The island

It was cold beneath her knees. Not cold like the air conditioning coming down from the high ceilings of the living room, but cold like something that absorbs, that swallows. Candy felt the chill creep up her thighs, settling all the way to her femurs, and for a moment, in despair, she thought that if she stayed still long enough, the floor would swallow her.

He didn't move. He couldn't. The red velvet collar tightened around his throat with every breath, a constant reminder that the air entering his lungs was permitted, not obligatory. He had learned that lesson during the selection process, in those weeks he would never reveal to anyone. Inhale slowly. Exhale even more slowly. Let the velvet do its work.

The candy pink bikini was pulled down to her hips, the fabric rolled into a tight band that marked the skin above her hipbone. Rosa had pulled it down with two fingers, without asking, without looking at her, as you do with something that already belongs to you.

"Breathe," Rosa said. Her voice was velvety, too, but of a different kind: the silk that hides the steel beneath. "If you tense up, the needle will break. And if the needle breaks, Master Leroy will get angry. And if Master Leroy gets angry..." Her voice trailed off, hanging in the air like cigar smoke.

Candy nodded. Or rather, she tried to nod: the collar made it look more like a grimace of disapproval.

From the leather armchair, ten feet away, came the slow crackle of a puff of smoke. Mr. Leroy hadn't moved yet. He sat with his legs spread, the cigar between his index and middle fingers, his black eyes fixed on her like two gun barrels. The skin of his face was shiny under the warm light of the lamps, and the gold ring on his right hand occasionally caught a reflection, a brief flash that seemed like a signal.

Candy lowered her gaze. She hadn't been ordered to look at him. She hadn't yet been ordered to do anything, and it was precisely that nothingness that oppressed her more than any command.

The tattoo artist was a massive black man, with shoulders as broad as doors and hands so large they could completely encompass an arm. He was setting up his instrument on a metal trolley, and every time he touched a component—the cartridge, the sterile cloth, the Vaseline—the metallic sound bounced off the marble walls and came back amplified. He hadn't said a word yet. Perhaps he never would.

Then he pressed the switch.

The buzzing filled the room. It wasn't loud, it was worse. It was a sound that penetrated the bones, that penetrated the skin even before the needle, a warning the body learned to fear before it even felt the pain. Candy felt the muscles in her neck tighten. She felt her toes curl against the marble.

"There," Rosa murmured, lowering her hand. "Good girl. Do you feel how you're shaking? It's normal. They were all shaking."

Rosa's fingers brushed the smooth skin of Candy's groin, just above the base of her thigh. It was a light, almost affectionate touch: her fingers traced a slow, unhurried circle, as if drawing something only she could see. Candy felt her skin react. She couldn't help it. Every hair on her body had been shaved, waxed, buffed until it was silky smooth, and that bare skin had become something she could feel completely, something that no longer had any barriers.

"Do you know why you touch yourself here?" Rosa asked, her voice low, close to his ear. "Because it's the only part of you that still belongs to you. And soon it won't be anymore."

The buzzing grew closer.

Candy closed her eyes. She opened them immediately, she didn't want to, she couldn't lose control, not in front of them. She looked ahead, toward the point where the pale marble met the dark wall, and counted the seconds. One. Two. Three.

The cold.

The first touch of the needle was cold, a point of ice on her left hip, just above the bone. No pain, not yet. Just cold and the precise pressure of something entering where nothing had ever entered before. Candy inhaled. The collar tightened around her throat. She exhaled.

Then the buzzing changed tone and the cold turned to fire.

"Ah—" It escaped her. Not a cry. A small, muffled sound that faded against the red velvet.

"Shhh," Rosa said, and her hand rested flat on Candy's stomach, warm and firm. "Like this. Breathe into my hand. Don't think about the needle. Think about me."

Candy obeyed. She inhaled, and her belly swelled against Rosa's palm. She exhaled, and the palm remained there, and for a moment, just for a moment, the pain became something bearable, something that could be tolerated instead of being tolerated.

The needle worked. The tattoo artist said nothing, asked nothing, didn't warn. He traced lines on her skin with the patience of someone who's done it a thousand times, and every time Candy tensed, he waited, motionless, the needle firmly against her flesh, until her body surrendered and relaxed again.

"Guardia," said Rosa.

Candy looked down. On her hip, beneath the veil of Vaseline and the first strokes of black ink, something was taking shape. A curved line. An outline. The beginning of a pattern she knew: one she'd seen on every girl in the village, on Rosa's neck, on the girls' buttocks at the pool, everywhere.

The black dick.

She watched it grow under her skin, piece by piece, and something inside her contracted and opened at the same time. It was horrible. It was exactly what she had wanted.

"Do you like it?" Rosa asked, a smile in her voice. "I know you do. I've seen it on everyone's faces. That moment when they realize there's no going back." Her hand slid lower, along her inner thigh, stopping a finger's width from the hem of her bikini. "There's no going back, Candy. Do you understand?"

“Yes,” Candy whispered.

"Yes, what?"

“Yes, ma’am.”

Rosa laughed softly. "Ma'am, I like it. Keep it up, and maybe I'll keep it instead of handing it over to one of the customers when the boat arrives."

The buzzing changed. The needle moved up her side, tracing the outline of the writing that would follow: Candy knew it, she had seen it, four letters and three, thick and black, engraved beneath the shadow of the drawing. love BBC. She would carry them with her forever. Under her bikini, under her clothes, under everything. When she grew older, when her skin relaxed and began to wrinkle, those letters would remain there, telling the world what she had been.

Cos'era?

Another creak, longer, came from the chair. Mr. Leroy moved: Candy felt it more than she saw it, the weight of his body shifting on her skin, the creak of the chair. Then his voice, deep, calm, unhurried.

«Rosa»

"Maestro."

"How much longer?"

"The drawing is half done. The writing, another ten minutes. Maybe fifteen."

A pause. The cigar smoke slowly spiraled toward the ceiling.

“Too much,” said Mr. Leroy.

Candy felt her blood stop. She didn't know what it meant, she didn't know what was about to happen, but the tone—that flat, reasonable tone, never raising her voice—made her clench her fingers against the marble until they turned white.

“I understand,” said Rosa.

His hand left Candy's thigh. He heard her rise, her heels clicking on the marble as she crossed the room, and then back down. When he knelt beside her again, his scent—something sweet and chemical, like overripe fruit—filled Candy's nostrils.

"Listen," Rosa whispered, placing her hand on the back of Candy's neck, under her collar, where her short hair ended. "Mr. Leroy has decided to give you a gift. The first of many, if you behave."

Candy looked up. She didn't want to, she hadn't been ordered, but her body moved on its own, and for the first time since she'd entered that room, she met Maestro Leroy's gaze.

He was looking at her. The cigar between his lips, the gold ring reflecting the light, the black eyes that said nothing yet said everything. There was no anger in that gaze. There was no impatience. There was the calm of a man who had seen that scene a thousand times and knew exactly how it would end.

"Whoever comes," said Master Leroy.

It wasn't a shouted order. It was worse. It was the voice of someone who had never had to ask twice.

Rosa's hand pressed on the back of Candy's neck, not enough to hurt, just enough to let her know she had no choice. Candy knelt—the marble burned her skin, the tattoo artist's needle had stopped, the massive man had stepped aside, the instrument still in his hand—and crossed the space between herself and the chair, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat against the red velvet.

She stopped in front of him. The cigar reached her shoulders, the thick, spicy smoke filling her lungs with every breath. Maestro Leroy slowly leaned forward and with his free hand—the one without the ring, the one not holding the cigar—he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

He lifted her up. He looked at her carefully. His eyes were two black chasms, and Candy sank into them endlessly.

“Open your mouth,” he said.

Candy obeyed.

Maestro Leroy raised the cigar to his lips, took a final drag, and then stubbed it out against the arm of his chair with a slow, precise movement, without looking. The final crackle, the smoke clearing. Then he placed both hands on his knees and stood up.

He was tall. Candy knew it, but seeing him standing was something else entirely: a mass of muscle beneath his light-colored shirt, his shoulders seeming to take up the entire room. His belt was undone before she even noticed, then his zipper, and finally Mr. Leroy's hand was pulling the fabric down just enough.

His penis emerged, dark, heavy, already hard. Long, thick, its taut skin glistening in the light. Candy felt her mouth fill with saliva and her throat tighten, and for a moment, just for a moment, fear overcame everything else.

“Rose,” Mr. Leroy said, without looking at her.

“Yes, Master.”

«Keep it.»

Rosa's hands came from behind. One on the nape of Candy's neck, above the collar, firm and strong. The other on her shoulder, pushing her downward, eliminating any remaining hesitation. Candy felt her knees open against the marble, felt her body bend forward, and then the tip of Master Leroy's penis brushed her lips.

It was hot. Hotter than she expected. And it tasted: salty, leathery, something bitter that filled her mouth before her tongue even touched it.

“Take it,” said Master Leroy.

Candy opened her mouth and took it.

The first fingers, a couple of centimeters thick, filled her mouth up to her teeth, and she immediately felt her jaw drop open, his tongue pressing against the roof of her mouth. She didn't know what to do—no one had taught her, really, not with him—and for a moment she remained still, his penis heavy on her tongue, her breath coming out of her nose in short, frightened gasps.

Then Rosa's hand rested on the nape of her neck.

"Lower down," he whispered. "Don't be afraid. Don't suffocate. Breathe through your nose and descend."

Candy descended. She felt his penis slide along her tongue, against the roof of her mouth, until it touched her throat, and her eyes filled with tears, not from the pain, not yet, just from the sensation, too full, too deep. She stopped halfway, her throat contracting, and Master Leroy let out a low sound, almost a growl, that vibrated against her lips.

“Again,” he said.

Rosa's hand pushed her. Candy went even lower, the tip pressed against her throat, and for a second the world narrowed: the penis closed her mouth, the collar tightened around her neck, tears streamed down her cheeks and fell onto the marble. Then she came back up, inhaling sharply through her nose, and her mouth filled with air again.

"Good," said Rosa. "That's it. Now you set the pace. Proceed as you wish."

Candy closed her eyes and took him. Up and down, slowly at first, her tongue wrapping around his penis, saliva dripping from her chin and wetting her chest. It tasted salty. It tasted like her. Every time she went too deep, her throat tightened, and she had to learn—quickly, as one learns everything here—to breathe through her nose, to relax her throat, to let his penis enter instead of resisting.

“Look up,” said Master Leroy.

She obeyed. She opened her eyes and found him looking down at her, his head slightly tilted, the unlit cigar still between his fingers. He wasn't smiling. But there was something in his gaze—a slow, possessive satisfaction—that made her press her thighs against the marble.

His penis throbbed in her mouth. She felt it throb against her tongue, against the roof of her mouth, and each pulse was a small reminder of how alive she was, how much she belonged to him, how much she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

"Faster," Rosa said, and her hand on the back of his neck quickened his pace, not enough to command, just enough to suggest. "Let him feel it. Let him know you want it."

Candy sped up. Her mouth hurt, her jaw burned, but she didn't stop, she didn't want to stop. She sucked, her tongue pressed against the side of his penis, saliva dripping down her chin and onto her pink bikini. He heard a sound escape her throat, a low moan that vibrated against his penis, and Master Leroy inhaled sharply.

“There,” he said. “Like this.”

His free hand reached down and rested on Candy's head, his fingers tangling in her short hair. He didn't press, not yet. He simply held her there, warm and firm, and Candy felt the weight of that hand like a promise.

“Do you like it?” asked Master Leroy. “Do you like it in your mouth?”

Candy couldn't answer, her mouth was full, so she nodded several times, moving her head up and down around his penis, and heard Rosa's laugh behind her, low and amused.

"He learned quickly," Rosa said. "I told you."

“Let’s see,” said Master Leroy.

And his hand pressed.

Candy felt his cock go down, down, deeper than it had ever gone before: her throat opened, surrendered, widened around him, and for a moment there was no air, nothing, just his cock filling her to the hilt, the collar tightening around her neck, and the tears burning her eyes. Then Master Leroy held her there, motionless, for three seconds that felt like three years, and Candy felt her body react: her pussy moistened against the fabric of her bikini, her thighs trembled, her hands gripped his knees without her realizing it.

Then he let her go.

Candy leaped to her feet, inhaling deeply, saliva dripping from her chin in long threads. She didn't stop. No one told her to stop. And then she came back down, alone this time, her mouth closing around him with a hunger she didn't know she had.

"Well done," Rosa said, and there was something in her voice: surprise, perhaps, or something more akin to respect. "Truly well done."

Master Leroy said nothing. But his hand remained in Candy's hair, and his breathing became deeper, slower, and Candy felt his penis throb harder against her tongue: a pulse that grew faster, more insistent, telling her he was close.

She took him in her mouth with all her intensity. Her throat contracted around it, her hands gripped his knees, her eyes closed, and tears streamed down her face. She was thinking of nothing else: not her half-tattooed side, not the buzzing of the needle that had stopped, not Rosa behind her. Only him. Only his full mouth, his gaping throat, the taste of salt and leather filling her head.

“Now,” said Master Leroy.

And he came.

Candy felt a pulse, once, twice, and then heat filling her mouth: thick, bitter, abundant, more than she expected. She swallowed. Once. Twice. His penis still in her throat, his hands gripping her hair, his body tensing toward her. She swallowed again, and again, every last drop, her tongue cleaning the tip, her chin wet with saliva and cum that dripped down her neck to the red velvet.

Master Leroy held her there until he was finished. Then he let go, and Candy pulled back slightly, his penis slipping from her mouth with a wet sound, and she remained on her knees, panting, her eyes still closed, the cum dripping from her chin onto her chest.

For a moment, no one spoke. Only Candy's heavy, labored breathing and the silence of the marble and the walls.

Then the buzzing started again.

Candy opened her eyes. The tattoo artist was back at his post, needle in hand, his gaze downcast and neutral. Rosa knelt beside her again and with two fingers, he cleaned her chin, slowly, almost delicately, collecting the sperm and bringing it to his lips as if tasting something delicious.

“Good,” she said. “See? It wasn’t hard.”

The needle returned to Candy's skin, on her left side, where the drawing had been left unfinished. The cold. The fire. The buzzing that filled the room. Candy closed her eyes and let herself go: the pain throbbing with her heartbeat, the taste of Maestro Leroy still in her mouth, the collar tightening around her throat with every breath.

The tattoo artist now worked quickly. The lines closed, the outline of the black rooster took shape, and then the letters arrived, one after the other, four and three, black and thick, engraved beneath the design. Love Candy felt them emerge on her skin one at a time, and each letter was a nail, and each nail anchored her a little more to that place, to that marble, to that island.

When the last letter was finished, the buzzing stopped.

The silence that followed was more deafening than any sound. Candy felt the tattoo artist clean her skin with a damp cloth, felt the sting of the needle recede, and then Rosa's voice, low, close to her ear, with that smile that lived deep within her being.

"You're ours now, Candy. Forever."

Candy looked down. On his side, beneath the reddened skin, his black penis and the letters gleamed in the light—love BBC—and for a moment, as the smoke from his unlit cigar wafted through the air and the marble chilled her knees, she couldn't tell if he was crying from pain or something else.

Little Leroy was already buttoning his pants. He didn't look at her. But as he passed her, heading toward the door, he paused for a moment, and her fingers brushed his scalp, through his short hair, a brief, possessive touch that lasted less than a second.

"Tomorrow," he said calmly, as if discussing the weather. "The boat will arrive at dawn."

The door opened. The door closed.

Rosa stood up, her heels clicking on the marble, and held out a hand to Candy. Her gaze, for the first time, rested on something behind her: on the spot where Mr. Leroy had sat, where the leather of the chair was still warm, where the air smelled of cigars and sex. Then she looked back at Candy, and a new light appeared in her blue eyes, a light both hungry and patient.

"Not yet," Rosa said, placing her hand lightly on Candy's head and gently lowering it. "Master Leroy is gone. But I'm not finished with you yet."

Candy felt Rosa's hand slide down the back of her neck, under her collar, and stop there: warm, steady, waiting. The marble chilled her knees. The new brand burned her hip. And in front of her, beyond the edge of the chair, there was still the smell of leather and cigar, and nothing else.

Rosa's hand remained there, under her collar, motionless as if waiting for something. Candy felt her breathing become shallower, the red velvet pressing against her throat with every inhalation. The marble had been burning her knees for too long now: it was no longer cold, it had become part of her, a slab that kept her legs planted on the ground while the rest of her body wanted only to collapse.

Rosa didn't say anything. Her hand didn't move. She waited.

"Ma'am," Candy said, her voice more broken than she intended. She cleared her throat, and as she did so, the collar squeezed her Adam's apple, a small torture that brought tears to her eyes. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Ask."

The word fell softly, unhurriedly. Rosa had knelt behind her, and Candy couldn't see her: she could only feel the warmth of her body against her back, the sweet chemical scent filling her nostrils, and that hand still clinging to her collar like a promise or a threat.

Candy swallowed. The taste of Master Leroy was still in her mouth, thick and bitter, and every time she swallowed, she felt like she was tasting him again.

"The boat," he said. "Tomorrow. At dawn." He stopped. He didn't know how to ask. He didn't even know if he could. "Take away... take me away too?"

The silence that followed was longer than Candy could bear. She felt her heart pounding against the velvet of her collar, felt the sting of the needle still exposed in her side, felt—and this was what frightened her most—her body begin to tremble again, in small waves that started from her thighs and rose to her jaw.

“What do you think the boat is carrying?” asked Rosa.

It wasn't an answer. It was another question, and Candy felt it sink inside her like a stone in dark water.

"The customers," he said softly. "The bosses."

"YES."

"I'm not a sissy."

"What, sissy?"

Candy closed her mouth. The collar was pressing against her throat, and for a moment she couldn't speak, not because she didn't know what to say, but because she knew exactly what she was about to say and didn't want to hear it come out of her own voice.

“Those who are chosen,” she whispered.

«Brava.»

Rosa's hand moved. It didn't go down, it didn't rise, it opened slightly, her fingers stretching under the collar as if they were measuring the circumference of Candy's neck, inch by inch, without squeezing. Candy felt the skin on the back of her neck tingle.

"The boat arrives at dawn," Rosa said. "It unloads the new clients. It takes the cowards who have finished their time here, or those Master Leroy has decided to send elsewhere, or those who haven't learned fast enough." A pause. "And it brings back the ones who have been loaned out when their owners get tired."

Candy waited. Rosa didn't say anything else. Her hand remained open under her collar, and Candy felt that Rosa's silence was the worst thing: she was giving her the space to ask what she really wanted to ask, and that she wouldn't say it for her.

"And me?" His voice trembled. "Will I be on that boat?"

Rosa laughed. It wasn't an unpleasant laugh: it was low, almost affectionate, a sound that vibrated against the back of her neck and made her press her thighs against the marble involuntarily.

"Candy," he said. "You've had that mark for less than an hour. Do you think Master Leroy marked you to feed to the first person who gets on the boat?"

"No, ma'am."

"No." Rosa's hand closed again, delicately, under his collar. "But you're not even his. Not yet. You belong to the village. And it's the village that decides where you go, when you go, and with whom."

Candy felt something tighten in her stomach. It wasn't fear, or at least not just fear. It was that feeling she'd felt watching the drawing grow under her skin, the black penis taking shape on her side, that horrible yet sweet feeling of being exactly where she wanted to be and no longer having any control over where she would be tomorrow.

"And tonight?" he asked. "What's happening tonight?"

Rosa stood up. Her heels clicked on the marble, once, twice, and Candy felt the heat of her body ebbing from her back. Then Rosa appeared before her, kneeling before her, her blue eyes a hand's breadth from hers, her platinum blonde hair cascading over one shoulder, the tattoo on her neck reflecting the streetlights.

She was beautiful. Candy hadn't thought about it until then—she hadn't had the time, she hadn't had the clarity—but now that she saw her up close, kneeling before her, Rosa was so beautiful it was almost painful. Her sinuous body beneath the skimpy clothes, her smooth skin, her lips parted in a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

“Tonight,” Rosa said, “it’s up to you.”

Her fingers brushed Candy's cheek. It was a light touch, her fingertips sliding from her cheekbone to her chin, stopping to collect a drop of saliva that had lingered there, on the edge of her jaw. Rosa brought it to her lips—that gesture again, the one she'd made before, as if tasting something delicious—and Candy felt her face take shape.

"Master Leroy is gone," Rosa said. "But the village doesn't sleep. And I'm responsible for preparing the new arrivals. Ready for tomorrow, ready for the ship, ready for whoever chooses to use them." Her thumb slowly caressed Candy's cheek. "You're new. They just branded you. And tonight you still don't have a master."

Candy felt the meaning of those words hit her a second after the voice had spoken hers, like a wave that had already crashed elsewhere and was now reaching her.

“It means,” he said softly, “that tonight I can be…”

"It means you're mine tonight," Rosa said. "If you want it."

Rosa's hand slid from her cheek to Candy's neck. Her fingers rested on the red velvet above her collar and for a moment they remained there, still, light, as if waiting for a permission that hadn't yet been granted.

Candy felt her breath catch. The marble beneath her knees, the sting of the needle on her side, the taste of Maestro Leroy still in her mouth, and now this... this woman kneeling before her, her blue eyes staring at hers leisurely, her hand touching her collar as if trying to decide where to press it.

"I've never..." Candy trailed off. She didn't know how to say it. "With a woman. I've never."

“I know,” Rosa said. “It shows.”

«Then why—»

"Because you're new," Rosa said, "and because you're beautiful, and because Mr. Leroy chose you, which means you're worth something. And because tonight, if you behave well with me, I might speak well of you tomorrow when the ship arrives. Or I might say nothing."

Rosa pressed her thumb lightly on the collar, under Candy's chin, lifting her face a couple of centimeters.

“It depends on how you behave,” he said. “Tonight.”

Candy felt tears welling up in her eyes, not out of fear, not out of pain, but out of that confusion that she now seemed to know well, that thing that pushed her to want to be good and be used at the same time, to obey and disappear, to be seen and not have to make any decisions.

“What if I’m wrong?” she asked. “What if I’m not good enough?”

Rosa smiled. This time the smile reached her eyes, and it was worse: more beautiful and more frightening at the same time.

“If you behave,” he said, tightening his hand around Candy’s collar and digging his fingers into the red velvet, “you stay with me.”

The grip didn't hurt. It was just firm. It was enough to make her understand that from that moment on, there was nothing more to say: the question had been asked, the answer had arrived, and the only thing left was the collar around her neck and Rosa's hand gripping it.

For a moment, Candy thought Rosa was waiting for an answer. Perhaps she was waiting for a yes, or a thank you, or one of those phrases effeminate girls learned to say—she'd heard them that afternoon in the waiting room, as the boat cut through the green water: soft words, silky words, words that even asked permission to breathe. But Rosa's hand hadn't opened, and the collar didn't allow her to breathe enough to form a complete sentence.

So Candy didn't answer. She did the only thing her body told her to do: she slowly lowered her chin until she felt the velvet bite her throat, and let its grip hold her head up. It was like leaning against a door that had just closed. It didn't hurt. It was almost like rest.

"Ma'am," he said after a moment, in a low voice, without trembling, or rather, trembling so slightly he didn't even notice. "May I ask you another question?"

"Still?"

«The last one.»

Rosa didn't respond immediately. Her thumb caressed her collar, under her jaw, and paused there, pressing lightly on the spot where Candy could feel her pulse beat best. It was as if Rosa were counting. One. Two. Candy felt the blood pulsing against the tip of that finger, and she thought Rosa felt it too, that she was listening to it like a radio playing in another room.

“Ask,” said Rosa.

Candy closed her eyes. It was easier with her eyes closed: she didn't see the tattoo on Rosa's neck, she didn't see the blue eyes staring at her nonchalantly, she didn't see the smile that had come far too close. All that remained was the velvet, her finger, and the sweet chemical scent that filled her nostrils with every shallow breath.

"Tomorrow," he said. "At dawn. When the boat arrives." He paused, searching for the right words, but couldn't find them. "What's happening to me?"

The silence that followed wasn't like the others. The others had been empty, spaces left open for her to sink into. This one was full. Candy felt it press against her skin like a hand pressing against a door: the same pressure as before, only coming from within.

“To you,” Rosa repeated.

"Yes." Candy opened her eyes. She didn't want to, but she did, and found Rosa's face inches from hers, still, attentive, as if reading something Candy didn't know was written about her. "I mean... if I behave myself tonight. If I stay with her. Tomorrow, when the customers arrive, where will I be?"

Rosa tilted her head. Her platinum blonde hair slipped from her shoulder and fell to her chest, and for a moment the light from the lamps illuminated the tattoo on her neck, and Candy saw that it wasn't just a drawing: underneath were letters, small, faded, that she couldn't read.

“Do you want to know if I’ll sell you?” said Rosa.

The word reached her stomach before it reached her head. I'm selling. Candy felt her thighs press against the marble again, and this time it was her body that betrayed her, not her voice: a small movement that Rosa noticed, because her smile opened a millimeter, just a fraction, like a door sliding open.

"I didn't say..."

"It goes without saying." Rosa's thumb moved from her collar to her chin, lifting her face another inch. "I can tell. You're new, but you're not stupid. You knew what you were doing before you even got off the ship."

Candy felt tears welling up in her eyes again, and this time she didn't blink them back. One slid down her cheek and landed on Rosa's knuckle. She picked it up without looking, as slowly as she'd collected saliva, and brought it to her lips. Candy saw it and couldn't tell if she was crying out of fear or something else. She didn't want to know.

"The ship," Rosa said, lowering her voice almost patiently, "disembarks men who have paid dearly to be here. Some return, some are new. They all arrive knowing only one thing: that someone will be waiting for them on the dock, with a collar around their neck, and that someone will be there for them." She paused. "Some choose. Some don't. It depends on how they've been prepared."

"And how will I prepare?"

“That,” said Rosa, “I’ll decide this evening.”

His fingers left Candy's chin and slowly slid down her neck, until they rested on the collar, where they had been before. Candy felt the weight of that hand, as one feels the weight of something long desired, now finally there, on one's body, and one is still unsure whether it isn't too heavy.

"There's something you need to understand," Rosa said. "If you behave yourself tomorrow at dawn, it's not like I'm keeping you for myself. It doesn't work that way. I don't have teachers to give away, and Maestro Leroy doesn't give away anything. If you stay with me, you stay because you serve. If you go with a client, you still go because you serve. The only difference is who's watching you do it."

Candy swallowed. The taste of Maestro Leroy was still there, in the back of her throat, and for a moment she thought she could feel him moving, as if that part of the afternoon wasn't over but was just waiting to begin again. Her side burned under her bikini, the new mark, her skin still warm from the needle.

"What if I'm not good enough?" he asked. "What if tomorrow they look at me and don't want me anymore?"

Rosa laughed again, that low laugh vibrating against the back of her neck. "Candy. They marked you today. You had Master Leroy's cock on your lips for less than two hours. You're the new kid on this island, and new things are always the most coveted." Her fingers curled slightly, a slight movement of her collar, a twist of her skin. "The question isn't whether they'll want you. The question is whether you can stay still while they want you."

Candy felt her breathing become even shorter. There wasn't much space left between the velvet and her throat. Every time she inhaled, the collar responded, and every time Rosa moved a finger, the collar responded. It was as if Candy's neck had become an instrument being played by someone else, and she could do nothing but listen to the notes coming out of it.

"Tonight," Rosa said, her voice calm again, as if reciting the rules of a game she knew by heart, "you'll sleep in the new arrivals' room. There are three beds. The other two arrived yesterday. Don't talk to them if they don't talk to you. Don't tell them anything about today. Don't talk about the brand, don't talk about Mr. Leroy, don't talk about me." She pressed her thumb once under her chin. "If you do this, you do it for me. Not for yourself."

“Yes, ma’am.”

And at dawn you wake up before the bell rings. You wash. You put on whatever you find on the bed—there's bound to be something, don't worry, someone will have prepared it. And you go down to the dock with the others. You don't look around, you don't look for anyone. You look ahead. You wait for them to choose you, or for them not to choose you, and either way your face doesn't change.

Candy nodded. The movement made the collar slide against Rosa's hand, and for a moment the grip loosened, then returned. It was as if Rosa had let go of a rope and immediately picked it up again, checking to make sure it was still taut.

"What if they choose me?" Candy asked. "What if a client wants me tomorrow?"

"Then go with him," Rosa said. "And do what he tells you. And don't think about me, don't think about tonight, don't think about anything. Just think about being good, because if you're good to him, he'll tell Mr. Leroy, Mr. Leroy will tell me, and I'll remember." She paused. "The village doesn't forget those who have been good. And it doesn't forget those who haven't been."

"What if they don't choose me?"

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