Prose

The day starts with the call of a bell. Not the sound of birds twittering by the window side (though that isn't to say they aren't there), or even the comforting aroma of cooked food. No, it's just the annoying ring of an annoying bell acting as an alarm clock to all persons within.

Even after all these years I still startle awake when it goes off. Most of the time I can go back to sleep and doze for a few minutes longer, but the initial damage gets done regardless. And I know that even if I do sleep in, five minutes are by far the most I can possibly get away with without garnering the wrath of the Caretakers or Mistress. I am not babae's Number One, so I don't have the privilege of lounging around as I please.

Shifting, I feel my shoulders protest as I push up on my arms. My hair, dark as midnight and long enough to fall just past my shoulders, falls in my eyes in a horrible mess. I look to my wrist for something to tie it back with, but find myself missing a hair tie. It takes me a moment but then I remember that Aldrich tore it out of my hair last night. It's probably been picked up and disposed of by the cleaners by now.

Oh well. I push up into a sitting position and reach across to my nightstand to pull out a spare. Yu can never have too many of these sorts of necessities, especially when your client might have a hair fetish. I hate those people. Luckily, Aldrich doesn't, but he enjoys my hair down rather than up. I'm not sure why. I don't care either way, so long as he doesn't pull it.

And so long as he keeps coming back and paying, it's doesn't matter what he wants or why. I'm not being paid to care. I'm just there to service and please. That's all.

Sighing quietly to myself, I get up and change my clothes I would never dare wear in front of a patron. Appearances are important to a callboy, a lot more so than it would matter to any woman of this so-called profession. Especially for the babae. Because we aren't so usefully equipped with the body parts to easily accept another male's genitalia or any toy for that matter, we have to appeal to the patron's wants in other fashions. It's tiring but necessary if we hope to ever get any money and lead an easier life.

...If you can really call it easier. Frankly I think it's more hellish. But then again, I'd rather be fucked multiple times than beaten mercilessly. The Caretakers here are not nice in the least. They look for a reason to beat you. They enjoy their jobs far too much for my liking. I avoid them when I can.

Leaving my room I am greeted with familiar faces wearing similar expressions and similar clothes. All heading for the same place. I follow, blending with the crowd. When we reach the cafeteria, I automatically go to get myself some food. There are hardly any windows in this place, just toward the top portion of the walls where we can't reach. Our rooms are the same way, to make sure we can't escape. The only way to open them is through a pulley system that breaks more often than works properly.

This whole place isn't friendly. As I sit down at my usual spot, I take a glance around and see the normal set of Caretakers stationed around the room. They double as bodyguards when we're gathered like this, to ensure no one tries any "funny" moves. As if we can.

What a laugh. We can't. Many have tried before, myself included, but it just can't be done. They find you before you can even make it to the property gates. And if you somehow do make it, it doesn't take long for them to track you down, drag you back, tie you to a tree, and beat you until your body is covered in countless bruises and scratches. Sometimes even a broken bone or two. It'll go on for hours until either you beg for mercy and plead for a second chance, or the Caretakers finally get tired of seeing your face. There is never just one Caretaker that deals the punishment, so usually the former happens long before the latter.

Everyone has experienced it at least once or twice. Some more than others. I think they purposely let you think their attentiveness is slacking just to make you try your hand at escaping. Just so they can have the fun of chasing you and tearing you apart. It's sick. And cruel. Those of us with more years of experience in this profession don't dare try even when they do seem to let their guard down.

Call it fear or common sense, whatever it is keeps us out of harm's way. But that doesn't mean someone still won't try anyway.

Eating my one decent meal of the day, I can hear the whispers of another failed attempt to flee. It's one of the lalaki who just came in a couple months ago. Apparently he thought he could run off on a patron while she was in the shower and jump the gate in the middle of hte night. The Caretakers caught him just as he was about to climb the wall. They're beating him right now.

"Stupid fool."

I look over to my right to see Addy sitting nearby, bent over his tray. Addy isn't his real name---none of us go by our real names anymore. Mny of us, like him, get foreign names to appeal to those patrons. Some, like myself, don't. I can't say I'm grateful to not have a foreign name. It doesn't matter either way.

"He should've just stayed put. Just go to sleep when you're done and forget about escaping. This has to be his third or fourth attempt already." He looks at me for confirmation.

I don't know the answer so I shrug and continue eating. I'm not much of a talker during meal time. I would rather fill my stomach while I can than waste time talking. Even if there isn't a lot of food to eat anyway, I prefer to take advantage while I can.

After eating, we split off to go about our early, routine exercises. Babae to one side, lalaki to another. Even though I say "early," it's actually a couple hours before noon. Of course, the types of "exercises" we go through aren't typical. They're geared towards raising stamina and flexibility, especially for in the babae division, also to withstand whatever pain we might go through during intercourse.

It's just as tiring to "train" as the real thing. Truly, there is no rest for us. After that's done, by noon we get about an hour to ourselves to scarf down a small snack and get ready for our first customers. Sometimes, not even a full hour is granted before someone comes knocking on our door.

It's exhausting, honestly. Most people just don't know what it takes to please a man for a period of time using your body alone, and after already tiring it out with earlier, daily activities. And with only so much to eat... only one decent meal a day... with hardly any breaks between patrons as we go... It's difficult. Some people break under the pressure before they learn to adapt.

I've been eased into it, which is more than can be said about most of the others here in this business. Some people just get tossed in because they're in a deep financial shithole and see no other option of getting out of it. Some get picked up off the streets when young and immediately start from that moment without any sort of introduction or grace period. I can consider myself lucky, in comparison to all these people. But... even if I do, I'm hardly in any better of circumstances than they are.

Returning to my room, I pass by the courtyard. There, in a secluded spot, away from peeping eyes, I can see the outside ring of Caretakers still beating that lalaki idiot. I wonder, if only idly, how much longer it will take. Maybe they'll stop soon, just to make sure any of the patrons don't hear the unnecessary noise of a stupid whore screaming when it's not in pleasure.

Back in my room I steal the shower first. I don't see my roommate, which could mean many things, but I don't bother to ponder. If I had the time, maybe I would at least faked like I cared, but business came first and despite my own internal disputes about it, I can't argue or resist no matter how much I want to.

As I change into my working outfit, the clothes almost as expensive as myself, along with a spritz of cologne---and not the cheap kind---a knock comes to my door. My hour has hardly passed and already I'm being summoned. A Caretaker opens the door and tells me my first patron has arrived. Tony Bejar. Another visitor from a far-away place.

I don't particularly like this man, though I don't really hate him either. He's a paying customer and despite my dislike for the man as a person, he does contribute to my own somewhat easier lifestyle. It just irks me that he plays rough and can sometimes jeopardize my performances later in the day. If I slip with the other patrons, I risk not being asked for again. I risk having little to no tips. I risk having no luxuries or gifts from these men. I can't afford that. As much as I hate to say it, I'm nothing without their contributions.

I'd rather avoid a worse lifestyle than I already have.

After straightening my collar and tugging at my sleeves, I follow the Caretaker across the property to the front where most work takes place. The property is split into two; one half for business, one half for the callboys and Caretakers and (of course) Mistress. There hardly is any mingling of the two. No patrons are ever supposed to go beyond the dividing point into the living quarters, just like how us callboys aren't supposed to step into the business building without being called first.

We can't move around a lot, unsurprisingly enough. We are confined like animals in a cage. And considering the way some of these men treat us, perhaps we are seen no better than animals anyway. If they degrade us, devalue us, make us less than human, less than themselves, then in their minds it's okay for them to do as they want so long as it isn't permanently damaging. Like scarring. Or missing appendages. Or death.

There are far too few people who come here that actually hold an ounce of compassion for whoever it is they fuck or get fucked by. After all, why should they care? They only stay long enough to get their high and pleasure, then leave. What use have they to actually think in depth about the wellbeing of whoever it is they share some odd hours with in bed? After all, so long as they have money and there's another whore around to play substitute and do just as good or maybe even better, why should they bother?

There is no sympathy for us lowlifes. No genuine care at all.

The Caretaker leaves me at the door of the room where Tony is sure to be waiting. It takes me a moment, but I work up the proper expression for greeting this man before knocking and opening the door.

The first thing I notice is the drawn curtains. It's still daylight outside, I know, but that doesn't make a difference. The thick curtains block out most of the light and let just enough through to let me see the form of Tony sitting casually in a chair by a small table near the window. He's drinking Stolichnaya Vodka, from what I can tell of the bottle, and by his feet looks to be a medium sized briefcase.

Anyone would think it to be for his work, but I know better. I've seen it before. I'm not fooled by that "businessman" air he has about him. I can see the hungry look in his eyes and the wolfish grin on his lips. He's eager. Feisty. I can already tell just by looking that today will be a hard day.

"Kahoku..."

The crook of a finger beckons me forward. I let the door close behind me and approach, making sure to make my steps languid and graceful, like a cat prowling towards its master. He enjoys it when I tease him like this, with a light sway to my hips and a confident smile on my lips. He enjoys it when I appear dominant, because it gives him more satisfaction when he breaks me.

Standing by his chair, I look down at him a moment before leaning in and easing the glass out of his grip. Bringing it to my lips, I tease the rim with my tongue before taking a long sip. Raising physical stamina for sex is not the only thing we callboys have to deal with. Alcohol tolerance is a necessity as well, since half the time the patrons are drunk anyway. And most that drink like to share with their partners.

A hand snakes around my waist and pulls me down. I move the glass away and hold it firmly to keep from spilling the expensive liquid as I'm drawn into a lap. I automatically straddle as another hand reaches up and pulls lightly at my collar. The first two buttons are already opened, so pushing it aside to better expose my neck is easy.

I don't have to guess what'll happen next. Brief pain makes me wince as I feel teeth sink into a fresh bruise. It's the same spot where Aldrich had bit me earlier. My grip on the glass tightens as I hold back a whimper, not wanting to give in so quickly and let Tony have his victory so soon. I can't say if it's my own stubbornness that makes me hold back, or if it's simply the idea of it being my duty to play stubborn and make it a challenge to get Tony to lose his cool.

"Someone's marked you. They dirtied you."

Tony murmurs against my skin, his tongue lapping at the wound.

"I have to make sure you only carry my marks. It's unfair to think some other man left this lasting mark on you, my precious Kahoku."

The buttons of my shirt become undone one by one; the sides are pushed away to bare my skin. Tony goes for the other shoulder, biting down again. This time I can't help but hiss under my breath, wishing that these men wouldn't make things worse for me. Once someone leaves a mark, everyone afterward with any sort of dominance complex has to mark me again, sometimes in the same place, to "erase" the previous man's stain.

I hate it. And right now, I'm regretting letting Aldrich do that to me. Now Tony is sure to leave more and start a chain of horribly unnecessary activities just to make sure I am "his and his alone." As if that can ever be true. We both know that can't be. But within these four walls, in the private company of each other, we'll pretend otherwise. Because that's what Tony wants. And what Tony wants, regardless of what I say, he'll get.

Draining the glass, I set it down on the table and shrug out of my shirt and jacket. Tony looks at me with that same hungry look from earlier and touches me as if he were blind and needed to map out every detail of my body with his fingertips. I arch ever-so-slightly as he does so, moving a little this way, then that, communicating in return with my body instead of words.

Tony takes this as encouragement and goes to the bucket of ice sitting on the side that looks like it used to hold some other beverage that had to be chilled. He picks up a couple ice cubes and sets one against my lips. I let him trace the cube around my mouth, simply looking down at him in return, but when I feel a light pressure, part my lips and take it upon my tongue.

I suck upon it as he uses another cube to dance across my skin. The stark contrast in temperature makes me shiver. I close my eyes and tilt my head back, slowly moving it from side to side as he continues to move the ice over my body. I can feel his eyes on me, watching my every reaction. He's drinking me in like fine wine, memorizing me as though he wants to forever imprint my image in his head.

While some might think that romantic, I find it something short of disgusting. I don't like to know I am constantly on the mind of these people. I don't want to know my features come into play during their sick, wet fantasies. If it ever was my choice, I would rather they never get the chance to think of me that way.

But it never was and never will be. So I'll continue to tolerate and play along. I'll pretend to be their prefect slave. I'll spread my legs for them without question and fake like I enjoy it. I'll fool them all into thinking I just can't get enough. I'll keep them coming. Because that's all I can do.

I feel the ice slip under my waistband, making me gasp. My eyes fly open as I shudder against the cold. It's uncomfortable; I want to take it out immediately. My hands reach for the front of my pants to undo them, but they get caught and stopped. I looked at Tony who grins and shakes his head.

He holds my hand in one of his own and reaches for my pants with the other. I almost expect him to do the task himself and take it out---he's the one that put it in there in the first place---but instead he just presses his palm against my pants, trapping the ice where it is.

Whimpering, I squirm and try to pull away, feeling even more uncomfortable, when suddenly he starts to rub against me. This bastard, he was going to melt the ice right where it is! I'll look like I pissed in my pants!

"St-Stop!"

"It is cold, my pretty little star?"

Fuck yes it's cold.

But I don't say that. Instead, I stutter out, "P-Pants... Wet... Unc-comfortable... P-Please... Your h-hand..."

He rubs harder, groping me through the fabric. I squirm again, pushing my hips back, but I can't go very far without risking falling off the chair. Despite being large, there's only so much space to move. He knows this as well, which is why he continues. He still has my hands captive and uses them as a leash to keep me close.

His teeth take in the bud of a nipple and play with it. Then moves to the other one. The movements are just teases, I know, because soon he moves away, releases me, and almost pushes me off him. I stumble to my feet but don't go very far. There's no need; Tony gets up and, with a hand against my chest, pushes me back until I fall against the bed.

"Strip," comes his command and I automatically oblige. I make a show of it, wiggling a little, writhing a little, just to get him hotter than he already is. I can see him watching me even as he picked up his briefcase and sets it on the table. He opens it, the inside faced away from me, but I don't have to see to know what's there.

I will never understand this man's fascination for material objects. Rather than taking me naturally (that is, with flesh and flesh alone), he likes to use toys and play perverted games. I've long since grown tired of them, but I can't ever show it.

"Mm, what are we going to do today? Something exciting, I hope."

"Of course, kitten. You know I always bring you the best and finest. We'll have lots of fun today."

The pain of being a callboy is that some patrons like to go through the same sort of routine when they're with you. Regardless of how many times you have experienced it before, they like to play it again and again. It's their fix. And when you get fucked multiple times a day, sometimes going through the same things daily, your body threatens to become numb to the sensations.

"Spread your legs. We'll make sure this lasts a long while."

It's a challenge to keep busy. You have to force your body to like what's being done. You have to react even if you don't want to. Even if it doesn't excite you, if it will make the patron happy to see you moan like a bitch and beg for more, then you do it. You think of things that excite you, even if what's being done to your body doesn't please you at all.

You do it... because you have to.

I have to. I can't stop this acting. I have to keep going. I have to keep pretending as if any of this means something to me.

"I hope you paid for extra time if you plan on dragging this out."

"Oh, I have. No one will be bothering us for a while."

Great. Just what I want.

"Now... let's see how this fits."

Tony approaches me. I prop myself up on my arms and open my legs as he comes near. He touches me and slips something soft but tight around my manhood. It settles at the base, hugging like a snake round its prey. Looking at it, I notice something hard sitting against my balls. It's silver and, when Tony presses it, it starts to hum and shake.

A vibrating cock ring. I should've known.

Tilting my head back, my lips part and let out a breath a little more heavily than normal. I can feel him touch me, pet me, stroke me, and I know it's to arouse me. But only just so. When his hand disappears, I look up and see him return to the briefcase. When I see him smear something wet over his palm, I know what's next.

My body doesn't want to accept such a thing, but I ignore that one part of me that's still holds some resemblance to my true self. I ignore the inward cringing and grimacing. I ignore the protests.

When Tony comes toward me, I flip over onto all fours and look at him over my shoulder. He presses the tip against my ass, wedging it between each cheek. I lift one hand to pull at one cheek and help him ease the tip inside. Training kicks in; I slow my breathing and relax the muscles to make it easier.

Unlike the bodies of women who can more easily accept things of this size and even bigger, a man's body needs time to adjust. Especially virgins. I am no virgin, far from it, but that doesn't mean tapered toys aren't appreciated. But Tony won't play nice for me. He won't be merciful.

As soon as he sees that I can accept the toy inside me, he shoves forward, pushing it deeper. My body jerks and I nearly bite my tongue in surprise. I hold back a cry as I grip the sheets of the bed and fight against the wave of pain that surrounds me.

I'm only given a moment or two to regain my composure before he starts moving, thrusting the toy inside me. Sometimes shallow, sometimes deep, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly. I whimper and whine but do not shout or moan or cry out because it's too early to do so just yet.

Even as he takes it out of me and switches to another toy, this one with an odd shape to it, and pushes it inside me again, I don't yet lose control. The curves rub against my inner walls. I can feel it pressing in certain places and stretching me out.

This one stays inside me, hooking around to remain in place. I can almost be glad, but I know this is just the beginning.

Tony drags me down to the floor and places me in front of him. I reach for his belt and undo it. His hands weave through my hair, pulling out the tie as I push down his pants and let free his cock. I tease it with my tongue, making it wet. I don't have to work it into full erection, because even without my touching it's already straight as a pole. He wants me. I know he does.

It's sick how much he wants me, how he has to hold himself back from taking me right then and there like an animal. I know he wants to play with me first, that's why we're going through this tedious process of extensive foreplay. He wants to see me gradually let my guard down and become more promiscuous with every passing moment. He want me to lust after him like he lusts after me.

I can tell, just by seeing how he drips, and how his hands tighten slightly in my hair when I take him into my mouth. I tease and suck, licking the crown and dipping into that moist center at the tip. Then down the length I travel, slicking then sucking and rubbing my tongue across the surface.

It's only a matter of time before he grips my hair tightly and starts thrusting into my mouth. My hands upon his hips only hold him back so much. I swear he wants to choke me with his damn cock. Moaning from the back of my throat, I swallow him down and run my hands across his hips, legs and stomach.

I look up at him, batting my eyelashes and moaning still as I let him take control.

When he orgasms, I immediately swallow it down. I would rather taste his cum than choke on it. I lap it up like baby animal would his mother's milk, only this isn't quite so innocent a scene to imagine. This isn't so cute. Nor as good tasting.

Licking my lips and over the tip of that still weeping head, I play like I've never tasted anything so good in my life. It's actually disgusting but with a certain look in my eyes, I convince him that I'm starting to give in and want more of him.

He draws me up and tosses me back on the bed. I wince; the toy inside me hits me in a certain way that makes my body jolt. Tony stands by the edge of the and starts to shed his clothes. I ignore the brief pain to go and help him, my hands lingering in places that would only serve to stimulate him even more and bring back that full erection.

Once he's naked, he sets himself between my legs. I lay back and let him touch and fondle me, squirming and writhing and making noises as he does so. When he takes the toy out of me, instead of sighing in relief, I whimper at the loss. He smirks and leaves my side a moment before coming back with several things in his hands. Clamps are attached to my nipples with small weights that look to have vibrators in them. A collar is put around my neck and hooked to a leash in back. A gag in the shape of a cock is also put in my mouth and strapped around my head.

Like this he pulls me down to the floor once again. He doesn't always like to use the bed; he thinks it moves too much and doesn't provide enough resistance. But the bed has a head board and a foot board, so he sometimes puts them to use, especially when he likes strapping me down.

I'm surprised he didn't do that this time. I'm almost grateful to those times he uses the bed because at least the bed doesn't give me burns.

On all fours, I move to the chair and stand up. I bend over it, gripping the back, as he comes up behind me. "You look so delicious, Kahoku. You drive me fucking wild."

I can't say anything in return. I only glance over my shoulder as he grabs my hip and pushes into me. It's not a slow, easy push. No, he shoves into me like he knows he'll fit. There's no point in holding back my voice now. I cry out and hold fiercely to the chair, arching and wriggling in hopes of finding an angle that'll let me better accept this invasion.

He hardly gives me time to do so, though, when he starts pounding into me. He doesn't waste on sweet words or easing me into loosening up for him. He's never done that before, even with toys, so to expect him to do so now would be stupid.

The tug of the leash pulls me taut against him. And when he gets tired of that position, Tony uses it as a guide to take me to the floor. I brace on my hands and knees as he continues to thrust his hips and burrow deep inside me.

There are no words that escape my lips, not a plea for stop, not a beg for release. Just an incoherent scream and loud moan as I bear each thrust inside my body. The gag lets me say whatever I want without being understood, and so long as I wear a face of pure bliss, with a hint of pain, he doesn't care to find out what I'm saying.

Tony comes without warning, but he shows no sign of stopping. I almost wonder if this man has some kind of pent up frustration from his life outside of this room that's making me so fierce today. If there is, I blame it for making this man come down on me and put me through this. Whatever it is, I hate it.

A hand pushes me down so that my face almost touches the floor. At this inclined angle, Tony continues to shove his cock in my hole, grunting like an animal and furiously swinging those hips. I don't bother to do anything else except take what he's giving and hope I don't tear. I don't have the privilege to move or do anything else anyway.

He takes himself out and pushes me down onto my back. He ties up my hands using the leash and hooks it around the leg of the bed. Lifting my hips, he pushes back into me. The pounding seems endless, and I don't know how long Tony has paid me out for. It can't have been for more than two sessions. I don't think he's that hard up to pay three or more. I'm not sure, but I hope not. I can only take so much, even with acting.

He turns me on my side and straddles one leg. I straighten the other out, letting him hold it and use it as leverage, as he rocks his hips and takes me from this new angle. My mouth is wet with saliva and it's hard to swallow properly. I think I'm drooling over the gag. I can hardly tell, my mind has other things to focus on.

Tony comes again and I know his fluid is spilling outside me. I can feel it against my butt cheeks and along my thighs. It's warm and sticky, both inside and out, and when he moves it makes a squelching noise.

Reaches out and takes the gag out of my mouth. My breath is heavy and uneven, and as I lay my head against the floor, I wish only to rest and be done with this. But Tony isn't done. He has more in him. He fucks me again, in a new position, and another position, and another, grinning down at me as I cry out and whimper and moan and scream like the whore I am. Without the gag, trivial things come from my mouth, sometimes begging him to slow down, sometimes to speed up, sometimes to be gentle, sometimes to be rough. I plead for more and more and more, never telling him to stop because I know he won't.

I have to wait until he's finally done and can't come anymore. Not in my ass, not on my back, not on my chest, not in my mouth. No more. No where.

When that moment finally comes... I'm sprawled on the floor, panting like a dog and covered in sweat and another person's orgasm. At some point he took the ring off my cock and mixed in is my own semen that I let out.

Not a kiss is exchanged, not even false words of love and affection. Just a promise for another time in the future and passing thanks for being such a good partner. I don't bother to move as Tony gets up and takes to the shower. I can't anyway. I use the time he's in there to rest and recover, feeling sore all over. He added a few new marks to my skin, which I'm sure will attract the attention of my next client

When at last he's out, I move up into a sitting position. I wait only long enough to see him go, then move to the bathroom. I probably don't have a lot of time to clean up, but I'm thorough about the process, not wanting to chance leaving any of him left inside me.

My limbs are trembling from the exertion, my body exhausted. Looking at the time, I see that he paid for four hours worth of fucking. I probably only have ten or fifteen minutes to recover myself before I'm ushered off to the next person.

I use that time to sit down on the bed, the only place that's clean and free of any sort of bodily fluids, and drink a glass of vodka. It doesn't get me drunk, but it helps distract me a little from the pain of my own body.

I wait until there's a knock on my door. It's time to move on. Straightening out my clothes, I get up and make my way out, off to serve the next patron and continue on with my day of more, relentless fucking.

As if I can't get enough of it.

Hah. Bullshit. I want nothing better than to get out of here.

But I doubt I ever will.