19
She had never cooked for seven men before, and she was no gourmet cook
to begin with. But fortunately their culinary demands were not overly elaborate.
They told her to just fry up a bunch of hamburgers. Food was not the main reason
they were there. As Trifford had said, she was to be the dessert. They never
seemed to get their fill of her. Aside from the obvious lure of her body, and
the fact that she was freely available to them, the idea of taking their revenge
with her continued to fire their lusts and add to their pleasure in her enforced
submission.
They sat around the kitchen table and watched her as she cooked. She was
naked, of course, and she moved self-consciously under their leering eyes. And
she soon found that frying hamburgers, though simple, had a distinct
drawback--as the grease in the frying pan sizzled and bubbled, hot little
droplets would spatter out of the pan and land painfully on her breasts and
body. She asked--she begged, humbly, respectfully--if she couldn't please just
put on an apron, something to protect her from the burning grease. But they said
no. They wanted her naked. Period. And they enjoyed watching her predicament as
the burgers went on frying; they got a kick out of her unsuccessful efforts to
avoid being spattered, and they laughed each time she jumped and cried out as
her breasts were scorched by the flying drops.
The breaking point came as she had finished one batch of burgers and was
about to start another. She was turning down the burner when something crackled
in the hot pan, sending up a small shower of grease which splashed onto her
right breast. The accumulated pain and humiliation momentarily broke down her
fear. "No!" she cried, turning to the watching men. "I can't take this any more!
I want to put something on! Please!"
There was a brief silence, and then Alex Trifford slowly rose from his
chair, with an expression on his face that made her instantly regret the force
with which she had spoken. "Are you complaining, Joyce?" Trifford said softly.
"Are you arguing with us?"
She had to swallow hard, but she tried to hold on to some of her
purpose, even as she backed down. "No," she said quickly. "No, I'm--I'm not.
It's just that... the grease burns, and... it's hard to..."
She trailed off as Trifford came around the table toward her. She wanted
to back away, but her back was to the stove, on which the hot pan still sizzled.
"Burns, does it?" Trifford said. "Well, that's too bad, Joyce. I guess those
gorgeous tits of yours are just too damn precious to get a little burn, is that
it?"
"I--I just--"
"Let's just see," Trifford said, and he suddenly reached out for her,
grabbing her arm and twisting it hard up behind her back. He turned her to face
the stove, and before she realized what was happening she found herself, to her
horror, bending over the smoking frying pan, her arm forced so high on her back
that she was unable to straighten up, was in fact being pushed further down
toward the surface of the stove, her dangling breast hanging just over the
spitting, bubbling liquid.
"NO!" she screamed. "No, please! Oh my god, don't! No! No!" The liquid
was splattering onto her breast, and she could feel the searing heat from the
pan, dangerously close to her swaying nipple. Trifford increased the pressure on
her arm until she thought it would break, forcing her body still further down.
"Now you'll REALLY know about burning," Trifford said, his voice husky
with his exertions. "Maybe we'll have some fried tit for dinner, okay, Joyce?"
"PLEASE!" the girl shrieked. "Oh god, don't! Let me go! Please! I'm
sorry! Please!"
She was struggling now against the pain in her arm, fighting to keep her
breast from actually making contact with the surface of the pan. Trifford now
brought his free hand up to her head, grasping the hair at the back of her neck,
and pushed downward. Joyce shrieked frantically, babbling wild pleas as her body
was forced inexorably downward, until just the tip of her breast touched the
bottom of the scalding pan.
Her screams nearly shook the walls as the hot metal and the sizzling
grease seared her nipple, and her body bucked and twisted desperately. Trifford,
exerting all his strength, held her where she was for one long, deliberate
moment, and then let her go.
She fell to the floor in front of the stove and curled her body into a
ball, sobbing loudly and cradling the injured breast.
"All right, Joyce," Trifford said. "Now that wasn't as bad as it could
have been, you know. I could have burned your whole tit right off for you. But I
guess you got a taste. So you're not going to complain any more, or give us any
more demands. Are you, Joyce?"
"N-no," she sobbed out. "No. No."
"Good. Now you can get up and get on with the cooking."
Which she did.
They didn't let her eat with them at the table. When she had finished
serving them, they made her get down on the floor on her hands and knees, and
from time to time one of them would toss bits of food at her, which she then had
to eat off the floor. Without using her hands. Though she was hungry, she would
have preferred to go without than to undergo the humiliation of scarfing her
food from the dirty floor like a dog. But she had no choice. The men demanded
that she eat every scrap they threw down, as they chortled in lascivious triumph
at her degradation.
A couple of them ordered her to suck them off while she was down there.
("You can wash down your dinner with my come, honey," one of them said.) The
kitchen table was much smaller than the table in the Council office had been,
and she had to crawl carefully among a cluster of legs and feet to position
herself in front of the recipient of her ministrations. As she sucked, the man
across the table stretched out his legs and rested his feet on her back, and the
man in the next chair did the same. She had a sudden sharp realization of how
she must look at this moment, and she thought with horror of what her friends or
co-workers would think if they could see her right now--her, Joyce Gordon, the
smart, sophisticated, self-confident professional woman, naked, crawling,
debased, using her mouth for the pleasure of a fat, unpleasant stranger, while
half a dozen others looked on, waiting their turn to use her however they
wanted... The pain of it was in a way greater than the pain that still burned at
her breast. Sudden tears stung her eyes and ran down her cheeks, but she did not
stop her slow, accomplished, obedient sucking.
When they had finished eating, they allowed her to get up in order to
make coffee for them. A few of the men, she saw, had become so aroused by
watching her on the floor that they had opened their trousers to release their
erect cocks. One of them, a sallow-faced man named Calley, reached for her and
pulled her over to him, his hands searching her body.
"Let her go, Calley," one of them said. "I want some coffee, god damn
it!"
"Hell with the coffee!" Calley grunted. "I want this cocksucking bitch
now! Come on, baby, come and sit on me. Right here." He pulled the girl onto his
lap and positioned her so that she was sitting astride his legs, with her back
to him. His hands went around her and squeezed her breasts hard.
"Come on, sweet tits," Calley said, "Raise up and let me get into that
pussy." He pulled her back against him, and she managed to lift herself enough
for him to put himself inside her. "Oh, yeah," he gasped as she sank down over
his eager pole. "Oh, that's beautiful, honey. Now fuck me nice."
Joyce, with some effort, was able to shift her legs so that her feet
could get a purchase on the rungs of the chair, giving her enough leverage to
raise and lower her body as Calley desired. The others watched avidly as she
moved herself up and down, her thighs rippling sensuously as she worked.
"Faster," Calley demanded, squeezinag her breasts harder. "Faster, damn
it!"
Though she did her best, the position was awkward for her and she was
unable to move as rapidly as he wanted. Calley suddenly released her breasts,
and with his right hand picked up his fork from his plate. "Maybe this will get
some action out of you," he rasped, and he jabbed the fork hard into her right
buttock.
She gave a sharp cry and her body jerked spasmodically, bringing a hiss
of pleasure from Calley. "Hey, that works real good!" he said, and he jabbed her
again. Again she jumped and cried out. Now he began to poke her repeatedly with
the sharp instrument, and to vary his jabs from her right buttock to her left.
The men around the table watched with glee, laughing as her body jerked and
spasmed and jumped, her breasts bouncing wantonly with her enforced movements.
At last her contortions made Calley shoot up into her with a triumphant
shout, the fork dropping from his hand. A few of the others wanted to try the
same thing, but now they were shouted down by the majority, anxious to get their
coffee.
Joyce set about the chore as efficiently as she could, but the evening
had taken its toll, and she could not keep her pain-wracked body from trembling
with strain and exhaustion. She fumbled with the coffee things, and once or
twice she had to pause in her task to get herself together. She was afraid to
look at the impatiently waiting men. When the stuff was ready, she brought the
pot over to the table to pour it out for them. Trifford, at the head of the
table, was first. Her hand was shaking as she poured, and some of the coffee
splashed from the cup onto the saucer. This made her shake harder, and a few
drops missed the cup entirely and rebounded onto Trifford's lap.
He jumped up immediately, rage suffusing his face. "You bitch!" he
shouted. "You fucking goddam bitch! Look what you've done!"
Joyce was trembling so badly she could hardly hold the coffee pot. She
managed to set it down on the table, backing away from him. "I'm sorry," she
gasped. "I--it was--I didn't mean to..."
But Trifford wasn't listening. His eyes were blazing now, his face
working, and when he spoke he no longer shouted. His voice was soft and deadly.
"You've got to learn, Joyce," he said. "You stupid fucked-up cunt. You've got to
learn."
"Please..." she said faintly.
"Get on the table," Trifford said.
"W-what?"
"Get on the fucking table!" His voice was loud again. The thought came
to her that he was crazy, really crazy. Fear clutched at her throat as he
cleared the dishes and utensils from his place with one angry sweep of his hand,
sending them crashing to the floor. "Put her up here!" he said to the others.
Several men moved to carry out his order, and Joyce found herself seized
roughly and lifted onto the table top, a number of other dishes being swept away
and demolished in the process, until she was lying in the middle of the table,
surrounded by men looking down on her and waiting to see what their leader was
going to do.
"Stretch her out," Trifford said. "And hold her down. Hold her down
good."
Her arms were pulled tightly above her head, her wrists held in a strong
grip by one of the men at the end of the table. Calley, at the other end, held
on to her ankles. Her body was stretched taut, her breasts pulled up, her legs
straining.
"Now, cunt," Trifford said, staring down at her. "Pour coffee on me,
will you? Well, how about letting ME pour some for YOU? Would you like that,
Joyce?" He picked up the coffee pot.
Joyce's eyes went wide with fear. She shook her head wildly and tried to
speak, but she could only whimper.
"What's the matter, Joyce?" Trifford said. "Don't you want some nice
coffee?"
"No!" she choked out. "No! God, no!"
"I think you should have some, Joyce," Trifford said, holding the coffee
pot over her face. "Open your mouth."
She turned her head away. "Please! Please!"
"Joyce," Trifford said, "if you don't open your mouth and drink this
coffee, I'm going to pour it on your tits. All of it. Now open your mouth."
Slowly, she turned her head back so that she was looking up at him, her
eyes wild with terror. Tiny mewling sounds came from her throat. With fearful
reluctance, she opened her quivering, panting mouth.
Trifford tilted the pot and poured a slow stream of the steaming coffee
down her throat.
He stopped pouring as Joyce choked on the hot liquid, turning her face
away violently, retching and gasping. Her breath came in great gulps as she
tried to cool her scalded throat, gasps interspersed with hoarse, rasping moans.
"Now that's not very polite, Joyce," Trifford said. "Spitting out my
coffee that way. I guess we'll just have to teach you some manners." And with
deliberate care, he poured some of the burning, steaming liquid directly onto
her left breast.
She howled with agony, her body arching and straining against the hands
that held her wrists and ankles.
"Jesus," one of the men said hoarsely. "Look at her squirm!"
Trifford, still holding the coffee pot, waited until her body was
quieter, though wracked with painful gasps and great, shuddering sobs. "Now,
Joyce," he said, his eyes glittering. "Will you drink your coffee like a good
girl, or do you want it on the other one too?"
She was unable to speak, but her eyes pleaded with him frantically. With
a terrible, unearthly moan of despair she opened her mouth. Trifford poured
coffee into it.
She made a desperate, heroic effort to swallow the stuff as it poured
into her raw and blistered throat, but the more she managed to get down, the
faster he poured, until at last she gagged and it spilled out of her mouth and
ran over her face, still steaming.
"All right, Joyce," Trifford said. "If that's how you want it." And as
her burning mouth twisted in a horrified attempt to forestall him, he lowered
the pot and poured the remainder of the coffee over her right breast.
She screamed and screamed, and her taut, outstretched body flailed and
writhed and bucked, every muscle and tendon straining futilely and standing out
against the smooth, luscious flesh. Her shrieking and struggling went on and on,
as the men watched avidly, until she had exhausted herself and lay there crying
and whimpering, still held helpless in their grip.
"Oh, shit," one of the men said. "Oh man, I want this bitch now! I mean
now!"
There was a chorus of excited assent around the table, and most of the
men began rapidly stripping themselves of their clothing. The man who had
spoken, a heavy bald man with bad teeth, climbed up on the table and lowered
himself eagerly on top of her. She screamed when the weight of his upper body
came down on her scalded breasts, but he only laughed in her face. Now her
ankles were separated and pulled widely apart, her legs held painfully open,
while the man at the head of the table continued to pin her aching wrists. The
man on top of her adjusted himself and plunged deep inside her with one mighty
thrust. He then happily, piggishly pleasured himself on her helpless, agonized
body.
When he had finished, another man swiftly took his place, battering at
her as he mauled her breasts and pinched her abused nipples until she screamed
again. After him there was another, and then another. Their appetite for her
now, in her pain and suffering, was unassuagable.
After a while they turned her over.
And the evening went on...
