What are your holes worth?

The pearls are plastic, so I guess they aren't really pearls at all. I ripped them off a shirt I bought because I liked what was written on it, but I don't care for fake (or real) pearls on a shirt. I don't know what would possess a person to believe a crop top needs a pearl-hem. I do, however, understand being so out of ideas it just feels like you're creating anything. Or even, the same thing over and over again.

"Is this the most your holes have ever been worth?" He asks.

The honest answer is, no. My holes have been worth much, much more and funnily enough, when I was having my holes valued and living off them, I actually wore pearls. Everyone thought those ones were fake but my father bought them for me when I turned 16 and I could never figure out what to do with them until i decided pearls were a good look for a prostitute. They are a good look but only because that amused me. It amused me to have this symbol of fine ladies bouncing against my tits as I took it up the ass. It tickled me that when I wore pearls they looked even faker than plastic pearls. Some people don't have that *je ne sais quoi* that makes finesse naturally take to them. Nothing fine takes to me. Perhaps my most special skill is that I can take a diamond and on my finger it will look like a shiny piece of glass.

So no, this isn't the most my holes have ever been worth but I say yes, because it's the most fitting estimation I can think of. My holes are worth as much as plastic pearls. They aren't fine or worth much, but they're quirky and durable. In a certain light they might even look fine but ultimately they're garbage. That being said I don't feel my estimation of what they are worth is reliable. Just ten minutes ago I agreed they were only worth being a doormat for muddy boots. I find I'll agree with anything so as long as it's suggested derisively. When he kicked my cunt and used it to wipe off the dirt under his shoes, and said, "This is what your holes are good for," it felt like he was right because he sounded derisive enough.

Besides, I'm a sucker for a dirty boot up my cunt. That feels good to say. As good as it felt to grab onto his knee and lube up his shoes. I find I enjoy vulgarity. I find I enjoy how it's different from eroticism. Erotic is great, but vulgarity is what makes me want to talk about the thick layer of wetness glistening at me from his boot. Vulgarity is what made me flush as I licked it out of the crevices along with the dirt. Vulgarity is what made me moan as he held my head and used my tongue like a shoe brush. I sometimes wonder about the amount of dirt I consume and then I'm face down in dirt having my hair used as a mop and I can't even remember what there is to worry about.

"You think your holes are worth more?" He asks.

His hands are pulling them apart and it wouldn't be so painful but the skin is chaffed from his boots kicking and scratching against it. Good lord how I love being abused this way. I cannot believe nature intended for us to do anything with our bodies except rip them apart with violent displays of our sexuality. I refuse to believe in anything else.

"They could be worth more if I shove more of this into them..." He says tugging at the pearls.

They bite. I've had real pearls in me before and they slipped in, gently and smoothly. These ones have a coarse thread that is visible underneath and they don't..slip. They bite. On the inside. Still, I have confidence in my cunt's ability to bear the abuse. It doesn't matter what it is, as long as it doesn't like it, it can take it. His intentions however led to him slipping the pearls deeper into my ass. The rule is simple, if you're pummeling into my cunt, I'm a brazen whore. If you're even mildly penetrating the other hole, I'm a triggered soft pathetic whore. After my ex I actually said the words, "I need a new set of holes, he's ruined these ones."

And it's kinda true.

Since him I cannot bear so many things I found so incredibly hot when I was with him. The trauma we faked together got so real, a finger up my ass is enough to make me freeze and retch at the same time. But we have to try to get past it. We have to write over the trauma with new trauma or else I'll have to live with the boring old trauma forever and that's no good for anyone.

So as he invades my most damaged spaces with a set of fake pearls, I don't fight back. It feels awful. Like all the hair on my body are standing and there are goosepimples dancing with discomfort. I honestly cannot explain why I would make the same mistake twice. I cannot explain why I would take a weak arm, break it, let it mend enough to move and then have it broken again; I have never understood why bad to me has always meant make it worse. I'm not a scabpicker, yet I have never allowed a wound to heal. The journey from wound to injury in imminent the moment I fall, and in this case I've already fallen. I fell so many years ago and now the wound is already so bad I can only take so little.

Fifteen little beads.

Travelling slowly into my ass.

Something about this feels good, but it's not the physical sensation. I know when my begging is real and this begging to stop is always real. I don't want this. I really don't want it, but I respect that he'll do it anyway. Oh, i gave him consent, of course, but we don't always have to do all the things we have consent for. Just because I can sit on a nail, because I'm allowed to, doesn't mean I have to. I like that he has to. I like that he has to because there's so much potential to hurt, here. I like that he can, despite... It sounds like I expect some form of sympathy.  I don't. Really. I expect only abuse, but sometimes people surprise you by giving you what you want. It's surprising to me each time he's willing to be cruel. It's hard to believe of someone so, soft and mannerly.

I hate this, but I'm attracted to that.

I'm attracted to that cold, sadistic person. I enjoy that place in this relationship where I an genuinely not in control. Where the violence isn't predictable, nor is the love. The violence could be a caress, and the love could be intensifying anal trauma for my own damn good. Or someone's good. Who cares? Who cares when something about being violated makes me float.

Violated.

I like that word. I always have.

"Here," he says, "Now you're worth an entire string of fake pearls."

Indeed.

He pulls them out of me slowly. I find being pulled out of excruciating. My least favorite part of being fucked is the pull-out. The pull-out is horrid. Like my insides are being pulled out. It's really quite funny that I'm this fond of fucking when I hate every single thing about it.

"There you go," he says placing the string on my face, "Smell your asshole."

And there's the vulgarity again

*Smell your asshole.*

What a thing to say to a lady whose holes are worth an entire string of pearls.