Self Abuse

It was a quick and dirty fuck, something she was slowly getting used to. She'd never get used to the feeling of being used, though. It was amazing how five minutes could turn a brazen, horny, self-assured woman to a ball of self-hatred. She was disgusted with herself.

She stood by the sink and stared at her fingers. The nails were perfectly manicured, but that didn't matter now. They were soiled, sullied by her own sexual juices. There once was a time that a quick orgasm by her own hand was a thing of pride. Now? Now it was a sign of shame. Her marriage was failing. Or so it felt. He turned away at her advances, ignored her flirtations, and seemed to avoid her at all cost. She was left alone, worked up, and in need of attentions.

She did the only thing she could think to do: prowl around for a quick fuck. She was too faithful to seek a man in a bar, but she wasn't above pretending. When her husband's lack of attention ate away at her, she'd lay in bed and visit that smoke filled establishment. Some random guy, always scruffy bearded and barely human (and never clean), would lead her off to the alley behind the bar. Her fingers worked vigorously to the beat of his cock impaling her against the crumbling brick. He would inevitably leave her slumped, used, and physically drained, by the dumpster. Even her mind registered the end result of her dalliances. She was nothing but trash now; not even her husband wanted to touch her, so why should she?