Page 49 of Degradation

She’s hanging there, her knees just touching the dirty floor, her arms above her head and her breasts are poking through the great tear in her dress. She’s bloodied. Bruised. Between her thighs I can see the smear of her period – the so-called reason for this punishment.

She looks beautiful.

She looks magnificent. Her chest is rising and falling and with the chill in the air, her nipples look so delightfully hard.

I bite my lip, resisting the urge to bite them, to fall on my knees and make it hurt more for her.

God, she’s a whore, isn’t she? She’s a fucking bitch to make me feel these things.

I shake my head, clenching my fists, reminding myself that all women are the same. They all have mouths and cunts and when you’re the one fucking them it doesn’t matter what they look like, how they feel.

But that’s not true. Not really. I know this bitch’s cunt would feel good. I know this bitch here would feel incredible as I made her weep and beg and cry so prettily for me to hurt her more.

“Blake.”

Someone calls my name, bringing my out of my traitorous thoughts.

As they do it, the girl wakes up, she lifts her head, and she looks at me. Her left eye is so swollen she can’t see out of it. Her lip is bleeding again and there’s such a bruise across her cheek from where a boot made contact.

She was so beautiful. So, so beautiful.

And then her husband ruined it.

I turn, walking out, leaving her whimpering as those metal chains rattle.

“She stays here.” The priest orders. “While she is dirty, while she bleeds, she will remain here.”

I don’t look back. I don’t react to it. My job is done. My shift is over.

I’m out of here. I’m fucking done.

I need to get that bitch out of my head. I need to get her pleas and her eyes, and the sound of her crying, I need it gone. I need her gone.

Maybe I’m a monster. Maybe I’m as fucked in the head as my brothers think but perhaps it would be a good thing if she just died. If she shut her eyes and never opened them again.

It would certainly make my life easier.

Would make everything better.

Devin

Ishouldn’t have come here. I should have just stayed in my dorm, but it felt like the walls were caving in and I needed to do something. Had to do something. Had to shut up the voices. Had to shut up the screams. Had to silence that need in me.

And in truth, this is the only way I know how. The only way that has ever worked.

I stand in the back, my eyes scanning the room as the crowd seems to get rowdier and rowdier. We’re all on benches, staring down into a pit below that’s illuminated so we can see every single bit of it.

A young woman is forced into the ring, her eyes wide with terror. She fights, just as they always do, but her struggle is short-lived.

She’s strung up, suspended on a giant wheel and potential buyers are allowed to come down and inspect her.

I watch as she whimpers and jerks while they sniff her hair, and they stare at various parts of her. They’re not allowed to touch her cunt. That’s the only part of her that’s off limits. Afterall, no one wants damaged goods, and what would be the point in auctioning off virgins if you spoiled their value right at the last moment?

The bids come in swiftly, she’s pretty enough for two men to get into a little fight over it, and when the gavel comes down, she’s taken down, dragged away, and prepared for what’s to come next.

Another follows after her, and then another. The result is the same. Pitiful screams, pitiful attempts to fight the inevitable. I’ve witnessed these auctions so many times I can play them out, scene by scene.

My attention drifts until the fourth girl is pushed into the circle.