Page 9 of Shame

“I need to fuck this bitch.”

“I’ll rip her right open.”

“Her mouth is mine.”

“I’ll make her scream.”

Nausea rises in me as I take in the sight of around twenty beasts disguised as people. My eyes search for Salvatore, suddenly hoping he’s here, the one single person I have any kind of connection with, hoping he doesn’t mean for this to happen. I may be at the bottom of the food chain, I may be what they scrape up from the pavement as they clean the city in the early dawn, but I’m also just a girl, and I’m afraid. Really, really afraid.

All hope dies within me as I meet the cruel face of Luciano Salvatore. He looks me over, from head to toe, and back up, stone faced. Then he stands.

“Gentlemen, friends, partners, crooks.” He glances back at me and smirks. “I present to you tonight’s dessert. Do with her whatever you like, she’s all yours—” Salvatore still has me pinned with his gaze, “just don’t stick your filthy dicks in her. Her holes are mine.”

A collective moan of disappointment rises from around the table.

“Come on man, not even her throat?”

Salvatore looks at the man, then back at me, a calculating look passing his features.

“All right, take her mouth. Ass and cunt are mine.”

The brief relief I felt dies. I’m yanked forward and the man holding me grabs my wrists, connecting the cuffs to yet another ring in the wall. He puts a hand on my head and pushes me down, forcing me to sit on my heels.

I’m naked. A piece of meat. Twenty hungry men stare at me, a couple of them getting up, one with a bottle of whisky in his hand, the other already pulling out his semi-hard cock.

I can do this. It’s okay, I tell myself. I’ve never taken on more than two at a time, though, and never been chained to wall, naked and filthy.

“Open your mouth, bitch. Suck me hard. Make me come,” says the man with his cock hanging out his fly.

I lick my lips and part them, resigned to my fate. As he pushes inside, the other grabs my hair and shoves my face toward the hairy groin of the first man. I wish I could use my hands. The combination is a killer. I can get a man off in half a minute, but here I can’t decide the pace, all I can do is swirl my tongue, suck in my cheeks, making it tight and nice for him. The grip in my hair is hard and the pain makes my eyes water.

Fuck him. Fuck them all.

I don’t know how many men I serve that night. The hoots, the greedy hands, the leering eyes, they all blur into one, and that one is Luciano Salvatore. I’m gonna hurt him back one day. I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but one day I’ll make him feel real pain.

Hanging limp, I can’t feel my arms anymore. I’m covered in cum, my throat aching, tears slowly drying on my cheeks. The crowd has thinned out. Only a few men remain, and no one is interested in the dirty, bruised rag that is me. They’re drunk as bats, playing a card game, smoking their disgusting cigars and bragging about people they’ve killed and women they’ve fucked. I might as well not exist.

I jerk when I hear a voice. I must have dozed off because when I look up, the room is empty save for Salvatore and Ivan.

“Clean her up and bring her to my chambers.” Salvatore leaves without looking at me.

Ivan crosses the room, grabbing my aching arms, pulling me to my feet. He unlocks the cuffs and then pushes me toward a door to the side. We move through one beautiful room after another, but I barely register it. A suspicion mounts in me that the worst is yet to come.

Bring her to my chambers.

Luciano Salvatore is a sadist. And he’ll keep pulling pain from me until he’s satisfied.

We enter a bathroom. The tiled floor is blissfully warm against the naked soles of my feet, the colors are warm brown, with gold details. Lush beige towels hang neatly over an electric towel heater. There’s a large shower with a glass wall.

Ivan reaches for the faucet and a stream of water begins to pour from the large shower head in the ceiling, steam soon filling the room.

He unlocks the cuffs and the collar. “Clean up.” There’s no emotion in his voice. No pity. I’m nothing but an object to these men.

I tremble as I step into the pouring water, wincing when heat meets my tender skin.

A draft. The door closes. I’m alone.

Tears fall as I tilt my head and face the stream, washing away the smeared makeup, the semen, and the filth. I don’t know why I’m crying. I shouldn't get emotional. It’s not part of the trade. But I feel filthy. Wrong. A vision of the boy with the kind blue eyes and the warm voice makes my chest clench. Sometimes I wish I had never left my parents. I always wish I had never left my parents.