The broken doll

The broken doll bounced along life, chasing after any snippets of affection it could snag. Dating only briefly, freely giving of itself, desperate for a single momentary connection.

Daddies turned the doll into their dirty little girl, acting out with it in ways they always wanted to, but never could.  

Rough men took their frustration out on it, breaking the doll more, fracturing it. But even then, with black eyes and busted lips, it would cling to them as long as they would allow.

Sometimes the doll was drunk or high, sometimes sold, sometimes beat, sometimes even briefly liked, but no one cares to keep it long.

Not its father, not its uncle, not its stepdad, not any man, not for long. They all wanted it, but only for the night, only for its holes.

Too needy, too desperate, too clingy, pawned off to their friends, their dealers, or just shared around. It didn’t know love, just want, until it found the dark man.

It had been dancing along the edge, leaning over, deciding if it should jump when the man found it. A beaten, broken puppy dog, used up like the dirty condoms under the bridge.

He brought it home, cleaned it, stripped it, locking it up downstairs. Each day he fed it, cleaned it, hurt it, used it, leaving it to watch the most perverse of movies when he was gone.

It grew wet at his presence, then he broke it, beat it beautiful, it’s screams music as it begged him to fuck it to death. Part of him wanted too, but he stopped. Then gingerly, softly he cleaned it, held it, kissed it. Then he brought it to his bed and made love to it. It had cried before but never do much as when he did that.

The next week was much the same, beat, blacken, bruise, rape and then, clean it, kiss it all over, and then hold it in the bed. When he whispered that no matter what he did to it, he wouldn’t leave, it cried until it fell asleep. It was ready.

He taught it when to speak, when to not. What always to call him. He dyed it’s hair, paid for its new chest, pierced and tattooed his new pet. He kissed it always after he hurt it, held it after every bruise. Her marked it, fed it his piss, and made it his own.

And it, the broken little doll, loved him for it, finally safe,  kneeling besides him naked, happy, free. 

She was home.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/nlu8vh/the_broken_doll