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. . .