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fortification.
    Days and weeks flew by in a dreamy, muffled haze. Maximillia remembered little; passing, blurry visions of Mardo’s sweaty rotund frame hovering over, laboring to empty himself into her once more. Sometimes it was just him, other times she recognized Chota sitting against a far wall watching his portly potentate violate her sodden crevices. There were visions of foggy silhouettes voyeuristically entertained by her carnal humiliations. Sometimes, as she felt Mardo’s slimy girth worming around inside her she’d see an unidentified cock dangling towards her face. As a prisoner to the Gatekeeper, she’d willingly take this anonymous member into her mouth until it sprayed its warm contents across her cheek or forehead.
    Mardo knighted her an honorary member of the Bay Bruisers association by inviting several of his boys to sample her. The Gatekeeper was a relentless taskmaster, ensuring her passive servitude, even as she lowered herself to service greater and greater debaucheries. Her “initiation” stretched out over days where her drugged form became a veritable buffet for an endlessly rotating cast of Bruisers. Mardo watched for the most part, verbally coaching her on her performances and giving advice on how to improve her oral techniques. During this marathon she’d lost an astonishing amount of weight with her diet consisting largely of Gatekeeper and a deluge of Bruiser semen.
    Maximillia spun into an endless void where time lost all meaning. Days, weeks, months all flew by with only faint sparks of significance. She had been marked by the Gatekeeper, a n unwilling slave to it. Mardo was her dealer so she acquiesced to his every request. Now, she resembled little more than a hellish archangel in all of its infernal glory: bloodshot eyes sunken into dark sockets, her face a skeletal visage, rib bones pressing against sweat-dabbed skin and weak, bony legs incapable of maintaining a sober balance. Her only valuable utility at this point was as a receptacle for Mardo’s daily seminal deposits, or the seminal deposits of whichever lucky member of the crew he allowed into her.
    Often times Maximillia would wake up in the middle of the night crumpled in a heap on Mardo’s couch, naked from the waist down, only a cum-stained blouse to cover her, with globs of dried semen in her hair, on her face and thighs and her vagina a beaten, frothy mess. How many lovers she’d serviced that night she didn’t dare speculate on. She’d spend hours in the bathroom clinging to the toilet seat, spewing out a bellyful of Gatekeeper, semen and undigested food into the bowl. Her hair would sometimes fall in, marinating in this foul stew. The extended lack of nutrition barely allowed her to remain conscious. She should’ve been worried but she had been deadened to the capacity for self-preservation. Still, her mind centered solely on the demonic blue liquor, which Mardo doled out to his benefit.
    Her new family unfortunately required financial resources to continue their wild ways so she learned the martial ways by which the gang pilfered. Of that they had refined to a science. A crude, sloppy science, but a science nonetheless. From armed robberies of docked cargo ships to midnight warehouse raids, the gangs’ transgressions ran the gamut. They collected protection money, did random armed and unarmed robberies, muggings and even got into gun and
drug-running, prostitution, extortion and kidnapping. Maximillia was embroiled in all of it. Mardo masterfully guided her along with promises of Gatekeeper at every turn. When she ran her first robbery with the rest of the crew, they congratulated her by getting Maximillia her first ink job. A tattoo of a little inverted star was etched onto her right ankle. This concluded her rite of passage and her marriage to the gang was consummated. The successive string of crimes was followed by a successive string of ink jobs. Before long, her arms and legs became a full-color tapestry