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“It’s okay, pet, do as Lydia says,” Cyrus tells me, and I’m relieved he’s not mad at my hesitation.
I shrug the robe from my shoulders and carefully lay it over the arm of the couch before slipping the nightgown from my body. I haven’t been given the courtesy of underwear since I arrived, and the only thing that makes that less mortifying is that the implant my last owner forced into my arm the day I was sold to him has completely stopped my periods.
Small blessings, I suppose.
I keep my eyes low, but I feel the way their eyes burn into my naked body. Before The Factory, no one had ever seen me naked, but now it’s an almost daily occurrence.
“How is she sucking a cock?” the man asks.
“Excellent. I’ve trained the gag reflex right out of her so it’s just like an extra cunt.” His words are so vile my stomach rolls over the food he gave me.
“Back on your knees, pet. Take my cock out and show these nice people what a good slut I’ve made you.”
I do as I’m told, folding myself back onto the soft carpet and unbuckling his pants. At this point, I’m on autopilot. He commands me to do this at least once a day, but usually it’s much more than that.
Once I have his dick out, the sight of it forcing me into the numb state I fall into every time he touches me like this, I wrap my arms around my back and link them together as he demands of me.
The other man makes a pleased sound while I see the woman sit at the other end of the couch out of the corner of my eye.
As always, I dissociate the second his cock hits my tongue. That’s the real reason I no longer have a gag reflex, because when he touches me, I’m no longer present. I allow him to use my body the way he wishes because it’s the only way I can survive each day here.
Not that I haven’t wished for death. Because I have.
I wish for death every day. Every night when I go to sleep, I hope I don’t wake up, and every morning I curse whatever God put me in this hell.
Voices carry on around me, but I don’t hear what they say. The little bubble that protects me from the vile things Cyrus does to me keeps their words at bay, and for that I’m grateful.
A hand wraps around my hair, but it’s not Cyrus, it’s the other man. He shoves my face down until my nose rests against Cyrus’s crisp white button-down, holding me there for long seconds. Stars dance at the edge of my vision, the promise of blissful quiet just a few moments away before I’m torn backward.
I gasp in a quiet breath, making sure not to make too much noise because I know my owner doesn’t like that.
Cyrus sits back on the couch and pats his lap, to which I immediately follow the silent command. Hesitation only gets you beaten and starved.
He tugs me forward until I’m straddling his lap, and his cock is resting at my entrance. “Fuck me, whore.”
I swallow the bile that climbs up my throat whenever he forces me on top, because when it’s like this, I start to question myself. Is it rape anymore? Is it rape when you’re in control? Is it rape when he forces me to come with him inside me? But I do as I’m told, lowering myself onto him and ignoring the bite of pain.
He hasn’t been inside my pussy for a few days, opting for my mouth while my wounds from my last punishment have been healing, and as always, he’s going in dry.
I grind the way he taught me when I first got here to maximize his pleasure, trying desperately to ignore the two extra sets of eyes on me as I move.
Smoke fills my nose, but when I instinctually turn my head to see where it’s coming from, Cyrus grips my chin in his fingers roughly before the palm of his other hand hits my cheek. “Eyes on me, pet. You know the rules.”
The ringing in my ears is so intense I can barely force myself to keep going, but my body moves of its own accord, trying to save itself from any more pain.
Another hand touches my back, and I still for just a second, but it’s too long, and before I know what’s happening, a searing pain burns the top of my thigh.
It takes me too long to realize I’m being burned by a cigarette, but it’s the scent of burning flesh that tells me exactly what’s being done to me.
Over and over again, the pain is so excruciating I can barely breathe, but I don’t let the tears at the edge of my consciousness fall. Not when the cigarette turns to a knife. Not when the woman forces my face down on the other man’s cock. Not when I’m thrown to the ground and kicked. And not when they each take turns violating me.
It’s not until I’m alone in my room that I finally allow the tears to fall.
I’ve wished for death so many times since the night I was taken from my bed and forced into a life I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. But never quite as hard as I pray for it tonight.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
MIA
