"Who do you want me to be?"

I stand completely still while Cyrus lets them in downstairs. No longer thinking about the ring under the mattress. There’s two of them. My head cocks to one side, struggling to listen, I can hear them chatting in the hallway. They are speaking in Arabic. It’s not the usual clipped conversation, they are not awkwardly navigating around a pimp. It’s jovial. Familiar conversation, they know each other well.

My heart pounds in my chest, the door opening and the two men stepping inside. They have the same complexion as Cyrus, and are around the same age too. One is well dressed, with a short, well-manicured beard and a silver stud in his ear, the other is tall, broad and hairy all over with thick tufts of it poking over the neck of his top. The bigger man steps passed me, wasting no time to clear space on the small table at the end of the room.

I watch them both, turning my head from man to man, noting the way their eyes point at different parts of my body, widening their gaze with leering smiles. It’s only depraved hunger I see in their eyes. A hunger that any girl could recognise from a mile away. It’s a look that says ‘Get away’. But the door closes like normal, and I’m trapped with them in this bedroom. My small, near naked frame looking so meek and vulnerable in contrast to their fit, fully dressed bodies. My instincts as a whore kick in fast. This is no time to be passive, no time to look like I’m not excited to be here or not eager to be with them both.

I step forward, a safe smile fixed on my face. Looking up at the man with the studded earring and stroking his cheek with the palm of my hand, pushing my chest into his.

“Hey baby, what’s your name?” my voice shakes, but I manage to keep it low and breathy. Just like I’d do if I was managing men on the phones.

His hand snaps up to my wrist, gripping it tightly. He pulls me away from touching his face, forcing my arm to bend backwards, I stagger over at the pain, any seduction in my expression quickly souring with obvious fear. The way he makes me twist has me now facing his friend. The bigger man opens a packet of white powder, spilling it over the table, cutting out three long lines with a razor he has produced from somewhere.

“Hey baby, what’s your name?” the man holding me echoes in a sadistic, mocking tone. He doesn’t let go of my wrist, nor does he stop bending my arm back. I’m pinned into him, I try to move but I don’t try to force myself out of his grip just yet, desperate to still salvage this encounter.

“Y-you like it rough huh… me too, I love to play, let me show you.” I struggle performatively in his grip, trying my hardest to keep things light, to seduce with play and fun and not provoke them. But it’s no good. They aren’t interested. They don’t want to seduce or be seduced. Pressed back against the man’s chest, I can feel and smell the energy. He’s already amped up, their eyes are both bloodshot, and they reek of alcohol.

He lets go of my wrist, so his hand can come down to my crotch, while the other folds around my neck to throttle me as my chin rests over his tensed forearm. His fingers curl in the fabric of my underwear, pulling them up high and yanking them hard. He creates a wedgie, cutting into me, my puffed out pussy lips a show for the other guy to gawk at. The man preparing the lines laughs as he lifts his head up from the table, shaking and unlocking his shoulders as he feels the effect of the coke rushing through his system.

He says something excitedly in Arabic, and I’m walked over like a puppet towards the table. Strong arms at my back pushing me down. I throw my hands out to brace myself, resisting being pushed face first into the mound of powder.

“No, I don’t want any of that!” I cry back, fighting against their impossible strength. The first man pulls me back up and spins me around, his hard hand cracking across my face. Again. And then again. I can barely open one eye as he lifts his hand to strike me another time, stopping short while his free hand squeezes the skin at my shoulder.

“You’ll have it.” he barks out his command through a thick accent. My ears still ringing from how hard he slapped me. He starts shoving my shoulders, both a warning for me not to dare defy them again and snapping me back to look at the cocaine.

“Please I don’t want it, just fuck me! Can’t you just fuck me without me having to do it?” I know it’s stupid to protest, I flinch in preparation to be hit again, but he laughs instead, his strong breath feels like acid against my ear, a cloud of vodka and stale cigarette smell making my nose curl. It’s obvious my begging has made his cock harder.

“It’s not for you, it’s for us.” he explains “Don’t want you cheating!” he smirks, and I understand his meaning immediately. He doesn’t want me to pass out from the things they are going to do to me. That’s why I’m having cocaine. I’m thrown around between them, with the bearded man’s hands catching me last, grabbing my head, squashing my face inside his grip, holding me like a football as she shoves me down and drags my nose along the table. I snort up as much as I can. He looks down quickly to confirm that I’ve had enough of it. Satisfied, he chucks my football head towards the bed, my body tumbling along underneath it until I land at the other’s feet.

The drug drip taste clings at the back of my throat. I want to vomit. My head fills quickly with the buzzing alertness and the sharp high of the coke. I’m already pulled up again, the first man snorting his own line while his bigger friend kneels me between his legs. His hands are at my neck first, yanking me up to look him in the eye, my face already swelling from how harshly I’ve been slapped around.

“What about me, don’t you want to know my name too?” his fingers curl at my throat, blocking my intake of breath just as the first hit of the coke gets to work in my bloodstream. I try to cough but it hurts, my oesophagus straining against his grip. I try to answer him but he doesn’t let me. With one hand still around my neck, the other comes down to shove my bra underneath my tits.

He tugs my nipple so I hard I think he might rip it off. I make a ragged noise through his choke hold, and he does the same to my other breast. Mixing up his pleasure from pulling and twisting my nipples with his pinched fingers to slapping and grabbing the soft, tender flesh until they are both glowing with pink. His cock standing tall between his legs as he takes his fill of abusing me.

“Okay, bitch.” a hand comes to the top of my head, pulling me up by my fringe. The man lets go of my throat and he joins his friend, now using my hair as a leash to drag my crouching legs to the middle of the carpet. They both pull their dicks out, rubbing them against my face, masturbating in my hair, wanting to humiliate me as much as possible. They try to poke me in the eye with their cock heads, or stick them up my nostrils or in my ears.

“You choose. Which one you want first? You want me inside that whore cunt?” the man with the earring gives me a toothy grin, the toe of his shoe pushing between my legs. I’m so overwhelmed by what’s happening that I obviously fail to answer adequately. I’m forced up to my feet and they both snatch hold of either side of my panties, pulling them apart until they are ripped into ribbons.

The bigger man takes his clothes off, his hairy back facing me as he clambers on the bed, when he turns over, he spreads his legs and leans forward to get me over as his friend shoves me towards him. I bend over the bed, head down as I’m forced to take his meaty cock inside my mouth. I try my best to suck it, wrapping my hand around his base and jerking him into my mouth, but I don’t have time to pleasure him properly before my legs are kicked open behind me.

The man behind me doesn’t attempt to make it any easier. Angrily pushing the head of his cock into me, complaining but enjoying my tightness as he has to force his way inside. I’m so sore. The way he pushes in is so rough that his own cock bends as he meets my resistance. Working each inch, dragging against the tight walls of my vagina. I have to pull the cock out of my mouth to wince and cry out in pain, but this desperate act of disobedience only earns me more slaps and yanks of my hair. They don’t stop slapping me, my face, my mauled tits, my ass. Everywhere.

“Shut the fuck up! Stop fucking complaining. Put it back in your mouth.”

Their words roll around my ears, mixing with the slapping sounds that I can’t tell which of them is shouting what. I try my best to keep his cock in my mouth and just scream around it, it’s not even sucking. It’s not a blowjob, it’s just moaning onto a cock that he tries to force deeper in my throat until I am gagging on my own tears.

When I’m eventually broken in at both ends, their fun can really begin. With the man behind me finally able to rip his cock out and shove it back in with a single push, and the one underneath my head now humping his hips into my skull. They make no attempt to find a rhythm together. With both men taking relentless joy in competing for who can force their cock into me the hardest. Sometimes their cocks push into me at once, other times I try to bounce back or push forward to relieve myself from the hole that’s hurting the most.

At some point I’m pushed up so that both my hands and knees are on the bed, with the man behind and his friend in front on his own knees to ram his cock down my throat at a better angle. They keep using me like that, and then both stop abruptly. A hard spank on my ass punctuating his exit from my bruised cunt.

They leave the bed to go back to the table, their hard dicks swinging as they each take turns on the coke. No longer cutting organised lines but merely scraping and chopping together, snorting up sloppy hits so they can get back to abusing me as quickly as possible.

“Don’t move a fucking inch you bitch.” they warn me, my now gaping pussy stinging with cold as its exposed to the air, my throat coughing up phlegm onto the mattress below. They decide to swap over when they come back. I wince as my pussy is invaded by the hairier man’s thick cock, it’s size and shape both the same and different in the way it moves inside of me.

“Open up.” the man with the earring has uncut coke on his fingers, rubbing them all around my gums, and over my tongue too. It’s so much powder at once, I cough it up and spit it out, inviting yet more angry punishment. He even rubs his fingers on the mess I spit up just to feed it to me again. The chemical taste is so foul that I feel my stomach lurch, needing to vomit badly. I hold it back, if only because I’m certain that if I do vomit, they’ll make me eat that up too.

His fingers arch around my forehead and cheeks, making my eyes stretch open and gurning my face into an ugly contortion. He lines my face up with his cock, which is difficult given how much my body is being forced forwards with the sudden intensity of his friend fucking me from behind. I can’t take any more, every part of me is screaming in pain. My throat feels like sandpaper, my pussy jolting with electric shocks of pain, it’s like he is trying deliberately to punch my cervix with his cock.

They were right though. If it wasn’t for the coke, I’d have passed out.

For the rest of the ordeal, they don’t let up for a single moment. Any time one of them seems to tire or slow down, they simply go back to the table for another line. Their dicks are like rocks, never exhausting, even with how much booze and drugs that must be in their system, they somehow never stop staying so hard. They make sure every part of my body is abused. If I am fucking only one of them, they take me from behind and press their foot down onto my head, pushing my face into the mattress. If I am with both of them, they try to squash me between their cocks, regularly swapping so they don’t get bored torturing the same hole for too long. My tits are mashed until their fingerprints are permanent bruises dented into my skin, my ass is spanked until it is a darker shade of red to the pink flush that’s risen over every inch of my body.

It’s not just my mouth and my pussy that they use either. They take pleasure in working every part of themselves to find ways to hurt every part of me. My abuse isn’t incidental to their pleasure, it sits at the very heart of it. Their cocks, their fingers, even their feet. All of them are toys to invade my privates with.

At one point I am hunched over on the floor, arse high in the air while they sit on the bed, they take turns trying to scrunch their toes into rounded fists and push their foot as deep into my anus as they can. They laugh the entire time. Their conversation freely switching from Arabic to English, excitedly brain storming with each other different ideas for what they will do to me next. I sob, fingertips gripping the soiled carpet as they put their feet together to test if my gape is yet wide enough to fit both at once.

I don’t know when my body finally gave up, but I am grateful that it did.

Even with the amount of drugs they had me take, they couldn’t keep me conscious forever doing everything that they wanted to do. I don’t know how long they had with me, or everything that they did. Licking their feet and snorting more coke off their toes is my last coherent memory. I do know that they continued to use my body even when I was blacked out, I can catch glimpses of being pulled from floor to bed, I remember my stomach pressing flat against the table, feeling the empty bag of cocaine sticking to my skin. I remember looking at their knees and feeling the strain on my scalp as they held me up by my hair, jerking off onto my face and breasts.

I was so ruined that I did not think I would survive. I did not believe anyone could survive it.

*

There is light bleeding through the frayed edges of the blacked out windows when I am next aware of myself. I can still feel their cocks inside of me, even though they are long gone. My pussy and ass both sticky with the dry aftermath of their cum and my own bleeding. Every muscle in my body hurts, and my head feels like it is being cracked open with a hammer. I don’t even have the strength to flinch as I’m jolted awake by soft hands, the girls turning me over from being hunched on my side.

“Hey, no, just take slow sips.” I think it’s Athena’s voice, but both of them are in the room with me. One of them helps to pour something very sweet into my mouth, I think it’s fruit juice. I choke on it at first, realising that my throat is too sore to handle anything beyond small gulps. There’s a chalky taste in it too, like maybe they’ve crushed up pills and mixed them with the juice. I drift in and out, feeling Stella’s small hands rub a cold cream in the sore dots that run along my thighs.

The light is gone from the window when I wake up next. I hold my stomach and wonder when I last had something to eat. But there is an empty plate next to my bed and another glass of juice half drunk. I realise as my eyes wander around in swollen sockets that I’m not in the same room any more either. I’m in the bed where we all usually sleep together. I manage to sit up enough to look down and see I’m in underwear again, but I have no memory of putting it on, or of anyone else putting it on me either.

I manage to take some more of the drink next to my bed, again needing to go slow with little sips. I look at the open doorway and try to listen into the hall. In the main room, I can hear the tap-tap-tapping of Viktor’s laptop, and further down, I can hear the muffled groans of one of the girls working in another bedroom.

I shrink back against the pillow as I hear one of the mobile phones go off. Viktor’s voice answers, and then there’s more talking from the kitchen. The door to the main room creaks open, letting in light that illuminates my bed. It’s Athena, she stands at the entrance, looking at me nervously. I shake my head slowly.

“No, she’s still asleep.” she calls back to Viktor, who tells her to wake me up and come inside. I wince as I move my legs, Athena comes over to help me up and takes me to the sofa. Viktor barely looks at me, he wanders off to let the client inside. Once they and Athena are off in a bedroom together, he comes back to the kitchen, giving me a short visual inspection as he fills his glass to the brim with vodka. He lifts the bottle, gesturing if I’d like one too. I decline.

In the bright light of the main room I’m able to look down and see the evidence on my body. My thighs are littered with bruises, some small and dark, others like an orange, with ugly yellow colours at their blurred edges. I close my eyes and breathe, at least I think I’ve stopped bleeding.

“The girls have had to work more hard for two days.” Viktor takes a sip of his drink, apparently the extent of his concern is how little work I’ve been doing following my last customers. As much as I hate him, and every man who comes here, the truth is I feel sorry that Athena and Stella have had to take more men than usual while I recover.

“You will be better tomorrow.” he says, not looking away from his laptop, and I can’t tell if it’s a question or a decision. I realise the reason I am in here is because he was considering whether he could put me back to work tonight. But even Viktor can see I’m not fit to make money right now. I’m barely able to hold my head up, let alone spread my legs for a client. I wonder about the damage that’s been done to me internally, scared that if I have torn badly that working again will mean both incredible pain and also risk an infection that could kill me.

I hug my knees into my chest, while it’s painful to sit like this, it’s warmer than any other position. I rest my head to the side, lazily turning to the hallway, knowing that in the rooms Athena and Stella are working. I think about dying, and if it would be preferable to staying alive.

“Do dead whores make good money?”

Normally a comment like that would earn me a blow to the head. Comments that gave me the name Big Mouth in the first place. Viktor dismisses my question and reassures me it’s not that bad, calling me dramatic and that I am just making up excuses to get out of working. I wonder if he looked me over when I was unconscious, if he is even remotely qualified to make an assessment of my condition at all.

The sick part is I am reassured by his confidence. Viktor’s greed is his only reliable personality trait. If he for one moment worried I was too torn up that I might need the emergency room, or that I risked jeopardising his brothel or stopped being able to make him money, then he’d have me checked out properly. I’ve seen the doctor come through here before.

“If I don’t have to work, can I go back to bed now?”

He doesn’t answer me at first, his face glowing above the blue light of his screen. He pours himself another vodka, this time not asking before filling a second glass and rising from his seat to leave it on the table next to me.

“No. Cyrus will be back with food soon. You need to eat for you to have more pills. Then you feel better.”

My hands ball into fists at the mention of his name. My red eyes look up to Viktor towering over me. I do not for one moment think Viktor is any better than Cyrus, but from what pitiful choices I have available to me, I know that Viktor is more interested in keeping me well enough to earn. Cyrus enjoys the money, but his main interest is the sadism. His priority is our torment. The way he likes to play with Stella’s mind, the way he likes to play with me. He is the one to be more wary of.

“They put their cigarettes out on me.”

I keep looking at Viktor, hoping to find some tiny crumb of sympathy or mercy that can protect me from Cyrus. He shrugs.

“Sometimes it’s like that."