Chapter 1
!! TWarning !! This chapter contains scenes of rape, physical violence, and exploitation; please read with caution. !! TWarning !!
Still lying on the soft bed, I watch my last client pull his pants up along his flabby thighs. He hops slightly to adjust the garment and fastens the belt under his rounded belly.
"Next time, put a bit more effort into it. I feel like I’m fucking a dead fish. Squeeze my cock harder."
"Yes, Master."
The man eyes me arrogantly while I force a smile. I could explain that after being taken again and again, my pussy has loosened, that this is what happens when you sleep with prostitutes—but what’s the point?
Experience has taught me that men don’t like being contradicted, so I keep quiet and wait for the next client. Occasionally, I meet a nice guy who asks if I enjoy it… It’s kind, but pointless. When you become the cum bucket for every desperate horny bastard on earth, you inevitably hate it.
At least in my case. I don’t know about the others; we rarely meet colleagues here. Sila, my pimp, does everything to isolate us. One dissenter is manageable, but a whole group is not. It’s annoying and bad for business.
For Sila, nothing matters more than business.
Eyes closed, I start to drift off on the bed. The mattress is soft and the sheets still fresh—it’s the start of the night. In a few hours, they will be sticky with sweat, spit, and cum. Maybe even blood, depending on the clients’ wishes.
As long as we remain functional, Sila allows them anything. My body is constantly covered in marks; over time, I’ve stopped paying attention.
My mind drifts in a pleasant haze until a small slap wakes me. The client presses his sticky fingers against my cheeks.
"So, sweetheart, did you take something? You’re off your game today."
Today? Not just today. Every day. As soon as possible. My mind wanders far away from here. I imagine myself outdoors, my body warmed by a ray of sunlight, my eyes dazzled by its glow. I’d do anything to leave, to escape this hell.
Maybe someday.
I know Sila allows some clients to end our lives—if they pay enough, of course.
"Sorry, Master. You were so vigorous, I feel drained... and full at the same time."
I give him my doe-eyed look, part frightened, part flirtatious. The one I’ve honed for years and that is now my secret weapon. Sometimes it keeps me from getting hit, sometimes it lets me steer things away from the worst ideas.
There aren’t many ways to take control of your own fate when you’ve been a prostitute in a brothel since age eight. Over time, I’ve developed a few techniques:
Don’t act smart, don’t show too much wit; it annoys them.
Don’t resist; it’s useless, and if seen as a challenge, they get worse.
Never talk about others; each client must feel unique, privileged.
And most importantly, flatter. Men love to hear they’re the best, the strongest, the smartest, and that they have a huge cock.
I tweak the compliment according to the profile, and that’s it. That’s why I prefer to seem like a cheerful, honest fool, rather than show my true self: worn out, tired, bruised.
The client removes his fingers from my face and grabs my neck. He presses my face against his stinking jeans and tugs my brown hair.
"Naughty girl, you want more, huh? Tell me you want more."
"Yes, Master… please. I want you to take me again. Hard. Very hard."
I can almost feel his foul breath bouncing off my shoulder. He smells of wine and leek. Damn, brush your teeth, you pig.
Sila, discreet but conscientious, knocks twice on the door—a simple way to signal the end of a session. If he wants more, he’ll have to empty his pockets.
I don’t know how much I cost, but few clients come more than twice a month. Many have told me they love my eyes “as green as a summer meadow.” To me, their color mostly evokes the snakes that lurked in my village: rough green snakes.
One of my few childhood memories is discovering one of these creatures hidden among the leaves of a tree near my house. I screamed, and my mother chased it away with a broom. At the time, it was my worst nightmare—until Sila offered me candy and lured me into her pretty black sedan.
I never saw my mother again. No snake, no tree, not even the sun. In a few months, it will be sixteen years. I’ve spent more time trapped in this room than with with my family. Sometimes I wonder if anyone looked for me. Often I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
Dreams and hopes hurt more than blows. It’s better not to think too much.
The client releases his grip on my hair and pushes me onto the bed. I fall like an old, soiled sheet.
"Another time, beautiful. You’re too expensive for me to go over. Old Sila doesn’t do credit."
He turns away and almost runs to the door. Sila must really price me high for him to flee like that.
In the hallway, I hear him exchange a few words with Sila, who answers in a high-pitched, obsequious voice—one she only uses with clients. For us, she sticks to her rough, broken tone.
Once they finish, Sila enters the room. She eyes my naked body with irritation and points to the shower.
"Hurry up, the next one’s waiting."
I lower my eyes and head toward the tiny shower stall. The white bathtub in the corner beckons, but I dare not imagine Sila’s reaction if I bathe between clients. Resigned, I go to the shower stall, spacious enough for two, and the fantasies of every client captivated by the sound of wet flesh.
