1. Sweet Sugarplum
Sweet Sugarplum
Dynah
Pain explodes at the back of my head, and I know a lump will form instantly. It’s happened before– it will happen again. I’m no stranger to fists and feet as they punch and kick my useless, frail body. People are only as memorable as the scars they create.
This man is no different.
He plunges into my ass, gripping my hair in his fist and moaning to me like I’m a decadent dessert served on a silver platter.
“How do you like this cock, my Sweet Sugarplum? Do you feel my veins throbbing in your tight little hole?” Grunts punctuate his words as he slams his tiny dick into me. He sounds like a dying pig, but I refuse to acknowledge that thought any longer.
I stay silent like usual. No tears, no sound– and never any orgasms other than what I give myself. I’ve sold myself to lots of men. Some of them come and some of them go. Others only reappear in my nightmares– I see their faces and their horrific smiles every night. My memories and my subconscious plague me as I wake up dripping in sweat. The man's words suck me out of my thoughts as he continues to plunge in and out of me.
“Your pussy obviously isn’t a virgin, but your asshole clenches around me so perfectly. Is your ass a virgin, Sugar?” The man pulls my head up by the hair, resting his prickly chin on my bare shoulder. He whispers into my ear before licking the side of my face. His breath is pungent and smells rotten. If only it were poisonous, the liquid could rot away my face. Maybe then, the flesh would fall off and detest the vile men who hold onto me. I would appear as grim as my soul.
His thrusts become sporadic and his voice cuts in and out as he spills his come into my body. Shoving my head down onto the mattress, he pulls out of me with a ‘plop’ and spits on my ass.
“Now, thank me for using you,” he demands, waiting for a reply I will not give to him. “The ad was right. You are nothing but a two-bit whore.”
“Just pay me and leave,” I tell him, sitting up and fixing my hair.
Standing up and shoving himself back into his work pants, he spits on me again, and throws the money on the table, before walking out of the room.
Finally, I can have a moment of solitude. I have been used too many times today. Too many cold showers while I scrub my body bloody and raw. Too many men coming inside of my room and inside of me.
I hate it. I hate the way my body turns black and blue from their hands as they continuously hit me. Over and over, they hit and kick because I don’t make a sound, don’t make a noise. They cut me open, hoping I will scream or at the very least, shed a few tears. I try very hard not to give that to them. They use every bodily fluid as a means of torture, wishing that I would give them something. Anything.
But I refuse to be the highlight of their fucking day.
I sit here, day in and day out, while the scum of the earth line up for me. I am a fuck toy, sold only for survival. Every morning, I start the day in the same way. I eat a pathetic breakfast, drink my cup of coffee, and take my shower. I shave all of the body hair away, twist my locks into a braid, and get ready to be used. I lay on the threadbare mattress, wait for the man of the hour, and take his orders. “Lay on your back and look at me,” or, “Lay on your stomach and don’t look at me.” Each day is the same routine, except for Sundays.
Sunday is the ‘day of rest’. My parents taught me to dress up in makeup and pretty clothes and force me to sit in front of their computer for Sunday Service. They both sat on either side of my body, with my Father’s hand beneath my dress, stroking my thigh. The way he did it makes my skin crawl while goosebumps pebble on my skin. It’s disgusting, but it was all normal for me. You would think that I’d have gotten used to his smirks and sneers, but after so many years of church, I still have the same reaction.
Their goal is to get me to go to church and purge my body of the darkness– darkness that they created.
All because my Mother needed the drugs. I was payment. Only used for someone else’s gain. The heroin was too much for my Father to keep up with, but Mommy Dearest didn’t care. It started when I was little and never stopped. I wasn’t even old enough for puberty to hit, a virgin in every sense of the word. At first, I fought and screamed, begging for the men to stop. The blood would pour from my body while I laid on the towel below me. They would say it's natural, and everyone does it. I didn't know anything different. I was beaten over and over until I had no more tears. After the first twenty or so times, I stopped fighting and succumbed to the darkness.
Now I do it to myself. When I was eighteen I moved out, never to look back at the disaster that was my parents. I had to earn a penny and at that age, without proper schooling, you can’t get a job. So, I took to the streets, figured out how to use my body in the easiest way possible. I’m a whore. I hate it, but I don’t have another choice. It’s letting men claim my body or a cardboard box. Either way, I wish it were something different.
I roll over onto my back and sink my hand below the stained mattress, my fingers itching for one of my few releases. Feeling the sharpness of the blade and the coldness of the metal, I wrap my hand around it and unsheathe it from its hiding spot. Blood trickles from my fingers onto the floor, but still not enough to make me smile. Sitting up and placing my feet on the floor, I switch the blade to my good hand and carefully slice open my wrist. The blade punctures my skin in a satisfying rip, tearing the tissue apart. Maroon seeps out of the wound instantly, rolling down my arm, and dripping in between my toes onto the crunchy carpet. The sound of the blood hitting the floor makes my eyes roll back and my mouth lets out a sigh.
My head lulls back and my brain becomes foggy. Here is the release I need. Not orgasms, not screams, not even seeing the men walk out the door.
This.
Feeling the blood pour down my arm in rivulets while my brain blacks in and out of consciousness, is enough to keep me going each day.
This is what I live for.
This is what I will die from.
This is how I will be remembered.
The door slams open and I scramble to sit up, but I can’t. My fingers release the knife and my eyes stay closed. If I could just have one fucking moment of true serenity. Maybe this John will fuck me while I'm unconscious so I don't have to feel anything. Hopefully he will be kind enough to leave my payment. I just want to succumb to the darkness. I beg to succumb.