Traffic

Chapter Seven

Unlike Paul, this man didn't drug Kelly as he drove to his home. Instead, he lay his hand on her thigh and didn't move it for the entire three hour drive. He declared that he had come a long way and she was well worth it.

When they arrived at his home, Kelly began counting. There were four windows that she could see on the bottom floor and only two on the top. Once inside, she was greeted by what looked like a well-kept house that had been neglected for a few weeks. She was soon shown what her part was to be. Housekeeper and, eventually, performer. He named himself her Pimp and told her to call him 'Mr. P' for short. She replied in the robotic way she had learned to use when dealing with men like Mr. P.

The first week wasn't bad for Kelly, given what she thought was going to be happening. She cooked, cleaned, and brought the house back to its neat living conditions.

Week two was when things started getting bad. Mr. P wanted to start training her to be a prostitute in the streets. He started forcing her to wear less or more provocative clothing and as she started fighting, he got angry.

"Don't you run away from me, you little bitch!" Mr. P shouted as he chased Kelly into the kitchen where she was running after he tried to take her clothes off to dress her in a new outfit he bought.

Kelly grabbed a towel to cover her bare chest when Mr. P came into the kitchen, face red from anger, "Haven't you learned by now not to cross me?!" he shouted, "I am your owner now, Kelly, and you are to do as I say, do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir!" Kelly shouted in reply.

"Good. Now, make me dinner or I'll lock you in your room for a week with no food," he threatened, grabbing the towel and hitting her with it before exiting the room, mumbling curses under his breath.

Kelly stood in the kitchen, tears threatening to fall from her eyes. She picked up the towel and held it to herself as she cried silently. She slid to the floor, silently crying and began to count in her head.

One...two...three...four...five...six...seven...eight...nine...ten...eleven...twelve...Twelve exits. Twelve ways to escape.

She then began to recall the threats she'd been given by Mr. P and feared escaping on pain of losing her life.

Three guns, two hunting knives, and a car. He has the advantage. I can't run. I can't hide. This is my life now, I just have to suck it up and deal with it and hope I don't die. What's the worst that can happen to me besides death? Starvation? Being stripped naked? There's not much worse...

After semi-convincing herself that this was the best life she could have as someone's slave, she got to work making dinner.

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