So I stare at the ceiling.
I count the damp patches—one, two, three—like they’re stars in some ruined sky. I trace the cracks in the plaster, follow the water stains like constellations. Anything to keep my mind away from what’s happening. Anything to hold onto the last thread of myself.
I just want it to end.
I just want them to leave.
The next time I blink he pulls out and comes on my bared torso, his face twisted like something out of a horror film. Then another blink and they’re gone, laughing their way back down the hall.
Three more men enter the room, one after the other, like it’s a routine. Like we’re part of some sick itinerary.
They follow the same process—no words, no hesitation. Just hands and weight and expectation. They don’t see us. Not as people. Not as girls. Just vessels. A piece of flesh they can use at their will with no consequence.
There’s no difference between them.
No mercy.
No humanity.
Each one as hollow and cruel as the last.
They laugh as they touch me—joking with each other, trading comments like they’re at a bar, not standing over a girl who can barely lift her head. Their hands grab at me, pull at me, like I’m some kind of exhibit. A thing to be passed around.
And that’s when it happens.
A single tear slips down my cheek.
Just one.
But it’s enough.
My mind is almost gone—fogged, drugged, drifting somewhere far from here. But even through the haze, even with my body numbed to the last nerve, the humiliation slices through. Sharp. Clean. Unavoidable.
If I were conscious—if I had control over my body, my voice, anything—I’d tell them exactly what they are. That the only reason they do this is because no woman with a shred of sanity or freedom would ever choose them and their tiny dicks. That their power is a lie, built on fear and force, and I hope they rot in whatever hell waits for men like them.
I’d spit in their face and put up a fight that would probably get me killed.
But I can’t.
So, I lie here, in the fabricated silence and submission these bastards have subjected me to.
42
Nell
I come round with a sharp gasp, lungs dragging in air like I’ve been drowning. My entire body flinches, instinct screaming to run—but there’s nowhere to go. Just the same four walls. The same stale air. The same ache in my bones.
The girl from my room is beside me, silently wiping me down with a damp cloth. Her movements are gentle, but mechanical—like she’s done this before. Too many times. She doesn’t meet my eyes.
She’s cleaning the residue from my skin. The sticky, cold cum that acts as a stiff reminder that last night was real. Proof that it wasn’t a dream, no matter how much I want it to be.
I don’t know how long it’s been. Hours? A day? More? Time doesn’t exist here—just pain and fog and the hollow space where memory should be.
I try to piece it together, but everything’s fractured.
“What… happened?”
The words scrape out of me, dry and broken. My insides ache in a deep, bruised kind of way that makes me feel hollow. Like something was taken from me, but I can’t name what. I remember the man with the tablet. The way he forced it down… after that—it’s blurry, there’s only fragments of warped images that remain.
