He crushed my body under his and mercilessly strangled me. I felt things in my head and felt I was spinning, falling... convinced I was going to die.I came round on my back and realized his intent as fingers rammed themselves home. I fought as best my legs could - throwing him clear and trying to force him away. He wore me down, ignoring my muffled cries. He demanded I let him have his way - or he would fist me. I was worn and exhausted and dizzy. As his cock rammed home into my trembling hole his hand closed on my throat again. I begged for help and cried as loudly as I could through the wet cotton to no avail as I was ravaged. The stench of my own ass lingered where he had spread it. I felt the tail of his sweatshirt against my body, the edge of his jeans and belt against my thighs... forcing my legs high above my head and crumpling my prone body under his.I remember only the nastiness of the gag and the dragging of his clothes. The brutality of being fucked evaporated. I picked up my megaphone, walked down the stairs, and stood in the dusty street. The crowd was even bigger than before. “Come back tomorrow morning,” I yelled. The men grumbled and shuffled away. 4 And so began a tedious routine. Carlotta would hop up on the desk, her bottom covered with bandages, and I would check to make sure her clitoris was still there. It took me a week to get past her throat. The next week, for some reason, I though her right nipple was her pleasurenut. The week after that I was sure it was her left nipple. The following week I focused on her belly button. “At least you’re getting closer,” Carlotta said. And then, like she had day after day, she pointed to the exact spot. The succeeding week, however, I thought it was in her left kneecap. It hurt to watch her eyes glaze over with despair. Because the poking and prodding had taken such a toll the sessions grew shorter and shorter. It was heartrending to hear her scream ‘stop’. I knew it meant another day of.
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