A life in pieces

“I must have spent just over a year with the couple that broke me. Over the next four, I’m sure I changed hands at least 5 or 6 more times. Bought, sold or just traded away… all I cared was there was always somebody telling me what they wanted me to do. Somebody punishing my mistakes or bad habits. I wasn’t the only one. I’m sure you know our society produces no end of washed-out sex addicts, willing to give away every inch of their pride for just some sense of purpose anymore. I was absolutely devoted to whichever cock, or pussy, or any other inch of flesh was directed at me. I was always itching for the next surge of pleasure… or pain. Ecstasy or humiliation. Whatever emotion was strong enough to drag me out of myself for a little while. It made things simple. I didn’t have to think. I just had to do whatever they told me to.

I ended up in brothels. In casinos. In the **** dens of gangsters and teen-punk gangs. I travelled around with a group of amateur-theatric street performers, and think that was scariest time of all… I was hired out to small firms of accountants and investment bankers as some ‘lunch hour entertainment’. I was photographed for a billboard selling ‘toothpaste so good no-one’ll know how many cocks you’ve sucked!’ None of it mattered. None of them mattered. As long as I didn’t have any holes empty for long enough to think about where I was...”

Once more Lucy was finding herself at the mercy of Sister Diane’s own rising excitement at describing her lowest descensions. This time she was sure the eventual pay off would come… but the build up was still blindingly slow and churning. How could this woman draw such depths of pleasure out of her body?! She could now fully understand how a soul could become addicted to such dizzying swells. Had her angel felt like this on and on? Every day and night for those four long years she had given herself over to other’s mercy? No wonder the woman’s voice trembled, even as she looked back upon her discretions in guilt.

“One of my last owners was an artist… he like to create human tableus out of women like myself. He would sink a thousand tiny hooks into our skin and hang us from the rafters of galleries, splayed out for visitors to admire and walk between. Of course often this was taken as an invitation for idiots to masturbate over us and slide themselves inside wherever they could reach. The dear man took this to heart… saw it as criticism. He would pace around his studio muttering ‘They just don’t understand!’ while we swung gently in whatever new prototype he was working on. One day he simply didn’t come back from a trip for supplies. I read in the papers that he’d jumped from the city bridge… It took two days before anyone found me and a friend still dangling between each other’s legs. I think I could still recognise the taste of her today.

One of the police lieutenants that found us became my next mistress. She took me home from the station. Fed me dinner and let me sleep on the couch, but the next morning found me being spitroasted between two of her sons. It seemed she had won three husbands over the course of her life and somehow managed to produce four grown-up sons. All of which still had a habit of hanging around her inner city home. She had tried to move on from motherhood and take up a career that she believed in, but the seven men in her life seemed incapable of fully abandoning the nest. They drifted in and out, never quite lasting in any long term employment or habitations of their own and she was tired out from having to attend to all their needs. So came to the conclusion that having an... amiable... young lodger might be such a bad idea.