Price of bread

The rain in this city didn’t wash anything. It just made the gutters smell worse.

I was leaning against the brick wall of a condemned building, my arms wrapped around my stomach to stop the growling. It was pathetic. I was twenty-two years old, and I was starving to death in an alley because a pimp named Linda owned my papers.

I wasn’t a regular sex worker. I was the freak. The rumor. A man who could get pregnant.

Men paid triple for me because of it. They wanted to see if it was real. They wanted to fuck the myth. And I let them, because if I didn’t, Linda would break my legs. Or worse, she’d break my baby-maker—the one thing that kept me alive.

Tonight, the hunger was winning. Three days without food. My vision was starting to blur at the edges. I was thinking about jumping in front of a car just to end it all.

Just one more, I told myself. Just one more man. Then you can buy a fucking sandwich.

That’s when I heard it. A smooth, heavy purr. A black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the mouth of the alley, its headlights cutting through the rain like lasers.

My stomach dropped. Cars like that didn't come here.

The back door opened. A man stepped out.

He didn't look like he belonged here. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a charcoal suit that probably cost ten thousand dollars. His hair was jet black, slicked back, and the rain just beaded off his sharp jawline.

But his eyes… fuck. They were grey, with these weird gold flecks in the center, and they pinned me to the wall like a butterfly on a board.

He walked towards me. No umbrella. He didn’t care about the rain. He just walked, his leather shoes slapping the wet concrete.

"Hey," I croaked, forcing a smile onto my cracked lips. I sounded desperate. I was desperate. "You looking for company, sir? I'm available. I'll do anything."

He stopped right in front of me. I had to crane my neck up to see his face. He smelled like expensive cologne, ozone, and rain.

He looked at me like I was a dead animal on the side of the road. His gaze swept over my hollow cheeks, my shivering body, the rip in my jacket.

"You look like shit," he said. His voice was a low, vibrating rumble. It didn't sound like an insult. It sounded like an observation.

I laughed, a broken, bitter sound. "Yeah, I know. I haven't eaten in a few days." I rubbed my hands together, trying to warm them up. "Look, I know I'm not pretty. But I'm the guy. The one you've heard about. The freak who can carry a kid. I'll let you do whatever you want to me. Whatever. Just… please. I need money for food tonight."

His eyes flickered. The gold flecks seemed to glow in the dim streetlight. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills. It looked like a brick.

He held it up. "You want this?"

My mouth watered. I nodded frantically. "Yes. God, yes."

"I don't pay for quick fucks in a dirty car," he said, his voice dropping low. "I pay for time. My time. I'm going to take you somewhere, and I'm going to use you until I'm bored. No begging. No stopping. You're a thing tonight, got it?"

Tears welled in my eyes. It was degrading. But it was also survival.

"Yeah," I whispered. "I got it. I'm your thing."

He grabbed my wrist. His grip was ice cold and iron-tight. "Good. Follow me."

He didn't take me to a hotel. He took me to the roof of the condemned building. There was a single, expensive leather chair sitting in the middle of the concrete, completely exposed to the storm.

I stared at it, shivering. "What the hell is this?"

"Sit," he commanded. "Sit, and take your clothes off."

My hands were shaking so hard I could barely work the buttons of my jacket. I shed it, then my shirt, then my pants. I stood there, naked, teeth chattering, rain plastering my dirty hair to my face. I looked pathetic. I felt pathetic.

He sat down in the leather chair, leaning back, his eyes glued to my body. He didn't look aroused. He looked like a predator sizing up a meal.

"Come here," he said. He patted his lap. "Sit on my lap. Facing me."

I walked over, my bare feet slapping against the wet concrete, and awkwardly straddled his thighs. I could feel the hard muscle of his legs beneath his expensive trousers. I was cold, but he was radiating heat.

He undid his belt with one hand. The metal clinked. He pulled his heavy, thick length out of his pants. It was huge. Thick. Veined.

I swallowed. "You're… big," I whispered.

"Yeah," he said, his voice deadpan. "It's going to hurt. Do you care?"

I shook my head. "No, sir. I'm used to pain."

"Good." He grabbed my hips with his gloved hands, positioning me over the tip of his cock. "Because I'm not going to be gentle. I'm going to fuck you raw, and you're going to take it."

He slammed me down onto his lap.

I screamed. It wasn't a sexy moan; it was a guttural cry. He was so big he split me open, and the rain making my body wet just made it easier for him to slide all the way in until his balls hit my ass.

He grunted, throwing his head back. "Fuck. You're tight. Even for a starving bitch."

"Please," I gasped, my hands gripping his shoulders. My ribs ached from the stretch. "Please, slow down."

He didn't. He grabbed my hips and started bucking up into me, hard and fast. The leather chair squeaked violently. The rain hammered down on my back.

"You're not allowed to ask for slow," he snarled, his eyes locked on mine. "You said you'd do anything. So take it. Take my cock like the street rat you are."

I cried out, tears mixing with the rain. It hurt. God, it hurt so much. But I didn't fight. I just let him use me, bouncing on his lap, taking every brutal inch.

He reached down and grabbed my soft, leaking cock. He stroked me roughly, twisting his wrist.

"Look at you," he sneered. "You're getting hard. You're a disgusting little thing, aren't you? You love being raped by a stranger."

"It's not… it's not rape," I sobbed, my body betraying me, getting wetter around him. "I agreed. I agreed, sir."

"You agreed to be a whore," he said, slamming up into me deeper. "Tell me you like it. Tell me you love being filled by a monster."

"I… I love it," I choked out, the lie tasting like blood. "I love your cock, sir. Please. Please use me."

He laughed—a dark, cruel sound. Then, he fucked me. For what felt like an hour, he fucked me on that leather chair, bending me over it, taking me from behind, slapping my ass until it was red and raw. He degraded me, called me a dirty freak, a hole, a broken vessel.

And I took it. I took it because every slap, every rough thrust, was putting food in my stomach tomorrow.

Finally, he groaned. His rhythm faltered. He pulled me flush against his chest, burying his face in my neck.

"I'm going to fill you up," he snarled. "I'm going to breed this broken body. And you're going to thank me."

"Do it," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "Breed me, sir. Give me your baby."

He roared, and I felt it—a hot, thick burst of liquid deep inside me. It felt like boiling water, burning my insides. It was so intense that it triggered my own orgasm. I spilled over his fingers, screaming, my body clenching around him like a vice.

He held me there, panting, both of us dripping sweat and rain.

Then, he pulled out. The emptiness was sudden and cold.

He zipped up his pants, looking down at me as I collapsed onto the chair, gasping, shaking, covered in my own cum and his.

He pulled out the brick of cash and stuffed it into my trembling hands. "Go eat."

"Thank you," I sobbed. "Thank you, sir."

He looked at me one last time. For a second, the cruelty in his eyes softened. Just a flicker.

"Don't die," he said quietly. "You're too interesting to die in a gutter."

He walked down the fire escape and vanished into the night.

I sat in the rain, clutching the money, feeling his seed drip down my thighs.

I didn't know his name. But I knew his seed was burning inside me.

And three weeks later, I would find out exactly what that seed had planted.