You obey and have another drink

The urgent pressure of the rim of the clay pot against your lips convinces you to drink. You open your mouth just enough for a sip, but Ingo has different ideas.

"That's it," he says, tilting your head back so that the thick, burning liquid empties into your mouth. "Drink up. You need a nice, long nap."

Something about the way he speaks sends a chill rippling through your body. Your fear does not have time to materialize before the potent liquid begins to overwhelm your senses. You are still gulping the potion as you sink back against the bed and disappear into the velvet embrace of sleep. Your howling specter explodes from the darkness.

"No!" you cry and spit a dozen curses at Ingo as he drains the last drops of the bottle between your parted lips. He has given your physical body a massive dose of his potion.

Ingo is unhurried. He discards the potion and wanders out of the cabin to drain his bladder. When he returns you float along beside him, cursing him, hovering next to him as he studies your topless, cum-spattered body sleeping on the bed. The sour smell of his body is something you will never forget.

You watch, helpless, as he roughly undresses your sleeping mannequin. He pulls off your heavy boots and tosses them aside. He smells your bare feet and squirms his hideous tongue between your toes. He wanks himself as he sucks your toes, but he does not finish the disgusting act. He unzippers the skin tight vinyl covering your long legs, bare mound and generous bum, manhandling your sleeping body like a sex doll. His hands are dark with filth against the creamy white of your thighs. He tests your slit with fingers and then pushes your thighs apart and mounts you, his cock sliding easily into your quim, your legs pushed up so that your knees press against your big tits.

"Your pot is warm and welcoming," says Ingo. "I'll fill it up for you."

His bestial grunting and the slapping of flesh seems to drown out your ghostly moans of anguish. As you watch he thrusts into you again and again, then stiffens, toes curling in the filthy bedding as he spews his vile seed into your depths. When he finally withdraws his spunk drools out from your folds and spills over the pink pucker of your asshole. Ingo leans in to examine his own spunk and you groan with dismay as he uses the gooey discharge to **** two fingers up your arse. He fingers your tight hole in a missionary position before deciding he would prefer better access. He rolss your body onto its stomach.

He wanks his cock back to hardness and stuffs it up your body's arse. He lays atop you in an odd position, legs atop yours and his body stretched out across your back. He slowly works his hips, thrusting his cock down into your arse again and again until he groans and, you imagine, drains his spunk. He remains in that position, face down on your back, until he begins to snore.

You pace the cabin. You cannot go far, some invisible **** holds you close to your sleeping body. You try to manipulate objects in the real world, but it is no use. Your hands pass harmlessly through the dagger you would plunge into Ingo's back.

Ingo awakens shortly before dawn and takes your arse again, this time with your legs hanging off the bed and his hands holding tight to your hips. His thrusts come quickly, his breath wheezing in his lungs, until he cries out and pounds you slow and deep, no doubt pumping more of his cum up your arse.

"Tight as can be," he compliments, dragging his cock out with plop of suction and wiping the dripping head across your bum.

He's unhappy with the mess of his cock and he uses your mouth like a wash basin, sliding his cock in and dipping his bollocks in and out. Of course this produces another hard cock and he face fucks your sleeping body so that your throat bulges. Your sleep is so deep you do not gag. His meager load bubbles out from between your lips when he is finished. Watch the cum drooling from the corner of your comatose lips you realize that the anger and horror has passed into numbness. You feel no more alive than your **** body and, although you did not feel the pain of each humiliating violation, somehow watching them occur has made it all the worse.

After Ingo has finished with you, he bathes your body, cleaning up after himself, before opening an odd wood trunk and removing a set of elaborate clothes. He spends more than an hour carefully dressing your sleeping body in white lingerie, garters, bloomers and lace bra of antique design. He layers you in black and red silk and fits a burgundy corset over this. Your huge tits are squeezed into a tight heap by the corset. You look fit to go to a goth costume ball. Ingo even brushes your hair. Hardly a salon-perfect look, but he does a thorough job. Finally, he douses your sleeping body in floral perfume.

You expect he's gone to all this effort to entertain some odd fantasy, but instead he ties your hands and feet to the bed and then departs. You watch him ride away in his ox cart.

A full day passes with you pacing and shouting for your body to awaken. Night falls and more time passes. Every sound you hear through the cabin wall - of howling animals and strange insects - fills you with fear for your **** body. Suddenly, you feel yourself being sucked back into your flesh. The darkness that envelopes you is only momentary.

As you emerge from the coma, disoriented with the lingering potion, sore in more places than you can count, you hear the door of the cabin swing open. Two sets of boots thump on the cabin's floor. They approach you from the darkness.

"Here she is, master," says a voice you recognize as Ingo.

"Who is there?" you cry, straining in the darkness to see the other figure.