My ears rang. James had screamed. Someone else screamed too, but I couldn’t see who in the darkness. How many people were hiding here? My body, which had tensed in agony, slowly relaxed.I forced my eyes open. A pair of brown leather shoes stood neatly before me. I tilted my head back. The man in the brown shoes gripped the worker’s arm firmly, wrench poised midair. I nearly pissed myself. Drool trickled from my lips. My vision flickered black before coming back. The man in brown shoes was Mr. Acacia—the stranger I’d met in the trailer. The one whose hands were deathly cold. The one who had tried to pull out my tongue.The worker yanked his arm back roughly.“What? Now you want to interfere?”“I’m not here to interfere,” Mr. Acacia rasped, his voice hissing. “Before you get to work… I have one question.”The workers, who had cocked themselves to punish me, fell silent and watched him. He took the monkey wrench from the man’s hand. Tapping my palm with it, he circled behind me. Bound as I was, I couldn’t turn to see him.My body stiffened again with dread. The wrench in his hand frightened me. I braced for him to slam it into the back of my skull at any moment. I knew nothing of him but his name—and that he was dangerous. Terror coiled in my gut.He finished his circle and stopped in front of me. Thankfully, he did not strike my skull with the wrench.“Suppose you’ve smashed this Marine’s fingers,” he said deliberately. “Index, middle, ring, little finger—bones crushed so they’re useless. Then what?”“What do you mean, ‘then what,’ you bastard? Dump her off the highway,” Oligamy snarled, holding the torch aloft. The flame lit Mr. Acacia’s gaunt face in harsh relief.“That’s too… easy,” Mr. Acacia said. Everyone strained to hear. Even I listened, transfixed.“And such a punishment wouldn’t frighten this Marine as much as you think. Remember, he’s a decorated veteran. Spent years in the Afghan war, right? He’s seen things—broken a few fingers in combat and barely blinked. Isn’t that so? Wouldn’t it be more fitting to give him time to reflect on his misdeeds?”“So what, you say?” one worker grumbled. I wanted to ask the same—what sick idea was in his head? Mr. Acacia hissed again.“Does anyone here know this Marine was a bottom?!”A hush fell. Then Mr. Acacia’s distorted lips curved in a slow grin. I managed a hollow laugh.“You’ve been listening quietly—who the fuck are you?”“I’m one of the few who know you were a bottom,” he spat in metallic tones. “You attended St. Bartholomew’s Boarding School, didn’t you? Sold your body to the boys there.”He bent at the waist and pulled a stack of photographs from his pocket. My head spun; breath caught. No—impossible. The headmaster had burned those photos before my eyes. They could not exist. Yet he spread them one by one on the floor: images from that time.Pornographic stills of me raped by the boys while I lay unconscious in my bunk—clear as day. The workers pressed me down and stared. Oligamy lowered his torch, illuminating them. My shame, sharpened to a needle, stabbed my chest. I could hardly breathe—but I could see each photo with startling clarity. One by one the silent onlookers edged nearer with torches, peering at the pictures.In his ragged voice, Mr. Acacia narrated:“Sold to the boys… sold to the dorm matron… oh yes, sold to the teacher too…”I couldn’t speak. Oligamy muttered as he stared at the photos:“Huh… this fucker…”In that mutter I recognized the tone of my abusers.“So you not only steal, but take it up the ass too?” someone growled, and I trembled.“Bet he did the military that way too…” Mr. Acacia added softly.“Can’t break ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) his habits, sold his asshole until dishonorably discharged.”“Ray…” I heard a small voice. I turned my head. Matt stood among the workers, pale and drenched in cold sweat. He looked at me, glanced at the photos, then crept backward into the dark. My chest tightened; I couldn’t breathe.“So your proposal,” Mr. Acacia said, “instead of maiming her fingers, we gut this bitch’s asshole wide open, yes?”Silence. I closed my eyes. His voice rang like a cruel judge’s sentence.“If there’s a hole you can use for free, why ignore it?”I heard a swallow. The hands pressing me changed, slick with sweat. Then someone above my head spoke urgently:“No—that’s not right. Look, we don’t have that dirty hobby. Don’t make things complicated. Just cut off a few fingers and dump her. Isn’t that enough?”The workers murmured among themselves. I forced my chin up to see their faces—but I lay face-down while they stood. Impossible to read them. Mr. Acacia went silent. They huddled, whispering, edging away. A sudden rush of relief filled me; I could breathe again.Better to lose a few fingers than endure what they proposed. Not again what happened at school—too many of them now, too strong, too rough. Deception was impossible. This… this itself was impossible. I bit my lip and kept utterly still, praying they would stick to mutilation and forget the rest. I desperately wanted them to continue whispering to each other and ignore me.Slowly, the torch lifted. Oligamy straightened, torch in hand. A dread washed over me. He spoke:“Sure, there are girls everywhere—no need for that asshole hole. We could get girls in Leverham or lure them from the set.”“Right, girls are easy,” another agreed.“But you can’t find ‘this’ anywhere—they’re not like girls. If she’s free, might as well try. Fingers you can cut later.”Oligamy’s words chilled me. He was inciting the others, acting as if allied with Mr. Acacia—an inside man guiding the mood. I stared at the photos on the floor. For five years, I’d abandoned everything—my entire life—to flee those memories. But they had caught up with me, specters of Bluebell, snatching me by the ankle like shadows. The photos, ashes once, lay before me again. The boys I’d burned were back, men at my mercy.I could not escape Bluebell. They were alive—and had thrown the dice again. Could I survive this time?Dozens of hands seized me, flipping me onto my back. I saw the faces of fourteen men. Their brutal looks promised unspeakable cruelty.“This one’s calm now—must be excited for revenge.”One worker yanked down my jeans and boxers, soaked from water. I’d fled too fast to don underwear. Simon’s gel still lingered in me—mercifully, less tearing than raw assault. They tossed my pants aside and lifted my legs high, exposing me fully.Needle-sharp shame stabbed my chest, stealing my breath. They mocked me, pinching and kneading my buttocks before hovering near the hole. A finger thrust into the gel-slick orifice. I jerked—but more hands pinned me down. I was utterly helpless.“Wow, you know how to grip. Look, it’s clinging when I pull out. Ha, fuck.”“If he had no balls, I’d be turned on.”Someone grabbed my scrotum and yanked hard. I gasped. Pants rustled; a zipper slid. More hands gripped me, pressing my knees to my temples. Unfiltered gazes rained down. One voiced excitement:“Wanna taste before I decide? Let’s fuck him, then.”I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them slowly. No need to close them; I glared at the faces framed between my legs. I spat through clenched teeth:“You filthy cocksuckers—how much do you think you can fuck this asshole hole? Hurry up and cum… ugh!”Without warning, a rigid cock slammed into me.“If you don’t wanna deepthroat, keep your mouth shut,” a voice commanded overhead. In the next instant, he began to drive in and out. His cock slapped my buttocks as he thrust roughly inside.And that was the beginning. I never moved from the position with my knees by my ears. They simply pulled my cheeks apart, inserted their cocks, then withdrew—rape after rape. They never touched anywhere else—only my buttocks, pinching or slapping them. Occasionally they yanked or stomped my testicles. Each thrust shook my body; I bit down on my lip, enduring it. Every one of the fourteen men came inside me. I felt their hot seed spill down my buttocks. My hole grew loose and welcoming to any cock. During the assault, I counted them: fourteen.They cursed and derided me, but I said nothing. Like a cheap bottom whore, I received them all in silence. Shame dulled over time until I felt nothing. I stopped wishing for it to end—in truth, I wished it would continue forever.I wanted to keep being raped by them. I lacked the strength to face what came after. I couldn’t live again as I had for the past five years… so I wanted it to just go on and on.No… maybe I’d always wanted this: to offer my asshole to unseen men, to be treated like trash, like a filthy prostitute, a toilet dumping filth.Perhaps I had longed for it all along. Although I’d fled the ghosts of Bluebell for five years, the sex I’d had since—

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