Trafficked Love Ch. 17 - Sex Stories

Trafficked Love Ch. 17

... to illustrate the information he was given, “I think Frank falls somewhere between here,” he pondered, pointing back and forth between ‘Roach’ and ‘Trainer.’ “So a merch.” “No,” Dante corrected. “All the information we have on him points to him being a trainer, but I think he has done some work as a roach too.” “And where’s Rich?” Dante thought a moment, then shook his head. “He’s not on here.” “What do you mean, Aaron?” “I mean he’s not on here. He makes more money than a tennis shoe pimp, and he has multiple girls. None of which are on drugs. He’s got rules, morals.” John held up his hand, interrupting Dante “a pimp has morals,” he said sarcastically. “Yeah, he does,” Dante sounded a bit annoyed, but went on to explain, “he’s also not a player. He doesn’t work for anyone. He’s in it for him, but he’s not as high as the macks. He’s got money, but not that kind of money. No one works under him either.” “So what is he then?” Dante shrugged, “he’s just a pimp.” +-+-+ Dante had seemed surprised that Angel opened up to him, that she gave him insight in the life. He had just sat there quietly taking it all in. No doubt he was confused why she told him all that. But it made sense to Angel. She was sick. Sick of the life, sick of the culture, and the danger, and the fear. She was sick of the pain, and the numbness. She was sick of giving herself, of having everything taken from her. And she was sick of watching more and more girls come into the life, and never leave it. No one ...

... ever left the life, and it made her sick. And on top of it all, she couldn’t get the damn images out of her head. They were haunting her, flooding her thoughts, replaying like a black and white silent movie, on loop. Over and over again. Bishop had showed her photos. Photos he kept in his wallet along side of those of his kids. Angel almost didn’t recognize the girl, her body thin, pale, and purple with deep, dark bruises. She was naked, and every bone in her body was visible. Her eyes were dead, her hair matted with blood, dirt, and Angel didn’t want to think of what else. The girl’s body was limp, lifeless, and contorted in a gruesome pose. Those photos, the images, she couldn’t get out of her head. Photos of Emily, the poor underage girl Angel had practically doomed by allowing Rich to ship her off to first Frank, then to who knows where. She hadn’t seen the girl since the day Rich sold her, right after they came home from the motel. She hadn’t seen the girl, until Bishop showed her the photos. “Isn’t she beautiful? Like a doll,” Bishop had remarked. He assured Angel that the girl was alive, but she could tell it was barely. He wanted to tame her, to shock her so bad she would simply submit to protect either herself from becoming the image in the photos, or to protect the girl already in them from becoming a body in the ground. But Bishop didn’t know his plan had backfired. Instead of taming the fire within Angel, the photos only fueled it. Yes, there was a hierarchy in the ...