THE LIBRARY: Trailer Trash Part 3

Trailer3TRAILER TRASH Part 3 {Continued From Here}

{This story originally appeared on BDSMARTWORK and features some amazing art by ROUGIN. We thank them for letting us share it with you here}

The pack of punk kids found her in the tiny ruined bathroom of the abandoned, broken mobile home. She was wedged, back to the wall, neck lashed to exposed pipes, between the cracked, stained toilet and the mildew covered bathtub, her ankles roped to her thighs (pushing her already too-short skirt up to her hips), her wrists tied to her ankles, and her elbows cinched -- thrusting out her proud chest, which had been shoved roughly back into her sweat and dirt streaked bra.

The three teens marveled at the sweet face they could see between the rag covering her gag and another rag tied over her eyes. The girl, who couldn’t have been more than ten years older than the trio of toughs who had found her, blindly begged piteously at them through the stuffing, rope, and cloth as they made a semi-circle around her, leaning on the toilet and stepping into the tub like hunting wolves.

One punk whistled quietly in amazement. “Well, look what the trailer trash left behind," he marveled.

"What is she, a pet?" wondered another, already rubbing the front of his pants.

"Naw," said the third. “I bet she’s, like, the daughter of their landlord or something, kidnapped for ransom!"

"Whatever she is," said the first, reaching down to his belt. “She can’t see us...."

Then Kelly heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper being lowered.

She begged them to stop, she cried for help, she screamed in defilement, but it was all a strident mumble under the gag as they came in her face, down her cleavage, and under her skirt.

They cleaned their cocks in her silken blonde hair, letting their members thud into the side of her face.

"Man," said the first. “Why do I always have to piss after I come?" And he was aiming his shaft at her nostrils when a huge, callused hand clamped onto his neck.

"What are you doing?" his father boomed, wrenching him back, the teen’s urine splattering his friend’s legs in the tub before his sphincter muscles shut. “I knew you were up to no good!"

Then he saw Kelly slumped, insensible, at their feet. For a moment, the room was silent. When the burly, rough-hewn father spoke again, his voice was low and rasping. “Get out of here. Do not speak of this. To anyone. Do you understand?"

He looked at each of them, his face spelling murder. The tough guys were suddenly frightened children again, each nodding wordlessly, even breathlessly, before they ran out. Then he was alone in the room with the raped, molested young girl.

"Ah, miss," he whispered hoarsely, kneeling. “This is terrible...terrible...." His hands reached out, cradling her lolling head, feeling her smooth skin. “What have they done to you?"

Kelly mewed pitiously, practically rubbing her aching head in his rough hand. Even as he untied her from the piping and released her ankles from her thighs, he knew that his boy, nor his friends, couldn’t have secured her so tightly and so well.

"There," he finally said, pulling her still bound and gagged form slowly out from between the toilet and tub. “There, there...."

His hands reached carefully under her arms. There was a breathless moment, and then his fingers clamped purposefully over her tits. He dragged her back into the rear bedroom as Kelly started to struggle and scream once more.

The father and son only spoke of it only once more, and even then, the boy didn’t even get beyond the first word before his elder replied tightly. “I let her go. If you ever do wrong again, you are dead."

Even so, the punks couldn’t help but return. Sure enough, the pretty young girl was gone. She wasn’t even in the rear bedroom, anywhere near the soiled, torn, flattened mattress amid the broken fixtures and piles of refuse. But then they had to escape quickly. The housing authority had finally arrived to move the rusting motor homes to a garbage dump forty-five miles away.

They ran to a broken window, leaping out as the trailer shifted on its iron axle ... not even noticing the thirteen, tiny, new bolts screwed tightly into the living room floor....

TO BE CONTINUED

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