“What’s your name?”

I looked up at the big oaf who was on top of me asking the question. He was new to the mine or at least to be allowed to visit me. His face was smudged with soot and he smelled like cabbage. At least he was young and had a decent body, which was more than I could say for most of the miners here.

“They call me Drotik,” I said evenly. I thought back to the last time that anyone had said my real name. It had been the day I was taken from my home in South Carolina. My captors had never spoken to me and certainly never had an opportunity to use my name. I hardly remembered how my name sounded on anyone else’s tongue now.

“You have a nice fucking hole, Drotik,” the big man said. He had me bent in half with my ankles on his shoulders. His fat cock was spreading my anal ring open wide even after he had busted his nut deep inside me.

This guy wasn’t the best fuck I had ever had, but he could get better. Most of the men who came to see me multiple times would let me direct them so that they could get even more out of the experience. Some of the men just wanted to bang me, call me names when they finished, which I guessed helped them to feel better about themselves, and leave as fast as they could.

In my heart, I knew that I wanted to meet and have a relationship with someone. At this point in my life, I knew that I wanted, no, needed, a man that was confident, self-assured, and a dominant. I had met a lot of men and nothing turned me on like a man who controlled me but respected me at the same exact time. That was the man for me.

“Thank you,” I said back mechanically. “Your cock is as impressive as an ox and you fuck with the grace of a Bolshoi dancer.” I had been given this line to say by the former owner of the mine. He had requested that I say it to him after each fuck. I now said it to each of the miners after they busted a nut inside my still-tight ass.

The new miner reached up and ran a dirty thumb over the brilliant blue mark on my face. He bore down like he was seeing if it would come off as he rubbed it.

He asked, “How did you get here, Drotik?”

This was not the first time that one of the miners had asked me this question. I had a standard short response to give them, but something felt different today. “I was taken from my home about a year after my mark appeared. It was my fault because I followed a handsome man into an alley to blow him and instead got a hood thrown over my head. The next thing I knew, I was in a cargo hold of a ship headed here.”

“And you’ve been here ever since?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever been able to contact your family?”

“No. Why? Do you know a way that I could accomplish that?” I asked hopefully.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry that has happened to you, but at the same time, it is so exciting to be able to fuck you after a long day of mining.”

This wasn’t a terrible place to be. It wasn’t my choice of course, but the men were mostly nice to me and some were even respectful. Some of them even brought me extra food or chocolate. I had a whole windowsill of carved wooden figures that some of the men had made for me. Too bad the windowsill was nailed shut.

I had tried to run away multiple times, only to be captured and beaten for my efforts. The fire of escape still burned in my heart every day that I was kept here, but I was more tempered and patient now. I would not try again without a solid viable plan.

“What’s your name?” I asked as the miner rolled off of me and lit a cigarette.

“Petor,” he said after taking a drag off of the hand-rolled cigarette.

“How long have you been working at the mine, Petor?” My Russian was much improved over four years. It had truly been torture when I couldn’t communicate with anyone. Thanks to the tutoring of the former owner and my voracious appetite for reading, I was able to learn the native language pretty quickly.

“I came three weeks ago. It took me that long to get into the bucket.”

Other men who had visited me told me how the system worked. Each man that mined his quota got his name added to the bucket each day. At the end of each day, two names were drawn—the dirty and the clean. The first one was the dirty because the man got to come straight from the mine to my room. The second name was the clean, because he came to me after dinner once he had been given the chance to take a shower. Each day that you made your quota, you increased your chance of winning.

“You mean you only met your quota once?” I asked in disbelief.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

“Lucky bastard,” I said with a laugh. His name was only in the bucket once, yet it was still pulled. “I bet the men were furious that your name got picked.”

“They were fucking livid,” he said, starting to laugh.

“I’ve heard some men’s names are in there twelve or thirteen times just waiting.”

“Vladmir told me that his is in there twenty times,” Petor said with a sly smile.