A quiet moan is barely heard through the pile of thrash, just a lock of blond hair betraying the girl's presence, and the sudden move as she twitches while he pisses on her hand.
He staggers back surprised. "What the fuck..." he mutters, pissing all over and away as he tries to stay standing. "The fuck?!" he slurs again, still peeing and straining his eyes he leans forward to see better, what's moving there.
Her broken body twitches some more, her self preserving functions still at work, an unnatural wheezing escaping her lips, not making any sense as she tries to shae words as she used to "Howma......beinwe.......atyou...."
The man finally finishes, pulls up his fly and wades through the filth, falling over, next to the half-buried body. Almost throwing up from the stench, he starts uncovering the body, throwing away pieces of trash. "The fuck..." he mutters again at the sight, trying to focus. "Fuck is this?" he frowns, making an effort to take a good look at the body.
She shuddered, her arms dislocated at an unnatural angle, trying to turn her battered head toward him, her blue, crystal clear eyes still intact, blinking as she is programmed when she takes in the sight of the stranger. Her body is ruined by marks of torture and blackened shot wounds. She gives up on speaking through, just following the movements of the drunkard with wide eyes.
He props himself up on his elbow, and starts to pat her over with his other, trembling hands, examining the bruises and wounds. "Fuck-- you should be dead." he mutters, running his hand over her cooling body, slippery, tight skin. "Fancy clothes. Rich." he comments. "Fell from somewhere." he looks up dizzy, but can't really focus. "Maybe from a car." he moves down to her hip, moving her leg a bit. "Should be dead." He pokes a wound on her leg to see if she reacts at all, his pulse quickening, the drunken haze somewhat receding
The body twitches again when he pokes at a wound, her glance piercing as she watches him wihtout blinking now, her features trembling as she tries to move her dislocated arm, twisting her torso to its limits as she tries to reach him.
Rhialto pushes her back down with his other hand, clumsily cupping and pressing her breast under his palm as he does so. "Don't move." he has trouble focusing, leans closer, taking in her scent of blood, pain and rich perfume. "Should be dead. Blood loss and shock alone." he mutters, feeling up her thigh, moving back to her lap. He looks around nervously, waiting for cops or hit men to appear and catch him red-handed. "Replicant?" he slurs drunkenly, and starts to search her body, pulling his hand back from her breast almost embarassed. "Pleasure model maybe?" he asks hopefully. If she is not human, he can only be sued for property damage. "Fuck, fuck fuck." he mutters, turning her head, over, rolling her to the side to check for any barcode or ID number, rubbing blood and dirt from her skin. "Please be a fucking skinjob."
The girl's lips twitch into a distroted smile as he keeps on examinging her, pale and almost beyond hope for further existence. She arches her back as he turns her around, the barcode revealed at the back of her neck as he searches, pushing away her locks of blond perfection. "Skinjob." she repeats with a hoarse voice, tasting the sound of that word as she stares at the pile of thrash intently while he moves her around.
Rhialto rolls her back onto her back carelessly. She's not human, he doesn't have to be careful. He sighs relieved and pats her over in the flashing lights of the club, looking at her wounds. "Torture. High caliber shots. Went right through, mostly." he declares, less drunk now, but still dizzy, hard to see in the dimness, with all the blood and dirt. Her tight, smooth skin is almost dancing in front of her eyes, her breasts and curvy ass obvious. Breathing harder he parts her legs to see the damage. "Heavy torture. Crude. Huh, definitely pleasure model." he checks under her skirt, pulling the panties away for a second. "All hairless. Fucking dolls." he sniffs, her scent filling his nose, embarassed to realize, that he is slowly having a hard-on.
Larissa stays where she is pushed, just a very quiet whine leaving her lips "Fucking doll...." she repeats as if unable to phrase any individual thoughts, just her arm twitching a few times again, given up trying to reach out, just laying in his sight.
Rhialto shudders as she still speaks, still alive and conscious. A normal human would be dead by now. "Shit." he hisses, realizing his hand is groping her sex, the other cupping her breast. He pulls his hands away like burnt, and looks down at her. "Fuck. You could suffer for hours." he looks around again, getting ready to leave. "Somebody really wanted you dead. Fuck." he hesitates, shaking his head slowly, trying to think straight, his cock swelling up in his pants as he looks at her. "When they find your body, they'll return you to your owner. Not my problem." he tries to reason with himself.
The girl was badly, severly and literally dumped. She moaned. It was almost perfect, just a pitch of hoarse fear filtering through it. She did feel pain, she was capable of fear. She was designed to survive more than a fragile woman, but she was supposed to react to it fully. The body shuddered as it was drawing on the last reserves of energy, unable to move any longer, just tremble under the stranger's touches not even pretending to breathe anymore.
Rhialto frowns, his hand cautiously reaching out to cup her breast, and fondle it crudely. "Just a pleasure model. Not my problem. I should leave you here--" he mutters drunkenly, feeling her perfectly shaped, firm breast bending under his touch. "I could just fuck you and leave you here..." he looks around awkwardly. "Maybe you'll even survive until morning--" he looks over her injuries again, blood still oozing from the wounds. "Somebody really hated you" he whispers, his drunken arousal still not letting him leave, staying against his better judgement.
The body was perfectly round and bouncy where needed. Too perfect, as her previous owner stated, and he did enjoy every minute he spent torturing her for that perfection. She shuddered as her body still reacted to the caress of his hand, but the moans faded, the move with which she would arch her body to press under his palm is broken by the lack of energy, just trembling helplessly, not even whining anymore.
Rhialto feels her shudder in his hand, leaning over her. "Okay. Okay." he mutters, not sure, why exactly, but leans close, breath reeking of booze, and starts kissing her jaw, breathing heavily, his hand kneading her breast through the torn dress. "I could fuck you right here--" he mumbles, his erection now stretching his pants, still too drunk to realize what he is doing. "Still warm--"
She sighs, her voice barely heard as she keeps repeating his words, struggling to move her lips as she stutters "Sti..sti....still wa.....still warm..." she groans, trying to react how she is supposed to when she is teased like that, juices running around in her insides, trickling between her legs.
He shudders again, unnerved by her voice, suddenly pulling away, slapping her on the face by reflex. "Fuck." he curses, grabbing her hair. "You should be dead" he hisses, shaking her head, grabbing her shoulder. Feeling her joints dislocated under his touch, he pulls back. "Fuck. What the fuck did they do to you?" he hisses, looking around again nervously. He kneels up, looking down at her. Arms in unnatural angles, broken bones or dislocated joints, cuts, bruises, gunshot wounds. Lots of blood. "It's hopeless." he shakes his head. "I can't help you" he adds, blushing as he still feels the urge to tear off her clothes and fuck her right here. "you want that, don't you?" he asks loud, continuing his drunken train of thoughs out loud.
The girl would repeat some of his words again "Hope...." but chokes on some synthetic fluids that wheeze from her throat, her body spasming as it starts to shut down, her eyes without focus, just for the last time flashing a wide glance at him while her body contorts helplessly.
Rhialto grimaces angrily. "Fucking hell. I don't fucking believe this." he curses drunkenly, watching as she goes into shock. He grabs her dislocated, limp arm, and gives it a sharp tug, not really to pop it back into place, it's been dislocated too long, probably, but to snap her out of the shock, turning her to the side so the fluids drain from her mouth and she can continue to breathe. "Not just yet." he snarls, as he crouches down. "I'm not finished" he growls, and starts to poke her wounds, examining the injuries thoroughly, depth, width, infection, damaged organs. "Maybe I could salvage something. You must have been very expensive." he checks her spine, her hip. "You don't look like stock." he lifts her bloody thigh, checking her inner thighs, pulling the skirt down from the small of her back. "No signature marks. Custom made." he looks around, his eyes more focused, his moves more determined. "Not finished yet."
She coughs up some of the fluids as he turns her, her groan more of a sound of her insides moving while he moves and inspects her, her fingers finally wrapping around his wrist as he keeps on turning her around, just staring as she catches ragged breaths.
He snaps her broken, bruised hand away easily. "You're broken, doll. But you gave me an idea" he smirks, roughly turning her over to her other side, and picks up one of the trashbags, emptying its content, throwing everything away, and turning the bag inside out. "Scrap meat--" he chuckles, as he pulls the bag over her head and tries to pull it down over her torso as much as he can. "Scrap meat--" he repeats, chuckling drunkenly, unable to stop as he pulls the bag down to her hip, staring at her tortured, bloody leg, his crotch stirring again at the sight, and pulls up her skirt to stare at her panties while he still giggles. He proceeds to pull an other emptied, inside-out trashbag over her leg to hide her body, while he still chuckles, and crudely gropes her thighs and her lap.
The girl is too weak to protest, her arms and legs randomly twitching as he wraps her into the smelly thrashbags, the perfect white skin almost glowing, high contrast against the wounded, detroyed parts where the synthetic flesh shows through, her hands still searching for him, still twitching each time he slaps them away.
Rhialto throws her over his shoulder, his laugh now almost hysterical, as he struggles to stand up. "Scrap meat, man. That's sick" he chuckles, and starts to make his way deep into the belly of the city, staggering and stumbling and groping her ass as she lays across his shoulder, the bags rustling. "Hold on just a bit longer, broken toy."
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