Soulfuckers! E-Book

Natascha

• Herausgeber: SALAX
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Seitenzahl: 142

Beschreibung

A true story ... The SHOCKING BESTSELLER! "I always thought when consuming drugs they can fuck my body and do whatever they want with me. Because I hate my body, I'm fat and ugly and bulky – and I don't deserve better anyway. But during the moments when the drugs stop working I realize that those people do also fuck my soul. That hurts, well, no, there's more to it than that: it kills you without destroying your body, you're left behind, knowing you're fucked up, beyond cure, and that you gotta live with it …" Having just come of age, the author tells about her childhood, having grown up in a children's home, started to consume drugs at the age of twelve, about street prostitution motivated by drug addiction, the tough life amidst johns, pimps and drug dealers and her attempt to escape – in one way or another. Unrelently honest and very outspoken, she describes the other side of the world we live in, a life devoid of comfort, without a family, yet subsidized or at least tolerated by the state.

Leseprobe

Soul Fuck!

You fuck my body and rape my soul

Natascha

translated by Veronica Greenfield

1st english edition

©opyright by Natascha and U-Line Publishing 2012

Cover: Thomas van de Scheck, www.tvds.deTranslation by Veronica Greenfield

©opyright of the original version 2007

by Natascha and Ubooks GbR

Courtsy of Ubooks GbR, Diedorf, Germany

Title of the original version: Seelenficker

ISBN: 978-3-944154-99-2

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written consent from the publisher.

All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. U-Line is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

Published by

U-Line

Neudorf 6 | 64756 Mossautal

Germany

www.uline-store.de

The more aliases you’ve got, the better!

CHAPTER 1. The Zippo.

I wish the world wasn’t as it is. Would be great if you simply had to close your eyes, make a wish and get it granted. Sad truth is: Life doesn’t work like this. Life has a different set of rules.

A couple of years ago, I stopped asking myself “Why me?” Not because I didn’t want to ask myself this question anymore. Not at all. It was because I became distracted at some point. And then simply forgot about it altogether. Guess I must have been about thirteen at the time.

Almost exactly a year ago, I wrote a letter. A farewell letter. I made sure I employed my best handwriting since my mother had never been able to decipher my scribbling.

I placed the letter on the kitchen table. And it was there where she discovered it. Unfortunately, she thought the letter was from one of my friends. She didn’t recognise the writing. Way too beautiful to pass off as mine.

I had been almost serious on that particular day. And I’ve grown a lot more serious since. What a stupid term. Serious, I mean.

I wanted to die.

I am going to die, earlier than the rest of you lot.

My mother just doesn’t get it. Actually, she never understands anything. Ever. With one exception though: when the money’s running out once again, she slaps me across the face, yelling at me. Screams that I am a fat, ugly, high-maintenance and unwanted pussy, leeching off her and being responsible for driving away her beloved hubby. Usually, this happens around tea time. Or when I am trying to sort myself out.

But to be absolutely honest here, I don’t think she’s entirely wrong. Who am I? Well, I am a fat, ugly, unwanted pussy. Can’t deny it. And she knows this. After all, she’s my mother.

The only thing I am not is being expensive. I can’t ask for top rates. Even without them I know that I am a fat and ugly pussy. And a daft one, too. Always have been.

That’s what they call me. And those who don’t say it out loud pay poorly – which is basically the same as saying it out loud, innit? I mean if I wouldn’t be fat and ugly, blokes would automatically pay more, thinking: Hey, what a sweet little hottie. Let’s pay her more!

I need to change position. My shoulder feels kind of weird. Could be pain. Can’t really tell. I am on Meth. Is supposed to keep the pain away. At least more or less.

Whatever – does it hurt?

Pain isn’t good. No, pain isn’t good at all. If I was the president of the world I would outlaw pain. You know, like: “From now on, no more pain in this world! End of.” Pain hurts. Pain makes you cry. And I will probably start crying very soon if my body has to stay in this position any longer.

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t listen.

Oh, fuck.

I am a cry-baby, a stupid little slut, a daft cow who tends to turn on the waterworks rather quickly.

Crap. Here we are. My nose is already running, the snot slowly making its way down toward my upper lip. I am going to snuffle anytime soon. That’s when he’ll realise that I am crying.

Tears are running down my face. I can’t help it. They are going­ to smudge my makeup. I don’t wear much makeup. Makes you look old which lowers the price even more. Besides, who wants to shag someone who looks as old as the missus he’s got at home?

Means I’ve only put on eyeliner which makes my eyes look beautiful and large. And the paint is running down my face right now.

Hearing myself sobbing I think: You stupid bitch! Get a grip! Wanna be a pro? Wanna make some money here, or wha’?

This constant bursting into tears is childish, in the entire negative sense of the word! If he realises that I am crying he will pay even less.

I am gritting my teeth. Would have liked to wipe my face. But my hands are tied behind my back. Literally. Handcuffs. Turns him on. And to be honest, being fucked doggy style isn’t too bad since this means I don’t have to look at their bodies or faces. I can close my eyes and pretend to be somewhere else, far away. Just me. And my dope. This is the mindset required to make the whole hooking business endurable: stay completely insensible towards what’s happening outside, just keep dancing with the drug, and maybe top it up from time to time. That’s what I am constantly telling myself. To be honest, you can’t really enjoy a trip when working the streets. But it smoothens things. Drugs help you getting through it, make things appear bearable, sometimes even okay. But “dancing” sounds so much nicer.

I know that I am going to be soar afterwards. Terribly soar. Because he is too big. There is too much of him that he wants to push inside me.

This is going to hurt.

Later, I am going to sit in the bathroom, crying my eyes out because it hurts. Later, when the drug starts to loosen its grip. But I still have got some left. Means the pain subsides once more and all I can feel is this awesome impression of someone giving away candyfloss for free inside my body, with the candyfloss tickling me from inside. And then there’s nothing else but the dope and I. And the drugs are taking my hand, leading me away from the pain.

If I ever manage to get myself a real boyfriend I’d like him to take me and my child to a midsummer fair. And when he asks: “What about some candyfloss?”, I shall look beautiful, smiling at him, saying: “I’d love to. But only if we gonna share.” After which he’s supposed to kiss me. And we’ll laugh and have fun, just like everyone else.

He’s having fun. He said he likes it tight.

And I am tight.

No surprise there. As I am five-one and under 6 stone, I am supposed to be tight! I shouldn’t complain though. I look twelve years old. Which is what enables hooking guys like him in the first place. In my line of work, no one pays for big boobs or wrinkles. In other words, the younger you look and the longer you can keep that look, the better.

Just two more guys and I’ll be able to afford some extra Meth. Means, it won’t hurt any more.

Means, life will begin. For a moment.

Or life will stop. For an instant.

Or maybe forever.

Actually, to tell the difference between living and not living and between good life and bad life is a rather complicated business. Because what is real life? The so-called real life, I mean?

Live to consume. Or live to be consumed. One pissing hell of a question, innit?

Without dope I feel absolutely crap. Depends on the drug though. This might sound totally crazy but being on H causes pretty much the same symptoms like coming off Meth. And ­being on Meth is like coming off H.

In my case Meth leads to a state of relaxation, a sort of cosy lethargy. My body doesn’t seem to belong to me anymore and does its own thing. Perfect for getting laid. Going cold turkey or coming off makes me extremely tired. Besides, I can hardly keep myself on my feet since my sense of balance is going nuts as well.

Usually, I feel completely head-fucked.

No matter how much I try I am not able to focus on anything, not even for a tiny moment. My brain seems to have turned into a prism separating my thoughts into the seven colours of a rainbow.

Although the result is far from looking that nicely.

The light in my brain is brown and grey, and I hate myself, mostly because I want to hate myself. I hate myself for taking drugs to help me no longer hating myself.

Nevertheless, once you are high, the flash is a moment of infinite beauty. Because you simply forget to live. This and because you are nothing else but a part of the drug.

The guy finished. The pressure inside my arse ceases. A quick look along my tummy at my legs shows me his cum running down my thighs. Well, at least I didn’t have to swallow it, I think. Nonetheless I can’t avoid shuddering.

Disgust.

I urgently need to go to the loo.

I want to wash off the sticky fluid. I want to take a shower. I want to get away. As far as possible.

“Hang on! Where are you going?” the guy hisses, grabbing the handcuffs.

“I need a loo.”

“I’ve paid for two hours. Two hours aren’t over yet. Means you stay right where you are!”

I surrender. I am feeling belittled. I stay. The sticky fluid keeps running down my legs.

My personal highlights are these shy blokes who eventually have grown some balls to approach a little pussy like me, only to prematurely jizz in their pants and bugger off red-faced and completely embarrassed. That’s how you make fast money in my trade.

Besides, most of them don’t show again. After all, they totally bodged it. In front of a child!

However, this guy isn’t like that.

I recognize the pattern. And I also sense the boredom he’s ­feeling deep inside him.

This isn’t good.

Actually, he’s sort of right, I think. He pays for two hours. And he wants to make sure he gets what he’s paid for. Which wouldn’t be all that bad if these dipshits would be able to keep it going for two hours, and not already jerk off after ten minutes or so. Because after they jizzed they usually come up with the really nasty stuff.

This is a big turn on for them, means we can continue shagging.

Thank God for that.

Getting fucked hard is probably the best thing that can happen to me in situations like this. Although things get definitely messy when it turns out that I’m dealing with one of these totally fucked-up sicko-freaks.

The blokes who pay are always fair.

Yes, they want two hours, two hours of my life. They take two hours of my life away from me, just like that, and I am constantly amazed how cheap my actually is. No market value. Too much supply. Too many suppliers.

Some of them ask beforehand whether it is okay with me if they do this or that – and then do it. I am wondering all the time why I am so unhappy about this. After all, it’s just fair, innit?

Besides, it’s those who don’t ask who usually do the worst things to you.

I remember being in a shop once to purchase some makeup. Shoplifting isn’t my cup of tea.

Anyway, while being there I overheard the manager saying to one of these overly done-up shop assistants wearing an apron dress: “Customer satisfaction always comes first! That’s the ­secret of running a business successfully. Because only happy customers will come back. It’s called customer retention, you know?”

My customers are coming again and again.

Inside me. On top of me.

All this thinking makes me forget where I am. I completely missed the fact that the guy is now preparing for round two. Thinking is rubbish. Thoughts are trash. Sure, they help you mentally getting away from your punters but the downside is that you aren’t able to keep an eye on them.

Does he use a condom? Is he about to give you an STD? Is he going to make you pregnant? Does he do stuff that wasn’t agreed upon, stuff his wife would never ever let him do to her!

He uses zip ties to attach the handcuffs to the bed frame, thereby forcing my arms over my head.

Which is bloody painful. In spite of me being on drugs.

I scream. Nobody cares. Including me.

“Man, this hurts. Stop it!” I say. His only response is a laugh.

His hands start to massage my body and his voice says: “Bad girls deserve punishment. You’ve been a bad girl, haven’t you? Tell daddy that you’ve been a bad girl and that you want to be punished severely.”

Great. The daddy-and-his-girl routine then. Fuck, these guys are the worst ones. I mean what type of guy likes to play ‘Daddy Fucking His Daughter’?

This is going to be messy.

Sometimes, these sicko-freaks suddenly pull a gun or a knife out of nowhere, pressing it against your neck, and you obey and do what they want. You don’t give a crap about whether it is a toy gun or not – in some cases it isn’t – because if this happens the dope is switched off and you are one big piece of scared shit.

And despite I am entirely sure that God isn’t too keen on seeing me earlier than he absolutely has to, I start praying that this will be over soon and there will be some life left inside me afterwards.

“Daddy, I’ve been behaving really badly,” I say, only realising that I am saying this after I already said it.

According to the rules of the game, this is normally followed by daddy either spanking my or fucking me doggy style.

Both of which Big Daddy did already.

In some rare cases I am dealing with serious braincases who go very hard straight from the beginning and then want even more. Much more. Having said this, today’s guy was definitely playing in the Premiere League of freaks.

However, when I eventually realise this, it is already too late...

“Hey. Listen, I gonna hand over another fifty if you allow me to try something on her,” I overhear Mr Super-Sicko telling my pusher.

“Sure, cool with me! But don’t damage her!” is the response coming from the adjacent room. This arsehole didn’t ask me. This nutjob asked my pusher! But then, I have no say in all this. So, why should he ask me?

The pusher is my hero. He protects me.

My pusher has a reputation.

He cares for me and even procures customers now and again. Sometimes really well-off guys amongst them. However, when it comes to this type of customer, he always insists on dealing with them himself.

Learning how much he actually charges them was purely ­accidental. At the time, my pusher had been busy, driving to Berlin to restock his supplies. Means the punter handed the cash over to me: A whopping three-hundred and thirty Euros! My share of which was thirty.

Don’t get me wrong. I somehow like my pusher despite he’s such an arsehole. I mean, it’s not just the thirty Euros I get. It’s also the stuff he provides. Unfortunately, he always gives me just enough to serve the customer.

The bad thing is that I need dope for the rest of the day, too. And thirty Euros – or sixty when I am soliciting business ­myself – are still way short of the going rates. Means you’ve gotta be a machine a fucking conveyor belt to earn the amount of cash required.

My pusher provides customers. Which, in turn, earns me the dosh to buy dope. This is considered a pretty fair deal out there, on the streets.

Suddenly I hear myself screaming like a banshee. Way before the pain penetrates the drugs and reaches my brain, and even longer before my brain realises that what’s coming in is, in fact, pain. Frantically, I am trying to wriggle myself free, thereby nearly dislocating both my shoulders. I hit my head against the cast-iron bed frame. And from the drug-induced haze of this rotten trip with that freak arsehole right at the centre emerges The Ultimate Pain!

This is not good.

I haven’t taken anything for a long time, and the pain is so real. I need dope. Dope is gonna fix this, I am telling myself. Maybe it’s not me, just somebody living in my head. I don’t know. I can’t tell the difference anymore. Don’t know who I am, who I was and what this is all about. Besides, why am I screaming? After all, isn’t this what I wanted? No idea.

“Fuck you! Stop it!” I shriek, starting to move my body frantically, trying to escape the flame. However, he is much stronger than I. One hand is around my baby-like hip, groping my pussy from below. The other hand sports a Zippo, bringing the flame close to my arse and my vagina.

The pain is excruciating.

It bites!