Her old life had returned.
There were days when she was convinced the last few years were some cruel dream, some mad trick of her brain. She thought perhaps that her time with the King - her time spent in luxury and wealth and far away from things like hunger and poverty; time spent being seen as more than just some whore and more like the right hand woman of a powerful organization; time spent in his loving embrace - was all an illusion.
She felt, sometimes, like she were waking up from a sweet dream. Reality awaited, and it was cruel and harsh, just as it was before the King arrived to whisk her off to his dream world.
She felt that perhaps she should be thankful, at least, to still be alive. She’d spent a few horrid hours hiding in her bedroom’s walk-in closet following the Captain’s coup, knife clutched to her chest, ready to stab the first man to come through the door. When the first of the traitor’s men burst into the closet she thought she truly felt as though she had seconds left on this earth.
Some days she wished that she was dead, wished that that minion had put two in her chest and one in her head and called it done. But he didn’t - he called the Captain over, and upon seeing her cowering in the corner of the closet a grin appeared on his face like he’d found some new treat to enjoy, a new toy to play with.
He didn’t kill her - much to her surprise. No, in some ways what he had planned for her was worse than that.
He kept her - as a trophy. He told her that she could continue to live, so long as she served him. Not in the way she served the King, as his right hand man, confidant and executive officer - no, that would be giving too much responsibility to a mere whore. No, she was to be a trophy in every way she could possibly be - hanging on his arm when he went out on the town to spend his ill-gotten wealth, or merely sitting on the armrest of his chair in a low-cut, embarrassingly short dress while he conducted business deals with the leaders of rival gangs.
She was a piece of eye candy, a symbol of how all that was once the King’s, from his cartel to his woman, was now his. She was an overt sign of his power and what he was capable of - once one of the most powerful women in the country, she was now a broken, obedient little pet that did her master’s bidding.
He showered her with gifts, luxurious ones with brands and tags and labels. She saw it for what it was - a display of his power and wealth, a reminder to others as much as to himself that all that once belonged to the King was now his to spend frivolously.
He used her body, too, but she was used to that.
It was merely another sign of how her life had regressed back into the ugly, dark mess it once was before she’d met the King. Back then her body was a commodity, something to be exchanged for currency, something that could buy her a couple of days worth of food. So it was again. Her body, for the privilege to live.
There were times when she heard the traitor’s subordinates speak of her in hushed tones as she passed by them - barely disguised whistles and catcalls, asking her when it would be their turn to play with her, when the traitor would share his new toy with his playmates. It hadn’t happened yet - it was perhaps a matter of time. Tossing her to his underlings like she was a piece of meat thrown in front of drooling dogs was not beyond the reach of his cruelty.
And so the days passed in this miserable, desperate life of hers. But then she supposed it was nothing new. No, this was the universe correcting itself. The years of happiness and love she’d spent with the King were an anomaly, a divergence from the plan destiny had set for her.
This is how her life was always meant to be.
She is standing by the bedroom window, gazing idly out the window at the setting sun when the doors burst open and he stumbles into the room. Even without looking away from the view she knows he is drunk, or high, or both. She knew it by the way he opened the doors. Some days, when he fancied himself half the gentleman the King was, he’d open the door slowly, gently, sometimes even knocking in advance, as though doing so would give him permission to treat her the way he did.
Those days were at least bearable - she could let her mind wander as he had his way with her, let her mind fly to heights he couldn’t reach.
But those days were far outnumbered by the times he merely stumbled into her bedroom, a curse on his lips and a half-drunken bottle in his hand. He was an angry, violent drunk, and it carried on in the way he treated her. He would hurt her, choke her, hit her - caring little for her or her body or what he did to it, so long as he got his way in the end.
And he always got his way with her. Because she let him.
Because she was a survivor. She was a survivor on the streets and she was a survivor now. And she was willing to do whatever it took to survive.
And so as he enters the room, slamming the door behind him, she prepares herself - girds herself with a long inhale as he stumbles onto the bed and sits at its foot.
A dirty, wet slur of words leaves his mouth between swigs of beer. He tells her to come and do her job - to put his cock in her mouth, then her pussy, then her ass - to give him the holes he owned, like the good little whore she was.
She takes a deep breath. One last one, before she submits herself and her body to what was to come.
She steps over to him, fingers working the flimsy belt that kept the folds of her blue nightgown closed. He didn’t notice, then, that it was the same one she wore on that fateful night of his betrayal. The alcohol clouds his brain, makes it foggy, unable to see more than the tight, slim body beneath the transparent silk folds, suddenly made naked and bare for his desires.
She finds his eyes with her own. He is a mess. Drunk and high on alcohol and drugs and power. In his mind he wants to take her, dominate her, because doing so will remind him of why he did what he did. It will remind him of the power and riches that his betrayal has brought him. Dominating his woman is his way of dominating the King, of spitting one more time on his grave, even if said grave was unmarked and a mere shallow pile of dirt somewhere in the woods.
She knows all this. She lets it happen.
She had to survive.
She kneels in front of him, her hands moving to divest him of his pants and the underwear beneath him. The stench of the man is almost unbearable - alcohol and sweat and grime fill her nostrils and make her recoil, but she keeps it to herself as best she can. Not that he would even notice, so clouded are his senses by his vices.
He is already half-stiff. Unfortunately for her alcohol and drugs did little to dull his ability to achieve or maintain an erection. It takes only a few strokes of her soft hand on his to bring him to full hardness.
When she lets his tip slide between her lips he fills the room with a groan. It’s more of a grunt of satisfaction, like a player who’d just won a game. An unfiltered expression of victory, as much as it was an expression of pleasure.
He looks down and sees his former boss’ mistress on her knees with his cock in her mouth and he thinks himself a winner.
She takes him in and out, in and out, in and out between her lips. She uses every trick in her book - and she knew many from her life on the streets - in order to pleasure him as much as possible.
He thinks she does it because she likes it, gets off on it as much as he. Because to him, she is just a whore, nothing more, a slave to her needs, as addicted to sex as he was to the alcohol and drugs polluting his system. He grunts and sighs and smiles to himself as she works, unable to comprehend the possibility that she might have other reasons for pleasuring as enthusiastically as she was.
He grabs her hair into a makeshift ponytail before thrusting her head down onto his cock and thrusting up with his hips. He doesn’t care that she taps his thighs, that her nails dig into his legs as he uses her mouth roughly and callously. All he cares about is the throat around his tip and the tongue on his shaft.
After another few minutes of this she decides to pull her head from his cock. She coughs to clear her throat - letting him laugh and chuckle and spit something about her choking on his dick. She wipes the spit from her mouth. She makes a show of it, makes she he sees her struggling to breathe.
He doesn’t know that she could have made him cum in her mouth had she wanted. But no, she had to get closer to him. She had to be on top of him, had to have him inside her. A blowjob wouldn’t have been enough.
And so she rises from her knees, giving him a stiff push on the shoulders that sends him onto his back on the bed. He is surprised by her newfound aggressiveness. He welcomes it. He is turned on by the idea of her fighting back because it will make breaking her that much sweeter. And so he lets her do it, lets her climb on top of his body as he scoots onto the bed, lying down on top of it spread-eagle, ready to see what she had in store for him.
He takes another swig of his beer. Apparently he still possessed the physical control to ensure not a drop of it was wasted, even as he lies on his back, greasy smile on his lips, eyes dripping with lust as his plaything, the piece of meat he is about to devour, joins him on the bed.
She sits atop his lap, raising her hips and crotch to level with his cock, glistening and wet with her spit. Eyes locked on his, she watches as his gaze travels her body, down her small, round breasts and the stiff nipples atop them, down her toned, flat stomach, and finally to her naked crotch and the wet, glistening lips of her pussy.
She was wet. Of course she was. He thought it was because she got off on being used. Only she knew how false her arousal was.
She takes him inside her, lets him spread her lips to fit him, making his tip slick with her juices. He was large and thick and it always gave her a little sting of discomfort when he first entered her. At least now, with her on top, she was in control of the first penetration - she wasn’t always.
She slides down his length, and he sighs and grunts in that dirty, messy, uncivilized way he always did, like he was some caveman fucking a cavewoman in the times before history was a thought. And she lets him have his fun, lets him be that caveman, because she knows him to be little more than one - a slave to his needs and desires and little else. After a short pause with him filling her to the brim, she begins to ride him.
With his free hand - his other still clinging stubbornly to the bottle of liquor - he clutches her small waist, pulls her hips down to his thrusting cock. There’s no subtlety, no emotion or passion, no slow building up to a rhythm. He doesn’t allow her to set the pace, cares little for her comfort or whether he is hurting her by thrusting too deeply or too quickly too soon. It was all about him. It always was.
She lets him. She gives him the false pleasure of thinking she was loving every moment of it. She is playing a character, a role - that of obedient pet. That of a whore that knows her place.
She squeezes his length inside her, her walls clutching and pulsing around him. She can read the pleasure in his rough, rugged features; strong and fierce even through the haze of alcohol and narcotics. He forgets about everything else in his life aside from the tight, wet, hot cunt he is pounding himself into.
He had to have more of her. He wants her on her back with legs spread, or face down, a position where he can really pound her, hurt her, exert his power over her-
After a few minutes he raises his upper body off the bed. She stops him. It takes every muscle in her body - she’s a small woman and he’s not a small man - but he quickly ceases resistance. He likes this new, feisty side of her. Later that night, when he’s made her a mewling, crying little broken thing, he thinks her resistance will make it that much sweeter.
And so he lets her ride him. She clenches and tightens around his cock, her juices flowing plentifully, and he deludes himself into thinking she is just as lost in pleasure as he is.
But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know this is all an act, one she has perfected over years. It’s one that has allowed her to survive for this long, and with men even more vile than he. And it’s one that will allow her to survive this encounter just as it had many others.
He returns his hand to her hip. His fingers dig deep into her soft skin, hard enough to leave marks - but she ignores it, her brain blocking out the pain. She focuses on her job, her intent. She focuses on making his orgasm as strong as she can make it.
And it works. He grunts like some feral animal during mating season, robbed of his higher faculties, unable to do more than thrust and fuck and slam himself into her tight, wet little cunt.