He looked down at the pale girl tied to the table. She didn’t move, not even a bit, as he untied her limp form. Her chest rose and lowered, the only sign of life in the broken, ruined cunt.

She was cute or had been. Small, barely 110 pounds wet, but surprisingly busty. When he’d seen the homeless young woman, he knew she would be perfect for a film. Plied by drugs, money, and desperation, it wasn’t even that difficult. She knew what was going to be expected of her, at least she had probably thought she had. None of them were ever ready.

Her head hung over one side of the table. Her face was still slick with a mix of vomit, piss, and cum, streaking her hair down to the puddle below. Under that mess was ruined makeup, a few streaks of red from a busted nose, and swollen split lips. She had the sexiest of bruised throats from being choked out a dozen times. Inside her throat was probably raw, but she had stopped making sounds a good bit ago. That tended to happen when you filmed thirty aggressive men using a cunt up. It had been glorious.

Her tits were swollen as well. Bruised, covered in bite marks, and a couple cigarette burns. Her nipples were raw and her belly was full of welts. Her arms were much the same way – rope burns on the wrists with fingertip bruises everywhere. Cum, piss, and spit coated her chest. He stroked her belly, then punched it hard. She barely flinched as her eyes briefly fluttered. Perfection.

And then there was her crotch. You would think after being fucked by thirty men, her hole would have been gaping. It was all but swollen shut, though cum still leaked out onto the floor. Her thighs were black and blue. Just above her wrecked cunt, you could see the puffy red burn of where they had branded her. The free-use symbol, which had been cummed on several times was still raw. They would tattoo one on the back of her neck and arms later. A final gift for her.

Her asshole leaked cum freely, not swollen. It was almost bloody red and smooth. Neither of her holes would ever feel like hers again. Nor should they. Welts and bruises covered her ass as well, with a few more burns. It had been a wonderful night.

He pulled her off the table and let her hit the floor. She didn’t move. It would probably be days before she could even begin to process what happened last night. Of course, by then, she would be fifty miles away, body scrubbed clean, with no trace of evidence that could get any of them in trouble. Someone had already given her the next day pill. The girls would wash her, then they would dress her in the sluttiest clothes, load her up with some X or coke and other shit, then dump her behind an alley in a bad part of town.

After that, what happened, happened. Sometimes they never left that alley. Other men, angrier or more violent ones, finished off what they had started. Sometimes they never made it home because others dragged their limp bodies into car trunks or vans, to head forever down into strange basements.

The rest? A solid 10% shockingly did well. They recovered, they persevered, and they proved their worth despite everything. The others though? Those were the forever broken. Their holes damaged, branded, and tattooed. Eventually, they’d learn what that symbol meant. Someone would drag them into a bathroom or behind a bar and sample their ruined goods. It would start the best possible spiral of drugs, abuse, rape, and need. All to fill that place where their soul formerly resided. It would never be enough. The amount of whores, porn stars, abusers, and abused they had created was amazing.

What shocked him the most were the baiters though. Damaged so much they would get drunk, pretend or real, sending out their addressees and pictures recklessly, hoping for someone to take them again. He looked at the battered limp form at his feet as he unzipped his pants for one last taste. He hoped she would be a baiter, forever waiting, needing, to be taken again. Always, and forever, broken.