The Fate of Kemuel 16

The next morning, David wakes you up by shaking you.

"Get up. Shower and dress. We have to go back."

You open your eyes, feeling your entire body aching. Every muscle hurts. Between your legs, you feel the burning sensation of having been penetrated repeatedly for hours. You get up slowly, dragging your feet to the bathroom. You step into the shower and let the warm water fall on you as you lean your forehead against the cold tiles.

You don't want to leave. You don't want to go back to that club. You don't want more men to touch you, penetrate you, use you like an object. But you have no choice. The collar is still around your neck. David has absolute control.

You get out of the shower and dry yourself slowly. David has left clothes ready for you: another tight dress, this time black, even shorter than the previous one. Black lace underwear. High black heels. You dress mechanically, without thinking, with the automatic movements of someone who no longer has their own will.

You put on makeup in front of the mirror. You look at yourself. You recognize your face, but you no longer recognize yourself. Who is that woman in the mirror? Where is Kemuel? What has happened to your life?

David enters the bedroom and looks you up and down.

"Perfect. Let's go."

You go down to the lobby with him. The same car is waiting for you. The driver takes you back to the Red Lotus Club. During the entire trip, you stare out the window, watching the streets of Bangkok pass by, the normal life of normal people, people who are not trapped, people who can decide what to do with their lives.

When you arrive at the club, Somchai is waiting for you in the VIP area with a wide smile.

"Welcome back. Today we have many reservations. Twenty confirmed clients. It will be a very profitable night."

David nods, satisfied. Somchai makes a gesture, and the same young man from yesterday grabs your arm. You try to resist, pulling your arm back, but he is stronger. He drags you back down the hallway to VIP room three. He pushes you inside and locks the door.

You stand in the middle of the room, trembling. You don't want to be here. You don't want to do this. But you have no option. The collar vibrates menacingly, reminding you that any disobedience means pain.

The door opens. The first client enters: an Arab man, about fifty years old, with a black beard, dressed in a traditional white tunic. He looks at you with cold eyes, evaluating you like a product.

"Undress."

He speaks in English with a marked accent. You don't move. You don't want to obey him. The collar vibrates more strongly. The pain starts to rise up your neck. You close your eyes and start to take off your dress with trembling hands.

Another night passes like this. Client after client. One after another. They all use you. None of them ask if you want to. None of them stop when they see...