Chapter 4: First Stretch
The blindfold was the worst part. Or the best. Kadie couldn’t decide. In the absolute blackness, every sound was magnified. The rustle of Andrew moving around the room. The soft click of the bottle of lube being opened. The wet, slick sound of him coating his fingers. Her own heartbeat, a frantic drum in her ears.
She strained against the cuffs, not to escape, but to feel the bite of the leather, the unyielding anchor of the bed frame. It grounded her in the vulnerability.
“You’re breathing too fast,” his voice came from the foot of the bed. Calm. Centered. “Slow it down. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
She obeyed, pulling air in, letting it shudder out. The panic receded, replaced by a throbbing anticipation that pooled low in her belly.
“Good girl.” The mattress dipped as he knelt between her spread legs. Cool air touched her inner thighs. He was looking at her. She could feel his gaze like a physical touch, hotter than a hand. The camera was watching too, its silent lens capturing her helplessness. The thought made her clench involuntarily.
A single fingertip traced the inside of her knee, up her thigh. It wasn’t a caress. It was a mapping. “You remember our talk,” he said. His finger circled, not touching her core, but the crease where her thigh met her body. “About opening every part of yourself. No reservations.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“The mirror showed you the outside. Now you’ll feel the inside. This is a gift, Kadie. This tight, virgin space. I’m going to ruin it for anyone else.”
His words were filthy, deliberate. They stripped her just as effectively as the cuffs. She moaned, her hips lifting off the bed seeking pressure, seeking anything.
He denied her. His hand retreated. She heard more lube, the sound thicker this time.
“Lift your hips for me.”
She arched, and he slid a pillow beneath her, tilting her pelvis, exposing her completely. The position was obscenely open. She felt the chill of the room on her most private places.
Then, the first touch was not where she expected. The broad, wet head of his cock pressed against her swollen cunt, nudging through her folds, coating itself in her arousal. He gave a single, shallow thrust, just enough to make her cry out, before pulling away.
“Please…”
“Please what?”
“Fuck me. Please.”
“I am,” he said, and she could hear the dark smile in his voice. “Just not there.”
The blunt, lubed pressure came then, but lower. Much lower. At the tight, forbidden pucker she’d only ever touched in washing. She flinched, a primal reflex.
“Breathe,” he commanded, his free hand coming to rest on her lower belly, holding her down. “Push out against my finger. Like you’re taking a shit.”
The crude instruction worked. It broke the tension. She exhaled, pushing down as he pushed in.
The burn was incredible. A sharp, stinging fullness that made her gasp. His index finger, thick and insistent, worked past the initial ring of muscle. It was a violation so complete, so intimate, it stole the air from her lungs. He held it there, buried to the knuckle, not moving.
“Look.”
She hadn’t realized he’d removed the blindfold. The dim light of the room was blinding for a second. Then she focused. He had angled the standing mirror from the corner beside the bed. In its reflection, she saw herself: arms splayed, back arched, skin flushed. She saw his large, weathered hand between her spread cheeks, one finger buried deep in the clenching rose of her asshole.
A raw, guttural sound escaped her. It was shock, horror, and the most potent arousal she’d ever felt.
“See how fucking beautiful you are?” Andrew growled, watching her face in the mirror. He began to move his finger, a slow, torturous drag in and out. The burn began to morph, mixing with a strange, deep pleasure that radiated through her pelvis. Each withdrawal made her crave the filling. “See how this perfect little ass takes me?”
He added more lube, the cool drip of it a shock against her heated skin. Then a second finger, pressing alongside the first.
“Oh, God… Andrew, it’s too much…”
“It’s not. Breathe. Take it.” His voice was iron.
The stretch was brutal, a tearing, burning fullness that felt impossible. She whined, her body fighting the invasion even as her cunt wept, soaking the pillow beneath her. He scissored his fingers gently, stretching her. The mirror showed it all—the clench, the glisten of lube, the obscene penetration.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a hypnotic rhythm. “Such a good fucking girl, taking my fingers in your ass. Look at it. Look how greedy that hole is.”
She was sobbing now, tears streaming into her hairline, her entire world reduced to the devastating, thrilling fullness in her ass and the image in the mirror. She was split open. Exposed. His.
He curled his fingers inside her, pressing against a spot that made her entire body jolt. A bolt of pure, undiluted pleasure shot through her, so intense it bordered on pain.
“There it is,” he said, his voice tight with his own control. He rubbed that spot again, a relentless, internal massage.
Her orgasm ripped through her without warning, without a hand on her clit. It was a deep, convulsing quake that originated from where his fingers were buried and radiated outwards, making her scream as her cunt spasmed wildly around nothing. The colors in the room bleached white behind her eyes.
He worked her through it, his fingers still moving inside her ass, prolonging the shocks until she was a shuddering, oversensitive mess.
Slowly, he withdrew. The emptiness was almost as profound as the fullness. She felt gaping, used, gloriously ruined.
He uncuffed her wrists, chafing the skin gently. She couldn’t move, her limbs boneless. He lay down beside her, pulling her against his chest. She could feel the hard, urgent press of his cock against her hip.
In the mirror, she saw their reflection: her small, wrecked body curled into his, his arms around her, his face buried in her hair. The camera’s red light glowed steadily, having captured every second.
“Next time,” he said into her hair, his voice rough with unmet need, “I won’t use my fingers.”
The promise hung in the air, a dark and thrilling shadow cast into the future. She simply nodded, pressing her face into his chest, and let the aftershocks tremble through her.
The silence after the camera’s red light blinked off was always different. It wasn’t empty; it was charged, a quiet humming thing between them on the rumpled sheets. Kadie lay on her stomach, her cheek pressed to Andrew’s thigh, the taste of him still a faint, musky memory on her tongue. Her body felt used in the best way, a pleasant ache between her legs, a tenderness on her skin from his grip.
But her mind wouldn’t settle.
It kept circling back, not to the moments of penetration she’d once found so overwhelming, but to the sharp, fulsome stretch that had come after. The feeling of being utterly filled in a way that bypassed everything else and went straight to her core. Anal. He’d called it taking her virgin ass, and the phrase alone made a fresh pulse of heat low in her belly.
“Andrew?” Her voice was muffled against his skin.
“Hmm?”
“That last part. With… from behind.” She shifted, turning to look up at him. “Can we do that again? Soon?”
He carded his fingers through her hair, a slow, considering motion. “It’s intense. You need recovery. We need lube, preparation.”
“I know,” she said quickly, pushing herself up on her elbows. Her eyes were wide, earnest. “I’ll do everything. I’ll prepare. I just… I can’t stop thinking about it. The fullness. It’s all I can think about.”
He studied her face, the feverish brightness in her gaze. It was more than post-coital curiosity. This was a specific, hungry focus he recognized. “Alright,” he said, his tone measured. “We’ll explore it. But you set the pace. You use your words.”
For Kadie, those words became a constant refrain over the following week. It started in the shower, her back against his chest, his soapy hands sliding over her hips. “Would it feel good like this?” she’d murmur, pressing herself against him. It continued over takeout, her foot tracing his calf under the table as she described, with halting, blush-filled detail, how the memory of the burn had morphed into a deep, throbbing want.
Then came the sleeping.
The first time, she’d simply shifted in the dark, guiding him into her from behind after they’d already finished. He’d been semi-hard, softening, and she’d simply sighed, a contented, profound sound, and fallen still. “Just… stay,” she’d whispered. “Please.”
He’d awoken hours later, still nestled inside the tight, hot clutch of her, her breathing deep and even against the pillow. She was asleep, truly asleep, with him inside her ass. A profound and intimate vulnerability.
The next night, she begged for it outright. “I can’t wind down,” she confessed, her naked body restless beside him. “My mind races. I need you to… to plug me up. To hold me in place.” She produced a small bottle of lube from the nightstand, her hands shaking slightly. “Please. I need to feel full to sleep.”
It became their ritual. After sex, after cleaning up, she would arrange herself on her side, drawing her knees up. He would slick himself, press into that incredible, resisting tightness until he was fully sheathed within her. She would let out a long, shuddering exhale, her entire body going limp, and within minutes, her breathing would deepen into the rhythms of sleep. He would often lie awake, feeling the gentle pulse of her around him, awed by the sheer trust of it, the raw physicality of her need.
The obsession deepened, colonizing her curiosity. She began scrolling on her phone in bed, the blue light illuminating her focused expression.
“Look,” she said one night, her voice hushed. She turned the screen to him. It was a video, two women and a man. The acts were explicit, transactional, but Kadie’s interest was surgical. She pointed. “There. See? After he’s in her ass, she… she takes him in her mouth. She tastes herself on him. It’s called ‘ass to mouth’. A2M.”
Andrew watched the clinical movements on the screen. “It’s a porn thing, Kadie. A niche. It’s not about mutual pleasure; it’s about degradation, a specific fantasy.”
“I know what it’s about,” she said, turning the phone off. The room plunged back into near-darkness. Her hand found him under the sheets, already stroking him to hardness. Her whisper was hot against his ear, filthy and direct. “My fantasy. I want to taste my own ass on your cock. I want you to fuck my tight little shithole until you’re ready to come, and then I want you to shove that dirty, slick cock right into my mouth. I want to swallow everything. I want to be that used.”
Her words hung in the dark, a shocking, profane confession. She wasn’t showing him a video for curiosity. It was a blueprint. A request.
“Kadie,” he said, his voice rough. “That’s a serious line. Hygienically. Psychologically.”
“I’ve read about it. I’ve thought about nothing else for days.” She swung a leg over him, straddling his hips, her silhouette a dark cut-out against the window. She guided him, not to her cunt, but to the pucker behind it, pressing the head against it. “You keep me clean. You own this ass. I want it to be your shortcut. From here,” she pressed down slightly, a delicious, impossible pressure, “to here.” She leaned forward, her lips brushing his. “I’m begging you, Andrew. Fuck my ass and then feed it to me. I need it. I need to know what it’s like to be that completely yours.”
Her need was a physical force in the room, a terrifying, beautiful gravity. He understood then this was no passing kink. This was a fundamental shift in her, a door swinging open onto a landscape she was desperate to traverse, and she was pulling him with her. He cupped her face, seeing the desperate yearning in her eyes, the absolute sincerity behind the obscene request.
“Okay,” he heard himself say, the word final. “Tomorrow. We’ll do it. With rules. My rules.”
She melted against him, a sob of relief catching in her throat. “Thank you,” she whispered, already grinding herself against him, seeking that familiar, comforting fullness. “Thank you.”
The silence after the video ended was a living thing, thick and expectant. Kadie’s breathing was still shallow, her skin humming from their earlier play. She rolled onto her side, facing Andrew where he lay propped against the headboard. The camera on its tripod in the corner was a silent witness, its red recording light now dark.
“I want more,” she said, her voice not much more than a whisper in the dim room.
Andrew turned his head, his gaze calm, assessing. “More of what, sweet girl?”
She bit her lip, the words feeling dangerous and delicious on her tongue. “You know. What we were just… what we were talking about. I don’t just want to try it. I want to be… changed by it.” She shifted closer, her hand on his chest. “I want to feel ruined for anything else.”
A slow smile touched his lips. “Use your words. Tell me exactly what you’re asking for.”
She took a deep breath, the air cool in her lungs. “I want you to make me gape. As wide as possible. I want to look back and see a hole that you made, that you arranged for me. I want to be your filthy anal whore, Andrew. I want to be used.”
He watched her for a long moment, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. The paternal tenderness in his touch contrasted sharply with the dark hunger in his eyes. “That’s a very specific request. It involves other people. It involves surrendering control completely.”
“I know. I want to surrender it to you.”
He nodded, once, a decision made. He reached for his phone on the bedside table. “Then we’ll need to prepare you. And I’ll need to make some calls.”
The next hour passed in a blur of meticulous, clinical preparation. Andrew was gentle but thorough, working her open with gradually increasing toys, his fingers slick with cool lube. He talked to her softly the whole time, praising her, calling her his good girl, his eager little slut, while he stretched her ass beyond what she’d thought possible. The burn was intense, a bright, sharp signal that she was pushing her limits, and it made her head swim with a dizzying cocktail of pain and submission.
While he worked on her, he held his phone to his ear with his shoulder. His voice was casual, businesslike.
“Yeah, tonight. Now, actually. I’ve got a situation here that needs addressing… she’s begging for it. A train. Right, seven should do it. You know the address. Come ready. No names, no chat. Just do the job and leave.”
Each call was the same. Kadie listened, her face pressed into the mattress, her ass in the air, as he assembled her fate one anonymous voice at a time. The reality of it began to coil in her stomach, a cold, thrilling dread. This was really happening.
By the time the doorbell chimed, a soft, mundane sound that belied what was to come, she was trembling. Andrew had positioned her on the bed on her hands and knees. He’d arranged the camera, turning it on, its little red eye now a malevolent star in the room. He leaned close, his lips against her ear.
“They’re here. You remember your job? You are a receptacle. You do not speak to them. You look at the camera. You take every inch, and you thank me for each one with your eyes. You want to gape? This is how it’s done. You will be unrecognizable when I’m through with you.”
She nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek, not from sorrow but from the overwhelming intensity of the moment. “Thank you, Sir,” she breathed.
He stood and left the room. She heard the front door open, murmured voices, the tread of multiple pairs of feet on the hardwood floor. Then they filed into the bedroom.
Seven men. They were just shapes, silhouettes against the softer darkness of the hallway. She couldn’t make out faces, only the varying builds, the uniform bulge in their pants. They smelled of cold night air, cheap soap, and anticipation. Andrew stood by the camera, a director overseeing his scene.
“She’s ready. Form a line. Don’t be gentle. She wants to feel it tomorrow.”
The first man stepped up. He didn’t touch her beyond what was necessary. She heard the rip of a condom packet, the sound of him slicking himself. Then the blunt, insistent pressure against her stretched, lubed hole. He pushed in without ceremony, a hard, relentless invasion that forced a choked gasp from her throat. He was thick, and the preparation hadn’t erased the feeling of being split open. He fucked her with a steady, mechanical rhythm, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. Kadie locked her eyes on the camera’s red light, her vision blurring as she focused on breathing, on accepting, on being the hole he was using.
It seemed to last forever and end in seconds. He grunted, a harsh, animal sound, and she felt the strange, internal flutter of his climax through the latex. He pulled out, and the second man was there before the feeling of emptiness could register.
The second was longer, thinner, a different kind of stretch. The third was rougher, his pace erratic and punishing. Kadie lost track of order, of individual characteristics. They became a single, relentless entity—a force of nature fucking her ass raw. The sounds were obscene: the wet slap of flesh, the groans of the men, her own sharp, hitched breaths. The air grew thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and latex.
Her body began to scream in protest, a deep, aching burn that radiated through her whole pelvis. Yet, underneath the pain, a perverse, blooming pleasure spread. The sheer degradation of it, the anonymity, the knowledge that Andrew was watching her be reduced to this—a public utility for anonymous cocks—lit a fire in her core. She was dripping onto the sheets beneath her, her own arousal a shocking counterpoint to the violation of her ass.
The fifth man was the largest. His entry made her cry out, a raw, ragged sound. “Look at the camera,” Andrew’s voice cut through the haze, calm and firm. She forced her eyes open, her tears leaving hot tracks on her face. She looked into the lens, letting it see her utter ruin, and in that moment, she felt a surge of pride. She was doing this. For him.
The sixth. The seventh. By the end, her muscles were trembling violently, struggling to hold her up. The final man fucked her with a frantic, desperate energy. When he came, he held himself deep, grinding against her as he pulsed. Then, silence, broken only by ragged breathing.
The men left as quietly as they came, filing out without a word. The front door closed. The house was silent again.
Andrew approached the bed. He didn’t touch her at first. He looked at her ravaged ass, the swollen, puffy hole that now hung open, stretched and used. A slow drip of lube and sweat trailed from it. He picked up the camera, zoomed in, and took a picture. The click was obscenely loud.
“Look,” he said, his voice thick with something like awe. He showed her the screen.
Kadie looked. The image was shocking, visceral. Her asshole was a dark, gaping maw, swollen and utterly open. It looked used, broken, and profoundly filthy. A wave of intense, shameful pride washed over her.
“I did that for you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
“You did,” he said, finally placing a reverent hand on the small of her back. “You are perfect. My perfect, filthy anal whore.”
He helped her lie down on her side, her body screaming in protest. He fetched a warm cloth and cleaned her with a tenderness that made her want to cry again. He didn’t speak, just tended to her. The aftershocks of the experience rolled through her in waves—the pain, the humiliation, the bizarre, soaring euphoria of complete submission.
As she drifted into an exhausted, stunned sleep, her last conscious thought was that the camera’s eye had seen everything. And she couldn’t wait to watch it back with him.