Out of the gutters.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

The men walking up and down fleshmarket road look at me with a mixture of outright hatred and open lust. I can feel their eyes on me, stripping away my dirty spidersilk rags with their minds, their imaginations filling in the few blanks left to them. They want me - I can see it in their dark, furious eyes - but they all know the stories of what my kind do to the men that slip into our embrace, and that fear keeps them away. So they just stare and sneer as I display myself for them, running my hands over my supple curves, their every glance like a knife in my heart.

I was supposed to change things.

None of the other women who work the road have this problem. The half-elves never want for company; they can charge what they like and there'll always be someone willing to pay. Most of them own their own homes; they come and go for a few weeks at a time when money is tight, safe in the knowledge that they don't have to shame themselves for long. The humans, by far the majority, compete fiercely with each other for the attentions of the men who come to browse the wares, but always good-naturedly; they gather around small fires for warmth, laughing and cackling like harpies. I tried to join them, once. They drove me away with rocks and curses. Even the half-orcs still find enough trade; they work those too poor to buy service from anyone else, but for many of the bastards who come here, one wet hole is much the same as any other.

I should have been on stage, playing my Qua'shael flute, surrounded by an enraptured audience. And for a while, I was; the haunting, lilting strains of music won me many friends and admirers when I came to the city, until I chose to discard the glamoured mask that had disguised me as one of the surface elves. It should have been a moment of glory; proof that my kind, hated and shunned by those who walk under the sun, are as capable of kindness and beauty as they are.

I should have known better.

They beat me, robbed me, smashed the magical heirloom that my parents had cherished ever since we fled Menzobaranzen and colonized the tunnels nearer the surface. They chased me through the streets, cast me out of my rented room, and would have seen me lynched if I hadn't managed to slip away with Lolth's mocking laughter ringing in my ears.

They...tolerate me, now, on the fringes of society. Probably because they think it's funny, imagining me as some once-high and mighty Priestess cast down into the gutters to ply my the trade I've been reduced to. The mocking jibes and insults they throw suggest as much.

Slut.

Spider-kisser.

Dirty, filthy little Drow whore.

I want to lash out, I want to scream, I want to tell them - I'm done, they've won, and I just want to go home. I don't want to spend my nights huddled in freezing, stinking alleyways, posing and exposing myself to the men who come along, examining us like pieces of meat set out for display, hoping and dreading for the moment where one of them will push some money into my hand, lead me into the shadows, and use me for his satisfaction.

There's a gang of them there, now. I can see them on the other side of the street in a clandestine huddle, shooting me the occasional glance before going back to their whispered conversation. Deciding what exactly they're going to do with me, probably. I wait until one looks up at me and catch his eye, giving him a smile that I hope isn't too false and fluttering my eyelashes at him. He ducks back into his group, eyes wide with surprise, and there's another flutter of bobbing heads as they talk amongst themselves.

My heart skips a beat and the bottom drops out of my stomach as they come to a decision and start to approach me. Visions - some memories, some the product of my ghoulish imagination - flicker through my mind, tormenting me with the idea of what's going to happen. They're going to take turns, fucking me one by one, cheering each other on and calling out baser and baser instructions. They're going to have me at once, forcing themselves into the body they've purchased and pumping every hole full of their seed. They'll push me on the ground and -

I swallow, hard, forcing the thoughts away as the men cross the road and sidle up to me. There's six of them, all youths - possessed of that strange, gangly awkwardness humans go through before entering full adulthood, with a variety of bad facial hair and patches of acne spread across them apparently at random. Beyond that, I don't care enough look too closely at them. I just want to them to do their business with me, give me my money, and go.

"Good evening, gentlemen." I say, the forced smile still on my face. "See anything you like?"

The words come out on automatic. There's another flurry of muttered conversations, and one of the youths is pushed forwards.

"I - uh, that is to say, we - uh, we're going to purchase you. For a friend." He pauses, worrying at a thin, whispy attempt at a beard before continuing. "It's his birthday."

A little spark of hope flares. Just one of them. I'm only going to have to handle one of them. Less money, but it means I might be able to claw my way out of the encounter with a few shreds of dignity.

"But we have to watch!" Another voice, whining and reedy, pipes up from the back. "To, uh, make sure you don't hurt him! You'll only drag him off and sacrifice him to your evil gods if we don't!"

The smile on my face flickers and my heart breaks a little more. That's all I'm ever going to be to these people. No matter that I'm dressed in rags and selling myself on the streets for change, I'll always be the evil, manipulative seductress in their eyes. I was a fool to even dream of thinking I could change things by coming here.

"That's fine." I lie. "Where's the lucky boy?"

Another one is pushed forwards. He gives me a nervous look and a little wave. In happier circumstances, I might have thought it was cute. But before I can even open my mouth to talk about money, a heavy purse is shoved into my hands.

"Here. That should cover your, uh, your...your fee. Right?"

The last word sounds almost pleading. I weigh the purse up and down in my hand, letting the moment stretch on and on. This is the moment - I could throw it back in the faces, tell them to go to hell, tell them that I'm better than this - that I'm not just some cheap, common whore to be bought with their money. The moment stretches, and for a beautiful eternity, I imagine myself doing just that.

And then it ends, and I hurriedly tuck the purse away into my bag, looking away and furiously blinking away tears of shame and disgust. Because that's what I am. A cheap, common whore. Meat to be bought and used. Flesh for rent.

Transaction complete, I lead the little gang back into the alley, so we can have some semblance of privacy and a bit of respite from the wind. They follow in silence, like children following a schoolteacher, until I stop and shuck what remains of my clothes away in a quick gesture. There's no art to it, no slow tease and strip - just a couple of knots to untie and a shrug of my shoulders, and the ragged gossamer falls away, leaving me bare and exposed to their hungry eyes.

And oh, how they stare, their gazes devouring every inch of my slender, black skin. They begin to call out instructions, telling me to turn this way or that, to bend over, to push my breasts together. Some of them circle around, and I can almost feel how much they want to start grabbing at me, to feel the warmth and tightness of my body in their hands. It's humiliating, and I can feel myself blushing fiercely as one of them tells me to lean back against a barrel and open my legs.

"Yea, yea!" He says, licking his lips and staring at the soft slit of flesh between my thighs. "Now show us your cunt! Spread it for us!"

What else can I do? They've bought me. They own me. I force a lascivious grin and use two fingers to spread my delicate folds, exposing my most intimate place for them, a soft, pink flower amidst a field of ebony skin. There's a chorus of ooh's and aah's. One joker even pipes up with "Oh, wow! I thought she'd be, I dunno, purple or something!"

A snappy retort blossoms flickers through my mind, like the ghost of the person I was before all this, but it chokes and dies when another elbows the birthday boy in the ribs and says. "Go on, Martin, get stuck in there! Use your tongue, I think girls like that."

"Oh yes, darling, we do. Come here and taste me." I purr. It's a lie. I don't want this - this false intimacy, this pretense that they care about what I like or don't like. I just want them to fuck me, to blow their loads, and leave me alone. But I keep the sultry look nailed to my face and beckon Martin forwards with my other hand. He shuffles up to me, gives me a strained, anxious look, and drops to his knees, taking ahold of my thighs and leaning in close to my slit.

He reaches for me, gently tracing his fingers along the lines of my folds and poking at my entrance, exploring my most intimate space with an inexpert touch. His warm breath washes over me, tingling against my skin, and I can't stop myself from gasping and jumping as he gives me a hesitant, experimental lick. I hate the horrid little spark of pleasure that flows through me as he laps at me again, longer and deeper this time, teasing my folds apart and leaving a glimmering trail of wetness behind. Shame curdles in my gut at the knowledge that some of that wetness is mine, and I bite my lip hard, screwing my eyes shut and trying to fight down the low gasps and heavy breaths fighting to get free as Martin continues to lick and suck at my flesh.

"Is she okay?" A voice whispers. "Her face is all funny. Is he hurting her?"

"Nah." Another voice, older, more confident. "She's getting off on it. Fuckin' whore's enjoying herself. Go on, Marty, work her clit! Make the bitch come for us!"

It's true. I feel sick and humiliated, betrayed by my own body, but it's true. It's been so long since I'd felt any sort of tenderness, physical or mental, that even this fake tenderness is coaxing a reaction from me. I let out a thin, whining gasp as my client pulls away.

"Her what?"

"Her clit, dumbass. Look, here."

There's a sudden, sharp burst of pleasure as another pair of hands go to work on me, encouraging my clit out of its hood and stimulating the sensitive little bud. My toes clench and unclench, my legs trembling as the two men work me, pushing my treacherous body further and further towards an orgasm I don't want but know is coming.

"Come on. Come on, you dark elf slut." The older one's voice hisses in my ear as I squirm around Martin's eager tongue, lapping at my building wetness. "I bet you love this, don't you? You spend your whole life bossing men around, but this is where you really want to be. Sucking dick and getting fucked for money in our city."

No, no, no - he's wrong, he's lying, I know he is, but - my whole body snaps tight as the two men tip me over the edge, flecks of wetness running down my kicking, spasming legs as sweat blossoms across my skin and lighting surges through my veins. I go rigid, then limp, sliding off the barrel in a boneless heap, hating every inch of myself and fighting back tears. I screw my eyes shut tighter, desperately hoping for the ground to open up and swallow me, sparing me the sight that I know is going to be waiting when I open my eyes. Slowly, after what feels like both an eternity of dread, I sit up and look at them.

Several of the youths are partially undressed, hands pumping around their erections, watching me with unbridled lust. I can only imagine how I look to them - sitting naked in the gutter, my white hair, unwashed and hacked short hanging in unkempt tangles around my narrow, delicate face, staring at them with large, soft red eyes as I recover from the throws of my first orgasm in months.

Martin unbelts his trousers and lets them fall to the ground, the noise of his buckle rattling off the cold stone sounding like the click of a prison door slamming shut on me.

"So, uh, what do you guys want me to do next?" He says, turning to his companions.

"Shit, man, whatever you want." One says. "I mean, we bought her."

"Get her to suck your dick!" Another voice. "Come on, look at those lips. I wanna see what they look like around your dick."

There's a few more words shot back and forth, but I tune them out, crawling up to my knees and brushing my hair away from my face. I already know what's coming. My body isn't my own - it belongs to them now. It'll fuck and suck and come and be come on, or in, at their will, not mine. Martin turns back towards me, his erection swinging back and forth in front of my face, and I obediently reach out and take it in my hand. He's hot, and hard, and I can feel the eager tremble of his heartbeat as I begin stroking him, working my hand up and down his shaft as the others cluster around for a better look. One of them kneels behind me, wrapping one arm around my midsection and knotting the fingers of his other through my hair. I can feel his naked torso pressed up against my back as he pushes my head forwards, inexorably guiding my mouth onto his stiff, throbbing prick.

Silence falls, filling the air with thick, wet sounds as I suck him. He's washed, at least, so I don't have to worry about the taste of old sweat and stale come making me gag, and the youth behind me slips his hand up to cradle one of my breasts, holding it in his palm and gently massaging the firm, black flesh as I bob my head back and forth upon the hardness in my mouth. I can feel the other men staring at me; their eyes fixed to my full, dark lips wrapped around their companion's cock, the difference between our skin thrown into stark relief.

"Gods, look at her." One of them mutters. "You were right, Garth. The little whore really is into this."

No. I'm not. I'm really not. My jaw aches, and I the salty taste of his precome floods my mouth. I just want him to be done. Maybe, just maybe, if I can force him to finish now, I can take the money and leave without submitting to the final indignity of being fucked in front of them. I slowly begin to pick up the face, sucking him faster and deeper with every stroke, washing my tongue over his head every time I come to the top of his shaft, then plunging down again until he pushes against the back of my throat. Martin's breathing comes in short, ragged gasps from somewhere above me. His cock twitches, pulses, and I know he's getting close. A little spark of hope flares into life. I just need a little more time to work, a little longer until his balls contract and -

- his cock pops free of my mouth in a shower of saliva, thick ropes stretching out between my open lips and his glistening head before snapping and splattering down across the swell of my bust. I let out a moan of frustration as the men laugh, slapping Martin on the back.

"Gotta pace yourself, man. Y'almost missed the main course." One of them says. The older one, again. He leers down at me as I try and wipe the worst of the mess off my face, desperately trying to salvage what little dignity I can. "Don't tell me you don't want to get into this bitch's cunt."

I'm done. I don't have the heart to try fighting any more; first the grotesque, forced orgasm, and now the torment of having come so close to finishing him early has has broken any impulse I might have had to take charge of the situation. My shoulders slump and I stare, numb and miserable, into the gutter before looking up at the pack of men prowling around me like vultures.

"How do you want me, sir?" I say, my voice flat and dead, not even pretending to be enjoying myself any more.

They immediately break into a rough squabble, talking excitedly about how they want to see me fucked. A pair of them even break off from the group, pulling and pushing my limp, tired body into various poses to demonstrate positions they don't know the names for. One of them mentions anal, and I feel tears welling up in the corners of my eyes when the words "face down in the gutter, like the worthless, fucking spider-kissing whore she is" drift out of the group.

Martin shoots me a strange, sideways look. It's almost apologetic. "Look, I'm the one doing...uh, doing...her. So I get to choose, right?" He says. "I just want it to be, y'know...kinda normal? I mean, that's why we're doing this, right?"

The general murmur of sullen acknowledgements drowns out the bubble of short, bitter laughter that chokes its way out of my throat. Normal. He's paying to fuck someone that most of the people in this wretched city would happily see dead, in a cold, damp, miserable back-alley, and he wants it to be normal. His false sympathy feels like a slap in the face, and my stomach twists in dread as the chatter dies off and he comes for me.

My skin crawls as Martin takes me by the shoulders, gently guiding me down onto my back. The stones are cold under my skin, and I can feel the slow, icy trickle of water moving down the gutter against my spine as his hands slip lower, tracing their way down the slender lines of my body, cupping and playing with my breasts with clumsy enthusiasm, like he's never touched a woman's body before. His fingers move to my nipples, taking hold of the little buds and curiously playing with them, rolling them between his fingers, squeezing and pinching. Shame, hot and raw, floods through me as my body starting to respond to his ministrations - my legs sighing open, my back arching towards him - as little sparks of horrid pleasure flutter through me.

It's almost a relief when he finally moves on, kissing his way down my midsection, lapping at my bellybutton with his tongue, the little spot of wet head sliding down to my legs with crushing inevitability. Still, the first lap at my folds draws a ragged breath from me, half a gasp and half a sob, and I can feel my lower lips starting to become slick and ready for him. Then, worst of all, the others kneel around me in a semicircle, hands wrapped around and steadily pumping their jutting pricks to the sight of their friend coaxing my body into readiness. The shame of selling myself to a man is one thing; the disgust I feel at how my body reacts is another; the humiliation of being forced to perform for an audience is almost more than I can bare.

"Come on, man, enough of the lovey-dovey shit. Just fuck her already." One of them pipes up. Martin looks up, wiping his mouth clean of my juices with his hand, and scowls at the speaker.

"Geez, fine." He mutters. "I just wanted to make sure she - "

"Ah, who cares what she thinks." Another says. "Like Garth said, she's probably getting off on this. Even if she ain't, she's just a whore. She ain't got much say in things."

They act as if I'm not actually there with them, neatly shutting me out of their perceptions when they aren't occupied with touching and teasing me, not even bothering to glance down at me as they talk. And why should they? I'm just a thing, bought and owned, to them. You don't pay any attention to a book or a lamp when you're not using it. Why should I expect anything different?

Martin sighs and shrugs, then shuffles forwards, lining himself up to my entrance. I have to fight the urge to pull away from him as his swollen head bumps against my slid, slowly easing the delicate folds aside as his heat and hardness invades my body. The penetration is slow, inexpert; he pushes himself inside in fits and starts, his hands grasping the curve of my hips for support as he completes our union.

"How is she? What does she feel like?" One of the youths asks.

"It's, uh, she's good." Martin gasps. I stare up at the stars as he draws back, then thrusts into me again, the motion smoother and more confident. "She's smooth and hot and wet. Really tight as well. It feels amazing. "

It feels awful. I feel detached, hollow and empty, but simultaneously tight and full; I can feel every one of Martin's thrusts as he fucks me, the head of his cock relentlessly rubbing against my slick inner walls. He watches me, dull brown eyes locked onto my soft red ones, biting his tongue in concentration as he studies my expressions; he tries different speeds, alters the angle of his penetration, learning which ones make me gasp or moan and repeating them incessantly, until my thighs are soaked with my wetness and my face flushed with arousal, like a bitch in heat. His hands wander up and down my body, caressing my black, sweat-streaked skin, teasing my breasts or catching in my hair in a parody of lovemaking as he fucks me, fucks me in the gutter for the amusement of his friends. They work themselves frantically, faces red and screwed up, bulging cockheads aimed square at my face and breasts.

My body crawls and shudders with unwanted stimulation; Martin pulls my hips upwards and leans back, hitting my g-spot and setting my tired form aflame with horrid pleasure; the look of triumph on his face as I suddenly tense and cry out, writhing and spasming on the cold cobbles makes me want to weep. A few of them applaud, clapping and cheering as I shudder around his cock, the last of my orgasm draining away like the water running through the gutters beneath me. They don't give me any time to recover. I feel Martin's hands hooking under my legs and pulling me deeper onto him, his cock pummeling my insides faster and faster. One of the youths around me grunts and shoves his prick forwards, and a moment later, I feel the hot, liquid slap of his seed spraying across my breasts. Almost as if it was a signal, the other four reach their own climax; one by one they ejaculate across me, their come splattering across my narrow, pretty face and pert chest in warm streaks. I can feel it on me, pearly-white against my black skin, feel it tricking and spreading across my body in time with Martin's thrusting. My lips sigh open and I can taste it; bitter and salty, the white strings stretching out and slipping into my open mouth as I gasp and shudder.

A moment later, Martin himself finishes; I feel the hot, hard length inside my sopping cunt twitch before a rush of warm heat floods my insides. He pulls out, his cock glistening with both of our fluids, frantically jacking himself as the last thick strings of seed spray out across my belly.

The urge to curl up and cry is overwhelming. Seed drips from my nose in long strings and oozes out of my slit as I sit up, staring blearily off into the middle distance as the gang of men cleans themselves up and gets dressed. I feel degraded, polluted; I desperately want to scrub myself raw in the vain hope wiping away the come now drying in the cool air will somehow rid me of the uncleanliness settling under my skin. An awkward silence descends; now dressed, Martin turns to look back at me, huddled miserably in the gutter, doing my best to wipe the sticky mess off my face and tease it out of my dirty, ratty white hair. I look up and our eyes meet; he opens his mouth to say something, a flicker of regret in his eyes.

"Come on, man, time's wasting." One of his compatriots calls, slapping him on the shoulder to get his attention. "Father'll go spare if he knows we're out this late. We gotta go before anyone misses us."

The moment stretches, the man's eyes lingering on me for a heartbeat more. I desperately want him to say something - anything, even just 'goodbye', just a little thing to acknowledge me as a person, rather than the object he's bought and spent the evening using.

But there's nothing. The moment ends and he's gone, scuttling out of the alleyway with his friends, leaving me discarded in the gutters like a piece of trash. Wiping away the tears gathering in my eyes, I stagger over to my bag and pull out a towel and the purse full of money. The towel is stiff and grimy with dried seed, and it pricks my skin as I fiercely rub myself down with it, opening the purse and spilling the coins out onto the cobbles with a soft jingle. I pause at the sight; there more there than I'd have expected - more than I'd charge a usual client, and I throw the towel aside, clawing up the coins with sudden, desperate greed and counting them out. Numbers tick by in my head as I add up the little stash of gold I'd managed to save from earlier nights of whoring, until a wide, manic grin - the first in what feels like an eternity - cracks across my face, and a whooping, crazed laugh splits from my throat.

I have enough.

I don't have to do this any more.

I can go home.