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Cooper Howard travels with Lucy to Vegas to find her father, but the sight of the Lucky 38 triggers old, devastating memories. His body reacts in a way he can't control, resulting in a flashback to the day he confronted House.
Tw noncon. Tw rape. Tw violence. Forced orgasms. Cooper has a pussy.
The Mojave sun was a different beast from the one that baked the Commonwealth. It was a sharper, more direct heat, a relentless pressure that made the shimmering horizon of New Vegas look like a mirage born of a fever dream. For Lucy, it was a beacon. She adjusted the pack on her shoulders, a genuine, unforced smile gracing her lips for the first time since she entered the wasteland.
"Can you feel it, partner?" she asked, her voice bright with hope. "We're almost there. Just a little further, and I can start asking about him. Someone in a city this big has to have seen my dad."
Cooper didn't answer. His gaze was fixed forward, past the sprawling, rusted-out suburbs and toward the needle of the Lucky 38 casino that stabbed at the hazy blue sky. He walked with a rigid, unnatural stiffness, his shoulders hunched beneath his tattered duster. Lucy's smile slipped as she looked at him properly. His jaw was clenched so tight she could see the muscle twitching. One hand was balled into a white-knuckled fist, gripping the rough leather of his coat as if it were the only thing tethering him to the earth.
"Coop?" she prompted gently, stepping closer. "You okay? You look... unwell."
A low, guttural sound was his only reply. It wasn't a word, just a strained noise caught in his throat. He finally tore his eyes away from the distant tower, but he wouldn't look at her. He stared at the cracked ground at their feet.
"Build a fire," he rasped, his voice a dry scrape. "You gotta eat." He didn't wait for a response, just started walking again, his pace faster now, almost frantic. "I'll be back. Gotta check the perimeter."
"What? Wait!"
Lucy called out, but he was already moving, his long legs eating up the distance toward a makeshift wall of distressed, skeletal cars piled high at the edge of the ruins. He disappeared behind them without a backward glance, leaving her alone in the oppressive silence.
Behind the barricade of twisted metal and sun-bleached tires, Cooper finally stopped, bracing a hand against the warm, pockmarked hood of a pre-War station wagon. His breath came in ragged, painful hitches, each one burning his irradiated lungs.
The Lucky 38. That goddamned tower. It was more than just a landmark; it was a key turning in a lock deep inside him, one he'd kept welded shut for two centuries. The tumblers were falling now, one by one, and the memories they were unleashing were a physical agony.
Heat pooled in his lower belly, a sickening, familiar ache he'd worked hard to bury. It was a phantom limb, a ghost of a life he'd both lost and fled from. With a trembling hand, he fumbled with the heavy buckle of his belt. The leather whined as he pulled it free, his fingers clumsy and stiff. He unzipped is fly, the sound obscenely loud in the the stillness. He shoved his trousers and underwear down just enough, the hot desert air hitting his exposed, ragged skin.
Still the same.
The radiation that had claimed his face and body had taken other things, but not this. This was pre-War. This was him.
Where a cock and balls should have been, there was only a smooth, hairless mound of flesh, bisected by a seam that glistened in the harsh sunlight. It was a vulva, stark and alien against his ghoulish skin. The lips were swollen, flushed a deep, angry red against the pallor of his thighs, and they were already slick with a clear, viscous fluid. His entrance throbbed with a frantic, independent rhythm, a pulse that matched the frantic beating of his heart.
"Damn it," he wheezed, his voice thick with self-loathing.
He leaned his forehead on against the hot metal of the car, the searing pain a welcome distraction. He tried to force it down, to will his traitorous hole into stillness, but the memories flooded his mind. A flash of a smiling face, the scent of sex, the sound of maniacal laughter echoing in his ears, the pinch of robotic hands. Images, sounds, sensations, all of them tied to that place, to that infernal tower.
His body betrayed him, his hips jerking involuntarily.
With a sob of frustration, he reached down, his long, claw-like fingers surprisingly gentle as they touched the fevered flesh. He spread the swollen lips, revealing the slick, reddened interior and the hard, peeking nub of his clit. The contact was electric. A jolt of pure, unwanted pleasure shot up his spine, making his whole body shudder.
He couldn't stop it. He wanted to, but he couldn't. His breathing grew ragged, turning from pained pants to desperate, uncontrollable grunts. The throb between his legs intensified, a deep, internal pulsing that built and built, a wave of pressure rising from a place he tried so hard to forget. His hole clenched and released, clenched and released, until he felt a violent, muscular spasm he couldn't ignore.
"No...
The wave crested, and he lost the fight. His back arched, a broken scream tearing at his throat as his body seized. His ancient cunt contracted violently, and a gush of fluid squirted from his hole, spraying the ground and his trembling thighs. It wasn't a simple release; it was an expulsion, a violent, shattering climax that ripped through him with the force of a dynamite blast—and he hadn't even been fucked.
Ecstasy born of torment.
"Oh... fuck...." he coughed.
The force of it buckled his knees, and he collapsed onto the dusty ground, his pants dropping in a bunch around his ankles. He didn't try to stand. He simply folded in on himself, shoulders shaking as soft, wracking sobs tore from his chest. He curled into a ball on the dirt, the aftershocks still making his fickle old hole twitch and clench. He had cum, and in the wake of the unwanted pleasure, all that was left was the hollow, echoing ruin of the man he once was.
The man who was dominated by Robert Edwin House.
<>
The air in the Lucky 38's penthouse was suffocating, dripping with venom and echoing with the low hum of cutting-edge technology. It was hell, overstimulating in every sense, but nothing compared to the booming voice of Mr. House—a genius, a mathematician, a madman.
"Who ends the world?" he yelled, his dark eyes following Cooper as he stumbled to the stairs. "Is it you?"
The accusation, delivered with absolute certainty, made Cooper's heart jump. The man was crazy, a doomsayer, and yet it all felt too real. Too close. Too possible.
Inevitable.
"What if it is you?" the disgruntled House continued. "I don't think you're a cowboy at all. No! I think you're a killer! I think I know exactly who you are!"
The elevator doors slid shut, and Cooper poured a generous splash of whiskey down his throat. He needed silence. He needed a break. But before the shaft made it halfway to the next floor, it stopped abruptly. He pressed the buttons frantically, cursing what he thought was a glitch, but without warning, the direction changed, and before he could blink, he was face-to-face with House once more.
"What are you doin'?" he asked, lunging forward.
Two hulking Securitrons, their titanium bodies gleaming under the recessed lighting, rolled into into his path. Their powerful pincer arms shot out with terrifying speed, one grabbing his left bicep, the other his right.
"What the hell is this?" Cooper snarled, struggling against their unyielding grip.
He was strong, a man who prided himself on his physicality, but it was like fighting a hydraulic press. They dragged him backward, his shoes scuffing the expensive rug, and slammed him face-down over the cold, hard surface of House's desk, the impact knocking the air from his lungs.
"An opportunity, Mr. Howard."
House's voice was much calmer now, smooth as silk. Cooper craned his neck, his cheek pressed flat against the polished wood, to see the man stepping closer with an almost cheerful gait.
"You're my favourite actor," he said, his lips curling in a predatory smile. "It might seem droll, a man of my stature enjoying brutish westerns, but every man has his... interests." He paused, standing far too close behind Cooper's pinned body. "And I simply cannot let an opportunity like this pass me by. If you really do play a role in ending the world, then this is my delusion of control. I know it won't change anything, but I'll be damned if it doesn't make me feel better."
Cooper cried out, to no avail. One Securitron held his head to the desk while the other tore at his trousers. The sound of ripping wool filled the room as his pants and boxers were yanked down to his ankles, exposing him completely. A chill of pure, undiluted terror shot through him, so cold it felt like a physical blow. Even in the Marines, on the battlefield, paralyzed by faulty power armor and surrounded by the enemy, he never felt fear like this.
"My, my," House gasped, running a possessive hand along Cooper's ass. "It's even better than I'd theorized."
The billionaire's gaze fixed on Cooper's most intimate secret. He truly wasn't like other men. He was born with a rare, private anomaly—a tight, perfectly formed cunt. It was a secret he'd shared only with his wife, a source of shame and intense, carefully guarded pleasure.
But not anymore.
House unzipped his own tailored trousers, his movements unhurried, almost teasing. When he pulled out his cock, Cooper's eyes widened in disbelief. It was unnaturally large, thick as Cooper's wrist, with prominent veins that seemed to throb with a life of their own. It wasn't just big; it was more, engineered for a purpose beyond nature.
"You're insane," Cooper choked out, the word muffled by the desk.
"On the contrary, I am at the pinnacle of sanity," House purred, positioning himself between Cooper's legs. "And this," he said, patting the monstrous length against Cooper's clenched entrance, "has been... modified. Genetically enhanced to bring whoever I fuck the maximum amount of pleasure possible. A little side project of mine."
He lined the head with Cooper's tight, unprepared hole, rubbing just long enough to make him wet. Cooper could feel the heat radiating from it, the texture stroking his folds, the subtle press that teetered closer and closer to penetration.
"I'll kill you for this!" he ground out, his voice a symphony of pure hatred. "You hear me? I'll kill ya!"
"I'd wish you luck with that, Mr. Howard, but I'm afraid the house always wins."
And then he pushed in.
The stretch was unreal, the rim of his entrance pulled tauter than a drum skin. It was a sensation beyond pain, beyond pleasure, a mind-bending fullness that seemed to invade every cell of Cooper's body. His head swam, his vision blurring at the edges. It should've been agony, a tearing, brutal violation. But it wasn't. A wicked, liquid heat bloomed from his core, radiating outwards in an eruption of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. His body seized up. A strangled gasp tore from his throat as his hole clenched down around House's impossible girth.
"Breathe, Mr. Howard," House warned. "That's the aphrodisiac from my glands taking effect. If you don't relax, you might—"
"Aaaaugh!"
The man didn't even have a chance to thrust before Cooper's first, violent orgasm crashed over him. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he nearly blacked out from the sheer, overwhelming intensity of it.
A deep, resonant laugh filled the room. "My goodness," House chuckled, his voice vibrating through Cooper's very bones. "You came harder than a virgin on prom night. And we've only just begun!"
Then House began to move. He pulled out slowly, almost to the tip, before slamming back in. He sett a cruel, relentless pace, each thrust sending a fresh jolt of impossible pleasure through Cooper's system.
"Ah! Augh! Stop! Please—aaughn!"
He was screaming now, but the sounds were short, guttural notes, half-plea, half-moan. Drool pooled on the polished desk beneath his cheek as his mind dissolved into a haze of sensation. His wife, with all her love and gentle touch, had never come close to this. This was a violation, a rape, but his body was singing with a joy he didn't know was possible.
"You see," House grunted, his voice strained with effort as he drove into him, "the specific biochemical composition of my cock is designed to hyper-stimulate your nerve endings, while the shape and texture are calibrated to apply optimal pressure to your internal pleasure centers. It's... quite efficient. Self-lubricated, of course, to stretch your channel without tearing it. It calculates... ah... the precise circumference your walls are capable of stretching and adjusts accordingly. In other words, Mr. Howard, my cock knew, the moment I laid eyes on you... that your hole had a dormant, insatiable size kink."
Cooper couldn't process the words. They were just noise, meaningless static against the roaring in his ears. He could only feel. He could only cum. His second orgasm hit him, then his third, each one stronger than the last. He lost count, lost time, lost himself. He was a vessel for pleasure, a thing to be used.
His body bucked and writhed against the robots' hold, and he was vaguely aware of sounds escaping his throat—words, maybe. "Please," and "more," and "God, yes," a litany of begging he had no consciousness of forming.
By his tenth release, he was completely broken, a sobbing, writhing mess, his body limp and pliant, held steady only by the Securitrons and the cock still impaling him.
"That's it, Mr. Howard," House huffed. "You understand now, don't you? This is the world that could have been, but you, or your wife, or whomever, elected to destroy it. I had... such plans, and I shall see them realized, no matter how long it takes. Even if I have to dig Vegas out of the atomic ashes."
With a curt nod to the Securitrons, House pulled back, though not out, as they flipped Cooper's weightless body onto his back, spinning him like a ring on his cock. His eyes, wide and unseeing, stared at the ceiling as his limbs sprawled out on the desk, no longer needing to be restrained. Still, the robots pinned his arms, programmed for nothing less.
"Yes," House hissed. "Look at you."
A manic, devilish glint sparked in his eyes; he wanted to see the face of his conquest. He practically dove forward, hugging Cooper's thighs and plunging into his hole with renewed, demented force. Cooper was useless, his mind utterly wiped, incapable of anything but pathetic winded screams. His body responded on pure instinct, his cunt spasming violently around the invading cock, squirting a clear fluid with every merciless thrust. House watched, utterly captivated, as tears streamed from the corners of Cooper's eyes—not of pain or sorrow, but of a pleasure so absolute it shattered him, a bliss no man had ever known nor was ever meant to survive.
Finally, with a satisfied groan, House thrust deep one last time and arched back, shooting into his victim. At that moment, as he felt the dam burst and squeeze past his limits, Cooper's mind fractured, one final orgasm eclipsing the rest.
"AAAAAAAAUGH!"
If not for the soundproof walls, the whole casino surely would've heard his unbelievable scream.
But then there was silence, save for the ragged, quivering pants that filled the room. When he was able, House pulled out, and Cooper felt a sudden, hollow emptiness. He slumped against the desk, barely conscious, his body twitching with aftershocks.
"Success," House chuckled. "I think we can safely say that this modification is a resounding success."
He staggered back, admiring his handiwork. Cooper's hole was left gaping, a wide, reddened circle slowly leaking a sticky stream of fluid. He couldn't speak, but House could tell he was grateful—or at least that his hole was.
"A truly magnificent canvas, Mr. Howard," House said, his voice returning to its calm, business-like tone as he casually tucked himself back into his trousers. "I believe you've been irreparably changed by this experience. For the better, of course."
He bent down, grabbing Cooper's trousers and crudely redressing him. He left the boxers where they lay, yanking the single fabric up and around Cooper's waist, but he paused as he reached for the flaps. He didn't zip them up. He stared, enraptured as the hole he had so savagely fucked pulsed like an open wound, then smiled.
As before, he nodded to one of the Securitrons, which scooped Cooper into its arms and carried him toward the elevator. As the doors slid open, House turned away, clasping his hands behind his back.
"Enjoy it while you can, Mr. Howard. You don't have long."
"The again," he said ominously, "I have been wrong, on rare occasions. Perhaps you'll outlive us all."
The air in Emmrich's quarters was thick with the scent of old paper, embalming fluid, and something new, something primal and alive: sweat and sex. Rook knelt between the necromancer's trembling thighs, her world narrowed to the soft, heated flesh pressed against her mouth. Emmrich was a man of elegant poise and scholarly reserve, but here, spread out on his bed, he was undone. He was a man with a cunt, and it was weeping for her.
His hands, usually so steady for handling delicate bones and ancient artifacts, were clenched in the sheets, knuckles white. His face, usually composed, was a mask of overwhelmed pleasure. Tears rolled from the corners of his eyes, and his whimpers were constant, broken sounds that went straight to Rook's core. He had already cum twice, his body jerking with each orgasm, but Rook was insatiable.
She flattened her tongue and dragged it hard against his entrance, tasting the salt of his previous releases. The folds were swollen and slick, a deep, flushed red against the paler skin of his inner thighs. She loved the taste of him, the way he quivered when she circled his clit with the tip of her tongue. She focused on that bundle of nerves, flicking it rapidly, then sucking it into her mouth with gentle pressure.
"Ah! Rook, please," Emmrich sobbed, his voice cracking. "I-it's too much. I can't—"
Rook just hummed against him, the vibration sending a fresh jolt through his system. She could feel his thighs tightening around her head, a clear sign of what was coming. She doubled her efforts, her tongue delving into his hole, fucking him in quick, shallow thrusts. His hips bucked erratically, a desperate, instinctual motion seeking more of that devastating pleasure.
"Rook!"
His back arched off the bed, a beautiful, strained bow of muscle and bone. He cried out, his voice ragged as his third orgasm tore through him. His hole spasmed violently against her lips, and a gush of fluid flooded her mouth. Rook moaned in delight, drinking it, her hands gripping his thighs to hold him in place as he shook and hollered through the peak.
She kept her mouth on him, gentling her ministrations as he came down, letting him catch his breath. His whole body was limp, his chest heaving, flushed a deep red that spread up his neck. After a long moment, she slowly, reluctantly, pulled back to look at his face. His eyes were closed tight, lashes wet and clumped together. He looked utterly wrecked, lost in a haze of sensation.
"Not bad, old man. Not bad at all."
Her gaze drifted back down to what she'd created. His entrance was even redder now, angry-looking and impossibly swollen. It was still contracting, small, uncontrollable spasms rippling through the sensitive skin.
"Don't... don't stare at it," Emmrich begged, his voice barely audible. He kept his eyes squeezed shut. "All wrinkled and decrepit and... ugly."
Rook's head snapped up. She stared at his shame-filled face, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her wet lips.
"That," she said, her voice a low purr, "was the wrong thing to say."
Before he could process her words, she dove back in. There was no gentleness this time, only a ferocious, possessive hunger. She sealed her lips over his spasming hole and sucked, hard. Her tongue was a weapon, stabbing deep, her teeth scraping lightly against his inner folds.
Emmrich cried out, a sharp, shocked sound that was half confusion and all pleasure. His body arched clean off the bed, belying his age. The feeling was unreal, a white-hot ecstasy that seared through every nerve ending. It was too much, it was perfect, it was going to kill him.
Rook was relentless. She made him cum again, and again, her world consumed by his taste, his sounds, the frantic clenching of his old cunt around her tongue. She made him cum five more times, each one more intense than the last, until his sobs turned to broken, wordless pleas and his body was nothing but a shell. His vision blacked out, and he felt himself drifting, floating on a sea of unbearable pleasure, right on the edge of unconsciousness.
When she finally pulled away, he was panting, his throat raw, his body slick with sweat. He felt wrong, hollowed out, and somehow more alive than he'd ever been in all his fifty years. He couldn't move, couldn't think. He could only feel.
Rook shifted, her touch impossibly smooth. Carefully, she used her thumbs to spread his hypersensitive hole, exposing every part of him. She took in the wrinkles, the slight asymmetry, the way the skin was creased and marked by time—every single wonderful imperfection.
"It's beautiful," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion and satisfaction. She looked up from his cunt to his dazed eyes, her expression heartfelt. "Emmrich, you're beautiful."
"Rook... you..."
"Quiet," she demanded. "Catch your breath. You're going to need it."
Suddenly, Rook rose from the bed, her movements fluid and confident. Emmrich watched her through a haze of post-orgasmic bliss, his body still trembling. He had no capacity to wonder what she was doing; he was simply a vessel for sensation, and she was the one who filled it.
She returned to the bed after a beat of absence, and his breath hitched. Around her hips was a harness, and from it protruded a phallus. It wasn't grotesquely large, but to his overstimulated, weary eyes, it looked monumental. It was sleek and black, gleaming faintly in the low light of the room.
He tried to speak, but she pressed a finger to his lips as she knelt between his legs, her expression one of intense concentration. "I'm going to fuck you now, Emmrich," she whispered, her lips brushing against his. "I'm going to fill this beautiful hole, and I'm going to change it."
He could only whimper in response, a sound of both fear and desperate need. His hole was old, and small, and it had already been subjected to more pleasure than it had known in decades. Rook, however, was a study in control. She poured a generous amount of oil onto her fingers and onto the shaft of the strap-on, her touch practiced and sure. Then she coated his entrance, her thumb circling the swollen, sensitive flesh. Emmrich flinched, his hips canting involuntarily.
He was ready.
With a grin, Rook positioned the head of the phallus at his entrance. It felt huge, a pressure that was both alien and tantalizing.
"Relax for me," she said, her voice a low, soothing command. "Let me in."
She pushed forward, agonizingly slow. The head of the strap-on stretched him, a burning, intense pressure that bordered on pain but never crossed the line. It was a terrifying, overwhelming fullness. His body, already primed and defeated, couldn't process it. As the thickest part of the head breached his entrance, a dam broke inside him.
"Aaaaugh!"
Emmrich cried out. His back arched, and his hands flew out, clutching at Rook's shoulders, his nails digging into her skin. He was cumming. It wasn't a gentle wave but a violent, clenching spasm that wracked his entire body. His hole, already so sensitive, clamped down hard on the intruder, a desperate, milking contraction. Rook groaned, feeling the pressure through the base of the harness, and held perfectly still, letting his orgasm crash over him. She enjoyed the way he shook and sobbed against her, completely wrecked by the simple act of being entered.
Then, she began to move. Her thrusts were shallow at first, rocking into him with a steady, maddening rhythm. Emmrich could barely think. The feeling was indescribable. Each movement sent a jolt of pleasure through him, the friction against his inner walls a constant, exquisite stimulation. His mind was a blank slate, wiped clean by the sheer intensity of it all.
"Can you feel it, Emmrich?" Rook's voice was a cruel growl in his ear. "Can your entire channel feel it?"
He couldn't form words, only a choked, desperate cry. He managed a frantic nod, his head lolling on the pillow.
"Yes!" he finally gasped out. "All of it. Rook, it feels—it feels—!"
"Good," she grinned, her smile predatory.
She started to pound him harder, her hips snapping forward with more force. The sound of skin meeting skin, slick with oil and his arousal, filled the room. Each thrust drove the air from his lungs, pushing him deeper into the mattress. The pressure inside him built to an impossible peak, and with an exceptionally deep thrust, he came again. A sharp, broken scream tore from his throat as his hole spasmed uselessly around the thick shaft filling him.
And Rook didn't stop. She adjusted her grip, hooking her arms under his knees and pushing them up and back, changing the angle. She slammed into him, fucking him with deep, powerful strokes, grinding his hole into the bed with each thrust. She watched his face, mesmerized. His features contorted, his mouth falling open in a silent scream before the sound finally emerged. It wasn't a word, just a high, desperate keen.
"My hole!" he screamed, his voice cracking with the sheer force of his pleasure. His hands scrabbled at the sheets, at her back, anything to anchor himself as he was swept away.
"No, Emmrich... it's mine."
She made him cum six more times. Each orgasm was more brutal than the last, leaving him more frail, more broken. His screams turned to hoarse sobs, then to whimpers, and finally to silent, convulsive shudders. His hole, once so tight and reactive, could barely spasm anymore. It fluttered weakly around the strap-on, a prostrated, exhausted echo of its former vigor. He was fucked out of his mind, a limp, pliant thing in her arms, his body drenched with sweat, drool, and tears.
With one final, deep thrust, Rook stilled. She held herself inside him for a long while, feeling the faint, residual tremors of his body. Then, slowly, she pulled out. The phallus left him with a wet, obscene pop, and Emmrich whimpered at the sudden loss.
"That's it," she chuckled. "You miss it already, don't you?"
Slowly, she stared down at his hole. It was gaping now, a beautiful, ruined mess of reddened, swollen flesh. It glistened with oil and his own release, a testament to the pleasure she had wrought.
It was thoroughly, utterly fucked.
Emmrich lay beneath her, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow and ragged, his mind lost in a fog of blissful oblivion. No one had ever done this to him, most of them disgusted by his anatomy. But as Rook squeezed his hand, her eyes lingering, he knew his old pussy hole would never be neglected again.
Emmrich crying after having his pussy fucked raw is so important to me. Crying during, of course, but crying after too. His old, wrinkled hole won't close and there's nothing he can do about it, but it also feels so fucking good he can't stop the tears that roll down his cheeks uncontrollably.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Cooper's hole was stretched obscenely wide, a gaping maw of red, glistening flesh that pulsed with each ragged breath he took. The large glass bottle, slick with his own arousal, rested deep inside him, filling him completely and stretching his inner walls to their limit. His labia was distended, taut around the thick base of the intruder, his clit engorged and throbbing visibly.
His entire body trembled with the intensity of the sensations coursing through him. The cool glass against his heated, wrinkled walls sent shivers up his spine, while the relentless pressure made his toes curl. His stomach muscles clenched involuntarily, trying to accommodate the immense size of the object within him, unable to push it out, the straps holding tight.
"Fuck..."
Despite the overwhelming fullness, there was no pain—only a deep, primal pleasure that radiated from his core. His face was somehow flushed, eyes heavy as tears leaked from the corners. Tears of ecstasy. Every nerve ending in his cunt sang with delight, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of stimulation.
His cervix stood out like a protruding button, its normally subtle contours now prominent and swollen due to the prolonged occupation of the glass bottle.
How long had it been since the BOS soldiers stuffed it inside him? He couldn't say. Time had lost all meaning since his capture.
"Please..." he blubbered, though no one could hear him.
His walls were visibly puffed and swollen, resembling a tightly wrapped balloon ready to burst at any moment. The gentle sheen of sweat on his rugged thighs seemed to match the glistening wetness within his channel, where the bottle had been lodged for what felt like an eternity.
"Fuck..." he sobbed. "Ugh, fuck..."
His entire body began to quiver, a telltale sign of his deep-seated longing for release. He didn't care anymore—he just wanted to cum. His breath caught, he bit down hard on his thin lower lip, his entire being coiled with anticipation.
He was close. Impossibly close. All he needed was some movement. Just a small, careless thrust and he would shatter.
But he couldn't. His hands were bound, he was alone in his cell, he couldn't close his legs. All he could do was wait.
Wait until the soldiers decided to play with him again.
I want Emmrich's old pussy hole to be fucked so hard and so long, it turns a slight shade of purple from all the abuse. I want him to cry and scream because it feels so fucking good. I want him to faint from the experience, then wake up and shudder because his hole is still throbbing with unwanted pleasure.
I’m so obsessed when you put Emmrich in situations. Get that old man ruined.
Emmrich's body trembles as he presses his forehead to the cool wall, breath hitching in ragged gasps. He's long since lost track of the numerous orgasms that have wracked him—each one more powerful than the last. His well-used pussy clenches and flutters in violent spasms, releasing wave after wave of slick heat. Wetness drips down his thighs, a raw testament to how deeply he's been ruined.
"P-please..." he whimpers, his voice hoarse from the countless moans and screams that have escaped his throat. "I can't take much more."
He shudders as you tighten your grip, knowing you hold his pleasure in your hands. You know exactly how to touch him, how to tease him, how to bring him to the brink of insanity and back. He is your puppet, and you are his master, pulling the strings of his desire with expert precision.
"Aaaugh!"
His body convulses as another wave of pleasure crashes over him, his decrepit old cunt squirting once more. He can feel his vision swimming, his consciousness threatening to slip away. The sensations are too intense, too all-consuming. He knows that if you make him cum one more time, he might lose himself completely.
"Please," he sobs, his voice a desperate whisper. "I can't... I'm begging you."
But even as the words leave his lips, he knows you won't stop. You won't show him mercy. You'll push him further, force him to take more than he ever thought he could endure. And he'll obey—because he's yours to command.
His body shakes with anticipation, his hole clenching in eager expectation. He braces himself against the wall, knuckles white from the strain. He can't see what you're doing—but he feels it. The stretch, the relentless pounding, something thick and unyielding dragging against his tight, sensitive channel.
"Ugh! No!"
He can feel the pressure building once more, the familiar tension coiling in his belly.
Maker, it's so good. Too good.
"Cum for me, Emmrich," you order, your voice a low growl that sends shivers down his spine.
"Just one more time," you lie. "Cum."
And with a final, desperate cry, Emmrich surrenders—his body arching as he cums harder than ever before. His hole gushes and spasms, his vision flaring white as he's swallowed by the abyss of ecstasy.
Then his consciousness fades, his body going limp as he slides down the wall, utterly spent and beautifully broken.
But even as darkness claims him, he knows this isn't over. You will be back, and you will push him further still.
And he will obey, because he is yours, body and soul.
In the dingy, sterile room, Phineas Welles lay strapped to a cold, metal slab, his body writhing in a mix of shame and ecstasy. His eyes were rolled back, his toes curled, and his cheeks were flushed a deep, humiliated red. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one a testament to the torment he'd been forced to endure.
His body, once a temple of scientific prowess, was now a playground for the depraved. His pussy, a sight both grotesque and beautiful, gaped wide open, held obscenely by metal clamps. The flesh inside was a wrinkled, swollen mess, the result of countless assaults. The lips were stretched taut, revealing more of the wrecked, glistening interior, slick with a mix of lubricant and his own fluids.
It was a canvas of utter degradation, a stark contrast to the man's former glory.
A large, steel rod lay discarded on the slab beside him, its surface gleaming with evidence of its role. The length was thick and ragged, designed to inflict maximum pleasure, and it had clearly been used on the old scientist—mercilessly.
In fact, he might've missed it. Even now, in this rare moment of respite, his hole shuddered at the loss, the muscles inside spasming and twitching, as if begging for more.
But no.
He was better than this. At least, he was supposed to be.
As he fought to maintain some semblance of control, the door to the room swung open, and Adjutant Sophia Akande stepped inside. Her hands were clasped behind her back, her expression stoic. Unreadable.
Wasting no time at all, she took in the scene before her, her gaze lingering on the other men in the room before finally settling on Phineas' cunt.
"Well, well," she said, her voice a low purr. "It seems you've all been having fun without me." Her eyes flared with a mix of amusement and cruelty as she took in the sight of Phineas' abused body. "Clearly, you've had your way with him."
Phineas tried to speak, to curse her and the Board; as he had so many times before, but his words were lost in a moan of pleasure. Once again, his body betrayed him, his hole squirting and spasming as waves of unwanted bliss washed over him.
"That happens now," one of the men interjected. "Sometimes he'll just... cum. For no reason."
Sophia's lips curled into a rarely seen smile, a notion both gorgeous and terrifying.
"It's truly delightful to see the once-great criminal, Phineas Welles, fall victim to such baser instincts," she said, her voice dripping with spite.
She turned on her heel, her boots clicking on the cold floor as she made her way to the door.
"Continue," she ordered the men, her voice leaving no room for argument.
As the door swung shut behind her, one of the men stepped forward, a wicked grin on his face. He approached the slab, his eyes fixed on Phineas' gape, while Phineas instinctively tried to pull away.
"What are you gonna do?" one of the man's colleagues asked.
He didn't answer. Instead, he began to fist the old scientist's hole, his hand disappearing into the vast chasm.
"Aaaughugh!"
Phineas cried out, a sound that was half-disapproval, half delirious consent. His body arched off the slab, his hips bucking wildly as the man's fist slammed in and out of him, drumming against his cervix.
"You like that?" he scoffed, the wet, sticky sound echoing through the room. "You freak."
Phineas' face was a mask of crazed ecstasy, a smile stretching from ear to ear as he came almost immediately, his body convulsing with the force of his orgasm.
To the man, this was exercise. To Phineas, it was routine.
The room was filled with the sound of his moans, the wet, slapping noise of flesh against flesh, and the occasional grunt from the man as he continued his brutal assault.
"Fuck yeah, look at him go!"
"He'll feel that tomorrow!"
"He's feeling it right now!"
The men laughed, while Phineas was lost in a world of sensation, his mind a slave to the pleasure that coursed through his veins. His hole clenched and released around the man's fist, more fluids gushing onto the floor in a sickening symphony of submission.
Days had passed. Perhaps weeks. Without the ability to see outside, the old scientist couldn't be sure. All he knew was the Captain wasn't coming to save him.
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In the dimly lit chamber, the air thick with the scent of sweat, misery, and the acrid tang of spent lust, Professor Emmrich Volkarin lay sprawled on the cold stone floor. His body, once a vessel of knowledge and arcane power, was now a wrecked landscape of tears and unwanted pleasure.
"Maker..." he sobbed, eyes wandering.
His old, wrinkled pussy, a relic of a past life, was gaping and dripping, the flesh red and inflamed from the brutal assault. He could feel every throb, every spasm, as if his body had a mind of its own, betraying him with waves of perverse ecstasy.
He'd been raped. For hours.
His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he tried to crawl away from the monster who had violated him, even if he knew it was pointless. His limbs felt like lead, his muscles screaming in protest with every feeble movement. The floor beneath him was slick with his own fluids, the evidence of his repeated, forced orgasms. He could feel the cool air on his exposed flesh, the draft sending shivers down his spine, making him all too aware of his ruined state.
"Not so fast!"
Rough, calloused hands suddenly grabbed the sides of his ravaged pussy, pulling gradually.
"Aaaugh!"
Emmrich cried out, then let out a choked sob, his body trembling as he looked back over his shoulder. His attacker, a towering figure of muscle and malice, grinned down at him, his eyes gleaming with a mix of triumph and sadistic delight.
Emmrich's vision swam, his eyes rolling back as he begged, "Please... stop. I can't... take any more."
"Stop squirming," the man growled. "Let me admire my handiwork."
The man's fingers, thick and cruel, dug into Emmrich's flesh, stretching his passage obscenely wider. He could feel every ridge, every nodule, as if his body had been turned inside out.
Why did it feel so good?
"That's it," the man chuckled. "What a sight."
His gaze was fixed on the gaping hole, his expression one of morbid fascination. Emmrich's old pussy hole was a mess of red, raw flesh, gushing with a torrent of clear fluids. His passage was so stretched his attacker could see his cervix—a dark, pulsating point in the center of the carnage.
The man never came inside him, and Emmrich now realized it was because he wanted to witness his destroyed passage unobstructed.
"Fuck, I wish you could see this," the man breathed, basking in the way Emmrich's hole pulsated around his fingers. "I don't think it's ever gonna heal. You'll remember me."
"Ugh... please..."
Despite his best efforts to hold back, Emmrich's body betrayed him once more. The stretching, the shame, the sheer humiliation of being stared at in such a degrading manner sent him over the edge.
"Aaaaughugh!"
He came with a choked cry, his body convulsing as he squirted, the fluids spraying onto the floor beneath him. His attacker's grin widened, his eyes never leaving the vulgar display.
"Yes! That's it! Cum, you useless fool!"
Emmrich felt his mind snap, his vision blurring at the edges, and then he collapsed with a gentle thud, drool rolling down his chin.
"Fuck, that was amazing," the man wheezed, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "I've never seen a man cum just from being fondled before. But I guess after all that fucking, you're extra sensitive now, huh?"
Emmrich didn't reply, lost in a haze of sorrow and ecstasy.
"Well, thanks for the party," the man taunted. "Maybe we'll meet again someday."
With a final, mocking pat, the man released him, leaving Emmrich defeated—alone on the floor. His body continued to spasm, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he tried to process the sheer horror of what had just happened. His old pussy throbbed, the shame and pleasure intertwining in a sickening dance, a constant reminder of his violation.
As his consciousness began to fade, he could only hope that the darkness would provide some semblance of escape from the nightmare he now inhabited.
Thinking about Nyoka breaking into the bathroom because Vicar Max is taking too damn long again. She discovers the reason: he's been pleasuring himself. When she sees his needy cunt she can't help but pin him against the sink and slam her beer bottle inside him, fucking that old pussy hole until he cums so many times, he blacks out. As he falls to the floor, twitching and overstimulated, she takes a piss, steps over him, closes the door, and leaves him to his shame.
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