The Secret Blog of An Sex Addict

They wasted no time, gave her no chance to deal with the situation. One of them grabbed her jaw painfully, then slapped her. It was disorienting. Another, or maybe two, pinched her nipples and pulled.

Someone behind her grabbed her hips. She felt his hard cock against her butt. Felt him squeeze between her buttcheeks, searching for her asshole with the tip.

Meanwhile, someone pressed up in front of her. His beard scratched her face. Some hands parted her legs, forcefully, and she had to hang from her wrists.

They both went in dry. She squealed and cried harder. They squished her body between them. "Hell yeah," said one, high-fiving his buddy. "Oh my god she feels so good," the other.

Dad had fucked her ass before, and she always cried from that, but this was different. This was someone else, a stranger. And having both of them inside her made her feel like she would explode. They wasted no time, thrusting to the same beat.

All the men took a turn with her, slapping her and punching her tits in between. Sometimes they pushed her off balance to watch her dangle. The pain in her shoulders made her cry the most. Then some of them wanted to go again, try a different hole.

The next hours were fragments of memories. The men rested, drinking beer and chatting, while others were using her. When there was no cock in her, they would just hurt her in other ways. Once two guys grabbed one leg each and pulled, then another kneed her between her legs.

She became aware that these were not strangers. She'd seen them before. They were Dad's buddies. They knew her. How could they do this to her?

Dad stayed on the sidelines, keeping an eye on everything, recording everything. He would look forward to watching all this with her later.

There was the moment when they unshackled her wrists and she thought it was over, but they just wanted to fold her in different positions. That was when she cried hardest.

The men enjoyed roughhousing her after that, pushing her around, mauling her tits, grabbing between her legs, pulling her hair, pushing her off balance so that she fell on the concrete and scraped her knees.

Sometimes they held her down, two men sitting on her while two more fucked her face and pussy. They enjoyed making her gag and choke.

Through it all, there was the atmosphere of good cheer. The men were laughing together, making jokes at her expense, relaxing. They were having fun. Even her tears and squeals were funny. Some of them talked about how they'd always wanted to do this to her. How great it was to have the chance.

The men relaxed, while she had no rest, no reprieve. Whenever she tried to catch her breath there would be a cock in her somewhere, or a slap in her face, or a hand deep in her mouth.

Sometimes one of the men would grow concerned. "Is she okay? She's breathing funny."

Then Dad would come check. A hand on her cheek. A finger on her pulse. Eye contact. "She can take it," he'd say.

She remembered one moment of being in his arms, Dad feeding her orange juice from a juice box, telling her she was okay. She felt comforted with his arm around her, even though her legs were splayed and she was leaking cum. But then he pulled her up and gave her to one of the men. "She's fine," he said. "Have fun."

She remembered fingers. Everywhere. Even while she was being fucked. Fingers in her pussy, fingers in her ass, fingers in her mouth. Fingers digging into her thighs. Fingers pulling her face into funny shapes. Their dicks were getting sore so they had fun in other ways.

Once two men held her open while another slapped her pussy. Hard, serious slaps. Another twisted her nipples as if they could come off. It was endless. Her efforts to get away were fruitless. She'd scrabble at the ground, or try to get up, or try to run. Always there would be a man in the way, catching her or pushing her.

She felt dizzy. She gave up, surrendered. She let them do what they wanted, stopped struggling except when she couldn't breathe. That still made her panic. So they did it often. She had no idea how much time passed anymore.

Eventually it did end. One by one the guys got tired and went back upstairs. The last guy was fucking her half unconscious body when Dad came to cradle her head in his lap. He stroked her hair.

She hoped he would carry her to bed, like he sometimes did after an intense scene. Instead, he shackled her wrists again and pulled her up to tiptoes.

"Did you think I went through all this trouble for one day? The guys are staying the weekend."

(inspired by @basementdarling )

The captor, because she never gave you any other name, never interacts with her in front of you. She's younger, and talks absentmindedly, but rarely seems to expect or want an answer.

Once every day, she comes downstairs with cattle prod and hood in hand, and takes you from the claustrophobic basement up the stairs, right turn, five paces, into another windowless room. It has only a treadmill and a chair. You refused, at first, and learned exactly how badly a cattle prod hurt. You swore to never eat meat again after your escape.

The captor demands nothing else of you, and answers no questions. She takes the other girl at different times, for far longer, and she returns with deep bruises, sometimes bloodied. You try to be grateful.

Each day you run, as fast as you can, for however long she makes you. The pace ticks up, day over day, and your heart rate settles into a comfortable spot. What had once left you gasping and pleading to stop, spurred on only by violent threats, is now an easy jog.

You couldn't say how long it had been, the day the routine changed. The captor took the other girl, and then came down again for you. Up the stairs, left turn, ten paces, down two short steps and…  a breeze? 

The hood comes off, and you're outside. It is late afternoon, and you furiously blink away tears. Your prison sits in a small clearing, a cabin with woods sprawling on every side of it. The air, fresh after so long, is thick with pine and so delightfully green.

The other girl is there too - without restraints. Standing, tight as a whip, staring into the woods.

The captor gestures to the treeline.

"Run. You get a five minute head start."

The words take a moment to register. You're weightless, giddy. You have no bearing, but you loved the woods as a child, and the captor does not seem dressed for the chase at all, in a long dressing gown and slippers. You bolt into the trees, the taste of freedom on your lips.

At a hundred yards, you realize the other girl did not start running with you. She had not been staring at the trees. She was waiting, impatiently. The realization sinks like a stone in your stomach, but you press on. Brush whips at your legs, leaving stinging cuts.

You hear her start. The first sound you've ever heard her make, an awful, baying howling. And then deathly silence, in comparison to your clumsy fleeing.