-
Cold and drifting she closed her eyes and continued to dream, ignoring the attentions that were being shoved onto her body.
Sing. Just sing silly. You know that singing will make everything better!
She whimpered softly and heard a chuckle. Back to business. Wrapped tightly is the sheet and what was left of her shirt, she felt the feeling of her toes slowly creep back, making her tingle in the more painful way.
Don’t mind the pain, silly. It wont last. Sing! Come on, sing this with me…
Then, she felt more pressure, more numbness, quicker. Not long now. He grunted and shoved one last time. Breathing hard, he rolled onto her left side onto her sheets and whatever cloths that managed to stay on the bed. She was stiff, cold.
“Thanks honey,” he finally said, rolling back up into a sitting position. She turned onto her side, feigning sleep.
He stood up stretched and looked back with clouded eyes at her, her a** still bare, her tiny pink underwear hanging on her ankles. He shuddered again and felt him self get another hard on, but he couldn’t do it again, he had work in less then twenty minutes. He needed a shower. He smiled broadly, stretched again and closed the door behind him.
She looked up finally, not at the door, but out her window, out into the cloudy and raining waste that was outside of her confines. This time, there were no tears. She didn’t need them anymore. They were pointless and did nothing to help her, rescue her, find her solace. They were like any of the drugs she had used; she used to cry all the time, after wards, believing that it would help, but the more and more she cried the more these tears of hers would drain her hope, dream, safety. Never relieving anything, never healing the bruises and sometimes cuts. Tears where drugs, her drugs. Her drugs in which she quite. And like quitting meth or coke or the greatest heroin, or even cigarettes for that matter, there was always the temptation to do it again, just to delude her self that it was working, that the spinning was the fun part and that the hallucinations were like imaginary worlds like when she was young.
Come on, sing… you know you want to. And no one will hear you, he left already! You know that, he doesn’t wait around for you anymore. Sing! SING!
She refused to sing too.
Curling her self into a ball, she hugged her naked legs to her body, shivering from the absence of his body heat not being there, haunting her. Even now, his warmth haunted her, only because it wasn’t there. She was being haunted by his soul, and he wasn’t even dead. No, he wasn’t the one dead; she was. The most dead being alive. The front door slammed shut, and the hurried rush of a ford engine choking and coming to life and then peeling out on the gravel shocked her. So many things that happened in only a few seconds. That was her life. So many things to happen in one tick of the watch on her wrist, on the clock on her pearl white dresser.
She coughed, and closed her eyes, listening to the large rain drops splattering her window in a most ungrateful way. The rain could do what it wanted, rain wherever it wanted. The sky was crying though, and crying was smoking and shooting up and boozing out. The rain was poison.
She wondered how the rain really came to be. She laid down on her old stained pillow, thinking. The sky is where it comes from, and her tears come from her. The sky must have been someone like me, a girl like me. Oh so old now. What had they done to her to make her want to cry so much, so often, for so damn long? What had they done to that poor girl?
What have they done to me?
Don’t think like that. They haven’t done anything. Remember your tears are drugs and the sky is poison. Your strong then Sky. You’re not going to cry anymore, remember? Remember?
Oh yes, she remembered. Softly the promise to her own soul crawled back into her consciousness, like she did to them. Always.
Always she crawled back to them, on her knees, just how they liked it. It turned them on, her crawling. Her breasts lose and swinging slightly every time her dirty knees hit the floor, pushing her forward, closer to them, to what ever it was they wanted her to do. Always she crawled back.
Whatever they wanted, she did.
“Oh god girl! Your gorgeous. That’s right, wear that right now. Get on top. You stupid b***h! Come on b***h I know you want what I’ve got. ******** whore. Whore whore whore whore.”
Whore, whore, whore, whore, whore, whore whore. Silly whore. Just a silly little whore.
I’m not a whore
“You like that baby, oh yea.”
Or sometimes, they didn’t talk, or even say a word. They just looked her over surprised and turned on. Perfect body, perfect age maybe. Big amber brown eyes, soft mouth that always managed to stay perfect pink, curvy body with large breasts in which all the guys used and abused, small yet wide hips, pale peach or even marble skin. Smooth to the touch. Probably the smoothest thing any of them would ever feel in their lives.
But sometimes, she didn’t mind. Didn’t mind the touch, the looking and shoving and the intrusion. Sometimes, if she was lucky, or if she cared to really look at them, there was a cute one who seemed nice enough. She always had day dreams, while they were busy with her, thinking about what they would be like if she hadn’t met them like this, if they were her boyfriend.
Whore. Sing.
And sometimes, she actually liked it. through the years of it, she found she liked some of the ways the guys handled her. Hard, throwing, hair pulling, pushing her to the point of the wicked tears boiling in her. She screamed then when they were screaming, reveling in her own. But later, when they were gone, when they had cleaned them selves off, left her there on her bed, she felt nothing again.
Knock
Another one.
Come on just sing before they come in. it’ll make you feel better…
No.
Sing god damn it!
No.
The door swung on squeaky hinges, and in the door frame was another man. In black, not unusual. Like they were trying to keep what they were doing a secret, like they were climbing over walls and collecting information from the evil men, the bad guys.
She didn’t see much of his body, but his face was nice to look at. Inwardly, she smiled.
See, you can sing for the cute ones.
The man looked her over for a while, as well as she. Nothing intimidating about, nothing spectacular: brown hair, small eyes that looked intelligent yet shifty. High cheek bones and a few earrings in his ears.
“Get up.”
She looked at him as if just noticing him. “Stand up.”
She stood, letting her ruined button down shirt fall to the floor. She was naked, her brown hair was a mess, she new, her bruise was just starting to fade from last night. She looked at him, almost with a defiance.
Whore.
“Whore, come here.”
She walked to him, swaying her hips like they always liked. He grabbed her shoulder roughly then looked her in her clouded over amber brown eyes.
“Are you sick slut? Any diseases? AID, herpes, genera.”
She shook her head, though not completely sure. He lifted her small delicate chin with black leather gloves, moved her head from side to side, as if he were looking at cattle.
He turned her around and looked her over from behind. Firmly he grabbed her bare a** cheek. “Spread your legs slut.”
She did.
He took off his expensive leather glove and stuck his hand into her sex from behind. She closed her eyes, but stood still.
“Slut, what do you want in life?” he asked, his hand still under her. She opened her eyes, unsure how to answer. They never asked her something like that. It was always “What can you do for me, b***h.”
She tried to turn around some but he pushed her face back forward. “You don’t have to answer me and look at me. Answer now.”
He moved his finger and she went back into numb.
“Girl!”
She woke up.
“I want to be happy.” It was simple and silly and childish. Most of them liked the childish.
He pushed inside her harder, she closed her eyes. This time out of slight pleasure. What was he doing?
“Do you like what you do here? Do you like how people can take whatever they want from you? Do you like my hand here?”
She didn’t know how to answer. She was more dumb struck.
He didn’t ask her to answer again.
“Slut, I want you.”
That was nothing new. But he turned her around, her body left alone again.
“I want you to be mine.” She cocked her head to one side like a bird looking at something interesting far away.
“Will you let me take you?”
He asked.
. . . Its an angel. He’s your angel… you stupid whore answer him!
The tears came pouring out. She crumbled onto his snake skin shoes in a heap of tears and naked flesh. She clung to his leg. And after a few moments of silence and bitter drug, she looked up him with a new light.
He had the air of someone in control, of getting what he wanted. If he wanted her, why shouldn’t she give her self over to him. He seemed nice enough.
“It will take you a long time to know my wants, slut, but I am willing to teach you, train you. Form you into a girl again. My girl. My slut, and my whore. Just mine.”
This was hope! This was a dream within reach of her grimy fingers. She was shaking now. The drugs in her system again, she felt the cold in her room from the broken window, where a puddle of water was forming, drowning a dead fly.
She looked at him again, and slowly stood up so she could stare at him properly. She nodded. Not exactly sure what she was going to find her self in, but she knew exactly what she was leaving behind.
He smiled a warm bright smile, and her heart melted. He really did want her.
“Good. Now what is your name slut?”
She had always given names she had always wanted to be called, but she thought better then telling him one of those names.
“Marina.” She said in a small voice.
He nodded again and took his coat off. Without any words, he lead her from her confinement, her prison and home. The rain out side was harsh on the windows and roof, so she heard, but when he opened the door and walked with her out side to his black Mercedes bens, the rain was soft, cold, but soft.
- by ladymalady |
- Fiction
- | Submitted on 02/05/2011 |
- Skip
- Title: the whore
- Artist: ladymalady
- Description:
- Date: 02/05/2011
- Tags: whore
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