Bringing Home Flora
Well, wasn't this just peachy? Flora found herself dragging her feet -- or, more likely -- trying to stop herself from walking as her "owner" -- no, that's not the right word, but Flora was far too angry to think of something better -- marched her fighting and screaming to the car from the auction house. She wasn't one of the few slaves who went willingly -- in fact, she was far from willing and found herself being cuffed and basically carried to the car. How rude, she told herself, seething in anger. Fuck this. Fuck him. Fuck this whole situation. Her jaw tensed, an ugly look plastered across the soft features of the face she was graced with as she found herself staring at the door that could most likely give her freedom. Roderick wasn't in the car yet -- he was busy doing, well, whatever the fuck assholes like him did. She scooted over and managed to get her hands on the latch to open the door (hey, it wasn't the first time she's escaped, y'know), and went to push it open when Mr. I own you best shut up and listen had decided to slip inside and shut the door. The audacity he had when he locked the doors, just to be on the safe side. Flora sat there, glaring daggers at him, listening as he talked but could care less either way. She wasn't interested in him or his slutty girls or whatever the fuck he had at home. He could do his worst, but the only thing Flora would do would sit there and be angry, aggressive and downright rude. That was the only thing she could be. Her eyes only slightly narrowed as he spoke going on about this and that, bullshit and fucking and who the fuck cared? She didn't. To put out the clear disinterest she had, she turned her attention from him and towards the outside. Maybe she could hit her head and break the window. She wondered how thick the glass on the car was, ignoring the conversation completely. Tell him about her skills? No thanks. Give him respect? Definitely not on her list. Oh, wait, what was that? He wanted to help her? At that, she rudely, and quite obnoxiously, snorted. Sure. A man who wanted to help her and clearly had a harem of females at his fingertips -- no thank you. She was fine with living the rest of her life as an angry old woman in the slave house pens. She'd much rather prefer it than this fucker. How could she clearly and focusly inform him to "go fuck himself on a dildo" without sounding like a brat, but a well informed adult? After all, she was eighteen, right? She had to be an adult. So she did what she did best. She plastered a sweet, almost innocent smile on her face as she turned to him, her eyes locking with his. With one silent breath, she said the following, her voice clearly angry, but her features defining otherwise. Such a liar she was, at least visibly. It was until the cuffs came off and the voice betrayed her. "Perhaps you should go take your ass to the other male you were fighting with for me, and make sure he sticks his penis where it belongs. Perhaps you'll find yourself looking at this situation in a very, very different light. How desperately she wanted to add that he should stop his annoying yammering like a puppy without a master. She was starting to form that headache again, and the anger that was pooling up from her core didn't make it any easier to control her actions. In fact, it just made it harder.