[Tantalism] 🕶️ Jobs

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 299-302

"Right," I say, sounding like me. Olivia straightens. Miriam makes a sound that might be a laugh, might be a sob, lands somewhere between the two. "The document," I say. "They didn't get it." "No." "Warren?" "Cooperating. Enthusiastically." A pause. "He's quite frightened of me. But he lies. If he just told the truth, I’d be less likely to hurt him." I look at my hands again. And realise that the first thing we need to do is visit fucking Warren.	I’m in the cell with him. And Miriam and Olivia who seems to terrify him by simply existing. I let the silence fill the room. He says nothing. I shrug my shoulders at him. “Speak.” Eventually he stammers “Who’s she?” Olivia looks up from sending a text that, I’m guessing, isn’t to her mum. “I’m here to protect ma’am from the people who have been harassing her,” says Olivia firmly. Pointedly. Her phone dings, and she smiles. “Just organising a back-hoe,” she says apologetically. I love this woman.
His eyes dart from my rigid posture to Miriam, unblinking. A fine tremor runs through his shoulders. He swallows, throat working soundlessly. “You’re a bit wee to be going to prison, Mr Warren,” Olivia chides, “I’d take some lessons in self-defence if you get the chance.” I stifle a giggle. Gangsters aren’t supposed to giggle. Warren’s mouth opens and closes like a landed fish. His hands are shaking so badly he has to clasp them together in his lap. The old Warren would have stammered an apology by now, would have tried to explain. This Warren just sits there, diminished, his expensive hoodie damp with sweat. “The document,” I say. “The one where you signed away your rights to Igor’s empire. What happened to that commitment?” “I don’t—” “Warren.” Olivia theatrically pulls her gun. Screws on a silencer. “You tortured Miriam to force me to hand it over. Your people. The ones you hired to kidnap me.” His face goes grey. “I didn’t hire anyone to—” “Then who did?” Olivia asks from the door. Her voice is pleasant, like she’s asking about the weather. Warren’s eyes flick to her, then back to me. Something shifts in his expression—not guilt exactly, but a kind of sick recognition. “The captains,” he says. “Dragan and Marko. And Franjo. They said if I could get the document back, destroy it, they’d support my claim. There was never any kidnapping…” “Your claim.” I taste the words, bitter as bile. “To an empire you walked away from. That you signed away.” “I was coerced—” “By who? The fucking Sugar Plum Fairy?” Olivia coughs to cover what might be a laugh. Warren’s jaw works. “You don’t understand what it’s like. Having that name, being Igor’s son, and having nothing to show for it. While you—” He stops himself. “Well you weren’t coerced by any of us. I was quite happy to go halves. And you signed it and now it’s in a bank safe deposit box.” “You were happy with half?” Warren’s voice cracks on the last word. “Half of what should have been entirely mine?” “We’ve had this conversation.” I lean back in my chair, watching him unravel. The Warren I married would never have said something like that. He barely wanted his trust fund, let alone a criminal empire. “When did you grow a spine, Warren? Was it before or after you put a bullet past my head?” “That wasn’t—I didn’t—”	“Yeah, you did.” Miriam slides a photograph across the table. It stops an inch from his trembling fingers. Olivia leans in, her voice dropping to a blade’s edge. “See, lad? Unluckily for you, the pathetic little creep who stalked her had cameras planted all over the place. We have the whole thing. Hours of it. Every flinch. Every order. All culminating with you picking up the gun and firing it.” She lets that hang in the air, thick as smoke. “All he wanted was some film of a pretty girl to toss off too. But he ended up with something that’ll see him getting out of jail before you do,” she finishes, not smiling. “He’s telling us every detail. For a chance to see the sun again.” Warren’s eyes go wild, darting between us like a trapped animal. “You don’t understand—I was protecting myself! They would have killed me if I didn’t—” “Didn’t what?” I lean forward. “Didn’t try to murder your ex-wife?” “I wasn’t trying to kill you!” His voice cracks, rises an octave. “It was just—I was supposed to miss, supposed to scare you into—” The crack of Olivia’s palm against his cheek is so sudden, so sharp, that even I flinch. Warren’s head snaps to the side, a bright red handprint blooming across his pale skin. He gasps, hand flying to his face, eyes wide with shock.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 303-306

“Don’t lie to me, boy,” Olivia says, her voice deadly quiet. “I’ve interrogated men who’d eat you for breakfast, and every last one of them had the same tell when they lied. That little twitch in your left eye. Just like now.” Warren’s breathing comes in short, panicked bursts. A thin line of blood appears at the corner of his mouth where his teeth caught his lip. He looks at me, desperate, pleading, but I give him nothing. My face is stone. “The truth,” I say. “All of it. Or Olivia starts getting creative.” Olivia flexes her fingers. The gesture is casual, almost absent-minded, but Warren watches it like she’s loading a weapon. “They said...” He swallows, adam’s apple bobbing. “Dragan said if you were gone, really gone, not just scared off, then everything would be clean. No disputes. No challenges. Just me inheriting what was rightfully mine.” I nod. “Except the only reason you missed was because I sat down suddenly.” “You can’t make this stuff up,” added Olivia from the doorway. His silence is answer enough. “Maybe you should have hired the pervert who did manage to kidnap me. He did a better job than you did.”	Olivia’s phone buzzes. She glances at it. “We’ve gotta go.” Warren lurches forward in his chair. “Gabriella, please. You know what they’ll do to me in there. I’m Igor Andropov’s son. Every wannabe hard man will want a piece of me just to say they did it.” He’s right. He won’t last a week. Part of me—the part that remembers him bringing me coffee in bed, fumbling with my bra clasp, crying at Swan Lake—feels something twist. The other part remembers Miriam covered in bruises with a broken arm. “You had choices,” I say. “You made them.” “I can still be useful to you.” Desperation makes his voice high, thin. “The captains trust me. I can—” “The captains think you’re weak. That’s why they picked you.” He opens his mouth to speak. I cut him off. “You. Useful.” I let the word sit between us like something rotting. “You weren’t useful when I offered you half. You weren’t useful when you signed the document in return for a lazy ten million. You weren’t useful when you changed your mind and decided to shoot instead.” I take Miriam’s gun, not pointing it, just holding it. “You know what you are, Warren? You’re a liability. To me, to the captains, to everyone who made the mistake of thinking you’d ever be anything other than what you are.” Olivia shifts her weight at the door. I can hear policemen clomping down the hall. I return the gun to her and stand up. “Here’s what I think, Warren. I think you go to prison. I think the captains who told you to do this disappear, because that’s what captains do when things go sideways; they vanish and leave some idiot like you holding the bag. And I think every man in that building who ever wanted to prove something to your father lines up to take a piece of you. And I think—” I lean forward, close enough to see the broken capillaries in his eyes, “—I think that’s not my problem.” “Gabriella—” “No. We’re done talking.” We troop out. The door clangs shut behind us.
“Great work everyone,” I say quietly. “You too ma’am.” We’re walking slowly so Miriam can keep up. “Belfast…two things. Who did you kill” “I’ve forgotten his name. Big fat bastard, hence the back hoe.” “Franjo. That’ll make Mila happy.” “Doubt anything’ll make that little girl happy,” says Miriam. “She’s gonna be trouble.” “And your second thing?” Olivia interrupts. “Stop calling me ma’am, for fuck’s sake.”	The next morning, two of us board the boat to the island with our few bags. Olivia stays behind on the dock. By afternoon, she’s vetted a group of women—some wary, some fierce-eyed—and brought them over. We watch from the porch as Olivia runs them through drills on the beach: blocking, striking, disarming. Mila and I join them the next day. My first punch lands weak and off-center; Mila’s is all anger, no form. We come back each morning, sweating through our shirts in the salt air. Weeks pass. Miriam’s sling comes off. She starts joining us, slowly at first, then drilling hard—learning how to use her recovered strength.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 307, 308 & 309

Not everyone approves. We catch the looks from some of the men—crossed arms, turned backs, muttered remarks under their breath. Mila is already causing trouble, creating false rumours. She hates me with a venom no one understands. After a few weeks I decide that if I’m going to be hated, I might as well give her a real reason. I don’t follow through with my threat of handing her to the guards, many of whom are now women. Instead we have her auctioned to the highest bidder at one of the strip clubs. A small Russian consortium won her and we never saw her again. The money went to a homeless shelter. Aren’t we lovely?

I call everyone into the great hall. I stand before them, my voice low and carrying. "I am the new Igor." A few men at the back let out choked, nervous laughs. Miriam's pen scratches against her clipboard. She does not look up as she lists their names. I give them the choice: kneel or leave. Those who choose to go will be paid well, but they must be on the last boat off this island before sundown and never look back. Only one chooses—the old gardener, his hands still caked with soil, his eyes seeking any horizon but this one. He’s 80 and we applaud him for his service. The sniggerers are not so fortunate. They are dragged forward first. Olivia and a few of the women take them into the side chamber. A few come back out, in shock. A couple are never seen again.

I remind the rest about Franjo. About Dragan. About Marco. How they loved to whisper about the good old days.

The walls on this island have always been hungry. Some traditions do not die; they simply wait for new hands to wield them.

THE END​

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Angel 1-3

The boat is wooden, built for fishing generations ago, its planks weeping seawater through ancient caulking. Under the stretched blue tarps, bodies are pressed together. The canvas offers a thin strip of shade but traps the heat, turning the air thick and heavy with the smell of salt, diesel, and unwashed skin. A single plastic jug of water makes its way hand to hand, each person taking only a mouthful. They have paid everything. It has bought them this: seven hundred miles of open ocean toward a coast where lights sometimes glimmer just before the patrol boats find them and turn them back.

ngel lets the water touch her lips and stops there. It’s the first sip since they left that godforsaken country. Civil unrest, gangs fighting in the open, earthquakes. No money, no tourists, no work. Only hunger and grief and gunfire somewhere not too far off.

She tells her mother to give the baby, her nephew, a second share. Angel's share. There is a bully - Pierre - on the boat who watches Angel the way no man should watch a woman, and he shouts when he sees what he thinks is an extra ration going to a child.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Angel 4-6

On day five, with the Florida coastline in sight, a storm that has been brewing finally hits. The cyclone arrives like the fist of Methuselah. The wind strikes first—a wall of air that lifts the tarpaulins away like tissue paper. The boat lurches sideways, and Angel grabs her mother’s arm as spray explodes over the gunwale, salt water filling her mouth and nose. The sky turns the colour of a bruise, purple-black, and the waves rise higher than the mast.

A man stands, screaming something lost in the howl of wind. His thick body sways as the boat pitches. Angel sees his mouth working, his eyes wild and white-rimmed. The deck tilts at an impossible angle. Water rushes across the planks, and his feet slip out from under him. His arms windmill once before the next wave sweeps over the side and takes him. One moment he is there, the next—nothing but churning foam where he stood.

Then comes the impact. The boat slams into something solid—sand, rocks; she cannot tell. The ancient planks split with a crack that cuts through even the storm’s roar. Water pours through the rupture. Bodies tumble forward. Angel’s shoulder strikes something hard, and stars burst across her vision. They are in shallows. She can feel sand beneath her feet when the waves pull back. The boat lists to one side, its broken hull grinding against the beach with each surge. Rain drives sideways, stinging like needles against her skin. Her father pulls them up out of the wreckage. His hands find them in the chaos—first her mother, then Angel with the baby. They stumble through knee-deep water that tries to suck them back with each retreating wave. Others from the boat struggle around them, dark shapes in the gray fury of the storm. As the day dawns, Angel lies on the sand.

The sun is a pale smear behind thinning clouds, offering no warmth yet. The storm has abated a little, leaving behind only the occasional gust that sends stinging sand skittering across their skin. Between these slashes of wind, there is a heavy, bruised peace. Angel's father’s voice is hoarse as he urges them up, pointing toward a line of dunes where beach grass whips back and forth. “We cannot stay here,” he says. “Find shelter.” Beach grass whips against Angel’s legs as they climb higher onto the shore. Her father leads them to a concrete structure—some kind of public restroom—and they press against its lee side, the wind slightly less brutal there. The baby wails, a thin sound swallowed by the storm.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Angel 7-10

Flashing red and blue lights. Men in yellow slickers shout in English. Coast Guard, Angel realises. And an ambulance. No police. They herd people toward vehicles, big vans with government plates. To the side, in the background, a big black limousine sits idling, lights on.	The van’s interior smells of wet vinyl and salt. Other survivors sit on bench seats, water pooling at their feet. The doors slam shut, muffling the storm to a dull roar. They drive for what feels like minutes but could be longer. Angel cannot tell—time becomes elastic since the boat shatters. When the van doors open again, they are at a large building with harsh fluorescent lights spilling through glass doors. A school, maybe, or a community centre. The Coast Guard woman helps them down from the van.
A woman points them to three cots near the back corner. Angel’s legs tremble as she walks. The floor feels too solid after days of the boat’s constant motion. Her father steadies her mother who carries the baby, whose small body lies limp with exhaustion against her chest. She immediately begins checking him over, running her hands along his limbs, pressing her ear to his chest. Her father stands beside them, water still dripping from his clothes onto the linoleum. Someone brings them blankets—rough wool things that smell of mothballs. Angel pulls one around her shoulders and feels something shift wrong inside her body, a grinding sensation that turns her stomach. The warmth seeps into her skin now, thawing her, and with it comes a hot pulse of pain that radiates from her left shoulder down through her ribs.	She tries to lift her arm. White heat shoots through her, sharp enough to steal her breath. The room tilts. She must make a sound because her mother looks up, eyes wide. “Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas?” her mother asks, reaching toward her. Angel cannot answer. The pain gathers weight now, pressing down, making it hard to breathe. She remembers the impact—her body thrown forward when the boat hit, something hard catching her. But in the cold and terror, she did not feel it. Now, in this too-bright room with its smell of floor wax and instant coffee, her body finally tells her what happened. Her father’s face appears in front of her, his brow creased. He says something to her mother, who stands and looks around the hall. Angel watches through a haze as her father raises his hand, calling to one of the Red Cross workers.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Angel 11-14

“Déboîté,” the nurse says to her mother. Dislocated. The woman in scrubs positions herself behind Angel, hands firm on her back. The young man takes Angel’s left arm, his grip gentle but sure. He counts in English—one, two—and on three, he pulls while the woman pushes. The world goes white. Angel hears someone screaming and realises it is her. The pain becomes everything, everywhere, bigger than her body can hold. Black spots dance at the edges of her vision. She thinks she might vomit, might die, might— Then something slips back into place with an audible pop, and the relief is so immediate, so complete, that she gasps. The crushing weight lifts. She can breathe again. The pain does not disappear entirely, but it retreats to something manageable, something human-sized. The woman in scrubs smiles, patting her good shoulder. The young man produces a blue fabric sling and helps her ease her arm into it, adjusting the strap behind her neck. The support feels good, safe. Her arm throbs dully now, but it is nothing compared to before.	Angel finishes some soup and leans back against the thin pillow. The painkillers make everything soft around the edges. She can hear a television somewhere, American voices talking fast about weather, about rescue efforts. Through the high windows, she sees the storm has passed, leaving only ordinary darkness. She is given a small bag containing a few items of clothing. Clean t shirt. Tracksuit pants. Undies. A few other things. She’s given toothpaste and a brush, and a scrap of cloth to use as a towel. That night, she sleeps—deeply. So deeply she only vaguely hears her nephew cry and her mother scream.
	Nor does he hear the polished male American voice quietly whisper in her ear: "See you very soon, pretty one."
	The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright through Angel’s eyelids. Her shoulder ached, a dull throb that pulled her from sleep. The cot creaked as she shifted, reaching across to where her mother should have been. Angel’s eyes snapped open. The green cot beside hers sat bare, its thin mattress indented where her mother had lain. The one beyond that, where her father had been—also empty. No blankets. No bags. Nothing. She sat up too fast. The room spun, and she grabbed the metal frame to steady herself. The hall stretched before her, vast and nearly deserted. Maybe twenty people remained where last night there had been over a hundred. An elderly couple huddled on cots near the far wall. A man slept curled on his side three rows over. The rest—gone. “Maman?” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat, tried again louder. “Papa?” Her voice echoed in the empty hall.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Angel 15-18

	“Gone,” said a voice behind her. Familiar, although she didn’t know where from. “Taken to a Detention Centre. Probably will be sent back.” Angel turned. The voice belonged to a man in an expensive-looking dark blue with thin pinstripes. White shirt beneath, no tie. Skin pale, hair slicked back, still damp. He stood too close. The smell of his cologne—something sharp and citrus—cut through the institutional smell of the hall. “Who are you?” she asked in English, the few words she knew. He moved around to where she could see him, found a chair and sat. “I believe they were processed early this morning,” he said, ignoring her question. He waved his arm around the room. “With the rest of them. You weren’t on the list. Paperwork shows your family, but not you.” He smiles. “You’re a young woman. Pretty. Alone.” The words hung in the air between them. Angel’s stomach twisted, cold despite the warmth of the hall. She understood enough—the implication in his tone, in the way his eyes moved over her. Men like this existed everywhere. Men who saw opportunity in desperation. “Where...” She struggled for the English words. “Where they take them?” “Does it matter?” He stepped closer, and she caught the scent of mint on his breath. “They’re gone. Immigration has them now. Standard procedure—back to Haiti within seventy-two hours.” He paused, studying her face. “Unless someone vouches for them. Someone with... connections.”
	Angel’s good hand gripped the edge of the cot. The metal bit into her palm. Her mother, her father, the baby—in some detention centre, waiting to be sent back to the violence they’d fled. Back to nothing. Back to death, maybe. “But you,” the man continued, “you’re not in the system. A clerical error. Lucky, really. “What you want?” His laugh was soft, practiced. “Direct. I like that. My name is Donny Vance. I run several businesses in Miami. Restaurants, clubs. Always looking for help.” “I no have papers,” she said carefully. “Papers?” Vance laughed, a sound like ice cubes rattling in an empty glass. “Angel—it is Angel, isn’t it? Pretty name for a pretty girl.” He moved closer. close enough that she could see the practiced ease of his smile. “You have God-given assets far more persuasive than mere papers.”
	“Your family is at the Krome Detention Centre. North of here. Horrible place—chain link, barbed wire, guards who don’t speak Creole.” He adjusted his cuff links, white gold catching the fluorescent light. “I have an old friend there. Immigration judge. Likes…helping…young women.”
	His hand lifted, and she flinched, but he only touched her cheek with the back of his fingers. The touch was light, almost gentle, but it made her skin crawl. His fingers were soft, manicured—not the hands of someone who worked. Not the hands of someone honest.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Angel 19-22

“You need proper clothes,” he said, his fingers moving along her back. “Something that shows off how sexy you are.”

Angel’s skin prickled with revulsion, but she held herself still. The baby’s face floated in her mind—her nephew, somewhere behind chain link and barbed wire with her parents. Vance’s hand felt like a warm clammy squid through the fabric. Twitching. Searching.

“There’s a boutique I own,” he continued, stepping around to face her again, his hand sliding from her back to her hip in one smooth motion. “Designer things. Dresses that would make you look like a million dollars. Heels to show off those legs.” His eyes travelled down her body, lingering. “You’d be surprised what the right outfit can do. Opens doors. Makes people want to help.” She showered. He ordered her to remove her sling. A pale bruise beginning to show.

“I would prefer a small singlet,” he had said. “But the judge might not like the bruise. He likes to think he’s the first.” She felt naked. Ashamed. There was a summer dress - short, white with a plunging neckline, a formal black dress, various shoes, a very small bikini, and other items of clothing most woman would have called slutty. The red leather shorts were the worst. There was no top button on the fly. “Today we get you to a hairdresser, and a beauty expert for a wax. Then a physio for that shoulder.” He holds up two fingers, ticking them off like commandments. “Then you rest. Tonight, I have friends coming.” His smile sharpens. “We give them a fashion parade.” He gestures to the bags at his feet—two small parcels of fabric, apart from the shoes that jut from one like broken teeth. Small clothes, small bags.

The salon was on a street of glass-fronted shops where women with expensive handbags moved between doorways. Angel had never been inside a place like this. They sat her in a chair facing a large mirror. Angel looked at herself—really looked—for the first time since the boat. The girl in the mirror wore a plaid skirt that barely covered her bottom and a white shirt through which the shadow of her bruise was just barely visible. Her hair sat in a dark cloud around her face, salt-stiffened and wild, tangled from days of wind and spray. Vance settled into a chair against the wall, legs crossed, watching. Staring at Angel. Her thighs. The stylist—young, dark-haired, chewing gum—ran her fingers through Angel's hair and spoke to Donny rather than to her. Angel caught the word ‘cut’ and felt her stomach tighten. "No," said Vance from his chair. "Leave the volume. Just clean it up. Tame it a little." The stylist looked at Angel in the mirror, and Angel looked back, and neither of them said anything. At the end, Angel looked at herself again. The same girl. But now her hair fell in thick dark waves that framed her face, still large, still untamed at the edges, but shaped now. Softer. The kind of hair men wrote songs about, her mother used to say, which had always made Angel roll her eyes. She did not roll her eyes now. Vance stood and came forward, circling her chair once, the way he'd circled her cot that morning. "Good," he said. “Very sexy,” he said in Creole. He didn’t follow her into the treatment room where the waxing would happen. He stepped outside and made phone calls.

The physio's office was above a pharmacy. The waiting room held two plastic chairs and a dying fern. A man in his sixties came to the doorway, and looked at Angel the way the stylist had not—slowly, starting at her feet.

He spoke to Vance. They always spoke to Vance.

Inside the treatment room, a padded table sat beneath a window with the blinds half-drawn. The man gestured toward it, then touched his own collarbone, then pointed at her shirt.

Angel went still.

The man said something else, gesturing again. Off. He wanted her shirt off.

She looked at Vance. Somehow, this was even worse than the waxing.

"He needs to see the joint," Vance said in Creole. He was leaning in the doorway, arms folded, watching with an expression she had learned to read in just one day. Waiting to see what she would do.

She unbuttoned the shirt and held it against her chest a moment, then let it drop onto the floor beside her.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Angel 23-27

The physio moved closer. His eyes went to her shoulder—the bruise had deepened overnight, purpling at the joint, greenish at the edges—and then they moved elsewhere. He did not try to hide it. He was a man who had stopped pretending some time ago. "She has an appointment with the judge," Donny said in English from the doorway. "Tomorrow evening." The physio looked back at Vance over his shoulder, and a slow smile crossed his face. "Lucky man," he said, and he was still looking at Angel when he said it. She lay face up on the table and closed her eyes. She focused on his hands but was distracted by his heavy breathing. He sounded like an old man about to cum. A sound she with which she was all too familiar.

“Turn over,” he said, indicating what he wanted with a twirling finger. His voice was low, a command that left no room for hesitation. She shifted onto her stomach, the worn leather of the exam table cool against her cheek. A small, surprised breath escaped her—the sharp pain in her shoulder had already begun to loosen its grip. His hands were firm as he tugged the hem of her skirt, a quick, efficient gesture that sent a ripple of fabric down to the small of her back. He began at the very crest of her buttocks, his thumbs pressing into the tense muscle there before beginning a slow, deliberate ascent up the ladder of her spine. Each vertebra seemed to unlock under his touch, a trail of heat following the path of his hands until he reached the tight, angry knot high between her shoulder blades. “Do you need her to be naked?” asked Vance in English.

“Do you need her to be naked?” asked Vance in English.
The doctor’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second. The room was very quiet.

“Well she has a little bruising on the inside of her upper thigh…”

They removed her skirt and underpants. Just in case.

She felt his hands stray and occasionally brush bast her most sensitive area.

“You love your work, Doctor?”

"She is so sexually attractive...." he sighed.

The treatment ended and Vance stopped her from getting up. “Let Doctor look at you,” he said in Creole. She did so. “Good. The bruising will fade.” The physio’s voice was flat as he handed Vance a small glass jar. “Rub this into the skin twice daily. It will help the discolouration.” His eyes lingered on her breasts a moment too long before turning away. "I look forward to treating her again when the Judge has finished with her..."

Outside, the late sun felt artificial. “Feeling better, Angel?” Vance asked, not looking at her. “Much better, thank you, Donny.”

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Angel 28-31

He stopped dead. The pleasantness evaporated. In one fluid motion, he bent into her space, his face close to hers, and his fist cracked against the front of her thigh and tried to rip her dress off. The sound was flat and sharp. Pain bloomed hot and immediate. He did not raise his voice. It was low, a venomous whisper. “Sir. You call me sir. Is that clear?”	She stared at the pavement, at the scuff on his polished shoe, her breath held. The sting on her thigh was transmitting upwards into her crotch and she wanted to bend over.
“Yes sir,” she whispered, gasping. “I’m sorry sir. I didn’t know.” “You know now.” He marched towards the waiting car. She struggled to keep up.	“Tonight I have friends coming around for dinner,” Vance said after a long drive home in silence. “Many will speak Creole. You’ll be the pleasant hostess. Bright. Witty. Chatty.” He paused, and she could feel him deciding something. “There will be other girls, but they’ll be serving. And entertaining.” His voice lowered, almost conversational. “The dress code for them is minimal.” He finally glanced over. “Understand?” “Yes sir.” Minimal. “Good.” His voice was low. “The dress code for you will be less minimal, but very sexy.“ “I understand, sir.” She didn’t but she figured she would in due course.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Angel 32-34

Inside, the house smelled of cool air and flowers. Vance moved through it without looking at her, speaking to a woman in the kitchen—older, dark-skinned, efficient—who glanced at Angel and nodded once and went back to whatever she was doing with a knife. Vance reappeared in the doorway of the room he'd shown her to, a room with white walls, a bed and a wardrobe that held, so far, only the clothes he'd provided. He carried a dress over one arm, hanging from a single finger. Cream-coloured, light as paper. She was trying some of her new clothes. "This tonight," he said, laying it across the foot of the bed. "And the heels." He looked at her feet, then at her face. She looked at the dress. It was a summer dress, simple, the kind that looked like nothing on a hanger and everything on a body.

"This tonight," he said, laying it across the foot of the bed. "And the heels." He looked at her feet, then at her face. She looked at the dress. It was a summer dress, simple, the kind that looked like nothing on a hanger and everything on a body.

She undressed and found the heels at the bottom of the wardrobe, wrapped in tissue. She put them on first, practising the weight of them on the tiled floor. Walked up and down in them, watching her strut in the mirror.

 

[Emilyvt]

[Tantalism] The Valley 41-44

View attachment 2970682	She had no recollection of someone cleaning her up, of the trip back. She was starving, so she shoveled cold muesli into her mouth and snapped a crisp apple between her teeth. But hunger was secondary to the white-hot fury knotting in her gut. It didn’t matter how she’d come to this breaking point—she was leaving. Now. Ignoring the intense pain she felt in her groin, she yanked on muddy boots, threw on the spare shorts, underwear and singlet she’d stashed, slung her little pack over one shoulder. Knife was gone, but phone and car keys glinted inside. Perfect. Zeke and his wife had staggered to bed drunk as corpses a couple of hours ago. That gave her a head start. Heart hammering, she slipped out into the summer pre-dawn, past Colin’s cabin. The door gaped open. Inside, girly pictures covered the walls—girls twisted with fear, hollow-eyed and broken just like her. She stepped closer, stomach churning. Her breath caught when she saw her own face pasted on the wall: in one photo she was stripped, violated in front of a roaring crowd; in another, her terror was a public spectacle. Dozens more—every brutal frame a testament to her humiliation. A montage of her nightmares. Then he appeared in the doorway—Colin—grinning like a devil in smug triumph as if savouring her terror. Rage erupted like lava. She lunged. Her boot slammed into his kneecap, then his ribs.
View attachment 2970683	She drove into town. At the police station, she sobbed her story to the female constable behind the desk, voice trembling. The constable’s sympathy was polite, distant. She led Kayla into a small interview room, offered tea that went cold in her hands.
View attachment 2970684	Ten minutes later a sergeant appeared, shutting the door behind him. His voice grated familiarity—older, whiny. She realised he was man with Zeke last night. She'd only known him behind a motorcycle helmet but had never seen him before. He seated himself, sipped his coffee.
View attachment 2970685	“So you say you were raped.” He tapped the cup like it was his toy, glanced at the constable, who rose and stood in front of the door. “A young man’s body was found up in the Valley. Head bashed in.” The sergeant’s voice was flat. Clinical. Silence roared in her ears. “Witnesses saw an Asian woman running from the scene around the time of death—matching your description.” His eyebrows arched, mocking.

Australian cops

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Angel 35-38

She then pulled on a thong and stepped into the dress, reaching behind for the zip. The mirror on the wardrobe door was long and slightly warped at the bottom, the kind that made your legs look longer than they were. She stood in front of that warped mirror and looked at herself for a long moment. She had never had clothes like this before.	She thought of her mother telling her, years ago and more than once, that pretty was a tool and tools were meant to be used. She had never quite believed it. Pretty had mostly felt like a problem—something that made men's hands move before their mouths did, something to be managed and minimised and apologised for. She looked at herself in the mirror and thought: no. No more of that. She lifted her chin. Pulled her shoulders back until the blade of each one sat flat and proud. The dress fell differently when she stood that way. She fell differently. Her spine lengthened, her chest opened, and the woman looking back at her from the warped glass was someone she recognised from a distance—someone she had always seen in other women and assumed was a country she didn't have a passport for.
She smoothed the front of the dress once with both palms, and walked out of the room. The sound reached her before the doorway did—voices, male laughter, the clink of glass, music low underneath it all, something with a lazy brass line. The smell of good food and expensive rum. She paused for only a second at the threshold, her hand not quite touching the door frame, and then she walked in. The room was not silent all at once. It went quiet the way a fire goes out—first one corner, then the next, then the last voice trailing off mid-sentence as its owner turned to see what everyone else had already seen. Seventeen or eighteen men, she counted without counting, ranged across the room in clusters of two and three. A couple of women in considerably less than cream. Waitresses, one in only a g string but all topless and wearing heels. Vance at the far end, a glass in his hand, watching.	She felt every pair of eyes like a physical thing, like a change in the air pressure of the room, and she let herself feel it—not as threat, not as weight, but as something else entirely, something she’d never experienced before. She looked at the nearest man, then at the next, taking her time, and she let the smile come up from somewhere below her ribs.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Angel 39-42

"Why you all stop talking, you silly people?" she said, in broken English. The crowd immediately fell in love with a charming music of Creole underneath her every syllable. She took a glass of Prosecco offered to her by a blonde woman in tiny denim shorts, and proceeded to mingle through the forest of wandering hands.	The woman in the G-string came past with her tray, moving through the room like smoke, and leaned briefly toward Angel's ear as she passed. "Deset sati," she murmured. Then, as if catching herself, switched to something approximating English: "Ten o'clock. They told you about that?" She swept off with a sneer. She was gone before Angel could ask what that meant—back into the current of the room, tray level, face blank, her spine very straight above the thin elastic at her hips. Angel watched her go and felt the Prosecco go flat in her mouth.
“What did she want?” said Vance. "Sir. She say something about ten o'clock." She kept the smile exactly where it was. "She said I needed to ask about it. Not happy." Vance didn't look at her. He lifted his glass and took a slow sip. "Did she." It wasn't a question. The temperature of his voice dropped a few degrees, just enough for her to feel it. "What does she mean sir?" He was quiet for a moment. Across the room, a man laughed too loudly at something and the brass line in the music kept moving underneath it all. Then Vance said, "Nothing that involves you, and she knows it.” He shook his head slightly.	“Her name is Mila. Croatian. Before us, Moscow. Before that, somewhere in the Adriatic being a plaything for a serious international crime boss." He set the glass down on the windowsill. "She escaped from Russia somehow and ended up here.” Angel watched the woman—Mila—bend slightly to offer her tray to a man in a pale shirt. He took a drink without taking his eyes off her breasts. "She says things," he continued. "Suggests things. To the new girls especially." He finally looked at Angel, just briefly, just long enough to land the point. "We have a rule at these parties that at ten o'clock everyone removes their clothes. I don’t want you here for that. I just want them to think you will be.” “Yes sir.”

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Angel 43-46

“There’s an outfit on your bed. I’d like you to change into it.” “Yes sir.” He picked up his glass again. “It’s for a very wealthy man who’s here tonight. White shirt, cream shorts. Go and charm him. And give him a little bit of…permission. Just a little.” “Yes sir. Thank you.” Conversation over. She slipped away and changed into an outfit as indescribable as it was revealing.	The man was perhaps seventy, with the kind of face that age had treated kindly. "You," he said, arriving in front of her, "are going to ruin this party for every other person in it." She kept her smile exactly where it was. "How is this?" "Because now I've seen you, I can't see anything else." She laughed at his clumsy compliment and thanked him. “You will, of course join us at 10 o’clock.” “I’m sorry sir, but Mr Vance won’t let me. He says I’m too young,” she chuckled. It was a lie, and they both knew it was a lie. He shook his head mournfully. She sat in his waiting lap.
"Tragic, really. I had been looking forward to something special all week." She laughed. It came out spontaneously, real and a little too loud, and she felt it move through her chest like something loosening. “You naughty,” she said in English. “Very.” To illustrate this, he ran a finger down her chest between her breasts. “But my name is actually Robert.” "I'm Angel," she said. "Of course you are." He handed her the glass. "God has a sense of humour, I'll give him that." “Not where I come from,” she answered and instantly regretted it. "Where are you from?" he asked. "Haiti," she said. "Port-au-Prince." “Oh I’m sorry,” he said. She giggled again. “Well,” he said. “You look exquisite. Overdressed, but exquisite.” He muttered something in her ear. She looked at him with a grin.	They stood and walked hand in hand to the back door. “Five minutes Mister naughty Robert. That’s all.” “Five minutes.”

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Angel 47-50

They sat on bed. He pulled aside her dress to reveal her breasts, and fondled them. Her nipples hardened and he teased them with his thumbs. “I think you like me, Mr naughty Robert.” “My god you’re addictive.” “I not know what it mean, but thank you Mr naughty Robert.	He leaned forward slightly and kissed her on the lips. Long, wet. His hand moved from her breasts to her thighs, and he touched her gently. Kept touching her. The room was silent apart from his heavy breathing and her long exhales. “So delicious,” he said. “May I have a little taste?” She moved away quickly. “No Mr naughty Robert, you may not. Your five minutes is up.” “I thought it might be.” She reassembled her dress. “How much?” Such a put down. She felt totally dirty and wanted to slap him, but controlled herself. “Nothing Mr naughty Robert. Just you be nice to my friend Mr Vance.” He nodded knowingly.
At ten o’clock, the music changed to something deeper. Raunchy. Clothes were being discarded and collected by young black men, themselves naked. Angel watched, simultaneously fascinated and horrified. It was so out in the open. So shameless.	Nearby, two women take turns to go down on a man. A man standing against the wall with his eyes closed and someone kneeling at his feet. Skin everywhere—the smell of it, the heat of it, the room gone thick with it.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Angel 51-54

They looked at her. That was the thing she hadn't prepared for. She had expected to be invisible in the way that people become invisible when something more interesting is happening. But they looked. Young and old.	There were people fucking, or preparing to fuck, everywhere. Another illegal, an Australian girl called Chrissie with an angelic face and long, curly blonde hair, was being led to the pool by two men at least three times her age.
She walked. She kept her face neutral and her chin level and her heels clicking their even rhythm on the tile and she felt every gaze like a hand she hadn't said yes or no to yet. She stepped over and around depraved bodies, some surprisingly young. He wondered if some of them were paid to be here.	She paused for a moment to look at an older woman with monstrously large breasts, sucking off a much younger man. Angel knew he’d been watching her, but always looked away when she made eye contact.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Angel 55-58

She walked some more. Ambled, more like it. Then Vance was behind her. Still fully dressed. He spoke, putting his arms around her. “You know, we are the only two here allowed to remain clothed. Even the wait staff have to join in. How did you go with Robert?” “I give him five minutes, He have what you call a ‘feel’ and a kiss, and then I say no more. He very naughty’ sir. He wanted to give me money. I say to him to be nice to you.” She felt him laugh quietly, pressed against her back. It was nice. “Good work, Angel. Exceptional.” “Thank you sir. Thank you.”	She stood still and watched the room watch her. Mila was somewhere in the middle of it all, G string and tray discarded gone, as Robert and two other naked men moved in. She looked disgusted,
Mila half-heartedly wanked the guy, but he came anyway. All over her. "Oh Mila," she heard Vance mutter. "It's going to be a long night, and they won't be all easy going like that."	Vance's hand moved at the front of the dress. Slow. Deliberate. Pulling strsaps aside a little. A hand cupping the soft peak of her, and staying there, squeezing, teasing her nipples. She felt them stiffen. Caught herself softly gasp. “You like that, don’t you.” Vance said. It wasn’t a question. He kept doing it. "I can feel it in your breathing." "Yes sir." “So does he.” Vance said. "Look at him, watching you and playing with himself.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Angel 59-62

A man sat in front of them, looking at Angel and masturbating. There was no shame in it for him. He gazed at her with a sick little smile on his face.	Vance pulled the dress straps right apart to show him Angel’s breasts. “Oh no…” gasped Angel. “This…this not happen…Please you stop...dirty...”
The man roared and then came copiously. She watched his seed squirt everywhere as he made funny little laughing noises.	Something warm, sticky landed on Angel’s thigh. She felt it dribble down her leg a little. Vance was caressing her breasts again. "He got his...his...seed on me Sir." She felt him laugh quietly again. "Take it as a compliment, Angel." "Yes sir."

(62a) “Go to bed,” Vance quietly whispered in her ear. “You’ve made quite the impression.” He withdrew his hand. “I may have to visit you later,” he said. She paused for a moment before answering. She could barely speak. “Yes sir.”