I suppose I shouldn't complain or wish my life were any different than it is now considering I am much stronger than I use to be, both mentally and physically. However with this in mind, I still can not and will not forgive my father for letting them take me.

After my mother's death when I was four, two days after my sister, Raina's birth, my father was in complete distress, contemplating his own life. Looking back, what little of him I remember at that age. He would always see me as his darling daughter, his big helper with my sister. Though he spent most his time drinking himself to a slow grave, I remember the kindness when he's come home and pick us both up as we got older and throwing us in the air.

For what it was, for the circumstances, life was bliss.

That feeling of happiness was cut short one evening. I remember this night vividly, though I was only nine year old with a vague understanding of what the commotion was about outside our humble wooden door. My trembling hands reached up to the sandstone, glassless window. I used all my strength to pull myself up, standing on the points of my tip toes to silently watch, in discreet stealth. What I saw, would haunt me for the rest of my life. My father's deal with the devil himself. I would find out later, that my life was worth only enough gold to last my father two weeks worth of food and mainly booze for himself. Two guardsmen, who I didn't recognize left out of view from behind the devil man. I thought nothing of it, still transfixed on my father's form. I knew something was wrong when my father mentioned my name and asked for more money, only to have the evil man in front of him, laugh and flick another measly coin at his feet, to insult my father's request. As if my father, felt my eyes on him, he glanced behind him, his haggard face a pale reflection of what I remembered as a child. I will never forget the first time, my eyes were met with the icy stare of that monster as he licked his lips with hunger, like a blood-starved wolf.

What felt like a century of my eyes locked in fear with the devil, was abruptly broken by two rough hands, ripping me from my perch at the window, tumbling me to the floor. A horribly, sickening crack came from my chest as I black out after feeling a rush of blood in my mouth, and still can not remember whose voice I heard last. A scream from my little sister, no...I don't remember her being in the room.

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My outlook on life as it went on from that point, seemed almost normal. I'd spend my days in this class like a student of my age, and spent my nights in an all girls dormitory style housing complex. We'd learn anything from spelling, arithmetic and literature. As the years went by the curriculum changed. I believe I was 14 or 15 when we started learning about ourselves per say and the other sex. After we learned about ourselves.....that's when we learned about coming of age.

I have to say, this was the turning point for most of us. The girls were separated from the boys as usual, to learn how to pleasure the other sex. Then we learned to perform.....I suppose that's the best way to term it. Some people made it to be "performers" Others were moved onto other forms of skills, these were less provocative, more normal.

There were many of us training to be warriors, carpenters, business apprentices, Tailors and many other normal job skills.

Then there were the outcast, or at least the undecided group. Mind you, we weren't the ones who picked what we wanted to go into. This was up to our "teachers", they were the ones who tested our skills. For the most unfortunate, the "prostitutes", they were tested in many ways, mainly rape in various ways. I won't go into it in detail, you can use your own imagination, and most likely....it would be what happened. I was one of those girls. They unfortunately found me not only beautiful, but intriguing. They told me it was my duty to share my beauty to all of the men willing to give me the attention. Women were no better here.

The next phase our our stewardship as I had heard many of our teachers speak of our training, meant we were moved to the actual temple. This would be what was known as the Temple of the Abyss.

When our training was over, we would be shackled up, put on display. Our clothing consisted of a brassiere of some sort of fashion and what would seem like a "thong" in modern day. Sometimes we would be displayed in just our naked flesh. Men and women from all over would come here to visit to leer, to rape, to smother all sense of respect of life out of us. Many of us, knew this wasn't right, but just as many accepted this to be normal life. When I was sixteen, I met the most handsomely sculpted young man I've ever met. He was a year older than me, with a head of curly black hair and strong features. He was skilled in fighting and a pleasure slave like me. We found solace in each others' company when we'd have free time.

We'd have long talks about how being owned the way we were bothered us. We swore to change it one way or another. Eventually he would teach me how to defend myself, how to fight without weapons and it was enough. I still can feel him behind me, his warmth, his strength, guiding my body fluidly in motion. I was becoming very skilled at fighting as the nights went by. We were becoming a weird sort of love couple, at least what we knew about love.

Our time together was cut short. In a way, he left the more peaceful way compared to all the others that suffered along with us. He died by his own blade during a practice. Did I feel pain from losing him yes. However, when you are trying to find a way to get away from your surroundings, you realize some people have a different way of...leaving. When I saw his body carried away as discreetly as possible, I saw the emptiness of his open eyes. I saw right through him, I felt jealous of his release.