Piece by Piece

It's been over a month since Ramón raped her and left her lying like a dirty rag on that shitty hotel bed. Sara's still alive, but barely. The job at the café pays next to nothing, the salary's a joke, and the customers are pigs who stare at her ass and throw disgusting comments while she serves them stale coffee. The hotel rent is still a fucking problem, and though Ramón hasn't touched her again since that time, the threat lingers, hanging around like a rotten smell that won't go away. She's behind on payments again, two months this time, and the bastard made it clear he's not giving her any more extensions unless she spreads her legs or pays with something more than tears. Sara's screwed, drowning again, with no money in her pocket and her stomach growling from hunger.

One day, while wiping down tables at the café, she remembered that guy who talked to her weeks ago. A fat old man with a rat-like face who always ordered the same black coffee and looked at her like he wanted to eat her alive. The last time, he'd given her a grimy business card, saying she had "potential" and that if she wanted to make easy money, she should look him up. Sara had thrown the card in the trash that same night, but now, with desperation clawing at her guts, she rummaged through her memory to recall the name: "Carlos, modeling advisor." What a load of shit, she thought, but she pulled out her phone and searched for the number she'd accidentally memorized. She was so fed up with everything that she decided to give it a shot, even though it reeked of a trap from a mile away. She called him, her voice shaking, and the guy told her to come to his "studio" that same afternoon.

Sara arrived at a shitty building on a street full of skinny dogs and trash. Carlos's "studio" was a dumpy room with peeling walls, a stained old couch, and a cheap camera on a tripod. The guy was there, sweating like a pig, with a smile that was more like a grimace. He told her not to worry, that it wasn't runway modeling or that magazine bullshit, but something "simpler." He explained she'd pose for hot photos—underwear, tits out, ass up—the kind of crap perverts buy online. "You don't have to fuck anyone, relax," he said, scratching his belly. "You just pose, I sell the pics, and you get your cut." Sara felt a lump in her throat, but also a sick relief: at least she wouldn't have to let filthy old men like Ramón screw her. She agreed, disgust rising in her chest, but thinking maybe this way she could pay the rent and eat something besides stale tortillas.

Carlos put her to work that same afternoon. He gave her a cheap thong and a bra that barely covered her tits, and told her to stand in front of a grimy white backdrop. "Smile, look sexy, shake your ass," he ordered while snapping the camera. Sara felt like an idiot, but she did it, her eyes empty and her face hard. The guy spewed shit like "spread your legs more" or "touch yourself a little," and she obeyed because she had no choice. After an hour, he gave her a hundred pesos and told her to come back tomorrow. A hundred fucking pesos. Sara stared at the crumpled bills, thinking they wouldn't even cover a week of rent, but it was better than nothing. She went back to the hotel with her head down, feeling like she'd sold a piece of herself for peanuts.

The next few days were more of the same. Carlos took increasingly raunchy photos: no bra, hands on her tits, on all fours like a bitch in heat. He showed her how to set up accounts on social media, use hashtags like #sexygirl and #hotlatina, and reply to messages from losers who begged for more pics for a few bucks. "It's all about hooking them," the bastard said, wiping sweat off his forehead. Sara started gaining some followers—drooling creeps who wrote shit like "you're so hot" or "show me more." Sometimes they'd send tips privately, ten pesos here, twenty there, but it was never enough. Carlos kept most of the money, claiming he "invested" in the camera and internet. Sara swallowed her rage, because even though she wasn't screwing anyone, she still felt like a cheap whore.

The problem was the money didn't cut it. After a month, Sara was still broke as hell. The hundred or two hundred pesos Carlos gave her per session didn't cover rent, and Ramón was knocking on her door again, with that hungry dog look that made her skin crawl. She told him she'd have the money soon, but it was a lie she didn't even believe herself. At the café, she barely made tips, and what she earned from the photos went to food and bus fare to Carlos's "studio." She was trapped again, with the same knot in her stomach and the same feeling that the world was pushing her to the edge.

Meanwhile, Carlos was getting worse. At first, he just asked her to pose, but over time he started dropping comments that made his intentions clear. "If you're up for something more private, we'd make more," he said one day, staring at her tits with lecherous eyes. Sara played dumb, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he tried to touch her or worse. He'd already told her that "fully nude" pics sold better, and though she refused, he kept pushing, saying it was "her chance" to climb out of the hole. The pressure was there, like a black shadow choking her. Sara looked at herself in the hotel bathroom mirror and saw a stranger: skinny, with dark circles under her eyes, shame etched into her face. She hated Carlos, she hated Ramón, she hated those assholes messaging her, but most of all, she hated herself for not finding another way out.

One day, after a session where Carlos made her take off the thong and pose with her legs spread, he gave her just eighty pesos. "The market's slow," he said, scratching his balls. Sara stayed quiet, her hands trembling with pure rage. Eighty fucking pesos wouldn't even buy her a loaf of bread, and the rent kept piling up like a mountain of shit. Carlos told her to come back tomorrow, that he had an "idea" to make more money, but his tone was slimy, like he was already picturing her in his bed. Sara left the studio with her stomach churning, knowing the bastard wouldn't be satisfied with just photos much longer. It was clear he'd want to fuck her sooner or later, and with no money or anywhere to go, she didn't know if she could say no.

On her way back to the hotel, she thought about Alicia, how that bitch had turned her life around with a sugar daddy. For a second, she imagined saying yes to Carlos, letting him screw her for more cash. But the disgust hit her like a punch. She didn't want that, didn't want to be a real whore. Though, fuck, she was already posing naked for a creepy old man who sold her pics to who-knows-who. How far was she from that, really? She got to the hotel and collapsed on the bed, her body heavy and her head buzzing with noise. Ramón would be back soon, Carlos would want more, and she still didn't have a cent. The world had her by the tits, and it wasn't letting go.