Chapter 8
Never in her wildest, most fantastic dreams had Lydia Pembroke foreseen herself in this situation. Accommodating a man in each fuckable hole of her body, she rocked and splashed and sucked and fucked and gobbled the cornholing tool that seemed to be screwed a mile up her rectal chute.
One orgasm after another boiled out of her pussy, yet she knew that she was good for more—oh, God, so many more! She oozed down upon Richard, felt his prick ram fully up her juicing twat, to the very mouth of her Uterus where he fucked with limber strokes as if he meant to go inside even that sanctuary. The downward motion unsheathed most of Greg's cock, and he was pushing against her back, reburying his pecker. At the same moment Lydia rose from Richard and squirmed her tail into reverse gear so she could suction that prick once more up her cunt. And through it all, she was tilted to the side, her lips and tongue busy on Keith's throbbing penis.
"Oh, Christ," Greg panted from behind, slamming her with his bone-hard dick. "She's flipped, man! She's totally flipped!"
Richard groaned. She could feel his pecker twitching inside her clutching twat; he didn't have long to wait before his orgasm mixed with Lydia's. For once, he seemed to have nothing at all to say. His hands clutched Lydia's hipbones, pressing flesh down upon the bone, pinching, holding her like iron claws, and he jerked upward, into her, in short, desperate, impassioned strokes. Each time he thrust, Lydia bounced up, and when she bounced up, it felt as if more and more of Greg's cock entered her anus. But how could there be any more? He'd already fed her that tool to the hilt, fucking till her intestines were displaced by his steely presence. Jesus! She gulped. It felt as if her guts were being pushed up her goddamned throat!
She tried to think of them as beasts, degrading, abusing her body—but it didn't work. She was a beast, too. A bitch in heat. Her orgasm wouldn't stop. Contractions buckled in her pussy and she was hot from her neck to her thighs, with a blazing internal heat that scorched her skin from the inside out. Someone—she couldn't tell who—was clawing her tits, and the nipples throbbed and quivered in the grip of his tight fingers.
Her tits were heaving; they were swollen, too, as though full of milk. When he—whoever he was—jiggled her boobs, she could almost hear the milk squishing in them, she waited for it to squirt from her frigged nipples, to gush in hot spurts that mingled with their body oils and the warm bubbles that filled the tub.
She tried to remember Uncle George, how awful it had been with him when she was no more than a child, raped into womanhood, but as the orgasms kept rolling down her cuntal tube and setting her twat lips afire, she could remember only the crazy, freaky ignition of that first time, when his cock had suddenly gushed deep in her slot and her insides erupted to mix her cum with his. And it was just like this. No, God, no, it wasn't nearly so good!
Then, she had been a pussy-fledged baby, too young to understand, to appreciate—she was a flower picked too soon. If only he'd been gentler. If he'd taken her by sweet seduction .. . She'd not have spent those years afraid of sex. She'd have known this pleasure from the start. She wouldn't have had to be raped into discovering herself, as a fullblown, passion-charged woman. Oh, Jesus, she thought, if I'd only known, if I'd only known it could be so ... so ... so goddamned good!
Richard exploded while her tongue was busy fluttering like a honeybee round the tip of Keith's prick. She felt the man lunge up, felt his cock swell inside her, felt the convulsive irresistible blastoff of his cum, squirting in massive doses up her pussy. As his cum rocketed up her cuntal sheath, her jism was seeping downward, leaking from the splayed, cock-stuffed lips, dripping onto his root and balls and groin. She could feel it despite the wetness in which they groveled, the bathwater that immersed their fucking, and she moaned, humping down, down, down, until his cock wilted inside her and shrank like a frost-killed flower.
"Ohhhh-" She took her mouth from Keith's tool for a moment and looked across her shoulder at Greg. "For God's sake, don't stop! Fuck me faster! Fuck me harder! Keep me coming! I never want to stop cominggggg ..."
Richard slid from beneath her, and she was able to turn now, Greg still connected to her asshole. Keith wriggled forward, his hard, spit-frothy cock extended, his eyes full of silent pleas, and she leaned across the high rim of the tub, swiveling back to meet Greg's cornholing penetrations. She opened her mouth wide, and slid it down over the lance of Keith's dick, swallowing him so deeply her ears popped.
Lydia was sideways in the tub now, her ass arched high, above the crest of the water, bubbles splashing on her thighs as she fucked back to meet Greg, headed forward to suck up Keith. Greg had one hand covering her tits, mauling them in his big paw, and his other fingers made instant, electric contact with the split of her pussy.
"CHRIIinillSSSSSTTTTT!!!" she bellowed, unmounting Keith for the instant it took her to scream. Her pussy ached from the fucking it had already taken, but when Greg's fingers latched upon her swollen, agonized clitoris, a whole new series of convulsions started to barrel through her twat. She was going to climax again. But how could she? She'd already exhausted her come potential. Hadn't she? Another orgasm like the last one and she'd .. . she'd . ..
"Deep in the shit," Greg called from swooping up her rectal tube until his balls nestled in the crack of her ass, jiggling as though they too wanted to enter Lydia. God! It was like being fucked by a Cadillac! She was so tight, so fucking tight! And he was so big! But he moved easily in her, as if her rectum was eager to cooperate with his sodomy, and she made gurgling noises around Keith's dong each time she felt Greg stab up to his deepest penetration.
Deep? Jesus Christ, she could feel each vein in his hard pecker, feel the blood that pumped in faster and faster relays to keep that pecker hard, keep it within her snug clutching ass. And his hand, his goddamned hand, plying her pussy, fingers dipping inside to flirt with her vaginal mouth, to abuse, in the most delightful way, her weary clit.
Keith lunged into her mouth as she dipped down to swallow him. Her throat dilated, and for a long, almost unbearable moment, she felt him there, fucking her in the gullet. The big head of his cock slid past her tonsils. It was too much to bear, too, too much. She raised her head, unsheathing most of his cock, and her lips closed upon the tip, the velvet, throbbing tip. She sucked it. She nursed it. She bruised it gently with her teeth, flipped her tongue in provocative circles round and round the bulging, swollen knob.
It bulged! It swelled! God, did it ever! She'd felt this reaction years ago, with Uncle George, the times he had her kneel and suckle his prick. The same kind of response—cock engorging in her ravenous mouth. She could taste the cum that already thick and tangy on Keith's glans. Just like Uncle George. Even before he shot off the major part of his load, the stuff had begun to ooze from Ids slitted cum-dumper. She lapped with her flitting tongue, and she drank greedily, knowing that in a moment—oh, surely no longer—he'd unleash himself and give her the full treatment. Fill her mouth with his seed, squirt till jism gushed from her twitching lips and ran down her chin in a dozen sticky trails-Richard and Greg were both fingering her cunt now! Two fingers on her clitoris, two fingers in her twat, still another finger sliding across the perineal gap between pussy and anus, tickling the flesh that abutted on the cock-crammed asshole. She squirmed, lifting her groin so that Greg's dong thrust high and deep, then dropped down to feel once again the erotic agitation of those hands on her pussy.
"I'm gonna come!" Keith barked, biting off each word as he spat it out. His cock stiffened, twitched, and the first blast of his cum fired into her mouth.
"Mmmmmmmmmm—" Lydia purred as the liquid love poured into her, and some of it she swallowed dutifully, the way Uncle George had always wanted her to do, but he was firing off so fast, so thick, she couldn't keep up with his ejaculation. Cum flowed down her chin where it had spilled from her mouth, and more of the stuff oozed down the sides of Keith's penis, toward the hand she still had wrapped around his shaft, holding him steady while he creamed.
Lydia smacked her lips on the juicy pecker, slid her mouth down its barrel, sopping up some of the escaped jism. Her fist was sticky with the abundance of his goo, and slowly she worked that fist toward her mouth, scooping cum as her hand moved. Her lips touched her thumb and finger, and she slurped at this additional helping of Keith's man-milk. It was thick and tart, and her tongue roved about searching for more, still more.
"You're getting soft," she gurgled, her throat filmed over with a sheen of semen. Lydia's heart was pounding deliriously and she could feel blood rushing in her ears, at her temples. They were still abusing her, but such abuse! Such sweet goddamned abuse! Greg's cock moving in her quivering, undulant ass, someone's hands cupping her tits, pulling the nipples until they must be stretched six inches or more, those hands, those other hands, roving through her crotch, stroking her, pronging her, clit-tickling, arousing her from pussy to anus— Lydia braced her hands on the edge of the tub, threw her head and shoulders back, and screamed bloody murder. " AAA A AAAIIIIIII-EEEEEEE!!!!!" she bleated. "FUCK ME-FUCK MEEEEEE-I'M COOOMMMMM-IIIIINNNNNNGGGGGG!!!!!"
At almost the same instant Greg panted, then groaned behind her. She didn't hear him, for she was too busy screaming out her own tumultuous release, but by God she felt him! That cock seeming to double its normal size in her wrenchingly tight asshole, and then he was doing it—pouring his cum up her shitter—drenching her guts with the lover's enema. She soared high, still wailing, and for all it mattered, Lydia was positive that she was in the air, suspended six feet above the bathtub where she'd just been gang-banged with a vengeance.
"Christ," Greg sighed, "we've gotta tie her down! She's gone fucking crazy!"
"You're telling me," Keith said wistfully, rubbing his sticky, sucked-out cock.
"Didn't I tell you?" Richard put in. He was relaxing in the water, scooping up soap bubbles with one hand. As Lydia reared and convulsed, he rubbed soapsuds across her jiggling, hard-nippled tits, then reached beneath to cup her pussy for a moment. She moaned, "Ohhhhhhh," rose higher, then came down hard on his hand. He stroked her a couple of times, then withdrew his fingers. Greg was still pronging her asshole, gasping each time a fresh jolt of cum flew from his dick and up her chute. His face was pale, drained, as if the effort of keeping his prick stiff had sucked all the blood from the rest of his body. But he only gritted his teeth and rammed Lydia again, rammed until she squealed like a trapped mouse and her head slumped forward and her body seemed to turn into jelly.
She sank, and she tasted soapy water, before Richard and Greg salvaged her. "Upsadaisy," Greg told her, and her asshole felt unbelievably empty with his cock no longer imbedded. Still trying to catch her breath, Lydia reached back to rub the crack of her bottom. Her finger slid through the deep cleft, across her just-fucked anus, and she gasped weakly. The hole was still dilated somewhat from Greg's pecker, though it was quickly returning to its normal tightness. She could slip the end of her finger into the gape, however, something she'd never been able to do before, and, now that she'd been fucked anally, she knew that her asshole would never be quite so tight again. Cum was leaking from the rosy aperture, cum that stuck to her touching finger, and she was positive she could hear the cum sloshing in her guts, too.
They took her from the tub, and it took all three of the men to keep Lydia erect until she could stand unaided. Her head swam giddily, and her eyes had trouble staying open, and her knees were trembling, threatening to buckle every time she stood up straight. "What have you done to me? Oh, my God," she whispered. "What have you done to me?"
"We've conquered you," Richard sighed into her ear as he supported her too-limber frame. "You'll never cocktease another man, Lydia. Will you?" She looked at him, not wanting to agree, but knowing that she did agree. Her life had been changed completely. The memory of those tumultuous orgasms was so vivid she could never forget it as long as she lived, and she wondered how she had, indeed, lived this long without knowing that sensation, without searching for it avidly—with the same avidity she'd once used finding men to humble.
"No," she sobbed, "no, no, no!" She raised her hands, not knowing what she meant to do.
Before she could decide, Richard spoke up. "Very good, Lydia. Very good. But we're not quite finished with you yet." He released her and she sagged only a little. Greg stepped away, and Lydia remained on her feet.
"What are you going to do now?" Greg asked. Richard stooped and picked up his shorts. He put them on, then draped pants and t-shirt over his arm. Greg noticed that he was wearing only a shirt he hadn't bothered removing before entering the tub to cornhole Lydia. He slipped into his own shorts and left the pants where he'd dropped them.
"We've conquered Lydia," Richard said lucidly. "But it's not enough. Not quite enough. There's one more step. We're going to break her."
"Break her?" Keith interjected. "What do you mean, 'break her'?"
Richard took her hand. "Come along," he invited. "You'll see exactly what I mean. Lydia, precious, let's all go downstairs. There's someone else you have to meet."
Still groggy from her orgasm, still weak on her feet, she allowed him to take her hand. Water dripped from her body as she walked and she could smell soap and cum, strongly scented, emanating from herself. "What's he talking about?" Keith asked Greg as they tailed along behind. "Got me,"
Greg answered.
The carpeted hallway floor felt elegant under her toes and Lydia sighed, not entirely recovered from that all-encompassing sense of well-being that was her legacy from the fucking in the bath. She let Richard take the lead, and when he conveyed her down the wide, sweeping staircase, toward the darkened first floor of the house, she felt exactly like Scarlett O'Hara making the grand entrance at Tara.
"This is a big house," she said lazily, squeezing his hand warmly. He'd turned out to be fairly normal after all, she told herself—once they'd gotten over that initial difficulty. It was strange. All those years she'd been playing her cruel games on men, she'd never once considered that anything like this might happen to her as a consequence. Maybe that was her trouble. Maybe she'd just picked the wrong men. I was a fool, Lydia thought. God, why had it taken her so long to wake up? Sex was magic. It was liquid dynamite! Uncle George might have molested her, but she'd picked the wrong means of getting revenge. Instead of punishing all men for his crime, she should have given herself to those men, allowed them to fuck her, to kiss and lick and touch, to make explosive passionate love that would heal and salve her childhood scars. Lydia shook her head.
"Yes, it's a large house," he said. "Aunt Frances's first husband made a great deal of money bootlegging during Prohibition. This is how he spent it."
"Who are we going to meet?" she asked. They were passing through a very large dining room. Ahead, there was a faint sliver of light, seeping round a nearly closed door. Keith and Greg had fallen back; she could hear them talking but she couldn't hear what they were talking about.
"A friend of the family," Richard said. He stopped, for they had reached the cracked door which she'd noticed. "Hurry up," he told his accomplices, "or you'll miss the third act!"
Lydia didn't understand, but her tummy tingled and her pussy was tender, but oh so moist and perky, and the nipples of her high firm tits stood up in nubile, inviting erections. Richard opened the door and she saw that it led into the kitchen—a mansion-sized kitchen, nearly as big as her apartment.
She looked round, at the high ceiling, at the windows which looked out into the night's darkness, at the cellar door, at the kitchen facilities. Anyone with a homemaker fetish would go wild in a spread like this, she thought with a smile. An eight-burner range, two large ovens. "Does your Aunt entertain a lot?"
"Almost never. She only stays here a few months out of the year. She travels a lot." Greg and Keith entered the kitchen. "I thought you'd gotten lost," he snapped, and then he pursed his lips and whistled.
Immediately there was a howl from the other side of the cellar door, and Lydia stiffened, the hair standing up at the nape of her neck. A scratching, too, as if something pawed at the door's far side, wishing to get past. Bruno, she thought. Wasn't that the dog's name? The one Keith was afraid of? Bruno?
Richard opened the cellar door and the largest dog Lydia had ever seen came through. A German Shepherd, black and gold, his ears standing straight up, his muzzle imperious. She remembered the Rin Tin Tin films she'd seen on television as a child. Rinty was a Shepherd too, but all pussycat where it counted. This dog—Jesus, he looked like a Nazi, somehow! Bruno was an excellent name for him.
"This," said Richard, as Lydia instinctively moved somewhat behind him, "is Bruno. Aunt Frances hired him to keep an eye on the place while she's gone. Isn't he handsome?"
Lydia shivered, looking over his shoulder. "He's frightening. But if your aunt isn't here most of the time, who feeds him? My God, he looks hungry!"
"Oh, there's a caretaker. Aunt Frances doesn't know how much of a wino the man is. In fact, I bribed him to stay away this weekend, since this seemed the ideal place to carry out your re-education program. Bruno! Come here! Bruno, my friend, I'd like you to meet Ms. Lydia Pembroke. Say hello, Bruno. Lydia, step out where he can see you. Yes." She moved cautiously, keeping both eyes on the ferocious-looking dog. As its bestial eyes returned her stare she became vividly conscious that she was still completely naked.
Oh, for God's sake, she thought. He's only a dod!"
"Richard-" It was Keith. "Richard-what in the hell is going on?"
Richard turned. "It's simple," he said. "Lydia thinks that she is now a liberated woman, totally liberated, I mean. And this is her chance to prove it." He put his hand on her shoulder. "Lydia-" She turned to face him. "Lie down on the floor. Your next assignment is to fuck Bruno."