German Connection

Charong, along with Runrot, both aged twenty-seven and originating from Thailand were inside a bedsit, used by one of Sirada’s prostitutes, just off the Stuttgarter Platz; a well-known red light district of Berlin.

Based in Thailand, Sirada along with many more groups were heavily involved in the skin trade, where girls as young as twelve were abducted, or sold by their parents to local gangs, intent on selling them on to people trafficker groups operating in the larger cities. Of these girls, the best of them would go abroad, where a large percentage would end up working in the lucrative red light districts of Europe.

Already in the room, waiting for them, was Malee. A woman of thirty, small, with long black hair, she also came from Thailand and looked after the girls in Berlin for Sirada.

Charong walked purposefully over to a girl known as Kulap, lying on the bed in a pool of blood. She was naked, her throat had been cut and she bore the ownership mark of Sirada. He looked at the cut very carefully, then up at Malee. You said over the phone… Kulap told you a man called Ensal had threatened her a number of times, telling her to move on?

Yes, he’d told Kulap in no uncertain terms not to come back, or she could expect a good-hiding. But to kill her, - she shook her head – this man needs to be found and made to pay for his crime.

Charong nodded his head up and down slightly. You can be very certain he’ll be found, and if it was him, he will pay.

We still have five more girls working out of this house. What must I do, Charong? Malee asked, obviously scared.

Find them work in one of our table bars until this is sorted out. No girl is to know what happened to Kulap. You understand?

I do, Charong. No one knows, apart from you and Runrot.

That is good, now you should leave.

After Malee left, Charong made a number of calls. The body needed to be removed and the room cleaned.

***

The table dancing bar that Charong entered later the same day was one of three owned by Sirada. It was full of tourists. He ignored the main lounge and went through to another. This back lounge was only available to regular or special clients, with the average client coming off the street prevented from entering by two men standing at the entrance. The tables were quieter, the young women on the poles far more upmarket, wearing only a thong, showing off their well-toned bodies. Others were in front of clients, most naked and dancing seductively, or sitting astride the client’s knees, pushing their bodies closer to them, simulating intercourse.

A man in his early forties approached Charong. His name was Fabio; he was heavily built, six foot in height, with blonde hair and bluish eyes. He also worked for Sirada.

We need to talk, Fabio, come to my office, Charong said curtly.

Soon they were in Charong’s office. A girl had followed the two men in, carrying a tray with drinks on. She placed the drinks on the desk before leaving.

You seem agitated, Charong? Fabio said, sitting down opposite him after the door closed behind the girl.

Have you heard of a man called Ensal? he asked, not wanting a conversation over how he appeared.

Fabio had been in Berlin for a great deal longer than Charong; in fact, he set up the dance bars for Sirada, with girls sent over from Thailand. He also knew most of the pimps and groups working in the city. I have, he’s the brother of a man called Ezzard, who worked in Cologne.

Charong thought for a moment. Ezzard, wasn’t he killed during territorial wars among the pimps?

So it was rumoured, but his death was far more complicated than an argument among local pimps. He got caught between a woman called Karen Harris and one of the Russian cartels. According to Ensal, Ezzard had bought a woman called Sophie. She turned out to be Harris’s sister. That was a bad move.

Then you’re suggesting this Harris woman killed him? Was she an assassin for a rival cartel?

Fabio gave a trace of a smile.Seems like you’ve a great deal to learn about trafficking and using girls in Europe. Harris, or rather, to give her full title, Colonel Karen Harris, commander of Unit T, runs a very different operation to the CAHT – the Centre Against Human Trafficking – who work with the police in Thailand. Unit T is a European military force that can cross borders and call on local resources. They bring with them not only a type of violence that can leave many dead, but have the power to confiscate everything a trafficker owns, if they are found with a victim of trafficking. It’s well-known that Unit T use covert operatives to infiltrate trafficking operations to bring them down. These are not pimps, but girls posing as prostitutes and according to rumours, the Cologne fiasco came about by them using such a woman. We of course would not have that problem; we bring our own girls in and do not take from the area. But you asked if Harris is an assassin? Fabio hesitated for a moment, considering the question. Who knows? She’s a killer that I do know. Read about her in the papers - then, Charong, you’ll understand she’d be more than capable of taking Ezzard out alone, besides covering her tracks by creating a turf war between the local pimps. As for Ensal, there was no love lost between him and his brother, so he went to Cologne to collect six of Ezzard’s best girls after his death. Although, I’m given to understand, he had to fight for them, as local pimps muscling in were also cherry-picking Ezzard’s girls. Since then, the ones Ensal brought have worked the streets here in Berlin. It’s rumoured he has twenty-six girls and dissuades any girl controlled by another pimp, if she attempts to work from his established street positions.

Would you say Ensal’s capable of going further, when a girl’s not moving on, such as murder?

Fabio shrugged. This business is getting harder, gangs from Romania and Hungary have moved in, cutting the prices in half, so the territory you carve out for yourself is critical in holding your own. Then there’s the Garcia from New York. Their leaders escaped through Mexico, awash with money and seriously looking for a foothold in Europe. That has been made even more important for them, after the US authorities found themselves an informer and began systematically taking the Garcia operation apart. But why are you asking such questions?

Earlier today Kulap was murdered, her throat cut. Our only lead is that Kulap had complained to her minder that Ensal had threatened her for stepping into his territory.

Fabio said nothing, preferring to take a sip of his drink. Setting the glass back down, he looked at Charong. Moving girls on aggressively happens all the time between rival gangs, it means nothing. But for Ensal to kill a girl, unless he’s wanting an all-out war between the pimps, he’d be stupid, knowing he’d be the first person whose door you’d be knocking on, particularly as the girl had been hassled by him. He has a few heavies that work for him, mainly to keep the girls safe. I can’t see him going up against other pimps, or even the cartels, he’d be unlikely to come out best.

Unless, like you say, he’s after creating another war among the pimps, similar to what occurred in Cologne.

Anything’s possible, but wouldn’t he want to keep his input in causing such unrest low-key, rather than running around threatening?

Charong shrugged indifferently. Who knows with such people? Either way, we’ll pay him a visit.

Chapter 2

Colonel Karen Harris, aged thirty-three and commander of Unit T, was in her office at the Unit T camp, awaiting the arrival of a television crew. Gate security at the camp had informed her that they were on the premises. Such visits were very rare; in fact, it was unheard of that civilians, or press, not attached to the division would be allowed in; such was the security that surrounded the work going on inside Unit T. However, this visit was at the request of the EU committee chairperson who oversaw Unit T, with an agenda for the visit agreed with Karen. There was to be an off-camera meeting with Karen followed by a conducted tour of the facility with limited filming, including interviews with key personnel.

Ten minutes after the film crew had booked in; the programme’s producer Sharan Black, a woman in her early forties, and Stacy Wright, aged nineteen, an investigative reporter were with Karen in her office. Coffee had been brought and introductions made.

You’ve requested talking to me about issues arising during the making of your documentary on women trafficked from the Baltic States, Karen began. While I’ve agreed to see you, I cannot understand how the unit can help. Perhaps if you tell me what you actually want from us, then it may become a little clearer?

Of course, Colonel. Stacy has been working on the documentary for three months. We began our journey in Croatia, meeting traffickers who were moving women through Serbia, destined for Berlin and Brussels, Sharan replied.

Karen frowned slightly. You’re telling me your film crew has been among traffickers and you intend to move in deeper and meet the ones who conduct the sales?

Why not? It’s pointless not to witness a sale, Stacy cut in. This is what I do. I did the same with drug traffickers. Followed the growing of the coca, its conversion into cocaine, the smuggling into the US, its distribution and the end users. In this latest investigation, I was determined to begin in the villages and towns where it’s claimed young women are snatched, following the route through to the seller and finally the destination of these women - their passage into brothels, or onto the streets of Europe.

I see, but I’d strongly advise you do not delve any deeper. I can’t emphasise how dangerous it could be for you.

We’re interested as to why you say that, Sharan asked. After all, we find the people engaged in such activities are always prepared to talk and put their own side of the story. These people, Colonel, are the same as you or I, with aspirations, similar to the farmers at the start of the chain in the production of cocaine, desperately trying to feed their families.

Miss Black, I resent being likened to such people. There’s a very big difference in producing and selling drugs, when the end user has a choice to buy, or walk away, to people trafficking. Traffickers buy, sell and transport people. Be it a child sold by her kin, a person snatched from a village, or the taking of someone from a family escaping persecution. You claim you’ve been among the cocaine cartels and felt safe? Maybe so, but you’re not their buyer, or user of their commodity. So providing you went where they said, did as you were told, they could spin you all the lies they wanted. A trafficker is different. They deal with human cargo, to be sold or used. They’re not interested in the suffering they cause on the way, or where the victims come from, everyone has an end value. That is why it’s so dangerous to be anywhere near such gangs.

If you believe that, come with us; see for yourself how we’re able to go to places you could never go... or are you too frightened? Stacy mocked.

Karen sighed inwardly. Fear doesn’t come into it. I’ve been taking on these people since I was seventeen. I already know the majority of traffickers, the same as they know me and what I represent. I can assure you they would be very dubious about meeting me, let alone talking.

So if you know such traffickers, as you claim, with your remit to take these people down, why have there been so few traffickers caught? Sharan asked.

Your information is wrong. We do take them down. In fact, we’ve taken down over two hundred operations and still they keep coming. Although, as with drug trafficking you take out a courier, and the courier’s replaced. Arrest the leader and you don’t know who will replace him; often you need to begin again. So we bide our time, building a complete picture of the set-up. Then, when we strike, we strike with the full knowledge that we can destroy a trafficking operation, or inflict sufficient damage that it’s no longer a viable threat. You should understand this is an industry that imprisons women for years. Beats them into submission, exploiting the insatiable appetite of the male population for sex. In the EU, the large influx of young males from countries at war, welcomed with open arms, is tipping the female to male ratio to the point that there are nearly two males to every female in many areas and it’s getting worse. Even the sceptics should understand this is a formula for increased sexual attacks. Traffickers will seize this opportunity of increasing their earnings with what they see as insufficient women going into prostitution by exploiting vulnerable women, forcing them into it. Very often, but not always, these unfortunate women are trafficked from the poorer countries.

Karen fell silent while she sipped her coffee. Her visitors did the same.

Tell me, the women you spoke to, did they realise that they were to end up as prostitutes? Or did the women believe they were coming to work in domestic situations and would be able to send money home, as is usually the case? Karen asked, placing her cup down.

We cannot tell you that, you must watch our report, the same as everyone else, Sharan said with authority. As it is, we’re here on a fact-finding mission to add to our programme. I don’t believe you will add any value to what we already know, in fact, we probably know more than you. Even so, I’d still like Stacy to talk to a few of your key personnel, find out how they feel about what they’re doing, besides getting their thoughts on the impact your unit is making.

Karen shrugged indifferently. I’ll have our press officer take you round. I must warn you, this is a military site and the locations I’ve given you to visit are with this in mind. If you are found in any other area, no matter what the excuse, you will be arrested. If that occurs, you may not be released for some time; until I’m satisfied there’s been no breach in security.

We’ll not be curtailed, Colonel. We’re investigative journalists, determined to weed out the truth of trafficking. Limit your side of the argument, by trying to muzzle us and you’ve only yourself to blame if your side is misrepresented, or shown in a bad light. The public’s entitled to know what goes on here and what you’re doing to combat trafficking. We expected to have the opportunity to report on that and not be taken around as if we’re tourists, Sharan came back at her, with obvious annoyance that they would have little chance to dig out the facts of what really went on in the camp.

I’m not really bothered what you believe, Miss Black. Unit T isn’t prepared to give you free access, in order for you to sensationalise your programme. You go where we say, or you leave the camp. It’s your choice.

Then we’ll go on your sightseeing trip and report it accordingly. I think you underestimate the power of the press and what it can do to reputations.

Karen gave a hint of a smile. You really think I’m bothered about my reputation? I can assure you I’m not. You see, people like me are needed, the politicians know that. While I wash their dirty linen away from the ballot box, they’re happy. Without me, they would have to wash their own, then answer to the electorate. As it is, if you’ve no more questions, I’ve work to do.

There is one more question, Stacy cut in. You’re a multimillionaire by all accounts, with a large number of properties, besides an aircraft, which I’m told on good authority you own personally. How does someone who has nothing at eighteen, accumulate such wealth in fifteen years? Could it be that these trafficker gangs you talk about, while you sit around collecting evidence, are paying for the privilege for running their businesses, with the leaders bailing just before you go in?

Karen was obviously taken aback by her accusations, shown in her tone of voice when she replied. Believe what you want, but never accuse me of getting into bed with traffickers and compromising myself, or the unit with backhanders. I’ve no intention of explaining my personal business to you, or anyone else. Suffice to say, both the UK government and the EU, who I now work for, are fully aware of my finances and how they came about. You would be well advised not to go down that route.

Stacy smirked slightly. Seems like I’ve hit a raw nerve, but you can be sure I’ll carry on asking such questions, especially when the people I’ve met have made the point of just how wealthy you are. Then she, along with Sharan, left the office.

Karen smiled to herself, carrying on with her paperwork, indifferent to Stacy’s threat.

***

Later, Stanley joined Karen in her office. As head of intelligence he had already listened to the recording of the meeting with the reporters before going to see her.

I’m at a loss at what to say, Stanley. I know reporters go into war zones and all manner of conflicts, but I seriously worry when a girl of Stacy’s age believes she can remain safe among men who will only see her as a commodity.

Forget them, Karen. We’ve more important matters to concentrate on.

We have, but I’d be interested to know who they’re actually speaking to?

Perhaps, but I can’t believe they’re in contact with the big boys. If they are, it will be a set-up, in that the traffickers will have them meeting girls already working as prostitutes, with the girls telling Stacy how good their lives are and how well they’re looked after.

Karen smiled. You’re right. I suppose we’ll have to wait for their TV show to see what really happened.

Chapter 3

Ensal, a man in his forties, five foot six, broad, with hair shaved millimetres from his scalp, hiding the fact he was partially bald, had a number of prostitutes working the streets for him. Always on the lookout for more girls, Ensal would often hand over a few hundred euro to the owners of homeless shelters if a suitable girl turned up. He’d received such a call about a seventeen-year-old sleeping rough, after running away from home. The girl, hungry and desperate, had attempted to make money by prostituting herself, however the men she found often walked away, giving her nothing, while one even robbed her of what few belongings she had. Ensal had taken the girl for a drink, after the owner of a shelter introduced her. Playing on her desperation, he painted a far better picture in her having a pimp, pointing out, not the pitfalls, but the advantages, such as, having a place to live, a regular income and above all safety. For any girl at rock-bottom, this sounded like a lifeline. She agreed to give it a try.

A short time later, Ensal left the bar with the girl. She was tired, exhausted and although he’d bought her a sandwich, the amount of drink she had consumed left her at a point where she could hardly stand. After a short taxi ride they arrived at his brothel where she was taken down into the basement. Ensal left her in a room where the only furniture was a divan bed to sleep it off.

Fifteen minutes later he was back in the room with a man called Jerry, who worked for him.

Ensal checked the girl. She’s out of it, get her ready, was all he said.

What Ensal had failed to mention was that girls who worked for him had to bear his mark. Without such a mark, other pimps could take her. To this end, with the help of Jerry, they turned the girl to lie face up and moved her down the bed, until her legs as far as her knees were dangling over the end. In the corner of the room was a camping stove. Ensal lit the stove, resting a branding iron in the flame. The tip began to glow a dark shade of red.

While he did that, Jerry placed a thick leather strap under the bed and across her body below the breasts, pulling it tight, trapping her arms. After removing her shoes, he unfastened her jeans, pulling them off, along with the knickers, throwing both to one side.

Ensal collected the iron from the stove and moved to the end of the bed, his body trapping one of the girl’s legs between him and the bed, while Jerry took hold of her other leg, forcing it up high and pulling it out, exposing her inner thigh, holding it firmly. Ensal immediately plunged the hot end of the branding iron into the exposed thigh, close to the top of the leg. The girl, screamed, trying to move, but couldn’t, as the skin burnt, bringing an acrid smell of burning flesh into the room. Ensal pulled the iron away, leaving his mark of ownership clearly burnt into her skin.

Jerry bathed the burn for a time with tepid water, before wrapping cling film around the top of her leg, covering the mark. Both of them knew this was the quickest way the burn would heal, so she could begin work. During that time, she’d be given a place to live and expected to offer limited services, while being looked after by her minder. Ensal preferred to look on his pimps as minders, which sounded better in his mind. Jerry stepped back satisfied, before covering her with a blanket, and both of them left the room while she sobered up.

The lounge of the house, which clients used as a waiting room for girls becoming available, was empty. Ensal sat down with Jerry. Both had a bottle of beer in their hands.

It was at that moment that Mirco, another of Ensal’s men, came in. He looked agitated, and went directly over to Ensal.

What’s up, Mirco? Ensal asked.

Heida’s dead, her throat’s been cut. We can’t get near; the police were called by a passer-by who found her in an alleyway.

Fuck, this is the second, what’s happening?

It’s obvious, someone’s trying to put you out of business, Jerry cut in. The point is, who?

We need to find them, I can’t keep up with replacements at this rate; competition’s hard enough on the streets. Apart from the other girls believing we can’t protect them. Ensal fell silent for a moment. Jerry, take Mirco and get out round the bars, see what the word is on the streets. Someone must know something.

***

As the car containing Jerry and Mirco left, another drew up. Charong, along with Runrot and Fabio, climbed out, going directly into the brothel belonging to Ensal.

Ensal was still in the empty lounge when they came through. Immediately he knew who they were.

What the fuck do you lot want? he demanded.

We should talk... Charong replied.

About what?

If we let you live - now move, he came back aggressively. At the same time Runrot and Fabio drew guns.

Ensal shrugged indifferently, but stood, telling Charong to follow. Soon they were in a back office.

So talk, was all Ensal said, at the same time sitting down in a chair behind an old desk.

I’ve been told you threatened one of my girls?

I did, she was on my patch and knows she shouldn’t be there. I’d already told her once last week. As it was, she may have been shouted at aggressively, but threatened, I don’t think so. Although you can hardly take her hand and walk her out.

But you didn’t, did you?

What?

Just shout at her. You killed her.

Fuck off, why should I waste bullets, she never came back anyway? As it is, I’ve lost two girls myself today, my lads are out nosing around trying to find a lead. You can be sure the police won’t tell us.

Charong glanced at Runrot over Ensal’s mention of shooting, then back at Ensal. How did they die?

Throats cut, and you?

The same.

Then it seems we’ve a pissed off client, or a group wanting to muscle in. We should work together, Ensal suggested.

Sirada doesn’t work with others, we sort our own problems. But we will consider your suggestion and maybe come back to you.

You do that. I think in this case, it’s the right thing to do. I’ll talk to others; maybe it’s a group, perhaps from a Baltic state, trying to start a turf war. Alone, none of us can win.

Charong nodded and left.

Ensal leaned back in his chair. Already he was more at ease. He’d the impression that he was being targeted alone and didn’t have the muscle to fight back. With Sirada possibly joining him to find out who was killing these girls, he felt more at ease. It could also mean that other pimps were in the same position, increasing the chance of finding the killer, or killers.

Chapter 4

Stacy with a film crew, Pete and Josh, came into Sharan’s hotel bedroom, following a call from Sharan the day before to join her urgently. The hotel was in Aachen, a German town close to the border with Belgium.

Why the urgency, Sharan? Stacy asked, flopping down on the settee.

Sharan looked at her watch. It was coming up to one in the afternoon. I’ve managed to arrange for you all to witness and film an auction. You’ll leave shortly. The group in Croatia has spoken to the man who runs the sales and he’s agreed for one of his drivers to pick you all up. Apparently two of the women we met in Croatia are in the sale. He tells me it’s attended by pimps looking for women to work in their brothels. From there, we will move on to where the women finally end up.

Stacy grinned. That’s fantastic and something that’s never been witnessed, besides filming it.

It hasn’t and will finally dispel the press myths surrounding such sales.

In what way?

With what we learned from you interviewing the women in Croatia, the claim by many in the press that women are dragged into sale rooms screaming, is not true. All the women we were introduced to wanted to work in Germany, so a sale is the next step for these women to fulfil their dreams, Sharan commented.

You’re right, it will. It’ll also show that Harris woman up from Unit T, Stacy added with obvious satisfaction. She’s always played on the fact these groups are dangerous and has, it would seem, made a lot of money perpetuating such claims.

Sometimes the truth is not what’s claimed, Stacy. Of course, there may be a few working in brothels against their will and we’ll try to find one to interview, but in the meantime, let’s finish tracking the journey these women from Croatia are making.

At that moment Sharan’s mobile began to ring. She answered and talked a little before cutting the call. The man who’s taking you is outside; he’s parked up a short distance down the road in a people carrier. Get some good footage and while you’re with him, I’ll arrange our next location.

***

The driver of the vehicle, calling himself Quentin, told Stacy he came from Belgium. He was a small weed of a man who constantly had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

I hear you originally went to Croatia? he asked Stacy.

I did and met a number of women determined to work in Germany. Do you have any dealings in Croatia?

No, I pickup and deliver for Amo, nothing more.

So this Amo will be showing me what happens to many of the women I met?

I expect so; they mostly come in this way. Soon we’ll cross the border into Belgium. The women you met originally came to work in Germany, but a number were destined for Brussels. At the sale you’ll meet pimps working that city and watch them bid for the women.

Then the women don’t have a choice as to who they work for?

No, that’s not always possible; it depends on who needs women and how much they will pay. But women who fetch a high price are also an investment and will be looked after.

As soon as they crossed the border, Quentin pulled into the side of the road. Mobile phones, please? he asked.

Why? Stacy wanted to know.

The place is secret, it’s necessary that you don’t use the GPS on the phone to find where we are. All I’ll do is take out the batteries; you can keep your mobiles. I’ll give the batteries back once we leave.

As soon as he’d taken the batteries, they were on their way. Twenty minutes later they turned into a farmyard. Already there were a number of cars parked up.

While your camera and sound men check out the room we use for the sale, you come and meet Amo, Quentin told Stacy.

She followed him into a small building and through to an office. Amo, a big man, with his hair cropped millimetres from his scalp, stood offering his hand. You’re Stacy?

I am. Quentin told me you’re conducting a sale today?

It’s already going on, in fact you’re late, there’s only five left.

So the women I met in Croatia, are they among those?

They were auctioned before lunch, it’s the specials now. If you come with me, you can watch them being sold.

Coming out of the office and across the yard, they went into a barn. There were around fifteen men standing looking at a small platform made up of pallets, with sheets of plywood laid on top. On the platform was a girl not much older than sixteen. She was wearing just knickers, walking up and down the short platform. A man standing at the side of the platform was reading out her size and weight, before ending with the words, The sale begins at twenty-five thou, I want bids, the man shouted.

As the bidding went on Stacy moved closer to Amo. She looks very young and scared; can I talk to her after the sale?

This one’s sixteen. She’s Russian and does not speak English, but will fetch close to eighty thousand. If we have time, I’ll find a woman later you can talk to.

Where’s my film crew, shouldn’t they be here to cover the sale?

At present I believe they’re sorting out their equipment and can do the final two. While we wait for them, let me take you through the preparation.

That sounds interesting.

It is, believe me, he told her, grasping Stacy’s arm. They went behind a stack of bales out of sight of the buyers. Two men were standing around.

Amo pulled out a notebook. Let’s do it right, shall we? A girl is first weighed and her height is measured. So give me your age, height and then stand on the scales.

Nineteen, five foot four, Stacy answered, joining in with his demonstration by standing on the scales. Why do you check a woman’s weight?

Many buyers, particularly if they come from Asia, often base the woman’s value by her weight. Anyway, now we have your basic details, strip down to your underclothes, then you can experience the emotions a woman has when she’s actually on the platform and being sold.

Stacy raised her hands, backing away. Oh no, I’m a reporter, I can understand most things without experiencing them myself. Shall we see the girls now?

Amo grinned. So now you’re objecting, no longer wanting to experience it for yourself then? Let us show you what happens when a woman refuses to undress. Strip her.

Stacy went into hysterics when the men grabbed her, ripping off her clothes. In minutes she was naked and firmly held face down on the dirty barn floor, still shouting objections, followed now by obscenities.

Amo smiled. What’s up? You came to see and experience a sale, now you’re getting what you came for. Except unlike most of the women brought here, you’re far too uptight and vocal to be taken to the platform; many would not bother to bid. The buyers expect to see a woman who is subservient and allows inspection. Let’s see if we can knock a little obedience into you, shall we?

The next moment a strap was brought down across her back, followed by two more lashes, with a final one to the buttocks. Stacy screamed in agony, tears running down her face, begging him not to hit her again.

Then you’re going onto the sale platform with no more objections? he demanded.

Yes, she stuttered.

Very well. Don’t do as you’re told and you’ll feel the strap again. Take her to the platform.

Stacy was quickly marched out and forced up onto the platform. She stood there, embarrassed at being naked, with one hand covering between her legs, the other across her breasts, in absolute terror.

The man who sold the other girls was already announcing her age, height and weight. He turned to her after his announcement, and then using a stick he held in his hand, he banged the floor of the stage. "Fucking stand up straight, arms at your side so you can