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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.
The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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- This story ist part of the Used and Abused Tournament
- It competes against Freak Flag Fluttering in the R16-8 match
- Theme:It’s Not What It Looks Like
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Sweat Shop
"Two sources are a credible rumor. Three is a story."
Pablo nodded. He had heard this before. From this woman.
"I'm just trying to warn you, miss. This might be getting dangerous."
Tia scoffed, swirling the whiskey at the bottom of the tumbler. "Please. I've heard it all before. Mortar shells going off a hundred meters away? 'You should get to safety with the other women.' Smell of tear gas on the wind? 'This isn't a safe place for a lady like you.' You put in a few years in 'dangerous' places, you start to recognize that men are just afraid you're going to witness them shitting their pants."
Pablo pursed his lips. He had been twelve when his country was taken over by a military junta, sixteen when those men, in their shiny uniforms, had been hung by the popular uprising that had overthrown them. Now in his twenties, he had seen courage, and bravado fueled by ignorance, and bravado masking fear. And he knew very well that there were actual dangers out there in the world, and attitude rarely spared anyone from getting their throat slit or their body torn apart by an explosion.
But the conflicts had left his home with few allies or trading partners, the country viewed as unstable and... unclean, somehow. A rabid dog, likely to bite the hand that tried to feed it, or at least leave the politician or CEO who tied their ship to its fortunes with egg on their face. Tia Beaumont's cash spent as well as anyone's, and she had made it clear that she wanted his contacts and knowledge, not his opinions.
His eyes wandered over her body as she downed the drink. She might flaunt her bona fides as a war zone reporter, but she was clearly not used to the local tropical heat. Her tank top clung to her breasts, and he noted that she wasn't wearing a bra. Her khaki shorts made it clear that she was keeping up with her shaving regimen. Between her pricey, first-world good looks and her free spending, it was really only a matter of time before someone decided to make her disappear. Even if the pretty blonde wasn't trying to intrude where she truly wasn't wanted.
Still, one more try, if only for his conscience.
"It has been a hard few years, here, miss. A hard decade, if I'm being honest. The garment factories are one of the few ways that honest women can bring home a little money. I know you think you're shining some kind of light of justice on a cruel corner of the world, but these women, they're not going to thank you for it, if you get them closed down. And the factory owners will be worse."
"Sometimes things have to get worse before they can get better. How many women collapse over their sewing machines in these sweat-boxes, after eight hours without so much as a sip of water? They might be making a living, but they aren't actually... living."
Pablo could imagine a similar motto done in needlepoint on some big, upper-class house's plush cushions. Or on a poster on a wall in a yoga studio, perhaps beneath a photo of a hang glider.
He sipped his water, the tourist bar's beverages being well beyond his means, and tried not to let his eyes return to the beads of sweat sliding into his hostess' cleavage.
Tia slipped a folded American bill underneath her empty tumbler, rising from the booth as the Village People's "YMCA" started to blast over the bar's sound system for the second time since they had arrived. The ceiling fans barely stirred the wavy golden locks that her perspiration had pasted to her bare shoulders.
"No time like the present, Pablo. Third time's the charm."
Misters underneath the front awning sprayed them down as they made their way out into the oppressive night, vendors in the street just beginning to set out blankets on the sidewalks to display their goods to what passed for the tourist nightlife.
Pablo wondered that pursuing their joint "errand" at night wasn't someone's definition of insanity, but kept that insight to himself.
They made their way through the city on foot, the ceaseless press of people trying to foist fliers beneath garish neon giving way to the understated apartments of those lucky enough to have steady work in the tourist quarter, surrendering to the cinder-block houses, those in turn losing glass windows, power, finished structures. Blacktop gave way to gravel, with long stretches of unbroken jungle foliage abutting the narrow lane. Where a fenced-in diesel generator moaned out its fumes, they left the road, following a string of power lines along a poorly-maintained path through the vegetation.
The sweatshop didn't make much of an effort to blend into the overgrowth, and yet its brutal banality begged the eye to overlook it. It was better built than the prior two Tia had visited, the high, mossy concrete walls speaking of a greater permanence than the poorly-ventilated buildings of aluminum and tin that had housed the other operations. Its bunker-like box implied that it didn't expect to need to relocate, suggesting the proprietors had powerful connections, or deep pockets. There were no windows, and only two doors, both with harsh sodium lights illuminating them, and security cameras on posts glaring down upon those who presumed to pass through them.
"Where do we..." Tia frowned, gesturing vaguely at the limited options for entry.
"This is the front door. My contact promised to leave it open for us."
Tia slid her camera pen from her purse. The bit of amateur spy kit took excellent pictures in low light, and while modern authorities were happy to try to confiscate a snoopy reporter's cell phone, they couldn't be bothered to abscond with what appeared to be a slightly pretentious writing instrument.
"All right, then. Lead the way, Pablo."
The door led them through a short, dim hallway. At the end, a greasy, overweight man, sitting on a stool behind a podium, looked up, recognized Pablo, and grunted. He turned his eyes to Tia and allowed them to skim longer, leering, never bothering to make eye contact before returning to his clipboard.
"I guess that does it for introductions..." Tia murmured.
The open door at the hallway's end led into a larger room, where she was surprised by the sudden brightness of the ceiling lights. It wasn't uncommon for sweatshops to have lights on each station, but neglect overhead lighting, encouraging attention to detail while maintaining an oppressive sense that every worker was under constant surveillance. Not here.
In fact, if this was going to be Tia's final encounter with the country's sweatshops, she was beginning to think it would make for a singularly underwhelming finale. There were only six stations on the floor, and the women seated at the sewing machines wouldn't make Central Casting's list for "oppressed peasant woman". Indeed, they seemed to enjoy the products of a significant cosmetic regime: eye liner, rouge, mascara, and lipstick were evident, and their hair looked like it was clean, conditioned, and styled with a certain amount of care. Even their clothes looked more like some action movie's idea of "attractive peasant girl" than the clothing of the working poor: clean, form-fitting, and of simple but flattering cuts.
Aside from the bored lardbag at the door, Tia also didn't see anyone who looked like a foreman, ready to swoop in to berate and threaten anyone who appeared to be falling behind quota. The women seemed to speak pretty freely to one another, a few sprinklings of obscenities in the local language all that Tia could recognize, usually followed by catty-sounding laughter.
She frowned, looking up at the caged lights in the ceiling, surveying the room.
"This... Doesn't even look like it takes up a third of the floorplan." She snapped a few pictures with her pen, knowing already that they weren't likely to be part of her article. "And the women all look like they're working on different articles of clothing, rather than an assembly line. What is it with this place?"
Pablo nodded. "This is more of a waiting area than anywhere real business goes on. Keep going, and we'll get to the nasty stuff."
"Good," Tia replied, licking her lips. "I didn't come all this way to tour a Costco break room."
The inner walls were also concrete, Tia noted. No cheap room-dividers to partition things off when more space was needed for storage, or re-arrange to pack a few more workers in for a rush job. The seeming permanence of the whole operation was by far the strangest thing about it, and Tia knew there had to be more to the story.
As they threaded their way between the sewing stations, one of the women said something, grabbing her own breasts and jiggling them while looking at Tia, and the other five women laughed. Tia smiled vaguely and attempted to appear unconcerned.
The door Pablo led them through joined another short hallway, this one lit only by a dim red light at ankle level. Pablo knocked- tap-tap!... tap!- then pulled the door wide.
Tia squinted as the lighting, once again, brightened dramatically, then stumbled forward as Pablo shoved her through the door. As she tried to regain her balance, rough hands seized her arms from either side. She struggled and kicked at those who restrained her, blinking, trying to clear the spots before her eyes, and heard swearing, then her vision swam as she was struck across the jaw.
"Tut," sneered a hard voice. "Not in the face, if you please..."
A hard fist buried itself in her belly, followed up with another, just below her rib cage, in the solar-plexus. Pain shot through her torso, and her breath fled her lungs.
"That will do," said the voice. "Do you understand that you shouldn't struggle, Tia Beaumont?"
Struggling to pull in another breath, blinking rapidly, Tia half-hung in her captors' grip as she endeavored to keep her feet underneath her. She looked in the direction of the purple blur, and nodded, her head hanging on her neck.
There was a pause, and then another punch caved in her diaphragm. She fought not to vomit.
"And that is so you understand that your opinion of how things should go forward no longer matters, Tia Beaumont. Do you understand that?"
Tia wheezed, letting her assailants hold her up, as she fought to get air back into her lungs, deciding not to respond before she did so in case further assault was imminent. When she could finally draw air again with reasonable certainty she wouldn't pull anything nasty into her airway, she nodded again.
"Good."
She shook her hair out of her face as the men who held her half-carried her forward. As her vision slowly began to clear, she was able to take in more of the room.
It looked a bit like a department store's photo studio, if that department store took fairly fucked-up photo sessions. The large room had spaces cut out for a variety of background settings, with black and yellow tape bordering the edges and tripods set up, sometimes on multiple sides, just outside of each one. Some of the "sets" looked relatively mundane, like the plush red bedroom, or the hot tub "spring" amidst the fake rocks and foliage, complete with a fog machine spilling mist over the plastic masonry. But over there was a big wooden "X" with very plausible looking restraints of chain and leather. And there was a padded leather bench, next to a table full of paddles and whips. And there was what looked like a gynecologist's table, with a rolling cart laden with sex toys, several of which looked like they shouldn't be put into any normal human orifice under any circumstances. And...
She shut her eyes again, and turned her head back towards the door she had come in.
"Pablo..." She gasped. "Pablo...?"
Lingering, shadowed, in the doorway, Pablo looked sheepish, but not terribly sorry.
"I did try to warn you, miss, but you wouldn't hear me. Their money spends as easily as yours, and they offer a lot more of it."
"And thus, Tia Beaumont, your story about abuses in the sweat-shop industry ends. And your story about the underground pornography circuit begins. Not that you'll ever get to tell it."
"Pornography...?"
"A thriving industry, here. A pretty woman can earn a good four or five times what she would hunched over a sewing machine. I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear it, as concerned as you are about the plight of the poor, mistreated female worker."
Now that she could make out the source of the voice, she studied it, promised to make herself remember it for later. Excessively white teeth in a scarred, pock-marked face. Shiny black hair, slicked back with pomade. A trim beard, probably grown to hide some of those marks. A charcoal suit, likely not made at a local sweatshop.
"And as I believe you are likely growing to piece together, this is not, in fact, a sweat-shop. Although there will be sweating."
One of the men who held her laughed unpleasantly, then rattled out a translation to the man on her other arm, who laughed as well. They were hard men, leanly muscled, with dark, short-cropped hair; one had a facial scar that looked like it had come from a knife or razor blade, barely missing an eye. It was only now, in this company, that Tia realized how comparatively genial and safe Pablo looked by comparison. If Pablo had spent his life running or talking his way out of nasty situations, these two had taken what a vicious life had served them by hitting back twice as hard.
Tia twisted one of her arms tentatively in the hands that held them, and got her arm jerked for her troubles in a way that warned of the ability to pull her shoulder out of socket if she renewed her resistance.
“There are women ready to do some very nasty things to make some real money in this city, Tia,” the “boss” continued, walking slowly around the aisle between the “sets” like a corporate presenter, or perhaps a zookeeper. “I have my pick of the prettiest girls, and a line waiting to take their place. But I don't have a lot of lily-white blondes with Victoria's Secret figures on my roster. I have absolutely no doubt that my clientele will turn you into a top earner.”
“The only real question is: are you going to be my sweet, slut-princess? Or do you need to be my kicked bitch-dog, first?”
The casual way the question was fronted made Tia's stomach drop as much as the words itself.
She coughed, trying to steady her voice, to turn this into a negotiation. “This... is a bad idea,” She started, her words speeding up as the man in the suit sighed and rolled his eyes. “There are people who know where I am. Important people, back in the States...”
“Yes, yes,” The man sneered. “I'm sure your publisher would be very annoyed that their advance disappeared into a third-world hell-hole without a trace. Surprised? No. Ready to throw good money after bad? No. But you know where there is good money now, Tia? There's good money betting that if some nugget of video of you getting gangbanged happens to slip free of the local economy, no one else is going to want to follow up on the sweatshop story.”
Tia shivered, increasingly aware of the walls closing in, and how weak, pleading, and girlish her voice was becoming as she continued to try to talk her way out. “I'd be worth more as a ransom than...” She didn't even want to say it. “...I can bring back the story of how hard life is, here. How brazen and lawless it is, how totally men like you are in control. Let me tell your story! I'll...”
“You'll get a big scoop, and inspire a dozen people just like you, looking to prove how goddamn diligent you are, how your journalism degrees are worth more than the fancy paper they're printed on. Did I not make it clear that your opinion on your future no longer mattered? I guess not. My bad. Gentlemen, would you give our 'girl reporter' here a baptism?”
And then Suit's two enforcers were dragging her towards the “hot spring”, her feet sometimes scrabbling to find purchase, sometimes dragged behind her, other times hoisted through the air like some kind of especially awkward ballerina.
“Wait- wait wait wait...!”
Then she was flung down on her stomach, half of her body hanging over the edge of the hot tub, a hand tangled in her hair behind her head as her arms were pinned behind her. She had just a moment to look down at the wildly churning water before-
-Tia's abbreviated scream caused her to take in a nose full of water. It was hot, and heavily chlorinated, and burned; she forced her eyes and mouth closed, fought not to take any more water in even as her body reflexively strove to expel the awful chemical soup, purge itself of the substance scorching her sinuses, and take in good, fresh air-
She was likely under for perhaps five seconds before she was pulled up, spraying and snorting with absolutely no dignity, gasping for air.
Suit was behind the station's camera, following the action.
“Dunk her deeper,” He instructed, followed with a snatch of the local language for his other thug. “I think that top will cling to those big tits real nice, with a proper immersion...”
“No, d-”
This time, she had just enough warning to close her mouth and breathe out through her nose, as they shoved her, face-down, into the water, past her waist. Five seconds turned to ten, then twenty, and Tia tried to measure out the little bursts of bubbles that jetted to the surface around her amid her rising panic. Never had she felt so helpless. She couldn't even breathe, unless they deigned to lift her out; such a modest effort, to put an end to her. Her legs kicked, knowing it was futile, and even as her fighting-and-fleeing animal brain wondered if this was the end of its existence, a shame-inducing hope that she was valuable enough to them to be worth that same modest effort toward her extraction from the hot tub kept her struggling to keep giving out measured bursts of air, measured bursts of air, as the pressure seemed to crush her chest, as her temples throbbed, as-
The bright lights filled her vision. One ear, full of water, washed and rushed as Tia took deep, harsh, rasping breaths.
“Oh, yes,” Suit leered, filling the camera's frame with wet, translucent tank top cradling round swells and panic-hardened nipples. “You're going to be a fucking star. Now that we've established that breathing is a privilege, let's see if you can earn it by sucking, cunt.”
The thugs had a race to get their pants open, the one on Tia's left winning, smacking Tia's throbbing cheek with the over-sized truncheon of his cock.
“Open,” He hissed, slapping her face with it again.
The swirling, steaming water and its laundry-level chlorine still filling Tia's field of vision, she parted her lips, not even really considering the consequences, only desperate not to be shoved back underneath the roiling froth.
The blunt rod pushed past her lips, started to press past her teeth, withdrew. She was struck in the back of the head.
“Fucking open. Get the teeth outta the way, or lose 'em!”
With a whimper that disgusted herself, she opened her mouth wider. The hand that had struck her clutched her hair, and the man's cock immediately stabbed for the back of her throat.
Her gag reflex kicked in, and her body hunched forward as her stomach and throat contracted sharply. With a pleased grunt, her attacker repeated the assault, the hand tangled in her hair keeping her from allaying the punitive, choking thrusts. Tia's hands slapped fruitlessly against his thigh, only drawing cruel laughter as he continued to fuck her throat, and she recognized that she wasn't even trying to hit him as hard as she could, because she was fucking terrified of what he might do if she actually hurt him.
Saliva drooled from her mouth to spill over the fake rock around the hot tub, and Tia struggled not to vomit. The hard rod was jerked free of her mouth, and the man spit in her face, spattering her cheek as she squinted at the dazzling lights that had been strobing in her field of view with the thrusts, then slapped her viciously. Her vision blurred as she was shoved sideways, into the grip of the other man, another hard cock waiting to despoil her pretty mouth.
“Don't go easy on her, boys,” Suit jeered, watching her face flush in the camera's digital viewfinder. “This piece of ass decided to invade our country. It's only right that she get invaded right back.”
Tia moaned softly as rough hands pressed against her temples, jamming her head down against the thug's crotch. The unwashed cock flexed in the back of her throat like it was trying to wrench her throat open, pulling back only to pump forward again, pulling her, trying to get deeper. She coughed and choked, and the cock flexed more, her painful attempts to clear her airway seeming only to fuel her assailant's urge to gouge further down the fluttering passage. Her head was jerked back and forth, seeking new angles to pummel her burning throat, the sputtering, gagging sounds and violent spasms shuddering her body going unheeded.
She didn't try to bite her attacker. A particularly long, deep thrust simply caused her jaw to close slightly in a desperate attempt to ease its aching, supplicant spread, and her teeth might have grazed the throat-pummeling shaft, but the reaction was as violent as if she had deliberately bitten him in defiance. Tia weakly piped an apology, but was slapped across the face again, forehand, then backhand. Then the thug's hands were on the neckline of the clinging tank-top, ripping the wet material apart, exposing her torso to the camera's leering, hungry eye. Furious hands filled themselves with her breasts, gouging the supple flesh, pinching her nipples, then slapping the buckling swells, over and over, as she wailed her useless apologies.
Suit licked his lips, drinking it all in. “A pity you can't seem to 'wrap your head' around what's required of you, Tia Beaumont.” His cruel voice dripped with pleasure at his own double entendre. “I think you're lubed-up enough. How about we give our guest a round at the 'D' suite?”
Even as his instruction was repeated in the local tongue, the thug continued to slam his open hand against Tia's bust, clearly enjoying how the beautiful reporter cringed with the report of his hands on her soft flesh. His contemptuous assault slowed with great hesitation, and stopped only with the promise of further insults in the near future.
She nearly fell forward as they dragged her to her feet, which only got her another backhand across the jaw. Her head continued to swim as they half-carried her towards the leather bondage bench, where Suit was already priming the camera to continue recording Tia's descent into the grasp of depravity.
The blond reporter was shoved forward, and her body buckled forward as her thighs slammed into the, it turned out, not-all-that padded leather of the bench; as her body folded, one of the men grabbed her wrists and set about shackling her hands in an uncomfortably stretched position near the bench's base while the other pulled her khaki shorts down her hips, along with the thin nylon panties she wore beneath them. The camera leered lovingly over her toned backside as her ankles were secured to the bench's base as well, leaving her bent, taut and displayed, over the luridly crimson upholstery.
The non-English speaking enforcer rattled something in a questioning tone to the man behind the camera.
“Thanks for asking, Jay. Yes, we're stocked on antibiotics, so feel free to go between the new girl's asshole and her pussy.”
Her hips thrashed and twisted against the bench, which the camera also observed with delighted attention.
“No... no, no...!” Tia wailed.
Grabbing her ass firmly, the thug peeled her open, set his saliva-slicked cock against her puckered anus, and began to press the girth of his cock relentlessly forward. The leather bench proved to be a well-designed tool for assisting in forcible sodomy, and Tia screamed wetly into the leather as the man behind her set about cramming his entire length into Tia's cramping, spasming bowels.
Feeling the woman shudder beneath him as he ground his hips against her haunches, he lifted himself above her, pulled most of the way out, and dropped himself onto her, reasserting his cock in the clutching channel with a loud slap of flesh upon flesh. Tia grunted, gasping out the hurt radiating from her lower body, still twisting helplessly against the bench like it might make some kind of difference.
Her rapist pumped into her ass, slowly, languorously, enjoying the feeling of her body's tension trying to prevent his conquest, proving that it could not. Then he drew out of her at once, leaving a burning vacuum inside of her where her body continued to clench against an invader that was no longer present.
And a moment later, spreading her buttocks open again, he drove himself into her pussy.
The bench proved no less useful in keeping her anchored for vaginal rape, and far from seeking her g-spot, the thug sought to ram his hardness against her cervix, making her back arch as new cramps spiked through her pelvis and stomach. The only bright spot was that her vagina slowly lubricated against the assault, an effect surely born of self-protection rather than arousal. The passage of his manhood through her pussy was almost bearable, but for the worsening throb of it striking home against her uterus.
Her body reflexively tightened on each impact, trying to prevent the next, worsening the friction. She was going to be very, very sore, and, worse than not caring, her attackers were pleased. They were going to put the American bitch through the wringer.
Any hope Tia might have felt dissolved when, after an agonizing return to her asshole accompanied by a sudden, vicious up-tick in the tempo of the strokes, her attacker pulled out, breathing hard, slapping her ass and laughing.
She expected to feel the spray of his seed on her back or buttocks; she was not entirely unfamiliar with pornography. But instead, he circled her, picking up one of the paddles arrayed next to the bench, and his colleague took his place, similarly over-sized anatomy rubbing against her abraded labia in anticipation.
“No, Tia Beaumont,” Suit purred. “You're not getting out of this that easily. This is the marathon, not the sprint. You're going to fill whole memory cards, all by yourself...”
Her head dropped against the leather, and Tia sobbed.
Young Man! There's no need to feel down...
Pablo was disappointed to discover that the tourist bar's drinks, while smoother than the local spirits produced by bootleggers, were also decidedly watered down. It wasn't a good habit to get into, anyway, even though he could temporarily afford it.
After his initial order, the servers avoided him, as though sensing the local wasn't going to be ordering round after round and tipping commensurately. That was fine. He pushed the memory card he had purchased from a street vendor less than a block away into his cell phone, thumbed through to the video player.
As he had been promised, his face was blurred. Tia looked up from red satin sheets of the bed as he pounded away between her legs, dry tears streaking her cheeks, looking up at the man obscured from the video's audience with exhausted, hopeless betrayal that had apparently caused some of the viewers to describe it one of the series' most sadistic sequences.
Like the tourist bar's drinks, there were some things you allowed yourself to try just once. Ejecting the card, he tucked it away into a vest pocket for future contemplation.
A middle-aged man with an expensive camera on a strap around his neck looked around the bar furtively before sliding into the booth across from him.
“Pablo, is it?”
Pablo nodded, finishing his drink. As though cued by the appearance of a foreigner, a waitress flew to the table to take the new arrival's order. Requesting a soft drink, the man waited until the waitress departed before continuing.
“Look, I've been hunting a lead on this for a while now, and I'm tired of having my time wasted. I'm willing to put forward good money if it's true... I've been told that you might have a solid lead on the fate of one...”
“...Tia Beaumont.” Pablo finished, nodding gravely. “I have no idea of her whereabouts, but I can definitely provide hard evidence of her circumstances.”
They began discussing terms.
"The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules. " (Rule 2.b.iii)
