Option E: Let him fuck you. He gives you a place to live inside the wall and a waiter job in the pub that pays 3 cap coins daily.

I made my choice.

"The job with a wage and a place to live—that sounds somehow important in this unknown place." I said, and my voice came out steadier than I felt. "You can fuck me. I agree."

A slow, heavy smile spread across his face, something between satisfaction and hunger. He stepped forward without hesitation, his solid frame filling the narrow space between us. Before I could brace myself, his arms wrapped around me—tight, almost crushing, pulling me against him so hard I could feel the heat of his body through my shirt. His face pressed into my neck, inhaling deeply, and then his mouth was there, wet and insistent, kissing and licking the line of my throat with a kind of greedy reverence that made my skin crawl even as it flushed warm.

"Good girl," he murmured against my collarbone, the words vibrating into my skin. "Smart girl."

His hands moved, gripped the hem of my shirt and pulled it up over my head in one rough motion, the fabric catching briefly on my arms before falling away, revealing my soft, skin-colored bra. Before I could process it, he unhooked the bra, letting the cold air of the cell hit my bare breasts immediately as my nipples tightened against the chill. He didn't pause—his hands were already at the waistband of my skirt, fingers hooking into the elastic along with my matching skin-colored panties and dragging them both down my legs in a single swift motion. I stepped out of them, boots pulled off, the concrete freezing against my bare soles. In seconds I was stripped bare before him, exposing my smooth, clean-shaven privates to the dim light and his ravenous eyes.

He stepped back to look at me, his gaze dragging from my face down to my breasts, my stomach, and between my thighs. The assessment was naked, unashamed. I stood still, forcing myself not to cover anything, though every instinct screamed at me to fold inward. I had made this trade. I would see it through.

"Turn around," he ordered.

I turned. His hands found my hips immediately, gripping hard enough to leave marks. I heard the clink of his belt, the rustle of fabric dropping, and then his bare chest pressed against my back, hot and slightly damp. He pushed me forward until my stomach pressed against the cold metal of a small table in the corner of the cell, the surface biting into my skin. I bent over it, my cheek against the rough surface, my breasts flattened against the cold metal.

"Spread your legs."

I did. The position left me utterly open, utterly vulnerable. I stared at the concrete wall and tried to find something to focus on—a crack, a stain, anything.

Then I felt him against me. Not inside yet, but pressing, thick and hot and impossibly hard against the cleft of my ass. He dragged himself down slowly, letting me feel every inch of his length, until the head rested at my entrance. I tensed without meaning to, my hands gripping the edges of the table.

"Relax," he grunted, but there was no gentleness in it. "Or don't. I don't care."

He pushed in.

The stretch was immediate and burning. I wasn't ready—there had been no preparation, no patience, only his need. My body resisted at first, the tight ring of muscle fighting the intrusion, but he kept pressing forward with steady, relentless pressure. A sharp pain lanced through me, different from anything I had felt before, a deep ache that seemed to split me open from the inside. I gasped, my fingers whitening against the table edge, a whimper escaping before I could bite it back.

"Fuck," he groaned above me, his hands tightening on my hips. "You're tight."

He pulled back slightly and thrust in again, deeper this time. The pain flared brighter, a raw, tearing sensation that made my eyes water against the metal. My body screamed at me to pull away, to close up, to protect itself. But beneath the pain, something else stirred—a strange, unwelcome warmth that spread from where he filled me, a slow pulse that echoed in the hollow of my stomach. My mind recoiled from it even as my body responded, a traitorous wetness easing his way until the friction became something else entirely.

He settled into a rhythm, each thrust pushing me harder against the table, the metal edge digging into my hips. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the small cell, obscene and rhythmic. My breasts dragged with each impact, my nipples grazing the cold surface and sending sparks of sensation that confused me further. The pain didn't go away—it transformed, becoming something sharp and bright that I couldn't separate from the heat building low in my belly.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to hold myself separate from what was happening. But my body betrayed me. The fullness of him inside me, the relentless friction against places I didn't know I had, began to wind something tight in my core. I hated it. I hated that my breath was coming faster, that my back was arching slightly to meet him, that the wet sounds had grown louder because I was responding. It was survival, I told myself. Just a transaction. My body didn't know the difference between want and need.

"You're enjoying this," he taunted, his voice ragged. "I can feel it. Your cunt is sucking me in."

I didn't answer. I couldn't. My mind was fractured between the shame and the sensation, the violation and the strange, building pleasure. Every thrust drove him deeper, battering against something inside me that made my legs tremble and my vision spark at the edges. The dilemma tore at me—I wanted it to end, desperately, but some dark, animal part of me was climbing toward a peak. I didn't want to reach. Not like this. Not with him. But my body didn't care about dignity or choice. It only cared about the friction, the fullness, and the mounting pressure.

His pace grew erratic and harsher, his fingers digging bruises into my hips. He was close. I could feel it in the way his thrusts lost their rhythm, becoming short and brutal and deep. The table scraped against the concrete with each impact. My throat was raw from the sounds I was making—whimpers, gasps, half-formed pleas that I didn't know were for him to stop or to finish.

Then he slammed in one last time, burying himself deep inside me, and went still. A ragged groan tore from his throat. I felt it then—the hot, pulsing flood deep inside me, spurt after spurt filling me, marking me as his in the most primitive way possible. He stayed locked against me, his chest heaving against my back, his cock twitching with each release. The heat of his spend spread through me, obscene and undeniable.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. He was still hard inside me, still pulsing faintly. I could feel the weight of it, the stickiness beginning to leak where we joined. My body throbbed around him, confused and oversensitive, the ghost of that unwanted pleasure still echoing in my muscles.

Then he pulled out, confused, and the sudden emptiness was almost as shocking as the entry. I felt his seed spill out of me immediately, trickling down my inner thigh in a warm, humiliating line. My legs gave out. I collapsed against the table, my cheek pressed to the cold metal, my body shaking with the aftermath of pain and the denied climax that still hummed faintly beneath my skin.

He stepped back, breathing hard. I heard him dressing, the efficient sounds of a man who had gotten what he paid for.

"Good choice," he said, his voice already returning to its practical edge. "Rest there. I'll bring you clothes and the key to your room."

I didn't have the strength to answer. I stayed bent over the table, naked, exposed, letting the cold metal leach some of the heat from my skin. Between my legs, I could feel the slow, steady drip of his cum, pooling on the table beneath me, sliding down my thighs. It felt like a brand, a permanent mark of what I had traded. I was relieved—so intensely relieved that it was over, that he was no longer inside me, that the dilemma of pleasure and pain had been resolved by his finish instead of mine.

I closed my eyes. My body ached in places I hadn't known existed. My hips burned where his fingers had gripped. My throat was dry. But I had a room now. I had a job. I had survived the gate.

Time blurred. I don't know how long I lay there, my bare skin prickling in the cold air of the cell, listening to the distant sounds of him moving beyond the inner door. The cum inside me had begun to cool, a strange, heavy presence that I was too exhausted to clean. I let it stay, let it fill me, a reminder of what I had paid.

Footsteps returned. I didn't open my eyes until I heard the fabric drop onto the table beside my head.

"Here," he said. "Get dressed. I'll take you to your room."

I pushed myself up on unsteady arms. The clothes were rough fabric—a simple tunic and trousers, coarse and unwashed. But as I reached for them, a smell hit me, rising from the folds of the fabric. It was chemical, sharp, and cloying—something that burned the back of my throat and made my eyes water instantly. Not just unwashed. Something is wrong. Something poisoned.

I tried to pull back, to refuse, but my limbs felt heavy, disconnected. The room tilted. I opened my mouth to speak, to ask what he had done, but the words brushed the blurred ground.

The last thing I saw was his face, watching me with that same calculating patience as the darkness swallowed me whole.

The first thing I feel is the cold. Not the clean cold of the cell floor, but something deeper—a chill that lives in metal itself, pressed against my spine, my wrists, and the tender column of my throat.

I try to sit up, and the world tilts. I am not lying down. I am hanging.

My eyes snap open. Dim light filters from somewhere above, catching the dull gleam of iron. A heavy bar of dark steel runs diagonally across my back, wedged beneath my arms, forcing my shoulders back so hard my chest juts forward. Thick chains descend from the ceiling, locked to the bar, bearing my weight so that I dangle just above the stone floor, my toes barely brushing the blurred ground. I try to lower my arms, but metal cuffs bite into my wrists, chaining them tightly to the bar behind me, bending my arms at cruel angles so my hands are pinned uselessly at my back.

I try to scream, and the sound catches. A steel collar sits snug around my throat, a short length of chain trailing down between my breasts like a mockery of a leash, swaying with every panicked breath. I thrash, desperate, and the chains clink softly overhead—a delicate, terrible sound that belies how completely they hold me. The bar digs deeper into my back. The cuffs bite fresh pain into my wrists. I kick out, but my ankles are locked in heavy metal restraints bolted to the floor, keeping my feet planted even as my weight hangs from above. My legs are spread wide, the tension in the metal absolute, making it impossible to close my thighs even an inch.

I am arched. Presented. My breasts lift and strain in the cool air, nipples tight and exposed. My dark hair falls around my face as I look down at myself in horror, watching the chain between my breasts sway, feeling the cool air everywhere against my bare skin.

"Help!" The word tears out hoarse and cracked. "Please! Someone help me!"

I struggle again, twisting against the bar, and the chains sing their soft, metallic song. The collar tightens warningly when I throw my head back. My shoulders burn. My thighs tremble from the forced spread. Blood rushes to my wrists, where the cuffs hold me. I scream until my throat is raw, until the small stone room throws my voice back at me like a mockery. No one comes. No one answers.

Time passes. I don't know how long. My body becomes one endless ache—the burn in my shoulders from the bar, the strain in my legs from the spread, and the slow throb where the collar reminds me with every swallow that I am leashed. I hang there, swaying faintly, too exhausted to scream anymore. Tears run down my face and drip from my chin onto my chest, sliding between my breasts to follow the path of the chain.

Then the door grinds open.

I jolt awake, every muscle seizing, hope surging violently and desperately in my chest despite everything. "Here! I'm in here!" I shriek, my voice breaking. "Help me! Please, get me out! I'll give you anything—just cut these fucking chains!"

The figure steps into the dim light, and my heart dies in my chest.

It's him. The gatekeeper. He walks slowly, casually, already unlaced, his trousers hanging open. And between his legs, he dangles his half-hard cock inches from my face, letting it sway with each step until he stops right in front of me. I try to turn my head away, but the collar holds me fast, the chain between my breasts pulling taut when I strain. I can smell him—musky, male, the same scent from before, but now it makes my stomach revolt.

"You sick fucking bastard!" I scream, thrashing against the bar, the chains clinking overhead like terrible music. "Let me go! You fucking animal, you promised me a room! You promised me a job! Let me out of here!"

He doesn't flinch. He doesn't even look furious. He looks... pleased. Patient. He steps closer, one hand reaching out to grip the chain between my breasts, pulling me forward slightly so my weight shifts on the bar and my chest strains harder against the cold air. His cock rests heavy and warm against my cheek, smearing the tears there.

"I planned to let you go," he says quietly, conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "I had the room key in my hand. But then I stood there, looking at you passed out on my table, cum still leaking out of that perfect little cunt... and I realized something."

He shifts his grip on the chain, his cock dragging across my face until the head rests against my lips. I clamp my mouth shut, glaring up at him with every ounce of hate I can summon, but my body is shaking so hard the chains rattle overhead.

"I am alone here," he continues. "No one leaves the wall. No one enters. Hasn't been anyone for months. So why let you go? Why give you a room and a job and let that tight pussy walk away when I can keep it right here? Whenever I want? However, I want?"

I make a sound against my sealed lips—a moan of denial, of horror.

"When I fucked you," he says, his voice dropping to a rough, intimate whisper, "I remembered what it felt like. It's been ages since I had a woman. And yours... fuck, yours was perfect. Tight. Warm room? It was clenching around me like it didn't want to let go. He laughs, a low, ugly sound. "I've never been letting that go, Maya. You're not a scrapper. You're not a waiter. You're my personal fuck toy now. You eat here. You piss here. You shit right here on this floor. And I will fuck you whenever I please. Morning. Night. Middle of the day when I'm bored. That cunt is mine."

The words sink into me like slow poison. I look past him at the stone ceiling, at the heavy chains suspending me, at the heavy door standing open behind him, and I understand with perfect, crushing clarity that he is right. There is no one coming. There are no rules here, only him. The bar doesn't budge. The chains don't loosen. The ankle restraints keep me spread and open, a permanent invitation. I am not strong enough. I will never be strong enough. My body, my will, my future—everything I am—now exists only at the mercy of a man who has already decided I am property.

He sees it happen. He watches the realization bleed across my face, watches my eyes go dead, and watches the last fight drain out of my shoulders until I hang still in the chains, trembling, broken, my chest still lifted and presented by the cruel angle of the bar.

A slow, satisfied smile stretches his mouth.

He shifts forward, pressing the weight of his cock against my sealed lips, hot and heavy and already thickening. He threads one hand into my hair, gripping tight, and uses the collar chain to tilt my head back as far as the steel will allow.

"You know what to do," he says.