Susie Black:
Every cock in this world is a loaded weapon, every cunt a battlefield soaked in curse and power, which is why mine stays locked, loaded, and never fired.
The room reeked of sour sweat, cheap lamp oil, and the thick metallic tang of spent seed. No doors. No windows. Just four crumbling walls and a sagging roof that dripped whenever the sky decided to piss on us. The only light came from a single fat tallow candle that flickered like it was dying of shame.
I sat cross-legged on the dirt floor with my back against the wall, Elijah curled against my left side sucking his thumb even though he was eight, Miemje on my right hugging her knees and pretending she was anywhere else. We were all staring at the same thing: Mother.
She rode the merchant the way a starving dog tears into meat—fast, mechanical, no pleasure, only purpose. The man was soft-bellied, pale, trembling. His breeches were still tangled around his ankles. Mother's hips rolled once, twice, three times. A wet slap echoed. Then he screamed—a high, broken sound like a pig at slaughter—and his body jerked once before going limp. Passed out. Again.
Mother lifted herself off him with a small, tired sigh. A thin string of his release stretched between her folds and his softening cock before snapping. She didn't even glance at it. She wiped herself with the edge of the blanket we all shared at night and tossed it aside.
My name is Susie Black.
In this world every dick and every cunt carries a price. A common human prick might buy a loaf of bread. A mage's pulsing shaft can purchase a week's rent. A monster cock—the ridged, scalding, knotted kind that belongs to dragon-bloods, demon spawn, or feral alphas—those are worth gold, diamonds, land, titles. Milk one properly and you can climb ranks overnight. Fail, and you drop so low the Countryside looks like paradise.
The ranks rule everything.
Rank 1–2: the poorest of the poor. Countryside dwellers. Farmers who plow fields by day and spread legs by night because the soil is cursed and only seed mixed with rut-magic makes anything grow. Daily sex workers who service travelers on the muddy roads. Most never climb higher.
Rank 3–4: the middle. Mixed bloods—humans with a drop of mage, small demons with human mothers, half-breeds who can cast weak sparks or heal shallow cuts. They run shops, guard gates, serve ale. They fuck for favor, not survival.
Rank 5–6: the rich. Elites. Pure-blood mages, lesser nobles, merchant princes who own the brothels and the breeding houses. Their cocks are polished weapons; their cunts are gilded traps. They rut in silk sheets and call it politics.
Rank Infinity: the Gods.
The ones who never die.
The ones who only appear in rumors and nightmares.
The ones who started the Great Rutting in the first place.
Mother finished wiping and looked at me. Her eyes were tired, the same hazel as mine, but hers had permanent shadows underneath.
"Susie," she said, voice hoarse from screaming fake pleasure all night. "Go tell the next customer I'm ready."
The merchant groaned, stirred, then staggered to his feet. He fumbled coins from his purse—three coppers—and dropped them on the floor like trash. Didn't look at any of us. Just pulled up his breeches and stumbled out.
I exhaled slowly, the breath shaky.
Elijah whimpered against my arm. Miemje's nails dug into my thigh.
I rose to my feet. My knees cracked from sitting too long on cold dirt.
"Can't you do this work elsewhere?" I asked, keeping my voice low. "Elijah and Miemje are still kids."
Mother laughed once—short, bitter.
"Where, Susie? The street? The alley behind the tannery where the dogs watch? This room is all we have. And these coins—" she kicked the three coppers with her bare foot, sending them spinning "—are what keep the roof from falling on our heads tonight."
She turned away, already smoothing her skirt, already preparing the next performance.
I looked down at my siblings.
Elijah's eyes were wet. Miemje's were dry but glassy, like she'd already left her body.
I swallowed the acid in my throat.
I was Nineteen
Still untouched.
Still a virgin in a world that measured worth by how many times you could be filled.
Still the oldest in a family with no father, no protection, only Mother's body and my sharp tongue.
I stepped over the spilled coins and pushed aside the ragged curtain that served as our door.
The next customer was already waiting outside—another merchant, this one fatter, rings on every finger, eyes gleaming with the kind of hunger that made my stomach twist.
He grinned when he saw me.
"Little girl. Tell your mama I've got silver tonight. Real silver."
I forced my lips into the soft, trembling smile I'd practiced since I was seven.
"She's ready, sir," I said quietly. "Come in."
But inside my head the words burned.
One day.
One day I would stop saying "she's ready."
One day I would make them say it to me.
And they would beg.
The fat merchant stepped past me, already fumbling with his belt, the curtain falling shut behind him like a sigh. I didn't wait to hear the first grunt.
I grabbed Elijah's small hand and Miemje's wrist in one swift pull, leading them out into the narrow corridor before the sounds could start. The air out here was colder, thick with mold and the faint stink of the communal latrine down the hall. I slid down the wall until I sat on the dirt floor, tugging both siblings close. Elijah curled into my left side immediately, head on my shoulder. Miemje tucked herself against my right, knees to chest, face hidden in the crook of my arm.
We stayed like that. Silent. Counting cracks in the opposite wall. One. Two. Three. Anything to drown out the rhythm leaking through the curtain—wet slaps, Mother's fake gasp, the merchant's low groan when he finished.
It didn't take long. It never did with the weak ones.
When the sounds stopped I waited another full minute, then stood. I led Elijah and Miemje back inside.
The merchant was gone. Mother sat on the edge of the mattress, wiping between her legs with the edge of our shared blanket. She didn't look at us.
"Coins in the cup," she said. "Twenty-seven coppers, three silvers. Rent tomorrow. Barely."
I nodded. Didn't speak.
Elijah tugged my skirt. "Susie… food now?"
"Soon," I whispered. "Let Mama rest."
Mother finally glanced up. Her eyes were dull, shadowed. "You three shouldn't sit out there alone. What if someone saw you? What if someone decided they wanted more than talk?"
I met her gaze. "Then I'd scream until the whole building came running. Or I'd use the shard of glass in my pocket. Either way, they'd regret it."
She laughed once—short, tired. "Brave words, girl. Brave words don't stop fists or knives. Or worse. One day you'll learn that the only thing that keeps them off you is letting them think you're already broken. Or already taken."
Night came slow and heavy. The candle had burned down to a stub, throwing long shadows across the room.
I ladled out the pea soup from the cracked pot over the dying fire. Thin, watery, flecked with bits of carrot that had seen better days. I handed bowls to Elijah and Miemje first.
Elijah stared at his like it had personally offended him.
"I'm not eating this," he said, voice small but stubborn. "It tastes like grass and sadness. I hate peas. I hate soup. I hate—"
Mother lifted her head just enough to glare. "You eat what you have, boy. Or you go hungry. There's no third choice in this life."
"But it's disgusting," he whined, pushing the bowl away. "Why can't we have bread? Or meat? Or anything that doesn't taste like dirt?"
Mother sat up fully now, blanket slipping off her shoulder to reveal a fresh bruise shaped like a thumbprint. "Because dirt is what we can afford. Because the men who come through that curtain pay for a fuck, not for your dinner. Because if I don't spread my legs, we don't eat at all. And if we don't eat, you die. Simple as that. So swallow the soup, swallow the hate, swallow whatever you have to. That's how we stay alive."
Elijah's lip trembled. He looked at me, eyes big and wet, waiting for me to fix it.
I didn't know how.
Miemje took her bowl without a word. She ate slowly, methodically, spoon to mouth, swallow, repeat. When she finished she set the empty bowl aside, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and crawled onto the mattress beside Mother. She curled into a tight ball and closed her eyes. Just like that.
I coaxed Elijah to bed next. He still hadn't touched his soup. I pulled him against my side on the pallet we shared, his small body warm and rigid with anger.
"Susie," he whispered after a long time, "are we ever gonna leave here?"
I stared at the ceiling, watching a spider crawl across a crack. "One day," I said.
He didn't ask when. He just sighed and burrowed closer. His breathing evened out soon after. Miemje's soft snores joined his from the other side of the mattress. Mother's breathing had already turned deep and ragged.
The candle guttered out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
I lay awake longer than I meant to, replaying the day: the men, the coins, Mother's bruises, Elijah's tears, Miemje's silence. My own untouched body burning under the thin shift like it was angry at being left out of the transaction.
Sleep came eventually. Fitful. Dreamless.
Then—suddenly—I was awake.
No reason I could name. Just a jolt in my chest, sharp as a snapped thread.
The room was black. No candle. No moonlight through cracks. Only the faint sound of breathing from Mother and Miemje.
But Elijah's spot beside me was empty.
Cold.
Gone.
I sat up fast, heart slamming against my ribs.
"Elijah?" I whispered.
No answer.
I reached across the pallet. Nothing. Just the imprint of his small body in the straw.
Panic clawed up my throat.
He wasn't in the bed.
He wasn't in the room.
And the curtain that served as our door… was swaying.
Just a little.
Like someone had slipped through it only seconds ago.