…scream out for help!

Your first thought, perhaps sensing the urgency of the situation, decides to bypass regular channels and leaps out of your throat of its own accord. It’s been many, many years since you have used your voice for such crude activity as screaming and it comes out like the last time; girlish and embarrassingly screechy. It cuts the night like a razor but lasts for only a moment as the hands of your attacker wraps around your neck and silences you with a sustained, **** squeeze.

Your face turns red as the man’s calloused hands wrap around your thin neck. With hands free, you instinctively try to pull at his hands away, only to find his weight, strength and leverage an insurmountable obstacle. Stars start to appear in your eyes as you lungs begin to burn, your panic accelerating your need for air. You try to punch him in the side, under the ribs, but get only light grunts from your rapidly weakening counter attacks. His mutton chopped face swims in your darkening vision. You try to reach up and claw at his face, digging in, but your neatly trimmed finger nails seem to lack the strength to break through his tough skin. He shakes his head as though chasing off fly’s, continuing to press. The night seems very dark now and you wonder if the moon is behind a cloud; you can barely see the fading face of the man above you. He’s no longer looking at you, his head turned straight up.

Wait...you’re on your back. So he’s looking up the street?

So hard to think.

Your hands drop to the floor.

Darkness takes you. It wraps you up in her embrace to take you far away from here; this horrible island full of horrible people doing horrible things. It’s almost a relief to be free of it all.

Air rips its way through your ragged throat and fills your lungs as if for the first time. It returns to the world reborn as a hacking cough before it is dragged back down to the pit of your chest once more. The coarse breath scratches its way down, feeling to rattle through your unblocked neck as it fills your lungs again.

Like water putting out a fire, the air cools the unbearable burning your lungs feel. You hack and cough, rolling onto your side and scrunching your body into a ball as your try to steady your breathing.

There is a pool of light around you; yellower than the moon and bright enough to make the night seem deeper. Your ears start to hear more than the sound of your own beloved breathing, task rekindled by the sound of hard impacts, spluttered protests, and eventually the sound of limping feet running away.

Your head feels filled with wool. Great seas of the stuff that you have to swim through to reach each thought. You try to make sense of what you heard, but find it competing with dazed questions like ‘what happened?’ and ‘where am I?’. A hand closes around your arm. You shy away from it at first, but it gently drags you to your feet.

Eye’s adjusting to the new light; you look around and see the shapes of three men of three different sizes. The biggest of them holds you steady.

“You all right princess?”

You can barely nod as your lungs struggle to pay off their debt to your air starved mind.

“Awww, common lass, let’s get you some place to sit ey? Catch yer breath.”

You feel an arm around your shoulder, guiding your steps onwards. Your legs do feel very weak, your whole body in fact, as though you had be swimming for days. You look down to better guide your feet and see that your jacket is undone, smalls orbs on display. You quickly pull it closed with one hand and try to reclaim some dignity.

You keep taking deep breaths; the smell of dirt and the sweat of those around you is like a sweet perfume gulped down with a greedy hunger. The smell of dust joins the nasal menagerie, and a moment later you are stopped.

“This should do it.”

The lantern makes a thump as it is placed on wood and you see that you’re in the back room of one of the dilapidated side buildings.

Still unsteady on your feet, you look for the promised chair to get your bearings. The room looks bare, containing only wooden floor boards. You looks to the men who helped you and see two of them, the tallest and shortest, wearing red and white, looking at you through the gloom of the single lantern.

Wasn’t there three?

A hand clamps down upon your mouth, arm connected to someone standing behind you. The other two rush forward, one grabbing the hands that reach up to try and free your mouth, pulling your wrists out in front of you, the other ducking down and disappearing, but soon revealing himself as you feel your trousers being pulled down. You begin to scream again, kicking, but it’s muffled by the hand on your face and tempered by your recent weakness. Your writhe in the grip of the men, feeling your naked feet slip through the legs of your trousers before meeting air again.

The short man passes the once leg covering cloth up to his tall wrist grabbing friend, who despite your best efforts to the contrary, uses it to tightly tie your wrists together. He them up, past your wild rolling eyes, to the man behind you, who quickly grabs them with one hand and holds them bent back behind your head. His other hand keeps your mouth clamed, halting all its pleas, its screams, its frantic **** protests. Terrified back to alertness, your eyes start to water, and through your tears you watch the two men before you examining your Stiletto, bought especially for missions like this, to stop this exact situation from happening.

“What you think?”

“Prolly real silver there. Worth somthin.”

They put it on a nearby shelf and turn back to you.

The larger man sneers as he looks down to you, eyeing you across the length of a hooked nose.

“One o Rolands lot? They don’t got no manners.”

He fingers your open jacket before flicking it wide, grabbing both of your breasts and squeezing painfully as he begins to play with them. His shorter friend goes behind you with the knife, making you squeal in fear, your head unable to turn and track him. There is a tearing sound as he starts to cut off the sleeveless leather jacket, pulling and cutting as though flaying an animal. With your hands bound, there is no other way. As he pulls the scraps off you and leaves you completely naked before the three, the man casually squeezing and weighing your peach side tits continues to speak.

“Got to teach you lot some respect.”

Your breathing comes thick and fast across the fingers of the man pressing your mouth closed. You control your painting and screaming and try to reason with them, to explain, to bargain. All with equally muffled results.

For a brief moment, the hand comes away from your mouth, and as you take a deep breath and begin your explanation, a thick strip of leather from your jacket replaces it, pulled tight and tied behind your head. It effectively acts as the hand did, crushing yours lips against your teeth and stopping even your jaw from opening with its pressure. Now with both hands to use on your bound arms, the man behind you drags your thrashing form to stand in the bear centre of the lantern lit room. The other two stay behind, sharing a look before having some quiet argument between each other. The shorter man rubs his neck from looking up so much.

The unseen man behind you continues to hold your hands up with one hand, but reaches around and starts to play with one of your breasts as the other did. By this point, the airless fog has thoroughly cleared from your mind and been replaced with a cold foreboding feeling of absolute dread. You start to think of a way out, looking about the room for anything you can use or do, but the thoughts are downed out with the knowledge of what they plan for you, and your eyes glance over things, skimming them without seeing.

As his friends argue, the man behind you leans down to your ear and begins to whisper,

“Don’t struggle princess. Struggle an I’ll break yer arms.” He emphasises with a tug. “Me an me mates are gonna have a little fun an then we’re gonna let ya go.”

Your heart is hammering against your chest so hard that you feel it will escape this situation before you. He must surely feel it. His hand goes from mauling your breast to circling and squeezing your now unwillingly hard nipple.

“Play nice ... and you’ll enjoy it.”

His hands make a slow slide down from your breasts, over your stomach and towards the gap of your legs while he begins to lightly chew on the tip of your ear.

You try to stay calm, but when his fingers start to run through the curls of your pubic hair, you desperately bring up one of your legs to stop him from delving between them, folding it across the other. He lightly pushes the back of your one standing leg, folding the knee with the front of his own and buckling it, forcing you to keep your footing with both of them on the ground. The stamp of your foot turns the heads of the other two to your direction and leaves the gap between your thighs ****, something the hand exploring your body exploits. Fingers slide down across your lower lips.

Panicked and caught by surprise, you let out a muffled scream and violently shake your head, pulling your ear free from his mouth. You feel his body press against yours; you feel it, pressing against your lower back through the confines of his britches. The finger pushes up. Your throaty muffled squealing raises, until it’s no longer a noise at all.

The larger and angrier of the two arguing men decides to settles things quickly by grabbing the smaller by his shirt and waving a fist his face. It’s an argument that meets vigorous acceptance. The shorter one approaches you, while the man behind withdraws his hand and grips your arms with both of his, holding your bound wrists steady. The short one moves to grab your kicking legs as well, catching a foot in the stomach for his troubles, but it’s not enough to keep him back. After a moment, he manages to grab one of your legs and pulls your body out horizontally before helping to lower you to the floor. Despite several more frantic kicks thrown his way, he manages to pin the rogue leg as well, trapping them against the ground.

Lying on your back, arms restrained above your head by one man and legs held down by another, you watch wide eyed as the biggest of them drops his white trousers and steps out of them. He takes off his shirt to reveal a wall of muscle, hard earned by a life at sea, before getting down onto the floor with the rest. Your eyes are drawn to his manhood. The exposed length stands erect, a tower reaching out of a forest of black hairs. Your frantic eyes register it for only a moment as he lowers himself between your legs. The smaller man releases one of your legs to accommodate and your mind, now deranged by fear, sends it kicking out to try to catch him as well, to get him away from you, screaming through the gag. He catches it instead, pushing it to the side, leaving you open and defenceless.

No. No, no, no! This can’t be happening!

Lining up his member with your womanhood, he doesn’t spare a moment’s reflection before thrusting himself inside.

You scream through the gag as he forces his way in, tears streaming from your eyes as he fully embeds himself. You shake your heads from side to side, **** to escape the feeling of invasion that spears through your groin. The feel of his entire length inside you, stretching you, pushing you apart as he drives forward still further, grinding the hairs of his end against the hairs of your start. You thrash your pinned and weakened body against him as he grunts through gritted teeth. The surge forward stops, turning like the tide to withdraw back, stopping just inside you.

He looks into your eyes.

“You know, you should be THANK-“, he slams himself into you again and you heave another muffled scream behind your gag, “-ING us.” He pulls back before thrusting forward again, “SAVED you we did.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as you scream, more tears pushing their way down the side of your face. He pulls back once more.

“Aren’t you gonna THANK-“ He rams himself forward in the deepest moment yet, pushing you up the old floorboards. You feel his hairs on your own, the light slap of his sack against you, and the pain of the violation resonate up to your womb. It hurts! It draws another scream out of your blocked lips. “-US, princess?” he finishes, face close and words spitting.

“Think she already is” comes a voice from above your head. They both share a mirthless chuckle as he starts to rhythmically thrust his hips between your legs, driving his member in and out of you. You pull at your arms, try to close your legs, nothing even slows him down as he pounds your depths. He supports himself with his arms, one on the floor and one pushing out your leg, and works your hole with his hips like a **** minor striking for gold. Your wails count for nothing as each impact sends a jolt through your body. The friction of the floor gives each bounce up an equal bounce down, a rhythm your **** soon makes use of.

You try not to think, try to ignore the pain, ignore the hard meat inside of you as the ordeal goes on and on. It’s impossible. You swore to yourself that this would never happen, not to you, not again. For only the second time in your life, a man is taking full advantage of your body; bouncing you up and down, using you like whore, an animal, a piece of meat, an object of simple pleasure. You can’t help but howl against it all.

His tempo increases, along with his grunts and breathing. You know where this ends and you think of the moon, of your own cycle of fertility and open your eyes in horrified remembrance. If he...seeds you. As he builds up to frenzied pace, you redouble your screaming and writhing, hoping to stave off what’s coming next.

“Hah! Huf.. Whores always know! Ahh! When this parts bout to happen!” He continues his pounding for several seconds before forcing himself deep within you. You feel the heat of the friction dissipates as another, wetter heat takes its place, small, punching jets reaching into you, travelling up you, and your screaming breaks into wailing sobs of despair. You feel the sweat drip off his brow and on to your face as he makes several, long, satisfied moans.

The feeling of giving within you starts to fade, leaving a sickly, slimy wetness with you. You continue to sob as he pulls his sagging member out. You can feel it dragging free some of its payload, spreading it from furthest depths to outermost folds, and feel soiled, your temple raided and desecrated.

“Whooo! Haa...ahum! I needed that.”

His obvious enjoyment rains down on you like physical blows. You don’t think you have ever hated anyone or anything more than this disgusting man. He turns to the smaller man, who lets go of your leg and scowls back at him wordlessly.

“You should be thanking me. Bitch was dry as sand when I went in.”

You bring your freed legs up to your shaking, sobbing form, huddling in a ball on your side with arms still restrained. You feel him inside you still. His essence. Feel it moving deeper.

Your knees are picked up and pulled apart like an obscene book; looked at with eager, hungry eyes, ready to be delved for satisfaction and knowledge. The smallest of the group maintains your foetal huddle, pushing the back of your legs up until your knees press against your body and your calves stick up into the air. Holding them in position, with his position on top and between them, he thrusts into you with as little consideration as his predecessor. Through his size or your use, his hard dick slides in far easier than the bigger man; your sobbing cry barley hitches with his thrust. He also has less pageantry, skipping straight to the deep, hard rhythmic penetrations of your poor flower, sliding and ramming from base to tip. All you can do is cry as he takes you. Cry and try not to think about what his invasion pushes deeper inside, and what he will add to it with when he’s done.

He mines you, sliding in and out with ease. Your cry’s now war with a slick sound that fills the room; the sound of someone punching rotten fruit, the sound of wet depths being plundered and churned. He leans his face close to your own and you turn your head away, closing your eyes to his pleased grin. You shiver with disgust as you feel his tongue rasp up the side of your face, licking up salty tears and momentarily distracting you from the sticky hump going on between your legs. He licks again when fresh tears immediately replace the one he took, moaning all the while like a wounded animal.

Like his friend, he begins to pick up the pace and, like his friend, he releases inside you. Your legs twitch helplessly in the air as load after load fills you, coating your insides with distinct blossoms of warmth and wetness, forcing its way both up into your womb and squeezed out between the tightness of your inner walls and his hard pressing flesh. He waits until fully emptied, taking his time inside your warm hole at leisure before finally withdrawing. He lets your lifeless legs drop back to the floor before wiping his member on your short hairs, coating your fluffy mound with yet more disgusting slime. You think of the juices that they both left in you, imagine the white lines wriggling up your passage like worms. You remember the woman at the bar. Is it dripping out of you yet?

You don’t even notice when your arms are let go; you only feel when they are grabbed again by the man now lying on top of you.

“You enjoyin yourself yet?” he asks, holding your bound hands over your chest with one hand and grabbing your shoulder with the other. He holds you in place as he thrusts up into your stinging vagina.

Time starts to lose all meaning, as for the third time tonight you find a **** pumping himself in and out of you. Your crying has died down now. Sobs still shake you, fighting the rhythmic jerks his hips **** up your form, and bubbles of snot dance at your nostrils, conjured up by your tears and blocked mouth. While the first was marked with screaming and the second with sobbing, this one was marked with dragging bubbly breaths, silent tears, and the ever present sound of moist invasion.

The soles of your feet still touch the floor from where the second one left them, leaving your knees standing like pillars guiding pilgrims to a ruins temple. His breathing and thrusting pace begins to increase and you just wait until it’s over.

“I, unf, love it, unf, when there wet, unf, hah, and don’t, unf, fight back, unf, unf, unf.”

You don’t know where the others are, but it doesn’t matter; his words and his tone are directed at you. Fresh shame blooms in you as you realise you’re not even fighting back anymore. There’s nothing you can do but be still. Being used like a whore and not even resisting makes the whole ordeal feel much worse.

With nothing to do but stare at the ceiling and wait out the attack, you lie on your back and try to shut out the noise. There’s only three of them, when he ... finishes, it will all be over. Home. You’ll just go home. He leans close and whispers into your ear,

“I think Reman would be a good name, unf, if it’s a boy, unf, Safire if it’s a girl.”

He somehow finds a way to cut you, even here, even now. He puts his full weight on you when he finishes, pressing your bound hands into your chest and making it difficult to breath. The new crushing feeling is a welcome distraction to the now familiar one going on between your legs. Every squirt you feel is a fresh stain on your honour. His climax comes quicker than the other two, but lasts longer, to the point where you begin to wonder where it’s all coming from. He remains fully hilted inside for some time, catching his breath as he presses you flat, resting his forehead on your turned brow.

Inevitably, the torrent ends and he slides out of you with ease. You feel a thick line of wetness run between the cleft of your cheeks, over your rectum and connecting with the floor.

It’s over. It’s finally over.

“Who else is ready for round two?”

Your spirit breaks with the words of the biggest man. First done and first to recover. He laughs and you, one again, find him between your legs, lining his smaller self up as he pleases before plunging into your filthy, sore, probably diseased, doubtlessly pregnant pussy. You never thought there would be a part of your anatomy that you would wish to disown, yet here it is, being filled once more by the person who came to help you. You wonder how long it takes until the tears stop; until your mind breaks and your free from all this.

“Ahh, fuck, we’ve made ha-a right mess in ear lads!...” He manages to mince you wetly regardless, pressing down your chest and pounding you for a minute before going on. “Haaa. Haaaa. Fuck it, let’s flip er over. I want er arse.”

Your rear involuntarily clenches before your frayed mind can comprehend his words, and the primal fear you felt when this began returns strongly in your mind when you do. With your desire to see the next sunrise thoroughly and repeatedly driven out of you by these three men, the desire to fight is rekindled by the promise of fresh and sustained violation. With bound hands still resting on your chest and battered vagina still filled with your ****, you reach up and grab his neck and shoulders, pulling yourself up with all your might and ramming your head into his too bold nose. It takes everything you have. You’re greeted with a delightful crunch, a gentle misting of scarlet, and a yell that sounds like music to your ears. Heavy drops of blood start to rain down on you as you lie back on the ground, reaching up to claw weakly, but determinedly, at his face.

Very angry at this most recent development, he grabs your hands by their bindings and presses them against your throat, cutting off your air. Still bleeding, he starts to pound your hips as hard as possible; as though he could somehow do any more damage to the damp pit you once called your flower. The edges of the world begin to fade familiarly as you see spittle fly out from gritted teeth. You hear someone say something over the sound of your heart beat and the rushing blood in your ears, and you read the response spat out of the hard angled face looking into your own, far more than you hear it.

“Still will. It ant goin noware.”

Whatever he plans to do when he kills you, your glad that you’ll miss it. An odd thought to think, but an unburdened one: suddenly, it’s not your problem.

More words are said but you can’t hear them and don’t want to. Your sight goes and the darkness greats you again. The last thing you feel is the pressure on your neck and tingling between your lips. In, out, in, out, in, out.

There’s a spark that lingers just out of reach. A rushing feeling you have never felt before.

Maybe it’s the afterlife.