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Another story by sickman or visit his awesome site
This story is for GROWNUPS ONLY. If it's illegal for you to read this,
kindly go elsewhere.
Land of Rape and Honey
by sickman
"Bitch! Where's that fuckin' bitch?!"
Oh God, it was starting again.
"She's coming." Her human prison rolled off of her so she could get back to work. "Bring me some coffee when
you're finished".
"Bitch! Get in here and lick my asshole. NOW!"
He watched her enter the other tent, following her with "and keep your eye on her!"
The coach made sure that every man was greeted that morning with a forced-cheery "May I drink your piss for you?
Can I get you a cup of coffee? I would love to suck your cock for you? And your pussy is all wet and
ready for you, whenever you want it." And to a man, when asked so sweetly, they took her up on at least two if not
more of her offers. Coffee and a blowjob in bed, and the piss sucked from your stick where you lie? Pure camping
heaven.
She was also expected to do all the dishes, clean up the campsite, 'make herself pretty', and cook anyone whatever they
wanted for breakfast. Those who wanted cereal or porridge had her go on her hands and knees over their bowls while
they milked her like a cow. Greg even made her 'moo' while he did it.
Then the collected table scraps were tossed in a mucky little depression and the little piggy was told to root for her
slop. This seemed terribly amusing, especially making her snuffle and snort while she wallowed. It also wrung the day's
first tears, but she did it; without a complaint or hesitation, and until the muck was spotless. She was a quick study of
the lash.
Five of them left to go into town "the long way" for more "piss and supplies". She thought she heard them making a
list, but could not concentrate as she had a cock humping her throat like it was a pussy.
The coach and the quite one, Ted, stayed to guard her.
With just two of them, they decided they should bind her ankles with a foot and a half of nylon rope between them.
Then they fused the knots with a lighter.
In no time, Ted was buried in a book, a textbook from the look of it. This left the coach to entertain her, which meant
what? She couldn't figure this guy. He humiliated her more then the others, hurt her at least as much, and yet he was the
only one to show her the least kindness, as well.
"I told you to stop scratching", he snapped, lingering over his coffee, "It isn't sexy."
Not sexy?! She had been eaten alive yesterday! She would go mad if she didn't scratch.
He had her go and bathe. He used the top half of a plastic bottle as a funnel and filled first her pussy, then her ass full of
cold water. The contents of her pussy she emptied into a large cooking pot which he informed her would be her lunch.
He bathed as she applied makeup, then she warmed some water and he lay with his head in her lap as she shaved him.
It's hard shaving a man's face.
During this, she screwed up her courage, and asked if she could ask him something. He assented.
"You've done this before, haven't you?"
"Not like this, but yes. I have played dominance games with lovers and whores, but never had a real slave,
one that could not say 'no'".
"Don't you care how I feel?"
"Of course I do. How you feel is the MOST important thing. Without your fear, pain, and humiliation, this
wouldn't be any fun at all. If you are not unhappy, then its time to make things worse."
She thought on this awhile, while struggling with his jaw line. "But why?"
"Because it makes my dick hard to see you cry, you fool. Power is a turn-on. Don't ask such silly
questions."
How could men enjoy being so cruel? And did it really turn him on so much? Though the day before was a blur of
hundreds of cocks laying siege to her body, she did not remember him using her, at least not after that first rape. She was
pretty sure they had all used her then. She offered herself to him often, as she had to all of them, but, thinking about it,
she was quite certain he had always declined.
She finished shaving him in quiet, but snuck in at the end,
"What's your name?"
"To you?: 'Sir'", with finality. But he did not get up.
"I'm finished." she informed him, but he did not answer except with an expectant look. She didn't know what he
wanted. "uh...I'm finished, Sir?"
"Yes...?", he said, with a strongly implicated 'and?...' in his voice.
What? It was like she was missing something. But he agreed that she was done.
"Would...would you like to piss in my mouth?"
He smiled. She had past some stupid little test. "No thank-you." but still he stared into her eyes, upside down from her
lap.
"Your cunt is...I could have your cunt nice and wet and ready for you in no time, Sir, if you wanted. Would
you like to fuck it?"
He got to his feet, and stood over her staring down so that she had to tip her head way back to look at him. And again he
waited. This WAS a test. And Liane didn't know why but she wanted to pass. Just because she thought she might be
punished? Or did she actually not want to disappoint him? She could not say.
"Would you like me to...", and she caught herself. He had not answered. He had slapped her this morning for not
continuing to beg one service until she was answered. Like a sicko's game of "Simon Says".
"Please, I'll...ah, please Sir, I'll ... I'll make your cunt extra juicy for you." He smirked. Right answer.
"Nice and juicy, just... just the way you like it. The way a cunt should be". He tipped his head to the side to
look at her pussy, as if to see if it lived up to her claims. He furled his brow.
She thrust a hand between her legs assuring him "I'll... your cunt will be ready for you in just one minute, Sir."
She spit on her fingers to help get started. "See? See, Sir, I'm getting all ready for you...for your cock." She had
never masturbated in front of anyone before, but modesty never crossed her mind. They were winning; she WAS
becoming their total slut.
He smiled, pursing his lips with mocking satisfaction. But he said nothing. And it was getting hard to find words. What
else to say?
Beg him. "Please, Sir, please fuck me. Your...your fuck-meat...needs to be fucked. Your stupid slut needs to be
fucked. Please? I'm getting it so wet for you. It is still sore from all the cocks that fucked me, yesterday, and
the hot corn burned it. So you'll hurt me if you fuck me. I know you like to hurt me."
What else? What else could he want to hear? At the risk of failing his test by becoming redundant, she continued mixing
and matching everything she had said so far, while she slowly eased back into what she was starting to think of as 'her
position'; 'her fuck-meat position', spreading her knees farther apart than her roped ankles with her elbows, while she
diddled herself with one hand and finger-fucked herself with the other.
"Please, Sir, Please hurt me with your cock. I'm such a stupid cunt, but I'm getting wet for you"
Which was true. While her brain was still disgusted with the things she was begging, her slick fingers had managed get
her slightly wet. Or could she actually be starting to get into her slut roll? Her audience may have thought so, because
with bedroom eyes, as if enamoured by her vulgarly enticing performance, he went to one knee beside her, and slowly
lowered himself toward her for a passionate kiss. She stopped her monologue and sensuously parted her lips to receive
him.
And he spat in her face. An enormous hork splattered across her cheek, some clinging to her nose, some landing in her
waiting mouth, some arced across her eye. "Fuck, you're pathetic." he snarled in disgust, "You are so fucking
useless" and he slapped her dry cheek.
Her tears were immediate. She had thought she was doing well, humiliating herself for his pleasure. She thought...she had
hoped she was pleasing him.
He stood over her again, sneering. Waiting. He wanted her to continue.
"I'm so pathetic", she sniffled, knowing it was true. "I AM fucking useless", and she paused to snork her sinuses
clear, "and... and I hate begging you so much, and, and, it makes me feel so awful...and I'm just a useless
cunt". And at this she broke out sobbing, so that it took quite a while for her to blubber out, "and I hate myself,
and...and, I just want you to fuck me, I want you to fuck my... my useless cunt. I...I want to make you
happy." This made her cry harder, probably because at some level it was the truth. Her distress seemed to wash away
all her creativity and she was reduced to whimpering,
"Please? Please fuck me...Please...please?"
She did want it. Not that she was at all horny; she was just desperate to stop begging him. To stop groveling. Somehow,
being raped was less humiliating than calling herself a slut and begging to be fucked.
He spit on her splayed pussy, saying with disgust,
"Me, fuck THAT hole? Hell, no"
Her hands fell away from her rejected pussy, and she sobbed a little harder. And he waited.
Did he want her to keep going? He had said 'no'. She was lost, confused.
He unzipped his fly and pulled out his semi-hard cock and left it dangling above her.
"Would...would you like me to suck your cock, then?" She almost sounded hopeful, and yet she just knew he was
just going to make her beg some more, only to say 'no'. But she did her best to beg convincingly. He looked her body up
and down, disgusted, and she realized she was supposed to be on her knees. She did the thing with her mouth where she
shows him how much she wants it, this stuff was becoming second nature to her, now. As if rewarding her, he lowered
his balls onto her tongue for just two licks, their eyes locked. Then he stepped back, a few strands of her hair in his
hand, and she was again licking air. A tug on her hair and a curt glance towards his cock told her she was to crawl
forward. He let go the strand and took another step back. And she went on all fours to crawl after him. And then at a
terribly slow pace they proceeded; him walking backward one pace at a time, and her crawling after his cock, begging to
suck it, licking the air lasciviously, insulting herself, and generally feeling totally pathetic.
They moved through the woods like that for some time. She tried to be creative, but repeated herself a lot. The first time
she called herself a cocksucker, he nobly allowed her to lick the pre-cum off his dick and she actually felt a vague
gratification from it.
She told him how she had never liked sucking cock. How her first boyfriend used to make her blow him. How she had
not swallowed since she was fifteen, but always spit the disgusting stuff out. How her ex and her used to fight because
he wanted blowjobs but she wouldn't demean herself. She tried to express her absolute revulsion at begging him like this.
He asked for more details, especially about her first experiences. He had her beg for just one taste, and then "allowed"
her to mouth his entire length just once, before they continued, his cock glistening with her spit.
She crawled in mud, on sharp rocks, through brambles that scraped and scratched her from her breasts to her toes, and
on the solid, course granite of the ridge they had crossed yesterday.
A small stack, a blanket, a pot, his whip, and some rope lay on the ridge, waiting for them.
There he stopped, and asked her, still in the spirit of this strange rapport, if, honestly, she wanted to suck his cock.
Honestly? So, honestly she told him, no, but it was less degrading then begging, and she didn't want him to hurt her.
"Good," he replied, "Blow me, slut."
It was actually a relief to finally start servicing him; she'd been groveling for most of an hour. She did her best, and even
begged him not to cum in her mouth, thinking it would make him want to. But it was not until he laid her on the hot rock
and brutally fucked her throat, making her gag and wretch, that he finally withdrew to spew in a puddle between her
breasts.
Then he sat back and had a smoke while instructing her to pick the goo up and make love to it as if it were the most
delicious, sexy nectar in the world. This was a hard act and she performed it with no real enthusiasm. She knew it, too.
And yet after what she knew had been a splendid performance while crawling, she thought it might be overlooked. She
did manage to stretch out the repulsive act of eating cold sperm off her tits for about a quarter hour making all the right
motions, but with no conviction.
She waited a moment when finished, for any new instructions, and was about to revert back to 'did he want to piss',
when he declared,
"Well. That was pathetic. You will be punished for that this evening, so you better do better next time."
He had her stand, close her eyes and place her hands behind her head. At any moment she expected the whip to fall,
probably on her thrust breasts. But instead, he sensuously started smearing sun oil all over her, except carefully avoiding
her breasts, ass and pussy, the palest, most vulnerable parts of her body.
"But I'll be roasted" she complained.
He just smiled, though she could not see it.
He sent her to go pick blue berries. For over two hours she sweated in the hot sun, her already burnt ass getting more
sun, as she filled the pot with tiny berries. She stopped only once, to run down and get him a cold beer, him watching
her like a hawk the whole time. He nursed his drink in the shade of a tree while she worked. He enjoyed feeling like a
man of leisure watching his slave-girl toil in the field.
She envied him his beer. It was thirsty work being out in the sun, and she was sweating away her liquids. But she would
rather go thirsty then drink urine, and he would make her do that soon enough anyway.
But he didn't. When the pot was full, she went and pulled the last beer out of the stream for him. On returning, she
thought she had better offer to drink his piss.
"No thanks, I went while you were gone.
"Unless you 're thirsty." He added, "I might find some more."
She was, but not that thirsty. She'd wait.
He told her to jump rope. Jump rope in the hot sun, in bare feet on rock, her swollen breasts flopping wildly, painfully,
as he lounged with his beer in the shade. She had to recite al those stupid skipping poems while she did it.
"Hey, we should get you to sing some campfire songs for us, tonight." he mused.
Then after a quarter hour, he ordered "peppers". Three minutes of that and she could not decide if she was going to faint
before or after her breasts fell off. She looked over to him in pleading desperation, only to find he was ignoring her, while
emptying his bladder into his beer can. When he was finished, he let her stop.
He wanted her to ask for a drink. Not because he had to go, not because he was forcing her, but because she was so
thirsty she was willing to drink piss. They both knew it. She could wait. She was completely parched, and would have
done just about anything for a glass of water, but to actually ask to drink piss? But then she rationalized that eventually
she would have to, either because she broke down, or because the others returned and made her. And she really was very
thirsty.
"Please, may I drink your piss?"
"No thanks, I just went".
He was going to make this difficult.
"Please, I am very thirsty, and I would like...I would love a drink of your piss"
"Oh, sure. Help yourself." and he handed her the can.
Hot piss in a hot can on a hot day. Not refreshing. God this stuff tasted awful. Where shit didn't taste as bad as she
thought, this was even worse. And she never got used to it. Last night had been better; it was almost all beer. But this
morning had been gut wrenching; the acrid liquor of the night's collected toxins. A few sips now was enough to remind
her how pleasant being thirsty was, but a harsh look from him at her can, and she knew she was to finish it. Mouthful
by mouthful she choked the foul stuff back, crying just one more time at her deplorable situation.
After that, he tied her hands together behind her head and told her she could sleep (she looked like shit, and felt worse).
Even lying bare on a coarse rock it the hot sun she was asleep in no time. She knew she was going to burn, that he
wanted her to burn, and was helpless to prevent it. She could only try to make it evenly bad, and so tried to wake up
often to change positions. But her ass was already a little burnt and protecting that, she entered deep sleep flat on her
back, the puddings of her ghostly white breasts on broil. He smiled at that.
When she awoke, sweat dripping off her back, she knew she'd been too long on her back. He bid her good morning and
asked her if she was ready for lunch or whether she wanted to catch more rays. She didn't have a choice, and that was
the way he wanted it.
Her "lunch" had partially separated into stringy clots of day-old sperm clinging to the pot, covered by a slightly milky
broth. It smelled rotten. The protein had already begun breaking down and the yeasty pussy juice made it worse. She
thought she was going to heave.
She sat cross-legged near the smoldering fire, studying the pot of offal in her lap. He had said, "use your fingers, and
show me you love it. Maybe you can reduce your punishment." and then leaned back to enjoy the sandwiches she
had made. The more she looked at the slop the harder it became to make herself even touch it.
"Your hesitation now is going to cause you a great deal of pain this evening. How much is up to you.
One?... two...?"
He made it to five before she summoned her courage and tentatively dipped her hand into the pot.
What theatre! The drawn-out contemplation. The reluctant distaste as she dipped her hand into the cold slop. That
priceless shudder when she confronted that first pinch of ropy slime. The hesitation. The gathering of determination,
The look of pure revulsion as she inched it closer to her face. The look of nausea when she put it to her lips. Actually
seeing her stomach heave, her throat gag. The torture she put herself through with every subsequent little taste. Pure art!
He kept his amusement to himself, not wanting to break her concentration.
Of course she would have to be punished later for not enjoying it, but why remind her when this was a win/win
situation.
He let her finish the slime in her own good time, first picking all floating bits, then scraping strands that clung to the
sides and bottom, and finally, when it passed his inspection, she was allowed to raise the pot to her lips and drain the
milky broth.
"And the next time you see sperm outside of your body, even if its running out of your ass, you will make
love to it. Do you understand?"
He had her bring him a small bowl of blueberries and milked her until they were floating. Then he dawdled over these
while she licked his asshole for most of an hour.
"Six o'clock. It's punishment time, little whore"
She was lead to a large tree twenty feet from camp.
He made two holes in a black garbage bag, one in either bottom corner. Her wrists were passed through these and then
bound in front of her with the nylon bowline. He passed the dangling cord through a small hole he made in the bottom of
a second bag. Leading her to a large maple tree, with the rope in his teeth he jumped up to hang from a large branch.
Swinging his feet up he managed to clamber on top of the branch and out some distance where he tied the rope so taut
that she was forced to her toes.
Fetching a roll of duct tape from the tackle box he pulled the lower bag over her head and tucked and taped it tight
around her neck.
"I'll give you some air in a minute", he said, gathering and taping the excess bag at the back of her head.
Somehow, she knew he was not going to suffocate her, but as she started re-breathing the same stale air the panic started
to rise. As she took a breath, the bag sucked to her face then puffed away as she exhaled, the warm stale air enveloping
her head.
"Keep still or it will take longer" he commanded.
"Now I'm going to make a hole at your mouth with a knife. Keep your tongue back."
Fresh air flowed into her mouth. Not a lot, but enough. She sucked at it greedily. She could still see fairly well through
the black film, but she was discovering a claustrophobia that she never knew she had.
He had her stick her curled tongue out of the hole, enlarging it as she did. Then he told her she may suck air through her
curled tongue, but that she was to exhale through her nose. And her punishment would be doubled for every word she
spoke.
As she adapted to this new state, he continued working, gathering the excess bag in a roll down her spine, drawing the
plastic into a second skin. Holes much smaller than her breasts were cut with the scissors of a Swiss army knife. These
were tugged and stretched until the plastic was snug to her chest, her breasts protruding obscenely, only slightly
constricted at their bases.
Her fear grew. Why? She could breathe. Her arms hurt and her hands were going numb, but this fear had no explanation,
it just was.
The rim of the bag was gathered and over-lapped between her legs, but no tape was used. Instead, he carefully buried a
length of fishing line into the crack of her pussy, drawing it between her legs and up the crack of her ass. It was tied very
tightly at her shoulder. A second line was tied to the first between her breasts and followed the first except that it was
drawn over the other shoulder. The bag that hung on the rope was pulled down over her arms and behind her head and
gathered. A third bag was pulled up over her legs.
So she was totally encased in plastic. So what? She was surviving tolerably well on her meager allotment of air. But
there was something totally nightmarish about the feeling. The world looked surreal through the black bag. She was
terrifyingly aware of every breath she took. About her vulnerability, sucking her life through a tiny slit.
A loop of fishing line was passed over her thumbs and pulled tight. It was wrapped around her hands, binding her palms
together. Then he started passing the spool around and around her tightly spiraling the thin cord down her arms, over
her face and down her body. The rounds were uniformly spaced at about two inches except where they missed her
breasts entirely. Everywhere they dug deep into her soft flesh. Numerous rounds encompassing her insteps and arches
held her feet tight. Then the procedure was repeated in the opposite direction so that when completed, she was
decorated front and back with a row perfectly centered 'X's.
He called Ted over and had him lift her feet behind her so and hold them on his shoulder, pushing her away from the
branch so that she arched back like a diver. He then threaded the fishing line under the lowest crossed thread on her heels
and up to a loop in the loose end of the bowline. Then back to the second lowest cross on her ankle and back to the
bowline. Over and over again, tying one length off on the nylon loop, only to start a new one, until he had reached her
wrists.
The rope around her wrists which had long since stopped taking her weight was carefully cut through the bag and
removed and there she hung in a bow, frozen in a dive: a black worm with full firm breasts thrusting proudly in front of
her, glowing pink with sunburn in the dying light.
A mosquito landed to take advantage of the exposed and defenseless tender flesh.
"What I would like is a piece of flexible tubing for her to breathe through", Sir told Ted. They brainstormed a
bit and then left her to build it out of sections of toilet paper tube cut into a ribcage form, encased in a condom. The tip
was cut off and the rim was taped over her mouth. So that it hung down towards her breasts.
"She looks like a worm". Ted declared.
"Exactly. She IS a worm, so she should look like one. But that is only for effect. She is being punished." She
could hear Sir walking away from her as he talked, calling back to Ted from the fire pit.
"Do you recall me specifically telling our worm not to scratch herself like the flea-bitten bitch that she is?"
"Yeah.?"
"Well she kept doing it all day, today. Only when she thought I was not looking, but I saw her do it, and
could see the red scratches".
He was back now, and he stopped talking while he lit the miner's lantern and tied it with fishing line to the rope which
had, until recently, bound her arms. She could now see nothing except its light swinging a few inches in front of her
breasts.
"Did you noticed how thick the mosquitoes got last night at dusk", he asked, off-handedly.
Ted chuckled. "Yeah. Swarms of them. We would have been eaten alive if we didn't have DEET."
"Yeah, well tonight, dinners ready."
She groaned her protest.
"Did you know that what attracts mosquitoes is the smell of sweat, and CO2? Look, four early diners
already. Guess even mosquitoes want to nurse on jugs like those.
Hey, you want a coffee?", and they left her.
Alone with her hell.
It is hard to say if her torture was worse for her not being able to see. In her mind she pictured her breasts covered with
the feeding demons. Every breath she exhaled she pictured a little cloud of CO2 summoning a dozen more, and certainly
for every real vampire she created five more. At first.
But as the dusk grew, her tender mounds became veritable hells of horrid itching, so that she could scarcely feel if a
particular tingle was caused by a fresh feeder or a previous bite. If, at that point, she had been able to see, she would
have been absolutely horrified to realize that her worst imaginings were now, in fact, true. As dark enveloped the woods,
her fleshy mounds were continuously completely covered in the sucking fiends. Fifteen, twenty, thirty at a time.
Early on, the two men had returned with their coffee. Sir went to carefully wash any bug repellent from his hands before
milking her into their mugs. Then they stood back, watching her writhe in the air. She tried to keep her breasts moving,
attempting to shoo the things off. The men did not tell her that this had no effect at all. It may have made it more
difficult to land, but once one of the fiends had gotten a grip, it rode the wobbling flesh like a bucking bronco, drinking
its leisurely fill.
She heard a zipper. Her writhing, her torture had one of them so excited that he was masturbating. Her tears of
frustration redoubled at the realization that they were enjoying her torment.
Eventually they left, bored with their sport. Again, they did not tell her that whether due to the deepening night, the
lack of unbitten flesh, or that she had fed every mosquito in the valley, the swarm had dwindled. Also, she had tired out,
and now just hung limply, sobbing as she accepted her lot.
It was over an hour later that voices could be heard in the woods. Someone was at her side, blowing out the lantern. A
knife was unfolded and placed to her neck.
"Understand?" the coach whispered. She grunted assent, not knowing if she was allowed to speak yet.
In a few minutes, Greg could be heard cackling "I bet some pre-verts kidnapped that cunt and are raping her. We
better call the police."
The lantern was re-lit.
They had gone into L. a little holiday town forty minutes down the road. Then they decided to go into P. a small city
half an hour beyond that to go to an army surplus store. Then they decided to have dinner (and they brought wings for
the two that stayed), and then they went to watch strippers. They ran into some high school friends of Ferrari's and
Greg's and brought them along, Larry, Race and Flea. And holy shit, what happened to her tits?
Sir explained, describing the bugs at their worst, which they all found amusing.
"Well lets take her down, I want some snatch." someone crowed.
"Not yet," Sir demanded. "The slut hesitated before eating her sperm and smegma soup for lunch, so we have
to punish her."
The lines to her feet were cut, and her calves and knees, continuing until her legs hung down.
"She hesitated for five, so she is to get five of the best from each of us. Too bad about Ferrari's friends,
her punishment just went from thirty five to fifty."
Oh God! How they beat her! They started with full swings of the canoe paddle, each man stepping up to take one
swing. The blade hummed through the air, announcing each assault. She spasmed and writhed after every blow, shrieks
filling the dark woods, but the next did not come until she swung calmly. How she managed not to beg for mercy, let
alone not break the fishing lines that supported her, she had no idea. Her bladder let go and piss filled the bottom of the
bag around her legs
During the second round, they started improvising. Thus she never knew until it landed whether to expect the paddle, a
crop-like stick, or the coach's bramble flail on her ass, her thighs or her breasts.
During the third round someone turned the paddle around and found whole new levels of pain by clubbing her ass with
that. They liked that, so the fourth round was each trying to out swing the others, causing her to blackout. They agreed
to finish that round and then save the last for later, when she could appreciate it.
She groaned on awaking, signaling them to resume her torture though they stopped Lenin from clubbing her tits.
She had not recovered from the last stroke before she was cut down and carried before the cold fire pit and summarily
raped. The two lines in her vulva were cut, she was folded in half on her back and brutally impaled. Another instant and
the condom was ripped from her mouth and the hole filled with a cock. She couldn't breathe and started to panic.
Someone pointed out her predicament.
"Fuck 'er. She doesn't need to fuckin' breathe."
But hands ripped the plastic at her nose.
Then, for hours and hours, they raped and re-raped her. Her pussy, her ass, her mouth. The plastic was cut from her
legs so they could spread her, and ripped from her eyes so they could see her cry, torn from her mouth so they could
feel her lips, and from between her tits so they too could be fucked. Someone stubbed a cigarette out on the back of her
thigh. She almost drowned when someone pissed in her mouth while she was lying on her back. And even when they
were all sated, one after another they forced themselves hard just so as to continue her abuse. She was forced to suck her
own blood, shit, and pussy juice off too many cocks to count, to steel them to further rape her. They pounded her holes
viciously, trying to wring one last orgasm from their drained balls.
When none could get it up any longer, they splayed her legs apart and each took his turn completing the last round of
whipping, using the bramble flail on her most delicate skin. The barbed withes turned her pink oyster into a bloody
hash.
She never felt the last of these, but became aware that she was kneeling, sitting on a metal cup, her arms held over her
head. Someone was cutting the last of the plastic from her. On finding her awake, they had her squat over the cup. Chain
was dragged over, wrapped around her neck, and, with firm click that sounded very final to her, locked to itself with a
huge padlock. The chain was of huge thick links, and long.
They told her to hold her cunt open. One by one they came to her and she licked their cocks clean. She felt herself
draining into the cup, and knew they would want her to eat it.
And she would. Immediately, she vowed, anything rather then another round of...
"Look at this, Bitch. We have some more cock for you" They were leading in two rottweilers!
"Sit", they were ordered, and did.
"Suck", she was ordered, and did. No hesitation. While her mind reeled at the thought, she did not give herself time to
stop, but just did as she was told, too scared but to comply. It was only while she was doing it that she had a chance to
fully grasp what she did.
Sucking dog's cocks. When everything they made her do seemed to be the worst, how could they continue finding things
ever more disgusting. The taste was repulsive, the feel disgusting, the idea beyond words.
And they ridiculed her for it. Tears rolled down her face as they told her to work on the other one. She returned to the
first to find it covered with a condom.
"Dog whores aren't good enough to suck Bronte's scum direct from his balls."
She gave up and just sucked the thing like it was any other cock. God, it wasn't like she hadn't sucked enough cocks in
the last two days. It came, and she went dutifully to service the other. Someone held the cup against her pussy the
whole time.
"Dinner time, bitch." Ferrari said, holding up the limp scumbags, "Why don't you go wash up while it gets cold".
Sir led her to the river.
On crawling back from a chilling wash, she found the other end of the chain had been locked about a large tree in the
middle of the camp. No escape.
A plate sat in front of the fire pit, the lantern beside it. Though she could not make out what it was on the plate, she
could see that it had been artistically arranged, and knew it would be repulsive to eat.
The men sat around sucking beer. Waiting.
"Dinner tonight, madam, is one of your favourites: headcheese salad, with a blood and sperm rape puree,
served with fresh doggie scumbags, and garnished with a lump of shit. How does that sound?"
A question. Oh God. Was she supposed to answer? What answer did they want? The truth? Eager?
"Answer him", the coach said, informing her she was allowed to speak more than ordering her to respond.
"It...it sounds very...repulsive. I think I may throw up if I eat it. May I start right away?"
"Of course," he glowed. Right answer.
She crawled forward to behold the horrid slop, a slab of jellied brain on a sheet of lettuce, absolutely covered with
congealed sperm, pink with her own blood. Condoms on the side.
But she did not hesitate. She dove face first into the slop and started hoovering it up, gnawing at the lettuce, swallowing
the small lump of turd whole. Their groans of disgust told her they thought it was as vile as she did.
Not knowing what she was to do with the condoms, she left them until last, finally asking in a meek voice.
"Should I... May I swallow the uh...fresh doggie scumbags?"
No, she was told she could use her hands for those. So she picked one of the things up and holding it by the tip, drained
it on her tongue and swallowed. Her stomach heaved, but she did it and managed to suck the thing clean inside and out.
And its mate.
Nothing. She thought she was done, but they seemed to be waiting. She went down to lick the last traces of slime of the
enameled plate. Then she was done. They even gave her a beer, which she drank greedily until she realized that she
would be back to work as soon as it was done.
Then she was back to making coffee on a camp stove they had bought and being milked, getting beers, licking balls,
singing stupid camp songs and drinking piss. Flea, who seemed to know about such things, said that if her tits were not
sucked, they would dry up. So not finding any volunteers, they had her suck her own tits, a timed fifteen minutes a side.
By dawn only Lenin and Bill were still awake to torment her. Lenin fucked her ass for over an hour, all the time assuring
her that they were going to kill her when they were done, and describing in gruesome detail the many slow tortures he
would inflict. Throughout this, Bill carefully clipped a full eleven of his twenty packages of clothespins onto her, five
hundred and fifty wooden pincers covering her body. Four packages alone had been used to so cover her breasts that it
was quite impossible to put any more on. Another package was used entirely on her face and even her tongue and lips,
so she looked like a bizarre voodoo mask.
She never did get to sleep, because by the time they were done with her, Ted was up and wanted a cup of coffee and a
blowjob. All day she made her rounds, sucking cock and making blueberry pancakes and coffee to order.
They put up a huge camouflage tarp over the fire pit so they could have a fire without it showing.
A poker game started but there was always someone willing to sit out a couple of hands for a blowjob or a fuck. If one
was too drained to keep it up, she would have to hold one of the dirty magazines they had bought over her face and
slowly turn the pages for them while they fucked one of her wounds.
It all started drifting. She stopped caring. Endless cocks, endless pain, endless humiliation and revulsion. She tried to
keep acting the whore that they wanted, but the act became shallow. They made her fuck the dogs. She didn't care. After
you've sucked dog cock what does it matter if you fuck them.
She could not say when she knew they were going to kill her. It slowly surfaced in her mind that they really could not
let her live. She knew their names, some of them their last names. She knew that Ferrari's friends were from P.; how
many people named Flea or Race could there be in P.?
She almost didn't even care that they would kill her. Half of them had taken to butting their cigarettes out on her legs and
her poor breasts had become the focus of their sadistic sport. They had made her 'decorate' herself with the clothespins,
and then fucked her while making her sing the camp songs. They disinfected a plastic box full of sewing pins, the kind
with the round plastic heads, and had her jab hundreds of them deep into her breasts until they looked like twin
porcupines. They had hung her by her ankles and taken turns punching her inverted breasts like she was a boxer's
punching bag. Then they roped her breasts excruciatingly tightly and actually hung her by them! God, did that make her
howl! She quite literally thought her breasts were going to rip from her chest; the pain could not have been worse if they
had. Her tormentors made no secret of how amusing that would be. She had barely slept in four days, her knees were
raw from crawling, her breasts were swollen from mosquito bites, beatings, pins and sunburn. Her ass was black and
blue from the beatings, but they whipped it none the less. Her pussy was a gaping wound that they continued to worry
with endless fucking. Her asshole was in tatters; she actually had to push her colon back inside after taking a dump!
The next morning, a holiday Monday, while Ferrari was milking her into his coffee, feeling she had nothing to lose she
asked,
"When are you going to kill me?"
He hesitated a moment, then answered, "Don't know. After next weekend, maybe."
He actually apologized for having to break his word, explaining needlessly, that they could not let her live. But he swore
to her that if she served them well, he would do it personally as quickly and painlessly as possible. Otherwise, Lenin
was itching to do it one limb per day, making her roast and eat her own flesh.
The men then fell into a discussion of planning "next weekend". Most of them had to go back to work the next day, but
they planned to return the next weekend with as many friends as they could trust. Race alone promised to bring an
entire motorcycle club. When they counted up their friends, they guessed she would be servicing over sixty men! They
roared at this prospect!
The coach argued that by the next weekend she would be good for shit. Her pussy and face would be scabbed, her tits
would be peeling, and her ass would still be one enormous bruise. He convinced them to wait an extra week. It was
decided that he, Ferrari and Bill would stay with her, as none had jobs to return to.
By mid afternoon most of the others were preparing to leave. The coach had her crawl to each one and thank them for
brutally raping her, and invite them back with all their friends. The three local guys stayed until evening and again she
was made to perform with Sasha and Bronte, the dogs.
Life seemed easy after that. With only three of them to service, and none of them using either her pussy or her ass, it
almost seemed like a vacation. The novelty had worn off for them, and they seemed to move into a more relaxed
two-weeks-to-kill-no-hurry mode. She still barely slept for the first couple of nights because her breasts itched so
ferociously and they bound her hands behind her before they slept so she could not scratch. But she did sleep some and
more each night.
She would find herself eating her dinner, sucking table scraps out of the mud, and realize that she didn't mind. It became
second nature for her to grovel and beg to suck cock; they came so much quicker when she humiliated herself. After the
worst of the mosquito bite itching had passed, Bill caused her only tears in days by successfully using every one of his
thousand clothespins on her. She found she could not even cry for missing her son anymore, though in her idle time,
which she had a fair amount of, she tried to think of nothing else.
The coach had all but stopped instructing her. She was being tested, they said. Every time she failed to satisfy, did not
grovel and debase herself enough, or did not seem eager enough to please, they would make a note of it with the
punishment she would receive next weekend. She never saw the list. They kept her infractions secret so that she never
knew if a blowjob or even a request to suck cock had been whorish enough to please. So she worked very hard at being
the slut they wanted.
She had no pride left. When they decided that she should turn over rocks and eat what ever she found there for
breakfast, she thanked them and did it. And not mechanically. She had been so long playing the wanton whore, acting as
if every humiliation, every violating cock turned her on more than the last, that she found herself naturally purring and
grunting as she leaned her head back to lick slugs off her fingers or crunched down on grubs and beetles.
Not that she did not mind. Her stomach roiled at the thought and she vomited into her mouth before re-swallowing when
they started making her swallow the things alive. But the act, the whore act, was so second nature that she just did it
without thinking.
Almost over. Just a few days of hell to go and they would mercifully kill her. She wished she could see her son just one
more time, but she had accepted her fate and would be glad when it was over.
Then, a couple of days before the appointed weekend, Ferrari and Bill decided they were going fishing at dawn. No
sooner had they crossed the ridge then the Sir told her to eat her fill of anything she wanted. He started rummaging
around in his tent. Then in the other tents. He came to her with a fully loaded rucksack.
And he unlocked the chain!
"Lets go", and they were off, him with a canoe on his shoulders. They hiked what seemed like miles further up the
path not speaking a word. During a rest, she offered to try caring the pack but he declined; she was still barefoot and
they had to make speed so she carried nothing but paddles. It never occurred to her that she should try and get away
from him. This was a rescue, she had no doubts.
They came to a lake and as they paddled in and out of its bays she realized he did not know where he was going. He told
her to get some clothes from the pack.
They found a portage. And a lake and a portage. And a hunter's cabin and a lake. All day under a blistering sun they
trudged, until about four, when they found a road, a narrow gravel track. They followed it only to the first cottage they
came to then he broke in, and brought the canoe in after him.
Flopping on a double bed, they slept.
Later, as it grew dark, he explained his dilemma. If he left her there, the others might find her. If he saw her back to
safety, she could turn him in. She asked why he was doing this, and after he thought, he said simply, "Because its
right".
"I won't turn you in." she vowed.
Could he believe her? He thought a long time before he declared,
"I'll trust you."
"What about the others?", she asked.
"Do what you want. I only just met them when they picked me up hitchhiking. What a bunch of assholes."
(Ah, that explained a lot.) "Do you want to spend the next three years in court?"
Good question.
In the dark they walked for miles down the twisting road as other roads joined it and it widened finally joining a
highway. He left her in a roadside diner and went out to beg a ride from a trucker.
She refused to talk to the police, aborted the baby they had left in her, and she never, ever had sex again
