Bri's Butthole

Bri did not attend college with her grades in mind. She was a campus party girl, a hot-bodied blonde leaching off Daddy's allowance. Far more concerned with popularity, cute guys, and spending her evenings getting wrecked, Bri's grades had truly suffered. This was, however, a poor decision on Bri's part, which was about to put her in an awful position; that of getting a job.

Bri’s dorm room was a disaster—beer cans piled under the bed, a crusty pizza box flopped open on the nightstand, makeup-smeared tissues tumbling off the desk. She sprawled across the mattress, blonde hair splayed wild, her big tits spilling out of a ratty tank top, thong riding up her perfect ass. She giggled at her phone, texting some frat prick she’d fucked last night—his cock was thick enough, but he’d blown his load in thirty seconds flat. First semester of college, and Bri was owning it—parties every night, skipping class, screwing whoever looked her way. Grades? Who gave a shit? She was nineteen, hot as fuck, and living for it.

The phone buzzed, loud and obnoxious, cutting her giggles short. She glanced down—Dad—and rolled her eyes, swiping it to speaker. “Hey, Daddy,” she said, voice all sugar, twirling her hair. “What’s up?”

Tom’s voice exploded through the speaker, pissed and booming. “What’s up? I got your midterm grades, Bri—all goddamn Fs! You’re screwing around out there, wasting my money!”

Bri bolted up, her tits bouncing, suddenly afraid at the sharp, authoritarian tone. “Whoa, Daddy, chill—it’s just a rough start! I’ll pull it together!”

“Pull it together?” he barked. “You’re flunking everything! I’m done footing the bill—no more cash ‘til you pass something. And if you don’t get that degree, you’re out of my house. Done!”

“What?” Bri’s voice cracked, whiny and shrill. “Daddy, no! I need that money—rent, food, all of it! You can’t cut me off!”

“I can, and I am,” he snapped. “You’re acting like a damn lazy bitch, not a student. Figure it out yourself.”

The line went dead, leaving her staring at the phone, mouth open, her stomach dropping like a rock.

“Fuck,” she said, tossing the phone onto the bed. It bounced, hitting a can that clattered to the floor. Her tits heaved as she sucked in a breath, her brain spinning. She had maybe twenty bucks left—beer cash, not rent cash. The dorm bill was due soon, and her fridge was nearly empty—half a yogurt, a flat soda. She yanked at her hair, pacing, her ass jiggling in the thong. “No way. No fucking way.”

The door creaked, and her dormmate, Lyla walked in—brunette, skinny, mid-20s, with a seemingly permanent smirk glued on her lips. She leaned on the frame, arms crossed, leggings hugging her tight little ass. “What’s with the meltdown, princess?” she asked, eyeing Bri’s half-naked sprawl.

Bri flopped back on the bed, her tits bouncing again, tank top riding up. “Dad’s freaking out. He saw my grades. Says he’s done paying ‘til I pass, and I’m out if I don’t graduate. I’m so fucked, Lyla.”

Lyla laughed, short and sharp, stepping in to kick a can aside. “Ouch. Told you fucking every frat boy’d catch up with you. Guess the party’s over, huh?”

“Shut up,” Bri said, grabbing a pillow and chucking it—missed, hit the wall. “I can’t—I mean, I need cash. Rent’s due, and I’ve got nothing. What the hell do I do?”

Lyla shrugged, dropping into the desk chair, legs up on the pizza box. “Dunno, babe. You’re hot—big tits, killer ass. Maybe sell some pics or something.”

Bri’s jaw dropped. “What? No way—I’m not flashing my shit for creeps!”

“Not yet,” Lyla said, picking at her nails, smirking. “But you’re broke now. Better think fast—landlord’s not gonna fuck you for free.”

“Gross,” Bri muttered, rolling onto her stomach, her ass up, thong splitting her cheeks. She snatched her phone, scrolling—job listings, all crap. Barista? No experience. Cashier? Same shit. Dog walker? Fuck that. Her thumb froze, her chest tight. “I can’t do this—I mean, I could, but—fuck, I don’t know.”

Lyla raised an eyebrow, smirking wider. “What, work? You? Good luck, princess. You’ve been too busy riding dick to learn anything useful.”

“Fuck off,” Bri said, sitting up, her tank top slipping, one nipple peeking out. She tugged it back, glaring. “I’ll figure it out—I’m not useless. Just… need something quick.”

“Sure,” Lyla said, standing, stretching so her leggings pulled tight. “You’ve got a week ‘til they lock you out. Better decide—starve or hustle.” She sauntered out, leaving Bri with the echo of her laugh, the door clicking shut.

Bri stared at her phone, her gut twisting. No cash, no food, no nothing—and Dad wasn’t budging. She swiped to her bank app—$18.47. “Fuck me,” she whispered, tossing the phone down. It landed on a can, tipping it, and she groaned, flopping back, her tits spilling sideways. She kicked the sheets, her ass jiggling, and yanked at her hair again. “I can’t—I mean, I could study, but—shit, too late for that.”

She rolled off the bed, pacing, her thong rubbing raw between her cheeks. The mirror caught her—blonde hair a mess, big tits straining the tank, ass round and perfect. She turned, checking it out, biting her lip. “Maybe—nah, fuck that,” she muttered, shaking her head. Selling pics? Stripping? No way—she wasn’t there yet. Was she? Her stomach growled, loud and empty, and she grabbed the flat soda, cracking it open.

The fizz burned going down, and she wiped her mouth, her tits heaving. “Gotta do something,” she said, staring at the can, then tossing it—clattered under the bed with the rest. “Anything.” She flopped back, staring at the ceiling, Tom’s voice bouncing in her skull. Figure it out. “Yeah, right,” she muttered, her hands sliding to her tits, squeezing absently. “Like what?”

Girls laughing down the hall, music thumping somewhere, a car peeling out outside. Bri’s world—booze, hookups, freedom—was slipping fast. She grabbed her phone again, scrolling, her thumb shaky. “Fuck,” she said, voice cracking. Her ass sank into the mattress, her thong tugging tight, and she groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I’m screwed—I mean, I’m not, but—shit.”

The mirror stared back, her reflection all curves and panic—big tits, perfect ass, no cash, no plan. She kicked a can again, watching it roll, and muttered, “Fuck you, Dad,” her voice small, swallowed by the room. Rent loomed, hunger gnawed, and she sat there, frozen, a hot mess with nowhere to go.

---

Bri slumped on the dorm’s common room couch, the cushions stained with God-knows-what, her blonde hair a tangled mess, big tits spilling out of a too-tight tank top. Her thong peeked over her leggings, hugging her perfect ass as she scrolled her phone, legs kicked up on a wobbly table. The TV flickered some shitty reality show, volume low, and the room stank of burnt popcorn and desperation. Seven days since Tom cut her off, and she’d been pounding pavement—coffee shops, retail, even a dog grooming joint—all “no experience, no job” bullshit. Rent was overdue, her stomach growled, and she was down to $5.12.

“Fuck this,” she muttered, tossing her phone down—it hit the table, skidded, landed on a stale chip. She yanked at her hair, pacing, her ass jiggling with each step. “I can’t—I mean, I could, but—shit, no one’s hiring!”

The door banged open, and Lyla sauntered in—brunette, skinny, smirking like a cat with a dead bird. She flopped onto the couch, leggings tight on her ass, kicking her sneakers off. “Still whining, princess?” she said, grabbing the remote, flipping channels.

Bri glared, her tits bouncing as she spun around. “It’s not whining—it’s fucked! Seven days, Lyla—no job, no cash, nothing! Landlord’s gonna lock me out!”

Lyla laughed, sharp and dry, stretching so her shirt rode up, showing a flat stomach. “Told you—screwing around don’t pay rent. What’d you try today?”

“Everything,” Bri snapped, flopping next to her, her ass sinking into the cushion. “Coffee place—‘need barista skills.’ Clothing store—‘two years minimum.’ Even that dog place said no—fucking dogs, Lyla! I’m screwed!”

“You’re hot,” Lyla said, shrugging, eyes on the TV—some bimbo yelling about a cheating boyfriend. “Get a side hustle. I do it—keeps me flush.”

Bri blinked, her jaw dropping. “What? A hustle? Like what—selling weed or some shit?”

Lyla smirked, turning to her, brown eyes glinting. “Nah, better. I’m a pro side chick—married guys pay me to fuck ‘em. Booty calls, cash up front.”

“What the fuck?” Bri’s voice pitched up, shrill and loud. “You’re a hooker? That’s disgusting!”

“Call it what you want,” Lyla said, leaning back, legs crossed. “Pays the bills, babe—rent, food, new kicks. Beats starving.”

Bri bolted up, her tits bouncing, thong tugging as she paced again. “No way. That’s nasty! I’m not—I mean, I couldn’t—fuck, Lyla, you’re selling your pussy?”

“Ass too, sometimes,” Lyla said, smirking wider, flipping to a car ad. “They tip extra for it. Chill, princess—it’s just sex.”

“Gross,” Bri muttered, hugging herself, her tank top slipping, one nipple peeking out. She yanked it up, glaring. “I’m not doing that—I’d rather—I don’t know, beg Dad or something!”

“Good luck,” Lyla said, tossing the remote down. “He sounded done. You’re broke, babe—better figure it out before you’re sucking dick for ramen.”

“Fuck you,” Bri snapped, grabbing her phone, storming to the door. “I’m not a whore—I’ll—I’ll find something!” She slammed it shut, the bang echoing, leaving Lyla’s laugh behind her.

Back in her room, Bri flopped on the bed, her ass up, thong riding high as she buried her face in the pillow. “No way,” she mumbled, voice muffled. “I can’t—I mean, maybe—but fuck, no!” Her stomach growled again, loud and empty, and she rolled over, staring at the ceiling, her tits heaving. Seven days—no calls back, no cash, just rejection after rejection. She’d begged at the diner yesterday— “Please, I’ll learn fast!”—and the manager laughed, “Come back when you’ve waitressed.”

“Shit,” she whispered, grabbing her phone, scrolling again—same ads, same “experience required” crap. Her bank app glared back—$5.12, mocking her. “I could—nah, fuck that,” she said, tossing it down, watching it bounce off a beer can. Lyla’s words stuck. Married guys pay me to fuck ‘em. She gagged, shaking her head. “That’s so nasty—I’m not—I mean, I like sex, but—ugh!”

She sat up, her tank top slipping again, tugging it over her tits. “Maybe Dad’ll cave,” she muttered, biting her lip. “I could call—say I’ll study, promise shit.” She grabbed the phone, thumb hovering over his name, then froze. “No—he’d just yell again.” She dropped it, pacing, her ass jiggling, thong rubbing raw. “I’m not a hooker—I can’t—I mean, could I?”

The room was quiet, just her breathing, her bare feet scuffing the floor. She stopped at the mirror, staring—blonde hair messy, big tits straining the tank, ass round and perfect in the thong peeking out. “Fuck,” she said, turning, checking her backside. “I’m hot—but that? No way.” Her stomach growled, a sharp pang, and she clutched it, groaning. “I need food—I need—something.”

She flopped back on the bed, kicking a can—it clattered under the desk. “Maybe—nah, fuck Lyla,” she muttered, rolling onto her side, her tits spilling sideways. “She’s crazy—I’m not doing that. I’ll—I’ll hit the diner again tomorrow, or—or something.” She grabbed the flat soda, cracked it, chugged—fizz burned her throat, and she coughed, wiping her mouth on her arm.

“Gotta find a job,” she said, staring at the can, then tossing it—rolled with the rest. “Anything—I mean, not that—fuck, I don’t know.” Her phone buzzed—a text from some hookup.

"u up?"

She ignored it, her gut twisting. Rent was late, the landlord had left a note—*pay or vacate*.

“I’m so fucked,” she whispered, burying her face in her hands, her tits heaving, her ass sinking into the mattress.

The dorm door rattled—girls giggling outside, a door slamming, music thumping faint. Bri’s world had been replaced by this broke-ass panic. She yanked at her hair, groaning. Lyla’s smirk flashed in her head. Pays the bills. She shoved it down, but it stuck, a dirty itch she couldn’t scratch. “I’ll figure it out,” she muttered, voice shaky, staring at her reflection—hot, broke, lost. “Somehow.”

---

Bri’s dorm room was a fucking wreck—beer cans everywhere, pizza box oozing grease on the desk, her bed a tangle of sheets and thong straps. She sat cross-legged, blonde hair a mess, big tits spilling from a tank top, her perfect ass hugged by leggings she’d slept in. Her phone glowed in her lap—$3.87 in her bank app, rent two days late, and she was starving—half a granola bar yesterday, nothing today. She yanked at her hair, groaning, “Fuck—I can’t—I mean, maybe—shit!”

The door creaked, and Lyla poked her head in, leggings tight on her skinny ass. “Still alive, princess?” she said, stepping in, kicking a can aside.

Bri glared, her tits bouncing as she shifted. “Barely. No job, no cash, nothing. I’m—I don’t know—done!”

Lyla flopped on the bed, smirking wider. “Told you—get a hustle. You’re hot, Bri—use it.”

“No way,” Bri snapped, hugging herself, tank top slipping. “That shit you do—fucking married guys? Gross—I’m not—I mean, I couldn’t!”

“Couple days ago, you were,” Lyla said, shrugging, grabbing Bri’s phone. “Starving changes shit, babe. How’s it work, you asked? Easy—Side Chick app. ‘Girlfriend Experiences,’ $200 a pop. Suck, fuck, cash—done.”

Bri’s jaw dropped, her voice shaky. “That’s—fuck, Lyla, you’re a hooker! I’m not doing that—I mean—ugh, no!”

“Fine,” Lyla said, tossing the phone back—it hit Bri’s thigh. “Starve, then—your ass ain’t paying bills sitting there.” She stood, stretching, leggings pulling tight. “Offer’s open—hit me up when you’re hungry enough.”

“Fuck off,” Bri muttered, but Lyla was gone, the door clicking shut. Bri stared at the phone, her gut twisting—empty, growling loud. She grabbed it, scrolling—job ads, same bullshit, no dice. Her stomach cramped, sharp and mean, and she groaned, flopping back, her tits heaving.

She sat up, biting her lip, blonde hair falling in her face. “Just—look, right? Not do it,” she muttered, swiping to the app store. Side Chick popped up—pink icon, sleazy vibe. She hovered, thumb shaking. “No—I’m not—fuck, I’m hungry!” She hit download, the app installing fast, and she opened it, blushing hard—profiles, rates, reviews. “This is nuts—I can’t—I mean—$200?”

Lyla’s voice echoed. Suck, fuck, cash. Bri swallowed, scrolling—guys, all older, pics blurry or smug. “Gross—but—shit,” she whispered, her tank top slipping, nipple peeking out. She tugged it up, picking one—Jake, 40s, handsome, insurance guy, clean-cut in his photo. “Maybe—nah, fuck—I don’t know!” She clicked, booked—$200, tonight, motel address pinged. “Oh God—I can’t—I mean—I did it?”

She bolted up, pacing, her ass jiggling, leggings rubbing her thong raw. “Cancel—I should cancel—fuck, no, I need it!”

She grabbed a bra—black, tight—yanked off the tank, her tits bouncing free, then squeezed into it. Jeans next, hugging her ass, a crop top showing her stomach. “Just—go, right? See—I don’t have to—shit,” she muttered, brushing her hair, mascara smearing as her hands shook.

The motel was a dive—neon sign buzzing Vacancy, parking lot cracked, air thick with exhaust and desperation. Bri stepped out of her beat-up Honda, blonde hair loose, big tits straining the crop top, jeans tight on her ass. Jake leaned on a truck—tall, dark hair, 40s, handsome enough, smiling easy.

“Bri?” he said, voice smooth, eyes raking her up and down.

“Yeah—uh—hi,” she stammered, blushing, her tits bouncing as she shifted. “This—I mean—you’re Jake?”

“Yep,” he said, stepping closer, his cologne sharp. “Fuck, you’re hotter in person—let’s go.” He jerked his head to the motel, and she followed, her ass swaying, stomach flipping. With her head hung in shame, Bri followed him.

Room 12 stank—cigarettes, sweat, a flickering lamp on a chipped table. Jake shut the door, grinning, “Nervous, huh? First time?”

“Uh—yeah,” Bri said, her voice small, hands twisting. “I don’t—I mean—I’m not sure—”

“Relax,” he said, unzipping his jacket, tossing it. “You’re gorgeous—gonna be fun.” He stepped up, hand brushing her tits, and she froze, blushing harder. “Fuck—I can’t—I mean—okay,” she mumbled, dropping to her knees, her jeans tight, ass up as she fumbled his fly.

His cock sprang out—thick, hard, veined—and she gagged just looking. “Oh God—I don’t—shit,” she muttered, but her hands grabbed it, stroking shaky, her lips parting. She leaned in, sucking the tip, salty and warm, her tongue clumsy as he groaned, “Fuck, yeah—good girl.”

She bobbed her head, gagging quick, his cock hitting her throat, spit drooling down her chin. She kept going, her big tits bouncing in the bra, her ass swaying. He grabbed her hair, thrusting slow, grunting, “Shit, you’re hot—suck it, baby.” Her eyes watered, her throat burned, but she sucked harder, sloppy and loud, her stomach flipping—disgust, cash, hunger all tangled up.

“Fuck—gonna be a good night,” Jake said, pulling her up, his cock wet from her mouth. “Strip—lemme see that body.”

Bri stood, trembling, her crop top sticking to her tits. She blushed, peeling it off, her bra straining, jeans next, thong black and tight on her ass. Jake’s eyes locked on her, smirking, “Goddamn—perfect.” She blushed, hands shaky, standing there—tits out, ass bare, nervous as hell.

“I can’t—I mean—I’m doing this—fuck,” she whispered as Jake stepped closer, his hands on her hips, her stomach flipping again.

---

The motel room was a mess—bed sagging with a stained quilt, lamp flickering like a dying bug. Bri stood there, blonde hair loose, big tits spilling from her black bra, thong tight on her perfect ass, jeans crumpled on the floor. Jake loomed over her, handsome in a sleazy way, his cock still wet from her sloppy suck, jutting out hard and thick. She trembled, hands twisting, her crop top tossed aside, blushing hard as his eyes raked her body.

“Goddamn,” Jake muttered, stepping closer, his hand brushing her tits. “That ass—pure heaven.” He grabbed her hips, spinning her, and she stumbled, her ass jiggling as she caught the bed.

“I don’t—I mean—okay,” Bri stammered, her voice shaky, bending over, hands on the mattress. Her thong split her cheeks, her big tits swaying in the bra, and she blushed harder. Jake groaned behind her, his hands squeezing her ass, spreading it rough.

“Perfect,” he said, voice low, unzipping his jeans all the way, kicking them off. “Gonna fuck you good, baby.” He yanked her thong down, the fabric snapping as it hit her thighs, and she yelped, “Wait!” Her pussy was bare, pink and wet from nerves, and he rubbed his cockhead against it, slicking it up.

“Okay—okay,” she mumbled, bracing herself, her ass up, tits bouncing as she shifted. He slid in, slow at first, his thick cock stretching her pussy, and she moaned, “Oh—shit—that’s—fuck!” It wasn’t bad—warm, full, a few thrusts wet and deep, her cunt squeezing him. It wasn't too bad, she thought, her body rocking, thinking maybe this hustle wasn’t hell.

Then he pulled out, sudden and sharp, and she gasped, “What—?” His spit hit his cock, a fat glob, and he rubbed it sloppy, lining up again. Before she could blink, he shoved it into her asshole—hard, no warning, her tight ring burning as it stretched wide. “No! Wait!” she screamed, her voice cracking, hands clawing the quilt.

“Fuck, yeah,” Jake grunted, gripping her hips, slamming deeper, her ass splitting around his cock. “So tight—fucking perfect!” He fucked her hard, relentless, his balls slapping her pussy below, the bed creaking loud under his thrusts.

“Stop! Fuck—stop!” Bri yelled, squirming, her ass on fire, pain shooting up her spine. “I can’t—ow, fuck!” Tears stung her eyes, her tits bouncing wild as he pounded her butthole, ignoring her, his groans drowning her out. She kicked, heels scraping the floor, but he pinned her, his cock stretching her ass raw, deeper with every slam.

“Take it, baby,” he growled, slapping her ass hard, a red mark blooming. “Best fucking hole I’ve had—shit!” He thrust faster, her tight ring gripping him, her cries turning shrill, her body shaking—pain, shock, humiliation all slamming together.

“No—no—no!” she sobbed, her voice breaking, but he kept going, his cock thick and brutal, her ass burning, stretching wider. “I can’t—fuck—please!” She clawed the bed, tears dripping, her pussy dripping too—nerves or something worse, she couldn’t tell. He groaned loud, hips jerking, and came—hot, thick spurts flooding her asshole, cum spilling deep, leaking out as he pumped through it, grunting, “Fuck—worth every penny.”

He pulled out, slow and messy, cum dripping down her thighs, her ass gaping, raw and red. Bri collapsed, panting, her tits pressed to the bed, thong tangled at her knees. “Oh God—fuck—I can’t—shit,” she whimpered, tears streaking her face, her ass throbbing, cum oozing out. Jake zipped up, smirking, tossing two hundreds on the bed.

“That ass—heaven,” he said, wiping sweat off his brow. “See you around, baby.” He grabbed his jacket, sauntered out, the door clicking shut, leaving her sprawled, wrecked, alone.

“Fuck,” Bri whispered, rolling onto her side, her ass screaming, her hands shaky as she grabbed the cash. She yanked her thong up, wincing as it rubbed her raw hole, cum soaking the fabric. Her bra dug into her tits, her crop top wrinkled on the floor, and she sat up, sobbing.

She stumbled to her jeans, pulling them on, her ass throbbing with every move, tears blurring her eyes. Grabbing her phone the app pinged. Jake had left a review: Her ass is divine—tightest hole ever.

Bri stared at it, her stomach flipping—cash in hand, ass ruined, shame choking her.

The room spun, the lamp buzzed, and she hugged herself, her tits heaving, thong sticky with cum. She counted the bills, her hands trembling. “That’s—not again—no way—shit!” She shoved the cash in her pocket, grabbed her top, yanked it on—tits bouncing, nipples poking through—and staggered to the door, her ass aching.

Back at the dorm, she stumbled in, the hall loud—girls laughing, music thumping. She slammed her door, flopping on the bed, her ass up, thong rubbing raw, cum still leaking. She sobbed, burying her face in the pillow, her tits spilling sideways. The cash crinkled in her jeans, $200—food, rent, survival—but her ass burned, her pride trashed.

“I’m not doing that again,” she muttered, voice muffled, kicking the sheets, her ass jiggling. “No way—I mean—maybe—but no—shit!” She rolled over, staring at the ceiling, tears drying, her phone buzzing—ignored it. “That’s—fuck him—fuck this—fuck everything,” she said.

The mirror caught her—blonde hair tangled, big tits straining the top, ass perfect even wrecked. She glared at it, wiping her face, “I’m done—I mean—I think—fuck!” Her stomach growled, empty still, and she groaned, clutching the cash, her ass throbbing—a lifeline she hated, a choice she couldn’t unmake.

---

Bri’s dorm room was a fucking hole—beer cans scattered, sheets tangled, her thong from last night crusted with Jake’s cum on the floor. She slumped on the bed, blonde hair knotted, big tits spilling from a stretched tank top, her perfect ass sore as hell under leggings. Her phone glowed—$103.87 now, Jake’s $200 plus scraps, already depleted, but her stomach still growled, and her ass throbbed from his motel pounding two days back. She yanked at her hair, groaning, “Fuck—I can’t—I mean—I’m done—shit!”

The door banged open, and Lyla strutted in—brunette, smirking, leggings hugging her skinny ass, a coffee in hand. “Still moping, princess?” she said, flopping on the desk chair, kicking a can aside.

Bri glared, her tits bouncing as she sat up. “Not moping—fucked, Lyla! That guy—Jake—he—he fucked my ass! I said no, and he just—shit, I can’t do this!”

Lyla laughed, sharp and loud, sipping her coffee. “Ouch—first time’s a bitch, huh? But $200—cash is cash, babe. You’re eating, right?”

“No—I mean—yeah, but—fuck!” Bri snapped, hugging herself, tank top slipping, nipple peeking out. “It hurt—I cried—I’m not—I can’t again—shit!” She tugged it up, blushing, her ass aching as she shifted.

“Quit then,” Lyla said, shrugging. “But you’re broke—landlord’s circling. One more, Bri—suck it up, pay rent, figure shit out later.”

“I don’t—I mean—fuck, no!” Bri said, pacing, her ass jiggling, leggings rubbing her thong raw. “That’s—gross—I’m not a hooker—shit, am I?” She stopped, staring at Lyla, her gut twisting—cash in her pocket, cum in her ass, no other way.

“You’re hot,” Lyla said, leaning back. “Guys pay for that ass—stick it out, princess. One more, then decide.” She tossed Bri’s phone—it landed on the bed. “App’s buzzing—book it.”

“Fuck,” Bri muttered, grabbing it, her hands shaky. “I can’t—I mean—maybe—shit!” She swiped. New request: Brian, 50s, car dealer, gruff mug in his pic, $200. “He looks—ugh—I don’t know!” She clicked, booked—tonight, another motel, her stomach flipping. “Oh God—I can’t—I mean—I did—fuck!”

She yanked on jeans—tight, hugging her ass—a bra snapping her tits in, a crop top showing her stomach. Brushing her hair, mascara smudging as she shook, her ass still sore, her mind screaming no but her feet moving anyway.

The motel was a carbon-copy shithole, lot littered with butts, air sour with gas and despair. Bri stepped out, blonde hair loose, big tits bouncing in the crop top, jeans tight on her ass, and Brian waited—50s, balding, broad, a cigar stub in his mouth. “You Bri?” he grunted, voice rough, eyeing her up and down.

“Yeah—uh—hi,” she stammered, blushing, her tits shifting as she stood there. “Brian?”

“Yep,” he said, spitting the cigar, stepping closer, his breath stale. “Fuck, you’re a looker—let’s roll.” He jerked his head to the motel, and she followed, her ass swaying, her gut churning.

Room 9 stank—mildew, cum, a cracked mirror reflecting the rumpled bed. Brian kicked the door shut, smirking, “Nervous, huh? Relax—gonna be quick.” He unzipped his jacket, tossed it, and she froze, her voice small.

“I don’t—I mean—okay,” Bri said, dropping to her knees, her jeans tight, ass up as she fumbled his fly. His cock flopped out—stubby, thick, hairy—and she gagged, “Oh God—I can’t—shit!” But she grabbed it, stroking shaky, her lips parting, sucking the tip—salty, sour, her tongue clumsy as he groaned, “Fuck, yeah—suck it.”

She bobbed, gagging, his cock hitting her throat, spit drooling down her chin. She hoped quick meant pussy, not—shit. He grabbed her hair, thrusting rough, grunting, “Good slut—get it wet.”

“Fuck—okay,” she mumbled, pulling off, spit stringing, and he yanked her up, stripping her—bra off, tits bouncing free, jeans down, thong tight on her ass. “That ass—fuck,” he growled, bending her over the bed, her hands clawing the quilt.

“Please, not—” she stammered, her ass up, tits swaying, blushing hard. He slid into her pussy—few thrusts, wet and thick, and she moaned, “Oh—shit—that’s—fuck!” Thinking maybe—just maybe—this was it. Then he pulled out, spit on his cock, and shoved it into her asshole—hard, brutal, her tight ring stretching raw.

“Stop! Fuck—no!” Bri screamed, her voice shrill, kicking, her ass burning as he slammed deeper. “Goddamn tight,” Brian grunted, gripping her hips, fucking her butthole relentless, his balls slapping her pussy, the bed shaking.

“No—stop—please!” she sobbed, tears spilling, her ass on fire, pain ripping through her. “Ow, fuck!” She squirmed, begged, but he ignored her, his cock thick and mean, stretching her wider, her cries lost in his groans. Her tits bounced wild, her thong tangled at her knees, and he slapped her ass, “Best fucking hole—shit!”

“Fuck—no—no!” she wailed, her voice breaking, but he kept going, pounding her asshole, cum building in his grunts. She clawed the bed, tears soaking the quilt, her pussy dripping—shock or shame, she couldn’t tell. He groaned loud, hips jerking, and came—hot, thick spurts flooding her ass, leaking out as he pumped, panting, “Tightest hole ever—fuck!”

He pulled out, cum dripping down her thighs, her ass gaping, raw and wrecked. Bri collapsed, sobbing, her tits pressed to the bed, thong sticky with his mess. “Oh God—fuck—I can’t—shit,” she whimpered, shaking, her ass throbbing. Brian zipped up, tossed $200 on the bed, and left.

“Worth it,” he said, grabbing his jacket, stomping out, the door slamming shut. Bri grabbed the cash, trembling. She yanked her thong up, wincing, cum soaking it, jeans next, her ass screaming with every move.

The app pinged—Brian’s review: Ass perfection—10/10. “No—fuck—no!” she muttered, staring at it, her stomach twisting—$400 now, but her ass ruined again, shame choking her.

---

Bri’s dorm room was a fucking sty—cans piled high, sheets crusted with sweat, her thong from Brian’s motel fuck tossed on the floor, stiff with cum. She sat on the bed, blonde hair tangled, big tits spilling from a ripped tank top, her perfect ass sore under leggings—throbbing from two ass-fuckings in a week.

Lyla barged in, a vape in hand. “Still crying, princess?” she said, flopping on the chair, puffing a cloud. “Thought you were done after Jake—$400 says different.”

Bri glared, her tits bouncing as she bolted up. “Fuck you—it’s awful, Lyla! They—they fuck my ass! Both—Jake, Brian—I said no, but they did it anyway! I can’t—I mean—shit, I’m not a hooker!”

“You’re eating,” Lyla said, shrugging. "Cash is cash.”

“No—fuck—no!” Bri snapped, pacing, her ass jiggling, leggings rubbing her thong raw. “That’s—gross—I’m not—fuck, I can’t keep doing this!” She stopped, staring at Lyla, her gut flipping.

“Quit whining,” Lyla said, tossing the vape down. “You’re hot ass is a goldmine. Three more popped up—book ‘em, Bri, or starve again.” She grabbed Bri’s phone, swiped—Side Chick app, requests blinking: lawyer, dentist, banker, $200 each.

“Fuck!” Bri muttered, snatching it back, her hands shaky. “They’ll—no—I can’t—fuck!” She scrolled—pics blurry, older, smug—her stomach churned. “Maybe it will go better this time,” she whispered, booking all three, her ass throbbing, her mind screaming no.

First was the lawyer—40s, slick suit, motel room stinking of cologne and cum. Bri sucked his cock—long, veined—gagging, spit drooling, her big tits bouncing in a bra, jeans tight on her ass. “Fuck—that’s it,” he grunted, stripping her, bending her over. Few thrusts in her pussy—wet, warm—then he pulled out, spit, shoved into her asshole. “No! Fuck—stop!” she yelled, but he fucked her raw, spanking her ass red, groaning, “Best butt I’ve fucked—shit!” Her ass burned, tears spilled, he came—hot, thick, leaking out—review: Ass is unreal—tight as hell.

Next night, the dentist—50s, wiry, motel bed creaking. She sucked his dick—thin, sour—choking, her thong tight, ass up as he growled, “Fuck, that body.” Stripped her, fucked her pussy a minute—sloppy, quick—then switched, ramming her butthole. “No—please—no!” she sobbed, kicking, but he pounded her ass, fast and mean, cumming quick, muttering, “So tight—fuck!” Cum dripped, her ass raw, review: Tightest hole—worth it.

Third, the banker—late 40s, paunchy, motel mirror cracked. She sucked him—fat cock, sweaty—gagging hard, her crop top off, tits bouncing, jeans hugging her ass. He bent her over, few pumps in her pussy—wet, messy—then spit, shoved into her asshole. “Fuck—no—stop!” she wailed, clawing the bed, but he fucked her slow, stretching her raw, grunting, “Perfect—shit!” He came, flooding her ass, cum oozing, review: Asshole’s a dream—tight and hot.

Bri stumbled back each time—sobbing, cash in hand, her ass wrecked, reviews piling up. Ass this, ass that. “I can’t—I mean—I’m done—fuck!” she’d mutter, but the app pinged—fifth date, banker again, $200 more. “No—shit—I don’t—fuck!” she whispered, booking it, her ass sore, her mind a mess—$800 total, fridge stocked, but shame choking her.

Motel again—same banker, same stink, bed sagging. She sucked his cock—fat, dripping—gagging loud, spit soaking her chin, her bra off, big tits swaying, thong tight on her ass. “Fuck—that ass,” he growled, stripping her, bending her over. Few thrusts in her pussy—wet, warm—then he pulled out, spit, rammed her asshole slow. “No—fuck—no!” she cried, tears spilling, but he fucked her deep, deliberate, stretching her raw, his hands clawing her ass.

“Take it, slut,” he grunted, pounding her butthole, her tight ring burning, his cock thick and mean. She sobbed, “I can’t—ow—fuck!” but her pussy dripped, her body shaking—pain twisting into something else. He dragged it out—slow thrusts, then hard, his balls slapping her clit, her ass jiggling, and she gasped, “No—no—shit!” Her cunt clenched, heat building, and she came—hard, shuddering, her ass pulsing around him, shame flooding her as she moaned, “Fuck—oh God!”

“Fucking slut,” he laughed, slamming faster, cumming—hot, thick spurts filling her ass, leaking out as he pumped, panting, “Came like a whore—shit!” He pulled out, her ass gaping, cum dripping down her thighs, and tossed $200, smirking, “Worth it.”

Bri collapsed, sobbing, her tits pressed to the bed, thong sticky, cum oozing. “Fuck—I can’t—I mean—I came—shit!” she whimpered, shaking, her ass throbbing, her mind reeling—orgasm from her ass, dirty and wrong. She grabbed the cash, trembling, “No—I’m done—I mean—fuck!” She yanked her clothes on, jeans rubbing her raw hole, tears drying, app pinging—review: Her asshole’s a miracle—came like a slut.

Back at the dorm, she flopped on the bed, her ass up, thong soaked, cash crinkling in her pocket. She buried her face in the pillow, her tits heaving. “That’s—not again—no—fuck!” She rolled over, staring at the ceiling, her ass screaming, her pussy still wet—shame, cash, disgust all tangled up.

“I’m not—fuck—I’m not a whore,” she whispered, kicking the sheets, her ass jiggling. “I mean—maybe—but no—shit!” The app buzzed—more requests, all eyeing her ass—and she groaned, clutching the cash, her mind a wreck—money piling, ass ruined, a line crossed she couldn’t uncross.

---

Bri slumped on the bed, blonde hair a sweaty mess, big tits spilling from a torn tank top, her perfect ass sore under leggings—five clients, five anal poundings, but her gut churned with shame. Her phone glowed—app buzzing, reviews raving: ass miracle, tightest hole, came like a slut. She yanked at her hair, groaning.

The door stayed shut—no Lyla today, just silence, her ass throbbing, her mind a wreck. “No more—fuck—no way,” she muttered, pacing, her ass jiggling, leggings rubbing her thong raw. “I came—fucking came—God, I’m sick!” She stopped, staring at the mirror—big tits, perfect ass, a whore’s body now, cash in her jeans, shame in her eyes. “I’m not—I mean—maybe—fuck!” The app pinged—new booking, $200, motel tonight. “One more—shit—I can’t—I need it—fuck!” She clicked accept, trembling, her stomach flipping—food, rent, survival.

She yanked on a bra—black, tight—her tits bouncing as she snapped it, jeans hugging her ass, a thong underneath, crop top showing her stomach. “Just—quick—fuck—I don’t know,” she mumbled, brushing her hair, mascara smudging, her ass aching with every step. “Not that—please—not—shit,” she whispered, grabbing her keys, stumbling out, the dorm buzzing with girls laughing, doors slamming. But her world had shrunk to her asshole.

The motel was the same shithole. Bri stepped out, blonde hair loose, big tits straining the crop top, jeans tight on her ass, and froze—her dad, Tom, stood there, late 40s, brunette hair graying, stern face twisted in shock. “Bri?” he barked, voice rough, eyes raking her up and down. “What the fuck—you’re a whore?”

“Dad?” Bri’s voice cracked, shrill and small, her tits bouncing as she stepped back. “No—I mean—what—fuck!” Her stomach dropped, her hands shaking, thong rubbing her sore ass. “I’m not—I mean—I was—shit!”

“You’re on this—this app?” he snapped, holding his phone—Side Chick open, her profile glaring: Bri, 19, perfect ass, 5 stars. “Selling your ass? Jesus, Bri—wasted my money, now this?”

“No—Dad—no!” she stammered, tears stinging, her crop top slipping, blushing hard. “I—I had to—fuck—you cut me off! I didn’t—I mean—shit!” She hugged herself, her ass throbbing, cash burning in her pocket—$1,000, all from her hole.

“Disgraceful,” he growled, stepping closer, his breath sour with beer. “A fucking slut—my daughter! Thought you’d study, not spread your ass for cash!” His eyes narrowed, locked on her body—tits, ass, a flicker she didn’t catch.

“I’m sorry—I can’t—I mean—fuck, Dad!” she sobbed, tears spilling, her voice breaking. “I didn’t want—I needed—shit, please!” She backed up, hitting the truck, her ass jiggling, her mind spinning—no, no, no.

He glared, then smirked, dark and mean. “Might as well see what they’re raving about—fucking reviews, Bri!” He unzipped, his cock out—thick, hard—and she froze, “What—no—Dad—fuck!”

“No—I can’t—I mean—stop!” she yelled, but he grabbed her, spinning her, shoving her through the door and against the bed inside—door slammed, room stinking of cum and shame. “You’re a whore—prove it,” he grunted, yanking her jeans down, thong tight on her ass, ripping it aside.

“Dad—no—please!” she sobbed, her tits bouncing as she clawed the quilt, but he fucked her pussy—only a few thrusts, wet and rough, her cunt squeezing him. “Fuck—no—stop!” she wailed, tears soaking her face, her ass up, trembling. Then he pulled out, spit on his cock, and rammed her asshole—hard, brutal, her tight ring stretching raw.

“No—fuck—no!” she screamed, her voice shrill, kicking, her ass burning as he pounded deep. “Goddamn tight,” Tom grunted, gripping her hips, fucking her butthole relentlessly, his balls slapping her pussy, the bed creaking loud. “Fucking slut—my own kid—shit!”

“Stop—Dad—please!” she begged, her ass on fire, pain ripping through her, tears flooding the quilt. “I can’t—ow—fuck!” She squirmed, sobbed, but he ignored her, his cock thick and mean, stretching her wider, his groans drowning her cries. Her pussy dripped—shame, fear, something sick—and he slapped her ass, “Best hole—fuck!”

“No—no—no!” she wailed, her voice breaking, but he kept going, pounding her asshole, cum building in his grunts. She clawed the bed, her tits bouncing wild, her thong tangled at her knees, and he groaned loud, hips jerking, cumming—hot, thick spurts flooding her ass, leaking out as he pumped, growling, “Worthless—shit!”

He pulled out, cum dripping down her thighs, her ass gaping, raw and wrecked. Bri collapsed, sobbing, her tits pressed to the bed, thong sticky with his mess. “Fuck—Dad—I can’t,” she whimpered, shaking, her ass throbbing, shame choking her. He zipped up, glaring, tossing $200 on the bed.

“You’re no daughter of mine,” he snapped, wiping sweat off his brow. “Fucking disgrace. I'm done with you.” He stormed out, the door slamming, leaving her sprawled, wrecked, alone.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck!” Bri whispered, curling up, her ass screaming, cum oozing out, tears streaking her face. She grabbed the cash, trembling, “No—no—no—fuck!” Her tank top hung loose, her bra digging into her tits, and she sat up, sobbing.

The app pinged—Tom’s review: Her ass is unreal—shame she’s a whore. “No—God—no!” she muttered, staring at it, her stomach twisting—$1,200 now, but her ass violated by him, her world trashed. She yanked her jeans up, wincing, cum soaking her thong, tears drying, her mind a wreck—cash in hand, family gone, nothing left.

---

Bri slumped on the bed, blonde hair a greasy knot, big tits spilling from a torn tank top, her perfect ass sore—six clients, six unwanted butt-fuckings. Her gut was a pit of shame.

The door creaked, and Lyla slunk in, a vape puffing in her hand. “Rough night, princess?” she said, flopping on the chair, kicking a can. “Heard you sobbing—Daddy issues?”

Bri glared, her tits bouncing as she sat up, tears drying. “Fuck you—it’s him, Lyla! Dad—booked me—fucked my ass! Said I’m a disgrace—disowned me—shit!” Her voice cracked, her ass throbbing, cum still leaking from last night.

Lyla’s jaw dropped, then she laughed, loud and sharp. “Holy shit—that’s fucked! Your own dad? Damn, babe—cash is cash, but that’s next level.”

“No—fuck—no!” Bri snapped, hugging herself, tank top slipping, nipple peeking out. “He—he paid—fucked me—left! I can’t—I mean—shit, I’m done!” She tugged it up, blushing, her ass burning as she shifted, shame choking her.

“Done?” Lyla said, smirking wider, puffing her vape. “App says different—bookings piling up, all for that ass. ‘Unreal,’ ‘tightest hole’—you’re a star, Bri. Quit, and what? Starve?”

“Fuck—I don’t—I mean—maybe—shit!” Bri muttered, pacing, her ass jiggling, leggings rubbing her thong raw. “That’s—gross—he—fuck, I can’t keep—shit!” She stopped, staring at Lyla, her gut twisting. The fridge was full, but her ass was a wreck.

“Own it,” Lyla said, tossing the vape down. “You’re hot—ass pays. No degree, no Dad, just this—roll with it, princess.” She grabbed Bri’s phone, swiped—Side Chick app, requests blinking: ten guys, $200 each, all raving her reviews.

“Fuck—no—I can’t—shit!” Bri whispered, snatching it back, her hands shaky. “They’ll—all—fuck my ass—God!” She scrolled. Her stomach flipped, but rent was safe, food stocked. She clicked accept—five bookings, her ass sore, her mind screaming no but her thumb moving anyway.