My 3 Rockstar Bosses

We walked for what seemed like forever. Or maybe it was only forever to me because I was slung over Enzo’s shoulder, with no sense of direction, a blindfold tied over my face. But it felt like hours because there were so many twists and turns, so many changes of direction as we made our way deeper and deeper into a maze.

And finally, a door creaked open and I was dumped into a small room, my rump bouncing up and down on something soft and cushy.

“Leave her there until it’s time,” came Miles’s voice coldly. The gag was ripped out of my mouth and my blindfold removed. I opened my mouth to scream but it came too late because the door shut behind me and my frightened cry was absorbed by the walls, no one hearing or caring but me. Oh god, I was alone, still bound hand and foot, with nowhere to go, no way to get myself out.

But there had to be a way, I wasn’t giving up that easily. I’d been kidnapped by three men, sure, three gross dudes whom we’d only just met, but they were hardly geniuses, I hadn’t been impressed by their intellect when we chatted earlier today by the pool. Plus, when you’re attacked you’re supposed to fight back immediately and vigorously, otherwise the chance of getting out alive only narrows. Of course, I was already deep in the trenches of some scary kidnapping scheme, but I wasn’t giving up. I couldn’t lose hope now, so breathing deep, I tested my bonds once again. There had to be a way. This was my life at stake.

And gathering my wits, I looked around the room. It wasn’t a dungeon, unless dungeons have velvet covered walls and luxurious furniture, gilded chairs with overstuffed cushions, couches a deep maroon color that you could sink into. In fact, the loveseat that I was on now was a plush purple velvet, like a giant marshmallow, except wine-colored and poofy. There was no artwork on the walls, just a couple recessed lights and a giant flat-screen TV. Hmm, that meant there had to be cable here, some kind of electricity that I could use to my benefit.

And as I struggled with my bonds, the flatscreen came to life, flickering on with an intensity that

made me squint. Whoa. It wasn’t CNN or MSNBC on the screen. Instead, the camera zoomed onto a chamber of sorts, the lens adjusting and readjusting before finally coming into focus. There was a figure standing on a slightly raised dais, completely covered in a long, midnight-blue robe with a hood pulled down over their face. Then a spotlight flicked on, flaring bright on the shrouded form, and a woman’s voice sounded out, mild and a little bit robotic.

“Welcome,” the disembodied voice said. “Welcome to bidding on Article Twenty, our first parcel for the night. Article Twenty is twenty-two years old, from Little Rock, Arkansas. Handlers,” the voice continued, “please remove her hood.”

And I gasped because invisible hands pulled the cape from the form, and the material slid fluidly away to reveal the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. Red hair curled around a face as sweet as an angel, the glossy tresses reaching almost to her butt, and big brown eyes looked around, a little fearful, biting her lip. Oh my god, this was Article Twenty? Why didn’t they use her name? What was going on?

But the disembodied female voice continued.

“As you can see, Article Twenty is young and healthy,” the woman spoke again. “The girl stands five foot nine, measures 36-24-36, with brown eyes and red hair. Article Twenty, remove your dress please,” the voice said mildly.

The redhead inhaled again, looking around wildly with large eyes. I wondered why she didn’t run, there were no restraints on her hands and feet, although she was barefoot. But she didn’t try to run, instead quivering in place, breathing hard, eyes wide and rolling.

Suddenly the voice came on again.

“Handlers, please help Article Twenty with her clothes,” it commanded.

And two men stepped from the shadows, dressed entirely in black, their faces shrouded with hoods. With gentle hands, they began removing the girl’s dress, undoing the buttons one by one, slowly unzipping the back until the floral material fell at her feet. The girl stood, shell-shocked, still uncomprehending.

“Handlers, please strip Article Twenty completely,” the female voice sounded out once more, disconcertingly mild. “Please remove all of her clothing.”

And the handlers did as told. Black-gloved hands went to the woman’s body, unsnapping the clasp of her bra so that the cups dropped away, revealing huge, luscious tits capped with pink nipples. The black-gloved hands also tugged at the woman’s underwear, slowly slipping it down her pale thighs until the redhead was completely nude before us, eyes still wide with fright, breasts trembling, a peek of her pink slit visible as she clutched her thighs together.

Oh god, what was going on? Why was this on TV? Why didn’t someone help this poor thing, obviously she was completely freaked out, frozen with fear. How could this be happening in the modern age, anyways? Weren’t there women’s rights, all sorts of female liberation movements specifically geared so that stuff like this didn’t happen?

But events were unspooling so fast that I watched, transfixed, in my little room as the female voice continued.

“Article Twenty, turn to the right.”

The redhead managed to respond this time, turning a semi-circle to her right.

“Left now, please,” the voice continued.

And the girl turned left, as if there were viewers on her left side as well.

“All the way around now,” the voice commanded. And this time, the redhead did a three-sixty so that the camera could see all of her body, the narrow, sloping shoulders, the thin waist, the long legs and the delicate jut of her elbows. The video was so sharp, in such high resolution that I could even glimpse splatters of freckles on her chest and the tops of her arms, like sunlight kissing milk. But then the voice took a different turn.

“Article Twenty,” said that monotone. “Please turn and bend over, putting your hands on the ground.”

The girl was unmoving, looking around, shocked like a deer in headlights, unable to absorb the order.

“Handlers,” came the voice again with a tone of finality.

And this time the two handlers did more than gently remove her clothes. One grasped the redhead around her waist as the other pushed down on her back, and the redhead bent over like a feather, her long red curls dropping to the ground, a slight glimpse of pink flashing between her legs.

But the voice wasn’t done yet.

“Legs spread please.”