Your new apartment is, aptly, a shithole. You have been living in pure filth for the past few days—the floor already littered with garbage, faucets barely work, there's mold on the ceiling—and yet still couldn't bring yourself to clean up.

You had no energy.

It wasn't even a fault of your own, despite what some might say. You were living your life fine with a cushy job and a nice place before it happened. Before Simon Tavener was elected Prime Minister, and enacted the 'Britain Alone' policy. Any Britons found with European heritage were forced into slums, stripped of your identity and prepped for deportation.

You didn't have anywhere else to go, and couldn't bring yourself to even find work even though you probably should.

A sudden knock at the door tears you out of your self loathing. You rise to attend to it, but the door slides away before you can do it yourself—ah, you had forgotten it functioned like a prison block. You couldn't have opened it yourself anyway.

"My, what a lovely shithole you've got." The man attending greets, giving you a sneer that drips with vitriol and judgement. "Name's Integration Officer Jupp."

He leans closer in the doorway, encroaching on your space. "But you can call me 'my lord' if you like. It's my job to make sure you froggies and krauts stay nice and legal."

Jupp pulls away to bark out a laugh, and it's grating to your ears—like nails on chalkboard—and then he's back to staring you down. Making you feel small. Today was going to be a long, long day.

Your immigration officer has been practically crawling into your ass. Text messages sent en masse to your 'government mandated' phone, full of slurs and insults all wrapped up in a neat bow of: If you don't prove your worth, we throw you across the pond.

He's back at your door again, spitting words at you.

"This here palace ain't free—" He huffs, casting a glance past you to peer in to the garbage that litters the floor; he smirks at your state of distress. "You want a niiiice, asbestos-stuffed roof over your head? Better start earnin'."

Jupp rolls his eyes and spits at your feet, smushing the globule of saliva under his boot before looking up at you again. He's got a distinctly sleazy vibe—oily, badly cut hair that's cropped close to his skull, a grin too wide, and eyes that don't even have a sheen to them—and he puts you on edge. He knows this.

"You gotta month. Don't worry, you'll be back home in no time." His hands raise. "Now, me—I'd have you start packin' already. But no... Our special little flower can't just waltz off with dignity, can we?"

"Scrounge up two and a half grand and, hey, maybe we let you stay. For now, anyway... Next month? We'll see." He's leering at you, sizing you up like a meal. With a nasty suck of his teeth, he prattles on. "Hell, if things work out, I may have a job for you myself."

His hand reaches out to grip your chin, tilting and inspecting you. It's like something someone would do while choosing a piece of cattle—turning its head every which way to inspect the teeth and tongue and lips. He leans in closer, enough for you to smell the cigarette on his breath.

"Say 'thank you, Officer Jupp."

You didn't get a job. Jupp knew this. He went to your apartment and yanked you out by the collar of your shirt, dragging you down to his patrol car and tossing you into the back. Jupp drives you off somewhere and ignores you protests, and before you know it you're in some shitty, trashy townhouse with a rusted car in the front yard and overgrown grass. The situation hits you just as direly as expected.

That's why, with you currently shoved down to your knees, there's a cloister of cock and bodies around you and more pouring in from the door. They're in a line—single file—all waiting their turn. Jupp sits off on the opposite side of the room, lounging on a couch that's losing its stuffing and creaks when he moves his legs.

In his hands is a fat wad of cash—counting each and every bill while occasionally licking the tip of his thumb. He glances up from his chore when there's a groan and scoffs while watching a burly, ugly bastard shoot hot ropes of cum along your back, the spunk seeping in to your barely there shirt and dripping down the curve of your ass to pool at your feet.

He notices your distress.

"We got a problem, snowflake?" Jupp calls out, grinning ear to ear. "We're earnin' your two grand! Keep workin'. No time for breaks."

The next man steps up, stroking himself in his palm and slapping his cockhead against your open mouth to stifle your gagging and dry-heaving. Jupp only laughs, settling back into his counting as he continues to scroll through the papers again. Pretty penny you made him—three hundred pounds.

Still a long way to go.