“I...I’ll stay. I-I need to...”

“Say no more.” She holds out a hand, warding your words away. “I’m nothing if not a gracious host.” An evil smile plays across her face, and she pushes away from the table as she stands. A few steps take her over to the open window.

“Narnen!” The word is shouted into the night, its meaning unknown to you. Footfalls begin to thud across the ceiling.

Whoever is above -evidently, the roof guard Narnen- shouts down, sounding distant and hollow as their voice is swallowed by the open night.

“Yes Captain!?”

“Double the guard and get down here, I have a job for you.”

She walks away from the window, ignoring the ‘Yes Captain!’ shouted in response and the clunking footsteps as they retreat away, coming to sit back down before you.

“Oh, I suppose I should make you swear to never come after me or mine again.” There’s a pause, and she moves into the sight of your turned vision. “Hum? Do you?”

You nod weakly and you both wait silently in the room, all things needing to be said having been said. You nose sniffs, your eyes water, and you weep gently in defeat.

The man rushes past the outer door, traced again by his step, and soon he comes through them, knocking quickly and entering without a word. He stops and his words splutter slightly; you’re his first sight, and bent and bloody as you are, he sees your worst side first.

“Er, hum, er, t-the guard has already been doubled Captain. We all heard the noises and a runner was sent by Rock straight away.”

They all heard the noises. All of them. Your noises.

“Very good. Take our guests to the cells, if you’d be so kind. We’ll let her out come morning.”

“As you say Captain.”

The cells. She did say she’d keep you under lock and key. As long as the bars keep others out as much as you in, you don’t mind right now. The idea of walking or swimming is painful, even in your own head, and as he stops before you, you do not rise or move at all. Gods you’re tired. You just lay there, unpinned, yet with your every muscle strained to breaking, where they do not feel outright broken.

Examining the view or taking in his next move, the man pauses before carrying out his orders, choosing to lift under your arms and pull you back, smearing you across the table. When the prospect of dragging you to where ever these cells are dawns on him, he twists you, putting you down enough to haul you over his shoulders like a sack of grain. As he leaves the room of your torment, before the inner door closes, you lift your head enough to see her walk away, already done with you and moving on to other things. You wonder if you’ll ever do that. Move on.

The inner room passes, his steps taking him directly on and across the low table, until he steps down and passes the double doors. Broken bottom bared to the world, he takes you down the foyers central steps and past the gathered group there, and you keep your head down, unable to bear their assessment as your screams are given visual aid, their context laid out before them. Even without looking, you know that there are more people than you saw before. The doubling of the guard had been done, but not yet dispersed, and the few raised voices are crude cat calls aimed at you, offering to continue where your last man left off. Your carrier declines their questions with a wave and an offer of more details later, taking you through one of the arches and into the rest of the building.

Corridors pass you by, carried as you are on the bony points of his shoulders, and eventually you pass through a door and watch as carpet and wood boards turn to cold stone. He take the long slab steps one at a time, each taking you further down, below the ground floor. They end in a large vaulted room which is unoccupied by the chatter of people, and he takes a key from a hook, rattling it inside the lock on a barred door, tossing it when the door is opened. He lays you on straw and retreats, closing the door and scooping up the key to lock it before hanging them and making his departure, leaving you caged and curling into a ball of yourself.

You listen to his footsteps up the stairs and begin your wait until morning.

---

The wait isn’t uneventful. The cellar, while cleared by the muster of the guards, was not empty of prisoners. Your cell, made of metal bars set into the stones of the floor and ceiling, was narrow and clearly made for one, with little more room than to lay down flat with your feet facing the door. It was the last in a line of similar cells, which were all empty and set against one wall. The other wall had its arches leading elsewhere, with the muttered sound of other hopeless souls trapped unseen beyond, and there were also many crates and boxes of wood stacked in haphazard towers as well. The two prisoners you can see, at the far end of the room beyond your cell, were demonstrating that perhaps, even for you, things could be worse. Both a man and a woman, doubled over, bent and **** into a set of wooden stocks that hold them by the neck and wrists. Neither has a shred of clothing, and you regret your adjusting eyes robbing them of the modesty of darkness.

Not that it is fully dark; there are several lanterns casting thick shadows, scattered sparsely about the long room and mostly near the exit. Enough to twist every mundane object into a night time terror, had you cared to look. There were terrors enough inside your own head now.

‘Did you enjoy that as much as I did?’

You shiver, cradling your hands.

---

The first incident, which you barely cared to follow, had been another prisoner being dragged in and deposited as you were, several cells from your own. A glance told you the man was blooded and coloured as one of Captain Washkins men. His angry yells told you he was not happy about it, and that he had no plan as his words flitted between taunts and **** pleas for mercy. When the impassive men who had brought him walk away, he turns his anger on you.

“This is all your fault bitch! They wouldn’t have even searched the place if not for you! Oh fuck, oh fuck. Why? Why, why, why, why. If I had just left sooner! One fucking mistake and this is what I get!?” He grips his hands into fists, clenching them as he control his anger. He fails and the tirade goes on. He speaks at length to himself about ‘what they are going to do to me’ and ‘why that kinky bitch dragged him here’ along with why he agreed at all. Despite his clear anger at himself (a sentiment you can empathise with) his words are chosen carefully enough to avoid the issue of why he’d been thrown into the cell, and you assume it’s so he can lie and claim no knowledge of any crimes. Considering it comes so naturally, it doesn’t speak well for his character.

The second incident is when the Captain herself comes down, escorted by guards and one of the men from the foyer. It’s the man who’s sleeves are rolled up, showing tattooed arms, and you can see, with your disinterested gaze, that his face bares a thin cruelty to it. The caged man begins to talk to her, clearly ****, and her quiet responses, just out of your hearing as they are distorted by the rooms slight echo, do nothing for his mood. Strange how a man can both beg and demand and quail and glare all at once. The captain seems pleased with his performance before moving on, passing you without any interest.

She goes to the other room and the sounds of the unseen prisoners, and again her words are lost, but this time they carry the sound of barter with the man at her side. You reason that slavery is involved and quietly give thanks that her eyes were not on you as they passed. After an amicable agreement, they return to leave, and the man’s enquires about you and the stocked prisoners, which briefly have you holding your breath, are met with a blunt “They are not for sale” before they move on.

The caged man calls after her and is promptly ignored.

After that, the night is allowed to drag, slowly shifting into the early dawn. You don’t sleep. You can’t. Your hands are agony and your rear is a burning brand, reminding you of what you endured with pressing insistence. You think about him. You can’t not, for most of the time. In the hateful wretched moment, it was like consuming something foul; a full meal of rotten meat, taken anally. Now, after, it burns in the stomach and mind, lingering like a poison, and the question you ask is why? Why did he do it like that?

Why did you take it?

Why didn’t you do something?

Why did you come here?

Did you think you could win?

Why didn't you say something?

Are you here to kill me or him?

“DOES IT FUCKING MATTER!”

You jerk at the shout, feeling his grip and his burn. Where you asleep? You doubt it, somehow. Your mind swims in the dark, and when you don’t think of him, or her, you think of how tired you are.

The man in the cell doesn’t sleep either, clawing at the ground and ferreting for weakness in the iron hard bars. You hear him whimper in pain, and picture what the coarse seashell mortar you’ve been staring at for the last hour could do to careless **** fingers.

The two in the stocks manage it. You don’t know how, bent as they are, but their breathing is heavy and their nightmares weathered with clear disturbance.

Nothing tells you it is the early dawn, save your own reckoning and the fresh footsteps that come sauntering down the stairs. Two men, one yawning and the other quickly following suit, both step into the cellar, and the man in the cell knows his time has come. He stands, smiling with nervous joviality.

“Hey, Mark, Lukas, how’s it going?”

The two men’s moods turn, as though stained by his greeting.

“Captain wants a word.” Is all one of them says. The joviality falls from the prisoner’s voice.

“Please, guys, you know me. You know I’m no traitor. Come on. Captains gone crazy. You can tell her I escaped-“

“Shut the fuck up shit-heel!” One of the men bangs his palm against the bars, making them ring with an impressive clang. The palm turns to a point. “One more _Fucking _word and we’ll start breaking shit, starting with your face.”

The man moves from the bars, seemingly disinterested despite his task and his threats. As he walks in your direction, you feel very aware of your bare lower half and attempt to pull down your jacket top, hoping to cover your hips. It doesn’t quite stretch far enough, and your broken hands can only manage to pinch the material, leaving you with a smock that ends just as the gap between your thighs begins. It erns you a look as he passes.

The stocks are his goal and he stops before them, leaning down to look upon the woman.

“Hey there darlin. Wakey Wakey”

You hear the smile in his voice. She doesn’t respond.

“Come on! I ain’t haulin him on my lonesome here!” The other man calls. He’d unhooked the set of keys hanging nearby, tossing and catching them as he watched his friend. Clearly he was impatient to be getting on, and he follows his friend to the stocks, listening to his response.

“In a bit. In a bit. Woke with some wicked wood this mornin. Recon Tamana here is finally gonna help me out with it, right girl?”

He grips the woman’s face, squeezing her cheeks as he shakes her head. You know what’s coming and you let your eyes glaze over for it, turning him to a walking blur that moves behind the bent woman. You hear the cord of his britches unravel.

“Well what the fuck am I supposed to do then?” The man with the ‘wicked wood’ slyly tilts his head to the man in the stocks. “I ain’t fuckin a man!” He gets only a shrug in return.

He does what you truly hoped he would not do, arriving at your door and looking at your poorly covered self.

“Looks like this ones been up for it.” They key rattles in the lock.

Not again. Please not again. You look at him with pleading eyes, watching as he strides into your world with an uncaring blasé. He tosses the keys behind him, falling into a crouch.

“N-no, please.”

It’s all you can manage; you were supposed to be safe in here! It’s a bitter and ridiculous thought, but your hysterics don’t care. They watch him as he drops his trousers, watch his manhood standing to attention and pointing at you, and your hysterics turn to despair.

“P-please.” You voice is a whisper, your struggling hands an inconvenient smoke to be wafted away. He pushes them to above your head, made easier for his steady lie upon you.

“Please n-no.”

This is a nightmare. He reaches down with one hand, aims himself, and makes it a reality.

Your voice breaks with his satisfied grunt: the only noise he gives before he breathes a steady gale onto your face, it’s rhythm a different beat to the rolling of his hips. You feel it inside you, feel its shape as it eases the steady press of your inner walls. You feel its slide and the press of hairs at its base. Worse still, you feel the turn of your behind as he pushes it past the coarse straw, onto the cold stone.

“P-please. Please S-stop.”

Your words are a prayer, a chant, muttered for mercy over and over and callously ignored. He grabs at your breasts, feeling them as he pushes you back and forth. Scabbed cuts bleed again.

“A-ahh! P-please st-“

“P-P-P-P-Pleeeaaase!” He mocks, finally having enough. He pulls out and quickly kneels over you, delivering a hard slap that thunders across your face. “Shut! Up!”

You breathe heavy with shaking breaths, looking away from him, and the hands that come to your chest are equally done your useless resistance. You feel him grab and twist, calloused hands in fists, replacing the cool cellar air on your skin with smothering brutality. Bared to his pleasure and offering nothing greater than a whipped whimper, he once more lies upon you and sighs with his entrance.

Head turned away, you see the man several cells down is not looking. He stares at his knees, waiting for them to be done and to serve his own fate, whatever that may be. Is that a kindness? To look away as you’re violated? Perhaps, but you sense no such thing from him; his brooding has an apathetic quality, self-obsessed or simply uncaring. You notice how his long hair is ruffled, as though once contained in a knot or headband, and his mouth is walled by a thin moustache above and a small triangle below. The cruel absurdity of his sight is that it make you realise you have no idea what the man **** you looks like. His face is a blank, and you don’t rush to his consideration.

Slowly, you turn your head, seeing him bit by bit, easing into the horror until you can take in his face. He looks frustratingly average. Even now, atop you, red faced in your ****, you doubt you could pick him out of a crowd. The shadow upon his too close face, as well as the flushed expression, eyes closed and mouth parted, paints only the vague impression of a man, twisted to his worst form. As his eyes open, he sees you looking and smiles, darting forward and planting his puckered lips upon your tightly sealed ones. You feel his tongue lick across you, his hand grip your head, the animal chuckle rumbling in his throat. You manage to turn away, sending his ‘kiss’ across your cheek, transformed to a nibble of the ear and a sucking of your neck. Throughout it all, the rolling violation below does not cease. He’s going to seed you, as Roland seeded you, but this time fertile ground awaits and a future yet more ruined is laid out and made all the clearer.

As he breathes hard into your neck, riding between your legs with increasing fever, you look upon your fellows in misery. Of the two in the stocks, one is unchanged; the naked man is slumped and looking at the ground, perhaps still asleep if he can manage it. The woman, like you, has no such luck. The man behind her holds her hips steady, and you wonder, with their linking out of sight, if she is being taken as you are now or as you were. Her face is covered by the drape of shaking hair, rocking with movement not deadened by the heavy stock, but her clenched fists tell you all she feels. It a feeling you know all too well, pounded with increased momentum by the man who can no longer maintain the grip of your neck. He breathes heavier and heavier, spilling drool upon you through his open mouth and burning breath, until eventually, inevitably, you feel a spill of a different kind. His rod, no match for Roland’s in size or length, twitches inside you as it pushes its way deeply. A hot wet spread comes from its point, growing with his twitches, which shudder through his body as he holds it against yours. Sounds of strain and sounds of pleasure all mock you as well as his earlier words did, moaned gratuitously into the side of your head as he milks himself with the aid of your remaining grip.

His friend doesn’t seem halfway done.

Cunt fucked, he dismounts when you feel his hardness fade away, and he lies beside you to join you in viewing his friend. You don’t want to look, but you don’t want to view him either, his attentions still pressing as his hand pinches and squeezes, playing to excess with you limited flattened bosoms and giving each more attention than their worth. He only gets a rise from you when he begins to give them the same red marks left on your neck, letting lips and hard sucks undo the effects of lying on your back. You grunt, wiping your eyes with the bandages of your hands, but otherwise accepting the babe like suckling. There’s a lot you can accept when you have **** it seems.

His friend finishes, bent double over his gripped penetration, and finally open to the mocking of his peer.

“Took you long enough!” He says it while resting on your ribs, one hand still playing.

His friend finishes his long self-indulgent moan, work done, stuffed to satisfaction and holding himself there until his purchase wains. “Uuuuggggghhhhh. Just cuz I take the time to satisfy a woman.” He raises a hand, bringing it down with a hard smack against the woman’s behind. She looks anything but satisfied.

The man, the fiend, your **** lover, pushes off you by your chest with all the care he’d give to an inanimate object.

“Mines satisfied.” He tucks his flaccid cock into his trousers, pulling them up and letting the sad package dance on its hem before disappearing. “Tell him you’re satisfied.”

Satisfied? You’re sore and soiled and still laid out like a messy unfinished banquet. No, you’re anything but satisfied by his violation.

His order isn’t a rhetorical one though.

Kneeling close, he leans over and delivers another hard head turning slap, somehow defying the limits of the narrow cage.

“I satisfied you! Right!?”

“Y-y-y-yes.”

Your voice feels faint, weak, and he hacks a laugh that catches him off guard, struggling to keep it contained.

“Louder!”

“Y-y-y-y-y-y-yes!”

You shout it. He laughs.

“He heha haaa! You hear that? ‘Yu-yu-yu-yu-yu-yu-yus!’ I fucked her brains out!”

The other man, who had similarly tucked himself away, walks past your cell, scooping up the keys from where they were tossed.

“Come on. Tamana will be beggin me to stay if we don’t get on.” Your attacker hops out the cell, not trusting his friend to wait before locking the door. “And as for you!” The lock clicks and he walks over to the man, now nervous as he returns to their attention. “Remember, fight, and you’ll wish you was a woman.”

It all ends to the sound of them dragging him up the stairs, the door above slamming in the oppressive silence. You shake. You burn with cold. Time slips through your fingers. What did he look like? Unable to remember, your blank mind begins to shut down.

Half an hour later, you’re released.

---

---

“And that’s when she came to me” Mistress Greada finished. Of course, it wasn’t the end of the story, but if the client was interested, he’d ask for more. The man leaned back in his chair, pipe between his teeth, puffing silently for a moment. If he wasn’t interested, there were other girls and other stores.

“So, wait.” He smiles a passible smile, neither handsome nor ugly. “She was…naked?”

“Oh ho ho ho!” Greada covered her mouth with the back of her hand, the fake laugh buying time enough to doctor the story further. The girl had been given a potato sack, but the man seemed to like the idea of her walking naked down the street and it fit into the lewder version of reality she had already sown. “As the day she was born. Walked right in and asked for a job.” Technically true. She’s asked for food, but here they were one in the same. “I’d say she was a good fit.”

The man smiled again, looking up into the void of his own imagination. Clients like him were rare here, where poor sailors were the norm. Those who came to the island towing riches only came to trade with Captain Wendigo, and that one rarely left such folk wanting. Now, though, this man had come to see the captain, ignorant of her whereabouts, and finding her absent, was now waiting for her return as one of the few guests of the adjoining tavern. It would be weeks; weeks until Wendigo’s return, and Greada was intent on picking him clean for that oh so lonesome time.

Where she thirty years younger, she’d service him herself.

The adjoining room had settled down for a while, and had only been alive with a man’s sound prior.

‘Damn that girl!’ thought Greada. She was still young and stupid and naïve, and relatively new in the profession, but god’s if she wasn’t bad at it. Worse than most non-workers. Quality was one of the reasons folk came to her establishment instead of staying at the docks, and that girls performance was not quality.

The door opened and the man she had ushered in a half hour ago staggered out in a state of undress. Booze was one of the other reasons, and was also a fortunate tonic for a lack of quality. Greada looked in at the girl, aggressively rolling her eyes upon seeing her slowly wiping a rag between her legs. She had ages to do that! And she didn’t even-

“Th-th-th-th-thank y-y-y-you!”

‘Gods!’ thought Greada. The stammered thanks fell on deaf ears as the client staggered away, but that wasn’t the point! She had told the little bitch time and time and time again, yet she was sure that without her lingering presence the useless whore would have forgotten to say it. And the stammer! Gods give her patience! It wasn’t as though all her other girls were perfect (she had one with a hair lip for gods sakes) but that damn stammer was just irritating!

She flashed a wide promising smile to the man, laying a gentle hand on his thigh.

“Just give me a little moment and I’ll bring her out to show you, fresh and clean.”

He glanced at the hand touching him, and then at her.

“By all means.”

She smiled back, coy and promising. Damn straight ‘by all means’! She may be old and sagging in places, but she was still ten times the professional as any of the girls in her employ!

With upmost grace, she stood and walked through the door, tall and willowy and slinking with each hip shake, and not at all the bony old woman she saw every morning in the mirror. She gave the man a wink before clicking the door shut.

Three strides and the iron grip of an arm set the girl shrinking before her.

“And what the fuck was that! Hum?!” She kept her words to a horse whisper, lashing the girl with them. “When a man fucks you, MOAN! When a man seeds you, MOAN! Okay!? They’re not paying for a plank of wood! Next time, you better wrap those damn sticks around them and make some fucking noise!”

“I-I-I-“

“Don’t give me that ‘I couldn’t breathe’ bullshit! We both know where it went. And speaking of-” She grabbed the rag from the girls hands. “What’s all this!?” Greada shoved the rag between the girls legs, sawing it like a washcloth. “Back and forth, and _hook _in-“ she made the practiced motion, making the girl squirm, “-and out. Done. It should take seconds. Time is money. You want to leave, don’t you?”

The last required no answer, or explanation. When she had come in, hungry, penniless, hurt, looking for any means off the island, Greada had hit her with the usual sell, all warmth and understanding.

‘There there, come out of the (proverbial) cold and come to Greada. You’ll have food and a good job. There you go. And now the next. I know you don’t want to do it, but debts must be paid; you wouldn’t want to upset me now, would you?’

The debt was the trick to it. Money, protection, contraceptives, booze, even wyvern. Everybody wants something, but everyone will wait for what they want, feeding out of the hand that promises eternal. After a month, there was always some way to undo their savings.

Seeing tears welling in the girl’s eyes, Greada felt her own mood darken. There was no time for this, but also no time to get angry about it. She cut a heavy sigh, clawing a hand to the back of the girls head and bringing it to her own chest.

“There there, no need for tears.” Comforting done, she pulled the girls head back by the tangled locks and moved on you more practical things. “Much to do. We have another client who wants to meet you.” She smeared a thumb across her cheek, wetting it on the tears and moving it to wipe away the smear of lipstick, mushing her young face with the hasty process. “You’re going to follow me out and stand by your door,” she popped her own emergency lipstick, plastering the girl’s lips with all the speed and grace of a fence painter, “and you’re going to smile. Open. Inviting. OKAY!”

She growled the last, letting a threat she could care less about linger in the air. The girl looked hopeless, skinny, bruised, still red with a few hand prints. One such lingered about her neck, offering explanation to her earlier quiet, but Greada was in no mood to take back her words. Instead, she raked her fingers through the tangle of her employees hair and took a shawl from the nearby nightstand, throwing it over her slumped shoulders. It looks little more than a thread bare beggars rags, but covers her small tits and a little of her stubbly snatch. That would have to be shaved again, but no time now.

Greada stepped out, a queen trailed by her ****, and she was glad to see the man still sitting where she had left him. She floated over to the chair next to him, still warm from her extended tale, and sat by his side to gesture at the girl.

She hung on the doorframe in what Greada was sure was a sexy way in the girls mind. She looked much like an overcut slab of meat in a butchers shop, painted and draped but little improved for it. Her shaking lips stretched to a smile that was ten miles off from reaching her eyes, and worse still it was pointed at Greada.

‘Don’t smile at me, smile at him! Damn stupid girl! And bend your legs or something!’

But Greada’s thoughts could not leave her head while the client was so close.

“Hmmmm.” The man sounded doubtful. The girl was making the plump fish that landed in her lap doubtful!

Then, like the sun piercing the stormy skies of her rage, the plane looking man said to her words that shone with celestial light.

“You have many good looking girls. I suppose I’ll get around to all of them if Wendigo takes too long.”

‘You would, you will, you must!’ Greada looked her incoming riches in the eyes, smiling as though bashful of the compliment. The smile slipped with genuine shock at what came next. His hand, wide and calloused, resting on her inner thigh.

“How about I start at the top and work my way down?”

He smiled, genuine, hungry, like she had seen so many men before in the long years of her life. No so many in recent years mind; experience closed little of the distance between age and desirability in the eyes of men. She’d had little more than the occasional shameful tumble with the innkeeper, of which neither spoke of to anyone, so to learn that this rich client was as hungry for her as she was for him, left her briefly speechless. She rested her hand upon his, never one to be bested by the shocking things her men wanted, and gently moved it, sliding it deeper up her skirted thigh, to where it mattered.

Things were truly looking up. As she moaned into his mouth, seasoned tongue writhing against his, she planned her next move, the room she would use, the tease, the old tricks. Should she ride or suck? His hands told her he would be on top soon enough.

Over his shoulder, she saw the girl, looking ill, and smiled as a man walked down the corridor to her door. He was like a blob of muscle, bald and wide, with a sunken piggish face, and his words slurred out in a quiet growl beyond Greada’s hearing.

“O-O-O-Okk-kk-k-kay.”

She looked positively green as she was dragged inside, and the man’s slam of the door spoke of his naturally ungentle nature.

Ending the kiss, Greada, made a show of hauling the man to his feet. She’d definably give him her best, and he’d find out that her best was still the best.

Behind her, the girl screamed, and she held off barely from pinching her nose. ‘Moan’ she had said, ‘moan’. Could the little bitch not do anything right? Only the noises of the client eased her mind.

Another happy customer.