**The Pimping of Oliver**

The air was thick with tension as Oliver's father stood in the room, his eyes fixed on his son's face, but with an unsettling indifference. The men, who had been frozen in place, slowly began to stir, their faces twisted with a mix of excitement and anticipation. One by one, they approached Oliver's father, each dropping a few coins into his palm. "How much?" one of the men asked, his voice low and gravelly. " Fifty cents," Oliver's father replied, his voice flat and emotionless. The men nodded, some of them dropping pennies into his palm, while others used dimes or quarters. Oliver's father seemed to accept any denomination, as long as it was under a dollar. He didn't even seem to care about the exact amount, just as long as he got something. As the men waited in line, Oliver's father began to undress further, his movements slow and deliberate. Oliver felt a wave of revulsion wash over him, but his body seemed to move of its own accord, dropping to his knees as he prepared to comply with his father's twisted desires. The first man in line stepped forward, a sly grin spreading across his face. Oliver's father nodded, his eyes fixed on the coins in his palm, and Oliver felt a sense of despair wash over him. He was no longer his father's son, but a commodity to be bought and sold. As the sessions continued, Oliver's father seemed to forget about his son altogether. He was too busy counting his earnings, a small pile of coins growing in his palm. The men, too, seemed to forget about Oliver's humanity, treating him like a piece of meat to be used for their pleasure. The room was a blur of faces and bodies, all of them twisted and distorted. Oliver's mind was numb, his body moving on autopilot as he complied with the demands of his father and the men. He was a puppet, controlled by the strings of his father's greed and the men's lust. As the hours passed, Oliver's father grew richer, his pile of coins growing larger. He seemed to have no shame, no sense of decency or morality. He was a pimp, selling his own son for cheap, and Oliver was the commodity. The sessions continued, with Oliver's father hawking his son like a used car salesman. "Oliver, fifty cents," he would say, his voice flat and emotionless. "Get your freak on, just fifty cents." The men would laugh and joke, dropping their coins into his palm as they waited in line. Oliver's father would nod, his eyes fixed on the money, and Oliver would feel a sense of despair wash over him. He was trapped in a living nightmare, with no escape in sight.