Chapter 7
When she came to, it was past dark and she was still tied to the bed. Lydia opened her eyes and looked about, as best she could, and she remembered—oh, God, she remembered—every detail of the degradation that had been performed upon her. Three men, each of them using her body, fucking her mouth, fucking her pussy, one even fucking her between the soft, delicate tits, squeezing her breasts together while his cock coursed between, eventually to spill its hot scummy load all over her face.
And that wasn't the worst of it! Oh, Jesus God, not the worst! They'd broken her! They'd broken and humiliated her, there at the last. Keith had made her come, and Greg had built upon it, making her orgasm even harder, and—Lydia blushed furiously—if Richard Welby hadn't been temporarily out of action, he too could have mounted her, slammed in his prick, and fucked until her climax heightened and burst with even more feverish abandon.
She wanted to die. Why didn't they kill her, now that they'd had their pleasure? Or—oh, Jesus-could that be their plan? They must know that she'd certainly go to the police about this. Was a piece of reluctant pussy worth the long sentence they'd surely get? Of course it wasn't! Then .. . then ...
The bedroom door opened and she turned her face, straining against the ropes which confined her. It was Keith. Somehow she was glad. He seemed the most rational of the three. Richard was definitely nuts, with his talk about commies and women's lib, with his brutal assaults. Greg? Well, apparently Greg would go along with whatever Richard suggested. Keith had at least shown a little reluctance.
He had a cup of coffee and two sandwiches. "These are for you," he said. "Your supper. Richard thought you might be hungry."
She was. Ravenously. "It's very considerate," Lydia snarled, pulling at her ropes, "but I'm not exactly in a position to eat it, am I?" At least he had the courtesy to blush. And blush he might, for she lay there on the bed, just as they had left her, blouse and brassiere ripped open, pants and panties still heaped at her ankles, cum clotted all over her body.
"I'm sorry about this, Lydia," he said, kneeling by the bed so she wouldn't have to crane her neck up to look at him. "I'm really sorry. I had no idea it would turn out like this. Maybe I should've told Richard to stick it up his ass when he first broached the plan, but I'd just come from being with you, and I was about half drunk and really pissed off, and it seemed like a really great idea—you know, to put your ass in a sling, to show you that you couldn't fuck around with guys like us ..." He shook his head. "It's ugly and I wish I was somewhere else."
"Where are we, just for the record?"
"In Painesville. Well, just outside Painesville. You can almost see the lake from the front yard, on a clear day. The house, belongs to Richard's aunt, but she's in Florida for the winter, and he has the key, so this is where—oh, Jesus!" His face paled.
"Help me," she whispered. "Help me escape. My God, Keith ... this is insane. Don't they know that I'll go to the police as soon as they let me go? Have they made any plans for the future? The three of you kidnapped me and you've all raped me. They could electrocute you for it."
He shook his head again. "I know. I've thought of nothing else. Since you passed out on us. But—there's only one of me, and there's two of them. Plus Bruno. That's Richard's aunt's guard dog. He's a German Shepherd, mean, trained to kill. I... I can't..."
"You mean you won't." He frowned, as if the words hurt. But she was right. Lydia knew it. He was a coward. He'd gone along with the plan because he was afraid not to. He'd raped Lydia, along with his friends, because he feared their disapproval. In Hitler's Germany, he'd have been an SS man because of that same kind of fear. At My Lai or Kent State or Jackson State he'd have been jerking his trigger, looking round furtively to make sure that all his comrades in arms saw that he was shooting, doing his bit for the common effort. Never go against the crowd. She'd never felt so much contempt for a man. Not even for Uncle George.
"How about if I untie one of your hands so you can at least eat something?" he suggested, smiling a college-boy smile, as if he'd come up with something brilliant.
Lydia shrugged as best she could, tied down. "It would be sweet of you," she said acidly.
Keith untied one of the cords and freed her right hand. She took the coffee and sipped at the hot liquid. Then she ate both her sandwiches and finished the coffee, and felt about as good as a woman could feel, stripped, almost completely nude, tied to a bed, fresh from being gang-banged.
Keith took the empty cup, then apologetically retied her right hand. She understood. His friends might be upset. "I guess I'd better get back downstairs," he told her. "Lydia, I'm really sorry about all this."
But before he could open the bedroom door, it was opened for him, from the other side, and Richard and Greg entered the room.
It was hard to look at them with equanimity. She hated them with all her heart because of what they'd done to her. But mixed with the hatred was something else, something she didn't really understand. No matter how she tried, Lydia could not forget the sensations that had rolled outward from her guts during the climactic moments of her prolonged rape-agony. How she'd slumped despite her will to resist—how her pussy had exploded in a vivid onrush of sensation that made her head spin in fuck-drunkenness, just like—oh, God—just like-Just like that time with Uncle George, when she was only a child and he had surprised her in the bathroom and forced her to do all those awful things with him! It had been almost exactly the same. His thick, hard cock, the first she'd ever known, that cock digging into her pussy, breaking her cherry, piercing past, to the untapped depths of her sex . . . her tongue growing chill in her mouth ... her head swimming ... her snatch tingling with the forceful exploration of his dick ... the degradation she'd known then ... the degradation, yes, but with it the strange exultant soaring as her youthful pussy quivered its way into a tummy-wrenching orgasm— My God! she thought suddenly. Exactly what have I been afraid of all these years? The humiliation or ... or ... oh, Jesus ... the exciting, the gut-wrenching delightful— "I see you've recovered," Richard smiled, cupping her tits. He leaned close, as if he meant to kiss her, but his head snapped back. "Christ, she smells like a Chinese whorehouse!" He turned to Keith. "Did you feed her?" Keith nodded. "Well. We ought to clean her up a little."
Lydia was beyond caring. They'd all seen her nude body, they'd all sated their lust. In her. On her. If she was dirty, they'd made her dirty. It seemed a little hypocritical to be finding fault now.
Richard leaned close. "Would you like to take a bath, Lydia? Would you like to wash the scum off your pretty body? It is a pretty body, you know. If it hadn't been, we wouldn't have brought you here."
"I don't care," she said. "If you're going to fuck me again, fuck me. Do whatever you want. It doesn't matter if I'm clean or dirty, does it?"
"It matters to us," Richard replied. "We're gentlemen and we prefer to make love with women who smell like women and not like she-goats in heat. So if you promise not to be unruly, we'll transport you to the shower room where you can get all clean and shiny."
"If it means being untied, then untie me," Lydia said. "I am goddamned sick of being strapped down."
"Of course you are," Richard agreed. "Greg-Keith—undo the lady's ropes. I think she'll behave now."
They untied her, and it was such a fantastic feeling to be able to move her arms and legs again. She lay on the bed for a moment, relishing that sensation, until Richard took her by the hand. "Shall we go?" he asked.
Lydia swung her feet off the bed and onto the floor, and it was so wonderful to be sitting up, stretching her arms, wriggling her toes—she looked down and grimaced. There, where they'd been pulled, were her slacks and underpants. And her tits were hanging out, too. Did it really make a difference? She wriggled out of the pants and panties, then stood up.
It was unlikely that they had her welfare in mind with this suggestion of a bath, but her skin crawled, and even if she couldn't wash away the filth that had clustered on her soul, Lydia could at least cleanse her sullied flesh. Richard took one hand, Greg the other, and they led her toward the door, out of that room where she'd been gang-raped and humiliated. Keith followed after, like the coward he was.
The house seemed large, what she could see of it. Her room was apparently a kind of spare bedchamber in the attic. Little used, too. Dust coated the soles of Lydia's bare feet as she walked across its floor. A short flight of stairs led down to a hallway, plushly carpeted. There must have been seven or eight doors along that hallway, reinforcing her impression of the house's size. Richard opened one door, reached inside, and turned on a light switch. "Voila!" he said, with a moderately good accent. "C'est le salle de bains!"
It was a large bathroom, luxuriously large, the walls painted white to reflect and re-reflect light, flooding the room with luminosity. The tub filled one side of the room, sunken into the floor with a low marble rim, and even the John looked elegant. Lydia could hear the soft hum of fluorescent lighting and she imagined herself in that tub, neck deep in aromatic suds. She'd wash it all away in a tub like this one—all the cum smears, all the sweat, the pain, the residual terror-Richard went to the tub and knelt, reaching in to turn on the water. She saw steam begin to rise. He turned, looked up, smiled. My God! she thought. He looks almost human again! But in view of what he'd done to her—for it was obvious he was the ringleader of the conspiracy—"Soap and towels are in the closet," he said blandly. "Probably bubble powder, if you want any."
She opened the closet and saw that he was right. Lydia grabbed up an armload of bath accessories-towels, washcloth, a packet of scented bubble bath—and clutched them to her breasts. "Thank you," she said earnestly. "Now, if you'll all go outside—"
"Oh," Richard cut in, "we'd much rather stay and watch. Greg and I were just agreeing that there's nothing quite so erotic as the sight of a beautiful woman luxuriating in her bath. Weren't we, Mr. Chastain?" Mr. Chastain nodded.
She'd known it was too good to be true. They weren't finished humiliating her. And she had to piss, too. Obviously it would do no good to ask for privacy for that, either. Lydia sighed, then sat down on the commode and emptied her bladder, pretending that six male eyes were not staring at her from around the room. When she was done, she wiped her cunt with a piece of tissue paper, flushed, and strode to the tub. It was nearly full now. She squatted as modestly as she could and poured bubble flakes into the water. Just as she rose to take off her ripped shirt and brassiere, someone grabbed between her legs.
"Ouch!" As she turned angrily, Richard Welby relieved her of the load in her arms. Lydia clenched a fist and raised it, but he caught her by the hand, bending back the threatening arm. With his other hand he slipped the shirt and bra strap off her shoulder, pulling till they were free. Lydia unclenched her fingers and let her arm drop. Richard finished undressing her.
"Into the tub we go, now," he smiled, and by that time she knew his repertoire of smiles. This was not a smile that boded well.
She stepped into the water, foam started to boil around her legs. Bubbles rose as she sank into the tub, and the bubbles smelled like a herbal garden. Lydia closed her eyes and let that aroma surround her, enfold her, protect her.
"Isn't she a gorgeous sight?" Richard said.
"Like a magazine advertisement," Greg concurred.
"The white of her skin blends perfectly with the pinkish cast of the bubbles," Richard went on. "And look at the way her red nipples float in and out of view. Ah, such a seductive vision—" she looked up just in time to see Richard peeling off his tight t-shirt. "I can't resist," he announced, as his hands fell to his belt buckle. "The vision has seduced me."
She'd known it was too good to be true. His pants fell, and then his shorts, and his cock was already half erect. He stepped over the marble rim and his foot splashed in the water. Lydia shrank back, toward the far end of the tub, but as Richard settled into the water, he grabbed her ankle and pulled her toward him. She slid, kicking up little waves of resistance, and then he rose to meet her halfway.
"I can't help myself," he said. "I told you that women bathing was an enormous turn-on for me. And I'm turned on. Can't you feel that?" He tugged her hand downward, made her stroke the fully risen shaft of his erection. She wasn't quite as repulsed as she would have been yesterday, her fingers not quite so unwilling as he made them encircle his cock. Lydia closed her fist upon him and squeezed.
Richard pulled her back, toward the other end of the tub, and he braced his back against that end, cock sticking up. The suds were thinner here, and she could see his penis through them, see (as well as feel) her hand fitted around it. "Now you have the idea," he smiled. "Straddle me, Lydia. Ride me. Slide my cock into your soapy cunt and fuck me."
She breached in the water, still holding his pecker, wondering what she should do. If she refused, he'd hit her again. Or . .. or ... God knew what he might think of doing to her! Her belly tightened, and for the quickest fleeting moment Lydia remembered how it had been on the bed no so many hours ago, with Keith fucking hell out of her pussy while Richard's cock ravished her mouth. The dynamic buildup of tension in her twat, the sudden explosive release, the release that had gone on for a seeming eternity. She moaned, and her head began to shake timidly. "I... I... I .don't..."
"You're weakening, aren't you, Lydia?" he sneered. "Not so very long ago you'd have been fighting like a tigress. Now .. . now I think you really want it but you're too embarrassed to say so. Is that it, Lydia?"
She turned away, unwilling to face him, but she heard his laugh, his mocking, cynical laugh. Richard wriggled his tool from her grasp, then prodded her butt until the was perched atop him. She felt, in the water, the caressing stroke of his pecker tip, and then he lunged up, spearing himself into her pussy. Lydia closed her eyes and groaned. "Ohhhhhhhhh-"
Richard pulled her down, till her ass rocked atop his loins. "Fuck me, Lydia," he chanted, "fuck me now, fuck me, fuck me! Move your butt! Milk me with your tight wet pussy!"
Sobbing, she began to bounce, the water rocking from her in little waves. His cock stabbed up, into the pit of her sex, and there was no physical pain in the act now—only the mental anguish as she realized what she and her pussy were doing.
"You son of a bitch," she panted, her head shaking, hair flopping about in wet stringy locks. He hit her deeply with his pecker then, so deeply that Lydia bit her lip to keep from crying aloud.
"You like it, don't you?" he whispered into her ear, sandwiching the words between the wicked flicks of his tongue around her lobe, into the ear itself, down her jawbone, down her neck. Lydia's flesh tingled where Richard licked her, and she couldn't sit still atop him. She lifted herself again, plummeting down with a sinuous wiggling action she hadn't guessed herself capable of. Her pussy swallowed up Richard's prick, swallowed greedily, hungrily, and when she had all of him in her cuntal trap, she squirmed her ass against his loins restlessly, grinding down on his balls.
"Damn you," she gasped, "damn you-oh, damn you, damn you, damn you—ffffuuuuuuu-ccccccckkkkkk meeeeee!!!!!"
She'd never uttered those words before, not to any man, not to anything on earth except her masturbating fingers, but she was screaming them now, screaming them as though her soul itself poured into the words and spat from her lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck and crushed her mouth upon his, and then she began to rise and fall tumultuously upon his imbedded penis.
He accepted her kiss, though her mouth must have tasted of the cum she'd drunk on the bed, and he clutched the fleshy cheeks of her ass. She groaned into his mouth as he split her bottom even wider, and she moaned savagely when he prodded with one finger at the puckered ring of her asshole. And still she fucked like a demon, lifting herself as high as she could, so that nearly all his cock emerged from her twat, then plunging dramatically to suck him up her to the hilt. Her belly boiled like an overcooked pot of soup and she knew that for the second time today she was about to achieve massive orgasm with a male cock rampaging in her cunt.
Lydia threw her head back. "AAAAAAAAAH-HHHHHHHH, you baaaaaasssss-taaaaaarrrrrdddddd!!!!" His middle finger had not let up its relentless exploration of her anus. He poked the little hole, he tickled it, stabbed vigorously, and his fingering had paid off. She jerked forward as he rammed his finger up her asshole and worked it there like a hard, brutal penis that had found her second opening.
She rocked back, only to swallow more of his finger up her asshole, and in self-defense she squirmed forward again. The overall effect was to increase the agitated questing of his prick in her pussy, and her guts began to dissolve inside her. "Goddamn you," she moaned again and again. "Goddamn you!"
Oh, Jesus, the things he was doing to her! That finger, going like ninety in and out her anus. That cock, swelled to incredible size within her pussy—or was her pussy merely clamping tighter upon him, making him seem bigger than he really was? It was no time to be wondering about the petty distinctions. Lydia closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and fucked for dear life.
"Is her asshole tight?" Greg asked, leaning over the edge of the tub, watching as Lydia's bottom rose and fell in the water, Richard's middle finger stabbing in and out of the tiny rose-petal opening.
"Why don't you find out for yourself, John?" Richard chuckled. "I think there's room for three.
Aunt Franny likes everything big. This tub, for example."
Greg didn't have to be asked twice. He stood up and shucked out of his pants and shorts, not bothering to remove his shirt. Keith came up, caught him by the arm, "Listen," he said nervously, "we could get in a lot of trouble—"
"Fuck off," Greg said, shaking off his friend. "We're all in this, so we might as well milk the experience for everything it's worth, and I'm going to shoot off about a gallon of fresh warm milk, right up her shit chute." He stepped into the tub.
Lydia wasn't entirely aware of what was going on. She felt an extra pair of hands on her body, squeezing her nipples, tracing the lush curves of her tits, and then a stiff hot dick was evident, touching her from behind. She gasped as Richard's finger popped out of her asshole, and then Greg's cock slipped down, touched her anus, pushed insistently.
"Oh, my Goddddddd-" She squirmed, unwilling to go through with it. "You'll kill me ... I can't... I couldn't. . . I've never . . . nobody's everrrrr—"
It was agony!! His cock dug at her asshole, the big velvety tip prying her tight aperture with forceful, insistent lunges. Lydia gnashed her teeth, then snapped her jaws shut, grinding, grinding, grinding. She was cunt-full of Richard's penis and now Greg meant to feed her yet another, a bigger, organ from the rear, stuff it up a hole that God had not created with fucking in mind, a hole that had been reamed cruelly by Richard's finger, a hole that could not endure the treatment Greg had in mind— "No, please, not that," she whined, and her words would have been more sincere, perhaps, if she hadn't been perilously close to orgasm already. She couldn't understand what was happening to her body. Men were raping her, for God's sake! She'd been brought to this house under duress-drugged, kidnapped from her building's parking garage. They had forced her to engage in bestial, degrading acts ... yet... yet.. .
"Oh—Jessssssssuuuuuuussssssss!!!" she groaned through clenched teeth, her voice more sibilant than usual. Each "S" sound was like the hiss of a snake ready to bite. Her guts were turning over and over and her tits felt heavy as lead, capped with fiery nipples. It would take only the lightest friction on those nipples to bring her moaning and screaming-Greg fought passionately with the reluctant anal sphincter and, as he tried to stuff Ids cock up her, he brought his other hand around to paw at the swollen, aching tits. Lydia felt him brush her nipples, felt her nipples seem to explode vibrantly where his fingers pinched and stroked them. She threw back her head and screamed.
And then it happened. Undulant thighs clamped in on Richard's legs, and her pussy began its unmistakable series of rippling, milking convulsions around his still-driving prick. She seemed to melt, from the neck down, and part of that melting took place at the rear of her body. Her asshole broke down, surrendered its hopeless cause, and Greg's pecker slammed up her rectum. "God, God, God, Lydia," he panted from behind, slithering his long rod into her, "God, Lydia—I'm fucking you in the ass, you bitch! Take me up your hot tight ass!! Oh, Christ, Christ, Christ-"
She was full of maleness then, her pussy, her rectum. They were both in her, fucking like maniacs, and she didn't know where to turn, which to assault with her responsive body. Her cunt slammed down upon Richard, then lifted, and the rising action brought her back and up, brought her into full, open play for Greg's dong, and she was stuffed to the gills with him. No matter how she moved, her motion sent a throbbing fuck-tool into her body.
"Oh my Jesus—I'm coooommmmmmmm-innnnnggggggg . .. feel me come . . . feel me come .. . ohhhhhhhhhh-"
Her head flopped about, and she saw Keith, squatting on his haunches beside the tub, staring down at the two-way fuck laid out before his wide eyes. His prick was hard, pushing out the front of his pants, and, almost unconsciously, one of his hands stroked the hardened shaft. Lydia looked at him, and her mouth dripped with saliva.
"YOU!" she wailed. "Yoooooouuuuu!!" He jerked with surprise as she spoke, and she stretched a long, sudsy arm toward him. "I want you too!"
Her stomach churned, and her ovaries were upside down with overwork, but there seemed to be no end to the pleasure flowing through Lydia. She kept bucking her body, forward onto Richard's penis, back onto Greg's, swallowing each man in his turn up one of the sex holes of her body. She didn't know which of them was responsible for the fuck-fever that possessed her—she hadn't know any man could make her feel this way—she only knew that she was exploding and exploding and exploding, but still she wanted more-oh, God, so much more!!!
Keith rose onto his knees, face white as he unzipped his pants. Lydia stroked his thigh and left soapy bubbles on the fabric of his trousers. He brought out his stiff pecker and she seized it in her wet fist. "I can't reach you from here," she gasped. "Lean in closer! Lean in closer, goddamn you to hell!"
He moved toward her then, his cock jutting before him all red and swollen, the tip glisteny from his pre-cum, and she found that by leaning slightly in his direction she could reach the end of his dick without too much trouble. It was moist when it kissed her lips, moister still when she suckled the knob inside and began to massage it with her lips and tongue. Her hand fastened around his shaft, just below the part she nursed avidly, and she began to shuck the loose outer skin up and down the length of his bone-hard tool.