Thread: Transporting Taylor (Dere and skittish_butterfly)

Taylor stood in front of the man, completely naked, except for the cuffs on her wrists which she was starting to think of as almost a part of her anyway. She'd never even been naked in front of her gynecologist before, always the little gown at least to protect her dignity. But now having a man's eyes roaming all over her body as if it was his right, no dignity left to protect, it seemed like just another degrading part of what her life had become. She kept her head turned aside, looking at the floor to her left, unable to meet his cold eyes. The man stepped closer and she winced even before he touched her, closing her eyes and trying not to cry. Even with his seed was inside her, maybe even impregnating her at that very moment, still the thought of his hands just touching her, stroking and cupping her like he owned her, was more than she could bear. With each little touch, gentle stroke or painful pinch, Taylor's slender body twisted to one side or the other as if that would somehow make it harder for him to reach what he wanted, or at least easier for her to bear. But it didn't help at all. He hurt her almost effortlessly, pinching and twisting her nipples which were swollen and throbbing, making her suck in breath between clenched teeth. But his gentle caress of her hair was just as bad, like he was pretending he actually cared for her -- except they both knew better. The evil heat of his breath tickled her graceful neck as he leaned in and whispered to her while his painful grip on her nipples got even worse. She groaned and winced, the pain somehow opening her so his words could sink in even deeper. Her nipples hurt so bad she was hopping up and down on her toes, her head thrashing side to side as he called her Slave, telling her she -- it -- had been very good to accept his rape. It was no compliment. But he whispered it sweetly as if it were, even as his cruel clamping grip on her nipples got worse and worse, his idea of a reward only more abuse. Or maybe slaves didn't get rewards. Taylor didn't know and couldn't tell, she just gasped in pain, swallowing her sobs as he reveled joyfully over how he'd made her into a slut. Her eyes shut tight, a soft cry of realization as his words pointed out the nagging truth she'd been struggling with in denial. She was a slut now, no more special or different than any other, just like all the poor girls who acted like there entire identity and purpose in life was wrapped up in their bodies and their ability to please men sexually. That hurt too. Still grimacing and shaking from the pain in her nipples, Taylor wondered how human hands could be so strong. She heard the words wash and eat and through her agony made a soft moan, her hunger and wretchedness perking her ears up immediately, even though everything he said just made her more miserable. She needed to eat, ached for her body to be cleansed of his violations. At least he let go of one nipple but his grip on the other was still too excruciatingly tight to let her back down from her toes. She heard his plan for after whatever she might eat, the words back into the cage clear enough, but she pushed that thought out into the indefinite future some time after he let her eat, out there with the other horrors she didn't want to face yet. Taylor just focused on his words and the idea she might get food. But he told her to kiss her Master first, like after everything he'd already taken from her she still had to work for whatever scraps he deigned to give her. Her eyes, wincing in pain still from her abused nipple, couldn't help scoffing ever so slightly at the way he took that title Master for himself, or more precisely, her Master. He was constantly trying to remind her she was less than him, but the more he hurt and mistreated her, the more he proved he was the lowest life form on earth, much lower than her. She had compassion and love and virtue, the highest human qualities. He was little more than a cruel beast. Someone must have abused him horribly as a child to make him turn out like this. What misery did it take to warp a human mind this badly? He was a sad, pathetic, awful man with no morals or kindness, no soul at all that Taylor could detect. And yet somehow, he was her Master? Her flat belly made a soft hungry noise that focused her on the idea of earning food. Kiss him? If that was price she had to pay it was a steep one indeed, but she was afraid she would have to pay it. Oh, for even one of those little bags of airline peanuts she'd turned down so short-sightedly in the last hours of the flight, her only distant memory of food now was the little bit of mango she'd shared with poor Antonio back at the airport, before... The man didn't give her time to finish that thought, no respect for the dead he had killed. His cruel fingers forced her face up to his and made her look in his eyes, not letting her look away. Taylor shuddered briefly with disgust, staring evil in the eyes. She should have spit in his face, she knew, but her tortured, twisted nipple hurt too much, still in his grip, holding her in place less than an arm's length in front of him. She feared the implicit promise of more pain for disobedience too much to let her do something so noble and stupid as spit on him. His grip on her nipple pulled and her body stumbled weakly into him, and then he was kissing her. It was horrible, like the kiss of a perverted drunk, her mouth so dry and thirsty his tongue felt like sandpaper as he pushed his way in. The kiss was wet though, and embarrassingly loud, and she felt his drool running down her chin by the time he finally stepped back with a satisfied look on his face. But even smiling, getting everything he wanted from her, his hand still lashed out at her, slapping her small breasts again and again while his pinching fingers on her nipple kept her exposed for the abuse. Taylor screamed and shook and cried short jagged sobs, but it made no difference to him. He laughed the whole time. He spoke of her body like it didn't belong to her, as if she were just a pornography model, a bunch of female parts assembled together to please men, not a whole woman. His whim changed in a heart beat and instead of slapping her breast he started licking and sucking, but still holding her in place with that unforgiving grip on her nipple. His words grew more vile along with his crude behavior, mocking the way he'd made her body react to the... to the goat, like she was worse than a whore now. As his taunting words forced her out of her uneasy denial about the goat and its insidious tongue, she worried he might be right. How could she have done something like that? How could she have trembled and exploded with pleasure from a disgusting goat? Was she as broken as he was? Taylor grew weary of the degrading way he kept calling her slave, always slave, slave, slave. Slave this, slave that. He used it like it was her name and she didn't try to correct him, not and risk angering him. Maybe if she was braver she would just fight him tooth and nail every second over every slight and humiliation. What was she afraid of. With everything he'd done to her already, with death seeming like a mercy at this point, what did she have to lose? But she'd seen his eyes, the way his muscles moved so naturally when he abused her, as if he were a demon created just for this purpose, she knew that whatever he'd done to her so far, if she angered him he could make it even worse. She was too frightened of him to risk that, too beaten down to confront him directly, just able to resist in the tiniest of ways along the margins where she thought he wouldn't see or maybe not even notice or care. But what bothered her most, when his words had time to sink in deeper and do their full damage, was the way he'd snuck in that phrase, her owners. She would satisfy her owners? Her fingers twisted anxiously behind her as her mind found so many disturbing things to worry about in that. The plural, owners, made an impression on her, as if one of him wasn't enough. Was this man not her owner? Others were? Somewhere in the world there were men even crueller than this man waiting to hurt her more? And slaves don't have friends, don't have lovers, don't have business associates or fans. Slaves have owners. Slave. It wasn't her name, more of a label or title to Taylor, an insulting one to be sure. But it was accurate enough. The closest this man would ever come to mercy was when he cut off her worries by letting go of her tortured nipple and taking control of her by her cuffed wrists and a painfully tight grip in her hair. Taylor whimpered as he easily bent her slender frame forward and jerked her shoulders back up high behind her, making her bounce on her toes as the agony lanced up and down her arms like little lightning bolts. Her bare feet stumbled along beside him across the rough floor. Down the stairs he pulled her, Taylor staggering and screaming in pain several times as he didn't slow even a little to accommodate the awkward position he contorted her in, expecting her to keep up or suffer. She begged him to stop, her fear growing as they got close to the door, but he was just silent and determined, dragging her out into another room. There was a window to the outside, letting Taylor see the world for the first time in forever. It was still night but dawn was coming. Or maybe it was evening with night coming, She didn't even know what time it was or what day it was anymore. They appeared to be in a kitchen, but it wasn't the gleaming, efficient kind of kitchen Taylor was used to where moms make salads and pot roasts and fresh cookies for dessert. The equipment was scattered and filthy, and, from what Taylor could smell, if there was food here then it had rotted long ago. It was the perfect kitchen for the man with the rotten heart. The goat was there too, lazily munching on something and free to come and go as it pleased. It stared right at Taylor's bent over body struggling in the man's grip, chewing happily and unperturbed, as if her struggles were the most natural thing in the world. Even the goat seemed to know that it was higher in the food chain than Taylor. The animal's eery eyes locked on her with inhuman awareness, as if mocking her for how he'd made her shudder before. Taylor looked away, finding it hard even to meet a goat's gaze. It didn't matter because the man immediately dragged her away from the goat, to the other side of the room. He didn't seem to care how she had to move her bare feet so quickly to keep up while trying to avoid the broken glass strewn about the floor at the same time, and she banged her knee into a table leg. She stopped as he jerked her to a halt, felt him let go of her hair and cuffs. Taylor straightened up slowly, her eyes meeting his, and she immediately looked away with a wounded expression. He pushed her around some more, his hands on her bare back, her arm, roughly positioning her until her bare feet felt a rough burlap sack beneath her. He had her faced right into a corner of the reeking kitchen, like she was being put in timeout for being naughty. Then his big hands engulfed her slender shoulders, pushing her down to her knees on the sack. She felt his hands leave her and then she was kneeling by herself in the corner, hands behind her. Listening intently for any clue what he was doing, she heard something like one of those squeaky old manual can openers, not the fancy electric kind Dad got her for her housewarming. Taylor's belly tightened as she thought of food, even rancid food. She struggled with the desire to turn and look and the fear of what she might see. In the end she kept quiet and kept her eyes straight ahead, too hungry to do anything to risk the possibility of food being withheld from her, especially after she paid such a heavy price for it already. Taylor heard a sloppy sound, something wet being poured out. Then he was back at her left side, crouching down and putting a bowl of some slimy orangy stuff down beside her. He stood up and her hunger was so overpowering that even the disgusting whatever-it-was looked, well, not good, but she wanted it. She looked up as he stood nearby, like she wanted to be sure that was really for her, and then she shuffled around on her knees, hands twisting behind her for balance, trying to turn to face the bowl. Kneeling as low as she could get on the floor Taylor still had to lift her bottom a little for the angle to get her face down to the bowl so she could lick at it. The bowl wasn't big enough to actually get her face into it and take out full bites with her mouth and lips. All she could do was lick at it. Mushed carrot. Or squash. Probably expired. It didn't matter. Disgusting. But she couldn't stop herself from licking it up, going after it like a condemned prisoner to her last meal. It was frustrating though. The bowl was rounded on the bottom with a very narrow base, and her licking and pushing her face down to it kept scooting it across the floor away from her, just out of reach. She spent less time actually eating than whimpering hungrily and crawling after the elusive bowl, each time having to re-lower herself on her knees and re-raise her bottom into that precarious position so close to falling face forward, just to get herself positioned for one or two more licks before having to do it all over again. She tried to stop her hungry little animal sounds as she struggled to lick every last bit of orange mush out of the bowl, but it was too much for her, her sounds almost instinctive. Taylor was still trying to eat, a three foot trail of orange mush marking the path she took nosing her bowl across the floor, worried her knees might have gotten cut on broken glass or at least scuffed from the rough floor. His foot suddenly flashed in front of her face, kicking the bowl away and she cried out, no! She looked up as if her pleading eyes could get her bowl back but there was no mercy or concern in his face. He just squatted down beside her, his fist wrapped up in her long blond hair again, jerking her head up from the floor and making her wince in pain. His eyes roamed her face as he held her head tight and still. Then he leaned in, making her moan in fear he was going to kiss her again, but he just licked her chin making her want to puke on him. She cringed as he took a rag so filthy it must have been used to clean his carburetor but she couldn't stop him from roughly wiping her face with it like a little kid, making her suddenly certain he'd just fed her baby food. Then he pulled upward on her hair, not caring how much it hurt, until Taylor was stumbling to her feet and standing straight up at attention in his grip. She couldn't help her eyes surveying the desolate kitchen as he forced her to turn in teeny tiny little barefoot steps, until he had her staring right at the goat again. His whisper was cruel as he teased her, reminding her what she'd done with the animal, how she had reacted, joking about her owing the goat an orgasm and of course calling her slave the whole time. It wasn't even funny. Pay back the goat? He seemed to think he was so witty and clever, but it wasn't even a joke. But then he dragged Taylor closer to the goat and she started to worry he was really going to make her kiss it or something. Taylor started whimpering, struggling and pulling back, but his pull on her hair hurt too much for her to fight him. He kept her so high she was on tiptoes and could barely resist the forced march to the goat's corner, but she yelled and shrieked, her fears babbling out of her as the all too familiar smell of the goat got stronger the closer he brought her. No! no no no no no, god no please no! No way she was kissing the goat, or letting her lick it, or even petting it or saying thank you Mr. Goat or any of his depraved demands, not after what he made that animal do to her. Suddenly there was a sharp shove in the small of her back sending her to her knees on the hard floor. With her hands helpless behind her Taylor almost fell flat on her face right in front of the goat. As she straightened up the goat met her eye to eye, as if it knew perfectly well which of the two of them was the slave. The man used the word cock, and Taylor suddenly realized he was talking about the goat's, not his own. Taylor turned and stared at him in wide eyed horror and then started desperately trying to crawl away on shuffling knees but he just dragged her back by her hair, threatening if she didn't do as he said then he'd have the goat penetrate her. Taylor was shaking visibly, staring at the goat, paralyzed with fear and self-loathing. A soft keening came from her throat as she rocked back and forth on her knees, staring at the goat, now realizing how he intended her to thank the animal for helping him torment her. She and the goat were both naked, and she was suddenly acutely aware of her bare skin, the goat's eyes on her. A very male goat. The man grew impatient and took her by her hair once more. Taylor screamed, shoulders twisting and turning, trying to squirm away, kicking out uselessly as her legs all but buckled under her. He literally dragged her to the goat's back legs and held her under the goat. Suddenly she could see it, long and pink. Taylor didn't know if it was natural for a goat to get hard from the sight of a naked girl, or if the man had done something to it or if it was in male heat or whatever goats did. All she knew was it was big and disgusting and she opened her mouth to scream at him that she wouldn't do it, only he forced her forward, pushing her mouth right over the disgusting thing. Her whole body jerked but he didn't let her go, holding her on the cock, the goat's hot body against her forehead. Her hands were clawing at nothing behind her, her cuffs rattling loudly, but it didn't help. Taylor felt the goat's penis swelling in her mouth, as if the goat thought Taylor was a she-goat to impregnate, some goat instinct in him taking over. He tasted vile, bitter and festering, and smelled even worse. The grip in her hair started rocking her head back and forth on the thickening goat penis and she heard the goat's gutteral bleats reacting to what she was doing. Tears streamed down Taylor's cheeks and she tried to twist away, anything to end it, but the man was too strong. Her mouth bobbed up and down the length of the hard slimy goat's penis. It wasn't as big as the man's had been in her mouth, but it was every bit as degrading and worse. The man had at least bathed at some point in his lifetime, but the goat smelled like it had been rolling in poop and rotten cheese for the last month. Taylor thought briefly of biting down, to end it with a gush of blood, only it wasn't the man she would hurt but an innocent goat -- well not innocent completely, but the goat wasn't the one who deserved it. The breathing in the room grew heavy, the goat making its animal sounds, Taylor's desperate whimpers and wet gurgling sounds, and the man breathing from the effort of holding her in place, working her mouth on the goat. Finally the goat's sounds changed, and then it was spurting in her mouth. The taste made Taylor want to vomit. She held her breath, squeezing her eyes shut, wondering how long it could go on. The thick stuff was running out of her mouth, over her dry lips and down her chin. The goat spurted against the back of her throat a few last times, and then grew quiet. The man held her there a little longer though, like he wanted to make sure Taylor paid the goat back in full. Finally he let go and Taylor pulled her mouth off the goat's slimy pink shaft as fast as she could, desperate to wipe from her mind the memory of it hard against her lips. The goat's seed tasted like bitter poison, and Taylor spit out what she could on the floor, too disgusted and nauseated to hold it in her mouth long enough to spit it at the evil man instead. But she was sure she'd never be able to get the taste out of her mouth, as if it would dress every salad she ever ate the rest of her life, if she ever ate salad again. Her mind couldn't shake the memory of the animal spurting against the roof of her mouth, the smell of it, the slimy feeling of engorged goat penis rutting against her tongue like a permanent horror she'd carry with her to the grave, assuming the man even bothered to bury her once he was through with her. With goat sperm running down her chin the man pulled her back from the goat and rolled Taylor over on her back with her cuffed hands trapped under her, laughing at her as she looked up at him in disgust, hating herself, wanting to die. She was sure he was going to rape her again as he stood over her and she drew her legs tightly together and pulled her knees up defensively, the thought of him being inside her again almost as disgusting as the goat's penis. As he talked about slave wanting a man's penis to suck she shook her head no, no, no, denying everything as the tears rolled down her face. Over and over, his words assaulted her. Slave, whore, slut. She was more than holes to shove a dick into, more than just a receptacle for male seed, human or otherwise. She had best selling albums and a worldwide fan base. She was famous. But lying naked and helpless under his eyes Taylor didn't feel like much more than a slave or a whore and just braced herself to be raped again. No matter what name she clung to, Taylor Swift or just Slave, there wasn't much practical difference in her miserable life anymore. He leaned down and she moaned in fear, but instead of raping her he picked her up and tossed her easily over his shoulder, until she was staring down at the floor behind him, watching the back of his legs and struggling to breath with her belly over his shoulder. He carried her out like a burden not a person, talking about bathtime and cleaning her up for daddy. She knew her daddy couldn't really be coming, and wondered if he thought he was her daddy now, or if it meant he was going to clean her up for someone else to make a fresh mess of her again. Taylor forced the worries from her head. What did it matter who abused her? What choice or say did she have in it? What good would worrying about it do her, since she knew perfectly well if he wanted it then it would happen anyway? He took her out of the house, into the cool dim light outside for the first time in... days she thought, uncertain about it. Around the back of the spartan structure he set her down and then pushed her naked body back into a metal container, like a metal drum that was cut in half, one of those big Texas barbecues. It echoed and reverberated as her slender body fell into it, her legs splayed awkwardly until she could gather them together again and fold herself into the space. The sudden horrifying idea of him barbecuing her freaked her out, but she struggled to calm herself. That seemed unlikely. She believed him capable of it, but it wasn't the way he was talking. No firewood, no lighter fluid. It was hard, but she let go of that fear as the man stepped away, not letting herself worry he could be fetching firewood and matches. Taylor sat naked in the half drum, the metal cold and hard against her bare bottom, her feet feeling the rough, rusty cap as she had to bend her legs up to fit inside. She looked up as the light slowly started to spread in the sky -- so it was morning, had it just been one day and night? -- wishing she could find the dawn's early light beautiful like it used to be, but the skies just looked down and mocked her naked futility. Her eyes looked at the few remaining points of light. Stars and planets. Maybe planes carrying eager people abroad for vacations to distant lands, unaware of her suffering right down below them. She wondered if any of the the little lights were one of the satellites she prayed her dad and the police and FBI and the military would have commandeered to look for her -- assuming they could figure out that she wasn't already dead. She turned her face straight up, trying to let any super spy satellite get a full view of her face, in case the tin foil hat brigade was right and the NSA really could tell if your shoes were untied from up in outer space. She fought the urge to scream, a tiny remnant of rational thought reminding her satellites couldn't hear her, and there was no one else here to hear her except him, and he would certainly punish her for the attempt, or just for bothering him, as if her voice had gone from one of the most valuable things in the world to a mere annoyance. She kept quiet in the cool air, wishing she could put her arms around her legs and hug herself, waiting for what he'd do to her next. Suddenly, he was back again and before she could react, not that there was anything she could do about it, he was dumping freezing cold water over her head, soaking her long blond hair against her naked back and shoulders. After screaming from the cold shock, she realized it was just water. As he poured two more buckets over her, she kept her mouth open, spitting out one mouthful letting it at least symbolically take the taste of goat with it, and swallowed the rest, so thirsty she would have drunk the whole bucket if she could. It was just a few mouthfuls, and hard to swallow she was shivering so hard as she sat in the cold water lapping at her bare skin. It was sucking the warmth right out of her slender body and her teeth were chattering as he tossed the bucket aside. He settled in behind her and Taylor braced herself for the end, ready for him to drown her in the rusty metal tub like a skinny little unwanted puppy. But he just grabbed a harsh sponge and scrubbed her down like a guard processing a new prisoner, making sure there were no fleas or ticks. Her breasts hurt from the rough sponge, but he did it gently -- was this the first time he'd been gentle with her? She couldn't remember. She forced herself not to get her hopes up, not to be fooled into thinking he might be softening on her. He was cruel, and that was all. But whatever the reason, at least he was scraping away the filth and the mess he'd made of her, like he was sanding her down, hopefully at least something clean still left of her to expose once the stench and crusted mess was washed away. She wasn't even focused on being naked in front of him at this point. Taylor didn't like it, not one bit, but this was how it was between them. It wasn't worth the worry anymore, when she could be force to swallow a goat's penis or raped any way he pleased. Her naked body on display for him was the least of her worries. He scrubbed her belly and her sides, her waist and hips and long legs. Then he worked his way back up, along her thighs, getting them wet and shiny. Taylor knew better than to close her legs, even as he scrubbed his way right to her rape hole. He was rubbing her there much more vigorously, so much more mess and disgusting filth now to wash away, an almost impossible task, she was sure. But he kept at it, working the sponge in circles, again and again. It felt good, and she wished it didn't but she couldn't help opening her legs a little wider. She told herself it was to give him room to clean her, to wash away all the rape and the pain and the dripping sperm. But she could see in his eyes he recognized the change in her breathing even before she did. As he stroked her, she kept her legs open, growing tenser as she couldn't fight off the pleasure. She almost wished he would just hurt her again instead. Pain she could struggle against and resist, but this just shamed her to her core, to feel him stroking her, in control of her so much she couldn't help her body reacting like this, while the taste of goat still violated the sanctity of her mouth. Taylor turned her face downward because she couldn't stand the thought anymore that a rescuing satellite might see her, not like this, please not like this. His strong arm though just worked slowly and firmly between her legs, her body slowly slipping lower in the tub as her hips moved. Taylor tried to ignore the pleasure as long as she could, to keep it at bay, to stop the growing waves rippling between her legs and making her gasps come short and sharp and completely on his rhythm. He just kept stroking her, until her body went taut and she cried out to the skies, unable to hide her face from the watching satellites, her body wracked with pleasure yet again, just like from the goat's tongue, crying out as her toes curled. She heard the water sloshing, cool against her skin, but couldn't stop herself bucking in the little tub under his amused eyes. Finally she slowed, breathing hard, a warm glow spreading through her long limbs, making her hate herself for having surrendered to him yet again. As many times as she'd been called a sellout in her life, she'd never felt like one more than at that minute, lying naked under him, body worn out from the pleasure she'd accepted, still only minutes after being mouth-raped by a goat. Taylor hated herself, the sellout. He left her no time for philosophy or trying to mull over how she felt, no time to compose wistful lyrics in her head about her misery and loss. He just reached for her and dragged limp, trembling body out with a firm grip on her wet shoulder. Taylor was dripping, water running off her torso and long legs into the sparse grass under her bare feet. He marched her back to the door, half dragging her the closer they got. She started shaking her head as he dragged her back into the heat of the structure, begging him not to, even though she had no idea what was next, just that she didn't want it. No, please, no... please, stop. He ignored her though, rushing her through the kitchen to a dimly lit sideroom, almost like an abandoned garage. There were work tables and benches, rough wood everywhere and the smell of metal tools and leather and wood. She was leaning backward, her bare feet hurting as she struggled against him, but he just pulled her where he wanted, to a small box on a table. It was rough wood, splintered and unvarnished, like the packing crate for that small statue she'd ordered from Argentina a year earlier for her backyard. She didn't want to look inside the box, didn't want to see what he'd had shipped in it, afraid of what it might be and how he might hurt her with it. But he pulled her forward, Taylor shaking her head over and over in a panic. Then he lifted her off her feet and set her briefly on the edge of the table next to the box, and then lifted her again. Taylor kicked her long legs at him in panic, her hands flailing uselessly behind her as he shoved her down into the box, twisting her up and bending her legs, almost like shoving her into the cage the night before, only this time she was on her side. He pushed her second leg in, his hand firmly around her ankle and doubling her leg over, forcing her knees up into her chest to get her all the way inside the tiny box, and then before she could kick out at him again, a heavy wooden lid came down over her, sealing her in like it was her tomb. She screamed and kicked weakly at the tight confines of the wooden walls, splinters tormenting her bare feet. The sound of hammering as he nailed the lid shut made Taylor scream and cry and beg to be let out, her heart in an absolute panic that she would be buried like this. But there were three small holes near her head, big enough just to let in a little of the room's dim light without letting her see what he was doing. If he was going to bury her, would he have bothered to drill holes in the box first? She couldn't be sure, but Taylor prayed it was because he wanted her to be able to breath. In her anxious state, doubled over and scrunched up as she was, it was a struggle to draw each breath, her chest so tightly compressed she could feel her nipples squished into her thighs. She could hear him moving around outside. Then the box jerked, banging her nose against the wood. Her body rocked back and forth, and then it lurched downward. She was moving, she could feel it She could hear his exertions outside, the squeak of wheels. Taylor was trapped in the dark, packed in so tight she couldn't move her arms or legs, being wheeled off somewhere she didn't know and had no say in. She screamed as loud as she could, until her lungs hurt. No one heard her, at least no one who cared. Finally, Taylor went silent except for her soft intermittent sobs, no choice but to accept whatever fate he was wheeling her toward. With nothing but 3 little holes to look at -- a subtle reminder, she realized, of what all she was to him -- and nothing to do, no contact, nothing but her thoughts and fears, Taylor's mind drifted from fear to panic to despair, working over all the scenarios of her impending demise, as if what she could think mattered one bit. If he would just uncuff her hands she thought she might pull out some of her hair and shove it through one of the holes as a sign to be found by her dad's people, but she was starting to worry her hands would remain in these cuffs until the day she died, trapped behind her, unable to do anything for herself, not even pull her hair out to send her dad a signal she was alive. Hopefully they'd find the little bit of blood he'd stamped out, and some magic science test would tell the task force or strike team or whatever that it was hers. More likely they'd just assume it was goat blood, but she had to hope, had to have some shred of a possibility to cling to that maybe her life could get better, or at least less awful. She had to believe her dad would find her. But she didn't. Not really. Not anymore. Sit tight slave. She heard him. Saudi Arabia. Slave. It was a nightmare, so cliched it couldn't possibly be happening, but it was. Trapped in a tiny dark box with no one to hear her scream as he shipped her off to a far away land. The word Slave started to feel like more than just a label or an insult. It felt very, very real to her. Slave.