They returned.
The fourth round. The fifth. The sixth. The tinctures kept them erect. Their cocks were raw and red but hard. The room was thick with the smell of sex and sweat and the particular sourness of the drug.
Vess’s body was a map of ruin.
Her pussy was so swollen that the lips protruded obscenely. Her ass was gaped and leaking a continuous stream of white. Her tits were covered in bite marks and bruises. Her face was a mess of tears and snot and dried seed. Her throat was raw from screaming and choking.
She gushed.
The clear fluid came again. It squirted from her pussy when the Count hit a certain angle. She did not know what it was. She thought she was dying. She thought her body was failing. She sobbed and gushed and the men laughed and fucked her harder.
"She is coming," the Prince said. "The bitch is coming. The warrior is coming on my cock."
"She is not coming," the Baron said. "She is pissing. She is so broken she is pissing on the bed."
They laughed.
They fucked her.
Finally, as the gray light of morning began to show through the curtains, they stopped.
The four men sat in their chairs.
They were naked. Their bodies were flushed and sweating. Their cocks were finally limp, hanging red and spent between their fat thighs. They had eaten all the chicken. They had drunk two bottles of wine. The table was covered in bones and empty cups and the vials of the tinctures.
Vess lay on the bed.
She was on her stomach. Her face was turned to the side, pressed into the pillow. The pillow was wet with a mixture of everything—tears, snot, seed, saliva. Her hips were up. Automatically. Instinctively.
Because that was how they had last positioned her, and her body had learned to hold the position even without their hands.
Her pussy was a dark, swollen, ruined flower. It leaked a thick, white flood.
The seed of four men, deposited over six hours, poured from her in a continuous, heavy stream. It pooled on the white cushion beneath her. It ran down her inner thighs.
Her ass was gaped. The ring was dark and wet and leaked more seed.
The white fluid ran from both holes simultaneously, mixing with the blood of her virginity and the clear fluid of her gushing and the sweat of her terror.
Her face was on the pillow. Her eyes were open but unfocused. Her hand trembled against the sheet. Her whole body shook in small, continuous, involuntary spasms.
The four men looked at her.
The Prince tore a piece of chicken from the bone. He chewed. He swallowed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Look at her," he said. "What a bitch."
The Baron laughed. It was a wet, ugly sound. "A few hours ago she was a soldier. A mercenary. A sword for hire. Now she is a cumrag. A toilet for nobles."
"The best twenty gold I ever spent," the Count said. He drank his wine. "We should hire her again. Every week. Every night."
"We should tell the others," the Lord said. He was stroking his belly. "The Duke’s son. The Chancellor’s nephew. We should tell them that we found a mercenary cunt and broke it. We should tell them who the real men are."
They laughed.
The laughter was wet and ugly and filled the room. They ate their chicken and drank their wine and looked at the trembling, ruined mercenary on the bed. The white cushions were stained brown and red and white. The blood of her virginity was a dark mark beneath her hips. The fluid of the night had soaked through the mattress.
The morning light grew stronger.
The four fat nobles sat in their chairs, naked and sated and cruel, and laughed at the woman they had destroyed.
She did not move.
She only trembled.
The Prince stood.
His knees cracked. His belly hung over his groin, red and spent. But the tincture was still burning. He walked to the bed. He looked down at the trembling, ruined mercenary. Her ass was still up, presented, the gaped holes leaking. He raised his hand.
PAH—
"MMMMNGH~!!"
His palm hit her ass. The flesh rippled. The impact sent a fresh gush of seed from her swollen cunt. She jerked. Her face stayed in the pillow. She was too far gone to lift it.
"Get up, bitch," the Prince said. "Service us."
They dragged her.
The Baron gripped her hair. He pulled her head up. Her face was a mask—eyes swollen, lips cracked, dried seed and saliva crusted on her chin. Her nose was still leaking the Baron’s cum from hours ago. He pressed his cock against her lips.
"Suck," he said. "Suck it clean. Suck the night off it."
She opened.
Not because she obeyed. Because her jaw had been forced open so many times that the muscles no longer knew how to stay closed. The Baron pushed in. His cock was thick, sour, coated in the accumulated residue of six hours of rutting. She gagged immediately.
SKHLRK SKHLRK—
"Glk~!! Mmgh~!! Ngh~!! Hngh~!!"
"Look at her," the Count laughed. He was stroking himself back to hardness. "The warrior. The sword-for-hire. Glucking on a noble’s cock like a tavern whore. You have found your calling, cunt."
The Lord moved behind her.
He gripped her hips. Her ass was red from the Prince’s slap. He spread the cheeks. The anal ring was dark, puffy, still gaped. He spat on it. The glob hit the ruined hole and slid inward.
"Still open," he said. "The bitch’s shithole is still open. It wants more. It is begging for more."
He pushed his thumb into her ass.
"Ah—!" she cried around the Baron’s cock. "Ngh—! Mmgh—!"
The Prince walked to the side table. He looked at the remains of their feast. The chicken bones. The bread. The wine. His eyes found something else. A cucumber. Thick. Green. Cold. Left over from the kitchen’s attempt at a salad.
He picked it up.
He walked back to the bed. He gripped her pussy. The lips were swollen beyond recognition—dark, puffy, protruding obscenely. The seed leaked from the gaping entrance. He pressed the cucumber against the ruined hole.
"Wait—" she tried to scream. "Ngh— wai—"
He pushed.
SKHLRK—
"AAAAAANGHH~!! HIIEEEENGHH~!! KYYYYAAANGH~!!"
The cucumber was cold. Thick. Unyielding. It forced her walls apart. The vegetable sank into her cum-soaked cunt, filling the space that had already been broken by four cocks. The green shaft disappeared inch by inch. Her belly bulged. The shape was visible under her skin—a thick, foreign column stretching her from the inside.
"Look at that," the Prince said. He twisted it. "A warrior’s cunt stuffed with a vegetable. You are not a soldier. You are a pantry. A storage hole. We will keep our food in you."
"Please—" she gasped. The Baron had pulled out. She could speak. "Please— take it out— it is cold— it is too big— it hurts—"
"Shut up," the Count said. He was at her side. He gripped her left tit. He squeezed the bruised flesh. "Your cunt took four cocks and a cucumber. It is not a pussy anymore. It is a well. A drain. A public latrine."