If the Trees Could Speak: Part 2

Introduction:
“Hey skank get on out here and meet your fellow fuck toy,” rumbles the deep voice.
Slow footsteps crunch against the gravel then stop beside my bleeding ear. Even without seeing her, I can feel the gathering panic in the air: the sense of emergency and ultimate defeat.
“Man, these prostitutes sure are lookers,” My client laughs, his words full of sarcastic hatred, “Get up slut.” His steel toe boot bites into my slightly protruding ribcage.
A fistful of my hair is yanked and I am pulled through the air like a frantic kite unto my feet. Strands break and snap from the roots and I can hear the little tears of skin from where my cuts snake all over my scalp. My molars dig into my tongue, but I still cannot control the yelp of agony that escapes. His grasp only tightens as he holds me upright, holding my weight by my hair.
“On your toes, bitch. Let me see you dance for Daddy.”
I suddenly realize my client isn’t the sick puppet master as I’m hauled onto the very tips of my toes. Tidal waves of fresh surging pain wash over me, but I give him the show he wants.
Humping the air to my own delirious tempo, I roll my hips making my ass and tits bounce and slap against my dirt encrusted skin.
“C’mon you filthy cunt, I know you can give me more than that,” He snarls thrusting his thumb so hard and violent inside me.
An animalistic desire takes over as I let him conquer the shell I really and only am. Spreading my cheeks wider, I move in rhythm with his pounding making sure to shove my tight Mexican asshole deeper and deeper against him. For good measure, I begin tickling my clit with my fingers as best I can with the cuffs. I moan sweetly and longingly saying incoherent words in my native tongue. Playing along is my only chance of staying alive.
“You wanna suck this fat white dick don’t ya, senorita?” He coos into my ear pounding my tan sixteen year old ass harder, his thumbnail scraping against my insides.
“Si, si,” I shudder, pretending to be in the throes of mid- orgasm. And yet, I am beginning to grow wet in spite of my trained passion. My light brown pussy that has barely grown any tufts of woman hair is slick with hotness waiting to be punished by the bad policemen.
“Ya hear that? ‘Si si’,” He chortles mocking my thick accent
as he roughly plops me to the ground.
“Hey Fucktoy Numero Dos,” He calls to the other hooker, “Take off your panties and wash up your friend’s face.”
A few moments later, soft and silky material that smells of old perfume and piss dabs uncertainly at my cheeks and chin. I can her soft whimper quickly growing into a sob as she continues to remove the bloody mud and tobacco spit. Why is she crying harder? Is my face that fucked up? The cloth delicately cleans the crevices of my brows and eyelids. Thankful for the renewed gift of sight, I open my bruised and heavy eyes. My heart and stomach lurch when I see her.
“Carmen?” I say reaching my captive hands towards her as if trying to coax a nervous cat from a tree branch. Her scabbed mouth is wide and pale pressed into a perfect straight line upon skin that was once a beautiful shade of sand. And when she reaches for me, I see track marks in the crooks of her elbow.
“Baby cousin, you? You in this crazy life too, eh?” Her voice is syrupy as if the heroin’s thick coat has
caramelized over her senses.
She takes my hand carefully treating it as if it were a baby bird and holds it close to her chest. I tear my gaze away from the needle scars and look upon our captors. My client is smug as he leans against a dead tree trunk, hands stuffed in his designer jeans. The police force must treat him well, I think with disgust then turn to size up his friend. My asshole feels torn and burns harder once I finally see the man who made it so.
His swollen belly stretches a sheriff’s uniform that is fastened with shining leather and high rankings which heavily adorn his chest. The strands of hair, poorly combed over his badly balding scalp, are a dark and dirty gray. Potato-like his face is a large and misshapen lump that is wrinkled with moles that make deep dimples in his skin.
“Cousins, huh?” The sheriff bellows licking his lips and scratching his protruding stomach. He waggles his eyebrows suggestively at my client and they both break into easy laughter.
“Wipe all the shit off her face,” My client barks at Carmen, “We don’t have all night for a family reunion.”
Carmen wrings her blood and dirt soaked thong then scrubs my face which is beginning to swell and bruise. Some of the early scabbing rips off, but I dare not make a sound. It is a small price to pay for I am grateful of being free from the wretched smelling slime once she is done. Robotically, she turns and curtsies deeply for the men. Pulling her tits gingerly from her tight dress, she shakes them to and fro in a seductive sway. Her long manicured nails pinch and stroke her nipples roughly as she slowly falls to her knees. Her mouth is opened so wide that I’m afraid her jaw is going to snap in half. But she remains there: twisting her titties, knees sunk in the cool mud, and a mouth dutifully waiting for white cock.
“Like that trick there, Sarge?” The sheriff giggles gleefully rubbing his fat palms together as if he were before a Thanksgiving feast.
“Wish you could train my bitch like that. She’s too willful, but,” he cuts his flat shit-colored eyes to me, holding my gaze with threat, “We can always fix that.”

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