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.
(TBC)...
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.
(TBC)...