Some of my friends list has decided, in honor of the young man from Illinois and any and all others who have had their voice forcibly silenced, that today should be a day in which we celebrate our freedom to speak, our right to create, even if that creation is disturbing and uncomfortable.
As a general rule, I do that every day. Anyone who reads my fanfic knows I revel in disturbing, dark... I write about rape and blood, I write about abuse and despair and evil things.
So here it is, my contribution. Not my darkest or my most disturbing...I invite you to participate. Write something original. Quote something that disturbs you. Rec the darkest stories you know. Celebrate our right to speak and create. Celebrate the freedom...before we become so complacent we let it slip away.
Title: Something Better
Original Work
Word Count: 1069
Summary: I think this fits into my Moll story...but it feels different. Teenage prostitution.
Warnings: Teenage prostitution, references to sexual abuse, violence. Implications of non-con.
She’s not ashamed exactly. Too much has happened for that. She’s come to accept it. Come to know herself for what she is…for what she has become.
Maybe she’s only fifteen.
But the weight of it all is heavy on her back.
It makes fighting hard.
It makes it all feel like it’s a wasted effort….easier to just give in. Just do it.
Just open your mouth and close your eyes. She can do that. She’s done it before. Boys, men…it’s all the same.
Just bend over the desk and hitch up the skirt. She can do that. She’s done it before. Foster fathers, school teachers, cops…it’s all the same.
What’s one more?
What’s a change in scenery?
What’s the difference if you never know his name?
What’s the difference if they pay you in cash or a roof over your head or an A or not beating your ass purple?
Maybe she’s only fifteen.
But the alley is dark enough to hide in…and the money is still warm from his sweating hand when he shoves his way inside her. She leans into the wall and clutches the money tight. Spreads her legs and makes it good. For him. She could care less.
He’s an old man, smelly and dirty, but his money doesn’t mind the smell, so why should she? He’s done quickly and he drops the used condom on the ground at her feet as he slaps her ass.
She pulls her skirt down and doesn’t watch him leave. Doesn’t look. Just waits until she knows he’s gone and checks her watch, looks up at the sky. She’s maybe got time for one more before she has to go.
She doesn’t have to go far. Her eyes squint up as she comes out of the alley. The street is filled with people in suits bustling about. She makes eye contact. It takes three of them before a guy in a gray suit is coming her way, towering over her, shoving her back into the shadows.
He’s got cash in his hand and she falls to her knees in front of him, never mind the trash, the rotten food. Just do it.
His cock is heavy and hard and she doesn’t waste time, just opens her mouth and takes him in. He talks to her…calls her dirty names, tells her she’s a whore…like she doesn’t already know…lets her do the work.
When he’s done, he tucks himself back into his primly pressed suit pants and shoves past her. She doesn’t mind, other than the way her hand lands in the rotten banana, and the pavement is hard.
She can’t blame him. It isn’t his fault she’s a worthless slut. He didn’t make her that way. She straightens herself out and gathers her wits, hiding the money away with the rest.
She almost has enough. Not to escape, because she knows better. She’s been somebody’s whore since she was nine. There wasn’t much hope she’d stop now that she was on her own.
She stops for Chinese take out, lets herself in the back apartment over the adult book store. The old woman isn’t happy. The landlord came for the rent. That’s why she was being allowed to stay there, to pay the fucking rent.
She smiles, nods, tells the old bat she’ll take care of it and disappears into the closet she’s made her bedroom. Combs her hair and puts it in pigtails. Takes off the shirt and bra and pulls on the tight white shirt he likes. She hides away the money.
When she comes out of the closet, he’s there, waiting. Sitting in the kitchen, chair pushed back from the table, cock out. She’s there too, the old lady. Not so old she doesn’t appreciate a show.
Maybe she’s fifteen, but this is familiar. This she can do.
Except he’s a little drunk and his spanking is harder than it usually is. She bends over the table and takes it, waits for him. He slides into her, no condom. Never uses them. Asks if she had fun out on the streets…asks if she was out whoring.
She doesn’t anticipate his fist in her hair, doesn’t see it coming until he pulls her face off the cracked Formica and slams her into it. Her cheek bruises and she tastes blood, and he keeps pounding into her, pounding her into the table.
His voice bounces off the walls, calling her a cock-sucking whore, a piece of shit with pussy…and the old lady is laughing and she’s bleeding onto the table when he finally finishes, leans over her and tells her that next week’s rent would be double, because she was late.
She just nods and he leaves. The old lady grumbles at her to clean up her mess.
She’s not ashamed, exactly. Too much has happened for that. She’s come to accept it. Come to know herself for what she is…for what she has become.
She wipes up the blood and cleans up her face and goes to the crib. He’s asleep, little fist curled up tight to his mouth, gentle sucking sounds. She’d cry, but it’s too much effort, too much pain. She doesn’t hold him. Can’t afford that.
One more week, she’d have enough. She’d take him somewhere safe. Somewhere that the system didn’t chew kids up and spit them out…didn’t make whores of little girls. She’d find him a real home where he wouldn’t have to watch his mommy bent over a table to pay the rent.
Maybe she’s fifteen, and maybe she should have tried harder…but she knows this is no way to raise a child. This was her life. It didn’t have to be his. She’d take him out of the city. Some pretty suburb, with beautiful houses and long driveways…where families don’t give their kids up to pay for crack…where father’s protect their babies and older kids reach the younger ones to play baseball, not how to suck dick.
That’s what he would have.
He’s two months old and doesn’t even have a name. They all told her to give him up…but not here…not in this city with its crime rate and its over full foster system.
Maybe she’s fifteen, and not the smartest whore on the block…but he’d have something better. Just another week. She’d take the bus. She’d take him away. She’d be back in time to pay the rent.
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phantisma
