Cunt(c) 2001  by Mike Kimera

“C’mere, cunt. I need a fuck.”

Beer-bloated, shit-faced bastard, dragging me by the wrist to the chair his ass flows over.

“C’mon, cunt. I ain’t got all night.”

Wagging his unwashed chubby and grabbing at my bruised tits.

Smile. Shimmy. Spread. Slip it in.

“Don’t just sit there, bitch, work your ass.”

Smile. Arms around his neck. Hips grinding.

He swigs his Bud from a longneck, finger pushing up my ass.

“Want some bottle, cunt?”

Ring clenching pain-memory.

His eyes close. Never sees the ice-pick.

Sounds like forcing dogfood from a can.

“My name is Trudy,” I say. “Cunt.”

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