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would he caress me where I ached to be touched until I begged him to take me?
    Either way, I was screwed. Perhaps literally.
    Footsteps. I heard footsteps.
    My spine tensed. My heart raced. My fingers curled. He was coming.
    My breath caught in my throat as the sound grew closer, louder. He was in the room now. Almost within touch. I tried to twist my body, to look back.
    I couldn’t see him yet.
    Closer. Closer.
    I strained. I stretched.
    At last I saw someone. It wasn’t him. Oh God, it wasn’t him.
    A red-hot wave of shame raced through my body. Someone was seeing my bare ass and back. That someone clasped the buckle of one of my wrist cuffs and unfastened it. My arm fell limply to my side, the blood having drained from it, making it heavy and numb. I shook it out as I watched my savior unbuckle the other wrist.
    She was a female, dressed in a simple uniform, similar to the plane’s flight attendant. Black pants. White button-down shirt. Black jacket.
    She was attractive. Slim. Petite. She had a friendly face.
    She was the woman who had greeted me when I’d first arrived. The one I’d assumed was the concierge.
    As the blood returned to my arms, I was able to cross them over my body, one holding the front of my  tank top against my chest the other pressing the remains of my skirt over my nude mound.
    “Come with me,” she said, her words in a heavily-accented, but completely understandable, English.
    “Thank you.” A little wobbly, I shuffled after her, letting her lead me through the enormous house.
    She said nothing as we traveled down wide corridors and through rooms full of gorgeous furnishings. At last I recognized where I was. She opened my door for me, stepping inside before shutting it behind her. “There are fresh clothes in the closet.” She opened the door to show me. One look at those clothes and I knew they weren’t mine.
    “That’s not my stuff,” I told her.
    “Yes. Your things have been stored for safe keeping. They will be returned to you at the end of the week.”
    My things had been taken away? Why? What the hell did he do that for? He’d taken my clothes? My underwear? My make up?
    My phone!
    My ID.
    My passport.
    My teeth gritted. I couldn’t stop myself; my anger blasted out. “He stole my things. Why? Why would he do that?” I demanded.
    Unfazed, the woman motioned to the closet. “ Señor Ramos has provided ample garments for you to wear during your visit.”
    “That’s not the point!” I quivered as another fresh wave of rage smashed through me.
    That bastard had stripped me of everything. My freedom to leave. My clothing. My phone. My dignity. I despised him more than I’d ever hated a human being before.
    My eyes began to burn. I lifted my trembling hands to hide them. I didn’t want this strange woman to see me cry. It was bad enough she’d seen me practically naked. I was humiliated enough as it was.
    A second later soft and warm draped across my shoulders. Without opening my eyes, I grabbed the front of the garment, a robe, I imagined, and clenched it tightly in my fists. I could hide my body. But I couldn’t hide my shame, my confusion, my anger, or my fear. I felt hands smoothing my hair back from my face, tying something around the long tresses.
    “Come, sit.” The woman used gentle hands to steer me toward the bed.
    I was blind, tears blurring my vision. I blinked through them, gaze fixed to the floor, as I let her guide me to the bed.
    “Sit. Please,” she coaxed.
    I sat. My nose was burning now too, and runny, thanks to the tears leaking from my eyes. I dragged my hand across my face, under my nose.
    The soft scuff of a tissue being pulled from a cardboard box raked over my raw, frazzled nerves.
    “My name is Adela.” She placed the tissues in my hand. “I have been in your position. A long time ago. Señor Ramos’s father brought me here, just like you, to be his puta , his whore. I was afraid and ashamed at first. But it was okay. And once he died,