Chapter 4 - Love Child

 

Kirby Andrews strained against the tight ropes in hysterical desperation. Deep «in the dark cellar of the ramshackle house, tied, arms behind her, to a heavy wooden chair, at first she looked like a vicious recreation of one of those old detective magazine covers.

A tall, large-breasted blonde with a sexy face somewhere between sweet and sultry, her blue eyes were huge and terrorised while the rest of her features were distended by the vicious gag tied in, over and around her mouth.

Dirty underpants were shoved deep within, held by coarse, scratchy rope, and covered with rags tied around her head and under her long blonde hair. That hair was streaked and matted with cum, piss, and other liquids too viscous to identify. The remnants of a plain shirt and skirt were practically torn off her, save for an old-fashioned, dirty white bra which was ripped off one 37 inch breast. The other cup contained her tit like an overflowing suckling.

The coarse, thin, dirty ropes were biting everywhere, over and under her wrists around her spread elbows, across her shoulders, over and under her chest down her torso, and deeply around her 24-inch waist. Her legs were spread, her ankles tied to the chair legs, her feet crammed into dirty off-white high heel pumps.

She wrenched back and forth in the seat, trying to escape the bondage like a harnessed colt desperate to get away before any of them came to fuck or abuse her again. They were all up there, sleeping off their drunk, having finished their restaurant shift and nightly sex games. They came right from the bar and grill to the basement of the communal rental house to drag her from wherever they had secreted her the day before.

Then it was fun time. For them. They might dress her in her own clothes, clamping her mouth shut and vising her wrists, before slamming her to the floor or against the wall. Then they told her and showed her how angry her resistance to their come-ons had made them feel when they had all worked together at the bistro.

That was before the men's magazine had provided her with enough money to move away from her stepfather's house. That was before her stepfather had hired two pros to keep her prisoner. And that was before her lustful co-worker found her bound and gagged in the attic of her stepfather's house ... and decided to keep her for himself.

Correction; for himself and all his friends at the bar.

He had raped her in the back seat of his car after driving her away. Then, not knowing where else to bring her, dragged her into the cellar of the house he rented with three other guys ... all men she had rebuffed the advances of.

For a while they took turns, keeping her blindfolded. But after a while, when no one came looking, they lost all pretence, slapping her around and fucking her whenever they saw fit.

And they saw fit every day.

Kirby was amazed she was still sane and strong enough to keep attempting escape. But the bastards' knots were vicious and somehow their drunken tying managed to just keep her wrists and elbows and knees and ankles from pulling free...

She wrenched in the chair again, a length of cord just managing to contain her stabbing elbow and spasming hand. She moaned in agony into the foetid cotton stuffing her mouth, her head going back and eyes squeezing shut. She pushed up on the toes in the wickedly pointed shoes, feeling how her caked, splattered, streaked skin twisted.

"Oh no, baby," said a quiet, hoarse voice.

She started, staring with horror at the darkness at the foot of the cellar stairs. Bobby, the bartender, was walking slowly toward her, holding his erection in one hand. Sam, the chef, was moving slowly behind him.

"Oh no, baby," he repeated lazily. "You ain't going nowhere." He stood in front of her as Sam moved casually behind her. She looked up, pleading incoherently through the gag, tears streaming down her face.

"Oh no, baby," he said for a third time, reaching slowly for her. As he started pulling at the gag, Sam casually laid his hands on her shoulders, then let the palms slide down either side of her chest.

His hands gripped her squishy tits at the same time he plopped his cock into her fingers.

"No-ooooo ...!" she tried to cry, her head going back and her eyes closing, but Bobby wouldn't stop pulling down strands of rope and yanking at hunks of gagging underwear.

"Shut up, bitch," he said tiredly. "Just suck me off and we won't have to work you over."

"Yeah," said Sam, one hand going pointedly from her breast to her throat. They had tried sexual asphyxia the other night but hadn't liked it. Neither had she. She had jerked in the chair as they tightened the electric cord, wrapped three times round her neck, but she was never able to get them off before losing consciousness.

Eventually they had just dragged her to the bathtub where they fucked her up the ass while holding her head under water.

Choking at the memory, she gripped Sam's shaft as Bobby lowered her head toward his cock crown. The underpants fell from her mouth as the bartender thrust upward.

"Bobby, please ..," she begged in a small, hoarse voice.

"Shut up" he said firmly, forcing his cock into her mouth. "Suck it!"

"Stroke it!" ordered Sam.

Her hand and tongue moved. The three froze there for a few seconds as the men waited for her stimulation.

Bobby grabbed the side of her head by her hair and yanked sharply. "Put some omph into it!" he demanded.

"Yeah, babe," Sam cooed, leaning over her right tit. "Like your life depended on it ..."

She started jerking in the chair, head moving up and down while her hands moved as if she were pulling in a life-line.

"There," Bobby cooed, his head lolling back, "that's better ..."

Kirby sucked and licked, stroking firmly, trying not to think. Even so, as the cocks grew her oral cavity and throbbed in her hands, nightmarish images from the previous night kept invading her brain.

They had dragged her from a laundry sack. They had dressed her in one of her yellow summer dresses with the spaghetti straps, deep U-neck, and filmy mid-thigh mini-skirt. They had forced matching four inch yellow high heels on her feet. They had retied her wrists behind her, untied her legs and stuffed her panties in her mouth. They had taped her lips shut, then forced her into the communal living room of the house.

They let her get past them to a front window or door, laughing at her wide-eyed desperation and disbelief, knowing she would try no matter how improbable the odds.

And she had, charging at the door, trying to force her way between them or around them. But each time they'd grab or tackle her, mauling her tits, forcing themselves between her legs or slobbering across her face and chest.

Soon one strap was down, revealing her full, hanging right tit. Soon they had torn her skirt, revealing her tangled soft yellow tuft. Soon she was on the floor on her back, trying to scream as they laughingly took turns fucking her.

When it was over, they crossed her ankles and tied them. Afterwards, they had dragged her into the den where they watched baseball. It was a macabre sight, seemingly just four young men enjoying TV sports with all the accompanying beer and snacks ... save for one thing. A ravished blonde in a torn, twisted summer dress, her hair matted with cum, her mouth taped shut, her arms wrenched behind her and her dripping cunt exposed, sitting on the floor at her feet.

During commercials they'd pour beer on her head and throw chips at her. As the innings wore on and they got drunker, the taunting became more pronounced. Chips would be mashed against her gag, leading to a change when the beer and oil loosened the tape. Dirty sweat-socks were tied between her teeth and over her lips, followed by more tape.

Then the party really started. They had masturbation races on her (whoever came first got to fuck her at the seventh inning stretch.) Then, whoever came on her face first got to fuck her before the post-game show. Then, whoever came on her cunt got to sleep with her.