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I stopped begging God to kill me. Either He isn’t real or He has no intention of allowing my suffering to cease. Even if I went to Hell, no way would it be half as vicious as my living reality.
I just want it all to stop.
As I muse, the door opens. I don’t flinch anymore. Let whatever may come just kill me quicker.
Mike tosses an apple and a bottle of water at me; both fall to the floor by the bed. “Finish those and wash your fucking stench. Tonight’s going to be a big one.”
I don’t respond, and usually he doesn’t care. Today, it’s different.
“Don’t you want to know why, cunt?”
I don’t even dignify him with a shake of my head.
“Tomorrow’s your birthday. You’re gonna be an adult. And that means most of the clients who pay for you won’t anymore. They don’t have any interest in grown ass women.”
That makes me start, and he chuckles at the reaction. It’s my birthday? I note the passage of time, not the dates.
“So get ready. Tonight is the last hurrah.” With that, he leaves.
What does he mean by a last hurrah?
Is he finally going to fucking end my miserable existence? Or will he just find new clients who don’t mind someone over eighteen?
Will I ever be free?
I can barely hear Mike on the phone all afternoon, talking to a lot of people.
What if he sells me? He’s done that, he told me. But this new person could be worse. But I could also escape easier.
Worrying about it won’t help. Just deal with it as it comes,my conscience scolds.
Later that night, I hear voices. A lot of voices. All men from the sound of it, though I know it’s not unusual for a woman or two to come see me. But … that’s a lot of people.
I feel dread settle into my stomach, my nervous system recognizing the danger before my brain will ever acknowledge it. The less I address it, the less it can traumatize me.
The door to my bedroom opens, and Mike stands there, a clear path outside right in front of me, but I am far too cowed to take it.
“Come on, bitch,” he practically barks. “This room is too small. Get out there.”
Is this a trick? No, it can’t be. There are people out in the living room, after all. Tentatively, I stand, holding my breath as I walk past him. I expect him to grab me by the hair and beat me for daring to leave the bedroom, but he doesn’t. He shuts thatdoor and follows me into the living room where ten … eleven … twelve men stand around. Some have bottles of beer like this is a party.
“All right!” Mike calls from behind me, voice loud above the din, and I flinch. “It is eight in the evening. We have until midnight for her to still be to your specific tastes. All former rules I had in place are out the window. Do what you want, how you want, where you want with this cunt. You paid well to let your darkest selves out; get your money’s worth.”
He shoves me forward into the waiting arms of the first man. I think I recognize him; I think I recognize a few of them. Honestly, it’s been a blur and my brain has rejected or compartmentalized most of it.
The man grins wickedly and the next thing I know, my cheek stings and my head whips so fast, I may have whiplash from his punch.
The music turns up, a severely loud bass that is likely to cover up any sounds that get made. The neighbors won’t call the cops for a party with music, but they might for a gangrape.
Might.
The man tosses me onto the floor and more hands grab at me, holding me aloft, legs spread, as a cock pierces my unprepared pussy. That’s the only time I usually scream, the pain is too bad with that first thrust before my body adjusts and tears come to my eyes quickly.
Tonight, I think that will be the least of my pain.
I can’t fully detail it all; all I can recall is fiery pain, cocks over and over in every hole. They force me to vomit and then go back to throatfucking me, calling me a fat pig, a whore, disgusting, not even worthy of their cum.
When the first cock penetrates my ass, I feel something tear and start to cry. Blood drips down my thighs but they don’tcare, they laugh as they trade off between them, sometimes two cocks at once.
