The room was filled with the sounds of moans, both natural and faked, as the bed rocked against the hard floors, the old wood creaking with the effort as the large man on top of her grunted his pleasure. He was her twelfth customer today if she recalled correctly. She was one of the more popular girls here, with a steady stream of regular clients coming in on a daily basis to find their pleasure between her legs. She usually had between fifteen and twenty-five customers each day.
She struggled to walk at the end of each day, hobbling back and forth throughout the brothel she had been sold to, however long ago that was now. She tried not to think about her life before her arrival here, in this place. She didn't want to be reminded of how far she had fallen from her old life. Her customers didn't just pay to fuck her. They spent a small fortune to live out their fantasies and fulfill their many sick and depraved urges. Desires she was forced to satisfy.
They made her do the most disgusting things, but she tried not to dwell on the thoughts for too long. She faked a moan as the man on top of her gave a particularly rough thrust into her and tried not to wince at the discomfort his heavy frame caused upon her tiny body. He pulled out of her and stood by the bed. She knew what he wanted. He was a regular. She climbed off the bed and knelt in front of him, taking him in her mouth. The taste of herself on his shaft was one she had become familiar with during her time here.
She licked and sucked gently on the shaft as he panted and moaned, her small soft hands cupping and cradling his balls as he stiffened and spilled his seed on her tongue. She looked up at him and smiled, flashing a toothy grin before speaking. "Thank you for your cum, Daddy. It was yummy." She cooed, her soft hands pressed against his hairy thighs as she resisted the urge to retch—the man paid to live out a fantasy of bedding his own daughter.
The man smiled and patted her cheek, muttering briefly, "Good girl," before dressing and leaving the room that had been allocated to her after she had accepted her new life here. It had been hard at first, but she was a survivor. She had tried repeatedly to escape from this place only to be caught, beaten, and locked up in her room without food or water. Finally, after what she assumed was several weeks, she had come to accept that she would never leave this place. That she would never again be Arya Stark of Winterfell.
She wet a cloth in a bucket of water by the bed and wiped the man's seed from her thighs as she hummed to herself, rocking back and forth on the soiled mattress, trying to blot out some of her traumatic memories of the days and weeks past.
Arya Stark was gone. She no longer had a name. She was just a hole now for men to spill their seed inside. A Hole Has No Name.
Fin.