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He stood his ground, without any attempt at conciliation. I hoped that Denise knew what she was doing. He had some rare vintage stuff practically dating back to the first cameras. I knelt there while Doris jacked him off onto my tongue. I lost count of how much she spent.

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A strange, weary yearning, a dissatisfaction had started in her. Carrie sought pleasure more ardently with the experienced motions of her hips, the grinding of her womanhood against the boy's soft face increased in tempo. Carrington gripped the full shaft of his penis firmly and began to stroke long and hard — quickly driving him over the edge to ejaculation.

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To this day I can recall the pain in my breasts and feel my cunt get wet. He'd acquired an enviable collection over his long career. For a nanosecond, I thought Trace had missed; then every synapse in my brain got a wake up call from all the thousands of delicate nerve endings located in that single inch. My surviving it was problematic. I hadn't realized that anyone had a camera but then again I was too stoned to give a shit. They were watching me being abused as a prelude to entering Morrosco's Funeral Home in Melrose, Massachusetts for their son's wake. Trace used to say that his family considered arms their profession and pain their hobby. After he manhandled the hell out of my breasts, he stepped back, selected a particularly nasty looking whip out of the rack and casually delivered a blow that struck only one inch of my body. You could tell he really got off on that kind of shit. The Humvee had burned and several pieces of ordinance had exploded inside the cab. It was dripping out my nose too. It's surprising how much saliva and mucus I can produce when someone is gagging me by shoving his dick down my throat. The current batch of living and recently dead Donaldson's was as tough a bunch as this country could produce. How did a nice girl like me from Lowell, Massachusetts get mixed up with this group of patriotic sadists? It had been an off night. I never knew that being submerged in ice water could drive a person insane that quickly. During college I'd discovered that having a man between my legs slamming his cock in my cunt didn't rock my world. There were some black and white classics from the Gestapo archives including the famous ones where the Wermacht officers who tried to assassinate Hitler were slowly strangled with piano wire. The switchboard in my cerebellum went into overload and every muscle in my body convulsed. A French general had provided some extraordinary films of Legionnaires using electricity on Algerian rebels. My guess would be that the coffin contained a blend of both Trace and the driver. And the one that seemed particularly relevant to my predicament was where his unit snuffed the two VC cunts. Andrews, made me lick up the puddle of my urine and then invited me for coffee. I'd created a puddle on the towel that Denise had thoughtfully placed over Robbie's lap before he grabbed my head and forced me to bend over and take his cock in my mouth. I hadn't known any of this until I arrived back at the family home. I had gone to the club hoping that some one with a talented whip hand would give me the discipline I craved. Andrews cross when Trace and two of his army buddies arrived. We were married six months later when we could both get leave together. I let out a scream that brought the moribund crowd to the flogging room to see who was having their heart ripped out. I'd just graduated college with my nursing degree. When my mouth opened, he shoved his tongue inside all the while twisting my dugs to within a millimeter of separating from my tits. The fact that I was going to share in his trust fund hadn't gone down well with the Donaldson's. Robbie was hung like a horse and I could feel my neck bulge every time he achieved maximum possible depth. Uncle Sam's Army had funded my education. Thank God, it was going to be a private, invitation only affair. For me, it was love at first lash. Lois, always the dutiful wife, was stroking his trouser covered cock. I was a fucking mess. Major General Charles Donaldson, my father-in-law's grandfather, had ridden across France with Patten only to meet a bad end years later at the Chosan Reservoir in a shithole called Korea. My predilection for reaching an orgasm only after a sound flogging had brought Trace Donaldson and I together. Robbie, that's short for Major Robert C. There were three little Donaldson's at home being cared for by the nanny. Donaldson had been traveling through the streets of Kabul when a mine had exploded under his Humvee. Over time, I learned that pain was the additive I required to blow the searing hot wind of sexual satisfaction through my brain. Trace expertly whipped my tits and pussy until I climaxed, the kind of climax where you let everything go including your bladder. I wondered whether Robbie would blow his load before I choked to death. It was going to be a closed casket funeral. Finally, they'd left me up and I'd take a loud deep breath then spit out a mouthful of saliva and snot. Equally devoted to the study of military tactics and the works of Marquis De Sade, they were a twisted lot. Denise would help Robbie hold my head down as I kicked and thrashed about for air. Two of the VC were women and that meant the GI's were going to have some fun with them. But now Trace was dead thanks to the Taliban and the Donaldson's were pissed at me. Tears were pouring down my cheeks causing my mascara to run. Trace had emailed copies of the photos home to the family and informed them he was going to divorce my whoring ass. I recalled how the girls were naked on their backs tied to tabletop.{/PARAGRAPH} The place was a dilapidated dump but once a month, a crowd gathered who could usually satisfy my needs. It sounded like someone had fired a shotgun between my legs. Her brooding efforts had met with success. He stepped up to the cross, leaned against me while taking my nipples in his powerful fingers and gave them the kind of twist that makes an ordinary woman scream and beg for mercy. A pair of dommes had made an attempt at providing a decent flogging but I needed something stronger. British bayonets had gutted a Uriah Donaldson at Bunker Hill. There were six of us seated in the back of the stretch limousine: Donaldson and his wife, Lois, my aforementioned brother-in-law and his wife and Mary Ellen, my dead husband's younger sister now in her fourth year at West Point. My husband, Captain Trace L. Trace and I hadn't signed a prenuptial agreement. Unfortunately or fortunately as the case may be, that one-inch was my clit. But at the moment, I was dressed in a short black knit dress, way too short for a respectable widow to wear to her husband's wake. As a result, I had a five-year commitment to patch up soldiers in whatever piss poor backwater the Army selected. He'd force his pecker as far down my gullet as it would reach. I was about to give up and ask to be released when Trace saw me. Well for one thing, I'm not all that nice. I suppose Trace felt the same. The General was staring at me, taking an occasional sip of Jameson's. In Haiti, he managed to liberate an entire videocassette library of Papa Doc Duvalier's Tonton Macoutes working on enemies of the regime. But the crown jewels of the General's archives were the ones he'd made personally. Pictures of Donaldson's killed in combat lined the grand staircase of the family mansion. The others were watching me gag or choke then spit out a mouthful of the product of my salivary and mucus glands. My stomach was doing flip-flops. His other hand grabbed me by the hair and I knew I was in for a good old-fashioned Donaldson family face fucking. The Donaldson's were regular army to the core and then some. Denise was Robbie's wife and a former Marine who'd resigned her commission five years ago in order to commence pumping out babies to carry on the Donaldson line. Massachusetts is a community property state. Air would become scare after a while and I'd struggle to rise up and get a breath. I was naked, strapped to a St. He untied me from the St. Trace and his driver were killed instantly according to the letter I got from his commander. Before he was killed, Trace had found out that I was fucking around with the doctors and staff at the hospital in Kuwait City. Donaldson, sensing that his pecker had arrived at my esophagus, pushed harder and I felt that rock solid piston of man meat painfully descend another inch, scrapping the delicate tissue lining my gullet. {PARAGRAPH}He had a painfully firm grip on the back of my neck forcing my mouth downward until his cock head blocked my throat opening. Some prick had emailed him photos of me getting my ass caned, sucking dick, and taking a large black cock in my backdoor at a party we had to celebrate the Fourth of July. They were rich too. He lifted me up slightly by the back of my neck then violently forced my head down to drive his manhood another inch or two inside my neck. I had good reason to question my survival. I was leaving for training at Fort Campbell next week. Major Clement Donaldson had ended his days at Chickamauga, supposedly standing beside General Thomas, the Rock of Chickamauga until a mini-ball took off part of his skull. There were others too numerous to recall. We'd met at a place in Manhattan called the Hell Fire Club. Basically, I'm a nurse in uniform. I'd gag causing my scrapped raw throat to grip his cock.
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