A year of bad hands

You shuffle aimlessly towards the men playing to see who will own you for the impressive ante of "$500" a head. You don't bother to learn their names at this point. A name doesn't change whose fucking you. You barely register their faces, their physiques, or even their cock sizes anymore. A year of your holes being offered up as a consolation prize has made it all blur together, and even with periodic anal rejuvenation surgeries, you've grown mostly numb to all but the most monstrous members. Usually it takes two fat cocks sliding slickly inside your gaping asshole at the same time to offer even a twinge of sweet suffering.

It's a large game this time. Held at increasingly seedier dive bars and warehouses as Daddy wouldn't let this rabble in his home. Daddy insists on making a profit on his "literally almost worthless sissy slut whore" which gets harder and harder the more used up and vacant you become. Of course the more hands playing, the more hands greedily groping your soft flesh when they lose, and the more angry cocks pounding their frustration at losing the pot in your gaping holes. You can barely count after all or the "reeducation" videos Daddy had you watch, but you think there have to be at least fiveteen or twoenty tattooed bikers playing for you tonight.

You crawl under the table languidly, like climbing through cotton candy. Your mind docile and dim, a vague hunger for cocks still a flickering ember inside you, but the programming induced gusto with which you gobble the cocks sitting at the table has the men convinced you've just met the love of your life. But it's almost too automatic, too artificial, the sweet glimmer of shame and hesitation giving way to arousal and need always excited your contenders in the early days, but the shame has been fucked out of you.

A beer is poured out on your head to a round of uprorious laughter at the table. You don't even slow down, your mouth mechanically coaxes his cum just up to the boiling point and pulling off his cock with a practice perfected PLOP. You crawl over to the next player and use your blow-doll-plump collagen injected lips to bring the next cock to a near eruption...then the next, then the next...

Some men yank your bottle blond hair. The pain should hurt, but its just a vague hum, but you still yelp audibly as an automatic reflex. Other men reach down and grope your melon sized breast implants. It registers only a slight tingle of titillation, but your training makes you moan whorishly anyway. It's all become so routine that even these drunk degenerate's can sense it's all a little to practiced, too artificial. But 500 is cheaper than a high end fuck doll, and you are more flexible and high energy, even if you are just as fake.

You vaguely remember realizing at some point that your Daddy must be cheating. He can't win all the time can he? The games have grown more frequent since the first and you've lost count of how many times he's cleared out tens of thounreds of dollars. At least a hundred games, maybe as many as ten! You just wish counting didn't hurt your head so much, luckily sucking a cock clears that up quicker than aspirin and you don't have to remember what you forgot anymore.

You are almost out of pricks to percolate and you are ready to finally get grudge fucked again. It's the closest you get to happiness these days and even then what once was a savage shuddery spurty sissygasm is now mostly a dribble, a sense of vague relief, and a small stupid smile. That's when you hear. "Hooooweeeeeey! Full house fuckers! That Bitch is mine! From a man that looks like ZZ Top's gross grandpa.

You look up dumbly at your Daddy and he smiles, sadistically down at you, mouthing the words "Do you feel lucky?" You have no idea what he's talking about of course, something about ducks probably. You barely register that you will have a new Daddy now. You will ride Bitch back to the seedy motel he calls home until they evict him for nonpayment. He will undoubtedly share you with his biker gang buddies. And if you're lucky, he won't treat you too horribly before getting bored of you and trading you for meth.

Funnily enough, you don't feel lucky.