By: Tara Crescent

Oba is the Yoruba word for king. I’ve learned that much in my time in Abeokuta. It is a title of respect. But since the three Nigerian men in the room want something from Dylan McAllister, perhaps the title is just surface politeness.

“Yes,” my Master says carelessly. He looks at me. “Get naked.” I obey silently and without hesitation. My Master is quite capable of giving me to these men to teach me a lesson about obedience. “This is the girl,” he says to the men. “She’s not a virgin of course, but she’s quite well trained.”

They all laugh. “Your training methods are very effective, Oba,” one of them compliments my Master. Sycophant.

The men circle me. Their hands come out and pinch my breasts and my bottom. Rough fingers invade my pussy, checking to see how tight I am. Another finger pokes into my unlubricated bottom and tears fill my eyes. I blink them away furiously. I must be brave. I must watch for every opportunity to escape.

“Is there anyone looking for her, Oba? Family?” one of them asks.

My Master shrugs carelessly. “Her mother died a couple of months after I brought her here,” he says dismissively. “Drunk driving accident. No other relatives. No one is looking for her.”

My heart stills and I cry out inwardly in anguish. The barest whisper of sound escapes my mouth. I know that I must control myself around Dylan. He hears me though and shoots me an impassive look. “Do I need to remind you of what I expect from you, cunt?” he asks me coldly.

I kneel immediately and rest my forehead on the floor. “This unworthy cunt begs forgiveness, Master,” I whisper. My mind is tearing apart with sorrow. My mother, imperfect as she was, was all I had. And now she’s dead. She’s been dead for two years and though he knew the entire time, Dylan never saw fit to tell me.

Once again I repeat my promise to myself. It is the only thing I can do. The only way I can endure. One day, I will hold up a gun to Dylan McAllister’s face. One day, I will kill him. One day, I will have my revenge for every bit of cruelty and pain.

The men are watching this little exchange with fascination. “She’ll do,” they say finally. “How much?”

The haggling begins and I stay prostate on the floor, doing my best to both pay attention to what I need to know and to repress my fear. I shiver slightly at the fate in store for me. I’m about to be sold to a brothel in Lagos. My pain tolerance – learned through many repeated applications of the cane, the whip and the riding crop, is a bonus for which the men are willing to pay extra. Their clients like to beat up their whores. My ability to withstand my beatings will be useful.

I struggle to keep my emotions flat. In my head, I chant the speech that will be the last words Dylan McAllister will hear before I kill him. “Remember me?” I will ask. “My name is not slave. Not girl, not cunt. My name is Ellie Samuelson. And you are not my Master.” Then I will pull the trigger and Dylan McAllister will die at my hands.

The price has been determined. I’m allowed to pack the few clothes I own into a suitcase under the watchful gaze of Sam Green. I’ve already hidden the money Mrs. Olusola has given me, all fifteen thousand nairas, in the hem of my dress. A dangerous chance to take but I have no choice.


Today is my twentieth birthday and I’ve been sold to a brothel owner. I am to live out the next few years of my life as a whore until my body is no longer an object of desire.


Today – I will escape or I will die trying.

Chapter 1

Ellie / Jenny:

It was frighteningly easy to buy a human being. There were many options for those who were interested, in parts of the world where the arm of the law wasn’t long and could be easily distracted by a well-placed bribe. If you knew the right people, you would be allowed admittance to a slave auction in some remote destination. There you could sit among other men, smoke your cigars and sip your scotch, while young girls who had been unwillingly torn from their families were paraded in front of you. You would be allowed to look and even touch these girls. Grope a nubile breast, stick your fingers between their untried legs. You could find yourself aroused by the terror in their eyes.

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