...say nothing and pray. Pray you get what you want!

You remember the next two stages she promised you; taken like a dog takes a bitch, then after that ****, what awaits is being broken in body and thrown to the mercy’s of her crew. You’ve taken a man before, once, and made it through. Whatever sexual spell Captain Washkin -ex-whore extraordinaire- worked into you to loosen your lips, whatever possessed you to make the noise you did, you doubt a man’s blunt and selfish desires can do the same. You bite your lip as your pert buttocks slip over the edge of the table. The man had taken his shirt off at some point, perhaps after the first dooming tone had crossed your lips. His muscled chest, born of brutal sea labour, leads down to his ready rod. You can’t close your legs with him pressed so close between them. Silent tears mix with sweat as the drops roll from your eyes. Fear, frustration, misery, anger...and something else. Something needy. If you can just keep quiet then you may escape a worse fate. You offer a mental prayer to the gods, hoping for the endurance you need. Hoping for silence. Hoping for relief. Hoping to endure until he’s finished with you.

He stands over you, looking down with a handsome smile on his handsome face. His hot hand grips the bone of your hip; his outer legs brush your inner thighs; it’s is all you feel of him, until the push. From head to hilt. One quick and wet movement sees you joined at the hip as only a man and woman might. You feel it; his meat parting you, impaling you; thick and hard, dry for the barest moment before it swims in your wetness. You suppress your moan and your whimper. He’s under no such restrictions. “Ooooh yeah.” His quiet, breathy exclamation of stolen pleasure is for no one but himself. He...twitches, inside you, eager to begin, and the captain, now back above your head, smiles at you both, like a matchmaker surveying her shy couple hitting it off.

“Good?”

His other hand grips your hips as well, holding you steady as he slides out and slams back in with a wet clap. “Ugh! O-oh. Ay captain!”

“Good!” She talks over the next ringing clap, ignoring it and the ones that follow. “How about you? Tell me, what do you think?”

You had known his attentions would feel different to hers. Hoped the selfish animal would rut himself to a finish while you regained your mind. That hope dies between your legs. The difference between them, between this man’s intrusion and the captains, is that of a skilled lock picker turning tumblers with questing expert fingers, and a key. Objectively, one is a far finer art, but the door knows what it wants all the same.

The man between your legs leans in, hid hands on your hips keeping you from being pounded back up the table. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.

“Oh! Silly me; I almost forgot our game!” She playfully swats her own forehead. “You should really try to be less distracting.” You feel your legs bounce where they meet his, kept from lifelessness by his movements and by the twitches of muscles you can’t control. Your breath picks up again, first rushing through your nose as before, but soon gasping from your mouth, each occasionally broken as you find yourself swallowing again and again.

The captain, now a looming face looking down at you, looks you in the eye as she slowly asks her question. “You’ve gone very red in the face.” You feel it, hot and flush all over. “I’ll ask again, are you enjoying yourself?”

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. You shake your head, denying the wetness of his movements. Whether by accident or natures grand design, his deep pounding strokes are angled to rub you inside, right over the still humming spot claimed by Captain Wendigo’s fingers. He pants wetly, your denial unseen and uncared for, especially by the only part of him that matters; the sliding weight moving inside you is blind to all you do, save for the twitches that run through your core. The captain sees though.

“Oh ho! No? Better step up your game Symon!”

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. The rhythm quickens. The beat intensifies.

He only keeps it up for a moment; a token gesture to his captains words. Still, he reaches deeper, hits you harder, leaning in to shower you with heavy breaths. For an odd moment, you hope he might kiss you. That you might feel his tongue turn upon your own. It’s an unwelcome fleeting thought, confused by the knowledge that if this man did, you would certainly kiss him back. This man between your legs; your ****, who holds your hips with such strong and callused hands, stokes the same fire his captain did, with a far longer and thicker poker. You should be weeping, kicking him, crying out in fear and rage. Instead, with increasing difficulty, you’re silent, and the handsome man leans back again, holding your thin and bony waist still, mining your loins at his own relentless pace.

“Lets see...” You start, eyes flicking, drawn from the man’s concentrated yet euphoric expression to the captain above with a finger to her lips. You’d almost forgotten she was there for a moment, and the reason why still beats you like a drum. “Are you alone? ...Wait, I’ve already asked that.”

Had she? In-out-in-out-in-out-in-out-in-out. It’s so hard to remember... It’s so hard.... A hand leaves your hips to grip one of your rocking bosoms, the small flesh jostled up and down your chest with his pounding now held to squeezing stillness. The other still dances freely, begging him to suckle upon it as she did.

“When’s your birthday? Whoops, that’s not a yes or no question is it?”

In-out-in-out-in-out-in-out-in-out. The captains face still swims above; a vision of sculpted beauty bearing full kissable lips. They pout with a thoughtful expression, too exaggerated not to be mocking. What if she was the one who kissed you? She offered before. Why? Not that you want it. She’d be the first person to... but it won’t happen; not with you panting so heavily.

Instead she looks up at someone else. “How about you Davod? Any questions?” In-out-in-out-in-out-in-out-in-out.

You don’t want to look at the other hook-nosed man. He’s not the one rubbing that place inside you. He’s not handsome. He doesn’t have full kissable lips. He speaks anyway, with a gruff voice.

“You could ask her how she got to where she was?”

In-out-in-out-in-out-in-out-in-out. His words only remind you that there is another set of eyes watching; observing as your will and strength and plundered puss are turned against you; turned pliant and yielding and sullied with whorish use. You feel your legs brush the hairs of your man as they writhe; some deranged impulse within them begging to wrap around his hips. In-out-in-out-in-out-in-out-in-out. The ugly brutes voice lingers without anther quickly replacing it, letting you picture him. The image of him inside you is... cooling; a handful of winter snow on the fiery heart of a summer’s heat. If he were the one **** you... maybe it wouldn’t feel so-

“Not exactly a yes or no question, is it?” The captains response draws you back to her. Her, looking down at you with a face framed in wet blond hair. Looking with piercing blue eyes rimmed in painted darkness. Her, with her full lips, her sultry knowing smile, her twisting pressing rubbing fingers. Her. What if it was her? Gods! What if it was her thrusting between your wanting petals? Her inside you, fucking you, making a whore of you. The thought makes as little sense as its reception: oil to the fire of your folds. If it was her... If she was... A dick up the arse doesn’t sound so bad! You’ve... you’ve always been curious! Oh Fuck! These thoughts; unbidden and random and so unwelcome as to be **** you as well! What did they- are they, doing to you! You feel the wave rising inside; as real and unstoppable as the sack that slaps your table squashed rear. The other mans mumbled response is cut short. The rising wave finally and unexpectedly crashes.

“Ahhhhh! UuuuuuummmmmmeeeEEEEERRRRRR!” Your back arches. Your eyes squeeze shut. Your legs tense and your ankle tied feet kick him as they spasm. Your thighs grip his hips tightly, begging him to stay, begging him for mercy, begging him for all he has to give. They’re soaked with is work, and as both his hands return to hold your hips, the slick grip of your thighs fail, releasing him. No mercy is given. The brief pause you gained is repaid tenfold by a pounding more violent than any before. Each rapid thrust is given an animal cry in response, him and you both, turned to shuddering bleated begging by his pace. It’s a moment dragged through the heavens: divine in feeling and blissfully unknowable. It’s a moment paraded by nightmares: parodied reality made manifest and soiling you to the core. It’s a moment that draws itself out, through time and through mind and sense and reason. Each frenzied thrust stretches it, stretches you, and stretches every aching fibre between.

He slows. Their words are lost to the sound of your own gasping breath, but you don’t need to hear them to know what they mean. You rave at them through the nonsense, sense breaking through the fuzz in your head.

“AHH! Ha! Haaaaa. No. No please. I. Ahh. I can’t- Don’t.”

You feel him leave, an aching emptiness taking his place. Your body feels weak: limp and numb and heaving with carnal revelry. You feel as though a fever has broken, a sickness slowly waning and leaving you, ebbing away through tingling skin. The hands on your hips shift, turning the world as they flip you over, onto your front.

“Please. I’m sorry! Don’t-“

Your words are mumbled and interrupted. The strength to lift your head off the slick table is long gone and the captain, taking advantage, cuts you off as she begins to drip sure words into your ear.

“Last chance to shut up now.”

Your legs finally reach the floor, your sopping, burning carpet pressed into the table edge. Your sweat soaked chest, one exposed to the cooling air, now burns against the hot patch left by your back and tied arms. Your top, still pulled up and wedged beneath those arms, with its bottom sitting flush with your armpits, is soaked as well. The smell of sweat fills the room; sweat, and you; your musk powerful enough to smell yourself. A strong calloused hand presses between your shoulder blades, sliding up, under the black top, to rest almost lovingly on your neck and shoulder. The other hand still grips your waist, though its palm is angled to lie on your cheek, pulling it wide.

He doesn’t need a hand to aim himself. His hairy legs shuffle and press against the backs of your own. What you would give to beg.

The table moves: a short, sharp jerk forward that’s stopped by the weight of the captains lean, and you scream, silently, into the table’s surface.

“Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Ugff. Ugff. ff-fuck. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.”

The captain smiles at the moans of her man. “Good?”

Head laid to the side like a fish, your one eye catches his nod, his eyes closed in bliss. His sack and hips ring thunderous applause on his drum of choice.

“Good. How about you? Oh, I guess I should ask if you’ve ever been dogged before.” His hand leaves your hips, running again the slick path up your spine and sliding under your top, to your other shoulder. He grips them both, holding you at to top while his motions keep you joined below. “...before now, I mean.”

The captains fingers had been kind. Unwelcome, but kind; like an uninvited guest that was nevertheless polite and courteous and possessed of a relentless desire to ingratiate themselves. Who liquored and charmed away your senses with a dance of unrivalled social skill, and when you could take no more, when you wished the intruder might stay for just a moment longer, they left, introducing their friend on the way out. Equally uninvited, that friend was...intimidating, but had a charm of its own and was poised to take full advantage of the introduction it was given. The dance was simple, but lit by sparks and lust drunk stupor, until everything the first intruder promised and more was delivered. In that moment, you understood why people want to have sex. The allure of the handsome intruder and the grind between your legs was a revelation, undoing the fear and hatred that had been set inside you by your first man.

Your first, and until today, last.

Had it ended there and your mind been given time to calm, some long broken part of you could have thanked them. Instead, that second guest now grips tightly at your shoulders, and rapes you with each thrust up you wretched hole.

“Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.” Each comes quickly, inelegantly, uncaringly, punching and penetrating you both. His hands pull you tight from shoulders to hips until your spine screams in agony, all to pound as deeply as he’s able. It’s all you can do not to scream yourself. Instead, every thinly stretched fibre of your remaining strength goes into keeping your head on the table, now turned, keeping them from seeing how much they can hurt you, physically and mentally. You can feel your face frozen in a horrified rictus; feel the tears and saliva and snot shaken out with each shuddering stab. You try to change it, succeeding only in gritting your teeth as hard as you can, baring them in a snarl that makes your spittled breath rattle and spray rather than drip in viscous rivers. Clenching helps you bare it, with your mouth at least. Below, clenching brings only agony, yet it’s a lesson your body repeatedly refuses to learn. Each thrust breaks down your defences anew, mockingly turning your tense ring into grunts of appreciation, only for your shocked body to try again, to expel the intruder on his all too brief withdraws. Your tied arms twist and turn helplessly and you keep your eyes fixed open, unseeing on the darkened wood grain, yet unwilling to close and leave you alone with him. You feel like you’re going to be sick.

“Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.” You feel his breath on your neck.

“Well?” The captain’s voice barely registers over the relentless grunting of your rectal abuser; each one coming as he widens your breach ever further. The captain speaks, slowly and loudly, right in your ear. “Have. You. Ever. Been. Fucked. Like. A. Bitch?”

The mans cock rides in and out of you, pounding between your cheeks, demanding an answer of its own. “Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.” In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. The image of a saw working back and forth springs unbidden to mind. You shake your head in answer, wiping your dripping brow and streaming eyes on the table’s surface. Gone is the mind fever, yet still you sweat, now more than ever. Closing your eyes for a moment, against the pain and question, brings a pain of its own; seeing with your mind’s eye the image of what you feel. In-Out-In-Out-In-Out. Gods! It feels as though he’s pulling out your guts! Your bent cheeks let him clap the applause of his appreciation.

“Really? You’ve been ganged and not a single one bitched you? That’s...did you, uh, see that Symon? You’re in virgin territory.”

The grunts change into words for a moment, responding to that oh so pleased voice with one of his own. “F-fuckin feels like it Cap.” Grunts and the relentless clapping against your rear take the opportunity to shift, becoming harsh breaths and the relentless clapping of your rear. Each breath rattles hot on your neck and your ears, yet it’s not enough to drown out the hateful woman’s whisper.

“You still enjoying it?”

You shake your head in a ‘no’. Everything is a ‘no’ right now; this whole situation. Had she asked a different question, you might even lie just to shake your head. No no no.

“No? You were really enjoying yourself before. You enjoyed it then, right?” The chance to lie comes after all. You shake another No. It’s not about the questions anymore.

You feel slender fingers slip under your neck, caressing up your throat and chin before lifting you by the jaw. She has to grip hard, slick as it is with spit and tears and so much sweat; you’re sandwiched between a hot body and a hot table, on a hot night in a hot room, yet such things do not account for a tenth of the friction heat pounding inside you, flooding out your pores in musky rivers. Her hand leaves your pallid flush face presented on the dais of her palm, rocking and twitching with the nauseous sickness of violation. You don’t want to be seen -not while a man takes you like this- yet a pair of sea blue eyes, painted in black lines, come level with your own, drinking in the sight of your carnage. Your slate grey eyes, drawn by some instinct, lock with hers; it may not be her hips that push -her meat that turns and pulls as it grinds back and forth so relentlessly- but she is the cause of it all. You look upon your rapes architect.

You don’t want her to kiss you anymore.

“That expression.” A soft purr sounds as she looks at you. Her greedy eyes wander for a moment, taking you in like an artist and critic both. Whatever expression adorns your face, painted their by hatred and anal ****, is utterly beyond your battered imagination. “I should have called for Misty.” The words meaning are inscrutable and whispered for their own speaker. They accompany the drift of her other hand down towards the floor, between her squatting legs. No more words come as she holds you, working unseen underneath the table, stoking the fire that flushes her cheeks with the roving fingers you know all too well.

A small gasp escape between her lips, mocking the increasingly loud moans from the man behind and inside you. A moment later, she speaks again, breathlessly.

“I ask again...” She bites her lip, smiling as a particularly hard pound twists your face further. “...are you enjoying yourself?” The hand on your jaw moves, slowly nodding your head for you, not that it matters; the climactic depth the man now strives for sends shudders up your spine, rocking your head up and down like a child’s toy. It doesn’t last. His time inside of you -taking you first as a woman and now as a bitch- finally catches up with him and the inevitable end arrives. A loud grunting groan -the culmination of all that came before- marks a hard grip upon your shoulder, His right hand slides down the hot river of your spine and grips your rear with similar urgency, right before the table slides forward, born on its journey by his desire to finish this as far inside you as possible. His captain braces the table, stopping it with a shoulder and a wry long-suffering expression cast in your direction. ‘The burdens men put upon us’ it seems to say, as the newly known feeling of hot thick ropes painting the walls of your colon comes fresh and permanent into your mind. The rod, once so animated, now only twitches against the grip of your raw ring, throwing its contents deep. Your pert cheeks, squashed and riven and twisted in his grip, play host to his dangling sack, no longer slapping against you, but simply resting and disgorging itself in its own little rises and falls. Time passes; he has a lot to give.

In truth, it’s all a little anti-climactic in your mind: a final insulting signature on the work of your ****. Compared to the pain of his pounding, this wilting, panting, seeding of your deflowered rectum -the physicality of his last act- is almost pathetic. It’s the last slap of a long and vicious beating, and if you were up to thoughts outside of morbidly dwelling on the last few hot rushes, you’d tell yourself that it was nothing; that it means nothing. You’d tell yourself forever if you had to. The recent experience they put upon you has given you fresh insight into what mad impulses drive him, but free of those impulses yourself, you just wait for it to be over, thinking and examining with disgusted curiosity. Did he just feel what you felt? The hot static rush that melted your brain back when fingers and cock still treated you like a woman? You don’t know. Can’t know. Don’t want to know. The hot wet breaths on the back of your neck lift and fade, and before long you feel him recede, slowly and tortuously, until only air kisses your open insides. He leans hard, almost collapsing beside you on the table, as though awaiting his own much deserved ****. You can barely see him, head still held in the captain’s persistent vice, but your eyes shift on their own, wanting to see the man whose seed you bare and whose attentions still linger in the feel of burning fire. Looking at him -also panting and streaming with sweat- he doesn’t look so handsome anymore.

“Well, I’ve nothing left to ask, yet I find myself not done.” Her eyes flick behind you, briefly looking at something unseen. They seem to contemplate, closing before she takes a deep breath of the rooms musk. Her other hand still busies itself under the table and between the folds of her half closed dressing gown. “So... I suppose... I’ll ask one more question... then let you go.” The hand between her legs gets more animated, rolling her shoulder with the motion of her movements. As her eyes slip to half open and take in your face once more, a squeaking moan sounds somewhere in the back of her throat; suppressed, and even to your battered mind, more girlish in sound than you thought her capable of producing. She leans forward, on purpose or by accident, and her soft lips subtly part to blow her breath onto you. She looks like she wants to kiss you. With your face scrunched in her hand, pouting your lips forward; with you still laid across the table with bound hands behind your back and shaking powerless legs dangling to the floor; you feel like a freshly roasted pig, presented to a hungry queen. She doesn’t kiss you. Instead, rough hands part your cheeks and a stiff cock rams home once more.

It’s brutal; bigger than the last, dry, and **** forward with no other purpose than to hurt you. You feel your raw ring tear and fissure, your insides flinch back with bruising impact. The table slides forward once more, but not as much thanks to the hands that grip your waist and **** you down upon him. His sack slaps against you, higher up than the last mans as his hips crush flat your meagre cheeks, working to hilt as much of his thick self inside you as he can. You scream; silently at first, then with the noise of shock, then in pain, and pain, and pain again. As he moves, he doesn’t **** you: he tortures you; working the blood out of you with brutal purpose.

“Ooooh! You know what’s next!” The captains’ voice breaks as she yells above your screams. The man saws you in earnest, to the point that the captains hand cannot keep up with your head, flailing with hard impacts and your own **** unthinking pleas for them to stop. Your chin impacts the table hard, leaving your tongue bitten, though its pain barely registers by comparison.

“Oh now she’s talking!” It’s the first words you’ve heard from the other, uglier guard since his friend entered you, and they strain only slightly as he works you now. “Come on princess, take your medicine!”

It’s only when the other man tiredly gets up from the table that some faint and distant part of your screaming mind tells you what that medicine might be. Gods, the pain! You blubber and wail, howling with each breaking thrust. Each worsen the wounds he’s caused, as they can only be meant to with such **** and pace. The last man clearly enjoyed you, savouring your taught flesh as it moulded to his need, but this man seeks only to shred; to work the hot red lubrication from you onto him and leave scars upon far more than just your mind.

You feel hands stroking up your bare legs, too far down to belong to the man inside you, whose hands still hold your hips still for their brutal beating.

“Watch whose legs you get!” His thrusting never abates, even as he yells to the hands down below.

Said hands grip and slide and probe, caressing the milky skin of your legs. They reach up, high enough to skate across the still slick surface of your inner thighs. Those legs shake, not from his touch or the devastation being drilled above, but by you; by your fear and pain and fevered sickness. The hands slide down. The last stage of this nightmare was- Gods, the pain! The last stage was- In-out-in-out-in-out-in-out. The last- The hand forces down your dropped trousers. The blade cuts across your tendon.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Your scream is ragged, bestial, and as long as razors edge below was quick.

The dick slows, dragging you out and releasing the first sound of genuine bliss from its owner.

“Ohhhh! Still got some clench left bitch.”

Steel cuts again, on your other leg, and slices deeper to get free.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” You feel like you could scream forever. Maybe you would have. While you can feel no clench or strength at all in-between your cheeks, the man does, and with one well timed reaming strike, he shatters that resistance and your own, turning your scream into sobbing sounds of despair. You cry; cry like you haven’t since you were a babe. The tears flow and your nose clogs with rattling snot. Your blubbering wails jump and hitch as the man goes on and on, finally enjoying your ruined state. The pace inside you slows, but still grates against the bleeding cuts it saws back and forth across. The world is too blurry; you cannot see the captain biting her lip. It’s too noisy to hear the soft stirring of her hands or her short sharp breaths. The other man -your first of the night- tiredly pulls upon the ropes at your wrists with one hand. Of course; it was cut tendons and broken hands that were promised. After that, it was slavery to the lusts of her whole crew. Each a prize in a game rigged from the start.

One hand proves insufficient to undo your bindings and so the knife clatters to the table. It’s a new sound added to the din of happy grunts and despairing sobs and the ever wetter churn of meat in a bleeding butthole.

“Hold her.” The spent man sounds like he’s just run a feast day marathon instead of the **** of both your lower holes. The time he spent taking you as a woman seems dim and distant, but only the first of many if his captain gets her way.

One of the rough hands pinning your hips moves distractedly to your forearm, almost engulfing it completely as it wraps it in meaty fingers. The new position changes the angle of the attack hammered into you below, and not for the better.

The other man works, undoing your bindings and freeing your hands, readying them for their treatment. Hands never set right once really broken; even with a good doctor. Combined with your cut tendons, you’ll be an invalid, unable to walk or work; only there to be worked by whoever holds your leash. A lifetime of ****. A short lifetime. You grit your teeth and let a fresh thought blossom in your mind. ‘No thank you.’

The man inside you grips your left forearm, and when your arms are free, your right hand moves to the spot that clattered so noisily before. Like a whip strike fuelled by the fires of rage, your fingers close upon the hilt of a dagger, though even if it were the blade your fingers crushed in their grip it wouldn’t stop you. A wild and blind lunge at the belly of your bottoms previous occupier gives a satisfying shout of pain. You blink free your tears, too late; too late to stop any of this. How could it have ended here? The question comes and goes like a blurred revelation. The dagger in your hand, seen clearly, is your own thin stiletto blade; the tool you brought here to protect yourself, still bloody with you. Its betrayal gives hope: the edge it bears is sharp, but made for thrusts over cuts. Perhaps its poor edge means your legs are not lost after all! Another thought come and gone, rendered meaningless by your current violent and frantic predicament. The blade is covered in blood, along its cutting length and deep upon its point. The man hunches, hands to his belly.

The hot shaft piercing your shattered rear stills in its defilement, brought once more to its hilt as its love drunk owner stairs confused at what just happened. You swing back at him, too poorly positioned to be a threat, yet close enough to shock him into letting go of your arm. You turn back to him, letting his still hard self slide out of you with a nauseating lack of resistance, and thrust at his chest. Blood blooms upon it, streaking crimson lines that run down his top. You grip him with your other hand, holding on to him as the dagger drives in again and again and he falls back to the floor with you atop him, breaking and shredding him until his lifeblood runs in flooding rivers.

What now? The thought, primal and basic, receives no answers. In the pain dulled way of a frantic fight, you know that you cannot stand on ruined legs or ruined hips, and so the split second drags on for one split to many. A silver streak of light flashes by your face; back and forth, just below the chin. You don’t feel the blade cut you, so sharp is it and so well wielded. It takes a surprised turn of your head to truly let loose the killing blow and pour the contents of your veins upon your bared chest. The captain, eyes wide and face flushed, still half naked in her gown, looks upon you.

“Shit!” There’s little blood on the glittering sword she weald, and she does not move to finish you. She only sniffs her nose and watches as the blood flows hard to your butchered hips and the body of the man who did the worst of it. Her brow creases in consternation and a growl escapes her lips, “I always make such shitty decisions when I’m... Shit!”

Her words are lost to darkness. Strange how darkness can swallow sound so. Not just sound. Everything seems to slide into its embrace. The pain of your body and of falling forward, collapsing to the hard wood of the floor; gone. The warmth and feeling of your heavy limbs and the boiling blood whose flow grows weaker and weaker; gone. The fear and panic and hope and rage; gone gone gone and gone. Your tattered honour, your purpose, and even…

thought...

Gone.