This story is a work of fiction. The story contains descriptions of non-consensual sex acts, rough and violent sex acts, and explores themes of human trafficking and slavery. If these themes disturb or upset you, do not read further. Fantasies can be used to explore the darkness of humanity that would normally be too immoral or unethical to explore in reality. In life, treat others with love and respect.
Sometimes Stan can be inconsiderate. It's not that he is unaware that his actions affect others, he just doesn't give a shit. So, when I saw from the bedside clock that it was after midnight and I heard someone banging and clanking the coffee maker, I assumed it was just Stan, being inconsiderate.
In the hot months of Summer, I wear little to bed, so I wrapped my robe around my body before heading to the kitchen to help my drunk husband with his coffee. I was startled to see a man who was not my husband fiddling with the coffee machine. It was also apparent that he wasn't drunk. His clumsiness came from his unfamiliarity with the machine.
Turning to the living room I saw another man sitting on my sofa with Stan. Our recliner was also occupied by a third stranger. Stan didn't look so good. His clothes were disheveled and torn, his hair was mussed, and his eyes were rimmed with red as if he'd been crying. The man making coffee, and the one next to Stan were very large men. They wore suits, but they were ill fitting and tight in the arms and legs like off the rack suits always are on men with pumped up muscles.
The man in the recliner was not overly large, nor did his clothes fit poorly. He was dressed expensively, from his tailored suit to the Italian leather shoes. His watch and pinky ring flashed reflections of light from the many small diamonds. He wore no tie, and his almond shirt was open down to his sternum.
I could tell from the energy of the room, as well as Stan's appearance, that all was not well. These men presented a danger to me. The fancy one spoke first.
"You must be Mrs. Dzinski. Please, sit." He motioned to the only remaining chair; a high back bolstered chair old enough to have been my grandmother's. It had been moved to face the recliner, to face the man who was clearly the boss.
"Who are you? Why are you at my house? Stan, who are these people."
"Please, Mrs. Dzinski, sit. Stan has been urged to remain quiet so that I can explain things to you. You are in no danger. I promise I will answer all your questions. But first, please sit."
Stan was looking at his toes now, his shoes were missing. Why was he barefoot? I sat. The high bolsters of the chair guided me to face this man I did not know. It took an effort to look to my left at Stan, or to my right at the goon making coffee. By design of the seat, I was naturally disposed to face him, and focus on him. He spoke.
"Ma'am, my name is Vicktor. The man next to your husband is Alec, and the man in your kitchen is Petr. I am a businessman. I have done business with your husband, Stan. But he has not reciprocated our partnership. He has neglected the terms of our deal. Do you understand what I am saying?"
"What business do you mean? What did Stan do? Or not do?"
"Mrs. Dzinski, I am afraid the details are a bit coarse for a woman as beautiful as you, but I have promised to answer your questions, so I will. Are you aware that your husband, from time to time, gambles on horses? Yes? You see, Stan gambled on horses with borrowed money. My money. And he lost."
"Goddammit Stan. Not this again. I thought you learned your lesson last time. What were you thinking going back to that bullshit?"
"I'm sorry, but Stan cannot answer you. He has been instructed to remain silent. As I'm sure you are aware, your husband has a knack for downplaying unpleasant things. It is important that you understand just how serious this is, so I have instructed him to remain silent so that I can explain. That way there will be no misunderstanding."
"Explain what? "
"The reason why we are here, together, now. But before that, the coffee is ready, how do you take it?"
"Uh, with cream. And sugar."
Vicktor nodded his head toward the kitchen, and I heard the fridge open and shut. Liquids were poured, spoons were swirled. Then Petr from the kitchen was standing next to me, serving me coffee in my own home. A moment later Vicktor was served. Stan and the goons didn't get coffee.
In silence we sipped as I came to terms with my circumstances. These men were not here to refinance Stan's debt. They were here to collect. If things went badly, coffee was going to be my last concern. Still, Vicktor had promised I wasn't in danger, and I wanted to believe him. Internally I raged at Stan, that fucking asshole. Vicktor broke the silence.
"May I call you Mary? This is your name?"
"Yes, Mary."
"Thank you. Mary, I loan money to people who can't get loans from banks. I charge high rates, because it's what the market will tolerate. But when my partners don't repay me, or make the weekly interest payment, I lose money. How can I lose money and call myself a businessman? I must recoup what is owed.
"Many in my line of work, they have a simple solution. Violence. Or to be more precise they start with the threat of violence. If the threat doesn't work, a hand is broken, or a nose. If that doesn't work, maybe an arm, then legs. Then... Someone doesn't come home.
"To me this is too much. The problem is motivation. How does a corporate businessman motivate? They do not dismember their partners in fancy meeting rooms. They work together. If that doesn't yield results, they find a pressure point to focus their partners motivation.
"My first question to you Mary, can we work together?"
There was undeniable tension in the room. These were serious, dangerous men. But I found myself drawn in by the charisma and charm of this man. Vicktor was intense, and maybe even a bit handsome in a hard nosed sort-of-way.
"I think so."
"Wonderful! Here is where we start. Stan has told me he cannot repay me because he does not have the money. He says he has no money anywhere. You see, in my business I hear this excuse often. But I have found that when losers say they have no money, often they do have money. Sometimes they are afraid to give me the money, because then their family will find out and they will be exposed as a degenerate. So, I ask you Mary, do you and your husband have money to pay me?"
"How much does he owe you?"
