Flash Fiction: Unloved and Brutal

She was unloved. He was brutal. He didn’t need consent to pound his cock into her, high-fiving his watching mates as he took his turn. Trousers around his ankles, vomit stains on his shirt, the pungent aroma of beer on his breath: he was a catch, clearly.

His mates didn’t care either, laughing and jeering as the groom – and twelfth man – took his turn that evening. It was a stag night, these things happened. Just a bit of fun, they would say. Just a laugh.

She came from China to Britain in a lorry; tightly packed with little room until she was sold in a back alley. She was bought exclusively for sex, everyone knew that.

That first night there was five of them: testing her for the big day. The following night there were double that number; her cunt doused in lubricant as overweight, smelly men took their turns roughly with her. Soulless, emotionless, loveless.

She was a fuck toy, nothing more, nothing less. She existed to be fucked, locked in a cupboard by day, rammed with a dozen dicks at night, groaning under the weight of the drunken gentlemen screwing her.

He grunted, the primal urge of his instinct powering past his inebriation as his cum-covered dick added to the foamy mixture in her soft hole.

She might be washed and taken home or she might be left in Blackpool.

It was no life to be an inflatable sex doll: unloved and brutal.

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