Heather by Charles Arnold

opened the door with a big key and shoved her inside. She almost fell but regained her balance. He pushed her down on the bed. The room was, she guessed, no larger than a prison cell. The mattress was thin and soiled. It smelled lightly of cheap perfume. Lobo removed the handcuffs but left the hobbling chain and cuffs secured to her ankles. “You make any move and I’m gonna beat the shit out of you,” he said placing himself between her and the door. “This was Estella’s room. She drugged out. Couldn’t dance good no more or even fuck good. We dumped her in Mexico City where she’s either whoring for drugs or dead. Sooner or later that’s what happens to most of our bitches.” He grinned down at her. “But you’re a young one, strong and full of piss. All the boys gonna be wantin’ to fuck you when you’re on the line.”
    Defiantly, she stared up at him, “It’s not going to happen,” she said. “I’m not some poor Mexican girl you took from a mountain village. I’m an American. My uncle is rich. I graduated from a fine university. I’m married.”
    Lobo chuckled, “Yeah married to a fuckin’ monkey or ape or whatever the fuck he is. About that other stuff, that makes you more fuckable. The boys gonna want a rich American college girl.” He turned toward the door, “Maria be along soon to tell you how you gonna earn your keep.” The door slammed shut and she heard the key in the lock.
    She sat on the filthy mattress and looked around. She saw a slight movement on the floor by the far wall. It was a rat. Her hands flew up to her mouth stifling a scream. The rat stared at her, then darted behind the sink. She leaned over, holding her head between her hands and sobbed for a long time. Her breasts throbbed where she had been whipped. After half an hour she heard a key in the lock and the door swung open. A short stocky Mexican woman in her fifties stood in the doorway holding a leather collar and a stainless steel length of chain. “What’s your name, bitch?” Heather turned away and said nothing.
    The woman crossed to stand in front of her. Dropping the collar and chain, she grabbed Heather by the hair forcing her to look up. Quickly she backhanded Heather leaving red imprints on both of the girl’s cheeks. “You gotta answer when I ask,” she said.
    “Heather, my name is Heather,” she stared up at the older woman defiantly.
    “I think you’re a smartass cunt who maybe needs some time in the box.” She pointed to the floor, “Pick that stuff up and buckle the collar around your neck.” Reluctantly, Heather fastened the collar around her neck and then leaned down for the chain. The woman took it and snapped it to the “D” ring in the collar. “My name is Luz,” she said, “but you call me Mistress Luz. You got that?” Heather nodded. “Say it, bitch, speak up,” the Mexican woman shouted.
    “Yes, Luz...I mean, Mistress Luz, I understand.”
    “Now we take a tour and I tell you what you got to do to earn your bread and keep from getting whipped.” She yanked on the chain pulling Heather to her feet. Heather, completely naked, followed behind the older woman down a passageway along which were cell like rooms identical to the one she was given. The passage opened into a shabby dressing room. Make up tables with mirrors lined both walls. Heather counted eight of them. Two brown skinned young women were seated next to each other, applying mascara and lipstick. They were dressed, Heather decided, like cheap whores. On the floor near them were platform shoes with what appeared to be five inch heels.
    Luz nodded to the girls who had looked up, “This the new bitch takin’ Estella’s place, number seven.”
    “She white,” the nearest girls said.
    “Yeah,” Luz smiled, “the boys be lining up for this one. Maybe you girls get a break.”“ She tugged on the leash leading Heather through the far door and down another hallway that ended with a heavy door on each side. Luz pushed