Date: Fri, 25 May 2001 14:48:59 -0700 (PDT)
From: hugh questorius <questorius@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Humiliator.  Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

			THE TIME OF PENETRATION


Urgently, he pushed my back down onto the end of the bed, hooked my legs
over his shoulders and jacknifed me double in the position men use when
they want to get maximum penetration.  Well, he'd already fucked me twice,
so I knew the size of him inside me, but the thought of that monstrous
thing buried right up to the hilt was worrying.  Moreover, I was still sore
from last night's fucks.

I could sense the huge presence of him hanging over me like a threat and
automatically tensed - the worst thing to do of course, but hard to avoid.
I felt his knob, hard and urgent, pressing against my ring . . . and
pressing . . . and pressing . . . till I could withstand it no more and he
came thundering into me, the whole damned length of his shaft buried right
up to the hilt in one long thrust.  Oh God!  He gave a grunt of
satisfaction and then started to withdraw, very slowly.  The amount of
travel seemed unending until there seemed a danger that he would burst
right out of me again, which was a daunting prospect and I tried to follow
him up to stop that happening.  He paused right on the very brink of
exiting and fibrillated his cock, just inside me, quick tiny movements that
swamped me in sensual waves that made me cry out and beg him not to stop.

He plunged swiftly down, down, deep down and rotated his shaft in me,
stirring it slowly round like a broom handle in a vat of porridge, making
me moan and whimper with disgusting pleasure.  This was not fucking as
punishment, like the first one, nor fucking as a brisk and purposeful
function like the second.  This was fucking as self-indulgent
gratification, greedy and supremely selfish - though one aspect of that
selfish sensuality was to show his power to reduce me to a jelly, begging
for more.

Having done that, he switched to more brutal humping, long, hard plunges of
the full length of his rod.  It was like having an oil rig towering over
me, drilling straight down into my body, the toothed drill-bit of hardened
tungsten-carbide ripping me ragged jagged and sore.  I whined and begged
him to stop, which fed his lust for power and drove him to more savage
shafting.

After a while, he pushed my legs off his shoulders (and oh the relief of
that!) and let them slide down to his waist.  He stood up, pulling me up
with him, my legs gripping his waist, my arms about his neck, my body
impaled on his spike.  He jerked me up and down, letting my own body weight
ram me down onto him.

"Bastard" I snarled, "dirty, buggering, animal bastard.  Stop it, you
fucker.  Oh Master please stop.  I can't take any more, I'm too sore.
Please Master.  Oh Christ.  Please.  Please fuck me.  You fuck-mad pig.
Fuck me you bastard.  Harder! Fuck me.  FUCK ME!"  And he did.
Relentlessly.  He played me like a violin, exquisite tremolos replacing
brutal chords, double stopping alternating with high harmonics, muted
strings replacing savage pizzicati in a brilliant display of virtuoso
fucking such as I had never known.  The Paganini of the rampant penis!
Again and again he drove me to beg him to stop and then to sob for more and
still more. He sat on the bed with me astride his lap and my legs straight
out behind him and the whole weight of my body forcing me down onto him.
He bent his head and chewed my tits and raked his nails down my back or
ground the balls of his thumbs hard, really hard, into my armpits till I
felt I would explode with an excess of sexual stimulation.  He pushed my
shoulders away from him and, holding my wrists, leaned me back,lowering my
head to the floor, still with his cock fully inserted, and fucked me at an
angle I'd never been fucked before.

He eased himself down onto the floor too, carefully maintaining full
penetration the while, and leaned back till he too was lying full length.
He clamped his heels down onto my shoulders, pinning me to the floor, and
trapped my legs under his arms.  I felt like a specimen beetle pinned to a
collector's board - though that was no pin!  And still, in this improbable
position, he could rotate and thrust his hips to fuck me!  He made me work
for him too, by reaching down and grabbing my balls and mashing them in his
fist so that I yowled and squirmed in pain, twisting on that penis-spike as
I struggled helplessly under his imprisoning heels.

He sat up, hooked my legs over his shoulders again and, still without
losing insertion, managed to get back to the original jack-knife position
for maximum penetration, only now on the bare floorboards.

He began with long, slow, deep strokes, gradually increasing the speed to
the regular pistoning beat of a steam engine.  On and on it went.  Dear
God, would he never be done?  I could feel his balls swinging against my
arse as he banged into me, and his body all sweaty against the backs of my
thighs.  Still the relentless, stallion shafting went on . . . and on
. . . and on.  Surely it must finish soon?  My legs ached under the
pressure of his heaving weight.  All I could think about was how much I
longed to put them down.  Then I noticed he had started to grunt.  Ugly,
animal noises as he heaved and humped.  The strokes got quicker and
shorter.  A bestial frenzy possessed him, he jerked and shook as spasm
after spasm ripped through him and he plunged himself into me up to the
hilt, firing wads of spunk deep into my belly.

Slowly he subsided.  My legs slid off his wet shoulders and fell heavily to
the floor and he slumped over me, exhausted.  Under his weight I found it
hard to breathe and tried to twist sideways a bit.  Eventually his cock
ceased to give occasional pulses and kicks inside me.  He heaved his weight
up onto his hands and suddenly yanked himself out of me, with unnecessary
violence, so that even the act of exiting was made brutish and painful.  He
hung over me on hands and knees for a moment, uttered one word and got to
his feet.  I heard him scoop up his boots and clothes and head for the
stairs, bellowing "Corporal?  Corporal!"

There was the sound of running feet coming up the stairs as the Brigadier
went down.  I heard him say "I've finished here, Corporal.  You can take it
back to the station"

"It".  So that was all I was.  A function.  An object.  A utensil.  Used
and cast aside like a broken toy.  But what really hurt as I lay there
waiting for the corporal to come and take charge of me again, was the
memory of that one word my master had uttered in a hoarse near-whisper as
he got off me.  "Filth" he had said.  That's all.  But the contempt in his
voice seared me like a blow-torch flame.  But that is what I was.  Filth.
Just a lump of fucked filth, finished with, no longer wanted.  Come and
remove it, Corporal. . .