Noir was fighting it. Her father, her sistera at the hotel, her home. Her memories were all slowly fading. As if her whole life had been a dream.
She hold onto her core, her most important memory. It had all happened 5 years ago. She'd been 18 and she'd refused one of her first clients. Of course her father had punished her, had chained her to the outside wall for days. Blindfolded and unable to stop any men that passed by. But she'd freed herself. She'd broken her thumbs, and ran off. She still had the scars to remember that pain, but it had been worth it. It had only been a week of freedom before another whorehouse had captured her. But in that one week, she'd been free. She'd managed to hide from the men and had started her search for the city of free women. A paradise where there were no men to fuck or **** you.
These scars were her victory, however short lived it had been. They were her beaken to hold on to. She didn't mind forgetting her whoresisters, her previous owners, her dumb name. But she wouldn't forget who she was. She was a fighter.
This new owner wouldn't wipe her spirit. She was a fighter. She'd break free again. Whatever the costs.
And with these new genitalia...
Just like how her fathers punishment had meant her escape, she would use this in her favour too. She was a fighter.
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