Page 45 of Omega

You want to talk about uncomfortable? Jesus. I’ve now got mad respect for those crazy druggie bitches who smuggle bags of coke up their shit, that’s for sure.

I walked funny on the way back to my cell, but Yuri didn’t notice. Or if he did, he didn’t think anything of it.

The strangest part was, the length of the pen made me think about the various guys I’d been with, and how they measured up to my new boyfriend, Mr. Papermate. A few did not measure up so well. Others…well, that’s a different kind of walking funny. But then, as we all know, it’s not the size of the cock that’s important when it comes right down to it; it’s how well he uses it. Girth can be pretty important, but foreplay trumps everything.

Mr. Papermate didn’t really do it for me, but at least I now had a weapon.

Once I was returned to my cell my first instinct was to take it out, but then I got to thinking. I knew I was gonna need it at some point, but not when that would be. Probably not on the boat—that would be a waste. I’d probably need it when we got where we were going, wherever that was. Or maybe when Harris showed up I could help him effect my escape by stabbing some of these assholes in the throat with Mr. Papermate the Pussy Pen? That seemed like a more likely scenario.

So in it stayed. I really didn’t like the idea of having a foreign object up there for any longer than I had to because that was just begging for an infection, but I’d take the fiery agony of a vaginal infection over being raped and killed any day of the week. I mean, I’d really rather not have either, but no one was asking me what I wanted.

And the sensation also gave me something else to think about, and at that point in my boredom, something to think about was welcome, even if it was strange to have a ballpoint pen lodged up my cooter.

* * *

Eventually we stopped, but I had no clue as to how much time had passed. I had no way to measure that. Days? Weeks? I was fed on a regular schedule, but with no point of reference, it could have been once a day or three times a day…When you’re in a black hole, shit gets relative real fucking fast. And by relative, I mean you go batshit, arm-flapping, hoot-like-an-owl crazy. Or at least, I did.

When Yuri opened the door and gestured for me to come out, I literally crawled out on my hands and knees, blinking, hissing, and generally acting like a looney toon.

“Stand up, stupid.” He grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. “Crazy fucking American. You only been in there three days.”

I stood up and brushed my knees off, unconsciously keeping them pressed together. The pen wasn’t in danger of falling out, because let’s be honest, I keep my shit tighter than a drum. Kegels, bitches. Flex those PCs. I’m like a goddamn body builder, but for my pubococcygeus muscle. But still, one worries, in this situation. As one would.

He led me back up to the deck of the boat, which was now swarming with activity. Men were scrambling everywhere, shirtless, sweaty, and cursing as they hauled crate after crate out of the hold and onto a platform suspended from a crane-arm, which would then swing it across from the boat to a shipping container. Each crate had ‘VK’ emblazoned on the side in huge black-painted letters. They all looked heavy, since each one required two men to lift it, although there was one really huge motherfucker with arms the size of my waist hauling them around one in each hand like bags of groceries. As Yuri led me across the deck, all work stopped.

Eyes were fixed on me.

Lips curled up in lecherous grins. Wrists wiped at sweaty brows.

I focused on Yuri’s back, ignored the stares, and made sure I was walking as normally as possible. Under other circumstances, I’d have relished the amount of male attention I was getting. I’d probably have swayed my hips a bit, put some bounce in my step, maybe winked and flirted.

This wasn’t a typical situation, and I was pretty sure I wouldn’t enjoy the kind of attention those particular men had in mind.

So I kept my eyes straight forward and hustled after Yuri. Of course, the shirt that was my only article of clothing was ripped open, leaving my back bare from neck to ass and, as I’ve mentioned, my choice in undergarments left my buttocks bare as the day I was born. So those big sweaty gorillas all got a free show anyway.

Good thing I worked hard to keep my ass nice and round and firm, huh?

Thank god this time there was a ramp leading from the deck down to the dock. I followed Yuri off the boat. Looking around, I realized we were in a very urban port, but I had no idea where. We walked past mammoth shipping containers stacked three and four high, forming a maze that blocked out the sun as we passed between them. The ground underfoot was damp industrial concrete, a rainbow sheen here and there from leaking oil. I heard a diesel rumble somewhere to my left, shouts, the beeping of a machine of some kind backing up, and then a container high above our heads slid away.

“Where are we?” I couldn’t help asking.

“Caracas,” Yuri grumbled.

“Ca-who-what?”

“Caracas. Venezuela.”

“What’s in the containers?”

“Business for big boss.” A shrug.

“Drugs, you mean?”

“Not only drugs. Guns also. Cars. People.”

I stumbled. “People?”

“Prostitutes. Brides. Slaves.”