She tries to remember what it must have been like to be able to think. Dreams of the days when her mind was not just a clouded husk of what it once was but as Bee feels the man's long fingers trailing up her bare thigh like a spider up a tree she cannot bring herself to think of anything.
Suddenly she is aware of the wings behind her rising and falling with every slow breath she takes. As her mind focuses in on this it brings back the memory of when they first appeared. Two silk like appendages jutting out from the middle of her back. Something powerful enough to make a suggested visit to her aunt's house a permanent living arrangement.
Bee winces as the man's finger slips inside of her bringing the woman momentarily back to the present as the initial shock and pain subsides. Bloods hands are no different than the countless other men who had taken it upon themselves to use her as a source of pleasure.
Her aunt had seen something special in her. So special in fact that she felt a need to share it with the world, in the form of midnight visitors who paid to look at the "freak" and for the price was right price even more. She use to have nightmares about the men and women hovering over her. Hard members and fingers ready to attack but she has come to embrace them. There is a sense of pride of having been so wanted. Some had told her she was beautiful others Ugly and to this day she was still unsure of who she believed.
A hand, maybe the same one slides up her belly grabbing a hold of her breast while the other kneaded the back of her neck. "You're so tense" comes a whisper. Bee nods but does not speak. The man didn't know what tense was. Tense was running out into the street in the middle of the night hoping to get hit because what waited at "home" was far worse. Tense was biting into a slimy washcloth as trembling fingers tore at the remnants of bloody wings on your 16th birthday just before everything goes dark.
Blinking the woman searches her memory. As hard as she try's she can't remember how she met blood. One minute she is laying half conscious in a bathtub full of her own blood and the next she is laying atop silk sheets in a room far too immaculate to be human. She has debated for over two years now on whether or not to thank him. He had saved her from on hell but only in exchange for a nicely furnished one.
She feels his hand on her chin now turning her face to meet his own and moves pressing her lips onto his own. Leaning back she allows him to unbutton the loose dress shirt that covers her. Happiness is for the weak.