I hear footsteps, I see the movement and tense more as the other man, the man who trained me before my mistress walks in.
He looks at me, his lips curled as if he’s amused by something.
“Well?” He says.
“The stupid bitch is too stubborn for her own good.” Mistress says.
The man laughs. “Want a hand?”
Mistress shakes her head. “No, but you can grab a seat, watch how I break her.”
Something explodes. That thing in me seems to turn into a battering ram, and a wave of vomit rushes up before I can stop it. The cock down my throat does nothing to help the bile and it fills my mouth, trickles down the corners of my lips, pours out my nose while it feels like something in my head screams.
I’m drowning. Choking. Choking on my own vomit.
“Leave her be.” The woman’s voice says, but it feels distant. “She’s already done it enough times to have learned her lesson.”
A snort answers that.
My body heaves, my chest hurts more than ever and that thing in my arse grows another few horrific inches.
The harsh bite of the leather restraints around my wrists and ankles is the only grounding counterpoint to the dizzying currents of horrific pleasure and pain twisting deep inside me.
“Breathe,” The woman commands. “The body cannot accept what the mind resists…”
I try to obey, sucking in a ragged gasp as the man adjusts the angle of the intrusion in my arse. The toy is smooth and unyielding, a tapered silicone shaft that he’s been relentlessly working inside me for what feels like hours. The initial sharp protest of my body has dulled, transmuted into a throbbing, full awful ache that makes it hard to focus on anything else. Each millimetre of progress is a violation, stretching nerves I never knew I possessed, lighting up corners of my brain with shocking, unwelcome sparks.
“Good dog,” He murmurs, his voice a low rumble close to my ear. His hand rests on the small of my back, a gesture that could be comforting if it weren’t for the context. “You’re taking it so well. Your body is learning to welcome it.”
Shame flushes through me, hot and immediate. Welcoming it. That’s the most horrifying part. The pain is no longer just pain. It’s braided with something else, something darkly sensual. Arousal pools in my core, a traitorous heat that slickens me, making the other violation easier.
I am a whore.
I am everything he wanted me to be.
Everything my parents would be disgusted by.
I am bent over a padded bench, my chest pressed to the leather, my hips elevated and spread wide by the restraints. The woman stands behind me, and in her hands is what can only be described as a tentacle. It’s a grotesque thing, sculpted from pearlescent silicone, thicker than any cock could possibly be, covered in massive, swirling nodules.
I don’t understand what the point of it is. I don’t understand why they are doing this. What pleasure can a person get in hurting someone the way they are me?
She presses the blunt, glistening tip against my entrance and I tense more, preparing for the pain I know is coming.
A choked sob escapes my lips as the head begins to push past my tight ring of muscle. It’s too much. It’s impossible. The stretch is an agonizing, a tearing, a burning sensation that screams through my entire pelvis.
I try to pull away, but the restraints hold me fast, and I’m prisoner to this onslaught.
“That’s it, dog.” The woman instructs calmly, not ceasing her brutal advance. “Let your cunt embrace it.”
I whimper, my attention swinging back to the fullness in my rear. The man is moving the toy there now, making an in-and-out motion that rubs against the thin membrane separating the two intrusions. The dual pressure is overwhelming. The pain from the tentacle’s invasion is sharp and specific, but the movement from behind is a blunt, rhythmic pressure that massages a spot so deep and primal it makes my vision blur.
And then, something shifts.
Tears stream down my face, tears of humiliation. I am being fucked like an object, stretched and filled beyond what any human being should be able to endure. Every movement they make, every tiny adjustment sends reverberations through my entire nervous system.
They begin a synchronized rhythm. His shockingly deep thrusts from behind, her more languid brutal movements from the front. They are playing my body like an instrument, their actions creating a crossfire of sensation that obliterates thought.
I can’t scream, I can’t even cry. All the screaming I did before ripped my vocal chords, and they take my silence now as acquiescence.
