HER BODY HIS PRICE

The night air was heavy, almost suffocating, as I stood outside the black gate, my hands trembling. The street was quiet too quiet. Only the distant hum of a generator reminded me that the world was still moving. But mine had stopped the moment I decided to come here.

I inhaled deeply, then knocked.

A few seconds later, the gate creaked open. Chris stood there in boxers and a white singlet, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Vanessa? This late?"

"I need to talk," I said, barely meeting his eyes.

He stepped aside, still groggy. I walked past him, each step feeling like a countdown to something irreversible.

Inside the house, nothing had changed. The same expensive chairs, the smell of strong cologne and engine oil, Chris was the kind of man you'd walk past on the street without taking a second look. Fair in complexion and chubby, he wasn't breathtaking, he was just there. Not the type of man I would ever dream of dating if I had a choice. But life doesn't always give you the freedom to choose, especially when survival is on the line.

He had a large round tummy that often made his clothes look like they were fighting for air. His height was average, neither short enough to call small nor tall enough to be impressive. And then there was his bald head, always shiny as if he oiled it deliberately. It gave him an older look than his actual age and somehow made his features seem more exaggerated than they already were.

His eyes were a deep brown, often darting around as though he was suspicious of everyone. But what bothered me the most about Chris wasn't just how he looked, it was how he spoke. Every time he opened his mouth, a few drops of saliva would fly out with his words. I often had to flinch or turn my face slightly to avoid them. It wasn't just irritating, it was unbearable. Watching his wet lips move, knowing I'd have to sit there and pretend to be okay with everything, was torture.

He had this confidence about him that I never understood. Maybe it came from the money he had money that made him feel powerful, wanted, and entitled. Maybe he believed that because he could provide, he automatically became desirable. But he wasn't. Not to me.

Every time we were together, I felt like I was pretending. Pretending to be interested. Pretending to care. Pretending not to feel disgusted when he reached out to touch me or spoke too closely. His laugh was loud, his cologne too strong, and his ego too big. He loved attention, loved the way people treated him like a "big man" just because of his wealth. But beneath all that noise, he lacked something deeper real connection, real charm, real decency.

Chris was a man with money, yes. But that's all he ever had. And sadly, for a while, that was enough for my mother. But never for me.

"Sit," he said. I didn't.

"I... I can't do this anymore, Chris," I blurted. My voice cracked. "We need to break up."

Chris blinked slowly. "What?"

"I've tried. For two years, I've tried. But I don't love you. I never have."

Silence fell like a hammer.

Chris's expression twisted hurt, confusion, and anger all at once. "So... what is this? Joke night?"

"I'm serious," I whispered. "I stayed because Mum said... she said we needed the money. But I'm tired of pretending. I can't live like this."

Chris laughed bitterly, a sound that didn't reach his eyes. "So I was just your ATM?"

"No! I never .... Chris, please. I'm sorry."

He stood up slowly. "Sorry? After everything I've done for you? I bought you phones, clothes and so many other expensive stuffs."

"I'll pay you back," I said quickly.

"With what?" he snapped. "You have a job now?"

I looked down. My heart was racing. "No, but I'll find a way."

He stepped closer. "Or... you pay me tonight. In full."

I stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean." His eyes were cold now. "Sleep with me. Then we're even."

My breath caught. I wanted to scream, to run, to disappear. But all I did was stand there paralyzed.

"Mum was right," I thought bitterly. "Money over everything even me." "Money over everything, even me."

"See, Chris, we can talk about this," I said shakily, my voice trembling. "There's no need to go this far."

I backed away slowly, heart pounding in my chest. Deep down, I knew the truth, I had never even let Chris touch me in that way, not once in the two years we had dated. And now, the look in his eyes was no longer love, it was possession.

"Oh, come on, Vanessa," he growled, stepping closer. "You really think I'm going to let you walk away, just like that? After everything? Without me taking something back?"

I opened my mouth to protest, but the words never came. In one sudden, terrifying motion, he grabbed my arm and dragged me down the hallway. I struggled, pleaded, begged "Please, Chris, don't do this!" but he wasn't listening.

Within seconds, I was thrown onto his bed.

I tried to rise, but he was already there blocking me, ignoring my cries. My eyes widened in horror as he removed his singlet, then his boxers. This couldn't be happening. Not like this.

"No... please..." I whispered, my voice cracking.

But outside, the world remained silent. No one heard. No one came.

And then, my nightmare became real.

When it was over, I lay there numb, broken, and exposed. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I stared at the ceiling, trying to disconnect from the pain. Chris stood at the edge of the bed, a wicked grin on his face, his tongue flicking out mockingly as if proud of what he had done.

I turned my face away, covered myself with shaking hands, and wept.

You're probably wondering how I ended up in this mess. My name is Vanessa and this is my story.