My Lust, Our Greed, Her Gluttony
My gluttonous wife Mary is sneaking the door open. I can see the burgers,
shakes and French fries in her eyes as the door widens. It almost reminds me
of the time I'd put her on a three day, all semen diet. The little compliant
piggy that she'd become in her muddy hope, unable to avoid putting on five
pounds too many. At the time I'd thought it practical to teach her a lesson;
get a few pork rinds off the carcass with a semen only menu, just to put her
in her place. Here she is again, back lit in the doorway, once more sporting
a tummy bulge under her halter and over her cutoffs, and she but a few wee
minutes until her seven years are up.
I'm Joe. My biggest claim to fame is being at the forefront of
xenotranplantation bio-research. In the beginning it was thought that
replacing the genes responsible for making alpha-1-galactose would be the
breakthrough, but that was just a hint. Those little pig organs were
promising, but the truth was, alpha-1-galactose was not the only thing our
immune systems disliked. However, by the time we were cutting out organs
without that nasty white blood cell attracting glactose, we were proving
that we could at least keep patients alive long enough to give them some
time to find a human donor. Most didn't, but they still paid fifty thousand
a pound for the lottery.
Human chromosomes were finally mapped, showing us more places where pigs
and humans differed. That's where Xenobiotech got hot, oddly, just about the
same time that I found myself taking off the scrubs and wearing the money
making CEO hat full-time.
A kidney here, a heart there, add a liver for the drunks, and the next
thing you know, living large in the service of the aging baby boomers was an
exponent in my banking account. The less I did, the more money I made.
I spent half of my time supporting groups that fought the cloners and the
pro-stemcellers; to the groups I funded it was religion, which was fine
enough for me, if it worked to our advantage and nobody paid attention to
the fact that gene engineering was even more ethically suspect than cloning
or batch processing unaltered genes could imagine being. I spent the other
half of my time hiring brains that made me rich and nodding to the
accountants who sorted my gains into offshore tax havens.
Mostly, though, it was the work of my staff that carried on and made us
big when it started to look like those pig guts were sticking and people
were going to be living well without the difficult follow-up human
counterpart. To lay it out simply, the pig is already 99.99% human. That
only left a few thousand genes per organ to fart around with, but the
breakthrough was in being able to make each organ near-human, as opposed to
spending all of our time fiddling with every single immunity recognizing
gene. Up to that point the chore was in keeping the pig from rejecting its
own organs as they altered. You see, the things can't be totally human, or
we'd never be able say that we grew them in a sow. The fact is, to call them
pig products only counted if you noted the origin of the species that grew
them. Under the table, we just mixed and matched and fed them in with the
donor material, which, in the beginning, allowed us to give our marks a
temporary pig organ, only to replace it with a donor one that was, in fact,
the same damned thing. Heady days, those?
On the tech side, all along, we had it both right and wrong. You see, we
were using retroviruses to implant the new codes into the organ cells of
pigs, organ by organ with organ specific alterations, virus being naturally
fast at the job of replacing cell nuclei and warping the blob. So, it was
Doctor Long who I believe came up with this; the solution to making
something complicated into something less complicated was to make the whole
pig more human, including the immune system; a biggie. Retrovirus target the
whole pig, and in essence, damned near everything growing in the muddy
bastard was usable. That, of course, wasn't easy because one thing didn't
like the next, like a heart didn't fit into a slower altering chest cavity,
and so fine tuning was hell, but once we had it, we could make the pig a
virtual organ farm, and with one neat shot too.
Did you ask, what kind of patent did we put on that? Oh yeah, to be sure,
we didn't even tell anybody we had the big one, and wrapped it up tight with
the little ones. Put a macro-patent on a thing like that and you are bound
to have the World Health Organization pleading that it has to be made
universal and at Ugandan wages. Or, maybe the Vatican telling you to shut
down. We availabled' organs; that's enough for them to know, don't you
think? I think so.
There's also the moral question about what the pig ended up looking like
by the time it started to scare even us into wasting it , but hey, it's a
pig; deal with yourself. After all, we did adopt a self restraint to kill
the thing after twelve months, harvested or not.
I didn't want to get into that; my life being less than I'd thought it
should be in the moral department. For example, my mother would never have
approved of my marriage. I'm on my third wife, you see. Each had to sign a
prenuptial. I get a wife change every seven years, prompt, like lubing a
car, though the age differential is getting a tad wide.
I like the bitches tall, blonde, lips like marshmallows, swimming suck
sacks without silicone, and smart enough to be somebody, had they not met
me, which I see as a bonus, it being sort of sacrificial. Even then I put
them to the blow-job test because I'm not marrying anybody who can't suck
the chrome off of a tail-hitch. Hey, I'm working on my last few mills before
a billion, and I figure I can special order.
It's not like they don't know the score. In fact, each of them was kept
on her toes, at first glad to be moneyed and in love, but ultimately, eager
to make it past the seventh year when the prenuptial ran out and they
actually had a shot at something more than the summer cottage and change. I
have them in perpetual minis, corsets, crotchless, garters and heels. I get
them to meet me at the door in doggie suits - I kid you not. I get fed all
sorts of body expressions from cutsie to leather to baby-doll to whatever
they think might work me up on our own basement strip stage. Sure, I lay on
hints, and that's all I need to see it in action.
My life is lust city. Want proof? No big deal providing it, dudes: Why I
remember the night seven months back when I came into the house, and tossed
the maid my briefcase, secretary lipstick still all over my white shirt.
There was my wife, Mary, popping into the house sized living room, peaking
out from behind the day's five foot vase of daily fresh flowers.
She said, "Is my big man home?" The cunt stepped out from behind the
flowers, and to my surprise, she was dressed in a maid's outfits, only it'd
obviously been tailor minted at Mani & Gowns so that I couldn't miss the
delta and dawns.
I caught the hint and yelled, "Where's my cut from those twenty dollar
glory hole jobs, whore? Pussy got your tongue? Girl, girl all day; no money
in that! Out of my panties, now! I own everything you be wearing! Lisa,
bring me my belt from my pimp room! I got some slut ass to blister!"
Behind me, Lisa scampered. Our head maid, Lisa, had been with us a long
time, this the third wife for her too. She didn't approve; more like endured
me and my wives' proclivities. In turn, I put up with her in spite of the
fact that she was dumpy, old, a spoil sport prude and she'd never let me
fuck her like the other two maids had - as if I wanted to. I guess that even
I needed a little stability in my life, so I retained the lard-assed Puritan
-- after all, she had gone to get the belt.
Mary's red face demonstrated her humiliation at my asking Lisa for the
help, but Mary did as I told her, just the same. My wife, irregardless soon
and unknowingly to be ex, stepped out of her panties slowly, the skirt now
not covering the prescribed shaved pussy; Bambi eyes dropping to the floor.
Even though I knew why she put on these displays, it at the time being six
years and five months into our marriage with the end near, I also knew that
she was greedy and hopeful enough to put up with making herself into a
household-outed sex cow from even the remotest of my hints over dinner or
phone. Shoot, I only made it home two or three times a week anyway, so it
wasn't all that much work for her, I figured, given that she had the run of
the mansion the rest of the time. I didn't even recall having asked for the
maid scene, but Mary was creative, having once been a few courses away from
her PHD, and I was often vague, and always keen to surprises.
The streetwalker maid scene was working. My fifty year old five inches
was rising, peaking out from under my expanding belly, even without the
Viagra. The belt flew by us as Lisa disappeared before I could even look
around to see the front door closing. I picked up the leather, and after
fucking Mary in the ass with as much of a cock as I could last, I dropped a
couple of Viagra and spent a few minutes spanking her purple, boiled and
blue butt while the blue pills took effect. I wasn't all that fresh an hour
later when I came, my cock lodged down her throat so far that she didn't
even taste the cum, though she probably did when she coughed some of it out
her nose afterwards.
Mary was a champion when it came to swallowing and holding her breath.
She was good for two minutes a plunge, and me thinking that I'd maybe set a
record that night; maybe even pee down that pipe again while stuck in there,
just to see her eyes light up. Hell, I'd tried pipe plugging with Doctor
Long's Secretary the very next day, and she'd only lasted a quarter as long
without rolling away all blue faced, wheezing. Clearly enough, whatsherface
wasn't going to be number four. In the mean time, I had business to attend
to, my greed generally winning over my lust, most of the day anyhow. Not
that I wasn't tempted to keep Mary, she having such talented toilet tonsils.
That's why the kidney was such a pisser. You see, I got these pains and
weaknesses and yellow skin, and before I knew it, Doctor Long himself was
doing my kidney transplant, and fresh from the pig, I might add, meaning we
had to do this thing in the Caribbean. A really fresh transfer is a lot
safer that way, you know, because of the special pigs, and because I had my
own pig just for such a possibility and because we were doing the pig live
on the gurney right next to mine; steaming fresh. I was fortunate enough to
catch this one on its eleventh month, making its organs really ripe.
Now this pig didn't just have any old human DNA. This one had my DNA.
Well, I mean, with just a tad of his own, my having already explained how
that works in terms of rejection being two way. No need to invite disaster
of exposing multiple infractions in America where a competitor or Federal
Drugs and Health could spoil the cash-flow, you see.
Let's be frank here, for a second. It was my money and my company, and it
was good medicine that had grown to the point of saving tens of thousands of
lives a year. Just keep that in mind before you get judgmental about what I
was doing and how I was going about it. Shoot, the women I wived were in it
for my money just as badly, and the Feds would have tied everything up in
courts and testing, letting lots of people die. What if it was your kid who
needed a heart? What if it was your money that the bimbos played blowing for
dollars for? What if you could trade in your American Princess's big thighs
for a triple D Mercedes every seven year itch? Ain't so easy to judge when
the shoe's on your own foot, is it, buster! Did I mention that the sex was
un-fucking believable?
Besides, I figured that the sorta-pig was going to be left to die without
the kidney because we never keep them longer than this one was, by company
policy. I mean, why keep a thing like that around, particularly when it was
eleven months DNA ripened and at last stages even as it lay beside me on the
other operating table, sans one of two purple organs of course? I could see
that it was time for another pig.
But, of course, I wasn't in on the bastards' plan and thus, no hints.
**********
I woke up from the kidney, especially groggy. Kidneys are like that; you
still can't do the Laser and toothpick thing with them; you have to go right
in. It took a week to recover, and even then I felt like hell. Doctor long
laid that up to me being older than I thought and having had too much booze
and sex. A couple of days of rest was what I needed, so I was wheeled into a
resort rest home, the kind of place that had cottages, palm trees, restive
beach waves washing me to sleep and of course, nurses who had a habit of
leaning over, tit jiggling. They knew better than to mind gropes.
I was enjoying it so much that I let myself be checked in for an extended
stay that really was a vacation as I healed quickly. On my fifth day there I
got dressed, grabbed a cane and found a nice seat at the outdoor bar. Sure,
my joints were tired, but I put that up to being laid up and just plain
lazy. Ten drinks and a blond on each knee later, the world was one swimming
laugh after the other as I enjoyed the late night breeze of the tropical
oasis.
I lost track of time, but the next morning a wreck woke up in my bed.
There was Doctor Long, retreating to his bag as he closed it, and my wife
looking worried on the other side.
"Well, nice to see you're up. We were beginning to wonder," said the
doctor.
"Perco . no, m . phine," I moaned, my head hangover city. Then I reached
for my brain, and felt the arm joint pain. Not a good idea, I dropped my
hands back to the sheets.
"Feel it now, do you?" Asked the doctor. "It seems like the alcohol might
have sent your immune system a-searchin for the new guest. Classic symptoms
of rejection. Migraine, skin texture changes, clammy and then the sweats,
but mostly the joint pain. Blood looks like hell. "
"Damn. Even my jaw hurts." And, it did, even the tiny bit of talking was
like grinding bone on bone. "What's this rejection talk?" I did have to ask,
but I squeaked it through clutched teeth.
"You know the score, Joe. You still have to take care of yourself.
Alcohol isn't a good idea within the first few days after a kidney. We're
good, but not perfect. Even a donor with a perfect match is a major
operation, and you just have to not think of what we do as such an all fired
miracle. I think we've put some new bugs into you to adapt that organ and
save it while staving off your immunity system, but you are my worst patient
in months, so I'm having you tied to the bed if you as much as think about
getting out of it for the next couple of weeks. As for the joints, I'm
imagining that the worst of it is yet to come, including mucho swelling on
the scale of elephant man. With a lower immunity, bounding about the
property in search of new diseases isn't smart either, so I am doping you
up. Keep you still as much as to ease the pain boss. You're a doctor. You
know the score."
"Shit," it coming out as a slur and with a slurp of drool. I didn't even
have a decent TV in the room, we being so outback and half of it something
Latin.
"Well then, I'll be leaving you to your wife. No hanky panky either," he
said, winking across the bed to Mary.
He left, and that left Mary, she looking all pouty and worried-eyed like
the dutiful, Bambi-boob, fuck-hole wife she wanted to stay. "I'm so sorry,
Joe. I should have been here by your side. I was, you know, when you were
coming around, but you were so groggy that you probably didn't notice. Be
just my luck to take a day off the day you came around and decided to go out
partying. I'll not leave you again," she said. How pathetic can you get?
"Be my warden, just to make your seven," I mouthed with a muffled
whisper.
"What?" She asked, but I just pointed down at my pecker with just the tip
of my finger moving and that shut the bitch up enough that she reached in,
and grasped my penis, and started that gentle, soft-handed massage up and
down that I liked to have her doing when I was watching TV or going over
some research papers, which was way better than looking at how her stomach
wasn't flat like it used to be. She was smiling goofy, as if she was
thinking that I was thinking that I really thought her swell for doing me
the favor though, and I'd always thought it best to keep the cows happily
deluded right up to six years, eleven months and a wake-up.
I was horny, like always, but my equipment really wasn't doing much, it a
peanut the whole time she fondled me. The damned doctor really had my system
fucked up, and only an hour into some Mexican movie about something I
couldn't begin to understand, my wife still holding my cock secretly under
the covers, the nurse came in and gave me another sleeper into my IV.
I woke up a few times after that, really in trouble it seemed, my joints
too swollen for me to even move my boiling head enough to take a good look
before Mary or a nurse took notice and slid another Mickey into my veins,
sending me right back to Disneyland's roller coaster. That brief awakening
was pure terror as I understood how long and hard a rejection can be from
the inside looking out.
***********
It was dark when I finally work up, it feeling like months later to my
stiff and aching body. The tubes were no longer in my arm, nose, throat, ass
and pisser. I had the cramps from constipation, a sure sign I'd been on
knockout and pain medication for one hell of a long time. Trying to roll
over, I found that my joints were even sorer than the day I'd lost track. As
for the bed, I'd felt better, this one cold, hard and lumpy, kind of like
I'd been eating potato chips in it for a week - not that my nerve endings
were all that acutely aware of fabric, the tingling on my skin weird, like I
were somehow thicker in places.
Moving my neck was less painful, but then again, it really didn't move
very far, maybe ten degrees of swivel. Kicking with my legs, I managed to
get up to a crawl that was all legs and nose before I found myself rolling
right on over the other way like a bag of lard. The place was pitch, and I
realized that my bed was lumpy, like the ground maybe. A small breeze was
the next thing I noticed, it spelling that I was on the ground outside!
I found myself losing all control. As if my legs and arms akimbo was not
enough, my bladder and bowels emptied themselves right where I wallowed.
Good thing I'm naked, I thought, feeling that it would be harder to clean me
up if I was still in a hospital gown, but then wondering why I wasn't still
in a hospital gown or even a hospital? Had there been a fire? Had they
tossed us all out of the rooms for some emergency.
Crickets answered my thought. My eyes started to focus a few feet
further, and I found a bit of reflection off of a puddle, grass growing
around the edges of the water. This startled me to action, me finding my
arms and reaching to shove at the ground and get up. I shoved, but the
effort only pushed me far enough to roll over on my stomach. From there I
pushed up again, coming to what seemed like my knees, though I felt as if my
feet were on the ground. My arms were fully extended, and yet my nose was
clearly less than a foot off of the damp earth. Pushing up with my legs, I
got to my feet, but even that didn't do much but bounce me up a few inches
and make me dizzy. No matter what I tried, I was unable to get more than my
stomach and face a few inches above the ground.
I tried another push-up, my chubby body no better than horizontal to the
dark ground. There was something heavy about my chest and stomach, as if I'd
put on a million pounds. I must still be well out of it, or dreaming, I told
myself, rolling back over onto my side, my most comfortable position.
Reaching with my arms, I couldn't see well enough to feel myself, though my
body sensed the touch of my arms, the pressure heavy, hard, and as I
persisted, scraping. Reaching around was impossible, my arms not long enough
to reach past my nipple. I strained to reach further, a second pair of
nipples protesting at the hard fingers that scraped at them. Straining even
further there, I found that my reach had reached its limit, me even unable
to put fingers to my own dick.
"My god," I moaned. "I have four nipples, and my neck is so fat that I
can't see myself!" Even as I said those words, my ears protested, them
hearing only squeaks and guttural grunts in the moonless pitch blackness of
what seemed to be a summer evening. I snorted in surprise at my rough and
incoherent vocalization.
The light of a bedroom window came on from a house fifty or so meters
away across a bit of yard. It wasn't much light, but my eyes were adjusting
to the night, seeing a metal fence with a gate, and apparently me inside of
it, though it wasn't very high, maybe all of two feet or so. There were many
of those patches of mud and puddle about, and over to the side, a trough, it
long and wooden.
That's when I saw, just as I began this story, my wife Mary: She was
sneaking the door open. I could see the burgers, shakes and French fries in
her eyes as the door widens. The compliant piggy that she'd become had been
unable to avoid putting on ten or fifteen too many. She was back lit in the
doorway, that tummy bulge under her cheap halter and over her designer
cutoffs, and she but a few wee minutes until her seven years are up, me
guessing. If I didn't act fast, she'd be my wife for real and the inheritor
of my estate and holdings.
She walked down a path from the back of the huge log farmhouse, the scene
rustic but clearly fresh made and with all of the trimmings of wealth that
begrudged the title of log house. Up to my short fence she came, before
putting her hands on her hips and shouting, "Hold it down, you fucking sow,
or I'll come back and put the hose to yer lard ass!"
Up above, in the lit bedroom window, Doctor Long was leaning out. I could
see that he was buck naked, save for a tie that dangled down so that it
touched the tip of his huge, rock-hard, upturned cockhead. He yelled, "What
is it, honey?"
"Oh nothing! Just our fat sow waking up and putting on a squeal. At last
the porker has finally gotten off of her dead ass. Could hardly wait until
the seven years were up and you have managed this with perfect timing, Jack.
Won't have to hand feed it anymore either; you have no idea what it feels
like to finally not have to pump, primp and feed this idiot after all of
those years! I feel like I can finally breathe again."
She looked back at me and said, "Hungry, Joe? Maybe tomorrow I'll bring
you some brown tomatoes and some moldy cabbage. You like that, dear? Sure
you will. Fatten you right up. Oh, and I don't know if you can still
understand me, but assuming your brain hasn't atrophied completely, I have
been waiting for the chance to say happy anniversary, dear. By the time I
wake up and shower it will be seven fucking years of hell over with finally.
Too bad my husband in the hospital is all deformed from his accident and
nearly brain dead from cranial restriction. We have a nurse watching him
right now, day and night, and your aunts and uncles have all visited; you'll
be pleased to know that they think it's you. Even has your fingerprints, I
hear, not to mention, DNA, though all of that was a fairly even exchange I
hear, given that you have his . whatevers, with just a wee bit of
modification that Doctor Long thought might add some longevity and fun - not
to mention, twist and justice.
In fact, I'm going to go inside and celebrate the decision to pull ol'
Joe's plug tomorrow; celebrate with Jack, that is, or I mean, Doctor Long.
Got one hell of a cock, that man, unlike you . had . dear . and he uses it
the way I want it used - you have no idea how much I've come to miss a
normal fuck. What's that? Can't see your little pee-pee? Well, maybe
tomorrow I'll bring you a mirror so you can look for it. You'll like that
adventure, I bet. Lots of new things to discover tomorrow - after the seven
years have come up. Well, ta, ta. Sleep tight."
I squealed after her, but she only glanced back once, laughing. Running
up to the fence, I tried to step over it, but found my legs to be way too
short even for the two foot tall fence, and I tripped over myself, landing
on my side where I rolled over twice before landing in a cool puddle of mud.
I swished around in there for awhile, getting distracted before remembering
that I had to get out of the fence before something terrible happened.
Oh yes, I remembered. I had to get to my lawyer, or at least get to the
phone. The lawyer was on constant retainer, and he knew how to pull the
levers in Vegas for an instant divorce, we much practiced. All I needed to
do was get to a phone, I realized. I could even call from a payphone
collect; he'd accept the charges. And yet, I was out in the country and
obviously disoriented and clearly delusional. I shook my head, ears flopping
all over as they beat my fat cheeks, saying to myself, "Wake up! Wake up!"
But I was stuck in the mud.
The head shaking had only gained me unwanted lucidity. The light had gone
out in the window, but a half moon was rising, giving me some hope that I'd
find a break in the fence. As I investigated, I caught my reflection off of
the biggest puddle in the yard. What I saw was dim, but it shook me to the
core what I could see. I was a pig. Not only was I a pig, but I was a big
and unmistakable pig. Not many details were shown in the reflection, but I
could see my short legs, and my overall round appearance. On my chest were
not four, but ten evenly spaced teats. Some of those dangled prominently, as
if intended to mock me for my years of womanizing the well endowed. The only
thing on me not completely piggish was my head, it a bit tall and bigger
than most pigs, but I understood that most who saw me would only think me
some unusual breed for that - certainly not human, given as extended as my
flat nose was.
Bringing a hand up in front of me - I had none! I looked closer at myself
in the water, seeing pink, pointed ears and a nose that was flat and
wrinkled. "No!" I screamed, it but a long and bellowing squeal.
The squeal was a big mistake, not because it disturbed Mary's moans
coming through the window, but because it woke up others. Shapes emerged
from a big ditch of mud on the pen's far end. Those blobs of boar bore down
upon me and soon bumped into me, sizing up the new pig in their yard with
body as well as smell. The bumping grew fierce, and then when I was hemmed
in. Something climbed onto my back. I squealed in terror, only to have the
weight and hooves upon me press forward, scraping my tough hide. Meat probed
between my back legs. Oh my god, back legs, I thought, realizing my
admission that I had front legs and was an animal! The probe licked at me
from behind like a snake, darting. Then in one better aimed plunge, it
buried itself into some opening where I'd have thought my cock and balls
would have prevented the penetration.
I snorted and dug to get away, down in the mud and crawling for all I
could manage, my weakness from being inactive for so long not serving me
well and after only seconds of fighting. There I lay, panting away complete
exhaustion as the uncontested probing repeatedly and deeply dipped into
where my balls should have been.
Oh no, I have a beaver, a pussy, a twat, a god damned gash, I moaned as a
squeak! I'm fucking cunt meat!
The pig's lust was consuming: Into my slut-hole, the probes lanced; into
my body; inside of me; bulging into my flesh right up to where my stomach
was; over and over again, filling me inside of me with a foot into me of
corkscrewing me through my gut, slick, thin violating penis tissue, wetting
deep into my middle between my tummy and my back where I could not touch nor
defend, until I dripped behind with load after load of backed up semen that
ran down my pig hams and feet.
The biggest pig got off of me, only to be replaced by another. I drifted
into and out of my coma, them not caring that I had, continuing to fill my
ripe, egg filled womb with endless gobs of bacon baby making sperm, even as
I lay as defenseless as a fat, doped and drunk, date-raped coed.
**********
There was a large crowd all around me and in a circle on the vast lawn.
Off to one side was the pen they'd let me out of. I'd tried to snort a
Morris Code, though I didn't know the proper sequence. It only brought
chuckles from Mary and her many affluent friends - most of which had once
been mine, and some of which were distant relatives.
Why was Mary treating me so ugly, I'd snorted. Every time they'd taken my
piglets, putting them into adjacent pens, I'd moaned the motherly loss
almost as much as I'd felt the humiliation of me and my breeding line having
been turned into fuck stock sows for food-stock and lab animals. Mary had
made sure that I'd not spent a night without five horny males to my one sow
pussy.
Those thoughts though dwindled as the crowd shifted into a new circle. A
pair of Y shaped tongs were spaced five feet apart and straddling a glowing
pit.
Jack was there, holding a pipe of metal that was perforated with
air-holes. "Well, I promised everybody a spectacle and I asked to leave the
squeamish at home."
A net fell over my body, Mary alone in the sport of gathering the lines
that tightened the trap. She soon had me enmeshed so that I could no longer
run in the circle I'd been running in to avoid her cold spray of hose water.
I was wrenched up by the ends of the net, upside down in the air, several
men and a pole helping yank me up. Mary repeatedly shoved the hose in and
out of my ass, and my belly bulged, my eyes shocked wide too, until she
pulled out one last time when I'd been thoroughly cleaned. The wetted crowd
roared in laughter.
Another hard thing probed my cunt where I could not see. Jack said,
"We're going to roast this one live. We'll watch her little legs racing.
Don't look at me; it's Mary's idea. Besides, it's an animal; they don't feel
it much. We'll gut and bleed it after it gives up."
The poll drove forward, through my guts, I groaned one long squeal, it
cut short by the tip of the spit exiting my mouth and me being dropped into
the Y shaped stays. I tried squirming on the poll, but my whole body was
completely controlled by the bondage of the rail run though me, even the
slightest squirm. Never had I felt so helpless, every motion of my body now
a consequence of those maneuvering my pole.
Oh God, turn me, my mind screamed as my feet and belly stung! Mary
inserted a handle to the poll, inches from y eyeballs. The new owner of all
that I'd owned seemed unconcerned about my legs treading and belly
blistering, taking her time. Please, turn me, my eyes pleaded! Then,
mercifully, with a lick of her lips and a smile of the mouth that had so
often spend hours around my cock, she turned me, my teeth bearing down on
the metal phallus in hopes of a instinct to grip.
Oh God, that old maid, Lisa, was among them, passing out plates!
Soon my whole body was rolling hellfire. My life's oil dripping; the
flame leaping. I closed my eyes and through the irrepressible sensation of
skin crusting pain, smelled myself cook.
