...open wide, hoping he’ll let you go when he’s...finished.

You don’t have time to do more than brace and hope. He slides in, parting your lips and forcing your jaw wide as he presses down onto your tongue, rubbing the exposed head and shaft along it, forcing you to taste him. Like his finger, there is a thoroughly unwashed quality to it, though it tastes more of sweat than dirt, and the rotten quality is far fouler on the tongue than it was in the nose. He pushes further, approaching the back of your throat before sliding back to your lips and pushing in again. You feel him on the bumps of your tongue, the slick smoothness of the head that changes to a leathery looseness as he levels off further in, pressing the length of it against you. Your frozen, mouth wide and tongue still. Your mouth feels dry, its moisture taken by the new comer to coat his dry length, but you soon feel the wash of fresh saliva start to creep in.

Moans sound from above, like those that came from the **** before him...and even the **** before that. All the same.

“Ahhhh. Keep them lips wrapped, mmmmm, whore. Hah, hah.”

You try to comply, sealing your lips around him. They stretch and pull outward when he leaves and curl inwards when he pushes back in, gliding more smoothly as they dampen with spit.

“Ohhh yes. Thaaaats it.” He holds your head as he gently slides in and out of you.

You keep your lips wrapped, doing whatever it takes to make this end as quickly as possible, and you keep still as he rubs himself against the inside of your mouth. Black, wiry hair crowds around the base of his manhood, hiding it from view, and your eyes watch the shabby line of hair that climbs out of the bush towards his belly button. It moves gently backwards and forwards with the rest of him.

He suddenly pulls out almost all the way, and you keep your lips formed around him, finding them almost touching. Only his tip parts them slightly, like a pouting kiss, but the taste doesn’t leave with him. Your eyes cross as you look down at it; long and thin and very wet down to a good half way. Conquerable, you think to yourself. A strange wetness seeps onto your lips, trapped in a bubble between dick and mouth, and he pulls out further to rubs himself and the new wetness across your puckered kiss. You smell it first; a salty musk. Is he leaking? Or perhaps near to release? You don’t look forward to it, but as it would mark the end of this it would surely be welcome. He breaks your lips again, forcing his way between them, and again, its head scrapes across your tongue, now spreading it with the strange ordure turned taste. The rot was gone, cleaned away. You swallow and know where it went.

“Time to earn your freedom” you hear him mutter above.

His hands slide over your hair to the back of your head and he pushes in, further than before. His tip leaves your tongue, reaching for the back of your throat, and as the bell shaped head reaches it, you gag. He presses against your resistance. You can’t breathe! Your stomach twists as you retch against him. Your eyes water as you look up him. He pulls out so only his tip remains. You cough, breathing hot air onto him from your sore throat, taking great gulps of air and swallowing when you taste a small amount of tangy bile. The whole thing was only for a moment, yet enough to throw you into disarray. His shaft glistens menacingly before you. You feel a dribble of saliva run over your chin. You don’t think you could do that again.

As if in deference to your wishes, he legs go of your head.

“Don’t worry whore”, he pats your head like a dog or a child, “I said I’d do all the work.”

You feel the frame creek as he grabs it. What is he-

He rams forward, slamming past the back of your throat and down what feels like most of your neck. You throw up immediately, the bile of your reasonably empty stomach stopping as it reaches the plug of his tip. Your eyes start to stream and sweat prickles across your whole body, your forehead pressing his belly as the back of your head is pressed up against the wooden stocks. Like pulling a cork out of a bottle, he pulls back and the tide of sick breaks in your mouth, exploding out around him before he rams in again without pause, just as hard and just as deep. You feel his wet sack slap your chin, his belly turning your nose. Out and in, it doesn’t get easier. Each time he forces his way down your neck, you retch. It dribbles from your chin and sends jolts through you that makes your knees weak. Out and in. You need to cough, need to breathe. Your stomach is twisted in knots.

He pulls outs. You gasp, or try to. Hacking coughs and retches make the little air you get feel raw, as though his callous dick scratched your throat.

“You like that?”

You retch up a little more, spitting it out weakly. That was horrible. Maybe worse than the other man. Tears streak your face, running down your checks to join the mess around your mouth. As you take a shaking breath, he rams in again and starts thrusting in earnest. Retch. Retch. Retch. Retch. Retch. What little your stomach has to give is given. His shaft grinds the acid taste into your tongue as it pumps along its length. His hairy torso pushes into your face, smothering a nose that can no longer breathe, filling your vision with hot darkness. Your mind unravels in a chorus of internal screams, all demanding his expulsion. A shred of sanity tells you not to bite, that enduring is the only way to survive. You hold on to it without knowing what it is.

The wooden frame creaks and tilts as he rides your throat. Your hands ball into fists at the lack of air. His balls slap against your chin with each plunge. Your lips stretch around him, alternately buried in wiry hair or tugged by flared head, but always gliding wetly along his shaft. You feel your head and shoulders pressing into the wooden frame, your body **** to escape. Retch. Retch. Retch. Retch. Retch. Nothing comes up anymore and the only thing going down is him. Your chest burns with the lack of air. He digs in as deep as he can go before pulling out completely.

Air is dragged down your throat like a prisoner kicking and screaming. You gulp it down; sweet air, delicious air, air that isn’t a man’s dick. Thoughts start to return to you at a glacial pace. Air. Air is good. He rubs himself across your lips. Your breath around him. Man. Man is bad.

“Nearly there.” His words come from straight in front of you, but he’s just a blur. You can’t see straight. You swallow to get more air. Saliva, vomit, and whatever came out of him runs down your burning throat to your empty stomach. The fuzzy shape that makes up his person straightens and grows close again. The wood creaks. It returns.

He rams into your open gasping mouth, instantly reaching the space he’s claimed behind the back of your throat and into your neck. He pounds you, his hardest yet. He no longer pulls out as much, content to make the journey from back teeth to gullet again and again and again. Air is gone, and with it, all thoughts and actions that exist outside of instinct. He moans, he sighs, he makes strangled yells and appreciative curses. You can barely hear over the dredging scrapes in your throat and the slick sloshing in your mouth. All his noises are above you, both physically and mentally. They filter down, resting on your unthinking mind, as beyond your comprehension as the laughter of the gods. He feels bigger than before, his movements erratic, and they suddenly stop at the same moment he launches something down your neck; a red hot jet that rushes to fill your vacated stomach. He pulls back slightly and by instinct you close your throat, catching the next jet of boiling bitterness in the small space between him and the very back of your mouth. He moans as he fills you, his seed squeezing around the head of his member to flood your mouth, the pressure building as he releases all he has again and again. He bucks as he fills you, a spasm briefly punching him in further. Your mind is blank. You don’t swallow, and the pressure wins as your whole system backfires. You feel a burning pressure tear through your head. You feel like you’ve been punched! Dizzily, you cough around him but nothing comes out. He sprays again, a few final volleys assaulting your broken breathing. Your eyes start to role. You cough again, jerking around his dick. The pressure breaks and his juices burst out of your nose in twin sprays, their journey through your sinuses complete.

You breathe his thick juices, bringing them back down with as much sweet air as you can. You cough and gasp and retch as his seed seeks purchase against nose, lungs, and stomach, seeping into your every fibre. He remains submerged in you, resting on your tongue. As shocked thoughts wade through your sluggish mind, the two that reach the front first are bite and don’t bite. They argue with each other briefly, content not to include you in their deliberations. Your face rests on his stomach, too heavy to keep up. The argument ends; you’ll bite if he starts again. Neither side of the argument is happy. Only he is happy.

You feel him start to shrink slightly before he pulls out. As his torso pulls away from your eyes, you watch the glistening lines that connect him to you sparkling in the candle light. Clear saliva connects his shaft to your lips, yellower saliva connects his balls to your chin and a single thin white line connects the tip of his dick to the back of your throat. The two creamy strands that pull from your nose break first.

You take the opportunity to cough up his sour cream. You spit and cough and spit and cough until you find yourself retching again. Thick blobs of seed, sometimes fluid and creamy, sometimes chunky and gelatinous, come out of your throat and stomach.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He disappears from your vision and you feel him squatting under you, looking up like a man searching for a leak in his roof. Rough hands reach up and grab your dangling breasts, taking a moments gripping and squeezing before moving to the neck of your black top. You feel the hard tug and hear the material tear, and you spit out the last of his seed as he bares your breasts. Like the kiss before, the modesty he takes from you seems like a small but bitter loss compared to what came before. Another tear gives him a good scrap of your black cloth.

His lips clamp around your breast, your body clenching as he sucks your pink rim like a new-born. He gets no milk, as you’re not with child, though you shiver when you have to mentally add ‘yet’ to the statement. Still he sucks and licks and squeezes, the feeling as foreign and unpleasant as his previous work, until he bores of you.

Catching your breath, you feel his hand on your forehead, lifting your head back and pressing it against the wood as before, and when you start to tell him to release you, you find the dark material suddenly wiping your mouth. He strokes it over your nose, your lips, your chin and your neck before moving the cleanest part on to himself.

“Humm. You know. You’ve got to be the cutest whore I’ve ever fucked.”

You try to smile and maintain the ruse but it just won’t come. You feel beaten; aching in your lungs, your stomach, your face, your back, and even your breast, but still you have to speak.

“So-“, you burp and have to quickly swallow to keep from throwing up again, “-er, sugar. How about you let me out? Please?” There is a **** sound to your voice that you can’t keep at bay.

He holds your chin and looks right at you. “Nah.”

What? Why would he-?

He grins. A joke, it has to be a joke. “Gonna remember that expression for a while. Thanks for the fuck.” He stands up and starts to walk away.

“But- You-“ You can’t. He can’t. It’s not fair. Its-

“So? Call the Guard, dick drinker.”

He opens the door and disappears through it.

You’re stunned. All that, for nothing? It can’t be.

Over the next...hour? No one enters the room. You cry for a while, rage for a while, struggle and despair. How could you have been so stupid? You hate yourself. You hate him, obviously, but you hate yourself more. The ache in your throat won’t go away, none of your aches will. You have been **** by two men. Unless you miss your guess, it will get much worse if you don’t get out soon. The black skinned woman, your only companion, won’t talk to you. You tried several times but she says nothing. You don’t feel like talking much anyway. Hopefully, Captain Washkin will come soon and...what? Kill you? Release you? Both seem acceptable. At least she isn’t equipped to **** you.

Every footfall in the building, both in the corridor and above, sets you on edge. The noise from elsewhere in the building rises and falls like the tide, one moment a dull hum of conversation, the next full of cheers, screams or both. You judge the noise of other women heard through the walls. Half of them seem to be having a far better time than you, or are at least pretending to. The other half started with scream and sobbing but have since been reduced to ominous silence. One girl in the room above had her screams muffled suddenly a while back. She sounded like a child. The floorboards above still squeak rhythmically.

Soon, a single pair of boots walk down the corridor outside. ‘Who will this be?’ you wonder. Another man come to **** you? To let his seed vie with those inside you already? Is it the captain you came here to kill? Here to gloat or offer salvation?