[Corvid]

07:23

What Ramos had done to her made it very easy to hurt her, as the next shift was pleased to discover. A finger in her pussy or a hard cock up her backside, even a gentle push was enough to make her whimper.

Gentleness was not in excessive supply.

Binici held her hands behind her head while Janzen- or was it DeVries?- whipped her breasts while she ground her body on top of Kaar. Kalivas made her bring him to orgasm in her cleavage. Gamble and Abassi sandwiched her on the floor, and then Tam and Rojas took their place. No, not Rojas- given the beating he inflicted on her torso while he lay into her, it had to be DeVries, or maybe Park?

Zuyev choked her out while he bent her over the table and sodomized her. Binici and D'Amberline challenged her to bring them off with her hands while Brauer smacked her rump with the ping-pong paddle. Jennings wrapped her legs around him and fucked her up against a wall.

Jennings, or maybe Oslo. Or perhaps both.

Favreau put a ring through her other nipple while Collins fucked her, missing his mark with the needle several times from the rocking motion but not seeming to mind. Kaar gagged her with the baton while he used her pussy on the floor.

Phillips told her how pretty she was every time he slapped her face while he fucked her...



18:39

She was on a bed.

She had no idea how she had gotten there.

Lara didn't know it, but the last time she had woken up from a bed after a sound sleep had been more than two days ago. The last time she had eaten solid food was almost as long. She had startled into wakefulness a hundred times, usually to be greeted with beating and rape. She was sure she had had similar jolts into waking on the bed, but didn't know how many times.

It was hardly more relevant to her in that moment, or possible to tally, than the number of times men had used her pussy and ass.

She looked vaguely around. Her neck hurt, too, but perhaps less, having been only the target of bites and fingernails rather than fists and whipping. The bed was an iron thing, all of a piece, with a stained mattress and a thin cotton blanket that stretched over her body. The room it occupied was another concrete box, perhaps three meters on a side. Aside from the bed, the only furnishings were a plastic basin of water and a chamber pot. There was a steel door on one side of the room with a hinged slot at the bottom. The room was illuminated by a fluorescent tube recessed in the ceiling, its harshness all but pleasant compared to the sodium lights under which she had spent the previous unending hours of torture.

She was alone.

It was not to be believed.

It took another dozen tries before she fell asleep for more than an instant, only then sinking into nightmares.


She woke with a cry.

A paper plate had been slid under the door. It had a hunk of bread and a styrofoam cup of water. She crawled out of bed, drank the water, wolfed down the bread.

It wasn't a minute later when her stomach began to cramp. She barely made it to the chamber pot in time to vomit. Miserable and shaking, she pulled herself painfully back onto the mattress.

Her feet were spilling out from under her. And awake.

Defunestro and the funnel. And awake.

Rojas and the rod. And awake.

And the needles.

And the whip.

And cock, and cock, and cock, no more, you're hurting me, and cock, and cock, and cock. And awake.

And finally, back to sleep for more detailed nightmares.


Some sort of thin grain porridge. That stayed down.


Eggs and toast.


Bananas and rice and a cup of fruit juice.


Baked beans.


She sat up and stretched. It hurt, but she had to know. She took an inventory of her injuries. The bruises, the scrapes, the welts, the cuts, the burns.

She had been so proud of her body. Every time she caught a glimpse of the rings in her nipples, she wanted to scream. But there was no time for self-pity. She had to know what she was capable of. Her respite would surely not last.

Stiff. Sore. Her shoulders hurt from her time in the chains, and her breasts were swollen from the constant mistreatment. Her range of motion was pathetic, even pushed to the point of pain. Her groin and abdomen screamed at her every time she turned.

With no way of measuring time, she resolved that she would do something towards her recovery with each plate that passed through the door.

The resolution helped. She only startled awake four times this time.


Sliced apples, toast, and cheese.

She washed herself with the corner of the blanket and the water in the basin. Doing so, she discovered a dozen new spots on her body that hated the attention.

She tried some stretches from yoga, quickly pulling back her expectations of herself as the muscles in her arms and thighs threatened to spasm. The “beginner forms” still hurt, but they were at least on the side of possibility.


Someone changed out the water basin and the chamber pot while she slept. That was unnerving; a week ago, it would have been impossible for someone to enter a room where she was sleeping without rousing her, never mind to rummage through the things in the same room.

They hadn't touched her, but she wondered how much time she had left before the torture resumed.

She ate the meatloaf that had been left, the purest spike of protein her body had enjoyed for what seemed like years. It occurred to her that a lot of things could be hidden in meatloaf, from the grotesque to the diabolical, without it being evident. But she was too hungry to care all that much, and retained enough mental discipline not to dwell on the unavoidable.

She tried some ballet stretches and martial arts katas, breathing out sharply with the strikes rather than letting out an actual shout. She didn't know what kind of surveillance she might be under, but there was no sense in taking unnecessary risks.


She was doing a series of lunges (bologna sandwich, orange slices) when it suddenly occurred to her how provocative the men would find her pose- knee flung forward, arms back, back arched, chest out, nipple rings prominently thrust forward. With the thought, she began to cry, sinking down to sit at the edge of the mattress as the hitching sobs overtook her.

She allowed her fear and pain and misery to wash over her for a count of a hundred, blew her nose on the corner of her blanket, wiped her face, and started doing crunches.


She would swear that they were feeding her at varying intervals just to mess with her already diminished sense of time. But the meals, combined with the slow fade of her bruises, were all she had to go by; the unending, buzzing fluorescent gave no hint of the reality of days' passing.

So she stretched, exercised, ate, and slept, and when she could do none of those things, she tried to envision a scenario where something happened that didn't involve a return to pain, humiliation, and the destruction by inches of everything she had been before.


Day Nine, 5:19

She was doing a handstand on the bed when the door opened. Defunestro, flanked by Park and Rojas, stood in the hall, looking at her.

She collapsed in an instant, sprawling awkwardly onto the mattress for a moment in disorientation before grabbing the blanket and trying to cover herself.

Defunestro looked at her, smiling, his eyes moving across her face, down her body, and back up again. Looking at her fading marks, and the slight dark hollows under her eyes.

“Good enough. Fix her up.”

She didn't struggle as Park and Rojas took her arms, the blanket falling from her onto the concrete. There might be a time for that, but it wasn't now; even if everything went according to plan, she had no idea where she was, or how large the complex was, or how many locked doors might stand between her and freedom. Right now there were no ways this could end well.

In another room she was showered and shampooed. She felt her heart hammering when she remembered the last shower, her bottom starting to ache and clench from the very memory. But aside from some coarse comments from her escorts, nothing but cleansing occurred.

Her braid was dismantled and her hair roughly brushed and combed; that was uncomfortable, but “uncomfortable” was a long-forgotten tropical vacation in comparison to her earlier treatment.

Then another room, and Brauer and D'Amberline brought out the dress.

It scared her, and she wasn't sure why.

The ruffled crimson-and-black gown was not pornographic, but it was far from discrete. The neckline of the bodice was low and wide, and while the skirts fell nearly to the floor, a slit in the side that ran all the way up to the hip would be various levels of revealing however she moved. The shoulder straps of the sleeveless garment were wide, triangular ribbon-like things, and the back covered more than the front.

That, in part, was because of the corset.

The corset was stiff black leather, a hateful thing that laced in the front and curved into a cruel black triangle at the top, where it went between her breasts. It supported her bosom but did not cover it, and she quickly discovered that it cut painfully into the flesh of the undersides her breasts with every twist or bounce.

Especially when it was laced tight, as D'Amberline ascertained that it was. The sheer black stockings and their garters completed the outfit.

She sat meekly in a chair as Favreau applied powder and blush to her face, shadowed her eyelids, and painted her lips an intense red. Barely flinched when he brushed powder over the tops of her breasts above the bodice of her dress, disguising the last vestiges of the whip-marks there.

Brauer brought Defunestro back into the room as her feet were squeezed into dark heels with lacing that twisted up her calves. He gave her handlers a slow, soft round of applause.

“Very nice, gentlemen. Our Lady Croft almost looks almost ladylike. I appreciate your restraint in not tearing her to pieces right here on the floor.”

The men laughed. Lara looked at the floor, her face burning. Defunestro turned his gaze on her.

“As for you, Lara, I rather imagine you're wondering at your vacation from my men's attention, not to mention the recent whirlwind of getting you into this ensemble. So I will answer your unspoken question, Lady Croft: I need to know whether you're fit to be brought out in public before I can use you the way that I intend. As opposed to all the other ways you've been used, as enjoyable as it has been to watch you suffer.”

“So tonight, you're going to be taken to a little soirée- and I'm going to see if you can behave like a good little girl.”



She kept her ears open; the hood extinguished her sight.

There was little disguising the fact that they passed more than one border. Apparently whatever palms needed to be greased had received the required lubricant long before; each pause took only a few minutes, and no one asked to look in the back of armored car.

The men in the rear chamber of the vehicle talked, as those on a prolonged journey are prone to, but never about their destination, or what they expected there. Money was a popular topic; they expected to see a big windfall in the near future, and with it came the attendant discussions of luxury vehicles, exotic resorts, high-end electronics, and women.

The latter brought on an extended and boisterous back-and-forth about the pleasures of forcing themselves on the car's hooded occupant. The self-lubricating qualities of her pussy and the vicious pleasure in pounding against her cervix versus the tightness of her asshole. Whether the threat of pain and making her try to satisfy you once you were inside her was more pleasurable than actually inflicting pain, and whether whipping her tits, slapping her face, or punching her stomach inspired better reactions, and whether it made a difference which hole you were sheathed in at the time. Whether those who had gotten to maul her breasts early had gotten a better deal than those who had enjoyed them when they were swollen and more sensitive. Who had made her yell more. If anyone had made her orgasm. Which she hated more, semen on her face or inside her.

She stayed quiet through the exchange, even when some tried to bait or question her, trying to keep her heart from racing and her breathing from shuddering. Eventually, the talk moved on to soccer, gun manufacturers, whether the U.N. talks about piracy were likely to yield any provisions with actual teeth (the general consensus was no), and movies.

Concrete turned to gravel; not long after, the vehicle rumbled to a stop.



23:00

They were on the grounds of a castle.

The architectural treasures of eastern Europe had never been one of Croft's strongest areas of study. In the few minutes of examination she was granted as she was bundled out of the car and up the path to the main gate, she was only able to narrow it down to a strong guess that she must be somewhere east of Germany; but Hungary, Serbia, Poland, Romania, or even the Ukraine would all have been reasonable suppositions.

She heard musicians playing as they marched her inside; a string quartet, by the sounds of things. Men in uniforms and berets, each carrying a sidearm, nodded them through as they passed through a cobbled courtyard. The men of Defunestro's band peeled off, one by one, as they got closer to the sounds of music and conversation; soon only Defunestro himself stood beside her as two men opened a heavy wooden door and ushered them into a ballroom.

The room was sumptuous, a double-leveled chamber with a balconied gallery on the upper floor that stretched all the way around the room, all crimson carpets and dark, exotic woods. Most of the central lower floor was taken up by the low-lit dancing space, with generously stocked tables of food and drink sheltered in one corner. A secluded hallway full of nooks and alcoves surrounded each floor, suggesting places where discrete rendezvous could be carried out and servants could hustle out of the path of the gentry.

The quartet, perched on one portion of the upper gallery, brought a waltz to its conclusion as the dancers turned and applauded politely. There had to be three hundred men and women in the room, all dressed in evening attire. Some of the gowns on display were quite intricately tailored and undoubtedly expensive, Lara noted- but none was quite as revealing as her own gown.

One man visibly made note of them as they entered, and crossed the room as the applause gave way to a tango. Somewhere between his mid forties and a well-preserved early fifties, his leonine visage was only made stronger by the lines of iron in his impeccably coiffed hair. Coming to a stop beside Defunestro and Croft, he bowed slightly and took Lara's hand, kissing it lightly. He spoke some words which seemed to be aimed at Defunestro, despite his eyes remaining on Lara.

“Yes, Alexan.” Defunestro smiled. He replied in the same language as Lara's stomach churned. It sounded like Romanian, though there was a Slavic accent. She was out of her depth.

More words were exchanged, with some laughter and slapping-of-backs. Alexan never released Lara's hand, and she hesitated to pull away. Finally, Defunestro gave a nod.

“Alexan is the host for the evening's festivities, Lara. I trust you'll behave yourself. The caviar is excellent, by the way.” Without another word he turned and walked across the room, introducing himself to a woman sitting near the wall and moments later leading her out onto the dance floor.

Her host murmured something. She frowned, responding tentatively in Russian, then French. He let out a booming laugh as though she had said something droll, and pulled her out among the dancers.


She was passed from one elegantly dressed man to another as the evening wore on, and tried every language she possessed; if anyone understood her, there was little sign of it. She tangoed, and merengued, and waltzed, and foxtrotted, and tried not to cry out as her corset dug into her flesh with each swivel.

An older man took her pantomimed excuses with a note of apparent exhausted gratitude as she retreated to the refreshment table, resisting the urge to fill a plate to the spilling point after days of starvation combined with more days of uncertainty and lack of choice in her diet.

She ignored the caviar. And the wine.

None of the beret-wearing men, the ones who appeared to be security, were visible in the room. There was a staircase on each side, hidden by the partial walls that sequestered the hallways from the dancing area, making it easy to get from the gallery to the dance floor.

There was no sign of Defunestro, or any of the others.

A shrill laugh made her turn with a jerk. A woman clutched at a man in one of the alcoves off the hall as he pressed his mouth against her breast, exposed by the half-opened bodice of her gown. Observing that they were noticed, the woman looked at Lara and barked something in that maybe-Romanian. Her companion snorted into her cleavage, and the woman's shrill laugh again assaulted Lara's ears.

Turning away, Lara strode off quickly to continue her observations, trying to appear more interested in the pastry on her plate than in her surroundings.

The staff came in and out of one door on the upper floor when they refreshed the table, making it a good bet that if the kitchen wasn't immediately off that door, it was nearby. A kitchen was a promising possibility: the need to receive groceries meant that it was likely to be connected to some kind of auxiliary entrance or loading dock from which it might be possible to make an escape.

A dark-haired, fox-faced man emerged from around a corner, approaching her with a purposeful stride. He waved a finger at her in a chiding manner as he set her plate down on a chair, pulling her back out to the dance floor as the strings upstairs launched into another tango.

Her new partner didn't need a common language to make his intentions clear; his hands were all over her within moments of them reaching the dance floor. Near the climax of the tango the hand that pulled her knee up slid up her thigh and started insinuating itself inside the slit of her skirt; she pulled away from him and tried to walk away. Keeping hold of her hand, he moved into the momentum, leading her off towards the secluded hall.

The instant a visual barrier was between them and the dancers, he pushed Lara against a wall, hands against her hips, breathing heavily, his mouth nipping at her neck and chest. With muffled words of protest, she edged away along the wall, but he remained on her, insistent, demanding.

A decorative side table against the wall impeded her further escape. As the would-be paramour's hands moved up her bodice, she gave rein to old reflexes. A ridge-handed strike slammed into the fox-faced man's solar plexus; as he doubled up, she grabbed the back of his head and slammed his forehead into the side table. The man crumpled onto the floor.

Her heart began to race as she looked down at him, then glanced each direction to see if the altercation had been witnessed. For the moment, luck was with her, but her tentative plans for escape had just become a great deal more urgent. Grabbing the man beneath the arms, she dragged him into a cul-de-sac off the hallway, arranging him in a cushioned chair beneath a ornately framed oil landscape and hoping beyond hope that his unconsciousness might be taken by any passing revelers as mere overindulgence.

The momentary exertion had left her nearly winded. She was horrified to discover how much her time in captivity had taken out of her, despite her attempts at recovery. The gown was certainly doing her no favors, either, restraining her breathing and hampering her movements. She took a moment to glance at a mirror on the stairway's landing, adjusted the dress slightly, and hurried up to the balcony floor, heels snapping on the hardwood.

Were the musicians watching as she made her way towards the servants' entrance? She forced herself to dismiss the idea as paranoia; there was no time for hesitation or second thoughts any longer. With another quick glance to see if anyone was moving to impede her progress, she threw open the heavy door and entered the dimly-lit hallway behind it.

A man in formal livery carrying a tray buzzed at her as she rounded the corner of the hall.

“Uh... Looking for the water closet?” she replied, momentarily forgetting the language barrier. When he continued to buzz she shrugged, made a dismissive gesture, and hurried on.

She followed outgoing servants like breadcrumbs, ignoring their queries or shaking her head in reply as the sound of chopping knives and clattering pots led her on towards flashes of fire and bursts of steam, the odor of sautéing vegetables and browning meats. A saloon-style swinging double door led her into the white vastness of the kitchen, and the startled exclamations from the servants became outraged and insistent as she pushed through the men and women in starched aprons.

One door leading off from the kitchen was sturdy, uncomplicated and unpainted; that much-used utility door would likely lead towards the outside-

As she burst through the door, the change from the brightness of the kitchen to the dimness of the pantry left her momentarily dazzled.

Something smashed into the back of her knee. She let out a cry as she fell forward, tucked her hands, tried to roll. Her balance was all off: the skirts of the gown tangled her legs, the press-off from the high-heeled pumps was wrong. She had no control over where she was going.

And there were strong hands on her. She twisted in their grip, trying to get her bearings. All she saw were men in berets. There had to be a dozen...



The strings were playing a dirge as they dragged her back into the ballroom. All dancing had stopped, the revelers crowded in a semi-circle to watch as she was pulled into the middle of the room. Looking up to the gallery, she saw that the quartet had become a quintet; Defunestro led the mocking screech of strings on a violin as his eyes followed her into the room.

The crowd applauded as they brought the piece to its end, with a terrifying amount of snickering and tittering mixed into the applause.

As Defunestro set down the violin, Alexan spoke loudly, the crowd respectfully quieting almost instantly. Defunestro replied more calmly, though is voice still carried from the upper floor.

“Hmm. Lara, I fear I may have failed to make the importance of your being on good behavior quite sufficiently transparent. You see, Alexan, here, is a prominent figure in organized crime in the region, and our presence here is, well, something of a favor to me. A favor you've repaid rather poorly.”

The party's host spoke again. Defunestro laughed gently, his tone mollifying. He addressed Lara again.

“Fortunately, I was certain to make our host aware of your tendency to... misbehave. And I've just assured him that I'm more than willing to accept a certain latitude in his response.”

The security men pulled away to give up the grip on her arms to other men, men from among the guests, still in their evening attire. Alexan pulled off his jacket, handing it to one of the women as he approached the struggling figure of Lady Croft.

His voice was a low growl as his hand clasped her thigh through the slit, moving up over her bodice, the flatness of her bodice-enclosed abdomen and ribcage, up to the softness of her breast as her heart hammered harder and harder.

The hand squeezed, thumb finding the rigid metal of the ring in her nipple, nail tapping on it as his fingers dug into her flesh.

He snapped something. The hands on her arms moved their grip up, pulling back her shoulders. Alexan grabbed the neckline of her gown, and tore it open, baring her breasts.

Lara cried out as the garment tore, as the guests applauded the display and hooted out comments and suggestions. She'd hated the garment she wore, but it was the first time in days she had had some protection from lascivious eyes and sadistic intentions towards her flesh; now bereft, she felt her nudity before the crowd all the more.

Another exquisitely gowned woman, a blonde, kissed Alexan on the cheek as she offered him a riding crop.

The castle's lord cut through the air with the thing several times as he glowered at the trembling tomb raider, a wolfish smile starting to cross his lips as the crowd behind him thrummed. One of the men holding her yelled something, and the crowd laughed.

He pulled his arm back slowly, watching her face.

The crop cracked down on her smooth, soft, carefully powdered breast.

She bit her lip and struggled not to cry as the crowd roared its approval, knowing it would do little good; Alexan would have his way until he was satisfied, and his satisfaction would probably not come without tears.

But she was Lara Croft, tomb raider, Countess of Abbington, and being that meant that she had to try to endure.

The corset's cruelty felt like it had been designed for just such treatment, and perhaps it had. With each blow of the crop, her mammary swells' boucning was arrested by the sharp edge of the leather, cutting into her skin and flesh; in turn, though each blow was that much more agony, the lack of a prolonged bounce encouraged Alexan to hit her that much harder.

As the skin of her breasts began to turn pink, the woman who had handed Alexan the riding crop approached and whispered in his ear, her fingers trailing along her neck. Alexan nodded and laughed, allowing the crop to descend by his side.

The woman gestured, and a second woman who could have been her twin approached Lara where the men held her. With a motion, they undid the intricate golden chains they wore around their neck. Each one's hands drifted over the tomb raider's sensitive flesh as they hooked the chains into the rings through her nipples before moving away to stand so as not to hinder access to her chest, each still holding one end of her respective chain.

At a word from Alexan, they each pulled hard on the chain. Lara screamed as her breasts were pulled taut by their sensitive, erect nubs.

The crop cracked down on the swells with a room-filling crack.

Worse, they released the tension between each blow, waiting for Alexan's word before pulling again to tense her bosom to absorb the next blow.

The crowd called out in a manner that could only be a count. Lara screamed with each blow, wondering if the rings might tear through her nipples before Alexan was satisfied; wondering if such pain would be, could be, worse.

That count was around thirty when he paused, breathing hard, face red. He slowly approached her, and the women released the chains, falling away back into the crowd.

He slashed the crop across her breasts again, snarling words she couldn't understand. And again, spitting venom.

Tossing the crop aside, he grabbed her hips. The men on her arms released her as he half-pulled, half-flung her across the room.

Her thighs slammed into the refreshment table, and plates of hors d' oeuvres spilled. His hand on her back shoved her body down over the table. His other hand grabbed her skirts, throwing them up over her waist.

She was crying. Not again. Oh, not again-!

He penetrated her violently from behind. She let out a gasp as the thick cock was forced into her pussy. Her feminine channel would have suffered from such treatment, even without the days of torture and rape that had preceded it, but the sheer physical pain had been worse before. So she told herself. But the humiliation that burned her cheeks and made the tears flow told her that the hurt being done was more than just sheer pain, and every thrust attested it.

And was it worse that she couldn't understand the cat-calls and jeers that accompanied her host's frenzied pumping against her buttocks? That she could only imagine what they were saying, encouraging the lust and the desire to degrade and hurt that pounded inside her? That women as well as men were cheering on the man slamming into her body?

The high, dark stockings and the crimson gown highlighted the fair flesh of her buttocks as the man behind her slammed his hips against them. Alexan's hand moved up to dig into the breast he'd beaten. He found a spot inside of her that made her cry out and thrust against it hard, slow and deliberate withdrawal followed by murderous stabbing thrusts that shook her whole body.

“Curvă...! Curvă...! Curvă...!” He spat.

The deliberately punitive thrusts continued, even as she felt his semen lancing inside of her.

Another voice spoke up as Alexan pulled out of her, shoving her disdainfully onto the floor as he did so. Looking up with tear-blurred eyes, she saw Alexan exchanging words with the fox-faced man she had knocked unconscious earlier.

“Ah, Croft,” Defunestro's sneering words punctured through the crowd's clamour, “I believe you met Alexan's nephew?”

She struggled to gain her feet, only to be seized once more by some of the male guests. She pulled vainly at the arms that held her as she watched Alexan and his nephew exchange words.

The older man scooped up the riding crop from the floor, offering the handle to the younger, who turned his face away and snarled. For a moment there was silence, then Alexan asked a question. The nephew turned to look at Lara, lip curling, and replied with clipped words.

Alexan nodded, clapping his hands and addressing the crowd. More of the men surged forward at his words.

She felt the remnant of the dress ripped away from her body and began to hyperventilate, pulse bursting in her ears as she fought. In seconds, she was dressed only in the corset, stockings, and the heels.

Then her vision lurched as they shoved her down to the floor. Her face was crushed against the hardwood and held there as her body was contorted into a painful “C” shape, legs bent back towards her head.

She heard crooning words in that unknown tongue as the man holding her legs began to knead the head of his cock between her buttocks. She moaned into the floor, hands beating uselessly against it as his crooning gave way to a snarl of glee, his cock tearing through her anal sphincter.

Her moans gave way to howling as a second man penetrated her pussy from the front.

She began to cough as the two men used her in that painful position, dropping their weight against her pelvis, smacking against her body. Breathing in that position was hard, even without the crushing thrusts hammering against her from above. And still, someone held her head down against the floor, unable to see, unable to fight-!

The man assaulting her asshole yelled what sounded like curses as he thrust harder and harder, his cock spearing deep into her rectum. He pulled out and she felt his come drip down her corset and onto her bare upper back.

Then something cold and hard replaced the cock, and with it came cramps and burning.

The man in her pussy continued to fuck as the wine bottle was worked in and out of her asshole, its dark contents slowly pouring out as she was sodomized with it, leaking into her bowels.

When the bottle emptied, another man plunged into her back way, chortling as his cock dipped into the wine inside her, the burning fluid gradually seeping down from her rectum and further into her guts.

The man using her pussy spilled his seed down her front, and another man took his place.

He was big, and heavy, and liked to make her squeal. The friction he induced on her body brought the man sawing at her ass off that much faster.

Another bottle was thrust between her buttocks. She began to make high-pitched whimpering sounds as the wine inside her pressed against the unforgiving rigidness of her corset. The relative shortness of the neck of the bottle made the sensation of its penetrating her bottom no less hideous, and when its inserter smacked it on the base to urge the last dregs out into her body, she wailed in torment.

Another man breached her anus, and the heavy man abusing her cunt spilled his jizzum on the bottoms of her breasts. The man who took his place squeezed her thighs, hammering away at her vagina hard and fast.

She began to long for unconsciousness, but the recovery time Defunestro had allowed her had made her strong enough to endure.

The man thrusting into her pussy found an angle that slammed him against her cervix; the cramping spasms this induced after dozens of paced, deliberate and excruciating drives against the base of her uterus brought him to his orgasm, which he ejaculated onto her thigh.

And still another took his place. Hands slapped down hard on her inner thighs as the man sodomizing her wrenched his cock out from between her buttocks, and she felt more warm stickiness dribble down off the leather to coat her upper back.

And another hard, cold glass neck took its place, flooding her cramping belly with wine. Fingernails scratched the inside of her knees as the man inside her pumped away at her body, slow-slow-fast, slow-slow-fast. He took his time, not rushing to orgasm, reveling in the feel of her clenching cunt as the wine bottle slowly emptied.

The last drops fled, and another fat cock punched into her ass, and Lara moaned in agonized, degraded misery.

When they sped up in pursuit of their climaxes, there was cheering. When one managed to make her cry out, yells of approval. Each new rapist got a cry from the audience that sounded like a toast as he plunged inside of her. When the wine poured into her guts, she swore she heard singing.

Her sodomizer spilled his come on the back of her neck, and a fourth bottle plunged into her asshole. Either her corset would burst, or her guts...!

The man in her pussy came just as the last wine trickled out, and she heard the fox-faced man snap something.

Hands grabbed tightly on her legs and thighs. She felt the men who held her push the heads of their cocks against the entrances to her pussy and ass.

As one, they drove into her to the hilt.

She let out a sound that was half-scream, half-moan as they buried themselves in her flesh, crying out again as they pulled back and rammed into her again.

And again. Always in syncopation, always pushing into her as far as they could.

There was no playfulness in they way they assaulted her, hardly even a sense of desire; just an utterly brutal, mechanical double-rape that felt as though the intention was to destroy her. Their wide stances made every thrust devastating, planted with all the power of hips, thighs, and calves. They pounded into her, and she called out in attestation to the violence of every thrust, the sounds of her torment crushed, muffled into the floor.

Alexan's nephew smiled as he pulled the knife from his jacket, kneeling behind the man driving home in the tomb-raider's pussy. Seizing the corset, he severed the lacings with a single motion and jerked the leather garment away. Her jerking, rounded, bloated belly was laid bare, and he stood watching for a moment as her wine-filled stomach bounced in time with the rape.

Then he took a step back, and drove the toe of his boot into her belly.

Lara screamed loud and long into the floor. Wine sprayed from her ass, the assaulted sphincter clenching and spasming as her rapists began fucking her even harder.

A cold laugh, and a phrase that sounded like it ended with a bitter curse. The fox faced-man slammed his boot into the yielding, bloated flesh of her midriff again.

Her feet kicked uselessly and her hands flailed as she screamed. A chant was rising in the crowd. Hands on her back pressed her further into the arch, offering her trembling guts to be kicked.

He lashed out like he was trying to score a field goal, his boot impacting on her stretched torso with a thud.

Acid welled up in her throat. It felt like she would burst. She wondered if she might vomit, aspirate, and die.

Her belly absorbed another hideous kick, and the men tore at her cunt and asshole, and she began to wish for such a quick end.

Wine poured down her body to puddle around her head the floor. Faster and faster the men thrust, burning into the membrane that separated them, into her body.

Distantly she heard Defunestro clicking his tongue.

“...So many soft places.”

Thud.

The wine inside of her was bursting her guts.

Thud.

The men were going to use her until she broke.

Thud.

She remembered some distant lover resting his head on her stomach after they had made love, wondering aloud if one day he might feel their child stirring-

Thud.

Lady Croft, Countess of Abbington had lovers who wanted to fill her belly with children.

Thud.

The woman on the floor was a rape-toy, a wine-fountain, and her belly was one more soft place to plant pain.

She felt them come, nearly as synchronized in their orgasm as in their rape.

“Make it count,” she heard Defunestro yell.

Her slack stomach caved deeply with the kick, and she felt her body lock up as she started choking. The hands on her thighs and hips abruptly released her, and she toppled to the ground.

He smiled down at her as his foot pressed down on her stomach, pushing until her innards gurgled because the last fluid had been crushed from her body.

Lara stared distantly at the ceiling, a vessel broken and utterly empty.

-TO BE CONTINUED-