Lexi’s life was a blur of chapped lips and shaky hands. At 19, with a skinny frame and tiny tits barely pushing against her cheap top, she stood on Pill’s gritty streets, waiting. The addiction had chewed up her savings, her dignity, and any hope of a normal life. All she had left was her cunt.

She’d flash a thigh to a slowing car, watch the driver’s eyes light up. Some would roll down the window, breath reeking of beer. “Oi, you do blowjobs?” That was the easy cash—a quick slobber on some bloke’s cock in a backseat, his rough hands gripping her blonde hair as she gagged. She’d milk his dick dry for 20 quid, running to the dealer.

But 20 quid never lasted. Her skin crawled for a fix, driving her to the brothels near the city centre. There, the grubby rooms were assaulting—stale sweat, sperm, and money. She didn't care. “Spread those skinny legs,” some fat pig would order, flipping her over, pounding her slit raw until she screamed. She learned to dissociate, moan on cue, let them finger her until their shriveled cocks got hard again. Her pussy became just a cash register.

The money bought bigger rocks, longer highs, deeper lows. When dealing couldn’t pay enough, a dealer whispered about “parties.” Lexi was desperate enough. She arrived at a rundown house in Grangetown. Men, all over 50, sat in a circle. Plastic cups of whiskey. Eyes that looked through her. “Strip,” they ordered