Bastard. We glide across the city in the silver pickup with the bass thumping in the moonlit summer night. Tube8.com Gently grazing the lacerations with my fingertips, I feel my soft black locks matt and tangle from the pooling crimson. He shoves his foot forcefully against my spine knocking me back to the ground. He chuckles with pride, sneering at my wounds, and flexing his taught arm muscles. An unwanted and terrible flashback pounces and I suddenly think of my father who spat the same brand onto my face and spanked me with beer bottles. My heart gives a panicky jolt: clients never take me this far. Grit and pebbles scrape against my tongue and teeth muffling my moans.
