Option D: Give him a blow job. He lets you pass and arranges a job as a scrapper in the garbage pit.

I stood in the cold cell, the soft fabric of the clean shirt resting lightly against my skin, the skirt still whispering around my legs whenever I shifted my weight. The recent pleasure of the pool—the water, the sun, the two long climaxes that left my thighs weak—still hummed faintly beneath the surface of my body. His eyes waited on me, patient and expectant.

I made my choice.

“A blow job,” I said. “That is what I will give you.”

A slow, satisfied sound left his throat. He unbuckled his belt without ceremony, shoved his trousers and underclothes down past his hips, and the cock that sprang free was startlingly clean. Shaved smooth, the skin pale and almost polished in the dim light of the cell. It rose thick and hard, roughly two-thirds the length of my forearm, the head already flushed and glistening at the tip. The scent that rose from him was musky, warm, unexpectedly inviting—like something earthy and male that my body recognized even if my mind did not.

I lowered myself to my knees on the cold concrete. The skirt pooled around me. I wrapped one hand around the base of him, feeling the heat and the steady pulse against my palm, then leaned in and dragged the flat of my tongue slowly up the underside. The taste was clean, faintly salty, the musk stronger now that my face was so close. I licked again, slower, circling the head, letting the wet sounds fill the small space between us. Something in me answered the sensation—liked the weight of him on my tongue, the way the smooth skin slid beneath my lips when I finally took the tip into my mouth and sucked gently.

I worked him deeper by degrees, sucking in steady pulls, swirling my tongue around the ridge, feeling the way his hips twitched. The musk filled my nose each time I drew back for air. I liked that part. I liked the control of it, the wet heat of my mouth sliding over him, the low sounds he made when I hollowed my cheeks and took him farther.

Then his hands settled on the back of my head.

He pushed.

The thick length forced past the soft resistance of my throat in one hard thrust. Pain flared sharp and sudden; my eyes watered; a wet gagging sound tore out of me. I tried to pull back but his fingers tightened in my hair, holding me there while he rocked deeper. The head of his cock battered the back of my throat again and again. I could not breathe. My hands came up to his thighs, pushing, but he only gripped harder and drove in until my nose pressed against the smooth skin at the base. The world narrowed to the thick obstruction in my throat, the desperate burn in my lungs, the wet, choking noises I could not stop making.

He held me there for long, punishing seconds before finally easing back enough for me to drag in a ragged breath. Saliva ran down my chin. My throat ached. I hated that part—the helplessness, the animal way he used my mouth without care for whether I could breathe.

He did not give me long to recover. He fucked my face in short, brutal strokes, each one pushing past the point of comfort, each one making me gag and struggle for air. I tried to focus on the parts I had liked earlier—the slide of my tongue, the musk—but the pain and the lack of breath kept crashing over them.

When he came it was sudden and deep. Hot pulses flooded the back of my throat. He kept himself buried, one hand locked at the nape of my neck, forcing me to take every spurt. I had no choice but to swallow around him; the taste never fully registered before it was gone, only the thick heat and the need for air. He stayed there until the last twitch faded, then finally pulled free.

I collapsed forward onto my hands, coughing, gasping, strings of saliva and residual spend connecting my lips to the floor. My throat felt raw. My chest heaved.

I looked up at him, eyes still wet, voice hoarse.

“That was rough. You acted like an animal.”

He laughed, the sound short and unapologetic, and tucked himself away.

“Been quite a long time since I had a proper blow job,” he said, brushing the complaint aside as if it were nothing. “You’ll live.”

He produced a small wooden tag from a pouch at his belt and pressed it into my hand. The wood was rough, marked with crude symbols I could not yet read.

“North side inside the wall. Show this at the gate there. They’ll put you to work as a scrapper in the garbage pit. That was the deal.”

He stepped past me, worked the heavy mechanism, and the inner doors ground open. Beyond them another short corridor and then the final gate. He nodded once.

“Go.”

I rose on unsteady legs, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and headed toward the gate that opened walk the path.

I step out through the final gate.

The wall rises behind me like a second sky, grey and endless. In front of me the land opens into a wide, dusty stretch of hard-packed earth and scattered scrub. There are no people and no voices, only the low wind and the distant creak of something wooden.

A camel ambles toward me along the rough track with a flat wooden carrier strapped across its back. A man sits high on the front seat, one hand resting loosely on the reins. When he notices me he slows the animal and looks me over openly, his eyes lingering on the way the soft shirt clings to my breasts, the long skirt shifting around my legs, and the two bags hanging from my shoulders.

“Need a ride?” he calls in a voice that is dry and practical.

I stop a few paces away and let the dust settle around my boots.

“I need to get to the garbage pit,” I say, showing the wooden tag.

He nods once while still studying me.

“A scrapper, huh. You won’t survive there one day.” His gaze drifts down my body again, slower this time, before returning to my face. “Tell you what—I can drop you at the garbage pit for a cap coin.”

My hands tighten on the straps of the bags.

“I don’t have any coins.”

The camel shifts its weight. The man leans forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees, and gives me another slow look that travels from my face down to my chest and then to my hips.

“I figured as much.” He smiles without warmth. “So here’s how it is. You want the better deal—work as a waiter in the pub called Maker’s Spit instead of scraping through garbage—then a blowjob covers the fare and the introduction. I’ll take you straight there and put in the word.”

He pauses, letting the offer settle.

“Or,” he continues, voice still practical, “if you’d rather just reach the garbage pit and keep the scrapper job the wall already gave you, something lighter will do. Your hand until I finish. Or you open that shirt and let me look and touch for a while. Nothing more. In return I give you the ride for free and drop you at the pit with your wooden tag still in your hand.”

The words hang in the open air between us. Behind me the wall stands silent and closed. In front of me the track stretches empty toward either the garbage pit or whatever Maker’s Spit might be. I remain still, feeling the residual ache in my throat, the faint stickiness of earlier still present beneath the soft fabric of my panties, and I consider the two new prices of moving forward.