The woman from Amnesty International came to visit the Incredibly Virtuous Man promptly at one-thirty in the afternoon on Saturday.
The Incredibly Virtuous Man was known far and wide for being in favor of good things and being opposed to bad things. Therefore, he was not surprised to receive this unannounced Saturday visit from the woman from Amnesty International.
She always came to visit on Saturdays when she needed money.
Granted, there was a flurry of voices from within when the woman from Amnesty International knocked on the door. A metallic clang, a barking dog, a flutter of footsteps, a smack, a gasp, and the clink of several keys in several locks later, and the Incredibly Virtuous Man appeared at the front door to invite the woman in.
They sat in the Incredibly Virtuous Man’s kitchen, which gave them a decent view of the entrance and some of the grounds where the Mexicans were tending the garden, but unfortunately didn’t really offer any view at all of the horse pastures.
“Is this about the sex trafficking?” the Incredibly Virtuous Man asked.
“It’s about the sex trafficking,” said the woman from Amnesty International.
“Oh yes very bad… human rights abuses… infringement of personal autonomy… not a good thing… must be stopped…” said the Incredibly Virtuous Man.
“Did you know they kidnap twelve-year-old girls and force them into sex slavery? Imagine!” said the woman from Amnesty International.
“Oh, I’m imagining,” the Incredibly Virtuous Man said. He took a copy of Wired magazine and laid it nonchalantly across his lap.
Although it didn’t seem to sit quite right and would slip off now and then.
Of course she couldn’t just come out and ask for the money straight out. They never have the — please pardon the retrograde and highly sexist language here — balls to say what they want, not without boring you to death with a whole song-and-dance to make them feel better about the whole dynamic. But the Incredibly Virtuous Man could see the whole affair rather embarrassed the woman from Amnesty International, so he settled in to enjoy that instead of forcing things to a head too quickly.
Fortunately, this story wasn’t as boring as most.
She had a whole presentation prepared, because clearly she’d been listening to some PR guru about the power of storytelling. Probably some bald man with obnoxious glasses where you take one look at him and you can tell he has a cuckolding fetish — not that all bald men who work in PR necessarily have cuckolding fetishes, but with some men you can just tell they can only get off by seeing their wives getting plowed by a minority. But the point is, those guys always go on about how the power of storytelling is something something something, I really don’t know because it gets so boring and lame I tune it out after the first five seconds.
Just tell a story, don’t tell me about storytelling, ya — again, pardon the problematic language — insufferable cuck.
Anyway, the not-at-all-boring and actually-decently-presented story the woman from Amnesty International told had to do with an eleven-year-old girl named Mary from some Latin American country, I don’t remember which one. Girl with just that shade of brown hair it makes you wanna pull until she screams and begs you to stop, but then pull a little more and a little harder just to remind her who’s calling the shots. (That was the Incredibly Virtuous Man’s thoughts on the matter when he saw the photo of sweet little innocent Mary — the woman from Amnesty International would never dream of saying such a thing.)
Anyway, it’s a sex trafficking presentation, so whaddya expect? Mary gets kidnapped from her (loving and wholesome and deeply Catholic and not-at-all-entangled-with-the-drug-cartels) family, and at first they try to play nice with her — say, “Suck this dude off for a few pesos.” But Mary refuses because she’s so sweet and innocent and all that — and even though Amnesty International is a secular organization the woman really (pardon the phrase) leaned into the fact that she happened to be named Mary, making what you might call an ersatz hagiography out of the thing, even though she was only eleven years old and never did get knocked up.
So then they up the ante a little. Beatings — but remember these guys are professionals, they know how to beat a girl within an inch of her life without leaving any permanent marks — isolation, public humiliation, deprivation of food and water, exposure to extreme heat, and of course a little rape now and then. Plus — and this is standard practice for purposes of control, you understand — they get her hooked on heroin, which naturally has its addictive properties, to be sure, but it also works to create and enhance a bit of the “Stockholm Syndrome” by means of a shared drug experience. Never underestimate the perverse but very real bonds that are formed in these contexts.
And much as I’d like to tell you sweet little Mary had an infinite reserve of strength to draw upon, let’s be honest — she was only one tiny girl facing the business end of an entire illicit industry.
Before long they’d turned her into the perfect smiling submissive eleven-year-old little cum slut. And they sold her to some unknown American billionaire, who presumably got a whole lot of use and enjoyment out of her.
(Remember, this is just the summary. The woman from Amnesty International never would have expressed herself in such vulgar terms.)
“So as you can see we’re up against some really very nasty people,” the woman from Amnesty International concluded.
“How much do you want from me?” the Incredibly Virtuous Man asked.
The woman from Amnesty International hemmed and hawed for a few minutes — you know how that goes — but after a little cajoling and arm-twisting finally gave a figure: “Ten thousand.”
“I’ll give you fifty thousand,” the Incredibly Virtuous Man said. “You’ll see the check Monday morning. Now if you’ll excuse me I have quite the afternoon planned.”
The woman from Amnesty International of course went ecstatic over such an exorbitant figure, which only made it all the more difficult for the Incredibly Virtuous Man to get her out the front door.
It’d make it so much easier to help people if they didn’t burden you with their gratitude…
But finally the Incredibly Virtuous Man was alone once again. He shut the door and relaxed into himself. Then, step by step, he headed for the basement.
From the top of the stair he flipped on the light. There at the bottom stood the girl, naked and shivering, tied to the whipping post.
“Did you hear, Mary, I’ve just given fifty thousand dollars to help stamp out child sex trafficking,” the Incredibly Virtuous Man said.
Mary nodded as, step by step, he walked down the stairs.
“And since you were so good and so quiet and didn’t make a fuss for Daddy, I’ll go easy on you today.”
He kissed her tenderly on the top of the head.
He pulled her dark hair until she screamed and begged him to stop. But then he pulled a little more and a little harder just to remind her who was calling the shots.