Slave Girls Trash!

Title: “Slave Girls Trash: A Deliriously Depraved Duel”

The sun beat down mercilessly on the barren landscape. Jagged rocks and gnarled trees dotted the dusty terrain. It was the sort of godforsaken place where the sun seemed to bake the very devil out of the earth – or perhaps it was the putrid stench of trash and shattered lives that gave it such an air of menace. In this desolate hellhole, two slave girls were set to face off in a brutally erotic battle royal.

Her name was Anatomy Lickitt, and her body was a map of torment. Fresh welt marks and clunky bruises were mottled across sun-starved skin. Her lips were split and chapped, her tongue swollen from being clamped. But even battered and bound, she exuded a sense of filthy mischief – as if she could rise from any tempest and somehow convince you that you were lucky to witness it.

She eyed her rival with a hungry disdain. The other woman was a stark blonde who the crowd had come to leer at and boo, transfixiously. Her name was someone something “Dungeon” – Anita Dungeon, perhaps. Anita clutched a jagged piece of metal and circled like a shark, her chests heaving and caked with sand and sweat.

The crowd was a maddened mass of hands and eyes, silhouettes ogling and cheering. Many were clad in leather, others in tatters. All were drunk with depravity, either drunk on booze or drunk on the intoxicating stench of exploitation. They chanted for the girls to destroy each other, to degrade themselves for their entertainment.

“Why don’t you just give up now?” Anita sneered, spitting a glob of phlegm on the ground between them. “I’ll never let you walk out of this hellhole intact.”

“Hah! And I carry the burden of nostalgia,” Anatomy shot back. “You’ll never put me in the rear, you back door Schulz girl. Now show me some feedbag bondage!”

Anita snarled and lunged, jabbing with the jagged iron barred in her fist like a strange sword. Anatomy side-stepped and dodged, bobbing and weaving with animal grace. For a time it was a wild dance, a brutal ballet, as the women circled and strained to outmaneuver each other.

Suddenly, without warning, Anita caught Anatomy with a vicious kick to the knee. Anatomy cried out and toppled. She rolled and scrambled halfheartedly, but Anita was upon her in a flash. The blonde forced Anatomy to her knees, slamming a foot against the small of her back for leverage. With her free hand, Anita painstakingly began to peel the tape strips restraining Anatomy’s hands.

Anatomy bucked and struggled, trying to throw Anita off. But it was no use – Anita kept the pressure solidly on her back, breaking Anatomy’s leverage and strength. One by one, she ripped away the bindings, exposing Anatomy’s wrists. They were red and chafed, luishing in her sweat.

“Now you’re mine,” Anita growled.

She locked one arm around Anatomy’s throat in a sleeper hold, squeezing and choking. Anatomy gasped and flailed, but Anita maintained the unrelenting pressure, and Anatomy’s struggles began to weaken. Just before she lost consciousness, Anatomy managed to seize Anita’s wrist – and instead of breaking the sleeper, she simply sank her teeth into the flesh, biting down hard.

Anita screamed and let go, jumping back. Anatomy scrambled upright in time to watch the blonde fall to her knees, clutching her wrist and cursing. The crowd howled, caught up in the brutality. Spitting a mouthful of blood, Anita crawled forward and snatched up a heavy baseball bat lying at the dust.

Anatomy backed away warily, reaching out blindly. Her groping fingers discovered a large, jagged stone. She lifted it just as Anita lunged, swinging the bat like a walking stick. The bat clanged against the stone with a ringing sound, and for a moment the two women were frozen, locked in a stalemate.

Then a young boy, maybe 12, pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He was pale and skinny and dressed in Charity Fund rackets, dandelion tufts of blonde hair too long over sun-burnt ears. He shouted something, but no one could hear him over the roaring of the crowd. Then he got up and pushed into the circle, trying to get Anatomy’s attention.

“Hey, over here! Attagirl!” the boy called. Anatomy turned, surprised. Anita slipped past her guard and brought the bat across her jaw with a sickening crack. Anatomy crumpled, blood spattering from her cut lip.

The boy flew into a rage, leaping onto Anita’s back and pummeling her with his fists. Anatomy shook her head, trying to clear it. Anita’s hands fluttered at the boy, but she couldn’t shake him. Anatomy snatched up the stone again and with one mighty swing, brought it down hard on Anita’s skull. The blonde went limp and toppled like a sack of rotten cabbages.

Anatomy stood wavering, favoring her injured jaw. She looked down at Anita’s motionless form in disgust. Then she knelt and took the boy’s hand, helping him off Anita’s back. The crowd stared, suddenly mute. The boy looked at them with huge, empty eyes.

Anatomy led him away down the trail, leaning on him for support. This had officially lost its appeal. It was time to go and leave the madness behind.