“Betcha she likes it up the ass,” Corey says.
“Who would want to pork her?” Brett counters.
“There might be someone desperate enough out there to do it. Maybe Dave would cream on her tits at the very least.”
They laugh and laugh at that. Who the hell is Dave? Is he the last member of the Mutineers? Because Corey is one of them. There’s no doubting that.
Brett lets his hand fall away, but then he pinches my ass. “Definitely carries a little extra junk in the trunk.”
“Not enough here for us to call her Pillsbury Dough Girl, though,” Corey says, poking my stomach.
For I don't know how long, they criticize and critique every part of my body. Nothing is good enough for them, not that I care. I'm not here to provide them entertainment or to give them hard-ons and definitely not to suck or fuck them. They're crude, vulgar, demeaning. Their harassment is verbal, physical, and sexual. Based on the way they'd treated me on day one has me wondering if they've ever escalated things to the point of raping a girl or even gang-raping her. I'm sure they would claim it consensual if a girl worked up the courage to speak up about the assault. Not that I think many would rat them out considering who they were. Andrea's right. They don't just pretend to run the place. For the most part, they do.
But even though they’re touching me and their words are cruel, I’m mostly unfazed, at least for now. I’ve retreated into my mind as I’ve done so many times before in the past. Here, I’m safe. It doesn’t matter what I hear or see. I’m removed from my body.
I’m removed from my emotions.
I’m removed from my thoughts.
Brett and Corey, they are nothing to me.
It doesn’t matter what they say, how much they mock me. I refuse to say anything, refuse to react at all, refuse to give them what they want.
Fear.
I know all about men who try to use fear to their benefit, and I will not give in.