Chapter 1
The dim, sickly yellow light of the room clung to Jamie's skin, a second, more revolting layer than the sweat and filth already coating him. He lay on the cold, hard floor, his body a canvas of abuse. Every inch of his skin was sore, a testament to the brutal acts he had just endured. A slow, sticky trickle of bodily fluids escaped from him, a final, humiliating reminder of the past hour's degradation. The room was a mess of crumpled bills and discarded clothing, the air thick with the stench of cheap cologne, liquor, and the acrid tang of human lust. The men, their hunger sated, were leaving, their laughter echoing in the small, cramped space. They tossed money onto him as if he were a discarded rag doll, a pile of crumpled paper covering his trembling form.
He crawled into a corner, his arms wrapped around his knees, trying to make himself as small as possible. His body trembled, not from cold, but from a deep-seated fear that had taken root in his bones. He wanted to escape, to run, to flee this hellish place, but his limbs felt like lead, heavy and unresponsive. Every muscle screamed in protest, a sharp, aching pain that radiated through his core. He closed his eyes, wishing for nothing more than to disappear, but the reality of his situation was a crushing weight on his chest.
A sudden, boisterous laugh cut through the quiet room. It was a sound he knew all too well, a sound that made his stomach churn with disgust and hatred. His father, Jack, walked into the room, his eyes alight with avarice. He knelt on the ground, his face a mask of glee as he scooped up the money. He praised the men, their "generosity" a source of profound joy for him.
"Jamie," Jack's voice was casual, devoid of any remorse or empathy. "Get up. Mr. Hugh is waiting. He wants his turn."
The words were a cold slap to the face. Jack didn't even look at him, his focus entirely on the wads of cash in his hands. He counted them, a satisfied smirk on his face. He quickly divided the money into two piles, one for his gambling, the other for his drinks and hard drugs.
Jamie watched him go, his heart a hollow, aching void in his chest. He knew the routine. Any delay would be met with a punishment far worse than the one he had just endured. He was trapped, a pawn in his father's game of survival. The abuse had become a grim, daily ritual, and his body and mind had learned to endure, to submit.
He dragged himself to the small, grimy bathroom. The water from the shower was a blessed relief, washing away the filth and the sticky, lingering shame. He scrubbed his skin until it was raw, trying to erase the physical and mental handprints of the men who had used him. The water turned a murky brown as it washed away the evidence of his degradation. He stood under the shower for a long time, the hot water soothing his aching muscles, but it did nothing to calm the turmoil in his mind.
After his bath, he put on the attire of his profession: a thin, revealing tunic that left nothing to the imagination. The fabric was so sheer that his body was completely visible through it. His legs trembled, but he forced himself to move, each step a painful ordeal. The path to the VIP room was a gauntlet of leering faces and probing hands. The raw smell of sex, stale cigarettes, and alcohol hung in the air, a scent he associated with nothing but horror.
He felt the eyes of the men on him, their gazes filled with lust and depravity. They reached out, their hands pawing at his body, their fingers digging into his flesh. He didn't stop them, didn't fight back. He had long ago learned that resistance was futile, that it only invited more pain. He was a submissive, a broken thing whose will had been systematically crushed. It was a lesson he had learned the hard way. He had to endure.
It took him an agonizing thirty minutes to reach Mr. Hugh's VIP room. His head throbbed, and his body was on the verge of collapsing. The lack of food, rest, and the constant physical and mental torture had taken their toll. He could feel his entire being giving way to exhaustion. He reached the door, his hand shaking as he raised it to knock. A muffled voice from inside gave him the permission to enter. He pushed the door open, the heavy scent of cigarettes and stale air hitting him in a nauseating wave.
Inside, three hulking men stood in the room, completely naked, their bodies a testament to a brutal strength that filled him with dread. They were already aroused, their eyes fixed on him with a hungry, predatory look. He knew he was their next victim. Mr. Hugh sat on a velvet armchair, a smirk on his face as he stared at Jamie's bruised body.
"You seem to have had a good time," Mr. Hugh muttered, his eyes lingering on the hickeys and bruises that littered Jamie's body.
Jamie wanted to kill him. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to rip the smirk off of his face. But the cold, hard logic of survival held him back. He knew the consequences. He couldn't risk a single rebellious move.
"Come here, slut," Mr. Hugh ordered, his voice a low growl. "And satisfy me."
Jamie cast a glance at the men, their eyes burning with a cruel, hungry fire. Slowly, painfully, he slid off his tunic, the fabric falling to the floor. He crawled on his knees to Mr. Hugh's chair. He reached out, his trembling hand touching Mr. Hugh's trousers, and with a soft, practiced motion, he unzipped them.
He came face to face with the large, imposing form of Mr. Hugh's manhood. He circled his hand around it, his touch light, hesitant. Suddenly, a searing pain shot through his body as something was violently shoved into his rear. He cried out, his body convulsing. He had already been torn and violated to the point that even the slightest touch was agony. The men loomed over him, their shadows swallowing him whole. His eyes widened, a wave of pure terror washing over him. He was at his breaking point. He couldn't do it. Not again. Not this.
"Wait," he pleaded, his voice a broken whimper. "Please, wait. Let me prepare."
He looked at the array of dildos and torture devices on the table, a cold dread settling in his stomach. Mr. Hugh was a sadist, a monster who took pleasure in inflicting pain. His pleas were met with silence. A hand clamped over his mouth, another hand pushed his face down, forcing him to take Mr. Hugh. His body was a vessel for their lust, a playground for their perversions. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The pain was too much. It was a crushing, all-consuming darkness that pulled him under.
He was losing consciousness. His vision blurred, and the world began to spin. Just as the darkness consumed him completely, a familiar, metallic voice echoed in the void.
"Character finally completed the quest and will be teleported back to his original world. No more summon after this life."
He heard the words, but they made no sense. A character? A quest? Teleported? "Oh, he remembers!!. He felt his body becoming light, the pain and exhaustion fading away. He couldn't understand what the system had said, but one thing was clear: he was finally free. Was he finally free? Was this truly the end of his suffering? He asked the empty space, a quiet, hopeful question.