Twentyseventh

There is no control, none. When the dildo is driven down into me, there is no way I can steer the action, I must just succumb to the power I am subjected to, a power that is greater than me. The thrusts come fast and slow, deep and shallow, harsh and gentle. Altogether, they take me along like a rag in the wind, as they devour the love hole nothing has ever entered yet. They pillage and burn, they grab and possess.

It seduces me just like the electrodes did: it is conducting a symphony of thrusts into me. This is a symphony that is composed to conquer me, and it doesn’t fail. I would never have thought that violently being thrust into my arsehole could drive me to ecstasy; yet it does. The path is steep and rocky, challenging my body to greater hardships, but it certainly leads upwards. The **** of the thrusts leaves me no other option than submission and coping; and exactly those feelings are sure to drive my lust wild.

Twentyseven is upon me soon, and the overwhelming power of it baffles me. I have no idea how an orgasm that is brewed in a hole where it was never meant to originate could have such a devastating result. My body crashes to the tabletop in a lamenting flurry, and the dildo flops out of me. That doesn’t stop the convulsions in my limbs, where the cumming persists for half a minute more.