...swallow your broken pride. You’ll do what you have to, to survive.

Survival is all that matters now. Sully your mouth on a woman or hand over your body to well over a hundred men? That was **** at all. You look you at her, past her round, full breasts, to the face above. Her eyes still twinkle with mirth and anticipation. A small smiles plays at her lips, widening when she sees you looking up. You hate her. Understanding passes between you both. Understanding of what you’re willing to do to survive. What you’re going to do to survive. You put some of the hate aside for yourself.

You look back down. Wide hips provide a valley approach, despite the thickness of her thigh. You feel those resting across your back like burning logs, pressing you into the bed with their weight. They start to slide against you, lubricated by sweat as she eases gently down the headboard, her round behind crumpling the sheets as she brings her hairless lips to your face. You start to panic. It’s like a monster; maw wet with slobber and ready to give you a kiss of ****. Her legs are like pincers pinning you with pressure. Her whole womanhood has a shine to it that goes beyond sweat and with her legs on your back pressing you down, its much higher than you are, ready to smother.

You crane you head back, hoping to stave off the inevitable, unable to look away as the beast approaches. You don’t care what she said, what phantom response she thinks you had; you’re not a licker. You don’t like women that way! For some reason, you start to think of the men you have been with, the memories like thorny spikes, sharply cast away as soon as you grab them. You still feel stretched from Roland’s recent ****, the man who came so long ago a mere boy by comparison. Each of the men who have used your body did so simply because they wanted to, stealing its joys with strong arms; women should be different, shouldn’t they? Her inner thigh slide against your cheeks, brushing away tears, and you shut your eyes tight, feeling your nose sink into her as she presses against your face. Her legs lift off your back and her feet move to rest by your sides, spreading her, and with her thighs up, the weight lifts, your head rising as her hips drop and tilt, leaving a trail of wetness on your face. Your eyes open again, and with nose just hooked over the end of her moist mound, you look up her reclining body.

She looks down at you and arches an eyebrow; clearly it’s your turn to act. You take a deep calming breath, filling your lungs with her musky smell, and try to blank your mind. No thoughts. Don’t think of what you’re doing, just do it. Easier said than done. You hold your breath as your tongue moves out, slowly and hesitantly moving up her as she did you. You go from her rear end resting on the bed sheets, traveling up until slipping into the deeper part in the middle, pushing aside her folds. You continue up in one motion, returning to the shallows near her front and pulling away before reaching her hairless terminus.

“Mmmm, a good start”

Thoughts invade your mind. Her taste is...odd, as foreign to you as the act itself. The taste is of unwashed sweat of course, but also something else, something you never even though had a flavour: a female lust, the taste of woman. You close your eyes and go again, from the bottom to the top, wondering if each person would be different, in look, smell and...flavour. Why not? You don’t examine your own feminine nature much outside of bathing, but you can tell hers is different in many ways. You lick again. Is such form from use or from nature? Given by blood or by man? You lick again, the scholarly thoughts providing a buffer to the strangeness. As you move up her again and again, such thoughts let you convince yourself that this is learning anatomy, not humiliation. Scholarship, not unnatural. Opportunity, not ****. You try not to let the arguments sound hollow.

She starts to breathe through her mouth, panting gently as you go. Soon, her hands come up, pulling the cord that holds your hair in its tight bun and picking with deft fingers. It comes loose in no time, spilling your mousy brown locks into her hands. You look up at her and see her lidded eyes watching you, her chest rising and falling with deep breaths, her smiling mouth slightly open. Her fingers wrap into your hair and she starts to pull you forward, directing you and near ripping out your hair in the process. You pull on the ropes around your arms to save your scalp, until the ropes around your feet let you go no further. You only move up a finger length and up, yet that seems to be all she wanted as she presses your mouth back onto her.

“The nub dear.” she says, smiling down at you. Your mouth can only reach the top of her womanhood and as you resume your licking, your tongue definitely slide over the nub she described. You watch as a twitch slightly jerks her thighs and her head tips back slightly, giving a long breathy moan. “Ohhhh, that’s the spot.”

It’s like looking up at some vast fertility statue, one that moans and gasps and bucks as you lick. Her eyes close and you watch the pleasure dance across her face, and wanting to get this over with, you decide to mix things up, attacking the nub with a series of flicks, licks, and circling motions, careful to watch for her reactions. It seems to be working, her moans increasing in regularity as she takes on a more bedraggled appearance. Her hair soon mats to her red face, dripping with sweat, and her body start to radiate heat. You lock your mouth around her and suck, prompting a surprised and ecstatic chain of animalistic cries.

“Ahhhh! Uhhhh! Huuuuuu! Oh! Oh, you’re a natural!” You’re a survivor. You keep at it, occasionally licking further down and inside but always returning to the top, diving and twisting and pushing until your tongue hurts with the strain of it. You try not to think, to lose yourself to the task, but the smell, the taste, the texture, even the sound of it, all ground you in the moment.

You feel her hands tangled in your hair, shaking as they hold you against her, and her breathing comes in quick, sharp gasps, the moans stopping as they’re replaced with open mouthed silence. She suddenly grabs your head and holds it hard, the heavy wetness on your questing tongue easily tripling as fluid gushes out from her, soaking your mouth and neck and even spraying up, catching you in your eye. Her legs shake and her hips jolt violently, like Roland’s did when he emptied himself into you. You still work as best you can, licking and sucking whenever she’s still enough.

You watch her through your one good eye. She has hers closed, her eyebrows raised and her mouth wide open, hunched up over your work as she hold you falteringly to task, alternating between strangled silence and loud cries of broken pleasure, seemingly at random. You’ve seen the expression before; one of pure, mine numbing pleasure. You didn’t know women could feel that. That a woman could ‘finish’ like a man. Why? She cannot seed you like Roland did, yet your every lick has her pouring her fluid onto you in copious amounts.

You wonder what you’re supposed to do now. When can you stop? Roland continued using you until he was satisfied, but when will she be? Her musky smell fills your nose with each breath, the hot air of the room making you dizzy. You decide to play it safe and continue to follow her demands, licking and tonguing and sucking as best you can. She doesn’t tell you to stop. She stays that way, bucking and crying out wordless pleasure in-between silent screams, leaking onto you with each touch you make for a solid minute if not more, before she dissolves into heaving gasping breaths. Some of her fluid reaches the back of your throat and you swallow instinctively, thoughts of dignity long since lost to you. She pushes your away before collapsing back into the beds headboard.

“Hah, hah, hah, ahh, tha-, that’s enough. Oh Fuck. Oh. Hum, mmmmm. It’s been a while. Hooo. Not gonna lie. Its been a while. Gods but you are good!” Her voice is horse from her cries and her words cut you deep. Roland took pleasure from you, but this woman **** you to give it. You don’t know which is worse but they both leave you feeling used and wretched.

She reaches over and strokes your wet and tangled hair, combing it with her fingers. It’s matted to your face where her thighs pressed against you.

“How did it feel licker? Natural? Or were you imagining a big ol dick down that throat of yours?”

She’s right. You hate her but she’s right. Not about it feeling natural; it felt about as unnatural as a thing can feel. But she’s right in that, from this day forth, you are a licker. Your whole mouth aches. Your jaw and lips had been stretched wide, your tongue worked to exhaustion. Your throat is raw from the noises you made earlier and the effort to stop them, yet soothed by her spilling liquid balm. What you did is a crime, as much as a man laying with a man is a crime, and somehow that realisation makes it worse. If any of your old colleges saw you like this they would be **** to arrest you.

She chuckles as she lifts her leg over your head, bringing them together over your right shoulder and lingering a hopefully last sight of her ‘puss’, squash closed in the middle of her soaked thighs, before she shimmies over your bound arm and down the bed. You keep your head up, not following her departure from your sight, resting your head on your chin; the sheets below are soaked, and while resting your head on them would not dirty you any more, the cool air is welcome on your thighless cheeks.

She her shuffle down the mattress by your hips, swinging a heavy leg over you again and lifting her heavy behind onto you, straddling your lower back like a hoarse rider and causing your spine to make cracking noises under the weight. You look back as best you can, but it’s pointless; she’s facing away from you, wide thighs resting against your skinny ones as she rests her hands on your cheeks. The wetness you caused in her seeps onto your skin, mixing with the sweat down your spine.

“You know, for a show like that I’d consider returning the favour...”

A finger enters your womanhood, following the path that Roland battered clear. You gasp as knuckles rest against your folds and the finger twists inside, rubbing against the wet seed left before it slips out just as fast.

“...But I don’t like sauce with my clams.”

Her fingers start to stroke over the outside of your used hole with careful tenderness, barely touching you yet feeling devastatingly effective. You bite you lip without thinking, eager to keep any noises from escaping this time.

“Still, I appreciate how wet the suggestion got you...licker.”

She wipes her fingers on your cheeks before climbing off you and the bed. Your face is bright red. You didn’t- No. Surely you didn’t want her to...continue? Of course not! She felt better than Roland...better than...but of course she...It was...some kind of trick. You’re not like her. You’re not a...only... You mind twists and turns around the argument. You remember Roland, the pull on your shoulders as he fouled you, filled you with his essence. For some reason, it feels better to dwell on the rage and the misery than on the confusion.

She’s getting dressed. You hear her behind you, the rustling sounds of fabric snapping you out of your distraction. Thoughts turn to when you are getting freed and what plans she has for you. The sweat that coats your body -hers, and his, and yours- leave you feeling cool despite the muggy heat of the room. Air blows between your legs from the flurry of her dressing and it feels particularly sharp, almost cold, on your womanhood. You instinctively try to close your legs against it, forgetting why you can’t. Your definitely...damp, down there, likely a result of Roland’s seeping deposit and not...anything else. You head fills with the sound of her tight brown trousers sliding up her thighs, covering a vagina now more familiar to you than your own. The sound of boots stamping down. The door opening. You consider saying something. Beg for freedom perhaps? Would that even work?

Before you can even process the thought, her amused voice cuts into you.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

The door closes.

You lie alone in the room, ropes no less secure for your struggling. After a few seconds, muffled words sound from outside; Captain Washkin and another man. Fresh sweat beads out of you, cold and forming in step with the shiver running down from bent neck to spread legs. Why did she bring another man up? Are you going to get **** again? You feel sick, listening to the muffled words, their meaning lost through the distant closed door. Who is it, a pirate? No, too much discussion. One of the merchants? That would fit; the words have a haggling quality in them. You wait for the door to open, to find a man in you again; wait for the pull on your shoulders, the dripping sweat, the warmth inside. You try to curl up, the ropes making a scrunching sound as you tug them, and the voices continue, sounding amicable before fading away.

Washkin returns with a new man and a new conversation. You imagine what you will do if you’re violated again. Scream perhaps? Shout and curse, or make the noises again? Make no noise? Break?

No, you’ll take it. If you could do...that to her then you can take another man to survive. Who know, having another man seed you now could put the future father in doubt. Would that be better or worse?

The conversation ends again, fading away to the sound of footsteps before again returning with the voice of a new man. This conversation seems more heated, on his part at least. The voice you remember moaning and shaking under the ministrations of your tongue is now calm and in control.

The door opens and they both enter.

You ball your fists; you’re ready to be **** again, let the bastard come! You hear his gasp, his feet as they walk up to you. You feel his eyes between your legs, looking at your pink folds.

“Ah, here it is.” Captain Waskin picks something up of the floor, paper from the sound of it. “Hum? Oh her. She’s just the last person who thought they could fuck me. So about that 30% cut.”

There’s a pause as the man shakes off the sight of you. “Er, um, y-yes I suppose that’s reasonable.”

You couldn’t think of a less accurate way to describe her.

They leave, talking of whatever deal they just struck. By the time she returns, the wetness soaked into the sheets had turned cool, and much of the sweat had dried on your back. She returns alone, saying nothing as she strips down. You hope she doesn’t want you to lick her again; your tongue is still numb and strained, the time not enough for never used muscles to recover. When she climbs on the bed, she does so completely naked, sliding a leg under you and resting her other leg on top, crushing her well-known flower against your side and hugging you as she rests against the crumpled bed sheets, using you like some kind of perverted teddy.

“Big day,” she murmurs sleepily. “I’m off tomorrow. You’ll stay here, until next time.”

You don’t like the sound of that one bit. You say nothing as her breathing deepens, her breasts rubbing against the hair of your arm pits. What is there to say? Her hand slips under you, resting under your breasts. While this is undoubtedly the oddest thing that has ever happened to you, it seems little compared to your recent violations. You try not to think about the woman lying next to you, bigger than you in every way. Try to shut her out as she start to snore like the growling of some half tame animal. You need to sleep. Need to survive. Need to not think about what was done to you, or what you’ve been **** to do. You turn your head, resting your cheeks against the damp patch she left and try to go to sleep. With her deep breathing and the feel of her against you, it’s uncomfortably easy to do.

You don’t know why you’re thinking of that night. The night Roland and Wendigo **** you, each in their own way. Maybe it’s because that night marks the start of it all. You breathe in sharp shallow breaths before screaming again. If the baby has its way, this night marks the end of it all as well.

Your ‘husband’ looks on in worry, moving anxiously, eager to be away from the sight of blood. Even as you look at him now, that familiar tan round face and piggy little eyes, bringing his child into the world, you feel no love. Your ‘marriage’ consisted of long boring days of isolation, broken apart by quick use in the bedroom. To be seen but not heard. Used but not understood. Despite the ceremony he insisted on, you were never his wife; you’re his toy.

The nursemaid tells you to push again. There is blood on her cheek where she wiped it with her finger. She looks worried. You distract yourself, following the memory that came unbidden. The weeks after that night, cleaning the house, unable to leave it thanks to Wendigo’s instructions, feeling terrible thanks to that concoction she made you drink to ward off children. What you would give for that now. You remember the staff there; Benji pining after his lost love, Samia’s kind eyes, Misty’s cool indifference, the way Garran convinced you that you had to suck his dick to eat. You had only done it once before Samia told him off. How you tried and failed to escape, earning a very unpleasant education in the dock masters bunk for your troubles.

When Wendigo returned, she had been happy to find you in your maid uniform and eager to recreate your last night together. You weren’t thrilled, even before you learned that Roland’s part was to be played by the hulking man named Rock who had saved her life in a raid. The noises came from you again as you were filled again. She twitched and shook and screamed around you again. They left again. The month after is a blur, save for that night with the drunks in the tavern and the days after spent crying and stitching your dress back together. When Wendigo returned to do business, that’s when you met him.

He said you had the face of a celestial. That he loved you the moment he saw you. The fat idiot, cousin of a wealthy merchant from the southern islands, begged his brother to include you in the deal. Wendigo was happy to oblige. You don’t remember the ceremony; it was southern and lacked any of the proper oaths. You do remember the wedding night, how you felt sick, how you did as you were told, how you straddled him and took him inside for all of thirty seconds before it was over. You remember because it happened every night you were together since. Wendigo’s pleasures were never something you experienced first-hand.

The child is his, you have no doubt. Malarain, the head merchant, would occasionally visit you when his simple minded cousin was away. He was always far more brutal and long lasting in his use of you, yet the first time he took you was like a bitch and the for the times after, well, your flow had stopped by then.

That flow had now come back with a vengeance. You can’t push anymore. The face of your husband swims in your vision, mottled brown skin ashen with shock, eyes wide with concern. He’s holding your hand as he holds his ground. How do you tell him how you feel? You open your mouth to speak several times. He needs to know. He sees you trying to speak and leans in close, tears in his eyes.

“Don’t leave me my love” he whispers.

Your finders seem far too pale against his skin. Near grey and corpse like. You draw strength from his eyes, strength enough to say what you need to, strength enough to tell him how you feel.

“I...Hate you...Y-you ugly little man.”

The room is silent before split by the shrieks of a child. It’s the last thing you hear before you slip into darkness.