She sat in the bathroom remembering a teacher back in Haiti.
Older white guy. Said he could help with some money but first, she had to do something for him.
She had followed him home like a little lamb, sat on his knee and let him fondle her. He’d given her money and said that for more money she’d have to go further.
She wiped the beer, the oil and the dirt off, and returned to the chaos before someone came looking for her.
There were more cheers as she entered the main bar. She grabbed a beer for herself. Talked to people and pretended that the circumstances were normal. It was only when the big man who strapped her, reappeared and put his arm around her that things began to get even worse.
She didn’t see the judge, but she felt his silence like a weight. He was watching, mildly amused. One quiet word from him and she was thrown on to a table again face up. A candle appeared, placed onto her belly. It dripped wax, and she screamed. Someone blew the candle out and she was flipped again.
She was dragged by the hair out of the tavern, down groaning wooden stairs, into a cellar that stank of mildew and sex. Condoms littered the floor among forgotten sex toys and old bits of rope. Rats skittered everywhere in the shadows, sniffing, curious, hungry. They tied her wrists by rope to a hook in the ceiling. Stood back. And watched.
Watched as the rats gathered sufficient confidence to come closer. They knew they could eat that pearlescent substance dribbling down her leg. They’d done it before. And one by one, they got closer. She watched in horror.
Just as she was about to faint, she was taken down, escorted to another room and clapped into a medieval wooden pillory. The judge was there now. Sitting in front of her, naked from the waist up and wearing a leather apron. Staring into her panic-stricken face. Just staring.
“This is a very interesting study in human nature,” he purred, though his eyes held a flicker of something like uncertainty. “I normally reserve this sick little pleasure for my more defiant slaves.” He paused, his thumb tracing the edge of the leather apron. “I’ve never tried it before on someone who was already totally compliant.”
He nodded to someone behind her. She then felt the hard, sharp impact of a whip against her buttocks and thighs.
The whipping stopped. Then someone entered her. In the pillory she couldn’t turn to see who it was. He thrust in and out three times, and then ejaculated. She felt him pull out and ejaculate on her back and legs.
Her head lolled up, and she saw what stood in front of her. A low, animal sound escaped her throat—not a word, not a plea, just the raw scrape of a will that had been worn down to its last nerve.
Through the blur of sweat and tears and other men’s fluids, she saw them: the twins, their pale bodies moving like reflections of one another in some diseased mirror, and behind them, the judge. He stood fully erect, watching her with an expression of detached curiosity, as though she were an equation he was about to solve.
The judge went first. He spat between her buttocks, a thick glob that landed with a wet slap, and then pushed into her with a slow, deliberate grind that felt less like fucking and more like excavation.
His sneer was a physical thing in the room, a curl of the lip that promised more humiliation to come. He came almost immediately with a choked gasp, his body shuddering against hers. Before she could even register the wet heat inside her, his open palm cracked against her thigh—stinging, reddening skin. “Your cunt’s too tight,” he hissed, as if it were an accusation. “You made me finish.”
The twins were next, moving in a synchronized rhythm that was more terrifying than any violence. One would thrust six times in a brutal, mechanical cadence while the other counted aloud in a flat monotone: “One. Two. Three.”
They swapped places without breaking rhythm, their pale bodies gleaming under the cellar’s single bare bulb. On their second turn, their control broke. Both groaned in unison on the fifth thrust, spilling over her body.
Then the judge again, his breath sour against her ear. “When you’re back at my place,” he whispered, voice thick with spite, “I’ll dress you in slutty little party clothes for everyone to enjoy.”
He rutted into her with short, angry jerks, finishing with a guttural cry. Another slap landed on the same sore spot on her thigh. “Again,” he snarled. “Your fault.”
They all watched the rats. Lick their seed up from between her legs. Off her body. She felt them up on hind legs nibbling the nourishment from her holes.
Angel "Feeding The Rats" 15