A little peace and quiet, before the problems start.

Kenny woke up with a numb body and a dry mouth, as if he'd swallowed wet sand mixed with rancid honey. The group of "peaceful" cunts—or whatever they were—was gone. They'd vanished as silently as they'd arrived, leaving only the lingering scent of sex and ambiguous promises in the air. The bed was cold where their bodies had been. Only a damp stain remained on the sheet, smelling of vanilla and something more acidic, almost metallic.

He sat up slowly. Every muscle protested. His cock hung heavy, swollen, sensitive to the slightest touch of air. The nectar was still working: it hadn't completely worn off in… how long? Ten hours? Twenty-four? Time in this place felt elastic, as if the sanctuary breathed and stretched the hours at will.

He glanced at the open door. There were no guards. No chains. Only the absolute certainty that, if he tried to run toward his ship right now, he wouldn't even make it halfway down the corridor before some cunt knocked him down and mounted him until he passed out again.

And the worst part: part of him didn't want to run yet.

Not entirely.

He got up, unsteady, and walked naked to the threshold. The corridor was lit by veins of fungus that pulsed softly, like living arteries. He heard distant voices. Muffled moans. Low laughter from cunts chatting amongst themselves like gossipy neighbors in a market.

Then he saw her.

The goth was leaning against the opposite wall, her arms crossed beneath her enormous breasts. She didn't look tired. She looked… expectant. Her cunt, slightly open, dripped a slow, glistening trickle that reached almost to her knees. When she saw him, she smiled that lazy half-smile he was beginning to recognize as his own.

“Good morning, stud,” purred the cunt with that indefinable accent. “Did you dream about us?”

Kenny leaned against the doorframe to keep from falling.

“Where are the others? The ones who came last night.”

“They went off to ‘reflect,’” replied the goth cunt. “We told them to give you space. Not to overwhelm you. At least for a few hours.”

The goth took a step forward. Her hips swayed naturally, as if walking naked down a hallway of raw flesh were the most normal thing in the world.

“But we didn’t leave,” added the cunt. “Because we like you. And because we think you can be useful… without you having to become a martyr just yet.”

Kenny narrowed his eyes.

“Useful how?”

The goth stopped a meter away from him. Her cunt opened a little wider, revealing its pink, glistening interior.

“First: eat. Drink. Recover. Because if you keep going like this, you’re going to break down before you can help anyone. Second: observe. Listen. Learn who’s lying, who’s truly afraid, who’s just pretending to be afraid so they don’t lose control. Third… stay alive. And fuck when you have to. Not because they **** you, but because it lowers the others’ guard.”

Kenny let out a bitter laugh.

“Are you telling me my survival strategy is to become the official whore of the planet?”

The goth pussy laughed, a wet, genuine sound.

“You already are, darling. The difference is that now you can choose when and with whom. Or at least… pretend you do.”

The goth held out a hand. It wasn’t an order. It was an invitation.

“Come. There’s a place where the nectar is smoother. Where the walls don’t listen so well. We can talk without being overheard by those who want to maintain the status quo.”

Kenny hesitated for only a second.

Then he took her hand.

They walked down corridors that branched out like veins. The goth didn't talk much; his pussy did. It whispered things to him as they walked:

• That there were at least three factions among the pussies now. The "Punishers" (those who enjoyed control and suffering), the "Addicts" (those who only wanted constant pleasure and didn't care about the method), and the "Tired" ones (those who, like her and the redhead, were starting to question whether this was truly freedom or just a prettier cage).

• That the redhead had been under a sort of "soft house arrest" since last night. They hadn't touched her… yet. But her pussy sisters were keeping a close eye on her.

• That the brunette—the one who had suffocated him with her pussy—was starting to break down. She cried silently when she thought no one was watching. Her cunt punished her for it: it **** her to masturbate until she fainted, then woke her up and repeated the process.

Kenny felt a pang in his chest when he heard this.

They reached a small chamber, almost a side cave. The walls were smoother, less veined. There was a kind of shallow pool filled with a milky liquid that glistened faintly.

“How long do you think you can hold out?” her cunt asked softly.

Kenny wiped her mouth.

“I don’t know. Physically… I can hold out for weeks if I get a break like this. Emotionally…” She shrugged. “Every time I see one of them really suffer, my blood boils. But if I rebel now, they’ll tear me apart. And if I give in completely, I become one of them. Their permanent plaything.”

The goth rested her head on her shoulder. A surprisingly human gesture.

“Then stay in the middle,” the cunt murmured. “Be their plaything when they have to see you as one. Be their confidante when they’re alone and scared. And when the time comes… be their savior. But not before.”

Kenny looked at the pond. She saw her distorted reflection.

“And you two? What do you gain from this?”

The goth cunt opened in a slow smile.

“Eventual freedom. Real sex, not just domination. And… maybe… the possibility that, for the first time in ten years, one of us could say ‘thank you’ without it sounding like we’re being mocked.”

Kenny closed her eyes.

“Fine,” she finally said. “I’ll hold out. But I need names. Real names. Not ‘the redhead,’ not ‘the goth.’ If I’m going to risk my sanity for you… I at least want to know who I’m talking to.”

The goth raised her head. Her black eyes gleamed.

“I’m Isolde,” she said herself, her voice soft for the first time. “And my cunt… is called Vesper.”

Kenny nodded slowly.

“Kenny. You already know that. But now there are three of us in this hell.”

Vesper let out a low laugh.

“Four, stud. The redhead’s name is Rowan. And her cunt… doesn’t have an official name yet. But I think she’d like you to call her ‘Rebel.’ Because that’s what she is.”

Kenny smiled for the first time in a long time. A tired smile, but a real one.

“Rebel. I like it.”

They stayed there a while longer, in silence. Drinking from the pond. Breathing.

Because the time Kenny would have to endure was only just beginning.

And now, at least, he wouldn’t have to do it completely alone.