She was in a gloriette cell, cold and damp stone, chained to a wall. In front of her were box seats without front rails; a theatre had been placed in the prison cell so that depraved men could enjoy themselves at the sight of her—at the sight of what they did to her—and the lack of rails to allow her to recoil further at the sight of them enjoying the sight of her.
To her right was a solid wall, dribbling with subterranean moisture, deep gray blocks without handhold, without escape.
The wall to her left held exit and torment. An enormously heavy wood door, reinforced with iron straps, bars, and hinges represented the only possible egress. Next to the door, a worn leather harness hung, slick with mildew. At the base of the harness was a small latching door, not large enough for escape…rather, large enough for whatever body part or desired instrument to be inserted from the hole, thrust into the room, thrust into the chosen orifice of whatever poor soul wore the harness.
Robin had worn the harness. Robin had felt the contact, the penetration, the hideous variety of choice, and had fought to exhaustion against the will of the unseen villain. Lewd men enjoying the theatre had sucked in their collective breath, had labored over their flaccid and erect members, had come to her screams of rage and horror, then had come again to her whimpers of pain and terror, and had reached a final climax as she slumped in agony, resigned to the eternal, brutal thrusts. This morning, a fist had been used at the onset, fumbling fingers at first, scuttling about her labia, pressing painfully against her clitoris; three fingers were unceremoniously pressed into her vagina; a fourth finger and thumb joined. The hand, fingers gathered and pointed, had advanced into her a few inches before a sudden, gasping shock of hurt exploded inside her: the hand forcefully made a fist and began energetically pumping it inside her. As his wrist and forearm traveled further and further into her, she held back the scream that must surely come. She bit her lip, blanked her mind, imagined nothing. When his knuckles at last pressed her cervix, she began the pleading she had so desperately resisted. "Please, please, stop, please." Chuckles and whispered murmurs and the slapping of skin on moistened skin were her only response. "Please—please," her begging rhythmic as her weakened body was dragged fore and aft with the force of this hideous anchor.
Breathing from the theatre seats became faster, ragged. She began to hear a few sighs of release, hear the splatter and drip of semen as unseen eyes feasted on her. Without warning, without an indicating change in tempo, the fist pulled violently from her body, fingers still balled up, eliciting a scream as the blinding pain clamped down on her throbbing and bleeding vagina. Ecstatic gasps and moans drifted to her tortured ears. Murmurs of approval evaporated into near-unconsciousness. As she slumped against the harness, she willed her mind to not wander. Remain blank. Do not think of friendship, of love, of any other humans at all. Thinking of her nakama would render her helpless; if she considered only a blank now-ness, she might survive with her sanity intact. Faces briefly flashed before her mind's eye: Luffy's certain determination to come for her, Nami's worry, Zoro surely fighting past whatever breaking point he may have had before, only to reach her now. Chopper, readying medical supplies. Brook feeling helpless and unsure of what to do; Sanji…she couldn't think any further. After the extent to which her body had been broken, her breasts and her sex abused, violated, destroyed…he'd never be able to look at her again. None of them would. A glimmer of hope like denial tempted her. Nami had been effectively a slave to Arlong; although Robin didn't believe the girl had been a sex slave, she was likely familiar with others who were. Zoro…a fighter must have seen women after the ravages of battle-mad soldiers. He'd likely seen young and old reduced to the forced conquest of a dozen crazed men. Perhaps…perhaps. But no. They wouldn't find her. Not until long after she was gone, raped to death and tossed on a heap to be fed to dogs in forgotten darkness. Hope was a hidden knife; it killed as surely as a battle axe.
The massive medieval door swung open and heavy boots clomped across the slick stone. Cold, calloused hands grasped her quivering body roughly, grunting in impatience. Unconsciousness still waved a tempting flag of surrender; she weakened and slumped further forward. Her captor's goon grunted in frustration and shifted to grab a hank of hair. The muscled hand held her up, gasping in pain like cold water, scalp full of a thousand exploding stars. He fumbled briefly with the buckles on the harness, and allowed her defeated body to fall out as the straps let loose. Still holding her only by her hair, he dragged her across the room to her waiting chains. She feebly reached toward him, whimpering. She snatched at his legs, his hand, trying to free herself. He seemed not to notice as he grasped her bruised wrists, first the right, then the left, forcing them into the cold, abrading manacles drilled into the stone wall. The chains left her arms elevated, the mounting about 10 inches above her head, shaking legs curled beneath her bleeding bottom. A single sob escaped her, despair taking her for a moment before she told herself once more, "clear your mind. Empty. Nothing. Empty. Nothing. Empty. Nothing". Her mantra carried her through to blackness, lolling head, closed eyes.