uno

TRIGGER WARNING:

This story contains some extreme psychological and physical violence. I distance myself from such things when they take place in reality and a clear distinction should be drawn here between writing and real life. Erotic scenes will also appear here, although some will not be voluntary.

This story is therefore not suitable for under-18s. I've uploaded adult content, but I've noticed that it might turn itself off automatically. Therefore, here again the explicit warning. And please don't underestimate this story. It takes place in the Middle Ages and partly contains corresponding torture.

If such scenes don't put you off then you may skip reading.

Al iz well, folks!

Chapter 1

My face is pressed tightly against the pillow and I'm having more and more trouble getting oxygen. I gasp, wanting to lift my head slightly, but a hand prevents it. And so my rattling noises are stifled as the man keeps thrusting into me. Loud clapping mingles with his pleasurable moans. I shake my pelvis, wanting to signal him to let me breathe, but he seems to misunderstand. Because instead of finally taking his hand off my head, he hits my buttock with full force.

I squeak, but even that is barely audible. And then the panic grips me. I squirm more and more, trying to support myself with my hands and push myself up, but all my efforts are useless. He ignores me. I'm here to please him. No more. And so he seems to have no interest in correctly interpreting my desperate attempts. He does not care. My lungs burn as the hardness is pushed all the way back into me. I'm still wearing my dress. This was just carelessly thrown over my back. This makes it unbearably warm. heat and lack of oxygen. Not a good combination. And as if that weren't enough, I also wear a corset, which makes me feel like my ribs are about to crack trying to breathe frantically.

"Hold still," hisses the man behind me, but I can barely hear the words. The blood is pounding in my ears and above all, everything suddenly seems so far away. Everything except the burning in my lungs. Only that is present. It feels like it's on fire. Fire's inside me. And the smoke takes me. Makes me sick and makes everything feel so heavy. He smacks my upturned butt again me, but immediately gets lost again in the heaviness. Air. I need air. But with the dull feeling comes weakness. And so my efforts become more and more erratic, until they finally stop altogether.

"It works." The voice is far away. If I didn't feel the pelvis, which is still banging against my battered buttocks, I would think that he wouldn't penetrate me anymore. But that's not the case. The man takes himself always what he wants, of course, after all he has to pay for it.

But even those thoughts disappear. The pillow gets wet with my saliva, with my sweat. The thin cover lies in front of my open mouth and makes me panic even more. My breathing becomes shallow. shorter. And yet everything gets duller. my memories go Get lost in the dark. And I always seem to be drifting further away. Only one thing remains. the fire Me and the flames inside me One last time I want to move somehow - rebel and make it clear that I can't breathe. He must see it - must recognize that I need help. But it does not work. I don't even know if I managed a twitch. But it doesn't matter anymore because the burning is now spreading to my muscles. Pains. Overall. In every part of the body.

And just when I think I'm not up to the torment, lightness comes. As my body seems to be gaining weight, my mind is flying. I barely notice, but a small smile forms on my lips. It's nice. As if heaven is waiting for me. I want to touch the clouds, want to feel the softness. Something inside me screams that I have to fight. But I don't understand why. Because there is nothing that would be worth feeling the pain again. And also nobody who would be worth exposing himself to it. Nothing awaits me in reality that would be of importance. Just pain and worry.

And so I enjoy the inspiring feeling - I enjoy not being in reality anymore. The man is no longer there. I am no longer a prostitute. It is simply not important. And just as I'm about to drift away completely, I'm jerked up. I immediately cough and my lungs seem to burst into a thousand pieces. I automatically gasp for oxygen and frantically grab the dress, removing it from my head. Every breath is torture. Every cough triggers an unbearable pain in my chest. And yet adrenaline floods through me. This gives me joy. 'Cause I'm alive one more day

I would love to say that it was the first time I was so close to death. But it would be a lie. Because that's my life. The life of a prostitute, where not even a disappearance is noticed, where a murder gets no files. A nothing.

It may be that many consider this life not worth living, that perhaps it would be better to die. To put an end to suffering. But that's not true. Because even if it is incomprehensible to many, it is better than death. Better than the blackness waiting for me. This leads me to believe that it would be worthwhile to simply give up. And every time I believe her until I'm slammed back into reality. Until autism sets in on my body and this is exactly what forces me to wake up. Be it a breath, an awakening from a faint, a last rebellion. Every time I escape the darkness. And every night I thank God for that.

I gasp again as the burning in my chest subsides. I perceive the environment again, recognize the room in which I receive my clients every evening, feel the warm sperm on my thighs and see the man. He's just pulling up his pants and looks content. "You see. If you don't fight back, it goes faster."

I nod, still slightly dazed, and clear my throat. It would have to shock me that he didn't see my fight. But even that is just normal. Like the men who don't see my tears, or the ones my blood just goads them to hit harder. It is part of it. I get money for that. Same now.

He adjusts his waistband again before carelessly tossing me three pennies on the bed. He doesn't give me a single look. Just as a child disregards his old toys because they have served their purpose, so do I. Because that's what I am. An object - a toy of lust. And so I don't look at him anymore, just reach for the money. Because I endure a lot. Pains. Hunger. Thirst. But this emptiness in the eyes of my customers drives me insane.

Because this shows that the men do not want to see what they do to me. That each of them is to blame for my nightmares - for my suffering. That really hurts. For indifference is worse than physical torment. This shows me that I will never be more than the woman who spreads her legs. I'm not worth paying attention to. And the biggest problem is that I'm starting to believe it.

So I just listen to the footsteps. How these go away. And when the door slams shut, I just lie down on the bed, holding the money tightly in my fist. The small silver coins press deep into my palms, causing an uncomfortable tugging. But that's good. Because that shows me why I put up with this. That I can live one more day. That it's all worth it. At least somehow. Innocence is sacrificed in order to live. A price I'm willing to pay. Every day anew.

****

I walk the streets It's dark and almost no house has any lights on anymore. But I don't need this either. Because I know the way from the brothel to my home by heart. After all, I walk it every day. And every time early in the morning. These hours are my favorite. No wild goings-on, no people. Just me and the chill of the night. That's the time when no one looks at me sideways in disgust. No judgmental looks. No mumbling. That's liberating for me. I never got used to that. No matter how many times it happens to me. It doesn't matter how long I've had to live with it. I have never resigned myself to being an outsider. The exclusion of ordinary people, those who do work that is less wicked, shows again and again how low I am in the hierarchy of society. That there is no escape from the whirlpool of prostitution. At least not for me. For a whore's daughter.

I wrap my coat tighter around me and still I can't help but shiver. It's freezing outside. White smoke forms with every exhale, but nowhere is a small snowflake to be seen. And I am eagerly awaiting this one. i love winter When the white covers the dirt of the streets and everything looks so soft - so innocent. That's another reason why I love the night so much. The snow is mostly fresh there and has not yet been crushed by carriages or people's feet.

Then everything looks nicer. Even the dirty streets of the city. And at the same time, the white lights up the night. It's like a kind of glimmer of hope without really shining a light. A slight sheen that makes me feel like everything will be fine eventually. Soon. I shiver again and my stomach growls softly.

And that's exactly what shows that I haven't eaten today. I immediately stop moving and turn around again. That happens to me often. i forget to eat For many, that would probably be a sign of stress or something, but that's not the case for me. It's just habit. In fact, it's a blessing that my body has gotten used to the little food. Money is tight. Actually, I barely have enough for the rent. And so my meals consist of dry bread and, if I do earn a little more money, an apple.

But right now times are bad - very bad. People are nibbling on the poverty line. And the first thing they give up is easy girls like me. Because they can get sex from somewhere else. One way or another. Few seek a willing wife. Most take what they miss so much and just rape the girls in the alley. And they will never be punished for it. Crime has increased since last year. A drought like no other. And what's more, the rumors of the impending war are getting louder and louder. People are getting poorer and at the same time more anxious. A dangerous mix. The judiciary knows that too. And so they let the men do as they please. It doesn't matter whether there are fewer women walking the streets. But what is important is that enough young people are ready to fight. And so everyone makes their sacrifices for the war. One way or another.

The growling of my stomach breaks through my thoughts again and I sigh softly. Sometimes the bakers are generous and give me a stale loaf from a week ago for half the price. But they only do that at this time of day. Otherwise all the poor wretches would soon be begging for her generosity. At least that's how they always explain it to me in case I ask about it at a different time of the day. So I ignore the heavy lids. Ignore the burning of the eyes. None of this matters if there is no food.

A rustling snaps me out of my trance and I immediately spin around. It's dark, but I've gotten used to the sparse light. Two men come out of an alley. You can hardly see them. More shadows than anything else. But this sight is enough for me.

I immediately grab my dress, so that it doesn't prevent me from making quick progress, and start running. Away quickly. Because even if I come from the gutters of this city, it doesn't bring me any advantages. Criminals know no affiliation - no mercy. I've had this experience often enough. And no sooner have I taken two steps than I hear a laugh. This swelling sound makes my heart race. I know the men - know their boss. The cruelty. And most importantly why they follow me. And so it doesn't slow down my step. The opposite is the case. You can't get your hands on me.

So I run faster. And that effort is enough for my lungs to start burning again. And with full force. It's obvious that the hardships from just now are to blame. But I don't pay attention to that either. Because the heavy steps of the men can be clearly heard. And they approach me. A little more with every second. The walls of the houses just fly past me. Doors can be guessed at. But nowhere is another road. There isn't an alley anywhere that I could dodge. But even that is no reason for me to give up. Because at some point there will be a crossroads. A quick turn would be my advantage. Would give me a little head start. And I desperately need this. Because the heavy dress prevents rapid progress. Just like my heels make hiding impossible.

"Little one, wait a minute," calls one of the guys and another laugh rings out. That makes me whimper and I automatically look over my shoulder. I don't like what I see. you are near Too close. Only a few meters separate us. I sob and roll over again. I recognize the shadow standing on the wall of the house too late and can only jump to the side with difficulty.

Still, I don't let him out of my sight. It's obvious who's waiting for me here. The boss of the gang. But the jump to the right costs me a lot of stability. I don't exactly land on the heel and so I buckle easily. I quickly row my arms and can stabilize my balance a bit. But since I'm so focused on myself, I only see the shadow moving out of the corner of my eye and I'm roughly pushed aside.

Since I'm not prepared for this force, I stumble to the left and hit the wall of a house hard. Pain instantly shoots through me and the ripping of fabric resounds as I stagger forward. But that is not important. The danger is still more than present. And so I want to push off, but before I can dash an inch more forward, someone grabs my shoulder and yanks me back.

I immediately fight back, wanting to shake my hands off, and blindly step backwards. "Kalota." Absolute calm resonates in the voice and yet it does not fail to have an effect. So I stop my attempts to break free and really stiffen up. We were neighbors then. Were neither friends nor enemies. Rather lived past each other. But even then, his voice had that effect on people. Like thunder that echoes across wide fields. It's dangerous. And this already resonates in one word.

"I have no money." God, how many times have I said that sentence. But that's good. It has taught me how to sound safe no matter what's going on inside me. Immediately, a man pushes me against the wall of the house and someone grabs my wrist while the second man grabs the other. They both stare at me as if I might be dangerous, pushing me even closer to the wall at my back. The rough stone scrapes my skin and normally I would snap at her, but not this time. The shadow in front of me is too present for that. Finally I know who it is. Zaret. I don't need a light for that.

He shakes his head and reaches for something in his pants. "Kalota, Kalota." In fact, he sounds disappointed, and that only makes me sigh in contempt.

"You knew I'd be back." He still sounds instructive. Like a teacher explaining something to a student for the hundredth time. But the mood has changed. If it was cold just a moment ago, the air now seems to be freezing. "So where's the money?" To emphasize the words, he draws a knife. This isn't great. Just a few centimeters long. It could hardly kill me, but neither would Zaret. He wants to scare me. And that's exactly what he manages, so that I just shake my head in panic. "You know how the times...", I can't get any further than the blade brushes against my cheek. I immediately close my eyes and jerk my face away. But the cold iron is back immediately, scratching the skin.

"You shouldn't lie to me," he whispers, and slides the knife to my neck, over my larynx, and presses the tip into the skin under my chin. I immediately give in to the slight pricking and raise my head.

"Zaret please," I whisper, and although my words are barely audible, the tremor in my voice is present. I am not afraid of men. I've seen a lot. But he manages to show me what fear is. Zaret is a debt collector. Someone who promises me safety on the streets as long as I pay for them. He studiously ignores the fact that without him there would hardly be any danger for me.

He takes a deep breath and now pushes the tip into my skin. Without being able to control it, my lower lip starts to tremble.

"You can save your prayer." No sympathy can be heard and so I close my eyes in resignation. Once again I have to make a choice. He wouldn't kill me, I'm sure, but Zaret would cause me pain - severe pain. I dont want that. But I am hungry. And if I give him some of the pennies now, I can't get anything to eat again. Have to hope that two more customers will come tomorrow so I can afford a stale bread.

And as if my body wants to make the decision for me, the first drop of blood runs down my neck. Then Zaret presses even harder. A burning arises and the first is joined by a second. The blood slowly makes its way down my neck, over my décolleté to between my breasts. That's enough to make me think. "It's in a pouch around my lower abdomen," I whisper, and the knife is gone. But the pleasure is only short, so he starts it again. Right under my corset. I immediately struggle against the grip of the two men, wanting to get away somehow, but all that happens is that my breathing becomes increasingly difficult.

"That might hurt a bit." Zaret grins and the knife penetrates my coat, my dress and stabs into my flesh. I scream, wanting to avoid the blade, but it's too late. The ripping of cloth rings heavily in my ears. And not only that. There is pain. My stomach is cut open. At least the skin.

I look down in panic, can't believe what's happening. But the sight is enough for the bitter reality to catch up with me. The fabric soaks with blood and even in the sparse light the dark red is clearly visible. And now fear is everywhere. My shrill cry dies away in whimpers. And even if this is quieter, he carries my helplessness, my despair within himself.

"Please don't," I choke out as a tremor overcomes me. But Zaret doesn't stop there. Only when he has cut across the lower abdomen does he put the knife away. But I do not care. I'm in absolute panic. Because the adrenaline is still taking away my real pain, but I know one thing: it will come. At least when I'm home.

And that brings tears to my eyes. I have been happy today. Two customers came to me. Six pennies. That's a lot of money for me. Incredible amount of money. And now? Now this is being ripped out of my hands. And I can't do anything. Absolutely nothing. No, even worse, I have to watch my last beautiful dress being destroyed. And my only coat. Everything is taken from me. In a single evening.

Zaret grabs the slit that now allows my coat and dress to gape and pulls on it with a strong jerk. The fabric tears again and not even a second later the icy air creeps through the hole. But that's not important to me, I don't want to cry. Be strong. I don't want Zaret to see how much helplessness he arouses in me. But I find it difficult.

Finally, the purse is now free. I only need one look at his face to know he sees my leather pouch. This is tied with a string and without hesitation, Zaret grabs the thin ribbon. But he does not remove it immediately, but looks up. "A really nice hiding place." As Zaret speaks, he approaches me. The smell of sulfur spreads and it is only with difficulty that I can avoid wrinkling my nose. "But not good enough."

And with that he pulls on the tape with all his might. The thin rope digs into my skin and pain shoots through me again, causing me to sob softly. Immediately I want to tear myself away and wriggle like crazy. But the men grabbed me too tight. are too strong And so my movements only make the thin rope seem to burn into my skin. Then the cord gives in to the force and breaks. The pain subsides immediately. And right now I'm glad I only own old stuff. A newer tape would never have torn.

But even that is not important, but Zaret. So I focus again on what is happening in front of me. But instead of just taking out some money, he packs the entire bag in his pocket. And that makes my blood run cold.