[Caution: this chapter contains consensual, nonconsensual, and violent sex.]
*
The ache was intolerable. Everything hurt. Even — perhaps especially — her sore inner flesh. Bruised, battered, and violated, there was no specific focus to her misery, only the bitter totality of it.
Voices surrounded her. Indistinct. Muttering. Care and fear were beyond her strength. Nor was there much purpose in either, as she still couldn't move. Could not, in fact, do anything at all except suffer in immobility and silence.
She felt activity between her legs. The giant pillar that had spent unknown hours lodged in her cunt, and which was still the author of a significant portion of her discomfort, wiggled under the guidance of some unseen motivation. But its insertion had been achieved when she was both well-lubricated and under the encouragement of a leather belt. Now she was dry, and every motion caused her to wince with pain. She saw no way it could be extracted under these conditions.
Unless....
Two things happened. The restraints that held her immobile evaporated — she still couldn't escape, but she could move — and a probing finger began manipulating her exposed clit. At first she refused to acknowledge the contact, and when that was no longer possible she fought against the indignity of arousal. But then cold rationality set in.
Don't you want this thing out of you? Acquiesce!
Having been given permission, her body relaxed into the stimulation. Slowly...too slowly...her natural lubrication seeped forth, and the pillar started to slide back and forth. Just a hair's breadth at first, then a bit more, each motion accompanied by a sharp snap of pain until her juices could work their way around its mammoth circumference. Eventually, withdrawal became a possibility.
However, whoever was controlling the gigantic phallus had interim motives other than removal. Back and forth it moved through the taut walls of her obscenely stretched cunt. Having allowed herself the balm of pleasure she was helpless against its escalation. She could only grind, twist, and moan as she was fucked, widened, and ruined.
Her orgasm was no epic climax — she was far too tired for that — but as she began twitching in surrender to her release, the plug in her ass started moving in turn. Though she hadn't noticed at the time, at some point they'd managed to work a little bit of oil around and into her anus. It was barely enough, and the violent tug as it snapped through her entrance brought a sharp yelp of protest.
Again, they torture me at the moment of pleasure. Why?
Both holes were, at last, unoccupied, though they throbbed with terrible soreness in the aftermath of their ordeal.
As the tensions within slowly fell away, so did the rest of her bindings (save for the hood, which continued to obscure her sight). Motionless for so long after being subjected to such brutal treatment, she was temporarily incapable of moving under her own strength, and so her captors guided her. On unsteady legs she was led to a tepid basin of scented water, and as in her dreams she was cleansed inside and out. The biting sting where the lash had fallen hardest and most often was impossible to ignore, but otherwise she barely acknowledged the hands, cloths, and unguents that moved around and within her. The final humiliation was an impatient scraping that abraded the tender flesh between her legs while, as ordered, the last of her hair was removed with a razor-sharp blade.
Denied the comfort of a towel, she let her captors move her back to some sort of canted bench. A click announced the refastening of her collar to hold her in place, but this time she was on her back.
And then came hands. Many of them, all at once. Prodding, squeezing, mauling. Her tits were roughly handled, her nipples subjected to renewed abuse. Fingers forced themselves into her mouth, probing into her throat and rekindling the ache in her jaw. More entered her tender pussy, pushing and twisting, punctuating their assault with cruel pinches and tugs at her clitoris. Against any one of these manipulations she might have maintained some form of equanimity; in her weakened state and against all of them at once she could only whimper, moan protestations, and (to her continuing shame) respond. Eventually, a small orgasm was wrenched from her unwilling sex. And then another. And another. With each her already weary body succumbed to numbness and her tortured mind lost its grip on reality, her very will ebbing away to nothingness.
When they were done, her collar was again unshackled from its restraining bolt, and her hood was untied and removed. She blinked and rubbed her eyes against the flickering flame of a sputtering torch, dim to others but dazzling to her long-shrouded eyes, unable to focus on the blurry shapes of her molesters as they exited the room.
She was alone.
Groaning, she sat up, pulling her legs close to her torso and sitting like that for a while, hunched over in misery. As blood slowly returned to her limbs she gingerly slid off the bench and stood, trembling with weakness, to inspect the damage to her person. It was worse than she could have imagined. Her breasts were a patchwork of marks, her back was a thatch of welts, and her ass....
A fresh bout of sobbing burst forth at the sight: bruises piled upon bruises, streaked with purple lines, some of them already darkening to black. It filled her with a despair beyond any she'd yet known, at least since her capture, for she knew that no matter how bad it looked it was only the beginning of her ordeal. She'd seen enough wounds before...both the trophies of victory and the stigmata of defeat...to know damage when she saw it.
These are scars I might forever bear. But does it matter? Only if I can escape. And I can't see how I will.
Surrender suffused her every thought, increasing the intensity of her weeping.
Where is my will to fight? To deny, even if it's ultimately futile, the degradations being visited upon my body? Where is my desire for freedom? Was the death I sought so intensely pursued that I've forgotten how to yearn for life? Or has my once-proud strength been broken so easily? And if so, was I really ever that strong?
To this harsh interrogation she had answer. It was if an unseen force was gnawing away at her very
self
. She couldn't understand why she was already on the verge of giving up, and her nonexistent response to halfhearted internal pleas to resist left her crushed.
As delicately as possible, she probed her sex. The damage already seemed recoverable, despite a lingering ache in the deepest limits of her channel. Her rear entrance was much the same; nearly as raw to the touch as the rest of her buttocks, it burned with the aftermath of friction and unprecedented intrusion, but otherwise appeared intact. She tried to sit, found she couldn't without intolerable pain, and settled for leaning against the bench and nursing her despair.
I'm hungry. Thirsty, too. When did I last eat or drink?
She couldn't remember.
With a harsh grinding noise the door slammed open. Blinding torches streamed in, held by an unknown number of figures, and instead of attempting to fight or flee she cowered in resignation. The light overwhelmed her eyes, and before they could adjust she was once again blinded by the hood.
"We will continue your punishment."
It was the Voice.
She found just enough strength to back away, feebly grasping the edge of the bench and attempting to put it between her and his resonant threat. All her defiance was gone, in its place a pathetic pleading. "No. Please, no. You can't. I can't bear anymore. Please...."
"Whether or not you
can
is irrelevant. You will."
