TouchNode | Complete

35 | Pretty Gold Cage

Why you wanna fly, blackbird? You ain't never gonna fly.

The only sound in Euphrates' palatial penthouse is the inhale and exhale of my breath. He left hours ago, still angry, and still horny. From the moment we arrived back home, he was on me. And fuck me, but I couldn't bear to tell him no.

His normally fluid gestures were shaky and ragged. He had to touch me. He had to fuck me. I could see the desperation in his eyes. I could sense his feelings of failure.

In just a few short hours he had broken his promise. It wasn't intentional and I didn't hate him for it, but I knew it bothered him just the same. So, here I stand, glaring down at the bustling city below dressed only in one of his black dress shirts.

It's silk. Soft, cool to my skin and it smells just like him. The fingers of my right hand drift across the hem, pulling at it as I think.

In my shaking left hand is the small SD card that I'd found during my time at Fidelis Ni. The tiny device feels hot to my hands, a smoking gun. I tap it a few times and bite my lower lip, wringing it with my teeth as I agonize over the same choices again.

My heart tells me to wait for Euphrates, it tells me to spill all my secrets and let him in. My brain, the rational part of me, scolds me for my dependency. Tears slide down my cheeks. I really do love him.

Fisting the card in my hand, I turn away from the window and find myself in the office Euphrates installed for me. It sits across the hall from his and provides an incredible view across the calm oceanic waves. The aqua waters lap lazily at the craggy shore, tugging and pulling like the feelings in my heart.

I sit down at the desk, running cold numb fingers across the silver bitten apple at the center of my new laptop. When opened, I'm greeted by a circular picture of a blue and white snowflake with the name Devani Voughton suspended above the password box. It takes all I have to type it in and press enter.

I force the SD card into the laptop and wait, impatiently, as it loads. A black box appears and suddenly, the desktop is filled with photos. Unease settles at the pit of my stomach, but I stand and shut the door and close the automated shades on the windows. Strangely, I feel like some sort of a spy for the CIA or MI6, clandestine.

My stomach twists into knots as the photos flicker past my eyes. They steadily become worse and worse... and worse. The victims, all holding the same cards with sunken eyes, thin limbs and horror-stricken expressions make me want to vomit.

Each one is for sale.

Each one is holding a card with their bottom price.

As I near the one-thousandth photo, the scenery changes. All of a sudden, they aren't naked, holding cards in a dark, dim cement room with lines of people huddled behind them. I click faster, watching the woman and men become healthier, happier, standing in gardens, parking lots, malls, homes...

These are beautiful people. People I've never seen before. People, that though they are on MPD's main headquarters property, have never been at an MPD party that I've attended.

Confused, I keep clicking. More and more women and men, some still happy and fully dressed, are holding flutes of champagne and laughing. There are others, featuring wild orgies. Videos... each one more unsettling than the last. By the time I reach photo number three thousand and one, I am sick again.

"Unhappy? Rematch your significant other and find that new, perfect, beautiful someone. Click here for details." I read aloud.

The sentence is framed stylishly around the bottom of a video. An attractive dark-haired, dark-eyed man wearing a three-piece suit is severely beating a woman. She's curled on the floor, trying to protect her face from his fists and feet.

For eight long minutes, she assaulted. Her body is barely encased in a translucent teddy, there are diamonds on her wrists and at her ears. The view outside is similar to my own, from a highrise apartment building deep in the cement jungle.

He grabs her by the hair, dragging her down the hall, and the camera angle shifts. Quickly, she's thrown on the bed in a bedroom and his body covers her own. She's thrashing, screaming, begging, at the top of her lungs. Lust and rage dominated his features as he takes her body with his own until he finds his own sweet release. I am unable to finish it.

My brain rebels at the thought of such an atrocity, but I am drawn to the link at the bottom of the video. Pressing it, a new page opens. It quickly verifies that I am over the age of 18 with a 'yes or no' box and I am allowed in.

A low gasp leaves me as I click through the pictures. Some of them match the happy men and women from my SD card. Except, they no longer look happy. They are beaten, sometimes badly, and pictures have been taken of them while they lay unconscious.

"Here at Seductions Corp., we believe that love can be remade with a simple click. All of our products, once purchased, can be shipped to you in less than 24 hours. For more details, please contact a representative."

I scrolled to the bottom of the page. In big bold letters, it reads, 'in connection with the famed Mad Pleasures and Debauchery, Inc.'.

Three names are listed at the bottom: Carter Mize, Ballerina Overt and a third that I had only heard through whispers - Macy Whitfield. Clicking on her name brought up a smiling picture of an attractive woman.

I had seen her before.

The day I arrived at MPD, she was the woman Carter was dragging through the house. She was the woman he had thrown on the fireplace. She was the woman who had died that day.

Slamming the laptop closed, I dash out of the room to find a bathroom. Vomit climbs my throat, forcing it's way out of my mouth in the nearest bathroom. My body is hunched over the toilet, relinquishing everything but my hopes, dreams, and nightmares.

"Devani," his voice and smell envelop me as he holds my hair for me, "I've got you. I've got you, sweetheart."

I moan, dry heaving. There's nothing left to give.

"Are you alright, love?"

He helps me up and follows me to the sink where I wash out my mouth. I'm wiping away mouthwash when our eyes meet in the mirror. Euphrates looks concerned, his hair is tousled and there's vomit on his dress shoes, but he doesn't seem to care.

"Devani," he whispers my name, "tell me what's wrong." He hesitates before wrapping his arms around my waist. "Please."

I stare at him, letting my body relax against his and utter three words. "There were three."