Priyanka in trouble

[hotaks]

But this guy rather disgraced himself. He went off inside her almost as soon as she started bouncing on him. "Christ," he said, "Sorry, sorry. Too much build-up. Sorry." 

She squatted over his face, digging out his spooge with her fingers so it dribbled down on him. Then she made him lick her. But not for long. He wasn't any good at it. 

Number 3, the other guy that volunteered to lie flat for her and be ridden, did a much better job of it than Number 2 had managed. Problem with him, he turned out to have too much stamina. Too much of a good thing. It took a long time and an awful lot of exercise to get him done. Wasn't enough just to bounce on him like Number 2. He liked it—needed it—hard and fast—hard and fast as was humanly possible. She really had to throw her hips into it and work her legs. Her muscles were burning, by the end of it, and she was soaked with sweat, red in the face, and completely out of breath. 

She did come three more times, on top of the guy, before his cock finally gave itself up to her. The spectators probably didn't notice, like she had hoped. They were all little quick ones, jolting kicks, very different than the first one the leader gave her. Not to say they weren't as good—they just did very different things to her. They weren't climactic climaxes—they didn't wring her out. Instead these ones spurred her on. Like little blasts of lightning, supercharging her body.She was used to orgasms that stunned her into a daze and made her body go limp, if only for a second or two. But the way those three struck her, they sped her up instead. They didn't make her feel done—they just made her want more. Each time one struck, her strength had been just about to give out, and she was sure she'd have to stop galloping on the guy to take a breather—or at least slow way, way down—but then one of those lightning kicks would strike through her out of the blue and blast her right back up to full speed, and full pressure ... She read once that lightning actually shoots up from the ground into the sky, even though it always looks like it goes the other way, when you see a flash. She was reminded of that piece of trivia, because of course she felt the three "lightning strikes" burst upward through her body, the same way. 


Two men left. No, wait—actually just one. The other guy had been jerking himself too hard, while he was watching ... He'd taken himself past the point of no return. Missed his shot.Or rather, he'd wasted it. He was one of the guys that kept his sunglasses on, too. What a total lame wanker, in every respect. 

Priyanka herself wouldn't have minded being done, by that stage. Number 3 had just about burned her out. At the same time, though she was tired, she was fine with keeping going, at least a little while longer. She was wasn't gonna try to wriggle out of taking care of the last guy, so long as he was the one doing the work.Time for some doggy, looked like.

This final chap was the one that backed out of being Number 2, 'cause he didn't wanna lie down for her. Didn't like it that way. Well then. He said doggy was his favorite. So that had worked out good. 

Doggy was often Priyanka's favorite, too. Not always. And she had some problems with it. She frequently wished it didn't feel as good as it did. Because it felt the most submissive, for her. Even more than missionary, somehow—flat on your back with your legs in the air. Doggy was the most animalistic, and that made it feel the most demeaning. Bending over for it, on your hands and knees.With the guy behind you so you couldn't see him. And all he was looking at—all he wanted to look at—was your arse, and his cock going into you, stretching you open as much as he could. And men always slapped your bottom, while they did it. And they pulled your hair. And yet it usually felt good, when they did those things. Not always—not if they did it too hard or too much. But when it was done right, that stuff made you jump and tighten up inside. Made you feel everything more. And better.

Doggy made her come the strongest. Not always, but often. It was troubling. Even when it was really good—when it was at its best—it made you feel humiliated. She wished she didn't like it so much. Or that it didn't bother her like it did. But it did. It always would. 

Just like she expected, that last fuck with that last guy was the both the best and the worst.

Just like she'd feared, the guy pulled on her braid while he pounded her, and he kept slapping her arse. It was demeaning, and she kept telling him not to do that, but he kept doing it anyway, and she let him get away with it—because it felt good, every time he did it.Too good to punish him for it, like she should have.

She had holstered her gun. She did this for no other reason than the fact it was awkward to support herself in the doggy position, with the weapon in her hand. This was a mistake. But by that stage she felt it wasn't necessary to keep hold of it. Not to say the men had exactly earned her trust. But she didn't feel afraid of them. Even on her hands and knees in the submissive doggy pose, she felt in control of the situation. The men were all enjoying themselves too much to give her any trouble, weren't they? They had no reason to. And even if things changed, it would be easy enough to draw the weapon again if she had to. She was confident in her speed, and in her instincts.

And she was feeling really good. The last fucker was giving it to her really great. She was feeling too much pleasure to keep her guard up properly. Holstering the weapon was stupid, but that's what pleasure does to you. It turns you stupid. Makes you vulnerable.You can't worry about things, when you're feeling super-good. When your nervous system is too busy rapidly closing you in on another explosive orgasm. 

When he made her come, he made her scream that time. And then in another minute, just before he finished himself, he managed somehow to get her off again. That time she didn't scream, because she couldn't. It took her so completely she couldn't make a sound. A real throat-strangling toe-curler.She almost passed out.

And when he came, he came on her face. She hadn't meant to let him do that. He was supposed to dump it on her arse or spray it up her back, if his aim was off. But he hustled around in front of her, still holding on to her braid, before she realized what he was doing, because she'd just had that last gigantic climax herself—what was it, the fifth or the sixth—and she wasn't paying any attention.And she couldn't dodge out of the way, once he started, since he had hold of her braid. He kept her perfectly positioned, for the shot. Made her take it from the side, straight across both cheeks.

And then he stepped back some but kept holding her like that so his leader and one of the others—the wanker in the glasses that hadn't got to fuck her—could step up over her and give her two more facials, together. Even though both of them had already come, enough time had gone by and they'd had enough stimulation watching her and cranking themselves, that they were both all set to pop again. Thankfully the last two weren't—the two she'd ridden on top of—they hadn't been able to get their cocks going again. She'd already drained them dry. 

Three shots like that was more than enough to completely drench her face, and her tits too. They made a huge, disgusting, disgraceful mess on her. She screamed again, but not at all in pleasure. 

"Ahh God! You fuckers! Fuck! Gahh shit!" 

They cheered and laughed at her, of course, enjoying themselves immensely.

She tried to draw her guns. She would have blown them all to Hell. She should have tried that sooner—but she was too shocked, too appalled. It's impossible to think clearly when three men are pumping jizz all over your face, especially when one of them is pulling your hair hard enough to make you cry, and you're still punch-drunk from an enormous orgasm ... 

So she wasn't fast enough. They grabbed her arms before she got her guns free. Wrestled her hands off the handles, and then forced her arms behind her back while somebody else took the guns out of their holsters. The leader called for rope, and one of the gang ran to their piled packs, to produce some.

"Hurry! She's strong!"

"I'm hurrying! I'm hurrying!" 

"No! No! Get off me! Let go! Don't you fucking dare!" 

But they fucking dared. 

They tied her hands, and they tied her ankles too. She couldn't get away. She couldn't prevent them. "No! Damn you! No! Fuck! No!" Then they tied her elbows and her knees. Christ, how much fucking rope did they bring with them? Then they made another little loop to hold a sock in her mouth, gagging her.

They still weren't quite done. They unclipped the buckle of her gunbelt, and the straps that held its holsters to her thighs, and pulled the whole assembly off her, as well, flinging it across the chamber. There was no real reason to do that. They'd already emptied the holsters, and it wasn't like it covered anything on her. But they still took it away, hooting and howling like apes, like it was a big deal for them to deprive her of it. 

And it was a big deal. It shouldn't have been, perhaps, but it was. It hurt to lose that belt. And she groaned through her gag, like she'd been kicked. "Muhhhrrruhh!" Somehow it took the last of her strength and resistance away—not like she could have kept fighting, even if she still had it on. For the holsters were empty and she was already bound.She was already done for. And it hadn't covered any part of her ... but still, but still! She felt a hundred times more naked and a hundred times smaller and weaker without it on.












They dressed themselves, passed some bottles of water around from their packs, and then they got busy carrying out one of the hawk-headed statues, to load in their boat out there or whatever they had. Turned out the doorway wasn't too big for it after all, so moving the thing wasn't as hard as it might have been. Still took the group a couple hours.

Priyanka lay on her side on the floor, all this time, bound and gagged, naked and filthy. Sticky and itching all over with dried and crusted semen.She did not waste her strength trying to struggle, though she shivered frequently—not with cold. She wept a little, but was too angry to feel much fear or despair. At least she didn't think of her feelings as fear or despair. She didn't acknowledge those emotions—anchoring herself, with all her remaining will, on to anger, alone. On to burning, blazing, furious rage.

But unfortunately, a feeling that intense is hard to maintain, for any great length of time. The fire inside her was only simmering low and blue, by the time the men's attention returned to her. 

Once they were done getting the statue out, the men came back into the temple. They drank a good deal more water, smoked some cigarettes, and ate some candy bars. Then they all undressed again. 

They ungagged Priyanka and gave her some water, but kept her tied. And then each of them fucked her again.

Since she had already given herself to all of them, she had been half-expecting the men to want to move on to some new, more ghastly amusement. But it seemed the novelty of screwing hadn't yet worn off. No doubt it was a big difference, indulging themselves upon a bound protesting captive, versus how it was before, with her in charge, calling all the shots.

It was ridiculous and useless and she knew it—it wouldn't do her any good at all—but still when they pulled the gag off her and moved her into the position they wanted, she said "Don't do this. You said you wouldn't do this. I already pleasured all of you. I'll do it again if you want but not like this. Untie me, please. Don't do it like this. You fucking bastards. Why are you doing this to me?"

The only answer she got was the head of a cock pressing her opening. She clenched there, defensively. But it wouldn't do any good, keeping him out."Wait! Wait! Listen to me!" He was pushing, but only slightly—only nudging the gash, to torment her. Each nudge made her tighten again and squirm. "Will you just listen? Listen I UHHuhhnn."

She was penetrated. And slowly, slowly, savoring her, he pushed in more and more, further and further. She thought he had her filled, but then it pushed even deeper. "HUUHHNN!Bastard!"

They all took her doggy, one after the other. At least they kept it in individual turns. Some wanted to double- or triple-team her, but the leader wouldn't let them. "She'll just bite your cocks off. Besides, I like to hear her. Can't hear her good enough if you're plugging her mouth."

To spite him, after she heard him say that, Priyanka did her best to keep quiet. But it wasn't easy. She didn't manage that for long.

In fact she almost wished they had stuffed their cocks in her mouth. It would have helped her, having something to suck on. Something else to concentrate on, instead of the fucking.Instead of her poor pussy.She wouldn't have bitten them off. That wouldn't have done her any good, in the long run.

The worst part was when she came again. Most of them couldn't make her, but the leader, who took his turn last instead of first, that round—he did, somehow.

More likely she did it to herself, worrying about it too much. She was so horrified by the idea—she told herself it was impossible for a rapist to make her come, but still she couldn't stop thinking how dreadful and humiliating that would be. She knew these men could make her come because they already had so many times. And even though this was a whole different deal, none of them hurt her when they took her anew. She was still too lubricated and stretched out, from all the sex the first time. These fuckings—these rapes—weren't pleasurable, like the sex had been when it was consensual—but they didn't hurt her, either. There was none of the tearing and burning she expected. She seemed to have mostly shut down inside and gone numb. Not completely. All she was aware of was movement, pretty much—shameful, slimy heat—and the pressure of intrusion. It was bad but it could have been much worse. And she almost wished it was. It frightened her that it wasn't more appropriately terrible and agonizing.

And even though they weren't hurting her, she still couldn't endure it all quietly. The violation of it, the unfairness.Her absolute helplessness. She couldn't fight them, she couldn't kick or shove back against them, she could barely move at all. She felt so weak, and even worse, so foolish. For letting this happen to her. Letting herself get suckered. Turned into a plaything. It was all too much to bear. 

They're fucking me! They all keep fucking me! I can't away! I can't away! They're gonna keep fucking me and fucking me! All I can do is take it! And keep taking it! But I can't! I can't just keep taking it! 

It made her whimper, and then whine, and then, as it went on and on, the whines turned into wails.

"Ahhuuhhnn.Arrhhuuhhrrr.Guuhhhrr."

They loved these noises. But she couldn't stop making them, once they started, seeming to bubble up by themselves from her churning guts and bursting out of her. 

One after another, the men took their pleasure from her, pounding her savagely from behind. Of course they'd pull on her braid and smack her bottom at regular intervals, while they did it. At least each finished quickly. When they were ready, they pulled out of her and went around to her front, to unload on her face. Except for one weirdo, who decided to pump off on the bottoms of her feet, instead.Then using his cockhead to smear the slime in between her clenching toes, afterward. It wasn't the first time a guy had jizzed all over her feet. She usually got a kick out of the sensation. It was as if they had to defile every part of her body she'd ever taken pride in, and for the rest of her days, spoil by association every sexual delight she had ever previously enjoyed. It was like she had to be punished for every whimsical indulgence she'd ever dared to make in her sex-life. But they had no right. No one had the right.

It didn't matter. It wouldn't stop them. 

As her pussy got more and more used to this, she was terrified the sensations would change. Her body would adapt to accommodate them. It's one of the main ways humans deal with stress and suffering—they get used to it and adapt to it and finally start to enjoy it, if there's nothing else to do. No way to make it stop. 

She was so afraid of that happening that she made it happen. Like worrying you're gonna get sick eventually makes you sick. It only happened for the leader, at the very end—but it happened. And she couldn't disguise it. She couldn't hold it in. 

By then, they had her screeching at every thrust, and begging for mercy, too. 

"EEE! YEEE! Please no more ... Please I can't take anymore ... YUHHH! Please just YAHHRR! Oh please oh ohohohhohhohh God ohh ..."

"You bitch. You hot damn dirty bitch."

She was a bitch, it was true. It was totally true. She was hot and she was dirty and she was a bitch and she was damned. She was damned because she was hot and dirty and a bitch. She was this man's hot damned dirty bitch. They'd made her become this—she'd let them make her. Let them take her. It shouldn't have happened. But she'd been stupid and weak and dirty. Did she deserve this? Had she brought this on herself? It felt like she had. 

Because she was going to come now. She couldn't stop him making her come.

"Oh God oh no oh no nonoohhohhhnoo ..." 

Ultimate humiliation. She was damned. She was in Hell. She belonged her, because she'd let the fucker make her come again.

(Unless it was those weird flowers, after all.The funny fumes in the air. That might have been the only real reason it happened. She hoped so. She would cling to this theory, afterward.) 

And she felt him come right with her, inside her. He probably couldn't help himself, the way her pussy clamped and spasmed on him. She squeezed inside so tight, she felt herself cramping. His cock should have torn right off his body, at the root, if there was any justice in the world. 

When she opened her eyes, she was alone. They'd all left. Had it only been a moment, since he finished with her, or had it been longer? She hadn't lost consciousness, but she'd definitely spaced out for a while. 

There was a knife on the stone floor in front of her nose. They'd left it there so she'd eventually be able to cut herself free, with a bit of wriggling. Big of them.


And at the moment, she was so absolutely exhausted and demoralized, she didn't have the will left to start trying to free herself. Not now, not yet. Tomorrow.

Priyanka Chopra shut her eyes again, slumped over on her side on the floor and went to sleep right there, with her hands and feet still bound, a steady and endless run of semen trickling down her thighs from the red and swollen cleft of her womanhood.