The Punishment Bench

Silke was laid across a trestle. Not the wrestling pit. A wide, padded piece of wood, hip-high, with straps around her legs. The gel was still sticky on her skin. The mask was in place. Her tits hung over the edge, heavy, her nipples hard from being pulled. Her ass was up in the air. Her cunt was open to the room, to the window, to the man who was already waiting.

A tall Black man.

She recognized him. The elegant mask was different from the one he’d worn during the lingerie shoot, but his cock wasn’t. Big. Very big. Dark, thick, already half-erect, the glans bare and moist. “That’s our security guard,” Mira said. “He gets to fuck you first. Then the others. He only lets one in at a time. We’ll stop the clock every time there’s a change. Be nice to him.”

The black man stepped between her spread, strapped-down thighs. One hand on the soft flesh of her hip. The glans pressed against the wet slit, parted the lips, and pushed its way in. Silke gasped into the mask. He was bigger than the last ones, bigger than the dildo on the cop, bigger than the fat guy with the ring. The shaft stretched her in one swift motion until his pelvis pressed against her ass. A heartbeat’s pause. Then the hard fucking.

No foreplay. No questions.

Long, deep thrusts that made the bench creak. Each thrust pushed Silke forward; her tits slammed against the cushion, her nipples rubbed against the cover. Wet sounds smacked. The gel between them turned to foam. He dug his fingers into her hips and took her like a door he’d been guarding all evening: firmly, steadily, without haste and without mercy.

Silke tried to fight back.

Her hands searched for something to hold onto. Her pussy wanted to push him out but sucked him in deeper. Mira stood to the side with the camera, filming the dark shaft pushing apart the light, gleaming lips, filming the face beneath the mask, the open mouth.

Mira turned toward the door and the rooftop speaker.

“Please, guys, jerk off your dicks so they’re hard, so it goes fast, and so a lot of cum gets shot inside her.”

To Silke, closer, just for her and the camera: “I have a black belt in judo. And two brothers. I can fight. Let’s see how you fight.”

He picked up the pace. The angle hit the front wall. Silke’s clit slammed against nothing and still burned. She dug her fingers into the wood. A raw sound tore from the mask. She came. Her cunt clenched around the big cock, pulsed, and pushed wetness along its base. Her thighs trembled in the straps. Her nipples contracted. Mira stepped up to the display.

The clock stopped during his final thrust, then jumped. Mira tapped it, smiled, and the display read thirty-one. Five minutes on top of that. The speaker on the roof echoed the difference as cheers.

The Black man finished. Not softly. Just done with his right to go first. He withdrew from her, glistening, leaving a trail of wetness behind. The door opened. A student, his face red, his cock already in his fist, just as Mira had said. Hard. A drop on the glans. Security let him in. The door was closed again. The clock started again. He fucked quickly, shallowly, nervously, came inside Silke after a few minutes, and stumbled back. White fluid dripped from her onto the floor beneath the bench. Clock off. Next. An older guy with a belly, already breathing heavily from jerking off in the hallway. He took her deeper, moaned over her back, came, pulled out. The clock stopped. Silke hung from the stirrup and didn’t count the faces. She counted the thrusts. She counted the drips. She counted the minutes that trailed her orgasms.

The fourth or fifth—she couldn’t remember—hit the right spot again. Mira helped out, one hand on Silke’s hip, a line to the camera: “Bareback. Nice and open. She’s taking everyone today and she’s enjoying it.” Silke came for the second time, tighter, more intense, her muscles visibly working around a medium-sized, very hard cock. Mira updated the timer. +5 minutes.

Cheers. The line moved forward.

Security let the next guy in. Clock on. Fuck. Cum inside her pussy. Clock off. The mixture of gel, juices, and cum dripped in a slow, humiliating stream from her spread lips. Mira held a bowl underneath at times, at other times she didn’t.

“Let’s see how you fight,” Mira had said. Silke fought by not screaming. Then she screamed anyway. The seventh man was rough and clumsy and rubbed his pubic bone right where she didn’t want it. The third orgasm came like an accident, a spasm that set the timer to +5 minutes.

Mira laughed into the lens.

“Nine cocks,” she said later, as the last one pulled up his pants and security closed the door. “Forty-five minutes. Three times five minutes extra. Anna can do the math. So can Anna’s cunt—she got four extra loads, too.”

Silke stayed on the bench.

Wet. Full. Her tits were stuck to the padding. Between her legs, it dripped in a rhythm that had nothing to do with wrestling anymore.