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Part 6
I don't know how much time has gone by since I last wrote. When they woke me up and hauled me off the mat, they took me to the shower room where they cleaned me up, then to a client room where they chained my ankle to a bed. I serviced eight or ten guys with a guard looking on to make sure they only got what they paid for. A couple of the clients just got a hand job, but got to spurt in my face. Three got blow jobs and came in my mouth. The others got into my pussy and pounded me raw. But the guard made all but one of them wear a condom. When I was put back in my cell, the pad and pen was gone, but there was a bowl of food.
After days of not eating, I wolfed it down. They didn't give me nothing to drink, which is how I found out why that other girl was drinking from the toilet. That's the only water we get around here.
I soon discovered that I wouldn't get no more food unless I pushed the empty pan through the door slot into the hallway. When meals come, they're always the same thing: mostly rice, but mixed with what I suspect is table scraps from somewheres.
There ain't no windows in the cell block or in most of the rooms where the clients fuck us, so I've lost track of how long I've been here. The lights in the hallway are always on, and the meals don't arrive on any kind of regular basis, so that don't help at all in trying to figure out one day from another.
All I know is, it was a long time before this pad and pen arrived on my mat again. Obviously Mr NoName don't want a day-to-day journal. But I guess he was happy enough with the last stuff, so I'll write more.
He said he wants to read about how I feel. Well I'll say this: the dungeon room scares the shit out of me. See, they got this room where clients sometimes take me that's equipped with all kinds of terrible stuff for hurting the girls. The clients who've taken me in there have spent a lot of time doing painful things to me — like sticking long pins into my tits and scraping the points on my bones until I faint. But a lot of the girls who get taken there are horribly mutilated. I've watched guys slice off a girl's nipples, shove wood rasps and barbed wire up their cunts till they're gushing blood, drill holes in their teeth, yank out their tongues with pliers, slice off their eyelids and make them eat them, stick red hot coals up their vaginas, you name it! I've noticed that it's the older women who get maimed the most— the ones in their mid and late twenties who look like they've been around the track a few times, if you know what I mean. Maybe Mrs Q figures they're not worth taking up space any more, because I've also noticed I never see them again. Their names disappear from beside their doors and a new young girl appears in the cell.
I think I know what happens to them, too. The meat scraps that get mixed into our bowls of rice have a very distinctive flavor. I recognize it from the barbecues on the Thomas estate. The next step for those girls is to be slaughtered and cooked.
I think Mr NoName was right. I'm being spared in the dungeon because Mrs Q wants to keep me in fuckable condition for the regular clients so she can continue to make money off me, or because she wants me to be an attractive specimen for roasting whole over a barbecue pit. Or both.
The hardest part, at this point, is not knowing what's next. So far, my writing has not resulted in my punishment or snuffing, so I'm a little bit encouraged that Mr NoName meant it when he said he really wants to hear about my feelings. On the other hand, they could come for me at any time. Whenever I hear footsteps in the corridor my heart skips a beat then speeds up. But now that I've started, I can't shut off the words. The only reason I want to go on living is that I'll get to say a little more about the horror these people have perpetrated, even though I'm pretty sure no one will ever read it. Except Mr NoName, of course. Does he care how much I'm suffering? I doubt it.
I'm remembering my first customer here.
After the shower, they led me to an upstairs room and handed me a cheap dress to put on. Nothing under it. Then they shackled me to the bed by my right ankle.
My first customer was a burly guy who stunk like a goat. He took one leering look at me, grabbed my dress at the neck and ripped it off. He took off his own pants, releasing a medium size boner, and pointed at the bed, yelling things in Spanish. I took a wild guess that he wanted me to lie back and spread my legs, which I did. In a moment he was inside me, pumping wildly and grunting. The guard had made him roll on a condom so I didn't feel the hot semen against my cervix. Instead, he pulled out as he softened and slipped off the used rubber, dumping it's contents on my belly. Other customers after that dumped their condoms on my face or over my breasts. One guy tied it off and took it away with him. To impregnate his fat wife? Who knows? Who cares?
I found out something else, too. The reason this place is so clean, they have women come around and scrub everything down now and then, especially the toilets. Which is why I can drink from it without gagging. (The toilet don't have a tank, by the way. Just a valve that lets in flush water. And it'll only flush every so often. One learns to shit only when absolutely necessary, and only after a long drink of water.) I think the women do this as part of a punishment, but I never give any trouble so I've never been punished. So far.
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