Hot water washes away two weeks of warehouse grime, but not the feeling of being merchandise with a price tag. I stand under Irina's shower spray, letting steam rise around me while trying to process how I ended up as a quarter-million-dollar sex slave to a Russian camgirl in what's clearly some parallel universe.
"Five more minutes!" Irina calls through the bathroom door.
Her master bathroom is nicer than anything in the soccer warehouse, with actual water pressure and soap that doesn't smell like industrial cleaner. The shower itself is connected to her bedroom, a fact she's made clear is significant by how many times she's mentioned this is a "one-time only" situation.
I run my fingers through my wet hair, savoring the sensation of being properly clean for the first time since my kidnapping. The soccer uniform they made me wear at the warehouse smelled like desperation and failure, especially after my final disastrous match today. I half expected Irina to make me keep wearing it as some kind of power move.
Instead, she handed me a stack of fresh clothes and pointed me toward her personal shower. "Just this once," she'd said firmly. "Don't get used to it."
I shut off the water and grab one of the fluffy towels hanging nearby. As I dry off, I catch my reflection in the mirror above the sink. Same brown hair, same brown eyes, but there's something hollow in my expression now.
The clothes Irina provided are simple but clean, gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. They fit surprisingly well.
When I open the bathroom door, Irina is standing there with her arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe of her bedroom.
"Feel better?" she asks, her accent making the question sound more like an accusation.
"Yeah," I nod, suddenly self-conscious. "Thanks for... you know, letting me use your shower."
"Don't mention it," she says, waving her hand dismissively. "Seriously, don't. This was a one-time courtesy because you smelled like a locker room."
I run a hand through my damp hair. "Got it. No more fancy showers for the merchandise."
She stares at me for a long moment, her gray eyes narrowing slightly. "You're funny," she says finally, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Also, don't get used to being up here without the collar on."
"Got it," I nod, suddenly very aware of my uncollared neck. Freedom, even this small taste of it, feels strange after weeks of captivity.
"Come on," she says, turning away and gesturing for me to follow.
I trail behind her through the hallway to a heavy wooden door I hadn't noticed before. The door has three separate locks, deadbolts, key locks, and what looks like an electronic keypad. Irina pulls out a ring of keys and starts working through them methodically.
I let out a long, exaggerated sigh as she turns each lock, the process taking forever.
As the final lock clicks open and she swings the door wide.
Irina chuckles, clearly amused by my reaction. "Welcome home," she says, flipping a switch that illuminates a staircase leading down.
I follow her down the steps, my bare feet cold against the concrete. At the bottom, she hits another switch, and fluorescent lights flicker to life, revealing a surprisingly large basement. Most of it is unfinished, exposed beams, concrete floor, the works, but one corner catches my attention immediately.
There's a bedroom setup that just ends. Like someone built three-quarters of a room and then gave up. A queen-sized bed with clean plain sheets sits against one wall, a small nightstand beside it. But there are no walls separating it from the rest of the basement, it just stops abruptly, furniture arranged in a room-shaped configuration in the open space.
Next to this pseudo-bedroom stands a professional-looking tripod.
"That's where I'll put the camera," Irina explains, pointing to the tripod. "And that's your bedroom, as well as where we work."
"Alright," I say, trying to sound casual about the fact that my living quarters are essentially a film set.
She points toward another corner. "Bathroom," she says simply.
I look over to see a toilet and stand-up shower, both surprisingly decent-looking despite being out in the open basement.
"Don't you dare fucking clog those or I will beat you," she warns, her tone making it crystal clear this isn't an idle threat.
"Okay," I nod quickly. "Is there hot water?"
"Yes," she confirms. "There's also a TV in the bedroom area, off-camera. That's for when you've got nothing to do."
I glance back at the bed setup and notice a flat-screen mounted on the wall I hadn't noticed.
"Here's how things will work," Irina says, moving to stand in front of me. "You'll get three meals a day, delivered downstairs. Nothing fancy, but nutritious enough to keep you performing."
She crosses her arms, her gray eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that makes me want to look away. But I force myself to hold her gaze.
"If you perform well during our sessions, I'll reward you. Extra food, maybe some beer, whatever." She shrugs. "If you perform poorly..." Her voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "I'll withhold meals. Simple as that."
I swallow hard, nodding. "Alright." What else can I say? It's not like I have bargaining power here.
"One more thing," she continues, her finger jabbing toward my neck. "Anytime I take you upstairs, the collar goes back on. No exceptions."
"Okay," I mumble.
Irina studies me for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she reaches out and pats my cheek, the gesture somewhere between affectionate and condescending.
"Good boy," she says. "You're much more agreeable than my last one. Maybe you'll last longer."
Her hand feels cool against my cheek, and something inside me breaks. The walls I've built around my emotions since the kidnapping suddenly crumble. I've been running on pure survival instinct for weeks, but now that I'm here, in this basement that's supposed to be my new "home," the full weight of everything crashes down on me.
My chest tightens and my vision blurs as tears well up in my eyes. At the soccer camp, the constant physical exhaustion kept my mind occupied. There was no time to think about how fucked up my situation was when I was constantly playing matches. But now, in this quiet basement with nothing but time ahead of me, reality hits like a freight train.
"What's happening?" Irina asks, her hand still on my cheek. "Are you having a panic attack?"
I try to shake my head, but my body won't cooperate. "No," I gasp, struggling to breathe properly.
Her expression shifts from confusion to something that might almost be concern. "You'll get through it. Just breathe."
"Yeah," I manage to say, focusing on drawing air into my lungs. My hands are shaking, and I can't seem to make them stop.
Irina furrows her brow, studying me with those penetrating gray eyes. "You really are going to make this easy for me, aren't you?" she asks, sounding almost suspicious of my compliance.
I wipe at my eyes with the back of my hand. "I just don't want to get beaten," I admit. "I saw what the guards did at the facility. Women who messed up lost teeth, got bones broken, then got thrown out." My voice cracks on the last words. "I'm not stupid. I know what happens to people who don't cooperate."
The memory of a particularly brutal beating I witnessed flashes through my mind, a woman who'd tried to escape, dragged back bloody and screaming. The next day, she was gone. No one mentioned her again.
Survival is the most important thing here. I need to stay alive, to find a way out eventually. But first, I need to not get killed or maimed.
Irina cups my face with both hands now, tilting my head up to meet her gaze. A smile spreads across her face, more genuine than any I've seen from her so far. "That's good, Matthew," she says, her thumbs wiping away the moisture from my cheeks. "Very good. Now, you said you were a virgin, right?"
My face heats up immediately. "Yeah," I confirm, embarrassment momentarily overshadowing my fear.
Irina's eyes glint in the basement's fluorescent light, a predatory smile spreading across her face. "Well," she says, her accent thickening as her voice drops to a sultry purr, "we're going to need practice, aren't we?"