The Guard To My Sanctuary

Chapter 1

Elm

One hundred and eighty-nine Mississippi

One hundred and ninety Mississippi

One hundred and ninety-seven Mississippi

I continued this absent-minded counting as the aging white man slammed his unremarkable equipment into me. I learned to do this after a few years of taking "clients." The counting distracted me from the horror of what was happening to me, even helping me tune out the sound of his sagging skin slapping against me.

The only thing that brought me out of the trance-like state I was under was the few times I would have to fake a moan or respond to his failed attempt at alpha male jeering. Those moments were the hardest, almost making me come to tears, but I knew better than to let those tears fall. It would make the man feel in control, and based on the tentative touch, despite his words, he was anything but in control.

Small acts of defiance were all I had in that moment. Controlling when to let my tears fall was the last bit of dignity I maintained. I didn't have any sense of hope. That had been snuffed out years ago, brutally.

The balding middle-aged man who smelled like cheap woodsy cologne had to be well over the two-hundredth random man I had been forced to sleep in since my capture. London, the head of the operation, whose last name had never been spoken in my presence, didn't force me to sell myself as much based on what I heard from the other rooms.

I felt the man speed up, and I faked more moans to keep him from complaining. The sensation of both pain and pleasure was so far removed from me that I had to gauge when to moan based on the slapping skin. If London heard any of his "toys" were, as he called it, "warm corpses," there would be hell to pay.

I could smell the scent of nervous sweat enter the air as he reached his climax, grunting like an injured animal before releasing it into the condom. I felt another sliver of myself be pulled away as he hit the bed. Despite being mostly blemishless, besides tattoos London had forced me to get, I felt filthy.

I had no real control over anything, and the man taking too long to leave was another person who had used me like a rag doll. All of this had systematically ravaged me. I had ink embedded into my skin that meant nothing to me, and I had been beaten so badly at times I couldn't walk. Mentally, I never felt a sense of peace, knowing that while now I was London's favorite toy, there would be someone younger and fun to crack for him coming soon. I had not been allowed to be violated in wild ways like the others who were captive in his prisons, but when he stopped caring for me, I would be.

"Atta boy," the man grunted as he rose from the bed. He waited for a smile, and I gave him one, trying my best not to cringe into myself. When he walked away, ripping the condom off, I zoned out. Nothing ran through my mind after he put the money on the table, dressed himself, and walked out. This moment was how it always was.

I wondered if any others allowed their prostitutes to be used before pay. I had no real-world experience to gauge it off of. I was sure London wouldn't have cared either way since nobody was dumb enough not to pay him his money.

The door closed, and then the lock tisted from the outside, leaving me trapped in here clicked into place. Immediately, a wave of nausea hit me like a freight train. I could feel the beads of sweat the man had dripped on my back, and it felt contaminated. I crawled from the bed and went to the bathroom connected to my little chamber. Inside, there was only a sink, toilet, shower, and a few tools of the trade.

I turned on the shower and hopped in, feeling the water go from cold to hot before I commenced cleaning. The only products inside were scented to smell like spun sugar. I pulled out the products and used them to scrub my body clean, not missing a crevasse. After years of using cotton candy, I hated the scent. London's boys were known for smelling and tasting like candy. It was his signature amongst the underbelly of society.