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Marci's first film
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She opens her eyes when the key rattles
in the lock of the front door. Pulling away from the front of the
cage, she instinctively moves to the back, where the cold bars on the
cage make her jerk forward when they press against her naked skin.
She yelps. The door opens.
She can hear his voice. He's talking
to someone. He isn't alone.
Marci tries to stretch within the
confines of the cage and waits for what's coming. They talked about
this. She knew this would happen when she agreed to stay with him
over the weekend. It was just a question of who the other guy was.
“I don't know if I'm comfortable
with this.” Whoever he is, he's got a deep voice and a very clipped
Russian accent.
“Don't worry,” Jerry had to be
standing right outside the cage. Marci gets on her hands and knees
before he can pull away the blanket. “She knows what's happening.”
He pulls away the blanket so that his
friend, the Russian, can see her there.
Jerry walks into the other room,
leaving the Russian alone with Marci.
“This is real, yes?” He asks.
She nods.
“You are here of your own free
will?”
She nods again.
“How can I know that?”
Marci rolls her eyes and opens the
cage door from the inside. She stands up in front of the Russian,
looks up into his eyes. “The cage isn't locked,” she says. “And
the door can't be locked from the inside. My clothes are stacked
right there by the door. You were gone for more than an hour. Plenty
of time for me to leave if I wanted to.”
He smiles. “So you know what is
going to happen then?”
“Yes,” she says. “And I'm okay
with it. Thank you for asking.” She smiles, then gets back into the
cage and closes the door, resumes her position on her hands and
knees.
Jerry comes back with drinks for
himself and the Russian. “All set?” he asks.
“Da.”
He reaches down and opens the cage,
then grabs Marci by the hair and yanks her out, tossing her to floor.
“Go get your collar, bitch.”
Marci crawls into the other room.
Jerry smiles at the Russian and they continue chatting. Marci doesn't
hear what they're saying, except for the part where Jerry tells the
Russian her safe word, so he knows when to stop.
She gets the collar, the leash, and
her red handkerchief. Sometimes, she can't talk. So she just has to
let go, and Jerry will stop. That was his idea.
She crawls back with the equipment,
and Jerry puts the posture collar around her neck, locks it in place,
and puts the key on the table. He attaches the leash and begins
walking, quickly, to the stairs. Marci crawls along as quickly as she
can, but he moves too fast. Soon she is being half dragged, her knees
banging into the steps, her skin pulled against the carpet on the way
to the bedroom.
Once they are in the bedroom, she sees
that Jerry has moved things around already. The bed is pressed
against the wall, the dresser right up next to it. The floor is wide
open. He drags her to the center of the open space and leaves her
there.
Marci looks around the room. It's a
cheap rug she's on. He bought it special. It's coarse. Uncomfortable.
She turns in a circle. The camera is pointing right at the mirror, so
they can get her from all angles. Jerry turns the camera on and
leaves her there, naked, collared, and leashed.
A few minutes later, Jerry and the
Russian come back in the room. Both of them are wearing black face
masks and combat boots. No way for them to be identified on camera.
Only Marci's face will be visible on camera.
Jerry, now her master, steps into
frame. Without a word, he slaps Marci hard across the face. She falls
over, unable to turn her head with the collar on. The Russian kicks
her in the side, flipping her onto her back. Another kick blasts the
air from her lungs. She coughs for breath, but holds tight to her
silk.
She holds tight when they kick her in the legs, whimpers as the
muscles reflexively knot up. She almost weeps when Jerry steps on her
calf, certain that he's going to snap her leg in half, gasping in
both pain and relief when he finally lifts his foot. She feels the
dizziness as the endorphins rush into her body, as the pain switches
over to pleasure. She holds tight to the cloth as they continue to
bat her.
She holds on as they kick, knowing
that they are trying to get her to drop it, to gasp out her safe
word.
She grits her teeth when Jerry puts his booted foot on her face
and grinds it into the rug. She fights down panic when the Russian
stands on her throat, when he balances all of his weight there. The
collar is solid, and it holds his weight, but she feels the pressure.
If the collar hadn't been there, her throat would have shattered. But
she doesn't release the cloth.
She gasps for breath, holding her
sides. She can already feel the bruises forming as subspace starts to
leave her and the pain flows back in. Tears flow down her cheeks, and
she whimpers when she can. Jerry doesn't check to make sure she's
okay. He doesn't ask her if she can go on. Not while the camera is
on.
She knows the rules.
“Up.” Her master's voice is
stronger, harsher, more cruel than Jerry's normal voice. It demanded
instant obedience, so she moved to her knees, grimacing in pain and
briefly wondering if she had let things gone on too long. Were her
ribs broken? She took a deep breath to be sure they weren't.
“Put your hands behind your back,”
he says. “Hold your elbows.”
She stretches behind herself and puts
her hands on her forearms, whimpering as her overly muscles complain.
The Russian grabs her hands, and she
hears the tearing. She hears the tearing of the duct tape, feels it
press to her skin as her arms are bound together in that
uncomfortable position. Only one hand is left free, and only free
enough to open if she wants to let go of the cloth.
She tries to shake her head, but the
collar won't let her. “Please,” she says. “Please no. It
hurts.”
Her master laughs at her. “Of course
it hurts, bitch,” he says. “But it looks good on camera. Smile at
the camera.”
She glances at the camera. He slaps
her again. The Russian holds her up so she can't fall. “Smile.”
He says. He slaps her again. “At.” Another slap. “The.” slap.
“Camera.”
Tears are flowing down her face with
the last slap. Her skin burns when she smiles at the camera.
“Good bitch,” he says.
“Please,” she says again, between
the tears. “Let me go.”
“With your arms like that,” he
says, “your breasts get pushed nicely forward.” He pinches her
nipples, a cruel smile visible under his mask as she screams in pain.
“Maybe we should pierce them.”
He looks up at the Russian.
“I have my needles,” he says. “I
bet we could fit twenty in each one.”
Her master laughs. “Maybe later,”
he says. “The people aren't paying to see her bleed. Not this time.
Let's give them what they're paying for.”
Marci tries to argue, tries to
complain, but as soon as she opens her mouth, her master pushes his
cock into it. She immediately begins sucking, groaning when he grabs
her hair to use the roots as handles.
From behind her, the Russian lifts her
to her feet and plunges his own cock into her pussy. She moans in
pleasure as he fills her, as they fuck her from both ends.
She opens her eyes briefly to look at
the reflection, to see the sight of two men pounding away at her, to
see the look of pleasure on her face, even where the bruise is
already starting to form from the slapping.
Her eyes roll into the back of her
head as they fuck her, moaning in pleasure as the orgasm builds. Her
vision darkens around the edges, and she all but screams onto his
cock as the pleasure slams through her. She gulps down his cum, and
when they let her go, she collapses down onto her knees, her face
down on the carpet, moaning as the orgasm keeps rumbling through her.
The camera keeps rolling as she lays
there. She doesn't notice the men leave the room, doesn't even
realize they're back until she is pulled up into a kneeling position,
again by her hair. The duct tape makes the ripping sound again, and
she grimaces when it gets wrapped around her face. Sooner or later,
it's going to get ripped off, and probably take her eyebrows, and
some of her hair, off with it. Another piece of tape goes over her
mouth.
A hand spanks her, and she yelps into
the tape.
“Still one more hole.” her master
whispers in hear ear, then bites her shoulder. Hard. She winces.
Soon her face is pressed against the
floor again. There are hands on her hips, and she can feel something
pushing in from behind. Marci tries hard to relax, to will her
muscles to unclench. She bites her lip as the cock, whichever cock it
might be, pushes itself into her ass. There's no point fighting. No
point resisting. She tells herself to relax. Tells herself to just
let it happen.
It feels like she's getting ripped
apart, but she tries not to scream into the tape. She tries to just
let it happen, let it in. Let it in.
After what feels like a full foot of
insertion, it starts to pull out again. She breathes in relief, then
gasps when it pushes in again.
Soon, a steady rhythm sets in. Push
in, pull out. Push in, pull out. Thrust after thrust, plunge after
plunge. Her whole body begins to move as the fucking continues. Her
face in the rug, Marci starts to feel a burning as she slides back
and forth. If she could turn her head, she could move her face off
the rug. She could avoid the grind of the rug, if only she could turn
her head. Then it would be the tape, the tape over her eyes rubbing
back and forth over the course rug. The tape, not the side of her
face.
Marci groans, tries to say something.
Tries to make some noise to let them know what's happening. She
doesn't want to let go, doesn't want to say what's happening. But it
burns. With each thrust it burns the side of her face.
She focuses on the pain as the a load
of cum blasts into her ass. She focuses on that, on the sudden empty
feeling when he pulls out of her ass. When the second cock pushes its
way in,, she is able to adjust, just enough to get her face off the
carpet.
The second time getting fucked in the
ass is a relief. She still feels the rug burn on her face, but it's
not as bad. Not as fresh. It doesn't keep getting worse with each
thrust.
They leave her there when they finish,
ass high in the air. They leave her there for the camera. Marci feels
the warm cum leak out of her ass and run down her leg. It runs down
and begins to pool on the floor.
She feels a tug on her leash, more
gentle this time. The lead brings her to the stairs, helps her slowly
down one step at a time, and back to her cage. Her legs still drip
with cum while he uses a pair of safety scissors to free her arms. He
pulls the tape off her lips carefully, but leaves her eyes covered. “We'll put you in the shower later,” he tells her. “Then you
can get it off with minimal pain.”
“Thank you,” she says, her voice
hoarse.
He kisses her gently, then presses
down on her head to help her into the cage.
“Until then,” he says, “just lay
there in your filth, let the cum drip from your body like the dirty
whore you are.”
She smiles.
“Yes master.”
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