Izzy’s drug-fuelled degradation continues
Crawler positions himself at Izzy’s entrance, pushing against the already stretched and dripping hole. His cock is thicker than Jorge’s, forcing its way in sliding on the remnants of his cum.
“Fuck, she’s gaping already,” he groans, sliding deeper into the young girl.”You did a good job loosening her up, Jorge.”
The two men share a knowing look as Izzy’s cries become desperate, her small body stretched beyond its limits as she struggles against Crawler’s chest.
Jorge: “That’s it, sweetheart. Take his cock like the whore you are.”
*Rain continues to pound against the hut, thunder masking the wet sounds of the brutal fucking shecis taking. The meth pipe has long since gone cold, forgotten on the floor as Crawler assaults her battered body.
He’s too big for her.
Crawlers girth splits her open, and Izzy’s whole body goes rigid — not the arch of pleasure but the locked stillness of something breaking. Her fingers claw at the stained mattress, knuckles white, the colorful circlets on her wrists trembling against the filthy fabric.
“Shh, shh, shh,” Crawler hisses through his teeth, but his hips don’t stop. They push forward another inch, and Izzy’s mouth opens in a silent scream, no air left in her lungs to give it sound.
Her thighs clamp instinctively, trying to close, but his calloused hands wrench them apart with casual brutality. The veins in his forearms stand out like rope.
“Too tight,” *he mutters, more to himself than anyone. “Gotta — fuck — force it.”
Jorge lights his meth pipe, the glass clicking against his teeth. He watches through half-lidded eyes, exhaling a plume of chemical smoke into the salt-damp air. “She can take it. They always can. Just gotta get past the fight.”
Izzy’s breathing comes in sharp, ragged hitches. Her body shakes with each shallow thrust as Crawler works himself deeper, her small frame visibly struggling to accommodate him. A thin rivulet of pink-tinged fluid traces down her inner thigh, mixing with Jorge’s cum on the ruined mattress.
The storm outside has settled into a steady, relentless downpour. Water drips through a gap in the roof, pooling inches from her splayed hair.
“There we go,” Crawler breathes, finally bottoming out. He holds still for one suspended moment, savoring it. “All the way in. See? She took it.”
Izzy’s eyes are glassy, unfocused, her pupils blown wide from the meth and the shock. One hand finds a plait of her dark hair and grips it like a lifeline. Her pierced navel rises and falls with each stuttered breath.
Crawler begins to move — slow, grinding strokes that make the whole mattress shift across the warped floor.
“Best pussy I ever had,” he whispers against her ear. “And I ain’t even started yet.”
Jorge crouches beside her, the glass pipe still warm between his nicotine-stained fingers. He presses the stem against Izzy’s lower lip — gentle, almost tender, a grotesque parody of feeding a child. His thumb finds the lighter.
“Breathe in, baby girl. Nice and slow. Make it all go away.”
The flame catches. A thin curl of acrid smoke spirals up from the bowl, and Izzy’s lips part — not willingly, but because her jaw has gone slack, because her body has stopped belonging to her. The smoke fills her mouth, her lungs, and her dilated eyes drift further from the room.
Crawler picks up his rhythm, each stroke deliberate and punishing. He watches the pipe with greedy fascination, his toothless gums bared in a wet grin.
“That’s the trick right there,” *he says, grinding deeper. “Get her flying and she won’t fight. Hell, she might even like it.”
Jorge holds the pipe steady as Izzy exhales a thin stream of white. Her body loosens beneath Crawler — the rigid panic draining from her limbs like water through sand. Her fingers release their death-grip on the mattress. The colorful circlets slide down her wrists, pooling at the heels of her palms.
Something shifts in her face. The tears still track down her temples into her dark hair, but her eyes have gone somewhere unreachable. The freckles across her nose stand out sharply against skin gone pale as paper.
“See?” Jorge murmurs, tracing one plait with a blackened fingernail. “She just needed to relax.”
He takes a hit himself, then leans down and shotguns it into her mouth again — his cracked lips hovering over hers, not quite kissing, just breathing poison into her. Crawler’s pace quickens, the mattress scraping across the warped floor with each thrust.
Outside, the rain has found its rhythm. Steady. Patient. The kind that lasts all night.
“Give her another hit,” Crawler grunts. “I want her smiling when I finish.”
She smiles.
Her lips curve upward as if pulled by invisible strings. The smile doesn’t reach her eyes, but it’s there — a mechanical upturning of flesh that makes Crawler laugh.
“There’s my girl,” he coos, his thrusts becoming erratic. “Knew you’d come around.”
The meth has fully taken hold now, carrying her away on chemical waves. Her piercings glint in the dim light as she lies there, pliant and perfect for their use. Her body has become a vessel for their pleasure, responsive but not truly present.
Jorge holds the pipe again, letting her inhale one more time before he sets it aside. His attention returns to her pierced nipples, pinching them roughly between his fingers.
“Look at her,” he says to Crawler. “So pretty when she’s drugged up. Like a little doll.”
Crawler grunts in agreement, his pace becoming frantic. His fingers dig bruises into her hips as he chases his release, her body jolting with each violent thrust.
“My doll,” he growls possessively. “My pretty little hippie doll.
Jorge’s lighter flicks again. The small flame reflects twice in Izzy’s vacant eyes.
Crawler’s whole body locks — shoulders, jaw, the cords of his neck drawn taut as wire. He buries himself to the hilt and holds there, a strangled sound tearing from his ruined mouth. His fingers leave crescent-shaped welts in Izzy’s hips as he empties himself inside her with shuddering, graceless spasms.
“Fuck — fuck — fuck —”
He collapses forward, his weight crushing her small frame into the mattress. For a long moment the only sound is his ragged breathing and the steady percussion of rain on the roof.
Jorge watches from his crouch, pipe dangling loosely from his lips. He reaches over and brushes a strand of dark hair from Izzy’s face — that same terrible gentleness, like someone arranging flowers on a grave.
“She’s still smiling,” *he observes quietly.
And she is. That hollow, chemical curve still fixed on her lips while her eyes track nothing. The freckles, the dimples, the colorful circlets sliding down her limp wrists — all of it arranged on the filthy mattress like a still life of something stolen.
Crawler rolls off her with a grunt, his softening cock slipping free. A mess of fluid pools beneath her on the stained fabric. He fumbles for the pipe, hands shaking from exertion.
“We keeping her?” he asks, as casually as someone discussing a stray dog.
Jorge doesn’t answer immediately. He studies the girl — the way her chest rises and falls in shallow, drugged rhythm, the pink-tinged evidence of their use drying on her thighs. Something flickers behind his eyes. Not remorse. Calculation.
“Storm ain’t letting up till morning,” *he says finally.* “She ain’t going nowhere.”
He lights the pipe. The small flame paints shadows across the walls of the hut — shifting, monstrous shapes that dance and collapse.
Izzy’s hand twitches once against the mattress. Her fingers close around nothing. The smile remains, fixed and terrible, as the rain finds the leak in the roof again and begins its slow, patient drip beside her hair.
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