Dmitri shifted on his heels, a small adjustment that meant something. Rashid caught it too—they had that now, a shared rhythm, a默契 that didn't need words. Dmitri's hand went to his own belt, and Tang Xinyi, still tied to the table leg, watched from the floor. Her throat was raw from screaming. Her body was a map of what they'd done to her, every inch of skin carrying evidence.
"I need to piss," Rashid said, and laughed. Not a joke. A statement of fact, delivered with the same casual hunger he used for everything. He looked at her, then at Dmitri. "You too?"
Dmitri didn't answer. He just walked over to where she lay, still naked, still tied, the table leg cold against her wrists. He grabbed her hips and flipped her onto her stomach, her face pressing into the grimy deck. The movement was efficient, practiced—like turning a piece of furniture.
"No," she said. The word came out thin. She knew what he meant. She'd understood the moment Rashid spoke.
Dmitri's hand found her cunt, two fingers sliding inside without warning. She was sore, raw, but her body still responded—a wet sound, a clench around his knuckles. He pulled out, looked at his fingers, and grunted. "She's ready."
Rashid was already behind her, his hands on her hips, his cock pressing against her ass. "Hold her."
Dmitri knelt beside her head, one hand on the back of her neck, pushing her face into the deck. She felt Rashid's cock at her entrance—not the one she was made for, not the cunt he'd already taken. The other one. The one that still bled when he forced it.
"Please," she said. The word surprised her. She didn't know who she was saying it to.
Rashid pushed. She felt the stretch, the burn, the wrongness of it. Her body fought even as her mind went somewhere else—counting bolts, tracing the grain of the wood beneath her cheek. Three bolts in the floorboard. A knot in the wood shaped like a bird.
Then Dmitri's cock was at her cunt, pressing against the slick heat of her. She felt both of them at once, filling her entirely, two separate invasions meeting at the same wall inside her.
"Breathe," Dmitri said. Not kind. A command.
She breathed.
They pushed together. She felt herself split open, her body stretching to accommodate two men who had no reason to be gentle. They weren't. They pushed until they were fully inside her, both of them, her belly full of their cocks, her ass and cunt stuffed.
Then Dmitri's body went still. She felt a warmth spreading inside her, wrong, wrong, wrong—hot liquid flooding her womb. Not cum. Something else. Something that burned.
Rashid laughed, a high, wild sound, and she felt the same warmth in her ass, a stream of piss emptying into her bowels. She felt it filling her, leaking around the seal of his cock, dribbling down her thighs.
"There," Dmitri said, his voice flat. "Now you're really ours."
She lay there, impaled, full of their waste, and she didn't scream. She didn't fight. She just lay there, counting bolts, feeling the warmth spread through her belly, her body accepting what her mind couldn't name.
They pulled out. She felt the release of pressure, the trickle of what they'd left behind. Rashid slapped her ass, right on the fresh scar of 海军出品, and she gasped.
"Up," Dmitri said.
She didn't move.
He grabbed her hair and yanked her upright, her knees scraping against the deck. "Up. Now."
She stood. Her legs were shaking. She felt their piss running down her thighs, a warm stream that mixed with blood and cum and something else she didn't want to name. She was naked except for the metal rings through her nipples and the scars on her skin.
Rashid threw something at her. Her uniform jacket and skirt, crumpled from the floor. "Put it on."
She dressed in slow, mechanical movements. The jacket hung open because the buttons were gone. The skirt felt wet against her skin, the fabric soaking up what was still leaking from her. She didn't bother with her shirt—it was torn beyond repair.
Dmitri grabbed her arm and shoved her toward the cabin door. Rashid followed, his hand on her other arm, a grip that told her exactly how little choice she had.
The door opened.
She stepped into the light.
The corridor was full of men. Chinese sailors, officers, petty officers, conscripts. They stared. She saw their faces—shock, confusion, horror. They saw her uniform, torn and wet. They saw her bare legs, the marks on her thighs. They saw the fresh wounds on her face, her swollen lips, the empty look in her eyes.
No one moved.
Dmitri walked past them like they weren't there. Rashid grinned, his gold tooth flashing in the fluorescent light. "Give way," he said in English, "We're leaving."
They parted. A corridor of men in uniform, pressed against the bulkheads, watching her be walked past them. She saw a young ensign's face—barely twenty, a boy with a soft jaw and wide eyes. He looked at her, and she saw him understand, and she saw him look away.
No one stopped them.
They reached the gangway, the small boat bobbing below them against the side of the ship. Tang Xinyi was roughly bundled down, and she stumbled, falling to one knee on the fiberglass deck. The engine was already running, the hull vibrating under her.
Dmitri grabbed her and forced her to the center of the boat, where there was more open space. He pressed down on her shoulders until she was kneeling, then forced her legs forward and up. "To your shoulders," he said. "You can bend that far."
She didn't resist. She let him fold her, her thighs pressed against her chest, her calves hooked over his shoulders, her back flat on the cold deck. The position felt intimate and horrible, her body entirely exposed, the angle forced and obscene. Rashid grabbed her wrists and bound them behind her back with a length of cord, the knot digging into the already raw skin.
They had made a trophy of her. A display.
From the deck of the small boat, she could see the warship. The crew had gathered at the rail, a dark row of uniforms watching as the pirates maneuvered away. She knew what they saw. Her, on the deck of the escaping boat, bent open, held up like a flag, the raw red characters on her back and the metal hoops through her nipples gleaming in the evening sun.
One man held up an arm. Not a salute.
The boat hit a wave and her body lurched, pressed deeper into the unspeaking deck. She didn't scream. She didn't pray. She just watched the ship shrink on the horizon, the gray hull growing smaller, the figures turning into dots.
When the warship was a sliver of metal on the edge of the world, Dmitri pulled out a satellite phone. He held it up, framing a shot against the sky—a picture of her, perfectly spread, bound and bent, the uniform she had worn for six years still clinging to her body. "For your navy," he said, with no clear intent, and sent it with a few thumb motions.
Then he knelt beside her, one hand on her face, turning her chin toward him. "One year," he said, calmly. "My message for them: give me one year, and I give them back a bitch." His thumb wiped a smear of something from her cheek. "You're 海军出品 now, officer. Navy product. And I am not finished with you."
She didn't answer. She couldn't.
The engine vibrated its rhythm through her ribs and into the deck as they sped across the open water. The fresh air felt good on her skin, smelled of salt and diesel and the wide horizon. She'd spent her whole life breathing the recirculated air of ships and barracks. She'd never thought the open sky could feel like a prison closing in.