Like all girls before her, I knew she’d play the role of defiance very shortly. But as soon as I lined them up outside overlooking the wired fences, the mined fields, the vicious dogs, all of them knew I meant business. It wasn’t rare that some of them would piss on their panties, vomit, shit and/or throw up. It’s a sobering reality, no one is beyond the threshold of fear, specially girls.
The sun was at its brightest point in the sky and no one could hear you scream and cry; the faster you get used to the idea that there there was really no way out, the better off you are. We all come to grips sooner or later with our own limitations whether these manifest physically (how strong you are, for instance) or mentally (how intelligent you are, what have you done to show your prowess), and, almost instantaneously, we learn how we fit in socially. Are we aesthetically or economically superior…? We know, whatever weapon we have at our disposal, it is best to learn sooner rather than later how to use it, and use it over and over again. If your inclinations are of an introspective nature, focus and build from within; if you’re more into displays of physical dominance, such as an athlete, then practice and be your best. Whatever your call may be, don’t waste time, abandon yourself to it. Of course, many people lack skills or possess talents that aren’t financially viable; others are immersed in their dreams, but do little, even though they may very well possess the greatest gift. Let them sleep, we need no more rivals.
Long ago, I discovered by accident I had a talent for what I do. Some of us are lucky enough to know what we are good at and how to take advantage of it. And not all of us do so in the most noble ways. Just like you may recognize not having the stomach for the darkest deeds, though you may fantasize about it, at least you have an imaginary outlet: fiction. For years, I wrote essays on self-improvement, mainly speaking about the masculinity, considering myself a self-made macho, but it didn’t get me anywhere. People may pick up a detective or horror novel, out of boredom, but what really excites them is the darkest of themes. That’s why they come here and read all of these stories, and these stories outsell the conventional ones, though not many people consider them great literature. No one can aspire to be a modern version of Marque de Sade, all of the newest generations of writers are wanna-be Stephen Kings; you may have seen girls on the subway with a copy of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, fervently reading it as if it were a feminist act. Little do they know that the original title of that book is: “Men who hate women.”
Misogynist? No, thanks. I love women and women love me. I am characterized by taking calculated chances. Where I come from, it’s easier to be in touch with your animal nature. It’s not an easy task, but some of us are talented at it. Dealing with difficult women was my specialty. Take my older half brother, for instance.

My half brother was seven years older than me. His dad had been married to our mom, Elsa, for two years before she got pregnant with him. Eighteen years her senior, they got engaged when my mother was in high school; she wasn’t going anywhere but partying with her friends on weekends, typical teenager out of control, and her parents thought it best to get her married to her best suitor, a man twice her age who made a good living and looked like a decent prospect, at the very least, a good provider. And this, old timer Kyle sure was. Though he wasn’t rich, the man was a workaholic and had a little of an entrepreneur in him having partnered with a friend to start a small business selling women clothes. The other guy, his friend, bought him out and overtook the business years later, and since then he had given himself to drinking. He had always treated mom like a queen, his pride and joy trophy wife, and since the money was good initially, problems started when he couldn’t keep up with his wife’s fancy style, her shopping sprees, no matter how much money you have if you have a woman by your side who’s a spender, it will eventually run out.
Another thing was, the age difference. Mom wasn’t the craziest girl ever, but she had a freaky side, typical of her poor upbringing. She never did have an opportunity to live out her wildest fantasies, the sex between them had been close to non-existent ever since she gave birth to my brother, and with finances dwindling, conflicts began to surface. Trying to keep up with his younger, beautiful wife’s caprices had taken a toll on him. His ambition, too, working day in and day out, stressing over finances, had really done a number on his health. By contrast, his wife, having a lavish lifestyle, frequenting beauty salons, wearing just brand-name clothes, having her own car, working out often, watching her diet, sleeping late and never venturing outside home like her contemporary friends had preserved her youth. Nothing like an abusive male partner to age a woman prematurely. Her friends praised her, envied her, but she was never satisfied; she’d brag about her stability, her sugar-daddy husband, the gifts he bestowed upon her. But deep down inside, she resented him for having taken away her wildest side. She’d hear all of her former friends’ stories about one-night stands, the torrid relationships they found themselves entangled in, and sighed wishing she’d had at least one adventurous night out herself. Having her old friends kept her in touch with a world she longed for, somehow; she never did get along with the good wives in her circle and it wasn’t like her husband led a very social life she could borrow. So, she kept in touch with friends who’d ask her for favors, who’d have unwanted pregnancies, and wanting to have, if only for a moment, all the wasted time in conformity restored in one night out. She complained he was older, and since he could no longer keep up with her (shower her with gifts, is what she meant), to let her go out at least once. Her husband had dreaded the day when he could no longer afford his fancy wife, because he knew all along he had married a girl way younger than him who had really never known life outside the walls of their residence, and how could he deny her of what she thought she had missed out. Kyle was a rather passive man despite his big talk, one who’d get angry at her, yell in desperation when she antagonized him and then ask for her forgiveness. Absolving him made her feel that she was in control, setting the opportunity to exact revenge way of absurd requests, he had no choice but to grant her wish. This gave her the chance to make her demands, and so he’d oblige. Kyle thought that by being permissive, he’d be able to manipulate her, but it was her way of making him give in, give his consent, then ask for concessions.
Not being able to provide for her luxurious appetite, eventually he caved in. He let her go out, so long as she’d be home before midnight. Kyle thought she’d lose interest in the nightlife, see that there really wasn’t anything out there for her, and return home with her tail between her legs. Or at the very least, Kyle reasoned, she’d get it out of her system eventually. It may ease up the tensions at home and make their intimacy come back to life. That last thing, he was right about; granting her the permission to go out to saw her wild oats made her more complacent, there were less fights, sex made it to the bedroom calendar again. Things were going great overall and it wasn’t as big a sacrifice as he thought it’d be. Seeing his young wife get dressed up and be sped off in a car with four other girlfriends the first night out had excited him. She came home around midnight as convened and the agreement was that if she did come home in a timely fashion, that was one of his concessions; she could go out once again but never more than once every two weeks. Also, she had to come clean and tell him everything that took place.
Two weeks later, after doing the laundry, making dinner and washing the dishes, mom got dressed and went out with her friends. The conversation that had spiced things up again in bed began very casually when her husband innocently asked how her night had been.
ELSA: It was okay -she conceded.
KYLE: Did you make any new friends?
ELSA: No, we mostly stayed by ourselves at the nightclub.
KYLE: Nightclub? I thought you guys went to a bar…
ELSA: Yeah, we hit the bar first but then Marcia wanted to go dancing, so we did… Hope you don’t mind, babe.
KYLE: Not at all, baby. Did Marcia get to dance… she was always such a wild card!
ELSA: Yeah. She did.
KYLE: Did you?
ELSA: Did I what?
KYLE: Dance?
There was a brief silence. Then:
KYLE: I won’t get mad, baby. Just tell me.
ELSA: Well, yeah -she said, shyly. -But only this once! And only because all my friends were dancing, and I didn’t wanted to be rude to that guy…
KYLE: What guy?
ELSA: The one who asked me out to dance.
KYLE: Ah. And did you enjoy dancing?
ELSA: It was okay.
KYLE: So, you did like it?
She saw her husband’s pupils dilate. His heart was palpitating faster.
ELSA: Okay, I’ll tell you. But don’t be mad, okay?
KYLE: Okay…
ELSA: You promise?
KYLE: I promise. Tell me….
ELSA: Initially, no. The guy wanted to dance too close, but I told him to give me some space. The song wasn’t meant to be danced that way… But the next song was.
KYLE: I thought you said you only danced once!
ELSA: Oh, babe, don’t be mad. It was just this one song with one guy, nothing more…
KYLE: Okay, I won’t be mad. But tell me the whole story. First you tell me that you only danced once. Whatever the case is, I will get mad only if I feel that you’re lying to me…
ELSA: Okay, look, when the guy took me out to dance, the song was almost over. I told you, my friends were already dancing and it took me a while to agree to dance. The song finished and another came on. So, I felt I still owed my dancing partner a few more minutes on the dance floor.
KYLE: I see. And what song came on afterwards?
ELSA: A bachata. It’s a slow jam.
KYLE: Now, why would you stay dancing a slow jam with a complete stranger?
KYLE: Oh I don’t know, maybe because I barely got to the dance floor and the other song finished. And the guy insisted. Also, my friends were still dancing. Besides, I like to dance bachata. It’s not like a slow jam, but it has rhythm and I really know how to dance it because I’m Latin and all Latin girls who know how to move dance that! It’s a very sexy dance.

She looked for a sample on YouTube, to show him. His face grew suddenly pale.
ELSA: Babe! Don’t be like that, it really means nothing for a girl to dance! And he was such a good dancer.
That last sentence really put the nail on the coffin.
ELSA: Here, I’ll dance for you!
And little by little, she’d seduce him through that most erotic of dances. He’d come closer, embrace her and be ever so turned on by her moves.
KYLE: Is that how you danced for him?
Sensing his arousal, she whispered in his ear: “Maybe a little.”
KYLE: Oh, you’re such a bad girl…
ELSA: Oh daddy, don’t be mad…

It had been a long time since she had called him that. He felt rejuvenated and didn’t have to spend a dime. He felt like he had hit a pot of gold.
KYLE: You’ve been so naughty…
ELSA: Are you gonna punish me, daddy?
KYLE: You have to misbehave if you want me to punish you…
ELSA: Do you want me to lie to you?
KYLE: No. I want you to stop playing you’re such a good girl, because I know you’re not…
ELSA: I can be anything you want me to be…
They’d be holding each other, staring into each other, then Kyle would grow somber and lower his voice to a monotone.
KYLE: I know I’m a lot older than you. I can’t lose you. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. So, I give you some freedom. The least you can give me is complete honesty. Otherwise, I’d think you really have something to hide.
ELSA: Not hiding anything, babe. It was just an innocent dance.
KYLE: Was he a good dancer.

Mom stared him down and said: “Oh, yeah”, her eyes widened and brightened as she reminisced.
ELSA: And you know what they say about good dancers…
KYLE (intrigued): No, what do they say?
ELSA (teasingly): That they’re great lovers. Since they know how to move so well… Dancing is like fucking with your clothes on.
KYLE (with excitement): And, did he move well, baby?
ELSA (enticingly): Yes, daddy. Boy had some moves…
KYLE (chocking): Was he young?
ELSA: (reassuringly): Yeah, he was very young and virile -mom said, and as soon as she burst out laughing. Look at the things you make me say!

Kyle had grown silent again. Then he picked up the pace, as if introductions to the characters were no longer necessary. As they spoke, she began to untie his pants and let his manhood loose.
-How do you know that he was virile?
-You could tell, he was built and tall, handsome…
She was now graphically gesturing in front of his manhood, implying that the stranger dancing with her was well-endowed, in possession of a much bigger manhood than his. The conversation continued picking up in pace, as if there voices were in unison. Kyle wanted to know the details, so he played aloof:
-What else?
-What do you wanna know, daddy?
Mom then put him in her mouth.
-How did you know that he was “big”?
Mom stopped sucking him and answered:
-You could see the bulging under his pants…
-Did you touch him?
Then she stopped what she was doing and engaged him.
-No. Of course not. I just saw…
-What? What did you see?
-His thing, underneath the pants…
-Maybe he had a sock in there…
-Oh, no, daddy. That was no sock…
-How do you know?
-Well, you can’t help but to come into contact when you dance at one point or the other -mom said, darting her eyes around the room.
-So he got close. That close, eh?
-Yeah, he did.
She lowered her face, like a girl caught doing something bad. Kyle raised her up and pushed her face against the wall, then lifted her skirt and penetrated her.
-Is this what you wanted?
-Yes. Yes.

Kyle may have been passive, but he was by no means naive. Long before the night his young gorgeous wife had gone out, he hired a private detective, cheap as dirt, to follow her and keep him informed as to her whereabouts, the people she associated with and whatever transpired around her every step of the way. The detective, Hector, had advertised himself as an affordable, trust-worthy, effective agent who’d keep his clients satisfied in small case columns on local newspapers. But as the saying goes, cheap things come out to be very costly. Hector had little patience for thorough follow-up, his ethics were questionable, to say the least, and in more than one occasion he’d resort to extorting the unsuspecting victims he was hired to keep an eye on. Tired of working in the unrewarding field of security, first as a supervisor and then as a Fire Safety Director, he knew there was no way he could ever make a decent living making less than twenty dollars an hour. Hector was smart enough not to run into trouble with the law with his small-time ambition, and one day simply decided to try his luck as a private detective. The guy was just sleazy and lazy by nature, didn’t have the patience nor the brains to aspire to a more well-rounded academic education, and along the lines of the private security industry never got farther than being an F.S.D., making close to twenty dollars an hour. He fathered three children with two different women, had child-support obligations breathing down his neck and, as a sideshow, decided to take the state mandated test to become a private detective. All it required was a diploma and a clean criminal record. He had both, so that’s how he ended as a private detective. It turned out, he was good at it: following people around, photographing them, he made a living out of the suffering of others a fun profession. All he needed was a good camera, a second-hand car and his own demoralized vision of the world to follow suit.
He had a talent to spot people’s weaknesses, exploit them and move on unscathed. Though he sold himself cheap, he knew when he had something good to work on, manipulate his clients into heftier amounts of money, as he suspected nothing paid quite like revealing other people’s secret lives unto their loved ones.
Hector was like a vicious canine, once he spotted a piece of meat, he didn’t let go. He knew there was a legal procedure required if things escalated to the next level: divorce. So, instead of providing his clients with his findings, sometimes he opted to change sides and extort the other party, the one he was supposed to spy on. And this he did with Elsa. He could sense Kyle, a business man himself, wouldn’t buy into his extra curriculum extras, he’d pay what he had agreed to pay and that was that. So he approached Elsa. Initially, he wouldn’t blow his cover, just test the waters. With Elsa, it was easy. Beyond her constant nagging, she was a bored house wife, who had never had a taste of anything else in life, and knowing a thing or two about his victim really gave him an edge. He had been successful with women in the honey money face, always had a girl or two around, two ex wives, both had children with him and once a womanizer, always a womanizer. He knew how to infiltrate sets, women alone in clubs or bars were easy to game and prey on, and so he did. Somewhat good looking, he had a sense of style and knew how to intrigue women who were out to get theirs. And Elsa fit the type. It didn’t take him much to seduce her, though she was resistant to his advances initially, she felt flattered by the attention. He was the one who took her out to dance, not once or twice, the whole night. He took her home: her home. Treated her like a lady. He knew what the deal was: she’d go out again and he will know just where to find her.

Hector got mom pregnant with me. I never called him dad, he was never around enough for that. Kyle was the only father I ever knew. Even when he found I wasn’t really his kid, he took care of me and I felt loved by him no differently than he loved my half brother. Of course, I call him “half”, not because we had different fathers, no. We had only one father. I called him “half”, because I always felt I was so much more than him. Maybe I took after my real father, but I also took after the crafty business man who raised me.
There’s nothing noble in scarcity, and since early on, I saw that if I wanted to make it in life, I had to be willing to take risks.

There’s more dignity and healthy pride in negation. But being good is hard work and temptation is rampant and so easy to allow in. How we deal with our passions lays the foundation of our character. And so they knew, submit and blend in, and you’ll be treated like a good pet. Or rebel in a futile venture, and you’ll be squashed like a bug. Fear is the greatest motivator. It can, sometimes, paralyze you, so one ought to be mindful of subjects that are seemingly defiant, unable to move, because they can simply be under a whole lot of pain and, subsequently, under the spell of fear. If a girl doesn’t obey my voice command, then I’d make contact, firmly, to see if she reacts.
The place isn’t bad, there’s plenty of light and windows, rivers nearby, no contact with the outside world since it’s the last house up a steep hill. My dogs fend off any potential trespassers, and I have signs to stay out “live mines ahead”. So far, no one has ventured around here and I carry a shotgun and hunt around my property wild animals freely.
We had to be dragged here, there’s no traffic, no people one mile in any direction. Food wasn’t scarce, but it was given in small amounts, The girls would exercise, read, do things like cut each others’ nails and do each others’ hairs. Time to be themselves, by themselves, and we’d provide them with aphrodisiac herbs and mushrooms, drop E, cannabis hookah. They were cut from the world, surrounded by a field of random live mines that would blow any one’s legs off if tripped, should the electrified fence and the vicious pack of dogs fail to deter the potential intruder or escapee -by either electrocuting the perpetrator or have the subject bitten and chewed to pieces by my well-trained butcher dogs. Nina managed to escape and had some initial success, her story broke out among the fellow prisoner girls, and they had secretly rallied, lifted hopes, dared dream that there was a way out. And so he set out to prove her wrong, to make Nina an example and have her punished for her audacity, once she was captured in a neighboring town. She had defied the impenetrable fortress, roamed through dark forests and ventured into the first town she encountered, a few miles northeast. The wind was blowing, carrying in its womb a whirlpool of autumn’s leaves, and Nina knew that there was something awry about the way everyone around looked at her. No one tried to restrain her; no one showed the least concern about her. Worse than being overtaken, she felt as if she were dead, like a ghost there to see, and not to be seen. Feeling ignored, as if she didn’t exist, and free to do as she’d see fit, made her somehow insane. Nina had the urge to kneel and serve, but no one demanded anything of her. Instead of running away, like soldiers in hostile territory must always keep moving, she stayed around, subjected to the prying eyes of small town people, people who’d surely, secretly judge her from distance. Being indifferent to someone’s plight may be injury enough, no need to add the insult of passing judgment; then again, it was her attitude that contributed to the quiet outrage that unraveled.
Think of our immediate surroundings, a few miles ahead. Small town people rarely see anything different, their day by day is consumed by routine, their lives are confined to the limits of their options, so anything out of the extraordinary may be in and of itself reason enough to give their miserable existences meaning through gossip; secondly, had it been someone who actually had a healthy ego, someone who’d shoot back a dirty look and did not seem at ease in her own skin, someone who’d look down as you face them… nothing worse than being fortune’s clown, and Nina exhibited the submissive role prototype, it attracted only the wrong attention. Ever wonder why good girls and bad boys go together as good boys and bad girls? It’s the same reason why good boys and bad girls mix so well. In our business, even bad girls can be easily tamed under an authoritative figure, dominant men, too, sometimes love to be subdued because women have a submissive streak, it’s their dark nature. Why, then, are the weak attracted to the strong… day and light… man and woman… The reason is simple: polarities.
In every relationship, someone has to be in charge, compromising too much kills the passion, you need to either lead or be led. We see women of character tame their men, and that’s fine; if you’re the kind of man who still needs a mommy around, telling you what to do and how, so be it.
Of course, us modern men are more sensible creatures than our predecessors, each passing generation less animal-like, more god-like. And it is our women who suffer, because they itch for a centered, self-assured, strong-minded archetype. And this type isn’t apologetic, but it may be not necessarily mean that he or she is confrontational; like in Buddhist teaching of the middle path, we should have enough anger to dissuade others from engaging us in mindless tasks, fruitless conversations, the less we need of those around, the better. Some people thrive alone; they’re social loners, belong to a few good, their inner circle, their tribe. Women love the mysteriousness, the aplomb, the tact with which a man handles her. Eye contact is candy, and actively listening to their nonsense. She doesn’t mean what she says, exactly the way she says it; her message is encoded. Decode it with hints in the body language, you can ease yours and lower the intensity with which you approach each scenario, cool heads should always prevail. Sometimes, in order to keep the peace, you have to create war; peace is manufactured, see the alternative to being submissive, still get to do your thing and enjoy the gifts… of knowing there’s a price to pay if you misbehave and you’ll be taken care of so long as you obey. It’s how we raise healthy kids, except we’re perhaps somewhat more anal, therefore far more effective. They can’t call the police, and they can’t escape anywhere either.
Through conversation she can determine if you’re man enough for her, don’t disappoint her.
When her captors finally caught up with her, she was relieved to see them and flashed them a smile, she came out to meet them and intuited perhaps that if she had been capable of going that far, now going back to whatever awaited her -the punishment couldn’t possibly be as bad as that indifferent world she had just experienced. Pain made her real, and it made her connect with those around who were part of what now was to be her life. There was, as her captor had said, really no way out.

The world outside had become a estranged specter, full of uncertainties and devoid of meaning, crowds all around were never tuned to a common goal, of communal order and purpose. She had tasted discipline, and her existence covered meaning, as she escaped she wrote her master a letter in which she admitted defeat beforehand, and that her only wish was to have yet another adventure outside those walls, but that she knew there was really nothing she missed about the outside world.
All the girls have been marked as property and around these areas we all understand each other, everyone benefits, confidentiality is profitable. One of things was simple, show up with the girl and offer them up in exchange for silence, do so with some and suddenly everyone owed you, a code of silence. They’d tell you what goes on, call you, you have them in your hands. No need to explain; they feel they owe you that much. And they oblige. You have people in your hands when you do favors for them. But make sure they know they owe you. You can’t give and not expect to receive.

How did she get to escape, I wondered? I never let her on to my worries. No matter how secure a prison, there are always many ways to escape; it’s a metaphor about life. No matter how difficult your situation may be, there’s always a way out. You just haven’t figured it out yet.
Nina had given the dogs food with the sleepy medicine they gave the girls, and ran away assuming correctly that the explosive mines were mostly just part of a scary tactic. Of course, a few were real, but most weren’t; I couldn’t risk having an outsider kid be blown to pieces.
What about her upbringing? I failed to see where her rebelliousness came from. Nina had been a call girl who had a horrible fallout with an abusive pimp in her small town, and escaped to the big city, where she decided to offer her intimacy services to clients of her choosing. She’d find them in bars, gentleman’s clubs, in parks and museums, anywhere she’d go, but mostly online through websites and dating sites. Her stepfather had her mother internalized in a hospital after she asked if he was abusing her daughter. Nina hadn’t said anything until she saw her mom in the hospital bed, and that night at home her stepfather really put a beating on her. She didn’t denounce him; he promised to give her some money she had asked of him before, as usual he’d take advantage of her and then reward her somehow. She knew how to take pain and, more importantly, how to run away from it. She had proven her mettle. It was time to teach her a lesson she wouldn’t soon forget.

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