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They hold your head down, tie the rope around your neck and hang weights from it so you can’t look up. “Stay there,” they tell you, cold and clinical and cruel. “Don’t move, or we’ll put more.” You know they will. They would probably break your neck if they so wanted to. “Watch.”
You watch. It is what you have to do.
You’re naked, tied up in ropes and suspended above the ground. You can feel the eyes of hundreds of people on you, watching. You can hear their breath bated as they take in your predicament. Your legs are as wide open as they could be, splits so wide your thighs and hips ache, your hands tied behind your back. Your tiny tits are trussed up too, pulled tight, heavy weights hanging from your tiny red nipples. The weights have been pulling them out for days, weeks now—your nipples are almost two inches long, red and sore and aching, and the alligator clips dig hard into the skin, scrape it raw. They rubbed chili oil into your nipples before they clamped them and tied you up here, so they burn, they burn and you can do nothing for it.
But that’s not the worst.
The worst is your legs.
The camera is positioned right below you, in the floor. You can see it—there’s a view-screen that lets you see what it sees, and what you see is yourself.
Your ass is gaping, wide enough that you could fit a fist in it. As you watch, they, your faceless, nameless, brutal captors’ hands reach beneath you. First, they punch their fist into your ass, and you scream, trying to twist away, but you can barely move. You’re stuck. They reach around inside you, until they find the entrance to your colon, and you sob as three fingers probe into you. The forearm inside of you is so wide it hurts, and the captor uses their other hand to feed a long, long tube into you.
It is tubing, the size of a garden hose. They feed it slowly into you, until the tip of it joins the fingers puncturing your colon, and you’re screeching. At the end of the tube is a little pump, which the captor shoves inside you as soon as the tube is in place, and inflates until it’s wider than his fist, until it’s distending your anus like a melon, peering out between the red, raw skin.
You hear a faucet squeak, and they roll the water rack over in front of you, so you can see it. The rack is hanging with four enema bags, each a gallon. You recognize their size now. Each is full to the top with yellow liquid, and you realize, too late, what is flowing into you. “All our guests,” your captor says, “were kind enough to give you all this to take in. Don’t you love how hot their piss is?” Their urine, hundreds of people’s urine, is streaming into you. You can feel it filling you, see it going down the hose and then up into you. You want to throw up, and you gag, but you can do nothing around the tube that snakes into your stomach, through which they have been feeding you. “Don’t worry,” your captor tells you, patting your stomach, already starting to fill, “you’ll get to hold it all for a long time.”
You can do nothing.
You cry.
Now they move around to your front. First, they pull back the hood of your clit, swollen from drug injections, and put a suction cup onto it, pull it up until it is long inside the cup, and it hurts, sensitive nerve endings being abused. Once your clit is out of the way, they slide a catheter into your urethra. Slowly, slowly.
It’s the widest you’ve taken yet. It’s wider than the captor’s finger, and it doesn’t have far to go before it pops into your bladder, and you really are gagging with pain now, sucking air down your tube, as the captor holds up a small syringe.
This one is full of clear liquid, and for a moment, you make a mistake. Water. You can handle water.
“This,” the captor says, turning to the crowd, “is vinegar. It’s a diluted solution—I know many of you would like to buy her to use her urethra without any lesions—but she should find it quite enervating.” You’re going to die. You’re screaming, muffled, crying. “We’re going to fill her right up and cap it.” There’s a whisper, hushed, excited.
And then he turns around, hooks the syringe onto the catheter, and starts to pump you full. It takes a minute, and all you can do is writhe. From the instant it hits your bladder it burns; you feel like your insides are on fire. You’re dying, from the inside out, but the captor doesn’t stop. Just keeps filling, filling, until your bladder is a hard lump.
You need to pee. You need to be so bad, so bad it hurts up your side and under your arm. You need to shit, too, your belly cramping, but the solution can only go in. You count your lucky stars there’s no soap in this one, to burn your intestines.
Once the captor is done, he caps the tube off so you can’t leak, and moves away. He comes back with a stirrup chair, and he lets you rest in it, straps your legs down, and moves the camera over so it has a clear look right into you.
You can see it. Your huge ass, full of the enema bag. Your urethra, gaping, your tiny clit pulled wide. Everyone can see it.
Your cunt is dripping wet. The captor first clips two clothespins to your inner labia, and pulls them wide, and your cunt drips more as he ties them off around your thighs, so that your vagina is wide open. Then, he takes the largest speculum you’ve ever seen, wider around than his fist. “She’s so wet!” He calls to the crowd. “I don’t think she needs any lube.”
And he slides it right up into your vagina.
It is cold, icy cold, and the shock makes you cramp up even harder than you already were, your bladder screaming for release. You can barely think as the thing reaches deeper and deeper inside of you, as the captor reaches for the turn, and turns it wider and wider. And keeps turning it, past the width of his fist, turns it wider. You’re screeching, throwing your head back and forth, but you can do nothing.
The speculum barely has anywhere to go. Your colon is full of urine, growing fuller by the moment, your belly huge with fluid up to your ribs. You look pregnant. Your bladder is a visible bump in your stomach, since they have starved you thin enough that it will all show.
The captor brings the camera in closer, and you watch with horror as you see everything inside yourself. Your vaginal walls, and there, at the end, the closed pucker of your cervix. You know what is coming. You know what is coming. You’ve heard them talking.
“Here we go,” the captor says, and produces a small rod. It’s about the length of a sounding rod, but with the far end hooked to a point. It comes to a little mushroom-tip, hard metal, rounded, designed for entry. But then it gets wider and wider, and you tremble all over, terrified, as he holds it up to the camera. “This right here is a cervix wand, of my own design.” At it’s narrowest point, the tip is no wider than the point of your pinky finger. At its widest, the tip of rod is almost three inches in diameter. “I’m going to go ahead and slide this right on into her. You’re all watching, so watch closely.”
You watch closely too. You pant, shaking, sobbing, as the captor lubes the tip of the rod and then reaches into you with the rod. He finds the entrance to your cervix without difficulty, and slides the tip in. They have been preparing you for this. They have been slowly sliding it wider, every day, with sounds. But they have not used muscle relaxants. They are doing this, this horrible thing, the natural way.
The tip breaches you, and you yell in pain as the rod keeps going, widening like a buttplug, sliding into your cervix. You can hear your captor talking, about how tight your cervix is since you were a virgin before they got you, how this must hurt more than anything in the world, unimaginably painful. But it’s not done yet. He keeps pushing it into you, until the width of your cervix is around it, and then in one sharp jab, it slides into your cervix.
Your scream is the only noise in the hall. Everything else has ceased mattering. You can barely notice the weight inside you, your bowels howling for release, the pain and pressure in your bladder. It has all been for this, to put pressure on your cervix, to push it outward.
Your captor begins to pull. For a moment, nothing happens. And then—
The end of the rod, the part pressed inside your womb, is not curved. It has no choice but to pull outward, and outward, and outward. And your cervix goes with it. And you scream, you scream, howling as your captor pulls your cunt inside out, gushing slick as it goes, as you watch on the camera as this man pulls your womb free of you. He keeps pulling, pulling as you can feel your insides rearranging, until the lips of it are poking just free of your cunt.
He pauses, and he runs his fingers around the pink pucker of the entrance. “The only part of her we’ve not violated,” he explains. “Look at how spongy it is. See how unused and virginal it is? This has never had anything inside of it but what it was required to. Untouched, like fresh snow.” You’re screeching, but he doesn’t care. Nobody there cares. They just all want to watch this man reveal your insides to them.
He keeps pulling, until, at last, your entire cervix prolapses, your womb falling forward out of your cunt. Then, he very carefully turns something on the rod, so that it twists, and you can feel it turning inside you, until he grabs tight hold of it and says:
“Viola!”
And he rips it out of you.
The pain is so intense that you black out, screeching into darkness. You wake up moments later, sobbing, hyperventilating, with pain. Your captor has slapped you awake.
“Look down, sweetie,” he says. “Take a look at how pretty you are.”
You look down.
Your womb is hanging there, a little tail between your thighs. The opening is winking open and shut, as wide as your cunt was before they got a hold of you. It’s wide enough that your captor slides two fingers into it. “See how slack it is?” He asks the audience. “I’m sure we can put something in here now, for you all to watch, before we take bids on her. What would you like us to put in? Go ahead and bid with your buttons. In the meantime, while we tally votes—“ He presses a magic want to the pucker of your cervix, hanging out of your cunt, and turns it on maximum.
You come so hard and so fast that you lose track of everything. You can’t move, you can’t escape the sensation, so you just have to hang on for dear life as it keeps going, keeps going and going. Your entire body is trying to rebel, to eject what it is full of, but you can’t. When the wand finally goes away you’re gone far, far away, and you only rouse when you hear the roll of wheels. You see what it is.
There is a bowl of boiled eggs in front of you. “The twenty highest bidders, please come up! Your numbers are on the screen above!” You realize what is happening. You sob, crying, wishing to evacuate your anything, to run away, as feet approach, and twenty faceless men and women arrive before you.
The first one takes an egg, and your captor comes over to you with a small speculum. He presses the tip into your cervix, and twists it as wide as it goes without stretching. And then keeps twisting, until you’re screeching, and it’s still going, and the camera is showing you inside your womb. “Go right ahead,” he says to the first bidder. “Put that egg up in her. She’ll appreciate it, won’t you, sweetie?”
And the man takes the egg, and pushes it into you. And you scream. You’re screaming, screaming, and you want to die, but you’re so far gone, your entire body one wire of hurt-pain-pleasure, as another one comes up. The second egg goes in. Then the third, then the fourth, and you lose track, just the pressure of them widening your womb, building up inside you. Your stomach is stretching, distended, as more eggs join the first few, more and more, until your belly is full of visible egg bumps, pressing up against your skin, between the water in your colon and the vinegar that is burning your bladder. Some of the guests stop to play with you, to stroke your body, to pinch your abused nipples. You can still not look away, stuck focusing down at your own openings, that now every person here has seen. The secret parts of you they have now touched.
“There’s a little more room,” your captor says, and pulls the speculum free. You think, for a moment, you are free, you are done, they will auction you now, and then he presses a syringe to your cervix.
You can smell the vinegar as he shoots it into you, and your scream is even louder this time. He keeps filling, filling and filling, until your belly is huge, and then as he pulls the syringe free, your entire body rebelling against its fullness, trying to force its way free, he quickly reaches out and wraps a clamp around your cervix.
And pulls.
Tight.
And you’ve never come so hard in your life, you feel like you’re dying. You can hear people taking pictures of you. “Keep that a little longer,” the captor says. “You can hold it, you’re a big girl. Now, any bidders?”
They are bidding to buy you. To do more of this to you. You shake as you rock back and forth, unable to escape the inescapable fullness you’re fighting. You feel like your bladder, your colon, is going to explode. You wonder if they’ll rupture. Your womb hurts so much, you can feel your ovaries burning as the vinegar eats away inside of you, probably sterilizing you.
Not that you’d ever have children now.
“Four hundred million!” You hear the captor call. “Anything above?” The room is silent. “Well, then, madam, come on up and you can do the honors!
You hear footsteps approach, and the woman that comes onto the stage reaches you. She caresses you like she owns you. “And you’re sure,” she asks your captor, “She came to you willingly?”
“Oh, yes.” He grins. “She did. You can ask her yourself. She signed the contract, she asked for this. She wanted this. She told us all about her dreams of having her cervix destroyed, didn’t you?” You cry, nodding your head. You’d dreamed of it all your life. “So you don’t have to feel like she’s an unwilling sex slave. She wants this.”
“Perfect,” the woman says. “Leave her cervix for last. And just rip the catheter and the plug out of her, I have no care for whether or not she can hold anything in her holes.”
“Of course, madam. Would you like to pull the clamp free when I do the other two?”
“Yes.”
They take hold of the tubes in you. Your captor holds the pinned, inflated catheter bag and the huge inflated plug that is keeping the piss-enema inside you. The woman, your owner, grabs ahold of the painfully tight clamp keeping your cervix shut.
On the count of three, they pull.
You feel your urethra first. It stretches around the bag, and then it spurts open. You’re bleeding, you know, as your urethra prolapses, gushing vinegar and your own pee. Your ass is next, and you can see your rectum falling out of you as your captor pulls the plug from your anus, the red walls of your intestines spilling out between your cheeks. With it comes an explosion of urine and feces that coats the floor beneath you, and you hear delighted gasps.
And then the clamp rips free of your cervix, and you shriek in unimaginable pain. Vinegar water shoots over the camera in an arc, and eggs, one by one, are pushed out of you, sinking, plopping to the stage as your body keeps expelling. Water, vinegar, piss, eggs. They just keep coming and coming, soaking your thighs, your body, the floor beneath you, your captor, even your owner.
When it’s done, you hang open. Your urethra is wider than a finger, and you can see inside of yourself. Where your anus was is a big red gaping wound, the rose of your intestines a crown, that will never close again. Your feces will just soak you now, or you’ll be plugged with an inflatable wider than two fists. Your cervix is a flat pink spill of flesh out of your cunt, and you can still feel eggs inside of you, caught against it. You’ll have to strain them out later, your body will have to force-eject them.
You are euphoric. Your new owner leans over your face and whispers, “Oh, I’ll have so much fun with you.”