I wake up on a tile floor that smells like cake—Rachmaninoff playing in the background.
I sit up to take in my surroundings and notice him there in the corner: Curtis Jackson, 50 Cent. My captor.
The scene is familiar. This is my 14th day trapped at his estate. The food has been exquisite—and if I were being truthful, so has everything else.
A month ago, I was your average 20-something girl at a 50 Cent concert.
A month ago if you told me I'd be forced to recite the lyrics to What Up Gangsta with no mistakes or suffer 12 swats to my well sculpted ass, I'd have called you a liar, but here I am a month later...living the dream.
In two hours, I will be tied to an Egyptian cotton sheet and reamed within an inch of my life while DMX's "Where The Hood At," plays in the distance. I'll gasp and howl into the smooth ceiling of his Usonian style cabin in the woods while remembering the fateful concert that brought me here—here to 50's cabin.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Kidnapped by a Genius
Historia CortaOne moment she was in the audience watching him on stage. The next, she was in a cabin-and you'll never guess with who...
