to the bed. I look clunky compared to the other girls -- they're so graceful and lithe. I hadn't yet learned to use my body more slowly. That part of the video is painful to watch.

The video shows him inserting himself into me, and starting to fuck me, then it skips ahead to his orgasm. Now I'm excited to see what comes next. He withdraws, I clean myself up with that washrag -- it was cold by then -- and walk to the door and . . .

Yes! Chatty Girl gave me a piece of hamburger. I must have eaten two paddies before the night was over. And I exchange the cold washrag for a warm one. Chatty puts out her hand to escort the guy downstairs, and I hold out my hand to escort the next guy into my room. It was very efficient.

Then there's short clips of more guys fucking me that night. I should have been counting how many, but if I can get a copy of this video, that's a record. I hope it has everyone.

Then there's Vagina Man, with his huge camera, and he's taking pictures of my vagina. I was trying to pose in different positions. Every time I show him a new pose, I get this big smile. Then he's all serious and taking his picture of my vagina.

He never choose me after that night. I think there was nothing new to see. Right, I remember Filipino girl holding his hand and taking him upstairs.

Then the video clicks off. The Bouncer is looking at me.

And I'm happy. They went through a lot of work to create that video. I liked seeing it. I say, "Thank you." He has to have heard enough English to understand that, and he nods his head, acknowledging my thanks.

Then he uses me for sex. I guess, since I was here and convenient. Or maybe the video of me excited him.

As he's thrusting into me, I realize there's a camera in my room. No, two, there's two different perspectives. And the cameras turned, so someone was watching me and filming. The Chinese blackshirt I assume. Yeah, he leers at me when I see him during the day.

The night was busy. It was a good idea to raise the price on me, I still mostly stay busy with the new prices.

I fall into a routine. Some guy comes to me, I tell him about Kansas if he can speak English, his hands wander my body, we dance, they wander some more. I touch his cock for good luck, and I might grind against him or him against me.

Then he buys me from the manager. There aren't many no's, maybe they are warned about my price, which I think is now $250. Then I take him up to my room and let him use my body, maybe I suck on his cock, maybe we end with him fucking me. Then I try to quickly clean up and lead him back downstairs.

Repeat.

Three guys decide not to buy me. The Manager pinches me hard for one of them. I don't know why. I do everything I'm told. I try to guess what every man wants, customer or blackshirt. I'm not pinched for the other two. I don't know why.

I see a man giving the manager $10 and receiving a small piece of steak. Then he comes to me. So customers pay money to feed me. I remember paying money to feed the goat at a petting zoo.

I've given up on not begging. Some men just think it's cute when I open my mouth and they can feed me and I'm so happy. Some customers torture me with it, and one customer tonight eventually didn't give it to me -- he ate it himself. It was hard to let him fuck me, I was so angry at him.

Another customer ejaculates in my hair. Honestly, I shouldn't have to lead him downstairs, it's so embarrassing. Then I quickly run up stairs and into the shower to wash it out, and another girl rushes into the shower too, so we're both trying to clean off together. It's a chaos of elbows, and we both start to laugh. She stands on tiptoe and gives me a kiss on my forehead when she's done, then she runs off; I still have to dry my hair.

And eventually, I'm off duty. I walk up the stairs. Guide Girl is being punished -- reasons unknown, probably to her too -- so I go into her room. She looks at me, and when she sees it's me, she loses interest -- she knows I'm not going to release her. I give her a medium hard slap on her thigh. I see her wince, otherwise she doesn't seem to notice me. It's just something I'm supposed to do. She's the head prostitute, but she's a female and she's a whore, so she's only a small step above the bottom. And tonight she's below that.

I take the sheets off of my bed, walk into the dressing room, and put them down the laundry chute. Then I take off my clothes like a normal person, with no men watching me, and throw them down the laundry chute. Ironically, they do have nightgowns, which I would have to wear if customers were here, but they're gone now. I put my shoes back where they belong. Then I walk naked to take another shower.

I have more energy tonight, usually I just fall into bed and shower and change sheets in the morning. I think I'm just getting better at my job, so it's less stress.

The amount of time I spend on my back, while customers are here, isn't nearly what the cliche suggests. I spent most of my night being fondled and molested and exciting men. I got fucked by around 12 men, and for almost half of them I was not on my back. So, say seven guys fucking me while I'm on my back, at maybe 5-10 minutes each, is probably less than an hour.

Of course, most women in United States don't get fucked even 7 times in one night. I get fucked enough times to make a pie chart of what positions I was put in. I sucked more Asian cocks tonight than most women will ever see in their lifetime. And they were only a third of the cocks I sucked, because it's a nice thing for me to do first even if they want to fuck me.

A girl wakes me up to give me a pill. I hope it's a placebo. But I don't really care that much. I fall back asleep.

The Next Day

A deep voice shouts from the first floor. "Yo! Amy!" Then, the same deep voice in a slight sing-song, "Your ride be here. And waiting."

It's Rocket. I'm supposed to leave?

ACT VII

I remember that my plan including leaving, but nothing about my plan happened the way it was supposed to, and I don't make plans now. So the thought of leaving seemed irrelevant. There was a contract too, but contracts don't mean anything either. And I think that contract was used against me, but no one showed it to me so I just have their word.

Really, I'm just something to be used. I understand that. I don't complain. My goals are things like getting food and not being punished. I try to guess what men want me to do. That's an endless job that gives me little time for anything else.

So I don't know why Rocket is here, and I don't know why he's here now -- I wasn't expecting him -- and I don't know why he didn't come sooner. But I don't need to understand the decisions men make about me, I just need to figure out what they want. Rocket wants me to come downstairs, and he wouldn't be here if that wasn't okay with the blackshirts. So I probably won't get punished if I go see him.

If I can move. I never know what I'll wake up to, what might have been done to me in the night.

"Let's go, girl! Get your booty in motion!"

I'm not tied, and my body works. I must have done something right. They gave me a hallucinogen and I had the strangest dreams last night. It's so disorienting. But I don't have time to think about them. Unless I hallucinated Rocket's voice.

Could I still be dreaming? They even took my sense of reality from me.

Just in case Rocket really is here, I quickly get up, rush out of my room, and run down a few stairs. Rocket is standing by the door, I think. "Are you real?" I ask.

"What you mean, girl?"

I think he's real. Chatty Girl is standing in the middle of the stairs, staring at Rocket like he's an alien from outer space. Our Afro-American customers dress normally, not like thugs from a Grade B movie.

I rush back up the stairs, hoping he doesn't get angry at me for taking too long. I quickly dress and go back downstairs. I can run down stairs in 5-inch heels now, but my body isn't built to look good when I rush, so after I pass Chatty Girl, I slow down and walk sensuously.

Why do the blackshirts want me to leave? That doesn't make any sense. I can guess how much money I make for them each night. Why don't they make me stay? But I'm just the ignorant female here and no one is asking my opinion. They don't care about my opinion. I don't even care about my opinion.

I stop and stand before Rocket, trying to read what he wants me to do or be. Or what he wants to do to me.

"You look great, girl." He walks towards me to give me a hug, and I take a step into his arms. His huge arms wrap around me. I reach down to touch his cock but then I don't -- I'm pretty sure his body is by invitation only.

I'm happy to see him. A familiar face. He's knows English. And he once saved me. I wrap my arms around him as much as I can and hug him tight, my face against his chest. It seems shameless, but I lost all shame a while ago. I am not who I was.

Then he holds me at arms length and looks at me. "Those aren't your clothes."

I'm momentarily confused. What does he mean?

Ah, right, ownership. These clothes are mine right now because I'm wearing them, that's the way it works here. Yesterday someone else was maybe wearing them and I had different clothes. No one really owns anything.

But, in the world Rocket lives in, I don't really own these clothes. Just as I don't own the room I sleep and work in. Or my body or my mind. Is that what he means? I think all I own is my purse and wallet with my ID, assuming they're given back to me.

"Of course." He looks puzzled. I still can't tell what he wants. "Should I take them off?"

"Where be the clothes you came in?"

I shrug. "I cut them into pieces and threw them away."

"Why you go do that, girl?"

"I wasn't wearing them again."

Rocket looks at The Kid, who's standing nearby. The Kid has my purse in his hand -- I think he expects me to leave. I'm actually going outside? It's hard to imagine. This house has become my world, the door the edge of that world. Guide Girl is standing by the door, and she has a blindfold in her hand. She's supposed to put it on me.

I'm guessing I'm supposed to leave. I've given up on anyone ever telling me what I'm supposed to do.

The Kid says, "She can take the clothes." So I have his permission to wear these clothes. I tell Rocket, "I'm supposed to wear this."

"Looks great. Brings out the real you."

"Thanks. You look great." He looks annoyed by my answer. Why?

He adds, "And you be very authentic."

Authentic what? I want to please Rocket, but I don't know what he's talking about. But I can see he's somehow trying to antagonize me. So I give a look of annoyance, and he grins. Yay!

The Kid says, "I hope you enjoyed your stay here, Miss Lewis. Please give us a good rating on your customer satisfaction form and be sure to recommend us to your friends."

"Yes sir." He will shock me if I don't. Then I realize that there's no customer satisfaction form so he was being ironic. And intentionally cruel -- he's mocking my hopes and dreams for what I was going to do here. And joking around with me, we're friends in that way.

"And this is a parting gift from us." He's smirking. But it's the video they made of me. It's a present? Planning ahead? Being nice and thoughtful? That is definitely not their style. I'm touched.

"Thank you very much."

He puts it in my purse, and hands my purse to me.

"Let's go," Rocket says, moving towards the door.

"Yes, sir." 

I'm really leaving? I look at the girls lounging in the living room. I could never really be a part of them. I have too much education. I know English. I'm the wrong color. But they shared their lives with me. And, misfit that I was, they accepted me as part of them. I'll miss that.

I look to The Kid. "I'm going to miss them."

The Kid shouts something in Thai to them, and suddenly they realize I'm leaving. I can hear them shouting and crying out things to me, and then there's small hands on me and they're kissing me good-bye, on my face and neck and arms. And I'm trying to hug all of them, and they're trying to hug me back. It's a chaos of scantily-dressed female bodies.

Honestly, it feels great. I guess . . . I guess I thought there was barrier between us, because I was the white girl. But, I realize, I forgot about that barrier. And maybe they did too. We have too much in common.

Then The Kid says says some command and they stand back. The Bouncer is by the door, and he opens it. I look out and see a tree. With leaves and a trunk, it's a real tree. Then a street and a car driving by. It's unfamiliar enough that I'm a little frightened to go out there.

But I'm supposed to. Negotiations were made.

As I walk past The Kid, something seems missing, and I realize he didn't pat or pinch my ass as I walked by. I think having Rocket here and on my side protects me. That's what my female ancestors wanted -- a male to protect them from other males.

Guide Girl puts the blindfold on me and ties it tightly. And then Rocket has his large hands on me to guide me out of the house and to his car; I'm walking sensuously on 5-inch heels. That's just one more change in me -- I'm not the person who arrived on a bus in New York City; I don't look like her, and I don't walk like her. I don't even have the same name. The old me is a vague memory I can't really identify with.

The car door opens for me and I try to slide in blindfolded without showing thong while he no doubt tries to see as much of me as he can.

Then I hear him get in the car. He stars the car and we drive away.

He says, "I have your suitcase. When we get close to home, we can stop at a rest area and you change clothes."

I don't know why he wants me to change clothes, but that sounds easy enough.

I think we're driving through a city. When we get on an expressway, he asks, "They treat you right?"

His question bears no resemblance to reality -- he might as well be asking me if I had a good time visiting an amusement park on Pluto. A good time? I was intimidated, ignored, physically controlled, punished in several ways including starvation and electric shock, abused, used, and broken into pieces to become someone who would earn them $5000.

But I don't want to complain and get shocked. "Fine." And what would I say anyway? And what good would it do? Rocket would care? He would do something? It would be just another opportunity for ridicule and disrespect. He wouldn't put any blame on himself; I'd get blamed for everything that happened to me.

"So, the all important question, Miss Famous Author. Did you get to experience what it's like to be a prostitute?"

"Yes." I did. Apparently he doesn't know what they did to me.

"Did you get to see them working? Learn their perspective?"

"Yeah." I remember asking for that. I can't remember the last time I asked for something. Maybe someone to help so more customers could fuck me, and I got punished for that. I learned my lesson about asking.

But Rocket isn't hard to read. "It was a really great experience, Mr. O'Neill. I learned so much. You wouldn't believe how much I learned even if I told you. Thank you so much for doing everything for me."

"Yep. Glad to hear."

We ride in silence for a while. I'm in a car with a man and I'm blindfolded and helpless, so actually I feel like I'm being delivered to someone. But Rocket wouldn't do that -- he's a man of his word, he's just not very precise about his word.

"I gotta ask this, girl. You make any trouble?"

I lost track of how many times I was punished. But actual trouble? "I made trouble with a few of the customers the first night."

"Girl." I can hear him dramatically sounding disappointed. "You let me down."

"There was a problem in communication; I didn't know what I was supposed to do."

"That be their problem." Not his. "They have to explain things clearly."

"It worked out okay." They got $5000.

"Good. I got no complaints about you."

Which is what he worried about.

We ride some more.

Do I still have to make the blackshirts happy? I imagine walking down the street and them slapping a shcoker on me. Or coming to my door and pinching me or slapping me. Or deciding I shoudn't be fed.

The video. They can use that as punishment too. They can send it to my friends. They can put it out on the internet. It wasn't a present for me, it was a threat. That's why The Bouncer showed it to me.

So, yes, I still have to make them happy. I have to keep being a good girl. But I don't think they want anything from me. As long as I don't make trouble, I won't get punished. I think I can do that -- I've gotten good at i. But I never know. I might be like Tall Girl and accidentally break a glass and get punished. I just have to do my best.

They wouldn't kill a girl just to punish me, because they don't have enough right now. But some day they might have too many. Then the least useful girl might die.

"When they told me you want to be staying a month, I not surprised. I know how those white girl fantasies go. But the police get involved if you don't show up when people expect you. So I gave you another week. That be pretty safe. Sorry I couldn't give you more, girl, but I got to protect my own ass too."

Men making negotiations about me. Coming to deals and agreements Taking care of me, using me. I knew I was there longer than a week. Money might have changed hands, but not my problem.

The car slows down, then stops. I hear Rocket open his door, get out, then open my door. He reaches in and takes off my blindfold.

We're in the parking lot of a rest area. I can again see trees and cars.

I say, "Can I get out of the car?"

Rocket says, "Be a good idea if you want to change."

Yes, but it's quicker if he just tells me what to do instead of making me guess. But I don't complain; I got punished for that. I get out of the car; he's already opened the trunk and is carrying my suitcase. We walk into a building.

It has windows. I remember windows -- this feels like a really strong deja vu. I can see out. The room we're in is very large and crowded, with many Caucasians. It feels strange to not be the only white girl; here I can just blend in.

A man is looking at me. I try to read what he wants me to do. His lust is obvious, and he's staring fixatedly at my right breast. He's probably fantasizing that his hand is under my blouse and bra and feeling my bare breast. He's clenching his hand, and he's so caught up in his fantasy that he doesn't notice me studying him.

But Rocket wants me to change. Plus that man never paid for me. I ignore him. Rocket is nearby; he'll protect me or collect money from the man.

There's a Burger King. I'm hoping that Rocket will feed me some hamburger. I know I've been good enough to get at least a bite of hamburger. I remember the time I earned a complete turkey dinner. But we pass the Burger King by.

I sensuously walk to the bathroom through a gauntlet of stares.I'm not blending in. The way I'm dressed, everyone knows I'm a prostitute. Miniskirt and 5-inch heels. My dark red lips and nails. The men are looking at me with lust, disgust, or a mixture of both; the woman range from disdain to hatred. Their desire to punish me is frightening, even though no one is actually touching me or controlling me.

Why are they so angry with me? I didn't ask to become a prostitute. Then I remember I might have fucked one of these women's husbands. So I guess they can be angry at me. I have no training to please women. I look back at Rocket. He's making no effort to sell me.

When I'm finally in the bathroom, I put down my suitcase to open it, but it's locked. I'm frightened. Will I get punished for not opening it? I feel on my thigh where there's no shocker and try to imagine that it's gone.

Ah -- I set the combination. So I'm supposed to know the combination, and I'm supposed to open it. But I have no idea what the combination is -- I set it a couple of lifetimes ago. I wheel my suitcase back outside to Rocket. "I don't know the combination. I'm really sorry."

I wait for him to punish me, but he just says, "I could break it open."

"No!" I don't want to get punished for a broken suitcase.

"You don't want to ruin your suitcase. Makes sense."

I forgot it was mine. We shared everything.

He looks around the room and a lot of people are looking at us. Rocket is getting nervous. "The optics here be really bad. Time to go."

He picks up my suitcase, grabs my wrist, and starts leading me out of the building, me following. But he stops -- everyone is looking at a huge black man pulling a small white woman out of a building to his car. I ask, "Should I just follow you?"

"Yes, be a good idea."

He strolls out like he doesn't have a care in the world. I follow him. It feels nice to get back into the car where I feel safe.

More trees and cars. Finally we crest a hill and I can see the Manhattan skyline.

But now I'm not that naive innocent girl from Kansas, with hopes and dreams. I'm that Amy Lewis two weeks later, after she's been turned into a prostitute and her body's been sold, by men to other men. I'm the Amy Lewis who's been fucked so many times they all blur together, has sucked so many cocks she can do it without thinking, whose only concern when a man ejaculates on or in her is cleaning herself up to be presentable to the next man.

I'm that Amy Lewis who just wants to do what the men want and not get punished.

Rocket stops in front of my apartment building. "I can't park here, so I'm just going to drop you off."

Rocket gets out of the car and opens the trunk. He isn't hard to read -- I'm probably supposed to get out of the car. I open the door and step out, trying not to display thong to the quiet neighborhood.

He guides me into my building and sets down my suitcase. "You want any more experiences, let me know."

I look up at him, trying to appear grateful. "I probably won't, but you're so kind to offer. You were very clever to find this for me. I'm always in your debt." I hope he'll like me.

He grins. "No problem."

"Mr. O'Neill? I helped saved one of the girls there."

He slaps me across the cheek, the same as in the bus station. I don't even flinch. I can feel the pain, but his slaps aren't that hard. "I told you not to make trouble. You crazy, girl?"

"She was going to die, sooner or later. Instead she got bought. I didn't have much to do with it."

"Well, I got no complaints about it. So I guess everything be okay."

He holds out his hand to shake. I try to read him. He can't care that much about pinching my scrawny ass, and he doesn't need to degrade me any more. It's an ego thing -- he wants to see if he taught me. I ignore his hand.

He laughs, but he's proud of himself, and he walks away like he owns the Earth.

So I'm standing in the lobby of my apartment, waiting . . . and waiting . . . and I realize no one's coming to tell me what to do. If anyone had been watching, I would have looked stupid.

I am, once again, entering a different world. I am, once again, confused and lost. But there's no one here to tell me what to do. There, all I had to do was learn to be obedient and they did the rest. This world is infinitely more complicated. And I lost the skills.

I walk towards the stairs, leaving my suitcase where Rocket set it down in the lobby. It's hard to imagine that it's mine. I walk up the stairs to the second floor and down the hall, looking for my room. My effort to find my apartment, made on my own volition, symbolizes how I am trying to re-enter this world I once felt so comfortable in.

When I have walked past the place where my room should be, I realize I don't live on the second floor any more. I live on the 5th floor. It was a long, eventful, stress-filled two weeks. I'm not transitioning well back into this life.

I walk back down the stairs to the lobby. My suitcase is still there. A man walks into the lobby and looks at me with interest, like a man might look at a prostitute. Then he shakes his head and stands in front of the elevators. I look through the mailboxes for my name, to find out my apartment number.

I can't find it. Not the fifth floor, and not the sixth floor, and not anywhere. So I'm being punished by taking away my apartment. But for what? Not coming back when I said I would? Or maybe some man wanted my apartment and just took it. But why did Rocket drop me off here if I'm not supposed to go to my apartment?

I'm not surprised that my apartment was taken from me. But what do I do now? I stand there, waiting.

Waiting.

No one is coming to tell me what to do.

This is too hard. I want to just sit on the floor and cry. But in this world I can't -- I'm wearing a miniskirt and I can't even show panties here. In my old world, I could walk around naked during the day and no one would notice or care. I'm supposed to be free now, but I'm still constrained by a web of expectations.

I can't manage my life. This -- everything -- is too much for me. I once could handle it. But not now. I don't have whatever it takes to live this life.

Do I really have to sleep on the sidewalk tonight? No. I'm pretty sure I could find a pimp and he would give me a place to stay in return for services. At least I know how to get what I need.

And, I remember, they might have given me back my money and credit cards. I check my wallet. Money. Credit cards. So I can buy dinner and pay for a hotel room. That's a different kind of power.

The drivers license is for Theresa McMillan. At first I think that's a fake ID, then I remember that was my real name.

I was looking for Amy Lewis on the mailboxes. They really did a lot to my head. I look again, this time searching for my real name. Fifth floor. 528. The number is familiar.

I breathe a sigh of relief and I feel grateful. I thought my apartment was taken from me. Now tears are coming to my eyes, partly happiness to have a place to sleep and partly that this life is just too hard.

I take the elevator up, pulling my suitcase. I walk to my apartment door. Home? I can't imagine that.

The door won't open. This life is just one problem after another. Now I do sit on the floor and cry.

Then I remember I have a key. This door locks. I take a deep breath, trying not to feel so lost and frustrated, and confront my door. I'm supposed to do this. If I wasn't supposed to be here, I wouldn't be here. I take my key and open the door.

I walk into a familiar apartment. Again, I experience a strong feeling of deja vu.

It's huge, of course, compared to my small room. And it's lonely -- no one's here. I like being surrounded by people all of the time, listening to them talk, dressing with them, eating with them, working with them.

I sit down on my couch. No one's touching me. I feel so isolated. Human beings are social creatures -- how am I supposed to live in this lonely apartment, totally untouched, and be anything but depressed?

I wait. In this void. Just sitting, bored. Then I realize, as I'm learning to do, that there are no men here to tell me what to do. I can feel myself getting anxious. Who's in charge? How does this work? I mean, the men are missing.

The phone rings. No one answers it. No one tells someone to answer it. Eventually it goes to message, and I hear, "Hey, Theresa, it's Beth. Are you home yet? How was the Caribbean? I bet you had the best time; I can't wait to see your tan. And I have to tell you about this guy I just met. I know I always say this, but he could be the real thing. We have to do dinner soon so you can meet him. You'll love him, I promise. Well, the huge stack of reports in front of me has to be read by yesterday. Love and Kisses. Call me as soon as you can."

I listen, bewildered. We have nothing in common. The girls understood my life and I understood theirs. We mostly supported each other, and we worked together. And even if a girl had to punish me, I understood. And she would have too.

I need a man here. At least one. Someone to tell me what to do. Why does no one ever explain anything to me? I'm so tired of guessing what I'm supposed to do.

I lay on my bed. I try to feel comfortable on my side, but I can't. I lay on my back and look at my ceiling. I try to feel comfortable with my legs together. I can't do that either -- it makes me think of someone's cock between my feet and squirting semen on my legs.

It seems like a lifetime ago that Theresa McMillan was here

I try to hold my hands at my side. It feels odd. I don't know what I used to do with my hands. I start to get anxious that I won't be fed. That I'll get shocked because my hands are in the wrong place. I put each hand out the side over my head.

There's no men here! So it doesn't matter how I lie on my bed. I can lie in my bed any way I want, that's what it means to be free. I just want to be spread eagle.

I just lie there.

I remember I have my notepad and pen. I don't remember all the messages I wanted to send myself, but I know what I want to remember now. I get up, take out my paper, and write "THEY CAN'T SHOCK YOU" in big letters. And I tape it to a shelf above my desk, where I can see it.

And sit down at my desk. I can see my dark red fingernail polish. It doesn't look good on me, it looks garish. But I'm afraid to take it off. I know there's nothing to be afraid of, but I'll feel fear anyway, and I don't want to feel that fear. I want to feel safe. I don't want to be trying to tell myself I'm safe while I'm actually feeling anxious and fearful.

I write another message IT'S OKAY TO FEEL SAFE

To feel safe, I need to wear dark red lipstick. I have a strong need for safety. Theresa was a daring woman, but they shocked the daringness out of her.

I look at the first sign I wrote. It doesn't do me any good. I lived in a world of real pinches and slaps and shocks, where they starved me and put me in bondage for days. Those are imprinted down to the core of my brain. I know I can be punished at any time. Even if I don't know how. Or why.

So the only way for me to be happy is still to be compliant and try to do what they want.

And my sign is a lie. If I did something wrong, they could come out of a crowd and shock me. I could be sitting in a restaurant, feeling safe, and someone could walk by me and slap a charger on my arm with the box already turned on. I might not even know what I was being punished for.

I could be bugged. I don't know how to spot bugs. Or there's two cameras on me. That's not a problem as long as I do what they want.

I take down my first sign and throw it away. I try to imagine not being fearful, but I can't. I knew the prostitute in my story would feel this way when she escaped; I didn't realize it would happen to me.

Maybe I should wear a bracelet. It can be a symbol that my wrists are good for something more than a man controlling me.

I get one of my bracelets and voluntarily put it on. I'm momentarily proud of myself for doing that, but it's strong metal, and it would just make me easier to grab or tie up. I take it off.

I should lock my apartment door. My head knows that. But I'm too afraid -- anyone is supposed to be able to walk in, and men would be angry if they couldn't. And I don't want the sense of locking myself in. Someone could come during the night and change my door so I needed a key to get out, and I wouldn't have that key.

I'm a mess. Someone should make me get therapy.

I go outside to buy lipstick at a nearby store. Everyone stares at me because I forgot to change my clothes. I feel covered up just to have clothes on, so I forgot about how much I was showing.

It feels odd to show men this much skin without them paying anything. I'm irrationally afraid the blackshirts will be upset, but I don't know what I'm supposed to do.

On the way home, I stop at a bar. When I walk in, the bartender looks at me like I'm a prostitute coming to his bar to find business. But I'm not looking for business. Really, I don't know anything about being a prostitute on the street, but I don't know how to explain that to him.

Theresa went to bars all the time to find a guy. She could spot the guys who didn't care about her, who could be violent and controlling, who just wanted her for my body. She told them no.

But she could do that, she didn't need them. I do. I sit at a barstool. I try to pull my miniskirt down; I forgot how I was dressed. But this will just make it easier to find the right guy. I let my skirt ride up.

Even though other white girls are here, a man comes to talk to me. "Hey, I'm William."

"I'm Amy."

"Hi Amy." It's nice not to have to make up some reason why I can speak English without an accent. I realize -- if I was dressed more normally, I could fit into this world.

He's really nice. He tells me about his job. It turns out that we went to the same college, so we talk about that. Finally he says, "Are you doing anything this Saturday?"

I'm baffled by his question. I don't make plans. I have no idea what I'll be told to do. "I don't know." I don't even know when Saturday is. No one tells me anything.

"Would you like to do something?" He sounds whiny.

I remember -- I'm somehow supposed to decide what I want. But now that he's asked, that's easy. "Eat a piece of steak."

"That's all?"

I can have more? He must really like me. "Eat a small piece of steak without any cocks on my face." That sounds heavenly.

His jaw falls open. "You're crazy." He stands up. "This was the biggest time-waster." He's angry at me. But he's a nice guy -- he isn't going to shock me or slap me or report me and get me in trouble. He's one of those men who doesn't control women. There's a lot of them in this world.

He walks out of the bar. I realize, if he had just told me what to do Saturday night, I would have done it. He doesn't understand how my world works; we weren't communicating.

I'm not going to fit in here.

I talk to another nice man. He gets frustrated with me too, and leaves. He doesn't shock me or even slap me, so that's good, but still, that's two men I've displeased. That makes me really anxious, I can't remember displeasing two men in a row and not getting punished.

"Hey gorgeous." A man sits down in the same seat other men have sat at. He touches my hand.

"Hello handsome."

We talk. His hands are all over me, though he can't touch the places he really wants to touch because we're in public. If we were alone and he was sure he could get away with it, I think he would molest me without permission and not stop just because I said no.

Finally he says "Come with me." He looks at me, reading me. I don't react, then I nod yes. He takes my hand and I follow him out of the bar.

I'm back in my apartment. It was nice to have a part of my day where I felt comfortable and knew what I was doing. I needed that. I wasn't even afraid of getting hit -- he's the type of man who would only hit his girlfriend or wife. But he told me what to do, or just took what he wanted, and I hardly had to do any guessing.

It was strange to spend so much time with him before he decided to fuck me. I remember how in this life I fuck at most one man in a night. Like an easy part-time job.

But now what? Theresa would do what she wanted. But what do I want to do?

It comes to me in a flash once I ask the question -- I'm hungry. I want to eat. I want to find a man to feed me. Steak would be great, but anything except rice and lettuce and semen would be good. If he bought me a meal in a restaurant, I would remember to feed myself.

There's a lot of nice men out there. This is going to be so easy. I start looking for the perfect outfit.

When I get back to my apartment, I'm just laying on my too-small bed, in a room with no purpose that I can see. And it gives me no purpose. My stomach hurts because he let me eat too much.

I hear my apartment phone ring. I never asked anyone if it was okay to answer my phone. I wish someone had just told me. Eventually it goes to message.

It's the Kid. He tells me in his firmest voice that I have to come back.

So I have to go back to him.

He'll take care of me. He made me into a prostitute, and that was wrong, and I should be angry at him. But it happened, and now I fit in there.

I don't fit in here. I can't go back to being naive, innocent Theresa McMillan. I can never get that naive confidence back; I'll never have that innocent hope. I hardly remember who she is. And I can't live without direction. Helplessness and physical domination are the water I swim in.

But I don't want to back to that world of pain and fear. I don't like being tied up whenever they want, or given whatever drugs they want. When I think about going back, I start shivering in fear. 

Can I disobey and stay here? I don't know. It's too easy for them to find me and shock me. They could do it in public. They could walk into my apartment and shock me here. I'm actually less safe in my apartment than in public.

In the phone call, he reminds me about the tape they made, which is the least of my worries about how they might punish me. It would ruin Theresa's life though.

How does he know where I'm at? Oh, right, I insisted on writing my full name and phone number on a contract. From that he can get my address.

I wish I could lock my door. But I would live in fear of being punished for that. Ironically, the worst part of being a prostitute wasn't the forced sex and letting a man do whatever he wanted. I got used to that. It was being controlled and broken.

So I don't want to go back. But he told me I had to.

The next call is from someone who works for Mr. Zhang. Mr. Zhang wants me to marry him. The guy on the phone spells it out -- I am to be available to Mr. Zhang whenever he wants, for whatever he wants. I will get an allowance for food, clothes, and all reasonable expenses, and I can keep all gifts, but I get nothing in the case of divorce.

In our wedding, I would agree to obey and sign a contract. I would lose my name. Then I would have to have sex whenever he wanted, but he would be paying for me. I get no job security and no retirement benefits.

It would be a lot like what I just left. Better clothes.

But I would be lonely. I can't imagine Mr. Zhang playing scrabble with me as we share a fun evening together. I might spend all day in the house surrounded only by housekeepers who don't speak English. They would surely take advantage of me and push me around. Maybe they would make me have sex with them; that would at least break up the boredom.

And he couldn't let me leave the house by myself, I would succumb to any strong male who wanted to have sex with me.

Do I want to sign a marriage contract to love and obey? Contracts haven't worked out well for me; I can understand Rocket's attitude now. They're just things I have to do.

And we wouldn't really have a relationship other than him using me for sex. Zhang will be the powerful businessman who owns me; I'll be the ex-prostitute. I'm also a famous author, and he'll think that's cute. But in his eyes I'll still be just a female. And I already know he goes to houses of prostitution, that probably won't change. 

I liked being with Mr. Zhang. But I didn't really like him as a person, he had that arrogance and cruelty only the rich can carry off. I would be using my youth, white skin, and vagina to get a job of wife.

I suppose I should agree. I look around. I can't imagine living here. But the loneliness decides it. Unless I have to, I'm not marrying him.

The phone rings. I'm popular. It's Mr. Samendez. He has another experience lined up for me. He already told "someone" that I'm available.

I hope that doesn't happen to me. I wouldn't have to be broken, thank God, that's already done. But I'd be guessing at a new set of rules and being punished all the time.

The phone again! "Theresa. It's Bonnie." My agent. "You have to get going on your new book! I know you wanted to do research, and I love your dedication and professionalism. But we need word count too. Looking forward to reading a revised draft!"

Theresa's supposed to work on her book. And I'm Theresa, so that means me. Finally, someone telling me what to do! I sigh in relief.

But her laptop is still inside a locked suitcase. I could find a man to solve that problem, but I can't be spending hours dressing and picking up guys every time I want something done.

Notepads and pens are in her apartment. I get them out. I sit at the desk in this apartment. And to be honest, I would have just sat there, except Bonnie told me I had to write.

I start writing. Part of writing well is being the character. Theresa never could have been this character. Just never. The character is not really me -- she's an illegal Mexican on the street with a pimp. But I can temporarily be this character. I know how she thinks, and what she fears, and what she'll do. I know how the pimp will control her, how the men will treat her, what she has to do to please them and not get punished.

The doorbell rings. I set down my writing. These are three good pages. Bonnie will be happy with me.

I open my door. It's a Chinese man.

He hasn't paid for me. That's my first thought.

There's no one to protect me. That's my second thought. So he controls me, that's my third thought. I have very powerful but contradictory feelings about that.

He says, "Amy Lewis?"

"Yes," I admit.

"I take you." He points to downstairs and tells me, "Follow."

I shake my head no. I'm too afraid.

He slaps me really hard. I should have known better. I thought I had learned better than that.

He mimes that he wants my key. I would get it for him, but he's holding my hand, so I just say, "In my purse," and point. He drags me to my purse and takes my key and my wallet and puts them in his pocket.

"Where are you taking me?" Does anyone explain anything to me this time around?

He doesn't answer. I don't think he understands much English. Maybe he just doesn't want to tell me. I'll find out when I get there.

Then he pulls me out of my apartment. I'm afraid to resist; I don't even know if I can -- slaps make me very passive. And if I fight too much he'll just slap me harder or give me a pill to knock me out. He locks my apartment, puts the key in his pocket, and walks me to his car.

He puts a blindfold over my eyes and ties it around my head. I feel something on my lips, I open my mouth, and a pill goes into my mouth and starts dissolving.

I hear the car door shutting.