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Sold!
Sold!
Sold!
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Sold!

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On his first Peace Corps mission to Africa, Winston Martsolf is captured by gunmen working for slavers. In captivity, he is sexually nullified and sold on the auction block and eventually becomes the sex slave of an oil sheikh. After two years in captivity he still dreams of escape, wondering if his boyfriend Clancey will still want him after all he’s been through.

Due to a freak storm, the sailboat on which he was being held by his owner is damaged, and Winston is eventually rescued. He is overjoyed to learn that Clancey still wants him, despite what’s been done to him, and they settle down to live their lives while waiting for those responsible to be brought to justice.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherEtienne
Release dateMay 30, 2012
ISBN9781476014968
Sold!
Author

Etienne

Etienne lives in central Florida, very near the hamlet in which he grew up. He always wanted to write but didn't find his muse until a few years ago, when he started posting stories online. These days he spends most of his time battling with her, as she is a capricious bitch who, when she isn't hiding from him, often rides him mercilessly, digging her spurs into his sides and forcing the flow of words from a trickle to a flood.

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  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
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    There could have been a story there. But the characters are all so wooden and irrational, and the dialogue so stilted and improbable, that it is really hard to get into.
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    Extremely encaptivating. You don't want to stop reading until you know the final outcome.

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Sold! - Etienne

Copyright © 2012, 2015, 2020 by Etienne

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Wherever possible, the syntax and spelling in this book follows guidelines set forth in The Chicago Manual of Style, 14th Edition, and in the Merriam-Webster online dictionary.

Cover Art © by Caris Lester

Acknowledgments

A great many people have helped make this story what it is today, including several beta readers who pointed out inconsistencies and asked all the right questions. My thanks to all of you.

When I decided to use Italian titles and forms of address, I quickly realized that all I knew about Italian came from years of listening to Italian opera, so I posted an appeal on my blog for a volunteer. An expatriate Italian who now lives in London answered that appeal and agreed to not only beta read the story but to set me straight on all things Italian. Thank you, Silvano Stagni. Any shred of authenticity this story has is due largely to your advice and guidance.

I must also thank my patient and long-suffering editor Jim Kennedy, who has guided me through the morass of commas and other punctuation errors and, made any number of helpful suggestions along the way.

Credit is also due to a retired doctor and a not-quite-retired nurse who served as beta readers in addition to critiquing all things medical in this book. Thank you, Bill and Ben.

Then there is my partner of nearly twenty years, who is also my best and most thorough critic.

Thank you again, one and all.

Etienne

Dedication

To Marco and Dani - wherever you are.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

About the author

Contact the author

Other books by Etienne

Sold!

(A Tale From the Forever Files)

Revised edition

Etienne

Chapter 1

Somewhere in East Africa

Winston

I WAS DREAMING ‘the’ dream once again—it was always the same dream, the one which began in the recent past, quickly segued into a nightmare, and then began again in some sort of perverse continuous loop.

Clancey and I had joined the Peace Corps the day after we’d graduated from Rollins College. Roommates through five years of prep school and four years of college, we’d been a committed couple for the last six of those years. I’d joined the Peace Corps fresh out of college to get away from my family in general and my father in particular, and Clancey had joined because wherever I went, Clancey followed. He hadn’t even tried to talk me out of it, although by then we’d been together, in every sense of the word, for a third of our lives, and I knew him well enough to know that he’d really wanted to do just that; but good old Clancey, when I’d told him what I wanted to do, and why, he’d simply said, Okay, where do I sign? Anyone who saw us together for the first time got the impression that we were a sort of mismatched pair—Clancey is a bit over six feet tall, and had a lean but very muscular body; whereas I was a couple of inches shorter and my body, while also a bit on the lean side, was somewhat less muscular, and more compact. We’d finished our training with flying colors, and were currently en route to our first assignment in a remote village in Somalia, whose name I could barely remember and still couldn’t pronounce correctly, let alone spell, to join a project that had been underway for the past six months. I looked around at my fellow volunteers, all of whom were sitting on rough benches in the back of an open truck, our only protection from the relentless sun and constant road dust being a canvas top and sides stretched over a thin metal frame. Sort of like a Conestoga wagon, I thought, and probably just as uncomfortable, not to mention dusty and smelly. Unfortunately, while the canvas cover on the truck protected us from much of the dust and all of the direct sunlight, it also concentrated the stifling heat. Which is why most of us were suffering in varying degrees from the heat and humidity.

Besides Clancey and myself, our group consisted of Andrew Stevens, who was as tall as Clancey and appeared to be blond like me, although I’d learned otherwise when I’d walked in on him in our communal shower one evening; Jacob Sanders, an intense young man with black hair; Franklin Morris, a red-haired freckled farm boy from Georgia; and finally, Josh.

Josh Roberts, a six foot blond from Wyoming and by far the most vocal of the group, had carried on a nonstop diatribe about the heat, humidity, and insects in particular, and Africa in general, from the moment the truck had pulled out of the airport parking lot. I was getting sick and tired of it, so I finally said, Josh, why are you here?

"What do you mean?"

"You never stop complaining about Africa and everything in it—if you dislike it that much, why are you here?"

"Yeah, things aren’t that bad," Clancey said.

"Easy for you guys to say, Josh said, being from a place where they have this kind of weather."

"Yeah, Clancey said, we’re more or less used to dealing with heat—and humidity."

"That’s true, I said, but in Florida we stay inside where it’s air conditioned during the summer."

"Unless we’re at the beach," Clancey said.

"Or water skiing on a lake," I said.

"Just shut the fuck up, Josh said. Shut the fuck up—both of you."

"We will if you will," Clancey said.

Before anyone could say anything else, the truck slammed on its brakes without warning, and all six of us were thrown together in a heap against the back of the cab. While we were sorting ourselves out, I heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire, and Josh, who was closest to the window in the back of the truck’s cab, peered through it in the direction of the sounds.

"Shit, he said, and he ducked down out of sight below the window. There’s a bunch of guys with guns, and they’re blocking the road. What do we do now?"

"Run for it?" Jacob said.

"And get shot in the back? Josh said. I don’t think so. Maybe we should just wait and see what happens."

I was still mulling over his last statement when the tailgate of the truck was abruptly opened, and three natives carrying automatic weapons climbed into the back of the truck with us. One of them said, in broken English, Out of truck now! He fired a burst of shots into the air for emphasis, shredding most of the canvas roof in the process.

Clancey, who was closest to the gunman, started to get up, but was shoved back onto the bench where he was sitting. Not you, the guy said. Only men with white hair—you, you, and you with white hair, stand up. He pointed at me, then Andrew, and finally, Josh.

We stood up, and Josh said, My hair isn’t white.

One of the gunmen stuck a gun in my chest while the other grabbed me by the jaw, twisted my head from side to side, and inspected my face closely before repeating the process with both Josh and Andrew. Josh was still protesting when the guy with the gun said, No talk. Out of truck. Now! To emphasize the command, he pointed his gun at what was left of the canvas roof and finished the job of shredding it to bits with another burst of gunfire. I climbed out of the truck, followed closely by Josh and Andrew, and we were immediately confronted by more men carrying really ugly looking weapons. Before I could gather my wits about me, a hood was thrown over my head and I felt myself being tied, hand and foot—then I felt something sharp prick my skin, and the world went black.

When I came to, I heard and felt sounds and motions that told me that I was lying in the bed of a truck that was bouncing rapidly over some very rough terrain. There was a warm body next to me, and I tried to sit up.

That didn’t work, and I heard Josh say, Is that you, Winston?

"Yeah."

"We’re handcuffed and chained together."

"You mean, like prisoners?" I said.

"Exactly."

"How do you know we’re handcuffed?"

"Because I know what it feels like to have handcuffs on my wrists."

"Really!"

"Don’t be sarcastic. I’ve never been arrested or anything, but I had a girlfriend a couple of years ago who was into bondage and discipline—specifically mine."

"No shit!"

"That about sums it up—then as now."

"No talking," a rough male voice said, emphasizing the order with a kick to my butt.

Time passed, and the truck eventually came to a halt with a squeal of brakes. We were pulled from the truck and led somewhere, stumbling along blindly and prodded by what felt like gun barrels in our backs. We came to a halt eventually, and I felt the restraints being removed from my hands and legs, then the hood was jerked away from my head. I blinked a few times to accustom my eyes to the bright overhead lights, then looked around, and saw that we were in a small windowless room with whitewashed walls. Sensing motion out of the corner of my eye, I looked in that direction and saw that the only door in the room was heavily guarded. Is that a closed circuit television camera above it? I wondered. Standing in front of the door, holding really ugly looking guns, were two extremely large men.

Before I could take all of this in fully, a voice boomed over a loudspeaker, Now, gentlemen, it’s time to get down to business. Each of you will remove his clothing immediately.

I started to comply, and so did Andrew, but Josh, being Josh, began to protest. He’d just begun to spout a litany of complaints, beginning with the fact that he was a US Citizen, and demanding somewhat indignantly to see the local Consul, when one of the guards walked over to where he was standing and quite expertly decked him.

"I guess we need to teach you a lesson, don’t we, Mr. Roberts?" the voice over the loudspeaker said, followed by a rapid string of words in a foreign language.

One of the giants leveled his gun at us, while the other one went over to Josh and proceeded to literally rip his clothes off. Andrew was already naked by then, and I was down to my boxers when the giant picked the now naked Josh up effortlessly, bent him over a small table, dropped his own trousers, and without benefit of any lubricant other than his own saliva, roughly sodomized Josh. It all happened very quickly, and I stood in stunned disbelief, more or less frozen in place, until I heard the voice say, Unless you want to share your friend’s fate, Mr. Martsolf, I’d suggest that you finish undressing. Now!

The last word came through the speakers as a barked order, and I hastened to comply. I don’t know which shocked and surprised me more—the brutal rape I’d just witnessed, or the fact that our captors knew our names. I stood there naked, arms dangling helplessly at my sides, not knowing what to do next. Then I glanced in Josh’s direction and noted that he’d managed to stand upright, was struggling to maintain his composure, and appeared to be on the verge of tears.

I wanted to say something to Josh, but the opening of the door distracted me. Looking in that direction, I saw a man with a somewhat swarthy complexion wearing a long white robe of the type that I knew from my studies was called a thwab in Saudi Arabia and other countries—he was also wearing a headdress known as a ghutra, complete with a coil of black rope called an igal around the crown of the headdress. A pair of dark sunglasses completed his ensemble.

"Who the fuck are you?" Josh said, more than a little belligerently.

"Your new owner."

"The hell you say."

To that the man said, Ammar, Mr. Roberts needs another lesson in manners.

"Yes, boss," the other guard said, and proceeded to duplicate his counterpart’s earlier rape of Josh. When he was finished, he pulled Josh to his feet, nodded in his boss’ direction, and resumed his post at the door.

"Any questions?" our captor said.

"I have two questions, if you please," I said.

"Ask them politely, and I will answer them if I can."

"How did you know our names, and what’s going to happen to us?"

"Two very intelligent questions indeed, he said, and quite worthy of someone with an expensive prep school education. I know your names, because I know the names of every young and idealistic fool your country sends to this miserable part of the world. As for what will happen to you, it is quite simple. You and Mr. Roberts are real blonds, as your bodies reveal, and blonds are highly prized in this part of the world. Despite Islam’s disdain for homosexuality in general, and sodomy in particular, certain wealthy men in Muslim countries take great pleasure in mounting blond Caucasian men, even as my guards have just used Mr. Roberts. You will eventually be taken to the slave market and sold to the highest bidder, but not until your bodies have undergone a certain, shall we say, transformation, and you’ve had a bit of training."

"Transformation?" Josh said.

"Yes, transformation. Those Arab princes like to mount men, but they don’t like to be reminded of the fact that their slaves are male, so your bodies will be sexually nullified, and you will receive some laser treatments which will retard or totally eliminate the growth of body hair."

"Does ‘sexually nullified’ mean what I think it does?" I said.

"If you think it means that your external genitalia will be removed, yes. It will be somewhat harder for Mr. Roberts to learn to please a man than it will you, Mr. Martsolf, given what I know of your sexual proclivities."

"You seem to know a great deal about me," I said.

"I know all there is to know about you."

"What happened to our friends on the truck?"

"They weren’t harmed, and with any luck they might even have managed to drive the truck to their original destination by now—provided the driver didn’t take the keys with him when he fled."

"What about me?" Andrew said.

"You’re not a real blond, Mr. Stevens, so you will be sold as a household slave just as soon as you’ve been gelded."

Before the enormity of what he’d just told us could totally register, he snapped his fingers and two more men entered the room. One of them held Josh tightly while the other jabbed a hypodermic needle into his naked butt. Josh went limp in the arms of his captor and was lowered to the floor. Then he grabbed me, I felt the sting of a needle, and the world again went black.

Chapter 2

In the Greek Isles

Marco

THERE WERE ONLY a few days left of our two-week vacation on the Greek island owned by the Aragoni Group, and Dani and I were planning to spend two or three of them on the Serafina, a small yacht named in honor of the birth name of Father’s bride. To that end, we were gathering up the few items of clothing and personal gear we were going to take with us that morning, when the doorbell rang. The first thing Dani and I had done when we’d arrived at the villa was to send the staff on holiday, so we could have the house to ourselves—which is why I said, I’ll get it.

At the door, I found Stavros Petridis, Captain of the Serafina, waiting patiently, and I said, Good morning, Stavros, please come in. Can I offer you something to drink?

"I can’t stay, Conte Marco. I just came to tell you the bad news in person."

What bad news? And I wish I could persuade you to call me Marco, at least in private. We are, after all, related.

Very distantly related, and it wouldn’t be appropriate.

We had, in fact, had this same conversation half a dozen times over the past two weeks, but I don’t give up easily. During the years Dani and I had lived in Aragoni, it had become clear to me that there was a sort of pecking order among Father’s many descendants. Those who were distantly descended from him seemed to have a special regard for Father’s many sons. The fact that I’d inherited the title of il Conte di Conti when my mother’s brother had driven off a cliff with his two children in the car had only made me stand out even more.

What bad news? I said.

There’s a huge storm coming in from the Mediterranean, and all vessels in port will be obliged to stay there.

For how long?

The better part of two days.

Well then, it’s best to play it safe, I said. Let me know when the weather is favorable.

To be sure, he said, then he touched the brim of his cap and left. I secured the door and went back to the master suite where Dani was waiting.

Who was that? he said.

Stavros. He told me there’s a bad storm coming, so we can’t take the yacht out for a couple of days.

Oh, goody, we can get naked again. He immediately started undressing, which was fine with me as I never tired of looking at his body. He was short and compact like me, but with wide shoulders that emphasized his narrow hips, and his black hair complemented his Mediterranean complexion perfectly.

Naturally, I began to undress as well. With the staff gone, we’d spent most of our time in the house naked, either using the pool, lying in the sun, or taking advantage of the huge bed in the master suite. Naked, except when I asked Dani to wear a pair of boxer briefs that clung to his perfect ass, so that I could later pull them off with my teeth. In fact, the only times we were dressed was when we’d gone hiking or biking around the island, so Dani could make good use of his favorite gadget, his ever-present video camera. He took me by the hand and said, Let’s go out to the terrace and do it in the full light of day.

Works for me.

Later, as we lay facedown on chaise lounges soaking up what little sun there was coming through the clouds, Dani said, Do you think we’ll ever get tired of making love with each other?

God, I hope not. On second thought, it isn’t very likely, given that after more than eighteen years we’re still going strong.

Yeah, he said, and reached over to take my hand. I guess what they say is true.

What’s that?

You can’t wear it out, no matter how hard you try.

It’s twoo, it’s twoo. I think I need to cool off in the pool for a bit. Join me?

Without waiting for a reply, I stood. He followed suit, and I took his hand and led him to the pool. A minute later we were treading water.

Too bad this pool isn’t long enough to do some serious lap swimming, he said.

That’s okay, babe, we’re getting plenty of exercise, what with walking and biking all over the island. And that doesn’t count all the sex.

Yeah. How long has the duke owned the island, do you know?

I have no idea. Hundreds of years probably, but that’s just a guess. My father, il Duca d’Aragoni, had been born in the early years of the Roman Republic and was approximately twenty-four hundred years old.

Nice of him to let other members of his family use the villa, Dani said, even if he has transferred ownership to the family business.

Did I ever tell you what Trevor said when Father had that brain-dead patient flown all the way from South Africa when you needed a kidney transplant?

I don’t think so. What did your cousin Trevor say?

"I had just told Trevor and his father that DNA testing had proved that the guy was closely related to them, and how he came to be in Aragoni, and Trevor said, ‘There’s no limit to what Grandfather will do when it comes to taking care of his family, is there?’, or words to that effect.

My brother Stefano, who was present at the time, said something like, ‘Father has taken care of his family many times over the years.’"

I guess Stefano would know, wouldn’t he? Isn’t he the Duke’s oldest surviving son?

I think so. There are so many of them, I can’t keep track, but I believe he was born just before Rome fell, give or take a hundred years or so.

All of Father’s male descendants shared his unique genes—and his longevity—but only his sons and their sons in a direct line. His female descendants lived quite a few years longer than ordinary humans, but they didn’t have all of the genes, and therefore couldn’t pass them on. That, of course, had changed with his marriage to Angelina, whose female forebears were as long-lived as the males in our family.

Why haven’t we taken advantage of the island before now? he said.

As it happens, I didn’t even know about this place until Father and Angelina got married and came here on their honeymoon. And even if I’d known about it, when would we have had the time?

That’s true, he said.

He knew that I was right—we both worked long hours, and we spent one weekend a month down in Conti, and another weekend a month visiting my grandmother at her villa in Tuscany. Until the boys had started attending school, we sort of had our hands full, and even then it was difficult to leave town. Our three sons were triplets, and biologically mine by way of a surrogate mother.

Ready for lunch?

You bet, he said.

We fixed ourselves a light lunch, but the arrival of the storm prevented us from taking it outside as usual. Instead, we sat and ate while watching nature’s fury through the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the terrace and pool.

We spent the rest of that day and most of the next more or less confined to the villa, but on the following morning we awoke to a cloudless sky, so I used the Internet to check the weather forecast. Because of that, we were ready to go when Stavros called to tell me we could venture out of the harbor. An hour or so later, we were at sea enjoying the sun and the ocean breeze. In midafternoon, Stavros dropped anchor in a secluded cove on what he said was an uninhabited island, and Dani and I went ashore to have a picnic lunch.

This is nice, isn’t it? Dani said as he munched on a sandwich.

Yep. Just you, me, and the insects. It doesn’t get much nicer.

Babe, I was being romantic.

I want to be, but that’s hard to do with something crawling up inside my shorts that might bite me on the ass at any minute.

Meaning that you’re ready to go back to the boat?

No, but if whatever it is bites me, you’ll have to kiss it and make it well.

Sounds like fun.

We finished our lunch and rowed the little dinghy back to the yacht, where we immediately jumped into the shower to wash the sand off our bodies. Later, dressed in shorts, sandals, and polo shirts, we went to the wheelhouse and talked to Stavros for a couple of minutes about our itinerary.

As we were about to return to the salon, one of the deckhands came hurrying up to Stavros and said, Captain, there’s a small boat dead ahead. Looks like it’s adrift.

Is there anyone on board? Stavros said.

I can’t tell from this distance—I need to borrow your binoculars.

Help yourself. Meanwhile, I’ll slow her down so we can have a look.

The deckhand retrieved the binoculars from where they were stashed and hurried out of the wheelhouse. As the yacht began to slow, we walked out onto the deck to have a look, and by the time we reached the bow we could clearly see a small boat just ahead. It appeared to be a very small sailboat, big enough for no more than two or three occupants, but only a jagged stump of its mast remained, and it was barely afloat. In fact the gentle swells of the sea occasionally washed over its stern. The deckhand with the binoculars shouted, There’s someone on that boat.

Stavros must somehow have heard him, because the engines stopped for a moment, then the propellers reversed just enough to eventually stop our forward momentum. I watched with fascination as the deckhands used grappling hooks to pull the small boat up close to the yacht and maneuver it around to the swim platform at its stern. Stavros appeared just as they’d accomplished this and had begun to lift the sailboat’s occupant onto the swim platform. Dani, who’d seldom been without his video camera during our vacation, had been busily recording the scene from the time we’d spotted the sailboat’s occupant.

One of the deckhands said, That sailboat is slowly sinking, Captain. Want us to scuttle it?

Is there anything on the stern or bow identifying it?

No, Sir.

Then scuttle it—there’s no need to leave a potential hazard for other boats in the area.

A fire axe was retrieved, and a few strokes with it hastened the sailboat’s demise. I helped the other deckhand haul its occupant onto the deck, and knelt down and began to examine him.

Is he alive? Dani said.

Yes. His heartbeat is fairly strong, his pulse is good, and he seems to be breathing okay. But without a stethoscope, I can’t really check his chest for fluid in his lungs.

Too bad you didn’t bring your bag with you today.

How was I to know I’d need it? In any case, his breathing is regular, so I don’t think he’s ingested enough water to matter.

Do you think he’ll live? Dani said.

I think so. Aside from a nasty bump on his head, he’s badly sunburned in places, but alive. Add to that the fact that he’s also young and appears to be healthy, so I think he’ll make it. Let’s get him to a stateroom where I can take a better look.

Yeah.

Stavros, I said, we’ll need a large plastic cloth or canvas of some kind to protect the bed in the guest stateroom.

I’ll see to it, he said.

We carried the man, a youngish blond, to the stateroom and laid him on top of the sheet of canvas Stavros had produced from somewhere.

Dani said, Look at that manacle and chain on his leg. Is this guy some sort of escaped prisoner?

Stavros, who was looking closely at the silver band around the guy’s neck, said, He’s not an escaped prisoner—he’s an escaped slave.

Really! I said.

Yes. I’ve spent a lot of time on the Indian Ocean and the Red Sea, and I’ve seen these before, but always on dead bodies floating in the sea. The Arabic script on the collar around his neck will identify both the slave and his owner.

If it’s that common, why don’t we hear about it on the news?

Because in that part of the world, people don’t talk about such things—they’ve learned that it’s best to keep their mouths shut.

The other deckhand came into the stateroom and said, The sailboat is history, Captain.

Good, Stavros said. Go up and watch the helm while I help deal with this. And not a word on the radio, do you understand?

Aye, aye, Sir. We will maintain radio silence. The man left the room.

We need to get these wet clothes off him, I said. Dani, while Stavros and I do that, get your camera ready to roll again—something tells me that this rescue needs to be documented.

He went to retrieve his camera from where he’d set it down, and I said, In the emergency room, we cut the clothing off of accident victims, but I don’t have any scissors.

Stavros handed me a large pocket knife, and said, Try this.

Thanks.

I started cutting the guy’s polo shirt off, and by the time I’d gotten to his shorts Dani came back into the room and said, Ready for me to start filming?

Absolutely. I want every step we take recorded.

Worried about lawsuits? Dani said.

Let’s just say I’m worried, period. Something about this smells bad, especially after what Stavros told us about that collar.

I began to cut the guy’s shorts off, eventually revealing a pair of silk briefs. When the briefs were history, I stared at the guy’s empty groin and pubic area and said, Holy fucking shit!

What happened to his genitals? Dani said. And how does he pee without a penis?

I looked closely at the man’s groin, spread his legs slightly and said, Apparently his urethra has been rerouted to a spot just in front of his anus. That’s how he relieves himself.

Stavros, who was crossing himself, said, That’s what I was afraid of when I saw the collar.

Meaning? I said.

This guy wasn’t just a slave, he was a sex slave. Probably owned by one of those oil-rich sheikhs.

Are you sure?

"Look at the evidence in front of you. He’s wearing a slave collar, and I’ll bet my next paycheck from il Duca that he was manacled to the mast of that sailboat. He

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