Subhuman faggot whore

Life was about to get a whole lot harder for the subhuman faggot whore.

 

Everything had gradually been taken away from him. The pictures taken during just one chem fuelled night of depravity were enough to secure his downfall. The master/owner had done it many times before but particularly enjoyed the destruction of this pervert from successful republican banker to faggot whore.

He needed to earn 500 dollars a day to pay for the accommodation his owner had found it. He owned nothing anymore; everything, including his self-respect had been sadistically stripped away. The rusted tin cup, filthy unwashed blanket and overflowing ashtray were generously lent to him by his owner, as were the baggy sweatpants and ripped t-shirt that were kept outside the door. He could only afford to eat by scavaging in dumpsters outside fast food restaurants. His only source of liquid was the filthy toilet which was used for both drinking and washing.

His door was unlocked at 7 in the morning and he would find a list of clients and addresses pinned to his door. Any time not booked was to be spent hanging round on the street corners with the other whores, looking for passing trade.

At midnight he would crawl back into his disgusting hovel, leaving his ‘rent’ outside the door. He was never short. Early on he had failed once. The owner had barged in during the night and knocked him out with one punch to the head. He had no idea how long he was out and awoke strapped to a gurney, pain radiating from his stomach, a scar stretching from his naval to his shoulder blade. He was never told what organ was removed to pay his debt, he never dared to ask and he never failed to bring back enough cash again. He would steal, beg and suffer the most sadistic abuse, the sort that the other whores would never do, to avoid that.  

But He was getting harder. He had lost so much weight, stunk like a pig and his breath was putrid. The clothes hung from his scrawny body and his hair was a lifeless dirty mess. He never saw his owner anymore, having been told he was too disgusting to even look at. So finally he plucked up the courage to leave a note one night. Begging his master to be allowed to wash properly, begging for a set of new clothes, saying he would be able to make the money more easily if he was granted these luxuries.  

When he was released in the morning he found a second hand mini skirt, tight blouse, make-up and a pair of fish-net stockings and suspenders, along with a bucket of cold  water and a bottle of bleach. At the bottom of the list of his clients for the day was a bill for 300 dollars for the clothes and 150 dollars for the bucket and bleach, which was to be paid today. His rent was also going up by 100 dollars a day. The last line sent shivers down its spine, “Better make yourself pretty bitch, I’ve been told there’s a big demand for eye replacement surgery these days.” Life was about to get a whole lot harder for the subhuman faggot whore...

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