Badly, very badly.

The brutal fucking you receive by the probe is simply too much. Swellings now to a monstrous size by your over stimulated body, you groan with pain and ecstasy with each savage thrust.

Feebly you try to resist, remembering the consequences if you have multiple orgasms, but after you are impaled a few more times on the massive probe your body surrenders.

Again your body tightens as you scream with an even more violent orgasm. You are not allowed any rest, however, as the probe continues to fuck you. This time you continue to cum as your fluid clearly streams down the pole. As before, this climax doesn’t satisfy you. With one final effort you try to regain control of your body, foolishly thinking that only two orgasms won’t count as “multiple.” You hold out for even a shorter period than before.

Within seconds a third and then a forth climax rips through you. Surrendering completely to the potion you give in to the forbidden pleasure of being fucked while in bondage in front of a cheering crowd.

Dripping in sweat and heavily panting you start to trust down on the probe, tighten your lips around it, taking it like it is your lover. The pain still remains, but you come to enjoy it, with your loud moans of “no” becoming one’s of “yes.”

You lose count how many times you cum in those next minutes, unconcerned with anyone’s opinions, focused instead with your own self-gratification. The apothecary’s warning, however, comes true. Even though you have total given yourself to the potion’s spell and cum freely, each orgasm seems more unfulfilling then the one before. The more effort you put into pleasing yourself, even with multiple orgasms, the more you desire the next unsatisfying climax.

The victory of the potion and the probe over you is signaled when the apothecary announces that the time is up and the probe is to be removed. You cry out, “not yet, let me finish!” As the probe comes to a stop, you feel greatly cheated, though at least it still remains inside of you.

Catcalls from the crowd cry out about what a whore you are, but you don’t care. Greedily you impale yourself up and down on the probe, bending your knees as much as your bonds will allow, desperately trying for one more climax. Looking at the judge you hope he will order that you be left on it as you are putting on quite a show, validating his condemnation of you.

You see that redhead slut in the green dress again whispering into the judge’s ear, while she stares intently at you. The judge raises his hand as if to give a signal, but pauses as the redhead continues to speak into his ear.

Your body craves to be fulfilled so you continue to madly hump away on the still probe, fucking it for all your worth. “Come on, come on.” You pant out loud as you approach yet another orgasm, vainly hoping this will be the one that satisfies you. Swaying your head back and forth as your breasts heave up and down you are about to reach your goal when the redhead says “now” and the judge drops his hand down.

Immediately the wooden pole holding the maiden’s head is dropped down several feet as the probe quickly evacuates your body. Though the tip is now several inches out of reach of your cunt, you still yank against your bonds trying to have it renter you.

“Fucking bitch!” You swear as you see the redhead clap with excitement, clearly pleased that she was able to guess when your next orgasm would happen.

Though your breathing is still heavy, and you are covered in your own sweet and cum, that accursed potion has given you the endurance the apothecary had promised. Normally so many intense orgasms would have exhausted even someone as physically fit as yourself, but your stamina is intact, even though your poor cunt aches with pain from that monster device that just savaged it. Regaining a bit of your composure you fight back the urge to plead for the fucking to continue knowing your continue desire for a climax will bring only more frustration.

“Well?” The judge asks the apothecary who has removed the maiden’s head from the pole.

In a feigned voice, pretending to be morally outraged, he informs the crowd of how big the probe has become. “Fourteen inches by six; I have never seen the probe grow so big or such a wanted display of lasciviousness. Clearly this whore’s soul is wicked to the core and should be chastised for this display alone.”

Rising for his chair the judge responds, “Truly, Royal Apothecary, truly.” Turning to the mob he asks. “Good citizens this vile whore has condemned herself, should she continue to pleasure herself and mock this assembly or do you agree she should be punished?”

Various cries and suggestions come from the mob, all of them lewd. A majority opinion soon becomes clear, within several seconds the crowd chants as one. “Whip her! Whip her! Whip her!”

The judge sits down. “Very well, the people have spoken. Whipmaster, it is time for the criminal to taste the lash.”

You hear the whipmaster walk to the table that contains the implements of torture, but your gaze fixes again on the redhead in the green dress. With a condescending smirk she mouths a few words at you. Though you can’t hear her, you can read her lips enough to make out what she has said. “Have fun, bitch.”