I knew it was supposed to hurt, I was a virgin and not at all aroused. The pain wasn't unbearable, but it was a new kind of pain. At his third thrust I didn't shriek, I had adjusted.
My inside muscles down there tensed against the invasion. I realized their tension made the pain worse and again turned my head to focus on relaxing.
No longer getting a satisfying response at each single thrust, he thrusted faster.
I closed my eyes, and focused on relaxing. It wasn't all that bad after all. Painful, yes, unpleasant, yes. But not really a screaming matter, not now that I was getting used to it. It was like a beating on the inside. The pain even lessened after a while.
With each thrust I was bumped against my bondage. Skin to metal. I still had many bruises left after the caning they had given me before encasing me in metal. Some of those bruises were also bumped against metal with each thrust.
Unpleasant, but not unbearable. The muscles in my legs protested at the movements they hadn't themselves dictated, especially while being spread like that.
The bumping was annoying, and I wondered how long he would keep at it.
The soreness within increased, and a burning stinging feeling mingled with it.
I was getting motion sickness. It was like riding a carriage.
It is hard to relax when your body is being moved back and forth without your doing, while being beaten on the inside. Especially my inside muscles kept escaping my control to tense against the intrusion. Each time the pain inside intensified.
He kept thrusting. His breathing was rugged.
A drop fell on my cheek. A tear? I wondered. I wouldn't be surprised if he was crying at raping his wife's murderer when, if all had been right, he should have been making love to his wife.
A drop fell on my chest. Sweat, I realized.
It had to be hard exercise for him, thrusting like that. If lack of real lust could keep his ejaculation at bay, at least the rest of his body could not keep this pace up all night.
I listened to his breath. Slowly growing more rugged. He was in good shape, but he wouldn't be able to keep going forever. Inside me, the stinging part of the pain slowly grew worse. I felt raw inside, skinless. If I could have made myself feel aroused, the sting would have been less.
My insides needed lubrication to stand the friction. But, the only lubrication was the few juices supplied by his tool.
The clear oil of a man's lust, wizards call it. There are shorter terms for it, but that night I couldn't remember any of them. I didn't really care either. I just wished he had more of it, frankly I couldn't feel that he excreted any at all.
He must have had, though, because in spite of the sting and the pain, I didn't tear.
After a long while, I felt vibrations. It was his muscles, soon thereafter they started shaking. His body was tiring.
Sore at every spot which bumped against metal when he thrusted, I was relieved to know it would soon be over. He had fought a good fight, though, my front was drenched with his sweat.
In his own language he swore to himself when one of his legs started cramping. At least it sounded like swearing. He stopped a moment, waiting for the cramp to pass. Then he resumed the pounding. I noticed he had changed the rhythm, and his thrusts were less brutal. He was aiming for release.
From that point it didn't take that long. I guess that even without lust, the activity had wakened his tool to more than size. He delivered his load with a few somewhat dispassionate grunts and climbed off.
The stinging increased when he withdrew. It was his sperm, I realized. The salinity of it made the minor scratches inside me complain harder. It was less of a discomfort than the pounding had been.
With my eyes still closed. I heard skin patting skin, and I heard a towel against skin. It seemed one of his friends had patted the rapist on the shoulder, and handed him a towel to dry himself.
"Good effort, mate." I'm sure that was what one said, I didn't know the words, but the tone fit.
The vavin seated between my legs. I winced when his fingers examined the area the other had just finished violating. He spoke while inspecting me. Relaying his finds I guessed.
His third comment caused an actual cheer. I guess that comment was an announcement that I had been a virgin.
Don't ask me what it is about men and deflowering virgins, especially not when it comes to rape.
Maybe for these men it was knowing that the rape had made some kind of difference at least. Before I had been a virgin, afterwards, I was not.
The virgin, not-virgin thing, made no difference to me. Before the rape I hadn't been sore on the inside, after the rape I was. Not a big deal, really. It had been more unpleasant than I had thought it would, but now that it was over, it was over.
At least, that was what I thought when the vavin rose. To this day, I really don't know why I thought it was over. There was forty of them, I had only been raped by one. Forty healthy and fit survivors.
The general talking that erupted after the cheer camouflaged the sound of number two undressing. I didn't realize there would be a number two until he crawled onto me.
I bit hard on my wooden bridle thinking, 'At least I am better lubricated this time.'
Number two pushed into me before taking a moment to position himself well. He made a single test thrust, then said something that made himself and the other men laugh. A chill ran down my spine. I realized that hearing your captors laugh while raping you, is frightening and something else too.
It took me a while to identify the other feeling, I only realized what it was when a few thrusts later another man spoke a joke which made my current rapist as well as several others laugh.
Humiliation.
For the duration of the second rape it bothered me, and the second rape lasted as long as the first. We are a proud people my kind, we severely dislike feeling humiliated. Due to pride, I made a real effort of appearing unaffected this second time round. It became increasingly difficult, though.
Painful bruises were forming at every spot that bumped against metal at each thrust in. My inner thighs began to cramp. And my insides were getting ever more sore. I was well-trained in matters of self-discipline though.
Ah, it really was foolish of me. When you are trapped and helpless, the proper course of action is not to try to fool your tormentors into believing you are unaffected. I'm sure my lack of response enticed the man to thrust harder, to put even more effort into punishing me inside and out.
After he was done, I was exhausted. He too had continued till his legs had started cramping.
Again the vavin inspected me.
The moment he rose, another man moved in, but to my great relief the vavin stopped him.
The man protested, the magician spoke a stern sentence, then spoke a second in a much lighter tone which made all the men laugh. And a third in a in a louder voice which made all of them laugh louder.
Comedy to relief their tension at the cessation of my ordeal, I guessed.
Then I heard the vavin undress and knew I had been wrong. He had only stopped the other one to take his turn. By then I realized he wouldn't be the last either.
Until then, the vavin had been the buffer, now that he participated, all I could expect was escalation.
He was the oldest of the survivors, but was neither old nor frail. He thrusted a couple of times, then stopped and jokingly heaved for air.
He spoke, I'm guessing his words meant, "This is harder than it looks." It could have been something else, of course. Whatever it was, it was rewarded with laughter. He resumed his thrusting. My eyes were still closed, my face still to the side.
"Afanayare," he whispered down at me.
I opened my eyes.
"Afanayare," he repeated in a hoarse voice.
I turned my face and looked up at his.
Hate, his eyes burned with it. It seemed he had decided he needed to vent just a little of it. He started speaking to me. I couldn't understand his words, apart from when he called me afanayare, the name of my kind.
Still thrusting he adjusted his weight to free a hand. He reached between the bars above my chest, and ran his fingers along my skin.
A long line of words he spoke, while his fingers trailed my skin till his fingertips rested gently right at a nerve-center at my side.
I shouldn't have pretended the rape didn't affect me. When he was done talking he pressed hard on that spot, sending a cramping pain through my side. That, really hurt.
That became the new routine. A period of thrusting, then painful activation of a pressure point. He had me screaming below him long before he was done. The one after him copied his behavior, and the one after, and after, and...
Torture. It wasn't red-hot pokers, but it was enough.
It continued all through the night and most of the next day. They didn't allow me the escape of unconsciousness. Not for a moment. Each time I fainted, they woke me.
There isn't much more to tell about that. I can't tell if they all had a turn in that time. I doubt they did. As long as each seemed to hold out, a night and half a daytime wouldn't have been enough. When they finally stopped, I passed out and was allowed to stay out.
