The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

A CASTLE IN MILTON KEYNES by Sonia Florens

HE HAD PURSUED me relentlessly. I gave up and surrendered. Out of guilt, out of lust, and sheer lassitude.

I had betrayed him a few years before and I felt I had no other choice now but to insist he punish me as he saw fit. Repentance must come, I reckoned. To purge the evil of my cold heart. To wash the past away in one quick swoop.

“The first hint of your infidelity,” he had explained to me, “was when you came to me smelling of cigarette smoke, of dead ash. You put your lips against mine and the damn tobacco was all over your breath. I was breathing in another man as I kissed you.”

I lowered my eyes, fluttered my lashes.

He knew.

We parted ways.

There were other men. Minor, unfulfilling adventures. But none could erase his spell over me, the look of sheer danger in his eyes that kept me feeling ever wet on the inside.

I suppose that in the time we spent apart, he also came to know other women. The female form is his major weakness. But I can forgive that. Because all the while he kept shadowing me, writing, threatening, phoning. Loving me in that crazy way of his.

So, one morning in March, a few days before that damn Trade Fair I just couldn’t face attending once again – year after year of pointless negotiations with Eastern European entrepreneurs who just had no clue and had no subtlety whatsoever trying to get their paws into my underwear and thought taking meaningless options and inviting me for drinks at their hotel bar was the epitome of sophistication and seduction – I walked over to his building early. Half an hour or so before I knew he usually arrived. Stood by the door and waited. Wondering all the time whether I was doing the right thing.

He arrived. Didn’t even blink when he saw me there (later, though, he confessed that his heart just dropped twenty fathoms when he realized it actually was me).

“I’m back,” I said.

“You haven’t changed,” he said quietly.

“Yes, I’m the same,” I answered.

His hand stayed in his coat pocket, fingering his keys.

“Back for good?” he asked.

“Forever and again,” I promised.

“Good.”

We went inside and he fucked me unceremoniously on his office floor. We didn’t talk. Just did it. It was good. As it always had been. Time and time again, he got hard. And harder. Ploughed me. The phone rang on and off throughout and we blissfully ignored it. Every time, he plunged deeper into me, extending my legs over his shoulders to ensure further penetration and I knew only too well that with each successive thrust he was trying to hurt me, but I bit my tongue and let him take his revenge. I was the guilty party. The betrayer. His fingers in my rear stretched me, tore me, impaled me, but it was all right. It was fine. He had to get over his anger. And the pain he was causing also excited me like I never thought it could.

Later, I told him:

“I have done you wrong, I know.”

“Yes, oh yes, you have, my love,” he said, pensively. “Two bloody years of longing, of constant ache inside, of sleepless nights that went on and on with no end in sight. Christ, you did make me suffer. But, you see, there was also hope against hope. That one day I would get you back… That somehow the impossible would happen. I never really gave up totally, even when things were at their darkest.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Truly, I am,” I babbled.

“You hurt me so,” he said, now with tears in his eyes.

“So punish me,” I told him.

“No. Now is surely the time to bury the past, forget the whole damn mess, start things anew.”

“I insist, you must punish me,” I heard myself saying. “I deserve it all. Do to me what you will, my dark-haired lover. Anything.”

He looked at me strangely. Smiled gently.

“Are you sure?” he questioned me.

“Absolutely,” I answered.

“Fine,” he said.

So my lover took me to the castle in Milton Keynes. One hour or so up the M1, travelling with no rush in the middle lane. I couldn’t see anything. He had carefully placed a black silk scarf around my head, fastened it tight, covering my eyes. He said it was Milton Keynes. I believed him. We’d spent the right amount of time driving up the motorway. But I suppose it could as well have been Blackheath, Finchley, Hendon or even Scarborough for all I knew or cared. It didn’t matter. Castles all smell the same, I reckon.

As I stepped out of the car, I sort of thought this was all very silly, was I really ready to star in the Milton Keynes version of “The Story of O”? Why had he allowed me to retain my underwear? In the book, that hadn’t been the case. Was the feel of the leather car seat caressing my bare buttocks an experience I had ever fantasized about? Would it initially have been cold against my flesh, then gradually warmer; would the fabric stick to my skin, would I sweat, squirm? And now I wouldn’t even experience that.

I wore my grey tailored power suit, the one with the stripes, made of quality wool. A white opaque cotton blouse completed the demure display, black sheer nylon stockings, my best, and matching bra, knickers and suspender belt set, black also. But right then those particular details were my secret. My lover didn’t know; he hadn’t watched me dress. I knew how he loved it when I wore stockings the old-fashioned way. Made my long legs look even longer, he would always say.

So the castle door opened. Well-oiled, it didn’t even creak in the slightest. Just a normal English spring day, a light breeze fluttering around my ankles and neck, not even a gothic day.

He guided me in, one hand on my waist, our steps echoing around the hall.

Then, I stopped feeling his faint touch against me. Was he still there, harbouring in the silence, or had he departed the premises altogether? This was already the first sign of emotional torture: I wasn’t to know whether he was ever present while all sort of terrible things would be done to me, to my body. Something inside me wanted him around, for my mental comfort, I suppose, but on the other hand, what would he think of me, react to the spectacle of my body being defiled, would I ever be the same for him ever again, thereafter?

Not knowing, that was the worst sort of punishment.

A voice – not his – said:

“Stay where you are and spread your legs apart.”

I obeyed.

Still the faint trace of an echo, bouncing between stone floor and high ceiling.

Standing in silence, trying to guess how many pairs of eyes might be watching me, male and/or female.

Something, a cane? a whip handle? brushed against my left cheek, tracing the faint line of my scar. Cold. I shivered briefly.

Then a hand took hold of my jacket, pulled on the sleeves and manoeuvred my arms out of it. Another brief moment of silence and inaction, while I tried to listen to all the minute sounds, murmurs of nearby voices, distant chirping of birds outside, almost inaudible scraping of material against material, against flesh? Was there another woman nearby, also wearing stockings?

“Stand still,” the male voice reiterated. I was sure I hadn’t moved.

I opened my lips, ready to say so.

“Jeezus… ” A sharp, sudden smack on my rear, before any sound could even escape.

“You may not speak,” the unknown man said, severely.

It didn’t hurt, but I had been completely taken by surprise.

“Spread your legs wider apart,” another deep male voice instructed, almost angrily.

The material of the grey skirt was tight against my thighs. It was awkward to assume the desired position without moving the rest of my body, which I knew they would disapprove of.

I felt the thin object against my knees, then it moved up my right leg, grazing the fabric of the stocking, slowly, lazily upwards, reaching mid-thigh when it moved into the empty triangle below my crotch. I shivered again, expecting its next movement. It made contact with my knickers, right where my sex was. I imagined a surge of electricity bolting through my body and felt the first wetness inside my cunt, and my sex lips engorging and opening slightly, pressed as they were against the silk of my underwear.

“Good,” one of the men said. “Stay like that.”

Then, nothing happened for some time. I stood uncomfortably listening to muffled noises all around. There were some more people arriving, chairs being arranged, seemingly in a circle around me. I was about to become the main attraction. Right there, in the hall. Looked as if I didn’t even get to graduate to a traditional gothic dungeon. Like in the books. Like in the movies. I must have smiled.

Another violent whack on my buttocks. This time it hurt.

“What’s so funny, bitch?”

“Nothing,” I summarily replied.

This time it was a whip and it struck suddenly twice, once on my shoulders and then immediately again on my breasts.

“This is your last reminder, woman. You may not talk.”

I bit my lips as the pain and the adrenaline subsided quickly.

Took a deep breath.

Some were talking in low voices, but it was too indistinct for me to really hear anything. But some of the voices were definitely female. And one was certainly my lover’s.

Behind the dark piece of cloth that obscured my vision, I closed my eyes. Tried to picture him with another. Was she sitting on his lap? Where was his hand? Was she also blonde? Was his cock hard, was she holding it as she laughed at me, standing there helpless, ready and willing to be ravaged by their combined obscenities?

Warm breath against my cheek. An intriguing smell, sweetish, a complex fragrance half human, half artificial, a remote smell of lemongrass. Male, I knew, as he moved closer, examining me, brushing against my back. Hands touching my breasts through the blouse, feeling them, cupping them, weighing them. Then his hands moved to my chin, to my lips, a finger slipped inside my mouth, a nail grazing my tongue, withdrew, out again the humid finger passed over my cheeks.

I could hear the sound of the unknown man’s breathing and the warmth radiating out from his body.

Goosebumps.

The hand retreated from my cheeks, neglecting my eyes and forehead. To be quickly replaced by the cold feel of metal against my throat. A blade.

I knew this was a test and was careful neither to move or utter a single sound.

The sharp metal edge drew a slow line down from my neck, over my white blouse between the valley of my breasts, then further along past my stomach, over my crotch and disappeared into the open triangle of my stretched grey skirt. It reached the lower edge of the garment and I felt the zip being pulled, either by the person wielding the knife or another protagonist. The skirt came loose and fell to the ground. The tip of the knife moved up and was inserted behind the taut elastic band of my black knickers and swiftly cut through the material like butter. The underpants were pulled from my body to facilitate the journey of the knife through them from front to back. The bisected knickers were then swiftly pulled away from the suspender belt, leaving me bottomless.

The cold air moved against my bare genitals and posterior.

A long, thin finger, certainly a woman’s, journeyed through my pubic curls and brutally pushed past my lips and entered my vagina.

I swallowed hard and held my breath as the finger explored my innards, drawing moisture as my body reacted uncontrollably, lasciviously, to the intrusion by releasing its natural secretions. She moved her finger around inside, enjoying the warmth and the growing humidity, her nail brushing slowly against my clitoris. My whole body trembled and I knew my cheeks must have turned red for all to see.

“Thirsty?” the woman’s kindly voice enquired.

I nodded, careful not to say anything.

“Good,” she replied.

Almost simultaneously, a man’s voice, hard and authoritative:

“Hold your arms up,” it ordered.

I stretched my arms toward the invisible ceiling, my face still hot and red because of my embarrassing posture, standing there as if crucified, my bare bottom thrust outwards at the unknown spectators, the woman’s digit still burrowing inside my cunt, my juices accumulating inside, ready to pour out shamefully over my thighs once she pulled her finger out, no doubt.

Both my hands were seized and manacled to pulleys which had been lowered down from on high in the hall. At first, the traction on my wrists was slack, but someone quickly reduced the slack in the ropes and I was forcibly pulled up and my feet barely adhered to the ground in my high heels.

The mockery of being crucified.

The woman’s finger retreated out, soaking with my juices. My lower lips remained wide open, dilated, sticky.

“Drink.”

A plastic bottle was placed against my lips and up-ended. It was only lightly carbonated mineral water. Couldn’t quite place the taste. Not Perrier; another brand.

Initially, it was welcome and refreshing, cooling down my dry mouth before gurgling down my throat. Then it was enough, but the bottle wasn’t moved away and I had to swallow the liquid faster to avoid choking as the water swam rapidly through my lips and straight down my throat. As soon as the bottle was empty, it was replaced by another. And yet another. The third bottle was Badoit; I could recognize the chalky background of its taste. They allowed me a minute or so’s break before emptying the fourth bottle inside me. I felt ill, now. My belly was bloated. I must have looked as if I was a few months pregnant, held there on display, the ropes imposing such an undignified stretched-out position, open, vulnerable.

What’s all this water in aid of, I wondered, as the final drops from the fourth bottle travelled past my tongue in a direct trajectory to my stomach?

I expected another bottle to be placed against my lips, but this was it. No more.

The silence returned.

I was forced to move my body slightly as cramp was reaching my left foot, and the water inside me sloshed from side to side.

Christ! I realized what they were up to. And the moment I did, there was nothing I could do to stop it. Or slow it down.

With my legs wide apart and my cunt still splayed open, there was no holding back the urine and it roared out of me like a jet, splashing loudly all over the stone floor. My face must have been redder than beetroot at that moment, as I suffered this impossible humiliation. Would it ever end? My pee kept on coming and coming, its stream still gushing out like a geyser, splashing my thighs and my stockings, cascading over my shoes. On and on and on. Finally, my bladder exhausted itself and the stream came to a spluttering end.

I felt bad, used, dirty. What would they do next? I already imagined the most diabolical perversions. And something in me, deep inside, was already looking forward to it, while the more sensible – civilized? – part of me was damn angry, eager for revenge. I had never been able to control my anger well. It had always done me much disservice.

“Isn’t she just beautiful?” I heard my lover say.

“Yes,” replied another man. “Great arse. Just love that dark mole right on the bottom curve of those cheeks. I’d love to bite it off.”

I shuddered.

Another: “That cunt seems nice and tight.”

“But it’s quite accommodating,” my lover said. “She’ll take a lot.”

“And at the rear,” a woman asked, “has she any experience?”

“Not with me,” my lover said. “She never wanted to. But when she betrayed me with the other, I know they tried it.”

“And that is why you want her punished, is it?” an older man’s voice asked.

“Yes,” my dark lover said. “And don’t even tell me it’s petty, I know that already.”

“So be it,” the older man said.

I heard steps, and a door close. They wanted me to believe my lover had left, but I knew he would stay and watch. I could still feel his silent presence and his eyes feasting on the indecent spectacle of my bare flesh. Brightly conscious of the pornography of the fact that my upper body was still fully clothed, while my lower half wantonly displayed itself, wet stockings stuck to my legs, the strong smell of urine and fear surrounding me, held apart like a sacrificial offering, like a piece of meat, devoid of all will…

“Ready her.”

A regiment of hands trooped over my body. The soiled stockings were peeled off, and the high-heeled shoes. The ropes were lengthened somewhat so that shoeless, I was still forced to stand on the tip of my toes to support myself. Scissors cut through the garter belt and the blouse and the brassiere strap, and the remaining flaps of shredded material were pulled away from me.

I was totally nude.

They tightened the band across my eyes. There was no hint of light.

The whip came first.

I’d read the books, seen the films, I know. This I somehow expected. But the pain was still hard to bear and I knew that my rear by the end must be a garish spectacle of crisscrossed red Mondrian patterns. I counted the blows. Thirty in all. Then a few gentler ones against my breasts, making my tips now impossibly erect. I think I even managed to pee a bit more when the last few lashes of the whip caught the outer edge of my crotch.

“She can take the pain,” someone said.

Then my ankles, still wide apart, were seized and fastened to the floor where they must have fitted metal loops.

Hands reached for my cunt and held my lips apart, while an acolyte began brushing me with some sort of sticky liquid over my whole genital area. And forcibly poured further quantities of the gooey stuff into me, using at least two or three fingers and stretching my opening even more. What was it?

They relaxed the ropes holding my arms and a gentle pressure on my shoulders indicated I should lay down. I did. Thoughtfully, a rug had been laid out on the stone floor and I spread out on it keeping my limbs apart. The contact of my raw behind against the rough surface was a trifle painful at first.

As soon as I was in position, they opened me up even wider, increasing the angle of revelation spreading from my crotch and my breasts, before tethering my ankles to the metal rings, as well as my hands high up behind me. The way I was now, all and sundry could look all the way into me, into the sheer pinkness he always enthused about. The bastard. This wasn’t a joke any longer.

“Bring in the dog.”

I struggled fiercely, but they had me tied down very efficiently and I couldn’t move even the centre of my body. My paltry attempts only served to increase the painful scraping of my well-whipped buttocks against the rug’s coarse material.

“No, not a dog,” I screamed. “You can’t, you just can’t, it’s not… allowed, it’s illegal. It’s, no… Please,” I begged, tears welling up inside my eyes. Which they of course couldn’t see, did not wish to see.

Horrified at the prospect ahead – even in pornographic stories this wasn’t allowed, it overstepped the mark – I had forgotten the earlier ban on my speaking.

“Quiet, bitch.” The man who said this slapped my cheeks several times until I felt blood inside my mouth.

The liquid they had inserted inside my cunt was burning me a bit, felt dreadfully sticky.

I heard muffled steps, movement approaching my outstretched body. Expecting the worse. I knew there was no way I could take this. I’d be sick, surely. Jesus, Jesus, not a dog. It’d tear me apart, injure me. They couldn’t do this to me. Surely? How could my lover allow this? Maybe he was no longer here.

I thought I heard a whirring sound somewhere in the dark background. A camera. They were filming the whole thing. The swine, the bloody fucking bastards.

“Woof, woof,” a woman’s voice, giggling almost uncontrollably. The others all around me all went “Woof, woof in unison. A choir of animals.

A wet, floppy flannel, like a tongue, began slobbering all over my cunt.

Behind it, a real tongue. A woman’s. You recognize those things. Licking me.

The flexible appendage burying itself in my curls, tickling my engorged outer lips. Her lips grazing the skin of my mound as she delved deeper.

“Woof, woof,” the choir continued. The woman’s tongue was licking me clean, with the application of a docile pet, a dog. Must have been honey they had spread inside me. I heaved a huge sigh of relief. Relaxed a touch, as the woman went about her cleaning business. Blushed deeply when her tongue almost corkscrewed through between my lips and began sucking out the goo from inside. Unavoidable excitement steadily rising through me. The woman imitating an animal was oh so thorough as she patiently licked, sucked, nibbled at me to extract every ounce of goodness. And every move of her cunning tongue sent fierce arrows coursing through me; I felt a deep flush spread from my cheeks down to my neck, shoulders and breasts. I was a thousand times madly alive. Ignorant of my mounting fervour, she slaved away, unemotional, systematic, hungry for my taste. My limbs pulled frantically at the restraints; to no avail. My insides were turning to jelly. I even thought for one brief moment that my bowels would let go. The sensations inside me increased exponentially as the woman’s tongue caressed my dilated cunt. My throat tightened. The pressure of her roving tongue switched up to my clitoris and I literally exploded. I came.

Loudly.

Screaming like an animal myself. Too far gone now to remember the previous instructions of silence.

I sighed, following the uncontrollable release.

I wasn’t punished for my shameful outburst.

They had what they wanted: I had been brought to orgasm, not by an animal, but like an animal. Wanton. In full view of their obscene assembly. And not any old orgasm; the best I could remember in ages. Where had the woman learned her skills?

“Interesting,” the voice of the older man was heard again.

The woman’s mouth moved away from my genitals, dropping spittle over my cunt.

“Impressive,” he said. “Would a real animal have given her so much pleasure? Could be an interesting experiment…”

“No, please. You can’t be serious,” I pleaded. “I draw the line somewhere, and bestiality is definitely out. Leave it to the pages of the under-the-counter-books. It’s too damn scary. I’d do anything else. You can do anything to me, but not that.”

“Anything?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

So, anything it became.

I sucked men’s cocks. Strange how every single one not only tastes but feels different. You know, the texture of the skin, the geography of foreskins, absent or stretched, the topography of bulging veins against the tongue. After an hour or so, my jaw ached and the bulging members all became a blur. For all I know, they could even have slipped the dog in between the parade of men and I might not have noticed. Smell of skin, talcum, cologne, sweat, urine, they all merged as I sucked away like an automaton. They all came in my mouth, different flavours ranging from acrid to sickening, sweetish to bitter. I’ve never liked the taste of men’s come and every time forced myself to swallow it without allowing my tongue to linger on the taste, for fear of gagging. Some were thick, others were long. They filled my mouth and swelled unconscionably until there was nowhere for them to expand further and I had to control my breathing lest I choke. Hard as steel, soft as gristle, pliant, rough, bent, odorous, I can tell you stories of cocks, evoke their gaudy geography in all shades of disgust.

Finally, they tired of my mouth and I knew that none of the penises I had milked had been my lover’s.

They sat me in a chair, legs apart as always and lathered my groin, before shaving my wonderful curls away, leaving me absolutely bare, my open gash like a red wound between my thighs. Every one present lined up to lick me clean, men and women, few of them were as good as the dog. I became very wet but didn’t come. Had no energy left for it, I thought.

I was then unshackled and made to bend over, hands and knees to the rough floor, while alien objects were inserted inside me, forced through my openings, twisted relentlessly inside me until it became painful and I had to beg them to stop.

They took the cloth away from my eyes at long last, and I saw the hall in all its faded grey glory and my lover sitting in front of me in the same chair I had been summarily shaved on. I was instructed to keep my head high as he lowered his trousers and began slowly masturbating while every man present took his turn fucking me from behind under the attentive gaze of my lover. He never lowered his eyes once; neither did I as they all pounded into me, tearing at my increasingly bruised opening, alternatively releasing their hot spend inside my vagina or quickly disengaging themselves from me before spurting over my back, like in a bad porno movie.

I never saw what any of them looked like.

My lover controlled his jerking off to the rhythm of the men penetrating me, never allowing himself to orgasm. At last, they had all taken their turn, I was still on my knees, come streaking down the back of my thighs and drying all over my back and buttocks, my lover signalled someone standing behind me. This beautiful tall woman with flowing dark auburn hair walked across to him, pulled up the scarlet silk evening gown she was wearing, turned round so she was facing me and lowered herself onto his cock. I wanted to look away, but I knew they wouldn’t let me and anyway I was fascinated. His thick cock parted her plump lips. I briefly noticed she sported a small golden ring in one of her labia, her pubic hair was dyed dark red and she sported a tattoo of a penis between her navel and cunt. He entered her and she took him into her up to the hilt, the spectacle of her cunt fading into his thick bush assaulting my senses as she began heaving herself up and down on him. I became transfixed by the spectacle of their lovemaking, hypnotized by the junction of their sexes and the white juice that appeared to emanate from her and accumulated in a thin layer at the base of his cock. As I watched the two of them, someone behind me brutally inserted a finger in my anus, then another, forcing the sphincter muscles apart.

“She’s not quite ready,” a man remarked.

I was pulled up from the floor and made to squat. In this position, my sex gaped wide open.

In front of me, my lover and the tall woman disengaged. His seed was spilling out of her cunt. She ordered him to clean her and he lowered himself to the ground and began licking his own come out of her body. As he obediently did this, she fixed me in the eyes and said:

“Empty yourself.”

I didn’t get it.

I looked puzzled.

One of the men who had fucked me earlier brought a chamber pot around and placed it under my squatting buttocks.

“There,” she said. “You’ll have to make some space in there, whore. Empty yourself.”

I lowered myself onto the chamber pot, but the man next to me pulled me up and indicated I was not allowed to sit and had to do the deed while only supported by my heels. Again, he took my hands and bound them behind my back, which made equilibrium even more problematic.

“Hurry up, bitch. We haven’t got all day,” the woman shouted at me.

I was beyond humiliation. I tightened my stomach muscles, applied all the pressure I could muster on my bowels, pushed, held my breath, and managed to force some meagre faecal matter out of my arse. It dropped the requisite two feet into the bowl. I pushed again with all my might and two further mini-parcels of shit extruded themselves out. They pulled me away. For one moment, I feared they might want me to eat it. I had said I would do anything. I was made to bend over with my bum high in the air and my lover, my gentle lover, my dark lover licked my cleft clean.

Gently he then applied some cold cream to my anal aperture and slipped a finger in to test the elasticity.

“This is going to hurt, my love,” he whispered in my ear as he spread the cream around the rim of my arsehole and forced some inside.

I knew what was coming.

Again they covered my eyes and my hands were tied to the pulleys and raised upwards. Another man shackled my feet to another set of ropes and these were gradually pulled up so that I was now suspended in the air, a few feet from the ground, quite horizontal, my whole body outstretched to all poles. A nude spread-eagled magician’s assistant, with both supports and all my varied private apertures fully visible to the congregated audience.

I heard furtive movements underneath me. Preparations for the next ordeal.

Both my wrists and ankles were beginning to hurt, bearing the weight of my whole body. Then, they allowed the ropes holding me up to slack and I was slowly lowered to the floor. Not quite all the way. Once I was a foot or so from the ground, my buttocks made contact with the rigidly erect penis of a man. My horizontal descent was halted and I felt a woman’s fingers – I knew because of her long, sharp nails digging into my flesh – pull my cheeks apart and test the lowering resistance of my anal opening now smothered with lubricating cream. The cock digging against me was manoeuvred towards my hole, directed toward its entrance like an arrow and the ropes loosened again and I was instantly impaled on the expectant penis. It hurt like hell. Felt as if my whole body was being torn apart from its very centre, excruciating agony spreading out in concentric circles, radiating outward like the sheer fires of hell. I’m sure I screamed. I can’t remember. And then the man began moving inside me, up and down and up and down again and again and every outward movement felt as if my very bowels were being pulled all the way out of my body with pincers. Inside my arse, I could feel his member growing, expanding with the relentless inevitability of an exploding galaxy, pounding against the inner walls, sliding remorselessly deeper towards my heart, abetted by the lubricating cream. I could feel the lips of my sex, just a few inches above the unholy junction of my arsehole and the cock, gape wide open with every successive thrust of the guy inside me. Then, another man positioned himself, straddled me, I could faintly detect the musky odour of his sweat, more hot, warm flesh pressed against my cunt opening and swiftly moved in, brushing the still tender lips apart, which stretched as they were could offer no resistance. I had two men inside me. They found their rhythm and through the pain, I listened to my lust rising. Further hands began manipulating my nipples, twisting, pinching, pulling at them. Fingers and unknown objects roamed my exposed body. My mouth was pulled open and another cock inserted. And then a second one.

Truly fucked.

All my cavities explored.

It was some crazy scenario: the woman who services four men simultaneously.

I gave up all resistance, allowing my muscles to go slack and welcomed the shuddering invasions, disconnected my brain from the rest of my body and welcomed the mighty sensations of pleasure course through my veins, travel at the speed of light over the whole surface of my bare skin. I closed my eyes. Incandescent blackness overcame me. I beckoned it. I was just a body. An instrument of pleasure. Desire made incarnate.

The men thrust.

The men pushed against my physical limits.

The men all dug their cocks deeper than anatomy allowed.

My juices flowed. Out of control, seeping from every extremity past the attacking poles of flesh.

My lover watched.

One man came. I balanced his ejaculation on my tongue and rubbed it against the soft surface of the other man’s cock still pounding my cheeks.

The second man came, and his warm jet splashed against the walls of my vagina, drowned its flow over my swollen cervix and he withdrew instantly, sucking our now mixed fluids out of my cunt onto my stomach.

The third man came in my mouth but maintained his thick cock at full stretch, forcing its way almost down my throat, and the bitter goo slithered down into my digestive system.

The fourth man still kept on pounding into me. Savagely drilling his impossibly long cock ever deeper into my rear. Jesus, it would never be the same again, would never close up, I thought, as my bowels felt all liquid, melting under his blows and I briefly imagined the purple mushroom-like tip of his penis swimming in the inner sea of my boiling shit.

Finally, he came. He roared loudly, exhaling his pleasure in a wholesome burst. The pulleys were brought into operation again and I was levered upwards off his rigid stem. It exited my gaping rear hole with an obscene plopping noise, dripping with an unholy compound of our mingled secretions.

All of a sudden, I was thirsty again.

They left me suspended for, I reckon, another ten minutes. Then the black silk scarf that obscured my vision was pulled away and my sight restored. The men were all dressed now and ritually left the room in a single file, leaving just my lover and the tall woman.

In silence, they cleaned me with a warm wet flannel.

Liberated me from the embrace of the ropes.

Then the woman left, after a gentle peck on my cheek.

“You were wonderful,” my lover said.

Should I weep or should I cry?

“Am I forgiven?” I asked him.

“For now,” he answered.

He had new clothes for me. I liked them, he had chosen well but then he’s always been a man of good taste. Knows my fondness for waistcoats and white tops.

As we exited the castle in Milton Keynes and walked towards our red car, he looked at me with godamn so much affection in his eyes:

“So?” he enquired.

“Yes,” I confirmed. “Even with the pain, I did enjoy it.”

He smiled.

“What about you?” I asked my lover.

He said nothing and kept on smiling.

As we passed the Watford motorway services half an hour later, he said to me:

“This is only the beginning, my love. I know this dungeon in Epsom.”

I looked ahead at the road. Night was beginning to fall. Soon, we would be back in London. My hand was shaking a bit. Fear? Expectation? And inside my body the tides of lust were already rising.