(This may belong in the Quickies thread, but I feel I should tag it properly.)
—
I don’t know how long they have kept me down here.
A week, at least.
I don’t think that they plan to let me go.
There are no windows in the dirty old basement, and no clocks. I have nothing to tell the hour by, nor the day, nothing but the rhythms of my body, the need for water and for food that they so rarely care to tend to. It’s freezing cold, smells like shit, and it’s always, always dark, even when they come back, even when they turn on the one timidly flickering light bulb by the switch at the top of the stairs.
I wish so badly that I could reach the switch now, but with the chain bolted around my ankle, I may as well wish to reach the clouds.
The chain between the wall and the shackle around my leg is only a few feet in length, not even enough to make it to the centre of the room, let alone the staircase at the opposite side of the basement. That is all the freedom that they have given me, but there is little else for me to see down here in my bleak little prison, even when I can see at all. The filthy, semen-crusted mattress they take me on, the only bed I have beyond the cold, rough floor. The bucket I have to use as a toilet. Broken down old furniture, and a maze of twisted, rusting pipes.
This is my home now.
I don’t need to ask what they want with me. They’ve shown me, over and over again. It’s why I’m naked. Why I’m hurting. Why my hands are duct taped behind my back, why there are bite marks on my breasts, and why I’m fucking terrified that I might be pregnant.
They have raped me so many times that I don’t know if I have kept count right.
I don’t know how many of them there are. I don’t know what they look like beneath the masks they wore when they snatched me from the street. They blindfold me when they come down here, before they remove their ski hoods, and I’m lucky if they take it off when they’re finally done with me. I know one of them prefers my arse. I know one of them loves to hurt me more than he likes to fuck me. I know one of them prefers me unbound and at gunpoint, forcing me to do as he says with my mouth and my hands as he laughs down at me.
I know that all of them think it’s funny when the cup they bring to my lips is full of piss instead of water.
I don’t know a lot, but I know enough. I let them do what they want now, instead of trying to fight back with my wrists taped behind my back. I’ve given up on begging for their mercy on the few occasions my gag is removed. They’re hardened criminals, and I am their amusement, until they decide I am not amusing enough anymore.
I dread what will happen to me then.
They never come down the stairs alone, and they always take their time. They pass me around between them. They torture me between rapes. They take turns with me, and sometimes two of them use me at once, forcing me onto my hands and knees like an animal, impaling me between them. Sometimes they barely rape me at all, beating me, humiliating me, shoving things inside of me. Sometimes they leave them in all night, taping them in so I can’t get them out.
It begins differently each time they come down here, but it always ends the same way. They make me clean their cocks with my tongue when they’re finished with me, one after the other, and swallow every drop I find. They take the panties they’ve gagged me with since the moment they first yanked them down my legs, wipe my thighs, my cunt, my arse, and they tape them back inside of my mouth, making sure I can’t spit them out until the next time they decide to feed or fuck me.
Then, inevitably, they turn their backs on me and climb the stairs, abandoning me once again to the cold, filthy hell that has become my unwanted home. Naked, bound, unclean and hungry. Miserable.
They’ll be back.
Until then, it’s just me and the dark.
