Summary: Mafia marriages aren't about love, but that doesn't mean you have to have low expectations for your future husband.
A/N: Reader is big, tall, female. No other physical descriptors used.
Warnings: Body shaming. Please let me know if I missed any!
In the game that is genetics you know you've lost. Most women take after their mother in terms of build. You took after your father. While any man would kill to be so tall and broad, it was social suicide for a woman.
You'd gotten your first taste of that when your "friends" went on a shopping spree for their birthday and you were the only one unable to try on any clothes as they were all too small. You'd grown too big for your mother's clothes and shoes by the time you were 13. None of the big name labels ever carried the latest fashion in your size. You'd had to stop trying because of the bile that rose in your throat every time the store assistant saw you come in with a look of fear, or worse, contempt.
Money could do so many things, but it couldn't make your body socially acceptable. Not without major surgeries that you were simply not willing to undergo.
Besides, at least a woman of your size wouldn't have to worry about the old men in your father's syndicate making unwanted advances. They prefer the small, petite girls that they actually have a chance of overpowering.
Still, a woman of your status was expected to marry well for your father's business. You tried, honestly you did, to get the attention of someone who would make father look good. You know better than to expect love, of course, but it would be nice to find someone who didn't immediately dismiss you when they saw you weren't wearing heels but were still eye level with them.
Honestly, the temptation to give in to the men who wanted you to step on them was getting harder and harder to fight. They'd promise you money, jewelry, custom made clothing and lingerie, just let them use your body how they wanted. All the while they made it clear you would just be a sex toy to them, not a person. You know love isn't an option but respect shouldn't be so hard to find.
It was quite the duality to have a body that was simultaneously seen as "unfit" and also fetishized.
So it was that, when your father called you into his office to tell you there had been offer for your hand, you were surprised and nervous.
"He's a former federal agent who helped our family get through some dicey times," Father explains. "He's out of the legit game, early retirement or whatever. But he's willing to continue helping us out with his connections so long as he gets you."
"I understand, Father," you nod. "Though I'm surprised you trust him enough. He betrayed his agency, why wouldn't he betray the family?"
"That's another reason I'm giving you to him. I trust you and I know where your loyalties lie."
"We'll probably have to come up with some new phrases," you nod.
"That's my girl," Father smiles. "He's asked you to meet him at your future home. Says he wants to get your opinion on things so he can get things renovated or fixed up before the wedding."
"That's...quite considerate of him," you blink. "What's his name?"
"August Walker."
The car pulls up to the townhouse you'll be moving into after the wedding. The exterior is quite plain but, if Mr. Walker can be expected to keep his word, you'll have a say in changing that.
When your car door opens, you're surprised to be greeted by your future husband, offering his hand to help you out of your seat.
"Thank you," you smile softly as you take his hand.
Stepping out of the car, you make sure to not put too much of your weight onto him, forever mindful that many cannot handle your size. But there is a strength in his arm that makes you wonder if he could.
Mr. Walker kisses the back of your hand and your cheeks heat up, unused to such gentlemanly behavior.
"I know this isn't a mansion or a penthouse, but I do hope the townhouse will be sufficient for you," he smiles. "Especially after all of your requested changes are made. I've got Mr. Carter, a local construction supervisor whom I trust, and who your father recommended, already inside, ready to take notes."
"Thank you, Mr. Walker."
"August, please. We will be married after all, and I would prefer my wife call me by my first name."
"I understand," you nod.
His lip twitches and you're not sure if it's in amusement or annoyance.
"Shall we?" he gestures to the front door.
"Please."
When you're inside, it's clear the townhouse is an older construction and you feel a slight thrill. You admire the custom work done that have withstood time. The contemporary style of everything being sleek, shiny and white has never appealed to you. Testing the waters of your fiance's promises to listen to you, you make sure to state aloud the fixtures you'd like to keep. You're pleased to not hear any arguments from Walker on the matter.
As the tour continues, you grow bolder, asking about replacing things that can't be kept with something similar in terms of style. Mr. Carter says he knows a very good woodworker who can provide some estimates and you find yourself smiling.
Every so often you catch a glimpse of Walker and you swear he's smiling more as you're going on.
"And now, for the final part of the tour," Walker takes your hand again, "the main reason I sought this house."
When he opens the final door you enter into a two-story tall library, making you gasp. You almost feel like Belle from Beauty and the Beast.
"The shelves are empty, waiting for the books you currently own and, hopefully, there will be enough room for future books you should seek to purchase," August informs you. "My own books will remain in my office and this will entire library will be yours."
"August..." you whisper.
"I have seen other men attempt to woo you with gold and riches," he explains. "But you are no Atalanta, distracted by shiny things. You are a woman who craves intelligence more than money or power. Our lives are not given to expectations of love, but having a wife I can respect? That's a very good start, in my book."
You beam at him, almost teary eyed, "and having a husband who can genuinely make me smile is far more than I could have ever expected. Thank you, August."
Warnings: sub/dom, mentions of subspace, pet names, sir kink, tension, teasing, thigh riding
Catch up here: Walkered (3): Liberation
Walkered masterlist
“Go ahead, princess. I want to watch you make yourself cum. If I like what I see, you’ll be mine forever.” August leaves no room for discussion. He looks at you, his eyes darker than usual.
August doesn’t tell you that he’d never let you slip through his fingers, but he loves the power play too much.
Your heart races looking at August. He’s still the man ordering you around and yelling at you, but now, you feel grounded and safe with him.
“Don’t leave me waiting,” he warns. His hands grip your hips a little tighter to press your bare sex against the rough fabric of his slacks. A reminder that he’s in charge.
“Yes, Sir,” you shakily reply.
“Start slow,” his voice is so low and commanding that you are about to cum right there and then. “I want to see every spark I ignite. If you want to stop, say red. That should do for now.”
“Red,” you reply, earning a low growl from August. “Understood, Sir.”
You bite your lip, hesitating for another heartbeat before you begin to move. You’re grinding against the solid muscle beneath you, moaning loudly as you feel your clit start to thrum.
Your orgasm builds quickly, and you can already feel the familiar warmth spread through your abdomen. August watches your every move, eyes locked on your face.
Right when you pick up the pace to chase your orgasm, he tightens his hold on your hips again, holding you still. “You won’t get to cum so fast. Do it slower.”
You whine but obediently nod. August is in charge, and if you want this relationship to work out, you must show him how good you can be for him.
August loosens his hold on your hips, allowing you to ride his thigh harder. The pressure is just right. Your breath is coming in short bursts. You close your eyes, whimpering as the high you were chasing was taken away from you again.
His hand comes up to your face to cup your cheek. He only looks at you, smirking as you slow down again.
“Good girl,” he praises, his voice softening for only a moment. You fall against his chest, frustrated and aching for release, but the praise makes you feel warm.
He doesn’t stop, though. August gave you a moment to calm, only for him to tell you to keep grinding. Again. And again. And again.
He wants you to break; you don’t cum without permission. August just stares at you, calculating, waiting for you to break. But you don’t.
“That’s a good girl for me,” he murmurs, gently stroking your sides as you are so close to your orgasm it almost hurts.
“Please, August... I need it.”
You are about to say red when he looks you in the eyes and tells you, “Come for me.”
You surge forward, riding with abandon, until your orgasm finally shatters you. Weak and exhausted, you fall against his chest again, crying silently.
August held you close, his hands gently stroking your back and hair. “You did so well,” he whispers, pressing soft kisses to the top of your head. He waits for you to come down and listens to your breathing.
You sigh against him, allowing yourself to bask in his warmth and care. “I did well?” You murmur, wondering if he tries to tease you again. “Really?”
“Very well, Y/N. No other woman was so good for me. Ever,” he says, reassuringly. “Now, let’s get you to bed. It was a long and exhausting day for you.”
August ran a warm bath for you. He helped you eat and rehydrate before carrying you inside his bedroom. You’re the first sub allowed to stay with him. August usually brings them home after a session.
“You’ll stay with me,” he simply states. There’s no room for arguments. August found his perfect submissive and won’t give up on you. “Tomorrow, we will get more of your things. I’ll handle your lease and everything.”
“You want me to move in here…permanently. I thought this was just…” You don’t know what to think. August is the dominant you were looking for, but he’s still the man who hated you the most not so long ago.
“I need to know you’re safe all the time. At work, I can keep an eye on you. After work, it’d be difficult if you are not near me. I can’t have anything happen to you,” he says, joining you on the bed. August possessively wraps himself around your body. He buries his face in your neck, teasing your soft spot with his lips. “No man can even lay his eyes on you…”
Warning: possible adultery, neglect, angry men, dark elements….
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: August Walker, side of Andrew Barber
Summary: You find a cold reception at your new job, but it’s not much better than your home life.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
The salad’s still in the fridge. The one you made Andy. The croutons are soggy and the lettuce is getting slimy. You wish you’d noticed before you prepped for tomorrow. At least the quinoa will keep longer.
You go to bed with the forgotten container on your mind. Did he forget or does he just not care? Each night you sleep alone and feel further and further from your own husband. You don’t know him anymore.
When you married, he told you what he wanted and you became that. Because you love him. You kept a clean house, you learned how to cook the things he likes; healthy things. Salads, pesto, consomme, all the fancy things from scratch, never from a box or a bag. Now he doesn’t even touch those things.
Or you.
You roll over and sigh. You close your eyes. You’re almost through the week. That’s something you can be proud of. Maybe even he will when you get your first cheque and let him know you can help with repair on the garage door.
Andy’s snoring beside you when your alarm goes off. Your head swirls with drowsiness as your unconsciousness sticks like sludge. He nudges you meanly with his knuckles.
You slap your hand over on the nightstand and silence the alarm. You sit up and bobble. You rub your eyes with the heels of your hand.
“I’ll get coffee going…” you speak through the frog in your throat.
You slide off the bed as he pulls his pillow over his head. His clothes from the night before are on the floor. You pick them up and put them in the hamper before you go.
You brew a pot of coffee. You hesitate by the counter. You won’t bother with breakfast. You’re not very hungry and you’ve wasted enough food.
You take a cup of coffee and drink it as you get ready for the day. Dusty grey trousers with an elastic band, a plain white blouse, and a knit vest over it in a similar shade to your bottoms. You step into your orthotic black flats and stare into the mirror.
More than Andy has changed. You’re older. A few new lines. Bigger. You have to wear the vest to hide how the blouse tugs around the buttons. Maybe with the extra money you can sign up for a gym membership. Working out at home never worked well for you.
You go back to the kitchen. Andy is drinking coffee and rubbing his head. He quickly drops his hand and blacks out the screen of his phone on the counter. He grumbles above his mug.
“How’s work?” You ask since he offers nothing.
“It’s work.” He says.
“Yeah.” You pause and watch him. He doesn’t look at you. “I think my job’s going okay.”
“Oh…? That’s good.” He intones dully. He checks his phone again. “I should get ready.”
You let him go. How are things so awkward with your own husband? You swear, your boss is easier to handle. Mr. Walker at least is blunt and direct.
Andy doesn’t take the food. Again. You take it with you. You’ll figure something out.
You get to headquarters and check in with your credentials. You continue up the elevator and shove your lunch into the fridge. You take the time as the coffee machine churns to get yourself focused.
You knock at Mr. Walker’s door before you enter. He’s inside, already scowling. He has a tablet in his hands, tapping at it in frustration. You put his coffee down. He doesn’t look up but he does thank you. His grizzled tone crawls into your ears. Did Andy even thank you for the coffee?
You go to the chair still against the wall and sit. You check the calendar in the secured phone app.
“Mr. Walker,” you pipe up cautiously as you lower the phone.
His eyes flick up.
“Is there anything you need for your meeting?” You ask.
His eyes cling to you and the corner of his lips twitch. “Nothing…” he looks back down. He sits up straight and you notice his shoulder is still off kilter. “Thank you.”
Footsteps echo from further down the hall. You listen through the wall as Walker sighs at his tablet. There’s an out of key whistling that grows closer with the slap of soles. Someone knocks at the door.
“August. Toodaloo.”
You recognise the voice. It’s the agent you dealt with the first day. Fowler. Walker growls and rubs his cheek.
“Damnit,” he growls.
You stand up and he watches you with a furrow. You don’t know what you’re doing either. You go to the door and open it only a little.
“Agent Fowler, is it?” You greet.
“Hey, there she is. You made it past the first day,” he puts his hand on the door frame and leans on one foot, trying to see past you. “Where’s Walker?”
“Busy.” You say. “I can pencil you in for later.
Fowler scoffs and eyes you up and down. “Excuse me?”
“He’s busy preparing for a meeting.” You insist. “Does one work for you?”
“Wow…” he whistles again. “Doll, I’m in that meeting too. Let me in.”
“I can’t. He’ll see you in the meeting.” Your heart pounds.
His eyes narrow and he pokes his tongue in his cheek. He rocks on his feet and drags his hand off the door frame. He nods.
“Hard ass,” he clucks. “Just like him.”
You don’t budge. You wait until he saunters away. You exhale and slowly shut the door. You turn back and sit down in the swivel chair. Walker is watching you.
“Sir, I…”
“Great job.” He says flatly and sits back, easing as he puts his gaze back to the tablet. “Guy’s unbearable.” He reaches for his cup. “Even when I have my coffee.”
You swallow and hold back a smile. You know that from someone like him, that’s a big deal. Hell, even from your husband, those words would make your day. Or any sort of acknowledgement or praise.
You wince. Don’t compare them. That’s home, this is work. Keep it separate. This is your thing. Your time away.
Maybe here, you’ll remember who you were before Andy made you into this boring cyborg.
A/N: Written for the June Jukebox Scribbles. Prompt: Play That Funky Music - Wild Cherry / “Til you die?”
Word Count: 206
"Another late night?" you sigh over the phone, already knowing the answer.
"I'm afraid so," August confirms. "We just got a breakthrough in the Jimmy Ford case."
"I can't remember the last time you were home for dinner," you whine.
You know it's unfair. As a CIA agent, August warned you there would be a large number of nights away from home. National security took precedence over your relationship. But you also warned him you would be pouting, at least on occasion.
For his part, August actually appreciates the pouting. It means you care about him. You want to be with him. If you ever stopped, he'd worry.
"I've made sure my calendar is clear for our anniversary next month," he promises. "If things go well, maybe we can get a day or two extra for it."
"I'll plan for the one day," you giggle. "Don't want to have to cancel plans."
"If we do get that extra day or two we'll be spending it in bed."
"Dirty man," you tease. "Just promise me you won't overwork yourself in the meantime? No sense in working 'til you die. Especially when you could be coming home to a fox like me."
Warnings: Weapons deal, threat/intimidation, dark flirting, dangerous tension
Words: 270 words
A/N: Entry for June Jukebox Scribbles over @societynsoelsscribbles
Prompt: June 8th - Living La Vida Loca - Ricky Martin/ “Like a bullet to your brain.”
The warehouse smelled like oil, saltwater..
You had brought August Walker for one reason.
Not to negotiate. Not to charm.
He was there to stand behind you and make your words heavier.
Instead, he stepped forward.
“The price doubled,” he announced loudly
Every head turned.
Your smile stayed fixed, but something cold slid neatly into place behind your ribs.
Across the warehouse, the broker stilled. His men did too. August remained calm, broad and silent now, like he had not just taken a knife to weeks of careful work.
You let the quiet stretch until it became painful.
Then you looked up at him.
“Did I ask you to speak?”
His gaze cut to yours. “I’m handling it.”
“No,” your voice soft enough that others couldn’t hear. “You’re failing at the one job I brought you here to do.”
A muscle jumped in August’s jaw.
“Back off,” he murmured, not looking away. “Unless you want to burn every bridge in this room.”
You smiled then, slow and sharp.
“If I have to do your job for you, Walker, will be messy, like a bullet to your brain messy.”
The threat settled between you.
His eyes darkened, not with fear. You would have been disappointed if it were fear.
No, August looked at you like he was deciding whether to kill you or kiss you.
One of the broker’s men shifted.
August’s hand moved first, barely lifting his jacket to reveal the gun at his ribs.
The room froze.
You did not look away from him, this was the moment. You weren’t backing down.
“Original price,” you called, done with male bullshit.
Warning: possible adultery, neglect, angry men, dark elements….
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: August Walker, side of Andrew Barber
Summary: You find a cold reception at your new job, but it’s not much better than your home life.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
“Mr. Walker.” You enter the office only after he calls for you to.
You approach carefully and set down the coffee cup in front of him. He squints at it and narrows his eyes. He points at the logo and tilts his head.
“I was grabbing one for myself. I figured… wouldn’t have to make a mess here.” You explain.
You didn’t think twice about it. As you sat in the drive through, the extra three bucks for a second coffee was instinct. You felt wrong showing up with only one for yourself.
He sits back. He glances at your empty hands. You look down.
“I left it in the kitchen. Didn’t wanna spill in here.” You put your hands behind you. Oh no. You feel your pants squeezing around your stomach. “Is there anything I can do to get the day started, sir?”
He looks down and clucks. He shakes his head. He rolls his chair closer to his desk and leans on his elbow, then jolts and sits up. He rubs his shoulder and snarls at his large monitor.
You back up and resume your vigil against the wall. You look down at the floor and shift, trying to cover the scuffed toes of your brown flats with the wide legs of your trousers. You hold in a sigh.
You hoped this job would help you feel more useful. It just feels like you’re just as unwanted here as at home. Despite every effort, you just can’t find a place for yourself.
Mr. Walker groans and shifts in his seat. He winces, thick neck straining, jaw tensing. He moves his arm gingerly and leans on the other. You look away before you can get caught staring.
Once he finishes the coffee, you clear away the cup. As you go to throw it away, you sip your own lukewarm drink waiting in the kitchen. You don’t take too long but as you come back to the office, the door is open and your boss is gone.
You stand by the wall and sway nervously. Maybe he’s going to talk to HR and get you tossed out. No one wants a shadow looming around and doing nothing.
A strange noise tickles your nerves. You turn and watch Mr. Walker push a chair through the door. He turns it toward you and rolls it up right beside you. He doesn’t look at you or say a word. He just points to the seat and marches back to his own.
He sits. You do too. Cautiously.
“Thank you, sir.” You say.
He doesn’t answer. You fold your hands and tap your toe anxiously. Silence fills the space and scrapes in your ears. You can hear his stomach growl and he clears his throat as he taps on his mouse.
He finally says something as the clock hits twelve. He tells you to take a break. You finish your cold coffee as you wander outside of the oppressive confidential hallways.
You don’t know this area well. There’s a familiar logo down at the corner. You head down to the pharmacy and drop your empty cup in a bin near the door. You stroll through the bright white aisles as 80s music drones around you.
Not much of a selection. You grab what you can find and pay at the counter. You can only imagine why the ridiculous thing is on clearance.
You head back to work. Hopefully you’re not so early that you infringe on Mr. Walker’s time.
You wait out the hour as you unpack your purchase and heat it up in the microwave. You take it out as the hot beans sewn into the soft sheath warm your hand. You return to Mr. Walker’s office and knock. He grunts.
You let yourself in as he stays behind his monitor. Your stomach swirls. You slowly lower the stuffed oxen with its fuzzy mane and try to hide it behind your back. This was stupid.
“What’re you hiding?” He asks without looking up.
You clear your throat and jerk in surprise. You cross the office and slowly reveal the heat bag in the form of the furry muskox. Your lips slant.
“For your shoulder.”
He slowly tears his eyes from the monitor and stares at the creature. “My shoulder?”
You bite your lip and nod. “Sorry, sir. I saw the way… you’re favouring it. I thought heat might help.”
He’s silent as he considers the animal. “Why?”
“No one should be in pain and… I guess I need something to do. I’m here to help you.” You look down and turn over the ox. “Unless you don’t want it. If I’m… I can hand in my resignation if I’m in the way. I thought…” you shake your head. “Sorry, sir.”
He taps his fingers lightly on the space bar without pressing it. He reaches over and puts his hand under yours. He touches the ox with his thumb and slowly slides it from your grasp. He looks it over then lays it on his shoulder; balancing it there.
He sits back and his shoulder slackens, just a little. He hums.
“Appreciated.” He turns his attention back to the screen.
“It’s… nothing.” You go back to the chair and sit.
It’s quiet again. You swivel a few times then stop yourself before you can annoy him. Your eyes wander around the office and you twiddles your thumbs.
“Barber,” he calls you by your married name.
“Sir?”
“If you’re… not too busy, another coffee?”
“Yes, sir.” You stand. “Anything else I can get you? Have you eaten?”
He doesn’t answer. You wince.
“I… I should mind my business. Habit.” You correct yourself and head for the door.
You leave and exhale as the door shuts. It’s something. Just a little bit of progress.
Coffee. As small as that is, it’s not nothing. If he can’t find a use for you, you’ll just need to find it for yourself.
Warnings: This will include dark elements, abuse, trauma, neglect, kidnap, including non/dubcon. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: August Walker
Summary: a miserable situation is switched for another. (another wife-buying fiend)
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
The smell of fear is pungent, laced into your sweat and that of the bodies around you. Your shoulders ache and your fingers throb. The binding at your wrists cuts into the skin as the blindfold chafes across your brow.
Several of you, you don't know how many, were taken from the larger warehouse to this new space. You don't know what it is. It's not as humid or pungent as before, though you feel just as grimy.
One of the women whimpers. Not for the first time. Footsteps, one set bare, the other thickly soled cross the room and the door slams. You flinch as yet another squeaks.
"Shut up," a man growls.
You keep your head down and twine your fingers together. The most you can do to protect yourself is be silent. You learned that real quick.
When you got there, with a group of maybe three others, one of them refused to be quiet. She screamed and barked at your captors. When the gagged her, she kicked at the walls until they dragged her out and brought her back days later. She didn't make any noise after that. She couldn't eat either. Not anything solid.
Soft sniffles come from one side of you. You haven't cried at all. As scared as you've been, it feels like that would only doom you what good is crying but to give you a headache; or worsen the one you already have from lack of sleep and food.
You sit and wait. That's all you ever do. Every couple of days, you're matched around between men across tarmac you can't see. You never leave the warehouse without your eyes covered and hands tied.
Trapped with you is that old life you don't think about. That quiet existence. You never bothered anyone. Never got in the way. You did all you could to keep to yourself. How could this happen to you?
The door opens again. You can tell the other woman didn't come back. The thick soles stomp around the room. The man whispers to another.
"...not too happy..."
You lock your elbows and close your eyes. You hold your breath as he marches around again. You sense him come close.
"Up," he nudges your leg with his boot.
You don't hesitate, though it isn't easy to get up. You lean forward and get onto your knees. You're dizzy from the suddenly rush of blood.
He grabs your elbow and forces you to your feet. He shoves you ahead. "Walk."
You walk. It's disorienting without your vision. You're pushed and pulled until you're through the door, then angled down the hallway you entered from.
You're stopped again. The man sighs and knocks. He doesn't wait for a response before opening the door. He sneers. "Forward."
You cautiously step ahead, three steps before your escorts grunt tells you to stop. You shiver, the sleep shirt you've been wearing for almost months exposing your thighs and arms. A set of steps approach you and you cower.
There's a noise. The click of a tongue behind teeth. You wince but don't make a sound as someone grabs your chin and turns your head back and forth. The large hand pushes your head up and a hot breath fans over you.
He lets go but grabs you again. Lower down. Two hands grope your chest and you clench your fist around a single finger.
He sniffs and grips your shoulder, spinning you. He clamps down on your waist, then your hips, then gropes your ass. You put your head down in shame. No matter if you want it to end, you can do nothing to stop it.
A rumbling growl makes you gulp. One hand trails up your back to your neck and pinches. The unseen man bends you over, his other hand moving to your hip again. He stands behind you as he squeezes.
There's a hum as he releases you. You stay bent, shaking. You can sense movement but don't react to it.
You're grabbed by your arm and forced uptight. Before you can prepare yourself, your lifted off your feet. You're stomach rests heavy on something thick; a shoulder.
Your accoster turns and your head swims. A hand grips you firmly on one hip, the other on your thigh. You squirm but quickly still yourself. Maybe they're taking you back... Does it matter?
You jostle with the motion of your carrier. Fear courses through you. This is different. You just know it.
You're taken blindly away. You know when you're outside by the warmth of the mid afternoon sunshine. It gives you little comfort.
Finally he stops. There's a click and your body swings of the shoulder. You land on something hard and then you're shut in.
You gasp, the first noise you've made in weeks. Maybe longer. You're great pounds as footsteps hit the tarmac.
The subtle shift then the whir in of an engine confirms your assumptions. You're on the trunk of a car. You bite down on a sob. The last time that happened, you were brought to this horrible place to be caged like cattle.
