Page 46 of Deviant

Magnus sits back in his throne, his hands on the arms and his right ankle propped up on his knee like he’s ready for the show to start now.

I want to curse, to swear, to lob this thing at his horrifically handsome face.

But I don’t. Instead, I sit back, spreading my legs and I force the awful thing inside me.

Christ, it hurts. Every inch it feels like it’s pushing me too wide, too open. I don’t think my muscles are meant to expand this far. Nothing about this feels good. And when I remember that all that wetness isn’t lubricant, that it’s blood, I very nearly puke everywhere.

I keep my gazed down at the bastard’s feet. I don’t dare look up, but my tears are streaming anyway. I’m a complete, uncontrollable, mess as I start to fuck myself, just as he commanded.

“There,” he taunts, “that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

I grit my teeth so hard I swear they might shatter. If they do, I’ll swallow them, I’ll choke on them rather than give him any further satisfaction.

Between him and the other arsehole who raped me, my insides are already butchered. I don’t know how long I can do this for, I don’t know how long I’ll even be able to stay conscious.

“Make yourself come.”

I knew those words were coming. I knew that’s what he was going to ask of me. That’s clearly his focus for me, his way to prove my shame and his power over me.

I shake my head because there’s no way I physically can. This hurts too much. My body is too damaged from everything he’s done to, me and everything he’s forcing me to do in this very moment.

“Make yourself come or I will kill every one of them.”

“I can’t.” I sob. I can’t fucking do it. Will that cost them their lives? Will my failure now result in more people dying? Guiltsweeps over me and I turn my face, silently begging forgiveness from the soon to be dead people in the corner.

Perhaps he realises it, perhaps he can see what the issue is because he raises his hand, pulling the six chained up people who are left, to where I’m on my knees.

“No.” I gasp. I don’t want them to die. I don’t want to be responsible for this.

He smirks, tilting his head. “My whore needs a helping hand,” he says tauntingly. “Clean her up, get her ready for me.”

My stomach drops. I don’t know what those words mean, but apparently everyone else does.

Hands grab at me, I’m forced onto my back and I lash out, I kick, I try to fight them off. Why the fuck are they even obeying him anyway? He literally just killed three of them, why aren’t they fighting back? Why aren’t they helping me? Perhaps if we all teamed up together, we could overpower them… and then what? We can’t escape, I doubt we’d even make it out of the room.

That awful toy is removed and tossed and, in its place, a man settles himself as if this is all perfectly normal.

“What the fuck is this?” I scream into what feels like the void.

“Relax,” another whispers into my ear. “Don’t fight. You’re dead anyway so you might as well make it as pain-free as you can.”

I turn my head, staring in horror at the woman who said it. Her eyes look so glassy, she looks almost like a living corpse. God only knows what she’s been through, what she’s endured.

Her hand comes up, she pushes something into my mouth, slips it in past my lips and then holds my jaw shut like she knows I’m going to fight her.

I can taste it on my tongue. It’s sour, bitter, unpleasant.

Whatever the fuck this is, I refuse to swallow it. I twist my head, trying to get her off me so I can spit the liquid out, but she clamps my nose shut as if that will make me give in.

Something wet, something warm, something far too slippery pushes it’s way right up my core and in my shock, I gasp out, and I swallow.

The woman grins, a creepy, almost too toothy grin, and she lets go of me and then moves around to keep my head in place with her spindly hands.

The man between my thighs starts licking, lapping, literally cleaning me up and I squirm hating every second of this new violation.

Hands grab at my legs, keeping me wide open. Mouths latch onto my breasts, sucking at my nipples, teasing me.

More tongues trace my arms, my legs.

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