Isabella pays reparations

Finally, the procession reached a small square in the heart of the industrial district, the crowd cheering as they shoved her toward a makeshift wooden pillory. With rough hands, they **** her into position, securing her neck and wrists in place. She felt a surge of fear and indignation, but said nothing, her jaw clenched in defiance.

Mateo stood before her, his gaze cold. “You wanted to hear the voice of the people, Isabella Reyes,” he said. “Listen now. This pillory has been used by your men to punish workers that failed to meet their daily quota, no matter if they were sick or injured. Today, it's you that is going to pay for your crimes against our people.”

He stepped forward and spat in her face, a gesture that drew raucous cheers from the assembled crowd. Isabella felt a surge of anger, but held her tongue, unwilling to give them the satisfaction of a response. "Reparations are in order, and for a silver dollar each, every man here will get the chance to fuck you, and I will personally make sure the proceeds are sent to the families of the workers that died to serve your stupid plan. Montesoro's president, a whore for the working class."

Her eyes widened, her cheeks burning with a mix of anger and humiliation. Mateo’s words hung in the air, a challenge that could not be ignored. She felt a shiver down her spine as the full weight of his threat sank in, a knot of dread forming in her stomach. The crowd, now worked into a frenzy, pressed closer, their faces leering and eager. She knew that this was not just about ****; this was about power and humiliation, a public spectacle designed to break her spirit.

Isabella struggled against the restraints, her heart pounding in her chest. She continued to struggle even as the first man flicked a silver coin into her face, stepping behind her and ripping off her pants and underwear before she had a chance to react. He wasted no time, penetrating her with a swift, brutal thrust, a cry of pain escaping her lips. She felt him move inside her, rough and unforgiving, each stroke a jolt of agony that tore through her. She clenched her teeth, refusing to cry out, determined not to give her assailant the satisfaction of seeing her in pain.

As he finished, another worker took his place, then another, and another. Isabella lost count of how many men had violated her, though the pile of coins on the floor grew ever higher. At first, the men had waited to use her cunt, determined to get their coin's worth. But as the day wore on, and her pussy became caked with semen and gaped loosely, the men became more and more indiscriminate with where they put their cocks. Her ass, her mouth, her hands, her breasts, her hair, her feet... Any orifice available to them was an option for these men to empty their balls.

She hung there, helpless, her body battered and sore, her mind numb with shock. Each **** was a fresh violation, a deliberate act of degradation intended to break her will. The crowd around her jeered, their faces distorted by cruel laughter. Isabella closed her eyes, trying to block out the sight of them, but the sounds and smells of the ordeal were inescapable.

After hours of relentless ****, the crowd finally began to thin. Isabella was left hanging in the pillory, her body bruised and aching, her skin coated in a sticky layer of sweat, dirt, and cum. She hung her head, defeated and humiliated, her spirit broken by the ordeal. Even still, the men who remained continued to defile her body, even after she had long stopped being able to feel it.