Demolishing

If any divinity was listening, it seemed they were indifferent to Ria's plea. The night that followed was the longest in Ria's life.

The “rules” for the men of the waiting room, such as they were, dictated that the men could only use Ria one at a time, and had to use condoms if they were going to make use of her pussy or ass. Beyond that, it seemed that there was very little that the men could not do to Ria.

This was exemplified by the first man who got to Ria after Raj, turning Ria onto her back and enlisting the two men who would have their chances next to help hold the whimpering beauty's limbs. His cock was longer than average- certainly longer than Raj's- but more notable for the steep angle it took on in erection, an angle that meant that every deep thrust struck like a truncheon against her cervix, sending horrific cramps wrenching through her uterus and radiating out through her abdomen. Leering faces grinned and laughed down at Ria, urging him on. As his assault grew faster, the jab of individual strokes faded into a background noise around a pain like a railroad spike being firmly plunged through her belly, a pain that the men heedlessly held her in place to accept as she writhed and screamed.

Then her assailant tipped her legs back to get better leverage and an even deeper angle of attack on her womb, and Ria lost a few minutes of her life. When awareness returned, her mouth throbbed with the ache of having bitten her tongue, her neck felt almost as strained as it had when she had been forced into that position of auto-cunnilingus, and her vagina... Her vagina was a sheath of hot, raw misery around the core of a nauseating, burning open wound. She had not actually lost consciousness; no, this night was not even so merciful as that. The memory of that merciless attack on her femininity would be there for recall, later, for those moments when she had ceased being a sentient woman and become a howling, shrieking, desperate animal in the grip of inescapable suffering. Those moments would come back to her when she least needed them, when she was trying to sleep, trying to keep her composure, trying to maintain some control over her life.

...That was the first man, after Raj.

Then one came for her mouth, her mouth of smeared, whorish, crimson lipstick, the one hole they could use without a condom. Though she could not make out their words, Ria could tell by the tone that some of the men were mocking the second man for using her mouth when he could have had one of her “real” sex holes, and for free, no less. He dragged her over to the edge of the table, so her head hung down, staring up at his scrotum, and made to show them that he was not wasting the opportunity.

He pushed in hard, bunching against her tongue as she swallowed and struggled to accept him. Then pulling back, he shoved in further; her jaw closed, involuntarily, biting him. It was not a hard bite at all, merely an involuntary reflex. He cuffed her across the breast, and his fingernails sank into the base of her nipple, and it was all the warning she needed.

Then he pushed further, gagging her, hand clutching her breast. Her body arched uselessly as they held her down, a sinuous wave passing through her torso, balked where the man in her mouth held her chest, constrained where her arms and legs were pinned to the table, a resistance to the assault that might as well have been an erotic gyration to entice them.

The man raping her mouth began to pump in her throat, hand clutching in time on the swell of her breast, using her, choking her. Her hips rose and fell as she gagged, aching stomach clenching like a fist, tears streaming down her face as she struggled not to throw up. If she vomited, and the man did not stop raping her mouth, she would aspirate. She would draw her bile and stomach acid into her lungs, and she would die, painfully, shamefully, with the man's cock buried in her mouth.

There were times, that night, when Ria wanted to die. But not like that. Please, not like that.

The men holding her down, the man fucking her mouth, the men stomping and shouting for the man using her face to put it to the bitch, they didn't care. They didn't see the effort it took not to puke in response to the dizzying, sickening, punitive assault. They did see that once he filled Ria's mouth with his cum and pulled out, she threw up, finally permitting herself to purge the contents of her stomach. And they cheered that the man slapped her smeared face several times, viciously hard, for daring to reject the sour white ejaculate from his balls.

The man who had used her mouth then selected one of the other brothel girls, taking her up to the bedroom denied to Ria for the loveless acts. It was a declaration to Ria that she was sexually unsatisfying and inadequate, incompetent even to be a whore. To many of the girls of the brothel, it was further reason to despise their “guest”: the randy man's second arousal would be longer in coming, longer in fulfilling, and he would surely be rougher with the girl in seeking his satisfaction, both in the greater stimulation he would require and primed by the lack of restrictions in the taking of Ria.

Then a handful of heartbeats passed while the third of the waiting room men fumbled on a condom; not nearly enough time to recover, or even clear Ria's mouth of the taste of semen and vomit. The unlubricated latex rasped across Ria's vaginal membranes as he plunged into her, pumping hard, fingernails biting into her buttocks as he clutched her hips. It went unspoken that the men awaiting their own turns would hold her down, now. When she tried to look away from the man pounding between her thighs, one of those men slapped her face again. Why not. They could make up whatever rules they wanted, and punish her for the violations. She should swallow cum. She should watch her rapist as he used her. There would be more; there would always be a reason to punish her, if they wanted to.

The third man came quickly; it was no blessing, barely a respite. The fourth was inside of her by the time the next man had taken up the duty of holding her down. He chanted something low and hateful as he battered her sore pussy, daring her to look away, letting her see him watch her cry.

The fifth man wanted her flipped over so he could take her ass. A new rule: if she did not cry out with sufficient enthusiasm when he thrust into her, her buttocks would be slapped. Or if she did not grunt when her hair was pulled. Or if he wanted to see her flanks ripple.

The sixth took her pussy from behind. The seventh, her mouth; fortunately he was more interested in her tongue than her throat, and she managed to swallow his load, so he only slapped her face once. The eighth took her in the ass again, and by that time, Raj had been sufficiently re-invigorated by watching Ria's gang-rape that he was ready to show the men how it was done. Ria ended up on the floor with her face against the sticky, foul-smelling tile, someone's foot on her neck, as Raj drove down on her quivering backside with all his weight, determined that she would know it was him, that he was the cruelest of them all, that no one would tear up her ass the way he could.

Was that true? Maybe, maybe not; certainly Ria was not going to contradict him. She had no reason to deny him his pride; her anus was raw and burning by the time he was done, another wet load coating the cramping recesses inside of her belly.

The ninth had her lifted once again onto the table, on her back, to use her pussy; her backside kept gaping after the prolonged trial under the eighth man and Raj, so quiet consensus decided to forego her ass while waiting for it to remember how to close properly (although this failure, too, was punishable, naturally; Ria took a withering spanking, her hips just off the edge of the table, while the ninth man pounded her cunt.) The tenth took her mouth. The eleventh, her cunt, again.

Somewhere around twenty-three, she lost count. That was when she heard Raj screaming at Sunil.

“Of course I had copies made before I showed it to you, you petty little man.” Sunil retorted with a snort. “Do you take me for a fool?”

Raj was looking at a phone, from which Raj's taunting voice and Ria's pathetic moaning could be heard.

“You've ruined me!” The police officer was shouting. “Ruined me!”

“Not at all,” Sunil was saying. “I've simply taken steps to assure that you don't ruin me. I expect you to find another house to satisfy your needs, and you not to come sniffing around expecting any favors. Is that understood?”

“You devil...!”

“...And, what's more, if any of your fellow officers were to find themselves curious about our humble mill, I expect you to do your utmost to dissuade them... Because if this business finds itself in any kind of legal jeopardy, it is an absolute certainty that this video will find its way onto the Internet. And I doubt either your superiors or your family would be amused.”

Raj was glaring around the room like a startled rodent. “Which one of you took that video?!” He snarled. “Was it one of you bastards, looking to clear his tab? One of you preening bitches, trying to get sweet with your pimp?”

“That is irrelevant, sir. There is no one here who needs to fear your authority, and no one who it is acceptable to take out your little show of pique upon.”

Sunil's lip curled as he looked over at Ria, any trace of the plump, good-humored host Ria had first been introduced to absent as his lip curled.

“Well, almost no one. Be gone at sun-up.”

With that, he turned away and was gone. Yet one more person who was above the depravity being inflicted upon Ria in that room.

Ria would not remember the third time Raj came for her ass, but the bruises made it impossible for her to sit down, later, when it came time to shit out his cum.

More rules. If Ria didn't keep her eyes open when they “fishhooked” her, planting fingers in the sides of her mouth and spreading it open in a tight, painful smile, that got her a slapping. If she didn't moan when they pinched her nipples, her breasts got a slapping. Rubbing her hand against the crotch of someone's pants while she was raped might have been a violation of the “one at a time” restriction, in the strictest sense, but if someone put her hand on their crotch...

Spitting cum onto the floor got it scooped up and shoved back into her mouth. Failing to keep her ass tight to meet the gut-churning thrusts of one of her sodomizers got her a punch in the stomach. If someone wanted her to repeat something in Hindi- heaven only knew what she was repeating, but it always made them snicker, or jeer, or spit on her- she had better do it, or her back or her ribs would be covered in the pink stripes of slapping fingers.

Failing to cooperate when they wanted to turn her over again? Goading hands struck her breasts or her ass. Try to shake off the hand pressing her nose, making her nostrils stretch into a pig-like mockery of her beauty? That got her a mouthful of spit. Fail to read minds when three men were shouting different instructions at her at once, none of which she could understand?... She got pushed back and forth between them, the men twisting her nipples, grabbing her crotch, smacking her ass, pulling her hair, and, of course, slapping her face, over and over and over again.

Ria never got numb, the way she thought she was supposed to. Sometimes sensations blended together, but there never came the point where the repetition of thrusts and shoves and blows, burning and stinging and cramping, pushing and pulling and spinning stopped being an agonizing, humiliating, sinking torture. The next thrust, the next blow, the next effort to hurt her, demean her, dehumanize her- could always make the experience an extra shade more atrocious. Ria's lithe and sensitive body seemed to have no rock bottom, as far as the abuse went; it could always get worse.

Her mental state was another matter. The jeering of the waiting-room men, the indifference of the prostitutes, Sunil's contempt for her well-being, Raj's returns to attack her ass as though this time, he would ruin her body once and for all- it only made sense, in whatever way it could, if Ria somehow deserved it. That was the punctuation to every squeak of latex against her swollen orifices, every rasping breath drawn in pain, every tremor that shook her body as a man found yet another way to make her hurt: that no one got to such a state, despised and looked down upon even by the lowest of the low, subjected to an unending marathon of gangrape... no one could have gotten to such a position unless they had put themselves there.

When the sun streamed through a shutter high on the wall of the waiting room's entrance, its searing into Ria's eyes didn't mark the end of her devastation; it was just one more small torment to be carried. The men had long since departed. Ria was splayed over the table, surrounded by crumpled pornographic magazines. At some poimt, the men had cum on the covers and used them to funnel semen into her mouth; at some point, they had rolled them up and beaten her with them.

“Kutta” was Hindi for “dog”; she would never forget that one.

Her body was bare, covered with bruises, pasted with scum-filled condoms. Her clothing had long since been torn to shreds. One of the men had dragged away her hard-won backpack from beneath the table before departing, and she had been too exhausted and beaten down to do more than squeak in protest.

For which she had been punished, of course.

She made it half-way up the narrow stairway before her straining limbs gave out on her. Somehow, she dragged herself the rest of the way, crawled down the hallway, pushed open the door to her bedroom, pulled herself inside, and mostly closed the door. Pulling herself onto the bed was too much to expect of herself after the ordeal. The floor would be just fine.

Whether that last was an actual decision or merely an imperative passed down by her mistreated body, she did not know and ceased to care as sleep swallowed her.