Factory Girl

Hey everyone! This has been buzzing around my head for a while now and it needed to be written down.

The lyrics used (in italics) are from the song "The Factory Girls/Come up to my Office" from the musical "Parade". See Author note at the bottom for more.

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He calls my name

Hunger ripples through a body already too thin. Cold wind makes that body tremble. Torn clothes emphasize rather than hide the bare flesh they are wrapped around. Passersby don’t even glance her way, except those whose hungry stares tear the thin rag from her form from feet away.

The johns are always careful to not come near from the front of the alley. Her master whispers to them and money shifts hands. He calls her name.

I turn my head

His hand is tight around my wrist, dragging me further back down the alley behind a stack of boxes. That is all the privacy afforded us. He stops sharply and jerks me forward into him. He doesn’t let me regain my balance; he shoves me down to my knees, the hand still tightly squeezing my wrist tugging my hand to the zipper of his pants. I do what I am expected to do, sliding it down and apart to find him already half hard and suddenly his impatient hands fist in my hair and, again, I feel myself doing what I know
I should.

The taste is vile, the scent lingering in my nostrils minutes after he has left. My stomach clenches, and I am almost sure I will throw up, except there isn’t anything to expel except his cum.

I go back to my master who is giving me that sickening smile that says he is happy I can make him money. I curl my arms around my body hoping to shut out the cold and hunger and pain.

“Faster, bitch,” he growls in the dark alley. I try, but I can tell I am not doing something right. Before I can even hope he will come, his hand already on my head shoves me from him onto the dirty, sooty bricks. I stay down; to rise up is to invite more punishment. Unfortunately I do not immediately see his belt sliding from his pants, but when the end snaps loudly across my breasts, I scream and try to back away. I am on my knees, back to him, but he doesn’t care.

When the cracking sound of leather against flesh doesn’t amuse him anymore, he beats me with bare hands, punctuating the blows with an occasional kick from glossy, polished shoes. I do nothing, can do nothing, except bury my face into the boxes and sob.

Seeing my battered state, my master frowns, apologizing to the man, not me, that I was inadequate. He promises another girl for a reduced price. The man agrees, and by the gleam in his eye I know I will not be the only one bruised tonight.

It is well past dark now, and different customers will be coming for me soon.

He got no words to say

He is one of the silent ones. What instructions can not be given through gestures are spoken in crisp, efficient tones. I can tell this already. His hand on my shoulder propels me through the crowd; my feet lagging behind as I reluctantly let him lead me away. The daylight is reserved for those who want quick, clean release. The night is for those who need so much more.

He keeps me in front of him so he can control me and so no one can interfere; I am a shield of skin and bones.

I am shoved into his back seat, and he slams the door behind him when he slides easily into the front seat. Cautiously I sit up. The window besides me and the push of the seat against my back says we are accelerating, going far from my master and the back alley.

If only that could be reassuring.

I don’t bother looking at the house we pull up in front of, after so long it doesn’t matter what they look like. I wait until he opens the door beside me and drags me out; I stumble over the brick driveway.

Through the front door I am pulled, to a stair case that leads up to bathroom at the end of the hall. I am shoved in, and he mutters, “Shower. Don’t touch anything.” With weak hands I pull my clothes off and turn the knobs until the water is near scalding. I step in hesitantly, no matter how hot I know I will want it, it still takes a moment to get used to the torrent of hot water.

I obediently do not touch anything. Not the many bottles of shampoo, and not the bar of sweet smelling soap. The roughened pads of my fingers serve me well as a washcloth; I scratch and rub at myself furiously to get as clean as possible, as quickly as possible.

This is not one of my better days for timing. I am running my fingers through my hair when he reenters, throws the sliding door to the side and grabs me out from under the spray of water. He has me by the upper part of my arm, and his fingers are grasping so tightly I can feel his nails digging in to me. When the water is off he pulls me out of the bathroom and down a door to the bedroom. He flings my into the room and turns to lock the door, should I decide to try to run.

The simple action sends chills through me; what does he plan to do to me?

His eyes get big

I am still dripping wet when he pushes me hard and I tumble back to the bed. I crawl backwards, trying to get away from him, hoping he will think I am only giving him room.

He is taking off his clothes, and he carefully colds them and places them on the chair.
When he is naked he comes to the end of the bed and climbs on toward me. I make myself lay still, but I have to fight every instinct in me that are screaming for me to run.

The door is locked, and I am miles away from my master, and my clothes are still in a pile in the bathroom. There isn’t any point fighting.

His hands run up my legs, pulling them apart. He bares me, exposes me, to his lustful gaze and I turn away as he eyes my starved body like a vulture. He lingers over my shaved cunt; I steal a glance at him when I am sure he is not looking, and I see him bite his lower lip.

I hate lying here while they inspect me; I see it in their eyes that they are planning and plotting what to do with every inch of my skin. They section me out in their minds and I am mentally carved up like a cow in a slaughter house. It’s like a list in their heads that goes to the map they make of me. A bite will go here, a pinch or lap there.

I look away when I see his face turning back to me and before my fearful body can even think to move his lips are only a hair away from mine. His breath blows across my face in that moment just before he kisses me. I want to gag. For having such a nice bathroom, you think a man could learn to brush his teeth. His lips are dry. He kisses me so hard my teeth cut into my upper lip.

When I feel that horrible swipe of his coarse tongue at my mouth I force myself to open my mouth and let him in. I try to focus to his muscle moving inside my mouth rather than his hands that have begun to wander my body. It isn’t until he pinches my nipple hard and twists it that I make a sound. I squeal into his mouth. It is the most annoying little bitch sound I have ever heard and I hate that it came from my throat. Worse, it sounds like I enjoyed it. At least to his ears it does.

So he does it again, and I try to twist away from the pain.

He is so much bigger than me; his frame alone has me pressed to the mattress. Fingers start grabbing, kneading my breast so hard I am sure he is trying to crush it. And all the while his mouth is plundering my mouth.

I almost scream in relief when he stops. He stops kissing and grabbing and twisting, but my relief is short lived when I feel his erection digging into my thigh. He spreads my legs wider, until my muscles strain and I know I will be sore in the morning. I thank whoever is listening that my body is not as disgusted as my mind, and when he presses his dick against my opening he is met with slick flesh.

Without so much as a sound of warning he lurches forward and buries himself in me to the hilt. I choke a scream before it rises out of my throat. But somehow, he notices the wince and can tell what I almost did. It excites him. Fear causes little shudders to shake my body. A slow start for a sicko.

His thrusts are badly angled, and it hurts each time he enters. He begins panting. I hope he is close. He grabs for my breasts again, and I do nothing to stop him as he captures my defenseless nipple again. Better to not make him angry.

He surges into me once again and feel that warm wash inside me that tells me he has come. He pulls out of me and immediately shifts his grabbing hands from my chest to my hair. I scramble around to keep him from ripping my hair out all together and find my mouth hovering in front of his flaccid cock. It is dripping with out combined juices.

Disgust wells up in me when I notice the strands of streaked red there as well. I didn’t even feel him tear me.

At his insistence I open my mouth and lick at him. A single taste of the aftermath coating him and my stomach churns, rumbling in protest. Above me he laughs, “Sounds like you’re hungry for something.”

Knowing what he expects of me, I take him into my mouth and suck clean all the fluids gathered there. Just as I am beginning to taste the skin rather than the juices, he begins hardening again. Both hands tangled in my hair now, and he positions my head. I take a deep breath, and just in time too, because suddenly he thrusts into my mouth. It takes concentration to keep my teeth out of the way as he fucks my face. This time he begins to make little noises. It sounds like a pig grunting.

Just in time I notice the change in his pace; the realization does nothing to spare me from the spurts of cum that fill my mouth and run down my throat. I swallow, I have no choice, he still has my hair tight in his grasp and I cannot move away.
He holds us both still for a moment before he releases me and his limp cock falls from between my lips. Hard harsh hands do not wait longer than that moment before I am repositioned on the bed, legs again spread, neck bared to his gnawing teeth and questing tongue.

My neck, I am sure, is covered in hickeys when his erection digs into my thigh again.
I am so grateful his face is hidden away and cannot see the look of blatant shock on mine. It may not have taken long for him to come, but he could do it again and again. I close my eyes and wait for him to shove roughly into me again.

When it doesn’t happen, when he pulls back and reaches for the side table, I tense. This is unexpected, this is new, and new is rarely good.

He crawls off me, and soon the flicker of a lighter reveals a cigarette fag hanging from his lips. Don’t move, I command my muscles. He turns back and looks at me as he smokes; the hand that isn’t occasionally lifting up to flick the cigarette ashes into the tray on the table is slowly caressing his cock, keeping him ready.

My head rests momentarily against the pillow as he studies me again, but his gaze is more calculating now. With seeming disinterest, his right hand comes up to flick the cigarette again, but it does not return to his lips. His face does not change from that disinterest as he presses the lit cigarette against my ribs, over one of the bruises I received earlier. I hiss in pain, and by his reaction that was what he wanted.

The cigarette disappears back to the table and he licks over the burn. Rough tongue slides over tender flesh and earns another gasp. He is smiling. This is only the beginning.

A paddle with holes cut randomly in it emerges from the drawer next. One hand rolls me over and it is with a twisted gut I let him. He guides my body until I am curled with my ass in the air. Defenseless. Again, defenseless, I hate it. The swoosh the paddle made though the air warned me before it cracked against my skin. I screamed. Beneath the swoosh and crack of the next blow I heard a small sound of pleasure from him. He was enjoying it. There was a gap between the second and third, a delay to make the sting of the next blow more poignant. He put his strength into that blow, and I screamed for him at the top of my lungs.

When he was done, when my backside was as red as a fire engine, I am sure, I finally heard the paddle fall to the floor with a thud. Hot tears are coursing down my face; sobs have long ago stopped shaking my body and my throat was so raw I doubt I can speak anymore. Fire alights on my cheeks and I make a choked sound while he further gropes my burning ass.

Tonight can barely get worse. I am sure of this, until he spreads my cheeks and I feel his painfully hard member jabbing at the tight ring of muscle there.

My face gets red
In the same rough way he does everything, he enters my ass and he chuckles when I try to cry out, but my raw throat will not give up a sound. This time he does not finish quickly. Everything before was building up to this. I am being split in two; the searing, hot, hard member in me cleaving my backside apart.

Those grabbing fingers use my ass and hips to let him go deeper, harder. Just before I am sure the pain will make me black out, he finishes.

As dawn light finally flitters in through the window, I am laying discarded. Prints from his hands are forming bruises around my neck, adding to my growing collection. My thighs are still parted, and his cum oozes slowly out from both of my openings.

I feel stretched beyond capacity. I can’t even think of trying to speak; I stopped being able to make any sounds hours ago. More cigarette burns have joined the first, each dotting an existing bruise like the center of a bull’s eye. Rings around my wrist are bleeding still from the hand cuffs. They came out when I tried to run for the door; I had tried after he grabbed my throat and I feared suffocation.

But the dawn is here now; its light is my salvation.
Yet still, I damn it in my mind, for it shows my face, red and ravaged by tears and embarrassment.



And I want to run away

Dawn. The end of my time with him. I am bundled back into clothes, back into the car, back to my master. Even as I stumble out of the man’s grasp at the feet of my master, he jerks his thumb to the back alley, where someone tall and dark is waiting. It never ends. It never stops. I cannot escape. I would give anything to escape.


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Authors note: The scene in which this song is sung is set as thus: the main character, Mr. Frank, is being tried for the rape and murder of a thirteen year old girl in Georgia in 1913. These lyrics are originally sung by Mary, the murdered girl, concerning her boss, and are echoed by her three friends and co-workers, also young girls, at the Mr. Frank's trial. Later it is revealed that they were coached by the prosectutor, as was the boy who quoted Mary as having said the same. This was based off the true story of Leo Frank, and the case was never solved. If you get a chance to hear this song, or see the show, please do.

Secondly, I just did three things I have never done before. 1: a songfic. 2: First person perspective. 3: Present tense.
Please let me know how I did!


All reviews appreciated

KaS