Dissociative Safety

The wall against my cheek is cold. My cheekbone against the wall is hard. The skin between the wall and my cheekbone sticks and slides rhythmically; I feel the needed separation from myself. Skin sticking to wall, skull sliding beneath, friction a non-issue. Just cold, hard, up and down pulling on my face. Like my cheek against the wall, my knees, my elbows, and the tops of my feet are sliding and gripping against the floor, synced with the penetrating forces behind me. I'm dissociating, but I can still count the rhythmic thrusts that deepen my relationship to these hardened surfaces.

17, 18, 19, 20...

I notice the size of my body. Not exactly small, but not exactly able to successfully resist the concerted interest of the five men grabbing and manipulating my body. There was an attempt early on to resist. My polite backing away, my well-mannered utterances of "oh, no, no thank you, I ought to be going now", my averted gaze and limbs held close to my sides -- all unfortunate gestures of feminine compliance to avoid conflict -- were received as cheery provocation. There was a line that was crossed when I dropped the girlish charade and started hitting back.

21, 22, 23, 24...

It feels good to hit back. To feel my bony knuckles make contact with a fleshy gut or chest or leg or neck. To yank an arm back that was twisted viciously behind me. To bite the hand that stupidly thought it could open my lips. But to hear cajoling laughter sour into rage when my heel met a lip and drew blood... this did not feel good. The wave of apologetic consolation (feminine compliance or actual good will?) was cut off before I could find it. It is defeating to experience my full-out fighting energies snapped like nothing more than a twig.

25, 26, 27...

I've been flipped over. No more hard surfaces defining my bony architecture. A body beneath me, more above me, some to my side. They call it "airtight". I'm wondering when I'll be able to have a bath and wash off the spit that's pooling along my collarbones. Cocks and bodies continue to switch places, I notice the blurry choreography while I try to find comfort by sneaking an elbow out of a vice grip to prop myself up. Maybe if my holes are made more available the chafing friction of brutish hands can let up?

Spread lips, spread lips, small grunts of negotiation. Hair pulled, hips pulled, toes kissed. Kissed? Strange.

Flipped again. Thankful that the spit and my tears can be aided by gravity. Eyes stinging. Close them. I'm swimming in the ocean. I can smell the salt and feel the warmth of the sun. The unsympathetic rocking of my body parts is caused by cross currents. I'm not being raped, no, this is just my small meeting with the magnificence of the waves. It's just me here.

1, 2, 3, 4...

The cock in my hand removed itself and I only noticed its girth when it joined the cock already in my ass. My own scream around the penetrating discomfort in my throat dropped me right back into the present. The stretching of my tight asshole was matched in its violence by the abuse my cervix was enduring. Squirming forward only drove my lips further along the uncut cock in my mouth. Gagging, crying, the flinch of my involuntary responses brought more sensitivity back to the thin layer of skin that separated the two cocks in my ass from the one in my throbbing pussy. Arms wrapped around my waist, the intimacy of being chest-to-chest with this monster was repulsive in its relative tenderness.

No, no, no, no, no. I manage to turn a cheek to the invasion of my mouth. The taste of myself drooling out between breaths. Slapped, by a hand, by a cock. Did I just grin? No, no. The ocean, find the ocean. The hand returns to my cheek and the back of my head, over and over and over, it returns me to this moment. The impact, the stretching, the squeezing and pumping prevent my escape in mind and body.

Momentary respite as bodies reorganize once more. Everyone wants to see a different angle, to fill me from a different end. Is being the center of attention so wrong? All eyes on me, all utterances directed towards my exact lithe form. Isn't it nourishing to be desired so acutely? I catch myself grinding into something between my legs. Another leg. My girlish humping rouses laughter.

The filthy bitch loves it.

Look how she begs for it.

What an enterprising whore, you are.

My body betrays me. The composition shifts. A foot on each limb effortlessly holding me down as I'm quickly made to cum twice on some number of fingers. A spectacle. No stage fright here, no performance anxiety. I've been reduced to nerves and mewling eyes rolling back. Perfectly timed, I'm airtight again.

Still quivering, somewhat soothed, I can take everyone a bit deeper. I think I'll get a smoothie later on. Laundry needs to be ironed. Did I pay my hydro bill? I'm on my knees, all resistance drained, eyes wide looking up, tongue out and needy. Was I told to kneel like this or was it my need to swallow every drop of cum? My face and chest become the canvas for long threads of ejaculate, accented by the hot redness of my battered cheeks and sloppy lips.