Revenge Is Sweet

"I hate the smell of olive oil. For a while, I thought it was something arbitrary, something unexplainable, like it was some sort of mental allergy. Then, one day, I realised why.

I was a young girl when it first happened. My father had gone through a bad patch and had hocked just about everything that could be hocked, just to keep the creditors at bay. When one more bill came in, he looked straight at me, and, despite my mother's strident protests, promptly had me sold away.

At that point, I had had no experience of sex, and very little contact with the opposite gender. Oh, don't get me wrong, I was 18 when it finally happened, but when Father sold me off 3 years earlier, I did not understand or know what it was that men did to women in their darkened bedrooms. My first 3 years were spent in hard labor, as I slaved in the kitchen, then began cleaning the rooms in the manor I was residing in. All the while, the woman who bought me scolded me like I was the most worthless thing on Earth; yet, she never laid a hand on me. In fact, she would smooth cream on my skin after my days' work, telling me that I would fetch a handsome price when it came my time.

At the time, I wondered what she meant by that. I thought it strange and a little unsettling that a woman who was not my mother would insist on paying such loving attention to me at night, while she screamed at me like a banshee during the day. Thankfully, I never referred to the woman who paid for me as "mother", because that would have completely screwed up my concept of the term. Especially the way I was set up the day after my 18th birthday.

I don't remember how it happened -- I suppose I could have been drugged or something -- but I remember suddenly waking up and finding myself in the dark. Oh it was daytime alright -- I could sense the warmth and light of day, as well as the movements of people around me and beyond the black hood that covered my head, I was certain there was daylight. But when I opened my eyes, all I could see was the dark, heavy cloth that covered my head. Then, I realized that I was bound by my elbows and knees, and was hanging off the ceiling. At least, that was what it felt like, because when I tried to move, I felt myself swinging... much like one of those chickens you see hanging in the windows of a Chinese restaurant.

And like those chickens, I was gloriously and undoubtedly naked. Not a stitch on me. I could feel a breeze blowing against my bare skin, on my breasts and further down, where... where no one had a right to see. Worse, I could hear the sounds of men talking nearby. They were laughing and making remarks that seemed strange to me. That scared the hell out of me because, as I'd already told you, I was not wise in the ways of the world, much less in what men wanted from a scared young girl that was hanging naked from the ceiling.

Suddenly, I felt something wet being squirted onto my private parts... and without warning, the first one came in. He had no finesse, no regard for my feelings, thrusting himself into my secret place down below like he was stuffing a turkey. I screamed in pain as I was impaled, the sensation of my flesh being parted and stretched by an alien object both curious and horrifying. What was I being stabbed with? Why was he trying to kill me? What had I done wrong? I sobbed and screamed again as his shaft met, then breached a barrier deep within me, sending further shivers of pain up and down my body.

Rough, callused hands descended on my breasts, kneading, pulling and pinching at my nipples, pulling me down towards the prong that was invading me, making me groan in shock and pain. I grasped at the ropes I was suspended from and tried desperately to pull myself away, away from the ever-encroaching thing that was threatening to split me in two.

He laughed. "That's it, love. Fight it. That's just perfect!" he whispered in my ear as I fought desperately to get away. "I love it!"

I could do little, suspended as I was, to prevent him from claiming me completely. I gasped when I felt the thing hit something deep inside me. It felt like the bottom of my stomach, and I wondered if he intended to thrust his weapon through the rest of my body. I was quivering, certain that I was near death, yet I was resigned to my fate. There was nothing I could do but wait. He had his weapon deep inside me, and I had no way of begging for mercy, much less removing the offending prong that was threatening my life.

Then I realized that I could feel his wiry fur in between by thighs. It suddenly became clear to me that the weapon with which he had stabbed me was a part of his body, no different from his arm or leg. That gave me hope that I would survive this ordeal, along with an overpowering sense of disgust and shame. What was this man doing, thrusting his body part into that secret part of me? What did he intend? I had kept mostly to myself as a young girl, and even when I worked for the woman who paid for me, I worked alone and spoke to no one... so I knew nothing of what was to come.

He noticed that I was keeping still and no longer fighting him, so he pinched me hard on my breasts, making me cry out in pain. "Are you getting used to this in your pussy, sweetheart? Don't get too comfy!"

When he started to pull his prong out of me, I dared believe that my ordeal was over -- such was my innocence then -- but he was to prove me wrong. Just as the tip of his weapon was about to slip out of my poor "pussy" (as he had called it), he thrust upwards ferociously, thrusting the air out of my lungs in a loud grunt. He laughed, and proceeded to saw his prong into and out of my private place, his pace making breathing difficult for me. Thankfully, he did not take too long in finishing, and in the midst of the discomfort and (thankfully diminishing) pain down below, I felt a gush of fluid spurting inside me.

I would have wondered about what that feeling meant, had I had the time to think about it. As it was, I was given precious little time to recover before the next man was upon me. This one was rather less intrusive, by which I mean his prong was shorter and leaner, so I experienced less pain from the repeated intrusions into my privates. Thus was I introduced to the notion that prongs differ from man to man, in terms of length, girth and hardness.

By the time the fourth man came and went, I was pretty much tired, and my pussy was sore. I wondered how many more men would come, and suddenly, I could smell olive oil. As I tell you about it now, I am repulsed to the point of vomiting at the mere memory of it, but then, I had no clue what the smell would come to signify for me.

What was he doing? Did he intend to cook something? Or cook me? Visions of a pot of boiling water under my naked and now dripping bum made me squirm. I swear I could feel the heat under me. Oh, what did he intend for me?

The answer came in a most unexpected way. I felt the oil being squirted on me down below, but not where the cooling fluids of the men who had come before were dripping out of me. No, it was being squirted up somewhere else. I wondered if he might have been shortsighted to have missed my sore hole... then I felt his prong pressing up against the same spot where he had squirted the oil.

No! I felt the oily tip of his prong press inward, my soft flesh no match for his persistence. I squirmed hard, trying to move him forward to where I knew he wanted to go. I badly wanted to tell him he was missing the place all the men were aiming for. But no, his aim was true.

I gasped out loud as the head of his prong stretched and pierced through my oily shitter. He was inside my bum! I grasped at the ropes and pulled at them again, desperately trying to lift myself up and away from him, but the man's insistence and superior strength prevailed... my poor backside was cruelly skewered by his slippery prong. Too late, I thought to use my muscles to push down on it, much like the way I would force my shit out when I was in a hurry. That slowed him down a little, but it did not stop him. I could feel the triumph in his grunts as his prong slid upwards and inwards, exploring me in places that were not meant to be explored thus.

I cried out in despair and pain... the sensation of being impaled in my bum was unsettling and far more painful than that of being impaled in my pussy. At the time, however, I had no way of knowing what it was that he intended, forcing his way into my backside like that. It felt... wrong, like it was not meant to happen. And I really did not understand, even then, the pleasure that men derived from the act of intercourse, especially if it was perpetrated upon an unwilling body.

"Relax," he suddenly whispered in my ear. "Relax and it won't hurt so much."

I don't know if it was the suddenness of the suggestion or if it had been hurting so badly that I would have tried anything to get relief. As it was, I did relax, and he rewarded me by ramming the rest of his cock into my throbbing, aching behind. I did not scream because he was right -- it did hurt a lot less when I didn't resist. So I did what I had to do to save myself from further pain or damage -- I held my bum open and let him have his way with it, and tried my best not to throw up.

I daresay I did succeed because I don't remember smelling anything in that hood other than the nauseating smell of olive oil. I kept myself as still as I could as his prong poked its way in and out of my bum. I could hear his breathing become louder and harsher as his pace increased, the loud squelching and slapping of flesh on flesh vibrating in my backside merging into a long, unending liquid sound. I couldn't wait for him to finish, but I had to wait for quite a while... and when he did finish, I felt his prong twitch and expand, before there was a huge gush of warm fluid spurting inside my shitter. I shuddered in disgust and horror, and let my body go limp while his prong jerked wildly in my straining bum.

He took forever to finish and get out me, perhaps because my own muscles were spasming in pain. But as he finally withdrew that punishing prong, he whispered in my ear that I was "the best he'd ever had" and that he'd "be back for seconds", and I suddenly realized what my fate was to be. I was to join the ranks of the "ladies" who regularly used the rooms I cleaned, whose laughter would tinkle gaily within those rooms when I walked past. I was to become just like them, a "thing" to be transacted, to be bought and sold, my time and body a good for trading.

I would have sobbed had I had the strength, but I didn't even have the time to contemplate what that meant, for the next one was upon me. This went on for quite a bit... how long, I don't know, but it was certainly deep into the afternoon when the hood was finally lifted off my head and I was allowed to drop onto the floor, my limbs numb and crawling with pinpricks from the prolonged lack of circulation. Down below, I could feel the mixed fluids of all the men who had spent themselves in me, cold and clotted, dripping onto the floor from my ravaged orifices.

I actually thought my ordeal was over for the day when they released me from my bonds. I was wrong. As I raised my eyes, I saw a naked man for the first time. I guess I didn't know what to expect, but when I saw the monstrous things hanging between their legs, red and angry and pointing at me, I knew for the first time what it was that I had been impaled upon. He was grinning as he walked towards me, his penis swinging menacingly, his eyes fixed upon my face. Behind him, I saw a large group of men, similarly naked, looking expectantly in my direction.

When he reached me, he grabbed my head and thrust his cock into my gaping mouth. The move was so unexpected I had no time to react. Then he growled "Bite it and I'll slice off your tits, bitch!" and although I only found out later that he meant harm to my breasts, I obediently complied, opening my mouth as wide as I could.

"Not like that, you stupid cunt!" he roared. "Suck on it like a lollipop!" I did as he bade, closing my eyes and trying to lie to myself that I was indeed sucking on a confection... even though the thick, fleshy knob of the thing tasted nothing like any sweet.

"Open your eyes!" he slapped me on the back of my head, driving his cock deeper in my mouth than anything had ever gone before. I gagged, my throat convulsing around his invading prong, and he seemed to like that. "Look at me, wench!"

Again, I did as I was told, gazing up past the black wiry hair of his pubis. He was ugly, and he didn't look like a nice man. "That's it, bitch. Open up and lick it with your tongue!"

As I tried my best to move my tongue around the thick stem in my mouth, he started to fuck my throat. He went slowly at first, then began to piston his weapon faster and faster, so much so I found it hard to draw breath. I don't remember how long it took for him to finish, and I think I might have blacked out a little because of the lack of air, because the next thing I was aware of, hot liquid was splashing down the back of my throat, the thick, pungent odor of his spunk filling my nostrils.

When he withdrew, I collapsed on the floor, gasping for breath, coughing up wads of semen. It was agony and seemed to go on for a bit, but it couldn't have been that long before the next man came up and demanded the same. I don't know how many more men made use of my mouth, my cunt and asshole on my first day... but I do know that I learned the words pussy, cunt, clitoris, beaver, asshole, bunghole from the men who made such rough use of my body.

It was evening when the men were finally done with me. I was beyond caring what was happening around me, and lying on the floor like a soiled rag doll when the woman who bought me suddenly appeared, bringing towels, hot water, and her soothing cream. For the first time, I understood what it was like to be grateful towards and disgusted with the same person at the same time. I cried out as she cleaned my sore and abraded nether region, and I think she spoke soothing words which did not register at all in my mind.

Nothing else registered. In fact, the only impression I have of that day was the smell of olive oil."

She turned away when she finished speaking, and I wondered if Emily did not want me to see the tear she was shedding for her lost innocence, or if it was just a natural gesture of hers, just before undressing and getting ready for bed.

I was both appalled and intrigued by Emily's story, primarily because it involved Madame L., a well-known socialite with a taste for luxury and indulgence, and a paragon of virtue in town.

I was new to the area, and, having heard about the grand parties that L. threw, finagled a way to attend one. It was certainly an eye-opener, because I saw many upright, outstanding citizens behaving in far less than the upright, outstanding ways they portrayed to the rest of the world. After dinner and drinks, the dancing began. Women suddenly appeared. Very pretty women, who did not seem to mind in the least that the men at the party were most pre-occupied with disrobing them.

That was when I saw Emily for the first time. She was an almost ethereal presence, a cool, collected woman who really looked quite different from the rest of the women. She floated in to the room and our eyes met in an instant. I quickly beckoned her over, and she did as I bade, even though the mayor, a Christian who sat in the front pews of the town church and spoke most vigorously against the moral turpitude of the young, made a desperate grab at her arm when he saw her.

Emily never fully explained to me why she came over to me then. Initially, she said she felt pity for me, as I was sitting alone and did not have the attentions of any of the other ladies. Then she said it was Madame L. who instructed her to come over. Finally, after we had had a number of these little chats, she told me she had felt safe when she looked into my eyes. And I had proven her right.

Oh, I am no different from any other man my age. I do have an eye for the ladies, and I certainly am able to do the things that men do to women. I was certainly tempted by the delectable Emily, for she was certainly a feast for the eyes both with and without her clothes... but I was far more keen to satisfy my curiosity first. She just didn't fit in that scene of debauchery, you see, at Madame L.'s party. All the other ladies who were there -- they were pretty, charming and sexy too -- but every single one of them looked like they belonged there, where clothes were being tossed aside with as much gusto as a starving man would show towards his first bite of food. The girls, they looked every bit the part of the eager-to-please tart, and they behaved as lewdly and as brazenly as you would expect any sailor would at his first shore leave.

Not Emily. She looked above it all. Not that she had any airs about her, nor that she appeared to look down on the other young women who were so lustily showing off their wares to all and sundry... she was certainly not unwilling to disrobe when I first brought her back to my room. But there was no hunger about her, no feral desire to please. She moved with a grace and dignity that was quite unlike the rest of her fellow "ladies".

She looked quite shocked when I stopped her at the third button of her blouse. Just underneath it, I could see the swell of her breast, and I marvelled at the milky smoothness, the gentle rise and fall of it as she breathed. And I was sorely tempted to let her continue, so I could see the rest of her well-formed body... an undoubtedly voluptuous body that remained hidden from my eyes.

But no, I had to satisfy my hunger for knowledge first. It was more important for me to find out what it was that a girl like her was doing in a place like that -- no matter how cliched that sounded.

"What is it?" she enquired, a looked of bemusement entering her eyes. Then, a glimmer of understanding. "Oh, I see. You would rather do this while I remain clothed..."

"Not quite," I smiled at her. My voice was firm, and she told me later that she detected note of kindness and concern that surprised her. "I understand your name is Emily?"

"Yes, quite," she replied, making no attempt to button up her blouse, her hands falling to her sides. "And may I know how you wish to be addressed?"

"Many people know me as John," I replied. "But you are most astute. I am known as Matthew only to those who care to ask."

"That is most interesting," she smiled at me, and moved closer to me. "Matthew and John. You must tell me why you are known by such different names."

"That would take me quite a while," I said, moving to the bed and patting on the space beside me. "I'm not sure we would have enough time for me to tell you my life story."

"Well, Matthew," she sashayed towards me, then gently perched herself on the edge of the bed. Her movements were both graceful and beguiling, and I imagine it was calculated to cause a rush of desire in the man who witnessed it. Hell, it's not like it didn't work on me too... but I had other things I wanted to get out of the way first. "We certainly could arrange to spend more time together... if that is your desire."

"Oh, it most certainly is. But not in the way you are thinking, my dear."

Her eyes widened. "But why... do you not find me appealing?"

"Definitely, Emily. May I call you Ems? You can call me Matt. I much prefer that we adopt a more casual tone in our conversations."

"Ah... by your use of the plural, I assume you wish to meet with me more than just this once?" Her eyes were dancing as she said this, and I could see she was pleased with the idea.

"Yes, you assume correctly. I do hope we can meet many more times."

"Then what is your wish?" Her hands moved up to her blouse once more, where they were stopped by mine. I held on to them to make my intentions clear.