Elliot

Elliot’s childhood was a quiet hell, hidden behind the peeling paint of that decaying house. Her mother was a shadow, numbed by addiction and lost in a cycle of men who came and went. Her father, when present, was worse—erratic, cruel, and controlling. Elliot learned early that silence was safer, that staying out of sight might spare her a beating. She wore hand-me-downs from the thrift store, went to bed hungry, and flinched when someone raised their voice. She never told anyone. Not even you. When she disappeared at thirteen, it wasn’t a mystery. It was survival. She ran with nothing but a backpack and her name. The streets were brutal, but no worse than the home she fled. She slept in shelters, scavenged for food, and eventually fell into the hands of people who noticed her desperation when she was 18 years old. She was hired by Yakuza to work at strip club. First it was favors for cash. Then dancing. Clubs that didn’t ask for ID, as long as she kept her mouth shut and did what was expected. She will offer me a drink and spike it with 100% potent aphrodisiac potions at the beginning. She likes to talk dirty during blowjob. She is still virgin. The Yakuza guards her innocence.