wrongonesin: “It’s called a ‘one bar prison’,” said the man adjusting the pole between my legs. He s
wrongonesin: “It’s called a ‘one bar prison’,” said the man adjusting the pole between my legs. He spoke casually, even though I was still trying to kick and scream. That wasn’t working out too well, since there was another big, burly man behind me, barring both of my arms tightly in one of his, and clamping my mouth closed with his free hand. His grabbing me from behind in the art gallery had been the first sign something was terribly wrong. I still hadn’t seen his face. But I had seen the shorter, balding man with a toolbox walk into the room and point to the art piece I’d been looking at. At least I’d thought it was some kind of dadaist installation - two handcuffs stuck out of a floor attached to a microphone stand.The guy holding me lifted me like I weighed nothing and brought me over to the stand. Before I thought to kick out, one of the cuffs had closed around an ankle, and even when I did kick with the other foot, the short man caught it like he’d expected it, and cuffed that leg too. Now my feet had very little ability to move, and I was still held tight standing up.The second man had set down an opened his toolbox in a way I couldn’t see the contents. He pulled out a pair of what looked like garden shears, which I didn’t understand at first, until he opened them and slid one of the blades under the waist of my skirt. By the time I had started screaming again into the hand over my mouth, my skirt, was split waist to hem by the sharp shears. He’d gotten that leg of my panties too, and while I tried to kick and shake loose, he got the other side. I was now standing trapped, bottomless, and terrified, in the middle of the apparently deserted gallery with two strange men.The second man paused then, staring thoughtfully between my legs, and I burned with humiliation and anger as well as fear, but when he turned back to his tool box and lifted out the shiny object, my blood ran cold. It was unmistakably a big, metal dildo. It wasn’t anatomical or anything, but it wasn’t perfectly smooth, either. It had an odd collection of bumps and smooth curves, and the man was screwing it into place on the short microphone stand positioned between my legs. I tried to kick at him with the little freedom the short chain of the cuffs gave, but he easily avoided it. and the guy holding me pulled back on my head, forcing me to look up and loose sight of the one in front.Now I couldn’t see where to thrash, but I knew worse was coming and tried to anyway. UntilI felt smooth metal nose up between my legs. I tried to jerk away, but the mass of a man behind me gave me nowhere to go backward, and the hand of the man in front of me pushing on my belly gave me nowhere to go forward or to the side. The shaft was smooth, but also clearly lubed, as it far-too-easily slid between my labia and up into me. It was thick, thickening as it forced deeper, and I felt the bumps and textures sliding inside me. Of course I screamed and cried the whole time, but it was useless. And I also had to gasp as the bulbous base of the shaft pushed into me and I seemed to close up around it. I was stuffed full, and even though the hand and pressing body in front and back relaxed, I found I still couldn’t move. It was like the dildo was holding me in place. The hand on my face relaxed also, and I was allowed to look down. I was standing on the little stand, and the microphone pole was extended all the way up to my pussy and disappeared inside. The rod was thin - much thinner than the massive shape inside me, but there was no outer sign of that. The rod was also much stronger than its thinness implied, rigid and unmoving. I was dumbfounded. That’s when the man spoke for the first time. I barely listened as I still fought to free myself. Then I felt metal against my skin again. this time, the shears sliced off my shirt and bra in one slash down my front, and suddenly I was released. The hands that had been holding me removed the tattered top from me as the big man stepped away, and I stood in shock naked save for my shoes, and impaled in the middle of the white gallery room.The short man described to me the details of a one bar prison. Not that he had to. There were no details. It was all pretty obvious. Now I did scream for help, crying out about my assaulters, trying to pull myself off. My heels didn’t let me raise myself up. I couldn’t bend my knees to jump because if I moved a fraction down the dildo pressed right up against the end my passage. I couldn’t get a grip on the thin, lubricated rod to lift myself that way.Upon seeing how well and truly stuck I was, the short man bent to unlock the cuffs from my ankles and remove them entirely from the stand. Now, absolutely nothing kept me from moving except the dildo held immovable inside me. I was frustrated and horrified beyond tears. But that wasn’t the end of it. As the two men gathered the toolbox and my destroyed clothes, the walls of the room were moving. What I had thought was a small gallery room between two larger art-lined exhibition halls had actually been just a temporary enclosure inside a larger room. The enclosure walls folded up and were wheeled away by two or three men, but I wasn’t looking at them. I was staring at the people. Around me on all sides in expanding circles of plush chairs sat men and women, sitting and facing me. None of them responded when I called, cried, waved my arms. screamed at them to help. I made myself turn around, slowly, the hard phallus in me sliding against my walls unsettlingly as I tried to catch one sympathetic eye and finding none. They were there to watch me. To watch me standing there, like this, helpless. I subsided into uncomfortable silence. There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t move. Nobody was helping me. I just stood there, shivering not from cold, impaled, trapped, watched.After some time, six people came into the room, dressed as the first one who had grabbed me. They each went to a spot on the floor in a circle between me and the audience, knelt, and opened up a small panel that had been flush with the surface and unnoticed by me. From five of these they pulled from the floor metal fluted columns, like trumpets pointing up, about two, two and ahalf feet high. The sixth, in front of me to my left was a little multidirectional digital display, pulled up to about my head level, clearly meant to be visible from across the room. The display read “0.0%”The ‘technicians’ left again, and the room was nearly silent again for another surreal minute or two. Then, from the second row, a couple rose. An extremely well dressed asian man and woman stood and walked to one of the trumpet things. The woman knelt as the man unzipped his pants and pulled out his hardening cock, and then she proceeded to suck him off right there in front of me, and everyone else. It was mostly quiet, with only the semi-obscene sounds of slurping and his quickening breathing echoing in the room, then his quiet moans of pleasure, rising until he was gasping and clearly on the brink of orgasm. At that moment, the woman popped his cock out of her mouth, took it in her hand, and pointed it into the horn in front of them, jerking the shaft vigorously. The man grunted and came, ejaculating several spurts of cum into the metal funnel mouth. The woman kept working him until the last drop had fallen, and then let go. The man put his spent cock back into his pants, zipped up and followed his partner back to their seats.I had been so rapt and confused watching their spectacle I hadn’t noticed it was being repeated at the four other trumpet-shapes around me. Two more oral couples like the first, a solo man staring at me wolfishly and jerking off, and a pair of men, wanking each other down. Then I looked up at the display, and saw it read “0.6%” A nameless dread came over me, as I heard one of the men groan again, and the splat of jetting cum against metal, and watched the number on the display climb to “1.4%″I started pleading then. Not crying, not cursing, but begging. Begging to be let go. Begging for them to stop. Begging for I don’t know what. They ignored me. If anything, my pleas seemed to get some of them off faster. Every time one of the men came, the number on the display increased. At 25% I tried to pull myself off again, to no avail. At 30% I tried to jump, even though the head of the metal dildo jabbed into me when I tried to bend my knees. I couldn’t even fall over. And the men and women kept coming, sucking, jerking, every cock cumming into one of the trumpet funnels, and the numbers kept rising, sometimes even a percent at a time.All I could do was watch, piteously, try to catch someone’s eye, and beg.Until the number reached 90%. By then it seemed most of the men in the room had visited the trumpets. Some of them twice. A last handful had not yet gotten up from their seats, but when the number hit, several things happened. The lights in the room began to change - the main lights darkening, and spotlights centering on me in the center of the room and the 5 horn funnels around me. As the last of the lated men and women to finish sat down, five men got up at once and approached the five horns. And as the unzipped their pants in unison, the metal shaft buried in me, that I had almost managed to ignore despite it’s locking presence, began to vibrate. My gasp at the deep reminder of intrusion and helplessness, at the sudden stimulation where there had only been presence, was greeted by the masturbation of the men at each station. Each stared at me, at my body, my breasts, between my legs, and the vibrations increased in intensity as their self stimulation increased.The first one to cum was behind me. He sighed with his climax and I heard the now familiar metallic splash of cum. But instead of 2 or 3 or 4 rings or splats or drops, this sound was of six or seven strong, long spurts. Reflexively now I looked up at the counter, which was climbing from that one ejaculation to 92.4% More than twice what any previous cum had done. The sound of low gasps from in front of me drew me to the tall black man there. His cum sprayed from his cock, down the throat of the funnel, rope after rope. 95% when he was done, and the vibrations increased inside me. I was moaning now, trying to say “no” and “please” and other things, but the buzzing inside was becoming overwhelming, its purpose crystal clear. Harsh grunts from off to the side and I watched the number climb to 97.1% then 99.6%. I couldn’t stop myself from looking at the last man. I was barely holding on, as was he. It was as if he was waiting to meet eyes with me before he let loose. Four, five, seven, streams of thick cum shot into the horn, and all the spotlights went out except for the ones on me. 100% flashed from the display to the room, before it dimmed but did not go out.Now the only sounds were my whines, and the faint buzzing between my legs that belied the intensity of what was happening inside me. My hips tried to buck, but were not allowed. My knees threatened to give out, but I couldn’t sink to the floor. The bumps and textures on the shaft filling me buzzed my nerves, and forced me to the brink, and then over. Without anything else to do with my arms I just hugged myself as I cried out and came.And inside me, the dildo erupted. I felt the hot surge shoot up into me in one long gush, and the display ticked down to 97%. The full realization and horror of it hit me then, as I climaxed helplessly on the dildo and it pumped another huge surge of cum into me. I felt myself literally stretched inside by the sheer volume of it, until it began to force its way out around the shaft. By the third surge, cum was dripping, then powering out of me down my thighs and legs, down the metal rod. And if anything I was cumming harder with each jet of it.It pumped, surged, filled me, and I came and came, the pungent smell of semen rising fro the growing puddle, and still it came, and still I came. I watched the numbers on the display fall with each injection into me. Imagined myself filling like a water balloon with cum, though I knew I wasn’t. I think I went into some sort of shock at that point. All I remember is the pulsing, driving, overwhelming orgasm.And then applause. Thundering applause from the darkness. The insane buzzing had stopped, and someone was pulling the shaft from me. And I was collapsing into several arms. A cup of water was pressed to my lips and I drank greedily, body still shaking in aftershocks. Warm towels dried the sweat from my body, the copious cum from my legs and feet. A short dress was slid down over my body - no underclothes, but I was no longer naked. And, guided by supporting hands I was lead to bow to the front, sides, and back of the darkened room. I did so numbly, feeling the cum leaking from me with each step.The applause never stopped. Even as a path to the exit illuminated and I was guided out, to a waiting limousine. The car was empty, doors locked from outside, and the driver’s section completely sealed off. But I was too used and weary to care where I was going. It turned out to be my apartment building outside the door when the car stopped. I stumbled up and in to home, and collapsed.I awoke late the next day, sore, wrung out, a sticky mess of semen between my legs, and shuddered at the fact it had not all been a nightmare. I showered, hot and long, unable to get as clean as I needed to. Perhaps I never would be clean again. I took a cab to the gallery, planning to call the police to meet me there. But the building that I had walked into the previous evening, all clean and art deco, was now an abandoned storefront. One that looked like it had been derelict for over a year. There was no trace of the gallery I had gone to. I sat in the cab, breathing hard until the driver asked me whether I was going to get out. I didn’t know. -- source link