They watched her

(Broken, ruined, watched, manipulated, groomed, needy)

They watched her, hungry. Some saw a person, some prey, some a little girl, some a bimbo. Some just saw a victim, a thing to hunt down and destroy. But all of them saw her. They knew that made her tremble, what made her wet and eager. What can send her appetites spiraling out of her control and they wanted to feed her so bad. Some would leave her sated, even begging for more. Some would drag her to the edge of the cliff, pounding away as she teetered on the abyss. A select few would finish with her and shove her off, waiting for her to hit below.

And they knew all those fates made her wet. Whether she was broken, sick, damaged goods, groomed, or conditioned, she wanted it all. They knew that. And they all wanted to give it to her. Every one of them wanted to take a part of her and make it their own. To mark her, to break her, to ruin her, or end her. Everyone wanted to see the crazy in her eyes, to taste her fear and need, to see the gray and either banish it or drown her forever in it.

So many of them wanted to hurt her. They wanted to touch her soft white skin, pale, and slap it until it was red. They wanted to grab her hair and jerk her about until her roots were almost torn out. Slap every inch of her. Her fat tits, her ass, her belly. So many would hit her on her thighs and cunt. Beautifully red. The more cruel ones would focus on her hands and feet, loving the way she hobbled about.

But that was just for the tamer ones. Some wanted more and knew she wanted more too. Unable, incapable of saying stop. So they don’t want to slap her, they want to curl their hands into fists. To make her pretty, to make her scream. Some would hit her fragile spots. Make her fingers and toes barely work. Some would give her cunt the prettiest of purples, swollen until it was closed. Her breasts would be made lumpy, black and blue, her belly red, until she bent over, retching. And some, some would make her beautiful, dash crimson on her face, her eyes unfocused, stumbling, confused. Made better with black eyes.

Of course, not all of them wanted that. Some just wanted her to be as disgusting on the outside as she was on the inside. They would fill her belly with alcohol, piss, or food, then squeeze her guts. Mash them, hit her gut till she got sick. Ramming their fingers in her mouth, gagging her on their hands or cocks, until she threw up all over herself. Punish her for being fat, not good enough, making her throw up on their manhood and her tits, face, and hair until she was purged. Thin and pretty again.

Others didn’t want fluids going out of her. They only wanted them going in. Most only wanted her to drink gold, day and night. A walking, breathing urinal to be voided in as needed. Sometimes in her ass or cunt, but always in her mouth. Her belly would be pregnant with piss, swollen, as she was tied up in a men’s room, reeking like the toilet she was. Even when not being a toilet, her Mountain Dew bottle would lie, containing their cold fluids, always with her. If she got sick, she deserved it, but no respite from the other porcelain device. The only difference being she was warm to use, the other cold.

Some would want to see her used by Baxters, Coppers, Maxs, Rockys, and Dukes. On all fours, rutted in like the sub-human bitch she was, mounted again and again, devoid of love by human hands. Runny white would leak from her gaped-out holes, being filled again and again, drooling their love onto the floor, kept in a crate where she belonged. But not only there. Many wanted to see more and more, for those animals were too small. Larger, beautiful black and brown males, literally stallions were wanted. Stretching her jaw until it wanted to break, battering her cervix while barely in her, filling up her guts, rearranging them. Her body would never be the same after. Or maybe a few dark men wanted to see more. To see her impaled on massive cocks, shaking, torn apart on the inside, one last beautiful gift to humanity.

But most? Most want to strip her of her humanity. To break her down, piece by piece, until she was blank nothing. Some would leave her like that, a thing, an it. Some would build her back, put the pieces back together, to make her better. Better for them, though some would make her better for herself as well. But most would make her better for them. Pretty, obedient, a good pet who would do anything they asked. It wouldn’t be easy of course, reprogramming her, fixing her flaws and wrong-headed thoughts. Some would enjoy her sobs as she completely broke down, as her blonde hair fell to the floor, shaved off her head. Almost all would deny her a name, other than Pet or Cunt or It. Sammie no more, only people deserved names like that. It would never be a person again, had never really been a person, just a cunt playing pretend.

Stripped of clothes, it would be treated like the stupid flesh it was, taught harshly again and again that it was a thing existing only for them. That part wouldn’t be hard at all. They knew what buttons to push, her near-psychotic need for approval and validation. No punch could ever hurt her as much as you could simply be refusing to call her a “good girl”. A simple denial of praise would break her down so much that when it was finally given, there would be no act she wouldn’t do to hear those words. No limit to her depravity as long as she was given that drug above all others. For that, she would gladly become an it. They would barely have to lift a finger if they did it right. A breathing toy, to play with until it broke.

And so they watched with bated breath every day for another morsel. Perhaps a bit of personal information that she would accidentally leak. Maybe an unedited photo would be briefly posted. Another fictional story that rang just a bit too true, felt a bit too real. Or glimpse another slice of her depraved reality as she tried to juggle all of her selves. They watched all of that. Some cheered for her. Some wanted to see her fail. Some wanted her to be safer than she was while others wanted to see her self-destruction. The gray, the spiral, the neediness, the craving for validation and acceptance. No matter what things she did, what drugs she snorted, what pain she felt, or how many times she came, she would always need that approval. Their approval. And so she fed the men watching, and hoped in return, they would feed her. In one way or another.

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