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Recently, I wrote a story for the December Monthly Writing Contest on the Writing Forum, and I figured I would post it here as well, especially since copying it directly from Microsoft Word created some formatting errors and I would like a version free of such errors to be available. The "theme" of the contest was collaboration, or more specifically, to write a story based on a submission from the art portal. I chose "Red Girl" by BinaryDood, which you can find at the following link:

http://www.newgrounds.com/art/view/binarydood/re d-girl

Part One

Most of the other women in the house were more concerned with modesty, and attempted to cover their bodies, for as long as the customers would let them. She saw the futility in that, and had become so accustomed to her own nudity that it no longer fazed her anyway, even in front of men--the company, as she had come to refer to it, didn't bother giving the women clothes, unless a customer wanted them to be in a specific outfit; and when they did want that, they would usually supply it themselves so they could hold onto it and enjoy it later, when they were alone. Her current action was the most defiant she could get away with, and she had put a lot of thought into it.

She sat next to the customer, looking down at the floor, away from him, letting her vibrant red hair hang down and cover her face; her free arm helped cover what her hair wasn't long enough to reach. If she was sure of anything, it was that the men who used her got off on the sense of power and control as much as the physical act itself, whether they were aware of it or not. Most weren't, so when she didn't allow them to see the helpless look of shame on her face, and all they saw was hair, they thought nothing of it. They thought she was just shy, or embarrassed, or any of the number of other things that might lead a young woman to cover her face while fucking a stranger. The experience would feel somewhat lacking, though. If they came back for more, they would probably pick a different girl. Sometimes, they wouldn't come back at all. Failing either of those, she was more than willing to just enjoy a moral victory.

Some men were more conscious of what they wanted, though. There was nothing she could do about that, except cry. And those men enjoyed that even more. To her relief, this customer did not appear to be one of those men, as she gave him a hand job.

"So, uh," his voice cracked as he spoke. "How long have you been in this particular line of work?"

That was the first time anyone had asked her that, or any question quite so personal. Of course, it wasn't a line of work. It was enslavement. But the company didn't advertise it that way; as far as anyone looking in from the outside could tell, the girls were just employees--legal brothels were all over the place these days, and they had no way of knowing about all the things that the women had to endure, like how they were fed only enough to keep them barely alive. It was much more profitable to do things that way, though, and a small portion of those extra profits was more than enough to convince local authorities to turn a blind eye. The neighborhoods they drag those women from, they would tell themselves, they'd probably end up doing it on their own anyway. They almost believed it.

She considered looking up at the man for just a second, to see what kind of expression his face carried. One of morbid curiosity, she assumed. Regardless of his motivation behind the question, she couldn't risk not answering him. He could complain, and complaints from customers meant punishment, without exception.

"About five years," she mumbled. It had been five years since she was taken, at the age of 17--the company wasn't interested in serving pedophiles.

"That's interesting." He replied with bizarre intonation, all but thrashing in his seat at that point. It was obviously his first time, and new customers almost always left quickly as soon as they came--the idea of staying the full time they had paid for wouldn't occur to them until after they had an opportunity to work through the shame and guilt that accompanied this kind of purchase--so she pulled out all the stops. "Wait, wait. Let go for a second."

Shit, she thought.

"Look, this just feels wrong," he said. "See, one of my friends got me a gift card for this place, so I figured I would give it a shot," he managed to get out before wheezing and catching his breath. He hadn't been breathing the whole time. "You aren't--you don't really . . . why do you do this? I guess that's a stupid question. I mean, It's not like everyone else loves their job or anything, but this seems especially..." He trailed off, at a complete loss for words.

She was looking him in the face without even realizing it. He could see the stains, left by running trails of tears through caked-on makeup, and the bloodshot eyes they came from.

"Dear God," he trembled.

Please don't leave. She wrapped her mouth around him and took him into her throat. Her tongue ran up and down and made him quiver. He let out a giant breath and pushed her away. She looked up at him from the floor, crying, feeling helpless in a way she had never before and didn't completely understand. He had seen her as a person instead of an object, if only for a moment, and there wasn't a thing she could do about it. But she still wanted him to stay. The company had cameras and bugs hidden in every room, so she couldn't tell him the truth, why she cried before and why she was doing it now. But she still wanted him to stay.

Part Two

He stood in the shower, letting the ice-cold water pour over him, but his erection refused to die. His fist unclenched and he resigned himself to masturbation, desperately trying not to think about the woman with red hair. Dozens of other women filled his mind, between lightning-quick flashes of her. Tears started flowing from his eyes, just like hers, the first time he had any kind of sexual contact with a woman. What keeps her there? Why doesn't she just quit? He fell to his knees, begging for answers from whoever could provide them. I would give her anything she needed and ask for nothing in return, if she would just leave that place.

His erection had lasted from the time he met her until now. It hurt. For a split-second, he wished he had stayed and let her finish. The thought of being in her mouth again, however unintended, made things go quickly. The water washed away his shame as he cried himself to sleep, questions unanswered.

Part Three

The boss liked to get his hands dirty, to get actively involved in punishment, to make sure the women actually feared him and not just the money that bought his men. It worked. She had never actually been formally punished, always careful to stay out of trouble. So, it started the way she had expected after years of wondering. Physical pain. Things that left bruises, but not scars. Bruises would heal, but very few customers liked scars. Then he called her a cunt and told her to suck his cock. His hand rested on the back of her head to keep her at a smooth rhythm.

All her life before being taken, she had wondered things, like why the prisoners that were forced into concentration camps during World War II didn't just band together and kill their outnumbered captors. After half a decade of being a prisoner, she had never seen a connection between herself and those poor souls. She had given up and accepted that the situation was hopeless, as she now realized they must have done. What came to her naturally, like trying to hide her face, had grown likened in her mind to brilliant and intentional sabotage. She, like victims before her, had waited for some outside force to put an end to her suffering, taking solace in small but meaningless acts of disobedience. But, when the closest thing to a savior wound up at her door, he ran away in fear.

Even if one concentration camp had fallen, the rest of an entire totalitarian regime would have remained to hunt down the escapees. The closest thing to Hitler that she or any of the other women had to worry about was forcing her to give head right now. He had insisted on being left alone with her in his office. It all suddenly seemed so simple. She made sure her teeth were at the base of his manhood and bit down as hard as she could. He tried to scream, but sound wouldn't come. Blood and flesh poured from her mouth as she loosened her bite. She stood over him as he writhed on the floor in the same agony she had been through, and she wanted him to feel more.

"You crazy bitch," he squeaked.

"My name is Anna Maria Hunter, bitch!" Blood sprayed from her mouth as she screamed. Anna began rummaging through his desk, looking for anything that might help her escape. A handgun, she noticed. That'll work. There were no cameras in the boss's office. That gave her an advantage, but firing a gun would ruin it, so she gripped it by the barrel and bludgeoned his head. The handle dripped with his blood, just like her mouth. The taste was starting to bother her now. Spitting out the excess on the body it came from was satisfying, but did little to solve the problem.

She looked out the door. A guard was coming down the hall. She pulled the door back and waited for his footsteps to get close before slamming it in his face.

"What the hell, boss?" He shouted from the floor, his eyes still closed.

Anna gripped her gun by the barrel like before and busted the guard's head, but it didn't come as naturally anymore. She began to feel faint. More footsteps echoed down the hall. She dragged the guard into the office and hid behind the door, peering over the side. A customer was being led to one of the women's rooms. Her adrenaline was starting to run low. The gravity of the situation began to weigh upon her. I'll probably die here, she thought. Doesn't even matter at this point, she reassured herself. I've already lost my life. This is the only way to get it back. She turned back and grabbed the guard's gun. The other woman would need a weapon, too. They would all need weapons soon.