…say nothing.

You let her go; watch her plush body step away about the corner and out of your life for good. If there was ever a complaint from the men of the night, it was directed at your thinness. ‘She has no tits’ one would say, squeezing what you have as though trying to pull them off your ribs. ‘Too bony’ one man had complained as he stabbed himself with your hips. ‘Get this whore something to eat!’ said another as he pawed your thighs, wrapping them about him. They had, of course, gotten you something to eat, and with their fists raised, you had swallowed at their instruction.

That woman would have satisfied them; her soft curves giving them something to squeeze. She probably wouldn’t even bruise from it! The image of her battered face seems to counter such a thought, but logic is a thing of the past. What’s a beating, after all? You’d beg for a beating over what happened last night! She’d never been **** by someone who claimed not to even enjoy it! For some reason, that particularly rankles, now that you think about it. It wasn’t even true; they always moaned their enjoyment in the end. Always twitched and spilled like every man before.

You notice that both of them are gone and you begin to wonder if they were ever there, as though they were a dream or an apparition, but the door remains open and their voices murmur with distance. Hers sniffles pathetically, as though she has something to cry about, before she leaves, trotting away with dainty little footsteps. Who was the man? He doesn’t return, but he doesn’t leave either. Or did he leave and you just didn’t hear? Does it matter? You don’t think you can even crawl -physically, mentally, or spiritually- without someone dragging you by the hair again. Even with it undone it offers no coverage; what isn’t snarled up into a tangled birds nest spills down your back instead, leaving your bruised breasts uncovered, as was their preference. What had one man said of them? ‘Perky little jelly fish, skippin with just the right amount of bouncy.’ It was one of the few compliments not related to your tightness, and those compliments had grown far less frequent throughout the night, and were non-existent by morning. Come to think of it, that man was one of the few not to maul them, so perhaps he lied as well.

The man stands at your doorway, and his light blocking form wades a familiar shape into your memories; a man at your door seems far more natural than female company. How long had he been standing there? Evidently, not long at all. As soon as you think it, a punch of cold water splashes over you from his bucket, soaking you and washing away the top most layer of grime. It’s enough for him to brave the smell at take enough steps into the room to grab your arm, dragging you out by the wrist. You don’t walk, and he doesn’t expect you too.

Daylight. It’s like being in another world. Its warmth filters through the water and caresses your skin with an uncalloused touch. It lights your closed eyes with the warm colour of your lids, and then, as you look down, a green glow shines through as it reflects off the emerald grass. That grass tickles you all over as you lie on it; a softer bed than any of the cold stone or wood counters of the night before. Your fingers begin to grab at it, plucking weekly at the threats and taking unthinking pleasure from their simple presence.

“Kneel.”

You’re familiar with the instruction. It’s barked by the man behind you, standing between you and the back door. Somehow, you had missed the kitchen when being dragged through it, awoken only by the direct touch of the sun on the manor lawn, and something about the place you passed last night seems alien in the day. Innocent.

You unsteadily roll yourself until your knees are beneath you, ignoring the sharp pains and jolts the motion sends through tender joints and stretched muscles. You turn your head, slowly, looking for him, but the back door guard from the night before is nowhere to be seen. Of course; his shift had ended as party began. Besides, after his first few indulgences, he’d been spent, and for him the rest of the night was one for paying off debts, or purchasing new ones. Why even look? What would you do if he was standing there?

The answer comes like only hard truth can: anything. You’d do anything he told you to. All he’d need to do is give the word.

As you look at the blank and empty door, you’re shaken from the thought by someone walking through it, though it’s only the familiar morning man. His old face and youthful expression are unplaceable, and half hidden below his red bandana, grey locks, and countenance both celebrating and lamenting his task of physical labour. He draws near with another bucket, which sloshes with more clean water, and you watch it, following it as it rises over you and begins to tip. You open your mouth, drinking the spray that travels across it, both to wash your throat and to cleanse you of your burning thirst. Unlike before, the water is not lost in one toss, but poured carefully, catching your front and back and arms, and ceasing when it’s half empty. It’s placed in the grass, and a rag is tossed in before being removed and wringed half dry.

What follows is the man standing over you, wiping roughly over your head and face, and even attempting to de-tangle your hair with painful rakes of his fingers. When he stands over your front, tipping up your head to wipe your mouth, you get a vague recollection. If his short hairs are as grey as his long ones, he’s stood in such a position before, and was likely one of those who tangled your hair in the first place, riding your throat in vomit inducing thrusts.

But whatever: you don’t have to think while he wipes you clean. He dunks the rag to soak it again before moving to your shoulders and arms. He lifts them up one at a time to get at your pits, crudely drilling them with the rag to wipe the skin below the hair, and he goes down the arms as far as the wrists, to the point he holds. From there he steps to the back and wipes down between your shoulder blades like a window washer, holding your long hair to the side. Apart from the brushed scrapes from lying on your back, it’s almost relaxing, but done a little too quickly, as though rushing his task to get to the good part. Predictably, he moves to your chest soon after, and here, it’s painful. The rawness and bruises given to you the night before are ignored, and his efforts to grope and squeeze and clean an area only a little more rounded than its counterpart on your back, seems far more thorough than it has any right to be.

Not that you complain. Complaining gets you nowhere.

“Stand up.”

You surprise yourself, standing slowly despite your aching muscles and lacking enthusiasm. It’s like the spell, the switch they hammered into you the night before, was still present and working long after the threats had gone.

“Come on. Hurry up.”

You back cracks as you straighten it.

He moves to continue his wiping, over your belly and short hairs, before needing to rinse and wring. He returns to slowly, almost tenderly, rub the rag cloth over your matted muff, back and forth and reaching between your legs. What would the you of yesterday have done in the same situation? What would she be thinking? She would have screamed, you think, and fought back, or runaway. She certainly wouldn’t just stand there, and when you feel him press a finger and push the rag upon you, even into you, she would have died before wanting him to go further. The you of today, though, is a far more pragmatic creature. You want him to go for it; to dig deep and clean of much of you as he can. A filthy rag is better than their lingering touch. You want to snatch it away and **** as much of it into you as you can, as deep as you can; until it reaches your very soul if possible.

He finally gives up, with neither you nor he saying anything, and rinses his cloth before wiping the front of your hips and thighs.

He tosses the rag into the water and picks up the bucket with one hand, grabbing up the crook of your elbow with the other.

“Follow.”

You don’t know whether he can only speak in simple instructions or if he just thinks them suited to you. There is something shepherd like about it, as though herding a cow, and you follow along with his dragging in unsteady steps.

The kitchen seems dark by comparison, and oddly…normal. There is a hearth and oven, cupboards and dressers, pan hooks and a water pump. Yet you know its secrets. You know that the main table in the middle doesn’t move; it must be fixed to the ground in some way. You reasoned this while being pressed up against it, with all manner of **** pushed through you into its stalwart embrace. Men had gripped that table for leverage. You also know that the cupboards have no cups, or mugs of any kind, as many had lamented, and that the water pump took three pumps before a man could scoop water into his mouth and replenish his spent fluids. You know the counter can hold the weight of three men and a woman without a creak or a groan.

The arm guiding you deposits you next to the table, and a hand on your back pushes you forward, bending you by the waist to lean your front across its surface in a very familiar way. You obey, welcoming the opportunity to take the weight off your feet and once more lie in an unthinking state.

You listen as he tosses out the water, then fills up the bucket at the pump. He brings it back to you, behind you, puts it down, rinse, wring, then he begins to wash your buttocks. It includes your lower back, and your thighs, but like your breasts, his focus is beyond simple cleaning. The rag, and his hands through it, grab and squeeze at your tight flesh, pulling at the scant meat on display, and they stroke up and down your inner thighs, which while much in need of it are similarly explored beyond scope. He dips down and gives a token stroke of your knees, calves, and shins, but leaving your feet uncleaned to return to his goal. He palms your cheek to one side, and makes you flinch as he gives your rear hole a probe, more from soreness and pain than any shock. In his own time, he goes over your hips and has to clean the cloth several times before he’s satisfied.

Eventually, bent naked over the table, what you expected to happen happens. The rag splashes down into the bucket and his feet touch your ankles, pushing them to the side as you might lazily move a chair or table leg, until your belly is fully pressed against the hard surface. The table had not been cleaned, but the only thing to stain it the night before had been your own sweat from similar predicaments. He steps close, lines himself up, and enters you with ease.

He doesn’t moan in pleasure, or make some comment about your feel or tightness. He just begins to breathe heavily, moving back and forth between the brused lips of your pussy, squeezing what he can. It’s all so… token. Soreness caused by previous and far more brutal attentions is all you really feel, at least physically. Mentally, its relief; he’s not asking you to do things or humiliate yourself or taking you bitch wise. He’s even going at a steady pace. When he’s done, he moans as he soils you, though really, what’s the harm? There are some places a rag can’t reach no matter what, and he only add another layer of filth to those places. You barely notice. As he stands behind you, thighs together and fully hilted, twitching away, you feel almost bored.

When he slides out, he has the good graces to grab the rag once more, and after cleaning himself, cool water splashes across your neither lips, and the seed of his and any other loosened is wiped away in an almost business-like manner. The rag splashes for a final time, and he points to some orange material on a far counter top.

“You can wear that. Courtesy of Samia.”

He tucks his satisfied cock back into his britches.

“Now get the fuck out of my house.”

The dress doesn’t fit, but you wear it. Each step limps with pain, but you walk them. The sky is bright and the birds sing, but it’s all beyond notice. You walk like the undead, following the path as though it will take you to salvation.

The ramshackle village passes, with its buildings hollow eyes watching you on your way. The island seems deserted, with its few permanent residents taking a break after last nights…revelry. When you reach the path to the docks, you see why: even in the dark last night, you had seen ships; now you see a port empty of everything save a single sloop. You trudge toward it without a plan.

Captain Washkin had evidently gone, and her the others ships business was concluded as a consequence. The window for her **** was long gone, but so what? Were she before you now, what would you do? Moan at her? Cry at her? Beg her to stop? Those last edges of defiance had long since proven their bluntness, and you’re disarmed of everything else.

The wooden dockboards pass under you bare feet. No, surely you could do something to her. She whored you, giving the men all the permission they needed. Surely you could say something to her? Blame her, scold her, scream at her, rage at her. She’d kill you of course, but that hardly seems a priority right now.

“How much?”

The plane slab of sailor stands before you. What does he mean? How much for passage? Shouldn’t you ask that? Not that you have the coin.

He counts out some pennies while looking around with a hurried expression, and when happy at his own worth, he grabs your arm and pulls you to the side.

“Better be a quick one love.”

He gently presses you down, sinking you to your knees, and with his other hand he spills a hard cock to dangle before your lips. You look at it, and the coin in his hand. Your stomach rumbles with hunger.

“Oh yeah, that’s the way love. A little deeper now.”

You need to do something; need to have a goal. Breakfast seems good, or lunch by now, and in the future, perhaps a ship. Perhaps…

“Come on now, put yer back into it.” He grabs the back of your head, plunging to your throat.

Perhaps you could get at Captain Wendigo somehow? When would she be back? Would she be back?

“All aboard now! All aboard! Anyone not aboard now gets left!”

The man twitches at the sound of the hoarse voice bellowing the order.

“Shit!” He speeds up, and you open your mouth wider, leaning forward to let him ride your gullet. Anything to see it done sooner. Success follows, and you feel his sack rise and fall on your chin as it empties its contents.

“Here, er, ah, ahh fuck it, take the lot!” He shoves the coppers into your hands before running off; eager to catch the last ship off the islands. You look at them, swallowing idly, and some small amount of yourself comes back.

Perhaps…

Come on, hurry up! The cheers on the docks above get more jovial and you hear the unmistakable clunk of a distant gangplank falling. The man behind you grunts as he picks up the pace. He had wanted to fuck your shitter, which was still sore from yesterday, but a subtle hint that he may prefer a male whore had had him eager to show his manliness in a more feminine region. He holds your bent hips and you in turn hold the wood of the docks underside, bare feet sinking into the wet sand. Finding ‘your spot’ was tricky; the other whores tend to guard their prime placements fiercely, balancing being seen by their customers and being fucked with a little privacy. You had chosen under the docks; poor in the former but rich in the latter, often requiring a walk in the open to get the custom you need to survive. It’s a tactic used by several of the other whores who use the woods or their own hovels, but you like your spot better than theirs. Privacy is all well and good, but you need to be within screaming distance of others. You’ve learned well that men can reveal a far crueller nature than you knew existed when there’s no one else there to judge, with non-payment being the least of it.

Unfortunately, privacy tends to diminish as the tide pushes you up the docks length. It’s surprisingly long (the dock, though the man behind you is not ‘short’) reaching past the beach and into the sea. As you understand it, the beach drops off sharply, allowing the bigger ships to dock further on, but there is almost always enough beach for your purposes. Today, under the weak sunshine, the water beats the shore some distance away from where your customer beats his hips against your own. Tonight, when the moon shows full again, you’ll have to go into the woods or one of the docked ships to rut, or ply your trade out in the open. None of those options appeal. As you listen above, you consider that none of those options need apply. Not tonight.

Your false moans of feigned pleasure stop for a moment as a fresh cheer rises above. She’s here. Months you’ve waited. Months! Now the time finally arrives and you’re stuck down here, getting pounded by a man twice your size and half your intelligence, and with a damndable amount of stamina as well! From the tightening grip on your hips and his panting breath, he won’t last much longer, but the prospect of missing your chance for a few coppers fills you with nervous energy.

Has it really been months? Plural? On the one hand, it feels like you’ve been down here, getting fucked against this wooden beam, for years, but on the other, it feels like only yesterday that Captain Washkin had given your gang **** her unconcerned blessing. That she had plunged you into this life of coin and cock and cruelty. How many since then? You can’t keep track of their faces and there have been a few occasions where the numbers were blurred by shock of confutation. You don’t even try anymore. Even the features of the man behind you are out of your recollection. Just another tall slab of ugly. The slab is moaning and you feel the renewed wet heat flooding inside as he holds you close, no longer humping. He released inside and you almost didn’t notice! You manage to give a convincing moan in time before he’s done, helped by the relief of finally being finished. The long part is over and you both know what happens now. Hopefully you’ll still have time.

He pulls himself free of your sloppy snatch and takes a step back. You hold off asking for payment until he’s ready, knowing full well the cost of ‘ruining the moment’. Instead you squat down for maybe the hundredth time in this spot, pulling up your stained and faded red shorts. The dress was long gone; too loose; too easy to tear. You look up at him, wide eyed, not looking at the diminishing rod dangling before your face, coated in wetness. He tucks it away, pulling up his trousers and pulling some bits of mettle out of the pocket. He sprinkles the copper coins into your upturned hands. Five; a good haul.

“One more if you clean me off wi them lips o yours.”

Any other day you would have said yes. Not today.

Standing, you say instead, ”Not just now stud, you’ve worn me out. Come back later and I’ll really clean you up!” He smiles and grabs your covered crotch before letting you go.

You jog down the length of the dock, lining up the crude poncho to cover your tits again. For all her madness, Sarah had been right; flashing your goods gets more custom than displaying them outright. You turn onto the docks where it levels against the sand and start to walk across. It’s almost a festival up here compared to the lifelessness that comes with the slow period. All the whores are in attendance, some already leading their fresh customers away, and as you pass the dock masters hut, you see Sarah on her knees before him. Like all the whores, you hate the dock master and his ‘tax’. You avoided it at first out of ignorance but soon found that his dockworkers ‘working out your arrears’ is far more unpleasant. A free suck every now and then is better than what they did once every few weeks otherwise. Still, even if everyone paid, someone would need to pay that much more. The trick was to avoid them in their free time as much as possible.

Sarah catches your eye and smiles around the dick. ‘Doe-eyed’ Sarah they call her, on account of her big wide eyes. They also call her crazy, and they’re right, but she’s harmless and friendly enough. She had been your friend in the early days and taught you things you would have never considered. That was before the others had invited you into their clique with the unspoken agreement you would have nothing to do with her. You suppose everyone needs someone to look down on and for the whores on the docks who had nothing, it was the woman without even her mind. They’re all busy now. You smile back. She had been a good friend and taught you much.

You mouth ‘thank you’ to her.

Her smile fades and looks sad for a moment, before shaking her head at you, whatever that means. She can’t know your plan, but as usual for the mad, she acts as though she knows more than she should.

“You.” the dock master above her points at you. “Ahh! I want to see you here tomorrow, oh fuck! Where she is.” He’d seen you looking and taken the opportunity to book your next ‘taxing’. You nod. Sarah still shakes her head, as if begging you not to go. There’s a desperation in her eyes that has nothing to do with the cock in her mouth. You move on.

Some of the men muscle past, heading for the islands tavern and brothel. The other whores intercept them, offering convenience and better prices. It’s a practice old Briny, the whore house madam, doesn’t appreciate and usually leads to her jacking up the prices of her womb cleansing poisons. She probably earns more from the sale of those than from all the whores in her own house. It’ll take five times more than what you’ve just earned just to get your next sip. Sarah had shared hers when you first started working. Back when you walked around topless taking dick for half copper pieces.

As you pass over the point where you were seeded not a minute before as the crowd starts to thicken. Great ships stand in the distance; mighty galleons carrying hundreds of horny customers. This should be an easy time, where the money and men flow thick and fast, but not today. You look about at the docks around you, searching for where you put it. Everywhere you see is a memory. In your time here, you’ve been fucked on those piles of rope, on ships, in bushes and against trees, against the rickety wooden buildings or over the thick tops of the docks beams. You’ve even been fucked just over there, right in the open and before a gathered crowd. That’s a face you do remember; Captain Reddark was a huge northerner who had you hard on all fours. Needless to say, he didn’t pay.

You haven’t been buggered over a barrel yet though, not since that night. You look to the group of them nearby, ready to be loaded on some merchant sloop, and retrieve what you’re looking for from between them. That night. It all comes back to it. You’ve been gang **** twice since then. It a common risk for a whore. The first time was a hard lesson in why going below deck on a passing ship is a bad idea. They had at least given token payment, though it had taken a while to dig the coppers out of there. The second time was after Reddark, when he gifted’ you to his crew of northern savages. You were lucky to survive that one. In both cases you returned to the empty spot in your head until it was over. The dock workers didn’t count; that time was mostly your own fault.

The point is, that all the times you’ve spread since then, be it your legs, cheeks or lips, willing or unwilling, paid or unpaid, can be laid squarely at her feet. Captain Wendigo. You clench the item in your hand as the crowd bulges towards you. You let it wash over you like a current, the rising tide of the sea. You fight to hold your ground and before you know it, like walking into the eye of a hurricane, there she is. Wendy ‘Go’ Washkin; the arrogant figure in the window who had tossed your life aside. Her words still echo in your restless dreams; ‘Do what you want with her.’ Well they had, and it’s time you finally get what you want.

Two steps. She screams as the crude weapon breaks her skin. It had been sharpened in the lonely nights of empty hatred. Nights when others have no use for you. Nights spent dreaming of this day. In, out, in, out. Finally, your shaft is covered in her hot fluids as you **** her stomach, her chest, her side, seeking to break her heart like she broke yours.

The screaming goes on, carried by the crowd even as hers stops. You stab and stab with everything you have left, plunging down into her meat as others plunge down into you; your attack repaid a hundred fold by the frantic and well-armed crew at her side.

She’s dead. So are you. As the blood spills over your lips and out your mouth, as the crowd hushes before the scene and the new reality you have made, you close your eyes and go into that unfeeling empty place in your mind; your safe haven from the pain.

It embraces you, with ready darkness.