Author's note:
A sincere thank you to everyone who read chapter 1. All characters in this story are fictional adults. Any feedback – comments and/or votes – is gratefully accepted.
**
Nadja was a whore. Penniless. Blind. She lived in a musty one-room apartment with an unemployed ex-con – a man with a temper. Her very life was dependent upon his goodwill. Her family was a distant, painful memory. She didn't have a friend anywhere in the world. Even her legal status worked against her; she'd been smuggled into the country at the age of fourteen. If they found her, she was sure she'd be deported.
And yet she was grateful. Her life hadn't been this good in years.
She was on her knees, sliding Mac's cock in and out of her mouth as he sat on the edge of the bed. His hands were in her hair but he wasn't grabbing or pulling; he seemed to like the feel of it between his fingers. She fabricated a wanton moan and quickened her pace. Mac responded with a gasp of his own.
She felt no arousal – she never did – but could create the illusion. She'd been well-trained.
Nadja had woken him with long strokes of her tongue over his half-hard shaft. She was eager to prove herself, to show him that he hadn't made a mistake by letting her stay in his apartment. It had been foolish to deny him her pussy last night, foolish to admit to him she was a whore. Why had she done it? To protect him? Who would protect HER?
She knew he would soon leave the apartment to continue his parole-mandated job search, and she would be alone, awaiting his return. Her entire life revolved around one person, and like always, that person wasn't her. Mac was the latest man to control her destiny and so far he was proving to be the best she'd had in a long while. Of course, she'd only known him two days...
He came with a loud groan and she played her part, moaning again and slowing her pace, swallowing his bitter spend, coaxing every last spasm and spurt from his cock. She put on an adoring expression and looked up, pumping his cock gently with her hand and licking the last few drops from the tip.
"You've got an amazing cock," she said in a breathy voice, "You taste so good."
"Your mouth feels incredible," he replied, still trying to catch his breath.
Practice makes perfect. Dozens of cocks; big and small, rough and gentle, latex-clad and unprotected. With no other options, she'd sucked whatever was thrust in front of her.
Early on, when she still had a small, blurry fraction of her vision and could make a credible threat to walk out on her pimp, she had some leverage and could insist on condoms, could try to keep the most abusive men at bay.
But when her blindness became total she lost even that weak influence and became dependent on Aden for everything. He told her where to go, what to do. Dictated what and when she could eat; how to dress, how to move and speak. Taught her the 'proper' way to serve a man and then rented her out in increasingly risky – but profitable – ways. Profitable for him, of course – she never saw a dollar of her earnings. Any resistance was quickly, brutally beaten out of her. Her life had descended into Hell.
And it was from the deepest layer of that Hell that Mac had rescued her.
Mac was dressing, so she moved to the old couch, out of the way, making contented eyes in his direction and every so often shifting to give him glimpses of her sex, sowing the seeds of lust inside him in hopes of reaping the results that evening upon his return. It was all she had to offer, the only thing that kept her off the cold streets.
She knew her place. She was a sucking mouth, a tight pussy, and – as rarely as possible – a yielding rear hole. Nothing more than that. It had been that way for as long as she cared to remember. Once upon a time her body had earned her a living wage but now it was barely enough to ensure a hot meal and a warm bed. And even those simple comforts weren't guaranteed. She knew better than to take anything for granted.
"I'll be back this afternoon. Wish me luck," he muttered, obviously unhappy with the prospect of another day of futility.
"I'll be thinking of you," she said, sliding her fingers over her slit suggestively. She heard his quiet groan, then his footsteps leaving and the door closing behind him.
He was a good enough man, she decided. Flawed, but not malicious. Damaged, but salvageable. He was tenacious – struggling to achieve a life that she had given up on years ago. She admired and pitied him for that.
Even his awful temper had proved a blessing to her.
She wanted to believe that it had been courage that led her to attempt an escape from Aden. Courage, or maybe the last vestiges of her self-esteem asserting itself, causing her to rebel against the never-ending abuse, humiliation and danger that her pimp piled on her. But it hadn't been courage or self-esteem or anything noble at all.
It had been terror in its purest form.
Mr. Gammage was the living embodiment of that terror. She first met him months ago. He was a brutal sadist whose idea of foreplay was to bend her baby finger back until it popped. He had smelling salts so even a retreat into unconsciousness had been impossible for her. Bound and helpless, she somehow survived three hours of nightmarish atrocity – hour upon hour of screaming, begging and praying for the mercy of death. At the end, he prolonged his own orgasm by breaking her nose with his fist.
It had taken four weeks to recover physically from her first trip to his playroom. She doubted she'd ever recover emotionally. She vowed never to go back, to cut her own wrists rather than endure his tortures a second time. Aden promised it would never happen again. He seemed irritated that she needed time off to recover, and loathe to grant it.
Her life had changed two nights ago.
She'd been in her tiny bedroom in the apartment she was forced to share with Aden when she'd heard Gammage's voice outside in the hallway. Gammage and Aden talking, laughing. She could never forget that voice. The sound filled her with such dreadful horror that for a moment she thought it would kill her. Hoped for it. But unfortunately the heart of a twenty-year-old was too resilient.
She'd run to the window and forced it open with a strength fueled by terror. She knew her room was on the fourth floor; a jump would be crippling if not fatal. Nadja jumped without hesitation. Instead of a long drop she discovered a metal fire escape under her feet, and dressed only in a short slip, she was able to feel her way down to the alley below. A cold, heavy rain drenched her as she frantically felt her way along the wall of the alley, colliding with rough wooden crates and metal trash cans, her bare feet stumbling over bottles and pop cans and splashing through puddles. She had no way to know where she was going and didn't care as long as it put distance between herself and Gammage.
She felt sudden pain in her shin as her leg was knocked out from under her and she landed hard on the cold, greasy concrete in the alley. Then a hand gripped her hair and pulled her to her knees. She heard Gammage's voice close to her ear, mocking her attempt to escape, promising her an especially 'memorable' night...
She'd screamed; a desperate, final act. Gammage silenced her with a hard fist in her gut.
But Mac had heard. He'd come into the alley to investigate.
Gammage and Aden tried to warn him away. It was none of his business. Not worth him getting killed over.
And then, chaos. She was pushed aside and pain shot through the back of her head as it hit the ground. A struggle. Grunts. Screams. The clatter of trash cans being knocked over and scattered. The snap of a bone breaking. An agonized scream that abruptly cut off part-way through. Gammage's voice, no longer smug and threatening, now begging, pleading. Another bone snapping. Silence. Then the sound of hard blows thudding into a body, again and again. Ragged breathing. A hand grabbed her wrist, lifted her, and then she was upside-down, hanging over his shoulder. Dazed from the blow to her head and reeling in shock from the terror, she hung limply and allowed herself to be taken.
And just like that, a new man had thrust himself to the centre of her life. A violent transfer of ownership had taken place.
She rose from the couch and started making the bed. With no television, no radio and no one to talk to, she needed to find ways to keep herself occupied when Mac was gone. She wanted to contribute, even though he wasn't keeping her around for her housekeeping skills.
It surprised her that he'd let her stay after she'd revealed her past to him last night. A stupid decision on her part; honesty was a luxury she couldn't afford. He could have thrown her out and she wouldn't have blamed him – who wanted to live with a common whore? Of what use was her body to him when it was tainted, perhaps unclean? Her confession had tarnished her only asset and she cursed herself for the misstep. What had possessed her to tell him the truth, when there were so many lies that would have been just as believable?
Mac had accepted the news calmly, even kindly. He'd conceded that everyone does what they have to do in order to survive; that he was certainly in no position to judge her; that the past is in the past. He hadn't seemed resentful even though she'd promised to obey him and hadn't even kept her word for one day. He'd slept in the single bed, but put out sheets so the couch was comfortable for her.
He hadn't asked her too many questions and seemed content not to pry. But the damage was done. It remained to be seen how high a price she would pay for her honesty.
She finished with the bed, then set about learning her new living space – working her way slowly through the one-room apartment with her hands and feet. She began in the kitchen, finding the sink, stove and fridge; memorizing which cupboard held the glasses and the plates; which drawer held the cutlery. From there she taught herself the rest of the apartment. How many steps from the couch to the bed, from the bed to the washroom? Where were the obstacles and hazards? An hour later she had everything mapped out in her mind.
She sat cross-legged on the couch, taking in the muted sounds from the other apartments, the voices and bumps and the hiss of the plumbing. It had started raining again and errant drops pelted the windows. She thought of Mac outside in the cold rain, combing the streets for a job. He'd be wet, chilly and irritable when he returned. Another opportunity for her to prove her worth to him, to earn her keep for another day.
With nothing to do until his return, she pulled the sheet over her and fell asleep on the couch.
**
She heard him on the stairs as he approached and could guess his mood by his slow pace – he was dragging himself up the steps more than he was climbing them. Not the gait of a man with good news.
She hurried to unlock the door for him. She'd showered and used Mac's razor to shave herself. Aden had insisted that she keep her sex smooth – he claimed that men prefer a bare pussy – and even though she no longer belonged to her former pimp, the lesson had stuck. She still wore Mac's t-shirt but she had tied the bottom off in a knot just above her navel, leaving her hips, thighs and legs bare.
"Welcome back," she purred as he walked in.
He stopped inside the door and she could almost feel his hungry gaze on her. She turned a slow circle giving him a full view of what was on offer.
