The Devil's Favorite

Do I believe in magic? I'm not entirely sure about that. But Karma is a relentless bitch and that is on par with magical in my books. Old as fuck, taking a myriad of forms across time and space… ruthlessly just. But she is fucking slow, and that is why I have decided to do her job for her. Vengeance after all is a must, and I am not a very patient person.

But there is very little one can do in the jaws of death.

It's been six days in hell, also known as Babylon- the most exclusive sex club in the country. It is a neon-streaked enclave several feet up one of the tallest commercial buildings in Sin city, elevators accessible only with a special keycard- given on the basis of membership. Access is highly-restricted.

I know.

I have tried escaping. I realized long ago that for hapless, dewy-eyed, hopeless romantics chasing the thrill of romance, entry was much easier than exit. I once was like that- naive, lovestruck, stupid- until I discovered that the man I thought was forever was a recruiter for the club, which is only one arm of a greater human trafficking syndicate. But by then, I was already made into a product for Babylon.

And the customers? The shoddiest, wealthiest people on the planet, a breed of monsters with ancestral wealth that is just too oppressive to contemplate. Nouveau-riche tech moguls, old money businessmen, crime syndicate bosses, money-grabbing politicians… people with net-worths that can lift a generation of others from poverty. Yes, those kinds of people. Yet money was not enough.

Influence made much of the difference- the distinct recognition of the fact that because of how powerful you are, there are very few spaces you could ever be denied access to, and Babylon is not one of them. If Wealth was the car, Influence was the driver. All of Babylon's customers stood at the top of the power pyramid, and they made sure of it. Because aligned interests between Babylon and high-profile customers protected the establishment for as long as possible.

And the last requirement? Code of Secrecy. Omerta.

Just like how well-meaning organizations did background checks on hopefuls for employment, every prospective member of the club was subject to the same. The coordinators of the damned establishment needed to know that you were just as bad as them, if not worse. First, to ensure that the incoming member would keep the place secret, but also, to guarantee that the prospect was not a police spy in disguise, planning a crackdown.

Lots of checks. No wonder the place is still standing.

There is also a wait list, and it is such a big deal for prospects who manage to get on it.

And why not? They've after all heard the tales of Babylon. Beyond the exquisite grandeur of glass and class, the priceless art and pristine furniture, the plush Persian rugs and over-priced drinks, Babylon is crawling with utter depravity, decadence like you have never seen, alive with the smell of drugs and sex.

Super-exclusive, super-decadent.

The products, myself inclusive, are led about the place to customers in nothing but the most interesting types of binds, straps and belts. And some days, we are clothed only by the neon lights, bodies exposed to the ravaging eyes of the beasts that populate the den. But I am the only one that seems to notice this, resent this. Every other product seems to have made peace with this… this existence.

But they couldn't have wanted this- no regular person simply stumbles on Babylon- yet the resignation is apparent in their eyes. Some of them are too high to function, dosed so much it is a wonder that they can still see three feet in front of them.

It's a beautiful night tonight, and I have refused yet again to service another moron with half a brain, and my assigned pimps are growing very impatient.

So far, to get me cooperative, they've tried starving me, and dosing me with tranquilizers. They've tried the threat of violence. And violence. Yet they don't seem to realize it: I already know I'm in hell. They can't get any scarier.

I have been beaten in ways that leave no scars- establishment policy- and still I have been uncooperative. Yet, they can't take a hint.

Kill me.

It's the only way you'll get me to do anything. Here, meaning, pass away to whatever lies beyond of my own accord, else, I will rip out my jugular before I become like one of those other women; before I do anything but give you a fucking hard time.

Kill. Me.

But they're idiots. Dunces blinded by the money my body can get them; maybe happy to get to punish me the more I resist just to see it a while longer- fantasize about what they're definitely not going to be getting. Not them. Not anyone else.

My- now- ex made a terrible mistake. The scales have fallen from my eyes and I can't see past the animal that he is. I'm definitely not giving Karma this job. He's mine.

As soon as I find a way out of this hellhole, that is.

And if I don't, and the dumb oxes in this establishment finally take a hint, I will hunt him from my grave.

The door to my prison opens as I sit in the cold, in nothing but straps for clothes. Some of the noise from the bustling club travels inside, faint bass vibrating against the walls of glass.

Beady eyes drop on me. It's some clod named Bronco. He sure looks like a bronco. He is here with another man. The sidekick drops a tray of food for me. I ignore it.

"Velvet Rose," Bronco says, hurling his burly frame forward. "That's what they call you. I am told you have very soft skin, yet a fiery tongue and sharp claws. There are whispers about our latest acquisition."

I scoff. Acquisition is a word for what you own, and I am anything but.

His scaly palm cups my face as he tilts my jaw, forcing me to stare into his eyes. "Ordinarily, I like to take my time taming pig-headed, little minxes like you, but we have a high-profile client that insisted that he would have the Velvet Rose tonight." He sneers at me as he says the title, like I gave it to myself in the fucking first place. "Now, eat. You will meet him in minutes."

"What did you put in the food?"

"Not a tranquilizer. You apparently have a strong tolerance. You resist the normal dosage, and anything above that leaves you useless; would leave anyone like that- and our clients like you all responsive."

I shut and open my eyes. "What did you put in the fucking food?"

"Something to help you; an aphrodisiac."

"I don't need it." I swallow, steeling myself for my next words. "I will serve him."

Bronco stares at me for a while, and then he breaks eye contact. The grin that comes on his face is nasty. "Well, little Miss Prissy has finally come around, hasn't she?"

I don't know about that. I just know that I will fucking enjoy this. I shouldn't disappoint a fan who's insisting on experiencing the brand of crazy that runs through my veins now, should I?