I’m blindfolded and trussed up in Dean Whitehouse’s car, and I don’t really know where I’m going.
I’m lying on my side in the spacious backseat. My knees are slightly bent. My entire torso and arms have been tied up tightly in a complicated and intricate pattern of ropes and knots. Shibari, Dean Whitehouse calls it. Japanese rope bondage.
It’s as sexy and submissive as hell.
Other than the ropes, I’m completely naked but for my high-heeled slippers. Ropes run above and below the swell of my breasts, emphasizing them to the casual viewer. My abdomen is decorated in a diamond-patterned net of woven ropes. My elbows and wrists are secured uncomfortably behind me. I can’t move them if I wanted to.
Two strands of ropes are looped snugly around my pussy, in between my labia and clitoris. The slightest movement of my lower body sends paroxysms of pleasure coursing all through my groin as the ropes burrow into my most intimate areas.
But that’s not all.
Dean Whitehouse has fashioned a knot that sits just upon the folded hood of my clitoris. It is this knot that constantly digs into the nub of my sensitive flesh, sending exquisite sensations throughout my body with every bump and jolt of the car.
I’m trying not to move. I’m just lying there on the backseat, trying to breathe as minimally as possible, lest Dean Whitehouse berates me for making a noise. Which I am apt to do with all the near orgasms I’m suppressing myself from having.
Shadows flit through my silken white blindfold – of leafy trees, of branches, of buildings. Finally, the car turns into someplace, and slows down. Wherever we are, we have arrived.
The car draws to a stop. The opening of a car door signifies that Dean Whitehouse has gotten out. He opens the rear door and a sudden gust of cold air rushes in, puckering my naked flesh.
I lick my lips nervously.
Dean Whitehouse removes my blindfold. I blink in the sudden light. We are parked in front of a large rambling house with ivy running all over its brick walls. A lush garden surrounds either side of the drive.
“Come on, Gina.” Dean Whitehouse helps me out of the car, taking care to guard my head from bumping against the top of the door, since my arms are tethered behind me. I feel like a prisoner being shepherded out of a cop car.
“Are you thirsty?” Dean Whitehouse asks me.
“Yes, teacher.” My penitence has been honed out of the spanking he has given me and the lowly stature he has forced me to assume. His lashes still mark my soft buttocks with yellowing bruises.
“Then come with me,” he commands.
My feet are shod in stilettoes, so high that I’m having difficulty balancing with my arms tied behind my back. The ropes between my labia compress my clitoris from both sides, and the knot in front digs slyly into my nub. My clit is rubbed raw from all planes, and as I walk, I can feel the rivers of sensuous pleasure flowing from it. I have to restrain myself very hard from moaning.
Dean Whitehouse leads me not to the house, but to the garden. I’m apprehensive, remembering what Max Devlin did to me in the wild garden of his father’s property.
We stop at a tap rising from a pipe dug into a square patch of cement. A green hose coils like a snake on the ground beside it, attached to the tap through a spigot. A dog bowl – plain metal and with a wide base – sits there.
Dean Whitehouse turns me around and starts to cut through my ropes with a blade. They fall away from my arms and body like the detritus of my lowly stature – an initiate. The ropes between my pussy lips and clit are glued to my flesh by my sticky and creamy juices, rapidly drying in the breeze, and so I have to peel my labia away to remove them physically.
I rub my sore wrists where the ropes have bitten into me.
Dean Whitehouse turns on the tap and fills the dog bowl with water from the hose. As the hose pressure is quite high, the water sloshes over the bowl, only half filling it. An alkaline smell wafts from the whole ensemble.
Dread sinks to the pit of my stomach.
Dean Whitehouse produces a studded leather collar from his pocket and circles my neck with it. It is attached to a leash. The collar is quite tight, and I raise my hands to loosen it from my throat.
Dean Whitehouse slaps my hands away.
“Stop that, or I will have to restrain you again.”
I lower my hands and eyes, suitably chastised. He puts a tiny padlock on the clasps of the collar and clicks it shut, so that I cannot remove the collar even if I dared to.
“Kneel on all fours and take your drink from the bowl,” he orders. “Use only your mouth, not your hands.”
So he wishes to treat me like an animal. Tears of shame spring to my eyes as I go down on my hands and knees. The hard cement floor presses against the skin of my elbows and knees. My long mahogany hair falls around my face as I lower my mouth to the surface of the water in the dog bowl. The padlock hangs like a heavy pendant from the collar at my throat, weighing me down.
My tongue peeks out and laps at the water. It is surprisingly cool and refreshing. I lower my lips further and drink noisily from the bowl.
I feel a hand probe my pussy from behind.
“Spread your legs wider. Show me your cunt.”
I broaden the base that my knees are kneeling upon. As I continue to lap at the water, Dean Whitehouse’s fingers part my pussy lips and worm into my vulva, rubbing the walls of my opening and stretching them. My juices, accumulated from the ropes against my clit, stain his flesh. I flush from embarrassment because I am so very wet from his maltreatment.
When I have drunk all the water in the fairly deep bowl, he jerks my leash. The collar tightens against my throat and I almost choke.
“Walk on your hands and knees, like a dog,” he commands.
With his hand holding the leash, I pad after him on all fours. He leads me into the garden. The sprightly grass digs into my palms and the rougher skin of my knees. On the other side of a thicket is a low stone wall approximately two slabs thick.
“Get on the wall, Gina, and squat facing me.”
I get up, grateful not to be on my hands and knees. My heels are difficult to maneuver, and I have to juggle a balancing act on top of the low wall. I am aware of how graceless I must look trying to squat with my legs open wide upon the uneven stone slabs. I almost teeter, but stop myself in time. The collar is still affixed around my neck. My leash is looped around my right shoulder, where it trails down my back and right buttock cheek to the other side of the wall.
Dean Whitehouse’s eyes never leave my gaping pussy. He takes three steps back.
“I want you to see you pee,” he says.
It is not a request. I cannot deny that my bladder is full after the copious water I have drunk and the interminably long drive to this house. But urinating is such a private act, and I have never recalled doing it in front of another person since my potty days.
I blink back tears.
“I cannot, teacher,” I croak.
“Do you want me to beat you again with the cane?”
“Then piss out of your hole!” he thunders.
I close my eyes. The sphincter of my bladder is very tight, pressured not to let a single drop out by the inhibitions of my mind. I try valiantly to relax it, to think of running water and cool compresses above my pubic area.
After what seems like a long wait, the familiar trickle starts. My urine jettisons from my full bladder through my urethra, and arcs into the crisp, fresh air – redolent with leafy smells. The stream lands onto a spot a foot away from the wall. All this time, Dean Whitehouse has his eyes trained on my pussy. I notice the firm bulge in his trousers.
My ears are flushed with humiliation as I continue to empty my bladder into the garden soil.
When I have finished, he motions me to get off the wall. My heels gingerly touch the ground, taking care to avoid the wet patch that I have furnished. Once again, he makes me get down on all fours. He takes hold of my leash and pulls me after him – all the way to a garden shed.
I shudder to think what he has in store for me.
The garden shed is clutter-free except for shelves, some storage cabinets, and single cage. It is the kind of cage used for dogs. It measures eight by six feet, and is made out of vertical metal bars. There is a steel chain attached to one of its bars, a chamber pot and a dog bowl filled with water. Two windows proffer filtered light from the garden.
“Get in, Gina.” Dean Whitehouse opens the collapsible door on one side.
I enter the cage with trepidation. The entire area smells of mustiness and old straw. Dean Whitehouse creeps in after me and removes the leash from my collar. He then attaches my collar to the steel chain, once again securing it within the confines of the padlock. When I am thus shackled, he slams the door shut on me.
The dog cage is not high enough for me to stand up, so I have to sit upon my haunches. My hands grip the vertical bars as I watch Dean Whitehouse remove his clothes. He has a great body – all hard muscle and sinew from training (I hear he plays tennis three times a week) – and he knows I think so too because he flashes me a ghost of a smile.
He strips off his briefs to finally reveal his cock, which I have never seen before. It is fully erect and surrounded by a nest of dark curls. His balls are particularly huge, dangling below his cock like two ripe apples. The skin of his cock is a little darker than the rest of his body.
He walks to the cage, from which I peer longingly. His cock is at the level of my mouth. Smiling, he inserts his hard cock between the bars of my prison.
“Go on, Gina, suck on it. You know you want to.”
My mouth seizes his cock hungrily. The firm piece of delicious man flesh rolls tantalizingly on my tongue as I apply all my sucking force upon its shaft. All the penned up sexual frustration I have borne since the rubbing of the ropes against my clit and pussy lips is now concentrated on the penis I have in my mouth.
My hands continue to squeeze the bars as I suck and suck, sliding the cock in and out of my mouth in a semblance of fornication. Down there, my vaginal hole is leaking again. My fluids drip down onto the insides of my thighs. I’m squirming for the desire to have something fill my heated pussy. I wonder if Dean Whitehouse will let me caress his balls.
“Suck harder,” he says harshly.
I suck until my vision blurs and my teeth scrape against his flesh. My pussy aches to be spread by his cock – so badly that it becomes a visceral emptiness within my loins. I long to be taken on all fours, my buttocks slammed against the steel bars and his cock pumping inside my vagina. I can almost feel the familiar pounding rhythm. The vision becomes so real that I groan against the fleshy head in my throat.
He stops his movements and his cock slips out of my mouth.
“Please, teacher, fuck me,” I whisper, my mouth swollen with the sucking.
“No.” He’s already walking away from me, his cock still tumescent and glistening with my saliva. “You will be saved for later. Get some sleep. You will need to be awake tonight.”
“What’s going to happen tonight?” I ask.
His back is turned to me as he retrieves something from a drawer. When he returns, I can see that it is a Y-shaped leather thong with a metal padlock in the apex of the ‘Y’.
Dean Whitehouse opens the door of my cage.
“What is it?” I say.
“Chastity belt. So that you can’t play with yourself.” He indicates my pussy.
My hands involuntarily cover it.
“Do I have to slap your hands away again?”
“No, teacher,” I say, lowering my lashes.
I squat before him at the door of the cage as he straps the chastity belt onto my groin, covering my vulva, pussy lips and clit completely. He secures the padlock at my pubic region. The chastity belt is a tight fit. There’s no way I can squeeze my fingers underneath the straps to caress my clit even if I wanted to.
Dean Whitehouse senses my dismay. He smiles in satisfaction as he slams the door shut on me again. I watch him from my chained position as he exits the shed, his naked buttocks rolling.
But oh, the ache in my pussy to be penetrated, fucked, filled and pounded in so many places!
Frustrated, I turn away from the door.
There is nothing for me to do but sit there and wait as the light outside the windows wane. The afternoon trips into evening. Images that would not be out of place in a brothel flit through my fevered mind. I squirm, writhe and twist, but all to no avail to quench the hunger in my nether regions.
Unable to keep my eyes open any longer, I finally fall asleep on my side, my knees curled to my chest.
I am awoken by the opening of the main door. It is dark. Someone flips on a switch, and the shed is floored with incandescent light.
A young man stands at the door, smiling. He is naked but for his sandals. His cock stands at attention, and there is a steel penis ring circling its base, making it engorged. A silver pendant of an eagle’s head dangles from its bottom, in front of his balls. He carries a set of tiny keys.
The man approaches me. He has a head of curly dark hair and a deep cleft on his chin.
“Hi, Gina. I’m Greg. I’m going to let you out to bathe.”
I look up at him in wonder as he slides open my cage door. He creeps in on all fours and unlocks my collar from its punishing chain.
“Where’s the Dean?” I ask.
“Preparing for the party.”
“Your final initiation party. You do want to enter Phi Kappa Omega, don’t you?”
“This is the final leg of my initiation?”
“Of course.” Greg winks. “Don’t you know anything?”
No, I don’t, I want to retort. But days of constantly submitting to my masters have made me penitent. I nod as Greg fastens the leash on me again.
“Do I have to crawl after you?” I ask.
Greg glances at the door. “Ordinarily, yes. But since the Dean is preoccupied, I’ll cut you some slack. If we make it real quick out of here and into the back door, we can avoid being seen by anyone.”
I squeeze his hand gratefully.
We sprint through the door and into the dark garden. Well, as fast as I can sprint in my high heels. The cold bites into my skin and I wrap my arms around my breasts. Greg ushers me through a wooden door and I enter a warm passageway.
“You’re really pretty,” Greg remarks, smiling.
“Thank you.” Tears sting my eyes. No one has been anything but cruel to me for days, and so this little bit of kindness sends my defenses melting like a final wall.
Greg leads me into a spacious bathroom. A large tub filled with steaming water sits in the middle of the checkered floor.
“Who’s coming to the party?” I say as Greg squats before me to unlock my chastity belt.
“Everyone who’s anyone.”
“What’s going to happen?” I slip out of my heels, glad to be freed from the belt. My pussy is still aching at the sight of Greg’s erect rod. The eagle pendant that brushes his firm, pink balls is one of the most beautiful pieces of jewelry I have ever seen on a man. I want to tell him so, but my tongue is stayed by so many other questions.
“That will be a surprise, Gina.”
He pins up my long hair and helps me into the bathtub. The water is very hot, and I cringe as my toe tests the surface.
“No, it’s not, but it’s very hot. It will cleanse you.”
I lower myself very slowly into the water while Greg busies himself with towels. Once I’m immersed up to my neck – the water sending steam eddies into my face – and wincing from the extreme heat, Greg steps into the tub as well, a bar of scented soap in his hand.
He begins to wash me, creating soap suds out of the water. His gentle hands brush over my perky nipples. My skin is red from the heat and billowing steam. He soaps my stomach, and then dips down to my pussy. He takes extra care to massage my labia, peeling both lips from my clit and rubbing them between his thumbs and index fingers thoroughly.
His finger runs up and down my clit, as if to give it a good scrubbing, but it only succeeds in getting me aroused again. I have been denied sex for what seems like forever, and I badly want Greg’s beautifully-decorated cock inside my vagina.
He parts my thighs. As two of his fingers enter my vagina to expand and knead the walls, so that the hot water flows deep into me, I grab his hard shaft, bouncing in the water like a red flag to a bull.
“Please fuck me,” I beg.
“I can’t. You have to be saved for the party.”
“I’m no virgin. I’ve been fucked by plenty of men.”
“I know. But I still can’t fuck you right now, much as I want to.” Greg gently removes my hand from his penis.
His fingers continue to oscillate in my pussy. He withdraws them, and plunges them into my asshole instead. He repeats the same cleansing movements. I close my eyes, constricting my anal sphincter around the base of his fingers and trying to pretend that it is his cock in me.
“Later, I promise you, Gina.”
When Greg has finished bathing me, he dries me with the towels.
“Stand here,” he says, indicating a bath mat.
He takes up a pot of red lacquer and a paintbrush, and proceeds to paint my nipples scarlet. Swish, swish, go the brushstrokes on my areolas, sending goose bumps down my spine. When he has finished, he lets me view myself in the long bathroom mirror. My nipples are a striking red against the contrast of my pale, creamy flesh, as ripe and temptingly delicious as any strawberry.
Greg lifts up both my breasts from behind me so that I can appreciate them in the mirror. “Nice, aren’t they?” he says.
He turns me to face him once again and kneels before me. Lifting the flaps of my pussy lips, he rouges them with the paintbrush so that they appear a rosy pink.
“There,” he says in satisfaction, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “You look good enough to eat.”
I wish he would eat me. Yes, I do. Desperately.
He lets my long hair trail all over my shoulders once again, and brushes it with thorough strokes so that it gleams.
“Beautiful,” he breathes.
He leads me out of the bathroom. My bare feet pad on the carpeted passageways.
I say timidly, “You’re not going to decorate me? Bind me perhaps?”
We approach large twin doors. Behind them, the raucous sounds of music and a party thump in frantic beats. Three other naked and handsome youths are waiting for us at the doors. Their erect cocks have been similarly decorated like Greg’s.
One has his penis and balls encased in a golden ring with a cobra head rising from its base. Another has a studded metal ring around his enormous glans penis. Yet another has his genitals covered in an intricate silver mesh worked with a filigree of tiny diamantes.
They smile and nod at me and Greg. The sight of their penises only serves to make my pussy cream even more.
Oh, how I need a cock in me right now!
“Miss,” says the one with the silver mesh, “if you would just bend over.”
I obey, closing my eyes and hoping against hope. I feel fingers opening my asshole like a flower. The man with the cobra ring inserts a cloth pouch into my rectum and lines it against my walls. The pouch has a drawstring with two ends that dangle from my anus.
“What is that for?” I say in wonder.
He grins at me as I straighten. “You’ll see.”
“We are going to have to carry you in, Gina, for your grand entrance,” Greg says.
“Carry me in? How?”
The youths position themselves in front and behind me. I must admit to being dubious.
“Begging your pardon, Miss,” one of them says as he kneels before me and grabs my right leg.
I gasp as another youth does the same to my left.
Together, the four of them lift me up by my hips, shoulders and thighs. The floor falls away from below me, and I am spread-eagled between them. My legs are held very wide apart by my knees and thighs, with the youths’ muscular arms supporting my buttocks. My back is almost flat, but I can crane my head up to see what’s happening in front of me.
The twin doors yawn open, almost as though in expectation of my entrance. My rouged pussy and pouch-lined asshole is bared for all to see as the youths carry me into the throb of music, laughter and noise.
The room is crowded. And what a crowd it is.
Young people mill with cocktail glasses in their hands – talking, laughing, kissing, groping one another. They are barely dressed in apparel designed to show off their breasts, buttocks and genitalia as much as possible. Heads look up as I make my entrance.
Murmurs all around:
“Ah, the new initiate.”
“Lovely, isn’t she?”
“Come, let’s take a closer look.”
I swivel my head this way and that, trying to take in as much as possible in my supine position. My heart beats rapidly within my chest. A woman is fellating a man in the middle of the floor. Bodies flit in and out, hiding them. Another couple is fucking – the woman slammed against a wall with her thighs around a man’s waist.
Oh! The pleasures!
A woman walks by in string bikini. It is exactly that – a bikini one string thick. Three narrow strings run down each of her enormous tits, while her clit is covered (if it can be called that) by one red strand. Her labia are completely exposed.
She stops by me.
“And who is this?” she asks. Her lips are very red and plump, and her dark eyes are thickly lined with multicolored mascara.
“Gina Wesley, the initiate,” Greg replies.
“And may we take a look at her?”
The youths carrying my legs lower my body so that I’m now held upright. My thighs are still spread open at an almost one hundred-and-eighty degree angle. My vagina and anus gape, the drawstrings dangling from the latter like two shaky tails.
Two men join the bikini woman. One of them wears an owl mask and a black cape which envelops his entire body except for his cock. The other has a pleasant, smiling face. I recognize him from around campus. He is one of the professors. His cock too is exposed, and he wears a peacock tail which sprouts from his ass in a striking fan. I reckon it’s probably held there by a dildo.
The woman plucks at my red nipples. “They look delicious. My compliments, Greg.”
Greg nods, obviously pleased.
The men painstakingly examine my vulva. They separate my pussy lips, pulling them apart and letting them spring back again. Their fingers stroke and tease my clit, and explore my vaginal passage. I close my eyes, savoring the sensations. I am no longer a prude concerning public display. I have recently found out that I quite enjoy it in fact.
“Still tight,” says the Peacock of my pussy. “Where are the tokens?”
“Here, sir.” Greg produces a small bag.
Its contents clink and roll – the sounds of something metallic.
Peacock dips his hand into the bag and removes a coin. It is a quarter. He inserts it deep into the pouch lining my rectum.
The man with the owl mask does the same, as does the bikini woman. When all three coins are rolling inside me, she draws the string so that they are contained within.
“A little donation for your initiation, Gina,” she says, smiling.
I smile back, because she is so very pretty. The coins slide down my rectum, a strange and unfamiliar sensation.
Greg and his friends hoist me up again and move me to another part of the room. The quarters roll and scrape against one another inside my ass, making their presence felt every step of the way.
A woman whose naked body is painted all over with detailed scenes from the Kama Sutra comes up to me. I can’t help but stare at the intricate designs on her body. Entwined lovers in ochre, red and blue cover her breasts, belly, back, buttocks and all the way down her legs. She must have paid a fortune to have it painted.
Her pussy however is bare and shaven, just like mine.
“Hi, Greg,” she says in a smoky voice. “Fresh fish?”
“Absolutely, Connie. Want a taste?”
Connie laughs. It’s a silvery, tinkling sound. She has a fluted wine glass in her hand – filled with bubbly champagne. “Tip her over.”
This time, the upper half of my body is lowered. My hips are raised so that I’m almost upside down. My quivering pussy is bared at the level of Connie’s midriff.
“Lovely,” she says. “Hold her steady now.”
The guys grip my thighs firmly as Connie pours champagne into my vaginal hole. The sensation is gaseous and prickly at the same time, like Coca Cola going down my throat. I can feel the lively liquid filling my crevices, weighed down by gravity. It is such a remarkable sensation that I let out a moan of pleasure.
“Oh, she likes it.”
Connie bends her head and puts her mouth on my wetted pussy. Her tongue sticks out and begins to lap at my champagne-filled hole. I have never before been tongued by a woman, and I gasp at the clever nuances Connie’s appendage makes upon my vulva. She laps, swallows, and makes a broad wet stroke up my clit. Feeling me shudder beneath her ministrations, she digs the tip of her tongue into my pussy folds.
I moan and writhe, but Greg and his friends hold me in their vise grip.
Connie peels my labia from my clit and tongues the area between them thoroughly. She seizes each pussy lip with her mouth and sucks at it as though it’s an orange wedge. Then she repeats the motions, lapping me dry and sucking me wet all over again, until I’m a quivering mess of little mewling sounds.
“What do we have here?” I hear a familiar voice say.
I snap open my eyes.
“Devlin!” I cry in delight. “I mean Master!”
And indeed, here he is, as gorgeous and golden as ever. In my upside down vantage, I twist my neck to observe his sleek V-shaped swimmer’s body. A bracelet made from red and green semi-precious stones adorns the base of his massive cock and balls. Oh, how I long for that cock to drill into my champagne-covered pussy! Can he sense how much I ache for him?
Devlin smiles at me. “Great going, Gina Wesley. How do you feel like having my fist in you?”
I shiver at his words.
“I will try to take it . . . I mean you . . . Master.”
“Sir,” Greg says, “it is not advisable going into the final initiation. We need her to be tight.”
A flicker of irritation crosses Devlin’s perfect features. “Of course. I was only joking. Let me feel her.”
Greg grimaces. I can sense no love lost between them. He seems to hesitate, and then signals to his friends to upend me once more. They spread my legs as wide as they can possibly go.
The remaining champagne trickles out of me and spots the carpet on the floor. Smiling, Devlin kneads and pinches my clit.
Connie grins, showing white teeth. “One of yours, Max?”
“For sure. See how pliant and ready she is.” Devlin takes a coin from Greg’s bag and inserts it into my anus.
“My contribution,” he whispers, his face very close to mine.
Then he does something he has never done before. He moves his lips towards my mouth and kisses me fully and lushly.
I’m so startled that I don’t even close my eyes.
Devlin’s blue eyes are twinkling as he withdraws. “That’s one for the road, Gina.”
My heart is beating so loudly in my chest that I have only just realized he has called me Gina tonight, and not Gia – the initiation name he has for me.
Connie grabs Devlin’s erect cock. “Come on, tiger. What do you say to a little ‘69’?”
“Sure thing.” Devlin allows himself to be led away by his cock.
Something writhes in my heart as I watch him go with Connie. The thought of Devlin being with another woman has never crossed my mind, as irrational as that may sound. Of course, I tell myself sternly, he’s been with hundreds of women. Maybe even thousands. He’s initiated dozens of people like me.
I am nothing to him but a lowly initiate to be used and discarded for his pleasure. After tonight, he has no reason to ever want to see me again.
Then why does the sight of beautiful Connie caressing his penis hurt me so?
Greg and his compatriots carry me to other men and women who stroke, massage, tweak and prod my tits, buttocks and genitals. For my compliance, they shower me with tokens of their appreciation. The pouch sits fat and heavy in my rectum, but I barely feel it. My mind is running over with the whirlwind of Devlin and Connie possibly fucking in some corner of the room (her back against the wall and her thighs squeezed around his swimmer’s waist), or her giving him fellatio, or him licking and cleaning her pussy up with his tongue – something else he has never done for me.
Is he kissing her even as I am being carted around like the sex object that I am? Oh, but I can’t bear to think about it!
I’m so troubled by my visions that I almost miss the gong that reverberates throughout the hall. The sound is deep and booming.
“Come, Gina, it’s your time,” Greg whispers, jerking me out of my reverie.
They cart me, spread-eagled, to a section of the hall. The crowd parts to let us through. In the center is a raised platform. A bed of white marble is erected on the platform, upon which a strange man-sized statue lies on its back.
The statue is obsidian black, and carved in the likeness of a Michelangelo sculpture. But instead of those tiny penises that adorn those otherwise perfect statues in Roman plazas, the genitals on this one are huge. Its black cock is thick, long and hard as any stone, and rises like a pillar from its long torso. The cock is shaped in the startling likeness of an anatomically correct penis as well, with a protruding glans and a large, curving dorsal vein upon its realistic shaft.
The statue’s face is beautiful – a black god in repose.
Standing at the statue’s head is a tall man in a golden headdress. He is dressed like an Aztec priest, with a golden and crimson cape worked with bright bird designs. He wears nothing under his cape, and his penis is sheathed in a golden and pointed casing at least two feet long. He dons the half-mask of a hawk, with its beak above his nose.
He lifts his arms as though to bless a congregation.
“Greetings, my friends, colleagues and fellow members!”
A jolt runs down my spine when I hear his voice. It is Dean Whitehouse.
“We are gathered here today to witness and celebrate our newest initiate, the lovely Gina Wesley. Come on up, Gina.”
Applause all round.
The youths bring me to the platform. It is not a platform, I realize as I look down upon it, but an altar. Flickering red candles adorn its sides, and coins are strewn across the floor of the dais. The fantastically underdressed men and women crowd closer, fluted glasses in their hands. Murmurs ripple through them as they pack themselves several bodies deep.
Dean Whitehouse approaches my open thighs. His gaze is scorching from behind his hawk mask as his fingers graze my pussy lips and clit, and dips down to the drawstring of the pouch. The pouch is now very pregnant with coins, and my rectum is stretched to the max. Slowly, he eases the pouch out from my swollen passage. I suck in a breath as it slides uncomfortably out of me, the bulging coins catching on my sphincter.
He raises the full pouch to the crowd.
“Thank you for your generous donations!”
Cheers all round, and the eager clapping of palms. Dean Whitehouse teases the drawstring open and scatters the quarters onto the floor. The sharp sound of clinking coins assaults my ears. I wince.
My body bearers turn me upright again. They carry me above the statue, so that I’m poised right on top of it.
I think I know what’s going to happen. I’m suddenly scared, and yet, there is a surge of something that hungers so voraciously within me.
I need this. I need to be filled.
Grasping both my thighs, they begin to lower my open pussy onto the statue’s erect and very huge cock. I pant a little and close my eyes, aware of several dozen eyes on me and my debasement.
“Wait.” I hear Greg say. I snap my eyes open again.
Greg comes to my front and adjusts the position of my hips, held in a lock by his friends.
“A little lower. That’s it.”
His fingers prize my pussy lips apart so that he can better see and guide my descent.
I utter a cry as the black cock enters the first part of my vagina. It is as cold and unforgiving as ice.
“Slowly, don’t hurt her,” Greg says, ever solicitous. Concern shows on his handsome face.
Dean Whitehouse’s glinting eyes behind his mask hold mine as they impale me inch by precious inch onto the statue’s cock. The cold stone slides into my vagina, expanding my wet walls in a smooth, cleaving stroke. It penetrates me until its blunted tip nestles against my closed cervix. And I have not taken it in fully. A good half inch still remains outside.
The youths leave the dais. I am mounted upon the statue, all alone in my sacrifice.
Cheers erupt amid the crowd.
“The black god has taken her!” Dean Whitehouse thunders above the din. “Let their joining commence.”
Whistles, catcalls and claps greet this.
Greg whispers in my ear. “Move your hips, Gina.”
Aware that I am playing to my biggest audience ever, I begin to fuck the piece of chiseled stone. I grind my hips against it, and move my body up and down. My wanton pussy – which has been aching all day – is now filled, and I am somewhat gratified . . . but not fully. The stone is very hard, but I’m very wet, which compensates for its unrelenting girth.
“Faster, cunt!” Dean Whitehouse’s voice lashes out like a whip.
I swallow, and comply.
My body undulates as I pump myself even harder. My buttocks rise and fall. My tits bounce and sway, firm as they are, from my heated effort. Inside, the stone spears me and fucks me and drives me mad with its unyielding cruelty. Sweat beads my brow despite the cold air of the room, and I can feel my creaminess trickling down the stone and onto the statue’s black groin.
Is Devlin watching me from the sea of faces, stiff cocks and glistening pussies? I scan the crowd surreptitiously, but I do not see either him or Connie.
A flush spreads from my neck to my heaving breasts.
Dean Whitehouse comes closer to observe my fucking, like a teacher who must give me grades.
He says to Greg, who is standing at the side: “Spin her.”
Spin me? I do not understand.
Greg and another youth climb up onto the dais and approach the slab that I am perched upon on either side.
“Gina, stop,” Greg says urgently.
I sit still as they both seize my legs. They bend my knees at an acute angle so that my feet are now jackknifed higher than the surface of the slab.
Greg and the other youth begin to turn my body like a wheel upon its axle. Only thing, the axle is now attached to my vulva. I grasp and claw at their shoulders and hands, which they willingly allow me to. My center of gravity has been lost, and I’m teetering on the brink of imbalance. I can’t help but cry out in distress.
My tormentors pay me no heed. They continue to spin me upon my axis, passing my legs between their large hands as though I am a toy. The black god’s cock grinds into me like a rotating pestle into mortar. The friction is both painful and pleasurable, and tears of shame spring to my eyes. My head is becoming dizzy, and my vision blurs. The room and faces whirl round and round as every inch of my vagina is scraped and swished upon the smooth stone.
The crowd begins to chant, “Faster, faster!”
“Don’t worry.” Greg’s reassuring voice. “I’ve got you, Gina. I’ll make sure you don’t get hurt.”
My world tumbles and dissipates into a kaleidoscope of hazy colors, half-perceived chants of “Faster, faster”, murmurs and other sounds. And above all of it is screaming – and all of it is coming from my throat. It’s not as if the sensation is painful – it is painful, but not excruciatingly so. It’s the very act of being screwed so completely that I have become nothing more than a vessel for public exhibition, and the fact that the latter has become so natural to me in a few short days that I actually crave it.
Oh my God. I actually like this!
Is this normal?
I don’t even realize that they have stopped rotating me until I hear Greg’s voice in my ear. “It’s over, Gina. It’s okay now.”
I’m slumped against Greg’s shoulder and arms. I feel like I’m swimming in a big blue void, with no idea which way is up and down. I’m vaguely conscious of being lifted off the black god’s penis, now slick and gleaming with my pussy juices. I’m conscious of being carried by four men down the platform and to another part of the hall.
Smiling faces stare at me from everywhere. There are words of encouragement. Cheers, even.
They bring me to what I can only describe as a bondage contraption. It resembles an ironing board, with a spoon-shaped depression at one end. Two leather slings hang from the ceiling beside it at both sides.
The guys position me horizontally on the board. My head fits the spoon-shaped depression comfortably. My back rests on the contraption, which stops at my midriff. The lower half of my body is at the mercy of gravity, until they insert both my legs into the leather slings, where I am supported at my knees. The slings are positioned so that my legs are almost at a horizontal arc to one another.
My hands are bound at the wrists to the contraption’s legs. Greg additionally circles my breasts with leather straps so that instead of sagging to my sides, they push from my recumbent chest like two prominent honey melons. My scarlet nipples point invitingly to the ceiling.
The partygoers begin to mill around me, glasses in their hands.
“You still want to be fucked, Gina?” Greg asks me.
I nod, tears in my eyes.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He strokes my hair as he smiles at me. “You’ll get your wish.”
The crowd parts. Dean Whitehouse strides up in his fantastic costume, his golden penis sheath bouncing before his legs like a pointer stick.
I’m suddenly terrified. I struggle against my bonds.
Greg puts his hand on my left breast. “Don’t worry, Gina. It’ll be OK.”
Dean Whitehouse stands before my open thighs, the sheath sprouting from between his legs like a sword. Someone kneels beside him and painstakingly unfastens it from his cock. The cock that I have seen and craved for in the garden shed now rears its magnificent head before my pussy – virile and purple and veined.
A satisfied collective gasp runs through the gathered crowd as he plunges that cock into my wet vaginal hole. Finally, male flesh inside my flesh! I have longed for this so much that now that it has finally happened, the sensations flooding my pussy are even more intense that I would have believed possible.
It is as if I’m a parched desert, finally showered by rain.
I arch my back in pleasure as he begins to move within me, his turgid shaft filling every crevice and burrow of my pussy. He seizes my splayed thighs as he drives himself into me. His strokes are swift, brutal and merciless – just as his lashings with the birch cane were on my buttocks in his office not so long ago.
He buries his cock into me up to its base, and his balls slap against my ass. I feel the crest of my orgasm beginning, like a wave still far off from the beach, and I let the tide suffuse me, and buoy me to a long-awaited release.
He fucks me and fucks me, his hard eyes arresting mine. I writhe and moan, and finally explode into a series of shuddering involuntary movements. At the same time, I can feel his measured squirts inside my vagina, as if he can control even that. His semen is warm and copious. A profound feeling of satisfaction at having been taken and claimed by this powerful man floods through me.
He withdraws his dripping cock as I sink back into the board, spent by the night’s events. Applause greets him.
Greg leans towards me. “Are you all right, Gina?”
“Do you still want to be fucked?”
I have been filled twice tonight.
I meet Greg’s eyes. “I want to you to fuck me,” I whisper.
And Max Devlin. I need Max Devlin’s cock inside me one more time. But where is he? Is he watching me from afar? I crane my neck to look amongst the faces of the leering men and women, but I cannot see him.
Despair wrenches my chest cavity.
Greg cups my bonded right breast as a man in a black PVC bodysuit approaches my open legs. Only the man’s erect cock and his hairy balls are exposed below his neck. Greg strokes my painted nipple as the man’s cock enters my vulva, still swimming with Dean Whitehouse’s sperm.
So it is to be a free for all.
Yet another penis appears next to my head. Hands swivel my neck, and the tip of the penis presses against my lips. I open my mouth to take the head in. The cock down there slams into my pussy. Moist, sloppy noises accompany it. Another hand gropes my left breast, and more hands run down my abdomen. I suck at the cock in my mouth, unable to see anything beyond damp blond pubic hair. The smell of semen is strong in my nostrils.
The cock in my pussy withdraws – whether it has ejaculated or not, I can’t be sure. It is replaced by a bigger cock. I gasp against the penile head in my throat, while hands caress my hair and cheeks. Grunts, moans and heavy breathing permeate the atmosphere. The cock in my mouth is removed. My head is turned to the other side, only to be greeted by the sight of more tumescent cocks. Another cock dives into my open mouth.
“Suck it, Gina,” I hear Greg’s reassuring voice. “Suck it hard.”
I can’t be sure if the cock I’m sucking is Greg’s, or someone else’s. All I know is that the one fucking me has spurted its warm seed into my vagina, and that it is being withdrawn. Another shaft replaces it, and begins its possession of me. The pumping of this one is hard and fierce, as though I am a nail that must be hammered through. My G-spot is massaged with a vengeance, and I find myself moaning and being driven to distraction again.
Hands seize my head to refocus my mouth on the cock which is sliding in and out of my throat. I have become a vessel for sexual pleasure – a doll for human gratification and usage.
The friction on my G-spot becomes too difficult to contain, and I explode in orgasm, shuddering and squirting copious amounts of my own female fluids. Out slides the cock, to be replaced by another one in my asshole. My hips are lifted by rough hands. The taking of my rectum is swift and merciless, with no regard for my comfort or pleasure.
As my anal fucking continues, the cock in my mouth is transplanted by a warm pussy.
“Lick me,” says a sultry female voice.
I can’t see anything beyond dark pubic hair and pale flesh, and so I bury my tongue into the pussy lips and clit proffered to me. Its taste is like caviar. I flick my tongue between its folds repeatedly, and am pleased to listen to the feminine expressions of satisfaction above me.
This continues for an indeterminate time – this cycle of cock after pussy after cock in my mouth, vagina and anus – interchanging, rotating, sometimes flooding me with cum, other times not. I no longer know whose cock has fucked me, or whether one of them has been Greg’s, or Devlin’s, or Dean Whitehouse’s. But there are so many men and women in this hall, and I am nothing but their sex slave.
Greg is right. I got my wish.
I am fucked, and fucked, and fucked over and over again – until I no longer know where anything ends and where it begins. I experience orgasm after orgasm, some so furious that they merge into one another and I think I have reached absolute bliss.
Finally, the night is over. I am lying on the contraption, exhausted beyond my known reserves.
Greg cradles my head in his hands, saying in that soothing voice of his, “Good girl. You’ve done well.”
He unties me and frees my breasts. My mouth, cunt and anus are brimming with the semen of dozens of unidentified men. The pleasure has suffused into my flesh and bones so deeply that it seems to have been imprinted in me.
I’m a limp doll in Greg’s arms as he carries me away from the room for bed and rest.
“Did you fuck me, Greg?” I ask weakly.
“Somewhere in the middle.”
“Where did you fuck me? In the pussy or the ass?”
“Oh good,” I say, and go to sleep in his embrace.
I’m now officially in Phi Kappa Omega, the greatest club in Gifford. I’m the youngest member ever to get in, and I’m a freshman to boot.
My course mates now look at me with new pairs of eyes. I’m someone to be admired and envied. The freshman version of the most popular girl in class. Guys stare at me as I pass in the halls, and sometimes, I wonder if they know what I’ve gone through to get where I am. I wonder if anyone outside Phi Kappa Omega knows.
It doesn’t matter. I’m in the elite of the elite now. Doors will be open to me. Referrals. A ticket to a better world.
But was it all worth it?
I’m been fucked by more men that I care to count. I don’t speak of it, and neither does my sister, Karyn. When I call her to tell her that I’m in, she says, “Oh well . . . now you know. I hope it was worth it.”
“Was it worth it to you?” I say carefully.
She pauses over the line, and then goes on. “I’m lining up for interviews at three of the biggest law schools in the country.”
I hesitate before I say, “OK. Congrats, sis.”
I ring off, my heart thudding painfully against my ribs. The memories of my gang bang play vividly in my dreams. Sometimes, they bring immense shame to my cheeks. Other times, I am reliving the pleasurable sensations of being supremely fucked in every available orifice of my body – the intense psychological ramifications of being tied up, claimed and used over and over again.
I have not seen Max Devlin since my final initiation night. I still do not know if he’s one of the dozens who fucked me that night, or if he disappeared with Connie, never to return to the hall.
I find myself in the Phi Kappa Omega building. Students nod at me as I pass, and I smile back. I take the stairs two at a time.
I pause outside a familiar door. It’s the very one I have hesitated outside, my guts churning, not too long ago when I decided I would do whatever it takes to get into Phi Kappa Omega.
“Come in,” says a voice.
My blood runs electric in my veins as I turn the door knob and enter.
Max Devlin is seated in his deep brown leather couch. As with before, his legs are splayed wide open. He’s dressed in tight denim jeans and a white wife-beater. His gleaming muscular arms send a deep vibration coursing between my legs.
He smiles as he gets up. He comes towards me, holding out a palm.
“Gina Wesley,” he says, shaking my hand. “What can I do for you?”
I’m a little nonplussed.
“Um,” I say, “I just wanted to see how you were getting on.”
“I’m fine. Busy with papers and stuff.” He indicates the pile of books and the open laptop on the table in front of the couch. His blue eyes are questioning. “And you?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Wonderfully fine. Why shouldn’t I be?” I toss off a little laugh.
I stand there awkwardly before him – this blond Adonis of my dreams. Why isn’t he ordering me around like his personal sex slave? Why isn’t he asking me to squat on the couch and lift up my skirt?
Somehow, he senses this.
He says, “You know, Gina . . . all that stuff that happened. That was just the initiation. You’re one of us now. You’ll be roped into parties, everything else – ”
“I don’t care about all that,” I blurt out.
A long silence stretches between us.
“So what do you want?” he says softly. He’s two feet away from me. If I take one stop towards him, I can touch his bulging chest.
“I want . . . I want to know if you’re seeing Connie.” A frog comes to my throat as I say this.
“I’m not seeing anyone, Gina. At least, not in the technical sense.”
“Then . . . would it be OK . . . if you and I . . . ?”
“Yes?” A teasing smile ghosts his lips.
The constriction in my throat is so painful that I almost can’t get the words out. “I want to keep on seeing you. I want to hang out with you.”
“Are you asking me for a date?”
My eyes fall to the floor. My pulse slams painfully against my neck. Here it comes . . . the rejection that I would not be able to bear.
“Sure,” he says.
What? I’m barely able to believe my ears. I look up at his gorgeous smiling face.
“You look surprised,” he adds.
“Well,” I begin, but he doesn’t let me finish.
He takes one stride towards me, and kisses me on the lips. My arms creep around his neck and his go around my waist. I respond to his mouth hungrily, tasting every nuance, texture and mold of his wonderful lips. His tongue probes into my mouth, and I let him explore me – this final frontier of intimacy. His greedy tongue roams over my inner cheeks, my teeth, finally merging with my own wet tongue.
We pause for air.
“So what do you want to do now, Gina?”
“We should go out . . . on a date,” I say breathlessly.
He laughs. “Let me get my keys.”
My heart is skipping and tumbling all over with joy when he returns with the keys to his bike . . . and something else. He holds it out in his palm.
“Do you want to . . . put this on, Gina?” He says this hesitantly in a completely ‘it’s up to you’ manner.
I look at the object. A delicious shiver blossoms in my groin.
“No, I want you to put it on for me.”
He kneels before me as I lift up my skirt. I’m not wearing any panties. My freshly shaven pussy is already wet from his earlier kiss. I part my legs as he gently touches my clit and labia.
His mouth closes in on my pussy – another first for him, as though to signal our new relationship. His lips and tongue caress my inner lips and the moist, quivering hood of my clit. I squirm and bury my fingers in his blond hair. His tongue licks and circles my clit with marvelous pendulous, twitching movements, so that I can’t help but gasp and grind my hips against his mouth.
He stops, smiling. His lips are creamed with my dripping juices, an erotically wonderful sight in itself. He lifts the object – a combination clit and labial clamp decorated with four strings of light silver chains – and pins it between the hood of my clitoris and pussy lips.
I gasp as the sensation of being clipped in my most intimate parts assaults me. The clamp is shaped like an ‘M’ with an extra leg. Not only does the delicious pressure flare from my clit, but my inner labia are also snared and compressed thoroughly. The four chains trail from the bottom ends of the clamp.
Devlin kisses my imprisoned pussy one more time and lets the hem of my skirt fall.
“Let’s go out,” he says, his voice husky.
We speed down to where he has parked his bike – well, in my case, I have to walk very carefully, because the chains are clinking and weighing me down.
“How are you for public exhibitionism today?” he says playfully.
I grin. “Just tell me how you want to display me.”
I’m wearing a tight halter top and no brassiere underneath. So he teases out my tits, and arranges them outside my neckline so that my mounds are enveloped and enhanced by the stretched fabric.
He straddles his bike. “Come on.”
I swing my leg over the seat and press my exposed breasts against his back. From the side, a casual viewer will be able to admire my naked flesh. I hike my skirt up and wriggle my hips towards his buttocks, so that my clipped pussy rubs against his denim. My own buttocks are displayed for all to see.
Devlin starts his bike, and we roar out of the campus, my arms clasped tightly around his waist. My heart is beating very hard inside my chest.
Students turn and stare, and maybe – if they look past my obviously displayed flesh – they will be able to see the tears of joy glistening in my eyes as I hug my new lover towards me.