Warning: This is a very dark story containing many disturbing themes such as noncon, humiliation, degradation, corruption, sexual slavery, misogyny, sadomasochism and more. Do not read this story unless you are okay with extreme content relating to the listed themes.
I do not condone or endorse any of the activities described in this story. Sexual fantasies can be a fun and safe way to explore fetishes but always treat real people with respect. Fantasize responsibly.
Part 1: The Leaving
I never planned to leave Crossfield. Not really.
It's the kind of town where folks know your name before you know theirs. We had one stoplight, a church on every corner, and enough gossip to fill the front page of the Crossfield Herald--even though half the time, the gossip was the front page.
I was born there, raised by my auntie after my mama died. Daddy was a ghost I never met, and I learned young how to get by quiet. You do your chores, you smile at the right people, and you don't talk back unless you want folks whisperin' about how you got "too much attitude for a girl like that."
I had dreams, though. Bigger than the cracked pavement and judgmental stares. I used to stay up late on school nights, watching videos of city life--fashion, art, lights that never went dark. People who looked like me but louder, freer. Women walking down the street like they owned the damn sidewalk.
That's what New Babel was. That's where I was headed.
Everybody said New Babel was too fast, too mean, too full of itself. But that's what I wanted. To be swallowed up by something bigger than Crossfield. I didn't want to get stuck like so many girls I knew--pregnant before twenty-one, working the same cashier job their mama had, wearing the same tired smile.
So, I packed one suitcase, scraped together what I had from a summer of waitressing, and boarded a Greyhound. No plan. Just a listing I found online for a room. The rent was cheap, the pictures looked fine, and I told myself it was temporary--just until I got on my feet.
That was three hours ago.
Part 2: The Room
The hallway smelled like bleach and cigarettes, and the lights buzzed above me like they were sick of staying on. Third floor, end of the hall. I knocked, already regretting how loud my suitcase wheels had been dragging behind me.
He opened the door like he wasn't expecting me, even though he damn well was.
Rick. That was the name on the listing. Thirty-five, give or take. Light-skinned with a scruffy beard and tired eyes that didn't miss anything. He was tall, broad in the shoulders, sleeves rolled up over strong arms inked with old tattoos that looked like they had stories behind them. His mouth twitched like he might smile, but didn't.
He didn't say hello. Just looked at me like I'd already made the first mistake.
"You Nia?"
"Yeah."
"You're early." He stepped aside and let the door swing open. "Come on in."
The apartment was better than I expected. One-bedroom, clean, with that kind of quiet that feels practiced. He watched me while I walked in, and I felt it--his eyes tracking every step, lingering on the sway of my hips, the bounce of my chest under the tight crop top I should've thought twice about wearing.
I hadn't planned on dressing up. I didn't have much left that was clean, and it was hot as hell. But the way he looked at me--like I was already half-undressed, like he could see the curve of my ass through my jeans, the sweat catching in the dip of my back--I knew what kind of thoughts were already blooming behind those eyes.
"You been in the city long?" he asked, watching me set down my bag.
"Couple hours."
He nodded, leaned against the kitchen counter. "New Babel'll eat you alive if you let it."
"Good thing I bite back."
That made him grin. Not friendly. Amused.
"Well, let's talk about rent." He scratched his chin, still watching me like he was doing the math in his head. "It's five-fifty for the room. Payable every two weeks. In cash."
I blinked. "Every two weeks?"
"You want monthly, go sign a lease downtown," he said, voice flat. "This ain't charity."
My stomach twisted. That wasn't what the ad said--but I could already tell arguing wasn't going to get me anywhere. And I wasn't sure I had the energy to start walking again.
"When's it due?" I asked.
"Today," he said, and his smile finally reached his eyes. "Or at least half of it. You stay the night, clock starts ticking."
Just like that. The trap, spring-loaded and already tightening.
And the way he looked at me? It wasn't just about money. It was ownership, already half-claimed. Like I was something he was waiting to unwrap and break in.
"I don't have it right now," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "But I will. Just... give me two weeks. I'll have it by then."
Rick didn't answer right away. He took another drag from his cigarette, head tilted like he was deciding whether I was worth the gamble.
"You got a job lined up?"
"I've got applications out. Some interviews." It was a half-lie. Technically true. Just not much came from them.
He exhaled slow, smoke curling between us. "Alright. Two weeks."
Relief hit me so fast I almost thanked him.
"But if I don't see that cash by then," he added, stepping closer, "don't bother locking that door at night. We'll work something else out."
He smiled like he was joking. But he wasn't.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded.
"Good girl," he said, almost under his breath.
Part 3: Due
Two weeks.
Fourteen days of trying.
Of standing in lines that went nowhere. Of waiting for calls that never came. Of lying to myself every time I told someone, "I'll follow up next week." There was no next week. Not for me.
I hit every corner of New Babel I could reach on foot--train stations, markets, back alleys with signs that said "Now Hiring" but meant something else. Nobody wanted me. Not with my accent, not with my smile, not when I couldn't sell a piece of myself on command.
By the end of the second week, I was down to peanut butter and crackers. My jeans were starting to loosen around the waist, and my pride had started peeling off in layers. I hadn't told Auntie anything. I didn't want her worrying. Didn't want to admit I might've made a mistake.
That night, I came back late. Walked in quiet, tried to make myself invisible. I sat on the edge of the bed in my too-small room, lights off, phone screen dim. My inbox was a graveyard of rejections.
And then I heard it. A knock. Not loud. Just deliberate.
Three short taps.
I didn't move.
"Nia," Rick's voice came through the door, smooth and unhurried. "You up?"
I didn't answer, but he kept talking.
"You and I had an understanding."
I swallowed. My throat felt raw. I wrapped my arms around myself, heart thudding like it was trying to crawl out of my ribs.
"You said two weeks," he said, voice closer now, like he was leaning in. "And today's two weeks."
I stood up slowly, bare feet silent on the floor. My tank top clung to my skin, and the old shorts I wore were riding up just enough to remind me I wasn't dressed for company.
But this wasn't company. This was a collection.
I opened the door a crack.
He was there, one hand braced against the frame, shirtless again. Tattoos glowing faint under the hallway light, his eyes fixed on mine with that look. That look like he already had the ending written and was just waiting for me to catch up.
"I don't have it," I whispered.
He raised an eyebrow like it was cute I was still saying it out loud.
"Yeah," he said. "I figured."
He stepped closer, and I didn't stop him.
