Nothing at All: #StaD Kifo Island Project for May 27

Welcome, friends!

Come in, and let me tell you a Story A Day, all May long…

In June and July, I’ll be drafting two new Kifo Island novels. I know something about 5 of the 6 point of view characters, and I’ve got a sketchy idea of the plots – but I need to learn more about these people and their stories.

So, in May, I explore. Every day, I’ll follow the prompts in A Month of Writing Prompts 2016. I’ll play while moving through my planning efforts. Some of these stories may become part of the eventual novels, but my goal is to invite these characters to show me who they are and what they want – and how their lives fit together to make a novel.

Yup, I got behind again. Not with the writing, but with the posting. Life happened, in the form of plans with my daughter, an exceedingly hot weekend, a devastating migraine, and just all the other things I’ve been up to.

It’s now the final day of the challenge, though, and I’m determined to get all the back posts up by midnight – so off we go to May 27, and the daily prompt, Write to Your Natural Length. I explored a slice of Theresa’s life as a sex slave.

Week Four’s theme is Strengths – an opportunity to focus more intensely on what’s been working so far.

Warning: This story is rated for mature audiences ONLY. Absolutely NSFW, even without violence.

Nothing At All

Theresa lay beneath another rutting man, his face spasming with his release.

What did it mean, that she felt nothing at all in his touch, in his final trembling thrusts? Or that she had been here so long, taken so many anonymous men into her body, that she was able to do all the things that would make him think that what she felt at his ejaculation was more than she’d felt with any other man?

The man flopped down on top of her, spent, and Theresa gave a few more shudders and soft moans, and murmured in false sleepiness, “Mnm, lover, I wish you’d stay, and just hold me until you’re ready to go again.” She trailed her nails down his sweaty back, and now it was his turn to shiver.

“Nah, I gotta get back to my – ” A quick gulp as he slid out of her, limp and satisfied. “To my place.”

Why did they always act like they thought she didn’t know that they had wives, maybe children? Did they think she was here in this place because she’d chosen it? Didn’t they ever suspect that it was a man just like them who had fathered her?

No, of course they didn’t, and that wasn’t really how it was, anyway. The man who’d gotten her mother pregnant with her was no different.

To them, the women they used were just objects. They never got knocked up, and they never had a thought or a feeling that didn’t revolve around the time they spent in bed together, if she was lucky enough that the man would want to take her in the bed. Aneesha deserved credit for providing a sumptuous experience, but that was no guarantee that the johns wouldn’t want to push her up against the wall, have her blow them in the shower, or think she could be even a little turned on by having her ass perched on the edge of the sink, the faucets digging into her back at each thrust –

But what did that matter, if the man got off? That was her job, after all, to get the man off. Let him shoot his load into or onto whatever part of her he most desired, whatever way he desired.

This man, no different than any other john, no matter that his packaging was more attractive than most, rolled off her. “Where’s the shower?” Not even a sweetheart, dear, or baby from this one, as his hot fluids leaked out from between her thighs.

“Yours is over there. Take everything you brought; this door locks on this side as soon as you go in. You’ll leave from the other door.”

He gave her a curt nod and left with the small pack he’d folded his own clothes into. At least he was neat and orderly. Many of the men she serviced had her down on her hands and knees, fishing around under the bed for a lost sock, watch, or – maybe most insulting of all -wedding ring. This one, though, was gone in seconds, the door clicking closed behind him.

Theresa sighed and got up, grunting as the man’s sticky semen gushed out of her. She hated that moment, when the deposits some stranger left inside her like she was some kind of appealing trash receptacle refused to just stay where they were, but followed gravity to wet her thighs, too.

The man probably thought he was giving her a gift.

Would he be insulted if he knew that she was about to wash him away into her bidet, and that, by the time he left his shower, she would be washing any lingering traces of him off in her own shower, while Aneesha’s maids changed the sheets and freshened the room for the next customer?

Why did she care what he’d think? He’d never give another thought to her.

As she passed the little mantel clock on her way to her bathroom, she noticed it was only 9pm. That meant she’d have half a dozen more “visitors,” at least.

Theresa sighed, wondering what would happen if she ever just chose to remain in her bed, after, and refused to get up and on with the transition.

She was certain that the answer, whatever it was, wasn’t “nothing at all.”

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