The neon sign buzzed like a dying wasp as the girl pushed through the diner’s back door, the cheap sneakers on her feet barely muffling her footsteps on the cracked asphalt. She tugged her apron off, the damp fabric sticking to her thighs where sweat had soaked through during the dinner rush.

Her ponytail swung like a metronome as she walked, the streetlights catching the honey-gold strands each time she passed beneath them. The diner uniform—cheap blue polyester clinging to her waist, the top button undone where her chest strained against the fabric—wasn’t designed for someone built like her. Every trucker at the counter had noticed. Every cook had “accidentally” brushed against her when she squeezed past the grill.

Two blocks away, a van idled behind a dumpster, its side door already cracked open. The driver watched her hips sway, memorizing the way her skirt pulled tight across the back of her thighs when she climbed over a broken section of sidewalk. He’d seen her before—knew she took this route every Thursday after closing. Knew no one waited up for her.

She hummed some pop song under her breath, fingers fumbling with her phone as she texted someone—a boyfriend maybe, or a girlfriend who didn’t realize tonight’s “see you tomorrow” would never come. The van’s engine stayed silent as it rolled forward, tires gliding over pavement still warm from the summer heat.

The first gloved hand clamped over her mouth before she could scream, the second wrenching her phone away with a snap of plastic against asphalt. Her pupils dilated, whites showing all around as the taser pressed into the soft flesh below her ribs—her body arched like a bowstring, every muscle locking rigid for one suspended second before collapsing into the waiting arms of the men who smelled like leather.

Her skirt rode up as they hauled her into the van, thighs pale and trembling where they’d been pressed together moments before. A boot crushed the phone screen into spiderwebs of glass, then scooped the fragments into a gloved palm. The van door slid shut with a metallic clang, sealing her inside with the scent of sweat and the low chuckle of a man who’d done this a dozen times before.

Streetlights flickered over the empty sidewalk where she’d stood seconds ago, illuminating nothing but the faint scuff marks from her sneakers and the lingering static of fear in the air. By the time her shift manager texted to ask why she hadn’t clocked out properly, the van was already merging onto the interstate, her muffled whimpers lost beneath the hum of the road.

Ropes dug into her wrists, crossed tight behind her back before looping down to cinch her ankles together—a practiced hogtie that left her arched slightly upward, the curve of her ass pressing against the van’s ribbed metal floor. She stirred with a jerk, her breath coming in sharp bursts through her nose, the gag soaking up saliva as her tongue pushed uselessly against the rubber ball. The blindfold darkened when fresh tears welled up, sticking to her lashes.

“Quite now, princess,” the man in the passenger seat murmured, his voice like gravel wrapped in silk. He turned around to watch her quiver, the damp diner uniform clinging to every panicked rise and fall of her chest. The van hit a pothole; her body jolted, a choked noise escaping as the vibration transferred through her bound body.

The driver chuckled, adjusting the rear view mirror, giving him a view of her toned legs—her crew socks had slipped down during the struggle, revealing skin so smooth it gleamed under the van’s interior lights. “They’ll gonna love this one,” he said, thumbs digging into the steering wheel. “Look at those legs. Like they were made for spreading.” Her answering sob was muffled, desperate, the sound of someone realizing no one would ever hear her scream again.

The passenger unfolded a creased sheet of paper, scanning the details with the disinterest of a man reading a grocery list. “Blonde, five-six, one-twenty,” he recited, tapping the page. “Hips like a fucking hourglass. Ballet. Soccer. Dancer—Jesus, she’s got the whole goddamn package.” His boot nudged her thigh, spreading her legs wider against the van floor. “Says here she’s got a boyfriend. Some dumbass kid who texts her heart emojis.” He snorted, crumpling the paper into his pocket. “Shame he’ll never see her again—except maybe on the internet.”

A whimper tore from her throat as the passenger leaned down, his breath hot against her ear. “Eighty-seven,” he murmured, savoring the way her whole body flinched. “That’s you now. No name, no hometown, no fucking prom date waiting for you.” He traced the welt left by the ropes around her wrists, already purpling. “Just a number on your skin and a lifetime of learning your place.” The van swerved onto an exit ramp—her body rolled, legs jerking at the rope, her skirt riding up to expose lace panties darkened with sweat.

The passenger’s phone buzzed—a buyer’s inquiry, flashing across the screen alongside a price that would’ve paid her diner wages for the rest of her life. He smirked, typing one-handed while another man clamped his hand around her ankle, squeezing the delicate bones. “Looks like you’re headed to Dubai, sweetheart,” he said, watching fresh tears soak through the blindfold. “Some sheik’s got a thing for blondes who cry.” The driver laughed, downshifting as the van accelerated toward the private airstrip, where a jet waited, engines already humming.

Her skirt split with a single snick of the scissors, the fabric peeling away. She thrashed as cold air hit her bare flesh, the sound of her muffled screams drowned out by the men’s laughter. The scissors traced down her blouse next, popping buttons onto the van floor—one pinged against the metal, rolling beneath the seats. A rough hand cupped her breast, squeezing hard enough to leave fingerprints before the nipple was pinched between thick fingers. “Fuck,” the passenger breathed, his thumb rubbing circles over the hardening peak. “Gonna break this one in proper.”

The new cuffs clicked into place, the steel biting into her wrists with a finality that made her whimper. The arm restraints locked her elbows together, forcing her arms behind her, tits pushed out like offerings. Another strap cinched around her calves, yanking them back against her thighs until her knees threatened to pop—her body folded into a tight, trembling package, every inch of exposed skin flushing under their scrutiny. She jerked when a calloused palm smacked her ass, the sound sharp and stinging, the heat spreading across her flesh in waves.

A gloved hand twisted in her ponytail, wrenching her head back as the needle pressed against the crook of her elbow. She screamed into the gag, eyes rolling wildly behind the blindfold, legs kicking weakly at air—until the plunger depressed. The drugs hit fast, her pupils blowing wide beneath the cloth as her muscles slackened. A thin line of drool dripped from the gag, pooling between her breasts as her breath turned shallow and uneven. The IV line slid in next, taped down with clinical precision, while an oxygen mask sealed over her nose and mouth, her panicked breaths fogging the plastic in erratic bursts.

They lifted her like cargo, her limp body sagging between them as they carried her toward the waiting crate—reinforced steel lined with soundproofing foam. She mewled as they dumped her inside, her drugged body flopping uselessly against the padded floor. A collar locked around her throat, chaining her to a metal ring bolted into the crate’s interior, ensuring she wouldn’t thrash herself bloody during transit. The lid lowered sealing her in darkness, the only sound her muffled, drug-slurred cries and the rhythmic beep of the IV monitor tracking her vitals.

The label slapped onto the crate’s side read “Fragile Electronics - Handle With Care” in crisp black letters, complete with a barcode. One of the men chuckled, patting the crate like a prized dog. “Hope she doesn’t overheat,” he joked, adjusting the temperature control panel on the side—set just high enough to keep her alive, but not so high she’d sweat herself into dehydration. The cart’s wheels squeaked as they rolled her toward the jet’s cargo hold, her crate nestled between pallets of genuine electronics and crates of champagne.

Her consciousness flickered like a dying bulb as the jet’s engines roared to life, the vibrations thrumming through the crate’s walls, rattling her teeth. The knockout drugs twisted her terror into something hazy and distant, her thoughts dissolving into fragments—the scent of her boyfriend’s cologne, the diner’s stale coffee, the way the streetlights had glittered on broken glass seconds before the world went black. A final tear slid down her cheek as the jet lifted off, her body weightless for one suspended moment before gravity pinned her to the crate’s floor, her whimpers lost beneath the thunder of ascent.

Hours later, the crate’s hinges groaned when they pried it open, fluorescent lighting illuminating her limp body. Hands grasped her limbs, hauling her onto a cold steel examination table. The straps clicked into place with mechanical efficiency—leather cuffs at her wrists and ankles, spreading her wide displaying her body like a specimen. A handler whistled low as he peeled the oxygen mask away, her lips slack and glossy with drool. “Fuck, look at her,” he muttered, thumbing her nipple to hardness before delivering a sharp slap that made her flesh jiggle. The sound echoed off the tiled walls, mingling with the hum of the IV pump’s steady drip.

Another handler dragged a damp cloth between her thighs, scrubbing away the remnants of her panic-sweat, the water trickling down the table’s drain. His fingers lingered, parting her pussy lips with a clinical detachment that belied the hunger in his grip. “Tighter than a vault,” he grunted, two fingers plunging in without preamble, her cunt clenching reflexively around the intrusion. Her breath deepened—a drugged, broken sound—as he twisted his wrist, stretching her. Another man leaned in, sniffing her neck like a predator, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt on her skin. “Fresh meat,” he chuckled, palming her breast, his thumb circling her areola in slow, mocking circles.

The wax hissed as it melted, the scent of honey and chemicals thick in the air. They slapped it onto her mound in thick, deliberate strips, the handlers laughing as her unconscious body twitched—her hips bucking weakly against the restraints. The first rip tore the hair from her flesh with a wet, ripping sound, her thighs jerking as if trying to escape the pain even in her drugged stupor. The second strip took the rest, leaving her pink and quivering, her cunt exposed like a peeled fruit. One handler whistled, dragging his thumb over her bare slit, spreading her lips to admire the glistening, vulnerable flesh beneath. “Clean as a whistle,” he murmured, before sliding two fingers into her cunt.